#Harm Gerdes

[jareckiworld]

Harm Gerdes — The Architect (acrylic on polymer canvas, 2023)

#Harm Gerdes #german art #german painting #expressive art

[nicecollection]

Harm Gerdes - Liquid Yellows, 160 x 120cm, acrylic on polymer canvas, 2022

#Harm Gerdes #2022 #painting #yellow #art #artist #kust #contemporary art

[hobbinch]

Rescheduling tarpits :c

#the sorcerer (gerd) has harmed me once again

[roseamoungstthethorns]

A take on veganism

While veganism can do good on the world, It's current climate is toxic and unhealthy.

There is no act an individual can to that will effect the level of harm that corporations cause

The especially white vegan view of you have to be fully vegan in everything you consume is toxic, unethical, and often in achievable.

Plastic leather (pleather or vegan leather) is horrible for the environment and your wallet. It sheds a ridiculous amount of plastic products into the environment and does not hold up with time causing you to have to buy more and more. This of course causes more plastic in the environment and more expenses to you.

Most leather is used as a byproduct from cows killed for the meat industry meaning these cows would still be killed if you did not consume leather as they are skilled for hamburger etc. and then instead of discarding their skin it is used for a durable environmentally friendly product.

In again, especially white vegans, the bid to not consume any animal products leads to more harm than good in cases.

Foods like quinoa (grain that has amino acids and protein) and agave (common substitute for honey) harm farmers and the countries who rely on them due to vegans driving up global demand.

Many vegans will boycott honey as it is derived from bees, but will still consume almond milk. This is hypocritical as bees are not harmed in the production of honey, buy are harmed in the transportation to and pollinating of almond groves.

The crazy vegan stereotype turns people away from veganism and decreased animal consumption. The over the top, angry, all or nothing type creates hatred towards the vegan community steating people away from it which creates the opposite effect that it is trying to.

Critic of concepts such as meatless Monday hurts everyone. Most people can't or aren't willing to be vegan or vegetarian but concepts such as meatless Mondays allows for less meat to be cooked when it otherwise would be.

The idea that vegan or vegetarian diets are cheaper is false. This is only true if your diet is mainly beans and rice, but that is not how almost everyone eats. Produce, and dairy and meat substitutes are more expensive than animal products. Furthermore in food deserts or countries/areas where vegan/vegetarian lifestyles aren't common it may be next to impossible to not consume animal products due to low availability and high price.

Most vegans and vegetarians will allow for medications that include animal products, but those who don't create an unsafe space for people who rely on them.

Medications is not the only reason to need to consume animal products and this is where the real danger lies. Any condition that causes a restrictive diet poses a risk in restricting more. Yes, veganism and vegetarism are restrictive diets. Some, but definitely not all, are chron's, gerd, ANY ED, needing to tube feed, IBS, colonoscopy bag users, people on a liquid diet, and much more. Talk to your healthcare provider please before attempting vegan or vegetarian lifestyles if you have any of these types of issues. The vegan movement shames people who rely on animal products to stay healthy and that is dangerous.

Racism plays into the vegan movement as well. Many, again, especially white, vegans shame cultures who use animals. Cultures and traditions who care for animals, use all their parts, farm, and take care of their land and animals are much better than traditionally western practices and the need for veganism is no longer needed. The animals and land are cared for and treated respectfully. Veganism would do more harm than good here.

There us a line between ethical and unethical veganism, however the line is blurred. Knowing when it does more harm than good is not often enough talked about and I believe it's important that unethical veganism is talked about more.

Some ways to help promote ethical living besides veganism

Freegan. A freegan is vegan with the exception to animal products that would otherwise be discarded.

Ethical consumption. Buy from local farmers. Start a community garden. Have your own chickens for eggs. Etc.

Trade and barter. This works around capitalism which is a driving factor towards unethical animal practices.

Support indigenous people. They know how to care for the land and the animals. Importantly their rights have been abused and violated and we need to support them as well.

Shop local. This keeps money out of the hands of big corporations. As well as being environmentally friendly due to less co2 emissions.

Reduce reuse recycle. Start by reducing the products use consume. Then reuse what you can as much as you can. Finally recycle everything you can. This is the order that makes the smallest imprint.

Pescitarian. The only meat pescitarians consume is fish.

Vegetarian. Vegetarians consume animal products but not animals. This can include eggs, but not chickens, milk, but not cow, honey, silk etc. Lakto-vegitarians consume dairy but not eggs and ovo-vegitarians consume eggs but not dairy.

Cutting out any type of meat or animal products.

Only consuming foods that are ethically produced in regards to the environment, animals, and/or humans

Feel free to add more

Remember your health comes first, there is no ethical consumption under capitalism, any change is better than no change.

TL;DR Veganism has problems and isn't the end all be all of ethicality. Reduce consumption in general in the ways you can. Remember your health comes first.

#psa #veganism #vegan #vegitarian #ethical consumption #anti vegan #white veganism #white vegan

[doyoulike-whatyousee]

Okay so I’ve seen multiple posts about BED now, which is nice! So I decided to make a post about the side affects of binge eating, since people seem to think it’s only weight gain.

Diabetes

Joint problems

Isolation

Stomach pain

High blood pressure, sugar, and cholesterol.

Heart attack

Stroke

Malnutrition (yes, people who aren’t underweight can be malnourished) which can then cause a load of problems

Ruptured stomach

Sleep apnea

GERD

Disorders/Behaviours commonly seen in people with BED:

Depressive disorders

Anxiety disorders

Bipolar disorders

Substance use and substance use disorder

Feelings of shame, guilt, regret, sadness

Self harm

Suicide ideation and attempts

Binge eating can kill. Please please get help for it, even if you have to try yourself. I know it can be embarrassing and seem like a stupid problem like “why can’t I just control myself” but it is a disorder. You can’t control yourself because you have a disorder. It’s not embarrassing, it’s not stupid, you’re not weak.

[pradame]

hi how often should i take ginger and lemon shots? i made and drank some today for the first time but some people say to have it daily and others say 2x a week to to prevent acid reflux or GERD

I hear two teaspoons of ginger root daily won’t cause any harmful side affects!

i take turmeric & chamomile tea with lemon everyday

[icedteaandoldlace]

🍄🪐🍬

🍄 ⇢ Share a head canon for one of your favorite ships or pairings

Kamilla is demisexual, and her interest in sex is completely tied to her ability to experience attraction. This was seen as a problem in some of her previous relationships, with the guys she was dating reacting badly in different ways.

On one of her first dates with Cisco, they went for a walk after dinner, and stopped at a pretty spot, and Cisco put his arm around her while they were enjoying the view. After going back and forth in her head a few times, Kamilla finally decided that now would be a good time to come out to him. She let him know that he wasn't making her uncomfortable, and she liked the closeness, but she could tell that he was already at a place in his mind that it would take her a little while longer to get to, and she wanted to get this conversation out of the way before there could be any awkwardness.

To her surprise and relief, Cisco was unfazed, and he asked her for a quick rundown on what she would be comfortable with and what would make her feel weird. She answered all his questions, and then the date continued like nothing had happened.

Cisco let Kamilla set the pace for how physical their relationship got and how soon, and interestingly enough, even though it's Cisco's slowest moving relationship in that regard, it's Kamilla's fastest. And Cisco likes moving things slower with her. It's a nice change to be dating someone whose primary interest is in his personality, and who gets enthralled instead of bored when he infodumps about science stuff.

They were both a little thrown when she kissed him outside her door that night. She's never done that this soon before.

🪐 ⇢ Name three good things going on in your life right now

My GERD management has gotten a lot better and I'm not getting heartburn nearly as often or as bad as I was before.

I found a good church with nice, genuine people, and no barrage of politics or harmful social views, and I'm happy to have that in my life again.

Finally, FINALLY, I've got the litter box odors in my house under control!! Just needed an airtight container to put the bags of used litter in so I could scoop it more frequently without having to make trips to the dumpster every day.

🍬 ⇢ Post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character

Justin Hartley will always be the real Oliver Queen to me.

#ask #shrinkthisviolet #Kamisco #writer truth or dare

[callsign-bunnie]

Welcome back. I have a question, are you going to continue the 52 Letters to Simon Riley. Or are you just done with that?

The thing is that I really wanted to. I really did.

I know that I have a few fics that I've left unfinished, I do. Trust me, no one feels more frustrated with it than I do. I want to continue all of them and I likely will continue to post chapters for them. I'm working on the next chapter of Slasher Fieldtrip, rn.

After about a half a year, I am just exhausted. I try not to actually talk in depth about my mental health issues super publically, though I've indulged in what was formerly my discord server and I'll open up to individuals. I know I've made memes and sort of touched on it here and there, too.

However, I think it's time. I've said it before but the main three things that are constantly kicking my ass are OCD, BPD, and autism. I have physical health issues, too, like PCOS, POTS, and potential fibromyalgia, though my mother would like to lead me towards lyme disease. I am also having to put together the resources to very immanently get assessed for GERDS and a neurological issue.

I have dyslexia as well.

For the past year, since about February, I think, I have been in a constant cycle of episodes triggered by my BPD or OCD, depressive episodes, then right back to the first. When I would post frequently would be when I was likely psychotic. The worst of this was definitely February to March before I started to take weed regularly, which really helped with my episodes.

I call them psychotic episodes because that's always been how they've been described to me by, admittedly, non-professionals, but I am starting to understand that that's likely not fully what they are. As always, I'm willing to talk about it more, if asked.

I want to sort of fully document this last year. However, if you're not interested in that and you want a short answer: I don't know. I would like to keep writing 52 Letters, I really would. I have plans to return to it, I do plan to finish it, too, but for now, it's very much up in the air.

However, the long explanation is down below.

--

TW: Talks of psychosis, self harm, delusions, suicide, and paranoia

So, about December of 2021, my wife and I made the decision to move to Texas. I don't really regret that, actually I'm not one to regret much, but it very much was a bad idea. We lived in an area that was very high with industrial factories and being around chemicals all the time are just not a great idea. I'm not a crunchy person, I don't believe all chemicals are bad, but my wife and I were physically and mentally super ill the entire year.

During this year, I couldn't go outside if the temp was above 90 F (This was Texas, a reminder.) My wife and I fought constantly, and I was having severe delusions. All the way from seeing ghosts, to being convinced that people were in love with me, to being convinced they were plotting my death. My wife also had very frequent episodes. Her mental health is not mine to talk about, but it was bad. I did have a therapist around this time, but I was too scared to open up about my delusions and so I suffered in silence. I did not tell anyone about my delusions because when I do, I always get the same reaction. I have told people who are in the field of mental health who have openly judged me and told me that it's bad, so I just don't, anymore.

As such, it was a fairly miserable year.

We moved back December of 2022, which is when I would get into COD, obvis. At this point, I had two books that I was actively writing that I literally dropped to start writing fanfiction. I had a lot of fun, I loved it. I would also make a discord server which was fun... at first. I don't really blame anyone else, for the record. A few people and I definitely bumped heads for quite a few reasons and I'm very sorry for that.

However, this discord server kind of took over as a source of my main mental health issues. See, BPD on it's own is shitty. OCD is worse. Together is a fresh new hell. Most of my OCD symptoms feed into or are fed by my BPD, which makes them worse. Triggers for BPD can very quickly spiral me down into episodes of OCD where I am just off the walls.

I have had to very quickly learn that making friends is not something I am adept at or even really able to do right now. However, I will admit that I was partially "manic" (being used as I have no idea what else to call it) all the way from December to February. I'm talking total god complex, I can't die mentality. I was having auditory hallucinations, I wasn't eating so I was sick all of the time (hypoglycemia and POTS), and the only thing fueling me was the positive feedback of fics. I would write things I wasn't happy with just to post them. I wrote two Ghostsoap fics that I just hated because I knew Ghostsoap was popular.

Writing things that I enjoyed just became a chore because I, unfortunately, have fairly niche interests. I understand that and I know that. I tried to spin things into what I enjoyed, too, but it just never seemed to get traction. I wanted to make these big AUs and focus on them and while the actual writing seemed to do just fine, it felt like none of the fun side parts did, which was what I enjoyed most. I love writing, don't get me wrong, I really do. But I also just love... creating. I love talking to people and discussing ideas and getting feedback and giving it. But... no one wanted that, which is fine, I'm not saying that's bad. However, it triggered me. It triggered me really bad.

Through no one else's fault, it felt like I had became the little kid on the playground again, just trying to get people to talk to me and want to be around me. I'm sure a lot of you understand that feeling, it's soul crushing.

Eventually, this and events on the server (again, no one else's fault) sent me into a full-blown spiral until February rolls around and I am not doing well. I'm sleeping and eating less, I'm also having severe financial issues as well. My wife and I are fighting again and the cherry on the cake was my mother not inviting me to her birthday outing. I will be honest, I remember very little from February to May. I remember that I tried getting a job, which didn't pan out for... obvious reasons. I remember that my brother ended up getting kicked out and moved in with me. I remember my birthday was awful. (To anyone who went out of their way to send me a birthday ask/comment/reblog, I thank you so much, you will never truly understand exactly what they meant to me during the worst birthday of my life.)

In May, my wife turned 21 and so she starts to buy weed, which really started to help. Obviously, weed isn't a fix all but it broke the severe episode that I was going through, which really helped. Even now, it's helped a lot. However, it identified an issue;

I was only writing so much because I was severely ill. I know that it likely was noticed but this is when my writing drops from a chapter every day to being lucky to get 3-4 a week. I think I started to drop fics left and right and I also think this is when I really slowed down my ask box. I think I also started to burn the fuck out really bad around this time, as well.

On top of all of this, I was starting to have severe issues with a friend. I will not talk about this because I do not want to make it public, but these issues really sucked. I also started to have issues with my family, again, and with the weed easing my more psychotic side (again, called psychotic by others, not me), I didn't have anything to combat the depression. All I could do, half the time, when I got overwhelmed, was to just lay down and not do anything or get on the game and play COD.

Something else that is relevant is I hate people. But I hate them in the same way someone with rabies hates water. I don't want to hate people, I really don't. It's part of my mental illness, but it makes it so hard to interact with people. I have no patience, ever, my brother and wife can atest to that. My brain is constantly going and so I have about 50 things I'm constantly thinking of and so when others can't keep up, it just frustrates me. I swear to god, I don't want to be like this. I hate myself, I don't want to constantly snap at people and get so frustrated I start crying because of a bad round on COD, but it's what happens. I didn't want to keep hurting people, though, so I started to isolate myself around, I think, August. I think this is also when my posts started to be less and less fun. I made less and less tweets, I wouldn't just chat with people, because I was so scared of being awful.

On top of this all, I started to notice a pattern in my comment section. Now, I will likely talk about my feelings on this in a separate post, but I really think reading comprehension has taken a decline. I'm sympathetic to it, I am, but I believe it whole-heartedly has. I noticed that, in certain fics, Alejandro would be severely demonized in ways that Ghost was exempt from. Soap would have allowances made for things that Roach would be torn apart for. I would explicitly state that none of my characters are EVER reliable because I approach fics from a place of "realism" (meant in the way that the realism art style is meant), where I want to be hyper-realistic with the way they approach things. This meant that they often didn't have all of the facts.

So, to see people jump to ripping Alejandro and Roach to shreds for the smallest things, or ignore what I was attempting to use for Soap's character development and dismiss everything he does wrong made writing unfun. I stopped writing Soap as a main character and switched to Roach, even stopped including Soap at all in most fics. Old Habits Die Hard was actually going to end with Ghost "meeting" Roach, again, and reconciling with Soap through Roach and I just didn't want to. I really just didn't.

I stopped giving Alejandro any trait that wasn't purely being a simp because if I didn't, everything he did was immediately demonized.

I don't know if it was noticed, because I know it's not big enough to be noticed, but I also stopped replying to most comments because I had to just stop reading them. Thank you to everyone who still continued to comment on my fics, I really do love you guys.

Also, I started to get really frustrated with the COD fandom in general. The rampant MLM fetishization (I mean that word with my entire chest), covert sexism, EXPLICIT sexism, among other issues started to get to me. Something that I never would have guessed in a million years would make me feel dread was opening up about my SEXUAL PREFERENCES. I am a bottom. I have never felt shame or nervousness out of sharing this, despite jokes, because it's just a sexual preference. I'm versatile between Dom and Sub pretty split down the middle, but I am mostly a bottom when I can be. The way that bottoms get treated in fandom culture makes me nauseous and COD was no exception. I'm open to trying to have a conversation about the nuances of sexual preference, but for now I'm going to move on. It's such a stupid issue, too, because I shouldn't have to be explaining why making characters bottoms just to oversexualize/feminize them is fucking weird, but here I am.

So, that pushed me further and further into troubles posting. At some point, I get so sick of Tiktok that I delete it, and I fully stop attempting to read fics on AO3. (Unrelated but still relevant.)

I have more and more friend issues, my family issues get even worse, and then we reach September/November (a bit of a twofer.) By this point, I am exhausted. The one thing that had been keeping me going was headcanon asks, and those just stop. All of my requests for them receive nothing (I AM NOT BLAMING ANYONE), my non-writing posts just get nothing so I didn't have those for a quick hit of dopamine, and I think this is honestly where I crashed on fandom stuff.

I didn't want to keep writing. I'll admit that. I was done. I started to drop fics even more, I started to post them and then I would delete them, I would send myself asks for things I really wanted to write or had already written and then would just never answer the ask, among other things. On top of all of this, everything just started to feel meaningless. My delusions came back, full force, but without the energy to do anything. Nothing I wrote seemed to matter. My life lost all meaning that I still have not managed to get back.

In my personal life, a family member that I have been very close with since I was a baby revealed themselves to be homophobic. I raised their daughter, she used to call me mom, and now I am not allowed to see her. Baby fever hit me hard, too, and it made me realize that I do want a child, I desperately want a child, but I cannot have one. I'm infertile, for one, and so not mentally capable. So, infertility trauma that I had been forcing myself not to confront slammed directly into me. I became so depressed that I think I considered suicide as an option once a day at a point. I attempted multiple times. My self harm addiction spiralled out of control, too, and I'm slowly getting a handle on it, again. But... I think it's safe to say I became miserable.

I don't even remember December. I don't remember any of it. However, I do know that around that point, a severe brain fog set in. There are few ways to clear it, but it feels like my brain is constantly swimming in a vat of acid. It doesn't hurt but it's hard to see, it's hard to think. My best friend can attribute to this, as he was the first one to point out the difference. If my VODs from Twitch were still available, you can HEAR a difference. Before the brain fog, I had no problem articulating myself. Now, I have to pause every five seconds to regather my thoughts. I have never ever known what brain silence feels like, until now, because my brain is constantly going empty and I just can't fucking think. I am also barely sleeping and eating EVEN LESS than I was before, due to financial struggles. I get overwhelmed and overstimulated so easy.

My bsf also has pointed out to me, multiple times, that I will start a sentence and just lose it halfway through. I have started rants with one topic in mind and end up on a completely different topic because I will crash and reboot halfway through. I will cry for no reason, or struggle to cry when I should. I don't know what has happened, but it's scary as hell. I can't go out in public, alone, anymore, because I will get disoriented and start to wander off, or I just will blank out when people are talking to me. My wife has had conversations with me where I just go dead silent mid sentence and then continue again.

This is the main reason I have not been posting, lately.

So, early in January, I decided to pivot to my books. I want to publish and make writing a career, so I decided this is the year to try. Granted, it's not working out very well. I'd love to keep writing fanfiction and I think I'm going to try to restructure into something smaller and a bit less of a strain on me.

I am working on another fic that I don't plan to post until I'm done with it, which is for Alerudy, that I've been very slowly chipping at. As I said, I'm actively writing the next chapter for Slasher Fieldtrip, and I plan to eventually pop out another set of chapters for Grace and Patience.

But I am so tired. I am so exhausted. Neither of us owe each other anything. You don't owe me attention, you do not owe me patience. I do not owe you writing and I do not owe you effort. But I would like to ask for patience if I can give you effort. I don't want you guys to feel pity for me, I'm not asking for that. I am just asking you guys to keep in mind that I am a person and to believe me when I tell you guys that I am going through hell right now. I've said it before that COD cannot be the safe place for me that it is for others, but I still would like this account to be, at least.

I'm sorry that I can't keep living up to the expectations that I set back in December of 2022. Trust me, I look at everything I was doing and I want to scream and cry because I so badly wish I could go back to that. I'm so sorry for that.

If I go weeks without updating, it's because I don't know what day it is, let alone when I'm supposed to post. If I drop a fic out of nowhere, it's because the strain of writing it was more than I could handle.

52 Letters To Simon Riley is a severe angst piece, its handling grief and issues I wasn't even aware I was hiding from. It's heavy and I was irresponsible for thinking it wasn't, and I'm sorry. I want to keep writing it, I have so many ideas, but I also worry about them. I'd like to pivot a focus onto Ghost and Dean, I want to do more with Gaz, but I worry that's not what people want to read.

I have privated it, in a private collective, for now. I will un-private it when I feel like I can go back to investing in a semi-regular posting schedule for it.

I know this post may come across as whining and I'm sorry for that, too. I don't want any of you to think I'm whining or blaming anyone. There are specific people who have contributed to my issues, but they were not doing it, intentionally, and so I blame no one. I do plan to one day return to therapy but I can hardly afford to eat right now, let alone pay for a therapist.

In the meantime, I want to talk more about my books and I want to show more of my art and just try to be a bit more multi-faceted in what I post. I'm still very much into COD, and I will try to post more silly/fun things that aren't necessarily writing for it. Headcanons, tweets, chats, etc.

Thank you for reading through last year. The experience that I've gained from writing over 1.5 million words has been so invaluable. It has made me feel genuinely qualified to write a book, now.

Thank you.

#bunnie speaks

[grace-nakimura]

title: time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it rating: pg-13 for mentions of sexual situations and some light disturbing imagery. pairing: grace nakimura/gabirel knight. also brief mentions of malia gedde/gabriel knight and fredrich von glower/gabriel knight. trigger warning: pregnancy mention. slight sexual situations. disturbing imagery. threat of harm to a child (but thwarted). mental health issues. not beta'd bc it's against my gremlin religion, but can you guess how tswift inspired this? bc she totally did. summary: gabriel's point of view from whoops, in which he buries ghosts, admits that he does have feelings (just no brain cells!), and somehow doesn't run from fatherhood kicking and screaming. (jane jensen i am looking at you GIVE US A BONE TELL ACTIVISION TO GIVE US SOMETHING!)

Time moved slowly. Not for anyone else, but for him it did.  

Seasons came and went, but there he stood, the last Schattenjager, holding down Schloss Ritter like a soldier overrun in battle who didn’t know how to surrender.  

It seemed everyone had a life. They were all making moves, growing, and changing while he still felt stagnant.  

Gerde had gotten married. He didn’t attend the service, didn’t think he could stomach it, but he sent the bride and groom a generous gift of money and beer. Seeing as how Gerde, like most German’s, didn’t trust Gabriel, an American, when it came to beer, she sent it back with a thank you note.  

Mosely was even seeing someone—he didn’t know if he should tell them a good job or that poor woman, so he decided on both when he got the news, only to be hung up on—too. A widower with two sons for the past five months or so. “Still too early to be thinkin’ ‘bout this an’ all, but” Moseley had said over the phone, relaxing at the station in New Orleans while Gabriel nursed his Tennessee Whiskey near his typewriter. “Hell, Knight. Can you imagine me being a dad? Hell, I’m hardly a good enough uncle to my sister’s kids.” 

He could, actually; one of those picket fence type of fathers who wore a fanny-pack with snacks, always complaining about the thermostat, and grilled burgers and hot dogs on Sunday evenings. The sort that Gabriel used to dream about when he was a kid. Like hell he’d ever admit it, though, so instead he went with, “at least they won’t get your looks.”  

“Ass.” 

“Still got a better one than you, Mostly.” 

And he stayed still, all alone in Schloss Ritter, surrounded by mountains and trees, more of a ghost most days than a person. 

Gran was another one he worried about. Her mind was sharper than a whip, but her body began to fall behind, little by little. Pretty soon she wouldn’t be able to live by herself, something she took so much pride in, and when he had to tell her that the hitch in her breath broke his heart. 

“We all grow old sometime, Gabriel,” she had told him over the phone, keeping good cheer and forcing a smile that never met her eyes. He knew that smile. That was his girl. His world. He hated ever being the reason for her to have that look.  

“You ain’t ever getting' old, Gran,” he said, in an attempt of levity. “Besides, ain’t for a while, yet. It’s just something we gotta look after. I’ll be by to visit you soon. Got so many stories to tell you about Granddaddy’s family.”  

He also missed her more than anything.  

She had laughed and if he could imagine it, he would be able to see how her eyes would roll heavenward good-naturedly, but at least her eyes were smiling along with her mouth this time. “I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart.” And then, as always, “I love you, dear. Take care.” 

When he wasn’t being a Schattenjager, or a writer with the largest bout of writer’s block known to man, he would lay on his back spread eagle and stare at the ceiling in his study. Sometimes he would think of Grace. 

Depending on how sober he was, or how lonely, he mostly just thought of the things he wanted to tell her. Whenever he had a new idea for a book, or a breakthrough on a case, or just a thought in general, his first instinct always was, I’ve gotta tell Gracie. Only to remember, oh, she was on another continent. Unreachable. Gone. 

When he was really, really drunk, he would think of that night. If it was only once, they would both brush it off as adrenaline, but they slept with each other more than once. No matter what he’d tell anyone in the light of day, once wasn’t enough that night, and considering his back was covered with the markings of her nails the next morning, it was the same for her. 

 Three whole times that night.  

He was thirty-five. While there wasn’t much thinking involved, he had to admit that he was damn impressed with his stamina. Mostly with Grace, who was every bit of the firecracker he had imagined. She was all fire and consumed every inch of him that, if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought he was being possessed. 

Morning had come, as it always would, and everything changed. 

Now she was miles away with only a note. He didn’t remember what it said, didn’t bother keeping it when he crumbled it up, but he got the jest: she outgrew him, she needed more, and wished him the best.  

He could focus on how angry, how hurt, he had been, but what really haunted him was how hurt she looked that morning. 

“Ass,” he said to the ether, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

“You do have a good one,” a silky voice spoke. When he turned around, Malia sat—or an apparition, or just his mind playing tricks on him, or both—on the sofa in his study, legs crossed, looking every bit the same she did when he first saw her. Ebony curls framed her face, and those deep brown that held flecks of gold made her eyes almost seem ethereal. “That was my first thought when I saw you with the Detective—damn, that man has a nice ass.”  

A chuckle bubbled from Gabriel, his eyes growing misty, even if he didn’t want them to. Didn’t deserve to cry over her. He sat up but remained where he was. He didn’t dare stand. He also didn’t dare to walk over to her. He wanted to keep Malia Gedde, forever thirty-something, forever lovely, in his mind as she was.  

“I wish I could’ve saved you,” he hated to make that bright smile falter, but he needed her to know that. She was the first woman he’d ever could imagine a future with. They had known each other for a handful of days, sure, but his parents were a whirlwind romance, too. That future went to ash just when she did. “I always save you when I dream.”  

It was her who moved off the sofa, who sat by him, this phantom of Malia Gedde, the first woman he ever loved, and cupped his face with both of her hands so he could look at her. “You did, Gabriel,” a ghost of a kiss was pressed on his lips, “I didn’t have much of a life before you; I was Lazarus, and you gave me life. Now let me return the favor.” She rubbed her nose against his, and his eyes fell shut as did hers, willing time to continue to slow for this moment. “Live.” 

“Ain’t that what I’m doin’?” He sounded petulant, which made her huff out a laugh, but he kept on. “Might have a great ass, but not exactly a great person to be around.” 

She pressed her lips against his forehead, almost an atonement, almost a benediction. “Fight a little while longer, Mr. Knight,” her lips moved against his forehead, and he was brought back to the few nights in his room at the bookshop, entwined together as his hands roamed up and down her dark skin, entwining in those ebony curls of hers as she straddled his lap at a furious pace.  

After, she always placed a kiss on his forehead, once the two came down from their heights and settled back on earth.  

“I’ll always be with you, my love.” 

He woke up, back acting up something awful for sleeping on the floor, still feeling the lips against his forehead.  

*** 

Gran fell in her kitchen one Saturday afternoon. It took him no time at all to book the quickest flight to New Orleans, and within the handful of hours from Munich to the states, he onboarded the plane from Louis Armstrong International and took the first Taxi he saw to the hospital.  

“It was just a little fall,” Gran had soothed him as he sat by her bed, holding her smaller, wrinkled hand in his. “Got a few bruises, is all. I’m fine.”  

For all the times she’d narrow her eyes to his bold-faced lies, he returned the favor, placing a kiss on that hand of hers reverently. “This time it’s a few bruises, Gran. What about the next?”  

His life was already full of shadows. The day Rebecca Knight would go gently into that good night, and he knew she would, all that was warm and bright would go with her. She had raised him. Loved him. Accepted him with open arms. He knew she had reservations on how he lived his life, mostly out of coming from a different time when most men his age were married, settled, with scours of little ones, but she never made a fuss. She always listened to him and encouraged him to follow his heart.  

“We’ll pick out someone to come and see you regularly,” Gabriel began before she could say anything else, “someone that you like. Don’t worry ‘bout the cost; nothin’ but the best for my girl.”  

She snorted, shaking her head as she lay on the hospital bed, smiling up at him as if he were nine and told her of his day, mostly about making mischief with Mosely. He had always left out the things that would get him in big trouble, though, but he figured she knew of them all the same. “And what about you, dear?” 

“What about me?” 

That smile turned sad, and the hand he had been holding snuck out of his grasp to run his hands through his unruly strawberry-blond hair. The red came from his mama, just like his eyes; the rest came from his daddy. Gran always said that his daddy lived on in his smile. “I know you’re a grown man, but sometimes I look at you, and I still see that little boy.” Gran looked wistful. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?” 

He made a face, but she ignored him. She knew his tells more than anyone else. “It’s your life, you know, I just... I just know how long life can be, if you’re lucky, but also how lonely it could be with no one, if you’re unlucky.” 

A thought came to him, “were you lonely, Gran?”  

She shook her head, swallowing hard, “never, not when I had you, even miles away from you—not lonely. Never lonely. I only want you to feel like that someday. Whole.” 

***  

He stayed for a week, or maybe edging on for a week and a half, meeting client after client. She eventually decided on a redhead who was studying for her Nursing degree at Tulane. The girl looked younger than she probably was, proudly showing her engagement ring to Gran who cooed and tittered, and that was that. Her name was Rose. Cute kid, bit of an old soul, and out of the fifty candidates she was the only one to make his Gran laugh so hard her whole-body shook.  

“Call me when you can, dear,” she had told him and given him one of those bone crushing hugs that he’d missed more than he’d like to admit. He even returned it, causing her to chuckle. “Also, tell that Grace to call, too. I’ve missed her stories.” 

If she noticed how his body went frigid at the mention of Grace, she said nothing, but with leaving a kiss on her rouge covered cheek he got his things and left. Not after telling her, he loved her, and that he would call as soon as he could.  

He even met with Mosely. Met his girlfriend, Daniella, and immediately gave her condolences. Her boys were with her late husband’s parents for the weekend, but he promised to return soon to meet them, too.  

Her oldest, Antonio, was a fan of his books, even though he was only fourteen years old. Hadn’t he read Dracula at eleven? He couldn’t judge.  

He left New Orleans feeling a little lighter, anyway.  

It just made returning to Rittersberg bearable, knowing he did right by at least one person in his life.  

Imagine his surprise when he saw Gerde’s car where it usually was. Imagine his surprise when he went into the ancestral castle to hear two voices, female, whispering over a roaring fire.  

The blonde with the curls was Gerde. Bright eyed and happier than she had been in some time, making peace with his Uncle Wolfgang’s death, while moving on with her life with the sort of uncanny humility and grace many of those who had plenty of years on her would never be able to do. The sort of resilience many never write stories about, or wax poetic about, or even consider to be a strength, when it was the utmost example of true strength that a human being could possess.  

“— if I were you, I would focus on telling Gabriel—,” 

That caught his attention, and suddenly he made his presence known, “Tellin’ me what?” 

It was then he noticed the woman Gerde was speaking to. Almost hard to, since it’s been months since he had seen her. Every time he thought about her, he thought of that face she made when he dismissed her, how it was the first time he ever made her face crumble like a house of cards that he knew of, and it was a lance to his heart every time he imagined it. She began to cough, Gerde patting her back encouragingly, and once she waved the blonde woman off Gabriel noticed how quickly she scurried out of the room, leaving a cup of cocoa behind.  

“Grace?” This wasn’t an apparition, right? Gerde was talking to her, who wasn’t in his mind since she had bumped into me in her attempt to leave—quickly—and even avoiding eye contact while doing so. She stood up slowly, pushing herself as if she were a guilty child, being prepared for the scolding of a lifetime, and slowly turned around. 

Her hair had gotten longer. He liked it. It fell in a loose brain that she wore on the side, her dark bangs wispy, always said she liked them because it covered her large forehead. She looked fuller, skin aglow from the firelight, and the first thought was, hell, why did I never notice how beautiful she was? Oh, she was attractive, but beautiful?  

It almost took his breath away.  

When he noticed how she absent-mindedly rubbed her stomach—her rather round stomach, and not a product of eating well but something else—his breath did leave him.  

“Hi, Gabe.” 

She sounded younger. Five years his junior, sure, but now she just sounded so...small. She, who always seemed like a giant by way of her personality, suddenly didn’t seem so big anymore.  

It killed him. 

He made his way in front of her and there they stood, illuminated by the flames in the fireplace, no more than five feet apart and looked everywhere but each other.  

It sounded like the worst thing to ever ask, and he knew he had no right to ask, “is it mine?” It didn’t matter the answer. He’d offer her all he could no matter what. She nodded, and he felt his stomach drop. Shit. “Right. Well, damn, Gracie. You keepin’ it?”  

Not his business. Right, but the question slipped out none the less.  

“Her,” and despite himself, his breath catches. Her. A girl. A little girl that, if Grace never made her way back to Rittersberg, he’d never know about. “I wanted to tell you in person. I, um, I don’t want anything, or I don’t want to make you do anything...” 

He nodded. He kept nodding with every word she said like an idiot. “No, no, I get it,” but there she was giving him that look, “I do.” And then, because this was so much—he's going to be a daddy to a little girl that has been living for, what, six months, without his knowledge. He and Grace had made a little girl that night. He, a fatherless child, was going to be a father! —he blurted out, “well, um, your room is still yours. Nice to see you, Grace.”  

He stumbled as he ran up the winding stairs, doing his best to ignore the sound of Grace’s sobbing.  

*** 

“If you had chosen me,” a heavily accented voice told him in his ear, a firm hand placed on his shoulder almost gently, “you would’ve never been in this predicament.”  

“And more lives lost than saved,” he told the phantom, shrugging off Fredrich’s hand as if it burnt him. More ghosts in the night, always hovering near him, and his bare feet made their way toward his window. A full moon. Sometimes if he imagined it hard enough, he would hear wolves howling.  

He never missed how his heart clenched at the memory.  

“Do you hate me that much, Gabriel, that you can’t even look at me?” 

It’s because I don’t hate you that I can’t, he thought with a grimace, swallowing. “I told you to go before.” He hated how his voice broke.  

Ever so dominant, full of confidence that Gabriel only played pretend at, he moved to where Gabriel had to face him anyway. He looked just like he did on the night he spent at his estate, sitting across from him, drinking and laughing together, being pulled in with those rich brown eyes. Christ. He had a type. “We would have made such beautiful memories, my friend,” his thumb traced Gabriel’s bottom lip, causing the man to open his mouth without thinking.  

He never thought about men before. After, he only ever thought of one. Then Fredrich spoke, and the spell ended. “I only wished that you chose me.” 

And since this had to be all in his head, he had a chance to be honest, “if only you wanted me as I was,” Gabriel replied. “I wanted you as you were.”  

Or, well, maybe somewhat honest. Did he want him as he really was, or who he was presented as?  

All Gabriel knew was that he wanted him. All he knew was that much like Malia, if things had been different, there could’ve been a future.  

The smile the baron made was rueful, catching the uncertainty of his last statement, but instead of when he haunted him before his brown eyes weren’t so hard. “Sad, isn’t it? You kill me so you can live,” Gabriel’s heart clenched painfully, “but you are hardly living. Not even for your little one, growing in the belly of your assistant in a room not too far from you—do you hear how she cries, Gabriel? How scared she is while you hide in your room?” 

He said nothing.  

Still, the man went on, “do you know how lucky you are to be given such a gift? If I had a chance to experience a family, a family of my own choosing without being chained to what is considered traditional, I would’ve taken it without thought.” Regardless of his words earlier, Gabriel heard nothing but raw honesty. “Fought and killed for it with all my power.” 

“Kill me or kiss me,” because he was at the end of his rope. Fredrich von Glower was dead and gone and he didn’t need to think of some fantasy where he and Grace and the black fucking wolf played house. It hurt enough to have him here when it wasn’t really him. “Just shut the hell up.” 

Funny how the first kiss, their first kiss, would be in his head. All teeth and aggression, mixed with a pining he had never known. Fredrich von Glower had seduced him, who usually was the one who seduced, flawlessly, and even in death he had him in his web. Never slept with the man, but God, if he were alive, if he were here right now— 

Air. There was nothing but air when he came too, leaning against the cold window of his room, breathing harshly.  

*** 

Talking with Grace was...something. He couldn’t avoid it, push it under the rug, because the evidence of what they both did grew and grew little by little. She waddled about, rubbing her lower back herself, sporting mostly maternity overalls over a sweater because, even if she was raised in New York, New Orleans spoiled me with its heat. It’s too damn cold here, Knight. He’d almost grown fond of hearing the shuffling of her house shoes because, well, only white people walk around in a home with their shoes on, ass.  

“That baby in there is half-white, you know,” the cheek came so easy, like coming home in some ways.  

Grace gave as good as she got, “oh, I know. It’s why the only spices I’ve been able to handle are salt and pepper.” 

He laughed. Oh, how he laughed, and oh how he missed her. The best thing about it? She laughed, too, and he missed that even more.  

She wasn’t a ghost. She was there, in front of him, her eyes darker than Fredrich’s and Malia’s combined, but they twinkled like tiny diamonds whenever she laughed. No glasses, still, only contacts. Too much maintenance, she had told him when he had asked about the change.  

He went with her to Munich to on check-ups, peering at a blurry, black and white blob on the screen as the baby’s heartbeat filled the room; couldn’t really tell that there was a baby, besides the heartbeat and Grace’s expanded stomach, but something made his heart skip, nonetheless. “You guys sure it’s gonna be a girl?” Hell, its technology, after all. It wasn’t perfect.  

“Ja, Herr Knight,” the assistant replied with a laugh, “see here?” She pointed with the hand that wasn’t controlling the wand on Grace’s stomach and he leaned over to take a closer look, “that is just an arm, and there is a leg, and—oh, it looks like she’s tired of us looking! She’s turning around.” 

“I don’t blame her,” Grace said, and Gabriel didn’t miss the note of fondness in her voice.  

Blood work was fine. The scans were fine. Everything was fine, but something began to claw at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.  

After the appointment—to which she needed to pee as soon as she was dressed—they ate at McDonalds. It was cheap, near the clinic, and it had a restroom.  

It seemed most of what Grace did was pee.  

They ordered an extra pair of fries to go on the way back to Schloss Ritter, and when she wasn’t stuffing her face with fries—he was able to steal a few with only a glare that had no heat to it when caught—they made small talk. Safe topics. “I need to ask you something. Don’t be mad, okay?” 

Well, mostly safe topics.  

“Shoot,” he turned right, keeping his eyes on the road. He missed his bike, drove better on it, but when he suggested he could install a little seat beside him as he drove since she couldn’t exactly straddle a bike anymore, the groan she made sounded like she was being tortured.  

“Are we having a Whoops, or just a black-and-white blob?” 

He barked out a laugh. She laughed, too, and suddenly they both physically could not stop laughing. “I thought it was only me!” She shook her head and when she snorted, she quickly covered her mouth. “Maybe that can be another name for her? Gabrielle Whoops Heartburn Blob. Nobles always have more than one name.” 

Settling just a bit, she shook her head, before suddenly her face fell. “I have to pee again.”  

Of course. 

Like always, as soon as they entered the castle, he went up to his study to check his messages while he heard Grace flush the toilet in the distance.  

That itch came back tenfold when Scotland Yard contacted him.  

*** 

It hit too fucking close to home.  

A little girl had been kidnapped. Some occult group not unlike the old lady he met months ago, were said to have been kidnapping people in the Highlands for years. Scotland Yard was called when the child taken was the only daughter of Prime Minister hopeful.  

The mother was beside herself, of course. Face gaunt with circles under her eyes. Devastated.  

The father? The father appeared disinterested. Put out. As if this was all a waste of time. He was normally shit at reading people, but after all he’d been through, and maybe it was just paranoia, something at the back of his head sent out a warning. Could be something, could be nothing; he could be involved, or he could be a righteous prick that didn’t deserve to be a father, less a politician. 

And you deserve to be one? a voice asked.  

No, he said, but that doesn’t stop me from being one in a few months.  

The mother, Wendy, was a frail thing, only a little older than he was, and said they had two older boys. James, Rory, and their little girl, Abigail. If things were different, he’d save the name as a possibility for Grace. He’d always liked that name, come to think about it. His first-grade teacher’s name was Abigial Lewis and she had great, big— 

Maybe not Abigail, then.  

He brought along a laptop. A compromise so when Grace was back in Germany, safe in Schloss Ritter with Gerde, he would contact her through SIDNEY, and she him.  

That first time was quiet. He didn’t dawdle to get a feel of the scene like he usually did. Not even when Prince James’ son was missing did he ever feel this much anxiety. A little girl, only four, her survival depended all on him.  

That could be my little girl, was what kept him going.  

That night he was in a Cathedral. Everyone was dressed in black. His parents were there, just as he remembered them, staring ahead. Gran and Grandaddy were there, too, and so was Wolfgang beside them. In front of him at the end of the aisle was a closed casket. 

Go, someone urged him, and he listened.  

His boots were the only thing he would be able to hear as he made his way toward the closed casket. Something told him to open it. Something urged him to, so he listened, but instead of a corpse that rested inside the coffin was a very much alive, with bright eyes and a gummy grin, infant looking up at him. 

He knew who she was. 

A shy grin broke out on his face, and he stared, just stared at her, flailing her fists and making sounds just because she could. She wore a white dress, the sort people dressed their babies for baptisms, that bunched up when those tiny hands of hers fisted the fabric. “What’cha’ doin’ there, sweetheart?” 

He bent down to pick her up, holding her where her chubby cheek was near his stubbled one, swaying from side to side. In this serenity, this sense of peace he hadn’t felt in so long, he had almost forgotten that he shouldn’t be so at ease holding a baby since he hadn’t held many. And yet, it didn’t matter; her tiny hands on his face, those eyes of hers staring at him like he’s the real wonder and not her, or that dimpled, gummy grin that made his heart flutter in his chest were the only thing in the universe he cared about.  

“Hey,” he whispered, bouncing her like he had seen Mosely bounce his nieces when they were babies.  

If something was too good to be true, it usually was.  

The scene shifted. Instead of his arms, the infant lay on her back on slab, and a man in a dark rob was behind her, holding a knife in the air dramatically.  

“Don’t you fucking—” 

He lowered the knife and Gabriel plunged at the figure, only for Gabriel to jolt himself awake, drenched in sweat.  

It was late, he knew that, but he had to know—had to! Grace picked up, voice hoarse with disuse, “this is Grace.” 

“Hey, Gracie.” 

“Gabe?” Her voice more alert, and by the rustling in the background he could imagine her sitting up in bed, “Are you alright?” 

He said nothing. He was still trembling. She gave him a moment, only a moment, before, “What’s wrong?” 

“Is Whoops okay?”  

They really needed to call her something other than Whoops.  

A soft exhale, before, “yes, she’s fine. My ribs and bladder aren’t, though.” 

That made him laugh. It was weak, but still a laugh. “Good.” And then, “Are you?” 

“Besides my bladder and ribs? I’m fine.” There was a pause, a comfortable pause of two people enjoying each other’s company, even if they were miles away. “Go to bed. You need your rest.” 

He didn’t. Couldn’t.  

No jokes were had, no flirtations, but an earnest need to find out what was happening. Besides Wendy’s kindness, the emails and calls he received from Grace either about the case or Whoops, he’d discovered allies in the very beings he was sent to investigate. White Witches, at that.  

“Not every being you hunt deserves to be hunted, shadow hunter,” one had told him, not unkindly. “Men are different, so are we.” 

And humans are usually the worst kinds of monsters alive, Grace had told him once.  

Four days of nightmares. Four days of playing cat-and-mouse, toying with his psyche about his looming fatherhood as if it knew, whatever it was, only to find out the Witch they were looking for all along had been the girl’s father. Just like his dream, only besides his own little girl, the brown haired and blue eyed four-year-old lay bound on the stone alter, while her father, clad in a black coat, spoke an incantation—a summoning spell—but before he raised the blade to complete it, Gabriel had knocked him out cold.  

He thought turning into a werewolf brought out his aggression; this was much worse. All he had seen was red.  

He would’ve killed that man. That portly man who spent the four days on his black cell, checking his pager boredly, and looking down his nose at him whenever he tried to pick his brain in an effort to help. Hell, he’d even broach the comment about being a father himself, even if his own daughter wasn’t yet born, and all he got was a look of boredom.  

Sobbing broke him from his trance.  

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he did his best to soothe the little girl, who still wore her clothes form when she was abducted, and untied her to draw her in his arms. She stank. Her clothes were soiled, too, but he didn’t mind. He picked up the small girl in his arms and began to leave the ruined and abandoned home. “You’re gonna be just fine, alright? Just close your eyes and hang on real tight.” 

Wendy, who had been nothing but lovely and helpful, was found dead with her throat slit in her hotel room. Scotland Yard was called, arrests were made, and that little girl who clung to him so tightly when the ambulance rolled up was sent to her grandparents, along with her two older brothers. Nice kids. A hefty age gape since the eldest, James, looked to be around sixteen, while Rory couldn’t have been no more than twelve. After he spoke to Grace on the phone about what happened, all of it, he spent the rest of the time with little Abby.  

If he didn’t already have one on the way, well, he would’ve entertained the brief thought of being a father. Regardless of the horrors she saw, she smiled, told jokes, and spoke to him about all the stuffed animals she had at home. In turn, he’d tell her about his bike, his Gran, and the doofus of a friend he had named Mosely. Apparently making fun of his lack of hair was a winner, because it sent her to a giggle frenzy.  

“Is mummy alright, Misser Knight?”  

He just smiled and said nothing, opting to turn her attention back to her stuffed animals. Not his place to tell her, anyway.  

Turned out, little Abby was what the prick needed to ensure he’d become England’s next Prime Minister. A deal with a demon years ago; his firstborn daughter for all the power he could wield.  

He should’ve killed him.  

He didn’t.  

He didn’t leave Abby or her brothers until she was discharged from the hospital. Her grandparents, Wendy’s parents, were just as lovely as their daughter had been. The English were said to be stand-off-ish with affection, but all he received were hugs of gratitude and pats on the back.  

“We’ll never be able to repay you,” the grandfather, Phillip, which made his heart skip a beat, told him in earnest.  

“Just make sure those kids are fine, and we’ll be square,” he had answered. 

When he got back to the hotel, all the bravery he had vanished.  

*** 

Schloss Ritter was subdued. He didn’t really eat, only when his stomach began to churn and ache and his blood sugar would drop low, and he certainly didn’t shower. When he slept, he would dream of nothing but gore.  

He saved little Abby.  

He didn’t save her mother. 

Just like he didn’t save Fredrich, or Malia, or Wolfgang.  

“My death isn’t your fault, Gabriel.”  

In the corner of his eye, as he sat in the corner with his knees to his chest, he saw the kind face of his great-uncle. The same long, dark overcoat with his hair in a low ponytail. 

“I lost a son,” he admitted, walking toward him languidly, before dropping to his knees. Considering it was his head and nothing more, he didn’t wince as he bent down. “A parent should never have to bury their child.” 

Why are you telling me this?  

He knew why, though.  

He lost his parents when he was young. Left a hole in his heart so big that he tried to fill it with faceless conquests. There wasn’t a guarantee that he’d live long enough to see Whoops reach ten, or twenty, or thirty. There wasn’t even a guarantee that Grace wouldn’t come to her senses and leave him as soon as the baby was born, and he’d never get a chance to see if he would. He wouldn’t blame her. His life wasn’t exactly safe. Hell, even before, his life wasn’t exactly ideal, because he wasn’t exactly ideal.  

The fear that gripped him, though, that made him crawl to the furthest corner of his study, was the possibility of having to outlive his child. 

That...that made it hard to breathe. Hard to think. He thought the prospect of losing his Gran was terrifying, but Whoops? Unthinkable.  

“You love her, don’t you?” Wolfgang asked. 

“She ain’t even here and it hurts,” he responded. 

“You love her mother, too, yes?”  

He hitched a breath, his heart stammering, but it was with perfect clarity he answered, “yes.”  

Grace wasn’t his first love. Grace wasn’t the love that awoke something inside him that he never knew existed. Grace was the sort of love that one might overlook, mostly because they weren’t ready to see it for what it really was, and for the few that would double back to take a closer look at what they missed, they would find something no words could name. The sort of love that pulled the rug from under you and screamed, got ya! For all the flirting, all the banter, all the tension he never expected Grace. Never expected the conservatively dressed college student who was overqualified for the position that waltzed into St. George’s to apply for a job to be the mother of his child. 

And he didn’t love her because of Whoops, either; resting his head against the cool stone of the castle, he thought back—really thought back—to the small moments. It was after Fredrich and Malia, of course, the two living together at Schloss Ritter and going through the motions. How he would always want to talk to her about the first ridiculous thought he had, and this time out of genuine want and not a need to pester her, to just hear her opinions on anything and everything. 

It crept up on him and, when it finally clicked that he might feel something, she left.  

“She returned,” Wolfgang reminded him, as if he could read his thoughts.  

“’Cause I knocked her up,” Gabriel groused petulantly. “Not for me.”  

He made a tsking noise, shaking his head disapprovingly, “my boy, for one so smart, you see so little.” 

*** 

It turned out he’d been blind for a bit. He normally hated to be wrong, because he did like to think he had some smarts under his belt, but this time? This time it was fine. More than fine. This time when Grace was in his bed, not a stitch on her body or his, he knew there would be no awkward deflections in the morning.  

She loved him.  

Not just because of the baby, but because of him.  

And he had yet to tell her how he felt. Words were caught in his throat whenever he attempted, so he did his best to show her. Oh, there was still the cheeky banter; sarcasm was his first language and Grace wouldn’t be Grace without her sassing him to kingdom come. And so, with the cheek came back rubs, foot rubs, full body rubs that often led to something else. Oh, he received just as he gave; little conservative Grace may have appeared to be a librarian outside the bedroom, but inside? Well, his memories of that night were a pale imitation, because damn.  

Mostly, it was good—damn good—because he loved her, too. Just like it was good with Malia because he loved her.  

And if he had a chance with Fredrich? It would’ve been good, too.  

He loved them, but they were gone. Grace was beside him, spent, her chest—which, not to be a total neanderthal, but damn did he appreciate what pregnancy did for her chest—heaving up and down just as his was. Both were worn out. Sex this late in pregnancy was tricky, but Grace was a diligent researcher, after all. Sometimes, like tonight, it ended with the two in euphoria and covered with sweat; sometimes it ended in a blunder, but laughter, nonetheless.  

“Should take you out on a date,” he murmured, rolling on his side when he finally caught his breath to look at her. She was blissed out, dazed, with a small smile on her face. “Come to think ‘bout it, we never went on a date.” 

She snorted, but he went on. “How ‘bout it, Gracie? Once that baby pops out,” she made a face at his choice of words, but he ignored it. “You and me, just the two of us, somewhere real fancy, too.” 

“Let me guess, Burger King?”  

“Stuff it, Grace.” 

“You already did,” Grace parried slyly, turning her head over to face him with a smug grin, parroting what he had said earlier word-for-word. “Unless you’d like to try again? After all, you’re all—what? Thirty-six? You might need more rest for round three.” 

Yes, the sass did not die out, but fondness only grew with every retort she’d make.  

The night after, when he finally told her of how he felt, and then suggested a proper name for Whoops, their daughter decided to make her way into the world.  

*** 

Rebecca Chiyo Knight. He thought they’d give her Grace’s last name, but she insisted. At first, she thought Rebecca—Bex, which was a lot better than Whoops—would be a Ritter. “I might have Ritter blood,” Gabriel had told her, “But I’m a Knight. If she’s gonna have my name, I want her to be a Knight, not a Ritter.”   

He thought he knew love. He thought he had loved Bex when she was still growing in Grace’s stomach. He was dead wrong. Again, this was a time when he wasn’t so put out on being wrong. He only wished his Gran, Grace’s parents, or even Mosely could be there to see the first few days of Bex’s life.  

They probably would’ve been there to begin with, if they, both Grace and Gabriel, hadn’t waited so long to tell them. Oh, when they did tell them, weeks before the birth, they both got an earful.  

“My dad is going to want to know your intentions with me,” Grace had told him, looking pained. “If he pressures you into popping the question, just pretend all you can hear is white noise. It’s what I do.”  

If it were possible, he’d fallen in love with her all over again.  

When he had told Mosely he had laughed so hard, so damn hard, before going, “Wait, really? You’re shitting me, Knight. You? A daddy?”  

But the love he felt for Bex? Still undefinable. Without limits. Oh, the fear was there; the sort of fear that gripped him by the neck and made it hard to breathe. The worry about his family being doomed to raise orphans after orphans, or even worse, outliving the little girl that seemed to illuminate his shadows with the brightest of lights. To even think of having that light snuffed out was unimaginable. 

He wouldn’t be able to go on. How Wolfgang did it, he’d never know, and he hoped to God he’d never find out.  

He wasn’t comfortable holding her as he walked up and down Schloss Ritter when Grace needed her rest. She squirmed and he would do his best to keep calm, tell himself he wouldn’t drop her, and did his best to soothe her. He learned earlier he shouldn’t sing if he wanted to keep her calm; that made her cry louder. After a month, though, he somewhat got the hand of it. Late night feedings came in shifts, but he grew to enjoy the times when it was his turn, because it was just him and Bex. 

The nursery was finished, but she was too small to go into the crib, so the small cradle at the side of the bed in Grace’s room was where she slept. Not that she approved of sleeping there. She enjoyed it best sleeping on someone’s chest, her head tucked under the chin, drooling as she snored softly.  

In the morning they would make their way to New Orleans to visit Gran. Grace’s parents would be there, too, which had Grace’s nerves shot. She needed the rest after wearing a hole in the ground going repeatedly on what not to say to her parents, how to greet them, and please, for the love of God, do not mention that she was Fuji in his story.  

Apparently, her mom was a fan of his books.  

He’ll never let Grace live that down, much to her annoyance. 

And it was that night, where Bex was tucked under his chin, laying on his chest, as he rested on the couch in front of a dying fire in the lounge area, where, for once, no ghosts came to guilt him or give him benediction. The night was quiet, save the soft snores of his daughter, and when the sun rose, illuminating the world with light, he noticed his daughter’s gaze, and how if he squinted, he’d probably see galaxies dancing in those eyes of hers. All babies' eyes were pale at birth, but hers remained, if not slowly changing to another vibrant hue. “She’s gonna have your eyes,” Grace had promised on the drive home from the hospital.  

He was going to have the time of his life fighting dragons alongside her. “I think you’re gonna be the best adventure I’ll ever get to have, kiddo,” and Bex smiled up at him, even if it was probably gas, he’d still swear up and down that it was a smile. “What about it? Ready to raise hell?”  

As if considering his request, even if it was unlikely because she didn’t even know her own name just yet, she stared at him with those discerning eyes. Maybe his color of eyes, or will be, but her mother’s all the same. When she made her decision, whatever it was, she gave a loud yawn and closed her eyes, a thumb going back in her mouth to soothe into another long rest.  

And the world still turned. 

#myfic #gk #otp: if i loved you less; i might be able to talk about it more #otp: you said i killed you (haunt me then) #need an otp tag for malia/gabriel #but i really - while this is more gabriel/grace - wanted to honor all of his LI #especially malia #gabriel knight series #the gabriel knight series #gabriel knight #grace nakimura #malia gedde #rebecca knight #mosely #lmao #i stayedd up all night bc hyperfixation Be Like That

[zvaigzdelasas]

17 May 23

[jareckiworld]

Harm Gerdes — Locus Amoenus (acrylic on polymer canvas, 2023)

#Harm Gerdes #german art #expressive art #locus amoenus #21th century art

[liamyalgia]

୨୧ 𝐌𝐞 : Lilia/ Lily / Lia  | they/them/she/it , PT & ENG | (currently inactive!) artist

| Non-Binary sapphic | autistic spoonie 🥄🥄🥄

ʚ 𝐈 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 💕🌸

Cute things, fashion, j-fashion, menhera and queer stuff,

Interested in : history, anthropology, arts, science, psychology etc ✏️🎨📖🔬🎭

୨୧ CW: talking a lot about mental and physical illness, self harm, eating disorders etc.

⠀

ʚ 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 💊🏥

♡ brain: autism + ADHD + giftedness + dyscalculia, sensory issues, ARFID, PMDD, ticks, memory issues, (investigating bpd c-ptsd and a possible dissociative disorder) mixed eating disorders

♡ body: Fybromialgia, POTS, GERD & LPR hypermobile spectrum disorder (investigating hEDS) 🌻💙🦓

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

︶⊹ 𝐌𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

https://lili4.carrd.co/

https://br.pinterest.com/liabunii/

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶୨୧︶

⠀

#spoonie #pinned bios #autistic #menhera

[dukeswonderousmenagerie]

Alright, I'll bite- I wanna know the zombie types :D

Also some pre-emptive questions:

How're they made? If ur bit by a specific type, is that the one you become or are there different environmental conditions that lead to certain types? Or does if have something to do with the person themselves before they were infected?

Thanks for the question!

Environmental conditions can have an effect on the type of zombie produced via a virus. However it mostly pertains on certain denominator’s on what type you will become. Either infected by virus or by parasite, the main factors that usually coincide with the type of zombie you become mostly pertains in what the virus/parasite likes about your DNA, or the environment in which it is in.

For example!

TW for Gore and the Description of Acid Bodily Harm

A Dripper, (Zombifis Vomo), is probably one of the more nastiest and repulsive of the creatures you will encounter on your travels, leaking copious amounts of bodily fluids and quiet frankly looking like someone mistook a vat of acid for a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. 

Head and shoulders anyone?

This is a creature who is in some desperate need of some pepto bismol, their digestive acids drastically altering their appearance, melting and merging their flesh into one soupy stretchy water-balloon esq form perfect for producing and storing massive amounts of acid which it can use to spit at targets at a long range distance.

This is also the type of the zombie, who is theorized too exist because of a persons genetics.

Throughout the world many people suffer from a condition known as GERD: Gastroesophageal reflux disease, or as we love to call it Acid Reflux. GERD is a condition in which the person suffers from the overproduction of stomach acids, with some being so bad that the acid actually “melts” or simply wears and erodes the tissues of the esophagus and stomach, causing lesions, ulcers and in some cases even cancer to form in the affected area’s.

In the case of a Dripper, who name comes from the gratuitous amounts of acid that literally drip out of various area’s of this creatures body, the virus will actually use the gene’s responsible for the condition to its own advantage. 

Upon infection, the virus will utilize the gene’s responsible for GERD or other such similar conditions, and move them to other area’s of the body more suitable for its means, mostly the lungs, which without the protection of the ribcage, can expand too a pretty massive size with the maximum amount of air an average adult male's lungs can hold being about six liters (that's the same as about three large soda bottles). On average the empty stomach is only about the size of your fist, but can stretch to hold as much as 4 liters of food and fluid, or more than 75 times its empty volume, and then return to its resting size when empty. 

With the cells now in a more spacious area, the virus can then morph the gene’s into its own sick and twisted form, allowing for them to start the process of producing acid.

As a result, you get the twisted form of a Dripper; a creature who’s overabundance of acid has literally eaten away much of the facial tissue and connective cartilage, allowing for the creation of Acid-eaten cavities along the throat and frontal torso, as well as the destruction of the ribcage to better allow for the mass production of acid.

#Lupin III: Run n Gun #my headcanons #lupin the iii #lupin #lupin the third #lupin the 3rd #lupin iii au #zombie apocolypse au #zombie #horror #tw: violence #tw: death #body horror cw #body horror tw #ask response #tacky-optic

[spiritbodyandmind]

Recognizing Acid Reflux: Causes, Signs And Symptoms, as well as Treatment

Heartburn, likewise known as gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD), is an usual digestion disorder that influences countless people worldwide. It takes place when the acid from the stomach recedes up right into the esophagus, creating discomfort as well as other symptoms. In this blog post, we'll take a better take a look at the reasons, symptoms, and also available therapies for acid reflux.Causes: There are a number of elements that can add to heartburn, including a weak reduced esophageal sphincter (LES), hiatal hernia, excessive weight, pregnancy, smoking cigarettes, and also certain drugs. When the LES is deteriorated, stomach acid can quickly move back into the esophagus, triggering irritation and inflammation. Hiatal rupture, which takes place when the upper part of the stomach bulges through the diaphragm as well as into the upper body, can likewise add to indigestion. Obesity as well as pregnancy can increase stress on the belly and LES, making indigestion most likely. Smoking cigarettes as well as particular medicines, such as NSAIDs as well as calcium channel blockers, can also aggravate the esophagus and raise the danger of indigestion.

Symptoms as well as Treatment: One of the most typical signs of indigestion consist of heartburn, regurgitation, nausea, bloating, as well as problem swallowing. If left untreated, acid reflux can bring about much more severe problems, such as esophageal abscess and also strictures. Therapy choices for indigestion consist of way of life modifications, such as avoiding trigger foods and reducing weight, as well as drug treatment, such as antacids, H2 blockers, as well as proton pump inhibitors. In serious instances, surgical procedure might be needed to fix the LES or get rid of harmed tissue. By understanding the causes and also signs of heartburn, you can take actions to manage your signs as well as prevent problems.

Read more here https://abbasravji.com

#seo

[fillosofem]

Recognizing Heartburn: Reasons, Signs, and Treatment

Heartburn, likewise understood as gastroesophageal reflux illness (GERD), is an usual digestion condition that affects countless people worldwide. It takes place when the acid from the stomach recedes up right into the esophagus, creating discomfort as well as other symptoms. In this post, we'll take a more detailed check out the reasons, signs and symptoms, and also readily available therapies for acid reflux.Causes: There are numerous elements that can contribute to acid reflux, including a weak lower esophageal sphincter (LES), hiatal hernia, weight problems, pregnancy, smoking, and certain drugs. When the LES is compromised, stomach acid can easily recede into the esophagus, triggering irritability and also swelling. Hiatal hernia, which occurs when the top part of the tummy protrudes with the diaphragm as well as right into the breast, can likewise contribute to acid reflux. Obesity and pregnancy can increase pressure on the stomach as well as LES, making heartburn a lot more most likely. Cigarette smoking and particular medicines, such as NSAIDs as well as calcium channel blockers, can likewise irritate the esophagus as well as raise the danger of indigestion.

Symptoms as well as Therapy: The most usual signs and symptoms of heartburn include heartburn, regurgitation, nausea, bloating, and also trouble ingesting. If left without treatment, heartburn can bring about extra significant issues, such as esophageal ulcers and strictures. Treatment alternatives for heartburn include way of life adjustments, such as staying clear of trigger foods and dropping weight, as well as medication therapy, such as antacids, H2 blockers, and also proton pump inhibitors. In serious instances, surgical procedure may be needed to fix the LES or get rid of harmed cells. By comprehending the reasons and also symptoms of heartburn, you can take actions to handle your signs and also stop complications.

Read more here https://abbasravji.com

#seo

[byneddiedingo]

The Bridge (Bernhard Wicki, 1959)

Cast: Folker Bohnet, Fritz Wepper, Michael Hinz, Frank Glaubrecht, Karl Michael Balzer, Volker Lechtenbrink, Günther Hoffmann, Cordula Trantow, Wolfgang Stumpf, Günter Pfitzmann, Heinz Spitzner, Siegfried Schürenberg, Edith Schultze-Westrum, Ruth Hausmeister, Eva Waiti, Hans Elwenspoek, Trude Breitschopf, Hans Hellmold, Edeltraut Elsner, Inge Benz. Screenplay: Michael Mansfeld, Karl-Wilhelm Vivier, Bernhard Wicki, based on a novel by Manfred Gregor. Cinematography: Gerd von Bonin. Production design: Heinrich Graf Brühl, Peter Scharff. Film editing: Carl Otto Bartning. Music: Hans-Martin Majewski. Something of a landmark in the revival of German filmmaking before the burst of creativity wrought by Volker Schlöndorff, Werner Herzog, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, and others in the 1960s and '70s, The Bridge is an appropriate title in that it not only looks back to what Germany was during the war, but also suggests some of the trauma that lingered into the increasingly affluent present. The decimation and psychic mutilation of the generation that came of age during the war is the film's central subject. It focuses on seven young men, still in their teens, in the final days of the Third Reich, inspired by the dream of military glory but undermined by the incompetence of the remnants of the Wehrmacht, facing a defeat it cannot admit is coming. The boys have grown up together in the same town, and they all receive their draft notices on the same day. But a well-meaning officer decides not to send these raw draftees into the heat of battle but to give them a nonsensical task: defending the bridge across the river near their town -- even though the bridge is slated to be blown up as a deterrent to the advancing Allies. It will keep them out of harm's way, the officer thinks. But communications wires get crossed and the boys on the bridge never get the message to retreat. Instead, they die "heroically," doing all the right things -- including blowing up an Allied tank -- as they make their futile stand. The story, from the novel by Gregor Dorfmeister, under his pseudonym Manfred Gregor, is based on a real event told to Dorfmeister by one of the survivors. The film is full of well-staged action and an effective re-creation of the real setting which had been completely transformed in the years since the war ended. The interaction between the boys and their families is touching without slopping over into mawkishness.

#The Bridge #Bernhard Wicki