#banded tree monitor

[snototter]

A banded tree monitor (Varanus scalaris) in Mornington, Kimberley, WA, Australia

by Melissa Bruton

[hatsukeii]

hi hatssun!! congrats on 900 followers!!

i would love to be on the guitar and bass with kageyama! i heard someone say "takes one to know one" in my in-ear monitor and prefer my “pining” guitar pick ;) thank you <3

nice! the band you've joined is...

lessons in love / bsf!kageyama tobio x reader

genre(s): angst in between bouts of fluff but this will be a very sweet fic methinks, lowkey found family, subtle but definitely pining, learning to love and learning to live!!!

warning(s): family issues smh, blood because kageyama is reckless and upset ngl, a smidge of depression/implied self-harm + suicidal ideation so pls be cautious! im basing those things off of what i've felt before so im trying not to romanticise it iykwim

wc: ~1.7k

your first gig is at… a waste yard?!

setlist:

🎵踊り子, vaundy

🎵lonely rhapsody, fuji kaze

🎵fake plastic trees, radiohead

Life leads Kageyama Tobio to a wasteland.

His feet kick at soda cans as he treks through mountains of thrown out televisions, yellowed mattresses, emptied beer bottles with the edges smashed open. His hand holds a baseball bat, yours carry along a skateboard. Leaves and paper crunch beneath your board as you jam it into the sooty ground ahead of a worn down Corvette. Once, a long time ago, it must have been the priceless possession of some young, fiery man. Now, it ages with him, alone and rusting through trials of life.

"The car? You sure?"

"Go on. Tell it what you want to." You egg him on, smacking your board into the ground once, twice. Tobio tosses the bat and catches it by the hilt, but his steps are shaky, careful as he approaches the hunk of metal. He raises it by his side, and slams it into the sideview mirror until it comes clean off with a snap. You watch him, hands pressing your board firm into the ground. Tobio is silent, even as he hammers and slashes and plows relentlessly into the rusted metal body of an unloved, unwanted Corvette. You imagine every crack in the car's windows carrying a little weight for him.

"I can't stand it here anymore."

Tobio gives the windshield one final blow, before the entire thing collapses into the cockpit of the car in chunks and shimmers of foggy glass. Frowning, his hands grab onto the frame, palms sinking into jagged shards of smashed window. He'll patch them up for volleyball, he thinks, but for now, he would rather watch them bleed for tonight. His feet push off the bumper, hands pushing further into the glass as he swings himself onto the roof of the car. He lies his head down on his bloodied palms, hair poking into fresh wounds. You sigh, tossing your unused skateboard to the side, and push yourself onto the trunk of the car, standing over Tobio's head.

"You're actually insane, you know? Dragging me out here so I can assault a car." He stares at the sky. The moon cowers behind grey clouds tonight, billions of stars following suit. The only star he sees is hovering above his face, but he's too busy trying not to wince at the stench of his blood oozing into his hair.

"Takes one to know one, Tobio. You fucked it up real good."

He sits up, pushing himself to the side and leaving bloody handprints on the off-white roof of the car. You press your hand onto the cool metal , swinging one leg over. Your boot lands on Tobio's stomach, and he doubles over before falling limp again. A second leg follows up, slinging itself onto the first. His eyes flicker from the sky to your seated figure, legs sprawled across his body, a fallen star in a barren wasteland. If his palms weren't bloodied and battered tonight, he'd lift you back up into the sky and away from the abyss that is himself. You deserve at least that much.

"Need to get away from here." He mumbles into the air, wisps of cold puffing from his mouth.

Your legs shift, one bent for your boot to rest between his legs, the other lying comfortably across his knee. Swallowing thickly, he lolls his head to the side, the corner of his eye catching the way your hair falls loose from behind your ear when you turn to look at him. If his hands weren't stinging like hell behind his head, he would push it back to see you properly. His eyes train onto nothing in particular, melancholic. Tired. You click your tongue and reach over to pinch his earlobe, a pinch that tells him, hey, I'm still here. You're still here. We can stay forever if you'd like. Once an odd quirk of yours turned a habit that seems to ground Tobio every time he feels the dull ache. You've done it so much that he's memorised the swirls etched into the pads of your fingers just by the feeling of them pressed against his ears.

"Hey, y/n."

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I have it in me to live?"

You gasp, feigning hurt as your hand shoots up to your chest. Yet in your mind, you do not want to talk about this, because you have no answer for him. So, you hope that Tobio laughs at you. He doesn't. Instead, he pushes himself upright on his elbows, palms facing the air. The blood has dried and clotted now, streaks of reddish-brown slashing across the pale skin of his hands.

"Live?"

"Yeah, like really live."

He stops to think, eyes rolling to stare at the blank sky, devoid of stellar or lunar presence. His eyes dart around to draw into the clouds, two people sitting atop a Corvette that has expended its time, legs tangled betwen each other, minds connected by brain waves unseen by each other, but so very present nevertheless. Two minds so detached from the rest of the world, from fighting parents that storm into different rooms at midnight, from the horrors that have made their marks in their chests, their heads, their ears, their eyes too. Two wandering souls that bumped into each other on a school rooftop by chance one day, one learning to live, the other living as if tomorrow was not guaranteed.

"I'm still alive, for what it's worth. What makes you think you can't?"

Tobio looks back to you, and it's almost like he's back on that school rooftop a year ago. The rooftop where the wind howls and whistles, no matter how low he crouches behind the barriers to breathe. The rooftop where you pinched his ear for the first time, and he didn't even know your name. Now, he knows where you head to when nights of muffled screaming from downstairs become ringing in your ears, and how you like your breakfast on the mornings that you jog to his house when dewdrops form on leaves at dusk, usually after sleeping through the night in a Corvette at a waste disposal. You know the recurring nightmare that plagues his waking dreams, the one where his toss hits an empty court, his teammates huddled outside the lines, and the anxiety that eats at his very being, fear that he will never really learn how to live freely, to spread his wings and take off.

"I have nothing but volleyball. I don't know if anyone really cares for me outside of that. Except you, probably. Which is weird already."

"What's so weird about that? I think I love you anyways." You freeze at your casual confession, holding your breath. Then you decide that it's not worth it, and breathe out. Tobio stares, the thought of what you have just said being true is inconceivable. Heavy breaths line the silent air, your chests heave at the same pace, and he thinks that maybe your bodies are connected in some capacity too.

"You think?"

"Don't exactly have a good reference to go by now, do I?"

Tobio can't bring himself to nod. The idea that you've chosen to consider loving him, of all people, is frightening. The prospect of you choosing to stay in this abyss alongside him, refusing to go back amongst the stars, where you belong, is gut wrenching. Why? Why stay here? All he knows is volleyball. He can't even figure out how he wants to exist. There's so much waiting ahead for you, beyond the dysfunctional family, and the wasteland, and the Corvette. A youth of dancing on top of cars, and watching planes fly by from grassy fields, and chats of last night's dinner instead of last night's nightmare. So much that he knows someone else could give you, maybe even better than he can. You puff your cheeks, and blow a raspberry at his silence, before he finally breaks it.

"Why me?"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm awful?"

"You're just learning to live, like everyone else. That doesn't make you awful. That doesn't stop me from loving you either."

"You've gotta stop saying that, man." You raise your eyebrow at his request, heart sinking to your stomach.

"What, that I love you? Does that scare you?" He shakes his head, and you only just notice the faint pink that lines his cheeks. The clouds above thin out, the glow of the moon is diffused, but finally there nevertheless. His bloodied palm tucks the fallen strands of hair behind your ear, tracing over the curve tentatively. He wants to learn you all over again.

"It scares me. But it excites me. It excites me to like, no end." His fingers ghost across your neck, gliding over your pulse. This feels like the real thing, he wonders if you know when you smile back at him.

"Good. That's what it feels like to live."

You reach for his hand, feeling the cuts and gashes in his palm when you press your own to his. He links his fingers with yours, and sets your hands back on the cold metal of the Corvette. Then, he pushes forward to you, pressing his lips against yours for just a second. This tastes like the real thing, and Tobio hopes that by the way you pull him back in, you know it too. His other hand snakes around to your back, pushing you impossibly close to him. You don't let him go until your lungs are shrivelled discs, begging for air. And even then, you hold his forehead against yours, and breathe against his lips, cupid's bows still touching. His eyes are lidded, staring at the puffs of white that don't stop coming from your mouths.

"Yeah, I think I love you too." His confession sends shivers down your spine, shivers that are caught by his hand on your back, his fingers against yours on the roof of a car, and his lips on yours again.

Life leads Kageyama Tobio to a wasteland. Love leads him into the night sky, right beside you instead.

author's note:

this is an apology and a fulfilment of a promise for ave because yeah ushijima HURT you but im about to pull you back out of it bb<3 have yourself a wonderful angsty fluff pining hurt/comfort found family learning to live learning to love fic i love you also i hope it's angsty enough because i think i went the found family route a little too much so it's not explicitly sad but it's more like melancholic iykwim

off topic but i haven't gone so heavy on like mental turmoil in my writing since forever but i hope that what i've written here is realistic(?) i personally have dealt with most things i wrote here so im not worried about being weird and romanticising awful things but i need to like just clarify LOL

anyways tags!!

@chuuya-brainrot @hiraethwa @catsoupki @staraxiaa @fiannee @akaakeis @4ngelfries @wyrcan @kuroppiii @bailey-reeds

interested in joining a band? come on over to the build-a-band 900 !!

[3-2-whump]

Relapse: Crumbling Promises

<prev next>

Please heed the TW/CWs on this chapter. Also, thanks @generic-whumperz and @whumped-by-glitter for your input into the ending of this chapter, your feedback has been applied

TW/CW: dubcon (lots of dubcon), allusions to previous dubcon, prostitution, slave whump, degrading language, degraded whumpee (in that whumpee has to haggle their own value -idk what that’s called, but it’s pretty degrading), intimate whumper, possessive whumper, asphyxiation, emotional whump, unhealthy relationship dynamics, possessive relationship dynamics, whumper x whumpee (although pretty unbalanced)

The frenetic stimulation of his cock and the wild fragility in Khaled’s eyes continued to haunt the mob boss long after their reunion of the flesh in the parking lot a month ago. He thought about it from when he couldn’t sleep at night to the first waking moments of consciousness in the morning. He thought about it in the shower, at the gym, during meetings, and in the middle of intercourse at the brothels. It was just as Khaled had said; those girls (and occasional boys) in the whorehouses could only satisfy him for so long, and he believed he had finally run his course after his fourth threesome in a month. Now here he sat, in his desk chair, trying to compose an email he’d rather not send, with his mind far away from the zoom conference he was supposed to be a part of.

He looked over his shoulder at Khaled, who had broken away from his usual positon right behind his chair to water the potted fig tree by the window. Nothing in his composure betrayed his lapse in decorum on that fateful night, though he was moving a lot slower than usual, and his eye-bags seemed darker than his foundation could cover up. Tom studied him closely, noting Khaled had been like this for months now. Was he still sneaking out at night to see that damn cholo? He’d been meaning to do something about his slave’s newfound promiscuity, but something more important always came up, and ever since their near-death experiences, Thomas had been trying to turn over a new leaf and give Khaled a longer leash, metaphorically speaking. Although, if the boy kept dragging his feet, he might tie him onto a literal leash, too.

Some static-y goodbyes and well-wishings sounded from his monitor, signaling the end of the conference call. Tom cleared his throat and jumped in with his own farewells. “Yes, you too, happy holidays, buon natale –yeah, yeah, I’ll see you next year, Matteo. You too, Gio, happy new year! Okay, okay, bye!” He exited out of the call, minimized the screen, and swiveled his desk chair to face the young man by the windowsill. “Khaled, come here,” he called.

As soon as Khaled was within reaching distance, the boss grabbed him by the waist and slung him over his lap, trapping him between the hard edge of the desk at his back and his own body in the front.

“What are you doing?” Khaled neither squirmed or struggled in his grasp, instead opting to stare at him quizzically. “Let me off, I don’t want this-”

“Like you didn’t want it in the parking lot on the night of your birthday last month?” He grinned in triumph as his slave’s face blushed bright red from the tops of his ears down to the black band of his collar. “You do,” Tom whispered, voice low and sultry. “You want this, and you need this, Khaled.” He ran his hands from the young man’s waist up his sides, slightly untucking his shirt in the process. “I’ve seen you work yourself to the bone trying to be my executive assistant. Isn’t it exhausting, working so hard?” Khaled sat as still as a statue as his fingers raked over the front of his body. “Isn’t it tiresome, doing what free people do?” He snaked his hands down Khaled’s sides to dip under his shirt hem, feeling a familiar rush of heat below as he touched the warm skin underneath. “Don’t you just want to relax?”

The way Khaled’s body responded under his hands as he laid him over the desk was nothing like any of the whores the brothels could give him. Here, splayed back-first onto the hardwood, was his own personal fuck hole, who pleasured him exactly how he wanted. “But, this isn’t- I don’t want this,” his slave protested, lightly pushing back, “and this isn’t even what I’m being paid to do anyway-”

“Well, if it’s pay you’re after, I can pay you for this,” he snickered. “It’s called prostitution, Khaled, and if that’s how you want to earn your money, I certainly won’t get in your way.”

“But I don’t want this!”

“Not even for $100?”

Khaled’s mouth snapped shut. Thomas laughed.

“$500.” Thomas stopped laughing.

Khaled stuck his lower lip out and shot him the most pathetic pout he could give. “Am I, your own personal fuck slave, not even worth what you pay your high-class call girls?”

He scoffed incredulously. So, that’s how it’s gonna be? Alright then! “$200,” he countered, “you’re out of practice, and a little too assertive for my tastes lately.”

In an unprecedented turn of events, Khaled wrapped his legs around Thomas’ lower back and pulled him in closer by the front of his shirt. “$450,” he whispered, his soft, sweet lips mere inches from his own. “I’m not as out of practice as you may think, and I can be as meek as a lamb when I need to be.”

The mob boss did not expect this to turn him on as much as it did, and yet the ignition of arousal in his core and the hardening member in his slacks spoke for themselves. He emitted something akin to a purr or a growl. “$250,” he murmured sultrily, “take it or leave it, boy.”

“$300, and I’ll do that thing with your balls that you like.”

“You’ve got a deal!” He leaned in to kiss Khaled’s lips, pinning him further onto the desk as he unfastened the belt and pants around Khaled’s waist and peeled them off. He smiled into the kiss as Khaled yielded to him, opening his mouth so the older man could penetrate his mouth with his tongue and claim every inch inside him. He reluctantly broke off from the kiss to undo his own belt and pants. Once he had gotten himself out, he noted with satisfaction that Khaled’s knees were already hitched up to his shoulders, displaying that perfect set of three and that lovely little hole, all for Thomas J Costa. “And a merry fucking Christmas to me!” he murmured, completely satisfied. He opened the top drawer of his desk, where hiding among the paperclips and stapler refills was an innocuous little bottle of lubricant, with just enough fluid to get them through this session. “I never thought you’d be such a whore,” he teased. “Where is your self-respect?”

“Just hurry up, please,” Khaled whined, cheeks flaming red in –arousal? Shame? Not like Thomas could tell, or care.

“Oh no, whore, I’m gonna make you work for your $300 and ensure you earn every cent!”

He emptied what was left of the lube onto his hardened shaft and threw the bottle away. He gave himself a few quick pumps to spread the slippery substance from base to tip, then aligned himself between Khaled’s spread legs, pushing in without any sort of prelude or preparation. The boy groaned at the sudden intrusion. His nails bit into the wood of the desk as Thomas bottomed out inside of his tight little hole. “Oh my god, how do you still feel like you’re a virgin down there?” he grunted. He began to thrust his hips, slowly at first, then building up a nice rhythm as the lithe body underneath him slowly relaxed and opened for him. “There, that’s it,” he murmured as he leaned over Khaled. “You know how this works…” He nuzzled into the crook of Khaled’s neck, murmuring against the curve of the boy’s neck and shoulder. “Your body knows exactly what to do...” God, even the smell of Khaled’s skin was enough to stoke his arousal into a full inferno. The boss kissed hungrily against Khaled’s neck, breathing in the boy’s scent like it was air and he’d been holding his breath. The whimpers he got out of the boy as he began to use his teeth were some of the best noises he’d ever heard him make. Why on earth would he, Thomas Costa, want to give this up? Why did he ever think he could go one more day in his life without being inside this amazing little being? He sucked what he hoped would be a nice, dark hickey right over the strip of black ink across Khaled’s throat. A collar is not complete without its gemstones, right? he thought. He tongued the tattooed line thoughtfully. He licked at it as if he was trying to wipe it away with his tongue, even though he knew he couldn’t. Those permanent black bands were just another part of Khaled’s near-infinite sex appeal.

“You’re mine forever,” he whispered, lips brushing against that graceful neck with every word. “Doesn’t matter if you’re free one day, because you will always be mine.” And honestly, why would he ever have thought of freeing Khaled, when the boy made him feel this good?

“Please…” Khaled whined beneath him.

He pushed up from the crook of Khaled’s neck, placing the palms of his hands on the desk as he propped himself up. “Please what, my little slut?” he teased. “Please go faster?” Khaled screamed and moaned as Thomas picked up an enthusiastic pace inside of him. He pressed the boy between the hard desk and the weight of his heavier body as he pistoned in and out of his ass with only his own pleasure on his mind.

“What is it you want?” Khaled stared up at him, his dark brown eyes shimmering like pools of liquid ink. “Please what?” he panted huskily. “Please choke me?”

Dark brown eyes widened and his lips formed the beginnings of the word ‘no’ before Thomas wrapped both hands around Khaled’s slender neck. Instinctively, Khaled released his grip on the desk to futilely scratch and tug at his hands as he increased the pressure on his neck. Thomas released one of his hands just to slap him across the face. “Hands on the table,” he growled. A squeaky wheeze left Khaled’s lips as he still tried to pull the remaining hand away from his throat. Thomas slapped him again as he held the boy’s neck in a crushing grip. “Now!”

Khaled dropped his hands to his sides. His tears flowed over his reddening cheeks. His pulse quickened under Tom’s fingers as his trembling lips formed breathy words. “Please… please… no more… I’ve been… good... please…” he whispered hoarsely. His fingers clawed at the desk, carving long furrows into its surface as he struggled to dutifully keep his hands on it. “Mas…ter… please…” he begged.

I have your literal life in my hands, he thought, smiling down with a sadistic awe. No escorts of any economic bracket would ever let the man take it this far. Nothing could ever come close to this feeling of absolute power and control, and only his slave could make him feel this powerful. Only you, Khaled, only you, he repeated in his head as he fucked his way to climax. As Thomas emptied his balls inside Khaled’s hole, he knew he would never feel this way with anybody else. What was this feeling exactly?  he wondered, finally letting go of the boy’s bruised neck. He stayed sheathed inside of Khaled’s warm, tight hole, listening to nothing but Khaled’s desperate breaths for air over the sound of his own heavy breathing. It isn’t possessiveness, it isn’t just lust. He pulled his softening length out of the boy’s fluttering hole, watching his own seed seep out with fascination and pride. So, what was that feeling, where you know nobody else can make you feel this way, and you wouldn’t want anybody else to, anyway?

Khaled turned over, leaning over the desk by bracing himself on his hands as he coughed and sputtered. Once the hacking and coughing sounds had subsided, and Khaled was nothing more than a trembling body barely keeping itself propped up against the desk, Thomas gently turned him around to face him. “You good?” he asked.

Khaled nodded. He had crushed the boy’s throat, making it difficult for him to respond in any verbal capacity. His reddened eyes blinked up at him, shining anxiously under their tear-dampened eyelashes. “Alright, down you go,” he replied softly. He pushed Khaled down to his knees, putting him face-to-face with the cock that had just been inside him. “Clean me off, and don’t forget my balls,” he ordered, murmuring a quiet “you know what I like,” at the end. He brushed a hand through Khaled’s disheveled hair, thinking about what to call that feeling he held for his dear slave. He tipped his head back and groaned as Khaled’s skilled little tongue set to work.

If it isn’t possessiveness, and it isn’t lust, his thoughts began, before he lost himself in the sensation of Khaled’s mouth.

Is it…love?

“Why didn’t you love me?!” Khaled screamed in the parking lot that night.

Love. That was a sensitive subject for Thomas. What was love, even? Between his long-absent stepfather, his sperm donor of a biological father, his neglectful mother who pissed away her inheritance into casinos, and his hard-ass grandfather who demanded nothing but perfection as he pitted brother against brother, the man was painfully aware of the lack of love in his and his brother’s childhoods. The closest thing they had to a loving adult in their formative years was Val, the nanny, but she left them too, once they were old enough.

It was no wonder his honest attempts at dating had failed so spectacularly. It culminated in self-sabotaging his wedding with Lenore on the day of, making sure that she could never break his heart like everyone else by leaving him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It was not.

The pleasurable oral sensations had stopped down there, and Khaled now stared up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Satisfied?” he croaked. His voice was wrecked. He looked angelic.

“Yes.” Always. Forever.

Whoever said ‘if you love them, let them go’ obviously didn’t understand the pain of watching those loved ones abandon you one by one. Yet here, at Thomas’ feet, was someone who made him feel like the luckiest, most powerful man alive, who outshone everyone else as he pleasured him like no one else could, and who –if he reneged on their deal– would never leave him.

I love you, Khaled, he said in his mind, even if he wasn’t ready to say it aloud.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire

[beanarie]

several sentence sunday

tagged by @bidisasterevankinard 😘

it feels like most people who ordinarily do these are already doing make me write or they're offline. consider yourself tagged if you want to post a snippet

~

"That's the music you're playing to wake sleeping beauty?" Chim asks, forcing Buck to expand his awareness past Tommy.

Melton shrugs and takes his foot off the guard-rail on the side of the bed. "What," he says, frowning. "Chopin is great. I'm being respectful."

"I'm about to join him and I just got here. Never mind that I'm getting off a 48. Don't even bring that up." Earning a scoff from Melton just encourages Chim. "Let me see your phone. Do you have Spotify or what? Buck, take the chair. I'm teaching the man about 90s rock. He's gonna need to stand for this."

Buck sits amid talk of Mother Love Bone, Screaming Trees, Porno for Pyros, and other supposed bands he assumes Chimney just made up on the spot. This time the heart monitor and the ventilator aren't all that he can hear. It helps.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from The Revelator:

Extirpated from the United States a century ago and almost unknown until the mid-1990s, this endangered species can make a comeback if we give it a small boost. New technology for tracking has allowed an assessment and intervention that may help these birds hold on in several critical areas.

Species name:

Thick-billed parrot (Rhynchopsitta pachyrhyncha)

Description:

A typical parrot-green, mid-sized bird weighing 14-17 ounces (400-500 grams) with a distinctive wine-red mask. In flight, a distinctive yellow band is visible under the wings. Their raucous calls sound like laughter in the middle of the forest.

Where They’re Found:

Thick-billed parrots live mostly in Mexico’s Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range. They were presumably once abundant representatives of high-altitude pine forests, where they persist to this day in much smaller numbers due to the destruction of most old-growth forests and the reduction of mature forests. The species is only present in a small number of zones with adequate conditions for nesting, where they’re mostly under protection or good forest management.

IUCN Red List status:

Considered “endangered” in the most recent 2020 assessment, mainly due to habitat loss and an apparent constant decline. The first comprehensive population estimate will be conducted this fall. The parrot will be one of the first bird species to undergo the IUCN’s new Green Status Assessment, which measures the recovery of species populations and their conservation success.

Major Threats:

The extirpation of thick-billed parrots in the northern part of their range is believed to have been caused by hunting or shooting the parrots for “sport” or food. In the Sierra Madre Occidental of Mexico, where the core populations and range have been holding on, massive land-use change — particularly forestry practices to harvest all old-growth and large trees and remove snags that serve as nesting trees — resulted in precipitous decline over the past century, up until very recently. 

From the 1970s to the 1990s, demand by collectors and the pet trade became an additional threat that has since largely disappeared or represents minimal pressure on the species.

Notable Conservation Programs or Legal Protections:

For 30 years a small group of individuals and institutions have been doing research and developing a suite of techniques for thick-billed parrots, not only for research but also to enhance population growth by mitigating or eliminating factors that increase mortality and reduce productivity.

Most of the work during this time, which provided valuable information and insights, was done at a “pilot scale” and with meager resources. As a result we were basically frustrated witnesses to a species’ decline and potential demise.

Fortunately the species is currently the focus of a comprehensive binational effort of community-based conservation to change the trajectory of decline. The field team is led by Organización Vida Silvestre (OVIS) and supported notably by San Diego Zoo Wildlife Alliance, the Arizona Game and Fish Department, World Parrot Trust, and additional supporters and donors.

Over the next five years (2024-2028) we will implement the full suite of actions, including intensive nest monitoring and management, parasite control on an ad-hoc basis, food supplementation to chicks in select clutches to prevent emaciation, an enhanced nesting box program, fire pre-suppression activities, incentives to local communities, community-based monitoring and nest protection, greater understanding of landscape level need of the thick-billed parrot, and amplifying the telemetry information to include not only long distance movements but also daily activities to food, water and clay licks.

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

The safety of your embrace (part 2)

GIF by lasaraconor

Arondir x reader. This is part two of two.

Set before the beginning of series one. Descriptions of nightmares and sleep troubles.

This fic is dedicated to @eowyn7023.

*****

You wake up hours later, already late for your next assignment, feeling even more tired than before. Your head hurts as if a band of Dwarves were pickaxing it, and your movements feel sluggish; when at midday you reach the kitchens for lunch, you spill a cup of light ale on your clean uniform and it takes you several seconds to realise you’re supposed to do something about it. 

Later that day you have an archery practice session, as usual monitored by Revion; you have barely the strength to draw the bow, and not only none of your arrows hits the centre of the target, but one of them even misses the straw filled sack altogether, something that hadn’t happened since your first month after enlistment. The watchwarden, who had unfortunately chosen that very moment to walk beside you, meets your eyes with an unimpressed gaze; you look away, blushing furiously, already dreading the night to come.

By sundown you can barely keep yourself upright, and have stumbled into your comrades -or a wall. It hurts- at least three times because you couldn’t concentrate on your movements enough to avoid it. You have just realised that you have no more leaves, nor the time to ask for more and have them delivered to you, to keep awake during your second night shift, but in your heart you know that even if you did, if you put a whole tree in your mouth, it would change nothing. Elves are the most resilient and durable of the Free Folks, but even they need sleep, like they need food and water, to live; both your mind and body are at the very limits of their endurance, and if you don’t allow yourself to rest you’ll lose your mind, or worse you’ll fall asleep in the middle of the day in front of everyone. 

How could you do this to yourself? You are a soldier, and you are responsible for the security of every other Elf living within it, like each of them is also responsible for yours; the inattentiveness and physical weakness brought by the lack of sleep could put dozens of Elves at risk in case of Orc attack - or Men rebellion. You didn’t choose this, you would happily sleep soundly seven hours per night if you could, so as to carry out your duties to the best of your abilities, but you can’t. Nightmares keep plaguing you almost every night, and even during your brief day naps, and the insomnia, caused by the fact you always struggle to go back to sleep after a bad dream, is not the only problem; you don’t rest well, waking up still tired and not back to full strength. 

Every night is worse than the one before; like even the best weapon gets rusty, and its blade dull, if a warrior keeps using it for years without proper maintenance, an Elf, or any creature actually, needs to take care of their body and mind in order to function. You aren’t, at all, and you haven’t for some time, and you shiver to think what consequences that deficiency might have. 

Unfortunately, you still haven’t found a new place to sleep away from your room, which means that tomorrow night you’ll be in trouble; you need sleep, at least one night of long, uninterrupted rest, otherwise you’ll lose your mind and won’t be able to help your comrades in case of necessity. Revion has already noticed there is something wrong with you, both with your results during training and your behaviour in general, and the last thing you need is for him to suspect something is amiss - or to dismiss you from the garrison because you’re not at the same level as the others. You need to find a solution, quickly; but how?

Still, you are not even sure you’ll reach tomorrow night, because it’s the one approaching that scares you the most - your second night shift in a row. You present yourself at your post, ready to do your duty even if it means paying it with your blood…

… and you fall asleep.

The night is calm, less cold than one would expect in the middle of the winter, a myriad of stars casting sufficient light to make the guards’ work easier. You’ve tried everything you could think of -walking back and forth in the hope that the movement of your body would also keep your mind active, pinching yourself until it hurts, even filling your waterskin with cold water to sprinkle on your face- but Irmo’s power is inexorable and impossible to avoid, and after you have fought valiantly for an hour the Valar comes to take you in his arms, filling your mind with pleasant dreams in which you are still young, and innocent, in the company of your family, your heart free from guilt and shame…

“(name)! (name), you need to wake up!”

So deep was your sleep, it takes you a while to wake up, even though as a soldier you have been trained to be ready for battle at any moment, and when your eyes finally open, and you become vaguely aware of the hand urgently shaking you by the arm, you need even longer to realise the thing in front of you is Arondir’s face, looking worried and anxious. “You need to wake up! Revion is coming!”

No nightmare has ever made you scream like you’re about to do now; now that your roommate, comrade and friend -this is what you are by now, but you’re not sure that will be enough to earn you his silence regarding your unjustifiable conduct- has found you sleeping, deeply even!, when alertness and vigilance is of the utmost importance. You hadn’t even realised he would be on duty tonight as well.

“Arondir, I… I can explain…” you babble as you let him help you up to your feet; you don’t remember sitting down, which means you must have fallen on your rump while already fast asleep, your quiver abandoned on the stone pavement “I am so sorry, I… I didn’t mean…”

Arondir quickly interrupts you. “It’s alright.” he says, and then winces, as if realising the absurdity of words “Médhor came to warn us, the watchwarden is coming up for a surprise inspection; you need to be awake.”

Surprise inspections are a habit of Revion’s, you have been informed by the comrades who have been serving under him longer than you have, the watchwarden visiting the soldiers on guard duty in the middle of their shift -or even in the middle of the night, when he could be in his bed sleeping- to make sure they’re carrying out their duties satisfactorily. You hurry to assume the correct position, sword by your side, eyes focused on the fortunately silent and still plain in front of you.

“Thank you.” you murmur, unable to look your friend in the eyes, and he simply pats your arm before returning to his post.

Revion joins you five minutes later. “Something to report, (name)?” “Nothing, sir; all quiet.”

“Good.”

You let yourself sigh in relief as soon as the soft sound of the watchwarden’s steps has left your ears, but you know you are not safe - far from it; Arondir might not be the sort of Elf who talks ill of his comrades behind their back, especially not with the watchwarden, but the simple fact that he, a respected and stalwart soldier, saw you sleeping while on duty, makes you burn with shame. What if he decides to write home about it, tell his family and friends, until the whole village knows? You don’t think you could ever overcome the humiliation…

You somehow survive the night without falling asleep again, but once more, when you rise after the few hours of rest you had been allowed, you feel worse than before - exhausted, confused, awkward. Can an Elf die of tiredness? You’re not sure, but part of you would not mind finding out - at least, in that case, you’d be allowed to rest as much as you need. 

Despite the burning shame, you force yourself to confront Arondir, who you at least owe your thanks for having saved you from Revion’s ire; you meet near the stables on a cloudy, melancholic morning, the sort of day you don’t expect good things to happen in.

“There is really no need; I know you would have done the same for me.” he says simply, in that kind, modest attitude he has. Arondir is the sort of Elf who doesn’t ask for thanks or praises; he simply does what he thinks is right, whatever the consequences “I have been meaning to ask, (name)... are you well?”

“I am, thank you. I, err, it was my second night shift in a row, and sometimes I get sleepy when I eat too much at dinner…”

“You don’t need to justify yourself either; I’m not blaming you, and I’m not the commander.”

“No, but you are probably the best soldier in this garrison, and my friend; I know what I did was inexcusable, but I’d hate for you to have a bad opinion of me.”

Arondir reassures he never could; he knows well what it means to feel exhausted, dearly wishing the dawn -or the sunset- would come soon so that one could go rest, and regardless you are comrades, you should always support and help yourself when you can.

“Maybe next time you’ll be the one saving my hide, after I fall asleep.” he jokes, before quickly sobering up “To be honest, I wasn’t only speaking about last night. Forgive me, but you seem… out of sorts, so to speak; distracted. Not in the sense you don’t pay attention to your duties, mind you; rather… as if there was something that worried you. I thought that perhaps you had received ill news from home.”

If only you still had people to write to you from home. “No, it’s not that. Well, I…”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to; but if you need help, or just… someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

It’s so kind of him, so generous to offer to share his time, most of which is already occupied with duties and worries, with you, not because he cares about your problems but rather out of simple interest in your well-being. Gratitude fills your eyes with tears, and for a moment you are actually tempted to accept his offer - to tell him how fatigued, drained, you are, unable to sleep and even more to rest, of the nightmares that plague you and of how you fear this will end up affecting your job as a soldier - it already is, to be honest.

You wish you could tell him. There is little Arondir, and anyone else for that matter, could do to help you, since the pain and sorrow are in your heart and it’s up to you to come to terms with them, not forgetting the loss of your family -you never could- but learning to live and be at peace despite it, but sharing your troubles with someone… have a friend listen, sympathise and even embrace you and offer you a shoulder to cry on… that would be a treasure more precious than any of the richness of the Dwarven Kings.

“I’m fine, really; simply a bit tired.” you reassure him, forcing yourself to smile and begging in your heart he doesn’t know you well enough to perceive you are lying “But thank you, Arondir; I appreciate it, truly.”

He doesn’t insist, simply smiling and nodding in good-bye as he leaves, and you sigh in relief, trying desperately to ignore the presentiment that you haven’t convinced him, not at all, rather that you only managed to make him worry, and suspect there is something wrong with you, even more than before.

Your only hopes are the latrines, you decide that night at dinner. The cubicles are even more cramped than your previous hiding place, not to mention the smell is unpleasant even when freshly cleaned, but you have no other choice; tired as you are, you know you will easily sleep sitting, or even standing, so the lack of space is not an issue, and if someone feels the call of nature at night and comes knocking at the door, you’ll pretend you were also using them for their original purpose, hide behind the corner, and then return. Since the latrines are closer to the dormitories than you’d feel safe with, you prepared a rag to gag yourself with, and suffocate your screams should the nightmares wake you up for the umpteenth time.

And so, that night, you huddle in your bed, feeling almost guilty as you enjoy the softness of your mattress, turning your back to Arondir and listening carefully for when his deeper breathing will reassure you he has fallen asleep.

And so you wait, and you listen.

You listen, and you wait.

And you fall asleep.

Arondir is not taking longer than usual to drift off; the fault is only yours, and of the tiredness that makes it impossible to resist the comfortable bedding you’re lying on. You don’t even realise you are giving in, and it’s your breathing that deepens, and in a matter of minutes you are sleeping, in bed for the first time in months, peacefully huddled under your blanket.

It’s the most blissful sleep you remember having; pity that it only lasts an hour.

“No! No! Sister…!”

“(name), help! Please!”

“No… no…!”

“Squeal like a pig, Elf! I’ll put your head on my spike!

“Let her go! You monster… take me…!”

“(name)? Are you…?”

The abundance of blood on their clothes, the lack of life in their eyes; you struggle with all your might, but the Orcs keep you still while one of them raises his axe above your youngest sister’s neck, to make good on their promise, while the other… the other is being… 

“(name), you need to wake up. You’re having a nightmare…”

… eaten…

Your scream is the howling of a wolf. It is the roar of a lion, and the cry of a hawk. It is pain and fear and shame and hate -for yourself- all in once, a sound that could not be depicted in words, an instinctive, uncontrolled shout erupting from the hiddenmost part of you, inexorable like blood gushing from a deadly wound, and the ground approaching after a high fall, and the oncoming darkness at the end of the world. You scream, you scream because you can’t help it, scream because there is nothing else that you can do, you scream because your mouth and your throat and your whole body and your mind are not yours anymore, you’re nothing more than a puppet at the mercy of what happened and that you were too weak to stop it…

We died because of you. Why did you not help us, (name)? Why did you not try harder? Did you not love us? You might as well have killed us with your hands…

You struggle, still fast asleep, fighting desperately against something -or someone- pressing you against the mattress, and your hand instinctively slips under your pillow. Then it’s a lash of your arm… a groan of pain… and your eyes open to embrace the darkness of the room, not less than three of your comrades peeking in from the open door, identical expression of horror and fear on their faces, and Arondir standing in front of your bed, cradling the wound on his arm the dagger in your hand has just inflicted.

“Please tell the watchwarden everything is fine. Yes, I’m sure. Go, I’ll take care of her.”

Such is Arondir’s quiet, comforting authority, that your comrades -most of the garrison by now, since your screams first and word of mouth then made it so that the rest of the dormitories are all but empty, and two dozens of Elves have gathered in front of your door- promptly disperse, returning to their beds and leaving you and your roommate alone. 

“I am so sorry…” you murmur, your voice forced down to a whisper by shame, but Arondir gently refuses your offer of help and quickly cleans and bandages the wound, that is fortunately little more than a scratch, by himself.

You remain in bed, sitting cross-legged with the blanket around your shoulders, shaking for something that has nothing to do with the cold of the winter night. It’s over, you keep repeating in your mind, your life is over; you’ll be forced to leave your post, leave the Southlands, leave the army, and return home, to your now lonely house and empty shop, with nothing more to do than making sure other Elves can clean themselves after a day of work and smell nice when meeting a suitor or attending a festival. There is nothing shameful about that, and you actually enjoyed your job as a soaper, but having to return to such mundane, humble tasks because you had been too weak to succeed as a soldier, and your nightmares had led you to be dismissed, would be a shame you would never overcome. 

Still, you should have known. You couldn’t even defend your family, what made you think you could help defend the whole of the Southlands?

The sob that escapes your mouth is tiny, barely audible after you have been quick enough to press a hand to your mouth to suffocate it, but Arondir hears it nonetheless, and he can feel his heart break for you. Having taken care of his wound, he approaches slowly, as if you were a doe ready to bolt at the least sign of danger; and in fact, you already mean to leave - at dawn, making sure no on sees you, so as to spare both yourself and the watchwarden the indignity of the discussion that will lead to your dismissal. 

In the end, you see him sit next to you; neither speaks for a while, but then Arondir’s hand takes yours, and you feel ready to cry again. “I am so sorry…” “There is no need; it will heal.”

“Still, it’s my fault; and I gave you, and everyone else, such trouble, I should leave…”

“Don’t you dare.” Arondir quickly interrupts you, looking for a moment as stern as Revion does in his worst moments, but then his kind smile returns “Do you want to tell me what ails you?”

“It was just a nightmare; I’m sorry I worried and hurt you, but I feel better now. You can go back to sleep…”

“And what about you? Will you return to bed, or leave like you have done so often until now?”

Silence falls in the room, and for a whole minute you actually struggle to breathe.

“You know.” you murmur in the end, without a questioning tone.

“I do.”

“How?”

His tone low, even soft -and why does it bother you? Why does it fill you with shame that a person you trust and care for feels the need to be tender when talking to you?- Arondir explains that ever since you transferred to the garrison, every time he woke up in the middle of the night, either because he had to use the latrines or a noise had disturbed his sleep, he inevitably found your bed empty. He never saw you leave, or return for that matter, and when he woke up in the morning you were always there, yawning or getting ready by his side, but when once, out of curiosity, he rose to touch your mattress, he found it cold, which suggested you had not simply left for a few minutes to follow the call of nature.

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong… anything you could find reprehensible. I swear on my life.”

“I believe you, (name); that I never doubted, even though I was curious.” Arondir admits, almost embarrassed “It was because of your nightmares, yes? This is not your first time, nor is it an occasional event; you suffer from them.”

You can only nod.

“Regularly?”

“Yes. And I often wake up… screaming, or fretting.” you admit; you don’t quite know why you are telling him, why you are sharing with a person whose respect and trust is so important to you the most painful and humiliating side of your life, but the words are uncontrollable as they spill from your lips, as if you couldn’t stop talking, as if confessing your plight were as desperately important to you now as a cup of water for a person dying of thirst in the desert  “Most of the time, actually.”

“Most of the time? But…” realisation blossoms in Arondir’s lovely brown eyes “(name)... how often do you leave your bed at night?”

You can’t even meet his gaze as you answer. “Always. This is literally the first night I spend here in the room; I leave as soon as you fall asleep, and return at dawn. I used to sleep in the little room whose roof collapsed recently, and I planned to go to the latrines tonight, for lack of a better option. That is also why I offered myself for as many patrol night shifts as I could; I munched on leaves to keep myself awake, and I drink a draught that sometimes helps me sleep without nightmares - or at least used to; I fear I have built an immunity. And I had thought about gagging myself, because the latrines are so close to the dormitories, and… and…”

And, you have finally run out of things to say; you sob again, and then Arondir’s arm is wrapped around your shoulders, gently drawing you close, and soon you are crying, softly but desperately, against his chest. You cry for your brave, generous parents, and for your sisters, who had so many plans for the future they didn’t get to live, and for yourself as well, you who could not defend any of them, and who you know will bear that guilt until the end of your days. 

“I’m sorry… I’m so embarrassed, I should let you return to sleep…” you babble miserably in the end, but Arondir’s only answer is a gentle shake of his head; he’s now holding you with both arms, rocking back and forward, a hand resting on the back of your neck. You are so close you can feel his heartbeat against your ribcage, the steady, tranquil sound finally lulling you to peace.

“Do you feel a little better?”

“Yes, thank you; I’m sorry you had to witness this, Arondir, I swear I’m usually stronger than this.” you murmur, drying your tears on your sleeve as you try to regain a little composure.

“I know how strong you are.” your friend reassures you; having let you go, he’s still holding your hands in yours “And I’m sorry you felt you had to go to such lengths to hide how much you were suffering. (name), there is nothing shameful about having nightmares; most Elves suffer from them, especially soldiers.”

You assure him you’re well aware, but since it would be unfair to keep your fellow soldiers awake as you scream and toss and turn, you simply wanted to make sure your crises wouldn’t be heard, or witnessed, by other Elves. You have learnt to live with your nightmares, but no one has to suffer because of them but you. 

“I’m sure most of them wouldn’t mind; we are comrades, it is normal for soldiers to support each other, and help in moments of need.”

“True; but sleep is important for soldiers, and… I didn’t want Revion, or my previous watchwarden, to know; they would have lost any respect for me, and probably put me on indefinite leave, which is the last thing I want.”

Arondir accepts your reasoning with a nod of his head; for a minute you see him lost in his thoughts, and you’re about to suggest you both return to sleep, or at least try, when he looks at you and “What are your nightmares about?” he asks. 

Ah.

“Why does it matter?” you ask miserably, gaze lowered on your naked feet.

“Of course it matters. As far as I know nightmares, especially if repeated like in your case, are the symptom of a disquiet of some kind, something you fear or are anxious about. If we were able to go back to the source of this unease, we could find a solution that allows you to sleep better.”

You manage to smile; hearing him say we, and sound sure and nonchalant as he does it, as if that problem were his to share and not yours alone, is a gift that fills your heart with warmth, and for which you will never be able to repay him. If only that were enough, if only the kindness and empathy of a friend were all you need to keep the darkness at bay, and allow you to sleep peacefully, even just once a week… or a month…

“Thank you, but there’s no need; and it wouldn’t work. The source of my nightmares is not something I fear might happen; it took place already, and there’s nothing I, or anyone else, can do to change the outcome.”

Silence again; Arondir is still holding you, the firm but gentle clasp of his hands feels like a rock you have grabbed in the middle of a stormy sea.

“I lost my family about two years and a half ago. We had left the village to go visit some relatives a day’s walk away; we thought we would be safe, my parents had chosen the safest road, and took their swords with them only out of habit.” you explain quietly “A… a rogue band of Orcs stumbled upon us; I do not know where they came from, there had been no sign of their kin in the area for decades. My… my parents stayed to fight them, to give the three of us a chance to run; they told me to protect my sisters, but…”

But they were too numerous, armed unlike the three of you, and then your youngest sister tripped over a rock…

“... but I could not; I let them down, all of them, and they died, and for some reason I alone survived; and now I have nightmares, almost every night since that day, because Eru and Irmo are punishing me for my weakness. It hurts, and I am ashamed, and I miss them so much, but I deserve it, I deserve much worse for letting my parents and sisters get killed, but I wish I could see them only once more, and tell them I’m sorry and that there has never been a moment since then I haven’t missed them…”

Every time you think about your family you invariably find yourself crying; this time is different, and not because you have already wept all your tears while held in Arondir’s embrace. Your suffering goes beyond tears, beyond physical pain; it’s knowing you have let the people you loved the most in the world down, a hole in your fëa that allows you walk and work and live a normal, even a content, life, but that grows inside you until, one day, it will swallow you whole, leaving only an empty husk behind.

Arondir looks at you; it takes him a moment to realise that right now nothing could comfort you and absolve you from the guilt you took upon yourself, not even if he swore on his life you have no fault for what happened, not even if every Elf in Middle-Earth promised you are a victim as well, and that you deserve kindness and empathy, not reproach and shame. He can’t free you from your pain, maybe no one can except yourself, and he dearly hopes you will find the strength to forgive yourself or better, to understand you had nothing to be blamed for in the first place, or that pain will destroy you… not last, because you need rest more than any creature he has ever met. He can’t help feeling guilty: a warm friendship has been born between the two of you, and you have been sharing a room for two months, but how can he not have noticed your bloodshot eyes, and the evident effort even the simplest tasks took you these last days?�� 

You are more than tired, more than exhausted; you are worn out, fatigue and anxiety gnawing at you with such ferocity Arondir is vaguely surprised you are not tearing at the seams or missing a few pieces, like a worn garment or an old working tool.

But you are neither; you are an Elf, a good, hard-working, kind one, a person he has grown sincerely fond of, and he wishes dearly there was something he could do to help you…

“Have you really slept in that tiny closet for more than two months?”

“Every night I was not on patrol, yes.”

“And you’ve had nightmares for two years, ever since you enlisted?”

“I have.” you admit tiredly “From before that, technically, since I became a soldier about four months after my… after it happened. At my previous garrison I had it easier, I had a room for myself, but here… I fear the anxiety I feel during the day has made my nightmares even more vivid and painful; I… I don’t know what to do.”

“You could go home.” Arondir suggests, and immediately regrets it when you look at him, completely unimpressed; you have just realised how horrible you must look, bloodshot eyes and untidy hair, but you don’t care, not now, not with him, even though you don’t linger to wonder why exactly.

“You think I did not think about it? I know it would be infinitely easier if I was still in the village, living alone and working at my shop; but I don’t want to spend the rest of eternity feeling sorry for myself. I know that even if I killed every Orc from here to Ost-in-Edhil my parents and sisters would still be lost to me; but I want to do my part, and if I can protect even just one Elf, making sure they do not suffer the same torment as my loved ones, I will feel a little better.”

“You really do? Feel better, I mean.”

“Sometimes.”

You sigh; you are so tired you can barely talk and keep your eyes open, not to mention dawn must be only a few hours away, but the mere thought of trying to sleep scares you. Still, Arondir deserves better than to spend the rest of the night comforting you, so you tell him you actually feel tired and want to go back to bed.

“Are you sure? What about your nightmares?” your friend objects, clearly unconvinced; you can see how tired he is, fatigue evident on his fair face.

“I’ll manage. You’ve done more than enough, you should sleep for a few hours at least…” 

Arondir meditates on the matter for a minute. “There’s something I’d like to try.” he proposes then slowly, not so much unconvinced but strangely… awkward, as if fearing his words could be misinterpreted “And that could help you sleep well. It helped me, years ago, when I still lived with my family in the village and couldn’t sleep.”

“What is it?”

“It’s better if I show you.”

His dark eyes ask for a permission you don’t hesitate to give with a simple nod. A moment later Arondir rises to close the door of the room, returns to you and gently pushes you on your back, an arm already holding you around the shoulders while your heads touch the pillow. A moment later the blanket covers you both, and the Elf in front of you gets comfortable on the tight space of the bed before slipping his arm across your waist. 

He looks at you, almost afraid of your reaction, but you’re too surprised -too flabbergasted- to decide what to do, or what to say. 

“You really think this would help me sleep better?” you ask in the end. 

“I… do, actually. My mother did it with me when I was younger, and I did the same for my brother. Feeling you’re not alone, and that someone is there to protect you, should ease your sleep and ward you from evil dreams.”

Part of you would like to point out you’re a few centuries too old to believe that sort of pretence; there has been a time when you thought your parents’ embrace could shield you from any harm, but he is not your father, nor your brother. You are Elves, for your kin chaste physical intimacy is as natural as breathing even among those who are not related by blood or marriage, but while not inappropriate or awkward, Arondir’s embrace does feel a little… odd. 

You are so close you can feel his breath on your face as he speaks. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.” 

“Are you sure? Because I can leave if you…”

“No. I mean, I am sure. This is fine.” you decide, and almost reflexively, you snuggle against Arondir’s body, firm and warm and safe, a shield against any danger that might threaten you - even those who only exist inside your mind “More than fine, actually. Can we… I mean, I’d hate to impose, but would you please remain until I fall asleep?”

Arondir -now your bedmate rather than roommate- has rested his chin on the top of your head, literally enveloping you with his body, but you can still feel him smile. “My friend, I can remain as long as you want me to.”

Your legs intertwine; your cheek rests against his shoulder, your chests pressed against each other close enough you can feel each other’s heartbeat. You close your eyes, sorely tempted to abandon yourself to the security and solace of Arondir’s embrace and at the same time feeling almost embarrassed for it, as if you were stealing from the house of someone who had offered you a bed for the night. There are so many things you would like to tell him, but they can wait, and you have the strong suspicion your friend knows them already.

This time sleep is not a black hole you fall in; it’s a soft cloud enveloping and supporting you, and you let it, sleeping and dreaming peacefully for the first time in longer than you can remember.

When you finally wake up, content and well-rested -a sensation of wellness you actually struggle for a moment to identify, so long it has been since the last time you experienced it- you remain with your eyes closed for a minute, enjoying the warmth of your bed, and the full light filling the room…

Wait. The full light? But the sun at dawn can’t… what time is it?!

“Good morning.” Arondir greets you softly, smiling as he observes you raising your head from the pillow, moving carefully so as not to break his embrace “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, but… oh, Eru… it’s already past noon!” you cry, horrified, looking at the position of the sun out of the window “I was meant to go on patrol this morning, and we are already late for archery practice…”

“No, you are not.”

“What?”

Arondir, perfectly calm, explains that this morning, as you slept, he intercepted Médhor as he and the others prepared to start their day and asked him to relay a message to the watchwarden: you would both be taking one of the free days you are allotted every month. 

“You as well?”

“Well, I did not want to leave you alone.”

He spent the little free time he had taking care of you - resting, which probably did not hurt, since Arondir works harder than most soldiers in the garrison, but you can’t help thinking it was a waste, and that there were better ways he could have employed those hours. “I’m sorry…”

“(name), stop apologising for things you do not need to. Now, what say you and I go have some lunch? I’m sure they have put aside something for us in the kitchens.”

You are hungry, indeed, more than you remember being for many days, as if now that your mind has rested, your body were also demanding attention to its needs. You take a minute to wash your face in the basin and put your clothes on, and then follow Arondir towards the kitchens.

“Do you feel better, (name)?” Médhor asks as he meets you in the corridor; both him and the soldiers close enough to hear your conversation smile kindly at you, empathy rather than blame in their eyes, which fills your heart with an odd mixture of gratitude and guilt.

“I do, thank you. I am sorry I… disturbed all of you, last night; I, err, had a dream…”

“You needn’t apologise; we all suffer from nightmares once in a while.” one of your comrades points out, while another pats your back in comfort. 

“Yes; most soldiers do, I think. There are draughts you can drink, to help you sleep.”

“I find it easier to sleep with an open window… or if I take a walk before going to bed…”

You assure them you will remember their advice, and Arondir smiles at you.

“You see? No one thinks there is something wrong about you; we are comrades, (name), supporting each other is natural.”

You tell him that you’ll try to remember.

A few minutes later you are both sitting in the kitchens, eating bread and a soup one of the cooks has warmed for you on the fire. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this: well-rested, yes, more alert and focused, but your body feels stronger, healthier, as well, as if a few hours spent lying on a mattress were enough to counteract two months of nights squeezed in a tight, crammed space where you did not even have the space to lie down. It doesn’t work like that, you know it well, and it will take you more than a single night of rest to return to your full strength, both mentally and physically. You can’t very well expect your roommate to spend every night of the next century sleeping in your bed, and sooner or later, as you get used to his calming and protective presence, your nightmares will return; if you don’t find a way to control them, to stop memories and dreams from controlling your life, you will lose your mind.

Still, it’s a start. And knowing that you’re not alone, that the Elves around you understand what you’re going through and are ready to offer help and sympathy rather than to blame you helps as well - it helps more than you could explain in words.

Your foot touches Arondir’s under the table; your gazes meet, and he smiles at you - a smile you can’t help but return as you enjoy your soup. “(name), I…” 

“(name)? The watchwarden wants to see you, as soon as you are done eating.” a passing soldier informs you, making all the quiet joy you were enjoying in your heart evaporate. 

The moment of reckoning has come.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“There is no need; or better, there is, but this is something I have to do alone.” you admit with a sigh, before smiling at your roommate, this time without having to make an effort for it “I will see you later.”

“Of course you will.”

Revion’s tiny office is at the end of the corridor where you first spoke; having quickly reached the door, you square your shoulders, remind yourself you have nothing to feel ashamed for -you still believe you do, in your heart of hearts, but every bit of self-confidence helps, even if you limit yourself to think something without feeling it- and knock.

“Did you ask for me, sir?”

“Yes, (name); come in and close the door.”

You obey, walking to stand in front of Revion’s desk, perfectly tidy and well-organised despite the numerous scrolls and maps placed on it. The watchwarden observes you from above his intertwined fingers; there is no reproach or anger in it, but its intensity makes it hard to hold his gaze nonetheless.

“According to Médhor, the roof in the small room behind the kitchens will be repaired within a couple of days.” he says in the end, his tone inexpressive, as he finally lowers his eyes to a scroll you know he has had for at least three weeks “We will find a place for the crates held within, and I am sure the others will help you move your bed there.”

Silence.

“I could not hear you, (name).”

“Y-yes, sir; thank you, sir.” you stammer; he knows, you realise without the need to ask, either he has from the start or he has realised once he heard about last night. He knows, which means he’s also aware you disobeyed his orders of sleeping in your bed like all your comrades, and this is nothing less than a catastrophe “I-I am sorry, sir. I really am, but…” “But you had no choice, did you? I was on patrol last night, but I was told you screamed loud enough to alert the whole dormitory.”

“The room is farther away; it would have been unfair to disturb the others for a matter that is mine and mine alone.”

The watchwarden nods in agreement. He sighs, before resting his back against the chair, and looks up at you again. “There is a healer, in a garrison not far from here, that specialises in sicknesses of the mind.”

“I am not crazy, sir.” you tell him, not caring how disrespectful you sound as you do it.

“I never said you were, (name); nor do I think it. But a soldier who is not at her full strength could have repercussions on the security of the whole troop, and this is a situation we both want to avoid.” Revion points out, more gently than you deserve “Also, you might find it hard to believe it but I actually care about the well-being of my soldiers. There is nothing shameful about having nightmares, but I know how debilitating they can be, and I’d rather have you serene and calm, as well as physically healthy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. The healer I was telling you about is a trusted friend, and very experienced in helping soldiers in your situation; I will ask him to come and talk to you, and I am sure you will follow his directions to the letter, doing nothing less and nothing more.”

“I will, sir.”

“Good; I hope you enjoy your day of rest. You are dismissed.”

You nod, stand on attention, and turn to leave; on the door you linger for a moment.

“Thank you, sir.” you murmur, turning your head only partially “I appreciate it, truly.”

You can’t see him, nor feel it in his voice, but you know Revion is smiling. “I’m sure you do.”

All things considered the talk went better than you dared to hope, but you sigh nonetheless in relief once the office’s door is closed behind you. 

Who knows, perhaps a room to yourself away from the dormitories is everything you need, and the best you can aspire to; or maybe the healer will actually find a way to make you sleep peacefully once in a while. The guilt and shame for the loss of your family still envelop you, as resilient and impossible to eliminate as the scar of an old wound; you are not quite sure you want to make the pain go away, not if it means forgetting the love you still hold for them and the nostalgia for their absence. But punishing yourself for their death will amount to nothing, at least as long as there are other soldiers who need you at your full strength; until there is a war to fight, and comrades to support and protect, you will take care of yourself, for their sake if not for your own.

I promise. So that perhaps, one day, you can love me again.

You cross the corridor at a half-run, your body feeling lighter and stronger than it has in a long time; the light of the mid-afternoon sun envelops you as you step on the porch.

[vanalex]

PUMPKINS, TREES & SNOW 🎃🍂

It's that lavish Type O Negative stage-set in full…

‐ The “October Rust” stage-set features lots of trees. Leaves cover the mike-stands, monitors and amps. They are individually applied by hand. Presumably, to maintain the spirit of realism, thes fall off during the autumn months.

- It 'snows' onstage during “Frozen". Everyone ends up covered in white powder - which will either get you arrested, or lead to a sponsorship deal with Head & Shoulders.

During each gig. Peter Steele drinks a whole bottle of red wine. But this doesn't mean the band covers AC/DC's famous 'Claret There Be Rock'.

- For the band's forthcoming European tour, the original plan was to decorate the stage with loads of "lit-up' pumpkins”. But the promoters couldn't find enough decent pumpkins.

- The whole show cost a hefty $40,000 to put together. A spokesperson for the band's record company, Roadrunner, says: "It's really spectacular, and it shouldn't be missed."

Kerrang Magazine 1996

[skwigelfskwisgaar]

Cold.

Skwisgaar always hated the cold. But it wasn't like he wasn't used to it - he had grown up swaddled in the biting cold winds, reminders that his mother had forgotten to buy food, to purchase new coats, socks, boots for her growing boy. He was an afterthought, to be left outside like the rest of her worries.

It was why he hated the cold.

He said it was because he was always stuck outside and exposed to it - which wasn't a total lie - but in reality it was because it was a reminder that he was unwanted by the one person he ever wanted to be noticed by when he was young. He wasn't meant for love, he wasn't deserving of it. He was unworthy of it.

He loathed everything about the cold and the snow.

It's why he was probably the only one opposed to the idea of the concert in Danzig - the cold affected sound quality, and it was cold.

Right now, he was trapped in the icy wilds of who knew where and stuck with Toki, without a guitar, and no cell reception. In the cold. But to the more pressing matter at hand, he had to tell Toki about something that was absolutely necessary before he forgot.

"I coulds hear your feedback in mine monitors!"

Skwisgaar hated the snow, but maybe because they were stranded together and he felt some kinship with a fellow Scandinavian that instead of complaining about the fact that they were needing rescue, the blonde felt maybe he should try to dig into Toki's subpar playing at their concert. Especially given that Toki had grown up playing in the harsh Norwegian landscapes and should know to tune his guitar for colder temps -

"How dares you - !" Toki cuts him off, offended that Skwisgaar had told him his playing sucked. Maybe if he practiced or actually paid attention to Skwisgaar when they practiced, maybe he wouldn't have feedback during the concert. Sometimes, it felt like Toki wanted Skwisgaar to be disappointed. It didn't make sense that such a talented guitarist would make such careless mistakes otherwise.

Regardless, he tried to hear Toki's rebuttal about how he was 'killings it', but he was too worried about the cold.

There was a pit growing in his stomach with each step they both took and it was taking every fiber in his body to stop himself from cutting Toki off on his rant - it felt like he was that young little boy again running home excited to show his mom that he got a passing grade in his home ec and music class only to see --

A tree exploded next to them. Halted to a stop, Skwisgaar's thoughts froze, and he stood still, much like Toki before he decided to comment.

"That was weirds."

A large brutish man emerged from the tree line, letting loose a battle cry. Already on edge from the botched concert and a failed escape attempt, Skwisgaar joined Toki in screaming out in fright.

"Time to die!" Both turn in a frenzy and run, long hair wildly whipping behind them. Neither make it far enough and get shoved down as their chaser pulls out a weapon.

In a panic, Skwisgaar thought of how much he hated that after all this time, he was going to die in the snow. Surrounded by the cold. The very thing reminding him the he was unworthy of love. He looked over to see Toki, who was much more confused than panicked, maybe because he had a fighting chance at kicking this guy's ass than Skwisgaar. He took a moment to let his mind calm down from the frantic thoughts speeding through it before he spoke.

He thought of the way the snow crunched under the boots of the man as he took his time to pick between him and his friend. He thought of how he often wanted to play music forever with Toki, and so, quickly formulated that into words before anything else happened.

He thought of all the times he felt the happiest.

The image of Toki and his audition, and how he impressed the band and blew Skwisgaar's mind.

The first recording of them in the studio together as a band.

The privilege of having a fellow Scandinavian who understood basic Swedish and knowing enough Norsk to talk to Toki when he could.

The times when Toki told him how safe he felt, or the times he opened up about why guitars had saved him much like how Skwisgaar felt they had saved him too.

So he said the only thing he could.

The only thing he felt was appropriate.

"I's ... will sees you in Valhallska, Toki."

Toki looked over, a hesitation lasting half a second.

"I always ... hateds you, Skwisgaar." There was a half second in his response but Skwisgaar's heart was singing at the very idea that anyone admitted to feeling anything for him. Toki admitting that he felt this passionate anger, this brutal fury for Skwisgaar made the blonde's heart soar. Toki had this black fury, brutal anger, raw talent that he had trusted Skwisgaar with to pour into their music. To hear Toki aim at him when it was probably more of Toki trusting Skwisgaar with it was neither here nor there, but nonetheless it cemented what Skwisgaar had thought of their musical dynamic for a long time now.

To hear him say it out loud was euphoric.

He knew there were days that Toki wanted to rip Skwisgaar apart, or who knew what else with that wild primal look he had in his eyes after practice sessions - but for him to admit this on what might be their metaphorical deathbeds?

It was the highest form of flattery Skwisgaar had ever been granted and he had no way of of knowing how to respond. So he smiled.

He cracked a small, albeit genuine, smile.

And he answered honestly.

"...I knows Toki, I knows."

- - - - -

It was cold in his room, no matter how often he fiddled with the thermostat. Ever since he had the scare with Toki and his new guitar teacher, Skwisgaar's room became colder. He was sure Toki was playing tricks on him at this point, or the others were messing around with him when he wasn't looking. They all knew he hated the cold. It was probably more mind tricks.

Right now he had a hard time even playing classic Dethklok songs because his hands were so cold. He muttered a few curses under his breath and started again from the top, gluing his eyes back on to the metronome and internalizing the beat.

Closing his eyes, Skwisgaar tried to playing the Duncan Hills jingle again from memory, trying to forget the recital and the events that led up to it. Toki's tutor had died last week, which should have meant Toki and the other guys would find a way to stop fucking around with Skwisgaar - they moved on to the next thing which was Murderface and a line of Planet Piss watches he was planning on launching. Yet Skwisgaar hadn't been able to find a way to regulate the room to a stable temperature he could tolerate.

He was in the middle of playing the stupid coffee jingle when he heard a knock on the door. Skwisgaar mumbled something about coming in before rolling his eyes at the hulking mass that was Nathan - probably there to tease him about Toki still. He made his peace that he wasn't the best tutor for Toki, as much as that hurt to admit, but they weren't going to stop him from being better.

"Hey, I heard Toki was - holy shit Skwisgaar - !"

In a flash Nathan had torn Skwisgaar's hands away from his Explorer, with Pickles and Murderface in tow as they now poked and prodded at his bloodied hands with very poorly veiled concerns.

It took over an hour of some careful wording and promises to Charles to get everyone to leave him alone after all was said and done. Even Toki had stopped by to see what happened, to which he put his foot down and shooed everyone out with promises of care and rest if they left him alone

Everyone except Nathan.

"Nat'an, you amnst needs to dotes on mes like Fatty Ding Dongs."

Nathan had taken a seat on the bed next to him, looking at him like he did when Toki or Murderface screwed up their parts.

With pity.

"Uh. Just. Take it easy, need you in peak shape."

"Can'ts stays in peak shapes if I can'ts praktises." Skwisgaar pulled his signature white fur cover on himself, his room unbearably cold still. He forgot to mention to Charles about the fact that his room needed servicing.

"Well. Maybe. Hrm. Maybe ease up. On the whole... uh. On the whole practicing thing."

"Nat'an, I has to be betters than Tokis - !"

"Skwisgaar. We were messing with you. We - I didn't think - this was a joke."

Skwisgaar looked down at his hands. He knew guitarists who had done bloody messes of themselves trying to meet deadlines. Hell, Skwisgaar had done that to himself several times trying to complete songs with Toki and Murderface, all 3 of them sporting some gnarly blisters; bloody bandaids the days after recordings were finished worn as badges of honor. Why was this a concern all of a sudden?

"I's had bloody blisters before meeting deadlines. Williams, Toki, mes toos. Amns dis about somet'ings else, Nat'ans?" Skwisgaar could see Nathan struggling to spin this in a way where nobody broke that stupid rule but it wasn't like they had particularly tried to hide it this time. Maybe it was habit at this point - Pickles talking about the insurance policies Charles took out on each of his fingers and Murderface talking about how devastated Toki would be and how he would be burdened with the younger man. As if either one of them actually played their instrument outside of concerts or the recording room.

"Look, I'm only saying this because no one else is here to hear this but Skwisgaar, this is ... uh. Concerning."

"Ands?"

"And? Is Toki getting better than you really that big a deal to you?"

"Woulds it be that bigs a deal to admit that I has not'ing else?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I only has de guitar. If I amnst de best at de guitar, what do I has to mine name?"

"You have Dethklok. You have us."

Nathan got up, giving Skwisgaar a squeeze on the shoulder, before leaving the room. His room, oddly enough, was no longer cold after that night. At least now he knew he had his band. He had his friends.

- - - - -

The Dethcopter was cold. Maybe it was because Toki and Pickles beat the living shit out of Murderface and he insisted they stay an extra hour to get some ice for his aching bruises, or maybe because he had just broken up with Tori, the first time he felt like he was at home outside of Mordhaus. Regardless of which, Skwisgaar was over it. The cold was exactly as it was from his memories - sharp, biting, numbing.

Sitting across from him, Murderface gave him an accusatory look - something Murderface had mastered over the years as their profit chasing bassist. Despite both seats facing the same direction, they both managed to face each other while they made small talk.

"Looks like Pickle and Tokis really puts de boots to you."

"I wish those fuckers put the boots to me..."

Skwisgaar, out of pity, or out of duty to the band, took his freezing hands and placed them on Murderface's knuckles, red and bruised from covering himself from Toki's and Pickles' beating. Couldn't have a bassist with useless hands. Murderface flinched at first, then took Skwisgaar's cold fingers and placed them on his other knuckles, alternating them every few seconds.

"Amns wantings to knows whats you dids to get beaten by Pickle and Toki." Murderface grumbled, or mumbled, Skwisgaar could never tell with that terrible lisp of his, before he responded.

"You know, that chick you were with looked an awful lot like schomeone we know, Skwischgaar."

Skwisgaar arched an eyebrow. He thought about all the women they knew, which wasn't many to begin with, and tried very hard to think of who his ex-girlfriend could even remotely look like.

"I's... not sure who she amns looking like." Murderface made a smug face, as a Klokateer came by to give him an ice pack for his leg.

"Whats?" Murderface took the ice pack from his knee and placed it on his hands when Skwisgaar retreated his hands, trying to question Murderface now.

"Brown hair, blue eyes. Blue sweater, really Skwischgaar?"

"She amns sweet and kinds, and likes animals. She hads a small collection of sea creature plushies. Wants to be a doctor." He smiled a little, remembering the fun dates he had with Tori, and the fun outing to the aquarium in Stockholm. He didn't even know about Skansen-Akvariet and now it became a new favorite spot in his home country to visit.

"Holy schit, plushies?" Murderface clamped a less bruised hand over his mouth, looking more like he was trying to contain his laughter instead of trying to have a conversation. Skwisgaar scowled at him.

"Ja, Williams. She amns havings a sweet side. Classy lady nameds Tori Skarsgard. She hads me whats call binge watch Moomintroll wit her, even if I alreadies seen it with Toki when he amns join - !"

"Why the fuck am I the only one here to hear this?!"

"You amns just jealous dat I founds a wonderful lady even ifs I's not famous." Skwisgaar crossed his arms in indignance, a bit upset that Murderface was finding humor in any of this. Maybe Skwisgaar was sore about letting Tori go. Maybe he was upset about the cold. Or maybe it was a mixture of both.

"Skwischgaar." Murderface stopped smiling and more or less kept a serious face. At this point Skwisgaar saw that maybe Murderface was seeing something he wasn't - maybe that Tori resembled someone he already knew.

" ... whatevers. It amns over wit her." Murderface sighed, a placed a hand on Skwisgaar's shoulder. Was that pity he picked up on in the bassist's voice?

"What, Williams? Are you goings to tells me to stops de moping over Tori? Tori amns amazings but evens Tori amnst a worthy of a gods?"

"What the fuck - no, I wasch going to say that she was Toki with tits, you fucking egotistical prick!"

Skwisgaar's brain short circuited at the words that came spilling out of Murderface's mouth. He blinked, and he registered that Murderface had begun to to snap his fingers in front of his face and had said - asked actually, about something. But nothing was registering.

Brunette with a large plushie collection. The blue sweater he gifted her for their aquarium date. A shared love for animals. The fact that both of them made him sit down and watch Moomintroll nonstop --

Snap!

Skwisgaar shot his hands up and slapped it over Murderface's mouth, as he scanned the Dethcopter for prying ears. Once he saw not even Klokateers were nearby, he leaned in to whisper. Murderface, who was caught mid finger snap, stopped as if frozen in ice. He locked eyes with Skwisgaar once the hands came off his mouth.

"So, what gives Skwischgaar?! Your first ever girlfriend and it's literally a female Toki - !"

"I misseds Mordhaus."

"Excuses." He and Murderface glare at each other before Murderface sighs and lets out a laugh.

"What amns funny, Williams?!" Skwisgaar crosses his arms again, furious that he didn't have his Explorer on hand and sits facing the right direction, forward to avoid looking at Murderface and his ridicule.

"You literally just realized that?!"

"Whatevers, you dildo. At least I amnst denyings dat I misses mine band."

"Nah, you missed him." Skiwsgaar spun around so fast Murderface almost got a mouth full of blonde hair.

"Never mention dis agains. Got its?"

"...I got it. If it makes you feel better - well, you didn't hear it from me personally- but I- we saw more blonde groupies too. Not even to like fuck them or anything, but just like, to have them around. The other guys, I mean. I- we all missed you." Murderface looked away, trying to put on a cool bravado and not look like he was outing himself but instead more like he was ratting out the rest of the band for blatantly caring as much as they did. With both now facing forward, Skwisgaar could swallow the humiliation of being told by Murderface of all people that Tori had been 'Toki with tits'.

Skwisgaar nodded, then replied, "What a weird ways to says the bands misses me."

"Whatever." Murderface leaned away again, before he spoke again.

"What a weird way to admit you dated a Toki with tits."

"Dat amnst true, Moidaface - !"

When Pickles and Nathan came back on the Dethcopter they found Skwisgaar and Murderface rolling around like idiots, fighting about who knew what - probably about who slept with more groupies. Again.

- - - - -

Skwisgaar felt a bone-deep cold that he couldn't shake off. It was Sweden 1984 all over again. In the distance, he could see the dying fires of riots from fans still upset about Dethklok breaking up. Rumbling in the sky signaled that the weatherman was correct as always, and rain should be coming in later. Despite this, Skwisgaar doesn't care.

His band is no more.

He takes a swig of the ipen bottle of vodka he has with him and looks from his high balcony as he leans forward on his arms. Everyone is trying to put out fires, it feels like.

With Murderface still dealing with the fallout in the political sphere after his nudes leaked, and Pickles and Nathan still fighting over a woman that Skwisgaar was positive wanted nothing to do with either of them, it left little for Skwisgaar to do except drink and think. He wandered Mordhaus like a ghost, except he was riddled with dread and stress. Maybe less a ghost, and more a haunted soul left to carry the burdens of mistakes made. To drink and think on decisions made.

And he's had plenty of time to drink and think since Pickles announced he was quitting the band.

To think about how awful he's been to Toki. To drink to the good times he took for granted. To blame himself on how he turned Toki's admiration, that righteous brutality he wanted to draw out and funnel into his playing - how he twisted it into an acidic poison that's corrupted into a desperate plea for validation. While Toki could have attempted to pour that angry energy into his guitar playing, Skwisgaar definitely didn't encourage Toki in positive ways.

He twisted Toki into the monstrosity that backstabbed him all for a stupid solo - which Toki bombed and was also still trying to make up for with those fans too.

" Oh hey, Skwisgahr! Mind if I join ya?"

Seeing that this was the balcony overlooking what was the Mordhaus equivalent of a backyard, Skwisgaar looked at Pickles and nodded. It's not like he and Pickles didn't hang out often, but nowadays, it felt like Skwisgaar had been left out to dry just like everyone else, while Pickles and Nathan feuded over Abigail.

"I see you're hitting the liquor early tonight."

"Heughs, I ackshualies am starting lates tonights."

"...is that so?"

"Yeahs. But amns enoughs about mes. Wants some?"

"Sure!" Pickles took the vodka from Skwisgaar and really took in the sight of the man. He felt those emerald green eyes look over him as he approached. Blonde locks looked dull, skin had a grey pallor, and unless his eyes betrayed him, the guitarist looked sleep deprived. Or at least Skwisgaar would assume Pickles could tell that from a glance - Pickles was always so good at seeing and telling right away what was wrong with someone.

"You okey, dood?"

"I wills be. Not my foirst times having a band break ups."

"Right. Look, I was actually lookin for ya, I wanted to say sorry fer -!"

"For whats? Tellings Nat'an dat he amnst right for breakings de master records?"

"No - !"

"For goings back to your moms after you tolds me you amnst let hers do whats she dids last time we dids mom talk?"

"Dood, unrelated and no!" Pickles downs almost the entire bottle of vodka like a true champ before Skwisgaar takes it back and drinks the remainder. He doesn't look at him when he produces the other bottle he had brought out with him, and he just knows Pickles is going to judge him for it - which is rich coming from the guy who was in rehab for drinking.

"I came to say sorry for being a shit friend. I was so bent outta shape about my shit wit' Nathan thet I forgot to check in with ya, especially after the whole thin' with Toki."

Skwisgaar spins around and smacks Pickles with his hair. Pickles sputters, trying to wipe his face.

"What amns you knows about me and Tokis?" he asks, popping the cork on the new bottle, before leaning to look at the dying riots in the distance, "Amns as much mine faults anyways, amns a punishments for mine hubris." He takes the bottle to his lips and takes a sip, and not wanting to not wake up hungover for Cornickelson's funeral offers the bottle to Pickles.

Pickles stands there gobsmacked before he takes the bottle away from Skwisgaar again. Skwisgaar rolls his eyes.

"Looks, Pickle. I cames here to be miserables before de funeral. I amnst in de mood - !"

"I'm not gonna stand here and see you kill your liver over fuckin' Toki!"

"It amnst over just hims! It amns de band, mine friends, mine music careers! I pours mine entire hearts and souls into dis!" Pickles takes a step back as Skwisgaar, drunk on both vodka and misery, looms over him as each syllable spills out of him.

"Seems likes I amns de only ones who amns not wanting Dethklok to breaks up, because it amns de foirst time I likes people - de fans and de label and mine friends - !"

Pickles tries to tackle Skwisgaar but becomes a hug when the guitarist wraps his arms around him; Skwisgaar pets his head and while the humiliation of the failed tackle stabs at his pride for a split second, there remains a longer burning shame for neglecting a friend who has been suffering in the shadows of the much more prominent fighting between himself and Nathan. He feel Skwisgaar's arms shudder, no doubt because the man was always somehow cold.

"... fuck, Skwisgahr - I'm so fuckin' sorry."

"I don'ts want de pity. I wants mine band backs."

"It's not pity, you fuckin' douchebag."

"What amns dis huh, Pickle?"

"Fuckin' ... shut up and just let me keep yer beanpole ass warm for a sec."

"You amns such a moms."

"So... do you accept my apology?"

"Ja, apolejacks accepteds."

"Geez, we have got to get you an' Toki to some classes - wait, I got an idea."

Tearing himself off of Skwisgaar, Pickles produces his phone out of his pocket and taps away, while clouds overhead blot out the stars. Skwisgaar decides his legs need too much coordination to keep him upright and slumps down next to the railing.

"You invites goirls?"

"No, I invited Toki."

Pickles had never seen someone try to sober up as quickly as Skwisgaar did. The man knew he was an emotional drunk, as evidenced by the hug earlier, and the half-confession, half-admission of him caring about the break up. And for some reason unknown to the band, Skwisgaar always refused to get drunk around Toki alone, or would get drunk with everyone. Pickles squinted at Skwisgaar as a suspicion began setting in; the guitarist is busy trying to make himself puke over the balcony, before looking back to the entryway to their home.

"Skwisgahr."

"Nej, dis amns terribles time, I's drunk as shits - !"

"Skwisgahr."

"Calls Williams, or get some groupies - !"

"Skwisgahr."

"Waits, maybes I gets sloppies and just pass out - !"

"Dood, why are you so against having Toki here?"

Skwisgaar freezes like a deer in headlights, before slumping back down against the balcony and pulling his legs up and laying his head against his knees. Realizing he wasn't going to get an answer, Pickles joins him, pulling out a joint and asking again.

"Skwisgahr, I'm askin' as a friend 'ere."

"You guys knows I amnst likings to be drunk with Toki around. Amns bad influence."

"... never stopped you from drinking and partying with 'im on ... tours..." Skwisgaar looks up to Pickles as if confused for the drifting off at the end.

Pickles looks back at him, confusion in his face.

"Now that I say it, it's like - it's with the rest of the band. Is there something else I'm not seein' here, beanpole?"

"Nothings you dildo! I don't wants him to sees de poirson whats invites him to de band to acts like... wells like drunk idiot!" Skwisgaar and Pickles both look to the entryway for a short second because they saw movement; when they see a few Klokateers come and go and one come out with ice, some drinks and glasses, Pickles continues. He thought Toki said he was close by, and he could swear on his drum set that he saw those pale blue eyes for a split second.

"What's wrong with thet?"

"Toki ands I went drinking alones once. We don't drives anymore. It were a careless act." Pickles gives him a face of realization, recalling the incident. They thought it was really awesome to see them on the news, drunk driving on live TV on a police chase. Toki shooting a gun at the news helicopter and then the crash into the barricade was the highlight. The band was excited to pick them up, even if it meant that Skwisgaar and Toki had lost their licenses to drive.

"I remember! Thet was fuckin' great."

"I crash de car. We hads de buckles on, which amns goods but..."

"Oh yeah, so... you really care thet much?"

"Toki ... he amns like music... soul twin. He amns differents. I's be a dildo to not says dat. I has been dildo to hims. Amns why I amnst mads about de book, I's mad it took a book to sees it. I deserves it for not appreskiatings Toki's skill. "

"... this is the first time I've ever heard ya talk about the kid in a nice way. But I've seen ya, Skwisgahr! You care, like, a lot."

" You amnst foirst to tells me dat." Pickles lit a joint up and passed it to Skwisgaar, who took a good puff out of it.

"Pickle? Ams Toki, I's here!"

Skwisgaar promptly started choking on the puff he took. Pickles let out a hearty chuckle. Toki waved, looking at Pickles before his eyes landed on Skwisgaar. The kid seemed nervous. Apprehensive about approaching them, and for a second it felt like he was watching a rabbit approach a wolf in its den. Maybe his eyes hadn't played tricks on him earlier.

"Amns you been arounds a long time?!"

"Nei? I's uhm, I's justs gots here." After composing himself from what looked like a potential heart attack, Skwisgaar passed the joint back to Pickles, who made a huge wave of his arm to make Toki sit down. He took a small puff then passed it to Toki once he finally sat across from them.

"So, Toki. Heard ya leaked the nudes that killed Murderface's political cahreer."

Skwisgaar leaned in, and so did the others. "If you dids, Toki, I says you dids de woirld a favors. No ones in politics amns taking bads nudes like dat."

Pickes let out a loud howl of laughter as Toki giggled.

"...amns you been drinking, Skwisgaar?"

"Ja, amns been rough wit ... Nat'an and de new music he amns doings. It's dildos." Pickles gave him a disapproving look, but Skwisgaar would rather go back to Sweden than talk about why he was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Nat'en ams needs to apologise to Pickle. It ams wrong what he did." Pickles raised the vodka bottle he had managed to get without much moving and then drank. Toki took it next after passing the joint to Skwisgaar, who snatched it from him.

"Nej, amns bads for yous."

"Pickle!?" Pickles smacked him on the arm.

"Fines."

"Play nice, both of ya."

"Skwisgaar started it."

"Toki, we all need apologize. I came to say sorry to Beanpole here." Skwisgaar felt himself shrivel up, as Toki looked at Pickles with curiosity.

"Whats about?"

"Eh, another time, kid. But I think, before we get crazy here - ya both need to clear up some shit. I'm gonna get Murderface, he just texted thet he got lost."

Toki asked why not text him again, like he did with him as Skwisgaar flopped on either trying to pull Pickles back down or freezing up.

As Pickles vanished, Skwisgaar felt too drunk and too aware and in his skin all at once. His eyes locked with Toki, and he immediately slumped back on the balcony railing, opting to grab the abandoned bottle.

"... yous not just drinking because of Nat'ens, ams you."

"Amazings brain usings, Toki. De skies amns blue too, you knows dat?"

"Okei fucker, whys Pickle says dat and leaves me wit your sour pusses?"

Skwisgaar didn't respond. He took the bottle to his lips, dipped his head back and drank. And drank. And drank. And drank --

"Stops! You amns gonna kills your liver!"

'I's not drunk or highs enoughs for dis."

"For whats?!"

He looks at Toki, who looks lost and afraid. He's not seen Skwisgaar hit a low like this, not even when he lost the endorsements after the book published, or his career was pulverized into pieces. Last time he saw Skwisgaar this drunk was the night they got arrested for drunk driving. He thought about how things were different then, how simpler their dynamic was, how easier it was to trust his band, to trust Toki.

How he took it all for granted.

"I's sorries, Tokis. You amnst deserves dis."

"What ams you talking abouts?!" Toki pulled himself closer; Skwisgaar's eyes drifted away from those pale blue hues and to Toki's hands. Those hands that he had been trusted to write for. To care for. To cherish and to play music with.

He sighed.

"You needs to talk to mes when I amnst fuckeds up. Meets me at de bar after de funerals?"

Toki, looking at him with concern and apprehension and some suspicion, nodded in agreement. Pickles came back and told them it would be a few more minutes, and Toki volunteered to go with him.

Skwisgaar cracked a small smile. Toki did too. Pickles looked at Skwisgaar, and he gave him a sloppy thumbs up. Pickles gave him one back.

- - - - -

The first thing he felt was cold. It was a common thing to feel when he didn't remember the events leading him there. Stiff and sore, he took an attempt to slip back under because being sober was awful.

Was that puke on his face?

"...eurgh.....hrmph..."

He pulled himself out of the tangle of hair, limbs and liquor spilled on and around him before he grabbed a bottle. Surprisingly, it still had alcohol in it, so he took it and a semi-clean robe and wandered out of the room. Alcohol was better for avoiding sobriety this early, for now.

It felt like it was a lifetime ago that he spent his night under that cloudy night getting drunk and high with Murderface and Pickles and Toki. With the promise of meeting Toki under better circumstances after the funeral to talk.

That night he sat at the bar by himself until he couldn't sit straight anymore.

And since then, he refused to stay sober.

It was easier that way.

And when alcohol wasn't doing it, he began to raid Pickles' stash. When Pickles cornered him, he lashed out and finally went out and found himself back on the streets of 1999, chasing a high that he promised to leave behind.

Pickles finally came to him in hysterics when he threw out his Explorer, a book he wrote some music ideas on, and a few CD cases he had stashed Toki's old guitar riffs on. Pickles only knew Skwisgaar was doing it because a CD hit one of the groupie sluts he was talking to in the backyard.

Skiwsgaar was so high on meth that Pickles had to get Murderface and Nathan to help him bring the blonde inside. It didn't take long to see that the guitarist was not drunk but high and less time for Pickles to see what it was when he saw track marks.

"I's not gonnas get lectures from you Pickle. You wents to rehabs for dis." Stunned at the remark, Murderface and Nathan watched as they both had a shouting match until both stormed off. At least Skwisgaar stopped taking meth.

That was last month.

Or last week.

Or was it last year?

He lost track of time.

It didn't matter anymore. Not without Toki.

Skwisgaar picked up a pastry in the kitchen and listened as they talked about using a new recording as part of the concert coming up. Skwisgaar nearly gagged.

"Amnst de sames."

"It'll have to do. We have recordings - !"

"Nei, Nat'an. I won'ts do its."

"Skwischgaar - !"

He threw his glass of juice at the first wall he saw.

"Fines! Dos whatever, fucking dildos."

He shoved the pastry into his mouth before they said anything and walked off. Stumbling, like a toddler just learning to walk. He makes it to the entry of the kitchen as he hears Pickles finally pipe up.

"What the fuck is Skwisgahr's problem now?"

"He, uh. He doesn't want recordings."

"... did I ever tell you guysch about the girlfriend he had in Sweden?"

Immediately, Skwisgaar turns on his heel and comes back into the kitchen and makes a dive at Murderface, until Nathan tackles him and tosses him against a counter. Pickles makes a dash to get out of the way as Murderface slowly lowers the arms he instinctively raised in his defense.

"Yous amns fuckings dildo lickers! You fuckings-- you amnst GETS ITS!"

And while his silent cries and tears didn't make sense that day, a week later when he quietly held Toki in the Dethcopter and whispered all the things he didn't get to tell him at the bar the day of the funeral, they understood.

- - - - -

Cold.

Something about the Arctic cold that made bones creak. It made joints crack like glass. Fingers ache. Skwisgaar hated it. Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was the cold, still.

How long had it been since they had first stepped onto Danzig? How much had changed since then?

His head throbbed, the ground wobbled -

A warm arm wrapped around his middle before his knees gave out.

"Shit - Toki, come help with yer brother!"

If Skwisgaar wasn't on the verge of puking his guts out he'd chew out Pickles for calling on Toki to help him. With Murderface on his right side Toki came up on the other, clutching Deaddy Bear as Pickles ran his hand over Skwisgaar's head. Wait, when did Skwisgaar get shorter?

"Of course Skwischgaar is a mess, he's light as fuck! Feels like a lady!"

"Yous a lady, Williams!"

"Dood, how many fingers am I holdin'?"

"Amnst blind, Pickle - !"

"No, but uh. You have a concussion. Got those in high school. Erm. A lot. I know one when I see one."

As Pickles and Nathan both talked about how Skwisgaar was going to recover, and Murderface grumbled about how no one cared about how he felt after having been possessed - all Skwisgaar wanted to do was make sure he at least made it back to Mordhaus -

"Skwisgaar?"

Toki pressed Deaddy Bear to Skwisgaar's arms, and then held Skwisgaar in a tight hug. The cold he felt began to seep out of him as Toki slowly looked up and finally locked eyes with him. He had taken a seat next to him, under Skwisgaar's arm still.

"I know it was you who carried me," he said in Swedish, "Let Toki carry you now."

"... this is a hug, Toki." Toki just hugged him tighter.

"What have I said about not speakin' English? No Snow-Speak!"

"Picklesch, its called Swedish." Toki gave Murderface a look, as Skwisgaar finally manages to hold down the Doritos they gave them in their cells the night before. He says what he assumed Toki was also thinking.

"...what de fucks amns Snows ... Speaks?"

"A schtupid term he picked up from reading ..."

Skwisgaar saw Pickles panic for a split second as Murderface stopped. Toki loosens his arms, but doesn't let go of Skwisgaar, to lean closer to Murderface, who also looks like he's panicking.

"Readings what?"

"Wowies, Mordaface, how ams you knows wes speaking Svenska?"

"I made an educated guessch."

"Yeah! Ya only speak in Swedish when - !"

"Readings what, Pickle?!"

"Uh... fans! Social media stuff! The fans think you an' Tokes have some secret language! They call it thet." Based on Nathan's own face, Skwisgaar felt like maybe Pickles was lying through his teeth. He was not going to pry further now, however - his stomach was threatening to empty itself again. Skwisgaar pried his right arm away from Murderface to clamp his mouth and then rub his stomach as he took a deep breath.

"Shit, uh. We gotta get you, mhrm, Murderface, and Charles looked at. Like, now." Pickles made a quick turn and immediately pointed at something Skwisgaar couldn't see from his angle. Sitting on the snow aside, the view out here wasn't bad. Nathan patted Pickles on the shoulder before walking in the direction he pointed. Maybe it was Charles? Pickles began walking away and talking with Nathan, before he stopped and made a motion to Murderface.

"Murderface, come help Nathan grab Charles! Looks like there's someone helpin' already."

Murderface grumbled something about suffering from success, which made absolutely no sense to Skwisgaar, but he was using the time of quiet to gather his thoughts. Toki finally, slowly pulled himself away from him and smiled sweetly.

"...Skwisgaar, I know you and I have had our problems, and I haven't made a great friend. But I mean it. Let Toki carry the weight for now. If that includes you when things get tough, then I will." Skwisgaar grabs Toki's fretting hand and rubs his thumb over the callouses there. Even now Toki is clingy, needy, affectionate, caring. And it's not just with Skwisgaar, even if it is who he does it the most with - he went to Pickles or Nathan if he needed help with anything or to Murderface for fun and laughter.

With Skwisgaar he often just sat and listened to what the Swede said, chords and strings and arpeggios the backdrop for the lessons and practice sessions in Deus Keep.

He wondered what happened in the time they forgot.

He wondered what made this Toki so clingy.

He wondered if he did something to him.

He wondered why Toki and not --

"You are thinking too loud."

"Sorry, my head is a mess."

"Speak your mind, Skwisgaar."

He lets go of Toki's hand, and holds himself in the biting cold as he formulates his thoughts. Danzig is where they both 'confessed' to their intentions going forward in their music, and Skwisgaar wanted to keep that same spirit. Here was Toki wanting to mend things - either because he felt guilty about the book or because he felt he wasn't pulling enough weight in the dynamic, but here he was ready to help Skwisgaar.

Ready to not just be an equal, but his friend.

"Toki... if you have been a bad friend, then I've been outright shit to you. You trusted me with your talent, and I squandered that. I never gave you reason enough to be excited or passionate for the music if I never let you shine. It's just as much my fault - !"

Toki launches himself on Skwisgaar, a crushing hug and then shaking shoulders. Skwisgaar panics as he realizes Toki's crying, and he slowly and awkwardly begins to rub the younger man's back as he pulls himself tighter on the blonde.

"I promise to put my ego aside from now on. Okay?"

Toki nods his head, and Skwisgaar suddenly realizes something.

"Tokis... amns you using mine shoirts to wipes your face?!"

Toki shakes his head no, but then pulls himself away and gives Skwisgaar an angry look.

"You says nice things and you worry about yous stupid shirt?!"

"It amnst a hankys chef to wipes snot off ... your - !" Almost immediately, Skwisgaar feels it and loses to his stomach, as it empties itself and he only feels Toki rub his back as he goes for a second round, and finally, his stomach gives up fighting him. Thankfully all he did was turn his face to the side and Toki managed to get his face out of the way before he whispered reassurances that it would get better once he had something to eat and some proper food and sleep.

"...the fucker exploded into red mist! Farm equipment is brutal!"

"That uh. That explains why we didn't see a corpse."

"Skwisgahr ain't doing so great too, Charles, we're gonna get ya'll checked out."

"Thanks, boys."

Skwisgaar wipes part of his mouth as Toki keeps a hand on him and the other cradling Deaddy Bear. It sounds like they did find Charles. Good.

His ears ring for half a second, before he sees Charles carried by Nathan and Murderface. Behind them is what looks like a nurse and a paramedic, and a Klokateer with a duffel bag slung on over a shoulder - if he recalled correctly, many of the non-combat Gears had been left in chapters scattered throughout cities to help in the days of the prophecy but to still see them around was --

"Wowies, a Klokateers?!"

"Lord Wartooth, Lord Skwigelf, an honor. I have some emergency first aid kits and these two medical professionals volunteered to assist with what they could. Mr. Offdensen has been stabilized and can be treated for minor injuries while we look at Lord Murderface and Lord Skwigelf."

Pickles approached Toki with a diabetes monitor and insulin kit, while the paramedic looked at Skwisgaar, and the nurse looked over Murderface. Murderface was cleared physically of anomalies, and Toki was given a sticker and insulin to make sure his levels were stable. With that, Pickles and Nathan helped clean up Charles with the nurse ans Toki and Murderface kept Skwisgaar company.

With both sitting next to him, he only has to whisper as the paramedic does some final checks and gives him some medications.

"Sos, Williams, Toki. When amns you thinkings dat Nat'en and Pickle finallies realizes de truth?"

"Truth about what, Skwischgaar?"

"... you amnst sees it!?"

Toki sticks out his tongue as he squints hard at the pair, busy trying to make sure they help. They're both helping Charles with his mangled hand, cleaning and bandaging what they can.

"...thats they sucks at doctors?"

"You amns dildos at dis. Nat'en and Pickles? De worry abohts eqch other? De way de boths amns so carings wit each other?" Murderface and Toki both let out a sound of realization, before excitement and shock creeps over both of them.

"Wait, you think they are together?!"

"That ams make it reals mom and dad?!"

"Looks, we amns smart and can sees it. We amnst idiots. We can sees what amns plains as light of days!"

At this point, Murderface looks at Skwisgaar and then Toki. Henarrows his eyes at the guitarists, as if he's expecting either of them to say something - Skwisgaar looks at him and gives him a questioning look instead.

"What, Williams?"

He just needed to find the people that wanted him first.

"You know what, Skwischgaar? You aschtound me. You really do." Skwisgaar smiled, as he realized that he hadn't felt cold for a while now. Here he was out in Danzig, in near Arctic temperatures, and he felt warm as if he was standing outside on a sunny day. Maybe he was wanted, after all.

Like Nathan, who reminded him he had more than just his guitar - he was Skwisgaar and he had his friends too.

Like Murderface, who reminded him his band wasn't just another gig, it was his friends who liked him for him.

Like Pickles, who reminded him that he didn't need to struggle alone, and apologies made people grow.

And like Toki, who showed Skwisgaar that he was someone worth trusting.

Who, despite all their up and downs, still wanted to be his friend. Who still wanted to play music with him.

Toki, who wanted to shine just as much as he wanted Skwisgaar to shine too.

Toki. His friend. His brother. His equal.

[in-death-we-fall]

The Ultimate Rockstar Test

This week: Wednesday 13

Bands like to think they’re badass, but who’s truly the most rock’n’roll of them all? We test them and find out who’s top of the class for chaos!

Words: Dan Slessor

(drive link)(Joey's Rockstar Test)

What’s the worst condition you’ve left a hotel room in? “I was 17 when a venue I was playing first offered up a hotel room to stay in after the show. Having read up on all the excesses of classic bands, I was excited. So, we took all the towels in the room, soaked them in water, jammed them in the fridge, and whacked it to its coldest so they all froze into a block of ice. We also glued the Bible to the table – dumb shit like that. The owners were so pissed, and luckily we got away before they could sue us!” Frozen towels? Well, that’s a surprisingly inventive pass ✔

Have you ever shed blood in the name of rock’n’roll? “Oh yeah, teeth, too, and there have been a couple of broken bones along the way. I have a fake front tooth and half of one, too, and I must have broken those 10 or 15 times on microphones and guitars. I busted my head on a monitor once and bled through a show, and I also fractured my ankle on the first night of a tour and spent the next two months dancing and wiggling away on it.” Have you ever thought about investing in a gumshield? Pass ✔

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen a bandmate do? “It used to ve strange seeing your bandmate taking a shit in public, but it’s funny how you get used to that. On Murderdolls’ first tour, Kerrang! Came out and were taunting us, saying we should be more crazy. The next thing you know, Joey [Jordison, Murderdolls guitarist] is taking a shit right there in the street. Later on, we were making tonnes of noise in the parking lot, and this old lady came out of her house and yelled at us, and I ended up throwing a bottle at the wall by her and she called the cops. Shitting in the street may actually have been the nicest thing to happen that night…” When public defecation is the nicest part, you know it’s bad. Pass ✔

Have you ever thrown a diva-esque tantrum? “There was one time on tour with Murderdolls when a local band who were opening one of the shows kept coming into our dressing room uninvited. It wasn’t just that they were coming in all the time, they were drinking our booze as well! After it happened the first time I was like, ‘Alright, okay, whatever.’ But then they came back and did it again, just coming into our dressing room and helping themselves to our booze. So I ended up losing it at them. I actually think it was kind of justified – you don’t touch my alcohol, man!” You yelled at the support band. But it was sort of reasonable. And divas aren’t reasonable. Fail ✘

Have you ever broken an instrument in anger? “Not actually in anger, but I’ve broken stuff in the spirit of rock’n’roll. At a London show, I had a guitar I’d been playing for four or five years, and in the last song I threw it as high as I could while it was still plugged in. When it finally hit the stage, it made one of the coolest sounds I’ve ever heard!” You intended to do it = more rock’n’roll = pass ✔

What’s been you craziest rider request? “In Germany, we sent this runner out to get us a (sic) McDonald’s. I wrote down everyone’s order, and at the bottom I added 25 vanilla ice cream cones. He gets to McDonald’s and calls our tour manager and says, ‘I can’t carry all the ice cream cones, I’m going to have to make two trips!’ I kinda laughed at that…” Ice cream is a rubbish rider request. However, you did make some poor lackey go and get it like a proper diva, so pass ✔

What’s the strangest place you’ve ever woken up? “In the woods, in Germany. We’d played Rock Am Ring the same day as Slipknot headlined, and it was the first time I’d seen Joey in years. Having played at 1pm, I got completely hammered, sprayed a fire extinguisher at Randy Blythe [Lamb Of God] and trashed Slipknot’s dressing room with a tree. It was in a pot in the corridor, and I thought it was artificial, so I picked it up, walked in, and called, ‘Hey Joey!’ I threw it at him, and I may as well have thrown a giant bucket of dirt in there. So, I fled before Slipknot killed me, and some hours later I woke up in the woods…” …and that was the last time Slipknot threw you a surprise party. Pass ✔

Wednesday scored 82% Wednesday’s always seemed like a pretty good rockstar to us. So we expected good things from his turn at The Test. But it was his imagination more than his antics that did him well here – frozen towels, glued Bibles and the cunning use of a tree. Even the ice cream request was amusing, although, next time, maybe ask for something a little bit more glamorous. Like, we dunno, peacocks. Or Kinder Surprise.

2013 Leaderboard ↑Perry Farrell, Jane’s Addiction - 98% Nikki Sixx, Mötley Crüe - 91% Mike Shinoda, Linkin Park - 81% ↓Winston McCall, Parkway Drive - 58%

[shadowlorddemon]

Characters in MLB Animalverse Part one

In order from first to last picture;

Li Kaung (Featuring Kagami) the Komodo Dragon

Fleur the Garden Snail

Leon the Leopard Slug

Juan Chen the Asian Water Monitor

Goro Aoki the Emerald Tree Monitor

Kevin ‘Kev’ the Emperor Scorpion

Kingston ’King’ the Deathstalker

Barry the Brazilian Scorpion

Rosemary ‘Mary’ the Rose Hair Tarantula

Joey the Banded Sugar Ant

Judy the Cheetah

[speedyartist30]

New home

The rumbling of tires over rocks woke Jay from his sleep. He blinked, feeling disoriented and confused. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and found himself in the back of a truck. The windows were so heavily tinted that he could barely see outside.

Where am I…How did I get here?

Jay moved toward the window, pressing his small hands against the glass and squinting. Silhouettes and buildings blurred by, and a sense of unease settled in his chest. His thoughts were foggy, and he couldn’t remember how he ended up here. When he looked down, he saw a band-aid on the back of his sore hand.

A deep voice suddenly told him to sit down, and Jay jumped, startled, seeing two strangers in the front seat. Wide-eyed, he quickly sat down, cradling his sore hand to his chest. His eyes met a pair of shaded ones in the rearview mirror. The other person, a woman, was on the phone, speaking in a hushed tone, but Jay clearly heard his name.

Glancing at the door, Jay slowly tried to pull the handle, but it didn’t budge. He looked for a lock, only to realize there wasn’t one. Panic started to rise in his chest, but before it could fully set in, the vehicle came to a stop.

The strangers got out, leaving Jay alone inside. He stood up again and pressed his face against the window, watching as they talked to an older man in a strange uniform. The strangers who had been with him wore black suits. When Jay saw them moving toward the window, he scrambled back until they opened the door. A bright light flooded in, and Jay shielded his eyes with his hand as a chilly breeze swept through the vehicle. The woman picked him up and carried him out of the car. Jay squirmed in her arms until he got a look at his surroundings.

Tall trees and buildings surrounded him, and in the distance, he saw a huge wall. He didn’t get a chance to take in the sights for long, as they were quickly heading toward the woods behind them. Curiously, Jay looked around until they came across an old, worn-down shed. They stepped inside, where rusted tools lined the walls. The man in the suit took out his phone and made a call. Right before Jay’s eyes, the floor opened up, revealing an elevator.

The four of them stepped inside the elevator as it descended. Jay watched the numbers light up one by one until it stopped at a button labeled "S.S." When the doors opened, a long hallway was revealed. The man in the strange uniform glanced at Jay out of the corner of his eye before quickly looking away. They turned into a stark white area filled with monitors and people in white lab coats, while others wore black suits. Suddenly, Jay was put down, but the woman grabbed his wrist and pulled him in a completely different direction. He stumbled over his small feet, trying to keep up with her quick, purposeful strides as she led him down a new hallway with only a single door at the end.

Jay looked up at her as she opened the door, revealing a stark white room inside. There was a bed, a closet, and a bathroom. On the bed were some clothes. She released his wrist and told him to get dressed. Jay tilted his head in confusion—he was already dressed.

The woman frowned, nudged him into the room, and closed the door behind him.

Jay fidgeted with his hair and slowly approached the set of clothes laid out for him. They were all black. Looking down, he saw he was wearing a light gray sweatshirt and joggers, but no shoes—just socks. Glancing at the door, he turned back and began changing. He pulled on the black camouflage pants and the black sweater, struggling a bit with the heavy boots but managing to get them on. Once dressed, he stood on his tiptoes to open the door and peeked down the hall. He saw the woman from before and another unfamiliar woman.

Nervously, Jay gave a wave and a shy smile, but neither woman responded. The new woman stepped toward him and said firmly, “You will refer to us as 'handler,' as well as anyone else you see in a black suit.” Jay tilted his head, unsure of what a “handler” was. The woman turned and started walking away. “It’s time for your training. Afterward, we’ll evaluate your progress,” she said over her shoulder.

Jay didn’t move, feeling confused and frightened. What training? The women stopped and looked down at him. His throat tightened as he struggled to understand.

“When you are given a task, you follow it until completion. Understand?” one of them said.

Jay slowly shook his head and took a step back, his heart racing. He wasn’t supposed to be here—he didn’t even know why or where he was! His hands began sparking with electricity. Taking a deep breath, Jay bolted past them in a blur of speed, sliding to a stop when everyone turned to look at him. Panicked, Jay tried to find a way out. An alarm blared, and heavy footsteps echoed behind him.

What’s happening? Where’s Mommy and Daddy?

Jay came to a dead end, the hallways all looking the same. Breathing heavily, he covered his ears as the alarms continued to wail. Suddenly, he felt a sharp prick on his leg. Yelping, he looked down to see a dart. His vision blurred as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him, and he collapsed to the floor. His eyes grew heavy, and his body relaxed uncontrollably. Through his hazy vision, he saw a pair of black heels approaching before everything went dark.

The next few weeks were a blur for Jay, his memories slowly coming back. He remembered that these people had kidnapped him from his home and hurt his parents. The recollection of that terrible night left him heartbroken and terrified. His so-called “handlers” around him remained emotionless, showing no concern for his fear or sadness; they only cared about his progress in the relentless training sessions he was forced to endure.

The doctors in the underground facility frightened Jay. Whenever he saw someone in a white lab coat, a small voice in his head urged him to get away. Despite his screams and tears, the doctors drew blood from him, making him feel sick afterward. Jay didn’t understand why they needed it or what was so “special” about it, a term he constantly heard from them.

In the facility’s training area, Jay was pushed to his limits. He was forced to run, lift weights, and learn combat. Every day, he was exhausted and bruised. Instead of receiving the comfort and reassurance he needed, he was met with criticism: “You were too slow on that last run. Your form was sloppy. You need to control your emotions. Stop crying. Focus!” Jay learned the hard way that any attempts to escape or acts of “stubbornness” led to even more time locked away in the training grounds.

Jay desperately wanted to go home, but he wasn’t even sure if he had a home to return to

Samual’s POV

Outside near the trail in the woods, Samual had just ordered his squad to run as part of their warm-up for the day’s training. As he was preparing to start, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Signaling his team to wait, Samual answered the call. It was his commander.

The commander informed him that he was needed in the recovery unit. A bit concerned, Samual told his team to continue without him as he left to find out why his presence was required.

Upon arriving at the recovery unit, he saw his commander standing outside. Calm but with a hint of worry, Samual asked, “Is everything alright, commander?”

The older man nodded and instructed Samual to follow him. “A few weeks ago, a squad was on a mission and they discovered the child alone in the woods. But this child is capable of doing… well, things people would deem impossible.”

Samual glanced at his superior, puzzled. “A child, sir? Not to be disrespectful, but is this some sort of joke? Why on earth would a child be brought here?”

Commander: "The child has been unwell and needed immediate medical attention."

The commander’s eyes shifted briefly to Samual before returning forward. Climbing a few stairs, the commander led Samuel to a room where two doctors stood outside—one man and one woman. Opening the door, the commander allowed them to enter. Samual saw the child asleep on the hospital bed. The other doctors stepped in, and the woman whispered something to the head doctor.

Doctor: "Can you two clear the room for a moment?"

Respecting the request, Samual and his commander stepped outside. Though they didn’t speak, Samual couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he had about the situation, especially the peculiar behavior of the doctor.

Commander: "The child’s name is Jay."

Samual, surprised by the sudden information, looked at his commander.

Samual: "Sorry, what did you say, commander?"

Commander: "The child, his name is Jay. I didn’t mention it earlier, but it’s important to know."

The commander didn’t make eye contact; he kept facing the wall with a strange, frustrated, and perhaps guilty expression.

Samual: "Commander, are you—"

Before he could finish his question, the nurse opened the door and gestured for Samual to come in. As he walked back into the room, he noticed the two men at the computer, whispering to each other.

Nurse: "Captain Burns."

Samual looked back at the nurse, who was holding Jay, still asleep. She handed the child to Samual, who carefully took him, making sure not to wake him. The child seemed deeply asleep, his head lolling limply on Samuel’s shoulder.

The nurse turned her back to Samual and joined the doctors at the computer.

As Samual walked out, he noticed his commander had vanished.

Samual: “What’s wrong with everyone today?”

Stopping by the mess hall, Samuel picked up some fruit for Jay when he woke up. On his way back to his room, he attracted unwanted attention but managed to deter his nosy comrades with a single cold look.

Finally making it to his room, Samuel placed Jay on the couch and closed the door to keep others out. He turned on the TV at a low volume for background noise and sat beside Jay, starting on some paperwork he had fallen behind on.

While working, Samuel kept an eye on Jay, ready to take him back to the medical facility if needed. The child barely moved. After finishing a few documents, Samuel left the room to deliver them to an office just a few doors down. When he returned, he noticed the TV was glitching and the lights in the room were flickering. Jay was frowning in his sleep, curling up. Samuel didn’t want to wake him, but the child’s distressed expression was concerning.

Samual: “Jay? Jay!”

When Jay didn’t respond, Samual reached out and gently shook Jay’s right knee. Jay’s eyes flew open, and he pulled his leg away, tears filling his eyes as he clutched his knee with a small cry.

Samual: “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you! I’m so sorry!”

Standing up to give Jay space, Samual considered getting a doctor but quickly dismissed the idea due to their strange behavior earlier.He looked back at Jay, who was still clutching his knee, tears streaming down his face. Jay seemed to relax a little as he glanced around the room, though he still looked confused.

Samual: “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Jay nodded, starting to wipe his tears away. Samual noticed how exhausted Jay looked—the sweater he wore was too big for him, and he seemed extremely stiff.

Slowly returning to the couch, Samual sat beside Jay, keeping a respectful distance. Jay didn’t move away but watched Samual intently.

Samual: “I’m going to check your leg, just to make sure you’re okay. Do you want some fruit while I do?”

Samual pointed to the bag on his desk, and Jay nodded. Standing up, Samual picked up the bag, untied it, and handed it to Jay. As Samual crouched down in front of him, he glanced up to see if Jay was watching. The child seemed more interested in the fruit, starting with the apple slices.

Samual gently rolled up Jay’s pants leg and discovered a dark pink and purple bruise on the boy’s knee. It was obviously swollen and needed ice. Despite his training to keep a straight face in serious situations, Samuel struggled to suppress his reaction.

Samual: Is this what the doctor meant by "unwell"? If they knew this, then why force the kid out? He needs rest.

Lost in his thoughts, Samuel felt a tap on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Jay offering him an apple slice.Smiling at the gesture, Samuel took the slice and ate it.

Samual: “Thanks, Jay.”

A small smile appeared on Jay’s face as he continued eating the fruit from the bag, looking more relaxed than before.

Knowing he needed to get his squad, Samuel turned off the TV and stood up.

Samual: “Well, it’s time to go.”

Jay pulled his pants leg back down to cover his knee and climbed off the couch, holding the bag close. Though Jay moved stiffly, he didn’t whine or complain. Samuel suspected the child had more injuries but didn’t have time to check.

Determined not to let Jay walk on his injured leg, Samual drove them to the training area.

Arriving at the weight room, Samual didn’t find his squad but he saw a mess. Annoyed by the disarray, he tells Jay to sit on one of the benches until he finished cleaning up.

As Samual picked up discarded weights, he noticed a golden glow. Turning toward it, he saw a blur zoom around the room. Within seconds, the room was completely cleaned and organized. Looking around, Samual saw Jay back on the bench where he had been sitting earlier.

Samual paused, astonished. Had Jay just glowed and moved faster than he could blink? The commander’s words rang true. Samual snapped his mouth shut and shook his head to regain his composure.

Samual: “Um, thanks for helping, Jay. Er… you’re very fast.”

Jay nodded but grimaced, holding his right side.

Samual: “Are you hurting?”

Jay winced, but shook his head.

Samual: “It’s okay; you just need to rest so it won’t hurt anymore, alright?”

Noticing that Jay’s eyes were watering again, Samuel crouched beside him and gently asked:

Samual: “Is it just your leg that hurts, or is there something else?”

For the first time that day, Jay spoke.

Jay: “It hurts here.”

He pointed to his right side, the same side where his knee was injured. Samuel lifted Jay’s sweater and saw that the entire right side of the child’s torso was bruised. The sight was disturbing; it looked like something that could put a grown man in the hospital.

Samual: “Jay, who did this?”

There was silence.

Samual: “Jay?”

Still, there was no response. Realizing he might have pushed too hard with his questions, Samual decided to change the topic.

Samual: “I’m going to get you some ice.”

He carefully picked Jay up and headed outside to get some from the mess hall. As they walked along the trail, Samuel said,

Samual: “Jay, from now on, if you need help with anything—whether it's injuries or somewhere to stay—let me know, or just come to my room, okay?”

Jay didn’t say anything but looked up at Samuel and layed his head down. His small hand gripped Samuel’s jacket as he gave a small nod.

As Samual carried Jay, he noticed his squad approaching. When they saw Jay in his arms, their expressions shifted to shock. Jay, startled by their presence, sparked briefly.Cameron was the first to react.

Cameron: “WHAT THE F*CK!”

[fel0ny-01]

Call of Duty Characters as Taylor Swift Songs: 1989 Edition

So Rep and 1989 did tie but it makes sense to start with 1989 first so I can go in order of official release date! I hope you enjoy!

Price: I Know Places

As cringey as it sounds, it almost makes me feel like this song features some things he would tell the boys (which is how it reminds me of him) Like,

“They got their cages, they got their boxes and guns”

“They are the hunters we are the foxes”

And this one relates to the missions where you need to check your light monitor thing in the first game.

“Lights flash and we’ll run for the fences”

And of course,

“They take their shots but we’re bulletproof” and “You know for me, it’s always you” which I think reflects his love for his boys very well.

Gaz: Style

Honestly I don’t have much of a reasoning behind this one except Gaz literally never goes out of style.

“And when we go crashing down we come back every time” this reminds me of how many times Gaz has almost died but he bounces back so quickly.

I also think he’d dance to this one in his room alone.

Soap: Bad Blood

This perfectly sums up the entire Graves Betrayal thing. Especially the lyrics “Still got scars on my back from your knife” and “Band Aids don’t fix bullet holes”. He definitely listens to this to hype himself up in the gym when he’s trying to let out all his rage in a workout.

(If you were on the ‘Graves and Soap had a thing’ before the entire betrayal, “you know it used to be mad love” fits there too.)

Ghost: Out of the Woods

This fits Ghost so well. I think he constantly feels like he isn’t out of the woods with constantly being targeted/feared by people as his reputation makes him seem like this beast on the field. And definitely just in general being asked if they’re clear on missions.

But I also think some lines can be told from Soap’s perspective from the alone mission. Especially the “remember when you hit the breaks too soon?” When Ghost literally rams into the stand with the car? And the “20 stitches in a hospital room”, no doubt his bullet wound would need stitches.

If you are a beloved Ghoap shipper like me, the entire bridge could kind of be a nod to what would have happened after Alone.

“When you started crying baby I did too and when the sun came up I was looking at you”

“Remember when we couldn’t take the heat, I walked out and said “I’m setting you free” - such a nod to all the fics where Ghost gets so scared to be with Soap because he thinks he’s dangerous.

“but the monsters turned out to be just trees, and when the sun came up you were looking at me” - Soap showing Ghost he’s not as bad as he thinks he is and Ghost finally believing it.

[yoditopascal]

Drag Me Under Part 1

The cold snow crunched under her toes as her feet made contact with the ground. Staggering forward she braced herself on a tree as she fell to her knees. Her body was freezing as her fingers and toes had begun to turn black and blue, her torn hospital gown doing very little to shield her from the winter weather that she swore was getting colder and colder by the second. She had to keep going though, someone nearby had to have heard the explosion at the lab and was bound to investigate.

Using the tree she tried to push herself back up to her feet to keep moving but she fell back down to the ground this time to her hands, she just didn’t have it in her to keep moving, the cold had finally caught up with her. Closing her eyes her entire body finally gave out as she curled up on the ground snow beginning to cover up her shivering body.

“You find anything, Larry?” She heard a deep robotic voice shout nearby. She didn’t know who it was but maybe if she laid there still enough they’d go away, not that she had the energy to even open her eyes at this point.

“Looks like that old lab down that river blew up” another voice answered this one sounded even closer.

“You think people are gonna come out this way lookin'?”

“Nah I think we’re far enough away”

Please go away she thought as a violent shiver wreaked through her body.

“Hey, what’s that?”

“Oh god it’s a person” she heard running before a warm hand touched her cheek before being ripped away from her as if the person had been in pain

“She’s ice cold! It burns just touching her” he said holding his hand just over her nose and mouth hoping to feel just the slightest sign that she was still alive.

“She’s breathing? How’s that even possible?” The robotic voice replied he sounded as if he was right over her.

“I don’t know but gimme your coat Cliff! Let’s get her inside!” That was the last thing she hear before cold darkness completely engulfed her senses.

Loud beeping was the first sound she heard as she began to come too. Peaking her icy blue eyes open from underneath her covers her eyes quickly scanned the room she found herself in.

She awoke on a cot in the middle of some kind of weird lab. Oh god not a lab. Had that found her already? She looked down at herself and found herself in an overly large men’s shirt with Godzilla on it and a pair of dark grey joggers as well as hooked up to an IV, heart monitor, and a bunch of other strange machines she hadn’t seen before.

Flinging the covers off, she jumped from her bed ripping the IV and other equipment from her body before turning to jump out of bed. Stumbling, she rushed out of the room looking for a way out, limping from not using her legs in a while.

Once she was out of the room she found herself in what she could only imagine was a mansion?

“Where the hell am I?”

“Hey, you’re awake!” Came an excited voice from behind her.

Startled, she grabbed the closest thing that she could grab, a bust of some old guy, and chucked it right at the source of the voice before taking off towards the front door, her legs nearly giving out.

“WHOA,” the green-haired boy shouted ducking out of the way as the bust came sailing past his face breaking on impact as it hit the wall.

“Hey slow down, I'm not gonna hurt you!” He shouted as he ran after her. He had nearly caught her until she turned around and swung causing him to back off as she stumbled backward into a hard metal body.

“Oh good, you’re awake” the same robotic voice from earlier said as he looked down at her only this time she could clearly see who the voices belonged to. He was straight-up a robot! Large brass with piercing red led eyes and wore ripped jeans, a band t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Stumbling back against the wall the young girl was cornered between the two.

“Get back!” she barked, she had he fists raised ready to fight, her fingers beginning to turn black and blue again as fear raced through her. The air around the three of them began to shift and get colder by the second, the breaths of both the girl and the green-haired boy now visible between them.

“Whooooa slow down kid we mean you no harm” the robot did backing up with his hand in the air. He couldn't feel the physical difference she was beginning to make in the room but he could see her eyes getting lighter, almost glowing white and the floor around her feet was bringing to freeze. He suspected she probably had no control over her powers and didn’t want her hurting the boy in front of her.

“I said get back!” She shouted even louder, her white braids whipping out around her as she turned her head back and forth to look between the two.

“Look I’m Gar and this is Cliff he and our friend Larry found you!” The green-haired teen said as he took a step closer he had his hand out in front of himself as if to ease the girl.

“I swear we’re not gonna hurt you, we’re here to help!”

“H-how do I know that?” She shivered the could air clearly starting to get to her

“I don’t know what you went through out there I promise you we won’t hurt you!” Gar smiled as he got even closer. He took off his grey and red jacket and draped it over her shoulders revealing a Donkey Kong shirt, she suspected he was where her clothes came from.

“You can trust me.” He said, holding out his hand for her. She looked him in his eyes searching for something, she didn’t know what but found nothing but kindness and trust in them before taking his hand in hers.

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Tuesday of the Week 2023-12-19

Ah cripes the Mondaypost

Listening: A friend's recommendation of Holy Monitor by Holy Monitor, a Greek psychedelic rock band. Here's Bend The Trees:

Reading: Got but did not start the new Murderbot.

Reading more of Ted Chiang's short story collection, including 72 words, a work of ?Golempunk? Fiction featuring linguistic genetics and your good old fashioned English classism.

Watching: Billy Elliot at the Movie Night, on a rare Good Movie Night instead of Bad Movie Night.

It's got a lot of compelling depictions of the struggle between ingrained tradition and what you know you actually think. There isn't really any great reveal where anyone's opinion changes, as much as there are moments where their adherence to their presupposed belief is overridden by the specifics of their situation. Also interesting to watch with someone who doesn't know British austerity history and who we gave a brief Crash Course in Thatcherism.

Playing: Beat the moonlight butterfly and Havel in Dark Souls, haven't touched it since then but I am not quite sure where to go next since I'm out of corpse arms and so I can't hit the ghosts anymore. I might need to explore elsewhere. I think I have a key for around Firelink that I haven't used yet...

Making: Not much, started writing out the DSL but didn't make much progress. This will probably be fallow for a while since I have my brother coming to stay for a couple weeks.

Tools and Equipment: Spaced repetition flashcards. I finally sat down and put together a Czech vocab and grammar card deck in Anki (which is why I forgot to Mondaypost yesterday), and it is a shockingly efficient way to ingest a large amount of vocabulary.

[lovedrunkheadcanons]

Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Fic) Read on AO3

RATED M

A predator knows how to hide in plain sight; A lion will camouflage with the Saharan grass next to a herd of grazing zebra; A bolas spider will emit chemicals akin to female moth pheromones to lure prospective male moths towards its web; A thousand year old cursed spirit will split his essence into twenty fingers and scatter himself to places forgotten by man, ready to be made whole. Predators understand that to hunt their prey, you must first lower their defenses. Give them a false sense of security. Dupe the fools into believing they are safe and sound and the danger has passed when it lies waiting on their doorstep. Hungry.

Satoru didn’t trust the finger outright. He wasn’t so naive as to think it could ever be that simple. His plan was to monitor. Cursed objects had to be monitored for twenty-four hours when found. Kumari was strong, but if anything were to go wrong she wouldn’t stand a chance, and his wife’s behavior only made him more suspicious, hence why he took the finger home (and maybe also to appease his inquisitive nature). Hannah thought nothing of it when they returned. It’ll be gone in the morning, she thought and cozied up beside her husband on the futon later that night. Satoru would take care of everything. He always did.

So she thought.

From the time she was small, since the tender age of five or six, Hannah had been hearing voices. One hears many voices when inheriting The Sight. Mostly last breaths and dying screams. A curse cackling by the carnage of torn bodies. All of them disturbing and violent and horrible. So why would this be any different?

It rasped somewhere far in the distance. Thames. Over the pine crested peaks of Mt. Takao, the mokoshi penthouse roofs, and the torii gates. Thames. It blew across the school yard, rustling passed the trees, billowing near their house, sighing through the eaves, through the walls, just outside Hannah’s bedroom. Rattling her eardrums.

She heard claws scrape across the floor, repeating a name no longer hers.

Thames.

Satoru’s arm was wrapped snugly around her torso, holding her dear, yet she had no trouble breaking free and rising from the floor, leaving him sound asleep on the futon. “Mmph,” he grunted and stirred at the feel of something missing, but then switched positions and grew still once more, snoring contently on their shared pillow.

Somnolent, Hannah stood and walked towards the entrance, a thin nightgown strap hanging loosely off her shoulder. The door slid open by its own accord, but she did not return to the only person who could grant her safety. Out to the beyond she wandered.

Each step felt lighter than air down the tatami woven corridors, the shoji panels. Door after door after door, adjarring without interruption, her silhouette a mere shadow across the many lantern-lit halls. The voice beckoned louder. Thames. It wanted her. She would answer.

She came to a halt at the twelfth door, riddled in spell-tags. The incantation Satoru recited could be traced back to the earliest of jujutsu, some say since before the monolithic Jōmon began texturing their clay with bands of rope.1 Ancient jujutsu was the purest form of sorcery for good reason. Untainted. Indomitable. Satoru had mastered the secret incantation quicker than his predecessors. Nothing on heaven or earth should’ve been able to cross those barriers and remove those spell-tags.

Hannah did so without lifting a pinkie.

The barrier didn’t object to her presence, and the paper tags unglued themselves, one by one, scattering to the floor like a pile of white autumn leaves. The door slowly parted. Inside over by the corner was the sealed box. That’s it now, come here. Come to me. Five steps and she was hunkered down in front of it like a curious Pandora, nescient of the evil she was about to release upon the world. She flicked open the notches.

The floor beneath collapsed.

Hannah felt she was falling…

falling.

falling.

Her bare feet hardly made a splash in the blood water, wading just above her knees. Something ripe mushed between her toes. The air stank heavily of decay and iron. Though her eyes were transfixed by the large blackened ribs scaffolded above like an animal enclosure.

On a mound of bones, human and beast, buttressed and stacked high, was a notch arranged into a dais. The eery crimson light, emanating from God knows where, began building in strength, and the bone-filled graveyard started to unveil its secrets. She saw the outline of a figure seated atop the bones. Something like four monstrous arms, two sets of eyes, tattoos, and a mouth where a stomach should've been.

Regaining her wits, Hannah’s head began to throb. Her knees quaked. Blood ceased circulating to her legs from the cold water. She couldn’t feel the oxygen exit her lungs, nor her heart crumble and un-crumble like a reused plastic bottle.

“W-Where am I?” she croaked.

She saw one of its two mouths twist into a wry, sinister grin and suddenly felt she had unintentionally signed her death certificate. That’s not human, she thought. Not anymore. An alien life form. A freak of nature. Demonic.

“Woman.” the four-armed demon drawled above its mountain of skeletons, man and beast. “Did Uraume send you?”

Hannah stayed silent, struck paralyzed from the waist down.

“Are you a challenger?” it spoke again.

Tendrils of fear clamped around her throat. “A what?” she said dumbly.

The demon gave out a snorting laugh, “Guess not,” and rose to its feet. In a flash, it was standing in front of her, frame hulking and grotesque, roughly seizing her face between a mass of blackened claws, hooking a thumb to her lower lip. Hannah drew mute. The malevolence in its four vermillion eyes was a raw, insatiable sort.

“Weak,” the demon crooned, and stretched its mouth into that awful, predacious grin that conveyed unspeakable harm. Something knife-point sharp tapped her lower back.

The last thing Hannah heard were cruel peals of laughter before the world was swallowed inside a scarlet sea.

A goodnight’s sleep was a hardfought luxury for a jujutsu sorcerer. Not that it mattered much. Satoru sucked at sleeping anyways. Always had. Always will, so it didn’t take much for him to become gradually aware that the primal, gut-wrenching screams ringing in his subconscious were not a figment of his dreams, but real.

Oh so terrifyingly real.

The Six Eyes wielder could recall the time he witnessed the late cauterization of a grown bull, back when the estate was in the business of raising livestock. Most dehornings are performed when the bull is a calf to reduce infection and long-term pain: chemical solutions,"tubes," saws, keystone dehorners, you name it. But the rancher they hired cared little for the well-being of their cattle, and thought axing the bull’s horns with an old splitting maul and cauterizing the wound with a branding iron was the method of choice; highly illegal. Satoru watched him tie the bovine’s head down in a compromising position and with zero remorse start chopping. The agonized lowing that left the animal with each forceful thwack of the maul. The blood. Satoru couldn’t remember much of what he did afterwards, other than running to Makoto in tears. He freed all the estate’s livestock the day he became clan-leader, suppressing childhood trauma he hadn’t told a single soul.

Now twenty years later, Hannah’s tormented screams reminded him of that one bull.

There was no escaping it.

Wide awake and panicked, he twisted himself over to see his wife thrashing wildly on the bedding, her screams not of fear, but of pain; vocal chords cracking and clicking from too much exertion. She couldn’t catch her breath.

But what alarmed him most were her eyes. Hannah’s frightened eyes were like two dying stars, glowing a bright, ember red, inflamed and leaking a flood of tears, staring wide open.

He grabbed her by the arms, shaking, voice pleading for her to wake up, but every attempt failed. She scrambled to get away, wincing whenever his fingers came too close to touching her back.

This did not go unnoticed. Holding her at an angle, Satoru ever so gently slipped a hand underneath and felt his body grow cold at the sensation of something warm and sticky soaking the satin nightgown, the tang of rust. He began praying, Please be sweat, please be sweat, and slowly removed his hand.

The palm was coated so thickly in blood you’d think it was fresh paint, staining the once white futon into a dark, sickly grenache that would never wash out. With trembling hands, Satoru mustered the courage to flip her over and see what his heart earnestly wanted to deny.

Bile rushed to his throat. It was worse than he could’ve imagined.

Gashes like a jagged cuneiform were scrawled all along the expanse of her back; phantom claws, five tallies each, plowing deep into the skin, digging for purchase. Hannah sobbed more violently than ever. Her pallor was like stained glass left exposed to sunlight, faded and drained of color. Blood. Blood everywhere.

To his frustration, Satoru’s eyes detected nothing wrong. He saw no neon trail, no grimy residuals, an invisible enemy he could not see and could not fight; a true ghost. The band of gold on his finger started burning.

What is this?

Hannah’s strangled cries were growing weaker by the second, either from fatigue or something far more life upending. Her lips took a bluish hue from the oxygen not circulating to her brain and the rest of her body, hazel eyes glassy. If he didn’t act now, she’d be gone forever.

“Stay with me, Hannah.”

Satoru scooped his wife in his arms, her cries faint and disoriented, and ran like hell out the door.

“Please, don’t die.”

Chapter Contents

[banana-zim]

SCENT OF STEAM CONTEST WINNERS

Thank you to everyone who joined the first SCENT OF STEAM art contest, for the band @scentofsteam!! Every entry received was appreciated, and it meant a lot to us to have you guys enjoy the music and create something from it. Both myself and the band were judges for the entries, and the results and commentary are down below. I will be DM'ing the winners individually for their prizes~

1ST PLACE - @nichiperi

Scent of Steam: This fits the vibe of Emotions are Social perfectly. A quiet loneliness with an ever watching eye. Bleeding in a monitored solitude. Not to mention the composition used in this piece. The bright contrasts draw your attention into every detail. BananaZim: This piece feels like it should be one of the classics you see in museums, from the decaying texture on the canvas, to the classic style of painting/shading/coloring/shapes. The colors used in this piece are immediately attention-grabbing, and the composition is elegance at its finest. The eye in the sky is an immediate winner, too - this piece is something burned into my brain, and I constantly think of it.

2ND PLACE - chxoticspecter (Instagram)

Scent of Steam: I feel this piece not only comments on Emotions are Social, but the album as a whole. The caskets pointing venomously towards the bleeding heart while eyes drip with memories of blood from the bottom. Absolutely fantastic.

BananaZim: I knew the moment I saw this, it was instantly placed for a winning spot. The anatomical heart is a symbol close to my own, and the gradients add such a powerful touch here. I also love the fine details on the heart and the coffins around it. It perfectly captures the song.

3RD PLACE -@faithfulwhispers-art

Scent of Steam: Dark, decaying, empty. Like someone wandering through old, decrepit memories, unable to escape. Things they no longer wish to see but are forced to relive again and again. As the years move on, the place the memories reside begins to crumble and distort, yet they cannot leave. A perfect fit for Room in the House of Lore.

BananaZim: Faith has a talent to take a song and create the exact imagery and environment the song is projecting. It was pretty damn spooky just how perfectly this piece was set up, from the broken down house, to the construction pieces in the back, to the foreground pieces. Also, the entire thing is glazed over in this dark, rich red, showcasing the artist's coloring skills.. I love how this draws you in.

HONORABLE MENTION - @spanglespants

Scent of Steam: This was heavily considered for 3rd place and needed to have at least a mention made. I find myself with this image in my head quite a lot. Not this exact picture, but the dark silhouettes of power lines and trees, with the last dying lights of the sun illuminating the horizon. This has always been a scene that has attracted my eyes, with the anticipation of the stars coming out for the night. This moment is captured perfectly in this picture.

BananaZim: Scent of Steam and I were sold on this photograph when we saw it. As stated, it absolutely needed to be recognized in our results as an honorable mention. The lavender/blue sky that has just a single star and the distant moon, to the telephone lines... It whispers to me a liminal space, or a wash of nostalgia. It also was a beautiful fit to the album, and to the songs referenced, and it deserves more eyes on it.