#meanwhile I get poked at when I paint my nails black

[aroaessidhe]

link & full entry in pinned post!

Maeve

I’m not really into makeup or jewelry or anything, but I feel like the only reason I’m not is because everyone expects you to be as a girl, y’know?

He extracts a long golden thread with a hard black pendant on the end of it, accompanied by a single red bead. “She told me it was a protection charm,” he says. “Azabache.”

I, meanwhile, am in a stripy jumper from Next and a pair of leggings I keep having to pick dog hair off. It’s painful enough standing next to her in my street clothes

light blue knit dress

gray-blue  eyes,

I manage to find some black fishnets she wore at Halloween, but that’s the best I’m able to do. . I do, however, find one deep-plum lipstick that looks quite good against my dark hair. I hit the jackpot in Pat’s room, where I find a big black Kate Bush T-shirt. And I actually know some Kate Bush songs, so I won’t feel like a complete imposter wearing it. I cut an old pair of black jeans into shorts and put the fishnets on underneath.

I’m wearing navy, as Fiona instructed. A woolly jumper dress with thick black tights underneath. I pull it over my head, standing up as I take it off.

Fiona

Her mum is Filipino, and as one of the few nonwhite people in our school, she gets a few comments about her looks.

shiny black hair

she uses different highlighters to color her shoelaces, making a striped tricolor of pink, yellow, and blue.

She’s abandoned her uniform in favor of gray jeans, an emerald-green leotard patterned to look like mermaid scales, and an oversize biker jacket with wide sleeves and deep, zippy pockets that her hands are stuffed into.

sweatpants and a horse T-shirt that is too small for her

black jeans, a Penelope Pitstop T-shirt, and her big leather jacket. She has a little bit of winged eyeliner on

Roe

big hazel eyes, which really do look a bit like Ariana Grande

big, soft features and solitary habits

fingernails are painted pink. Not loud, hot fuchsia but soft pink, the color of a ballet slipper

freshly painted nails. They are aquamarine now.

a scarlet bomber jacket that would look almost sporty if the collar weren’t leopard print

looks at Roe in his red bomber jacket trimmed with leopard print, his schoolbag covered in badges, his hair long and curly.

Roe’s so much more Irish-looking than I am. The curly hair. The thick shoulders. The wiry frame. The ruddiness in his skin, high in his cheekbones, scarlet at his ears. He’s like an old drawing of some Celtic warrior.

in black Dr. Martens and a floor-length, deep red velvet gown with a slit up the leg is Roe O’Callaghan. His hair is curlier than ever and pushed forward so his eyes are barely visible under the thick mop. And with lips so painted they look swollen, he starts to sing, slowly at first. 

pushing his hair back to reveal two pearl earrings

I smudge coffee-colored shadow across his eyes, then draw inky lines across the lids, trying my best to flick upward. I remember Michelle boring us all about “cat eyes” at school. Roe, though — he actually looks like a cat. I let him put on his own mascara because I’m too afraid of poking him in the eye. I dab a tiny bit of pearly highlighter on his cheekbones so they glow when he catches the light.

I have a fur coat you could wear.” “A fur coat?” “Don’t start. It’s inherited from my great-grandmother or something.” We go up to my room, and I show him the coat. The room, lit by the single bulb of my bedside lamp, glows like a sunken sunset. The rabbit fur shines a deep, steely silver. He puts it on over his T-shirt. “You need to see the whole thing. With the silky top and the pearls and all that.

Lily

sitting on her own with a book, her long dark-blond fringe falling into her eyes. I can see red swollen spots around her temples, acne breakouts where the grease from her hair touches her skin.

a very tall girl with dark blond hair near the Beg wearing a coat over her pajamas.

[iwach4n]

i said I'd do it and now it is simp time because punk yamaguchi is the only thing on my mind rn. general hcs for now but perhaps i will do a boyfie hcs for him as well

also yes this is sorta badly written and obnoxiously long its mainly just me rambling all my ideas

punk third year hcs

his confidence has grown drastically since the beginning of first year, especially when it comes to volleyball. but the end of second year and the holidays before third year starts are when he really starts to come out of his shell and experiment with his style

his hair comes first. he doesn't have time to get a haircut for a while, and so he ends up tying it back as a temporary thing. except its no longer temporary because he really likes it

he only does it for volleyball and when he's studying at first, just to get his hair out of his face. sometimes when he goes out on errands.

but he leaves it up after morning practice once, and suddenly he's getting Looks. he would have missed all the blushing stares of the girls (and probably a few guys) if tsukishima hadn't pointed it out to him

his face has become a bit more defined and masculine recently coz puberty, and although he still has pretty soft features, tying his hair up shows off a sharp jawline

he's a bit awkward about all the attention he's getting at first! like he really doesn't know what to do with it. but he slowly manages to take it in his stride (tho he'll still get blushy if anyone outright compliments him on it)

buying a leather jacket on impulse is really the turning point for him. he loves the more confident vibe it gives him, which in turn makes him even more confident

he buys more clothes like that to match it, and by the time third year starts he's decked out with a whole new wardrobe

when the new first years start on the first saturday practice, they're already a little nervous because karasuno has a pretty intimidating rep.

but when they see this guy with long hair, a leather jacket, big boots and ripped jeans unlocking the club room? shaking

that is, until he notices them and starts talking

he literally just smiles and they know they're fine. just immediate 'cool older brother' vibes

he's absolutely great as a captain, he helps out all the new kids and keeps tsukishima and kageyama from being too mean or intimidating

one day, yachi asks if she can paint his nails. he agrees and loves it and now he constantly has his nails painted. they're black more often than not but sometimes he switches it up with random colours. because of the volleyball they're always chipped but it just adds to the whole vibe

tanaka invites noya and all the third years (like the year below them you know what i mean) over to his house to catch up. when yamaguchi shows up he does a visible double take, but before you know it he's giving him an undercut and noya's dying his hair black

he's now a lot more scary at games. not only is his style more evident even without the clothes, he's also spent years watching his teammates intimidate their opponents and he's picked up a thing or two

while hinata, tsukishima and a handful of the younger ones are actively insulting the other teams, yamaguchi can't really make himself do that and knows that as captain he should reign them in

"leave them alone guys, we don't have time for this"

but his confident stare and tiny smirk sends shivers down their spines too

the minute they get round the corner, everyone's clapping him on the back and cheering about how he 'totally made them piss their pants', while he just laughs awkwardly

the first time he does something like that, he genuinely feels bad about it and almost apologises. but sooner or later he just finds it kind of funny

at some point, tsukishima finds some rings that akiteru used to wear (akiteru had a low-key eboy phase in my mind but thats another story) and gives them to yamaguchi. its like a gateway drug to jewelry for him honestly

rings? yes. chains? you bet. bracelets? fuck yeah.

soon enough, he's got a couple of piercings too. he starts off with a few in his ears, but then he gets a lip ring and eyebrow piercing too and he looks sO GOOD

he's pretty much got fangirls at this point. and one thing they love is how he looks really punk and hot but whenever they talk to him he's super sweet and awkward

he forgets to take his lip ring out before a game once and they l o s e t h e i r m i n d s

audible groans from the stadium when ukai reminds him at a time out

(honestly me too i can't stop thinking about how hot he'd look with a lip ring)

(i've been trying so hard to keep it together and not just yell about him this whole time but it's so hard. i'm breaking down man. i've got a crush on punk yams send help)

ukai is also his go-to for advice on piercings, and the man lives for it. he's watched this kid grow from a nervous smol babie to a confident punk child and he's more than happy to take him under his wing and share what he knows

if there's one group of people he knows he'll never be nice to if he ever saw them again it's his old bullies. he’s moved past them but looking back he gets kinda mad

well, one day he’s walking out of saturday practice with tsukishima and sees an awfully familiar group of guys walking down the road, talking about the school, and about “doesn’t that really weak freckly kid from elementary go here?”

well, speak of the devil

remember how they were intimidated by tsukki before? oh how the turntables.

i wouldn’t say tsukishima has a ‘soft boy’ style, but he opts for slightly preppy clothes like button up shirts, knitted sweaters, that kind of thing. and he usually wears lighter colours (beige, light blue, a muted yellow, ygm)

meanwhile, yamaguchi is here with all his black clothes and piercings and newfound confidence, and the way he’s looking at them is honestly a bit terrifying

“t-tadashi?” “who the fuck let you call me that?”

tsukishima is genuinely impressed. probably the first time he’s heard him swear not out of frustration

its a bit of a staring contest until one of the new first years runs up and calls him captain and asks him if they’re getting meatbuns (he totally carries on daichi’s tradition of treating the team to them prove me wrong). he’s back into nice senpai mode when he says he’s buying, but the bullies now know he’s also the captain and it just increases the air of authority he’s got right now

they keep staring each other for another minute or so, and tsukki’s getting concerned because god knows what this kid’s gonna do

but he suddenly just starts walking past them, no fucks given

“come on tsukki. these assholes aren’t worth our time.”

those bullies are left having an existential crisis in the street because that was mildly terrifying and also the last years treated him well damn (puberty hit him like a freakin BUS)

I WAS GONNA END IT THERE BUT I NEED TO TALK ABOUT TATTOOS

while he’s still in high school, he can’t get any tattoos done professionally, but he definitely messes around giving himself stick-and-pokes

they’re all quite small and simple - little stars and smiley faces on his ankles and arms

would probably let the team try their hand at it on him. as a result he has some deformed splodges, something that is just barely recognisable as a volleyball and a couple freckles on his legs joined up like a dot-to-dot (he asked yachi to do a crow on his bicep because she’s the best at drawing but she was too nervous about messing it up)

he’ll also try giving the team some if they want to (though not first years coz to him they’re literal babies). hinata tried to get the third years to have matching ones but tsukishima didn’t want to be associated with them like that and yachi was a bit scared to so they didn’t end up doing it

when he’s old enough, he gets a few proper tattoos, but they’re all quite small and simple. he probably seriously considered getting a big design on his neck (kind of like this) but he ultimately decided against it

in conclusion yamaguchi is punk in third year and my heart is going absolutely crazy over him

(jesus christ this turned out long)

[gigilberry-wips]

if wishes were stars

This is my secret santa gift for @kirkwords​!

It’s a bit late, but technically I got it done on time sooooo here you go! I hope you enjoy this and I wish you and everyone here a very, very Happy Holiday!!

Word Count: 3,071

AO3 link

･ﾟ✧*: ♡ ･ﾟ✧ *:

In a secluded street of a nondescript town, there lived a run-down little toy store. What was special about this store was that it was owned by a man named Nicholas St. North, otherwise known as Santa Claus.

Not that he admitted to such a thing. On first glance, he didn’t much look the part either – instead of a fat and jolly little grandpapa, what you were met with was a tall, imposing wall of a man, with a rumbling, earth deep voice and tattooed arms that had likely lifted a reindeer or two in their time.

But the jolly part was still there, twinkling in his eyes. And every toy he made seemed to hold a touch of that fairytale magic.

A whispering, fluttering little thing, beating deep inside.

Thump … thump … thump …

Thump

A pair of cloth eyes blinked. They blinked again.

Looking down, they found two pudgy, cotton-stuffed arms. Those arms led into the puffed sleeves of a faded dress that might have once been pink but through age and time and the general negligence of items left behind and forgotten about had eventually faded to a dull, stained beige.

On one corner of the dress was a curling, embroidered word. Rapunzel. That was her name.

Rapunzel sat up. From where she was on the floor, there was not much to see beyond the wall of cardboard boxes. The dust motes hardly stirred in the dim lighting, and the few spiders spinning their webs ignored her presence entirely.

But in the distance was noise. Things moving around, talking, what might have been a few strains of music. Was it a party? Rapunzel liked parties.

She toddled up onto her stout little feet and followed the sounds. The boxes were not all uniform; every now and then they let through shards of light. Rapunzel made sure to pass through each of them – or at least she tried; some were too high up for her to reach. Occasionally she would stop and stare at how they lit up her dusty skin, or made the occasional stray glitter sparkle on the ground.

When the wall of boxes ended, Rapunzel did not find a party. But far above her head were strings of sparkling lights, enclosed in clear glass spheres. They looped in and out of the shelves that lined the isle, creating a woven canopy of brilliant yellow light. Large work tables occupied the space within the isle, pushed against the shelves and stretching up so tall that Rapunzel couldn’t see where they ended or what they held.

Rapunzel wandered amongst them. Her feet made prints in the dust that covered the floor, but she didn’t know that, not when her head was craned up and her sight was filled with floating lights.

She was so caught up in them that she didn’t notice when someone noticed her. She didn’t see it when that someone climbed down to reach her. And she definitely didn’t hear them until they stuck out their hand and said: “Hello!”

Rapunzel yelped. To her right was a towering pile of junk heaped under a table. And crouched on an outcropping was a colourless boy.

That is, everything from his clothes to his skin was coloured stark, pasty white, even his hair and cheeks and mouth. The only thing time and wear had done was fade his once fancy looking clothes to old cream and add several moth holes and tattered strands to it. The hand he held out was made of segments, smooth and hard as marble.

"Why are you shiny?"

The boy blinked two black pinpricks he had for eyes at her. He tilted his head. "... Pardon?"

"Your face, I mean. It looks a bit shiny where the light hits it." Rapunzel gently touched his hand with her soft mitt. "And your hand, why is it hard? And why is it shaped like this?"

"Oh ... I guess that's because I'm made of clay." The boy touched his face. His fingers made a light tap-tap sound. "My hand is like this because I'm a puppet ... I was a puppet. I'm not anymore. I'm free. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I gave myself a name." He pointed to himself. "I’m Jack. I like the name so it’s mine now. What's yours?"

"My name is Rapunzel."

"Is it really? How do you know?"

"My dress has my name on it." Rapunzel held out her dress and showed off the embroidery. Surely he'd never seen stitching this pretty before, and it spelled her name so that meant her name was pretty and good, too.

"Do you always listen to what your dresses tell you? You're funny." He went to poke it but Rapunzel batted his hand away.

"Well, if you don't like it-"

"I didn't say that. It's nice - really, it is!" Jack laughed, even as Rapunzel sulked. "In fact, I've got a friend who's playing dress-up right now. She'll tell you it's pretty, too. Do you want to meet her?"

"You have friends?" So there were other dolls there. Then another thought hit her. "Can I be your friend?"

"Sure you can!" Jack shook her hands. "There! Now we're friends. Come on, let's go meet the others!"

At first Rapunzel thought that Jack was going to make them climb up the junk to get to the table's surface. But instead, Jack led her down a winding path through the debris, until they heard a raised voice and the sound of laughter.

The heart of the junk pile opened up to a cleared space. A desk lamp off to the side illuminated two figures.

The laughter was from a wooden soldier. His paint was chipped and peeling, and where he should’ve had a black boot to match the one on his right leg, there was instead a rusted nail jammed crookedly into the wood.

While he sat on a pencil box and held his sides, a girl doll twirled in the middle of the space. Her long, puffy hair was a shiny red and she wore the most outrageous outfit Rapunzel’s button eyes had ever seen. The bedazzled purple headpiece didn’t even match the rest of it. The moment she caught sight of Jack and Rapunzel she brandished a sword bigger and wider than the spindly arms that wielded it.

“But hark! What is that I spy?” She declared. “A rascal! How dare the miscreant show his face?! Doest thou wish for a flogging, foul knave? For I shall bestow it myself!”

Jack ran up to her and dropped to one knee, flinging his arms out. “Why would I fight such a fair princess when we could dance the night away?”

She waved her sword at him and threatened to chop his head off. Meanwhile, the soldier sitting off to the side laughed even harder.

“… That’s not … how … it goes … at all …” He wheezed helplessly.

The girl tossed a grin at him. “Close enough, right?” She hung the sword in a makeshift shawl-turned-belt and raised a smug eyebrow at Jack. “You hear that? That’s the sound of success. You’re not the only one who gets to be funny around here, Jackie boy. Eat it and weep.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that goes either.” Jack stumbled up, his joints knocking together.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Now tell us who your new friend is.”

Rapunzel wandered up to the group. She did a shallow curtsy. “Greetings, all. My name is Rapunzel. I’m happy to meet you.”

“And we’re happy to meet you, too.” Jack pointed to the toy soldier. “That is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third. There’s a really long and windy story about how he chose his name.”

Hiccup shrugged. “I’ll tell it to you if you want to hear it.”

Rapunzel skipped over to him and shook his hands. “I’d love to! I love stories! Please tell me whenever you like.”

“Uh, wow. Thanks?” Hiccup chuckled. “It’s nice to meet you too?”

“Okay, okay, okay. That’s enough of that.” They both looked over at Jack. Jack grinned. He swept his arms up and showcased the shiny girl in the shiny dress. “This is Princess Merida of Clan DunBroch.”

“Not anymore I’m not!” Merida swatted at him, and he spun out of the way cackling.

Pulling her sword out again, she swung it up. “No longer am I Princess Merida. From now on, I wish to be the warrior queen Boudica! Hyah!”

She did a spin and a leap, making the layered skirt swirl in her wake and the headdress fly off. She landed in front of Rapunzel, knelt on the ground and sword pointed at Rapunzel’s chin.

Rapunzel obligingly clapped. “Very good!”

“Thank you, thank you. All in a day’s work.” Merida brushed herself off and stood.

“Why don’t you want to be Merida anymore?”

“Because I’m one of several dozen Merida princess dolls.” Merida rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to be the same as them. I don’t even know who this ‘Princess Merida’ is. I mean, sure, the name is fine, but does it really need a Princess in front of it? I’d rather just be Merida, and not-” Merida shook her outfit out. Rapunzel giggled. “-this, you know? That’s why I’m changing my wardrobe.”

On the other side of the clearing were racks of doll clothes and a large changing station. Many of the clothes were strewn about on the ground. Half of them were almost as outrageous as whatever Merida wore, the rest not looking like they’d even fit on her. These friends must have been here for a while.

A warrior queen, was it? Rapunzel had never heard of that, or much of anything really, but that didn’t mean she wanted to miss out on the fun. “Can I help, too?”

“Would you? Fantastic!” Merida looped her plastic arm through Rapunzel’s. “Let’s get to it. To start, I was thinking we’d look into something green …”

They did eventually find a dress that Merida liked, after many more dramatic outfit changes and general silliness. Granted, it drooped around the shoulders and she had to kick out the skirt to walk in it, but she said it was ‘comfortable for movement’ and ‘blending into the surroundings’. Rapunzel and Jack also dug up a proper belt for Merida to store her sword on.

“I think this calls for a celebration.” Rapunzel tugged the belt more securely and straightened up.

“What’s the occasion?” Jack asked.

“Because why not? Because we found a new dress for Merida. Because I met all of you and because we’re here together. Let’s do something nice.”

From where she admired herself on a plate, Merida smiled at Rapunzel through her reflection. “I think that’s brilliant.” Giving her hair one last flounce, she spun around. “What do you suggest we do? Shall we do a dance? A play? Want to go exploring?”

“I have an idea.”

They all looked towards Hiccup. Laid at his side was a trumpet about as long as he was tall that Rapunzel hadn’t noticed before. He used that to slowly pull himself upright and started walking into the junk pile, using the trumpet like a cane. “Follow me.”

They wound their way down one of the twisting paths until they came out to find a giant table leg. Unlike the others, this table leg had a strange device attached to it. There was a large box – what it was for, Rapunzel didn’t know – with long strands of belts tied to it. Those belts went up, up, up so high it passed above the table and out of sight.

The box had a little door that Hiccup swung open. “Get in here.”

Jack and Merida easily walked in, while Rapunzel craned her head up at the structure.

“What’s this supposed to do?” She asked. She almost missed the door and walked right into the side of the box when Hiccup caught her arm.

“It’ll take us up. Look.” Next to the box was a large red button, bolted onto the table leg. Hiccup pushed the button.

The button lit up bright red. Something hummed above their heads, and then the belts began to move. And they moved the box with it.

Up they went. Rapunzel gripped the rim of the box, which came up to her belly, happy as could be. The ground grew further and further the higher up they went, until they reached the table top and the ride met its end.

There were many things scattered on the table. But what caught Rapunzel’s eye was the structure right in the middle of it. It was a dollhouse. It was very large, at least three stories tall, and made of sturdy, unpainted wood. The best part was that it had a flat roof, with a few chimneys growing out of the corners.

Without a second thought, Rapunzel ran to it and started climbing it. The roof had a much better view of the lights, and she spun around and around and made them all blend together, bumping into Jack or Merida along the way and laughing with them.

The lights went dark.

They blinked at each other, button eyes and plastic and paint.

“… Where’s Hiccup?” asked Merida’s voice.

The door to the roof swung open. “Here.” There was Hiccup. “How do you like it?”

Rapunzel stumbled forward until she found his hand. “Why’d the lights go off?”

“The lights are connected to the outlet over there. I unplugged the wire.”

“Aww that’s not fair.” There was Jack, bumping into both of them. “We were having fun!”

“Look – no, no. Not at me. Look up.”

Rapunzel looked up. With the lights gone, it was easy to see that the ceiling above was made of glass. Through the glass was a blanket of starlight.

The dolls huddled together, hushed by the sight. Something about the light of the stars and the quiet of the room and the darkness that shrouded them made them keep close to one another.

On occasion, one would murmur a thought, or another hum a tune. Some thoughts led to others, which led to strands of conversation.

They passed those conversations between each other, lying on their backs and staring at the sky.

“Of course I remember how I came here.” Jack scoffed. “I escaped.”

“Exciting, I’m sure.” Even in the dark, Merida’s voice carried her eye roll.

“Shush, you. It was either that or they sent us to the scrap pile.” A sigh in the dark, followed by shuffling noises. “I remember hearing them talking, alright? I was supposed to be part of a set. But the other puppets, they said … that we came out wrong. Apparently, we were supposed to have bigger heads or something, be- what was it … exaggerated. We were supposed to have ‘exaggerated features’. But, well, here I am.” Jack waved his arms in the air, so that they showed up black against the sky. “I don’t know what happened to the other puppets from my batch, but I didn’t want to go so soon. So I escaped when no one was looking and ended up here.”

“… Okay, so that’s mildly interesting.”

“What about you, princess? What got you to come here?” Merida gave him a half-hearted shove. He went with it, and then rolled back to flop an arm on her.

“… Just me being myself, I guess.” Merida hummed. “I was up one night with the other dolls. The other Merida ones were alright, and I think … some of the other princesses, too, maybe, and a few more. But the rest of the dress up dolls were so annoying! All they wanted to do was comb each other’s hair or have tea parties or sing songs and that’s it. And like, those things are fine. I don’t mind them. But there should be more to life, shouldn’t there? Like going on adventures and fighting monsters and saving the world.”

“… Like in a story.” Rapunzel said.

“… yeah. Like in a story. Just like that.” Merida reached over Jack and squeezed her hand. Jack made a protest of being smushed, but Merida blew a raspberry at him and Rapunzel patted his head.

It was nice, being like this. Friends were nice.

“Do you remember how you came here?” Rapunzel turned her head to the right, where Hiccup was.

A pause, interrupted by a distant bell chime. “I remember … I remember waking up around books.”

“That’s how he knows so many stories.” Merida said.

“You’re the one who’s been here the longest, I think. Longer than me.” Jack’s voice went softer. “… that’s a long time, isn’t it?”

None of them answered. It wasn’t easy to tell what time was or wasn’t, when one was a doll.

“… Can you think of any story right now?” Rapunzel asked, to fill the silence.

“I think there’s one about the stars? You’re supposed to make a wish on one and it’ll come true.”

“Well, there are plenty of them here so that means plenty of wishes, right?”

“No, um … I’m not sure that’s how it works, Jack.” Hiccup shook his head. “It has to be … there’s supposed to be some other condition to it. Something special about it. Or about the wishing.”

“I know what I’m wishing for.” Rapunzel said. With one hand in Hiccup’s and another in Jack’s, Rapunzel spoke to the stars. “I wish that we can all stay together.”

A moment of quiet, with only their thoughts and the strange fluttering in their chests.

“… For how long?” Merida whispered.

“For as long as we’re friends. We’re friends now, right?”

“… we are.”

“We’re friends.”

“Friends for good.”

Friends to keep. Friends to stay.

In the dark where no one could see it, Rapunzel smiled.

She smiled for the moment and the company she had. She smiled for the lights she’d seen before and the stars she saw now. She smiled for the promise she’d made on the stars.

The stars. What beautiful things. To every corner of the room, to every corner of the sky, they breathed their glittering, infinite light. Like a promise of forever in an ever changing world. That was such a strange concept for lost, little souls, who had no place of their own but where they were, with no perception of yesterday or tomorrow, only the present. Only now.

In the sky, the stars carried wishes. Of things lost and things found.

In the dark, the night carried dreams.

[fruit-teeth]

Matters of Time and Fate (13)

The feeling of the bathmat was a type of comfort that one would normally avoid, but Olivia welcomed it as she lay against the bathroom floor. Her fingers, with dirt gathered beneath the nails, picked at the edge of the mat while the water ran in the tub beside her.

Olivia was supposed to be showering, but she could not bring herself to do so. She felt stuck, she felt numb, she felt…empty. She felt as though she had been gutted, like a teddy bear being emptied of its stuffing. It was as if, at any moment, she could look down and see her feelings laying on the floor, heavy yet fluffy as cotton.

Still, the tears wouldn’t stop. Olivia pulled down the towel from the nearest towel rack and wrapped it around herself, sniffling. She closed her eyes, aching like she’d never ached before.

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Scout’s voice came hollering, “Hey, kid! Ya still in there? You’re gonna waste all the hot water!”

Olivia did not want to yell, but she did. “Go away!” she shrieked, coiling the towel around herself even tighter.

She thought Scout would leave, but much to her alarm, the door swiftly opened. “Are you talkin’ to me!?” Scout raised his voice, poking his head in the doorway. “Oh, don’t you dare take that tone with me, you—” he stopped, seeing that Olivia was not actually in the shower, but instead fully-clothed and wrapped in a towel.

Scout saw the tears in her eyes, and he felt bad for yelling. He swallowed, stepping in and sitting beside her. “Hey, kid…are you okay?”

Olivia wiped her eyes roughly, sniffling miserably. “No.”

Scout went quiet, staying still beside her. After a moment, he rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “You wanna…you wanna talk about it?”

Olivia hugged her knees in, pulling the towel tighter around herself. “T-they made me sign away the company today,”

Scout frowned. “Oh…aw, hey, I’m sorry about that…”

“They don’t care what I want!” Olivia’s voice pitched as she sobbed some more. “No one said I could have what I want, no one asked…”

“Hey, hey,” Scout hesitated, before placing a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry…that happens a lot when you’re a kid,”

Olivia buried her face into her knees, whining a long, muffled whine. Scout sighed, his hand staying on her shoulder as he was unsure of how else to comfort her.

When she calmed somewhat, Scout asked, “Hey, kid…can I ask you somethin’?”

Olivia looked up, her eyes reddened and still brimming with tears. “Huh?”

“Why’d you want the company in the first place?” Scout questioned. “I mean…you’re a kid. What’s a kid like you want with a company?”

Olivia wiped her eyes, sitting up. “It’s my birthright. Daddy said so,”

“Well, yeah, but…” Scout shrugged. “Was that somethin’ you wanted to do?”

“Well…” Olivia trailed off, and she suddenly realized she didn’t have answer. She wanted it because it was something that was expected of her…for as long as she could remember, her father had always been there, reminding her what her destiny was and what she was being trained to do. “My…my daddy wanted it,”

Scout huffed. “Aw, come on, kid. Just ‘cause your dad wanted it doesn’t mean that’s what you gotta be. My ma wanted me to go to college, but that didn’t happen. And ya know what? She’s still real proud of me,” a thought then crossed his mind, and he tilted his head. “Hey - what ever happened to your ma? I’ve heard a lot about your dad, but I’ve never seen your ma,”

Olivia dried her eyes on the towel. “I don’t have a mother,”

“No?” Scout blinked. “Uh…what happened? Do you know?”

Olivia didn’t look up. “Daddy said she didn’t want me,”

“…oh,” Scout’s heart sank, and he squirmed nervously, unsure of how to respond to such an answer.

Just then, the squeaking of boots approached, and Pyro appeared and stood in the doorway, staring at Scout and Olivia silently. They clutched a paper bag in their hand, the sound of their breaths wheezing through the mask.

Scout noticed them, and he froze. “Uh…hey, buddy. Ya need somethin’?”

Pyro responded with a mumbled, muffled answer, and they held up the bag, gesturing at Olivia. Olivia felt confused, though she wasn’t afraid of Pyro, and she sat up taller. “What?”

Pyro walked into the bathroom and opened the bag, digging their hand inside. They pulled out a bright yellow rubber duck, which they handed to Olivia.

“Oh! Hey, that’s pretty cool of you, Pyro!” Scout praised, relieved that it hadn’t been something bad. “You ever have a rubber duck before?”

“No,” Olivia turned the little duck over in her hands, staring at its face. Like the stuffed cat she had gotten that same day, holding it brought her comfort. She pressed it close to her chest, looking up at Pyro. “Thanks,” she replied softly, staring up at the black-rimmed goggles of Pyro’s mask. She wondered why they never took it off, or if they even had a face underneath it.

Pleased that she had accepted the gift, Pyro knelt down and patted Olivia’s head with a light hand. They mumbled something to her, before standing back up and heading out of the bathroom.

Once Pyro had left, Scout remarked, “Pyro’s kinda weird sometimes, but they can be real nice,”

Olivia nodded, still staring down at the duck, her hands tracing over it lightly. “Yeah…” she looked back up at Scout, wiping an arm over her eyes. “I think I’m gonna shower, now,”

“Oh! Okay,” Scout stood up quickly. “I’ll head out then. See you at dinner, kid,”

When he left and the door closed behind him, Olivia was alone again. She was still sad, but there was a flicker of joy deep inside her. She felt more comfortable somehow, more at home…this wasn’t her home, it could never really be her home. But…maybe it could be. She didn’t know how long she would be here, if she would ever see her old house again. Though as she looked at the duck in her hands, the painted-on smile staring back up at her, she felt lighter and freer than she had felt within the last hour. She stood up, clutching the duck to her chest as she turned the shower on again.

As Olivia was upstairs, secluded in the bathroom, the energy downstairs was very different.

Sniper’s biological mother was going to be staying with the rest of the mercenaries. This fact had been established the moment she’d walked in, when the others took notice of her presence and Sniper had announced that he would get a space ready for her. Though the Townhouse was quite big, there wasn’t a great amount of room to spare, so the idea of yet another person staying there, especially someone with a reputation like Lar-Nah’s, was detested. Spy finally decided to confront Sniper about this, just as dinner was being prepared.

“Do you care to explain why your mother couldn’t simply go to a nursing home or some such place?” Spy asked unabashedly, cornering Sniper by the kitchen cabinets.

“Spook, come on,” Sniper pleaded. “She doesn’t have anywhere else to go! What was I gonna do, abandon her?”

“She abandoned you,” Spy pointed out. “Doing the same would be a reasonable course of action,”

Sniper huffed. “Oh, shut it. You wouldn’t be singin’ that tune if Scout abandoned you,”

Spy just stared silently at Sniper for a moment, before Sniper sighed again. “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have brough that up,”

“No, it’s all right,” Spy assured. “Although my concern is that you’re letting her stay only because you miss the mother that raised you, so you’re going to try and use her as a replacement,”

Sniper did not look at him. “I never said that.”

“You may not have said it, but I know it’s true,” Spy asserted.

“Why do you care, anyway?” Sniper frowned, his brow furrowing. “I get being nosy is your whole thing, but…”

“I’m not allowed to care about my teammates?” Spy put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Besides, it isn’t just you who has to share a space with her. It’s all of us,”

Sniper looked down again, fidgeting. “Yeah. I get that…but I would just feel better if I kept her close,”

“I understand,” Spy nodded, and he cleared his throat. “Dinner should be ready any moment, it’s best if you finish settling your mother in beforehand,”

“Oh – yeah, of course,” Sniper took a breath, gathering some bottled water and toiletries from the cabinets.

Meanwhile, Olivia was getting her nightgown on upstairs as the wind began to pick up outside. It would probably storm soon, as the darkening clouds indicated. Remembering how Belicia had always closed the windows when it rained, Olivia did the same, getting up off the bed and shutting the window.

It was then, though, that Olivia caught the sight of her own reflection in the glass of the window. Normally she would not have thought much of this, but through the reflection she noticed what appeared to be a figure standing behind her, looming over her. She only saw the figure for a few seconds, but it was enough for her to let out a shriek of terror.

Olivia fell backwards onto the floor, covering her eyes and pressing them shut. Just then, there was a harsh knock at the door.

“Lass! Are ye all right in there!?” Demoman’s voice came rumbling through the other side of the door.

Olivia got right up and scampered to the door, swinging it open. “Someone was in my room!” she squealed, waving her hands around. “I-I saw them in the reflection, I—”

“A ghost!?” Demoman made his way into the room, looking all around, his hands clenched into fists. He went quiet for a moment, listening, before he bellowed, “Ye don’t know who yer dealing with, spirits! If ye don’t leave this wee child alone, you will face my sword and my anger!”

Olivia hid right behind his leg, but as she watched Demoman yell at the ghosts, she couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t sure why she was smiling, there was just something amusing about it. She giggled, through she rooted closer to his leg.

Demo looked down, and he ran his hand through Olivia’s damp hair. “I don’t see any ghosts, but if there any, you tell me! I know a thing or two about those bloody things…”

“Okay,” Olivia agreed, taking a step back. “Have you chased ghosts before?”

“Oh, yes,” Demo gave a firm nod. “I’ll have to tell you all about it, but first, how about we go eat dinner? You must be hungry, wee one,”

[that-one-bi-wizard]

Part 2 of Headcannons No One Asked For:

Crutchie:

Punk aesthetic. He’s got the torn jean jacket, piercings, painted nails, and everything.

He’s still the sweetest boy you will ever meet. He is an absolute sweetheart and would never hurt a fly. Sure, he gets picked on for his disability, but he’s not gonna fight anyone. He’s the kind to forgive and forget (mostly. He doesn’t care for the Delanceys).

The only people that actually pick on him are the Delanceys. Everyone else at school thinks he’s pretty chill. He’s not exactly a popular kid, but everyone knows him as the “cute emo kid”. (He’s never bothered to correct anyone.)

He doesn’t like people feeling bad for him or treating him differently just because of his leg.

He’s the shortest one of the shortest in his friend group (him and Spot are the same height). He has black streaks in his hair too.

Him and Katherine are dating. No, I don’t take criticism. They’re cute couple. Since Kath is goth in this AU, they’re a cute punk/goth couple.

So, this boy, he can play guitar. And write songs. So, he writes songs for his girl all the time. That’s how she asked her to prom. He did it in front of everyone, and she said yes.

He also likes to go to Katherine’s house sometimes, and they’ll talk for hours while painting each other’s nails. They also cuddle a lot. And read books together. And listen to music. And watch television. The point is: they’re cute. They’re a soft couple.

Him and Jack have been friends forever because Medda knows Crutchie’s moms. So, you best bet that Crutchie and Jack tell each other everything. Like, Crutchie was the first one to know about Jack’s crush on Davey, and Jack was the first one to know about Crutchie’s crush on Kath. They’re almost like brothers.

His moms are basically Cordelia and Charlotte from Falsettos. They’re both just as nice as Crutchie, so you can tell that he’s their son. He’s also not adopted. The two wanted a kid, they got a donor, and boom, Crutchie came into the world. (He’s never met his dad though, but he could honestly care less.)

Katherine:

She’s got dark clothes but her hair is still the same bright red color she was born with.

Her dad is the principal of the school, so a lot of kids that don’t know her think that’s why she’s ranked #1 in her grade level. That’s not the case though. She’s a hard working that’s always trying to prove herself.

She’s kind of a drifter. She used to hang out with a bunch of different groups of students until she eventually started hanging out with Crutchie, Jack, Race and the others. She met them because she dated Jack for like a month or two in freshman year, but they realized they didn’t like each other that way and stayed friends instead. They’re still really good friends too.

So... In my last post, I said Jack was chubby in this AU. Well, so is Kath. She’s a cute chubby goth girl. It’s my AU, I do as I please.

Anyway, she can be a little insecure about her body at times, but mostly she just doesn’t care. She’s got brains, and that’s what matters to her.

Her and Davey are the mom friends of the group. They have to stop their friends from doing stupid shit. Because of that, they’ve also bonded a lot and become close best friends. They were such close friends that kids at school thought they were dating for a while.

People thought they were a power couple because principal’s daughter and top athlete? Ultimate couple. That’s when Katherine decided “oof. Okay, I gotta tell the guy I actually like that I like him.” So, she did.

Yeah, Katherine was the one to confess her feelings first. She told Crutchie, and Crutchie was like “dzhgshkd. I like you too.” She was also the one to kiss him first.

And her dad... is totally fine with this. He would’ve preferred it to be someone like Davey, it maybe even Jack, sure, but he thinks Crutchie’s fine. With how cute and polite he is, Crutchie won him over pretty easily. He trusts him enough (not a lot but enough) for his daughter to date a guy like Crutchie.

Sarah:

Huge theater nerd!

She’s been in every play the school’s out on, even if she gets minor roles. She started out a a tech kid in her freshman year, but thought “hey, I wanna try acting”. And she’s loved it ever since.

Even though she’s a grade above Davey, she still acts like a child. Singing her favorite show tunes all the time, talking about cartoons, being all over the place... she’s just a little ray of sunshine, honestly.

She doesn’t look a lot like Davey though, so when they say they’re related, people are surprised. She has really long, straight, light brown hair and she’s pretty short while Davey’s...well, the opposite.

Davey’s the better known of the Jacobs siblings, but Sarah’s pretty popular too. She’s pretty outgoing, so people know who she is.

Also, super proud of her little brother but loves to embarrass him. She’ll go to his games and make sure she and Les scream at the top of their lungs, so everyone knows who their brother is. Davey asked them to stop once, and they, of course said no.

She also likes to poke fun at him and Jack when Jack’s at their place. Once, he went over and Davey was in the shower, and in that span of time, Sarah and Les managed to to tell Jack so many stories about Davey when he was little.

She’s been best friends with Darcy since freshman year. Eventually, he asked her out, and she was like “Finally! Of course, I’ll go out with you.” She knew he liked her for a while. She would’ve confessed first but thought it was funny to see him try every time.

Now, these two... these two are a good couple. Darcy is the only person (besides Davey) who can calm Sarah down. Meanwhile, Sarah’s the only one who can help him come out of his shell.

Darcy:

This boi is the stereotypical shy geek. I usually see him as like a nerd or prep student, but in this AU, he’s a geek. Like, anime watching, shy, tech loving geek.

He doesn’t have many friends, besides Sarah and Bill. He keeps to himself most of the time but will talk when necessary. He joined theater but stayed as part of the tech crew. That’s initially how he met Sarah.

His dad’s a teacher at their high school, so he also knows Katherine pretty well. Their dad’s know each other and basically had them hang out when Katherine got to high school.

Since he’s really good at writing, he’s help Kath with a few essays and really got her into writing. He’s also really good with computers, so you bet he’s the one they go to when their laptops are broken or they accidentally download a virus on the school computers.

He’s always wearing a hoodies. His closet is full of them. And y’all ever seen that hentai face hoodie? He has it, never wears it, but he has it. It’s in the back of his closet.

It took him a while to build up enough courage to ask Sarah out. And he was super happy when she said yes. It took him practicing it on Bill twice until Bill was like “Bro, you’re ready”.

He’s actually gained a lot of confidence since then. With that, he’s always felt oddly out of place with Sarah’s friends but that doesn’t stop him from joking around with them. And that... that has gotten him into detention a few times, so he tries to be careful around Jack and Race.

Also, side note, he helps out a lot with the school paper because his dad is president of the newspaper club they have at school. Katherine is also part of the club, so they geek out over that kind of stuff.

Okay, I think that’s the main cast for my high school AU. If y’all want hcs for any other characters, just send me requests, and I’ll gladly give you some hcs. (I have Jack, Davey, Spot, and Race on another post though, but if y’all want more hcs about them, that’s cool too.)

[antecedentlypod]

EPISODE 1 TRANSCRIPT

-opening music-

Lorrie: [Flipping pages, muttering to himself] There. Ah, alright. The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse, read by Lorrie Adams. Take one. 

[sighs] take three. 

[mutters, sighing] The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse. Take fifteen. 

-A cat had made the acquaintanceship of a mouse, and had talked so much about his great love and friendship for her, that he eventually convinced her to live in the same house and set up a common household. 

”But we must get supplies for the winter,” said the cat, “or else we’ll starve. A little mouse like you can’t venture just anywhere, for one of these days you might get caught in a trap.”

They acted on his good advice, and bought a little jar of fat, but they did not know where to put it. Finally, after long deliberation, the cat said: ’I can’t think of a safer place than the church, no one would dare take anything away from there. Let’s put it under the altar and we won’t touch it unless we really need it.”

The little jar was safely stored away, but it was not long before the cat felt a craving for it and said to the mouse: “I’ve been meaning to tell you, little mouse; my cousin gave birth to a baby boy, white with brown spots, and I’ve been asked to be godfather. I’m to hold him at the christening. Would you mind letting me go out today, and looking after the house by yourself?”

“No, of course not!” answered the mouse, “Go for God’s sake! And if you get something good to eat, think of me. I sure would like to have a drink of that sweet red christening wine.” 

Naturally, none of what the cat had said was true. He did not have a cousin, nor had he been asked to be godfather. He went straight to the church, crept to the little jar of fat, and began licking and licking until he had licked the skin off the top. Then he strolled over the roofs of the city and contemplated his opportunities. After a while he stretched himself out in the sun, and wiped his whiskers whenever he thought of the little jar of fat. It was not until evening that he returned home. “Well, you’re back,” the mouse said, “I’m sure you had a wonderful day.”

 “It wasn’t bad,” the cat responded. 

“What name did they give the child?” the mouse asked. 

“Skin off.” the cat said dryly. 

“Skin off?” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s a strange and unusual name, is it common in your family?” 

“What’s there to it,” said the cat, “it is no worse than Crumb-thief, as your godchildren are called.”

Shortly after that, the cat felt another great craving. He said to the mouse: “You’ve got to do me a favor again, and look after the house by yourself. I am asked to be godfather once more and, since the child has a white ring round its neck, I can’t refuse.” 

The good mouse consented, but the cat went clinking behind the city walls to the church, where he ate up half the jar of fat. “Nothing tastes better,” he said, “then what you keep to yourself.” And he was very satisfied with his day’s work. When he returned the mouse asked: “What was this child christened?” 

“Half-gone.” answered the cat. 

“Half-gone? You don’t say! I’ve never heard such a name in all my life, I'll bet it’s not on the list of proper names!”

Soon the cat’s mouth began watering once more for the delicacy. “All good things come in threes,” he said to the mouse, “I’ve been asked to be godfather again. This child is all black and has white paws, aside from that, there’s not a white hair on its body; this only happens once every few years, you will let me go, won’t you?”

“Skin- off! Half-gone!” the mouse responded, “Those are really curious names, I’m beginning to wonder about them…”

“Look. You can sit at home in your dark-grey fur coat and your long pig tail, and you begin imagining things. That’s because you don’t go out during the day.”

While the cat was gone, the mouse cleaned the house and put it in order, meanwhile the greedy cat ate up the rest of the jar.  “It’s only after everything’s all gone,” the cat said to himself, “that you can really begin to rest.”

It was very late at night by the time the cat returned home, and he was fat and stuffed. The mouse asked right away what name had been given to the third child. “You won’t like this one either!” the cat said. “It’s All-gone.”

 “All-gone!” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s the most suspicious of all the names! I have never seen it in print. All-gone; what’s it supposed to mean?” She shook her head, rolled herself up into a ball, and fell asleep.

From then on, no one asked the cat to be a godfather, but when the winter came and there was nothing more to be found outside, the mouse thought about their supply of fat and said: “Come, cat, let’s go to our jar that we’ve been saving, it will taste good.” 

“Yes,” said the cat, “You’ll enjoy the taste just as much if you stuck your dainty tongue out the window.” They set out on their way, but when they got there, the jar of fat was still in its place, but it was empty. 

“Oh!” said the mouse, “Now I know what’s happened,it’s as clear as day! Some nice friend you are! You ate it all up when you went to be a godfather. First the skin, then half, then–”

 “You better be quiet!” yelled the cat, “One more word, and I’ll eat you up!”

“All-gone” was already on the tip of the mouse’s tongue, no sooner did she say it then the cat jumped on her, grabbed her, and devoured her. You see, that’s the way of the world-

[sighs] that’ll do, I guess. 

[stretches, groans] My back’s killing me though. Gotta get this edit in and sent off. So, listening back to the recording it’s still not perfect. I guess I’ll have to do more takes! But not tonight. [sighs softly] I’ve been stuttering a lot more lately and reading aloud is still stupid hard. Thankfully Fish should be back home soon. She’ll be able to tell me if it’s an okay take, I think. [yawns] Take one of Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might fi- fuck! 

Take six of the Far- take twelve of the Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. 

- Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might like, there was sky. Sky that went on for miles and miles, sky the milky color of cataract, sky you could choke on. There were many things under this looming infinity of clouds, but there is only time enough in this story for one.

  A thicket. More precisely, one comprised of berry bushes. You know the sort, the kind you spot on a long hike or a narrow trail and consider plucking from before your mind gets the better of you, for fear of poison. Picture it, if you will.

 No. Try again. The berries are darker than that, the thorns sharper.

 Right. There you are.

 The thicket surrounds a clearing in a tight circle, with winding trees woven through it whose canopy of leaves block out all but slivers of sun. In this clearing is a woman. She’s curled up there, shrouded by a pair of tattered wings. She’s larger than a woman, or any human for that matter, should be. Beneath her wings lies a bulging sternum, to allow for a set of lungs that would threaten to burst in any chest like yours or mine. Her arms bend at odd angles, her legs short and with a lack of any tailbone. She is curled there, she is ugly, for she is unknown to us, and she wails.

 It is nearing noon, though she would have no way of knowing this. It is at this approximate time, though, that each day she crawls to the thicket and begins to worm her way through. Scratches and cuts litter and linger on her skin from yesterday and many a day before, but she ignores the way they catch on thorn and reopen to the biting air. Ignores the tickling trickle of red everywhere she can still feel. Because today is the day, she’s sure of it. She’s going to make it through. She’ll come out on the other side, torn and tired, but wilted wings still rising to flight. To feel that air beneath them would be to know true bliss. Still, she’s aimless in her endeavour. She can only feel in front of her, cling to the dirt and to branch and swat away the swarming insects that live between these leaves and settle on her skin. She marks them, on occasion, and cannot see the smear of gut and brown they leave upon her. Her sight was long since robbed from her. The thorns had sought her eyes, spiteful for the way she longed to escape the home they’d made for her, and if it hadn’t been the poke it’d’ve been the venom. And yet she pushes on through this impossibly thick jungle of a berry bush.

 She makes it not even to the third’s way mark before she collapses into herself.

 It’s two o’clock, perhaps, when she wakes again and finds herself in the center of the clearing, no further away from this prison than she’d started. She’s glad for the size of her lungs when they allow her the breath to properly scream them out.

 If I might redirect your attention, dear reader, I ask you to imagine with me a cottage. For not far from this thicket, and its accompanying clearing, there lives a farmer. The winter had not been kind to his crops, nor the drought that followed it come spring, and what little livestock he’d kept in the barn out back fared no better. The cabinets are filled only with dishes and the occasional tin can. He stares numbly at the holes in his rotting wooden floorboards.

 Hunger laces every dusty windowsill, every rusty nail, the sparse closet and the achingly bare kitchen as hollow as his stomach. He’d had coin stocked in a great lockbox, hidden in the loose backing panel of a dresser. This had gotten him along, for a while. The prices at the marketplace are forgiving if you know where to look, and he’s practiced enough to bargain if he paints a sympathetic picture. His stomach would be sated with apples that might’ve once been crisp, and loaves of near molded sourdough. But the lockbox is near empty now, and the pit in his belly grows impatient. He can feel it fold and knot and kick at him, seeking satisfaction by eating away at itself with sharp teeth and an ever unhinging jaw. He shudders at the thought, and more to know it will not cease until he’s swallowed himself up completely, throbbing with the wholeness of it, and leaving nothing but a sigh of relief through a house that would then know what it means to be full. 

 It’s when he’s taken his finger between his bared teeth that he hears the weeping song of a warbler from just beyond his door. His gut lurches at the sound of it. Go, it whispers, go and be fed. And so he rises to weary feet, sheep wool shears from the mess of tools upon his table now tucked into the back of his pants.

 To follow this warbler’s cry is to follow the North Star to salvation, it seems, as his hunger reminds him in sweet growls that soon he will remember the warmth of meal-drunk content. How he aches for that small forgiveness, what one last small meal to a dying man might grant him some clear thought. And so he seeks it and nearly sobs with joy when he comes to the source of it. The thicket is foreboding, but no threat which he cannot face with the shears he unsheathes from his belt. He trims for what might’ve been hours or might’ve been days, but no difference is seen to him. Just a sense of soonness, and an excitement that bubbles up in him and threatens to spill out upon the final grinning snip. The warbler’s song stops short, and his eyes fall upon the frame of what he doesn’t dare to call a woman.

 For what feels like an eternity, a heavy silence between them. She sees nothing, but the presence of another is hard to ignore. She reaches out to touch, to feel, to assure herself that this is no dream. She weeps upon the sound of approaching footsteps as the farmer crouches before her.

 “No bird that’d been, then, but you, wretched creature, whose song had graced my ear?”

 “Not a song, sir, but a sorrow, for I could not free myself of this place.”

 The farmer nods thoughtfully, and rises to clasp a hand on her shoulder. “Come then, to your feet. I’ll fix you up with bandages and salve to soothe your wounds.” She clings to him and limps, wings dragging behind her, as he guides them through the worst of the thicket and along the path back to his cottage, a slow travel for how the thing’s limbs fall so heavy they threaten to sink her through the very crust of the earth.

 “Rest here, on my cot, and I will fetch the bandages.” The farmer says, and so the winged woman lays upon the surface he sets her to.

 How stiff a cot, she thinks, but does not voice, for the farmer had saved her life, and she is in no position to complain for an uncomfortable bed.

 She hears the farmer’s return not long after, and shifts toward the sound of it. “I really must thank you. It had been set in my mind that I would die there, in that clearing.”

 “I should not let that happen.” The farmer replies, “To die there in your state is a fate I would not wish upon the worst of men.”

 “Then it is in your just mind to bring me from it, though I hold you under no obligation to treat what harm it’s done to me.”

 “I should see you taken care of, for it would weigh on my conscience to leave you in this misery.” He says. This is enough for her, and so she falls into sleep as the farmer tends to her cuts and takes a wet cloth to her wings.

 It’s the heat that wakes her. Barely licking at her toes, and then consuming the space around her, hotter every moment than it had been the moment before. If she had not worn her voice from her earlier sorrow she might’ve cried for help. She sees the oven door before her no more than she had seen the table she was set upon, nor the farmer rummaging for dough or seasoning her now searing skin. Where there is only hunger, a man must make do with songbird pie.

 And so the sky waits above for wings that will not part it, a thicket begins to mend it’s shear cut path, and a winged woman howls as her flesh crispens for the chew of a starving man. And you, hiding under blankets from the dark, pretend that this land is far, far away.The end .-

The end. [sighs] Fuck it. I’m tired. That’ll have to do for now. End recording. 

-credits-

[statistically-unlikely-monster]

Jon’s Not Dead

Chapter 1 Part 2

This part references a lot of Crash Zoom since the witch girl from Trick or Threat is in this. If you haven’t watched Crash Zoom, I recommend it. Anyways, onto the story~

Of all the places he was expecting to go, his apartment building was not it. The way they made it sound, this girl lived far off somewhere. But yet, he turned out to be living in the same building. 

Eduardo led the group in, checking his pocket just to make sure he still had his own key. The last thing he needed was to be locked out after all this. He cringed at the thought of having to ask someone to let him in, especially one of his past neighbors. Sure, he had been on better terms with that Edd guy, but he still hated Tom and Matt.

A little bit of him regretted leaving Mark behind at the Red Army base, but someone needed to stay there and keep an eye on the other members. Mark may have trusted them, but he most definitely did not. Sure, Eduardo had control over their leader because of his strength, but there was the chance of the others going rogue and trying to derail his chances of bringing back Jon.

“So this is where everyone moved?” Tord asked, glancing around the main lobby area.

There wasn’t much to it. Old 60’s style chairs were placed against the walls with matching coffee tables. Forest and nature paintings covered the dull yellow walls. A vase of dead flowers were placed on the counter of the landlord’s desk. Luckily the landlord wasn’t there.

“Yeah, not everyone can afford a nice house after a certain someone blows their old one up,” Eduardo jabbed, pressing the call elevator button on the other side of the lobby area, “You guys might want to take a seat, this thing takes a while to come.”

Paul flopped himself onto a loveseat, and pulled out his phone. Tord perched himself on the arm of the loveseat.

After an uncomfortable ten minutes of standing, the elevator finally came. Tord and Paul hopped up, eager to get in, but Eduardo stopped them with his arm just before they could get in, “Hold up. Look at it.” The elevator slid down farther than it was supposed to, and then screeched to a halt. The ropes were frayed, with a few on the verge of snapping, “Darn thing is always breaking down. I guess we’re using the stairs.”

Without a word, Eduardo walked off to the stairs, leaving the others behind him. The girl lived on the floor just below his. Floor 4. That area was always getting reported for noise, whether it be parties, people fighting, or the occasional explosion. Needless to say, the infamous floor didn’t thrill him in the least. The less time he spent there, the better. The others slowly trickled in after him once he reached the landing. Paul clung to the railing, completely out of breath.

“I told you those cigarettes are destroying your lungs,” Tord teased, smirking as he passed him.

“Look who’s talking Mr. I-smoke-cigars-because-they-look-cool!” Paul   retaliated with a wheeze.

“They do look cool!”

Eduardo rolled his eyes and continued up. The bickering got old real quick, “How are these people the same ones that wrecked the neighborhood?” He thought to himself, “All they do is goof off.”

The landing of the fourth floor was oddly dusty with what looked like glitter. Wasn’t really anything too out of the ordinary considering the people on said floor, so Eduardo just shuffled through it.

The entirety of floor four was covered in glitter. No amount of space was spared. With the right kind of light the whole place could be used as a disco ball.

In the middle of it all was three people; a young woman, a young man, and a little girl.

“What were you two thinking?!” The young woman was scolding them.

The young man patted his hand on her shoulder, “Aww c'mon Lucy, don’t be such a party pooper! We were just having fun!”

“Fun?! Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean glitter?!”

The little girl chipped in, pulling out a huge black book from her bag, “Maybe one of these demons can help us?”

“No no no! We’re not summoning anything else! Last time you about killed everyone!”

“I didn’t kill anyone, that was all the monster that you asked for!”

“I never-” The woman named Lucy cut herself off upon noticing Eduardo standing there, “Eduardo, thank God, can you please talk some sense into them?!”

Now here came a dilemma. The Necronomicon was right there in front of him, just within snatching distance. But he knew Lucy. They were good friends from way back. Stealing from a little girl right in front of her would be a bad move.

Luckily, he didn’t have to ponder the decision for too long, because Tord came running up and almost ran them all down. Grabbing the book from the little girl’s hands, he held it over his head triumphantly, “I got it!”

The little girl squealed in surprise, “Hey, that’s mine! Give it back!” she pounded her fists harmlessly on his stomach, “Give it back you big jerk!”

“You stole it from me you… trash gremlin? Huh… I was expecting you to be a bit more threatening.” Tord chuckled, poking her head mockingly, “What’s wrong? Are you gonna cry?”

He soon regretted those words. The girl swung her leg up as high as she could, nailing him in the jaw. She then ripped the book away from him, using it to beat him over the head, “AGH! PAUL, GET THIS RABID THING OFF ME!”

Paul, whom had just then gotten up the stairs, blatantly ignored Tord’s cries, “ One second, I just found a Pikachu!”

“Why are all my soldiers useless?!” Tord whined, “Eduardo! Help!”

Begrudgingly, Eduardo pulled the girl off, “Kate, right?” he began to explain, kneeling down to her eye level, “I really need to use this, so if you could please-”

“Nope!”

“Aww, c’mon kid. Five seconds, that’s all I need.”

“No, it’s mine.” She blew a raspberry at him.

“Ok, yeah, real funny. What will it take for you to let me borrow that?”

“Hmm… how about a game?”

“Oh god” “Ok, I’ll bite. What’s this game?”

“I’m gonna use my spell book to summon up a big baddie. If you can beat it, I’ll give you the Necronomicon. If you lose, well, you’ll probably be broken beyond repair. Interested?”

Eduardo took a deep breath. He didn’t come this far just to walk out like a wimp. His best bud was counting on him. If he didn’t get the book, then that was it, “Can I use a weapon?”

“Any of your choice”

“I guess…yeah, let’s do it.”

Lucy and Ben wisely hid a floor down, away from the soon to be destruction.

Kate grinned, “Won uoy llac I ,htarw fo nomed! Flesruoy rof eulb eht revo ekat!”

The floor went pitch black. A glowing, circular rune appeared beneath Kate’s feet. She floated in the air, eyes gleaming red and sharp pearly teeth bared. The Necronomicon floated with her, just inches from her fingertips. From the rune rose a large black figure. It’s horns scrapped the ceiling even with it hunched over. One beady black eye glared down at Eduardo, snarling and thrashing its tail in anger. 

“…Aw sh*t.” Eduardo muttered in realizing his mistake.

The monster took a deep breath, and unleashed a blast of fire from its mouth. Eduardo ducked out of the way just in time. The only thing on him to get burned was his shoelaces. The wall and carpet behind him was set ablaze, filling the room with smoke.

Paul hopped into action, whipping out the gun on his back and firing directly at the monster. The monster blocked the attack with its tail before swinging it wildly, knocking Paul and into the wall with enough force that he was halfway through it. 

“Hey, I thought he got a weapon!” Tord spoke up, quickly ducking a stray blast of fire.

“He gets one of his choice. I didn’t say I was giving him one.” Kate crooned before disappearing in a puff of smoke. 

“Jævla det-” Tord growled, “Hey! Big and ugly!” he called to the monster. When it turned around, he flipped it off, “Come get me!”

Howling with rage, it lunged at Tord, whom slipped under its body before it could get him. The monster flung itself into the wall, destroying it in the process like a giant wrecking ball.

Eduardo exclaimed, “Holy crap are you alright?”

“Ja. Go get Paul’s gun.” Tord replied as a mischievous smirk grew on his face, “I have an idea.”

Nodding, Eduardo slipped Paul’s gun out of his unconscious hands, and froze. He had no idea how to fire a gun. It wasn’t something he thought he would ever need to know. Sure, you just pull the trigger and a bullet comes out, but the gun in his hands was way more complicated than that. There were weird levers and hatches, a scope, and all sorts of other pieces he didn’t know how to use.

Meanwhile, Tord was having fun with the monster. He moved much faster than it, ducking and diving around it. The monster couldn’t keep up. In trying to keep up with the annoying little human running its feet, it made itself dizzy to the point it almost couldn’t stand upright. With that window of opportunity, Tord launched himself onto the monster’s back, and wrapped his one arm around its right horn. 

Growling, it bucked like a horse, trying to throw the pest off it. Being so close to the ceiling, it couldn’t really jump too much without hurting itself. It couldn’t get Tord off no matter how hard it tried.

“Uh, mind shooting it sometime today?” He called to Eduardo, whom was still struggling with the gun, “I can’t do this much longer. Starting to slip.”

Eduardo shot back, “Just give me a second! I got it!” he aimed at the monster, but no matter how many times he pulled the trigger, no bullet would fire, “How the hell do you use this thing?!”

“Do you really not know how to use a gun?”

“Pfft! Of course I do! …Okay, maybe I don’t, so what?”

“Just pull the trigger!”

“I tried, but nothing’s happening.”

“Did you check if it needs reloaded?”

“Ok, you know what, screw this!” Eduardo charged at the beast, wielding the gun like a club. With a swift thwack to the eye, the beast howled in pain, then disappeared in a cloud of dark smoke. 

Tord fell to the floor with a dull thud, “…I guess that’s one way to do it.”

Reaching out his hand, Eduardo helped him up. The floor was still burning around them. Fiery tongues lashing out and consuming everything, including something that made both their hearts drop. There, just at the front door of one of the apartments was the one thing they came for, now blazing like a candle. 

Panicking, Eduardo ran over to stamp out the fire as Tord rushed away to grab the fire extinguisher on the wall. However, they were too late. All that was left of the Necronomicon was a pile of blackened ash and the remaining bits of glitter that survived the fire. Both froze, looking down at it in pure disbelief. It was gone. No amount of glue or tape could fix it now.

[djinn-and-djuice]

lo for I have risen from the grave! life has been interesting and challenging as of late, but I’ll spare you the spiel. episode 26 broke my heart, and episode 27 made me cry, and I have little else to say aside from “beau is fun to write”. i am exhausted but i hope you like this fic.(also on ao3)

[contains spoilers for episodes 26 and 27 of campaign two, and alludes heavily to spoilers for the endgame of campaign 1]

vespers

~*~

It's a long walk back to The Landlocked Lady, but there are still things to be done in the wake of that thoroughly upsetting recon mission. Champ, that creep, is working the desk when they get back but thankfully keeps his comments to himself when they pay for two rooms but all file into one.

Keg is sketching out vague blueprints of the Sour Nest with Nila's help, Caleb is still recovering from talking for ten whole minutes back at the Estate Sybaritic, and Nott is naturally glued to his side while he flips vacantly through his spellbook. Aside from the occasional whispers, none of them speak. Beau, meanwhile, can barely focus on anything. The room, already cramped with the five of them packed into it, feels almost claustrophobically small. Every sound, from Keg’s whispering to the scratching of quill against paper, feels like it’s being carved into her eardrums with a chisel. So with as little movement as possible Beau stands, throws her cloak over one arm, and steps out of the room. A quick glance over her shoulder shows her that Nott is the only one to notice her departure. She watches Beau walk out, but doesn't acknowledge her with anything more than a barely-there nod of the head.

It's probably shitty of her, to be walking off alone after everything that's happened and while there’s still so much to do, but if she doesn’t get a breath of fresh air and thirty seconds of silence she is going to crawl out of her fucking skin. Hopefully the obvious presence of her pack left behind conveys that this is just a stroll; that she’ll be careful, that she fully intends to come back.

Like intent means anything these days.

She sniffs, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her cloak as she puts it on in the foyer. The cold weather has been vicious on her sinuses, used as she is to the southern climes of Kamordah and Zadash. Or at least, that's what she tells herself to keep her face stern as she walks through Shady Creek.

This place is an absolute disaster, and Beau has seen some terrible shithole towns and some seedy goddamn underbellies. There’s more than a few people passed out or straight-up dead in the gutter, garbage and food refuse is scattered everywhere, and the whole place smells vaguely of blood and dry rot. It does very little to alleviate her mood, and briefly she wonders if she’s going to feel like this - discontented, like she pulled a muscle in her soul - forever, if this is just her life now. No. That’s bullshit. She’s been through hell before and come out swinging; she can do it again this time. She doesn’t know when she’s gonna come out the other side, but she will. At least she’s not alone this go-round.

She walks a few blocks, but the sights don’t get any less depressing or disheartening. She doesn’t feel quite as penned-in as before, but now that her head is clearer the jagged, rusty edges of the town loom even sharper. With every step she’s further and further convinced that this little walk was a mistake, but something keeps her putting one foot in front of the other. It feels less like she’s running away and more like she’s walking towards something, which makes no fucking sense but feeling like she has some sort of goal is leagues better and she’ll chase that feeling anywhere.

Eventually her feet lead her to a small stone building, set apart from the others. It’s somewhere between a shed and hut in size, made of brick in places and large unworked stones in others, painted a uniform grey. Despite how ramshackle it is, it doesn’t carry the same air that the rest of the buildings in town do. There’s something about it that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

One step closer becomes two, becomes five, and she sees the metal raven skull set into the door, the bundles of dried flowers set at the doorstep and that feeling suddenly makes sense. This is a temple. The Matron of Ravens is an interesting choice to have in the middle of town, but not necessarily odd.

It takes her a second, however, to realize it's not a temple to the Matron of Ravens. Painted copper coins have been nailed around the doorframe, which Beau only notices when she gets closer, showing that this small building is dedicated to her Champion instead. The coins are precisely spaced, and not a single one is missing, surprisingly. Huh. Apparently there are some things in Shady Creek that are sacred. Or maybe it’s fear of divine reprisal, but either works. Still, that’s a motif that people only use when praying to him, rather than his queen.

Beau knows the folktales, and her connections with the Cobalt Soul means she knows which ones are true. She's heard all about the Champion of the Lost, the guardian of souls, the knight who sits at the Matron’s right hand. While she holds total dominion over death, it is his charge to see the souls of the deceased safely to her embrace. He comforts the recently dead, and prevents them from becoming restless, haunted spirits. Beyond that the information is fuzzy, protected by the higher echelons of the order. She knows how he used to be a mortal servant of the Lady of Fates a couple decades ago, but that’s about it. She doesn’t know when people started worshipping him or why, but there seems to be some substance to it, at least. If nothing answered the prayers, people probably wouldn’t pray anymore. Given who he serves, worship of him isn’t prohibited in the Empire, per se, but it’s not exactly the safest of propositions to have a temple exclusively dedicated to him like this one.

It makes sense, in a weird sort of way. Town like this, there’s probably a lot of people who want to make sure their souls aren’t left to wander.

Pushing the door open to the tinkling of chimes, Beau pokes her head in. There’s no one else in the space, so she steps in and shuts the door behind her. The temple is clean, with a couple of low benches and a small, if well appointed, altar. While there isn’t a whole lot of ambient light to come in through the windows in the first place, what does come through is filtered by gauzy curtains, creating a sense of dusk.

The temple smells of dry stone, smoke, and lavender. Off against the wall she can see a black iron censer and the low glow of the coals inside it. It’s such a small thing, but that gentle herbal scent reminds her so profoundly of Molly that she cracks for the second time in three days, stumbling before the small altar and falling to her knees to cry. The slender statue of a half-elven man with great black wings looks quietly down as the pain bleeds out of her.

Was he there, when Molly passed? The stories said he could fly faster than thought, was he quick enough that Molly didn’t wake up somewhere alone again?

She’s not exactly sure how much time passes, but it’s not too long before her tears have run their course and she pulls herself up to sit heavily on the bench nearest the altar.

“Listen up, you asshole,” she says, pointing an indignant finger at the statue. The figure of the Champion is carved from stone and painted with an almost loving amount of detail. “You look after him, alright? We’re gonna do our damndest to get him back, but you make sure to keep him company for now. He’s obnoxious, but he’s one of the good ones. One of the few really good ones.”

Praying has never been one of her strong suits-she’d never really needed it before the monastery, and the Cobalt Soul was more interested in serving Ioun in deeds than venerating her at all hours.  Maybe calling him an asshole wasn’t the greatest idea, but it’s all she has. The statue is smiling-smirking, more like-so he’s probably the sort of entity to take that kind of talk in stride.

She sets her face in her hands, sighing. “Tell him we miss him,” she says, voice muffled.

There’s no one else in the temple-she checked when she walked in, and the chimes hung from the door have stayed silent, but she feels someone sit down beside her and put an arm over her shoulders. She catches a waft of that rich incense Molly was so fond of, and hears, behind her, the faint sound of creaking leather armor.

The feeling is gone as quickly as it comes, and Beau lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Suddenly the small temple feels barren and unwelcoming. She’s had her moment of quiet, and now the thought of that cramped room is an appealing one. She doesn’t want to be alone now.

She takes some of her last pocket bacon and sets them in the offering dish at the foot of the statue for the Champion. The dead don’t need food, and the gods need it even less, but it feels right.

“Thanks,” she says, and stalls at the door for a moment or so, unsure if there’s anything she’s supposed to be doing, before simply walking away.

She makes her way back through the streets of Shady Creek Run with a keen eye on her surroundings. The only thing she misses is the large black bird that flies behind her, keeping watch the whole way.

[edsrich]

Mixtapes (Richie/Eddie)

Summary: Both Richie and Eddie are very fond of each other and often tease each other affectionately, especially Richie to Eddie. So Bill and Stan both play cupid, which results in swapping mixtapes for eachother.

Warning(s): Bad language, 13 year olds kissing (don’t read if you think its fucking weird?? bc its not), if you think this is me sexualising these cuties-don’t bother

Richie’s Mixtape to Eddie

Eddie’s Mixtape to Richie

A/N: Look at my children in love, PLEASE I highly recc listening to either of the mixtapes that are linked above^^? They are both very 70/80′s. btw I do requests? If anyone wants to hit me up an x reader or a ship in IT 2017 (or IT in general) I’ll be glad to do so?? don’t be shy

“Awe, Eds. Look at you.” Richie cooed teasingly, pinching Eddie’s slowly flushing cheek.

Eddie quickly began swatting at Richie’s hand, his eyebrows furrowed heavily and a frown on his lips, “Don’t touch me with your rotten hands, asshole!”

Richie ignored his protests and flinched away from his swats, moving his hand to now over his shoulders and pulling the smaller boys frame into his own side, a grin on his lips.  “You’re such a cutie, Eds.”

“No, No I’m fucking-”

“Both of you, shut up.” Stanley grumbles after rolling his eyes several times at the two.

Richie snapped his eyes at Stan, glaring through his coke bottle glasses, which only enhanced his eye size even more. He held Eddie closer, even with Eddie’s flushed cheeks he still squirmed lightly.

Stan sighs in relief and folds his arms as the group goes back to its usual discussion about the new random comic book of the week. Eddie couldn’t help but allow his heart to beat faster at Richie’s touch against his form, making him feel protected in his stronger grip. He couldn’t help but zone out as Richie begun to bicker that his comic book that he found was better than Stan’s.

Bill tilted his head, analysing Eddie as his eyes would flicker all over the place with his mouth gaping before closing every now and then and gulping. He knew that how he was acting wasn’t the norm for Eddie whenever Richie was like this, something was different. Not to mention that he had stopped struggling against Richie who wasn’t even holding Eddie tightly or forcing him in place.

Bill smiled a bit, as something clicked inside of his head- a plan. But he was going to need Stanley to help out.

That night, on the way home from their adventurous summer day- Bill was walking Eddie home as Stanley had taken Richie to a different route. Bill hummed a tune as he walked alongside his friend, grinning as he turned to look at him.

“So...”

Eddie looked at Bill, tilting his head, “So?”

“So, y-..you and Richie?”

“Yeah?” Eddie was confused, almost disgust in his voice- but Bill could see past the faux disgust.

“I saw how you were t-today, Eddie. Y-you were blushing.”

This again, only caused Eddie to heat up as his form became a flustered mess and he glared at Bill. “You would blush too if someone touched your arm!”

“N-no, I’d only b-blush if Bev touched my arm there.” Bill pointed out, “but in this instance, you blushed when Richie had his arm around you- as well when he pinched your cheek and called you a ‘cutie’, it’s quite obvious.”

Eddie snapped his head away, patting his fanny pack for reassurance for himself. “Whats your point?”

“My point? M=my point is that he’s flirting with you; y-you like him.”

“I don’t like him! And he isn’t flirting with me! He acts like that with everyone-”

Bill cuts Eddie off quickly, “E-Eddie, do you see him pinching any of our cheeks and calling us a ‘cutie’? He doesn’t put his arms a-around us or any of the shit he does for you, not to mention he calls you E-Eds and doesn’t have a nickname for any of us.”

“Okay Bill-”

“N-n..not to mention, he carries an extra i-inhaler around just incase you lose yours.”

Thats when Eddie’s breath hitches, feeling butterflies go crazy in his abdomen, adoration swirling and tugging at his heart strings. He could practically hear his heart in his ears loud and clear.

“He... he does?” Eddie whispers, his voice quivering a bit.

“Yeah, even though he knows that you don’t even need it anymore, because you know, gazebos and your Mom making your illness up and shit but- yeah.” Bill smiles, watching how the young boy was falling more and more in love.

Eddie then quickly holds his wrist, feeling his pulse; resulting his fingertips quivering from feelings how his heart was beating with happiness.

“Oh... I-I never knew that. He’s never told me...”

“That’s b-because you’ve never needed it, but he always has.”

Eddie bites his lip, “What a fucking, what- he’s a fucking dick.” Eddie protests, blushing bright as ever.

“Sure he is,” Bill chuckled, “But l-look, I wanna help you. I know when someone is in love when I see it.”

“How?” Eddie asked, neither denying his feelings or admitting.

“Well.. It i-involves music.”

Meanwhile, Stanley was grumbling to himself in annoyance and cursing Bill’s name for getting him into this situation with Richie Tozier. He didn’t want to do this, but Bill had promised to give him some candy as a reward if it goes well.

“So, Richie. I’m gonna make this quick as possible so I can just go home.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Richie asked with pure confusion, a single eyebrow furrowing and one raising.

“You like Eddie, Eddie likes you.” Stan started, his face full of boredom, “Can you just hurry up and tell him?”

Richie was shocked by his friend’s words at first, before smirking. “Hell yeah I like him, I tell him all the time.”

“I mean genuinely, you asshole.” Stan sighed, “Not as a joke or some shit, literally confess your fucking feelings to him or something.”

Richie rolls his eyes, not being fazed by the situation, “What makes you think I like him seriously? I’m not fucking gay-”

“It’s pretty fucking clear you like girls, after you telling us for the full day about the first time you ‘tickled your pickle’ to a random magazine that had huge boobs all over it. But you like guys too, there’s nothing wrong with that.” Stan spoke with a monotone voice, managing to not let any voice cracks slip.

Richie scoffed, “I don’t like him, he’s a friend and I like to tease him.”

“You tease him by calling him ‘cute’ and you give him a nickname, you don’t do it to anyone else. You like him, just admit it- no one is judging you.” 

Richie frowned, huffing a bit and rolling his eyes. “Well, what if I did? Whats your point and where are you going with this?”

Stan smirked, patting Richie’s back forcefully, causing him to stumble forward.

“What’s your taste in music like?”

The next day, both Richie and Eddie were walking to school together in perfect unison, both of them holding a tape in their pocket that held a variety of songs that the one had imagined for the other.

Richie gulped, for once actually nervous around Eddie. What would Eddie think of him? It was a fucking mixtape, it was Richie’s music taste. Would he even like it? Would he-

“Richie, here. I want you to have this.” Eddie cut off Richie’s thoughts, holding up a tape alike to Richie’s.

Richie blinked twice, stopping in his steps. The tape was all black and what seemed to be painted on with nail polish ‘Sucks to Suck’ on top of the tape. 

“I-it’s a mixtape.” Eddie mumbled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt flustered.

Richie stayed silent, slowly taking the tape, analysing it with soft eyes before looking up with confusion. He turned over the  mix tape to see ‘to Richie’ painted with the same shade of white but in smaller writing.

“You made one too?” He spoke quietly, his head tilted to the side which caused his dark brown hair to tilt too.

“What?”

“Look...” Richie dug into his pocket and pulled out his own black tape which had a sticker on it, saying ‘Gimmie head til’ I’m dead!’ on it, with writing scribbled onto the back saying ‘to Eds’ with a cheeky smiley face, “I made one too, here.” He handed it over.

Eddie’s eyes widened, blushing a bit as he took it from the glasses wearing boy and read over it- mentally scoffing at the sticker but he was in awe of the idea that both of them had somehow made a mixtape for the other.

“You too?” Eddie whispered in shock.

“Well, yeah- but it wasn’t my idea.”

“It wasn’t mine either.” 

Richie quickly smirked, rolling his eyes, “They fucking set us up.”

“Who? Bill? Because it was Bill’s idea for me-” Eddie began to ramble on.

“It was Stan’s idea for me.”

Eddie then stopped, sighing with a grin- poking his tongue in his cheek. “Fuck, that makes sense.”

Both look at each other with grins slowly spreading over their chapped lips, soon the two boys were in a fit of giggles due to the realisation of the sweet situation. Both never taking eyes off one another, blushes spreading to their ears and down their necks.

“I, I guess I’ll listen to this tonight?” Richie’s voice broke, still calming down from his fit of giggles.

“Yeah, me too... I-i uh, I picked out the songs carefully and put them in order a certain way, so..” Eddie trailed off, becoming a little ashamed incase Richie would tease him for his effort.

But Richie only felt love swell inside of him at those words, he grabbed Eddie’s hand with his free one and leant forward, bending down slightly, whilst pressing their lips together for the first time. Eddie’s eyes widened in shock, before melting and wrapping his free arm around Richie’s neck with the mixtape in his firm grip. Both merged together in sync and harmony, with their lips swelling and becoming saturated in colour. Richie wrapped his other arm around Eddie’s waist and too held his mix tape tightly as they both kissed in the middle of the street, hand in hand, with no shame at all.

Eddie sat down at his desk, placing his headphones over his head, pressing play as quickly the flood of Richie vibes swirled into his eardrums. Finally, after many aching hours at school he had time to listen to this mixtape.

I don’t want to know your name

Cause’ you don’t look the same

The way you did before

Okay, you think you got a pretty face

But the rest of you is out of place

You looked alright before...

Eddie chuckled at the familiar song, it often played in arcades that the Losers club all went too. It went under the title ‘Fox on the Run’ and it was by ‘The Sweets’.

Fox on the run!

You scream and everybody comes a running!

Take a run and hide yourself away...

Foxy on the run!

F-foxy!

Fox on the run...

And hide away!

Eddie listened to every song intensely, capturing the vibe of Richie Tozier perfectly. He had even picked out songs that they both loved and favoured. Eddie really adored Richie’s music taste and everything about it, it perfectly described him as a person and he loved that.

Soon, the last song came on. By the instrumental, Eddie recognised it to be ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love With You’ by Elvis Presley. HIs heart hammered quickly.

Wise men say,

Only fools rush in

But I, cant help, falling in love with you...

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin?

If I can’t help, falling in love with you...

Eddie’s breath hitched in his throat, feeling his pulse echo throughout his system. This was not part of Richie’s vibe at all, but part of Eddie’s. Eddie loved Elvis Presley whilst Richie wasn’t a big fan of him. 

But this song was magical and made for someone special, so Eddie was shocked and swooned. Very much so captivated.

Eddie Kaspbrak was falling in love with Richie Tozier.

Later that night, Richie laid down in bed with his cheap headphones, before plugging them into the mixtape and pressing the button to get the songs going.

The first song started; it was of course one of Richie’s favoured artists as well as Eddie’s. From what he knew, this was one of Eddie’s favourite songs from David Bowie, it was called Heroes and it was a truly beautiful song.

I, I will be king.

And you, you will be queen.

Though nothing, will drive them away

We can beat them, just for one day.

Oh we can be heroes!

Just for one day.

And you, you can be mean.

And I, I drink all the time.

Because we’re lovers, and that is a fact.

Yes we’re lovers, and that is that.

Though nothing, will keep us together

We could steal time, just for one day.

We could be heroes, forever and ever.

What’d you say?

Richie felt his heart pump faster and swell as the mixtape carried on, each song having Eddie’s vibe to it. But Richie could tell that they matched him in a way that made Eddie pick it for him to listen to. Everything was intentional.

After a good 50 minutes, the final song was starting to play. Yet Richie wasn’t prepared for what he was about to hear.

Hey Jude...

Don’t make it bad,

Take a sad song, then make it better.

Remember, to let her into your heart.

Then you can start to make it better.

Richie’s eyes widened as his thoughts wandered back to Eddie’s simple words. ‘I picked out the songs carefully and put them in order a certain way.’ This meant that Eddie had intentionally wanted Richie to hear this song last.

Hey Jude...

Don’t be afraid.

You were made to go out and get her.

The minute you let her under your skin

Then you begin to make it better.

Richie felt the tears prick at his waterline as this was the first time of him being emotional at a song. Eddie was the only person that knew about Richie’s home life, how he was neglected by his parents constantly and was alone. He knew that the reason why Richie was so loud and out there was because he didn’t receive the attention he deserved at home, so he wanted it from friends. He wanted to make people laugh, Eddie knew this.

Eddie’s key words lingered in his brain, as it stuck out to him that this single song revealed that Eddie’s whole mixtape was set up in a way to help Richie throughout dark times or whenever he felt alone, so he could remember that Eddie had cared enough to set up this mixtape in perfect order to make Richie stronger in that given moment.

And anytime you feel the pain,

Hey Jude, refrain

Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders.

For well you know that it’s a fool,

Who plays it cool

By making his world a little colder.

Richie’s tears finally fell, making him take his glasses off to refrain any of the tears staining the lenses. Eddie had purposely picked this song as if to say that Richie was in fact his Jude, he wanted Richie to get better and hopefully have a better mindset besides his life at home.

Nah, nah nah, nah nah, nah nah, nah nah...

His breaths shook, as he held the mixtape to his chest with the headphones still placed perfectly on his head. He was thankful to have someone like Eddie who would even bother to do this, as something as simple as this with so much thought put into it only made him fall in love with the small boy even more.

[post-itpenny]

No I'm not letting you go line uwu your choice

In which Billy is Billy and Maggie is Maggie…. X3

Sleepover

Maggie had come over to Billy’s manor for dinner… with an umbrella.

Billy quirked an eyebrow at her when he greeted her at the door. “Maggie dear the forecast didn’t call for rain.”

Maggie shrugged her shoulders, “Well whatever news station you watch was wrong, it will rain and I’m prepared.”

Dinner was lovely but as soon as they moved to desert the sound of thunder could be heard from outside. Maggie gave an ‘I told you so’ smirk before another boom of thunder shook the whole manor causing both of them to jump. Soon the heavens opened and the rain fell with such force it was impossible to see outside. 

“Well you were right Maggie but I must say your little umbrella won’t do you much good nor do I see it as safe to drive in this weather so…. it looks like you will just have to stay here tonight my dear.”

Maggie blushed slightly, “s-stay the night? I- but I can’t.”

“Well you certainly can’t go out there. Whats wrong? Are you worried about the owl?”

Maggie shook her head, “No I fed Gizmo before I left so he would be fine for the night. I just…. well…” 

Billy smirked as he gently led her away from the window, “think of it like a sleepover. We’ll have fun, trust me.”

Maggie looked at him from the corner of her eyes, “Billy that’s the thing. I don’t trust you.”

His smirk widened into a grin, “quite right too. Yet here you are so either you’re gullible or you’re lying.”

“Hmmm…. yup that’s it. I must be gullible.” Maggie said with a smirk.

Billy nudged her as they walked, “well I’m betting on lying.”

Maggie giggled and was about to argue back when she realized just where Billy had lead her, yup… gullible.

“Billy is this ah… are we in…?” 

“Yes this is my room, you will need something to sleep in won’t you?”

Maggie’s face burned as Billy all but dragged her into the room. It was a beautiful and fancy as Maggie expected Billy’s room to be, even grander then the one at his penthouse and dang did the bed look comfy. 

Maggie stood frozen one part in awe at such a nice bedroom and part in terror that she was in Billy’s bedroom. Meanwhile Billy himself hunting through drawers, fighting back a smile.

“Here this should fit you, the bathroom is in the door right behind you and if you don’t mind grabbing the box of nail polish while you’re in there that would be wonderful.”

“Nail polish?”

Billy grinned, “I want to paint your nails of course, maybe teach you as well?”

Maggie smiled at him and went into the bathroom to change. Not two minutes later she was poking her head out again with a nervous blush on her face. “Um, Billy? Yo- you don’t have anything else I can wear?” 

Billy was already in a pair of pajama pants and handing Maggie’s dress off to a maid for washing. “No I’m sorry dear.”

Maggie’s blush deepened as she walked out, the shirt he had given her didn’t quite reach her knees even as she continuously tugged at it. She handed him the box of polish and quickly grabbed a blanket to wrap up in. Billy smirking the whole time. “Come now Maggie you know I would never put you in an uncomfortable situation.”

Maggie gave him a look, “Billy I’m uncomfortable right now.”

He had to admit she got him there, however this did not take away from his smirk. Soon the two were seated on the floor as Billy painted Maggie’s nails. Red with little black feathers on them. It was as Billy began instructing Maggie on painting the base coat on his nails… when the power went out. 

Maggie jumped and nearly spilled the bottle of polish as lightning flashed and the windows shook. Billy caught the bottle before looking up at the lights with a sigh. “Well then… how about some mood lighting?” 

Maggie didn’t need to see Billy to know what face he was making just the same as Billy knew he had successfully made her blush again. 

Soon candles were lit as they took turns playing Never Have I Ever, in which Billy learned Maggie used to work for the mafia in New York during the 1920′s and Maggie learned Billy had spent much of the Roman Empire being worshiped as a god. As they talked Billy wrapped his arm around Maggie’s shoulders as she herself began to fight sleep….

Maggie awoke to the dim light of sunrise peaking through the windows and the awareness that she was incredibly comfortable. She gave a sigh of content and snuggled into the warmth of the blankets and the arms wrapped around her.

Wait…

Maggie’s eyes snapped open. She was lying in bed wrapped in a sleeping Billy’s arms, her head tucked under his chin. 

She tried to jump out of bed only for Billy to wrap an arm around her waist to pin her back down. “What are you doing?” Billy mumbled as he cracked an eye open.

Maggie blushed and stuttered “I- I… I need to- It’s morning and-”

“No, I’m not letting you go. It’s too early to get out of bed.” Billy mumbled, already slipping back off to sleep. 

“B-but I-”

“Shh, its still sleep time.” Billy argued with his face down in his pillow. He pulled her closer and ran a hand through the feathers on her head. The effect was immediate as Maggie relaxed, snuggling closer with her eyes still on the window as more light began to gradually creep in. She let out a yawn as her eyes slipped shut.

After a moment Billy turned his head towards her with a sleepy yet triumphant smile, kissed the top of her head, and went back to sleep himself.

It really was still too early. 

[winterscream4]

No Works and No Days (Part 2)

Mountains of green…moving, crashing into black ravines.

Marlowe found something soothing about watching the cardiograph while he kept slipping in and out of consciousness. Always intrigued by all things weird and eerie, Marlowe had recently heard a radio transmission from Saturn, purportedly captured by NASA’s Cassini-Huygens probe. The caption on the UFOlogists’ website wrote: Aliens having a conversation on Enceladus. The machine’s recurrent beeping reminded him of that, although it did not so much sound like a discussion. More like, an alien mother’s lullaby.  

Marlowe’s eyes, still twitching from the anesthesia scanned the hospital room’s environs. Medical tubes, tangling like jungle tendrils above him. Intravenous liquids travelling from translucent vales into Marlowe’s veins below. Pistachio green walls began to appear, beyond the post-surgery compression stockings that covered his feet. Thinking back to Quentin Tarantino’s first “Kill Bill” movie, Marlowe instinctively made an effort to move his toes, then his heels and ultimately to bend his legs. Between his knees, a strange shape started assuming form. It was the painting of a tree, shaded in the colors of the evening dusk, as its expanding branches multiplied into smudges and birds, fluttering towards the grey melancholy sky stretching above them. Marlowe’s eyes narrowed as the inkblots below, merged into letters. Titled “Return of the Fieldfares”, the painting, lodged inside a dark grey frame, was attributed to Devon landscape artist Stewart Edmondson. Devon…home to Katelyn Elizabeth Holmes, the woman who got him out of his seclusion right before Martin entered his life once more. It was a shame, things never worked out with her, but then again, how could they have? Marlowe’s only desire at the time was intrigue and excitement, a life worth of a classic detective mystery. And Holmes, well, a rose by any other name might have been sweeter. She was too deliberate, too eager…too easy to spread her legs and let him plug jumper cables on her vaginal lips just to get her and himself going. But Marlowe didn’t enjoy it one bit. Bondage, torture and domination may have worked in the moments when people like Roderick Prospero or Alexander Driskull mixed their personal and professional lives, but despite superficial urgings Marlowe always held deep feelings of repulsion against exerting control over another human being. After all, he had been the butt of that joke all too many times himself.

But maybe all that was a load of horseshit. After all, how could someone feel that degree of attraction for men like Martin without seeing a little of himself in there?  Funny wasn’t it?

How after Martin injected him with the serum and tossed him in the ocean, his mind blended images of himself with those of Hyde? How, as he was being tossed around by the waves, memories and dreams merged into constellations of murder and insanity, pushing, compelling, forcing, beckoning him to…

“You’re up.”

The interjecting voice was soft but a little croaky. A woman, probably one, going through the flue. Marlowe moved his gaze to the direction of the voice, like a blind bat, navigating its cage through echolocation.

“I…”

Words were difficult. His throat was dry. He hadn’t smoked in a while, but the sensation was familiar, albeit taken to the extreme. Something soft and wet touched his lips. Velvet…nay…cotton…bandage strip dipped in water.

“Careful…” the voice instructed…directed, as tanned hands pushed his head forward. Marlowe’s body obeyed, although his eyes still blurring a bit, needed to verify its origins.

“There….There, we go…”

Friedrich Nietzsche’s concept of the eternal return sprang in Marlowe’s mind. This had happened before…back in 2013, when his nearly dead body was cast ashore a small island, a few miles away from the coast of Midvintersville. A man there, whispered the same thing as he had him sip drops from herbal tea. It tasted like dung mixed with vomit. But it saved his life. Still…that was his name. A man who faced the Black Glove in the past and ended up resigning from life, choosing to dwell as a hermit in an abandoned lighthouse.

The man Marlowe came to know as Still, even though he was certain this wasn’t his real name, had attempted to train him in combat, teach him the art of murder by the sword. He thought it was the only way to take down the four fingers of the Black Glove. He was wrong. The hand, beneath the Glove ended up strangling its own throat. Marlowe felt guilt surging through him, for not visiting Still since the day he left the isle…since the two men watched the clouds gather in the distance as the Storm of the Century was approaching. Lightening…

Light.

“Oh my God. I am so sorry!”

Marlowe grunted in irritation as he pushed his body away from the flash.

“I just needed to check your pupils, but we can do that later. Is that okay with you, Mr. Marlowe?”

“Mr. Marlowe”…There was a weird ring to it. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy the formality but with the last person who called him that, the interaction concluded with him getting shoveled on the back of his skull.

 Several nonsense words ending in “y” were muttered before he finally got it right.

“Stanley…”

“Okay…Stanley.”

“Thhstanley!”…There was a pronounced lisp in her voice. Not that it took much away from its charm, but Marlowe couldn’t help but poke fun at it in his head. Little did he realize that, all those drugs had put his mind where his mouth was.

“Okay…bit of a dick move bro!”

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

The woman chuckled.

“I am kidding!” she exclaimed almost as if it was a plot twist. “After I had my appendix removed, I called my mother an Ugly Bitch! Can you believe that? So yeah, I get it, it’s the meds talking.”

Marlowe was too dizzy to respond. His stomach was churning but the usual acidic taste reaching the gullet before vomiting, wasn’t there just yet.

“I feel…”

“Yeah, I just put an antiemetic in your I.V. Give it a few minutes. Meanwhile, I wanted to give you this.”

Marlowe observed a hand entering his visual field. It was not as dark in complexion as he originally thought but had a golden tint to it instead. The fingers were long and hairless, the nails short and undyed but evidently manicured recently. As the fog began to clear from his eyes, he gazed upwards.  The voice was revealed to have a face and a strange one at that. She was clearly far more tanned than most Canadians he’d encountered the previous two years; Latina but not exactly. Her nose bore that distinct feature of Golden Age illustrations, symmetrical but slightly pointing downwards. The lips, smiling gently at him, were unusually large. Little bit of lipstick, maybe, rotten apple in color. Her hair was cut short, reaching down a little below her shoulders. A very nineties style, reminiscent of Willow Rosenberg’s from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And the eyes, almost uncanny compared with her complexion. Almond shaped, hazel in color, purplish kind of, under the cold hospital lighting. There she stood, a petrol shirt tucked under her blank medical robe, formal trousers held together by a brown belt, visible just above the hospital’s mattress.

A weight was pushing down his chest. Marlowe glanced below. Henry David Thoreau’s greyscale portrait was starring right at him.

“The paramedics found it laying by your side in the woods.”

“Have you read it?” Marlowe toiled to speak as his lips had started to turn dry again.

“I am more of a “Civil Disobedience” kind of gal. But yeah, it’s a beautiful book.”

Most of, Whitman’s, Emmerson’s and Thoreau’s works were in a prominent place at the Winter Manor’s library. Marlowe had leafed through “Civil Disobedience” although by that point he scarcely remembered what it was about, lest for a few catchy quotes.

“The true place for a just man is the prison…or maybe the hospital…”

“Well” the woman replied as she adjusted the flow of his I.V. “Next time you want to play Socrates, you stick to wine and opium. Cause that Destroying Angel the doctors found in your system; man, was it a hustle to remove!”

Marlowe froze, flabbergasted. How could he have been that stupid? He’d read the books! The Destroying Angel mushroom had well-earned its name. It was rumored to be the most common source of fungi-ingested deaths in the Northern hemisphere, going for your kidneys and liver first before entering the blood. Then it starts fucking up the rest of you all the same. But then Marlowe’s mind harked back to another thing the woman had just mentioned. “The Doctors…?”. Wasn’t she one of them?

“You are not…a doctor?” he quizzed in a tone concealing hints of suspicion.

The woman smiled. Her lips grew weirded but strangely more compelling also.

“Mary Schwann. Neuropsychology PhD, from Berkley’s, specializing on the viral counter-myelination of neuronal tissue and neurodynamic psychotherapy.”

“I will need to see a C.V. on that…”

“Screw you.” The woman smiled again. “You are in good hands.”

“Was my brain…”

“Oh no, no! You are no worse off that you used to be. We did an fMRI just in case. But I do have some bad news.”

“Shit…”

“Your insurance mandates four hours of psychotherapy. Hence, you are going be stuck with me for a while. But first, we’re going to get you all better. The poison is now out of your system, so if my predictions are correct, you’ll be home by tomorrow.”

“And the therapy…?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you in my office by the end of the week.”

The woman checked her watch.

“Well, I have a few errands to run now, but I’ll be back to check in on you in the morning. It was very nice meeting you, Mister Walden.”

“It was nice meeting you…Civil Disobedience kind of gal.”

 Even though Marlowe retained his suspicions after getting discharged, he spent many days and nights wishing she had called. A peculiar kind of sorrow surged through him as the months passed and the fear of getting sick from food poisoning again thrusted him into passing his days back under the sheets or in front of a laptop screen. Being a man, with a strong proclivity for the extremes, Marlowe turned his diet 180 degrees to the opposite direction. Wild weeds and nuts were replaced by beef and cheesesteak, forest greens by potato fritters, sumac and rose-dog beverages by Coke and Dr. Pepper and his sautéed mushroom meals were usurped by the Marlowe sub. Gaining pound upon pound, misery upon misery, Marlowe watched the seasons pass from the Winter Manor’s second floor balcony as 2019 came to a close and a virus, born as some say in an industrial town of China, crossed the Atlantic and forced Midvintersville and the entire western world into a seemingly endless lockdown.

As the news only spoke of ever-increasing case numbers, Marlowe found some solace, or perhaps willful self-numbing, in the digital world. Besides using the wi-fi to play video games like: Doom Eternal, Fortnite and Subnatica Below Zero on ps4 and for performing his seven-times-per-day log in to his Pornhub account, Marlowe occasionally used the internet to muse over facets of his old detective life. Since the last days of 2019, he had made accounts to various websites dealing with strange incidents taking place across the globe. Most of them were either hot spots for the kind of lunatics and disgruntled males that conspiracy businesses like QAnon thrived upon, or just plain second-rate creepy pasta. Then again, Marlowe thought about resorting to some law-enforcement websites he knew from his Criminology years at Cambridge, but in those days, police had become more fond of committing the crimes rather than solving them.

Almost by accident, Marlowe encountered an obscure blog titled “Curiosities and Monstrosities” which, at least in appearance, seemed a little more valid than the rest. The authors had recorded all known activities of the New York Ripper from 2011, some of which even Marlowe didn’t know about. They had also listed hundreds of cases, solved, unsolved and classified alike, from marginal misdemeanors to federal crimes, marked by unusual or inexplicable details.

Marlowe had made his own list of those that intrigued him most. A double homicide in Sleepy Hollows, Illinois, apparently committed by a drug-mule even though witnesses swore to have seen a black pumpkin engulfed in green flames, leaving the scene. Then there was that neighboring feud, turning ugly, with a nearby tenant claiming that both members involved possessed occult powers, with the man turning into a reptilian and the woman producing red, energy orbs out of her hands. And last, came the discovery of three bodies after a fire in a field, somewhere in the great out there of Texas, with one of them preserving a contorted face, as if it was still laughing, the other restrained against a sanguinello tree and the third being toothless, while having grown root like structures on the back of its head, as if it had just become one with the tree before burning to a crisp.

But all of that paled in comparison to the sheer numbers of deaths, committed by a smaller and far less theatrical assassin. The virus had already claimed the lives of almost 30 million people across the world. At the same time, politicians ignored or underestimated the virus, some claiming it a fraud while others recommending bleach as a potent cure against it. Sometimes, Marlowe pondered if an idiot in a position power could be more dangerous than the Black Glove, since at the very least they had a plan before inflicting their repertoires of corruption and atrocity.

 Yet, by November 2020 things were getting a little more hopeful in Midvintersville. Even though the rest of Canada was still in peril, the summer-lasting lockdown imposed by Walter Greene, the town’s newly elected mayor, somehow seemed to work. A day before his birthday, as Marlowe browsed his computer for lockdown lifting news, he was all too astounded to find an unread email from the night before, marked with a familiar name at the top.

Mary Schwann. PhD.

Closing all google chrome windows on the side, Marlowe rushed to open the email, reading its contents aloud with a smile beaming across his face.

“U still owe me 4 hours of therapy. Lockdown’s lifted next week. U available?”

“PS: I hate the U’s but your file said you were born in 1979. I am a 1978. Need to appear younger. Lol.”

“PS: Hate the lols’ too.”

Marlowe did not need to ponder much. Thoughts of Mary Schwann being some sort of Black Glove assassin or a friend of Boisette’s aching for vengeance for the pulp of guts and bones that was left of him, crossed his mind but he was such an easy target to begin with, that all that trouble seemed counter-productive.

“Took you a while.” he typed, while trying to come up with some ridiculous piece of millennial slang to throw into his email.

“When we get our moment of exodus, I’ll be there. Care to meet at the old aqueducts, near the cemetery? Imao.”

“PS: I don’t know what Imao means. But it sounds a lot like a lost pygmy race from the Pacific archipelago.”

I ‘ve missed y…delete.

Marlowe jumped off his office chair, pacing towards the second floor’s ornate windowpanes. He pulled the burgundy curtains embroidered with golden floral patterns aside and gazed at the city looming beyond a vast stretch of black firs and daunting pines. The drizzle, descending in full strength across the day had ceased, and parting skies revealed the romantic glory of the solar star, disappearing beneath the Atlantic. A pal mal inevitably found itself between Marlowe’s lips. He huffed and he puffed and even though the taste was the same, it felt different for Marlowe had rarely ever smoked while feeling something akin to joy. 

All the toy soldiers he was playing with before lay motionless against the dining table, next to a half-eaten Marlowe sub. James’ Bonsai was still there, facing the sunset while shading over the ruined faces of Marlowe’s long dead adversaries. 

This will have to suffice. Marlowe thought. For now.

***********************************************************

Crooked rays of red light glimmered through the stained glass, as Vesper beckoned above the Opera House. 

The floorboards creaked ominously, as if the night herself had dismounted from her celestial mare and was striding down the Opera’s archaic oaken panels. Streams of accumulated water from the day’s persistent drizzle were crossing through the underground tubing almost muffling the yelps and sobs, echoing from beneath the black hood.

A woman, or what was left of her. Her face covered by a crudely sewn ebony fabric, like the prisoners of Abu Ghraib; her body sealed in concrete. Her palms and legs below the calf, bruised by the cold and the damp and the beatings, extending from the dark grey surface, like the clay appendages used in ancient Rome as offerings to heal the ailing limps of the sufferers.

She was suffering. He had made sure of that.

Her left foot dangled in the air; the pain made worse by the itching. A single strip of gaze, wrapped around the bleeding blotch where her middle toe used to be, held together by a threadbare string of manilla rope. The marble floor below her had turned green and wet, from moisture and the saliva that had been trickling from her mouth for the past week, as the ball-gag more often than not inhibited her from swallowing properly. The gagging reflex made her head shake neurotically back and forth. Time had disappeared the moment she was captured, and days and nights had blended into a single pit of agony and fear of impending pain.

The noises issuing from her lips and body were those of a fox, whose foot had been lodged in a beartrap and her mouth had been muzzled so that she won’t be able to chew it off even if she wanted to. Only occasionally, they were interrupted, after passing out, when her brain allowed her a few moments of rest in unconsciousness.

But this was not one of those moments.

For right across her, the flickering light of a desk lamp that signaled his arrival had been turned back on again. And with it, returned the methodical, calculated almost, squeaking sound of his armchair as it resounded across the abandoned halls. Gradually, as the lamplight flared into existence, his torn linen cowl revealed itself; once a mask whole marked with a quarter note, symbolizing a man’s inner journey into music, art and childhood dreams, now a derelict mockery of its past significance. With the darkness dissipating, revealing the canvas of his art once more, his bronze teeth hummed an infernal melody while grinding through the flesh and nail and bone of the woman’s toe and ultimately swallowing it along with the few remaining hopes of her nightmare ever coming to an end.

[queen-of-regrets]

Lance does Keith's makeup

A/N: Tbh I think this is the fastest I’ve ever written something in a looonnngg time. Also, fair warning - I have like a very small sense of how makeup works. So I apologize in advance if my descriptions make no sense (^▽^;) Enjoy!

read it here on ao3

“Hold still dammit,” Lance took ahold of Keith’s chin to turn his face back to the front, only to be met with a scowl, “And stop looking at me like that. I’m the one doing you a favor here!”

Ignoring him, Keith scrunched up his nose even more, which was definitely not adorable. Nope, not adorable at all - if anything it was annoying. Yep that’s it, annoying.

“I can do this by myself you know.”

Lance raised an eyebrow,  “Yeah well you tried that, and Allura said you failed, soooo - ”

“She didn’t say that!”

The blue paladin scoffed, “Oh really? Allura!” Lance called over his shoulder, “Didn’t you say Keith failed doing his makeup the first time?”

Across the room, Allura was applying her own makeup in front of the room’s large mirror while giving Shiro pointers on how to do his. She paused, regarding them in the reflection of the mirror, “No, I didn’t say he failed -”

“Thank you!”

“But, Oclialians have a very specific design their faces have to contain when engaging in formal affairs. It would be considered rude to them if your face wasn’t painted in the same style. Besides, Lance seems to be the one with the better handle on how it’s supposed to look,” she gestured over to Pidge, who was too busy fiddling with some tech stuff on the floor to partake in the conversation.

Lance had done her makeup earlier, and was quite proud of how it had turned out. Her eyelids held a beautiful gradient of gold to emerald green glitter eyeshadow starting from the inner corners of her eyes. The subtle black winged eyeliner and mascara further accented the colors of eyeshadow. Underneath her eyes a pool of gold glitter flecked with green formed and then trailed almost tear-like tracks down her cheeks. Her lips were painted with a light pink color so as not to draw attention away from her eyes (which Allura had said was the most important part). All in all, he thought he’d nailed it.

“Still doesn’t explain why I can’t do it myself.” Keith grumbled, looking down at his shoes.

Lance sighed, “Look straight, dude.” he gently tilted Keith’s chin back upwards. In the split-second he averted his gaze to grab the eye primer, he missed the slight flush that spread across Keith’s face, “And I believe it’s because you seem to have some kind of personal vendetta against glitter.”

Keith’s face quickly morphed into outrage, “I do not!”

“Yes you do!” Shiro shouted back from across the room, where he was applying his own silver glitter tears with flecks of black.

“Do not!”  

“Well I think the fact that we had to get Lance to do your makeup because you refused to put on the glitter, speaks for itself.”

Keith made an irritated ‘tsk’ sound and leaned back against the wall he was standing by, “Glitter’s annoying. It might look all aesthetically pleasing at first, but then before you know it, it’s everywhere. And months later you’ll still be finding specks of it all over you. Especially if it was in your hair. At that point it’s never getting out and you’ll just have to live with glitter infested hair for the rest of your life.”

Lance glanced back at Shiro questioningly. The black paladin only shook his head with an exasperated look on his face, before going back to working on his own look.

He wasn’t sure if that response meant ‘Keith’s had some traumatic experiences with glitter in the past - don’t ask’ or ‘I once dumped a bucket of glitter on Keith’s head when we were kids and he still hasn’t forgiven me’ or … ok yeah those were the only two reasonings he could think of.

“Well I hear you, man. Glitter sucks. In that respect, at least.” he agreed, turning back to Keith, who had been staring at him with his perpetually furrowed brows. Lance resisted the urge to reach out and smooth over Keith’s face to get it to fricking relax for once in his life, “But for the sake of Voltron, you have to wear it.” Keith immediately groaned, banging the back of his head against the wall, “Oh come on, Mullet. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Keith looked at him incredulously, eyebrow raised, “I’m the dramatic one now?”

Lance rolled his eyes, “Well yes clearly, if this is how you react to the prospect of wearing glitter. But don’t worry, if it’s any consolation I’ll keep up the emo theme for you.”  he couldn’t help the sly grin that slide across his face in spite of the death glare Keith sent him, “Ok but seriously, I need you to close your eyes.”

Keith complied without further complaint, much to Lance’s relief. The feeling that Keith was staring into the very depths of his soul as Lance did his makeup was a little disconcerting to say the least.

“Why do I even have to go to this diplomatic meeting anyway?” Keith questioned as Lance applied the primer on his eyelids, “Why can’t Hunk or Lance go instead? They’d fit in way better than I would.”

Lance stopped, his instinctive defensiveness kicking in, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Keith sighed, “Well, I mean you and Hunk are like really good at dealing with these kinds of social situations,” his eyes were still closed, despite the fact that Lance had stopped applying makeup, “You always know the right thing to say in every situation. People don’t hate you right off the bat, and you get along with practically everyone. Meanwhile, I’m more …”

“Stab first, talk later?”

Keith grimaced, “Yeah … I’m not good at these things.”

“Well I’m afraid it’s not really up to us to decide who goes and who stays,” Allura said apologetically, while putting the finishing touches on her face, “Oclialia’s leaders were very explicit on which of us they wanted to be attending this meeting to discuss their planet’s future relations with Voltron.”

Lance tried not to let the fact that he hadn’t been picked to attend this super special important meeting sting him too much. Instead he refocused on applying the rest of the primer just underneath Keith’s eyes.

At least Hunk isn’t going either, Lance thought, capping the primer bottle and trading it with the glitter eyeshadow pallet on the table next to him. It would’ve hurt a lot more if Lance turned out to be the only paladin not chosen to attend.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he reassured Keith, as he started dabbing some color onto his eyelid, “You probably won’t have to say much anyway. Just sit there and look pretty while the adults do the talking.”

Keith scowled at the same time Pidge said “I’d be down for that.”

Lance shot a look over his shoulder at Pidge.

“What?” she crossed her arms, sitting up straighter over her mess of metal and wires on the floor, “I need to work on this thing!”

He rolled his eyes, smiling as he imagined Pidge just sitting in the middle of the big conference area tinkering away, not caring for the exasperated looks Allura and Shiro would be sending her. He turned back towards Keith, “Well if Pidge has something to look forward to during a boring diplomatic meeting, I’m sure you’ll find something to keep yourself occupied.” he remarked, finishing up the base layer of color on Keith’s eyelids. Keith was still scowling.

“I’d rather have you be there too.” Keith mumbled, so softly Lance almost missed it.

But he didn’t. His brush froze in midair as his heart suddenly seemed to soar straight out of his chest.

He didn’t know how the heck to respond to that, so instead he coughed awkwardly and said, “Dude, you need to stop scowling. It’s making me mess up.”

The red paladin’s face immediately smoothed over into a neutral expression. Lance took a minute to appreciate how calm and serene he looked (which wasn’t a weird thing to do, shut up, Pidge), before continuing to work on his eyeshadow.

“I’m being serious,” Keith said after a few seconds, “This would be a lot more tolerable if you were there.”

“Tolerable? That’s it? “ Lance joked, “Not even enjoyable? Just tolerable?”

“It’s still a diplomatic meeting. How the hell would you make it enjoyable?”

“I have my methods,” he smirked, “Now, shut up and don’t move unless you want me to poke your eyes out. I need to concentrate.”

Lance made quick work with the eyeliner and mascara, then moved onto the vital piece. He decided to experiment a bit, and go for something like Allura did - bringing the same gradient from the eyeshadow down to the tear tracks as well. But instead of a pink to gray blend with white specks, he gave Keith a blue to purple blend with subtle specks of red mixed in there.

He definitely wasn’t adding blue because he was extremely curious as to what Keith would look like in that color. Nope, not at all. He wasn’t even sure if the red would go well with these shades.

“Alrighty,” Lance announced once he’d finished putting on the lipstick, finally leaning back and capping the tube as he did so. He glanced back at the table with his array of makeup supplies, setting the lipstick back in it’s proper place, “I think I-“ then he looked back up.

Big mistake.

The rest of his words caught in his throat as his heart did one fell swoop inside his chest upon seeing the sight before him. Now that he wasn’t focusing so intently on key parts of Keith’s face, he saw it, like really saw it, in all it’s entirety.

“Lance? Are you done?”  Keith opened his eyes and holy mother of quiznak.

He was suddenly very aware of just how fast his heart was racing.

Amidst the intense colors surrounding his eyes, Keith’s blue-gray eyes now appeared almost purple. They practically glowed. The glittered tear tracks running down his cheeks made it look like he was crying a galaxy populated by red stars that flickered when he tilted his head.

It was-

He was-

Gorgeous, stunning, beautiful, ten-out-of-ten would give up left arm to see this face again, his jumbled mind supplied helpfully. Yet all those words seemed like a severe understatement to what was standing in front of him.

And despite the short-circuiting his brain seemed to be experiencing, he dimly noted that blue looked extremely good on Keith.

“Lance?” the furrowed brows were back, “What’s wrong? Did you mess up something?” Keith eyed him suspiciously as he moved to make his way over to the mirror, immediately snapping Lance out of his reverie.

He whipped around just as Keith caught sight of his reflection. He stopped short. For a minute, he just stared at himself, wide-eyed in a mixture of shock and … awe?

“Woah,” he breathed, taking a step closer to mirror, eyes still gleaming with that weird mix of emotions that Lance couldn’t quite place.

Allura glanced up from where she was putting away her makeup supplies, giving Keith’s face a once over before meeting the blue paladin’s stare in the mirror’s reflection. She grinned, “Nice work, Lance.”

At his name, Keith turned around to face him, but Lance instantly averted his gaze, electing to stare down at his shuffling feet,

“Lance I-” he swallowed, still reeling in from the shock, “This is- Thank-”

“It’s no problem, really. No need to thank me. It’s nothing,” he said hurriedly, cutting Keith off before he could finish. He didn’t know if his heart could handle it if Keith actually thanked him, “Anyway, I should probably go find Hunk and Coran. They’re probably dying from lack of my amazing presence,” he tried to joke as he awkwardly shuffled towards the door, avoiding all eye contact, “Alrighty then, I guess I’ll see you guys later, good luck at the meeting, bye!”

In his haste to leave the room, he missed the knowing smirk Pidge sent after him.

He also missed how Keith, with his purple hued eyes and galaxy tears, smiled.

[poof-noodle]

Henry had barely been in the same room as Johnathan for an hour, and he could already tell that he wasn’t even close to human.

His voice, strangely muffled as it was, never once faltered or paused until he was finished talking. His ears were long and pointed (which Henry had thought was just for decoration until they fucking MOVED when someone else shouted at the broken coffee machine in the corner). His nails, painted as black as his mask was, were filed into points that poked out of little slits in the tips of his fancy dress gloves. The mask itself, blank as it was, occasionally exhaled puffs of smoke from the mouth hole.

Maybe it was the fact that he was seven feet tall. Maybe it was the fact that he wore a suit indoors for no reason. Maybe it was the fact that he always gave off a slight odor of blood. Whatever the reason, Henry had deduced that he was definitely not human, and did his best to avoid and/or ignore him.

You can imagine his discomfort when one day, he finds that the creature going by the name of Johnathan had decided to sit at the other end of the couch and crack open a novel as if it were just another day. Henry, meanwhile, was trying to hide himself in his phone and ignore the very-obviously-not-human presence sitting a few feet away.

As if timed with Johnathan’s entrance, everybody else in the room seemed to get up and leave for some reason or another, leaving just him and the creature besides him.

Fun.

Henry, while still scared out of his mind, was trying to focus on an article about sea turtles. It was really boring, but it beat sitting next to some sort of eldritch creature and having nothing to do.

Henry only found a reason to look up when a black clawed hand reached for his chest as if to tear into it.

Flinching, he gasped as the thing in front of him reached for his chest. Henry watched in shock and horror as Johnathan froze, one arm extended towards him as if to grab something, before retracting it with a humored “my dear, calm yourself. I was only attempting to seize my pencil, nothing more.”

Henry glanced down at his elbow, where a dark red pencil indented with the letter J in golden lettering laid, and felt almost silly that he hadn’t seen that earlier.

He viciously gasped for air as the… thing in front of him reached for his chest.

[thephoenixfields]

Session 7: Jailbreak

« SESSION 6 RECAP

The party, with Haroun and Gaer in tow, make their way the next morning towards Ravenwing Royal Prison. The group bluffs their way through the gate between the Merchant’s Ring and Lower Soraya by saying they are going to shop at Lord Crane’s jewelry store. On the way, the group spots a woman dressed in a black lace dress with pale skin, jet black hair, and lips painted a dark, plummy red. She wears a thin veil that is decorated with what looks like diamonds at the edges. While the group has seen some finery from just walking around the Merchant’s Ring thus far, this woman and her cohort are more than exquisitely dressed and equipped. The veiled woman is traveling arm in arm with another finely dressed woman who has on a black dress seemingly made from raven’s feathers.

“Darling, you must sample my closet more often,” the veiled woman smiles. “Thank you for accompanying me on my shopping trip today. I’ve run clean out of my unguents and am in desperate need of a new supply from my dearest Lord Crane.”

They are accompanied by two serving men of large build and girth. Neither of them speak at all.

“The arcanist?”

“A darling, truly.”

Turning away from the merchant’s bazaar, the group stealths towards Guardtown and the royal prison.

Upon arriving at Ravenwing, a disguised Julian picks the front door lock and sneaks into the front hallway of the prison. Fen joins him, having wildshaped herself into a mouse. The two of them discover six dead guards, some of them covered in blood, some of them frozen solid. Exploring the rest of the front hall has two holding cells: in one cell is a young child and an old man, in the other is a strange looking woman. Uninterested by the pleas of the child, Julian instead focuses on the woman in question.

“Hello there,” she smiles at him, and when she smiles, the edges of sharpened teeth seem to poke out from between her lips. Her fingers curve into dark, dangerous claws, while her wrists are bound by shackles. Two bars of the prison that holds her are frosted over.

“You’re Rassa?” Julian asks, approaching the cell slowly, like he’s approaching the cage of a wild thing. And maybe she is just that.

She nods. Julian explains that he’s here to spring her from Ravenwing, as sent by Haroun.

Rassa shrugs her shoulders slowly, lazily. “I’m less perturbed about being imprisoned,” she says, voice smooth as silk, voice unconcerned, as if she chose to be there, “as I am about losing my things. Both were...gifts.” She pauses. “I cannot leave without them. And I will have an easier time retrieving them from the inside than trying to penetrate this place from the outside.”

Julian picks the lock on Rassa’s cell and releases her shackles.

Fen explores beneath the locked door at the edge of the hallway and finds herself in a long, spiralled structure with a couple of crowded cells at the end of her eyeline protected by one guard.

Meanwhile, outside, the group worries about how Julian and Fen are doing. Sariel sends Mazrim to find out what’s going on, though through Julian’s rather poor animal handling check manages to nearly get jammed in the door. Aeleyn and Rowan approach the guard station, which abuts Ravenwing itself, and ask about giving prisoners within their last rights. Rowan, as a cleric of Pelor, is especially convincing. The two of them are allowed inside the prison with permission of the city guards. Aeleyn casts Locate Object to find Brendan’s shirt, and the spell indicates that Brendan is somewhere within the prison.

While Rowan and Aeleyn are distracting the guards, the rest of the group attempts to sneak into the prison. Most everyone makes it across very stealthily, but Gaer trips over a cobblestone and nearly eats it. Instead, with lightning quick reflexes, Haroun grabs him and Dimension Doors both of them inside the front door of the prison.

Safely inside the prison, the party decides to split into two groups: Aeleyn and Rowan scout ahead under the ruse of last rites, while the rest of the group disguises themselves as a group of guards and prisoners being moved to a more secure level of Ravenwing. Sariel and Rassa pose as prisoners (Sariel’s distaste for her shackles are more than noted).

Aelyen and Rowan make their way through the first level of the prison, first passing the cells that hold those who broke curfew; then finding the cells that hold thieves and cutpurses; and finally coming across the cells deep within the first level of the prison that hold the men and women who have committed acts of murder.

“Hello, darling,” a well-dressed man calls out to Rowan from the murder cells. “Fancy helping a man out?”

The prisoner introduces himself as Alder Strain: he is in his early forties, handsome, and slippery as a snake. He denies ever killing anyone, but Rowan can sense an air of untruth about him. Just as Rowan is attempting to move on, Alder holds out his hand to her. “Please. My last rites.”

Once he has his hands on her, Alder Charms Rowan into helping him escape. 

The two guards at the door of the prison cell don’t quite understand what is going on as Rowan attempts to smash the lock open with her mace, and when one guard strays too close to the cell, Alder reaches out and snaps his neck. Aeleyn shoots Alder twice with her bow, taking him out and shaking Rowan from his charm. Rowan, horrified, attempts to save the near-dead guard, which she does successfully. The uninjured guard drags his wounded compatriot off toward Guardtown for healing.

The rest of the group, upon hearing the commotion up ahead, race toward Rowan and Aeleyn only to find themselves arriving in the aftermath. They collect their friends and all together, the party moves to the stairway that lowers itself into level two of Ravenwing Prison.

The door to level two is blocked by six guards who seem less than impressed with the party’s lies. “No one goes beyond this door without clearance,” one of the guards snivels at them. The party subsequently slaughters the guards at the door save two lucky souls: one is knocked unconscious and one is left with barely the breath in his lungs.

“What’s behind that door?” Sariel asks him.

“You just killed all my bloody friends. You’re murderers. Fuck you.” He spits on Sariel and she nearly goes into a fury state right then and there.

Rowan attempts to ease the conversation but the guard turns on her as well, considering her complicit in the killings of his compatriots. “Rot in hell, the lot of you.” Rowan is affected by his words more than she lets on.

The group, holding their collective breath, watches as a figure passes by the slatted window in the door. It looks humanoid in shape, but seems to drip blood from its form as it walks past--no, patrols past you. As you take a closer look, its face looks rather strange to you. The face clearly once belonged to that of a human being, but it is as if someone has sliced that very face off and sewn it into the head of this strange creature. Little tufts of blond hair curl around its face like, in another life, this person had a mane to be proud of. Its nails are grown out like claws, and when it breathes, it lets out a rough moan. Regardless: whatever this thing is, it isn’t alive.

Fen deduces that the creature is a flesh golem, a construct made from dark magic and at least six different bodies. Disgusted, she informs the group that dark shit lies ahead.

The group sneaks inside level two of the prison to find two cells full to bursting of arcane casters arrested for using magic, as well as not one but three flesh golems. In command of them all is Guard Captain Ridley Stine.

A fight ensues: Guard Captain Stine gets taken out rather quickly, but the group is horrified to note that magic doesn’t seem to affect the flesh golems. Brute strength wins the day in this fight, while Fen finds herself on the brink of death.

Rowan sorts through the imprisoned and finds Ailis, Tristan’s sister. In a moment of clarity, she realizes that Ailis looks exactly like Agrona and just might be the missing daughter she’s been searching for.

Gaer sticks with Aeleyn as they continue to follow the course of Aeleyn’s Locate Object spell. Gaer gets rather excited as Aeleyn realizes she is close to finding him. Turning a corner, Gaer and Aeleyn are horrified to find not Brendan, but one last flesh golem wearing Brendan’s face.

“Dad?” Gaer asks weakly.

The flesh golem turns to face him.

SESSION 8 RECAP »