#rath told me the other day something like

[dreamspiked]

so full disclosure, i'm still kind of struggling with exactly what direction i want to see gallagher (at least mine specifically, anyway) to go in, considering how many variables are on the table now and i'm a sucker for trying to make all the pieces fit. but we just don't have all the pieces right now, so it's kind of like working with sand. as far as full threads and plotting go, i might be slow or hesitant with certain things because i'm still just not sure what direction we're moving in.

that being said, i'm most likely going to limit shipping on this blog considering how much grey area gallagher has. and i will not ship with other sunday's outside of @wingspiked. there's a lot of potential for that ship specifically to get volatile and i don't want to chance it, you know?

i'll probably jot down some general rules sometime today if i don't loose what little spoons i have before then.

thank y'all for entertaining/listening to my rambling about this shady old dog. y'all are great.

smooch smooch kiss kiss xoxo

[scarletcomalies]

broken reflection

Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader

Word count: 5,342

A/N: This story is inspired by Elizabeth Olsen's character in Love And Death. However, I must clarify that while I appreciate her performance in the show, I don’t agree with nor glorify the actions of the real-life person she portrays, Candy Montgomery. Therefore, I made the decision to switch the character to Wanda Maximoff and create a “multiverse” storyline. I was inspired by someone else who did a similar switch, and I felt that it was the right decision for my own. With nothing else to add, I hope you enjoy!

Marriage was supposed to be your happy ending, but as your marriage deteriorated, an encounter with another woman opened your eyes to a new world of possibilities and desires you never knew existed.

Time seemed to pass at a frantic pace whenever you found yourself immersed in your most tormenting thoughts. The ceiling, which you watched as you lay in your bed, became your silent witness, as the moonlight streaming in through the window illuminated the cracks in the ceiling, which you could have sworn, you knew by heart by that point.

You caught yourself finding comfort in those seemingly insignificant details, but at that moment, they seemed to be the only tangible things in your life.

Because, no one had prepared you for this.

For as long as you could remember, the idea of marriage had been presented to you as something wonderful, as a kind of destiny that you had to reach in order to be happy and fulfilled. And very late you realized that, in your quest to find that sense of belonging and fulfillment you so longed for, you had fallen into the error of looking for in marriage what you should have found within yourself.

"I worked my ass off to give you everything you needed, I spoiled you rotten, and the one thing you were supposed to give me in return, you couldn't give it to me!" He exclaimed when he came home from work at nine o'clock at night, and you found yourself in the painful position of telling him again that no, you were not in the mood to try.

He had never told you anything like that, at least not explicitly. However, he always let you know by giving you those little looks whenever he saw those happy families with their children in the park, or disguised as a brief "we're working on it" whenever the subject came up in those absurd after-dinner conversations he made you attend. He never felt the need to say those hurtful words to you, until that time.

You could hear your mother's voice echoing in your head, "That's what you get for marrying so young, to someone so old." And yes, you were the youngest of all the wives who gathered after church on Sundays. From the way they talked to you, it was obvious that they thought you were so ignorant of everything just because you were young.

Before, every day of your marriage felt like a fairy tale, everything seemed solved, and you thought you had fulfilled your purpose. It wasn't until, for a change, some idiot friend of James' decided to pick on him by telling him that he was "falling behind."

What hurt the most was that he was looking for in children what you were looking for in marriage, both wrong because, you insisted, it was within you. That was why you refused to even try, in the first place. Being a father wasn't supposed to be just a compensation for his lack of fulfillment.

After failing miserably to go to sleep at a decent hour, you woke up at noon and realized that he was gone. It wasn't the first time he had breakfast out because you simply refused to wake up to prepare him something. The only reason it didn't bother him was because afterward, he took advantage to see other women. Oh, you knew, he didn't even deign to hide it.

Even if you weren't doing the same thing, you supposed you could care less anyway. Any semblance of love had vanished so long ago, but you couldn't afford to be as bold as he was, because you repeated, you were doing the same thing, seeing other women...

... or rather, another woman.

It all happened when one Sunday night, which you thought would end up as hell, was what started a part of your life that really meant something. Very chaotic and perhaps sick to consider it as such, but all you aspired to was those weekday evenings. Before, you had nothing to aspire to, no one you really wanted to give yourself to in that sense.

For a change, you were fighting with your husband. You were eagerly talking to the women about everything and nothing at the same time when he called you over to talk, and his expression was so serene that it was inevitable to think it was not good.

"You'll be happy now! I'm the laughing stock of all my friends because they know we are not even trying to have a child," he blurted out, his alcohol breath invading your nose, causing you a feeling of revulsion immediately.

"How fragile you are to accept a commitment as big as a child is, just because you can't stand the awful comments," you replied, almost in a mocking tone. He hated that, he hated that you seconded all the remarks in some way. His friends teased him because you refused to sleep with him, and you teased him because he cared. It was his nightmare and your delight.

"Not everything is about having kids! They know you're disgusted by me!" He clarified, and just imagining the kind of conversations they were having made you loathe him even more.

"We women are not trophies for you to show off. We are human beings," you replied, pushing him slightly, which was enough for him to fall like a sack of potatoes. "How empty-minded are you guys that the only remarkable thing you have to say is whether or not you slept with a woman, huh?"

He stood up awkwardly and laughed.

"Spare me your feminist talk, I'm outta here," he growled and proceeded to walk off to who knows where.

You let out a long sigh after watching his figure shrink in size until he became invisible to your eyes. Every time he was gone, you felt free. It was as if all your problems disappeared in the form of a loathsome person like he was.

You felt even too guilty because that day you wished he would dawn lost somewhere and never find his way back or have a horrible accident.

"What you said is too true," you heard a voice behind you, making you startle.

You looked around until you came upon Wanda in the driver's seat of her car, with the window open. You were so immersed in your discussion that you didn't even notice that she had been listening to everything.

"I'm sorry you had to witness this," you muttered, lowering your head.

"You know, I always thought of you as a naive girl who doesn't have a fucking clue, but I realize you have guts. Even more than many in there," she ignored your apology, and at her statement, you didn't know whether to be flattered or offended.

"I guess it only takes being ten years younger than you for you to condemn me like that," you shrugged, opting to feel satisfied. This was a great opportunity to prove yourself wrong.

"What are you talking about? That's a lifetime!" She exclaimed as she laughed. You really appreciated that she decided to lighten up what could have been another argument with a little joke, where she made fun of her own mistake. That definitely marked a before and after between you two.

"You're right, you were all here by the time Queen Elizabeth was born," you joked back, causing her to let out a loud laugh that even echoed throughout the neighborhood. It was her reaction that made you laugh even harder.

That day, she asked you to go with her in the car and get lost around the neighborhood. It was almost like a therapeutic session; she talked about her husband, and you talked about yours. You made them the biggest targets of ridicule and insults for maybe three hours, and only stopped when you went to a gas station store to buy snacks and subsequently find a spot in a parking lot on top of a building.

"Don't you sometimes wish you had met other people?" you concluded, as she finished telling you how her husband responded to a piece she wrote. With such indifference that it made you feel extremely indignant.

"All the time," she confirmed, nodding. "Sometimes I imagine what my life would have been like if I had married someone who cared about my mind and not my uterus, and who treats me like a diamond in the rough that values at all times, and not like a trophy that just shows off but leaves to rest in some closet as soon as everyone is gone."

"That's me!" you laughed, placing your hand above hers to squeeze it, as a sign of comfort.

"But I do have a better proposition for you, why don't you start by doing it yourself? Prove to yourself that you're more than what your stupid husband thinks you are, and maybe that will even give you the courage to walk away from him if that's what you want."

You felt a mixture of fear and excitement at the idea. Could you really do it? Would you be able to find the strength to stand on your own two feet and figure out what are your own dreams, even if it meant abandoning the security of your marriage?

You looked at her, who was smiling encouragingly at you, and you felt a surge of gratitude for the moment you shared. Maybe it was time to take a chance and see what else life had to offer.

"...Wow! Such wonderful words were not rehearsed before? You're a natural," you praised her. She blushed slightly at that. "Keep in mind that I'll think about it carefully."

"Think about it! Besides, my husband is an idiot and your husband is an idiot, what would you say if... we found that courage between us? That way maybe we won't settle for less," her voice became raspy in a matter of seconds, as she leaned towards you.

"Oh, sure! Keep in mind that I'm willing to support you...-"

"Look, regardless of that silly prejudice I had about you, when we were playing volleyball, and the sweat was running down your tight blouse... oh, you have no idea what it provoked inside me," she confessed. "Today when I saw you put that fucker in his place, I realized, I'm incredibly attracted to you."

You watched her for a moment, and noticed how her green eyes turned dark. Who were you kidding? If you didn't want James to lay a finger on you it was because it was women like Wanda that you coveted with your being to do whatever they wanted with you.

"I'm not going to lie to you, I was only going to volleyball to see you," you whispered, as if you weren't the only souls in that compound.

You weren't lying. You weren't a big fan of going to physically exhaust yourself after the mental exhaustion that being under the same roof as that disgusting man brought you. However, the mere thought of Wanda being there made you become the most passionate athlete.

"Would you be interested in having an affair?" She inquired without preamble.

Every day used to feel like a cycle of dreary routines from which you could find no escape, leaving you with a sense of longing for something different to shake up your existence. You never imagined, however, that said "something" would be an affair with Wanda Maximoff.

Instead, you adopted an exciting routine that was previously calculated, in order to be able to get away with it, and so far, not a soul suspected you.

However, you were also highly involved in the delight of each other's company, so there was no danger in going to the movies, shopping, visiting each other at home to simply read together, or sharing a lunch.

You hoped that, like you, Wanda would also feel that your presence had irrevocably improved her life, for it was evident that you found in her what you knew you would never find in anyone else.

And so the sleepless nights had become somewhat more frequent than usual. They were minutes turning into hours, until the light of a new dawn appeared through the windows of the room.

Your thoughts were mainly shaped by the failure of your marriage, which there was no longer any point in fighting to save, and how it all led to an affair whose most essential rule you had broken: don't fall in love.

Fortunately, you would fall asleep after your idiot husband left the bed and his scent gradually faded away. It was during those nights that you longed to find yourself on Wanda's chest instead, with her intoxicating scent invading your nostrils. For you, it was one of the most effective ways for you to sleep.

"Who is this?" You groaned, after the ringing of the phone had woken you from your slumber. It was when you saw the clock hanging on the wall that you realized it was four-thirty in the afternoon.

"Your mistress," Wanda laughed on the other end of the phone, replacing annoyance with a feeling of happiness that only she knew how to bring.

The more you fell in love with her, the more you knew this was doomed to fail. You could feel the impending apocalypse, the moment when she would break your heart because you were asking for too much. She was the only solace in a world that had lost all meaning, and you refused to lose her.

"Oh," You replied with a chuckle. "Are there plans for today?"

"I'm too excited to see the new Star Wars movie, and I was wondering if you'd like to go watch it with me," she proposed. "I know we went to the movies recently, but I really hope you don't mind..."

"Yes! You'd love to go with you," You exclaimed, with a huge smile plastered on your face. "If you want to go to the movies a thousand times, a thousand times I'll go with you."

"Yay, perfect! I'll pick you up in an hour and a half," she anticipated you. "See you then."

As soon as you hung up the phone, you set about taking a shower, putting on an outfit and applying makeup that would leave you sufficiently satisfied with your appearance. In a matter of effectively an hour, you were fully ready.

You were putting away the mess you had left behind when you heard your doorbell ring, and with great joy, you ran to the front door.

There she was, with a smile even bigger than yours, and she didn't hesitate for a second to throw herself at you and hug you warmly.

"You look beautiful," You complimented her, appreciating her green orbs and full lips that once kissed every inch of your being.

With a slight blush on her cheeks, she looked around, then grabbed the back of your neck and kissed your lips.

As if it was the first time ever, the softness of her lips against yours was an indescribable sensation that never failed to make you melt by her touch and surrender to her.

"And you look divine," she whispered, a few millimeters away, causing you to feel her hot breath as if it were your own.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless and flushed. You looked into her eyes and she returned your gaze with a look that was a mixture of passion and maybe, just maybe, a reciprocated feeling of love.

***

"Have you eaten yet, darling?" she asked, once you stopped in front of the cinema, whose line was somewhat extensive.

One thing you greatly appreciated was that concern which was represented through small actions, as in this case, they were questions of whether you had eaten, and at other times they regarded your sleeping habits or whether you had eaten something really healthy and not just fast food from some restaurant nearby. These were acts that may have been automatic and even inert to her, but to you they meant the world.

"I know that tone you take when you've just woken up," she began, referring to the way you answered the phone. "And since I only gave you an hour's notice, I guess you didn't get to eat."

You laughed at her conclusion, which completely evidenced how well she knew you and how interested she seemed in you, "You got me, but it's okay, popcorn will do."

"Not a chance," she countered, predictably. "Let's get you something to eat, and we'll smuggle it into the cinema to make it more fun," she proposed.

You nodded, knowing that she always found ways to make any situation more exciting.

Together you headed towards a small food stall near the cinema, and as you waited for your order, you couldn't help but feel grateful to have someone so thoughtful and considerate by your side.

Once your plates of food were delivered, you took care to hide them appropriately in your respective bags, and, after purchasing your tickets and popcorn, you proceeded to walk towards the cinema, completely satisfied with your successful smuggling.

Finally, you found your seats in the darkness of the theatre, surrounded by the fragrance of corn and butter. You looked to your side and saw Wanda already looking in your direction. It was there that you confirmed once again that the movie didn't matter as much as the fact that you were there together, sharing a fun moment where you could escape for a brief moment.

The film turned out to be shocking in every way.

From the very beginning, it kept you on the edge of your nerves with its intense and exciting plot. The pace of the film gradually picked up and the tension built up. The scenes were shocking and you were holding each other's hands tightly.

It was then that the unexpected plot twist occurred that left you gasping.

The iconic "I am your father" stunned everyone, especially the woman next to you, who was perhaps the biggest fan of the franchise in this room.

"No way," she whispered, and you noticed her eyes watering. "There is no way!"

You couldn't lie, you were just as surprised. Even though it all started as a way to keep Wanda company, you couldn't help but feel moved. You could say you were even beginning to understand what all the fuss was about.

Once the film was over, she stared into the void for a long time, still processing what had happened.

"Do you want me to drive?" You proposed, somewhat amused at her state, but also willing to help and understand her.

"No no, I'm fine, come on! I'm not a teenager!" She shook her head, heading for the passenger door and opening it for you - a gesture you adored.

"Thank you, ma'am," You thanked her, getting into the car. Once she made her way to the driver's seat, you decided to comfort her a little. "Sometimes you're a teenager... sometimes we are. I think growing up is overrated."

She took your hand in hers, and kissed it affectionately, "I wish it was like that all the time and not sometimes; I wish all the time I could have exciting experiences that constantly make me feel on top of the world. I wish I could give that to you all the time. If only we could get married... I swear I would make you the happiest, as happy as I know you would make me."

"Unfortunately you have Vision and I have James... society is slowly programming us to be another one of the bunch, another model of the housewives we're expected to be," You retorted, feeling infected by her melancholy. "That's why we have this, to escape from time to time."

"But I don't want it from time to time! You know something? I've had it with Vision," she stated, starting her car. "I'm sick of him not touching me, not listening to me, and just watching his stupid show."

Your eyes widened.

You never imagined hearing her say that. Sure, you complained about your husbands and the life they gave you, it just didn't seem feasible for neither of you to leave them.

But in the end, why couldn't you have what Steve and Peggy had, for example? And that's when you knew you could have it, you were just with the wrong people. The biggest question was, if Wanda got this person, was she going to leave you? Was it going to be really you?

And that was your biggest epiphany.

You didn't care if you could never have her the way you wanted her, just having her in your life in any way was more than enough. You wanted her happiness even if it was at the cost of your own, and that's when you realized that what you felt was love at its best.

"What are you going to do?" You questioned, once you came back to your senses. It wasn't until you got to your house that it happened.

"I'm going to take all the money he keeps hidden in that shoe box, get the hell out of this town and start over," she replied. "I've been thinking about it for about two weeks now, but I think it's time."

You felt a lump in your throat as you listened to Wanda's words. You couldn't believe that she was planning to go away and leave everything behind, and that on top of it all, she had her mind completely made up.

You had been through so much together, you had laughed, cried and shared unforgettable moments. But now, it seemed that all that would come to an end. You would return to that monotony where you desperately searched for something that could make the day different from others. You missed your home, your family, your friends... and it wasn't your husband, it was Wanda who made you feel that leaving all that behind was for the best.

And again, if she promised to do her best to find the happiness you knew she longed for as well, then this too would be worth it.

Tears began to well up in your eyes as you tried to keep your composure. You struggled for words, for inevitably, sadness gripped your heart. Goodbyes were never easy.

"What are you doing? Why are you crying?" Wanda asked, taking your face in her hands.

"It's just... I don't want to lose you, I love you and going back to the life before I met you is scary, but if that's what you want, then..."

"Don't be silly, you're coming with me," she interrupted, wiping your cheeks with her thumbs. "Wait, you said you loved me?"

You were surprised to hear Wanda's question, immediately mentally beating yourself up for not having calculated your words, but, to your surprise, you also felt a surge of joy at finally being able to express your feelings.

"Yes, I said I love you, silly!" You exclaimed, as if it hadn't been obvious enough. "Look at this godforsaken mess that you've made of me. You're like a bright light in my life, you're the only one who makes me laugh until my cheeks go numb, you make me feel alive, you taught me colors after I got used to so much black and white, you taught me a language I can't speak to someone else. You're everything I ever dreamed I could find in someone, how could I not love you?"

"We don't need to get married, we don't need a damn piece of paper to be happy. Happiness is the most important thing and we already have it," she said, moving closer to press her lips against yours for a moment. "I love you madly. Thank you for opening my eyes. You were my motivation for coming up with this plan in the first place, now that I know what it's like to really live, I refuse to go back to what came before."

"How are we going to do that?" You inquired, somehow reminding her that you too had an issue to disengage from.

"Meet me at midnight."

Once you returned home, you found the person you were unexpectedly certain you would leave behind in a matter of hours.

He had his feet up on the coffee table, his hair tousled and his tie undone, his eyes too focused on the television, which fortunately were struggling to stay open.

"You should go to sleep, or you'll have a very hard time getting up tomorrow," You suggested, knowing full well that you were only going to earn a complaint.

"It's my problem if I want to stay up all night," he grunted, straightening his posture to wake up a little. Even he couldn't deny that it was in vain.

With a scoff, you dropped your bag on the kitchen counter and headed for the bedroom.

You had to pack as soon as possible so that when James decided to go to bed, you wouldn't be caught literally displacing your entire life in a single suitcase.

You started with your clothes, which you folded into rolls so they would fit more effectively, and proceeded to take your beauty products, hygiene products, belongings that held sentimental significance, and sadly, space only allowed you to pack two pairs of your favorite shoes. It was a huge suitcase, the same one you used when you moved here, and you were even surprised at how much you could fit in it. You guess it was again going to accompany you in a new scenario, this time a successful one.

You heard James' clumsy footsteps approaching the room. By that time, you had the suitcase packed and hidden under the bed, waiting for midnight. It was only half an hour away.

He collapsed into bed, not bothering to change or pull the covers over himself. He just tossed and turned, with nothing else on his mind but sleep as soon as possible.

When the time came, you let out a deep sigh and carefully got out of bed, feeling your every movement like an explosion in the darkness of the room.

Once you felt more confident, you slowly bent down towards the suitcase you had hidden under the bed. Every inch you moved was a huge effort, but you knew you couldn't afford to be discovered.

Finally, you reached for the suitcase and carefully pulled it out. Each movement was as if you were touching a taut string, expecting that at any moment it might snap and make everything fall apart. Likewise, each step you took seemed to be heavier than the last, but without looking back for a moment, you kept moving forward, knowing that you were on the last step of your escape.

You heard footsteps approaching from behind and your heart began to pound.

No, no, no. You refused to turn around and look. You were too close!

You tried not to think about it, to convince yourself that everything was fine, but it was impossible.

Suddenly, a hand landed on your shoulder and you were startled. You turned around to face James, who was standing there, his eyes full of sadness and worry.

"Let me go, James. There's nothing you can do to stop me," you said quietly, trying to hide your fear.

"I know," he said in a calm voice. "I'm not going to stop you. There's no point in keeping this marriage if you're not happy. If I'm not happy. Go with her."

You were shocked to hear those words coming out of James' mouth. For so long, you had been holding back your true feelings for fear of hurting him, and that it would end badly. He already knew that, and he accepted it.

Your expression made him chuckle, "I saw you kissing before you came in," as if reading your thoughts, he confessed what you were wondering. "I just want you to know that I've been watching you for a while now. I noticed how happy you were coming back after spending time with her. Only someone very cruel would stand in the way of that... I'm not cruel, even though I haven't done a very good job of showing it."

You couldn't help but feel some gratitude towards James for being so understanding. It was a strange feeling, considering you were running away from him, but in that moment, you felt that you had finally found someone who understood what was going through your mind.

"You're not the only one who's been seeing other people. I've been seeing... men, too." He confessed, leaving you paralyzed, not knowing what to say. You never would have imagined James would say something like that to you. You felt confused, shocked, and at the same time, a little relieved. At least you weren't the only one who had been hiding something. "You should learn from me, I was careful about it," James joked, trying to lighten the tension in the air.

Finally, you found the right words, "Thank you, James. For understanding me, for being honest. I don't know what's going to happen to me and Wanda from now on, but I'm sure I'll find my way to happiness. And please do whatever it takes to find yours too, no matter with whom it is."

He simply nodded, an understanding expression on his face. "I promise I will, and I hope this isn't goodbye."

James and you hugged each other tightly, sharing an emotional moment that would seal the end of your marriage. It was amazing how this moment of parting was the one where you felt the most respect and compassion for him, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. It would have been easier if instead of condemning each other, you had been willing to understand each other.

Afterwards, he offered to walk you to the car towards Wanda, and you accepted. You walked together in silence, as if you both knew it was better to leave words behind.

The older woman was waiting inside the car, and both James and you laughed as her jaw practically dropped to the floor when she saw you. The confusion was palpable on every faction of her face.

James walked over to her and took her hand, looking at her lovingly, "Take care of each other as only you know how, love each other as you deserve to be loved, because you two are amazing people and deserve all the best in life." He told her sincerely, conveying his flooding desire to redeem himself.

Wanda was overwhelmed by your now ex-husband's words, and nodded tearfully. "Thank you for trusting me with something as precious as the happiness of this one right here."

James gave you one last hug before walking away, and Wanda's gaze was still fixed on him with equal parts sadness and gratitude.

You placed your suitcase in the trunk, and subsequently made your way to the passenger seat.

Wanda asked, "Do I want to know what happened?"

"Long story," you sighed, letting out the air you'd been holding in for far too long.

"Well, we have a long trip waiting for us. There's time," she started the car's engine.

With great excitement, your story with Wanda began this way, the person with whom you were destined to witness fulfillment at its greatest expression.

Together you started a business and lived on it, your daily routines never lacked for adventure and laughter. Every day your love grew more and more, and you never looked back, always moving forward together.

You fondly remember how each sunrise was like a new roller coaster of emotions, always full of new challenges. And in the most difficult moments, when darkness threatened to invade you, you clung to your union, knowing that together you could overcome any obstacle.

And so, with Wanda by your side, living each day with passion and enthusiasm, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be, living your life to the fullest alongside the person you love most in this world.

[dragoneyes618]

"Perhaps presenting all these facts has the opposite effect from what we think. Perhaps we are giving people ideas.

I don't mean giving people ideas about how to murder Jews. There is no shortage of ideas like that, going back to Pharaoh's decree in the Book of Exodus about drowning Hebrew baby boys in the Nile. I mean, rather, that perhaps we are giving people ideas about our standards. Yes, everyone must learn about the Holocaust aso as not to repeat it. But this has come to mean that anything short of the Holocaust is, well, not the Holocaust. The bar is rather high.

Shooting people in a synagogue in San Diego or Pittsburgh isn't "systemic"; it's an act of a "lone wolf." And it's not the Holocaust. The same is true for arson attacks against two different Boston-area synagogues, followed by similar simultaneous attacks on Jewish institutions in Chicago a few days later, along with physical assaults on religious Jews on the streets of New York - all of which happened within a week of my visit to the Auschwitz show.

Lobbing missiles at sleeping children in Israel's Kiryat Gat, where my husband's cousins spent the week of my museum visit dragging their kids to bomb shelters, isn't an attempt to bring "Death to the Jews," no matter how frequently the people lobbing the missiles broadcast those very words; the wily Jews there figured out how to prevent their children form dying in large piles, so it is clearly no big deal.

Doxxing Jewish journalists is definitely not the Holocaust. Harassing Jewish college students is also not the Holocaust. Trolling Jews on social media is not the Holocaust either, even when it involves photoshopping them into gas chambers. (Give the trolls credit: They have definitely heard of Auschwitz.) Even hounding ancient Jewish communities out of entire countries and seizing all their assets - which happened in a dozen Muslim nations whose Jewish communities predated the Islamic conquest, countries that are now all almost entirely Judenrein - is emphatically not the Holocaust. It is quite amazing how many things are not the Holocaust.

The day of my visit to the museum, the rabbi of my synagogue attended a meeting arranged by police for local clergy, including him and seven Christian ministers and priests. The topic of the meeting was security. Even before the Pittsburgh massacre, membership dues at my synagogue included security fees. But apparently these local churches do not charge their congregants security fees, or avail themselves of government funds for this purpose.. The rabbi later told me how he sat in stunned silence as church officials discussed whether to put a lock on a church door. "A lock on the door," the rabbi said to me afterward, stupefied.

He didn't have to say what I already knew from the emails the synagogue routinely sends: that they've increased the rent-a-cops' hours, that they've done active-shooter training with the nursery school staff, that further initiatives are in place that "cannot be made public." A lock on the door," re repeated, astounded. "They just have no idea."

He is young, this rabbi - younger than me. He was realizing the same thing I realized at the Auschwitz exhibition, about the specificity of our experience. I feel the need to apologize here, to acknowledge that yes, this rabbi and I both know that many non-Jewish houses of worship in other places also require rent-a-cops, to announce that yes, we both know that other groups have been persecuted too - and this degrading need to recite these middle-school-obvious facts is itself an illustration of the problem, which is that dead Jews are only worth discussing if they are part of something bigger, something more. Some other people might go to Holocaust museums to feel sad, and then to feel proud of themselves for feeling sad. They will have learned something officially important, discovered a fancy metaphor for the limits of Western civilization. The problem is that for us, dead Jews aren't a metaphor, but rather actual people that we do not want our children to become." 

- Dara Horn, People Love Dead Jews: Reports from a Haunted Present

[arc-misadventures]

Dragon Faunus au: can I please ask for Jaune finding out who it was stalking him and confronting them?

Mobile Easel

Jaune: So… Pray tell… Why are you here? Definitely not for the sights I take it.

Sienna: I came to meet you, your Grace.

Jaune: Ahh… So it’s more dragon related faunas crap. Peachy.

Sienna: Is that a surprise, your Grace?

Jaune: No, but I do find it uncomfortable. I feel like some sort of zoo exhibit. And, please don’t call me your grace, king, or whatever silly titles you can possibly give me. Jaune is just fine.

Sienna: Very well then. So it seems you have accepted your nature as a faunas, I heard you were denying it, and posing as a human.

Jaune: That’s not true… entirely. I never hid the fact I was a faunas from anyone, I just don’t have any visible traits that scream: ‘Hey, that guy is a faunas!’ My teeth, as well as my talons are retractable so no one would notice them. And, unless I was breathing fire would anyone notice that?

Sienna: Fair point, if I had worn a hat you would have thought I was a human.

Jaune: Yes, a human with some nice looking stripe tattoos.

Sienna: Those are not tattoos.

Jaune: Really? Well they still look nice.

Sienna: Thank you.

Jaune: Well, it doesn’t matter whether those faunas traits are visible, or not. I can’t hide what’s coming next.

Sienna: Are you developing a new trait? That’s impossible!

Jaune: Hey, I already have three traits, most faunas only have one. How’s that for impossible?

Sienna: You are a rarity of rarities among faunas… I suppose you gaining another trait isn’t something to be unexpected. What is this new trait you are developing?

Jaune: Horns. I’m growing horns.

Sienna: Horns? Let me see…

Jaune: Wait, hold on now!

Sienna moved in a flash, moving mear inches from, Jaune’s face, as she held up his hair to display the two mounds forming on either side of his head.

Sienna: Well that’s certainly interesting. Most faunas would be showing signs of growing horns when they were at least ten years old, but to be growing them at seventeen. That is quite… interesting…

Cerulean gazed into amber, and amber gazed into cerulean. The duo stood there for a moment, their eyes locked upon one another as a deep blush spread across their faces. What felt like an age past before the two realized their position to one another, and jumped back away from one other. The blushes upon their faces slowly fading away.

Sienna: I’m sorry for that, it’s just the fact you have so many faunas traits, and the fact you have more to come is quite impressive.

Jaune: Hopefully it’s the last, I’m tired of being the circus freak.

Sienna: So you would not be upset if you heard that I was sent here to confirm whether, or not you were the dragon faunas of legend who would be crowned king of the faunas, and would lead his people into a golden age of prosperity for all faunas, and the world itself?

Jaune: Uhh… No, no I would not. Blake Belladonna has already told me a thing, or two about all that kingly stuff. But, aren’t you the high leader of the, White Fang, who commands you to do anything?

Sienna: On principle, no one. They may recommend, and advise me on various courses of action. But, at the end of it all it is my decision on what I shall do. Or, it was…

Jaune: Was?

Sienna: You are my, King. Whatever your command is, I will obey.

Jaune: Seriously?! I’ve known your for half an hour! Why are you pledging your undying loyalty to me?!

Sienna: Oh, but I have been here for days. Observing you since your match with, Mercury. And, I have become quite found of what I have seen so far.

Jaune: W-What have you seen?

Sienna: For starters…?

Nora: Big bro!

Jaune: Oh hi, Nora. Need something?

Nora: Just wanted to call you, ‘big bro!’ Hehehe~! I love that I get to call you that~!

Jaune: Right back at you, lil sis.

Nora: This is amazing~!

Pyrrha: Ahhh… Is it just me, or was she faster then, Ruby just now?

Ren: If you think that was fast, you should see her on a caffeine high.

Pyrrha: I would rather not.

Ren: No, no you don’t…

Nora: Hey, whose the kitty lady?

Jaune: Nora, may I introduce you to Sienna Khan. Mrs. Khan, this is Nora Valkyrie Arc, my little sister, and teammate.

Nora: Hello~! Can I pet your ears?

Sienna: Hello, and no you can not…

Nora: Naww…

Sienna: And, its Ms. Khan. Not, Mrs.

Jaune: Oh sorry. Ms. Khan.

Sienna: Sienna is fine, Jaune~!

Jaune: Okay… This is my teammate, Lie Ren.

Ren: Nice to meet you, Ma’am.

Sienna: A pleasure.

Jaune: And, lastly we have my partner, Pyrrha Nikos, and together the four of us make up, Team JNPR! Ya!

NPR: YA!

Sienna: It’s a pleasure to make the acquaintance of you, Ms. Nikos. I have heard of your…? (Sniff, Sniff.) Hmm…?

Pyrrha: Is something wro… EEP!

As, Sienna held, Pyrrha’s hand she suddenly pulled her towards her, and held, Pyrrha there for a moment, allowing, Sienna a chance to smell her. As, Pyrrha pulled away she could see a thirsty smile spread across the tigers face as she looked to her, and then to, Jaune.

Sienna: I see… So you’ve claimed her as your own. How interesting.

Pyrrha: Bwa?! WawawawaWHAT?!!

Jaune: You can smell that?!

Sienna: Easily.

Jaune: I thought faunas couldn’t pick up on my sent due to various hierarchical reasons?!

Ren: Hierarchical reasons?

Jaune: I’ll explain later… (Sniff, sniff!) It’s very confusing. But, answer the question!

Pyrrha: Y-Yeah! How do you know that we… did it?

Sienna: It’s more of a female faunas thing. We female faunas, particularly the older ones among us can tell certain… things about woman who have been claimed by a male. I can’t pick up your sent, Jaune, but I can pick up the ‘mark’ you placed upon her.

Pyrrha: WHAT?!

Jaune: Damn faunas, and our incredibly powerful noses!

Ren: Well, that explains why everyone was shooting death glares at, Pyrrha lately. Well, more so than usual.

Nora: Ohohoh! What do I smell like?!

Sienna: Syrup.

Nora: Nice!

Jaune: Haa… So why are you here exactly…? Oh yeah: More pledges of undying loyalty…

Ren: Is this one any different compared to the rest of them; can’t you just decline it like usual?

Jaune: Partly; She may be a single faunas, but she represents thousands of faunas. For, Sienna is the High Leader of the White Fang.

Ren: Ahh, she isn’t just anyone you can say no to.

Jaune: Precisely. So, then we have to do things that prove you’re worth for my trust.

Sienna: Prove my worth?

Jaune: Yes, your worth. I don’t trust blindly; as a businessman, and a leader, you must prove there is worth to me putting my trust in you. (Sniff.) Understood?

Sienna: Earn your trust? That seems perfectly reasonable, tell me, Jaune how can I, and to a greater extent prove our worth to you?

Jaune: You can first start off with why you are spying on me; I understand it’s because of the whole dragon king bullshit. But nonetheless, why are you spying on me?

Sienna: Spying?! I have given no order to spy upon you? In fact I gave the exact opposite order for our operatives to leave you alone.

Jaune: You haven’t? Then why is, Kali Belladonna here?

Sienna: She is the wife to, Ghiria Belladonna, the Chieftain of Menagerie. It’s only natural for her to come here, and see if the rumours of a dragon faunas are true.

Jaune stared down the cat faunas as he sniffed the air. The air of confidence, and assurance in the truth of her own words were etched across her face. And, yet…

Jaune: If that be true then explain this: Team JNPR!

NPR: Yes!

Jaune raised his hand and pointed to a tree near the edge of walkway, and simply said three words.

Jaune: Mobile Easel: GO!

In three seconds three scrolls were pulled out of their respective owners pockets. In a second a single button was pressed. And, in five seconds, three standard issue rocket lockers crashed into the ground before them.

As quick as a flash, Nora, Ren, and Pyrrha each rushed to their respective lockers, and grabbed their gear, and did as Hunter’s do. They hunted their quarry.

Jaune: Nora! Fire one round behind the tree! Force them out of their hiding spot!

As her fearless-leader/older brother commanded, Nora fired a single round from her rotary-grenade launcher. The round impacted behind the tree forcing some black clad individual to pop out from behind it.

Jaune: Pyrrha, open fire on them, don’t let them get away! Ren, charge them!

Listen to their leaders instructions, Pyrrha changed her spear into it’s rifle form, and started firing upon their uninvited guest. The rounds struck true, and prevented them from fleeing, giving, Ren the time to close the distance, and engage in close quarters combat.

The spy was apparently more skilled at fleeing than fighting, for they could barely last a few seconds before they were knocked to the ground by, Ren’s swift onslaught of attacks. There they lay, defeated. Nora quickly ran over, and threw the spy over her shoulder like a bag of rice before dumping them in front of, Jaune with a pained groan.

Jaune: Excellent job team! They won’t know what’ll hit ‘em come the, Vytal Festival if we can keep this up!

Nora: That was AWESOME!!!

Pyrrha: I must admit, that was quite exhilarating.

Ren: I’m surprised we reacted that fast, I thought we would have a harder time with such a quick response.

Jaune: But, you didn’t. So excellent job guys! Now then… Who are you…?

Jaune pushed over their spy with his foot. They had brown skin, and wearing a black bodysuit. Their long brown hair done up in a ponytail, but what stood out the most to, Jaune was the white mask with horns she wore upon her face.

A Grimm mask, often worn by the members of the, White Fang.

Jaune: Interesting… So, the White Fang is following me, and you said they weren’t. Care to explain yourself, Ms. Khan?

Sienna: Ilia…

Jaune: Beg pardon?

Sienna: Her name is, Ilia Amitola.

Pyrrha: And, you know that because?

Sienna: She is as you said, a member of the, White Fang. She’s a chameleon faunas; She can change her skins natural pigment to whatever colour she wants. Because of this we use her to spy on others.

Jaune: She can change the colour of her skin? Well, that explains why she smells like oil paints.

Sienna: You smelt her out?

Jaune: Yes I did, this smell isn’t hard to miss. Now then, what was that bit about not spying on me?

Sienna: I’m not, I swear!

Jaune: This says otherwise.

Sienna: She may be spying on you for another faction within the, White Fang. Probably trying to see where your allegiances are, and if they could sway you to their side.

Pyrrha: Factions? I thought you were the, High Leader, shouldn’t they listen to your commands?

Sienna: I am the High Leader! It appears there are those among the, White Fang who need a reminder on who is in charge…

Jaune: Let’s start here then shall we? Hey, wake up!

Jaune slapped the sleeping faunas who slowly started to rouse herself from sleep.

Ilia: W-What…? W-Where am…?! Oh no…!

Sienna: Hello, Ilia… Care to explain what you’re doing here?

Ilia: Sight seeing…?

Jaune: And, I’m the sight to see, no?

Ilia: N-No… Ghak?!

Sienna grabbed, Ilia by the scruff of her neck, and held her in the air. A fierce gaze burned in her eyes, as she stared the quivering little girl.

Sienna: Considering I gave the orders that I would be meeting the dragon king alone, I expected them to be carried out! But, for some reason you are here, care to explain that?!

Ilia’s body seemed to literally turn white from fear, no doubt her unique faunas trait coming into play. Nora couldn’t help, but give a soft ‘aww’ as she saw this interesting display, while the others just watched on as, Sienna imposed her place within the faunas hierarchy.

Sienna: Answer me you pathetic little welp! I know you would have never sought him out yourself, you pathetic little dyke! Who sent you!

Ilia: T-T-The Albain Brother’s! T-They sent me to see if it was true! If the dragon king was real!

Sienna: Ahh… Those wretched bastards…

Ilia: Ooph?!

Without fanfare, Sienna unceremoniously dropped, Ilia on the ground as an unamused frown spread across her face.

Jaune: Friends of yours?

Sienna: Religious zealots is what they are! Always preaching about the good of the faunas in a holier than thou tone. Their personality is utterly unbearable.

Jaune: Would they also drop to the floor before me, and start worshiping me, praising me as this god I supposedly am?

Sienna: Most likely.

Jaune: So if I ever met them they would be the ones erecting statues, and murals of me for my supposed divinity?

Sienna: It wouldn’t surprise me if they haven’t already done that.

Jaune: Well… That sounds bother some…

Sienna: They would probably try, and wipe up the faunas, and rile them up to committing a holy war in your name.

Jaune: S-Seriously…?

Sienna: They are part of the more fanatical militant arm of the, White Fang. They already have been trying to force me to committing to such a course of action. While I admit that I am willing to attack enemies of the faunas that have slighted us. The Schnee Dust Company, and Atlas for example. But, they would be more open to attack civilians indiscriminately, to show people that faunas are to be feared. Such a course of action will only make more enemies of the faunas as a whole, and not just the, White Fang. With you however, they will try all the more harder to do so, and the likely hood of such a course of action happening is all the more likely.

Jaune: …

Jaune: Fuuuuuuuuuuck! I don’t wanna do this… but, they’re leaving me no choice…

Pyrrha: Do what, Jaune?

Jaune: I have to align myself with, Sienna, and Mrs. Belladonna. Dammit! I didn’t want to take part in this!

Ren: Who says you have to join them? Can’t you stay on the sidelines like you have already been doing?

Jaune: No, if I align myself with, Kali Belladonna it says I am looking towards a peaceful coexistence with humans, and general peace. Aligning myself with, Sienna will show that I do support the, White Fang, but I don’t favour its more violent aspects. People may still worship me as a god, but they will know that I do not like it. So there numbers will be less than if I adopt a more neutral position.

Ren: And, you can easily push for more favourable outcomes if you adopt their sides of the argument than the, Albain Brothers?

Pyrrha: But, is that really better? The White Fang are still militaristic.

Jaune: True. But, what would you rather align yourself with: A militant group, or a fanatical militant group?

Pyrrha: The militant group.

Jaune: Precisely. I will choose the lesser of two evils. On top of that I can curtail their more violent habits, no?

Sienna: I will do as you command.

Jaune: Good! Now there’s only one thing left to deal with! You… Ilia…

Ilia: Y-Y-Yes your, Grace…?

Jaune: How long have you been following me?

Ilia: For about two weeks…

Jaune: So you were there when I was at the, CCT Tower.

Ilia: I wasn’t ther… Gack?!

Jaune’s hand was on, Ilia’s throat, pushing her body against the ground. He stood above her, his other hand held high as he flexed his fingers revealing the talons he hid beneath them. Ilia’s body paled to a ghostly white as he stared at the terrified little faunas below him.

Jaune: Don’t lie to me! I picked up your sent there, and I’ve been looking for it ever since! So were you there or not!

Ilia: I-I-I was there!

Jaune: And, did you hear anything?

Ilia: W-What…?

Jaune: Did you overhear the conversation I was having!!

Ilia: N-N-No! You finished your call as soon as I entered the room!

Jaune: Is that the truth?!

Ilia: I uhh… A-Air!

Jaune: I said: Is that the TRUTH!!!

Jaune opened his mouth, and snapped his teeth together, letting everyone see the fangs that lie within his mouth, as jets of fire shot out of the sides inches from, Ilia’s face. It was a truly fearsome sight to behold, one clearly showing the contained rage the, Dragon King held in check, one that no wanted to be on the receiving side of. Ilia displayed this fact as she promptly fainted from being on the receiving end of, Jaune’s furious visage.

Jaune: …

Jaune: Oops… I went a little too far…

Pyrrha: Damn that was hot…

Sienna: That can certainly get your engine purring~!

Ren: Understandable considering the circumstances.

Nora: Whoo! Do it again!

Sienna: What circumstances?

Jaune: That is none of your business…

Sienna: I see…

Jaune: Well, good talking with you, Sienna. I think we have other things to attend to. I’ll live you to deal with your… associate. Till later.

Sienna: Till later, Jaune.

As, Team JNPR made their away from the faunas duo, Ren fell into step with his team leader to ask him some pressing questions.

Ren: Are you alright?

Jaune: Somewhat. It appears she didn’t hear about the conversation I had with my sisters, but until I know if he has any traits… There is much to worry about…

Ren: What about your breathing?

Jaune: My breathing; What about it?

Ren: You may have smelt, Ilia out, but you were still sniffing heavily. Is something wrong?

Jaune: Damn you noticed that! I thought I was hiding that better.

Ren: You were, but most people tend to focus on the eyes, than the nose. What were you smelling?

Jaune: Sienna. I was smelling, Sienna.

Ren: Oh… Is this the same thing that you’ve been dealing with, with Ms. Goodwitch?

Jaune: Yep…

Ren: Oh… It doesn’t appear like you had the same reaction to her as you did, Ms. Goodwitch though.

Jaune: I know what I’m smelling, I won’t have such a violent reaction. I hope…

Ren: We can only hope that.

Jaune: I don’t like the fact I can sniff people out like that. Oh well… I’ll just look to the bright side in all of this mess.

Ren: And, that would be?

Jaune: That I’ve got good taste~!

Ren: …

Ren: Okay then…

///

Hahahaha!!! Haaaaa…

It’s finished… This has been sitting in my draft for at least a month…

But, it is finished!

Now I have to finish all the other ones…

Nerts…

[pippatis]

My second Starbound character is actually someone who has since been repurposed for one(or possibly more) of my comic stories. Still, I thought it would be fun to revisit her origins and incorporate some of the traits and family members I've given her since.

This is Rath, a member of the Nightar race. After playing the supposed hard-mode that was the X'i race, I chose something that was OP in comparison. Sue me.

Here's a summary of her story, as well.

.

Rath's family came from a very poor area of an already dangerous Dark world. Not long after she reached adulthood, her father, who'd previously been a prolific enough hunter to feed and care for the small group, suddenly passed away of a mysterious illness. Rath was forced to take his place. She'd practiced under him for long enough to become very skilled, but feeding her mother and two much younger brothers was still no easy task in such a place.

One day, a star traveler, a member of the Protectorate, arrived on her planet, and upon discovering her, wished to enlist her for a short quest. She agrees, knowing she'll be paid for her work, which would make her family's lives easier for at least a day. The traveler ends up being so impressed with her prowess, however, that he wants to bring her along on their travels. Rath refuses, adamant in her wish to stay and provide for her family. The traveler lets his invitation persist, but goes on his way for the time being.

Rath returns to the difficult life she's led for a while longer, but the traveler's offer sticks in her head. It could be a constant source of income, something she's never had the chance to have on her planet. She knew that the lives of her family could be made so much easier if she was able to find out how to procure food and other necessities elsewhere in the universe.

On the traveler's next visit back, Rath informs him of her change in mind, but on the condition that she be allowed to return and visit her family after each quest. He agrees and builds a teleport pad, placing it on the planet near her family's camp. He shows her that it can be used to return at will, from no matter the distance. Rath is ecstatic about this arrangement, and becomes much more confident in her decision.

Things were different while she lived on a ship with a like-minded crew, under the traveler who would become her captain. As the star-farers visited all sorts of planets and environments, she did in fact see how bad her family's quality of life had been. Of course, the work wasn't always easy either, but she never refused it. All that mattered to her was keeping her family safe and cared for, and she kept her word, visiting them after every single quest, bringing back food, clothing, and wealth. It wasn't a substantial amount, but it was still more than enough.

Eventually came the time where their captain would visit Earth. Instinctually, Rath knew something was wrong, and she refused to leave the ship and touch that world's grounds with the rest of the crew. All of the others left her behind to visit the rest of the Protectorate, but while they were there, the Ruin arrived.

The captain was the only one able to escape back to their ship, but was badly injured in the process. Unable to fly himself, the captain hastily attempted to teach Rath how to steer the ship so they could escape the dying planet. However, she ended up crashing them into a remote asteroid, far away.

Luckily the place was inhabited, and her captain was able to receive medical treatment, but he had been injured such that he was no longer able to travel the stars. Their ship, too, was all but destroyed, and Rath had no way to return to her family.

Knowing he would stay on this rock for the foreseeable future, the captain told Rath to scrap his destroyed ship and build her own, and that the builders here would help her on his word as a member of the Protectorate. He told her to take this ship and, hopefully, find her family again.

Rath had never truly been on her own before, even as independent of a hunter she was on her home planet. Still, she accepted, and was able to have the wrecked ship decommissioned. The captain had just enough money left to pay for the completion of the new ship, and was able to teach Rath the rest he knew about flying before she left, but she promised she would one day return and do the same for him that he allowed her to do for her family.

Eventually she tracked them down once again, and this time, she convinced them to join her on her travels and get away from the terrible land they'd called home for so long.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Stand-up shows I watched this weekend:

Greg Davies: Firing Cheeseballs at a Dog (2010), The Back of My Mum’s Head (2013), You Magnificent Beast (2018)

It’s definitely weird that I’d never watched these before, given how much I’ve seen of Greg Davies in other things. Thing that finally brought me to them wasn’t even Greg Davies’ prolific other work; was when I listened to all the Peacock & Gamble stuff in the spring of this year, and I searched on YouTube for anything that Ray Peacock and/or Ed Gamble was doing in that era to put in my related folder, and it brought up some extras from Greg’s early DVDs, because they featured a P&G-era Ed Gamble doing tour support. I watched those DVD extras, and then figured I really should see those actual shows that go with them, so I finally downloaded his DVDs.

I still didn’t get around to watching them for a few months, and I’m glad I finally did now. They were fun. The second one does feature Ed Gamble coming on at the end, in the same sort of dynamic that Ed Gamble and Greg Davies have successfully cultivated for many years.

Two of the three ended on big musical numbers, and the first still ended with playing a song. They had props and things. They all had a vague theme and something like a narrative running through them, they all had a few little messages here and there, though they weren’t tightly structured or focused on some big important meaning or anything. It was fairly broad, not the most innovative or cerebral comedy I’ve ever seen, but a bunch of it was funny. At some points he probably got a way with a bit because of being charismatic and likeable, but that’s fine, it was fun.

I may have been listening to too much Russell Howard lately, because Greg Davies kept making me think of him, with so much of the stand-up relying on “And then, my mom said this crazy thing!” A whole lot of it was just stories about his family being kooky, but it quite a bit funnier than the average stand-up routine about how kooky your family is, so that’s good.

My favourite topics he covered was probably in the first DVD, which had a bunch of stories from his days as a teacher. That’s probably just down to my own experiences and what I find relatable, though. Cannot relate to parenthood stories, but kids do say the darndest things, as I know from being with them all day at work. I hope/assume most of the stories Greg told about his teaching days were made up, or at least wildly exaggerated. If we assume they’re not true, then they’re quite funny ideas.

It was interested to jump from the 2013 show to the 2018 show – from two years before Taskmaster’s debut to three years after it – and see the change in the reception. The 2018 show had more hecklers, people shouting sexual things at him, which was slightly weird but he dealt with fine but it was still weird. And there was a clear shift in status, with Greg leaning into being successful a bit more.

Overall, the three DVDs made an entertaining 3.5-ish hours and it’s weird that I didn’t watch them sooner.

Aaron Chen – If It Weren’t Filmed, Nobody Would Believe (2022)

I probably made the mistake of going into this one with expectations set too high. I’d read that he used to work with Sam Campbell, and I was thinking of other off-the-wall Australian comedians like Greg Larsen and Dan Rath, so I was expecting something exceptionally creative and odd from Aaron Chen, and then was a bit disappointed when it was just fairly conventional observational stand-up. Once I got used to that and enjoyed it more for what it was, it was all right. Some of the jokes were funny. It didn’t make me think I need to go find more of his stuff.

John Hastings – 10 John Hastings I Hate About You (2019)

Over the last few months, I have gone from thinking John Hastings is sort of entertaining but not all that great, to, I think it’s safe say, becoming a proper fan. This is the eighth recorded stand-up special by him that I’ve seen or heard, in addition to the two times I went to see him live when he played my local comedy club in June and I went back two weekends in a row. I have yet another of his YouTube specials downloaded but un-watched so far, because it just came out this month, but it’s a combination of footage from different comedy clubs, while next month he’s going to release the video of that same show in the form of an Edinburgh hour.

I find it really interesting how he does that. There are multiple shows where he’s released the same material in club form, and then released a recording of just one night of him doing a full hour in Edinburgh, and it’s so interesting to compare the two. So I’m saving this new video to watch once he releases the Edinburgh hour that goes with it, to watch them together.

However, while looking up that other video, I learned that his 2019 Edinburgh hour is already on YouTube, which I hadn’t known about before so of course I immediately downloaded it. Watched it today, and I think that might be my favourite show I’ve ever seen/heard from him. It was really consistently funny. Got laughs from me spread all throughout the hour. Had a bit of a throughline, a bit of a narrative, just enough to make the stories more than the sum of their parts, to make it feel coherent and like they all go together. He had some really sharp audience interaction; John Hastings is a rare comedian who makes me not hate the crowd work. He had some good ideas, expressed well. And he had a lot of properly funny stories.

I enjoy the way he lets us compare the differences between a club set and Edinburgh hour, by releasing the same material as both, and I enjoy both. I greatly enjoyed watching him live, in June, headlining a local club with brash, loud, crowd work-focused stuff to an audience that did not have nearly enough attention span to sit through a thoughtful, structured hour. He’s good at that stuff, he makes me reconsider my prejudice against that type of comedy. But then he puts the prejudice back because his Edinburgh hours are always better than his club set mash-ups with the same material. My favourite of his recorded shows are the Edinburgh ones, and I think this one’s my favourite of all.

John Robins – Howl (2023)

This came out several weeks ago, and I bought it on Bandcamp the day it was released, but have held off on listening to it because I was prepared for it to be very emotionally intense, and wanted to wait until I had enough time to handle that. Also, knowing I’d not heard it yet was motivating me to get through the last couple of weekends without drinking, because I figured that listening to this show when I’m hungover would make me hate myself, and I figured that as long as that’s working as motivation, I may as well drag it out a bit longer.

Anyway, today I finally just sat down and listened to it. And honestly, I can’t think of much to say about it that doesn’t get into the incredibly personal over-sharing that I was doing all over this blog earlier in this year, when I was first trying to stop/significantly reduce my drinking. That’s still happening, I’m still finding it difficult, but I’ve stopped oversharing about it on the internet, and I don’t really want to start that again now.

It was very good. I was surprised and impressed at how funny he managed to make it, given the very dark subject matter. Obviously there were some parts where he’d go a while with no jokes and no laughs, while dealing with the worst of the sad parts. But nearly the whole show was sad parts, and he did a hell of a job of finding ways to get laughs into a lot of those sad parts. A less experienced comedian would not have been able to do that. It showed real skill, real care with specifics like word choice and timing and order of the material, that he could take something this difficult and still make it funny. So few parts of the show just felt "easy", slipped into a topic or style that's lighthearted and meant to make people laugh. He was forcing funny bits into difficult topics all the way along. It was, if possible, even more intense than I'd expected.

I think I’d been expecting this show to end with a positive message, to have more material about recovery and how it’s better now that he’s stopped drinking. There was a very small bit of that right at the end, but mostly, this was nearly all sad parts. It’s a show about why he drank and why he quit, not a show that focuses on “I’ve stopped drinking and it’s all better now.” It’s mainly fucking harrowing.

It does go to extreme lengths to continue John Robins’ knack for describing drinking alcohol in the most relatable way I’ve ever heard. I’ve so often been left cold by people’s descriptions of why people drink too much, stuff about needing it in social situations or wanting to do wild extreme things. As someone who’s drank too much for over a decade now, I relate far more to John Robins’ description of how nice it is to sit alone in your room and watch YouTube videos while too drunk for your brain to keep throwing obsessive anxiety thoughts at you. But also the way it doesn’t quite work, it’s nice but feels like there should be more. I’m not doing it justice, John Robins explains this far better than I did. I’m just saying, I liked when he explained that stuff.

He also had an observation that I had never put into specific words before, and in fact hadn’t even totally, consciously realized was the case until I heard him say it, that the alcohol is a coping mechanism for obsession with getting everything right all the time, but after a while, obsession with getting everything right all the time becomes connected to the need for alcohol, as if you’re as efficient as possible in the painful, difficult-to-navigate mundanities of everyday life like grocery shopping, then you can more quickly get to the bit where you have a drink and it takes the edge off and you’re no longer… I’m going to use the word “masking”, due to my own experience as an autistic person. John Robins did not use that word, due to not describing himself as an autistic person. He just described the experience perfectly. And we do not armchair diagnose strangers even when it’s really obvious, so I’ll end this paragraph now.

You may be thinking, at this point – “But Meerkats, you said you don’t want to write your thoughts on this show that involve overly personal over-sharing, so why have you written those last few paragraphs?” Because those were the surface-skimming couple of main thoughts that I just had to include. Trust me – if I wrote a proper post about my thoughts and feelings and opinions on this show, my reactions to it and all the emotional and cognitive stuff it brought up for me, this post would be ten pages in a Word document and that would be over-sharing. Those few paragraphs are nothing compared to that. And I don’t really want to write that ten-page post.

So I will just say, congratulations to John Robins on joining that list I have in my head of comedians who’ve made me cry with a stand-up show. Actually he was probably already on that list, I think Darkness of Robins got a few tears out of me, but this one got far more. This is up there with Grace Petrie’s Butch Ado About Nothing for the most I’ve ever cried during a comedy show, and not just at the end, repeatedly throughout. So… it was that kind of comedy show. If you would like to hear a comedy show that does that to people, listen to this. But maybe don't listen to it if you have anywhere to be in the next hour or so.

[sca-nerd]

Ruby Joust

My Squire Brother, Marcus de Rath, was Knighted! Which was the whole reason I went. Ruby Joust is not usually on my calendar because it’s always ridiculously hot and miserable, and usually longer than a day trip drive that I’m comfortable with. I was not about to miss this event. So, under the guise of celebrating Sir William’s 5th anniversary of Knighthood, I grabbed the niece (who is also in the Household), the little old pupper ladies, booked a hotel room, drove 6 hours and proceeded to help hide EVERYTHING going on from Marcus until he could be put on Vigil on Saturday afternoon.

Traditionally, Ruby Joust tends to have god-awful weather; it’s usually swelteringly hot. 5 years ago, at Sir William’s Knighting, it was so oppressively hot my niece got heat stroke, and my phone died in the middle of recording the ceremony because it over heated. So when we were told, “You don’t want to miss Ruby this year” (which is code for get your ass to this event/Court, something is happening in our Household) I knew I was gonna book a hotel room. I wasn’t going to mess around this year.

My biggest concern was the dogs. Because of extenuating circumstances, I wasn’t able to leave them behind and so at 15½ and 14, they went to their first SCA event. I knew Tipitiwitchit would thrive, because she is social, curious and everyone is friend-shaped. Daisy is the one I was concerned about. Daisy is skittish and shy around people, even if she knows them, and will sometimes try to intimidate other dogs (she was attacked once and had 12 stitches), and so she sometimes barks and charges other dogs when she first meets them. When we meet new dogs, we always take precautions with her for that reason. She’s never hurt anyone, but we aren’t willing to risk that ONE TIME she does.

At home, Daisy is so noisy and bossy and has such a BIG personality; we joke that she is secretly a Mafia Boss. Around people or in new places she gets shy, reserved, hesitant, sometimes quiet, and will usually just hide in my lap or want to be carried everywhere. Going into this, I knew she would need extra care. I had prepared her own space so she could be comfortable, I warned folks I would be going to the hotel if things got too hot or too much for the dogs, and everyone who knows Daisy knew that she would be a little bit overwhelmed.

I don’t know what dog I brought to Ruby Joust, because it was not Daisy.

This. Bitch. We had literally JUST arrived on site and she walked straight up to people she didn’t know. She let complete strangers pet her without shying away or me having to stand with her. She FOLLOWED people like she was going with them. “Bye mom, gonna hang out with my new friends,” kind of followed. She let people HOLD HER. And she didn’t try to get away, wiggle to be let down, or try to stretch to me to take her from them. I have never seen a guy hold her, and she let TWO of them do it while being perfectly content. She didn’t bark once. Not once. She is a yorkie/jack russell mix. She ALWAYS barks. I don’t think I heard her bark once from Friday morning to Monday morning.

She THRIVED. And in the process made me into a LIAR. “She’s skittish she won’t let you pet her,” LIE. “She won’t come to you if you call her,” LIE. “She doesn’t let other people hold her,” LIE. “She might bark at your dog,” LIE. If I had known she was a born Scadian, I would have brought her to events sooner!

She and Tipi also got to be part of the procession into Court when Marcus was summoned, which was a lot of fun. Now I wish that I had made them SOME sort of Household garb or a bandana at the very least. Next time, I guess, because they had a lot of fun and so I will definitely take them to another event soon (when the weather is more comfortable for them).

Speaking of the weather, we had GORGEOUS weather. There was a cold front pushing through, so it was in the low 70’s with no humidity, some cloud cover, and a nice breeze the whole time. We broke down early on Sunday morning so none of the canvas got wet in the anticipated rain, and then I left after the Knighting. If I stood still for longer than a minute, both dogs were asleep on the grass – so I knew they were done. We were probably about 20 minutes on the road when the rain hit, so it was a good call to break down when we did.

The Knighting was beautiful. Marcus and his Lady looked incredible. The speech for the chain, the spurs, and the belt (the sword presenter left ahead of the anticipated rain), were beautiful. He received a belt that had belonged to our Knight’s Knight – Sir Kane. It was an emotional time; the culmination of years of hard work and growth, and I am so honored to have been able to witness it and to be a part of it. I am so proud of him and deeply grateful to be able to call him my Brother.

Vivat, Sir Marcus de Rath.

OH. Nearly forgot one of my favorite parts: THEY PUT A BATTLE YORKIE ON HIS SCROLL. I have to get a picture of it, because I died a little when I saw it.

[promiseiwillwrite]

One

Ayla was first. She and I came apart when I was Beaten in front of a full length mirrored closet door. I remember going into the mirror, and changing places with mirror girl. At the time, I imagined very hard that I was safe, and hidden beside the boxes and shoes and coats in the closet. For some reason there was a tea set. Maybe that's something comforting that my mind put into the memory, because there never was such a thing, really, among my parent's belongings.

I know this was the first of MANY experiences of dissociation. Many times when my model of the world, which revolved around my parents being good people, was violated in a way I refused to understand and couldn't cope with. I was a child. I could only assume that I was bad, to make them not bad. Except it wasn't fair, and it was scary and it made me have the core belief that I was just bad. Which was continually corroborated by external sources, so I Constantly tried to be good. To perform. To excel. to be worthy of praise. I had to live up to impossible standards, Adult standards, to be valid.

When I was 10 or 11, I played D&D, and had a couple of characters that I played. The first was Rath, who was a Male Elf with red hair. He was a thief, but he never stole anything. And the ONE time he tried, he failed, got caught and thrown into a pit in the middle of town where people emptied their chamber pots and pissed down on him all day.

And then Kalok, the fighter. Illegitimate Daughter of a false king. On a quest to assassinate the leader of an opposing army, to win her father's approval. Did not take on fights she knew she couldn't possibly win, and was openly mocked for not charging into these battles. Treated like a Coward.

And then Derrik. When I was 13, I met Derrik very nearly intentionally. I did a vision quest type of meditation to meet my "masculine side" and I fell through a sheet of ice and into a dreamspace. Derrik was there. He was a terrifying, imposing man with dark hair. And a Vampire. And about 1000 years old. And he told me not to be afraid. I should have listened. I was afraid anyway.

Not long after that, Loki walked into my inner landscape and took over. He made himself at home. My interaction with Loki was very wrong and intimate and would very likely piss off a bunch of godspouses and child victim advocates. I think the God Loki had/has something to do with the experience of the Entity that I call Loki, and I also think that it/he is maybe also the part of myself that is the closest to Him. It makes sense for us, and that is what matters.

And then when I was 16, Daemeon Came Forth. I say Daemeon came forth because I am fairly certain that Daemeon was Endogenic. I was old enough to have started realizing what I had missed in my own childhood, so I Built an inner Child, and he is Amazing. He's also able to choose what age he presents at now. He is very often eight years old. But I have seen him as old as 40. Depending on what the situation called for. He is always him, though.

There have been Others.

Many others. Temporary Teammates. Some we've Killed. Some we've Eaten. The Merging and Death and Rebirth metaphorically and actually are themes that come and go with us.

[ben-the-hyena]

SPEAKING OF POST MORTEM POWERS... as said, only Scarab is the known living character to have patron god-related powers, and his are even quite different from the others (not mummified, no talisman around his neck or anywhere, again a different transformation that looks more painful and a animalistic making him rip his robes and looking like he is growing into it rather than a magical-girl transformation like the others, doesn't need to say "WITH THE STRENTH OF RA" to activate it just his own thoughts, doesn't discharge nor need to recharge and can transform and detransform indefinetely, no magic weapon, and again PERHAPS the presence of the beetle tatoo/mark on his back), meaning his powers are probably coming from another source whenever that was which we will never know since the show was cancelled. And Kimas, the only minor mummy, after resurrecting is impressed by the others' powers who tell him all mummies have those and teach him how to use his, meaning Scarab aside it is obvious as day and night it is a mummy thing in that universe

Later in the show we see Ja-Kal was killed (and possibly Rath, Nefertina and Armon too) by the hand of his evil brother Arakh, who, jealous, had offered his services to Scarab, who accepted but told him he needed (in my own words) some more upgrades. After that we see him kill Ja-Kal with his scorpion powers he has as a mummy in present days

But something that bothered me... is he already had grey skin. The same grey skin he later has and all mummies are drawn with

So either it is a just an animation error and they did not bother recolor him right

Or, since his powers seemed to work like the others and not like Scarab's,

ARAKH WAS SO INSANE AND JEALOUS HE AGREED TO BE KILLED AND MUMMIFIED THEN RESURRECTED BY SCARAB TO BE POWERFUL ENOUGH TO KILL HIS BROTHER

AND SINCE WE SEE HE DOES NOT CARE FOR HIS 12 YEARS OLD SON KIMAS AND ONLY RAISED HIM TO BE YET ANOTHER WEAPON AGAINST JA-KAL AND AND KIMAS IS A MUMMY IT MEANS HE PROBABLY HAD HIM KILLED WITH HIM WHETHER HE WANTED OR NOT TO "REACH HIS POTENTIAL" THE DAY HE WOULD COME BACK TO LIFE

THAT GUY IS CRAZY

[gil-galadhwen]

The Lord of the Rings | Elrond x F!Reader

Part 1 (Carrier of Messages) can be read here or on AO3

Notes: I'm still including as much LOTRO Lore Master goodness as I can but also making up a few things too (particularly with the spells.)

This one is a bit dark... there's blood, there's violence and there's a hurt Elrond so proceed with caution, friends x

Word Count: 2.3k

Edraith

Elrond stayed for the rest of the day, talking with you in the library while you reshelved books and rearranged spell cards that were stored in drawers along one wall. He was curious about lore mastery and how you came to be in Celondim. You told him you come from a long line of lore masters and your grandparents came from Celondim so your presence there was inevitable. He looked at you curiously then, as though he was trying to work out who your family was. You turned the conversation around to him as often as you could though, asking after his own family and life as the king’s herald. He was passionate about his work and respected Gil-galad in a way you found charming. Yet, the more you talked, the more you realised there was a loneliness about Elrond that he perhaps kept veiled by his attentiveness and concern for others. You wondered if anyone had ever been as concerned about him as he was for everyone else.

After a cosy dinner shared in front of the fireplace in your quarters above the library, Elrond left for Lindon with a promise to send a message as soon as he returned. But after seven days, no message came and no errand required you to return to Lindon. The silence felt ominous. It wasn’t like Elrond to not keep his word, so you decide to head down to Celondim’s market square and see if you could gain some insight into where the king’s herald might be. He wasn’t generally at the forefront of town gossip but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

With a basket in hand and a handful of coins from the library’s repository, you slid quietly through the stalls, pretending to take interest in the various inks and quills for sale, alongside reams of parchment and elegant scroll cases. As you picked up an adorable parchment weight carved from stone into the shape of a frog, the customer next to you sparked a conversation with the seller.

“Did you hear about the Bandits? They have built a camp on the border of Rath Teraig.”

“But wardens are stationed there.” The seller replied.

“Indeed. They were attacked last night by orcs that have been prowling the woods nearby. They had to leave their post to transport the injured back to the Grey Havens.”

The seller sighed, nodding their head. “Orcs are getting too close to the towns for comfort. The king needs to do something.”

“That is not all.” The customer leaned closer to the seller. “The bandits took the opportunity to move in and block the main pass to Lindon. Until the king can send reinforcements, Lindon is completely isolated. Nobody goes in and nobody goes out except for the king’s herald who apparently is missing—“

“Excuse me.” You interrupted, startling the customer. “Did you say the king’s herald is missing?”

The customer looked you up and down, taking in your lore master robes and the veil you liked to wear for aesthetic's sake. “That is what the stable master has been saying.”

“Since when? How long ago was this reported?”

“Two, perhaps three days.”

You calmly set the frog parchment weight down and nodded your thanks before stepping out of the stall.

Elrond was missing. That might’ve explained why you hadn’t heard from him but he left Celondim seven days before and the customer had said the bandit attack was three days ago. He should have passed by the Grey Havens long before then. You tried not to panic as you pushed the door to the library open and dumped your basket on the floor before heading straight for the main table where you’d spread out Elrond’s gift to the library – a detailed map of Lindon, the Grey Havens and the surrounding woodlands.

A grey paw appeared on one corner of the map and you smiled. “Freda.” You said, scratching under the cat’s chin. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you but I have to run out again.”

Freda purred, rolling over onto her back for a belly rub. “I promise I won’t be gone long.”

You plant a kiss on Freda’s head before rolling up the map and casting the Dismiss Companion spell.

Freda disappeared as though she was never there.

***

Skilled lore masters could conjure animal companions at will, although unfortunately for you, you had yet to learn the spell for conjuring a horse so you headed down to the stables to borrow one. 

The stable master was reluctant to give you one of his beloved mares due to the rumours about the bandits, so you had to make do with a young bay pony, only recently broken in.

“That will do.” You said, handing over the coin. “What’s the pony's name?”

The stable master shrugged, turning his attention back to a steed with a shining, black coat. You sighed, leading the pony to the road where you quietly cast a Calming spell. If you were going to be riding into orc-ridden lands, you couldn’t have an easily spooked pony run out on you. 

“I’ll think of a name for you.” You said, as you set off up the hill towards Duillond.

***

You’d ridden to Lindon many times, always keeping to the roads and paths established by the king’s wardens. However, after consulting Elrond’s map earlier, you’d decided on a different route that would take you through a thick patch of woodlands. Considering the possibility of orcs lurking in the trees, you knew this was a dangerous choice. But coming across bandits on the road would’ve been much more treacherous.

Once you had settled into the saddle, you cast three spells; one to obscure you and the pony from sight, one to cover up your scents, and one to soften the pony’s footfalls. Orcs had even better hearing than elves so being scentless and silent would go a long way in passing them undetected. 

As you moved through the first line of trees and into the shadows, the air became heavier with humidity and an eerie silence draped over you, unsettling and foreboding. Not a single bird chirped from the boughs as you passed beneath them and when a branch snapped somewhere in the distance, you felt the pony tense beneath you. With the reins gripped in one hand, you reached forward to rub his neck in soothing circles. You could do this. You both could. You just needed to be brave and find Elrond before anything happened to him.

After a few hours, you reached a stream that split the woods in half. While you were certain you knew which direction Lindon was in, you couldn’t be sure which way Elrond might have gone. The sun was already beginning to set so you needed to get out of the woods as soon as possible. You were about to guide your steed across the stream when you heard a sound of metal on metal followed by a snarl. You froze, willing yourself and the pony to stay calm. Whatever it was, wouldn’t be able to see or smell you, unless you’d done the spells incorrectly - always a possibility when under duress.

You turned your head slowly to look over your shoulder to discover there were not one but two orcs standing less than five feet away, and they didn’t appear to know you were there. Breathing out a sigh, you watched as the two orcs launched into what can only be described as a petty squabble. But it was what they were squabbling over that stopped you from attempting to eliminate them straight away.

“It’s mine!

“I found it first!

“No, you bloody didn’t! I’m the one who tripped the frilly elfling bastard!”

“Yeah? Well, Murag was the one who strung him up!”

“I don’t bleedin’ care what Murag did! The brooch is mine!”

You swallowed as one of them held up something as round and silver as the moon.

Elrond’s brooch – the one he always wore that you wanted to ask him about but somehow, couldn’t find the courage to.

A quiet rage filled your blood as you pulled off your veil, tucking it safely into your robes before reaching back for your staff and sliding down from the pony’s saddle to the soft forest floor.

***

As silently as you could, you led the pony to the stream to drink before casting a Stillness spell so it would stay put while you followed the orcs deeper into the woods. 

You trailed them as they jumped over the stream, bickering as they stomped through the undergrowth. Eventually, they stepped into a small clearing where two more orcs stood around a blazing fire while a third, larger one stood to the side, tossing an axe from hand to hand. By the way it was looming over the others, you suspected it to be the leader of the group and likely this “Murag” the other two had been talking about. 

“Where have you two pig-heads been?” Murag growled, stepping towards the others. 

What you saw behind him almost pushed you to your knees. Elrond had been strung up by his arms between two trees, his feet barely touching the ground. With a hand clasped over your mouth to stifle a scream, you watched as Murag turned and pulled on one of the ropes. Elrond, like a puppet on a string, flopped backwards, his head tilting to reveal his face, bruised and streaked with blood. His hair was a tangled mess and his robes were torn revealing the pale gleam of his chest. In the light of the fire, it looked utterly horrific and bile rose in your throat but you quelled it down. You couldn’t lose your head now, not when Elrond needed you most.

Clasping your staff between your hands, you closed your eyes and muttered the incantation for the Obliteration spell. You knew casting this spell would break the ones you’d cast earlier, making you visible to the orcs, but it couldn’t be helped. A stream of blue light shot out of the staff as you swung it in a wide arc, sending the five orcs backwards, crashing into the trees. The force of the spell banked the fire to embers, plunging the clearing into almost total darkness, save for the scythe moon’s light through the canopy of trees. 

As the orcs, dazed, rose slowly to their feet, you quickly cast a Friend of Bears spell and with a roar, your bear companion Brius appeared at your side, his large paws beating his chest in a show of aggression. He immediately raced towards the two orcs with the brooch, while the other two made a beeline for you but you pushed them back with a Blinding Flash spell, stunning them again while you hurriedly cast a  Lightning Strike directly above them. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Murag move towards Elrond’s body and you roared right alongside Brius.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” You scream, casting a Power of Knowledge spell. Three spears of yellow light surge towards Murag and plunge into his chest. Dropping your staff to the ground you pull on them like ropes, drawing Murag’s power from him and transferring it into you.

Brius had made quick work of the two orcs, their bodies lying limp next to the banked fire. He was already running towards the other two who were attempting to escape. You weren’t sure how many more spells you could cast without depleting your energy levels and Power of Knowledge was an intense spell. There was one more thing you could try, so you like the spell diminish and pick up your staff. It was dangerous but it was the only way you could use the last of your power effectively. You took a deep breath as you cast the Burning Embers spell. Red-hot cinders leapt from the fire into the air, blazing hot as though they’d just been lit.

“Over here!” You shout and as Murag turns towards you, you cast a Gust of Wind spell to blow the embers right into his hideous face.

He fell to the forest floor with a heavy thud and your beloved Brius fell on top of him and tore his head from his shoulders in one swift movement.

The forest was silent except for your laboured breathing and Brius, whose bloody mouth brushed your arm startled you.

“Oh, Brius.” You patted him on the head between his ears. 

“You're such a good boy.” 

Brius whined and you realised then that he was injured; a long gash ran down the length of his left side. You knew that he was asking you to release him so he could recuperate, so with a final pat you utter the spell and he disappears into nothing.

You waste no time getting to Elrond, his poor, broken body slumped against the ropes that you fight to loosen with your energy so low. Tears blur your eyes as you use a Knowledge of Cures spell on the worst of his wounds. When you finally free him from the binds, you slide beneath one of his arms and carry him back to where you left the pony by the stream. 

You were crying hard, overwhelmed by the fight and the fear that Elrond may not make the journey back to Celondim. Your heart beat wildly in your chest and you were weak, so weak you feared you’d drop Elrond and it would have all been for nothing. No doubt more orcs were in the area and could come looking after the noise the battle had made.  

On knees that were close to giving out, you pushed on. Then a sound, quiet and breathy brushes against your cheek. You turn to find Elrond looking at you through bleary, blood shot eyes. His cracked lips forming a word you don't recall ever telling him.

Your name.

“It’s alright.” You reassured him, tucking a lock of damp hair behind his pointed ear. 

“You’re safe now.”

... to be continued

[batstorm93672]

Oh my dear friend @angelicprincessjenna do I have one for you.

.

What is going on?

"He's waking up!"

"Finally"

"Thank goodness"

"Damian, how are you feeling?"

How do they know me?

"I'm... fine"

One person, black hair with white streaks furrowed his brow "You do recognize us right?"

What are these people going on about?

"No. This is our first encounter"

It went silent and Damian looked confused, these four men don't seem familiar. "Um... have any of you seen my father?" The man who was closest to Damian looked crestfallen at the news, but he managed to snap himself out of whatever was going through his head "Yeah, yeah, can you stand?"

"I believe so"

Damian got up and even though his League instincts told him to fight these people. Something seemed odd about it, plus father and Pennyworth would know if these four were bad. They wouldn't have let them in so close if they were evil.

Bruce lightened up when he saw Damian walk over "Damian, I'm glad to see you awake! I was just checking to see if everyone who we had fought was taken care of" Damian glanced at the four, they didn't seem fazed, Damian crossed his arms and looked back to Bruce. "I can assume that these four know your vigilante work?" "They always have" "That doesn't sound correct, how long have you known them?"

"You're acting as if you don't know them yourself"

Damian tilted his head, is he meant to know these four? "This is our first meeting, I would have attacked them without a thought but I thought with restraint. Why would you and Pennyworth let four people into the Manor anyways. Now can I have names?"

Bruce looked at the four in shock "Damian, you don't recognize them?" "Am I meant to?"

"These are your brothers, Dick, Jason, Tim and Duke. You were all on a mission before you got hit in the head and knocked out"

"Brothers..? Did you adopt more children behind my back? And why did you adopt them when they are clearly old enough to decide?"

"What... no no they were here before you, you've seen them a bazillion times"

"Unlikely, I would remember such a thing"

The one named Dick looked more hurt "That hit must have done more damage than we thought"

Something about how Dick looked made Damian feel a tug in his heart. "I don't know you four, should I?"

They all looked at Damian with pain written across their faces.

"Tt. Clearly knowing you four may be a mistake. You all look sentimental I rather not associate with people who could get in my way"

Damian glanced at Dick who looked like he was stabbed in the chest when Damian said that. Damian's heart fell at the expression he was seeing from him. "But... I-I suppose it isn't so bad if father decrees that you are adequate people" Dick's mood brightened at that. "Say, wanna hang out" "Hang out?" Jason scoffed "What you never heard of hanging out for fun?" If it wasn't for the weird connection that Damian might have with them, he would probably just stab Jason. Yet... his presence felt somewhat familiar... reminds him of the League somehow.

.

His supposed brothers have taken the time to find a way to help Damian remember them. It's been a few days, they all spoke to him on separate occasions and Damian had a pretty okay time talking with them. Damian hung out at the cave and watched the endless bottom, trying to rack through his brain for the four who he knows. The fact that whenever Dick got sad it somehow tugged at Damian, Jason reminds him of the League as for the other two... Tim felt like a thorn in his side at times, but it didn't seem to be so bad. Duke was fun to be around with and he liked talking about games.

Damian turned when footsteps made their way, it was Dick. "You... tell me, what is our relationship?" "Our relationship... well we're brothers, for a long time I took care of you when Bruce was missing. I was your Batman" "My... Batman?" "Yeah, we were the best"

We were the best Richard

"Richard..."

"Yes, you remember my name!"

"What of the others?"

Dick... something in Damian said that he did something rather hurtful a few times, yet now just seeing him sad makes him second-guess himself.

"Well, you and Jason are pretty close at times. You and Tim used to fight a lot, but now you two have gotten much better. You and Duke have plenty of times of fun when you play games or talk about random things"

Jason... he had hurt him too.

Tim... something felt even worse when thinking on that.

Duke... had he hurt him too?

What did Damian do?

"Richard... am I a good brother?" "Yes, of course you are. You're just sometimes hard to talk to and that's fine" "I have hurt you all, one way or another I had hurt you" "No one said family was perfect"

"May we... do something together?"

Dick's face brightened and he grinned "Of course! What do you wanna do?" "We have video games, maybe we can all play?"

.

After over ten rounds of games, Damian had watched his "brothers" closely something felt very familiar and he felt happy. Even not by blood... maybe they are family.

Slowly yet surely did the memories return, being around his family was one of the best things he has felt. Not that he would admit it.

[thecorvinmartinet]

In You Lays My Strong Heart (sestina)

NOTE:

Hi! This was my attempt at a sestina. If you don't like long poems, I'm uploading a rondeau in a moment. (Btw sorry for puncuation I was half dead as I wote it)

There have been many a cloudy and stormy day in which my heart

Layed in desperation for something great amidst the clouds; in

Those dull and desolate times my heart needed a solution dovish and strong.

Although, high and low I searched I only found you.

Yet, I pondered and parried this horrible fate; for my

Heart lies in you, yours not in me, but in you my heart lies

Oh this dreaded realization and newfound consciousness! There will be many lies

Of which I will be forced to tell unto my poor sullen heart.

So, I must go to my home now and write my

Great rants, raves, rath, remorse and regret in

Goal to shake my heart's grand fixation, frustration, and admiration of you.

I am not like others; I wish not for love’s lips but release from my love so strong.

Blinded dare I say I am, it is so prominent and so very strong.

Like a grand mountain protruding from the land in which it lies.

Oh how I toss and turn in my bed, hoping you

Would even just maybe pass a thought to the shackles you have my poor heart

So deeply and roughly put in.

Many would say I am nothing but a fool. They grimace and scoff saying,”Oh my!”

I question myself,”How dare they say oh my!”

Have they not been fortunate and cursed enough to have a love so strong?

Do they not have some grand manor in

Which their large and fair love lies.

If that is the truth for all of man, I’ll be the first to owe my heart

quickly and fairly, I shall carry it all the way to you.

So, love I must beckon to you!

I must tell you something about my

Strong heart, my ever so strong heart.

I have told it for too long lies.

That, in-

In

You

Lays

My 

Strong 

Heart

Not yet, don't go! My heart lies in

You! Hear me! My heart lies in you.

My heart did lay in you, being so formerly strong.

[seriously-nobody]

The Ghost In My Heart

Pt.2

Warnings: romance, grief and grieving, depression

Preface: This one is a little less heavy than the last one, but it deals with the fallout. So, there's much dealing with grief and depression, but I tried to keep it light between the dark moments. I do recommend sticking around though because pt. 4 was particularly enjoyable to write ;^)

It’d been almost 8 months since Eleanor’s passing and you had spent most of your days tending to William in the mansion. Though your efforts to sooth him always seemed to be thwarted by his deep grief. At this point it was worsening more than anything, most days he’d stay in the master bedroom and lay in bed all day, and even some days he would refuse to eat anything the maids or servants would bring him.

“William? May I come in?” You say at the door with a tray of lunch. “Yes.” he muffles out. You open the door and bring the tray to him, there was barely any light in the room since he’d drawn the curtains. “I brought you some lunch, would you please eat?” William scrunches his face at the food but begrudgingly takes a bite. “There, see? That should make you feel a little better.” He sighs and a small smirk creeps across his face and it makes you beam in turn. "I am glad to have such a good friend by my side in these dark times.” he rasps out having not spoken in a while. “I’m happy to be here for you William.” you rub his shoulder. He glances down and the dark shadow of grief returns to his face. “I just wish I could see her again. Talk to her again. Some days I wake up thinking I'll find her by my side like always and it all would have just been a horrible nightmare." This sentiment sparked an idea in your head. What if you could reach Eleanor from beyond the grave. It was a dark thought and a dangerous one at that, but who are you if not enticed by a little danger. As soon as William was finished eating you told him you needed to run an errand that the servants couldn’t, and you’d be away for a while. You water the flowers you got for him every week and left him with his favorite book to read and went down to talk with the maids and servants. “I’ll be away from here for 6 days, can I trust you will take care of him, feed him, and bring him small joys while I’m away?” they nod, and you go fetch your horse and head to the city of New Orleans to look for some kind of answer.

You go club to club, pool room to pool room, and lounge to lounge, when finally you get yourself in the right circle and hear of a well renowned medium by the name of Madame Leota who can speak with and summon the dead through seances. She came at a high price but you would pay it 3 times over if it meant it would help William be himself again. So you start your journey back to Gracey Manor the following morning.

You arrive back just when you said you would and go up to talk to William. You knock on the door in a cheery melody. “William? I’m back, do you mind if I come in?” a shuffle is heard on the other side of the door and then it cracks open and William peaks through. “You were gone for so long. I thought you had left me.” he says monotonically but does not open the door for you. "I'm sorry I was away, truly it was for you.” you say looking at the floor. “Ah, so you lied to me. Not just some errand then?” William says scornfully. “Yes, but only because I was searching for something that I didn’t know was possible at the time. But now I know it's real and I want to help you… please, William, believe me.” you beg him. “What impossible thing are you speaking of?” He asks only slightly curiously. “You might be able to speak with Eleanor again.” “How.” he squints at you. “I learned about a medium, her name is Madame Leota, and she can summon the deceased through seances.” a moment passes in silence as William thinks things over. “I’ll pay for all of it. I can write her a letter today and she can be here by next month.” you say sweetening the deal. “Good.” he returns back to his sorrowful tone rather than anger at you for leaving him alone. “I am truly sorry that I left you here alone for so long, William. Is there anything I can do to make up for it?” you plead. “I’ve been missing the flowers you bring me.” he says. “Then I shall bring you a full bouquet.” you smile at him and leave to get the flowers from the garden and write the letter to Madame Leota.

The rest of the month goes by and before you know it Madame Leota is on the doorstep looking even more radiant than you had imagined. “Madame Leota, how wonderful it is to see you.” you say walking into the foyer to greet her with Gracey to your side. You helped clean him up as much as you could and you were glad it showed, he looks the best he has in weeks. She walks through the double doors and the doormen close it behind her. “I’m y/n l/n, and this is William Gracey.” you say and she looks over to William for a moment and he shifts his eyes to the floor. “I see. And I assume you have my payment?” she looks at you. “Ah, yes, of course.” you hand over an envelope and she looks in it to make sure it’s all there. She looks up to William, “Perfect, and have you prepared a seance room?” William looks over at you with pleading eyes and you nod to him to respond. “Y-yes, it’s just this way.” he says skittishly and walks up to a portrait on the landing of the stairs.

He puts his fingers in the eyes of the portrait and unlocks the mechanism that makes the portrait swing out like a door. “Interesting.” Madame Leota approves with a smirk and walks into the seance room as you follow suit. The room is already lit when you enter, by a circle of oil that runs around the edge of the room. In the center of the room lies a table and a few different chairs. “I’ll be needing my effects before we begin.” she says to you. “Oh, yes.” you say and motion for one of the servants to bring in her luggage. Out of a large red and gold bag she pulls out a crystal ball with a small metal stand for it and places it in the center of the table. Out of the same bag she pulls out 3 candles, a bundle of sage, a tarot deck, a pendulum, a leather-bound journal, an ink well, a feather pen, and a large book. “First I’ll cleanse the room and then we may begin.” she says, lighting the sage. After she smudges the room, she sets up her things and everyone takes their sets.

“Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat; call in the spirits, wherever they’re at.” Madame Leota says almost as if casting a spell. “Now, who are we making contact with?” She looks at William. “My late wife, Eleanor Gracey.” He says and hangs his head. “Ah, My condolences. May I ask how she passed?” she asks gently. “It was yellow fever.” He says welling up. And just as he says this the crystal ball in the center of the table begins to glow and levitate. “Someone is reaching out.” She says. “Eleanor?” William says with hope in his eyes. “Maybe, I’m not sure. Your grief caused them to reach out.” she replies. In the distance you hear the ringing of a ship’s bell, seagulls, and what sounds like waves crashing on rocks. “Is anyone else hearing that?” you say to the group. “No, what is it?” Madame Leota asks, intrigued. “I hear a ship’s bell and the ocean.” you say looking confusedly between Leota and William. “Extraordinary. The spirit has chosen you.” Madame Leota says. “Why would the spirit choose me? I’m only here to observe.” You ask. “Spirits don’t always want to talk through mediums, they choose who they like, and I can interpret their ways of reaching out. You said you hear sounds of the sea, did Eleanor like the ocean, sailing, or traveling by water?” she asks William. “Not particularly, but she did like they’re stories of travel.” William says. “Ah, so that’s why the spirit chose you.” Madame Leota says. “Maybe they can find Eleanor.” You propose. “Good thinking.” Madame Leota says dipping the feather pen in the inkwell and opening the leather-bound journal to a blank page. “What is your name, spirit? And do you know Eleanor Gracey? You may write your answer here.” Madame Leota says gesturing to the journal. Splashing watery footsteps walk around from your left side to where the journal is laid, then the feather pen rises up out of the inkwell and starts scratching on the paper. The first line reads as follows: “I Am Captain - -'' and 2 drops of water fall onto the paper smudging out the name. The second line reads: “I Do Not Know An Eleanor.” And the pen is placed back in the inkwell. Madame Leota hums thinking for a second. “Well, I suppose that is all you can do for us, thank you Captain.” Madame Leota sighs and the crystal ball floats back down to where it was and stops glowing. But the footprints don’t disappear, they just walk back over to your left side. “Madame Leota, I don’t think they’ve left.” You say staring down at the watery footprints on the floor. “Do you want them gone?” Madame Leota asks. You think for a minute. “I suppose not if they don’t want to leave.” You say to the left of you.

“That is all I have the energy for tonight. I assume you want to schedule another appointment?” Madame Leota asks. “We should keep trying until we find Eleanor.” William says, looking to you. “If you are that determined, then I can do one seance a night.” She says ambitiously. “Yes, I can provide you with a room and service. So that you may stay here instead of having to travel so far, every day.” William agrees. Everything feels very sudden with Madame Leota moving into the mansion and then the sound of the crashing waves gets louder in your ears. You screw your eyes shut and plead in your head for the sounds to quiet. “What’s wrong, dear?” Madame Leota asks. “N-nothing. Just the ghost having a bit of a jest I suppose.” You say nervously and the sounds quiet down. “I can try to send them away if they’re bothering you.” Madame Leota says. “No, no, it’s alright.” you say. “Alright then.” She says, concerned. “I’ll show you to your room.” William says standing up from the table. “That would be lovely.” Madame Leota replies. You stand, follow them out, and go to your guest bedroom you had been staying in for the past few months. As soon as you enter you shut the door and sigh, slumping down onto the edge of the bed. With your head in your hands, all your emotions crashing down on you like the waves of the ocean, with the events of the night weighing heavy on your mind. You feel the bed shift a bit and you whip your head around to find nothing but an indentation on the bed and then you feel a cold, watery hand gently lay on your shoulder. “Thank you.” you mutter out.

Pt.4: https://www.tumblr.com/seriously-nobody/728815545008488448/the-ghost-in-my-heart?source=share

[vvatchword]

Mnemeros

Rural Texas is just rotten with ghost towns. I’m tempted to say that the past dies hard, but the truth is that it’s more forgotten than anything else. Folks just have more to think about than the ramshackle farmhouses in their pastures.

Now, seeing as it was a two-hour drive to town, entertainment had to be found and it had to be made. That’s why I started thrusting open the doors to dilapidated shacks, armed only with a pocketknife and a few vague stories from octogenarians. If I was lucky, I’d come back home with some kind of treasure—a chipped knick-knack, a bent branding iron from some long-dead ranch, severe brown medicine bottles stuffed with earth. We’d clean them up and stack them on top of the fridge. Humor me; there was no such thing as the Internet back then, and only two television channels to boot.

I used to get some real quality leads out of an old River Rat, a friend of my father’s, who had zero qualms about closet skeletons.

“Wanna see something crazy? Then go down to the river,” he told me. “There are carved stones down there that’ve been around since before the Comanches.”

“Where at?” I asked.

“Not too far from your place. You take the farmer’s road down past the Ross’s pasture, the road by the old church, right? When you get down the cliffs, just go upriver. You’ll find them. But I gotta warn you. You don’t touch those stones, and you don’t touch the tar coming out of them. Some kinda poison. And then there’re the River Things. They’ll drag you underwater if they can catch you.”

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Usually, nobody ever talked about the River Things; they only talked around them. You didn’t go down to the river after dark. You didn’t go to certain parts of the river without your gun—and other parts you didn’t visit at all. Official reasons were quicksand, rattlesnakes, rabid wildlife, and, sometimes, a long, pointed silence. If you were a kid or an outsider, you had to learn for yourself: there was no mountain lion half as bad as what lingered in that silence.

The River Rat kept talking. “Back in 1876, when old Rath built his saloon, he used the stones off the river. Made the Comanches furious—they attacked ’im for it, and we sent an expedition as far as Lubbock to teach them a lesson. Never could catch them, though. At the time, Rath City folks thought it was some religious tomfoolery. It wasn’t; turns out those Comanches were wise to something we didn’t know. Whole town of Rath City disappeared in a night. Gramps said you could hear screaming down on the Brazos for weeks.”

By “whole town,” he meant a population of about two hundred or so. We can’t keep them much bigger down here.

“Then they took all the stones back, one by one,” he said. “And it was like Rath City never was.”

“And by ‘they,’ you mean the River Things, right?” I asked.

“Yep!” he said. Before I could ask him anything else, he turned on the TV and shooed me off.

If you don’t think I planned to go down to the river that very Saturday, you don’t know me at all.

~*~*~*~

No one blinked twice when I said that I was taking the scenic route around the Brazos. I braided my hair and packed the saddlebags with a simple lunch as usual. However, when it came time to saddle the horse, I nabbed Pistol, Mom’s blocky bay. He was a racetrack reject who could cut cattle as quick as a wink. And although I’ve always been a believer in leaving a creature alone if it’s minding its own business, I brought my brother’s .22 and a box of shells along. If Mom had been paying more attention, she might’ve asked me what the hell I was doing.

I rode down the dirt road to the river, which snakes across the landscape like a groping alien limb. I still remember how fresh the day was—one of those clear, cool days in the late spring, just before the summer sun baked the soil into crackled plates. We’d had buckets of rain and hail and a couple of tornado watches just the day before, and the road was rutted with murky puddles. The distant skies were still bruised black-blue and forked with lightning. As for me, I was lost in my own thoughts: meditating on the squeak of the saddle, the healthy scent of the horse, and the slop of mud beneath his hooves.

Before long, Pistol and I drew up to a rusty gate leading into the overgrowth that clusters ’round the Brazos. I had just dismounted to unlatch the chain when I heard an engine rumbling down the road behind us. I couldn’t get over into the ditch because it was steep and slick and full of water, so I leaned over to see which farmer it was. I figured they’d probably stop to say hello.

I had to blink hard and squint. Churning tortuously between the ruts was a gleaming black Fairlane spattered liberally with mud. I pulled Pistol over to the far left so the stranger wouldn’t have to pass us, but to my displeasure, the car dragged to a stop beside us and the window rattled down.

A little old man sat in the front seat with the kind of face I’d only seen on Sunday-afternoon movies. He had a neatly groomed mustache and goatee, wore round gold-rimmed spectacles and a threadbare tweed suit, and carried an old-fashioned briefcase stuffed full to bursting. His eight-track tape player was going full tilt—Strauss, “On the Beautiful Blue Danube,” same recording as the one on a record back home. He struck me as one displaced in time, from his shining Oxfords to his spotless pair of driving gloves. I had the thought that if I touched him, he might pop like a soap bubble.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Is this the way to the Brazos River?”

“It is,” I said. “But you have to go through Ms. Ross’s and Mr. Greentree’s pastures. You get permission?”

“Oh, of course!” he said, and patted a couple of signed papers sitting beside him. “By the way, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Dr. Arnold Peaslee from Miskatonic University in Massachusetts.”

Massachusetts! A far-off salmon-colored state I’d only seen in Social Studies. Suddenly I had a place to put with his accent.

He extended his hand, and we shook.

“My name is Leah Byrd,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m on the trail of some fascinating local folklore,” he said. “Have you, by any chance… ah… seen any remarkable stones down on the river bank?”

I bit my bottom lip and glanced back at Pistol, who was eyeballing the Fairlane.

“Stones like these,” he said, and rustled around in his briefcase.

He pulled out a series of fuzzy photocopies: stones of every size and shape and persuasion. Stones jutting above the waterline, stones eclipsed by thorny bushes, stones that still stood in some semblance of walls. Some of them were big enough to build a house with; others, no bigger than your fist. Many bulged and bubbled in organic shapes, while others were graced with bas reliefs. Tarry seepage trickled from broken corners.

I nodded. “Yeah, I’m… I know about them.”

“My specialty is archaeology,” he said. “And of course, I dabble in folklore and myth on the side.” When he saw my expression, he smiled. “If you’re worried, I assure you that I won’t disturb the location.”

“You couldn’t touch them if you wanted to,” I said. “It’s been raining hard and the river’s overflowed its banks. We may not see anything at all.”

A flash of panic crossed his face, and he sagged through the window. If I had been wise, I would have jumped up on Pistol and spurred him the whole way home—it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble in the long run. Instead, I hesitated. I can’t help liking earnest people. It’s a curse.

“Ms. Byrd, I beg of you. It’s a cosmic stroke of fortune that I have discovered you at all,” he said. “You know what I speak of and you know where to go. It seems you may even know the same stories. If you do, then you know what day this is, and why it is so important that I visit the stones at once.”

“Are you sure you’re dressed for it?” I asked. “There’s gonna be mud up to your ears.”

“Yes, I’m prepared,” he said.

“I’m saying this because the road ends in a bit and you’ll have to walk the rest of the way. If I were riding China I’d say we could double up, but Pistol’s a drama queen, and I don’t want you falling off.”

“I see,” he said, and looked a bit relieved.

“Your car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, either,” I said.

“Ms. Ross said that I should be fine,” he said.

I shrugged. “All right, if you want. But if you get stuck, you’ll have to walk back to her house.”

So he rumbled through the gate, and I shut the gate behind us. I swung my leg over Pistol’s back, and together we descended into the knotted mesquite thickets.

Dr. Peaslee drove alongside me and Pistol down the road, car groaning over the ruts. The blessed silence and rain-perfumed air was gone, exchanged for the rumble of the engine and the stink of exhaust. Dr. Peaslee turned to smile at me every now and then. I smiled back, but I won’t lie; I was a bit nervous. The River Rat gave me stories because he knew he could trust me, and it felt like betrayal to bring an outsider.

“Do you know anything about archaeology?” Dr. Peaslee asked.

“I like reading the National Geographic,” I said. “And I’ve got some arrowheads in my jewelry box.”

“How much do you know about the local area?” he asked. “Do you know anything about the end of Rath City?”

“A little, but it’s a ways out south,” I said. “It didn’t last too long.”

“Yes, only four years, from what I’ve heard,” he said.

The hair stood up on my neck. It’s one thing to discuss Rath City in a house, quite another when you’re nearly at the Brazos itself.

His voice took on a slightly fretful tone. “It seems everyone has a different story to tell about it. Some say the Comanches had something to do with its end…”

“Sir, all due respect, but we shouldn’t talk about it here,” I said.

He nodded and withdrew, and there was silence for a while. We weaved between the tortured trunks of the mesquites, last season’s blackened beans swiveling in the wind. Branches squealed against the Fairlane’s flanks, and the horse’s ears rotated idly. The incline grew steeper, and the branches around us knotted tighter and grew higher—a jumbled mass of root and branch and thorn and leaf, stained dark from the recent rainfall. A bobwhite called from far away and went silent. I remember feeling oddly lonely.

Soon we sloshed up to a cul-de-sac dug out by decades of truck tires. The last gate hung there, paint peeling, its faded “No Trespassing” sign glaring wearily at us.

“You can’t take the car any further,” I said, jumping off the horse. Mud squelched beneath my boots. “Take what you need and I’ll show you the rocks.”

Just as I pulled on Pistol’s reins, the stupid horse laid his ears back and put on the brakes. I had to drag him all the way and knot his reins around my arm so I could undo the latch.

“Is there something wrong with your horse?” Dr. Peaslee asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t think he likes your car.”

“But I turned it off,” he said.

“Pistol is a special case,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t have ridden him today, honestly.”

Dr. Peaslee opened his door and perched on the edge of his seat, staring down into the mud. Very methodically, he unlaced his patent-leather dress shoes, so glossy I could see my reflection in them, and donned a pair of neat old hiking boots. I almost laughed—each boot was big enough for him to put both feet in. With that, he withdrew a camera case and a satchel bulging with god-knew-what.

I eyed the doctor’s shoes. “Are you sure you don’t need to go back for galoshes?”

“I’m perfectly sure,” Dr. Peaslee said, lifting his chin, and stepped off into the mud up to his shins. He paled a little. Cold water in his shoes, I guess. I knew right then that I was probably going to bring him home so he could shower.

As for me, I was a little nervous about getting on Pistol again. He had progressed from mild distaste to insistent refusal: he strained away from me, lips pulled back from his thick, flat teeth. A chill ran down my neck; the silence seemed heavy and oppressive, and in the distance, the thunder was oddly muted. Don’t know why I didn’t stop right then; I guess Dr. Peaslee’s presence kept me going.

While Dr. Peaslee picked his way around the edge of the cul-de-sac, where the mesquites and weeds clumped the earth together, I dug my pocketknife and spurs out of the saddlebag. I tucked the knife into my pocket and I donned the spurs—usually unnecessary on Pistol, who would take off at the least insistence—and finally managed to remount. When we passed through this gate, I didn’t close it. This is the height of bad manners since it might free livestock, and it was the first time I hadn’t done so since I was a little girl.

I urged Pistol out through the gate and into the pasture beyond. The doctor lurched alongside us, picking his way along the side of the road. Finally, we broke out of the undergrowth and slopped to the edge of a cliff. Below, the Brazos had clawed a ragged red canyon into the earth. The old river was swollen, churned up into a dirty gray color, choppy with a rough current. Dr. Peaslee withdrew a camera with a lens jutting out of it as big as a pepper-grinder and snapped a few shots of the landscape. The snapping and clicking sounds were unpleasantly loud.

I pointed upriver. “The stones are that way,” I said. “Are you sure you want to head out? It might be flooded.”

I gotta admit, by this point, I wasn’t thinking about betraying the River Rat. I was thinking how weirdly silent it was out there. Usually, all the little frogs come out after a storm, but they were quiet as the grave.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I’ve come this far.”

“All right,” I said. “Watch your step. And don’t follow Pistol too closely. He might kick.”

We padded carefully down a steep incline toward the canyon floor. I kept an eye on the doctor as he stumbled behind us. He was covered in mud: mud up to his knees and mud all over his hands and sleeves, and a streak of mud on his forehead from where he had wiped away sweat. I was a little worried about him. He was a desk-job type, and I doubted he did much more than toddle to the mailbox every day.

The incline flattened out at last and we were safe on the level valley floor. It was easier going down on the winding hog paths between the mesquites and cactus; the roots kept the soil firmer there. We passed some hog wallows circled by prints—cattle, deer, hogs, coyotes—wild things all sleeping somewhere in the dripping foliage. As we passed further into the brush, I started smelling a sticky musk, something reminiscent of the stink of a skunk and a garter snake put together.

Dr. Peaslee covered his nose with a handkerchief. “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

All of a sudden, Pistol spooked something awful, dancing sideways as though he’d seen a rattlesnake. I scanned the underbrush and saw nothing, and that just scared me more. You don’t understand, coming from the suburbs, how easily a wild thing can just disappear into the underbrush. All it has to do is stand still, and nine times out of ten, you can stare directly at it and see nothing.

Then we rounded a thick stand of mesquites and saw the hog traps.

The hog traps were built out of obsolete cotton-bale trailers with makeshift one-way doors welded on. Everyone in the area used them; feral hogs could obliterate whole fields in a night, and they were a ready supply of pork, so they were free game. What we’d do is pour feed corn inside and prop the makeshift door open with a stick. The hogs would funnel in, knocking out the stick in their eagerness, and bang! The door would drop and the pigs were stuck. Next morning everyone would come out with their guns of choice, climb to the top of the trailers, and take aim. We’d eat hog for weeks.

Normally, when the trapped hogs hear humans coming, they’ll start charging from one side of the trailer to the other, and can be heard tramping and squealing and banging into the walls. Today, I heard nothing. Pistol’s ears were flat, his eyes rolled back, his chin thrust skyward. He danced in that unpleasant half-hopping way that preceded a bucking fit.

There must’ve been hogs in the trap at some point. I say that because there was blood and hide everywhere. Fresh yellow bones striped with raw flesh lay jumbled in roughly sorted piles—ribs with ribs, vertebrae with vertebrae, femurs with femurs. Droplets glistened redly on the steel mesh, and the mud was churned up until it had the consistency of a milkshake. Here and there was an almost intact head with the eyes, tongue, and ears cored out. The mud was scored with tracks—not the tracks of the hogs, nor boot prints, but whip-like arcs like those made by serpents. I couldn’t get Pistol much closer and frankly, I didn’t want to.

“Shit,” I said.

Quivering, Dr. Peaslee sloshed over and lifted his camera.

“Gross!” I said. “What are you taking pictures of them for?”

“Surely you know what day it is!” he said.

“April 15?”

He leaned down to take a close-up. “You mean you don’t know what this means?”

“That we should leave?”

Dr. Peaslee laughed up at me. His teeth were very white. “Oh, no!” he said. “It means that the stars are favorable, and they’re here.”

I turned white as a sheet. Wrong action. His face lit up and he clapped the camera to his chest.

“Then you know! Where? Where are they?”

Shit!

“I don’t know. Holes in the cliffs, below the waterline. They stick around the stones, generally.” My tongue felt stiff. “But if what you’re saying is right, if you’re trying to tell me they killed these hogs, then we shouldn’t go anywhere near the rocks.”

His eyes settled on the .22 hanging on Pistol’s hip. “But you are armed.”

I shook my head. “No, no, no. You’ve been watching too many cowboy flicks, man. I’m not looking for trouble here. Self-defense only.”

He relaxed. “You’re right. They might turn violent at the sight of weaponry.”

“'Might'? What stories have you heard where they brought us bouquets and chocolates?”

“Communication of the proper kind might solve everything,” he said. “That’s why I have taken the time to learn their tongue. There are books…” He licked his lips. “Very old books transcribing the language and the methods necessary to its mastery.”

My jaw dropped. He might as well have grown an extra arm right in front of me.

“Why would you do that?” I asked. “The Things’ll kill you before they stop for a chat. Didn’t you see those hog bones back there? Hogs are not easy to kill, and they fight back. What do you think the Things will do to you?”

He stretched himself up to his full height and lifted his chin.

“My dear, I must try,” he said. “For you must understand that if I can speak to these creatures, it will advance our comprehension of both human civilization and the universe. Besides, I am quite old, and have lived a full life; if I died like this, seeking the knowledge of centuries past, it would be a fitting end indeed.”

My god. Yanks have got only sentimentality where their brains should be. It’s because they watch so many movies.

“Okay,” I said, “but if we need to run, you’re out of luck. I don’t think I can keep Pistol in line long enough for you to jump on.”

“I am prepared for that!” he said, touching his heart. “Please, Ms. Byrd. Let’s go on.”

My brain was awhirl with possibilities; the possibilities of seeing the stones and the creatures versus the possibility of real trouble, perhaps death. When I didn’t reply quickly enough, Dr. Peaslee trotted up to us. Pistol backed away stiffly. Not that Pistol was a judge of character; at that point a branch in the wind would have set him off. I was trying to calm him down when Dr. Peasley pulled out his wallet and started peeling out tens and twenties.

“Doctor, no,” I said. “I don’t want your…”

He grabbed my hand and stuck a whole wad of cash in it, and when Pistol jerked away he doggedly doddered after us and stuffed some bills in my boot. I think he would have dumped his change in there if he felt it could have swayed me. God! I felt absurd, clenching that money in my hand, money balled up on my shin. For some reason, god only knows—I nodded and stuck it in my pocket. It burned against my hip.

I twisted Pistol ’round and jabbed him with my spurs. He took off at a fast trot with flattened ears and bulging eyeballs. Without a word, we ducked down the labyrinth of hog and cattle paths toward the river itself. I didn’t look to see if the doctor was following, but every now and then I heard the click and whirr of his camera. I propped my .22 on my knee, popped the safety off, and kept my eyes peeled on the brush.

We were hemmed in by a jumble of thorny branches that dropped our visibility to two or three feet at best. Every corner was a blind one, and often paths split into three or four branches that led off into winding ways unknown. The landscape was full of watchful eyes we could not see; I could feel them boring into us. I looked for shapes and shadows in the brush and strained for the sound of snapping branches, rustling leaves. Over time, the strange stink grew so powerful I could taste it. I hoped the hogs had been killed sometime in the night, when the River Things are most likely to come out of the water, and prayed that the sunlight would keep them underground.

I should’ve known from the dampness of the blood that they hadn’t been gone too long.

“So… you know about them?” Dr. Peaslee asked. “The amphibious people of the Brazos?”

“I don’t know if I would call them ‘people,’” I said.

“Well—I suppose you’re right in the technical sense.”

He was smiling about something at my expense, and I can’t say I liked it much. So I didn’t say anything.

He cleared his throat. “But you’ve seen them.”

“No,” I said. “All I know is that they move the stones around.”

“And do you know why?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Have you heard of Mnemeros, by any chance?” he asked.

That name! It was the first time I’d heard it and I didn’t ever want to hear it again. Some names are like keys; they swing doors wide open that are best left shut.

“It’s all right if you haven't,” he said. “He’s a beautifully kept secret, preserved for only the select few. An ancient god, you see, from the faraway stars.”

Prickles ran down my spine. “You’d better not be a Satanist.”

“Oh, no! Absolutely not.” His smile was expansive and bright. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, I assure you. I refer to him as a ‘god’ only to refer to his power and scope compared to ours. Here, let me explain… ah… you are a Bible-fearing type, aren’t you?”

I nodded—easier than telling the truth.

“Then you’re aware of ‘principalities and powers,’ ‘princes of the air’?”

“You mean demons?” I asked.

“No, I mean things outside of your god.”

“Yeah, demons.” I was a big book reader even then, big on apologetics in particular. No way was some lukewarm scholar going to trip me up with something as silly as semantics.

“Well, dear, imagine, if you will, these demons. Not little demons, no, but rather, awesome interdimensional lords with shapes and voices that would blast a man sightless and raving, if the experience didn’t kill him outright. Creatures on par with Beelzebub and Apollyon and Azrael.”

“Still demons,” I said.

“But demons exist, do they not?” asked Dr. Peaslee, and lifted his chin.

I went silent. I couldn’t bring myself to say yes.

“Would you care to hear a story?” asked Dr. Peaslee. “A story about the Great Old Ones, who flung themselves down to Earth when the stars were right?”

It took me too long to process the sentence. My loss. He kept talking.

“Many millions of years ago, the Great Old Ones descended to our world in a curtain of fire and built their holy city,” he said. “R’lyeh, a city of extraterrestrial stone and alien geometry, peopled with beings of unspeakable shape and size. For many millions of years they ruled there, lords of the Earth… until the stars were closed to them and they fell into a vast darkness like death.”

His voice quavered, but there was a richness in it, the kind of timbre born of passion. You know that dramatic way that a writer recites what they’ve written? I could tell he’d written about this, over and over and over again in a million different ways, and said it to himself like a mantra.

“But one of their brothers was late,” he said. “Whether it was from arrogance or misreading the signs, no one can say. Sixty-five million years ago, he hurtled from the sky, and because he did not arrive when the path was open, he burned the whole way down.”

“Lucifer,” I said. My words fell flat.

But Dr. Peaslee’s eyes were closed, and he did not appear to hear me.

“His smoldering remnant crawled with torturous slowness from the crater he had made, the god of a thousand faces and ten thousand hands. But the stars had not forgotten his insult; they say he burns still, and writhes as he burns. He calls and calls, casting his dreams out to his kin in R’lyeh and to the nameless, formless ones past the veil, but he is corrupted. They will not answer.”

His eyes opened. There was a light there that I did not entirely like.

“But there is a boon in this for mortal man,” said Dr. Peaslee. “For in becoming corrupted, Mnemeros became more like us. He can speak to us and we will not die. And what fortune! He contains more in one thimbleful of knowledge than twenty Libraries of Alexandria. Knowledge of hundreds of different cultures and times and locales, an intimate understanding of the natural world and realms unspeakable, all gleaned with his roving, dreaming mind. This, my dear, is as close to God as one can get!”

“So you’re going to ask him questions?” I said. “For what?”

“The expansion of history and the sciences,” he said, “for which mankind must only pay a small price, compared to what others might offer. You see, he is broken, almost past salvation; he was incinerated and shredded on his long fall, and was scattered all over the Earth. Some of his detached organs have grown conscious to help him, but they require constant access to water. That is where we come in: to find those pieces, and to find parts that can replace what he has lost, and finally, to provide the labor necessary to put him together again. His reward to us is knowledge unsurpassed.”

“Oh my god,” I said. “You mean you’re going to put a demon back together? What if he goes on a rampage or something?”

“This is not Godzilla,” said Dr. Peasley sharply. He paused and appraised me, as though looking at me for the first time. “Well, if he grows capable of it, he might move to more populated areas to harvest the organics he requires, but that requires the opening of the second gate—that is to say, the proper alignment of certain constellations. Besides, his ultimate goal lies elsewhere. He believes that, should he be returned to his glory, he will be accepted back into R’lyeh. I, on the other hand, have reason to believe he would be cast screaming into the abyss. Which means that we have a limited time if we wish to consult him before he is remade and crawls to his doom.”

Now, if I had still been devout, I might’ve said Dr. Peaslee was a devil-worshipper and ridden off fast. But I had been harboring some doubts lately—like I said, I was into apologetics—so all I said was, “Who’s crazy enough to believe all that?”

Dr. Peaslee raised his hand and ripped his glove off. Pistol and I recoiled. At a first glance, it looked like Dr. Peaslee was wearing another glove. But he wasn’t; his hand was as wet as if he had dipped it in tar.

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said Dr. Peaslee gently. “I know that for the uninitiated, it must seem terrible. And I will not lie: it does burn so! But it is a mark that I will be one of those to whom great things are revealed.”

Now, I’ve always been poor as a church mouse, doubly so when I was a child, but it was without hesitation that I pulled the cash out of my pocket and threw it. I threw it fucking everywhere. I turned my boot over and dumped Benjamins in the mud. I noted in an offhand way that the bills were all that darker, more florid green of an older design—like Dr. Peaslee had been storing them under his bed for two decades. But Dr. Peaslee didn’t jump for the cash. He simply stared at me with that gentle old-man’s smile.

I urged Pistol away from him and we sidled down the hog path. Dr. Peaslee followed behind, tucking his hand back into his glove.

“Please don’t be afraid, Ms. Byrd,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. I was all choked up. Pistol was frantic and growing more so by the minute, but I didn’t dare let him go. I knew he’d take off, and I wasn’t sure I could control him. Dr. Peaslee walked after us—or did he herd us? It was hard to say. Suddenly I couldn’t think of the way back; as though by default, Pistol and I kept just ahead of Dr. Peaslee, taking the turns one by one. Perhaps we thought, in that simple bestial logic that panic grants us, that if we gave him what he wanted, he would leave us alone.

The roar of the river grew louder and louder. Soon we started seeing the stones. Once, perhaps, they had been stacked and sorted; now they tumbled in wild disarray, and the hog paths wandered all around them. The photocopies hadn’t done them any justice—the sheer number, I mean. Stones, stones, stones, as far as the eye could see, of every composition you could imagine, and carved in a multitude of shapes and for a multitude of purposes. Here and there they bled black soup into the undergrowth.

Dr. Peaslee stopped several times to take notes and pictures. I didn’t stop for him; Pistol and I jigged onward like a pair of idiots. It occurred to me that the doctor seemed rather quick for an old man. Whenever I looked over my shoulder, he was always standing somewhere behind us. I started harboring this fancy that he would appear suddenly in front of us and touch us with that horrible black hand of his.

Finally, we broke through a heap of cactus and caught sight of the river. Normally the bank was visible, a pale sandy quagmire, but the waves had washed over their boundaries and foamed among the cottonwoods and mesquites. A combination of rain and current had crumbled part of the cliff, revealing a gaping cave mouth.

Dr. Peaslee scurried past me, camera clutched in his hands.

“Hey!” I said. “Don’t!”

For a second, both Pistol and I froze. As for Dr. Peaslee, he stood at the edge of the river. I could see the gears turning in his brain. The only way up to the cave entrance was a ramp of jumbled stones, and its base had long been swallowed up by the river. No telling how deep the water was there. Every now and then I saw a dark shape bob by, usually a drenched branch or the rolling, bloated body of an animal.

“You’re going to drown!” I shouted.

He dropped his satchel beside him and opened it. Oh my god! Black syrupy stuff spidered out, stretching for the ground and groping at the air. Without hesitation, he jammed both of his hands in it until it poured out in thick goopy rolls. He lifted out a stone as big as a Thanksgiving turkey. It bled tar everywhere, and where the black syrup touched his clothes, blue flames licked up. Straightening up, Dr. Peaslee heaved the stone over his head and sang out in a weird ululating tongue.

Far off, I heard a big splash. Then another. It was the same sound I associated with a frog jumping into the water, except magnified. Whatever had fallen into the river must’ve been at least the size of a mid-sized dog. Immediately, Pistol jolted with terror and swung around. Thrusting my .22 back into its holster, I jerked on the reins. Soon we were spinning in circles, he straining to race back the way we came, I trying to restrain him.

I saw the scene in flashes with each rotation: Dr. Peaslee lowering the stone. Dr. Peaslee turning to regard us with knotted brows. Then, behind him, a long, sinuous arm lifting, dripping, from the water.

“Dr. Peaslee!” I shouted. “Watch out!”

Black, shining cords lashed around Dr. Peaslee’s throat and legs and arms and yanked him backward. He didn’t even have the chance to cry out. Down he went without a sound into the brown foam of the Brazos, stone and all.

With a choking cry, I let go, and Pistol bolted.

Pistol’s ears flattened against his skull, his neck stretched out, his hooves pounded against the hog paths. Low-hanging branches lashed us. Mesquite thorns scored us. The stacked stones stared as we galloped by. I strained to hear beyond my own heartbeat, but all that followed us was the roar of the river and the intermittent grumble of thunder.

When we burst through the brush into the clearing where the River Rats kept their hog traps, I heard it: a rattling, clattering sound, one I had long associated with a hog’s headlong flight. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw the mesquites shuddering from a pack of unseen pursuers. The wind breathed an overpowering, musky stink into my face.

The steep incline rose above us, scarred by a single narrow path. Pistol took it without hesitation. Now, if it had been dry, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but down near the Brazos, the earth is a slimy red clay. Every second step was a slip or a stumble. When we were halfway up, his hoof slid in the mud and he pitched forward and down onto one knee. For a breathless moment I hovered over a dizzying drop into a cactus patch. I clutched at the saddle horn, grabbed Pistol’s mane, and clung for dear life as he struggled to his feet. I cast a frantic glance over my shoulder.

Plunging through the careless weed were sleek black shapes, glistening like frogs, slithering and crawling in turns, some as large as cattle. And then, to my horror, a monster hog crashed through the branches, utterly black with matted hair, its barrel body pulsing with sickening throbs. Before I could see the whole of him, Pistol took off again, thrusting with his powerful hind legs. His headlong sprint had slowed only a little; he was dark with sweat, and his breathing was rough and tattered.

As we flashed through the first gate, a sudden sickening thought occurred to me. The other gate was latched shut, and Pistol was no jumper. My guess was that he’d see the closed gate and veer alongside it into the underbrush, and if that happened, we’d be caught for sure. My mind spun, my heart sank. I’d have to stop a thousand pounds of panicked prima donna to open a gate, and there was a chance he’d take off without me if I timed it wrong.

I jerked Pistol to the side of the road, where the earth was more solid and the branches slashed us, and thanked god that the road was straightforward. Pistol slipped once or twice on the mud, but foot by blessed foot, he put the distance between us and our pursuers. When I saw the gate coming, I wrenched him back, using all of my weight.

Pistol strained against me the whole way. The more he fought, the more of a hold I took, until I thought his head would end up in my lap. My arms burned; I gnawed a bloody wound in my cheeks. His nose slowly tilted toward the sun, and his spittle was pink with blood. A few yards from the fence line, his haunches finally dropped and he skidded to a stop. I dove off, praying he wouldn’t run, and hobbled to the gate. I had clenched my legs against Pistol’s sides so hard and for so long that they didn’t want to bend.

My fingers slipped on the links. I didn’t bother looking behind me, but I could hear it: the rattling, snapping sound of unseen Things breaking through the underbrush, and not far down the road, the rhythmic drumbeat of the monster hog’s hooves. His silent pursuit unnerved me. Hogs are usually such vocal creatures.

I slung the gate open. Without closing it, I hopped into the saddle and kicked him so hard that he jumped. Off he sprang again, again at a full gallop. We broke out of the brush into flat, furrowed pastureland, where you can see twenty miles to the horizon on every side. Ahead of me, a mere six miles away, I could even see the abandoned church and someone’s pickup zipping along the road. I could have cried. Instead, I dared to peek over my shoulder.

The brush shook and shuddered, but the movement stopped at the fence-line. I thought I saw the glint of feral eyes, wet, bulging bodies, and writhing limbs. Then a keening went up, a terrible screeching cry, and the monster hog shot out of the gate behind us.

God, he was huge! Freed from the blinding brush, he was much easier to see. I regretted looking at once. His sides heaved not with regular breaths, but with a weird undulating motion similar to the pulse of maggots in roadkill. His stride was almost mechanical, as though he had no joints. Sticky black strings and tendrils streamed out of his nostrils and between his blackened tusks, and every now and then I fancied that they moved of their own volition, like the searching heads of blind worms. The only points of color were his eyes: bloody, rheumy, and red.

As we fled from him, a cold wind enveloped us. A few heavy raindrops burst on my shoulders. I had neglected to watch the sky: the faraway storm had rolled toward us with unprecedented speed and we could hardly outrun it. Back in the brush, the keening transformed into a triumphant howl.

Abnormal twilight cloaked the landscape and the wedge of rainfall struck us. The keening sound fell away and was replaced by slapping, slipping sounds. In a lightning flash, I saw dozens of amorphous shadows tumbling toward us. Pistol stumbled and his breath hitched. I leaned over him, shielding my face with the hat, and peered off into the distance. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. All I could look forward to was breaking out of the rain or hitting the paved road. One way meant better vision and less pneumonia; the other meant that we could reach a neighbor’s house in only ten minutes or so.

Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, and a multi-legged shape slithered out of the ditch in front of us. I jerked the .22 out of its holster, whipped it to my shoulder. The thing zigzagged toward us, slinging its ropy arms out as though to drag us down. I pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed, the shot cracked out.

Wop! Black blood spurted across the road. Screeching, the River Thing recoiled directly into our path. Pistol darted hard right when the gun went off, but I ripped him back to the road and gouged him with the spurs.

What I had hoped would happen: Pistol would run the Thing over like a car in an action movie.

What actually happened: Pistol stabbed his front hooves into the ground, his head went down, and he launched me right over his neck. There was a sickening lurch and I was weightless.

The next second, I kamikazed that River Thing so hard that the breath was knocked out of me. I wasn’t sure if I saw lightning or stars. My .22 cartwheeled off somewhere into the dark. I wish I could say I was back up on my feet in a second, brandishing my pocketknife, but all I did was gasp and flop around in a puddle. Pistol galloped away, stirrups banging against his sides, and disappeared.

I rolled onto my knees. Through what may have been fortune, I had flipped over the River Thing and landed on the other side of it. It pushed itself up on its terrible long legs and panted, stinking, sloshing, ululating in a language I didn’t understand. I couldn’t see it well in the darkness; all I saw was a suggestion of countless arms, dozens of blinking eyes in every size and shape and color.

It should’ve killed me. Instead, it hesitated, then threw its arms out. A stream of garbled English poured from its mouth. The voice… sounded familiar.

I thrust myself up to my feet and took off running.

My legs were stiff from the ride and even with my hat I could barely see anything ahead of me. It didn’t matter; I put everything I had into that run. The roar of the rain, the slopping slushing sound of the pursuing River Things, the rapidly approaching hoofbeats and tortured breathing of the monster hog—all these things ran together until they were a terrifying singularity. For a while I had no past and I had no future; I was a runner, I had been born running, and there was no future that did not involve running.

I don’t know how long I ran, only that I was winded, aching, and exhausted. The rain slackened a little, and a building coalesced out of the darkness. I couldn’t see it well in the dark, which seemed strangely deep for the afternoon. How long had I been running? Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes?

I dashed across the paved road. Offhand, I noted that it seemed strangely worn down, weeds growing out of faults in the cement. Then I stumbled down into the ditch and over the barbed wire fence. Ms. Ross’s husband had hung coyote carcasses on the fence posts, and the stink of their rot followed me all the way to the steps. It was only then that I recognized the building. Of course: the abandoned clapboard Baptist church, a single-room affair I’d visited once to look at the owl nest in the belfry. The windows had been boarded up decades before I had been born.

I stumbled up the steps, jiggled the knob. It gave. I thrust it open with my shoulder and slammed it shut behind me, then felt for the deadbolt and twisted it with all my strength. It should’ve been rusty; it should’ve been broken. But against all reason, the bolt slid and the door locked behind me.

I whirled around, waiting until my eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Outside, the sloshing sounds grew nearer and nearer. Whatever I did, I couldn’t stand there. I shrank down against the floor, prayed the building wasn’t full of snakes, and crept toward the belfry.

Eventually my eyes adjusted. Pale light floated through the chinks between the boards. The pews were still lined up, heaped with refuse from the collapsing ceiling. A thick miasma of mouse urine and dust filled the air, and rodents skittered unseen in the rafters. All I could hear was the roar of the rain on the roof and the jingling of my spurs.

Then something wet slapped on the wall. Another joined it, and another, until uncountable creatures drummed together with uncoordinated limbs. The building groaned; a window cracked; dust hissed from the ceiling.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted.

But the drumming only intensified, and as did the unspeakable babbling. I clapped my hands over my ears and screamed back at them: swear words, Bible verses, a few lines from classics. Lightning burst nearby and illuminated the church in broken slashes. Printed painstakingly on the wall in magic marker were careful squares filled with hieroglyphs, written by an unknown hand. In the shifting blue light, each thick squiggle was a worm twitching. The more I looked at them, the hazier and uglier I felt. A weird effect passed over me: I could almost imagine a deep, chanting voice in a guttural language unlike any from a human throat.…

I whirled and stumbled—fueled solely by terror, and not by conscious thought—up to the belfry. I registered the cold and wet only dimly, as though from a memory, and my movements grew sluggish and poorly defined. The world seemed unfocused and I had the odd sensation that my consciousness was off-kilter from my body. Worst of all, the chanting I thought I had imagined was growing louder, so deep that it vibrated through my body. I jumped when I heard the bell tolling—an awful, warped, discordant sound.

In that instant, I totally despaired. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. In the Pentecostal tradition, I should’ve been able to use the name of God like a hammer, but never before had he seemed so inadequate. I longed for the solid grip of my gun.

When I stepped up into the belfry, I crunched over the abandoned owl’s nest and was stricken silent. An uncountable horde of River Things swayed around the church, and just past them… Let’s just say that the church as I had known it was out in the middle of nowhere, a broken edifice with boarded windows. Somehow, during my headlong flight up to the belfry, a small town had sprouted around us. I could just see the hints of right angles, the rooftops of amateur shanties, and the glitter of manmade lights. Shadows in the shapes of men wavered down unseen roads, hunched beneath invisible burdens.

When the lightning flickered again, I thought I saw the entire countryside overgrown with the specters of long-abandoned farmhouses and churches and post offices and grain silos and Comanche tipis, some juxtaposed over each other and semi-transparent, all crumbling and half-dead in the dark. It was as though I stood over some terrible vision of the past and the present and the future, all coinciding in the same space.

I rushed back down into the church. To my horror, I stepped into the dull yellow heat of some other time. The interior had been swept, the roof patched, the windows covered with tarps. The pews and pulpit had been stacked on top of one another and thrust to the walls. There in the center of the room, bulging grotesquely and stinking of rot, was a throbbing, humming mass of flesh. By its blackened head and miserable eyes, I recognized the monster hog, but something terrible had happened to its body.

God, the smell! Like burning hair and burning meat and burning plastic. The sound! A steady, omnipresent pounding, a series of singular words chanted below a level I could detect. As for what it looked like, I can’t quite tell you. The texture was a confusing patchwork of prickly, smooth, hairy, and feathered, all tarred down. It was a bulbous shape, a fat swollen boil—a heart? A tumor? A fetus? If a fetus, it was doubled up within a thick translucent sac, many-limbed, many-faced, and sported a dozen oblong black shapes that suggested undeveloped eyes. If a tumor, it bubbled all over with irregular growths—cauliflower-like, fluid-filled bubbles heaping ten feet high. If a heart, it sprouted with rubbery arterial branches and pulsed in regular beats, roughly and with great struggle. The chanting I had heard seemed to originate from the torn arterial mouths. As for the hog himself, he heaved with uneven breaths and uttered nothing.

Lying beside that heaving alien mass were carefully arranged organs and limbs and hides, laved in that peculiar tarlike substance I’d seen bleeding from the rocks near the river. Piles of the selfsame rocks had been heaped in that room as well, cracked open with hammers. Here and there a fleshy organic substance jutted out of a broken stone. Other samples of their kind were stitched together like living carpets, quivering in terrible synchronicity with the mass in the center of the room.

Squatting near the door was a group of River Things, sopping wet and singing. Some were stitching up the fleshy pieces with big bone needles and hemp rope, both they and the fleshy pieces twitching with every jab; others were bathing organs in black soup; still more were pouring buckets of water on their fellows in an assembly-line fashion. They throbbed in time with the beating tumor, thrown into shadow by its weird yellow glow.

The hog’s mouth opened and exhaled; the three mouths hummed something low, too low for me to hear, and all of those River Things looked up and regarded me at the same time. You know how old medieval artists depict saints with haloes as a sign they’ve been touched by god? Well, that monster hog and those River Things had some kind of halo, something I couldn’t see but could feel, like they had been touched by some baleful intelligence.

I flipped out my pocketknife and backed up the stairs. Ha! Like threatening a bull with your pinky finger!

The front door broke open and two River Things slithered into the building. They dragged with them the poor broken body of their brother, the one I had shot. When it saw me, it raised its pathetic arms to me, turned two strikingly human eyes to mine, and said in a strangled voice that I still recognized: “Ms. Byrd! Please don’t be afraid.”

The unspoken truce broke. River Things dropped their burdens and charged, and I spun on my heels and raced up into the belfry. Crunching through the owl’s nest, I ducked through the open window and jumped out onto the roof, which had been hastily patched with black garbage bags and rusty tin squares. I saw two things in a flash: first, that there was a truck roaring along the road, the phantom buildings rippling around it like mirages. Second, that dozens of River Things were sluicing out of the belfry like a swarm of octopi.

I sprinted across the roof, tiles splintering underneath my heels. Over my shoulder breathed an overpowering musk; the whole building shuddered beneath dozens of beating feet. My heel stabbed through the roof and I staggered. Wet, burning cords lashed around my wrist and calf, but I dragged my captors with me through sheer force. From behind me, another familiar voice called out.

“Wait! Wait! Come back!” it said.

Terror jagged through me. I didn’t dare stop to think about it. Instead, propelled by sheer terror, I drove forward, over the church roof, and sprang free. For a second I hovered over a rolling black sea of arms and legs. The next, the cords snapped taut and I swung back toward the building. I smashed into the church wall. At the same time, the River Things fished for me with long, ropy arms, snagging me ’round my arms and legs and throat. I clawed madly for handholds under the eaves and jammed my boots into the overhang. It didn’t matter. Inch by inch, they pried me out.

They had just managed to jerk my legs up onto the roof when someone leaned on their car horn.

I lifted my head. It was the truck I had seen from the top of the church, parked half in the ditch. Illuminated by an unseen sun, Shelly Ross stood out in the unreal darkness, substantial in jeans and faded flannel. Up went her rifle, relaxed against her shoulder.

The muzzle flashed. Thunder rumbled.

A wet pop. The River Things recoiled altogether, the cords loosed, and hot tar sprayed over my back. There are no words for how hot that was. Like lying on a stove-top. But the shot was the distraction I needed; the River Things released me. I rolled over the roof, hit the ground, and staggered straight for the fence.

The rifle cracked out again. Seven yards away, a River Thing went down in a blossom of black syrup. I felt that shot all the way through my back and staggered back from the force of it. Around me, River Things reeled. A wordless hate rolled out of the church, followed by a low moaning sound like an organ out of tune. But I kept going. Even as Ms. Ross fired into the horde over and over again, and I felt the phantom bullets ripping through my spine, I kept going. River Things parted around me, darting in every direction, fleeing to the river. I was forgotten.

White-faced, I lunged to the fence-line. Two bedraggled coyote skins hung there, facing inward; with a start, I saw them not as lifeless skins, but two grinning gatekeepers. The illusion faded as swiftly as it had materialized. I became aware of a growing light and warmth; I vaguely recall tumbling over the fence and being bundled into the warm cab of a truck.

“What the hell have you been doing?” Ms. Ross asked.

I would’ve been glad to tell her, honestly, but I passed out instead.

~*~*~*~

I had terrifying dreams, most of which I forgot before waking up. The ones I recall include vivid images of the Brazos River valley, black and lonely, viewed from a dozen different viewpoints at once; nervous hogs stared at me from the riverbank. My hunger and emptiness were bottomless, and I blazed with flame from the center of my soul to the tips of all my fingers.

I was in the hospital a long time. I won’t bore you with the details. The real story is the black goop that had hit me in the back. The doctors couldn’t wash it off—in fact, water only seemed to encourage it. It stretched out dozens of groping fingers and clung to everyone who touched me. That’s how I had all the skin chopped off from the back of my neck down to my shoulder blades. My surgeon complained that it had been spreading faster than he could operate and sent several samples up north for study. I never did hear back about the test results.

Here’s the clincher: afterward, everyone told me I hadn’t been gone for a Saturday afternoon jaunt, but for two weeks. Pistol had raced home with both an empty saddle and holster, and everyone feared the worst. They had been combing the countryside for me ever since—including several large parties that had gone riding down to the river itself. I couldn’t begin to account for it. I started combing through my memories, trying to fit days into minutes.

It only got worse when I asked about Dr. Peaslee.

“Yeah, I remember a Dr. Peaslee,” said Ms. Ross. “Sometime in ’71, I think? He wanted to see the stones down by the river. Last sign we found of him was his car sitting in front of an open gate. Strangest thing was that he’d left his shoes in the cab. We had no idea what to tell his family.” She’d narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

She was the first person I told the full story to.

Not long afterward, Ms. Ross burned the church down. Sometime later, I heard she went down to the Brazos with dynamite. Nobody will tell me what happened after that. I’m not sure anybody actually knows, but I’ve got my theories.

I’ve since moved far away from that rural wasteland, but it has never moved away from me. The dreams came back in later years, and sometimes I am possessed by an intense longing to head down to the river and check on the rocks.

As bad as that is, nothing haunts me more than the memories I have of that voice I heard on the church roof. No, it wasn’t Dr. Peaslee—although it was definitely his voice I’d heard in the sanctuary. It was my voice that I had heard on the rooftop. It was my own voice, calling me back to the patchwork god. There’s work to be done, it says, before the Lord can swim down to the gulf. There are bones to splint and there are muscles to weave and there is a coat to stitch. There’s so much work to do before the third gate opens.

So much work. So little time.

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Afterword

Originally, I published this piece in Dreams from the Witch House, produced by Dark Regions Press and edited by Lynne Jamneck. It was a wonderful experience and I learned a great deal. However, in light of recent events, I wished to make this piece public domain. I edited it only to tighten up the prose; the heart of it remains unchanged.

This is based on my childhood in rural West Texas in the early 90s. Sometimes reviewers call it a "Lovecraft western," which is a bit annoying, considering the less-fantastic elements were a literal part of my life--including the River Rats, Rath City, hog traps, and coyote corpses hanging on fence-posts. Even the names are taken from real people, although the characters are their own creatures. Pistol was a real horse and a dream to ride, and this story is dedicated to him.

Thanks to Jamneck, I had the benefit of a copy-editor with ranching experience who was deliciously helpful. This editor found the gate locks less than believable--gates in ranch country are often engineered in such a way that they are easily operated by people on horseback--but this is set in the wilds around Rochester, Texas, located in Haskell County, where everyone was poor and everything was slapped together with duct tape and redneck ingenuity. To ensure I got details right--for my time in Rochester, although formative, was literal decades in the past--I consulted with my parents on numerous occasions.

At the time I wrote this, I had only read halfway through Lovecraft's collected works, and thus was unaware of Yig. Unfortunate, considering how close he is.

Someday I may turn this into a novel. A reviewer once described this story as afflicted by Cartoon Bulldog Syndrome--in which a story is front-loaded with detail before easing out into the story at hand--which I both found extremely funny and very apt. Although I was not a new writer at this point, I was still very fresh and coming out of what I like to call my "purple phase." One might argue that this was fortunate, considering Lovecraft's style.

One of my favorite elements of Lovecraft's fiction is his settings, which did wonders for immersion and were often more effective characters than those of the cast. I thought of setting the story in New England, but quickly discarded the idea--I didn't want to emulate Lovecraft too closely and I wasn't familiar with the area. It was then that the lightbulb popped on: why not set the story in the wind-swept wastes of rural Texas, a place I knew well? Texas is typified by long stretches of unpeopled farmland and thorny scrub, lonely back roads, dangerous wildlife, far-flung neighbors, and fickle weather--perfect ingredients for eldritch shenanigans. In turn, this setting influenced my choice of characters and the social setting--small rural towns which amble far behind modern society.

One of the strangest things about growing up in a rural area was feeling as though I lived fifty years or more in the past. Our main street had sprouted up sometime in the early 1900s, complete with brick facades. Cowboys in well-worn hats and boots spat tobacco juice out into the street; trucks trundled by with wild hogs stacked in the back like cordwood; it wasn't uncommon to see our neighbors riding their horses on the side of the road. The only signs of technological advancement were the vehicles and farm equipment.

When I wrote this story, I found myself thinking about that dichotomy in time--that although we lived in the same year and month and day as a multitude of other people, a visit to the city was like hopping into a time machine. And for me, "the city" was dusty little Snyder! Much, much later, when I would go to Austin for UIL events, I felt a whiplash like you wouldn't believe.

A big part of that dichotomy was the understanding of death in all its forms. We hunted and we ate what we killed; no one ever had to explain death to me. The landscape died and was reborn over and over again; the landscape was ancient past understanding. I formed a particularly strong memory when I was a child. At about five or six, I hitched a ride with our neighbor, a withered old rancher with enormous glasses. He pointed out into a field where a rotting farmhouse leaned against a tree.

"That's where I grew up," he said.

I was deeply disturbed. I couldn't imagine watching a meaningful place die away. Surely every time he saw it he compared it to the mental image of what it had been initially. Worse, there was a point where he had to realize that it couldn't ever be put back together again. Horrified, I suddenly realized that my own home would befall the same fate. Someday I would be the one sitting in the rancher's seat.

This story became an homage to this memory.

Other Notes

The fact my character knotted the reins around her arm is the dumbest goddamn thing. If Pistol took off she'd get dragged to death.

Some of you may find the spurs distasteful. Something important to remember about rural areas is that they retain older viewpoints--one of those viewpoints is that animals are tools to be used. One can love one's animals and kill them the next day--and if they don't perform, well. In the same way you use a belt on your kids, you use spurs on your horses. (Don't do this lol)

In very early drafts, there was an antagonist based on a real event. We had an escapee from a mental hospital come down to the Brazos and break into houses to steal from refrigerators. I even had a close call with him once. I turned him into a character in early drafts; in this fiction, he's the one who wrote on the walls of the church.

[mondaysjournal]

6/10/2023 - One Hundred Billion Stars

Forever is one of those strange concepts that we have a word for but can't personally experience. In a technical sense it's "until the end of time;" that's something we won't be around for. So when we use it, it means something completely different based on the context. Forever is how long I had to wait until you came into my life the way you did. It's how long those three months you were here felt. It's how long the last full day I spent with you was. It's how long I have to wait to see you again. And it's how much time I want to spend with you. It's unfortunate that it can't be until the end of time, but I can settle for a little bit less than that.

Not much happened this week. On tuesday, I drove to albany for the symposium. Traffic on the way there as well as the brightness of the day made it kind of hard to drive, but on the way back since it was so late, the lack of traffic and darkness made it much easier. I gave Mr. Bott a focaccia, which he could not eat, but he said that his children and parents enjoyed it. The symposium itself was nice. I hope you can come to it next year. I want Mr. Bott to meet you, since you're so important to me. He's important in the sense that he's probably the closest thing to a father figure that I had in high school, while not quite getting there. I didn't disobey him enough for that to be the reality. You'd understand why some aspects of me are the way they are if you had a brief conversation with him.

I didn't go anywhere else this week, other than magic club. I lost two games and then won with rem karolus doing a heartless hidetsugu + furnace of rath combo. I like quick games. I also ordered the parts for shelob a few days ago, after I saw an article reporting huge price spikes on arachnogenesis. I think I was right to do so, because there were five copies of it on hareruya before and only one left when I placed my order. It's cheaper than the previous few decks I've made, I think. Not exactly a surprise since it's a tribal deck where most of the tribal cards are just random 2/3s for 3 with reach. The most expensive part is the landbase. It's definitely something I'm going to tinker with more over time. Other than that, I ended up finishing the latest randomized elden ring run with lint. And this morning I woke up early to go see one of the apartments you told me to email about, but I'll tell you about that more when we talk. We're running out of rice and chili powder so I might have to go get some tomorrow.

I don't really have anything else to look forward to doing at the moment, since the symposium was that one thing. I guess this is just how things were before you, but in your shadow it all seems more boring. I started reading the book you told me to read, but I'm only about 20 pages in since I get distracted easily. Once I'm actually further in, I'll start writing about it in earnest. I'll find something to do. I started cleaning around here more, since I feel guilty about not doing that enough. But I know there has to be more here than playing games and cleaning and making food. I might visit david at some point, but who knows if that will actually happen...really it's up to him to decide if he has the time. But yeah, I'll figure something out. I know you wouldn't want me to feel sad and bored here.

I love you, princess. I hope we can talk soon. You bring so much joy into my life.

[emjiroki]

(Aged Up) Manjiro *Mikey* Sano x Reader 18+ fic

Word count: 4.8K

Warnings: Gaslighting, slapping, gunplay, threat of death, cum eating (kind of), creampie, oral sex (both receiving and giving), Mikey being manic, blood.

Hi Everyone! I know I haven’t posted in forever but here I am with my submission to @iwasbunny​ and her amazing Toxic Collab! this was so much fun to write and it really took me to another place to get in the mood for crazy Mikey. I really enjoyed the whole process! Please everyone follow her and check the masterlist for the collab to see all of the other amazing works! I hope everyone enjoys ❤🏍⚡

Minors DNI 18+ like always! Feedback is very much appreciated ❤

(Also full disclosure I basically made my own timeline where Baji is still around cause I said so)

~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡

'Another car set aflame in a parking garage in East Tokyo this evening. Police are saying it's related to an increase in local gang violence over the last week'

Your heart was in your throat as you muted the television, flopping back on your hotel bed with a groan. He was getting closer. You knew you couldn't run from him for long, but it hadn't even been ten days and half of Tokyo was already facing Mikey’s rath. He was angry when you left, the fight between you two was still lingering in the air as you packed a bag, his dark eyes sparkling with fury when you threw your brand new phone to the floor and shattered it, glass crunching under your shoe as you marched out past his security and to the elevator. Takemichi tried to say something and stop you only to be put on the receiving end of a world-class death glare and the doors sliding shut. You had to think about what to do, where to go. You hadn’t planned on leaving this long but knowing that Mikey expected you to come crawling back made you even more determined to stay as far away from him and his search parties as possible. A pounding knock on the door had your throat running dry, blood hammering in your ears as adrenaline began rushing through you. Your hand instantly went to the thigh holster under your skirt, fingers wrapping around the new Beretta px4 storm that Mikey had actually gotten for you for the holidays last year, a “protection accessory” he had said with a smile and soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Come on y/n, I know this is your room and I’m not leaving,” Chifuyu’s voice called from the hallway. 

“I’m not going back Chifuyu, I told Mikey I was done with his crap and I meant it,” You said, breathing a sigh of relief and letting your hand drop, going over to your suitcase in a plan to get your essentials out for the night. 

“He’s got everyone out looking for you, told us to drag you back if we have to”. You rolled your eyes. Of course he did. Can’t do anything himself. 

“I said I’m not coming with you,” You snapped, yanking the zipper open.

“Y/N, he’s got Sanzu out for you.” You froze, stomach plummeting. Sanzu had always just made you uncomfortable, the pure chaotic energy he exuded never failed to trigger your fight or flight.

“You know Mikey’s on the warpath, pack up and meet me downstairs in ten minutes unless you want Sanzu to find you and put a pretty cut on your face,” Chifuyu said, knocking his knuckles against the door one more time before you could hear the ding of the elevator a moment later. Your hands were shaking as you zip your suitcase shut again, legs and feet barely wanting to move across to the door. The only thing keeping you moving as the door clicks shut behind you is the thought of Sanzu getting the master key to your room and taking you while you sleep. The elevator seemed colder as you pressed the lobby button, skin breaking out in goosebumps as your knees shook. You were silently thankful that it was Chifuyu that found you first, the thought of Sanzu or, god forbid, Hanma finding you filling you with dread and the need to leave as quickly as possible, damn the consequences and whatever would happen once you got home to Mikey. The lobby was quiet except for the low music playing through the ceiling speakers, the large tv hanging near the sitting area playing the news with only captions. 

“y/n,” Chifuyu called from the reception desk, sliding a couple of bills across the counter to the smiling girl, “We’ve gotta go, just got off the phone with Draken and apparently Mikey’s called off the bounty, he’s expecting you soon” 

It was barely a moment after you two had sat down in the car, not even able to buckle your seatbelts yet when his phone began to ring. Chifuyu looked at you expectantly, bright green eyes shining almost playfully as he glanced at the contact, a slight smirk on his lips when he finally answered.

“Hey Mikey,”. The blood rushing in your ears made you slightly dizzy, heart nearly jumping from your chest as you shakily clipped your seatbelt. “Yeah I got her, don’t worry. She’s safe.” You could see Chifuyu looking a little nervous now out of the corner of your eye, glancing between you and the steering wheel as Mikey said something in his ear. 

“Uh- I don’t think she really wants to talk right now-,” He was cut off by Mikey shouting on the other end, flinching and holding the phone away from his ear. The raging tone made you cringe, going to take the phone from his hand. 

“I’m coming home so you can tell your goons to quit burning the city to the ground,” You said, cutting him off from his tirade, cheeks burning in frustration at the silence on the other end. 

"You know I wouldn't have had to send them out to find you if you wouldn't be such a brat," Mikey said with a cool tone. 

"I'm not being a brat, you're being unreasonable," you said through an irritated huff, "We'll talk about this when I get home".

"You're damn right we will," he snapped, ending the call. The click and dial tone nearly makes you throw the phone out the window but you hand it back to Chifuyu with a clenched fist. The silence in the car was deafening as he pulled out into traffic, the only sound coming from the blinker and the soft rumbling of the engine. The streetlights sparkled through the raindrops on the windshield, whipping away furiously under the drag of the wind and the wipers. 

“Would’ve taken my bike if it weren’t for this weather, didn’t want you to get sick,” Chifuyu said, reaching over to click the radio on to have something playing and buffer the silence. 

“Thanks,” You say unenthusiastically, watching out the window as the tall buildings flashed by, the various people meandering on the sidewalk turning into faceless blurs of color.

“You know he’s been a wreck without you,” Chifuyu said with a sigh and a shake of his head, “Hasn’t been to a meeting since you left, barely even sleeping. It’s been chaotic”.

“It’s not my job to keep him in line, he’s a grown-ass man with issues,” You said, glaring out at the water running down your window. 

“He needs you,” the now dark-haired man said in an attempt to make his case. 

“He needs a therapist,”

“That’s something you, I, and everyone that has ever come in contact with Mikey can agree on,” Chifuyu said with a laugh, “But you love him don’t you?”. What kind of a stupid question was that? Of course you did. You had ever since you were both sixteen. 

“That’s what I thought,” He said with a smirk, “He just wants you back”. 

“Guess it’s his lucky day,” You said with a sigh as your stomach twisted, you could only imagine what was waiting for you at home. 

The rain had only gotten worse when you finally pulled into the underground parking garage, storm beginning to rage and pour rain as Chifuyu popped the car into park and checked his phone. 

“Draken’s gonna meet us upstairs, Mikey’s on a call with Takemichi," Chifuyu said, gripping your elbow and guiding you to the elevator like you were going to run away again. The ride up to the top took a minute, every tick of the passing levels sending a shiver down your spine. The anticipation of facing him had your skin breaking into a cold sweat. The hall leading to the door was lit warmly as always with the large windows displaying the city.

“Well look who it is,” Draken said leaning against the wall next to the door, his deep voice rolling through the tense atmosphere, “our little runaway”.

“Yeah yeah I know,” You said with blood burning in your cheeks from shame, “Is Mikey inside?” 

Draken nodded over to the large double doors across the hall, "he's in the conference room on a call. But I'm warning you he isn't happy."

You rolled your eyes and handed him your bag, turning for the door. 

“Yeah, no surprise there”. Draken’s large hand wrapped around your upper arm and turned you back around to face him. 

“Just be lucky Chifuyu found you when he did,” He snapped, his dark eyes glaring down at you, “and you’re also lucky I talked Mikey down as much as I did, in the interest of keeping everything from falling apart because of his obsession with you”. His obsession, something you knew all too well. Wearing the marks of his lips and teeth and gripping fingers like jewelry on your skin for everyone to see. Mikey had always been wild about you, ever since you met back in high school. You accepted a ride home on the back of his bike one time and had been nearly inseparable ever since. Mikey had just always been there it seems like, very few memories coming to mind that he wasn’t involved with, whether you had been happy with him at the time or not. Loving him had always been… complicated.

 You could hear muffled voices beyond the doors, conversations that usually fell on deaf ears when you were present, usually too distracted by Mikey grinding up against you while you sat in his lap.

“Let’s go, I’m sure he doesn’t want to wait,” Chifuyu said, a firm hand on your back urging you forward.  You felt dizzy as your heart began to speed up as you laid your hand against the door handle, fingers wrapping around it slowly before twisting and pushing the door open. The only one who looked up to the click of the door opening was Takemichi in his assigned seat, a soft smile on his face when he noticed it was you. 

Draken made a noise in the back of his throat as he made his way back into the room from behind you, catching Baji’s attention along with Nahoya and Souya who were discussing something between themselves.

“Look who came crawling back,” Baji said with a grin of flashing fangs. This caught Mikey’s attention, his dark eyes flitting up from the papers on the table. You nearly gasped when you noticed his hair, still the light blonde that you loved but now cut short in an undercut from what you could tell from where you were standing, the feeling of your heart plummeting to your feet had tears welling in your eyes. He did that to hurt you. You were still trying to process everything, from the new haircut to the dark circles accentuating his already shadowy gaze, so you didn’t see the phone held up to his ear until he was ending the call without a word, slamming the device on the table and making you jump. 

“Everyone out,” He said coldly, eyes locked on you as he stood from his seat. 

Baji rolled his eyes, “We’re kind of in the middle of something-”

“EVERYONE. OUT.” Mikey shouted, the echoing of his voice in the open room making everyone head quickly for the door, leaving you frozen as it shut behind you. It was quiet now, both of you watching each other carefully, like animals in a cage. You didn’t like this tension with him, it made you feel like you were in the room with a stranger and not Mikey. Your love.

“Mikey I-”

“Don’t,” He snapped through gritted teeth, “Come here”. You fought shaky knees as you made your way around the table to him, the adrenaline flowing through you making every breath shallow. He reached out and snatched your wrist the moment you got close enough, practically dragging you forward until you were pressed against him. Mikey was pushing his lips against your before you could say anything, a deep groan rising from his chest when his tongue slid across your bottom lip and sucked it between his teeth for a moment. 

“I fucking missed you, you know that?” He murmured against your mouth, one hand coming up to squeeze your jaw tightly enough that you gasped, “I missed you so much”. 

“I-I missed you too,” you said with another pained gasp as his grip tightened. 

“No, you didn’t. If you did it wouldn’t have been such a fight to get you back,” He nearly growled, pressing wet kisses against the column of your throat, “You’re a bad liar”.

“Mikey please-” you tried to plead with him, receiving a sharp smack against your cheek from the hand that had been previously crushing your jaw. 

“Don’t whine to me, I don’t give a shit if you’re going to beg or if you’re sorry,” He snapped, “You need to be put in your place and understand that everything I do is to protect you”. 

“Everything you do is to protect your own ego Mikey,” You said, anger filling your chest again as the memories of that last argument bubbled to the surface, “keeping me under your thumb. Making Keisuke drag me home from my best friend’s house in the middle of the night, in the cold, because I didn’t text you back at midnight. When I was SLEEPING. You have to control everything or you go off the deep end. I mean look at you.” You gestured towards his hair, stepping towards him and threading your fingers through it, moving them all the way back. “Why?”.

“To bother you when you inevitably came back, knew it would,” He said, fighting his eyes from falling closed at the feeling of your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you ran them slowly through the shaved underside, massaging against his head and neck the way you always put him to sleep. You gasped when he suddenly snatched your wrists, pulling your hands away and leveling you with a dark stare. 

“So my Angel doesn’t like being controlled huh?” He asked quietly, leaning in until his lips just barely brushed yours. “You don’t mind being paraded around in front of my men in your cute little outfits and dripping with jewelry like whore though, am I right?”. 

The slap you delivered to his cheek had his head jerking to the side, an astonished sound leaving him as he turned back to you with a smile.

“Do it again”. You hesitated only a moment before slapping him again, the cracking of your hand against his cheek echoed almost too loudly with the anger fueling the fire behind the hit. Flecks of blood were on his lip when he turned back to you again, and almost crazed desire shining in his eyes, obsidian pools seemingly dragging all the light in around them to shine through like shark eyes. You went to take a step back, foot in motion to move away when one of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other hand sliding down your side, tracing the curves of your body as he smothered you in a desperate kiss. You realized too late what he was doing, where his hand was going when he tugged up the hem of your skirt, realized that he had taken your gun from its holster when you felt the cold metal pressing against your temple. 

“Do you know how quick I could end your pretty little life? This is a hair-trigger baby, one miss place of my finger and,” He dug it in just a little harder and you knew it would leave an imprint, “Bang.” the jerk of the gun against your skin had your heart thundering, tears welling in your eyes and breaths moving fast from your lungs in an attempt not to sob. A shiver shook its way down your spine as he dragged the gun from your temple, the barrel running down your cheekbone and jawline to come and rest under your chin. “So pretty, fear looks good on you, almost as good as obedience,”. A loud sob broke your sealed lips finally, tears beginning to stream as the adrenaline began to disappear, leaving only pumping blood and breathless lungs in its wake. “You know I hate it when you cry love,” Mikey said in a softer tone, kissing away the tears, “You just need to do everything I tell you and you can be my good girl again, alright?”. You nod furiously, willing to do anything just to get him to calm down. 

“You know I love you right?” He asked, arm around your waist squeezing you against his front as he skimmed his nose across your reddened cheekbone down to press his lips to the flushed tip of your nose, resting his forehead against yours as he began to drag the gun further down your throat to your collarbones. “More than anything in the entire world, do you still love me, baby?”. You nod again. Of course, you still love him, you would always love him. 

“I want to hear it,”

“I love you M-Mikey. Always,” You hiccupped on a shaky breath, knees nearly buckling when he put the gun on the meeting table, sliding it away from the both of you. 

“Just remember something, for next time you want to act like a brat,” He said, pulling your face in close until your nose brushed his, “Controlling everything so I don’t go off the deep end is for everyone else’s benefit, not mine. Once I don’t care anymore the world is gonna burn”. His gaze grew soft for a moment, “Just like if something ever happened to you”. You wrapped your arms around him, even if you were terrified of this unhinged side of him, you had missed him so much over the last week. 

“I missed you,” You said nuzzling into his neck and smelling his cologne, just wanting a moment of normalcy for as long as he'd allow it. 

"I know baby, you don't know how much I missed you. I couldn't sleep, barely ate. You almost ruined me," he said, wrapping his own arms around your shoulders and leaning in close to your ear, "so for leaving and nearly killing me you've gotta be punished". You tried not to cry again, knowing it upset him and afraid of what he would do, tried to hold the shaky breaths in and keep the tears from flowing. Anything to keep from provoking him to grab your gun again. 

"On your knees," Mikey said with a soft shove to your shoulder. He sank down into his chair again, swiveling to face you on his left side, and beckoned you forward with a curling finger. You shuffled over to him on your knees, hands immediately going to trace up his thighs to his belt. He stayed silent as you worked the latch open, dark eyes following every movement you made down to your shallow breathing, and you couldn't deny that his scrutinizing gaze had heat pooling in your gut. You weren't surprised to see and feel how hard he was through his briefs, his "punishments" for you always had him on edge when he was allowed to use them, the flushed head of his cock already leaking precum when you freed him from his underwear. 

"I'm gonna fuck your throat. No complaining and just for the fun of it, No choking. You gag once and the reward I want to give you is out the window, understand?" He asked, shuffling his jeans down to his knees. You nodded, barely able to look away from his twitching cock. His hand struck out against your cheek again, softer this time but still hard enough to make your head spin for a second.

"Use your words," He snapped, rolling his eyes as if he couldn't believe he had to say it again. 

"Yes I understand," you said, gritting your teeth against the soft burning of your face. 

"No choking remember?" Mikey said with a grin, lacing his fingers into your hair and pulling you forward to swallow his cock. Your hands clutched onto his thighs as the intrusion almost made you gag, your body subconsciously fighting even the water in your eyes to keep from upsetting him. He wasn't merciful as he dragged you up and down his length, the head of his cock punching into the back of your throat every time and sending drool pouring past your lips. 

"You've got the best mouth, baby," he groaned, pushing you down until your nose was buried in the light-colored hair at the base, holding you there as you struggled to breathe through your nose. "Always have". He dragged you off and let you gasp for air for a moment, studying your flushed wet face as you took a deep breath in through your nose out through your mouth before turning back to him without his prompting. 

"Such a good girl, want to make me cum already huh?" Mikey said with a soft almost proud smile, "get to work then". You were thankful for all the time you had spent with him, knowing exactly what to do with your hands and tongue to have him spilling down your throat in no time. All you had to do was let him use you. You moved one of his hands back to your head, allowing him to thread his fingers into your hair again, while the other hand went to your throat. Feeling the slight bulge in your throat when you took him all the way down, nose flush to his pelvis. 

"S-Shit, know exactly how to get me there quick don't you?" He stuttered as your tongue swept across his sensitive slit, the pearly fluid pouring from it gathering against your taste buds as you swallowed around him. You let him hold you there as he thrust up into your mouth, grunts, and moans escaping him as he lost himself against the warmth of your tongue. 

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum. Gonna fill up that sweet little mouth of yours are you ready?" He said, completely losing it when you looked up at him from between his legs with watery eyes. Mikey came against your tongue with a sharp cry, his thighs twitching under your grasping hands as he filled your mouth nearly to spilling. You could tell he hadn't gotten off in a while due to the copious amounts of cum running down your throat, desperately trying to suck it all down so as not to spill any down your chin. He pulled back to smear the last of it on your lips, a shiver running through him as your tongue licked out against his sensitive skin.

“Greedy,” He murmured breathlessly as he dragged you up, leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours. You both moaned at the contact, his tongue sharing the last of his cum against your tastebuds. “Get up on the table, legs spread,”. You stood from your kneeling position, going to take off your skirt and panties when he snapped his fingers.

“I didn’t say undress. I said Get on the table,” he said when you gave him a questioning look. You jumped up to sit on the table directly in front of his chair like you’ve done a hundred times before. Mickey ran his hands up the outside of your thighs, dragging your skirt up to bunch at your waist pausing at the holster still strapped to your leg. He smirked up at you as he unbuckled it, pressing a wet kiss right where the indent of the strap was on your soft skin. His fingers traced back up your inner thigh to your panty line, tugging them down until he pull them off your foot and discard them somewhere beside him. He groaned as he wrapped his hands around your hips and tugged you forward, pussy finally laid bare for him. The feeling of him immediately sucking down on your clit had you moaning, his tongue dipping down to part your folds and paint his lips with your juices. 

“So wet for me already,” He panted, nuzzling his nose against your clit, “Taste like heaven Doll”. 

“Mikey, Please,” You whined, angling your hips down to get his mouth on your clit.

“What baby? What is it?” He cooed, running the fingers of his left hand up your dripping slit, “Want to fuck my fingers like a slut?”. 

“Yes. Please, Mikey, please” You begged as his index and ring finger teased against your entrance. 

“Oh, we’re begging already?” He said with a smile, “I should leave you just like this, desperate. Damn near crying. But I love you so much. And you’ve done a good job for me”. He sank his fingers in and curled them, pressing right against the spongey spot inside of you that had your legs trembling.

“This going to be quick sweetheart, I want to be inside of you,” He said, beginning to thrust his fingers up into you as he latched onto your clit, sucking and licking it until you could barely breathe. Your climax was coiling in your gut, burning like an inferno and making a sweat break out across your forehead.

“F-Fuck Mikey,” You whined, clenching down on his fingers, “ ‘m gonna cum”. The approving rumble against your clit had your toes curling, his name spilling from your lips in an obscene moan. Your head was spinning as you came down from your high, barely able to catch a breath before Mikey was moving to his feet, shedding his shirt and dragging his stiffening cock against you. 

“Take off your shirt,” He said bunching the material in his fist. You wiggled up and pulled it off, going behind your back to unclip your bra too before he decided to get impatient and tear it off. Again. 

“So beautiful,” He groaned, pressing his lips to yours as he bottomed out, swallowing your moans as you adjusted to the tight fit. His fat cock had always been hard to take at first. He barely pulled out before bulling his way back in with a grunt. 

“Sucking me in so good, sweetest pussy in the world.” Mikey panted on a dragged-out moan when you squeezed around him. He kissed his way down your throat as you whined, running his tongue along your collar bone before moving down to your nipple, latching his mouth around it and sucking. His right hand moved up to tug at your other nipple, moaning into your soft flesh as he rutted down into you, your wetness running down to pool on the table beneath your ass. 

“Don’t you ever leave me again, you hear me? Your mine,” He panted, his cheeks flushed as drool ran down his chin.

“Yes Mikey, I’m sorry, only yours,” You moaned as his hips snapped harshly against yours, no doubt bruising your cervix.

“That’s right baby,” He groaned, the fingers of his left hand squeezing bruises into your hip, “want you to cum around my cock, want to fill you up, breed you full, love”. He was mumbling into your breast as he sucked, practically fucking you into the table until your legs were over his shoulders and back flat against the wood surface. 

“Please Mikey let me cum. Can I? Can I milk your cock?” you begged, burying your hands in his hair and tugging.

“Please baby,” He moaned, leaning up to suck a bruise against your throat. You came with a scream, your nails scratching red lines across the pale skin of his back. The conflicting pain and pleasure were what tipped him over, the sweet burn of your nails making his cock twitch and he came with a moan of your name, filling you with so much hot cum that it began dribbling out around him. 

“I missed you, so much. You can’t leave me again baby, never again,” He said breathlessly, kissing across your sweaty face as he still softly thrust his hips.

“I won’t. I promise,” You said, grabbing his face in your hands and kissing him, his body melting under your touch. You both sat there for a moment, his legs trembling with over-sensitivity as you both tried to catch your breath and slow your hearts. 

“I do need you to remember one more thing though,” Mikey said laying his forehead against yours before pulling back and helping you to sit up. “Being with the top gang leader in Tokyo means you have a target on your back at all times, you need to grow up and remember that y/n”. 

“Mikey I still carry a packet of fruit snacks in my purse for you,” You said, pressing a kiss to his nose, “Who really needs to grow up here?”.