#who says acute care doesn’t have continuity

[akirathedramaqueen]

The bias is not always conscious

And that's the case with Stolas. That's it, that's basically the post, so you can count it as your tl;dr, but let me elaborate. :)

(A little gratitude note! Sorry @tealvenetianmask, I failed being concise here, but I thank you for encouraging me to put it all together :3 I also thank you for our conversations about Stolas and about museums in particular which heavily contributed to it)

I think there's some misunderstanding when people get offended by the suggestion that Stolas acts classist/racist. It seems that people assume we’re implying he is malicious and intentional with it, but the actual problem is that he doesn't think.

S2EP2, Seeing Stars, 1:29

The problematic behavior we're discussing is reflexive and internalized. Stolas was raised in an environment where the lower demon class is looked down upon, and while he believes he expresses nothing but deep respect for Blitzø and treats him as an equal…

Goodnight, Blitzø. S1EP7, Ozzie's, 14:50

And while you can see from this bow that this intention is sincere, which is both wonderful and fascinating—he preserved this profound gesture ever since he was a kid, despite being actively discouraged from doing so!...

[Stolas]: I'm Stolas! It's nice... Ouch! [Paimon]: Don't bow to that one! He bows to us! Idiot! S2EP1, The Circus, 7:40

He was still raised in privilege and influenced by the narratives around him. For him, it's acceptable because that's what he was taught is fine. It's part of his everyday speech, and he never actually asks Blitzø, or anyone else, how they feel about the literally belittling nicknames (like literally—do you notice how often he uses the word "little" when referring to imps?).

I mean... there's a lot, okay? I'm just going to pull out some examples off the top of my head. All of them are from Season 1, and I'll explain why later.

I was hoping you brave little imps would accompany us! S1EP2, Loo Loo Land, 5:15

Ugh, that's better... Where's Blitzy? He's my knight in shining armor, not you, littler ones! S1EP2, Loo Loo Land, 13:22

And it [grimoire] isn't supposed to be lent out to itty-bitty imps like yourself. S1EP5, The Harvest Moon Festival, 0:30

Greetings, tiny Wrath Ring imps! S1EP5, The Harvest Moon Festival, 8:22

[Stolas, in the background]: Who dares threaten my little impish plaything? S1EP6, Truth Seekers, 18:20

How the fuck did you get caught by humans? Are you little creatures not being careful up here? S1EP6, Truth Seekers, 19:38

He also takes pride in being part of Ars Goetia. That pride seeps into his mind whether he wants it to or not. He lives in a huge palace, never worries about money, can arrange a seat in a club that’s always booked out, and gets admitted to a hospital immediately, while hellhounds wait five years for a Hellbies shot.

Being part of the Goetia family is rather valuable, you know. S1EP2, Loo Loo Land, 4:39

Most of these examples come from Season 1 because, after the disastrous Ozzie’s date, Stolas begins to unconsciously cut back on this language. He seems to sense that something is wrong, though he doesn’t fully understand why. However, he is acutely aware of the problems with the transaction and the unfair dynamics it creates, and he is serious about putting Blitzø on equal ground by providing him with the means to run his business independently of Stolas.

And still, he maintains full control over the conversation during the Full Moon meeting, immediately dismisses Blitzø after one mistake, and throws him out. He continues to impose his narrative on Blitzø and…

I don't look down on you! How many times do I— When have I ever?! S2EP9, Apology Tour, 2:45

When have you ever indeed, Stolas? You literally look down on Blitzø saying that. This moment illustrates the problem clearly. He isn’t lying when he says he doesn’t look down on Blitzø because he genuinely believes he doesn’t.

Despite all said, Stolas is making a tremendous effort and is progressing, and he is far ahead of Stella, who is openly classist/racist and very conscious of her biases. So I believe—no, I know—he will get there one day. But not today.

This is something I take quite seriously, and I think people need to understand how dangerous this subtlety can be, as it happens all the time in real life too.

How often do you ask yourself why medical research groups are predominantly represented by white, cis, upper-middle-class males, and how this affects the efficiency of treatments suggested in these studies for everyone else—women, people of color, non-binary folks, and those who struggle financially?

How often do you visit museums and see art created by wealthy aristocrats who defined what constitutes 'fine art,' while 'folk art'—often created by marginalized communities—is overlooked and lost to time?

I could elaborate further on how deep and cruel this bias is, but I’ll stop here. I just ask you to consider why you might get offended when someone points out Stolas's subtle bigotry and why you might downplay it compared to the loud, aggressive Blitzø, whose anger and avoidant issues are obvious.

Just sit with it.

[lookingthroughmirrors]

Opinion on how annabeth punches and pushes percy, the judo flip and percy being reduced to a himbo malewife in hoo (can't make his way out of a paper bag without annabeth).

(Please note most of knowledge comes from PJO and HOO as I have not read much of the later series, but I do know the main points and events that happened and have read certain pages *cough* judo flip *cough*

I’ll start with the first part, Annabeth punching Percy (which happens the first time long before HOO) and the infamous Judo flip, which is for some reason very controversial.

Most of the arguments I see are one of these few things.

1. Annabeth was worried and did it out love

2. They were raised as demigods (child soldiers) so it’s not the same/ they are used to violence therefore it excuses her actions

3. There is nothing wrong with her hitting because it wasn’t like

First off, all of these arguments and any other ones I’ve seen when it comes to this topic and defending Annabeth are bullshit. Why? Because there is no excuse to hitting a partner. Slapping someone’s shoulder while joking or something in a similar context is miles different to what was happening here. Annabeth hit Percy hard, and she did it with the intention of making it hurt. There is no excuse for that. Sure, they were raised as Demigods and violence has always been a large part of their lives, but then shouldn’t Percy also lash out and hit Annabeth if that’s the case? And shouldn’t that be fine too? You don’t hit someone out of worry or concern either, not hard enough for an army to believe you to be a threat. Annabeth has never been nice to Percy, she canonically say in TLT that she doesn’t care if he dies, only that she can go on the quest. And ok, maybe that could be written off as an immature twelve year old, if her actions in later books didn’t continually prove that she hadn’t changed or developed. I think another fundamental issue in her relationship with Percy is that she can never be wrong, Luke being the biggest example of this.

Percy, even with his history and past friendship with Luke, was able to look at things objectively to an extent. He says multiple times that Luke had a point. I honestly think if it had’ve just been Luke, if titans hadn’t of been involved, that Percy would’ve joined Luke. But that’s a whole other thing. I only bring it up because I think Luke particularly is the best example of Percy having far better judgement than Annabeth, who refuses to be wrong. Something that again is addressed within BOTL, when she challenges the Sphynx because of her pride, and is an asshole to Rachel because she doesn’t want to rely on another person and is jealous. She likes being the leader, she wants to be the person people rely on, but that has always comes naturally to Percy despite how much he himself hates it.

I personally would’ve far preferred Perachel to be canon than Percab*th. Percy is always stressed about Annabeth, about doing the wrong thing where with Rachel feels like he can be himself, not like he has to live up to some invisible standard he can’t ever hope to meet.

I also, as I’ve written about before when discussing Percab*th is that Annabeth is not an essential character to HOO, and that she could’ve easily been interchanged for someone more interesting and dynamically different. I think Percy was sidelined to try and give Annabeth more purpose in the story. I also think Percy is consistently put down, berated and underestimated. He literally has people thinking he’s a god when he first meets them, that isn’t someone who lacks power. I also think Annabeth has always been a little bit scared of Percy to certain degree. Or at least acutely aware that she would not be able to put a fight if Percy turned on her and he put in a tiny bit of effort.

I also Percy is never given enough or really any recognition of everything he did. That he took the prophecy so it wouldn’t go to Nico. That he turned down immortality, not for Annabeth, but because of a promise he made to Luke and his years long stance that nothing is worth living forever for. I think the nuance of Percy as a character, and his ability to connect with and understand characters like Like and Ethan is severely underdeveloped. He has never been blind to the gods faults, he didn’t do what he did in the name of the gods. He did it for the campers, for the demigods who’d carry out their parents burdens simply because they had the audacity to be born. Demigods doomed to die from the moment they’re born because of their parents, like him. I particularly think Percy is too far often used as a scapegoat for Nico’s issues and often either villainised or dumbed down into a himbo.

It’s ridiculous, since Percy has repeatedly shown himself to have both better judgment and better strategising skills than Annabeth. Percy is better than Annabeth, and he has far more power than she ever will.

Percy is such an amazing and nuanced character with so much room to explore different characteristics he’s shown at different times and he is too often sidelined to boost another character (most often Annabeth and Nico)

Overall I don’t really like Annabeth, and I’ve yet to hear a viable reason as to why what she did should be ok. And I truly believe HOO did a disservice to Percy by dumbing him down, and making him reliant on Annabeth.

I hope you like my answer! Thank you so much for asking I absolutely love getting questions and I also love a chat so please feel free to keep it coming!

[cvrnelians]

my sweetest friend (one shot)

dark!ed nygma x reader: And then one day, he got it. He finally got it. If he couldn’t earn admiration in the way he wanted, in the way he deserved, the most obvious course of action was to demand it. To take it. To steal it. By any means necessary.

warnings: stalking, kidnapping, violence, non-con themes. minors DNI.

music

There is a threshold for pain. Chronic or acute, it doesn’t matter.

Everybody has their limits.

Ed knew this better than anyone. He was always made very aware of his limitations, for as long as he could remember. In spite of his intellect (and sometimes even because of it), he felt like an alien all his life. To understand people and to simultaneously be so disconnected from them was a confusing way to live. He was clever obviously, but too awkward to fully embody it, to carry that sharpness. Handsome in his own estimation, but not enough to distract from his quirks. Cheerful and friendly, but a massive pushover. A punching bag. A coward.

Pathetic.

Long before all of this, deep down he knew that he had to make some changes if he wanted to be happy. He had to stand up for himself.

But here was the kicker: it seemed like the more he tried to tap into his strengths, the more disdain people had for him. Now that he presented himself differently, viewed himself differently—now that he stopped underselling and underestimating himself, now that he embraced who he truly was—people seemed to despise him even more. But he wasn’t just an annoying little fly buzzing around in the periphery now. No. Not this Ed. Not anymore.

Now people saw him as more of a rattlesnake than a fly. The idea really did amuse him. So he robbed a few banks and made a couple of bomb threats. Big deal. If only all these moronic locals that saw him on the news knew what he was like before The Riddler started coming around. He supposed it was better this way, though. Being maligned felt a lot more empowering than being mistreated.

Not to mention, he had you now.

But he was also losing you. This was not unlike before, and yet it was also radically different. This situation with you...it was quite the conundrum. Confusing. Confounding.

Infuriating.

Before he kidnapped you, he had you in a different way. He had your friendship. He had your support. He had your love and attention. He had your adoration and affection, even if it was strictly platonic. But that was just it. Year after year, your relationship began as and would continue to remain platonic. He rolled his eyes at the thought, just as he’d done so many times before. Friends. You used to say it all the time.

“I’m so glad we’re friends, Eddie.”

Bittersweet was the most fitting word for it. A warm hug followed by a killer punch to the gut. Ed loved that you made it a point to include him in your life (and more importantly, that you showed interest in his). But he didn’t want to be your friend. He never wanted to be your friend. Still, you were there. He may not have had you in the way he truly wanted, but you genuinely cared about him. For a while, that was enough.

But again, everybody has their limits.

“I can be cracked. I can be made. I can be told. I can be played. What am I?” he mumbled to himself, fumbling around with the glow-in-the-dark rubik's cube you had gotten him for his birthday all those years ago. He could recall solving it in a matter of minutes back then, but now for whatever reason he was struggling to piece it together. This was also infuriating. He blamed it on his nerves. The past few days had been nothing if not nerve wracking. He turned to stare out the window, trying his best to quietly kill time as he waited for you to wake up. It was the one window in the house big enough for him to sit comfortably along the window seat. The others were way too small to accommodate his height. Rain pelted down against the windowpane in thick sheets, blurring the gloomy image of the city down below.

Ed wasn’t completely void of empathy. He understood why you were upset with him for not letting you go outside. But it was kind of funny, really. You weren’t missing out on much.

Well, that wasn’t technically true. It was Gotham. There was always some madness going on.

Nothing safe or enjoyable, though.

As the years dragged on, Ed’s resentment grew. “I must just have a punchable face,” he would say, given how he managed to alienate most everyone in his life. His strangeness became particularly evident when he got his first (and last) job working in forensics. His coworkers at the GCPD were about as fond of his riddles and sparkling personality as his classmates had been growing up. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Was it really so hard to give credit where credit was due? Was it really that difficult to show a little appreciation to someone that proved to be so useful, to give somebody a bit of positive reinforcement or encouragement every once in a while? Was he really that unlikable?

And then one day, he got it. He finally got it.

If he couldn’t earn admiration in the way he wanted, in the way he deserved, the most obvious course of action was to demand it. To take it. To steal it. By any means necessary.

That resentment continued to grow, but not only towards his coworkers. As ashamed as he was to admit it, he also began to resent you. Yes, you. The only person who once upon a time, supplied him the steady stream of the validation he had been so desperately pining for.

His anger towards you was really pretty simple in its origins. You didn’t view him as an option romantically. You hadn’t even thought about it. He could see it. And in Ed's eyes, this was completely ridiculous.

It was just so illogical. He was clearly the best option for you. He was the option. Why wouldn’t he be irked by you for failing to recognize something so blatantly obvious? You were so much smarter than that.

But looking at you now—bruised and battered, tied up tight in his bed—he was becoming increasingly aware of the pain his faults and limitations had caused. Not only to him, but to others as well.

He still had you, but only in proximity. In possession. He didn't really have you. Not mentally, not emotionally. He didn’t have your heart anymore. Not even as a friend.

Although he promised himself he wouldn’t, he was beginning to slowly force his affection on you. Perhaps that was what kicked this all off in the first place. Tying you up and cuddling you, kissing you, playing with your hair, “accidentally” groping you. Admonishing you with the threat of withholding basic necessities if you ignored or upset him. Screaming at you, taunting you, slapping you in the face when you refused to say or do what he wanted. Just a few hours prior, he had done all of the above.

“You think I want to do this? You think I want to hurt you, that I’m some horrible monster?” he mocked, his voice cracking. He felt like he was jumping out of his skin, shaking from the adrenaline as he trapped you underneath him. As angry as he was, he still hated seeing you so distressed. "Distressed" was putting it pretty mildly, actually.

Petrified. You were petrified. And it made him sick to his stomach.

He had seen you upset dozens of times before, but it was an entirely new feeling knowing he had been the cause. Equal parts powerful and devastating. Was it sick that a tiny part of him liked that he could affect you emotionally on that level?

It made him a little afraid of himself.

“Please say it. Please say it. I don’t care if you cry while you say it, just say it!"

This had been a lie, of course. He did care when you cried, which you did an awful lot of lately. He cared very much. You never smiled at him anymore. Not once since he brought you home.

Not once.

He clamped his eyes shut, willing his mind to go blank, to shake the memory away like an etch-a-sketch. His own words echoed around in his head, punctuated by multiple slaps to your face.

“Just tell me you love me and I’ll stop. Tell me you love me and I’ll stop!”

He hit you six more times before he finally gave up and collapsed on top of you. There was a moment of silence as you both caught your breath. And then finally, finally you spoke.

But it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear.

Your voice was strained from crying so hard. “I trusted you.”

Ed realized he had lost a little piece of himself that night. He thought he already arrived there long ago, but he was wrong. He had finally, finally reached his threshold. Evidently, so had you.

You cried together. He wondered if the pit in his stomach would ever go away after that.

“A joke.”

"Jesus Christ!" Ed jumped and knocked his head against the wall, nearly dropping the rubik’s cube in the process. He turned to face you, all dark circles and glassy eyes. Your voice had come out just as raspy as it was the other night, only this time it was due to a deep and much needed sleep. “You startled me.”

“A joke,” you repeated.

His brow furrowed, confused.

“I can be cracked, I can…I don’t know,” you sighed. “Your riddle.”

His heart swelled. You were willing to indulge him, even after all of that?

So he did have you.

He smiled, an earnest, warm little smile. “Correct.”

Oh, how correct you were. A joke. The universe was playing a joke on him, and a very cruel one at that. You hated him, and yet some small part of you still loved him. Not to mention, you owed him. He had been single handedly taking care of you for weeks now. So what if you were tied up in his bed? What did that mean in the grand scheme of things, so long as you two were together?

“Well, sleepyhead,” he cleared his throat, trying his best to appear composed. He stood from his spot along the window seat and began slowly walking towards you, setting the rubik’s cube on the bedside table. “Are you ready to talk?”

💌

“The less of me you have, the more I am worth. Treat me with care, as I will you, and both of us will share our time on earth. What am I?”

(a reupload)

[shorthaltsjester]

sometimes people will say “going dark” and then what they’re actually talking about is just people no longer presenting a carefully constructed version of their emotions and experiences.

like. emotional turmoil is not the same as darkness. laudna in this Fictional Universe that has tangibly different stakes wrt to death and killing than our own, is at best like . morally neutral for what she just did like. man has been secretly trying to kill you, and then just tried to do so again, killing him back is a fair choice. and even if i was someone who is excited by delilah’s inability to escape from the narrative, this shit isn’t about delilah. laudna made a choice. if delilah is back or whatever it’s a choice that laudna made because something in that grants her more control than her existing conditions did. this isn’t some Delilah Takes Over, it’s Laudna Expressly Makes The Choice To Call Forth Something within Herself to remedy the lack of control that’s been thrust upon her. if y’all want to Continue to limit Laudna’s agency (as the cr fandom is so, so want to do when a female character makes a choice that isn’t Good according to some weird system of virtue ethics) go ahead.

likewise with orym. little guy is not “going dark” because he has finally made direct action about his emotional turmoil in dealing with a situation which has similarly left him without control and has also placed him in a position where his stalwart conviction towards protecting and honouring those he loves and has lost alike is constantly met with other people he cares for going well.. what if they had a point/we are killing other peoples loved ones/etc. which like . yeah that might be frustrating and in fact might lead him to go, actually, i can’t afford to try and maintain some abject morality where I carry a locket that will literally only provide guilt. orym is completely committed to his beliefs, the locket and what it represents has never been a limit to what he will do, only a reminder of the consequences of what he might cause in those actions. but they Are at war and orym has a billion things on his plate. he can put down the locket. especially when bor’dor is the explicit manifestation of that locket’s symbolism. the subtext rapidly became the text and orym doesn’t need a reminder. it’s there in the fact that team issylra is walking away with two friends, not three.

these are character who have at every turn denied their own emotions in various forms while still being acutely aware of what they deny, whether that awareness was/is fully realized or not. many of laudna’s early convos with ashton show us that there is some awareness to the lighthearted spooky goth girl and how that persona fades when she thinks too much about what has led her and maintained that reality. likewise the entirety of orym’s story thus far is defined by his grief in a very literal sense, it Has extended from that grief to also the commitment he had to the purpose of figuring out the assassination attempt on keyleth but as we have seen, that purpose has fallen apart. paired with the quasi-reopening of his grief that was getting to see will again only to have to turn away, i don’t think there’s a lack of awareness in orym of how much he hurts. but between his actions and 4SD, that hurt tends to get buried under guilt or Responsibility.

and now, finally, both of them have admitted to that Not in the safety of small introspection or one-on-one conversations but with actions that they cannot shy away from or deny. laudna killed bor’dor and orym encouraged her to. and it Is a complex situation but truly I don’t really think it’s a “going dark” one. because they’re not giving into some overhanging Darkness of Morality™, they’re admitting that they are hurt and have long been hurting.

or, y’know, tldr for those who continue to deny laudna and orym agency or fully villainise them for whatever weird reasons . you could listen to laudna and ashton’s conversation that pretty much lays it out explicitly. laudna claims she’s weak for having chosen to kill bor’dor. ashton denies that and affirms instead that, no, she’s hurt.

[testingthewatersss]

I never lost him Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture,  etc. Just unapologetic cuddling and comfort ft. Steve Rodgers. Bucky Barnes x F Reader Chapter 1 2400 words fluff, angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI Post TWS Steve realises that he's not the only one looking for Sargent Barnes. Reader is Tony’s sister, a non-enhanced shield agent who recently resurfaced.

“I don’t really know what you want me to say”

“Y/N” Tony says, exasperated, “I want you to say that you’ll be more careful”

“That’s a bit rich, comin’ from you”

Natasha scoffs at the young woman’s reply, quickly shrugging at Steve, who is positioned directly across from her in the quinn-jet.

“I” Stark continues, “Didn’t just ransack an entire underground base-“

“No, you were just waiting outside said base, with a shit-tone of explosives”

This time, Romanoff doesn’t even bother to disguise her laughter, much to the dismay of the other, more uncomfortable passengers.

“I also have a billion-dollar suit-”

“I can make myself one, if us matching would make you feel any better”

The offer silences Tony, who rubs at his goatee, screwing his eyes shut for a moment as he considers his sister.

“I’m sorry me doing my job makes you nervous” she offers calmly, standing up from her spot to pace towards the main console, “but, look on the bright side, we got all the tech we wanted, and, it’s one less HYDRA lair for SHIELD to worry about bringing down”

“She’s right, Tony” Steve inserts, speaking for the first time since their departure, “I’m not gonna say I agree with her method-”

“Oh good” Stark counters, still clearly irritated, “Because for a second there, it sounded like you were going to praise my little sister for jumping head on into a fight without backup”

“I had back up” Y/N mutters, keying something into the computer

“Like who?” Tony bristles,

“You” she answers, turning to face him.

It’s clear from the silence that follows, that that is something she was expecting him to have known already.

It’s also clear that her having that level of unwavering faith in him, is something he didn’t consider as a possibility.

He’s suddenly very flattered. It shows.

Y/N rolls her eyes, and everyone notices how identical the expression looks when it’s her who’s wearing it.

Tony smiles the rest of the way back to New York. Not even Fury chastising them for their ‘rash actions’ does much to temper his new found elation. In fact, when he tries to scold Y/N, by saying that ‘Reckless impulsivity’ must be a genetic trait they share, he only seems to get happier.

Steve looks somewhat satisfied with the days events, and Natasha is boarder line chipper considering her usual blank facade.

“What did you go back for?” she whispers, when Y/N eventually takes her seat, back at her side, “i pochemu ty pryachesh' eto ot svoyego brata?” and why are you hiding it from your brother?

“because it’s not any of his business” she answers calmly, ignoring the quirk in Steve’s brow, “Eto to, chto ya dumayu, prinadlezhit Sardzhentu Barnsu”

“Sargent Barnes?” Natasha echos, shock making her forget her place for once.

Rodgers snaps up in his seat, eyes suddenly trained in on the women-

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who he is” Y/N chides, “I know damn well you’ve both been tracking him for months-”

“You know Bucky?!” Steve demands in a hushed tone, acutely aware of their lack of privacy.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” she quotes, not bothering to hide her smirk.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Language” the women tease in unison.

Natasha has taken the minute of distraction to compose herself.

It’s hardly surprising Y/N has caught on to their lame attempts at locating the former assassin. They’ve been hacking into her tech after all-

“No offence” she chides, “but did either of you really think nobody was going to notice a bunch of Stark drones being deployed covertly with no authorisation? ”

It’s clear from Steve’s expression that that’s exactly what he’d thought.

“You’re lucky it was me who caught on” she says, “Tony would have put a stop to it pretty fast, y’know, he’s still a little sour about the whole he murdered our parents thing”

“Y/N/N” Steve begins, clearly desperate, “He didn’t know- there is no way Bucky would’ve-”

She raises a hand to silence him, nodding over at her brother who is still blissfully focused on the navigation software.

“You’ve been keeping him off our tracks” Natasha realises, blinking between the siblings, “You are the one that’s been helping me decrypt the security codes-”

Y/N just shrugs.

“You’re actually quite good” she comments, “for a field agent”

Natasha rolls her eyes, bumping her shoulder playfully.

Steve shifts anxiously on his seat clearly trying to process the information he’s just been hit with.

“If you” he begins, “If you’ve already been doin’ that, would- would you help us? I’m sure with you runnin’ some of the kit we track him down in-”

“I don’t need to track him down” Y/N says pleasantly, shutting her eyes, “I know exactly where he is”

Before either of the others could formulate a response, she’d put her headphones in, and was leaning back against the wall, seemingly serene.

Steve had festered for the entire journey back, sharing strained looks at Natasha who seemed to be utterly unwilling to share in his urgent need to do something.

Once they’d landed, Tony had rushed his sister down to their lab to run some tests on the things they’d brought back, and to update Banner who’d been staying behind with Clint.

Much to his continued dismay, Black Widow had only cautioned him against doing anything stupid where the Starks were concerned. Warning him that he was on thin ice with Tony already, and reminding him of the older man’s protective nature, when it came to his sister.

“But she knows Nat” he’d insisted, “she knows his name, she knew about the bridge, about what he said-”

“maybe” Natasha allows

“-How?! How the hell does she know about that” he half demands, “and how, has does she know ‘exactly where he is!?”

“I don’t kn-”

“Shocking” Y/N says, pushing the door to the room open with a smile on her face, “You’re in the dark about’ somethin’ Red? I’d never have believed it-“

Before the spy can react the teasing, Steve has reacted, he’s turned, jaw locked as he reaches out to grip her arm, hard enough to leave a bruise.

She stiffens at the sudden contact, and Natasha takes a step towards the pair.

Their eyes are locked together, Y/N looks almost curious by the boldness of the mans actions, but she can tell that he’s hurting her, even though she knows him well enough to be certain it’s not deliberate.

“Steve…” she cautions, astutely aware of the way that the other woman is assessing the scenario “let her go”

“Unless you want you and your old buddy to have a matching set” Y/N says, flicking a glance at his hand, “then I’d do what she says.”

Steve releases her instantly, ashamed of the way he’d acted on instinct, without considering how he much have hurt her in the process.

“I’m sorry” he says sincerely, taking a step back, “I didn’t mean to-”

“I know” Y/N accepts, damp hair falling in front of her face as she offers him an amused smile, “Don’t worry about it”

“Y/N/N” Nat begins, hopeful that if she can do the talking, they might stand a chance of leaving this interaction with more information then they’d started with, “You said you know where Barnes is located”

“I did” she agrees, leaning on the counter, “I do”

Steve watches her, body thrumming with adrenaline.

“How?” Nat presses, “we’ve been running drones-”

“I know what you’ve been doin’” she replies, “and don’t get me wrong, I love a satellite controlled drone as much as the next girl, but I’ve been takin’ a different approach in terms of gettin’ an updated location-”

“-and that is?”

“I called him a couple of days ago.”

Steve’s jaw drops open, Natasha’s locks shut.

Y/N looks at the duo, and her amusement visible shifts to something more akin to sympathy, when she sees how earnestly Steve wants information about his friend.

“He’s alright…” she offers, “… safe”

“He has a cell phone?” Nat mumbles, more annoyed at herself for not figuring that out, than she is absorbed in the nuance of the conversation

“He takes your calls?”

“Well yeah” Y/N replies to both of them, “I check in every now and then”

“You… check in, on the winter soldier?”

“Are we still calling him that?” she quips, turning to look at Natasha, “I mean, we can I guess, but it sounds a little formal don't you think? I usually stick with Bucky"

Steve is still speechless. He just blinks dumbly at the women for a second, thoughts racing.

“What?” Y/N chides, “You’re the only one allowed to make new friends?”

He runs a hand through his hair, starring at her again.

“Is that what you are? His friend?”

She thinks his tone is awfully protective, if a little suspicious. It doesn’t take her long to decide that it’s endearing, rather than offensive, so she offers him a smile before shrugging, and murmuring a “somethin’ like that” that makes Natasha scoff.

Another, longer silence fills the room. Nobody seems keen on breaking it, and the mutual air of acceptance that has come with it.

Steve isn’t sure why he trusts the woman’s intentions, but that doesn’t change the fact that he does.

Natasha has always loved Y/N. Their bond goes deeper and further back then any of the others know, so there was never any part of her that was going to risk upsetting her over a man she’s never spoken to.

“He’s expecting a call tonight” Y/N says finally, “I'll tell him you say hello”

The hope that flairs behind Steve’s eyes is sweet. He grins and takes a step towards her, he catches himself though, and slows his movements, feeling absurdly guilty about the way he’d greeted her earlier.

“I’m not giving you his number” she tells him firmly, with no hint of apology

“Please” he asks, feeling the optimism he’d been experiencing a moment ago dissipate like smoke, “Y/N-”

“I can’t” she replies, looking at the other woman for support, “He knows you’re looking for him, Steve, he knows where I live, I-”

“is he angry at me?”

“What?” both girls say in unison

“Why would he be angry at you?” Y/N asks, as Natasha offers her a confused glance.

“I- I left him, I-“

“You nearly died” Black Widow inserts, “He nearly killed you”

“That doesn’t matter Nat, I-”

“No” Y/N says calmly, “No Steve, he’s not angry with you- He’s-” she sighs, “He’s not angry at anybody”

“So why-”

“He’s scared, Steve” Natasha says, as if that answer had been obvious, “I mean can you blame the guy?”

Y/N averts her eyes, but it’s obvious from her expression that she agrees.

“I don’t-”

“God, Steve” the red head continues, "He's clearly running from something, and right now, my money's on us-”

“-Oh, god…”

Y/N looks up seeing, hearing the remorse in their voices.

“He’s fine” she repeats, “but he’s not ready for a reunion”

It looks like he might cry. She can barely handle it, so she moves in, closing the few steps between them, and pulls him into a hug.

He laughs into her shoulder, shocked at the contact, but not displeased. He holds onto her, before nodding when she pulls away.

“Would-” he sighs, clearly emotional, “Would’ya tell him, I’m- I’m sorry, I’ll- I’ll give him space, and I- I swear I never meant to make it any harder on him I just- I just miss him-”

“I’ll tell him, I promise”

He nods again, and reigns himself back in, the best he can, pawing at his face to stop tears from filling his eyes.

“So…” Nat begins, “…what did you bring back for him?”

Steve turns to face the spy, and then the Stark.

Y/N is grinning, as she pulls a silver chain from her pocket.

“What’s that?” Romanoff asks, looking at the dog tag that’s hanging from it almost suspiciously, “and why do you think it’s his?”

“Because it is” Y/N answers calmly, “Isn’t it?”

She hands it to Steve, who holds it like it’s fragile, like it’s precious, or like he’s worried it might disappear.

He turns the tag over in his fingers, looking at the familiar engraving with awe.

“It… that… that’s not possible”

“Clearly, it is” Y/N teases, taking it back from his hands, “He told me about it once, said he’d never taken it off before he fell- when I saw it in that drawer I figured I should probably get it back to him”

“We had them made” Rodgers says, “when we got him out of that camp, everyone was jokin’, said it was so if one of us got lost, we’d get brought back to the other”

“Where’s yours?” she asks, eying his baron neck,

“Somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.”

The sadness in his tone is heavy. It pulls at Y/N’s heart strings until one almost snaps in her chest.

“Well, maybe it’ll come back to you one day” is all she says, even though she feels like she owes him more than that.

He forces a chuckle and nods.

“How are you gonna get it to him?” he asks, clearly nervous, “it could get-”

“I’m going to hand it to him” she says, “I’m not going to risk sending it in the mail, Steve, I promise”

His curiosity is clearly sparked again, but this time, he bites his tongue.

The trust he’s putting in her is tangible. She offers him a smile, and tucks the necklace away.

“I’m gonna get back to T-” she announces, pressing a peck against Natasha’s cheek, “I’ll let you know how he’s getting on”

“We’ll stop the drones” the other woman offers,

“You don’t have to” Y/N replies over her shoulder, “they’re way off track”

Steve shakes his head, dismayed- earlier that week they’d been sure they’d gotten a lead in Budapest.

“We really weren’t ever close?” Nat asks, almost irritated

“No” she replies apologetically, “But if it helps, you were up against me, so you never really stood a chance”

“Careful, darlin” Steve cuts in, “you’re startin’ to sound-”

“Like an arrogant douche bag” Natasha finishes for him,

Y/N laughs, loud and hearty like her brother.

“Maybe it’s genetic” she suggests playfully, “Recklessness, Impulsivity, Arrogance, I’m sure Fury’s puttin’ a list together-”

x | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

[duskspring]

Undeniable - Swisstom Fic

A sequel to my last fic, though you don’t have to read that one to get the gist

Summary: Swiss’ rut is driving him crazy, while Phantom has his for the first time and doesn’t know how to act either

Content (18+): Heats/ruts, blowjob, facefucking, anal sex, breeding kink, top!Phantom, bottom!Swiss

Word count: ~1.8k

[Read on AO3]

It takes Swiss three large steps to get from Aurora’s door to Phantom’s. He settles for the space since he doesn’t even have the patience to walk down the hall to his own room.

As soon as Phantom walks inside, the multi ghoul slams the door shut behind them.

“Do you think Aurora has a new perfume? She’s never smelled so good-“ Before Phantom can ramble on, Swiss has him pushed against the wall, arms caging him in.

The larger ghoul clenches his fist around nothing repeatedly, trying to not mindlessly follow his instincts for just a moment, “We’re gonna- No. Shit. I wanna fuck you. Need it so bad. Please, say yes. Just say yes.” On his own turn rambling, Swiss is out of breath and panting the entire time, knocking his head into the wall above Phantom as he awaits consent. The half second it takes to get a response seems eternal.

“Yeah sure!” Phantom’s own rut seems to not have fully hit yet, his reaction sounding like his usual cheery self.

It’s all the same to Swiss, who instantly crashes his mouth onto the other’s, forcing his tongue into the Phantom’s mouth and nipping at his lip.

The smaller ghoul gasps through his nose in response, trying to take a good breath, when he for the first time becomes aware that Aurora isn’t the only one who smells way better than usual.

Something changes in him at that moment. No longer does he feel like simply going along with what Swiss wants. He has his own needs now.

Subconsciously he moves his hips up to grind against the multi ghoul, who throws his head back and full on roars at the electric current this sends through his body.

Phantom takes this as a sign to do it again, to which Swiss responds by stepping up even closer, erasing any semblance of distance between them. Swiss’s thigh slots in between his bandmate’s legs, while mindlessly humping away at his side.

Both their breaths are ragged, though where Swiss grunts and groans, Phantom whines. He would’ve begged had he been able to find the words.

“Oh, baby ghoul,” Swiss moves to continue making out, a gesture that is instantly reciprocated. Their tongues move against each other much like their hips do.

Phantom has had sex topside a few times before, but never like this. Every nerve ending in his body is on fire, screaming for more. He’s also still acutely aware of how nice Swiss smells, the scent comforting yet also driving him wild. Every other time he’s been with someone like this has been oh so careful, as if he would fall apart otherwise. But not Swiss, not right now.

It has clearly reached a point where he needs more. He grabs Phantom by his collar, turns around and shoves him onto his own bed.

The quintessence ghoul, meanwhile, is becoming all the more aware of how restricting his pants are, trying and failing to undo the button holding it in place with his shaky hands.

Swiss isn’t as patient, stepping up to him in two strides and simply ripping the pants right off of him. He kneels before his friend, nuzzling his face into his boxers.

“Still good, ballerina?” He looks him in the eyes and licks his dick through his underwear.

Phantom’s hips buck involuntarily, both at the sensation and the nickname he likes so much, “Please, yes. Need you.” He whines.

Swiss doesn’t need to be told twice, “Gonna take such good care of you, bug. So good for me.” He inhales the other ghoul’s scent as he pulls his boxers down.

Phantom’s dick is already at full attention. Impressive by human standards, but nothing Swiss couldn’t handle.

He wastes no further time, drunk of Phantom’s scent and the sight of precum already leaking out of him.

He licks from his balls up to the tip, wrapping his lips around it and prodding the slit with his tongue. Phantom keens, once again bucking his hips.

Swiss would normally take more time, tease more, talk more, but right now he truly cannot be bothered. He wordlessly presses Phantom’s hips down into the mattress and takes full control.

He effortlessly swallows down the entire length and starts a quick, unrelenting pace of bobbing his head up and down.

The quintessence ghoul nearly rips his bedsheets apart with his tight hold. They actually do end up ruined when Swiss hollows his cheeks.

Phantom feels like he’s losing his mind. It’s so, so good, yet somehow not enough. His instincts seem to take over for a moment when he doesn’t think twice about grabbing Swiss by his hair and attempting to thrust up into his mouth. Swiss allows him to do so, letting go of his hips, fully entranced by this new more dominant side to his usually people pleaser bandmate.

The wet slurps and occasional slight gagging sounds, as well as Phantom’s unrelenting pants and whines, echo off the walls to create a beautifully obscene song for just them. And everyone else on their floor, if not the entire ministry.

It’s not a surprise when after not too long Phantom simply can't stand it anymore. He looks down and his eyes meet Swiss’, “Swiss… Ah, ah, please. So clo-“ He doesn’t even attempt to keep his volume down when he cums, allowing himself to only focus on the pure sensation. He forces Swiss’ head all the way down on his length, holding him there for the remainder of his climax. He’s never come so hard in this life.

Swiss himself also moans when Phantom cums down his throat, dutifully swallowing it all while continuing the most thorough bobbing motion the smaller ghoul’s grip will allow, just a little longer to draw it all out.

Eventually said grip fails, Phantom’s hands falling to his sides as he tries his hardest to catch his breath.

He whimpers in overstimulation when Swiss comes up but keeps lapping at his cockhead.

“Such a good boy.” He growls.

Phantom sits up in a hurry, putting his hands on Swiss’ face and pulling him in for yet another passionate kiss. His energy levels have recovered in record time, a nice side effect to a heat he isn’t used to.

He laps at the inside of Swiss’ cheeks, wondering if he’ll be able to swallow down any leftovers from his own release.

He gasps when Swiss moves his hand to his dick once again, finding it already completely filled out for the second time that night.

“What do you want, little bat?” Swiss asks, never stopping his hand’s stroking movement.

Phantom bites his lip, hips bucking up to try and speed up his friend’s rhythm.

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what you want.” Swiss teases, his pace slowing down to a near halt.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Phantom whines, his head thrown forward against Swiss’ shoulder and eyes shut tightly, “Wanna… wanna fuck a kit into you.”

It’s Swiss’ turn to whine at that. But he doesn’t just whine, oh no. His vision goes white for a moment and he seemingly forgets how to breathe. To his own amazement, he managed to come untouched by just the words.

Without another thought, still in the haze of his own orgasm, he rips his now stained pants and boxers off of his body and moves up on the bed. There he lies, face down and ass up, reaching back to spread his cheeks and present himself even further.

“Do it then,” He says in a frenzy, “Fuck a baby into me.”

Phantom, of course, doesn’t hesitate. He spits into his hand to slick himself up a little more, earning an impatient noise from the multi ghoul. He grabs his dick, releasing a small gasp at just that simple touch. He soon relents, forcing himself into Swiss without prep, lucky that the heat helps with that.

The two moan out in unison, bodies still on fire and brains begging for more.

The younger ghoul has to find how to position himself for a moment, having never topped before. Once his legs are steady and he holds a good grip on Swiss’ hips, however, there is no stopping him.

His hips move at a speed only an energetic youngster like himself could achieve. He drills into Swiss like his life depends on it, and honestly to the ghoul who isn’t used to a topside heat it does indeed feel like that.

“Harder, bug. Please.” Normally Swiss revels in having his partners beg for him, but god fucking damn does it feel good to fulfill that role himself for once.

Phantom immediately obeys his request, ploughing into him even harder, although it comes at the cost of his rhythm.

He whimpers, “Need- need it. Need- Swiss- Fuck.” His brain is complete mush, merely chasing sensation.

“Then take what you need, pup.” All of Swiss’ muscles clench in anticipation for his inevitable second orgasm. Phantom loses it when he feels the added pressure around his dick.

“Thank you, thank you, thank…” His whispers trail off.

“That’s it. Cum in me, baby. Fill me up.” Swiss rambles not much less deliriously, his hand eagerly stroking his cock in time with Phantom's thrusts.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll give you all. Please, please, please let me knock you up-“ The small ghoul nearly chokes on his spit at his final few thrusts, releasing a purely animalistic sound as his hips stir with his climax.

The first thing Phantom becomes aware of when he comes to again is the heat against his back where Swiss is wrapped around him from behind.

The multi ghoul draws lazy circles on his stomach, though the serenity of the moment is somewhat shattered by his still hard cock poking against Phantom’s ass.

“Swissy..?” He mutters, still half out of it.

“It’s alright, bug. I’ve got you. You can rest.” Swiss’ voice sounds deeper than usual, tired yet so, so sexy.

It seems Phantom isn’t the only one who needed a moment to recover post orgasm.

Still, now that Phantom is awake he wants more. He simply can’t help himself but to grind back against Swiss, who, in turn, immediately stops him with a hand on his hip.

“Are you sure about that, bug? You shouldn’t start what you can’t finish.” He warns.

The quintessence ghoul turns around in Swiss’ arms to face him. He feels like he’s never seen anything or anyone so beautiful before in his whole life. Swiss seems to bask in the afterglow of their coupling, eyes slightly tired and a lazy smile on his lips.

Phantom doesn’t say anything, only moves to give his bandmate a soft kiss on the lips. Swiss reciprocates carefully, not wanting to push things further than his friend would be able to handle.

But all of that once again goes out the window when Phantom rolls him flat onto his back and straddles his hips.

“I’m not done with you yet.” He smiles the happiest smile Swiss has ever seen anyone wear.

How could he possibly deny him?

[My masterlist]

[commanderbuffy]

Heart’s Canyon - “Snowed In” (Ch. 4) - snippet

“What about Princess Taramis?” Kit asks. She gulps down the last of her wine and drifts across the tub, cleaving through the foaming bubbles. 

“Do you remember how to find her?”

“Point her out to me,” Kit says, her voice dropping a register. She takes Jade’s wine glass out of her hand then wraps her fingers around Jade’s knuckles. Kit watches as Jade’s eyes quickly dart down to her lips, then to the hand that Kit is holding. She lifts a pointer finger.

“Those four right there, make up her bow and arrow,” Jade says.

Kit shifts their hands and drags Jade’s forefinger through the crisp night air. “Her body. And the crown hidden behind her back.”

The constellation and the story behind it were made by two girls on their first trip together to this very cabin. They’d snuck out in the middle of the night to make out under the stars and created their very own mythology.

Kit turns and rests Jade’s hand on the ledge of the hot tub, anchoring it with her own. She backs Jade’s body into the corner and anchors her other hand on the adjacent ledge. Satisfied that Jade isn’t making a move to flee, she runs her palms off the slick skin of Jade’s forearms and muscular biceps.

“What are you doing, Kit?” Jade asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Not something friends do.”

“I know,” Kit admits. She takes a step closer until their chests just barely brush with each exhale. “I don’t want to be your friend, Jade.”

“Kit…” The word comes out as a whisper, too soft for either of them to know the true feeling behind the word. It could’ve been an admonishment. It could’ve been a prayer.

“In case it wasn’t obvious, I fucked up. Six and a half years ago, I gave up on the only true love I thought I’d ever have. I realize that now.”

“Kit.” A plea.

“I’m not going to make that mistake again. I’m not going anywhere.” Kit takes a shaky breath. “I’m going to win you back.”

Jade inhales sharply. Her eyes widen in surprise.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Kit promises. Her limbs are hot from the water. Her face is flush from the wine. But it’s the heat from that love flooding back in the form of butterflies in her gut that Kit feels most acutely. 

“That’s…that’s…” Jade’s eyes are wild, looking all over Kit’s face as if she isn’t sure she actually heard the words Kit said. “That’s a lot to take in.”

“I know,” Kit nods. “I just had to let you know.” Their faces are so close. She’s not sure who has moved to close the gap, but she thinks it might have been them both. She brushes her nose against Jade’s, and the butterflies turn to a thunderstorm. Kit feels the heat of Jade’s breath on her lips.

“Kit.” Yearning.

“Tell me to stop.”

Jade doesn’t speak, but her mouth answers anyway. Soft, plump lips touch tenderly against Kit’s. It’s a tentative question that Kit answers in the affirmative. Their mouths slide like velvet over one another.

The kiss is nothing like the hot, frenzied mess in the bar bathroom two months ago. Instead, it’s gentle and slow. It’s exploratory, like finding their way home after being lost for too many years. One of their lips quivers. Kit isn’t sure whose, but it leaves an opening. She runs her tongue over the curve in Jade’s lower lip and swallows the girl’s moan when their tongues first touch.

Kit briefly registers the sound of a splash as Jade’s arms drop into the water. Hands grab Kit’s waist. The touch is so familiar, but there’s an aching pain to it. Finally feeling the touch she needs. How had she not realized how starved for touch she was?

Kit’s arms find their way around Jade’s neck as she leans off the hot tub’s siding. She lifts her legs beneath the water and wraps them around Jade’s waist. Jade catches her and pulls her in tighter. She carries Kit across the tub, drifting listlessly as tongues and lips continue to find their way back home. Kit lets out an oof as her back connects with the far side of the hot tub.

Their kisses slow back down again, fade to a peck and foreheads resting together. Heaving breathing the only sound for miles.

“I don’t know what this means,” Jade finally says. “I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay.”

“Fuck,” Jade says before surging forward to kiss Kit again. It’s just one kiss. Long and full of yearning, but just the one. 

“I’ll prove it. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

[glitzfang]

🦴 Lucien West (Fortnite) headcanons!

Warnings: none, I think. Might be OOC... Info: These are a little corny and not pieced together as smoothly as I'd wanted... Also they're in college (or just leaving senior year of highschool) here, I'm not sure what canon has confirmed, but I'm comfortable assuming they're at least 18 with the information I do know.

Here's my first official attempt at writing for the first time in several years! I hope it's not too bad, and that you can excuse details I might get totally wrong- Feel free to offer criticism, as long as its productive! 🪶

LUCIEN WHO...

Lucien who’s intimidating until he smiles —

Calculating amber eyes seemingly sizing you up, uncertainty keeping you in place, until his expression spreads into a sincere smile. So warm and genuine you can’t help but return it with one of your own.

Lucien who prefers the outdoors —

Especially when it’s a cool kind of muggy… Where fog just barely dusts the edges of the horizon (as far as you can see, anyways) and a breeze that has you acutely aware of the humidity; lowering the feels-like temp to something more appropriate for the early fall season.

Lucien who always finds a way to include Louie —

Carrying the plush wolf with him on his back, setting it up on the back couch cushions for movie nights, keeping it nearby while he studies to keep himself calm and motivated. Fidgets with the ears if he’s idle too long, restlessness a common occurrence for him. He will lend it to you to help you sleep if you ask, with the addition of himself. He doesn’t sleep without Louie, and Louie doesn’t sleep without him.

Lucien who listens to Weezer —

That’s it, that’s the post. Just kidding… like the rest of the group, he loves his music. And he loves to share it, an ideal hangout would definitely include sharing headphones and just vibing. Maybe surprising to some, but on top of the many, many Starfang concerts he’s attended with his friends, he also enjoys artists like Weezer, Bowling For Soup, and ABBA.

Lucien who tried to learn guitar —

Spent a good few months putting in a genuine effort, but ended up giving the guitar he’d gotten to Helsie. He couldn’t wrap his head around chords and the tab sheets he was practicing from… always had Louie as his audience. Now he’s perfectly content sitting with Helsie while she strums idle patterns over the strings.

Lucien who is a walking heater —

Lucien naturally runs on the warmer side, perfect for clinging to at night, especially in the colder seasons… not so much in the summer, however. This man is the cuddliest ever, and took up eating popsicles in the hopes it’d cool him down enough to continue having you casually wrapped around him in your shared downtime.

Lucien who insists on doing the cooking and snack prep for hangouts —

While Helsie is likely the most qualified for this, being extraordinary in her position as a bobarista, Lucien won’t have it. He says it’s because she shouldn’t have to do more of the same she does for work, but he actually just likes seeing everyone excited for snacks (everyone knows). Pins his hair up in an attempt to keep it out of the food, but… somehow at least one strand always ends up in someone’s share. It’s become a game of sorts, like pulling straws. Victim of Lucien’s hair is exempt from any after-hangout clean up.

Lucien who chit-chats when he can’t sleep —

Everyone has nights where they just can’t seem to get to sleep, and with how restless Lucien can be, it happens more than just occasionally. It’s hard not to notice the way his breathing never evens out as it fans across the back of your neck, and the way he’s fidgeting with the hem of your his shirt. It doesn’t take long after the fidgeting starts for him to offer up quiet conversation.

Lucien who worries —

He cares a lot for his family, for you, and for everyone’s future. Keeps the groups hunting gear properly stored and maintained — with the exception of Joni’s… she’s not comfortable with the idea of swapping her things around. The club trusts each other with their lives, but they still have personal boundaries. Lucien keeps you especially updated on the maintenance that goes into the gear, as well as every safety precaution he could cram into the couple hours you spend brushing up. Stifling at times, but he does mean well.

Lucien who is reserved —

As much time as he spends expressing his concern for the club members, he never seems to give himself that same grace. It doesn’t seem to be out of a lack of respect for himself, but rather an excess amount of respect for his friends. He struggles with the idea of giving anyone else his own burdens, and it takes time to get him to open up about certain things. Be patient with him and he’ll appreciate it.

NOTES:

Feedback is greatly appreciated! And I don't just mean tips for me personally... Send me your own headcanons, my asks are open! I want to get a feel for how the community characterizes him so I can improve :) Also... I want friends. 🪶

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Bengyio's Queer Cinema Syllabus

For those who are not aware, I have decided to run the gauntlet of @bengiyo’s Queer Cinema Syllabus and have officially started Unit 1: Coming of Age Post Moonlight. The films in Unit 1 are Pariah (2011), Get Real (1998), Edge of Seventeen (1998), My Own Private Idaho (1991), and Mysterious Skin (2004)

Today I will be writing about 

Get Real (1998) dir. Simon Shore

[Available on: Amazon, Run Time: 1:48]

Summary: This tenderly romantic film tells the story of Steve, a young boy in secondary school, as he struggles with coming out and falling in love with John, the top athlete at school - who, amazingly, falls in love with him as well. (from IMDB)

Cast:  Ben Silverstone, Steven Carter Brad Gorton, John Dixon

Alright, this is the second coming of age queer film in the Unit and I am already starting to think I need to keep an “English Teacher In The Know” tab, cause that English Teacher was acutely and politely aware that Steve was gay. I mean, he gets Steve to borrow his Dad’s camera by casually mentioning the school newspaper wants to photograph the athletic’s team, after catching said student staring out the window at the jock he is in love with. He also totally quickly glances over at that same closeted queer student after an anonymous article about being gay is put in to the school newspaper, and said English Teacher prevents that article from being printed for reasons unknown (personally, I read it as him trying to protect Steve because he figured people would realize who it was when it was published). 

Anyway, I don’t have as much to say about this film as I did about Pariah, mostly because I don’t think there were quite as many layers to it. But it nevertheless resonates in extremely significant ways. There are a number of little moments, quiet moments, and playful moments that are just so recognizably queer.  John’s face falling when he hears Steve say that he hasn’t told his parents that he’s gay because he doesn’t want to disappoint them. The way it reads to me as hope that he may one day be accepted himself just…melting away at the realization that Steve has known himself for years, and is internally confident and comfortable in his sexuality, and that still he hides himself from people that he loves and cares about; the “Fag?” \\ “Sorry?” \\ *offers cigarette* moment; and god, the brilliance of Steve sitting on the bench outside the bathroom he uses to secure hook ups just whispering “come out, come out, come out” until John leaves that bathroom and Steve realizes what’s up. Seriously, this moment is genius, it demonstrates the fundamental conflict between these two. John is uncomfortable with his sexuality and is terrified of being clocked. 

I swear there is no one that can figure out all the secrets you are hiding about yourself better than high school bullies, and it is a testament to the queer experience that before Steve is even actually out at school, there are people pushing him around, stealing his shit, calling him “queer” and being completely spot on. 

We get the Longing Gay stares across the dance floor

gif by @sobekc

We get absolute all-encompassing patience from Steve as John navigates and comes to terms with his own sexuality. As he struggles with voicing his thoughts out loud, as he continues to ignore Steve at school, skip out on time with Steve to be seen with a girl to avoid rumors. When John oversteps, when John hurts him, Steve is allowed to be rightfully upset, but he gets it. 

And Steve gets it until John hits him to hide being caught together, and Steve gets it until he comes out to the whole school, and Steve gets it exactly up until the point where he knows that John is going to remain closeted, and Steve just came out, and that John was already scared of being associated with Steve in school before he was out. 

Final Thoughts 

“Hi” “Hi” is For The Gays. Pools are For The Gays. Sobbing in to the shoulder of the boy that you kissed on a whim because you are scared and confused is For The Gays. You know…now that I am thinking about it, I wonder if Alice Oseman drew inspiration from this film for Nick and Charlie in Heartstopper. 

By, For, About? 

For and About For Sure, do not have any information on the personal lives of the writer or director to determine whether or not it is by a queer person. 

Favorite Moment

I love this moment for many reasons, but mostly because it is the most openly affectionate John and Steve get to be in front of other people. It is this one, blissful intersection where John is trying to make amends with Steve, he wants to do more, he is acknowledging Steve at school, they may be able to interact, and John’s very dickish friend comes running by, and John has a whole conversation while sitting atop his boyfriend’s shoulders completely unbothered for the one and only time to be seen together.

Favorite Quote

“I want to be part of a family who love me for who I am not for who I pretend to be to keep their love,”

[kinkykinard]

Rejoice, Rebuild, the Storm has Passed

Fandom: 9-1-1. Character(s): Evan ‘Buck’ Buckley, Eddie Diaz. Word Count: 2583. Genre: hurt/comfort, gen. Rating: teen and up. Note: thank you to @dearestdiaz and @fireladybuckley for your endless encouragement, ideas, cheerleading, and the final beta.  This never would have been possible without your patience and support!

Summary:  Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since Buck’s lightning strike and the cardiac arrest that followed.  Twelve days since he woke up from his coma.  A hundred and twenty hours since he was released from hospital into Eddie’s care.  Only seconds since the last time Eddie relived the flash and the deafening silence that followed as he’d put his ear to Buck’s chest and heard nothing.  

Read it on AO3

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since Buck’s lightning strike and the cardiac arrest that followed.  Twelve days since he woke up from his coma.  A hundred and twenty hours since he was released from hospital into Eddie’s care.  Only seconds since the last time Eddie relived the flash and the deafening silence that followed as he’d put his ear to Buck’s chest and heard nothing.  

By contrast, the rhythmic drone of the monitor hanging over Buck’s bed in the hospital following his admission had been at once maddening and the sweetest sound Eddie had ever heard.  What he would have given for Buck not to have had to go through another hospital stay.  Hell, what he would have given not to have had to sit at Buck’s bedside, praying and waiting for him to come out of the coma that had come after his arrest.  Maybe it was selfish, but after the explosion and the tsunami, Eddie had hoped he would never have to see Buck in such acute danger again.

Now, watching Buck doze on the couch, it almost feels like none of it ever happened.  Every blink tells a different story, though, reconstructing the agonizing period between then and now in split-second shots spread out like photographs across his hippocampus.  The memories are so vivid he can almost taste the static in the air in the aftermath of the lightning strike.

Buck’s chest is bare where the light blanket covering him has slipped down, exposing his right side, and Eddie swears he can still see the Lichtenberg figures that have long since paled fanning across Buck’s skin.  He doesn’t think they’ll ever fade from his memory, just like the feeling of Buck’s pulseless body beneath his hands, ribs grinding where Chim had already broken them as Eddie had compressed his chest on the way through the hospital doors.  Just like the panic that had risen like bile at the back of his throat when he’d watched the rhythm on the monitor swing back and forth between sinus and V-fib for the first couple of days after the injury while Buck’s troponin levels slowly normalized.  His heart had been injured as badly as the rest of him, had given out again in the ICU, but the doctors had been optimistic when he’d been discharged.  He’d been free of arrhythmias for a few days already and so long as the trend continued he should be just fine in the long run.  

And Eddie?  

Eddie’s fine.  He’d come away from his own brush with injury with a bit of black and blue but a handful of ibuprofen and a few days’ rest had set him straight.  Now the only thing that remains of that day is the persistent pressure behind his sternum that eases only when he’s near enough to Buck to hear him breathing nice and steady.  He wants to say that the reason he hasn’t returned to work yet is that he’s keeping an eye on Buck but anyone who deigned to look a little closer would be able to call his bluff.

A soft whimper catches his attention and he’s instantly on high alert, standing up from the armchair and side-stepping in between the couch and the coffee table as Buck shifts a little in his sleep.  Perching on the table, Eddie reaches forward, fingers twitching impotently as he tries to localize what’s happening, what’s wrong.  Before he can settle a hand anywhere, though, Buck’s eyes open and he frowns in confusion at finding Eddie hovering so nearby.

“Hey,” Buck croaks hoarsely, licking his lips and finding no relief from the dryness there.

Eddie reaches for the water glass slowly gathering bubbles the longer it sits on the table and presses it into Buck’s hands.  “You okay?”

Buck hums, the sound echoing off the inside of the vessel as he brings it to his lips to take a long, slow sip.  Eddie takes it away again once he’s had his fill, his gaze unwavering as he waits.

“I had the weirdest dream,” Buck murmurs, grimacing like chasing the fading memory causes him physical pain.  “I don’t remember anything from that night but it felt so familiar, you know?  Like maybe it’s starting to come back to me.”

Eddie briefly, vaguely wishes he, too, could forget.  He doesn’t think he ever will, though, and in a way he’s grateful.  A reprieve from the memories would be dangerous.  He could get too comfortable, slip up, let Buck down again.  Now is not the time or place, though.  Right now he needs a clear head, needs to focus on Buck - on Buck’s recovery.  

His words taste like the ozone in the air that night when he speaks.

“What did you dream about?”

Buck chuckles but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes.  

“I could feel the pain,” Buck begins quietly, dropping his gaze as he worries his lip with his teeth.  “And I could hear your voice.  You called my name.  It sounded so far away through the rain but I knew it was you.  And then I felt my heart stop.  I-I tried to hang on but I couldn’t.  I couldn’t see.  And then I couldn’t breathe.  And the next thing I knew, I could hear your voice again.  You were asking me to come back to you.  You said you had something to tell me - you had a lot to tell me.  You said -” another mirthless laugh.  “- that you didn’t want to tell me then because you needed to know that I’d heard you.”

The floor falls out from beneath Eddie at that moment, all of the air in his lungs leaving his body in a rush like he’s been sucker punched in the solar plexus.  There had been roughly two days between the beginning and end of what Buck had dreamt but he wasn’t wrong.  Eddie could feel the way the scream had torn at his vocal cords when he’d called to Buck over the storm.  He could feel the way Buck’s hand had laid lifeless in his grasp as he’d sat at his bedside in the hospital, narrating his stream of consciousness as immense feelings welled up inside of him.  Feelings he’d been grappling with for months on end that had finally been wrenched from inside him by the threat of losing Buck before he ever got a chance to admit them.

He licks his lips and dives into something a little less charged.

“Post-traumatic amnesia can be weird,” Eddie says lightly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.  “Our brains are wired to try and make sense of whatever bits of information they can glean from a situation and to create associations to help cement things in our memories.  After a traumatic event we tend to piece together what actually happened with what our brains think should have happened and create false memories to fill in the blanks.”

He can feel Buck’s gaze on him as he dips his head and stares at his hands in his lap, fingers entwined to stop their anxious fiddling.

“So that didn’t happen?”

Something in Eddie’s jaw ticks at Buck’s question.  He’d waited by Buck’s bedside for him to wake up and promised himself that he wouldn’t put off telling Buck how he felt any longer once he did but his courage had gotten away from him.  Another week and a half of silence had given him the opportunity to tuck those feelings away even deeper once again and now he’s frozen.  

“What happened was your heart stopped,” Eddie says thickly, emotions settling like a lump in his throat and making it difficult to speak, to breathe.  He knows Buck knows it already, but talking about the cold, hard facts feels safer than toeing into the feelings Buck has brought up.  “Chim hit you with a couple of rounds of epi while I did compressions.  Eventually you converted from asystole into V-fib and we shocked you back into sinus.  Then you checked out on us for a few days.  Your brain shut down so that your body could heal, but some people report pretty vivid dreams even in a deep comatose state.”

A few beats of silence pass, and then -

“That’s not a no.”

Eddie can’t keep his hands from shaking anymore.  He bites back a curse and sighs deeply as he looks up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.  He sees the switch get thrown in Buck’s head as the other man catches sight of the state he’s in and it must be even worse than it feels if Buck’s sudden gentleness is anything to go by.

“Eds, hey, it’s okay,” Buck consoles quietly, reaching out, fingers brushing Eddie’s knuckles where they’re white from how tightly he’s got them clenched.  At least there’s a little solace to be garnered from the way Buck meets Eddie where he’s at, his focus shifting to the same cold, hard facts about his condition.  “I’m going to be okay.  They wouldn’t have let me out of the hospital if I wasn’t.”

Eddie laughs.  It’s a hollow, tortured sound that doesn’t fool either of them and Buck gets it.  He gets feeling like the person who matters most in his life might ripple and blow away in an instant like a mirage, like they were never really there at all.  He’d felt it when Eddie had been shot in broad daylight on his watch and he remembers the agony acutely.  He remembers how the only thing that had brought him any relief had been watching Eddie’s heart rhythm on the monitors over his bed in the hospital, listening to his soft snores as he’d slept off the trauma in the warmth of his own bed after he’d been discharged.  Buck gets it and he knows that there’s nothing he can say or do that will erase the memory of the lightning strike and the aftermath, but he needs to try.

Buck barely even thinks about it as he reaches for the stethoscope Eddie had haphazardly draped over the arm of the couch after an earlier check of his vitals.  He bites back a grimace as he sits up, his broken ribs screaming in protest even with the help of strong painkillers, and brackets Eddie’s legs with his own.  He can feel Eddie watching him but his focus is on his hands - unsteady from the medication - as he carefully reaches up and plugs the stethoscope into Eddie’s ears.  

Eddie sits preternaturally still, watching Buck as he lifts the diaphragm and presses it to his chest over the lower curve of his left pec.  The moment feels significant in a way Eddie can’t quite describe and his chest feels tight with the gravitas of it all.  His own heart seems to pause in the second before he hears Buck’s first beat and the immense flood of relief that follows the sound nearly topples him.

“I’m okay,” Buck says quietly, startling Eddie as his words echo through the stethoscope’s tubing.  

And as he listens to Buck’s slow, steady heartbeat, Eddie almost believes it.  He knows that Buck will recover physically in another month or two, but he also knows that the scars run much, much deeper than that.  Hell, Eddie’s own scars might never fade after watching Buck die on his watch.  Buck had always trusted him to have his back and Eddie had failed.  He’d been unable to protect him in that moment.  He’d let Buck down and it had almost cost Buck his life.

Eddie shuts his eyes as the tears threaten.  He’s not ready to let himself cry yet and Buck sure as hell doesn’t need to see it.  Instead, he zeroes in on the sound of Buck’s heartbeat chanting alive, alive, alive all around him, echoing through every cell in his body.  

A hand touches one of his and Eddie allows Buck’s fingers to wrap around it.  He relaxes his shoulder as Buck pulls his hand forward and directs him to take over holding the stethoscope.  Eddie’s fingers close around the bell and lift it a fraction, just enough to move it to where the sound of Buck’s heartbeat is completely unencumbered in the soft spot between two of his ribs.

“You brought me back and I’m not going anywhere.”

Eddie nearly loses his grip.  On the stethoscope, on his self-control, on the tears he’s barely keeping in check as it is.  He drops his gaze again, staring at the spot on Buck’s chest where the stethoscope is biting into his skin just a little and wonders how Buck can be so composed.  How Buck can say something so significant with so little concern.  

But then, Eddie knows.  He knows Buck’s been here before, lost in the same emotional mire, treading the same waters as the ones threatening to overwhelm him in the moment.  Buck had watched Eddie nearly die, stood by while they’d opened his chest to fix the damage the bullet had wrought as it tore through him, delivered the same sort of news to Christopher as Eddie had.  If there’s anyone who can understand what Eddie’s feeling, it’s Buck.

Suddenly, Buck’s gentleness takes on a whole new meaning and Eddie understands.  Buck isn’t suffering from a lack of concern; he’s handling Eddie with kid gloves.  In any other situation it might have gotten under Eddie’s skin, but here, now, as he listens to Buck’s heartbeat and collects the fractured pieces of himself, he’s grateful.  Buck understands, leaving no need for questions, no room for the kind of curiosity that would crumble Eddie’s resolve and loosen his lips.  Buck is granting Eddie a reprieve for just a little longer and Eddie takes the out.

Eddie’s not sure how much time has elapsed as he slowly pulls away, lifting the stethoscope from Buck’s chest, committing the sound of his strong, steady heartbeat to memory.  He winces a little as he pulls the eartips out of place and realizes that it’s been longer than he’d thought.  He swallows past the lump in his throat and looks up, coiling the stethoscope in on itself and pressing it into Buck’s waiting hands.  He watches as Buck shifts toward one end of the couch to tuck the stethoscope into the small med kit Eddie has had there on standby since the day he’d brought back home and he puts out a hand to stop him.

“No, wait, leave it out,” Eddie asserts roughly, wringing his hands together for lack of anything more productive to do with them.  “I need it close by.  I need to be able to keep an eye on you.  I need to know that your heart-”

Eddie’s sentence dies on his lips as he meets Buck’s eyes and sees a perfect, innate knowing there.  

“Is still beating just fine,” Buck finishes with a small, meaningful smile.  “I know.”

And, somehow, amidst flashbacks to shared traumas past, Eddie thinks that he does.  Suddenly, the conspicuous absence of the sound of Buck’s heartbeat isn’t quite as loud as it was before and Eddie exhales as one infinitesimally small piece of him fits back into place.  It’s not much but it’s a start, and knowing that he gets to keep Buck close at hand for a while longer as he recovers offers him a glimpse at the other side of all of this.  

It’s not much, but it’s hope and maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to trade some of it in for healing someday soon.

[brighteststar707]

Heya! For the february prompt list, can I request Reluctantly with Saeran (GE)? Thank you 💕💕 and looking forward to all the fics!

Hi! Thank you for the request! I've been thinking about this combination for a while, trying to see how to fit it best. In the end, I decided to set it towards the end of Ray's route, after he wakes up from being cared for by Rika (forgive me if I got the timeline wrong somewhere 😅)

Happy early Valentine's day, and I hope you enjoy <3

Saeran loves reluctantly

One moment he’s unconscious, the next he’s acutely aware of a strange clearness in his head. He usually wakes up from sleeping with his head foggier than before, weighted down by the nightmares that always plague him.

The voices he is used to are silent, which is another tip off that something has changed. He has no memory of what happened before, just a strange feeling as if he should be remembering something.

He knows that he shouldn’t push himself to remember things his brain is trying to protect him from, so instead he tries to work backwards based on his surroundings. Perhaps grounding himself will help the memories come back by themselves.

It’s easier said than done, though. Without the usual fog weighing on his mind, there’s nothing slowing it down. It demands to get to the important things at once.

It's all he can do to force himself to slow down and take it step by step.

He can feel the sheets over his body, so he must be in bed. This in itself is unusual, he usually falls asleep at his desk. He opens his eyes slowly. The whole room is bathed in moonlight. It’s almost beautiful.

Even this revelation sets his mind off running again.

How long has he been out? What has happened to the RFA and all his work? Where are-

That question cuts off before it can finish. He suspects there is something there he shouldn't touch there. Small steps first.

There’s a damp cloth on his forehead. It must have once been cold, but now it’s lukewarm and slightly uncomfortable.

It’s surprising how long it takes for him to notice the weight on his hand and the dip in the bed. Someone is resting their head on the bed, holding his hand. By the sound of their breathing, they’re sleeping.

Very slowly, he turns his head to look at them. He’s not sure who he was expecting, but he’s surprised to find Rika taking care of him how strange, it's her name, not her title that comes to mind first). She doesn’t often spend time with him like this unless he has done something bad. It’s nice to be taken care of.

Or, perhaps, she’s just making sure he doesn’t leave.

The cynicism surprises him. Then again, he can’t figure out who he’s supposed to be right now. He isn’t even sure which name he’d rather be called at the moment.

It doesn’t really matter as long as it’s….

You.

Something cracks and the memories he was avoiding all come back to him at once.

Youyouyou. Where are you? Are you upset with him? Have you eaten yet? How long have you been alone for?

His head starts to pound. No wonder the memory of you was kept away from him for so long.

The voices he was searching for before start talking – both at once – and it’s hard to make sense of what they’re saying at first.

There’s Ray, heartbroken and pleading, full of concern for you. You've been alone, unprotected for who knows how long. What if someone else got to you? What if you have been cleansed?

And then Saeran speaks up, his voice sharp and biting, even against himself. You’re dangerous. Your actions threatened to crush him completely, and he shouldn’t be so weak as to trust Ray.

He feels like the point where the ocean meets a river. Salty and sweet, warm and cold bleeding together in a turbulent rush. He is neither and both all at once.

It's a strange feeling, to be the outside observer to his own memories. It means that even though they’re interrupting each other, he understands what they’re trying to tell him. All of their feelings are his too.

They continue to argue. He can feel Saeran's fear, his anger. If they were smart, he says, they should hope that you've been disposed of.

Ray cries out at that. He reminds them of the warmth you brought, of the smile on your face every time you saw him. How can that be dangerous? All you did was show him kindness.

Back and forth they go, and his head spins. He tries to break it down into more manageable pieces - simple statements. How he feels about you dictates his next moves, and he knows he has to tread carefully.

He misses you.

You're dangerous.

He doesn't want to leave you.

You care for him.

Maybe if there wasn't anyone to hurt him for his weaknesses, he could allow himself to be weak. It's not too bad, if you protect him.

He's scared, but he knows that the truth is right there, the last big secret that was kept in the dark from him.

He loves you, whether he wants to or not.

[hobbitsetal]

I read an article* recently that examined Voddie Baucham’s theology of and general attitude toward parenting--the catchy “viper in a diaper” philosophy. It made me acutely aware that the longer we parent gently and the further we get from Reformed theology, the more grateful I am for my relationships with my son and my God, and the more strongly convicted I feel about never spanking.

I have concerns about parenting in general, certainly. Arthur is two, and is overall a sweet and amenable child. Overall, he listens pretty well: stops on walks when we call to him to wait, usually comes when we call his name, has learned to say “thank you” freely and is learning “please” and “help” as prompted. He’s empathetic, running to try to comfort any crying child he sees. We have only to express frustration to see him get upset in turn.

But will Cassian respond the same way? Probably not. While he kicks almost as much as his brother in the womb, and while he apparently has my knees and elbows, we know Cas is his own little person and will react differently to stimuli and challenges. And we, two and a half years into this adventure of parenting, have become different people and will meet certain of his behaviors differently than we met Arthur’s.

And, of course, we have the questions that only time can answer, of what will our boys be like as they grow older? How will they respond to our guidance when they are ten, teens, young adults?

Those are questions that God knows and we will learn in due time.

In the meantime, my son is not a viper in a diaper. He is an image-bearer of God, a tiny joy who loves snuggles and telling apples “bye-bye” as he throws them on the ground and who displays boundless and exhausting energy.

The doctrine of total depravity undermines, to me, our status as image-bearers of God. That image may be marred by sin, but it is not gone. Baucham and those who subscribe to similar theology treat children and the idea of original sin as if children are utter fools bent solely on their own sins, uninterested in doing the right thing unless their parents compel them to. And they discipline in accordance with that belief: they spank for nearly every infraction, they view children’s attitudes and responses as acts of wilful rebellion, they offer no quarter for the simple weaknesses of humanity.

They offer no grace. Ironic, for those who claim to hold to the tenets of grace.

I do not say this from an outside perspective. I was Reformed for a decade, and read theology extensively from within that worldview. As we continue evolving our beliefs, Alex and I have been rereading many books we once regarded highly, reading them now with a more critical eye and finding the flaws within them.

At the core, our entire worldview has shifted irreconcilably from the Reformed doctrines and the many foundational theologies assumed within it. We don’t hold to penal substitutionary atonement theory. We don’t hold a punitive view of justice. I’m not even sure we fully believe in original sin (a doctrine traceable to St. Augustine).

We believe more strongly in unconditional love. My behavior and my reactions shouldn’t be governed by my child’s behavior. When Arthur throws a tantrum because we told him no, when he melts down because he’s hangry or tired, my calling as his mother is to respond with the same patient love and care I give to him when he’s running to me to bestow hugs or kisses.

I believe that God displays unconditional love. No human is perfect. No human can ever hold perfect theology. So if I’m wrong in some of my beliefs, I believe ultimately it doesn’t matter. God sees my earnest desire to love well, to show love to others, my desire to hold to what is true and lovely and worthwhile. If I err in my behaviors and actions, God forgives and embraces, as I forgive and embrace my son.

I believe that God is love. The thread seen through the Bible is that He loves His people.

And if all of humanity is created in the image of God, are we not all His people?

That’s the point Jesus made with the parable of the Samaritan. That’s the point the apostle John makes in 1st John. And that is the point I hold before me in my dealings with my children.

As Christians, we are called to love, gentleness, kindness, compassion. We are told that love does not insist on its own way. How is hitting my child to enforce compliance in line with those teachings?

We are our children’s guides, shepherds, stewards. Shepherds don’t beat their sheep. And we do not beat our sons.

We seek to understand them. We know Arthur pretty well, and we can usually identify when his moods go south because he’s tired and needs to rest, or he needs food, or even when he’s being wild because he has no good outlet for his energy and needs to be allowed outside.

The parenting I grew up with, and was taught to parent with, would have me respond by teaching him that his needs are no excuse for poor behavior. I find that insensitive to a two year old’s situation. He’s still learning how to ask for help when he’s frustrated. How can I expect him to convey properly that he has ants in his little pants and desperately needs stimuli to entertain him? And why would I punish him for conveying, in his limited way, what he does want and need? He’s getting better at asking to go for walks. He will, with time, get better at regulating his emotions and not crying when he’s frustrated.

And he will get better as he sees us model these behaviors.

He learned “thank you” because we his parents say that frequently to each other. He’s learned to kiss and give hugs because we’re freely affectionate with him and each other. He’s learned empathy and compassion for others’ pain because we respond immediately to his crying.

Much of the parenting philosophy I grew up with decries “child-centered parenting,” from arranging social schedules around children’s nap times to adjusting our behaviors for their moods. But as I center my parenting around my son’s needs, I question that mindset deeply.

Arthur cannot help getting tired and hangry unless we help him manage his bodily needs. He cannot express to me, or even properly identify, when he becomes overwhelmed by big crowds and too much excitement. He just grows wild or starts freaking out over little things. It is our responsibility as his parents to recognize his weaknesses and his needs and to meet them.

It is our responsibility to consider his needs more important than our own. To love him as we love our own bodies. To do for him, the least of us, as we would care for God Himself. As Mary cared for God Himself.

As he grows older, his needs will shift and how we meet them will shift. As he develops, he’ll learn better to control his own responses, and we will begin to hold him responsible for his reactions to stimuli and how well he communicates to us and others what he needs. This is part of preparing him for life.

My mother told me, when I was a teenager, that hormonal shifts over the course of a month would affect my mood. I found that very helpful in checking my own reactions. Did I have a reason to be annoyed or was I PMSing? Should I be irritable or did I need rest? Checking my emotions and responses is a learned skill.

I cannot hold my son to standards I myself don’t adhere to. I’m not always cheerful or reasonable. Sometimes I respond to him in anger. Therefore, it is more incumbent on me to respond to my son’s anger with grace, and to teach him how to restore relationships in the aftermath of a relational injury.

We all must live with our humanity. And we must teach the littlest humans how to live with themselves and others with grace and love. If we respond to their needs by hitting them for expressing emotions or desires, what do we teach them but that they are inconvenient and should not express themselves?

And what do we teach them of the image of God, and of the God in Whose image we are made?

*tw for discussions of child abuse. The article itself is very good: https://www.csbvbristol.org.uk/2020/06/01/the-child-as-viper/

[littlenightheories6]

My Little Nightmares: Stories of the Little Ones - Chapter 2: The Boy in the Bandana Mask.

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

It’s safe to say that no place is safe. As far as he knows it. And he’s already caught in some sort of situation. Which is fairly common, especially when the skies are colored in a gloomy gray, with heavy mist passing and wandering on the ground and depressing clouds hovering over the land, the sea, and the dock house.

He can get the hint of it as he walks on a plank from one wall with an open vent to another, high above the wreckage of ruined fishing boats, crates, and ocean supplies that collide together. Almost like no one cares to completely organize them properly. 

There were even racks with some placed in there, but yet, most of them were left unused. 

Ropes, chains, and boards of wood were hung up on the ceiling. Even a table and chair were strapped up by some ropes and were left to hang up there. It's not something anyone would see, is it? He assumes this must be a small warehouse for boats. And he thinks it’s small because there were much bigger warehouses that didn’t just include boats. But from his pint size, it was also pretty large.

From what he can describe is the sound from inside of the warehouse, almost like muffled wind blowing, creaking steel shingles and girders, with slight rumbling echoes and unknown distant sounds coming from wherever outside. He loves listening closely to the sounds of things. That's what helps him stay alive. And why he has an acute sense of hearing. 

The young boy casually kept walking across the plank as it creaked ever so slightly as if the wood was already rotting. He placed one foot over the other with his arms raised to form a T-pose to steady his balance. He wasn’t too scared about falling. He had done this before. The only worst thing that could happen if he all of a sudden lost his balance and fell straight down into the wreckage. As brave as he is, he’s also scared of the world. He doesn’t want to be scared as he is taught that fear is his weakness and that it will never help with anything. But there’s always a breaking point when you have to let it all out. He blinked every ten seconds, and his gaze shifted from down to his feet and forward where the window was, as he took extra precaution of his actions. He tries not to look down so much but never denies that when someone says, "Don't look down,” you are urged to look down. Which is why he never tells himself that. Instead, he always says, “Look forward, look at your feet, and look forward again. That’s what you need to know.” And that process helps keep his balance linear. He didn’t stumble one bit when most people who have to balance on something always do.

He was close to the window, only a few more steps forward. But just then… “Ah…" Hey!” He echoes.

A crow suddenly flew in his way, startling him, and almost making him fall. And it annoyed him as he was doing relatively well. The bird flew up out of a hole in the ceiling and sat on the ledge. The boy glared at it in irritation, but he didn’t stay long to be bitter about it. He continued forward, passing the blue light that emitted through the hole, and made it to the border where the window was. He stepped on the pale wooden platform and knelt in front of the blurred and stained window, pulling up the latch first before he pushed it open as it creaked. He stepped out on a small, flat rooftop, glanced to his left, and viewed the rest of the building, along with the sight of the open ocean.

He doesn’t know why but for the longest time he has been here, he always has this feeling that he lacks the capacity of having any other emotions, besides being determined, hardy, and somewhat bitter. As if he had already lost sadness or happiness. But he never had it to begin with. Not in birth, not in this world. It was all just determination and being strict. Every man, or boy for themselves.

He inhales and exhales as the slightly cold air breezes in his face. The excess straps of his bandana with glass-covered eye holes sway and are carried up by the gust. He feels slight goosebumps from the wind. Even feeling his bald head to be numb. 

“It’s just another day, trying to survive in this place… It’s not like I’m gonna go home anytime soon. I don’t even want to go home... It's not even my home.”

The least he could do is make it until the very end, which he knows is inevitable, and he knows one day, he will be gone. So it’s best to make every day worth a while.

He walked to the ledge and slid down the slanted roof. He grunted in surprise when he fell into the gutters as he stopped. It was filled with musk and moss with dirty water that stank so foul, and he was drenched in it. Oddly enough, he seems to be fine with it. If someone were to fall in here, they would surely reek in disgust. But not him. Although this boy seemed to be comfortable with the filth, it still irritated his nose a bit. When you learn to control something, you'll eventually get comfortable. He stood up and wiped most of the muck off of him. It stained his blue and white striped tank top concealed by his light brown field vest, which is his favorite outfit to wear, along with his tan field shorts. But at least he didn’t lose his hip bag. He couldn’t as it contained a utility he needed.

“Oh well.” He murmured. “It’ll dry up eventually. Not my first time.”

He took a peek to his right, where he saw the aquatic-based city from afar in the mist and behind the grooves of trees. 

He stares at it for a while, remembering how much he had been through… There were memories that seemed joyful, 

but yet, it was all bittersweet. He hates dwelling on the past, especially what she did to make him feel worse.

His eyes and brows relaxed for a moment, but then he shook his head in concentration, closing his eyes firmly as if to force himself to readjust his focus on the current times.

No… I'm not gonna think about her. What happened before, I'm never going to let it happen to me again… I can't even remember her name anymore.

He then guides his view straight down, noticing how he was high up above a running flood of water, rustling and splashing about, which was narrow between the warehouse and the other building in front of him. There were long black ropes that were connected to each building with hooks and nooses hanging on most of them. Along with some dead fish and stained bags high above. It's a grim scenery, but not so much that would make him cringe in disturbance. He's close to being a child turned into stone…

He notices a long wooden plank that reaches through a shattered window that rests between both buildings, making a bridge out of itself. It must be sturdy enough to support his weight since he was around nine and a half to ten inches tall.

In this world…

He carefully got himself out of the gutters and dropped down, landing perfectly on the board. It creaked as he landed, but he was alright. He stood crouching before slowly raising himself and balancing gently as he walked across the rustling water from below. Due to his recent adventures, he’s now grown used to this world and feels more confident. But who’s to say that he wouldn't stay this way? 

He was halfway there to the window. Just a few more steps…

The whistling wind blows across his face, almost feeling like it’s going to push him over and plunge him into the water down below. But eventually… “Hm.” Made it! 

He carefully tries not to cut himself while crawling through the hole of the shattered window and drops down on the cold wooden floor after entering a dimly lit room with another window on the right that only reveals two spots of natural light passing through the boards of wood. He was still able to see as it wasn’t completely dark. There were boxes and mannequins around the corners, a bed at the lower right corner, buckets containing something, and strangely, children's toys and drawings that were laid around the carpet in the center, and pinned on the walls. The boy examined the room thoroughly as he slowly walked in the middle of the carpet. He could still hear the muffled wind, but this time, it included a sound where you would hear a fan operating. From his perspective; it was either low or distant. His hearing has been improving ever since the city. He silently let out one little whisper to see if anyone else was here… “Hey?”... No one.

He wiped his bare feet on the carpet and picked up a drawing. It was a girl in a purple dress with a boy in a brown shirt. They're holding hands… “How sweet, yet somber.

He laid it down before he found another drawing after examining the first one: A boy in a blue shirt, who seemed to be sad and curled into a ball.

And he found another: A man in all black, and he’s wearing a hat. “Oh…!” He couldn’t explain why, but looking at these drawings felt heartbreaking to see. It’s true when he believes that he rarely expresses emotions. But that’s external. How are his emotions internally, even after leaving the city, is perplexing. He still feels that impact gravely and that he’s losing a part of himself.

He slowly lowered down his left hand, where he was holding the paper, relaxing his fingers and letting it go as it floated to the floor. His head hung down as if he were feeling sad. But at the same time, he doesn’t... In his mind, how his personality feels is complicated and perplexing to understand… It’s haunting… And somber… He took a deep breath and walked over to the wall, where he found tally marks and names carved on it. It surprised him to see how many names and marks there were. “How many children like me were here?” He said. There were marks that said five days had passed on one spot. Then seven. Fifteen. Thirty-six. Forty-eight. Maybe even forever. It was disturbing… Their names… They write them here… “Ace. Dan. Coralie. Lonnie…”

He spotted more names… “Ruth. Riley. Ethan. Jord. Mike…”

And, once again, more names. Some even odd ones… “Tomah. Renn. Nulla. Laupie. Iris…”

“Hm.. Six… That one’s interesting.”

The boy stared at the wall of tally marks and names for a while and made a little decision… He brought his hip bag up and took out a little anchor with a rope tied to the ring. Using one of the hooks, he carved onto the solid stone wall close to the other names, along with a single tally mark down below… “N…. E…. And. W… There!”

“New… I like it.”

New then walked a few steps to the right and stood in front of the door. At first, he thought it was closed, but he looked closer to see it was barely open, with just a tiny crack left. He pushed the door to try to open it, but something must be blocking his path. Confident, he gave one large shove on the door with his hands, causing it to open a bit further. Something outside made a scraping sound, and he peeked through the crack to see nothing but natural light from outside illuminating from somewhere. The door was still trapped, but the crack was big enough for him to squeeze through. New compressed himself through the door and entered a hallway somewhere, with two blinds covering windows in both directions and a door leading to another room at the very end to his left. He saw a heavy box blocking the door slightly. Who would've put it there is unknown.

New looked in both directions with puzzling thoughts but then got startled when he heard muffled groaning and grunting sounds that seemed to come from the next room behind the walls. It sounded like some sort of furious person with a deep, muffled voice who was shuffling items around, as he could also hear rustling and banging sounds as if you were to throw around a box of toys or other kinds of items.

There was no time to waste. He made his way to the right and down the stairway to the left at the end of the hall, with the floorboards creaking as he took each step on the old and pale wood. He looks back as he reaches the main floor. No one was behind him, thankfully, but the loud muffled noises continued. With more struggling and grunting sounds of whoever it was getting more agitated. 

There wasn't anything good about this.

New examines the area despite it being mostly dark with only a single ceiling light with the lightbulb hanging from the cable down below, illuminating from afar. It was some sort of living room with an old, raged, and warped couch in the near center, with an elderly television sitting on a small drawer. There was also a tall and lengthy shelf table near a large furnace with firewood and a heap of filled up and stained gunny sacks at the far left corner, a shelf containing aquatic utilities such as a fishing rod, boxes of string, bait, a bucket hat, and more.

But what filled the atmosphere was the horrid and gut-wrenching scent of rotting meat, with flies dancing in the air enjoying the smell. He couldn’t identify it, nor could he see exactly where it was coming from. It made him feel sick as he groaned, clenching his nose and cringing his face in disgust while bending down almost as if he couldn’t stand up straight. That's how bad the smell was. Could it be… The gunny sacks? It’s fairly unknown.

New was used to handle foul odors, but when it comes to something rotting and decaying so atrociously, such as this is beyond manageable.

“Ugh…" What is that? It's so awful!” What it was is also beyond figuring out at this time.

The young boy tries his hardest not to pay attention to the aroma. Instead, he urges to find a way to get out of here. He walks close to the center of the room and slowly steps in the circling beam of the ceiling light that is close to the table until he’s almost directly under the light source. Looking around his surroundings, he views the enormous furniture, table, and shelf. The furnace was running a warm and blazing fire since he could see an ember glow from where he was standing, and the heat almost reached his distance. 

And he finally notices where the awful stench of rotting carcass is coming from. It still made him sick and assumed there was something in those stained sacks he didn’t want to see. Ugh… What’s in those things?

He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to escape out of here: He can't use the windows because they’re all boarded up and too high to reach, nor can he get the handle of the door. With someone upstairs doing whatever they're doing is a warning sign of danger.

New doesn’t want to stay here any longer, and he feels anxious about it even though he hates it. 

Based on the appearance of this room having fishing gear, it seems that whoever is in this building must be a fisherman. Or women if they are female. But would a woman want to do a dirty job such as fishing? Most unlikely from New’s beliefs.

New couldn't think of any other solution. He's too lost to find a way out. He can hear a large muffled pound coming from upstairs along with more groaning sounds. It seems like whoever it is must be preparing to come down at a very bad time.

Ok, I need to find a way out. Find a way out…. But which way could be out? This place is not helping me at all.

By instinct, he pulls out a chair that is tucked in the table and jumps up to climb on the seat, pulling himself up. He then leaped up and grabbed on the ledge to repeat the same. He can see the entire room now as if he were a tower in a city. He turns slowly around in a three-hundred and sixty-degree rotation: able to see the couch, the television, the furnace, and the stained sacks. Along with streaks of blood stains and gashes on the tabletop where he was at. With the many fish heads and severed fingers from a person, and a clever pinned on the upper left edge. The flies paraded above the table, even crawling around the stains of blood and fish heads. No explanation was needed to understand that this place was much grimmer than ever imagined. New wasn't at all disturbed by the finger.

“Hmm…" Well, that’s gross. But I need to find somewhere to go!”

New can’t tell what to do next, he couldn’t stay there for long and he knew it. He never trusted anyone other than his instincts, but he relies on them more now than ever. Even after leaving what he has forgotten already. His instincts, kicking in again, told him to look up, and he didn’t notice it before but there was a chain with a hook hanging above him and from a large gash in the wooden ceiling. It was too high after trying to jump up and get it. Which gave him an idea: 

He took out his anchor from his hip bag and tested the rope to ensure it was sturdy enough. That’s good! He held the rope with his left hand, holding the end with the anchor, and his right holding the rest of the coil. New looked up at the hook and slowly swung his hand backward, swinging the rope in a vertical circle like how a cowboy would swing his lasso. The rope swung faster in every spin with the anchor, giving more leverage until he finally let go, throwing the anchor up in the air and to the chain. The anchor caught onto the hook successfully. “Yes. There we go!”

He tugged down on the rope firmly and found it comforting enough. And now, for the next part: He jumped up and held tightly on the rope with his bare feet off the tabletop, and began climbing up with his hands gripping tightly and his knees pinching on the rope as he moved like a caterpillar climbing a tree. He was halfway up and reached the hook. He secured his right foot on the curved metal and carefully retrieved his anchor back in his hip bag along with the rope by coiling it back in his bag. Now it’s the chain he has to climb up.

But his luck was only running low, as he then froze in place after hearing the sound of a door swinging open, with muffled footsteps above… Oh no… He climbed up faster with anxiousness running through his body as he placed one hand and foot above the other. The sound of a door closing can be heard and footsteps walking from upstairs and making their way down. His heart was racing as he climbed faster for his life. The chain jingled slightly as he reached the top and climbed inside the ceiling. Just in time before whoever it was spotted him as the footsteps were heard as clear as day, knowing that they were already downstairs now.

He barely got a single glimpse of the person, but nor did they ever see him either. He was only lucky to be alive as he lay on the wood of the inner floor, face upwards. Taking deep breaths to ease himself.

“That was too close! But at least I've  made it!”

He pushed himself up in a crouched posture as the space was narrow from the roof and floor. With nothing but darkness, that was hard to see. He took out his handheld lightbulb from his pocket that he crafted with a battery and pulled the string to turn it on, with a click when pulled down and another after it shined, allowing him to see. There wasn't anywhere else to go as the boards blocked every direction. All except one that led somewhere down to his left. From what he could see, there were small bits of dirt, dust, and grime on the floor, old and empty tin cans scattered, torn paper and clothing, shards of glass, and a little spider web. New walks in that direction, but as he does so, he can hear loud moaning sounds from below in the living room, and the muffled sound of meat being intensely chopped, torn, and beaten can be heard with grotesque squelching. It was disturbing since New remembers the smell of the stained gunny sacks and the many fish heads from the table. As for the severed fingers, they won't be discussed.

Whoever this guy is, he's not friendly at all! And I think it's a man since he sounds like one… 

He reached the end of the floor and found a wooden trapdoor right in front of him, facing directly from the wall. There was only the slightest of light coming from the cracks in the trapdoor which must indicate it opens to outside. New turned off his lightbulb and tucked it away in his pocket to open the trapdoor. 

He gave all of his might and opened the door far enough to pass through. He fell straight down, not knowing where he was falling until he landed in a cluster of rubbish, disposal bags, and decaying fish that were compacted together in an enormous container. His landing wasn't hard, nor was it soft.

He brought himself out of the trash and sat there almost covered in filth again. “Wow!” He said as he sighed in amazement. He could see the container was overloaded with piles of muck, chum, and rotting fish with flies swarming around, dancing in the odor. Along with crushed tin cans, rotting fish heads, and more bags with red stains. It almost frightened him in shock as his eyes widened in disbelief to see a human arm barely peeking out from one of the bags. This place means trouble… I can't stay here.

New brought himself onto his feet and carefully walked past through the waste as he stepped on the wretched meat of fish, and supposedly, human. He dropped down on the wooden floor of a roof. He can hear the whistling wind once again, alongside the rustling water from the ocean waves from his left, splashing against the docks far from where he was.

He allowed his ears to distinguish the outside audio again, hearing the wind breezing and whistling, the sound of slightly aching metal, and the ambiance of the entire area. 

Sound does come as a form of art to him. There were even seagulls talking and communicating with each other from either around the building or from afar, even some resting on the roofs around.

“If I was able to, I could snatch one of them for me to eat. An anchor on string can't do that, though,” mumbled the young boy.

Seeing a different view, he can see the rest of the dock house, with a long and wide part of the building on his right with a row of windows, a watch tower on his right-hand side used to signal boats from afar, and a large balcony right below him that's partially destroyed and looks like it was on the brink of collapsing. It was mesmerizing to New. He doesn’t know why, but he could stare at the misty scenery all day. He noticed quickly, after squinting his eyes where he found docking platforms around the shore and stretching out to the water, where fishermen would park their boats.

He also saw the front part of the shed peeking out from the corner of the end of the building from his perspective.

That must be the shed for boats. Maybe I can find one to set sail to the seas… If I can try to use one, I hope!

He turned to his right and looked down where another small and dilapidated roof could be found below, with a large heap of nasty rubbish compacted against the wall to his right again, almost forming a tall tower. The roof was missing boards and looked very old. But he took the chance anyway.

“If I want to reach my destination, sometimes I have to do something really dangerous looking. Here we go!”

New lifted his right foot and allowed his left to follow, dropping himself on the roof. But right after his bare feet touched the rotting wood, he gasped in surprise as he broke through the roof, breaking the wood as it clunked and falling hard on his side on what seemed to be a wooden crate. He grunted from the harsh impact and moaned in pain as he picked himself up. The roof doesn’t seem to be useful anymore now.

“Argh!... That hurts!” He groaned.

A spot of natural light beamed through the hole he broke through, yet he still couldn’t see anything except the crate he was now standing. He held his sore left arm as he also landed on it and looked around in the darkness… Almost nothing in sight. Which makes it more skeptical.

He hears some tiny moist patting noise as if something wet with a sticky substance is patting a smooth surface, along with tiny and cranking squealing noise that seems to be struggling as if a mouse is trying to speak but is having a hard time. Curious, New dropped down from the crate landing on the smooth concrete floor, and took out his light bulb, pulling the string down with a click, and the bulb lit with its golden glow as it revealed something terrorizing that surprised him.

New sees a spread-out horde of small but enormous worms that have no eyes, no nose, but maws that could swallow any little creature whole. There must’ve been ten, fifteen, or even twenty, and they moaned and squealed in the same struggling and cracking noise he spotted. They flopped and slithered around with their moistened body, leaving wet drag marks on the smooth floor from the slimy substance on their bodies.

The young boy’s eyes widened in surprise and stood on foot back as a form of stance. The worms were drawn to the splashing noise of a water puddle where New dropped down. They moved towards him with their mouths opening and closing as if they were preparing to swallow him. He swiftly looked left to right and back in anxiousness due to the slithering parasites, hoping to find an opening to escape. He found one and took the chance. Gripping his light bulb more firmly, he ran through a gap, avoiding the worms as best as he could. They slowly slithered towards him as he ran with the puddles his feet were splashing in, drawing more attention. There was no point in being stealthy since they had already felt his presence.

The young boy had his mind spiraling as he ran past the horde of worms, almost getting caught during the process and knocked down a bucket with something rotten inside to know if that would help. The bucket clanked right after he pushed it. He didn’t think it would work. He wasn’t thinking at all. He simply wanted to find a way out as he dodged and jumped over every worm that slithered in his way. His light bulb guided him forward until he reached the wall and found a wooden board blocking a stone vent grate.

He quickly pushed away the board as the worms kept squealing and slithering towards him. But he was able to evade the situation after crouching through the grate and falling onto what felt like a wooden floor again. He landed on his feet and bent down, holding onto one of his knees with his left hand, still holding his light bulb in exhaustion and anxiousness as he breathed rapidly.

“Ugh…. It gets worse every day. And I’m still alive somehow!”

He pulled the string of his light bulb down, turning it off since there was enough natural light peering from the gashes in the high roof from above to see clearly enough around a slim area that felt like it was the interior of a wall of the building. The young boy assumes he must be high up due to looking down and seeing a misty depth with the thin clouds covering whatever is at the bottom. There were also wooden support beams with some built horizontally, vertically, at an angle, and some even snapped in half. There were even thin wooden boards built on some beams as if to make platforms but are partially broken.

New stood on the support beam, keeping very still to not fall. Using his sense of hearing, he examines the audio again; noticing the vague ambiance of the supposed interior wall, with the muffled sound of wind breezing from the outside that the gashes from the roof emitted.

He also noticed muffled thumping noises from the other side, almost expected from him, along with the distanced sound of the worms that New evaded consuming something that resembles too closely to meat. Possibly, the bucket that the young boy pushed over contained something edible for them. As well as grotesque.

“Ok, so I’m somewhere here… So now what? I guess maybe I can go that way.”

New carefully turned himself to the right and placed one foot over the other slowly. He walked forward where the wooden beam could take him. He went on for what felt like less than two minutes until he reached the end. His hands were raised and widened to keep his balance. He wasn’t at all scared. He’d done this before, once again. The ambiance seems more audible to him as his hearing enhanced to gain more information about the area. He saw another beam on his left and slowly turned to it, and with enough confidence, he leaped forward, landing perfectly. He resumed walking forward, only paying attention to either his feet or his direction. As he moved, the light slowly got dimmer since there were barely any more gashes in the roof for more visibility. Until something caught his attention that made him stop for a moment… In a dimmer part of the inner wall, there was a small but noticeable glow of golden light, just like the glow his light bulb had. He couldn’t see where it was coming from due to his perception angle, but it came from somewhere in the dark area. He carefully made his way to the light, careful not to rush forward on the beam.

What’s over there…?! What’s over there?!

He soon found out, since, after a few more steps, he reached where the light was coming from. A large crack in the wall, big enough for a child like him to enter through. New is not the kind of boy to be drawn so easily, especially when he feels like it’s a hoax or threatening. And that’s where his trust issues came from. But he doesn’t believe at this moment that the light could be a warning. It could lead to somewhere... He compacted himself in, pushing into the crack, and what he found was beyond his expectations.

New finds a small room with a large lantern in the middle.

“So that's where the light came from!”

There was also makeshift furniture that would fit his size along with the decor. A ragged T-shirt in the middle as a carpet, a wide cardboard box in the lower right corner as a table with little cylinder cups as the chairs, four hacky sacks as living room chairs up against the far wall, a teddy bear at the upper left corner for some purpose, two other cardboard boxes stored on the left for something as well, toys such as balls, tin top spinners, rubber duck, and a cymbal monkey to play with, and drawings made from children pinned almost on all four walls and some even on the floor with crayons of different colors. Red, blue, yellow, green, and a few others.

Woah… This looks… Amazing!

New was mesmerized by the scenery and stepped slowly and stopped before the lantern. As if he had never seen something like this before. Or even felt it, either.

“Hey!” He said, checking to see if anyone was present… No one. The lantern's flame was dying at every minute, and yet somehow, it was able to catch his attention from the interior of the walls he was once in. It's almost like it had a mind of its own. He knelt to the lantern, with his left hand on his knee, seeing its glowing, orange, and yellow little flame and feeling its warmth. The flame was shrinking less than a centimeter, as it allowed its last remaining energy to give the young boy life in the room. New feels the lanterns' sadness and despair of loneliness, even though it was strange to believe an inanimate object could even have emotions. He stared deeply into the flame, intertwined with the glow, until he stood up and looked around again and noticed something at the right corner from ahead. It looked like a yellow paper with scribbles on it, possibly from a child based on the writing. Out of curiosity, he walked over to it slowly until he got near it and took it off the wall. It was some note or message from someone who must’ve left this here.

“Huh… I wonder who left this?!”

New decides to read the note on the spot and out loud as follows:

“To whom it may concern.

I don’t know if anyone will get this message, but if anyone does, I hope you’ll understand what happened here. I used to hide here with me and my friends who are trying to survive this world of monsters, and we’ve been struggling to find a place to stay since no one is ever nice to you to even help you. It’s everyone for themselves, and it makes me sad because I wish we didn’t have to live like this. But me and my friends stayed with each other, knowing that we would never survive alone and that we needed each other for support. We’ve found this place a long time ago, where no one was here for a long time. At least at the moment. We’ve decided to make it our new home ‘cause we didn’t think we'd ever go back to our real home. I loved having my friends around, and we’d even go find some things to make it feel like a home. We’d tell stories, eat leftover food from trash bins (good enough for us to eat), and play with toys we’ve found. At some moments, we felt sad, missing our old lives, and hoped that someday we could come back. But I hate to say it, but I don’t think any of us in this world will ever go home. And I think what happened next made me believe that. My friends and I went out one day to find more things for our home, but then we ran into a man with a black fishing hat, black fishing clothes with a weird gas mask on his face, and he held a gun with a spear. We ran away as fast as we could, but I was the one who could only escape. 2 of my friends died right in front of me with his spear gun, and the others were taken away to somewhere I don’t know. I couldn’t do anything but hide and watch them get taken away. My friends are gone, and I think it’s all my fault, I should’ve done something to help them. I don’t know if the others are alive anymore, but I don’t want to know. And now I’m all alone, sad, and crying because of what happened. I miss my friends every day and wish I could see them again. This doesn’t feel like home anymore. Not without my friends. That’s why this note is here. To say that I left this place a long time ago. And I hope that whoever finds this remembers to survive with your friends while you still can. Or survive on your own for your survival. Whichever one you choose, just leave this place, and this world.”

New looks up at the wall, seeing the names of the supposed children who had met their fate from the note, carved on the wooden wall.

“Laika. Paris. Joel. Bonnabel. Ghibli. Amy P.…” He then looked down to the bottom of the note, seeing the name of the last surviving child and the original writer of the message.

“Mary-Kate… A girl.”

New felt heavy in his heart after understanding the history of this dock house. He didn’t expect such a tragic backstory of this aquatic building. He felt numb around his body, as well as sadness. He didn’t want to be sad, but he couldn’t help it and almost shed a tiny teardrop but resisted. He then noticed that the room was getting darker. The flame from the lantern was close to being completely gone as he looked back and noticed. But he also saw something strange that surprised him a little.

A dark, misty-looking figure that seems to be a ghost with a dark gray cloak and glowing white eyes, staring at New. He didn’t jump at all, but he stood there in amazement and confusion as he turned his entire body around to face the spirited figure, tilting his head to the side, completely mesmerized. Tiny dark gray particles moved around its body, and it even blinked at him like an actual person. They both stayed in place, not moving one bit with stern eye contact with each other. The young boy considered its appearance much further and figured out that this entity must be a girl. Could it be..?

“Mary-Kate?” He said.

The ghost didn’t utter a word. It doesn’t seem like it has a face other than her eyes. But its appearance is vaguely close to a young girl, and he noticed that it has short but long hair like one. Until it suddenly spoke in a soft, echoing, and feminine voice…

“You understand now what I have been through… I hope you make it to the very end just like I did!”

… Eventually, she vanished away, leaving him all alone again. The flame to the lantern has finally faded away, leaving the young and amused boy in the dark.

New let out a sigh of disappointment and mumbled desolately, asking himself… “Why does this have to happen?”

This is a question he will never be able to answer.

He didn’t want to stay there any longer now… He felt vulnerable. A feeling he rarely had.

He turned glumly around to the not, feeling guilty… But then he noticed in confusion an outline of light coming from the roof above his head. He squinted closely, adjusting his vision to see some sort of trap door built in the corner of the ceiling with a little bit of light peeking through the outline. It was a little too high for him to reach, but remembering the layout of the room, he walked over to a hacky sack and dragged it over to the door as it scratched on the wooden floor. He then picked up and placed a cylinder chair on the hacky sack for extra height.

I don’t even know what these things are. Maybe a toothpaste cap or bottle? I don’t know…

He slowly stepped one foot on the top and then the other, lifting himself to the trapdoor. He pushed it open with one hand, and it creaked open, with the door revealing what seemed to be somewhere that had natural light. New couldn’t understand where it led and jumped upwards and brought himself up on the floor of a crawl space of a wooden floor with a hole that was right around the trapdoor he exited through.

“This must’ve been another way where Mary-Kate and her friends would go and leave the room… They really must’ve been here for a long time!” He mumbled, still amused by how these children endured this environment. He noticed there were windows on a wall to the outside of the wooden floor and a roof high above. He climbed over and stepped onto the floor of the room, with his bare feet and his body already sensing the chilling floorboards and atmosphere. It was some sort of hall that was as big as a meeting hall for ceremonies or hotel banquets. He wouldn't notice it due to the horde of wooden crates, stuffed gunny sacks, large pieces of fabric, drawers, and piles of dirty shoes and clothing around. The young boy also noticed smaller sacks hung up to the ceiling with the same dark red stain he had seen before, along with fish skewered and on hooks. They seemed to be fresh, as they didn’t emit the same foul odor from before, nor was it a good indication.

“Someone’s here.” He mumbled.

His hearing takes over to observe the audio of the area, almost the same as the living room from before: Muffled wind from outside, tapping on the windows. But this time, there’s an unknown sound from a distance that New catches on immediately. It sounded like some sort of voice, moaning and grumbling, like when a man is bitter. The windows may be as clear as day, but the hall was crowded with clusters of heavy items and others, making it dimly lit but still manageable. The young boy couldn’t find anywhere else to go, especially since the door leading to the dock house inside was blocked off with boxes… His only best chance to get to the docking platforms is to get to the other end of the hall, where the strange voice might be. He didn’t want to put himself in danger again, but what choice does he have?

New was about to move around to the right of the table, but before doing so, he looked back to the trapdoor where the hidden room was. He lowered down, and before shutting it closed, he gave his condolences to the fallen and broken group of children. Even to the last one.

“Goodbye, Mary-Kate… I hope you and your friends will meet again!”

He pushed the trapdoor closed, concealing the secret of the dock house. Until another waltz in, it remains secretive.

But now is the time to go!

New slowly walked around the fallen table to the right, walking forwards through a path with a wall of stacked crates and boxes on his left, with fishing nets, bags, and spears on the right, along with more ahead and other objects he couldn’t identify. At this moment, the young boy doesn’t feel too anxious and has gained some more confidence than before. He’s not feeling the fear he had growing up in this sort of environment back in the waking world that other children called.

“I’m not going to be afraid anymore, I’m doing this… I’m Doing This Now!” He mumbled firmly, making a strong facial expression.

However, it wouldn’t be long until the young boy faced challenges that could differ from his claim. He has passed through the path through the cluster of items and finds himself in a more open area with clear, natural light from the window, completely illuminating the entire area. A humongous heap of aquatic supplies partially blocked his entire path, almost engulfing the entire frame of the hall, but only leaving a gap between the ceiling and itself. There were fishing nets, small wooden fish crates, prosthetic parts, fishing spears, and more gunny sacks. Everywhere he goes, he will always find something morbid.

Oh boy… I might die here. But call it a blessing, a curse, a bit of both; I call it useless… A statement for compunction. Fitting…

He can hear the noise of the grumbling person almost more clearly but still a bit distant. It sounds like a man, I know it!

The young boy looks to his left and sees a large table with freshly caught fish hanging on hooks from the ceiling. He walks to the near center of the spotlight to gain a better view. Walleye, salmon, steelhead, trout, red drum, largemouth bass, I’ve seen these before… Who would’ve caught these? But what caught his attention the most was a pig slaughtered open and sitting on the table with a sort of black and thick treacle substance spewing from his cut-opened stomach and dripping on the wooden floor. There was also a brown hag hanging from the ceiling that had the formation of a human hanging upside down, with a rope strapped around its supposed neck.

New looks at the scenery with little to no dread. The young boy doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable about the grim sight…

Ok, so… This is new to me!.. But not scary?!

I gotta go now. I can’t stay here for a long time!

New turns to the pile of aquatic supplies and with a running start, he leaps onto the pile from the bottom, holding onto a fish crate, and slowly climbs his way up, grabbing different objects with his hands and placing his bare feet up high. They shifted slightly as he put his weight on each item that creaked as if the contents would tumble down. He grabbed onto another fish crate, pulled himself up, and stepped on a sack to give himself more leverage. The young boy was halfway up, until…

CRASH!

“Ahh!... What the…?” He whispered. “Something just pushed this thing!”

Or rather someone… The pile of aquatic equipment shook as if someone must’ve thrown something at it, causing some items to tumble down. Prosthetic limbs clattered down, crates tumbled and crashed on the floor, sacks scuffed along, and spears pinned onto the floor as the cold, metal dinged straight after impact. New merely held on firmly to not fall back down. He was barely fearful, but nervous that he'd get caught by whatever had caused the rumble, looking down at the floor to see the many items that fell on the floor… A creaking sound can be heard, and New swiftly looks up. A spear coming from a hole in the ceiling as facing the young boy, slowly inching closer about to fall. His heart raced, and his eyes widened. He climbed up faster, not giving care if he pushed anything else off the pile, and reached a fishing net up. Grabbing it in mere seconds before the spear could strike the young boy. He was very close to being impaled. It only got a fishing crate, and New looked back to see how close he was to death. He couldn’t have imagined being killed in such a horrifying manner as his heart thumped in his chest and goosebumps crawled in his skin. Challenges… As expected.

… Yeah, I’m definitely gonna die! But, I hope it’ll be worth it!

He then just realized that he had forgotten about the grumbling sound of the person on the other side. He stopped and paid attention to the sounds again: It was all the same, but this time, he could hear what sounded like meat being torn and cut open, with squelching organs being spattered around, and the muffled moaning sound of a man could still be heard. He suspected that his voice must be muffled not by the distance but because it sounded like he was wearing a mask.

New has a great idea as to who this being might be.

He climbs to the very top, almost getting a perfect view of the rest of the hall, with the clear windows still revealing the scenery. Up ahead were slightly bent and warped shelves of fish scattered around on his close right, tables of dark brown sacks huddled up together and stacked on the floor, almost resembling human figures, with strong ropes wrapped around their supposed necks. There were also heavy crates stacked around and scattered on the floor, hooks tied to ropes hanging from the ceiling, thin metal ropes also hanging from the ceiling, and knives in different sizes hanging from some of the hooks. Small, big, fat, and blunt ones that a butcher would use. New felt chills coming down his body, even though he stated that he wasn’t going to be fearful anymore. It was proven wrong at this moment. He sees more fish crates on his left, stacked on top of one another like a tower. But he looks closer to seeing little paper tags stuck on each box, resembling it too closely like price tags.

Price tags… Does he sell fish for… People?.. Don’t people sell stuff for money?... Maybe that’s not what he desires!

He gets the idea out of his head, focusing on his objective. Seeing a carpet laid perfectly on the pile, he turned his legs forward and slid down on the carpet carefully like a slide, with his bare feet landing on the wooden floor, grunting. He’s only a few feet away from whoever it was.  He peeked from the corner of the tower of crates, getting a good glimpse of the being: 

Dirty black boots. Black pants. Black rubber coat. Thick gloves. Spear gun. Backpack. Fishing hat… Gas mask!

At that moment, New found the Fisherman occupied with some sort of carcass he was butchering with a knife. A strange liquid was dripping from his wet gloves, and he wheezed under his mask as he tore the meat apart, with his spear gun resting against the table.

New immediately took a dislike to him and understood completely why Mary-Kate had to leave this place. He remained in his crouched posture as he watched the man with nervousness and could already tell it would be more difficult to avoid him. His heart pounded as he took the chance to slowly walk while crouching past the horrific Fisherman. His way to freedom was just up ahead, and he had to get past this humongous man.

Ok… just take it slow! Or it grows!

The floor creaked only slightly but not enough to disturb the man. New wasn’t anxious about making noise; he was anxious about getting caught again. Looking forward, he can see a tight space between two crates he could compact through. He peered at the Fisherman again, who was still occupied with his work. He reached the crates, but he couldn’t squeeze himself through the skinny opening.

I gotta push one aside to get through, but…

He looked to his left where the man was…

Ok. When I push it far enough. Run!

New placed his hands on the box on his right, groaning silently as he pushed the heavy crate slowly. He noticed. With his hearing, the Fisherman stopped carving his carcass for some odd reason. He couldn’t wait any longer and gave one massive shove to the crate. It scraped loudly that the Fisherman turned his masked face to his right, and as soon as the young boy made enough space, he ran for his life, with bare feet dabbing on the wooden floor swiftly. Suddenly…

CRASH!!!

“Ahh!” He yelped and stumbled in shock as a powerful pop could be heard, and a giant spear swiftly passed him inches away and struck into a tower of crates, with splinters of wood flying. He didn’t try to look back or stop sprinting and passed through multiple boxes and gunny sacks as the Fisherman, groaning in anger, reloaded his spear gun to fire his next round, inserting the pole of the spear into the barrel of the gun. New couldn’t guide himself clearly through the cluster of boxes and bags. His instincts were telling him to simply run and never look back. His anxiousness increased, and he ducked his head as the second spear from the Fisherman’s spear gun, struck close to him, piercing through a table and on the wooden floor. He nearly fell while stumbling but stabled himself as he continued to flee from the man.

The Fisherman bashed away many boxes and sacks and pushed away a tower of crates, crashing on the ground as he walked forward to eliminate the young boy. He wheezed and groaned in irritation and took out another spear from his heavy backpack, reloading his gun with it. New ran into a large and stuffed gunny sack in the way and climbed over it with rapid fear as the man reloaded his gun, and resumed running until another pop went off as the third spear barely caught New as he stumbled in pure shock and fear.

The spear pierced through the wooden floor as well as breaking off the leg of a large table with brown sacks piled on top. The young boy took notice and ran as fast as he could as the table collapsed. Snapping and cracking as the heavy sacks break it apart with their weight and tumbling down towards him. His heart raced faster and faster, and he was quick enough not to get trampled by the tumbling brown sacks. He fell on his knees and yelped again in shock as another spear struck close to him and felt a little bit of strange substance staining him. The Fisherman shot another spear that only slashed open one of the brown sacks that splattered out blood onto him and the floor. He got back up and ran quickly to the end of the hall, almost making it there as the Fisherman reloaded his gun while walking.

He panted in exhaustion with the soles of his feet being sore and wished he could stop, but couldn’t… I’m almost there. Almost there!... Wait. How can I get in the door?

New stopped in place for a second to realize he couldn’t reach the doorknob, and the Fisherman would be catching up soon. The man pushed through the many brown sacks out of his way aggressively as he groaned louder in pure anger. New looked back and forward, knowing he was in deep trouble and needed to find a way quickly. He swiftly looked around and up to see a large hole in the wall with only the slightest light peeking out right next to a tower of crates. He didn’t hesitate for a second to run over and climb up the tower, placing one hand over the other, one leg over the other, as another spear that the Fisherman shot struck the door down below, being pinned on the wood and making the young boy startle for a short moment until he continued. He climbed up the tower with every strength he had when his body was sore and exhausted, and the Fisherman got closer and closer, feeling like he was breathing down his neck. The man tried to reload his spear gun with another spear, but it somehow got stuck trying to insert his spear in the barrel, making him pause in place as he tried to fix the weapon to get it to function, giving New extra time to escape. The Fisherman groaned in anger behind his gas mask, trying to tinker with the notch, muzzle, and trigger mechanism, and hit the gun multiple times until he got it to work. New’s climbing process was slow, but he was aligned to the hole right on time, as the man reloaded his spear gun, he raised it to the young boy’s level and aimed it directly towards him. He quickly pushed himself through the hole as another pop emitted, and the spear struck the tower of crates, causing it to collapse and crash down.

New was lucky enough to survive, as he made it through the hole and fell from a few feet above, landing on the hard, wooden deck for the boat shed. He grunted and moaned in pain after landing on his right side and quickly got up to hide as the door to the hall, blocked with a single board of wood banged and rustled. He staggered but swiftly walked over and dropped himself into the shallow water below his level and swam under the deck just before the Fisherman burst through the door as the board of wood clanked on the floor.

Silence has seized the moment. With both of them not uttering a sound…

The young boy stayed still, not moving one bit while looking up at the Fisherman from the gaps of the deck, with his heart beating at an almost natural pace. Only the sound of the calm waters swaying, the outside wind breezing, and the ambiance can be heard. 

The man with the spear gun held his weapon in his right hand as he scanned the entire boat shed for him, wheezing and moaning as he breathed hard through his mask. He hung the belt of his spear gun on his right shoulder and leaned into his backpack and took out a lantern, lighting it on with a twist of a knob and illuminating his way through the dimly lit and enormous boat shed. He held it up to a certain level and grabbed his spear gun again, ready to go hunting for the young boy, as he walked along the creaking deck with his heavy boots, looking around to find his prey.

New watched him walk away with the man unaware that he was hiding under the deck until he was far enough away to be out of sight. He slowly walked forward with his bare feet under the shallow waters, carefully observing his surroundings to ensure the man was nowhere to be found. A distanced sound of a door creaking open and closing can be heard as the echoes boom around, concluding his last encounter with the Fisherman… For now.

He let out a sigh of relief… “That was scary!” He whispered. He realized just that he made it to where he wanted to go. After running and being pursued by a mad spear-wielding man. And he just realized right now he was holding his breath and exhaled from surprise… He was exhausted from his trails, and it was a fitting moment to finally set sail for a new destination.

After stepping out from his hiding spot, he turned around to the deck and reached for his hip bag, almost submerged under the water, and took out his anchor again and spun it in mid-air with his wrist in motion, letting it go and latching onto a wooden beam of the deck. He tugged it down gently, finding it stable, and jumped up slightly, with water splashing, to climb up on the rope doing the same caterpillar motion and drops raining from his outfit, with some of the blood washed away from him as well. He gripped his hands on the wooden ledge, pulled himself up on the deck, and rolled on his back, exhausted as he breathed heavily…

This is such a rough journey… I need to get up… and get some sleep soon!

He rolled onto his side and displayed his palms on the floor as he brought himself straight up and unhooked his anchor off the beam, recoiling the rope and stuffing it back in his hip bag.

He stood in place with his gaze, looking down at the water where his reflection was shown. Seeing something mysterious right in front of him that he'd always been… They claim everything that enters over time when perception differs and memories fade. But he will lose his chains eventually.

After a moment, he looked to his left where the gateway to the boat shed was. It was big and wide, close to the size of a train in a side profile, and it led to the outside and the open oceans and where the rest of the docking platforms were. Amazed by the scenery.

He jolted his head to the right to ensure that the Fisherman wouldn't come back. Nothing but a door, tables with construction tools, and diagram prints pinned on the walls. There were also no boats in sight, not inside or outside. But New could spot something from afar. What seems to be a small boat or a different object? It may only be his best hope.

He couldn’t say another word, not from his mouth or his mind, and started sprinting to the end of the docking platform he was on, with his dirty and wet bare feet dapping on the wooden floor. He reached the gateway and then passed it. Embracing the outdoor light again, he feels the wind breezing against him and whistling, with the ocean waters rustling calmly and swaying from left to right, and the heavy white clouds almost concealing the open ocean that becomes a mystery to him. He didn’t stop sprinting with his arms swinging up and down and back and feeling the power of a horse.

He then slowed down inch by inch as he came closer to the boat that he concluded was there. It was parked fairly close to the end of the platform, which felt odd to New as it would've made more sense to dock it closer to the shed or even inside. Nonetheless, the young boy was glad to have found a utility for transport. Only now, he has to figure out how to row in his size. He stood next to the boat, staring at it, wondering how he would be able to manage it. 

He was wandering in his thoughts without thinking of a single word in mind, but ultimately just stepped forward and leaped into the boat. He landed perfectly and scanned the interior, seeing nothing else but two paddles and a coil of strong rope.

He doesn't want to give up so easily, not after the complications he has been through. But with a pint-sized boy like him, it's always bound to have difficult limitations.

He kept looking for any solutions. However… he looked up in surprise to see a shadow cast by the natural light on the side of the boat opposite from where his perspective was. It took the form of some sort of person with a hat… A hat with a large brim…

He felt numb suddenly. And he slowly turned around with chills running down his arms, legs, and back, to see… A large man. Wearing a thick gray coat with a scarf. His face stretched downwards like melted candle wax, even his skin tone had a grim beige color, and he only had vertical black slits for eyes. And a hat he wore that looks familiar as a fedora. 

The man didn't utter a single word and only stood there gazing at the young boy who gazed at him back. He was not threatened by his presence… He remembers him now.

“Who are you?” New speaks… “Why are you here…?”

He responded in a gravely but gentle deep masculine voice that the young boy feared not… A voice all too familiar…

“Sight emits from immortal skies…" Cries of all heeded… Barriers of heart futile… Nowhere claims all.”

New couldn't understand the words that he spoke from his non-existent mouth. But he felt secure in the hands of the supposed candle man's presence. 

“I… Need to go somewhere…" Somewhere that's far… Far away!”

Silence eroded until he spoke again…

“Dark meets neutral, with approval… A gap to obtain. Agenda left unscathed… Resolution to the core.”

Their eye contact did not differ. At that very moment, the young boy questions his future actions… In hopes that this will lead to his goal. His vision slowly turns blurry and eventually fades to black as his words echo…

“Drift away, Yuri… Drift away in dream…”

“Cross the sill…" Sink in a twinkling…”

“Cast aside the old sleep…”

“To sleep again…”

“anew.”

- - <0> - -

If you would like to read more of 'My Little Nightmares: Stories of the Little Ones,' be sure to visit Little Nightheories on www.youtube.com/@LittleNightheories6 for read aloud videos. Or, you can also read Chapter 2 and others on 

Our Own Archive (Little_Nightheories), Wattpad (@LittleNightheories6), or Tumblr (littlenightheories6) 

to personally read the story yourself and find multiple Little Nightmares fanfiction stories.

My Little Nightmares: Stories of the Little Ones is a 6ix part short story series where it involves 6ix little children from the creative mind of Little Nightheories, venturing through the world of Little Nightmares that is called the Nowhere. Their own individual stories reveal more secrets and environments that expand the world of our childhood fears.

Up next: Chapter 3: The Girl in the Fox Mask

[shadowofwar-goober]

The Shaman and the Bard- Ch. 6 Changing Times

Things are always changing, for better or for worse.

Warnings: Violence, Some Abuse, Mental Strain

xxx

    Hûra had crafted a small pouch of cloth and leather scraps that he secretly cut from the camp's tents and used it to contain his precious hell hawk bones. No one ever noticed what he did, and he doubted they ever would. He is often blamed for so many things going awry, even if they learn of what he’s done, Hûra isn’t sure if he would really care. It’s yet another thing added to the stain that is associated with his name and he is becoming accustomed to the pain of being accused of things that are beyond his control. 

    Perhaps he has finally begun to lose his mind. His need to collect and find meaning in the shapes of bones has spiraled into an obsession that is on the verge of becoming all consuming. Hûra has continued to train- he has, he is now more capable than many of his peers of a similar age and physical standing- to the point that even the elder captains that shun him cannot mistake his abilities for luck alone. Even so, he has become more… sensitive to his surroundings. 

    Over the weeks, his sense of smell has become acute enough that even a slight breeze could carry a scent that he could recognize from a great distance. The smell of smoke and oils were too strong when the smiths and the armourers and the quartermasters worked and polished and refined returning captains’ kits and the kits of their uruk-hai. It burned Hûra’s nose and left him heaving at times, particularly when meats were being smoked and his hunger pains were especially dreadful. 

    ‘Tracker’ was a phrase often thrown around when his nose began to burn and his eyes watered. There was division among the elders: he was an uruk with so sort of potential- he heard them say so. He was light on his feet, quiet and becoming quieter still, his sense of smell was far more developed than any other pup in this camp and he has mastered an uncanny weapon in less than a month. There was but one major flaw that none could see past: the shamanistic traits he was starting to show. 

    It wasn’t only the bones that Hûra was capturing glimpses of… things that could happen, or that have already happened or that could be happening that very moment. His dreams were once a place of quiet reprieve that allowed him some comfort and solace. Now they are filled with places, things, uruks and other things that he doesn’t understand. Some are peaceful, mundane, even. Some are stressful, uncertain and vague to the point it brings him great anxiety. A rare few, though, were things that scared him. Even though the dreams are scattered and unclear, like his mind is fogged and his eyes unfocused and his mind slowed, the fear he feels when certain visions overtake him is startling and leaves him screaming and thrashing in his sleep.

    “Wake up, boy! Do you want to draw every ghul, brigand and manswine in Cirith Ungol here with that shouting of yours?!” It was punctuated with a kick to his side. Why was it always a kick?! The captain glared down at him and forced him on guard duty to prevent him from harassing the other uruks in camp with his ‘tarkish screams’. 

    Hûra was becoming sick from the lack of sleep. Or maybe it was from his lack of food? The more bones he saw, even as other uruks were still tearing the meat from them, the more ill he felt. Even if he was able to convince them to allow him to just… see it. For a moment! Just… let him hold them for a minute… Please let him see what they hold- 

    “No- No, no, no- NO!” Hûra pulled against the hand that held a bruising grasp on his wrist.

    “Fucking leave it you glob! What the hell’s wrong with you, damn freak!” The captain was big enough and strong enough to haul the smaller uruk off his feet, if he so wished, but damn! Where did that pup’s strength come from?! He had to get another, older uruk trainee to help him drag the little weirdo away from the butcher, who was more than pissed off by the boy’s near constant harassment of him and his work. 

    “J-Just-! I NEED TO SEE-!” Tears of frustration streamed down his face as he was dragged from the butcher’s by his arms. His shoulders drop and he goes limp as he is berated for being… him. Over and over again, he is less than what they expected. 

‘He’s got talent… but fuck I ain’t working with him.’ 

‘What’s that little freak done now?!’

‘ We ought to sell ‘im already…’

‘Sell ‘im? Who the fuck would take the like of him?’ 

Hûra held a squirming Ghâsh to his chest as he laid in the fetal position. She wasn’t a fan of the tight contact, but Hûra’s heaving chest and wet face kept her from lashing out in a violent frenzy. Or maybe she was scared… Hûra released her, apologizing between sobs. Maybe he was nothing but a fuck up… What if he accidentally hurt her…? Ghâsh waddled closer to his face and gently picked at the stray hairs that stuck to his tear-soaked cheeks. 

Such a good girl… It was enough to bring a small smile to his face, even through the pain he felt. She wouldn’t ever hurt him like the other did, would she? 

The crows were his only friends. Hûra didn’t want anyone else, anymore. Why would he? They gave him everything he needed: companionship, warmth, little gifts and small tricks to make him smile and laugh… when anything even dared to threaten them, he would become enraged. 

“STOP throwing rocks at them!” Hûra stepped between three uruks and the crows that scattered due to their interference. 

“Why?! Their fucking birds and probably spies, anyway!” One raised a hand to throw another rock and Hûra caught his wrist before he could release it. 

“I said stop.” His eyes cut through the older uruk. He dropped the rock he was holding and almost didn’t feel the younger uruk’s nails biting into his skin. 

“The captains were right! You are nothing but a damn freak!” Hûra was pushed from behind. 

Hûra managed to break an uruk’s nose and another’s ribs before he was tackled to the ground. The beating was brief but it was brutal. His ribs were broken as well as his nose- an eye for an eye- and the rest of his back, arms and legs were left sore and bruised. Some uruk pulled a handful of his hair from his scalp and one last kick landed on his slightly exposed underbelly, leaving him winded, wheezing and choking on his saliva. 

They left him on the ground, curled in on himself and reeling, as they walked away laughing amongst themselves. Defeat didn’t sting him with humiliation this time. They were bastards… every last one of them. The fear he felt for his crows was more acute than the worry he had for himself. If they challenged him to a proper duel, he would have won. Hûra was confident in this. They think they need to form gangs to take him on? Fine. It shows who the real softskins were in this fight. 

Hûra would nurse his wounds himself. He didn’t need the healer’s help. He didn’t need anyone’s help! Hûra was patiently waiting to be reprimanded for infighting, only-

He wasn’t.

Being punished, physically or verbally, was to be expected. When it didn’t, the fear was all too real and it was suffocating. What will happen to him now? He wouldn’t know until nearly three days later, when his captain kicked him awake in the middle of the night and told him-

“Today’s your lucky day, brat. Get your shit together, you got visitors.” 

@space-arsonist, @sinick, @elvenmoans, @boozy-dwarf, @dirtymeanuruk

[flatstarcarcosa]

They’ve barely had time to register the alarm ringing when Soldier Boy’s hand is clenched around their throat as he slams them into the wall.

“Who sent you?” he growls. His grip tightens, and Reese tries ineffectually to pry at his fingers.

“No one,” they gasp.

“Bullshit,” he snarls. “You show up asking very specific questions about very specific topics, and two hours later we’ve got infected inside my fucking fence?”

He bounces their head against the wall, and pulls the knife at his hip.

“Unless you want me to gut you and use what falls out as redirect bait, you better start answering,” he says.

“No one!”

“Bullshit!” he snaps again.

It’s then that he suddenly notices the emblem on the arm of their sunglasses; a small, silver V that makes him pause. His hold on them loosens.

“I- I didn’t-” says Reese.

“Close your eyes,” he says, gruffly.

Behind the black lenses, they blink.

“What?”

“Close your fucking eyes,” he snaps.

Confused, but acutely aware of the blade against their ribs, they comply. He lets go of their throat to yank the glasses of their face. Snapping the arm causes a small silver disc, roughly the size of one of the screw heads holding the frame together, to fall to the floor.

“Fucking Vought,” he hisses, before calling over his shoulder, “someone get me a pair of goddamn UV blockers!”

A moment later the uncomfortable, albeit familiar, feeling of plastic pinching the bridge of their nose and corners of their eyes settles into place.

“I liked those fucking sunglasses,” Reese snaps, opening their eyes. There’s a brief moment of disorientation as they adjust to the UV blockers. As the name implies, they block more light than glasses do, at the cost of feeling like they’re peeling the skin from your fucking face.

“Those sunglasses were bugged,” he says. He sheaths his knife, picks up a .45 from the table, and checks the magazine. “Someone’s known every move you’ve made since you bought them.”

“I didn’t,” they say. “I got them as a gift.”

He stops. “What?”

Gunshots echo faintly from outside. It’s a matter of seconds until the screaming follows them. Later, when the dead are ash and the ashes are bleached to the point of rendering the entire area lifeless for decades, he’ll find time to be pissed about several years without an outbreak getting ruined within three short hours.

“The retinal KA group, the whole reason I started on this, a bunch of us got them as gifts,” says Reese, adding, “anonymously donated.”

Soldier Boy’s lip curls.

He’d wanted to tell them they were chasing delusions, getting caught up in patterns that weren’t there, and have them fuck back off to wherever they came from. They show up with anecdotal stories and, at best, circumstantial evidence that people with reservoir conditions are disappearing at higher rates than normal people and he knows he wants nothing to do with it.

Ten minutes ago he could have confidently told them they were imagining it, but an entire group of the bastards getting an anonymous gift from Vought that’s carrying tracking devices is the kind of simple math even he can’t brush off.

The screaming begins to follow the gunshots. He passes them the .45 and crosses the room to pull another one from a weapons rack.

“You certified for that?” he asks, not really caring about the answer either way.

“Much as I can be while going blind every day,” they drawl.

“I’m gonna find where they broke through the fencing and plug the hole,” he says, pulling down a second gun.

“By yourself?” asks Reese.

“Cull whatever’s dead inside, and anyone about to be dead,” he continues, ignoring their question.

“Don’t your people need to know this, too?” they ask.

“They’re not my people,” he says sharply, adding, “and you’re the only one here who doesn’t know our outbreak protocol.”

“What?” they ask again.

Soldier Boy offers no further instructions, nor explanations. He pulls a shield from a spot closer to the door, and then kicks it open. Gunfire and screams amplify in volume, and Reese can’t help the way their gut flips in response.

They were born after the Rising. They’ve done enough field training for their weapons certifications, but it’s still not the same as a real outbreak. They blink, and Soldier Boy has disappeared into the chaos, leaving them no choice but to ready the weapon and step into it after him.

[finchfest]

food for thoughts

tw: eating disorder mention

the thing with eating disorders is they crawl up on you faster than expected. an eating disorder doesn’t start out like that, it’s not a full blown issue until the main beast of it has reared its head and you’re already fully entangled up with it. it starts off slow. like any other hunter, it starts subtle. lingering in the shadows before striking in earnest.

it starts off as a seed of doubt. a look too long in the mirror, a second too long zoomed in on the pixels of a photo of you. is that how i look? a look back and forth from what you see reflected to the body below you. i used to look so…

different. skinnier. nicer. prettier. my clothes used to fit better. more flattering. more comfortable.

the roots have grown. before you know what’s happening, you’re stepping on a scale. you’re looking at that number reflected below you and feeling your heart drop all the way into your stomach. when did that happen? when did that number change? more importantly, how did it take me so long to notice?

from there it’s mostly downhill. it’s hard to fight your appetite initially. it starts as an “i’m not hungry today” when in reality you can very, very much feel the rumble of your stomach in your bones. but it becomes easier. once you start not eating, it’s pretty easy to continue. first it’s skipping just lunch. pretty soon it’s breakfast, too. not far after is dinner. from that point it’s just snacks to stave off fainting with unyielding waves of guilt as the main entree. and each time, you find a way to justify or dance around the issue. you become incredibly skilled in diverting the topic when asked if and what you ate.

i’m sure calorie counting comes in at some point soon. i’m not there yet. but i feel it brewing. i know i shouldn’t, that what i’m doing isn’t healthy and my body needs food to function but i just don’t want to. i find i don’t have much of an appetite in general anymore. it’s become comfortable, almost, sitting in this hunger. familiar. safe.

it doesn’t help with each journey back to the scale either. seeing that number go down and down and down. i’m down 6 pounds already! the breath of fresh air. it’s an elation i haven’t felt before. it’s a unique kind of rush. seeing your face slim up again. your clothes fit the way you want them to again. it encourages you in your pursuit of emptiness.

it’s these things that make it easy to ignore the blaring warning signs. the feeling faint. the feverish symptoms. everything warning you to stop when all you can hear is keep going!

i know this isn’t healthy. i am acutely aware. and there’s a part of me — the part that comes from having been in therapy for my entire upbringing, the part that’s seen my friends in high school struggle with eating disorders, the part that knows how bodies in general work — that says all the things you’re supposed to say. you deserve to eat. your worth isn’t defined by your weight. you need to take care of yourself. you owe it to your body to give it the nutrients it deserves. but i don’t feel like listening. every time i contemplate trying to eat again, those thoughts dissipate in the blink of an eye. they disappear when i think about how i used to look when i was younger, when i put on a pair of pants and they don’t fit how i remember, when i look at a photo of myself and oh god you can’t even see my cheekbones.

there’s guilt in everything. i feel ashamed even struggling with this. i grew up skinny, being told that i needed to get “some meat on my bones.” to be frank, i never thought id ever have an eating disorder. oh how wrong was i. i’m not even plus sized. or… am i? it’s hard to tell. i’m not even sure what i look like anymore. but there’s a large part of me that tells me im not even allowed to feel like this. especially when i know that i have friends who are bigger than me who have struggled with eating disorders. that my friends who are fat have confined in me in feeling these things. and the conflict furthers when i think about how beautiful they all are. how perfect they are in my eyes. how i think being fat is a beautiful thing. and how there must be something seriously fucked up with me to see that in them but take issue in it with myself. what a hypocrite i am.

it’s odd how eating disorders start. how they grow as i shrink. disordered eating into an eating disorder.

i don’t know. most of what i’ve been digesting recently is merely my own thoughts. which don’t seem to be helpful to me either.

just some food for my thoughts, i guess.