#this one looks to have been weaned about a month ago

[blenselche]

Say hi to the new neener.

[calypsocolada]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME | g. tomioka

(this is part two! click here for part one)

synopsis: you left without saying goodbye, giyu needs to know why... author's note: hellllooooo. the reaction to part one of this story was incredible. i cannot thank any of you enough for your kind words seriously. this one is for all of you <3 (psst... to all the swifites, if you can point out two other song references besides rwylm you get a gold star) cw: ANGST (lol like there wasn't enough in the first part), blood, gore, spoilers about rengoku, HAPPY ENDING, not proofread wc: 4.2k

click here for my masterlist

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There was nothing more frustrating than lack of communication. As much as he wished he could read your mind, as much as he begged and pleaded to deaf ears you were just one hard shell to fully crack open. Though Giyu supposed he was probably the same. But at least he was making an effort. He thought you’d make one too. 

But as Giyu sat cross legged at a Hashira meeting he could meet all their eyes but yours. You didn’t spare him a glance like you spared him your time those few weeks ago. Almost a month and a half now and for some reason Giyu couldn’t stop counting the days, the hours and minutes. 

45 days since you knocked at his door. 

1,080 hours since you grabbed him, your cheeks wet as you pressed your lips to his. 

64,800 minutes since Giyu woke up in the morning to an empty bed. 

It never got easier. Each day was like this stabbing pain in his chest. A persistent feeling of desertion. He’d thought things had changed since that night. The night you cried and cried and kissed and kissed. 

He wrote you letter after letter but no response. Now here you were in the same room, in a room filled with others but Giyu only felt your presence. Like a heightened sense that haunted him so stunningly that he wondered if your lack of attention would actually kill him. As if he overdosed on it once and now he’d never be able to wean himself off you.  

You were so close, only maybe three feet from him but you felt worlds away. Could he have done something wrong? Showed too many of his cards too soon? Scared you off? Sure you reciprocated his kisses, in fact you were the initiator. But when it came to a verbal confession there was nothing for Giyu to latch onto. No words, just your actions. But your actions betrayed you. You treated him as if that night never even happened. For 45 days. It was like torture. To want something so badly, to have it for a fleeting moment then lose it. Giyu was losing it.  

“Mr. Tomioka?” Your voice was like a shot of ice through his veins. Giyu blinked the fogginess from his brain and cleared his throat. Your attention was on him. The room is empty. Giyu hadn’t noticed the meeting had ended. Didn’t notice everyone leaving. 

“Hmm?” He forced out, his eyes sliding to yours. Mr. Tomioka? Even before everything you called him Giyu. But now… you addressed him as though he was some stranger. A room alone, a room with you. He could say what was on his mind finally. 

“Did you pay attention in the meeting?” You asked. Giyu stared at you. You were looking at him. After 45 days of starving for your attention he found himself unable to act normally with it on him now. 

“Hmm…? Oh! Uh— yes…” Giyu stuttered out, feeling hopelessly useless. Feeling utterly ridiculous. 

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” You said coldly, turning to leave. 

“Wait-“ Giyu stepped forwards. Tomorrow? What was tomorrow? A talk? An explanation for your icy treatment? You turned, threw him a look over your shoulder. It was like you read his confusion. As if you knew he paid zero attention in the meeting. 

“The training grounds near your house. We’ll meet at sunrise.” You said and then your eyes lingered a second before you turned and left. Giyu found himself stuck still even a couple minutes after you left. Like his legs had forgotten their purpose. In fact, those 45 days he’d been right where you left him. A hopeless, nearly broken man. Stuck back in the time he had you. Haunting his house and his training grounds and everywhere he stood. You seemed to have moved on, seemed to maybe have even forgotten about the fleeting moment. Was that all it was to you? A fleeting moment? Maybe even a severe lapse of judgment? Something like that couldn’t have been a declaration of love. Giyu could and had been thinking himself in circles. He wished he said more. Wished he said less. Ran through everything over and over. Replayed it so often the record was starting to skip.    

Giyu tossed and turned all night. He didn’t sleep even a wink. You wanted to talk. Maybe explain things. Giyu knew whatever it was that kept you so far from him he was willing to work through to find a solution. He was willing to crumble your walls. Or wait. If you’d just verbally ask him to wait he’d pause his life forever for you. He’d become a ghost. Time could come and go on for everybody else but he’d wait diligently for you. He’d wait like the moon and chase after you like the sun. If only you’d just give him a damn reason. 

Giyu turned, the moon shining through a crack in his curtains. His eyes drifted to the empty spaces beside him. The same space he’d left empty since you vacated it. With splayed fingers he touched the spot of his bed and willed himself to remember that night. As if he’d ever forget it in the first place. He was restless so he moved out of bed and to his desk. He pulled out a few letters. Some from Rengoku and some from Kagaya. Both with the same topic. Giyus favorite topic. You. 

Giyu carefully slid open the first letter he ever received from Rengoku. He felt a pang just merely looking at the older man’s handwriting. All jagged and loud. He smiled as he reread its contents. 

-

Good morning Mr. Tomioka!

I was shocked to see you had written to me but pleasantly surprised! I am doing well, how’re you? I heard you are well on your way to becoming the next water hashira! How exciting! I know we’ve only met a few times but you have the demeanor of a water hashira. You seem cool and collected! You have a calm voice and although it’s hard to hear you sometimes I still appreciated our talks! About your interest in my tsuguko; she is doing well. She is very fiery. I could see her becoming the next fire Hashira. She sort of reminds me of you in the way she speaks. Though sometimes I can get her to raise her voice and it’s quite adorable. It would be lovely if you visited her. I’m sure she’d love to see you again after you saved her life. But if you’re too busy that is fine, I can always just write you with updates about her. Maybe I can even try and get her to write you a letter sometime! Anyways, Mr. Tomioka, hope this letter finds you well! 

With regards, Kyojuro Rengoku

-

Giyu laughed at the ink splotch on the paper next to Rengoku’s name. It was a common theme in his letters. Probably wrote sort of hard. Giyu carefully closed the letter and opened the last letter Rengoku ever wrote. 

-

Good morning Mr. Tomioka! 

Congratulations on becoming the water Hashira! The other hashira’s seemed sort of bummed you weren’t able to make it to the little celebration but I knew that kind of thing just isn’t your style so I decided to write you this letter instead. I knew you had a fiery streak somewhere in you! We all do! I have a mission coming up and saw that you have one too! I would like for you to let my tsuguko accompany you on your mission! I think she could use a bit of quiet in her life. She’s always go go go! Just like me! But I think you two could get along very very well, Mr. Tomioka! I think she thinks of you fondly. I once asked her about the boy who saved her and I am pretty sure she blushed! Ha-ha! Don’t be disheartened by her cold attitude, as long as she doesn’t verbally attack you that means you might be in her good graces! She’s come a long way, I see sparks of softness in her that I hope you’ll appreciate. She loves miso soup and sweet potatoes, she gets it from me! She loves to read and can’t get enough of the ocean so be sure after your mission to take her swimming. It could be a date! You think I don’t know why you often write asking me about her, right? I’ll pretend I don’t! She’s not much of a talker like you but she listens and remembers everything you say. That mind’s like a steel trap! Please take care of her and I’ll tell her to play nice though I’m not sure she knows how to! Ha-ha! Only kidding. Be safe, Mr. Tomioka and good luck on your first mission as a Hashira! 

With regards, Kyojuro Rengoku

-

Giyu still blushes as he reads the letter. Rengoku knew Giyu’s intentions even though he was sure he was being discreet. He carefully folded the letter back up and as he did a hint of the rising sun peaked its way through his curtains. He sprung up from his seat. He couldn’t be late in meeting with you so he hurriedly got dressed and tumbled his way out of his home. He rounded the corner to the training field and stopped dead in his tracks. 

You were there. 

You were actually there. 

Your sword clutched tightly in your hand as you swung it to and fro, practicing against a ghostly opponent. Giyu watched you. He blinked for a moment and saw Rengoku, in the way you swung your sword, the way you moved, the way your haori flew behind you, like flames licking the air. Rengoku taught you everything you knew and you applied his fighting style with grace and ease. Giyu honestly had never seen you in a battle. And his breath halted as he watched the confidence in your demeanor. Watched the sure way you’d swing, the velocity and speed. The preciseness. You were definitely Rengoku’s tsuguko. In fact, maybe you were even more than that. Almost like his shadow, his predecessor. And you held that title with grace. Giyu almost felt choked up knowing damn well Rengoku was more than proud of you. 

“Just gonna stand there all day?” You asked, your swing coming through to slice clean through a practice dummy. One half falling to the dirt, kicking up dust. Giyu found himself unable to speak once again as you turned. That attention too much to bear. You hiked up your brow and pointed your sword in his direction. “Well, are you ready to spar?”

“Spar?” Giyu echoed as you nodded your head, walking like a predator towards him.

“Where’s your sword?”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“Why else would I be?” You asked, eyes daring him to mention things you clearly wanted to forget. Giyu blinked through the breaking of his heart. He’d never felt pain like this. Never knew someone could ignite such warmth then douse it in icy cold water. He never thought you of all people would stab him clean through. Giyu turned just as his emotions were too much to hide. He walked and grabbed his sword, waited a moment to try and gather his composure before returning back a few feet from you. 

There was something in your eyes. He knew this sight was probably the last thing every single demon that had crossed you had seen for themselves. Eyes like fire, you morphed in front of his eyes into the flames that danced with your techniques. 

You took the first swing, your movement like the flickering. Your strikes felt hot, as if his skin would sear completely off. Giyu controlled his feelings, he pushed them to the side and met your violence of fire with the calmness of water. Metal clanged, and although you’d killed him moments ago with your words you brought him straight back to life with the way you fought. You’d found yet another thing for him to fall in love with. 

Damn you. 

After several minutes passed and one final swing you both stepped back. It was clear it was a draw. Not a single time did someone pull ahead and leave the other in the dust. Each strike was met with an equal block. You two were an equal match. For a moment you two just stared at each other, dripping in sweat, the sun and heat finally rising. You reached up and wiped your forehead with the back of your arm and sighed.

“So it’s a draw.” You said and Giyu nodded his head. A silent moment passed before you pulled your eyes from his and walked to your stuff. Giyu watched. Watched you pack up your things and give a halfhearted wave to him as you walked back towards the road.

“That’s it?” Giyu called out suddenly. He swore he saw you flinch.

“Either Obanai or Shinazugawa will be here tomorrow for the same match.” You called over your shoulder. The cold shoulder you’d given him for so long. 46 days now. 

“That’s not what I meant.” Giyu took a step but you resumed walking. “What did I do?”

“Have a good day, Mr. Tomioka.” You said and the moment you were out of sight Giyu tore off after you. 

-

46 days ago you’d been laying next to Giyu Tomioka. You’d woke up early and in the morning light you could see his face again. He looked at peace as he slept beside you, his arms around you, his breathing light. You reached across the small expanse between you two and tucked his raven black hair out of his face. Giyu moved barely in his sleep and you yanked your hand away, shy as though he’d catch you admiring him. As though you hadn’t just spent the night together. Once he settled you gazed at him. Something, you knew what it was now, bloomed in your chest. Was this something you could truly have? To kill demons and go home to someone like him at the end of the day? Home… what would that even be like? What would that even look like for you? Slowly you sat up in his bed, covers falling from your shoulders, pooling at your torso. 

Everyone you had ever loved died horribly. You felt as though a curse was placed upon you. Penance for the deaths of your family.

Ever since Rengoku had died there was this thought that haunted you. A sort of prophecy you felt had cursed your very being. No matter how many times you thought about leaving Rengoku there was no way to ever go back and board that train with him. No way to deny his request and maybe even save his life. Would you have been useful or would you have been a hindrance? Would your presence have even changed a thing or were you just destined to love and lose? Your eyes flicked to Giyu, face barely illuminated by the sun rising. 

If you stayed in this bed would you watch him die as well? Just the thought made you physically sick to the stomach. You felt like a kid stuffed into a hiding place all over again. A helpless, useless kid.

If you let yourself love him and be with him, the pain of losing him might actually do you in for good. And if you left right now… would that save his life from the curse placed upon you? 

Turns out you're quite self sabotaging after all. And by morning you slipped out of his house, tearing back towards the inn, running with your tail between your legs.

-

“Do I not deserve an explanation?” Giyu called out to you, you'd almost made it to the end of his house. You paused, turning.

“Leave it.” You answered lethargically. 

“Did you even read my letters?”

“What letters?” You asked and when your eyes found his face the utter pain on it made your stomach drop. 

“I wrote to you… many times. Your crow should’ve delivered it to you.” Giyu explained, his face utterly disheartened. You glanced at your crow, who’d been curiously pecking at some bugs in the distance.

“I never received them.” You answered and clenched your jaw. You deserved to see him hurt. The pain you caused him was something you wouldn’t let yourself look away from this time. Giyu haori swayed slightly in the wind, he couldn’t meet your eyes. 

“Tell me what to do.” Giyu says and you blink at him, your brows furrowing. 

“What?”

“I’ll wait. I’ll let dust collect over my life until you wish to have me back.” 

“I don't want that.” You said with a start. You clench your jaw, forcing yourself back into some composure. “I want you… to… go on ahead.” Slowly Giyu raises his eyes to meet yours. 

“What do you mean?”

“I could never feel the same way you feel for me. So I want you to move on.” You said and kept your eyes glued to him as you said it. You didn’t let one smallest ounce of pain show on your face.

“Why?”

 “Because I’m not worth dying over.”

“I’m not worth dying over, Master!” You screamed, pain coursing through you. You watched Rengoku surpass his limits, a demon pushing him far past them. The same demon that had gotten the jump on you moments ago. The man couldn’t hear you. You stumbled forwards, blood dripping from a wound somewhere on your head, the blood getting in your eyes. You stumbled, losing your footing, your sword clattering against the stones out of your grip. “Rengoku, please! Run while you still can!” You screamed, coughing up blood as you crawled towards the fight. Your breathing labored, black ink splotched in your vision. Take me! You thought hopelessly, take me and not him! 

“Y/n? Come on, kid, wake up.” You blinked awake. Your entire body ached, drowsiness threatening to take hold of you. Where were you just now? You must’ve passed out from the pain. “Ah, there she is.” A blurry redness kneeled beside you as you blinked until you could see properly. “You’re awake.”

“Master?” You coughed as Rengoku smiled down at you. 

“Tough battle, huh? You did great out there kid.” Rengoku said proudly. “You mastered a few of those moves I taught you, it was incredible.” He recounts.

“I-- lost.”

“Hush now. That demon was even tough for me to kill. You did the best you could.” He says reaching for you, ruffling your hair.

“Y-you almost died,” You choked out, Rengoku’s hand paused on your head. “I-- Master I don’t ever want to be a burden to you.”

“You are no such thing.” Rengoku admonishes, giving your cheek a sharp and playfully pinch. You gasp in surprise, rubbing your cheek. “You think too dark sometimes, kid.”

“But-- Master… I’m not worth dying over.” You say, looking down. Rengoku grabs you by the chin.

“You don’t get to decide that. I do. And I decided that you’re worth saving.” He looks at you intensely to get his point across. You part your lips to argue but slowly close them. “Now enough of this, we won, let’s celebrate!”

“What do you mean?” Giyu walks closer to you, his voice has an edge to it. A worried and sharp edge. “Are you unsafe?”

“That’s not…” You trail off, unsure how to put your thoughts into words. “I’m giving you an out.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Mr. Tomioka-”

“Don’t. Please don’t call me that.” Giyu lamented, his expression pained. 

“You’d be wise to just move on.”

“I can’t. I won’t”

“You can, you should.” You growled. This reminded you so heavily of the night you stormed out of his house and you two fought in the road. You were pretty sure this was almost the exact same place. You gave an inch that night but you were trying desperately to take it back. No matter how much this hurt it would hurt even more if your curse killed him. You had to remind yourself of that. Of the thing that possessed your life. 

“Give me a reason.”

“My past should be reason enough for you.”

“What do you mean? Speak it plainly for me.”

“It’s obvious. I’m fucking cursed, Giyu!” You hadn’t expected it but ever since that night you cried you couldn’t stop. Every little thing made you cry now it was annoying. You cried when you left Giyu in the morning. Cried in your inn. Cried when you arrived back at your empty house, the taste of miso soup and potatoes wrecking your senses. Years and years of it being stored up and the dam broke. You felt like a little kid but there was no way around it. Maybe if you tried being truthful Giyu would leave. “I hid while my family died and because of it I’m cursed. I thought I could move on. Rengoku was like family to me. I let him in. I trusted him. I loved him. I let my guard down and my curse took him. And I-- I won’t let it take you okay so just do me this favor and let whatever you feel for me die.” You forced your eyes to his. Angrily wiped the tears from off  your face and looked at him intensely. “I am begging you.” Giyu looked at you, his eyes scanning your face. He walked and walked forwards until he was directly in front of you. His hands reached out, ever so gently sliding over either side of your jaw, his thumbs wiping the tears from your face. Deja vu gripped you so intensely. He’d done this same thing before. He leaned close, so close your breath hitched in anticipation of a kiss. But he stopped, mere centimeters away.

“You are not cursed.” He lets his words sink in. His eyes staring ardently into yours. Your breathing stopped, like you’d forgotten how. That dangerous beat of your heart started up again. There’s something to be said about someone that will tear themselves apart just to keep away from the one thing that could make them happy. You were the biggest component of that. It was like you craved hurting yourself. Craved punishment for crimes you never committed. Giyu pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You didn’t kill your parents and you have to stop blaming yourself for it.” His whispers as you pull back slightly, looking as though you’d been slapped. He knew it. Giyu knew you. You looked away but he forced your attention back to him. “They saved you because they loved you. You were a child. There’s no sin in that.” He presses another kiss to your face. You should back up. You needed to back up. You… you couldn’t. Giyu’s arms slide around you and you're pulled against his chest in a tight hug. “Rengoku didn’t die because he loved you, he died saving a world that had you in it.” There were the damn tears again. You closed your eyes as they sting you. “You don’t get to choose who loves you and it’s unfair to make decisions for them.” 

Rengoku’s words rang in your head.

You don’t get to decide that.

“I… I won’t make it if I lose you.” 

“Don’t say that. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you, look at me.” Giyu pulls back, you tilt your face up, eyes meeting his. “If you don’t want to lose me then fight for me, stop running, I’m begging you.” You looked up at him. There was no point in trying to build walls, not when Giyu always knew a way around them. You spent a long time in your own head. For once… you decided to let someone else make the calls. If even your most self destructive ways didn’t scare him off then it’s obvious that no matter what you did you couldn’t scare him off. 

“Alright.” You intoned softly. The utter hope on Giyu’s face was quick to show. “I’ll stop running.” 

“Promise me this time. Promise I won’t wake up and you're gone.”

“I’m sorry. You deserved better.” You breathed out, guilty.

“It’s okay. I forgive you.” He says fondly. You shake your head, eyes rolling.

“You forgive too easily.” Giyu kissed you then. No warning. Just pure want. It was the kiss of someone who’d been counting the seconds you’d been gone. Sickly sweet. Of course he’d forgive you quickly. When he pulled back he pressed his forehead to yours. “Give me your word. That you’ll give us a try.”

“I promise.” You say without hesitation. 

Giyu kissed you again, this time slowly, passionately. He tangled his hands in your hair and you melted. He was going to be the death of you. Though you supposed you shouldn’t think that way. You could settle on him being your near death experience then.

-

When the morning dawned and Giyu opened his eyes for a moment his bed felt empty. He rolled his head to the side and when his eyes fell upon you there was nothing in this world that could’ve been a better sight. He reached and softly tucked your hair out of your face. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and let his eyes fall back closed, knowing damn well when he woke up again you’d be beside him.

bonus: giyu's letters

-

Dear Y/n,

I hope this letter finds you well. I write to only beg for a moment of your time. If you regret what happened days ago then don't spare me your kindness. I long to know what you think. What you really think.

Please meet me at the training yard in two days time.

Giyu

-

Dear Y/n,

How're you today? I do not wish to bother you, I just need you to know that I care. We can forget whatever you want. I will pretend away the feelings I have if you want. Whatever you want it is yours. Just please write me back.

Giyu  

-

Dear Y/n,

I would like to speak plainly for once. I love you. You don't ever have to say it back, I just want you to know. That's all. I will stop bugging you because you do not owe me a thing. I hope you are well. If you need anything don't hesitate to reach out. I can be a friend. I can be whatever you want. Please take care of yourself.

With love, Giyu

-

[tetedurfarm]

can't remember if i ever really gave the full story here, but some of you may remember a couple years ago when i was constantly losing rabbits around around weaning age from a mystery disease and i'd like to talk about it to maybe help others. it has now been over a year of implementing the new weaning protocol and my losses have dropped from 90+% to almost zero.

obvious tw for animal death and discussion of disease.

symptoms: no appetite, severe grimace, bloating, dehydration, occasionally diarrhea. necropsy revealed discolouration of the kidneys on some animals but not all. symptoms would occur suddenly and kill within 48 hours. bodies were often found with legs extended and heads thrown back against the shoulders. some close to death animals would show neurological signs (shaking, stargazing, unable to stand,) attributed to bloating pressure on the nerves inside the body.

attempted treatments: force feeding with critical care mixed with electrolytes, probiotics, and sometimes caecotrope slurry. five days on five days off five days on treatments of toltrazuril dissolved in water; syringed to animals who would not willingly drink. treatment with corid on the five days off. multiple doses of simethicone oral suspension daily for bloating. banamine for pain. cleaning cages between growout groups with bleach, virkon, and torching.

lastly, i took a freshly dead rabbit (euthanised by me because it was near death anyway,) to a local exotics vet for professional necropsy. vet diagnoses: massive amounts of cocci. however, treatment with powerful coccidiostats were not having any significant impact on kit death, especially in winter, when conditions are wet.

i was genuinely at a loss. i spent about fourteen months (longer than i know i should have, and i still feel very guilty about it) trying to get a grip on this disease. i was at my breaking point. i was losing entire litters overnight, within two weeks of weaning them. coccidiostats helped a tiny bit but clearly it wasn't just the cocci that was the problem. however, no other disease i could find listed on any of the rabbit disease and treatment website or books sounded remotely close to what i was experiencing. the symptoms were so generic (rabbits love coming down with mysterious gut problems), and the necropsy done by the vet had basically found nothing else.

thoroughly cleaning the walls, floors, feeders, and water cups of each cage with bleach and a torch had a marginal but noticable affect not on how many kits became ill, but on how long it took them to become ill.

this was a disease that affected almost exclusively young rabbits. i have had four adult rabbits become infected with the disease; of those, two survived the above treatment regimen. all other deaths (and there were a lot,) were kits around 6-9 weeks of age.

but absolute chance i was having a little bit of a crisis on my rabbit breeder's discord server about how i was one more dead litter from getting out of rabbits entirely. which...if you've been here a while, you know is a huge fucking deal to me. it was not possible for me to go scorched-earth on cocci in my current barn, which is open-fronted with dirt floors, so my only remaining option was to cull or rehome my animals and try again once i had a new barn that i could clean more easily. in the midst of throwing around last-ditch effort treatments to look into, i offhandedly mentioned that bleaching cages helped a little.

and then @/bonefarm said 'well bleach doesn't touch cocci, so if bleach helps, it's probably bacterial.'

which led to: 'y'know it almost sounds like clostridial disease, like you vaccinate hoofstock for'

so i thought y'know what. fuck it. a vial of CDT vaccine is ten bucks at the co-op. it literally cannot make things worse. so when my next litters got to weaning age, i bought a vial, some 22 gauge needles, and jabbed them all on their way to the growout cage. in two weeks - the point in which normally, if they hadn't already started dying, they definitely would begin dropping - i revaccinated them.

and then none of them died.

when i tell you i nearly cried.

it took a few more months to really get a full hold on the situation, as the weather in washington in fall and spring is unpredictable and can put a lot of stress on a kit already dealing with leaving mom and being in a new group situation with other rabbits it may not know, but i was starting to get litters where i would maybe lose one or two, and most litters all kits lived to butcher age. i also learned that timely revaccination is ABSOLUTELY necessary as they can and will start dying again. as is cleaning out the cage after each group. but for ten dollars my rabbits were suddenly staying alive.

now the routine is, a week or so before i wean kits (around 4-6 weeks of age), i vaccinate kits with CDT. now i use insulin needles, as they are 1cc syringes (you typically won't need more than that,) and the tiny needles are easier on little baby bunnies, but the smallest gauge needles you can find (at my feed store the smallest they carry is 22 gauge) works just as well. in two weeks i buy a new vial and revaccinate.

the dosage is .1cc per pound (~0.5kg) of weight, so a vial goes a long way.

i still lose the occasional kit, and sometimes there'll be a couple that get icky but get over it in a couple days, and those are animals i don't keep back for breeding to try and build some sort of resistence to it. in the future i hope to not have to deal with this, but it will probably take years. hopefully the new barn with better climate control and concrete floors will cut down on the bacterial load in the animals by a lot.

i don't know why this is a problem i am dealing with, but i can't be the only one. if you're out there dealing with mystery GI disease in your rabbits that won't respond to other treatments...consider stopping by your local farm store and buying a little vial of CDT vaccine and some needles.

[according2thelore]

watching season 1 of gilmore girls is just an exercise in gut-wrenching angst when you live with the knowledge that jarpad was 18 when it premiered. like, that's the face of the kid that john winchester told to stay gone for good if he left. that's dean's baby brother. that's the kid who's about to be alone for the first time in his actual life (bar some very specific small blips along the way). i'm cry 😭 thank you to the wb for this gift that we must bear like a thousand-pound cross

LITERALLY

like this sammy??? this sammy right here????

this kid steals dean's flannels even though they don't reach his wrists because they're "more comfortable." he can't keep a pair of pants longer than six months because he grows like a goddamn weed.

this is his big brother's leather jacket!! dean stole it from a surplus store in kentucky and sam wears it everywhere!!!! you cannot tell me otherwise!! they steal it back and forth all the time, but dean doesn't actually want it back bc sam wearing his leather jacket makes him sweat in weird places, which is totally unrelated, okay?

this kid has dreams!!! he writes everything down in composition notebooks stained at the corners with dried, rusty blood from a werewolf four states and five schools ago.

he's been storing his money from pool hustling in the canvas lining of the duffle bag that holds all of his possessions.

this little guy????

the people they save cling to sam like fucking vines, white-knuckled fingers in his sweatshirts because if someone this bright, this innocent, can survive this, they can, too. nothing bad can possibly happen to this kid, because the older one is snarling and spitting and chewing through bone.

because this is just a kid!!!!!! and this kid should be saved, not saving. he's got a pimple on his jaw that's been there for months, and he sweats through almost every shirt he puts on.

LIKE THIS FELLA RIGHT HERE??????

this kid keeps wiping angry tears out of his eyes because no one in this family cares if he's happy, as long as he's here. sam's got money in his bag, and dean won't look him in the eye, and dad is telling him to get the fuck out.

he's telling him that he might as well not even be a part of this fucking family, if he's not going to fight for it. like sam hasn't lost litres of blood for this family, like he wasn't weaned on sweat and stale coca-cola and what adrenaline tastes like when it's the only thing keeping you conscious.

this kid is too big to fit into a queen w dean but goddamnit he's going to, anyway, lazy long limbs splayed on a couch while they watch a re-run on a spotty, fuzzing tv in skin-melting, stifling motel rooms.

having access to video footage of J2 at pre-series ages makes me howl at the moon. because!!!!! like!!!!!! these kids were CHILDREN!!!!!!

anyway. you get it, anon. you know the vision.

dean winchester and i see each other: i would also want to pinch his cheeks and tuck him under my arm and ruffle his hair and buy him milkshakes and new sneakers and cut his silly bangs.

-lizzy

[rosyjuly]

The tavern is loud, humid, crowded – it smells like burnt oil and spilled beer and like men who have been on the sea for months. 

George was lucky enough to get a seat where he can lean against the wall and watch Lando attempt another bluff that not even Carlos buys. The whole night, Max has been steadily winning, even though he keeps his eyes more on Daniel than on his own deck. George finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s covered in a thin, damp layer of sweat, due to the crowded humidity of the tavern and the pent-up emotions coiling tightly in his stomach.

Alex has left already. He stood up on wobbly legs and said something about finding himself some company with a smirk and then sauntered into the chaos of the tavern. 

That must have been around an hour ago. Long enough that George should be able to slip away without the lads saying something. He pushes away his jug and keeps his face carefully blank, but before he can take more than a few steps, he hears, “Oi, Russell, where you going?”

“Gotta piss,” George says without thinking. “Why, you wanna hold it for me, Daniel?”

Daniel gives a honking laugh and a wink. “I’ll let you off this time, mate,” he says and then he’s turning back to the table to peer at their cards. 

George doesn’t wait for anyone else to offer some stupid comment. He makes for the stairs, forcing himself to take one at a time, even though his palms are clammy with excitement. 

It should be the third room on the right. George checks if there’s anyone else coming up the stairs behind him who would question why he’s trying to listen for any obvious noises of fucking – sometimes the room is already occupied and then it’s less easy to find out where he has to go. But he doesn’t hear anything this time. He raps his knuckles softly against the door twice, waits for a moment, then gives two short knocks again. He hears the key turn in the lock, and finally Alex is grinning at him through the gap. 

“Took you long enough,” Alex tells him as he steps aside to let George in. 

“I offered that you could stay instead,” George starts to say, even though the waiting eats at him, no matter if he’s pacing in the room or forcing himself to act normally at the long table, but then Alex backs him up against the door and words evade him propmptly. Alex turns the key again, his forearm brushing warmly against George’s. 

Just a few days ago, George couldn’t sleep, his stomach in knots and his eyes too dry. They all knew that the port had to be close with how the portions were weaning, the crew restless enough that nobody paid too much attention to George’s fidgeting. Alex had the shift on the helm, the night warm and clear around him, painting his hair blue in the moonshine. Alex boxed him in against the mast just like this, but George stiffened. He couldn’t quite bring himself to turn his head away, but he let it thud against the hard, smooth wood, looking up at Alex through his lashes. Alex was studying him like he was some map that could lead to treasure; eyes dancing on George’s face, his neck. But he didn’t push. 

“It’s just– anyone could see,” George said quietly, nodding in the direction of the deck. 

Alex snorted. “Oh trust me, the captain is otherwise occupied,” he said, but then he stepped away. George wished he had been relieved.

He watched Alex curl his fingers around one of the handles. James was keen on giving him the night shift because Alex would only wake him if there was a real storm brewing. Alex was pleased enough about it, because then he could sleep during the day and dodge the usual chores. On those days, they were barely awake at the same time. 

“Checo snoring too loudly?”

George shrugged and gave a weak chuckle. He didn’t even notice, to be honest, too focused on the promise of the port. 

Now, there is no distraction, nobody that could catch them red handed. He surges forward and kisses Alex with a weeks old hunger. Alex cups his face with warm hands as he pushes George back until his shoulders hit the door. It’s always like this, the first time after a while: overwhelming in its franticness, like a dark, hard storm hitting unexpected as you try to secure the helm, giant waves crashing down while the wind howls in your ear, and there’s only a single rope between you and the sea surrounding you hungrily. Pinned between Alex and the door, it’s easy to think of him as that lifeline, what gets George through the monotony at sea, but also what he thinks of when he gets home, to the three story floor building that his father has built. 

Alex presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and takes his hand, pulls him to the bed. They have done this enough times that they both tug off clothes without much preamble, eyes barely leaving the other. George should be used to it by now, but Alex’s golden skin glinting in the low light of candles makes his heart lurch, his stomach tightening all the same. When Alex reaches for him, George takes a hold of his elbow and then lets himself fall on the bed and drags Alex down with him. They land in a heap, elbows and knees knocking against each other painfully. 

“Mate,” Alex says, but he’s laughing, albeit a little breathlessly. Good. It shouldn’t be only George with the breath knocked out of him at just the sight of the other, let alone his touch. 

“Sorry,” he says, canting his hips forward in an apology. Alex hums and rolls on top of him, his dick a hot, hard line against George’s. It’s grounding to be trapped under Alex like this, cornered between his strong arms. He juts his chin out in a request for a kiss, and Alex complies: first on the mouth, then on the peak of his chin. Then it’s not a lot of kissing, just the two of them rutting against each other, Alex driving down with purposeful thrusts. It should be too dry, but they’re pressed so close that perspiration is slicking them up just right, and soon grunts and moans are falling from George’s mouth while Alex tells him, yeah, and yes, and George, fuck. George is so pent up that it takes merely minutes until he’s spilling between the two of them messily, and he imagines painting Alex’s cock white with his come, making the slide against his body smooth and wet for Alex, for his pleasure. 

Afterwards, they lie together damp and sticky with sweat, even after has cleaned them up with some rag. Summer is fast approaching; the room is warm, humid, the air thick like the good kind of butter they rarely get to have. The blood in George’s veins has quieted down, but with Alex pressed so close, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be giving into desire again.

[madeintheniamh]

i want to write you a song

stmf one shot #6.

a/n: posting this very special one today because today is my 19th birthday! hope you all love it. i did cry writing it but it was well worth it.

content warnings: fluff, dadrry

song: matilda - harry styles

“Come on lovey, please go to sleep,” Harry sighed, rocking his 11-month-old daughter in his arms, his green eyes now underlined with black bags. “Daddy’s getting so tired, he needs his sleep too,”

He glanced over at the owl shaped clock on her bedside table- it was now three o’clock in the morning. He had tried and tested everything he had remembered you telling him before you left for the night to go out with Anne and Gemma for one of the first times since you had had Tilly- feeding her, sitting with her in the rocking chair in the corner of her bedroom, changing her into a different set of clothes, giving her a bath- and nothing had worked. Out of desperation, he reached into the drawer of dummies that you were hopelessly trying to wean her off of despite her teething and grabbed one. Her red rimmed emerald eyes lit up as she saw it in his hand, tiny fingers reaching out to grab it from him.

“Don’t tell mummy,” He whispered, smiling. “Because she says you shouldn’t have it, because you’re nearly one. When did you get so big, eh?”

Her dainty little eyelashes were glistening with tears, her eyes still glossy as she stared up at him, now sucking on the pink pacifier between her lips. She cooed softly as she stared at him.

“That’s better baby, isn’t it,” He smiled. “Daddy loves you so, so much. He wishes you could stay this little forever,”

She gripped onto the grey material of his t-shirt with her fists, still staring aimlessly at him, eyes wide, listening carefully. She suddenly spat the dummy out and began to wail again.

“Oh no, no, no, no, baby,” He moaned softly. “Please,”

He was out of ideas. There was only one option left, and he felt his stomach beginning to warm slightly at the idea of it. As he began to sing, he felt her tiny frame relax into his chest.

“You can let it go, you can throw a party full of everyone you know,” He crooned slowly, watching her eyes begin to close. “You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days,”

It had come so naturally to him, that he hadn’t even really thought about the words coming out of his mouth until she had finally fallen asleep. As he placed her softly back down into her cot, the realisation hit him. He quickly dashed downstairs to pour himself a glass of water, frantically rushing through the kitchen drawers to find a pen and paper.

As soon as the ink hit the page, the words just wouldn’t stop coming. Harry had never thought he was good at English at school- he had always struggled come up with his own poems when he had been put on the spot. Over the years, he had realised that he had always written the best songs out of the most unexpected situations. He looked back down, his messy handwriting littering the page, and smiled to himself. This was the one, and pencilled in his diary for the next day just so happened to be a meeting with Jeff. He traipsed back upstairs, peeping in at the crack in Tilly’s bedroom door to make sure she was still asleep.

“Goodnight, Tilly Gem,” he smiled down at her. “I know you’re little now, and you won’t know what it means, but I think Daddy might have just found the best first birthday present for you,”

---

Two years later- Wembley Stadium, June 2022

As he opened his mouth to announce the next song, he felt that same warmth at the bottom of his tummy that he had felt when he had sung it for the first time to Tilly two years ago on that warm, May night.

“This next song is very special to me, because it’s a song I wrote for my little girl, and tomorrow is her third birthday,” he smiled. “So happy birthday, to my little Matilda. You make me a better person every-day,”

He met her gaze, as Anne held her up in the executive box. She was still tiny enough, that he could barely make her out, but he could recognise those curly brunette locks from any distance. He waved up at her, hoping she could see him too.

He had to hold himself together as he felt his voice beginning to crack. “I’m so proud of you, and I’m the luckiest man in the world that I get to watch you grow up,”

When he began to sing Matilda that night, he let the tears flow freely, with no shame whatsoever. There were more songs he had written for her, and he was now a dad of two girls, but that had always been their song, and it always would be, for the rest of time.

“You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up,"

---------

awww! i love the concept of harry writing songs for his girls. maybe he'll write more songs in the future...

my requests are always open!

[pokemonbiologyirlthetabletop]

Ponyta & Rapidash

Ponyta (#77)

Equusignis equusignis orientalis [(OG) Ponyta]

Equusignis equusignis britannica [(G) Ponyta]

General Information: Ponyta, also known as the Fire Horse Pokémon or the Unique Horn Pokémon. There are two subspecies of Ponyta that live vastly different lives from each other.

Ponytas are light-weight Pokémon relative to their size. They have an extraordinary jumping ability that allows some to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Newborns are weaker and unable to stand, but in a matter of hours the newborn foal is on its feet and trying to keep up with its parents and herd. In days the foal is able to run wild with the rest of its herd as it practices its leaps and bounds over tall grass. It is said that a Ponyta’s hooves are ten times harder than diamonds, though this is likely an expression or exaggeration.

(G) Ponyta are able to heal small wounds with the power from its horn.

(OG) Ponyta average at 3’3 feet tall (1 M) and weigh about 66.1 pounds (30 kg), while (G) Ponyta average at 2’7 feet (0.8 M) and weigh only 52.9 pounds (24 kg).

Habitat: (OG) Ponyta live in grasslands and plains of Eurasia. There they run free and gallantly in the wind. In modern times, (OG) Ponytas were introduced to the New World through white settlers coming to the Americas and bringing their horses with them. Feral populations of Ponytas and Rapidashes now live throughout North America, where they wreak havoc upon local ecosystems.

(G) Ponyta live on the isolated island of Great Britain, where their population was cut-off from the rest of the species a long time ago. There, island dwarfism kicked in, and (G) Ponytas became shorter and their typing changed. They became the unicorns known today.

Life Cycles: Ponytas are born as single (or twin) foals to a mother, typically during the Spring. They will rely heavily upon their mother for milk and protection until they wean between 4 and 6 months old. They will continue to learn how to be a Ponyta for the first two years of their life, when they will become an adult. Ponyta reach reproductive maturity either at two-years-old or at level 15, whichever comes last.

The year that they become two-years-old, will be the Spring that they begin to seek out mates. In the wild, Ponytas tend to only mate for one month in the Spring, but domesticated stock may go into estrus at any time of the year. By mating in the Spring, this ensures that the foals will be born 11 months later in the Spring, so Ponytas who mate outside of the one-month interval risk giving birth to a foal at a bad time, thus lowering the foal’s survival rate.

Ponytas may reach ages in the 20s and 30s. However, the smaller (G) Ponyta regularly lives into their 30s and 40s, and all Ponytas in captivity have the potential to grow as old as 60, though this is immensely rare but a well-documented phenomenon.  

Ponyta are hunted by wolves, tigers, bears, and the sort.

Behavior: Ponytas are shy and skittish creatures. The (OG) Ponyta are bolder than their (G) Ponyta counterparts, but this is in part because of their increased size and their fire. They live in large herds of 10-30 individuals, where they look out for each other and practice safety in numbers.

A Ponyta is able to choose whether or not its fire burns someone who touches it. If its fire doesn’t burn, then know that it trusts you.

It is said that a (G) Ponyta is capable of looking into your eyes and reading the contents of your heart, and should it find evil, it will run away.

Diet: They eat grass. Sometimes mushrooms, baby birds, clovers, bones, ferns, and the sort. It is believed that (G) Ponyta eat the latent magic in the air.

Conservation: [(OG) Ponyta] Endangered (in the wild), Least Concern (Captivity)

[(G) Ponyta] Endangered, Threatened with Extinction in the Wild

Relationship with Humans: (OG) Ponytas have been companions to humanity for thousands of years. The earliest known captivity of horses was in the Central Asian steppes, where they were kept for meat and milk, a fact that continues today in those parts of the world. It wasn’t until later that humans began experimenting with riding them. As the Ponyta lineages became more and more domesticated, the wild populations began to shift as well, and eventually the undomesticated populations disappeared entirely. All wild (OG) Ponytas today, even the feral herds that invasively roam North America, are descended from these domesticated populations. Habitat loss has been the primary loss of wild populations, but the unending influence of domestication doesn’t help. There are “wild” herds today, even in their original homeland of Central Asia and Eastern Europe, but these herds are heavily protected and far fewer in number than they once were hundreds and thousands of years ago. Rewilding the (OG) Ponytas is an active conservation effort.

As for the (G) Ponytas, they are a subspecies that always had a smaller population than the metapopulation. It’s speculated that at their peak, there were a few thousand of them across the entire British Isles, but in the modern world habitat loss and poaching have dwindled their remaining numbers to only a few hundred. They can live in forests or grasslands alike, but they are scared of humans, and many hunt them as unicorns. There are protected lands in Great Britain that they are able to exist on that keep their population alive, but it’s not enough, and conservation efforts must remain vigilant to protect them from unicorn hunters.

Classification: Ponyta is in the genus Equusignis.

Rapidash (#078)

Equusignis unicornis orientalis ([OG] Rapidash) Equusignis unicornis britannica ([G] Rapidash)

General Information:  Rapidash is the evolved form of Ponyta. At full gallop, it can run at speeds of 150 MPH (240 km/h), a speed it can reach in only ten steps--according to the tales. A Rapidash at full speed is thought to be a stunning sight.

Rapidash average at 5’7 feet (1.7 M) tall, then each species weight averages differ. The (OG) Rapidash averages at 209.4 pounds (95 kg), and (G) Rapidash averages at 176.4 pounds (80 kg).

Habitat: Rapidash are found in grasslands and prairies. (G) Rapidash enjoy the forests more than they do grasslands, where they can hide from humans and predators, but they will still venture out onto the grasslands if it feels safe.

Life Cycles: Rapidashes have the same life cycle as Ponytas, with the added bonus that they are less likely to be killed by most predators with one major exception, humans. Humans have always been a primary predator of Rapidashes. In modern times this is less so, but poaching of (G) Rapidashes is a pervasive interest in the British Isles.

Behavior: Rapidashes are bolder and more fiercesome than Ponytas. An angry Rapidash of either subspecies is a terrifying sight and could result in a mauling. They are protective of their babies.

Diet: They eat grass. Sometimes they eat mushrooms, baby birds, clovers, bones, ferns, and the sort. (G) Rapidash are believed to consume latent magic in the air.

Conservation: [(OG)] Endangered (in the wild), Least Concern (Captivity)

[(G)] Endangered, Threatened with Extinction In The Wild

Relationship with Humans: Rapidash are tried and true companions of humanity. They are strong, reliable, loyal, and brave. They have fought alongside us in countless wars and have aided us in countless generations of agriculture and manual labor. A Rapidash is a friend for life.

The (OG) Rapidash have been thoroughly domesticated by humanity and for thousands of years have been faithful companions to trainers. An (OG) Ponyta was often a trainer’s first partner Pokémon, if not the first, then the second or third. Cultures have long valued the usefulness of a Rapidash and will continue to do so long into the future. Their strongest cultural roots to us are along the Central Asian Steppes.

(G) Rapidash, on the other hand, are revered as unicorns, which has largely served to their detriment. They already experience immense habitat loss at the hands of humans, but there have always been unicorn hunters in the British Isles. There are protections in place, but these are not enough. The (G) Rapidash is an active conservation effort, a war between Pokémon Rangers and the Poachers who’s pawns are the Rapidashes (and Ponytas) caught in the middle. Poachers and their clients come from all over the world. Queen Victoria, in her final years of life, passed a law banning the sale and trade of (G) Rapidashes after it was brought to her attention that there hadn’t been a unicorn sighting in many years due to overhunting, but this has only put a roadblock in place for those truly dedicated to poach a unicorn.

Classification: Rapidashes are closely related to other equine Pokémon, such as Mudsdale, Glastrier, and Spectrier.

Evolution: Rapidash evolves from Ponyta at level 40.

~~~~~~~~

Hey guess what, if you like my stuff, this is my website where you can find other Pokémon I've written on and more information about the game that I’m slowly making! Check it out! I write books sometimes too.

[zombie-rott]

"Burying myself alive: Part II."

Prompt: “Have you eaten anything?”

Pairing: Established Papa IV/ Reader

POV: You / Your 

Pronouns: She/her

Synopsis:

You haven't been coping lately, and things are getting stressful as the new tour dates approach. You don't know how you're going to survive without him, especially when feeling so vulnerable, and take to running to calm your anxiety.

But, even as a seasoned runner, you neglect yourself. Slowly you began slipping back into a world you promised you never would.

Notes:

This is a short, two-chapter (because it was way too long for one Tumblr post) personal piece. It is based on a conversation had by my husband and me many years ago after I relapsed pretty hard into Anorexia Nervosa. I don't have a lot of memories from that time (or previous relapse because, well, long-term side effects), but this is one of the conversations I will never be able to forget.

It's also now that I realise all the fluff I write about Copia is literally just how my husband is. Do with that what you may.

!WARNINGS!

Mentions of anorexia nervosa, eating disorders, and mental health issues.

Part I

~ ~ ~ ~

“La mia bellezza?” 

You wiped your eyes and looked up to see Copia coming your way. You hadn’t even noticed you’d reached the end of your route. 

“You didn’t run today? Perché amore?” 

“I-I just couldn’t.” You sniffed, as you closed the distance.

He looked at you with furrowed brows and handed you a mug of coffee. Black this time, with sugar. 

“You’ve been crying, amore.” He said softly,” Please, talk to me.”

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you tight to his body. You allowed it and leaned into him as he began walking you both back into The Abbey. 

“I just couldn’t run. Everything hurts, and I just don’t have the energy to push myself.” You answered, your voice breaking.

“Have you eaten anything this morning?” His voice was soft but stern. 

He’d been worried about you over the last few weeks. You’d been running more than usual and eating less, and he couldn’t help but notice the weight you’d lost. Your body didn't feel the same beneath his and your hip bones had become more prominent than usual.

After what happened during the last tour, he knew to remain vigilant and learned to recognise signs of relapse. But things had been going well until now. You’d gained a little weight and taken your medication as prescribed. You’d even been talking about the idea of weaning off it, just to see how you felt. Just to see if the depression had passed.

This time, however, things were getting worse before he'd even left, and it broke him to think about leaving you like this. 

“Cara mia? You have eaten today, si?” He asked again.

“N-no. But I did try.” 

Copia didn’t respond. He just signed deeply. You felt the pit in your stomach deepen.

“I’m sorry. I-I just can’t eat. Nothing tastes right. And I’m not hungry.” 

“Mia, you still need to eat. How do you expect to run so much with no energy? Your exercise is important, si?” You knew he wanted to continue on to talk about your health being important, and his own mental health never surviving this tour if you didn’t start looking after yourself. 

His raised words echoed in your mind.

"Don't you understand that watching you waste away is eating me alive?! How can I leave you like this, mia!? Bene?"

You felt the tears over flow again. You sniffed and wiped your eyes with your scarf. 

“Please don’t cry, mia. I don’t mean to upset you.” He pulled you closer and you felt his lips kiss the top of your head, “I love you, and I just want to see you well. I know not having me around for a few weeks - “

“Months.” You cut in.

“Si, months, is difficult. But remember you can call me anytime. We can even speak on the ‘Doom,’ si? And then there is Terzo. He is always there for you to talk to when things become too much. You can do this. And you know I’ll be missing you every second of every day?” He kissed your head again, “Please, mia. Please keep fighting.” 

At that moment, you so desperately hated yourself for allowing this to happen, for being so needy that you were hurting yourself to get him to stay. Your stomach twisted with anxiety, and in an attempt to stop the tears, you decided not to answer him. 

He didn’t say another word. He didn’t even speak when you entered your quarters, nor when you began to undress for a shower. You took the silence to mean that he was angry, or at least irritated. And you didn’t want a repeat of last night.

You were going to lose him to eight weeks of non-stop touring, and there you were, driving a wedge between you both because you couldn't manage without him. It sounded so dramatic and childish. 

Your heart stung as you berated yourself for being so unstable that you couldn't even let your love, your Copia, do the job he’d been chosen to do. You felt ashamed that you were making him feel conflicted between you and his Dark Majesty. 

It was all you could do to silence your whimpers as you turned on the water. You stood there biting back tears as you waited for the shower to warm. It felt like an age until you could climb under the faucet and allow the heat to wash over your bones. It felt good. It soothed your muscles and helped silence the world around you. 

And then the tears came. You buried your face in your hands as you cried. Sobs wrecked through your body as you felt a sea of emotions overcome you. Angry at Copia for leaving, anxious about your time without him and, most of all, ashamed of just how weak you had become. You couldn't even be apart from him without breaking down, without slipping into old behaviours. 

How had you let it get this far? How had you not seen the signs before they hit you like a ton of bricks? 

You heard the shower door open and shut before feeling Copia’s arms wrapping around you from behind. He laid his chin on your shoulder and kissed you gently on the cheek.

“I love you.” He cooed, “You know that, si?” 

“Y-yes.” You responded softly through tears. 

“Please tell me what is going on in your beautiful mind?” He kissed you again. 

“I’m being so selfish and I don’t know why I’m like this. I should have seen this relapse a mile away, but I didn’t. I–I’ve just been so focused on trying to cope without you.” 

“But, cara mia, I’m not gone yet.” 

“You will be, though. And I need to be ready. I need to figure out a way to survive, and in all the hustle to find it I somehow fell back into - “You gestured to your body, “all this bullshit. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to be so weak and pitiful to you. And this shouldn’t be your problem.”

Copia pulled you tighter against his chest and reached for your hands. He didn’t say anything, he simply held you in the heat of the shower. For a moment you thought he might be crying, but you couldn’t be sure. The thundering of the water was loud and very good at disguising tears. But when he turned you to face him, there was no doubt.

Copia, the strong and confident Papa you had come to love, met you with red, tearful eyes. He kissed you softly on the lips and rested his forehead against yours. 

“This isn’t a relapse, amore mio. It’s a small blip in the road, si? You are so strong and have fought so well. I know that you can overcome this with me here or on the other end of the phone. You have so many people around you wanting to help and support you, cara. Don’t let it go to waste in the name of pride. Everyone needs to ask for help sometimes. Even I.” 

You close your eyes and let his words settle in your soul. 

“I know how hard it was for you to confide in me about this. And even more so in Terzo. I hope you know how brave you are.” 

“Y-yes.” You managed, your eyes meeting his. You sniffed back tears, “I s-suppose I am.” 

“You are!” Copia smiled as he reached up to move your wet hair from your face. He kissed you gently on the lips and took your face in his palms, “The bravest! Il mio amore coraggioso! And you can reach out again at any time. You will not be my problem because I love you, cara mia, I love you! And while I do not wish this on you, I would help you through this one hundred times over with the same fury and dedication.” 

You smiled slightly, feeling the hope restore itself in your soul. Copia, loved you. Like really loved you. And for that you had to fight; if not for you, then for him. 

“I-I love you, amore.”

“I love you too.” 

“Do you believe me when I say you are strong enough for this? That you can kick it’s metaphorical culo?”

You giggle at the terminology. He did always have a way with words. 

“I do, Copia, I-I really do.” 

[sharkneto]

For the Spotify Wrapped ask, if you’d like: Five & Viktor, #6 :)

Look at me go, answering prompts months after they were given to me!

I took liberties - I didn't use my Spotify Wrapped for inspiration (although I did check if song #6 would fit this! It did not!), and I did Number and Viktor, instead of Five. But I've been thinking about Viktor's coming out to Number, and how it goes wrong in the exact way Viktor can't prepare for --

“Hey, Five, wait up a second,” Viktor calls. He’d dawdled in grabbing his jacket and backpack after another training session with Five, giving himself a few extra seconds to bolster his resolve.

Today is the day.

It’s been almost two years since Five told him about his powers, just over a year since he’s been officially weaned off his pills, and just under a year since he’s started being able to use his powers with any semblance of control or accuracy. Accuracy is still a work in progress, but it’s been weeks since Five has had to teleport to safety from an unintentional burst.

Five slows at the trail out of the abandoned and dry concrete canal they use for power practice, frowning at how far back he is. “Vanya?” he asks.

Vanya. Viktor takes in a quick, fortifying breath and pushes his sweaty bangs off his forehead (he’d chopped his hair a few months ago, when he first started exploring the Feelings, and he’s not sure if he was relieved or disappointed when Five’s only reaction was a generic compliment to acknowledge that he’d changed his hair for the first time in a decade).

It’s going to go well. It’s Five.

As he catches up to his brother, he says, “Yeah, about that.”

Something flashes across Five’s face, too fast to categorize. His gaze flicks from Viktor’s face to his hair and back. Expression neutral, he quirks up an eyebrow for him to continue.

“It’s um, it’s Viktor.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he is hit with a wave of intense relief followed by panic. It’s Five, it’s fine. He jams his hands into his pockets against the emotions. “I’d like to go by Viktor, now.”

He forces himself to watch Five for his reaction. Five had started smiling in the middle of his announcement, and he’s full-on grinning in that soft way he so rarely does by the time he’s finished, genuine and lopsided. Noting Viktor’s expectant pause, he says, “Viktor suits you.”

They share the smile, the anxiety that’s been bubbling in Viktor’s stomach slowly leeching away as a bright warmth takes its place.

Five breaks it to look over his shoulder at the steep incline out of the canal. “Good to go?”

Viktor blinks. “That’s it?”

Five glances back at him, his half-step to start climbing aborted. “…is there more?”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Is there more? Not really. He wanted to tell Five that he’s Viktor, that they’re brothers. Had wanted Five to accept it and not make a big deal about it. All of which he has succeeded at.

Five shrugs and starts up the trail at his continued silence. Viktor stares after him.

In retrospect, maybe he wanted a little bit of a fuss.

It’s not that he had a speech planned or anything, but he had anticipated questions. Been prepared to explain that he’s been thinking about this since he got off the drugs. Had done a flurry of research to find a name for what he was feeling. Had been taking little steps to experiment, with his clothes (not that there was a huge change there), with his hair, in trying on the name Viktor in moments where it didn’t really matter. Had settled on how right being Viktor was a few weeks ago and had been building up to tell Five about it since.

“I…” He’s not really sure what to say to direct things where he wants them to go. He doesn’t know where he wants them to go. He starts up after Five. “Really? Nothing? No questions?”

Five glances over his shoulder again at him, having to look back quickly to keep his footing as he nears the top of the canal. “Do you want me to think of one?”

“I—I. No, but…” He has to stop to pull in a breath, working double-time to try and catch up with Five’s long legs. It’s a courtesy that he even trekked up the path rather than just teleporting to the top and waiting. “I thought you’d have… more of a reaction? More to say? You always have opinions.”

Five reaches the top and teleports himself to the other side of the rusted iron railing there so that he can lean on it and frown down at Viktor. “Okay. Uh, sure. My opinion on this is that it’s… good?”

“It’s good?”

“I’m happy for you.”

That at least is genuine – Viktor can tell by how the corner of Five’s mouth twitches up when he says it. “It’s good and you’re happy for me.” He pulls in another breath; he’s almost to the top. “Okay. Yeah.” He smiles up at Five.

He returns it and reaches down to give Viktor a hand to grab to help pull him up the last, tall step to where he can reach the railing to finish pulling himself up. As he’s clamoring (inelegantly) over the flaking metal, Five says, “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me for months.”

Viktor’s grip slips and he almost falls to the ground by Five’s feet. He just manages to catch himself. Firmly on his feet and on the correct side, he frowns at Five. “What? What do you mean?”

“Since you cut your hair.” He says that like that makes perfect sense, like Viktor wasn’t in the middle of fighting through confusing feelings and figuring the whole thing out then. He turns to start walking back towards the park and his car.

Viktor squints after him. “Since I cut my—Five, I didn’t know then. Not really, I was still sorting it out.”

He frowns back at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. That’s why I didn’t say anything to you. How the hell did you know?” He takes quick steps to catch up to Five.

“That you’re Viktor?”

“Yeah.”

“Other you was Viktor.”

Viktor stops dead in his tracks.

“What.”

“He was Viktor.”

“Like. He was born—”

“No. Like you. Vanya to Viktor.” He’s stopped walking to properly face him again. He has a little furrow in his brow, like he’s confused.

“You’ve—” Viktor loses his words again, trying to wrap his brain around what Five is saying. “You’ve known for two years?”

He shrugs. “I mean, twenty-two months, but…”

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

At that, he at least has the graciousness to start look a little sheepish. “I didn’t know if you were like him!”

That’s fair, he guesses. Still – “I have been agonizing over this for months, Five! And apparently you already knew, for sure, a few months ago! When I cut my hair!”

“Maybe you just wanted a haircut!”

Viktor gives him a look. Five acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head.

“Nothing?” Viktor reaffirms. “You said nothing for two years.”

Five shifts, starting to get defensive. “And what was I even supposed to say, Viktor?”

Ignoring the small thrill at hearing his name, Viktor throws his hands up. “I don’t know! But you could have said something! We’ve seen each other like four times since I cut my hair! And a million times before that!”

“We were dealing with other things!”

“Of course! Because my powers are the most important thing here!” The sounds of nature around them are starting to become clearer, sharper in Viktor’s ears.

Five huffs out a breath. “Other you said not say anything!”

“Why would you listen to him!?”

“Because he’s you! I assumed he knew what was best for you both!”

“You just said you weren’t sure if I was like him!” The wind is starting to pick up.

Five shifts his jaw and turns to walk away, only to turn back immediately so he only succeeds in walking in a small circle. “You’re you now! It worked out fine!”

That strikes something deep in Viktor’s chest, sharp and hot. “I’m twenty-five, Five! I could have been me two years ago!”

“That’s—that’s still better than other you! He was twenty-nine!”

He stares incredulously at Five. “How is that your argument that this is better?” He continues before Five can think of another dumb counter to that. “Do you know how much I’ve been thinking about this, if this was real? How long and how confusing it’s been? And then, when I was sure, you were the first person I told, asshole, only for you to have already known!?”

Five deflates a little, softening. “I’m the first person you told? That’s…” He pauses as he processes that. His expression pinches a little. “I mean, I’m the only person you can really tell. You don’t have that many friends.”

He knows he’s fucked up the moment the words leave his mouth, if how he blanches is any indication. Eyes widening, he glances to Viktor. Viktor can’t hear anything over the high-pitched ringing in his ears. The wind whips around them, buffeting Five in rhythmic waves. “You are such a fucking asshole, Five! I have friends, you dick, but this is the last time I try and have a special—” He trails off as he notices that Five is clenching his fists, his expression pure focus as blue starts to flicker around him. He wouldn’t.

He totally would.

Viktor pushes another wave at Five, trying to break his concentration. “Don’t you fucking rewind, Five. Don’t you dare undo—”

“—then, when I was sure, you were the first person I told, asshole, only for you to have already known!?” Viktor demands.

He blinks, the words feeling oddly familiar in his mouth. His stomach flops. Sound quiets as he loses his hold on it, distracted by the déjà vu he’s reeling in. The wind dies down.

“I’m the first person you told?” Five says, voice soft and sincere. “That’s… that means a lot, Viktor.”

Viktor looks at him after a quick glance around. Did Five just rewind things? He’s only been around for it a few times, but time travel always leaves him feeling a little off, like he’s forgotten an appointment and missed a step on the stairs. “Did…?” He breaks off. His dissipating nausea is distracting him from his anger, which isn’t fair. He gets to be angry at Five about this. He tries to grab hold of it before it can slip away.

Five frowns politely. Viktor studies him. Five never does anything politely; he’s covering. He’s told Viktor regularly that time travel is to be used only for dire, catastrophic situations because it has such a potential to ruin the entire spacetime continuum – which means he uses it regularly for minor problems or just whenever he feels like it. Holding his voice even, Viktor asks, “Did you put your foot in your mouth and then rewind because it was such a terrible, shitty thing to say?”

He shakes his head, frown too mild. “Of course not. I’m genuinely, um, honored that you told me first. I am really happy for you.”

Viktor considers him for another long moment before letting out a breath and shaking his head. He’s done. His anger sits heavy in his gut, coiling and twisting, eating away that happy lightness he’d had before, when he’d first come out to Five. He starts walking, striding quickly past Five and not looking at him.

He hears Five let out a sigh behind him. “Va—Viktor—”

“I don’t know what you said, Five, but you do and if you had to rewind it, it must have been a real dick move.” He doesn’t look back.

“I didn’t—”

“If you say you didn’t rewind, I’m going to explode the playground up there.”

Five is quiet behind him. Then, he says, “There’s kids there.”

Viktor scrunches his face and then whips around to level Five with a long, hard look. “This was supposed to be a nice thing, Five. A big, good moment.”

“It—” Five cuts himself off and disappears in a flash. Viktor refuses to look as he reappears next to him. “It still can be, Viktor. Like… look, I’m sorry. About the thing I didn’t say and not telling you sooner. Alright? I’m sorry. We can still… celebrate. Go to that restaurant you like on the corner. You can get a drink and I’ll get a soda or something. We can toast to you.”

“I’m really not in the mood, anymore.” He turns to keep walking. “And why, so you can not tell me more things?”

“That’s not—it’s the only—” Five stutters from behind him. “Fuck.” Whumpf. Viktor continues to ignore him as he walks past Five’s new position a few feet ahead on the path. “Viktor. I didn’t mean to ruin this or how you feel about this—”

“I feel fine about me, Five. I know who I am.”

“Oh. Good—”

“The problem is that so did you.”

Whumpf. Five stands with his hands out in a defensive placation in front of Viktor. Viktor steps around him to continue his march back to the main park. He can see the playground. “I can’t undo not telling you that.”

“You can though.”

“Months? It’s too much time.”

It wasn’t a genuine suggestion, but of course Five took it that way. “Then I guess we’re not good!”

The playground has emptied out in the hour since they last passed it to climb down to the canal, Viktor’s powers stirring up the weather enough to deter the less determined families from staying.

Whumpf. Five startles a kid on the swings as he appears by Viktor again. “I don’t know what you want me… I don’t know how to fix this.”

Viktor glances at him for the first time since he started his march away. His shoulders are slumped, and the downward curve to his mouth is sincere. He does feel bad.

Good.

“There isn’t anything for you to do,” Viktor says. “I’m pissed at you.” He turns towards the parking lot.

“Yeah, but…” Whumpf.

Another sidestep to keep going. “I don’t want to see you, Five.”

“Okay, but...” Whumpf.

Viktor stops short just before he can run into Five. The angle he has to look up at to meet his brother’s eyes is infuriating, they’re standing so close together. “Stop, Five! I don’t want you to do anything! I’m going to be mad at you! So just… fuck off!”

“I drove you here, I’ll give you a ride back—”

“I’ll call a cab.” He waits pointedly.

After a long moment, Five steps aside so he can pass.

When he’s made it a short ways away, Five calls after him, “…I’ll see you next week? For training?”

“I’ll call you, Five.”

“So, I will, or…?”

“I said I’d call you!”

It’s only thanks to his unlocked super hearing that he catches Five’s quiet, “Fuck.” to himself.

Viktor walks a few blocks before he gets to a street busy enough that he can hail a cab. He welcomes the walk, the extra few minutes to let his thoughts and emotions tumble over one another. Street lights creak and tremble as he passes, but he pays them no mind; he doesn’t have enough concentration to hold his powers back more than that. Rain starts spitting down from the clouds.

He settles in the back of the cab, throwing his address to the driver and then lets himself sink bonelessly into the seat, watching raindrops chase each other down the window.

That was not at all how he thought that was going to go.

[girlwithptsd]

I HAVE A QUESTION!

This one goes out to all my peeps who have experience with PTSD/CPTSD.

🙃 Backstory: I stopped Abilify (supervised by a doctor) 3 weeks ago after being on it for 10 years, most of those ten years on 15mg. It has taken me 9 months to wean off it. Despite some hiccups here and there, overall I've actually been feeling like my CPTSD is barely affecting me anymore. It has felt like a miracle.

Almost a week ago, I started noticing that I was moving a lot in my sleep, much more than usual. 2 nights into that and I started being unable to fall asleep normally because the movements have been happening while fully awake, just as I get close to falling asleep. One of those nights I was awake 4-5 hours, including with an anxiety attack and trying to calm myself down, both with coping skills and as-needed sleeping/antidepressant meds.

Nothing I've found on Google has given me the definitive answers I'm looking for. I have therapy in 3 days and I plan on bringing this up in session.

☹️ THE ISSUE: The movements that have been happening as I'm falling asleep are full-body involuntary muscle contractions. They are sudden and intense, but fortunately not painful.

✨Question: Has anyone else experienced this? Can this be caused by PTSD/CPTSD? Can this be caused by weaning off Abilify? How do I make it stop?

🌵I am aware that any information or advice given is not official medical advice or information and I should still ask mental health professionals about it.

All compassionate insight is appreciated. 💖

😬Update: I finally fell asleep, but it was happening in my sleep too and now my back hurts. I scheduled an appointment at my primary care physician's office.

[theweirdgoodbyes]

never asked me once about the wrong i did chapter 3

Merriell’s parents help Llewelyn buy a small house nearby and his poor wife spends the next decade pregnant and dragging her husband home from speakeasies and then newly reopened bars. The only Shelton boy who actually attended school, Willard goes off to some fancy college in Georgia thanks to scholarships and money he’s been sneaking from Daddy’s wallet for years. Mama makes him promise to visit but he never does, and settles down in Atlanta, sending the occasional letter home. Not long after, Victor and Francis get jobs working on the shrimp boats and only come home once a month lugging laundry for Mama to do. She never complains, just asks for a kiss on the cheek as payment. Merriell can’t stand the way they stink up the bedroom during the weekends they’re home, reeking of fish and gasoline, and keeps the window open to get the smell out no matter how cold it is outside. Robert joins the Navy, and Arthur gets locked up after he robs that same store Merriell steals candy from of all their money and a pack of smokes. By the time he’s fifteen, his brothers have scattered and Merriell is left alone. The once constant cacophony that came with the family of nine has mellowed into a soft hum, only spiking on the nights Daddy gets too drunk and finds a reason to slap Merriell around. 

Merriell misses his brothers more than he thought he would, so used to all seven of them shoved into one room from the time they were weaned. The first night he spends alone he barely sleeps, tossing and turning and imagining spooky things slipping out from the shadows of the once full room, the quiet reaching out to suffocate him. He finds himself longing for the comfort of Arthur next to him, the sound of Robert’s snoring, the rattling of the window late at night as the older boys snuck in and out. But times goes on, his brothers visit when they can, and Merriell finds himself eventually thankful for the space. He has enough room to stretch without kicking somebody, doesn’t have to step over scattered clothes on the floor on his way to the bathroom. Life without his brothers is lonely, but survivable. What almost kills him is when Mr. Leconte’s wife kicks him out during the summer of 1935.

It’s a hot night in June when Merriell’s world crumbles. He wakes up from an odd dream, something he immediately forgets but has left that uncomfortable feeling in his chest. He rolls to his side, eyes still half shut as he paws his bedside table for his watch. Holding it close to his face in the darkness he can see the small hand settled on the three. He kicks his sweaty blankets off and rolls over, planning on closing his eyes again when he hears a whisper.

“Merriell!” 

He sits up quickly with a gasp. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers to the dark. All those spooky things he had imagined months ago infiltrate his brain, monsters and demons threatening to sneak out and eat him up. Another whisper has him gripping his chest, fearful eyes trying to pinpoint their origin. 

“The window!” 

Merriell whips his head around to look towards the window he had cracked earlier to cool down his scalding room.

“Merriell!” The eyes staring in through the slit are identical to his own and the voice is now familiar. “Open the damn window!”

Merriell slips out of bed and sees Victor, lightly illuminated by the distant moon. Three other figures stand behind him and Merriell quickly recognizes Francis among them. He unlocks the window and pushes it up slowly, trying to avoid its tell-tale creaks. 

“What you doin’ here? You know what fuckin’ time it is?” Merriell hisses, moving out of the way as Victor climbs in. In what little light is offered, he looks like he’s actually showered and smells like cheap cologne and smoke instead of a boat. Francis follows, equally clean, and Merriell can now see that the two strangers about to climb in after them are girls. Those fuckers. 

“Sorry we ain’t bring you back one,” Victor whispers as he helps one girl through the window. She’s a pretty blonde thing with a skirt short enough to send Mama into prayer. Her heel gets caught on the sill and tips forward with a squeak of surprise. Victor and Merriell catch her before she hits the ground, “Girl, if you don’t hush up…”

“Mama’s gon’ kill you if she finds out,” Merrill warns, ignoring Victor’s comment. He helps Francis get the other girl though the window nevertheless, his loyalty to his brothers outweighing his fear of their mother. He really doesn’t want a girl brought back for him, and feels nothing but disgust imagining his hand slipping under some broad’s dress like Francis is doing to his girl the moment her feet hit the ground. “Then she gon’ kill you again because you didn’t tell her you were comin’ home.”

“I’m Gloria!” Victor’s blonde practically screams before Victor can reply, the smell of wine pouring from her lips. Victor quickly slaps a hand over her mouth and sits her on Merriell’s bed. She kicks her shoes off and flops back, making herself comfortable while she whispers hurried apologies. Merriell is about to tell her to beat it when Victor responds, settling on the bed next to her. 

“We just got the night. Figured we’d go down to LaRue’s and have some drinks. We met these lovely ladies and…” Victor gives him a smile thats half coy, half pity, “need a place to roost.”

“Take ‘em to the fuckin’ boat! Y’all got beds there,” Merriell whispers harshly. He watches the blonde begin to unbutton her blouse. He quickly looks away, convincing himself he’s being polite.

Francis pipes up from the other bed, lifting his head from the lips of the busty brunette he’s got sprawled under him, “Piss-stained cots is what we got. C’mon, Mer, be cool. Two hours.”

Like a petulant child, Merriell plants his bare feet on the ground and shoots nasty looks at his brothers. This isn’t the first time he’s been kicked out in favor of some airhead, and has learned over the years that looking for a bargain never hurts. 

“What’s in it for me?”

“I don’t beat you silly, boy, that’s what in it for you,” Francis says, sounding so much like Daddy its as if the words came out of their old man’s mouth, “Now get the fuck outta here.”

“This my room now, y’know.” Merriell mumbles, getting down on his knees to reach for a pair of shoes he has tucked under his bed.  He’s tired as all hell and wants nothing more than to reclaim his bed, but it’s not worth the fight, and God knows he doesn’t want stay for the show. He quickly slips the old shoes on and tries to tune out the sound of buckles being undone, avoiding looking back at the beds as he throws one leg out the window. He makes sure to grab his watch before the short drop to the ground and begins to walk towards the street.

“Mer!” The sharp whisper has him turning back to the window. He sees Victor hanging out of it, three cigarettes and a lighter in his extended hand. Merriell takes it, remembering why Victor has always been his favorite and feeling a bit better about his expulsion. 

“For the trouble,” Vic says with a wink before ducking back into the room and shutting the window.

Merriell meanders up their street, kicking rocks and savoring his gifted cigarettes. He lets his mind wander, thinking about everything and nothing while his feet drag down the dirt road. He’s used to being alone with his thoughts, never quite getting along with kids at school and often taking long walks like this to avoid Daddy’s beatings.  He checks his watch occasionally, counting the minutes until he can head back and crawl into bed. After an hour and a half he finally turns back in the direction of the house and allows himself to jog there. He was told two hours and two hours is all they’ll get. 

He gets home sooner than expected, his quick steps returning him home a bit before five. He plops himself down on the porch steps and decides to smoke his last cigarette before banging on his window to be let back in. He pictures his brothers curled up in the beds with their beaus, whispering sweet nothings to these girls they have no intention of ever seeing again. He closes his eyes and tries to picture himself next to that squeaky blonde or well-endowed brunette, his hands caressing their bodies, his hips flush to theirs. The thought is hard to conjure and he finds himself bored of it quickly. Female bodies warble and shift in his mind, resettling into focus with breasts replaced by a flat chest and Merriell’s imaginary hand reaches between strong legs to grip-

The sound of a door slamming startles him out of his fantasy. He searches for the sound, ready to throw his cigarette into the bushes if it’s Daddy coming to kick his ass. He’s thankful to see the door was not his own, seeing it is still shut tight behind him. Confusion replaces his relief when out of the corner of his eye he sees Mr. Leconte stomping down his own steps, a suitcase in each hand. Merriell watches him turn to yell something he can’t make out in the direction of his house, followed by a shrill and equally unintelligible reply. Mr. Leconte begins to storm down the street, moving past Merriell without his usual wink and wave. Merriell takes one last puff of his smoke before crushing it under his heel and getting up to follow his neighbor. 

It takes Merriell a minute to catch up with the older man’s fast stride and he has to catch his breath before asking, “Where you goin’, Mr. Leconte?” 

His voice a mix of anger and sadness, Mr Leconte replies, “Leaving, son. Missus is done with me.” 

Merriell almost trips over a rock he doesn’t see in his shock. He feels the blood rushing in his ears and his heart start to beat hard. Leaving? He has to have misheard. 

“Leaving? Leaving forever?”

“Yep. Leavin’ the house, the dog, leavin’ everythin’. That bitch can keep it all, ain’t worth shit anyway.” 

“But where you gon’ go?”

“Back to Shreveport, I reckon.” Merriell’s stomach drops to his knees and he feels like he could vomit right there onto his shoes. Shreveport is hours from their small town south of New Orleans. 

“That’s real far,” Merriell manages to say, feeling anxiety rise in his chest. He can’t take his eyes off Mr. Leconte, trying to memorize his face, his auburn locks, the determined set of his jaw. Petrified of the answer, he stills asks, “You gon’ come back?”

“Don’t reckon I will.”

Mr. Leconte stops for a moment and Merriell stops with him, feeling like he’s stepped back into a dream; a nightmare. The older man sets one suitcase down and reaches out to grip Merriell’s shoulder, dark eyes meeting green. Merriell barely registers that this is the first, the only, time Mr. Leconte has touched him and finds himself unable to revel in the pleasure of it. Not when he’s about to be gone, when this will be the last time they see each other. 

“Word of advice, Merriell,” Merriell’s heart betrays him by fluttering in his chest from Mr. Leconte saying his name, “don’t ever get married.”

How could I, Merriell doesn’t say, hardly dares to think, I only ever wanted to marry you.

With a smile and a wink, Mr. Leconte picks up his suitcase again and keeps walking. Merriell stays frozen in the middle of the road, unable to follow any further. He watches that head of red hair fade away as Mr. Leconte continues his walk to Shreveport, leaving his wife and his house and the bayou and Merriell behind him.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, so soft that it’s lost to the burgeoning dawn. If Mr. Leconte hears it, he doesn’t turn around. Merriell stays there and watches him until he’s gone from sight, unmoving until a car comes whizzing down the road. The driver lays on the horn and Merriell is finally freed from his self-imposed prison to jump out of the way. The driver yells out some insult in Creole as they fly by, something about dumbass kids. Usually Merriell would yell something back, accentuated by a couple of thrown rocks but he finds himself unable to do anything except turn around and run back to the house. He feels hot and shaky, unsure if he’s going to pass out or scream, and needs to be alone somewhere to process what has just happened. 

Merriell throws open the front door and hurries into the house, not caring about making noise, almost blind from the tears filling his eyes. He rushes past Mama standing in the kitchen. She must have just woken up, still in her nightgown and a cup of steaming tea in hand. She looks confused to see him, most likely wondering where he could be coming from at this hour. 

“Merriell?” 

He ignores her, moving as fast as he can without running until he’s in his bedroom. Blissfully, no one is there, only the smell of that cheap cologne left as evidence of his unwelcome guests. Victor and Francis must have snuck their girls out already and headed back to the docks. He scrambles to lock the door and presses his back to it, shaking hands reaching up to grip his hair. He ignores the sharp pain in his scalp as he clutches his curls tight.

“Don’t cry,” he says, a warning, a threat. “Don’t fuckin’ cry. Don’t fuckin cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…”

He tries to steady his breathing and begins to search around the room for something to count, anything to keep him from exploding. He counts the wood panels on the wall, the cracks in the ceiling, the knobs on the dressers in rapid succession but it’s not enough. He even begins to count the wrinkles in the blankets on the beds his brothers have left unmade, but his vision continues to blur with tears begging to come out. Once he feels the first drop hit his cheek, it’s all over with. A sob rips from his chest, shaking his whole body with it. He tries to breathe in but can’t, only managing to choke on the next wail pouring out of him. He walks to his bed and doesn’t bother kicking his dirty shoes off before climbing in, caring about nothing else in the world except for the fact that Mr. Leconte was gone. He cries and cries like the little boy he once was, back when he could convince himself he only liked Mr. Leconte because he was kind; cries and cries and cries while the reality of his situation creeps up on him like a starving wolf stalking a lamb. I love him, the shameful thought alone wrenching another sob from his chest, and I’ll never see him again. He vows right then and there in his lonely room that he’ll never marry, never kiss anyone the way he wished Mr. Leconte had kissed him, never love again. Not if it hurts this much, not if he could just about curl up and die. He imagines Granmere digging his grave, praying for his sinful soul while those hands as old the heavens rifle through the dirt. Merriell holds his pillow tight and cries into it long after the sun has fully risen and set, long after Mama has given up knocking on the door, until sleep releases him from his heartbreak. 

1937

Francis and Victor come home for Christmas Eve, this time through the front door instead of Merriell’s bedroom window. Merriell barely hears them come in over the sound of Robert, home on leave, and Daddy arguing and Llewelyn’s screeching children. His wife’s pregnant again, like the four children they already have aren’t a handful and slowly driving them insane. Aside from the permanently sticky hands and never ending screaming, Merriell enjoys being an uncle and sits at the dinner table with little Ricky on his lap. The tot is gnawing on the turkey leg Merriell had just finished with, keeping a close eye on him so he doesn’t choke. He only looks up when Mama gasps and hurries from her spot at the table to greet her sons. 

“Ho, ho, ho!” Victor calls, wrapping Mama in a hug. They hadn’t told anyone they were coming, and Mama sings out thanks to the Lord and loving quips in Creole as she fusses over them. She released Victor to squeeze Francis, giving him a light slap on the cheek.

“Don’t y’all surprise me like that again! Oh, hug your mama.”

After shaking Daddy and Robert’s hands and kissing Llewelyn’s wife, Victor slides a pack of cigarettes towards Merriell with a sly wink. He quickly grabs it before little Ricky can shove it in his mouth and slides it into his shirt pocket, Victor once again claiming the title as his favorite brother. 

“Merry Christmas, petit frère.”

Before he can return the sentiment, Mama says, “Don’t be rude now, who this?”

Merriell was so distracted by the commotion and his gift that he hadn’t noticed a third person walk through the door behind his brothers. Francis tosses an arm over the stranger’s shoulder.

“Mama, this here is Tom.”

Merriell takes in Tom from his spot at table, plucking the turkey leg from little Ricky’s mouth since his attention is now elsewhere. Ricky cries out in protest until Merriell gives him a spoon to chew on instead, easily satisfied. This Tom is taller than Victor and Francis, which isn’t saying much since all Shelton boys are short. His hair is hidden under a hat, but when he takes it off to greet Mama there’s a shock of blonde atop his head. He’s got hooded brown eyes that take in their meager dining room, stopping when they reach Merriell. Merriell suddenly feels small, very small, under his gaze and turns his sights back to Ricky. He plops his elbow on the table and leans his cheek against his hand, hoping they aren’t turning as red as they feel. 

“Welcome, Tom, welcome,” Mama says, brushing her hands on her apron before placing one on Tom’s arm. It’s not often they have guests but Mama is always a gracious host. She leads Tom to the table to introduce him to everyone. “This here my oldest Llewelyn, his wife Margaret…” Mama goes through the lineup, stopping at Merriell, “and thats my youngest Merriell with little Ricky.”

“Hi, Merriell,” Tom says in a voice that is so far from Louisiana it takes them all by surprise, “it’s nice to meet you all.”

“Hope you don’t mind him staying, Mama,” Francis says around a mouthful of bread, having settled at the table next to Daddy with a plate full of food, “we wasn’t supposed to get tonight off and Tom ain’t got family ‘round here.”

“Where you from, Tom? Sit, please, c’mon now,” Mama ushers Tom into the chair across from Merriell, much to his chargin, “Lemme make you a plate, I know you boys don’t eat good on that boat.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” This Tom is way too uppity to be working a boat with his brothers, Merriell thinks, all smooth edges where they should be rough. “I’m from Maine. Bar Harbor.”

“How you end up down here, boy?” Daddy asks, half interested, half in the bag already.

“My father is a fisherman. I’ve been on boats my whole life but got sick of the cold water,” Tom answers as Mama returns with a heaping plate to set before him. To Merriell it sounds rehearsed. “Thank you, ma’am. Came down to Louisiana for a fresh start.”

Merriell takes his eyes off Ricky to steal another glance at Tom but quickly has to look away when he sees Tom already gazing back. His family continues to ask Tom questions about his family, what it’s like up north, if he’s ever had a white Christmas. Merriell tunes as much of it out as he can and focuses on his nephew until the end of dinner, having mindlessly picked on what remains of his carrots and potatoes until the table was cleared. Daddy, his brothers, and Tom retreat to the living room to see what’s playing on the radio and Mama and Margaret begin to work on dishes in the kitchen. Merriell decides he needs a smoke, needs to be as far away from Tom as possible, and places Ricky down to toddle off somewhere and get into things he’s not supposed to. Once he’s on the porch he takes a deep breath of the cool air and closes his eyes. He lets the sounds of frogs and crickets singing sooth him, counting their chirps for a moment. It’s only for tonight, he assures himself, just tonight. Come morning they will all say goodbye to Tom when him and his brothers return to the boat. And hopefully that’ll be the last he sees of this disturbingly intriguing man. Merriell lights up a cigarette as he steps off the porch, moving into the shadows to prevent Mama seeing or smelling him. She’d always hated the stuff and asks if he wanted an early grave; Merriell doesn’t know how to tell her that sometimes he does.

“Hey.”

Merriell looks up from his cigarette. Through the dim light coming from the porch he can see Tom making his way down the steps and over to where Merriell stands. He stops next to him, far enough where they’re not touching but close enough to make something in Merriell’s gut flutter. 

“Look too young to be a smoker,” Tom adds, tipping his head. A strand of his blonde hair drops down from where it’s slicked back to lay on his forehead. Merriell wants to reach out and put it back where it belongs, taking his time to savor the motion. Instead he snorts and pulls the cigarette from his lips, blowing smoke in the direction of this interloper. 

“Ain’t you got your own family?” He asks, not knowing why his tone is so snippy, “Ain’t you itchin’ to get home?

Tom shrugs, reaching out a hand. Merriell looks at it for a moment before he hands his cigarette over. Tom takes a long pull, scrunching up his face like he’s thinking hard. Merriell can’t help but think it’s a handsome face, not as rugged as it should be for his line of work. He’s clean shaven and his skin looks impossibly soft, no blemishes or scars to be seen. It’s another part of Tom that Merriell wants to reach out and touch, see how it feels under his fingers, under his tongue. Instead he puts his mouth to his hand, biting at his fingernails to distract himself while his cigarette is occupied. “You want your own?” He asks around his nail, pulling the carton from his pocket with his free hand; might as well be in the Christmas spirit and give to the needy. Tom plucks the cigarette from his lips and blows smoke right back at him with a shake of his head. 

“I’m fine with this one. And I don’t talk to them.”

“What you do?”

Tom gives him a look, a look Merriell thinks he’s supposed to understand. He feels his cheeks grow hot under a gaze that he dares say is wanton, a look he’s seen his brothers give their girls. Tom takes another drag before answering and Merriell spends too long watching the way his lips wrap around the butt. 

“They weren’t a fan of my proclivities.” 

“You booze too much?”

“Something like that. So, how old are you gonna be? Vic says you have a birthday coming up.”

“Twenty-one,” the lie slips out so easy he almost believes it himself. Tom does not and gives him a toothy grin.

“Don’t you know lying is a sin?” Tom asks with a raised brow, handing the cigarette back to him. Merriell snatches it, trying to ignore the shiver that goes up his spine when their fingers briefly brush. He ignores the comment as well and looks down at his shoes while he takes his next drag. Lying is the least sinful in his catalogue of misdeeds and dirty thoughts. What he’s thinking about doing to Tom has to be at the top, marked and underlined in red ink for God and the Devil to read.

“Your proclivities so bad your own mama don’t want you ‘round on Christmas?”

“My mother isn’t the issue,” Tom explains, reaching out again to pull the cigarette right from Merriell’s mouth. Deft fingers touch his lips and Merriell nearly gasps at the sensation, almost not believing it happened. “My father is.”

“Well, we all got daddy’s who don’t love us,” Merriell says with a shrug. Tom laughs and Merriell can’t help but smile at the sound.

“Yeah…especially us.”

Tom hands the cigarette back to Merriell, and their fingers hold it together for a moment. Merriell looks into Tom’s dark eyes and sees something in them that almost resembles hope. 

“Merry Christmas, Merriell,” He says in a soft voice, tender, before retreating back into the house. Merriell stays outside and smokes through half of his new carton, trying to stave off the excitement and shame he feels growing deep within him. 

That night, long after everyone has returned from midnight mass and gone to bed, Merriell slips out of his bedroom and with feet that feel like lead makes his way to where Tom sleeps on the couch. Tom wakes up when Merriell slips under the blanket but doesn’t say a word, just wraps a strong arm around his waist and pulls him close.

After, when Tom tries to kiss him, Merriell turns away, feeling lips catch his chin.

“Merry Christmas, Tom.” 

He leaves the makeshift bed and returns to his own, rubbing the spot on his chin where unwelcome lips had briefly touched until he falls asleep. When he wakes up, Tom is gone, leaving a note saying heading back to the docks. He thanks the Sheltons for their hospitality and wishes them a happy new year. Merriell spends the day absently watching his nieces and nephews play with their new toys, sitting on the couch where he has committed his greatest atrocity yet while his family talks and argues and talks and argues around him. Eventually his eyes settle on the cross hanging above their radio and stares at the body of Christ hanging from it with unblinking eyes. He imagines the cross flying off the wall, pointed edge ramming itself into his chest; he pictures blood spurting from the wound and soaking the couch beneath him, masking the remains of his sin from the world around him. 

[reigningqueenofwords]

It Was Me

Pairing: Bruce x Reader Word count: 2,670

Read on AO3

Part 17 of Without Me

Maryanne smiled as she watched you feed three month old Beckett. “When do you transfer to baby food?” She asked, curious. 

“I’m researching baby led weaning at the moment, so probably about 6 or 7 months. I haven’t decided yet.” You told her. “But, I’ll nurse until he weans either way.”

She smiled and nodded. “Sounds great!” She looked over at your brother and Bruce playing football in the backyard. “How’s it been having him home so much?”

“Amazing. I just don’t want to keep my hopes up.” You said softly. “But it’s like we just got married again.” You smiled. “He’s loving having my brother and Beckett here.” You said in adoration. “Clearly.” You chuckled as you heard them laughing.

She grinned. “It’s good to see you so happy.” She rubbed your arm. “That first month after this one was born I got worried.” 

You furrowed your brows. “Why?” You asked, looking at her. “Why were you worried?!”

“You didn’t seem too happy.” She said softly. “With Bruce.” She clarified. “There was a sadness in your eyes.”

You looked down. “It was that obvious?” You asked softly. 

“It was to me.” She didn’t have any judgement in her voice. “I was just hoping that it would pass. And it has.” She shrugged. 

“I hope it lasts.” You told her. “That work won’t take over again.” You moved Beckett to your shoulder after you fixed your top.

She nodded. “I hope it won’t.” She agreed. “I can see how much he loves you two.” She assured you. “So much.”

“Thanks. Means a lot.” You smiled. 

Bruce and your brother came in, panting. “Okay. I’m ordering lunch.” Bruce chuckled. “Subs okay?” He smiled at you. 

You nodded. “Sounds good to me. You?” You asked Maryanne. 

“I actually have plans, but thank you.” She smiled. 

“Oh, yeah? Don’t wanna hear it if it’s work stuff.” He teased. “Not for another nine months.” He leaned over and kissed the top of your head, making your brother make an ‘ew’ face.

Maryanne chuckled. “No work. A date.” She said happily and ruffled your brothers hair. “I’ll text you about it later.” She told you. “Promise.” 

“You better.” You smiled. “Have fun.” You chuckled. 

“I sure hope so.” She smirked and kissed Beckett’s back. “I’ll see you soon, handsome.” She waved before leaving.

Bruce placed the sub order quickly and washed his hands before taking your son. “There’s my little man.” He said happily. 

Beckett snuggled to him and made a happy noise. He was becoming more active, which you both loved. “Tummy time soon.” You told him.

“Awesome.” Bruce smiled. 

“Can I go play video games until lunch?” Your brother asked. “Please.” He added. He was staying with you for the week, giving your parents some time with each other. 

“Sure.” You smiled at him. “But we’re doing a board game tonight.” You chuckled. “Spending time together.” 

“Deal!” He ran off. 

Bruce chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s great.”

“He looks up to you, so careful.” You teased. “You have to be a good influence. For him and our boy.” You kissed his cheek.

“I’ll do my best.” He grinned. “When can we have a minute for us time? I only need a minute.” He winked. He had been asking since you were cleared weeks ago. 

You looked at him lovingly. “Maybe tonight.”

“I’ll take it.” He grinned. “I’ve missed you.” He leaned closer to you. 

“You’re just tired of your hand.” You teased him.

“Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t used it?” He asked. He looked shy at even saying it out loud. “At all.”

You widened your eyes. “Really?” You were in shock. “Not once?”

“Not even humping my pillow.” He said seriously. “No shower time, either.” He added.

“Why?” You asked. “I mean, that’s something I’ve never seen you go without.”

“I want my wife.” He said easily. “No one else. Not even my hand and some hot memories we’ve made.” He looked at you. “Just means I won’t last tonight.” He chuckled lightly.

“I won’t either.” You said shyly. “I’ve missed you.”

“How much?” His eyes darkened. He enjoyed how your cheeks turned a deep pink. 

“So much. Can we keep the lights off?” You asked suddenly. “Tonight, I mean?” 

“If you feel more comfortable, but there’s no need.” He said. “You’re the hottest!” He nudged you as the doorbell rang.

You shook your head and followed him as he went to get it. You had taken back Beckett and rocked him in your arms. He coo’d and kicked happily. “Sorry, buddy, this food isn’t for you.” You giggled. “One day.”

Bruce paid and came back. “His excitement is freaking cute.” He kissed your cheek. “He’s going to be a wild one.” 

“Your genes.” You grinned. “All you, Daddy.”

He kissed you gently. “As I recall, I wasn’t the only wild one.” He smirked. “Let’s eat. I’ll go get the other little dude.”

You nodded and watched him lovingly as he went.  "Daddy is the best, huh?" You looked at Beckett. You giggled as he flailed his arms a little. Once you were at the table, you put him in his swing. You helped set up everyone’s plate and got drinks. "How was your game?" 

“Fun.” Your brother smiled. “I’m getting better." He said proudly. "Wanna play later?" He asked you.

“Okay.” You agreed with a smile, enjoying your time with him. "Can't say I'll be any good."

“She’s not.” Bruce teased you. "I've tried to teach her." He laughed as you stuck your tongue out at him. 

Your brother grinned. “I’m a good teacher.” He took a bite of his sub. “I’ll help!” 

“See? He’s nice.” You told Bruce. 

By the end of the week, you were already looking forward to see him again. You and Bruce decided to drive him back, having a little road trip. He sat in the back with Beckett, enjoying how he looked everywhere. “Ew, guys, he spit up.” He told you.

You looked back. “Is he gonna cry?” You reached around for a cloth and handed it to him.

He shook his head. “No, he looks like he doesn’t care.” He wiped him up. “So gross.” He made a face. 

You laughed. “I used to have to clean you up so this is payback.” You joked. “And I was just about your age, too.” You reminded him.

“Poor you.” He winced. 

“Bet that was the best birth control ever.” Bruce laughed. “You were what, 13 when he was born?” 

You nodded. “Just about.” You giggled. “I spent a lot of weekends with friends the first few months.” You told him. 

“Hey! I’m sure I was adorable.” Your brother pouted. 

“Looking back, yeah, but as a 13 year old girl? I thought you were smelly, and noisy.” You stuck your tongue out. 

He looked at your son and nodded. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.” He agreed. “Seems to be a thing with babies.”

You laughed. “Kinda.” You smiled. “He loves you, though.” You told him. 

Pulling into your parents driveway, you smiled as they came out to meet you. “What a nice visit!” Your mother smiled. She hugged your brother as he came up, Bruce getting the car seat out. “Beckett!” She rushed over. “Oh, looks like someone spit up on the way here.” 

“It was gross!” Your brother whined. "I wiped it up."

“Good.” Your father chuckled. “It builds character.” He said as everyone made their way inside. “How’s fatherhood, Bruce?”

“I love it.” Bruce beamed. “Best job ever.”

“Good to hear.” He grinned. “Are you staying the night?” He asked, curious. 

You shook your head. “No, we have a hotel in the city.” You told them. “Gonna spend the day in the city and head home tomorrow.” 

“Well, eat something here first.” Your mother told you. “Then you can head out.” She told you. “Why don’t you clean Beckett up, and then I’ll get some cuddles with him.”

“Alright.” You chuckled, taking your little bundle. “Come on, handsome. Let’s get you in a clean outfit.” 

“Use the blue one!” Bruce called after you. Your father chuckled at that, shaking his head.

“You look really happy, Bruce.” He told him. “So does she.” 

Bruce smiled. “I’m glad you see that, sir.” He said honestly. “They are my world.” He beamed. ed. “And we loved having Noah for a week, too.”

“It was fun!” Noah said happily. “We played catch, and I got to play some of the new games that came out.” He hugged Bruce’s side. “Can I visit again?”

“Mm...are you willing to change diapers?” Bruce asked playfully. “Because, can’t just freeload.” He teased.

He gasped. “Ew! No!” He pouted. “Not doing that.”

Bruce laughed. “Kidding, Buddy. Of course you can come whenever.” He agreed. “Maybe right before school starts or something.”

He bounced. “Yes, please! Can I?” He looked at your parents. “Bruce said it’s okay!” He pointed out as if they weren’t right there.

Your mother smiled. “We’ll see what we can do.” She nodded. 

He cheered and bounced, running to his room to unpack. He was hoping that he’d get another week at your house.

You came out with a smile. “I have a happy clean baby now.” You kissed his head. 

“Mine.” Your mother rushed over to get a cuddle. “Hey, there, cutie.” She smiled. 

You smiled and went to lean into Bruce. “How was your child free week?” You asked.

“Too quiet.” Your father chuckled. “I bored your poor mother.” He shrugged. “She sent me out more than once.” He said teasingly, looking at her.

“We watch different shows, honey.” She chuckled. “That’s all.” She sat down with Beckett.

Your father looked at you, making you laugh. “You are the odd one out when it comes to shows, Dad.” You smiled.

“Sorry.” Bruce said as he looked at him. 

You were finishing up dinner when the front door opened. “Mom, I need a place to crash.” Came your sister’s voice. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” You groaned. 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ugh.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I think that’ll be our cue to leave.”

“Sorry, mom.” You carefully went to get Beckett. “She just has the worst timing ever.” You shook your head.

Your mother pouted. “Alright. Maybe visit tomorrow?” She asked. “We can come to the city after your dad gets off work.”

“I’ll let you know.” You smiled. “We’ll talk more about Noah visiting again.” You gave her a one armed hug just as Nicole walked in.

“Oh.” She stared. “Didn’t expect you here.” She said, her eyes darting to Beckett. “Hmm.” She raised her eyebrows. 

Holding your son to your chest protectively, you moved to hug your father, too. “See you soon, Dad.”

He squeezed you. “Have a safe trip.” He kissed your cheek. “Be good for your mom.” He said to Beckett, making you chuckle.  

You smiled and went close to Bruce so he could lead you out. You buckled Beckett in as Noah followed to say his goodbyes. “Love you.” He squished into your back. "I'm gonna miss you." He told you.

“I’m gonna miss you, too.” You stood and hugged him tightly. “You’ll be visiting again before you know it.” You ruffled his hair. 

“I hope so!” He smiled and went to hug Bruce. “Love you!” He beamed. “Thanks for playing catch with me.”

“Anytime. Love you, kid.” Bruce lifted him in a hug. 

Nicole watched everything, shaking her head. “Fake.” She mumbled. “So fake.” She walked off towards the kitchen. 

“I wish you’d just apologize.” Your mother scolded her. “I hate seeing my daughters as enemies.”

“I admit I made a mistake with Bruce. But he’s honestly trash.” She shrugged. “It’s all bullshit.” She told her. “I feel bad that she doesn’t see it.” She said honestly. “And now it’s not just her that’s going to get hurt.”

Your mother tilted her head. “I didn’t know you felt that way.” She admitted. “What gives you that idea?”

“All I dated in school were guys like him.” She shrugged. “All pigs.” She scoffed. “They don’t change.”

“But Bruce is nice?” Your mother just wanted to understand. “I’ve never had any sign that he’s like that. He dotes on those two, even on Noah.”

“Because he feels guilty.” To her it was obvious. “He buys her off.” She explained. “Probably has a different life at work.” How she was the only one who saw this was beyond her. 

“That’s quite another accusation.” Your mother gasped. “And one I believe is false.” She pointed a finger. “I think you are just jealous and bitter.” She scolded. 

Nicole sighed. “See? No one believes me.” She shook her head. “Whatever. Can I stay here for a bit?”

Your mother sighed. “Of course.” She nodded. “You’re still my daughter, and I love you. Even if I disagree with you.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I love you.” She gave her a hug.

You smiled as you carefully washed Beckett the next morning. “Who’s a happy baby?” You coo’d at him. He beamed up at you, making your morning even brighter. “I love you so much!” You kissed his nose. 

"I love you both." Came Bruce's voice behind you. 

Beckett slammed the small bit of water at the sight of his father. "Want to come take over? He saw you and now he's excited."

“Together.” Bruce crouched by you. "There's our boy.* he tickled his toes.

Beckett squealed and kicked. "Let's get you cleaned up and we can go have a family day." You smiled. 

“I set up our family pictures.” Bruce told you. 

You looked at him, surprised. "Really? For when?"

“Two weeks from now.” He smiled. “The very best company.” He said proudly. "Our first set of family pictures. Well, where he's born." He chuckled, thinking how beautiful you looked in your maternity pictures. 

You smiled brightly. “Thank you! I can’t wait!” You wrapped your arms around him, kissing him.

He kissed you back happily. “I know you’ll look beautiful.” He told you. "As always." He pecked your lips before his attention was on Beckett. “The camera will love you buddy.” He grinned. 

Far too soon, it was nearing Beckett’s first birthday, which meant that the following week ...you'd be kissing your husband goodbye for work again. You were growing rather sad, loving how your life was this past year. Beckett was currently napping while you picked up around the house, and Bruce worked on dinner. You were quiet, mind racing at the thought of Bruce becoming as distant as he had for your pregnancy. You knew this is what would prove if he meant what he said.

“Y/N?” Bruce repeated, coming over when you didn’t reply. “Babe?” He put his hand on your back. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Oh nothing. Was just in there cleaning zone.” You nodded. “What’s up?” You looked over at him.

“Was just asking what you wanted to drink but you looked out of it.” He cupped your cheeks. “If something is bothering you, talk to me, okay?” He brushed your cheek. “Please?”

You searched his eyes and nodded. “Everything’s okay.” You pecked his lips. “I’m going to go fold the load in the dryer real quick. Lemonade is fine.” You told him. “Light on the ice?” You patted his chest before going to the laundry room. Telling him what your fears were would only hurt him. He hadn’t proved you wrong yet, so you wouldn’t fight him on something that didn’t happen. It was your own insecurity, after all. 

Bruce watched you go, worried, but thought maybe it was because Beckett was nearly a year, and that was a big moment. He would talk to you about it tonight. He was trying to cherish this last week and a half he had always being home. He loved it so much but knew he had to get back to work. Shaking his head, he went to get dinner plated, and drinks poured.

[dankusner]

The Dumbphone Boom Is Real

Will Stults spent too much time on his iPhone, doom-scrolling the site formerly known as Twitter and tweeting angrily at Elon Musk as if the billionaire would actually notice.

Stults’s partner, Daisy Krigbaum, was addicted to Pinterest and YouTube, bingeing videos on her iPhone before going to sleep.

Two years ago, they both tried Apple’s Screen Time restriction tool and found it too easy to disable, so the pair decided to trade out their iPhones for more low-tech devices.

They’d heard about so-called dumbphones, which lacked the kinds of bells and whistles—a high-resolution screen, an app store, a video camera—that made smartphones so addictive.

But they found the process of acquiring one hard to navigate.

“The information on it was kind of disparate and hard to get to. A lot of people who know the most about dumbphones spend the least time online,” Krigbaum said. A certain irony presented itself: figuring out a way to be less online required aggressive online digging.

The couple–Stults is twenty-nine, and Krigbaum is twenty-five—saw a business opportunity.

“If somebody could condense it and simplify it to the best options, maybe more people would make the switch,” Krigbaum said.

In late 2022, they launched an e-commerce company, Dumbwireless, to sell phones, data plans, and accessories for people who want to reduce time spent on their screens.

This wasn’t Stults’s first attempt at entrepreneurship; his past efforts included a made-in-America clothing brand in Colorado

(“That went under,” he said) and a coffee shop in the back of an ill-attended Hollywood comedy club (“A doomed enterprise,” Krigbaum said).

Dumbwireless, however, has been much more successful.

The couple’s home, in East Los Angeles, has turned into a kind of dumbphone emporium, with five hundred boxed devices stacked up in what was supposed to be a dining room.

Stults takes business calls on his personal cell, and on one recent morning the first call came at 5 A.M.

(As the lead on customer service, he has to use a smartphone—go figure.)

They pack each order by hand, sometimes with handwritten notes.

They have not yet quit their day jobs, which are in the service industry, but Dumbwireless sold more than seventy thousand dollars’ worth of products last month, ten times more than in March, 2023.

Krigbaum and Stults noticed an acceleration in sales last October, which they speculate may have had something to do with the onslaught of holiday-shopping season.

Some of their popular phone offerings include the Light Phone, an e-ink device with almost no apps; the Nokia 2780, a traditional flip phone; and the Punkt., a calculator-ish Swiss device that looks like something designed for Neo to carry in “The Matrix” (which, to be fair, is a movie of the dumbphone era).

The growing dumbphone fervor may be motivated, in part, by the discourse around child safety online.

Parents are increasingly confronted with evidence that sites like Instagram and TikTok intentionally try to hook their children.

Using those sites can increase teens’ anxiety and lower their self-esteem, according to some studies, and smartphones make it so that kids are logged on constantly.

Why should this situation be any healthier for adults?

After almost two decades with iPhones, the public seems to be experiencing a collective ennui with digital life.

So many hours of each day are lived through our portable, glowing screens, but the Internet isn’t even fun anymore.

We lack the self-control to wean ourselves off, so we crave devices that actively prevent us from getting sucked into them.

That means opting out of the prevailing technology and into what Cal Newport, a contributing writer for The New Yorker, has called a more considered “digital minimalism.”

The Light Phone débuted in 2017, before smartphone exhaustion became a mainstream ailment.

The company’s co-founders, Kaiwei Tang and Joe Hollier, have sold tens of thousands of phones.

The Light Phone II, released in 2019, features a monochrome touch screen that allows users to make calls, send text messages, and use a few custom apps: an alarm and timer, a calendar, directions, notes, music and podcast libraries.

There are no social-media apps or streaming apps.

“The point is to create useful utility that does not have the attention economy built in,” Tang said.

Like Dumbwireless, Light Phone has recently been experiencing a surge in demand.

From 2022 to 2023, its revenue doubled, and it is on track to double again in 2024, the founders told me.

Hollier pointed to Jonathan Haidt’s new book, “The Anxious Generation,” about the adverse effects of smartphones on adolescents.

Light Phone is receiving increased inquiries and bulk-order requests from churches, schools, and after-school programs.

In September, 2022, the company began a partnership with a private school in Williamstown, Massachusetts, to provide Light Phones to the institution’s staff members and students; smartphones are now prohibited on campus.

According to the school, the experiment has had a salutary effect both on student classroom productivity and on campus social life.

Tang told me, “We’re talking to twenty to twenty-five schools now.”

To Tang and Hollier’s surprise, some of the most willing Light Phone converts are Gen Z-ers.

Some of them are younger than the iPhone.

Digital technology has been an inevitable feature of their lives, yet they are also better equipped, or better motivated, than generations past to confront its negative impacts.

Apple recently allowed third-party developers to write software that accesses the iPhone’s Screen Time function, meaning that some new programs can now help users limit their screen time by blocking apps.

T. J. Driver and Zach Nasgowitz, two engineers in their early twenties, took advantage of this change to create an iPhone accessory called Brick, to fight their own excessive phone usage.

Brick, which launched in September of 2023, is a magnetized plastic cube with a corresponding app that allows you to select which features you want to block on your smartphone.

Tapping the brick activates or lifts the blockage.

Driver and Nasgowitz started with one 3-D printer to produce the accessories; now they have fifteen machines running around the clock and are shipping a few hundred products a day.

There is no one dumbphone solution for everyone.

Each digital addict is addicted in her own way.

Stults, of Dumbwireless, uses an app called Unpluq, which works similarly to Brick, blocking specific apps from his smartphone while allowing him to maintain the store’s customer-service channels, including e-mail and Shopify.

Krigbaum has been a committed Light Phone user for the past two years.

She said that she doesn’t miss her smartphone, but that her new device can cause some awkwardness when she meets other young people who ask how to keep in touch.

They mean on social media, of course; for the vast swath of Gen Z-ers who don’t use dumbphones, exchanging numbers to text message or, God forbid, call seems archaic. “I’ve been saying, ‘I guess I’ll see you if I see you,’ ” Krigbaum said.

When I want to escape from my iPhone, I pop the SIM card out (which, unfortunately, is not possible on some newer iPhones) and install it in a red Nokia 2780 flip phone—the closing snap of which brings me back instantly to my high-school days, when flip phones were cutting edge.

After the surprisingly easy switching process, I take the simple device with me on my daily walks with my dog.

If I had my smartphone in hand, I’d be refreshing Instagram or compulsively checking my e-mail while my hound does her business or sniffs tree trunks.

With the Nokia, I’ve cut myself off from such meaningless digital stimuli but preserved my ability to answer texts or phone calls if necessary. (I’m too much of a millennial to actually leave the house without any phone.)

I find myself looking more at my surroundings, which are particularly enjoyable in springtime, and I am more relaxed when I return from the excursions.

When I switch the SIM card back into my iPhone, the device seems momentarily absurd: an enormous screen filled with infinite entertainment and information that follows me wherever I go.

Then I open all my usual apps in quick succession—e-mail, Instagram, Slack—to see what I’ve missed.

The Dawn of the Dumb House

When the interior designer Ken Fulk begins working with new clients, he asks them to fill out a “Fulkfessional,” a form with questions to help him understand what matters most to them at home.

Among his favorite questions lately is “Dumb house or smart house?”

The answer is everything.

The philanthropist Christine Schantz knew exactly what she wanted for her historic 1925 home in Marin County.

She tasked Fulk (and architect Andrew Skurman) with creating a residence that could last 30 years without another renovation.

All those smart flourishes that are the rage these days—automated fixtures, complex lighting systems, remote-controlled appliances, charging stations, electronic security systems, and, everyone’s favorite, Alexa—went out the window.

Schantz didn’t want a SpaceX command station but a family retreat.

“Technology doesn’t go with that,” she says.

Homeowners like Schantz aren’t hardcore technophobes.

They would just like fewer remotes, gizmos, and wires in their personal space, and they’re turning to their decorators, architects, and contractors to make houses that are, if not dumb, then dumbish.

Perhaps not coincidentally, the trend is gaining favor with the most ­cutting-edge cohort of all; call them the Low-Key Luddites of Silicon Valley.

“Many of my clients who work in the technology world tend to forgo highly advanced homes often because they are acutely aware of change,” Fulk says.

What they want, he adds, are environments that age gracefully without frequent, irksome updates.

The Design Rules of the Modern Dumb House:

Keep traditional kitchen appliances out of sight and focus on bold color–such as this vivid share of robin’s egg blue.

All fixtures and cabinet hardware are by the Nanz Company.

Rule: Go old school with cookware–very old school.

The collection of enameled cast iron pots and pans is from Staub.

The pendant lights are by Studio Van den Akker.

To step inside an anti-smart house like Schantz’s, seen here, is to find a feast for the eyes steeped in handiwork that feels closer to the past than the future: artisanal millwork, detailed plaster, light switches that look like old fashioned brass toggles.

The doorbell is manual (“a Victorian hand-turn that I purchased myself,” Schantz says), the bookcases are filled with hardbacks, and family knickknacks and photographs are not relegated to the attic or uploaded to an iPad but thoughtfully displayed.

“We often hear clients say that they don’t want a home that’s smarter than they are,” says the design legend Holly Hunt. “The appeal of being able to control your home while on vacation is obvious, but what happens when things go wrong and you can’t get through to tech support while you’re on the other side of the world?”

Rule:

Take the low-tech look to the next level with bespoke wallpaper illustrated with favored real and imaginary titles, executed in the powder room by Ken Fulk, and a custom, marble, wood, and leather vanity by Merritt Woodwork, with faux-book detailing.

The idea of the smart home goes back decades. In pop culture it is depicted everywhere from Dr. Frankenstein’s lab to John Lautner’s 1960 Los Angeles house the Chemosphere (the inspiration for The Jetsons and a longtime movie backdrop) to, more recently, the 2014 film Ex Machina. In Woody Allen’s Sleeper (1973) a health food store owner is cryogenically frozen and defrosted 200 years later in a glass house designed by Charles Deaton full of robots. In the real world, the launch of the first general-purpose home automation network technology, dubbed X10, came in 1975.

a living room with a chandelier and a couch Douglas Friedman

In the living room, a Silvio Piatelli chandelier, a table lamp by Cym Warkov Ceramics, and Chesterfield sofas by Coup d’etat.

In 1999 Microsoft’s “Home of the Future” promotional video imagined a middle-class family house with seamless voice-activated and integrated lighting, heating, security, and entertainment systems. By 2012 the ad was becoming a reality: 1.5 million home automation systems had been installed in the United States, according to data firm ABI Research, and by 2020 the industry was valued at $44 billion.

ken fulk house renovation in marin county Douglas Friedman

Rule: No TV, Alexa, or electronics in the bedroom. And keep lighting simple. The chandelier is by Fabio LTD, and the reading pendants are by Allied Maker. Rule: Prioritize neutral elements: fresh flowers and forest wallpaper, here by Cole & Sons. The wicker nightstands are by Portuguese design studio Emotional Brands.

The shift away from overly digitized homes, at least for some, has been a long time coming, spurred first by a growing awareness of the health risks of too much screen time and later accelerated by the erosion of work-life balance during the pandemic. The rise of artificial intelligence is a more recent cause for alarm.

“People that I’ve worked with in the tech industry don’t want their kids to have technology,” says the designer Lonni Paul, who has removed computers and other digital devices from the bedrooms and personal spaces in her own home and those of her clients. Erin Lichy, a New York interior designer, has also winnowed the devices in her home in favor of elements that put a premium on calm, not notifications. No cameras, Alexa, or Google Assistant for her.

a bedroom with a bed and chairs Douglas Friedman

In the primary bedroom, the wallpaper is St. Laurent by de Gournay, the ceiling fixture is by Fortuny, the antique desk features a Josef Hoffman lamp by Woka Lamps, and the nightstand lamps are by Lorenza Bozzoli for Tato Italia.

“Similar to in-home cameras, we don’t love the idea of a device constantly listening in on us,” she says. It’s an urgent concern for homeowners at a time when big tech companies are testing ambient intelligence, a concept that futurologists have been talking about for years, in which smart devices make their own decisions based on anything from biometric sensors to predictive behavior modeling.

“Just because it works doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” Fulk says. “When I come home, especially to a beach house or a ski house, the last thing I want is to have to wrangle with technology.” In the modern dumb home, the only bits of technology present are usually ­hidden—starting with the TV and including details as small as a light switch. “Whenever I’m redoing a house, I can tell when a house was made in the 2000s, because it was this in-between of trying to be forward-thinking but things still felt really clunky,” says the designer David Ko, who receives an increasing number of requests from his Los Angeles clients to keep entertainment consoles out of sight. His solution: OG projectors, built-in custom furniture, and products like Samsung’s the Frame, which makes television screens look like artworks.

“There’s nothing luxurious about technology anymore,” says the designer Stephanie Roy-Heckl, who largely works in Miami and the Hamptons. Or beautiful, for that matter. A Roomba may be practical, but chic is not the first word that comes to mind to describe one.

a room with a table and chairs Douglas Friedman

In the entry, art works by Jack Wright and Charles Bianchini, a 19th century gueridon with a marble top, millwork by Merritt Woodwork and doorway by Theodore Ellison Designs.

Even if so-called dumb houses aren’t defined by a single aesthetic, they all represent a broader recalibration of homeowners’ relationships with technology. There’s less interest in the latest gadgets and more demand for conscientious innovation, especially in the realms of sustainability, green architecture, and solar power. “In California we’re having a big conversation around gas appliances and their impact on the environment and on our health,” Fulk says. That was a priority for Schantz, too, but her domestic digital detox was brought about by a simpler personal conviction.

“I also think technology dumbs us down,” she says. “It makes us forget what’s meaningful and lasting. It gives us terribly short attention spans.” Instead, her home has something AI never will: soul.

Lead image: The sconces and library lights are from the Culver City dealer Obsolete. The astrological ceiling mural, inspired by the famous one at Munich’s Villa Stuck, is by artisan Willem Racké. First editions and rare books line bookshelves backed in wallpaper by Zak & Fox, with flourishes by Racké. The CH20 Elbow chairs are by Hans Wegner. Artisanal millwork is by Merritt Woodwork.

This story appears in the April 2024 issue of Town & Country, with the headline "Welcome to the Dumb House." SUBSCRIBE NOW

Headshot of Kristen Bateman

Kristen Bateman is a contributing editor at Harper’s Bazaar. Her first fashion article was published in Vogue Italia during her junior year of high school. Since then, she has interned and contributed to WWD, Glamour, Lucky, i-D, Marie Claire and more. She created and writes the #ChicEats column and covers fashion and culture for Bazaar. When not writing, she follows the latest runway collections, dyes her hair to match her mood, and practices her Italian in hopes of scoring 90% off Prada at the Tuscan outlets. She loves vintage shopping, dessert and cats.

[litteratured]

“This Is The Beat Generation” by John Clellon Holmes

The New York Times Magazine, November 16, 1952

Several months ago, a national magazine ran a story under the heading ‘Youth’ and the subhead ‘Mother Is Bugged At Me.’ It concerned an eighteen-year-old California girl who had been picked up for smoking marijuana and wanted to talk about it. While a reporter took down her ideas in the uptempo language of ‘tea,’ someone snapped a picture. In view of her contention that she was part of a whole new culture where one out of every five people you meet is a user, it was an arresting photograph. In the pale, attentive face, with its soft eyes and intelligent mouth, there was no hint of corruption. It was a face which could only be deemed criminal through an enormous effort of reighteousness. Its only complaint seemed to be: ‘Why don’t people leave us alone?’ It was the face of a beat generation.

That clean young face has been making the newspapers steadily since the war. Standing before a judge in a Bronx courthouse, being arraigned for stealing a car, it looked up into the camera with curious laughter and no guilt. The same face, with a more serious bent, stared from the pages of Life magazine, representing a graduating class of ex-GI’s, and said that as it believed small business to be dead, it intended to become a comfortable cog in the largest corporation it could find. A little younger, a little more bewildered, it was this same face that the photographers caught in Illinois when the first non-virgin club was uncovered. The young copywriter, leaning down the bar on Third Avenue, quietly drinking himself into relaxation, and the energetic hotrod driver of Los Angeles, who plays Russian Roulette with a jalopy, are separated only by a continent and a few years. They are the extremes. In between them fall the secretaries wondering whether to sleep with their boyfriends now or wait; the mechanic berring up with the guys and driving off to Detroit on a whim; the models studiously name-dropping at a cocktail party. But the face is the same. Bright, level, realistic, challenging.

Any attempt to label an entire generation is unrewarding, and yet the generation which went through the last war, or at least could get a drink easily once it was over, seems to possess a uniform, general quality which demands an adjective. It was John Kerouac, the author of a fine, neglected novel The Town and the City, who finally came up with it. It was several years ago, when the face was harder to recognize, but he has a sharp, sympathetic eye, and one day he said, “You know, this is really a beat generation.” The origins of the word “beat” are obscure, but the meaning is only too clear to most Americans. More than a mere weariness, it implies the feeling of having been used, of being raw. It involves a sort of nakedness of mind, and, ultimately, of soul; a feeling of being reduced to the bedrock of consciousness. In short, it means being undramatically pushed up against the wall of oneself. A man is beat whenever he goes for broke and wagers the sum of his resources on a single number; and the young generation has done that continually from early youth.

Its members have an instinctive individuality, needing no bohemianism or imposed eccentricity to express it. Brought up during the collective bad circumstances of a dreary depression, weaned during the collective uprooting of a global war, they distrust collectivity. But they have never been able to keep the world out of their dreams. The fancies of their childhood inhabited the half-light of Munich, the Nazi-Soviet pact, and the eventual blackout. Their adolescence was spent in a topsy-turvy world of war bonds, swing shifts, and troop movements. They grew to independent mind on beachheads, in gin mills and USO’s, in past-midnight arrivals and pre-dawn departures. Their brothers, husbands, fathers or boy friends turned up dead one day at the other end of a telegram. At the four trembling corners of the world, or in the home town invaded by factories or lonely servicemen, they had intimate experience with the nadir and the zenith of human conduct, and little time for much that came between. The peace they inherited was only as secure as the next headline. It was a cold peace. Their own lust for freedon, and the ability to live at a pace that kills (to which the war had adjusted them), led to black markets, bebop, narcotics, sexual promiscuity, hucksterism, and Jean-Paul Sartre. The beatness set in later.

It is a postwar generation, and, in a world which seems to mark its cycles by its wars, it is already being compared to that other postwar generation, which dubbed itself ‘lost’. The Roaring Twenties, and the generation that made them roar, are going through a sentimental revival, and the comparison is valuable. The Lost Generation was discovered in a roadster, laughing hysterically because nothing meant anything anymore. It migrated to Europe, unsure whether it was looking for the ‘orgiastic future’ or escaping from the ‘puritanical past.’ Its symbols were the flapper, the flask of bootleg whiskey, and an attitude of desparate frivolity best expressed by the line: ‘Tennis, anyone?’ It was caught up in the romance of disillusionment, until even that became an illusion. Every act in its drama of lostness was a tragic or ironic third act, and T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land was more than the dead-end statement of a perceptive poet. The pervading atmosphere of that poem was an almost objectless sense of loss, through which the reader felt immediately that the cohesion of things had disappeared. It was, for an entire generation, an image which expressed, with dreadful accuracy, its own spiritual condition.

But the wild boys of today are not lost. Their flushed, often scoffing, always intent faces elude the word, and it would sound phony to them. For this generation lacks that eloquent air of bereavement which made so many of the exploits of the Lost Generation symbolic actions. Furthermore, the repeatedinventory of shattered ideals, and the laments about the mud in moral currents, which so obsessed the Lost Generation, do not concern young people today. They take these things frighteningly for granted. They were brought up in these ruins and no longer notice them. They drink to ‘come down’ or to ‘get high,’ not to illustrate anything. Their excursions into drugs or promiscuity come out of curiousity, not disillusionment.

Only the most bitter among them would call their reality a nightmare and protest that they have indeed lost something, the future. For ever since they were old enough to imagine one, that has been in jeapordy anyway. The absence of personal and social values is to them, not a revelation shaking the ground beneath them, but a problem demanding a day-to-day solution. How to live seems to them much more crucial than why. And it is precisely at this point that the copywriter and the hotrod driver meet and their identical beatness becomes significant, for, unlike the Lost Generation, which was occupied with the loss of faith, the Beat Generation is becoming more and more occupied with the need for it. As such, it is a disturbing illustration of Voltaire’s reliable old joke: ‘If there were no God, it would be necessary to invent him.’ Not content to bemoan his absence, they are busily and haphazardly inventing totems for him on all sides.

For the giggling nihilist, eating up the highway at ninety miles an hour and steering with his feet, is no Harry Crosby, the poet of the Lost Generation who planned to fly his plane into the sun one day because he could no longer accept the modern world. On the contrary, the hotrod driver invites death only to outwit it. He is affirming the life within him in the only way he knows how, at the extreme. The eager-faced girl, picked up on a dope charge, is not one of those ‘women and girls carried screaming with drink or drugs from public places,’ of whom Fitzgerald wrote. Instead, with persuasive seriousness, she describes the sense of community she has found in marijuana, which society never gave her. The copywriter, just as drunk by midnight as his Lost Generation counterpart, probably reads God and Man at Yale during his Sunday afternoon hangover. The difference is this almost exaggerated will to believe in something, if only in themselves. It is a will to believe, even in the face of an inability to do so in conventional terms. And that is bound to lead to excesses in one direction or another.

The shock that older people feel at the sight of this Beat Generation is, at its deepest level, not so much repugnance at the facts, as it is distress at the attitudes which move it. Though worried by this distress, they most often argue or legislate in terms of the facts rather than the attitudes. The newspaper reader, studying the eyes of young dope addicts, can only find an outlet for his horror and bewilderment in demands that passers be given the electric chair. Sociologists, with a more academic concern, are just as troubled by the legions of young men whose topmost ambition seems to be to find a secure birth in a monolithic corporation. Contemporary historians express mild surprise at the lack of organized movements, political, religous, or otherwise, among the young. The articles they write remind us that being one’s own boss and being a natural joiner are two of our most cherished national traits. Everywhere people with tidy moralities shake their heads and wonder what is happening to the younger generation.

Perhaps they have not noticed that, behind the excess on the one hand, and the conformity on the other, lies that wait-and-see detachment that results from having to fall back for support more on one’s capacity for human endurance than on one’s philosophy of life. Not that the Beat Generation is immune to ideas; they fascinate it. Its wars, both past and future, were and will be wars of ideas. It knows, however, that in the final, private moment of conflict a man is really fighting another man, and not an idea. And that the same goes for love. So it is a generation with a greater facility for entertaining ideas than for believing in them. But it is also the first generation in several centuries for which the act of faith has been an obsessive problem, quite aside from the reasons for having a particular faith or not having it. It exhibits on every side, and in a bewildering number of facets, a perfect craving to believe.

Though it is certainly a generation of extremes, including both the hipster and the radical young Republican in its ranks, it renders unto Caesar (i.e, society) what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s. For the wildest hipster, making a mystique of bop, drugs and the night life, there is no desire to shatter the ‘square’ society in which he lives, only to elude it. To get on a soapbox or write a manifesto would seem to him absurd. Looking at the normal world, where most everything is a ‘drag’ for him, he nevertheless says: ‘Well, that’s the Forest of Arden after all. And even it jumps if you look at it right.’ Equally, the young Republican, though often seeming to hold up Babbitt as his culture hero, is neither vulgar nor materialistic, as Babbitt was. He conforms because he believes it is socially practical, not necessarily virtuous. Both positions, however, are the result of more or less the same conviction — namely that the valueless abyss of modern life is unbearable.

For beneath the excess and the conformity, there is something other than detachment. There are the stirrings of a quest. What the hipster is looking for in his ‘coolness’ (withdrawal) or ‘flipness’ (ecstasy) is, after all, a feeling on somewhereness, not just another diversion. The young Republican feels that there is a point beyond which change becomes chaos, and what he wants is not simply privelege or wealth, but a stable position from which to operate. Both have had enough of homelessness, valuelessness, faithlessness.

The variety and the extremity of their solutions are only a final indication that for today’s young people there is not as yet a single external pivot around which they can, as a generation, group their observations and their aspirations. There is no single philosophy, no single party, no single attitude. The failure of most orthodox moral and social concepts to reflect fully the life they have known is probably the reason for this, but because of it each person becomes a walking, self-contained unit, compelled to meet, or at least endure, the problem of being young in a seemingly helpless world in his own way.

More than anything else, this is what is responsible for this generation’s reluctance to name itself, its reluctance to discuss itself as a group, sometimes its reluctance to be itself. For invented gods invariably disappoint those who worship them. Only the need for them goes on, and it is this need, exhausting one object after another, which projects the Beat Generation forward into the future and will one day deprive it of its beatness.

Dostoyevski wrote in the early 1880’s that ‘Young Russia is talking of nothing but the eternal questions now.’ With appropriate changes, something very like this is beginning to happen in America, in an American way; a re-evaluation of which the exploits and attitudes of this generation are only symptoms. No single comparison of one generation against another can accurately measure effects, but it seems obvious that a lost generation, occupied with disillusionment and trying to keep busy among the broken stones, is poetically moving, but not very dangerous. But a beat generation, driven by a desparate craving for belief and as yet unable to accept the moderations which are offered it, is quite another matter. Thirty years later, after all, the generation of which Dostoyevski wrote was meeting in cellars and making bombs.

This generation may make no bombs; it will probably be asked to drop some, and have some dropped on it, however, and this fact is never far from its mind. It is one of the pressures which created it and will play a large part in what will happen to it. There are those who believe that in generations such as this there is always the constant possibility of a great new moral idea, conceived in desparation, coming to life. Others note the self-indulgence, the waste, the apparent social irresponsibility, and disagree.

But its ability to keep its eyes open, and yet avoid cynicism; its ever-increasing conviction that the problem of modern life is essentially a spiritual problem; and that capacity for sudden wisdom which people who live hard and go far possess, are assets and bear watching. And, anyway, the clear, challenging faces are worth it.

Photo credit: Mellon Tytell.

[what-if-nct]

hiiii today's reminder is let's indeed talk about Ted Mosby because yes i do know. what a slimy self centred cheating manipulating little worm. how is he the romantic lead we're supposed to root for when he spends the entire series proving that he sees love as lip service and grand gestures rather than actual commitment or consistent effort, all while complaining about how he's a hopeless romantic. like no you're just a dick who uses women as long as they make you feel good about yourself and then moves on with zero lessons learned. even Barney after decades of seeing women as objects steps up when he's in love, but Ted and his supposed respect for women only last as long as it's convenient to him. also he's just so fucking condescending and annoying ugh. the show is so well written and so fun and has great moments throughout but i just can never get into it again because of how much i hate Ted

Hii! Yessss!! And the thing is he could never see when he was wrong ever. Everything he did was complete justified in his eyes. Like how is the womanizer of the group a better partner than you . The technical main character. And the finale. What was the point of all of that? His wife passes, he shares how he met her but it was just him telling his kids about all of his failed relationships (all on his part) that led to it and how much he actually loves Robin so he can be with Robin. Who I wish actually stayed with Barney even with his faults. Marshall though by far one of the best men in general. Like I loved him and Lily so much. Random but I've had a crush on Lily's actress Alyson Hannigan ever since I watched Buffy when I was little. When I discovered Taylor Swift at 12 it opened my eyes to all of the crushes I had on women prior no wonder my first real life boy crush wasn't till I was ten. Before that all I knew was I loved Shawn Hunter . Speaking of male leads who suck. Cory Matthews was absolutely insufferable. Also he looks like an ear of corn. But Shawn and Eric are my babies. Also is it me or Does Jonghyun look like Matthew Lawrence I've thought that for the past ten years but never said it cause I didn't know anyone who would know what I was talking about.

Oh Random but there's a YouTuber named Jake Webber I've been obsessed with I found him like five or six years ago but I just started watching him again and I am in love with him as well as his ex girlfriend Tara. But Jake is somehow emo but has this feral redneck quality that appeals to me for some reason. One he's ridiculous two he understands the joys of Reese's, mint and chocolate. And when he said he likes when energy drinks taste like energy drinks. I said like battery acid and then he said like battery acid I fell in love that's my soulmate. Also I had my monthly monster today and I feel fine I might not sleep tonight though. Tara is hilarious and just as feral but in a way that I personally connect to. Also she's vegetarian. Which I'm officially done with chicken. I'm ready to go full vegetarian. I've been slowly weaning myself and have had months at a time I didn't touch meat but I'm fully ready now.

[cleoselene]

had a meeting with my neurologist today, the 3 month long talk meeting we have, and lmao. he just got back from vacation in Italy and I was like, "did you have a nice trip?" and he was like "ehhhhhh! I was on a plane for 23 hours to look at some old church! I would have rather stayed home with my dog." and I was like looool. I feel this. Then he started saying how it was depressing to look at the old medieval church shit, saying "some guy 500 years ago spent his whole life making this one part of the church. and that was his WHOLE LIFE!" and I was all "well... I suppose it's better than toiling in the fields for your lord?"

I think he really enjoys my visits because we spend most of it having bullshit conversation. the nurses have told me that they enjoy younger patients like me because a lot of the older patients have bad dementia and can't really hold a conversation. after Italy bashing, we had a discussion about the Great Depression Midwestern Casseroles we were raised on in our childhoods. His mom was a cream of chicken soup lady, though, whereas my household was always on the cream of mushroom side. Horrible fucking food, lol. Just the worst.

anyway, another reason I love him is because he is EQUALLY as over the bullshit the state of Florida makes us go through to secure my 120 pain pills every month. He HATES that he can't put in refills anymore, lol, and today I asked him to refill it like I do every month, and CVS sent me a text later in the day saying I needed to contact them because the prescription was "on hold." And I'm like bzuh? and then I notice my doc submitted the script three times when I went online, and called and hahaha. He submitted three SEPARATE scripts for the next three months to get around the "no refills" thing and this is something that CVS is very 50/50 about handling lol. In the past they have let him do it but they have also been like "lol NO" when he's tried it before too. Tonight the pharmacist got utterly confused by it and did not understand what the doctor was doing and said that insurance tried to process it three times, which lol. All because he doesn't feel like having to send an electronic script every month. I FEEL U, DOC. THE HOOPS THEY PUT SICK PEOPLE THROUGH TO GET MEDS ARE SO FUCKED.

but like, bless him? he NEVER gives me shit about maintaining my script, never tells me maybe I should wean myself off, never whines about the state putting pressure on him. He just fills it and lets me have what I need. I hate hate hate Florida but I am seriously worried that when I move my next neurologist will not be as totally awesome as mine. It wasn't like I got lucky with him, either, I cycled through three other neurologists (none of whom were MS specialists and weren't even capable of properly diagnosing me let alone treating me) before I found my guy! And he's just about the sweetest person you could meet and brings his aforementioned dog he'd rather hang out with than visit the Vatican to work with him sometimes. The good news is he networks like crazy and probably will be able to refer me to someone great. His referrals are always awesome, too. He does a lot of travel and speaking at conferences because he's a clinical researcher so he knows people, and I'm hoping he'll know the right person to refer me to when the time comes to escape this hellscape state