#me trying not to turn into a rabid animal when people ask me about music... LKSJSKAS

[youredreamingofroo]

1,2 and 7 for the soft asks :")

sending this ask put u thru the wringer it seems Wisp LASJHDBJ Thank you for the ask!

Questions from: Soft Asks ask game

1, what song makes you feel better?

I typically don't listen to music when I'm sad... unless I'm trying to get sadder LMAO but here's some songs that just.. make me feel good (or better): no way ! (yot club), rufus (yot club), human nature (yot club), talk to you - acoustic ver. (Ricky montgomery), could this be love? (saturn 17), guest room (carter vail),,, Okay I need to stop now LMAO I have WAYY too many comfort/feel-good songs (based on vibes, not on lyrics)

2, what’s your feel-good movie?

I don't watch a lot of movies... but... hm.. I guess to spare myself overthinking this question, I'll say The Croods, I watched this movie on repeat as a kid and I can see the nostalgia of it just being soo comforting if/when I rewatch it :')

7, what color brings you peace?

If you asked me this two years ago, I'd have said blue, but I've changed! Red and Orange make me feel cozy, happy and don't hurt my eyes/give me migraines... (As much as I love blue and purple, blue/cool colors strain my eyes, the blue-light filter on my phone is a life-saver :'))

[heresathreebee]

Eddie Munson | Stranger Things 4 || Face Sitting/ Fucking // Dry Humping

Eddie Lives AU/ Roommates; 2.8k words; NO BETA/ SELF-EDITED, Roommates (living with their older relatives), Swearing, Cramped Quarters, Sexual Frustration, Threat of Destruction of Property (poor Sweetheart the electric guitar, she’s done nothing wrong), Dry Humping, Magic Wand Vibrator, Slight Choking, Squirting

Previous | Masterlist | Next: Kurt Kunkle Love Bites/ Marks

You didn't hate him– you just hated everything around him. Living with Eddie Munson and his uncle Wayne meant less room in the trailer, more messes that you alone were expected to clean, and zero privacy. Your aunt originally invited Wayne and "his boy" as she called him to stay with you and her, but when an eviction notice came unexpectedly, the lot of you had been forced to return to Forest Hill for housing– right back into the infamous scene of Chrissy Cunningham's death. 

Some changes had been made– A loft was built on top of the trailer with enough room for one queen sized bed that your aunt and his uncle traded. Meanwhile, the actual trailer's only bedroom had been turned into two via a "privacy curtain" and downsized a lot of things to fit all of you in. Your room held a twin sized mattress and a chest of drawers you used as a desk, and Eddie’s room mirrored yours plus a stack of amps for his electric guitar. 

That damn guitar. If he's not jamming in his friends' garage or running D&D on Fridays with those high schoolers, he's strumming that fucking instrument and blasting (quietly if you ask) his music all night. At least he knocks on the privacy wall before he bothers you with something mundane when he can't entertain himself. 

Somewhere along the way, after months with no way to relieve your urges, you snapped. Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin when you throw the folding curtain aside and stomp into his space. 

"What'd I do? What'd I do?!" 

You grab his ankles and drag him down the bed and he gets lost in the blanket he was curled up in. You catch his guitar before it hits the dirty floor and hold it over your head much to Eddie's dismay. His eyes become saucers and his face gets stern. 

"Don't," he hisses with one hand out as if to placate a rabid animal. 

Unperturbed, you sneer. "It's Thursday. Don't you have somewhere else to be?!" 

Eddie shrugs. "We– I… one of my buddies was forced to go camping. We- we can't play without the drums." 

You grit your teeth, unsatisfied. "So do something else. Somewhere else!" 

"I-I-I," Eddie sputters as he watches your nails dig into his precious baby. "Like what? Where do you want me to go?!" 

"Outside, Eddie!," you scream. 

"Why?!" 

…you uh, don't know how to answer that. In fact, you were banking on simply scaring him so bad he left without question, yet here you are. He wasn't being loud today. He wasn't making a mess or bothering you for once. He was just there and he could hear everything, just like you could hear everything he does in his room– especially the private stuff. 

"Just– " you sigh and use your head to support the guitar you were holding as your arms grow tired. "An hour. I just want an hour alone. Is that too much to ask?" 

Eddie looks at you sympathetically. "... I wish I could, but uh… I actually can't just go outside and loiter like I used to..." 

Oh fuck, you forgot. Munson was legally cleared of murdering the cheerleader (you wouldn't have believed it anyway not since you met him, the scared little lay about) but that didn't mean their weren't people still hunting him. No other suspects were arrested for it, the cause of her death was still unknown. 

You tossed Eddie his guitar back and worried your lip trying to come up with an alternative. Maybe you could take your vibrator, a towel, and his van to an empty parking lot. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him but, you would be way more comfortable doing it at home. You can’t just ignore it anymore, it’s consuming your every thought and ruining your panties… 

“Is there… something else I can help you with?,” he asks warily. 

You know what he means– you know! But you can’t stop from shifting your feet and rubbing your thighs together just to provide some relief. You try glaring meanly at him but it feels a lot more sexually charged than it should be and unfortunately, Eddie looks like he’s catching on to your dilemma. 

“Oh,” he murmurs. “You want alone time to… oh!” 

You roll your eyes and turn to go back to your room but he stops you. "Hey wait! I could still… I could still help you with that too. If– if you want…" 

You look over Eddie. Before you busted down the wall between your rooms, he had been relaxing. His hair was tied up, wearing the gray shirt you were secretly obsessed with because it was Unnaturally Soft, and barefoot. You reach down to rip the blanket off him, revealing for a split second that he was only wearing boxers before he shielded his modesty with the base of his guitar. 

Well, he did look delectable like this. And you were desperate at this point. "There are going to be rules." 

Eddie furrows his brow as you disappear into your room, only to return a moment later wielding an object he had only seen in pornos and sex shops. "Rule one," you say as you point the vibrator at him menacingly, "never ever ever speak about this to anyone." 

"Done, our secret." Eddie's eyes follow you as you saunter towards him and swiftly straddle his hips. “Anything else?” 

You reach down and accidentally flash him your cleavage before jamming his guitar in his arms. “Rule two, don’t look at me and keep playing.” 

“Ok– UGM.” You sit on his hips and feel the hump of his ‘boy bits’ against your sex– both lightly clothed in cotton. “Any requests?” 

“Know anything with a semi-sensual bass line?,” your voice comes in a sigh as you rut against him, feeling yourself grow hotter as you finally feel the beginnings of your game coming to fruition. The first phrases he strums are intensely familiar. “Oh, House of the Rising Sun? You’ve been snooping through my things.”

Eddie shrugs and turns his eyes to the ceiling as per the second rule. “Hardly snooping if you leave your cassettes in my van.”  

He grunts and closes his eyes, his fingers skipping over a note as you rut again and set your vibrator to the lowest setting. You can feel his thighs stiffen under your ass as you pull the top of your dress down and bare your hardening nipples to tease them. 

Your eyes drift closed as you feel everything. “Fuck Eddie.” 

The man hums in response and you both hissed as the vibrator made contact with your clit and the base of his hardening cock. In an instant, two clammy hands grasp your hips and forced you up. 

"Stop," Eddie begged, "hang on, I need…" 

You catch yourself from falling on him with a hand on his pillow and pause. Eddie is panting as he reaches into his boxers (not minding a few wet spots) to settle his cock against his belly and hooking the waistband under his balls. Obediently, his hands return to his guitar and he nods at you. 

"Ok I'm good, you can–" 

You snapped his underwear back into its rightful place halfway up his cock and Eddie almost screamed, his eyes pricking with tears and veins bulging in his neck. He glares at you with more malice than you thought he was capable of and he forces you to sit down on his hips before returning his eyes to the ceiling. 

"Nice tits," he growls. 

"I know," you chuckle and resume your minstrations. 

Eddie's guitar picks up where he left off. You continue rocking your hips and return the bulky vibrating wand to stimulate your clit, even brushing the sensitive frenelum of Eddie’s cockhead with the wand and loving the way he bucks up into you. The coil in your gut tightens harshly and you feel something unexpected but exciting building with it. 

You hum long and low in your throat. "Keep playing, Eddie." 

"'M trying," he groans, "getting close." 

Your wand dies unexpectedly and you quickly toss it aside with a huff. "Just keep playing. Fuck, Eddie…" 

He loves the way his name sounds, and when you say it like that… he misses the E string again and holds his guitar up to his neck. The last thing he wants is to come all over his precious Sweetheart, even if it annoys you. He tries strumming the melody from up high. It sounds a little out of tune and he catches you smiling (your eyes are closed, or you'd scold him for breaking your rules). 

"Thought you said you learned Master of Puppets in 30 days," you tease, "but now you can't play four bars on repeat. S'matter, pussy too good?" 

Eddie grips his guitar roughly. "Can feel how wet you are…" and see your pretty chest swaying. He shuts his eyes tight. Your threats are rarely empty and he needs to come, he'll die if he doesn't. 

"Oh shhh–" 

Eddie hits himself in the face trying to thrust Sweetheart out of the splash zone. He growls as streams of pearly white fluid pools in his belly button and paint streaks across his shirt, even tiny droplets splash under his chin. Your movements milk every drop out of him, and as soon as he cracks an eye open, he sees you triumphantly admiring your handy work. 

"Fuck," Eddie hisses as his cock throbs one more time and everything starts to feel overly sensitive. "Too much, too much." 

Reluctantly, you stop rocking and stare down your nose at Eddie. He knows what you're thinking already and tries to dissuade you with a firm hand on your hips. 

"Just need to catch my breath," he pleads. "Why don't you take this off before it gets ruined?" 

His fingers gently tug on the sun dress pooling around your hips. In truth, he wants to be able to see more of you, and you oblige his suggestion with seductive grace. Now it's just you and two layers of cotton underwear sitting on his softening cock and empty sack. He sets his guitar just off the bed and helps you adjust your placement for better friction. 

"Pick that up," you command. "I didn't say you could stop playing." 

Eddie sighs, "yes ma'am." 

He folds his shirt in half to cover his mess and settles Sweetheart back in her place against his ribcage. He glances back at you again as he finally notices the vibrating wand has disappeared. 

"Look the other way." Your eyebrows are drawn together and you unconsciously cover your breasts with your hands until he obeys. 

It's weird to him that you choose to be shy at this moment. After all, you were downright prideful a moment ago, and he is the only one covered in cum right about now. 

"Any other requests? A different song perhaps?" 

"Sure…" 

Eddie tunes a string that sounded off and begins to play something a little less somber but with a heavy bassline. Sunshine of Your Love fills the space between you and he can hear you smiling through your praise. 

"I like this one," you chuckle and begin to rock your hips again, slower this time to build back the momentum you lost. 

He's less sensitive now and simply enjoying the feel of you, wanting to get you off like he said he would. Still, it's fun to hear you 1) laugh and 2) like his taste in music. If he could get hard again, he totally would. 

It's not long before he feels your warm hands come down on his shoulders for support and it takes every ounce of his control not to look at you. The gentle sighs that fall from your lips come in time with the rising speed of your thrusts against his flaccid junk. Eddie counts to four in his head, bends his knees, and bucks up in perfect time to help you get off. 

The prettiest filthiest sound pours out of you halfway between a sob and a sigh. You bite your tongue hard to stop yourself from saying his name again and scold yourself internally for even thinking about it. This isn't about Eddie, this is about getting off. But no matter how hard you try, you just can't seem to get there. Not without the wand and not without thinking of Eddie. 

"Fuck..." The curse is dripping with frustration and Eddie's heart pangs with sympathy. 

Eddie's had enough. You can't finish like this but you are too stubborn to help even yourself. It's time to take over. 

You gasp as you suddenly feel Eddie's fingers wrap around your throat. There's a dark look in his eye as he sits up on his elbow, guitar set aside again. It fills you with heat that pools in your gut. 

"Come on, princess," Eddie says, his voice low and gravelly, "what's the matter? You want to come, don't you?" 

"Ah! Eddie!" One second you're dry humping your roommate, and the next you find yourself on your back with said roommate hovering over you. His rough hand squeezes your wind pipe for a second causing stars to dance in your eyes and his hips press down, pushing your thighs wider to accommodate his width. You tell yourself you shouldn’t feel so aroused by this lazy nerd musician. 

“If you want me to stop, say the magic word. But before you do–” he tilts his head back and licks his lips. “Tell me this doesn’t feel good.” 

Eddie thrusts his hips once and you know you’re done for. He’s grown hard again that much is sure, and the way his cock is sandwiched between your soaked folds to brush your clit with his head is enough to make you cry. His thrusts are short and needy, but not because he is desperate– it’s because you are. You know if you asked him to fuck you like a toy, he would happily oblige and you have to bite your tongue to save you from yourself. 

“What’s that, baby?” Eddie smugly addresses the punchy whines escaping from you. “I can’t hear so good, did you say you want me to stop?” 

“No please!” You cry and dig your nails hard into the hand on your throat to keep him there. “Please don’t stop, Ed, please…” 

Satisfaction curls cat-like on his lips. “That’s what I thought you said, sweetheart. Now, who’s making you feel good, baby?” 

Oh this asshole, you think, I’m going to kill him someday. “...you are.” 

“And what’s my name, princess?”

You roll your eyes internally. “Eddie.” 

“Uh-HUH. Eddie who?” 

“Eddie fucking Munson!” The devil rewards you with a warm fingered pinch on your exposed bud. 

“That’s right! Good girl.” His rhythm is so perfect, you can count it– 120 beats per minute. “And who’s touch are you gonna beg for?” 

“Eddie Munson…” Your voice becomes airy and high. Every stroke building like water behind a dam and his toying with your chest sparks like magic. 

“And who’s the lucky son of a bitch who’s gonna make you come?”

He speeds up, anticipating your peak, the wall you keep hitting but couldn’t pull yourself over. Instead of answering him with his name, you scream under him and arch your back as stars explode outwards behind your eyes and deep in the pit of your stomach. Fire washes over your skin, then ice as the sweat on your body cools, and a comforting warmth returns as you feel Eddie’s chest covering yours and his head fall into the crook between your neck and your shoulder. 

It takes you a few minutes to feel your toes. You cradle the back of his neck craving his contact and forget you ever hated Eddie the freak Munson. 

“Thank you,” you whisper sheepishly. “Maybe this is an insane thing to ask but… do you know how fast you were going when you made me come?” 

“195,” he mutters matter-of-factly. 

The ticklish feeling causes you to laugh. “On a school night? Shame on you.” 

The way he nuzzles into your neck fills you with something sweet, until he speaks again with that trademark smugness. “And I made you do a lot more than come, baby.” 

You become very aware of the fact that your underwear and the bed beneath you is drenched, like genuinely soaked, swimming in liquid. Even the bottom half of Eddie’s shirt which slipped down while he was over you was wet as well as sticky where his cum was barely dried. You roll your eyes and promise to never let yourself do this again. 

Your vow lasts all of two hours.

Previous | Masterlist | Next: Kurt Kunkle Love Bite/ Marks

Using my roommate like a sex jukebox? Its more likely than you think!

[kdjamlabel]

Tendencies

Pairing: Hawks x GN!Y/N

Summary: Hawks with bird tendencies, but he’s faking it because he thinks you’ll like him more.

Hawks fluff for the soul~

~~~~~~

Everyone assumes because of his animal quirk, Hawks should have animal tendencies. It would make sense since people with animal type quirks often share habits with their animal counterparts. These “bird hero headcanons” stem from the various theories his [rabid] fans have of what the hero is like behind his cocky, charming exterior. Unfortunately for them, the most bird-like qualities he has are his wings, which is why he gets a little confused when some fans ask him to coo when he signs things for them.

Being in a relationship with the bird boy is a whole ‘nother ball game. When you gave him a cracker and some trail mix as a joke, he nibbled at it while making chirping sounds and doing a little happy dance. You thought it was absolutely adorable and started to pull out your phone when he noticed and immediately stopped, desperate to convince you that it had to be a secret because it was too embarrassing for the public to know about.

Opening the door into your shared living space after work one day, you found him sitting on the couch surrounded by an assortment of pillows, blankets, some of his feathers strewn about. When you asked what all this was for, he got up and gently pulled you to come sit in his “nest” for cuddle time. Needless to say, you two were nice and cozy for the rest of that night.

You don’t know when, but one day he started bringing you things. Shiny things. Rocks, shells, the occasional piece of overpriced jewelry, you name it. You had asked him why he, and he simply answered “Because I thought you would like it!” with the sweetest, most innocent loving smile. You now had a box in the closet labeled “Y/N’s shiny things” written on the side messily in glitter glue. Looking at it every morning before you got dressed never failed to give you the warm and fuzzies.

One night he came home from a mission covered in some weird sludge and you had offered to help him clean up. You had him sit on a stool in your-unreasonably large-bathroom while you ran a warm damp towel through his feathers. He spent the whole time giving little hums of approval as you worked your way through. When you reached the base of them however, he shuddered and gasped, causing his wings to fluff up and push you away. He had his hands covering his face in shame while you were rolling on the floor laughing like crazy. In your fit, you didn’t notice him peeking through his hands, smiling softly down at you.

He had made it his mission to learn how to do your hair. It didn’t matter what type it was, or if he had no previous experience, he was going to do it. You had told him it was fine and he didn’t need to, but he insisted. It was supposed to be payback for how well you had been taking care of his wings. He’s gotten really good at it now, confident enough to let you show up to work in a “Keigo original” with only the smuggest of grins when your coworkers compliment your hair.

It happened one afternoon when the two of you were just chilling and listening to the radio. He started bobbing his head to the music ever so slightly, then started doing it harder as the song got to his favorite part. You carefully and sneakily pulled out your phone to take a small video. You weren't going to show anyone, you just wanted to keep it as a little secret for yourself. He was fully aware of what you were doing, but he let it slide, only because he loves you.

The truth finally came out one day at the beginning of spring. You had been pulling away from him and he couldn’t figure out why. You had cut cuddle time shorter and shorter, only stayed in the house to eat and grab spare clothes, you had even started staying over at a friend’s house instead of with him. He was starting to go cuckoo not having you there. He needed to confront you about your recent behavior, so he made a plan.

When he called you to meet on the roof of the penthouse, you were a bit skeptical of his intentions, but thought to humor him as the guilt of leaving him alone was eating you alive. What you weren’t expecting was to see him standing there, smartly dressed and roses in hand. The nerve ridden man in front of you was a stark contrast from his usual laid back and carefree persona, but a strangely welcome sight all the same.

Before you could speak, he handed you the flowers and basically begged to know what he could have possibly done wrong. You try to calm him as he frantically apologizes for things he hasn’t even done. Finally, you grab him by the shoulders and yell that he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Then why have you been avoiding me?” He asks in such a sad and broken tone that you feel your heart ache.

“Babe,” You sigh, embarrassed that you didn’t think of talking this out with him earlier and had to do it here and now of all places.  “I’ve been avoiding you because it’s spring.”

“What does the weather have to do with anything! You can’t just randomly pull away because winter’s over!” He was still visibly confused by your actions. You couldn’t believe you had to be the one to say it like this.

“It’s SPRING, Keigo! I know it was mean of me to do that without telling you first, and I’m sorry. I’m just not sure if I can handle…” You trail off, not wanting to finish, cringing. 

Hawks was a smart man. The Commission had made sure of that. The moment you hesitated, he finally understood what this was all about. He processed it for a bit, then the chuckling started, which evolved into full-blown hysterics. You were taken aback by the sudden change in demeanor. First, completely frantic, now this? Was this a side effect of-

“I’m not-I-I don’t really act like a bird y’know.” He said, finally calming down and wiping small tears from his eyes. “I’m just a guy with wings, nothing more, nothing less.” He looked at your wide-eyed and open-mouthed expression.

“Wh-bu-I thought you-”

“Acted like a bird because I have a bird quirk? Sorry dove, but no, I don’t.”

“Then why have you-”

“If I’m being honest, the only reason I did was because I thought you would like me more. The fans think that’s who I am and I thought you did too. I know, I know, I shouldn’t have lied about it, but what else was I supposed to do? The thought of ‘“What if they leave you because you aren’t what they thought you were?’” kept creeping in and I just couldn’t tell you the truth. If I had known you would avoid me because of it, I would have said something sooner. I’m sorry” His eyes were downcast as he finished. He really didn’t mean for it to get this out of hand. If he had just told you, then maybe things would be better. Now you probably hated him. You gently grasped his face and brought it up to meet yours.

“Oh featherbrain-” You touched his forehead with your own, caressing his cheeks as you do ”I love you, quirks-yes pun fully intended-or not. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re the same Keigo Takami I fell in love with. It was cute, but I think I can live with just-normal-man-with-wings Hawks.” you say squishing his cheeks and giving him a little peck on his nose.

“I don’t know about that. Some of those things have turned into habits that I’m not sure will break so easily.” he smirks as he snakes his arms around your waist.

“I guess we’ll just have to live with that then. But to be perfectly clear, your not-”

“No, I’m not.”

“Thank god. I wasn’t sure how long I could stand being at (y/f/n)’s house. I think they’re just about ready to kick me out.”

“Then It’s your lucky day. There’s a penthouse lease with your name on it and some very empty bed space just your size. Think you can fix that for me, love?” He arches his brow, teasingly.

“I think I can fix that.”

[rebrandedbard]

A little drabble exchange for @theamazingbard that accidentally became more of a ficlet. Threw in a little hispanic nursery rhyme since I don’t know if we have them in english for making pain go away. I tried googling but it was unhelpful. 

TW: Descriptions of blood, drinking it, gross stuff like that. Canon-typical wounds. References to drinking and inebriation.

WC: 2617

Lips Black as the Rose

Featuring highervampire!Jaskier as he tries to figure himself out after being turned. A bit of spice in there. Am I picking and choosing parts of the lore as I see fit? Yes. Is it very sexy of me to do so? One hundred percent. Will I beta this before posting? Oh absolutely not, you know the drill. ‘No beta, we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments’ is my go-to Ao3 tag for a reason.

-

Under no circumstances would Jaskier ever cause harm to another living thing, but the world did not reciprocate that exact philosophy. He’d been chased and held at the business end of many a sword, dagger, lance, and—on several unfortunately memorable occasions—a startling variety of available flatware. Things were rougher after meeting Geralt and having his usual human pursuers overshadowed by the threat of monsters.

Where once a spoon in the hands of a rabid duke would seem a most threatening opponent, Jaskier now found himself on the run from a more literal array of rabid beasts, and he could quote the running speeds the prove that having an extra pair of legs did indeed give certain monsters a leg up, so to speak, on the competition. But then, having no legs at all could prove a better advantage, and such creatures as those often had the additional advantage of long, venomous teeth.

Suffice to say, it was a difficult thing to be a lover in a world of fighters. Particularly when one falls into the company of another presumed lover, only to discover that their invitation to dinner was, in truth, an invitation to be dinner.

A vampire. Young, wine drunk, and foolish, Jaskier allowed himself to be led into the vampire’s den. It had been many years ago, he no longer remembered the details. He only remembered a sharp pain on his shoulder, followed by a woozy numbness, and he awoke in a strange bed, in an inn he did not check into, with his reflection missing from the mirror. He’d run away from home shortly after, fearing a bloodlust that was never to come.

It was a strange thing, being a vampire. After months of research, Jaskier came to no conclusions as to what it meant to be one exactly. He experimented with the content of old myths, touching silver very cautiously, taking delicate bites of foods prepared with garlic. He could cross a river just as well as any man. All in all, there was not much wrong with him, and he wondered what all the fuss was about. Well, there was a bit of fuss in that he could no longer be sure of his appearance, and he’d become more vain than ever, relying on the opinions of others to assure him that he looked presentable. This was a particular bother where Geralt was concerned, for he rarely paid compliments—if ever—and was not inclined to offer opinions concerning such trifling things as fashion or appearances.

Jaskier felt sure that Geralt would have noticed right away, but when their paths crossed again, Geralt seemed entirely ignorant of Jaskier’s dramatic change in biology. Running his tongue over his teeth, he could find no fangs. People complimented him on his eyes, still cooing over how bright and blue they were; and he’d been so afraid they’d turned a ghastly red as in the stories. From what he could tell, he appeared human. He had no violent urges to drain the blood from red-cheeked virgins, nor had he transformed into a bat and flown into the night. Sunlight only burned his skin as much as it had before, though it might have been harder on his eyes. He found himself squinting more in the afternoon, and it was unpleasant hot at times.

All in all, he was relatively normal.

“Such beauty ought to be preserved evermore.” That was what the vampire had told him that night. A great favor, immortality, but he wished he might have been offered a list of instructions to go with it. Figuring things out on his own was exasperating. And though he was not quite compelled to drink blood, there were times when he was … drawn. By curiosity.

When Geralt returned from a hunt, his flesh torn and body bleeding, Jaskier found it challenging to tend his wounds. Many times, he’d almost given into temptation. It did not help that he’d wanted to know the taste of Geralt’s skin long before the transformation. Now, there was an intoxicating layer to the fantasy, and the smell of Geralt’s blood made him hazy, like the bouquet of a strong wine. Or more realistically, the cloud of bitter vodka. If it had been a particularly nasty fight, Jaskier was sure he could taste Geralt’s blood by the smell alone, so powerful it made his nose wrinkle. He could get drunk on the fumes, and it was not always so pleasant.

He never dared try. There were too many things to consider. For a start, there was no telling what the blood of a witcher would do to him—and that was before factoring potions into the equation. Having never fed of blood, Jaskier did not know how his instincts would react, and he was sure he had some animal instinct to him now. He might drain Geralt dry in a matter of minutes, or the taste of blood might make him go insane and start tearing at his surroundings like a mad beast! Or, simplest and frightening of all, Geralt might kill him. So Jaskier kept his secret, never giving in to his curiosity.

But one day, he’d slipped.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted. He clenched his hand and a sharp smell pervaded the air. In sharpening his sword, his hand had slipped. He’d cut the meat of his palm, just above his wrist.

Jaskier was up at once, Geralt’s bag in hand, ready to wrap the wound. He was very quick these days in getting things bundled up as soon as possible. Once the wounds were wrapped, the smell was not as pronounced. He fished out a strip of cloth and had it round Geralt’s hand in a matter of moments, working efficiently with good practice.

Geralt smiled ruefully. “A clean wound, at least. Should stitch itself up by morning.” He chuckled and inspected the wound, his eyes flicking over to Jaskier. “Haven’t done that since I was a child sharpening my first dagger,” he said.

“Did you cut yourself often in training?” Jaskier asked.

“No, not so often. We didn’t waste wrappings on such small scrapes either.”

There was a distracting shadow of red seeping through the cloth. Jaskier scoffed. “So you let it bleed into the open air, did you?”

“We were less inclined to coddle than humans.”

“Coddle?” Jaskier said, raising an offended hand to his chest. “My dear, a dressing is hardly evidence of coddling. If I wished to coddle you, I’d kiss it better and sing a little chant.”

Geralt presented his hand to Jaskier, smirking humorously. “Then do it. I’ve never heard of humans having such power as to kiss wounds better. Would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Erm … ” Jaskier flushed, considering the proffered wound. He nearly made a joke about lacking such power, being no longer human, but he bit it back. To cover his hesitation, he took Geralt’s hand and gently sang the rhyme his nurse used to calm him after a scraped elbow or knee. His tongue rolled musically as he rubbed the dressing carefully. “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.” Then he bent his head down to kiss the place.

“I don’t see what frogs’ tails have to do with my hand,” Geralt joked.

But Jaskier did not hear him. Instead, he felt oddly fixed in place, a metallic tang on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, and licked at his bottom lip to chase the memory of the taste. As he did, his tongue scraped the end of a long, pointed tooth. He stumbled back unsteadily, muttered his excuses, and fled to the safety of his bedroll across camp. There he sat, writing nonsense in his notebook as though struck by sudden inspiration.

He’d tasted Geralt’s blood. And now he wanted more.

The next few hunts were blessedly without injury. Jaskier found he was able to breathe again. It twisted his gut whenever Geralt went off to fulfill a contract, and his conscience was at odds with this new obsession. He wanted Geralt to come back whole and unharmed. But he wanted some cut, some smallest scrape upon which to lathe his tongue. When he thought of it, he felt a stirring in his gums, and touching the place, he found the fangs had grown in again. It took concentration to hide them again. He took to smiling with his mouth closed after the first incident, and he developed a habit of biting his lips.

When they came to a larger town, Jaskier went straight to the butcher. To quell his growing need, he bought fresh meat, sneaking a sip from the blood dish beneath the draining sheep’s carcass while the butcher’s back was turned. It had the strangest effect on him. Within minutes of leaving the butcher’s shop, he felt light-headed. He felt drunk, in short, and he wobbled his way to the inn, a giggle in his throat.

For dinner, he asked the potmaid to send the loin to the cook and surprised Geralt with it: a small treat to celebrate his recent hunting success. In truth, he wanted nothing to do with it, festering in the shame of his lie. The loin had merely been an excuse: something to keep the butcher busy while he drank his curiosity like some writhing leech dredged up from the water.

It made him drunk. He made note of it in his book and swore that would be the end of things. This odd affair made it easy to forget, his stomach turning in guilt and disgust at the thought of repeating the act. He was fine and healthy without blood, therefore there was no need to partake. He could go the rest of his life perfectly happy never drinking another drop. Until the day it fell from Geralt’s lip.

Jaskier stared at it from across the room. Geralt had just returned from a fight, his eyes and blood black with potion. His armour was scratched up, covered in foulness from monsters unknown, but he was alive and whole, hardly bruised. Jaskier tried to focus on the smell of the guts dripping from his armour. It was still as disgusting as ever, even with vampiric senses to influence his opinion. The wretched blood was still unappetizing. But above it, he smelled a strange scent: sweet, a touch of iron. And there, shining on Geralt’s lip, the wet glisten of blood.

He swallowed hard as Geralt wiped the cut on the back of his hand. The blood smudged along his chin, all the more enticing. His knuckles turned white on the sheet of his bed as he held himself in place. Ordinarily, he would be up on his feet to help coax Geralt out of his armour by now, but he did not trust himself to be so close.

Geralt shed his shoulder pads, looking at Jaskier from the corner of his eye. “It’s a bit slippery,” he said. He inclined his head, beckoning Jaskier over. That was their way. They did not ask things from one another. It was simple routine, and the brief lapse was something awkward to acknowledge.

What excuses could he provide? Jaskier stood on trembling legs and made his way, biting his own lip to hide the fangs he felt beginning to grow. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled with the clasps, far too close to Geralt’s face. His breath caught, watching a bead of dark blood roll down his lip, over his chin. His lip was stained black.

Geralt had always had nice lips, Jaskier felt. He was always reminded torturously of this fact when he helped Geralt out of his armour. How could one undress such a man without indulging in the fantasy of what came after, even a little? But oh, it was a dangerous line of thought. Now he was bewitched by his senses, his focus single-mindedly drawn to that point on Geralt’s lip. To kiss him now, to lick the blood from his lip—it would be divine. He felt his heart beat faster at the prospect, his hands stalling to unbuckle Geralt’s breastplate as he stared. Just one taste. One kiss was all he wanted.

A hand pressed against his chest, stopping him short. Jaskier startled out of his unconscious reverie and looked at Geralt in horror. He hadn’t—! Had he? His attention flicked between Geralt’s eyes and his lip, and to his relief, the blood remained untouched.

“Not just now,” Geralt said, voice rumbling in his chest. “The potions might paralyze you—at least for a day. Anything lesser would die from a drink of it. It turns my blood to poison.”

Jaskier blinked, edging back. “I … don’t understand your meaning,” he feigned.

Geralt followed him, stepping forward. He raised a hand, caressing Jaskier’s cheek gently. “I know,” he said. “You’re not the best at keeping secrets. I noticed some time ago you stopped aging, and there’s no shadow at your feet, even on the brightest afternoon.”

He swiped his thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. Jaskier gasped, his lips parting, and Geralt pushed in. Then, his thumb was pushing Jaskier’s top lip away, revealing a glistening fang. He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back once more.

“You’re a vampire,” Geralt said. “And not a common one either. My medallion doesn’t react to you at all.” He chuckled and added, “As if you could be common by any measure.”

Jaskier turned away, picking up one of Geralt’s shoulder pads. He clutched it to his chest, whether for protection or for comfort he could not say. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid to tell you … afraid what you might say. What you … might do.”

A warm hand smoothed down his arm comfortingly. There was a teasing quality to Geralt’s voice when he spoke. A hand wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, making him nearly jump in surprise.

“In regards to what: the knowledge that you’re a vampire, or the knowledge that you want to kiss me?” Geralt asked, words hot against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier shivered, the adrenaline of his fear quickly turning to something sweeter. “Both,” he sighed. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to understand Geralt’s intent.

“You cannot drink of me tonight,” Geralt whispered, “but I can satisfy that other hunger, if you only have the discipline to keep your teeth to yourself.”

“What are you saying, Geralt?” The way Geralt’s hand slipped lower and lower down his front, Jaskier thought he knew. Even so …

Geralt chuckled, nose pressing to the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I’m saying I’m tired of the way you look at me like a man starving and refuse to do something about it. It’s gotten worse. It was bad enough before, waiting for you to make your move, but since your turning, it’s insufferable. I feel like the centerpiece of a banquet, waiting to be devoured.”

“You said I couldn’t kiss you,” Jaskier said, breath coming up short as he felt himself pressed back against a firm chest, a second hand coming up to tug at the edge of his chemise. “I have no discipline whatsoever. And you know that.”

“Well then.”

Jaskier dropped the plate of armour as he was pushed backward. He fell, his knees caught by the edge of the bed. Arms caged him on either side, and above him. Geralt smiled, a drop of blood falling onto the sheets below. He pressed his thumb to Jaskier’s mouth once more, something ravenous in his eyes.

“Well then,” he repeated. “Looks like I’ll have to devour you instead.”

[hoodoo12]

Elegy (1/6)

What follows is a story of Miss Argentina and Beetlejuice and how their own personal issues keep them locked in their own private hells. Contains smut and angst. It was done as a rp between @clairjohnson and myself. NSFW. Beetlejuice/Miss Argentina. Beej is a combination of movie and musical; Miss Argentina has contains hcs (such as her name and circumstances). Also contains minor mentions of OC Dante’s Inferno employees.  (Tagging people who have asked in the past. If you’d like to be tagged, hmu. If you’d like to be untagged, hmu.   @turtlepated @thewolfisapartofmysoul @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @janitor-boy @beejiesbitch @angelicspaceprince) Enjoy!

He’d married, been murdered, vanquished the evil that was Juno – he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again anytime soon – said some weird heartfelt goodbyes to people he just terrorized, and was carried off by his clones in the smallest, most subdued mosh pit style ever, for an exit that was worthy of some kind of award, just for the theatrics of it. 

The second he was through the swirling mists of the doorway that separated the living from the Netherworld, he turned on his own clones and attacked them remorselessly, using claws and teeth to tear them apart, growling like he’d lost his mind and spitting like he was rabid. 

None of the clones attempted to fight back or escape. They were part of him, and he was so fucking angry – it made him angrier that they just took their destruction passively, his destruction, a destruction of self that made his hands drip with gore, his mouth taste like clotted blood, and his clothing, the tuxedo conjured specifically for something positive in his fucking waste of a life, a deeper color. 

He hated this fucking suit. 

He was too exhausted by the end of his rampage to flick it away, however. Stepping over the piles of meat that had been clones, he wiped his hands down his front and winced as they brushed over the new ventilation that goddamn teenager graced him with. He kicked the door to the waiting room hard enough that it bounced off the interior wall of purgatory, startling the assholes sitting around waiting for their stupid numbers to be called.

---

It had been another slow day in the waiting room. Not that Miss Argentina had any way to count “days” – time had little meaning in death – but her job was as uneventful now as it had been several hundred new arrivals ago. Staring down at her clipboard Maria crossed out the name of the last soul she’d sent back to meet their case worker. Juno was surprisingly absent at the moment, but the receptionist wasn’t too concerned. Her boss was a work-alcoholic and honestly, what else did Juno have to do? She’d be back soon. 

In a practiced motion, one she’d done a million times, Maria stood and slid open the dividing screen to the waiting room. 

“Number 5,678 Mr. Hen – “ 

The rest of the name caught in her throat when the door to the left of her was blown open, rattling on hinges that threatened to give. A split second of panic washed over her, an emotion really only needed for the living, before she saw who it was.

Betelgeuse. 

“Mr. Hendrix,” she finished, moving her gaze from the fuming poltergeist to the sorry looking dead man standing up from his seat. “Your caseworker is waiting for you – please step through those doors.” 

Maria placed her clipboard back on the desk then leaned out the window a little further, giving the older, bloodied man a deeper once over. “Back so soon, Mr. Betelgeuse? Should I pull you a number?”

"Fuck this place and fuck the numbers!" he spit, literally spit, making the ghost sitting nearest in his line of fire wipe his face as he hoisted himself up – some kind of heart attack took him, no doubt, from the lack of obvious trauma and the effort he took to get out of the molded plastic chair – and hurried as fast as he could out of range. 

He could take that chair and beat down every wall in this place. He could tear apart every single soul in this forsaken pit. He could bypass the eons of fucking waiting and just march right down the hall to the Lost Souls' Room –

– scary thing was, that option held some real fucking appeal at the moment. 

Beetlejuice glared at each and every dead person cowering in place. Fucking losers. Just like the fucking Maitlands, but worse, because they followed the goddamn directions in the fucking Handbook and were now stuck here. 

But what did that say about him? the voice in the crate in the back of his mind whispered. You tried, and you still ended up right.here.with.them. 

Beetlejuice grabbed the side of his head, mindless of the residual tackiness on his hand, and gave his hair a yank. Sometimes that dislodged the voice enough to make it shut up. 

His gaze fell on the beauty queen behind the partition. He couldn't tell if she was politely waiting for his tantrum to subside, or if she was being indifferently patient, having seen it all before.

Maria wondered, absently, where all the blood had come from. She noticed the gaping hole in his chest and assumed it might all be his – but it was always hard to tell with Betelgeuse. His brand of “bio-exorcising” wasn’t the cleanest. However, based on his outfit, she doubted his day job was what sent him back here. The fool had tried to get married again. 

Fixing him with a cool, pleasant smile, Maria yanked a number from the ticket dispenser and held it up. “I’ll just pull one for you, then. You know the rules – no number, no getting to see Juno.” 

The beauty queen leaned further out of the window and rested her chin in the palm of her hand – her clipboard and list forgotten for the moment. Red tuxedo – a classic for him. How many times had she seen him in it? She could remember at least four, and she guessed he’d worn it twice as many times before she’d crossed over. Betelgeuse never told her how old he was, but after working with him for over three decades, it was clear he had a few hundred years under his belt. 

When was he going to stop pulling this stunt? It never worked. Always ended up with him down in the waiting room – back here with her. Maria bristled, both angry and jealous that he got to leave this hell and go gallivanting top side as he pleased. Her smile tightened and she narrowed her eyes at him. 

“You never invite me to your weddings,” Maria said casually, lifting the hand from her chin to examine the ruby manicure. “Any good plans for your honeymoon?” 

She flicked her gaze up to catch his reaction.

The bitterness and pure rage inside him managed to ratchet up another notch with the receptionist's detached apathy to his situation as she offered the ticket out to him.

Anyone else, and he'd have taken that hand off at the wrist; he could feel his teeth lengthen in anticipation of it. As it were, he snatched the paper away with enough force to tear it. He crumpled it in his fist and shoved it into a pocket without looking at it, casting his glance around the room again at all the lesser assholes who were pointedly trying not to look at him and become the focus of his ire. 

Maria's words, her barbed little query spoken in her light accent, just poured salt into the gaping hole in his chest. 

"Fuck you," he roared. His voice cracked.

Maria was used to seeing Betelgeuse angry. She was also used to seeing him happy – manically so. The man had a way of taking emotions to the extreme. She was not, however, used to hearing the crack in his voice. The next biting remark died on her tongue and she peered up from her nails, her brow furrowing. 

“Oh, don’t look so upset.” She tutted, but there was less sarcasm behind it. “You have all the time in the world to try again, don’t you? It’s not like you’re stuck here (like she was). Not for long, anyway.” 

Had this time been different from his other attempts? The pain in his expression suggested so. If he kept this up she may just bring him around back to avoid disturbing the waiting ghosts. Maria didn’t like bending the rules, but for the good of her job she’d bend them. That’s what she told herself at least. For the job.

try again 

not like you're stuck here 

Her words meant to comfort stung, jamming themselves like smaller spears into his chest. She was partially right. It wasn't like he was stuck here, so long as he could convince some dumb sucker to fulfill the terms of the contract. Finding the right dumb sucker was what took the time and energy. 

That led to the whole "try again" debacle. What was the point? He'd never succeed; despite the seemingly impressive power he had in the upper world, it was useless. He was useless, like everything was smoke and mirrors and the one being fooled was him. 

He realized he had his fists clenched so hard he was shaking. The ghosts surrounding him in the mismatched furniture, patiently waiting their turn, still did their damnedest to pretend they heard and saw nothing. 

"No one is like me!" he'd shrieked in the Maitlands' faces. 

The stupid deads sitting here proved it. He had half a mind to grab the nearest one and rip him apart like he'd treated his clones, just to continue to give his rage an outlet, but on top of everything else he didn't want to deal with the consequences of that. Maria was still watching him, as if she expected him to do something of the sort, like she was steeling herself to have to intervene and de-escalate him, even though he knew it wasn't anywhere near part of her job.

The shaking of his fists drew her gaze down – would he really be so brash as to tear through the souls waiting? Not that he could actually kill anyone, but it would make them have to get a new place in line . . . and the paperwork involved would be a headache. 

Maria lifted her Miss Argentina sash over her head and draped it on the back of her chair. Quietly, but quickly, she moved around her desk and out the side door that led to the waiting room. Like approaching a wild animal you didn’t want to startle, Maria crept forward. Delicately, she placed her fingers on the side of his arm to get his attention, keeping her back straight and her expression calm. 

“How about you come wait in the back, Mr. Betelgeuse.” 

Her voice was smooth. She had started adding in the “Mr.” when he’d gone rogue and stopped working for Juno. The days of familiarity, of her calling him “Beej”, were long gone. Maria still kept a certain level of fondness for the poltergeist, though she’d never admit it aloud.

The roots of his hair were probably the color of this fucking suit. 

When Maria physically approached and laid a manicured hand on his arm, he almost spun on her. When the pressure on his arm increased, aided by her nails digging in so hard he could feel them through the layers of fabric, he forced himself to relent. 

"Fine," he agreed bitterly.

She’d felt him tense at her touch, and Maria briefly considered she’d made a grave mistake approaching him, until his muscles relaxed – slightly – under her fingers. Thank goodness. 

Keeping her hand on his arm the receptionist guided him to the office door. She peered out to catch the relief on the newly dead faces before shutting it behind her. 

“Take a seat.” She gestured to the chair next to her desk and sat back down on her own. She wanted to stay disinterested, wanted to keep things professional, but she couldn’t.

“So.” Maria pulled some papers together and tapped them on her desk until they were even. “Is most of that blood yours? I haven’t seen you looking so . . . out of sorts in quite some time.”

 The beauty queen looked at him from the corner of her eye, pretending to keep most of her attention on the work in front of her.

He sat where indicated, in the hard straight back chair beside her desk. If he wanted, he could look up and see the filing cabinets, the paths in the rug worn through to the subfloor underneath, the endless stacks of paper, and the hallway where the caseworker's offices were. 

He didn't want to. He could walk through the place blindfolded. Nothing changed in the Netherworld; it was all slog and dismay. And they thought he was crazy for wanting back out?! 

A cigarette appeared in his hand. Sticking it between his lips he glanced up at her question and statement. 

"Yeah. The blood's mine. First from that goddamn teenager and second – " He broke off there and used lighting the cigarette as an excuse not to finish and admit he'd torn apart his own clones in a fit of rage. " – never mind. Nothing matters. It's the same shit for eternity."

Maria watched, with pointed interest, as he brought the cigarette up to his mouth. Well, at least the blood was his. Less mess for Juno to clean up later. 

“Thanks.” She drawled sardonically, bringing her own cigarette into existence. “I’d love one.” 

As she took a drag, Maria let his remark sit in silence for a few moments, unsure of how to respond. Most of the dead seemed to be having an on-going crisis – and if Beej had been feeling the same, he’d never let on. 

“You’ve always been one for the dramatics. But never nihilism.” She paused, “ – also, did you just say teenager? You know what – I don’t want to know.” 

She threw her hand up at that, waving the question off. He was a scumbag, to be sure, but the thought of him being that scummy was not an idea she wanted to entertain.

He'd have felt bad about not offering her a smoke if he was in a different state of mind. As it were, it didn't even register until she pointed it out. Even then he couldn't quite bring himself to care. It was easy, however, to fill in the blanks she left out. 

"It was a fuckin' green card thing," he growled. "Most teens – especially gothy ones who think their existence is the worst of anyone, ever – are dumb as shit. Easy to manipulate. Except this one was too damn clever for her own good. She used – " 

It was on the tip of his tongue to admit his naked, desperate desire to be accepted was used effectively against him, but that made sour bile rise in the back of his throat and he had to swallow it down again. 

" – ugly art to impale me," he corrected after only a brief hesitation. He took a deep drag, and was dismayed to see that some smoke drifted out the hole in his chest. That kid must've punctured a lung. He sighed as he pulled at his shirt to try and cover it. 

From the corner of his eye he watched her watch him. He didn't want her pity. He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew he didn't want her pity.

Maria felt herself relax at his growled response – pleased to hear he was still a normal scumbag of the con-man variety. She couldn’t hide the twitch of her lips into a smile when he admitted how he kicked the bucket this time around. She’d seen a lot of dumb ways to die, but ugly art was a first. Chuckling through a drag, she eyed the smoke coming out of his chest, causing her lips to curl even further upward. 

As good as it was to have him talking, the anger radiating off him was still obvious. She could practically feel it on her skin. Whenever he got out of hand Juno was usually around to deal with him – but not this time. She was still surprisingly absent. Fortunately, Maria had worked here long enough to know what her boss’s trump card was. 

“Juno’s been away from the office today.” she started, putting out her cigarette in the glass tray on her desk. “And you look like you’re in the need of a distraction after . . . your little accident.” 

The receptionist spun her chair to face him, one slender bare leg crossed over the other, and raised a brow at the bloodied ghost. 

“How does a drink or two at Dante’s sound? On Juno’s tab, of course.” 

She smiled, scarlet lips parting to show off her straight white smile. In many ways the two were opposites. Beej was unapologetically himself, moss and all, while Miss Argentina went to great lengths to appear perfect. Even though she had let some of that anxiety go in death, bad habits were hard to break. 

“I’ll join you – if you don’t mind. I could use some time out of the office.”

In an effort to appear disinterested in the state of both his clothing and the new hole he was going to have to figure out how to close, Beetlejuice kept his eyes on the paperwork she'd straightened. A kid's profile, from the looks of it. One perk about working as Juno's assistant way back when was helping the kids when they came through –

He glanced up sharply when Maria mentioned Dante's. Actually suggesting it, and accompanying him to it. He would've thought that the beauty queen would pretend that place never existed, although he knew she must have been both scouted and offered a job there. 

"On Juno's tab? A drink or five sounds great." 

Some time that old hag was going to show up again, slathered in Sandworm spit and gastric juices, and he'd much rather not be found here if possible. He stood up abruptly, making the wooden chair squeal against the floor. 

"Fine. I'll let you take me out."

“Only drinks, Mr. Betelgeuse. I’m not paying for any other services.” 

Miss Argentina hadn’t had a chance to be out in quite some time. With an eternity stretching out in front of you, there was little rush to do much of anything other than your assigned job. Peering down at her burgundy gown, she also realized she hadn’t changed her outfit in years – wearing the same dress to two different parties used to be a mortifying thought when she was alive. 

How things change. The beauty queen stood, and with a few moments of concentration, changed into a red cocktail dress. Her French curled hair now in tight waves around her shoulders. It felt nice. A little like being alive, even. Even if it was just to go out and watch this man get drunk off his ass. But she understood his desire to live again – didn’t all ghosts wish they could be top side? He was certainly the most tenacious about getting there. 

“All right, ready when you are,” she said while smoothing down her new outfit. She turned from the older man and started towards the office exit, throwing a ‘are you coming?’ glance over her shoulder at him.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her hands smoothing down the fabric of her choice of dress. With his cigarette still caught between two fingers, he ran his thumb over his lower lip, thinking about the differences between the dead and the breathers changing clothing – the breathers had to take it off and put it back on, versus simply willing a new outfit into existence. 

Of course the dead could be titillatingly mundane, if they chose. It was too bad this was the never-closed office, and there was a waiting room full of ghosts on the other side of the glass partition –  

At her invitation and with a sigh, Beetlejuice stepped off the road that daydream was headed. He'd lost the chance with her a long time ago. 

He flicked his still lit cigarette into the ether and decided if she was going to be dolled up, it wouldn't be right for him to accompany her in what he was wearing. Between one step towards the door and the next, his blood-soaked tux became his favorite striped suit. He left the hole in his torso under his shirt. 

"Lead the way, muñeca." tbc . . .

[grayfilmsandstuff]

HI UM can i have a queerplatonic madcom matchup with any character, not just the mains

ok so my pronouns are it/its, im 5'4 and i have a lot of bpd and autism. i very often feel on top of the world and like im better than everyone but then i crash and thats less fun. i once beat up my friend (WITH PERMISSION, WE WERE FIGHTING FOR FUN) until they bled.

i have a lot of trouble understanding social cues so if people dont say exactly what they want me to do im not going to know they want me to do it.

if fairly artistic, i love character design and digital art. i also animate occasionally. i play pony town a lot!

i love to sit around and listen to mister scoops, its my fav music. i consider myself a rabid animal at times /pos but also /gender.

i hope this isnt too much?? i know im probably gonna get tricky but can you mix it up a bit im a kinner /lh

HI HELLO i have absolutely no experience writing qpr so i really hope this is the kind of thing you were looking for

i match you wiiiiiiith...

Deimos!

- you were actually the one who found him, not the other way around

- you were sent to the base of the main three by the auditor to try and find out what they were planning but that's when you found out that they weren't actually bad people, they were just fighting for different things

- Deimos is the only one out of the three that can match your energy, so he warmed up to you first and you immediately became really good friends

- competitions. all the time. most of the time it's just play fighting, but sometimes you'll challenge him to a drawing contest or you'll race

- one time when you and him were wrestling, he had you pinned to the ground and it looked like he had won, but you sat up, crashing your head into his, and let's just say it was a draw and you didn't wrestle for at least another week

- Deimos is your translator sometimes. he's had to explain enough jokes to you to know when you're not gonna pick up on something, so you can rest safely assured that he's gonna be there for you

- whenever you feel like the world is crashing down around you, you turn to him because he knows how you feel and he's been there before. you'll sit there and just let it all pour out and he'll just hold you and listen, reminding you that it's gonna be okay

- he cares about you. a lot. any time you want to talk to him about something, he will immediately take time out of his day to listen because he knows it makes you feel better and being around you makes him feel better

- Deimos likes to draw as well, so if he sees you drawing he'll sit with you and draw as well. only difference is that he's not quite as good. often times you'll have to ask him what he's trying to doodle because you genuinely can't tell

- "ooh, what are you drawing?"

- "a dog. i think."

- "...that's supposed to be a dog?"

- "sh-shUT UP-"

- he loves listening to music with you because you share similar tastes, so sometimes you'll just jam out together and someone has to come in to tell you two to shut up

- do you actually shut up? probably not

okay i hope you liked this!! it was actually pretty fun to write

[haildoodles-writing]

BE’SOL

— KA’RA, PART 2

“Priority.”

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue,  Alternate Ending

Summary: Din can’t make any more excuses, and he realizes he’s make a mistake.

Pairing: the mandalorian x reader

Warnings: mentions of surgery/breaking open skin (briefly, no gore)

A/N: Part 2 is here! If you would like to be included in the Ka’ra tag list for future installments, let me know!

Now on AO3!

* * * 

A few days turned into a week. A week turned into two. And then two weeks turned into three, and he still had you on board.

If he had to excuse himself away, he could. After refueling and returning to the blackness of space, another member of the Guild attacked his ship and blew out an engine. That led Din to make an emergency stop at the nearest planet, hoping to find a mechanic good enough to fix an entire wing of his ship in a day or two. But then he found himself entrenched in another job, trying to come up with the credits to pay the engineer. That took a week.

Once he was back on track, he had stopped at another planet— a small one, sparsely populated and covered in thick rainforest— to feed the little one. Both you and Din could survive on rations, after all, but the kid needed something easier to chew on.

That started off as a measly few hours, but when a group of local villagers begged him to fend off a group of invasive canines the height of the average man— well, he knew he had to help. They paid well enough, anyways. Plus one pleading from you, and he was a goner.

So yes, he could offer excuse after excuse as to why you were still here, with him. But he didn’t want to.

And so here he was, on the ramp leading from his ship and staring at you as you swayed on the grass.

Din had killed the rabid animals that morning, creeping around in the vegetation all night until he managed to spot them. He was exhausted, that much was certain— he ached to his very bones. You had convinced him to sleep earlier that day, your voice seeping up underneath his helmet and delicate fingers stopping him by the forearms until he caved. In that moment, he had wondered what it would feel like to touch you. Without the gloves.

He wondered if your skin was as soft as your voice.

He had ended up dozing on the grass for a few hours, but his sleep was fitful enough that he eventually gave up. Instead, he moved his ship to a hill overlooking the village and played with the kid while you talked to the villagers.

If he had to admit it, he had grown used to having you around. It took a day or two for you to memorize your way around the ship, feeling every crack and crevice until you knew where everything was. And then you were off, making yourself at home. As if you belonged there. You had treated the kid as your own,  too, taking care of him when Din couldn’t. Before he found you, Din loathed the fact that his job was dangerous enough to the point where leaving the kid alone was better than taking him with him. But now . . . now you were with the child. Now he could sleep better at night and take jobs without a guilty conscience.

And so Din adjusted, sleeping on a makeshift cot to let you and the kid sleep in his own bed. Setting aside extra rations for you, just in case. Keeping a hand out whenever you stepped someplace outside the ship, warning you of any bumps or objects along the path. He even made a cane for you out of wood he purchased, just so you could feel your way around easier. Din adjusted— almost too easily.

That night, the villagers were celebrating. Drinks and food were passed around while music blared, and you participated, but eventually the kid grew tired and you all retired to the ship. Din put the kid down, wrapping him in a pile of blankets on his cot before shutting the door. And then there he was, watching you from the ramp.

You swayed where you sat, fiddling with blades of grass as you listened to the distant music from the villagers. Hair brushed against your cheeks from the wind, but you paid it no mind. Instead, you were focused wholly on the music, eyes staring blankly ahead as you hummed—

And then your head shifted to the side, and a smile pulled at your lips.

“Is it beautiful?” You asked.

Din didn’t know exactly what you were talking about. “Yes,” he said anyways.

That seemed to satisfy you, and you hummed in contentment. “I think I would’ve liked to see it.”

He assumed you were talking about the village, about the firelight in the distance sparkling amongst the stars. It was beautiful indeed, but he didn’t need to look at it. Instead, he kept looking at you.

Din basked in the silence for a moment, and then began stepping down the ramp towards you. But then you spoke, and he stopped in his tracks.

“I think I would’ve liked to see you,” you said. Softly, secretly, as if he wasn’t meant to hear it.

And then you raised your voice slightly, enough for him to hear better. “You describe yourself to me. I can hear your armor, your footsteps. I can hear your voice through your helmet. But that’s all,” you said, then paused. “That’s all.”

He hated the somberness in your tone. He hated the way your hand clenched and unclenched slowly, raised above your lap. He hated the fact that he, somehow, made you feel discontentment.

From where he was frozen on the ramp, Din ground out, “What can I do?”

That seemed to catch you off guard, and you slowly lowered your hand to your lap. For a moment, you seemed to fight for words—but when Din began to walk again and stepped down onto the grass, you spit out, “Can I feel you?”

Din paused, staring at you. You were biting your lip, hard, with your hands clasped against your stomach. And then he reminded himself that for you, to touch was to see.

You wanted to see him. You wanted to learn him.

And so he slowly walked forward and lowered himself next to you, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

At his presence, you grinned brightly— but when when he lightly grabbed your hand and placed it atop his own, that smile dropped to something else. Something softer.

He could feel your fingers press against his hand through his gloves, itching to move, to explore. But still, you waited. Until—

“Yes,” Din said.

You shifted then, turning towards him more fully and pulling his hand into your lap. He could feel the heat of your thighs, your hands, seeping into his gloves, and he nearly fell apart. But then . . . Then, with one hand, you slowly started tracing his form, the other palm busy grasping his fingers. You began at the tips of his gloves, tracing over the buttons and gadgets lining his wrist and then the beskar at his forearm. And then you moved up, up, up, until you were running your fingers across his chest.

As you felt, you also spoke, asking him what color everything was. He answered mindlessly, too hypnotized by your touch—

But then his mouth got the better of him, and he whispered, “How do you know colors?”

Your hand stopped over his heart, fingertips slipping in between his shirt and chest plate. And then you laughed, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if you could feel his heart thump in return.

“Blind people understand color in different ways,” you said. A grin still pulled at your lips. “It helps us . . .  categorize the world.” And then you paused. “Besides, I wasn’t always like this.”

That made Din hesitate. You continued your ministrations, slowly rubbing at the fabric of his shirt along his collar bones, spending more time there than anywhere else. He spoke when you reached his neck, feeling the edge of his helmet.

“If I may ask. . .” he swallowed, “what happened?”

No, no. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

You fell silent at that, focusing solely on the shape of his helmet. It was only when Din nearly apologized for his abruptness when you answered.

“My parents, my family . . . They are not good people,” you said quietly. For a moment, you traced the metal beneath his eyes. “I have . . . abilities, talents, that are stronger than they should be. And they wanted for themselves. They wanted to control me.” And then you swallowed, your expression going blank. “They thought acid would do the trick.”

For a moment, Din couldn’t focus, still processing your words. But when it sunk in like a weight in his stomach, he couldn’t breathe.

If he looked hard enough, he could see irregularities in the skin surrounding your eyes, your temples, your cheeks. Acid burns healed over.

The idea that a family would do something to their daughter, a woman who was softness incarnate, who didn’t even hesitate to help her former enemy—

He wanted to kill them.

You could evidently feel the anger seeping through him, because your hand slid from his chest to his other hand. He didn’t notice how hard he was clenching his fist until your fingers pulled them apart.

“It’s alright, it’s over now,” you said, squeezing both of his hands now.

But no, no it wasn’t.

Because Din had taken you as a bounty. He had tracked you, imprisoned you, and planned on taking you back into the arms of the monsters you had run from in the first place. And for a moment, Din felt that he was choking.

He couldn’t do that to you. He couldn’t hurt you.

“Come with me,” Din eventually ground out, standing up suddenly and pulling you to your feet by both hands. You made a noise of protest—but he was already walking, leading you to his ship. Once you were safely inside with the ramp raised, he pulled out a crate and had you sit.

It took him only a moment to grab his medical kit from beneath his bed. And then he was back, straddling the crate with you in front of him.

“What are you—“

“I need you to trust me,” Din said, quietly. Guilt had lodged itself in his throat at that point, permitting him to speak any louder than a whisper.

And then he pulled out his tracking fob, its beeping filling the air. He swept it over your body until he found where it was— the tracker, slipped just underneath the skin of your left bicep. Once he found it, he made no hesitation in crushing the device on the floor.  

“I need to remove a tracker from your arm,” Din said, watching your scrunched brows smooth. ”You need to roll up your sleeve.”  

A breath escaped him when you slowly obeyed, folding your sleeve up until it was tucked securely on your shoulder. Din removed his gloves then, slowly reaching up to trace your bicep with calloused fingers. He had to ignore how utterly soft you were.

Stuffing down his thoughts, felt it immediately: a small square, just underneath your skin. Once he found the exact location, he took out the necessary tools from his kit. And then he waited.

“May I?”

At the idea of him having to cut open your skin, you blanched— but in the end, you nodded. Albeit slowly.

“Okay.”

After cleaning the skin around the tracker, he tried to move as swiftly as he could. He didn’t like the panic in your face, nor the hiss you made when he sliced open your skin. But he made quick work of it, and soon he had a tracker resting on his thigh and a few stitches in your arm. He set the medical kit aside, and with one firm press, the tracker was destroyed. He cleaned up silently.

Once Din was finished, he turned to you. You were breathing shakily. Likely processing everything.

Slowly, carefully, he unfolded your sleeve, letting it glide down your arm. His fingers paused at your hand. For a moment, he allowed himself to touch you— not out of necessity, but because he wanted to. And then he felt his callouses scratch your skin, and his hand retreated to his side.

The two of you sat in silence, ironically for longer than Din would’ve liked. And then his voice cut through the tension like a knife:

“You should stay.”

You moved at that, evidently caught off guard. One of your hands dropped to the crate, eerily close to his thigh.

“. . .What do you mean?” The question was rough, raspy, likely matching Din’s own voice.

Din cleared his throat. “You seem to enjoy it here—and the villagers have taken a liking to you. You could be safe here,” he reasoned.

For a moment, he watched as you chewed on the idea.

“Would you be here?” you asked.

Din nearly choked. Though he wanted to—

“No.”

You paused again. “Would the baby be here?”

Again, though he wanted to, no. The kid’s tracker wasn’t physical like he had hoped. He couldn’t simply take out and destroy a tracker like yours; something bigger was at play here.

“No.”

You hummed, and Din didn’t fail to notice that your thumb absently began tracing his knee.

“Then no, I think I’ll stay with you.”

The answer both warmed Din to his fingertips and stopped him cold— though he liked your company, he didn’t want to risk your safety—

“You seem to not have anyone you can trust,” you continued, picking up on his panic. “And the baby needs someone when you’re out working. And . . . I like it here,” you added. “It feels safe.”

Din weighed everything out. He would be risking your safety, yes, but . . . really, he couldn’t be assuring your safety on this planet, either. Other people seemed to be out looking for you, tracking fob or no.

Plus, being here would be beneficial. For both the kid and him. Especially the kid, who had taken a liking to you almost instantly. And you said that you wanted to be there.

Perhaps . . .

Perhaps he didn’t have to make up excuses to keep you on board anymore. Perhaps you wouldn’t have to, either.

“Okay,” he said.

And that was that.

* * * 

Tag list: @lirinchi​ @acehyacinth​ @thunderingbats​ @biolo-tea @shadowfoxey​ @nyashi-kaages​ @soradragon​ @aeryntheofficial​ 

[lokilickedme]

Well today was a shitshow.  Sit down and lemme tell you a little story about trusting your gut when someone seems too fakey-nice to be real.

Actually you know what? - it’s a long story so let me just give you a quick rundown.

(under the cut because my quick rundown ended up slightly longer than “quick” - this is a massive vent with trigger warnings for dog attack, injured children, animal bites, police, and hospitals.  Yeah, it’s been a goddamn HELL of a day)

Neighbors moved into the house next door maybe a year ago (it’s the house that inspired Hammer Of The Gods, just as an interesting side point) and the mom has always been one of those chirpy sunshiny waving-over-the-back-fence “call me anytime, I’ll bake cookies!” good neighbor types that make you feel a little bit unsettled, like, nobody can be that cheery and be for real, you know what I mean?  But we’ve never seen any dark side peeking out so we’ve always just accepted it at face value and waved back and gone about our business, happy in the belief that we got a real good neighbor this time.

So - neighbor lady has this rotten little shit of a dog that we have hated since day one.  We’re not dog haters, this is just a hellspawn beast that even Steve Irwin would want to euthanize.  It barks constantly (sometimes all night), and it gets out of their yard and comes into ours to either 1) take a shit in Little’s sandpit, or 2) snarl and chase Little while he screams and cries.  The kid is scared to go in his own back yard to play because he’s afraid of this shit dog even seeing him.

Neighbor knows this, has seen it happen, and always blows it off with a chirpy “Oh he just likes to roughhouse and play rough, you’ll be fine, he won’t hurt you!”

Yeah, no.  You don’t let your animal come into MY yard and terrorize MY children.  I have chased that beast off with rocks, the water hose, my own shoe more than once, and I stg if it hadn’t run off before I got back with the baseball bat there was one time when I likely would have killed the damn thing.  My child is terrified of it and it goes out of its way to come onto our property to snarl at him and chase him.  I’m not cool with that.  But we haven’t complained because we’re scared to death of making enemies of this neighbor.  Trust me, after the last people who lived in that house, we’re very anxious to stay friends with the ones in there now.  So we did the good neighbor thing and kept the peace by keeping our mouths shut.

Well.  Fast forward to tonight, after a year of putting up with that yappy vicious asshole.  Little is out in the front yard, playing right in front of the front door of our house.  He’s nowhere near their house or the fenceline to their yard, you can’t even see their front door from where he is.  Two steps and he would be inside our house, that’s where he’s at.  Absolutely ten THOUSAND percent nowhere near them or their house or their dog.  Neighbor opens her front door to leave and this shithead comes tearing out of their house on a straight beeline for Little.  It has to go all the way to the end of their front yard and around the end of the fence to even get into our yard, which means it had full intention of coming over here from the minute it got out of their house.  And it’s snarling and barking the whole way, which scares the everloving shit out of Little, because he’s been chased by this hellhound countless times and he knows what’s coming.  He immediately starts screaming and loses his damn mind to the point where he can’t think straight enough to turn around and run into the house, and he starts running in circles because, yeah, he’s a complete idiot when he’s scared, like most 8 year olds when being attacked by vicious animals.  And this stupid dog is right behind him, snarling and barking like a rabid goddamn demon, and Little is screaming that horrified deep-chest kind of scream that stops mothers’ hearts.

I hear it all the way at the far end of the house, over the loud music I have playing.  I’d already heard the dog but had assumed it was just barking through the fence like it always does.  But that scream - god, I hate that scream.  That scream is like a nightmare, you don’t want to hear it while you’re awake, ever.

So I run through the house and tear out onto the porch to see this dog straight up attacking my child.  My child is trying to run but the dog has hold of the back of the calf of his left leg, and Little is practically dragging the thing and screaming his lungs out, but it won’t let him go.  I slam the screen door open and scream BABY GET IN THE HOUSE!!!!! and bam, his brain kicks back in and he heads for me.  I grab him and he’s trembling so hard I thought he was having a seizure.

Now comes the kicker.  The neighbor lady is standing at the end of the fence, watching all this happen.  She yells for the dog to come to her, but that’s all she does.

Now for an even bigger kicker.  The teenage daughter is actually standing less than two feet away from Little and the dog when I get there, meaning she followed the dog into the yard but stood there and didn’t stop it when it started attacking him.  She was simply standing there.  I mean, I can sort of understand where she’s coming from on this, because she’s afraid of the damn dog herself.  But if I were watching my dog attack a small child, you better bet your ass and everything attached to it that I would be putting myself between that dog and that child - or at the very least kicking the dog or trying to grab it by the collar, anything to protect the child.  At least make a fucking effort.

Nope.  She stood there.  In my yard.  Watching her dog attempt to maul my child.  While the mother watched as well, from the safety of the end of the fenceline, while making one feeble attempt to yell for the dog to come.

Fuck them both.

So at this point I’ve grabbed Little and slammed the screen shut to keep the dog away, and the girl says “I’m so sorry!” and then just stands there looking at me like she’s expecting me to say it’s okay.  I’m inspecting my still-screaming child and I find that his leg is bleeding and has fucking HOLES IN IT.  I look through the screen at the teenager and say “IT BIT HIM!!!”

She just stands there.  She obviously doesn’t know what to do, she keeps looking over at her mother.  The mother never steps foot into the yard.  Not a damn step.

Again, fuck her.  I can forgive the teenager...but not the adult.

So my husband finally comes in from the back - up to this point he’s assumed the kids were just playing noisy and the neighbor’s dog was being a yappy little bitch from its own back yard like usual, but when I got Little into the house he finally realized those screams were serious and came running.  I told him the dog bit Little in our yard, and he runs outside but the dog and both women are gone.  He comes back in, confused about what’s happening, and I look him straight in the eye and say “That dog bit our kid, you do something.”

To his credit he snaps to action and runs out, heading straight over to the neighbors’ house to ask what the hell just happened.  She’s trying to get in her car and leave in a hurry, so he stops her and she starts laughing and saying how the dog loves to “roughhouse” and she wished Little wasn’t scared of him so they could play.  And husband, still not knowing what’s going on, has no choice but to let the woman get in her car and leave, but he asks her if the dog is current on its rabies shots and she says something to the effect of “I think so, we lost his tag” (husband was confused by the whole situation, bless him he’s no good at all in a crisis...that’s why he has me) and then she says she has to go and quickly gets the fuck out of Dodge.

When husband comes back in I tell him what I saw.  Little recovers his wits enough to start talking and tells us everything.  I clean the wound and hold him while we try to figure out what to do.  ER?  God, we were just in there a month ago when my eyeball exploded, we just got the bill for it a few days ago and have no idea how we’re going to pay it.  We’re not even sure they’ll see us again with that visit still on the books unless we pay them something on arrival.  But we’re going anyway, because this is our kid and we know we at the very least need to get this situation documented by someone official and make sure the bite doesn’t need care beyond what I can provide...but I need to know what to tell the ER crew when they ask if the dog has had its shots.  I start texting the neighbor, I send her pictures of the bite so she knows this is serious and she needs to work with me, I ask for information on the dog’s vaccine status, and she...straight up ignores me.  I text her again, making it clear that I need her to answer me ASAP because we’re likely going to the hospital and if I can’t tell them what they need to know, they’re going to be calling her.

A half hour goes by, and in the meantime I’m calling TeleHealth and googling shit as fast as I can, waiting for this woman to reply so we know what to do next, and when she finally responds she -

REFUSES TO GIVE ME ANY INFORMATION.

Yeah.

Two tries later - all I want is to know if the dog has had its shots, I even tell her she can just text me a picture of the dog’s collar tags or let me take a picture of its vaccine papers - and she comes back with “I don’t have any papers and his collar broke so the tags were lost.”

I realize at this point that there’s a reason why she won’t give me an answer and keeps evading.  I text her again and say “Ticia I need you to tell me right now HAS THAT DOG HAD ITS SHOTS”

She waits a while, then replies with “My friend does the vaccines for me.”  So I ask for the “friends” name and phone number so the hospital can call and get the information they need from them.  She makes me wait a long time again, after which she finally comes back with “Tell the doctor to call me and I’ll tell him what he needs to know.”

Okay, this is pure bullshit now.  One more try.  “IS THAT DOG VACCINATED OR NOT, YES OR NO?”

She finally replies one last time, with just a single name, “Hubbs”.

I google it - it’s a vet clinic, Hubbs is the doctor.  Wait, I thought she said her “friend” does it and there are no papers...?  So I call the vet clinic, but by this time it’s after hours and they’re closed and my only option is to leave a message and beg them to call me first thing in the morning.  Now I know why she waited so long in between replies...she was watching the clock.  I give husband a quick rundown of what’s been happening and he says “That’s it, I’m calling her.”

He calls her.  She doesn’t answer.

By this time I’m starting to cry and we’re both getting frantic.  I get the kiddo calmed down enough to leave the room and I call my mother - yeah, I know, I’m supposed to be on Active Shun status with her, but this is an emergency and she has experience in the legal field (I do too, but her know-how is far more recent than mine) and there’s no way in hell she would refuse to help her grandbaby.  She’s also the only level head I can think of at the moment.  So I suck it up and make the call.

In spite of everything, she comes through for me.  Lists off everything I need to be doing as far as documenting, getting him to the ER, filing a police report afterward if the neighbor decides to pull a vanishing act (the woman is out of town VERY frequently, sometimes we only see her once or twice a week so we know this is likely).  While I’m on the phone with her, my husband is on the phone with his friend, who is a veterinarian in another state.  Equine vet, but hey, they all have the same basic knowledge under their specialties.  Vet friend says get him to the ER tonight, as in right now, and starts a massive spiel on the danger of waiting since rabies is a possible factor in this equation.  Full panic is setting in now and I’m crying fullblown and vet friend is telling us to take him in NOW, we’re operating on a tight timeframe and rabies is something you don’t fuck around with and we do not want to cut it even remotely close.

So.  We grab our masks and get gone.  On the way to the ER I call the neighbor in one last ditch attempt to get something remotely useful information-wise from her.  She answers on what had to be the fifteenth ring, I was just about to hang up when there’s finally a terse “Hello.”  And while I’m breathlessly telling her we’re in the car on our way to the emergency room and I need to know if her damn dog has had its damn shots or my sweet little 8 year old boy is going to have to start a horrifically painful series of shots for something that likely isn’t even going to happen to him, she has the unmitigated BALLS to calmly and coldly say to me, “If I had that information I would have given it to you.  I can’t do anything until tomorrow.”

Again...say it with me.  FUCK. HER.  She doesn’t even ask if he’s okay.  Her attitude and tone make it clear that she’s considering this whole thing a waste of her time and she’s annoyed that I keep contacting her about it.

I hang up.  Not gonna let that bitch hear me cry.

We get to the ER, I run inside with Little, husband and Big have to stay in the car because Covid regulations.  We get temperature-checked at the door and then do the front desk check-in thing; it’s a quiet night and a small town thank god so we get taken to a room immediately, ER nurse asks what’s happened and I tell her.

She is PISSED.  Informs me that they’re going to be calling the police and that I won’t have to do anything, the Sheriff’s Department will handle it all.  She takes all Little’s stats, checks him over, then leaves to make the call.

Doctor comes in, super nice man, Dr Khan.  He’s not happy about the situation either, tells us they’ll get the police involved on our behalf, verifies that the bite will be okay with some careful tending and a ten day round of antibiotics.  He says since it’s highly unlikely a domestic pet is carrying rabies and this dog has a history of just being a bad tempered bitch, he’s not going to start Little on the horrific preventative treatment for the virus because it’ll likely be unnecessary - but that damn mutt IS going into quarantine and the CDC is being notified of the situation.

Husband texts me from the parking lot: COPS JUST PULLED UP.  About three minutes later Deputy Bishop walks in and he’s ready to rumble because he’s already mad about the call being for a dog attack, and when he sees the victim - all 48 lbs of tiny skinny little blue-eyed blonde haired angelfaced Little - he’s furious.  Takes all the information, asks a lot of questions, spends a lot of time with us, listens to Little, and then as he’s closing his notebook he tells me that he’s headed to neighbor’s house to inform her she’s in some shit now and she should have just cooperated with me from the start (yep I told him how she gave me the runaround).  But since she didn’t extend even the slightest bit of human decency, her dog is being put on the “problem animal” watch list and I’m to call him immediately if she gives me any trouble at all, ever, about any of this.

She not only has to quarantine the dog for ten days, she has to report to the CDC.  If she doesn’t comply, the dog will be taken by the authorities.  She’s also in trouble for not maintaining proper records on the dog’s vaccinations (which I think is because the dog ISN’T vaccinated - why would she have given me such a yank job about it if it was?  I straight up asked her FOUR TIMES “is the dog vaccinated” and she refused to give me a simple yes or no).

So it’s finally finished and we’re released from the hospital, and as we’re turning at the end of our street headed home we pass Deputy Bishop leaving neighbor’s house.  Neighbor is out in her front yard, dragging her trash cans to the corner in the dark as we go into our house.

She never looks at us, never asks how Little is doing.  Nothing.  Pretends we aren’t even there.  Her dog just fucking MAULED my kid, we’re literally just now home from the hospital because of it, we’re going to have an astronomical hospital bill, she could likely get SUED THE FUCK INTO OBLIVION AND BACK, she’s standing less than 20 feet away from us as we’re carrying the injured baby into the house...but she doesn’t even ask if the kid is okay.

This is where the learned lesson comes in.  Remember that fakey-sunshiny-chirpy-friendly “I’m a great neighbor, you’re so lucky to have me!” shit I mentioned at the beginning?  Yeah, we thought this lady was a super great person, we had nothing to make us think otherwise.  Now we do.  From the very first contact after the incident she attempted to make it our fault - said to me in one of the first texts that if we had a problem with her dog’s behavior we should have said so from the start (I had told her that the dog chased Little and snarled at him a lot, that this wasn’t the first time, and that she needed to make sure it was the last time).  She immediately got uppity with me and turned it into our mistake for not saying something every time the dog acted up.  Oh, okay, forgive us for trying to be good neighbors who don’t complain about everything.  That’s where we went wrong here!  Yeah it’s all our fault, sorry!  You’re completely within your rights to keep a dangerous animal that hates children next door to a family with children and not do anything to keep it under control.  Our bad, sorry to waste your time.

For the nth time...fuck her.  People show their true colors when they feel threatened, and I feel like she knew she likely has a lawsuit coming...and if she felt threatened by the possibility of a lawsuit, that means she knows she’s guilty and deserves one.

So anyway...Little is going to be fine, physically.  But he’s made it clear that he’s never going outside again.  (Say it with me, class...FUCK HER).  The shitty little dog has to be locked up for ten days, yay.  Personally I wish they’d taken it away, but at least there’s 10 days where Little can go out in his own damn yard without fearing for his life - if I can convince him it’s safe and talk him into it.  (Say it again...)

Tomorrow I talk to neighbor’s vet and get the truth, finally, about the damn thing’s shots (or lack thereof), and then I have to call our homeowner’s insurance and file a claim through them against neighbor’s insurance to try to get our hospital bill paid by her.  Which, you know, probably wouldn’t even have been necessary if the woman had cooperated with me from the start.  And then I get to start the long process of getting Little through his trauma and fear of ever going outside to play again.  And in 3-5 days I get the joy of going down to the police department to pick up a copy of the report.

And, of course, we get to deal with the cold shoulder from a suddenly not-such-a-nice-person uncaring next door neighbor who obviously thinks we’re assholes because the hospital called the police and reported her while our son was bleeding in the emergency room with holes in his leg the size of her precious pet’s teeth.

I won’t ever fall for that fakey-nice act again, from anyone.  My gut never truly believed she was as good as she pretended to be, and now I know my gut was right.  She’s a mother...yet she couldn’t even muster up that fake sunshine long enough to find out if a child was going to be alright.  A child whose injury and trauma were due to her negligence.  To me that makes the deception a thousand times worse.  She’s a goddamned mother and she flat doesn’t give a shit.  She didn’t even pretend to.

Words can’t even go where my feels are at the moment.  

[onthepageoftears]

What Was Lost —  Pt 2 (Jaskier x Reader) || Witcher

A/N: And part two is here! Thank you everyone for reading, and also thank you to all my new followers! A reminder that I now have a taglist, so don’t be afraid to sign up through the google doc I created (the link is in my description) :) Also, this is my fourth @thewitcherbingo entry, whoop! Enjoy!

Summary: Y/N, a famous bard, is cursed by a sorceress and loses her voice, leaving her only hope to get it back with the famous Witcher and her rival, Jaskier.

(based on this post)

Bingo Square Filled: Road Trip

Warnings: grief, language, angst, fluff!!

Words: 2,047

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

(Pt 1)

Though you were a traveling bard, this trip seemed excruciatingly long. Geralt insisted on taking the paths with little to no interaction of villages, meaning you couldn’t even stop to talk to the townsfolk. Not that you could anyway. But still, a big part of traveling was meeting the people, and with Geralt, that was the last thing on his mind.

It didn’t take long on the trip for you and Jaskier to start making music. Despite your lost voice, you couldn’t keep yourself away from your lute. And even though you learned that Geralt cherished his peace and quiet, you also learned that Jaskier didn’t give two fucks. So, the two of you made a great team in annoying the Witcher, one chord at a time.

You secretly thanked the gods that Jaskier was there. When before your rivalry was a playful past-time, now it was almost completely gone. What replaced it was…a friendship, which was something you realized you never really had until now. Watching the bard perform had been a pleasure, sure — but performing with him was so much more exhilarating. You couldn’t wait to get your voice back so you two could sing the best songs both of you would ever write. It was a bold statement, but something felt right in your gut as the two of you wrote random lyrics and came up with new chord progressions in your downtime.

It was the night before visiting the sorceress, and Jaskier was strumming his lute and humming along. You watched him with your body leaning against a tree trunk, smiling as he made nonsense lyrics and fucked up his chords repeatedly.

As you listened to Jaskier strum away, your smile faded. In the short bursts of time that you were enjoying yourself, you would suddenly remember what circumstances you were under. In a matter of seconds, like the flip of a coin, your mood shifted. Your heart jumped to your throat as the same questions you had been mulling over for the past few days swirled in your mind. What if the sorceress wasn’t where Geralt thought she was? What if she refused to give you your voice back? What if you could never sing again?

“Y/N?” Jaskier’s voice took you out of your trance; his hands were no longer playing the lute, and instead, he looked at you with concern. “You’re not crying because of my singing, are you?”

You laughed, though no sound came out. The sick feeling returned to your stomach as you wiped the tears from your cheeks; you picked up the notebook beside you and wrote: your singing is the least of my pain right now.

“I take that as a compliment.” Jaskier gestured to the lute in his hands. “In that case, any requests?”

You gave him a sad smile before writing in the notebook: I want my voice back.

“Hm. Well, I’m not familiar with that one…” His amused smile faltered when yours didn’t appear. He placed the lute on the ground next to him and focused on you. His jaw clenched as it searched your face. “We will get it back.”

You nodded your head but turned away from Jaskier’s gaze. You were still unconvinced; you decided to change the subject.

You pursed your lips as you wrote: do you hate me? Then turned it to Jaskier.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “If I hated you, would I have gone on this journey to find your voice?” You just stared at him, each blink more dramatic than the next. He rolled his eyes harder. “I don’t hate you.” He sighed, then quirked a brow. “Do you hate me?”

You smirked, then wrote: next question.

Jaskier groaned. “Now come, that’s not fair.”

You shrugged and made a ‘zip the lip’ motion. Jaskier grumbled to himself and turned back to his lute, where he began strumming a song you two thought up just the other day.

—

“This is the place.”

You didn’t know what you expected. A large castle, maybe a few guards standing out front. Possibly some rabid animals ready to attack. After the surprisingly long trip, you thought the climax to your journey would lead to a crazy battle — at the least. But this…this was anything but that. It was a small hut, barely sturdy looking. You were positive that if you threw a rock at the front door it would fall off its hinges. You supposed the sorceress had some sort of magic enchantment on the structure, keeping it upright. If she didn’t, the walls were sure to fall down come the next storm.

Jaskier must have been thinking the same thing, as his nose was scrunched up. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“This is where she was last time I saw her.”

“Which was?”

Geralt blinked. “The last time I saw her.”

“Great. Fantastic.” Jaskier threw his arm forward. “Lead the way.”

As Geralt walked towards the hut, you felt your stomach drop. This was the moment of truth. This was the end of your journey.

Jaskier placed a hand on your arm. “Are you ready?” You nodded. It was now or never.

You were grateful that Geralt and Jaskier went in first; your stomach did about twenty-five flips as you followed them into the hut, your head whipping from side to side as you looked for the sorceress.

The hut was filled with dozens and dozens of trinkets; you thought if you breathed they would fall over. Bottles of random ingredients, liquids and solids alike, filled shelves that lined the walls.

“Fidelia.” Geralt spoke, making you turn your head to the corner of the room. There stood the familiar sorceress, smiling the same smile she did a couple nights ago. You shivered.

“Geralt. How strange it is to see you again.” Her eyes flicked to Jaskier, then quickly to you. “Ah. I see.”

Jaskier cleared his throat, “We’ve come to…ah, claim Y/N’s voice back.”

The sorceress — Fidelia, nodded. “That you did."

The room grew quiet as Fidelia squinted her eyes at Jaskier, then back to you. It would have been awkward if not for Geralt’s interruption.

“Fidelia. Her voice.”

“Yes, yes.” Fidelia brought her eyes back to you. She closed her eyes and breathed in, listened. It made you feel self-conscious, like she was listening to your thoughts. Which, maybe she was.

Luckily, she didn’t close her eyes for long. In fact, only a couple seconds after, she smiled. “Looks to me like you found what you needed.” The sorceress winked at you and stepped away to reach into a cabinet nearby. She pulled out the jar she had the night you met her. “Open this up and your voice will find its way back to you. Be patient. It will settle when it is ready.”

You tentatively took the jar from her hands, almost expecting her to rip it away. When she didn’t, you hugged it to your chest.

Geralt’s body weight creaked on the wooden floor as he leaned forward. “If I hear about something like this again—“

“You’ll never let me hear the end of it. I understand. Stay a bit, Geralt, so we can catch up. I might have a favor to ask you.” She turned to you, her smile as fresh as ever. “Take care now, darling.”

You barely nodded before gripping Jaskier’s sleeve and pulling him out of the hut, leaving Geralt and Fidelia to reminisce on whatever times they shared.

As soon as the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath. Your heart banged in your chest, begging you to get further away from the hut, just in case. You motioned for Jaskier to follow you and ran down towards the river that you had passed on the way to the hut.

You finally caught your breath as you sat down on a log near the river. The sound of frogs filled your ears and you breathed in again, this time feeling more at ease. You looked down at the jar and wondered, just for a second, if the return of your voice would hurt. Shaking that thought away, you uncapped the lid, bracing yourself for the worst. All you felt was a small gust of wind — then, nothing.

“So.” Jaskier sat on the log next to you and nudged your shoulder. “Have you truly...found what you needed?”

You took a big gulp and looked down at the jar in your hands. It was such a fragile thing, and just minutes ago it held an even more fragile part of yourself. You could now only hope that your voice was back — though the sorceress said it may take a while, your faith was flickering.

You looked to Jaskier and shrugged, a sad smile forming on your lips. For some reason, you thought back to your childhood — to the mother you never had, the father you wish you knew longer. Your eyes teared up at the thought of all that you had lost in the past; you wondered why the world had to take so much away from you, and why, when you were just beginning to feel better, more was taken away.

But now it was back, in your hands. And still, you felt like something was missing.

“You know, what I said about your voice. It wasn’t true.��� You turned your head towards Jaskier; he was looking at a tree in the distance, probably avoiding your eyes. “At the tavern. And before that. None of it was true.”

You smiled at Jaskier, but the smile turned to a frown. I want to help you find what you were missing. This whole time, you thought what you were missing was your voice. Surely, that was part of it, but...maybe what the sorceress had meant wasn’t your voice — it was your companions. So many years after losing what was left of your family, and finally, you found a new family of your own. You had been traveling the Continent for years trying to fill the gap in your life that music couldn’t; and now, the gap was nearly overflowing.

You turned to Jaskier, heart brimming with… love? Excitement? You didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. All you wanted was the be with Jaskier for the rest of your life — for forever. Though you still couldn’t speak, his eyes caught yours at just the right moment; at that moment, he smiled. You smiled. And you grabbed his face and brought it to your own, capturing his lips with all the words you wanted to say to him, all the songs you wanted to sing with him. And he responded, placing his hands firmly on your waist, allowing you to lean into his grip, feeling the steadiness that his presence brought you.

At the feeling of his hands on your hips, you hummed; his touch brought butterflies to your stomach, butterflies you hadn’t felt in a long time. But then, your eyes opened wide with realization. You hummed.

You broke the kiss with your own smile and pulled back with a laugh.

“Thank the gods!” Your voice was husky, barely a whisper, but it was enough. Your smile stretched at the sound of your own voice; though it had only been gone for around a week, it felt like an eternity.

“I never thought I’d be saying this.” Jaskier’s smile lifted into a teasing smirk. He brought a hand to your face and wiped away a happy tear that fell without you knowing it. “But I am glad to hear your voice again.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but decided better of it. Jaskier watched you with a furrowed brow as you reached for the notebook you were carrying around; his eyes followed your hand as it wrote two words onto the page: Fuck off.

“I will definitely take that into consideration.” Jaskier nodded thoughtfully and pulled you in for another kiss; as his hands traced the sides of your face, you silently thanked the sorceress for forcing you on this journey — though, part of you still wanted Geralt to kick her in the face while you laughed as loudly as your lovely voice would allow. 

But maybe that was a bit harsh.

———————————————————————————————————

Tags: @trees-fanfic​, @sdavid09​, @mystrade-shipper​

(if you want to be added/removed to/from the taglist, don’t be afraid to send me a message or sign up via the link in my description)

[stixxxy]

Siege-o-ween Day 14

Heyoo!!! I’m so happy to take part in this event @dualrainbow hosted. apologies if there’s any errors I’m no way as skilled as the other people who took part! so the only warning is there’s some kinda graphic scenes at the end (not adult, kinda like somewhat gore).

Prompt: “If you say let’s split up, I swear to God.”

—————————

The weatherbeaten roof seemingly curved in, threatening to give in at any moment; even from a kilometre away, you could hear the creaks of the infrastructure as the wind battered its side. The house was almost hidden by the contorted pine trees which surrounded it as though they were a shield, protecting the old building from the eyes of passerby’s and the clouds above casting a shadow onto the area. The mist creeped through the bends of the trees and hovered above the ground before disappearing a meter in front of where they stood.

Jordan “Thermite” Trace was leaning against the rover which had been parked outside the rickety house, lighting a cigarette as he waited for the others to grab the equipment. He let out a sigh, the smoke escaping from his lips and fading into the mist. The mission wasn’t too extreme, just a quick in and out job from where a suspected white mask group ran in to.. nothing to drastic. But yet Jordan stood still as the cold nipped his tanned nose, looking onward at the eerily old house which seemed as though one small step could cause the place to crumble... that’s why there was only 4 of them. He tapped his cigarette, the ash crumbling onto the soggy mud beside his boots.

“You ready to go?” The approaching brit asked, his gear in hand.

The American nodded his head, letting the cigarette plummet to the ground.

The 4 sent where consisted on him, Jordan Trace, the Brit- Mark Chandar, Eliza Cohen & their newest (but certainly not youngest) recruit Sam Fisher, or he preferred “Zero”. The mission was, what Jordan believed, to just be a simple intel gathering mission to get Fisher accustomed to being in team Rainbow. Even if it was, Jordan knew there wouldn’t be a ‘jokey’ atmosphere, Zero was more of an edgy ‘i do everything myself’ kinda guy, Mark was brash also honest to a point, Eliza was Eliza- intense, and then there was Jordan, an extrovert who likes to joke around. Of course the 3 weren’t too bad, they just lacked the energy that Jordan thrived on. And the house in front was no help.

“You reckon it’s haunted?” Jordan joked, throwing a sideways smile to Mark who just shrugged in response... life of the party.

“I don’t believe in stuff like that, it doesn’t make sense scientifically. Even if you ignore the science it still doesn’t make sense,” the young man let out a sigh,” like what does it accomplish becoming a ghost? What causes you to become a ghost?”

Another topic added on what to bring up when speaking to Mute. Ghosts. That list was ever growing by the day. Thankfully Eliza and Fisher were just coming around the corner, allowing another Mute rant to fade as the man retreated back into his quieter self. It was an interesting quirk that Mark had, Jordan thought, Mark managed to hold conversations for what would seem like hours with a one on one with someone he knew, but the second another joined- there was silence.

“Jäger called,” Eliza announced, tossing a radio to Jordan, “he said he’ll pick us up at 15:00, giving us an hour and a half to find whatever information is here. I and Mute will take the back, covering the second floor and attic. Zero, I want you and Jordan to take the first and basement,” Jordan shot a glance at the elder who had his gaze focused on Ash, “we’ll meet back here at 14:50.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, it wasn’t long until Ash and Mute left to trek into unknown territory, leaving Jordan with the new recruit.

“Loosen up, you’ll pull a muscle,” those were the first words Fisher spoke to Jordan, this was definitely going to be fun.

The short walk to the creepy house was filled with silence, the only sound being the gravel shifting underneath their boots and the creaking of the trees fighting against the wind. There was nothing suspicious of the area, apart from the groaning of the ancient building and how something so seemingly dead uttered noises of so much life. Despite what Mark had said earlier, the place definitely had a ‘haunted’ vibe, but fortunately ‘ghost hunting’ wasn’t part of their job- it was to find the real monsters.

Oh to be at the base rewatching Mamma Mia for the fifth time instead, but he still pitied the rest who had to stay behind to watch musicals all day- yet Jordan would prefer listening to Senaviev’s attempt at singing than enter the chilling structure which lay before him.

“So did ‘Liza specify what we’re looking for?” Jordan’s question broke the silence as they entered the building careful, as if it would crumble to a single wrong step.

Zero steadily peered around the corner as they were about to step into the hallway, “Just something that would give us any more information on the White Masks, whether it be location or weapon sources.”

The hard breacher nodded, gripping his gun a bit tighter as a small groan tore through the air. It was stupid to be scared, the supernatural was that, supernatural. Not real. But yet even with a gun, every small noise caused fear- if there was a person or a rabid animal, he had a gun, so statistically he should be safe.

Jordan followed fisher through the first floor, keeping an eye out for any potential hiding spots or where they could get jumped- it was doubtful that there’d be any White Masks anyways, the electricity wasn’t on and the place seemed as if it had been left abandoned to rot away for years. There was occasionally some muttering, but Jordan just reduced that to Eliza and Mark on the floor above them- nothing out of the ordinary. From the last question Jordan asked, there had been no words spoken between the two operators for nearly 10 minutes- 10 long minutes of searching what seemed to be a barren building. This whole thing was making Jordan miss talking to their newest hard breacher, Ace would’ve annoyed the shit out of him- but a conversation would be great to calm his nerves.

The duo entered the basement, drips from leaky pipes echoed through the tunnels. The tunnel was long, seemingly endless with curves separating from it into their own empty labyrinths. If there was someone in that building, it would have to be here. Zero took lead, walking down the hallway with only the flashlight on their guns to show the way- at this point Thermite had removed his goggles which allowed him a bit more sight. It was too quiet also, the water dripping had seemed to stop and the only noise was their breaths and footing on the basement floor.

Jordan finally tried to engage in a conversation,”quiet ain’t it, must be more familiar to you?”

A simple ‘hm’ was all Zero responded with, his old eyes scanning what little they could see. Jordan ran a hand through his greying hair, not to bad- mid 30s and he had already got grey hairs... Usually the job was more active, running and gunning white masks, the underwhelming mission only added a tad of frustration to the Texan. Jordan couldn’t wait to get away from this creep show ‘base’ and to get back to civilisation where he wasn’t a mix of boredom and paranoid.

A soft growl hummed to the right of Jordan, causing him to turn- gun hoisted up ready to shoot-

“It’s probably just an animal Trace,” Fisher rest a hand on Jordan’s gun- lowering it, “you alright son?”

Jordan shrugged, bitting his lip as he rubbed the side of his head, “yeah, I.. I’m fine, just not a fan of the quiet. Grown accustomed to being more on the front lines I guess.”

Fisher’s glare softened, “alright if you say so.” The older returned to himself, leaving Jordan to catch a breath, “this place is creepy though.”

The texan could only respond with a soft laugh, “yeah.”

They continued their search of the basement, making sure every stone was turned practically. This time with a little more conversation from Zero so the silence wouldn’t turn him insane- Jordan suspected the quiet was even getting to the other man too. Jordan stood still in his tracks, he noted a door which was slightly ajar unlike the others which had been shut but not locked. Fisher turned his head to face the door in question, its hinges rusted from the pipe leaking unknown substances onto it for probably years. The liquid was most likely water, but with sewage mixed in.

Jordan took front, pushing the door slightly open which the door creaked in compliance- their flashlights seeping light into the room and onto what sat pushed to the side.

Bingo.

“Should we radio in saying we found it?” Jordan asked, watching Fisher jog towards the desk and attempt to boot up the computer which was oddly modern compared to the murky surroundings.

Jordan stood at the doorway, keeping the door open with the steal-toe cap on his boot. The room had power, and seemingly was the only room to do so as the bulb on the ceiling flickered but remained on. The White Masks must have left in a hurry and dumped all the gear they couldn’t bring in that room. Blood soaked clothing, pistols and others had been shoved to the side and out of the dim bulb light path.

Fisher let out a groan, his face tensing,” I can’t get in, we’re going to need that kid.”

“Wait wait wait, let me have at it first,” Jordan suggested, leaving the door to slam shut as he headed towards the computer.

Guessing a terrorist groups’ password was not exactly in the job description, but there was no harm in trying. Jordan budged past Zero, leaning on the desk as he looked at the screen *enter password* was flashing in white upon the light blue backing- here went nothing.. Jordan’s burnt hands scattered across the keyboard as he typed in his guess.

•welcome user_77_657_39•

The screen lit up with documents filling the home screen, clustering it up like a virus. They had access to whatever the hell the White Masks were hiding- finally, team rainbow was on the same step and with this information could climb further up, letting them have an advantage over the terrorists finally. All Jordan had to do was enter the chemical name for the white masks infamous gas and add a largely known number linked with terrorism and he was in. Bringing the chemistry know it all did accomplish something for the mission. Jordan took a step back, allowing Zero to scan the documents for any information that was to be read asap. He swore a look of horror shifted onto Fishers previously numb face.

“We still need Ash and Mute, they need to download this information so we can take the files with us back asap,” Zero grabbed his radio, “Ash this is Zero, we’ve found a computer with a tone of files. You need to get down ASAP. Over.”

Silence.

“Copy that Zero, We’re heading down now. Over.”

Zero put his face in his hands for a minute before muttering something about chemical testing.. but Jordan didn’t catch it all.

Zero huffed, pushing himself away from the desk to stand upright. “They’re going to need help navigating that corridor-“

“-If you say let’s split up, I swear to god.”

“Relax, there’s nothing here- all you have to do is walk back to the entrance and lead the two here,” Fisher told, crossing his arms as he stood back.

Jordan let out a sigh, nodding his head. Of course he had no reason to be scared, they’d checked the corridor before hand, he was just going to return back and lead Eliza and Mark to the room, then they could leave this cursed building forever. Letting out a small ‘yes sir’, the Texan exited the room and was plunged into the damp tunnel

The tunnel now felt a lot colder than before, the wind which had been battering the above building clearly managed to shove open a door and make itsway down into the depths below the first floor. Sewage was piling up at where the wall met the floor, making a sickly smell which filled the endless corridor. Jordan started to make his way to the entrance, his gun ready incase something popped out of nowhere. This wasn’t to do with Jordan being scared of the dark- he never had been; his sister would often make fun of him when they were kids because he got too scared to walk anywhere in the dark after watching the IT miniseries, but yet that was what lead Jordan to be scared of what used the shadows as a cloak. To be fair, Jordan knew what was somewhat valid.. But a 35 year old man with a gun who toured with the marines scared of what hid in the dark.. That did sound a bit iffy.

Walking back was easier than before, before they had no idea about what his behind each door and what would be ahead, but yet his stomachs felt queasy as if there was something they had missed. But that’s all it was, a feeling right? The ever growing pit which deepened each step he took down the infinite corridor, the smell of sewage growing more putrid to a level it resembled the smell of rotting flesh, the smell wasn’t real right? But as the odour grabbed his throat, it haulted him in his tracks- pulling him towards the source from which it came from. Behind a locked door was where the source of the smell had been trapped away. Kicking locked doors down wasn’t hard, especially if the door was barely secured onto the doorframe. The beaten wood topled to the floor with a bang, splashing some unknown liquid onto Jordan. The flashlight was brought up to glaze across the room, the light flickering as it glanced upon what lay in the center of the room.

“Fuck,” was all Jordan could choke out, the smell making him gag as he opened his mouth, or maybe it was the sight.

Whatever lay in front of him had been altered so many times that it barely even resembled a human, flesh stuck together as if it were play-doh, a face could barely be put together due to the amount of flies playing in the pile of rotting flesh and blood. The more breaths he took, the more faint he felt. There would always be something that’s too much. Jordan stumbled back, an attempt to catch the damp air of the corridor outside. The pile of body parts cried out for him, begging for him to save them from that torture.

“Jordan where are you?” the crackle of his radio barely reached through to him.

Jordan leant against the mouldy wall opposite the room, eyes dull as he looked at the darkness where the thing was. Splitting up was a great idea.. he tried to smile but all he could was stand motionless. Hoping someone would get to him and help him out of this rotting house.

——————

jehdjdh sorry it’s short (still over 1k though) but i struggle with focusing, i hope it’s alright though.

[meganshinsou-tm]

Sugarcoated. (m)

↳ chapter nineteen: just a little bump

❧ genre: pro-hero hitoshi, adoptive siblings, happy ending

❧ chapter warnings: slight angst

[multi-chap masterlist] [previous chapter - next chapter]

"I can't believe we're doing this," Hitoshi groaned as he rubbed his eyes.

Eri stood before you, your hands on her shoulder as the three of you waited your turn behind the tent that the costume contest was being held at. In a matter of twenty minutes, the two of you were able to teach Hitoshi a very easy and simple dance. It wasn't like he needed easy though, Hitoshi was surprisingly a really good dancer once he found a rhythm. 

Smiling, your hand reached over to touch his cheek. Lavender eyes looked in your direction with a soft smile.

"It won't even last five minutes, it'll be over before you know it," you tried to reassure him, "plus, you seem to have quite the little fan-club among the older students, I'm sure they've only dreamed about something like this a million times."

Rolling his eyes, Hitoshi took your hand, "Don't remind me. I swear I won't live this down." He looked to Eri, a hand ruffling her hair. "You're both lucky I love you so damn much, first I have to wear these ears, now I have to practically do-wop in front of the whole teacher and student body of UA!"

Before you could reply, the pair that was performing and strutting around made their way back out. The host, All Might himself, soon announced the upcoming act.

"And lastly but definitely not least, our very own Hitoshi Shinsou will be accompanying two lovely ladies, Eri and (Y/N) in a brief dance to 'I Like It' by BTS."

The sound of hoops and hollers were heard as Eri excitedly drug the both of you out from behind the tent's divider and before the crowd that had formed.

Suddenly your face went completely red at the amount of people staring back, stomach starting to feel queasy. You went to turn around and run off but Hitoshi chuckled and quickly wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you back to the front. 

The sweet and catchy music had already started to play, Eri immediately singing along and dancing. Some eyes focused on her and others focused on Hitoshi standing you back up straight to face them, giggles and laughs floating in the air at the comedic display of him setting your body up like some doll.

"Neon nami doego ohiryeo deo joha boyeo pretty woman," Hitoshi mouthed with the biggest grin as he stood beside you and started to slowly catch up with Eri, "Come on halfling, don't get shy on me now."

Chewing your bottom lip, your eyes stayed on him, body slowly moving as well. Soon all three of you were in sync, stepping and sliding. Fingers snapping and wiggling towards the crowd as your hips rocked along.

"Don't wanna be fool, wanna be cool, wanna be loved neowaui same love. Baby I want it," you sang along finally looking out as the short dance ended.

The onlookers cheered and clapped, causing you to blush like crazy. Hitoshi wrapped a hand around your head, pulling it close and kissing your temple. He grabbed Eri, picking her up with a grunt and holding her on his hip as she giggled. After taking a bow, All Might made his way to the front, clapping also.

"That cuteness was beyond plus ultra everyone, I think we have a winner!"

After the contest, Eri ran off with Toshinori to find other foods and games to occupy their time. The former #1 hero was almost like a grand-father to the little girl and it was truly adorable to see the two of them interact. Thus, it left you and Hitoshi alone at the candy apple booth. 

After the last apple was sold, Hitoshi sighed as he came up from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and hooking his chin over your shoulder.

"Can we close now and enjoy ourselves," he groaned.

"Of course, let's go find some real food, I'm hungry."

The hero chuckled and pressed a kiss to your neck, "You know, I hear bunnies like carrots, I happen to have a very rare one if you'd like to try it."

Your brow quirked and you smiled, "Mmm, that does sound good. You know what I really love about carrots," you replied with a hushed voice.

Hitoshi dragged his lips up your neck, his hold tightening as he hummed in response.

"I love how hard they are ... and the sound of them snapping in half when I sink my teeth into them like the rabid animal I am!"

A knee playfully kicked at your behind as Hitoshi nipped the shell of your ear in annoyance. "God, I love it when you talk deranged to me!"

The rest of the festival went along great. After an insane amount of teasing back and forth Hitoshi finally treated you to some food. Once the event ended, Shouto and Deku who had showed up an hour before, offered to keep Eri for the night since you and Hitoshi would be staying behind a bit longer to help clean and close everything up. The next two hours were exhausting, even with the help of every other teacher and faculty member, the process of making UA look completely devoid of any sort of festival felt like it would never end.

Hitoshi had taken off to go help finish taking down a few booths as you went and loaded all your items from home into the jeep. After doing so, you made your way back towards the grounds in search of your lover, body aching and ready to finally head home. It didn't take long to find Hitoshi, you could see his tall body and wild purple hair flowing in the cold wind as he walked your way. 

Smiling you looked to see that he wasn't alone, in fact a woman was walking with him, both of them in the middle of a conversation. Honestly you weren't bothered to see your boyfriend like this, had it not been for the hand that this woman so casually had hanging from his shoulder.

"I didn't know you had moves like that Hitoshi, I commend you," the woman replied with a smile.

Your face subtly cringed and you stopped in your tracks. Hitoshi shrugged, rubbing the side of his neck, "Well, when free ice cream and sweets are involved and your 6-year-old sister and girlfriend demand you dance - you dance."

"Well maybe that earned you brownie points in the bedroom huh," the woman teased, nudging Hitoshi's side with her elbow.

Your eyes narrowed at this, fists clenching at your sides 

Who does this broad thinks she is? 

To think she had the nerve to even casually tease about yours and Hitoshi's relationship, let alone your personal sex life didn't sit right with you. What also didn't sit right was how Hitoshi didn't seem bothered by this woman's response, in fact it got a chuckle out of him. 

As they neared, still unaware of your presence, you were able to look closer at the stranger. She had long dark hair, was a few inches taller than you, somewhat tanned skin and in other words, beautiful. Your anger turned to self-consciousness rather quickly, fists un-clenching and body hunching over.

"Hey sweetness, you okay," Hitoshi's voice asked suddenly next to you.

Looking up and being torn from thought your eyes blinked at him, standing before you, a hand holding your wrist and the other touching your cheek. A warmth came over you as his amethyst eyes searched yours with concern, it made you forget why you were suddenly down in the dumps as you nodded in reply, "Yeah – uh, I'm just super exhausted Toshi."

"Aww, now that's a cute name," said the unfamiliar females voice from behind Hitoshi.

Your eyes quickly shot in her direction, seeing a smile on her stunning features. Had you actually not been so physically and mentally exhausted from the past day of getting ready for the festival and the festival itself, you may have faked a smile or greeting, but it was damn near impossible to find that energy. 

Instead, you said nothing at all, only stared. 

The black-haired lady cleared her throat as Hitoshi moved next to you, placing his hand on the small of your back.

"I'm sorry, we have yet to meet, I'm Claire Amano, I teach English for the 2nd years," she responded and gave her hand.

Your brows rose and you slowly blinked, mustering up the force to grab her hand and shake it. "I'm (Y/N)."

Claire smiled with a nod, tilting her head, "It's nice to finally meet you (Y/N), I've heard so much about you, not only from Hitoshi but his students as well. It's like you're some kind of celebrity among them."

You only hummed in response with a half-ass toothless smile and heavy eyes. Hitoshi chuckled, placing his hand on the side of your head and pulling you closer to kiss your hair, his arms embracing you. 

"Well you aren't very talkative, you really must be running on fumes huh."

"Well, I won't keep you two any longer, I should be going as well. Thanks for the help Hitoshi, I'll see you Monday. Goodnight to you both," Claire cheerfully spoke with a wave and a nod to Hitoshi.

The hero bid her farewell in return and turned the two of you around, walking towards the vehicle. The walk was short but to Hitoshi it felt like it lasted hours, you didn't so much as speak a word or make a sound. Even your own arm didn't wrap around him and your face didn't snuggle into his side. Something was off and he could feel it, he could feel the difference in your mood, the way you walked and looked. 

Once at the jeep, Hitoshi opened your door and helped you hop up and into your seat. He wasn't sure what he was expecting next, but it wasn't that you'd just ignore him and go straight to buckling your belt without so much as a glance in his direction. A purple brow rose and he ran a hand through his hair, removing his faux cat ears while closing your door.

Hitoshi made it to the other side and into his own seat, turned on the vehicle and made sure the heater was turned up and the vents were blowing in your direction. He reached towards the backseat and grabbed a jacket, using it to cover and further warm you up. Your hands curled up into the garment and pulled it closer around your face and body as you slumped over onto the middle console with a deep sigh.

"Thank you."

The male looked in your direction while putting on his own seat-belt, "So you do still talk - in that case, wanna tell me what's up?"

Your head turned and craned to look up at him, your (e/c) eyes squinting and expression holding question, "What?"

"You've barely said a word since you met back up with me and Claire."

Your expression changed at that grouping of words, "me and Claire", just the recap of it made disgust visibly spread across your features. 

Once you realized the contortion in your face, you suddenly changed it and looked back away. You really didn't mean to have such a response, you were just so tired and almost delirious that you honestly had no control of the actions you made, and you really weren't sure if you'd have control over the words you'd speak either. 

Before replying you had to think really hard about those next words, making sure they wouldn't come off in the wrong tone or way, in all honesty you didn't even feel like talking, being too tired and also too annoyed to do so, knowing you'd probably smart off in one way or another.

"I told you Toshi, I'm just really tired, it's nothing."

"You're absolutely positive, there's nothing on your mind you want to talk about, nothing at all?"

"Other than to ask when you're going to start driving? Not really," you replied, agitation and impatience lacing your tone as you curled deeper into the jacket.

Hitoshi narrowed his eyes at you, confused. 

He's seen you tired before and in those times you never acted the way you were now. If anything you were a blabbering mess of incoherent words, snuggling and burrowing up to his side like some needy kitten to its mother, but now you were the opposite, quiet, still burrowing but not into him and more like you were burrowing to get away from him. Not once in all your time together had either of you even remotely acted like you wanted to be away from the other, you always wanted to be closer if anything. 

Sighing, Hitoshi decided not to push it, he knew people needed their space from time to time and he was willing to give you that for now, maybe it really was nothing other than you were just dog tired.

"Okay sweetheart, I'm sorry," he replied before leaning over and placing a kiss to your hair, shockingly you hummed at his affection and nuzzled your cheek against his lips, "We're going home now, take a nap and I'll wake you when we get there."

Just as expected you passed out in no time on the way home. The entire drive, Hitoshi couldn't stop from thinking about why you seemed so different so suddenly. He may have been book smart but he wasn't the best at picking up on people's emotions, even when it came to you. 

So far it had been nothing but sweet and loving moments in your relationship, you never fought with each other or got annoyed, everything was perfect. Hitoshi also wasn't that great with relationships to begin with either, you had to be the first serious girlfriend he had. The hero went on dates and such, hooked up here and there, but not once had he ever settled down like he was with you. So to have a small tiff or bump in the road was entirely new to him and so was how to handle it.

When it come to your attack, Hitoshi didn't bat an eye at helping you, but it also felt like hero work in a way at the same time. He took care of you, patched and healed your wounds, like he would with any other person, except you were someone he loved and deeply cared for, making that period all the more emotional for him. Just thinking back to that night still upset Hitoshi, it was burned into his brain and as much as he willed it away, sometimes it still haunted his dreams. Even if he did make it to save you, it still wasn't early enough for his liking and he couldn't help to think what might've happened had he been just a few more minutes too late.

Finally, the jeep came to a stop. With a sigh Hitoshi put it in park, his hands falling from the steering wheel and his head hanging low as he leaned forward, resting his forehead on the wheel. His own thoughts were exhausting him as well, along with the activities of the past few days. His tired eyes blinked and he turned his head to look at you, still fast asleep on the console. His heart did a flip seeing your bunny ears had fallen into your face. With a smile Hitoshi sat back up and gently removed them to place on the dash. His hand ran through your hair, causing you to hum and stir.

"Mm – Tosh," you mumbled and started to sleepily inch your body onto the console even more, pretty much moving towards him still half-asleep.

"Baby give me a sec and I'll bring you inside to bed," he chuckled.

Even still asleep you were stubborn and continued to crawl over to his side, hands slipping over the middle object and you almost knocking your head on it. He rolled his eyes and took charge, his hands and arms grabbing your tired body and pulling you into his lap, cradling you like a child. Immediately you nuzzled and burrowed into him. He grunted when your hands came up and awkwardly nudged his lips.

"My hands...you dideen warm em," you slurred.

Hitoshi's brows rose and he took your now warm hands into his. "I'm sorry sweetness," he apologized softly and kissed your fingers before performing his usual ritual when you got into the vehicle together, "I didn't mean to forget."

"S'kay Toshi," you sniffled into his chest.

The grip around your hands tightened at the sound and Hitoshi looked down to see you hiding your face, hearing more sniffles and your frame hiccuping.

"Hey - hey, I swear (Y/N) I won't ever forget to warm your hands again, not even when it's fucking summer," the lavenderette groveled, pressing his cheek to your hair and holding you close.

"It's not that Hito, I – I was a brat before ... I didn't mean to sound so sour to you. I just – I really am tired and I was ... jealous."

"Jealous," Hitoshi questioned. Suddenly, everything hit Hitoshi like a train. "Shit, I'm so stupid."

Repeating those words, your boyfriend quickly cupped your tear-stained face and made you look up at him. He bit his own lip at the look you held, you were so upset with yourself all because he couldn't put two and two together. The pads of his thumbs wiped away the flowing tears and he replaced them with kisses.

"No Toshi, I'm stupid. I should've just told you something was bothering me when you asked. I just let my thoughts get the best of me, I was thinking of how pretty she was, how she was touching you and you were joking together, how she used your first name ... fuck that was the worst. I know you'd never do anything Toshi and I'm sorry if all this is making you feel like I'd doubt –"

"Okay, okay, first off, shut your mouth for me," Hitoshi chuckled.

Even through tears and a frown, the corner of your mouth tried to tug up into a smile. Nodding, you took a few deep breaths to calm down and wrapped your hands around Hitoshi's wrists. 

He smiled and pulled your face to his, his lips enveloping yours with a deep and warm kiss. You couldn't help but whimper into the kiss, all your doubts and irrational fears running for the hills. You could feel every ounce of love this man had for you just from how he held and kissed you, the way his mouth melded and fit yours perfectly as if it were carved and constructed with your own in mind. Hitoshi finally peeled his lips from yours, trailing soft pecks to your cheeks, nose, eyelids, brows and forehead.

"There's no need for you to apologize (Y/N), I was totally oblivious and ignorant to how things may have come off to you. Miss Amano is a work colleague and nothing more, I swear. She just started teaching when I did, she moved from the states to teach English and I help her every now and then when it comes to the language barrier. Both being new teachers we sort of just tend to help each other out, but it's absolutely nothing more than just coworkers, I promise. The only reason she even calls me by my first name is because of the culture difference sweetheart, I can tell her to stop that though, no problem."

Your lips pouted and you hung your head low. Of course Hitoshi was helping the lady out, it was just the type of person he was, you knew that first hand.

"If she's just an honest friend Toshi, you could've told me. I may be greedy with you sometimes but I'm not going to stop you from having friends."

"I know that sweetness, I honestly just didn't think about it, which is dumb on my end. It's just once I get home to you, other things like work and coworkers are the last thing on my mind. You and Eri come first no matter what. Even when I'm not with you, I'm thinking about you. I mean, I literally am reminded of you and that little brat of a sister every day because your pictures are all over the walls of my classroom. I can't escape you and I'd never even dream about it. You and Eri are pretty much a topic that is brought up multiple times throughout all my classes and conversations," Hitoshi smiled and cupped your face in his hands putting your foreheads together, "No one is safe!"

You huffed a laugh at this, pleasing Hitoshi and causing him to visibly relax. "I guess you're right about that. I truly am sorry though Hitoshi, about earlier, with my tone."

Hitoshi shook his head and pulled you into a hug, resting his cheek on you. "It's nothing baby, we're going to have misunderstandings and get aggravated with each other from time to time. The important thing is that we communicate, talk me to alright? Even if you're so fucking mad, talk to me, let me know how you feel. Don't hide or push away, remember you promised to always keep those pretty eyes on me?"

You cracked a small smile and peeled from Hitoshi's hold to look at him. "I'm sorry Hitoshi," you replied sheepishly, placing a hand to his face. He smiled and grabbed it, turning to place a kiss to the inside of your palm like always. "Promise, you'll keep your own pretty eyes on me as well?"

Hitoshi smirked, shaking his head as he leaned in to kiss you. His lips took your own in a possessive way that was still soft. His hand came up and cupped your cheek when you pulled away, almost breathless, foreheads resting against each other.

"I can't think of a time when they weren't ever on you sweetheart. Everything I have is yours and yours alone, eyes and all."

Smiling, you placed another short and sweet kiss to Hitoshi's lips, brushing the tips of your cold nose with his after. "I love you Hitoshi, eyes and all."

The two of you stayed in the warm jeep for a few more minutes, holding the other close and not wanting to move really but eventually you both made it inside and didn't stop until reaching the bedroom. After taking a long and warm shower together you moved at a snail's pace to dry off and pull on some panties and one of Hitoshi's shirts before dramatically crawling your way into the bed like it was Mount Everest. He would watch and chuckle at our delirious state, you were back to normal, blabbering nonsense, giggling here and there at some joke you made. You even got on all fours and circled around into a nest like a cat.

Hitoshi went to lock everything up then returned, turning off the bedroom light and crawling into bed himself. He had to literally unfold you from your 'cat' like sleeping position, straightening your body out like a normal person only to have you cling to his side and made it damn near impossible to move and get comfortable himself. Once the room was dark the hero shielded you under the blankets as you nuzzled into his skin. His own arms wrapped tight around you, one of his hands playing with your hair as he rubbed your back with the other, softly lulling you to sleep first. Your breathing started to slow and the weight of you in the bed became heavier, high pitched sighs leaving with each breath you exhaled. Once your foot kicked Hitoshi knew you were out for the count.

He kissed your forehead and eyelids softly before pressing his cheek to your hair and humming as well. 

"Crazy little halfling, worrying for nothing. I'm so in love with you, it's unreal," he quietly breathed into your (h/c) tresses before drifting off to sleep as well as a soft kiss was being placed on his skin with a smile.

[strawberrycarnivals]

How about this? Shiggy telling the Meta Liberation members his s/o is off limits. Like she’s kinda cute (and a healer) and skeptic or Trumpet (MAYBE REDESTRO) kept staring at her. Let Shigaraki assert his dominance.

Ohohoho, RE-DESTRO?? I like your style, anon. 

(Think of the setting as a small luxury office building with an open floor plan. It’s serving as temporary headquarters until the main MLA building is rebuilt for the League.)

The Boss

Cw: yandere shigs, violence, sexual frustration

Shigaraki x Reader

Re-Destro had become obsessed with you. You had an impressive healing quirk that went as far as the regeneration of others. He craved the feeling of his own feet touching the ground. You were also a cute young thing which was a pleasant bonus. He saw you coming up the isle of the office floor and his heart skipped a beat. You looked so nice, pure almost. He couldn't believe you were with a degenerate like.. Tomura Shigaraki- his new boss.

"Come on, dear.." He tried getting your attention for the millionth time that day, not taking a hint. You huffed and ignored his existence. He had started downright begging for you to let him take you out to dinner. You could feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. It was time to tell him. The boss. You wanted to say something the first time it happened but Shigaraki was away on an important call. But now he was back. You urgently walked to Tomura's office.

Rikiya held his breath as you nervously passed him and entered the boss's office, closing the door. He frowned. Was he already back? His idiotic actions would now have consequences. But he just.. couldn't stop trying to get to know you, even in the limited amount of time he had while Shigaraki was gone. He was drawn to your perfection. His brain's obsession with you was leading him to do some dangerous stunts. Like asking you to dinner repeatedly. He just needed one moment with your angelic being. One moment to heal him forever.

Not even 30 seconds passed when Shigaraki's office door was kicked off of it's hinges from the inside. Tomura paused in the doorframe, a blood-thirsty smile contorting his face. He looked like a rabid animal, all but frothing at the mouth. Re-Destro shrunk into his desk chair, terrified.

Shigaraki slowly turned his head towards him, irises nearly non-existent. He made his way across the office floor, the maniacal grin plastering his face. He chuckled. It was softly at first. Then it turned into screaming fits of boisterous laughter.

Members of the MLA looked up from their desks, concern painting their eyes. The league lounged nearby in a makeshift living room, now looking over amused. Toga turned down their new flat screen television. Dabi walked out of the office breakroom with a slice of pizza and pulled up a seat to watch the oncoming shitshow. Rikiya trembled. What had he done?

"SO RE-DESTRO! It seems that you HAVE NOT LEARNED YOUR LESSON." He gulped and his eyes darted through the now permanently open office door frame. You were sitting on the boss's desk, legs crossed, with a sick smile on your face. You.. a healer of all people... were enjoying this. "WHO ARE YOU LOOKING AT, HUH?!?" Re-Destro’s eyes snapped away from you and he looked at the floor.

"And to think.. we were getting along so well. It seems to me that you didn't get your ass kicked hard enough the first time. Do I need to remind you about why I will always be in first place?" ReDestro shook his head shamefully, beginning to sweat.

"What's the matter?? Bite off more than you can chew? I heard about you asking MY pet to join you at dinner! AHAHAHA! That's RICH, Mr. President!!" He threw his head back and cackled, causing most of the building, including the League, to cringe. So noisy.

His howling laughter was music to your ears. You were smitten. It was bad, but you liked when Tomura got jealous. It was a sexy display of dominance and it also left him frustrated, promising you a one way ticket to having your back blown out later. You giggled at the thought perversely. His new business suit accompanied with his trenchcoat made you weak.

"Let me guess? You want my pet to heal your reminders? You know what I'm talking about, don't play dumb. Your reminders as in.. what happens when you fuck with us. And NOW you're looking past me while I'm talking to you? At y/n?? They are mine! MINE!! MINE!! MINE!! This warning is for ALL of you Liberation swine."

Shigaraki reached Re-Destro and ashed his chair along with his prosthetic feet in one quick swipe. The once powerful man dropped onto the carpet and curled up, embarrassed all his colleagues were watching the mighty fall for a second time. He couldn't fight back. It would be pointless. He could take it or die.

Shigaraki smirked, kicked his leg back and landed a devastating blow to his ribs. There was a sickening crunching sound from the impact. Rikiya screamed in anguish, violently coughing up blood. His left lung was definitely punctured. Re-Destro had to hand it to him- The kid had huge feet.

"Hey now, shhhh, shhh." Shigaraki grabbed Rikiya's chin and made him look directly into his eyes. "What is that? Tell me." He pointed at you. You waved back, thrilled. He gargled on his blood. "That's.. y/n. Th-they are the League's personal healer."

"Wrong!" Shigaraki cut him off. "That is mine. Do you hear me? M-I-N-E!" He balled his fist, thumb out, and shattered his nose, blackening both eyes instantly. He grabbed his collar, pulling him close. "If you ever. Ever. Bother what's mine again. You will be dead. Do you understand? Now crawl like the worm you are to the infirmary down the street. And then get back here and clean this fucking mess." He hissed.

Tomura tossed Re-Destro's limp form to the floor and spit on him. Blood pooled around the broken man lying on the carpet. Rikiya nodded weakly. Toga jumped up, tears in her eyes, clapping. "ENCORE!!"

"Darling." He called out to you anxiously. "Come with me. We have some.. urgent business we need take care of." You followed his lead and wasted no time getting down and dirty in the employee bathroom.

**

[vulpinmusings]

Letters from Buxcord #8 - Werewolves of Buxcord

The title says it all, really.

Samantha,

This one’s going to hit real close to home for you.  There are werewolves in Buxcord.

Spring has officially arrived here, heralded by a popular music festival, and this incident occurred on the very day.  I didn’t initially plan on attending, but in the days leading up to the festival I had gotten my hands on Simone’s book of magic family secrets.  I went at it with too much confidence and not enough preparation, and the “no peeking” spell made the text totally illegible and so disorienting I felt my magic senses fall even more out of sync with the local ley-lines than normal. I eventually decided to attend the music festival to get some fresh air and try to clear my head.

Oh, and Lea has asked me to try and determine once and for all if she’s human or Fey, and help locate her family if the former.  I don’t have much to go on with that task, but I couldn’t really say no.

Anyway, on the day of, I overheard a lot of stories about animal maulings being discovered around town, with the general consensus being that some kind of rabid dog was responsible.  I didn’t consider it worth my personal attention, but I filed the news away in case something more came of it later.

Which, of course, occurred.

The festival wasn’t going to get started until that evening, but I decided to head over to the park after lunch to poke around for trouble.  I wasn’t looking for anything particular, but large gatherings and party scenes can be good places for nefarious things to hide in plain sight.  Among the stage crews and other early hangers-out, I noticed a pair of men in very crisp suits and an air of authority, and then spotted Lea wandering around with a look of being hungover on her face.  When Lea saw me she came straight over, a mixture of worried and relieved.

Lea recounted her adventure of the previous night after she’d finished her bar hopping.  She’d been wandering about looking for a place to crash when she entered an alley and found it full of thrashed garbage cans, broken fencing, and a substance like fresh blood on the ground. She also showed me a name tag she’d found stuck on the fence, bearing the name of Tyler.  Lea said that was the name of a bartender who’d failed to show up for his shift.

Now that caught my interest, but before I could ask Lea to take me to the scene, those two sharp-dressed men approached us and identified themselves as agents of the FBI, the interstate police agency of the area.  They asked us some questions about the spider-hive-man incident.  After trying to tease the reason for the investigation now out of them and getting rebuffed by their strict professionalism, I provided a brief summary of the facts.  They took it all in with no sign of finding it unbelievable, and then let us return to the business at hand.

We bumped into Mr. Penn on our way out of the park, and he also took an interest in Lea’s discovery as he’d seen local police investigating more animal maulings near Bayou Boating.

The alley was still a mess when we arrived, and one of the Sheriff’s deputies was checking it out.  I prompted Lea to hand over the name tag to the deputy before beginning my own study of the scene.  There was definitely blood on the ground, and our search turned up a fair amount of shed black fur and the distinctive claw marks of an active lycanthrope throwing a tantrum and not caring if they leave a clear trail to follow.  The trail led us back to the park, where we lost it among the milling crowds.

Penn suggested that Lea fly up and study the crowd from the air to try and locate Tyler, but Lea refused flat-out since it was broad daylight and there were people everywhere.  I had to agree with Lea; given the general attitude toward magic in this wold and the unknown disposition of our werewolf quarry, it was best that we try to keep a low profile.  Unfortunately, that left us with the unenviable task of trying to spot one man among hundreds while in the midst of the crowds ourselves.

We saw Piper among the people, but she avoided us when Lea tried calling out to her.  Lea then tried to pick out the werewolf’s aura and found two suspicious feelings too vague to track down.  Penn then noted that Piper had missed her shift at the boat tours that morning, which was out of character for her.  That seemed like a suspicious correlation, so we set out to track down Piper.

We caught up to Piper on an isolated path in the woods at the edge of the park, and she tried to get away from us until Piper caught a hold of her wrist, applied some Faerie charm, and got the story out of her.  Seems Piper had been bit by a werewolf a few years earlier, the initial transformation had ended in the deaths of her parents, and she’d come to Buxcord seeking a cure.  At this point, I stepped in and, without needing to name names, convinced Piper that I knew enough about her condition to be able to help her deal with it properly.

Of course, finding a peaceful pack of werewolves to take charge of her would be ideal, and creating an amulet to help restrain the wolf’s rage a close second, but our time was short and needs must.  We took Piper back to her apartment and I fought through my magical malaise to weave strength into the walls and a seal on the door so that she wouldn’t be able to get out and run wild that night.

Returning to the park, we found that the festival was starting up.  Time was getting even tighter, and I had to be ready for the possibility that the remaining werewolf wouldn’t be as reasonable as Piper.  We needed to get our hands on some weaponizable silver.

Lea recalled hanging out with the festival’s main act earlier in the day and noticing the lead singer wearing a silver necklace, so she went off to work her magic on obtaining that while Penn and I tracked down the FBI agents to gauge their potential usefulness.  They didn’t commit to assisting us, but one of them did remind me of how a werewolf’s eyes always reflect light back, even in their human form.

Penn and I spent several minutes discussing potential light sources and how to get our hands on them, until I realized Lea still hadn’t come back with the necklace.  I went to look for her, leaving Penn to handle the light situation.

Despite my worries, Lea was in perfect health.  She’d just gotten distracted with chatting up the member of Killer Thriller, drinking their beer, and making out with the lead singer.  I made my presence known with a few sharp words, and Lea quickly got back on task, using her fey magic to charm Thrax into lending us his necklace.  In the conversation that followed, I learned that the band’s groupie, Nightshade, had been missing for quite some time despite being all professionalism earlier in the day. Not wanting to leave anyone unaccounted for, Lea and I headed for the parking lot to check the band’s truck.

While I was fetching Lea, Penn had managed to sneak backstage in between the opening acts switching out.  After some consideration, he grabbed a flashlight and proceeded to run out into the audience and quickly but systematically flash every person in the eyes.  Naturally, this shenaniganery attracted the attention of festival security, and Penn narrowly escaped being apprehended after running back to the stage and checking Killer Thiller as they were setting up.  Penn then slipped away and met up with Lea and me in the parking lot.  Quite an impressive performance, I must admit.

So, with all but one person accounted for and cleared, and with the trail from earlier now easier to see, it was clear that we were approaching a large truck containing a werewolf on the verge of full-moon transformation.  The truck was closed up when we found it, and we engaged Nightshade in conversation through the shut gate.  Lea and I offered assurances and help, but Nightshade’s responses made it clear that she had embraced the monstrous and fully intended to cause mayhem at the festival.  Still hoping for a peaceful resolution, I bespelled the truck’s gate to be immovable so that Nightshade would be locked up and harmless until morning, at which point I intended to turn her over to the FBI agents.

There were clues that things weren’t as simple as we’d assumed, but I can only see them in hindsight.  There had been a moaning sound early in the conversation that I thought had just been from early transformation pain.  Nightshade said something about running an experiment.  The trail of blood leading to the truck, and Tyler still hadn’t been located.  After the success with Piper, idealism had clouded my judgment a little.

The three of us still stood guard as the transformation took hold.  I hadn’t become that idealistic.

I had focused my spell on the truck’s gate, trusting that the magic spreading through the rest of the trailer would be enough to restrain a single werewolf.  Maybe it could have, but it was no match for two. They burst out of the side of the trailer and the more feral one – Tyler, recently turned and transformed – made a break straight for the festival.  Penn, perched on the top of the trailer, produced a whip and caught the wolf by the leg, holding it back.  Tyler swiped at Lea, triggering Lea’s panic response to animate a nearby tree.  She managed to control the tree’s actions, sending it to slam and pin the feral beast to the ground, and then somehow caused the asphalt of the parking lot to flow up and around the wolf’s legs.  I caught Nightshade in a Tangler as she pounced at me, and then I let out my frustration in a blast of fire.

Penn wrapped the silver necklace around one fist and leaped down to try and punch Nightshade into submission.  He landed some solid blows, but got bit twice for his efforts.  Lea also took a light bite to the foot in her efforts to get away from the feral Tyler and over to apply a light healing spell to Penn.

Penn broke off from his brawl with Nightshade, using some flash powder to stun her, and I threw a Tangler onto Tyler just as he broke free of the asphalt.  I then went over to Penn and, realizing the necklace wasn’t suited for the job, Wove a spell to merge the silver with the bullets in my revolver.  Lea tried to fly away to fetch help from the FBI, but she turned back when Nightshade broke free of her Tangler and made chase.  Instead, Lea decided to fly about, taunting the wolves to keep their attention away from the innocent and blissfully ignorant crowds.

Penn took my revolver and shot Nightshade through the chest, but she was still kicking.  In a momentary fit of insanity, I reclaimed the gun and made a shot of my own.  I aimed too hastily, and the bullet appeared to go high, straight toward Lea.  By pure luck, Nightshade chose that same moment to lunge for Lea and jumped right into the bullet’s path, which killed her.  Penn and I then turned our attention to the other werewolf, restraining him and putting a silver bullet in his head.

We assessed the damage, and I promised to provide doses of the lycanthropy antidote (and boy do I hope I can remember how to make that stuff, since I’ve only read about it a couple times) for both Penn and Lea.  I’m not sure if Faeries can contract lycanthropy and I’ll admit I’m curious to find out, but I’m not going to experiment on someone who was unwillingly infected (and may not even be Fey in the first place).  Lea then went to fetch the FBI agents for help in concocting a cover story, while Pen and I dragged the corpses into the woods and buried them as best we could in a short time.

Yes, I know, but I am not going to lie and I do acknowledge that spreading word of werewolves in Buxcord would only cause a panic among the ignorant masses.

The agents returned without Lea, claiming she was too distraught by the events to want to come back, and then asked for an explanation. After we explained, the agents took us to a more secluded spot and brought out these strange little pen-sized devices.  The devices produced a blinding flash, and I felt my mind reflexively reconfigure to deflect foreign alterations, although I think that protection Mnemosyne gave me actually dealt with the attack.  They had tried to wipe our memories.  Penn’s reaction to the flash convinced the agents it had worked, and they left after instructing us to return and enjoy the festival.  Once they’d gone, Penn revealed that the devices hadn’t affected him either, which is… interesting.

We did return to the festival, but mainly to find and check on Lea.  She had been memory wiped, recalling nothing after we’d finished helping Piper.  We filled her in on what had happened, both to let her account for her wounded foot and to warn her away from interacting with Killer Thriller, seeing as their groupie was dead, Thrax’s necklace was gone, and their truck was a mess.

So, in the end we managed to help one werewolf come to grips (albeit that’s an ongoing project), took down one werewolf willfully intent on being a monster, and failed to save a third who’d only just been changed and never got a chance to understand what had happened to him.  A mixed bag, but after some consideration I don’t think you’d be too disappointed in me.  After all, I started from the stance of wanting to help them all adjust and make peace.  That’s better than when we went through it, right?

-Ash.

[jewish-privilege]

One of Wenzel Michalski’s early recollections of growing up in southern Germany in the 1970s was of his father, Franz, giving him some advice: “Don’t tell anyone that you’re Jewish.” Franz and his mother and his little brother had survived the Holocaust by traveling across swaths of Eastern and Central Europe to hide from the Gestapo, and after the war, his experiences back in Germany suggested that, though the Nazis had been defeated, the anti-Semitism that was intrinsic to their ideology had not. This became clear to Franz when his teachers in Berlin cast stealthily malicious glances at him when Jewish characters — such as Shylock in “The Merchant of Venice” — came up in literature. “Eh, Michalski, this exactly pertains to you,” he recalls one teacher telling him through a clenched smile. Many years later, when he worked as an animal-feed trader in Hamburg, he didn’t tell friends that he was Jewish and held his tongue when he heard them make anti-Semitic comments. And so Franz told his son Wenzel that things would go easier for him if he remained quiet about being Jewish. “The moment you say it, things will become very awkward.”

As a teenager, Wenzel defied his father’s advice and told a close friend. That friend quickly told his mother, and the next time Wenzel saw her, she reacted quite strongly, hugging him and kissing his face: “Wenzel! Oh, my Wenzel!” Now a stocky, bearded 56-year-old, Wenzel recalled the moment to me on a recent Saturday afternoon. He raised the pitch of his voice as he continued to mimic her: “You people! You are the most intelligent! The most sensitive! You are the best pianists in the world! And the best poets!” In his normal voice again, he added, “Then I understood what my father meant.”

Wenzel Michalski is now the director of Human Rights Watch for Germany. He and his wife, Gemma, an outgoing British expat, live in a cavernous apartment building in the west of Berlin. In their kitchen, Gemma told me that after arriving in Germany in 1989, she often got a strangely defensive reaction when she told people she was Jewish; they would tell her they didn’t feel responsible for the Holocaust or would defend their grandparents as not having perpetrated it. And so, to avoid conversations like these, she, too, stayed quiet about being Jewish.

Recently, the Michalskis’ youngest son became the third generation of the family to learn that telling people he is Jewish could cause problems. The boy — whose parents asked that he be called by one of his middle names, Solomon, to protect his privacy — had attended a Jewish primary school in Berlin. But he didn’t want to stay in such a homogeneous school for good, so just before he turned 14, he transferred to a public school that was representative of Germany’s new diversity — a place, as Gemma described it, where he “could have friends with names like Hassan and Ahmed.”

The first few days there seemed to go well. Solomon, an affable kid with an easy smile, bonded with one classmate over their common affection for rap music. That classmate introduced him to a German-Turkish rapper who would rap about “Allah and stuff,” Solomon told me. In return, he introduced the classmate to American and British rap. Solomon had a feeling they would end up being best friends. On the fourth day, when Solomon was in ethics class, the teachers asked the students what houses of worship they had been to. One student mentioned a mosque. Another mentioned a church. Solomon raised his hand and said he’d been to a synagogue. There was a strange silence, Solomon later recalled. One teacher asked how he had encountered a synagogue.

“I’m Jewish,” Solomon said.

“Everyone was shocked, especially the teachers,” Solomon later told me about this moment. After class, a teacher told Solomon that he was “very brave.” Solomon was perplexed. As Gemma explained: “He didn’t know that you’re not meant to tell anyone.”

The following day, Solomon brought brownies to school for his birthday. He was giving them out during lunch when the boy he had hoped would be his best friend informed him that there were a lot of Muslim students at the school who used the word “Jew” as an insult. Solomon wondered whether his friend included himself in this category, and so after school, he asked for clarification. The boy put his arm around Solomon’s shoulders and told him that, though he was a “real babo” — Kurdish slang for “boss” — they couldn’t be friends, because Jews and Muslims could not be friends. The classmate then rattled off a series of anti-Semitic comments, according to Solomon: that Jews were murderers, only interested in money.

Over the next few months, Solomon was bullied in an increasingly aggressive fashion. One day, he returned home with a large bruise from a punch on the back. On another occasion, Solomon was walking home and stopped into a bakery. When he emerged, he found one of his tormentors pointing what looked like a handgun at him. Solomon’s heart raced. The boy pulled the trigger. Click. The gun turned out to be a fake. But it gave Solomon the scare of his life.

When Solomon first told his parents about the bullying, they resolved to turn it into a teaching moment. They arranged to have Wenzel’s father visit the school to share his story about escaping the Gestapo. But the bullying worsened, Gemma told me, and they felt the school did not do nearly enough to confront the problem. The Michalskis went public with their story in 2017, sharing it with media outlets in order to spark what they viewed as a much-needed discussion about anti-Semitism in German schools. Since then, dozens of cases of anti-Semitic bullying in schools have come to light, including one case last year at the German-American school where my own son attends first grade, in which, according to local news reports, students tormented a ninth grader, for months, chanting things like “Off to Auschwitz in a freight train.” Under criticism for its handling of the case, the administration released a statement saying it regretted the school’s initial response but was taking action and having “intensive talks” with the educational staff.

...For the Michalskis, all this was evidence that German society never truly reckoned with anti-Semitism after the war. Germany had restored synagogues and built memorials to the victims of the Holocaust, Wenzel said: “So for a lot of mainstream, middle-class people, that means: ‘We’ve done it. We dealt with anti-Semitism.’ But nobody really dealt with it within the families. The big, the hard, the painful questions were never asked.” In Wenzel’s view, the Muslim students who tormented his child were acting in an environment that was already suffused with native anti-Semitism. “A lot of conservative politicians now say, ‘Oh, the Muslims are importing their anti-Semitism to our wonderful, anti-anti-Semitic culture,’ ” he said. “That’s bull. They’re trying to politicize this.”

Jewish life in Germany was never fully extinguished. After the Nazi genocide of six million Jews, some 20,000 Jewish displaced persons from Eastern Europe ended up settling permanently in West Germany, joining an unknown number of the roughly 15,000 surviving German Jews who still remained in the country after the war. The new German political class rejected, in speeches and in the law, the rabid anti-Semitism that had been foundational to Nazism — measures considered not only to be morally imperative but necessary to re-establish German legitimacy on the international stage. This change, however, did not necessarily reflect an immediate conversion in longstanding anti-Semitic attitudes on the ground. In the decades that followed, a desire among many Germans to deflect or repress guilt for the Holocaust led to a new form of antipathy toward Jews — a phenomenon that came to be known as “secondary anti-Semitism,” in which Germans resent Jews for reminding them of their guilt, reversing the victim and perpetrator roles. “It seems the Germans will never forgive us Auschwitz,” Hilde Walter, a German-Jewish journalist, was quoted as saying in 1968.

Holocaust commemoration in West Germany increasingly became an affair of the state and civic groups, giving rise to a prevailing erinnerungskultur, or “culture of remembrance,” that today is most prominently illustrated by the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, a funereal 4.7-acre site near the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, inaugurated in 2005. But even as Germany’s remembrance culture has been held up as an international model of how to confront the horrors of the past, it has not been universally supported at home. According to a 2015 Anti-Defamation League survey, 51 percent of Germans believe that it is “probably true” that “Jews still talk too much about what happened to them in the Holocaust”; 30 percent agreed with the statement “People hate Jews because of the way Jews behave.”

...The exact nature of the anti-Semitic threat — and indeed, whether it rises to the level of an existential threat at all — is intensely debated within Germany’s Jewish community. Many see the greatest peril as coming from an emboldened extreme right that is hostile to both Muslims and Jews, as the recent shootings by white supremacists in synagogues in Pittsburgh and Poway, Calif., and mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand, horrifically illustrated. Multiple surveys suggest that anti-Muslim attitudes in Germany and other European countries are more widespread than anti-Semitism. At the same time, a number of surveys show that Muslims in Germany and other European countries are more likely to hold anti-Semitic views than the overall population. The 2015 Anti-Defamation League survey, for instance, found that 56 percent of Muslims in Germany harbored anti-Semitic attitudes, compared with 16 percent for the overall population. Conservative Jews see the political left as unwilling to name this problem out of reluctance to further marginalize an already marginalized group or because of leftist anti-Zionism. The far right, anti-Islam A.f.D. — the very political party that, for its relativizing of Nazi crimes, many Jews find most noxious — has sought to exploit these divisions and now portrays itself as a defender of Germany’s Jews against what it depicts as the Muslim threat.

...The early signs are mixed. Sigmount Königsberg is the anti-Semitism commissioner for Berlin’s Jewish Community, the organization that oversees synagogues and other aspects of local Jewish life. At a cafe next to the domed New Synagogue, which was spared destruction during the pogroms of November 1938, Königsberg, an affable 58-year-old, told me his mother had been liberated from the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp and had intended to move to Paris. Instead, she became stranded in the German border town of Saarbrücken, and she soon met Königsberg’s father, also a Holocaust survivor. Like other Jewish families, they were ambivalent about remaining in Germany. Königsberg employed an often-used metaphor to describe this unsettledness: Until the 1980s, he said, German Jews “sat on a packed suitcase.” After East and West Germany reunified, many Jews feared a nationalist revival. Despite a wave of racist attacks on immigrants, that revival did not seem to materialize. In fact, the European Union, which was created to temper those impulses, was ascendant. Jews felt more secure, Königsberg told me: “We unpacked the suitcase and stored it in the cellar.”

Now, he believed, that sense of security has eroded. People aren’t heading for the exits yet, he said, but they are starting to think, Where did I put that suitcase?

...[Felix Klein, Germany’s first federal Commissioner for Jewish Life in Germany and the Fight Against Anti-Semitism] listed several things the German government should be doing at the federal and state levels to fight anti-Semitism; chief among them was training teachers and the police simply to recognize it. He also said school books should include more lessons about Jewish contributions to Germany. “We only started to talk about Jews when the Nazi period came up in our history lesson,” he said. “We didn’t speak about Jewish life before that, and we didn’t speak about Jewish life after.”

The rise of anti-Semitic acts, Klein told me, was not just a matter of rising hate but a rising willingness to express it. This was because of social media, he said, as well as the A.f.D. and its “brutalization” of the political discourse. There are also the challenges that are caused by anti-Semitism from Muslims, he said, though, he added, according to criminal statistics, this was not the main problem...

He added that the existing statistics should not be used as a pretext “to avoid a discussion regarding anti-Semitism from Muslims.” I asked him if there was any fear that such a conversation would raise tensions between minority groups instead of protecting them. “I think there is a fear,” he said. “This is why I think the right strategy is to denounce any form of anti-Semitism, regardless of the numbers. I don’t want to start a discussion about which one is more problematic or more dangerous than the other.”

He leaned in to underscore this point. “You should not start this discussion, because then you start using one political group against the other. We should not do that.”

...Last year, two-dozen Jewish A.f.D. supporters founded a group called “Jews in the A.f.D.,” or J.A.f.D., asserting, in a “statement of principles,” that it is the only party willing to “thematize Muslim hatred of Jews without trivializing it.” In response, the Central Council of Jews in Germany and 41 other Jewish organizations released a joint statement condemning the A.f.D. as racist and anti-Semitic and warned Jews not to fall for its “apparent concern” for their safety. “We won’t allow ourselves to be instrumentalized by the A.f.D.,” the statement read. “No, the A.f.D. is a danger to Jewish life in Germany.”

On a Sunday afternoon last October, J.A.f.D. held its inaugural event in a gymnasium on the outskirts of the Hessian city of Wiesbaden. A J.A.f.D. supporter in the crowd of attendees, who wore a yarmulke and a Star of David necklace that dangled outside his shirt next to an A.f.D. pin, told me, in a strong Russian accent, that he had emigrated from Moscow in the early 1990s. As reporters gathered around him, he rattled off a series of claims often recited at far-right political gatherings: Muslim immigrants come from an “absolutely alien” culture. They would “bring Shariah law” and “rape” to Germany. When a reporter from the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung tried to get his name, the man refused to give it. He didn’t trust the lügenpresse — “the lying press” — he said, using a phrase that, long preceding “fake news,” had been deployed by propagandists in Nazi Germany to spread conspiracy theories about newspapers controlled by “world Jewry.”

...The Fraenkelufer Synagogue sits on Berlin’s Landwehr Canal, a snaking, several-mile-long waterway that meets the city’s major river, the Spree, on each end. In September 1945, according to a Chicago Sun reporter, the canal still stank of decayed corpses when 400 Jewish survivors and about 30 American Jewish soldiers gathered for the first postwar synagogue service in Berlin. The main neo-Classical sanctuary that had once stood at the site sat in ruins, but a Jewish-American lieutenant stationed in Berlin named Harry Nowalsky, who could see the synagogue from his bedroom window, had made it a personal mission to restore a smaller, still-intact sanctuary in time for Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. On the cool holiday evening, the congregants, as one reporter wrote, “sang songs of Israel with tear-stained faces.” 

...Fraenkelufer Synagogue would not exist today without immigration. After the war, Jews from Eastern Europe formed a small congregation. After 1989, Jews from the former Soviet Union joined, but by the turn of the millennium, the congregation had dwindled. That began to change several years ago, with the immigration of young Jews from around the world to the neighborhood, including some of the thousands of Israelis who have migrated to Berlin in recent years — many of whom lean to the political left and are troubled by Israel’s rightward political shift...

One evening last summer, three generations of the Michalski family — Wenzel and Gemma, Wenzel’s father, Franz, and his mother, Petra, as well as Solomon’s siblings — sat in a row at an English-language theater in Berlin to watch Solomon, now 16 and enrolled in a new private school, perform in a play inspired by his experience with anti-Semitic bullying.

The play began with a scene in a classroom where an assignment was written on the board: “Tribalism Divides Communities — Elucidate.” The teenagers portrayed two tribes, the Whoozis and the Whatzits, who, because of ancient rivalries, fight. Eventually, everyone falls to the floor and perishes in a final battle. But then everyone slowly rises.

“So that’s it?” one tribe member said. “Everyone dies in the end?”

“That sucks,” another said.

“Yes, but it’s realistic,” another said.

Solomon had the last line.

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not leaving until we get this right.”

After the play, Gemma told me that she didn’t hold grudges against the kids who bullied her son. “I didn’t give up on those kids,” she said. “The school gave up on those kids.” The attitude from many of the teachers, she said, was: “You can’t talk to them; they’re just Muslims.” This revealed a troubling unwillingness to stand up for, as she put it, “life in a liberal, tolerant democracy for everyone, beyond racism.”

I asked Solomon if he had thought much about anti-Semitism before the bullying episodes. He told me about a trip he took with his grandparents just before the bullying began. They visited the places in Poland, the Czech Republic and eastern Germany where his grandfather had hidden from the Gestapo. “That really opened my mind,” he told me. “I knew about my grandpa’s experiences, but I just, you know, felt really proud to be Jewish after that trip. Then after this whole thing happened, it makes me even more proud to be Jewish. I wouldn’t say I feel more religious. But it’s just the identity, the ethnic background of being Jewish and walking in Berlin as a Jewish boy.” His mother later told me that she found it sad that her son had formed a stronger sense of tribal identity based on the experience of mistreatment. She had not wanted him to forge his identity in fear. “I wanted him to be free,” she said.

Solomon told me that he was happy at his new school. He had made new friends of diverse backgrounds, and they had formed a band called the Minorities. Still, he added, he did not feel free to express his newfound Jewish identity in public. He had wanted to wear a Star of David necklace, he told me, but he and his parents had decided that this was not a good idea. The necklace could be exposed if someone were to pull his shirt back. “The thing is,” he said, “it’s still really dangerous. I mean, it’s not like, ‘O.K., everything is fine now.’ ”

[Read James Angelos’s excellent piece in The New York Times Magazine.]

[theashofwkm]

Burning Ire

Summary: In which Abe is reborn to shed his lawful role and hunt for revenge instead of justice.

Prompt: Goretober, Rebirth

Warnings: cursing, anger, smoking, murder mention, jail mention, gunshot mention, blood mention, brief mention of Abe wishing to kill/torture William and Mark but no details, Abe trying to solve a case with little luck

Note: in regards to the prompt this kinda sucks, but, I tried. enjoy. day one of Goretober is a go, but how long will I be able to keep it up for? also I’m sorry for the lack of a read more, it’s not working and i don’t know how to fix it.

———

Abe is angry, burning.

His heart throbs and his hands shake and he bleeds betrayal. The bullet sits in his chest, crafted from false pretenses and forged in a tower of lies.

William had betrayed him, had betrayed them. He’d pulled the trigger, not one or twice, but thrice. Three shots, three bullets, three distinct bodies that didn’t simply fall dead.

Mark had died, but wasn’t dead. A docile threat for the moment, off licking his wounds. You— The DA, was gone. They had disappeared, vanished. Poof, a bullet to your gut and suddenly you live only in memory with no body and no corpse. And him — Abe. Alive, bleeding, angry.

Angry and starving for revenge, justice. None of this would have happened if William wasn’t so fucking goddamned trigger happy.

But it’s okay.

Abe was a detective, a policeman. This is what he did. Search for justice, carry it out, and return home to sleep soundly in his bed. This case was a little different, but still the same. Find William, pull his own trigger, and get a good nights rest.

He drags himself to his feet, groaning and stumbling as he clenches his hand to his chest. Blood slips between his fingers, soaking his shirt, dripping to the floor. He’d better get patched up first.

He stops by his office, not his home, or his workplace, but the small space he rents out to work in peace, away from noisy coworkers and pointless gossip. He stitches himself shut, fishes out the bullet himself and gets to work. Putting in a call to his coworkers, he orders them to come to him with any possible information on William.

Other then what he already has, of course. It turns out to be useful, that Mark had hired him to look over the attendance list before the party. He just needed to sort through it. The tower of files sits on his desk, off centered and messy.

Time to get started.

Hours drag, Abe peering at black words on white paper and marking down anything that comes to mind. He scribbles notes in the margins of the paper and scratches anything important onto the chalkboard, pinning essential bits onto the cork board and tying them together with string, framing the photo pinned to the center.

‘’

Fist slammed against the wall, Abe curses, “damn it.” The bricks don’t relent, standing tall and useless as he idles in an intersection of back streets. Turning on his heel, he slinks back to his office, pulling his vape from his pocket and huffing it in disappointment. He was so close to catching him.

Angrily, he crosses out a name on the board, ‘Waldorf Juniper’. He’d caught him, chased him and lost him. He’d get him next time.

‘’

He’s angry with himself. Furious.

Mark had hired him to do a lesser job, one beneath him in every way and because he was his friend, he’d done it. Part of him itches to find Mark, hunt him down like a rabid animal and get his fingers on his throat. Part of him wants Mark dead, for if he didn’t do that job, he wouldn’t be on a case he still hasn’t solved.

Hell, it wasn’t even a case. He was a detective, he was supposed to be ordered by his superiors, handed a file with a dead body and he was supposed to hunt its killer. That was his job and what he was doing now wasn’t.

It was just a stupid play for revenge.

If his superiors could see him now, he’d be fired. Disgraced. All because of William J. Barnum and his fucking trigger finger.

He has things he’d like to do to that finger, things that would land him in a jail cell. In that way, it’s good that he hasn’t found William yet. He was going to tear him apart, rip out his insides and torture the reasons out of him.

It was unethical, but he couldn’t care less about ethics and laws. He cared about finding William, making him pay, and then making him dead. Very, very dead.

He wonders when he became alright with murder — he puts people who think so away, he doesn’t become one of them. Then he remembers.

Uniformed photo of William on the wall, Abe remembers why. He’d killed their friends. He was alone now. A shut-in obsessed with work. William— hunting him was all he had now. He owed it to Mark and he owed it to Damien and Celine and you. Everyone at that damned party was innocent and if Abe has to break a few laws and become a criminal to enact his justice, then so be it.

‘’

He drives, car rumbling beneath him and cigarette dangling delicately from his fingers. The road stretches endlessly, passing beneath him and offering the same sights.

William is out there somewhere, giddily happy and partying. Enjoying his life, the music, the partygoers. Enjoying everything he shouldn’t have anymore.

He should be rotting. Dressed drably behind bars and paying for his sins. He was a murder and a liar and a heartless backstabber. He’d known Mark since they were children and that hadn’t stopped him from pulling the trigger.

If it was the last thing he did, he was going to make William pay.

‘’

“What?” Abe bites the word into the phone receiver harshly, teeth clenched and breath bated.

“Drop the investigation,” his boss says drolly, though with a measure of force. “We need you on more relevant cases.”

Abe stands, chair bashing against the wall. “More relevant cases? Barnum killed two people and shot me!”

“And where,” his boss’ voice comes out hard now, demanding respect, “has that gotten you?”

He flounders, gazing at the folders strewed across his desk, the filing cabinet stuffed with even more, the names and locations scrawled across the chalkboard. “I just ran into him,” he says, eyes pinched as he struggles for details. “He was hiding out in a cabin, I almost got him, but...” He trails off, brows together as he searches through his memory, cramming the phone into his ear via his shoulder to allow him to flip through a folder frantically.

“But what, Abraham?”

“He was in... Morocco,” he says, trailing over the word, photo of William perched in the corner, grinning stupidly, mockingly.

“There aren’t cabins in Morocco.”

“He was going under a new name. Uhh,” he scans the chalkboard. “Lord Waldo. No. Wally Jibbles? Butterfield? Wendy Jewel?” These names, he’s written them down, but when? In his handwriting, unfamiliar names are scrawled.

“Which was it?”

“I... I had him,” Abe says, “he was right there and I was close to actually catching him this time. I swear!”

His boss sighs. “Do you know how many times you’ve said that now?”

Abe ticks the fingers on his hands, mouthing them silently and struggling to remember each encounter before he’s cut off.

“Too damn many. Pick up another case or don’t bother coming in.” Abe closes his eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface.

A sigh, fabric ruffling. “Look, you’re a good detective, Abe, but we need you solving cases.”

The click and static prompts him to shove the phone back into the receiver. “Damn it,” he curses, fist slammed against his desk.

‘’

He was a weekend away from losing his job.

It’s unfair. He’d spent months, years, building up respect and getting the best solve rate in his department. Then Mark had asked for a favor — one that was far beneath his station, he’d stopped doing the grunt work of background checks after he was promoted. But Mark was his friend, and he was asking nicely, so he did it anyways and it ended horribly.

With bodies dropped and no killer behind bars or in the ground. A killer walking free, and him being ordered to stop chasing it’s fleeting scent. Like he was a dog chasing nothing more than a damn squirrel.

He was a detective, for crying out loud, the best one in the city. He wasn’t going to drop a case because of a few dead ends and false leads. William wouldn’t get away with this.

Even if he had to throw away years worth of work. William wasn’t special, he didn’t get a pardon just because he was a slippery bastard. No. He’d get caught and he’d be punished and then Abe will finally be able to get a night of sleep.

Until then, he just had to keep working. Researching and chasing and hunting. Eventually, he’d have to catch up. God have mercy when he did.

———

Masterlist

Well dang. This feels like a part one, where part two is just Wilford Motherlovin Warfstache, doesn’t it? Hope you liked it! I had literally no idea what to title it.

TAGGING: @pleaseletthisjimbetaken @electricprincess888 @berrie-b @mackenziplier @gerardwayslips @risiskifi @cawestad @theinvisiblespoon @californiakxng @just-another-starfish @superawesomeamazingname @moonstonefox12 @bones-and-tomes @am-i-heaven-or-am-i-hell @itsbumblebunnybee @noisyfreakpersonlover @nightmarejim @schuyleryette @withjust-a-bite @statictay @muraae @harmonyofstars @cosmic-frapuccino @jmweezy (tags are open)

[adorkemis]

My farm has some unusual occurrences...

With Halloween coming up I thought I'd post some stories that happened here at my little co-op farm. Its a small farm I bought with my best friend and her husband that we run and take in unwanted animals, that is when we aren't working our day jobs, charity-volunteer, or Search and Rescue cases.

So in the spirit of the season I'll start with the unusual events leading up to our first Halloween. On the night of the Autumn Equinox we built a bonfire and poured ourselves a few drinks- some family recipe Appalachian home brew.

Now, I take bonfires very seriously and had been preparing for weeks, carefully selecting the best branches and tinder, even going so far as to collect and dry out large bundles of late summer flowers and herbs to add to the top of the fire. In my family, we have a long standing tradition of welcoming in each new season with a bonfire and an important component of those seasonal bonfires are the flowers and herbs. So for weeks I had been going out to cut the necessary plants and dry them in the barn.

Now they were blazing brightly with the cut grass, weeds, and branches from our months of hard work setting up and renovating our new home and the surrounding acers.

I don't normally dance, but when I do, it is not pretty I am very, very intoxicated. So I flail happily around my fire, taking turns dancing with my friends under the bright stars and just enjoying myself free from big cities and a nice break from all our hard work.

As the night progressed the fire finally began to die down and after a few drinks I felt myself beginning to tire.

Ty, the husband of my friends asked me question that I wasn't quite able hear over the music. I thought he asked if I wanted more to drink, so I said yes. Being deaf in one ear I often mishear people.

A few moments later, I hear Ty holler out "Move!" as a large pile of debris we had stripped from the house was hurled onto the dieing flames. Krystal (my friend and wife of the pair) and I jumped back just in time to avoid the cloud of ash and embers. As I stagger backwards trying to comprehend what I had just witnessed when he again yells out for us to move just in time for me to watch him throw a bucket onto the smoldering embers. In the next instant the embers have erupted into bright yellow flames roaring skyward. The blast of heat sends all three of us onto our asses and I watch in shock as my bonfire turns into a flaming trash heap.

Black smoke rolls off the inferno, choking my lungs and making my eyes water. I crawl away when I hear Ty laughing drunkenly as the collection of boards, plaster, vinyl and trash blacken and burn. "Whoooo!" He lets out hill billy hollar. "Look at it burn!"

Krystal is now screaming at him for nearly killing us all and I just and watch quietly (and inebriated) as all my weeks of planning go up in smoke.

For you see, when my ancestors started the first Farm centuries ago, at the birth of our bonfire traditions, it was not a way to simply celebrate the changing of the seasons. No, it was a way to show respect to the things that we do not see, the beings that dwell within the woods just outside our view. It was a way of making peace with the Good Nieghbors, or local spirits. The old stories say the tradition started with my earliest ancestors inviting the beings to celebrate with them, to thank them for their protection, and that the plants we used were a sign of respect toward that treaty. Of course as the generations go by that origin has become more of a legend, few of my extended family actually believes this ritual is anything more than a leftover from our pagan, superstitious roots. But me and my grandfather know the truth. We've seen the things that lurk at the edge of the forests, seen what they can do to livestock, livelihoods, or of course people.

So imagine, if you will, you are invited to a party. A party filled with wonderful cakes, treats, and beautiful decorations. Now imagine someone literally dumps a pile of garbage on top of it.

That essentially is what has happened.

So I sit there, unsure how to tell my arguing friends what has just happened, and finally decide to just go to bed.

The next morning I wake up in the predawn hours, hungover from our libations, I look out my window see the fire pit is still smoldering. The black smoke is now grey and I can see old wires birnt black and twisted with pits of melted plastic sticking to the stones I dug up and carried from the creek.

I sigh, put on a pair of pants and go to rhe kitchen to make the moring coffee.

As the smell of the black brew wafts through the house, my cohabints emerge from their room looking as good as I feel.

My throat feels tight and scratchy so I simply raise my mug to them in greeting and am met with simular responses.

"Sorry Ty tried the burn the house down," Krystal offers when she has her coffee prepared.

"Hey, I said move!" Ty tries to protest his actions were justified.

I sign to Krystal, who translates for Ty, that its all good. Even though it may not be.

Back at my family's old Farm we hold to our traditions very seriously, like an old woman to her purse. I don't expect my friends to understand the importance of these traditions just yet, and believe me, I know how it sounds to explain these.

But instead I finish my coffee and try to tell them I'm off to start the morning chores, but my vioce comes out in a raspy gravel, so again I sign to Krystal.

Morning chores are typically the bane of my existence, but as I have the day off from my day job so it's not as bad, and it gives me time to think. I obviously can't just write an apology letter or throw another bonfire, the next time to hold one won't be until Halloween- and thats just for fun, normally. No instead I'll just have to my Buck Moon ritual will be enough to protect us from any malevolent spirits we may have offended.

I will note the Buck Moon ritual is NOT one of family's ancient traditions (well, on the Farm its called the Hay Moon and we did use to do something for that) but one I deviced myself as a way protecting myself when away from the Farm and the protection of the Hay Moon rites.

Nothing exactly happened that day, though none of the chickens had laid any eggs (which wasn't too far out the norm) however as the weeks progressed I noticed a few things that hinted something might be wrong.

The milk turned sour, the bread molded, and the grass began to die while the weeds began to overtake the pasture and garden. The grain barrels (thick plastic and metal that were advertised as critter proof) in the barn were chewed through and no matter what type of traps or bait I used the elusive culprits were still at large.

The chickens continued to not lay eggs and we soon went from an overwhelming plethora of tradable goods to a tiny stock barely able to feed ourselves. Not to mention that my voice had still yet to return making my job at the animal hospital very difficult to perform properly. My manager had to pull me aside and ask when I would be seeing a doctor about. If I could have laughed I would have but instead I was sent home early.

When the third week started of me being continuously mute and down to my last 6 eggs I new something had to be done. But the final motivation was when one of the horses, Cowboy, got sick. Immediately I called one of my vets and began to put my plan into action.

Thankfully the horse that was sick wasn't my horse, Prince. My family use to breed and sell horses for generations and Prince was one of the last horses born there. Prince is also very important to the Buck Moon ritual. As an avid hunter I normally follow all the hunting laws to a T, however for the Buck Moon I can only hunt in the middle of the night on horseback. Prince is the only horse we have trained for hunting so he's my only hope.

The day of the hunt I set everything up. My saddlebags, bow and arrows, along with a few less than normal trinkets. And in the express interest of keeping this long story short, I'm just going to skip ahead to the part where Prince and I return just before dawn with yearling buck being dragged behind us. Maybe I'll get a chance to explain more about it. How finding the deer took all night and the other beasts we saw in those woods, Gas Mask Gary, and how when we finally made it back with an hour to complete the ritual I was covered in blood and exhausted but still I got it done.

Work was not fun that day but luckily my sore throat was better and I had fresh eggs for breakfast. Along with some venison steaks.

I believed that the ritual had worked and soon our fall vegetables would be ready to harvest and everything wouldnbe back to normal.

To my relief, it was. Our vegetables and eggs were taken to market and our horse, Cowboy, was better almost overnight. I could finally talk again and had almost forgotten everything until October 30, the night before Halloween.

Like I said earlier we are renovating the house and one of the last rooms is the Krystal and Ty's bathroom- the master bath. We had ripped out the old vinyl and redoing some of the plumbing which left a small hole in the floor. We had all pretty much gotten ready for bed and Ty and I were outside with our last cigarettes for the day when we heard Krystal scream from the bathroom. We tossed our cigs and both ran toward the bathroom, Ty rapping on the door. "Babe, you alright?" He called thrpugh the door. Inside we could hear quiet the cacophony of noise, like bull in a China shop type deal. When Krystal started yelling again Ty and I burst through the door.

Krystal was armed with broom like a lance 8n one hand and towel like a whip in the other. And emerging out the whole in the floor was a black eyed, foam spitting raccoon. Its little claws dug into the vinyl leaving deep grooves and a horrific coughing, gagging noice emitted from its throat.

"Its rabid!" She yelled and jabbed the broom at it.

I've seen a rabid raccoon before, and so has Krystal, we've both worked those kinds of cases but this raccoon was different. Yes they will try to run up and attack, but it looked different. Like its skin wasn't on right and the sounds it made weren't what I had heard from raccoons- rabid or not.

Finally the little beast pulled itself free from the whole and ran, on its hind legs toward. All three of screamed but Krystal armed with her trusty broom hit it with everything she had and smashed its head into the cabinet.

For a moment the raccoon wobbled a few steps before it fell over, the mishape of its body more pronounced but even more damning was the blood running out its eyes and nose. Thick, black, tar like blood oozed from its head and the smell of rot and shit filled the bathroom.

Ty and Krystal nearly gagged as the smell hit us.

"What the fuck is that?" I head Ty ask as he pulled his shirt over his noes.

"It tried to kill me!" Krstal yelled. "I was trying take a shit and it climped up with its little paws!" She made a hand motion mimicking the raccoon reaching threw the whole. "We patching that whole tonight."

"Why does it smell so bad" Ty asked. "I ain't touching it."

I was oy half listening (well, less so than I normally can) and took the broom from Krystal to poke the thing.

As soon as the bristles touched the body the raccoon jumped back up, making even more gagging noises. I slammed the broom immediately on top of it, screaming again.

I grabbed a glass sitting on the counter and threw it onto the writhing beast. As soon as the water splashed onto its patchy fur a hissing could bebheard and steam rose from its now thrashing body.

"Holy fuck!" They screamed while I simply responded "Thats where I put the Holy water!"

The demonic raccoon was screaming and convulsing on the floor infront of us as the water burned it.

Krystal turned to me. "Why was there holy water in my bathroom?!"

I shrugged. "Divine intervention? But now we know its a raccoon corpse possessed by a demon."

Krystal threw her hands up. "Oh that is wonderful! Demon coon in the house!"

I looked back at Ty. "Can you help me grab my things?"

He just nodded, somewhat dumbfounded. I guess this was his first possessed raccoon.

It only took a few minutes to gather the stuff I would use. However there was one last thing I needed.

"So, I can't really banish it without its name and raccoons don't have vocal cords so I need to put it something that can talk." I looked Krystal in the eyes with a pleading look.

She shook her head. "Oh hell no. We are not doing that. Can't we use my in-laws?"

"Hey!" Ty was not amused. "Why can't we use your family?"

"We're not using anyones family!" I was tired and the circle I had made for the demon wasn't going to hold forever. "Krys, please."

In defeat she sighed and left the room for few minutes. While she was gone I prepped Ty on what was about to occur. I handed him a blessed knife I had and told him "If it leaves the circle, no matter the vessel, stab it hard enough to pin it to the floor." He looked at the long blade and just nodded.

Krystal camd back in with her son's Tickle Me Elmo doll. That thing gave us all the creeps but now it would be put to some good use.

I made second circle with very specific symbols, not dissimilar to the first one that held the Satanic flailing beast and drew a kind of infinity like symbol touching each circle. Krystal placed the Elmo doll in the new circle and I began the ritual.

If you have only seen exorcisms in movies or tv you will think there has to a Bible, screaming, and lots of flailing along with green pea soup.

It's possible all of those things could happen if you are dealing with humans, especially eccentric ones. A raccoon corpse on the other hand, not so much. The only difficult part I have is not knowing the demons name and the time crunch I have on the circles. Once the water dries, I probably won't be able to hold it back. And yes, like I told Krystal I can banish it but it could just pop up right back. And then we could be in a loop trying to constantly send him back and forth back and forth. Instead, I can trap him in a body that doesn't have claws or teeth or rabies. Which is what I did.

The words don't matter so long as you believe them, so long as you give them power. Now that doesn't mean I can just say whatever I want. I have a long monologue I use that took me years to perfect. It's written in few languages most ancient Hebrew and Hellenistic Greek with a bit of Gaelic thrown in for that extra punch. These are the languages that are strongest to me.

Except I have to read them slowly, if I mess up a single syllable I have to start all over. And I have a mild speech impediment. And worse sometimes.

Carefully I pronounce each syllable, its still a race against time and if mispronounce anything I will have to start over.

The smell of rot and shit is getting worse and the demon-raccoon starts convulsing madly. The black blood is still flowing from its head but as it slamns it head and claws at its body the black tar leaves smoldering smudges in the bare floor.

I'm nearing the mid point of the ritual and motion to my roommates to leave the room. Krystal tries to get my attention, to tell me no she is staying there but I pour all my focus into the words I'm spewing. If anything goes wrong, and the demon doesn't go into the proper vessel it could easy posses my friends. And while a simple wooden door won't keep a demon from possessing a host, if there is only one visible option they typically take it.

I hear the soft click of the door behind me. I raise my voice and the raccoon is now actively ripping fur and flesh off itself. The most ear peircing scream emits from its maw of broken teeth, I can see black blood gurgling in the back of ots throat. My stomach almost feels sick but I push on.

I hold up my left hand and draw a second knife along my open palm. I didn't want my roommates to see the self mutilation that is part of this exorcism. I hold my bloody hand above the irate demon. I let the blood drip a new circle around the demon.

The smell of apple blossums, cedarwood, and salt water mixes with the demonic stench from the raccoon. Its enough to be overwhelming and for a brief moment I almost stumble over the final phrase but it comes out well articulated.

The sound of bones snapping fill the room as I watvh the raccoon literally brake in half, part of its spinal column protruding from the stomach. Black blood spew from its mouth, filling the circle.

In the neighboring circle I hear the little voice box of the doll come to life. "Elmo loves you!"

Stupid fucking demons.

I scoop up the now animate doll and hand it to Krystal. "I had one rule!" I yell as I stumble to my room. "No goddamn demons!"

The next day, Halloween, was like any other day. I went to work, did my chores, rode my horse. The new addition of locking Helmo wasn't too offsetting. He still gets out of his case and walks around, rather poorly, but so far he can't do much. Aside annoy us with his flailing and constant prerecorded chatter. "Hehehe. That tickles!"

"No shit, Helmo!"

"Fuck off, Helmo!"

Sometimes, when he is too much, we put him in shoebox. Other times we might even take a stab at him. He doesn't like that.

But the arrival of our wayward demon isn't what upset me. No, what upset the most was what happened Halloween night and the next morning.

As we sat around the bonfire Halloween night in our costumes with our drinks and smokes I glanced up. Through the flames, at the edge of the woods I could see a tall, lean figure in a hoody. The flames reflected off the lenses of the gasmask that covered his face and I felt a cold shutter run down my spine. Gas Mask Gary is the biggest enigma in the town, but his presence always means something strange and possibly dangerous is going to happen.

The next morning when I rose up to care the animals before getting ready for work, I saw something unusual in the extinguished firepit. In the predawn light I walked over closer to inspect it.

A door made of hard carved wood with a plain handle lay unmarked as if raising out the soot and ashes.

Fuck. A Door to Nowhere.