#If you can guess any of the aforementioned inspirations do not hesitate to tell me and see if you're right

[corvidaenightcrawler]

Nightwatch- Chapter 1 “A Stranger”

“Good morning, dear.” The clockmaker awakens with a yawn, having already overslept. Another foggy morning settles thick beyond rocky shore, stirring as if foam from the frothy waves. His wife rubs her eyes, looking enchanted through the morning grogginess. Her coils of black fall just short of her shoulders, loose and frayed. The clockmaker can’t help smiling at the sight of her. “Morning, Rick.” She leans in for a kiss. “Oh,” He reels back, gingerly pushing back her shoulders. “Dear, I have morning breath.” “I don’t care, now get over here.” She yanks his collar, their lips connecting. When they are apart, she pulls a perplexing face, black eyes studying with scrutiny. “Little scruffy, there.” Rick’s full beard and mustache of orange and white completely conceal his mouth, like ginger vines obscuring a cave opening. He smiles sheepishly, teeth barely visible. “Well, it’s either prickles or scruff, dear.” “I’ll settle for scruff.” She snides, and the sun peeks through the clouds for only a moment, casting rainbows of light over her incandescent eyes. She’s the town beauty, her skin gleams in the sun, reflecting gold off her brown skin. Her eyes are wide and doe, always a coy glimmer visible if you look close enough. She’s got pink rollers scattered in her curls, turning rusty in the light like a black cat. Her sleepy smile carves dimples into her soft cheeks and her eyes into wrinkled crescents. It’s mornings like this that Rick knows he’s a lucky man. Before she can lean in to steal another good-morning kiss, a discordant chime rattles through the air. “Rick, can’t you just throw that one out already?” She scoffs, a dramatic eye roll accentuating her annoyance. “Alright.” Rick pinches his nose bridge, easing out of the creaky bed onto even creakier, cold floorboards. “If I don’t sell it, it’s out.” His words fall heavy off of his tongue. It brings him melancholy to see it go. That clock has been a staple of the shop for who knows how long. Its obnoxious tone can be heard over each and every tick. It’s both a blessing and a curse, such a beautiful thing beyond repair. It was a timeless find, and yet, it just can’t be sold. Hell, the damn thing runs backwards. The somber is thick in his eyes, and thick in the sky with morning drizzle that drips down the windowsill. He slams the window shut, drawing the curtains to release shadows that cut through the drafty walls of the shop like steely, black knives. He turns, immediately averting his bashful pink face from the sight of his wife changing clothes. He scurries off to the bathroom, his wife chuckling in the backdrop of ticking clocks. He’s seen her exposed a million times, she has to admit with a shake of the head how cute his flustered nature can be. Sluggishly mixing his shaving foam by the sink, Rick’s feet hit familiar creaks in the floor. His wife calls from the loft, gracefully perched with her arms crossed over the railing. “Rick, you’re opening late. There’s a man waiting by the door.” Her voice induces a rush of rose to Rick’s face, though this time, with embarrassment. He huffs, abashed. “Let them wait. I haven’t even had coffee yet.” He takes his sweet time, half with spite, half with care not to nick his cheek with the razor. A kempt beard at last, he slinks away from the loft into the sleepy shop below, lamps lit with a hiss of gas and warmth under his shoes. The shut of the back door, his wife heading into the dark morning, marks the beginning of another restless day with no sleep until sundown for the busy woman. Rick heaves a weary sigh. He’ll pamper her tonight, she deserves it. Rick flips the ‘Open’ sign, shuffling back behind the counter, a soul softly stirring awake in the loft above. Within seconds, a jingle of rusty bells announces the arrival of a customer, door slamming behind them with a rush of wind. “Repair or purchase?” Rick asks, polishing the glass face of an ornate pocket watch with his vest. “Mr. Sjoberg.” The stranger calls, muffled by a large scarf over their mouth. Rick finally takes notice, peering over his glasses at the customer. Who he sees is an odd sight, their skin is ghostly pale, the haze of tobacco in their ruby red eyes and batting white lashes. Their short hair is straight like a flow of frothy water, sticking up with curled bangs in the shape of a rabbit’s ears. They approach the counter lightly on their toes, shivering, their lightweight black garb barely concealing their snowy skin from the cold. Somebody new? Around here? Has hell frozen over? “Is the Missus home?” They mumble, barely audible. “Adeline… Isn’t here. You’ve just missed her, I’m afraid.” There’s a twinge of suspicion in his voice, the squeaking of cloth against a watchface filling the awkward, uncomfortable air. “Ah. Pity.” The stranger sniffles, a red button nose peeking over their scarf. “I’m here for a purchase.” Their scarlet eyes scan the wall-to-wall selection, pausing over cobwebs. “Oh, good. Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Rick clasps his hands together, a polite, catty smile on his face. The stranger is briefly distracted by his appearance. He works precariously, attaching chains to watches and tuning them carefully. The stranger, at first, had thought he was wearing gloves. But no, he had wooden arms and legs, with black glossy joints and delicate, steady digits. His hair is a peachy color, shocked with white, fluffy and unkempt like his freshly tidied beard of salt-and-pepper. He has curious eyes of teal and gold that glare over black spectacles at all they see. He’s got the body of a father, and they mean that nicely, with a gray sweater-vest and black tie,pinstripe slacks hiked up by an old-looking leather belt. His sleeves are rolled up, the fuzz on his freckled neck standing on edge. The stranger didn’t mean to stare. “Um?” “Sorry. Yeah, just… What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” At once, Rick takes to his feet, kicking up the smell of mildew in the carpet. While he rummages to find a stepstool, footsteps creep down the steps, only to stumble clumsily and nearly miss the last step. The person in question, now of solid footing, is a familiar face to the stranger. “Sinclair.” Rick doesn’t look up from his busy hands. Sinclair snaps his eyes open, timid. He’s Rick’s adoptive son, a scrawny, chicken-legged boy in his late teenage years, a shaggy middle-part of greasy lavender hair and faded roots framing skin that never sees the sun, large square glasses, and sad gray eyes that always seem to droop to the floor. He twiddles his thumbs, in a pigeon-toed stance. There’s eyeliner smeared down his cheeks, another heartbreak staining his neck and white shirt with mascara. “Yeah?” “Can you move these boxes for me before you head out?” “Ugh. Yeah, I guess.” Sinclair trips over his own feet to haul a box of cogs, trailing gears behind him as he takes them out back. He jitters, recognizing the stranger and shutting the door quickly behind him. “I’ll bring you back a Macchiato. Love you. Bye.” He huffs. Typical teen. Eyerolls and all, dark circles to boot, jingling spurs on his heels clicking against the cobbles, heard through the door. He must be off to the bar, he used to sing on stage. Recently, he played a drab tune lacking melody that he called “Purgatorius”. He has lyrical talent, but he will never have the vocal prowess of his mother. Rick finally grabs a clock off the wall, looking at it with scorn in his eye as he turns it over in his hands. “Here.” He adjusts his glasses. “This blasted thing, I will sell to you for mere pennies. It was a passion project, but... It's beyond my help.” The stranger takes it in their grasp, thumbing over the old, battered wood. A one-eyed bird juts from a green trapdoor, chirping discordantly on a broken spring. The ticking seems wrong, somehow. They squint, realizing the truth. It runs backwards. What a delight! “It’s perfect.” The stranger rummages in their pocket, tossing crumpled bank notes on the counter, leaving without even a ‘Thank you’. The freezing wind swirls in the quiet of the shop behind them, leaving a perplexed clockmaker behind in their wake. The image of the boardwalk is a familiar one to the stranger, a memory of fog and clouds lying low to the shore. How frigid, the heart of Autumn. Seagulls keen, unseen through the swirling mist. Between foghorns and the gentle sprinkle of rain, a song stirs. A sad, yet optimistic song that swells in the chest and spills from the strings of a violin dances on the fog and breaks apart worries. There is something there, however, that feels slightly off. ‘Must be out of tune.’ The stranger thinks. The stranger struts down the boardwalk, cutting through the mist and rain, an unfamiliar black and white shape slithering between homes. As the song on the wind grows, an anxious patter worms into the stranger’s heartbeat, only accentuated by inhaled black smoke from the roaring chimneys atop every shack, bungalow, and storefront. Nearly there, a voice bleats from a corner. “You don’t seem too familiar, do I know you?” A jaded-looking old widower leans over the banister of his porch, dangling chains from his glasses blowing in the cold wind. He looks as if a Billy goat was a person, long hair in all shades of gray tied back from a hollow, wrinkled face and cloudy, kind eyes sitting above a crooked nose and goatee. His posture is hunched like a vulture, neck bent awkwardly forward with an Adam's apple like a rock and hands curled politely into his black patchwork shawl. Frail ribs stick out beneath billowing, loose fabric. “No, you don’t know me.” “Just passing through?” The widower blathers. He may not know them, but they know him. His name is Todd, his wife died 50 years ago just this week. “I’m here to stay for a short while.” “That so?” Todd begins, pausing to scan the stranger with disturbing clarity through smudged bifocals. “You look cold.” “I forgot my coat, that’s all.” The stranger replies with disinterest, hoping to move on. “Well, that’s no good. Care for something warm?” Todd breaks off a crust of rye bread, tossing it down to the stranger, who wolfs it down without another thought, finally taking the time to see the loom poised before Todd, tangled with mauve threads across splintered wood. “Oh, no, thank y-” The stranger is struck in the face with a massive white shawl that nearly blows away in the gust. They hold it, a silent nod of thanks hidden by their scarf. They pull the garment over their head, and fashion it in a way that’s slick and doesn’t hinder mobility, a master of working with even the most frilly of things. It’s adorned with red, bejeweled tassels that match their eyes. “Free of charge, min vän!” Todd chuckles, bony hands already at work with the loom, patterns of fields and trees unfurling into fabric before their eyes. With an affable smile, the stranger is waved away, whisked with the wind across damp, dark cobbles and under dripping awnings. They wouldn’t be seeing Todd for a while longer. Once again, the mesmerizing melody leads them around a corner to the chapel by the seaside. With the percussion of the sea striking the rocks, the violinist appears from the fog. The church pastor sits upon the concrete steps, shoes wet by rainwater. Their bow glides across the yellowed strings, head bobbing about gently to the rhythm like driftwood on the waves. Nothing can be seen of the loosely hung figure but a sprawled pose and thin, calm smile displaying a row of pearly teeth, just barely visible beneath the wide, flat black hat that conceals his face beneath its brim, shadows cast over his form. He’s a peculiar sight, but not to the stranger, who walks past without blinking into the warm glow of the bar next door. Blaring horns sever the music. A massive ship docks just outside, sailors smelling of salt and sweat flocking to the streets and into the bar as frolicking geese. Captain Blåhaj steps onto the deck, picking absentmindedly at the barnacles clinging desperately to the weathered red metal of the hull like Adams Rock to the star-spackled tide. His hair is short, spiky and blowing behind him. He tucks the front of his navy peacoat over his chest, the felted fabric straining over his arms. He’s not a sight for sore eyes, his scarred, tan face, tasteful scent of tobacco, and black eyes make even his own crew swoon. He tamps leaves into his pipe, rummaging for a match in his pockets. “Captain!” His right hand man comes galloping over. His name is Crockett, a poor and white-haired young man with shocking blue eyes and a scrappy figure that barely holds up the white cotton of his uniform. Blåhaj’s broad hand lands on Crockett’s narrow shoulder, sending a knot in his stomach. “Beautiful morning, huh, boy?” He gruffly smiles, a sharp smile carving his face, a true Renaissance statue. Crockett strikes a match and gingerly lights Blåhaj’s pipe, a small wisp of smoke rising with the Sun. The brief glow of flame makes him look painterly and sickeningly handsome. Crockett gulps. “So, uh,” He squawks “Our haul has the grocers impressed.” He twiddles his thumbs, gesturing back with his head to a net of mackerel dangling precariously down to the dock. Blåhaj smirks, a gold tooth flashing. “Good work, boy.” He puffs smoke, and Crockett can feel it on his face, suddenly feeling a little weak in the knees. Blåhaj’s stern, aged face has only become fine wine to the crew across the oceans, his strapping and broad-shouldered silhouette is simply mesomorphic and kind on the eyes. “How’s about a gin to wind down?” Another waft of sweet smoke that’s more intoxicating to Crockett than a drink will ever be. He can’t help but notice the slight tangle of Blåhaj’s fingers in his ponytail. “Ah, yeah, that’s a good idea…” The walking juxtapositions make their way to the boardwalk, a well-decorated sailor can catch anybody’s attention. The bar is alive already, even so early. The sun has only just come up, but the sailors and sleepless countrymen flooding the place means a busy morning. The stranger sits themself in a far corner by the bar, ordering a White Russian and kicking up their feet. Their mind wanders in the dark of the bar, to the clockmaker and his shop. The murder of chivalry may be in store. All those cobwebs, all those promising shadowy corners. What eight-legged friends could be found? All this time spent searching, all that trouble in the scrub, and it was in the very town where it had originated. Those webs are so perfect, they’re just right- they have to be. They can practically see the outlines of red on black abdomens crystal clear in their mind, the spindles of silk betwixt each other- the patterns match up just right. They have to return. Just not now, the Sun keeps ambition at bay for ghosts and strangers alike. Heaven in vocal form envelops the bar, every patron hushing to complete silence as the lights dim. The stage lights up, and out steps none other than Adel Sjoberg. She looks like an angel up there in her form-fit black dress, velvety and mimicking the shape of a mermaid’s tail, for she is truly a siren to every sailor in the crowd. Her voice is thick and sweet like honey, flowing and clinging to the dust in the air, an archon earworm. “It begins to tell, 'round midnight, midnight.” The stranger’s spine tingles, the crisp white hair on their arms standing supine at the twinge of her Veery clarion call. It’s throaty, and warms up the air, or is that just the breath of the masses being stolen? Whatever it may be, she’s captured the hearts of all. Her dress sparkles in the spotlight, her tight curls bounce, her eyelashes bat like butterflies. Lucky clockmaker. "I do pretty well, till after sundown, suppertime I'm feelin' sad; but it really gets bad, 'round midnight." With the men and women under her spell, a hum of whispers returns. Sailors joke. Old women gossip. Sinclair kisses a countryman right under his mother's nose, as if he doesn't have permanent, black tear stains down his neck. From beyond the neon glow of an Inn sign, an eccentric-looking drunkard stands atop a table, telling tales to his ashamed friends, all to the backdrop of Adel's enchanting chords. She opens her eyes just enough to grasp the microphone and give a sassy glare to a woman ogling her figure. The gazes of countless avert in tandem. Her simulacrum is anything but bland. The stranger remains in that bar, wasting away on coffee liquor into the hours of the evening, morning to sunset, the fog bleeding out into an amber glow upon the still waves beyond closed doors. Green, red, and blue lights flicker on to announce the Inn's vacancy. 'Don't wander' The sign warns in a neon flash beneath brighter eyes, an owl chewing on white, bloodied fur. The head of a mushroom bobs under a drip of oil and water from the awning, looking like a familiar hat. Waiving the anemoia off, the stranger basks under the yellow light around a billiards table, piercing the wooziness to sink the 8-ball into the pocket across from them. Sinclair hands over a sizeable chunk of money to Captain Blåhaj, losing the third bet of the night. The money is passed off to an old maid, summoning a forlorn sigh from Crockett that just screams shaken limerence. Realizing the time as the cuckoo clock jabs into their side with another chime, the stranger surrenders the cue stick to the wall and scurries out the door, leaving astounded bartenders wondering their name as they fill up yet another beer for the sadsacks. To the church they creep, wrapping the shawl tight over their arms, the evening chill giving way for the freezing night, the fog begotten as the Red Sea. The stained white brickwork looks black in the night, the shape of the steeple cutting out the Milky Way. An oddly cloudless night, perfect. From a nail on the door, a lantern glows and flickers. The stranger removes it, extinguishing the light and walking with dire purpose back to the clockmaker's shop. The occupant has long retired for the evening, not a single light inside but a dull candle. The stranger tries the door, to no avail, it's padlocked. No matter, the stranger has a bobby pin holding their sleeve garter in place. They jam the bronze pin inside, googling it around until a click brings a satisfied grin to the stranger's obscured face. Careful to take off the bells before entering, the stranger enters. With only the light of the candle to guide them, they creep behind shelves upon shelves, the ticking of countless clocks in the darkness is enough to drive any man mad. The floor creaks beneath them, each making them wince. There's not a sound from the loft. Upon the walls behind the counter, among mechanical mysteries and showy ornamented clocks is a sight much less Baroque. The web of the prodigious arachnid they've been searching for. Upon the stranger's shadow approaching, a cluster of spindly black legs retreat into a clockface. Promising. The stranger opens the empty, desolate shaft of the lantern, prodding at the clock with the pin until the spider within stirs, stumbling into the lantern, a nervous threat trailing behind. The stranger snaps the lantern shut and holds it to the light, appeased with their prize. Illuminated by candlelight, it comes into view, what gorgeous and rococo majesty! A black widow. A delicious thing to behold. With the widow obtained and the future in sight, it's shaping up for the stranger. No more brush and brambles, no more spider bites. A thump. Then another. Wooden feet scale the staircase. As if never there, the stranger sweeps away and out the open door with the wind, leaving not a trace. Rick stands in the shop, all life barren, the glimpse of a shadow disappearing between shelves into the night. Down the road and where the drunk men sing shanties, mass is coming to a close. Father Winecroft reaches for the heavens with veiny hands and the digits of a musician. They can taste Heaven in the air, feel Hell beneath their feet. Just like Adeline, Winecroft has them captivated by his hypnotic sermon. “It’s on the night that God had graced us, and we did not give Him enough. And so He took what He had been owed…” The stranger listens in, knees tucked high over the lantern. “He knocked thrice upon the door of Satan and drove him away.” The stranger knocks on the wall. A chorus of amazed gasps rises a chuckle from Winecroft’s chest. “Yes, my sheep. He is with us always…” The droning is all a blur, oil paint soundwaves. When all is quiet and they are certain that the mass has concluded, Winecroft descends into the cellar, where the stranger resides. “Ehud.” A striking white smile appears in the gloom. The stranger stands, their name clear. “Sir, I have good news.” “Well, tell me quickly, I haven’t got all night.” Winecroft positions himself like a gargoyle in front of Ehud, lighting a candle. His fluffy mane of auburn looks like fire in the warm lucency, tallow dripping over their fingers. His smile twitches, yet never ceases. He stands straight and tall, cossock concealing a dynamic and long body with feet positioned like that of a ballerina, stock-still and awaiting disclosure. “I bring you, firstly a clock fit for tonight.” Ehud presents the broken cuckoo clock. Winecroft leans forward, looking like a robot with an unwavering expression, the hand tucked behind their back inching forward to stroke the clock’s surface. Their fingertips graze it oddly, dust lifting from it. His smile gets a little wider, which shouldn’t be possible. They rise again, making a strange noise that can only be described as smug. “Perfect. Good work, friend.” They hiss, a small giggle of anticipation slipping between his flat teeth. “What else do you have for me?” The trepidation tickles his throat. Without a word, Ehud hands over the lantern. Winecroft sets down the candle, turning over the lantern in his hands against the light. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Their crooked hat reveals a wide, raving eye. The deceptively warm brown turns to amber in the flame, tracing the spider’s form and shaking violently. “What a specimen, oh, perfect- By God’s Gospel-” He sets down the lantern to lean with his elbows against the tablecloth. “The perfect spider. So gorgeous, and oh-so deadly, how lovely! The power this little treat holds is more than your little mind can imagine.” They wax poetic, a waver in their throat, sounding like the Prince of Horror. Black gloves removed, they unlatch the lantern, the grotesque spider crawling onto the back of his hand. He holds it gently, eye falling half-mast as it crawls from one palm to another, non compos mentis. “Macabre, isn’t she? I can’t resist, you’ve brought me such a trophy, Ehud. I commend you.” He cups the spider, prodding at it with one finger. It rears up, lashing out, fangs sinking into his palm. He winces, smile wavering for only an instant before it is once again plastered on his pale face that is painted with dancing shadows. The spider tries to scurry up his sleeve, only to be seized between two fingers by the leg, squirming. “Odger-” “Sir.” “Sir, that’s venomous.” “Ah, I know. Nothing I haven’t drank in communion already.” His eye nearly rolls back into his head with each throb of the bite, pain turning to pleasure. “It’s time.” He groans. Massaging the bite in an uncomfortably sensual manner, he tosses the black widow without another care into the lantern, striking a match, lighting it aflame. The hourglass on its back turns a boiling black as it jitters and curls up in the heat. Moths flock to the light to nibble on clothes and drop dead. The lantern is sealed, Winecroft leaps onto the table, dancer-like, daintily hanging the clock on the wall. Perfect timing, the clock strikes a false-midnight, the wooden bird singing its broken song. Ehud scrambles to join him on the table, adorned like an altar, bones clattering to the floor in a cloud of dirt. The writhing spider thuds against the glass, burning into nothing, a pitiful curl of black legs. A rattling- no, a chattering- is heard. The chattering of teeth. Winecroft stands close behind, too close, Ehud can feel his breath on the back of their neck. They turn to see, from beneath his hat’s brim, an odd expression with furrowed, sorrowful brows, a twitchy smile, and grinning eyes that glisten, devilish in the growing glow until they disappear into their mess of hair. From the ceiling, an ethereal gleam spills between floorboards like a waterfall of luminous dust, the Aurora Borealis encapsulated into a smoky stream that strikes the lantern. It sounds like rain on a tin roof that spirals into a crescendo of screaming. Agony. Pure agony, that’s the sound. The pain of awareness. A skull rises, then a rib, then a collarbone, a femur… Before their eyes, a skeleton is assembled. Winecroft jitters, hands sweaty and posture kingly. A ripple crawls down Ehud’s spine at the sight of the skeleton’s very own spine snapping into place. Fully arranged, it collapses in a pathetic, shaking heap on the ground. Winecroft leaps like a frog to its level, quickly covering the bones in a shaggy, torn cloak that was probably once purple, now covered in soot and dirt. They creep away, backwards as a mime and away from its view. Ehud’s heart nearly leaps out of their chest. Their scarf falls, failing to conceal grit teeth and a quivering white lip. Their painted nails scrape into the white lace tablecloth that’s slipping beneath their feet. The skeleton quakes, an arm snapping upwards and leveraging the skull. It looks around, narrowly missing the two shaking humans by mere inches of darkness. It kneels, catching its breath, despite a lack of lungs. Its hand rubs its skull, causing reason for pause. “Hnnggk?” It moans, staring down at its skeletal hands. “No… No, no, no, no no no-” A distorted, raspy tone rattles from the skeleton’s chattering teeth, sounding nothing like the Gary Cooper that is Winecroft. “I was supposed to die, just let me die.” It weeps without ever shedding a tear. Its breath smells of rot. It stumbles to its feet and wobbles like a newborn giraffe, slipping its old cloak over its bone shoulders, ribs clacking, hand already adorned with a dangling lantern. Its jaw painfully cracks, muttering to itself about death, decay, ascension, and all kinds of rambling of its pain. Just like that, through invocation of some God they’ll never know, The Nightman walks the streets again on shaky legs. Lantern light fading into the fog, all across town the sounds of shutters slamming shut can be heard like applause at what Ehud had done. Terrorized no more had they been, and now they’ll suffer for it. 50 years of peace is too long. Rick wakes again in the dead of night, not too far after his wife threw herself into bed beside him, hair tousled and wrinkled evening dress still on. Her makeup smears her pillow. The sounds of clicking heels and shaky feet on the boardwalk riles Rick to once again descend from the loft. At first seeing nothing, he blows out his candle to return to bed, briefly relishing the smell of sweet smoke. Then, from the inky black comparable to the deep sea, a single yellow light swims, an angler in the depths. An achy figure shuffling down and stopping just outside the shop, facing the sea, as still as a mannequin. Rick nervously opens the door. The figure doesn’t so much as flinch at the jangle of bells. “Uh, hello?” Rick coos, half inside with one foot out the door. The silhouette doesn’t move, cloak hood billowing in the slight breeze. “C-can I help you?” “Hungry.” “... Excuse me?” “I’m hungry.” The figure looks up, lantern raising to the firmament. A flash of razor-sharp teeth and a bone-white face slip through the hood, fangs clicking much like mandibles. “Do you need food?” Rick swallows hard. The silhouette doesn’t respond, looking like the Grim Reaper. A yellow, jaundiced eye blinks. “Are you… Are you from here?” “Used to be.” “Hmm?” “I’m supposed to be up there.” “...In the sky?” Rick scoffs, licking his dry lips. The silhouette points to the stars, rail-thin hand shakily settling on a bright, twinkling dot among many paint splattered suns. “I should be up there. I was happy. But… Somebody brought me back. I can’t be back. I just want to go back. I’m so hungry.” “Well, can I help? I don’t understand-” It turns its head. Half-masked by the shade of a hood, a funereal, gaunt shape with sunken sockets stares back, lantern clutched protectively to its chest. “Food.” After a mostly one-sided exchange, the Nightman stumbles off, snarling. Two strangers in one night? Impossible. It wobbles its way to the dock, disgusting eyes swaying back and forth with the waves, scanning from boat to boat until it comes upon a crate of ice and something that smells enticing. Gazing at it like a newfound love, it slinks off to have a new meal for the first time in so, so long. “Ehud, you’ve done it.” Winecroft appears, nearly from thin air behind them. He stands proudly with that signature smile and his hands folded neatly and cordially behind his back. “I guess I have.” “Isn’t it exciting? Oh, don’t you think he’s hungry? What a darling- it’s coming together just as I thought.” They gaze together onto the docks, where a cloaked figure stumbles in the moonlight, gruesome spider legs jutting from either side of its face as it latches onto a chunk of food and swallows it, greed in its growl. The way Winecroft jitters at the sight makes Ehud feeling gross. Just standing beside him feels enough to warrant a shower with how little he makes an effort to conceal the power-high that goes to the wrong head. “They’ll be wanting a body soon.” Ehud chokes, running a hand through knots in their white hair. Ehud gags, recalling the many times that Ol’ Odger called their hair spider silk. “Hmm, that’s right.” He flicks up the brim of his hat, drawling with a suck of the teeth. “Just pray to our Lord that it doesn’t take yours.” The sirocco nearly blows off his hat, and with an unwavering, coy grin that reeks of malice and unspeakables, Winecroft takes the warmth of the coming morning in his stride; a serpent among rats in the lighthouse’s shadow. Ehud is left to stand and stew in the doorway to the chapel, drenched in the chagrin of Winecroft’s euphoric violin and the ignominy of a new, deadly occupant.

@dreamcatcher-ranger @moth-yknowtheartist

[mashiraostail]

Aizawa gets hit with a quirk during battle and it turns him into a cat, he doesn't know what to do so he goes to his partner's house. His partner sees Catzawa sitting at her doorway and doesn't know it's him, so she basically catnaps him, thinking he's a stray, and takes care of him the rest of the week? uwu

omg this got kinda long but it was really fun to write fdlsk i hope you enjoy! >:3

You’d actually had a sort of late-night, later than you desired anyways, you were excited to just go home and get some rest.  As you approached your doorstep you notice a black fuzzy blob on your welcome mat. “Well hello there..” You crouch down to the cat and offer a hand, “and who are we? Huh?” You scratch the back of its neck, laughing at the loud purring it replies with.  “You are adorable.” You scoop it up, “if you’ve got an owner the time to run away is now, or else you’re mine. That cool?” The cat just settles into your chest, purring contentedly. “I’m taking that as a yes.”  You set your things down but keep the cat in your arms, it doesn’t seem to mind.  “What should I name you?” You wonder aloud. “Oh I bet Shouta will have a good idea.” You sit down on the couch with the cat in your lap, taking a photo of it to send along to the aforementioned man, “he loves cats. Maybe I should wait and surprise him with you.” You hesitate to send the photo, “I guess in the meantime I’ll just call you...” You look around for some inspiration, “I guess Eraser is pretty fitting huh? You know now that I mention it you sort of even look like him.” You press your thumb between the cat's eyes, “grumpy.” Its reply is just a meow.  Aizawa isn’t too worried honestly, once he figured out what had happened and gets a handle on things he concludes this weird quirk will only be effective for a few hours to a day max. At least his quirk was still effective in cat form, though the cops were probably confused to find a bound up villian and no hero to claim them. He didn’t care much and with that in mind he just mozzies his way over to your place figuring you’ll take care of him, you always do. And he was right, you were happy to let him rest on your chest while you lounged around on the couch, watching TV late into the night, you scratched up his back with your nails and cooed at him every time he nestled closer. He knows it was a villain quirk that hit him but he’s sort of thankful, honestly, this is the life.  “Alright.” You sigh and he rises and falls with the breath in your chest, “how’s bed sound Eraser cat?” You’re mildly concerned you haven’t heard from Shouta, normally he let you know when he returned and left for patrols, even if you were asleep. You figured his phone was dead or forgotten, or that Hizashi was accompanying him tonight.  He is very content to curl up next to your chest and snooze there peacefully for the whole night. He could sleep for days if anyone asked him, you were warm and nice and sure he wasn’t particularly clingy but he couldn't deny how nice it felt to be coddled on occasion.  Your bright laughter and the way you flick water at him and shoo him away when he sneaks into the shower the next morning is also welcome.  “I thought cats hated water!” You snort flicking a towel at him, “get out mister, this isn’t for cats, I’ll give you a bath in the sink tonight if you really insist.”  Though a few days pass and he’s still a cat, and what’s worse is you’re going crazy with worry.  “I’m sorry, no.” He’s watching from his perch on your counter as you shake your head at Nemuri, Hizashi, and Nezu, “He normally calls me at least once a day if we aren’t together but I haven’t even gotten a text let alone seen his face..” You look forlorn, there’s a deep worry line between your eyebrows. “It’s alright. Thanks for the help.” Nemuri squeezes your shoulder, “I’m sure he just got wrapped up in something a little bigger than usual.”  Hizashi nods in agreement, “we’ll let you know if we find out anything else, okay?”  “Thank you Zash. I’ll call you guys if he turns up around here.” You squeeze his friend's hand, as comforting as he was trying to be you could tell he was equally upset and worried.  “We appreciate that.” Nezu nods, “he’s a very capable hero, I’m sure we have nothing to worry about.”  “Say, when did you get a cat?” Nemuri takes notice of the feline and you jump.  “Oh you guys haven’t met him yet! I think he was a stray..” You scoop him up and bring him back to the trio, “his name is Eraser cat. Well, it was temporary, I was going to ask Shouta to name him but-” Your voice breaks a little, “well...you know.”  “He’s very cute.” Nemuri laughs a little but it doesn’t do much to mask how upset she seems as well, “don’t worry, I’m sure he’s fine.” She insists and you nod, “I hope so.”  When his hero costume and goggles turn up 2 days later you're inconsolable. Aizawa is trying everything he can think of to get you to realize what’s happened. He watches helplessly on the couch as you cry into Hizashi’s shoulder. Nemuri on your other side rubbing your back, though they each look equally heartbroken.  You hadn’t been sleeping much at night since their first visit, he was used to you staying up to the sunrise scratching his back, and playing with his ears. But at least you didn’t cry. Now you cried. Even watching you sob into Hizashi’s shirt was enough to make him let out a warbled meow and slink over to your lap.  “Oh I’m okay-” You let out a wet laugh, “what a good cat you are..wanna cheer me up?” You hug him, “you’re so cute.” Your voice breaks again, “Shouta would have just love you-” And as quickly as your tears had stopped warbly cries had begun again.  Nemuri and Hizashi don’t leave until it’s dark out. He watches the various people that come in and out the next day, Toshinori comes with some sweets and Aizawa’s class. You supposed it was nice to see them if only a bit painful at first. But after the discomfort in your chest settles they do pretty well at cheering you up, offering you all the funny, sweet, or scary stories about their teacher that they can think up.  Sekijiro comes after with Ryo, the pair is happy to sit quietly with you while you cry alternating between who lets you rest on their shoulder and who rubs your back. Kugo and 13 come with some food and finally Emi with plenty of teary-eyed attempts to pull some more laughter out of you.  After it’s all over he’s curling up on your chest where you lay on the couch.  “Don’t worry.” You murmur, you noticed the cat didn’t seem to like it when you cried, “I think I’m all cried out.” Your eyes are puffy and red as your hands cover his back. “Wanna hear about Shouta?” You ask and the cat’s ears perk up. “Yeah? I could tell you some things about him.” Your voice breaks a little at his name, “he was a good guy, a little grumpy, but..” You sigh, “he was just a softie.” You close your eyes, “and he really liked cats. He would have been so excited to have you. He was really strong too-” You bite back some more tears, “whatever...whatever did this to him I..I have to say I’m a little scared to see what it’ll do next.” The cat stands up and hops away, you laugh a little, “you’re so aloof.” You watch the black furball turn the corner and disappear.  When he returns you’re about to doze off, but he jumps onto your stomach, you huff. “Excuse you. Hey!” You sit up,  “what’s in your mouth?!” You try to pry his jaw open, “you’re gonna choke!” He spits out an eraser.  “oh?” You pick up the pink pencil topper, “did you learn your name?” You perk up, “so cute!” You scoop the cat up to your chest, kissing his face, “you’re so smart-” The cat warbles. “What?” You set it down and it paws at the eraser.  “You wanna play?” He hadn't liked playing very much before. He warbles again before hopping away and fleeing. Though he’s back in a few moments.  “Now what do you have??” You notice something else hidden in the cat's mouth, he spits it out without a fight though.  “Shouta’s keys?” You pick them up, “do you wanna play?” You ask again and jingle them in front of the cat's face. He swats at you.  “I’m sorry.” You frown, “not right now okay? I’m really exhausted.” You stand up, “let’s just go to bed?”  The cat leaps into bed with you a few minutes after you get under the covers.  “Eraser please-” You groan as he kneads your back, “I'm exhausted.” Roll over and he drops something on your chest. It was a picture, one from your bag of you and Shouta, Hizashi took it on new year’s eve two years ago.  “Huh?” You look at the cat, “why’d you bring me this?” You remember reading that cats like to bring their owners things as presents sometimes. “That’s very sweet.” You murmur, “I should get it framed or something, it’s a nice picture. He didn’t really like pictures..” You rub the cat's ears, “I didn’t mind before...” You trail off, feeling your eyes get wet, “but wish I had more of us now that he’s-” You take in a deep breath before you can start crying again. You set the photo on your nightstand. “I’m going to sleep.” You turn over, without huddling him into your chest like usual.  Aizawa doesn’t know who to thank when he wakes up, suddenly human again. Though he is totally naked. But at least you wouldn’t be so inconsolable anymore. Your alarm starts to blare and you turn over, your hand hits his chest.  “Shou.. turn it off..” You mutter, burying your nose in his arm. There’s a moment of reprieve like nothing had ever happened like it was all a weird dream. You did this occasionally, you’d wake up and grumble for him, ‘come closer’ ‘turn the alarm off’ or just a ‘g’monring shou’. In the days prior he’d tried to do what he could, even swatting your alarm off with his paw and curling up in your neck. Though it was never long before you’d realize that Shouta as you knew him wasn’t there and you’d dissolve into a fit. “mhn I got it.” His hand slaps the alarm button and it silences.  Your eyes snap open and you scramble up, shrieking.  “Shouta!?” You’re patting him down, neck shoulders, and chest, checking for any injuries, or any sign that he’s not really Shouta. But it’s all there, all the scars, and birthmarks, and hair, he’s exactly how you remember.  “Where have you been?!” You place two firm hands on his chest, “and why are you naked? Not that I mind now, but have you been walking around naked for over a week? Never mind don’t answer that.” You take his face in your hands, “Oh Shouta, I’ve been so worried.” You shake your head, “we all have. When your costume turned up but you...” Your voice gets quiet, “we thought...well..God. Where have you been?”  “I’m sorry to worry you-” He sits up, “i’m okay, seriously, not even a scratch. It’s all sort of complicated but I think what happened was-”  “Wait!” You stop him, “I have a surprise for you!”  “Well, the thing is-”  “Just stay here okay? Put some pants on!”  You scramble out of bed, looking hopelessly for Eraser Cat, though the feline is nowhere to be found. You’re standing by the couch when the sight of the eraser and Shouta’s keys discarded there put the dots together for you. “It was you?!” You shriek running back to your bedroom.  “I was trying to tell you!” He insists, “like when I kept changing the channel to the news during broadcasts about me, or all of the random stuff that I always brought you!”  He doesn’t mind the way your arms fly around his neck, he just pats your back.  “So you’ve been okay this whole time?!”  “Yeah, I was pretty well taken care of actually.”  “I was wondering why he’d only eat leftovers and not the cat food..” You murmur and Shouta laughs.  “Sorry, but it smelled really gross.” He lets you clamber into his lap.  “Shouta I’m so happy to see you.” You hold his face in your hands, “you have no idea how worried I was-”  “I watched the whole thing.” He laughs a little, holding your wrists, “ but it’s alright now. I’m here. I’m fine. We both are.” The kiss is welcome, warm, and familiar. Being a cat for a day would have been fun, but a whole week was sort of pushing it, he’d missed these sorts of sensations, your hands on his chest, arms around his neck, lips against his.  “You watched me change like every day!” You hit his stomach and he huffs at the blow, “What happened to missing me? It’s your fault for leaving the door open!” He complains and you jump,  “I live alone!!! And you tried to get in the shower with me?! You perv!”  “You act like I’ve never seen you naked before!” He fends off your swatting hands. “It’s the principle of the thing!”  “We see each other naked all the time! I’m naked right now.” He catches your hands and you stop, flush creeping up your neck.  “Oh. Yes..you are...” You settle down a little as he continues, “and I really missed you...” 

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame X

Author’s Note: Ten chapters in! I haven’t written something this long in a while and there’s so much more to come yet, so thanks for your encouragement, patience, and kind words as always!

Song inspiration for this chapter: So I never do this, but inspiration in song came to me via Oceans by Puscifer

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 3268

Warnings: Canon divergent, Master/servant dynamic, language, hint of angst

When you first saw the great expanse of the blue ocean touching sky, you only had two thoughts; that it was more beautiful than all of the green hills of England, and that Ivar should have been at your side. He had broken his promise, though not intentionally you understood.

He had been there at the break of dawn as Ubbe helped you into the longboat. After you had parted in the slave's quarters, you hadn't been given the chance to be alone with him again. Standing at the edge of the water, his face had been as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment, and he was careful not to look in your direction. You never stopped looking at him though, even as the bow of the boat pierced the water and the current started to drag you away. Ivar soon became a black line in your vision, and when you lost sight of York, it set in that you were leaving behind your homeland. 

Hvitserk had pulled you aside days before you were to depart to give you an education on what to expect when travelling by sea. It wasn't uncommon to have an upset stomach or light head, but drinking enough water would help ease such discomforts. You were also told to keep close to Ubbe's side should the clouds sink low and drive squalls into the side of the boat. Hvitserk had laughed at the alarmed look on your face but had continued to reassure you that if you all ended up in the water, that Ubbe was a competent swimmer. Not very comforting.

The chill in the air was different in the open water than when on land. Taking a look around the longboat at your fellow traveller's, they did not appear to be as bothered by the cold. Their northern bones were built to withstand the wind it seemed. Ubbe had draped you in a fur pelt, but it might as well have been a silk curtain. The cold had seeped into your marrow, and you felt soaked from the spray of the salty sea. 

As you watched the waves roll by, you heard the thumping steps of boots on the wooden boards coming closer. Ubbe tossed you an unsure smile as you looked up, and he took the spot across from you. It was still odd sharing in your first tour of the ocean with someone who was mostly a stranger. When you had first spotted him on the night of the raid, you had only seen another blood soak barbarian who spoke in a foreign tongue. Your paths had intertwined since then, but you hadn't spoken until this morning. He had apologized for scaring you, and also explained he had only been trying to help you that night. Perhaps things would have turned out differently had you stayed at his side, but you chose not to ponder the 'what if' scenario.

"You travel the water well," He complimented, cutting through your thoughts. "Most throw up their first time."

"I've been following Hvitserk's advice," You said, holding up your waterskin. You were mindful to pace yourself and not chug it down all at once either. "It's also beautiful out here. I didn't want to miss anything."

Ubbe nodded as his gaze fixed on the knife in your other hand. You didn't know what to do with it, and you didn't have any other belongings in your name. Even if you didn't agree with the purpose of its gifting, you wanted to keep it close.

"Ivar gave you that?" Ubbe prodded lightly, but you could see he was curious. 

"Yes," You said, hoping to God you didn't give up a blush as you thought about Ivar.

"Thralls aren't supposed to have weapons, you know."

"I tried to tell that to your brother, but he insisted."

Ubbe smirked. "I wonder why he would do that?"

You frowned as you looked down at the aforementioned knife. "What do you mean?"

"Only that he was constantly badgering me about keeping you safe," Ubbe said and he laughed at your confounded expression. "I'm not sure what Saxon men gift to their women, but for us, a weapon is of some significance."

You considered Ubbe's words, and how adamant Ivar had been when placing it in your hand. You'd never had any man offering you gifts before. Maybe that was why you kept it so close.

"I told him I wouldn't know how to use it. That was a lie."

"You know how to wield a knife?" Ubbe asked incredulously. 

"Well, not with any real skill, but when Ivar gave it to me he said it can take a life if I had to. That doesn't require any technique, just courage and a fight to survive." You withdrew the knife from the sheath, focused on how the blade glinted from the sun.

"And have you...taken a life that is?"

You looked out over the side of the boat, but there was no escape out there. Seeing how far the water spread put into perspective how alone these ships were. The Northmen seemed to be the bravest people you had ever known, to venture out into an abyss and hope to come across land after travelling such a distance.

Your attention returned to Ubbe, and you had nearly forgotten his question or rather you had hoped he would. "I've never told anyone this before; only God. It has been my burden and shame, a part of my past I've been seeking absolution for."

"You mean you've killed before?" Ubbe stretched out his legs and moved closer. It suddenly felt as if you were the only two sharing the boat.

"In a different life, before I had taken my vows as a nun. I was alone on the streets after my mother died, still new to the idea of being an orphan. I knew little in the ways of fending for myself. Up until that time I had survived on what scraps my mother could beg or steal for us both." You felt your eyes close a moment, and you could see the crooked alleys of Rendlesham again. It had all the charm of a charnel house, and the scent of spoiled goat's milk was everywhere. 

"When my mother died, I didn't mourn her absence as much as I resented it. She left me alone. I was a vagrant, and my struggle came over a bit of leftover stale bread. Another poor boy wanted it, but I had found it first. He was as skinny as me, but I remember he seemed so strong. I knew I would never have wrestled the bread back from him, so I picked up a stone and hit him over the back of the head with it. He didn't even make a noise, he just laid there. At first, I thought he was unconscious, but he wasn't breathing. I took the bread, and I ran. I haven't stopped running since."

"You joined the church after that?" Ubbe guessed.

You nodded. "I was too young to make any real commitment to joining a nunnery, but the sisters' pity orphans and that meant a bed to sleep in. But I couldn't get over my guilt at what I'd done. It wasn't for me to decide if that boy died, but I had been selfish. I wanted to live, and he was in my way."

"Self-preservation isn't a bad thing. It takes courage to stand up when it is so much easier to lie down," said Ubbe, and he held out his hand, silently asking for the knife. You put it in his palm while hesitating, afraid he wouldn't give it back. "This can save you. It is an extension of that will to survive, and even a nun can become as fierce as a shieldmaiden if the situation calls for it."

You were quick in retrieving your knife back, and your eagerness caused Ubbe to laugh. You smiled in return a moment before growing serious. "I hope I never have to use it."

"I wish that for you, if only because it brings you peace. But your life is tied to my little brother's now, and death seems to follow him like a black cloud. I would get used to the idea all the same if I were you."

You had so many questions about Ivar, about his past, and what his intentions for you were. It wouldn't have been fair to try and pry the answers out of Ubbe though. Ivar's mind was as closed off to him as it was to you it seemed. Besides, you wanted to hear the truth from the man himself, whenever you were to meet again. A throb grew in your chest, but you refused to call it longing.

Ubbe stood up and brushed a hand on your shoulder. "You should rest. Our journey has only begun, and the ocean can turn you weary."

"I will try," You agreed if only to placate him. "And Ubbe, can you not tell Ivar about what we discussed?"

"Why not?" He asked, a genuine look of confusion falling on his face.

"I just...don't want him to think badly of me."

"I don't think he would. In fact, I think it would only bind him to you more," Ubbe said, but your pleading eyes didn't waver. "But if it's that important to you, I won't mention it."

"Thank you."

Ubbe nodded before leaving you to return to the men rowing the ship. You tried to do as he suggested, settling further into your fur in the intent to sleep, but your mind was awake and you were surrounded by water that never knew rest. Your thoughts dwelled on the murdered boy, his face you had since forgotten. All that remained was his blood on your hands. You wondered again if anyone had noticed his disappearance, a family waiting for a son who was never coming home, or maybe he had been like you. Left alone, and ignored by the unfriendly faces of strangers. 

What Ubbe had said about the truth binding Ivar to you made you curious. The Northmen had such different views on death and murder. Ubbe had not flinched at your story, so you knew Ivar wouldn't even bat an eye. It felt good to unburden yourself from the secret, and that in turn filled you with guilt. You didn't want to reflect on that moment so haphazardly. You had taken a life.

With a sigh you looked up at the sky, wondering which god was listening to you. Closing your eyes, you began to murmur your prayer.

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee…"

ooOOoo 

Ivar was miserable. He loved seeing the world and leading the army to conquer new lands, but it was a pity he had to travel by sea to accomplish all of that. There was no skipping over the inevitable part of sailing on a longboat and try as he could to refrain from feeling sick, he had already lost the contents of his stomach over the stern. He knew he was as pale as a baby seal, and his expression was screwed into one of discomfort and acrimony. Hvitserk was mindful to keep anyone from approaching him, even Freydis who thought she could use the opportunity to soothe his irritability with her false concerns.

Vestfold was a long journey from York and centered in inhospitable territory surrounded by floating ice. Ubbe and his boat would likely reach Kattegat before they were to arrive in King Harald's domain. Ivar considered how to approach the man. He was both wise and volatile and had led great legions of men when Ivar was still an infant. He respected the older King a great deal, but that wasn't any reason to let his guard down and play the situation with anything less than caution. 

Ivar looked around the ship and spotted Hvitserk laughing around with the men. He was grateful to have his brother with him, but it didn't ease the ache of your separation. He had never broken a promise before until he had said he would take you to see the ocean. You were off somewhere else with Ubbe, who he prayed to Odin would keep you safe. He wondered how you were travelling by boat, and whether or not you had thought of him in return.

He had gifted you with a knife, and in return, the only thing Ivar had of yours was your wooden cross pendant. It was from the first day you had met. He didn't know why he kept it then, only that it had nothing to do with the Christian symbol. It was something of yours, delicate and modest that had rested close to your heart. It fit so small and insignificant in his hand, and he traced it with his finger, hating everything it represented but unable to toss it aside.

"Are you considering converting?" Heahmund's voice chimed at his side. He was tied up at the back of the boat, and Ivar thought he had been asleep until now.

"I would rather die forgotten and nameless, belonging to no god than to ever believe in your powerless one," Ivar groused back as he hid the cross away.

"Where did you get that then? From an unfortunate soul whose path you crossed."

Ivar thought of your face, breathless and flushed after he had kissed you. "On the contrary. She has been very fortunate to have met me."

"I see," Heahmund said unconcerned. "It was (Y/N)'s then."

Ivar frowned, craning his head to engage with the Bishop head-on. "(Y/N)? Is that her true name?"

"Yes," Heahmund replied, and he lost the smarmy smirk. "She never told you that then."

Ivar wanted to toss the Bishop overboard, regardless of the usefulness he thought he could provide up until now. You had confessed your true name to this man, something Ivar had been trying to wrest from you for months. His stomach pulled tight from the hurt, and he thought he was going to be sick again.

"Ivar," The Bishop called for his attention. "I'm certain she only told me because she was confessing a private matter to me. I did not ask it of her."

"What matter?"

Heahmund shook his head. "I cannot say, for that would be a betrayal of her trust."

Ivar forced himself to stand, even as he swayed from the motion of the boat. He clung to one crutch while thrusting the other into the center of the Bishop's chest, forcing out an exhale from the impact. 

"Tell me now, or you won't have any teeth left to chew with." Or to smile with for that matter.

Heahmund hesitated a moment as if to measure how true he felt the threat to be. He came around to the smart conclusion and began to talk. "She only said that she felt lost in regards to your intentions, and how she feels about you. I warned her not to fall in love with a heathen."

Love? Ivar frowned, not able to grasp how such a concept had been conjured up in a conversation between you. But the notion didn't repulse him. It was a delight. He had an entirely different reason for the fog in his head, none of which had to do with the shifting of the boat. Could it be possible that you felt the same?

"What did (Y/N) say?" He asked, getting familiar with the taste of your name on his tongue. 

"She said that she could never give her heart to a heathen and that she will remain with God. Alas, Sister Mary Catharine will never belong to you, Boneless."

Ivar didn't take you to be one for cruelty, and he was skeptical about what Heahmund was saying. Another part of his mind, a dark part that he had tried to shut out, believed the Bishop. Everything from the kiss to your attempt on your own life, and of the words you had shared occupied his thoughts into one loud boom of chaos. He loathed the distance that now separated you. If you were with him now, he could hear the truth pass from your lips rather than wanting to shake it free from Heahmund. 

Ivar went closer to him until his figure loomed and blocked the sun from his face. "You both belong to me, and if you think you can steal her back to England, then you'd best prepare yourself for the cross, Bishop. I hear your people crucify thieves." 

"Ivar," Hvitserk interrupted, wearing an unsure expression as he approached. "Everything alright?"

"Perfect. I was just clearing something up with our God-fearing Bishop. We understand each other much better now, I think."

Heahmund stared back blankly, and Ivar could sense his hatred. He revelled in it, knowing that he had taken all of the power away from the Bishop. 

"Great. Can I talk to you for a moment, now that everything's settled," Hvitserk said, already starting to walk away towards the side of the boat.

Ivar spared one last look at Heahmund, who had humbled himself in defeat. His head was bowed, and he uttered no prayer under his breath. Ivar smirked before leaving him.

Hvitserk's shoulders were tense, and he was gripping the ledge of the boat as Ivar came up behind him. He appeared annoyed, something Ivar wasn't used to seeing. Hvitserk was the calm type.

"What's the matter?" He asked.

Hvitserk shot a sour look over his shoulder in the direction of Heahmund. "I've had it with that lippy Christian, and I'm not the only one. Most of our warriors aren't keen on having a Bishop doing our fighting."

Ivar rolled his eyes. "He's nothing more than a pawn. No real power."

"Then you should tell them that. Most would rather have the nun back."

Ivar froze at the mention of you. "What do they know about (Y/N)?" 

"Who?" 

"That's her name, as I've found out," Ivar explained brusquely. "Anyway, most of them don't even know her."

"That's not true. A lot of them have seen or spoken with her since she aided Audhild."

It had slipped his mind accidentally that he wasn't always with you since he had given you away. Things had happened beyond his sight of you, like the bruise on your eye that he was never made privy to. "What do they say about her?"

"They think she is meek, like most Christians," Hvitserk said, shrugging. "But she isn't judgemental when it comes to our customs, and she has admirable patience. I told them she must have, to have put up with you this long." 

Ivar jostled to the side as Hvitserk nudged him in the shoulder. They both broke out into a laugh, and it helped remind Ivar he wasn't alone in whatever came next. Vestfold would be upon them soon enough, and there was no room to be careless. 

The brothers stood sharing in each other's silence. Ivar couldn't hazard a guess about Hvitserk's thoughts, too preoccupied with his own and the weight of the cross he had stashed away in his tunic. He stared out at the water, with visions of sea serpents and merfolk playing tricks on his mind. Leagues away in your longship, he hoped the first sight of the ocean had brought you some happiness. He would make it up to you with a promise of something else spectacular, and this time he would see it through at your side. 

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[petalbrooke]

ace fic ace fic!

I want to thank @runawayface for inspiring me to write some ace content and actually post it! This is a very short and self-indulgent fic where Elliott discovers he’s ace - I have a lot of headcannons around that possibility and maybe I’ll dig into them one day.

Here is the link if you want to give me kudos/comments on ao3, which are always appreciated, and the full fic is below.

Thanks for reading :)

Elliott had wanted desperately to fall in love. He’d read and written about it in so many ways, had seen it in blossom like flowers in the couples around him, but had yet to experience it – truly experience it. The heady feeling of falling for another, of long nights and early mornings with that person by his side. Of years and years of getting to know them better than he knew himself. In a town comprised of about thirty or so people, half of which were married or otherwise committed, Elliott had always thought that it wouldn’t happen to him.

At least, until the new farmer rolled into town.

Everyone was interested when they heard the local farm was being taken over by the previous owner’s granddaughter. A new face would be interesting under any circumstances, but one who was going to transform the weed-ridden farm? Well, that was something else entirely. He hadn’t met her until about a week after she’d moved in, when she’d gone to visit Willy at the docks. Elliott had been on the docks, bare feet dangling over the side as he scratched out several lines from a poem he was trying to write.

“Are you… Willy?” the woman had asked, hesitating outside the door that would actually take her to Willy. Elliott was immediately struck by her appearance – chestnut hair she had pulled back in a messy bun, dirt streaked on her slightly burnt face that matched the hue of her eyes. She was, he supposed, beautiful, though not in the same way as the heroines he often read about.

“No,” he laughed, gesturing towards Willy’s home. “He’s in there. My name is Elliott, and I live in that little ramshackle shack on the beach. You must be Elona, the new farmer?”

She beamed, and Elliott tried to imagine how he would write her if she was someone in his novel. He’d make sure to mention that slight gap in her front teeth, and the way her cheeks flushed when she smiled. Or perhaps that was the sunburn the work on the farm must have given her.

“That’s me. Well, it was nice to meet you. I really need to talk to Willy, but… I’ll see you around?”

“I hope so.” Elliott returned to his poem, changing one phrase five times until finally settling on the one he had originally chosen. Later – he wasn’t sure how much later, but the back of his neck had started to feel rather toasty – she had emerged, a new fishing pole in hand, and had joined him. They sat in companionable silence, each occasionally asking the other a question, until dark.

This was how it had all begun. Elona would come by every day, usually just after noon, with some products from her farm and fishing rod in tow. They would sit and talk and Elliott found himself craving every moment he would get with her – every minute spent with her was the best of that day. Afternoons turned into evenings turned into nights, and Elliott was finally beginning to understand the feelings of the characters in those romance novels he so loved.

Well. He was understanding most of them. There was one aspect he still didn’t understand was hoping might change with time, and it was the… intimacy aspect. He’d always tiptoed around the idea, even in his novels; all his knowledge had come from other authors and not from experience. After months of time together, he felt sure he loved her. Reasonably sure. What else would this feeling in his chest be, his desire to spend his life with her? To grow old with her? But there was still one thing – the marriage bed – that he couldn’t figure out how to navigate. (Well, not always the marriage bed, but he’d always been a bit of a traditionalist.)

He’d always thought that the swell of desire would come when he fell in love. That was always how it seemed to work in the novels. Sometimes it even came first. But even with Elona, even with everything he felt about her – he just couldn’t see beyond the fact that she was pretty. Elliott could tell when a person was attractive, objectively speaking. But it didn’t make him feel anything. He thought it would come with the right person. But Elona felt right in every way, and still, nothing.

She hadn’t brought it up yet, and neither had he, but tonight was the night, he had decided. It wouldn’t be fair if she had expectations he couldn’t meet. Or perhaps he was just completely broken, and could never love, not the way he was supposed to.

They were having dinner that night, at his cabin. Not homecooked – Elliott was never meant to be a chef – but seafood from the Saloon on his own plates worked just as well. It was quiet dinner, and Elliott’s hands betrayed his nervousness.

After three unfruitful attempts at conversation, Elona slammed her fork on the table, startling Elliott. “What’s wrong? You’ve been acting strange all night. Barely talking, you’ve hardly touched your lobster, and I know that’s your favorite.”

Elliott glanced at the aforementioned lobster, unable to meet her steady gaze. “Yes, well, there was… there was something I wanted… something I needed to talk to you about.” He took a deep breath, suddenly at a loss for words, despite having rehearsed it endless times. “I don’t think I can be what you need me to be,” he said, the words tumbling out, unbidden.

Elona’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. Clearly, whatever she’d expected him to say, this hadn’t been it. “What… what do you think I need?” she asked.

Elliott cleared his throat. Yoba, why was this so hard to say? “I don’t think I can… I mean, you’re beautiful, and I hope you know that, but I’m not… I don’t feel…” he stammered, unsure how to say what he wanted without wounding her. That it wasn’t her, it was him, it was that he couldn’t make himself feel that attraction he thought all couples had.

Her eyes softened, and she reached out and took his hand in her own, her fingers small and rough from hard labor. “Elliott, honey, I think I know what you’re trying to say.”

“You do?”

“Unless I’m wrong – and I rarely am,” she laughed, “you’re trying to tell me you don’t feel any sexual attraction towards me. Is that right?”

Elliott could feel heat creeping to his cheeks with how outright she was about it. “I, um, I…”

“And let me guess,” she continued, giving him a knowing smile and a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve never really figured this out about yourself and you feel broken. You see what everyone else has and you don’t understand why you don’t.”

“Yes,” he whispered. He could feel tears forming behind his eyes, though he couldn’t explain why.

“Honey, that just means you’re asexual. Or somewhere on that spectrum. It’s fine.”

“What… I don’t…” Elliott’s head was spinning. He’d never heard the term before, though he could figure out what it meant. “You mean… it’s okay?”

“More than okay,” she said, giving him that huge smile, the one that reminded him of the rays of the sun. “I was going to talk about this with you soon, because I wasn’t sure. But it had never come up, and I was nervous to be the one to do it… I’m the same way. I don’t feel that kind of attraction. But I still feel love. And I love you.”

The tears flew unbidden now, though he was smiling as they did. “So… so it’s okay?” he asked again, not quite able to believe it.

Elona stood and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “More than okay. Let’s finish dinner up and we can talk about it some more.”

Elliott swept her tiny frame into a massive hug, so overcome he was with emotion. He had agonized over this conversation, had been so sure it would lead to the loss of this woman he loved, and instead it had proven that nothing was wrong with him, with them. He was whole. They both were.

Never had he been more excited for his future.

[gallavictorious]

I was delighted to be tagged by Our Lady of Words and Joy @howlinchickhowl Cheers, dear!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Earlier today it was 40. Now it’s 39. WHAT GIVES? Did someone eat a story? Which one? I am so confused.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

137 098. At least that hasn’t changed...

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Highs, and Your Lows (i will weather them)

This Time (We'll Be Fine)

Teenage Tales

To Keep Your Gentle Heart

Captive Look

Huh. Would you look at that. All Gallavich stuff!

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Eh. Well. Listen, I always want and mean to respond to comments, because as a commenter I always love a response from the author, but I am procrastinator supreme so a lot of the time I just... don't. Not for a great long while at least. Then, two years AFTER you left a comment, you might get an e-mail notification about me responding. It's horrible, really, because I keep the comments in my heart and treasure them so much and the lovely people taking the time to leave a few words on my silly stories really do deserve better.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Life, Still to Come has the one main character Jim Moriarty killing himself and his lover Sebastian Moran after he's diagnosed with incurable brain cancer, so I guess that's pretty angsty? The tone of the fic, however, is... kinda soft and peaceful, really. It doesn't feel so very sad, I think.

For Gallavich, I've got Chapter 7 of my ficlet collection Highs, and Your Lows (i will weather them). It's an Wild West AU kind of deal, where Ian Gallagher is visited by the ghost of the young fiend Mickey Milkovich after his dad beats him to death. That one is sad, but there's the glimmer of a promise that they might meet again one day, in a better world.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

My fics mostly end on a happy note, and I have a hard time pinning down which is the happiest. Hm. I'm gonna say Pressure or possibly Foreign Country, if only because the happy endings there are offered in contrast to the otherwise angsty story and so seems all the happier for it.

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I have, once. Well, started one, really. Notes Regarding the End of the World is a crossover between Sherlock BBC and Mark Lawrence's The Broken Empire trilogy. I still feel there's a bunch of potential there, but I'm very hesitant I'll ever finish it.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not to my recollection, no. Back when I posted my SW fic on the Jedi Council forums you might receive critical comments at times, but no hate.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Not really, no. I'm not very interested in reading it, and so see very little point in writing it. There's been a few semi-explicit depictions of sexual acts – most notably in Claim – and I'm not averse to writing kink fic, even if they don't typically include actual sex when I do. For instance, I did The Ways We Bend and Break and Mend for X-Men, and the whole point was Charles first whipping Erik and then cuddling him – except in the end it turned into a character study with lots of emotions, and I think any attempts to write smut would be like that for me. Accidental character drama. XD

I might have a Gallavich thing for kinktober that is likely to be pretty explicit and kinda messed up. We'll see.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so. There have been a few instances of stuff popping up bearing a strong resemblance to things I've written, but there's also been times when I realize that things I have written bear a (very much unintentional) strong resemblance to other stuff that predates them, so I really think that's the nature of the beast. In any big fandom, the same ideas are likely to occur to multiple people, and we are all, often unconsciously, inspired by the same things and by each other.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah, to Chinese and Russian.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! Pathoftheranger and I co-wrote (How to Break the) Alibi Armistice, which was fun!

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I'm a creature of ever-changing affections, so I'm not so good with ”all-time favourite”  and to be honest, I mostly tend to have favourite characters and ship them with everything in sight... Currently it's all about Gallavich but pretty much all ships including Jim Moriarty is forever gold to me (though MorMor is The Best. Or is it Sheriarty? Or maybe Mormorlock? Or Moriadlock? Or Johmlock – notice the 'm'?). Cherik's a big one too!

Ask me again in six months and my answer might well have changed!

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

The aforementioned Notes Regarding the End of the World. And I have this superlong Star Wars fic I started writing when I was 16 and wrote for years and years and then just... stopped writing, when I was maybe 20 pages from the end? It's currently at 180k words. This one I DO have some hope that I will go back and finish one day, although it's likely to be a jarring experience since I'm very much not 16 years old any more and my ideas about writing and the characters and everything have shifted quite a bit.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I do pretty well with the short format, I think. And with dialogue? Finding the voice of the characters (some more than others, certainly). Writing in my native Swedish, I think I'm pretty good at offering decent prose – I'd like to think I have a fairly developed ear for the flow of the text, and the melody of it? But when writing in English, that gets quite a bit harder. This really annoys me, because I'm rather preoccupied with the stylish elements of writing – though I've found that a lot of people seem happy enough to overlook clunky writing as long as they find the story otherwise engaging, which is a huge blessing for me. I believe I can build a decent plot, but since I can't write anyting longer than a few K these days there's no telling, is there?

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Primarily getting any writing done at all. Mostly, I stare at a blank page and despair and then I give up. This is why I no longer write long fic. I also tend to reuse favorite phrases or themes far too often. And there are so many subclauses... Proofreading happens to other people (I'd like it to happen to me too, but I'm terrible with it). I'm not good at accepting constructive criticism, even when I ask for it. I will often favour style over efficiency, and I'll stubbornly refuse to admit that this can be a problem.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

This question makes me feel like I ought to have developed thoughts on this, but I don't so much... I don't mind it? I've used it. Uh. It's a good idea to do a bit of research and not just rely on Google translate for it? If you don't like it, don't use it. Those are my thoughts.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars. <3

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

Buffy/Angel/Spike. The Book of All Hours. Heroes. Maybe something based on The Coldfire Trilogy... ? Oh, and the Bible. I'm sure there are others.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I really don't have one. There are a few I'm particularly happy with, but no one that truly stands out... That said, I was quite chuffed with how the first ficlet in Or Else Into the Light, my (tiny) collection of Anakin redemption one-shots, turned out. And Claim. I’m very pleased with Claim.

Tagging @dreamylyfe-x @fiona-fififi @pathoftheranger @abundanceofnots and @captainjowl

[radiantmists]

Title: all bets are off

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Jon/Martin

Rating: Gen

It may be the end times, but it's still a road trip of sorts, right? So, in grand tradition, Jon and Martin make up silly games to entertain themselves.

technically inspired by this post

"Bet you five quid that Flesh domain we're avoiding wouldn't have been as gross as this," Martin grumbles, wrenching his feet out of the oozing black mud trying to swallow him.

Jon pauses up ahead, not even out of breath; the ground isn't trying to eat him. Maybe, like Helen, it thinks the smug little bastard would give it indigestion.

"I'd say I'd feel too bad to take your money," he says, tone playfully superior, "but honestly it isn't as though it would be much of a loss nowadays."

"You’re not wrong," Martin allows.

Then he yelps as he realizes that he's been stood still too long, and the mud has crawled up to his shins, seeping over the tops of his boots.

"Of course I'm not," Jon replies as he doubles back to offer a hand. Martin huffs and rolls his eyes, but reaches back, even though Jon definitely isn't strong enough to actually pull him out. It's probably the only leverage he's going to get in this sea of sludge, after all.

"Don't fall in too, or we'll never get out," Martin warns anyway.

Jon sets his jaw stubbornly and grabs his forearm; as soon as his hand touches Martin's skin, before he can even pull, the ground... spits Martin out, he supposes, pushing up under his feet and sloughing off his boots, solidifying as soon as he's emerged.

Unprepared for the lack of resistance, Jon reels backward; only Martin instinctively clutching at his hand saves him from falling on his arse. Instead he stumbles forward into Martin's chest, and without thinking Martin curls his other arm around his narrow shoulders, steadying them.

After a moment, Jon draws away slightly, letting his hand slip down Martin's arm to interlace their fingers instead, and together they stare down at the ground beneath their feet.

It doesn't look any more solid than before, and the way their shoes remain above it despite the shifting, sucking ooze of it is actually vaguely disquieting.

"I suppose there have to be some perks to dating the Antichrist," Martin manages after a moment, and Jon snorts.

“Ye of little faith,” he says, tone wry, “why did you doubt?”

Martin opens his mouth-- it's not like Jon had been expecting this either-- then stops. "Wait, is that-- Jon, is that the Bible? Are you quoting Jesus?"

Jon smirks.

"Well, I guess I already knew you had a savior complex," Martin replies, and delights in the way the smirk melts instantly into a catty glare.

"If you can make antichrist jokes," he says sulkily, and Martin laughs.

"Fair enough," he says, and Jon uncurls a bit. "I do remember quite a bit in those bits about 'not being afraid', though."

Jon sighs and starts them walking again, still clutching Martin's hand. "Yes, well, Matthew is the only one where Peter tries to get out and walk on the water too, so it fit better for a number of reasons."

Martin smiles as he follows. He doesn't remember a whole lot from Sunday school, but putting aside the unfortunate associations with a certain Lukas, Peter was one of the better disciples, right? Upon this rock I will build my church, and all that.

"Well, I could hardly let you walk across alone," he replies. "All-powerful-archivist or not."

"I suppose not," Jon agrees, glancing down at the sucking mud. "Maybe I should have gotten us a boat or something..."

Martin stops short, pulling Jon up as well. "Could you do that? Just... manifest a boat?"

"I... " Jon trails off, eyes going unfocused. "Maybe?"

Frowning, Martin nearly crosses his arms before he remembers that he's not just holding Jon's hand because it's fun. "No, see, that's the tone that means you're not telling me the answer because you think I'll find it upsetting. I won't be upset if your powers don't extend to creating boats out of nothing, Jon."

Jon is silent for a long moment. Martin squints. The light here is the sort of dull, oppressive red Martin might actually have expected from an apocalypse, but as in most places it's enough for him to study the slight sheepish hesitance on Jon's face carefully.

"Or... you could have," he realizes. "Seriously?"

"If I'd thought I needed it, I think," Jon says uncomfortably. "If I were trying to cross actual deep water or something, not just..."

"Man-eating mud."

"Yes."

"So I waded through-- through hours of this sludge, because you didn't feel like it was inconvenient enough?" Martin realises. Jon shrugs jerkily.

"In my defense, rowing a boat through this probably would have been frustrating too?" he replies, kicking at the mud; his toe drags through it slowly, like a knife through thick honey.

"That's-- well, that's true, I guess," Martin says, deflating slightly. "It would have been less gross, though!"

"Probably," Jon agrees. "We're close to the end, anyway."

So on they go.

  An hour or so later, at least to his puny mortal perception, Martin contemplates the shifting, multi-colored mass of what looks like squares of cloth before them.

"Bet you a piggyback ride through this domain that the avatar here used to be a stage magician," he says.

"I-- what?" Jon sputters, breaking away from when he'd been staring at the swirling colors to stare at Martin instead.

"I mean, it looks like that trick where they pull a million handkerchiefs out of their sleeve, doesn't it?" he explains. "Like, if it had gone really wrong."

"No, I mean-- what did you say you'd bet?"

Martin finds his cheeks heating despite himself. "I mean, it's like you said back in that Buried place, right? Neither of us cares much about money, at this point."

"I... suppose," Jon says slowly.

"Capitalism defeated," Martin rambles on, looking forward again. That's going to be a delight to get through; he can already feel the headache coming on. "Only took an apocalypse."

"A real bargain," says Jon, arch, but with a note of tension.

Not in the mood for apocalypse jokes, then, Martin supposes. He tries to imagine what sort of suffering is going on ahead of them-- other than aforementioned headaches, he supposes-- that have triggered the guilt again. It might not even be something there, though; Jon's perfectly capable of spiraling without outside influence.

Right now, though, he seems unwilling to dwell on it.

"What would I give you if you're right?" he asks thoughtfully instead. "I don't think I could carry you for more than a few steps. I mean, I could try--"

"No, god, your poor back would probably snap like a twig," Martin cuts in, half teasing, half genuine concern. Jon glares.

"I'm not quite that fragile, Martin," he says frostily. His tone and face together are enough to give Martin a moment of dissonance, imagining having anything like this conversation in that first year in the Archive, and he suppresses a snort.

"Well, you can..." he thinks for a moment. Something a bit silly, but something he actually wants... "You can tell me the story behind that one picture of you in steampunk costume you refused to explain."

Jon blinks, and then a flash of embarrassment flits across his face before he covers it up. "I-- I suppose that's fair enough."

"I mean, don't let me force you," Martin teases. "You don't have to tell me your deepest, darkest secrets, this isn't fifth grade truth-or-dare."

Jon smiles, the sharp-cornered one he gets when he's being sarcastic.

"Hardly the darkest," he says, and then the smile goes softer, his eyes flitting to lock gazes with Martin for a moment before they jerk away, so Martin knows whatever's coming next is going to be incredibly sincere. "You already know all of those, I think."

"Yeah, I do," Martin replies, reaching out to brush Jon's cheek with his fingers. That impossibly soft gaze returns to his face, the smile trembling as it grows, and Jon leans, ever so slightly, into Martin's hand. He tries not to shiver, then can't suppress it when Jon's hand comes up to cover his own.

They stay there for a long, taut moment, before with a deep breath Jon pries Martin's fingers far enough away from his skin to hold his hand instead.

"I love you anyway," Martin says then with a squeeze, "so I'm sure I won't leave you in shame over your secret cosplay phase, or whatever it was."

Jon snorts. "'Cosplay phase?' Really?"

Martin grins back. "If not cosplay, then what?"

"You haven't won yet," Jon points out. "And my feet are getting tired..."

His eyes go distant and intent for a moment before he's back with a smirk.

"Seriously?" Martin whines, but he starts to take off the rucksack. "What were they, then?"

"Military sergeant," Jon replies smugly, slinging the pack over his own back. "Those are flags, not handkerchiefs."

"Oh, well, next time tell me that before you take the bet!" Martin replies, offended. "What's the fear, then, rabid patriotism?"

"Something like that," Jon agrees, the smile audible in his voice as he places his hands on Martin's shoulders. It takes a moment for Martin to recall the mechanics of doing this without some kind of step up, though he remembers quickly enough when Jon makes a little jump and Martin has to grab for his knees.

"Oh-- joy," Martin huffs as Jon's arms come down to lock around his chest. The back of his neck warms under the breath of Jon's answering laugh. "How far is it to the other side again?"

"Well," Jon begins, the crisp tones right in his ear making Martin suppress another shiver, "technically--"

"I bet," Martin says, cutting Jon off by hiking him up on his back and making him gasp, "that you can't go ten domains without making a pedantic comment about spacetime."

He manages not to drop Jon in the flag realm despite the hellishly flashing colors, and then wins the bet four domains later by tempting Jon with an 'innocent' question about birthdays. After some grumbling, Jon fesses up to having 'participated in a band' in his uni days, and then is so flustered by Martin's delighted follow-up questions that he admits to being the lead singer and even explains a bit about his character before going totally red and clamming up when Martin asks him to sing something.

 It becomes a bit of a game after that, embarrassing stories and feats of strength turned into currency for bets on silly things like whether that coffin would stop moaning if Martin banged on it like an irritated old man living above partying uni students (terrifyingly enough, yes), or whether Jon can climb to the top of the impossible card-tower before it collapses (no, but only because Martin distracting him with a startled Holy shit, Jon after he'd scrambled halfway up in twenty seconds flat didn't technically count as cheating), or what those Extinction-Stranger yard-decoration flamingos would do if Jon yelled at them to get off his lawn.

(Neither of them win that one; the flamingos neither fly away like startled geese, as Martin had suggested, or try to attack them like angry  startled geese, as Jon had contended, but instead blink their creepy plastic eyes, ruffle their painted-aluminum feathers with an awful metallic scrape, and obediently fold up their single iron-stake legs to float ominously and impossibly above the radioactive-green grass.)

Martin manages to convince Jon to wager the performance of one of his band's songs by offering, in balance, the recital of one of the poems Martin had written about him. He congratulates himself on the agreement when it turns out Jon getting into character and singing about hellfire is actually really hot. Then he regrets it when he loses the next bet and has to endure Jon dissolving into laughter as soon as he's finished the poem, despite what appears to be a genuinely heroic effort to keep the sound in.

"I'm flattered, really, Martin," he gasps out, but it's hard to believe considering he's almost literally rolling on the ground.

Martin, hiding his burning cheeks in his arms, manages an agonized, "Well, I'm not, Jon, oh my god!"

Jon takes a deep breath, audibly pulling himself together as he sits up.

"I'm sorry," he says gently, pulling Martin's hands away from his face. "I didn't mean to... it was sweet, Martin."

Martin flops back on the strange, barren in-between-place ground with a huff.

"You get that the fact that that's the nicest thing you can say makes it worse, right?"

"Well, I'm not very nice," Jon says defensively from above, making Martin snort. "I'm sure it's far better than anything I could write?"

For a moment Martin's breath catches as he imagines Jon writing love poetry about him, and then he remembers Jon's best efforts at describing his own emotions ('very sad', really) and the catch turns into a snicker.

"That's no high praise either," he points out, and Jon sighs ruefully, admitting the point as he lies back down next to Martin.

They sit in silence for moment, gazing up at the all-seeing sky as it stares back down at them, and then Jon takes a breath.

Martin tenses, and when Jon begins, "I think your 'fathomless orbs' are lovely too, and your--" he's cut off by Martin's palm over his mouth before he can get any further, and then they're both giggling uncontrollably and curling into each other.

If this were a story, Martin finds himself thinking as Jon continues to snicker into the hollow of his throat, this moment would be enough to defeat the Eye.

After all, how long had he spent terrified that Jon might find some scrap of that poetry, that he'd see how ridiculously gone Martin was over him and be disgusted? To be able to laugh over it and know Jon loves him anyway-- loves him because-- should have been... toxic, or something, to a creature that feeds on the worry that no one who knows him the way Jon does could ever keep caring.

Of course, that isn't how it works, but Martin holds onto the thought anyway, thinks of every shared story and moment of laughter-- rare and inappropriate as they sometimes are-- as winning a forfeit from the thing that thinks it owns the world, thinks it owns Jon.

So when they walk into the Panopticon and he sees that terrible look on Jon's face, the one that makes a deep part of Martin whisper he's found something he wants more than he'll ever want you, he only lets the panic seep in for a second.

Then he slings off his rucksack, pulls out one of the unlabelled cans he'd gotten from the tunnel cult, and turns to Jon.

"Bet you another love poem I can bean him right in the back of the head," he says, hefting it in his hand experimentally.

Jon blinks, the faraway look disappearing from his face as he tears his eyes away from Magnus, and the sharp, delighted grin Martin adores appearing there instead.

"You're on."

[arokaladin]

Can we talk about the pressure on people with less well known or ‘newer’ identities to represent *specifically* that identity and the shame that might come with questioning?

The idea of being an ‘ex-gay’ is something that’s considered to be pretty fringe, and would be mocked even by most decently educated straight people. But ‘detransitioner’ is a label that even queer cis people will use quite seriously (often incorrectly, aka to mean they used to identify as trans, rather than to mean they have medical transition regret, and in a way that adds further stigma to real trans experiences). And of course there are people whose entire personality is based in how they used to think they were asexual. 

(I had to ask tiktok to stop showing me videos from this one girl who seems to be quite popular because most of her content from what I can tell is about how much she hated being ace and how she has all this supposed inside gossip about the ace community being cultish and lesbophobic because she ~used to be one~ but god. lets not get into that ok?)

All of this, along with the fact that ‘obscure’ labels are targeted even more by the ‘just a phase’ argument, even within the queer community, makes things so much harder for people who are re-questioning or even just using a different label under same umbrella. People can be hesitant to talk about their experiences out of fear of proving the stereotype. I think I’ve seen a few people touch on this. However the other effect is that when you are comfortable in a label with this kind of stigma, there’s pressure to be really loud about how comfortable you are, and constantly be reaffirming your identity to outsiders. You kind of have to be aro/enby/bi/whatever else before you get to be queer, because you feel a responsibility to be a role model for this specific part of yourself that is least represented. 

Personally, I started this blog when I was what? 16? I was barely confident in my own aromanticism, still working on unlearning a lot of things, and was inspired to start posting here so I would have a space to vent and work through those feelings. I was always open about my age and the fact there were plenty of things I didn’t have answers for, but nevertheless I got absolutely tons of asks from people wanting advice. My community was so small that I was simultaneously a baby aro, and being cast in the role of community elder just because I was out of the questioning stage. 

As well as an overwhelming number of people wanting advice, I also regularly got asks (and even direct messages) from people who were venting, a lot of the time obviously depressed, and often not even asking a question but just using me as a place to send negative feelings. It got so bad that a few times I had to make posts asking people asking people to stop. People did this to me because our community was so tiny and lacking visibility that some teen’s inbox was possibly all they had, and I was well aware of that. 

I think in part this is why I started many projects within aro activism that I never continued with (aside from my executive dysfunction and the aforementioned fact I was 16). I felt like I had to be the one to bring certain resources into being, because most of the time nothing of the kind existed. 

Nowadays I’m the least certain of my identities I’ve been since I originally questioned. I genuinely think I am still aro, but I’ve been pretty shaken up all round recently and it’s made me realise how upset I would feel if that did change (even though I still wish feel ashamed of my aroness sometimes and still fight the desire for a ‘normal’ amatonormative life) I’m honestly pretty terrified of losing community were my labels to change too much, even though logically I know my friends wouldn’t drop me if I turned out to be a slightly different kind of queer, let alone just a slightly different type of aspec. And I think this is probably in part because of how outwardly adamant I’ve had to be about my identity for years. 

I guess it’s worth noting the role of the ‘Discourse’ in this: being constantly under attack has meant the aro and ace communities specifically have had to become pretty isolated. A lot of us don’t trust even other queer people, for good reason, and a lot of us again keep to even smaller subsets of the community to avoid other bigotries. And the way the internet is encourages the urge to divide yourself up and put the parts in boxes. But I think the pressures I’ve talked about would exist even without those factors. 

I’m not sure if I have a conclusion to this, because I’m still thinking about it a lot. I’m not sure how we fix a problem like this because I’m not sure there’s technically any problem to fix. A lot of it is just the growing pains of a small community. I would like to start a dialogue, however. Does anyone else feel this way? How do we accept possible future re-questioning without telling ourselves this might be just a phase, or rolling back our progress accepting our aromanticism? How do we create spaces needed to vent, and discuss difficult topics, without burning each other out or creating a crab bucket? How do we vent about burnout without depicting the aro community as toxic? What do we do to fill the absences left by non-existent elders? I don’t know but maybe we can figure some things out. 

[fansplaining]

Hello! I'm curious to know your opinion. I've been working on this long fic for months. Ever since I started writing there has been a bunch of anon's under different names telling me how to write each chapter. Saying things like "make (A) do this", "(b) needs to do that." "I expect this to happen to (C)" Etc. On one hand I'm grateful for the feedback, after all what writer isn't, but of 10 comments, 9 are like this. I'm starting to feel my writing isn't good enough for my readers.

Hello anon! Elizabeth here. Hooooo boy let me tell you, as I was reading this I went on a **journey**. When I reached “9 out of 10,” I went, “WHAT.” I have a few thoughts, and without knowing the full context (what your story is like, what fandom it’s in, etc etc) some of this might apply and some might not. But I think it’s all generally useful for fic writers and readers to think about.

This actually got pretty long, so I’ll put my thoughts under a cut.

 1) The story vs reader expectations

This is something I think about—and talk about—a lot. Here’s a bit of what I said while discussing what “OOC” actually means a few episodes back: 

Humans act irrationally, and I think that you can write a character acting irrationally well. But to me, that’s not a character acting out of character. That’s a character acting against character, irrationally... I think when we say “out of character” about characters we’re actually saying something different, which is: “Have you done the work to show why the character would respond to this situation X way or Y way?” And if he responds Z way, and you haven’t done any of the work to show why he might do that or any of the consequences if it is truly out of character the way we would say a real human acts out of character—then very often it is bad writing. It is people taking plot ideas and then imposing them over their characters without earning it.

These conversations are a huge part of our discussions about media in recent years—whether writing choices are good, whether they are earned, whether they are “in character,” whether they conform to what we expected. But the last one is where things get really murky—because there are *a lot* of readers and viewers these days who are kind of doing what I’m accusing bad writers of doing in that quote—imposing their expectations over the story without really grasping what’s been set up by the writer(s).

There are a lot of parts to this. We often pinpoint Lost as the place where the modern audience’s inclination to “solve” a show was born, and this has spread throughout viewing/reading cultures over the past two decades. The rise of “spoiler culture” is a huge factor here, too—as if knowing plot points is the only thing of value when viewing or reading a piece of entertainment. My least favorite thing in all of this is TV Tropes and the kind of rewiring of peoples’ brains to *only* look for those concepts (which are often weirdly narrow and reductive, unlike, say, the more categorical tropes of fic or the romance genre). 

Here’s an example: in 2017, Gav and I made our love of Black Sails the centerpiece of our fandom newsletter, The Rec Center, and in the process got a lot of people to watch it. And because we were the ones that inspired them, I had a fair number of people in my mentions/messaging me to give their real-time reactions as they went through the episodes.

While not every single writing choice on Black Sails is flawless, much of it is meticulously done, and so many of the plot points are carefully well-earned. But the things people were guessing would happen next in my mentions...were bonkers. Not everyone! But it was enough people (guessing different things) that I was kind of floored. I would think, If that’s what you think is going to happen next, I feel like you aren’t paying attention to the show? I should clarify that this happened with *a lot* of people, not trying to call anyone in particular out. But so many of the guesses felt like they came from expectations imposed by other media, especially stuff that’s signficantly more formulaic and tropey. 

This instinct—to predict, to vocally desire outcomes, to try and get ahead of the writers, to impose the structures of other media over the thing you’re watching—is *deep* in a lot of viewers’ and readers’ minds these days, and it comes out regardless of the quality of the writing. I think it’s not a great turn of events, to be honest—and it leads writers to make some really foolish choices in an attempt to “trick” viewers with something they never could’ve guessed. Which...generally makes for bad writing overall. 

2) Expectations within your fic

So this is the part where I falter a bit without context. Because some fic writers make it clear that they are posting as they write, and that they’re open to suggestions for plot choices. I assume you haven’t done this, or you wouldn’t be unhappy that people are trying to dictate what comes next. 

I’m curious if you are signalling that you’re...OK? with these kinds of comments by, say, writing nice replies that don’t make it clear that you know where you’re going with the story and you’ve already made choices about what happens next. There’s definitely a way to strike that balance, like a very polite evasion, something like, “Haha, thanks for the comment! I have the whole fic plotted out, so you’ll just have to wait and see!” If you start to signal that you’re in control of the plot, not the commenters, perhaps they’ll chill out a bit—because I gotta be honest, the fact that this is 90% of the comments...is wild to me. And I’m wondering if people are doing it because they see other people doing it. 

Again, total speculation without any actual context. I think that this sort of thing is likely more common in certain fandoms and with certain age groups. Even on AO3, fandom is not a monolith—I wonder if you’ve noticed this with other longfics in your fandom. It might be worth checking out how other writers have handled it, if they’re getting flooded with comments like these. 

I posted a longish fic recently, 75K over the course of three months, and let me tell you, no offense to any of my commenters, but a few of them reminded me of those Black Sails folks: What story are you actually reading?? I politely pushed back with one who asserted a whole bunch of stuff that was not in the story at all and tried to predict what would happen based on what was frankly bad reading comprehension. With others who expressed expectations about where things would go, I went the, “Haha you’ll have to wait and see!” route.

Talking to other people who’ve posted chapter-by-chapter longfics, I know that some of the bad predictions are par for the course: being absolutely certain the trouble in a section won’t be resolved, being convinced that any hint that the ship may not stay together will come to pass, even when, what, 95% of all shippy fic has the characters staying together? There’s a sort of performativity of immediate reactions in fic commenting, “OH NO, OH NO, ARE THEY BREAKING UP?” Like, duh, not forever. But commenting as real-time reaction is clearly the way a lot of readers engage with fic. Which is fine! That’s different from dictating the plot to you. 

3) The commenters vs your story

OK, so conceptually swinging back to the first bit, while my immediate response to, “I'm starting to feel my writing isn't good enough for my readers,” is NO NO NO JUST BECAUSE AN AUDIENCE IS SAYING SOMETHING DOESN’T MEAN YOU ARE BAD AND THEY ARE CORRECT. But! I think it might be worth spending a liiiitttle bit of time with them to see what they are saying, and how you think that connects back to what you’ve written. 

When folks came at me with, “I think X will happen next in Black Sails,” I, as a person who’s watched it several times and also professionally deconstructs texts as a critic, can go through and be like, “Here’s why I think that’s a misreading of what you’ve seen so far” (though mostly I would just say things like, “Why try to predict the plot! Just enjoy it!” because I’m trying not to be a dick). Rewatching the show, I can see all the things the writers carefully laid out, and how they pay off eventually. Can I imagine alternate choices for the characters? Sure! But I can see why, with the specific context and stakes in which characters made decisions, the writers had them do what they did. If they made other choices, I’d want that similar sort of work-showing. 

Similarly, when I got the occasional comment like this on the aforementioned fic, I would take it seriously for a moment. Why are they predicting this? Is it possible I haven’t shown my work enough? As I was writing, I thought very carefully about the characters and their motivations and the way certain events shaped their choices, and how changing events would change those choices. Generally, those comments felt, well, unearned: they were more about the reader than about the actual story. 

It helped having a beta who is both smart and scary, and wouldn’t hesitate to tell me if something wasn’t working. A big issue with the “no feedback in fanfic” convo is decontextualized “feedback” from random readers is not really useful! You have people coming from all sorts of backgrounds, all levels of reading comprehension, all sorts of contexts. Everyone can give you their *reaction* to your work, of course, but without that context of critique—the thing you have with a beta/editor, or if you’re in a writing workshop or group—it’s rare that some rando can give you truly useful feedback. 

But! That brings me back to 9 out of 10. I think, with that many people weighing in, it’s worth doing a little bit of serious consideration. Just read back over the story. If you can see ways that you zigged when you were signalling that you were going to zag, then your commenters might have a point. If they’re guessing character X might do Y next, and you’ve planned to have him do Z but actually haven’t done the legwork to make Z seem like a sensible next step, then that might be a fair read. Especially when they say, “I expect X will do Y,” try to figure out to the root of that expectation. Is this about the story, or is it about them? 

Because no audience is some neutral set of readers, and fandom even less so. People might tell you to do something because they hate one character and love another. People might hate your ship and for some reason are choosing to read it anyway. People have a million different contexts they bring to reading a work and not infrequently, they are reading through sets of expectations formed by other pieces of media that have very little to do with your own. 

4) tl;dr

The ~wisdom~ of the crowd is not inherently greater than the wisdom of the writer. Many people in fandom are very thoughtful readers—probably some of the most thoughtful readers out there! But plenty...are not. And that’s fine! They’re obviously still free to comment. I’d love to say, “ignore them, write for yourself, you’re writing the story you wanna write,” but I know how frustrating this must be for you. So give them a little consideration, but not too much. And most importantly, if you have a beta, ask them their opinion of these comments—and if you don’t have a beta, get one! Because a reader you know and whose opinions you trust is so much more valuable than random anon comments, no matter the circumstances. 

[jam-knife]

The Greenhouse

// a short story dedicated to @caustic-c. Here’s some context for what you’re about to read, and here is the post that served as inspiration. Very not safe for work below cut. Warnings: dub-con, a bit violent at it. The language’s very crude. (Non-explicit) mention of personality disorders.

Note: you can use this as reference for our thread, C. I’ve actually spent several hours on this already so I won’t be replying to that today, but in the meantime please accept this! Hope you enjoy it.

After that night, B couldn’t have predicted L would demand a reunion with him ever again. But, honest to his vile reputation in spite of B’s surprise, the detective seemed eager to further demonstrate the extent to which he wished to humiliate him. It seemed that robbing him of his virginity under false pretexts of youthful abandonment, and dragging his dignity across the floor while at it, was still not enough. He wanted to infect B’s memory so that the poisonous idea of him would remain when the flesh no longer did.

“Good afternoon, B.” He said, the cold bitch, as he put down the spoon and took a sip of a beverage that was more sugar than tea. Black wide eyes fixed on B, making him sick. “Will you not join me?”

“I’m still overcoming the shock.” He answered while displaying a purposefully forced smile. “I thought you said that, luckily, we would never see each other again. I was counting on it.”

“That’s funny. I made you out to be good at working under unexpected circumstances.”

“And I made you out to be too proud to contradict yourself. I guess my people-judging skills are still a work in progress.”

“Just ‘guess’?” A muscle in B’s jaw twitched, but he made a conscious effort to stay put. He didn’t want to give the man any more proof to label him an impulse-driven animal with anger management issues. “Well, since you won’t be taking a seat anytime soon, let’s go for a walk.” L put the teacup down and stood up.

The walk through the orphanage’s grounds was sluggish and silent. B didn’t feel like addressing L or recognising his existence, and L didn’t seem eager to force him just yet. It was alright, in a way, but also annoying since B couldn’t dillucidate why the detective would waste his time if he didn’t intend to talk.

However, that silence was unlike any other they had shared before. It was not the sweet awkwardness that should follow a steamy night in the sheets and several months of separation. Nor the kind that they had purposefully held during late night meetings, as curious gazes flirtatiously wandered about. This silence was thick with uncovered deception, resentment over harsh words, and the stifling awareness that giving away how much anger lingered would be more dangerous than cathartic.

“It has been a while since I last been here.” L, finally, said. “The gardens look good. Are the greenhouses new?”

“Yes. Some of the kids got interested in botany after that class on natural poisons.” B replied conversationally, as he followed L, who had stepped into one of the structures. “I wouldn’t touch anything if I were you.”

Though, knowing who this particular greenhouse belonged to, the risk of the mighty international-reputation detective being poisoned by a colorful plant was insignificant compared to the pandemonium Roger would unleash if L spotted and informed him of C’s massive cannabis supply.

“I see… I’ll choose to believe none of these are being used by the kids for purposes that are not purely educational.” L replied, definitely having spotted it. “Do you-”

“L, what do you want.”

B cut him, and the detective went carefully silent. Enough of this bullshit, he had no time for it. He had no need nor desire to engage in conversation with his predecessor, and every minute that was ridiculously wasted away was a new test of his patience.

“I thought you made your point clear last time. I’m not fit to inherit the title. I’m too volatile, and selfish. If anything, I’m surprised you didn’t shove whatever that idiot psychiatrist fed you in my face too.”

“Your conversations with Dr. Jeffrey are protected under professional-”

“Yeah, right. And now you’ll tell me my little ‘disorder’ has nothing to do with the Successor’s game being rigged.” L’s expression darkened at that. “Oh? You thought me too stupid to figure that much out?”

“No.”

Beyond looked away, and focused on his breathing. He counted to ten, then backwards, just like the aforementioned psychiatrist had advised. Lashing out now would do nobody no good. The momentary pleasure that would come with smacking the mighty L across his stupid face was not worth the consequences.

This whole situation was ridiculous.

“Why did you call for me?” It was a rhetorical question… he didn’t need or want an answer. What he wanted was to walk away and never see L again, this time for real. Fuck the title. Fuck this whole god-forsaken place. There was never a chance for him here to begin with, so the least self-indulgence he should be allowed was the right to refuse to put up with this bullshit.

But that was not the reason why L’s answer -which came soft, wary, and after a long hesitant pause- shocked him.

“I want to have sex with you.”

B froze. Blinked. Stood still for a while longer, then turned to direct an accusing glare at L… but the detective wasn’t looking back, his eyes cast down instead, his sharp cheekbones dyed a subtle pink. A fake expression. It just- it couldn’t be genuine.

“What the… do you actually think me stupid enough to fall for that bullshit again?”

One, two, three-

“I’m serious.” L retorted, growing redder.

“Why the fuck should I believe you.” In spite of how angry B was, he didn’t raise his voice, and limited his true feelings to a gelid glare. “You spread your legs and begged me to fuck you, then merely hours later you claimed it was a test, and treated me like less than shit. What makes this any different?”

“It’s not…” He was saying, but he shrank when he noticed B’s rejection written all over his face. “I… I know you don’t believe me. You’re wise for not doing so.”

“No kidding.”

“But I can prove it to you.” L moved one step closer, his eyes, full of intent, fixed on him. “I can show you-”

To the detective’s distaste, Beyond laughed. But the sound held no joy, just resentment.

“How desperate are you… seriously.” He leaned back, supporting some of his weight on the edge of the table behind him. “How badly do you plan to degrade yourself just to make a fool out of me…” L’s only answer was a bashful blush. B looked away. He couldn’t handle that sight right now. “What is this, L… what can you possibly gain from manipulating me into having sex with you again? Or what, are you still bitter that I said you’re sad? Whatever you’re trying to prove, either to me or yourself, I’m not letting you use me to do it.”

“But you liked it.” Was all the man said, after a long silence. B didn’t answer, and L, realizing this, pushed further. “I know you did. I… liked it too. I want it.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Because you don’t believe I mean it.”

“Because I’ve moved on, L!” B grit his teeth, mad at himself for revealing how upset he was. One, two, three… “What were you expecting… that you’d tell me how thirsty you were and I’d jump right into it? After you delivered a whole fucking monologue explaining how you manipulated me? You can’t seriously think I let my bed grow cold without you.”

“No… I guess not.”

B blinked. L’s voice sounded lower than usual, his breath uncharacteristically strong. His eyes now mirrored some of the hostility B himself felt. This was pointless. He couldn’t take his anger out on L without fearing getting kicked out of the orphanage, and this whole ludicrous situation wasn’t even half as hilarious as it should have been in theory. Not even L’s evident irritation brought him any pleasure.

He moved, shifting his energy towards the exit -but didn’t even get one step taken before the detective’s hands were on his chest, pushing him back. The edge of the table dug a painful line on his lower back. There was a clatter, and a pot fell. It was smashed on impact spreading dirt all over the floor.

But that barely registered in B’s mind. His whole focus was on L, now on his knees in front of him, pulling B’s shirt up to expose the front of his jeans.

“What the fuck are you-”

“What does it look like?” L didn’t waste another second, and simply unzipped them, revealing B’s underwear. Long pale fingers were steadily finding their way into the elastic waistband-

B grabbed L aggressively by the collar of his oversized white shirt.

“I said I don’t want to. What is wrong with you?” He growled, his cock blatantly soft beneath the clothing. But then the detective raised his eyes, wide and glistening with lust, to his face. He stared at B, flushed and determined, from below. And against his will and common sense, B felt his lower, stupider half twitch in anticipation.

“I’m proving you how serious I am.”

“You’re sick…” B muttered, and L’s eyes gleamed when he, too, detected the decrease in his resistance.

“Push me away then.”

B wanted to. Every part of his mind was screaming, yelling at him to do so. But his hands were frozen, and it was way too easy for L to push them away and pull B’s briefs down. There was no ceremony to it. No games of seduction, no intent for tease. L simply took his semi and guided almost half of it into his hot mouth.

B cursed in his mother tongue, his hands grabbing the table so hard the wood creaked and his knuckles turned white. L’s technique for fellatio wasn’t great, but it was definitely doing something, B thought begrudgingly, when his dick hardened completely against the roof of L’s mouth. It only made him angrier… it was unfair that he couldn’t dismiss L’s ministrations with the same displeased indifference he felt for him personally. But he shut his eyes and forced himself to endure it, not wanting to kick the man off him and finding his dick scraped by teeth.

He hated this. He hated L. Hated that he couldn’t stop it. Hated even more that it felt too fucking good. A shuddering breath escaped his mouth; it was mortifying. The man on his knees was eager, compensating his lukewarm skills with sheer enthusiasm, and B grew closer to the edge as someone being harshly, forcefully dragged by the ankles against his will would.

The only idea of L bringing him to a rough, jarring climax made him taste bile. So when he felt himself pulsing and leaking, he shut his eyes tight and channeled his energy towards imagining A on his knees before him, sucking him dry. If he was going to cum anyway, he wouldn’t do it with L in his mind. He plunged himself so hard into the fantasy he found himself, in those last moments, digging his hands in raven hair -coppery in his imagination- and messily thrusting into that hot tight throat. L choked, but B paid him no mind. He was too busy having what was probably the most violent orgasm in his life so far. B moaned, long and ragged.

And then it was over. He was panting, coated in sweat, and L was coughing. His face was flushed and there was semen dripping down his chin, but he looked strangely satisfied with himself. It was irritating.

“What the hell are you grinning for.” He growled, fighting his dazed lethargy and tucking himself back inside his pants.

“Sorry, I was of the impression you enjoyed that.” The detective replied, still hoarse yet cockier than ever, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Don’t take my having functional genitalia as a personal victory.”

“Oh.” L then stood up. B realised he was incredibly close, now that he wasn’t kneeling. He had his eyes narrowed and he smelled of sex. “Would you like it better if I were writhing in pain?”

B glared at him. He had to admit, the appeal of bringing L to that state was growing stronger by the minute.

“You know what’s most pathetic?” He spat, finally, as his eyes dragged down and spotted L’s boner. “If I slammed you face first against this table and fucked your brains out until you bled, you would let me.”

“Try me.”

Their eyes locked. And fuck, B might as well do it. He could feel it itching on every nerve end of his body: the desire to hurt. To raw that fucking bastard until he tore him in half, to choke him, to get off on his screams of agony. The only thing stopping him was knowing that it was exactly what L wanted. Not the pain, but to prove he was right about B.

Beyond reached out, and cupped the bulge in L’s jeans. That caught the man off guard. He gasped, and that noise slowly melted into a pleased whine as B massaged his cock through the jeans. His hands came to rest on B’s chest, his forehead on B’s shoulder, and he rocked his hips against B’s palm. B leaned into his ear then.

“Jerk yourself off, you pathetic excuse of a man.”

And he pushed the detective away. He didn’t wait for L to regain his balance and reply; no, he simply walked away. Found the nearest wall and punched it. When A asked him about his split knuckles he didn’t answer.

[daily-capaldi]

The Big Read – Lewis Capaldi: “I make jokes because I’m comfortable with who I am”

The breakout star of 2019, Lewis Capaldi has the midas touch and the world at his feet – but he still likes talking about his pubes and dreams of meeting a girl who'll break his heart for real. NME Deputy Editor Dan Stubbs meets the cocksure 23-year-old in Dublin for a Buckfast sesh and quickly discovers a legitimately hilarious talent who's far from the “big fucking annoying cunt” he thinks he is.

Lewis Capaldi is miming a range of sporting activities. He bounces an invisible basketball around the stage. He boots an imaginary football into the crowd. And after some minutes of this, he poses with an imaginary dart in his hand. Every time he mimes pulling back to throw it, he changes his mind and walks over to take a sip of Guinness instead – to the delight of the crowd. When he finally throws the thing, they roar with approval, before goading him into downing the rest of his pint. And of course: he does. 

It’s November 21 at the Olympia Theatre, Dublin. So far Capaldi has spent 10 minutes playing three songs and 15 minutes doing what, in the most affectionate terms, can only be described as dicking about. It shouldn’t be this funny to watch, but it really is. And the price of witnessing this spectacle? Depends when you got your tickets. A tout offered to take NME’s off our hands for €500 outside the venue. 

A year ago this may have sounded like madness, a sign that the world was heading to hell in a handcart and we’d be closing out the decade in a post-apocalyptic new reality, eating boot leather and watching jesters for entertainment. But in 2019, Lewis Capaldi has proved, conclusively, that what the world was waiting for was a pasty-faced, pasty-loving, 23-year-old Scot with an act that’s 50 percent heartbroken balladry and 50 percent improv comedy. And it is a worldwide thing – Capaldi is a global hit, a bona fide phenomenon. A superstar whose first encounter with NME is backstage, hurtling along the corridor clutching a handful of items. “Got my passport, my acid reflux tablets and my water – and that’s all I need!” he says, whizzing past. “And now, I’m off for a small pish.”

When listing Capaldi’s many 2019 achievements, they start to lose meaning, like contemplating distances in space, or making sense of the costings in the Labour manifesto. But here are a few: The Brits’ Critics Choice award. A Number One album with ‘Divinely Uninspired To A Hellish Extent’. A Number One single with ‘Someone You Loved’ in much of Europe, the US and the UK, where it spent seven weeks at the top. The hardest touring artist of the year, playing over 250 shows. A scene-stealing Glastonbury appearance.

If you’re to believe the stories in the Scottish tabloid press, Capaldi’s music can practically cure leprosy. He’s even had a beef with Noel Gallagher, once a mark of honour, but now a tussle with adversary so easily shot down it’s a bit like watching the moment someone first beats their dad in an arm wrestle. 

Yesterday brought news that Capaldi been nominated for Best Song at The Grammys, which in early career terms is the equivalent of being up for the Best Actor Oscar for your school production of Macbeth. “I’m up against Billie Eilish, Lady Gaga, Lizzo, H.E.R., Lana Del Rey, Taylor Swift…” he says. So he’s in there representing the men? “Yes, at long last!” he jokes. “At long last, straight white men finally have representation.”

“If I’m being honest, I did think ‘Old Town Road’ would be nominated,” he says, being serious now. “Maybe if I win I’ll Kanye myself. ‘This should have gone to ‘Old Town Road’! (But I am going to keep it)…’”

Capaldi is an expert at shrugging off his achievements. His unfaltering humility is a huge part of his appeal but even he concedes it’s starting to seem a bit forced. “When I read my interviews back, I always think if I wasn’t me I’d think: ‘you’re full of shite’,” he says. “Like, stop saying you can’t believe it. You can believe it! But it is so surreal and it seems like almost quarterly it kicks up a notch. Like, yesterday with the Grammys, yet again all this shit’s getting more and more mental, more beyond belief.”

Capaldi watched the Grammy nominations on his laptop, which was resting on his chest with the screen close to his face – a set-up he describes as his “home cinema” – and he admits he did get properly excited at the news. Mostly, though, he tends to find himself reacting to things how he thinks he should. 

“I’ve got a very bad way of being like, So you’re supposed to feel this way in this moment,” he says. Like when someone passes away? “Exactly, yeah. Like, four months after my grandma passed away, I’m like, ‘Fuck, my grandma’s died,’ and I’m in Somerfield or something. I mean, not in Somerfield, because it’s not been open for fucking years.”

Capaldi even plays down the success of ‘Someone You Loved’, the song that scored him the Grammy nod. In his eyes, it’s just “one of my songs that’s doing a little bit better than the rest”, but it’s already become a popular standard to sit alongside Robbie Williams’s ‘Angels’ or Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’, one of those tracks that will be soundtracking marriages and burials for years to come. Which of those would he prefer it be used for? “Burials,” he says, with no hesitation. “Don’t start falling in love to my fucking music, right? See if I see people kissing at my shows, fucking stop that! These are sad songs, you bastards.”

Like Lewis himself, a large part of the charm of ‘Someone You Loved’ is its absolute universality, which is not to say it’s banal, more that everyone who has lost someone at some point in their lives – which is most of us – can identify with it. For Lewis, it was the aforementioned loss of his grandmother that proved the catalyst for the song, but he made it more open to romantic interpretation because it felt “too morbid” to write explicitly about. 

And it didn’t come easily. Where other songwriters boast about dashing off huge hits in barely the time it takes to play them, Capaldi admits to labouring over his compositions. Writing songs, he says, is “a massive pain in the fucking arse sometimes”.

“Growing up I read interviews with people like Paul Weller, Paul McCartney – all the Pauls – and they’d say the best songs just sort of fall in your lap,” he says. “After six months at the piano writing ‘Someone You Loved’ I’m like, ‘You fucking lying bastards, that’s taken me fucking ages.’”

Many of Capaldi’s songs, which he endearingly describes as ranging from “big piano ballads to bigger piano ballads” draw on his first major relationship which – you may have guessed – is no longer a going concern. But it wasn’t a dramatic event. “Adele wrote her album about a relationship breaking up in a bad way, being jilted I think,” he says. “I wrote mine about a relationship that just ended, just fizzled out. I’d love to be jilted by someone, then I could be as successful as Adele.”

I ask if he worries that – at 23 – he doesn’t have a great deal of life experience to draw on. “I spent my entire life writing this first album,” he says, “but the stuff I’ve experienced in the last year has been much more of a growing experience than living in my mum and dad’s house in fucking West Lothian.”

How about the fact that his next girlfriend, whoever she may be, will be on different terms, it being impossible for her not to know she’s dating Lewis Capaldi the world famous pop star? “Well, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m Justin Bieber,” he says. “Today was the first time I’ve ever got out of the car at a venue and someone screamed. Normally people just shout something at me that I’ve said on Instagram about my pubes. I guess, at worst, my next partner would think I’m one way because they’ll hear the songs and think I seem very nice and level headed, but then find out I’m not.”

What’s the reality?

“Big fucking annoying cunt.”

It’s slightly unfair to question the depth of Capaldi’s life experience, because at the age most of us were familiarising ourselves with yo-yos, pogs or fidget spinners (delete as appropriate), Lewis was embarking on his music career. He began performing at 11, largely in pubs and clubs in the conurbation between Glasgow and Edinburgh where he grew up. The experience of having to hold his own in intimidating spaces at such a young age probably explains much about his easiness around people. 

“I found that at 11 it was, ‘Oh he’s quite cute, he came and stood up here and he’s doing very well.’ When I got to 14, 15 and my voice changed and I lost any remnants of cuteness – which as you can tell have not returned to me – that’s when I started to pick up a bit of the patter. You get to know your way about how to speak to people.” 

Around that time, Capaldi actively worked on changing his vocal style to something more like the wolfy howl we hear today. What was once a ”high and smooth” voice had broken. Inspired by Paolo Nutini and Joe Cocker, Capaldi added some gravel. “I thought it would be a good idea to put a bit of rasp in, to make it sound even more terrible,” he says.

For years we’ve been force-fed sensitive young men-next-door with beanie hats, beards or lumberjack shirts singing to us about their problems. In a quest for authenticity, they’ve presented themselves as troubled, serious souls. Capaldi, meanwhile, has given us the sensitive songs with a side order of toilet humour and the kind of prolific, creative swearing worthy of The Thick Of It‘s Malcolm Tucker, as played by his distant cousin Peter Capaldi. 

Stand-up comedians often make a point of referring to the most funny-looking thing about themselves as an icebreaker with the audience, a way of getting them on side. Capaldi has the same trick – there’s not a single thing about his looks or his music you could say that he hasn’t beaten you to. Try and come up something better than saying he looks like “a melting hippo”, we dare you. 

He has zero pretence – he’s a guy who can literally piss himself on stage and laugh it off. “That only happened once,” he says. “And I’ve always been like that, even back in school. If I was meeting someone for the first time I’d be like, ‘Hello, how are you? I’ve got diarrhoea and I could spew or I could blow at any moment. It puts me at ease, being honest.’”

“People think I make jokes because I’m uncomfortable,” he adds. “Actually, it’s the opposite – I make jokes because I’m comfortable with who I am. I say that I’m a chubby bastard because I am a chubby bastard.”

I put it to him that, possibly, he may be the first body-positive male icon – an important thing given Capaldi is part of a generation of young men who feel under enormous pressure to have an Insta-chiselled body. “I don’t know if I can accept that, because I probably don’t use the correct vernacular,” he says. “It’s probably not good to call yourself a chubby cunt, but it’s never been something that’s bothered me. I’ve been a very slim man, I’ve been a man who’s gone to the gym, but even when I’ve done that someone calls you fat anyway, whether it’s your ma, your da, your best pal.”

Capaldi hasn’t, as of yet, had any sort of pop star makeover. He still looks like a kid who’s moved out of home for the first time and is stacking up the washing to take to mum’s. He does, however, have a personal trainer on tour and has been exercising every day. “It’s more of a mental health thing,” he says. “It gives me energy and keeps me happy. I mean, when I’m actually doing it I fucking hate it so much, but it feels better after.”

I ask how his mental health is bearing up to his new everyday reality, an extraordinary experience for anyone to process. “That’s what I think about taking the piss out of things,” he says. “I take the piss out of doing things on stage and how mental it is because you have to, because it stops you getting caught up in it. Summer last year I started having massive panic attacks. I was supposed to do Austin City Limits but I had to cancel because I was just having panic attack after panic attack, and I thought I had something seriously wrong with me, because I’m a bit of a hypochondriac. And I went and got a fucking MRI scan. But they said I was just anxious, just recalibrating to this new fucking lifestyle. So I said, right, cancel everything for three weeks, and no one gave me any shit for it.”

At showtime, the atmosphere at tonight’s gig offers a glimpse of the bubble Capaldi is living in these days. The Olympia is a grand old theatre and Capaldi could probably have sold it out 50 times over; the reaction from the crowd is something like Lewmania. 

Afterwards, we head backstage again, where I’m ushered into a room containing about a dozen members of Capaldi’s family. I’m plonked on a chair right in the middle, handed a massive wine glass full of Buckfast by his cousin and grilled by his dad, a fishmonger and the very driest of wits, about my intentions for this article. He’s seriously proud of his boy, having supported him since the very beginning, even playing the supportive parent role when Lewis auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent aged 12. 

The afterparty moves to a private room at a nearby pub. Lewis’s hulking great cousin – the one who brought the Buckfast – is getting the shots in. His auntie is looking on, concerned, as two girls chat him up at the same time. “He’s only a wee one,” she mutters. While his friends and family enjoy the party and a certain NME journalist accidentally smashes the first of a series of glasses, feeling the effects of downing that Buckfast in an ill-advised attempt to curry favour with the family, Lewis makes his final rounds then politely excuses himself, looking a bit hangdog about it. He has another big show tomorrow. Sad to leave your own party, you imagine.

At points in the interview, Capaldi had been making a short, forced coughing noise, which he shrugged off as nothing. But the next week, he cancels a number of shows on health grounds, having been warned by his doctor that he risks losing his voice altogether if he doesn’t take action. In the end, he plays just four more gigs of the UK leg of the tour – in London, Edinburgh and twice in Glasgow for the homecoming finale. All further activities are cancelled by management, including a follow-up NME interview, but he is sent to complete the year’s touring commitments in the States before heading home for a well-earned few days celebrating Christmas with his family, which he says typically involves plenty of booze and lots of piss-taking. If you think you’re feeling ready for the break today, spare a thought for Lewis.

Next year looks to be just as busy as this one. He is, right now, just about the most in-demand young man in the world. At some point, he’ll have to start thinking about his next album too. “I don’t know what the fuck it’s going to sound like, I don’t know what the fuck it’s going to be,” he says. “Ballads, havin’-it tunes, I don’t know. I’ve got voice notes, melodies, stuff like that, but that’s just me and an acoustic guitar.” 

Considering what he said about his hypochondria, it’s likely the idea of losing his voice is weighing heavily on Capaldi’s mind. But he’s already decided there’s a backlash coming anyway. “You do get warned, as you’re coming up: ‘By the way, everyone’s gonna turn on you pretty soon’,” he says. “I guess I’m always just kind of waiting for it. I’m very doomsday. Like, if it’s not happened yet, it’s gonna come. And I can’t wait for the downfall!”

He might be surprised. People have plenty of different reactions to Capaldi’s music, but it’s pretty much impossible to find someone who doesn’t think he seems like a bloody great bloke.

And besides – if he ever finds he can’t sing, he’d make a killing at The Fringe as a physical comic. 

The extended edition of ‘Divinely Uninspired To A Hellish Extent’ is out now

[miyiee]

“Red Strings --of Fate” 〆

“Red Strings --of Fate” 〆(The one-way red thread of fate)

{Warning! Emotional BB} Please do not copy any of my work, if you are planning to use, please remember to credit me! ^^

Original by: star25623 & 倉橋一平 〴Watch〴 inspired by…..

自主作成アニメーション「いと恋し」

Written by: Miyie〴                  

"You made flowers grow in my lungs.

Although they are beautiful.

I can't breathe anymore." 

Ichi, ni, san, yon(shi), go, roku, nana(shichi), hachi(jachi), kyu(kiu), juu(jiu)

“What are you doing?” someone once asked.

“Reading.”

“There’s this one Old Folktale Story, that had stood out to me…”

“What was it about?” 

Well,   The story goes, that there was this once a young boy who read about his fate,... he was going to die in a few days. 

And so it went on and he asked the black raven bird “Why?” The raven then replied, “It cannot be helped boy, it is your fate.” To his dismay, he cried…. “Please, I would do anything.” He begged. “I am sorry but this my job, I cannot break it for I am the gate beholden of death.” “But… I will make an exception boy if you find me these three ingredients I will allow you to live. In a world where anything is possible, you are god.“A g-god?!?!” “Indeed, A fake world. “Ingredients:1.Red gemstone2. A feather from the golden-bird3.Black-hearted stone(from hell)“SURE!” He replied…. without any hesitation. And so, he went on to find the three ingredients. Traveling in a great distance. It took him weeks to complete his task. Until the final day had come….“Very well, boy!” Here is the key..  Go on… walk.  But the young boy only stayed still. Not walking any forward. He asked, “I do not know why.” “Oh, you must be scared right? Oh please, it is only normal for humans.” Then the boy realized the significance of his words and decided to live in this world, the real one… to where he is now today. 

Amongst the soldiers in the Great War, there lived a legend. At first, it was thought to be merely an absurd rumor, though with popular word and time fear spread more rapidly than wildfire and hovered in the atmosphere like a contagious fog.     

Friend and foe alike lived in terror of this illusive creature of nightmares, and as five long, wretched years wore on the innominate, faceless character plagued the morality of the battlefield. He was hailed as a battalion of ludicrous names, namely a vengeful ghost, then a murderous ghoul, and finally a phantasmagorical-robotic-apparitional thing conjured by hallucinations of the imagination.     

But no one truly knew who he was. No one knew where he had come from, or to whom this abhorrent monstrosity belonged. Those who had encountered him were never the same. Not that there were many who survived the ordeal if the aforementioned misfortune were to befall them. He was said to be no older than an adolescent boy of fifteen or sixteen years, always clothed in ethereal white. Rather than the traditional rifle or bayonet, he carried a peculiar weapon :a bilateral, double-ended kind of sword, twice as long as the average human being. Apparently, he could annihilate entire factions in a matter of minutes, and without so much as a single variation in his facile demeanor.     

But what evoked the greatest terror of all was his eyes. Allegedly, they were at all times concealed with wrapped layers of white bandages, obscuring the top half of his face. And on the occasion that those linen bindings were unwound.... None who saw them lived to tell what exactly they had seen behind his irises before their souls were torn from their bodies and a ghastly death greeted them at the gates of Hell.      

Perhaps the heavens condemned this war, and so they had sent such an appalling emissary to convey this disapprobation. As time went on, the grim reaper in white was at last given a name. The strikingly beautiful paragon of carnage and bloodshed that was lovely like a seraph, and yet heartless like the devil. The very personification of Death himself.

“A black-haired boy with large amber eyes closed the book, and then he spoke,

A black-haired girl laid on his lap.. whispering back- “Well looks like you’ve already fallen asleep.”

There’s nowhere my heart can embark….. “Please take me away.” she pleaded.

But the black-haired boy only stared at her. She already had a feeling, That this boy had only ‘pitied her, That’s why he had no special power, The only thing he only carried was a knife, That was his ‘true’ weapon. And that’s why he had helped.

“If you wish, 

You can draw a world,

Picture it, 

Engrave it, 

In your mind.

If it meant to save you from death, 

If it meant pure flaked happiness

Would you like to live, 

In that world, away from reality?”

One day, 4 months ago… she woke up, Sitting on her bed. She was bedridden. “It’s me.” She quietly spoke. “I-I wished…. To go back..” although she let those words slipped. “Your wish is my very command.”  he continued- the boy that looked so much- idenitcal to the other one... was he his twin perhaps? “Very well..but you have a time limit.”

“Wait- but I didn’t mean it… “ the girl now realizing her words.

“A wish is a wish, it is my job. That is not what your heart says. You must hurry.” he responsed back. Which has only caused such a slight fright to the girl. She took in a deep sigh. “Very well.” Yes, it was true, there was nothing more I wanted than to just go back, to fix all my mistakes….

“To go back...” she repeated. “I-I need to kill her, that girl….”

“But that girl is yourself… Is it not?” the voice spoke.

“Shut up!” 

“Why do you wish to kill yourself?”

“I should’ve died…...”

“It’s been 4 months since I was first checked in the hospital, right? I can’t get out of bed, so each day is unbelievably long, I wonder when I could check out….”

-“Well, …. I probably can’t, huh?”-You already knew from the first time I checked in right? The time I have left is slowly running out……” To put it bluntly, I am going to die soon. My body is still so weak, I had so many things I wanted…I wanted to go to college, earn tons of money, be successful, and become happy..

But..,

How could I wish upon such useless things? When I didn’t need any of those? The only thing I wanted most right now is,

I wished,                                        “ to change fate..”

“I just wanted to live.” instead.       

Standing above her, her weak fragile body lies. Standing over ‘me’,... with a knife.. Suddenly she pushed me over. “Why are you doing this? I am only trying to save you!”, I shouted.“You are future me, are you not?”, the girl laughed. “Isn’t it that girl, she hasn’t ever left her bed?”“It’s very rare to see her outside..” “Poor girl.” 

“Look, at all the tasty food, this place has! Isn’t it?” She shoved one in my mouth, it was delicious….She dragged me along with her.. Happily running around..the hospital...Then, I remembered...“Stop it, I don’t have time for this!” Time is slowly running out..  “But even so…” She turned away from me. “I’m sorry, but no.. I don’t want to die, no, not just yet.”

So if you could, please grant my wish… oh- spirit ?

“Well, I guess it can’t be helped, right?”, he smiled at me. The past me. 

“Wait- Wait! What about my wish’!?! There were a clear line between the two wishes.--”No..Stop it…. 

… I don’t need your pity,

.. I don’t need your kindness….

“How can you still smile at me, like that?”

The girl flinched, as the boy tried to hold her in his arms, trembling from the shock a red string appeared attached,   

“Wha-..”

“Shhh….”

“Everything’s going to be okay.” A finger over his lips...with a creepy smile. Was what he had told me. Wish upon a star. “Ah... looks like you’ve ran out of time.”

“I’ve. lost.. It. time.” Acid, tears ran over her delicate face. There was no possible way to turn back. correct?”

“Hey…...”   Like reading strings that hold our bonds, never touching, or he’ll fade away someday. “What is it that you what from me?” “Your heart.” he answered back.

“Why? I cannot allow you to.”

Wasn’t it the world that was breaking?

Wasn’t it the world that made a mistake?

You really are an idiot,

                               For forgetting the blueness of the sky.

                               You’re the one who had made a mistake, 

                                You’re the one that was breaking...

 And... you were the very one that was waiting.

About a month ago on April 23rd, just past 2 pm. Two hikers picking mountain vegetables..found a man’s body here at Tauka Swamp. Because he had been stabbed in the chest with a sharp knife, they ruled his death a murder. However, despite a few days passing since he was murdered, and him having no cellphone or ID, They were able to identify him immediately. Yoshihara Hiroo, 35- year old. Who worked for a large construction firm. Eventually, a 30-year-old woman was arrested as a suspect. Tinai Ao. 

“It was me.” In which they have gotten a confession from her. While many unanswered questions remained. They are still working mainly in gathering the evidence needed right now. An open and shut case. They assumed she threw the body into the swamp to hide it, or to perhaps delay its discovery. 

The girl asked, to prove her point…..

I must get a statement that I am satisfied with….

The incident was about a woman who had murdered her ex-boyfriend’s coworker and had dumped a body in a swamp up the mountains in the large pond. Apparently her coworker “Hashira '' had a dispute with her ex-boyfriend about the company. He planned out Kuji’s death by suicide with his current wife, where they could’ve died together, in love. Before, this though, his former wife, when he had asked to die together, left him. Kuji always had a problem with his job, he had hardships. He believed that this was caused by the incident 5 years ago and called

Kuji’s brother, but he didn't pick up. He knows where Kuji’s former wife lived and came into contact with her to apologize 5 years ago. But, instead of the first approach must’ve caused the women to be paralyzed. Killed him, because she felt that Kuji’s was correct…  The women were quick to confine in her murder. And told them she threw the body in there for a man-eating girl spirt to eat.  

Why would she not have placed any weight on the dead body, if she had tried to hide it? 

She did it for you, for the spirit girl to find and eat it... 

That explanation is still unclear, many left unsaid….Why must she say “I really hope they find you.” 

Of course… 

5 years ago, there was a legend, a legend about the ‘goddess’ of rain…she is usually seen by the river, sitting alone, in a white yukata with black short straight hair, bangs, with no eyes, since they were gouged out. There are two ways you could ask for the ‘rain’. She, the goddess of rain, despite her name, she had no control over the waters. One was to pray. The other is an offering, to offer a body, a corpse for the spirit girl to eat, but this legend was disputed, as the girl no longer eats humans, they tasted terrible to her. But, there was a set back to this, to offer a dead corpse, it must be in good condition, a young girl rather than an old middle-aged man. Instead, the women dumped the corpse of an old middle-age man in the river. Her coworker came over to admitted he had killed Kuji and his wife, 

Why would there be rain?

Yes, indeed… 

My lady, you are quick to deny your claims…

There should’ve been something really precious left from her former husband but after he had moved on with another woman she had moved out of her house and job in the city into her family home alongside where the spirit lived. She had moved to destroy all her relations and items from Kuji. Yes, it is possible for some to have kept a few gifts. 

She called Kuji’s brother over, afraid of Hashirama's wrongfulness. Afraid of this, the middle-aged coworker came over. Where Kuji’s brother had met face to face with his brother’s killer. Out of anger, he had openly pulled out a knife and stabbed the co-worker. In realization of this, the woman could not bring herself to accused Kuji’s brother of his murder. She felt this was the only way she could repay him. And so, the brother flawed and she was left with the corpse, where she carried him into a halogen and carried him up the mountains at night. To throw his body down. 

There would be no way, young women would go through the hardships of carrying a dead corpse up to the mountains, why would she speak of to find it over wards? The women’s relations to him, no mere someone would?

She had to get rid of any traces of his dead body in her home, she cleaned everywhere, every inch of her house, but, what about the outside? She had realized there was no way to clean the outside, rain... She needed rain.  

The rain had caused people to not have discovered the corpse sooner for a few past 2 days. During those rainy days, the women must’ve come to check, only to find that the body has not been eaten, she figured that they wouldn’t have liked to eat metal or any accessible trash left behind beside the flesh so she removed his cellphone and ID, which she could’ve possibly buried back in her home.

This was where you were enraged...and it started to rain…

The woman, she spoke that she had thrown a murder weapon in the river. For the spirit to eat, there was no guarantee, by saying this, this made the police cover her sanity still more, leading in discovery in finding the weapon. That weapon was no mere weapon, instead, it was a fetus from her former husband. In realization of this in the past 4 years ago, that she was pregnant with his child, she made an attempt to dispose of the baby, she handled this all by herself, it was time when she had gone into labor, blood on her hands everywhere. All by herself, she threw the body down the river, that was until she had found out that her former husband was innocent… but it was already too late, she threw their child away. She tried to look for it, the sad corpse of her child. Although it has been 4 years already, her feelings are overweening. 

That is yet why she had said: “I really hoped they find you.” 

It was not the body that she wanted to find. 

A single fetus corpse is yet too small to be found, adding that it was 4 years ago…. One person wouldn’t have found this body all herself, so instead, she used the same idea, taking this chance, she disposes of his body into the river. For an investigation.  

Keeling down… I highly doubt that they would find the fetus underground... 

 “Very well, case closed. 

You are really a spirit of worthy…. Riyin”

“Humans… 

They really are such undoubtedly foolish but pitiful creatures, aren’t they?”

Dressed in a white yukata, with black strings thrown around the dress of the sleeves. A white spirit's symbol on her head. White triangle. And, on her left cheek, a covered up bandage. Straight short black hair with bangs.

she smiled and let out a small chuckle…..

“Of course, We’ve used to be one too..”

I felt something soft intertwined in my hands, I looked down, and he did too. Our hands clasped together,…. “

Hey… let’s stay together… forever..”

qwq

Looking up at the bright lights of the crownless night, we laughed.

Red string, red thread, will stay.

Surely,.... It will… ,right? 

It was one of those moments again. One where he didn't know if he were fantasizing or awake, nor if reality was real or imaginary. He couldn't tell if time flowed or not, because this innocuous world of imperishable oblivion seemed perpetual and ephemeral all at once.      

"I'll-I'll find it! The green string!?I promise!"

No truth, no lies.  No beginnings, no endings. The world was colorless, as always. He was standing upon a desolate sandhill beside the ocean, where the sea of nothingness melted seamlessly into the dreary sky and they were one and the other. Gray waters reflected pale clouds, mirroring the vapid gray fog that smothered the air. 

It took him a moment to realize that the miasma was a plume of smoke, an ominous pillar of darkness surging towards the ashen sky above. 

A single spark of color ignited the monotonous world, and the acrid aroma of scorching charcoal became nearly suffocating. Something was burning. 

The water had become fire. 

Somewhere in the near distance, someone —— no, many people, were screaming, crying, pleading. He couldn't tell exactly where, decipher exactly why.     He winced to make it stop.     

Instead, the hellish cacophony became louder, closer, deafening. Then, through the thick fog, he saw her. Standing atop an ebony rock with her back turned where fiery seas met calm, stagnant gray waters, oblivious to the morbid scene unfolding before him.

She spoke to herself, her voice soft as it gradually fallen, pouring down like hails from the sky,... “Hey….. promise me… that , you won’t leave me alone.. In this world? in a distance from him.

Could you do me this one favor??” She’d asked. Was she mad, angry perhaps?

Ah- but where are you going to find it? There is no such thing as the

Yellow, Blue, or Green string,

It was all a lie, 

. . .!    

There is only red, 

Red string."𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕," 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔. "𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕?" "𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅, 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒊𝒇 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒃 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒓. 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓."

“I am tired… Of running In a circle.”       

“The weather’s nice today as well, we gather around and stare up at the clouds.”

My soft vocals echoed through the silent park. I occupied the bench, swinging my legs back and forth. My eyes averted to many things; the tiny pile of snow, the green grass, the trees.  

"These lazy days it's hard to tell, we close our eyes and fall down to the ground."  The birds chirped along with the tune. The trees remind me of a certain person. Trees are natural. They stay still and strong against the cold. I let out a faint giggle. 

"A distant blurry memory, those days long gone seem so hard to recall,"  My eyes shifted back to the ground. I thoroughly scanned it. My eyes glistened. Spring has started a few days ago and this is the first flower I see. I got up from my seat and approached it.  

"'Cause time goes on relentlessly, we've grown too old to see it all."  I stopped walking. The scene in front of me was a blue morpho landing on the flower. I silently took a step back. If I get any closer, I will end up disturbing it.  

"We played with fake maturity, made secret plans just to burn out the day."  After a while, the butterfly flew away. I rushed to the flower and picked it up. I walked back to the bench and took a seat.  

"'We fight this war eternally,' and join our hands just to find our own way."  An idea sparked in my mind. I plucked each petal along with the beat: 

"He loves me... he loves me not... he loves me... he loves me not..." After a while of plucking, I ended with a; "He loves me not." My happiness level lowered. I let out a sigh.  

Suddenly,.... I heard someone

"Hey..." I felt a hand land on my shoulder. I flinched. I swiftly turned and slapped the hand off me. I met eyes with one of my few friends, Xeiv. 

"S-Sorry about that..." I apologized. 

"There's no need to apologize. I would probably do the same thing." He sat down beside me. 

"So what are you doing out here alone?"  

"It's early spring. I'd rather be one of the first people to see spring without the falling petals." I answered as I fiddled with the flower's stem. 

He gave me a small smile.  

"That's oddly specific." He commented. 

"W-Well, what brings you out...?" I felt myself tremble. 

"I needed to blow off some steam after what happened to... Satoru... and I heard singing. Normally I would ignore it, but it sounded an awful lot like you." I let out a nervous chuckle to his answer. 

My nails were piercing into the flower stem. He looked down at it. "What's that for?" My face transitioned into a light shade of red.  

"Oh, it's..." My voice began to trail off. "Well, do you know that game where you take off a petal one by one?" He nodded his head. 

"Well, I was doing that." I was trying to be honest with him. After all, he doesn't seem like a person who would care to dig deep.  

"Oh really? What are the results?"  

"The feelings haven't returned." My face saddened. 

"That sucks... but it is just a game. You can't just simply rely on it."  

"That's true..." My face changed to a darker shade of red. It appears that another idea popped up in my mind. 

"Hey... can I do something real quick?" 

He looked puzzled. "Umm... sure?" 

I scooted a little bit closer and pecked his cheek.  "I-I'm sorry..." I apologized as I covered my brick-red face. 

"I-It's perfectly fine..." Judging by his voice, he was losing his composure. I felt his hands hesitantly removing my palms that covered my face.  

"Was that supposed to be a confession?" He interrogated. I slowly nodded my head. I felt his arm wrap around my waist. It pulled me closer to him. I heard him softly spoke, "Then I accept."

We watch together as beautiful flowers began to wither.

--Author’s note: “when red string gets entangled” is a novel mainly based on the term ‘love’ interest] Also if you are unable to understand what has happened over these text, yes, it is delierberatly meant to make no sense at all, but that is- the beauty within words. These were cases that were solved by my two characters 'Riyin’ and Xiev who were pulling these strings. As always, Thanks for reading!

[prevdustinhendrsn]

mint chocolate chip (third wheel)

dustin henderson & steve harrington 3.2k - read on ao3

inspired by/bridging the gap between some of the steve/dustin/robin scenes in the s3 trailer!

“Who’s that kid you’re always hanging out with?”

Steve looks up from handing off a strawberry cone to the last in a group of middle school girls. Robin, his coworker, nods to one of the tables near the ice cream shop’s front corner and Steve follows her gaze to see Dustin sitting there slumped over a book, a pile of napkins providing evidence of his already-eaten ice cream.

“Oh, that’s Dustin. We’re, um, friends.” Steve wipes his hands off on a rag and leans against the counter. “You should know that by now. He’s in here all the time.”

“I know he’s in here all the time,” Robin says, sliding the cash register drawer shut with a satisfying click. “I’ve given him like a million ice cream cones. But why do you hang out with him? Doesn’t he have friends his age?”

Steve throws her a look. “Of course he has friends. I know them too.”

Robin narrows her eyes. “Steve, he’s in here four times a week. It’s Friday night and he’s reading. That’s not how the typical teenager with friends spends their summer break. How do you even know him?”

You wouldn’t believe me. “I just…do. His best friend is my ex-girlfriend’s little brother and one of his other best friends is my ex-girlfriend’s current boyfriend’s little brother and –“

Robin shakes her head, holding her hands up in surrender. “Whoa, okay, stop talking. You can just say you’re their babysitter, I don’t really care.”

“I’m not their babysitter!” Steve says exasperatedly. “They’re almost freshmen. I just know them, and sometimes I give them rides.” He hesitates. “We’ve been through some weird shit together, and…it stuck. Dustin’s actually a really cool kid, and his friends love him. You just gotta get to know him.”

Robin raises her eyebrows. “Well, right now he looks like a really cool, really sad kid. And he keeps glancing over here at you. Maybe you should talk to him or something.”

Steve looks over at Dustin. He definitely doesn’t have the attitude of a teenager excited for summer activities with his best friends; he’s reading a textbook, for Christ’s sake. Alone. Not that it’s unusual for him to be reading, but his interest looks halfhearted. He and all his crazy nerd friends used to come here all the time back in the spring when the mall first opened and Steve started working here, but ever since school let out and he got home from camp, he’s mostly been alone. What happened?

“Yeah, I guess I will.” He makes sure there’s nobody in line for more ice cream and then drops his (absurdly stupid) hat on the counter. “You good to start closing up?” he asks Robin.

“I think I can handle it,” she says dryly. “If an apocalypse happens, I’ll let you know.”

Steve rolls his eyes – it’s more likely than you’d think – and steps out from behind the counter, weaving his way through the empty tables until he comes to Dustin’s, set in the front corner overlooking the rest of the mall. His blue patch-covered backpack is slung over the back of the chair, and a plastic soda cup with condensation dripping down the sides sits next to a handful of mint chocolate chip-stained napkins.

“Hey, man,” Steve says, sliding into the empty chair on the other side of the table. Dustin looks up from his book, making no attempt to hide the glumness on his face. His eyes are flat and tired, his expression worn.

“Hey,” he says dully. Yikes. Steve only gets this kind of reaction from him whenever they’re out of mint chocolate chip, and they definitely aren’t today.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Are you blind? I’m reading.” He props his cheek up on his palm and goes back to staring at the book, but Steve can tell he isn’t absorbing a word of it. Maybe he never really even was. Steve leans forward and lifts the edge of the book cover with his finger to check out the title. Algae and Lichens of Antarctica: An Extensive Look. Geez.

“Hey.” He flicks Dustin’s forehead for emphasis and Dustin looks up at him tiredly. “What’s going on, dude?”

He shrugs, and even that looks like a struggle. “Nothing.”

Steve surveys him, wondering what on earth could have got this walking bundle of kinetic energy so down. “I’ll buy you another ice cream if you tell me what’s wrong.”

Never one to turn down free ice cream, Dustin lets out a heavy sigh, folding his arms on top of his open book and dropping his chin on them. “I had a fight with Mike,” he admits.

Steve makes a quiet ahh and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Damn. What happened?” He knows how much Dustin hates conflicting with his friends; he has too big of a heart to handle that.

Dustin slumps even further over his book. “He thinks we’re all grown up now or something, like we’re not allowed to have fun anymore or do anything we used to or some stupid shit like that. He said we’re not kids anymore and it was dumb of me to think we’d just play games in his basement for the rest of our lives, but I already knew that! I just wanted to make this summer as fun as possible because Will’s – he’s –“ Dustin swallows, averting Steve’s gaze, “you know. Moving. And so I thought we could do more of the fun stuff we used to, but Mike thinks it’s all immature and boring all of a sudden.” He looks back up at Steve indignantly. “We’re not even in high school yet!”

Steve makes a sympathetic face. “That’s harsh. I mean, you guys have been through some serious shit. Like, way serious. Shit that no kid should ever go through, but I think that’s just another reason to stay as young as you can for as long as you can, y’know?” He considers, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “You think it’s because of superkid?” He goes with his usual nickname for El and Dustin usually laughs at it, but all he can wrangle this time is a small smile when Dustin looks up, and it disappears as quickly as it came. A small victory, at least.

He shakes his head. “They’re not like that. Duh, he’s head over heels for her, obviously, but he wouldn’t say stuff like that just because he’s got a girlfriend. He’s not that bigheaded.” Steve snorts, and Dustin goes on, his expression still miserable and gloomy. “It’s just a mood or something. He’s really, really upset that Will’s leaving. But it still sucks ass that he’s taking it out on us.”

“Makes sense. Do the others agree with him, on the whole growing up thing?”

A noncommittal shrug, which practically screams yes.

Steve sighs, and at this point he thinks he should probably stop prying before Dustin feels any worse. He shifts in his seat, glancing over at the ice cream counter. Robin is still back there, going in and out of the supply closet as she cleans things up. He looks back to Dustin, ready to end this conversation and get him to do something fun. “So where are they at right now?”

“Will’s packing boxes, and Max and Lucas have been gone together all day,” Dustin says, and even though Steve can tell he’s trying to cover it up, he’s bitter as hell. “Mike and El are probably practicing their wedding vows…”

He trails off as familiar laughter reaches their ears. The aforementioned Max and Lucas come around the corner, hand-in-hand, and Steve can’t believe how bad their timing is. They actually couldn’t make it any worse if they had tried. They catch sight of him and Dustin at the ice cream shop table and walk over, both of them grinning wide.

“Hey guys!” Max says brightly, a purple shopping bag swinging in her free hand.

“What’s up?” Steve says to cover for Dustin, who’s currently staring at them with a blank expression.

“The mall’s closing so we’re going to the carnival,” Lucas informs them. “Will and Mike and El are all off doing other stuff, so it’s just us. You wanna come, Dustin?”

Dustin shakes his head. “No, thanks,” he says stiffly. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Suit yourself,” Max says, oblivious. “See you later!”

She turns around and Lucas lingers for just a second longer, his high spirits faltering at Dustin’s rejection, but then he’s pulled away by Max’s hand and they head off, their eager voices bouncing off the walls of the mall.

“God, that sucks,” Steve notes. “They didn’t even invite me.” Dustin doesn’t answer, and Steve watches his eyes follow the pair of them until they’re out of sight.

Oh. So that’s what’s going on.

“You still like her, huh?”

He fully expects Dustin to deny the charge, but when Dustin tears his gaze away from them, there’s sad defeat in his otherwise irritated eyes. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But it’s not just that.”

Steve raises his eyebrows in a then what is? gesture.

“I’m just tired of being their third wheel,” Dustin sighs, flipping the cover of his book shut. “I know they’re not trying to leave me out but it feels that way ever since they started dating. And it’s the same with Mike and El. It fucking sucks. It’s like I’m losing them all. I’m even losing you!”

“What? No you’re not!”

Dustin makes an oh, really? face. “Look at you, Steve! You’re all buddy-buddy with Robin now. I’ve watched you, you’re like best friends. You guys aren’t going to want to bother with a kid like me.”

“Okay, first off, you’re not losing me. I’m going to hang out with you no matter who else I’m friends with, because you’re cool as hell and anyone who thinks otherwise can go pound sand. Secondly,” he continues pointedly, to let Dustin know he’s offended that he’d ever consider Steve being so shallow (except, wasn’t he, at one point in his life?), “Everyone’s always a little obsessed with their first girlfriend. They’re your best friends though, dude. You guys have been side-by-side through a shit ton of crap. It’ll get better, you know it will.” Dustin shrugs, and Steve decides that’s his cue to move on. He takes a deep breath, sitting up and slapping his palms on the table with finality. “Alright. This is depressing and it’s making you feel like shit so we’re done talking about it. Robin and I are closing up, so in a minute do you wanna go do…”

He trails off as Dustin perks up all of a sudden and looks at him curiously, and though he immediately knows some weird-ass personal question is coming, he’ll answer it if it means getting Dustin out of his funk. The kid does this all the time, and a hundred percent of the questions he asks aren’t anywhere near the ballpark of what they had previously been talking about. He’s just nosy.

“What?”

“Do you still love Nancy?”

His heart stutters. “Seriously?”

A grin spreads across Dustin’s face. “Seriously! I told you about Max, so you have to tell me about Nancy.”

Steve groans. Dustin has definitely come out of his pity party now, in the jarring blink-of-an-eye way that kids do, but not exactly the way Steve wanted. “She’s dating Jonathan, so what does it matter?”

“Come on. I just wanna know.”

Does he still love Nancy? There was a time, after they fought and she and Jonathan…well. He thought he’d never get over her; he loved her so much, so helplessly and endlessly, but he knew there was always going to be a distance between them, however small it was. Towards the end, or maybe it was all along, he could tell she needed someone else, but the thought of her not being his anymore hurt. But there was nothing he could do about it and time went by, and it was something about the smile on her face when she was around Jonathan that made letting go a little easier. It was how they snapped together in a way that she and Steve once did, and then didn’t, and it wasn’t long before he was faced with the painful reality that she was happier now, so much happier. The two of them were a thing of the past, and…that was that.

Not that he doesn’t still miss her from time to time. Not that he doesn’t still feel an old ache of longing for the familiar whenever she smiles at him across the street. But things are different now, and he thinks they're different for the better.

He shakes his head. “Nah. That was ages ago, man. I’m over her.”

“But what about –“

“Nope, we’re done talking about this.” Steve gets to his feet and looks over to see all the shop’s lights off and Robin heading towards them, her hands full. “Pack up your shit, loser. We’re getting out of here.”

Dustin rolls his eyes but his smile stays, and Steve feels a warm sense of accomplishment. There’s an extremely gratifying feeling that comes from being trusted and befriended by this kid, especially when he’s so independent and headstrong. Dustin feels safe around him and he’s not entirely sure if he’ll ever get used to that.

“Alright, gremlins,” Robin says as she approaches them. “Everything’s all closed up and I’ve got a mint chocolate chip for Mister Curly over here –“ she hands Dustin a double-scoop waffle cone with a napkin wrapped around it, “- a rootbeer float for Captain Short-Shorts –“ Steve gratefully accepts the chilly plastic cup she gives him, “- and a strawberry cone for myself because I deserve it. Oh, here, Steve,” she adds, tossing him his horrendous Scoops Ahoy hat with an evil grin. “You left this.”

“Damn. I was hoping someone would steal it and then I’d never have to wear it again.”

“Hey, Dustin, what’s that?” Robin asks, nodding to the heavy book that Dustin’s shoving in his backpack while also trying to keep hold of his ice cream.

Dustin looks up at her excitedly, eager to talk about it. “It’s all about the algae and lichen and mosses in Antarctica, and right now I’m on the blue-green algae section. Did you know that there’s a whole section of south Antarctica where some penguins live and all the ice is completely covered in algae? So it’s like all green and weird-looking.”

“Seriously? That’s awesome. Bet it looks pretty cool up close.” She starts loosening her tie with one hand, occasionally licking her ice cream held in the other. “I’d love to go to Antarctica one day. You gonna be a marine biologist or something?”

Steve isn’t quite sure how many times Robin and Dustin have interacted outside of the standard “Ahoy!” “Two scoops of mint chocolate chip, please,” speech, but right now Dustin is looking at her like she’s the first person ever to speak his language. Steve braces for an awkward Nancy-esque crush, the fleeting kind that all kids get on older teenagers, but as he watches them talk, there’s nothing there. It’s just friendship, and he withholds his sigh of relief. The kid really is growing up.

“Are you guys done? I’m already graduated, so legally I should never have to hear another word of science ever again,” he says, sipping at his rootbeer float.

“Yeah yeah yeah, hold this.” Dustin passes his ice cream to Steve. As he finishes shoving all his stuff into his backpack, Steve leans into Robin, who’s nonchalantly working on her ice cream.

“He likes you,” Steve whispers into her ear. She grins.

“All I did was humor him,” she whispers back. “Kids like to talk.”

“Well, still.” He pauses, glancing at the cone in his hand. “How’d you know I bribed him with ice cream?”

Robin frowns at him. “I didn’t. I just thought he might want it, since he was feeling so bad. What kind of kid doesn’t get cheered up by ice cream?”

Steve stares at her, and she looks back at him questioningly, and…he’s not exactly sure what he’s feeling in that moment.

Like Dustin said, she’s one of his two friends. They bonded pretty quickly over Scoops Ahoy’s shitty uniforms and subpar ice cream and since neither of them have any other friends, they hang out at the pool and do whatever else they feel like when they’re bored and off work. It’s almost funny when he thinks about it – the Steve from three years ago would’ve been appalled at current Steve’s friend choice (and count, for that matter). Robin is completely different from someone he would have chosen all that time ago, but now he can’t even imagine hanging out with someone from back then. She’s nothing like Nancy – she’s open and carefree and funny and a few months older than him and just different. It’s not that she’s taken Nancy’s place – nobody could. But she carved out a new spot for herself, and he likes it.

He’s never regarded her in a romantic way and as far as he knows, she’s never looked at him like that either. It’s so easy to be around her without that kind of tension between them.

Except right now, his stomach is doing a weird swooping thing, and it’s throwing him off because it hasn’t really happened before.

“So what are we doing?” Dustin says brightly, interrupting Steve’s thought process. He blinks, realizing Robin looked away some time ago. He hands Dustin back his ice cream, shaking himself out of it.

“Hm.” He looks around the empty mall. Most of the lights have been turned off, everyone gone home. “I've always kind of wanted to slide down that spot between the escalators.”

Dustin’s eyes light up, and Robin says, “Aw, hell yes. Can I come?”

“Can you handle being our third wheel?” Steve counters when he sees Dustin’s shoulders tense, knowing it’ll make him relax a little.

Robin rolls her eyes. “Please. Being a third wheel is my favorite thing.”

Dustin’s hesitation about her joining them fades away just like that and he makes a face. “Seriously? Do you even know what that means?”

“Yep. That’s what I went as for Halloween in sophomore year.”

Steve chokes on his mouthful of rootbeer and vanilla ice cream, and Robin starts laughing.

“I’m serious!”

“Intentionally?” Steve demands.

She frowns. “Well, no. The girls I hung out with were bitches.”

“Me and Dustin aren’t bitches,” he says haughtily.

“Jury’s still out on that,” she says, a smile creeping up on her face. “Come on, they’re locking the front doors soon.”

She turns away and Steve looks down at Dustin, nudging him in the side. “You good?”

Dustin grins, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and happily taking another lick of ice cream. “Yeah, I am.” He pauses, looking at Steve with an evil glint in his eyes. “Just so you know, Robin is way cooler than you.”

“What – hey! Wait up, assholes!”

Robin and Dustin’s laughter rings out in the empty mall as they dash towards the top of the escalators, and Steve runs to catch up to them. A warm satisfaction fills him up and he smiles to himself. Turns out they were all wrong about who the third wheel in their newfound trio is, but at this point, he’s too happy to care.

@calpurnias @you-wont-lose-me @summer-in-hawkins @she-who-the-river-could-not-hold @mikewheeler @formerlyjannafaye @caseyk112 @ahoysailorsteve @jane-el-hopper

[findmeinpops]

Chapter Two: I’m On Fire

Summary: You’re home alone when you hear an unexpected knock at the door. This is loosely inspired by ‘I’m On Fire’ by Bruce Springsteen, the lyrics are here and you can listen to it here. Enjoy! x

I’m On Fire: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

I Predict A Riot: Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14

Abbreviations: (Y/N) - Your Name (Y/L/N) - Your Last Name

Tagged: @swordsandserpents @justmesadgirl

A/N: Alright, so since the first chapter (and my first ever fic!) got a good response, I’m going to continue with this. I’ve begun to plan it out, since for Chapter 1 I just made it up as I went along, and it looks like this is going to be 5 or 6 parts long. This one’s a bit of a filler, leading up to the juicy bits in the later chapters, but enjoy! X

You both heard your dad before you saw him: “Y/N? Whose bike is that outside?” You stood up at the sound and turned to face the door just in time.

“SWEET PEA! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!” You didn’t even look to Sweet Pea for a response before moving to the other side of the kitchen, putting some decent distance between the two of you.

“Y/N, get upstairs, go to your room.” His voice was considerably less loud but the amount of restraint he was using was obvious.

“Wait, you know him? What’s going on? Why are you doing business with the serpents?” Your questioning was futile as your dad took no notice and gave you a meaningful stare.

“Y/N, please go to your room? We don’t want to bring you into all of this.” This was the first time your mom had spoken since her arrival. Her expression showed concern, shame and perhaps even fear. Was she in on this too?

Sweet Pea still stood by his chair, much more at ease than any of you. In fact, he seemed confident, pleased, even. The combination of his comfort and your parents’ fear sparked the idea that maybe it was less of a business deal or contract taking place but rather that the serpents and Sweet Pea were controlling them. Were they blackmailing your family?

One more glance around the room showed you that the conversation, or argument, wasn’t going to continue until you were out of ear shot. With a sigh and a huff, you slowly made your way out of the room, giving your parents a glare that told them that this conversation wasn’t over. Out the corner of your eye you could see Sweet Pea’s eyes following you and a smirk once again adorned his face. It brought a blush to your face as you remembered what was happening mere moments before.

Once upstairs, you tried your hardest to listen to what was happening downstairs but they had closed the kitchen door and were talking in hushed voices. You heard Sweet Pea leave later but your parents didn’t come to see you and instead went straight to bed. That night, you couldn’t help but wonder what the handsome serpent was doing at your house. You also couldn’t help the dreams that overcame you featuring the aforementioned serpent and the palpable desire that was between you.

A week had passed and still there had been no word about Sweet Pea, no matter how hard you grilled your parents. You hadn’t heard from Sweet Pea either. You couldn’t tell if you were disappointed or pleased about that. Every time you walked to school you secretly hoped you would turn the corner and there he would be, leisurely propped up again his bike, that smirk upon his face. He was dangerous, though, and you wished you could find out what he was doing with your parents.

“Earth to Y/N.” Veronica waved her hand in front of your face, you had zoned out again.

“Huh?”

“I said, are you going to Reggie’s party on Saturday?” You were at school, surrounded by your friends Veronica, Betty and Archie. They all showed concerned looks towards you, they knew something was up but didn’t dare ask what.

“Um, no. I think I’m just going to stay in… watch some Netflix, or something…” You had all been friends since you were small, almost inseparable at an early age. Sure, you had had your bumps along the way but the five – well at least the four of you – were still thick as thieves. Until about a month ago Jughead had been part of your little group, but that was when his dad got into a spot of trouble with the law. He was shipped off to jail and Juggie had been taken under the Serpents’ wings. In theory you were still friends, but as of late, he had had less and less time to spend with you – there was always ‘Serpent business’ to attend to. Juggie and Betty were an item and, although it was yet to be confirmed, you were convinced that Archie and Ronnie were also together. You were happy for them but sometimes you did feel a little left out.

When you went to head to class Betty hooked her arm through yours and pulled you to a quiet corner in the corridor.

“Hey, Y/N, are you okay? You’ve seemed a bit out of it lately…” You loved Betty, she was always so kind and endearing. She was also very perceptive, you were almost certain she could read minds.

“Yeah…” The pointed look she gave you told you she wasn’t buying any of it, “Well, no, not really. There’s a serpent, Sweet Pea, that showed up at my house the other night and my parents won’t tell me why he was there. I guess it’s just been playing on my mind.”

Betty gave you a sympathetic look and placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here if you need to talk, okay? I can ask Juggy if you like too? See if he knows anything.”

“Thanks Bee.” You gave her an appreciative smile before embracing her. It was at that moment that your heard the tell-tale crackle of the overhead speaker.

“Students of Riverdale High: this is your principal speaking. Emails have been sent to your parents but, effective immediately, South Side High School is shut down. Students will transfer to other schools in the district, including this one. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me or Mayor McCoy.”

All hell broke loose in the corridors as students protested at the idea. No one on the North Side liked the South-Siders, well, almost no one.

“Oh my god.” Betty’s sympathy for your situation grew, if Sweet Pea transferred he you would have to face him. A secret part of you was thrilled, however, there was something about him that enticed you, made you want more.

“Well at least we’ll have Juggy back.” You feigned being alright, not that it was worth anything, Betty could read you like a book. Your insides were knotted together in indecision, fear and anticipation. Your hopes and fears for bumping into him were soon going to come true but how long would it be until you tried to jump each other again?

“At night, I wake up with the sheets soaking wet,

And a freight train running through the middle of my head.

Only you can cool my desire,

Oh, I’m on fire”

[laguera25]

A Very Long Review of Zak Bagan’s Demon House

I watched Zak Bagans' <i>Demon House</i> because I wanted to just how far up his own ass he could climb.  Turns out he can almost create a perfect ouroboros of insufferability by sucking his own wang.  It's not the charlatanry of it that offends me; in fact, if I could rake in the cash by claiming to sense and understand the paranormal, I'd consider it as long as it didn't involve fleecing anguished families with phony contacts with their dear departed.  It's the patent stupidity and laziness of the fraud that galls.

Before the "documentary" begins, a disclaimer appears, which warns those huddled around their televisions or laptop screens that paranormal experts agree that demons can attach themselves to hapless victims through electronic equipment.  Uh huh.  And when did they decide this, because I've never seen any other paranormal show declare this.  Was there a synod of all the self-proclaimed psychics, physical mediums, empaths, and every EMF reader-toting, patchouli-sniffing paranormal Scooby gang in the past twenty years where they all held portentous debates on the subject?  Was it held at the Waukegan Airport Holiday Inn, where the desk staff mistook them for a 20th reunion of the emo-kid sigh-and-snivel club?  And was Amy Alan there, presiding over the punchbowl and listing decidedly to the left after imbibing a bit of spicy, fruity inspiration from Mr. Hawaiian Punch?

And if that were true, and spirits and demons could transmit themselves and their malign influences through electronics, then wouldn't that mean that every paranormal investigator should be possessed by now, given their love of ridiculous gadgets?  If listening to an EVP or watching a video can bring demons onto your scene, shouldn't there be millions of people gargling on pea soup and marinating in their own sulfurous piss in mammoth exorcism wards manned by sweating, emaciated, half-mad priests who haven't slept in days?  Shouldn't a haggard, booze-swilling Wolf Blitzer be whispering furtively from some sanctified bunker about the hordes of possessed Imhoteping it through the streets?

More on that later.

According to the documentary, many of Bagans' friends have tried to warn him of the danger he's courting by visiting this house that the locals in Gary, Indiana, have allegedly dubbed the portal to hell.  One friend even says the demon is an 8 on a scale of 10 on the Demon Badassery Scale, just below Satan himself. How this friend knows this without visiting the scene is never explained, nor, for that matter, is the criteria for the aforementioned DBS.  Suffice to say that this demon probably uses the souls of dead infants for an invigorating anal douche.

Hearing this alarming news, does our hero, Zak, who styles himself a crusader against the evil forces, cancel the documentary, have the place exorcised by the Pope and his grandmother, and tear the house down so no one will be afflicted by the unspeakable horrors that lurk within?  Of course not.  The only sensible course of action is to invite more people inside, film a documentary, and broadcast it across the globe.  Because the only surefire way to contain a malevolent entity that can spread itself through electronics is to make sure it has ready access to homes and eyeballs uncounted.  With clear thinking like that, what could go wrong?

With the stakes--and Zak's blithering idiocy--firmly established, the documentary gets rolling.  Zak gives viewers an admirably clear and concise--if not terribly believable--history of the house and the evils that befell the Ammons family.  According to the family and the ginned-up police reports that are never shown in sharp focus and over which Zak is ever hunching in order to obscure all but the text we're meant to see, the children all begin to chant in tongues and spew profanities at their family members.  Ah, the time-tested hallmarks of possession tales everywhere.

But!  A twist!  The children are hauled to the hospital, where the oldest reverse-moonwalks up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the opposite wall.  Hee hee!  Points for chutzpah.  Zak claims this is all in the police report and witnessed by doctors, nurses, a CPS worker, and a child psychologist, but he develops an odd and intermittent case of spinal collapse that obscures the report, so for all we know, he's "reading" the departments memo about the impending visit from the crackpot paranormal team, with its reminder that any PR is good for the department in the current climate.

Zak further tells us that because the family uncle has been in the car with Zak, who has been in the house, the family refuses to let him return.  Huh?  According to the uncle, he was the one who manhauled the snarling, slavering children into the car for the trip to the hospital.  If it's demon cooties you're worried about, surely that would present a bigger threat than sitting in the same car with the beanie-wearing hipster who wants to make a documentary?  But never mind.  The house has claimed its first victim in this film's runtime.

Zak does say that the mother of the family was exorcised by a Father Maginot and delivered, but no mention was made of the three children, to whom the demon was attached in the first place, receiving the same.  I guess Mom got the family package.  So Uncle Fred, who has been hanging with the three uncleansed children with no ill effects to this point, is suddenly become a social leper.

Onward.

While Zak is setting up his equipment in This Old Hellhouse, a woman who used to live in it pulls up.  How convenient.  She asks to see the house with her three teenage children in tow.  Now, remember, according to Zak's friend, the demon in this house is second only to Old Scratch in terms of badassery and allegedly affects anyone who enters the house in horrible, life-scarring ways.  Does Zak politely but firmly demur and thereby shield innocents from the possibility of harm?  No.  No, he does not. After a rather feeble warning that the house has a demon that does bad things to anyone who enters, he invites them inside.  Apparently, he has no moral compunction about offering up the vulnerable souls of gormless teenagers like tasty canapes.

Sure enough, two days later, the mother calls to tell Zak that her daughter has attempted suicide.  She does this <i>while the cops are taking a report and the EMTs are tending to her daughter.</i>  Sure.  No mother would hesitate to call some random dude she just met to tell him about her daughter's suicide attempt while her daughter is being carted to the ambulance.  Makes perfect sense.  Surely it makes even MORE sense that after suspecting that a demon from her childhood home has possessed her daughter and enticed her to attempt suicide, she would return to that same house to chat about the incident on a janky old rent-a-couch as though they were discussing old times.  As Jake Peralta would say, cool, cool, cool.

One of Zak's cameramen quits at this point.  Reverse-moonwalking on the hospital ceiling is nbd, but a teenage girl having a histrionic tiff with her mother is irrefutable proof that Dark Forces Are Afoot.  Or maybe he just got tired of shoveling such pungent bullshit.  Either way, out he goes.  Lucky man.

The girl swears she has no memory of her attempt to punch her ticket, and so we are treated to the world's most sedate exorcism by a bored Father Maginot, who recites the ritual with all the verve of Droopy Dog.  The girl, who squirms on the metal folding chair as though the demon is tickling her taint, grimaces and wrings her hands in an effort to look as though she is undergoing a great spiritual battle, but mostly, she just looks like her disagreeable lunch is trying to make a hasty exit from one end or the other.  I smell Oscar.  And dodgy potato salad.

It would be remiss and unfair of me not to acknowledge that Mr. Bagans does make a game attempt to determine if any of these phenomena can be explained by natural means.  He brings in both a home inspector and an environmental inspector to see if either of them can find anything that would adversely affect the occupants--mold, high magnetic fields, radon, carbon monoxide, et cetera.  Nothing is found, but Zak helpfully informs us that the home inspector was diagnosed with cancer shortly thereafter.  The house, he would have us believe, has claimed another victim.  Dun, dun, dun.  As for the environmental inspector, he will play a larger role in the story in just a few segments.

Before we get to that, though, we need to further explore Zak's earnest attempts to debunk the theory of demons.  He visits the original owner of the house, who places no credence in the stories and produces a copy of an article in which a grandmother of the Ammons family(they of the reverse-moonwalking child, you will remember,)claims that none of this ever happened. This article will never be mentioned again.

Confronted with that inconvenient speedbump on the road to paranormal stardom and the most legit documentary ever, u guise, Zak does what any moneygrubber would do when confronted with the possibility of disappointing and less remunerative truth:  he ignores it and temporarily hares off on a theory of his own.  What if, he theorizes based on no evidence previously presented, the controlling ex-boyfriend of Mother Ammons pulls intimate knowledge of dark magic out of his ass and conjures the demon to torment her?  Excited by this exhilarating asspull, he tries to speak with the man in question, but he, bless his sensible soul, wants nothing to do with this elaborate rub-and-tug of the old third leg.  Stymied in his quest for answers. he leaves this avenue of inquiry and returns to the trustier path of powerful demons who just chose this house in Buttfuck, Indiana, as their glamorous timeshare.

But what's this?  His new neighbor has called to tell him that someone is trying to break into his house. Zak and his crew race to the scene and find three cruisers in the yard, lights flashing.  Strangely, none of the three officers will approach the house, there is no sign of an intruder, and the footage is so dark that no facial features can be discerned.  The officers, safe in the knowledge that their dignity is safeguarded from the jeers of their colleagues, spin a jumbled yarn about all the strange vibes this house gives off.  One alludes to the existence of a five-page police report about this house.  Multiple times.  Zak never asks to see it, nor does he try to ascertain whether it is the report about the Ammons children or a different report altogether.  Allow me to stand in awe of the frat-boy, come-handed sloppiness of his investigative technique.

We're roughly an hour into this bad boy, so it's time to ramp up the suspense and the ooga-booga factor before people turn the channel for something more exciting, like <i>The Vanilla Ice Project</i>.  Enter Dr. Traff, an amiable, bespectacled man with a case full of gizmos used for measuring magnetic and electrical fields.  He does a slow walkthrough, but nothing much happens until they reach the basement. Naturally.  As any horror fan knows, the basement is where all the eldritch beings slither and creep and sniff for the souls of the living.  The readings are slightly elevated, but the readings fluctuate wildly at a certain spot.

"Wow," they all say in hushed tones meant to impart a sense of unease as the needle swings rapidly from low to high.  If that's not too much excitement for a body to take the good doctor soon discovers that Zak's electrical field is eight to twelve million times higher than it should be.  I think I need to lie down.  How am I to cope with such knowledge?  Lovecraft would blush.  Part of me wonders if the reader wasn't reacting to Zak's belt buckle.  Or a clandestine penile implant.

"What?" Zak says, and for the first time, I empathize with him, because he sounds exactly like I did in the bygone years of my college algebra classes, when I would blink at the equations on the transparency like a poleaxed weasel and plead with my brain to understand.

Zak has grown increasingly agitated during this sweep, and when Dr. Traff turns to put away his equipment, he lunges at him.  It's quick and aborted, little more than a partial curling of fingers and a short step toward the doctor's back, but to hear Zak tell it, he was seconds away from attacking him.  Fearing for the unsuspecting doctor's safety, Zak heads upstairs, which gives the entity a chance to prey on Dr. Traff. What evils does it wreak?  It...makes him dizzy.  Such terror is almost too much for a heart to take.

A quick recap for those who missed it: According to Zak's friend, the demon in this house is second only to Satan in power and uses the souls of dead infants as an anal douche, and it drives anyone who comes into the house to suicide or marks them for tragedy or serious illness or injury.  So Zak, the only one with paranormal experience, leaves an environmental inspector and his camera crew unattended while he <strike>huffs his own socks</strike> gets some air.  If he's all that stands between us and Satanic annihilation, smoke 'em if you got 'em because we're boned.

Perhaps sensing that a wave of dizziness and a gesture of frustration used by nonas everywhere aren't exactly revving viewers' engines, Zak suddenly announces that he thinks he's discovered the house's insidious pattern.  Well, hot damn, lay it on me.  I've been waiting for this with bated breath, so tense that I've nearly strangled my pet hemorrhoid.

The house, Zak proclaims solemnly, disorients and confuses its victims.  To illustrate his hypothesis, we see footage of Dr. Traff wandering around the house and staring at support beams in the basement or gazing blankly out of windows. Frankly, he looks like he's waiting for his Uber so he can collect his appearance fee and hit the Shoney's before he goes back to the hotel and beds down for the night.  That's it?  That's what you've come up with?  A demon that makes you look like you're on a magic carpet ride with the Doobie Brothers?  Why am I still watching this? It's not like I paid for it.

The producers must feel that we're not getting enough bang for our emotional-investment buck, too, because the next thing we see is one of the cameramen, Adam Ahlbrandt, roaming the halls and bellowing like a gut-shot steer for "that bitch" to come out.  He throws himself against doors and reserves special invective for the elevator, which he punches kicks and shoulders repeatedly.  He also disappears into the elevator for long periods and just stands there until Zak gets him out again.

I'm sure this is all meant to be scary, but it's cheesy and patently fake, and all I could think as I watched was, I hope there were no cripples on that floor who needed that elevator.  Or any floor, for that matter, because elevators aren't supposed to be used as battering rams or tantrum boxes for artsy fumblefucks feigning possession rage.  I can only imagine impotent, seething fury of some poor cripple who just wants to get to their room and take a shit in peace but can't because some fucksticks high on shrooms and ego keep holding the elevator for take after shitty take or have broken it outright.  There would be no comp high enough for their loss of independence and dignity when they shit on the lobby floor and get blamed for making a mess, though I'm sure Bagans wouldn't waste the opportunity to declare that the demon made a hotel guest defile the lobby in a challenge to God's authority.

After an interminable sequence of watching the cameraman rampage up and down the hall like an escapee from a Butthole Surfers concert who mistakenly shoved the LSD tab up his ass in the hopes of a cooler trip, Zak and the remaining cameraman wrangle him into the hotel room, where the rage magically ceases and he delivers an unconvincing recitation about seeing something evil in the elevator.  When Zak presses the subject, Adam replies curtly, "I think you know what I fucking saw, dude."

DUN, DUN, DUN!!!

Zak does, in fact, know what he saw. Before he came to the house, he had a nightmare about an eleven-foot-tall goat man who breathed black mist into his mouth, and now it's turned up in the hotel elevator.

"It doesn't want me, it wants you, man," Adam mumbles.

And there we have it.  Satan's second-in-command has taken up residence in a house in the butthole of cornfed country and terrorized numerous occupants in order to lure Zak Bagans there and destroy him.  Uh huh.  If the demon can enter your dreams, why didn't it just reach out and pulp your puny brain while you snored, farted, and drooled in your BVDs?  Why waste its time with an elaborate, imbecilic plan clearly concocted by a dribbling moron?  Or someone who doesn't know how to write a convincing story?

Armed with the truth, Zak decides he must take a courageous stand.  How will he do this, you ask?

Just you wait.

Armed with his steely, many resolve(and no doubt fortified by a snifter or two of cheap brandy from the nearby ABC Liquor store), the intrepid Mr. Bagans swings into action. The first step in Our Hero's ingenious battle plan is to send the jabbering, elevator-ravaging cameraman packing.  For his own safety, of course, and not because he's served his purpose.  Because everyone knows that the wisest thing you can do with a person under the pernicious influence of a demon that likes to cause chaos and harm whenever possible is to set him loose on an unsuspecting populace without so much as an attempt at removing the suspected attachment. Crack work.  Goooo, team!

The second step in this grand plan to take the forces of hell down a peg?  Why, Zak is going to barricade himself inside the demon's timeshare and become that annoying, unexpected houseguest that turns up on your doorstep unannounced, raids your fridge and snarfs the cannoli you've been holding out for yourself as a reward for surviving another day in the 9-to-5 trenches, uses your toothbrush, makes your bathroom uninhabitable for the next 12 hours, and is busily laying rank aftershocks into your sofa cushions, a traveling stench farmer who will be long gone when his rancid, gaseous seeds bear their noxious fruit the next time you plop down for a relaxing binge-watching session on Netflix.

On the face of it, this doesn't sound like a bad plan until you recall that this is the same yutz who:

-thought giving a powerful demon who can allegedly transmit itself through electronic equipment a global platform.

-allowed people, including lackwit teenagers, to enter a house purportedly infested by Satan's right-hand man with no protection whatsoever.

-Invited even more people into the demon's lair without protection.  Maybe he was going to offer them up to it like a handful of scrumptious piggies in a blanket.

-left an environmental engineer and his camera crew unattended in the basement, the nexus of the dark doings.

-turned his raving cameraman, who just spent twenty minutes and a great deal of energy doing his best imitation of a meth-addled redneck, out without so much as a farewell wellness check.

Oh, boy.

The sheriff isn't exactly impressed with this sterling plan of action, but he doesn't forbid it, either, and a savage, petty part of me suspects that the good sir consented to it just to watch the show from the comfort of his squad car, chugging coffee and shooting the shit with the boys back at the station over the radio.  Or maybe he wasn't too terribly fussed at the prospect of an overweening chode getting snatched into the abyss.

With approval in hand, Zak undertakes the epic final battle with the forces of evil with the doughty knights of the Home Depot who seal him inside the house with the help of plywood hammered over every door and window.  Just before Zak steps inside with nothing but his smartphone and has the door sealed behind him, the sheriff says, "If stuff starts happening, and you need to get out, call me so I can send the fire department and have them bust the door in."

If only things could be so exciting.

Alas for us, not much happens once Zak offers himself as bait.  He wanders the house and tests the doors and windows in a show of authenticity, texts from the comfort of the by-now-familiar janky sofa(Way to go, braintrust, run down your charge so that when you need the fire department to save you from your dumbass self and stellar record of piss-poor decision-making, you won't be able to call the sheriff.  Don't worry, though; he's probably ensconced in his squad car just out of camera range, laughing up his sleeve and trying not to inadvertently irrigate his nostrils with hot coffee.), and stares at the walls.

"I don't want to go dark," he says, as though that makes sense in this context, since no previous mention has been made of the demon needing darkness to operate.

Eventually, Zak departs the sweet embrace of the janky couch and turns off the light.  Thanks to the wonders of cuts and time lapse, things shift into warp drive.  We see Zak sitting on a bed in one of the rooms.  Then he sprawls.  Then he sits.  And then, after ninety minutes of buildup, the grand climax.

Even though he is alone, heavy footfalls and ominous creaks are heard.  A good little marmoset, Zak sits up, on the alert, and gazes before him.  There's nothing to see, but we can hear a furtive shuffling, as though Mr. Meth(ed) Man has come back after his bender and is trying to crawl into his room without disturbing his more staid roommate.  This is followed by an unholy howl that speaks of the torments of the godless damned, but bears a suspicious resemblance to someone farting into a vuvuzela with unbridled gusto.  Or hey, maybe the good sheriff agreed to feed his distorted radio static through the hidden speakers for an extra 100 dollars and a gift card to his favorite coffee joint.

"Stay away!" Zak cries, and scoots back on the bed as he gazes, horror-stricken, at nothing. Later, he will tell us it was a black mass, which is a phrase which here means the sad consequences of too much Saturday night.  "I said stay away!"  And-

And cut.  When next we see the bed, it is much lighter, and the picture is painfully clear, almost stark. There is no sign of Zak, but we find him soon enough in the kitchen, clutching his head and bawling drunkenly about pain in his eyes.  He lumbers and lurches around the house for a time and makes his way into the living room, where he bellows, "I want out", and sweeps unidentifiable bric-a-brac from a nearby shelf.  He then turns and batters the front door.

And that's it.  The knights Home Depot did not offer up the best of their goodly plywood for his righteous quest, because the fire department never needed to bust him out.  All Zak needed was his mighty fists and shoulders, I guess.  Hipster SMASH!

When next we see Zak, he tells us he's having the house demolished.  Huzzah!  An act of great sense. Perhaps there was a purpose to this journey, after all.  Not to do with Satan's tag-team partner or bogies in the night, but with a man coming to greater maturity and wis-

Wait, what?  He's had the house demolished, but because he's an investigator and a collector, he's kept a few items from the house, as well as some dirt from the basement.  And he keeps it in a cheap storage locker that any dribblebib with a pair of bolt cutters could breach?

Flames!  Flames on the side of my face! You have a demon so powerful that it is second only to Satan, you think it can transmit itself through electronic equipment and the briefest of contact, and anyone who has contact with anything from that house is beset by misfortune, and you're so afraid of it that you decide to tear the house down, but you opt to keep three fifty-gallon drums full of cursed earth in a poorly-secured storage locker?

You, sir, are a fucktruckle.

But Zak isn't quite done yet.  He also tells us that the "confrontation" with the demon damaged his eyes and gave him diplopia, forcing him to wear prism glasses for the rest of his days, oh, woe.

You mean the same glasses you've been wearing since the start of this documentary?  The same ones you've been wearing since at least 2010, five years before you filmed this? Those glasses?

You absolute fuckcricket.  It's a shame Satan's spotter didn't rip your sphincter out and use it as a key fob for his new timeshare in Laguna Beach.

[vyrerus]

My Wreck

Gonna put a read more thing here, cause this is gonna be a personal rant/vent, and I wouldn’t recommend reading it, for the few of you who keep up with me. I just gotta write it, and put it somewhere, or I’m gonna go out of my mind.

So I guess I’ll begin by saying that I’ve been out of work for almost a year, again. I got a job last October that lasted till December when severely hurt the tendons in my left wrist, such that I lost the job that I had just gained. The impact of this injury were not apparent on the outset, but suffice it to say it still causes me active pain daily. I have full motion and use of my left hand, but lifting things and doing manual labor sparks flares. It sucks and makes me hesitant to seek jobs that require me to lift things.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg though, with the problems in my life. I’ve moved back home to my Dad’s, and I’ve been here far longer than I wanted to be(2 years at this point). I do possess enough money to move out somewhere, but the problem with that is that I’d need a guaranteed job that could pay rent for where ever I move to, and the real problem with that is that I have no strong desire to live anywhere in this world. In fact, I haven’t had any sort of desire or goal like that ever since I tried to take my own life in 2014. Sometimes I’ll get inspired to have some sort of aspiration, only for that feeling to fade and crumble. I wish I’d been stronger, and that I was still in the military every other day, cause on top of this depression(clinical diagnosis circa April 27th 2014), I have to put up with my family.

Our relationships aren’t really that bad. In fact, they’re pretty good, but one of my brothers and my mother are in the dark about my suicide attempt still. My Dad and oldest brother know, cause my oldest brother broke my confidence pretty much immediately after I told him about it. Dad has offered to have me re-evaluated and medicated, but then he turns right around and takes jabs at me for being indolent and apathetic about pretty much everything. I keep refusing those offers, cause I don’t want to fork out money for medication, and my therapy experience from 2014 makes me not want to talk to a shrink ever again. My other brother and mother do too, but I can’t tell them about this shit cause that’d make living here even worse. Mom is hyper christian, and I’d probably never see the end of her trying to drag me to church and shoving bible verses in my face every time I turn around. That’s the last thing I want. Prayer didn’t help before or during my breakdown, and sure as heck isn’t going to help all of a sudden. My other brother has a lot going on in his life right now. His archaeological career is making steady progress, he’s engaged, and he’s trying to orchestrate savings and wedding and all that. He doesn’t need pointless brother baggage. 

I just don’t know what to seek in life, and I have even less of a clue about what will make me feel fulfilled or like I have a purpose. I know that’s mainly a self-motivation thing, but at the same time, I feel like a lot of successful people have these keystones in their lives that make it easy to feel motivated and get up and go. Love, an ideology, survival instinct, family, kids, material wealth. I used to be driven by lovers and relationships. I’ve got some other malfunction, cause that never goes well either, which has turned me off from seeking one. I used to be Christian, but having had a crisis of faith and found no reprieve in faith, I gave that up. No kids, and none in the foreseeable future given that I don’t have much of a say in that. Not that I’d be a good parent in my current state. And as for material wealth, well, I don’t much care about owning stuff other than video games, so I generally don’t care about buying stuff unless I have to. 

I’ve tried being licentious, and as great as sex feels, I just wind up having a painful feeling in my being whenever the woman walks away from it casually, be she prostitute or online dating app hook-up. Getting drunk feels nice, but I can’t really stand drinking. Smoking’s out of the question, cause even though a nicotine rush feels fantastic, smoking is unbearable for me(childhood asthmatic). Pornography seems more and more boring. I mean, I never get tired of seeing the female form, and lewd acts to go along with it, but when I go to view it now, it’s pretty much open and closed. Drugs don’t appeal to me. Cost too much in both money and quality of life.

I know I’d like to feel love and be loved again, but as time goes on, I feel like the possibility of that slips further and further away from me. Granted, because of my aforementioned behaviors, there are things I probably won’t be willing to tell future partners(hey look, a hint of optimism), because it would probably ruin the relationship. More than that though, who’s gonna go after a depressed shut-in male with no ambition? 

 I have three close friends, and I love them, but I very easily feel that my adoration for them goes one way, that I care more for them than they do for me. Like I could disappear, and they might be sad for a moment, but there are greater friends in their lives already. I don’t think I’ve ever been anybody’s #1, though someone made me feel that way once. I had friends that made me feel that way too, in the past, but time and circumstance saw to ruining that as well.

I’ve never felt so unwanted. That’s a poor way to phrase it, but I can’t think straight right now. I guess this feeling bit into me when I fulfilled a lifelong dream, and traveled to Japan. I went alone, of course, and I had an amazing time. I saw a lot of places in Tokyo, and I went to the Sapporo Snow Festival in Hokkaido. Yet, this nagging feeling always tugged at the edge of my mind, “This would be so much better if I was sharing it with someone I loved.” The feeling was reinforced by poor choices, when I had mind blowing sex with a Japanese call girl, and she took an interest in me, because that’s part of her job, and you know, the longer a sex worker can tick down your time from doing the actual deed, the better they’ll feel later, cause it’s gotta be exhausting going from working all day to boning some strange foreigner at night, but I digress. She was worried that since I was going to rural Hokkaido( I went and spent a week in a traditional ryokan about 40 miles outside of Sapporo), that I might get lost or have too much trouble because of being unable to read or really speak Japanese(hey I knew enough to be polite!). So, she called the ryokan on her own volition and asked for directions and nearby train stations, and for the best routes to get to and from there. She wrote them down for me in kanji/hiragana/katakana with the english translation below them. I called on her again when I came back to Tokyo, and she was actually somewhat elated. I’m a fool, I know, but we talked for 3 hours, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and I even forked out for an extension, just to continue talking to her. At the end of the time, she couldn’t believe that she had been there talking to me for so long, and she was very mortified, or at least acted like it. I called on her again, and that time she was confused. She said she was sure that I’d lodged a complaint with the agency, and that she’d be getting in trouble soon. I doubt she would have actually gotten in much trouble, not that I really know, but I was confident that I was being suckered very hard, but the desperation of my loneliness told me that this cost was worth it. After our final time together, I openly wept, after she had left. Because I knew since it had come to this, I was a wreck. And I’m still a wreck, and I’m just not sure how I’m gonna salvage myself. My wreck.

[possuminwonderland]

First Anniversary : A Year in Review

It’s crazy to look back and think that one year ago, I left my corporate job with Etsy to be self employed.  It’s certainly been a whirlwind of a year - I’ve learned a ton that I didn’t know before, and I’ve had a few moments where I needed to reminded myself of lessons that I’ve shared dozens of times.  

When you’re working for yourself, it’s easy to forget that there’s natural ebbs and flows of business; that not all of your clients will be dream clients; that sometimes, it just really sucks to have to build your own systems, website, and branding.  And man, can it be time consuming!

I’ll be honest - I’ve had moments where I wished for the stability of the paycheck and the corporate life again.  And the snacks - oh my gosh, the snacks at Etsy were on point.

But for all the low points, I can’t help but look back and be incredibly proud of all that I’ve built.  In the last year, I’ve had the privilege to work with some incredible (and inspiring!) people and businesses.  I launched my first eCourse, have written six eBooks, developed 2 planners, hosted workshops and yoga classes beyond count, and crafted a maternity leave in a new business, plus launched a new creative enterprise with my husband.

And with all the ups and downs, I’m still all about that entrepreneur life.  If you’re getting started on launching a new business this year, here are some of the harder lessons I’ve learned, and what my recommendations would be for you going in:

Trust Your Gut

When I first launched, I thought I had signed my dream client.  They were practically matching my Etsy salary, it was work I loved, and people I trusted.

Within about two weeks though, I noticed a few things that should have been red flags - the client was cagey about follow-up, non-committal about contracts, and I was waking up panicked about what needed to get accomplished while they were hesitate to even review the basics.

You’re probably thinking what I would immediately tell any client - girl, get out of there!!  

But instead, I attributed my feelings to stress from leaving a great job, traveling the less-walked path, imposter syndrome —  basically, I told my gut instinct that was screaming “BAD CALL” to shove it and did the work anyway.

It didn’t end well, as you likely guessed.  I’ll spare you the details, but the lesson from this one is simple, friends - trust your gut.  If you’re waking up panicked because you’re concerned the client relationship isn’t what it should be, there’s probably a reason.  If your client isn’t willing to sign a contract, do NOTHING for them, even if they’re a friend you trust.  And last but not least, learn to recognize that even if someone wants and needs your services, it doesn’t mean that they’re ready to work with you.

Evaluate Your Priorities

One of the first mistakes I made was in setting prices that were based on an hourly, contract rate as a consultant in businesses.  As such, I gave clients the option to pay me a certain amount of money for consultation an hour.

Just typing that up now makes me feel silly - because I never thought, in my wildest dreams, that people would expect full time work from me at those rates.  And yes, they absolutely did.  

It didn’t matter what my working hours were set for, or the limits I tried to impose - clients felt that because they paid me per hour, they were my first and only priority.

Now - I wasn’t setting a valid expectation for my clients.  They thought they had unlimited access to me, and enforcing boundaries in that condition was challenging because I wanted to deliver top-performance results to each client.  After all, I was just get started and word of mouth marketing is a REAL THING.

I ended up burnt out, exhausted, and answering work emails on vacation within hours of finding out I was pregnant at one of my best friends weddings.

And friends?  That was totally my fault.  By setting an impossibly high standard for myself, I de-prioritized the most important thing in my business - myself.  Sure, it’s important to me that I scale my business, grow, deliver top-notch service — but my absolute top priority is to walk my talk.

I can’t be a holistic health and business coach who doesn’t enforce their own boundaries.  I can’t tell people to turn their phones off at night and connect with family if I’m not doing the same thing.  I can’t preach setting business hours if I’m debating calling my mother to tell her about my positive pregnancy test or respond to that clients “urgent email” that got pushed through my vacation mode responder.

Knowing your priorities and always, ALWAYS honoring them is a huge lesson I learned this year. 

Compare Energy Expenses to Income

Whether you’re in a service based industry or a product based industry, if doing your work is sucking out your soul - it’s probably not worth it.

After the aforementioned mistakes I made, I created a document that tracked how many hours a week I worked on particular projects or clients, and the financial investment I was getting from them.  I ranked the clients and projects in terms of how much I enjoyed working with them, and how much of a percentage of my business they were.

Unsurprisingly, the clients and products that were the biggest drains of my energy and most challenging to work with also happened to be the clients that paid me the least.

Within a few months, I closed out all of those contracts and didn’t offer up the option to renew.

Did my business take a hit?  Yes, frankly - but it pushed me to explore other options that were more aligned with my goals and where I wanted to be.  It pushed me to launch the Etsy Success Course, build out more workshops and eBooks, and get back into selling more products.  

Especially as I transition into being a mother and business owner, I want to set the model for my kid that working for yourself is the opposite of slogging away at work you hate - instead, it’s about finding the solutions that meet your skill set and getting paid to do it well.  

If you’re just starting up, I recommend evaluating the work that you’re doing - make sure that the energy you’re putting into a client or a project is being appropriately compensated.  I get that sometimes you have to work with tough clients or projects you don’t love - but don’t let that dominate the work you do.  

Systems Are Worth The Investment

I launched my business as a side-hustle about a year before I left my corporate job.  I advocate hard for bootstrapping your business, I recommend against going into debt to launch, and I’m a huge fan of investing your returns back into your own growth and business.

So when I came across a lot of systems that were expensive when I first started, I laughed.  Why pay $400 a year for project management and CRM software? That’s totally within my skill set.

WRONG.  SO WRONG.

Let’s run through what a typical inquiry would look like when I first launched.

Client saw blog

Client struggled to find “Contact” page

Client reached out and waited for my response (depending on the day of the week, maybe up to 4 days)

I set up time to chat with client, typically about a week or two after making contact with them, and pitched my services.

If they committed, I manually ran their cards/checks, handled all the paperwork as .pdfs or physical sheets, and had to run my books each month for a few hours.

Friends. That is a cumbersome process.  Now I use Honeybook in my business, and as soon as someone reaches out that they’re interested in working with me, they immediately get:

Pricing sheet

Clear, outlined expectations of what’s a part of my coaching practice

Details about working with me one-on-one

The option to set up a consultation, which links them to my work calendar to schedule an appointment, and automatically sends them reminders after they’ve booked.

If they decide to move forward with me after a consultation, a full coaching contract gets sent out immediately - including payments, which were automatically taken and stored.

Seriously - the amount of time I spent working with clients halved in terms of paperwork - and I didn’t spend as much time on consulting calls where people were unclear about what the coaching process looked like, and what resources were available to them. Instead, I was getting on calls with people who were already clear on my offerings and committed to the outcome.

If I were to go back and relaunch, I’d start out by investing in either Honeybook or something like it purely because it’s saved me so much time. It’s like having a personal assistant in my business that just manages my paperwork and I absolutely love it.

If looking over this list makes you feel like there’s no way you can tackle your first year in business - you’re totally wrong.  You’ve got this!  

Every job is hard.  Every job has tough days.  You’ll have bad bosses, bad clients, and things will periodically blow up in your face.

But unlike a traditional job, when you work for yourself, you know that every single one of your wins is because you worked hard to achieve them.  There’s seriously nothing as amazing and building up your work and watching it bloom.  

Instead of looking over these hard lessons and thinking that it’s not worth starting, use them as a way to anticipate some trouble that you might run into.  I never thought that a huge obstacle to growth for me would be as simple as software - but making small changes let me grow in a crazy positive way.  Similarly, I never thought of clients in terms of the energy I was spending on them, and what it’s worth was to me. 

What are you most excited about in the first year of your business?  What hard lessons did you learn, and how did that change how you tackle things?