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undeadsnorlax · 3 years

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Alone at Midnight, Inside My Mind

@badthingshappenbingo

Ao3 Link

Bingo Card

using the prompt in a metaphorical sense, as opposed to the medical aid sense

Prompt: Crutches

Fandom: Yakuza/Ryu Ga Gotoku

Warnings: a lot of alcohol related issues, including addiction and withdrawal, some suicidal thoughts and body image issues, hurt/no comfort. set pre-Yakuza 2.

Wordcount: 5511

2pm. He could tell it was because his downstairs neighbour was home, attending to the array of plant pots she kept littered outside her door, and playing music on the radio that bled through the crack of the open window.

Daigo squinted in the afternoon light that managed to make its way through the blinds, groaning loudly.

“Fucking hell…”

Suppose now was as good a time as any to start the day. Especially when he felt his stomach rumble.

It took some effort to get to his feet, but soon he was dragging himself into the kitchen, yawning loudly. He needed something quick and tasty, now.

The fridge had nothing but convenience store sushi and days old leftover curry. The cupboards were also pretty bare, half a bag of rice and a ramen cup.

Daigo sighed heavily, setting his kettle to boil before grabbing the sushi. He stuffed a piece into his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the taste of stale rice but ate another without any complaint.

Head to the store. Get some more food, he thought, holding the ramen cup in place as he lifted up the kettle.

The water splashed on the counter a little, narrowly missing burning his fingers, making him forcefully slam the kettle back down once the cup was filled.

Daigo gripped the sides of the counter, closing his eyes as he felt a pulse of nausea rush through his body. If he forced the tension against the surface hard enough, he could stop his hands shaking for just a moment.

Eat noodles. Have a shower. Go to the store.

Opening his eyes again, he ate another piece of sushi, absolutely no taste on his tongue as he chewed it into mush, before taking his ramen into the living room.

He slumped down on the couch, turning the TV on and forced the food down him. He still felt nauseous, but he knew he wouldn’t actually vomit. He already had last night. Doubled over in a bush outside the train station and puked his guts out, despite not having much solids in him. Even now his throat felt sore from it. Classy.

He wasn’t even hungry, really. He was eating out of obligation, feeling his stomach gurgle happily at finally being filled with some kind of food.

As he ate, he noticed his cell phone on the table in front of him, discarded amongst the empty bottles and candy wrappers. It was flashing.

Daigo frowned, reaching over and flipping it open.

Three new answer machine messages.

Who the hell had tried calling him?

Message one - 9:25am

“Daigo, it’s your mother. Pick up.”

Message two - 9:43am

“Me again. Please answer your phone.”

Message three - 10:08am

“Daigo...it’s Mom-“

Daigo groaned, snapping his phone shut to end the messages. Nope! He was not dealing with this today.

He discarded the empty ramen cup and chopsticks with the rest of the trash on the table, storming towards the bathroom.

Shower on, clothes off. He used the toilet as the water heated up, catching the reflection of his upper half in the mirror as he finished.

“Hrmph.”

He ran a hand down his front, resting it on the middle of his stomach and huffed again.

His weight had been up and down the last ten years, though it had obviously settled during his stint in prison, with its shit food and no alcohol. Now that he was out, with all the freedom to indulge in every last inch of hedonism he could find though, he had developed a bit of a gut. Just a bump, but it was…noticeable, it was there. It stuck out.

No surprise really. How much did he drink last night again?

Enough I puked in a bush.

Daigo shifted on his feet, standing up a bit straighter and sucking his stomach in. It didn’t make much difference. He suddenly wondered how visible it was under his t-shirt, glad he usually wore a thick coat to hide himself in.

“Great,” he growled, stepping into the shower. Another thing to feel insecure about.

He stood there, forehead pressed against the wall as he let the water run down the Fudo Myoo on his back.

His hand started shaking again.

“Give me a break,” he said, clasping it to his chest, “A few hours, a day.”

He dried himself off, going back to his bedroom for a clean shirt and pair of jeans – both black, of course.

He also grabbed a heavy hoodie to wear to the store, a way to feel a little more comfortable in himself in a public place.

Wallet, keys, phone. Go to store. Buy supplies.

Daigo pulled his hood up as he jogged down the stairs, immediately blocked from leaving by the downstairs neighbour still gardening.

“Lovely afternoon, isn’t it Dojima-san?” Ito cried, beaming at him. She was older, always so chipper. How did she manage?

As much as he wanted to ignore her, Daigo had been raised with far too proper manners. He still remained casual, grunting a little and rubbing the back of his head.

“Yeah, suppose.”

“You came back late again last night,” she added, hands lifting a plant to move to another pot, “Ouma-san went off about it before going to work this morning.”

“Oh, did he now?”

Ouma was the guy around his age in the apartment next door. Always miserable, always bringing a new girl home every weekend that Daigo had to endure hearing fake horribly through his thin bedroom walls.

“I’ll try to be a bit quieter next time, Ito-san,” he mumbled. For her sake, not for that asshole Ouma.

“Or maybe you should stay in once in a while, hm?”

Daigo scowled, jerking his head and storming off toward the store. With any luck the old bag would have gone inside by the time he was back.

As he made his way down the street, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He went to answer but paused, clenching his fingers tight into his palm. Nope. He knew who it was, and what she wanted, and he didn’t care.

His supply run was basic. More noodles, packs of chips and cookies, some onigiri and bentos that could last a few days.

Whilst picking up a few bottles of Staminan and Tauriner, he stared blankly at the alcohol.

His hands still shook. There was such a quick fix to settle that.

He grabbed a six pack of beer and a bottle of scotch and vodka, unable to help a crooked little grin.

The cashier looked at him a little oddly as he set his basket down on the counter. And yeah, he’d admit he looked strange. Sweating and shaky from withdrawal, under his eyes dark and his brow pulled into a near permanent scowl, face otherwise obscured by the shadow of the hood.

“Get me some cigarettes too, huh?” he mumbled, taking out his wallet and avoiding eye contact.

He was a mess.

He stared at the glass case of baked goods, unable to resist the pull from his sweet tooth, and asked for two donuts as well.

He arrived back home rather pleased with his haul. He had enough in him to pack away most of it, before he stared down the booze he bought.

He could...not do this, actually. He could not drink. It was easy, in theory.

He wiped his damp brow, licked his dry lips. His head hurt, despite the slight gloom of the kitchen.

They could sit there as an ultimate temptation. He could ignore them. He could do all manner of things.

But he wanted to drink, that was the issue. That was the whole point. Drinking was the only thing he had that stayed consistent.

He grabbed the scotch and slugged back a long mouthful, feeling everything just melt away. He let out a relieved gasp, the taste strong on his tongue and warming his throat. Felt like a part of him was back. His mind became a little clearer, his mood a little more elevated. He took a shorter swig for luck, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Much better…”

He spent the rest of the afternoon lounging on the sofa, playing video games. There wasn’t much else for him to do during the day.

Evening was his time.

When seven rolled around, Daigo got ready. His jeans and t-shirt were fine already, so all he had to do was put on his usual cross necklace to complete the outfit. He spent a while staring down himself in the mirror as he applied a shaky dash of eyeliner around his lid.

Once upon a time he shied away from doing this publicly, but since leaving jail he stopped caring. Wore eyeliner and straightened his hair. Painted his nails black and picked at the polish when he was anxious. Who gave a shit? Anyone dumb enough to say anything soon regretted it.

Keys, wallet, phone. Same routine. He chose his white puffer jacket to wear instead of his hoodie, enjoying the barrier it gave him from the rest of the world.

One quick metro ride later, he was in Kamurocho, just as the town was coming alive in a burst of neon. Daigo lost himself in the crowds, thinking of which bar to hit up first.

He paused for a moment down Tenkaichi Street, staring at the sign for Serena. Place was closed, and had been for a little under a year now.

He knew what happened last year, of course. Heard about Rina through another barkeep. Not that he’d known her well, or spent much time at Serena, but something in his chest ached hearing she was gone in such circumstances.

He soon forgot about it with another glass.

With a weary huff, he decided the Champion District on the other side of town was the best place to start. The bar he chose was quiet, no other customers, and a barman who knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Perfect.

Instead of conversation, Daigo focused on the soft jazz music playing as he nursed his whiskey. He was into heavier tunes, but he needed a bit more of a buzz before going to his favourite rock bar.

He tapped his nails against the glass, tilting his head. Good idea, actually. They did cheap shots and a big array of imports.

He slammed some cash down on the counter before stumbling into the street, glad to feel the slight evening chill on his cheeks.

Down to Pink Street, and into the rock bar he enjoyed. Already feeling at home with the heavy guitar music blasting over the speakers, most of the other patrons dressed in a similar style to him. He’d missed out on a lot of stuff whilst locked away, the slight sways in fashion that happened in such a short amount of time, but he liked knowing he was still on trend within his scene, mostly.

He sat at the counter, giving a half-grin to the girl working there, and ordered himself five shots of vodka.

His earlier drinks had been a warmup, these were the first leg of the race. The second came in the form of a large scotch, some new brand they’d started selling.

Honestly, the start to a perfect night for him, until he heard a small gasp from behind him.

“Hey! Aniki!”

Daigo’s heart sank at the voice, glancing over his shoulder. Five of the guys he usually hung around with were there – or more accurately, they hung around him.

He rolled his eyes and groaned, turning in his seat and glaring them down. He should never had shown them this place.

“What do you want?” he muttered, already knowing the answer.

“We didn’t know you were out today!” Arita cried, leaning up next to him, with that sycophantic look he always had in his eyes. As if Daigo wasn’t out every night.

“Why don’t you join us aniki?” Kubo asked, which actually translated to wanna pay for all our drinks because we’re cheap scrounging bastards?

Daigo groaned again, knocking back his glass and waving the bartender over again.

“If you quit calling me aniki.”

They didn’t, of course. They gleefully accepted the drinks he bought them with more coos of thank you Dojima-aniki. Daigo rubbed the bridge of his nose and ordered himself two double scotches, slugging them back like they were water.

“I was thinkin’ we could go to Dazzle after this,” Arita said, having not left Daigo’s side. He always babbled and talked too much, like he felt he had to fill every silence with his own voice save people be left alone with their own thoughts.

“Why there?” Daigo asked, thinking of all the things he’d rather do more than go to a hostess club, including and not limited to slamming his face into a lit stovetop and drowning in a hot tub.

“I just think the girls there are really underrated, y’know? I like that they have some slightly older gals, I love a mature lady. How about you?”

Daigo shoved a shard of ice from his glass into his mouth and let it melt on his tongue. “Come on then.”

He was paying for two hours and that was that. At least he could get a bottle for himself and work through that, sitting at the edge whilst the others enjoyed the girls’ company.

Dazzle might have specialised in more mature women, but the decor was a nightmare like every other hostess club. Why’d they always insist on so many sparkles, it gave him a headache.

“Um...are you enjoying yourself?”

Daigo lowered his gaze to look at the girl. ‘Mature’ really meant ‘late twenties’, and she was running on the younger side of that.

“What do you think?” he said coldly, swirling his drink in its glass.

She seemed a little dazed at this, glancing back at her fellow hostesses, but kept going.

“M-my name is Nashi. Yours?”

“Daigo Dojima.”

He clicked his tongue, emptied his glass and went to refill it, his shoulders slouching slightly. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so short, you’re only doing your job.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I’ve had far worse responses.”

Daigo just gritted his teeth. Another reason he hated hostess clubs was he knew how other men treated these girls, saw it himself the times his father brought him along as a teen.

The least he could do was give this lady a nice conversation.

“Well, I’ll try to be a bit better than them,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the others, so loud and obnoxious.

Nashi smiled a little. “They’re not so bad. Your friends are just a bit...out there.”

He scoffed. “They’re not my friends. I don’t really...do friendship anymore.”

“Oh? How come?”

Shit. Of course, when you say something like that, people have questions. Daigo licked his lips in thought, considering how he should phrase this.

“You...don’t recognise my name, do you?”

Nashi blushed a little, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Um, well, you do have a bit of notoriety around town, Dojima-san. I know girls in other clubs, and they always talk about you.”

Daigo did a slight double take at this. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. You’re a rather…” She gestured at his coat and skinny jeans. “A striking figure, you know. A lot of girls like the edgy emo bad boy look. It’s popular right now.”

“Hm, figures.” A lot of men are also fans…

Daigo sat up a little straighter, gazing Nashi down. “Do you?”

“H-huh?”

“Find me attractive?”

It was a joke, said with a dry smirk, but she flustered, clearly uneasy. Daigo grimaced, sliding up a little closer and putting a hand to her knee.

“Hey, hey. I’m kidding.” He made his smirk a soft smile, broke down the facade for just a moment to put her at ease. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nashi’s eyes went wide, but nodded, brushing down the edges of her dress.

“A-anyway, I...I’ve heard you...were involved with the Tojo Clan. Is that why you don’t ‘do’ friends?”

“Mm. Essentially.”

Daigo gave up on the glass, swigging back from the bottle which got him a funny look from one of the other patrons across the way.

“My only friend murdered my father,” he said, so matter of fact. He hesitated a moment, letting out a short huff. “Well. He went to jail for the crime, at least. He was actually covering for someone else. Either way, I was left without his guidance for ten years, thinking he had betrayed me like that.”

He paused a second, swilling whiskey around his mouth, before continuing.

“I came back to town a few months ago and...he hasn’t bothered trying to find me. Which shows how little he cares.”

“Oh. That sounds...awful, Dojima-san.”

“It sure does, doesn’t it?”

Daigo shrugged, tilting the empty bottle back so he could savour just a few more drops as best he could. “That’s just how my life is now.”

He grumbled a little as he set the bottle down, belching into his cupped hand before draping himself back against the seat.

“Sometimes you gotta deal with the hand you're given,” he added, scratching lazily at his middle, “And unfortunately, I’ve had a poor deck from the start.”

He shut his eyes before letting out a laugh, forced and hollow. “Sorry. I’m not the best at keeping things light.”

How many hostesses had he paid to listen to him whine? Then he thought how they were probably all used to it, which made it even worse.

“Well, given your circumstances…”

Nashi glanced back at her co-workers, the barely hidden looks of disdain towards the rest of the crew and their boorish behaviour.

“I’d much rather talk to you though,” she said, reaching over to grab another one of the bottles along the table, gesturing toward his glass, “You’re nice.”

Daigo swallowed, nodding in approval as she filled it to the brim. His head pounded, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the music or the cravings.

“If you say so.”

The glass was empty in a flash, and filled just as quick.

“You’re good at this,” he purred.

The bottle was empty by the time the waiter came by. Daigo had just enough mental capacity to dig through his pockets and pay, giving Nashi a shaky smile and a pat on the knee.

“Thank you for tonight. You’re great.”

His friends, on the other hand, all started to whine as the waiter began to urge them into finishing their drinks.

“Aw, c’mon aniki, let’s hang around a bit longer!”

“If you want that, pay yourself, ya cheap fucks.”

Daigo stood up, a bit too quickly as he felt the room spin. He stumbled to the side slightly, wincing as he contained a belch that very much tasted of vomit. Nope! No puking tonight. Keep it all inside.

“I’m outta here,” he mumbled, resting a hand on any available solid surface to keep himself steady as he left.

He blanked out the cries of the others as he did. He’d wasted enough time with them tonight, and he was craving something else.

“Burger,” he mumbled, squinting as he glanced up and down the street, “Pffft...that way.”

This was always the worst part of the night. Trying to sober up enough so he could keep going, or at the very least get home in one piece. Stumbling through the streets and trying not to crack his skull open.

It wasn’t just food he craved though. He felt...itchy. That was the only way to really explain it. The desire to go wild, start a scuffle. Really earn that reputation he supposedly had.

To hell with staying in one piece.

But first, Smile Burger.

The fact that the poor worker even understood what he said through his slurred words was impressive and soon he was curled up against the window, feet pulled up on the chair beside him as he made his way through a burger that tasted like the finest wagyu steak right now.

All the while, he kept his eye out.

Yeah, it felt shitty to target people for a fight like this, but he made sure it was a fair fight. Usually a few guys, who looked like they could take a hit as well as throw one, maybe even have a chance if they weren’t facing someone running on adrenaline and too much booze.

He cocked his head as he focused on a table nearby. Four men, mid-twenties, definitely young yakuza from some family. He couldn’t see any lapel pin from where he was sat, but they were perfect.

Childishly, he picked up one of his fries and threw it in their direction. It hit the back of one guy’s head, and he looked around puzzled. Daigo just threw another, chuckling as it hit him again. A bit too obvious, as he was spotted this time.

“What the hell’s wrong with you dude?” one of the four cried.

“I dunno,” Daigo said, stuffing a bunch of fries in his mouth before flinging another their way, “Target practise.”

This one hit a guy in a striking red sports jacket right between the eyes, and Daigo could barely contain the full-on cackle he let out at the expression he pulled. It was almost too easy.

He grinned when one came over and jabbed him in the chest.

“Outside. Now.”

“My pleasure.”

He followed them into a nearby side street, hands in his pockets and head held high. He liked an audience sometimes, but a private fight was fine enough.

The biggest one of them threw the first punch. He was expecting it, crossing his arms over in front of his face to block it, before kicking out at the guy’s ankles.

The whole fight was messy. The little gang clearly had never been in a proper fight, had no form. They kept punching poorly, wincing with any that managed to hit as they stung their knuckles.

Not that Daigo was any better. He was still far too drunk, but that was half the fun. Stumbling about and getting in a rough hit that frightened these kids who’d never experienced this before. He just wanted the thrill, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Anything to feel something.

Daigo landed a punch on that guy in the sports jacket, right in the middle of his face. It sent him flat on his ass, skidding down the street slightly.

“Come on!” he groaned, “Grab him, idiots! We outnumber him!”

A moment of pause. Daigo tried to catch his breath, but ol’ sports jacket was right. He was outnumbered.

Two of them grabbed his coat and pushed him back against the wall, holding him there. The third punched at his gut, over and over. Daigo gritted his teeth, tensed his stomach for every punch.

He knew he could get out of this, easily. The guys holding him were hardly doing much, weren’t even gripping his actual arms, just the sleeves of his jacket. It wouldn’t take much to duck and slip down, then send them crying home to their mommies.

“Come on!” he hissed, baring his teeth.

But he wanted them to hit him.

“That all you got?”

He wanted them to hurt him.

Sports jacket guy had gotten back on his feet now, face already starting to bruise. His fist met the middle of Daigo’s face hard, harder than they’d been hitting before. It stung, a lot, which is exactly what he wanted.

Not that it solved anything.

It never did.

“Oi!” They all froze, turning toward the entrance of the street. Daigo, semi-dazed, managed to look too, and felt his stomach drop.

Kashiwagi's expression, initially a scowl, changed the moment he saw him, shaking his head and blinking a little. “Daigo?”

He sighed heavily, storming over and waving his hand at the little gang. “Shoo. Don’t let me catch you boys doing shit like this again, you hear?” “Y-yes Patriarch Kashiwagi.”

They scurried off further down the street, leaving Daigo to stand up straighter, rubbing his nose. He groaned a little as he saw the streaks of rusty red on the back of his hand, sniffling heavily. “Great.”

“Daigo…”

Kashiwagi sighed again, rubbing at his temple. “What are you doing?” “I’m just...I’m just out.” Daigo sniffed again, scrunching his nose. “Just finished dinner.”

“You know what I mean…”

Kashiwagi looked around, then grabbed Daigo by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s talk in the office.”

Daigo went to argue, but it only took one stern glare, the kind the older man had given him his whole life, for him to clench his jaw and follow.

Kashiwagi led the way toward the Millennium Tower, hand on Daigo’s shoulder the whole way. It felt so patronising, like that time he accidentally broke a window at the Dojima Family offices when he was ten, and Kashiwagi had done the exact same gesture, marching him to his mother.

“Nice upgrade,” he still said, gazing out the wide window of Kashiwagi’s office once they arrived, “From that little place on Tenkaichi.”

“Well, we make do. I’m second in command now.” Kashiwagi set down the plastic convenience store bag he’d been carrying on his desk, letting out a small, bemused exhale of air. “It’s not all bad. Now come on. Why were you fighting?”

Daigo clicked his tongue and shrugged, staring at the blinking lights below them.

“Daigo…” “I just was, okay?”

He gave a dismissive shrug, walking across the floor toward a cabinet, throwing the doors open. Kashiwagi watched him with tired eyes, slumping down in his chair. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight.”

“How did you know that’s what I was looking for?”

“Your breath reeks of it, kid. Your whole body does.” He took out a bento and can of coffee from the plastic bag, raising a brow. “And I know what you’re like, especially lately. How’s being a free man by the way? Haven’t seen you since you were released.”

“It sucks ass.”

Daigo slammed the cabinet door shut, opening another and grinning as he saw half a bottle of whiskey there, as well as some crystal glasses. He heard Kashiwagi tut loudly as he slammed both down on top of the cabinet.

“What did you expect?” he scoffed, pouring a very large measure, “Mom told me the news the moment I got out. What Nishikiyama did. That it wasn’t Kiryu. He hasn’t even come to see me, to apologise for it.”

He knocked the glass back, the sensation warm and familiar down his throat. “Hardly feel free. Just not in jail anymore.”

“What happened to the boy I knew?” Kashiwagi asked, walking over and placing a hand on Daigo’s shoulder once more. This time it was gentle, kind, attempting to be comforting. Not Kashiwagi-san, one of his father’s men, but Uncle Osamu, his mother’s best friend.

Daigo scrunched his nose up, taking another slug of whiskey. “You say that like I’ve ever been cheery.”

“Well, okay, you’ve always been a serious young man, but…”

He just shook his head, moving his hand away. He grabbed the whiskey bottle in the process, making Daigo let out a pathetic little whine.

“I’m not going to enable you any more than I have,” he said firmly, before adding, “I mean it though. You don’t need to throw your life away like this.”

Daigo didn’t reply, because he didn’t like the real answer. There wasn’t much of a life to throw away. He was doing everyone a favour with this.

“You bring me up here just to lecture me old man?” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

Still looking for someone to fight. Kashiwagi would wipe the floor with him, he knew that, but he didn’t care. He also knew he wouldn’t get that kind of satisfaction.

Didn’t mean Kashiwagi wasn’t frustrated with his attitude. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists and let out a deep exhale from his nose. “I saw your mother today. She’s been trying to call you all morning.”

“I know.” The empty glass was set down heavily, with a grunt. Daigo dug around for his phone, holding it out so Kashiwagi could see the countless missed calls and texts from her on the home screen. “I know what today is.”

“...and is that why you’re-”

“You know I’m like this anyway.” He stared at the texts, all similar in tone - Daigo, please call me. Daigo, it’s important. Are you okay? He got them most days from his mother. She was trying so hard. He didn’t want her to. He would rather she forget about him. She deserved that much.

Kashiwagi wasn’t looking at him, staring up at the ceiling as he thought of what to say next.

“I understand that...none of us could have predicted the extent of what your father was like.”

Daigo did a double take, noticing Kashiwagi immediately cringe. At least he knew what he said was stupid.

“Sorry, that was-”

“Yeah. It was.” Daigo looked up, head cocked to his shoulder. “Anyone could have guessed, really. We just pretended otherwise, because somehow he seemed to be the only thing keeping the Tojo Clan from completely falling apart.”

He was up in Kashiwagi’s face now, feeling his chest clench tight. He was working himself up over nothing, over that bastard. He hated it, but thinking of what his father did to get himself killed, the kind of man he was, it made his skin crawl.

“He deserves to spend every birthday after what he did having the most miserable time in hell,” he said with a hiss, noticing his voice wobbling, “I know it. You know it. But Mom refuses to let go-”

The slap felt cathartic, for both of them. Daigo shut his eyes and nodded as his cheek stung. He deserved that. He was trying to provoke that kind of reaction and got exactly that.

“I take back what I said. That boy you were is still there. An insolent brat,” Kashiwagi said, walking back to his desk, “Daigo, one day, you’re going to have to grow up. You can’t keep doing this until you die.”

He threw a semi-sympathetic look over his shoulder, but Daigo mostly felt it was piteous. That’s what he was. A pitiful, useless mess.

“Go home, Daigo. Call your mother. And for everyone’s sake, don’t have anything else to drink tonight.”

Daigo sucked in through his teeth and nodded again as he walked toward the door.

“...good night, Kashiwagi-san.”

No response. Yup. I deserve this.

He made his way home in a daze, everything working in automatic. Kashiwagi’s words kept echoing in his head, over and over.

You can’t keep doing this until you die.

Because that’s what he was trying to do, wasn’t it? Die. Suicide by hedonism. He was born already holding the worst hand life could deal, and he was never going to get anything better. After his father was killed, the one tiny scrap of potential good he could have in his life was gone, even if that prospect was a life of crime.

So why not? Why should he grow up when there was nothing to grow up for?

The moment he was inside his apartment, he slid down the door, staring blankly ahead. He’d needed that talking to, he needed a few really, from people who were currently pretending like he didn’t exist. That’s what he really needed. For Kiryu to talk to him, apologise for ruining his life, try and talk some sense into him. He always knew what to do.

But it was like he didn’t exist. Kiryu didn’t care. Kashiwagi tried to care, but knew he was a lost cause. Who did care?

Daigo opened up his phone again, staring at the missed calls and sighed. That’s who cared. Mom.

He should talk to her. He knew he should. He was an awful son who loved his mother very much, which is why he knew she deserved better. She was trying despite knowing she’d made mistakes, but he just couldn’t let that go.

He hovered on her number, ready to press the button to call...but instead he tossed his phone to land on the couch, walked to the kitchen and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the vodka bottle still on the counter.

He licked his lips, swallowed heavily...but let go, pushing it away.

“You win this time old man,” he grumbled, picking up an energy drink and the donuts he’d bought earlier in the day instead. Kashiwagi could never be allowed to know that though.

He knew this self-control wouldn’t last long. Come morning, he’d be shaking again, a hangover banging in his skull, and he’d be dragging himself towards that bottle like it was the source of life.

The same thing every day.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He couldn’t have it any other way.

#dojima daigo #ryu ga gotoku #trope: crutches #badthingshappenbingo #undeadbthb #highly recommend reading the end notes on ao3 for the buckwild place the inspiration for this came from

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frighthouseofalighthouse · 4 years

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I'm gonna do it. I'll take all the history asks for 500, Alex!

OKAy. I may have to reblog and do an add-on, because I will almost certainly go over the 250 paragraph limit. ALSO NICE JEOPARDY REFERNCE. Okay, ready? Go.

1: Historical role model?

We could all stand to be more like Julie D'Aubigny.

2: Favorite underrated historical figure?

See above.

3: Funniest historical kerfuffle?

In 1774 Boston's Committee of Safety (John and Samuel Adams as well as Joseph Warren and PaulRevere were on it) was made up almost entirely of patriots, except for one man: Daniel Leonard. They couldn't decide anything important with him around so they would have a fake meeting and then be like OKAY IT'S AUGUST WE'RE HOT AND TIRED, LET'S GO HOME, and then after he'd left they'd lock themselves in a room and have their REAL, TREASONOUS MEETING. Reading about this is objectively one of the funniest things I have ever heard. It's literally the beack house episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine where they have a fake party for Captain Holt.

4: Favorite conspiracy theory revolving around history?

Whatever the fuck the real story of the X FIles was (I've watched the whole thing multiple times and I still don't know what exactly what the point was. DOn't get me wrong I love it. It just makes no sense.)

5: Favorite political scandal to examine?

The XYZ Affair because I was there for it all and it's...a lot

6: Opinion on the presidential assassinations and their impact on America?

I answered this in depth last time I got that question and you can read my response here.

7: Which time period would you like to live in?

Either take me back to the revolution or put me in Victorian England (BARRING MEDICAL NONSENSE AND SOCIAL BARRIERS)

6 (again?!): Favorite historical fiction book?

See the assassination link!

8: Favorite tv show based on historical events, but not really faithful to real life?

Top choices are Outlander, TURN: Washington's Spies, Black Sails, and Ripper Street.

9: Favorite musical based on history?

*sarcasm* Definitely NOT Hamilton whaaaaaaat why would you even assume that?! Ahem. Also Les Mis is cool I guess.

10: Favorite movie based on history?

Wonder Woman!!!

11: Favorite biography?

The Swamp Fox by John Oller

12: If you could prevent one tragedy, which would you choose?

The Trump Administration.

13: Fun fact?

MLK and Anne Frank were born in the same year.

14: Favorite female monarch?

Cleopatra or Mary Queen of Scots.

15: Favorite war leader?

I'm biased but George Washington.

16: Favorite controversial leader?

Winston Churchill

17: Favorite feminist pioneer?

J U L I E D ' A U B I G N Y. Also Mary Read and ANne Bonney my queer pirate gals

18: Which president, in your opinion, was the best speaker?

No contest, Abraham Lincoln.

19: If you would travel back in time and kill anyone, who would it be?

Listen I’m not a fan of these questions when people are like “I’d kill Hitler” etc. bc butterfly effect, BUT The British officer who shot John Laurens can CATCH THESE MF HANDS

20: Opinion on each of the founding fathers?

Oh boy. This is an interesting question at this point in time because I am currently grappling with the fact that the people I worked with did not really believe in equality for all, and the system we built was designed to reflect this. However, it is a system that I believed in and put my everything towards so I have many conflicted feelings toward it rn. Anyway here's the low-down on the major ones. GEORGE WASHINGTON: Good guy, needed to loosen up and not be a slaveholder. JOHN ADAMS: old stinky man. Called me mushroom excrement once. Put him back in the swamp from whence he came. THOMAS JEFFERSON: Rapist. Slaveholder. Really stuffy. Founded an entire political party for People Who Don't Like Hamilton. Fuck him foreverrrr. JAMES MADISON: Friendly with me but betrayed me when Jefferson came back from France. 2/10, cute but do not trust him with your secrets or coffee order. JAMES MONROE: A teenager during the war and I barely ever saw him after that but he was fine ig. ALEXANDER HAMILTON: that me! Made mistakes but all around a cool(tm) guy. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN: fresh funky and really funny. Cooler than you'd expect an old man with gout to be.

21: Which leader do you think would make the best spouse?

No leaders are good spouses bc superiority complex.

22: Most pointless war in your opinion?

All. But King Phillip's War was especially whack.

23: John Wilkes Booth - crazy or crazy with a cause?

I mean of course he had a cause, but it was a bad one and having a cause doesn't make him less crazy. He was...really yikes.

24: Why do you think Lee Harvey Oswald killed JFK and did he act alone?

Most certainly did not act alone. But I feel based on timeline of events and maps of the area that either he was paid off either by our own government or the Soviets, or one of the two set him up as a patsy. Then Jack Ruby was paid to cover up the tracks.

25: Opinion on assassinations of leaders in general?

Same as killing anyone else, I guess, murder is bad, and I don't think that's really the route that should be taken to remove dangerous parties from power. But in some cases it may be the only way of removing them, and, well, that is what it is.

26: Do you think we're going to repeat history because we haven't learned from it?

Always. It is constantly happening. There is nothing new.

27: Have you ever been teased for being a history nerd?

hahahahahahahahaha yeah. Ever since first grade.

28: Which historical figure do you think has been subject to the most fictionalization and elevated to a godlike status nowadays?

Due to the musical, Alexander Hamilton (me.) People need to realize that I wasn't perfect but also not evil. Just human.

29: Rant about your favorite topic?

See the other part of my Lincoln Assassination rant here

30: Favorite kids/teens history books?

The Dear America series and the Liberty's Kids novelizations are WHERE ITS AT.

31: How was your interest in history started?

I don't even know exactly when or how anymore. My mom's a book nerd and an archaeology/anthropology major, so I grew up in a house chock full of books, including history books. I've loved it ever since I could read, honestly.

32: Do you know a history professor?

I do not!

33: How did your favorite history teacher structure their class?

I was homeschooled so it was my mom. She made sure we covered every period, but other than that just let me pick out what interested me and what I wanted to read and explore. She read a ton of big historical books right alongside me and we'd discuss as we read. We still do this!

AND THAT'S THE HALFWAY POINT OF THESE. I HAVE TO GET READY FOR AN OVERNIGHT SHIFT AT WORK SOON SO I WILL LEAVE THIS HERE FOR NOW AND REBLOG WITH THE REST OF THEM UPDATED TOMORROW. THANK YOU SO MUCH.

#a series of essays anonymously published #history asks

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skyerana · 4 years

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tagged by @ashipwreckcoast for a question thinger. I’m bored out of my skull and I like these questions so here you go. You should do it. Yes, you. Why? Because? I don’t have real reazons.

Putting this under a cut because its long and I don’t want to clog up your dash.\

1. Do you prefer writing with a black pen or blue pen? Black, specifically Pilot G2 pens. But really? I like a good dark dark green. My dog ate my favorite pen and I haven’t been able to find one in that color since.

2. Would you prefer to live in the country or city? I’ve sort of done both. I love living in a city, with all the vibrancy and life that it entails. There’s public transit, arts and culture, so many kinds of food, interesting people and always something going on. But for the last few years, I’ve been wanting to get back to something like where I went to school, where I lived for 7 months on a lake and the next closest people (besides us 9) were 5 miles away (the road up to the field station was 2 miles by itself and we got snowed in and flooded in on more than one occasion). I miss being close to deep nature and the peace that comes from being alone.

So which do I prefer? I don’t really know. I’ve been living back in a city for the past eight years but I’m feeling like its time for a change. I don’t think I’ll leave cities forever though. I like people and diversity too much.

3. If you could learn a new skill what would it be? For fun, I’d want to pick up leatherworking, blacksmithing, and/or woodworking. I’m currently not set up well to do any of them though. For practicality though, I’d want to learn general house maintenance.

4. Do you drink your tea/coffee with sugar? Depends on the tea, but often yes. Coffee gets an obscene amount of hazelnut creamer because I hate coffee but I love caffeine.

5. What was your favourite book as a child? The Hobbit. My dad and step-dad both read it to me at different points of my childhood and my dad gave me his copy (The Hobbit or There and Back Again, 1977 Illustrated edition)

6. Do you prefer baths or showers? Showers. Baths are well and good if you have a big enough one (which I don’t) and you don’t stay in so long it gets cold (I don’t).

7. If you could be a mythical creature, which one would it be? Upon reading this question, every single mythical creature that I’d ever read about immediately vanished from my memory. I’m going to have to come back to this one.

I came back to this one and I still don’t know. I like the idea of flying. But I don’t really want to be hunted out to extinction.

8. Paper or electronic books? I love paper books, but I read much better via ebook. I still haven’t read Gideon the Ninths because the pages are so soft I just sit and pet them instead of read.

9. What is your favourite item of clothing? BOXERS! Or rather, boxer-briefs. I know this sounds weird but bear with me. For some reason, when I started transitioning, it did not occur to me to buy mens underwear. When I finally did, It Was Amazing. I looked great. I felt great. I finally understood why so many people had “fun” underwear that they liked. Before, I had like one or two that had patterns/stuff on them. Now? I’ve got Star Wars and Captain Marvel and Deadpool and mountains and mushrooms and one with boxers that makes me laugh because there’s boxers on boxers!! And I can wear them whenever the fuck I want! So I always have something fun on, even (especially) if other folks can’t see it. Switching to boxers was such a weirdly affirming thing for my gender and I love it.

10. Do you like your name or would you like to change it? This is complicated. I like my legal name, sure, but its not me, not really. I did get the spelling updated on it legally when I was 16 so I could actually get my driver’s license. I haven’t had a chance to change my legal name since transitioning (between the election and COVID, I don’t know that I’d get through all of the legal rigmarole in time to vote in November), but I really like my chosen name and an altered version of my legal name will be my new middle name.

11. Who is a mentor to you? I’ve had so many over the years. I learn so much from people, but I had so many great mentors when I worked at the museum. Timshel stands out. If I can be half the mentor she is to someone, I’ll have put some real solid good into the world.

12. Would you like to be famous and if so, what for? No. Not in the everyone knows you sense. That’s not my jam. I wouldn’t mind having fame more in the sense of within a tiny field, being well known and respected.

13. Are you a restless sleeper? Yes... to the point where I’m seeing a sleep specialist in a month to sort it out.

14. Do you consider yourself a romantic person? Very much so. But there’s so many different ways to be romantic.

15. Which element best represents you? I hate these questions. I see bits of myself in all of the elements. People often associate me with air or water though.

16. Who do you want to be closer to? Distance wise, my family in California. I come from a bunch of very close knit families and so having folks on the other side of the country that I’m super close with is ihard.

17. Do you miss someone at the moment? “Everyone. Being solitary by choice as opposed to demand is a big difference.” I’m just going to leave @ashipwreckcoast‘s response here because it fits. I’m very lucky that I am still working in a (relatively) safe environment, but we’re all missing out on things like throwing a housewarming party for one of my closest friends/coworkers. Even though we see each other almost daily, we’re still missing out on a lot that we’d normally do. That’s even worse for folks I’m not seeing at all because of COVID.

18. Tell us about an early childhood memory. I legit thought I was a wolf and would howl at the neighbors when mom packed me into the wagon to go do laundry at the laundromat. The neighbors, being good people, howled back.

19. What is the strangest thing you have eaten? There have been a few times where I wasn’t sure what I was eating. One was at a wedding with 10 or 12 courses (I lost count) and some of them were foods I’d never seen before. I know jellyfish was on that list but there was a bunch of other stuff that I don’t know what it was. The few times I’ve been out of the country, I ate stuff I couldn’t identify (often due to language barriers). The seafood soup at the one place was just whatever they caught that day and it had a lot in it. I remember being disappointed in my fellow grad students when some of them turned it down. You don’t turn down food when you’re a guest unless you have a medical reason for doing so. But the thing is, none of these are strange, except by the US standards. So if that’s true, then the deep fried dragonfly should also be on this list.

20. What are you most thankful for? Most? That’s so hard to quantify. If I really think about it, it’s things like having a loving partner and a home and food and the ability to pay my bills, I guess.

21. Do you like spicy food? I do not like capsaisin related spices but I love horseradish type spices. I do liked well spiced, but not necessarily spicy, foods.

22. Have you ever met someone famous? A few times. Sometimes at the museum (worked with some of them). Sometimes at special events, like attending lectures.

23. Do you do you keep a diary or journal? Generally no. I do sometimes get the urge to write and reflect on stuff, so I’ll do that when the mood strikes.

24. Do you prefer to use a pen or a pencil? I’ve been trained to use pens for everything (I work in a chem lab). Pencils are fine, but you need the right kind for the satisfying scratchiness. I cannot abide scratchiness in my pens.

25. What is your star sign? Cancer. Why is this important?

26. Do you like your cereal soggy or crunchy? Not super soggy but not straight out of the box crunchy. Does that make sense?

27. What would you want your legacy to be? I want my legacy to be built on kindness and helping others. I know that’s cheesy and cliche, but I have so much privilege that I want to use to benefit others.

28. Do you like reading, what was the last book you read? I love reading. I’m on book 30 for the year. The last one I finished was Starsight by Brandon Sanderson, which is book 2 of 3 of the Skyward series and HE HASN’T STARTED BOOK 3 YET!! I read Skyward and Starsight in four days total.

29. How do you show someone you love them? I often cook for them.

30. Do you like ice in your drinks? Only for certain things. I don’t mind drinking most drinks at room temperature and ice waters stuff down. It’s good for iced tea though, but only if you need to cool it.

31. What are you afraid of? This isn’t a fair question. I’m afraid of being abandoned or fucking things up. I’m also afraid of spiders and the milk in my fridge expiring. I’m afraid of filling out forms (forms are really hard and make me extremely anxious). I’m afraid of phone calls, but I’m good at them. I’m afraid of public speaking, but you’d never know it unless I told you. I’m afraid of losing the people I love, of dying without having put some good into the world. I’m afraid for my neighbors, for my brothers and sister, for my niece. The world is overwhelmingly scary right now.

32. What is your favourite scent? Campfires, the smell of a fresh spring rain, leather, the weird musky scent of my kitten, of garlic and onions cooking low and slow. There’s too many.

33. Do you address older people by their name or surname? Depends on who and in what context I know them.

34. If money was not a factor, how would you live your life? I’d travel a lot more. I’d donate to a lot of things. Museums, arts, individuals. I’d love to just go on to gofundme and just straight up fund folks to their goals plus a bit extra. And then go figure out where the systematic failures were that lead to them not being able to afford it in the first place.

35. Do you prefer swimming in pools or the ocean? Ocean. Absolutely. But this is also lake and river erasure.

36. What would you do if you found £50 on the ground? I guess exchange it for USD.

37. Have you ever seen a shooting star? Yeah. They’re magical every time.

38. What is the one thing you would want to teach your children? Be kind. To yourself and others.

39. If you had to have a tattoo, what would it be and where would you get it? I’ve got several I want. I was supposed to get an anchor with an octopus chilling on it on my inner forearm for my one year anniversary on testosterone but then COVID hit and well... who know when I‘ll get it.

40. What can you hear now? Mostly just the AC and the tack of the keys on the keyboard. Occasionally a particularly loud vehicle makes itself known.

41. Where do you feel the safest? Curled up with my partner and dog.

42. What is the one thing you want to overcome/conquer? Probs my anxiety.

43. If you could travel back to any era, what would it be?

44. What is your most used emoji? The crying laughing one. I survive on sending stupid memes and shit back and forth with too many people. After that, the heart.

45. Describe yourself using one word. Oof

46. What do you regret the most? Not trusting myself when I figured out I was trans back in undergrad. That whole decade of burying it all and internalizing a lot of transphobia really did a number on myself.

47. Last movie you saw? I think it was Birds of Prey and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn

48. Last tv show you watched? Rewatching Avatar with my partner right now. We just finished She-Ra.

49. Invent a word and its meaning. I just... I don’t know. I’m a Webster. I just compile what other people say in a book.

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professortennant · 5 years

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Sam/Jack Rec List, Part 2

more fics since i put the part 1 list together. i hope you find something here you haven’t read or haven’t read in a while! if you have a favorite fic, send it my way! only 55 fics on this list!

AU:

The Love That Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger--AU exploration of a Stargate world where Sam has a kid: As she works to balance saving the planet with being a single mom to a sweet little girl, Jack finds himself accidentally falling in love with not one Carter, but two. This fic starts at the beginning of the series and takes a nice long meander through the first four seasons as Sam and Jack go from strangers to friends to something much more.

Infinite Possibilities: Doctor Carter/Jack AU.

Fleeting: Not long now, she thinks as she closes her eyes and tries not to scream. Not long now until she ceases to exist.

Chrysalis Unbound: (WIP) Doctor Carter AU. One day, in between the stars and a cluttered lab, she found herself without realising it.

Stranded/Off-World

Let The World Spin series--SG-1’s stranded off world. Some of them are having a more difficult time accepting it than others.

Past the Breakers and the Markers-- SG1 gets stranded off-world as they escape Anubis and Jack and Sam work through some unspoken feelings.

You Just Might Find--Sam and Jack, stranded. (How much do I want to summarize this: They lost everything . . . and found each other? LOTS.)

Jaunt to Paradise: A Stargate malfunction strands Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter in a cliché.

Work: Her hands were covered in dirt and whatever else was down on the ground around the guts of a DHD that had seen better days. They were light years from home. The thing between them was new enough that it still felt wrong when she moved away from him.

Post-Ep/Post-Movie

Continuum Interrupted: When Jack O'Neill is assigned to evaluate the threat Colonel Samantha Carter poses to his world he gets caught up in more then he could ever have imagined.

Desperate Times: As the unimaginative title suggests, this is a tag for Desperate Measures. This story picks up where the episode leaves off. Implied S/J, but this is not a romance. SG-1 has to get Sam home, and Sam has to come to terms with what happened.

Never: Post-Death Knell.

After the Storm: He doesn't call her and tell her he's making omelets with beer, they don't have stupid bets to see who can finish a crossword puzzle the fastest, he doesn't invite her to go fishing, and they rarely even end up in the commissary at the same time.(set around the events of 8.18, "Threads".)

Things Owed: Over the years they've sacrificed countless times for each other. Every once in a while, they try to repay their debts. A series of Ficlets carrying the same theme.

Strangers on a Train: It began with a train ride. Jack isn't sure he wants it to end. And he doesn't know why. Set during the vague "One Year" of Continuum.

The Principle of Cause and Effect: After the couple of days she'd had, she wanted nothing more than to lie there and breathe and think about nothing at all. (Post-Ep for Foothold)

Sleeping Beauty: Once upon a time, under a faraway mountain, there lay a Major in need of her Colonel. An AU of Divide and Conquer. One-Shot.

Supposition Series: This story is the first in a series of tags that, while sticking strictly to canon, explores the theory that Sam and Jack were engaged in a clandestine romance off-screen from Season 6 onward.

No Absolutions: If Carter dies, a part of him will die, and he’s not sure it’s a part he can live without. Post Upgrades Tag.

Dark Switch: It happens so fast. Post-100 Days/Shades of Grey.

Carter ex machina: Post-100 days.

three by five: post-fair game; the speech that jack never got to give

Minos Does Not Rule the Skies: The maiden flight of the USAFS Homer.

Aliens Made Them Do It/Talk About it:

No Holds Barred: Jack’s eyes snapped open and he popped up onto one elbow to eye his bedmate. He wondered who she was for only a millisecond, because he would know that blonde head of hair anywhere. Which meant he had a big problem, because he had no idea how he ended up in bed with Major Samantha Carter.

Hope Lights: After a difficult few months, SG-1 is sent to a planet in order to attend its most important festival. During the proceedings, Jack and Sam find themselves alone for a while - giving them time to say things that need to be said. Jack/Sam angsty-fluffery-guttery Ship with a hint of Christmassy goodness.

Barrier: (technically alien tech made them talk about it) When Colonel O’Neill is placed in harm’s way by an abandoned, automated defense system on a deserted planet, Major Carter must work against the clock to free him. Her actions may change things between them forever.

A Drink From the Lotus Chalice: A powerful being turns the lives of everyone on SG-1 upside-down. Be careful what you wish for...

The Rite of Rarevanu: When Sam and Jack are forced to participate in an off-world ritual, things between them get heated.

Memory May Be Paradise: While on an alien planet, Jack picks up a nasty case of amnesia. At first lost, he must be found and then he must tackle the issue of his missing memories and what that means for his position on SG-1 and for his relationships.

Overload: He’s trying really hard not to think about the fact that he’s in bed with Carter, and she’s not wearing any pants.

A Little Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing: All in all, it could be worse.

No idea how to categorize these:

Close: They work together day after day, side by side, mission after mission. It's only a matter of time before events from the past return to haunt them. When they find themselves alone and too close, can they keep their honor intact, or will they succumb to their deepest wants? Sam/Jack ship. (Season 5-ish.)

Cause a Day Can Get So Long: Jack and Sam hang out on planet Earth.

Plan C Series: Sam throws her back out the same week the Colonel is scheduled for his third knee surgery.

Reflection of Us: I often think about the duplicates and wonder what their story is, and how they came to terms with their exile and the fact that they're no longer human, but machine. Anyway, I figure they deserve a bit of happiness!

Clocking Out: It’s Jack’s last day at the SGC. Naturally, something goes horribly wrong.

Let Go and Hold On: With the team moving on to new assignments after the defeat of the Replicators and the Goa'uld, SG1 reunites for one last mission while Sam and Jack wonder if it's too late for them

A Brother, His Sister, and her Jack: Mark and Jack have the chance to talk while waiting for Sam to recover.

Falling: Sam and Jack and a "close shave."

Four Times/Five Times

Out Go the Lights--4 closets and a happy ending.

Five Times They Visited Boring Planets: Not every planet is a thrill ride.

Five Times They Met In Another Life: ...And Then One More Time They Also Met in Another Life

Five Times Sam Gets Married

Five Times O’Neill Thought Carter Was Beautiful (and one time he told her)

Embrace Me: This came about from a discussion on the GW Family thread about the great hug Sam and Jack shared in Threads. Somebody, I don’t remember who, asked us to think of other times they might have shared that kind of hug. This is my response. S/J.

Five Christmases

Set in S9/10 and/or post-series:

Domesticated Equines: Sam and Jack’s first year of marriage.

This Close: Jack’s last mission doesn’t go quite the way they planned.

Bygones: He doesn't say much, at least not the words that she specifically wants to hear. Jack's more a man of action. Even knowing this, it takes another woman to make Sam understand how he really feels. Sam/Jack established relationship. Unabashedly romantic/fluffy/kind of angsty.

Ticked Off: Jack is just as ticked off as I am that Sam got bumped from command of SG1, but Sam calms him down.

Fine With It: Jack’s with another woman and Sara is fine with it.

Winter Solace: Sequel to Fine With It

Taxi Service: When Cam, Teal'c, Daniel, and Vala get themselves captured on what was supposed to be a simple mission, it's up to Sam and Jack to mount an equally simple rescue. An alternate version of Bad Guys.

Out of the Ashes: Jack is left to pick up the pieces of his broken life after Sam and the Hammond disappear. Post SGU premier episode but there should be no spoilers here.

#sam x jack #sg1 fic #stargate fic #rec list #stargate sg1 #sg1 #fic rec list

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boysknottysummer-blog · 5 years

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Discovered!

The following is the first chapter of Nicolas H’s saga called The Boys’ Knotty Summer. His stories hold a special place in my heart, as they helped me to find who I really was as I was growing up. I hope you, the dear reader, will find them as delightful as I do.

To begin with my story, I should introduce myself at the time as a 14 year old male, athlete-slim, just as tall as any normal kid, with short brown hair and green eyes. While I look like the average Latin boy, at the same time I don’t (mom is a foreigner with German ancestry).

During one of my many summer vacation’s afternoons, I was invited by my cousin to sleep over. Tyler (13) is a little bit different; he is shorter than me, has darker skin, black eyes and hair. We had already played tie-up games together but this was a special occasion I’ll never forget.

Around 3 pm, my mom dropped me off at my uncle’s house, a two-story building where there’s nothing much to do than play soccer, cards or watch TV (no computer though), but we managed to have fun anyway. Tyler had only one brother, who was 10 years older than him, so he never got into - neither knew about - our games. Tyler answered the door, said hello and I followed him right into the kitchen where he was washing some dishes.

“My mom’s working late. She asked me to do some stuff and then we’ll have the whole day to play,” Tyler said, as I started to help him.

“What about Marcus?”

“I have no idea. He’s always wandering in his car, but don’t worry, he won’t be back till 10,” he replied and I relished the idea of being all by ourselves in that big house.

I really enjoyed spending time with Tyler because he was open to try anything and wouldn’t say shit like you were weird or something. Right after we finished all of his chores, the doorbell rang and several friends from the neighborhood invited us to play soccer. They always showed up when they knew I was around and we often agreed to dispute a match with them if we, ehem, weren’t doing something else.

We went upstairs to get the ball, changed from our normal clothes into blue satin shorts and a light t-shirt, with a pair of worn out sneakers. I remember it turned out to be a particularly tough game, despite the fact I was a fine soccer player. My teammates were Adrian (13) and Phil (12), the “blond brothers”; against Tyler’s team: Adam (13) and Chris (14). While we disputed the match, the relentless sun punished us severely; it must have been the hottest day of the season, for I was soaked in sweat only 15 minutes after we started. It went on excitingly, until there was an incident I ought to tell due to its relevance in the story. Tyler tried one last time to score before the game ended. He had already left Phil behind and had dribbled Adrian, the goalkeeper, running at full speed towards our goal. I was the last barrier to go through before scoring, and if that happened, we would lose. I must admit I don’t like losing, especially in my own game, so I decided Tyler wouldn’t score this goal and started running in the opposite direction, like I was going to collide with him. When I was pretty close, I threw myself to the ground, stretching my right leg at my cousin; and I tackled him. Back then I didn’t think it was going to hurt him THAT bad, but he recovered from it, so let’s just call it a minor soccer injury. When I got up, I saw Tyler on the ground clutching and rubbing his right ankle and screaming like hell.

“Sorry Tyler, I had to protect my team you know. No hard feelings right?” I said, expecting a little understanding. I reached down, inspected his wound and helped him to his feet.

“Yeah sure, you stupid cheater,” he replied and pushed me. A sudden chill ran through my body. I tried to apologize again but he wouldn’t accept it. If there ever was an outstanding characteristic in Tyler, that was vengeance. The decision was left for penalty kicks and we won 3 – 2. Tyler didn’t seem to be angry, but I knew him, he was furious. The game over, the loser team bought us a big bottle of Coke, which we drank greedily, and then Tyler and I headed back to the house. It was around 5pm. We trotted up to the second floor, where all bedrooms were. We were filthy and in desperate need of a shower. I had already taken my sweaty t-shirt off and as I was entering his room, Tyler on impulse kicked my ankle and I tripped and fell down hard.

“AHHH! That hurt goddammit! What was that for?” I cried out loud, astonished, massaging my foot. He immediately reached into his top drawer and took a long coil of elastic bandage, the ones you use to use for boxing.

“Nothing,” he replied while he pushed me rather roughly on my stomach, “just lay down still, because you’re going to be my prisoner for the whole afternoon.” I couldn’t believe his words and laughed. At that time, I wasn’t worried about getting out, because Tyler couldn’t even tie his freaking shoelaces - whenever he had tied me up I had always managed to free myself within seconds. I tried getting up but he jumped and sat on my butt, pulling my wrists back. I squirmed and wiggled trying to escape, but Tyler’s grip held -although younger, Tyler was quite strong, strong enough to hold me.

“Calm down,” he said, “you’re just making it harder for yourself.” I laughed again, but soon that smile disappeared from my face. It was then Tyler finally got the chance to turn the tables on me and prove a point or two to me regarding tying up skills. He grabbed my wrists and I felt the loops around them while he wrapped vertically, and then horizontally; he finally knotted it beyond the reach of my fingers. I struggled somewhat worried and, surprise, I couldn’t get out! It was nothing like the crappy ties he used to do; there was no slack and all loops had a part in strictly securing my hands to each other. I had no logical explanation to how he had suddenly become an expert tier, but what really mattered at that instant – and worst of all - was that I realized any attempt of escape without help would be futile.

“HELLLPMPPPPPPPHHHH….!!!” My scream was muffled when Tyler clamped his sweaty warm hand over my mouth. I groaned, squirmed and mmmpppphhhhed but Tyler had pressed the back of my head using his other hand and had effectively hand-gagged me.

“There’s no point in screaming for help now, Nick. Nobody is home and you’re going to pay for what you did this afternoon.” I think, however, he would have tied me either way, but then he had a good excuse to do it. At that tender age, I was not familiarized with the term “bondage” – we just referred it as “tie up game”. It’s obvious that at that age most people start their love for tying up, as it happened to me. Looking back with hindsight, I think it is very likely that Ty (that’s how I call him, ironic isn’t it?) also enjoyed bondage more than he was letting on at the time.

“Are you sorry?’ Tyler asked with his hand still tightly clamped over my mouth. I tried desperately to reply, “I am!”, but it all came out as “MMP MPPPHHHH” through his hand.

“This is your last chance Nick. Are you sorry?” He asked again and ignored my following “MMP MPHHHHHHHHH!!!”

“Well Nick, you leave no me choice but to punish you,” Tyler said in a sober tone. Then he removed his hand and I said, “I’m sormmppphhhh…” but was cut off again as he shoved a sock in my mouth and sealed it with a convenient roll of duct tape under the bed, wrapping it around my head.

“Get up now!” he commanded. Tyler helped me to my feet and then marched me to his bed where I was laid on, still with bound arms. He proceeded to take off my shoes and socks, and then he repeated the tying technique with my ankles and secured them together to a rope that hung from the ceiling. There I lay shirtless, tape-gagged, hands bound behind my back, and my restrained feet lifted a meter up, making it impossible for me to get up. My cousin just laughed at me; he would be getting fun at my expense. I soon would know what he was up to.

“Nick, I really should get a shower. You won’t mind if I leave you alone for a while, will you?” Ty mocked but got no answer.

“Haha.” He went on admiring his handiwork, patted on my cheek, said, “Don't go anywhere!”, and closed the bathroom door after him.

I tried to free myself, but to no avail. I mightily struggled against the ropes, twisting my shoulders up and down, pulling and pushing my arms against the ropes. Ty returned after 15 minutes to find me the same way he had left me, only sweatier. I was breathing heavily as he reached to my feet and wiggled his fingers. He was aware that I was extremely ticklish and he had always taken advantage on that; he was really, really evil in that way.

“Mmmpphhhhhh!!!” I screamed through my gag, hoping compassion. Nevertheless, he started the dreadful tickling. He tickled me with increased intensity and I burst out laughing under my gag. He kept on tickling me, under my armpits, my sides, but specially my bare feet, a smile of pleasure on his face. I was totally helpless and laughed my head out as he continued. I screamed, wriggled and squirmed all the way until he stopped for a minute or two so I could recover from it. By then, tears were already rolling down my cheeks. I was exhausted. I thought it was better if I just remained quiet and stood still to regain strength, for I knew the relief would be temporary.

“Do you like that Nick?” I shook my head with pleading eyes.

“Well, I sure don’t like having a bruise on my leg you jerk!” He punched me on the arm. Then Tyler approached again wiggling his fingers, but like a miracle, we heard steps coming up the stairs. He froze and looked at me.

“OH, SHIT!!!”

“Mphhhhhhhh !!!” I begged through the tape; I wanted him to untie me before it was too late! We truly didn’t want to be seen playing tie up games; we thought it would be too embarrassing, particularly for me in that position. I should have looked stupid tied that way and tortured by a 13 year old boy. I suppose he thought it was impossible to untie me before I was discovered and he just hid behind the closet, the coward little rat. The steps came nearer and nearer, until they reached the closed door which was shortly knocked and then opened….

#boys friends friendship gay stories story summer tugstories tug tieupgames writing memories

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bwstanaccount · 4 years

Text

Gillian

Tammy and Liz came to every school recital. Your winter concert, your chorale performances, your spring play, even the special Scottish Dance showcase you had in the fifth grade. But not everyone’s parents did.

“Gillian, are you coming to Great Dane with us to celebrate?” you asked, pulling your winter coat over the stage blacks you’d worn to perform. You’d been a measly ensemble role in this year’s musical, a walking statue in Mary Poppins; but it was your last semester of middle school, and so you felt a sense of companionship with your castmates that required commemoration.

“No, I don’t think I can. I’m walking home, and my dad would be mad if I got there past curfew.” Gillian shrugged. “You know how it is. Parents.”

You didn’t know how it was, but you nodded anyway as you walked out of the dressing room with Gillian. “So they didn’t come to watch you perform?”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “They never do. But I was only a penguin, anyways. Not much to watch.”

Only a penguin, you thought. Only a penguin, that makes sense. Maybe it wouldn’t have made so much sense if you’d turned to see Gillian wiping her eyes as the two of you exited the school doors.

“Well, anyway, I hope you get home safe. Bye-bye! See you at school!”

Gillian half-heartedly returned your wave and went on her way.

You, on the other hand, darted back into the building to go see your moms. You couldn’t wait to hear about how much Liz enjoyed the performance!

Gillian wiped sweat off of her forehead as she took a bow. You squeezed her hand, a way to silently congratulate her on her first lead role while the audience erupted into cheers.

“How do you feel?” you asked, as the two of you ran into the dressing room.

“I feel good! Accomplished!” Gillian grinned, but there was a twinge of something else in her expression.

“Your parents didn’t show up again, did they?”

Gillian shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Gill.”

“No, it’s fine. C’mon, let’s get changed and then we can go say hi to your parents.”

You nodded and turned away from Gill to get undressed. As you began to take your blouse off, you noticed Gill’s phone buzzing on the counter in front of you. It displayed a text:

“Sorry, Gillian, couldn’t come to your show. Won’t be home for a couple of days. On business. Make sure to get home by 10:00 sharp. - Dad.”

When you were done changing, Gill and you walked to the stage doors, her family situation fresh on your mind. Aside from her twitching hands, Gill didn’t express any sign of sadness or disappointment at her parents’ absence. That’s why you told yourself it would be okay. That’s why you reassured yourself that, if something happened, she could tell you. You told her that.

When you exited the building, Tammy and Liz were waiting for you with a freshly cut bouquet.

“Congratulations, sweetie! First high school play!” Tammy leaned forward to hug you before realizing the barrier of flowers in her hands, which she quickly handed to you. You could still smell your garden’s dirt on them.

“And Gillian, you were amazing! I need to tell your parents to put you on Broadway!” Tammy said, laughing. “Where are they?”

“Oh, they’re not here. My dad had a business trip and my mom... she’ll couldn’t make it, I guess.” Gillian produced a smile, noticing the hesitant reaction from Tammy and Liz at her remark. “They’ll probably go next time.”

Gillian didn’t show up to the next audition, which meant she didn’t perform in the next play, either.

As you exited the stage doors after the show and saw your moms waiting for you affectionately, you went in for a hug but felt something was missing.

“Where’s Gillian?” Tammy asked.

“Mom, she wasn’t in this one.”

“She wasn’t? I could’ve sworn I saw her name in the program... Look! I even brought her flowers!” Tammy remarked, carelessly flaunting her bouquet and sighing.

“You’re all over the place,” Liz laughed.

It had been a rough year for you and Gillian, one littered with disagreements, awkward conversations, and even a few fights here and there. That’s why, when she didn’t show up to school one week, you placed all the blame on yourself.

“Gillian?” you texted, sneaking out your phone in between English and Chorale. “Is everything ok?”

Sent.

Not expecting an answer, like always, you started to put the device back in your pocket before feeling it buzz in your hand.

“No.”

Nervously, you began to type again. “What’s going on? Do you need to talk?”

“Can I come over for a bit? Will explain when there.” You paused for a few seconds, unsure of how to respond, before a second text came through: “I’m sorry.”

An hour after you got home from school, the doorbell rang.

“Can you get it?” Tammy asked from the kitchen.

“Alright,” you responded, getting up from the couch to open the door. It was Gill.

She looked a mess in her beat-up t-shirt and jeans, her mascara running and her eyes underlined by raccoon-like dark circles. Her hair was unkempt, down from its usual ponytail, and in her hand you noticed an overnight bag.

“Is it Gillian?” Tammy called over the sound of the food processor.

“Yeah, mom... it’s... it’s Gillian.”

In the following days, Tammy and Liz treated Gillian like their second daughter without asking once what had happened. You, on the other hand, didn’t know better than to needle:

“Is this about your parents?” you interrogated as the two of you were falling asleep.

“Yes.” Gill sighed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you continued.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Gillian rolled over to face you in her spare bed. “I’m alright, okay? Just leave it.”

So you assumed everything was fine, for a week or two, until you woke up in bed one night and found Gill’s bed empty. Weird, you thought. She usually slept like a baby. Getting up to get some water, you heard sobs from the kitchen below and crept downstairs in a somnolent haze. As noise continued to mount, so did the surreality, and so you continued to descend the staircase.

Then, in the dim, 2AM lighting, you remember seeing it: Gill and your mother sitting side-by-side by the kitchen wall. You watched in amazement as Gillian collapsed into Tammy’s arms, letting go of everything that’d been building up for what felt like forever. Tammy patted her back, just as she’d done to you when you were little. That was the most vivid part— after that, you have only a foggy recollection of what happened. You remember Gill’s tears. Gill shaking. Your mother’s face as she calmed her down. You remember being paralyzed on the stairs, heart beating fast as you tried to sort out your emotions. What was happening was bittersweet, scary, confusing, painful, embarrassing, new, sad, odd. You remember deciding upon one of these words a bit later, bittersweet, as you reflected in your room. Gill’s misfortune had unwittingly brought out one of your mom’s best qualities, her genuine concern for others during times like these— it’d brought out the sweet. Bittersweet, you said, and as you fell asleep, you felt a little less worried for Gillian than before.

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lorewytch · 5 years

Text

What Hurts the Most

Okay, here we go. After a few weeks I managed to work out most of the kinks of this fanfic. Its another oneshot (10 pages to be precise AHAHAHA) This is my day after Della returns fanfic of how Webby is adjusting to Della being back. It’s sort of the story set before “Walls” I really wanted to add a Donald scene ;_; but he’s on the moon. So sorry Donald.. I also put this up on AO3. Once again, I love any comments and feedback ^^ this one did fight me quite a bit at the end especially. I had like 3 other endings before I felt this one fit the mood I wanted. I really hope you guys love this!

Webby watched the triplets hug their mother with a bright smile. Tears of happiness leaked from her eyes, hands clasped together and letting out little squeaks and noises of excited emotion. She felt like dancing and wanted in on the hug action herself.

She took a couple steps towards them, only for her to stop just a few feet from them, her arms dropping at her sides. She closed her eyes and took a step back, her smile turning slightly sad. She shook her head slowly and feeling a hand on her shoulder, she glanced up at her Granny who was looking down at her with love.

Giving her a bright smile back, Webby put a hand on her Granny’s and watched Della with the boys and how happy they were finally.

Webby couldn’t interrupt that.

Her tiny hand tightened on her Granny’s, but her expression remained the same.

After they had cleaned up the robot in the yard and placed the Sword in the Stone back where it originally was, Webby needed some alone time. Every once in a while, the boys and others would notice Webby’s absence. Beakley told them that while Webby was an outgoing child, even she needed time to herself and recoup. At first they were concerned, but Beakley assured them that this was normal for her granddaughter.

This time, with Della’s arrival the absence wasn’t felt as strongly. All eyes were on Della and Webby wanted to give the boys the time they needed with their mother. She barely spoke to her anyways. Mostly telling her where Donald was, and of course her ever popular. “Hi I’m Webby!”

Opening the door to her darkened room, she didn’t bother to turn on the light. Closing it behind her, she went to her bed, curling up on it and just lying there.

She tried to blank her mind, but her meditation techniques weren’t working. Taking a semi shaky breath, she grasped her pillow.

She didn’t really know what she was expecting.

To be included in the hugs?

To talk to Della?

To not feel like an outcast again?

Gripping the pillow tighter, she shoved her head into the pillow to suppress any sort of tears or crying.

No, Webby had to shove those thoughts aside. They had no business slipping into her mind and taking over.

Still, there was an ache there. One that was hard to identify at that moment. But she was shaking slightly, wanting to just let these emotions out somehow.

A soft knock at her door made her sit straight up and wipe away all evidence.

As her door opened, Webby saw her Granny’s face. She looked away.

“Darling.” Beakley started, walking closer to her granddaughter and sitting down gently on the bed next to her.

“Hi Granny.” Webby managed with a strangled smile.

Sighing, Beakley wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Webby? Is something wrong?” She asked staring intently at her.

Webby’s eyes met her Grandmothers and briefly Beakley saw those unshed tears before Webby pulled away and turned around.

“Of course not! Everythings fine!” She said brightly. “Well, I mean Dewey’s still throwing up fizzy rocks in the other room I think and I think were gonna need a gardener to fix the yard. But-“ she smiled, turning back to her Grandmother who wasn’t buying her rambling. Faltering, Webby’s form began to tremble as she resisted the urge to completely fall apart.

Beakley’s face shifted to worry as the pink clothed duck’s eyes began to cloud over with sorrow.

“Webby, is this about Della?”

Webby froze, her face giving Beakley all the answers she needed. Her expression became sympathetic and quickly she gathered Webby up in her arms, pulling her granddaughter on her lap. “Oh Webby…..” she said softly.

Clutching her grandmother’s clothes, Webby found she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“I’m happy! I’m really happy for the boys! For Uncle Scrooge! Finally they have Della back!...” Webby sputtered while crying, trying so hard to stop but finding it was just making her cry harder.

Beakley brushed her granddaughters hair with her fingers, letting her get everything out. “But?”

“B-But.. I started to feel like an outsider again! I never knew Della like Scrooge, I have no connection to her except through the boys! She’s their mom! I can’t…..I can’t intrude on that!” She couldn’t push her way into their hugs….she didn’t have that. A mother or father anymore, she only had her Granny. Gripping onto her that much tighter, Webby realized how alone she truly felt in that moment. And it scared her senseless. They were trying to meld into another family to make their own. But the barriers were still there. The Beakley/Vanderquack line ended with them and that terrified her if they couldn’t become part with the McDucks and Ducks.

“Oh Webby..” Beakley knew how long her granddaughter was hurting from her own pain. She hid it well behind her cheerful nature. But Beakley knew.

“Darling. I don’t believe they would think you would be intruding. The boys for sure would welcome you. You are as much family to them as Scrooge. Della….Della is just reconnecting with everyone. Give her time.” Patting her head, Beakley looked at her granddaughter lovingly.

Webby stopped crying, rubbing her eyes as they darted a bit, her mind soaking up what her grandmother was saying. “I….thanks Granny,” she said with a tearful smile. “I know…Della is struggling like everyone is. I’ll…welcome her properly tomorrow! I promise!” She held up her arms. “Webby style!”

Although Webby still wasn’t completely over her sadness, she put on a brave face for her Granny. She knew she was right. Della would approach her when she was ready, just like Scrooge did. She only hoped it was soon. She wanted to be with her friends again. She wanted to explore with Dewey, read with Huey and have Louie and her get into all kinds of mischief.

As she said goodnight to her Granny, she started to get ready for bed. Dressing in her nightgown, she arranged her stuffed animals, played interrogation, and even wandered a bit over to the McDuck family board. Pressing her hand against it, she slid it down and paused.

She really should update it. With this new development of Della returning she could ask so many questions and write everything down. The fragments she heard from the doorway suddenly appeared as sticky notes as she thought of them.

Notes of “Crashed on the moon?”

“Aliens?!”

“What is a moonmite?”

“Lost a leg in the crash.”

Appeared one after another. She paused writing the last one. “Came home through sheer determination of will to see the trip-“

She set down the sticky notes, finding another pain well up inside her. Swallowing harshly, she blinked back fresh tears and shook her head. What was wrong with her?

A knock on the door made her turn her head once more towards it. “Who is it?” She asked, her voice stronger than she felt at the moment.

“Its ah, me lass.”

Scrooge?

“Come in!” She called and quickly jumped onto her bed, making sure her eyes were dry and a smile was on her face.

Scrooge entered with caution. After all, it was very rare for him to be in her bedroom. Webby could count the times on one hand. She tilted her head curiously towards Scrooge. “Hi Uncle Scrooge! What’s up?”

“Aye…just wanted to see how ye were doing? Quite the event today.” He chuckled.

Webby blinked. “Oh! Well I was worried about Granny and that metal monster was kind of tough but I think everyone did a great job with defeating it!”

“Ah yes…” Scrooge said carefully. “But that’s not what I meant.”

Blinking at him innocently, he reached over brushing her face for a moment before taking her arm and tilting it to the side. A bruise had formed on her arm from where the monster had tried to choke the life out of her.

“Oh, that..” Webby chuckled and shrugged. Pulling it away she shrugged. “I’ve gotten more bruises through Granny’s training than that monster could have ever given me!” she said confidently.

“So, nothing more serious? I was held by that cretin as well..” He cracked his back with a groan. “Can’t say everything is in one piece myself.”

Smiling warmly at Scrooge, Webby shook her head with genuine appreciation. “No, I’m fine Uncle Scrooge….thanks..” she hugged him, gripping onto the back of his coat.

That was when he noticed her shaking and face pressed into his coat.

“Lass?” he asked softly.

Letting out a sigh, she let her smile fade as she slowly pulled away. She couldn’t meet his eyes and frowning, Scrooge’s gaze drifted to where she was looking.

A large board hanging on her wall.

His eyes widened and slowly he took a couple steps forward.

Then promptly fell off the high loft and hit the ground with a groan.

He forgot temporarily that Webby’s bed was so high up. Letting out a gasp, Webby jumped and quickly slid down her ladder to meet Scrooge at the bottom.

Helping him up, she held steady him as he forged his way towards the board.

“My stars…” he whispered, eyes darting from every picture, every note.

Webby looked nervous, biting her beak and shifting uneasily. “Oh..this? Um…well its my research on your family! You are so amazing Uncle Scrooge I wanted to piece it all together.”

Blinking, Scrooge glanced down at the young duckling. Slowly he sat down to her height and smiled gently at her. “Webby this is amazing…Aye don’t think historians or biographers could do better.” He said with pride.

Webby smiled and hugged him again, which he responded in kind. After pulling away a bit, he searched her eyes and noticed the tear marks on her cheeks. Her eyes were quite red as well and this made Scrooge worry.

“Lass….” He started, then didn’t know quite what to say. He wondered if asking if she was okay was too much. As her eyes widened a bit, registering what the other was going to say. Jumping back, Webby prepared herself.

“Don’t worry Uncle Scrooge. I’m okay. You should see how Della and the boys are doing.” Webby said, her smile splitting her face. “I-I’m sure she wants to catch up on everything with you guys.” Her gaze fell to the ground.

A lightbulb went off on top of Scrooge’s top hat. Lil’ Bulb to be precise. Scrooge’s eyes widened as he realized what was going on. Then he swatted Lil’ Bulb away who scurried towards back to his owner.

“Webby….” His voice was firm and instantly Webby froze where she stood. Afraid to look up, afraid of what Scrooge would say. She swallowed a lump in her throat and found it hard to breathe. Did he find out?

“Are ye….” He reached out for the young girl. She quickly side stepped away and spun around towards her ladder. Gripping both rungs tightly she suppressed the urge to shiver.

“Lass!” Baffled at her actions, Scrooge frowned.

Webby clutched the ladder tighter and grit her beak. “I’m not jealous..” she repeated softly. So softly she was sure no one could hear it. But Scrooge did hear it.

His face slipping into stern Scrooge mode he approached the young girl duck carefully. “Webby lass, are ye…jealous of the boys having a mother again?”

Webby froze and spun around. “No! Of course not!” she bit out. “I’m…I’m not jealous.” She repeated.

“I’m just…” She turned back to the ladder. “I’m just sad I can’t know Della like they can.”

Surprise, then confusion flashed past Scrooge’s face. “Webby..”

She let out a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. “I’m okay Uncle Scrooge.” She smiled at him. “She’s not my mom and she can never become my mom. I just… have to accept that.”

But she wished, she wished she had a mom who would drop everything to try to get back to her.

But it just was never in the stars she guessed. Her mom had long since been erased from the world.

Scrooge appeared behind her and hugged her tightly. “Even if ye never have a mother….ye will always have an uncle.”

He dried her tears with his fingers. “And I may not be perfect, but I will try every day to fill that hole inside ye. If ye will let me.”

Webby, with a trembling smile turned to him and nodded. She gave him the biggest hug she could managed. “Thank you…so much.”

Webby was getting ready for bed, finding herself staring up at the ceiling and feeling physically and mentally worn out. Gone was the happy young girl full of energy. This entire situation exhausted her mentally. She still had some emotions but for now she had stopped crying. She was done feeling so miserable for silly reasons. This was not like her and she had to bring her happy self back. Gripping the pillow and turning on her side, her gazed drifted to the bow which had been untied and draped over her table. Hesitantly she reach out and brushed her fingers upon the light material. Her thoughts wandered to her own parents. She had been pushing away those thoughts all day, but in the dead of night when everything was quiet, she could let them in. Perhaps, the hardest part of all of this was realizing that while she was so happy the triplets had their mother back, it didn’t change what happened to her own.

She groaned and turned away, annoyed she let another negative emotion disrupt her like this. Sighing, she brushed a hand through her hair. “Webby this is ridiculous..” she said to herself.

A sudden bang and “ow!” made her sit straight up. Alarmed, her eyes darted to where she heard the noise.

Another muffled bang and this time the voice, even muffled was pretty clear. “Dewey don’t elbow me!”

“Sorry!” was his whisper.

Folding her arms before her, Webby made her way to her vent. With one chop she knocked the cover off and three boys toppled out on top of her.

Yelping, she stumbled back, Dewey crashing into her first, followed by Louie and Huey.

The mountain of ducklings groaned and quickly each got off the other with slightly dizzy expressions.

As Dewey and Louie helped Webby to her feet, she held her head and glanced at them curiously. “Guys what are you doing here?”

The triplets each gave each other a look, their secret communication Webby was sure of.

Huey finally looked back at Webby. “You didn’t come to say goodnight to us like you usually do.”

Blinking, Webby glanced at each of their expressions. Huey looked worried, with his hands clasped together and giving her a small smile.

Dewey’s eyes were darting about, as if looking for something, his arms were crossed over his chest and when his eyes settled back on Webby he smiled as well.

Louie, for once was not on his phone and looked about ready to yawn. But his semi interested gaze was on Webby as well, eyebrow raised.

“Oh!” Webby hummed and twirled her hair a bit. “Sorry guys! I got kind of distracted……ummm updating my board!” she congratulated herself on the save.

Dewey seemed to buy it at first. “Oh right!” he grinned and ran to the board. The others followed behind but as he reached it, he frowned a bit. “Wait.. did you change it? It looks almost the same..”

“Oh..” Webby pointed to the new sticky notes.

Huey studied this carefully. “This took you since dinner?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No way, this is sloppy Webs. And if its one thing I know is you aren’t sloppy.” Louie said, draping his arm across her shoulders and suddenly Webby bit her lip.

“Oh right, well..” She nervously scratched the back of her head as the three boys looked at her.

“Um..” She shifted on her feet a bit. “I just….wanted you guys to have time with your mom is all..” she finally said. Her gaze was down, she didn’t want to see their expressions.

Louie eyed her suspiciously. “Why?” he asked.

Blinking, Webby looked up at them. “ Why? Because she’s your mom. You need to spend time with her!”

Huey shook his head. “Why did you leave? Why didn’t you stay and join us?”

Webby paused, gripping her arm with her other hand, her face started to shift as tears formed.

Seeing this, all three boys were alarmed.

“Webby?”

“Are you okay?!”

“What’s wrong?”

Closing her eyes painfully, she shook her head and took a step back. “I…” she paused, finding it hard to tell the truth. Would they hate her? Would they get mad?

Looking so unsure, Webby finally looked up. “I didn’t belong there..”

Dewey’s face shifted to one of devastation. Louie’s beak dropped and Huey’s eyes widened.

Quickly Webby held up her arms. “Don’t get me wrong! I know… I know I will always be a part of this family.” She smiled softly. “But…with your mom back. I knew things would change. You would want to spend more time with her.” She started to rant, trying to look calmly at the boys but all could see her unraveling before their eyes.

“Webs..” Louie tried, but Webby was on a roll.

“ You would want to go on adventures with her and go out to the mall or Funzos and that’s fine!” Webby continued, gripping the top of her head.

“Wai-“ Huey tried this time with hands up, trying to stop her. But it fell upon deaf ears.

“I mean, its not like I’m her daughter so of course I can’t go with you guys and that’s fine. I get that, I’m unsure if she even wants to talk to me….and besides I don’t need a mom.” She continued and Dewey had enough.

Narrowing his eyes, he marched up to Webby and grasped her arms, startling her into looking at him.

“Webs!” He said and she winced slightly.

“Webs..” He said more calmly this time. She swallowed.

“Yeah?”

It was at that moment he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? And he felt like such an idiot for not realizing her pain sooner. He had to admit Webby could conceal her emotions with little to no problem. But this…..

This was something he should have known as soon as Della stepped foot back into the house.

He could feel her tears leaking from his eyes. “Webs I’m sorry!” he hugged her paralyzed body to his tightly. A look of pure shock on her face. “D-dewey?” Slowly she started to hug him back and without words she seemed to understand exactly why he said those words.

Feeling herself starting to break down for the second time that night, she cried against him.

It was within the midst of this she felt two other sets of arms around her and glancing up, she saw Huey’s tear filled smile as well as Louie’s.

She sent them one back and she finally let out everything she had been holding inside all day.

“I’m scared..” She whispered. “I’m scared of everyone leaving me and going away like my parents! I try.. I try to be strong! I try to be brave! Like...Granny...like they wanted..But…But all I want is my mom and dad!” She sobbed harder, choking on her own tears as she gripped onto them for dear life. Her cries were agonizing to watch. “Please….please…don’t forget about me…”

Slowly her sobs began to lessen as she had let it all out.

Once she was able to regain herself again, she sat on her bed with the triplets surrounding her.

“Webs, why didn’t you tell us?”

“What? That I was feeling lonely and isolated?” She said matter of factly, almost in a hollow tone. She paused. “Because even when I say it out loud it sounds stupid.” Sighing, she plopped down on the bed.

“We would never forget you Webs..” Dewey said gently.

“You’ve never mentioned your parents before..” Huey said softly, at this Webby winced and shook her head, not wanting to talk further about it.

“This is new to all of us.” Louie stated, catching the hint to change the subject. “D-Mom needs to find her place in the family like Uncle Scrooge said.”

The two others nodded and Webby sighed. “I just… I expected you guys to all want to do everything with her. Dewey..” She smiled at him. “I know you must be itching to go on an adventure with her.”

“You better believe it!” Dewey announced, excited. But he quickly sobered up and glanced back down at Webby. “But you’ll always be my best friend Webs, and I would never not go on an adventure with you if you wanted me to.”

Webby felt her heart stop at that and she smiled weakly. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Just because she’s our mom doesn’t mean we have a strong emotional tie to her just yet.” Huey commented. “Besides, if you haven’t noticed she’s struggling to be a parent.”

“No kidding.” Louie mumbled.

Webby giggled and hummed. “Granny told me to be patient..that..she’d talk to me when she was ready. I guess…I just have to wait. I’d like to know more about her. But…” she gripped the blankets tightly and Louie noticed this. He frowned and grabbed her arm.

“Nope, na-uh we aren’t playing that game.” He said stubbornly, pulling her behind him towards the door.

“Louie…what are…let go!” Webby frantically tried to pull away.

Louie turned to her. “Webs you can’t keep repeating the same thing. You can’t just wait here when your hurting. I won’t allow it!”

Blinking at Louie’s words, Webby nervously looked away. “B…but what if she’s not ready to talk to me?” she asked meekly. Webby did not want to be pushed away. She didn’t want to risk it. As much as she tried to pretend she was strong, in so many ways she was weak.

Gripping her arm tightly, She felt Louie’s hold start to weaken and she took a couple steps back. “You guys don’t know her either. How can you say she would even want to talk to me? You guys are the only ones she thought about on the moon. I don’t exist to her.” She stated and backed up further. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. She couldn’t risk this now. “I have to wait.” She said stubbornly to Louie, who grit his beak and looked annoyed.

Louie rubbed his head, frustrated. “Why is this so complicated? It shouldn’t be.”

Huey was still by the bed, looking thoughtful.

Webby went back to her bed and crossed her legs, wrapping her arms around herself. Dewey sat by her side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He gave her a big grin. “Hey, its okay. It’s okay to be sad about all of this. I know how much it means to you for her to accept you. I get that.” He understood all too well wanting Della to accept him. “And, I feel like she will.” He held her closer to him. “How could she not?! You are the most awesome girl I know!”

Huey nodded with a smirk. “And honestly, maybe it won’t be as long of a wait as you believe.”

Webby perked up a bit, giving Dewey a smile and glancing curiously at Huey. “What makes you think that?”

“Well we are her sons after all.” Huey commented. “And all three of us really care for you Webby.”

Louie understood where Huey was going with this. “Yeah, she will have to accept you.” He sauntered over to her and grinned. “Cause the four of us are a package deal. She has three boys…and one girl.”

“I do remember hearing Uncle Donald saying one time that Della would love Webby. You guys are similar in some ways.” Dewey said and chuckled. “I can see it too. The same energy.”

“The recklessness.” Huey added.

“The fearlessness.” Louie commented.

“And most importantly.” Dewey stood before her taking her head in his hands. “The love.”

And with that, Webby launched herself into their arms and cried. But she was smiling so brightly that she was sure she could light an entire city.

In the end, Webby realized quite a few things. She had so many people that loved her and wanted to fill that void within her, a void that she never believed anyone could fill. She would always love and miss her parents, her memories of them flickering like wisps of smoke within her memory. But the people she had in her life now, Granny… the boys, Scrooge and Donald. And now, hopefully Della…those smiling and warm faces filled her body to the brim. She couldn’t have parents..and that was sad. But she had more than others did and that…that settled her twisting emotions.

So, as she glanced back into her darkened room, she set a determined gaze upon her bed where she had been lying hours before crying her heart out.

Now her heart was overflowing with love.

Love is important no matter what form it takes.

She closed the door to her room and her insecurity.

Webby was really very lucky.

#Ducktales #One Shot #Webby #Nothing Can Stop Della Duck #Day after #emotional insecurity #Poor Webby #Scrooge #Beakley #huey dewey and louie #Love is important #No matter what form it takes #Its sad but I left it on a positive note #:)#Hope you guys like it

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lavenderglassgirl · 5 years

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749 pm tues dec 10

I was thinking about self harming this evening, considering it. Considering what i could do in lieu of it. Thinking about my parents. It reminded me of something

I remember when my mom found all my cutting supplies one time she searched my room. I had a bag full of blood soaked paper towels and my journal with the blade i used taped inside. My mom found the bag and asked me what i used to cut with. I showed her the blade, and she got so mad because it was rusted. I got a lecture because it could have killed me. I went to therapy and I don’t think i got grounded, i may have already been grounded at this point too I don’t recall. THis was sometime in middle school so chances were high that i was. But regardless, I didn’t get into any more trouble for this, yet I remember feeling like i was. I remember feeling like my parents were angry at me, they didn’t trust me, they were ashamed of me, they felt i was being over dramatic, just an emotional teenager.

I was talking to Scott today, NPD fresh on my mind from some research for Jesse (will get to that aha) and i went over my lack of privacy. They read my diary when i was 16, brought it to my while i was in the hospital for suicidal ideation. As part of the leaving process for this facility which i was desperately trying to leave (nothing spurs your will to live than prison- er mental health facilities) I was told that i had a session with my therapist (who i had had one 30 minute conversation with) and my parents, whom she had advised per program protocol to search my room. So they searched. They pulled out the half smoked blunt and i got some generic mark lecture about drugs and his house and this that and the other, and words from Laura regarding how it impaires your brain growth and depression and blah blah. Of course what they didn’t bring up was that after this session they would both go home to smoke it off while i went back to my plastic cot where i was allowed to keep a book and my blanket and a pillow from home. After i spent Christmas surrounded by strangers who treated me kinder than my parents in a place that felt like a prison.

And they read my journal. They pulled quotes like it was fucking Shakespeare- we don’t understand why you hate him so much, we don’t understand, we think youre using this as a way to make yourself more upset, we think this is too triggering, were not giving it back.

They kept my diary. My mom had it in the back of her drawer for a long time before i had the nerve to ask for it back, maybe a couple years.

Do you wanna know how they justified all this? What started it?

My biological father got in contact with me again after my 17th birthday. He got the date wrong and I’m pretty sure he thought i was 18 and that’s why he did it. He found my number on facebook, and texted me some bullshit.

My parents allowed me to have a relationship with him- on their terms. I was texting him too late into the night, and too much at school. It was not to interfere with sleep or my school work.

Why? Because my parents didn’t want my grades to slip. No, not because it was causing any actual problems. I was doing really well in my classes, they were just watching my texts and keeping tabs on when i was texting him. They told him and me the same thing, and the next day he texted me while i was between classes and i messaged him back during my free periods, lunch, etc. Genuinely following the heart of the rule which I hadn’t before (i snuck my phone during class) and figuring it would be fine.

Got home, Mark asks if i talked to Eric (should have known he knew) said no, he said i have proof of 36 messages, give me your phone. Really? Yeah.

I handed it over and v o w e d to not say a single word to my parents. It was almost Christmas, and i was grounded for an indefinite amount of time (i think they sat me down after and justified it somehow and i got a month. A month. For texting my biological father. Lmao) They were concerned about our relationship but rather than addressing their concerns in a valid way i just got punished for continuing it. SO i was completely silent for two days. I figured 1) there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to make things worse. They’ve already taken everything before, and i usually cave and kiss ass for the last three weeks because it makes my life more pleasant and fuck them they did not deserve that for this and 2) if they were going to not let me talk to Eric i sure as shit wasn’t going to let them hear from me.

The head came when my mom wrote some trash apology letter to me (i wish i still had it but i shredded it as soon as i read it) that was really an attack on me disguised as an apology that she took no real accountability in. I felt so disgusting, so alone, i saw no way out. Genuinely in that moment i wanted to bleed out in my tub and i wanted Laura to find me. I took a shower and sliced my wrists, a lot. Not the long way, but deeper than i ever had, more than i ever had, and with every intention of getting to that point. I sat in the shower for a long while just watching my wrists bleed and then just kind of came to. THere was this brief panic that over took me and i went into my room and dressed in my giant sweats and sweatshirt and she came in and I showed her my wrists and we went to the er and i got hospitalized.

Yes, i was still grounded when i got out of the hospital. They gave me one day that we celebrated Christmas then they took all my presents until my grounding was done.

This is on par with my 18th birthday. I’m trying to remember why i was grounded this time. Probably weed. I got really smart about almost everything, and i feel like weed was one of them... I had my own car so it wasn’t fucking up theirs... I genuinely W I S H i could remember but honestly I don’t even know. But i was mid grounding on my birthday and they gave me my present, and then left me alone all night, so i figured out how to assemble it myself and cried most of the time.

They grounded me for a month for shaving half my head. They also came into my room while I was sleeping to shave the other half of my head. I refused. They haven’t ever crossed a physical barrier. I would have had them then. I think they might have known that...

I feel broken. Like, a scratched DVD. Like i feel like I’m just skipping at the part where i figure out how to process this shit.

It’s hard its really really hard. I mean talking about it makes it less hard, and I’m glad i was able to talk to Scott. He didn’t seem to really get it until i told him about the diary thing. It’s different for everyone, the part that makes it click when i share my story. It’s usually something they understand personally for one reason or another.

But its hard. I don’t think anyone really gets it, like I don’t think this sort of stuff is fit for conversation with anyone but trained professionals and myself.

My finger hurts and my tummy hurts i think because i had soda and I wanna be more stoned but i also just... wanna not. I thought writing a little might help me feel better but its just making more depressed.

I guess that’s the mood.

Jesses going into a really rough period. He’s having a really really hard time, and just i wish I were in a better space for him. I so so wish i was better at handling my jelousy and insecurities. I’m just trying to feel good about myself. I’m trying to be supportive and kind. I just want to be open and honest. I just want to be helpful and useful. And i know i am those things really often but right now i feel like a nagging annoying ugly morbid monster with a rotting smile and scaley skin and two bellies like a fucking cow. I know i know i know it doesn’t matter if i do but like... it feel like that on the inside. I feel like, there’s just nothing i can do to fill that void, like i feel purposeless right now i guess. I don’t know why I’m here I don’t know what I’m doing nothing makes me feel full i just feel like I’m distracting myself from the empty and i know i know i know i just need to keep pushing forward and taking care of myself but sometime i just don’t want to. I wonder who I’m doing to for.

It should be for me but often i feel like I’m living just because there’s nothing else to do. ANd that’s true but its not a great way to feel. It keeps me going. I know ill get to the good moments again, and probably a lot sooner than i think. I’m just still having a hard time. I’m still struggling to process. I still need to find a therapist among a million other things.

My stomach really hurts UGH.

I wish i had more to share but I don’t. I just hurt and everything is making me sad and I’m just GAH

I wish i knew something to try I wish i had something new i wish there was a way to turn it off for like ten minutes to just remember what it feels like to exist.

AND NOW MY HEAD HURTS

Boi. Ruin m e

In conclusion, i really want to kill myself, but i wont, i really want to cut myself, but i wont, and I’m really sad and i want more coping skills and some serotonin.

Goodnight 😴

#fuckin kill me #i cant do it #but if someone else does thats okay right #oof #tummy is killing me im never having soda again #crying #sad night #sad #BIG SAD #TW suicide #TW self harm

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smolfangirl · 7 years

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Moon talk

Lutteoficweek Day 2: „You’re my roommate and it’s way past midnight and you’re talking about how the moon must feel insignificant because it borrows light from the sun and this is all very interesting but will you please shut up and go to sleep?“

Thanks to @maybe-tiika for proofreading!

Have this quickly before I drown myself in studying for my exam in 10 hours

Something was different suddenly.

There was an arm rested around her shoulder and her head laid against something that felt softer than the pillow she had hugged previously. It moved too, up and down in a calm rhythm, while lulling her in with a scent that reminded her of Matteo and…

Luna shrieked up.

She found herself on the couch. The TV was no longer turned on and her roommate laid next to her, his eyes half closed, mouth slightly open. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to get rid of the tiredness lingering in her veins.

“Matteo?” Her voice sounded raspy, dry. Said boy grunted, then slowly let his gaze wander to her.

“What are you doing?”, she asked, “I thought you were already back and in your bed.” He shifted around until Luna wondered if she had imagined sleeping right in his arms.

Something was off, not right about him. He moved lazily, less elegant than she was used to. “Nope, just got home”, he muttered. “Hey, hey, don’t give me that look, I just laid down, okay? And usually it’s you who interrupts my sleep, you owe me this one.” The words came slow, stumbling over his lips like a child learning to walk. He seemed more tired than typical for him.

“Wait, you met with your parents for dinner, right? How did that go?”, Luna blurted out.

No clues in his expressions hinted at how he felt. The only thing she noticed was a foggy layer clouding his usually sparkling eyes. She knew she shouldn’t pay it too much mind, she shouldn’t care and worry so much. After all, Matteo was an adult and able to handle himself.

“Well, how I expected”, he began, still in that lazy tone. “My dad is sure I’m wasting my life away, my mom doesn’t care and I wished I could have had more wine.”

Wait, wine?

“What? Matteo, are you – are you drunk?” Okay, he was an adult, but she wasn’t so sure about the rest anymore.

It made sense now, the glazed eyes, the dullness he spoke in, the loose laugh he let out now… “I might have had a tiny little bit too much wine, yes”, he admitted while he held his thumb and index finger up, mere millimeters away, “A tiny little bit.”

Luna shook her head in disbelief. So far, she had only experienced him in a tipsy state, never as drunk as he was in this moment. This time, he obviously had drunk much more than was good for him. “You know alcohol doesn’t help at all with your insomnia.”

Matteo groaned, “You know being sober doesn’t help at all with my parents.”

Without ever getting to know his parents she already had decided she didn’t like them. Matteo deserved better than them, and since she couldn’t change a thing about his family, she at least could give him a hug. She robbed closer again. “That’s a horrible coping strategy”, she muttered into his chest as she snuggled up.

His hand settled on her waist, right where her pajama top exposed some skin. The small circles he drew sent jolts of electricity all over her body. Why did he had to make her feel like she was drunk too?

“What was I supposed to do, the other one I usually have wasn’t there”, Matteo pouted. For a second, his touch faded, making Luna long for more immediately.

“Which one? Skating?”

“No, no. I’m talking about the mooooon.” A laugh slipped out of his mouth, and it was Luna’s favorite one: the one where he gave up all control, the one that came from his stomach and shook his whole body. The vibration reached her bones too, rattling her to the core. Even worse, she felt a blush spreading on her cheeks.

“Now you’re making the same lame jokes as Gastón”, she replied and hoped he failed to notice how breathless her voice sounded. She hated it, hated the effect he had on her, hated the pictures in her head that his words and his hands on her body painted. She was just a friend to him, those words didn’t mean anything.

Except maybe they did.

Except this time, it felt different, he felt different, as if the alcohol had rinsed out every filter, every barrier holding him back. Maybe this time, it meant something. Maybe something would finally happen.

“Shh, just let me enjoy this”, Matteo whispered, “I need it.” His other hand began playing with her hair, something Luna loved way too much, because he didn’t do it often enough and perhaps she considered purring like a happy kitten. “I need you.”

She couldn’t remember him being so open about needing anything, ever. The Matteo she knew plainly went for whatever he wanted. That’s why she allowed him to pull her closer, allowed him to put her legs over his hip so she laid on her side, in his arms.

“Was the dinner really that bad?”, she asked, fighting hard to stay awake. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one too tired to be sitting on a couch in front of the TV. “You have no idea”, he yawned. What if he fell asleep first, with her in his grip? If she had to guess, she’d say Matteo wasn’t the type to easily let go. “Anyway”, he began, suddenly more alert, “I just had an interesting thought. Wait, by the stars, Luna, why do you smell so good?”

She blushed. She blushed like a ripe tomato and she despised every single bit of it. She despised how he buried his face in the curve of her shoulders and how she felt his lips being so, so close. (Perhaps she didn’t despise her current situation at all…)

“Matteo, focus.”

Luna might as well could have told herself.

“Fine”, he mumbled before he took a curl of her hair and absently played with it. “Have you ever thought about how the moon maybe feels insignificant?”

Laying like this was dangerous, because it was too comfortable for her to be able to fight her closing eyelids. That’s why it took her longer to understand the meaning of his words. “What?” His hand started moving up and down on her waist now, shifting her attention away from the mess his fingers created on her head at the same time.

Matteo sighed. “Because it borrows light from the sun, you know. It doesn’t actually shine on its own.” Luna grinned into his shoulder or chest, she couldn’t tell for sure with her eyes closed, “Oh good, I thought you were talking about me.”

“Wow, this feels like a reverse universe, but not everything revolves around you”, Matteo giggled. Giggled. It sounded so outright cute and precious, she wanted to record it and listen to it over and over again. Why did he continuously find new ways to make her heart race?

“Except you decided you want to be Sol now”, he went on, oblivious to what went on inside her, “Then it would, and Gastón will love making puns about it, I mean, that’s twice the pun potential, but if I’m being honest, I like Luna much better and please don’t tell Gastón. Also…” She rolled her eyes and shut him up by putting her hand over his mouth.

Immediately, a switch turned on behind his eyes, and it filled them with a spark so intense it hurt. She looked away.

“Matteíto, you are not making any sense, so why don’t you go to sleep?”

“No, no, little moon, you can’t shut me up so easily, I am not done yet”, he argued, so offended that he pulled away from her, “So, I was talking about the actual moon. It just reflects and I don’t know, maybe it likes stealing all this light and laughs about us when we say how bright it shines at night. Or maybe it’s actually super self-aware.”

Luna interrupted, she had to: “Unlike you.” In return, Matteo poked her right where she was the most ticklish until she pleaded for mercy, “Haha, not funny. Where was I? Right, the real moon who’s not as mean as you. And maybe that moon is sad because it would love to shine on its own. Have you ever thought about that?”

“No, like every other normal person?”

Suddenly, his hands were gone, leaving her colder, incomplete, as if she somehow needed his touch to feel like herself. When she glanced up at him, he had his arms crossed while he whined: “Why are you so mean to me?”

“Because it’s way past midnight and you shouldn’t be talking about the moon, or to the moon… and just go to sleep already!”

Matteo rested his chin on her head. “I can’t.” When she asked why, he grunted something indefinable. But then, he paused and as she discovered the mischievous glint in his eyes, she considered running to her room and locking her door. She knew this look, she knew to which part of him it belonged. “Except…”, he started and a second later she felt his arms wrapped around her, picking her up. Bride-style.

Was he on a secret mission to kill her?

“What are you doing? Just… just let me down! Matteo!” She tried to get out of his grip, but she might as well could throw cotton balls at him instead of her fists. He even had the nerve to laugh. “Shh, calm down, you’re waking the neighbors.”

He only let her down on his bed. His bed, where everything was soaked with his scent, where she for sure wouldn’t survive a whole night by his side.

“Can’t I sleep in my own bed?”, she protested, although she knew she’d give in eventually. When he looked at her like that, saying no became impossible. Damn those big brown puppy eyes.

“Pretty please?”, he replied with even bigger eyes.

She wanted to answer. She really did. However, drunk Matteo seemed to forget he shouldn’t get undressed in front of her, because in a blink his shirt landed on the ground next to his jeans. Luna swallowed. He looked good, too good. In no way could she stay here, she needed to come up with a way to get into her own room, where no Matteo in nothing but underwear distracted her from thinking. Hell, from breathing.

You’re just friends. Roommates. Totally platonic roommates. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Matteo, shorts”, she coughed as he sat down on the mattress, still in underwear. Confused, he blinked a few times. “Shorts… yes, right. But little moon? No shirt, is that okay? It’s too hot.”

It was too hot indeed.

It was too hot in his room and he radiated heat like a sun, like her very own sun. She seriously considered pushing the blanket to the side. However, a shiver ran over her spine as his scent lulled her in, and it rushed down to the end of her fingertips. She hugged the blanket tighter.

The mattress gave in under Matteo’s weight as he laid down. Without a single glance in his direction Luna figured she needed more space between them, and at the same time she needed him closer. “Luna, you’re shivering”, his voice whispered into her ear before his arms embraced her, pulling her into his chest. “Let me help you with that.” She felt his bare skin through her top, his muscles – dear lord, his muscles – and she wished she could tell him how he didn’t help, on the contrary.

Within minutes, his breath stroked the skin on her neck in a calm, regular rhythm. Even unconscious he kept her trapped like a teddy bear. Carefully, she robbed away, just far enough to create the tiniest gap between them without disturbing him. This way, at least her back didn’t burn anymore from his touch. Luna belonged to that kind of people who moved too much to get cold a lot, but Matteo felt warmer than anyone else she knew.

A bit later, when his grip loosened, she realized it was now or never and shoved his arms away. Breathing finally got easier. However, her luck only lasted up to the moment where she swung her legs out of bed.

“Luna….”, Matteo murmured not as asleep as she wanted him to be, “No, stay, please, I need you.”

His words crept into her veins, straight to her heart. It beat faster than ever before, and if she was being honest to herself, she wanted to stay. Who knew how many more chances she’d get to be so close to him? And when this desperation tinted his voice, she couldn’t bear to disappoint him. So, she decided to stay and deal with her shattered hopes next to her broken heart later.

The next morning, she woke up with the sun shining into her face and when she tilted her head a bit, she found Matteo next to her, the most innocent smile resting on his lips, a view too nice to see first thing in the morning, too perfect to not be a dream. But it was real, and Luna would enjoy every second that this moment lasted.

#lutteoficweek #soy luna #my sl fanfiction

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arc-rchk-blog · 7 years

Text

FICTION: Hikikomori

By Kristina Yan

“Yukio! Quit being so selfish and come downstairs. It’s New Year’s Eve and we need to go to the shrine.”

My name is Yukio, most people call me a hikikomori here in our little village called Akigawa. Hikikomori means a shut-in if you don’t know. Akigawa is a very dull place, nobody really comes here and not many get out either. Most of the people here are either shop owners or farmers. Technology here isn’t the best either, the gaming consoles are nowhere near as great as the ones you see in To–

“Yukio, will you please just come outside for once? Go to the shrine make a wish, get a prophecy from the gods, it won’t take long.”

I resent my life here, all I can do here is game and watch anime. Nobody in the town really likes me, I want to go somewhere else, somewhere more… fun.

Everyone seemed to hate me because I was different, I’ve always wanted to explore the world outside but my parents never allowed me to go out of the town, there was no adventure here and the thrill for it also diminished. However, they always want me outside of the house anyways, like now for instance.

I couldn’t care less about the New Year Festivals but I have no choice anyways. I got dressed into a green sweater, black jeans, and put on a scarf. Now just to wait for everyone else to put on their makeup, do their boring routines – blah blah blah.

“Mom! Brother is out of his den already, can you guys hurry up?”

Ugh… What an annoying sister, I swear she can’t keep her mouth shut for a minute.

She kept rambling on about how excited she is to stay up past 12, to go to the festival and buy all of the useless stuff she does each year. It went on for 10 minutes, I don’t even remember how I survived the entire night with her.

We finally got out of home at 10 at night, it only takes 10 minutes to walk to the shrine. It was boring, same thing each and every year. Not a single change in shops or scenery, though everyone else seems to have no problem with the repetitive and mundane tradition.

10:30p.m. …

11:00p.m. …

11:30p.m. …

They were finally done shopping by then and we lined up for the bell ringing and prophecy stuff and all those things that don’t matter.

Finally, as the Suzu started ringing, New Year's Day arrived. People gathered, cheered, and celebrated the new year. Everyone took turns up at the shrine and like every year, waste money on foreseeing their future with these written oracles called “omikuji”. I just don’t understand how anyone is dumb enough to believe in a piece of paper, though it’s not like I have a choice, this family is such a bother.

I went up to the shrine and bought myself a written oracle, I opened it up and in big words I saw “小凶”, meaning I was going to have some bad luck this year.

Annoyingly, my sister was looking behind me and yelled out, “Oh my god, you’re unlucky! Mom, Dad! Yukio is unlucky this year, should’ve expected that considering he only hides in his room all day.”

Ugh.. I hate her. I walked away from her and the rest of the crowd and continued reading my fortune. “You may be lead to a new direction in life, an adventure that will be risky.” Hahaha, funny. An adventure in this stupid town, what a joke!

Obviously upset, I left the shrine and started to walk back home. Texted mom that I’ll be going back, to my own space where I get to communicate with people online. A place where I get to go on “adventures”.

I got home and decided to play with my online friends. I felt relieved for the first hour when I got to dwell in the world I was fond of. However, the people I were matched up with later on were from the other side of the world, so language barriers made it difficult to communicate with the team. As the game progressed, I got more and more frustrated as none of us understood each other. By the second hour I was already tired of the games.

I turned off the lights, closed the door and windows and jumped right onto bed and fell asleep soon after.

Before I fell asleep however, I felt a small gust of wind behind me. Huh? that’s weird, I was sure I closed all the windows before I slept. Although it really doesn't matter.

I woke to what felt like a tiny ball laying on my chest. Sure enough, when I tilted my head towards my chest, I saw a small hedgehog curled up on my chest, snoozing away.

Knowing how random my family is, the first thought that came to mind was, “God, it has to have been my sister asking my parents to buy her a hedgehog after I left. Bad choice, poor hedgehog’s gonna die soon.”

And as soon as I realized I was thinking out loud, I heard a soft yet affirming voice fill the air. Well what I thought was the air anyway.

“Just to be clear, your family didn’t buy a new hedgehog as a pet for new years”

I haven’t heard of this voice before…

I looked around the room, but no one was there.

“Down here dummy.”

I looked back down at the hedgehog, and he was staring right back at me.

“My name’s Compass, nice to meet you.”

I’ve been through a lot of weird things in life, mostly because of my sister, she always sets up pranks and tricks on me, but this was by far the weirdest I’ve ever encountered.

“Uhm… Hi?”

“Yeah yeah, save the formalities I know all about you, just bear with me here.”

I looked in disbelief, never in my life have I thought of talking to any animal, let alone a hedgehog of all things.

“I came to ask you if you would like to follow me to an adventure. See, this town is dull. Nobody likes living here, I doubt you want to stay here for more than a moment. Allow me to show you a whole new world, I can get you out of here.”

“Ugh… wake up!” I yelled as I slapped my face to try to wake. It hurt.

“Okay keep it together Yukio, I know it’s not common but I’m real.” Compass stated while I slowly start to believe.

“Fine. Well I’m not really allowed to leave this town so it’s not possible. You can leave now please.”

“I can take you, your parents won’t even notice. All I need is your permission.”

“Okay, take me away from this place.”

I heard a gush of wind and in a blink of an eye I was somewhere I’ve never seen before. Where I stood there was a forest in front of me, in what seems to be the middle of the forest floating in the sky was a weird looking string instrument. It had five strings attached to it, it looked like a harp but was more cylindrical.

Before I walked forward however, I heard voices behind me. Apparently there were 4 more people here with me. Compass couldn’t you have left me alone?

I didn’t acknowledge them, although this one girl from the bunch came up to me and introduced herself as Elyse. She kept going on about how beautiful the scenery is, quite the flibbertigibbet.

Elyse didn’t leave me alone after but I didn’t really care, I left the place we once were and started walking towards the forest. I wanted to go to where the weird harp was, it seemed like the place to go.

“Hey what’s your name? How did you get here? Where are we going?”

“Yukio. A hedgehog called Compass sent me here. To the floating harp.”

That was really all I said to Elyse before the harp started playing for 5 seconds. The sound it made was really beautiful. Although it just looks like a circle in the sky, it sounded like an angel descending to earth.

“I wonder where the others went, pretty sure they all just separated from each other. I’m a scaredy cat you see. That’s why I found someone not intimidating to sti–” Elyse was cut off by the sound of a string on the harp breaking. It resonated for a while before we were able to process it.

“What a shame.” I said, responding to both Elyse and the instrument.

As we cruised towards the harp, we realized that it was actually floating in the center of the forest, which seemed further and further away as we walked. The round instrument started playing again. It played for 5 seconds and the music stopped again, soon after that another one of its strings snapped.

Confused, I blurted out “That's pretty unnatural. It seems it has a pattern to it, I wonder what that means.”

“Maybe we should pay more attention to it next time. It might be a clue!” Elyse exclaimed.

I’m unsure of why she might think it’s a “clue” but I just ignored her and kept walking, might just be another one of her absurd thoughts or blabble.

After a good thirty minutes of rest, the music from the harp started again, the same pattern from before emerged. Through the resonance of the music, we heard a scream of a man not far away from us. The string snapped as soon as the man’s cries quieted down.

We rushed over to the source of the overwhelming cry to see what happened. We went close to the source and started moving forwards in stealth since we thought there was a predator. We hid behind trees as we neared the origin of the scream.

We found that man a while later, impaled on a tree branch as thick as an arm’s width, still attached to the tree. He was at least ten feet above ground and most likely could not have done that by accident.

I was feeling extremely hyped about this, it’s almost like a dream come true. Like I’m living in a game of danger. Compass really wasn’t lying about this new life, and I’m loving the thrill.

Still behind trees, I thought of a reason for the cause and came up with a conclusion. I pulled Elyse away from the gore filled scene to a place further away from the harp. I told her to try to stay quiet before she could start blabbering again.

I then whispered to her my hypothesis, “Hey, I think the reason that man died was because he was closing in on the harp. I think the forest might be alive, and it’s trying to protect the harp from us. It seems we’ve been put into a risky game. The harp also tells us when we’re in danger and when someone dies. That means only us 2 are left.”

“How come you sound like you didn’t know it was a game?”

“What? You knew?”

Elyse nodded, “Compass told me when he asked me to come here. He said he would teleport me to another realm in which I’ll be participating in a game in his realm. He said I had to figure the rules by myself and that there will be risks but it was going to be fun. I thought everyone else went through that process.”

“Compass you annoying little freak, leaving the details out.” I mumbled under my breath. Elyse could only give him a wry smile.

“Well anyways, since the obstacles stop us from moving towards the harp I guess that’s what the objective of the game is. Quite straightforward.” I analyzed.

Elyse agreed and we set foot to the round harp. There wasn’t a hitch in our journey until we stumbled upon two bodies in front of us, it was the two women we saw at the start, both butchered in a manner so that we couldn’t tell how they died.

“Looks like either someone or something is playing games with us. These corpses can’t be placed in front of us for no reason. Plus, this way we can’t even figure out the cause of death.”

“Well there’s one thing we know, they’re all missing their hearts. The man was impaled by his heart, although no heart was evident on the tree branch. It’s pretty obvious for these two. We’re pretty close to the harp so maybe it’s here to scare us away.”

“Wow I didn’t know you were this good with clu-”

The 2 stringed harp started playing again, the two of us felt extremely threatened at this point, looking around for any movement while staying as quiet as possible.

Neither of us were aware of the sky though, which was a big mistake as Elyse was soon to meet her demise as a crow shaped object in the sky started bolting down.

Crack. Elyse didn’t even make a sound before another string on the harp snapped once again. That was when I saw the clearly oversized crow. It pulled her still pumping heart out within the time of a heartbeat.

It dropped her heart and started to transform.

“Compass?”

“Wow, my dear Yukio, you two were really unaware of your surroundings aren’t you. Thought you were a gamer?”

“That was dirty Compass and you know it. Why are you the one killing us off in the game? I want some explanations”

I was trying to ask as much questions as possible as long as Compass would answer to stall him and come up with a plan to get away. Which he didn’t seem to mind.

“Well first you can stop calling me Compass cause that’s just a made up name. I’m a Tengu demon.”

Okay, explains the transformations and his crow-like features just then. Also explains why he’s killing us. Great.

“I needed five hearts for a project I was working on, but I can’t kill in your realm. So I needed to get you guys to come to my realm, to do that I needed permissions from people. You guys were quite easily persuaded to leave your own comfortable home to pursue a ‘dream’ that you thought was going to come true.”

“Thanks, you make me feel so much better about myself.” You mischievous bird.

Well too bad you left a portal back to my realm right in the middle of this forest right? The harp hasn’t started playing so I’m not in danger just yet. I guess I’ll ask a few more questions just to satisfy my curiosity.

“What happens to our bodies in my realm then?”

“You disappeared of course. I did transfer your actual body here to obtain your heart, so you die here YOU DIE FOREVER.”

The Tengu started to change forms back to his ginormous crow body and the harp started playing a dull one noted tune. I quickly took hold of Elyse’s heart Tengu left on the grass floor and without hesitation threw away from the harp, while I simultaneously ran towards the harp.

The plan worked and Tengu chased after her heart. The tune stopped and I was slightly grateful that the school had forced us to practice shot put. Ah, dear god I hope Elyse forgives me for this. I am so sorry.

It didn’t take long for me to get to the harp. It lowered itself as I was approaching, Tengu furiously screeched from far behind. Although the music has started playing again, I knew the game was going to end.

I could not wait for the harp to lower itself to my height. I jumped up as high as I could and just reached the harp.

Nothing happened.

“You really thought this was a game? There was no way out you fool!”

The last string snapped.

#japan #january #compass #directions #realm #overlord

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lodelss · 4 years

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Jennifer Block | March 2020 | 32 minutes (8,025 words)

Elizabeth Catlin had just stepped out of the shower when she heard banging on the door. It was around 10 a.m. on a chilly November Wednesday in Penn Yan, New York, about an hour southeast of Rochester. She asked her youngest child, Keziah, age 9, to answer while she threw on jeans and a sweatshirt. “There’s a man at the door,” Keziah told her mom.

“He said, ‘I’d like to question you,” Caitlin tells me. A woman also stood near the steps leading up to her front door; neither were in uniform. “I said, ‘About what?’” The man flashed a badge, but she wasn’t sure who he was. “He said, ‘About you pretending to be a midwife.’”

Catlin, a home-birth midwife, was open about her increasingly busy practice. She’d send birth announcements for her Mennonite clientele to the local paper. When she was pulled over for speeding, she’d tell the cop she was on her way to a birth. “I’ve babysat half of the state troopers,” she says.

It was 30 degrees. Catlin, 53, was barefoot. Her hair was wet. “Can I get my coat?” she asked. No. Boots? She wasn’t allowed to go back inside. Her older daughter shoved an old pair of boots, two sizes too big, through the doorway; Catlin stepped into them and followed the officer and woman to the car. At the state trooper barracks, she sat on a bench with one arm chained to the wall. There were fingerprints, mug shots, a state-issue uniform, lock-up. At 7:30 p.m. she was finally arraigned in a hearing room next to the jail, her wrists and ankles in chains, on the charge of practicing midwifery without a license. Local news quoted a joint investigation by state police and the Office of Professional Discipline that Catlin had been “posing as a midwife” and “exploiting pregnant women within the Mennonite community, in and around the Penn Yan area.”

Catlin’s apparent connection with a local OB-GYN practice, through which she had opened a lab account, would prompt a second arrest in December, the Friday before Christmas, and more felony charges: identity theft, falsifying business records, and second-degree criminal possession of a forged instrument. That time, she spent the night in jail watching the Hallmark Channel. When she walked into the hearing room at 8:00 a.m., again in chains, she was met by dozens of women in grey-and-blue dresses and white bonnets. The judge set bail at $15,000 (the state had asked for $30,000). Her supporters had it: Word of her arrest had quickly passed through the tech-free community, and in 12 hours they had collected nearly $8,000 for bail; Catlin’s mother made up the difference. She was free to go, but not free to be a midwife.

Several years back, a respected senior midwife faced felony charges in Indiana, and the county prosecutor allowed that although a baby she’d recently delivered had not survived, she had done nothing medically wrong — but she needed state approval for her work. The case, the New York Times wrote, “was not unlike one against a trucker caught driving without a license.” As prosecutor R. Kent Apsley told the paper, “He may be doing an awfully fine job of driving his truck. But the state requires him to go through training, have his license and be subject to review.”

But what if the state won’t recognize the training or grant a license?

Catlin is a skilled, respected, credentialed midwife. She serves a rural, underserved, uninsured population. She’s everything the state would want in a care provider. But owing to a decades-old political fight over who can be licensed as a midwife, she’s breaking the law.

* * *

Catlin has layered, shoulder-length gray hair, big eyes, and an air of calm openness; when I reached her home in May of last year, she greeted me at the top of her stairs. She hesitated at first when I asked her to recall the arrests and what precipitated them, not sure what she should discuss. “I don’t know how to be a criminal, Jennifer,” she told me.

Penn Yan is quaint, surrounded by rolling farmland, about an hour west of the tonier resort towns of the Finger Lakes. Catlin grew up north of there; for years she and her husband ran a feed mill on farmland that had been in his family for two generations. Then they ran a bulk food store. She was called to midwifery by her own birth experiences and began assisting a nurse-midwife who served the surrounding Mennonite community. She began formal studies with a distance midwifery program, which led to an apprenticeship and eventually to the certified professional midwife (CPM) credential, which she’s held since 2015.

I don’t know how to be a criminal, Jennifer.

In Canada, England, and most other industrialized countries, a “registered midwife” or “licensed midwife” serves as a primary maternity care provider and may attend births in hospital, birth center, or home settings. In the United States, things are more compartmentalized. CPMs attend “community births,” in homes and nonhospital settings, and CNMs (certified nurse midwives) attend women in conventional hospital labor and delivery wards (though some also work in homes and birth centers).

Catlin’s preceptor had encouraged her to go for the CPM rather than the CNM. “She was encouraging me to get my license,” said Catlin, and they sat down one day to look at the options: CPM, CNM, and to make the decision more complicated, a third credential, limited to New York, New Jersey, Missouri, Delaware, Rhode Island, and Maine, the Certified Midwife (CM). “She said as a CNM, she had 20 [hospital] births under her belt when they sent her out,” Caitlin said. The CM is also oriented toward hospital-based care, and there are only two training programs in the country, neither of which offered a distance program at the time, a dealbreaker for Catlin. But the CPM requires the student to attend at least 55 births in a community setting. “She just thought, compared to what I’d get as a CNM, that the CPM was far superior for home birth.”

CNM training is entirely health care facility-based, particularly hospitals; the training fits around the routines of institutional care and focuses on the midwife’s “piece of the pie,” as one put it to me. CNMs work alongside nurses, who help monitor labor, and pediatricians, who attend to the baby. CNMs learn how to dose Pitocin, the drug that speeds up contractions; how to read a continuous fetal monitor strip; and how to work with epidurals.

At home or in freestanding birth centers, there is no Pitocin, no epidural, and no machines that go beep — midwives use handheld doppler monitors to listen to fetal heart tones. The midwife oversees the entire event, from contractions to infant care. Birth in the community context happens in various positions (rarely do women choose to labor or push while on their backs), so any midwife who trains or works outside the conventional model also develops a nimble spatial awareness. The CPM also tends to be more accessible. In order to become a CNM, one must first become a registered nurse then enter a master’s program leading to certification. CPM programs require fewer credit hours and lead directly to certification. For people who, say, have a family and are rooted in a community, a distance program with a local apprenticeship has the necessary flexibility.

Before Catlin enrolled in 2012, New York CPMs could take the same exam nurse-midwives take to obtain a CM, which allowed licensing, and she and her advisors still believed that to be the case. In reality, that option was disappearing, because in 2011 the American College of Nurse-Midwives began requiring anyone sitting for its exam to have a master’s-level education at an approved program. (Catlin says the impact wasn’t immediately clear to her, and in any case New York seemed to look the other way when it came to the Amish communities). This shift also meant that credentialed midwives from outside the United States couldn’t qualify for licensure. “You could have a master’s degree from England and have delivered the royal baby and you wouldn’t be able to get reciprocity in New York,” said Susan Rannestad, a licensed midwife in the Hudson Valley.

* * *

The story of the outlaw midwife begins much, much earlier. It begins with patriarchy and the church and colonialism; in the United States it begins in the 1800s, when the white, male profession of medicine claimed authority over what today we call health care, and midwives were an obstacle. They were also an easy target — the majority were immigrant, Indigenous, and black women. At first states outlawed abortion partly as a means of limiting midwives’ practice. Then state after state erected statutory barriers for midwives, first by licensing and supervising existing midwives and later by denying licenses in all but a handful of states, so that by the 1960s hardly any midwives existed in North America. “The question was not whether midwives should disappear but how rapidly,” wrote historians Dorothy and Richard Wertz.

Doctors swiftly transformed childbirth from something women did in upright positions with social, skilled support to something doctors did to them with medical technology, though what happened was far from what today we would call evidence-based medicine. By the 1920s, the majority of laboring women were isolated in hospital wards and given morphine and scopolamine, an amnesiac. This produced what was called twilight sleep; the women were awake but wouldn’t form any memories of the experience. Cesareans were not yet common, but women were routinely shaved to their labias, flushed with an enema, strapped flat on their backs in stirrups with ankles and wrists in leather restraints, and given a liberal episiotomy — a cut to the vagina and perineum, which might tear further, especially if forceps were employed, which they often were. These mothers were not allowed to touch or breastfeed their babies and might not see them for hours or days.

This shift did not make birth safer. Until the advent of antibiotics, the rates of maternal death and infant death in hospitals actually increased. The midcentury was a dark time for reproductive health all around: Abortion was illegal and dangerous, contraception was physician-controlled and required the female recipient have a ring on her finger, and maternity care was barbaric. It wasn’t until the antiestablishment and feminist movements collided in the 1960s that pregnant women began rejecting the hospital, forcing a resurgence of physiologic (what used to be called “natural”) birth.

The women who were called to attend these births — who at first did not even know to call themselves midwives — were relearning a lost body of knowledge, restoring autonomy and humanity to childbirth, resurrecting a female domain from a patriarchal and paternalistic one. They may have been radical, but they were not anti-learning or anti-technology. As historian Wendy Kline makes clear in Coming Home: How Midwives Changed Birth, in each locale where home birth rerooted, the lay midwives collaborated with supportive physicians who provided mentorship, supplies, and emergency backup. Within a decade they started establishing schools, national standards, and the foundations for a national credential, the CPM.

Catlin is far from the first midwife to face criminal charges — there have been hundreds in the U.S., though nobody has done an official count in more than a decade. Usually what precipitates an arrest is a poor outcome, most often an infant death. In 2017, a veteran Utah midwife began serving a 180-day jail sentence (the prosecution had asked for the maximum, 15 years) after a jury found her guilty of manslaughter in the death of a twin born premature during a snowstorm. In 2014, an unlicensed midwife in North Carolina spent nearly 300 days in jail awaiting trial. In July 2019, an unlicensed midwife in Nebraska was charged with negligent child abuse. In Georgia, a CPM is suing the state board of nursing after receiving a cease-and-desist letter threatening a $500 fine for every instance in which she had identified herself as a “midwife.”

‘You could have a master’s degree from England and have delivered the royal baby and you wouldn’t be able to get reciprocity in New York,’ said Susan Rannestad, a licensed midwife in the Hudson Valley.

A recent review of home birth studies from several countries including the United States, published in the Lancet, concluded that planned home birth with a trained attendant does not increase risk to the baby. Other studies (this one out of Canada, and this one that included CPMs in the U.S., among others) attest to the benefits for the mother, like less physical injury, less chance of surgery, and more success breastfeeding. The Cochrane Library, which conducts reviews across medicine to inform evidence-based practice, concludes that “studies suggest that planned hospital birth is not any safer than planned home birth assisted by an experienced midwife with collaborative medical back up.” That there are mechanisms in place to seamlessly transfer care if necessary is a caveat that appears throughout the literature, and it challenges the public health priorities of restrictive states like New York. Another recent study found that the more integrated U.S. midwives are into the system — based on criteria like licensing and insurance coverage — the better a state’s birth outcomes are.

The low risk notwithstanding, some babies just don’t survive birth. Even Sweden, the country at the top of the list of such public health measures, loses 2 infants per 1,000 births. There’s an absolute risk to new life, which means that unfortunate outcomes will be part of every OB or midwife’s career.

The case that prompted Catlin’s arrest, according to news reports and other clinicians familiar with the event (she’s unable to talk about it while the case is ongoing), was that of a mother whose labor stalled at 9 centimeters. They transported her to a hospital about 35 minutes away, and the baby was born with assistance of a vacuum extractor about an hour and a half later. The baby appeared healthy at first, but within the first hour his condition worsened and he was transported to a neonatal intensive care unit at another hospital. He died several hours after birth of disseminated intravascular coagulation, a blood clotting syndrome, possibly due to infection. Midwives who conducted a peer review found that Catlin transported appropriately and could not have caused the death.

That hospital, F.F. Thompson, is affiliated with Strong Memorial in Rochester, which is party to a signed “transport agreement” initiated by the New York State Association of Licensed Midwives to discourage retaliation. Eva Pressman, MD, director of OB-GYN at Strong, explained that this was to “make sure that when home birth attendants come with patients they were able to transfer the care in a receptive and organized way.” Pressman told me that she has interacted with a handful of unlicensed midwives over the years and has never found cause to report any to the state. “Most of the time we appreciate the care that they’ve been giving the patients outside of the hospital,” she said. “We appreciate the information that they’re able to give us when they transfer to us, and we appreciate the support they’re able to give to the patients and families when they’re here.”

Nobody has taken public responsibility for reporting Catlin to authorities. It’s possible that the attending physician — new to the area — was unaware of the agreement or disagreed with it. In any case, a baby died, Caitlin was unlicensed, and somebody called the police, setting the wheels of criminal justice in motion.

* * *

CPMs are licensed providers in 33 states and counting, and New York could have been among them had a 1992 law been implemented differently.

In January of that year, midwife Hilary Schlinger sat in the waiting area of the Albany office of New York State Assembly member Dick Gottfried. The door was closed. Schlinger and another midwife were there to meet with a staffer about the final wording of the Professional Midwifery Practice Act, which was expected to pass and which Schlinger believed would allow her and other home birth midwives to obtain licensing.

There was reason to hope.

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At the time, nurse-midwives were allowed to attend births in hospitals as nurses with an extra nine months of training in midwifery, but they lacked autonomy from physicians and wanted a pathway to practice that didn’t require training in irrelevant disciplines like geriatrics or intensive care. They looked to countries in Europe and elsewhere, where midwives trained via a “direct-entry” pathway that leads to a credential without requiring a nursing degree.

Home birth midwives like Schlinger were already using the term “direct-entry,” but they were still unregulated and vulnerable to criminal prosecution. Others, even some nurse-midwifery leaders, called them “lay” midwives. Still, the home birth midwives joined the nurse-midwives in their yearslong effort to get a bill that would provide a “direct entry” pathway to midwifery. The nurse-midwives wanted “to get out from under nursing,” as one put it, as much as the home birth midwives wanted a licensed credential. In theory, this gave both groups common cause.

But many in the home birth community were nervous about collaborating with people who were already part of the medical hierarchy. If the underground midwives went public with a campaign, they would make themselves known and possibly more vulnerable to censure; collaborating on a bill risked compromising their autonomy. But if they didn’t, they risked being excluded from licensure entirely. Schlinger felt very strongly that they should have a seat at the table and led a delegation of sorts to the city to meet with nurse-midwife leaders.

“We were not greeted with open arms, to say the least,” Schlinger said. “We were trying to strategize, how do we get our voices heard, how do we not be dismissed within this process. Here are people who are licensed and feel that they had power, and we felt we were being swatted away.”

So the home birth midwives wrote their own dream bill, hired a lobbyist, and found a sponsor. The bill was never going to pass, but that was never the point: the New York State Assembly Committee on Higher Education told the competing groups to work out one piece of legislation amenable to both. “In essence, it put a hold on their bill when we introduced ours. So we pushed our way into the conversation,” Schlinger said.

For the next two legislative sessions, the home birth midwives lobbied for the nurse-midwives’ bill, with the understanding that they’d be involved in negotiating the particulars. It was clear that “the nurse-midwives would own the title midwife unless we did something,” Schlinger’s colleague Alice Sammon told interviewers. In Schlinger’s telling, the home birth midwives were promised two things: two seats on the incipient midwifery board, and consideration of their education for equivalency — and thus licensure. Schlinger actually held a license in New Mexico, where she had studied; other midwives had studied and were credentialed in other states or in Europe. And those who had begun attending births in the late ’60s and early ’70s — who were basically homeschooled in home birth and who were the ones developing training programs and writing midwifery textbooks and organizing nationally — believed they would be able to validate their knowledge and experience, even if it hadn’t come from a formal program, and obtain licenses.

What was at stake for the home birth midwives wasn’t only their ability to practice in New York or who could call themselves a midwife. It was about protecting a different understanding of the physiology of childbirth and how best to support it. “As these original lay midwives became more sophisticated in their understanding of the details of medical training and practice, they saw quite clearly that what they were seeing at home births often did not reflect what they were reading about and seeing in hospital birth.… They were developing a different knowledge system,” said Anne Frye, a CPM and textbook author. The danger was that the state would again be deputized to quash this movement just as it was finding its legs and emerging from the shadows.

When the door opened to Gottfried’s office and Pat Burkhardt, one of the main nurse-midwife organizers, walked out with Shea Bergan, the staffer who’d taken the lead on the bill, Schlinger was stung. She remembers Bergan reassuring her: home birth midwives would have a voice on the board. But what happened next could be a plotline from Big Little Lies: infighting among women with varying degrees of social and political power, police work, secret meetings, charges of deception and betrayal, handcuffs. People whisper of dalliances and possibly an extramarital affair. Except there’s no murder victim — or maybe there is.

The New York State Professional Midwifery Practice Act passed in 1992. In 1994 the state established the Board of Midwifery, which would write the regulations and oversee education, practice, and discipline. The home birth midwives did not get any seats. Elaine Mielcarski, a Syracuse-based CNM who lobbied in Albany every week for a decade and remains a vocal skeptic of home birth midwives’ competence, became the board’s chair. Today, she is adamant that no promises were made to the “lay midwives” regarding board seats or licensing eligibility. “As a matter of fact, I did absolutely the opposite. I told them what the requirements would be,” she told me. “I said, ‘Look, I’m not sure how long it’s going to take to pass this legislation, but go now and enroll in community college. Take biology, take microbiology, take chemistry.’” She went on: “There was never, ever a discussion [of seats] — ever — because that law made it illegal for lay midwives to practice without a license.”

One of the board’s first actions was to adopt the same exam required to become a CNM for any prospective direct-entry midwife, which would grant every CNM immediate licensure under the new statute. It also satisfied last-minute wording of the bill — negotiated behind those closed doors to satisfy the powerful nursing lobby — that the new direct-entry midwives’ education would have “nursing equivalency.”

The board invited home birth midwives to apply for licenses in early 1995; around a dozen did, and 10 months later, all were denied. Shortly thereafter, several of those same midwives were sent cease-and-desist letters from the Office of Professional Discipline, while others were arrested, their clients investigated. Schlinger and other midwives started showing up to the board meetings to speak their minds, which prompted motions to move agenda items out of the gallery to closed-door sessions.

The tension came to a head on December 13, 1995, when New York State charged Roberta Devers-Scott, a popular Syracuse midwife, with the new felony-level crime of “practicing midwifery without a license.” Before the 1992 law, midwives like her risked misdemeanor charges. Now, the stakes were higher: The unlicensed practice of any profession codified by New York State law is a felony. Devers-Scott had been the target of a sting. Two agents from the New York State Office of Professional Discipline posed as a couple the week prior, and the purported dad came back with an officer to arrest her the next week while she was working her part-time gig as a family planning counselor at the county health department.

“They came to the office — the prosecutor, a male officer, and the undercover officer, all in suits,” she recalled. Just as Catlin had, she said, “Let me get my boots.” Police handcuffed her, led her out of the office, and pushed her into a cruiser.

After the arraignment, she went to the media — with bright blue eyes and jet-black hair and a cosmopolitan wardrobe and a voice she wasn’t afraid to use, she decided to go big. “I was full of piss and vinegar. I was angry about what was happening with midwifery,” she said over coffee in a hotel lobby last spring, still bright and animated and dressed in all black. “I was the top news story, I don’t know how many nights on the nightly news. They put ‘CRIMINAL’ with a question mark on the screen.” She used her platform to talk about CPMs and CNMs and being excluded from the Midwifery Practice Act. “There were always throngs of people at every hearing,” she said. In the end, Devers-Scott accepted a plea bargain and pled guilty to the lower-level crime of “attempted practice of midwifery without a license,” then moved to Vermont, where she organized for CPM licensure. It took one year.

The board invited home birth midwives to apply for licenses in early 1995; around a dozen did, and 10 months later, all were denied.

Pat Burkhardt founded the CNM program at NYU and sat on the inaugural midwifery board; today she holds a doctorate in public health and is mostly retired. She looks back regretfully at what she calls “the witch hunts” that followed the passage of the law and formation of the board. “What did we know about felonies and misdemeanors?” she told me. “I certainly was ignorant of it. Whether I was unique in that, I don’t know.” What Burkhardt did understand at the time — and agreed with — was that the Office of Professions was never going to validate the home birth midwives’ education as “equivalent.” “The bottom line for the negotiating at the time was [that the home birth midwives] had not accepted or imposed or even designed any standards for education or practice,” said Burkhardt. “We felt it was critically important that there be some standards.”

In this case “standards” was as fungible a term as “direct-entry.” During the same time period, the Midwives Alliance of North America (MANA), representing community midwives, adopted Standards and Protocols for the Art and Practice of Midwifery and started developing a CPM framework. From 1989 to 1994, representatives from MANA and American College of Nurse-Midwives (ACNM) attended meetings, sponsored by the Carnegie Foundation, resulting in a document called “Midwifery Certification in the U.S.” that laid out a dual system: MANA would oversee direct-entry midwifery in U.S. and ACNM and its respective entities would oversee nurse-midwifery. It was essentially a peace treaty.

But Mielcarski and other nurse-midwives in New York believed in university-based training (even though when they had trained nursing school was a two-year program; today a CNM requires a master’s degree). They wanted to create their own “direct-entry” credential, but it was more than that: They hoped this credential would eventually become the United States’ singular midwifery credential, and they would pilot it in New York.

And so New York launched the Certified Midwife with a degree program at SUNY Downstate at the same time as MANA created the CPM. The curriculum was indistinguishable from nurse-midwifery education. (“We used to say ‘equivalent,’ and now we say ‘identical,’” the current program director told me.) When the home birth midwives’ license applications were rejected, they were told to go back to school and obtain a CM.

“New York is a beacon of midwifery and a shame of midwifery,” said Rannestad, who volunteered to lobby in the late ’80s and ’90s while a midwifery apprentice. Did the CNMs in New York know the CPM was being developed? “Yes. Did they include those people in developing the New York law? No.”

* * *

It’s not every day you get invited to a crime scene. This one is remarkably tidy: a large bedroom, looking otherwise ordinary, until I notice that the blue blob in the corner isn’t an oversize chair but an inflatable birth tub, and the step stool beside it is actually a birth stool, and the digital plastic thing near the bed isn’t an alarm clock but a Doppler monitor to measure fetal heart tones. The previous night, Shannon attended a birth here, and she’d agreed to meet with me provided I don’t use her real name and that I say very little about where we are other than that we’re in the state of New York, which doesn’t recognize her CPM credential and could charge her at any moment with felony crimes.

Shannon works within the “plain” Amish and Mennonite communities and is overbooked with due dates. She tells me she felt a calling: “The Amish look at birth very differently. You’ve got this big mountain in front of you, there’s no way around it. The English [secular society], we try everything: tunnel through, go the other way, chop the mountain down.” Shannon charges very little; sometimes she gets paid in goods — eggs, pies, the birth stool. She tells me about a family who live a mile off the road, up a dirt path. “I had to take a horse and sled to do a PKU [the newborn genetic screen required by the state]. There was no way to get a car up there,” There’s an Amish midwife, not formally trained, who charges less. “Sometimes I’ll get Mayday calls,” says Shannon. Infections, babies failing to thrive, postpartum depression, psychosis.

About a dozen CPMs are scattered throughout the state. Some work as “assistants” to licensed midwives. Some are licensed in New Jersey and ostensibly practice there. Some work part-time as doulas or nominal doulas. One midwife explained, “[The clients] would get in the door and there would be a wink and a handshake, because someone sent them.” This meant lying to her kids, lying to everyone. Hiding birth equipment in a neighbor’s house in case cops raided hers. It meant verbal contracts and not always getting paid, taking on a second or even third job to make ends meet.

“I mean, I got into all this because I feel it’s a woman’s right to fully embrace all of her choices around her reproductive health, and that doesn’t just include whether or not she wants to keep a pregnancy, it also extends to who she wants to catch her baby, where she wants to be, how she wants to do it. She should have all the information to make the choice that’s best for her,” said this midwife. “That’s why I did it, because women were asking me, because if I wasn’t there they’d do it alone. I was doing it because the state wasn’t allowing the women to get what they wanted. As a staunch feminist, this was my way of really being there to show up for women.”

Very few are willing to take the risk of practicing illegally today, a risk that has become very real since Catlin’s arrests. Especially for midwives of color. Carmen Mojica, a CPM who lives in the Bronx and for a time worked as an assistant to a CNM told me, “The CPM was the closest I could get to being trained the way my ancestors were trained.” But then: “I’m a black woman. I can’t afford to do anything illegal.… I’m already in a black body that’s targeted for everything.” While she can’t currently practice midwifery, she is trying to midwife a legislative remedy: Mojica cofounded the advocacy group New York Certified Professional Midwives, which is lobbying for a new bill.

Asteir Bey is a doula, childbirth educator, and registered nurse in Syracuse who codirects the U.S. operations of Village Birth International with doula and childbirth educator Aimee Brill. The organization has a mobile clinic in Uganda and runs childbirth education classes and doula training in Syracuse. Bey, who is black, and Brill, who is white, are particularly focused on the large black and immigrant communities in Syracuse, both of which experience a disproportionate share of poor outcomes. In New York City, the maternal mortality rate for black women is 12 times that of white women. In Onondoga county, the maternal mortality rate is 31.6 deaths per 100,000 births, twice the estimated national rate, and infant mortality is three times higher for black infants than for white infants. The disparities hold whether the women are educated, well-insured, or upwardly mobile. When researchers drill down, the explanation is institutional racism — the physical stress of living in the U.S. as a woman of color, and still-mostly-white medical staff ’s refusals to take black women’s pain seriously.

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Both have thought of, and continue to consider, becoming midwives. “Aimee and I would have long conversations of tears and joy trying to figure it out. Maybe we’ll do the CPM as this active resistance, as a political thing. And then thinking about our organization [in Uganda], using our CPM to really build bridges there,” Bey told me. But then reality dampens these aspirations. The difficult life of a home birth midwife — physically demanding, unpredictable hours, low pay — is exponentially more difficult when the profession is legally marginalized.

Bey could go the CNM route, but she thinks of the loans she’d graduate with, which would force her to take a hospital job for at least a couple years, which would make it tough to start up a home birth practice. So “you get this institutional job based on your certification that pays your bills, but it doesn’t fit fundamentally with what you’re doing.… That’s not really how you learn how to do home births. They’re like two different worlds. The one thing I feel really clear about is that the kind of care that as a midwife I want to provide for people — I’m not sure I can do that in the hospital.”

Brill lands in a similar place: “It’s really hard to let go of the idea of midwifery, but I don’t think my idea of midwifery actually exists.”

And yet, the reason that the subculture of home birth inspires such passion in both consumer and midwife is that, at least in the United States, it is where both the person birthing and the birth attendant categorically have the most autonomy. It is an inherently feminist model of care. And issues of autonomy and bodily integrity are central to the crises plaguing maternity care across the country. Rinat Dray of Staten Island was forced into a cesarean in 2011, based on her hospital’s secret policy allowing doctors to use “the means necessary to override a maternal refusal of the treatment.” In California, Kimberly Turbin refused an episiotomy and the OB cut her 12 times (this was captured on video, which you can find on YouTube). “I’m the expert here,” he said. In Alabama, nurses pinned down Caroline Malatesta and held her baby in her vagina for several minutes until the doctor arrived, causing her lifelong nerve damage and sexual dysfunction.

These are extreme cases, but every day women who’ve had previous cesareans or whose babies are in the breech position are told they have no option but surgery. Perhaps the hospital “doesn’t allow” VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) or the doctors are unskilled in vaginal breech birth. Such practices violate the modern ethic of patients’ rights — and human rights — yet pregnant women are routinely treated like another class of patient. The midwives I talk to who serve the Mennonite and Amish communities, like Catlin, also emphasize the poverty, the poor nutrition, the infeasibility of the hospital for families that expand annually — hospitals that are often hours away by buggy, unaffordable, and frightening. Plus, they’ve got a brood of young children and animals who would need minding. When they go to the hospital, it’s an absolute last resort.

In all the mid-’90s machinations over licensure and standards, the women who were about to lose their midwives never seemed to factor too heavily in anyone’s minds. “It was territorialism,” says Linda Schutt, a semiretired CM based near Ithaca. “It was never about the mothers and babies.”

* * *

Six years ago, I became an expectant New Yorker navigating the maternity care system, trying to find expertise and autonomy in the same package. I knew that the hospital was not where I wanted or needed to be, and that I would plan a home birth.

The CMs and CPMs I sought out were candid about their professional standing. They warned me that if we needed to transfer to a hospital in labor we’d likely encounter attitude if not outright hostility. They wouldn’t be able to stay and support me. One midwife looked me straight in the eye. “If we need to transport, I cannot guarantee that you’ll have a good experience.” By “experience” she wasn’t talking about whether I’d be able to dim the lights or play Adele or bring a yoga ball. What she meant was that she could not guarantee my physical and emotional safety. “There’s the phenomenon in hospitals that women are treated negligently or in a way that is punitive based on moral opprobrium that has nothing to do with fact. And that’s unsafe,” said Hermine Hayes-Klein, a reproductive justice attorney in Oregon and founder of Human Rights in Childbirth.

Eventually I connected with Cynthia Caillagh, who’d left New York in the mid-’80s after attending 2,000 births in the Buffalo-Syracuse corridor. By the time I was pregnant, Cynthia had moved to Wisconsin, where she finally got her CPM and could practice without restriction. She has attended around 4,200 births to date, and one quarter of them have been twins or babies in the breech position. In the medical system, these are “high-risk” — breech are usually an automatic cesarean, twins very often so — but for her they’re variations of normal that require particular skills, which she has, so just 2 percent of her clients end up needing C-sections. She’s also a safe harbor midwife: she gets calls from around the country from women in their eighth month who have twins or breech babies or are VBAC and are willing to travel to avoid surgery.

So as my third trimester began, I set about finding a place in Wisconsin for the baby’s father and I to stay. A friend of a friend knew a couple who had inherited a farm and were starting up an artist’s residency in their guest suite. The location was perfect, just 10 minutes from a hospital where Cynthia had good relationships. I made the cold call: “Hi, would you mind if I had a baby in your house?” Ali and Don got it. They had both their kids at home and flew in their midwife for the second one.

The residency would be empty in December, but Ali suggested we’d have more space and privacy in the “hunting man’s man cave,” though it lacked certain modern amenities, like a water hookup. We landed in Milwaukee in a winter fog, drove three hours to the farm, and opened the door to the man cave. It was more like an airplane hangar than the log cabin of my imagination, with a high ceiling, concrete floors, exposed insulation, and several mounted deer heads. Don’s dad Jim, who had originally owned the property, used it as his hunting lodge.

Some critics of home birth have called it selfish, for women looking for a spa-like experience. We had a woodstove and a makeshift toilet with a wooden seat poised over a bucket. On most days, the temperature outside hovered between 5 and 15 degrees. I did have a birth tub prepared — a black plastic cow trough from a farm supply store. My labor, as I see it, included the first two weeks in Wisconsin before the contractions started: dealing with the bitter cold, figuring out the woodstove, coming to terms with the pee bucket.

We set up the tub in the main house, where hot water actually comes out of the taps. And on the night of a full moon, after a night and day of contractions, I stepped into warm water hoping my baby would swim out, as I’d seen in so many orgasmic birth videos. But Cynthia understood that something was holding him back, and after nearly eight hours in that tub, she got eye-level with me: “You’re going to have to push this baby out.”

“I’m going to tear,” I said, which was really the best-case scenario in my mind; I was absolutely sure I’d split into two halves. Cynthia responded with the words every birthing human wants to (and more deserve) to hear: “I’m not going to let you tear.” And then I remembered: This is why I’m here. Not only because my midwife wasn’t going to intervene unless I or the baby was in danger; she was going to protect my body. But she was also going to protect my relationship with my baby — we would start our mother-child love affair under the most optimal, gentle circumstances.

I pushed my son out at 3 in the morning, without tearing, without even much blood. He had wound the umbilical cord around his body like a silks acrobat — under his leg, around his waist, under his arm and around his neck — and thus couldn’t swim out so easily. Cynthia calmly unfurled him and put him on my chest.

He was wide-eyed and perfect and minutes-old when he reached out his tiny hand to touch my face.

At 5 a.m. we bundled up and the party moved back up the hill. I slept the kind of sleep I’d been wanting for weeks. Under “Notes” on my “immediate postpartum evaluation,” Cynthia reported: “Jennifer has moved back to the man cave.”

There were so many moments leading up to that day when I doubted myself, when I thought the whole plan was a mistake. “I’ve made a mess of things,” I wrote to Cynthia one morning. But what happens to our bodies is important. The way we are treated in our most vulnerable moments is important. What happens to our babies in their first minutes, hours, days out of the womb is important.

Cynthia responded with the words every birthing human wants to (and more deserve) to hear: ‘I’m not going to let you tear.’ And then I remembered: This is why I’m here.

I’m fortunate; not everyone has a flexible job, a supportive partner. Not everyone can labor in a cabin with the wisewoman of their choosing. Not everyone even knows that this kind of care exists — midwives’ expertise is so frequently hidden from discourse, eclipsed by the media’s focus on doctors and doulas. But everyone deserves the care I received, especially in the postpartum: Cynthia and her colleagues made sure I was healing and resting and that the baby, who we named Abe, was the right color and that his tiny system was functioning properly. Nursing hurts before the milk comes in, around day three, but the midwives brought me lanolin and reassured me that the colostrum Abe was eking out of my sore nipples was exactly enough food, that his incessant suckling was going to bring on the milk and establish my supply, which it did. “What you wanted was an expert in physiological birth with a secure, safe transfer [if necessary],” said Hayes-Klein. “It’s not too much to ask, Jennifer.”

In spite of having a full-body hangover, those first few days lying in bed with my baby were a magical, otherworldly time. In half-naked pictures I look up at the camera, bleary-eyed and blissed out. Everyone and everything, even the hunting paraphernalia, was sparkling. I suspect that many women don’t experience this euphoria because the hormonal physiology has been disrupted and they’re recovering from trauma instead of flying on an oxytocin-prolactin-beta-endorphin cocktail.

Several family members arrived the day after Christmas to meet the baby in our manger. It was a freak 45 degrees, brilliant sun on snow, and I went for my first walk with Abe wrapped to my chest. That afternoon, we hosted a goose dinner. Cynthia joined and held Abe while we all ate. By 3 in the afternoon, I was ready to be back in bed, and she helped clear the room so I could get there.

* * *

In 1996, Hilary Schlinger moved back to New Mexico, one of the few states that never outlawed midwifery in any capacity. Today, the state is held up for its “European midwife-to-doctor ratio,” as she puts it, and downright Scandinavian outcomes. Midwives attend some 35 percent of births, and the state’s rates of cesarean and preterm birth are among the lowest in the nation (even though the population is higher risk than average).

When physicians claimed authoritative knowledge of birth at the turn of the last century, it nearly drove midwives and home birth out of existence; when nurse-midwives claimed it in the 1990s, it drove “other” midwives out of New York. Those midwives are pushing back, and CPM licensing is sweeping the country; there’s a chance New York will flip in the near future. Between 2010 and 2015, the CNMs and CPMs and their certifying and accrediting organizations held another summit to bring American midwifery education and certification in line with the standards set forth by the International Confederation of Midwives. In 2015, they published a statement agreeing that both pathways, CPM and CNM — and the all-but-forgotten CM — meet the international standard, and made recommendations for state licensure.

Pat Burkhardt, who opposed licensing the progenitors of the CPM in the 1990s and championed the CM credential, is now on the legislative committee of the New York Association of Licensed Midwives, which has drafted a new bill to replace the 1992 law that could lift the ban on CPMs as early as this legislative session. Called the Unified Midwifery Practice Act, it is sitting on Dick Gottfried’s desk. Meanwhile, on the national front, two bills have passed the House that would expand Medicaid coverage to CPMs as well as mark federal funding to train more. “It makes no sense that if CPMs meet the standards they can’t be licensed,” Burkhardt now says.

Still, the turf wars over competency, authority, and autonomy continue, on the familiar battleground of women’s bodies. It’s very possible that in negotiating the regulations, CPMs will be restricted from attending people or births with certain characteristics, as they have been in other states like California, home to about 15 percent of the country’s licensed midwives, according to the National Association of Certified Professional Midwives. Until 2015, they practiced without restrictions. Now their scope of practice is ambiguous, and that ambiguity is being used against them. They can no longer attend breech or twins; they are being challenged on VBAC; and several are being investigated by the state board, drowning in legal fees, discredited for outcomes that don’t get a second glance in hospital settings. Many are letting their licenses expire and going back to practicing underground, and a growing network of “freebirthers” is shunning licensed providers altogether.

During my coffee with Roberta Devers-Scott, afternoon turned to evening, and we moved on to happy hour white wine. She told me that after Syracuse she thrived for several years as a legal CPM in Rutland, Vermont, attracting a sophisticated clientele and pulling in six figures. In other words, she was stiff competition. She was also lobbying the state to allow midwife-run birth centers; at one critical moment she was sitting in the governor’s office with the head of Blue Cross Blue Shield, asking why they didn’t cover CPMs. But then a poor outcome similar to Catlin’s turned into a lawsuit. She lost her license, went back to school to become a licensed therapist — got two masters degrees — but was denied that license because of her criminal record in New York. Today she is starting an artisanal soap business.

“We were on a roll,” she said. “I got eliminated before I could finish that work. It’s what happens to loud women.”

In Wisconsin, Cynthia is painting the walls of her new birth center colors like “blueprint” blue. In November, she organized a conference on vaginal breech birth, which brought together physicians and midwives from across the continent. Her next project is a small cabin for long-distance clients to comfortably stay.

Elizabeth Catlin had been keeping her head down, making ends meet working for the University of Rochester on a study of the low incidence of allergies and asthma in Old Order Mennonites — she’d been assisting with the study before, and undeterred by her arrests, the university hired her full-time. Then on December 17, 2019, she was indicted on 95 felony counts, including negligent homicide, carrying a possible prison sentence of 473 years.

Right up until her indictment, Catlin’s former clients would call and ask if she was working again. Now, their option of a skilled home birth midwife has been replaced by a wholly different model of care. In response to the void left by her arrest, several CNMs from Rochester opened a Penn Yan practice in order to offer home birth services to the outlying villages Catlin had been serving, although women say that the offered price, which would be paid out-of-pocket, is at least double what they paid Catlin and thus beyond their reach. Then, in December, the Thompson affiliate hospital in Geneva announced it was adding OB-GYN services — and scheduled a ribbon-cutting ceremony and open house the same day as Catlin’s arraignment.

Update: In October, police seized property from the home of a Mennonite CPM and served another CPM a cease-and-desist order, and, just last week made another arrest in conjunction with Catlin’s case, confirming the commitment and scope of the state’s crackdown.

* * *

Jennifer Block is an independent journalist and the author of Everything Below The Waist: Why Health Care Needs a Feminist Revolution (St. Martin’s Press). Her work has appeared in The Washington Post Magazine, The Cut, Newsweek, The New York Times, Pacific Standard, The Baffler, and many other publications. Her first book, Pushed, led a wave of attention to the national crisis in maternity care and was named a “Best Book of 2007” by Kirkus Reviews. A reporter with Type Investigations, Block won several awards for her investigative reporting on the permanent contraceptive implant Essure, which has since been discontinued. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her son.

Editor: Michelle Weber Fact checker: Samantha Schuyler Copyeditor: Jacob Z. Gross

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