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whumpitisthen · 3 months ago

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Abhorrent

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CWs: blood, gore, death, fear, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, religious themes, nonhuman whumpers, power dynamics, gay ass deities

“But, but you — please, My Lord, if, i-if your, um, Y-Your Divinity allowed us just one more month — a few weeks even! I’m sure we could come to a, a-uh, satisfactory agreement between the — ”

“I do not care.”

Crack. One final, choked wheeze herds out the soul from his body, and the garrulous suit falls silent. With just a single flick of his hand, three cervical vertebrae snap at once, shattering with enough force to allow for the shards of bone to dig their way deep into the man’s pharynx and trachea, letting blood gush forth to ensure his demise. The corpse smashes its nose bloody on the way down, drawing a new pool of red for the table cloth to swallow up, losing consciousness before it could suffocate fully.

‘You bore me.’

That was what their God had said before this, to the diplomat before him, right before the flesh was rent sliver by excruciating sliver off their body; now lying facing the most recently made corpse.

The human sitting right next to them had failed to endure the maddening scene and got up in a mindless panic to run, aiming to make as much space between themself and the gory execution as possible. Grim halted their plan barely three steps in and dragged them away into the shadows. He came back without the body, licking his fingers clean.

‘No imagination at all…’

That time, the Lord had looked away with a heavy sigh, an air of disappointment about him. Then, the german-tongued politician started vomiting blood, then lungs. The demon king did turn back to face him again; to watch him die. The body is still resting, cold, in a pool of its liquified organs.

‘Your time is up.’

That one was Grim's handywork; an eager, vicious attack delivered in a split second. He had aimed a perfect diagonal slice from the right shoulder to the left hip, splitting the human in twain. What is now two halves of a bloody mess on the floor could hardly string together a single sentence with Death looming above it, slowly counting the seconds like a sentient guillotine. His Lord hoped that the imminent threat would help the mortal come up with something more creative to say, but alas…

The demon almost looks vengeful as he watches each mortal become part of the gory decor, lining them up one by one to join the corpses — apt revenge for wasting his time. Coming into this parley, His Majesty had expected a little more desperation, and a little less arrogance. It seems that even after over three centuries of direct unholy sovereignty, conquest and subjugation, humans would still rather hold their belief in the God that had long abandoned them than to give reverence to the God standing right before them; who is merciful enough to let the brazen bunch continue their pathetic existence despite their frustrating lack of succumbence and endless hubris.

A battle of pride; that's what it always comes down to. Their human pride is just as tenacious as his own; a double edged sword, a hindrance and vantage at once.

“Utterly dull,” — he says, shaking his head disapprovingly, only once blood stops gushing forth from the most recently dead man, — “all of you are so utterly, utterly dull. Three hundred years, twelve generations, over eight tenths of your previous land taken or razed, your existence allowed purely of my own careful design — and you still don’t get it. You refuse to understand.”

If there were any humans composed enough not to show perturbance up until now, their stone exterior breaks at the absolute dissatisfaction that has soaked into their Lord. His almost anger is felt clear as day in the very air that surrounds them, raising the hairs on their arms in wicked goosebumps and causing an unnatural sensation of static and taunting whispers to invade every mortal mind.

A displeased overlord is a special kind of danger; the kind that incinerates nations and enslaves the innocent on a whim. But forget all that — at the rate this conference is going, not a single human is making it out of here alive. One could wonder, if these people are so important to the workings of human society, how will the rest of them adapt to their sudden absence?

Grim yawns. What are humans if not the most freakishly adept at acclimatisation? They were made to bend, they will figure it out.

The shivers and terrorising voices only last a few seconds, shushed by the demon lord's composed exhale. There are still so many of them, perhaps only the first few would be so untoward with their approach. Every word that came out of their pathetic mouths angered him, bringing him ever closer to erasing their entire race in one final torrent of infernal destruction — no, that would be an awfully rash decision from a man known to be the most patient. He can shape them, he can mould them, just as well as any of his own creations. They will yield eventually. He just wishes their stubbornness would fade.

He would never admit it out loud, not even to himself, especially not around Grim… But every trait that he sees in these mortals — this endless pride, obstinacy, wit, devotion, will, — they are his own. A curse, a punishment, a reminder. It originated with him, reflected back at him millennia later, and it absolutely infuriates him to no end. He cannot stand seeing himself in these specks of useless dust.

He wills the next mortal to stand and present their stance and queries, dared to implore their overlord to aid them and their nation; but their solemn monologue about how insufficient land and a lack of reliable resources bottlenecks their agriculture and has now lead to civil unrest, millions starving, rioting on the streets, stealing, killing, drawing their ire closer to their beloved benefactors’ estates, and how that has left their governing officials no choice but to plead for a mitigation of the sanctions placed on their people by their benevolent, omniscient ruler, — and that is as far as he can bare to listen to this dry speech of utter selfish incompetence.

There is a painful lack of proper respect, Grim finds. All demands and no pleas. So official, yet so incredibly unserious. He can't help likening them to a circus of clowns in expensive suits, sitting around in their little clown cars debating their little clown problems.

It feels like humans have truly forgotten how to beg. No; maybe these ones have, but begging is in a mortal’s nature. They had just grown so accustomed to having a God that never answered them that now that someone more worthy came to take its place, they don't even believe he is one. Or they would rather pretend otherwise.

Either way, he doesn't really care about any of this. Instead, Grim finds his fun in circling the long row of seats on either side of the crowded dining table. Slow steps, a cold gust of air on the backs of each nervous mortal waiting their turn. He passes time inspecting their souls, bumping their feet or ghosting a hand along their shoulders to keep them in check, see their reactions. Backs ramrod straight, limbs pulled in, heads down, breaths thin. Like little soldiers.

He slows to a stop behind one; the one he likes most. A small woman, with big circular glasses and a mess of autumn-coloured hair held up by a single hairband. She is quivering, her hands hidden between her thighs as she sits nearly motionless; so unassuming, so afraid to bring any kind of attention to herself, that it only makes her stand out that much more. He is certain, now that he has watched her for a while, that she isn't the leader of anything, only a puppet sent in place of someone much more important. That, or she is wiser than any other mortal partaking at this diplomatic feast and babbling about things that do not matter.

She shudders and flinches at the chilling breath she feels on her cheek, hunching her shoulders up high. Her eyes squeeze shut before she could catch a glimpse of that terrifying canine skull he wears as he leans down, tilting his head to take a closer look at the circles under her eyes, the soft, natural colours of her makeup proving far too vibrant for her steadily paling face. He is curious what language she speaks, what her voice sounds like. One of those silver claws lifts to scrape her cheek, carefully lifting a lock of that soft, wavy hair to gently tuck behind her ear. He does not hurt her, he doesn't even try particularly to scare her, and that only makes her all the more alluring when despite that, she nearly whimpers, struggling to draw breath, like he's squeezing the very air out of her lungs.

She reminds him of his tormented little fawn. So little, so sweet, so easy to frighten. Stays still and quiet, merely hoping that she won't be hurt, no fighting, no running. Her soul vibrates with life, lighting up her otherwise morose expression with vibrancy in her green eyes. It makes him want to take her away, lock her up somewhere, make her scream, make her his. He smiles fondly behind his mask, and reaches past her to grab a fine looking piece of meat off the plate in front of her. It drips with a generous coating of blood, dripping down the bone of his mask as he lifts the flesh sliver above himself, pulls the mask to the side and drops the delicacy onto his tongue, savouring it. It tastes real enough, though reality is a funny concept when it comes to his Lord.

In the Nowhere, time passes a little differently. There is no certain way to tell its passage, no logic to its rhythm. It fluctuates seemingly randomly, going faster one moment, then slowing to a near stop another. He cannot be sure, but Grim does have a running theory hypothesising that the imaginary time of these temporary worlds is forced to bend to His Majesty's whims. In here, a dimension created by him and occupied by guests, the natural order of things is whatever he wants it to be — and what is time but one thread of a given reality interwoven into the intricate lace of the creator's mind.

It amazes Grim, that even with such magnificent power as to be a source of creation itself, His Majesty still finds the time to spend on the smallest, most insignificant of things, and often would rather use it to morph something already existing, as opposed to creating something entirely new. To each their own, he supposes. The Lord's personal projects do always end up to be something entertaining if nothing else, no matter if they are some scrawny thing he picked up off the side of the street, or if it’s the most incredible, incalculable, phenomenal masterpiece a God like him could come up with built up with endless care piece by piece from nothing.

It has been a while since his Lord has had a project. The last one has shattered long ago; a boring husk that became incapable of imperfection, or emoting for that matter, thoroughly emptied out until they became a lukewarm body without a soul, or opinion, or anything at all, left to listlessly wander their master's mansion and clean the halls over and over again, wheezing slow as if perpetually suffocating. Grim tried to put a little fear into them once, hoping to elevate the rhythm of their heart a little, but it was like they were dead already, grey with a lack of life behind their eyes, blinking slow, wholly uninterested in anything he had to offer that wasn't death. He remembers his Lord calling them a great disappointment.

He wonders if his newest gift will fascinate the demon enough to keep his focus for a while. He counts on the angel’s arrival being somewhat of a sentimental topic to his old friend.

Deep in his thoughts, the Reaper suddenly feels something. The scent of blood in water. His ashen skin shivers with its intensity. A sound; a wave of something strange, vibrant, beguiling, sorrowful. A soul crying for him. Screaming for him. Someone he knows?

He slows to a stop from his absentminded stroll and listens, looking around as if to ascertain the direction of the sad wailing. He feels his Lord's attention on him, ever careful of his premonitions. His bloodhound sensed something he cannot, and that is rarely a good sign.

The Lord waves a hand, shutting up the human diplomat's ceaseless rambling. — “What is it?”

Staring straight up at the ceiling, Grim listens for the cries, but they are much too hard to make out. He can’t tell exactly what's going on past the shadowed walls of this domain. His ears are filled with cotton. Letting his chin down, he hums. — “It appears I have somewhere else to be.”

“Is that so?”

“Somewhere important,” — he continues, more so to himself. He turns to his Lord, all but ordering, voice cold, but his tone still lifts towards the end, as if only patiently inquiring; — “open a gate.”

His Lord raises an eyebrow. This sudden change is completely unprecedented; a far cry from his unburdened, carefree Reaper. What has made him so worried so suddenly? — “What could be more important than being by my side?”

That pulls a laugh out of Grim; a little incredulous, a little genuine, but spine chilling all the same. — “The details of my duty are of no business to you, My Lord.”

Then, black smoke envelops him, catching him as he bonelessly falls back into it, swallowed up and gone. He disappears for only a moment; the next he is walking out from behind his Lord’s impressive throne. Bracing himself on the back of it, he leans down to murmur, his fangs peeking out from under the mask just so, smiling wickedly. — “So draw a gate for me. I may just be inclined to return sooner if you do.” — He giggles then, a mischievous sound. — “I know you don't like being all alone with these scary mortals. I'll hurry right back to your side, Your Majesty, you need have nothing to worry about.”

Even if he was considering opening a gate for him, he definitely won't after that mockery. Grim knows as much; but he cannot hold himself from playful jest. And nevertheless, he had just about enough of this senseless race to find out who can come up with the most boring way to beg their God, and by his calculations, he may have annoyed the Lord just enough for him to not mind Grim's absence too much once he leaves.

Sure enough, the demon narrows his eyes in slight contempt, not looking very amused — can he never take a joke? He then puts on an easy smile. — “I think you can find your own way there, wherever it is you must go. Clearly, you do not need my help.”

Grim’s fanged smile disappears as his Lord's own only grows when he lifts a clawed hand to take hold of his bloodhound by the chin, bringing him close enough to whisper in his ear. — “If you wanted to leave so badly, you could have just told me. I am more than used to your flippant nature; I know your thirst never leaves you long enough to think through a single thought in your head. Go home and grab yourself a snack, my ravenous Reaper, I won't stop you.”

His surprise is quickly replaced by a toothy grin, low laughter bubbling out of his throat. That shiver raising the hairs on the back of his neck; a familiar, pleasant electric current spasming under his frozen skin. A shaky breath slips out from behind his teeth.

Under the mask, Grim's eyes flutter shut. His Lord is a dangerous, foolish man to flirt with Death in such a fashion. Truly dangerous indeed.

He can't resist grasping a hand around his old friend's wrist with unyielding strength, lifting those clawed fingers away from the possessive hold on his chin. If his grip hurts the demon lord at all, he doesn't show it. He then turns the offending hand and returns it to his lips. He presses a gentle, slow kiss to the black veins pumping the same black blood as his own steadily through them.

Blood void of any adrenaline, fear or anxiety. Playing with fire, tempting fate, and not an ounce of healthy cowardice to be found in those onyx eyes.

His Lord's smug faith in his Reaper’s loyalty annoys Grim greatly — almost as much as it captivates him.

“Abhorrent,” — he decides, a finely chosen word of farewell. His old friend smiles as if he called him beautiful.

With that, cursed black smoke envelops his body in a gentle embrace, disintegrating his form to mist until there is nothing left. The Lord's hand remains floating surrounded by Death’s frigid breath, leaving an echo of phantom touch on his skin long after the air inexplicably warms, sighing in relief with every mortal to announce the Reaper's departure.

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neteluvr-library · 1 year ago

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okay im back for my weekly read through of cardigan!! idk why i choose to do this at 11 pm at night but that's when im most unhinged so its kinda funny letting my unfiltered thoughts through??? but don't worry im only doing two chapters today bc i really want to do the last three chapters together!! NOW THAT WILL BE INTENSE. i love DBTAC sm. It's literally one of my favorite taylor songs ever bc of u--i slept on lover before but its one of my favorites now. I never really paid to the lyrics because simply because I didn't know this song when you first posted, but now I am so appreciative of the lyrics because it flows so perfectly with the story. so I'm very excited to read this chapter ):

He couldn’t say no to you, he realises. He would follow you anywhere in this world, do anything you asked of him, regardless how stupid or reckless or crazy it was. He would always follow you, for the rest of time, and he was happy about it.

No because Neteyam is such a lover boy. everything in his DNA is fierce and i think that's very applicable to the way he loves. I don't think he could do anything half-assed which is why I love the way he loves atan ):

Things happen in life sometimes, and it makes you lose your ability to react. There was no reaction, definitely no overreaction.

I literally thought she was going to die I was like no way this just happened how fucking unfortunate 😃 BBYGIRL IS FINALLY LIVING HER LIFE NOW THIS???? atan will not get a break for the next year or so for her life-

You hoped that maybe you tried hard enough, the last 6 hours can just be erased from your life, from world.

NO BC I KNOW ATAN FELT SO NUMB IN THIS MOMENT 😭 but also i was and still am living for the angst please its just too good

First step, respiratory fluids. You remove a sterile cotton swab and swab your pharynx as thoroughly as possible and place it in a tube. That’s easy enough.

This entire chapter was anxiety-inducing like it literally felt like something out of the movie contagion or any other pandemic movies (very weird considering we lived throughout a pandemic) but the whole sequence of atan (PLEASE I JUST TYPED ATAN AND IT GOT CORRECTED TO SATAN LMFAO) studying her samples in the lab adds to the anxiety and was a genius move on your part. it was easy to imagine in my head because you were so descriptive but also it's shows a lot about atan's character and how strong she is (despite the fact she doesn't believe). like most people would freak out, rightfully so, but she just goes straight into action to figure out what is going on. (LOL soon you'll get better just started playing now).

...like your mum was saying it had to be done back on Earth about a century ago

one thing that blows my mind is that avatar literally takes place only 150 years after the year 2000 which is the year i was born in so it's like not even that far off (is that a covid reference lol) from our current timeline. like yeah I'll be dead but my grandkids and even great grandkids will be alive in 2100) i really hope we don't end up like them lmfaoooo..

THE FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF STAGE I: DENIAL

I LITERALLY LOVED THIS SO MUCHHHHH ITS LIKE A MOVIE SEQUENCE!!!! going through the different stages of grief always hits in literature, but i think you captured it so well in a way that was entertaining to read, but also cathartic? (but I'll elaborate more on that in seven)

With those thoughts still floating in your mind and a Xanax on your tongue, you made your way to the comfortable bed and crashed without a dream in sight.

NOT THE XANAX 😭 POOR ATAN!!!!! she is going through it rn.

He gave you the quickest look known to man then quickly busied himself with literally anything else. “No reason, just focused on the task at hand.”

EASTER EGG!!!!! and i'm literally just catching this now 😭 obviously i know what its implying but im kinda disappointed i didn't notice until now? i need to be a more careful reader bc sometimes i skip over details like this that set the stage for something else. honestly i think i just focused on the bolded words instead of everything but like DESCRIBING BODY LANGAUGE AND ACTIONS IS JUST AS IMPORTANT FOR CONTEXTS AHHH i will do better. but also, you're a mastermind because you already had this planned 😒

Neteyam shifted uncomfortably in front of you and looked… nervous, you realised. What the hell was going on with everyone?

LITERALLY LOOKING BACK I DIDNT KNOW WHAT WAS GONNA HAPPEN BUT I STILL DIDNT EXPECT WHAT YOU DID i literally thought everyone was being sus for no reason

...if he too was struggling to catch his breath at the torture of knowing he can’t have you, claim you, right now, right in this second, right here.

I'm sure he was...lol

...like they were urging you to come closer so they can spill their long-forgotten dreams to you

so dreamy ): i love the idea of plants being like friends you can spill your secrets to and they have open ears that don't judge you

You didn’t pass judgement, or make him feel bad for sharing his feelings, and he felt like he could tell you all the hardest truths his heart has always craved to speak out loud.

GOD so most of the times i can't relate to romance stories because i have only had one failed relationship and honestly i haven't been truly in love, but i do know what its like to have a soulmate like that (one of my best friends) so it warms my heart to know neteyam has someone like that and by relating it to my experience i think it really clarified just how strong their bond is and made me realize that damn you only get that type of love (whether platonic or romantic) once in your life so you should hold it tight when you do find it

...but he also knew that being selfish is not a trait that came naturally to you. You have always respected the deep bond Neteyam had to his family and his people and you always used to tell him how proud of him you were for how strong he was, for the lengths he was willing to go to to protect and nurture those bonds.

Reading this little portion made me think about how different Atan, Vol, and Vi are (they have a lot of similarities tho). They're all fierce and multi faceted characters but I specifically thought about Atan and Vol because you wrote that Vol was more selfish in nature at the beginning of Cruel Summer and then compare her to Atan, who is selfless from the beginning. I've always appreciated your female characters, and i know each one has bits and pieces of you, but I just love how you're able to write so many different female characters without them being too "Mary Sue" or having the same personality. it's great that each one of Atan, Vol, and Vi are easily distinguishable from each other.

The scraps would have been enough, and now even those were brutally taken from you, like everything else in this life.

There is definitely a different type of pain that comes from grieving something that is alive and in front of you. it must make atan feel so helpless and lost ):

“Did you tell her?”

I JUST REMEMBERED WHAT I ORIGINALLY THOUGHT!!! GIRL BECAUSE THIS ENTIRE TIME I THOUGHT NETEYAM WAS GOING TO CONFESS HIS LOVE FOR ATAN AND THATS WHY EVERYBODY WAS SO SECRETIVE LMFAOOO IT JUST MADE SO MUCH SENSE IN MY HEAD like yeah neteyam loves atan and wants to say sorry and confess and that's why everybody is so jumpy because he wants them to keep it a secret so atan doesn't fight out but neteyam was too stubborn to actually do it ... silly me. but next time i won't be so silly and will be on guard for any sus actions...

You wanted to be in this body just a little while longer, because, in this body, it was easy to forget the realities of your actual life.

Me except instead of being in an Avatar body, its reading Avatar fanfics because I want to avoid any responsibilities I have (lowkey supposed to be writing my personal statement but i chose to do this instead AHAHAH)

...discover themselves, make decisions and choices that would lead to a happy, fulfilled life, rather than a proud and accomplished one.

And to that I question: what draws the distinction between the two? i think that would be an interesting conversation lol

Despite never seeing anything that he could deem suspicious, the images of his baby brother taking for himself what was his, what should be his, haunted him and made him sick to his stomach.

So claim your woman . So, how i pointed how the difference between your female characters, I also want to point out the difference between your Neteyams. Mainly this Neteyam and Cruel Summer Neteyam. Sure, they were both selfess and put their obligations first but it's interesting how they diverge and are almost like opposites? but i love how Cardigan Neteyam goes against his obligation while Cruel Summer Neteyam ultimately succumbs to it. like okay, the circumstances are different but its interesting because it shows how you can characterize Neteyam in different ways (even MiM Neteyam is completely different). this fandom was literally given CRUMBS but they have managed to keep him alive through the 8734987349 different variations and characterizations of him and i love it. James cameron slept on neteyam. I feel like he give us was like a blank canvas almost. Like neteyam has defining traits, but you can take the defining traits and completely change who is with each version of him. okay that got a little long whoops....ALSO PLS I NEED YOU TO DO A NETEYAM POLL of which neteyam is their favorite 😭😤

“There are perks that come with being an Omatikaya, you know? You can make your bow out of the wood of the Home Tree… and you can choose a mate.”

Classic love triangle moment lol...CUE THE DRAMA

GEEZE THIS TOOK ME AN HOUR. i feel like im picking up on so much insight that i didn't before so i actually really love rereading. though i try my best to annotate anything my mutuals post IT TAKES UP SO MUCH TIMEEEEE i just love writing every little thought

lllicit Affairs | Chapter VI: Death by a Thousand Cuts

Pairing: Neteyam x Human/Avatar!Reader

Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X

Synopsis: You and Neteyam both have a dark secret that would change everything between you - and neither of you are willing to share.

Warnings: angst, some fluff, Lo'ak x reader, jealous!Neteyam, both main characters thirsting for each other, mentions of lab work, disease, blood, cursing.

Word Count: 7,2k words

A/N: Chapter 6 is the chapter that sets EVERYTHING in motion for what's to come. There is a LOT to come, a lot of drama and angst, maybe some smut (? 😉) and this chapter is meant as a stepping stone to the beginning of the end. Also, realised I forgot to ever mention, that if the dialogue is ever italicised, that usually means the conversation is in Na'vi, I don't know how I have never made it clearer, but here we are.

Thank you so much for everyone who's been reading and asking to be tagged, I never expected this to gain any traction and I am so grateful for people enjoying it x

My heart, my hips, my body, my love Trying to find a part of me that you didn't touch Gave you too much but it wasn't enough But I'll be all right, it's just a thousand cuts

One second.

“Just one second, Neteyammm!”, you whined, as he was trying to remove the blanket from your currently very comfortable and very warm body.

“It’s late, come on! Early bird catches the worm, isn’t that what you people say?”

“Nobody says that, I don’t know who told you this lie.”

“It was you!!” he says, and he’s laughing at your whinging while trying to remove the blanket. He’s not trying that hard, considering he would make an easy job out of the task if he used a tenth of his actual force, but he couldn’t bear the thought of bringing you any unnecessary distress. You had enough of that in your life, and he wanted to be a source of comfort for you, a shelter in the storm.

You scooted on one side of the bed close to the edge, and left a big gap which you brought to his attention by patting it aggressively.

“Press the button on the audio player and lay with me, please? I don’t feel like going out today.”

A song he liked came on, one that he’s heard you play before and there was no doubt in his mind that he liked it better when you sang it. He circled the bed and lay in it, next to you, in the dark.

“Thank you, light of my life.” You attached yourself to him, arms sprawled across his bare chest and legs carelessly placed on top of abdomen and hips, and sighed contently. He could feel your warm breaths on his neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He turned his head to you and placed a small kiss on top of your head and listened to the soft tune filling up the room.

“Oh, goddamn, my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand

Taking mine, but it's been promised to another

Oh, I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland

My house of stone, your ivy grows and now I'm covered in you”

“You’re annoying.”

“I know I am, but you love me anyway.”

I do, Neteyam thought. I really do…

Things happen in life sometimes, and it makes you lose your ability to react. There was no reaction, definitely no overreaction. You stared at the vial of blood that shattered all across the floor, all across you and your mind was blank. Almost robotically, you made your way to one of the benches and got some paper rolls and the IMS laying next to it. You carefully cleaned all of it, and spit whatever made its way to your mouth to the floor to be removed. When you were sure everything was gone, you went to the sink and removed your goggles and gloves, and scrubbed yourself clean. You felt yourself moving, picking up a bucket of water with some floor cleaner, felt yourself adding disinfectant to it and moping thoroughly, but it was like an out-of-body experience. Like you were merely a puppet executing orders from above. Cleaning everything took about an hour, after which you made your way back to your room slowly, deliberately.

You didn’t sleep. You spent the whole night looking over everything you and the rest of the scientists have ever found out about this virus. You didn’t know its way of transmission. Maybe you had nothing to worry about, maybe it’s not by blood. You knew it’s not by air, you’ve seen plenty of people infected whose family was fine. So even if you do get infected, the people at the lab should be fine. Your friends would be fine. He would be fine.

Next, incubation period. That’s a tough one, in-vitro studies show it takes the virus anywhere from 2 to 12 months to show symptoms. You don’t know how that changes in humans. You don’t know any of this shit for humans. You could be perfectly fine, you could die within the month. The thought made your blood run cold.

You sat in your chair for the remainder of the night. Unmoving, unthinking.

That’s how Norm found you.

“Hey, Ace. What are you doing up?”

You scrambled for a lie.

“Just woke up, actually. Listen, if you are going to check on the boy, can you please bring my supplies to the tent and tell the Sullys I won’t be in today? I was too exhausted to run any experiments yesterday so I will do it today.”

“Oh… is everything alright? You haven’t missed a day in the village since you got your Avatar.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine, just worried about the boy and want to get to the bottom of this sooner rather than later, if possible.”

“Alright, I can bring you back some of his blood to run as well?”

“NO!”

Norm’s eyes widened in shock at your response and you knew you fucked up, you knew you slipped up. Calm yourself…

“It’s just not necessary at the moment since I have other blood and I don’t want to overwhelm him, if it’s not imperative. I will retrieve some blood when I check on him tomorrow.”

Norm looked at you with a concerned look, but eventually relented.

“Ok, whatever you think, Ace.”

“Thanks, Norm.”

“Let me know what you find tonight. I’ll tell Jake, but they might not be happy with you.”

“You can explain it’s an emergency, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

You struggled to get up and get your legs to not want to collapse beneath you. Eventually, you made your way to the sink and washed, you scrubbed your face as hard as you could without removing a layer of skin, and your teeth until you felt the familiar taste of metal coat your teeth. You hoped that maybe you tried hard enough, the last 6 hours can just be erased from your life, from world. You hoped it could undo the damage that would plague you for the rest of your most likely very short life.

Luckily, most scientists seemed to be out. Claire was teaching Na’vi kids English at Grace’s old school that Jake deemed fit to be reopened, Max left with Norm to check on the situation of the village, and most of the Avatars would be out on missions or training with Jake. You made your way to the quiet halls to one of the labs, and prepared for your long day ahead. This will be hard to do by yourself, but not impossible.

First step, respiratory fluids. You remove a sterile cotton swab and swab your pharynx as thoroughly as possible and place it in a tube. That’s easy enough. Next comes the blood. Finding a vein has always been hard for people to do on you, and it’s not gotten any easier in time, so after poking yourself a few times in the wrong place, you manage to get enough blood to run experiments on.

Hours of sample preparation, incubation, pipetting and running went by at an excruciatingly slow pace, like the universe was revelling in making every second of torture last forever. You thanked your lucky stars of the progress made in lab equipment and that you didn’t have to spent days on one PCR, like your mum was saying it had to be done back on Earth about a century ago. Regardless, it took most of the day for you to do everything you needed, check for all the proteins and markers you knew were deregulated with this virus, and by the early hours of night, you were done.

Aș people were starting to return to the hub as another day was nearing its end, you retreated back to your bedroom to work on the data analysis. You did not want to see anyone, did not want to speak to anyone until you knew at least some things. The less you talked, the less lies that had to come out of your mouth, and that seemed ideal to you.

Inputting the data and having to wait on some software to give you your literal death sentence felt so tragic is was almost comical, and you had to stop and ask yourself if you were some serial killer in a past life to warrant all the pain and misery life seemed adamant to throw at you. For the first time in so long you couldn’t even remember, things were going… well. You were strong, and doing well, and lived outside of the walls of this lab. You had a chance at something more, you had a chance at maybe one day healing and working through your issues and maybe even coming out the other side a better, healthier version of yourself. You had a chance at love.

And there it was… positive. One second.

THE FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF STAGE I: DENIAL

Your blood became poison in the span of half a day, but at least you now knew it wasn’t transmitted through air. That means no one else would have to suffer because of you. The thought made you weirdly calm, and you realised you didn’t care about your own health all along. No, you weren’t sad anymore, just relieved. A wide smile appeared on your face at the results, and you jumped out of the chair with enthusiasm at the great news. Everybody would be ok. Norm, Max, they would all be ok. You will handle all the virus experiments and blood samples from now on. They wouldn’t have reason to doubt you or question you, not when it made most sense anyway, since you were always in the village and knew the protocols and techniques the best, anyway. You would go on the same way as you had, and no one had to know or suffer because of your mistakes.

With those thoughts still floating in your mind and a Xanax on your tongue, you made your way to the comfortable bed and crashed without a dream in sight.

You were up before dawn again, and ready to get started on your day at the village. You were looking forward to gun training with Jake, and finally putting those years of practice to good use. You found Norm deep in thought in the link room, and he didn’t register you walking in until you patted his shoulder and he jumped out of his skin.

“Jesus, Ace. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I noticed. Why so jumpy, Norm?”

He gave you the quickest look known to man then quickly busied himself with literally anything else. “No reason, just focused on the task at hand.”

“…turning on the linkpod?”

“No one likes a smartass, you know?”

“So how was the village yesterday? How is the boy?”

“He’s alright, still not great, but his vitals are stable for now.” You noticed he did not answer your question about the village, and found slight panic rising in your chest.

“Is everything okay? Did something happen in the village?”

“No, Ace, everything’s fine. You don’t have to worry about everything, you know. How did the experiments go yesterday?”

“The virus is not airborne, it seems to be transmitted by blood, so we need to be very careful handling samples.”

“We always are. But good work, good to have some concrete evidence finally. I’ll look over your analysis soon.”

“You know, I’m not quite done with it, so maybe wait and we can look over it together?”

“Sure, that makes sense.”

You didn’t buy Norm’s pathetic attempts at deflecting the subject of the village, but you did not want to fight him so early in the day, so you guess you had to find out what happened for yourself. You woke up in your Avatar body soon enough, and could already tell the village was already awake and buzzing with the perspective of a new day. The guitar sitting on the ground next to your sleeping mat caught your eye, and you smiled softly at the memory which now seems a life away. Your fingers lingered on the chords and you strummed it gently a few times, enjoying the sounds that seemed to settle in your heart. Adjusting your braids in the small mirror you brought with you a few weeks ago, you made your way out of your tent and straight into Neteyam’s chest with a loud thud.

“What the fuck?” You say, indignantly and then look up to find Neteyam watching you with an unreadable expression adorning his beautiful face.

“Hi.” He says, and tries to muster a small smile.

“Hi…? Is there any particular reason you have decided to attack me first thing in the morning?”

“I was just coming to get you, I heard the guitar playing. I didn’t think you would be running straight into me. Are you ready? We can spend the morning tracking a herd of Talioang that the hunter party spotted a few clicks south of the village. It will be good practice for you.”

“…alright? Can I get some food first? I’m famished.”

Neteyam shifted uncomfortably in front of you and looked… nervous, you realised. What the hell was going on with everyone?

“I have food that Ma packed for us, we can eat in the forest? I’d really rather get a move on as soon as possible, this will most likely take most of today, anyway.”

“Is there a particular reason you seem so eager for me to leave? You and Norm have both been acting weird today, and you are both terrible liars.”

Neteyam gave you a hard look. “Let’s go, Y/N. Unlike what you like to think, you don’t need to know everything, and not everything concerns you. Let’s go, now.” Nothing’s changed, you realised bitterly. Last night was just a fluke and you hated yourself in that moment for letting your guard down.

“You can be a real dick sometimes, Neteyam.” You said and took off without looking at him.

You ran for about 5 clicks without checking behind you, knowing full well he was following you, your hearing being one of the many senses that heightened in this body. You stopped suddenly at the sight of a huge footprint, one you could identify as the Sturmbeest, or a Talioang, like it was known to the Na’vi. Soon enough, you saw the ground littered with them, and began carefully tracking the beasts.

“Alright. How far would you say they are and which direction?” Neteyam asked, approaching you slowly. He was back to teaching mode, and you tried your best to learn, instead of recoiling and telling him to go to hell, which is what you really wanted to do.

You touched the ground and felt it with your fingers, trying to assess the moisture level and deepness of the mark. You thought about for a while.

“I’d say they’re quite fresh. Maybe this morning? Taloioang move slowly, about 1 click every hour or two, so I’d say we’ll find them about 2 clicks east?”

He didn’t even have to touch the ground to be able to assess it. He was impressive.

“Good. Let’s go. We shouldn’t run, they have good hearing and the wind is blowing east, which means they’ll be able to smell us if we’re not careful. We will take a roundabout way and approach them from the south.”

You both made your way through the forest and it was your turn to follow him, although you stayed close behind and tried to look around you and pick up on clues, tiny sounds and movements, trying to learn, trying to see. “Eyes on the tracks, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes, but did as you were told. Eventually, Neteyam let you deem the appropriate time to stray from the tracks and move south to avoid being spotted. Soon enough, you saw the herd of prodigious beings, bathing in a shallow lake. You made your way slowly, sneaking on the ground, with Neteyam close to you, and you felt his arms grazing your sides every inch of the way.

The herd was protecting the calves, 5 in total, playing and splashing in the clear water. You watched in amazement, just enjoying the view of these seemingly ferocious beasts that in the moment, felt more like a family watching their children play at the local pool. You couldn’t believe the beauty and mild predisposition, the complex nature of these animals whose equivalents were long gone on Earth, long decimated by humans and their needless desire for wealth and acquisition, for mindless cruelty. You felt your stomach drop at the realisation that soon, this could be Pandora, if you didn’t fight will all your being in the upcoming war.

You felt a sudden gentle pressure on your lower back, a pressure you quickly identified as Neteyam’s hand and you shuddered at the touch. He neared his mouth to your ears, and you felt his warm breath tickling your neck, a sudden warmth pooling in your lower abdomen.

“You’re not allowed to kill anything yet, but I want you to show me how you would go about it. Show me your bow work, how would you aim from this position.”

You slowly removed your bow from from your person and sat up, in a now crouched stance, and loaded the arrow, doing your best to accommodate for the uncomfortable position you were in and the tight space you were sharing with another person. You held your breath, engaged your core, and aimed as if you were going to release your arrow on the target about 300m away. Neteyam’s large hand touched your upper thigh, by your left hip and squeezed gently. Your arm dropped suddenly and snapped your head in his direction. He didn’t react to your sudden snap, instead talking lowly, so as to not give your location away. “Your leg is not in a position by which you can maximise release. You will have more power in the shot if you place this knee on the ground and lean into it.”

You wanted to take that hand and either break it or redirect it on other parts of your body that felt like they would explode if they didn’t feel him, have his touch provide the relief that was desperately yearned for, needed. You wanted to scream at him or make him coax the screams out of you like a war-cry, wild and desperate. You wanted to kill him, you wanted him to kill you, slowly and painfully, taking his time on your body until you were falling apart at the seams around him. You hated him, you loved him. You hated him.

You gave him a hard look, an angry look directed at your thigh, and he removed his hand from you. You wondered if he knew, knew what he was doing, wondered if he felt the same way, if he too was struggling to catch his breath at the torture of knowing he can’t have you, claim you, right now, right in this second, right here. You hoped he did, hope it ate him alive, the yearning and the desire. Because that’s what it was doing to you, what he was doing to you. You turned your attention back to the herd and adjusted your position based on his advice. He was right, you could tell right away, as you felt a lot more power when aiming the arrow this time.

“Much better. We can go now, we will give the location to the hunting party and the will be able to secure us dinner for a couple of weeks from the back of a couple of Ikrans.”

You made your way out of their surroundings, and slowly started walking back to the village. After about half an hour, he stopped on a rock and removed the food he was carrying in a pouch. You didn’t join him, preferring to keep your distance and thus a clear mind, not being able to afford being weak around him anymore.

“I thought you were famished.” He says, with a slight smile. You shook your head and turned around, taking in the views of the forest, distracting yourself with the flowers reaching out their neon green tendrils towards you. You kneeled next to one, and touched them gently, enjoying the way they cupped around your hand and tugged, like they were urging you to come closer so they can spill their long-forgotten dreams to you. You heard him sigh loudly.

“Sorry for being a dick. Just had a fight with mum and dad, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have, and I am sorry. Come eat, please? I don’t want you passing out on me, you’re not as easy to carry as you used to be when you were human.”

You remained on your knees still, focused on only the plants and your gentle tug-of-war. You knew how much pressure Neteyam was under, has been for pretty much his entire life. A prodigy created… or made, no one could really know for sure, he began training when most babies learn to walk, and speak, and play. He has never had a childhood the way Lo’ak, or Kiri, or Tuk, or pretty much any other Na’vi children did, mostly fleeting moments of bliss in between a lot more moments of stress and struggle. He never complained, though. Not out loud, not to anyone else but you, once he realised you were a safe haven from the storm. You didn’t pass judgement, or make him feel bad for sharing his feelings, and he felt like he could tell you all the hardest truths his heart has always craved to speak out loud. You have always wanted to protect him from the world, a world that demanded so much of him, that asked for a sacrifice of which it was undeserving. Being Olo’yektan, leading the people, being the one person everyone relied on was a great honour, a great achievement - one you didn’t think he wanted, but was never given the chance to decline.

“What happened?”

You walked slowly towards the rock he was laying on, and sat at its foot, crossing your legs on the slightly damp grass. You grabbed a piece of jerky from the pile of food and slowly chewed through it, humming in appreciation at the smoky taste and rich flavour of the meat.

Neteyam grimaced and didn’t look at you, choosing to focus instead of his arm guards, picking at something that was clearly not there. “More sacrifices I need to make in the name of the future, of the people.”

“I see you still haven’t learnt to say no, even after all this time apart.”

Neteyam’s hand froze in midair, his eyes widening slightly - it was the first time you brought up the year apart. He braced himself for what he thought was the beginning of the end, of you finally demanding answers he didn’t think would ever satisfy you, but no other words left your lips.

“I can’t say no. I owe my parents everything I have, everything I am. This village, this life, is all I know. My dad gave up on everything he knew to stand up for our people, to make sure we’d get a future worth living, a family worth saving, a world still worth fighting for. He became Olo’yektan despite all that stood against him because he loved my mum, loved us, even then, even before we were born. My grandpa died defending this village, watching home tree get decimated in front of his eyes, with only the people’s safety on his mind and tongue. I see that bow that my mum cherishes like a gift from Eywa herself and I want to be worthy of it, someday. And if it means giving up some things, maybe that’s just how it’s meant to be.”

“Maybe whatever you’re giving up is making room for something ever better, Neteyam. Sometimes we want something so bad, we can’t see the forest for the trees.”

He looks at you confused for a second.

“That’s a saying. What I’m trying to say is maybe you are over focused on something you want right now, that you think is the best thing for you, but maybe you just are not focusing on the bigger picture. Maybe in the future, whatever you’re giving up now will make room for something that was much better for you all along.”

Disappointment filled his chest at your words. Neteyam looked at you with deep sadness marking his features, and he could see you were trying to think of things to say that could make him feel better. In all honesty, he wanted - needed - you to tell him to be selfish, and trust his gut, and follow what he knew was right in his heart, but he also knew that being selfish is not a trait that came naturally to you. You have always respected the deep bond Neteyam had to his family and his people and you always used to tell him how proud of him you were for how strong he was, for the lengths he was willing to go to to protect and nurture those bonds.

You felt an overwhelming sense of grief at the realisation that you will never get to see him become Olo’yektan, see him become the man everybody knew he was. He would never be yours, and although that painful conclusion had settled in your soul and had time to scar in all the time you knew him, a new wound, deeper, bloodier, deadlier, tore your heart apart at the thought you would not even be able to watch from afar. You would have been satisfied with scraps, just watching him rule, and be, and love someone else and imagining it was you. You never thought you’d get more than that anyway, never had any delusions for more. The scraps would have been enough, and now even those were brutally taken from you, like everything else in this life.

You needed to leave, now.

“Should we head back? It’s getting late.”

You walked back in deep, uncomfortable silence. Eclipse made the nature shine and glimmer with colours your sadness dulled to muted tones. There was light coming from the village and you realise how badly you wanted to be alone, in your tent and read, or watch a movie or a show, and ignore this world for a little while while you licked your newly-opened wounds. Tonight was a communal dinner around the big bonfire in the centre of the village, and you felt grateful your presence would not be missed in such a crowd. You’ve come to love these dinners, another one of the many ways the tribe connected to the village and to each other, but tonight you couldn’t entertain even the thought long enough to count.

“Can you please tell your family I am sorry, but I will probably head to bed early. I’ll be early for breakfast tomorrow, I promise.”

“I can do that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nodded absentmindedly and closed the flap of the tent shut.

Neteyam watched as you left him, still reeling from your conversation. Much like you, he just wished to hide in his family’s tent and pretend for a night things are different, that they are better. Actually, if we are talking about wishes, he wishes he could be in your tent. In all honestly, dealing with you on a day to day basis, seeing you, your body, touching it more and longer than he knew he reasonably had to, was making him think thoughts he knew he had no business thinking. In his wildest dreams, he’d be in your tent and making your eyes roll back in the way that drove him crazy. In his wildest dreams, he’d be coaxing sounds out of you that only he would ever hear. In his wildest dreams, your hands all over him would heal him and break him at the same time. He was desperately in need of some relief, and he loathed all decisions in his life that lead to you not being able to be the one to provide it for him.

He made his way to the bonfire, and greeted all of the Na’vi that respectfully bowed their heads at his arrival. He saw his family at the centre of the crowd, where they normally sat, and joined them silently. They all gave him uneasy looks - all but one. Lo’ak was blatantly glaring at the older Sully, a look of disappointment and disgust marring his normally kind face that reminded Neteyam so much of their dad.

“Did you tell her?”

Kiri elbowed Lo’ak in the abdomen, but he didn’t flinch. He did not even bother to acknowledge Kiri, or the low hiss escaping their mum’s lips - his eyes were still boring into Neteyam, unwavering.

“No.” Neteyam’s expression darkened and in a split second, he became the warrior his dad moulded him into. “And you will not, either, Lo’ak. Do you understand me?” Lo’ak had to look up to look at his brother who was now dangerously towering over him.

“Oh, the mighty warrior giving out orders, what else is new?”

“Lo’ak, that’s enough.” Neteyam heard Jake intervene, and he eventually had to physically put his body in between his two sons, who still refused to look away from each other.

“Fnawe’tu (coward).”

Neteyam watched his brother turn his back on his family and walk away from the feast, and although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he knew deep down that Lo’ak was right.

You were almost robotically flipping through the directory of movies and tv shows on the laptop that you had with you in the village, not quite ready to go back to the lab and have to deal with the consequences of your newly acquired “condition”. You had all night to do experiments, and lie to yourself that you were fine until you eventually succumbed to a Xanax-induced blackout. You wanted to be in this body just a little while longer, because, in this body, it was easy to forget the realities of your actual life.

You saw a five-fingered hand emerge from the entrance to your tent, and you laughed incredulously at the clown you loved, who seemed to have a knack for improving your dour mood.

“I am here to bother you.” You got up and started making your way towards the entrance of your tent.

“Shouldn’t you be at dinner?” You say, laughing and pulling Lo’ak by the hand, so he stumbles unattractively into you.

You wrap your arms around him and hug him gently. “Skxawng.”

“I should, but I am here instead. We haven’t had movie night in so long.” He lay on your sleep mat and you hissed for him to move over. “You’re getting way too comfortable hissing at people.”

“Not people, Lo’ak, you!” You smiled saying that, knowing you were quoting Kiri, and he groaned exasperatedly.

A few more weeks passed, and you felt the discrepancy between your bodies become more pronounced than it had ever been. It turns out, the incubation period of a Na’vi virus in a human is not long at all, and roughly around last week, you began displaying symptoms. You were taking every drug under the sun to try to soften them, but you had seen one too many good Na’vi people die due to this to know what was lurking underneath the comfortable cushion of drug-induced health. Despite all that, you felt on top of the world in your avatar. You were continuously improving, and, with a little bit of luck, will be completing your first kill soon - the first stepping stone to becoming Taronyu, hunter. If you do that successfully, you will be taking your Iknimaya with other Na’vi apprentices, and finally get your own Ikran. You were buzzing at the thought, and the image of you flying in the sky was enough to push any other worries out of your mind.

After that weird day that ended with Lo’ak in your tent watching Friends together and teaching him the chords to a song you both loved, things went back to normal, sort of. You couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that the Sullys were hiding something from you. They exchanged looks, and avoided certain subjects, and you were starting to be worried they guessed you were ill, and were tiptoeing around the subject so as to not upset you. That was a good theory, although it could not explain the heavy tension between Neteyam and Lo’ak that also started that night.

You saw them bicker and fight your whole life: two opposing personalities, both of whom had misunderstandings about the other. Neteyam could never understand Lo’ak, understand that, despite being the chieftain’s son and the grandson of the Tsahik and former Olo’yektan, people still looked at him like he was not quite full Na’vi. His eyebrows and five fingers made his appearance uncanny enough to always attract whispers and looks, and despite Lo’ak’s apparent devil-may-care attitude, he cared. Neteyam could also not understand anyone who wished to live freely and discover themselves, make decisions and choices that would lead to a happy, fulfilled life, rather than a proud and accomplished one. Finally, Neteyam did not understand that skill and tenacity doesn’t come easy to everybody, and the weight of living in his shadow was bearing heavily on his baby brother’s back.

On the other hand, Lo’ak never tried to understand the burden Neteyam had to carry, because, in his desire to not appear weak, he took it in strides and never complained. Lo’ak never fully understood the downfalls of what being “the perfect son” brings: no freedom, no childhood, no time, no fun, no choice. He only ever focused on the positives: praise from his family and clan, skill and composure, the title of future Leader of the Omatikaya. He will also never be able to understand the depths of Neteyam’s love for him, who, despite all their differences, would be willing to sacrifice everything, even his own life, to make sure his baby brother would never having to experience these burdens.

This tension felt like more. More than you’ve ever seen, not mended in time, they were always glowering at each other and only speaking to each other if prompted or forced by their increasingly frustrated family. You tried to talk to both of them individually and ask, but you were promptly sent on your way each time. You could tell Lo’ak was itching to spit it out, but every time he got close, he flashed you a look of hurt and fear, and moved on.

Eventually, you stopped worrying about it. It will come out in time, and you had better things to worry about. Your training became brutal after that day tracking Sturmbeests. Neteyam would come to your tent before dawn, sometimes having to wait for you while you woke up in your Avatar body, and you were always gone past eclipse. You were tracking, joining hunting parties to learn, working on shooting arrows while on Pa’li or in nearly impossible positions (he made you shoot targets hanging upside down from the branches of trees, seriously) and working on guns and practicing with Jake and his soldiers. Jake made you his second-in-command during these sessions, and you enjoyed having the roles reversed and having to watch Neteyam squirm every time you touched his arm, or waist, or thighs, in order to adjust his shooting form. You also taught Lo’ak, sometimes late in the nights, where he would sneak into your tent and ask you questions about guns that he hoped would bring him in his father’s good graces for once in his life. You loved teaching them, and you felt powerful with all the eyes on you, trying to absorb every piece of information coming out of your mouth.

“In your hands, you are holding a sub machine-gun.” You said and you made your way through the 10 soldiers in your midst. “It can fire up 600 rounds per minute. You have a button on the side of the weapon, as you can see right there”, you stopped and show everyone on your own weapon, “that allows you to choose between semi automatic and fully automatic. What’s the difference, Lo’ak?”

“A semi-automatic guns fires one shot when you pull the trigger, a fully automatic gun fires continuously until you release the trigger.”

“Tsantu (good guy)!” you said with an intimate smile. Lo’ak was making amazing progress, and you were proud to be even a small reason why.

Neteyam gave Lo’ak a hard look as he answered your question. He was angry with his brother because of his recent attitude, he thought. That’s the reason. Not at all because you were smiling at him with that dazzling smile that used to be reserved for him years ago, definitely not because he knew Lo’ak was sneaking in your tent at night and doing Eywa-knows-what, a fact which kept Neteyam up nights with images he would do everything in his power to be able to erase from his brain. Neteyam was exhausted. He hasn’t slept since this thing started, not until Lo’ak returned to his tent after his meetings with you, and he was able to look at him in the dim light of the night and gauge for himself if his brother was flushed, or panting, or extra happy for one reason or another. Despite never seeing anything that he could deem suspicious, the images of his baby brother taking for himself what was his, what should be his, haunted him and made him sick to his stomach.

Coward. Lo’ak words rang in his ears incessantly throughout each day, never being able to fully block them out.

Neteyam saw you move from Lo’ak and towards him, and tried to remember what they were talking about. Sub-machine guns, right.

“Now, SMGs are best used in tighter quarters or close to mid-range. The spread will make it inefficient for long-range. If you find yourself on the back of your Ikran shooting at a plane or Valkyrie, make sure you close the gap between you or use your bow, instead.”

“An SMG will have a lot of recoil, making it harder to shoot accurately, but there are a few tips you can use to make to improve your aim and accuracy.”

“First. Always fire in short bursts, if you are firing on automatic mode. A few shots at a time will make sure the kick is not unmanageable. Two, account for the kick and adjust your aim to compensate. Think of shooting an arrow and how you always take the wind, its direction, speed and power in consideration before you actually release. It’s a similar principle. The recoil will make the gun kick upwards, so always aim slightly lower than what you want to hit. Three, don’t aim for the head. Leave that for a bow or an assault/sniper rifle with a scope. Aim for the abdomen and chest, since that is a wider target and more likely to hit. Everyone on the same page?”

Neteyam was forever in awe of you, but it was particularly impressive watching you now. You were confident and powerful and knowledgeable. Neteyam felt bad admitting it, but you were a much better teacher than their dad ever was. Toruk Makto had many incredible qualities, but his patience was definitely not amongst them, and his lessons tend to get a bit derailed by his inability to understand that Na’vi are not predisposed to guns or understanding Sky People technology. You were calm, and kind, and funny, and you made it easy for everyone to follow your instructions. In the span on a few weeks, all of the Na’vi and Avatar soldiers training for the upcoming war became better at pretty much every aspect that they were training in, and I think everyone felt just a bit more comfortable about the conflict that was soon to befall them, with you by their side.

After the lesson was complete, you left alongside Lo’ak, sparing one last look in Neteyam’s direction. He was already watching you, and you saw a fleeting angry look that was quickly replaced with an expressionless mask. He was getting good at that, you thought.

“Do you want to do anything? If I have to listen to Kiri talk about all the new types of flowers and plants and shit she keeps finding in the woods, I will lose my mind.”

“Be nice.”

Kiri has been particularly hyperfixated on her newfound discoveries recently, and you tried your best to pay attention to every time she was describing them, in detail, but in reality you were always so exhausted by the time dinner came around that you were only assimilating about a tenth of all the words coming out of her mouth. You felt bad, and made a mental note to dedicate a couple of days to your friend that you saw less and less each week.

“Your Iknimaya is getting closer and closer each day, how do you feel?”

“Honestly I haven’t thought about it that much, just taking it one day at a time.”

“I think you should start thinking about it, cause it’s going to happen. You’ve managed to blow everyone’s expectations out of the water. It barely been two months since you got your avatar body, not even my dad did this so fast. You were made for this, Angel.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You were grateful for Lo’ak’s faith in you, but with everything happening in your human body, it felt pointless looking towards the future.

“You will be one of us, soon. I’ve had dreams about this my whole life, you know? It’s like I manifested your Avatar, Norm should be thanking me.”

“Lo’ak…”

You didn’t like the turn this conversation took, and felt an uncomfortable twinge settle in your chest at his words.

��There are perks that come with being an Omatikaya, you know? You can make your bow out of the wood of the Home Tree… and you can choose a mate.”

Fuck.

Neteyam was making his way back to the village with the rest of the soldiers, casually chatting to one of the Avatars returning with them. He wasn’t paying attention to the way until his body knocked into one of the Na’vi walking in front of him. Utsou was staring intently at a scene unfolding in front of him, a scene that turned Neteyam’s blood to shards of glass, leaving cuts and bruises along his entire body. It was you, smiling, running your hand up and down Lo’ak’s arm whilst his hand was cupping your face and caressing your cheek. It was such an intimate interaction, it felt wrong to everyone there to even be able to witness it, and Neteyam felt himself becoming nauseous. With the image now seared into his memory and rage turning his breaths to pants, he turned around and left everything - everyone - behind.

Tag list: @nuhteyam @eywas-heir @fanboyluvr @mashiromochi @puffb4ll @sassy-persona @simp4ff @mommyneytiri @hayhay9091

502 notes · View notes

piarelei · 5 years ago

Note

Prompt - Steve finds out that Billy had a secret abusive older boyfriend in California who wasn’t very kind to him during sex.

TW : Abuse mentions and after-effect of abuse (nothing explicit), homophobic slur.

Bawling Games

It’s a nest of dread building up at the back of his throat. A plea given to the darkest hour of the night. A wariness in a sea of blue. A forcefulness against the bounce of the mattress.

A flinch when Steve reaches for the salt.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, and he doesn’t want to be already aware of it, but he still is; the answer is no.

And Billy, strong, savage, vengeful Billy, simply answers “Yes”.

It sounds horribly wrong. It sounds like the rumble of an avalanche in summer. Shy. Impossible.

“You sure?”

And Billy shrugs, takes a step back, wipes his hands off tomato juice on his jeans.

“I should go. Neil will lose his shit if I don’t come home in time to eat Susan’s shit.”

And he goes. And Steve lets him. He doesn’t want to, but he feels helpless, fingertips already going through empty air, unreachable shoulders. He stays there, silent and coiled in an aborted movement and tries to quiet everything.

It works. For a little while.

But then Steve playfully shoves Billy on the sofa and Billy goes, wide-eyed and uncharacteristically pliant. Tenses for a second. Tries to make it look as if nothing is wrong.

He shrugs the unease with a roll of his shoulder, smothers Steve’s burgeoning question with a kiss and pulls him down by his belt. And Steve is unable to fight him. He goes. He kisses. He touches. He unbuttons. He is about to caress, hand on the warm skin of Billy’s ribs when,

“You can go harder if you want to. I like it.”

His voice his firm, controlled; Steve hears the panic of it all the same, the fright sewn at the seams.

Steve freezes. The dread that was just a build-up against his pharynx explodes forward, and he pushes himself up, and then down, swallows against the rush of horror.

And Billy, awfully, awfully, continues.

“You can hit me if you want to. I can take it. I know that it must be getting boring right now.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say; he just stares. And stares. And stares. And Billy blushes red, and leaves. And leaves. And leaves.

He comes back, eventually. Steve finds him in front of his TV, legs sprawled and mouth full of pizza.

“You’re trespassing,” he says.

“Big word,” answers Billy and Steve drops his keys and bag on the floor, curls against his side and buries his nose in the crook of his neck.

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about it and Steve vibrates with curiosity and fear, finds his hands ten times more careful when they outline the shape of Billy.

And Billy gets more pinched by the day. He grunts and nods and snaps and storms off when Steve asks him if he’s alright.

One day, they kiss and something is wrong. Something is wrong because Billy is a rigid frame above Steve, unyielding and creaking at the joints. He rises and falls, hands like butterflies, not ever stopping to settle somewhere. He tugs Steve hand’s to his throat.

“You can stop holding back on me. I’m good. I can take everything you give me.”

Steve feels tears blur his sight with the suddenness of a lunar eclipse. Billy freezes above him, seemingly stunned into silence.

And Steve, clumsy as he never felt, tries to tug at the knot in his throat, tries to unravel the words that are tangled there.

“Why do you want me to hurt you? Is that what you really want?”

Billy takes a hitching breath. Shrugs.

“Never mind, then.”

He tries to get off Steve’s lap; they flail when Steve tugs him back. They end up side by side on the bed.

Steve looks at the ceiling and tries not to cry.

“Doesn’t it get boring?” asks Billy.

Steve tries to look at him; he only partially succeeds, feels water run to his temple.

“What?” and it’s very soft, spoken between them with a careful mouth, like everything would shatter if he were too loud.

Billy thumps him on the shoulder, makes a try at a smile. He ends up with an awful grimace plastered to his face. He deflates and turns toward Steve, eyes bright with what Steve doesn’t want to think is fear.

“The sex,” and it’s almost a question.

“Not for me,” Steve answers and then flounders with a rush of thoughts, “is it for you? Is that why? Do... Do you like it?”

Billy is all pinched around the mouth, stays silent for a long while.

“But don’t you want to?”

Steve gapes at him.

“No!” Billy flinches back and Steve tries to exhale slowly, almost silently. “No, I don’t want to hit you. I... Like our... It’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They share a beat of silence.

“Do you? Is that a thing that you like?” And something twist deep in his gut when he says it, when there is something wild and untamed that flashes through Billy’s eyes.

Billy opens his mouth to speak, seems to lose his words as he considers it, clams up slowly, visibly. He sits up.

“No, I’m good.” And his voice is a chill going down Steve’s back.

Very carefully, he reaches out, touches his shoulder with prudent fingertips.

“Are you? Really?”

Billy stays immobile, still as a rock, cold as a mountain and Steve follows him, presses his lips on the tan of his arm. It makes Billy deflates like a hot air ballon upon landing.

He sighs, a full-bodied exhalation, taps a cigarette out of his pack. Steve stands up and goes to crack the window open, lets the buzz of summer invade the room. When he turns back, Billy is seated against the headboard, jeans still unbuckled and tank top ruffled, an unlit cigarette hanging at his lips. He doesn’t reach for his firelighter and Steve goes to him, sits at his feet.

Billy looks at Steve for half a second before turning to the ceiling, melting against the pillows.

“There was this dude, in Cali.”

He shrugs.

“We hooked up a few times. It was good. Convenient, I guess.”

Billy stops for a moment and Steve finds his ankle and squeezes it in encouragement.

“It got regular you know. He was ok. Fun sometimes. We surfed together.”

Billy frowns, looks down at his hands in his lap.

“At one point, he just got bored I guess. He would give me a slap sometimes. He liked to choke me or something. Spit on my face. It kept things from being... You know, boring or some shit.”

Steve feels words stick to his palate, unable to spit them out.

“So, you know, we’ve been doing this... thing, for a while know.” He shrugs once more. “Thought you would like to change things a little. Keep things interesting.”

“Oh god,” Steve says and there is horror building up in his eyes. “Oh god. You thought I wouldn’t want you if I you weren’t my punching ball.”

Billy shrugs, pulls his cigarette out of his mouth.

“You ain’t no fag, Harrington. I saw what you like. I ain’t cute like Wheeler.”

“Oh God,” and Steve shrugs his prudence like a heavy drape and clambers over Billy’s legs, ends up over his lap, fingers digging in his shoulders. “You ain’t cute for sure, but I like you, Billy. I don’t give a shit about Nancy, but I give at least two shits for you. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Billy meets his eyes and there is a shine of terror in them. Steve leans forward and tries to kiss it away; presses his tongue against insecurities, tries to have them melt like buter in the sun.

Steve doesn’t quite know if he’s successful. But when he pulls back, there is a lightness to Billy’s frame, a softness to the purse of his mouth.

Nothing is settled. But they’re okay.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

My ask box is still open for prompts if you have some for me.

#harringrove #stranger things #stranger things 3 #stranger things 4 #billy hargrove #steve harrington #my writing #answered prompts #prompts

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vulpesmellifera · 5 years ago

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Fic Offerings of 2019

Ahhhh!!! I can’t believe the end of 2019 is here!

My goal at the beginning of 2019? Post six short stories and start posting one long fic. Instead, I posted 15 stories of varying length, and wrote the long fic, (two long fics, in fact), but it needs some attention I wasn’t really willing to give it in 2019.

And I’m okay with that.

I expected to write Mystrade, and I ended up writing that plus Sherstrade, Johnlock, and Hannigram.

Mystrade: The Longer Fics

The Tenth Muse - Two parts comprise this work, with 27,605 words between them. Mycroft sees things other people can’t. Lights, spectres, shades, demons, phantasms, and creatures that no one else can see. Voices no one else can hear. Colours eddying around people’s bodies, visible only to his eyes. It isn't deduction for Mycroft; it's a living nightmare that leads to self-imposed isolation. When Sherlock "dies," Mycroft finds himself reaching out for a golden slice of happiness, just one person to call his own in a landscape of horrors.

(On a lark, an absolute lark, I tell you, I wrote The Tenth Muse. In no way did I expect the reception it got, and I thank every one of you who read it, and left a kudos or a comment, from the bottom of my heart.)

Craquelure - Two parts, 44,172 words. Part 1, To Capture Light, was actually posted in December of 2018. Part 2, Shaping the Negative, was posted this year, and takes up soon after where the first part left off. Mycroft Holmes had everything in hand: a powerful position in civil service to the Crown with the ability to affect politics across the globe, an impeccable taste in modern luxuries, and an iron-clad philosophy on life and how one should live it. He didn't expect it to shatter around him in a series of events facilitated by his siblings.This is the story of his rebirth.

(The reception to this one also included personal family stories from readers, and I treasure every one of you, particularly those among us who have suffered toxic family relationships, and have found our way out or above them. Part 3, The Hue of Loss, planned for 2020!)

Mystrade: The Shorter Fics

Woes of the Pharynx - Sickfic. Fluff. Humor. 844 words. The British Government felled by a cold. Oh, who could possibly take care of him?

The Petal Painter - Part of the #MystradeStoryTime series. Each part stands alone. 1,897 words. Gregorios is the beloved son of the Grain Goddess, safe and treasured inside her gardens. One day, he meets an alluring stranger dressed in black.

Marry Me - Part of the #MystradeStoryTime series. Each part stands alone. 1,684 words. Mycroft doesn't care for marriage; it's a vestigial organ on a modern society. Greg cares about marriage. Yet, he's never brought it up with Mycroft. That begins to chafe at the civil servant.

Sun-Bleached - Part of The Songs of Solomon series. Each part stands alone. 2,154 words. Sherlock would find curious things: the dried exoskeletons of crustaceans, hollowed out shells of mollusks, and one time, the sun-bleached bones of a little bird that usually nested along rivers. Alcedo atthis, the common kingfisher. That image never quite left my mind. Sherlock’s face like a bright beacon on an overcast day, the skeletonized remains of a bird that waved with his movements, held between two fingers. This is how I want Greg Lestrade: pinched between two fingers, a flag in the breeze, unshielded from the elements of me.

With Appetite - Part 2 of Imperfections Can Be Loved. Can stand alone. 2,937 words. Sometimes when he thinks of that fat little boy, he is reminded of the monster Charybdis. She was a fleshy thing with a gargantuan maw who was chained to the rocks on one side of a strait. She waited for passing ships, sucking down her prey in a voracious whirlpool before her neighbour Scylla snatched up too many of the sailors. He doesn’t have to wonder what it is, to be a despised thing that aches with appetite. Mycroft Holmes is a proud man, particularly when it comes to his work and his massive intellect. But for his new fiance, he thinks he can do better in terms of appearances.

Night of the Grey Mare - Christmas Fic with a touch of horror. 8,606 words. Every Christmas Eve, Mycroft visits the Watson-Holmes family to deliver a story to his precious niece, and share in a little of the mulled wine. This year, Rosie wants to hear something scary. Mycroft tells her a frightening tale of The Christmas Witch, and then takes his leave before Sherlock and John can enact their usual routine to make him feel unwelcome.The way home is fraught with unforeseen events and Mycroft soon finds himself in his own frightening tale of horror. Or does he?

Pillow Fights - Humorous ficlet. 821 words. Mycroft returns home early from a business trip to surprise Greg. Greg isn't the only one who gets surprised.

Pillow Fights, Redux - A different take, still a humorous ficlet. 952 words. Greg gets back early from a conference, to find Mycroft pining in a way he would never have thought.

Sherstrade

[Deleted] - 10,400 words. Greg Lestrade and John Watson awake to find themselves locked in an unfinished basement. While they are well acquainted with one another, the two men aren't friends. But, the darkness has ways of bringing people closer together. Meanwhile, Sherlock and Sally must work together to solve the case of a missing John Watson.They're running out of time.

Johnlock

Haunted - Horror Fic. 22,369 words. Plagued by the past, John moves himself and his daughter to a new flat for a fresh start - and it's not 221B Baker Street. While he grapples with new knowledge and old guilt, he's confronted with odd neighbors and strange noises in the night. But is it the new flat, or is John Watson losing his grip on reality?

The Stars Upon Your Back - Part 1 of Imperfections Can Be Loved. 1,735 words. Sherlock prefers shadows to sunlight, his coat collar popped and his scarf wrapped about his neck like a hug. He wears bespoke because he’s trim, but he prefers to feel covered, and wears the dressing gown more often than not. The first time John Watson kisses him, he’s stricken. Sherlock Holmes is painfully aware of his ugly parts and his failures when it comes to John Watson.

Hannigram

Leftovers - Post-Canon Domestic Fluff. Basically, this is my headcanon for what Hannibal does with his leftovers. 1,311 words. Will discovers that Hannibal has a soft spot for one other kind of creature in his life.

Aaaaannnnddd that’s all she wrote, folks! (Well, not all...but everything that got posted!) A Happy New Year to everyone! <3

Cheers,

Vulpes

#end of year #fic roundup #vulpesmellifera #johnlock #mystrade #hannigram #sherstrade #2019

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inkstaineddaughter · 5 years ago

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Soft Drop Chapter 9: Mornings and In Betweens

Charlie/Reader

Light fluff, SMUUUT!

3k words

It’s been an uncomfortable night. A sleepless, hotel room night. Your shoulder is stiff and the light that shines around the shades and through your eyelids is even a different color than what you’re used to at home. Charlie is curled up behind you, the big spoon, pressed head-to-foot against you. His arm is draped over your middle and you can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes. In the wide bed and the unfamiliar morning sunlight, you allow yourself think how incredibly right everything seems. As you shift under the weight of his arm and Charlie snuffles behind you, you also feel the hardness that presses into your back. “Charlie?” you whisper, pushing against him the slightest bit. “Is that your penis?”

“Sorry,” he groans as he pulls his arm from around you. “Happens in the mornings sometimes. Here, I’ll turn over.” He starts to move and the idea of losing that closeness makes your heart jump into your throat. “No, don’t go!” You reach behind you; fingers gripping the fabric of his pajama pants and hold him in place. This all has to come to an end at some point, but there has to be time still for more.

“Actually, wait,” you say as you make up your mind. “Roll over onto your back.” Charlie snakes his arm back around you and rolls you over with him and it feels warm and soft, cuddled up to him like this. Too warm. He sighs as you run your hand over his chest. Your thumb snagging in the t-shirt’s wrinkles as you pass your palm over his nipples. Which harden satisfyingly under your touch.

You both silently watch your hand’s progress down his chest and stomach, pausing occasionally to pull up on his shirt or push down on the blankets. “Are you serious?” Charlie breathes as your hand slips under the waistband of his pants. “What?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around him. Goddammit! Goddammit, he feels good! “Doesn’t every guy want to get his dick sucked as he watches the sun come up?”

“Oh, fuck.” Charlie squeezes his eyes shut as his head falls onto the pillow. But he peeks back up as you begin to move your hand from the base of his cock slowly up to the head. “Hey, (Y/N)?” he stammers. “I know I keep asking you these awkward questions, but are you usually this…. insatiable?”

“Honestly, no,” you answer, looking into his eyes but keeping a hand on his cock. And you think back over past partners and relationships. “But Charlie, I’ve never wanted anyone like this!” It feels a little scary, saying it out loud and makes you feel stupidly vulnerable. Is it going to make him jump through the window and take off running as soon as he hits the pavement? You’re not sure if anything would surprise you at this point. But Charlie gives you a look that’s more sympathy than panic. “I get it,” he says, nodding. “Like, there’s just no way to get enough of the other person. And it feels like there never will be. Addicting.”

Of course, he gets it. You smile fondly at him before turning your attention back to the task at hand and working his pants down over his hips. You don’t even bother trying to stifle your moan as you free his cock. And again, you marvel at just how attractive it is! Long and thick but not to the point of being grotesque. Flushed red and curving up toward his belly button, with a nice roadmap of veins and one perfect pearl of precum gleaming at the tip.

“Oh, I love this thing!” you sigh as you give it a few quick strokes. You want so badly to worship him! Take your time and spoil his beautiful dick with feathery kisses and long slow licks until he’s squirming and sobbing underneath you. He deserves all that.

But you have needs too. And right now, you need to feel that thing halfway down to your stomach. You cast Charlie one last apologetic look, before you open wide and sink your mouth down over him, taking him in as far as he will go. All the way down in one steady motion until you can feel your throat as it squeezes around his cock and your nose as it presses into his pubic bone. Oh, that’s so much better, having him in your mouth like this. “Oh, fuck, (Y/N),” he growls as he pushes his fingers through your hair. “Fuck, why wasn’t this dick in your mouth 10 years ago?”

“Who cares?” you snap as you pull off him. “Just shove it back in there and stop dwelling on the past!” Well, you’re quite the little whore this morning, aren’t you, with your dirty talk? But Charlie is smart enough to follow orders and, keeping one hand on the back of your head, he grips the base of his cock with the other and guides it back into you and where it belongs. Good God, why weren’t the two of you doing this 10 years ago?! You could have been sucking him off in the booth instead of taking a nap up there. You could have been swallowing his cum in one the bathrooms in Bobst every day.

It's still early, but you could conceivably do this all morning. Last night, you marveled over how perfectly he fit in your pussy, but this is almost better. And it wasn’t that long ago that he was in your pussy, making you spasm around him as he filled you to overflowing with his cum. He fits just as well in the morning, slides all the way in just as easily. And you know already that you don’t ever want this to stop.

You imagine that you can still taste yourself on him, your own juices mixed with his sweat, mingling with the musky scent of pubic hair. The way it smells and how the curls tickle the tip of your nose as you bob your head up and down his length. Then all the way down. Then not quite all the way up, sucking gently on the head of Charlie’s cock, the tip of your tongue pressed into the frenulum.

When you pull off to give your jaw a brief rest, you continue to jerk him wetly. Watching the red and swollen head of his cock emerge and disappear back into your fist with a delicious plek, plek, pleck sound is mesmerizing. And when Charlie runs his fingers over your forehead and groans, “God, you’re good at this!” he sighs. “And so fucking pretty! Look at you!” You’re not exactly in the habit of watching yourself go down on guys and had never really given much thought to whether or not you look porn-star perfect. You’re more of a task-oriented girl. But when Charlie tells you that you’re pretty, with your rumpled, too-big shirt, swollen lips and 1 hour of sleep eye bags, you know he’s telling the truth. You are fucking gorgeous! And you smile and you adore him and his hand is shaking as he touches you.

You dive back down onto him, spearing his cock down your throat. And the way he says your name would have made you smile even harder if your mouth wasn’t so full of him. Charlie grunts as he involuntarily thrusts his hips up into you, then chokes out a “Shit! I’m sorry.” You look up and lock eyes with him, raising your eyebrows and granting him permission. The feeling of him rolling his hips against your face to get just a little bit deeper, to find just a little more friction, it’s obscene! Your entire pussy is throbbing and your clit feels like it’s on fire. It’s obscene, but it’s divine, almost holy and so, so right!

It takes a minute until you’ve found the perfect rhythm, moving together and meeting each other in the middle. Up and down and in and out, twisting your hand at the base of his cock, squeezing your throat around him as he dips down into your pharynx. You keep him like that for a few moments, pushed in a far as he’ll go. With your mouth stretched wide around him, you imagine that you can feel him all the way down into your belly. Just like you could almost feel him all the way up there when he’d fucked you so hard last night. In addition to so many other attributes, Charlie Barber has an incredible dick!

“S-sweetheart?” he croaks. “God! Honey? I’m about to… oh, fuck, fuck!” You feel his gigantic hands clutching at your shoulders, giving you a warning, a chance to avoid the inevitable. Bless you Charlie, but you’re a ride-or-die cocksucker. You slide up his length, keeping the head held loosely between your lips, your tongue flicking in and out of his slit. And you scowl. Charlie’s sits propped up on one elbow. His eyes are wide and shiny, his mouth hanging open. You take in his pink cheeks and wild hair. And shake your head quickly. “Oh, please!” It sounds like a prayer as you sink your mouth down onto him, taking him easily back down into your throat. Above you, you hear the sound of him collapsing back onto the bed. And you hum as the motion briefly pushes him deeper.

You’re almost ready to abandon his pleasure at this point and focus solely on your own. And if you end up coming before him, just from this, then that’s the icing on the cake. Because this! This is the fucking cake. Surely nothing could ever feel as good as this! You slide up and down his length several more times, building speed and sucking hard until you hear his breath catch and feel his cock swell inside you. And that’s it! That’s it! You slam down onto him, taking him down as far as he’ll go. Your lips are pressed flush against him as you swallowswallowswallow! You reach down and squeeze his balls, urging him to empty them into your belly. Breathing hard through your nose. My God, are you really doing this? Are you actually sucking Charlie’s dick?! You are and it’s so fucking HOT! A few more minutes of this and you would have come yourself!

“Holy fuck!” Charlie pants as you pull off him and sit up. You should be flattered at his reaction, but the truth is you’re so turned on now, you could cry. “You swallow!” he sounds completely disbelieving and almost… grateful? What the hell did Nicole do, then? Leave the room so he could finish himself? Or just never give him head at all?

“It’s just courtesy,” you whimper, shifting your hips against the bed, seeking out some kind of friction. “If I care enough about a guy to have his cock in my mouth,” you bite your lip and inhale sharply through your nose. Did you have to say that? “Then I care enough to swallow his cum!” You last word ends on a plaintive whine and Charlie peers down at you, looking concerned. He must notice the growing wet spot between your legs. Then his eyes widen and he gasps in realization. “Shit, I’m sorry, honey! Here, come here.” He helps you lie down and moves between your legs.

You’re practically clawing at him as he yanks over the soaked crotch of your too-big shorts and you hear him gasp. Your cunt is swollen and pulsing and you’re honest-to-God flowing for him! You only need to say one word, “Charlie.” And he’s scooping up your slick and applying the prefect amount (God, how is it perfect?) of pressure to your clit.

Your orgasm slams into you suddenly with the force of an atom bomb. Unable to make any sound or even breathe, you lift your hips off the bed and twist your fingers into the sheet beneath you. “Oh, shit!” Charlie’s voice stutters and cracks and his thumb keeps circling your clit and it all feels endless! You continue to ride out the waves as you explode over his hand, spraying his wrist with your cum and soaking the clean bedding. “Make a mess, sweetheart!” he grunts under his breath. “That’s it.”

He shoves two wet fingers into you and feels how your cunt contracts around him like your throat had just done. “Fuck yeah!” Charlie groans. You feel him press into your g-spot as you’re coming and coming, grinding and fucking yourself on his fingers. “Keep squeezing that pussy on my fingers, Baby,” Charlie urges. “God, you’re so fucking tight!”

“Fuuuuck!” you wail as the pleasure begins to ebb. Charlie rubs one hand soothingly over your stomach as you sink back down, still shaking, onto the mattress.

You press your fist against your mouth to keep from making any less coherent or more obscene sounds. As you catch your breath (Christ, you’ve never fucking come like that!), Charlie continues staring at you, at your stretched-out shorts and dripping thighs. And a small hysterical laugh rises in your throat.

“Oh my God, Baby!” Charlie whines as he looks down at you. “Fuck! Jesus Christ.”

“Are you having a stroke?” you giggle. “Speaking in tongues?”

“Yeah, tongues,” Charlie, answers, his hand still on you. “I have never…” he shakes his head. “Not like that!”

If you look at the ceiling and not his face, you won’t start crying. “Yeah, I know,” you whisper. And not with anyone. Not the high school infatuation, not the smattering of long-term relationships or the what-the-fuck fucks in between. Even your favorite vibrator has never made you feel this good. Or this loved. Or this guilty. God, not even Mariah Carey felt emotions like this!

Charlie rubs his hand on his forehead and you wonder if he remembers your cum that’s all over his fingers. “Do you want to take another shower?” he asks abruptly. “With me this time?” And that actually sounds really, really lovely and you realize that you’re cold and sticky. “Yeah,” you nod. “I’m starting to feel less sexy and more just gross.” Ever the gentleman, Charlie helps you up from the bed. “You could never be less sexy.” He shakes his head. “I’ll get your clean clothes,” he promises. ��Meet me in there?”

It’s a standard bathtub sized shower. Roomy enough for two people to fit as long as they don’t attempt any sexy shenanigans. Or any kind of advanced bathing. But you don’t seem interested in either. Just a quick rinse of the bodily fluids, and there’s nothing left but the warmth of the water and the nearness of each other. You play a game of connect the dots with the moles and freckles on Charlie’s chest, but can’t picture what sort of constellation they form. He tilts your head back with his enormous hands, letting the water flow over your hair while he kisses your neck. Your nipples are hard, pebbled up tight as they brush against him. Water drips from the tip of Charlie’s semi hard cock as his thumbs trace the veins inside your elbows. Your toes bump against his and you breathe the same steamy air. He rests his chin on the top of your head.

After you’re dressed in clean clothes with brushed hair and another load of laundry is going, Charlie has one more offer. “Breakfast?” You shrug. It’s a respectable breakfast hour by now and the café on the next block has pancakes that are truly worth dying for. You walk together, but not together. No handholding or deep, loving looks, lest some morning commuter sees you and broadcasts it over the airwaves, dropping script pages with a Mid-Atlantic accent. You don’t even walk arm-in-arm, dodging tourists and taxis like you used to. Nothing is different outside of the living room or the wide bed. An early breakfast with an old friend.

The only difference is the small dark stone of guilt that had begun forming inside you is already starting to crack, letting narrow shafts of light in. And underneath all the howling shame and fear is a steady beat, a certainty you’ve never known before. And when Charlie taps your arm at the intersection, breaking your reverie and pointing to the light. You step off the edge with him toward the same destination. Green light, go.

#Writing #Ew my fic #Soft Drop #Charlie/Reader #Charlie/OC #Flashback for sexytimes

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fandom-wars-imagine-blog · 6 years ago

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How it would be if after confessing their feelings and being rejected by Black Hat or White Hat, S/O starts suffering Hanahaki disease and no matter what it’s only becoming worse and worse?

(Oh man, first angsty ask for me.

Wish me luck.

I hope you like it ^^’

In my version of the disease, when the person does the surgery to remove the flowers, they feel nothing at all after it. They will not lose their memory about their loved one, but they will not feel love for them or for another person ever again, in fact, they’ll feel nothing, no joy, no sadness, no anger, nothing.)

Black Hat:

You were already expecting your love for Black Hat to be one-sided. Even when you told him, he scolded you for feeling such gross and useless thing. You can’t defeat heroes or sell massive amounts of gadgets for villains with such feeling called “love”. Of course you would be rejected, foolish human. Go feel that freaky way with someone else, or better, don’t feel it at all.

After all, you are simply his employee, a person that is Flug’s assistant, you are in a lower level than Flug - not that is hard to be, but - and Black Hat is a powerful eldritch maybe as older as the universe itself, a demanding being how cannot feel love or any compassion at all. What were your heart and soul thinking?

You are not sad, you are not dying and crying your eyes out because the person you still have a crush on rejected you, you just feel….strange. You can’t forget him, he keeps that place in your mind that still somehow having hope occupied. But at the same time, you have the notion that no means no and your boss will never like you the same way you do, so you just have to…forget about it, this is just momentary winds.

Well, at least you thought you were not dying for it…

Some days later, you started to feel a nuisance in your lungs and heart, nothing to be worried about, just a little annoyed, so you just convinced yourself that it would stop…until you cough up a withered peony’s petal. Black Hat’s favorite flower, for what you could tell until now.

Yes, a petal, a petal just came out of your body.

At first you thought it was “normal”, Dementia does every type of shit you can think about, she could have just made you eat a dead flower in your sleep, however, more petals made their way out of your body through a cough attack. They are way more than just from one flower! Your lungs feel tired and the nuisance increases to real pain, something to be concerned about.

What the fuck is happening??

After this episode, you surfed on the internet to try to find what could be the reason behind this mysterious flower petals coming out through your throat and found something very interesting but very dangerous for what you read: Hanahaki disease.

It can be caught when someone loves another, it starts small with little nuisances in your lungs and small petals coming out your body through your mouth. Then the petals start growing into full bloomed flowers, occupying the space in your lungs for air and being coughed entirely with your blood. In the end, the flowers start being too many, developing into full bouquets and it only stops when the victims die suffocating in their own blood and internal mortal garden. It can only be cured if the person the victim loves love them too in the same strong passion.

…Oh man, you are so fucked, aren’t you?

There’s another way to stop this ill madness, doing the surgery, but that would make you completely empty, not feeling any type of emotion whatsoever, for him or for any other person. You would be just a human shell and you’re planning to die from your own unrequited love than leaving emotionless for the rest of your life.

But seems that destiny has other plans…

One day, you were working with Flug, planning and drawing some blueprints, when a cough attack made its way to your throat. Your head was rounded by “Oh no, not now” and you spun on your chair to not mess up the papers. Sooner than later, two whole dead peonies escaped your mouth together with drops of blood that came after. You made hold of your lungs, trying to control your inner torture with no avail, and all of the sudden, you remembered.

Flug stills in the lab.

You looked at him, taking the impressive note that even with that bag in his head, you could understand how shocked he was. Your lungs ached and you felt that every plump of your blood was like a spine right in your heart, but that didn’t stop your body from expelling another flower. This time, Flug came to help you, holding your hair and back. Another dead flower was on the floor and you finally stopped, leaning against the back of the chair.

You breathed heavily, the foul taste of blood and rotten flowers stayed on your mouth, you didn’t deserve this…

Flug sat next to you, he was clearly disturbed by what he saw. His leg didn’t stop moving and his fingers moved frenetically against each other.

“That’s Hanahaki disease, right?”

“…It is.”

For such a curious and researcher person like Flug, he didn’t demonstrate any fascination or enthusiasm for what he saw in front of him. Instead, he looked unsettled, worried even. And now that you think about, for a person that knows what’s this disease is about, you would be perturbed if you saw someone coughing flowers too.

He asked if you already told the person you love about your feelings. Just to think about Black Hat made your heart tighten, like his clawed hands clasping at your organ and squeeze it until all the blood is out of your ventricles. Another fit of coughing arises, but nothing came out this time, just the faint taste of metal in your mouth. You hoarse voice and hot breaths didn’t help at all this situation.

“Yes, but he doesn’t like me the same way. It was expected of our boss anyway.”

You laughed sadly at Flug who didn’t make a single noise, just looked at you emotionless. Why are you laughing? Don’t you understand that you are dying?? Why didn’t you told him sooner?! What if one day is too late and he finds your lifeless body on the floor surrounded by bloody flowers?? Do you want to die so pathetically for Black Hat when he wouldn’t do the same for you? Do you want to die at all?

Flug stood up and exited the lab, leaving you alone with the deadly butterflies in your stomach.

On the next day, you already woke up with the gentle screams of anger from your boss at your room’s door. “GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED AND COME TO MY OFFICE NOW” yelled him.

Ish, this is going to be a good day.

You got your “ass out of bed” like he demanded and dressed up, going to his office right away. When you arrived, he seemed calmer, at least enough to not make your ears ring every time he spoke. To your surprise, or not, he talked about the flowers episode that happened to you and Flug.

“The doctor told me there’s a surgery you could do to cure that “hanaki” disease and I want you to do it right away. The last thing I need right now is my employees dying.“

The office went cooler at his words, the dark shadows engulfed the light air, making it heavy and almost unbreathable. Your stomach tied itself in anguish and you could swear the stem of one of the peonies just grown 5 meters (16′ 5″ ft) and winded itself around your trachea. You tried to resonate with him, but he only scolded you for such an idiotic decision. Die for love? This world is for the strong, the ones that would double-cross their own mother to have what they want, not for the weak and fragile porcelain dolls like you. And if you want to die so badly, why do you still here?

It crossed your mind two possible options: you could have a slow and painful death by drowning in your own blood by stupid flowers if you refuse the surgery, or you could have a slow and painful death by the hands of your boss while he strangles you and breaks your pharynx with those daggers he calls claws if you run out of the office. So you did what seemed a better option right now.

Run.

But your plan was short-lived, as Flug was right behind the doors. Before you could even react, you feel a sharp pain on the side of your neck and fall limp on the wooden floor, losing conscience. Flug cleans the remains of the tranquilizer with his lab coat, putting the syringe inside of one of the pockets.

You woke up on a hospital bed, feeling no longer the ache and squeezing in your chest, in fact, you felt no flowers at all inside you anymore. It looks like the surgery went well and you don’t have Hanahaki disease anymore. However, you don’t feel relieved. You don’t feel joy. You don’t feel at all.

You knew what the surgery could bring, yet they made you do it without your consent. You could no longer be happy for playing with 5.0.5, you could no longer feel sad for hearing your father crying through the phone, you no longer feel angry with Dementia for breaking up your picture frame or even feel afraid when Black Hat threatens you to cut your head off. You will no longer be able of feeling. But you are not sad about it, actually, you are…indifferent about it.

At least…you don’t feel the painful butterflies in your stomach anymore.

Now Black Hat? Lord Black Hat is very happy with the side effect this surgery brings. Having such a cold being, even more than himself, as an employee? Can you imagine the millions of possibilities he has now with you? He can demand everything he wants from you without you expecting something in exchange. He can experiment on you, give you every kind of power his powerful brain thinks of, mold you in his very shape. He can have a real decent employee who doesn’t let him tearing his skin off in desperation for how every being in this nasty planet is extremely stupid and incompetent. Heck, he can even have you being as evil as him! A heartless villain destroying the buildings of concrete and the insignificant lives of every enemy who even dares to talk back. Oh yes, so many good, great possibilities…

Who knew that having someone falling in love with you could actually have their advantages.

White Hat:

You know Mister White Hat since you were a teenage girl wanting to be a famous hero, like the ones you see on the sticker albums! You wanted to do much to help people in distress, to save the day and in the end, have all those reporters’ cameras pointed at you while everyone in the background screams your name in full lungs! You even trained your fabulous signature!

And your homemade suit had more glitter than the backpack of a 9-year-old with an obsession in rainbow unicorns…

You parents did not fully agree with your…wanted future. Is not that they didn’t want you to follow your dream, is that…you couldn’t even save the neighbor’s cat without breaking your arm while climbing on the tree, imagine trying to save a whole crowd of people of some structure in flames. No, out of question.

You, in fact, didn’t born to be a superhero, but no one could take that crazy idea out of your head. Even when your parents tried to resonate with you and maybe convince you to think about another possible to accomplish dream, it seemed that your love for them decreased a little more, and they didn’t want that, oh no, not all. So, they saw themselves stuck in the corner with a way too ambitious child and a worried sickness that increased everytime the sun raised. Unless…

White Hat never took requests to try to convince a teenager in not taking the hero’s path, it surprised him how two parents in that city, where basically everyone would die to their child be a hero, wanted theirs to give up on their dream. In fact, White hat never took care of any human in whatever circumstance you can think about, with Slug and Clemencia the things in the mansion get even more ridiculous, so trusting a teenager in his hands was something completely new.

White Hat could have declined, saying that there was no need of convincing you otherwise of being a hero, but how could he say no? The desperate look in your parents’ faces was already enough, and more than that, your father was a soldier, a man who would give his own life to his country. White Hat would never deny a favor to him because not all heroes use capes, y'know.

However, White Hat wouldn’t try to convince you to not be a hero, but encourage and train you to follow that dream and seize it with nails and teeth. What an idiotic thing, not wanting their child to be the savior of many in this city of crime. After all, everyone can be a hero if they work hard enough! It’s not like the rule doesn’t apply to you!

Oh, how wrong he was.

My goodness, how can you be such a disgrace?? Now he understands why your parents didn’t want this for you! How can a person hurt themselves so badly just climbing on a single lamp street?? No, correction: how can a person hurt themselves so badly with anything??

There are clumsy heroes for sure, but they overcame their difficulties with lots of training. Now you? You are a lost cause! He never saw something like this! One thing is training to overcome that clumsiness, which is possible, and another thing is BEING LAZY TO TRAIN AND INSTEAD TAKE PHOTOS IN THE MIRROR!

Maybe there was the possibility of making you a hero’s assistant, as not even them can do everything at the same time in their lives when they are saving the world. But that is out of the question, one week in the lab and you almost blew it up.

He never saw Slug so angry, ish.

One day, White Hat was stressing out about what to do with you. His plan to train you to be a great hero got down the bar and he didn’t as requested by your parents convinced you giving up on that dream. What was he going to tell them? That maybe he just made that dream even stronger and now you are completely impossible to endure? Oh heavens…

But then…turning around the corner…there were you, talking with another hero, helping them with their problem. And rather well, he must say! He wouldn’t have said better than you did!

Sometimes even heroes have their problems, sometimes they need some advice about what to do in certain occasions or they are not just so sure that this is their path, so White Hat decided to give them a help, to talk with them for a while and possibly uncover a solution to every situation. They just have to call and make an appointment. But it seems you have stolen his job without his knowledge! What a puck you are!

But…maybe he has found the solution to his own problem.

Within a short time, he convinced and showed you that you could be a hero in a different manner than you rather expected, but it was surely better than going to kill yourself slowly in the streets.

Soon, you learned that heroism is not about fame and celebrities, is about helping others and give the best of you every day. What a childish teenager you were, with your head always in the clouds. Not all heroes hear capes and you find your own way to be a hero to others without all the mess. You are now a heroes’ counselor, the best job you could have asked for in your whole 25 years of life.

Your parents are so proud of you, as is mister White Hat, even if you have to ear it every day to know.

But you crush was starting to bloom stronger than ever, you couldn’t deny your feelings anymore for your own counselor and friend for the last 8 years. You heart swoll and you felt the urge to puke your own organs everytime you saw him, something was there and you knew it. Now you just had to…cross your fingers and tell him.

But things don’t go the way we want…and it seems he doesn’t feel the same for you. It hurt as hell even if he tried to be as gently as he could with the news, like he was ripping out your soul from your chest. However, you swole it up like a big adult and smiled your pain, telling him it was okay.

You feet very disappointed and sad with the whole thing, stupid that those feeling appeared to you and you fell right into their evil spell. White’s an eldritch, he can’t feel love even if he wanted. You were just…a big and naive child again.

Then it came…a Black-eyed Susan’s petal out of your mouth while coughing.

Hanahaki disease. You know about its existence, but never thought you would have it on a single moment in your entire life. But things come when you less expect, don’t they? And now, even if your life’s walls had succumbed around you, you’re going to take it like a hero’s shield and die drowning in the pain of your own love.

You don’t want anyone to see your miserable state, especially White Hat, so you lie and tell that you need a little vacation from your hard work, that even who helps others with their problems need to solve their own too. Everyone agrees and respects your decision because who wouldn’t need a vacation every once in a while?

In that way, begins your isolation from the world, waiting for your sweet death come and lull you to sleep rather harshly. Most of your days you spend in your bed, looking at the ceiling while dreaming wake about the beautiful family you could have created.

The illness gets worse day by day, you feel like ripping your lungs out and your throat is very hoarse, like someone is scratching it mercilessly. Soon enough you are expelling full Black-eyed Susans through your own mouth. They come bloodied but so beautiful in their mortal ability. You don’t want those flowers to just die on your house’s floor, so you have a great idea about what to do with them.

Giving a gift expressing your eternal love and gratefulness, you clean the flowers and give a whole bouquet to White Hat. You should have seen him, how his eye shone seeing such a gift. Everyone remembers him to ask for help but no one ever offers him something with gratitude for it. So you decide to give him the best of the gifts you can give now, the flowers that will be your death, the ones that came from your aching heart for his unrequited love. He seemed so happy at seeing you, he accepted the flowers with great joy, saying that it was not necessary, but you know that the joy he will always feel is not the same joy that you feel while you are alive. But you took it, holding it tight in your memory.

Without coughing a single time, or even taking off that smile on your face, you exited the mansion, going to the mortuary that would be your home sweet home.

It was a surprise when your neighbors found you dead in your own bed. It seems that you died suffocating in your own sleep. Bloodied flowers were all over the room and a whole bouquet seemed to be doing its way out, covering your whole mouth. Possibly the cause of death.

White Hat got shocked at the news. You? Dead? But…how?? It pits him how you died in such cruel conditions. He can’t imagine dying while suffocating in his own blood.

Seems like you had some type of unknown disease that made flowers grow in your insides. How? How’s that even possible for a human?? He knows that some diseases can be really cruel but…flowers…such an ironic way to die.

You died for something called “Hanahaki disease”. It was the first time White Hat had ever heard of something so dangerous yet so outstanding, but when we heard the cures…everything became so clear.

You died because of him, because of your love not being the same love that White feels for you, a friendly, pure love. He knows that it’s not his fault that he doesn’t feel the same, he’s an eldritch after all, such feelings can’t be acquired for him, but why didn’t you take the surgery? Why did you let yourself die in his loose fictional grasp? He can’t help it, he feels that it’s his fault, that he should have known in the first place. He could have helped you or at least be there for you.

The whole city is mourning. They lost a great figure recently, a figured who help them as a friend and as a hero themselves, showing that not even the strongest people are exempt from problems. They hope that someone like you will rise again and you will be watching all your cared people from above, protecting them with your angelic wings.

White Hat took care of everything in your funeral, as he himself was the one who lost more. He lost more than a friend, a person who he saw growing as a person and that helped the others grow too, despite their difficulties and all strings holding them down. You are now happy, you are with your precious parent who will surely hold you in golden tears.

No flowers are allowed on your tombstone or in your grave. No way White Hat is going to let your death cause haunt you in your eternal, peaceful sleep.

Every six months, White goes to the cemetery visit you, putting one of his belongings near your tombstone. Who had guessed that after your death, he would finally love you too.

- mod sheep

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jdscanvas · 6 years ago

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My Little Pony- Friendship is Magic: On the Changelings and How They Relate to Shining Armor and Princess Cadence

In Season 2, we were introduced to the changelings, a race of bug-horse like creatures that can change shape and feed on love. They were led by the nefarious Queen Chrysalis.

In Season 6, we were introduced to Thorax, a kind-hearted changeling who wanted to discover friendship. After meeting Spike, he found a friend who supported him, and showed the others not all changelings were mean love thieves. By the end, he usurped Queen Chrysalis, metamorphosed, and convinced all the changelings to do the same. Now the hive is a peaceful place full of colorful horse bugs awkwardly attempting to adjust to having their own lives. I love the changelings. They’re colorful bugs, they try so hard to fit in with the other creatures of Equestria, and a number of them are some of the best characters from the recent Seasons of the show.

The three most prominent changelings are:

Thorax- the new leader of the hive after Chrysalis

Pharynx- Throax’s brother, former head of patrol and the last to change; he's now pretty much the Hive’s guardian

Ocellus- the changeling of the Young Six, a group of students from Twilight’s school; a bookworm, shy changeling (with a cool mohawk/fin and ladybug wings)

And I love all three of them.

Thorax is basically a puppy dog; sweet, gentle and endearing. He looks out for his friends, and he tries the best he can despite lack of assertiveness to be the best leader for his hive. He’s unconditionally loyal to those he cares for. Even when he got mad at Spike he couldn’t stay mad, and he never gave in to pressure to eject his brother Pharynx from the hive. And good thing he didn’t, because the other changelings realized Thorax’s faith was well placed. He was the only leader who didn’t start accusing others when the students they sent to Twlight’s school went missing and was merely concerned about the hive’s vulnerability in a war scenario. He’s a sweet boy, and he’s dedicated to keeping his hive a safe, gentle place. Not to mention he's trying just as hard as the other changelings to lead an actual life outside after being a drone for so long, but I’d say he’s adjusted the best.

Pharynx has only starred in one episode and I pray he gets more speaking roles. He’s rough, he’s gruff, he’s passive aggressive, and he’s humorous. He roughhouses, but he’s also the first one to run into the fray for his loved ones. He does it without a second of doubt, and without anyone asking him to. He was always there to stand up for his brother in there youth, despite his roughhousing attitude. I’m my opinion he’s the only changeling that never gave up the warrior method, so he never went out of practice and he’s definitely the best pick for a guardian of the whole hive. Before he metamorphosed he was very distinct from the others with purple eyes, a red fin, and a gruff attitude. Afterwards, he still has a dark color scheme, and freakin’ devil horns (what else could they be???). And he looks really cool. He’s totally behind his brother 100% and he’s there for the hive he loves so much. It was never that Pharynx didn’t understand caring for others, or that he loved to be a bully. He was just acting harsh, maybe even strict, being paranoid and close-minded about the hive’s new ways. And he was lost.

He thought he had no place with the hive anymore. Who knows? Maybe he was even afraid of Thorax giving up on him. The others didn’t seem to want him around. But the second a creature tries to attack his hive? It’s go time. He doesn't hesitate in the slightest. They all witness this and give him a hand. They realize they were wrong and that Thorax was right. They still needed a guardian, someone who would march in without a second doubt to keep the peace they worked so hard to build up. Pharynx always loved them all he just never fully embraced it or admitted it, but once he learned to do that he was a shoe in. He’s the second tallest changeling, and he has cool horns now; his new look tells us everything. He’s the Luna to Thorax’s Celestia. He was that brave warrior that the hive needed.

Ocellus is just...well a cutie. She’s shy, she’s just as awkward as the other changelings, and she’s a bookworm. She also has a handful of cool transformations. I haven’t seen a lot from her comparatively but I do have to wonder, does she ever suffer from low self-esteem? Later in Season 8 we see she still felt guilt over the Hive’s past when under Chrysalis’ hoof, so I can’t help but wonder. Furthermore, the fact that she tried to befriend a hedgehog like creature makes me wonder if she has a secret love of animals of some kind. She does seem to be modeled after Fluttershy to an extent.

Whenever I think about the changelings, I’m reminded of two of my favorite characters:

Shining Armor and Princess Cadence.

Those two have had less than stellar history with changelings....as any fan could tell you; their former queen kinda almost got them killed....and almost completely ruined their wedding, and tried to hurt their sister and her friends (yes, as most fans would tell you Cadence is definitely Twilight’s sister at this point). Armor even had deep seeded resentment for changelings before Spike showed them all it was possible for a changeling to be as good as any other creature.

Here’s a big question:

What if Chrysalis went after them, or their loved ones again? What if Chrysalis somehow kidnapped Flurry Heart, and then blackmailed Twilight into being her prisoner under threat of harming her niece? And then, to avoid any unexpected heroics, what if she threatened them with violence against the two girls if anybody other than Armor, Cadence, Thorax, and Pharynx accepted her challenge?

The two ponies that ultimately defeated her, and the two changelings who look after the reformed hive (which would consequently leave the hive vulnerable).

Cadence and especially Armor would come face to face with the reformed changelings. And even if they’re aware that the changelings were not to blame, but Chrysalis, they’d probably still find it strange that changelings were now fighting along side them to rescue their girls. It would take some getting used to, but then they’d fully see for themselves how sweet these guys are deep down, just like ponies. They wouldn’t hold anything against them, it would just be weird for them at first. Armor would probably still feel some guilt over despising them all because of Chrysalis, but then also resent Chrysalis more for mistreating her own kind; she was a horrible leader. And of course, kidnapping they're babies. That’s obviously gonna give him motivation to crush the changeling.

Maybe even the hive is attacked, and only Ocellus seems to make it out. Alternatively, maybe she’s not there at all and hears the news, thus driven to aid the fight against their former queen. Even under the threat of harm coming to the leader of her school and said leader’s niece, she can’t just stand on the sidelines. She could still be afraid of Chrysalis, but does her best to confront that fear. She’d figure out someway to help...and yes of course her friends would back her up. Same goes for Armor and Cadence receiving support from Twilight’s friends.

I can’t help but think ponies becoming Alicorns is very similar to when changelings metamorphose....it’s like they fully embrace a part of themselves, and in a way...become their true selves.

I had mentioned before how I think it would be very likely for Shining Amor to feel insecure over being the only royal who’s not an alicorn. Maybe it’s because he’s only seen as a figure head, or maybe it’s because he’s afraid of getting left behind because of what he can’t share with his family....or maybe he doesn’t feel like he’s where he should be in life because of how often he’s failed lately.

I think Pharynx would understand Shining Armor, and consequently get along with him quite well. They both seem like they have their stern sides. Both of them are technically guardians. They both have a sibling who achieved greatness and who they are 100% behind. They both help look after a whole kingdom. And they both are always there for their subordinates. Pharynx would see Shining Armor and see who he once was, a confused lost soul. Someone who’s starting to think that he’s losing his place, or never had a place to begin with; someone who might get tossed aside.

Pharynx would probably be stern with Armor about his insecurities, but it would be because he cares (I don’t think he'd entirely lose his rough and gruff side). He doesn’t want to see another soul in such a similar position as he was go through the pain of being left out like that.

Maybe Pharynx would tell Armor that he has to fully embrace what he already knows deep down, that he’ll never give up on his family or kingdom even when he doesn’t seem needed. That at the first sign of trouble, he'll come running. His love for his sister, wife, daughter, friends, family, and citizens will always pull through.

Maybe something....would explode out of Armor in a moment of danger. He will never let himself give up. NEVER!

He can’t. Even when he fails, even if his enemies seem like they’re going to crush him, he will never let anyone hurt his family or his friends. He prays to be stronger, he tries his best to adapt so he can still be there for his family.

Not for wings, not to be seen as true royalty,

...but to be his best self, to be a guardian like he was born to do so those he loves with all his heart remain in his life and remain safe.

I don’t know, I hope I’m not playing favorites I just think it would be really cool. There are other ways to tackle an episode where Armor finally gets wings or has to confront insecurities.

If we could get an episode with Spike growing up after so long, or Celestia and Luna jumping over the hurdles in their relationship even after being reunited for some time, why not?

This show is great at giving us those feel good moments where friendship and bonds give people the strength to confront adversity (even if sometimes in typical , cliche ways), so I’d love to see more of it.

#prince shining armor #princess cadence #ocellus #thorax #pharynx #my little pony #friendship is magic #editorial

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kidslovetoys · 4 years ago

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Vocal development in babies, infants and toddlers

Opera singer and vocal coach Mary Cole explains vocal development in young children and shows us how we can help inspire our children's vocal confidence from an early age.

Table of contents

Introduction

Vocal development in newborns

Vocal development in infants

Vocal development in toddlers

Final word

Introduction

It was a warm evening in late March when I had my first proud mother moment. It happened as I arrived through my front door with Mister Firstborn after his birth just a day or so earlier. He was kindly letting me know, in his most endearing newborn way, that he was Not Happy.

“What’s wrong, baby?” I cried as the door crashed closed, that little scream piercing my ears and melting my heart.

Yes, it was indeed my first proud mother moment. My son had inherited my voice.

What is it about your child’s voice that will stop you in your tracks every single time, causing you to drop your coffee, your shopping, and your reason? How on earth does that little person make such a big sound?

In my work as an opera singer, vocal coach and university lecturer, this is a fascinating question for me. As singers working with no amplification, making big, beautiful, rich and resonant sounds is on our minds most of the time. I spent twenty years learning to recreate an extremely refined, adult version of my baby’s voice to spend some fabulous years touring the world singing.

I realised in that moment, that my husband and I had done it: we had produced a little Pavarotti. The good news is, so can you!

Physical development of the voice in newborn babies

A person’s vocal tract consists predominately of larynx (voice box), vocal folds (vocal cords), trachea (wind pipe), lungs, pharynx, mouth, tongue and epiglottis, and, to a minor extent, nasal passages. The vocal folds are two flaps of soft tissue housed within the larynx.

Your voice is produced when the vocal folds are powered by air from the lungs to vibrate, thus producing sound waves. This sound is then shaped by the pharynx, tongue, mouth, teeth and lips to create speech and singing.

Your baby’s vocal physiology is fundamentally different in structure and function to that of a child or adult, set up mainly to ensure their survival. It has two functions: to cry for help and to drink in the most efficient way possible.

Babies therefore have much smaller lungs to make more space in the digestive system for milk. While an adult’s larynx is located about halfway down the neck, a baby’s is located right behind their jaw and is much less mobile. The epiglottis overlaps with the soft palate and the vocal folds themselves are much softer and more pliable.

This different physiology offers a newborn several benefits. Firstly, it virtually eliminates choking when nursing, allowing them to breathe and swallow at the same time. They are also able to fill their mouths completely before swallowing, which means more milk in less time- a huge advantage for the initial growth period.

This physical setup also produces and enhances high frequencies in the vocal sound. Amazingly, the average baby only cries at about 90 decibels: as loud as a blender or hairdryer. However, the high frequency amplification is what gives the cry its “cut”, allowing them to be heard clearly.

The vocal apparatus while crying is also surprisingly free of excessive muscular tension. This, coupled with the softer tissue, is how your little one can cry for hours without losing their voice.

What your baby is practicing vocally

From the moment of birth, your baby vocalises. Newborn cries contain all the elements of successful speech and singing: emotion, pitch and rhythm, loud and soft.

When not crying, your baby may practice cooing: happy vowel-like sounds lasting up to three seconds in duration.

Encouraging your baby’s voice

Here are some simple tips for inspiring your baby's first experiences with voice:

In utero. Talk and sing to your baby often in the last three months of pregnancy. Amazingly, babies have been found to move instinctively, subtly and intricately to the rhythm patterns of mother’s speech. Talking and singing frequently, playfully and lovingly to a baby in utero can increase his memory for both language and pitch.

Motherese. Research has shown that newborn babies prefer to listen to human voices to non-human voices, and prefer to listen to their mother’s voice and her native language to other voices or languages. Motherese contains all the elements of a song: higher pitch range, extended vowels and greater pitch variation. This imitative, instinctive behaviour between baby and adult will naturally develop speech and singing as part of the child’s environment.

What is motherese?

Does your voice change when you talk to a baby? Do you speak more slowly, more clearly and use simplified language? Do you use baby words and exaggerated facial expressions? This is motherese. You are making it easier for your child to understand you. By removing unnecessary words you draw your child's attention to those that are most important. Vroom, vroom! Nee-naw! Look! Fire engine. Red fire engine? Can you see it? Off it goes! Bye-bye fire engine! Mummy likes fire engine. Noisy!

Sing to your children often. Most importantly, sing traditional music specifically written for children from their culture: nursery rhymes and lullabies. Their little ears are naturally tuned to those beautiful, complete melodies.

You can also add a movement aspect while singing: rocking to calm songs and jiggling along to boisterous ones. Babies learn to associate music with both calming and stimulating messages. Singing brings a feelings-expressive dimension to communication which speaking alone often cannot provide.

Physical development of the voice in infants

During infancy, the vocal structure begins to develop into a miniature version of the adult’s. While a newborn’s vocal tract is primed for survival, the child’s and adult’s is set up for speaking and running.

The infant’s larynx grows and descends lower down the trachea and the lungs grow comparatively larger to the digestive system. This gives them much more range and flexibility in the sounds they are able to make, though the adult setup won’t be complete until the age of eight or nine.

What your infant is practicing vocally

Speech to the infant is observed and copied rather than taught. Having been immersed in a speech environment from birth, they are able to observe the benefits of using speech in their world. Thus speech’s development is mainly driven by the frustration an infant feels in being unable to communicate.

At around six months, an infant will begin babbling simple consonant/vowel combinations. Amazingly, these speech fragments are always syllables and phonemes of the mother tongue: Italian babies will babble in Italian sounds, and Korean babies will babble in Korean sounds.

Infants' hearing and perception of music is also extremely sophisticated. By the age of six to ten months they are able to recognise familiar tunes and changes to them, even though they may be played in unfamiliar keys. They will also recognise songs heard in utero, though it may be months between hearings. They are also able to recognise simple rhythms and metres: for example a march versus a sway (duple and triple.)

Encouraging your infant’s voice

Some ideas for creating fun and positive vocal experiences with your infant:

Build a positive, child-centred learning environment. Try not to delegate the important task of learning to speak to a non-human voice such as a screen or recorded music, as it’s not as effective as face-to-face interaction. Positively praise your child when he vocalises. Particularly as speech is emerging, if mistakes are made, don’t criticise, rather offer the correct word or phrase at a later date.

Speak to your infant often, in person, about things familiar and close to them.

Explore language together. Enjoy creating funny expressions and nonsense phrases for just the two of you. This is a popular device used particularly in children’s books and entertainment. Enjoy playing with sounds and words as you speak about what you do. 'Sizzling sausages on the stove. Sizzle Sizzle SPLAT.

Physical development of the voice in toddlerhood

Toddler vocal development is a continuation of what has begun in infancy. As a toddler’s body size increases, so does, obviously the laryngeal size. Interestingly, up to this age, the tongue has been housed entirely within the mouth to enable nursing and breathing simultaneously. The back third of the tongue now descends into the pharynx, as well as a slight hardening of the vocal folds as the deeper muscle forms. This enables much more variety in speech resonation and articulation.

By age five, the basic adult configuration of the vocal tract is present, and will reach full size after puberty.

What your toddler is practicing vocally

While a yell is still able to make a statement, a toddler comes to realise around the age of three or four, that speech is necessary for survival: needs are met faster if they’re articulated.

A toddler’s first meaningful word usually appears at around one year of age, with three to ten single words hopefully available by the age of eighteen months.

At around age two, your child may use around fifty words, gradually forming into complete sentences. By three years, we may see the emergence of conversation, and vocabulary may exceed one thousand words!

During toddlerhood, music and singing becomes a part of play. Voiced sounds can accompany play with toys; chanting and songs become part of organised games with others.

Encouraging your toddler’s voice

Some ideas for helping your toddler find their voice

Practice patience in conversation. Allow your child to explore speech at toddler pace, not adult. As they become more conversational, the brain is working hard forming the neural pathways required for communication. They must firstly comprehend what you’ve said and form a reply in their own mind. Then they must physically speak by co-ordinating breath pressure, vocal apparatus and articulators. This takes time.

Try not to interrupt, walk away or finish their sentences. Maintain eye contact, listen and enjoy.

Encourage your child to use the voice creatively as they play. It could be singing to toys, creating vocal effects for vehicles and superheroes, animals and outer space. These nonsense noises are used a lot in formal training to build and strengthen a young voice, as well as to explore musical elements such as pitch, timbre and rhythm.

Singing stories. Sing the words to a favourite book rather than speaking them. Invent a simple two or three note melody. To start off, try the opening notes of the nursery rhyme It’s Raining It’s Pouring. You will notice that tune is also a familiar one in many children’s chants: 'I’m the king of the castle and you’re a dirty rascal! Nyah Nyah!!' In early music education, it’s the first interval we teach children to sing in tune, as it is so easily accessible.

Nursery rhymes and children’s songs. Nursery rhymes are full of expression and poetic devices just asking to be explored: rhyme, rhythm, stanza, refrain, alliteration, imagery and many others. Enjoy reading them aloud with plenty of gusto and fanfare, creating the voices and sound effects.

Move along to the rhythm of the words. Songs with actions have greater impact and memorability. Vocalise for fun, as well as for education.

A word of advice: if you want your child to speak (or sing) along with you easily, speak a little higher than you usually would. Their tiny vocal folds are only as large as their little fingernail. It is impossible for this little instrument to pitch too low!

Final word

My young screaming newborn is now Mister Two. It has been such a joy to watch him grow and piece together fragments of sentences, to sing mum’s songs to his toys sometimes weeks later, and imitate his dad’s heavy machinery sounds! As for that initial cry? Poor dear- he was hot!

from One Hundred Toys - The Blog https://ift.tt/3dLaOOi

#One Hundred Toys

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punkbawkchicken · 7 years ago

Photo

Tongue Tied

Sitting alongside him the pale-green humanoid let out a small hiss, her clawed hand lightly brushing his bare shoulders. Her scaled palm scraped roughly against his flesh, cold to the touch. Months before that very same sensation would have repelled him, but now he found he more than welcomed the physical contact. It reminded him of home.

She slid closer. Their hips touched and he looked up at her. She returned his gaze, her face expressionless, her eyes unblinking. It was these that drew him in. Set deep under hooded ridges, her large eyes were pupil-less and impossibly black. Even blacker, he thought, than the depths of space itself. In that darkness he could discern not only a reflection of his haggard self, but a kaleidoscope of vivid hues that formed and then reformed into indefinite and unknowable shapes. He could lose himself in those eyes.

Gracefully she dipped down and to his surprise kissed his cheek. A profusion of red seeped under his well-bronzed skin. His fingers tentatively came up and touched the spot lightly. He blink swiftly, regaining his senses and smiled at her. A sad smile, his only type since his ship had crash landed onto this desolate planet.

Survival in an alien world had its costs. Sanity, he found, was one of them. Sometimes he’d find himself curled up in the dusty soil, shoulders heaving, silent sobs racking his broad chest. Sometimes he’d disappear across the horizon for days, weeks, and return battle-scared and bruised as if he’d been fighting the whole planet. And even in all those moments when he lost himself, still she waited here for him, ever patient and accepting in her own silent reptilian way.

Now he turned to face her, his eyes once again searching hers, questioning them. All this time he had counseled himself with the thought of returning home, even after the hyper-engine blew and somehow he lost all eight nuclear fuses in the surrounding desert. All this time he’d felt alone on this wasteland and here she was. A stranger turn companion, not lost like him but a long-time resident, free to come and go as she pleased. Yet here she was, still by his side. Always by his side.

Slowly he leaned forward. She leaned in to meet him, her dark purple tongue tentatively testing the air. His lips touched her thin, scaled ones. He parted his lips and with a shiver he felt her thick serpentine tongue pressing against his, probing his mouth. She leaned in harder, forcing his mouth to open wider and suddenly he was choking on her tongue as it slid past his uvula and down his throat. He tried to push her away, but her nimble claws fingers held his wrists tightly to her chest. He thrashed wildly, confusion and fear mingling with pain as a dozen of her tiny, re-curved fangs sunk fast and deep into his lips and gums. She pressed even harder now, drawing blood that seeped in between the corners of their enmeshed mouths. Her tongue slithered past his pharynx and into his esophagus. Revulsion twisted his features as he felt her tongue undulate, pumping something inside of him. His stomach heaved and he felt lightheaded. His vision began to disintegrate and he knew he was going to faint.

Abruptly she pulled back, her tongue snapping out of his inner organs and back into her mouth with dizzying speed. She released her hold on him and he leaned over quickly, heaving. Tears stung his eyes as he retched again and again, spitting up nothing but frothy white stomach acid and the blood from his punctured lips. The weight in his organs refused to budge and with a sick thrill of horror he realized that she had deposited her eggs into his vital organs. Short of surgery, he would not be able to force them up and out.

Now he was on his knees, once again on all fours, immersed in the never-ending dust that covered the planet’s entire rocky terrain. Trembling at her clawed and scaly feet, he implored her with bleary, swollen eyes. She cocked her head, a smiling playing its way across her face as if her accosting him was nothing but pleasant. No, he dully realized, it was a trick of his increasingly disordered mind; snakes always look as if they’re smiling. She had chosen him as her temporary mate and deposited her burden—now his. He was a vessel, a means for an end, not a lover.

Now he choked on tears rather than bile It was her way, or rather, her kinds way. What can a reptile know of loneliness, of love? It was his folly, not hers. His mistake. He was only human, after all.

A small edit of a short story I wrote some time ago...Just had to re-post it to show off the art I got! The drawing is by the very talented moxie.saturday on Instagram! Thank you for bring my creature to life!

#short story #horror story #alien #reptilian #body horror #aliens #space #gift art #excerpt #fucking awesome art

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cinnonym · 5 years ago

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Who might I be? Anyway, as your ask is open for prompts: extreme (distinctive) characters.

Well, if that isn’t my favourite person in the whole wide world

It’s not every day you encounter the perfect jawline. So when you do, you don’t let it go again. Which, to sum it up, was how Emmy Lou ended up at the mechatronics workshop.

Her backpack dug painfully into this place right between her ribs, where it hurt the most, the assortment of pens and notebooks an unorganized mess. In her defence, she had thrown everything together in her haste to get up and follow jawline-girl from the tram.

Normally, unfinished drawings didn’t annoy her much – it was inevitable if you insisted on drawing strangers on the tram. A tram, by very definition, both collected and lost people at every station, none of which were in Emmy Lou’s control. Her notebooks were overflowing with half-drawn sketches, their status ranging anywhere from a few lines to full-grown coloured art pieces, depending on both the schedule of her models and her own motivation on that particular day.

The point was, Emmy Lou didn’t care all that much about the people she perpetuated on her pages. They were practice, simple, gratis practice, a means to an end to some day get her access to art school.

The other day an elderly man had looked over her shoulder and sent her a thumbs-up. „Never give up on your passion,“ he’d said and Emmy Lou still couldn’t decide if she should be discouraged by the hopeless manner he’d said it in, or motivated because he’d gone through the trouble to talk to her at all. Then again, Mary always said she was overthinking too much, so maybe she just ought to be glad to have had a human interaction.

None of which mattered now, Emmy Lou told herself strictly, angling her head backwards to look up at the shabby wall in front of her. A brickstone house, similarly rundown as the cottage Emmy Lou herself lived in these days, covered in malicious looking tendrils of ivy. A rusty sign hung from an iron stick, its colours faded it read „Bill'n'Ben’s, Mechatronics inc“. Beneath the sign was a door with a bell.

Emmy Loud had spent the last five minutes looking at said door. Jawline-girl had vanished behind it, a teasing whip of her ponytail the last thing Emmy Lou had seen from her. It was idiotic, probably, to have come here, on account of a half-finished portrait. It was probably idiotic to have come here, period. Emmy Lou should be at the market, running errands for her mum and younger brothers. Instead she was following a girl to her workplace like a downright creep. On the other hand, now that she had come as far, shouldn’t she at least give the situation a try and ring that bell? What could possibly go wrong?

That, Emmy Lou noticed rather quickly, was exactly the wrong question to ask herself. She had barely finished the thought when the scenarios popped up in her head: jawline-girl could be part of a cult, a group of gangly teenagers just waiting for innocent redheads like Emmy Lou to offer as a sacrifice. Or the mechatronics shop could be a disguise for a laboratory of super-scientists – jawline-girl certainly looked the part – and they would abduct Emmy Lou for their researching purposes as soon as she rang the bell. Or worse, the bell itself could be connected to a bomb, which would inevitably destroy the whole building and everything in it, because evidence had to be annihilated.

Or maybe it wasn’t and instead jawline-girl would open the door and laugh at Emmy Lou. In her mind, Emmy Lou imagined a high-pitched and obnoxious laugh that would destroy the positive image she had of the girl. A sneer that would twist that beautiful jawline into something not at all draw-worthy until Emmy Lou would leave, scarred for life and forever untrusting of human beauty.

Before Emmy Lou could lose herself too much in the twisted corners of her brain – though some of the pictures did make for excellent comic material – she used a trick Mary had once shown her, after one of Emmy Lou’s frequent attacks-of-counterproductive-overthinking, short ACO. She took a deep breath, imagined the oxygen streaming down her pharynx, slowly reaching her tubes first, then her bronchia, alveoli and finally her blood. The only subject Emmy Lou liked more than Arts was Biology, and that was mostly due to her young and over-motivated Arts teacher at school, who had insisted on trying out crazy new methods every week. (Recreating statues had been the worst of them. Emmy Lou hated touching other people.)

Once she had successfully distracted herself with the wonders of breathing and the human organism, Emmy Lou turned back to the door. It didn’t have a window, which was too bad, since Emmy Lou would have loved the minimal advantage of knowing where she was about to go before she went there. As it was, she didn’t have much of a choice but to press the bell and wait.

In the twenty-ish seconds it took Bill or Ben or whoever actually owned the shop to open the door, Emmy Lou had made three half-hearted attempts to run. In fact, the only thing really keeping her from making a dash was that the street the workshop lay in stretched on for at least a mile in each direction, with absolutely no corner, turns or even a house entrance to hide behind. If there was anything more embarrassing than ringing a bell of an unknown shop, it was being caught on her flight.

Plus, she really wanted to finish her portrait of jawline-girl.Which reminded Emmy Lou of the possibility that it could be jawline-girl herself, who was now slowly turning the knob to answer the door, and the thought was so frightening – because what should Emmy Lou say, „I really like your jawline, please let me draw it?“ - that she almost reconsidered her priorities and made a run for it after all.

But by then, the door had finally swung open and Emmy Lou stood rooted to the spot, clutching the string of her backpack with one hand, the other still awkwardly hovering over the doorbell, as she mustered the person in front of her.

It wasn’t the girl, which was a good omen (she hoped). It wasn’t an old man either, which was the picture both Ben and Bill had evoked in Emmy Lou’s mind. It was, however, the next best thing: an elderly woman. Jackpot, Emmy Lou thought, because while the woman watched her with apprehension of the kind that made all words vanish from Emmy Lou’s brain, she also seemed rather kind and grandmotherly, which was always a good thing.

Emmy Lou remembered her manners just in time before the woman could open her own mouth and undoubtedly ask what the hell Emmy Lou was doing here. Because a short girl with too-frizzy hair and a backpack bulging with notebooks certainly didn’t make the impression of frequenting a mechatronics workshop. But Emmy Lou smiled her most convincing smile that she had practiced in front of her mirror for months now and said brightly enough to fool even herself: „Excuse me, Madam, I am looking for Mister Bill?“

Which, for some reason Emmy Lou couldn’t quite understand – Bill was one of the owners or had she remembered a wrong name? - drew a hearty laugh from the woman.

„My dear,” she then said, her voice just as hearty, and not at all frail like Emmy Lou would have expected, “Bill died years ago. I just haven’t gotten around to change the sign yet, besides, it looks so handsomely alliterative, don’t you think? My name’s Benedicta, I’m the widow. Whatever business you had with dear Bill, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me instead.“

„Oh,“ made Emmy Lou, who felt incredibly dumb and vaguely horrified at the idea of other, worse outcomes of her blunder. What if Benedicta had gotten angry instead of amused, or worse, started to cry. What if Bill had died yesterday instead of years ago? She could have put her finger right into a fresh wound and hurt this kindly lady whom she didn’t even know, for no other reason than her absolute incompetence to let go of a perfect jawline when she encountered it.

Benedicta, apparently mistaking Emmy Lou’s mortification at the near miss for some sort of grief, put out a hand to stroke Emmy Lou’s sleeve briefly. (Emmy Lou barely held her hand in place instead of recoiling from the touch, but only because she was still too dazed to react.)

„Poor girl, don’t be sad,“ she said, her voice hovering between pity, which Emmy Lou abhorred, and a strange amusement. „He died quite peacefully, in his sleep, whoosh and gone. Besides, nobody is really mourning him, he had always been the kind of person who didn’t quite belong on earth, don’t you think?“

Emmy Lou, once again, hesitated. The sheer volubility of the woman overwhelmed her, but at the same time, she felt grateful she didn’t have to do the talking herself. Also, Benedicta was already half-dragging, half-leading her inside, which seemed like a good first step. Now Emmy Lou only had to find jawline-girl and ask her if she minded posing for her, so she could finish her drawing.

But Benedicta, chattering continuously, solved even the next obstacle for Emmy Lou. They had barely passed through a short and narrow hallway, Emmy Lou struggling to fit her bulky backpack through, when Benedicta interrupted her monologue for a second to call out: „Don’t mind us, Tess, tis just a visitor looking for old Bill, isn’t that perfectly amusing?“ And half a minute later, jawline-girl popped her head around a corner, mustered Emmy Lou with the same cool stare she had objected her phone to, back on the tram, and disappeared again.

Emmy Lou almost started after her, drawn to the possibility and once again mesmerized by the stunning perfection of her jawline, but Benedicta’s hand was still on her sleeve, rooting Emmy Lou to her spot at the kitchen table.

„That was my niece, Tessa, she’s living with me. Helping out at the shop too, though Lord knows she isn’t made for the handiwork – no offence, sweetpie!“ The latter being called out in response to the gruff that came from the corner Tessa had vanished behind.

Benedicta leaned in conspiratorially and winked. „She hates being inept at anything but I’m only telling the truth, you know. People have to learn to live with the truth.“

„I can still hear you,“ Tessa’s voice sounded out, low and melodic though sharp in its irritation, and it was a voice to remember, a voice that demanded attention and praise; a voice befitting that jawline. Once again, Emmy Lou stirred, her artist heart drawing her towards Tessa, towards the artwork. But Benedicta’s grip might as well have been iron for its unwillingness to let her go, and Emmy Lou had no choice but to stay and face the woman’s cheerful smile and airy tone.

„So, what business did you have with dear old Bill?“

Emmy Lou flinched. It seemed ironic, but she had almost forgotten about her excuse to ring the bell, to get into this house which didn’t seem like a workshop at all but more like a really homely kitchen.

„I, uh,“ was what she made as she tried feverishly to come up with an explanation that for one, satisfied Benedicta’s curiosity and on the other hand, could also lead up to a portrait session with Tessa. She came up blank.

Benedicta was still watching her apprehensively and even from Tessa’s general direction, Emmy Lou picked up a curious sense of expectation, almost as if both women knew she had been playing a ruse thus far and were looking forward to the next act of the play Emmy Lou was performing for them.

Emmy Lou coloured. Her mind, her wonderfully imaginative mind, that could come up with a thousand and one horror scenarios if need be, that served as live commentator and innate cinema most waking hours of her day, lay now empty and silent before her, unable to concoct a single excuse.

She sighed.

„I am an artist,“ she said truthfully and at last, before Benedicta could start speaking again, questioning her further, pressing. Her hand, still on Emmy Lou’s arm, felt less comforting now, and a brief image of handcuffs flashed through Emmy Lou’s mind before it went black again. „I’m here because I want to draw - „

„The sign!“ Benedicta interrupted, cheerfully enough to break the heavy atmosphere that had grown in the room. „Of course, that’s why you were mentioning it earlier, Bill had always wanted to repaint the sign. No sense for vintage, the man, that’s what I always said, but you know how they are.“ She nudged Emmy Lou and winked.

Emmy Lou responded with a weak smile of her own, amazed that yet another problem had been solved by Benedicta’s bubbly personality. Was it lying, she asked herself, if she didn’t correct the wrong assumptions other people made? Was it wrong not to mention that it had been Benedicta, who had been speaking of the sign earlier, that Emmy Lou had never mentioned it once? Was it very despicable not to stop Benedicta in her cheerful rant over how she had paint stored downstairs and how Emmy Lou could start whenever she wanted and “feel free to redesign it completely, dear, I love me some change, besides, it wouldn’t hurt business if a fresh sign attracted some more customers than the current one did.”

And then she added „Oh, and dear, Tess can help you, she’s decent with colouring, if not at car work,“ and Emmy Lou decided that if she was a despicable being, at least she got what she wanted. Which was more time to study Tessa’s jawline, so she would go with the play for now.

„That sounds awesome,“ she managed to fit in between two of Benedicta’s floods of words, and both of them ignored the complaining „Aunt Bee!“ from the other room.

When the topic turned towards payment, however, even Emmy Lou’s unscrupulousness found an abrupt end.

„I don’t mind doing it for free,“ she insisted, over and over again, her guts twisting uncomfortably. „Consider it a last gift for poor Bill, a sign in his honour…“

But Benedicta wouldn’t hear of it. „Nonsense,“ she said, her fingers momentarily tightening around Emmy Lou’s wrist with a fierce kindness. „Of course you will be paid, if not in money, at least accept cake and biscuits while you’re working. It’s the least I can do, besides, every girl should have cake and biscuits, I’ve found it lightens the mood so much, don’t you think?“ Emmy Lou couldn’t really argue with that.

In the end, it was decided that Emmy Lou would start her job tomorrow – now she just had to come up with an excuse for mum, to explain her sudden unavailability for daily chores – and that paint and tools would all be provided by Benedicta whereas Emmy Lou just had to „come and make art“.

And promptly, Emmy Lou was out of the warm kitchen and on the shabby street again, her hand clutching a slip of paper with Benedicta’s phone number - ”In case anything comes up, you know” - her mind struggling to comprehend what had actually just happened. She hadn’t seen Tessa again, but that was okay because starting tomorrow she would see the girl more than enough to finish her sketch.

And now, Emmy Lou thought, I just have to come up with an idea for that blasted sign I’m supposed to paint and everything will be fine.

Lying isn’t really lying if you work for it, right? Also, she was adamant to tell herself over and over again; that jawline? It was totally worth it.

#my writing #original writing #prompted #writeblr #writing community

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

Text

[RF] Dear Brother

WARNING! THIS SHORT STORY CONTAINS FOUL LANGUAGE AND SOME SCENES THAT THE READER MAY FIND DISTURBING. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

[Author's Note] This was a short story I wrote when I was a junior in high school. Looking back, I love it, mistakes and all. It was an assignment given, and my teacher said I had made her cry, and she had given me full points. It's currently in development of an adaptation into a short film with the help of my friend's studio. I hope you enjoy!

The smell of the preservative burned his nostrils, the dank, musty smell of the fetal pig made Andrew’s stomach churn, and separating the intestines only made it feel like his breakfast was beginning to crawl up his esophagus. The sweat rolling down his brow only intensified as he continued to separate the intestines, and occasionally cut the mesentery with the fine edge of a scalpel. Scat from the intestines would pour out onto his plastic apron, and he’d wipe it off with the backside of his glove and onto a paper towel. “Hey Raye!” a thunderous voice shouted from a few feet behind Andrew. Andrew turned, only to be hit with a mass of intestines, sending blood and scat in seemingly every direction. Andrew’s stomach churned as the stinging smell of the preservatives, scat, and blood hit the chemoreceptors in his nose, and his breakfast began to rapidly travel up his esophagus, and through his pharynx, and the mass of food and bile was expelled from his mouth, and poured all over the mass of intestines and all over his Khakis. As a wave of sickness began to spread like wildfire in the classroom, the teacher ran over to young Andrew Raye, and escorted him to the nurses office. As he was leaving the classroom, he noticed that Wilson Sidd, the kid who had continued to bully him throughout his years in elementary and middle school, and throughout his freshman year in high school, gave him a sly smile. Andrew, now sitting in the nurse's office drinking water and recalling the previous events to himself, the school nurse came in with his belongings, along with a change of clothes from his P.E. locker, which smelled of sweat and grime. In silence, the nurse gave him his clothes, and he walked into the restroom, where he changed out of his outfit, which was now covered in blood, vomit, and pig scat. He looked at himself in the mirror, wondering how someone could bully an innocent, introverted boy such as himself. He looked at his fine, medium length brown hair, his small, weak, wimpy frame, and his semi-defined baby-face. He stared at the reflection of his own, piercing blue eyes, eyes which he got from his mother, and admired them. He saw himself as cute and handsome, but in a humble way rather than a narcissistic way, unlike Sidd. As he walked out in his black shorts with the Harlem High emblem printed on the bottom right leg, as well as on his grey t-shirt with mint green dye, he grabbed his stuff and asked the nurse if he could leave. “Are you still feeling sick? We can call your parents, and we can get you home if you’re still sick.” “No thanks, I think it was just the intestines from the fetal pig, it was really gross. But I really do appreciate the offer, I think I’ll be okay.” He smiled at the nurse. “Okay then, well I’ll just write you a note so you can get back to class, yes?�� “Of course.”

2. Andrew, note in hand, walked out of the nurses office, with his photodegraded Jansport backpack, he made his way toward his next class, knowing that the bell would ring any second now. As the bell rung, he galloped faster and faster toward his Social Studies class. He was suddenly shoved forward, and fell in the crowded hallway, and as he was getting up, he had his left hand stomped on twice, leading to the constant, throbbing pain that continued to haunt him throughout the rest of the school day. As he entered the classroom 130-B, he put in his airpods, and pulled out his phone. He opened up spotify and began to stream Nujabes. The peaceful sound of lo-fi hip hop began to flow through his ears, and soon after, the soothing, emotional rapping of the artist Shing02 began to produce a warm wave of happiness and calmness. As he sat down in his seat, he began to produce a notebook and a pen from his bag. As he opened the nearly pageless spiral notebook to an empty page, he began to write in his messy cursive.

Dear Brother, How are you? I know it has been awhile since we talked, but I just wanted to check up on you. I’ve really missed you, and could really use your advice right now. I’ll probably just deal with it, I know you’ve been busy. I hope you are doing well, Momma and I miss you terribly, and we hope to hear from you soon. Your Favorite Brother, Andrew Oliver Raye As the words from his mind flowed through his hand, into the pen, and into the smooth, thick ink from the nib of his fountain pen, he finished his letter to his Brother, Oliver. When his mind began to fade into reality, and out of his own world, he quickly became aware of his teacher, Mr. Williams, was staring at his profile, with a passive aggressive look. “Mr. Raye, do you know why you’re failing this course?” He aggressively whispered. “No, sir.” Andrew replied, straight-faced. “It’s probably because instead of doing your work, you’re out playing around with girls and writing them sappy love letters. How about you put that away, that way you can work on what you need to, putting you on the path to actually graduating High School?” “Yes sir.” As Mr. Williams walked away, the voice in Andrew’s head spoke his feelings. “Officious little prick.”

3. Andrew found himself sitting alone underneath the shade of a big tree on this seemingly awful spring day during his lunch break. After the events of not only getting bullied by his peers, but his instructors as well, the neurons in his brain fired, bursts of electricity shot rapidly through his head, like a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier. His mind was processing the previous events, and the other events preceding them. He sat there, suffocating in his own isolation, while trying to keep calm and convince himself that everything would turn out alright. He hated where he was at in his life. He missed his brother terribly, and thought about him everyday, even though he knew that he would be coming back. His only true friend, gone, like a leaf in the wind, carried away. He still had his mother, but after his brother had left, their relationship had become distant. The same could be said about his group of friends, although due to the underlying drama within his friend group, his choice to leave didn’t phase him much. As Andrew sat, peacefully eating his apple and drinking his water from his HydroFlask, he noticed someone walking toward him. A sense of animosity overcame him, almost as if he was cringing watching him with his lumbering stride. “Andrew, we need to talk.” “Hi Casey.” Andrew responded dryly. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” “What do you care?” “Because I’m your friend.” “I’ve just been busy.” “No you haven’t, why aren’t you returning my calls?” “I just don’t wanna talk to anybody right now.” “Listen dude, I’m your best friend—” “I’m sorry, when the fuck did you care?” “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you serious right now? I’ve been your best friend since the 3rd grade, and now one day after a ‘fun’ vacation you just stop talking to me? You cut off the entire friend group, led on Natalie and shat on everyone else, and your excuse is that you just dont wanna talk?” “I can do whatever I want.” “Is this a joke to you? Do you just find fun in hurting the feelings of other people? Do you know the kind of shit I go through? Who the hell am I supposed to talk to? I’ve never met anybody in this world that actually gives a shit about me until I finally had the courage to tell someone, and that person is you, and you’ve helped me every single time I asked for it, and now when you’re in trouble you cut everyone off? What kind of sense does that make?” “Can you just shut the fuck up? Leave me alone, I don’t wanna talk to you.” “Get off your ass and come down here.” “Why?” “Because I wanna have a face to face conversation where I don’t have to look up at you and feel like--” “No, leave me alone Casey.” “Andrew seriously come down here now.” “You’re not the boss of me, I can do whatever I want.” Casey felt the rage slowly building throughout the conversation, and anger has continued to gradually speed up, like bubbles from a bottle of champagne. Now the bubbles had made their way to the backside of the cork. Casey began to lose control, and now the anger began to physically manifest itself in the form of his fists clenched together, making his knuckles white, and the veins in his neck and forehead beginning to protrude through his skin. Without thinking, fueled by his unrelenting anger, he began to walk up the grassy hill toward an unsuspecting Andrew, who went back down to thinking and eating his apple. Mindlessly, he grabbed Andrew and pulled him up to his feet by his shirt.

Andrew dropped his apple from his right hand and out of pure instinct, he clenched his small boney hand into a fist, and swung as hard as he could at Casey, making him lose his grasp and drop Andrew. Before Casey could return the favor, another student came up to them and separated them, not seeing Andrew’s previous swing and thinking that they were about to get in a physical altercation.

“What the hell are you guys doing? Quit trying to fight each other and piss off!”

Casey stormed off as the other student finished his lecture, and Andrew heard the sharp piercing bell go off as his peers left his side. He grabbed his stuff and packed up, and continued onto his next class.

4. Andrew’s mind began to race as he was processing the situation, he was scared, no beyond scared. Andrew was terrified. He had simply been wandering down the street, and he had looked up from his phone, only to see Wilson Sidd standing against the brick wall of a Harlem apartment. He tried to look down at the ground as he walked past, but it failed to trick Sidd. Andrew felt a strong yank from the back of his backpack, and he fell to the ground like a brick. After trying to get up, he was met with a large, matte black boot forcing him down to the ground and grinding into his chest. “Hey you little faggot!” Sidd exclaimed, his hyena-like grin stretching across his face into a disturbing expression. His face and his shaggy brown hair had struck fear into Andrew ever since he was a kid. Andrew always thought he looked like a hyena with his evil smile and his large ears, skinny face, and beady eyes. His slim, muscular build made him tower over Andrew, and his strength had always been the scariest part of him, especially if you were on the receiving end, as Andrew had been in his years in elementary and middle school. As Sidd’s boot continued to put pressure on his sternum, saliva and mucus made its way forcefully onto Andrew’s face from Sidd’s mouth. The pain and pressure from Sidd’s boot continued to increase, and Andrew began to scream. Suddenly, a deep, masculine voice yelled at Sidd from a few feet away. “HEY KID! PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE! GET THE HELL OFF HIM!” the man screamed angrily at Sidd. Sidd looked down at Andrew, and spat on him one last time as he fled the scene. Andrew began to get up and wipe the spit off of his face, and as he was doing so, his bones groaned in protest. “You alright kid?” The samaritan asked. “Yeah, just a little shaken.” “You gotta learn how to fight, someone might not be there next time, go to the gym and show him who’s boss.” “Thanks man, I really appreciate it.” Andrew shook the man’s hand, and the two departed. 5. Andrew painfully made his way toward the Douglas Park Apartment building, and walked in, taking the elevator to the 3rd floor. He made his way down the hall, and he found apartment 308. He clumsily fumbled the keys from his bag, and the pain in both his hand and sternum radiated through his body as he tried to enter. He unlocked the door, and threw his bag on the floor. The apartment was messy with trash and clothes. Pictures of his athletic father and brother, David Jesse Raye, and Oliver David Raye, were hanging all over the walls. He walked over to his cluttered living room, and passed out on the couch. Andrew was awoken by his mother, telling him to get ready. The woman was in her late 40’s, her curly brown hair had streaks of grey, and the wrinkles on her face weren’t quite pronounced, but very much noticeable. Andrew noticed she had been wearing a black dress and heels, along with a black overcoat. “Mom, where are we going?” Andrew asked, sleepily. “Trinity.” She responded, in a monotone manner. “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute Ma.” Andrew made his way to his small, cramped room down the hall of his apartment, and he went to his desk. In the bottom drawer, he grabbed a mass of letters, about 300 to be exact, which were all held together in a bundle with the help of a large rubber band. Andrew undressed from his P.E. Uniform, and he threw on a wrinkled black dress shirt, and slacks, along with a pair of black dress shoes. He then grabbed his black overcoat and black trilby. He returned to his front door where his mother was waiting for him in silence. Andrew stared at the the names engraved into the marble in the mausoleum. Pain rushed through his system, and tears began to well up at the corner of his eyes. The names, on top of each other, read; David Jesse Raye - August 23, 1972-September 30, 2016 and Oliver David Raye - June 22, 1992-May 12, 2018

Andrew placed the bundle of letters in the steel vase attached to the marble plate, and he noticed that the most recent letter on top read, 05/13/19. One year, he thought to himself. His mind couldn’t help it and it took him back to that night. Andrew had been hacking up a nasty case of influenza in his bedroom and his brother was looking for some cold medicine. After informing Andrew that there wasn’t any, Andrew asked Oliver if he could go down to the convenience store and buy some, and initially Oliver refused, he said it was too late. But Andrew begged him to, and he eventually gave in. Oliver made his way out of the apartment, and later, Andrew awoke to police knocking at his door. They had explained that the store that Oliver went to was robbed, and the cashier, Oliver, and another civilian were shot. Oliver and the Cashier were killed instantly. Tears began to well up in Andrew’s eyes, and he was transported by his thoughts from the past back to the present. What am I doing? His mind spoke to him as he stood there in silent emotional pain. Why am I here? Why is this happening? What is wrong with me? Was it really my fault? Yes… it's all your fault. It’s your fault that Oliver is dead. It’s all your fault. His mind was arguing with itself, and suddenly, a rush of calm went over hm. He stopped crying. Although his mind was still enveloped in darkness, he wasn’t panicking. A dark thought rushed into his head like a car going 90 down the highway. Andrew, in terrifying silence, walked calmly and swiftly back to his Mom’s car and waited for her.

6. After a car ride of silence, Andrew made his way home with his mother. His mother had made his favorite dinner meal to try and cheer him up after their visit to the cemetery. As he and his mother ate at the dinner table, it seemed as though all of Harlem was silent in mourning with the two Rayes. As the two both finished their dinner, they departed to their separate rooms. Andrew laid down on his bed and began to cry. The empty walls seemed to scream at him, and the silence in all of Harlem pushed him closer to what seemed like his impending doom. Andrew cried and cried, until his tear glands lacked the ability to produce tears. After he had nothing left to cry, the darkness that had been circling his mind since his cemetery visit swooped in. Andrew’s hands found their way into his desk drawer. He fished around and found what he was looking for. He pulled out a pocket knife with a red handle, and a black textured rubber grip in the center of each red plastic slate. With a swift flick of his wrist, the knife opened, and the razor sharp blade gleamed with the light of his beautiful sunset showing through his window. Andrew’s thumb ran itself along the fine edge of the blade, and it cut through his thumb, and blood began to slowly drip down his hand and onto his wood floor. His mind spoke softly to itself. Satisfying… it said. Do it. No. Do it. Don’t. Do it. Andrew please... Do it. It wasn’t your fault Andrew. It is your fault. It was. Yes. Do it. I’m gonna do it Yes… Andrew don’t. Mom needs you, your friends need you! Put the knife down. No. Don’t listen to it. It’s better off this way. Andrew quit it! None of us blame you! Remember how much we loved you! Damn it Andrew! Don’t listen to it! ANDREW PUT IT DOWN! YOU’RE WORTHLESS! NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOU! THAT’S A LOAD OF BULLSHIT AND YOU KNOW IT ANDREW!! DO IT! DO IT YOU LITTLE FAGGOT! ANDREW DON’T! PUT IT DOWN, I NEED YOU TO REMEMBER! DO IT ALREADY!!! ANDREW REMEMBER WHAT I SAID TO YOU ON YOUR FIRST DAY!

Andrew’s mind silenced itself, and he recalled a distant memory. Andrew remembered being driven to the front of Democracy Prep Charter Middle School in East Harlem. After a car ride filled with songs from Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly, he and Oliver had finally arrived. “Alright bud, this is where you get off.” He said in his usual, happy tone. “But what if I get beat up again?” “Listen, you need to fight back.” “But mom said--” “Forget what Mom said. If you don’t do anything to shut it down, its gonna keep happening.” “I guess…” “Listen, life has a funny way of doing things. There will be times when life throws crap at’cha. In those times, you have to fight for what you need. I love ya bro, I gotta leave, tell me how it goes when you get home, yeah?” “Yeah, for sure. Thanks bro.” And with a quick fist bump, Oliver had drove away in his 2002 Corolla. Andrew was brought back from his mind and into reality, and he found himself holding the knife on his wrists, ready to cut swiftly upward to end his own life. Andrew out of pure shock dropped the knife and began to cry.

7. Andrew woke up to the painful sound of his alarm the next morning, and began to get ready for the day. As Andrew walked out of his apartment with his coffee, the words of his brother echoed through his mind. You have to fight for what you need. As Andrew recalled the previous events to himself, he noticed a kid in a black hoodie with a familiar, Hyena like grin. Sidd hit his travel mug upward, splashing hot coffee onto Andrew face, making him scream. Andrew tried to wipe off the remnants of the coffee from his face when he received a bony fist to the gut. Andrew hurled over, and fell to his knees. “Hello again, faggot.” Sidd’s grin stretched across his face like a madman. “F-fu-huck y-you S-Sidd.” Andrew responded in a shaky voice. “What did you just say to me?” “You heard me… faggot…” Andrew grinned for a moment, but it was wiped clean off his face when a kick from Sidd sent him rolling on the sidewalk. Andrew’s nose began to bleed, and he got up. You have to fight, he thought. Okay! Andrew clenched his fists, and as Sidd was approaching to strike him again, Andrew hit him as hard as he could right in the jaw. Sidd staggered back, and grew even angrier as he charged at Andrew. He swung and missed, and Andrew countered with a knee to the gut. Out of instinct, Sidd elbowed him and as Andrew staggered, he kneed him in the gut, and as he hurled over, punched him in the jaw, sending his head looking straight up. Andrew fell on the ground unconscious, and Sidd continued to pummel him.

8. Andrew awoke in the hospital, pain surged from all over his body periodically like a wave. He realized that the painkillers he was on were wearing off, and he called the nurse. After drifting in and out of consciousness for what seemed like an eternity, he finally managed to find his way back into reality. He sat up in his hospital bed and saw his mother. His mother began to cry, and Andrew comforted her in his arms. Andrew had to stay in the hospital for three days. Sidd had broken his nose, left arm, and a false rib. Andrew later found out that Sidd had been spotted by a police officer, and had been arrested. As Andrew sat alone in his room thinking of his victory, a girl walked in. Andrew became confused. This wasn’t his nurse, or anyone he knew, it was just some random girl. “Hey…?” “Hi. My name’s Emily! My mom is in the room across the hall, and she told me what happened with you. She said you don’t get many visitors, so I thought maybe I’d say hi, since she also told me we were around the same age.” A pleasant smile came across her face. “Thanks, that means a lot! I don’t have many friends, so it's good to meet a new person! I’m Andrew.” “Hi Andrew!” Andrew and Emily continued to talk through his hospital stay. Everyday she went to go see both her mother and Andrew. Andrew felt at peace. He had finally gotten what he had so desperately needed; a friend. After a few months, they began dating. Andrew thought about marrying her often. I wonder who I would have as my best man… Oliver came into Andrew’s mind. A wave of depression rushed over him. Andrew had stopped writing the letters, and hasn’t visited his final resting place in almost a year.He began to recall the events leading up to meeting Emily, and he remembered his flashback. He remembered the voices. At the time he had never pieced it together why he was stopping himself, but he now realized that it wasn’t his voice that was battling the suicidal thoughts.

Andrew realised that the voice belonged to Oliver David Raye.

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