#fifty years aint enough

[thechaoticcherub]

hi!! if you’re interested , i’m currently obsessed with old man joel on viagra fics and feel like you could make it art

may i please request old man joel w a little blue pill and overstim 🙏

thank u ur amazing mwah

thanks for the request! sorry it took a while!

Little Blue

Pairing: Old!Joel Miller x reader

Summary: Joel takes a little blue pill and starts to notice all the little blue things.

Warnings: 18+ please, AU no cordyceps, viagra, unprotected p in v sex, overstimulation, INTENSE overstimulation, pet names, pussy pronouns, spanking, hair grabbing, a little bit of humiliation, BIG age gap(56 and 19)

Word Count: 2.1k

Wanna read something specific for Joel Miller? Send me a request!!

There was something ridiculously beautiful about being as needy as you had been recently. You constantly were dropping to your knees in front of Joel, running your fingers up and down his thick thighs. You would fiddle with his zipper while you looked up at him, innocently needing him.  You had been begging for Joel’s cock Every. Single. Day. and Joel was struggling to keep up. It was a lovely problem to have, Joel wasn’t going to complain about having a gorgeous nineteen year old on your knees in front of him, asking to suck him off. 

But at fifty-six years old, Joel wasn’t as spry as he used to be but he wanted to be ready to give you what you needed as much as he could. Today had been especially difficult for him, you wore a a little blue bow in your hair and ran your fingers up and down his thigh under the table while you ate dinner together. He knew exactly what you wanted, you weren’t exactly subtle. Joel reached down and took your fingers, he squeezed them and then pushed your hand away, trying to not feel bad about the sad look on your face, but Joel wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep up tonight considering that morning you had insisted on sucking his cock. 

He brought your fingers up to his lips and kissed your knuckles. 

“Don’t you like the way I rub your leg, Joel?” You asked, tilting your head to the side, the little blue bow in your hair bobbing. Joel let out a huff, 

“I do, babygirl. I just-you know i’m an old man,” He admitted, feeling a little bad that he had to admit that. You bit your lip, looking up at him, 

“I like that about you,” You giggled and he smiled,

“I know, but I aint…I ain’t able to give ya all ya need sometimes,” He said regretfully. You pursed your lips and sighed, 

“I am a little needy,” You mumbled, looking down in your lap, feeling a little guilty that you had been begging for his cock so often. Joel hated that he had to reject you but he wasn’t sure he was able to give you the hard fucking you deserved. That was when he remembered a specific pill bottle in his medicine cabinet. He had never felt like he needed them but then his doctor found out he had started dating again so he let him write a prescription for him. Now the pills were sitting in his medicine cabinet just waiting for a moment like this. 

“it’s okay, babe, if you clear the table I’ll do the dishes in a second,” He said. You nodded, leaned over, kissed him and then got up. Joel went into the bathroom, you had a blue bra hanging on the back of the door. He absentmindedly ran his fingers over it while he shut the door.  He went to the cabinet, opening it and wondering if he was really about to do this. He felt a little humiliated but then he remembered the way your fingers had felt on his thigh, and how you always looked up at him when you were on your knees in front of him. That was enough to spur him on to take out the medicine bottle, tap out a little blue pill and throw it back. 

Joel went back into the kitchen then and worked on the dishes, taking his time and listening to you in the living room, you had the TV on  and he imagined the way you looked lying on the couch. By the time he was done it had been almost a half hour and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the bra on the back the door of the bathroom your hand on his thigh and how much you had needed him recently. He went into the living room and saw you, lying on your stomach on the couch, facing away from him, looking at a magazine and only half paying attention to the television that was on. 

The little blue bow in your hair shifted as he you shook our your hair, and Joel noticed with a jolt  just below where his belt buckle dug into his belly, that you had matched the bow in your hair to your little undies. They were peaking out from underneath your short skirt. Fuck. You were naughty. It was like everything you did was designed to try and turn him on. You needed it so much that you matched your hair accessories to your undies and left bras out in the bathroom to constantly remind him that you were wet, horny, needy. 

Joel walked over to the couch and reached down and rubbed your lower back, his hand traveling down to your ass and squeezing. 

“Oh hi,” You said innocently, glancing back. Joel swept his hand up over your ass, brushing your skirt up.  You giggled and wiggled your ass. 

Joel grabbed the waistband of your undies and tugged up, causing the little blue undies to slip between your ass cheeks. You lifted your hips up, pressing your knees into the couch. “atta girl, show off your sweet ass,” Joel said as he moved behind you more, looking down at your undies tightening over your already slightly swollen pussy lips. You glanced over your shoulder at him and he smiled a devilish smile, his finger trailing down from the curve of your ass to your clothed sex. “Ya been so needy recently, haven’t ya, darlin?” He asked as he stroked your lips up and down, his other hand tightening on the underwear he was holding in a tight wedgie. You let out a little moan,

“Oh!  Yes…yes. I just want your cock.” You sighed, pressing your hips back towards his fingers. 

“Mhm, you’re a filthy girl, aint ya?” He asked with a laugh. He could feel his cock hardening in his pants, he made a point to thank the little blue pill gods for the help. You nodded. “Say it back to me,” Joel commanded. 

“I’m a filthy girl, Joel,” you moaned. Joel released your undies to smack your asscheek, hard. 

“That’s right,” he growled. “Always tryin’ to get my cock. Always suckin’ me dry and still needing more.” Joel put his knee down on the couch behind you. His fingers rubbed over your underwear, feeling them getting wetter, the more he rubbed. You nodded. “Use your words, babygirl, ya need this cock to make ya feel good, don’t ya?” He asked. 

“Yes! Joel! I need your cock,” You whined. Joel unbuckled his belt and started to pull his pants down, needing to release his already throbbing cock. When he managed to get his pants and underwear down, you were shoving yourself back into him, practically begging for it to be fucked into you. Joel’s big hand came down hard against your ass again, making you yelp. 

“I’ll give ya whatcha need, darlin’. Pull your underwear down.” He reached down and started to stroke his cock in his hand, up and down. You reached back and tucked your thumbs into your undies and started to pull them down, Joel watched as your little blue undies slipped out of your ass and then down,  showing off your puffy, excited, wet pussy lips. Joel let out a little moan, his hand still rubbing over his impossibly hard dick. 

“That’s righ’, little girl, show her off to me. I wanna watch myself fuck into her,” He groaned and then you got your undies all the way down, they fell to your knees. “Spread yourself out for me, I wanna see her open up.” The filthy words that were spilling out of Joel’s mouth made your cunt clench on nothing. You couldn’t believe he was up for another round after that morning when he spilled his load all over your face. You reached back farther, your face pressing into the cushion of the couch as you pulled your asscheeks apart, making your pussy open for his prying eyes. 

Joel couldn’t wait any longer, her cunt was glistening with wetness and opening in such a pretty way. He notched himself against your hole, “You keep her open for me, naughty girl, you’re going to take all of him in that pretty cunt.” He said. 

“Yes! Please!” You moaned and then you felt his cock plunge into you all the way. It felt like you were being split in two in the best possible way. “Oh fuck,” You moaned, still holding yourself open while Joel fucked his stiff manhood into you. Joel marveled at the way you accepted him into your hole. He could see your cunt gripping him as he pushed himself deep inside of you and then pulled back. Every time he tugged back, you babbled about needing him more and more. 

Joel leaned over your back, his front pressed into you and he grabbed the hair on the back of your head, right below the little blue bow tied into your hair. He pulled you up, so you were sitting up on your knees, pressed back into him. He worked his hips up into you, feeling you tighten around him. One of Joel’s hands stayed in your hair, the other wrapped around your front and his fingers found your clit, tracing his finger over it. You moaned,

“Joel! I’m going to come if you-“ 

“Good,” He growled. “You’re so filthy and horny, you’re going to come over and over for me.” He growled into your ear. You whimpered and you could feel your orgasm take over you suddenly, it was like the second he had added his finger swirling around your clit you had been plunged into such intense pleasure that you couldn’t hold off. You shook against him moaning and rutting yourself back into him. As you came down, Joel didn’t stop. His finger kept swirling around your swollen clitoris as he pumped his hips into you, his big cock slamming against your cervix over and over. 

Your cunt contracted as he forced himself inside of you. Your body was shaking with the pleasure and you squirmed, trying to get away from the intensity of it. 

“I-I can’t…! Joel! I- Oh god!” You sobbed out as he pinched your clit, massaging you through the overstimulation. 

“You’re goin’ to take it, darlin’, you’ve been needin’ it so bad and your old man is goin’ to give it to ya until ya can’t take it anymore,” He growled into your cheek. Joel could feel the soft silk of your little blue hair bow against his fingers as he held your hair. Your clit was so swollen and over used that he could easily pinch it and stroke it while he fucked his hips up into you. His own orgasm was close but thanks to his own little blue something, he was still rock hard inside of you. Your legs were shaking and the next orgasm was going to be one that burned through you, it felt like it would destroy you. You weren’t sure you would be able to handle it, 

“I can’t, I can’t! I can’t! Joel! I’m…it’s hurting! Oh please! Please!” It was burning and aching and the orgasm was being ripped form you and despite the hurt form overstimulation, you needed the orgasm to overtake you. 

“That’s right, lil girl, you fuckin’ come again.” He growled into your air, he bit down on your neck and you cried out while your orgasm seemed to rip through you. 

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” you were struggling to breathe as Joel stroked your clit through your next orgasm but he still didn’t stop, stroking you over and over while his hips beat their unforgiving pattern against you. He wanted to stroke your overstimulated clit through his own orgasm. You were fucked dumb and moaning weakly as he pumped himself deeper and deeper into you. 

“That’s my girl, that’s my filthy girl, fuck! I’m goin’ to come all over your insides,” Joel released your hair and his fingers on your clit as his own orgasm burst over him. You collapsed forward onto the couch, shaking, shuddering and sobbing while he fucked himself into you through his own orgasm. When he pulled out, he watched his own creamy spend start to leak out of your abused hole. His finger stroked down against your hole, pushing his come back  inside of you. You moaned weakly as he replaced your little blue undies over your pulsing cunt. 

“You fulfilled yet,  darlin?” he asked. You moaned into the couch cushions. He stroked down your back and into your hair, his fingers twisting around the little blue ribbon in your hair. “Pretty girl, you just needed a little extra, didnt ya?” He smirked. You nodded weakly and Joel resolved to take that little blue pill more often.

[rederiswrites]

If you're wondering what we ARE going to do about all that poison ivy, and the general absolute shittiness of our fields, and for that matter what the fuck two people with no farming background and like...more than full-time work already are going to do with like sixteen acres of field anyway....we don't know.

Don't get me wrong, we have a lot of ideas. Most of which we either can't currently afford or for some other reason can't achieve. But some of which are lovely.

Rotational grazing, especially the high-density, frequently moved version sometimes known as "mob grazing", would eventually fix a lot of what's wrong with those fields. But not without way more animals than we have or even intend to have. We don't even have a "mob" TO graze. The sheep will eat some poison ivy, though it's not their favorite. They'll eat the leaves off the brambles, which is a pretty effective way to deplete the plant's stores and stunt it. They won't eat the Virginia Creeper.

But in a way, it doesn't matter, because we've spent nearly the entire last year moving the ewes through the smaller of the two fields, and they're only just getting back to where they started. In order to make a serious impact, they'd need to be grazing the same spot maybe every two months, depending on weather conditions. Not once a year. As I showed in a previous video, everywhere they go, they do visibly leave nitrogen, and we can actually see a slight improvement everywhere they've passed through. But it's not fast. And getting and caring for the...I don't know, fifty or so? sheep that would speed the process would make moving and caring for those sheep a full-time job neither of us has the capacity for. It's just not even an intention of ours. We've never really discussed a "cap", but I'd say that a "someday when we have real fencing and I'm healthy" number of sheep would still be twenty or thirty at the most.

The conventional, and arguable still best, way to fix the big field and its extreme fuckery would be to till and reseed. It would, believe it or not, still not eliminate all of the problem weeds, especially not the Virginia Creeper and Canada Thistle (which loves to grow back from root fragments and is resistant to normal herbicides). But it would be a huge start. We'd seed with a pasture mix that's full of plants that can handle being grazed down, and then mow where the sheep don't get to. I don't even know what it would cost to hire out all that work or rent the tools, but it's more than we have. It's like asking what it would cost to replace the siding on your house. I don't know, but I know I aint got it.

So for now, Jacob is spending a lot of hours just mowing. Mowing doesn't do as much as grazing, notably it doesn't leave nitrogen, but it does ensure that light is hitting the soil so that seeds there can sprout, and it does give the advantage to plants adapted for grazing (mainly grasses).

Eventually, the plan is to reforest several acres of the big field, using government programs. That also comes with the need to control understory growth for years until the trees mature enough to shade things out, but actually, help with that is part of some of the programs. They typically plant with a mix of natives--oak, tulip poplar, redbud...the mix varies based on what the contracted companies grew that year, apparently, but it's not really something you get to pick and choose. They come, they calculate their grid, they plant. But I don't think anything's to stop you coming through afterwards and planting your own selections in spots where saplings inevitably die. Pawpaw, white oak, American persimmon, hybrid chestnut... I dream of a day where we have maybe ten acres of forest, where I can harvest mushrooms and chestnuts, paw paws and berries and ginseng. Where the boy can bag us a wild turkey for holiday dinner or supplement the freezer with deer that got fat on fall acorns.

In my wildest fantasies (and, to be fair, what I have now was once my wildest fantasies!), the "small" field is an intercropped quilt of coppiced willow and locust, berry bushes, broad stripes of sorghum, amaranth, corn, and wheat for people and animals, strips of wildflower meadow to make corridors for animals and beneficial insects, and large patches of medicinal herbs and dye plants. The "north" field, the one that is so especially troubled now, is part forest, part pasture, with permanent perimeter fences, a loose scattering of trees that provide shade and fodder, and sheep being guided through the larger perimeter with portable electric mesh fencing.

So that's what we (very sarcastically) refer to as the "five year plan" here. But I'm trying to learn not to hamstring us with doubt and disbelief, so....that's the plan.

[hakuna-my-ass]

Call me a bitch one more time

Maybe ill believe you

Call me a whore again

Maybe ill conceive you

Call me a slut to my face

Maybe ill believe you

Cause the way

I wade through the dirt

Is a pain

You cant see through

Call me your mom, call me your baby, call me your daughter

Call me whatever you want

I thank god im not your father

I would beat you, mistreat you, just like mine did

I wouldnt eat you, id leave you

To rot in your sins

Not here to please you, just deal you with the cards of your kin

Calling me your queen wont work cause bitch im a goddess

On the scene when i twerk

Cant help it im flawless

Tell me again how youre gonna cum all over my face

Show me again the way i feel pain

Tell me again about my ass and my titties

Like my uterus wasnt enough to give a buck fifty

Ya'll niggas iffy, filthy... long john? miss me!

Your bullshit squishy

According to the stars and the cards im a bull, hard headed

According to my pops, he's a dog, im hot headed

If i listened to any of you bitches id be mal tempered

I guess this is why rap was invented

Telling me i got legs for days when i got bills to pay dont distract me with your petty bullshit

I got brains for decades dont trash me ill behead you

Asking me for head? Youd rather be dead

Spitting on your grave, does that count?

Illy for years, been down south

Been in cuffs but i was rough before they tried to put me down

Like i cant fight, dont have might, i wear my horns like a fucking crown

Cause just like a bull i see red

But as a taurian i get paid diamonds, no respect

So tell me again how horny you are and how i make you

Show me again how you cum

And i may believe you

Born in May so its easy to distinguish sun from rain

All ya'll bitches run when you see me in pain

Cause my limit is about where my choker is

You helped me reach it so lets not forget i know how to choke a bitch

Like i said call me a bitch one more time

Call me dumb, ill show you whats mine

Cause none y'all have the stripes im covered in

Chinese eyes, my chinese sign starts roarin in this bitch

Y'all came straight outta hell

I came from something even lower

Learned and broke yall spells STOP FUCKING CALLING ME BROKEN

THIS BITCH IS BAD NO MAGICIAN COULD CLONE HER

They tried and failed not even the universe could own her

Put her in a ditch, shell make a pie and make you eat

Youll attempt to take everything

Fucking fakes nothing more than leeches

Got poems so old, damn i should start preachin

Cant say ive never been to church

The bible aint a secret

Y'all preaching to the choir

So i brought a choir just to sing this

Bring me down to the ground

I might believe you

Silencing me

Wicho irritating sounds

Yous a nuisance

Thinking yous all that?

But aint got time to prove it

GOD MADE ME BLIND BUT I SEE RIGHT THROUGH IT

The grass is greener where i smoke it

The waist got leaner

Now they tryna poach it

Taking credit for my successes, my strength, my will and why im the bestest

But i didnt see NONE of yall when I was in duress, hella stressed, just tryna make it out w me n mine

Yet over time i realised its just me and im mine

To make things CLEAR

Im not here to fall into your sextraps

Sextrolling while im rolling

Youre fucked cause i got strapped

Youve never seen a gem like me?

Thats common knowledge.

Oeh im so different?

Caught me yawning

Turned up the degrees to see where youre boiling

Dashed so fast couldnt even keep it a hunnid

Annoying. Disgusting.

As a vegetarian i dont eat meat

Why dfq do u think id wanna see yours when i open my feed

Yall aint got nothin better to do than to focus

On fucking

I got better shit and poo so i focus on commas

The only zeros im interested in are the ones on my bankaccount

I like danger and dangerous numbers that make me moan and shout

Not yo itty bitty dick wrapped up in clout

Next time you see me dont ask me how im doing cause good girls do it bad and bad girls do it badder and im the worst

Your sins cant make it better

ON GOD

Scratch that

Royal Deity

The unholiest chick with the most purity

Chique, fine and thick

But you wouldnt know bout nunna that

Intelligent, since we keepin it straight facts

Sharp shooter, never miss my aim

Even if i fail, still winnin this game

S/o to all the gamers, the players, the fakers

Addressin y'all as my main haters

Slapping my insecurities in my face

Like i might do somethin w it

Undress, heaving chest, make a mess in the kitchen

Callin me gay just cause yall aint got a pot to piss in

Mad pissed, yall blocked, try to mess with this bitch

On all fours like a horse come too close ill stomp ya face in

Insulting me vagée, she's not an animal, yall the pussies

Saying put it on my face

Like you got the right or earned it

Yall demands undeserving

High on supply i dont follow commands

Baby your stressed let me help you with that

Bitch please take a seat id rather do a handstand

Know your place before its too late and yo ass gets jabbed

Call me baby one more time i might believe it

Call me sweet once mlre and ill know youre deceivin

Call me your love, your honey, babycakes, babygirl

Havent been a baby since i entered this world

Tell me that you love me one more time and ill bust out my edges, limited edition blade collection

Jessica rabbit blasian

Blazing stages

Saying you wanna fuck

So i did

Sorry not sorry i fucked you up instead

Mustve been a slice of miscommunication

Over time i developed a bullshit translator

Not sick in the head, just sick of y'all

Planning me demise and downfall

Ik ben een lijdende leider, een overlevende strijder

Thats why i give myself errything i be wantin

Preparin myself for these scheming ass bitches that be hauntin

Mightve gotten startled in the past

But im badder and better so issa wrap

[harrison-abbott]

Fairy lights in the windows of the high rises blink in rainbow neon.

You head out in the dark morning to the Metro and the city’s on

That edgy verge of wakefulness, a sun waiting to burst.

The station is all filmic colour and windy echoes and the balletic

Language sparks about in small quips that you don’t understand.

Unto the rushing tunnels and the ringing tannoid voice overhead.

Up the stone steps and met with the whispery air, raindrops

Licking the cheeks and hair and shining the routes of the trams.

You walk by a cathedral that’s 500 years old and you graze

The same earth that all those people enveloped that long back.

This is a wonder and you are your own unit and mind.

Magazine stalls pop and ping in pink and yellows with their

Startled postcard shacks and magnets and soccer tops agleam.

The words on the newspapers are all stark and sound amazing

And you wished you were learned enough to write and read them.

Onwards through these streets with the drizzled lamps, the hushed

Pigeons flocking and the tram cables in black athletic arrows above.

Cough, snarl, roar, grumble, go the trams, autobuses and bikes.

You were headed to this particular museum but there’s an

Angry sign outside saying that it’s closed so you take a left turn

And head into this church that’s right next to it and go in through

These seismic oak doors and whence inside the lush airy magic

Of the realm is mixed with the little pots of glowing candles and the

Sheer span of the ceiling and the all-time glory of the lofty paintings.

You dare breathe loudly in such a place and walk at a calmer pace.

When back outside you pick up the volume and take a new route.

Cafes begin to open up with orange windows and the chance smells

Of warm pastry and coffee and through the windows there are

Young folks with aprons scurrying about with bravery and youth.

Beyond these are the fruit markets with the gaudy botanical shapes

And the gizmo stalls with the weird array of antique and souvenir,

All this electric garble and then fancy hats, hoodies and snazzy sneakers.

As you venture, all these balconies gaze down at you from fifty, sixty

Feet and there are often folks dabbling upon them, smoking & shouting.

The architecture just seems the stuff dreams are made on and you

Could be a nobody or anybody versus that calibre of creation.

You take a newbie direction. To this other museum but it’s too busy.

Then bounce down the street and you pondering where else to go.

Then your phone dies and you did have a back up plan in case this

Happened which was to charge it up from the laptop – but you forgot

To bring the cable with you and now you gotta head all the way back

Without Mr phone – you silly boyo, you aint no traveller yet.

You get to the underground again after asking a pair of gals where to go.

And eventually return to where the hostel is and it’s pelting rain

Pretty hard when you get off and you think you’re going the right

Way but you eventually get lost and are totally clueless, and you need

Some help from another person, and see a Pharmacy on the corner of

Street. And so you dip in there and it’s almost pitch-silent inside and

There’s this young woman at the counter with these hard glasses

That sit nicely over her delicate face, over the ears, above the blonde hair.

You explain what’s happened and she offers you a charger.

“You can stay inside the shop until it’s done, it’s okay,” she says

And the voice is lyrical kind and clean and you thank her,

And crawl down by this plug socket in the corner of this random

Chemist and you wait for your telephone to come back to life …

As you wait there are other chaps that enter the store and they’re

Sick or they have troubles and they talk to the counter girl

And again you hear that piano dialogue dancing around.

You wait until your battery had a chance of survival maps-wise.

And until the girl has served the other customers and you

Thank her in her own language and you honestly are grateful

And it gives you a bit of spirit to know that most people

Are goodly hearted, if there’s the chance to help out a stranger.

She accepts the gratitude, and then she goes, “You can take

An umbrella as well,” and then she takes this umbrella up

From the corner of the room, “because somebody forgot it. Your

Hair is all wet. You could do with it!” She smiled. He thanked

Her again as he was leaving. Grazie Grazie Grazie Grazie.

[morwensteelsheen]

one of my least favourite trends going right now is this People Have Always Been People stuff because it’s…. well it’s really inaccurate for the points people are trying to make. people have always been people in that we’ve always sort of looked the same in a general species sense, but beyond that, the changes separating us in 2021 from people even a hundred years ago are vast and immense and not deserving of this popular understating. it’s not enough to say that people have always wanted love or attention or whatever because it really flattens the human experience down in a way that functionally disempowers historical actors. we actually are not very similar to the ancient greeks, we’re not even very similar to people living fifty years ago! the paradigm shifts that occur routinely throughout history are significant and make the past almost (but not entirely!) unintelligible to us on a purely psychological and emotional level.

if i were a french peasant cutting about 12th century reims, believing deeply in my catholic faith, the divine right of kings, and not having a single fucking clue what “france” is, i wouldn’t appreciate some twenty-something American kid putting words into a terrifying, lovecraftian word machine that implies that we’re built the same. we aint!!!

[soc-characters-as-songs]

Concept: make a playlist of songs that fit your personal idealised notion of love, and then tag the OCs as those songs

s p i c y

this turned into a mix of my idealised notion of love and how I feel my experience has been so far. choices kinda based on vibes idk.

yes I'm a mentally ill scorpio venus. no I will not be apologizing for it.

anyway here's a link to the full playlist

ivy: be my forever ("for a whole lot of time/my heart finally trust my mind/and I know somehow it's right/and oh we got time, yeah/so darling just say you'll stay/right by my side")

meredith: emmylou ("and I've been there before, I held up the door/for every stranger with a promise/but I'm holding back, that's the strength that I lack/every morning keeps returning at my window/and it brings me to you and I won't just pass through/but I'm not asking for a storm")

diana: personal problem ("I'm indecisive to a fault/I can't commit or too far in it, don't know what I want/they say that love can be blind, maybe it ain't worth my time/'cause I can never get it right/man, I just thought it would be like all those old school movies/but love's just not that black and white")

dahlia: I want crazy ("you can't undo a fall like this/'cause love don't know what distance is/yeah I know it's crazy/but I don't want good and I don't want good enough/I want can't sleep can't breathe without your love/front porch and one more kiss, it doesn't make sense to anybody else/who cares if you're all I think about/I've searched the world and I know now/it aint right if you aint lost your mind")

alassie: medicine ("i'm used to ripping hearts out/now it's mine that's bleeding/never let my guard down/now i'm barely breathing/never thought id be the one to fall/now i'm in my castle all alone/thought that I was cold/but now im fucking freezing/never felt alone/now staring at the ceiling, feeling/what goes around comes around/I'm tasting my medicine, tasting my medicine now")

ramona: light a roman candle with me ("you look for a legend, I'm looking for common ground/your heart isn't breaking, and mine isn't making a sound/oh I know, it goes on, it gets old/oh I know it goes on, it gets old/light a roman candle with me/just a roman candle/just a perfect apple")

rhea: south london forever ("and I go home alone/and drive past the place that I was born/and the places that I used to drink/young and drunk and stumbling in the street/outside the joiners arms like foals unsteady on their feet/with the art students and the boys in bands/high on e and holding hands with someone that I just met/I thought it doesn't get/better than this")

cornelia: flowers in your hair ("so we grew a little/and knew a lot/and now we demonstrated it to the cops/and all the things we said/we were self assured/'cause it's a long road to wisdom/but it's a short one to being ignored")

kaden: life of the party ("we don't have to be ordinary/make your best mistakes/'cause we don't have the time to be sorry/so baby be the life of the party/I'm telling you to take your shot it might be scary/hearts are gonna break/cause we don't have the time to be sorry/so baby be the life of the party")

andreia: classy girls ("she spoke of places I had never been/that she had traveled to/and we slow danced along to faster tunes/and I made her laugh, I made a pass/I showed her my half dollar ring/she said 'that's pretty cool/but classy girls don't kiss in bars, you fool'")

arely: gold rush ("I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch/everybody wants you/everybody wonders what it would be like to love you/walk past, quick brush/I don't like slow motion double vision in rose blush/I don't like that falling feels like flying til the bone crush/everybody wants you/but I don't like a gold rush")

suzy: dear winter ("dear winter, I hope you like this song/even when you're thirteen/and you scream at me for parenting you wrong/I hope it's still a badass song/it really doesn't seem like there's anyone for me/but dear winter, I hope you like your name/you know I cannot wait to teach you how to curse/but shit, I gotta meet your mom first")

samuel: dream ("I wanna tell you what my truth is/but it's buried down inside/shining light, show and tell/don't be scared, truth is hell/down we go, wish me well/no one knows where we fell/oh I had a dream that you couldn't hear me screaming/tried to tell you everything but it wouldn't stop you leaving")

bianca: the gambler ("slow down, we've got time left to be lazy/all the kids have bloomed from babies into flowers in our eyes/we've got fifty good years left to spend out in the garden/I don't care to beg your pardon/we should live until we die")

archibald: barcelona ("and you and I we're flying on an aeroplane tonight/we're going somewhere where the sun is shining bright/just close your eyes/and let's pretend we're dancing in the street/in barcelona")

raphael: no judgement ("when you're with me, no judgement/you can get that from anyone else/you don't have to prove nothin'/you can just be yourself")

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Long Odds (OmarUlmerxFem!Reader)

Requested by @mylovelyreblogs​

@owba-chan​ @war-obsessed​ @inglourious-imagines​ @tealaquinn​ @struggling-bee​ @frozenhuntress67​

Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist! :)

Donny set his beer down on the pub counter, and smirked, "Five hundred francs." Hirschberg rolled his eyes, "What is that? Like ten bucks?" "Yeah, but we're in France...so five hundred francs. Take it or leave it." Hirschberg snickered, "Aint'cha got somethin'...luckier than that?" Donny sneered as he muttered under his breath, "Fucken lucky, I'll show you lucky." He set his lucky baseball card on the counter. Rare, 1939 Teddy Williams baseball card. Autographed. Omar raised his eyebrow, and grinned, "Goin' all in, huh?" Donny smirked, "Might as well. I'm the one that needs the least luck here." They all grumbled as the betting went on. They were betting on something...well...odd, to say the least. You were a basterd, and a friendly one, too. Friendly with all of them.  As a matter of fact, you'd gotten a laugh or two out of Hugo, which wasn't an easy thing to do. As much as they hated to admit, each of the boys had a thing for you at some point or other.

They looked back to the other side of the pub, where you were dancing with anyone and everyone that so much as looked  in your direction.... Boy was it a sight that would never fade away from anyone's memory. You were one of a kind basterd...but a basterd no less. Still, you were more than anyone of them could have ever bargained for. Especially Omar. To him, you were more than he could ever say. You were what they'd all dreamed of having by their side once they got home... But goddamn was it a perk having you there by their side in the war, where it mattered most. Where it was rough having friends, but...none of them would have it any other way. Now...they were all betting who you'd be "friendliest" with in the end... And looked down the counter, "Aldo?" He rolled his eyes, set his whiskey down with a clunk, and crossed his arms, and muttered, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit..." He cleared his throat, "And I respect Y/n too much to just bet on th-" Donny smirked, "You're scared, huh?" Smitty snickered,  "You scared you'll lose, lieutenant?" Aldo narrowed his eyes as he looked at his men, "Lose?"

Hirschberg nodded, "You don't got it, old man." "Old man?! Old man?! Wicki's the oldest." Smitty nodded in agreement, "Oh yeah...Wicki's older." "Shaddap Uti." Donny raised an eyebrow....If he was in danger of losing his Teddy fucking Williams baseball card, he wasn't letting anyone get away with less than that. All or nothing. "Neat stash of tobaacco there, sir... Y/n's always sayin' that stuff aint no good for you. 'Specially if you're gettin' up there in your years-" Aldo rolled his eyes, "Alright, alright. I'm in." He slammed his tin of snuff on the table, next to the card, the francs, and the mementos everyone was willing to bet.

"Omar." The last one to enter the bet. And frankly, not the one most of the boys were worried about. With him, it was a long shot. ...Even if they wouldn't advise him (or Smitty, or even Wicki) to join in on the bet, he had something they all wanted. One impressive hoarde of chocolate. He knew that was what they wanted from him. And he was confident... He wasn't very good at holding  a poker face, but frankly most of the boys were pretty dense as to why he was smirking, "Alright. Hersheys. I'm in." 

"Everyone quiet!" Hirschberg spotted you coming toward them, and they all scrambled to hide their wagers. "Hey, why's everyone so quiet?" You stood at the end of the counter, after dancing for what seemed like an eternity, but not quite done for the night. The tavern’s band was taking a short break. And you just needed to cool off a little. Aldo knew that, and held up a glass of whiskey on the rocks. The most refreshing thing he could think of. "Y/n?" You smiled a little as you caught your breath, "Ya know that brunette back there keeps eyeing you, sir?" "What?" You smiled, and gestured back to the dancing youth, "There." "O...oh..well..." You smiled, "Maybe save that drink, huh?" "I-" A little way down the counter, Omar lifted a different glass. Cognac. Which is all you liked to drink. Which he knew. Hugo, thinking you had to be at least a  little tired out, and noting the band had been playing some slower songs earlier, he figured, he might as well give it a shot. "Y/n...." You looked to him, with a naive, sincere smile, "Yeah?" All he had to say was "Dance?" And you nodded, "You got it!" You smiled at him, and turned to get to Omar. So...the basterds watched as you passed Aldo by, and somehow Omar and Hugo seemed to gain favor... Minutes later, after finishing that cognac from Omar, you were back on the dance floor...and Aldo withdrew from the bet, seeing that the brunette on the dance floor had a thing for the Tennessee man. He swung by the bar with her, and passed by the basterds. She was clinging to him, and looking up at him dreamily, passing a lit cigar to him. He held it up, eyed his tin of snuff, and sighed. "Men." They all stood waiting, as if he'd give an order. He smirked a little, knowing he'd get snuff some way or another, "I fold." And he was off, with his new acquaintance. With one less basterd in the race, the stakes were raised higher. "Five hundred and fifty francs!" Donny held his poker face...he had to. Frankly, that was all the francs he had to offer. Smitty looked on as you danced the night away, "Y/n likes music, right?" Omar chuckled, "Oh she does, Einstein?" "Look." Smitty narrowed his eyes, and Omar rolled his, and smiled "Y/n don't care what music plays, Smitty. She'll dance to anything." Donny laughed as he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. It made him happy to see you happy. Frankly, he didn't really care who won the bet, as long as you were happy. He only bet to begin with because...well he's Donny Donowitz. He's just competitive. And impulsive...and regretted betting his lucky card. Still, he smiled with a sigh, "Ain't that the truth." He took a drink and looked back at the counter. His competitive instinct kicked in. He grinned, as he nudged Hugo, and looked on to the dance floor, "Y'know what Y/n really likes dancin' to, Hugo?" Hugo raised his eyebrow as the band came back. Hearing the blaring, wild trumpet beginning to play, as you looked back at them from the edge of the dancing crowd, waiting for your dance partner, His eyes widened as you gestured to him... Hirschberg taunted him too, leaning over the bar, and snickering "That's right. Ragin' wild swing." He looked back at Wicki, as if asking for help for the first time in his life. Wicki shrugged as he sipped some bourbon. "You aready asked her to dance. Might not be the best time to disappoint her, kumpel." Utivich laughed, "Her? Don't dissapoint us!" He pushed Hugo off his stool, and toward the dance floor. He grimaced, and looked as if he was about ready to snarl at them like a rabid animal... 

Just then, you walked out from the dancefloor, and took his hands, and pulled him toward the crowd, your laugh like a beacon in a stormy night, pulling a smile from him.

"Damn can she do the goddamn charleston!" Donny chuckled, looking on. Omar narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out where Hugo had gone.  "L-Is that Hugo?!" "Y-Yeah...." "Damn look at him go!"

The basterds laughed and started cheering for him, until he stumbled a little, and fell. "Look at him go!" Wicki smiled, as you came back to them, your laugh was like a song to him. Laugh! That was it! He tried to capture that light in your gleaming eyes in the milisecond before your laugh rang like a mermaid's song. A joke or two would do it... Except he stumbled on the punchline. There was a lot on the line, after all. And the boys laughed at him and his mistakes. Omar chuckled, "Careful boys, you'll break an old man's heart." Wicki rolled his eyes, and the jeering went on, Hirschberg smirked, "Might be having a stroke." You rolled your eyes, though you could hardly contain your guity smile as you punched Hirschberg’s shoulder, "Oh, you're so mean!" He looked up at you, and caught sight of that hidden grin, and felt at ease with himself for a moment. He'd made you smile...that was a start. But it wasn't much. Omar knew that, as he smirked and took a sip of his beer. 

You could read a room. Better yet, you knew each of the basterds inside out, and knew something was up. You weren't blind either, so you had a pretty good idea at what was happening. You were killer at war, but a heartbreaker at nature. All it took to throw Hirschberg off his game, and blow everyone else's egos to bits was to wink at him. One little wink.| Omar hid his smirk again as he raised his beer to his lips, and raised his head back, dousing his retained laugh with the rich, bitter, cool beer as he shot you a knowing, loving glance.

************ "Y'know...I think...I thinkn y/n's on to us..." Hirschberg sighed as  he loked down at the crumpled, orange and red leaves as he marched with Donny, Omar, and Smitty to a rendezvous point. You had gone with the rest of the basterds to a somewhat distant town for supplies, and they were meeting you at  a hideout that was roughly the halfway point. The rest of the boys were discussing their progress in the wager, and Hirschberg was a little unsettled. Donny sighed as he stretched out his arms, "Oh yeah? What makes ya say that?" Hirschberg grumbled a little then admitted, "Made my move...and she wasn't havin' none of it. Got far enough to try and sneak in a little kiss." Omar, who had been splashing some water from a creek onto his face, stopped. He looked up, still facing away from them to hide his cheeky grin, "Yeah? How'd that go?" He knew you. He knew you'd always be true. You'd told him so, once, long ago. And he believed you. Still, he couldn't help but sigh a little, remembering the soft, secret touch of your lips. Sure enough, your lips were often cracked by the carelessness of war and winter, but still the best kiss a soldier like him could ever ask for.

Hirschberg wouldn't know. And that's what made Omar smirk. "She slap you?" Smitty couldn't help but laugh a little, and Donny suggested, "Punch ya?...Can't blame her. Wouldn't want a face like yours near me either." Hirschberg rolled his eyes, "No! She....she put her fingers...on my lips, goddamn it!" Omar smirked as he walked by him, patting him on the back, "Well, looks like you're losin' you're luger." "Yeah, yeah..." He sighed, wondering in defeat if he'd really lose his luger, "Then she said. She looks at me with those eyes, y'know...those fucken eyes..." Omar nodded with a sigh, looking up at the sky, as if he could see them, "Yeah...I know those eyes..." The boys didn't quite catch that air of sincerity in his voice. That trace of love, that hint of reminiscence Omar's dreamy daze was interrupted by Hirschberg's brash voice, "And ya know what she says? She pushed me back, see. And she says to me, 'Hirsch, you gon' tell me what this is all about or not?' "

Donny gasped, almost in disbeleif, like he was hearing gossip in a salon, "No!"

Hirschberg replied in the near same tone, "Yes!" Smitty shook his head, "Well what'd you say?!" "I said no, that's what I fucken said!" Smitty rolled his eyes in exasperation, "So you admitted there was something going on!?" "No, didn't you hear, I said no?!" Smitty sighed, "No. You said no, you wouldn't tell her what was happening, not no there was nothing happening." Hirschberg frowned, and opened his mouth to respond... Then quickly realized Smitty's point, shrugged, took a puff from his cigarette, and sighed, "Guess I did..." As the boys marched on, Donny spotted something poking through Smitty's jacket. "Whatcha got there, kid?" "A book." "Aw, yeah? What kinda book?" Donny smirked at Omar and Hirschberg, and nudged Smitty. Smitty pulled it out of his jacket. The cover read "Le Petit Prince." A story born and banned in France. Nevertheless, there it was, in his hands, wishing to find yours. "Ya know Y/n can't read French, right?" And in that moment, his heart broke into a million pieces. He wasn't in it for the wager, or even to win your heart. To him, you'd always be like a shining star, across the universe. He'd always hope to see you, but he'd never be close enough. He loved you like a friend could, from the moment he figured that out. He knew love was much like war, not something to be toyed with or bet on. It was far beyond his hands. He loved you, but not in the way you deserved, so he stepped down... He'd confided that to Omar, still not knowing the truth. And Omar had listened with a sigh, knowing you loved Smitty, like you loved all the other basterds. As brothers. But Smitty was, well, the youngest, and so you thought of him as a sort of baby brother. So Omar helped Smitty find that book. Did it nearly cost them an arm and a leg (literally)? Yes. Would either of them ever tell you? No. So Omar's heart sank when he caught that defeated look in Smitty's eyes, and stepped up. "She's got a French dictionairy, y'know she's learnin'. And...it's the thought that counts, kid. Chin up." Smitty smiled a little, and stopped for a moment, as Omar turned back around and kept marching with the others.  Smitty looked up ahead, knowing you were somewhere out there, and he was more excited than evere to give you that book. After a few moments of silence, something started picking at Donny. "Omar." "Yeah, sarge?" "How the hell are you still so confident about this?" Hirschberg, Smitty, and Donny then stopped in ther tracks to look at Omar, and wait for an answer. Omar was the only basterd that had never had a steady relationship before. Hell, Smitty might've been the youngest, but even he had a high school sweetheart at some point. Hirschberg nodded, "Yeah you ain't even made your first move yet!" Donny sighed, having made more moves than he'd ever had to before, "Yeah you should do sometin' quick, Ulmer. You ain't got any idea what you're getting yourself into with that girl. It's fucking impossible." Omar shrugged, "Well...we did go through boot camp together." As a matter of fact, that was where it all started. Sneaking out of your bunks in the middle of the night, and roaming around under the stars, jsut talking. "And we spent our fair share of time together." This was the first time you'd been split up... And he failed to define 'together'. He shrugged, "I know a little more about her than you think."

Hirschberg crossed his arms and remarked, "That right?" "Yeah... She likes a good show. Action pictures, that sort of thing." Donny raised his eyebrow with a grin,"Action pictures, huh?" A few hours later, after ambushing a nazi outfit nearby, Donny was swinging with his bat, "Y/n likes action movies, right?" Omar smirked a little, "Give her a real show, Donny. Knock 'em dead." Donny smirked a little, and walked into the tunnel, already riled up.

And, after some intimidation and interrogation, Aldo called Donny out. And Donny did put his all into it... He really was the closest thing the basterds had to seeing a movie. 

And at the end of it, as Werner lay dead, and his private gave Aldo all the information he needed, Donny looked across the fort to you, with smouldering, smirking eyes, and a sly grin. His eyes fell on you, your basterd grin, and laughing eyes, and moved down, and saw your hand. Your hand, resting on a stone. With Omar's hand resting on yours. "No..." His eyes grew wide. His mouth dropped open. The other basterds' eyes followed his, because if something left the Bear Jew speechless, it was something worth looking at. And indeed, it was. Because they all saw what he did. Omar smirking, his raised eyebrow, pulling his arm around your shoulders, and kissing you. What's more...they'd all just lost a bet. In fact, they'd lost the moment they even put their wagers on the table. Then, a million questions went back and forth. "WHAT?!" being the most common. Followed by "WHEN?!?!?!" and, of course, "HOW!?!?!?!" To which Omar responded, "Learned a lot more than you think in basic training. Y/n's been by my side since then. Made it official just before we left England." You laughed a little, "We didn't know we'd be leaving together." You didn’t know you were both being sent to the basterds. Hirschberg smirked. "So ya can do somethin' right, huh Omar" Aldo chuckled a little,  "Say, y/n that how  ya get him to shut his mouth every once in a while? Ya learn that trick in basic training too?" You blushed a little, "More or less, Aldo." Omar smiled as he looked at you, the basterds saving their grumbling about their gambling for later, for your sake. Still...Hirschberg slipped up and said "Some fucken bet..." Then, it all made sense to you. A bet.... The other basterds never had a chance to start with. They were betting blind. Omar though, he took a gamble of long odds when he met you. He bet it all on you again that night in the pub. It wasn't just his chocolate stash, it was his love, his pride, his heart. That was clear to everyone from that moment. But you didn't understand why. You spoke softly, a way only Omar ever heard you speak before, and you asked him, "Why?" He smiled. "Because I trusted you. I knew my odds, they were always on my side. Like you." You shut your eyes, feeling like a fool, and giving a small, amused smile. Loving someone during war was always a wager with death, with odds that weren't in your favor. But loving a basterd... Loving Omar Ulmer... Now that was a chance you were willing to take, from the moment you first laid eyes on him. He didn't know that. He'd played a game of fortune and heartbreak, once, and won. And he'd be willing to bet it all again, for you, and only you.

[darker-soft-starker]

Love your blog! Could we have a snippet of a starker good marriage au? Where Tony comes home one night to see his hiding place not exactly how he left it so he checks the Internet history (sloppy peter) and realises his husband has put it together. So he goes upstairs but peters there- in bed, not calling the police...or maybe from peters POV? Whichever you prefer! Super fan over here ;) ☺️❤️

Awww thanks nonnie!! You’re so lovely and I have utterly butchered your prompt, for that I am exceedingly sorry. This is not remotely good, whatever this is.

Warnings: Dark!Tony, mentions of murder, child abuse, dark fluff

———-

It’s long been said that home is where the heart is. 

Whatever it meant, Peter had always found that the old adage difficult to reconcile with - after all, home was six years old, belt welts and whiskey breath. It was holes in his sneakers, cupboards that echoed and the purple and red on the side of his mother’s mouth. Home was something you carried with you to the principal’s office, the hot end of the cigarette and being firmly told that his red-raised knuckles are not pillars to rest on.

What was home if you didn’t choose it - if you were always trying to run away from it?

That’s what he’d always thought anyway - and that’s what he did. Threadbare hoodie, battered backpack and clutching the fifty he’d stolen, Peter ran. He fled into the warm embrace of his Aunt May who mended his patchwork heart with Sinatra on Sunday mornings and hot chocolate, Luke Skywalker nights. 

Love for May was the sound of New York traffic and the smell of nicotine drifting from her bedroom window, overcooked spaghetti and the tickle of her hair on his skin. She wasn’t perfect but she made him feel like he had a place, a room with no conditions.

When she died a few years after, Peter ran again. He made a map of heart-lines all across the state trying to find himself in all of the people he came across. From the lonely girl with the curly hair who offered him a kind smile as he shivered around a steaming cup of coffee, to the boy with the brilliant brain and piercing blue eyes who made made grainy, chalk-masterpieces on worn footpaths. 

He never knew most of them but their faces were like picture frames, their conversations his home movies. 

The price of living in a place he was supposed to call home in New York never got cheaper and so he worked. He was working for eight dollars an hour and twenty percent off stock when Peter had first met Tony.

Tony Stark, he’d introduced himself as. An older man, dark suit, salt-and-pepper temples. Old school charm and eyes that were gentle.

It was easy to find a home in Tony. 

The way his arms wrapped around Peter felt more like four walls than anywhere he’d found a roof overhead and so they dated. They dated and fought and fucked, dug themselves into each others skin. The furrow was so deep they had got married six months after their first kiss, neither of them had family except each other now - Peter didn’t look backwards from where he had ran from. 

It was hard to want to when he walked home after a long day, trudging himself up to their single-room apartment with the leaking roof and the floorboards that squeaked in protest when you stepped over them, the tap that never stopped dripping - and Tony, the centre of it all.

Tony was there to massage his aching shoulders after an arduous day, to kiss his forehead, his cheek, his lips, to enter through the doorway into his body and whisper sweet-nothings into his ear like wind whistling against the windows. Tony was all finger-tracing, wit and he called Peter husband so fondly like it was a gift. It was easy to love him.

Eventually they started their own business together, moving out of the one-bedroom into something more quaint on the outskirts of town by the oak trees. A cottage he cared for because Tony was in it - an extension of them, but just a thing. 

They tasted success as business bloomed, dealing and appraising rare-coins, combining both of their loves into a venture that made Peter feel like he was someone, like an explorer, like he was bringing together his half to their whole. 

But success meant Tony was out of town sometimes for their clients. 

It left them both somewhat vacant whenever he had to go, never more than a day or two, Tony stealing remorseful kisses in the lowlight of dawn as he leaves, taking the light with him. 

For Peter there was not one place called home when home was a person - because when that person is not there it is just a house. A property. Just four walls whose roof isn’t as comforting as his husbands body wrapped around him, inside him. A house didn’t have a heartbeat he could feel thumping under his hand or look at Peter with an adoring smile, soft eyes that crinkled around the edges. A house didn’t breathlessly tell Peter they loved him, didn’t hold him when he wept through the afterimages of his nightmares, didn’t make him feel like he was a cathedral, worth more than weathered sneakers and the pink stitches of skin on his back.

Years passed, settling into their new community like the way that the smell of tobacco latches onto fabric in that weary what can you do about it kind of way. Peter didn’t mind so much feeling like an outlier, he had Tony and their work and passion for both that kept him warm. 

He stayed in the shell they called residence when Tony was out on business and when he came back Tony made him remember that he was a temple. Tony’s tongue licked and laved and moved inside him, all reverence and repentance. Peter was only too eager to forgive for just one more loving kiss.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t immediately turn around and leave everything behind when he stumbled in their dusty garage, used only when either of them pretended to care about gardening. Maybe that’s why he didn’t pack up and run again when he found the dog tags and the ID card in a hidden compartment in the metal shelving. 

Michelle Jones.

Steven Grant Rogers.

The names sounded like his heart jarring, like a baseball breaking through a window - he didn’t know what else to do except gingerly place the items back in the box and wander back into the house in a confused daze, because why, dust motes and orange sun rays in his eyes. Despite swearing never to drink the whiskey Tony keeps in stock Peter finds himself reaching for it. It always burns. 

He’d always drank it sticky and smoky from Tony’s lips anyway.

The wind rattles against the windows and he remembered he needed batteries for the storm, the torches laying uselessly on the coffee table when the lights begin to flicker. But he still has signal on his phone and the light of his laptop to guide his hand to the bottle and the keys as he spells out their names into the search bar and what comes back up is deceased and mystery and suddenly the whiskey doesn’t taste too bad anymore.

The lonely girl with the curly hair. 

The brilliant boy with blue eyes.

The whiskey emboldens him to keep typing furiously, misspelling often as his vision blurs and his throat burns. 

Peter can trace a disappearance to every single one of Tony’s business trips, the dates, the locations. It all aligns right before him, like pages that had been missing all along. 

The victims, at least five of them, are murdered with the same signature method: blunt force trauma followed by the post-mortem removal of the victims heart.

The cavity left in the deceased’s chest is always filled with pennies.

He doesn’t even realise he’s called Tony until the man answers, tinny and concerned on the other end of the call. Dwindling percentage blinks back at him, a shaky thumb pressing the call to speaker.

“…Baby? You there?”

“I’m here,” Peter swallows. “Just wanted to call you. Miss you.”

He hears Tony’s soft sigh as clear as the whistling wind. “Miss you too, baby. I’ll be home soon, promise.” 

He sniffs. “When’s soon?”

“Soon,” Tony laughs, low and familiar. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, feeling syrupy, eyes glazing over. “Just wanted to hear your voice. There’s a storm.”

Peter doesn’t like loud noises. Doesn’t like metal clanging, glass shattering, doesn’t like how thunder sounds like belt buckles and upturned chairs hitting floors and fists on walls and how it reminds him that houses can only protect him from the elements. Sometimes when it storms Tony will curl up behind him in bed, and place his hands over Peter’s ears and press kisses to neck, other times he will stand with Peter in the shower until the water runs cold, their rapture echoing off the tiles. 

There’s a pause. 

“You sure you’re okay? Why don’t you turn some music on and get under the covers, sweetheart.”

“Good idea,” Peter lies. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

The thing with finding a home in a person is that sometimes there are parts to uncover and things you only notice when you stare long enough - secret rooms, hidden compartments and it’s just after that you notice the one floorboard that has begun to rot and ceilings that have cracks or the way the door hinges doesn’t work just right. Maybe he doesn’t work just right, either.

You can either pack-up and leave, or content yourself with the window that sticks and the dust-motes and say there aint no place like it.

“Love you too,” Peter whispers, shaking to his core as thunder rolls overhead.

——-

Tony comes home early.

His husbands eyes are dark when he finds Peter curled up in their bed later, late enough for the pale grey of early morning to filter through the glass. One of Tony’s business shirts is draped over Peter’s shoulders, curtain to everything outside of their bed as he rouses. 

“You left your laptop open. You been doin’ some research, baby?” Tony croaks, jaw set, mouth turned downwards. 

Peter doesn’t like that so he beckons, arms like open doorways when he reaches for his husband and takes him by the hand, wedding rings clicking togethers like locks latching. In Tony’s other hand is the ID and the dog-tags dangling by his side. He’s over being mad about being kept in the dark, long away off the initial burn of anger, too relieved that the vacancy is full again to mourn.

It feels like home when Tony kneels onto the bed and presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead, like their bed is a pulpit, the heat of Tony’s body as he nuzzles into his side a sermon. 

Peter turns his head to capture his lips, wondering how long Tony has been praying to him.

“Some” he admits. “I might need to pick your brain later. How did the trip go?”

Tony stills for a moment before the bristles of his beard scrape Peter’s cheek, a smile.

“Good. I found us a 1955 double die cent.”

“How much did the owner want for it?” Peter asks, raising their joined hands to kiss Tony’s red-raised knuckles, all copper and nickel.

The shirt falls loosely around his waist when he shrugs it off just to see how Tony’s eyes become a cavern, the slack of his jaw an invitation that Peter has always wanted to run into and curl up in. Maybe he should be running from the dark inside it, the unexplored territory, but he doesn’t. It just feels like a heartbeat, steadfast as a metronome, home.

“Just a few pennies,” Tony answers, eyes falling to Peter’s heart.

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Mind of Misery: Might

[ I wrote this scene to bridge between the gaps of our guild RP story and some loose ends I felt needed to be addressed.  This takes place directly after Reflections: Part 5.  Lazarius has gone to say goodbye to his daughter, but Marseille is off to collect someone for questioning.   I hope everyone enjoys this little solo story.]

“Some loose ends to deal with. . .” 

The final words of the ancient elf guardian as he exited out of the Grand Library where the official meeting had taken place.  More unofficially was the look granted to him by his esteemed Inquisitor. 

Marseille knew that look; it was one of silent action to be taken.  Something he and his master had practiced for countless months.  Their time together since the day he was collected had been near infinite.  Lazarius had taken the much older elf under his wing and groomed him; much like he had been groomed by his former Mistress. 

When Pyravari had discovered the mad elf in Suramar only days after the shielded veil was lifted, he was completely gone.  He had lost all he had, given up on life, had taken to body augmentation through arcane runes and manipulated the arcane energy within his blood.  Marseille was all but ready to kill or be killed when he was finally freed from the prison he’d placed himself in.

But rather than kill him outright, the Harbinger spared him, seeing promise in his talent as a bladesman, and also as a gift to her brother.  Lazarius spent weeks mending the damaged psyche of the Shal’dorei; time that would have been spent better elsewhere as far as he was concerned, but try as he might to resist him it was to no avail.  Lazarius managed to break through, begin mending the damage and in the end; freed the ancient elf from the madness he’d slipped into.

The life debt was something he took very seriously; and despite their connections to the Old Gods at the time, and the horrific things he’d come to learn they had done in the past, Marseille refused to abandon them.  He could see past it; and did, because to him it was far more important to repay the man and his kin who’d saved him from the haunting spirits of his own.

That look though; he knew what it meant.  Lazarius and him shared a very well in tune bond that was less telepathic and more cued upon expression.  But this time, the voice of his Master would creep effortlessly into his mind as he exited the Library with Verzatea on their way to tuck their daughter in, and share a bit of time together before the pack departed.

“The goblin has returned, unannounced, and Koltun has clarified his missing whereabouts.  Something does not sit right; if he is crossing the order, he will pay and I will discover the truth.  See to it he knows I am displeased with such careless action, and ensure he is held in our finest interrogation room. I will deal with him when we return...”

Krazzlowe the Goblin Slave Baron had just recently returned from Silithus mysteriously and without any type of announcement.  This was not only unorthodox but also unnerving.  Lazarius felt only the slightest shiver across his cold flesh when the talisman he’d given the creature was activated.  He knew he’d returned.

With Koltun needing to walk back, and the goblin being able to instantly transfer himself here; it was all very curious.  Lazarius had given strict orders to everyone not to use their Talismans during this time.  NZoth and the agents that served it could sense the artifacts; giving off any type of magical signature was like inviting them into the Bastille. The main reason why their current quest to rid him of the unsightly eye was meant to be completely stealthed and without any use of power.  And another reason why Lazarius was not pleased.  Perhaps they’d gotten lucky this time, but he would not risk a second.

Just weeks prior. . . .

Krazzlowe sat on a large yacht just off the coast of Tanaris; sun bathing in the warmth of the desert sky, a dry air running over his now liberally greased sap green skin.  Two other goblin females were dotting over the portly Baron as he sipped from a small umbrella drink and enjoyed the leisure's of his relaxation.

The bikini clad women were rubbing his shoulders and feet; as disgustingly awful as they were, but they were in no place to protest; slaves did as they were told, especially with explosives strapped to their necks.  Yes, goblins took extreme precautions.

“Ill tell ya Rodney, this is the life. . .”  Krazzlowe said slurping up his fruity cocktail through a straw inserted in a coconut.

“Ya really got a sweet set up here, a fella could get used tah dis.”

Rodney was the owner of this sea fairing mansion, another “Baron” no doubt who was self proclaimed just like Krazzlowe.  The two of them were more or less ‘friends’ but in the long run neither really trusted the other.

“Well don’t. . .” Rodney replied as he lowered his own sunglasses and peered across the deck to the other goblin lounging in his chair.

“You promised two shipments a month, you’re late Morty.  Been late for the last few months, what happened to our deal?”

The use of his actual first name caused the snide, and robust baron to slowly roll himself in the direction of his accuser.  His long fat nose turning upward in disgust at the claims that he had not lived up to his part of the agreement.

“Look, I told ya, since the end of the War everything has gone to shit.  You gonna go set somethin’ on fire? How about the Exodar, blame the fuckin’ Horde for that, get us back into a war. You start the son-of-a-bitch back up and I’ll have you three shipments a week.” 

Krazzlowe all but kicked the girl rubbing his feet away as he struggled to sit upright; it wasn't easy being as round as he was not to mention greasy from the tanning oil.

Rodney peered toward him in disgust; he knew he was right but still, he wouldn't admit it.

“And another thing.  Where do you get off?”

Krazzlowe barked.

“You swore up and down you could move the Azerite faster than I could get it.  Well guess what Mac, I checked ya hull, and the ledger. . .you’re sittin’ on enough to last a whole year.  The Horde aint buyin’ and the Alliance aint dealin.  So you tell me, Asshole. . .who dah fuck’s gonna buy dis shit now?  I aint got my cut yet, so I would say we’re dead-nuts-even. Wouldn’t you Rodney”

Both goblins sat there peering at one another on the deck of the yacht.  It was silent, both of the slaver girls had pulled themselves back against the railing now, waiting to see what would happen.  Their glowing azure eyes fixated on their Master as he was fixated on Krazzlowe.

Rodney turned first and scoffed at his partner, the smaller and much more attractive; if you could call either of them that, of the goblins backing down.

“Dats what I thought. . .”  Krazzlowe continued and slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

“Get me anotha one of these fruity mixers, toots, and you. . .how about a bit more on the arches, dem bunions aint gonna rub demselves!”

Rodney was sickened by the vagrant use of his two favorite women, but then again he was clearly out maneuvered by his partner.  Krazzlowe was no dummy, and certainly not without his own set of skills that caused him to be formidable opponent.

“Yep. . .dis is dah life, doesn’t get much bett--” 

The sound of a large bug swooping forward caused the goblin to cut off from his speaking and flip his shades.  Krazzlowe peered around, it was as if a small bird had just whizzed right past them. 

He noticed now that the sun had almost entirely been shaded, like a massive cloud had passed in front of it, but it was a cloudless day.  It looked like a large swarm of. . .

“What dah fu--”

A large flying Aqir slapped right against the fat little goblins chest; stuck to his tanning oil and grease.  He screamed, the Silithid screamed, both of the slaver girls screamed and Rodney shot up.

“For the love of all that is combustible its a fuc--” 

Rodney was then scooped up by a much larger, and much more terrifying Silithid that swooped down and plucked him off of his lounge chair like a raptor snatching up a rabbit from the sky. 

Both girls now screamed even more as their master was taken away, and Krazzlowe tumbled out onto the deck with the creature now successfully swiped from his greasy body.

“RODNEY!”  Krazzlowe shouted as he peered up to see the Silithid flying over the open ocean.  It was about fifty feet in the air and climbing upward.

In the sky above them there was a massive swarm that had blacked out the sun.  The sound of their humming now reached the ears of the baron as he peered up at Rodney being taken. “You still owe me money!”

And then, he was dropped.  Like a stone heading toward the ocean.  Whether or not he managed to survive the fall was uncertain.  But after the slap against the surface of the water vibrated across his ear drums, the goblin would scoff and finalize his decision.

“Welp. . .looks like we’re even.”  He chuckled, grabbing his partners sunglasses that had fallen on the deck before he had been taken and replacing his own.

He whistled casually as he headed below deck in pursuit of the women, but not before noticing that in the distance, Silithus was most likely overrun.  Oh well, looks like the deal is done.  Better head on back and collect what he could and just sit on this little goldmine until a more opportune moment came about.

Back in the Bastille. . .

A frantic and fevered search began when the Goblin tore through the veil of space and time and entered through a broom closet on one of the lower floors.  Not where he had expected to land, but then again he was not exactly one of the most welcome guests even today.  He tumbled out onto the saronite floor and immediately hopped up onto his feet with a panicked look in his eyes.

It was by convenience that Lazarius; out of trust, would have given the goblin a talisman to allow him to come back when needed.  Especially on times when he was summoned by the High Inquisitor for reports about the mining operation in SIlithus; and also whenever Lazarius requested.

“Where is it. . .where is it, dammit I hate this fuckin’ place.”  the goblin snarled as he began opening doors and checking for whatever he could in the hall that was presented to him.

He was looking for the area that he had stashed all of his paperwork and belongings before heading off to Silithus to begin the Azerite operation.  This was about the time when the sword was plunged into the planet and both factions began scrambling to the site.  Krazzlowe had ensured nothing of his own would be lost while he was away and stashed everything he needed here in a room given to him by the dark lord.  But where was the room.

As he turned the corner, the short; though taller than most, goblin was face to face with a most unpleasant welcoming party.  The blunt side of Marseille’s hatchet forcefully kissed his orbital bone over his left eye and the cheek that was directly below that.  It shattered the cartridge of his nose causing a burst of crimson to spray outward and begin flowing steadily down his upper lip and chin.  The goblin was immediately floored. 

He was almost unconscious but damned if he would be knocked out.  Goblins had extremely thick skulls, and they were often known to take a good beating.  But this was cruel and unusual punishment, the use of the weapon could have easily killed him had the elf flipped it around and used the sharpened end.

“Your Inquisitor has decreed that you are hereby relieved of your services as coordinator of the Silithus operation, Baron Krazzlowe.”  the ancient elf proclaimed as he grabbed hold of the blood soaked creature by its ankle and slowly began arranging him for transport. “Henceforth, you will be given a new assignment and stationed much closer to home for observation. . .”

Krazzlowe was nearly in another plain of existence at this point, and his smashed face was making it hard for him to talk at the moment.  He was trying to fight off being taken but he was far too injured to even attempt it.  He just barely understood what this meant, his clouded mind absorbing the hidden meaning of the shades words.  Lazarius knew.

The goblin began to stir and groan as he was more or less unaware what had happened, but the shock was starting to wear down.  He’d just been busted wide open.  The strike had caused a large deal of blood to splatter across the old elf and he would remark as he began to collect his prize.

Marseille wiped his left hand across his right shoulder and down his arm, it had stained his beautiful pastel grey blue skin.  The streaks of crimson would drip across his shoulder, down his elbow and wrist, but also managed to stain his throat and ribcage.  Luckily he did not wear a shirt most times.

“I’ll need to wash this off before I leave. . . most generous of you Baron.”  he stated crassly while the goblins feet were joined to make it much easier to pull him.

Marseille dragged him along the cold, saronite floor.  Down stairwells and through doorways that would have caused even more trauma for the little goblin.  It was not long after the first or second bump that the goblin had blacked out completely due to the head injury.

He only awoke some time later when the door of his cell was being slammed shut.  He would peer around while coming to his senses, and slowly folded over and rolled off onto the floor. “*No!*” He managed to scream out just barely

Marseille was already walking away, his attention elsewhere.  He had planned to stop and visit with Siida-Ray before departing with the rest of them for the Ghostlands.  The goblin was where he needed to be; and at this point he did not care what was being said.  Krazzlowe was considered a prisoner now. And as the footsteps of the elf echoed in the hall, the goblin plead for his case.

“Ya dont understand, its gone! Its all gone! Somebody get me outta here! I didn’t do nothin’.  I just want whats mine! Hello! Somebody!”

The echoed screams of the little battered goblin danced down the hallway like a brilliant acrobat performing for their audience.  But unlike such a marvelous affair, not a single ear would be pulled in the direction of the pleading goblin.  And he would remain down there until such a time as Lazarius saw fit to interrogate him.

“You are makin’ a mistake! Its all gone! The site, the people. . .It wasnt my fault! Wait! Com. . .Come on!”

But his words fell on deaf ears, not a soul cared, and not a single soul would come to his rescue.  But as he sat there in the darkness, the silence began to tease his mind, a strange humming sound came from the floors above, a faint heart beat, a curious tone.  The goblin curled up against the back corner of his cage and whimpered, truly his greed had now cost him his life.  He had no hope of savior in this place.

@siidaraykashebahl​

@frompage112​

@whatadarkbitch​

@zandalaridruidofgonk​

@pyravari-kashebahl​

@thebladeitself​

[tjovalboy]

Marty and TJ rap battle

The FIghty FIght

Words: 2888 and I am so done

AO3 (please let me know what I need to improve)

Cyrus thumbed through the note document on TJ’s phone– his early preview given more because he begged for one than to give any critical input. “This is good, this is good,” he remarked. “I think you’re going to be fire out there. Absolute domination.”

“Okay, buddy. Easy there,” TJ chuckled, but he knew it was true.

TJ shoved his smartphone, in which he poured hours the past week perfecting his rhymed insults, into his back pocket. In an organized rap battle, the guy who doesn’t have his shit memorized is already ten times more lame than the other, no matter how good his lines are.

Cyrus punched his chest weakly, breaking him out of his thought. “I can’t wait to see the look on her face every time I’m gonna finish my baby taters this week, and hand her the check after I’ve finished every last crumb.”

He shook his head at him, then craned his neck over his shoulder to glimpse at their opponents. Marty Thupparty, a track star parallelling his finesse with the hoops, bobbed his head along to something Buffy Driscoll was explaining very firmly. It was probably something useless, anyway. It’s not like either of them had nearly as much experience as he did, which made this pairing an overkill.

The whole thing was Cyrus’s idea, really. He knew TJ rapped, and that Marty rapped, and that Marty was a little afraid of TJ at one point last year, so naturally, he thought a rap battle would be the sickest way to bring them together– a friendship ploy for Marty’s second initiation into the group since his absence from Buffy’s life.

The baby tater bet was to get Buffy involved for even teams. She only agreed to coach Marty if they bet that the losing rapper coach would have to buy baby taters at the Spoon for the winner the whole week afterward.

They were taking it a lot more seriously than he and Marty even were.

“We should get going,” TJ breathed after seeing their opponents start heading away.

The asphalt scorched the flat bottoms of his sneakers as he walked towards the court. It was like the entire world just decided to preheat on itself, he thought, as sweat began prickle his arms and the mass of excited chatter drew closer. He knew he didn’t make the decision to have an outdoor rap battle at three o’clock in the afternoon in June.

At Basketball Court Number Three, a large, but niche, clump of people had come to watch them rap. They had formed a space for both of them in the middle of the circle, in which Marty was already positioned.

“Alright, alright, settle down everyone! They’re both finally here,” announced Jonah Beck as some random little hands shoved TJ from the outskirts to the space across from Marty. There were whoops and shouts coming from directions he couldn’t pinpoint, and some were so close to his ear he didn’t know where to turn.

He eyed Cyrus and Buffy at most inner circle of the crowd and grinned as they playfully nudged each other, keeping fierce looks in their eyes. However, he couldn’t decipher what was going through his opponent’s head. He stood across from him with his hands shoved in his pockets as if he was watching a golf match, his face as flat as a brick as he alternated slight glances with the crowd, Buffy, and TJ.

“Most of you already know, but I’m Jonah Beck. I started walking home from school today, then I saw this crowd and stopped to say ‘hi’ to everyone, and now I guess I’m hosting this rap battle!”

The kids erupted in giggles, but TJ swore he was dead serious.

“On this side…” he stretched an arm out at TJ. “…captain of the Jefferson Basketball team, king of hair gel, and connoisseur of more redemption arcs than I can count– no really, I never learned how to count– my man, ‘True Jank Fruity!’”

TJ stuck his chin up a little higher and smirked. Jonah waited for the giddy chatter and whoops to fade before turning to Marty. “And over here– track star, lover of parties and, I think, country music; he saw me fall on my face once– ‘Eleven Point Yikes’!”

Marty ran his fingers through his dark hair, which was messier than usual. They stood so close that TJ could see his own frowning face in the reflection of his eyes. ”Ready to lose, Kippen?” he sneered.

“You wish,” he shot back.

Smartphones went vertical one after the other, waiting to catch every hard jab and mangled line between the two dogs, their fingers probably already on the ‘post’ button in hopes of garnering the most attention by sharing first.

“We’re doing two rounds, starting with TrueJank,” Jonah announced. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“You say you’re ‘Marty From The Party’ but you’ve never been invited

When I see the pics on Insta, your blurry head looked like I smudged it

You should take advice from pocket lint, maybe then, you’ll get some relevance

I asked who I was battling, they said, “Middle Schooler #100”

It’s 2018 and they really named you “Martin”

Popped you out the womb and remembered their fifty year old accountant

I think I scraped you off the wall last week, now that needed an extra napkin

Four classes with me and you were nameless? Bro, look around. The whole school had that experience.”

The “ohh’s!” loudened after his most powerful lines, preceding a much larger display of fist pumps and hoots (even from the ones he’d bullied) after the verse was over. However, Marty, surprisingly witted for a newbie, hushed the crowd before he could take in the music.

“Let’s get things straight, TrueJank, you sicken me.

You think shitty rhymes make them pity you for an apology?

You’re like the last day of October, all face with no sincerity.

At least the other ex-bullies use their heads, they differ “sorry” from stupidity.

Aw, but, I know you feel bad; got all this baggage weighing on you

You swing at the park because your mind’s got too many issues

But it’s time to skip the angst, skip the coldness and the frown

Your just plain scary, and JMS won’t let you live it down.”

The screams seemed about equal to his.

“So you didn’t make my team. What a surprise.

I know you were out, and you were trying, but you tripped over every painted line!

I’d say go right, like Mario Kart you’d run zig zags like there was squid ink in your eye.  

You got Buffy calling witness protection cause she so embarrassed she let you inside.

Two athletes in a fight, Wit to wit without the fouling.

I throw words, you shoot em back and think “I’ll end him with these similes.”

We running lines in the weight room, spitting verbs where we kick grovel.

From a rapper to a rapper, we playing for different leagues

You couldn’t diss me better than you wipe the dirt off your cleats”

It wasn’t until after spat his final lines that he could focus enough to hear his heart pound. There was nothing more he had to show, but the world seemed to slow as Marty returned with his own final verse.

“Your hoodies upon hoodies got style enough for Fashion Week.

The critics say “eclectic” cause it’s “he-don’t-leave-his-basement chic”.

Runway shots of your ‘do be like White Christmas with the gel that flakes.

Your name says it all, the only fashion show you running is the coach ordered jank from the sports teams.

Yeah, you’ve rapped longer but your rhymes ‘aint unique

Jock, bully, kinda dumb, and lives a trope like a bad movie

Put some shades, baggy shorts, fake chains, and you’ll almost be a rapper

I’m a newbie? Why am I hearing your MTV lines a decade after?

You’re unoriginal.

Your first date hears “Perfect” by Ed and shakes at all the horror.

He sees your cliche ass boombox blaring like you’re Dobler.”

It took a few moments for TJ to register that his mouth hung open. His classmates were breaking into hysterics and patting Marty on the back like he’d just single-handedly fought a war for them and emerged victorious. He could vaguely hear Jonah amongst the crowd declare Marty as the winner.

TJ tried to pick Cyrus out of the crowd, but he couldn’t amongst the blaring amount of chaos. Teeth gritted, he decided he would just wait by the gate.

-

TJ, feeling a little selfless, held his full tray out to Buffy and offered her some french fries.

“No, thanks,” she stopped sipping her milkshake to reply. “I have practice right after this and I’m already stuffed.”

He nodded, and offered the same next to him. “Cyrus?”

His friend shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He set the tray between them and they both dug in for a handful. The calm chatter and occasional sound of the bell atop the entrance door overtook them at The Spoon diner. After a few moments, he noticed Buffy grimacing at him.

“…and Marty?” she pressed impatiently.

Oh, right. He probably wanted to feel included, too. With his lips tightened, he gave the fries a slight push so they slid forward and stopped at the spiky haired boy’s milkshake glass where he’d accept the offer if he wanted. “Take some,” he said simply, and Marty rolled his eyes at him.

Buffy gave Cyrus a look, then turned back to him. “You’re seriously still mad you lost the rap battle?” she bursted, holding back a laugh. “That happened a whole week ago!”

“I’m not mad,” he muttered in reply, focusing very hard on the pedestrian activity outside the window beside them.

“You totally are,” she pressed. ‘You’ve been weird ever since it happened.”

Cyrus sighed dramatically and slumped down with his elbow on the table. “And I really thought my friendship-making plan would work! I guess I can’t fix everyone’s relationship problems.”

Buffy patted his hand lamely. “It’s okay, Cyrus. You’ll get ‘em next time around.”

He and Marty’s tension had been going on since the battle. He was just a little irked that “I’ve-been-rapping-for-a month-Marty” pulled rhymes out of his butt that shanked his bully boy reputation into little pieces. He may have ignored a few of Marty’s texts since it happened, which pushed Marty into ignoring him, and therefore, neither of them hanging out with the Good Hair Crew that week in fear of seeing each other. While their excuses were believable, it was more difficult to get out of plans Buffy and Cyrus made for all four of them after school.

He almost wanted to tell Cyrus that his friendship-plan wasn’t gonna work from the beginning.

“While you were both amazing,” started Cyrus. “Marty, your last line about TJ being so cliche he’d hold a boombox above his head on his first date was hilarious.”

Buffy snorted. “That’s the part people keep sending me videos of. Someone would have to slap me in the face twice if I actually saw you doing that, Kippen.”

TJ didn’t know how to respond and just shook his head playfully. His gaze flickered toward Marty, and while a corner of his mouth tugged up at the look, he broke away quickly and returned to his comfortable frown.

“Listen, TJ,” Marty had his elbows propped on the table and his eyes bordered on desperate. “If you wanna talk, then let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about because I’m not mad.” He surveyed the contents on his table. “I’m gonna go grab some more ketchup,” he excused himself without looking anyone in the eye.

-

At the ketchup pump, he pushed the lever down with too much force and much of the red blob squirted onto the counter next to his paper container.

There was a snort from someone behind him. “Nice one.”

He almost chuckled, too, but bit it back when he recognized the voice. There’s no way he was staying here alone with him, so he began heading back without a turn.

“Wait, TJ, you can’t just pout and stomp away. You have to tell me what’s really up,” he pleaded sternly.

He glanced at Buffy and Cyrus who were both in some heated debate and didn’t even seem to notice their absence, and before he could process his thoughts, he was face to face with Marty again and had blurted, “The boombox line.”

Marty hesitated, like he wanted to know what he meant, but he couldn’t admit that he didn’t. “Um, what?”

Your first date hears “Perfect” by Ed and shakes at all the horror.

He sees your cliche ass boombox blaring like you’re Dobler.

“The boombox line,” he repeated with a breath. “I thought you said that was your favorite part of our first date– the way I ended it.”

“It was. I always tell you that,” he replied.

“Well, you didn’t have to make fun of it,” he argued. “Yeah, I know we both hated the song and the whole thing was part of an inside joke, but I did it for you to see. Not for the whole school to imagine.”

Marty’s face went red much like the way it did when he held TJ’s hand for the first time at the soccer game, and when he and TJ sprinted down the street filling the sky with their laughs when Buffy and Cyrus almost caught them together, and the Friday they agreed they would go on a date the next day and plan absolutely none of it; thus it finishing with TJ blasting “Perfect” in Marty’s driveway while he cracked up from the second story bedroom window.

They were already calling themselves boyfriends by the time Marty apologized to Buffy and she let him back into their group (which included TJ). They were clueless about the countless dates they had been on since that first.

“Well, sorry, okay,” Marty muttered. “Literally no one suspected it was you and me, though, so you don’t have to be mad. I would never really make fun of you like that.”

TJ’s stomach twisted. He knew he used to scare him before they really talked, but they were countless secret dates past that. “I know. It sounds ridiculous to me now that I’m saying it out loud.”

Marty exaggerated a shrug and put on a dopey grin, showing him that they were okay. “Apology accepted, Kippen. Glad my boyfriend is talking to me again.”

TJ stepped forward couldn’t ignore the smell of greasy foods frying from where they were standing at the back by the kitchen door. He didn’t mind, though, as they were used to meeting in odd locations to talk. “I had no idea you would win, though. I’ve been rapping for so long and you’ve literally been doing it for two seconds!” TJ said through a laugh.

Marty smirked, grabbing his hand and letting it dangle between them. “Maybe I was born with it.”

As his mind ran with ways to banter back, he remembered another one of his problems. “It sucks that Cyrus thinks we’re never gonna be friends,” he commented.

Five weeks was a long time to hide a relationship. In hindsight, they could’ve at least pretended they were friends, but the enemies trope seemed more safe.

Marty rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb. “It does. Even after you rapped about me being as irrelevant as a T.V. show extra and I called you out on your ugly clothes, we still hate each other in their eyes.”

“Their” meaning Cyrus and Buffy. Cyrus was TJ’s closest friend, and Buffy was getting to be Marty’s. After missing Marty all week, he began to wonder how long secret relationships were supposed to last. He caught Marty’s gze flickering over his shoulder at them. “I think we should tell them soon.”

“We should.”

“But how? When?” TJ furrowed his brows, and Marty stared at him like he just suggested that boombox thing from Say Anything was a good idea for a first date.

“Duh, we rap it to them!” he hissed.

Holy shit. His boyfriend’s brain!

“We both wrote awesome verses insulting each other in like a week. It’ll be great!” he continued.

“Four classes and you were nameless? Bro look around. That’s a universal experience.” did have a certain energy to it that would be perfect for a relationship reveal. He was proud when he thought of that while his mother dragged his with her to the bank. He already couldn’t wait or this collab. “I am so in, Eleven Point Yikes.”

���Just let me have some of your fries first, in like, not a passive aggressive way, and then we can start, True Jank Fruity.”

They unclasped their hands to whip their arms around for a painful high five, causing some people to turn their heads. They jogged back to their table, where Buffy and Cyrus already had their necks craned at them, and grabbed the rest of the fries out of TJ’s tray by hand and skipped out the door ignoring their questions. Cyrus probably assumed they made up, but he’d be even happier when they told him in a few days.

TJ would remember to thank Ed Sheeran, or the rap gods, later.

[tumblunni]

I had a kinda weird but nice daydream last night. It was more of a daydream cos i was concious enough for it to make a little sense, but also drowsy enough that its a bit more incoherant and Edgy than my usual oc thoughts

I just got the sudden strong imagery of a guy walking through a destroyed town and all the dead people blossoming back to life as he passes

And i kinda thought a backstory for him maybe? He's an alchemist who devoted himself so much to honing his craft that he used himself as a test subject for all the most dangerous and heretical experiments and is now barely human anymore. One detail i could remember is that he had empty eye sockets that glowed, and sometimes spurted out into huge gushing tendrils of blue flame that twined around his head and wiggled like antennae. They'd kinda replaced his entire nervous system so if he wiggled them he could just sense all the facts about an object. Spirit sight or something? And probably some cool singular claw arm in a lopsided frankenstein aesthetic or something. Basically he's nothing more than Pure Poison Itself vaguely wrapped in a human shell. Like an undead look but more like a boneless husk whose skin has turned to cracked porcelain.

The backstory behind him making so many sacrifices for science is that his mum died of the plague when he was a vvery young child and he wants to become the world's best doctor who can save everyone from meeting the same fate. And he actually achieved his goal of defeating death itself, even if all he could do was turn himself into such an abomination that he can never die. Now he's travelling the earth trying to save people even though theyre all scared of him, while also trying to figure out which mixture of the million experiments he did on himself finally achieved this result.

I think maybe he can sorta partially manage to ressurect people? Like they come back as ghosts or skeletons or vampires or something. And he's all weeping with guilt that he's sentenced them to the same monsterous life as him but then a little kid hugs him for bringing her mom back. *sniff*

Also i think maybe he has a kid sidekick that he's sorta adopted as a little sibling? They were one of his earlier attempts to raise the dead, and they got ostracized by their parents for being unholy and stuff. So he adopted them, but he's always trying to find another family that can adopt them cos he feels like he isnt good enough. Also, ghost dog!! He accidentally spilled his magically-charged abomination blood onto his childhood pet's ashes and it came back in a spooply form! I just imagined his sheer unrestrained joy and weeping as the lil guy immediately recognises its owner all grown up and jumps up all happy like YOURE TALL NOW HEY HEY LETS PLAY! This poor dude needs a little relief from his angsty life honestly. I imagine him just running around super 100% hyperactive happy with this little pupper and adoptive sibling who's never seen him not being grumpy and sad is like "oh my god he's been replaced by aliens"

ALSO!! I WAS THINKING!! YES!! THE MUM DOES COME BACK!!

I was thinking that probably using his imperfect ressurection power costs a lot of his energy and he has a problem with being so self sacrificing he always ruins his health for the sake of others. He's like 'well i cant stay dead so i may as well die as many times as possible to help people'. Him coming home riddled with arrows and collapsing into a bloody pile at his sibling's feet and then in the morning when he's still stuck in bed sleeping off the enormous pain he cant understand what his sibling is upset about. Like he has no value in himself because he's so guilty that he hasnt finished the ultimate panacea yet. Disregarding the fact that nobody even asked him to, and he's already done so much to help so many peopke!! TAKE CARE O YOU SELF, BRO!!

Anyway, where was i?

Oh yeah! Well i was thinking maybe he was doing some mass healing in a town somewhere. Cos oh yeah even his regular cures for stuff are still made with his own blood. He's like a walking vessel for every poison ever made in this world or the worlds beyond. ELDRITCH ASPIRIN MAN! oh actually it could be a cool aesthetic to have him all bandaged up like an edgy anime character

WHERE WAS I

Oh yeah! Well he's super mega exhausted from expending all of his magical energy and working until the crack of dawn. So he's stumbling home down the same usual route, but he passes out halfway there. And then he wakes up to see his mother tucking him into bed and bringing chicken soup. Like "I DUNNO IF IT WORKS FOR MAGICAL SICKNESS I AM VERY CONFUSED OKAY" Turns out that just by pure coincidence he'd accidentally found the spot where the mass grave for plague victims was made back in the day. And he's extra super mega sick now cos he subconciously reached out to their souls and ressurected them in his sleep. And he's just weeping so much cos he thought he'd never find her and he's guilty he subjected her to a life of being an undead monster too, and he's like 'dont look at me ive changed so much you must be ashamed' and just MAXIMUM EMOTION OKAY!! And also 'oof ouch my everything' cos flailing around panicness aint good in your condition, dude!

So big happysad reunion and him having the longest most peaceful nap he's had in years, lost in distant memories of her reading him bedtime stories as a child. (Maybe even wakes up as she's reading a bedtime story to little sib, and gets so emotional he wakes them up with his sobbing?) And its not all perfect, there's a bit of a rift in the way of just being perfevt family again cos well its been so long and he's grown up and its basically like meeting a new person and starting over. Yet also with all the pressure of knowing how things used to be and being terrified of messing up. ALSO there are like fifty other zombies walking around outside confused as fuck! I think maybe the mum becomes the new mayor of a weird little shanty town that springs up overnight and the neighbours are all like 'what do we do with suddenly acquiring a new trade route with another city state' and also 'AAA ZOMBIES'. Complex futures await out heroes! But i have faith that this little awkward family will make it work!!!

[sandwichbully]

Sammy’s Avenue Eatery, 23 November 2018

   “When people are hungry, you feed ‘em.”

   OK, so about three years ago, I was working at UCare - “UCare, health care that starts with denying you your oxygen!” - and it was a slow afternoon one afternoon. Most afternoons were slow and the mail room was overstaffed for what we needed, so I logged a lot of time on Facebook and I saw this joint, Sammy’s Avenue Eatery, and I thought their sandwiches looked pretty good, so I made it a point to go there.    ... aaannnddd I never did.    I was broke as shit at the time, working fourteen hours a day six days a week between two jobs (and still being broke all the time) and feeling like shit because I was a terrible letdown to my then-girlfriend (the one from this episode) because I was always tired and just wanted a goddamned beer and two cigarettes. Eventually things improved but not by much and yadda yadda yadda, a whole bunch of shit happens, and going up to Sammy’s Avenue Eatery has been low priority.    But I never forgot it. It kind of even nagged at me. And today, with it being almost fifty degrees for what is surely the last time this year if it isn’t the next to last time this year, I made it a point to go to what is likely going to be the final Sandwich Bully episode for 2018 - unless y’all want to come pick me up in your petite bourgeoisie automobile with “the heat” on in December and January.    So I rolled up on the corner of Emerson and Broadway and walked in and looked over the menu and waited for the nice lady to finish making a chai latte for this other lady and I asked her which she preferred, the Hot Roasted Chicken or the Turkey Bacon Club.    She said honestly that she preferred the chicken but they were out of that so turkey and bacon (I had to specify because I’ve had exactly one experience with turkey bacon and that shit is fucking gross and it’s so gross that I’m compelled to put up a picture of my first ex with a caption mocking her voice in which she chides me for having high blood pressure but that is seriously some SD&A shit and - Hm? Oh, Sound Design and Assembly. That was my old record review blog but I didn’t review records so much as I bitched about pop culture and waxed poetic on having picked up nookie the night before.)

   Wait. Where are we?

   OK, let’s start that over.    She said honestly that she preferred the chicken but they were out of that so turkey and bacon (I had to specify because I’ve had exactly one experience with turkey bacon and that shit is fucking gross) it was and I grabbed a cranberry ginger ale and I found myself engaged in a conversation with her. Lot of personal stuff that isn’t my business to put up here but I guess maybe I can talk about the political side of it and that part was refreshing because nobody was bringing out words with “-ism”s on the end, we were just on the same wavelength, talking about how Minneapolis government is mishandling or outright ignoring a bunch of problems and how there are easy - very easy solutions to them. The homeless encampment whom the city couldn’t decide to house in either a warehouse or a vacant fucking lot? Well, hell, how many boarded up houses are there in north Minneapolis? I figured put the homeless at least in the warehouse out of the elements. The woman I was talking to told me they had plenty of empty houses in this neighborhood. A solution I never thought of. And even thinking about it now, I realize that there’s a lot of red tape and the banks own those empty houses but why does the bank own an empty house? Why is it held by a private entity and not by the state? What are the escheat and adverse possession laws in Minnesota? (And that’s over thinking it but that’s because capitalism doesn’t provide for simple solutions without the transfer of liquid assets.)

   And enough of that.    Anyway, at one point, this dude comes in and says he doesn’t have time to stop in and eat at the moment but he was just wondering what the soup of the day was for when he came back later and the woman said it was alright if he didn’t have time to eat, she’d fix him a “little” to-go cup (it was more like an eight ounce cup and I don’t know how metric people measure soup; by volume - 237mL - or by mass - 227g) and she handed it to him and told him to have a good day and he said thank you and he walked out the door and she stared out the window and she said, “When people are hungry, you feed ‘em.”    No conditions, no clauses, just simple straight to the point action and solution.    And she told me about how she wanted to start a homeless shelter, not like the ones downtown where you have to "tell ‘em everything about your life just to get in the door”, she wanted to start one where if you were tired, you could sleep, and if you got caught fucking up, you got kicked out. Simple as that.    And my brain goes to how dangerous that would be because what about all the rapists and murderers and then my privilege checks itself and I got to remember that homeless folks aren’t homeless because they’re murderers and they do just want a warm place to sleep and a little something to eat.    She told me she wanted to open a soup kitchen, too, and told me that one place downtown was in such a great location because it was centralized and somebody could even walk for forty blocks to get there, and they would, too, because, as she put it, “hunger travels”. I know that. I remember the time, it was like ten years ago or so, that I was with Georgie and we were starving and I walked two miles in a snowstorm to the food shelf and I lied on the paperwork and told them our twenty eight year old roommate was our four year old son because I thought I could get us more food that way (and, hey, there were three people in the house). I remember being dismayed at what we got and dutifully trundled it back home. I remember all that.    Maybe it was meant to be that I didn’t get to Sammy’s until today to have this conversation. Maybe as a (timely) reminder to be thankful for what I do have, maybe as a reaffirmation of my beliefs, maybe to just talk to somebody over lunch, which I never get to do because I live alone and work alone.

ANYWAY!    How was the sandwich!? How was the fucking sandwich, Charlie!? Remember how this blog is called Sandwich Bully? And it’s about sandwiches? And how it’s not a place for you to peddle your bleeding heart commie* beliefs or pontificate on how we need to be good and charitable toward our brothers and sisters!? HOW THIS PLACE IS MEANT FOR SANDWICHES!?!?!? TALK ABOUT THE FUCKING SANDWICH, CHARLIE!!!    It was good. As I was grabbing a pop, the woman (I know her name I just don’t know how she spells it) told me that if I wanted to bundle the sandwich and drink into a combo, that she had chips and I told her nah, I had to watch my salt and she said she knew that was right. I watched her slice my tomato right out of a whole fresh tomato which I’ve seen maybe only Trieste do - slice fresh to order. And she asked if I liked onions and I said I did and she asked if I liked pickles and I said I did and then she held the pickle slices over the container and gave them a little wiggle and told me, “Getting the salt off them for you,” which was cool. Aint ever had anybody do that for me before. And then we set to talking while I ate at the counter and you read about all that.    Well, let’s start with the size issue. I ordered a half sandwich (around seven dollars) and it was big enough that I feared what I might have gotten if I had gotten a whole one (around eleven dollars). Trust me, I beg of you, please trust me, I am on my knees begging you to trust me: Order the half sandwich. That is the reasonable human serving size.    The tomato was crisp (natch) and the pickles and onions added necessary sour and bite. The cheese, I don’t know what it was but it was white and it was creamy and, tag-teamed with the bacon, it kind of overpowered the turkey but the bacon-cheese combo overpowers most things. The mayo on the sandwich was applied to the bread pre-grilling which, a few years ago, I would have said “ew” to but recently I had the revelation that mayo is just eggs and oil (no, not that part) which are both things that are perfectly alright to be applied to direct heat (that part) and I’ve been waiting to try frying my grilled cheese with mayo on the outside but I never buy bread and I never buy mayonnaise - Why buy mayo when you can make aioli? - so I finally got to try this technique at Sammy’s and I have to admit I didn’t notice anything inherently distinguishable about it but, again, bacon-cheese combo. Overpowers everything but...    OK, probably the last time we get to do this this year unless somebody wants to drive me somewhere during December and January so we have to make this one good.    Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see...    [clears throat] But the real blackout drunk correspondent of Armenia Decides, 2018... No no no.    [clears throat again] But the real evil twin unplugging the good twin’s life support so she can assume her identity and run off with her husband... No. Come on, man, you got this. You have literally nothing else.    OK, I think I got it.    But the real guest star in the dangers-of-huffing-gas-as-a-pregnant-teen episode of this highly rated Saturday morning teen show never to be seen again as, metafictionally, her character had been shipped off to an island of misfit one-off characters, each themselves never to be seen again, turned cannibal after the last hunt didn’t yield the boar’s head required to appease the god behind the sun, he who in-turn took his great veil from the white ball in the sky and scorched their crops in anger and now, teen pot dealer and teen wheelchair basketball player and teen army brat and teen with an eating disorder and all the rest, none of whom were ever seen again, are forced to turn on each other for survival, their malevolence a dance for the god behind the sun’s enjoyment, for when enough blood is spilled he veils his white ball and grants them rest from the heat, but now, a new arrival - The Pregnant Teen Gas Huffer... is the house sauce, which I suspect is a honey dijon vinaigrette. It was sweet, a little complex but not so complex that I couldn’t guess what it was while I was eating it. It stood out and balanced the savory fattiness of the bacon-cheese combo.    The lettuce?    We don’t have to do the lettuce thing, do we?

   I mean, it’s probably the last time this year.

   Overall, not a bad bike ride, it was a pretty decent sandwich - it was good but I’m not falling over stupid for it. I mean, hey, it filled me up and I ordered the half sandwich. If there was a quarter sandwich option, I’d go for that. It tasted good, too. She asked me how it was and I told her it was wonderful and she said she was glad I liked it and I told her I was glad she made it.    I guess that there was a sense of openness, of community to the place, which we’ve been over before: I prefer to go to places that feel worn in and homey. Places like Band Box and Ideal where the proprietors and the patrons are literally neighbors, where people have been going for years, people who are eating there now worked there in high school because their parents knew the manager. Sammy’s has that vibe.    It’s kind of like Nye’s.    I liked Nye’s (yes, past tense) when you could walk in and say hi to Phil, sit down, and have an ice cold Żywiec and there was a college football game on you could ignore and it was red Corinthian leather booths and tacky martini murals on the walls and mirrors behind the bar to make the liquor selection look more impressive (or whatever the mirrors are back there for) and it was locals in there.    Last time I was in Nye’s, there was no Phil, the new guy didn’t know what Żywiec was, the interior designer clearly got all their ideas from IKEA (still love you, IKEA, but you are not meant for a bar), and the only patronage in there were literally tourists asking about the history of the Mississippi River.    I can’t fuck with that scene because it doesn’t feel like it’s a part of the community that supported it through the years. Ownership changed and nobody gave a fuck about preserving the community aspect of the place, it’s clearly a cash grab more cynical and distasteful than when they made Game of Death with B-roll of Bruce Lee and two actors who looked nothing like him.    Sammy’s, on the other hand, feels like it’s part of its community. Established in Near North, playing a role in Near North, employing Near North, feeding Near North.    GO.    GIVE.    THEM.    YOUR.    MONEY.

* I was once briefly involved with a Randian Libertarian who called me literally a “bleeding heart commie” because I told her Atlas Shrugged was “right-wing oriented”. Ah, to be young again.

[chosebravery]

me, late? you can (troy bolton vc) bet on it!!!!11!1

good morning / afternoon / evening, my children. my name is tea (or t, or anything you want; s/h pronouns) and i have been struggling with a flu for over a week now and things,,,have been difficult but i'm going to power through because i already adore this rp (the writers in here are no joke???) and i ought to present yall my daughter. i will babble a lil about her under the cut and if you want me to reach you out, like this post!!

 * △ — the dark lord has targeted [ ELIZABETH ROSIER NEE HEPBURN ] !  the muggles say she holds resemblance to [ ALICIA VIKANDER ]. the [ TWENTY EIGHT ] year old [ female ] was [ WARM & HELPFUL ] before the war, but have now become [ STUBBORN & SELF RIGHTEOUS ]. though they were once a part of [ GRYFFINDOR ], they have now taken up the position of a [ HEALER ]. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the [ MUGGLEBORN ] is actually [ AN ORDER MEMBER ], but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet.

the only child out of a quite unlucky couple, elizabeth was born in a household where people made gold out of grass. her parents were poor and unfortunate, but they loved each other--her father still claims so, even after her mother's passing when the girl was just three. mr. hepburn's optimism was what supported them--that and his gig at a pawn/repair shop at linlithgow; while he went on that and any part times he could find to keep up rent and put his daughter through school, said girl would be at home, holding onto what needed to hold and distracting herself with tales of other worlds.

as the daughter of an immigrant and an outsider, elizabeth grew to be peculiar, standing out from the rest of the people in the small town she came to live on after her mother’s passing. on the mid fifties, on a scottish town where nothing happened, people didn’t take very kindly to strangers disrupting their routine, but it was where elizabeth was to grow nevertheless; with a few years, name calling was something she learned to become unfazed by. despite however isolated and shunned she was then, she never imagined the magic of her books could become reality--the butterflies in her stomach were both of excitement and nervousness, a mix of feelings she would come to feel many times over the rest of her life. for good or bad, she was different (and this, too, would follow her for the rest of her life).

when her letter came, what she assumed to be a well conceited prank turned out to be her new astonishing reality. as she went through a wall and boarded a train, she was both terrified and amazed.

soft spoken, quiet and isolated, with a preference for long books and a tendence for distraction, elizabeth hepburn was hardly the model person for a gryffindor--she didn't think of herself courageous when the hat was placed on her head either, but there are all kinds of courage in this world, she was told. in the seven years to follow she had never watched injustice go free, nor she backed out when someone (anyone) needed her; beneath honey and unfailing kindness, in moments necessary, her voice was like thunder and her will unbreakable.

of course, sometimes it wavered--many were the times she almost gave up the wonderful magical castle when she thought of her father, all alone. he has refused this many times: she was meant for something more than a small town with ordinary people who did not appreciate her, mr. hepburn would tell her.

those years away at hogwarts installed a tradition of very long letters, written at least twice by week--flowery, extensive and very descriptive, they are still kept to this day by the old hepburn, and its sight is enough to make the daughter blush and smile sheepish. she is a sight when excited, all who know her know her passion.

her career in “wizard medicine” was a suggestion by a professor, who was aware of her excelling in herbology and potions, and her people skills (ironically, since she, then, was not the most social kid & her willingness to socialize and reach out was belated). despite over ten years working on st mungo, she still aspires for something more; her husband & her shares a dream to open a book shop of their own, but due to more pressing events, it keeps being pushed forward.

she married domitius on the spring of 72, about 26 months after they bonded while she nursed him back to health. her interest in men -- or relationships in general -- had been nonexistent until then, so it was a surprise not only for his prejudiced pureblooded family but also for those who knew elizabeth. regardless, she claims he is first her best friend, her soulmate, then her husband--he is also father of her children: five year old twins daniel and isolde & little cosette, not much older than a year old. if you catch fictional characters names in there, you’re spot on (she is a nerd even as a mom, yes--fitting too, as her own name had come from the iconic austen heroine).

currently she works at the janus thickey ward as its healer in charge, although her presence is often required on the dai llewellyn ward due to her experience with some incidents’ injuries; it’s not uncommon to see her reading the newspapers, books and letters to the patients.

however, it has been over a year since she last stepped on st mungo. her youngest child was born on early 1978, so elizabeth has been on maternity leave since then; as much as she loves her children (and she does, overwhelmingly so), the life of a stay at home mother does not agree with her anxiety so she is very eager to return to her routine, even if it means she has to stay away from her children for more than she wished she would--she takes as advantage her father is so good with them, and always willing to crash in their spare bedroom.

she is virtually incapable of staying still--if not with her nose in a book, it’s likely she is walking around, doing whatever needs to be done around wherever she is (and this does not only apply to her own house, much to her friend’s dismay). her nervous tics include tapping her fingers, tucking her hair behind her ears and biting her lips; fiddling with her clothes and her wand also apply so it’s not uncommon she is keen to hold people’s hands to prevent the anxiety to be too transparent.

elizabeth’s ethical code is incorruptible, which is one of the main causes for any friction she may create with others--another would be her inability to stay still in face of wrongdoing; blindly, she will not admit she is a bit of a nosy judgmental holier-than-thou. thankfully (debatable for some), all that makes her just right to fight for the order.

elizabeth has an intimate knowledge of muggle mechanics, due to her father’s main line of work during her childhood years; even now, when she has lived most of her life in the wizard world, she is still curious and eager to learn and be connected with the muggle world and often finds herself doing things the muggle way.

EXTRAS (ish):

she is a saggitarius!! which is not what people first think of her, but elizabeth is just like um don’t judge a book by its cover ok. but i don’t blame people who take her as a virgo because ya know, girl is kinda....very virgo lmao (it is her ascendant anyways shhh). she was also born on 1950, which makes her a grandma tiger; she graduated hogwarts on 1968 (i don’t think there’s anyone who could have been classmates w her but,,,i’d die for this so pls bring me more old people!!!)

her wand is made of laurel wood & phoenix feather; it is quite bendy and is 10 3/4 in size. overall, i found it all very fitting!! laurel wands are said unable to perform a dishonorable act, and it does not accept lazy owners, who are often on a quest for glory -- it combines rather well with the flexibility, fitting for a woman who can not stand still / doing nothing / saying nothing for more than ten minutes.

her patronus is a weasel! people with this patronus tend to be ruled by instincts and very intuitive, and to be polite, honest and hardworking. (source)

her amortentia’s scents are old manuscripts (she is passionate about books, but she adores old editions because of how personal they are), fresh ink (she is often writing something, and always carries both quills and muggle pens with herself), the first batch of bread of the day (she just,,,loves bread. it is a very nostalgic scent for her, remeting from her childhood), geer oil (her father is a mechanic, and often she helped him), chamomile (known for its calming effects, the rosier plants chamomile in their garden & it is elizabeth’s husband to go choice of tea).

talking about scents, homegirl often smells of herbs. her husband keeps telling her she smells so good and like, yeah, he is cheesy as hell, but i’m pretty sure she does smell like heaven.

also about scents: she hates coffee and is the founder of coffee sucks society ™ . expect dissertations about this on my writing.

pretty much all else i can say / know about her are on the many profiles i’ve sent on my app. you can find them here if you don’t mind the length ( 1, 2, 3, 4) & her aesthetics here + a weheartit collection (aint nobody got time for that other site) here.

[moiynapakhi]

AND ON DDT

going forward with this new management style, and knowing damn well that shigs won’t headline ryogoku, i gotta be real and forthright- Sasaki needa win King of DDT and then go on to headline the biggest show of the year at Sumo Hall, or else we’re gonna have big problems. we drew one of the most abysmal Korakuen crowds after Judgement, the mothafuckin champion Ace didn’t get a single streamer as a welcome greeting, while his jobbin stablemate got like fifteen. we’ve been in stagnancy hell since peter pan 2017 ended. shigs has been so blatantly obvious as a placeholder champion that it’s actually getting more and more depressing to see how fucking over and popular and absolutely wild the crowd is for the DAMNATION/Harashima/Shuten Doji thottery that has elevated the kayfabe and made the Extreme belt a secondary thing.

AS IT SHOULD BE, BECAUSE THIS IS DRAMATIC DREAM TEAM WRESTLING AND STORYTELLING REIGNS SUPREME. FOR SOME FUCKASS REASON, SOMEONE IN MANAGEMENT FORGOT THAT THE MAN THEY PUT IN CHARGE OF CARRYING THE PROMOTION ON HIS BACK WAS THE WRESTLING EQUIVALENT OF A TWELVE YEAR OLD. YES, TAKESHITA IS A WRESTLING NOVICE. THIS AINT UP FOR DISCUSSION, THESE ARE FACTS. HE’S BEEN HERE SIX YEARS, AND HE’S ALREADY LEGEND STATUS IN A PROMOTION WHOSE ACTUAL LEGENDS ARE ALL OVER FORTY AND INCLUDE A FAT, GAY MAN, A DUDE WHO TELLS IMPROV STORIES FEATURING A FOX, AN IMMORTAL SMILE PUPPY, AND A GUY WHO GIVES POWERPOINT PRESENTATIONS. AND SHUJI, BUT HE’S AWAY ON EXCURSION ATM, BUT WE LOVE A FORMER DEATHMATCH KING AND DAMNATION PET.

AS OPPOSED to whatever the fuck we’re supposed to prove with the Beast King and a pre-evolved hoss who only recently graduated DNA himself. neither have a storyline even remotely tangible enough to draw the kind of crowd endo/take and shuji/take did. fucking forget the 10k hara pulled in back in march 2017. but at least- at least endo/take’s fallout Korakuen drew almost 1.5k. judgement’s korakuen this year didn’t even draw a measly 1k.

we’ve wasted ten whole ass months fucking with any chance of an absolute DAMNATION reign, and it’s criminal that we are still waiting on the best heel in the promotion to get one over after having been one of the hottest acts in 2017. you can’t even fucking deny the magic being made in the ring, on the mic, and on fucking twitter when you put together four (now five, with soma) personalities so insanely different from each other in both personality and wrestling style. DAMNATION out here putting food on the table and smiles on folks’ faces!!! they’re chaotic evils, and yet they’re the greasy bois who are getting the crowd to cackle long enough to forget that the main event scene is wack, and that the lower midcard a mess!!! also, kota umeda has no tangible kayfabe to invest in, maki ito was robbed!!!

at the end of the day, we’re going down a dark path if we continue to hype up this sleazy, almost blatant imitation of more wrestling-specific promotions who oftentimes are not as kind to its own kayfabe as DDT has been. NOAH has one of the best rosters in japan rn, and the only reason the company’s not dead is bc the GHC brand has yet to perish. at this rate, Hara gon have to wrestle into his fifties to save this godforsaken company. they are running my mans dry! he needs his fucking rest!

my only hope is that Judgement, April Fool, and the crowd turning on Takeshita in favor of Shigehiro at mothafuckin Max Bump was a lesson- an actual lesson in how not to mess up an otherwise good thing. and also- the numbers. jesus christ these numbers. im not even gonna start on why robbing Shuji at Judgement was the final nail in the coffin, BUT Y’ALL KNOW WHAT I’M TALMBOUT, THAT DAMN CROWD CAME FOR SHUJI ISHIKAWA, AND WE WAS ROBBED! 

p.p.s: @ DDT, pls let endo and take resume their lovestory, they drew 5.9k last year for sumo hall, they deserve to headline at least a korakuen, don’t heterosplain this love away just cuz u got acquired by some big name corporation.

[nomanismyequal]

IT TOOK FIFTY YEARS TO RETURN TO MY PRISTINE SPIRITUAL CENTER AND WHEN I WAS REUNITED WITH MY SPIRIT, MY SOUL(for those of you stuck inside of people) AND EVERYONE TREATED ME LIKE I WAS STUPID. I WILL LET YOU KNOW THAT BEING STUCK ON STUPID IS FAR DIFFERENT THAN BEING STUPID SO YOU SHOULD CATCH UP BECAUSE IN LESS THAN THREE(3) MONTHS I HAVE DEALT WITH ENOUGH STOOPIDITY FROM MONKEYS WHO LOVE THEIR OWN STINK THAT I HAVE TRANSITIONED FROM “WANTING TO LOVE EVERY SOUL” TO “FUCK ANYONE WITH SHIT FOR SOULS!” AND I ALREADY KNOW I AM ONLY MEANT TO DEAL WITH THE RAREST OF PRECIOUSLY FEW AND, I ALREADY HATE THOSE FUCKING MONKEYS AND THE LESS I HAVE TO DO THE BETTER I FEEL AND ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW IS I CERTAINLY KNOW ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER THAN YOU. SO EITHER JOIN ME OR FUCK OFF, I CANNOT CARE ANY LESS AND I AM ALREADY ALWAYS DOING GOOD THINGS AND IF YOU MISS OUT IT AINT MY FUKKIN PROBLEM BRAH!

#thesefuckingmonkeys #poetcafe #poemsporn #withlovedivine #anothermasterpiece #mysmalltalkissolarge #letmesinkin #stopjudgingmewithureyes #spiritualrecovery #spiritualwellness #spiritualwellbeing #spiritualbeingwell #spiritualhealing #spiritualhealer #healyourselfinoneinstantforever #healallyourownpainnow #healalllifespaintoday #endyourlifespaintoday #rapeculturecrime #rapecultureawareness…

[msfbgraves]

One of the advantages of having your survival threatened, plus a year of unrelenting stress, is that I've become very selective about my media intake. There's too many pieces of media about to watch/read/hear them all whatever you do. And my brain being in survival mode for months made me realise that media have a very clear affect on my mental state. Micro-aggressions are not micro when you're already fighting for your sanity.

So - same as I no longer use most scented soaps, as they have always been irritants, I no longer self harm with media. I don't care if everyone consumes something and cries "classic", if it harms me (most profoundly by being violently ableist and misogynystic, but this is personal) I don't consume it in the first place, or I stand up and leave. If a book seems to be a masturbatory male author fantasy with weird thoughts on women, I don't buy it. There may be fewer women creators, but still more than I can ever all read/watch. I point blank don't watch horror. I sometimes read men out of morbid curiosity (how can they be so obsessed with their girlfriend fucking everyone in sight? I know men have quite low standards when it comes to getting off, but most men are a. definitely not appealing, and b. even if they are, definitely prone to being selfish...) but I definitely limit the amount of posion I allow to get in. Get fucked, citizen kane, mindhunter, or every horror film ever. Get royally fucked. Aint nobody got time for that.

I will not grin and bear it. There's other media, by women and even some men, by trans people and queer people and nonbinary people that will not harm, but enrich me, and I have thrown Fifty Shades across the room after ten pages too.

I won't take it anymore, I'm too old to be forced to take it and I won't. No. It's often enough I have no choice, in daily life and ads, but I will not watch what will harm me when I have a say in the matter.

My cinema spending has gone waaay down since. And it has been harder to find books to buy, but not impossible

so women are supposed to grin and bear the books, the comics, the movies, the plays, the tv shows, the stories, the sci-fi, the translated ancient poems, the fucking millennia of men writing about their self inserts torturing women and it being declared as High Art by other men, we’re supposed to read it in our free time, study it in classrooms, include their styles in our own writing, accept their cultural influence as natural, watch it in the cinema, write about it, talk about it, accept it, aspire it, but men can’t tolerate three seconds of female wish fulfilment of a woman snapping the wrist of a creep without feeling personally kicked in the balls.