#like I watch dead meat and he's always said 'kill count' in his videos without a problem?

[lesbianwithchainsaws]

I don't watch a lot of true crime/real life mysteries stuff on youtube, but every once in a while I do like to watch some of it, and I genuinely find it so difficult to listen to these people speak lately. "He was unalived", "pdf file", spelling out "s.a" or "s.h" instead of just saying the words out loud. If I ever get murdered and I hear a youtuber say I was "unalived" I'm haunting them forever

[darks-ink]

Fog - Ectoberweek 2020

Another year, another fic writing anniversary. Might be a little rough because I am rusty, yikes.

Rating: Gen Warnings: - Genre: Supernatural Words: 3,176 Relationships: - Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Seer Valerie Gray, Supernatural elements, Developing friendships

[AO3] [FFN]

---

The first time Valerie had asked her dad why it was always so foggy in Amity Park, he’d laughed kindly, and explained to her how fog worked. She had accepted the explanation, worked through it a while—as children were wont to do—and then realized it didn’t actually explain anything.

The second time she asked, he frowned at her, telling her it wasn’t foggy at all. She had looked at the green mist seeping from between the tiles of the sidewalk, pouring out of the dirt between the roots of trees and grass, and resolved not to ask again.

Of course, that didn’t stop her from asking Star. Star, after all, was her best friend, and surely she would understand what Valerie meant. Right?

But Star hadn’t understood either. Claimed that she didn’t see the fog that seemed impossible to miss. And worse still, Paulina overheard. Overheard, and spread rumors all around the school. Before Valerie knew, everyone in the school thought she was crazy, that she saw things that weren’t real.

Valerie had looked at the coalescing mist, watched it thicken and coil into the shape of a cat, and decided that she would just have to figure it out herself.

And, honestly? She had. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but she thought she had done fairly well for herself. Not that she could ever tell anyone what she knew, what she could see. She just had to take one look at the Fentons, at how far their children had been cast out for the crime of being related to people so sure of the existence of ghosts.

She herself had clawed her back way to mildly reputable, over time. Valerie Gray had no plans to go back to that pit of nonexistence.

So, yes. She could see ghosts. Or, maybe not ghosts proper. Spirits seemed to be a closer description. The natural presence of ectoplasm in the very atmosphere of Amity Park, seeping into their reality from another dimension.

Loathe as she was to say it, she was pretty sure the Fentons were at least somewhat right about ghosts. They lived primarily in a different dimension, sustained by its ectoplasm. In places where the boundary between their own dimension and the so-called Ghost Zone grew thin, this ectoplasm could seep through.

It was the ectoplasm in the air which supported lingering spirits, however briefly. Never long enough for them to develop into a proper ghost—which apparently could be seen by anyone—but enough for Valerie to see them. The recently diseased remained incorporeal, soft and foggy like the green mist they were made out of.

It was… Well, not okay, certainly, but… normal? For her, at least. There was no danger to it, not really. The lingering spirits were short-lived, couldn’t touch, and didn’t make sounds. Often, they didn’t even realize she could see them. And why would they, when no one else could?

So by age fourteen, in her first year of high school, Valerie had quite settled into this pattern of existence. Yes, she could see ghosts, and no, she didn’t plan on doing anything with that skill. What could she do with it? Become an ecto-scientist like the Fentons, dismissed for the rest of her life? Please. No, she was perfectly satisfied with living an ordinary life, without ever acknowledging her ability to see ghosts and spirits.

Until, one perfectly ordinary day, not too long after the school year had started… Danny Fenton changed.

Now, Valerie didn’t know him all that well. She had fought too hard to become a respectable kid to throw it away on outcasts like him, pity or no. And pity him, she did, because she knew what it felt like. To be pushed away just because they were different.

But, unlike her, Danny Fenton had friends. He might’ve wanted better, but he wasn’t alone. He would make do. It wasn’t her problem, so she didn’t bother with him.

Seeing him walk into Lancer’s classroom absolutely wreathed in ecto-green smoke made her reconsider her previous conclusion. Because that? That wasn’t normal. She had, quite frankly, never seen anything like that before.

It took considerable effort to keep her eyes off of Fenton. The fog continued to pour out of him, thicker than most spirits could manage. Something must’ve happened at his home, with his parents’ inventions. Something which caused him to emit ectoplasm in such high amounts.

Well, maybe it was just his body expelling it? That would explain it, yeah? It would stop eventually, once all ectoplasm was gone, and then everything would be fine again.

Besides, it didn’t seem like he injured or dying or whatever else could cause it. So. Nothing to worry about.

Except it didn’t go away. Not entirely. Over time, the fog seemed to… change. No longer did it seep out of Danny like it poured out of the ground, but now it seemed to coil around him. Like it had settled in his flesh, a perfect mimic of his body except in the soft mist of ectoplasm. It was almost like the few times she had seen spirits pass through physical objects, but not… not quite.

Quietly, Valerie resolved to continue to ignore it. It wasn’t her problem. Just because she could see spirits and ectoplasm and what-not didn’t mean she had to be responsible for it, did it? Danny’s own parents were ghost experts. If something was wrong with him, surely they would know?

So she turned a blind eye, unwilling to get involved with any kind of ghostly business.

The first ghost she saw, therefore, wasn’t in real life. It was on the television.

Of course, no one seemed to realize it was a ghost. A massive lumbering heap of flesh—meat products, apparently—which had lumbered around near the school briefly before disappearing. All kinds of explanations popped up, but none quite rung true—and none could deny the shaky video footage.

Shaky video footage, on which Valerie could clearly see the dense green fog in the meat, binding it together with some kind of ectoplasmic force.

The footage didn’t last long enough to see the thing disappear, but witnesses said that it suddenly fell apart, showering the parking lot with seemingly mundane meat products. The clean-up had been a huge mess, or so they said.

It left Valerie feeling… off-balance. For years, she’d learned about her ability, figured out what was what. It seemed stable, certain. There were limits, things that were always the same. Ectoplasm, and spirits. And now, for the second time within a month, she saw something she didn’t know.

So she gritted her teeth, and decided to check out the leftovers of… whatever it was that had lumbered around her school.

Looking back, she wasn’t sure why she had expected to learn anything useful from the leftover meat. A little ectoplasm clung to it still, when she found some that the clean-up had missed, but it was rapidly evaporating away. Nothing worth noting.

The whole event became a turning point, anyway. Within weeks, ghosts became an undeniable reality in Amity Park.

If nothing else, it at least gave her an excuse to learn more about her ability. Ghosts didn’t look much like spirits, she found out. Their bodies were made out of dense ectoplasm, clearly corporeal, and perfectly visible to everyone. They did, however, emit ectoplasmic mist—apparently they just constantly leaked the stuff when they weren’t in the Zone.

Which led her back to Danny Fenton. The way he smoked was certainly similar to how proper ghosts emitted ectoplasm, but it wasn’t quite the same. Nor was it quite the same as when ghosts overshadowed humans, or when ghosts possessed or otherwise controlled objects.

No, Danny Fenton remained unique in his condition. And honestly? It kind of pissed Valerie off. Yes, the introduction of proper ghosts to Amity Park had forced her to learn more about her ability, and yes, she still refused to acknowledge its existence to anyone but herself. But she still wanted to know, to understand.

And Valerie Gray is no coward. She wanted to know, so she would know, damn it all. Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, no? And she’d spent several months trying to satisfy this bit of curiosity. Now all she had to do was corner Danny Fenton and demand the truth from him.

---

Okay, so cornering Fenton was easier said than done, Valerie discovered. He was, apparently, incredibly slippery. Multiple times, she had followed him into a dead end, just to find no one else present. At this point, she was fairly certain that his ghostly infection had come with ghost powers.

Which would just figure, wouldn’t it? Count on the universe to give her the ability to see ectoplasm constantly, while someone like Fenton gets something cool like intangibility? And now that she had a running theory, she needed actual confirmation, too!

She rattled her fingers on the desk she was sitting behind, staring at Lancer but not taking in any of the words he was saying. Well, shit. She’d totally zoned out in the middle of class. That would probably come back to bite her in the ass.

A few seats closer to the front, Fenton jerked in his seat, blowing out a denser cloud of foggy ectoplasm. Usually this was promptly followed by him trying to excuse himself out of class. And, well. That was a good opportunity, wasn’t it?

Quickly, faster than Danny could, she put up her hand. Lancer paused, frowning, but called on her anyway.

“Can I go to the toilet?”

Lancer heaved a weary sigh but nodded nonetheless, and Valerie sped out of the classroom, steadily ignoring Danny’s frustrated look. She waited outside the classroom, not wanting anyone to see her lingering but not willing to risk missing Danny altogether.

Luckily, she didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, Danny Fenton stormed through the classroom door, clearly in a rush.

Valerie stuck out her leg, intending to trip him up, or at least slow him down.

Instead, Fenton’s leg became soft and fuzzy in an awfully familiar way, and went straight through hers.

“Uh,” he said, immediately pausing to stare at her. “You didn’t see that.”

She snorted, despite herself. “It was hard to miss, Fenton.”

“Yeah, well…” He paused, seemingly lost for words. “Forget you saw it?”

“Definitely not.” She pushed away from the wall, stepping closer to him. “I wanted to talk to you about that, anyway.”

Danny swallowed, eyes darting side to side. “About what, exactly?”

“Something’s up with you.” She looked around the hallway as well, making sure to keep him in her peripherals. “But we can talk somewhere a little more desolate, if you want.”

“I kind of… need to get going?” he tried, feebly. “Seriously, Valerie, I can’t…”

He definitely looked like he might start running any minute. Well, no time for the subtle approach then. Just as well, she supposed. She wasn’t very good at subtle. “I can see ectoplasm.”

Danny… stopped. Froze in his tracks. “I’m-- what? Sorry, what?”

“I can see ectoplasm,” she repeated, turning around to face him properly. “And spirits, when they’re around. I would’ve said ghosts, but everyone can see ghosts, now that they’re actually around.”

“But isn’t ectoplasm…” he gestured vaguely, catching up to her again. “Kind of everywhere?”

“It’s constantly seeping out of the ground, yeah.” She grinned. “And ghosts evaporate the stuff. So do you, but it’s not quite the same. And you kept disappearing after I cornered you into dead ends, so I figured it was something ghost-related.”

He made a face. “I’m bad at this. I also seriously need to get going, Val, I wasn’t kidding about that.”

“What, because you put out a burst of extra ectoplasm?” She frowned at him. “You gonna pass out because you expelled too much, or something?”

“You saw that? Ugh.” He shook his head, visibly refocusing. “Anyway, no. That was my ghost sense, which tells me that there’s a ghost nearby. Which is probably gonna attack any minute now, so…”

“So?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Call your parents, or whatever you wanted to do. I finally got my opportunity to get these questions answered, I’m not letting you slip away that easy.”

Fenton shot her a look that was caught somewhere between exhausted and frustrated. “If anything happens, I’m blaming you.”

“What, were you gonna beat it up?” She snorted, then sobered at his blank look. “Oh, well. Don’t let me stop you, I’d love to see that.”

“Shut up.” He stopped next to his locker, turning away from her to unlock it. “What did you want, anyway?”

“To satisfy my curiosity.” She shrugged at the incredulous look he threw at her. “Is that so hard to believe? I’ve lived with this ability for years, I knew every aspect of it. Even now with the ghosts around, I’ve figured out almost all the bits. Your ectoplasmic contamination is the only thing that I don’t understand.”

“And you were hoping I would explain?” His locker clicked open, and Danny reached inside to take out a shiny thermos, styled with ecto-green like every other Fenton product. “There’s nothing, Valerie. Don’t worry about it.”

She scoffed. “I’m not worried, I’m curious. What’s the harm in telling me, anyway? I already know you can go intangible like a ghost, and it’s not like I’ll tell.”

“Sure you won’t.” He rolled his eyes, closing his locker once more. Apparently the thermos was all he wanted from it. “And I’m supposed to just, what, rely on your ability and desire to keep a secret?”

“Please. Last time I tried to tell anyone about my own abilities, I was kicked down to the bottom of the popularity ladder. I have no plans to go back.” Her eyes trailed away from him, catching on the increase of ectoplasm on the other end of the hallway. “The only thing that’ll happen if I try to tell anyone is that they’ll think I’m crazy. Again.”

“Yeah, or my parents hear and think I’m a ghost again.” He looked up from the thermos in his hands, frowning at her. “What’re you looking at?”

The ectoplasm pulled together, coalescing into something dense enough to be a ghost, even if it lacked the color. It clearly wasn’t a spirit, not nearly life-like enough for it, despite it’s vaguely humanoid shape.

“You ever seen a ghost look like a bulking robot before?” she asked, faux casual, turning to look at Fenton. “Big plane-like wings, some kinda mohawk?”

“Shit,” he muttered, peering into the direction where the ghost was. “You can really see him?”

“Well, I was trying not to let him know that, because he doesn’t look very nice.” She rolled her eyes. “You know him, then?”

“Skulker.” Danny shook his head, hands wringing around the thermos. “Fuck, and there’s no way I can catch him unaware with the Thermos. I’ll have to fight him.”

“What, you?” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Well, don’t let me stop you, I guess.”

Danny straightened up properly. “Don’t tell anyone about this.” Then he paused, looked down at the thermos in his hands, and shoved it at her. “Use this when he gets distracted.”

“Uh, okay?” she replied, taking the thing in her hands. It didn’t seem like a weapon to her, but it would be just like Jack Fenton to disguise a ghost hunting weapon as a thermos, of all things. “What do you plan on doing?”

“Not dying, hopefully,” Danny grumbled, and then he— changed. The ectoplasm that steamed off of him suddenly thickened, until Danny was hidden in dense fog. Light flashed within it, like a thunderstorm.

When the ectoplasm reduced back to normal amounts, a ghost stood where Danny had been.

“Shit,” he muttered, combing a hand through his unnaturally white hair, “I still can’t see him.”

“You’re an idiot.” She sighed, turning to look back at the hulking mohawk ghost. “At the end of the hallway, can’t miss him.”

“Thanks, Val.” The ghost-that-had-been-Danny kicked off of the ground, zipping towards the first one.

What had the world come to?

Lucky for her, she didn’t need to play seeing-eye person much longer, because the robot ghost dropped his invisibility when Danny came close enough.

Instead she stood there, watching the two ghosts fight. With a thermos-shaped Fenton invention of unknown purpose in her hands. Great.

It wasn’t even a good fight. The robot ghost relied almost entirely on guns which shot ectoplasm-based lasers, while Danny kept trying to get in close and punch the thing. Not even some kind of martial arts, no, just teenage-level brawling. Ugh.

He was flung into the wall next to her, slumping down with a groan. She clicked her tongue at him. “Not very impressive.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled back, pushing himself to his feet. His voice, even through the warbling echo that all ghosts possessed, was clearly frustrated. “Could you do better?”

“Well, I am a trained black belt,” she pointed out, before holding out the thermos. “What does this do, anyway?”

“Catches ghosts.” He rose into the air, but his flight was shaky. “Please don’t point it at me.”

“Well, duh.” She stepped back, allowing him a straight shot at the robot ghost. “Go distract him, will you?”

“Since when are you in charge?” Danny grumbled, but he flew off anyway, darting around the other ghost and drawing him back in her direction.

Valerie shook her head, wondering vaguely how she’d gotten into this situation. How many years had she sworn not to get involved into anything related to her ability to see ghosts? And now here she was.

“Here, Skulker Skulker Skulker,” Danny jeered, pitching his voice like he was calling to a runaway dog. “Here, Skulkie Skulkie Skulkie!”

The other ghost snarled, lunging forward at Danny.

Valerie stepped forward, uncapping the thermos in the same movement, and pressed it against the side of the ghost. It swore, but was unable to escape the coiling vortex of the device, sucked into it in the blink of an eye.

“Huh.” She blinked, automatically capping the Thermos again. “That worked better than expected.”

“Yeah, sometimes my parents can get it right.” Danny touched down next to her, soundlessly. “Uh. Thanks, I guess.”

Again, the ectoplasm pouring off of him thickened, clouding him for a brief moment as light flashed. When it fogged away, it left a regular looking Danny Fenton.

Valerie glanced down to make sure the device was locked, then turned to Danny. “You can have it back in return for more answers.”

He snorted, shaking his head with a wry smile on his face. “Should’ve figured as much. Guess I can’t get out of it, huh?”

“What’s the point in hiding if you’ve already shown me… whatever that was supposed to be?”

“Eh, fair point.” He shrugged, almost fatalistically. “Let’s get early lunch and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, deal?”

She considered him for a moment. “Deal.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Akio

CW: References to the death of a friend, grief, suicide, murder 

Sequel to Found Out and this past flashback to Oliver Branch

The sound of thin, breaded pork cutlets frying in the big pan on the stove fills the air, and Akio breathes in the familiar smell where he lays on his back on his parents’ gigantic cream-colored sectional couch, stretched out across the whole length of it on one side. Not that he’s all that tall to take up all that much space, really, but what matters is that he would definitely have fallen asleep by now if it weren’t for holding his phone up over his face.

It fell on him, once, and he’s pretty sure no one noticed. Emi, his younger sister, hasn’t even looked up once from her own phone, except once to triumphantly announce that no one caught her and they all voted someone else off the ship. Then she looked back down and never looked back up.

Akio frowns, looking at his own screen, tapping his thumbs as he writes out an answer to the person messaging him. “Hey, Mom?”

“Yes?” His mother looks up from cooking, her eyes moving through the big open space right to him. They’d knocked down all the walls when they bought the house, open-concept-something-something. Akio didn’t care, but it was apparently deeply important to his parents. Something about family togetherness.

“You remember Tristan Higgs, right?”

Aimi pauses, tucks a bit of her short black hair behind one ear to get it out of her eyes as she flips the pork cutlets on by one, to get the other side nicely browned, too. The sizzling ratchets up in volume and then back down again. Next to her sits four bowls already filled with rice, and the table already has the vegetables ready to go. “Of course, honey. Oh, the anniversary’s coming up, isn’t it? I have an alarm set on my phone… did you want to go to the cemetery next week to see Ronnie and Paul?”

“Ew, no creepy graveyards for me, thanks,” Emi says, eyes still glued to her phone.

“We wouldn’t take you anyway,” Akio says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t even remember Tris or his parents.”

“I do, too. I was like seven. He was really nice. Mrs. Higgs was really nice, too. Mr. Higgs was weird.” 

“Wow, what a stellar eulogy that was, Emi. I can see why you want to be a writer when you grow up. The description there was just incredible.”

“Oh, go drive into a lake,” Emi says, without any particular rancor in her voice. 

“If you’re going to fight, I’m going to send you two upstairs so I at least don’t have to listen to it,” Aimi says, moving the cutlets to rest on a paper plate with paper towels lining it while she heats mirin, soy sauce, and… some other stuff in a different pan. Honestly, Akio has no idea exactly how katsudon happens, all he cares about is that it’s the perfect after-practice food and he is starving.

Except he keeps getting distracted by this guy on Insta. “Anyway, Mom, um, about Tris. So… yeah, I do want to go out and see his parents next week, yeah, but-... there’s this guy on Instagram who keeps asking about him. That’s… that’s weird, right?”

Aimi looks up, blinking. “Asking about Tristan? What is he asking?”

“Just like… he says he saw the video I put up on youtube, and he’s asking, like… what was his birthday, and did he like fried chicken, was he autistic, and… did he like musical soundtracks. This is weird stuff to ask a total stranger, right?”

“A little.” Aimi pauses while she watches the pan, and then pours a small bowl with beaten eggs into it, watching them spread and start to lighten to a puffy yellow as it cooked in the already-boiling liquid mixture. “Did you ask why he wants to know?”

“I did, but he just said he’s doing some research or something. But, like… research on what?” Akio taps on the guy’s little profile photo, bringing the profile itself up. “His username is benthebadmagician. Okay that’s-... that’s kind of cute.” 

Aimi’s voice turns sly. “Is this Ben cute?” 

“Ugh, gross, Mom. That’s not-... I mean he’s kind of-... that’s not important.”

“Ooooh, eyeballin’ the insta-hotties,” Emi singsongs. “Aki’s gettin’ desperate. Just get a freaking dating app like everyone else.”

“Already on it, Emi.”

“Then why exactly don’t you get any dates? Oh, right.” Emi sits forward and grins. “I forgot about your personality.”

Akio throws a throw pillow at her and the big orange poof misses by a mile. Emi laughs, getting to her feet and wandering over to the fridge, pulling a can of soda out and popping the top. “Aren’t you an athlete, how the hell did you miss that?”

“Language,” Aimi warns, waving a spoon at her daughter. She gently places the cutlets into the cooking eggs to finish up. “No swearing under my roof, young lady.”

“Aki swears all the time!”

“Aki is twenty-four years old,” Aimi says, almost primly. “And he doesn’t swear where I can hear him.”

“What, so it doesn’t count if you don’t hear him?”

“Of course it doesn’t, how do I know if I don’t hear him?”

Akio smiles, faintly, but he’s scrolling through the Ben guy’s instagram feed now. Just looking at the grid of squares, photos and videos. Lots of coffees and food, people laughing, photos of a girl with really pretty hair. Photos of Ben the Bad Magician himself. Nerd, Akio thinks, but cute nerd - definitely nose-in-a-book type. Nice brown hair, nice smile. 

“Oh look at that face,” Emi says, eyebrows raised. “Ben the Insta-Weirdo actually is cute huh?”

“Go eat slugs.” Akio keeps scrolling down and down, not sure what he’s looking for. Autism awareness banners - he checks those to learn the Ben guy’s got an autistic little brother, and his friend Christopher is autistic. There’s a couple slides, and he swipes his finger to what he assumes is a photo of the Ben guy with the little brother, who looks almost exactly like him, just a whole bunch younger and looking, unsmiling, off to one side while Ben grins at the camera.

Akio doesn’t bother checking the last slide - it’s probably just whoever the Chris guy is. He backs back out to the grid of thumbnails. Maybe he just picked up on the stuff Tris always did when he was excited, and got curious? Maybe his little brother liked the video? Akio’s gotten a couple comments from people saying they liked seeing an autistic kid just be fucking happy in public without getting shit on for it, and that used to be a big deal for Mrs. Higgs, too...

The question about musicals keeps snagging at him. Tris loved musicals, went through cycles with them. He and Akio had a whole routine done to a song in Hairspray, just for fun, when Tris was obsessed with that for a while. And then they were going to do the Time Warp as a routine once...

Akio keeps scrolling, only vaguely aware of his sister and mother talking, and Emi leaving the room to go call their dad in for dinner. 

Emi stops in the doorway and turns back. “Don’t forget to get his phone number, Aki. You can definitely trust strangers on the internet creepily interested in your dead best friend, right?”

Akio looks up, then, blinking at her. “Emi, that’s-...”

She seems to catch herself, and gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Aki. That got bitchy.”

“Language,” Aimi reminds her. “But I appreciate you apologizing. Does anyone even hear me say to use nice language any longer?”

“No,” Akio and Emi say in unison, and then Emi disappears down the hallway, bellowing for their father in her loudest voice even though she could easily walk up the stairs and not have to yell at all. 

Akio looks at his mother and deadpans, “Your daughter is really weird.”

Aimi matches him tone for tone. “Your sister is weirder.” 

She places the cutlets on top of the rice bowls with the egg just underneath the meat, carrying them one by one to the table, setting them each down in their place, and then grabs her glass of wine, patiently waiting for her while she cooked. She pads on bare feet across the hardwood floor over to the pale white rug, soft as down underfoot, and stands next to where Akio is laying down. “Are you looking at the profile?”

“I am, yeah. I don’t know what I’m looking for, really, just… hey, wait.” Akio stops at the thumbnail preview for a video, tapping to open it up. It starts with a blue-haired boy smiling, and his smile hits Akio all odd, makes his throat tighten and his heart start to race. The boy in the video puts up a finger and backs up, glances over his shoulder at a TV screen behind him playing the tango scene from Rent. 

Akio blinks as the boy holds out a hand and a girl with really gorgeous long wavy hair takes it, the two of them moving effortlessly into a perfect mimicry of the dance on screen. The room they’re in is mostly empty, furniture shoved to the walls to turn what looks like some kind of lobby into a dancing space.

“Wow, that kid can really dance,” Akio murmurs, but the smile catches him, tugs at the back of his mind. The blue-haired boy can’t keep the grin off his face, it has to hurt to smile so big for so long, and the last person Akio thought that about was…

“You got this, Chris!” Someone calls from offscreen, and for a second Akio hears Tris and catches his breath, but no, no, they said Chris. Someone else claps for Mari - that must be the girl, maybe. 

They continue to dance, and Akio can’t tear his eyes away. “Mom? Do you see this?”

Aimi looks up from straightening some magazines on the coffee table and leans over, sipping her wine absently. “See what, honey?”

“Look,” Akio whispers. His throat is closing up, he can’t manage anything more than that. 

The two do a spin, and then burst out laughing, and the Chris boy stands back up straight, throwing his arms up like he’s just hit a perfect landing-

“Oh my god,” Aimi says next to him, her own voice strangled and choked, and Akio feels his mother’s hand suddenly clutch onto his shoulder. “Aki, is-”

“He’s dead,” Akio whispers. “He killed himself after his parents-... he’s dead, Mom.”

The Chris boy looks right at whoever was filming the video, shoots them a brilliant, shining smile, and then starts rocking, his hands moving through the air and twisting at the wrists, bouncing up and down on his toes.

Akio’s breath is shuddering in and out, and his heart pounds, trying to break out of his chest. “He’s-... Mom, he’s dead.”

“His aunt had him cremated,” Aimi says, but her lips are barely moving and the wineglass is loos in her fingers. “After they found him. She didn’t want a funeral.”

“He’s dead,” Akio repeats, thinking of the smile, the movements, the shy way he ducks his head at the end when people clap him on the back. He backs up to the wall again, keeps scrolling, looks for more pictures of the blue hair. He opens every single one he can find, searching for something, some sign that will tell him he’s not seeing what he knows he’s seeing. “His aunt took his phone away after like three months and then he was dead a month later, wasn’t he?”

There’s a pause.

“Mom? Mom, didn’t he kill himself like four months after they died? Didn’t he?” Akio’s voice sounds weak and is getting weaker. “Mom, please-... please answer me, didn’t he-”

“He left a note,” Aimi whispers. “His aunt-... she said he left a note, that he couldn’t live without them. It’s-... I never thought-... I never thought to question her, Aki, I never-... she was Ronnie’s family...”

He clicks another video.

“You’re a fucking mess, Christopher,” The girl from the dance video says, sitting in a tank tops and shorts on the edge of a bathtub. “Letting your roots grow out like that. But don’t you worry, Madam Mari is here to help!”

“Please don’t, don’t don’t-don’t call yourself Madam. Please?” A voice says, uneasily, and the blue-haired boy moves into the screen. “For, for, for me?”

“Yeah, no problem, Chris. Why’d you let it grow out so bad, anyway?”

His hair’s not blue in this one - or it is, but only about half of it. Pale and faded, but the top of his hair has grown back in for about three inches, and it’s coppery strawberry blond. He turns to the camera and gives a sheepish smile. “I, I got distracted and for, um, forgot.”

Aimi’s wineglass slips from her fingers, hits the floor, sprays wine like blood across the pristine white rug. 

Neither of them notices.

“I… I cried for him for like a year straight,” Akio chokes out, and he finds more pictures, more videos, more more more. He opens them up and then backs out of them again, unable to stop himself. Every photo shows him some shard of the mirror reflection of a dead boy all grown up - a sparkle of green eyes, happy motions in the background of a video, more of that familiar sunny smile. “I kept-... I kept all the stuff he left in my room, I saved all h-his text messages from before he d, disappeared, I-”

“This can’t be him,” Aimi says in a fierce whisper. “It can’t be, Aki, it can’t.”

Akio taps on another video.

The boy ties his long blue hair back in it, glancing sidelong at the camera, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “And, and, and you’ll, um, you’ll buy the, the, the-the-the nachos?”

“If you can still do it? Yeah, absolutely. Seeing that’s worth a plate of nachos to me. I’ll even buy you those fucking margaritas you like.”

“Chris just likes the sugar,” Someone else says, and Chris sticks his tongue out at them.

He takes a few steps back, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his arms. 

Akio tells himself that if the Chris on the screen doesn’t nail this, it can’t be him, it can’t be him at all. 

The boy puts his hands up, then down at his sides, back bowed briefly in a motion Akio knows too, too well, knows better than he knows breathing. The boy takes off across the grass without hesitation and-

Akio and Aimi both exhale.

-he jumps forward, dips at the waist, catches himself on his hands and does a perfect set of three backflips across a big grassy lawn, stumbling the landing but his feet pop right back into final position, and he throws his arms up with his chin lifted, and someone offscreen shouts, “Perfect Ten, Stanton!”

The boy laughs, shakes his head, says, “I’d be, be, be dinged for the, um, the landing, but-... but, but good, right? I did good? Laken?”

Someone with the coolest hair Akio has seen steps into the screen and they hug, kiss briefly, and then Chris apparently can’t handle the happy emotions because he backs away to start bouncing up and down, grinning.

He looks back at the camera. “Want to see me, me, me... me do it again?”

“He’s not dead,” Aimi says, and her voice sounds like someone closed their hands around her throat. “Oh, Ronnie-”

“What the fuck happened to Tristan fucking Higgs?” Akio’s voice is barely audible over the sound of the video starting over. “He’s… he’s not dead. He’s not dead, Mom, he’s not-... he’s not dead, Mom, he’s not dead and he’s right-... that the university, right? He’s not dead, and he’s, has he-... has he been here the whole fucking time?”

His mother doesn’t chide him for language this time. Her hand tightens on Akio’s shoulder as red wine soaks the rug beneath her feet and she whispers, “Give that Ben boy your number. Tell him to call you.”

Her fingernails ache where they dig into his skin through his shirt.

“Now.”

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @slaintetowhump , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth , @cubeswhump , @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary @orchidscript

[lucyhblack]

Summary: Inside the enemy lair!

Red watched the skeleton monster's lair with curiosity.

He was sitting on the edge of a chair, the claws of his feet gently brushing the floor, while his head swiveled from side to side, trying to absorb everything he saw (he could say it was to check for likely dangers or threats, but the the truth is that he was trying to memorize everything so he could tell Edge later), completely alert and prepared to jump and run if necessary.

The tall black-clad monster was in a corner, fiddling with a bowl over a strange metal box. There were so many smells there (delicious) that almost overwhelmed the young demon alone.

He tried to control himself, to remain still and alert, but it was impossible to contain his tail dangling behind him, venting all the nervousness and excitement he felt (he was inside one of their lairs! And he was not tied up or anything!), or the mouth is filled with saliva only with the smell of that place.

After a few minutes of stirring the bowls over the strange box (there was fire on it, but Red didn't see where the fire was coming from. Was it magical then? Strange, he was always told that those strange monsters had no magic) the tall monster turned around with the bowl in hand and poured what he was cooking into two smaller bowls.

-Wait a minute, it's hot. - warned the monster depositing one of the narrow bowls in front of him.

Red frowned irritably. He could see clearly that it was hot, there was smoke coming out of the bowl and he could feel his heat, even from afar. Did the monster think he was a babybones?

The monster then picked up a large loaf that was on another table (and that Red had been watching, wondering if he could grab it, as well as the strange-smelling pieces of meat on the magic box - very unlikely he thought, and yet he would definitely make an attempt) and sliced him up (he tensed when the monster drew his knife, but the monster had his back to him and had yet to radiate any malicious intent). With a large piece in his hands he opened a small box and started spreading something yellow on it.

Red wondered if it was some kind of torture. Its lights did not come off the knife and, despite all his tense body at the end of the chair, his mind could not help fixing on what was the yellow thing, and what would it be (there was a possibility that it was some kind of poison, but if it were, the monster was pretty foolish to do it in front of you).

The monster deposited the bread on a plate and placed it in front of Red. The latter looked at the bread and back at the monster who had cut another piece and was again passing the yellow paste over it, just deigning to throw the briefest of moments looks on the demon.

His whole posture was calm and carefree, but Red would not be deceived. He had learned that monsters were cunning, and could change quickly, showing a calm and gentle posture only to attack him next.

He had all his attention on the skeleton monster (and it was so weird... to see a monster so similar to him and yet so different. It was kind of disconcerting to see that smooth, round skull, without the slightest indication of horns, or not being able to count with a tail behind him to read his intentions and emotions more clearly).

When the monster finished with the bread, he pulled out the second chair and sat facing Red. Red lights fixed on him and Red stood straighter. The monster smiled and incited.

-You can eat. - And as if to prove the point, he took a bite of the slice he was holding.

The little demon only moved on the older monster's third bite. He was still suspicious, but he could no longer contain himself (and if he were poisoned the monster would die before him, at least). He grabbed the bread and took a bite of it, as soon as the food dissolved in his mouth he had to control himself not to swallow it all at once.

By the stars! That was wonderful! He took care to digest only half the bread, the other half he pretended to chew, but just swallowed it, letting it sit inside him (along with several cherries). He would save it for Edge so he could prove it later.

Red ate the bread slowly (to avoid consuming it entirely), but in large bites, without taking the lights off the monster, watching him intently in silence while the other skeleton stared back at him by taking small bites of his meal. Its equally red lights did not transmit anything. Red wanted to growl, but he was too busy licking his fingers.

-Do you want another slice? - He asked in a soft tone.

Red took one last lick of the phalanges (lamenting when the divine taste was gone and only the dryness of his bones was left behind) and studied the monster carefully. Lights of it traveled from the bread on the counter and back to the monster that waited patiently. Red swallowed.

-Why?

The monster blinked, but unlike the surprise he expected, he saw satisfaction on the marked face.

Red didn't understand that monster. He had scars on his face, which proved that he was a surviving hunter, but he spoke low and gently, and passed nothreatening aura and did not react to him with all the other monsters he had met.

-Why am I offering food?

Red just nodded. Food, shelter, help, kindness... mercy... All those things that he knew (that had been hammered into him since he was born) that no monster would give him.

-Because you are a being created by the Angel and it is my duty to love and care for all creatures created by Him.

The demon blinked. Those words didn't make any sense to him. He did not know who this Angel was (his progenitor had been dead for a long time now, but he was sure that was not his name and no one else created him after his death). He just stared at the him waiting mand the skeleton monster smirked before speaking.

-Because you are hungry and I have food. - He shrugged.

The idea was so absurd that it made Red laugh out loud.

The black-clad monster stared at him in surprise, but made no move, even when Red cut his laughter by shrinking and looking at him in fright, ready to escape the slightest sign of displeasure from the other monster.

The tall skeleton tilted his head and Red noticed that he looked more intrigued than annoyed.

-You do not believe me?

-Why should? You monsters always have food, but you never share it with anyone, so why are you feeding me?

The monster turned off its lights and looked out over the garden that could be seen through the window. He was immersed in silence and Red watched him until he was about to walk away, tired and irritated by the enigma that was the other skeleton.

-Are not you tired? Tired of hiding, starving, cold... fearing?

Red was surprised by the question. Of course yes! But what choice did he have? Of course, he was tired of feeling weak from hunger and despair, of always looking over his shoulder, afraid to take a monster to his hiding place or to be caught when looking for food. Life was like that for someone who wasn't strong enough, and even if it sucked, he wasn't about to give up on it (he could not!), however cruel and horrible it was.

He snarled and the monster finally turned to him. Seeing his fury (and fear) he just stared at him without moving.

-You could have a different life. Safe, without hunger, without cold... without fear.

Red fell silent and blinked. What kind of ruse was that?

-How? Letting you kill me?

The monster widened its orbits, looking shocked before frowning and speaking in an irritated tone.

-I said "have a life"! I believe that for that you need to be alive and not dead.

Now it was Red's turn to blink in confusion, both in tone and words. He couldn't figure out what the other skeleton was trying to imply (and the fact that he seemed genuinely irritated by his possible death was even more intriguing). Tired of the monster games he decided to ask straight away.

-What are you trying to say?

-I'm saying that you can have a different life. I can teach you! How to be a monster... how to... pretend to be a monster, and live among us and no longer need to steal and hide .

Red stared at the dumb monster in astonishment. This guy could only be crazy!

-You could live in a house. - made a gesture indicating the den around him - Stay safe and have food, no longer be hungry or afraid, not to be chased. Have a peaceful life!

The monster's voice had gained strength with his speech, its red lights (two oval red rings, similar to his, but more rounded than his, that were sharper at the tips), had increased in its animation, making Red think on his little brother when he discovered something new, like a colorful frog or heard some ornate report from Red about his hunts.

Red realized that he had retreated in the chair with the tone of the monster and it also retracted when noticing the wide orbits of the smaller one. A soft red glow painted the bones of the monster's face and Red would have laughed had he not been so amazed.

Okay, this guy didn't hit his head well. That was obvious now. First by defending a demon, protecting him and standing against his own people. Then inviting him to his den, feeding him and now coming with this crazy talk of turning him into a monster! Better get as much food as you could and get out.

-Sorry, I think I got excited... - he said without looking at him. Reaching out, he picked up the bowl in front of his plate and took a sip.

Red followed the movement with cautious lights that ran to his own tall, narrow bowl, with a kind of handle on the side, in anticipation.

Cautiously he reached out and took it. It was of a strange, hard material, but not wood, stone or metal. The sides were still warm, not that it mattered, he had no skin to burn.

Bringing it to him, he spied the contents. Inside was a strange-looking liquid with a whitish foam on top. It felt almost like the puddles of rain at the entrance to his cave... he sniffed suspiciously at the dirty liquid, but the smell just made his mouth water without giving him any clue as to what it might be. Seeing the monster watching him, he turned the glass with despite, to prove that he was not afraid of the monster.

The liquid was still hot, not that it mattered much, he could have taken the liquid boiling, it wouldn't make any difference since he could control his magic to ignore the temperature.

He might not feel the heat, but he definitely could taste it, and for the stars! That was delicious! The liquid was thicker than water and sweeter than any fruit that he already tasted. It felt so good that he turned the mug over at once, his tongue coming out to lick the last of the remains from the bowl.

A hand pulled the container gently and he growled trying to keep it, clinging insistently, not ready to give up without first sucking up to the last drop.

-I'll fill it up again for you. - Said the monster gently trying to take the bowl from Red's claws.

Reluctantly (just because there was a promise of more), Red dropped the bowl and the monster turned to the metal box and the bowls on it. Red did not unglue the monster's lights, eagerly anticipating that sweet delight.

He thought, with regret, that he couldn't share it with Edge. He couldn't keep the liquid inside himself, not when he already had the bread and the cherries in the magic pocket he had created (not to mention that take away solid things was easy, but liquid? He was sure he couldn't do it without making a mess and waste the precious liquid).

The monster returned in moments and deposited the bowl on the table, but as soon as Red launched himself at it, the monster removed it. Red looked at him angrily and betrayed and the monster just stared back with a raised eyebrow without being intimidated.

-Expect to cool down a little.

Red wanted to send him fuck off, but decided to play nice for now. After all, it is better not to antagonize him (not when the monster could take the precious bowl from him). Seeing his displeasure the monster pushed his plate towards him and Red was quick to grab the half-eaten bread before the monster changed its mind.

The monster sat down and deposited the bowl on the table again. Red stared at the vapor floating on the liquid, but did not reach for it. He was soon distracted when the monster said again.

-As I was saying, I'm sure I could teach you how to pretend to be a monster and have a safer life.

Still on it? Thought Red with dismay. He just wanted to take the tasty liquid and get some more of the monster's supplies before he left, never to go back to that windsock again. Rolling his lights on, he decided to put an end to these nonsense.

-Oh of course! And since you are so sure, how about telling me how you would do that? Or what would you do with that? - He spoke pointing to his growing horns (they were still small, but one day they would be big and only the sight of them would make the monsters fear him). He had a good idea of what the monster was going to suggest.

His progenitor had alerted him to monsters like that. Monsters that would cut off its tail and pluck its horns and leave it for a slow death. Contradicting (once again) his expectations, the monster shrugged.

-Many monsters have horns and tails. You will be no different. We can say that you are the cross between a skeleton monster and a goat or bovine monster.

Remembering the bull monster that had chased him, he grimaced, insulted that he even thought he was partly like him. The monster looked at him and smiled, its red lights shining with amusement and understanding, probably remembering his clash from minutes ago.

The monster propped his elbows on the table and crossed his fingertips before leaning slightly towards Red, who flinched a little instinctively. Without seeming to notice the little demon hesitation, he continued with the lights shining greedily.

-You could have a better life! Without starving or fearing other monsters, at least not because it is what it is. Could you... - He broke off when he saw the child shaking his head.

-Wait there... And what do you get out of it?

The monster fell silent and watched him, looking surprised. He dropped his hands and leaned back in his chair, his lights fixed on the table. His contemplative expression seemed to be coming up with was thinking the next lie.

Red suddenly felt tired.

He just wanted to get out, go back to his cave and his little brother, where things were simple and he didn't have to deal with strangers' delusions.

He almost did, sliding to the edge of the chair, ready to jump and make a run for the fire box to grab some of the food there and then jump out the window (he glanced sadly at the bowl, but honestly it was starting to seem less and less tempting to listen to the other's litany, even if the reward was sweet nectar).

-Satisfaction, I believe.

The response caused Red to stall, his escape plans aborted temporarily. Seeing his surprise, the monster crossed its long legs and seemed to relax even more in the chair before elaborating its enigmatic answer.

- In concrete terms, this small offer would not benefit me at all, except for the satisfaction of a "good deed".

The way he spoke it seemed like there was more to it, but the monster didn't elaborate any more.

Red digested the monster's words, reviewing and analyzing them and the tone and posture of the other, trying in every way to decipher what he was saying.

He did not understand. Would he not gain anything? Just the satisfaction of helping him? This... this was absurd!

Nobody would do anything for others if they didn't get something in return. At least that was how it was with his people. Monsters were so strange!

Enough! He was done with it.

The best (and easiest) food would not be worth all this talk (which was starting to give him a headache from trying so hard to understand the enigma that was the monster, not to mention all the tension of being in the presence for so long and in a monster's lair).

No more wasting time with this monster. He had to go back and check on his little brother (and share his “hunt”). This conversation was getting nowhere. Time to test how far the “goodness” of that skeleton went.

-Not. - Said categorically.

The monster blinked. His surprised expression withered and became one of sadness and then conformism.

-I understand.

He answered simply and Red waited alert and ready in case the monster finally attacked him, now that Red has made it clear that he would not cooperate with his absurdities. The seconds passed and Red prepared to get up again when the monster spoke.

-Your chocolate must be cold already.

Red blinked and after a moment he followed the monster's lights and found himself staring at the bowl. The monster got up and Red jumped to his feet. The two stared at each other for another impassive moment before the monster smiled placidly.

-Drink your chocolate, I'll prepare a bag for you to take. If you can't accept my offer, at least accept my help.

Without waiting for an answer, the monster turned and left the room, going further into the den. It only took Red a second to consider what to do. Reaching out, he grabbed the bowl and turned it over, swallowing it all in one gulp (he regretted not being able to stop and properly enjoy the taste, but he wasn't going to waste easy food like that).

Dropping the empty bowl on the table he ran over to the fire box and grabbed as many of the strips of meat hanging above (he wondered what exactly it was, they looked like string beans and smelled like the dried meat he prepared for the winter months).

Throwing it over his shoulder, he went to the counter and grabbed the rest of the bread and the box of yellow cream.

He wanted to be able to take more stuff, but not carry it and not even time to spend searching. He wasn't going to stay and wait for the monster to return (what if he came back with a gun, or with other monsters to arrest him? Or more of that crazy conversation... Better not risk it).

Climbing up on the counter, he reached the window and jumped into the garden on the other side. A quick glance showed that the garden was deserted. He then ran to the low stone wall and passed easily.

This monster's lair was next to the largest lair in the monster territory, which due to its size was further away from the other lairs and closer to the forest.

He sneaked across the terrain, keeping himself crouched so as not to be noticed, until he reached the trees. Under the shadows of the forest he straightened up and started running, taking care to take several detours and cross the river (using all the tricks he had been taught and learned from experience) before heading to his lair.

As he ran, he thought it wasn't such a horrible date. What had seemed like the end for him (and his brother) when he was caught by the monsters, turned out to be an easy meal for him and his little brother (and even the rocks he took or the strange conversation was a small price for what he hoped would be a few days without hunger, and a icredible story to tell).

Not bad at all!

[yamithediaperdork]

How to make a big dumb baby (mortal instruments)

Jace sat up in his bed, looking around wildly as his alarm clock screeched at him to wake up. the shadow hunter didn't even recall going to bed last night, the last thing the blond recalled he'd been going into Alec's room to have a drink of what Alec had called 'the good stuff' and then.. nothing. "Man..it must of been hella strong." The blond said, rubbing the back of his head and slamming on the top of the alarm clock, shutting it up. Sure there had been black outs before, but he'd normally at least recall the first few drinks. 'At least I'm not hung over.' He thought, though there was a funny taste in his mouth that was familiar, but he couldn't quite place. Moving to slid out of bed, Jace winced, his asshole crying out in pain and he whined as he got up and stumbled for his personal bathroom, reaching back to conquer a growing itch on his ass. 'Then again maybe this so called good stuff gave me the shits.' Jace groaned. In his bathroom now, he dropped the only clothes he was wearing, a pair of boxer shorts, and checked himself out in the full body mirror hanging on the door. "Where the FUCK are my pubes!?!" He cried out, looking down and seeing that his crotch was bare as a babies. the cool air helped with the itching but as Jace turned around to check out his ass, he could see it was slightly red all over. '...Did I try and shave myself down there and give myself razor burn on my ass?!?' He wondered, face going crimson. a mental image of him tipsy and working a shaving razor popped in his head and he shuddered. the pain in his asshole was mostly fading, but in for a penny, in for a pound, Jace spread his cheeks and looked over his shoulder. and saw that his formerly tight rosebud had blossomed so to peak into a semi gaping hole. '...oh fuck me.. did I go all faggy while drunk again?' the blond mentally whined. it had happened before, he'd seen the video of it that was thankfully kept off of YouTube of him flirting with guys by asking them if they wanted to watch him shove a beer bottle up his ass bottom first. the video also had Alec in it stopping him and saying sorry to the guys at the bar. 'fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! I bet he couldn't stop me in time..Jesus.. I'll just avoid him for today and say sorry tonight.' Jace decided.

Meanwhile, in anther room Alec was re-watching the video he'd taken from the night before. there was Jace alright, but unlike what the blond thought, he hadn't had a drop of booze. In fact last night had been the end result of 4 months of effort, working on the stupid blond to wear down all of his defenses and get at the sponge the boy dared to call a mind. Unlike most people who would of worked that hard and long, and had such a evil grin on their face while watching the end results of their hard work, Alec had no really evil plans for the stupid blond. Unless of course you counted making a smug blond bitch into a faggot diaper wearing cum dump evil. In which case, yeah. he was VERY evil.

The video in question had Jace freshly shaven, with his eyes glazed over, laying on his tummy and wiggling his butt for the camera. "Pweasssse daddy..give me a cum enema so i can make a pwesent fer ou!" Jace whined, almost in tears as he looked over his shoulder. "Sorry buddy." Came Alec's voice. "but you need a real enema first." "Nuuuu want dick in my faggot ass and daddy dick da best!" Jace pouted, looking like a giant toddler about to have a fit. "Little man, you keep going and daddy won't use any lube or baby powder, and you'll get a diaper rash." Alec's voice warned. "ou wouldn't!' "try me!" the video went on with Jace squealing as a cock shaped nozzle was shoved in his ass, making the blonds 6 inch cock dribble and make a mess, and then the enema flow of 1 week worth of piss poured into the dumb babies tummy, forcing him to get on his hands and knees as his belly ballooned. "Oh! Oh daddy! I's so full~" Jace moaned, the glazed eyes had lust in them and even with his cock stuffed and belly sloshing with Alec's piss.. the blond called over and get close. "Put da phone down and give me ba-ba?" Jace asked, and as the video angled down, it was easy to see the blond bitch nuzzling the front of Alec's pants. "Well i suppose. but only because you know I spoil you." Alec teased. the video followed as Alec took a seat on the edge of his bed, and Jace crawled over, tugging the enema rack and his nuzzle alone with him. with daddies cock freed from his jeans, Jace gave it a nice fat sloppy kiss on the cock head, then showed he didn't have a gag reflex as he took all 8 and half inches without gagging. Alec recalled how he'd felt the boy using his throat muscles to milk him without even pulling back for air for a good 20 seconds, before the blond's head turned into a blur. it was almost as if the impending big dumb baby couldn't stand to have the cock out of his throat one second longer then needed, and as a result Alec who could normally last a good half hour had cum in under two minutes of the assault from the babies throat. "B-Baby daddies gonna.." Alec moaned in the video. Jace pulled off and pumped daddies cock with his hands, and pointed the massive fuck meat at his own face, eyes closed but mouth wide open and tongue hanging out. "Ahhhhh!" the baby giggled. Jace's cock was throbbing and leaking and as daddy painted his face, the dumb hypnotized baby came too, though while full pleasure orgasms were clearly rocking him, and his dick was twitching like crazy, his cum just dribbled out in a slow steady stream driving the poor baby mad. Still the baby didn't whine too much and ran his tongue over his mouth. "Mmm real daddy flavor!"" he giggled and then posed with his hands making the peace sin for the video. "what are you baby Jace?" "I'm daddies cum dumpster!" the baby coo'ed. From there the video followed as Alec wiped the jizz off of the big babies face, making sure to pop the fingers he was using for it in the babies mouth, then it was time to get the cum dumpster in his huggies. taking out a custom diaper that was the bulk of five normal adult baby ones (Hey, Alec wasn't stupid he knew the little stink bag was gonna have to go lots and it was bad enough he was gonna be wiping the stinkers ass, let alone handling leakage) He taped up one side of it fully and had it halfway taped up on the other. the cellphone had been set on a stand to record and Alec looked back and wagged his eyebrows for the viewing audience, then turned his attention back to the cum dumpster. "Alright buddy, Daddies gonna yank your cock nozzle out, I know it'll be hard but I want you to try and hold your poopies in till daddy finish's diapering you. you think you can do that or are you just a dumb diaper baby who should be in diapers 24/7?" Alec asked, reaching in and griping the nozzle. "Um..dat a trick question daddy?" Jace coo'ed, looking over his shoulder and giving a dip shit grin. "Cuz I IS a dumb diaper baby who should always be in diapies..But I'll twy fer ou!" the big baby promised. "Good boy." Alec said and yanked the plug out, making the boy go from smiling to making a adorable face. his eyes popped and his mouth when in a 'o' shape and Alec was glad he had recorded it, since as the video showed, he hadn't had time to enjoy it, instead taping the thick diaper shut. within seconds a loud sputtering wet fart filled the room and the massive diaper when from having blue sides and white in the front and back to the back turning a dark and ugly brown as it ballooned out. woah, i didn't think you'd discolor it so fa- GUH!" Alec was saying on the video, leaning down and looking at the damage then jerking back up and holding his nose, waving a hand. "Jesus! for all of you watching, you should be lucky you don't have to SMELL this!" he complained. Jace whined but nodded, holding his nose, and whining out a quiet 'i's stinky' before screwing up his face again. "Ojhhhhh ahhh! Pooopppingggg dadddddyyyy!" the big baby cried out, as more thunderous farts erupted and the diaper sagged even more under the weight of the waste. "yeah no shit Sherlock! Jesus! these where made for containing stink! how are you already-" Alec complained, but was cut off by the stinker. "C-Cuz I'm a BIG STINKY BABY!" Jace moaned and whimpered, blasting out a massive log given the shape the back of the diaper took and his eyes rolling up in his head as he drooled. "DADDY I'M CUMMING! GOO GOO GAGA!! GOO GOO GAGA!!"

The video cut off there, but the rest of the evening played in Alec's mind just fine. Him scolding the stinker, making him crawl around, giving him a poopie horsie ride. when Jace had started to complain that his butt was getting itchy Alec had only told him 'GOOD. it makes up for having to smell you!' and the big baby had only nodded and offered up his mouth to say sorry with a mouth present. All and all the only hitch in the plan was he hadn't counted on how fucking toxic the big baby could be, and planned on making him wear two of the massive diapers the next time. Sure, the diapers weren't cheap but Alec had to protect his nose.

the day passed without incident for the most part. there was a nest of shape shifters who had to e killed sure, and a rouge mage who was planning on summoning a army of the dead to take over the city, but really all and all, it was a normal day at work for the crew. the thing that stood out the most was the distance that Jace was keeping from Alec, and the fact that Jace kept scratching at his butt. "Jesus, do you have fleas or something?" Clary asked, the millionth or so time he reached back. "If your chafing THAT back maybe cut down on all the black leather, just a thought!" Jace had pouted and blushed, and muttered off a insult but then they went back to work.

With everything looking quiet for the night, Jace finally made his way to Alec's room. he'd gotten his hands on a certain remedy for his itchy butt after being forced to look into it, and the diaper cream was making his silk boxers stick to his butt while giving off a faint aroma. Knocking on the door, Jace semi hoped that Alec wouldn't be in, but to his dismay the door opened up almost right away. "Yes?" Alec asked, a amused look on his face. "I uh..Can I come in?" Jace asked, rubbing the back of his head and looking sheepish. "I suppose so. did you want anther drink of the good stuff?" Alec asked, walking away from the door but leaving it open for Jace to come in. "NO! I mean..I'm thankful you shared it it..but.. " Jace squirmed and blushed more and struggled to say what he came to say. "why don't you take a seat." Alec offered, gesturing to a chair. "Yeah OK." Jace said faintly. "So, May I assume by that reaction, and you're blush, you don't recall what you did last night, but your worried you made a ass out of yourself?" Alec asked, smirking, and shutting the door. "Y-yeah.. I mean.. I think I.. uh.." Jace trailed off. "You think you went all faggy again?" Alec supplied, smirking. "That's one way of putting it, yeah." Jace said. "Well I can assure you, that you were a lot of fun, and you might of been a little silly, but it's all good. you really seemed to need to unwhine. Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" "Look I uh.. I woke up and..well..I'm BALD down..there..soo..Did I-" Jace whined, squirming. "oh, you didn't shave yourself. I did that for you. Seemed safer and well I got to eyeball the goods." Alec said, pouring himself a bit of rye. "WHAT!?!" "well it was let you do it yourself and cut yourself, or do it for you, or worse, you were gonna go door to door looking for help." Alec lied. "Bullshit!" Jace said hotly. "I know i can get a little crazy, but there's no way I would of-" "-sigh- Your right of course. Damn it. I really wanted to stretch this out, have fun with it but your just being a annoying little twat monkey." Alec said. "Excuse me?" "I didn't stutter boy. I've been working you for months and the pay off was last night. you didn't have a drop of liquor Jace, I put you in a trance and then made you into my little diaper filling faggot." Alec said, Sipping his drink and his tone more suggested he was talking about a local sports team then making his friend into a diaper fag slave. "...Y-Your joking right? because that's not fucking funny!" Jace said, taken back. "Actually it kinda was, you should see your adorable pooping face..Daddies little man." Jace went to go and get up, but felt a strange calmness flood his body and he stayed seated, getting a goofy grin on his face and a finger went up his nose. "Right now you're still aware, but under my control. this state isn't maintainable long term and I was hoping to have longer to use it on you. But before I blank out your adult mind and r5educe you to a 24/7 diaper shitting cum guzzler I wanted to let you know I'm sorry." Alec said, coming over and patting Jace's head even as the helpless soon to be permanent big baby dug for nose gold. "It's s'ok daddy. I forgive ya." Jace said automatically, while his mind screamed out for help. "Thank you little guy, but don't interrupt daddy. I'm sorry I didn't do this to you sooner you arrogant piece of shit. I want you to know I'm gonna enjoy telling everyone that you were my closet big baby and suffered a break down, that you just wanna be a big baby all the time. and who knows,m maybe in 10 or so years I'll get sick of wiping your shitty ass and let you grow up again. " Alec said, pulling the finger out of the boys nose and wiping it clean. "Any last words before I plunge you into diaper shitting hell?" Alec asked, kissing the blonds cheek. "Big boy words." Instantly Jace felt he had control over his own mouth, and while his stupid grin wouldn't go away he glared at Alec. "You can't do this! there's no way someone won't figure this out. You really think the other will let you just kee-" "Baby talk." Alec said, waving a hand and rolling his eyes. "I can't believe you wasted your chance to try and bargain with me to make cliche threats. Then again not like it would of done you any good." "Oh gosh daddy I can't wait for total diapies all the time! can you spank me lots too? Pleassssse?" Jace heard himself pleading, and found himself on his knees holding his hands together. "Heh, well if it's what YOU want." Alec said with a sneer.

Knowing he had time before he'd have to put Jace under deeper, Alec decided to out the little diaper fag while he was fully aware. He knew the others actually were just as sick of Jace's shit as him, and had in any case implanted triggers in them that would encourage them to be just as teasing and mean with the baby as he was. Jace wouldn't find any help there. Deciding to make it as humiliating as possible, Alec went all out with triple diapering Jace and then spending the better part of a half hour working up a tiny pair of white shorts over the diaper, positive that when the first messing the now forever baby was gonna rip the shorts anyways. to go with them though he added a little sailor top that was more like a crop top and showed off Jace's brilliant 6 pack that would soon be replaced with chub from all the baby food the stupid baby was gonna be fed. A pair of navy blue socks and black dress shoes when on the dumb babies feet and a sailor hat on the head completed the look. "well don't you look cute~" Alec teased, taping Jace's nose. "Sailor Jace reporting for dooty sir!" the big baby giggled out loud as Jace mentally kept repeating how this couldn't be happening. Giving the big baby a bottle of apple juice mixed with piss and a powerful laxative, Alec took Jace's hand and helped the big baby walk toward the door. "Ready for the first day of the rest of your life?" He asked the blond, who was chugging on his ba-ba and too distracted to answer. A bubbly fart came out of Jace's backside instead, and Alec smirked. "Well said."

The end

[green-eyeddragonfanfiction]

War of Attrition: Chapter 23

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x Reader Summary: Best friends with Steve Rogers, renowned Howling Commando, and married to one James Buchanan Barnes, your life wasn’t perfect, but it was as close as it could possibly be in the middle of World War II. Then you fell from a train in the Alps, and everything changed. You spent nearly 70 years as a tool of Hydra alongside your beloved, though your past with him was more often than not forgotten. Tony learns the truth. Bucky gets taken to Berlin. Steve and Tony fight. Your and Bucky’s future hangs in the balance. Warnings: Swearing (always), blood, violence, mentions of murder/death Word Count: ~4,637 A/N:  

Masterlist // Book One // Book Two

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

He stared at you for a long time, to the point that it was almost uncomfortable, before he nodded. “Alright, fine. I’ll see what I can do. There’ll be a lo-”

“Tony.” The sound of his name made him pause, fingertip halfway to his Starkpad, eyebrow raised in question. “There’s one more thing you should know about me and Bucky.”

You didn’t try to block the hit. You saw it coming a mile away, but it wasn’t like you didn’t deserve it.

The was a surprising amount of force behind it, but you reminded yourself that Tony spent most of his time in a workshop. Working with heavy machinery all day lent to more muscle than one would expect from a genius billionaire playboy.

Your head whipped to the side with the force of the blow and you’d barely turned your head to look back at him before the next blow came, his fist sending your head swiveling the other direction. 

He was probably being trained by someone- Steve, maybe Tasha?- because his knee came up with surprising swiftness and you felt the air rush out of your lungs. 

The blows didn’t stop and, predictably, the elbow came next, crashing into your face with a strength that probably would have concussed a normal person. As it was, you let the force of the blow topple you to the floor of the plane.

Tony was on you instantly, eyes wild and shining with unshed tears as he rained blows upon you; everywhere from your face to your stomach.

“You killed them!” he screeched, fury and grief twisting his face into something you almost didn’t recognize. “Give me my suit, FRIDAY!” he called to the AI, tone deadly.

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen at the moment, Master Stark,” Alfred said quietly. He’d been told not to let Tony have any suits, but you’d told him not to interfere otherwise. This was a long time coming and you’d take whatever Stark would dole out without complaint.

Tony swore loudly and landed a few more haymakers on your face. One of them nearly disconnected the optic wires that connected your cybernetic eye, but the visual feed only shuddered dangerously before resuming normal function. You knew, however, that your eye would probably swell shut from the blow.

“FRIDAY, override the AI. Now,” he barked.

“I tried, boss, but they have control of those systems right now,” the female-voiced AI said.

Tony cussed again and hopped off of you, but you made no move to get up. Your body ached distantly; it wasn’t the worst damage you’d suffered (not by a long shot) but your body still protested at the slightest movement.

He picked up the twisted hunk of metal that was his pistol and gripped it in his fist as he stalked back over.

“Help my wife... please... help...”

The video was playing on repeat in the background, Howard Stark’s dying plea filling the cabin, nearly drowned out by the sound of the hunk of metal being used as a blunt weapon against your face and body. You were fairly sure you felt your nose break and bit your tongue to choke back the scream of pain.

“(Y/N)...?”

Tears leaked out of your eyes and slid down the sides of your face and into your hair, but you were too broken to know if they’re from the pain of the beating Tony was giving you or the pain of reliving that moment again.

“He recognized you and you still killed him! You killed your friend!” Tony yelled, red in the face now. Apparently the gun wasn’t satisfying enough because he returned to using his fists. Each time he hit you his knuckles came away bloodier, but you knew at least some of it was his. You could feel cuts and bruises on every inch of your face, but Tony wasn’t done yet.

“Howard! How-”

Maria Stark’s voice acted like a match to a powder keg and Tony rose. You didn’t dare to hope it was over and you were rewarded for your wariness because a second later Tony was stomping down on your left leg, right at the junction between metal and flesh.

You did scream then, the fake nerves on fire as your flesh ground against the metal plates. Even without having to look you knew it was bleeding at the seam of the metal.

“I bet you made it quick, didn’t you? But not too quick, no. You had to make it look like an accident. First you had to run their car off the road. Then you had to make it look like they’d died in the impact, so you crushed my father’s head while your maggot of a husband choked the life out of my mom? Because bullets would have given it away. So you had to get up close and personal and do it. Isn’t that right?” he spat, as he stomped on your fingers and dug his heel into the meat of your hand, giving special focus to the area where the metal met skin.

You let yourself feel the pain. If you dissociated you’d become the Asset and Tony would be dead before he could blink. 

So you screamed as the wiring in your hands was pulled and tugged out of their places, blood and nerves left exposed.

“Say something, you piece of shit!” he yelled as the video started over. You could hear the crash of the car hitting the tree.

You blinked up at him, though it was getting hard as blood had started leaking into your eyes. He was taking in great heaving breaths and he had more than one spot of blood on his suit. 

And you remained silent, because what could you possibly say to this man? What could you ever do to make it right? There was nothing.

He growled when you said nothing and was on top of you again in a flash, hunk of warped gun in his hand. He brought it above his head, raised and ready to strike a blow you knew would split your skull in two, enhancements or no, and closed your eyes.

“Be sure of what you’re about to do, Anthony Edward Stark, because there’s no going back. For either of us.” It was hard to talk with a split lip and your face was already starting to well. It also didn’t help that your head was ringing from the blows, making it even harder to think.

I’m so sorry.

You felt him tense above you and you waited for the blow to come.

It felt like hours, though you knew it was only seconds. However, it was much longer than you’d been expecting.

You cracked open a single eye- the only one you could open right then- and looked up at Tony.

He was frozen, staring at you with such hatred that you nearly recoiled. His dark brown eyes met yours and that broke the spell.

He dropped the useless hunk of gun to the ground, taking you completely by surprise. His fingertips tapped away at his watch and you watched as it transformed into a small Iron Man gauntlet. You barely had time to think about how you should have noticed it before he was pointing it at you.

A huge blast of concussive energy hit you point blank and the world faded to black.

Steve’s POV

They flew them from Bucharest to Berlin. He, Sam, and T’Challa were under heavy guard the entire time, their suits, his shield, Sam’s wings and weapons all confiscated.

The guard they had Bucky under paled in comparison. They’d put him in a sort of reinforced glass cage, but Steve never managed to glimpse his friend behind all of the guards and vehicles, only the reinforced container that no human being had any right being kept in.

“So you like cats?”

Steve glanced behind himself at this friend, face serious. “Sam,” he chastised. This wasn’t the time to be provoking T’Challa.

“What? Dude shows up dressed like a cat and you don’t wanna know more?” Sam asked. From Steve’s spot in the van he could just barely see part of T’Challa’s face, but the warrior-king didn’t turn around to look at them. For all the reaction he showed, Sam might not have even spoken.

Sam had a point, at least, and Steve frowned at the back of T’Challa’s head. “Your suit. It’s Vibranium?” he asked, hoping his voice wasn’t accusatory.

That, at least, got a reaction out of T’Challa, slight though it was. He turned his head enough to be able to see Steve out of his peripheral vision, expression neutral but unnaturally so, hiding the anger underneath. “The Black Panther has been the protector of Wakanda for generations. A mantle passed from warrior to warrior.” As he spoke his gaze returned to the front of the van. “And now because your friends murdered my father, I also wear the mantle of king.” Steve recognized the loss in his voice- it was one he knew all too well. “So, I ask you... as both warrior and king-” he turned his head enough to stare at Steve, challenge and anger radiating off of him in waves despite his calm posture, “-how long do you think you can keep your friends safe from me?”

Steve felt himself glaring at the threat so, instead of acting rashly, he turned his glower on the headrest of the driver’s seat and bit out, “You’ve got the wrong people.”

T’Challa didn’t answer that, but Steve could practically feel his dismissal in the man’s posture.

The rest of the very short ride was suffered in silence. Steve watched through the metal grating that covered windows as the long line of military vehicles and cop cars turned into a large building. It was separated into two halves on either side of the river, connected by a sky bridge.

The road tilted downward and the surroundings vanished as the van drove into the underground part of the complex. The tunnel was longer than Steve expected, but eventually the walls opened again to reveal a large, bunker-like room.

By the time they let Steve, Sam, and T’Challa out of the van Bucky had already been unloaded from the huge armored van. He was looking around at the guards as they checked the cage in a sort of resigned way.

The MP standing between him and Bucky’s cage gestured to someone behind Steve so he turned and was surprised to see Sharon standing next to a short man in a grey suit that had an air of self importance that immediately grated on Steve’s nerves. Steve hoped his face remained impassive; Sharon was supposed to be guarding (Y/N), not helping wrangle the situation in Berlin. She barely glanced at him, the only outward sign of nervousness the way she shifted from foot to foot.

“What’s gonna happen to him?” Steve asked the two of them, all business as he stalked towards them, T’Challa and Sam close behind.

“Same thing that oughta happen to you,” the man in the suit said with a smarmy smile. “Psychological evaluation and extradition.” He looked pleased as hell and Steve wanted to punch him in the face.

Sharon seemed to sense this and quickly spoke up. “This is Everett Ross, Deputy Task Force Commander.” Steve didn’t miss the way she couldn’t seem to make eye contact with him.

“What about their lawyer?”

If anything, Ross’ smile became even more smug. “Lawyer. That’s funny.” Sharon glanced at Ross, frown on her face, but said nothing. “See that their weapons are placed in lockup,” he said, head tilting towards the MPs escorting the three of them. “Oh, we’ll write you a receipt,” he said, all false geniality.

“I better not look out the window and see anyone flying around in that,” Sam said testily. Ross, however, paid him no mind and was already walking deeper into the building with Steve, T’Challa, and Sam following warily behind. Steve threw one last look over his shoulder, just in time to see reinforced concrete doors shut with Bucky behind them. The defeated look on his face made Steve feel like there was a hot knife twisting in his gut.

He’d failed you.

They made it all of five feet before Ross paused and pulled his phone out of his pocket (Steve had no idea how the man had cell service down here). Whoever was talking to him on the other end of the line gave him something to smile about and Steve felt a little bit of dread curl in the pit of his stomach. Steve had decided within five seconds of meeting the man that whatever made him smile was something to be concerned about.

He turns a triumphant smile on Steve and holds his arms out grandly. “I hope you enjoyed your brief stint, Captain. We’re going to have a nice long conversation about why you tried to stop my men from apprehending Barnes, but the good guys come out on top in the end. Stark’s on his way and he’s bringing something that’ll make my year,” Ross said, hands clasped together as though praying to some deity for making his life.

Neither he, Sam, nor T’Challa took the obvious bait, but Sharon- thanks to her job- had to ask, “What’s the situation, sir?”

Ross turned a megawatt smile on her. “We have the matching set! I honestly thought she’d go to ground after we caught her accomplice, but Stark’s bringing the illustrious Misses Barnes with him. His helicopter’s due to land in a few minutes!” he said, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Both Winter Soldiers in one day! Pinch me, I’m dreaming!” he gushed as he turned away again and practically strutted towards the doors.

Steve’s eyes were wide, looking between Sharon and Ross in horror. She looked as confused as he did, but hastily turned and trailed after her boss.

The MPs shoved him forward and Steve’s brain kicked back into gear, feet quickly eating up the gap that had grown between him and Ross. He could hear Sam trying to keep up and knew, even though he couldn’t hear him, T’Challa was close behind.

The guards kept Steve from getting too close to Ross and Sharon was just as clueless as he was, so it was a bit of relief when the elevator doors opened and Natasha stepped out and immediately made a beeline for him, expression severe.

“For the record, this is what making things worse looks like,” she said as she went to stand beside him. 

Steve didn’t look at her, just watched as Ross and Sharon disappeared into one of the elevators while they waited for the next one. “He’s alive.” He glanced at her, then, and saw that she was glancing around warily. “What Ross said about Tony having (Y/N). Is that true?”

He could see her green eyes flick up to him and then away again. “We’ll see in a few minutes. Stark is landing any second now.”

The elevator ride to the operations room was awkward at best. Sam, Steve, and Natasha all crammed into one elevator with guards while T’Challa rode in a different one.

When the doors finally opened Steve was met with a hive of activity and a plethora of screens monitoring just about everything in the building, including where Bucky was being held. 

A set of doors on the other end of room opened and Tony marched through, looking thunderous.

Ross, however, didn’t seem to notice. “There’s the Iron Man of the hour! We’ve already sent teams up to secure the fugitive. I’m assuming she’s being contained by one of your inventions, so-”

Tony glared at him. “Actually she’s just unconscious. Have at ‘er,” he said bitterly. In all the years he’d known Tony, Steve had only heard him talk like that once or twice, all regarding painful things. For someone who had apparently apprehended one of the most dangerous assassins in the world, he seemed surprisingly... fine? Physically, at least.

So when Tony looked around the room, spotted Steve through the glass of the meeting room, and glared, Steve felt his hackles rise. He left Ross gaping as he cut a warpath through the room, directly to Steve.

Natasha put a hand on his shoulder to slow him down, but he brushed it aside and placed a hand to the center of Steve’s chest, pushing him backwards until he hit the wall.

The entire room around them froze, everyone carefully assessing what was happening.

“Did you know?” Tony hissed between clenched teeth, dark brown eyes searching.

Steve was floored. The only other time Tony had acted like this towards him was when they were all being influenced by Loki’s scepter. “What are you talkin-” he began, but Tony’s face twisted with anger.

“Did you know they killed my parents?” he yelled. If Steve wasn’t enhanced, the fingers on his chest would have been painful. Now that Steve really looked, he could tell Tony was on the verge of crying.

The world fell out from under Steve’s feet for a moment. Sure, he’d had his suspicions. After spending so much time researching and looking for the Winter Soldiers, he probably knew more about them than just about anyone else (not even counting what he knew about them before they were brainwashed and enhanced). He thought they might be responsible, but to tell Tony that without proof? Bring up that pain again when he couldn’t be sure? What was the point?

“I didn’t know it was them,” Steve answered, heart clenching painfully.

Tony grabbed him by the shirt and tugged him forward, eyes going a bit manic. “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers,” he hissed venomously. “Did. You. Know?”

Steve stared at Tony- his friend- searchingly. There was no point in softening the blow, was there? No sense in lying, not about something so important. He clenched his jaw, mouth set in a tight line. “Yes.”

Tony reeled as if he’d been struck and took a step back, Steve’s shirt falling from his grasp. Steve watched him, wary, as Stark turned half away from him, chest heaving. When he glanced down it took him a second to realize what he was seeing.

Tony’s knuckles had been reduced to a bloody mess.

It all clicked into place. “Tony, what did you-”

Steve saw the hit coming but he was too stunned by the sudden turn of events to find the wherewithal to block or dodge it.

Tony’s bloody fist connected with the side of Steve’s head, though Steve had a feeling Tony had taken more damage than he did. Blood that wasn’t his own coated his jaw and Steve stared at Tony, shocked. Natasha and Sam were between them in an instant because Tony looked like he wanted to go after Steve again.

“She had a recording of it, you know! Of them killing my parents! I got to watch her bash my dad’s skull in and hear the gasps from my mom as he squeezed the life out of her!” Tony seethed, eyes wild and dangerous.

Steve’s hand drifted up of its own accord and swiped at the blood. “It wasn’t them, Tony. Hydra had control of their minds.”

Tony barely blinked. “I don’t care. They killed my mom.”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that. Tony wasn’t thinking straight right now, not that Steve could blame him. Trying to get him to see- to understand- would be nigh impossible right now.

“Tony!” It was Natasha who spoke up, voice clear and demanding enough that he finally looked away from Steve, though the wild, hunted look in his eyes didn’t go away. “I know you’re hurting right now, but it’s done. They’ve been captured. What happens to them next isn’t up to us. Any of us,” she said, looking between Steve and Tony pointedly at that last sentence. The hint of sadness in her voice might have slipped under the radar for the others, but Steve recognized it for what it was.

Tony’s hand remained clenched at this sides and he looked carefully from Steve, to Natasha, and to all the gawking onlookers before he turned and stalked away before sitting down almost violently at one of the free chairs in the room.

Despite what people thought, Steve knew when to leave well enough alone. This was a fight for another day, when Tony had some time to process what had happened.

A flurry of activity at the other end of the room caught his attention and, when his enhanced vision let him see the the feed from the cameras on the roof, he found himself walking forward, needing to get a closer look.

He ignored the protests of the people at their stations and stared, horrified, as a team wheeled you out on a gurney, oxygen mask over your mouth and nose. Your face was so swollen and bloody that Steve could hardly recognize you. In fact, if it wasn’t for the metal legs and golden wiring, he wouldn’t have been able to.

A medical team- surrounded by heavily armed guards- was swarming around you as they led you into the building. Steve could see the heavy metal restraints tying your legs in place. Imposing but decidedly less powerful restraints held your arms in place. He could see Natasha walk up beside him out of the corner of his eye, but his eyes were riveted to the screen in front of him.

“Who did this?” Steve asked, as calmly and evenly as he could manage. Even before Hydra got a hold of her and Bucky (Y/N) was a force to be reckoned with. That she’d been subdued- even by Tony or a large group of elite soldiers- was practically laughable. Well, no. Tony could do it but- “Don’t answer that. I already know,” Steve said, turning slowly to stare at Tony who had his back to the two of them.

Natasha glanced between them, eyes lingering on the screen that was following your progress through the halls of the compound. “You don’t know what happened, Steve.”

Steve turned an unimpressed stare on her as Sam walked up and whistled lowly at the screen, looking away when he got a particularly high res image of the damage. “She’s beat black and blue and the only damage he has is on his knuckles? Want to explain to me how that one happened, Nat?” he snarled.

Sam nodded, though he looked less than thrilled by this news. “Don’t get wounds like that in an Iron Man suit and something tells me he’d have more than a few scrapes on his knuckles if she was fighting him for real.”

Natasha’s mouth was set in a hard line, but even she couldn’t deny that. Knowing he was right, Steve looked over her head at Ross, who was talking to people on a radio. “You’re going to stabilize her and treat her wounds, right?” he asked, tone leaving little room for arguments.

Ross, however, was nearly foolish in his righteousness. “Can’t get information from her if she’s dead,” was all the answer he gave before he turned back to the monitors.

It was a yes, backhanded as it was, and a tiny weight was taken off his shoulders. They wouldn’t let you die because they needed you. He could work with that for now.

“This way,” Natasha said quietly, jerking her head ever so slightly in the direction of the glass box of a conference room in the center of the operations center. Steve gave Ross and the monitors one last glance before he followed her, Sam following closely. Tony glared at them as they passed, but Steve couldn’t look at him right then. He was too angry.

The doors slid closed silently behind Sam and they took a seat the table. To Steve’s surprise Sharon came in hot on their heels, face unreadable. “She’s being taken to medical under heavy guard. Her injuries aren’t life-threatening. It was a sonic blast that knocked her unconscious, not the head trauma. We’re trying to get a scan but it’s difficult with all of the tech in her head. We think nothing’s broken, but they can’t be sure without more information.”

Steve leaned back in his seat and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He saw Natasha do the same, though more subtly. “Does Bucky know? That she’s here?”

Sharon frowned slightly and turned away to watch the screens; one of (Y/N) in the medical wing, the other of Bucky in his pod. From the looks of it, they’d sent someone in to talk to him. She shook her head. “Ross wants to keep him as calm as possible for the time being. Chances are that once she’s been stabilized and had some time to heal she’ll be used as leverage to get information from him. A lot of what they do and where they’ve been is a mystery, but one thing always seems to hold true; they’re always together.”

Steve tried to hold back a glower and probably failed. “Because they’re still in there. They still love each other.”

Sharon’s gaze slid from the monitors to Steve, but Steve looked away, not wanting to see the pity in her eyes. “They were also partners for years, Steve. If our data’s correct they went on hundreds of missions together. That could easily be the reason why they stay together. Either way, it seems like the best way to coerce them into talking.”

Steve sighed and buried his face in his hands, taking a second to collect his thoughts. “She seemed convinced that someone was out there pulling the strings- something we didn’t see. What if she was right?”

Natasha frowned and leaned forward slightly. “What are you talking about, Steve?”

Steve spotted the photo- the one of “Bucky” next to the news van- on the desk and picked it up, showing it to the other three. “Why would the Task Force release this photo to begin with?”

Sharon shrugged, gesturing halfheartedly with her hand. “Get the word out? Involve as many eyes as we can?” she suggested with a little shake of her head.

Steve nodded. “Right. That’s a good way to flush a guy out of hiding.”

“Set of a bomb, get your picture taken,” Natasha said quietly, green eyes calculating as she watched Steve closely.

“Get seven billion people looking for the Winter Soldiers,” Steve added.

Sharon nodded, eyes downcast as she thought about it. “You’re saying someone framed them to find them.”

Sam shook his head, fingers laced together on the table in front of him. “Steve, we looked for them for two years and found nothing.”

“We didn’t bomb the UN,” Steve countered.

Natasha nodded minutely. “That turns a lot of heads.”

Sharon was staring at the ground, hand on her hip as she thought about it. “Yeah but that doesn’t guarantee that whoever framed him would get him. It guarantees that we would.”

There was a pause in which the words sunk in, then the four of them looked up at the screen showing Bucky’s cell, eyes widening in understanding.

“Yeah,” Steve said gravely as he stared at the image of the psychologist’s back.

As if on cue, the lights in the room flickered and died and the emergency lights turned on, bathing the room in a red glow. Sam perked up immediately but Natasha was out of her seat in an instant, looking at the people around her.

Steve turned in a slow circle before his gaze finally fell on Sharon.

She took one look at him and steeled herself. “Sub-level five, East Wing.”

Sam, Steve, and Natasha were headed for the door before she’d even finished talking.

Next Chapter

If you’d like to be tagged in this series, like this post! Sorry, but responses to this post asking to be tagged will be ignored, so send me an ask or like one of the taglist posts!

☕ Buy Me a Coffee! ☕

[monotype-on-phantom]

We have now had at least one episode dedicated to developing the relationships between each duo combination of Team Phantom, and I think this is as good a time as any to gush about why this is one of my favorite trios in anything.

I’ll just cover each combination in order and then talk about all three of them, because I love these kids and could talk about them all day.

What You Want is the first episode to actually put one of the main characters off to the side and focus on developing the relationship between two of them. Sam spends the entire episode with a cold, so Danny and Tucker are pretty much on their own, and we get a lot of insight into how they view each other.

The two of them have been close friends for a very long time, and they share everything. Sure, they might not always get along the best, but usually, these two are like partners in crime. Whether it’s talking about girls, watching some dumb action flick, or fighting ghosts, the two of them are pretty much joined at the hip even more than either of them and Sam. Which makes sense. They’re bros.

The number of times they annoy Sam is hilarious. Sure, Danny can be pretty serious sometimes, and even Tucker can be when he needs to, but they’ll also have eating competitions on either side of Sam. They’ll gush about cute girls together. They’ll stay up late playing online games. The majority of their relationship is just dumb guy stuff, which is great. They don’t need to hide things from each other and can be dweebs all they want together.

The next episode like this that we get is Fanning the Flames, where Tucker’s completely sucked in by Ember’s spell, leaving Danny and Sam to try and fight her alone.

Danny and Sam are kind of the more logical two of the trio. Danny can be a goof, but when Tucker’s in mega goof mode, Danny and Sam can roll their eyes at him together. On the other hand, they’re also a lot more melodramatic than Tucker. He’s someone who’s quick to bounce back from being depressed or hurt or even feeling guilty. If he’s in the wrong, he apologizes and learns from it. If he’s not, he’ll usually let things roll off his back in time because he’s got a lot of confidence in himself.

Sam and Danny can be pretty emotional. Danny especially lets what other people say and do get to him and blames himself for a lot of things, while Sam’s usually someone to get more angry and yell when things upset her. Tucker and Danny work things out quickly, but when these two get in a rough patch, they need to talk things out a bit more.

While Danny’s not necessarily out of commission in 13, he’s focused more on his sister, which leaves Tucker and Sam to bond, and it’s one of my favorite episodes for both of them.

In a lot of ways, Sam and Tucker are opposites. She’s a vegetarian, he’s a meat eater. She’s into recycling, he’s into technology. He likes fashionable girls, she’s all about being an individual. He’s usually an optimist, Sam takes pride in reveling in darkness and complains a lot.

That said, they do compliment each other really well. They’re both pretty confident, but have their insecurities, though they usually keep more quiet about those than Danny does. They’re the ones who really stand out, despite actually being normal kids without any superpowers.

They actually know each other really well. Sam’s there to support Tucker when he’s having a bit of an identity crisis or when he’s dealing with his phobias. Tucker’s there to tease her and help her kick back easier like in Attack of the Killer Garage Sale and any time he teases her about her crush on Danny.

When Danny’s in trouble, these two are the ones that have to work together to bust him out, even though they’re so different. And they make an awesome team. They’re actually usually pretty in sync. Kindred Spirits is a good example, where they know exactly what to do in order to go pick up Danny from being kidnapped and dragged across the country.

And speaking of which, Sam and Tucker are amazing? You wanna talk best friends, let’s talk best friends.

Danny has been thrown into a world he never asked to be a part of. Countless ghosts and humans want him dead for just existing. He’s attacked without provocation, kidnapped multiple times, tortured and almost killed more than once, and he puts the responsibility of defending his town from constant ghost invasions solely on himself and beats himself up if he can’t do a perfect job.

These two don’t need to deal with any of that, but they do. They always do. There is one episode in the entire series where they don’t appear. Aside from that, they’re always there, and when Danny can’t deal with something alone, he can always count on them to show up. Thrown into ghost jail? They come get him. Brainwashed by an evil ringmaster with no problems murdering to get away with his crimes? They come get him. Kidnapped by a vengeful billionaire and dragged into the middle of nowhere? They come get him.

Not only that, but at any time, he can call them and ask for help. Tucker’s always prepared to deal with security cameras or hack into something to help take down a ghost. Sam has no qualms with grabbing a weapon and learning to use it on the fly or charging into battle blindly to protect her friends. Episode one has them carry a sleeping Danny all the way home from school to get him safely into bed.

They’re not perfect, but they’re kids. They do the best they can to support Danny no matter what, and they’ll gladly put themselves in danger for him.

And on the flip side, nobody can tell me Danny doesn’t love and appreciate them with all his heart.

In a lot of ways, they’re Danny’s greatest weakness. He’s strong and stubborn, but there are no lengths he won’t go to for these two. Sometimes, they’re all he has. They’re the only ones he can count on. In fact, they’re often the only ones he will rely on. He can be overprotective and self sacrificing to a fault, and he often won’t even think of asking anyone for help with tough situations outside of Sam and Tucker. They’re the ones he trusts the most. They’re the only ones who know his secret initially, and they’re always covering for him. He can rely on them at any instant.

That doesn’t mean he’s not going to do everything he can to keep them safe, though. He has less of an idea what he’s doing than even these two, yet he’s the one with the superpowers, so he’ll always throw himself between them and danger. (Any episode that claims otherwise is lying.)

Ironically, Danny needs saving a lot more than these two do over the course of the show, but that’s often because Danny won’t let them deal with the most dangerous parts of his ghost fighting life. Reign Storm? Danny wouldn’t even let them near Pariah Dark. My Brother’s Keeper? He wigs out when Bertrand tries to attack them instead of him. Control Freaks? Sam being in danger is one of the only things that can snap him out of Freakshow’s control.

He’s not perfect, buuut I refuse to acknowledge a lot of the episodes where he acts like a jerk as canon, and like Sam and Tucker, he’s 14. He does his best to balance his life as a kid and his life as a superhero, for their sakes as much as his. Heck, the whole reason he split himself in Identity Crisis was to give them the fun weekend he promised them and still be able to protect people from Technus. Even though they said they didn’t mind helping him, he doesn’t want them to always have to deal with his ghost hunting crap.

I know I ramble about these guys a lot, but there’s just so much love and support between them. They’ve known each other since second grade at least, and they’re still sticking together through the years and through countless life and death situations. As much as I dislike parts of Elmer’s 10 years later videos, it really warms my heart to see that these kids are still sticking together after all that time. Not a lot of kids I know have ever had friends like these. They’re family, just as much as or maybe even more so than their biological ones. Even if they fight or make mistakes, they’re always there for each other in the end. And I love them all so much.

[trendingnewsb]

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

Almost finished… To complete the subscription process, please click the link in the email we just sent you.

Read more: http://ift.tt/2zWQ4Pk

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2kXVkin via Viral News HQ

[ralphmorgan-blog1]

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

Almost finished... To complete the subscription process, please click the link in the email we just sent you.

More From this publisher : HERE ; This post was curated using : TrendingTraffic

=> *********************************************** Learn More Here: Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing ************************************ =>

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing was originally posted by A 18 MOA Top News from around

[trendingnewsb]

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

Almost finished… To complete the subscription process, please click the link in the email we just sent you.

Read more: http://ift.tt/2zWQ4Pk

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2kXVkin via Viral News HQ

[trendingnewsb]

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2mPdYcD via Viral News HQ

[trendingnewsb]

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2mPdYcD via Viral News HQ