#Arctic Survival Training

[gyokujyn]

Watching Sebastian Stan in the background of scenes in this movie is a fucking delight. He remains so stalwartly in character and it just adds so much dimension to every moment he's there.

And, this was clearly an acting decision. Seb knew where his role was headed, if they could do well enough as a franchise to get another film. You can see how his behaviour changes and evolves as this scene unfolds. Bucky had moments ago been pushing Steve in front of him, urging him along, but here he freezes. He grips that railing like it's the only thing keeping him upright. That roll of his back as he clenches his jaw. The way he takes a steadying breath. These micro expressions convey so much without even saying a word. Fear. Revulsion. Determination. He looks like everything in him is fighting not to run away.

Ok, I’m probably the last one to notice this, but even if I am, I’m bringing it up again bc it’s very important and very sad and I need to cry about it.

I’ve seen this scene about 50 times now and not once did I bother to take a closer look at Bucky. Specifically, his eyes. I always thought he was looking at Schmidt or in the general direction of the two while I focused on Steve’s face and what was happening. Now, obv, Steve is looking at Schmidt bc he’s being confronted and all that. But look at Bucky. Compare his gaze in the 4th gif to Steve’s. It’s not trained on Schmidt. He’s looking directly at Zola and his face looks like a mixture of fear, anger and like he’s gonna puke. All of which would make sense after you imagine the shit Zola put him through on that table before Steve showed up. Just try to imagine one scenario that could be happening in his head here. Like reliving the parts where they tortured him and experimented on him, slowly took away the control of his own mind, tried to take his memories so he had to keep reminding himself who he was and began the process of turning him into god only knew what. When Steve found Bucky, he looked like he had no idea what was going on around him. No awareness that the alarm went off, soldiers abandoning their posts, the doctors scurrying off to safety. He didn’t realize he was alone in the room and no one was looking after him anymore. He just repeated his name and number over and over again and if Steve hadn’t found him, he’d have went down with the building while completely lost to his surroundings. After Steve got him out I imagine he didn’t have much time to dwell on the things they did to him. Until now. Until he saw Zola’s face and it hit him like a truck and the result was that face above. Little did he know that even if they do get out of here alive, he was eventually gonna end up right back where he was and Zola would get to finish what he started and if that doesn’t fuck you up…i don’t even. fuck this movie and fuck these characters i did not sign up for this pain

[neteyamsilly]

i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 6

summary ;; This is the reality of Jake Sully: the father and Olo'eyktan of the People cannot coexist, Eywa teaches her lessons in the toughest ways. PART 5 | NEXT (wip) pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader genre ;; pure angst and family feels notes / explanations ;; well this took a hot minute. am back on my bs WARNING for violence and t0rture, reader discretion is advised. Please excuse my mistakes if you see any!

Jake moved on pure primitive instinct, unbridled arctic rage honing all his senses into one laser point of focus. It wasn’t survival, and it surely wasn’t prey running from predator, there was nothing noble about what he was trying to achieve. 

That avatar was going to die today, and Jake was going to make it hurt. No fair game. No warrior’s death. No respect. 

Devoid of the shape of humanity or the ties that bound him to it, he was the embodiment of a creature’s killer intent, body taking over and consciousness disappearing to the backseat as he catapulted his tomahawk at the avatar, taking advantage of the miniscule opening provided by a magazine change needed after emptying all of his bullets to a Jake luring him into wasting his resources away. 

The dull squelch of the hand-carved ax’s head plunging into flesh couldn’t be dampened by the avatar’s choked and short shout, and Jake was jumping out of cover in no time, a bull to red, advancing towards the man, footsteps not hidden out of having no concern for it at all, let him panic or try to struggle for all Jake cared. 

Opposite of what he expected, the rifle wasn’t picked up or fumbled to aim at him. The avatar, pale in the face and pupils having devoured the yellow, fear trumping the pain of his arm almost sliced off from shoulder, crawled away on his back from Jake in full speed, getting up before Jake could reach him, and started staggering into the forest, dropping the tomahawk in the process. 

Jake stopped in his tracks for a moment and picked his weapon up, the dark liquid glistening purple in the light of the Tree of Souls, droplets of blood making the moss light up as they hit the ground. His chest heaved in controlled, loud breaths, mouth pulled back in a snarl, watching the pathetic son of a bitch trying to get away. 

He was one of the lot who’d shot you, hurt you, tortured you — simply to get a reaction out of Jake. 

He was the one who pulled Jake away before he could fix his mistakes, undo the damage they had done, and get you back. 

Jake was so close. So close. 

You were there. You were right there. He could still feel you in his arms, his shoulder imprinted with your tears, shiest of smiles at a better future he could build with you from the burnt soil of your relationship. 

If it hadn’t been for him… 

That man was your murderer. 

He deserved the hell of a father’s making.

This avatar was a marine — and the fucking idiot was running into the oblivion blind worse than a normal civilian would in this situation, had all those years of training evaporated in one second? Jake’s steps were determined, yet lax following after the guy, nose picking up the trail of blood left behind, eyes watching the red splatters. This was all Hansel and Gretel for him, playing follow the breadcrumbs.

The sound of thumping, frantic running, bumping into obstacles, crashing into flora, all was distinguishable from the natural song of the forest Jake had gotten so familiar with in these fifteen years. No response came from the avatar, but Jake wasn’t hurrying. He would have him. Let the bastard tire himself out first — but he wouldn’t let him die. No. He could smell the fear, the blood, anger at bay, all ice, knowing the trees would carry all the sounds he needed to Jake. He could hear exactly where the avatar was. and If he was hoping he’d bleed himself out faster than Jake could reach him to save himself from what was going to happen, well… 

He’d better start praying for mercy to whatever deity held his worthless faith, because Jake had none of it. They had no mercy for you, his sinless, innocent child, all but wails and yelps and blood, and apologies for it. 

Every time Jake thought of you in that tremendous pain to the brink of delirium, he burned in his heart’s ice until he was black and purple all over. Your smile was so real, your embrace was tiny and warm in his arms and he had a chance, the only chance no parent could ever get in this life. Jake had dissolved together with that mirage.   

The part of him engulfed in flames wanted to end this quickly and painfully—to burn it all, break that man in, scream his lungs out, the other part of him, frozen fury that scalded over in the loss of you, wanted to draw it out, wanted to inflict never-ending pain, to bring the avatar back from the brink of death over and over again just to repeat it in a cycle. 

His child. His baby. 

The ties that held Jake together were getting pulled tight, the pressure building like deep water currents, thinner threads snapping and crackling, body being pulled to all five directions from all five limbs. Awareness went out and barged its way back in hot flashes, he couldn’t comprehend the passing of time and how long he let your murderer catch the delusion of shaking Jake off his tail — but, his instincts knew to reveal himself before the avatar could be claimed by blood loss. 

Dangling hope right in front of his face just to snatch it away wasn’t enough. It could never be enough compared to you who had dragged your own corpse back home, muted to your own pain cocooned between those who should have meant nothing but home and safety to you. Torture. You had lived torture in your last hours with help just one step, one word away. 

Nothing would ever be enough.  

Jake emerged from the thick flora like the grim reaper himself who would always be waiting right at the spot of the reaping wherever the soul ran away to, detached and unimpressed, blank face not reflecting the scorched soul inside. The almost passed out avatar jolted awake when he smelled the smoke from Jake’s shadow falling on him, and could only press his back further to the body of the cluster of big rocks he had taken shelter against as if somehow becoming one with it could shield him away from Jake’s wrath.  

The man’s breathing was getting louder and shakier the more Jake stood there motionless. “C’mon then,” he said between clenched teeth, spasming hand dropping from his mutilated shoulder, squaring up the last drops of his courage. “Get on with it.”

Jake’s whitened fingers were making noise against the handle of his tomahawk, but his voice was hauntingly hollow, unfeeling now that he had the man right in his palm. “Thought I should let you live what you did to my daughter first.”

The avatar began to scream. “Fuck you, man, we didn’t do none of this shit to that kid—”

Jake’s tone didn’t change, but it cut worse than a knife. “You killed my kid.”

His eyes widened, breath hitching, the reality of what was coming to him finally sinking in and Jake witnessed every panicked second of it. “Fuck…” His gaze wildly alternated between Jake and the tomahawk, raising his better, trembling hand up for feeble defense. “Look, look, listen, we didn’t kill her, alright? We patched her up, okay, she was going to be a prisoner, what happened happened because you engaged in battle, we wouldn’t do that to a—AGH!”

He was interrupted by Jake sharply shoving the head of the tomahawk into his injury, just putting it in there, not moving it further down. “Do you have children, marine?”

The man palmed at the weapon, fingernails digging into the wood, but no matter how much he pushed, it didn’t budge one bit. “Stop, stop! Fuck—”

Jake repeated again, firmer. “I asked you a question, do you have children?”

“No!— No, god, argh!” 

He spaced out for a while, watching him squirm and trash to get away with defeated, half-assed attempts, also unable to because of how much of an immovable object Jake was making the weapon buried in the open wound be. It would hit the bone if he used more strength. 

With a fixed, stony stare, Jake removed the tomahawk, waiting for the man’s deplorable whimpers to recede before breaking him the news like reading it off a doctor’s report. “You won’t get to have any.”

He didn’t look like he cared about something like that, but the man knew his fate insinuated by the words. Nevertheless,it didn’t mean he could be free from the survivor’s instinct’s mood swings his body was putting him through. Denial to bargaining within minutes. “Just kill me already, you deserter piece of—”

“Oh, no, no no,” Jake reassured, the only flicker of emotion he had shown since he’d cornered the avatar. “You won’t get to die for a long time, either.” 

The avatar grunted, head falling down before he started to shake it. “Please just let it end—man, just let it end, I’m sorry, okay, please!” A whole body-trembling begging shifted to anger the more Jake remained non-responsive. Watching. Just watching. The hole in his chest getting wider the more he fed this man’s suffering to it — it wasn’t enough. “Just fucking do it! Pussy ass bitch! Come on you blue motherfucker, kill me! Kill m—”

“Are you the one who shot my daughter?” 

“What?”

“Are you. The one. Who shot my daughter?”

The avatar’s face twisted. “It wasn’t me—it wasn’t—asshole, you already killed the guy, I didn’t fucking do anything!—”

“You... didn’t do anything?”

A beat. The forest fell silent in Jake’s ears. Just like how the noises you made had abruptly died down as he was putting pressure on your wound.

And like that, the thick haze that had Jake desensitized blew over, unadulterated anger rushed to his body, acidic and nauseating, soul stitching back to his limbs by a million needles and he began to shake, face contorting, teeth showing itself, the hiss that lacerated his throat was the most terrifying one of his life yet, it didn’t sound like it belonged to a sentient being, twisted by a grieving, demented animalistic horror. The avatar’s breath hitched, whatever protest and voice he had escaping deep inside his body, ears pinned back to his head. 

“Of course,” Jake glowered, swallowing the scorching stones blocking his throat. He closed his burning eyes, and was greeted by the image of you, opening them back again, and shaking the ax as if it was an accusing finger. 

And without a word of warning, his hand shot down and grabbed the avatar from the neck of his tactical vest, hurling him over the chest-level array of big rocks forming a pointy bed above, ignoring the cries of pain as the abused, torn open flesh of the wound dragged through the sharp teeth of the gravel, dousing them in blood. “Please, please, stop!—I’m sorry, I was wrong, that wasn’t right, shit, shit!”

Jake snatched the man’s dominant arm that was coincidentally the same one dangling by fractured bone and tendons from the shoulder. His soul had known what he wanted right from the start before his brain had processed it. “This hand,” he spat, holding it from the wrist, gnashing his teeth. “that pulled the trigger at me…” 

Murdered his daughter for a second time. 

All a soldier’s worth for. One hand to hold the stock tight against the body and one to fire. All that to take a single life.

Leaning the hand down against the rock in a sudden move, Jake slammed on the blunt, pointy end of the tomahawk on it like he was hammering a nail, the sickening crack of the bones breaking got followed by the avatar’s fractured scream. 

Jake saw you hunched, cheekily laughing in the blue and purple of the creek, freckles glowing because of the eclipse, silhouette illuminated by the floating bioluminescent bugs.  

Spinning the tomahawk in his clammy hand in a full 360 turn, he smashed it down once more, stronger. The metal broke skin and sank into spongy muscle. His ears were buzzing, ringing from how the shrill yells. 

Jake was hugging you after what seemed to be years, and your little arms were clinging to him for life — you were sand slipping from his fingers. 

Jake hammered again. 

You were telling him how mean he was to you, your voice suppressing the avatar’s. 

He brought it down one more time and felt the tomahawk recoil from hitting rock. 

You were bashful as you repeated how Jake would always love you. 

Guttural breaths getting louder with effort each hit, he kept slamming it down until everything was his beautiful little sweet girl. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again and again and again and again and again until there was no resistance from the limb anymore and the man had gone silent and it was all mashed meat he was pounding— 

And then he almost plunged it to your bleeding, battered corpse, your stomach covered in reddish brown from the dried brown, body ashen blue, and Jake cried out in terror, jumping back and losing strength in his legs as the tomahawk flew from his hand and he fell over. 

His lungs constricted, refusing to take any breaths in and his heart ricocheted around in his ribcage, he was gaping at the wall of rock now washed red as if it was some white rose painted red in Alice in Wonderland. 

Jake sat there for the longest time, dissociated.

In those moments, he wasn’t Toruk Makto, he wasn’t Olo’eyktan, he wasn’t the pillar of a family of seven. He was simply Jake Sully. 

However, he wasn’t allowed to be stripped down to the bone until all that’s left was a mourning father. That was Jake’s reality. 

He had to cast the crippled man aside, the tragedy of his child away, and bring the leader of the People out right as your ghost rippled in his vision, watching spitefully within the forest — because all you wanted was for him to be your father, and he couldn’t even fucking do that after your death. 

This avatar was a valuable asset, a hostage to question. For the sake of his people. 

He wasn’t allowed revenge. 

A single drop of tear rolled down expressionless face. When he looked down, Jake’s hands were still stained with your blood. 

The only instance a child should be covered in blood is when they come out of their mother’s womb, little lungs being burned with existence for the first time, crying from the pain of being separated from Eywa’s arms, birth mother a complete stranger to them. 

The gore of you barely clinging to life, unmoving, drenched in your own blood, wiped and wiped to the point Neytiri had to change buckets of water until it turned light pink was overlapping with the joyful image of your newborn self she had lovingly and gently cleaned of the remains of labor with wetted mothsilk, skin too sensitive for water for the moment, the blue coming alive as the blood and other clotted bodily fluids were cleansed. 

It wasn’t the broken, ice-cold, lithe body of a young girl Neytiri had cleaned in the torment of her excoriated, unraveling mind, it was her baby’s. Her baby, her poor baby with a gaping hole in the middle of your body, memories marauding Neytiri’s lucidity. 

She lived the moment of your first cleansing over and over again. 

You were a particularly indomitable cryer, Neytiri had known you would be infamous for your battle cries right as she was brought back from the blackout of post-birth by your overly-healthy wailing — or perhaps you would best Ninat as a singer when you’d unapologetically blossom, but one thing was ascertained: her first daughter was a fierce, fiery blue ball of ardor compared to Neteyam, who was almost shy and reluctant in disturbing people around him in his weeping that a collective worry for his health had plagued the whole clan. 

As you squirmed, smeared in chunks of her flesh and blood, as if you wanted to jump off from her arms and start walking already, Neytiri had smiled up at her Jake, your father, unable to take his eyes off you, stuck between awe and laughs that came and went. “She has your heart,” she’d told him, spent and hurting, but wonderfully alive. “Strong.”

He’d traced his thumb through her drenched hairline. “Lungs, you mean?” His scent, wind and hearthfire, had enveloped Neytiri when Jake had leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I think they’re yours.” The teasing about how you had made Neytiri scream in labor wouldn’t have gone unpunished if she wasn’t on the edge of sleep held up only by your crying, so, he’d gotten a light hit on the side of his face instead. But Jake knew how to apologize, he’d always been spectacular at it. “I’d say she takes after me in appearance, look at her little ugly face.”

To Neytiri, you were beautiful, face dark purple from how strong you were screaming, and a mini-village elder with the wrinkles, swinging those little fists — things that made you lovely in her eyes. Her first daughter. 

She had learned motherhood from Neteyam, but she would learn to understand her mother and her choices through you, someone she thought couldn’t be more different from her — Neytiri, all Mo’at could have been, and Mo’at, all Neytiri might have become, once. She prayed you would love her as much as she’d begun to love you the second you were in her arms. 

To think the enormity of her love hadn’t reached you — it was one of the greatest failures of Neytiri’s life. If it had, you’d be wounded, but perfectly conscious and well in her mother’s tent. If it had, you would have been beyond comfortable telling those demons had hurt you. 

In that all-consuming devastation, the woven towel she was using to wipe the thin sheet of sweat that formed on your body slipped from her uncoordinated hands and fell on your chest, and Neytiri had to hold back the breath that spiked to become a hiccup by covering her mouth, and immediately, her curled hand was engulfed in a smaller, five-fingered one. She came eye-to-eye with Kiri after raising her head, putting her other hand on hers at the girl’s more disheveled and messy self, heart dropping to her stomach at the fatigue varnishing an extra layer of moisture in her daughter’s drooping eyes. 

“Oh Kiri,” Neytiri mumbled, caressing her cheek and brushing the tangled hair away from her face. 

“Why don’t you go get some rest, mom, hm?” 

“Even if I somehow agreed to that, I could never agree to leaving my daughter alone in this.”

“I’m fine.” Stopping to take a breath, she sighed, collecting the towel and starting to fold it. “Well, not really fine, but don't worry about me. We’re all miserable here. And that’s natural.” Fiddling with the corners of the cloth, she leaned in a bit and lowered her voice, light reflecting from the yellow of her irises making it look like they shone from within. “I… I know she’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. Eywa has bestowed us a gift she has never given to anyone before and it’s for a reason. I feel that everything will be set right.” She shook her head up and down, determined. “Dad will do it. I know he will.”

Neytiri trusted Kiri with her intuition and understanding when it came to the inscrutable intentions of Eywa, she was closer to the Great Mother than any Tsahik was — so close that she would drift away too much from her family. And deep down, Neytiri was heartsick by this invisible line that separated her from her daughter, any parent in her place would be unsettled like this.

She was also hog-tied to close the distance growing between them because of the human boy Spider and how she would find camaraderie in him in their ‘orphan’ status as she called it. Kiri was already faraway in her obscure existence and unwittingly separated herself as if she didn’t see herself as a real part of the family some days, and Neytiri hated that the ‘kinship’ she’d formed with Spider was planting these ideas into her head when she was her and Jake’s daughter, no more, no less. To overwrite those feelings, she tried so hard to reach Kiri, but was unsettled by the feeling of being hated sometimes, again, more or less for her stance in placing Spider at the outskirts of their family. 

But oftentimes Kiri would express her affection through small, otherwise unnoticeable actions, just like this one, a caring touch and reassurance that could melt an ice cube — and Neytiri basked in the babiest of steps between them. And maybe this was how Jake had it with you, too, she had never thought about it like this before. 

Taking in Neytiri’s solemn silence, Kiri grumbled, suddenly agitated about something. “I just… I just wish I had isirka resin and xhikul seeds for this paste and cover her wound with it. Grandmother’s extract isn’t enough to stimulate the bone marrow and ugh—” The girl groaned with the obvious guilt at groaning in the first place, as well. “I’m sorry, mom, I don’t know what—”

“It’s alright, Kiri,” Neytiri said, weariness blending with tenderness, knowing you’d agree too. You would have probably told her to not waste her energy and wait around when there wasn’t anything left to do anyway. “Maybe it’s you who needs some rest. You’ve worked hard. Harder than any of us. You do need rest, too.”

Kiri was quick to refuse. “I’m trying something new, I can’t go anywhere.”

“I’m sure one of your brothers—”

Her earpiece buzzed alive. “Neytiri, do you read me?”

The unexpected timing of it caught her off guard, her hand flying up to the device, drums of alarm going off in her head by the croaky, despondent note to his voice. The impact of their previous argument evaporated from existence just by hearing his distress. “Jake?” She focused on you, not observing any difference, and frowned in worry, her pulse picking up pace as Kiri also locked her attention to her the moment she heard her father was on the line. “What happened?”

“I have here one of Quaritch’s dreamwalkers—whatever they are.” Neytiri’s mouth opened and closed at the reveal, forehead creasing. “Alive. Somehow survived to get to the Tree of Souls.”

Her hand instinctively descended to touch your cool and clammy arm closest to her. “Tree of Souls…? But you were—”

“Yeah. Yeah, he… I couldn’t. I couldn’t…” 

She stared at your face, all thoughts draining from her mind. “What are you saying, Jake?”

Silence.

“Jake,” Neytiri implored, her voice snuffed out towards the end. She tried again. “Jake, I don’t understand. What does this mean..?”

“Son of a bitch pulled me out before I could… before I could finish talking to her.” Kiri reached for her when she let out an incoherent, disbelieving voice, getting more panicked as Neytiri clawed at her tightening chest with his next words. “I failed, Neytiri. I couldn’t… She…” 

Neytiri was physically helpless to respond, and Kiri couldn’t hold back from inquiring seeing the state she was in. “Mom? Mom! What’s wrong?”

“This man, if it wasn’t for this man, I had it.” Jake kept talking at an increasing speed the longer Neytiri didn’t say anything. “I had her right in my arms, making future plans, smiling, everything was perfect, and then he—” His breath quivered. “He fucking—” And he stopped the sentence abruptly to get some semblance of control back because Eywa knew Neytiri was losing it ever so slowly. “I need you here with me right now, please. Please, I…” 

Neytiri refused to acknowledge what Jake couldn’t say out loud. You were still breathing, she felt your chest rise and fall even if the pattern was weak. You had life left in you. Jake saying he failed made no sense to her, she didn’t believe it. 

“Neytiri, I need to question this… this filth, need to learn all I can about what’s going on, but I can’t do it on my own. I’ll kill him. In a heartbeat. I want to squeeze the life out of him with my hands right this moment and I— I can’t… We have to know how they could have gotten this far, what they’re planning—and now right to the Tree of Souls too, and…” The rambling that got chaotic and disconnected faded off eventually, as if he’d lost his voice. “Shit.”

And throughout all that, Neytiri had gone from confused, in denial, at the threshold of grief but not nearly in there anchored by your pulse, and lusting for blood within minutes. Kiri was taken aback by the anger radiating from her. “Bring him here!”

“I can’t. He could have a tracker on him—they could have put it in his body. I can’t risk that.”

Neytiri stood up with only one thing in her mind, and it didn’t match Jake’s. “Where are you?”

“You gotta let me pass, buddy, come on! You wanna take my head off or something? Why are you being like this!” 

Hands up and quick on his feet, Lo’ak was trying to negotiate. 

With an ikran of all things. Not even his.

Yours. 

Mom storming out like a wronged, vengeful spirit had been the perfect chance for him to do a quick supply run sneak off, but your overgrown big bird with the exact same attitude as you was getting in his way and blocking Lo’ak off by snapping its jaw at his head and opening its sunset fire tinged wings every time he attempted to cross over to his own ikran. They were basically at a standstill and he had no idea why. 

Lo’ak just wanted to help. Help you. 

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Shit. 

Neteyam. Making his way to him with such speed that got his braids swinging and of course he’d sniffed Lo’ak out like a nantang. Followed the odd silence, probably. Eywa, he should have thought this out better. 

“Skxawng, do you not remember what dad said?”

“I do,” Lo’ak hummed and hawed, and that was the problem. He’d never felt this guilty about disobeying dad’s orders before, it was making him squirm. “But look, Kiri said she needed isirka resin and xhikul seeds or whatever to treat her, I’m going—”

Neteyam’s jaw had flexed when he said whatever, but there was no visible agitation after he gave a sharp breath through his nose.  “So let’s call mother or—”

“They’re busy with some sky person dad caught—”

“I know. The same ones who did this to our sister. I know, Lo’ak.” Neteyam aggressively gestured to the exit of the cave system, shaking his arm while speaking. “What do you think will happen if you go off on your own and land yourself in bigger trouble than she did? Huh?”

Lo’ak threw resentful looks at your ikran. “I can’t stay put like this. I have to do something.”

“This again? There is nothing we can do.” He hadn’t said that in his normal drilling of dad’s orders — Neteyam had the same pain of acceptance that were Lo’ak’s bruises etched onto his face.

And that made Lo’ak want to throw up all over the place. He’d experienced countless sicknesses his siblings had fallen to over the years, none of those were as fatal as this and he didn’t know what the fuck to do. What was he supposed to do when his sister was dying? What did one do when a family member was in this situation anyway? Nothing seemed right to him. 

And something was finally, finally within his power — and Lo’ak would of course rise up to the challenge without hesitation. He wasn’t just going to sit down and let that possibility of your salvation slip by. “But there is. Kiri said—”

“Lo’ak if you leave right now and somehow get caught dad will never trust you again. He was the most open he’s ever been, don’t betray him like that.” 

He was getting annoyed that Neteyam was ignoring the whole point, though it wasn’t as if Lo’ak didn’t know. He was fully aware, and that’s why this was supposed to be a secret. Dad couldn’t be hurt by what he didn’t know now, could he? Not only were you getting Kiri’s remedy, which he was sure as his name was Lo’ak that would end up most effective, but he also wasn’t breaking his promise to dad when the tiniest thread of trust in his son was knotted by the man just recently.  

Neteyam grabbed him by the top of his head in a brotherly manner but his hold was of steel, the boy tried to grumpily push him off but he didn’t budge, staring right into his soul. “Use what’s in this for once and just tell dad or mother, they’re down in the forest already anyway.” When he let go, Lo’ak stumbled back, rubbing the sting off, and the semi-playful older brother was back. “And one of them will actually know what to look for.”

His immediate response was refusal. “I know what I’m looking for—”

“What does isirka look like?”

The sounds your ikran was making was eerily close to laughter and Lo’ak felt heat rush up to the tips of his ears. “It’s a tree.”

Neteyam didn’t have brow hair like Lo’ak did, but the way he raised the lines was always more expressive than how he did it. “Xhikul, then?”

“Flower, skxawng.”

“Wrong.” Lo’ak’s tail started beating the air at the condescending tone. “Kiri is talking about the fruit. Xhika is its flower.”

He rolled his eyes, turning away. “Whatever—”

“Is it whatever?” Neteyam grabbed Lo’ak by the shoulder and spun him around so rough that he got dizzy. “Are you calling my sister’s life whatever?”

Lo’ak was going to explode from how wrong this was going and how insistent Neteyam was to twist his words. “That’s not what I meant bro!” 

“You are so careless.” Neteyam’s tail had shot up ramrod straight, the little bush of hair at the end of it all puffed up, ears perking in all directions. He wasn’t necessarily yelling but was tense all over, something he did whenever they were playing back in the day and he was about to pounce after staying still enough to implant a false seed of safety. “You don’t even think about what can happen if you were to bring a completely different ingredient! You don’t think!”

“Sorry that I’m trying to help! What are you doing?”

“Keeping us safe. Keeping you safe.” He pressed his lips together on a thin line, but couldn’t hold back whatever was bubbling inside. “I’m not losing another sibling, Lo’ak!”

Only a small gasp escaped Lo’ak when he opened his mouth in retaliation. He couldn’t have found his voice even if he found something to say to that rawness in return, anyway. 

The gut-churning guilt doubled. 

“Hey… I—”

“Go,” Neteyam whispered, tilting his head together with the lone word. “Since you’re dying to help, help Kiri. She’s exhausted. I don’t think grandmother will refuse.”

“What about you?” And there he goes again. Wrong words. Neteyam was looking more closed-off than before. “I’m not accusing or anything—”

“I can’t go in there.”

“What?”

“I can’t,” Neteyam took a deep breath and loudly let it go, tail deflating, the arch of it depressing as hell for some reason. “I can’t look at her.”

Neteyam just gave a forlorn smile in return to Lo’ak’s heavily concerned looks demanding he continue but not knowing how to word it, his back looked weirdly lonely as he was tending to your significantly calmer ikran to join back the horde. 

Buried in negative thoughts all the way back and ignoring the pitiful looks from the rest of the clan, he met Kiri outside of the healing tent talking to Spider, and he could see Tuk’s back covering the view to you in his peripheral.

They were whispering about something and it was obvious even from a distance where they were nothing but stick figures. At least try to look less suspicious, Lo’ak thought. 

The only part he caught from the conversation was Spider saying, “Just describe them to me,” — Kiri was really leaning in towards him. 

“What’s going on?” 

The two looked like they were caught in the middle of scheming, and it clicked almost immediately. 

If Lo’ak had thought of going off on his own, so had they. 

“You aren’t going anywhere, bro,” he said, draping his arm across the human boy’s shoulders. “Neteyam’s literally patrolling.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Spider groaned, visibly disappointed. It warmed Lo’ak’s heart to see he was totally down for sneaking off the camp for you. “You said your dad told him to rest.”

“Yeah, he did. Except Neteyam never rests. He has a dancing glow worm up his ass.”

The conversation couldn’t continue because Kiri did a double take at something. 

“Tuk!” Kiri took a few steps aside, squinting as if she didn’t think she was seeing it right. Then her expression burst into panic, her hands flying forward as she ran to the tent, Spider and Lo’ak could only stare, baffled. “Tuk, oh Eywa, what are you doing!—” 

“I’m giving her water, she’s thirsty.”

“What?”

He actually rushed to the entrance of the tent, nearly falling headfirst in, having stumbled on some rock. Your mouth was actually open. And Tuk was really trying to get you to drink from the bowl she was holding against your mouth.

You choked at one point, still unconscious, but it was a sign of life. Lo’ak didn’t know if the shocked screech came from him or Kiri.  

taglist: @ihonestlydontknowwhattonamethis @alohastitch0626 @jackiehollanderr @lucciera @qvrcll @iloveavatar @velvtcherie @ssc7514 @goldenmoonbeam @neteyamforlife @itsluludoll @jakesullys-bitch @blubrryy @sully-stick-together @arminsgfloll @alice121804 @noname2246 @justthingzsblog @eywamygoddess @m-1234 @ellabellabus07 @hellok1ttycake @dakotali @bluefire12348 @abbersreads @yellooaaa @aimsro @octavias-next-meat-bite @nikqdn @nao-cchi @spicycloudsalad @yeosxxx @heybiatchz @winxschester @elegantkidfansoul

@eichenhouseproperty @kakimakiloh @dueiosy @liyahsocorro @dimplesxx @tigresslily@n8ivatar @strnqer @lillybbyy @jakesullyssluttt @r3dc4ndy @myheartfollower @gcldtom @bunnyrose01 @aceofheartzzz @ghoulbli @slasherfcker505 @ducks118 @megsthings @graykageyama @gwolf92

@thotd-f1 @httpjiikook @nipoxe @fussel9913 @gloryekaterina @nxptury @thesheelfsworld @heyyitsmaiaa @anyasullyyy @rey26 @in-luvais @em-100 @n7cje @kpopslur @holysaladapricothero @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @maviee @grxcisxhy-wp @me-marilm @n39ro-chann

[sleepymarimo]

𝕕𝕠 𝕚 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕒 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨?

summary: you're constantly on his mind, but he isn't quite sure if you feel the same. he really can't get you out of his head! pairing: luffy x gn!reader cw: takes place during sabaody, return to sabaody, etc. so potential spoiler warning? an: luffy is such a sweetheart wc: 800 ⤷ based on this song! ⤷ part of this arctic monkeys mini event!

when it came to the pirate empress and her overly affectionate gestures, luffy didn't really feel... well, anything. he didn't pay her any mind. why would he? she wasn't the one running through his mind at light speed. her smile wasn't the one that made the harsh winds and blistering heat of ruskaina easier to bear.

there was one thing that rubbed him the wrong way, though. when the shichibukai would clap her hands together, caress her reddening cheeks and speak in that sultry tone of hers. "i'd make a wonderful wife for you, don't you think?"

an image of you pops into his head, his brows furrowing at boa's proposal.

"i'm not gonna marry you!!" because i already belong to someone else!

two whole years without you? each day felt like a lifetime, that was for sure. it makes him feel even worse when he remembers that fateful day. he swears he can see you. with eyes full of fear and your hand reaching out, you pleaded for him to help.

then? you were just gone.

because he was too weak.

he clenches his fists at the thought.

the events of impel down and marineford served well enough to keep his mind preoccupied. in the times that he came close to death, he'd just picture your smile. now that he was on ruskaina, he had all the time in the world to think about you, to remember every second that you graced him with your presence.

now, he lays on the cold ground after another day of training. of survival.

he wonders if you're out there on the sea, on some island, staring up at the same moon he is. are you smiling? he hopes so, because that would mean you're thinking of him, right?

it feels like ages since he'd last seen you. well, not counting the dreams he had of you nearly every night.

when the thousand sunny comes into view, when you come into view, his heart feels about ready to burst. every molecule in his rubber body seems to vibrate with utter excitement. thanks to his newfound and sharp observation haki, he swears he can feel so much more of you. it's a magical thing, to see and feel your aura swirling around him.

"luffy!" you call, already taking some steps toward him. "look at you, you're so much stronger!"

he snickers and adjusts his hat, his cheeks taking on a rosy color. "of course i am! now i can protect you!" before he can take a step towards you and engulf you in an embrace, the sound of cannon fire rings in the air.

some marine ships put a damper on the reunion, but his smile remains engraved onto his face. because he has you now, duh!

his lips do pucker into a disgruntled pout when he hears that familiar voice, soft and sultry, calling for him. of course the empress had to see him off. how could she not?

"luffy, the kuja will handle these marines!" she coos, unable to quite look him in the eyes. "a wife can't let her husband be hampered down by such weak foes."

the captain sees how your brows furrow, in confusion or exasperation he can't quite tell. he does know that he sure as hell did not want to be called someone's husband, especially in front of you.

"stop saying that!" he'd snap, cheeks puffed and waving a fist in the air. "i already said i'm not gonna marry you!"

his gaze snaps to you, hoping that you'd see his display. he wants you to see that not even the most beautiful woman in the world could sway him. he wants to show you that he wasn't falling for anyone, because he's been yours for as long as he can remember.

when the ship of the kuja pirates is finally out of sight, the thousand sunny plunging into the deep sea, luffy finally allows himself to properly bask in your presence. his grin is all teeth as he approaches you, his chest white hot with a swell of emotions he can't properly label. he doesn't bother to identify them though, for he simply just feels.

he looks for any hint of reciprocation. warmth in your cheeks or a glint in your eyes. however, he's too captivated by your smile to notice any signs that you might feel the same.

rubber arms wrap around you, holding you close and making you feel safer than anyone else on the planet. two years was enough. he wasn't letting you go again, not when he had no idea what was going on in that pretty head of yours. one day, he'd find out.

instead, he presses you into his chest. maybe he hopes you'll phase right through and into his heart.

"did ya miss me?"

taglist: @dimplewonie, @kingofthe-egirls (i hope you enjoy!! and thank you for the req 🫶)

[voluptuarian]

another thing that's weird about adults who make an identity out of reading children's books is what they hold up as representative of the values they find in YA/young reader's fiction. They typically bring up wish fulfillment fantasy, morals and clear cut lessons, adventure stories with mild peril, strong centering on friendship and found family, and stories that make them "feel good" and are extremely light on genuinely challenging themes or ethically dubious situations.

Meanwhile when I was neck-deep in YA as a kid in the 90s and early 2000s this was the kind of stuff I was reading, other kids were reading, and that was winning awards, being highlighted on shelves and recommended by librarians:

Hatchet by Gary Paulsen, in which a teenage boy survives a plane crash and is stranded in the Canadian wilderness and forced to survive on his own for months. He is ultimately rescued but is permanently altered by the experience. His navigating the drama of (I believe either currently separating or recently divorced) parents is also a major plot element.

Virtual War by Gloria Skurzynski, where real-life wars have been eradicated and instead are fought virtually, (inspired, if I remember correctly, by the disastrous results of a previous nuclear conflict) by specially chosen champions who are trained in combat strategy from childhood. Throughout, the three child champions are forced to question and push back against what the government has told them is the truth as well as against their own prejudices, including toward one of their own who is considered a "mutant" due to his dwarfism; it also details the grueling hours-long "war" in which the kids watch thousands of little 3D soldiers get blown up and dismembered and leaves them feeling genuine guilt for participating in.

Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George, which focuses on a teenage Inuit girl who is orphaned, forced into marriage and sexually assaulted, then runs away and ends up lost in the Arctic and survives by befriending and living with a pack of wolves.

Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse, in which the heroine lives with her parents on a failing farm as the Dust Bowl is beginning, accidentally sets her pregnant mother on fire resulting in her mother's lingering death and the death of her baby, and the girl herself being permanently maimed, after which she and her father become estranged and she eventually tries to run away.

Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene, which follows a young Jewish American girl on the WWII homefront who befriends (and falls in love with) a German POW, and when he escapes, hides him in her home for months; eventually the prisoner is caught and killed and the girl is sent to prison after being ostracized from the community and disowned by her parents.

The Ramsey Scallop by Francis Temple, where the heroine, engaged since childhood to her current fiance, is sent on a pilgrimage with him as way of working out his trauma from serving in the crusades. Neither of them feels ready to get married and the fiance is dubious about doing much living at all, but they're able to get to know each other and build trust on the road. It's been ages since I read it but I'm pretty sure there's a scene where a hot single guy who helps patch up an injury she sustained then offers to have sex with her, which she decides to turn down.

Music of the Dolphins by Karen Hesse, where a feral child who has been raised by a pod of dolphins is rescued and taken to a center for rehabilitation. The whole thing follows her progress at understanding to how to be human, and eventually her decision to reject it all and go back to her dolphin family.

The Last Book In the Universe by Rodman Philbrick, whose hero is a teenage orphan living in a purposely abandoned dystopia, ostracized by his community for being epileptic, whose only friends are an old man who is the last literate person in the community and a monosyllabic feral child. The split between the have-nots and the haves, who live in sheltered futuristic cities, and discussion of privilege (one of the main characters is a girl from the cities who comes out to do charity work in the dystopian district) are major themes, and violence is a regular occurrence, including toward the finale when the boy's mentor is murdered by a mob while he watches.

(And of course there's Among the Hidden and its sequels by Margaret Peterson Haddix which I never read, but my sister did, and I know at some point a whole bunch of child characters are massacred by the government because it upset my sister so badly she cried.)

And I couldn't forget The Dear America series, which includes:

character who is finishing high school as the Vietnam War begins and watches her social circle split nastily over the issue, lives through classmates and friends getting drafted, and ends up working at a hospital as volunteer where she is assigned to help disabled veterans

character whose mother (and I think siblings), as well as numerous fellow travelers die while traveling alongside her on the Oregon Trail, and later accidentally poisons to death several of her friends after picking a look-alike plant for their dinner; only one survives, who she eventually marries

character who is kidnapped by a local native tribe and eventually adopted, then marries a fellow captive, only for him and other friends and family to be killed when the tribe is attacked by Europeans, putting her into a total crisis of identity and conflicting loyalties

character who is taken from her tribe to be put in residential school, during which she is forcefully acculturated, severely bullied by another classmate, and a childhood friend of hers is accidentally buried alive

multiple books about immigrants in the 1800 and 1900s which highlighted struggles with poverty, cultural pressures, and prejudice; one of them follows a pro-union factory worker who watches as multiple friends die in the Triangle Shirtwaist fire, and another whose father imports her to America at 13 to marry a coal miner

most of these stories emphasize the young protagonist ending up in situations were they are either on their own, or so alienated from the adults around them that they might as well be. The protagonists have to assume the adult duty of taking care of themselves, but also of thinking for themselves and making their own decisions and judgements about their lives and the world.

they are also going through big changes, often ones created by their parent's decisions, and which they frequently dislike or are straight up Bad for them. This contrasts with later, when the protagonists are able to make decisions for themselves-- often this comes through hardship and abandonment, but ultimately allows them to control their narrative going forward.

the setting and events are often harrowing, deeply unpleasant, and put the protagonist and their friends in danger of victimization by forces around them. Obviously this is exciting for kids to read, but it also allows them to see someone their age on their own, entering into Adult situations and taking on that role. It's also a break from the overtly positive or cartoonishly (but usually un-seriously) bad circumstances that dominate younger kids fiction and an introduction to the idea that life is just terrible most of the time, sometimes massively and unbelievably so. (It's going from the early childhood story of Madeline's thrilling adventures escaping forced labor in a factory, to the older kid's or YA story of seeing the protagonist work at one day after day, getting injured, having friends get sick, and then watching a girl's scalp get ripped off by the machine, something which creates not excitement but genuine horror and sympathy.) These plots also allow adolescents a chance to experience Big Emotions (like the ones they're about to fall head-first into themselves) in a stable, safe way. All of this aims to create a bridge from the juvenile reality to the genuine, adult one. Trite moral lessons are dispensed with in favor of allowing the child to go out and start thinking for themselves. And especially in stories like the Dear America books, it allows a look at things that happened in the past that we have, or should learn from, but also allows for a fuller emotional, ethical, and empathetic development.

often the introduction of sex is part of the story, from initial experiences of attraction (and the resulting self-consciousness, jealousy, etc.) but also sometimes actual sexual experience. Especially in the historical stories, marriage is also frequently part of the story-- either again, as a fantasy introduction to adult experiences, or as a realistic detail separating a child's historical experience from current ones and creating a better understanding of the hardships historical people went through.

and most include some form of rejection of prevailing authority and thought. Instead of blindly "doing what your parents tell you to" these protagonists must do what they think is practical or ethical. The boy in Hatchet cannot wait for an authority figure to guide him, he must figure out how to survive entirely on his own, while the kids in Virtual War are old enough to begin questioning the entire structure they've been raised in, and to develop empathy for figures that structure has deemed outsiders; the heroine of Music of the Dolphins decides the entire experience of being in human society is not for her, and returns to living with animals.

So these books offer harrowing circumstances, protagonists who are isolated literally or through moral or political alignment, and who must learn to live on their own and make decisions for themselves, often in defiance of prevailing attitudes. They usually emphasize finding one's place (even if that place is completely alone and unsupported), fostering understanding and sympathy with others, even with people who are considered "undesirable," who are different, or who have behaved badly to you in the past. And they frequently involve violence, budding sexuality, exploitation and abuse by authority figures/structures, and a heaping helping of death, including the deaths of beloved friends and family members. What is "feel good" and "unchallenging" about that? And like, I can't speak for what YA is bringing to the table now, but these people are overwhelmingly adults, they were reading YA at around the same time I was, I don't think it would be possible for them to have somehow missed the plethora of books with these hallmarks. So where did they get this idea that YA is some land of comfort where no complicated idea can ever reach you? Even Harry Potter is full of them, and we know they read that!

[wickjump]

thinking about how cross, being in the royal guard aka xtale military, would be infinitely more competent in most battle compared to anyone else on NM’s team. killer would get stabbed and try to take out the weapon and cross would yell at him like “NO?? DO YOU WANT TO BLEED OUT??” they’d get stranded in whatever place—forest, desert, arctic, and cross would know how to survive much better than the others. cross would know INCREDIBLE first aid!!!!!

cross would know how to tell when someone has a concealed weapon or recognize battle tactics and adjust how he reacts accordingly. he would know military things and it would surprise everyone time and time again because the mtt are just. murderers with no experience. no training, nothing. and cross is the only one who has a resume.

what cross isn’t good at is strategizing. he never had to do that in the military, he was a soldier and a guard but not a strategist. which i also want to see more. he follows orders and knows how to survive so he can get back and follow more, but he’s incompetent when it comes to planning. i like cross sans

[owlcomics101]

“Dog trouble.” task force 141 x fox hybrid!Reader

Warnings: bit of blood, animal violence, mentions of animal abuse/hunting (I do NOT condone), SFW (I am a minor), wholesome fox cuddles, reader is an Arctic fox hybrid

Please read the head cannons first

You are an arctic fox hybrid. You have the fluffy fox ears, tail, feet paws, and fangs. Gaz was taking you on your morning walk when the two of you walked by some military dogs who gave you the stink eye. Usually military dogs would never attack unless instructed by their handler otherwise, but these weren’t the properly trained and experienced military dogs. They were new and haven’t even seen the field of battle yet. Of course when they saw you strutting in front of Gaz with your tail up and proud as Gaz couldn’t help but snicker. The dog’s instincts kicked in. “Bullet no!-“ The handler whistles for one of the dogs to sit still but bullet wouldn’t listen. The dog had its eyes and soon its fangs on you. Bullet immediately sprinted towards you. The handler tried grabbing a hold of the dog, but Bullet was too fast for his handler to grab a hold of his harness. Instinctively Gaz grabbed and picked you up immediately and out of reach of the blood thirsty canine. “Get your god Damm dog here!” Gaz shouted. Bullet jumped on Gaz, trying to bite your tail but instead bit Gaz’s wrist, causing him to drop you. You fall to the ground with a thud as bullet jumps off of Gaz and chases after you.

“Shit-Y/N!” Gaz scrambles to his feet. Your ears perk up at the dog’s footsteps and you snarled. Your tail and ears puffing up to try and make yourself look big and intimidating to the mutt but Bullet could smell your fear. You never thought in a million years you would ever have to worry about a snot-nose dog in your face trying to hunt you down like back in the tundra. Your mind could not forget all the pain and trauma those dogs brought you. You have the bite marks and scratches to remember each hit well. These dogs could never compare to the real predators you would face like wolves. At least wolves were only hunting you for food and survival, these domesticated mutts were only hunting you for their master’s approval. Bullet lunged at you as you quickly slipped away, running down the block with the mutt right at your tail. Soap was just leaving the mess hall when he saw you outside being chased.

“God pumpin' dammit! Y/N!” Soap bolted out from the mess hall and after you and bullet. He wasn’t going to let the mutt lay a single fang on you, not if he had anything to say about it. Gaz was running after you as well. Clutching his bleeding arm from Bullet’s bite to stop the bleeding. Soap looked over to Gaz and quickly stopped him.

“Go get some help Gaz! I'll handle this!" Gaz was hesitant on leaving you. It was his fault, at least he think it’s his fault. He should’ve known the dogs would be out at this time. He should’ve taken you out earlier or maybe skipped the walk all together.

“No Soap-“ Gaz tried to protest but Soap was already gone along with you and Bullet around the corner. You kept running and slipping under passing soldiers left to right as bullet chased you. Soap swearing and shoving everyone out of his way to reach to you. Soap shoved past Ghost who was walking by. Ghost’s brows furrowed as he was shoved.

“Johny what the bloody hell!?” Ghost snapped as he grabbed Soap’s wrist tightly, the day has just begun and Soap was already on his nerves. Soap quickly tried to jerk away from Ghost in a panic.

“Let go! It’s Y/N-Their-“ Soap was cut off by a shriek and it wasn’t Bullet. Soap’s skin went pale when he heard it again. Ghost’s eyes widen as his breath hitched in his throat. You were shrieking and snapping as Bullet bit onto your leg and shook you around like some kind of messed up chew toy. You tried thrashing and biting your way out of the dog’s grasp but bullet wasn’t budging—its jaws clamped shut around your ankle like a bear trap. You could feel the fangs digging into your flesh and tissue, blood seeping and dripping out like a stream as it filled the dog’s mouth. All the blood and struggling around just made the dog tighten its grip and bit into you more. You felt like you were trapped in the snare again, dangling and running around in circles as the noose grew tight. Soap saved you then but where was he now? Just then the dog let out a yelp and let go of you as it was shoved to the ground by Ghost. Soap immediately scooped you up in his arms.

“I’m here, I’m here! I got you.” Soap reassured you as he held you close to his chest. Stroking your back and giving you kissing on the forehead. You couldn’t help but watch Ghost deal with the dog. Ghost grabbed bullet by the harness and held him back for the handler to go get their Damm dog back. Ghost saved you..

“What’s going on out here!?” Price snaps, Gaz following behind him with his wrist bandaged up and stained with blood. Price looked down at the dog and over to you, trembling in soap’s arms as blood trickles down your ankle and foot. To say Price was pissed, would be an understatement. He was livid! He walked over to you and inspected your leg. Soap still stroking your back and head to calm you down.

“Take them to the infirmary and get them looked after. After that I want them safe back in MY office!” Price ordered Soap as he quickly nodded and took you away. You look over Soap’s shoulder to see Price shouting at the handler along with Gaz, but Ghost…Ghost looked over to you. Watching Soap take you away to get cleaned and bandaged up. Maybe Ghost wasn’t so bad after all?

writer’s note: Maybe part 2? We’ll see how this does ^^

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

Damar by Robin McKinley

This is the story of Corlath, golden-eyed king of the Free Hillfolk, son of the sons of the Lady Aerin.

And this is the story of Harry Crewe, the Homelander orphan girl who became Harimad-sol, King's Rider, and heir to the Blue Sword, Gonturan, that no woman had wielded since the Lady Aerin herself bore it into battle.

And this is the song of the kelar of the Hillfolk, the magic of the blood, the weaver of destinies...

The Railway Children by E. Nesbit

In this much-loved children's classic first published in 1906, the comfortable lives of three well-mannered siblings are greatly altered when, one evening, two men arrive at the house and take their father away. With the family's fortunes considerably reduced in his absence, the children and their mother are forced to live in a simple country cottage near a railway station. There the young trio—Roberta, Peter, and young Phyllis—befriend the porter and station master.

The youngsters' days are filled with adventure and excitement, including their successful attempt to avert a horrible train disaster; but the mysterious disappearance of their father continues to haunt them.

Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George

Alone and lost—on the North Slope of Alaska

Miyax rebels against a home situation she finds intolerable. She runs away toward San Francisco, toward her pen pal, who calls her Julie. But soon Miyax is lost in the Alaskan wilderness, without food, without even a compass. Slowly she is accepted by a pack of Arctic wolves, and she comes to love them as though they were her brothers. With their help, and drawing on her father’s training, she struggles day by day to survive. In the process, she is forced to rethink her past, and to define for herself the traditional riches of Eskimo life: intelligence, fearlessness, and love.

The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall

The Penderwick sisters busily discover the summertime magic of Arundel estate’s sprawling gardens, treasure-filled attic, tame rabbits, and the cook who makes the best gingerbread in Massachusetts. Best of all is Jeffrey Tifton, son of Arundel’s owner, the perfect companion for their adventures. Icy-hearted Mrs. Tifton is less pleased with the Penderwicks than Jeffrey, and warns the new friends to stay out of trouble. Is that any fun? For sure the summer will be unforgettable.

The Harper Hall of Pern by Anne McCaffrey

For centuries, the world of Pern has faced a destructive force known as Thread. But the number of magnificent dragons who have protected this world and the men and women who ride them are dwindling.

As fewer dragons ride the winds and destruction falls from the sky, Menolly has only one to sing, play, and weave the music that comes to her so easily—she wishes to become a Harper. But despite her great talents, her father believes that a young girl is unworthy of such a respected position and forbids her to pursue her dreams. So Menolly runs away, taking shelter in a cave by the sea. Miraculously, she happens upon nine fire lizards that could possibly save her world...and change her life forever.

Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch

Warning: this description has not been authorized by Pseudonymous Bosch.

As much as he'd love to sing the praises of his book (he is very vain), he wouldn't want you to hear about his brave 11-year old heroes, Cass and Max-Ernest. Or about how a mysterious box of vials, the Symphony of Smells, sends them on the trail of a magician who has vanished under strange (and stinky) circumstances. And he certainly wouldn't want you to know about the hair-raising adventures that follow and the nefarious villains they face. You see, not only is the name of this book secret, the story inside is, too. For it concerns a secret. A Big Secret.

Mr. Lemoncello's Library by Chris Grabenstein

Kyle Keeley is the class clown, popular with most kids, (if not the teachers), and an ardent fan of all games: board games, word games, and particularly video games. His hero, Luigi Lemoncello, the most notorious and creative gamemaker in the world, just so happens to be the genius behind the building of the new town library.

Lucky Kyle wins a coveted spot to be one of the first 12 kids in the library for an overnight of fun, food, and lots and lots of games. But when morning comes, the doors remain locked. Kyle and the other winners must solve every clue and every secret puzzle to find the hidden escape route. And the stakes are very high.

Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink

Caddie Woodlawn is a real adventurer. She'd rather hunt than sew and plow than bake, and tries to beat her brother's dares every chance she gets. Caddie is friends with Indians, who scare most of the neighbors -- neighbors who, like her mother and sisters, don't understand her at all.

Caddie is brave, and her story is special because it's based on the life and memories of Carol Ryrie Brink's grandmother, the real Caddie Woodlawn.

Pendragon by D. J. MacHale

BOBBY PENDRAGON is a seemingly normal fourteen-year-old boy. He has a family, a home, and even Marley, his beloved dog. But there is something very special about Bobby.

He is going to save the world.

And not just Earth as we know it. Bobby is slowly starting to realize that life in the cosmos isn't quite what he thought it was. And before he can object, he is swept off to an alternate dimension known as Denduron, a territory inhabited by strange beings, ruled by a magical tyrant, and plagued by dangerous revolution.

If Bobby wants to see his family again, he's going to have to accept his role as savior, and accept it wholeheartedly. Because, as he is about to discover, Denduron is only the beginning....

Goodnight Mr. Tom by Michelle Magorian

The gruff and surly Mr Thomas Oakley is less than pleased when he is landed with a scrawny little city boy as a guest, but because it is compulsory that each villager takes in an evacuee he reluctantly agrees. It soon becomes obvious to Mister Tom that young Willie Beech is hiding something, and as the pair begin to form an unlikely bond and Willie grows in stature and in confidence he begins to forget the past. But when he has to return to war-torn London to face his mother again he retreats into his shy and awkward ways once more.

[hazelcephalopod]

Well today feels like as good a day as any for me to mention some real history I learned after I watched The Terror. This has basically nothing to do with the show I’ll tell you rn -I’ll also mention some facts about the Franklins at the end. Let’s talk about Dr. John Rae and one of the first investigations into “Wtf happened to the Franklin expedition.”

Background

John Rae was born on September 30, 1813 in Orkney were he was also raised -The Orkneys are a group of islands off Scotlands northern coast. He became a doctor and then got a job to what is not Ontario with the Hudson Bay Company. During that time he worked with First Nations people of the area and became adept with snowshoes and survival skills.

He was later chosen for an expedition which required further training that he had to travel to receive. He then joined expedition and took advice from Inuit he met along the way. During this period he learned to build igloos which he preferred to tents. While he did not reach his destination he made progress on its goals. He later explored the Arctic coast exploring areas that Franklin had before -or near them.

Journeys to find Franklins Expedition

Dr Rae became the second in command on a expedition to find Franklins taking an overland Arctic route, in 1848. Many other took place Using different routes and at different times, most with limited or no success. One of the rivers they encountered is named after him. Ultimately this expedition failed to find Franklins nor much evidence or information about it. Rae returned to England in 1852, roughly 4 years since it started.

Back in England he was granted an attempt to to return in 1853 and had by March of that year. This attempt would prove far more fruitful.

In 1954, after over a year of travel he met some Inuit who had a gold cap-band. When asked they explained they had found it 10-12 days away at a place where roughly 35 non-Inuit had starved to death. He bought it and offered to buy any similar items.

Several weeks later and only two of his men able to travel he began to turn back, on the way he met several Inuit families who wanted to trade with him. With them they had a small silver platter engraved on the back read “Sir John Franklin, K.C.H.”.

They informed him that 4 winters prior some Inuit met no less than 40 non-Inuit who where dragging a boat south, describing a man who fit the description of Francis Crozier. This party of probably Englishwomen communicated by gestures to the Inuit that their ships had been crushed and they were looking to hunt further south. When the same Inuit returned the next spring they found roughly 30 deceaseds, also found were signs of cannibalism.

Rae found this information sufficient to end his search and return to England and report his findings. Ultimately leaving Repulse Bay several months later in August 1854. His journey he taken a roughly a year and a half. He may have been the first European person to discovery the Northern Passage and was certainly one of the first.

Report and Disgrace

Once returned to Britain Dr. Rae made two reports. The the British Admirality he made a full report including the cannibalism, to the public his report excluded the mention of cannibalism. The Admirality, apparently by mistake, released the full report to the public, causing backlash. Lady Jane Franklin was especially affronted and had Charles Dickens write a tirade against Rae published in a magazine. The tirade ignited racist claims that the Inuit were liars, with some accusing they themselves of the cannibalism, claiming Englishmen would not have stooped to such acts. Additionally implying Dr. Rae the fool for believing the Inuit themselves.

Dr. Rae’s reputation was somewhat tarnished, he received a portion of the prize money for the information gathered, but it likely prevented him from being knighted and receiving further recognition in life and for the century after his death.

Post Expeditions, Death, and Legacy

Despite this he planned a polar expedition, building the “Iceberg”. Before he could take this journey the ship was used as a cargo ship and sadly sunk with its crew of 7. The wreck remains lost. Following this he became a founder of the “Hamilton Scientific Association” which would become the “Hamilton Association for the Advancement Literature Science and Art”. He later worked to establish telegraph lines in America and Canada. He visited Iceland and Greenland. He also married in 1860.

Dr. John Rae died in Kensington, London on July 22, 1893 at the age of 79. He was buried in Kirkwall, Orkney. His death went by mostly unacknowledged due to the backlash at his discovery of the fate of the Franklin Expedition. Later findings would confirm the reports he had been given by Inuit traders and delivered tactfully to Britain. (Author here: Authorities completely bungled his attempts to deliver the news with tact)

He has been noted as perhaps the foremost European Arctic survivalist. Likely in part due to his willingness to learn form local Arctic Peoples and other First Nation Peoples, setting him apart form many of contemporaries.

Since his death his accomplishment have received greater recognition, his former home in Kensington received a Blue Plaque in 2011. On the 200th Anniversary of his birth a statue to him was erected in Stromness, Orkney. Later that year the charity “The John Rae Society” was created to promote his achievements. Additionally, in 2014 at his birthplace of Hall of Celstrain, Orphic, Stromness, Orkney a plaque was placed by Historic Enviroment Scotland.

Also fun facts: His discover of the Northwest Passage is contested with the generally more accepted discovery by the McClure Expedition also created to find Franklins Expedition. McClure’s went significantly worse than Rae’s.

Places named -in English- after Dr. Rae include-

- Rae River

- Rae Strait

- Rae Isthmus

- Mnt. Rae

- Point Rae

- Rae-Edzo was the legal name for several settlements and communities near what is now called Behchokǫ̀, Northwest Territories, Canada.

Well thank you for reading. I really enjoyed writing this. I might do a better researched essay on this in the future. I’m just happy I got to tell you about Dr. John Rae bc tbh his story has become a minor special interest of mine. I just think he was a neat guy.

Now for those who want some absolutely not respectful words about the dead:

Facts about the Franklins (I’d not call them fun)

my opinion based off the following info: fuck’em. They sucked. (Plz ready Sir/Lady with the maximum amount of contempt you can manage)

As shown in the show this was not Sir first expedition. On his first he lost 11 of 20 men over roughly 3 years. Learning from the first the second went much better, they mapped the area and didn’t seem to suffer any major losses -though tbh some of it seems to have been luck.

Lady Jane Franklin -his second wife- while her husband was a Lt. Gov. of Tasmania (1837-1843) took in two aboriginal children one after the other, to “teach them to be civilized”. A young boy named Timemendic who she soon gave to her step-daughter (who was 18) who trained him as a servant, until he was deemed bad at that and they tried to send him to an orphanage and then ultimately to work as a deckhand.

Several years she decided to try again and “adopt” a very young girl called Mary whom she renamed Mathinna, once again she put her step daughter in charge of her. Lady Franklin liked her much more, but ultimately when Lord Franklin was called back to England they abandoned her in an orphanage, the rest of her life was suffice to say filled with abuse and suffering and by 18 she was dead. Her remains were eventually returned to Tasmania.

[accuratepicuresofanthropologists]

Franz Boas

Franz Boas was not the father of American anthropology. But the fact that so many people think he was shows how thoroughly his relentless energy transformed the discipline as we know it today.

Boas around age four

Boas was born in Germany in 1858. He grew up in the shadow of events that happened a decade earlier: The famous ‘Revolutions of 1848’, when people across Europe demanded an end to imperialism, monarchy, and the poverty caused by the Industrial Revolution. Boas grew up in a household of “forty eighters”, and became deeply committed to the ideals of liberty and progress which drove the revolutions. As a young man, Boas received a rigorous education and spent most of his free time outdoors, exploring the natural world. Like his idol Alexander von Humboldt, Boas combined a romantic wonder at nature's rich diversity with a naturalist's love of science, rigor, and classification.

Boas was Jewish, but not because he wanted to be. His parents were wealthy merchants for whom 'progress' meant shedding the ancient superstitions of the past. He didn't have a choice: Germany had given Jews the right to vote and own property, but remained an antisemitic place. Boas was labeled a Jew by others. So he learned to be fearless: In college when he was insulted he demanded a duel. He and his opponent would don goggles to protect their eyes, and then use their sabers to try to slash open each others’ face. “With the damn Jew baiters this winter one could not survive without quarreling and fighting.” He wrote his worried parents, reassuring them. “I remain unmolested since every student here knows that I would not be shy to defend my affairs with the sword.” He was not exaggerating. "He bears the mark of his German university training literally," the Maori anthropologist Te Rangi Hiroa noted, "in a somewhat disfiguring scar across his face". Indeed, one of the first things people noted about Boas were his scars.

Although he was academically gifted, Boas ended up doing a Ph.D. in the unprepossessing university of Kiel. His sister Toni was ill and the Boas family was tight-knit: He went to go live with her. The result was a miserable experience writing a Ph.D. on the color of seawater. His main discovery was that it was incredibly hard to measure the color of sea water. Later on, when he studied how perception is shaped by culture, these insights would come to help him. At the time, he was miserable.

Then love struck: Boas fell head over heels for Marie Krackowizer, a German-American lady whose family of “Forty Eighters” had fled to the US. She loved him too, but they could not be married until he got a job. For that, Boas needed to “habilitate”, a level of education above a Ph.D. He decided on a trip to the arctic, where he would study the influence of geography on Inuit people. He paid for it by writing an account of his travels for a German newspaper, and with a gift of money from the man who would be his principle benefactor in years to come, his uncle Jacobi. His parents insisted that he take along the gardener, Willie, so that he wouldn't be alone.

Boas posing in a German photography studio for an image to share with people demonstrating what his life had been like in Baffinland.

Boas spent a year in Baffinland, an island in the far, far north of Canada. The trip was unbelievably dangerous: Ships had to dock at the edge of the ice and then people would walk across the ice to the island. In the winter it was -40 degrees. Luckily Boas was energetic, focused, and driven by huge energy. He was the sort of person who was disgusted at himself for only working 20 hour days. He did research during the day and read Kant at night. Above all, he came to see Inuit people as people. "The more I see of their customs, the more I realize that we have no right to look down on them," he wrote to Marie in a letter that was spattered with the blood of the raw seal liver he had been eating.

Boas's trip was a success. He habilitated and married his sweetheart Marie. Together they created a loving and warm family. Professional success eluded him, however. Antisemitism made it difficult for him to find a job in Germany, so he moved to the US, where Marie’s family was — there were more opportunities there and Franz was also attracted to America as a land where his political ideals of liberty and freedom were more realized than they were in Germany.

Franz and Marie's wedding portrait.

Unfortunately, Boas found that there were few good jobs for geographers in the US. What people were interested in was Native Americans. Back in 1879 (when Boas was still in school) anthropology as a modern discipline was born in the United States. The goal was to understand the 'natural history of mankind', which in the US meant the origins of Native Americans. Were had they come from and what were they like? Previous answers -- tenuously derived from the Bible -- were clearly inadequate in light of new theories of evolution.

So Boas retooled himself as an anthropologist. He made multiple trips to the Pacific Northwest, a region that he is most closely associated with today. Still, he struggled. He got a dream job as a professor at Clark, a brand new university — only to have the university close down after a few years. He organized anthropological exhibits at the World's Fair at Chicago, hoping it would lead to a permanent position, but it didn’t. It was a dark time for Boas. His third daughter, Hete, was born in Chicago, caught whooping cough, and died in his arms. She was ten months old. Finally, Boas took a job at the American Museum of Natural History in New York and started teaching part time at Columbia. Finally in 1899, at the age of forty, he got a permanent position: He was now a faculty member at Columbia.

"Boas with the George Hunt family. Left to right, standing: David, George, Lalaxs'a, Mary (Ebbetts), Jonathan and Franz Boas. Sitting: Marion and Lucy. From row: Mary and Stanley" from Franz Boas: An Illustrated Biography

At Columbia, Boas was cutting edge. At a time when Harvard and Yale were just beginning to update their medieval curriculums, he had a Ph.D., the new research-focused degree that had made German universities world famous. Boas made history by being the first person in the US to offer a Ph.D. His students included Ruth Benedict, Edward Sapir, Margaret Mead, Robert Lowie, Alfred Kroeber, and many others.

Boas was also a tireless organizer, sitting on boards of journals, foundations, and associations. These positions allowed him to control funding and direct it to students. He was also a close friend of the millionaire feminist and activist Elsie Clews Parsons, who herself funded an entire generation of anthropological fieldwork. Boas worked his students very, very hard but also showed them tremendous loyalty. Boas not only lent money to students in times of need, in one case he signed on as a guarantor of a student loan, agreeing to pay it if the student defaulted.

Boas around the time he began working at Columbia.

True to his principles, Boas believed in meritocracy: If you could do the work, that was all that mattered. As a result he trained a generation of female students at a time when many universities didn’t accept female students at all. He also had few illusions about how much a white person could learn spending their summers on a reservation. For him, the best anthropologist was an insider with scientific training. As a result, he mentored scholars like William Jones (a Fox Indian) and Zora Neale Hurston.

 “Elsie [Clews Parsons] and colleagues at. Lounsberry, mid-1920s. On the porch, Elsie (in shadow on left) talks with Pliny Goddard; on the steps are Margaret Mead, Esther Goldfrank, Franz Boas, and Mrs. Nelson”. Via Deacon’s Elsie Clews Parsons. This picture illustrates the close ties Boas had with his students.

In fact, Boas was an uncompromising opponent of racism. Famously, in May 1906, he traveled to Atlanta University at the invitation of W.E.B. Du Bois and gave a speech claiming black people were biologically equal to white people. This was not a small thing in the Jim Crow South. Four months later, 25 black people were killed in Atlanta in a riot against black people that turned into a massacre. Then in 1909 Boas and a team of twenty researchers made 13,000 measurements of the children of immigrants to see whether they inherited their parents’ ’racial’ features. To his own surprise, Boas found that they didn't -- height, weight, and other factors were the result of the environment, not heredity. His students did similar research. Margaret Mead wrote a paper demonstrating the black people in the Midwest (where there was a strong public school system) did better on standardized tests than poor southern whites: schooling, not race, seemed to determine intelligence. Southern politicians repressed the study.

Boas’s relationship with indigenous people was more complicated. He was not a champion for Indigenous rights. He considered Native Americans conquered by the US and on the verge of cultural and biological extinction. His goal was 'salvage': to make a record of a disappearing culture the same way we have a record of Ancient Greece and Rome. He worked with many indigenous informants like George Hunt, who he paid to write letters detailing their customs. This relationship remains an object of scrutiny today: Did Boas exploit Hunt? Was Hunt Boas’s teacher and mentor? How much should someone be paid to write descriptions of salmon fishing in 1900 anyway?

Whatever we think of Boas’s relationship with Indigenous people today, at Columbia no one thought Boas was a friend to white people. He was considered a dangerous radical who had to be canceled. Not only did Boas attack the racial foundations of America, but when the US entered World War I, Boas was became a public enemy for opposing the war. Remember, this was a time when people where lynched for being German in the US. Columbia stopped paying him. They kept him from teaching undergraduates. They took space away from the department, leaving him with just his office. Boas was, essentially, canceled by the right.

What’s more, Boas's life was beset by personal tragedy. In addition to the death of his ten month old daughter in 1894, in 1924 his daughter Trudel died of polio. In 1925 his son Heini was killed in a car accident. Then in 1929 his wide died in a hit and run accident - the driver who hit her was never found. Boas's misery was palpable even before Marie's death. In 1927 he wrote to his son Ernst:

"I have not the light spirit of others and when I do not work, or else am intensely occupied with something else I can think of nothing but Trudel and Heini. They are there when I get up in the morning and when I stop work at night they are there… If I do not work these thoughts would destroy me." [L-Z v2 275]

Franz Boas featured on the cover of the 11 May 1936 cover of Time Magazine. In his old age, Boas's fight against racism became popular in America again as the US prepared to fascism in Europe.

Late in life Boas received the recognition he deserved, becoming a world-renowned scientist. In America, his anti-racist thinking became more and more recognized as America geared up to fight fascism. In Germany, an event was scheduled to give him an honorary degree. The degree was canceled and his books were pulled from the library and burnt by the Nazis. His last great work of activism was to help Jewish and leftist scholars flee the Nazis and get visas to come teach in America.

When Boas retired, he handed Columbia a gift: despite its attempts to derail him, he had created perhaps the greatest department of anthropology in the United States. And yet here failure dogged him. He had hoped his students Alfred Kroeber and Edward Sapir would come to Columbia to continue his work. Instead they stayed at Berkeley and Yale. His successor became Ruth Benedict, but she was then pushed aside by the administration and replaced by first Ralph Linton and then Duncan Strong.

Boas suffered many setbacks in his life, but he also overcame many obstacles. He lived an extraordinary life: Born before the Civil War, he lived to see the Pearl Harbor bombings. He trained the anthropologists who went on to start departments at Yale, Berkeley, Oregon, and many other places. He produced his famous “six foot shelf” — enough books on Kwakwakwakw that is longer than I was tall. After his death, his grandchildren and George Hunt’s grandchildren had a family reunion, and Hunt’s great grandchildren study anthropology in University. Despite his incredible age, Boas did not live to see just how influential he would become. Although he did not know it at the time, he became one of the few people Boas did not quite Although he may not have recognized or admitted it, he had in fact become one of the most important anthropologists in the world, and left an indelible imprint on the discipline for generations to come.

Sources: This was drawn from Rosemary Lévy-Zumwalt's two volume biography of Boas. The quote from . The reference to 1879 as the 'founding' date of anthropology comes from https://www.jstor.org/stable/658142?seq=1 . The Te Rangi Hiroa quote is from Na to Hoa Aroha volume 3. The blood stained letter is from George Stocking's "From physics to ethnology", p. 148

[muzzlemouths]

Prompt: Hypothermic

Moon centric // Wordcount: 2407

You can recall the exact decisions that brought you to this point.

It started with a favor. Your coworker had a family emergency and needed to be out of there ASAP, but with an hour left to their shift, and no reason to expect that the company would honor the need behind their sudden departure, they were left with no other choice but to drop the remaining duties onto someone else.

You had generously offered to take on said responsibilities - after all, you had only just clocked out, and the required tasks could be done in a cinch. Off the clock, of course, so management wasn’t on your ass about overtime.

That was mistake number one.

Your second mistake came in the form of a locked door and pure, unadulterated stupidity.

The assignment had been simple; locate the walk-in freezer, find a spare bag of ice, and bring it to the food court. Easy. It was your last task of the night and there was absolutely, positively, no way you could fuck it up.

That brings you back to the here and now, where you stand blank-faced behind a solid, steel door, locked up tight from the outside, with no way out in sight.

You hadn’t bothered to prop the door open. In your defense, you didn’t think that was ever something you would need to even consider. Why bother installing a door - a door to a room that had the potential to make fucking employee-popsicles - that for some forsaken reason locked from the outside?

But this was Fazco. you were talking about. The number of poor design choices ranging from infrastructure to animatronic virus protection was so grand it exceeded the fingers on both hands. Of course they would design a freezer that turned into a deathtrap. Why make things easy for you? When have they ever!

Rant aside, you were in some serious trouble.

Your fists, pink and tender, ached with the force at which you beat them against the door and shook at the handle, your fingers having already gone numb, and trembling for another reason entirely.

Did you know most industrial freezers are kept at 0 Fahrenheit? That’s -17 Celsius. Thirty-two degrees under what is required to make snow.

You don’t have a jacket. Hell, you don’t even have long sleeves. You’re wearing the company uniform - a crew neck, polyester - and some old jeans. The forecast called for a steady breeze, not the fucking arctic plains.

Panicking won’t do you any good. You tell yourself this, mumbling it between chattering teeth, like a mantra, long after you’ve already given panic a fair shot. The panic came first from the very moment you realized you were trapped, only increasing when a failed attempt to call for help revealed that service wasn’t available in the deep freeze. Now it was time to be cool headed (pun intended), or you faced a near zero chance of escaping with your life.

Funny. You had always assumed, in the back of your mind, that your final breaths would be taken by this stupid company. But certainly not like this. Not by becoming freezer food.

No, think! You can’t afford to dawdle, not now, when the clock is already tick-tick-ticking away. You pace in circles, taking up the entirety of the 6'x 6' space, until remembering that movement increased blood-flow to your extremities and that warmth wasn’t coming back. So you sit, instead, regardless of how cold the floor is against your ass, and you put all of your remaining energy (what’s left of it, dwindling by the minute) into figuring out a proper plan.

You don’t have any medical knowledge beyond the first-aid training the pizzeria requires upon hiring, but you do have a handful of useless history knowledge - useless until today, that is. You pour over any detail from the books that might save you here and then recall a horrifying piece of trivia from your brief obsession with the Titanic; survivors had been cast into water that was 28 degrees, with the longest average of survival being forty-five minutes, and the shortest being only fifteen.

You sat in air twenty-eight degrees cooler. The clock in your phone tells you that five minutes have already passed. There is no life boat coming to your rescue.

Okay, so that information doesn’t exactly help your situation. If anything, it only rouses your panic into its second stage, and it takes everything to keep yourself from adding hyperventilation to your list of worries.

Speaking of symptoms, you were feeling your fair share of those already.

Shivering, obviously, pale fingers and exhaustion to name a few more, shallow breath, to boot, but that may be the panic. Though you try and try again to press your fingers to your wrist you come back short every time, your heart is screaming but your pulse is practically nonexistent, a bad sign to say the least.

You haven’t felt the urge to rip your clothes off, yet. You have that going for you if nothing else.

Another minute passes. Six in total. You find yourself leaning against the icy door despite the chill it brings to your already cold skin, if only from a lack of energy to keep yourself upright any longer. The breath forming in front of you feels like the warmest part of yourself right now, and slowly, doubtlessly, you feel yourself waning. Growing slow. Growing stiff.

You again try your phone, its 26% battery staring back at you uselessly. The call doesn’t go through, and neither do the texts. The back of your hand slams against metal in a another futile attempt to gain the attention of someone, anyone, who might be passing by. Again, and again, and again. Nothing. Your knuckles come back bloody and raw.

Something coils in your chest - terror and nausea all at once - it’s let out as a scream that echoes against the walls of this closed-in room and does not escape beyond it. You clocked out half an hour ago, the pizzeria having already closed before then. As far as your fellow coworkers are concerned you had already long since headed home. There stood no reason to check the kitchens or question your absence at all.

You are going to die here.

The thought doesn’t alarm you as much as it should. That realization in itself, however, does send some fickle wave of concern through your nerves, though there’s little energy remaining to do anything about it. Eight minutes have now passed since the door locked behind you. Thoughts come slow if at all, and your cries for help - slurring, now, you laxly notice - eventually fall silent.

Your hands run once over the goosebumps in a last ditch attempt to find some heat and you now realize, with a faint and humorless laugh, that even your shivering has come to a stop. A bad sign. The worst yet. Your world begins to fade one shadowy star before your eyes at a time.

Then comes the tapping. Nails on metal. Deliriously, you stare down at your own hands to see if you’re the one doing it, only to find them still wound tight around your elbows. The curious sound repeats, and then the door–

It opens.

Your body, still tucked in on itself, drifts forward all together with the weight of the metal as it’s drawn wide. And who enters next and stares down at you other than the man of the hour himself. Moon fucking drop. You’ve never been happier to see him.

At the same time, you think you’d rather take freezing to death.

“Breaks aren’t extended by hiding in freezers,” he says with a sneer, but it’s cut short, the smile wiped right off his stupid little face, and for a moment you swear you see his eyes change. Maybe it’s the delirium, but you see blue. For the very first time you see blue. And then he blinks, and the red returns, and he’s bending at the waist and shoving a cold hand against your forehead. “Bad.” Is all he says, whispered still. You don’t try to stop your laughter.

“Y-Yeah,” a cough escapes you, dry and heaving, “‘s real bad. C’n you help meyup?” You can’t believe the jumbled words even as they escape your dry, paling lips. Never before have you asked him for help, and hopefully, the occasion would be a first and a last. You expect nothing but mockery from him at the show of vulnerability.

Yet he bends ever further, bypassing your weakly extended hand all together in favor of gathering you into his arms. It’s awkward, at first, a hasty grab under your armpits that would have you squirming were it not for the cold stiffness in your limbs, and you hate to admit it, but the way he cradles you after - one hand tucked under your backside and the other pressed flat to your shoulders - it makes you relent. Your head falls against his shoulder with an effortless thud, and your arms wrap around him, feeling secure as they do so, the only thing on your mind being how warm he feels in that moment.

Before your eyes can fall shut completely you see him heading for the front entrance, and the confusion that realization carries with it stirs you from the seven layers of brain fog only enough to question him, “Wh’r we going?”

“Management,” the word is hissed, said flat, “hospital.”

“Wh’t?” That, if nothing else, brings you back to full attention. As much of it as the fog can spare, anyway. “Put me d’wn, ‘m fine,” you wade through layers of breaching unconsciousness to get the words out, and clearly, he doesn’t buy it, not even slowing to them, “Moon, don’t,” you try more insistently, “Please, I c’nt afford it. ‘ll be f-fine.”

This time, he slows to a stop, staring down at you with uncertainty. “Bad.” He repeats again, “Too cold.” The hand at your back raises to press sweetly against your forehead once more, “Hypothermic.”

His eyes scan the room, flickering back and forth before settling on a stream of light in the distance, and you watch him consider.

“No,” you coerce your head into shaking, the weight of it feeling like a slab of concrete on your neck, “n’t Sun either, he’ll j’st freak out.” Sluggishly, your head lifts to a point where you can kind of see his face, “I just need’a blanket, tha’s all.” Then, with a smile (albeit forced, and obvious about it), you add some cheek, “you’re good a’ blanket stuff, right, starboy?”

The way he stiffens around you signals your success. If nothing else, taking advantage of his attitude and making it conductive to your own needs remains one of your finest skills, and a habit you would milk until it inevitably came back to bite - or perhaps in Moon’s case - kill you. Today, however, he appears willing to cave, acting as if he’s truly worried about you. And maybe he is. But that was a question to pick apart another day.

For now, he seems fit to listen to your pleas, and you’re swept off to the daycare, instead.

It’s engulfed in darkness upon entering, as to be expected. Moon’s eyes cast an eerie red glow as he carries you further into the room. Bracing you firmly against him, he crouches by a chest of blankets and begins to pull one out, only to abandon the effort and instead take hold of the trunk’s side handle, dragging the heavy thing all the way to a corner fitted with bean bags and a crate of stuffed animals.

It’s here where he settles with you still in his arms, falling into a particularly large bean bag with a loud and tired sigh, and soon after reaching in for the chest again and drawing the cover away. While one hand stays snug around your waist, the other brings a patchwork blanket over your body, tucking it against your neck and shoulders, then he dives back in for a second blanket, and then a third, thoroughly nesting you beneath each one.

There’s little else for him to do here. He isn’t a doctor, he has no tools, no methods of getting heat into your body at a speed that’s more appropriate, so he goes about it the old fashioned way.

His other arm dips beneath the covers and together, both hands sooth over your exposed skin, drawing natural heat to the surface with careful, measured touches that feel like hellfire on your skin, but only briefly.

At one point he tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you smile into his chest, still somewhat loopy, “You aren’t gett’ng it off,” you tell him, all but mumbling, “I d’nt care how much it might help.”

“Cheeky,” comes his swift reply, “Just checking.”

“F’r what?”

“That they aren’t wet,” he says, “I don’t know how long you were trapped.”

“Mm,” your eyes fall shut again, “too long,” you say, “but ‘s fine now.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, muttering something that you don’t quite catch. Before you can bring it up, however, his hands distracted you, moving down your spine in soothing circles and then dipping kindly beneath your shirt, his palm flattening against the bare small of your back. “You should be more careful,” he says.

Your head lolls to the side, making an effort to look up at him once more, and you smile with a tease, “What, were you worried ab’t me?”

“Yes.”

Oh. The sass dies on your tongue.

When you smile again, this time, it’s something genuine, “Good thing you came to my rescue, then.” your eyes flutter closed, the weight of them too much to bear, “m g’nna take a little nap, okay?”

In the morning you’ll realize. Your words will come back to haunt you, and your willingness to let your guard down with him won’t go unnoticed. But tonight, you are content to stay just like this. Moon tucks his chin over your head and holds you in a way that makes you feel safe, nestled between three layers of blanket and a chest that plays you lullabies.

“You’re drinking some tea when you wake up,” he chides - but it’s soft, a whisper against your ear, followed by an exhale, you feel him smile against your head. “Nighty night,” he lulls.

Your heart beats warmly against his chest.

[favouritefi]

What about Crozier adopting (?) Jopson as his first cat boy? You mentioned he thought it was weird to have a human-adjacent sleep on the floor, so he's not used to cat/dogboys?

crozier is irish and ireland doesnt have the same system of institutionalized cat/dogboy adoption that england does. honestly very few parts of the world do and the places that do have it were likely influenced by british imperialism. crozier didnt grow up with cat/dogboy companions and he didnt get invited to parties where officers brought their cat/dogboy companions along until well into adulthood. crozier's worked with cat/dogboys because he's been in the navy for most of his life, but being on watch with one is very different from living with one for the rest of your (now shared) lives. the intimate domesticity between a human officer and his cat/dogboy was not something he was prepared for. ive joked before that crozier missed the "mandatory catboy naval training session" but even if that was a thing he wouldve skipped it. he never bothered to learn the proper customs and behaviours between a human officer and his catboy because he never wanted a catboy and a part of him hoped he could somehow convince the admiralty to grant him an exception, but then jopson shows up and hes lovely and perfect and greatly improves croziers life by simply being in it. jopson is the reason why crozier stopped drinking in his 30s and why he retired from the navy after returning to england and why he wanted to live - to survive the arctic and return home with jopson. their relationship in this au is literally this meme:

[archive245]

no thoughts empty head only the horsemens as a boyband

- will def gives drummer, said drums are prob white and red covered in random stickers

- michael def bassist and main vocals, guitar is def red

- kai keyboardist and vocals, keeps both keyboard and mic clean and minimalist, his in ears prob have a cross on them or something

- damon is like electric guitar, black definitely black, like a glossy black tho

- damons the type to have messy black eyeliner and a leather jacket yk the bad boy

- kais signature piece of jewelry are rings, wills is chains and necklaces

- very chase atlantic and arctic monkeys vibes

- kai never or barely uses social media, has like 20 posts at max and only posts band activities

- WILL ON THE OTHER HAND SPAMS POSTS LIKE HIS LIFR DEPENDS ON IT, funny picture of damon and michael? posted. rehearsal? posted. dinner at a local diner? posted? sexy selfie? posted. this man probably has like over 1000 posts

random scenario: fan throws bra on stage

michael: picks it up and while smirking say something suggestive

kai: doesnt say anything just see its smirks moves on

damon: like michael says something dirty and hangs the bra on his guitar

will: puts the bra on and does the rest of the performance with it on

- they all write and produce, but its a spectrum how quickly they brainstorm

- michael takes a average week to think of an idea for a beat and lyrics, damon and will randomly gets random creative brusts, kai consistently gets ideas but at random intervals

- designated spots on tour busses

- will is stage presence even tho hes near the back bc yk drums he has the ability to get the crowds attention, winks, flirts, blows kisses, the whole package

- damon tends to wonder the stage never ending on the same place he started when the songs over, walking closer to the crowd to flirt with them or walking back to flirt with the others ( will specifically)

- OR he tends to be very cold and intimidating not very flirty or interactive with every one, yet has a very strong aura that just catches ur attention

- kai pours his whole soul into singing, and even tho hes a sub vocals he tends have the most lines

- hes very tame when it comes to interacting with the crowd, like yes he will wink at them or flirt with them, but he isnt on the verge of making out with one of the fans like damon or will are. but eye contact

- michael is the one who throws water on the fans, the “are you ready??” and “lets go”. the fan hyper yk the one who makes the concert more fun

another random scenario: getting mobbed by paparazzi

michael: pissed and it shows on his face

kai: tries his best to be polite but about to smash the cameras

damon: decks them in the face (causes the group lots of criticism)

will: ditches the group and runs in the other direction

- it was was will idea to start the band, kai was coerced bc he was the only one who knew how to play an instrument (piano) at the time. and damon and michael joined to piss off their dads

- during interviews will has no media training and says random stuff, kai tries to damage control it like “haha no hes joking”

- michael survives off monster, on or off tour. kai prefers coffee, will red bull and damon water :D but he smokes a shit ton of cigarettes so it cancels out

- damon blatenly post spoilers on his socials, kai acc does this as well but not as obvious

- they have a tradition to have comebacks (I DONT KNOW THE NORMAL TERM FOR THIS I ONLY KNOW THE KPOP TERM I AM SORRY) on october 30

- lets be honest they all hook up with fans

[tomwambsmilk]

Welcome to the Succession Cannibalism Poll!! (aka the Succibal Face-Off)

One week ago, a private jet set out carrying 31 people and one dog, all travelling together for unclear reasons. The pilot attempted to take a shortcut through arctic airspace, but unforeseen turbulence forced the plane down. All 31 passengers + 1 dog survived, but the cabin crew were all killed in the crash.

Food supplies were slim, and dwindling. Finally, they made the difficult decision to eat one of the cabin crew, a flight attendant by the name of Andrew Dodds, who had drowned in a small puddle of water when the plane went down, and whose body was perfectly preserved by cold. They reasoned that help was on the way, and after all, Dodds wouldn't be needing his body anymore. It was a temporary measure, to get everyone out alive, they told themselves...

.... But in actuality, it was only the beginning.

32 Succession characters are trapped in the arctic, and the only food remaining is each other. Who will be the last one standing when (if?) the rescue team arrives? Who has the physical grit, the strength of will, and dubious morals required to eat their companions and make it through to the end? That part's up to you!

The rules:

there are 16 polls in round one. Each will go live at the same time (provided the queue system works properly) at 11:15pm EST, and be live for 24 hours

Don't just vote for your favourite! Remember, this is about who in a given pairing would actually be able to eat who

In the event of a tie, super-secret tie rules are unlocked. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it

Feel free to add more detail in the notes! Was it a tough struggle or did one give in quickly? Did someone sacrifice themselves, or did they get stabbed in the back? Did they gut hunted down? Did they run? Did someone cry?

Consider reblogging to increase the reach of the polls!

Masterlist of Round 1 polls under the cut (with links, once they go live). Good luck, and happy hunting!

Sandy Furness vs. Karolina Novotney

Lawrence Yee vs. Connor Roy

Nate Sofrelli vs. Colin

Frank Vernon vs. Rhea Jarrell

Jeryd Mencken vs. Willa Ferreyra

Roman Roy vs. Tabitha

Greg Hirsch vs. Jess Jordan

Mondale Wambsgans vs. Stewy Hosseini

Caroline Collingwood vs. Gerri Kellman

Kerry vs. Logan Roy

Siobhan Roy vs. Gil Eavis

Cyd Peach vs. Hugo Baker

Ewan Roy vs. Naomi Pierce

Karl Muller vs. Kendall Roy

Brian from Management Training vs. Tom Wambsgans

Marcia Roy vs. Rava Roy

[tricos-here]

🖋 × faryen 😳?

ahem. info dumps you about her family

-her mother, Jodis, used to be a pirate that primarily operated in the Far Shiverpeaks and the Janthir Bay, taking after her father. She’d already been trained as a Shaman of Wolf like her own mother, which she used to empower her crew - she returned to Hoelbrak when her mother fell ill and took over her responsibilities as a Wolf Havroun. She’s taught the kids (Faryen, Aelfsi, Rafe, Revna) about everything and anything, from sailing to stalking prey on land, how to use a bow and arrow as well and make them, how to make improvised weapons from the land and survive in the harsh climate of the Shivepeaks and so on

-her father, Einar, is a fisherman and a hunter, comes and goes from Hoelbrak, venturing out as far as the Bitterfrost Frontier, often accompanied by his own mother who’s a seasoned hunter. Though he’s bought into the ideology of Wolf after meeting Jodis, he’s mainly a follower of Bear. He’s likewise taught the kids a lot, like fishing and hunting, but with his profession and taking care of his mother who’s stubbornly continuing to live out in Frostgorge, he’s absent a lot

-Faryen and Aelfsi were born on 1308AE only minutes apart, despite their differences in personality they were inseparable growing up, until Fary left Hoelbrak with Eir in 1325AE, something Aelf is still salty about because she stayed behind to become Wolfborn alongside Rafe

Aelfsi is a ranger, she has a pet wolf and raven, named Hallie and Arne respectively, Hallie she adopted and raised as a cub from one of the many Wolf shrines they’d visit with their mother, and y she found injured in Borealis Forest once, which she mended back to health and have been inseparable since

-Rafe was found at the age of 10 (in 1313 AE) by their father, wandering around the Shiverpeaks by himself after his home was ransacked and his parents killed by the Svanir. With no other known family he was taken in and he readily picked up the role of the older brother to the girls. At some point he fell in with Skarti and Sigfast, joining the Wolfborn and would later vouch for his Aelf and Revna to join as well.

Before Fary left around 1325AE after gaining the title of Slayer of Issomir, he argued with her about staying in Hoelbrak and to not split up the pack, gifting her an arctic fox kit and alpine wolf cub in an attempt to convince her, but she flipped the argument on him and how they should join her instead, rather than sit around waiting for some prophesized hero to crack the Tooth of Jormag. Neither Rafe nor Aelfsi joined her though

- Revna was born in 1315AE, she was a timid girl growing up, preferring to stick close to their mother and observing the various rituals she’d perform as a Havroun. All three, Fary, Aelf and Rafe did pick up the mantle of the older siblings and would teach her anything they could, taking her out to hunting parties and moots etc. She’d join the Wolfborn too, fighting as a ranger though instead of utilizing any pets in combat she’d instead channel animal spirits