Here Again Now

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Your ex-husband was just a phase but you don’t see us banning straight marriage SHARON!

“what if kids identify with something and it ends up just being a phase-?” good. stop teaching and expecting kids (and adults honestly) to formulate permanent traits and ideas of themselves. everything in life is a phase. that doesn’t make it any less legitimate while you experience it. let people explore themselves and know it’s okay if what you think about yourself changes.

EEEEE!! *Flap flap flap*

One thing that's likely not visible to all younger queers is that little kids shows have gotten radically queerer in the last 10 years.

I'm not just talking about Owl House, Kippo etc, much as I love them.

I mean like stuff for kindergardners.

Characters in Strawberry Shortcake and Superhero Girls and more have gay parents just unremarkably in the background. That was unthinkable 15 years ago.

But the thing that shocks me utterly is the casual inclusion of nonbinary characters.

Dee and Friends in Oz, Polly Pocket, Craig of the Creek...it seems like half the shows my daughter watches have nonbinary characters just seamlessly included. Not even a Very Special Episode. Just...here's the scarecrow in charge of scarecrow village who uses they/them pronouns that everyone just uses without comment.

I was almost 30 before I found the word nonbinary. For my kid to just grow up with this is astonishing.

Conservatives are so mad because it's INCREDIBLY hard to just put this kind of inclusion back away. Once something is normal, and clearly not causing anything bad to happen, it's hard to convince people to be scared of it.

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 2 - “I’ll call your name, but you won’t call back”

Warnings: despondency, discussion of murder

Word Count: 1.9k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha’s mother tells her stories on borrowed time.

A/N: can be read as a stand alone, this one is a lot in a way I’m not so sure how to describe.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

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1984

RUSSIA

“You are so loved,” her mother whispers to her, brushing the small wisps of hair away.

“I’m sorry I won’t be there for when you take your first steps, or for any other milestone,” she breathes.

The baby yawns, sleeping soundly, unaware of the tears on her mother’s face.

“Not for your first words, not for first friend, or first love.”

Again, she caresses the girls face, softly touching down the ridge of her nose; “not for your wedding, or for your children.”

She sniffs and sighs.

“Not for anything.”

Tired eyes open and close as she’s jostled in position.

“I’m sorry, my love, I am so sorry.”

Gentle kisses along her fingers, the small chubby hands of an infant, as they reflexively curls to hold onto her mother’s hand.

“I carried you into the world, I didn’t want you the whole way, and now you’re here, I can’t let you go.”

Slowly, she places the baby down in the makeshift bassinet, their meager belongings around them.

“We have tonight though,” she says, laying next to the box, their only blanket surrounding the baby as she suppressed a shiver.

“And I think, I want to tell you all the stories I know, about me, about the man who is your father, about where you’re going and your history. You’ll have to remember all of it, because I fear they’ll never tell you.”

She takes the baby back out, backing into the corner, wrapping the blanket around the both of them.

“Natasha, your father is dead, I killed him.”

She kisses her again, unable to look at her.

“I wish it was different, that half of you wasn’t tainted by him, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing, maybe you have the good parts of him, his tenacity, his fight; maybe his good singing voice.”

She draw the girl closer, glad that she doesn’t understand.

“It’s why they’re coming for you, you see, as punishment, I kill their son, his family takes his only heir. Even if half of you… is me.”

The woman closes her eyes.

“I wish I made better choices, my love, I wish, he was a better man; born to a better family; but they are not good, I don’t know what they are going to do with you; but I’ll come for you; that I swear.”

Natasha’s eyes open, the darkness surrounding them.

Eyes closed again to soft words and a lullaby.

“Sleep, my love, sleep.”

Eyes watch in the darkness, opening and closing as the voice lulls her back.

Continuing the song, gently she touches her girl’s face, memorising her cheeks.

“The house lights go out; the birds are quiet in the garden, fish fell asleep in the pond.”

Eyes close again, the pull of sleep too much for her little body.

“The moon shines in the sky, the moon is looking into the window,” she continues.

She looks up, no stars, no moon in reality.

“Close your eyes now; sleep, my love, sleep.”

Her eyes close as she says the words, knowing sleep won’t come for her on their last night together; she wants to be awake for every moment of it, tell Natasha everything she can think of, make up for a lifetime in a night.

“History is important, my Natasha. I wish I could give you something to remember me by, but all I have is words. I hope your memories hold me, maybe my voice or words.”

Waiting for the tears to dry in her eyes, she sniffs and continues. Maybe it’s because she wants her daughter to know that she’s not alone in the world; even if she’s not sure that’s true.

She wants her to know that she comes from a strong line of women.

“My mother, your grandmother, was a seamstress. She was a hard woman, but not bad, I think, or at least she didn’t mean to be. She could mend anything. We used to sing together, and I’m sure it’s what brought your father to the shop. She could tell a story, and would tell this one much better than I can.”

She wishes the world had been kinder; that her mother was here to tell her what to do next, to maybe tell her to fight and not give up, not be a quitter.

She just doesn’t have it in her. Not when she’s still suffering from birth, can’t walk more than a few meters without pain, let alone take on his family.

“My father, your grandfather, died when I was little. It seems fathers have not served either of us well. I met yours, or rather he came after me, seeing me working in my mother’s shop.”

She breathes.

“I was flattered at first.”

Stopping as the memories of him following her home, the unwanted attention, and the courting.

“Until I wasn’t.”

She sighs.

“By then, my Natasha, it was too late. I was his, and he treated me as such.”

She pauses.

“I had no family, no friends, to help me. So I went along with it. I didn’t know. I didn’t know his family trafficked children. I didn’t know they collected girls for the Red Room…I didn’t know.”

Natasha moves as her mother tightens her grip, almost unconsciously holding on tight to her baby.

“I think they’re going to put you in there.”

The fear of her child being placed in the company of monsters pains her in a way she’s never felt, and she doesn’t quite understand it.

“But if I run, they’ll find us. So our only option is to play along. I give you to them, and I’ll come for you, okay? I’ll figure it out, I’ll get you out, buy your freedoms, but if I’m dead, no one can do that. Do you understand?”

She wishes she did, she wishes this could be tattooed on her skin.

Her grief deepens.

Reality catching her in the likelihood of being able to take down the Red Room, of being able to find her daughter in the shadows of Russian hegemony.

“But if I don’t, I hope you make better decisions than I did and not give your love to those who don’t deserve it. Only those who deserve your greatness, my love.

Where you’re going…. They do not love Natasha, don’t fall for their lies as I did.”

She can’t help the tears that fall.

“Try to stay true to yourself, protect yourself.”

She takes the photos the nurse took of them out. The two small Polaroids the most precious of possessions.

“I’d write this in a letter if I knew it could stay with you, but it’s just a photo of me and you. It’s a reminder. I’ll come for you.”

She removes the blue ribbon from her hair, the thick velvet of it soft as she wraps the picture inside.

She tucks it into the swaddling, hoping in any way that she’s able to keep it. Anything to keep a part of her close.

“I’m so sorry I failed you, and you’re not even a week old.”

All the tears she’s been holding back, all the grief comes flooding through her, pain like no other at the hopelessness of the situation.

The sounds wake the baby and they cry together; grief enveloping them.

.

The baby girls of the Red Room are so small.

Katerina has a specific job, take care of the little ones. She hates it here but doesn’t trust anyone else to do it. Torn between care and wanting to help the girls who have no hope, and leaving; knowing all she does, she comes to work each day with dread and longing.

She sees the bigger girls in their lines and matching uniforms and she wonders if they ever have a chance to just be children.

She doubts it.

They tell her to leave the babies in the cots. They don’t want them to be attached to adults. They need to learn to stop crying at an early age.

It a part of an experiment; a barbaric one, Katerina feels.

The new girl comes in a swaddled blanket, it’s threadbare and worn but seems well taken care of, darned in patches. Carefully she unwraps her, finding a small blue ribbon and a photo.

She doesn’t know the woman, but she knows love when she sees it, the blanket, the ribbon, the photo. Carefully, she wraps them all together and places them into a cupboard, if she can hide them well enough, maybe she can keep them for the little girl, tell her one day that she was loved.

She knows the lies that the Red Room tells the girls, how they are unwanted, abandoned, given up, but for almost all of them, it’s not the case.

She knows for this little one, this is also not the case. Katerina knows love when she sees it.

She changes her nappy, and gently places her into the cot, then turns to tend to one of the other twenty children in her charge.

.

The wet nurse has always been kind to her.

Though only technically for the babies, five year old Natasha runs into the baby room to find her.

“Miss Katerina,” she sobs.

Katerina turns, the girls stops short in front of her, and her heart sinks, she knows that any other five year old would seek a hug.

“What’s happened, Natashka?”

Fat tears drop down her face, bottom lip wobbles and she cries silently.

Only children who have been taught not to cry out loud, cry silently, Katerina has learnt.

She kneels so she at the little girl’s level.

She brushes red curls out of her face, and offers a hanky.

“Take a deep breath.”

Natasha does exactly what she’s told.

“Does everyone have a mother and a father?” she sniffles, sad eyes looking up, like she knows the answer.

“Did I?”

Katerina doesn’t know what to say.

But she has the right things for it.

Looking into a cupboard for something she hid years ago, she turns her back on the girl and finds what she was looking for.

“You had a mother,” she whispers.

“She left these for you.”

She hands Natasha the picture and the ribbon.

“Natashka, look at me.”

Sad eyes look up, tears still falling as little fists hold onto the ribbon.

“They can’t know.”

She holds the girls shoulder tight.

“They can’t know.”

She takes the picture and the ribbon away, and Natasha reaches for them angrily.

“They’re mine!” she exclaims.

“And what do you think they’ll do with you, with these, if they find it?”

Angry fists clench again, and her face goes red.

“I want to see them again.”

Katerina feels likes she’s done something wrong here.

“I shouldn’t have shown you.”

She puts the picture and the ribbon away.

“You have a mother and she abandoned you,” she reframes. “Forget about her. She’s not coming for you.”

Natasha stares.

“No,” she growls.

“I won’t.”

“You need to,” she insists.

She sighs.

“You need to be combat class now, they’ll come looking for you.”

Natasha crossed her arms.

“Yeah, use that anger.”

She pushes her towards the door.

“Whoever told you about mothers and fathers, go punch them in the face.”

Shutting the door after her, Katerina takes a deep breath.

She’s fucked up.

Small girl comes to her crying and she does the one thing that might kill them both.

.

no third option you have to pick one, reblog after voting <3

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 3 - Make it stop

Warnings: child abuse, domestic violence, brief touch on car accident that killed Clint’s parents and CPS

Word Count: 1.8k (Image not mine)

Summary: Clint Barton didn’t have an easy childhood, but one safe person made all the difference.

A/N: please read warnings attached to the chapter. There’s a reason there’s not too much before the cut starts, as it starts heavy and stays that way. Please take care of yourself.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

1984

IOWA

“Make it stop,” he whispers to Barney.

Drunken footsteps are loud as his father shouts for more.

Clint can hear his mother opening and closing the fridge and the tirade of abuse continues.

“We can’t, okay?” Barney’s fists clench, his black eye from the week before still not healed and Clint knows it’s an unfair request.

“Not tonight, Mum will have to deal with him,” Barney looks scared and Clint doesn’t understand.

“Why?”

Barney looks down at his little brother and sighs.

“He’s not going to work tomorrow. He got fired.”

Fear and adrenaline dumps it’s poison into Clint’s veins.

“But…”

“Yeah; he’ll be here all day now.”

Barney finishes Clint’s thought.

A slap reverberates through the house and both boys cringe.

Clint can’t take it, he hates the thought of anyone touching his mother.

He’s at the door before Barney can stop him.

Opening it, he finds his father standing over his mother and they both turn to look at the movement and noise. His mothers face is red, hands touching the swelling of her cheek.

“Stop it,” he growls, smelling the alcohol and poison on his father.

The laugh of derision and dangerous smile that follows, makes Clint take two steps back, almost regretting his bravery.

“Stop it?” his father laughs as he repeats Clint’s words, picking him up and throwing him to the side.

“Fine,” he smirks dangerously, “I’ll ‘stop it’ but you need to go get me more beer, okay boy? She says we’ve run out.”

Clint feels like he’s been thrown a lifeline, a chance to get out of the house and away from danger; even if it’s at the expense of his mother.

He scrambles, Barney close behind him.

“We don’t have any money?” Clint asks.

His father raises a hand and Barney pulls him away.

“It’s fine,” he yells, as he pushes Clint out the door.

They run, only stopping when Clint pus his hands on his knees, out of breath.

“If he doesn’t go to work, he’s going to be at home with Mom,” Clint mutters, dragging his feet.

Barney grabs his hand.

“It’ll be okay, he’ll get bored and go out to the pub.”

Clint can’t see how that’s better, using their money to buy a drink that only leads to raised voices and sharp hits.

The shopkeeper stares at the two boys as they enter.

“Go distract him,” Barney urges, “and I’ll go get the beer.”

Nervously, Clint walks to the front of the shop.

“Can I help you?”

Clint nods and tries to smile.

“I.. uhhh.. Need something,” he starts, unsure what to say.

“You need something,” the man asks, suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Clint looks around, “I need those,” he points.

The man chuckles.

Clint shrugs.

“Do you know what I should buy?”

He knows nothing of the product he’s pointed too, knows that he’s seen it in his bathroom before, and there’s many types on the shelf; so the stab he’s taken doesn’t seem like a bad one.

“You need.. Pads?” The man questions, still smiling at Clint’s ignorance.

“Yeah?”

Clint thinks he can keep it going, make the man distracted enough; until…

There’s a clink and a crash and Barney swears as the man moves to back, Clint hot on his heels.

Spilled beer cascades and Barney looks up, guiltily.

Standing frozen, Clint doesn’t know what to do. The man takes a step forward.

Clint weaves in and stands between his brother and the shopkeeper protectively.

“You’re the Barton brothers aren’t you?”

They both look at the floor, and Barney speaks for the both of them.

“Yes sir,” he says softly, “please don’t call the police.”

The man shakes his head.

“Your father is not a good man, is he? Hmm? He send you out here?”

“He hit our mum because we ran out of beer,” Clint tells him, only to get shoved by Barney.

“Is that so?”

The man motions for them to move out of the glass.

“It shouldn’t be like that,” he tells them, handing a beer to Barney.

“You didn’t get that from me, okay?”

Clint’s relief is palpable, and Barney can’t stop staring at the gift they’ve been given.

“Thank.. Thank you,” he stutters, stuck on the spot.

Clint smiles, “yeah, thank you,” he repeats.

The shopkeeper it seems isn’t done in his generosity.

He hands them each a chocolate bar, and then on a whim throws Clint a box of pads.

“Give them to your mother,” he smiles, “she’ll be thankful you got something for her too.”

.

Gus the shopkeeper is wirey, thinning hair with dark eyebrows.

Clint finds him funny and kind and when walking home from school, he always gives him a piece of fruit to munch on.

Barney doesn’t like it.

“People don’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts, baby brother.”

Clint ignores the warning, trusting his own instinct of people. He doesn’t agree.

He does things out of the goodness within him, why wouldn’t others?

He tries not to impose on the man’s friendship, wanting to always be around Gus but knowing he probably shouldn’t be.

Sometimes his piece of fruit is all he gets for dinner.

The summer comes too quickly, and Barney gets a job delivering papers. It leaves Clint with too much free time, which he inevitably spends at the shop.

His mother encourages it.

She kisses his forehead and tells him to remember their code.

If his father is on a bender then she’ll put flowers in the window, if he’s not the window will be clear.

It’s a system that’s saved both boys a black eye or concussion a few times. Sometimes though, no amount of code words and secrets saves them from the wrath.

Gus seems to understand.

In the heat of the summer, he finds Clint sitting on the side walk, and invites him in.

Cold drink in hand, Clint grins at the pictures on the wall.

“You used to be in the circus?”

Gus nods, a wistful look on his face.

“Acrobat,” he comments, pointing to picture.

Clint looks in awe

“Those days are long gone now.”

“Can you show me something?”

Gus laughs.

“Something acrobatic?”

He shakes his head, “no, but I can show you something useful.”

Suddenly, there’s a coin in his hand and then it’s gone.

“Magic?” Clint scoffs.

“It’s a skill,” he defends.

Clint’s wallet is suddenly in his hand and Clint’s brain almost short circuits in how useful learning pick pocketing might be.

“You have to teach me,” he exclaims.

“Please!?”

Gus laughs.

“Okay, fine, come back tomorrow.”

.

They start easily.

The summer nights pass quickly with Gus.

Barney notices it, and he seems glad that Clint has somewhere to go.

He rubs his little brothers head and encourages it.

“Hey Barney,” Clint asks, one night, “teach me how to fight like you?”

Barney shakes his head, “nah, little bro, you’ll fight like someone different. But I can teach you the basics.”

Clint’s heart leaps.

He hugs him spontaneously and Barney pushes him back.

“I’ll catch you later okay?”

Clint nods, his smile big.

.

“Try again,” Gus tells him.

The watch sits on his wrist and he holds it out.

“It’s harder if you know it’s coming,” Clint complains.

Gus laughs.

“Fine take it, you need the practice anyway.”

Clint nods, taking it off his friend’s wrist.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Gus nods.

“You better practice,” he waves, and Clint nods.

Clint walks off, heading home, playing with the watch on his wrist, the clasp coming away easier.

He walks to the door and hears it, his mother shouting, his fathers fists hitting wood.

He cringes as he opens the door and tries to sneak in.

He forgets the second stair squeaks in his haste and the sound of footsteps makes him freeze.

“Boy,” his father bellows, “where have you been?”

Before he can even answer, he’s back handed into the stairs.

“Where’s your brother?”

Clint grabs at his face.

He’s better now at not letting the tears fall, even when he wants them too.

“I don’t..I don’t..” he stutters.

“You don’t know?”

Harold seems to grow twice as large as he points to the garage.

“Get in the car, we’re going to go find him.”

Clint can smell the toxicity of his breath, but is powerless to say no, as his mother gathers him up, kisses his cheek and tells him it will be okay.

It’s not though.

The red light.

The other car.

Screams.

Blood.

His head hurts.

He thinks there’s a bright light coming for him.

.

“They’re dead,” he opens, the shop doors opening for him as he stares through Gus.

The older man runs to him, and gathers him in a hug.

“Where’s Barney?”

Clint holds the watch in his hand.

“They’re taking us, but I stopped them because I needed to give you this.”

He holds it out.

“Oh Clint,” he holds him at arms lengths, sees the kindly lady step out of the car, and Barney deliberately not looking towards them.

“Keep it, borrow it, and when we see each other again, you can give it back to me.”

Clint’s eyes well up with tears and hugs Gus again.

“Can you take us?” he asks.

Gus shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“But this is not the end of our friendship, okay?”

Clint steps back, unable to look at him, disappointment radiating off him.

“Keep practicing and come back when you can.”

The woman calls for Clint to come and he backs up slowly.

“Goodbye,” he whispers.

“Good luck,” Gus whispers back.

.

Gus growls.

“I tell you, he’s got potential, get him out of foster care and you’ll see.”

Swordsman hums, contemplating his words.

“And you’d vouch for him?”

Gus swallows, knowing the heaviness of his words.

“And his brother, yes.”

He pauses.

“Clint has aim like I’ve never seen it, has a reason to fight and his brother just needs a mentor to channel all his rage.”

“Aim huh?”

Gus nods into the phone.

“Trickshot would do wonders with him.”

He wonders as the words come out of his mouth if he’s further dooming the Barton brothers.

Swordsman thinks on his words.

“Fine, but he’s in foster care now, how do you propose we find him?”

He shrugs.

“He’ll find me again.”

“Okay, then keep him with you and we’ll come to you, it can’t be now, we still have the operation to finish here, give us a year, and then, if he’s willing and able and maybe can add to the crew, then we will take him.”

“Thanks,” Gus sighs in relief.

Clint has his watch. He’ll come back.

“Oh and Gus,” Swordsman counters, “don’t forget to send the money through.”

He swallows, “uh. Yeah. Of course.”

Swordsman laughs, “you have to pay to stay out, otherwise we’ll welcome you back when we welcome the two boys you so desperately want us to save.”

“I’ll have your money, when you come get them.”

Gus hangs up, deal done, and gets the deposit ready in savings.

A year.

Clint just has to survive the year.

.

🦔

This is Charles. He wants to go on a journey around tumblr. could you show him around?

Spoiler alert: Some of these leftists are now doing this about Covid policy

I’m so god damn tired of not just leftists, but even left-leaning people holding absolutely unrealistic, all-but-impossible positions which have no acknowledgement of any nuance whatsoever and then calling anyone who tries to give a dose of reality a shill or a bootlicker. Honestly, it’s not even enlightened to hold some of these positions because you just reveal yourself to have no grasp of incredibly complex issues. If this sounds vague, it’s because it can apply to how people online react to many different issues.