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philliam-writes · 2 years ago

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you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It��s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert

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halfbakedspuds · 9 months ago

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I often hear English speakers proclaim in exasperation that [Insert slightly less screwed up Germanic language here] has such long, awkwardly specific words but they fail to understand that most of these are created on the spot to satisfy a specific context, and because of how the language works they remain understandable despite maybe having never been uttered before.

Recently, a Polish friend of mine found out about the longest word in my language (Afrikaans), being:

"Tweedehandsemotorverkoopsmannevakbondstakingsvergaderingsameroeperstoespraakskrywerspersverklaringuitreikingsmediakonferensieaankondiging" (Yes this is an actual word), which means "issuable media conference’s announcement at a press release regarding the convener’s speech at a secondhand car dealership union’s strike meeting"

Let's do a step-by-step with my language, Afrikaans, slowly adding meaning to create a completely new word as an example.

Wys (Show/to show)

Verwys (literally 'To show toward', this would translate to 'Reference' as a verb in English)

Verwysing (Reference as a noun)

Cool, now we have a word made from scratch, let's add a little more complexity.

Verwysing + Indeks (Index) is Verwysingsindeks (An index of references)

Alright, now let's make another one.

Prys (Prize)

Digter (Poet) + Prys is Digtersprys (The poet's prize)

Digtersprys + wenner (Winner) is Digterspryswenner (Winner of the poet's prize)

One more time:

Onder (under, or in a more archaic form 'among')

Onder + houd(An archaic word for 'hold/to hold) is Onderhoud (An interview. Literally 'held among [people]'

Pers (Press, as in the news people) + Onderhoud is Personderhoud (Press interview)

Personderhoud + e (Plural suffix. This gets slightly complicated so I won't elaborate on why 'e' is used instead of 's' here despite both being plural suffixes) is Personderhoude

Now let's get a little bit mad, shall we? Let's put all these together.

Digterspryswennerspersonderhoudeverwysingsindeks

This singular word that won't exist or be used in any other context means "Index of references to the press interviews of poetry prize winners".

The general rule is "One concept, one word", and although the rules behind how to do this get a little complex at times, especially if you're still learning, but there's no rule in any Germanic language (as far as I'm aware, at least) saying that you can't pull an English and just say it as a sentence instead.

The beauty of Germanic languages (excluding the three wombats in a trenchcoat that is English) is that even with a toddler's knowledge of what's going on, words describe themselves to such an extent that you can get the meaning of fairly high-end concepts just from hearing the word.

Of course, this an extreme example. In most cases you won't have more than two or three or at most four words strung together, but the point stands.

This has been your ADHD driven linguistics lesson for the day.

Edit: Forgot to translate the first long word. Oops

#linguistics #germanic languages #just a little ADHD ramble #afrikaans

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yttd-enjoyer · 11 months ago

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Hey chat, what do you think about this?

#english is three languages in a trenchcoat in a blender with a health dose of panzerchocolate (meth)#so in WWII meth was added to the chocolate given to german tankers #they had chocolate to keep moral up #I mean chocolate is pretty good for simple nice things that wont go bad #free history lesson I guess

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letthemyeetcake · 3 months ago

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The English Language 2

Why yes, I DID do two version of English-language-as-three-kobolds-in-a-trenchcoat. Don't judge me. And yeah, this is more the doglike version of kobolds along the lines of Dungeon Meshi, but DnD used to have rather doglike kobolds in older editions. I'm... beginning to suspect that the reason they swapped them to be more lizard like was because, well, who really wants to fight an adorable pupper?

#linguistics #english language #kobold #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dungeons and dragons #dnd art

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farronxivcorner · 6 months ago

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Hrjst, a Summary

A master of weapons An unmatched viera warrior, Hrjst is as much at ease with a sword as she is her bare hands. Her proficiency with a blade is matched only by her skill with a wrench, as she also handles the maintenance of her equipment and Al-iklil mark V, her hoverbike. The lifespan of the viera is far greater than that of elezens, and many secrets, wisdom and sorrows lie hidden in her long history.

Basic information

Name(s): Hrjst Eruyt, Aria Solidor (unused nowdays)

Gender: Female

Age: 130s (starts ARR events with 126)

Nameday: 9th Sun of the 4th Astral Moon

Race: Viera, Rava

Monikers/titles: Legio Unius (Legion of One), Deus Mortis (Death Goddess), Rose of May (the 2 first earned on her military decades, the last one with sky piracy)

Marital Estatus: Single

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral would be the closest nowdays

Characteristics: Appearence

Height: 1,91 m (6' 3")

Physique: Has a lean body, subtle curves and natural visible muscle tone. Due to the large amount of weapons she has used in her life, has a few little calluses on the palm of her hands. Also has long claw-like fingernails but she cuts, files and paints them to avoid draw even more attention. She's extremely agile and has decent strength.

Complexion: Dark skin chracteristic of the Rava Vieras. Also the leporin race retain their physical youth for centuries making it nigh impossible to discern Hrjst's age from her outward appearance.

Hair: She has thick and fluffy hair that she treats with care. Naturally would reach her waist but often she doesn't let it pass her shoulder blades. It's colour is the natural all Vieras have but highlited the tips to match her ears. In the past used to gather her hair in a very long ponytail, which she still does but not that often.

Eyes: Golden, but turn to a colour between orange and red when she enters in Mist Frenzy.

Identifying Marks: A dark purple glyph tattoo under the left temple, she got it some time after the start of her Sky Pirate career. Her hair often hides part of it. No one would say she has fought on countless battles due to the lack of scars on her body, a prove that she has no equal.

Language and voice: in general terms, has a semi-mature, half-harsh and slightly sensual voice. Since her arrival to Garlemald makes an effort to hide the characteristic Islandic accent that Vieras have and evolves (Gods know why) to an Australian one, but more just the melody of speaking rather than a thick accent. After the desertion is not rare Hrjst sliping her original accent from time to time due to she hasn't had the necessity to hide it. She knows to speak common Eorzean, Garlean, and Vieran dialect. In Japanese localization, Hrjst is voiced by Atsuko Tanaka known for playing roles like Motoko (Ghost in the Shell), Kainé (NieR Replicant) or Bayonetta. Voice samples:

On the other hand, Hrjst's English voice actress is Rachel Robinson. She has played roles such as Oerba Yun Fang (FF XIII saga), Judith von Daphnel (Fire Emblem: Three Houses) or Ghislaine (Mushoku Tensei). Here I link Voice Sample montage I did to show Hrjst as is she was on the Trust/Duty Support system to show how she would sound more-less. Hope you enjoy it!

(Someday maybe I'll do one like this again but with JP one) And a disclaimer: needless to say she's not realy voiced, is a montage

Personal effects: Weaponry speaking, at least she will carry her a bladed one, most of the times a gunblade, and two guns (Huginn and Muninn she called them) that were the first weapons she forged after leaving the IVth Legion, mantained all with meticulous care. She also hides tiny bags on the inner side of her trenchcoats that bear things like supplies or tools. Hrjst always has wore necklace with a silver eagle, gifted by her mother when she was a child; and an earring made of a red feather that was a present of a former lover from some decades ago that Hrjst considers her once-in-a-liftetime soulmate.

Way of dressing: Nowdays most of her attires will count with longcoats and long stilettos that helps her with balance. Is not rare to see her wear elegant garbs like corsets or dresses but only when she feels like or the occasion really requires it.

Characteristics: Personality

Hrjst is cocky, confident, stubborn, sarcastic, determined, and independent. She has a quick wit and a dry sense of humor and can be strict. Despite coming across as proud and bold, she has a compassionate side, especially towards the people she loves. She cares greatly about her friends, few that may be, willing to take extreme measures to protect them, any means necessary. Folks who have met her often comment of Hrjst having a "wild fearlessness to her", and indeed, this woman never backs down from a fight regardless of her opponent. She also has a strong belief in Lady Luck. However, having the requirements to be a Warrior of Light, she does not take much pride or importance on her Echo or the Blessing of Light. She feels that she doesn't need it to success in whatever or whoever she face, but she's pragmatic enough to know the benefits (and costs) of her powers, such as giving her and her allies an edge in battle. But she aslo has a dark shadows deep in her heart. She's not proud of it but doesn't deny it either. This refers to having a belligerent side and a hidden bloodlust. She revels in battle but not to the extreme of starting fights out of nowhere with no reason. Due to her long life Hrjst has a timeless wisdom but also countless burdens. In fact she's not always been like the first description above. As a child and teen, she was reserved and quiet, rarely speaking more than 3 words in a row or in expressing emotion. Even when she was offended, she would act expresionlessly cold. However she showed emotions with her mother and a childhood friend (Fran, her cousin but she didn't know) in the village. As she grew up along her skills, started to gain confidence but knew perfectly her station and how to act in consequence. The many decades she spent in the IVth also showed her aptitude for leadership and organization, being one of the key factors on the victory of the Garlean army in Nalbina Fortress on 1547. But the Hrjst that people know nowdays borned after the desertion, realizing all the wrongs she has done, acknowledging them after years of inner reflection, making peace with herself and admiting that she is how she is and "what is done, it's done". Because of this, She is strong-minded and disinclined to mince words, having a demeanor of someone wholly unconcerned by life's trivialities.

Persnonal Life

Occupation: Nowdays you can say she's still a sky Pirate but on her own, not in a crew. At the begining on her life in Garlemald was a member of the Vigil Urbani while keeping on her studies. Later would join the IVth Legion some time after the foundation of the Empire to help House Solidor as they helped her. She climbed the ranks to the point of being the right hand of the Legatus Noah van Gabranth til her desertion. After would become one of the memebers of the Redbills for some years and prior ARR she was a mercenary/sellsword.

Residence: her fisrt home was at the Eruyt Village in the Golmore Jungle, where she was born. However at a very young age she would pay the price of her curiosity and recklessness, getting lost. By a miracle got found by the iyl of the Garlean Republic near Skatay Range and lived in Garlemald some decades before joining the IVth Legion. After the desertion was a wondering traveler till she joined the newfound Redbills and the HQ was her home. Nowdays she owns a little house on the Empyrium in Ishgard when she needs a place of respit and where she has her own little place but rarely has time to relax.

Relationships and Children: Hrjst is not someone who seeks a partner but if love flourish, she will accept it. She's homosexual, discovered it when she developed feelings towards a classmate on the Academia but got rejected due to that person was afraid of people's opinion having a relation with a "savage". She's not fond of children but she would try to do an effot if a person she cares is involved. She has some kind of maternal feelings towards Ryne and Gaia (she doesn't admit it).

Relatives: Njrn Eruyt: Hrjst's mother. Was a caring and loving mother, and for Hrjst her mother was everything. She was one of the best warriors/huntress of the village. Wanted to learn so much from her that Hrjst's curiosity and devotion would lead to her own ostracism. Decades later Njrn would die by the hands of her own doughter. Djen Djt-Gilda: Hrjst's father. Is a Wood-Warder of the Eruyt village, condemn to solitude due to the social norms of the Viera. Hrjst inherit from him his golden eyes and the dominance of the fire-aspected aether. Hrjst doesn't know much about him, but is something she's afraid of, after what happened with Njrn after all. Fran Eruyt: Hrjst doesn't know this yet but the Viera she played with as a child was actually her cousin. A Saraab, high agents of the Dalmascan forces. Fran and Hrjst fought on the Garamsite Waterway, on Hrjst's attempt on killing Ashelia after she killed her brother Rasler to end the royal bloodline for good. Hrjst and Fran would reunite again when Hrjst lend her aid to the Bozjan Resistance on ShB events. Maybe one day Fran will reveal to her they are family Gods know when. Grammis iyl Solidor: Adoptive father of Hrjst when he found her on the brink of death in the snowy fields of Skatay Range. Hrjst was aware she, even unintentionally, has left the Wood, disobeyed the Green Word and for that "was a Viera no longer"; she turned an outcast of her home. Due to this she stayed with the man that saved her life. Grammis was the last leader of the Garlean Republic before in turned to an Empire and was a very kind and welcoming soul, devoted to peace, traits that his peers found more a hindrance than a blessing. Treated Hrjst as she was on his flesh a blood and provided all he thought she would need. Hrjst will be forever thankful to him. Jenova eir Junius: Grammis' wife. Despite she didn't treated Hrjst badly wasn't very fond of her neither. The fact that she wasn't her own and, even further, a non-Garlean made Jenova never considering Hrjst truly a part of the family. Larsa het Solidor: Hrjst's step brother, son of Grammis and Jenova. Larse adored her, and they had a strong bond, Aria taking care of him when no one else could. After Solus' pustch and stablishing the Garlean Empire, Larsa despited the new course of action of his homeland and started a movement that in the future would be known as the Populares. Hrjst knowing of her step-brothers efforts, joined the military on an attempt of distraction of the prying eyes that would may hurt House Solidors' already wounded reputation. Ljotte Paro: Hrjst admits with grieve that this Vieran maiden she met decades ago was her soul-mate, her one and truly love, the one. Already a Tribunus back then, she found Ljotte fending for herself against a Garlean patrol. Seeing the tenacity of that woman, awoke a sentiment on her that made her help the enemy rather than her own army. She and Ljotte mantained a clandestine relationship until circumstances forced them to take different paths. Hrjst hasn't seen her ever since and still wears to this day the pendant Ljotte made and gifted to her.

Bonus Info

As a Viera, is sensitve to the Aether and refers to it as Mist and can sense it in a way similar to smell. Has excellent senses overall and her ears have exceptional good hearing but after leaving the wood lost the natural talent of hearing Wood's will, the Green Word. Also the consecutive sound of big explosions or similar noise hurts her more than other races so she applies on the inner side of her hears an oinment to protect them before joining battles of great scale.

Even tho she can manipulate the any aspect of the Mist as any Eorzean would, she can manipulate with extreme ease and with more potency the fire-aspected one. The Thaumaturge Guild tried to recruit her when they noticed it but she refused.

Hrjst can enter a berserker state called Mist Frenzy if she's exposed to a high concentration of aether. When experiencing Mist frenzy she is strong enough that she can tear apart metal shackles and kill armored hyurs while unarmed. Hrjst has learned to resist the effect to a certain point but if the Mist is very heavily concentrated she will sucumb regardless. As a matter of fact one of her skills, No Mercy, consist in entering in a softer version of that estate absorbing the sorrunding aether for a brief moment.

Being true that Njrn taught her the basics of hunting and battle, Hrjst style of combat is mainly self-taught. She started training in secret facing the local fauna on Eblan River, when she mastered a weapon's basics proceeded to change until she mastered all possible. After joining the IVth Legion could apply her knowledge on the battlefield ascending the ranks on a fast pace. So great were her talents that Solus zos Galvus himself asked her to start a martial art with his newfound gunweapons (gunblades, gunspears and so on). She stablished the foundations of the Garlean Gunswordsmanship, including the technique Terminus Est: a cross-shaped ceruleum proyectile attack that the user can manipulate at will. This discipline was made thinking that the soldier who wield it cannot use magic. Hrjst, however, can so after finishing her job there combined what she created with her own prowess, knowledge and capabilities developed a unique fightstyle where speed, pragamtism and style are the ones that stands out the most.

There were 4 key factors that made Hrjst, Aria back then, desrting the IVth Legion, even tho she belived that the vision of the Gabranth would save what was left of House Solidor: -Her love towards Ljotte kindled the flames of doubt, as the feelings towards her were becoming greater than the Cause. -The destruction of the Sky City of Bhujerba. A Garlean scientist conducted a research about the Auracite, a magical stone which name appears more than once in history, and reached the conclusion that he could elaborate an artificial one: Manufacted Auracite. Aria was asked to help on a test of the newformed stone's capabilities and effects on a secluded city. The artificial stone began to absorb aether from the sorrouding area that would end on an explosion that obliterated Bhujerba. Such conetration of aether made Aria enter in Mist frenzy aswell. There were no survivors among the investigation group of that day. -Njrn's death. Aria was the head on a expedition group in Golmore Jungle, in search of hidden insurgents. At one moment an arrow tried to pierce the Tribunus' skull but Aria dodged it and in retaliation she shot her gunblade to the origin of the attack. A body fell from the tree and would be then, when she went personaly to check who was the brave or fool that dared to attack her, Aria realised that was no other than her own mother. First she was shocked and after looking at her own hands, started to cry. The soldiers under her command asked her the next course of action but she didn't respond, she limited to grab carefuly her mothers corps and walked to the exit, leaving the squadron to defend themselves against the wood-warders. Aria mourned Njrn all that night. -The Bozjan Incident. The Legatus of the IVth, Noah van Gabranth tasked Aria tol Solidor to spy on a device that VIIth stablished in the Bozja Citadel, being odd that soldiers of the that legion were there when they should be on their westward march. After days of subterfuge Aria learned about Project Meteor and that not only the darnus were involved but Midas nan Garlond aswell. The Primus architectus magiteci sought contact with Dalamud, using an Allagan lunar transmitter donated by House Darnus. When the scientist communicated with Dalamud, its power was confirmed at a terrible cost, as nearly five thousand years' worth of pent-up energy was directed at the transmission tower. The beam was so intense that the entire surrounding city of Bozja was also vaporized in an instant, killing Midas and all of the city's inhabitants. Aria barely survived on her far away survey spot, her Echo awakening in that precise moment and fell unconsious. When she recovered her senses only dust remained. This tragedy settled Aria's desertion, faking her death along Bozja's. Before she left Othard she made sure to destroy all related to the Manufacted Auracite Project along its creator.

Hrjst is quite indepedent and usally goes her own way but if she likes the company she won't refuse to travel with them. Thinking she has lost all that she would consider direct family, be by the pass of time or the hell-fires of war, if a person manage to be a really close friend of her she would consider them family even if they are not related. A proof of this is Aurora Norvov, a young Viera that Hrjst saved from a perilous situation some years after the 7th Umbral Calamity. Hrjst helped her to integrate in Eorzea and teached her the basics of survival. In that time Hrjst grown a fraternal love to her to the point of considering her best and truly friend, the little sister she never had. "I'll take the skies and seas but I'll never be alone" this quote obviulsy refers to Aurora, and probably the glimmer of hope that Ljotte is still out there.

Part of her hidden inside yearns for a worthy oponent. Rarely her foes made her sweat or push her to her limit. That's why she deep down enjoyed her rivalry with Zenos Galvus, the only warrior who until today found truly worthy of respect, or better said his martial prowess rather than the individual.

She's quite good with technology. Her studies on the Academia of Garlemald focused on that area and the new-created Magitek. She doesn't reach the expertice of the masters of the craft like the Garlonds or Nero Scaeva obviously, but she can fend for herself in the field. For example the weapons she use nowdays are or well crafted all by herself or modified already exceptional ones. She's also an excellent pilot, be a magitek armor or an airship.

She loves nature aswell. In the debate "nature vs. technology", she would choose both. Hrjst believes that both concepts can coexist adressing a balance between them.

Among her talents, a very curious one is that she knows how to play cello. She was teached at a younger age in House Solidor's Manor as part of her education.

Hrjst has a little obsesion with the lifeform she met on her fight against Omega: Alpha. She likes animals but that being in form of a big-headed chocobo chick stole her heart. She looses easily her cool and cocky attitude in exchange of a very vulnerable and soft one, surprising anyone who sees her and knows her even a little bit. If she could hug Alpha forever she would.

The Author

Oh, hi! Farron here! First of all, thank you if you have read all my ramblings, means a lot. If you want to learn more about her or me I'm open to dm's and collabs (some of the characters in her lore borned from such colaborations) I also have other OCs that I'll try to show as soon as i have time, as well as detailed background of Hrjst bit by bit.

#oc: Hrjst Eruyt #Farron's lore #FF14

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ms-kio · 4 months ago

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Ghouls: Not Your Ghouls

Ken Kaneki/Haise Sasaki, Uta/No-Face, Koutarou Amon X Harry Potter! 3392 Words

"[Non-understood languages]" (depends on POV)

"Understood languages" (depends on POV)

Ken Kaneki didn't know what to do. He had tortured Jason to his hearts content, he had slaughtered every ghoul and human that had wronged him, and now, he was just tired.

Beside him stood Uta, the only being who Kaneki could stand to see now, after breaking his every vow. The two Kakuja stood in empty silence, staring at the stars. "Say, Kaneki." Uta started, neither looking down from the stars. "If we could be sent away. To another world where none of this happened. Would you take the chance?" The elder ghoul asked.

There was a pause before Kaneki responded, speaking volumes. "Yes… There's no point in staying in the world… Where nothing waits for you." Then, ever so slowly, the two's bodies began to fade into shadow. As the darkness fades to their eyes, any trace of their presence disappears. Their time in ghoul-ridden Japan was over.

~ ~ ~

Kotaro Amon was having similar thoughts, sitting alone at his desk. 'This world is wrong.' The very same thought he had while fighting Eyepatch for the first time. The scar on his shoulder was still there, a constant reminder of the event. "This world is wrong." He whispered. With that, blackness enveloped him.

: : :

Amon 'woke up' to find himself in a surprisingly comfortable bed, hearing a few voices. "How is he madam Pomfery?" An elderly voice asked, with a slight British accent.

"He should be conscious any minute now." The other replied.

Amon then decided to sit up, catching one's attention. "Professor Dumbledore." The ravenette drawled, who hadn't spoken until then. "Our guest is awake."

Amon, mustering his best English, spoke up. "Um. Where am I?" Amon asked, cursing his heavy Japanese accent.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." The eldest one answered. "You are currently in the hospital wing, we found you and two humanoid creatures washed up on a riverbed a few days ago."

"Humanoid creatures?" Amon only had one guess as to what kind of creature that might be.

"We were hoping you might know what they were."

"I may be able to help you with that." Amon said, thankfully only missing his trenchcoat, which he promptly put on. The CCG investigator then stood up, picking up his briefcase. "Lead the way."

~ ~ ~

"[So, what are these creatures? Surely the ministry would know about them if they were that high of a threat.]" A female voice said, with a thick British accent.

"[I am as clueless as you, Minerva.]" An elderly voice replied, with what seemed like a similar accent. The scent from Kaneki also shifted to confusion, confirming he was also awake and feigning unconsciousness like Uta. "[We mustn't waste the hour though, it's about time we put them in the barrier Sevyrus created for us.]" Suddenly, Uta felt his body float, having to keep from reacting. The two ghouls listened to the others converse, hoping to get some answers. However, Uta didn't know English. So it was fruitless. They were eventually placed on a bed of grass, their sharp ears picking up the sound of the duo walking away, approaching what seemed to be a very large man. "[Thank you Rubius, for letting us house these creatures under your care. We don't know what exactly is required for their welfare, so I apologize for this.]"

Once the three humans were far enough away, Kaneki and Uta sat up, Kaneki speaking first. "Damn," he hissed, "I'm hungry."

Uta chuckled. "Me too." Uta turned his head to Kaneki, realizing something. "Hey, you're half human." Uta was nice to Kaneki, but wasn't nice enough to sacrifice his own well-being, and Kaneki knew this.

"And you're Kakuja anyways, fine." The snow haired ghoul said, pulling back his sleeve. "Bon appétit." Dammit Tsukiyama.

: : :

"Uta , you have been tearing up my arm for seven minutes. Why is this taking so long?" Kaneki gritted out, blood dripping down his arm.

"Your flesh is tough, and I'm hungry. Is there a problem?" Uta asked, quirking an eyebrow, though Kaneki couldn't see it. Both of them were wearing masks.

"You know how much I've had to regenerate?" The platinum haired ghoul hissed, narrowing his eyes at his elder.

"Fair point. Eat some of your own arm, I'll let you have some of my flesh afterwards." Uta brushed off.

"You know how disgusting other ghouls taste."

"Yup, and I'm glad you're not one of them." Kaneki sighed, pulling back his other sleeve and munching on his own arm.

Kaneki was becoming more and more like Tsukiyama, much to his exasperation. "You owe me, Uta."

"Alright, I'm done." Uta said a few minutes later, pulling away and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Finally!" Kaneki said in an exasperated tone, yanking the mask maker's arm towards him. "I am so fucking hungry." The half ghoul tore into Utas arm, who didn't even flinch, only raising his eyebrows in amusement.

"Indeed you are."

"Shut up. You taste disgusting"

"I'm hurt Kaneki, I am hurt."

~ ~ ~

When they reached their desired location, seemingly an old hut, an absolutely giant man approached. "Mr. Dumbledore sir! The two fellas, one's eatin' the other!" Amon pursed his lips. 'Kakuja then.' He thought.

"Calm yourself Rubius." Dumbledore said. "This man, Amon, may be able to help." Without a second's hesitation, Rubius led them into the forest. Soon enough, Amon saw Eyepatch and No-Face, the ladder eating the former's arm, and the former munching on his other arm. Amon sighed, turning to the three men, Sevyrus having tagged along in curiosity. "You two are very lucky these ghouls are who they are. If it was any other, they'd be at each other's throats, trying to kill each other." Amon said, recognizing the ghoul duo as No-Face and Eyepatch.

"So cannibalism is normal for these creatures?" The ravenette-Sevyrus-asked.

"Not necessarily. In this situation, there are two kinds of ghouls: normal, and Kakuja. Both Eyepatch and No-Face are certified Kakuja, meaning they have regularly consumed the flesh of other ghouls. My hypothesis is that Eyepatch is letting No-Face feed off of him to satiate his companions hunger, and No-Face, if my guess is correct, will let Eyepatch do the same in return." Amon explained.

"Then why is 'Eyepatch' eating his own flesh?" Minerva questioned, looking a little green.

"He's probably doing that to keep himself from going into a starved state due to having to regenerate. Ghouls can sustain themselves off of their own flesh, usually long enough to find an actual meal, but not for any extended periods of time." Amon continued to explain. "Observe both their eyes, they only look like that when there's a form of agitation or excitement, or hunger."

After a moment, the principal spoke up again."If Kakuja are not the norm, what is a ghouls staple food?" Dumbledore asked.

"Human flesh." Kotaro answered simply, causing heads to turn to him. "We should go, ghouls don't like it when others watch them eat." As Amon turned away and walked back towards the hut, he continued talking. "This method won't last them long, they'll need an actual body soon, if this behavior is anything to go by."

"Thank you for informing us." Dumbledore said. "If I may ask, however. Can you tell me how you know all this?" The headmaster asked.

"I would like to know as well." Snape commented.

"I am a member of the CCG, standing for the Commission of Counter Ghoul. It's an organization meant to protect the public from ghouls, though it recently went underground after the sudden disappearance of ghouls, it's not unlikely that these two are the last ones left." Amon smoothly lied, keeping the absurd truth to himself.

Hagrid had retired to his hut, and now it was just the three, Severus now speaking up. "You called these ghouls, 'Eyepatch' and 'No-Face'. Do you happen to know them?" He asked.

"In a way." Amon confirmed. "No-Face was the former leader of the fourth ward before he resigned in Japan, where ghouls live, and Eyepatch and I have met on multiple occasions. I could say we have mutual understanding. He won't kill me, and I won't kill him. But if we catch each other slipping up, the deal is off."

Dumbledore hummed in understanding, continuing to speak. "How dangerous are ghouls? These ones in particular?" The principal questioned, Amon responding readily.

"Ghouls are separated into seven different classes: D, C, B, A, S, SS, snd SSS. D being weak enough for an inexperienced investigator to handle, after training and getting through the academy, and SSS being strong enough for even the most powerful of our forces, even with a full squad on their side. No-Face and Eyepatch are both SS rates. I'm only safe because Eyepatch doesn't want me dead, and No-Face is an ally of Eyepatch."

Dumbledore seemed to ponder for a moment, leaving Amon and the others in his silence before he spoke up again. "Learning about Japans ghouls can teach the students how dangerous magical creatures can really be, if your description is accurate." Dumbledore said, shifting his head to the investigator. "Would you be so kind as to teach the students about these ghouls? And with your permission, I would like to use the ghouls in the Triwizard tournament." Amon pondered his options, and was about to answer, but Severus cut in.

"If that is the case, I would like to gather samples to experiment with my potions."

"I wouldn't be opposed to gathering materials for you." Amon compromised. "Approaching a ghoul without a proper weapon or experience is a suicide mission, and I am currently the only human Eyepatch trusts."

Snape nodded, not seeming to have a problem with this. "Fair enough." The ravenette turned a corner, now in the castle, leaving Amon and Dumbledore.

"Students will be arriving this Sunday and classes start on Monday. I'll give you a schedule for your classes and a map of the castle." Two sheets of folded paper appeared in Dumbledore's hand, giving them to Amon. "For now, feel free to get familiar with Hogwarts." The man then suddenly disappeared, and Amon didn't blame him. Being a principal must be busying.

: : :

Over the next few days, Amon spent most of his time getting familiar with the castle, reading books on the history of magic, checking on the ghouls and getting acquainted with No-Face, and training with his quinque to keep up his skills and fitness. Per Severus' request, Amon taught the potions master about the physiology of ghouls, including RC cells, Kakugan, Kagune and their variants, and Kakuhou. The two ended up getting along easily, Amon finding the man suitable to help teach classes regarding ghouls.

Snape and Amon held a mutual respect for each other and the potions master quickly grasped that Amon was not familiar with the magical world. So, in return for teaching him about Japanese ghouls, Snape taught Amon about magical culture and some basic potions.

~ ~ ~

Back in Dumbledore's office, the principal scoured every map -magical and otherwise- he could for a place called 'Japan'. Amon had mentioned the place while describing the ghouls, but he couldn't find such a place in every place he looked. It’s as if it didn’t exist.

Curious. He would have to ask Amon about it.

~ ~ ~

A hungry ghoul was one thing, a starving ghoul was another, but a bored ghoul was something else entirely. The two SS rated, extremely dangerous ghouls, were currently playing roulette with the large boulders in their allotted area, making sure not to crush themselves in the process. "If that thing crushes me I will go berserk." Kaneki warned, eyeing the boulder as it was coming down. It landed not three feet away from the whitette, creating a sizable crater.

"Then I guess you're not going 'berserk'." Uta commented casually as Kaneki picked up the boulder in front of him, about the mass of a fully grown man. It was much heavier though, seeing as it was made of, well, boulder. Kaneki grunted and threw said boulder high in the air, taking only about eight seconds to land by Uta, roughly two feet away from the black haired ghoul. "So. This Amon guy. You sure we can trust him?" Uta asked, picking up the boulder and throwing it up in the air. One and a half feet.

"Positive. Me and him have a little unspoken agreement. As long as we only kill out of necessity, then we should be fine." One foot.

"Noted." Half a foot.

Kaneki yawned, flopping on the boulder not two inches in front of him. "I'm tired, goodnight." Announcing an end to the game. Uta chuckled, walking over and sitting down next to the boulder, closing his eyes.

~ ~ ~

Harry, Ron, and Hermoine, as well as many others, had noticed the new man at the staff table. What confused them though, was that Dumbledore hadn't introduced him yet.

"Do either of you now who that man is? The one next to Snape?" Harry asked his friends.

"No." Hermoine answered, glancing at the new face. "I don't recognize his nationality either. He's most likely a traveling teacher."

"Traveling for what though?" Ron asked.

"How am I supposed to know!?" Hermoine said, exasperated. "I don't have a master schedule for heaven's sake!"

"For all who may have noticed, I'm sure you are wondering who the new face is at the staff table." That caught everyone's attention. "You will be calling him Professor Amon, and he will be officially introduced and start classes when the Durmstrangs and Bobatens arrive for the Triwizard Tournament." The mentioned man stood up and bowed in a polite manner to the crowd. Anyone with any knowledge of cultural differences easily and correctly assumed that it was simply a way of greeting. There was a small smile on his face, genuine and calm.

"Seems nice enough." Harry said. But then, shock spilled across all of their faces.

"Since when did Professor Snape ever seem to genuinely enjoy a conversation?" Ron gaped.

"Professor Snape." Fred said. "Enjoying a conversation?" George finished. Both twins simultaneously turned to the staff table. "Ay, will you look at that?" George continued.

"Ronalds got a good set of eyes in his noggin."

Ron sighed. "Seriously?"

: : :

The next morning, after the first stretch of classes, a handful of students plus the Golden Trio, stayed behind. "Professor McGonnigal." Hermoine spoke up. "Do you know where we can find Professor Amon?" She asked.

The professor quirked an eyebrow, before answering. "He'll most likely be by the Whomping Willow training with his Quinque. If he's not there, check the library. Otherwise, it's best he's not disturbed." The students left with their thanks, heading to the mentioned magical tree. It seemed other students had asked a similar question, because many others were headed to the whomping willow as well.

When the trio arrived, they saw Amon, gracefully dodging the willows branches, a large spear-like weapon in hand. All of the students were further impressed when a thick branch landed not a foot away from the man, who proceeded to run up its length, vaulting over the tree and continuing to dodge its branches. Eventually, Amon leaped away from the tree's range, turning to the students. "Can I help you?"

The students began asking questions, such as who he was, where he came from, and such. The man had put away his Quinque, answering to the best of his ability and chatting casually with the more extroverted students, who seemed to enjoy his company. "So this is the one Dumbledore was talking about? I can't see hardly anything noteworthy. Not even a wand." A blonde Slytherin boy said, strutting up to the crowd.

"I use something called a Quinque, it's made of a special steel that is resistant to all types of magic." Amon explained casually, the taunt in the boys voice seemingly going straight over his head. "Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Malfoy?" He asked.

The Slytheryns face was already taking on that childish scowl, much to the Gryffendors amusement, when he asked: "Where are you from?"

"I'm from Japan." Amon replied simply, picking up his briefcase.

"Japan? Never heard of it." Malfoy said. It was clear he was trying to mock, and equally clear that Amon didn't care as he answered.

"I'm not surprised, Japanese have a preposterous amount of xenophobia. They keep the island off all the maps." The man turned away with a smile, towards the castle. "I'm afraid I'll have to draw this to a close. Lessons start soon and I believe you should head over to your respective classrooms before you're late." Amon said politely. Soon enough, the students cleared out, leaving the investigator to himself.

~ ~ ~

Kaneki was starting to get a little pissed. Those 'Hogwarts Professors' were all staring at him. "[So this is a Japanese ghoul?]" A man asked, whom Kaneki heard his name was Bartey Crouch. "[He doesn't look very threatening.]"

"[I assure you, Eyepatch is not to be underestimated.]" Amon said, pulling down his collar to reveal the mutilating scar the ghoul gave him. "[He gave me this when he was juvenile and half-developed, and I was already an experienced investigator.]" Kaneki climbed down from the branches he was perched on, hanging upside down, directly in front of the humans.

"[Amon, is this normal?" A woman in green asked, leaning back slightly, despite the barrier. Kaneki didn't understand a word they were saying, but he got the geist, almost laughing at the woman's expression.

Amon sighed, seeming exasperated. "[No.] Eyepatch, are you high? Quit trying to terrify the wizards."

Kaneki choked on his laughter, falling from the branch. "How do you expect me to get high? All we have here is plants! And me and No-Face still haven't gotten a proper meal yet!" Kaneki's Kakugan flared at the last sentence, causing the wizards and witches all to take a step back.

Amon sighed. "They're working on it, as far as I've been told." Then, Amon realized something. "Please don't scar the ones who haven't seen it."

"Oh, you bet I will. I'm fucking hungry, you'll be fine." Kaneki's Kagune erupted from his back, reaching up and dragging down Uta from the trees, whom he took a chomp out of his neck, blood splattering all over the ground. All of the present wizards had looks of horror on their faces, much to Kaneki's glee, who continued to tear flesh from Uta. Just for shits and giggles, Uta yanked Kaneki's arm towards his mouth, chomping through the skin and muscle. He was hungry for human flesh as well, and the both of them wanted to make it explicitly clear that they would do just about anything for a good human meal.

Kaneki watched as Amon ushered the magical folk to look away, speaking up as they focused their attention on him. "[That was Eyepatch's way of reminding you that he and No-Face are very hungry and still haven't gotten a meal. The tentacles you saw from Eyepatch were Kagune, Rinkaku to be exact. His red eye was his activated Kakugan] -Eyepatch, what in heaven's name are you doing?" Amon had shifted his attention back to the ghouls for just a split second, to see the two playing roulette with a boulder.

"Playing roulette." The white haired ghoul said simply.

"I can see that. But why?" The investigator asked, the most confused and exasperated look on his face.

"Because it's fun." Kaneki replied, grinning behind his mask at the investigators peril.

~ ~ ~

Amon managed to get the wizards away from the disturbing scene of ghoul cannibalism without them looking back, speaking up again when the sounds of tearing flesh had disappeared. “Eyepatch is a very spiteful ghoul, and isn’t afraid of doing what needs to be done. So you’d better get those two a body before they find a way out of the barrier." He said to Haggrid, before turning to Mr. Crouch. "Just for the sake of my conscious, Are you sure you want Eyepatch in the Triwizard tournament? There's a very real chance that your students will be eaten alive." the investigator warned.

"The students who sign up all know the risk of death in the tournament, and the risk of a painful one. I know your job is to protect people from Japanese Ghouls, Mr. Amon, But please bear with it." Needless to say, The CCG member was not happy.

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