#posture & the grizzly

[imasucker-4-memories]

Thank you @soft-little-witch and @xokristennichole for tagging me! 🥳🫶

Four albums I've been listening to:

No pressure tagging: @smoothdecember @surfcrowdsnotwaves @softcorepeachpit @redacted-cryptid @whatthehelliswrongwithhim @lingonberryjamistakenwhat @mothwoahman @imabitofa @nostromhoe

[qualitybathtub]

[goblinbabe666]

who was gonna tell me i need to INITIATE a hug if i want a hug

[hate5sixofficial]

Posture & The Grizzly 2022-06-05 PhilaMOCA Philadelphia, PA

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Not a Word 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a life in hiding, away from your father and the world, until a man decides to drag you into the light. (non-verbal reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: Happy Monday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You can’t hear your father’s voice anymore. You stand at your door, listening for any sign of life. It’s not him you want to avoid, though he’s rarely happy to see you, but his company. You’re pretty sure they left but not entirely. You feel asleep working on your diamond art. 

You can’t wait much longer. You have to pee so bad that you can feel it in your throat. It’s late. You’re sure you’re alone. 

The door hinges scrape like they always do. You hate that noise. You tiptoe down the hall, towards the yellow blare of the kitchen light. You turn into the bathroom and shut the door. You sigh as finally you get your release. 

You flinch as you stand up and pull your elastic waistband over your hips. The hollow metal tink of a metal can sounds from outside. It could be your dad. That would make sense. He probably got up to get water or another can of beer. 

You wash your hands and go back out. You head towards your bedroom without a look in the other direction. The grizzly pronunciation of your name draws you back. Your eyes round as you scuff to a halt. 

You turn to face the burly man at the end of the hall. “Did I wake you?” Sy asks. 

You gulp and shake your head. He’s one of your dad’s coworkers from the shop. He comes over with a six-pack and they sit on the porch to enjoy it. Or they linger in the kitchen and play cards. 

As the shadows shroud him, he looks even bigger than usual. You’ve only ever seen him from a distance. Usually he’s sitting down. Maybe you just never noticed how gigantic he truly is. 

He flips on the hallway light and you blink. His dark beard adds to the squareness of his jaw and his shaved head has dark stubble in a deep peak on his forehead. His blue eyes sparkle despite his naturally fearsome posture. 

“I just got your daddy to bed,” he says. “He should be just fine. You check that he’s on his belly tomorrow morning.” 

You nod again. He does the same. He doesn’t appear frustrated as your father. He seems almost intrigued as he stays there, scratching above the collar of his tee. 

“You okay?” 

You nod. 

“Checkin’, ya know? It’s late. Dark can be scary, huh?” 

Yes, your head bobs in agreement. 

“Right, well, you have a good night. Let me know if ya need anything in the morning. I put my number on the fridge.” He taps on the door frame and turns away. 

Most of your dad’s friends or the same. They don’t pay you much mind. You prefer that. You’re not one for chatting. That fact irks your father to no end. You just stay out of his way, and his friends’, and hide in your room. 

You wait until you hear the front door. Then you go to lock it as Sy’s footsteps clamour on the porch. You stay there, his headlights shining through the window as his engine rumbles to life. The gravel crunches as he reverses out and steers off into the night. 

You go around and shut off the lights. You take your time in the kitchen tidying up the beer cans. You wipe the counters quickly and rinses the dregs off your fingers. You leave the light on so you can find your door. 

You shut yourself in and go back to bed. You leave the small lamp on next to it and turn your back to the glow. You yawn and close your eyes. 

Another night. It’s a bit sad that the best part of your day is going to sleep. Your waking hours aren’t very interesting. When you’re not doing the chores or the cooking, you’re in there, busying yourself with something meaningless. Nothing you do will ever make a difference; not for you or anyone else. 

That’s why your dad hates you so much. You can’t blame him. There’s no jobs out there for someone like you. You tried and all you got for it was embarrassment and a new slew of insults. 

You cross your arms over the top of the blankets and sigh. When you lay in your bed, you can be anything. Behind your eyelids, you can’t paint pictures more gleaming than those etched in the small plastic diamonds. You could be a princess or an actress or even just someone normal. 

What keeps you awake, isn’t your dreams. It’s the dread of the inevitable. Once you fall asleep, you’ll have to wake up again and face bitter reality. 

🩶

Your dad’s snoring rocks you through the walls. The house is small. You hear a lot more than you like. Often, you leave the old Casio radio playing on low to gloss over the cricks and cracks and groans. 

You get up, knowing better than to wait until he does first. If you have the coffee waiting, it will appease a fraction of his temper. With a hangover racking his skull, he won’t be in the best of moods. 

The dead heat of summer roils through the house. Your dad has an AC unit in his bedroom window but it’s not big enough to do much beyond his door. He keeps that closed most days anyways. On the cold days, he also keeps the small electric heater locked away with him. 

You change into a pair of loose linen capris and a plain tank top. You don’t go anywhere so you don’t dress for any occasion. Most of your clothes are akin to pajamas, or nothing more than. 

The machine is old and dingy. No matter how many times you descale it, it keeps that yellow stain in the plastic. You snap the lid shut and flip the red button so it lights up. Dad says once it stops turning on, he’ll waste money on a new one. 

You get yourself a glass of water and wait. It’s early still but his alarm won’t let him sleep in. As it goes off, you keep busy.  

There’s a slam and a grumble. Your dad stirs violently and his door hits the frame as he swings it open. He lumbers out as you pour him a mug. He belches and ignores you. You put it on the table as he turns down the hall and goes into the bathroom. He leaves the door open and you hear his stream piddle into the toilet. 

You ignore it and turn back to your task. Breakfast. It’s the same thing every day. You do his eggs, sunny side up, toasted Wonder bread, and six strips of bacon. The smell soon has your mouth watering. The chair scrapes the floor loudly as he drops into it heavily. 

He slurps loudly behind you as you put together his plate. You set it before him and he wiggles the empty mug at you. You take it and pour him another from the carafe. 

A car door snaps shut. You wince. You didn’t hear an engine, but you’d been too swept up in cooking. You give your dad his refill and go to check the front window. 

“Is it that mailman already?” He hollers. 

You shake your head, even knowing that he won’t see.  

“Don’t know why I fucking ask,” he snarls. 

You watch Sy jump out of his truck. While the axle is high, it isn’t very treacherous for a man his size. He kicks up gravel as he steps around the door and shuts it. You back away as he heads towards the house. 

He clomps up the steps, thump, thump, thump, and you jitter as he approaches the other side of the door. You wait until he knocks before you answer it. You peek out through a single inch of space. He grins. You don’t think he’s ever smiled at you. You assumed he never did at all. 

“How’s the old man?” He asks. 

You blink and let the door open a bit more and give thumbs up. As good as he’ll ever be.  

“That’s good,” he drawls. “So...” 

His eyes drift down, just a little. You squirm. Your shirt feels thinner as you stand there. Your nipple poke into the fabric and you hug yourself awkwardly. You remember you asked your father for a bra once. He laughed and you never brought it up again. You try to stick to loose clothing. 

You point over your shoulder then make a gesture as if you’re holding a fork and scooping. 

“Having breakfast, that’s nice.” 

You don’t have enough for him. You’ll wait until your dad’s at work before you sit and have your single slice of toast and peanut butter. 

“I already ate, in case ya worried,” he assures. “Was just comin’ to make sure I didn’t give him too much sauce.” 

He laughs. His booming humour makes your flinch. Your brows pop up and he quiets. 

“Sorry, I know, I’m a loud one, huh?” He snorts, “I don’t mean ta scare ya.” 

“I told ya, she don’t say shit,” your father growls into a yawn. You step back and the door opens all the way as you press yourself to the wall. He saunters forward in his boxers and tank top. “No point goin’ on like that when she probably don’t even understand.” 

“She understands me,” Sy avows confidently. “After a night with your drunk ass, it’s a breath of fresh air to have someone not yammer on.” 

“You’re the one brought me the piss,” your father retorts. 

“And you didn’t complain when I did,” he counters. “Wanted to see if ya were going to make it in today. Just in case I gotta finish up Dubeau’s clunker.” 

“I’ll be there,” your father sneers. “Why don’t you go and get it all warmed up for me?” 

“You’re a prick, Don,” Sy huffs. 

“What? No, you can’t see it,” your father covers his crotch and you blanch, looking away embarrassed. 

“Don,” Sy rebukes, “there’s a lady.” 

“It’s my daughter, dammit. She’s too stupid to get it,” he spits. “Hey, you, go on, kitchen’s a mess.” 

You nod and avoid looking at the other man out of embarrassment. Your father is crass, sometimes even at your expense. And he knows you can understand him. He must. You do everything he tells you too. 

“Well, then, I’ll see ya round,” Sy calls, though you only realise he’s talking to you as your dad changes the subject to some tail pipe. 

You stop and peek back. Sy watches you over your dad’s head. You give a wave, just a tilt of your hand, then continue into the kitchen. 

You can’t help but be thankful for the interruption. Sy’s boisterous intrusion offered a buffer between you and your dad’s hangover. You wash his plate, cutlery, and mug, before you move onto the pots and pans you used to cook. 

You can hear your dad barking outside at Sy. The other man responds with a deep rumble. Are they arguing? 

The front door swings open, “hey, girl,” you dad whistles, “more coffee. Bring some for this lump.” 

You take the order in stride. You don’t have enough for two cups, maybe half of one. You start a new pot and wait. When it’s finished, you dry your dad’s mug and pull out another. You carry both to the front door and elbow through. 

You hand one to each man as they stand by the porch railing. Your dad takes his gruffly, spilling some on your fingers, but Sy thanks you. 

“You didn’t even ask if he wanted sugar or cream,” your dad chides. You give him a startled look. He snorts. “How’d ya do that, huh? Maybe blink your eyes real big.” 

You frown at his mocking. Sy exhales and you back away. Now you have two men annoyed with you. You glance over at the bigger of the pair as he stares at you. You should’ve thought of you. Coffee is bitter, it’s why you don’t drink it. 

You point to his cup and he shakes his head, “coffee’s fine,” he insists, “I’ll have something sweet later.” You nod and retreat. You turn your back to them and step inside. Before you close the door, you hear Sy, “you know I take my coffee black, Don. No needa to give the girl a hard time.” 

You shut it before you can catch whatever snide remark your father tosses back. You know he won’t take kindly to being told what to do, especially if it’s to do with you. Or because of you. You’ll hear it all later, you’re sure. 

[qtt-art]

Updated refs for my OCs Alphi (they/them) and Zun (she/her). I completely redid Zun’s werewolf form (again/again) and am a little happier with it now!

Alphi’s a mage that works with ferromagnetic metals and Zun is a lycanthrope under house-arrest (that house being her state). Together they work to track and contain hostile witches, mages, and werewolves.

If you’re interested in a breakdown of the changes I’ve made, among other OC things, please consider checking out my Patreon.

Image descriptions:

Images 1 and 2: Thumbnail crops of the two characters in the main image. The first is a portrait crop of Alphi, a person with long braided powder-blue hair and heterochromia. The second is of Zun, a bespectacled woman with dark grey hair that ends in patchy silver spots.

Image 3: a compilation of notes surrounding a full body illustration of Alphi and Zun. Alphi is a tall and slender individual wearing a bright magenta coat off-shoulder. Zun is a more plainly dressed, stouter, stockier woman with extremities that end in a charcoal colour.

Image 4: a compilation of notes surrounding an illustration of Zun’s werewolf form. Its fur is primarily dark grey with silver patches and its posture resembles that of a silverback gorilla and grizzly bear. The skull is elongated, with very long rows of teeth. Her face retains vague semblances of her human form.

[carolmunson]

Sound tech Eddie who you meet on set, maybe at craft services, and he flirts with you and teases you in a fun way and you keep meeting each other at different shoots and he brings you a coffee or a soda when the day is getting long as fuck and it’s like the fourth time you’ve met / worked together and he asks you out

Married older (47) sound tech Eddie can’t believe he’s on set with all these kids who are nearly 20 years younger than him but he’s been out of work with the strike so he comes for the pay check. Quiet, keeps to himself.

Wavy hair that’s more silver than brown these days gets pulled up out of his face while he types on his phone. Drafting an email for a gig next week about rates and equipment rental. Then you come in and God you’re fucking loud.

You’re fucking loud and you know all these guys and you’re flirty and jokey and bitchy in that way ‘only girl on set’ is bitchy. He rolls his eyes when you laugh again, getting your coffee while the AD brings your kit upstairs. He sighs again, he normally gets along with the makeup artist — guess not today.

You come down after setting up to get coffee and he knows because he hears your grating fucking voice again while he sets up the boom on a c-stand. He pulls one headphone off his ear while he tests. It’s not until you come back in with your coffee in hand and your eyes catch his that you’re suddenly quiet. He goes back to his task but he can feel your eyes on him, looking him over.

You look bashful now, like you know you were loud and girlish and annoying and now you regret it. You wanna start over so you can look mature for him, and damn you should be by now.

He sits down and later on he can see you scan him from a distance, eyes falling on the silver band around his ring finger that looks different than his other rings. He chuckles to himself grizzly, running the hand over his scratchy stubbled chin.

Lunch is called and suddenly it’s the two of you at craft together, everyone already sitting and chatting in the other room. You shakily introduce yourself, not nearly as confident and brash as you had been when you got in today.

“I’m Eddie,” he says back, voice dropping to the deep ooze he uses whenever he talks to sweet things like you.

“I know I uh — I mean, I saw,” you trip over your tongue, “On the call sheet.”

“Clever,” he smiles, helping himself to a bag of chips with his lunch, “You know somethin’ sweetheart?”

He places a hand on your lower back to move past you to the plate of cookies at the end of the table, feeling your posture change beneath him at the touch. He lets in linger, buzzing with the sudden upper hand he has with a pretty girl like you to toy with for another seven hours.

“It’s not polite to stare the way you’ve been starin’ at me today,” he says slow and low by your ear, “I’m a married man. You always stare at married men like that?”

He offers a snake like grin while you squirm and fluster under his gaze. Your sudden silence is the best sound he’s heard all day.

[whencyclopedia]

Eastman's Biography of Red Cloud

Eastman's biography of Red Cloud (l. 1822-1909) is the first narrative of his Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains (1916), and it sets the tone for those that follow, including the pieces on Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, in explaining the motivation of the Plains Indians in their response to the US government's genocidal policies of expansion.

The piece is of particular interest historically because the Sioux physician and author, Charles A. Eastman (also known as Ohiyesa, l. 1858-1939), was able to interview the warrior and statesman Red Cloud in person, as he was unable to do with many others, such as Crazy Horse, and was also able to receive the story in Red Cloud's native language, unlike the narrative Black Elk Speaks (1932), which was given by the Lakota Sioux medicine man Black Elk (l. 1863-1950) to the American poet and writer John G. Neihardt (l. 1881-1973) through an interpreter. Eastman then translated Red Cloud's account into English for his book. The result is a firsthand account of the life of one of the greatest Sioux chiefs of the 19th century.

Text

The following text has been abridged for space considerations, but the online version of Eastman's book will be found below in the External Links section. The version presented here is taken from Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains, 1939 edition, republished in 2016:

…Red Cloud was born about 1820 near the forks of the Platte River. He was one of a family of nine children whose father, an able and respected warrior, reared his son under the old Spartan regime. The young Red Cloud is said to have been a fine horseman, able to swim across the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers, of high bearing and unquestionable courage, yet invariably gentle and courteous in everyday life. This last trait, together with a singularly musical and agreeable voice, has always been characteristic of the man…

…The future leader was still a very young man when he joined a war party against the Utes. Having pushed eagerly forward on the trail, he found himself far in advance of his companions as night came on, and at the same time rain began to fall heavily. Among the scattered scrub pines, the lone warrior found a natural cave, and after a hasty examination, he decided to shelter there for the night.

Scarcely had he rolled himself in his blanket when he heard a slight rustling at the entrance, as if some creature were preparing to share his retreat. It was pitch dark. He could see nothing, but judged that it must be either a man or a grizzly. There was not room to draw a bow. It must be between knife and knife, or between knife and claws, he said to himself.

The intruder made no search but quietly lay down in the opposite corner of the cave. Red Cloud remained perfectly still, scarcely breathing, his hand upon his knife. Hour after hour he lay broad awake, while many thoughts passed through his brain. Suddenly, without warning, he sneezed, and instantly a strong man sprang to a sitting posture opposite. The first gray of morning was creeping into their rocky den and – behold! – a Ute hunter sat before him.

Desperate as the situation appeared, it was not without a grim humor. Neither could afford to take his eyes from the other's; the tension was great, till at last a smile wavered over the expressionless face of the Ute. Red Cloud answered the smile, and in that instant a treaty of peace was born between them.

"Put your knife in its sheath. I shall do so also, and we will smoke together," signed Red Cloud. The other assented gladly, and they ratified thus the truce which assured to each a safe return to his friends. Having finished their smoke, they shook hands and separated. Neither had given the other any information. Red Cloud returned to his party and told his story, adding that he had divulged nothing and had nothing to report. Some were inclined to censure him for not fighting, but he was sustained by a majority of the warriors, who commended his self-restraint. In a day or two they discovered the main camp of the enemy and fought a remarkable battle, in which Red Cloud especially distinguished himself

The Sioux were now entering upon the most stormy period of their history. The old things were fast giving place to new. The young men, for the first time engaging in serious and destructive warfare with the neighboring tribes, armed with the deadly weapons furnished by the white man, began to realize that they must soon enter upon a desperate struggle for their ancestral hunting grounds. The old men had been innocently cultivating the friendship of the stranger, saying among themselves, "Surely there is land enough for all!"

Red Cloud was a modest and little-known man of about twenty-eight years, when General Harney called all the western bands of Sioux together at Fort Laramie, Wyoming, for the purpose of securing an agreement and right of way through their territory. The Ogallala held aloof from this proposal, but Bear Bull, an Ogallala chief, after having been plied with whisky, undertook to dictate submission to the rest of the clan. Enraged by failure, he fired upon a group of his own tribesmen, and Red Cloud's father and brother fell dead. According to Indian custom, it fell to him to avenge the deed. Calmly, without uttering a word, he faced old Bear Bull and his son, who attempted to defend his father, and shot them both. He did what he believed to be his duty, and the whole band sustained him. Indeed, the tragedy gave the young man at once a certain standing, as one who not only defended his people against enemies from without, but against injustice and aggression within the tribe. From this time on he was a recognized leader.

Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses, then head chief of the Ogallala, took council with Red Cloud in all important matters, and the young warrior rapidly advanced in authority and influence. In 1854, when he was barely thirty-five years old, the various bands were again encamped near Fort Laramie. A Mormon emigrant train, moving westward, left a footsore cow behind, and the young men killed her for food. The next day, to their astonishment, an officer with thirty men appeared at the Indian camp and demanded of old Conquering Bear that they be given up. The chief in vain protested that it was all a mistake and offered to make reparation. It would seem that either the officer was under the influence of liquor, or else had a mind to bully the Indians, for he would accept neither explanation nor payment, but demanded point-blank that the young men who had killed the cow be delivered up to summary punishment. The old chief refused to be intimidated and was shot dead on the spot. Not one soldier ever reached the gate of Fort Laramie! Here Red Cloud led the young Ogallala, and so intense was the feeling that they even killed the half-breed interpreter.

Curiously enough, there was no attempt at retaliation on the part of the army, and no serious break until 1860, when the Sioux were involved in troubles with the Cheyennes and Arapahoe. In 1862, a grave outbreak was precipitated by the eastern Sioux in Minnesota under Little Crow, in which the western bands took no part. Yet this event ushered in a new period for their race. The surveyors of the Union Pacific were laying out the proposed road through the heart of the southern buffalo country, the rendezvous of Ogallala, Brule, Arapahoe, Comanche, and Pawnee, who followed the buffalo as a means of livelihood. To be sure, most of these tribes were at war with one another, yet during the summer months they met often to proclaim a truce and hold joint councils and festivities, which were now largely turned into discussions of the common enemy. It became evident, however, that some of the smaller and weaker tribes were inclined to welcome the new order of things, recognizing that it was the policy of the government to put an end to tribal warfare.

Red Cloud's position was uncompromisingly against submission. He made some noted speeches in this line, one of which was repeated to me by an old man who had heard and remembered it with the remarkable verbal memory of an Indian.

"Friends," said Red Cloud, "it has been our misfortune to welcome the white man. We have been deceived. He brought with him some shining things that pleased our eyes; he brought weapons more effective than our own: above all, he brought the spirit water that makes one forget for a time old age, weakness, and sorrow. But I wish to say to you that if you would possess these things for yourselves, you must begin anew and put away the wisdom of your fathers. You must lay up food, and forget the hungry. When your house is built, your storeroom filled, then look around for a neighbor whom you can take at a disadvantage and seize all that he has! Give away only what you do not want; or rather, do not part with any of your possessions unless in exchange for another's.

"My countrymen, shall the glittering trinkets of this rich man, his deceitful drink that overcomes the mind, shall these things tempt us to give up our homes, our hunting grounds, and the honorable teaching of our old men? Shall we permit ourselves to be driven to and fro—to be herded like the cattle of the white man?"

His next speech that has been remembered was made in 1866, just before the attack on Fort Phil Kearny. The tension of feeling against the invaders had now reached its height. There was no dissenting voice in the council upon the Powder River when it was decided to oppose to the uttermost the evident purpose of the government. Red Cloud was not altogether ignorant of the numerical strength and the resourcefulness of the white man, but he was determined to face any odds rather than submit.

"Hear ye, Dakotas!" he exclaimed. "When the Great Father at Washington sent us his chief soldier to ask for a path through our hunting grounds, a way for his iron road to the mountains and the western sea, we were told that they wished merely to pass through our country, not to tarry among us, but to seek for gold in the far west. Our old chiefs thought to show their friendship and good will, when they allowed this dangerous snake in our midst. They promised to protect the wayfarers.

"Yet before the ashes of the council fire are cold, the Great Father is building his forts among us. You have heard the sound of the white soldier's ax upon the Little Piney. His presence here is an insult and a threat. It is an insult to the spirits of our ancestors. Are we then to give up their sacred graves to be plowed for corn? Dakotas, I am for war!"

In less than a week after this speech, the Sioux advanced upon Fort Phil Kearny, the new sentinel that had just taken her place upon the farthest frontier, guarding the Oregon Trail. Every detail of the attack had been planned with care, though not without heated discussion, and nearly every well-known Sioux chief had agreed in striking the blow. The brilliant young war leader, Crazy Horse, was appointed to lead the charge. His lieutenants were Sword, Hump, and Dull Knife, with Little Chief of the Cheyennes, while the older men acted as councilors. Their success was instantaneous. In less than half an hour, they had cut down nearly a hundred men under Captain Fetterman, whom they drew out of the fort by a ruse and then annihilated.

Instead of sending troops to punish, the government sent a commission to treat with the Sioux. The result was the famous treaty of 1868, which Red Cloud was the last to sign, having refused to do so until all of the forts within their territory should be vacated. All of his demands were acceded to, the new road abandoned, the garrisons withdrawn, and in the new treaty it was distinctly stated that the Black Hills and the Big Horn were Indian country, set apart for their perpetual occupancy, and that no white man should enter that region without the consent of the Sioux.

Scarcely was this treaty signed, however, when gold was discovered in the Black Hills, and the popular cry was: "Remove the Indians!" This was easier said than done. That very territory had just been solemnly guaranteed to them forever: yet how stem the irresistible rush for gold? The government, at first, entered some small protest, just enough to "save its face" as the saying is; but there was no serious attempt to prevent the wholesale violation of the treaty. It was this state of affairs that led to the last great speech made by Red Cloud, at a gathering upon the Little Rosebud River. It is brief, and touches upon the hopelessness of their future as a race. He seems at about this time to have reached the conclusion that resistance could not last much longer; in fact, the greater part of the Sioux nation was already under government control.

"We are told," said he, "that Spotted Tail has consented to be the Beggars' Chief. Those Indians who go over to the white man can be nothing but beggars, for he respects only riches, and how can an Indian be a rich man? He cannot without ceasing to be an Indian. As for me, I have listened patiently to the promises of the Great Father, but his memory is short. I am now done with him. This is all I have to say."

The wilder bands separated soon after this council, to follow the drift of the buffalo, some in the vicinity of the Black Hills and others in the Big Horn region. Small war parties came down from time to time upon stray travelers, who received no mercy at their hands, or made dashes upon neighboring forts. Red Cloud claimed the right to guard and hold by force, if need be, all this territory which had been conceded to his people by the treaty of 1868. The land became a very nest of outlawry. Aside from organized parties of prospectors, there were bands of white horse thieves and desperadoes who took advantage of the situation to plunder immigrants and Indians alike.

An attempt was made by means of military camps to establish control and force all the Indians upon reservations, and another commission was sent to negotiate their removal to Indian Territory, but met with an absolute refusal. After much guerrilla warfare, an important military campaign against the Sioux was set on foot in 1876, ending in Custer's signal defeat upon the Little Big Horn.

In this notable battle, Red Cloud did not participate in person, nor in the earlier one with Crook upon the Little Rosebud, but he had a son in both fights. He was now a councilor rather than a warrior, but his young men were constantly in the field, while Spotted Tail had definitely surrendered and was in close touch with representatives of the government.

But the inevitable end was near. One morning in the fall of 1876 Red Cloud was surrounded by United States troops under the command of Colonel McKenzie, who disarmed his people and brought them into Fort Robinson, Nebraska. Thence they were removed to the Pine Ridge agency, where he lived for more than thirty years as a "reservation Indian." In order to humiliate him further, government authorities proclaimed the more tractable Spotted Tail head chief of the Sioux. Of course, Red Cloud's own people never recognized any other chief.

In 1880 he appealed to Professor Marsh, of Yale, head of a scientific expedition to the Bad Lands, charging certain frauds at the agency and apparently proving his case; at any rate the matter was considered worthy of official investigation. In 1890-1891, during the "Ghost Dance craze" and the difficulties that followed, he was suspected of collusion with the hostiles, but he did not join them openly, and nothing could be proved against him. He was already an old man and became almost entirely blind before his death in 1909 in his ninetieth year.

His private life was exemplary. He was faithful to one wife all his days and was a devoted father to his children. He was ambitious for his only son, known as Jack Red Cloud, and much desired him to be a great warrior. He started him on the warpath at the age of fifteen, not then realizing that the days of Indian warfare were well-nigh at an end.

Among latter-day chiefs, Red Cloud was notable as a quiet man, simple and direct in speech, courageous in action, an ardent lover of his country, and possessed in a marked degree of the manly qualities characteristic of the American Indian in his best days.

Continue reading...

[autisticlancemcclain]

prev

“I swear, if you hurt him –”

“If he wasn’t trying to be hurt he shouldn’t have –”

“Hold on!” Lance shouts, finally close enough to hear. “Everyone – cool it for a sec! Hold on!” 

There’s still a lot of fear on a lot of faces, and a lot of anger, and a lot of weapons raised. But when a guy riding a fucking giant beastly grizzly bear the size of a house tells you to cool it for a sec (Jesus fucking Christ, Lance),  then you cool it for a sec. There’s a kind of inherent authority demanded. 

Lance pulls gently on the beast’s when he reaches a respectable distance, and it stops. (Keith knows, at this point, with the demon spider and the poison plants and just…everything else, he shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow he still is). He leans down and kisses it right between the ears, which causes several gasps and, if Keith is hearing correctly, a couple fainting bodies to hit the floor, before hopping to the side and sliding to the ground. His slight smirk suggests to Keith that the show of friendliness with the beast was an intentional one.

He keeps on hand on the beast, but he turns toward the gathered crowd of people, searching until he finds whoever he’s looking for – who, it turns out, is the dignitary. 

“I have come to apologise,” he says solemnly. His tone and posture give no indication of sarcasm, and in fact, he has softened his entire face considerably, looking to the dignitary with more grace and understanding than anyone has, so far, let alone the person who not twenty four hours ago was flipping them off and calling them a brainless amoeba.

“I give up,” Allura mutters after a moment of shocked silence, throwing her hands up and sitting heavily on the ground. “I rescind my position. Hunk, you’re in charge now.”

Hunk pats her delicately on the head. Lance easily ignores the both of them. 

“I really am sorry,” he says to the dignitary, which Keith thinks might be a hard case to make with the giant beast of controversy not two feet behind him. “I didn’t…I think there was some miscommunication here.”

The dignitary sniffs derisively, keeping one wary eye on the beast. “If by that you mean you refused to communicate with me at all, then yes.”

Lance holds his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, fair. I didn’t handle this well. But there was something off, here. If you’ll allow me to explain?”

For a moment Keith thinks, somehow, everything is going to go smoothly (for once). The dignitary seems to be genuinely considering Lance’s offer, and from experience Keith knows how convincing Lance’s earnestness can be. Besides that, this whole alliance is rocky, and the tension is coming to a head – a civil agreement could end this whole thing. Lance, although still among the most stubborn here, is offering something of an olive branch. 

But all at once, the dignitary’s eyes harden. They open their mouth, stubborn set to their shoulder, and Keith’s hand tightens on his bayard. Lance, sensing the incoming fallout, does what he does best:

He talks. 

“Corduroy was as scared as you were!” Lance blurts. The absurdity of his statement gives everyone pause – who the fuck is Corduroy – and he takes that opportunity to steamroll right on, talking so fast it’s difficult to keep up but impossible to look away. “You guys expanded your city limits in the winter, right? An increase of the entire perimeter to compensate for new growth and new projects. You’ve been planning for it for years, replanting a forest farther out to prepare for what you have to cut down. But Corduroy’s hunting ground was all the way to the edge of the first.” He looks back at the bear, who Keith can only assume he has named Corduroy, and smiles at it. It makes a rumbling noise in the back of its throat and limps forward, causing several scattered shouts of fear and raised weapons, but the beast only stares at them in what can only be described as judgement before nosing gently in Lance’s hair. 

Keith’s jaw drops. Lance has had, what, four vargas with this thing? Five? And it already treats him with the same quiet affection that Blue or Red do, covering him in affection when he comes buzzing into their hangars, a bundle of enthusiasm. Only this bear is wild, and untameable, and apparently scared and injured besides. 

The Blue Paladin is the Paladin of empathy and fluidity, indeed.

“Corduroy didn’t intend to attack anyone,” Lance continues softly. One of his hands reaches up to stroke the flank of the beast, as high as he can reach – which is not high. He doesn’t even reach up to the bear’s shoulders. “But if you woke up from a month long nap to try and find some food only to find other people taking residents where you used to live and hunt, and all of those people were screaming and running and making a ruckus at you, you’d get defensive too, I think. In fact you did! Understandably. This whole thing was just fear from all sides.”

The queen clears her throat. “The beast,” she says. “Corduroy. It…you have subdued it?”

“Not subdued,” Lance corrects. “It was just hungry. And hurt. And a little distrusting, I think, but it seems to understand reason pretty well.”

The queen hesitates for a moment, then nods to herself. She takes a step forward, her people parting for her instantly, until she is inches away from the beast. The beast watches her warily, but does not bear its teeth, nor does it growl at her closeness. 

“Don’t, your majesty,” the dignitary begs. There is genuine fear in their voice. Keith wonders what has made them so afraid, if it was just the up-close struggle with the beast itself or if there is more to it. He figures it’s not his place to ask. “Just because one inane individual has somehow earned the beast’s trust does not make it trustworthy. Remember the pain it has caused.”

“And look at the pain we have caused it,” she murmurs. The bear snorts, injured leg pawing carefully at the ground. Slowly, giving the beast ample time to turn away, she extends her hand. The air itself feels like it’s holding her breath. Her hand finally stretches out as far as it can go, and she rests it on the bear’s great snout as it bends its head to meet her. The touch seems to loosen her shoulders instantly, and with her relief the rest of the crowded people exhale, tension that has been building finally coming to a head and leaking out.

“I can’t say I approve of your methods,” the dignitary says begrudgingly. “But I suppose I did ask you to solve the problem yourself, didn’t I.”

Lance beams. “Yes! I was very smug about it!”

Keith hears a snort behind him. When he looks, Hunk and Shiro are looking deliberately at the ground.

“The important thing is that I think this matter is as good as solved,” Coran interrupts smoothly. His face is a mask of pleasant professionalism, and Keith suddenly remembers that Coran has been managing disastrous diplomatic affairs for longer than toilets have been invented on earth, so. Maybe they should be asking him along for way more missions than they do. “I trust, your majesty?”

The queen nods. “Yes, I think so. If you’ll return with me to the meeting room, we can outline final arrangements for the alliance, and then you may return to your ship.”

“Indeed,” Coran says, cutting a glance back at the rest of the gathered team. He meets eyes with Keith, then glances at the stubborn way Lance distances himself from the rest of them, and purses his lips. “We have some matters of our own to settle, I believe.”

-- -- --

next

[mirkwoodshewolf]

No following; Planet of the Apes fanfic Chap. 8

*Author's note*

Alright now this is one chapter where a viscous swear word is used. It's around the start of the chapter and its the big P word. So yeah mostly just some intense rated TR swearing words but nothing graphic happening cause as we all know Carver is a troublemaker and a dick so there's definite tension b/t him and Lin. But I hope you all still enjoy the story nonetheless :)

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@gay-and-ready-to-cry

@psychosupernatural

@queen-paladin

___________________________________________________

At 0700 hours I was waiting for Malcolm and his team to arrive alongside the pack and within 15 minutes they finally arrived.  All the members Malcolm said who’d be a part of this scouting mission were all there with guns in hand (minus Alexander and Ellie).

“Why the fuck is she here?!” exclaimed Carver.

“Lovely to see your fugly mug too Carver.” I said sarcastically.

“I told you Carver, we needed a guide to give us the best pathway through the woods and Lin’s the only one who comes here more than anyone in the colony.”

“But did she really need to bring those beasts of hers? It’s bad enough the apes killed off half the planet, those bastards will rip our throats out without a second thought.”

“Wolves are more frightened of people than you are of them. If you don’t give them a reason to fear, they won’t attack you. Tsume still hasn’t forgotten what you did to him.” I gestured to the hole above his left ear.  “If we want to do this now, we better get moving. Most of the predators are still asleep at this time.”

“Forget it! I ain’t going nowhere with you yah psychotic bitch!” Carver exclaimed.

“Quit acting like a pussy and start walking! Before I tear your little body apart limb from limb!!!” my old soldier persona came out as I glared right at Carver, my eyes showing him that I meant business and that I would follow through on my word unlike all the threats he gives me.

The pack also backed me up as they snarled and snapped at Carver making him retreat backward.  That’s the thing with this guy, most of the time he’s all bark but doesn’t have the balls to do what he says he wants to do.  Just cause he thinks holding a gun makes him all tough, doesn’t mean he has the guts to actually shoot a human being.  Meanwhile I—never mind.

“Be warned. The woods are perilous compared to what they once were. Creatures that hadn’t been in this part of the world for hundreds of years have come around so be on your guard. Nearly got caught by a mama grizzly bear just last month had it not been for the pack saving my ass.” I soon led them into the woods with the pack scouting ahead.

Having the strongest nose out of the four of them, Hige was the main scout and I’ve learned that if he lowered his head and his fur hackled, there was danger in whatever direction he was facing.  If he let out two barks, he had found something, and a loud howl meant he was on the trail.

“How do we know she ain’t leading us to our death?” I heard Carver whisper.

“Will you knock it off Carver. I ain’t getting attacked by four wolves because of you!” hissed Foster lowly.

“It’s bad enough we got the fear of the apes and the flu getting to us now we’ve got to deal with her.”

“I’ve got PTSD, I’m not deaf. If you’d like to share something then please share it with the rest of the class!” I proclaimed turning around to face them fully.  My posture tall and firm as I glared at them.  “If you don’t wanna be here then go home. But if you don’t want to waste further time, I suggest keeping your mouths shut about me being here and let’s get this over with!” I turned back around and scaled up the steep pathway that led up the mountain.

We walked for a couple of hours further uphill until we finally reached the borders of the dam.

“This is it. This is it by god this is it!” exclaimed Carver.

“How much further till we get to the power station?” asked Malcolm.

“About another half hour give or take. It’s been so long I can’t remember exactly where the main entrance is to this place.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I muttered down to Tsume who gave out a huffed bark.

“I’ll go ahead and see if something doesn’t strike me as familiar.” He then went on ahead of us and after a while the group followed close behind him.  I looked to the pack and they each looked at me before we too followed the group, but the silence of the forest was soon broken by the sound of a gunshot.

Toboe’s ears bent back as he whimpered fearfully while Tsume, Hige and Kiba all snarled and barked frantically as they raced on ahead.

“Toboe come!” he raced right at my side as I caught up with the others.  “Who shot first?!”

“It came from Carver up ahead!” Ellie exclaimed as we raced faster up the pathway until Carver’s shouts became more clearer.

“Stay! HELP! HELP! No! HEY! OVER HERE! I shot him, I shot him.” As we came around I was shocked to see that it wasn’t a bear, a cougar or even another wolf, no Carver had shot an ape.  A young adolescent ape by the looks of it.  The other one stood protectively in front of the one on the ground had blue eyes which is not common for chimpanzees.

“Did he attack you first?” I asked him.

“What does it matter?”

“It does matter if you’ve decided to play trigger happy you insolent baboon!” at that moment Hige and the rest of the pack all snarled in warning as echoing through the woods were hundreds of ape shrieks and calls.  Soon coming from above the hill and through the trees were almost 100 apes all of them wielding spears.

Toboe stood close at my side, his fur ruffled and tail raised as he bared his fangs.  Hige, Tsume and Kiba circled around Malcolm and the others and snarled defensively as the apes came closer to us.

Suddenly one appeared in front of us as it came and stood before the two young apes that Carver had encountered and shot at.  Hige snarled at the ape but the ape let out a roar which caused Hige to back off practically right away and hide behind me.

“Real helpful Hige, real helpful.” As the apes finally finished showing us their numbers and strength, another chimpanzee soon came up and stood on top of a tree stump just above us.  He held out his hands trying to cease the apes from advancing any further.

I looked at this chimp closely, he was older and had the same grim face that I now bore of someone who had seen and been through hell and back.  I looked to the left part of his chest and there I saw the familiar birthmark….. no, it—it couldn’t be…..

The chimp who had frightened Hige now held the young chimp who Carver shot and started hooting frantically, all the while signing out.

‘They shot Ash! Shot my son!’

‘Rocket, wait.’ Grunted the ape who stood on the tree stump.  Oh my god…..it really was him.  Caesar’s alive! After all these years.  While the rest of the men were aiming their guns at the apes ready to shoot if any of them makes the wrong move, I reached for my gun and put it down all the while keeping my eyes on Caesar.  Slowly I stepped away from the group and saw as some of the apes tightened their grip on their spears as I started walking closer towards Caesar.

‘Caesar?’ I signed to him, deep down thinking that this was all some sort of dream or hallucination.  Caesar’s eyes looked directly at me as his expression was stern and defensive.  Of course he wouldn’t recognize me now, I was older than I was the last time he saw me.  ‘Caesar it’s me, Lin.’

After I had signed to him my name, his harsh glare began to soften as he looked down at me with slight recognition but also denial.

“Put your guns down.” I told the group.

“You can’t be serious.” Said Foster as he aimed his gun towards Caesar.

“Do as she says.” Malcolm told his group.  One by one each men lowered their weapons all but Carver of course.  “Carver, put the gun down.”

“Hell no man.” Carver wavered.

“Carver I swear to god if you don’t lower that gun right now, I’ll have Tsume turn you into a eunuch!” I growled lowly as I glared daggers at him.  At the threat of his manhood, Carver hesitantly lowered his gun as well.  I turned back to Caesar but his face no longer held the recognition from earlier, once again the harsh and primal glare was etched onto his face.  ‘We’re not a threat Caesar. Just hear me out.’

Silence once again weighed heavy in the woods as Caesar’s intimidating glare pierced all of us until he opened his mouth and spoke.

“GO!!!!!” his voice echoed through the mountains and sent a wave of both terror and awe down our spines.  Now I alone knew that Caesar could talk because he spoke to me before he and the clan of apes had disappeared into these woods a decade ago.  But to Malcolm and the rest of the group, they didn’t know this fact and were starting to get freaked out.  Caesar hopped off the tree stump and trudged his way towards us.

“Okay, okay we’re…we’re going.” Malcolm assured.

“GO!!!” cried out a bonobo that was scarred on one side of his face and soon the apes all started hooting and hollering telling us to go.  In a panic we all grabbed our guns and raced off back down the mountain.  The pack racing on ahead and disappearing through the shrubs.

Once we reached back down the mountain, we got into our respected vehicles and drove away from the forests, but I couldn’t help but look back heartbroken.  After all these years of thinking Caesar was dead, he was actually alive as well as the other apes and not only that but they seemed to thrive stronger than before.

We drove over the Golden gate bridge until we reached the security gate that was created at the border of the city at the height of the pandemic.  The doors opened and we soon caught sight of Dreyfus coming out.   He came over to Malcolm’s truck and asked him.

“Did you find it?”

“We need to talk.” Said Malcolm.

“What? What’s wrong?” asked Dreyfus.

“The um…the dam’s pretty much intact. It could probably start generating power for us within a week. But there’s a problem. Get in.” Malcolm explained.  I revved up my engine ready to take off and leave these guys but Malcolm said. “Lin wait! You need to come with us.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“You’ve seen those woods more times than any of us at the colony. Did you know?”

“I am just as surprised as you all are Malcolm.”

“Yeah, then why’d you start making all those weird hand gestures at one of them?” sneered Carver accusingly.

“It’s called sign language you dumbass. You know the language that deaf people use to communicate.” I sneered back at him.  Carver huffed as he got in the back with Ellie and Malcolm’s son, Alexander.

“Saw what? Someone tell me what happened up there in those woods?” Dreyfus demanded.

“Just get in and we’ll explain everything. Lin, you ride with Foster and Kemp.”

“What you don’t trust me to follow you?” I asked.  Malcolm gave me a skeptical look and I huffed as I turned my bike off. “Fine you’re right, I wouldn’t have. No one touches this bike! I’ve managed to keep it running the last three years, I don’t intend on losing it now.”

“The border patrol will keep it hidden.” Dreyfus gestured for one of the border guards to come forward and collect my bike.  I then went and opened the back door, startling Kemp and Foster.

“What the hell Lin? Scared the shit out of us.” Kemp said.

“Just follow behind Malcolm. And no questions.” I told them as I leaned my head against the back window.  The second Malcolm drove off, Foster drove right behind him.  The car ride was silent until Kemp had to speak up.

“I can’t believe after all this time, they were alive.”

“And how? I mean—I was a part of the regime that helped burn the redwoods to the ground. Nothing could’ve survived that.” My eyes widened at this new bit of information.

But I couldn’t let them know I knew of Caesar and his troop.  God knows what Dreyfus and Malcolm are gonna do to me once we get back to the colony.

“Lin, did you know they were out there?” asked Kemp.

“I thought I said no questions.”

“Nah, nah, nah you don’t get to do that to us, not this time. You’re the only one who ventures deep in those woods. Did you know?” Kemp said as he turned to face me, his eyes burning deep into my soul.

“No. I thought they had perished in the fires. Like you said Foster, not even a roach could survive what you all did to that forest.” I spoke my last sentence with a distant, somber tone as I remembered seeing the news footage.

The woods I once remembered playing in with Caesar, exploring new things, playing my violin and dancing like a springtime faery.  It was nothing but a blazing inferno, the trees like torches blazed with light, as a once proud monument was then (for a time) turned into nothing but ash.

We arrived back at the colony and I helped the boys unload their stuff when Carver ran up and said.

“Dreyfus doesn’t want us to tell anyone about what we saw out there.”

“What?” demanded Foster.

“Yeah, said he didn’t want to create a panic or whatever bullshit.”

“Then it’s best to do as he says.” I advised.  Carver turned to me and he said as he came up to me, and growled as he shoved his finger into my chest.

“If I found out you knew about those beasts and didn’t warn us, I’ll—”

“Kill me?” I challenged.  “The day you decide to do that I want you to do me a favor, you be sure to look me straight in the eye. Never forget my face, because I promise you, I’ll never forget the one who killed me.” I threatened as I got up into his face, my eyes filled with a cold, harsh stare.

Carver’s anger quickly turned to fear as he inwardly cowered beneath my gaze.  Yeah, that’s what I thought.  I grabbed some of the equipment and walked inside the colony building.

After helping them unload their gear, Dreyfus and Malcolm lead me into Dreyfus’ office where I was sat down and the two of them began interrogating me.

“And you swear you’re telling me the truth Lin? You had no idea that those apes were up there?” Dreyfus asked me.

“Like I’ve been telling you the last fifteen times you’ve asked me that question. I didn’t know.”

“This is serious Lin, I’m trying to ensure there’s no panic in the colony.”

“And I’m being serious too.”

“She’s telling the truth Dreyfus. She was just as shocked as we were to see them. You can’t fake that type of reaction at seeing the number of apes that we did up there.” Malcolm came to my defense.  Dreyfus paced around a bit as Malcolm asked me, “But what Carver said back there, how were you able to communicate with them?”

“I noticed they were using sign language. Before the world went to shit, I took many classes back at school as part of my foreign language courses. Also I—had a little brother who was struck mute at birth. Sign just kinda came natural because of that.” Malcolm nodded in understandment.

“Alright, we’re done here. But until I decide what to do, I want you to stay inside the colony Lin.”

“What? You can’t be serious!” I snapped as I stood up.

“I am, and don’t try to defy my orders.”

“Okay let’s get something straight here, Dreyfus! I don’t work for you. I never have. Our deal was that I’d help you, you’d help me. That’s it!”

“Like it or not Lin, so long as you are in the colony walls, you will abide by our rules.” And with that he left his office without another word.

Rage boiled within me as my breathing began to sharpen.  I punched through a window and let out a rageful scream before sliding everything off of Dreyfus’ desk to the floor and Malcolm reached out to try and calm me down.

“Hey! Lin, Lin!”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!!” I roared as I came down from my rageful high.  I took several deep breaths before muttering incoherently to myself.

This is just like before. Back during the pandemic, during the civil unrest, my times with—them.

“You can stay with Ellie, Alexander and I. You don’t have to be alone in this place Lin.”

“Alone. We’re always alone.” Malcolm didn’t say anything after that.  I took my sniper rifle, placed the strap across my chest and walked towards Malcolm’s place.

Later that night, I was cleaning out my rifle by taking it apart and letting it soak for a bit before reassembling it back together.  I could sense that someone was behind me so I spoke up.

“Isn’t it pass your bedtime kid?” from the corner of my eye, I could see Alexander coming around and he said.

“Will your wolves come back for you?”

“As I said, they’re not my wolves.”

“Oh. Sorry, I just assumed that since they—you know are always with you, that there’s a loyalty to you.”

“It’s called a partnership. What most people never understood when getting wild animals is that they think they’re getting a prize. Something to be proud of or to stroke their ego with. Or even worse, trying to control them. That’s where you hear all those stories of them getting killed by their prized pets. I’ve learned that if you treat them with respect, and let them be who they truly are, there’s a chance of a bond happening.”

“How did you find them?” I gestured for him to sit down on the couch while I continued to reassemble my rifle.

“Hige I found trapped in a cage trying to get some food. Poor guy even after being freed, tried to go back into the cage to get the scrap of meat. I think that’s the only reason he sticks with me is because he thinks I’m a free food provider.” We both chuckled.

“And the others?”

“The red pup is called Toboe. Found that little pup abandoned in the woods. Frail and shivering. I feared he wouldn’t make it. But two weeks of rest and some food and water and he started thriving. He’s the one who seems to think I’m his mother, but he’s gotta learn how to be a wolf. That’s why I have him be around the others as much as possible when we go out hunting. He doesn’t help me catch the game, he learns by watching the others how to hunt.”

“What about the two that came with you yesterday? The grey and white one.”

“Oh those two boys. You talk about wild wolves, Tsume and Kiba are about as wild as any wolf I’ve met. They know exactly who they are, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.” I then showed Alexander some of the scars from the bite mark’s I’ve been given by each of them on either my legs or my hand and arms.  “But with them, it was a debt to be repaid. I found the two of them just shortly after I had met Hige. Or well I should say Hige found them. Both of them barely alive after surviving an animal attack. At the time I didn’t think to believe it, but now after seeing what we saw today, I believe those two came in contact with the apes and were beaten to the point of death. Kiba was the one barely hanging on by a thread. Thought I lost him a few times, but he eventually came around.”

“Well they definitely show they’re not dogs.” I paused in assembling my rifle and I said to him.

“About what I said to you yesterday, I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that you’re still a kid.”

“I’m 15 years old.”

“Still a kid though. I can’t imagine how growing up in this world was for you.” Alexander looked down sadly.

“I lost my mom to the virus. Dad was—he was so broken after that. When he met Ellie, I…..Deep down I think he’s just trying to replace her.”

“Now I know for a fact that’s not true. No one could ever replace your mom.” Alexander looked up at me.  “Look, I know I don’t know you or your dad beyond my usual transactions of trading, but from what I can tell, he cares and loves you very, very much. And no one will ever replace your mom. But both him and Ellie lost people to this pandemic, and they were lucky to have found each other to heal their wounds and be able to love someone else again. Most people aren’t that lucky.”

“Did you—lose someone?” I closed my eyes and told him.

“I lost….everyone.” Alexander sat there shocked and in silence.

“I—I’m so sorry Lin.���

“Nothing you need to apologize for. You should get some sleep, you had a long, surprising day. And your dad would kill me if I kept you up all night with stories of my past.” He nodded and left me to resume my work.

Once my gun was fully reassembled and I clicked the magazine back into place, I set it aside and lay across their couch.  I reached into my pocket and popped in a couple of the pills Ellie gave me yesterday before drifting off into another dreamless sleep.

Just the way I prefer it.

[haveyouheardthisband]

[lisbeth-kk]

At the start of May, I was too deep into my travels to have the time to write. As a passenger for miles and miles, I have the perfect excuse to catch up.

May 1 prompt: rain

Making sure

It’s been two months since Sherlock came back from his faked death. He’d thought that John would be happy to see him again, but he wasn’t. Wary, shocked, angry, sad and hesitant were some of the emotions visible on John’s face.

Sherlock knows that John hates his new flat, and he’s asked John to move back home. Back to 221B. Until now, John’s been deflecting whenever Sherlock brings it up. Today however, Sherlock’s determined to get a straight answer. He can’t sleep, and the flat feels empty without John in it.

They meet in Regent’s Park. As of late, John’s posture is rigid. His hands behind his back or buried deep in his jacket pockets. He flinches and almost hyperventilates when he sees Sherlock arriving. When Sherlock greets him, John’s arms automatically falls from behind his back, his fists clenches and he shoves his hands violently into his pockets. Sherlock can’t help but wonder what that means.

«You asked to see me,» John states neutrally.

«I want you to come home, John,» Sherlock says quietly. «Baker Street isn’t the same without you, and you’re clearly not enjoying your new lodgings. It reminds you if that awful bedsit you had when you came back from Afghanistan.»

John rubs his neck and sighs.

«It’s not that easy, Sherlock. I still see you fall almost every night. I…um…may need to…»

He trails off, and the penny drops.

«You’ll need to touch me, take my pulse to make sure I’m alive,» Sherlock states. «I made you go through this, and I don’t mind. Anything you need, John.»

Sherlock reaches out a hand to John, palm up. John only hesitates for a moment before he almost hungrily grabs Sherlock’s wrist and finds his pulse with his thumb. John’s body relaxes visibly and he takes a deep breath. He looks at Sherlock with a serious expression.

«Are you sure about this? It might be a bit…um…intimidating,» John says self consciously.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him.

«I think I can handle it, as long as you come home, John,» Sherlock affirms.

Sherlock loves having John back in the flat. Whenever John passes by him, Sherlock displays one hand for John to touch if he needs to. He always took it the first three days, but of late he seems content with just to touch Sherlock on random places. His shoulders, neck, back, upper arms, and on one memorable occasion threading fingers through his curls.

***

Lestrade calls one cold and rainy night, and minutes later Sherlock and John sit in a cab to their first crime scene since Sherlock’s return. By looking at a photo and some ash on the carpet, Sherlock’s able to deduce where the culprits are.

«Amazing,» John beams at him, and Sherlock feels his eyes prick.

God, he’s missed this!

They end up chasing the two criminals down a narrow alley. The heavy rain makes the cobble stones slippery. The man before John stumbles and falls, and John’s on him like an angry grizzly bear. Donovan’s right behind him, and John leaves it to her to deal with him, and chases after Sherlock and the other man. At the end of the alley, Lestrade and another officer have taken care of the man.

Where the hell is Sherlock?

John freezes when he sees a lanky shape lying motionless on the ground.

«No, no, no,» John growls as he kneels by Sherlock’s side.

He bleeds a bit from his temple, his eyes are closed and his arm’s outstreched. It’s almost a spitting image of him at the pavement outside Bart’s. With desperate fingers John searches for Sherlock’s pulse. At first he can’t find it and starts sobbing and hyperventilating, simultaniously trying to call Sherlock’s name. John thinks he finds a weak pulse, but to be sure he leans over and puts his lips to the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck under his right ear.

«Stay with me, you hear,» John whispers in Sherlock’s ear. «Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.»

Sherlock does and opens his eyes.

«John,» he mutters. «I’m alright. Just a bit dizzy. Take me home. I’m soaked and freezing.»

John releases a shaky breath, helps Sherlock to stand, but doesn’t let go of his hand.

***

When Sherlock comes out from the bathroom, John’s leaning heavily on the kitchen table with his hands. His back shakes, and Sherlock strides over to him. He places both hands on John’s shoulders, slides them down his back and then around his waist, pulling him in, placing his chin on John’s right shoulder. John leans into Sherlock’s chest and entwines their fingers together.

«You’ll need me close tonight,» Sherlock murmurs. «And I you.»

He turns John around to face him, bends down and kisses his forehead tenderly, before he leads John to his bedroom.

Thanks for the prompt @notjustamumj

[beelzeballing]

moogs' hot tips for walking around without getting fucked with as a female-read person who has gotten catcalled literally once in his life

walk like you are on a MISSION. a grizzly one. this includes expression and also the way you carry yourself. straight posture. head high. eyes fixed to your destination.

in addition, convince yourself you can and WILL fuck up anybody who tries to hurt you. this can be achieved by anything from just trying to project a general vibe to listening to metal to fantasizing about biting some fucker's throat out while youre walking, whatever works

if somebody walks towards you weirdly, give them the dirtiest fucking look you can muster. again, we need that "i will tear your entire fucking jaw off" energy

if somebody dares speaking to you weird, stare at them blankly. and i mean like. horror movie blank. piercing eyes blank. i will skin you blank.

disclaimer: this post is mostly a joke. i dont know how well this works if youre faking this energy, as it is just my genuine natural demeanor when im walking around town.

[tensleepshrike]

what did you say to them to get them to listen?

It begins with fireworks.

On the first day of June. In a public park. Two hours before sundown.

In the handful of years she's lived here, she's noticed the ostentatious displays of patriotism kicking off earlier and earlier. Usually, she can let it slide. But on their second lap around the trail, a poorly aimed bottle rocket goes whizzing past their faces in a screaming flash of light, missing them by a hair's breadth, and Logan gets all — scary. And cool. And scary.

He scans around, immediately zeroing in on the two culprits and his entire posture changes. Millie watches with a mute delight as he strides over like a grizzly bear and chews them out, poking one hard enough in the chest that he stumbles back and crushes a box of snappers underfoot.

They say, Okay, man, Jesus, and the third lap passes without incident.

On their fourth lap, another rocket — expertly aimed — explodes at their feet. Gravel sprays in all directions. Logan begins to take off again, but this time, Millie puts her hand on his shoulder and insists, let me. So, with a grumble and wave, he lets her.

She's been wordsmithing a few choice threats she's excited to try out, but as she approaches, something Happens. The last thing she remembers is the two sparking their lighter at the end of an unlit fuse while looking up at her. Then, the drone of cicada wings thundering in her ears. The taste of iron coating her mouth. Her vision going snowy. Blackout. Silence.

When she comes to, the men are staggering away, holding one another up by their shirt collars. The side of one's neck is shiny, cerebrospinal fluid dripping from his ears, while the corners of the other's mouth gather pink foam. As Millie bends and reaches to collect the bottle rockets they've left behind, a fat coin of blood splatters against the back of her hand. Her nose gushes from both nostrils.

From somewhere behind her, she hears Logan's footsteps and him asking, What did you say to get them to listen?

Millie wipes her nose with the back of her hand and gives him the fireworks. With a small smile, she offers, "Asked nicely?"

They share a look.

He's not stupid; he knows better than to buy whatever shit she's selling — but what is she supposed to say? That she blacked out and whipped their brains into a meringue for the simple crime of being obnoxious in the park? Please. Logan seems nice. She'd hate to spoil their tentative friendship with the horrors this early on.

"I kinda wanna leave now, though. That whole thing totally killed my vibe. Also, this shirt's going to be fucked if I don't get a tissue soon."

GRUMPY VS. SUNSHINE PROMPTS | Accepting.

[undertheknightwing]

Whoa, look at this! I wrote a Dick and Gar fic after who knows how long! It's mainly fluff but there's a little feels,,

Also this little fic was very much inspired by the wonderful @not-so-mundane-after-all 's fic Acrida (if you haven't read it, I suggest you do because it's amazing 💜)

I don't wanna spoil her fic so I won't say much about what struck my inspired chord but it was a piece of dialogue from the last chapter. I hope she doesn't mind 😅

“Mom! Mom! Look!”

Dick gasps, stopping dead in his tracks to avoid colliding into the young boy who ran past him. A soft laugh escapes through the man's lips, heart growing significantly larger in his chest, watching the boy zoom to his mother’s side. With a sheet of paper in one hand, he raises the other to excitedly grab onto the sleeve of Marie’s lab coat and tugs on it to get her attention.

Funny how things never really change. Even in the present Dick finds himself leaping to the side just to get out of Gar’s way when the teenager is in, what Rachel calls: “zoomie mode”, and runs around the tower at random times. Hopping onto and off surfaces and chasing after a nonexistent object, like the cats in those videos the kids are always sending in the - what’s supposed to be a mission focused only - group chat.

“Mom!”

“Garfield, please.” The scientist sighed, pulling a yellow rubber glove over one of her hands with a loud snap.

Gar continued to tug on the sleeve of her coat, the toothy smile on his face dropping into a frown. Energetic tone to his voice quickly changing into desperation laced with sadness, begging for her to look away from the desk cluttered with papers and give him a second of her time.

“Mom, I wanna show you something!”

With a faint smile on her lips, the woman casts a quick glance down to her son, then focuses on the vial of something she picked up and held carefully between her fingers. 

“I’ll see whatever it is later, I promise. But this needs my full attention right now.”

After using her free hand to give Garfield’s hair a lazy ruffle, she steps away and disappears down another hall, one that's protected by a door with a code and sign telling anyone not authorized to stay out. Leaving the boy alone, standing in the middle of the room, his shoulders deflating in disappointment and grip on the paper begins to loosen, threatening to let the piece of art drop to the floor.

A deep frown appeared on Dick’s face. He’s only been in this time period for a few hours and from what he’s seen of Gar’s parents, he doesn’t doubt they love their son, but it also seems like they might love their work and keeping their title of “world famous scientists” just a bit more.

“Hey, Gar.”

The young boy spun around in reaction to his name being spoken, posture perking up a bit as he greets with a cheery: “Hi, Mr. Grayson!”

Walking into the room, Dick dove his hands into his jacket pockets, then nodded his head to the side, gesturing to the door Marie went through.

“Your mom’s pretty busy, huh?”

“Yeah.” Gar frowned once more, kicking at the floor. “She’s always busy.”

Dick huffs, half-smile on his lips. “My dad is too.” 

Then with a soft groan, he crouches to be on Garfield’s level and points at the colorful paper in the boy’s hand. 

“I’d like to see what you drew, if that’s okay with you.”

Eyes losing their twinkle, Gar lifts the paper up to look over whatever he had drawn, then shakes his head and mumbles quietly.

“It’s not important.”

A deep crack formed in the man’s heart when those words left a younger Gar’s lips, as well. Their familiarity strikes him like a stray bolt of lightning and is just as painful, just in an emotional kind of way. It’s a response he hears coming from present Gar a lot and now it makes sense.

He remembers staring in awe when he saw Garfield shapeshift into a grizzly bear for the first time during training. His son had been attempting to turn into something other than a tiger for a while and been struggling to pull it off, so seeing a huge green bear where a tiger usually would be made Dick’s chest burst with a mixture of pride and joy.

Pride that became something sadder after he asked Gar why he didn’t tell anyone he learned to shapeshift into a bear when he’s been working so hard to do so and Gar shrugged nonchalantly, telling the team leader that “it wasn’t important” before moving on to do something else.

Dick smiles warmly. “Well, I think it is.”

Which earns a head tilt from Gar.

He nods. “You made it, so it’s very important.”

The young boy hesitated, seeming genuinely confused for a brief moment.

Once Gar accepts, handing the drawing to Dick, the man's eyes sparkle and widen at the childish doodles of a few colorful cheetahs.

“Wow, this is amazing, buddy!”

“Really?”

“Yeah!” Dick reaches forward, giving the boy an affectionate hair ruffle rather than a lazy one. “You got talent, kid. Mind if I keep it to put on my fridge at home?”

“You can have it!” Gar pipes loudly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Thank you.” Folding the drawing as carefully as possible, he slips it into his coat's inner pocket. “My wife will think it’s adorable, I’ll tell her all about you.”

Kory's gonna think it's more than adorable and she sure isn't gonna let Dick put it on the fridge, she's gonna frame it and place it on their bedside table so she can always see the cute stick figure cheetahs drawn by their son years before their path intertwined with his.

If present Gar allows her to frame it, that is. There's always a chance he'll find it embarrassing.

A smile so bright you'd think could melt the biggest of icebergs stretches across Garfield’s face.

“Do you wanna come check on the birds with me?”

“I’d love to, Gar.”

Once stood up straight, the boy grabs his hand and begins to pull the man in the direction he came, casting a glance sparkling with pride back over his shoulder and up at Dick.

“I know lots about the birds and animals here!”

Dick’s smile twitches. The weight of the words weighed heavily onto him like a bag of bricks. The way they were said so innocently, so carefree, lacking knowledge of the storm on the horizon rolling in to turn this sweet boy's life upside down. A harsh punishment for something he didn't do, something he had no control over. Leave him feeling cursed and forgotten, unloved and unwanted by the people around him.

Eyes darkening with sympathy, Dick breathes a quiet sigh.

“I bet you do.”