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headspace-hotel · 1 month

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Nature is healing.

I burned the Meadow a couple weeks ago. At first it looked like nothing but charred ashes and dirt, with a few scorched green patches, and I was afraid I'd done something terrible. But then the sprouts emerged. Tender new leaves swarming the soil.

My brother and I were outside after dark the other day, to see if any lightning bugs would emerge yet. We had been working on digging the pond. That old soggy spot in the middle of the yard that we called "poor drainage," that always splattered mud over our legs when we ran across it as children—it isn't a failed lawn, and it never was.

Oh, we tried to fill in the mud puddles, even rented heavy machinery and graded the whole thing out, but the little wetland still remembered. God bless those indomitable puddles and wetlands and weeds, that in spite of our efforts to flatten out the differences that make each square meter of land unique from another, still declare themselves over and over to be what they are.

So we've been digging a hole. A wide, shallow hole, with an island in the middle.

And steadily, I've been transplanting in vegetation. At school there is a soggy field that sadly is mowed like any old field. The only pools where a frog could lay eggs are tire ruts. From this field I dig up big clumps of rushes and sedges, and nobody pays me any mind when I smuggle them home.

I pulled a little stick of shrubby willow from some cracked pavement near a creek, and planted it nearby. From a ditch on the side of the road beside a corn field, I dug up cattail rhizomes. Everywhere, tiny bits of wilderness, holding on.

I gathered up rotting logs small enough to carry and made a log pile beside the pond. At another corner is a rock pile. I planted some old branches upright in the ground to make a good place for birds and dragonflies to perch.

And there are so many birds! Mourning doves, robins, cardinals and grackles come here in much bigger numbers, and many, many finches and sparrows. I always hear woodpeckers, even a Pileated Woodpecker here and there. A pair of bluebirds lives here. There are three tree swallows, a barn swallow also, tons of chickadees, and there's always six or seven blue jays screaming and making a commotion. And the goldfinches! Yesterday I watched three brilliant yellow males frolic among the tall dandelions. They would hover above the grass and then drop down. One landed on a dandelion stem and it flopped over. There are several bright orange birds too. I think a couple of them are orioles, but there's definitely also a Summer Tanager. There's a pair of Canada Geese that always fly by overhead around the same time in the evening. It's like their daily commute.

The other day, as I watched, I saw a Cooper's Hawk swoop down and carry off a robin. This was horrifying news for the robin individually, but great news for the ecosystem. The food chain can support more links now.

There are two garter snakes instead of one, both of them fat from being good at snaking. I wonder if there will be babies?

But the biggest change this year is the bugs. It's too early for the lightning bugs, but all the same the yard is full of life.

It's like remembering something I didn't know I forgot. Oh. This is how it's supposed to be. I can't glance in any direction without seeing the movement of bugs. Fat crickets and earwigs scuttle underneath my rock piles, wasps flit about and visit the pond's shore, an unbelievable variety of flies and bees visit the flowers, millipedes and centipedes hide under the logs. Butterflies, moths, and beetles big and small are everywhere.

I can't even describe it in terms of individual encounters; they're just everywhere, hopping and fluttering away with every step. There are so many kinds of ants. I sometimes stare really closely at the ground to watch the activities of the ants. Sometimes they are in long lines, with two lanes of ants going back and forth, touching antennae whenever two ants traveling in opposite directions meet. Sometimes I see ants fighting each other, as though ant war is happening. Sometimes the ants are carrying the curled-up bodies of dead ants—their fallen comrades?

My neighbor gave me all of their fallen leaves (twelve bags!) and it turns out that piling leaves on top of a rock and log pile in a wet area summons an unbelievable amount of snails.

I always heard of snails as pests, but I have learned better. Snails move calcium through the food chain. Birds eat snails and use the calcium in their shells to make egg shells. In this way, snails lead to baby birds. I never would have known this if I hadn't set out to learn about snails.

In the golden hour of evening, bugs drift across the sky like golden motes of dust, whirling and dancing together in the grand dramas of their tiny lives. I think about how complicated their worlds are. After interacting with bees and wasps so much for so long, I'm amazed by how intelligent and polite they are. Bumble bees will hover in front of me, swaying side to side, or circle slowly around me several times, clearly perceiving some kind of information...but what? It seems like bees and wasps can figure out if you are a threat, or if you are peaceful, and act accordingly.

I came to a realization about wasps: when they dart at your head so you hear them buzzing close by your ears, they're announcing their presence. The proper response is to freeze and duck down a bit. It seems like wasps can recognize if you're being polite; for what it's worth, I've never been stung by a wasp.

As night falls, bats emerge and start looping and darting around in the sky above. If the yard seems full of bugs in the day, it is nothing compared to the night.

I'm aware that what I'm about to describe, to an entomophobe, sounds like a horror movie: when i walk to the back yard, the trees are audibly crackling and whirring with the activity of insects. Beetles hover among the branches of the trees. When we look up at the sky, moths of all sizes are flying hither and thither across it. A large, very striking white moth flies past low to the ground.

Last year, seeing a moth against the darkening sky was only occasional. Now there's so many of them.

I consider it in my mind:

When roads and houses are built and land is turned over to various human uses, potentially hundreds of native plant species are extirpated from that small area. But all of the Eastern USA has been heavily altered and destroyed.

Some plants come back easily, like wild blackberry, daisy fleabane, and common violets. But many of them do not. Some plants need fire to sprout, some need Bison or large birds to spread them, some need humans to harvest and care for them, some live in habitats that are frequently treated with contempt, some cannot bear to be grazed by cattle, some are suffocated beneath invasive Tall Fescue, Kentucky bluegrass, honeysuckle or Bradford pears, and some don't like being mowed or bushhogged.

Look at the landscape...hundreds and hundreds of acres of suburbs, pastures, corn fields, pavement, mowed verges and edges of roads.

Yes, you see milkweed now and then, a few plants on the edge of the road, but when you consider the total area of space covered by milkweed, it is so little it is nearly negligible. Imagine how many milkweed plants could grow in a single acre that was caretaken for their prosperity—enough to equal fifty roadsides put together!

Then I consider how many bugs are specialists, that can only feed upon a particular plant. Every kind of plant has its own bugs. When plant diversity is replaced by Plant Sameness, the bug population decreases dramatically.

Plant sameness has taken over the world, and the insect apocalypse is a result.

But in this one small spot, nature is healing...

#plants #native plants #native plant gardening #proplifting #sorta #save the bees

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todropscience · 11 months

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THREE NEW SHARK SPECIES THIS WEEK!

The second week of July 2023 something extraordinarily beautiful happened, the findings of 3 new species of sharks for were announced

A new angel sharks species was identified, from the western Indian Ocean on the Mascarene Plateau and off southwestern India in 100–500 m depths, the Lea’s angel shark Squatina leae, was recognized to be different genetically and morphologically distinct from its congeneric species Squatina africanae, following unique morphological features. This species was first detected in 1988 after finding three unusual, small sharks, but till today was completely understood. The angel shark is named after one of the author’s fiancee’s late sister, Lea-Marie Cordt.

- Squatina leae, adult male, in dorsolateral.

Angel sharks are “flatter sharks”, possesing distinctly broad, dorsoventrally flattened bodies, a short snout with large mouth and nostrils, eyes on top of the head close to the large spiracles, very large pectoral fins, and a lateral caudal keel. They've evolved to be ambush predators, they lie in wait for prey to pass closely overhead before attacking.

Reference (Open Access): Weigmann et al., 2023. Revision of the Western Indian Ocean Angel Sharks, Genus Squatina (Squatiniformes, Squatinidae), with Description of a New Species and Redescription of the African Angel Shark Squatina africana Regan, 1908. Biology

From North Australia, another species of hornshark is described based on six whole specimens and a single egg case. The painted hornshark Heterodontus marshallae was previously considered to be the same with the zebra bullhead shark another well know bullhead shark from the central Indo-Pacific from Japan to Australia, but genetic and morphological analyses indicated the sharks were different, but looking alike. The painted hornshark is endemic to northwestern Australia and occurs in deeper waters, at 125–229 m below surface.

- Lateral view of two mature female painted hornshark Heterodontus marshallae showing small differences between individuals

The painted hornsharks is named in honour of Dr. Lindsay Marshall www.stickfigurefish.com.au a scientific illustrator and elasmobranch scientist who expertly painted all the sharks and rays of the world for the Chondrichthyan Tree of Life Project.

Reference (Open Access): White et al., 2023 Species in Disguise: A New Species of Hornshark from Northern Australia (Heterodontiformes: Heterodontidae). Diversity.

And from an unidentified shark egg collected from the deep waters of northwestern Australia, in 2011 recently helped researchers identify a new species of deep water cat shark. Called ridged-egg catshark Apristurus ovicorrugatus after its eggs, it was collected in the earlys 90 but remained unknown to date. This sharks presents white eyes, and is small in size, reaching less than a half meter in length. .

- Lateral view of female Apristurus ovicorrugatus before preserved. Photo by CSIRO.

Egg cases belonging to this species had been documented as early as the 1980s, but could not be matched to any species of Australian shark until recently scientists examined a shark specimen of previously uncertain identity in the CSIRO collection.

-egg cases of Apristurus ovicorrugatus. Scale bar is 10 mm

Reference (Open Access) White,et al., 2023 What came first, the shark or the egg? Discovery of a new species of deepwater shark by investigation of egg case morphology. Journal of Fish Biology.

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zhejiangleihaoelectric · 2 years

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#If you encounter thunderstorms outdoors #you should quickly take shelter in a nearby dry house. If you can't find a house in the mountains #you can hide in a cave. According to the analysis report on market and investment strategic planning of China's lightning protection indust #outdoor lightning protection should pay attention to the following five points:#1. Do not stay on the top of the mountain #ridge or building (structure).#2. Do not stay near iron gates #iron fences #metal clotheslines #overhead metal bodies and railway tracks.#3. They should quickly hide in buildings (structures) with lightning protection #or in various vehicles and ships with metal shells. When the above conditions are not met #you should immediately squat with your feet together #bend your head forward #and reduce your height to reduce the harm caused by stepping voltage. Because the lightning current will gradually release energy around al #a certain voltage may be generated between the front and rear feet of a person during walking due to different potential differences.#4. Don't be in big trees (in the wild #sometimes you can rely on tall trees for lightning protection #but remember to leave the trunk and leaves at least two meters away.) Take shelter from the rain under electric poles #billboards and various iron towers. Because at this time #the wet branches of the big tree are equivalent to a lightning device. If you touch the big tree #electric poles and all kinds of iron towers with your hand #it is like holding the downlead of lightning protection device #you are likely to be struck by lightning.#5. Don't stay by the water (rivers #lakes #seas #ponds #canals #etc.)

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tflaw · 10 months

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+ dad!neuvilette. reader is referred to as wife & mama. no warnings, this is just fluff. i had a sudden thought about neuvilette having a son and this is the result >< not proofread!

bubbles of merry little sounds has filtrated neuvilette’s ears. they prick up in response to the owner of the voice with a smile on his face.

“what is it, sweet boy?” he whispers, tone barely owning a decibel, close to the same pointed ears of the little boy in his arms. pressed against neuvilette’s thigh are pairs of feet that have scarcely covered its width, the boy’s arms hook over his right shoulder, hands clawing up. “oh,” breathes neuvilette as he follows his son’s eyes upwards, witnessing an aquabus slowly passing by overhead. “that is what we call aquabus. it’s fontaine’s main transportation system. do you want to ride on it?“ the boy claps his hands, squealing. “alright, shall we ask mama?”

he brings a hand to his son’s back, supporting the little body while securing him in his arms. neuvilette spots you on one of the fruit stalls a few meters away from where they are, examining an apple in your hand.

“monsieur neuvilette?”

pivoting on his heels, neuvilette catches sight of a middle-aged woman standing in anticipation with a basket in her hand. she has a kind smile pasted on her lips and sparkles in her eyes.

“yes, madame?” he politely asks. “how can i be of service?”

“oh, no, monsieur! i apologize for interrupting your alone time with your son, i tried to stop myself but i could not help it,” the woman explains while waving her hands. “what a beautiful little boy. he looks exactly like you, monsieur!”

the little boy pushes his cheek to his father’s own while hugging his neck. tendrils of hair brush against neuvilette’s skin, tickling the side of his face. it’s as though he’s wondering how to decipher the syllables uttered by the woman before him.

it has long been considered by many that his son stands as the glaring copy of neuvilette: from the sharp eyes touched with magenta and blues, to the pearlescent hair that has started to show strikes of aquamarine.

“how old is he, monsieur?” pitches another bystander.

“he is ten months old.”

“has he started walking, monsieur?”

“we are slowly working on that, aren’t we, sweet boy?” neuvilette turns to his son, who puffed his cheeks as if in determination.

“what’s the first word he said? is he talking already?”

“well, he can mumble a couple incoherent words. he is a determined student—” neuvilette has been cut short by his son’s another round of clapping.

the little boy leans his head to the side, facing the bystanders gathered around him and his father. “m… mama! p… p… papa!” he beams before hugging neuvilette again, as though proud of his showing off. “m… mama! papa!” repeats the boy with a jovial lilt.

all around them, laughters from the onlookers fill the air with vivacity. their faces morph in unfiltered euphoria; either clutching their chest for the adorable boy before them or clapping their hands together with him.

neuvilette watches with wonderment, his heart overflowing in bliss. albeit possessing a mastery of his countenance, a wide smile creeps up to shape the edges of his lips.

this little boy, the sweetest of all, is yours and his forever. flesh and blood, yours.

“i hate to sever this merriment, but i’m afraid we must join my wife now,” neuvilette excuses, his eyes and that of the bystanders wandering in your direction.

you raise your hand for a slight wave, still unused to the attention that comes with being the chief justice’s wife.

“what’s with all the ruckus?” your curiosity shows through raised brows.

neuvilette softly bounces the boy in his arms. “blame this little one for showing off his communication skills. he is marvelous at it. aren’t you, my boy?”

“m… mama! papa!” chirps the boy once more, giggling at his own achievement.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x y/n #genshin impact fluff #neuvilette x reader #neuvilette x you #neuvilette x y/n #neuvilette fluff

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apas-95 · 3 months

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Incredible double mishap in the German Navy off the coast of Yemen! The German warship's radar systems incorrectly recognized a drone circling overhead as hostile. The “Hessen” then fired two rockets at them. But in reality the unmanned aircraft was a US MQ-9 Reaper drone (20 meter wingspan, 30 million euros). A blessing in disguise for the Americans: Both German SM2 interceptor missiles did not reach their target for technical reasons, but instead fell into the sea without achieving anything.

[2024-02-28, Bild is German private media] The only thing more embarrassing than a blue-on-blue incident is a *failed* blue-on-blue incident.

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bonny-kookoo · 3 months

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Bonny!! Can we please get more Lo:Yoongi and OC? Like maybe her transition into being Queen/ or him courting her.

Him courting her is so cute honestly haha

All the workers at the palace are talking about you.

Mostly, because ever since the King had chosen you, he himself has been slowly changing. And while a lot of people were worried he might become weak after what happened during the fight with Jungkook, it's clear now that that's not the case at all.

He's just a lot calmer now, having realized that he has now a person he can find some quiet company in.

You don't expect anything from him at all- you cared for him when he was injured with hands so gentle, and you're always understanding of his rough tone and even rougher ways of handling the palace and it's daily tasks. Even though your kind despises violence, you accept that his does not, and actively uses it to solve their issues.

Yoongi, at the end of the day, is a king who earned his crown through bloodshed and death. And one day, his own will be taken the same way.

But until then, he will let himself enjoy those tender moments you're gifting him- just like today, as he has his head in your lap, both of you sitting outside in the palace gardens, birds flying overhead across the skies while the fountain runs a few meters away from you. He's rarely ever felt this calm before, your hand on his shoulder, while you let him rest for once.

Yoongi has never wanted his spot.

With his father forcefully challenging him when he was just about old enough to be considered somewhat of a man, he had no choice but to see it through- killing his father that day, cries of his mother forever edged into his mind. He doesn't know where she is today- most likely passed away already, though even if not, he'd never be able to see her again.

The partners of Kings who lost their crowns are exiled, after all.

"I'd like to offer you something." Yoongi says, eyes still closed as he speaks.

"..huh?" You wonder, unsure what he means. "Like a present?" You ask, and he nods.

"Yes. A gift." He clarifies. "I have yet to properly court you."

"Oh that's not.. that's not necessary at all." You giggle. "I'll stay with you either way, for as long as you'll want me." You tell him, and at that, his eyes open.

"I know." He responds. "But you live here now, amongst my people. And it is my people's way to properly court a partner." He explains.

"Alright, I'll accept it then." You agree, and he quiets down at that, before he moves, face turning to look up at you.

"What would you like?" He asks. "I just.. realized I do not know what you.. like, and what not." He explains, eyes moving away from yours in thought. "I should most likely.. have more conversations with you.." He mumbles to himself.

"I mean, we're talking right now?" You say, and at that, he looks at you again, before he moves to sit up next to you, seemingly searching for something in your face.

"We should.. talk more often." He says. "I enjoy talking to you."

"Me too." You say, smiling at him. "Oh, you have a petal there-" You say, moving closer to blow a stray petal from the blooming trees off of his hair- and when you move back to tell him it's gone, you're met with his eyes wide open, staring at you. "-uh.. did I do something wrong?" You ask, unsure, your words making him snap out of whatever trance he was just in.

"Are you trying to play with me?" He challenged, eyes narrowing as they stare you down.

"I- no? I just blew the petal off-" You explain yourself, when he cuts you off.

"I know that humans show affection by kissing their partners." He tells you, and at that, you realize what he probably thought you were leaning in for.

"Oh- Oh, no, I wouldn't-" You start, and his head tilts to the side at that.

"You wouldn't kiss me?" He asks, amused by the way you seem to get shy now.

"No! I would but-" You continue, and suddenly, you can make out the hint of a smirk on his lips.

"Then what is speaking against it right now?" He asks. "We are partners. I believe that this gesture is more than appropriate right now." He tells you, before he leans in now, coming closer to you. "Or maybe that could be my.. gift to you?" He proposes, and you swallow thickly, thinking about it.

You do like him. And he's right- nothing speaks against it.

"I think.. it could definitely be considered.. a gift of sorts." You say, and he smiles a little more now.

"Well then?" He says. "I need an appropriate.. demonstration." He tells you, and at that, you gather all your courage, and move forward to just peck his lips-

but he makes it clear right away, that a quick little peck was not what he was looking for.

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #yoongi imagine #min yoongi imagines #yoongi imagines #yoongi x reader

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ollieink · 8 months

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𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐃!

childe x fem!reader ( wc 4.8k)

inspired by 'pretty poison' written by the very talented vent1k1n on ao3, literally so good. never thought strip russian roulette could be so smeggsy wtf.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 | dead dove: do not eat, non-con, rough sex, size difference, bit of gunplay, spitting, forced orgasm, corruption, yandere undertones, threats of murder, childe is a menace, reader has a petite body, dash of angst, russian roulette, mafia alternate universe, betrayal, please don't read if you're not comfy with these themes.

"Tartaglia is heartless."

That's what papa's soldiers said after he asked for your hand in marriage. It was a way for both ruling families to finally come to terms. Some were against it, others hopeful. And you had to admit, Tartaglia was hypnotizing. You saw him from afar one time, two times, a couple of times—from across the bridge that separated papa’s territory from his. He was the ocean come alive, all the good and all the bad. When he crossed that bridge to meet you, everything people warned you about him burnt to the ground.

Your chest fluttered on the wedding night, but it wasn't what you thought or hoped it would be. Tartaglia merely wished you a good rest before departing to his room. Of course, this wasn't a marriage of love ( you'd gotten carried away in your fantasies ), but rather a strategic move on both mafia families. Even then, the painful sprout of thorns in your chest didn't go unnoticed. Maybe it did for him. Or perhaps he did notice and just didn't care.

Papa didn't want you seeing all the bad things he did, so violence was a thing that happened from a distance. It was the same with Tartaglia. He'd tell you to go to your room when his men came in for a meeting, reassure you everything was okay—that you didn't need to worry your pretty head off. Perhaps he truly cared about you ( even if it wasn't the starstruck love you hoped it to be ), and that fleeting period in your life was the happiest. That is until you peeked into the basement of his manor, and a pair of dead blue eyes looked back.

You’re not supposed to cry over a stupid boy.

The sky has given way for a thunderous storm. Loud cracks of thunder light up the city, matching your heart's ferocious churning as you think over and over again: why, why, why? It pours rain as you pound on various doors for refuge, but everyone knows better than to open them at this hour. Crossing the bridge is a death sentence; Tartaglia’s men are stationed there, and they'd surely capture you on sight.

Afraid that he’ll catch up, you run into the city’s emptiest corner—an unsuspecting alleyway where the city lights can't reach. There’s nothing but rubbish here: overflowing dumpsters, shattered alcohol bottles someone must've thrown in a drunk daze, vulgar graffiti on the walls. Buildings tower overhead, placed so close together only a few people can walk through at the same time. The path winds 'round and 'round. You aren't sure where you're going, as long as you get away from here.

More lightning cuts through the pouring sky, and amidst it, a sweet voice calls out for you.

“Darling~”

All the hairs on your body stand, and you run faster than ever before. He's still using that sickening term, as if you really do hold a special place in his heart. Even if it wasn't real, you were content being something he felt obligated to take care of—because you couldn't help the way your heart fluttered when his hand tightened over yours, how he looked standing bare feet in the ocean shoreline. And you were happy being just an afterthought to him. But this is too cruel for you.

"Come back to me, darling. I'm sorry if I scared you."

His footsteps are getting closer and closer.

The alley takes a quick turn, and what you see next crushes all hope of getting away. A wall.

No, no no no no.

There must be another way out, but everywhere you look is a dead end. When the heavy footsteps finally stop a few meters away, you turn around. With a violent crackle of thunder, light briefly fills the alley; it barely makes a dent in Ajax's dark blue eyes. The electric crashes through the sky reflect off the taut muscles—wet with rain—on his arms. His black shirt, soaked all the way through, clings tightly to indents of hard flesh on his torso. And a smile haunts his face, kind like you remember.

"Why are you running away from me?" Ajax takes a step closer and reaches out a tempting hand. It's his left one, and the two rings on it are evidence of your weak union. "Let's go home, my love." He beckons in that familiar, gentle tone he only used with you. It made you feel special, but now you know it's just a trick.

“Bastard!” You scream with all the broken pieces of your heart. “You were just using me! I saw what you did to my father’s men in your basement, what you said about killing me! It’s a low move, you know—to murder someone in their sleep.”

Your words stir a devilish grin from him, and all traces of sweet, sweet Ajax disappear in an instant. "Ah, so you heard that too." He steps closer again, and the cobblestone wall hits your back. "It's a shame, ya know. If you weren't so nosy, I would've let you alive for a bit longer. Maybe we could've had our first kiss on the lips too, hmm? Bet you would've liked that. I know I would—you were always so kind to me. A bit too kind."

"Get away from me! If papa finds out about this, he'll kill you!" you scowl, hoping to get some leverage over this situation. But Tartgalia is a proud man. He simply laughs, as if you're a child throwing a silly tantrum.

"Well, he isn't here right now is he? It's just you and me." As his hand lifts, a flash of lightning exposes a revolver nestled against his palm.

"Ajax. . . ?"

Even his name sounds unfamiliar. The remaining bits and pieces of your heart break, not instantly, but in a way that hurts much more—slow and agonizing, holding onto hope that you know doesn't exist.

Blue eyes sweep up your body, savoring your disheveled appearance under this stormy night. Your plush thighs look so squeezable, and oh, that teeny tiny waist that's just begging to be held down.

“Let’s play a little game. It'll be fun."

Despite his voice sounding playful, the cold smile twisting his mouth wrecks shivers through you. He opens the gun to reveal six bullets settled ominously inside. “Each piece of clothing you take off, I’ll get rid one bullet. You have ten minutes before I pull the trigger, darling. Let's see if you're alive then. And if you are, I'll let you go. Promise." He chuckles at the way your eyes widen fearfully; it’s just too adorable. “Go on, I’m waiting.”

There's no way you're going to listen to him. He already messed with you enough—from the wedding vows, the delicate cheek kisses, and late-night strolls along the beach. All of it was just a pretend game for him, and the thought boils your blood just as much as it hurts.

“That game's stupid. I’m not doing anything for you."

“So, you’re gonna play tough, eh?” Tartaglia hums, unbothered by your disobliging attitude. In fact, the smirk on his face gives you the impression that he enjoys it. He points the revolver aside, and with a spark, fires it. A shrill noise reverberates through the cramped alleyway, and you jolt as the bullet whizzes past your cheek. “I won’t miss next time.”

Angry tears sting the corner of your eyes. “You’re fucking disgusting."

"You have ten minutes, sweetie. Or would you rather just let me end it all for you right now? I promise it won't hurt." There's a slight pause, then Childe's grin widens even more. "Or perhaps you want to spend your last moments as husband and wife? I know we never got the chance to be really intimate."

He'll shoot you if you try to run. For a split second, you consider trying to reason with him. Maybe he really did feel something—even if it was the most empty-minded feeling that ever crossed his cold heart. But that hopeful thought quickly vanishes. Ajax doesn't exist. He never did.

Finally, with a long exhale, you hesitatingly begin to slip off one heel.

“Mmm, good girl.” He takes out one bullet, letting it clang against the floor and roll by your feet. His gaze feels sharp along, glued to every movement, every nook and cranny of your exposed skin. When you get the other heel off, Childe hums cheerfully and drops another bullet. Papa always told you to be brave, but you’re shaking uncontrollably under this heavy aura of death. Your fingers tremble as they loosen your dress, and when the ribbons slowly but surely come undone, all the silk cascades into a bundle of light pink. A slight sigh comes from Childe the moment your adorable, white undergarments are revealed—so untouched, so innocent. Your skin suddenly feels too uncomfortably tight under his heavily inspecting eyes.

Childe chuckles as you hug yourself ( to cover up and protect yourself from the stormy weather ). Seeing you like that—all vulnerable and small—it's just too cute. He lets go of another bullet, and it lands with a sharp ting.

"Come on, take it all off," he playfully orders.

It's a decision between pride or life—an easy option for most, but difficult when it ends up in your hands. "Go fuck yourself." When you make no effort to strip any more, merely scowling at him with dewy eyes, the blue-eyed man breaks into wild laughter.

“You’d rather die than let me see you naked? Ah, how cute, but. . .” He closes the metal cartridge, spins it, then lifts the gun back up to you. “I’d think twice if I were you.”

"If you lay a finger on me, papa won't let you get away!" you glare at him, but all it does is stir a snicker. Suddenly, Childe steps forward and kicks your knee out. You hit the floor coarse with wet dirt. “Hey—!” Tartaglia wastes no time listening to your protest. He carelessly turns you over with his shoe, then presses the underside of it onto your stomach—a sharp contrast to the way he always treated you like glass. It was that side of him you learned to love, not the heartless man everyone viewed him as. Perhaps if you'd been smarter, you would've seen right through him. How love is but a fool's game to him. And how it was always his plan to use you.

A flash of thunder lights up the sky behind him, and the rain falls harder.

Your face contorts with rage. “Fuck you!"

“Quite the dirty mouth for such a sweet girl," Childe coos, kneeling down to harshly grab your chin. "Haha, you look so cute when your cheeks are all pushed up like that."

He leans in, and suddenly, a pair of lips capture yours—sweet and creamy as if he just finished a glass of honey. His tongue breaks into the wet cavern of your mouth, exploring the darkest corners. You feel the metal of his piercing, how it presses against your tongue. Each groan he makes resonates deep within your chest. Determined to resist in any way you can, you bite down hard enough to split open his bottom lip.

Tartaglia jerks back with surprised laughter, dragging his pierced tongue over the blood. "I always expected you'd like it rough, darling. But it's fine—I like it too." As if taking your defiance as a challenge, he curls his hand into the back of your hair, and with a harsh tug, smashes your lips together in a desperate frenzy.

"Mmph!" The sheer force of his kiss muffles your voice. He forcefully pushes down your jaw, giving him enough room to shove his slithering tongue inside again. Saliva trickles down into your throat, and his mouth hums against yours; it urges you to amuse him more. You refuse at first, but as his disgusting saliva builds up from just how sloppy the kiss is, you're forced to take tiny gulps, and those gulps soon turn into hesitant swallows.

After a long moment, he finally pulls back. “That’s right. Drink it up, filthy little thing.” In a fit of rage, you spit on his face, and he recoils to wipe it off his cheek. Instead of seeing anger on his face, there's nothing but the flushed look of unhinged amusement. He suddenly jams his gun into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, and you gag at the sudden intrusion. He hovers a finger over the trigger with a smirk on his face. “Wanna try that again?”

Tears blur your vision, but they're quickly blinked away. You won't let him win. You won't let this bastard get the better of you.

"That's what I thought." Childe moves the gun to the side of your head, showing exactly who's in charge. His other hand settles upon your pelvis; it nearly folds across the entire width. "So tiny. . ." You flinch as his touch moves lower, caressing all the subtle curves and dips of your flesh. "Ever been this intimate with anyone, darling?" He plays with the band of your panties, letting it smack against your hip after every tug. The ginger coos, as if your reaction was somehow an answer—the way you tremble, the way you glare at him with such lovely flushed cheeks. "Mmm, guess not. But that makes it more exciting, right?"

He suddenly turns you around, easily jerking your limbs until you're sitting on his lap. His hand falls from your neck, between the valley of your breasts, then to your sensitive bundle of nerves. Thorns sprout from the pit of your stomach. It's tingly, prickly, threatening to swallow you whole from the inside out.

"Don't touch there!"

Tartaglia lets out a low chuckle, pushing the barrel of the gun carelessly against your jaw. "Stupid girl, don't you see what position you're in? I'll show you what a man can do to someone so weak." The pads of his fingers are rough, so embarrassingly intimate as one traces your slit. "First, I'm gonna put my cock in here." He slips a gloved finger inside, and you keen at the unfamiliar disturbance. Tiny hands grip onto him tighter, desperately searching for purchase with each scarlet mark it leaves on his skin. You want to scream at him until your throat bled, but all you can muster are pathetic little whimpers.

His voice dips lower, husky with sweet poison. "Then, I'm gonna fuck you like this." His finger slowly drags in, out, in, and out. Each movement is earth-shattering, something you've never experienced before. It renders you completely useless. And despite how much you try to fight it off,fs you're losing yourself to him—body squirming, hips bucking disgracefully against his gloved hand.

"Think you can handle the real thing, sweetheart?" Childe's teasing remark reduces you to a mess of shame and boiling hot anger. You want to tell him to shut up, but your teeth are gritting together to prevent any more noises from coming out ( you don't want to feed his bloated ego any more than this ). However, as he curls his finger and hits a sensitive wall of flesh inside you, an embarrassing mewl chimes from your throat. "Heh, this wet already with just one of my fingers. Didn't realize my wife was so slutty."

"Ah!" You pitifully claw against his shirt, squeezing your legs together to make the electrifying feeling stop. But Childe doesn't give you time to rest. He holsters his gun and forcefully spreads your thighs—smeared with wet dirt, gravel, and slick—before shoving in another finger. The added friction makes you kick your feet in protest. "Nghhh! No, st-sthawp, Ajax!"

Childe's ears perk up at how his name sounds along your pretty tongue. It was something he shared with you after a night of heavy drinking. He never planned to reveal it, but the alcohol influenced him more than he thought. And perhaps it was also because of the way you looked while basked in silver moonlight.

"I hate you!" With an infuriated shriek, you pound against his chest, but that only seems to rile him up even more. His fingers hit even harder, deeper, faster. "Agh! Mmmf, n-no. . . I hate, nghh, h-hate you!"

Tartaglia lets out a snicker. "But you look like you're loving what I'm doing to you. It's not good to lie, you know that, right?" The repulsive, sopping noises of him toying with your cunt mortifies you. There's some pain, pleasure, and an exhausting sense of weakness as you're unable to do anything but lay there. "If you come on my hand, I'm gonna have to punish you for lying~"

Your stomach coils up into a wad of throbbing nerves. The lack of control is terrifying, but you still try to be defiant. "I'm not, ah, going to—!" After a harsh thrust of his fingers, with a loud cry, your body releases all that tension onto his glove. Everything goes blank for a second as your chest heaves up and down. It's so dizzy, the world is spinning.

"Mmm, looks like you need to be taught a lesson on how to be a good girl." His fingers pull out with a squelch, going to unbuckle his belt. There's a very noticeable bulge in his pants. And when he wrenches the restrictive garment down, releasing his hard, massive, swollen cock, new profound terror seeps into your guts. He's planning to put that disgusting thing in you; the thought is horrifying. You try to scurry away, only for his toned arms to push you back down. "Don't run from me." With a smirk, Childe turns your little body around to face him. His weight presses against you, slowly until you're both on the ground. The rain hits his back, droplets rolling down his sharp jaw and onto your face. "This might be a bit rough on your tiny body."

Before you can comprehend his warning, he pulls your soaking wet panties to the side and snaps his hips forward. The painful disturbance makes you wail, your cramped insides trying to resist Childe's member with all its might. It burns. White hot, like a metal rod dipped in lava. For a second, your body shuts down, vision blacking out before startling back awake.

"N-No, hurts. . . 'Jax!"

He jerks his hips, forcing his big cock deeper.

You're gonna die. He's going to kill you.

"Tight—" he hisses, then sucks in a breath that shifts into laughter. He's enjoying it; the cold sweat dripping down your face, how you kick, whimper, your sensitive insides gripping him so intensely. "Hahaha! I can't fuck you stupid if you're gonna keep clenching down me like that." He's smiling, like this is all some kind of joke. However, when you suddenly squeeze even tighter around him, that attitude breaks a little. Teeth gritting hard, Childe buries his head into the shallow dip of your shoulder. He's holding you so close with shivering arms—you can almost confuse it with love. The tender kind you prayed for, something that consumes you whole as if passing through a cloud heavy with rain.

After composing himself, he finally lifts himself back up to look you in the eyes. His face is contorted into a look of pleasure: red cheeks, eyes sharp with wicked amusement. "Ghh. . . W-What did I just say?"

You squeak as he rolls his hips, slipping in a few more inches you didn't realize existed ( it already feels so full ). When he makes a small pump to adjust to the wet heat, your eyes squeeze shut at the throbbing pain. It's too big—the tip feels like it's going to tear through your cervix. But just as you think it's pushed all the way to the hilt, your eyes go wide as he forces in a few more inches inside.

"Ahhh!" You glance down, horror flooding your veins at the sight of there being more to take in. His cock stretches past your limits, making your stomach protrude a little with its shape. The filthy sight burns hot shame throughout you. He's really inside. Not wanting to look at it anymore, your eyes wander elsewhere, but Childe isn't merciful enough to give you that salvation. He takes your chin and forces it forward.

"Look at me."

It's cold enough to see his heavy breaths come out as wisps.

The ginger flutters his eyes, taking a moment to savor the feeling before he fucks you loose. “Such a needy hole for me. So tight, and so fucking warm." When his member draws out slightly, the glossy sheen covering his hard, veiny skin makes you dizzy.

“Let go of me!” you command him, holding back the hot tears brewing in your eyes. In an attempt to relieve the pain, you lift your hips off the hideous thing, but a strong hand grips your waist and jerks you back onto it.

“Mm, now what did I say about not running away?”

Childe pulls himself out to the tip.

Knowing what's coming next, you shout, "W-Wait!" A screech claws out of your chest as he slams back inside with a heavy, wet squelch. Searing pain unfurls inside your weak body, the excruciating thrust of his thick cock too much to handle. You tremble as he withdraws again, agonizingly slow as if to see what other cute reactions you're capable of making. "No, stop—!" He doesn't listen, chuckling as you scratch the muscular jut of his shoulder blades.

“Haah, fffuckk, that’s good,” he admits, thrusting hard back inside with a grunt—so brutally you think for a moment that something split inside you. It’s his massive girth that stretches your insides uncomfortably, the way he’s so much bigger, how he didn’t bother being gentle. The tears you’ve been trying to hold back spill out, and you scream as he sets an unforgiving pace. His body is much bigger, stronger than yours. He easily rocks you back and forth—like you're just some fuckdoll for him to use whenever and however he pleased. All your cries and the way you slam your fists against him are ignored. “Aww, are you crying?” His voice drips with mockery.

You hate it. You hate it so much.

Your hands push against his chiseled stomach. "Get out of me!"

Tartaglia laughs in a way that makes your cheeks burn helplessly. "You're still fighting? Don't you see it's useless, stupid girl." He squeezes your wrists together and pins them above you. There's no way he can possibly hold you down with just one hand, so you struggle, and struggle, and struggle. But nothing budges him at all. His lips are back on yours: kissing hungrily, teeth biting, tongue not wasting any drop. The hot and slimy kisses trail to your collarbone, leaving thick trails of drool. It's like he's salivating at the thought, the feeling, the everything about you.

"I'm not your toy!" you scream at him.

The blue-eyed man lets out a stuttering breath, followed by a snicker. "But you're my wife, which means we're bonded together for the rest of eternity. Remember our vows? Until death do us part." He groans, shifting his weight back a little to get a full view of your adorable face—all red and tear-streaked. “Haaah, you’re so cute when you make that stupid face. That kind of expression would drive any man wild, so don't go showing anyone else." Childe lowers himself to whisper in your ear. "Or I'll get really mad.” He grabs the plush of your thigh, jerking it onto his shoulder to better fuck you into the concrete.

"Ah! Stop, Ajax!"

"That's right, say name name just like that. Go on, cry it all out," he grunts. The shameful wet noises of his hips pounding into your cunt—over and over—fill up the alley. You want to block it out and only listen to the crackles of thunder, the rain as it swallows you up in a bitter cold. But each thrust of his dick breaks your resolve little by little. You’re afraid of someone stumbling down this path and seeing you like this, but you also yearn to be saved.

"H-He. . . lp." It hurts to say anything; your throat is hoarse from all the screaming and pleas for him to stop. "Papa, help me. . ."

The moment you call out for your father, Childe's grip tightens into steel. A punishing thrust rips a cry from you, trembles wrecking through your lithe figure. "Pay attention to me." His voice comes out a low growl. Your vision that was starting to black out returns abruptly. "Who's fucking you right now? Who's making you their bitch? That's right, me. So just forget about everything else and only look. at. me."

There's something so harsh about his words and it confuses you. You've never him like this before—the way he's looking at you with those terrifying eyes.

He glances at the slick gathered between your hips. "We're making such a mess. Finally consummating our marriage after all this time, hm?" Childe takes your left hand, and in a surprising gesture of intimacy, kisses the rings on it. You watch in disbelief as he lifts your hand to his cheek, nuzzling against it—like your warmth is his only flame in the middle of a freezing winter. A strange look dawns his face; you can't pinpoint it no matter how hard you try.

You flinch from his touch despite how gentle it is. "N-No, stop. . . I can't do it anymore. I'm gonna die."

Something flickers across his face, but it's quickly covered up with a smirk.

"Mmmf, you're tightening up again," he heaves out. There's no smile on his face anymore, a concentrated expression taking its place. You feel every bit of his sweat on you, as well as the way your ribcage rattles with how resonating, deep and full his moans are. "I s-should've been, agh, doing this more often while I—ghh!—had the chance." Suddenly, his eyes narrow, cock quivering. "S-Shit, 'mm close. Gonna fill you up nice and good. You'd like that, yeah?"

When you shake your head frantically, he takes out the revolver again and aims it between your eyes, hand trembling slightly from the intense pressure wrapped around his cock. “I’ll blow your, nghhh, p-pretty brains out after I fill you up.” That dark promise widens your eyes in fear; the adorable reaction makes him bursts into wild laughter. But from the way he bites his lips soon after, eyes filled with desire, it's clear that he's struggling to keep himself composed. “Ah, that look on your face; it’s too good! There's still two bullets inside. I’ll do it, darling. I’ll really kill you.”

"Ajax," you plead with a cracking voice. The look on your face must've been priceless ( maybe it was the despair, the defeat, the betrayal, who knows ). His body suddenly shakes with hearty laughter.

"Ha, hahahah! You can be so, so, so cute when you want to be." Childe lets out a low groan. With one last violent thrust, he releases all his cum—in hot, sticky spurts that leave you shivering—deep deep into your womb.

Everything goes numb, the loud thunder and pouring sky becoming white noise.

You stare up at Childe as he spins the revolver's cylinder one more time. The bullets in their cartridge rotate with a clinking noise, metal on metal, beckoning death from its slumber. There's a chance you'll die, and a chance you may walk out of here alive. But your heart is broken, and no one can survive without a functioning heart.

Childe smiles; it isn't playful but rather weak. "Ha, don't look at me like that. It makes me feel kind of bad. But don't worry! If you survive this, I'll let you go like I promised earlier."

He presses the nozzle against your forehead slowly—perhaps to prolong your despair, or maybe it's because of something else. You think you see something change in his blue gaze, but those eyes are still dark—as heavy and cold as a thousand seas. Even then, you find yourself clinging to that tiny spark of light.

"I love you."

The words spill out from your mouth.

Tartaglia sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes widen, filling with some strange emotion you've never seen in them before. After a bit, he squeezes them shut, as if your words seared his flesh. "Don't say things like that either." He finally looks at you with an unclear expression, one that surely isn't warm but not cold either. "It makes me feel like I'm gonna do something I regret."

His finger moves to the trigger.

And you wait for what's to come.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

## 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 | thank you for reading! got sick and tired of proofreading, so you'll probably find grammatical errors or clunky sentences. but wow i actually managed to write something kek.

( 10.21.23 ) ( © ollieink | my box is always open ! )

#( general ; ollie's writing )#childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #smut #childe smut #yanderecore #yancore

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bookshelf-dust · 1 year

Text

the hurt is good

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi

billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 2,344

warnings: swearing, smoking, reader is lonely, descriptions of billy’s abuse, mentions of neil

a/n: hi! so i decided to challenge myself with this. i’m making this a multi-part story. i’ve never done anything like this before, but so far i’m enjoying it. i’m not entirely sure where we’re headed, but i’ve got a sort of outline in my head. i’ve also decided to try something else new, and i’ve picked out some songs that you can listen to before you read to get you in the mood—but only if you want of course. this is all a really new experience for me but i have put a lot of heart into this first part. i hope that you enjoy this, really i do. also the title is from a part of hop’s letter to el. <333

before you read, listen to: wheel in the sky by journey and/or (don’t fear) the reaper by blue oyster cult

————

Sitting cross-legged on your bed, you turn the page of the book in front of you, the sound of the paper flipping an audible one.

You lift the hardback, tuck your nose into the center of the pages and give it a sniff. It might be odd to do so, yes, but to you, books are the best smelling thing in the world.

You put it back down, go back to reading.

A knock breaks you out of your fantasy literature-induced stupor.

“Honey? Okay for me to come in?” Your mother’s voice, soft and sweet.

“Sure.” Your voice is quiet when you speak, though just loud enough for her to hear.

Your bedroom door opens enough for your mother to stand just inside, her back against the frame, one hand gently resting on the knob.

You reach for your bookmark, drape it over one side of the pages and then close it.

“Hey, kiddo.” Her smile is easy. You try your best to give her one of your own, but you know it falls short.

“Wendy and I are going out to dinner tonight and then to an art show.”

Wendy was your mother’s longtime best friend, and quite the riot.

“Apparently her new girlfriend is something of an artist.” She gives a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows. “Do you think you’d like to tag along?”

You uncross your legs and stretch them out: contemplating. Then you do the same to your back, which makes an obscene crackling noise—enough to make the both of you grimace.

You know how you’ll feel if you go out with your mother and her friend.

You’ll be okay for the first little while, but then there will be too many people. You’ll get nervous. You will probably say something wrong and feel the need to shut down. You will shut down. Your hands will get shaky and you’ll get upset, and by the end of the night you’ll wish you hadn’t gone at all.

You know how you’ll feel if you stay home, too.

You’ll be fine, totally fine, having avoided everything you’d face in the other situation. But you’d be guilty. Guilty because you’re young and you won’t be going out to do whatever or making friends. You’ll feel like you’re failing your mom, who just wants you to experience things.

You decide that leaving your house shouldn’t require this much stress.

“No, I don’t think so,” you finally say. “But thank you for offering.”

You watch your mother as she moves further inside your room, settling on the edge of your bed.

“Are you sure?” She sets her hands on your knees, tapping her fingers, many a ring glinting in the overhead light of your room.

“We could get frozen yogurt. You know, I really think you’ve turned Wendy into a monster after we went last time. It’s all she talks about now.”

That gets a small smile out of you, but brings an ache to your chest.

“I’m sure. Don’t get too crazy, tonight, though. And be sure to let me know about her new partner.”

“Alright. Hug or no? What’s the affectionate meter at right now?”

“A hug is fine,” you say through a quiet laugh.

She wraps her arms carefully around your shoulders, allowing you to squeeze first, that way she can gauge what you need.

“I’ll leave some money out so you can order pizza, okay?” You nod. “Also there’s a pint of the ice cream you like in the freezer.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my little honeybee.” With a final pat of your knee and a wink sent in the direction of your book, your mother sweeps out of the room, and a little while later she is out the door.

Alone in the house, you let out an exhale, before heading to the kitchen.

Opening the designated take-out-menu-drawer, you scrounge for the one belonging to a local pizza place. You go ahead and order now, knowing that it might take awhile since the place is in downtown Hawkins.

You realize, setting the phone down, that you don’t know what to do with yourself once you’ve got the chance to do whatever you please.

You retrieve your book to read on the couch until your dinner arrives, not only for a change of scenery, but because you’ll need to be out in the living room to watch an episode of your favorite show in a while anyhow.

You’ve only sat momentarily when you hear it. Hear him. When you hear his music, specifically.

Billy Hargrove lives a few doors down from you, just close enough that you can always hear when he comes home, music blaring—not that differently from the volume you play it at when alone in your car—and doors slamming.

You don’t know him personally, only from school. Only as this pretty boy who’s been in Hawkins a few months.

You know enough that you hate the way people at school look at him. Like he’s an object. Like he’s this foreign being just because he came all the way from sunny California. The way they talk about him. About his ass, or his car, or his little redhead sister.

You know he’s pretty. You’d never deny that. But he’s just like the rest of you, and it bothers you that people treat him—at least from what you’ve seen—like this all-powerful dude.

But you also know enough that you think maybe he doesn’t have the best home life, just from what you’ve seen when you’re not out—which is always.

Sometimes you see him walking up and down the street at various times during the day. Or you hear his car speed off.

Sometimes, though really only sometimes, you see him trailing his sister while she skateboards, either talking or sitting while she goes.

To you, he seems like a loner.

And maybe it’s because you’re one too that you see him that way. That you can see him that way.

————

Outside, Billy cups his hand around his cigarette. It’s seemingly out of habit, since it’s not windy out. His thumb slides along the spark wheel of his lighter once, twice before the flame catches. The tip glows red in the night.

He walks a little further, as he inhales deeply, closing his eyes and soaking it in. He kicks a rock, hard, trying to see if it’ll hit the post of the mailbox a few feet ahead of him.

He watches a pizza delivery car ride by and pull into a driveway. He hasn’t made it very far on his walk. The walk he wouldn’t be taking because it’s pretty damn cold outside.

But Neil Hargrove wasn’t aware that Max Mayfield had joined the Hawkins AV Club, and when there was no Max at home, he took it out on Billy, telling him he was an irresponsible waste of space.

It took Susan getting home with her daughter and explaining the situation for Neil to calm down.

But Billy’s back was aching from where he’d been slammed up against a doorframe, and frankly he wanted nothing more than to get out of the house.

So here he was.

A porch light flicked on as if whoever was inside had been waiting on that pizza. You had been—sitting on the couch and listening for car sounds.

When the delivery guy rings the doorbell you appear, and Billy realizes he knows you. That he goes to school with you. You’re very quiet. He also thinks your very pretty, and he’s never noticed that before.

You look very comfortable; all of your clothes seem to be too big. With the way the yellow outside light hits you, it gives your face a multitude of shadows. Billy thinks about some of the greek statues he learned about in a history class back when he lived in California. About how artists tended to sculpt women with real bodies.

Shit, he thinks. He’s probably staring at you. But you really are very pretty.

On the stoop, you take the pizza and set it on the table just inside the door and then hand the guy his money.

You decide not to be a dick and make sure that he gets out okay. When he backs out, you catch a flash of red out of the corner of your eye.

You wouldn’t be able to see him if it weren’t for the street lights. Billy is looking at you. You smile at him, and to your surprise, he smiles back.

“You okay?” You ask, hoping that your voice carries to him, because you don’t feel like shouting.

You watch him shrug and take another drag of his cigarette. The fingers on his free hand fidget with the ring he’s wearing, and you pretend not to notice.

“You?” He questions in return. Something about the sound of his voice makes you feel warm inside.

You shrug back, and he lets out a breath of a laugh, before you turn around to go inside and he continues with his walk.

You kick the door shut and lock it behind you, thinking about Billy.

That is the most extensive conversation you’ve ever had with him, aside from one a few days after he started at Hawkins High, when he didn’t know where the auditorium was, so you walked him the whole way there. You were pretty sure he’d been embarrassed to have to ask for help, but you hadn’t been bothered at all.

In fact, that exchange outside was the most conversation you’d had with anyone outside of your mother in a while.

Most days you didn’t say a word at school, keeping to yourself, trying to get homework done any chance you could so that it didn’t actually become homework. Sometimes you had to speak with a teacher though, and of course you said thank you when someone held a door—but that was it.

Quite frankly you didn’t know what to think. Part of you hoped you’d see him again. That you’d make a friend.

You hadn’t had a friend in a very long time.

————

When your mother returns home, it is with many beans to spill.

Wendy’s new partner, who you found out was named Stephanie, was, in your mother’s words, “Hot enough to go gay for.”

Your mother had also undoubtedly had some to drink while out and about.

“Also that boy from down the street? Don’t you go to school with him?”

You start fussing with a string on your sleeve. “Yeah, why?”

“Well he was brooding on his porch when Wendy retrieved me, and he’s still wandering around outside. It’s been,” she checked her watch, “three hours.”

You scratch at your nose, thinking.

“I saw him when the pizza got here.”

Your mother hums. “Well, I’m going to go shower the art gallery off of me and then probably stay up too late reading.”

“Okay.”

She smiles sweetly at you, collecting the pile of rings and other jewelry that she’d taken off and set on the counter while talking to you, and then you’re alone again.

You flatten your body over the countertop, bending at the waist and stretching so that your fingers can grip the other side.

You think about Billy out there. He was obviously going through something. And maybe it isn’t any of your business, but you hate the idea of him being alone, wallowing in self-pity. Not that you have any room to talk.

You straighten, walking carefully so as to not allow your socked feet to slip along the floor, and find yourself reaching for your coat.

Shoving your feet into a pair of shoes, you flip on the porch light once again, and make your way outside.

Across the street, Billy is resting against a low wall that has a mailbox set into it.

Looking both ways out of habit, you make your way towards him, stopping a few feet away. He looks up at you, both hands on the brick underneath him. There is a half-finished cigarette in one of his hands. You find yourself wondering how much he’d smoked since he’d been out here.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He quirks a brow at you.

“You’ve been out here a long time, you know that?”

Billy glances at his watch. “Seems so.”

“Not cold?”

“‘M fucking freezing my ass off out here.”

You try and choose your words carefully, not wanting to push too hard. “Seems like you could solve that problem if you went inside.”

“Are you worried about me or something, Y/N?”

Trying not to think about the way your name sounded leaving his mouth, you admit to your crimes.

“Yeah, actually. You were out here earlier, and my mom said she saw you when she left and when she got home. I didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”

Something in Billy’s face softens. “Yeah?”

You exhale, your breath leaving a plume of air in front of you.

“Yeah.”

“Well then I guess I better get my ass inside, huh?”

You stuff your hands into your pockets and realize what you’ve got in there.

“Here.” You pull out a little hand warmer packet an hold it out to him.

Billy laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, you think. Charming and hearty. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

————

At school Monday, you make your way to the lunch table you’ve claimed, grass squishing under your feet.

You flip open your book, shove one leg under you.

It’s only been a little while of munching on grapes and forcing yourself to concentrate before you feel a weight drop onto the bench across from you, shifting the old table a little.

You look up. Billy Hargrove looks back.

He throws his bag on the worn wood, slaps a book of his own on top of that.

You’re confused at his appearance, and he seems to sense that.

“I didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”

You feel yourself heat up, and sit on one of your hands because you also feel like you could cry.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove comfort #billy stranger things #stranger things fic #billy stranger things fic #billy hargrove x f!reader #savannah’s fics

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arminreindl · 8 months

Text

Gharial rescued from sea

Another instance of more recent croc news, a "giant" gharial was found in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Balsore, eastern India.

According to news articles, the animal, an adult Indian Gharial (Gavialis gangeticus), meassured around 13 feet or in metric close to 4 meters in length while weighing some 118 kilos.

The gharial apparently got caught in a fishing net and was found by fishermen, who promptly reported their catch to the Forest Department. The department then handed the animal over to Nandankanan Zoological Park, where the crocodilian still resides.

That's all the information given to us by the article, which you can read here, but there's two key notes I wanna touch upon.

The first is size. At 4 meters, this gharial was decently large for sure and as someone who has seen a (stuffed) female of slightly greater proportions I can attest that it must have been an impressive animal. However, I think its worth mentioning that Indian gharials are capable of growing even larger. The female I just mentioned is accompanied by a stuffed male nearly 5 and a half meters in length, with some reports claiming sizes even greater than that.

Me and the Vienna gharials

The second point is the mysterious presence of a gharial this far out at sea. This is simultaneously unusual yet also very much reasonable from the point of view of paleontology.

On the one hand, Indian gharials are critically endangered. Their range today is incrediply spotty and isolated and to my knowledge they aren't found anywhere near the coast these days.

However when you look at how the range was meant to be like, then you see that they definitely reached the river deltas and coastal regions. So our image of gharials as this inland freshwater species is more based in circumstance than reality.

This becomes especially apparent once you begin to consider the paleobiogeography of gharials. Based on our current knowledge, gharials most likely originated somewhere in Eurasia or Africa, spreading from there across much of the eastern hemisphere and beyond (full disclosure I am not considering thoracosaurs to be gavialoids, more on that can of worms later maybe). Anywho, phylogenetic analysis and the fossil record both suggest that gharials then crossed oceans and settled South America sometime prior to or during the Miocene, where they diversified and gave rise to the gryposuchines. Some species even remained saltwater species, such as Piscogavialis, which lived in the coastal waters of Peru.

Although gryposuchines were once thought to be a distinct subfamily of gharial, recent research suggests that they were but an evolutionary stepping stone, with some South American form once again crossing the Pacific and settling down in Asia where the much more basal "tomistomines" or false gharials (a misnomer) still resided. And while the gryposuchines of South America went extinct, those that returned to Asia survived and eventually gave rise to the Indian Gharial of today.

Left: A cladogram showing the relationship between Gryposuchinae and modern gharials Right: Piscogavialis swimming overhead some marine sloths of the genus Thalassocnus by @knuppitalism-with-ue

So ultimately, seeing a gharial in saltwater is much less bizarre than one would initially think, its just that habitat destruction and overhunting have largely pushed these gorgeous reptiles further inland and to the brink of extinction.

#gharial #indian gharial #gavialis gangeticus #gavialidae #news #croc #crocodilia #crocodile #india #herpetology #gavialinae #gryposuchinae #piscogavialis #some paleontology #palaeoblr

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cuubism · 1 year

Text

a time of need

Hob’s having what he’d thought would be an easy Sunday, puttering around the house catching up on chores and rest, when the worst headache he’s ever had splits down the middle of his skull.

It’s worse, even, than the time he’d taken an actual cleaver to the forehead, and woken up two days later still unable to see out of one eye. Hob’s hands shake and he barely manages to make it to the couch before he collapses. He shuts his eyes in agony and—

--then he’s in the Dreaming. So fast, between one blink and the next. And he knows, instinctively, that he was called here, by Dream or by the Dreaming itself. But he’s never been called like that, with a call full of such pain.

He staggers to his feet in the throne room. The sky high overhead, usually a placid field of stars, is swirling with red star matter, like the Dreaming has fallen into the heart of a nebula. It casts a crimson sheen over everything.

Lucienne is hurrying towards him, steps clicking sharply on the marble floor. “Hob? You should not be here. Lord Morpheus has closed off the heart of the Dreaming.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t intentional.” Hob takes in the deep creases in her expression as she reaches him. “What’s going on?”

“We are under attack.” She squeezes his arm, imploring. “You must go.”

“Under attack? What, Hell?” Hob remembers Dream mentioning it had happened before.

Lucienne shakes her head. “No. I do not know the details.”

A cavernous boom! echoes through the hall, shaking the walls. Lightning streaks across the sky, jagged scars that leave harsh afterimages in Hob’s vision. He pales at the sound. “Is he taking them on – whoever they are – by himself?”

“The dreams and nightmares are helping as best suits this kind of fight. But you must go.”

Hob shakes his head. “No, he called me for a reason. Where is he?”

“Hob—”

“Lucienne. Please.”

She relents, still troubled. “He is outside the palace gates, I know not precisely where. You will be drawn to the nexus of his power, I am sure.”

That’s good enough for Hob. He runs down the palace steps and across the bridge to the gates, reaching them much faster than he thinks should probably be reasonable, but then again he is in the Dreaming. The gates open to let him out, and then clank shut behind him.

The feeling of power is much stronger out here, as if the palace and its grounds had been held in a protective bubble. Lucienne was right about Dream’s power drawing him in; Hob finds him easily, standing at the bank of a river that seems to now be flowing with lava instead of water, and he’s just— just surrounded by… creatures.

Hob can’t define them any better than creatures, they are amorphous and shifting, claws and teeth and legs and wings emerging then disappearing again. He wonders why they haven’t gone to flank the palace, attack from all sides, before realizing that just as Dream’s power has drawn Hob in, it is also drawing the creatures to him. Making him the only target.

He isn’t carrying a weapon or even wearing armor or anything, and Hob’s heart pounds as he runs to him, and—

A creature leaps for Dream’s throat. Dream reaches into the air – into a dream? – his arm disappearing, yanks, and pulls a ribbon of flames straight through the creature’s body, throwing it out across the landscape. Grass scorches, and the other beasts in the fire’s path screech.

Another is leaping at his back, hundreds of teeth appearing from the shrouded mass of it in midair. Hob’s about to shout a warning, but no need. Dream turns, flings open his coat. The creature barrels in and falls into the swirling galaxies in the lining, its shriek cutting off sharply.

More run for him. Dream disappears into a dream, then reappears seconds later, a good twenty meters from where he’d been.

On the edge of a cliff.

A cliff which the beasts that charge for him hurtle off of, a cliff which was definitely not there before, because Dream brought it with him from the dream, mother of God, how is Hob even supposed to help here at all?

Well, fuck it. He’s got to try, doesn’t he?

As soon as he thinks it, there’s a sword in his hand. Dream doesn’t make note of his presence, but he must know Hob’s there, mustn’t he? Dream called him there, though God knows why.

Regardless, the creatures are so focused on Dream that Hob is able to take out two of them with his blade before they even notice he’s there.

They don’t… die, in the way he’d expect. They sort of scream and explode into dust, drifting off in the wind. He hopes they aren’t just going to reform or something.

“You are creatures of warmth,” Hob hears Dream say, across the field, to the rest of the creatures. It seems like there are more, not less, like they’re multiplying. God. “Please enjoy my warmest hospitality.”

A vicious blizzard descends on them.

Snow whips in wild gusts across the landscape, ice biting Hob’s cheeks. He can’t see Dream very well anymore. He hears a splash and a creature howling, and imagines Dream must have pulled a frozen lake from a dream about ice skating, or perhaps from a nightmare about drowning.

He makes his way towards Dream, determined to stay by him so he has someone at his back, even if that someone is Hob, whose powers here are meager in comparison to Dream’s.

He finds creatures in the snow and slaughters them, all of his sword work from decades past coming back to him. They come at him with fangs and claws and tails bristling with spines, but Hob isn’t afraid. His desperation to keep Dream safe is far more powerful than that.

Irrational, to want to keep Dream safe in the Dreaming. But he feels it all the same.

“This is my realm,” he hears Dream growl from somewhere in the storm, voice reverberating despite the howling wind. “It bends to my wishes. But you? Let us see how you like the dark.”

And he turns off the sun.

The Dreaming is plunged into absolute, pure darkness the likes of which Hob has never seen. There’s no moon, no stars. Hob blinks and throws his hands out, trying to balance.

And then realizes…

He can see.

Somehow. Not with his eyes, quite. But with some kind of direction at the back of his head, like the Dreaming itself is guiding him. Neat, that. Also quite likely to drive him mad if it lasts for any amount of time.

He follows the direction of Dream’s voice and finally gets close enough to see him again. There are still so many damn creatures, where are they even coming from? They are blundering now, in the dark, but must have other senses for they’re still managing to, eventually, turn for Dream. Hob watches him turn the ground beneath a group of them into quicksand. They scream and flail as they sink.

“Do you not tire?” Dream asks, idly. “Do you not relent? That is disappointing, for I tire. Of gravity, in particular.”

The realm turns upside down.

Hob’s feet stay planted on the grass as his brain spins wildly to reorient itself, but the creatures aren’t so lucky. They go tumbling down – or up? – into the air, screaming. Hob wonders if Dream’s just accidentally done the same to the entire realm, but no— looking behind him, he can see the core of the Dreaming, the palace, all the residences, still oriented the same way. Opposite to them. What in--?

Maintaining two sets of opposing gravities at once seems to be costing Dream. His chest heaves. He flips them back over again, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face. The sun pops back up into the sky, too, which is… Hob decides to interrogate it later and just be grateful for the light.

“Dream!” Hob calls, as soon as his dizziness subsides.

Dream spins to him, seeming startled. “Hob?”

So then he didn’t realize Hob was there, at least not consciously. By the time Hob reaches his side, the sword has dissolved from his grasp. “Fuck. That was… insane. Are you okay?”

Dream looks at him, brow furrowed. The rushing winter winds die down as their eyes meet, leaving drifts of snow behind. “Why are you here? You should not be here, it is not safe. I have closed off the heart of the Dreaming. How?”

“You… called me?” Hob says. “I think.”

Dream’s frown deepens. “I do not… recall. Regardless, you must go. The Dreaming is not safe at present.”

“Why? Isn’t the fight over?”

“No.” Dream looks out at the horizon. A wave of sickly, mixed colors is growing there, like oil spreading across the sky. “The real fight has yet to begin.”

“What? What about all those creatures?”

“Those were scouts. Hunting dogs.” Dream huffs. “Their masters thought perhaps they would get lucky and catch me unawares, not have to dirty their hands. Foolish. They will pay for it.”

Hob looks around, horrified, as that oil keeps spreading upward from the horizon. With it, a wave of what Hob can only describe as grayscale follows across the landscape. Color leaches out of everything and disappears. Dream watches this, expression tight but measured, following the arc of the spread.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Hob asks.

“Let them expend their energy. Color is immaterial, I will restore it later.”

“Lure them into complacency?” Hob guesses, faint.

Dream nods. He looks even more dramatic with no warmth to his skin, all stark black and white lines.

“What are they? The invaders?” Hob asks.

Dream hums. “The closest waking world corollary would be… bacteria. It is a sickness, of sorts. They would infect and devour us.”

Hob means to say something intelligent but what comes out of his mouth is, “Bacteria have hunting dogs?”

“Well, they hardly have teeth of their own,” says Dream.

Hob shakes his head, as if that could possibly help to clear it. “And you’re going to fight these things on your own?”

“My dreams and nightmares are already helping me by letting me pull from them, so that I do not have to create everything from scratch,” says Dream. He watches as the oil spill completes its transit of the sky. The only color now is the swirling above them. “This is not a fight of physical prowess. You must leave.”

“I can’t die, Dream.”

“I would not see your mind shredded on my behalf.”

“Is that going to happen if the Dreaming doesn’t fall?”

Dream frowns. “Not… likely. And the Dreaming will not fall. I will not let it.”

“Then it’s settled,” Hob says.

Dream sighs. “You are monumentally stubborn.”

“That’s what got me this far in the first place. Can’t stop now.”

That pulls a tiny smile from Dream. “No. I suppose not.”

A shudder runs through the landscape, vibrating under Hob’s feet. Then another, like the ground itself is shivering. Hob shifts to maintain his balance, as he might once have on the deck of a ship. Dream doesn’t move at all, like the shivers travel right through him.

The air goes hot, then cold, then blazingly hot again, struggling with itself. The snow around them starts to steam. Dream’s jaw clenches, and the temperature drops violently once again, below freezing. Hob’s breath fogs in the air.

Dream is glaring at the horizon. “Stay present,” he tells Hob, in the tone one might use to call, On your guard!

Never bring a sword to a battle of minds, Hob thinks deliriously. His blade hasn’t rematerialized, and it would be useless anyway. Hob himself feels useless, but like hell will he leave Dream’s side.

“How did they even get in?” he asks.

“The boundaries of the Dreaming are porous to permit the passage of dreamers,” says Dream. “Unsavory things sometimes slip in as well.”

“Often?”

Dream’s eyes glint. “Only when enough time has passed that the folly in doing so has been forgotten.”

It’s in moments like this that Hob really thinks about how old Dream is. It’s easier to conceptualize his age in this way, funnily enough. An ancient lord once again protecting his kingdom from invaders is something Hob’s mind can grasp, even if the timescale in this case is absurdly long.

“Going to teach them a lesson, then?”

Dream smiles, slow and predatory; Hob sees in it the nightmare of every prey animal that has ever dashed through a dark forest, fleeing the gleaming of teeth. “Oh, yes.”

He closes his eyes. His fingers flutter at his side, like he’s plucking the strings of an invisible harp. Snow lifts in swirls around them, though there’s no longer any wind. Another shiver runs through the ground.

“What are you going to do?” Hob asks, at a whisper. He doesn’t know why he whispers; it just seems right in the face of the approaching power storm.

“There are known ways to destroy a waking world bacterium,” Dream says. His eyes are still shut, brow furrowed in concentration. “Burn it out, freeze it out. Take away its sustenance. Make the environment unsustainable for it. But bacteria that feasts on dream matter cannot be destroyed by something as simple as temperature; the temperature is, after all, a part of the Dreaming itself. It can gorge itself on the heat and cold as easily as on anything else.”

“So what will you do, then?” Hob asks.

Dream’s lips quirk up in a smug smile. “I am the Dreaming,” he says, not actually answering the question. “They cannot have me. If they insist on having me, then I will simply not exist at all.”

Before Hob can so much as say wait!, Dream's power screams into being around them more tangibly than Hob’s ever felt it, the air charging up with electricity, the fabric of the realm warbling around them. His ears pop with the pressure change, a whine pitching higher and higher in the atmosphere and making him wince, and Dream’s form fuzzes in and out like TV static.

Dream’s hands rise at his sides like he’s finding his balance in the shifting world around them, or perhaps conducting the dreams in an invisible orchestra. He hums, pleased with whatever he can feel rumbling through his power. Then he presses his hands outward.

Hob… doesn’t know exactly what happens, then.

It’s like everything blinks out, then back on again, like turning on and off a light switch. It’s so quick his body doesn’t even react until several seconds later, when a tremor of unease shivers up his spine. For it wasn’t like before, when Dream had blacked out the sun – Hob would swear that in that millisecond of darkness he felt nothing, not the ground under his feet, or the air he was breathing, or his own clothes against his skin. He’s not even sure he existed in that moment.

Everything around him is exactly the same, except that those threads of oily color circling the sky have disappeared. Just like that, gone, the bacteria dead, or at least banished, and Hob has no idea what Dream even did.

Everything in the Dreaming looks the exact same--

--except Dream.

Dream looks like he tumbled down a cliff then ran ten kilometers through bramble bushes. His hair is falling in clumps over his forehead, his long coat torn, his forehead prickling with sweat. His nose is bleeding, the red of it shockingly bright as color leeches back into the gray landscape, though he pays it no mind as it trickles over his lips. His hands are shaking where he holds them out, fingers now closed into fists.

“Any of you who have survived,” he snarls, glaring up at the sky, presumably speaking to the remaining bacteria, “carry a message home to your people. Enter my realm again, touch a single one of its inhabitants, and I will personally unmake your entire species. Do not test me.”

Is unmaking a species even in Dream’s power? Hob wouldn’t have thought so, but he wouldn’t care to test that theory right now, were he the species in question.

Dream wavers, then, and Hob just barely manages to lurch forward fast enough to catch him as he falls. He goes to his knees in the snow, and Dream collapses against him, shaking horribly. He coughs, a horrible, wet sound, and blood spatters Hob’s shirt.

Hob’s heart jumps into his throat. “ Dream —” He tries to get him down onto his side, but Dream clenches his hands weakly in Hob’s shirt.

“I will be—” he starts, and is cut off by more coughing, blood dripping from his lips. “Fine, in—” Another spasm of coughing. A tremor shakes violently through him.

“Shhh.” Hob holds him close. “I got you.”

Dream heaves for breath. He feels feverishly hot, now, sweating and shivering. “What the hell did you even do? ” Hob asks, running a hand over his back, a bit frantically.

“I unmade the Dreaming,” Dream says, each word a wheeze, “ripped it back into-- into its original grains of sand. Thus. Expelling the bacteria. Into the void that surrounds us, where it-- cannot survive. And then I put- put the Dreaming back, exactly as it was. It must--” he wipes blood from his mouth with a shaking hand, only succeeding in smearing it all over his cheek-- “must be done in an instant. To avoid causing harm.”

“What?” Hob breathes, a vast understatement for the horror and awe that he feels. “Dream, what?”

“Breaking my ruby gave-- gave me back power I hadn’t-- hadn’t seen in eons.” He coughs once, hard, spitting up more blood onto Hob’s shirt. “Nevertheless, I may be… down here for a while.”

Hob smoothes a hand over his shivering chest. “It doesn’t seem like it’s avoided causing harm.”

“Causing no- no damage is impossible, but I managed to contain it within-” he wheezes-- “within my- aspect- and not the rest of the Dreaming.”

“I didn’t even know you could bleed,” Hob says faintly. It’s more disconcerting than feeling the world unravel around him to see Dream shaking and coughing up blood. He’s heard that Dream was weakened when he first escaped his long imprisonment, before he’d recovered his tools, but this is on another level.

“Usually, I cannot,” says Dream, which doesn’t help at all.

“Alright, let’s get you down, then.” Hob maneuvers Dream to lie on his side on the ground. Dream rests his head in Hob’s lap, eyelids fluttering. Around them, the world seems to waver, and then stabilizes again.

Dream feels it, too, and says, “Worry not. The realm is stable. It is merely. Reacting to me.”

“My concern’s really you right now, love,” Hob says, running a hand through Dream’s hair. “Though it’s good the place isn’t going to collapse.”

Dream hums at his touch, closing his eyes. His breathing’s evened out, but it doesn’t seem like he’ll be getting back up under his own muster anytime soon.

It’s not long before footsteps crunch in the snow behind them, wingbeats by their side. “My lord!”

“Lucienne.” Dream’s voice is a low rumble against Hob’s thigh. “Matthew.”

“Boss!” Matthew lands on the ground beside them, Lucienne reaching them a few moments after. Matthew’s gaze catches on the blood on Hob’s shirt and he says, “You hurt, Hob?”

Hob shakes his head and nods toward Dream. Matthew squawks in alarm, feathers puffing up, and flies up to land on Dream’s shoulder, nudging at his hair with his beak.

“I am fine, Matthew,” Dream says without opening his eyes. It’s somewhat unconvincing considering how hoarse his voice comes out, and the fact that one of his ears is now bleeding.

Hob is… fairly convinced that he will be fine, once he’s rested. Fairly.

“Just put himself through the ringer, that’s all,” he says, wiping the blood that’s trailing from Dream’s ear away with his sleeve. “We’ll go home, get some food in you, have a nice bath, and get some rest, hm?”

Dream hums in agreement. “Lucienne, how fare the dreams?”

“Everyone is frightened, but safe,” she reports, then adds, sounding fond, “They were a bit confused by the sun going out.”

“Yeah, that was an interesting party trick,” Hob agrees, and Dream chuckles.

It’s still bloody cold out here, post-blizzard. Hob doesn’t trust Dream’s usual I don’t feel temperatures excuse when he’s so drained of power, so ripped apart.

He gathers Dream up in his arms again, wrapping his coat tighter around him. “Let’s get you in from the cold.”

“So… we’re just not gonna talk about that moment when we all went to the shadow realm, then,” Matthew caws as Hob gets to his feet, lifting Dream up with him. “Do I want to know what that was?”

“Probably not,” Hob tells him, as Dream says, “Hob Gadling, I am capable of walking.”

“Uh-huh,” Hob says with no confidence. “Sure, love. Just indulge me. Consider it some kind of foreplay for later, if it makes you feel better.”

Matthew mutters, “Ick,” but Dream smiles and relents.

“Much later,” Hob warns him. “Mister Coughing-Up-Blood.”

Dream rolls his eyes, but allows Hob to carry him.

Fortunately, it’s not far – the Dreaming transports them quickly back to the palace, though with less certainty in the movement than usual. “Lucienne,” Dream says as Hob divests him of his long coat and lays him in his bed. He looks like he’s about to try to pop back up, and Hob presses a hand to his shoulder, subtly keeping him down. “Please instruct everyone to let me know immediately if they find anything awry. The realm is cleansed, but I do not like to take chances.”

She inclines her head in understanding, casting a small smile in Hob’s direction, too, for good measure. Presumably for his efforts in keeping Dream lying down.

Matthew lands on Dream’s knee. “Seriously, boss, you good? I don’t know what was going on exactly, but whatever it was felt… not great.”

“I am ‘good,’” Dream confirms. “Some amount of damage is usually sustained in fighting off an illness, is it not?”

“If that’s how you want to put it,” Matthew says.

“I’ll look after him,” Hob reassures them both.

They take their leave then, Matthew giving Hob a little salute with his wing, and then Hob and Dream are alone. Hob slips Dream’s boots off, laying a blanket over him, then sits beside him on the bed, resting a hand on his chest. “Are you feeling any better?” he asks. “You have to let me know if it gets worse, I’m dead serious, Dream.”

“I’m not certain what weight that carries when you cannot die,” Dream says.

Hob raises an eyebrow. “Try it and find out. Now, still.”

He finds a damp cloth – thanks, Dreaming – and starts wiping the blood from Dream’s lips, and his hands.

“I see now why the Dreaming called you here,” Dream muses. “No one else would dare speak to me in this manner.”

“The Dreaming called me?”

“I did not. Not intentionally. I would not have brought you into such a battle.”

“Well, I wasn’t much help anyway,” Hob observes. He tips Dream’s head up and gets him to drink some water, likewise manifested by the Dreaming. “You did all the work with your world-bending powers.”

“Perhaps you are a reward,” Dream suggests as Hob lets him lie back down. He finds Hob’s hand and kisses his fingertips.

“Oh, yeah? A prize for your heroism?”

Dream tugs on his arm. Hob slips off his own shoes and discards his blood-splattered shirt, and obediently lies down beside him, gathering him in his arms. Dream cuddles up to him, giving a pleased hum, resting his head on Hob’s shoulder. “A comfort.”

Hob runs a hand through his hair and kisses his forehead. He still can't help but worry a bit, after everything he saw Dream do, but it's good to see him feeling more comfortable. “Sweet thing. You were very brave. Clever, too.”

“You do not have to praise me for performing my function,” Dream grumbles.

“Yeah, but you love it.”

Dream mutters again under his breath, but doesn’t move away. Hob squeezes him tighter, and he softens again.

“Get some rest, now,” Hob tells him.

“You will stay?”

“Course. Think I’ll abandon my king in his time of need?”

Dream hums, evidently pleased.

“But am I going to wake up with a terrible hangover after this?” Hob asks. “Whatever the Dreaming did to summon me felt like getting hit over the head with a pickaxe.”

“Maybe,” Dream says, sounding only the slightest bit chagrined about it. “It had to pull you through the barrier I had constructed.”

He tucks his nose against Hob’s throat, snuggling closer, and Hob just sighs, defeated. “Worth it, to be here for you,” he admits, and feels Dream smile.

#it's finishing up almost finished fics week apparently #my writing #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling

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mistydeyes · 7 months

Text

therapy pt. ii; treatment and pharmacotherapy

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FIRST read part i here! olivia (@lundenloves) covers the initial therapy portion beautifully and i cannot emphasize how good the characterization of simon is!!

summary: Reeling from the myriad of questions posed by the therapist, Simon is now sent to the second process of therapy: treatment and meds.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, medical terminology + medications, mentions of depression/anxiety/ptsd

a/n: i finally got around to this! this has been in the works since the summer and tbh I fell off with it but olivia's amazing part + pharmacy school rotations really invigorated this back up! hope you enjoy :)

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As Simon exited the stuffy office, he felt defeated. He wanted to escape the confines of the base and forget about all the information he had offered willingly. He hesitated as he eyed the corridor with a glowing red exit sign at the end of it. As if he was thinking aloud, Kaufman’s voice echoed in the hallway.

“The medical wing is the other way,” she called with a laugh, sickly rebounding in the sterile, empty hallway. With balled fists, Simon made the journey to his next destination.

Similar to this morning, the soldiers avoided his gaze and hastily stepped out of his way as he continued. The halls were filled with the sounds of his heavy boots as he saw the large sign signifying the medical wing. He could feel his fist tighten as he reached the closed door. “Captain Blake Isley,” he muttered as he looked at the golden lettering of the plaque. With a moment’s hesitation, he pounded on the wood with three resounding knocks that echoed in the hallway.

“Enter!” he could hear the captain command from the other side of the door. He gripped the cold door knob before entering the sterile office. He blinked slowly and adjusted to the harsh overhead light.

He stood in the cold environment, noting the various bookshelves of medical literature and some certificates displayed on the wall. Captain Isley sat behind a desk, a stack of files in front of her. Simon silently cursed, why did it always have to be a woman?

“You can sit down, Simon,” she replied without glancing up, “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Simon sat himself at one of the two chairs in front of her desk. He almost preferred this over the therapist’s office. First, it was cold and he revealed in the atmosphere. He also enjoyed her lack of interest in his case. Hopefully, he would get some time back and still be able to return to his gym routine.

However, as she pulled out his large case file and typed furiously at her computer, he knew this would be as long as his previous appointment. “Alright,” she said as she looked at him, “let’s get the basics out of the way.” She moved her mouse and he assumed his file was on the screen.

“Can you confirm your height and weight?” Isley asked and Simon couldn’t help but scoff. “Shouldn’t that be in my file there, Captain?” he questioned. “Just confirm for me, Simon,” she replied, “and you can drop the formalities, I’m fine with Doctor.” Simon smiled slightly at her contradiction. “1.93 meters and 100 kilos last I remember,” he replied curtly and she nodded as she continued.

“Great,” she replied sarcastically, “now for the fun stuff.” She pulled out a file that appeared to be his medical and pharmacy records. “I’ll go through these 1 by 1 and you just need to let me know if you’re still taking them,” she said before going line by line.

“Paracetamol?” “Yes, regularly.” Simon settled down in the chair. His frequent visits to the infirmary and pharmacy would make this list a long one. She nodded before moving her finger down to the next line.

“Lemborexant?” He took a moment to think about what that one looked like before he replied. “The sleep one?” “Yes, looks like it’s for your insomnia,” she said, looking down at the manila file. “Mostly when I’m back on base or leave.”

“How about Metaxalone?” “Only on leave.” To this, she raised an eyebrow as she looked up. “You don’t take it regularly?” “No, who wants to take something four times a day.” Simon couldn’t help but feel defensive. That one was the size of a horse pill and it was meant to help with some muscle pain. Despite the relief, he would always leave it behind on long missions. He could work through some pain if it meant that he didn’t have to take cover and swallow another pill.

“Vitamin D?” “When, I remember.” Simon secretly hated this one. It smelled overly like a fish market and he had an entire lecture from his general practitioner to get more sun and to stop wearing his mask.

“Calcium carbonate?” she continued to question and Simon stopped for a moment. “I’m not the doctor here,” he said in a sarcastic tone, “what are those?” She pursed her lips before replying. “TUMS, Simon, do you take TUMS?” “When I need to,” he said and sat back in his chair.

“Alright, and I’ll skip past your other lovely pharmaceuticals as it looks like they correlate to your hospital stays.” Thank god, this session would turn into another fucking hour based on his last few visits.

“You must be a field day at the pharmacy,” she joked and Simon let out a semblance of a laugh. She rifled through some papers in her desk before she spoke again. “Looks like you have some history with fluoxetine, any thoughts?”

He remembered taking it before he enlisted. It was a small, green, and white capsule meant to help with all of his shit. He hated the constant schedule and the sight of these things, eventually deciding to stop it in basic.

“Hated them,” he replied without any further comments. “Why is that?” she asked, taking a moment to look up at him. “The schedule was a nuisance,” he said plainly and she sighed. “That’s a common complaint but looks like you have a schedule now, Simon.” He nodded in response before she looked back down at her papers.

“Simon, have you ever heard of venlafaxine and risperidone?” she questioned. “Never heard of ‘em” he responded and he leaned forward as she handed him a few papers.

The two papers had the two unfamiliar drug names listed on top along with a slew of information. His eyes flickered around at terms like “post-traumatic stress disorder” and “depression.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “I’ll give you the basics and you can read that in your free time,” she stated and he put the papers in his lap.

“Venlafaxine is generally used for treatment of depression and other mood disorders,” Isley began to say and he couldn’t believe he was being prescribed an antidepressant again. “But I’m going to therapy,” he interjected and it sounded more harsh than he had intended. “Think of this as going hand in hand with that,” she stated with a sudden tone of optimism, “they both benefit one another.” He nodded in feigned agreement as it was no use fighting against it.

“Now you’ll want to take these around the same time every day,” she continued and he groaned at the consistent schedule. Just another thing to add to his routine. “You should see improvements in about two weeks but don’t be surprised if it takes a little longer,” she advised and he continued to demonstrate he was listening.

“Alright, now for the other one,” Isley said as she looked at her notes. “Alright, so we’re also starting you on Risperidone,” she stated, “now this also treats mood disorders similar to venlafaxine.” She looked at him as if he should be writing these down but he just continued to nod and attempt to remember the key notes.

“Take this as well once a day around the same time,” she advised and continued with her lecture, “better yet you can take both of them at the same time so you don’t forget!” She took a moment to look over the papers before looking up at him again. “You’ve been quiet, Simon,” she observed and he hated the sudden shift of attention back on him. “Any questions?” she inquired as she stuffed the papers back into his file.

“None, Captain,” he responded flatly, wanting to exit this mini-medication lecture. She raised an eyebrow at him and he coughed out, “Sorry, doctor.” Isley sighed before folding her hands on the table. “Then you’re all set, I’ll have your scripts sent down to the pharmacy.” With that Simon, pushed back the seat and walked towards the door. Just as he was about to exit, the doctor had one last thing to say.

“Oh and Simon, watch your alcohol with this,” Isley spoke and he turned to her, “one drink will feel like five.” He laughed slightly, at least there were some benefits to this new addition to his routine.

The pharmacy was Simon’s final stop of the day. He looked at the analog clock on the wall, 16:00. God, this day was turning out to be a tour of the entire base and all he wanted to do was head to the gym. He stood in the queue and impatiently tapped his boot on the ground. The last thing he needed was this line. But it moved at a snail’s pace as the pharmacist ran around and typed occasionally into the monitor.

Simon was looking down at his phone when he felt someone bump his arm. He looked up and saw Gaz smiling up at him. “Fancy seeing you here,” he chuckled and Simon rolled his eyes. He nodded in response and hoped Gaz would just leave. “Long day?” he continued to question and Simon grunted, trying his best to make minimal conversation. “You can say that,” he muttered and Gaz finally caught on to Simon’s attitude. “Well, I’ll see you around Lieutenant,” he replied before walking off with his bag in hand.

Finally, Simon had reached the front of the queue. He looked back at the clock, half past the hour. “Rushing off somewhere, Simon?” the pharmacist asked and he looked back at her. “No Captain, it’s just been a long day,” he breathed out and she returned a reassuring smile. As Isley postulated, Simon frequented the pharmacy on a monthly basis. She knew him by name and went to pull up his file.

“Got a few new ones, I see,” she replied and Simon nodded in response. “Let me go see if those are ready.” Simon waited as he saw the pharmacist walk to the bins and search for his bag. “Here we go!” she smiled and opened the bag to count out the medication bottles. “Alright, so I have your three here,” she replied, “it’s a shame you aren’t due for your others so I’ll be seeing you next month.” Fucking wonderful, he thought, just another visit to this side of the base.

Before she handed it to him, she took another look at the bag. “Did Isley talk to you about alcohol with these?” she questioned as she looked up at him. Simon met her gaze and nodded. “Got her lecture, Captain,” he replied and she took a deep breath. “Okay good, you got a hefty cocktail here Simon but you didn’t hear it from Pharmacy,” she winked.

As he went to go take the bag, she pulled bag. “Anything else, Captain?” he grumbled, he just wanted his stupid medication that she was forfeiting. “One more thing, but did Isley talk about the fentanyl lollipops you are deployed with?” she questioned yet again. Simon remembered the newest edition to his med-pack, a set of white lollies that contained fentanyl for any injury on the field. “Yeah, got those a while ago,” she hummed as he confirmed her suspicions.

“I’ll make a note here and notify your team but you cannot take those,” she warned, “under any circumstances, you cannot be given those.” He raised an eyebrow at the odd instruction. “What will I die, Captain?” he expressed with doubt. She laughed slightly before replying. “That, or a seizure,” she mused, “or you might just shit your ass out.” It was Simon’s turn to laugh and he waved at her as he exited the pharmacy.

“I’ll be sure to tell Mactavish when I call him, I just know he would find that funny,” she called out and Simon felt his lips curve into a smile. As he held the rattling pill bottles in hand, he tried his best to figure out where to fit it into his routine. No time was ideal but he guessed the morning would suffice. He would need to get a goddamn calendar at the amount of things he was supposed to remember.

Just as he walked back to his quarters, your name popped up on his phone. “Hope you’re doing well :)” you wrote, almost as if you could tell he was having a shit day. Out of therapy sessions, he found value in one thing she focused on. He would be doing this, the therapy and the pills, for you. Not for him or Price or his teammates, he’ll be doing this for you.

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