#I will boil him into a repulsive broth

[buggo-buggo]

"Waifu" still being a common term is my personal equivalent of all those confederate statues in the US. We must not continue to let this man have influence over society like this.

[whirling-fangs]

(@fallesto)

Kiba trusted his master to know how to erase his presence to the humans. They were all so engrossed in their little mock family, it couldn't be more obvious that their guard was entirely lowered. These women were no better than their husband, their soft spot for the children almost palpable.

He never let go of the Lord's hand, sparing a quick thought for how their situations had reversed. Oh, how distant the times felt, when he was the child holding Muzan's hand for support amongst the humans in that village. Of course, the roles weren't exactly the same here, but they would seem so in the humans eyes.

That little roleplay was sickening, even moreso than the disgusting broth that Kiba was forced to pour down his own throat. All the practice he had done with Muzan was just enough to help him suppress his repulsed winces, as the beverage flooded his mouth.

"Drink up, drink up! A delicious meal will give you even more courage for tomorrow!" The yellow-haired woman encouraged. She poured some more in the bowl that Kiba had dutifully emptied.

"The three of us are not part of the Demon Slayer corps, but we have helped them destroy demons before." The calmest of the wives explained. Her smile was the gentlest of all, as she answered the child's question. "This is a house where you can rest assured. Demons have never reached this village before, and they never will."

Kiba rolled his eyes. And these pathetic humans had the gall to believe that their efforts were responsible for the lack of demons...

The time soon came for everyone to slip into their sleeping quarters. The two children were left alone in a room, their futons laid out by each other, with a little light casting its gentle glow in a corner of the room. Silence fell upon the house, disturbed only by the distant sound of snoring.

Kiba sat up straight. In the dim light, the demonic markings that had reappeared on his face were almost invisible. He sought approval in Muzan's direction, his blood practically boiling inside.

I could make the house collapse. Create enough pressure that their entire bedroom sinks deep underground. I could crush their bones and lungs, and make them suffocate in their own blood. Or I could walk into their room, and spear all four of their hearts at once.

What an interesting man this Uzui was. That was his name was it not. He could never remember, the names of those that had been killed, nor there faces as well, but this Hashira from this current generation, has done something that has not come to pass for hundreds of years, not since the golden era have the slayers been this much of an annoyance to him, maybe he would remember this Hashira.

Still as powerful and talented as the Hashira, he was still human. It was not meant to be this way, it was not meant to have happened. Kiba rage was warranted and expected, it was needed as well, but the Hashira was the first of many that needed to die and he would not have a single one, who aided the Hashira or even knew him, he wished for them all, to share within his fate.

It would just be a little bit longer then, just a little bit longer until the Hashira was where he was meant to be, where he was needed, to ensure there was not a single living soul that managed to slip through there finger and escape, all had to share the same fate as the Hashira.

“I only heard stories, of them. No one believes they are real.” About the slayers, about demons as well, both of them seemed to be more of a story than anything else, more fiction than truth, something that was so impossible and so far fetched that no one would ever believe in it, the entire human race within this land, where ignorant to the truth. It needed to remain that way, no matter what, it was better to keep the populace within the darkness of the truth, mass panic, and worse, the slayers numbers might increase, it was the reason why, any single human that crossed a demon had to die.

His little rambling, his arrogant, his ego and his pride as well. This Hashira was an odd one indeed, he reminded him of a demon who was too full of themselves and would make mistakes. As he would just remained where he was, as Kiba did all the lifting and walking for the time being to follow the Hashira to his home.

It did not take them long to get them to where the Hashira was hiding, it was modest, simple even, a little bit stripped and basic. It was the one thing, he could not understand.

Why …

Did the humans fight for nothing, why did they die for nothing, this Hashira was someone who had skill and power, who had talent, who was a killer as well, a good one, it was a pity the slayers found him, long before he did, he would have made for a wonderful demon. As he thought these things and allowed all to happen, the change of clothes, washed, cleaned and everything laid out, as he kept close to Kiba, holding onto his hand tightly and not letting go, standing a little bit behind him as well, to ensure he was always in front.

“Are you all, the same, are you all people who fight demons?” As he could not tell, they did not wear the clothing of slayers, he could not tell if they where slayers, or not, if it was just the Hashira, was the information wrong, or was it all four of them.

As he sat down and would begin to drink, like he had taught Kiba a long time ago, it was tasteless and horrid to them, but with enough time, it could be drank, even if there was nothing to gain from it. // @whirling-fangs

[kitkat1003]

Mr. Cheung

Basically a little viginette based off of @skellebonez's prompt Here, because I'm weak

Spirit doesn't know Mr.Cheung.

Frankly, they don't know a lot of people. There are a lot more humans, mortals, than there are demons, so they can't keep track like they do with demons.

So they don't really notice when Mr.Cheung starts coming in regularly. Frankly, between stocking, helping set up deliveries, and the occasional mise en place, they don't have the time to pay attention to the customers. Maybe they remember the shock of orange hair, but the novelty of it faded away soon enough.

They did feel a little more on edge, one day. Something...different registered, and sent the hairs on the back of their neck standing up. But it had settled, eventually, and so they figured it was nothing.

But then they'd walked in on Pigsy and Mr.Cheung talking. And they didn't like what they saw.

Pigsy was angry, then, but that wasn't anything too out of the ordinary. Much like Red, Pigsy's consistent anger was more for show than for substance. Still, Pigsy was nice enough to tone it down when Spirit was weak enough to not be able to hide the flinches at his raging. He saw, and he adjusted for them.

No one ever does that.

With Mr.Cheung, though, Pigsy is a slow boil angry. The type that simmers with intent, because there's upset behind it. And Spirit buys the lie because they're supposed to, and because MK needs them, but.

They know. They know when things are wrong because if they weren't able to figure it out they'd get hurt far more often. They can tell the mood in the air is anything but friendly, and they catch the dark look Pigsy sends Mr.Cheung in the reflection of his eyes.

3 eyes adds for sharper vision, even in human form.

Mr.Cheung comes in less frequently after his chat wth Pigsy. Spirit thinks back, and remembers him coming in every day for a couple weeks. Now it's once every few days.

Pigsy tenses when he sees him. Gets that same slow boil angry look on his face, before Spirit comes in and he wipes it away for them.

So they make a decision. It's not a favor Pigsy asked for, but he earned it, so they'll make an exception. He's made exceptions for them, hasn't he?

He doesn't carry around the wooden spoon anymore. It's used only for stirring broth.

Mr.Cheung finishes his latest bowl and gets up to leave. Spirit busses his table, and takes the bowl to the sink.

"...Pigsy?" They start, tentatively.

"Yeah, kid?" Pigsy's voice is gruff but somehow soft.

"Um, can I-um-I, uh, can I take my break?" They look away when Pigsy looks over at them, because they've never asked to take their break before. Usually he has to tell them to take one.

He gives them a once over. They start to sweat. Did they say something wrong? Is he upset? Were they not supposed to ask?

"I-I mean, if that's okay, if we're busy I can stay, I just-,"

"Go ahead," Pigsy waves a hand, smiling up at them. He seems pleased that they've taken initiative. Should they ask to go on their break more often then? They're uncertain.

Spirit flashes him a grateful, relieved smile, and they scurry out the back door of the noodleshop, scaling up the wall to the roof. They like to come up here to watch the people pass by, and to look up at the sky. They nearly gave Pigsy a heart attack the first time, but they have good balance, so as long as they're careful he doesn't mind.

Now, they search. Eyes sharp, they glance around, and see a shock of ginger hair disappearing into an alley.

Suspicious. They follow.

They're ever so careful as they sneak up behind him, but even when they think they're absolutely silent about it, Mr.Cheung turns around before they can reach out to tap him on the shoulder.

"You're following me," he says. His voice is flat and unwelcoming. There's an undercurrent of a threat.

"Yup!" Spirit replies, high pitched and nervous. They take a step back.

They're not good at being intimidating.

For a moment, they stare at each other, before Spirit takes a deep breath.

"You make Pigsy uncomfortable," they start, rather blunt. They don't have time to craft a script of what to say, like they usually do when they're tasked with confronting someone. "He gets upset when you're in the shop. So, um, it'd be in, uh, your best interest to keep away," they puff out their chest a little, rising to their full height. Apparently that sort of thing is intimidating.

Red says it works for Demon Bull King, anyway.

"Or what?" Mr.Cheung counters.

Oh.

Spirit did not plan for this.

"O-or...," They scramble for something reasonable. "Or I-or I'll make you regret it!" They make their eyes glow, because that's scary for humans, right? Normal humans don't have glowing eyes, they're pretty sure.

Mr.Cheung doesn't seem very impressed.

"What by killing me?" He asks.

Spirit pales. They fidget with their trembling hands, so they don't shake as bad.

"I only kill if it's for a favor," They mutter to more themselves than anything, thinking of the tallies in the book. They're fastidious. They know their body count.

Every time it grows, they want to cry, but they can't feel anything at about it. Not after the first time. Not after they remembered.

"And, anyways, I-I could just tell Pigsy you're bothering me, and you'd get banned. So, uh, really, this is uh...a courtesy?" Gosh, they're terrible. Mr.Cheung is going to laugh at them, or tell Pigsy, or-

"So why don't you?" Mr.Cheung asks, again.

Spirit blinks. They feel their tail, hidden in their pantlegs, curl around their leg.

"I don't wanna bother him...," they reply, weakly

"But you'll bother me," Mr.Cheng points out.

"Because you're bothering him!" Spirit bursts out. "He's upset when you're in the shop. I don't want him to be upset."

Because Pigsy is nice. Pigsy cares. Pigsy who they once thought of as someone like their father is nothing close to ever being like him, in the best of ways. And they can't fail to protect another parent.

Not this time.

Maybe it's dramatic. But everything feels like life or death, sometimes. Even the smallest of factors. Pigsy gets more and more upset, he makes an error that could get him hurt. He's a chef. Being distracted is bad in the kitchen. There's knives and boiling water involved.

"Um, you could do this as a favor?" The idea of them owing someone something makes their skin crawl, but they have to at least hope that this will work. "I'll, um, owe you. I guess."

Which means they won't be safe, but it doesn't matter, because they don't matter, and that's fine, it has to be, because they know what they are, they're a pawn, and a weapon, and a worker, and they're useful. Not important. They know the distinction.

"No favors," Mr.Cheung seems repulsed by the phrase. "But okay. I'll stay away."

For a moment, Spirit just stares.

"Really?" they ask, shoulders falling down as they hope, for a moment.

"You've given me a pretty good argument," Mr.Cheung doesn't smile, but he doesn't frown at them either. "But, for the record, you need to work on your intimidation skills."

"I'm better at it when I have time to prepare," they reply, honest.

Mr.Cheung's lip quirks upwards for a second, and he nods and turns away, disappearing into the alleyway and around the corner.

Spirit watches for a few more moments after Mr.Cheung disappears, and then they slip away, back to the noodleshop.

"Hi, Pigsy," they greet as they come back in. They took a few breaths before coming in, so they wouldn't look as stressed as they feel, considering what they just did. Confronting people is hard, but Pigsy says they've been getting bolder since they've been working here, and he makes it sound like a good thing, somehow.

"You're back early," Pigsy responds.

Spirit shrugs.

"I, um, I like working with you," the last bit is mumbled under their breath, shy. It's not exactly a lie.

Pigsy hears it anyway, and he beams.

"Alright, kid. Mind chopping those carrots for me?" He gestures to the set on the cutting board.

Spirit salutes with a smile.

"Sir yes sir!"

Mr.Cheung doesn't come back. They see Pigsy search for him, for a week or so, but after two weeks of no visits they finally see Pigsy relax, and everything goes back to its pleasant normal.

It's a relief, but Spirit wonders, quietly, why he bothered Pigsy at all.

[cicadas-epiphany]

Make it go away

Prompt request: “Hello. Would you write a fluf fic where flug takes care of sick black hat? black hat would act tough but secretly likes it when flug takes care of him” Requested by @wass0990

Black Hat stomps into Flug’s lab, slamming the door open and growling. “Dr. Flug!”

Flug jumps in response, almost dropping a beaker he was using. “Y-yes sir?” He looks over at him nervously, not knowing what to expect.

“Dementia has been ill the past week and I am starting to feel odd. I fear I she may have passed it on to me.” He stands and stares at Flug expectantly.

“Um… okay? W-what do you want me to do about it?” Flug peers over at him in confusion. ‘Why is he telling me this?’

“I want you to make it go away! Use a lazer ray or something! Get rid of it! I don’t have time to deal with something as trivial as a virus.” Black Hat growls, walking closer to Flug.

Flug takes a step back as he blurts out “O-oh! N-no, it doesn’t work like that!” He backs into a wall and whimpers.

Black Hat reaches him and they are mere inches apart. “What do you mean that’s not how it works?! How do you humans get over it, then? Pass it on to one another, like the Evil Flu?”

Flug swallows hard. “W-well, you see, Sir, we uh… take medicine, sleep a lot, and take time to let ourselves get better…”

Black Hat snorts. “That sounds trivial.”

Flug stops his foot and narrows his eyes. “Maybe so, but it’s what we have to do, and it’s what you’re going to have to do, too, Jefectio.”

Black Hat fakes a gag before sneezing. He groans and looks at Flug. “I might need to lay down…”

Flug grins under his bag, “You absolutely do, Jefe. Why don’t you just go to bed? I can bring you some soup later.”

“Soup?” Black Hat asks, curious to what it is.

“Err…” Flug starts, nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s something we eat to make us feel better.”

Black Hat pauses for a moment before nodding, turning around and walking out of the door. As he heads to his room he can be heard sneezing and coughing in the hall, something that is very obviously irritating to him by the volume of his groans once he finishes.

A few hours pass and Flug takes a break from working, going to the kitchen to make some soup for his boss. As he’s stirring the steaming pot he decides to make some herbal tea as well.

Putting together the herbs in another pot he lets it boil as he daydreams about the day’s events. His thoughts are disrupted by the smell of ready soup and he takes the pots off the stove.

He pours the soup into a bowl and the tea into a mug and puts them on a tray, laying a spoon next to the bowl and lifting the tray.

He walks down the maze of hallways before coming to a large door and knocking, listening for any response. The door opened slightly and Flug walked in with the tray in hand.

Black Hat was laying on the bed with a pillow on his face, sprawled out with limbs pointing in odd unnatural directions that made Flug nauseous.

“Sir? I made you soup.”

Black Hat groaned, straightening himself out and sitting up. Some color had drained from his face and there was a bit of drool dribbling down his chin. Flug chose to ignore it and set the tray on his lap.

“Flug, what is this? How do you eat it?!” Black Hat frowned, staring down at it.

Flug picked up the spoon and dipped it in the soup, picking up some broth and holding it up to Black Hat. Surprisingly, he leaned forward and took the spoon in his mouth, not minding that Flug was the one holding the spoon.

“'It tastes weird. I don’t like it.” Black Hat grumbled, looking up at Flug. “Go away. I don’t need your help.”

Flug stared at him for a moment before coming back to reality. “Oh. Jefe, you have to eat it. It will help you feel better.”

Black Hat growled, “I don’t want it.”

“Then try the tea.” Flug answered, gesturing to the sweet smelling mug.

Black Hat stared at it for a moment before muttering to himself and slowly picking up up.

He took a big swallow of the liquid. It tasted of honey, and a few other noticeable flavors danced around on his tongue. He rather liked it, but he didn’t want to admit it.

Slamming down the mug he forced himself to dry heave. “That was absolutely  repulsive! How could something like that help cure anything?!”

Flug sighed and rolled his eyes, collecting more broth with the spoon and holding it up to Black Hat’s mouth. He stuck his tongue out in response, leaning back to get away from it.

Flug persisted, earning a hiss from Black Hat as he shoved the tray and spilled the soup onto the ground. The mug shatters and spilled tea all over the floor and walls.

“There! It’s gone! Now you should be, too.“ Flug frowned in response to his outburst and groaned, “I’m just trying to help you, Jefectio. It will help you get better.”

Black Hat growled and stared at him, glaring deep into his eyes. Flug took a step back, his knees feeling weak and wobbly.

“I-I guess I sh-should get go-going…” Flug stuttered out, stumbling to the door.

Acting on impulse Black Hat blurted out “Wait!” He paused, realizing what he just did and he felt his face warm up. “…Clean up your mess! The soup could leave stains in my floor.”

Flug shifted his weight between his feet, “Yes, Jefectio. I-I’ll get right on that.”

“Hurry, you dolt!” Black Hat spat, earning a yelp from the boy as Flug flew out of the room, running for the cleaning supplies.

Black Hat slams the pillow into his face, groaning loudly. He hated feeling sick, but if it meant Flug taking care of him, maybe it was tolerable. 

[kwa-mii]

AU / Free Day

The end of a week! The end of an era!

This one was 100% the most fun to write and I miiiight have gotten a bit carried away so it ended up a LOT longer than the rest. For that reason, I’ve decided only to post about half of it here - if you want the full experience, check it out on ao3.

I love AUs more than life itself and since today’s my birthday (wow) it worked out pretty well that I get to post it today! Tho I’ve got exams in two weeks so I probably won’t be writing ever again rip

It was defo a fun experience, and I’m really glad that @miraculous-weeks​ exists to provide me with my inspiration. I also enjoyed seeing all the other fan works!! a good run!!!

Some select words of this fic are in Serbian so I’ve glossed them at the very end of this part of the fic

Killing Hands - an AU Adrinette angst fic (3529 words, up to the cut)

Warnings: mentions of illness and themes of death, plus a bit of nudity

This natural phenomenon, the strange bulbous mountain, puzzled those  who could see it from their villages below. Nature had been  experimenting when it made this mountain, the young ones said in wonder.  The old ones replied that they could have sworn it had looked normal  once; in their youth, the mountain had been straight as the back of a  military general. It was some evil, they hissed, some curse that pushed  at the rock and made it swell like that: stay away. You will die if you go up there.

The warnings of old ones were not enough to keep the curious from venturing up the cliffs, but the physical toil needed provided that barrier. One could set off at sunrise and only pass the first foothill by midday - to get to the rounded stone near the peak would take another  day's labour, and few cared enough to go that far to prove a few old  spinsters wrong.

Those that did make it to the summit believed in the stories of the  devil that lived in the mountain, and became a part of that story  themselves. Most didn't come back, but the one or two that did would  talk about the reaper with his dread hands and dark eyes. How he spoke  in a voice of thunder and spread darkness underfoot as he moved. His  claws. His snarl. The stench of death and hell.

The secret of the mountain was more simple, yet more complicated than  that. Those boulders that protruded from the stone face, gems pressed  into the base of a coronet, marked grave after grave after grave. The  mountain was crowned with death, and its king was the one they called Crna Mačka.

Crna Mačka, killer and servant of the devil (if not the Prince  of Darkness himself), would always come out of his cave at sunset to  watch the night creep into the burning sky. If you looked hard enough,  and if the moon was shining bright enough, you might see his shape;  inhuman almost, with an animal's head and long claws. He would linger  there for a moment, a singular glint in the gloom, and retreat back into  the dark. A trick of the light, sceptics maintained, but the truth was Crna Mačka was no more an illusion than anyone on the ground below.

As the sun staggered from the sky, the figure on the rocks slid down  so that he sat on the edge of one of the high cliffs, his feet meeting a cluster of roots. This mountain, barren as it looked within the green forest it presided over, was full of life in unspoken corners, and it pulsed like a secret at its core. Only where he walked was there an absence of life's essence, only where he lingered did the world's heartbeat still. Crna Mačka, though he was a living man himself,  carried the burden of death and balled it up into his fists. Human, by  biological definition, but the ability to snatch life with a touch of his hand made him the monster that people believed in.

He looked down at his hands, unfamiliar yet repulsively his own. He  didn't recognise his own hands, could not view the pale skin beneath and trace his pasts and his futures, for the simple fact that he always had  them covered. For disgust and caution, he never took off his gloves. On  top, he wore a pair of long, grooved, golden claws with savage points.  Monster's claws, and claws that provided the ceremony people expected of  their Crna Mačka.

People came up that mountain to die, and he let them have their wish.  Ungodly thing that he was, some people needed a villain when failed by  humankind, and he was glad that somehow, in his great and  incomprehensible evil, he could provide some use. His power was ugly,  but there was mercy in it. When he saw an animal in pain, or a desperate  invalid, he could at least provide an exit, and a gentle hand to soothe  their fevered brow. Maybe in this way he could find redemption for that  beast that cried and snarled in his depths.

Sometimes he did wonder if that which he called compassion was only  quicksilver cruelty. He had been taught of God, and of Lucifer, and how  the devil was a flatterer. Maybe he was this country's new devil, maybe  his alternatives only seemed good because that was what the devil did:  he made evil seem delicious. Crna Mačka knew life was pure, and  there was nothing more so, for he could feel its wonder whenever he  snapped its frail chains, and its sanctity was not to be questioned,  especially not by one such as he.

Still, he continued dispensing his small kindnesses, never minding  the lurch of revulsion in his throat. Heretic. Sinner. Monster. Mortal  evil for those below to invoke in their curses.

Crna Mačka still hungered for his humanity, but the distance  between them and he was too great - here, in the mountains, far off and  up high, it was at its most evident. With a sigh, he turned back into  his cave for the night. The end of a day. All he knew was endings.

The darkness he returned to was lit by clusters of flickering  candles, balanced on the nooks of stone or grouped at the base of the  walls - another form of ambience for his great show. A single skull, a  big stone seat, and a rug in the centre. He himself slept in an alcove  just beyond his makeshift devil's throne, so small and narrow it was as  though he lay in a grave. Apt, perhaps. He had built a firepit as well,  on which he had set a great black pot for his meals, which were modest  and came twice a day. He chose not to spend much time in the cave if he  could help it, and so it was bare and simple and hellishly cold in the winters.

A shadow distubed his darkness, and he whirled around, claws out, "What do you want from Crna Mačka?"

There stood, just in the entrance and blotting out the stars, a robed figure. They were dressed in red, with a girdle around the waist and a hood obscuring their face. Faceless and shrouded in flickering flame, they looked like an apparition from hell, but the voice, when it came, was sweet and feminine, "Isn't that obvious? I've come to die."

The voice, amongst its other tender qualities, was young. Crna Mačka narrowed his eyes. He'd seen young people before, begging for release. Naïvely, he had taken them by their word, feeling it was impious to deign to bear judgment on the breadth and depth of their sorrow. But he  had once overseen a teenage suicide, just a boy who'd given up, and it  hadn't become clear to him until afterwards that life for this one was  not ending, but only beginning. The look on his face, the scars he later  found, the lovingly packed bag from a mother who assumed her son was  travelling to an aunt... the body weighed on him like a sin. He had  sworn never again to deprive these people of life - mere melancholy was  not enough to justify the evil - and from that point he had decided  never to take a story by its words. He needed to see both soul and flesh  in anguish. He needed truly forsaken souls with no other way out.

"Come in," he said, and crouched down by his fire, "There should be enough for two. Sit down."

The stranger sat down on the rug, keeping her distance, "I can't say I expected such warm hospitality here."

In spite of himself, he found himself adopting the same gently joking  tone,

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'd just put too much water on the boil."

He took a ladle and filled a small wooden cup for her. The liquid was pale, and leaves floated on its surface; she sniffed at it as he passed  it to her. He watched her bring it to her mouth, as the brim of the cup  slipped under the shadow of her hood, "Careful, it's still hot. I stewed some local plants in there, so it should be a bit more filling than tea."

"It still tastes like tea. Aren't you going to have any?"

"I thought I should look after you first. That's what I'm here for."

"You're here to kill me. Or, at least, I'm here to ask you to."

He looked at her coldly, "I'm here to show you mercy. If you need anything else, don't waste time."

She was silenced by this, and sipped tentatively at the broth. He  crossed over to the big, stark, stone seat and sat. He crossed his leg imperiously over the other, and rested his clawed hands on the slabs that provided his throne with arms. Sat above her, his cat's mask illuminated by the candles below that leant it a garish, infernal glow,  he hoped to cast that brief, treacherous moment of friendliness behind  him. If he was going to play the monster, he was going to commit.

"Who are you?"

"Some people call me Bubamara."

He remembered the voices of children: 'bubamara, bubamara!', how they used to chase the ladybugs until they landed, and squeal, 'It's on you! Make a wish!'. This bubamara he had heard of too. One dead man, rotting before his eyes, had confessed he had already been to see Bubamara,  but she had had nothing for him, other than a bag of coins heavier than  any he had ever seen or dreamed of; "This will provide for your family  when you're gone." Since she'd had no miracle cure, the man's only  remaining option had been to seek Crna Mačka of the mountains. The old man had died that day.

Crna Mačka thought it fitting that this wandering  miracle-maker should adopt the name of a ladybug, that symbol of good  fortune. Apparently, she carried with her a bag of lucky charms, into  which she would reach for anyone she chanced upon her way, and would  bring out that thing they most needed, without knowing their woes. A  beautiful gift for their lover, material to plug the leak their roof had  sprung, an heirloom once lost. Bubamara had a solution to every  problem, even those that were not yet known; one had received paints and  gone to make a living from selling their work, having never touched a canvas before.

Hearing her story, some part of him had romanticised this figure, set  her against himself as his foil. He was dark and she was light, and together they could shape the destinies of men. Some day, he had wished  to meet her, to judge if she was human or divine. Benevolent and unknowable, that same Bubamara now crouched at his feet, no longer weighed down by her bag of tricks but instead by some great mortal burden.

"Did you not have something in your bag for yourself?" "It's time for me to set down my bag, mače."

'Kitty', she'd called him. The gentle intimacy attempted to cover her  terror; yes, there was terror in the admission. What had struck such fear into Bubamara's soul? "What's your story?"

She twisted her hands in her lap, retracted them into the sleeves of her robe,

"The whole thing?"

"The parts that led you here."

"I'm sick," she confessed, "And that's why I've been travelling for  years. As soon as I knew, I had to leave. I couldn't stand around and  let my parents see me die, and I couldn't run the risk of passing my  disease on to them. So I left home, and I hoped I might get better,  except I only got worse and worse and I never got the chance to go back.  But I did get the chance to help others, and if I just kept moving, I couldn't hurt them, I couldn't doom them to the death that awaits me. I  could give them the hope I couldn't have for myself. And that was important to me - and still is important to me. But I'm reaching the point where there is no hope left in me; I have nothing to share. Because I'm sick, and I'm dying, and it hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe," he noticed now the slight rasp in her voice, how each vowel snagged on her tongue. She took in a breath, slowed down, "And I thought... you'd help me. You would let me go."

Though he could hear something was not right in her body, he had to make sure, "Is there no cure?"

"None. It's one of the most contagious and most deadly illnesses, and it's a miracle I've lived so long."

"I've heard of no such disease," he said, "How can I know you're really dying?"

Without any hesitation, she pulled the girdle from her waist, and her  robes fell open, revealing the flesh below. She wore nothing beneath,  and he did not have to imagine the extent of wastage to her body. Bubamara was pale and drained of colour, translucent around the ribs, which carved prominent ridges across her torso. She had lost most of the fat  around her chest, and that triangle between her legs was barren, while inflamed skin hung from her hips. More troubling than this, tracked across her body were hundreds of billious black marks, and these spots trailed up along her neck, presumably onto her face. Everywhere. Each speck a stab from sickness' knife.

It seemed it was her condition and not her fortune that gave Bubamara  her name. Indeed, those plague scars, like the spots on the wings of ladybugs, belied her very misfortune. The irony did not slip him by.

"What about you?" she asked.

The question took him aback, and so did the fact that she made no  move to cover up - giving her skin to the air as though it was the last  time her pores would breathe it. To die, after all, was her intention,  and she seemed determined to follow it through. Feeling he was invading  her privacy somehow, he now looked away, "What exactly about me?"

"Your story. I know that, though people call me things like an angel  or a good witch, I'm just a human at the end of the day, and I'm  furthermore a sceptic. I don't believe them when they say that you're a  devil. I think you must just be a very unlucky human, Mače. And  though you wear that great headress and all that black, I think it's  just show. Who are you really? Who is the one they call Crna Mačka?"

His face darkened, "No, anyone with this power must be a monster. I'm evil."

"You don't do any evil."

That same moral quandry richocheted through his head, burning at the  backs of his eyes. Killing was killing. The selfsame thing, repackaged.  He was undeniably, inarguably, a devil in human's clothes. The  headdress, the cloak, this was how he made it clear; trust not the  appearance of the man, for there is an insidious nature that lurks under  it.

When he didn't reply, she shrugged, "It doesn't matter, and I don't  care what you are. What's important is that you can end me. For what  it's worth, I don't consider it an evil. In fact," he could hear the wry smirk in her voice, "I believe I would be grateful."

Crna Mačka cleared his throat, leaned callously back into his  stone chair, "So you're sick. You're dying. You're useless. Why should I  end your life for such trivial things?"

"Trivial?" she splutters, "I can't talk to my family anymore and you  call it trivial? My mother and father mean the world to me, and living  in this one and posing a threat to their life is not something I want to  happen. My illness means I cannot connect with those around me anymore,  I must be transient and flit from place to place like a restless bug,  and that's no life. Life is not worth it when you're alone and have no  one to talk to, and every step hurts like a stone in your side, and you  can't eat or sleep. My vision is going, and so is my tongue, and I don't  want to reach that stage where I have no abilities other than beating  blood around my body. I'm turning into a shadow. I can see it happening,  every day, and it scares me and I want to beat it somehow, even if that  means just beating it to the end goal."

"Death."

"Death."

After this, there is silence. Crna Mačka looked at his hands,  thinking. Someone that had brought such joy to those in need should not  have to die, not so young. He shouldn't have to be faced with the job of  doing it. Life was unfair like that. These injustices were where the  devil really played.

Bubamara spoke again, softening, "Mače, if you're not  human, then neither am I. You, because your strength transcends mortal  barriers. Me, because my life no longer seems mortal. We are both worms,  but at least you're useful."

His voice, softer than hers, drew a sigh from the very depths of his chest: "Then are you sure?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

Crna Mačka alighted from his throne, and stepped towards his  victim. A candle blew out as he passed it, an omen of what was to come.  It was cold, but Bubamara did not tremble, and instead kept her  head down, watching his feet tap, tap, tap towards her, light as a cat's  prowl. He stopped some two feet before her, green eyes unblinking and  blackened by night.

Here came the bit he hated most, the bit that haunted his fears. He  always made it extravagant, for his own piece of mind and for the  other's - he needed to detach himself from the scene somehow, and they  needed their expectations fulfilled, to go down in a blaze of glory. He  had his own ritual for snuffing out lives. He would place one hand,  clawed, on their shoulder, and remove the other from its glove, press it  to their skin. That mere touch was enough to kill, but nevertheless, he  would intone the words with ceremonnial observance: kataklizma. And they would die. And all that would remain of them tomorrow would be the boulder rolled over their grave. And that was it.

He didn't want to kill her, he didn't want to, he didn't want -

"Thank you," she said.

The words stumped him for a moment. Why. When hell incarnate stood  above you, poised to draw out the final breath from your lungs, and  condemn you to sleep for eternity, you did not thank it. You did not  welcome it. It was not right that she should see him as a hero when he  had been long cast in the role of defiler. There was nothing else he  could be, or do. This was all he knew, and he did not want to be thanked  for it, for it was a torment to him. Stone him, hate him, but never  thank him.

He chose to ignore her, and he began the observance of his shallow spectacle, prepared his final questions, his blasphemous invocation of a  baptism or a mass, "Are you at peace?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Are you sure that this is your chosen fate?"

"Yes," she replied. He reached out to her, fingers outstretched, claws cupping the air  with their cruel glint, and he asked his final question, "Are you truly prepared to die?"

If they were not looking when they answered, he would tip their chin  with his claws and search their eyes, and he knew from the look in them  if that poor soul was truly honest, or if there was any hesitance that  broiled in their irises. The eyes of the truly doomed were still,  unflinching, unfathomably dark. Accepting eyes. Martyred eyes. Dead eyes  already, becoming deader. The look in their eyes had to be right.

Bubamara gazed down at that clawed hand for a long, long  moment. She did not speak. She did not move. She did not look. Her head  stayed bowed, her hands remained still. Then, with that voice softer  than silk or sin, she whispered, "Adrien?"

And she looked up at him for the first time, and beneath her hood the  eyes were right, but the face they were in was wrong, so very wrong,  and Crna Mačka felt his heart splinter, wrong, wrong, wrong, familiar and wrong.

His voice cracked. "Marinette?"

Read more at ao3

A Glossary for Clarity Crna Mačka - black cat Mače - kitty Bubamara - ladybug Kataklisma - catalysm

[frogsandfries]

My dad came by and we wrestled the shell up off the ground about eight feet in the air. It took about three or four hours, and I nearly got a broken neck and/or concussion, and my dad probably nearly died three times. But it's up high enough that it shouldn't be much trouble now to get it up on the van after the frame is built. I think I'm helping him today get something he wants (I don't think he needs it, but he's now officially over the hill, so my opinion is useless).

At almost one in the afternoon, the turkey my mother claimed was thawing......outside (a holdover from having four constantly eating children and not enough errand time, plus the landlord discouraging deep freezers)......came inside to actually thaw, which duh took like six hours, plus like three to cook. So #ThirdshiftThanksgiving.

My mother does this thing where she stirs water into the stuffing, then cooks it way too fucking long, stirring the whole time.

Resulting in a seasoned starch moosh.

It's disgusting.

My favorite way to make stuffing is broth. I don't care what kind. They're all good for something. Boil the broth, or water, and pour the liquid over a pat of butter set atop the stuffing. I absolutely, at least one time, must make stuffing from either my own bread, or buy the dried stuff at the store, and season it myself. I fluff it to make sure everything is moistened. NOT STIR. OH MY GOD DON'T STIR THE FUCKING STUFFING WHAT ARE YOU DOING??!?!!?

Honestly, I'll tell you. The woman figures the more repulsive it is, originally it was, the more demeaning it would be to make the kids eat it. Except now it's, the more repulsive it is, the more for her. Because three out of four of her kids don't live with her, and four out of four can rustle up their own vittles.

At a point earlier in the afternoon yesterday, I remarked how messy the place is, and she promptly denied it. I'm calling bullshit.

Well, I may have picked up some annoying as hell behavior from this monster, but at least I can keep house like a boss, and I like nice food. I like to make and serve and eat pretty food. Not goop and slop. Plus, you don't fucking mix canned sauce into the fucking spaghetti. If you're gonna use canned sauce, you need to cover that tinny taste. And the sauce doesn't like, soak into the noodles or whatever. Whatever the fuck excuse for spaghetti that woman served to me as a child was evil and had me convinced for years that I just hated spaghetti. Like how I was confident also that I hated mac-n-cheese. But I've had and made some incredible spaghetti and mac-n-cheese. Some may say the trick is butter, and maybe it is, but in my opinion, the real trick............. is a homemade cheese sauce. You can still use the powder out of the packet, but if you make your own cheese sauce, and add a gooey cheese, then sometimes like bread crumbs or vegetables or whatever you're into............ and bake it for like fifteen minutes.

Also

I actually enjoy keeping house. It's gratifying in the first place to keep the space clean, but it's also gratifying to know that I can usually clean up at the end of the week, if I've been particularly tired/busy/stressed and I don't feel overwhelmed by what needs to be done. If you get most of what would become a mess to the right place, the assigned place, you mitigate like 80% of what would later become a major mess. So now, my messes are mostly caused by not having a place for things to belong, as well as just being in too much hurry to move garbage to the garbage can.

Anyway.

So when we were done picking over the turkey, I took my brother to help me debone it. We fit all the meat I was able to pick off into a large freezer bag. I don't even know what my turkey deboning score would be. High points for enduring the heat and doing it all at once, but probably lower points for thoroughness. But considering it was the first bird I've ever deboned, I think I get a decent enough score either way.

[chuum]

to make you cringe on a bad day xD don’t read all just scroll to something random lol

sometimes you need a really bad mood lifter.

Look we all need it.

Just read them

Some of them don’t make sense so uh

yea

enjoy children

Can I watch the TV? Dad: Yes, but don’t turn it on.

What did the mountain climber name his son? Cliff.

“‘I’ll call you later.” “Don’t call me later, call me Dad.”

Did you hear that the police have a warrant out on a midget psychic ripping people off? It reads “Small medium at large.”

“My dad literally told me this one last week: ‘Did you hear about the guy who invented Lifesavers? They say he made a mint.’”

“Whenever the cashier at the grocery store asks my dad if he would like the milk in a bag he replies, ‘No, just leave it in the carton!’”

“Me: ‘Dad, make me a sandwich!’ Dad: ‘Poof, You’re a sandwich!’”

“Waitress: ‘And here’s the check. Is there anything else I can get you?’ Dad: ‘Someone to pay the check?’

“I heard there was a new store called Moderation. They have everything there

A steak pun is a rare medium well done.

“How can you tell if a ant is a boy or a girl? They’re all girls, otherwise they’d be uncles.”

I went to a book store and asked the saleswoman where the Self Help section was, she said if she told me it would defeat the purpose.

Milk is also the fastest liquid on earth – its pasteurized before you even see it

“What’s Forrest Gump’s password? 1forrest1”

Do you know where you can get chicken broth in bulk? The stock market.

What did the ocean say to the shore? Nothing, it just waved.

“What’s ET short for? Because he’s only got little legs.”

“What is Beethoven’s favorite fruit? A ba-na-na-na.”

Why do crabs never give to charity? Because they’re shellfish.

What do you call an Argentinian with a rubber toe? Roberto

“What do you call a man with no nose and no body? Nobody nose.”

I cut my finger chopping cheese, but I think that I may have grater problems.

What do you call a fish with no eyes? A fshhhh.

“On all of my medical forms growing up my dad wrote ‘red’ for my blood type. To this day no one knows my actual blood type.”

“What do you call a man with no arms and no legs lying in front of your door? Matt.”

My cat was just sick on the carpet, I don’t think it’s feline well.

I dreamed about drowning in an ocean made out of orange soda last night. It took me a while to work out it was just a Fanta sea.

Without geometry life is pointless.

A termite walks into a bar and asks “Is the bar tender here?”

What’s Forest Gump’s Facebook password? 1forest1

I gave all my dead batteries away today… Free of charge.

I needed a password eight characters long so I picked Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

I am terrified of elevators. I’m going to start taking steps to avoid them.

“Anytime I do something smart my dad says, ‘Wow, you’re a fart smella…I mean smart fella!’”

What’s the advantage of living in Switzerland? Well, the flag is a big plus.

Why did the octopus beat the shark in a fight? Because it was well armed.

A red and a blue ship have just collided in the Caribbean. Apparently the survivors are marooned.

I’ve deleted the phone numbers of all the Germans I know from my mobile phone. Now it’s Hans free.

Last night me and my girlfriend watched three DVDs back to back. Luckily I was the one facing the TV.

Q: What did daddy spider say to baby spider? A: You spend too much time on the web.

How much does a hipster weigh? An instagram.

What do you call a group of killer whales playing instruments? An Orca-stra.

Why was the big cat disqualified from the race? Because it was a cheetah.

Bicycles can’t stand on their own, they’re two tired.

Just watched a documentary about beavers… It was the best damn program I’ve ever seen.

Breaking news! Energizer Bunny arrested – charged with battery

“How do you make holy water? You boil the hell out of it.”

A Sandwich walks into a bar, the bartender says “Sorry, we don’t serve food here”

“Doctor, I’ve broken my arm in several places” Doctor “Well don’t go to those places.”

I’m on a whiskey diet. I’ve lost three days already.

“Why did the Clydesdale give the pony a glass of water? 
Because he was a little horse!”

There’s a new type of broom out, it’s sweeping the nation.

Atheism is a non-prophet organisation.

Slept like a log last night … woke up in the fireplace.

“We were getting fast food when the lady at the window said, ‘Any condiments?’ My dad responded, ‘Compliments? You look very nice today!’”

They laughed when I said I wanted to be a comedian – they’re not laughing now.

What cheese can never be yours? Nacho cheese.

A police officer caught two kids playing with a firework and a car battery. He charged one and let the other one off.

Last Christmas we bought a fake Christmas tree and the guy behind the counter said to my Dad,” Are you going to put it up yourself?” Dad replied, “Don’t be disgusting, I’m going to put it in the living room. “

I’m reading a book on the history of glue – can’t put it down.

Did you hear about the kidnapping at school? It’s fine, he woke up.

I went to the zoo the other day, there was only one dog in it. It was a shitzu.

What did the daddy tomato say to the baby tomato? A: catch up!

Q: What’s 50 Cent’s name in Zimbabwe? A: 400 Million Dollars.

Q: What did baby corn say to mama corn? A: Where’s popcorn?

What do you call a cow with no legs? Ground beef.

What did the Buffalo say to his little boy when he dropped him off at school? Bison.

So a duck walks into a pharmacy and says “Give me some chap-stick… and put it on my bill”

Why did the scarecrow win an award? Because he was outstanding in his field.

Why did the girl smear peanut butter on the road? To go with the traffic jam.

Why does a chicken coop only have two doors? Because if it had four doors it would be a chicken sedan.

Why don’t seagulls fly over the bay? Because then they’d be bay-gulls!

“Two peanuts were walking down the street. One was a salted.”

What do you do when a blonde throws a grenade at you? Pull the pin and throw it back.

What’s brown and sounds like a bell? Dung!

How do you make a hankie dance? Put a little boogie in it.

Where does batman go to the bathroom? The batroom.

What’s the difference between an African elephant and an Indian elephant? About 5000 miles

What do you call Jay-Z when he’s sleeping? Jay Zzzzzzzzzz.

A man walks into a bar and orders helicopter flavor chips. The barman replies “sorry mate we only do plain”

: Commissar! Commissar! The troops are revolting! Commissar: Well, you’re pretty repulsive yourself.

What do you call a sheep with no legs? A cloud.

I knew i shouldn’t have ate that seafood. Because now i’m feeling a little… Eel

What did the late tomato say to the early tomato? I’ll ketch up

What did the 0 say to the 8? Nice belt.

Why are skeletons so calm? Because nothing gets under their skin.

Why don’t skeletons ever go trick or treating? Because they have nobody to go with.

Why do scuba divers fall backwards into the water? Because if they fell forwards they’d still be in the boat.

Have you ever heard of a music group called Cellophane? They mostly wrap.

What kind of magic do cows believe in? MOODOO.

Why does Superman gets invited to dinners? Because he is a Supperhero.

“What time did the man go to the dentist? Tooth hurt-y.”

“Hold on, I have something in my shoe”  “I’m pretty sure it’s a foot”

Why does it take longer to get from 1st to 2nd base, than it does to get from 2nd to 3rd base? Because there’s a Shortstop in between!

Dad I’m hungry … “Hi hungry” I’m dad

When phone ringing Dad says ‘If it’s for me don’t answer it.

“I asked my dad for his best dad joke and he said, ‘You.’”

Where’s the bin? Dad: I haven’t been anywhere!

When Dad drops a pea off of his plate ‘oh dear I’ve pee’d on the table!

How do you know when you are going to drown in milk? When its past your eyes!

[enlit12ww]

The hues of dusk set in as Don Badoy Montiya stepped out of his carriage. The quaint sounds of gay laughter, galloping stallions, and women’s gab seep into the air as if it were oxygen—he was home. When was the last time he stepped foot on the rich soil of his motherland? The once humble población1 has now prospered into a great cabecera2. However, there would be no time to reminisce for it was May day eve. A grand ball was thrown at the favor of the young bucks newly arrived from Europe3 and he was not going to miss it. He arrived to gala only to hear the jeers of wild spirits who drowned themselves in the finest brandy. It is as if Dionysus4 administered the banquet himself! Every corner would be filled with the waltz of socialites and libido-filled skirt-chasers. Badoy basked in the vigor, taking in the merry atmosphere when he suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Don Badoy Montiya?”

The don jolted and turned to see the source of the voice. A tall figure stood before him with clothes kissing every inch of his muscular frame. His profile and features were chiseled as if he were a hero of myth. This adonis carried an air of refinement and familiarity.

“DIOS! ���Twas only you Don Sebastian5 Fuerte6! Would it kill you to exchange proper salutations? I haven’t seen you in years!”

Sebastian ardently laughed at reaction. “You always were a delicate damsel! How could you forget a man like me?”

“Apologies, I could not recognize you for you have sculpted your body like a god! Have you sold your soul to the devil?”

Badoy was shocked at the transformation of his friend. Sebastian Fuerte was formerly a tall and lanky chap with not an ounce of machismo in him. Now, he breathed virility!

Sebastian tittered, “‘Twas nothing but sport. Seeing you takes me back to our times in Barcelona!” A firm grasp fell on Badoy's shoulders as he and his old friend reminisce.

Ah Barcelona! It was the best of times. His mornings would start him grooming himself for hours, delicately combing his mustache and spritzing himself with an eau de toilette7 that smelled of ylang-ylang8. The routine would continue by walking on the lively streets to browse various ateliers9. Later in the night, he and his mates would paint the town red and visit Bar Marsella10 to indulge in the vertiginous absinthe11 and flirt with damsels. “How could I forget those nights?”

“Then we shall drink to them!” Sebastian exclaimed.

Arm in arm, the two roamed around the gala under the vivid moonlight to join the debauchery of others. The night was young and so were they! As time passed, the pair slipped away from the crowd to quaff beside the tranquil river bank. The cold breeze coupled with clapping leaves of flora created an intimate atmosphere.

Inebriated with a crimson face, Badoy wailed and confessed, “Fortuna12 has never been on my side. I have charm in spades and looks so dashing yet I have not bed woman. Is there something wrong?”

“Peradventure13 you lack machismo.” Sebastian retorted. Badoy giggled and took another swig of Brandy.

“You forget yourself Sebastian, a jest perchance?”

“You groom yourself for hours, smell like a woman, and can barely hold your liquor. You are no man.”

“Pardon me, were you not similar?”

“I am no longer that feeble lad you once knew. You are still a boy Badoy, one without a lady to his name.”

The once serene scene was now brought up by tension as Sebastian’s words sliced the air. Intoxicated, Badoy regurgitated the tinola14 he ate earlier and saw his reflection amongst his repulsive spew. Compared to Sebastian, he did not have particular features that stood out as particularly macho. His mustache, while prominent, looked odd on his boyish complexion. His ordinary stature coupled with his slender frame could not hold a candle against Sebastian’s statuesque appearance. Seeing his flushed countenance beside Sebastian’s suave visage made his blood boil. Out of a fit of rage and drunkenness, Badoy swinged a punch towards his former friend. Losing his balance, he crumbled on the river bed. Sebastian sighs and leaves at the pathetic display of bravado.

“Go home Badoy, ‘tis past a school boy’s curfew.”

He clumsily recollects himself on the rocky banks only to find a bleeding scar on his cheek. Wiping the blood off his face, Badoy yelled, “I shall bed a wife tonight, then we shall see who is truly a man!” Driven by alcohol and anger, the young don tipsily disappears into the night. The weight of his body sank as he took every step as figures twisted around him. His vision blurred along with his consciousness until it caved into darkness.

He regains his bearings and finds himself carefully sauntering in a moonlit hallway. A wave of shame swallowed his soul as he recalled Don Sebastian’s statement. Was Badoy just a boy? How was he going to bed a wife? A faint candle light would then catch his attention. He followed its source only to find an enchanting beauty standing before a large antique mirror. It was Agueda! What a fine lady she grew to be! Sebastian’s words immediately rang in his head as stared at the maiden. Was this an opportunity bestowed by the heavens? Indeed! He would put a love spell by charming her out of her wits. A giggle escaped his wicked smile as he creeped behind the darling Agueda. He leaned his head over her shoulder and saw his reflection. He saw a stern man smiling back at him; his eyes were of a beast ready to hunt. The thought of being with her felt devilishly delightful, he would prove that damn Sebastian wrong.

The lass slowly opened her eyes to find Badoy towering over her.

“Charms like yours have no need for a candle, fair one,” he said, smiling at her in the mirror.

1 Población is the common term for a town or settlement during the Spanish colonial period of the Philippines.

2 Cabecera is the district capital. The layout of the town was in a geometric grid pattern and featured a plaza, church, convent, and town hall on the center. Houses of nobles would be closer to the center while the houses the poor would be located farther.

3 The young bucks from Europe refer to the Ilustrados. They were wealthy Filipinos who were able to afford education abroad. This class of erudite men were prominent in the late 19th century.

4 Dionysus is the god of harvest and wine, usually associated with celebration

5 Sebastian is Latin for “revered”.

6 Fuerte is Spanish for “strong”.

7 Eau de toilette is French for toilet water. Despite it’s strange name, it refers to lightly scented cologne.

8 Ylang-ylang is the Filipino name for the Cananga odorata. The flower’s extract is commonly used for perfumes and aromatherapy.

9 Atelier is French for an artist’s workshop where many fine and decorative arts were produced.

10 A bar established in 1820s located in El Raval, Barcelona. The pub still stands as of 2018.

11 Absinthe is a type of alcoholic beverage popular in the late 18th century. It had a high alcohol content making it akin to a hallucinogen and was popular with the middle class.

12 Fortuna is the Roman goddess of luck

13 It is used as an adverb, it means “perhaps”. Not to be confused with the noun which pertains to uncertainty.

14 Tinola is a classic Filipino dish made from chicken, green papaya, and leaves of a chili pepper. It’s broth is also flavored by ginger and onions.