#screams at unholy frequency

[lilac-hecox]

i'd love to request a little pastor ian. literally anything, you could describe him just breathing, i don't care, just any pastor ian! thank you so much <3

Pastor!Ian/Demon!Anthony - Holy War - Ianthony

--

It was strange to touch each other without one of them dying, but maybe touch was also something for the living.

Ian remembers a time when ignorance was truly bliss. It was when he first joined the church, attending his classes, working towards priesthood. It was before he knew of things bigger than himself and all he had to do was believe in God, and believe in what was right, and holy, and that through the Lord all things were possible. 

He was a sheep happy to graze in the grass those days.

It was before he knew of a war raging between heaven and hell itself. It was before he was caught squarely in the cross-fire of that war. 

Anthony, Ian’s best friend, was always attuned to the world in a frequency that Ian was not. He thought deeper, believed in things, he was open to new ideas. He was curious. He was anything but ignorant and blissful to the world around them. 

Ian can’t quite remember how it happened, but somehow Anthony had stumbled into the weavings of darkness. That evil, born of hell, had etched itself across his skin in dark marks that led like road maps across the surface of Anthony’s flesh. 

It happened in quiet places. In the dark places where Ian did not allow himself to truly see or know. Where he did not dare to follow Anthony. By the time he knew. By the time any of them realized what had happened. Anthony was no longer just Anthony. 

He had something evil inside of him, something festering and hungry, and out for destruction. His eyes a glossy, milky white, as he screamed into the night, those road maps of darkness alight with an unholy magic. 

Really, all along, Ian and Anthony were pawns in a game bigger than either one of them, but set on opposite sides. Anthony, swallowed by a darkness that overcame him. Ian believed in a righteousness that felt like his only hope and Anthony’s only salvation. 

Ian can’t remember exactly when or how they died. He just knows they died together. For most of his life, it felt like he and Anthony came into existence at the same moment, hard to remember a time before one was at the other’s side. Upon dying, it was much the same, born to know each other, destined to die together. 

The top of a hill, overlooking the village they had grown up in, the church in which Ian took his vows to the Lord, a mutual destruction took place. 

Ian remembers heat and pain and he remembers falling to his knees in the grass, clutching at Anthony’s shoulders, his touch burning the inches of Anthony’s demonized skin. When Anthony fell, it was next to him, the space between their hands thinner than a blade of the grass on the hill of their childhood home where Ian laid bleeding out. 

With his last ounce of strength Ian had clutched Anthony’s hand, the dark, inky symbol of an all-seeing eye, burning, disintegrating to give way to the tanned flesh Ian always knew. He held fast to Anthony as his eyes slipped closed, because he had a feeling even death could not split them apart if they truly tried to stay together. 

The thing about a holy war of good versus evil. It’s hard to ever really stay dead. It’s hard to say where Ian was in the in-between, but he felt warm there, and comfortable, and he knows that Anthony was there too. 

Then, they are resurrected, like the verses in old scriptures Ian had studied. One day he is awake on the same hill, in the daylight, no mortal wound spread across the expanse of his chest. Anthony is there too, the markings on his skin still etched, but faded, no longer raised and angry, like veins across his skin. 

The palm of his hand, the one Ian had held as he died, is perfectly blank. 

It was strange to touch each other without one of them dying, but maybe touch was also something for the living.

Ian tested that theory by planting a hand in the soft springy grass where their blood once mingled together and painted the ground. He feels the warm breeze of the day, and in the distance he hears birds calling, he hears children playing. 

Ian leans in and he cups Anthony’s face, and he surrenders to the knowledge of the world, and what it can be like, and feel like, and what it felt like to live and die at Anthony’s side. He clings and he kisses Anthony until their lips are numb, until they have to part to suck in deep and renewing lungfuls of air. 

Maybe their resurrection was a gift from something that took pity on them. Maybe a reversal of the damages done to war. Maybe Ian’s side won. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. Content to live in that peaceful bliss if he gets to have Anthony with him.

[findroleplay]

heya! im looking for a roleplay for any of the following fandoms (i'll include the characters i write for in parenthesis):

team fortress 2 (pyro, sniper, oc)

jojo's bizarre adventure (kakyoin, doppio, speedwagon, joseph, giorno, jotaro)

homestuck (dave, karkat, jade, roxy, aradia, eridan, kanaya, nepeta, damara, alpha dave, dad egbert, the signless, the handmaid, multiple ocs)

i have no mouth and i must scream (AM, oc)

faith the unholy trinity (john ward, oc)

lupin the third (lupin, jigen, oc)

the ships i'd be looking for in particular would be (in order of listed): spy x pyro, scout x sniper, pyro x engineer, medic x oc, sniper x oc, engineer x oc, kakyoin x jotaro, jotaro x polnareff, johnathon x speedwagon, joseph x ceaser, doppio x diavolo, eridan x karkat, dave x aradia, dad x bro, dave x jake, nepeta x karkat, AM x oc, john x gary, lupin x zenigata, lupin x jigen, OC x jigen, jigen x goemon, and jigen x zenigata. however, i will do ones other than these! just ask me, of course :D

i know that's a long list and an odd assortment of fandoms, i apologize. anyways, i am fully open to ocs, but i prefer not to do oc x oc! i really prefer canon x canon, because i know most people don't like roleplaying with just someone else's oc, but if you'd do it then id love to! i'd also be happy to rp a canon character with your oc, if they strike my interest. i will NOT do x female ocs, though!!!

another note: i am a minor! if this discomforts you, do not inquire about rping with me.

anyways, i'm not at all picky about plot. we can work something out after we get into contact!

my response length will vary heavily, as will my frequency, as i am in my senior year of high school and i'm really really busy and really really tired sometimes. but generally, i'd consider myself a mid-length literate roleplayer. my starters tend to be very long.

all that being said, if you're interested, just say so on this post! i'll dm you with my discord.

-

[scoliosisrick]

GOT A CALL FROM MURT ON MY CELLULAR DEVICE ASKING ME WHERE I AM. TOOK HIM 2 FUCKING WEEKS TO NOTICE I'VE BEEN STRANDED IN THE OCEAN. HE WANTS CHICKEN NUGGETS FOR DINNER. TOLD HIM IT'S TIME HE GROWS UP AND MICROWAVES THEM HIMSELF BECAUSE I'M BUSY EATING SHELLFISH OFF THE SEA FLOOR WITH MY FISH WIFE. HE STARTED SCREAMING AT INHUMAN FREQUENCIES AND BURST MY LEFT EARDRUM. NOT SURE WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT BUT I PRAY TO GOD THE GRAND VASTNESS OF THE OCEAN WILL BE ENOUGH TO KEEP THAT CREATURE FROM FINDING ME AND SERVING UP HIS UNHOLY JUSTICE.

[voxuli]

Ack, how did these things even work?

Trying to twist his antennae with his own hands doesn't seem to work very well, sending a bizarre tingle down his spine. Not unpleasant nor pleasant, just—weird.

"unholy, awful—wonderful—"

Didn't matter anyway, he realizes after a minute. Those were only for reception, duh. But it's not like he has any tuning knobs on his own stupid head. How the fuck is he supposed to change the frequency?

"violence is the question—asked liberally—"

The hell is Alastor even on about, anyway? He's only half paying attention, but the theatrics would seem beyond over the top if he didn't have the strange certainty that the man truly meant every morbid word.

He twists, trying to see his own reflection to make sure he hasn't missed any buttons on the other sides. Goddamn it, getting saddled with a TV for a head should have at least done him the courtesy of giving him an owner's manual to go with it.

"—my special listener, I'm coming for you."

... Wait, what was that part?

Vox blinks, and his own mind repeats Alastor's last words, underlaid with a subtle slithering of rewound tape.

... No, surely not. Right? No. The likelihood was... Sure, he'd seemed kind of pissed there at the end of their conversation, but... There had to be millions of listeners.

Except there's a new cacophony of screaming in the background, and all his instincts are now telling him to start running. Now.

... Vox starts running.

He felt Vox moving around. Radar was invented after Alastor's time but he didn't need to know the name of it to do what he did.

"--we have nothing to fear but ourselves. We are an unholy, awful people, and isn't that wonderful, dear listeners? To know that -- " he continued his broadcast, keeping an eye on the movement. He'd lost him once before, unable to follow and unsure about how to proceed. Now was a time for observation, to get a feel for however Vox traveled. He spoke for a few minutes more, dragging out the broadcast until he was absolutely certain he knew where Vox was. Maybe things would go better if they met in person.

"--and that's all the time we have for now! Remember that violence is the question, and one that should be asked liberally. For my special listener, I'm coming for you. For the rest of you, stay tuned." And with that he shut off the broadcast, peaceful as he shut down the console manually. Ah, he could already hear the screams as the Pride Ring collectively lost its mind. No one knew who he was talking about, and everyone worried they were the one on his list.

[milkyteabunnie]

『ネルケと伝説の錬金術士たち ～新たな大地のアトリエ～』スペシャルムービー TGS 2018 ver.

[honestlyawriter]

Scary Movies

Author’s Note:

Hello!

Full disclosure. I wrote this in less than an hour after feeling really unproductive and I am not going to apologize for it. I think it turned out pretty okay, all things considering. I really hope that you like it! Because I’m always happy to write some fluffy stuff. (Hurray for fluffy stuff!)

As always, please let me know if you made it all the way to the end. Feedback will help me grow as a creator!

Stay awesome!

Title: Scary Movies

Summary: You’re alone at home, and the day has been less than amazing. You sit down to watch a movie, and eventually realize that you’ve made a mistake.

Word Count: 810

Pairing: Gojo x Reader

Warnings: Fluff.

Rainstorms, hot coco, and a container of cookie dough had been the only things that could possibly make this day better. You had not had a productive day at work, your hobbies were eluding you, and you had felt like warm garbage for the majority of the day. When you hadn’t felt like warm garbage, you’d felt like cold garbage which was arguably a little better. On top of everything, Gojo wasn’t supposed to be home for two more days and you were spiraling.

Maybe, you had reasoned, you could curl up in one of his shirts and some fluffy pajama bottoms and watch something on TV. Maybe that would make you feel a little bit better, because you had forced yourself to interact like a proper adult but now you were emotionally drained and you no longer wanted to be part of the world. You deserved some self-care that didn’t involve being concerned with making yourself feel better because sometimes you wanted to feel a little bit like a potato.

If Gojo saw you like this, you were sure that you would die a little bit inside. Not because he would think you were something disgusting, but because he would probably take about fifteen pictures and tell you that you looked divine. He was too much sometimes, but you appreciated the effort.

You had turned on a movie after browsing for longer than you had wanted to. You had turned off all the lights, so that when you fell asleep to some dumb movie you didn’t have to worry about every light in the house being on, and then you started watching the movie. It hadn’t seemed like it would be that scary, but then again, movies sometimes resonated on a different frequency when you were alone. At home. By yourself.

The movie started and you were enraptured, wrapped up in the biggest, fluffiest blanket that you owned. The killer was coming, and you could hear the creaks of the old building that you lived in. The sounds of the city, the rustle of the trees outside, the ticking of the wall clock that Gojo had insisted on having. Your heart was in your throat; why had that idiot gone in there?! Why was it always the bathroom?! You were debating closing your eyes, your fists tightly balled as the door swung open and light flooded into the house.

You screamed and it was the most unholy thing. You threw the cookie dough, luckily your cup of coco was empty because you’d thrown it at whoever had opened the door, tangling yourself up in the blanket as you threw yourself on the ground with a desperate vigor.

Your ankle twisted as the blanket tightened and the coffee table was precariously pulled toward you. The coffee table teetered for a breathless moment before it settled back down, deciding not to crush you further under its weight. Your breathing was coming out in desperate gasps when you heard the most delighted laugher erupting from the doorway. It was hysterical laugher. The kind of laughter that kept you from breathing and made your side aches.

You looked up as confusion mixed with fear and then slowly was overtaken by embarrassment. Gojo was standing in the doorway, doubled over. Take-out bags on the ground and your cup in his hand. You curled up and tried to caterpillar away when a sharp pain shot up your leg and into your hip. You yelped and Gojo stopped laughing.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Despite the lack of laughter, he was still smiling, bright eyes shining in the dim light of the TV.

“Shut up.” You tried to get away again, but was trying to favor the hurt ankle, “You aren’t supposed to be home.”

“Would you rather I leave?” He asked in a sing song voice. Walking towards you with a long, deliberate stride. He only walked towards you like that when he meant business.

“No, but you could have texted!”

“I did.” he was unwrapping you from the blanket, being careful not to jostle your ankle during the process.

“But my phone,” You looked at the phone that you had knocked off the table, remembering that you had meant to plug it in, “is probably dead.” You sighed.

“I know. I tried calling to, but you didn’t answer. I thought you might have been in the shower or something.” He pouted as he continued to examine your ankle, “I was hoping to surprise you.”

You grunted, “Consider me surprised.”

He laughed again, and then moved the coffee table, scooping you up delicately and depositing you on the couch gently. “Let’s get that elevated and I’ll get the ice.”

You groaned but smiled a little.

You might have been hurt, and you might have been annoyed, but you were always happy to have Gojo back home.

[thecreaturecodex]

Nascent Demon Lord, Igramalash

Image from Herald of the Ivory Labyrinth, © Paizo Publishing

[Commissioned by @tar-baphon. This one requires some context. Igramalash appeared in Herald of the Ivory Labyrinth with a ton of backstory, as discussed in the first paragraph of the entry below. Most parties will probably never learn it, since he just fights until slain and has nothing to say to the party except for screaming for Alderpash. He can act as an agent of chaos in the adventure, and can be goaded into attacking the warden and the staff of the prison, be commanded by the PCs with the help of Runelord Alderpash, or simply killed. The commissioner ran a party through Wrath of the Righteous, and they allowed Igramalash to live and escape. So this request was for an Igramalash improved and triumphant, having re-established his worship and becoming a power to be reckoned with. The original module says he was worshiped as a god of pain and obedience, but I thought his concerns should be updated to reflect his history of betrayals and imprisonments.

Not also that the original Igramalash had mythic tiers, as is fitting for being from the Mythic AP. As I’ve previously said, I hate the mythic rules, and have stripped them out. Igramalash was especially egregious for having the most game-breaking ability of the mythic rules, dual initiative. I gave it an ability to maintain some of that flavor without the overpowered making-two-full-attacks-every-round mechanics.]

Igramalash The Inverted Rune, the Liberated Concerns hunger, revenge, revolt Domains Chaos, Evil, Liberation, Strength Subdomains Demon, Entropy, Ferocity, Freedom Worshipers evil giants, fleshwarped creatures, the downtrodden Minions grimleks, inverted giants, nabasu demons Unholy Symbol a spiral with a fanged maw in the center Obedience Devour a pound of flesh from someone or something that has wronged you. This flesh may be fresh or preserved. Gain a +4 profane bonus on saves against transmutation effects Boons 1:  bull’s strength 2/day; 2: freedom of movement 2/day; 3: greater dispel magic 2/day

Nascent Demon Lord, Igramalash CR 23 CE Outsider (extraplanar) This hideous thing is roughly humanoid, with a head that is merely a fanged canker and squirming fanged tentacles that spill from its body like intestines. Its oversized arms drag to the ground and end in clawed fists, luminous runes carved into the muscle. A long tongue whips from its mouth, and black smoke billows forth from it like a shroud.

Igramalash the Inverted Rune has had a long and bizarre history. He began life as a rune giant, one of a race of titans created by the runelords to manage their giant armies. After a failed rebellion, he was tortured by his master, Runelord Alderpash, and transformed into a hideous parody—an inverted giant. This was accomplished by fusing his body with that of a powerful qlippoth, granting Igramalash remarkable resilience and a deadly poison. In this form, lesser giants worshiped him as a divinity of death, and this tribute went to his head (or what was left of it). After decades of service, he betrayed Alderpash again, and the Runelord turned him over to Baphomet, Alderpash’s patron, for torment in the Ivory Labyrinth. After being freed by adventurers storming the Ivory Labyrinth as a terror weapon, Igramalash escaped captivity. Having been exposed finally to the full energies of the Abyss, he has ascended to the form of nascent demon lord, and now seeks a spot of territory in the Abyss to claim as his own.

Igramalash’s intellect has been enhanced by his Abyssal upgrades, and he combines overwhelming strength with savvy tactics. Against multiple foes, he uses spell-like abilities to shape the battlefield and tie up support before concentrating full firepower on a single target. He enjoys eating his enemies alive, especially wizards, as they remind him of the hated Alderpash. Igramalash has lived far too long to die in battle, and he teleports away to recover and plot revenge if grievously injured.

The nascent cult of Igramalash is growing among giants, fleshwarped creatures, and other monsters used as minions by more intelligent powers. Igramalash has developed a reputation as a savior figure, which inflicts violence on the masters who deserve it. Few of his worshipers realize that Igramalash cares as little for them as their original masters did, and would gladly sacrifice their lives in order to gain a momentary advantage. The prospect of revenging themselves on their tormentors is too great, and his veneration spreads in secret, kept away from prying eyes and passed through hidden signs. Igramalash realizes that wealth can buy loyalty, and collects treasure to distribute among his minions. Igramalash has learned the lessons of his transformation and captivity well—any troublesome underling is swiftly killed instead of having their torment drawn out.

Igramalash   CR 23 XP 820,000 CE Gargantuan outsider (chaos, demon, evil, extraplanar) Init +5; Senses blindsight 60 ft., darkvision 60 ft., Perception +30 Aura fear (60 ft., DC 28), smoke (10 ft., DC 34) Defense AC 41, touch 12, flat-footed 35 (-4 size, +5 Dex, +1 dodge, +29 natural) hp 420 (24d10+288); fast healing 15 Fort +20, Ref +18, Will +18 DR 15/good and epic; Immune charm and compulsion effects, cold, electricity, death effects, fire, poison; Resist acid 30; SR 34 Defensive Abilities freedom of movement, rock catching Offense Speed 40 ft., air walk Melee bite +35 (4d8+15/19-20), 2 claws +35 (2d8+15 plus 1d6 energy), 4 tentacles +30 (2d6+7 plus grab), tongue +22 (1d8+7 plus grab) Ranged rock +26 (4d6+22) Space 20 ft., Reach 20 ft. Special Attacks constrict (tentacles, 2d6+22), fast swallow (tongue only), frenzied action, rock throwing (120 ft.), rune claws, runes, spark shower, swallow whole (4d8+22 bludgeoning, AC 24, 42 hp) Spell-like Abilities CL 23rd, concentration +29 Constant—air walk, freedom of movement At will—chaos hammer (DC 20), desecrate, greater teleport (self plus 50 lbs. objects only), telekinesis (DC 21) 3/day—black tentacles, disintegrate (DC 22), greater dispel magic, quickened greater teleport (self plus 50 lbs. objects only), regenerate 1/day—crushing hand, energy drain (DC 25), implosion (DC 25) Statistics Str 41, Dex 20, Con 34, Int 15, Wis 17, Cha 22 Base Atk +24; CMB +46 (+48 bull rush, +50 grapple); CMD 57 (59 vs. bull rush) Feats Awesome Blow, Blinding Critical, Critical Focus, Dodge, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (bite), Improved Initiative, Iron Will, Power Attack, Quicken SLA (greater teleport), Vital Strike Skills Acrobatics +32 (+36 jumping), Intimidate +33, Knowledge (arcana, local) +26, Knowledge (engineering, planes) +29, Perception +30, Spellcraft +29 Languages Abyssal, Common, Giant, Thassilonian, telepathy 300 ft. SQ nascent demon lord traits Ecology Environment any land or underground (Abyss) Organization unique Treasure double standard Special Abilities Frenzied Action (Ex) Three times per day, Igramalash can make a single attack, use a spell-like ability or use his spark shower as an immediate action. Nascent Demon Lord Traits (Ex/Su) Igramalash is a powerful unique fiend with the following traits:

Immune to charm and compulsion effects, death effects, electricity, poison

Resist acid, cold and fire 30

Telepathy 300 ft.

Igramalash’s natural weapons, as well as any weapons he wields, are treated as chaotic, epic and evil for the purposes of overcoming damage reduction.

Igramalash can grant spells and boons to worshipers as described in his cult entry above

Rune Claws (Ex) Igramalash can deal an extra 1d6 points of cold, electricity or fire damage (his choice) each time he makes a claw attack. Runes (Ex) Whenever Igramalash is affected by a spell or spell-like ability, the runes on his arms flash with light. All creatures within 10 feet must succeed a DC 28 Will save or be blinded for 1 round. The save DC is Charisma based. Smoke Aura (Su) Any creature within 10 feet of Igramalash must succeed a DC 34 Fortitude save or be poisoned by his smoke. Creatures that breathe in the area suffer a -4 penalty to this save. In areas of severe or greater wind, this ability is suppressed for as long as the effect persists and an additional round. This is a poison effect and the save DC is Constitution based. Smoke Breath—contact; save Fort DC 34; frequency 1/round for 10 rounds; effect 1d4 Constitution drain plus staggered 1 round from pain; cure 3 consecutive saves. Spark Shower (Su) As a standard action, Igramalash can spew sparks from his runes, acting as a breath weapon (60 foot cone, 10d6 cold, 10d6 electricity, 10d6 fire damage, Reflex DC 28 half, usable every 1d4 rounds). The save DC is Charisma based.

[ateezbabygirl]

Golden Child Mafia Reaction : To their fiancée running away

Daeyeol

Daeyeol was coming home late, bloodied and bruised. The frequency of it was too much for you to bear. You were ready to leave any second. No matter how much you loved Daeyeol, you couldn’t bear the sight of him hurt. So one day you decided to pack your bags as he showered. Confusion was all over his face when he saw you with your bags

“I can’t do this anymore.”

And Daeyeol understood right then that there was nothing he could do to stop you. It might just even cause a bigger damage to your relationship. And decided to let you go.

He stayed silent, fearing what would come out of his mouth if he dared to open historical mouth. When he found his composure, he took one last look at you, just to see how drained you looked. His heart broke into pieces as you walked out of the door. But even after you left, he always kept an eye on you to make sure you were safe and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. So it was no surprise to you when you received his call one day.

“Another week and after that you’re coming home darling. I miss you.”

“I’m not coming back to you.”

“Oh, you will come back, willing or not.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m up for it if you are.”

You slam the phone down in order to calm down the growing heat of your cheeks. What you didn’t know was that Daeyeol was just a few feet away from you, chuckling at your reaction. And vowed to himself to be a better man for you so you never even think about leaving him.

Sungyoon

You didn’t even have enough time to plan your escape. You knew he would keep you captive if he need to. Whatever opportunity you got, you would have to use it to escape, and that’s all you needed. Sungyoon was out for business, when you decided to make your escape. You got your bag and shoved the nearest things you could find into it. But the timing was miscalculated. And you were caught while putting your escape plan into action. Sungyoon had walked into the room before you could even zip up your bag. Your body froze as he locked the door behind him.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I-I-“

Sungyoon walked leisurely towards you making you even more anxious about your impending doom. Sungyoon sat down on the bed and patted the space beside him.

“Come here.”

“No.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you wished nothing more than to run and hide in a corner. Sungyoon raises an eyebrow at your tone. Suddenly he was cornering your body against the wall.

“I wasn’t asking sweetheart.”

“Now you’re going to unpack that bag and sit on my lap till I’m done working. Understood ?”

“Bite me.”

If there was one thing that Sungyoon liked the most about you, was your obedient yet fierce personality. It was the very reason why he got addicted to you in the first place. His devious smirk was enough to make your body heat up.

“If you insist.”

Jangjun

No matter how much you were attracted to Jangjun, you knew he had a lot of enemies. So you decided to run away, even if it was the last thing you did. What you hadn’t expected was how difficult it would be without him around to keep you safe.

You had become paranoid to the extent that you wouldn’t leave your house for days sometimes. Not only because you feared what he would do if he found you but also because of the fear of his enemies finding you first. A few weeks later when you had finally managed to get a low key job, you decided to treat yourself to dinner thinking that you should celebrate your new beginning. Only if you had known what was to occur.

“Hey baby.”

You heard his voice before you saw him. Even though you had managed to stay low and eat in a shady restaurant, you were shocked to know that how calm he was being. You shakily looked up from your food and focused on the man sitting in front of you. Your face must have displayed your emotions before you could utter any word.

“Missed me?”

You managed to compose yourself and went back to eating. You knew you were doomed either way, so why worry. Atleast you could enjoy your last moments of freedom in peace. Jangjun chuckles lowly at your lack of response knowing well aware that you guys were in public.

“Don’t make me take you home and punish you.”

He had leaned forward so he the conversation could stay between you both only. His eyes bore into your as they challenged you to defy him.

“You’re not taking me home for that.”

“Who said it had to be at home.”

The innuendo behind his words didn’t go unnoticed by you. You simply backdown in order to maintain your dignity before things turned dirty.

“We’re in public!”

“And I really don’t care. I’m trying not to fuck you senseless on this table.”

He stood up after his bold declaration and held out his hand for you to take. Even though you knew what you were getting yourself back into, but you could care less about it, especially as long as Jangjun stayed by your side. You had come to realize that you couldn’t live your life without him.

Youngtaek

You knew if you wanted to escape Youngtaek, you had to be stealthy. So you waited for the opportunity and gained his trust, enough to know about his whereabouts and schedules. And all that came into use when you successfully managed to escape the house. By the time Youngtaek understood everything, it was too late. Unfortunately for you his widespread connections were more powerful. And within a week you found yourself in front of him in his office.

In terms of fear, you were quite high up the level, because Youngtaek had been nothing but sweet to you so much so that you had to constantly remind yourself that he was one of the most dangerous Mafia leaders in the country. So you were worried about his negative reaction more than anything else.

“I trusted you.”

Youngtaek slammed his fists of the table and gave you the most deadliest glare he could manage. Not once had he raised his voice before, so it was no surprise when you flinched away. And as much as you wanted to stand your ground, you couldn’t do it because you felt guilty for betraying him.

“I surrendered myself completely to you, gave you everything, did everything you asked.”

“And this is what I get back in return, my fiancée running away from me.”

You heart broke at his words which were nothing short of the truth. He truly tried to be better for you. But you had been so blind to see the efforts he was putting in. Suddenly everything came crashing down and you felt his heartache briefly. He wouldn’t even meet your eyes so you feared the worst.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“Youngtaek, I’m-“

He stood still for a few seconds, thinking of what to say to you. But before you could apologize to him he walked by you and left the room without giving you a glance. Even though it hurt, you knew he didn’t want you to see him being angry. So in order to calm down and talk calmly he thought leaving the room was a better option. Which just made you feel even more guilty. And you decided to make it up to him and give this relationship another chance.

Seungmin

Seungmin received a call in the middle of the meeting regarding the sudden disappearance of his fiancée. As soon as he hung up the phone, he let out a loud sigh at your antics and ordered his men to find you.

He stood up from his chair and went to the window thinking about all the possible places where you could be hiding. He went back to work as he planned to make you regret your decision to leave him.

Soon you found yourself in the place you hated the most. Even though you always managed to disappear right under his nose, deep down you knew it was a matter of time before he found you. So when you saw him sit down in front of you with his freshly dyed blonde hair. Instead of screaming at you, he just throws his head back and let’s out a sigh. You could easily tell that this cat and mouse chase took a toll on him. You became anxious as the time passed by and broke the deafening silence yourself.

“While I do enjoy the silent treatment, I wasn’t aware that it was, I , who had done something wrong.”

You snapped back at him angrily. So when you received no verbal response, your anxiety went out the roof as you purposely babbled to rile him up. Abruptly he sighed and focused his gaze on you.

“You better shut that pretty little mouth of yours before I put it to work, princess.”

He stared at you for a few seconds and stood up. The next thing you hear is the door slamming shut but you could be least bit bothered about his whereabouts when he left you all hot and dazed by his words. Even though Seungmin had rendered you speechless you find yourself thinking some unholy albeit unnecessary thoughts about him. You prayed to God to give you enough willpower to make through and not jump on his bones.

[rvmmm21]

. keep it down .

summary : judgemental is the last thing joohyun is, but when seungwan can seem to keep it to herself, you can bet she’ll have something to say about it.

small note : this sat in my head, and then in my drafts, and now it's sitting here, obnoxious as seungwan. and if there’s anything i struggle with more than my inner fight between yandere!violence and yandere!smut, it’s writing two characters doing the consensual nasties. even worse, if it’s a group endeavour. thankfully irene’s not about to let that happen. idk but there’s like a tinge of humiliation somewhere, but not enough for me to want to trigger warn you about.

[irene x wendy]

...

There are only so many ‘sounds’ her ears can take before she blows her top. Especially when they surface every damned day of the week.

She gets it, she understands. It isn’t like there’s very much else to do what there’s a virus plaguing the nation and quarantine restrictions don’t seem to be lifting anytime soon. Plus, Red Velvet had already been laying low for the past few weeks prior, so everyone was getting a little restless. Even she’s found her own fingers wandering past her waistband more often than she’d care to put a number to… so it’s not like she’s about to judge her for it.

Except, she can, because could she be any louder? Like seriously, it’s damaging. The frequency of those moans could shatter the windows on a fucking rocket if they weren’t contained within the four walls of her room, goddamnit! She’s been out here all morning trying to get in some quality tv time – just some peace and quiet with National Geographic on for Christ’s sake, and Son bloody Seungwan is obnoxiously denying her that right.

Joohyun angrily nibbles on the edge of a biscuit, equally close to stuffing her ears with cotton-wool and breaking that door down and giving her self-serving member an earful. This is… what, the third? Fourth time today? All in what? The span of a few hours? God, she thinks, rolling her eyes as she glances at the clock, she’s really going for the Guinness Book of World Records, isn’t she?

It’s not even noon.

With an exasperated grunt, she pushes herself off the sofa and marches to the door. She had originally planned to just barge in and start yelling, but something stops her right before she has her fingers around the handle, and she finds herself slowly pressing an ear to the cool, thin wood, listening. Yep, she’s going at it again. Joohyun’s breath unconsciously catches in her throat when she hears the heavy sigh from the other side – if she listens really closely, it’s like she’s sighing right into her ear. And if she listens closer still, she can just about hear the sound of fingers against wetness.

Since Seulgi has taken Yerim out to the coffee shop, and Sooyoung’s all huddled up in her own room, headphones on and re-watching that one episode of Itaewon Class (she assumes), this could mean she gets some quality time to talk to Seungwan about her ‘problem’.

For a moment there, Joohyun thinks about Seungwan’s behaviour when they’re all out and promoting. Seungwan is bubbly, lively and full of charisma – she’s about to be full of something else, but she’ll save that image for later. She’s so soft, so even-tempered, so well-adjusted to idol life, Joohyun had often wondered how she managed it despite their constantly hectic schedules and rising levels of stress… and, well, she knows now. Her precious dongsaeng; who hasn’t a single nasty bone in her body – aside from all this self-gratification, but that doesn’t count.

Ahh, anyway, Seungwan’s in trouble. She’s definitely in trouble. And she’s going to hear all about it. Because it isn’t so much the fact that Joohyun’s been interrupted out of sleep days in a row now, or the fact that Yerim has come knocking on her door in the middle of the night because ‘Seungwan unnie’s watching weird goat videos in her room’ and she can’t go back to sleep. Hell, it isn’t even because she can’t watch the nature channel without those animalistic mating noises Seungwan so considerately contributes to, oh no.

It’s because every time Joohyun hears them, it curls that flame in her belly even tighter than the last. And while Seungwan seems to be satisfied, Joohyun absolutely cannot stomach the thought of getting her own panties wet and having the decency to carry on about her day without locking herself in her room and building the muscle in her right bicep.

So she’s done listening, and she doesn’t knock.

She has to swallow a laugh when she hears a shrill yelp and a frantic blur of blankets as Seungwan scrambles to cover herself in her sheets, as if the room isn’t already drenched in that very telling scent.

“Unnie!” she screams, twisting the material flush against her body, “oh my gosh, can’t you knock? I was, you – you can’t just come in like that!”

Joohyun just smiles. “Hi Seungwan.”

Seungwan feels the heat move to her cheeks and she looks down with a mumbled ‘hi unnie’. Joohyun steps through the doorway and shuts it behind her, causing the younger girl to shoot up from where she was staring at the floor.

It can’t be any more obvious, really. She’s doing a terrible job at hiding the breathlessness in her tone, the sheets are a mess, and her clothes are in a heap on the chair in the corner. Can… can Joohyun tell she’s naked under this? She should, from the way she’s pulling the sheet up to her neck. Oh and of course, Joohyun doesn’t clear a space on the chair so she can sit. She just sets herself down… on the edge of the bed, right next to her. That smile she’s wearing makes Seungwan think she’s either being blatantly genuine or that she’s got a million things up her sleeve.

“Are you alright? Have you been having nightmares again?”

Well, that was… unexpected. Since when did Joohyun know about the nightmares? Oh, right… that time. Gosh, she’d be lying if she says half her self-service episodes aren’t spurred on from that memory alone. But, no? She doesn’t take naps during the day… and she’s sure the other girl knows it too.

She cocks her head to the side. “Um, no unnie? I’m okay, really. Th-thanks for checking on me, though. You can, uh…” But she can’t find it in her to tell her to leave.

Unfortunately, Joohyun insists on playing dumb. “Are you sure, Seungwan-ah?” She reaches up to brush a strand of hair from Seungwan’s face. “I thought I heard crying or… or something. Even Yerimie tells me she thinks you must be having bad dreams. You wake her up sometimes, you know? With your crying.”

Okay, so ‘crying’ is definitely a euphemism.

No, no, no. There’s no way.

Has she been that loud? Surely she hasn’t tainted poor, darling Yerimie’s innocent ears with all her immorality, has she? Wait, what has everybody been hearing?

Joohyun cuts through her thoughts, leaning in over her and holding her down with her gaze. Seungwan can’t help the shiver that rattles through her when she sees what’s in those eyes, all too aware of the dryness in her lips and the cool air against her heated skin.

Before she has time to react, Joohyun is bringing Seungwan’s fingers – you know, the ones that had been between her thighs not ten minutes ago, still slightly damp from activities – up under her nose and… that fucking smile stretches all the way to her ears when she confirms something she’s known all along.

“Nightmares, maybe not…” Joohyun sounds far too nonchalant for someone who’s just found out her member has been touching herself non-stop. “… well, not for you, anyway.”

Seungwan suddenly can’t remember how to breathe when cinnamon eyes stare right through hers.

“And not for me, either.”

The instant Joohyun’s words register in her brain, Seungwan is pulling her wrist out of the death grip around it and trying to kick away from her. She would’ve succeeded, too, if it weren’t for the fact that Joohyun had already seen this coming. She doesn’t wait for Seungwan to react, and she doesn’t loosen her grip. She tugs her in by the arm, pins it to the bed, and she’s on top of her before Seungwan can even think to catch her breath.

“Get – get the fuck off me!” The reaction is impulsive, unthinking. Seungwan stills when she realises her mistake and instantly corrects herself (which Joohyun thinks is absolutely adorable). “I mean! I-I mean please get off, u-unnie…”

“You know, Seungwannie,” Joohyun continues, ignoring the uncomfortable shift beneath her, “I wouldn’t have minded… except. I’m sure you’re aware that the walls in here aren’t the thickest. And I can only imagine you think you’re being subtle with all those pretty noises you make. Sometimes I just want to watch tv and not have to turn the subtitles on.”

Joohyun watches in amusement as she tries to flinch away, to hide her deafening embarrassment, but there’s really nowhere to go.

P-pretty noises? Subtitles?! Pretty noises!

“Unnie, I… I don’t – I’m…” she stutters, trying unsuccessfully to kick the sheets so she isn’t trapped under them, too.

There’s a definite switch in Joohyun’s voice, which the younger picks up instantly. No more fake concern, no more pretending not to know. It’s still gentle as ever, but there’s something else… and it’s not good news for her.

“Aw, is Wannie feeling shy now?” She taunts, tightening her grip on her wrist just enough to make her squirm. “You certainly don’t seem shy when you’re making me listen to all your moaning… your whimpering…”

Seungwan bites her lip and shakes her head, wanting nothing more than to perish on sight. She’s given up struggling for the moment, because she can barely move with Joohyun’s knee snugly wedged between her legs, putting an unholy amount of pressure on her still-sore clit.

“It’s – it’s not what you think!”

This time Joohyun pulls her hand up to her lips, and oh so slowly takes them into her mouth, a finger at a time, until Seungwan feels them both coated in her own slick and warm saliva. She gulps, and Joohyun grins, sucking her fingers clean. “Oh really? That tasted like exactly what I think it is.” She chuckles at the sheer horror plastered on her dongsaeng’s red face. “You really think you’re quiet, don’t you? I can hear everything, Wannie.”

“Wha – what?”

Joohyun looks down at her. The girl probably doesn’t realise how vulnerable, how lovely she looks, because if she did, she’d know exactly what it was doing to Joohyun’s waning restraint, and she’d definitely try to stop. God, that deep rose tint in her cheeks, the thin sheets she’s barely wrapped in anymore just falling off her shoulders, beckoning her to uncover more. 

And not to mention the taste of her arousal now sitting on her tongue.

“I wonder what everyone else would say, hm? If I told them. What would manager unnie say if I tell her the real reason you were late for our VLive yesterday? Huh? Do you think she’d like to know that our tiniest, sweetest member spends all her free time fucking herself like this?”

Seungwan can only listen and cringe at the prospect of having her innocent façade shattered in front of everyone she’s ever known. “No, please don’t!” She’s quick to interrupt Joohyun’s sadistic musings, thinking she might actually die if she hears any more. And she doesn’t want to resort to looking even more pathetic than she already does, but – “Please, unnie, please don’t tell! I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ll be quiet next time, promise!”

It’s so funny how Seungwan thinks she can get out of this with a few ‘sorry unnie’s’ and ‘pleases’. Joohyun responds with a firm upper thrust of her knee between her legs, and Seungwan can’t choke back the whimper fast enough. She smirks when the girl’s eyes go wide and she clamps her hands over her own mouth. 

Joohyun will compromise later, but for now, she’s intent on hearing more of those sounds Seungwan seems to suddenly not want her to hear.

“What… what are you…” She tries to scoot back, but Joohyun’s hand is already sneaking down to rub her over the paper-thin cotton sheet. Seungwan almost groans out loud at how wet she is. The fabric slides so smoothly over her folds and Joohyun finds her clit without breaking eye contact for a second, pulling a throaty whine from her when she thumbs it gently. Seungwan’s leaking so much she’s soaked through the barrier of cotton.

The older girl somewhat assesses her reaction. Very, very sensitive, but she can take one more.

Probably.

Seungwan spreads herself open as much as her restrictions will allow, shuddering violently when she feels the heat in her cheeks migrate back down to that spot between her thighs. She can’t help it, though. When Joohyun barged in on her, she’d been so close. Now she just wants her to finish off what she’d disturbed.

Joohyun relents her grip on her wrist to rub a thumb over a nipple, making Seungwan squeak like a baby mouse. God, she really is soft all over.

“Ungh… u-unnie…” Seungwan shields her eyes with an arm, terribly shy. “Please…”

“Mm?” Joohyun dips her head down to flick her tongue over the nipple before lightly biting down. “What was that? Were you close? Did I ruin it?” Although from the moisture on her thumb, she needn’t have asked.

“Don’t worry, unnie will take care of that for you.” Joohyun reassures, bringing her fingers up to tap against Seungwan’s lips, demanding access. “But you need to be quiet, okay? You can use my fingers if it helps.”

The offer is mortifying but at the same time, she doesn’t trust herself to be able to hold back. So she opens, sucking on the fingers filling her mouth and turning anything she was trying to say into a muffled grunt, to which Joohyun smiles encouragingly.

“Does my poor little Wannie need to feel good, hm? She’s just frustrated, isn’t she?”

The only response is a gagged whimper around the digits between her lips. Joohyun slowly increases the pressure against the painful ache at her core, and Seungwan just keens. She can’t vocalise it now, but the way her hips are canting up against the pad of her thumb shows just how desperate she is for more stimulation, and Joohyun almost coos.

Poor Seungwan. Her poor sensitive, edged little Seungwan.

Too bad it’s so much fun to tease her. Especially when she’s so clearly on the brink. But she knows she’s not going to last much longer, not when she’s already twitching like she’s going to cum for the fifth time today. Joohyun is just glad she’s the one making her, this time. She continues to roll her thumb right against Seungwan’s clit, swollen from overstimulation but burning for Joohyun to make it cum again.

Seungwan tries to tell her that she’ll lose it if she keeps this up, but her makeshift gag stops the words from ever leaving her mouth. She doesn’t see Joohyun move, nor does she hear it. All she feels is a slight ruffle in the bedsheets and then the zips of electricity that run down the length of her spine when Joohyun’s lips latch around her nub and suck. Oh gosh, she’s… she’s sucking on her clit. She’s sucking on it through – through the fabric and it feels even better. She tries to shift away a little, wanting to stay like this for as long as possible, but Joohyun’s anchored and she’s helpless to resist it. It quickly becomes too much for her to hold out for a second longer. She’s going to – god, she can’t take anymore, she’s going to cum.

Seungwan falls apart with Joohyun eating her out and four fingers stuffed into her mouth, shivering and whining as best she can while she rides out the most intense orgasm she’s had today, or ever. And Joohyun doesn’t stop, either. She’s still licking – slower, at least, but she isn’t letting up till she feels Seungwan shake at the feeling, oversensitive and exhausted.

Joohyun licks her lips, watching Seungwan struggle to keep her eyes open. So the limit is five, she mentally adds for future reference.

“Did you like that, Wannie? It really sounded like you did. Sooyoung probably heard you from her room.”

Brows furrow in disbelief and Joohyun only shakes her head as she removes her hand, creating a long string of saliva as it leaves her mouth.

She grins as she holds up her spit-coated fingers for Seungwan to blush at. “Really. You have no idea, huh. These definitely aren’t enough to shut you up. I’m going to have to get creative next time.”

Seungwan groans and buries her face in her pillow, mumbling something incoherent about ‘never opening her mouth again’. It’s enough to keep her hands away from her crotch for the rest of her life. That, and the fact that Joohyun is still fully clothed while she’s lying here completely naked, nothing but a soaked bedsheet to preserve any modesty she can scrape together after… whatever’s just happened.

She isn’t sure what she thought was going to happen next, but Joohyun slotting herself comfortably between her and the wall wasn’t on her list of expectations. The next thing that registers in her cloudy mind is that she’s being… cuddled. She didn’t even have to squeeze her bolster like she so often did, thinking about a certain someone after she’d finished ‘fantasising’ or even as she retired for the night. No, this is the real thing! There’s an arm draped around her waist and a warm body snuggled into her side. She wants to pinch herself, half expecting to wake up in another dimension – one where cockroaches run for presidency and everyone’s favourite food is Twinkies (the chocolate kind) – but when she wriggles, the arm tightens around her and she turns to look at the face she wants to wake up to for as long as she lives.

“Unnie?” For someone so usually vocal, she’s at a loss for words. “… I… uh, sorry… about… the noise, I…”

Joohyun shushes her with the gentlest kiss to her cheek and laces their fingers together. “Relax, Wan-ah… I understand. I wasn’t angry with you like that, you know.”

A tiny spark of energy races through the younger girl at those words, and she jolts forward, confused. “Huh? You weren’t angry I was so noisy? The subtitles? Your tv time?”

Assuming she’d have her dongsaeng fall asleep in her arms, the sudden curiosity takes Joohyun by surprise too, but she gradually pushes herself up so she’s resting on her elbows. “Well, not really… you weren’t really disturbing me, that much. I didn’t mean it like that, anyway.”

“W-What do you mean, unnie?”

And Joohyun has to laugh at her sincerity.

With their fingers still intertwined, she brings them up to her lips and kisses the back of Seungwan’s hand.

“You really want to know?”

[bigsnzstanacct]

Richie Robbins

Here’s my first, totally unfinished sneezefic. It’s all about loud sneezes, I haven’t edited it at all and tbh I found it on some random blog that had clearly grabbed stories from the forum bc I didn’t want to dig through all my old computer backups so ya know if it’s screwed up it’s not my fault.

As passionately as he desired to, he knew he wouldn't be able to evade it. It would come, as so many times before: unavoidable, uncontrollable, unstoppable. He closed his eyes, tilted back his head, let the itch like fire at the edges of his nostrils expand to set his whole nose ablaze with a tickle so strong, only a monstrous explosion could expel it. And monstrous explosions were his stock-in-trade.

"hehh...hehh...HEISSSHOOO!" he exploded. His stunned professor stopped her lecture, as the noise rang out through the huge lecture hall, waking up quite a few drowsy (hungover?) students. Flummoxed, she lost her place in her notes, as the boy sitting next to him, a jock, last name Stevens... first name he couldn't remember, muttered, "Nice one, Robbins. You planning to blow any houses down any time soon?"

Richard Robbins waited a moment before he replied, hoping to make sure the one great sneeze had been enough to expel the full magnitude of the tickly sensation in his nostrils. He sniffed before opening his mouth to reply, which was, as always, a huge mistake.

"Yeah, Ste-st... stevens... I... hah... I...iiegh...ieghhh..ihhh...ihhh..." He thought for a moment he'd gotten it under control, rushing a firm index finger to his quivering nostrils, but it was too little, too late: "Y-yeahhhh... ahhhKESHHHHHuuuhh. HEYY-SHEEUUUUEY!" Another of his roaring sneezes rang out through the room, again startling Doctor Renyolds, who had just managed to get herself composed enough to begin lecturing again. And the sneeze came with a brother, a great screaming affair which appeared to have erupted from the very depths of Richie's being, and, luckily enough, had carried with it sufficient force to finally blast out whatever was causing the terrible tickle in his nose.

"My!" Doctor Reynold's voice came, after only a few seconds, "Whoever has been exploding in my has thoroughly put me off my lecture. Were we speaking about Hamlet or 'The Waste Land'?"

Richie sank in his chair. He had hoped to avoid this, this time. All throughout high school he had been known as the school's sneeze factory, variously going by nicknames from Sneezy to Big Bad Wolf to Johnny Tsunami--that particular psudonym coming from a quite unfunny teacher--but in college, he had hoped to avoid being identified primarily by his nose.

Of course, when you had a nose as big as Richie's, it was rather difficult not to notice. It was nearly always the first thing people noticed about Richie, either because he was busy sneezing or because its moderately thin but hugely protruding shape, rather like a right triangle seen in profile, was the most commanding thing about his face. And his nostrils: they were great, wide, massive things, sucking up irritants with an unholy frequency, tickling with an unthinkable burning fury, exploding with almost unimaginable, messy force. There were times when he felt his older brothers' insistence upon calling his nose Mount Vesuvius was not wholly inaccurate.

Not that any of the men in Richie's family had room to complain about his sneezes. While Richie may have gotten a double portion, this was surely a family curse: when the six Ritchie men--three older siblings: Tristan, Adrian, and Sebastian, Richie himself, his little brother Max, and his father--were united in colds and allergies, it was a wonder Richie's mother hadn't gone deaf. All six of them complained of unusually strong itches that developed deep within their nostrils, which could only be expelled by their characteristically loud sneezes. Stifling or containing the sneezes would never do; it would only intensify the tickle--and the resulting sneezes--by several orders of magnitude.

No, there was little Richie could do in such a situation besides let himself sneeze and hope that no one would notice. Which, thus far, had never happened.

"Hey, Robbins," the jock queried, "should I send out the storm warning to little pigs?"

After class, Richie walked out onto the campus, on the way to his dorm room. He was hit full in the face by the bright September sun, and by his furious nasal tickling.

"Nodda... hiihhh... nodahhh... again... HEEEYY-SHEEUU! HISSHHH! ehh... ehhhSHIIEUUU!" He let the sneezes erupt into the open air, giving them free reign to bend him in half, three times, each sneeze bigger and louder than the previous, though, for Richie, they were comparatively light, more like minor aftershocks than the sneeze-quake itself. He wished these would've hit in the lecture hall, rather than the nuclear blasts he had actually let out.

"Well, you can't always get what you want..." Richie muttered to himself.

"But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you just might find...!" Sing-shouted Richie's best friend, Adam, who had, as ever, appeared behind him.

"How do you do that?" Richie asked, "Do you stalk men unawares in the night by custom? I'm beginning to think you're practicing to be Batman."

"Richie," Adam paused to say, mock-serious, "I am Batman. And even if I wasn't, I'd be able to locate those sneezes from halfway across the campus," laughed Adam. "But anyway, what's up?"

"Well, I exploded in the middle of my Poetry and Drama class, and I'm pretty sure Professor Reynolds hates me, but besides that, not much."

"Old Vesuvius come back to life? Well, no shock there. No offense dude, but your nose has been permanently set to stun since high school."

"Yeah, I've noticihhh... ihhhh... ihhyahhhhhhhAAESSHUUU!"

The pair began walking down the cobblestone path of the university, presumably towards the dorm rooms, then cut through the quad, where, of course, the flowers begot a huge tickle in Richie's nose. "Oh! W-waaahhh... ahhh..." He tried to get the tickle under control long enough to utter the phrase "watch out," but Adam had long since learned to gage when Richie was about to embark upon one of his voyages to a Byzantium of Richter-scale rocking sneezes, and had promptly set his fingers in his ears, got down on his knees, and, in a grand military manner, announced, "Cannons are aimed! Target has been acquired! Fire at will! Fire at will!!"

The fact that he had never, frankly, fired at will, passed quickly through Richie's mind before the sneeze washed over him, washing away all thoughts other than the sneezes, and all quiet in the quad: "yyeeaaaaaaHHHCHOOOOOOOSSSHHH"

Several stunned students turned around to locate the source of the booming noise, and Adam thought that he heard a "wow," somewhere in the distance. A few birds, it seemed, started from the trees. Adam wasn't even entirely sure that he had imagined the swaying he thought he saw in a few of the trees. There was no doubt about it: Richie could sneeze. Ever since they met in freshman year of high school, Adam had seen Richie's nose at the epicenter of a daily series of frightful detonations. This particular sneeze had been not only monstrously loud but torrentially wet, leading Adam to celebrate his decision to crouch at Richie's side; he did not want to get drenched, as he had been on more than one occasion. Ever since freshman year.

"Geez, Rich, you done?" Adam asked, after giving Richie a few seconds.

"SHEEEOOO!" Richie exploded, if possible, even louder.

"Guess not." he chuckled. After Richie (and Adam) felt sure that Richie's nose wasn't about to go nuclear again, Adam stood up, began walking, and quipped, "You know, I'm looking for a side-kick; before I swoop in and lock up the baddies, maybe I can get you to sneeze and blow 'em down!"

"Shut up, Adam." Richie joked, giving Adam a playful slap on the head, before the two rushed off trading barbs as they went.

—-

Richie reached the dormroom with comparatively few incidents, although he had to force himself more than once to obey his father’s favorite dictum: don’t stifle your sneezes. Don’t even try. Richie’d heard that particular sermon preached any number of times, along with his mother’s story: “When your father went on our first date, he tried to hold those things back, and when they finally came out”—“when she smothered her spaghetti in pepper,” his father would always interject—“I thought he was going to blow everything off the table! He sounded a little like you, actually, Richie.”

So, with his mother’s slightly nasally voice ever ringing in his ears, Richie forced himself to let out a series of noisy nasal explosions, in order to satiate his nose’s uncontrollable need for relief from its buzzing, burning, incredibly tickly itching sensations. Few people could imagine just how strong the tickles in Richie’s nose got; perhaps the only way to truly represent their magnitude was their own self-expression in his explosive sneezes. He felt fairly lucky that he'd only had to give in to three or four on his way back to the dorms, although the gaggle of women who had clearly bathed in perfume were less than joyous at the sudden, shocking explosion of elephantine nasal trumpeting which had suddenly erupted to their near right, and each had jumped at least a foot in the air, much to the amusement of Adam, who'd laughed almost as loudly as Richie had sneezed.

Adam and Richie had reached their dorm room, and were sitting about, not really doing anything, as college students are wont to do in lazy afternoons, after classes but before the dinner hours. Of course, they could have been studying, but who’d want to do that? Richie was busy plotting ways to avoid blasting the cafeteria during lunch (take an extra dose of Claritin, bring a handkerchief, and always avoid pepper like the plague), while Adam sat on the bed, debating with himself about whether or not to take a nap, when he felt a tickle invade his nose. Adam’s sneezes, while certainly not tiny, couldn’t compare in the slightest to Richie’s nasal artillery, and the “ihh… ihhhh…IT-CHEEOOooey” he released was nothing compared to a Richie sneeze.

But Adam’s nose wasn’t done yet; the tickle returned, the previous sneeze having done nothing to alleviate it, but rather seeming to have augmented it: “nyehhh… hih! hih! hehhh…” Adam’s nose vacillated on the edge of a relieving sneeze, its power building with every hitch of his breath, “nighiiee…hiegh… ighhhiee… iiiaaAAAAAHHH-CHOOO!” Adam sneezed, much harder than normal.

“Woah, buddy,” Richie murmured over his shoulder, “You really let that one go; you aiming to start a sneeze fight?”

“No, no, no, no,” Adam said, still feeling a bit lightheaded from the sneeze, which had taken more out of him than usual, “getting into a sneeze war with your nose is like bringing three sticks and a baseball bat to the Crimeahhhh… Crimeaaaaahhhh… Crimean... aayyYAH-SHEWWWESSH!” Yet another draining sneeze burst from Adam’s nose, this time with some considerable spray. “Yeesshhh,” Adam said, “that would would’ve drenched a tissue almost as bad as you would! I’m turning into a fire hose sneezer like y… you… you… Ah-CHOOeeeyyy!” Adam let out yet another sneeze, although this one was comparatively light, more in keeping with Adam’s usual sub-volcanic sneeze level.

Thus far, he’d been able to avoid it, having long since learned that if he was to ever do anything except sneeze, he’d have to suppress his sympathetic sneezing reaction. But ever since he’d been a teen, Richie’s nose had been envious of anyone who let out too many sneezes around him, and desired to experience such enormous relief as came with his hurricane-strength achooeys. Thus, he felt a slight tickle brewing when Adam had released his fourth sneeze, and when he heard Adam hitching up to a fifth—“ahhh… ahh… am… ah… am I ever gonaaaahhhh stahhh… stahhh… stop… ahhh…”—he feared his nose too, would begin to go into sneezy paroxysms.

“Adam, man, ah… ah… can you get a hold on those sneezes… my n-nose is starting to tickle too… hoohhhh… ohhhh…”

Richie struggled to get a grip on the still relatively slight tickle that had invaded his nose, as Adam did his best to hold back his sneezy nose from the delightfully relieving fifth sneeze that he knew was on its way. “ahhhh… ahhhh… I-I dunno… ohhhh ahhh… hah… It ruhhhh… ruhhhheaalllly tickles. Ahhhhh… AHHHH… AYYY-CHEOOOSHH!” He let out another sneeze, the strongest, wettest, and most forceful of the bunch, although not spectacularly loud.

But anyone waiting for a noisy nose would have little time to wait. Adam’s fifth and final sneeze had sent Richie’s sympathetic tickles into overdrive, and with almost no buildup, he reared his head back, nostrils flaring wildly like a bucking horse, and bellowed out an enormous, “CCHHHHEEEOOOOOOOO!” Followed by two more, slightly less loud but torrentially wet, “PLESSHEWEY! IT-CHEWWW!” Each sneeze was a spectacularly loud, messy affair, though they were commensurate to Richie’s normal sneeze volume, which, of course, approached the ear-splitting at close ranges. It was more than enough, Richie realized sheepishly, to sound throughout the entire dorm room floor, and maybe the floors above and below. He remembered to make a mental note to avoid staying up late nights—a late night tickle could easily turn peaceful dorm-mates into irate potential tormentors, irritated by being woken by Richie’s cannon-like sneeze. He realized, too, that he might’ve shaken people from any number of midday naps.

When Richie’s series of explosions were done, an affair which sent Richie’s body completely out of control, rearing back and exploding forward with abandon, his entire body at the mercy of his monstrously powerful lungs, mouth, and most of all, nose, Adam couldn’t resist making a quip. “See why I don’t want to get in a sneezing fight with you?”

“Yeah, I know. I hate those sympathetic tickles. Gotta keep that under control,” Richie said, as much to chide his nose as anything else.

“Under control? Your nose? That’s like keeping a bull in a china shop from disturbing a single piece of porcelain. Really wish I could find out why I was sneezin’ though. Those were pretty big for me, though for you it’d be like taking an earthshaking thunderstorm and replacing it with a light, pleasant summer rain…” Adam laughed, but paused when his joking was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Richie shouted, fearing that it was an irate neightbor, awoken from a nap. This had been one of his many fears about college; each of his older brothers had brought home several stories of how they had woken up between one and several fellow dorm-mates, roommates and apartment neighbors (not that the Robbins boys needed to be in the same building with a person to make themselves known by their noses; the family’s suburban neighbors had revealed on several occasions that someone, usually Richie, had been audible through the windows). Tristan, the oldest, who had, after Richie, the second most Vesuvial nose in the family, once told the story of how he had woken up, very literally, his entire dorm with a series of cold-inspired sneezes, and how only the awesomely pathetic sight of his sickly state, ensconced as he was in blankets and almost covered in used tissues and hankies, had prevented him from receiving one of his dormmates infamously cruel practical jokes.

Richie hoped to avoid such a situation, and so it was with apprehension (and desperate attempts to remember his self-defense classes) that he opened the door.

“Hey, dude!” Said the surprisingly pleasant and excited looking young man at the door, “was that a sneeze, or did somebody set of a nuke in the room next to mine?”

Relieved as Richie was by the friendliness of the visitor, Adam slightly sluggishly slid out of bed, laughing as he did, “That’s my man here, Richie, the Nose extraordinaire, the loudest sneeze in the west, superman of sneezes, the titan of ticklish nostrils, Sir Vesuvius himself, the leaf-blower…”

“Richard, just Richard is my name.” Richie cut in, eager to cut Adam off before he got to the detested “Johnnie Tsunami” epithet.

“Well, Richard-just-Richard, I had to come over here to see if that nose actually just came out of a person!”

“Sorry, I can’t help it…” Richie said, suddenly blushing slightly, “I hope I didn’t wake you or anything…”

“Nah. I wasn’t doing anything. But really, you just sneezed that loud? You got some kinda supernose or somethin’?”

“Well, it’s not exactly thin, as you can see,” Adam began, with a professorial air, “and the protruding shape and large nostrils provide some explanation as to its loud-speaker like qualities…”

“It’s just been that way since I was a kid,” sighed Richie, mildly put off by the awkward conversation.

“Dude, I haven’t heard a sneeze that loud since, like, ever, probably. Although my dad sets off some real firecrackers back at home… I didn’t think I’d hear anything like that for another few months. Kinda reminds me of home, actually.”

“Well, anytime you get homesick, just give us a ring and bring the pepper, though you might wanna bring some earplugs actually…”

“Adam. Geez, do you ever run out,” Richie inquired, with an irritated air.

“Not really.” Adam replied straightforwardly, "I'm a joke machine. And a love machine. Just FYI, let the ladies know..."

“Well,” the visitor declared, “Adam, Richie, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Jerry.” He stuck his hand out, and Richie shook it forcefully, though he found his grasp met with a vice shaking like a centrifuge.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Richie said, wincing slightly from the handshake.

“Hey, dude, we’re headed to lunch soon, wanna come?”Adam asked cheerfully.

“Yeah, totally. I was actually kinda hoping to avoid eating lunch alone,” Jerry confessed, “though I don’t know how you get through lunch, dude. Better warn ‘em: hide the pepper!”

That’s a joke I haven’t heard before Richie thought to himself. But, though not original in his jokes, this new acquaintance wasn’t half-bad, and was certainly an improvement upont the angry neighbor Richie’d feared he’d encounter. And speaking of curing homesickness…

“Are you wearing co-cologne… cologne… ehhhhh… ehhhhhhh… EHHHHHSSSSHOOOO!” Richie erupted another characteristically noisy sneeze, which, at unusually close range, prompted both Jerry and Adam to dramatically cover their ears to avoid the full blast of Richie’s nasal explosion, which was easily a nine on the Richter scale, probably a ten.

“Geez, man, I thought they were loud through the wall!” Jerry said, awestruck.

“Richie’s nose? Man, you haven’t seen anything yet. He’ll blow the paint off the walls before we graduate,” Adam joked, yet again.

“I think I might go ahead and take a shower,” Jerry responded, “I’ll meet you guys in about thirty minutes, alright?”

“Sounds great!” Adam said.

Richie would’ve replied, but Jerry’s cologne hadn’t yet finished with Richie’s surpassingly tickly and tickle-able nose. “hahhhh… HAHHHHH…HEHSHOOOH!” Richie erupted again, thanking his lucky nasal stars that his nose had seen fit, for once, to not let out a great big wet one while he was right in someone’s face. He opened his mouth to say, “nice to meet you,” but what came out was another, “TITCHEWWWEY! SHEWWWWWSH!” It was hugely, horribly wet, and in his zeal to avoid blasting his new compatiot, he had turned and, inadvertently, sprayed a great, big wet one into the face of his good friend Adam.

“Well… um… are you trying to tell me you don’t like my jokes, buddy?”

Now, getting sprayed by a sneeze was usually a messy affair, but getting sprayed by a Richie sneeze was pitched somewhere between “elephant sneeze” and “sprayed by a fire hose”. Adam was drenched, and Richie found himself reflecting yet again as to why he never, never attempted to use a pathetic tissue to hold up against the surpassing force of his all-powerful nasal eruptions, the tickly twin cannons of wind, wet, and sound that had taken up residence on his face, began full-strength operations in high school, and seemed to grow in power alone as their experience increased.

“Well, I think I’ll be taking a shower too.” Adam said, before promptly turning around, grabbing a towel and some clothes, and rushing to the bathroom, letting out an irrepressable, high-pitched, and surpassingly effete “EWWWWWW!” which sent Richie and Jerry into shaking convulsions of laughter.

—

After cleaning himself off from Richie’s hurricane-force discharge, Adam proceeded to the downstairs dining hall to meet both Richie and their new friend Jerry. Of course, he heard Richie before he saw him. “heh… heh… HAT-CHOOO!” It was a comparatively small one for his good friend Rich, but the noise still carried well out of the dining room and into the hallway. Adam often kidded Richie about his sneezes, but half the time he genuinely felt bad for the guy. After all, those massive eruptions that had punctuated almost his entire high school experience weren’t just occasional explosions, they were daily at the very least. Any number of things lit Richie’s sneezing fuse, setting off a chain reaction inside Richie’s nose that led inexorably to a blast of such volume and violence that people often inquired of Richie how such a loud noise could come out of a 45-year old 6’ 10’ two-hundred-thirty-pound ex-logger construction worker with a bad head cold, much less little old Richie Robbins. Every time he sneezed with people around, Richie would blush, shrug, and, Adam knew, mentally wish himself out of the room. It wasn’t easy having a semi-superpower—not that it’d do any good in a fight, Adam mused—for a sneeze. But it was life for poor Richie, and that was simply that.

For Adam’s part, he’d never been particularly bothered by his best friend’s outrageous a-choos. Maybe he just had ears of steel, but the volume didn’t bother him, and it did provide a decent shake-up during lulls in conversation. Heck, he’d been a regular vistor to the Robbins household, and that was an experience unto itself. Multiplying Richie’s sneezes with a father, three older brothers, and one younger made a ruckus that just didn’t make sense. If anyone needed proof that sneezes were hereditary, well, Adam knew where to bring them. He’d heard the same story from all six Richie men: it’s the tickles. The tickles, itches, tingles, and twinges that invaded the Robbins family sinuses were purportedly unbearable, like a thousand invisible brushes sweeping all the way up the nasal cavity. And the only way to get those brushes (temporarily) out was to let out a blast that could be heard across three counties (or at least a small suburban house… and a few of the adjacent ones.) Their sneezes came from their toes and then some. But the big sneezes were just the only way that they could relieve the incredible pressure and the tickle that built up in their large, protruding nostrils, swishing around their noses with an unimaginable irritation. The ones with long build-ups were the worst. He’d seen Tristan and Adrian, Sebastian and Max, even Mr. Robbins, staring up at lights, forcefully fanning under their noses, doing anything to tip the tickle out of the gate and onto the flight ramp, at which point a sneeze would shoot out from their nostrils of which any elephant would have been proud.

It was thoughts like this that preoccupied Adam as he sat down with Richie and Jerry, who were discussing the finer points of eruption-inspiring allergens.

“For my dad, is the dogs that are the worst, man, get him within ten feet of a dog, especially one of those great big shaggy things, and oh man… it’s time to break out the protective earmuffs, I’m tellin’ you…”

“Yeah, dogs get me bad too, but the cats… oh… waay… wait a second… I’b gonnahhhh… ahhh… HASHOOOEY!” Richie gasped out a “’nother… nothaaahhh” before bursting into a second tectonic shift of a sneeze, “YASSSHOOOOOO! Oh, I’m so sorry, that was a big one.”

“They’re always big ones, Rich!” Adam said as he sat down.

“Can’t argue with you there.” Richie sighed. While he often wished he could just get rid of his charateristic sneez-plosions, Richter rockers, or Richie Roars, as his nasal expulsions were variously called, Richie was grateful for friends that weren’t repulsed, shocked, or amazed by his sneezes, and he felt much less self-conscious about lettin’ it rip when Adam, or, as of today, Jerry, was around. Not that he had much (or any) choice.

“So, you two comparing notes?” asked Adam.

“Yeah,” Jerry said, “so far, we’ve mentioned flowers, pepper, animals…”

“Actually, most spices get me, red pepper worst of all.” Richie began, “In fact, the reason I sat down at this table is because it doesn’t even have a red pepper shaker, thank goodness. But I’ve blown back the fur and feathers on just about any pet you can imagine…”

They continued on talking like this, unaware that at the table just behind them, the very jock that had filled the standard role of Richie’s sneeze tormentor was subtly listening in on their conversation. Ashton Stevens was his name, and he, like Jerry, had also had a big sneezer at home. But he didn’t have such generous memories of his parents’ noisy noses. In fact, he had been driven nearly insane by his mother and father’s constant loud sneezes, which, unlike Richie’s, seemed put-on, fake, as if they both just wanted to announce to the world how noisily they could sneeze. The crowning moment had been that day, the day of senior prom… but Ashton tried not to think about it. For his part, he had rather dainty sneezes, somewhat at odds with his large and muscular build. He, of course, had never been plagued with allergies on the level of Richie’s, but he had gone through an allergic phase as a teen. During that time he constantly focused on controlling his sneezes, squelching them down until they were little more than a semi-audible, “chuh”. Richie’s gargantuan gale winds had brought him right back to that moment at the senior prom, and he secretly seethed inside every time Richie’s nose went out of control and spasmed with a silence-smashing sneeze. But he was formulating a plan, in the back of his mind, that would shame Richie into shutting up, as his parents never would.

Meanwhile, as Ashton Stevens seethed, Richie (predictably) sneezed. “yeaaaahhhh, ahhhh… aaaaahpppppSHEWWW! Uh, another one. I don’t know what’s making my nose so itchy!” The sneeze, honestly, had been the lightest one he’d let out in a while, only audible above speaking voices at the end, indicating a comparatively low-level irritation. Probably a stray flake of black pepper. While he reacted to pepper as much as anybody else, Richie had never had nearly as much of a problem with pepper as he did with dander, other spices, and the dreaded perfume and cologne.

“So,” Adam inquired, “what are you boys up to this evening. It’s Friday night, and ah… ah… HAT! CHOO!” Adam let out a neatly segregated sneeze, a firmly punctuated breath drawn in followed by a neat and tidy choo, which, although somewhat wet, was not extremely loud, as per the normal pattern of Adam’s sneeze. “Woah, I don’t know why I keep sneezing.”

“Yeah, come to think of it, neither do I,” Richie added, “do you think you’re allergic to something up here?”

“Nah, I’m as hardy as a bull, allergens can’t get me down. Try as they might, they cannot invade the fortress of my mighty nasal guard. Granted, they don’t have as big of a target on mehh… on mehhhh… me… as…. BAA-shewww!” Adam sneezed again, with a sound that sounded utterly fed-up with sneezing.

“Any chance you might be getting a cold?” Jerry inquired. Adam and Richie exchanged anxious looks. Each knew what the other was thinking: if Richie caught a cold, his sneezes, seemingly impossibly, would grow significantly in strength, volume, and mess.

“No,” Adam said, attempting to laugh away the possibility, “No way! The last time I had a cold was…”

“The camping trip in eleventh grade. And I promptly caught it and nearly blew down our tent on several different occasions.” Richie finished for him, “And I hope it’s not happening now,” he moaned, “because if you get sick, then I’ll get sick, and if I get sick…”

“Don’t worry, Rich!” Adam insisted, “I’m not getting sick! But so you don’t worry, I guess I’ll take some vitamins, and call it an early night, I guess…”

“No way, man!” Jerry interrupted, “we’ve barely been in college for a week. We’re goin’ out tonight. We’re going somewhere, and if you don’t like it, mister, too bad!”

Adam laughed. “Well, can’t argue with a command like that, sir. Where do we go?”

“There’s a nice bar nearby,” Richie offered.

“No, no, no, I mean a real club: loud music, sloppy drunks, and scantily-clad women.” Of course, at the mention of women, all three hormone-addled brains perked up instantly, and any reluctance at club-going was instantly erased.

And, Adam saw another perk:

“Plus, the club’s so loud, Richie, that it’s probably one of the few places on earth where your sneezes can’t carry. You know, places like construction sites… death metal concerts… one of my sister’s shouting��I mean singing recitals…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. But that’s actually a good point, and the sneezes have actually been comparatively light...” but suddenly Richie’s eyes got a distant, faraway look. His nose scrunched up, and the itch exploded in his nostrils like a thousand buzzing tiny, invisible flies, sending his nostrils into a rampage of twitching, his upper lip, his entire face swishing and moving with the enormous need to sneeze that had burgeoned so suddenly in his nostrils. This was gearing up to be a real monster; his breath hitched, “hahhhh… hahhhh…,” his eyes bulged. He reached his hand up to try to scrub away the itch, although he knew it was useless. This was shaping up to be the biggest sneeze that had hit him all day… “hih! hih! ah! ah! ah! ooooh, it won’t come ou… outahhhh… ahhhhhh… ahahhhh… ahahhah…” the sneeze stuck for a moment, leaving Richie’s face in a mask of sneezy agony, the corners of his mouth turned firmly down, his eyes tearing and glancing upwards, searching for a light bright enough to send his brewing eruption into its final stages of detonation, his eyebrows severely arched. His watering eyes rapidly blinked for what seemed an eternity, before he gave his nose one more good sniff and gave in to the inevitable detonation: “hhhhaaAAA-AARRSCHOOOhhh! HAAA-HOOOOOSH-SHOOOOEY! Ahhh… igghiee… hah…" He hitched for just a few seconds before absolutely roaring out the thermonuclear explosion of his final sneeze: "RAAH-SCHOOOOOOOOHH!”

“Woah.” Said Adam and Jerry simultaneously.

The sneeze was so big, it left Richie panting a little after. It wasn’t just the biggest sneeze all day, it was the biggest set of sneezes he’d had in a month! Richie had rocked back and forth with each colossal sneeze, giving his tickly nose complete abandon. The sneezes took him over, and each was a nearly-shouted affair that was louder than most people can shout. Those sneezes seemed to come from his whole body, his nose being merely the epicenter of the eruption. He was completely out-of-control for each massive gusting sneeze, his whole frame shaking and swaying at the mercy of his king-sized schnoz and the unbearable itch that had taken three of Richie’s most powerful sneezes to expel. When he opened his eyes afterward, he was half-afraid that he’d blown the table away!

Adam and Jerry, prepared by experience, had covered their ears, but the rest of the dining hall… well, being unprepared, some had dropped forks, plates, and cups, most had stopped their conversations, and quite a few shocked “what was that?”s sounded around the room. Those had been big even for Richie, far too loud, in fact, for anyone to hear the near-simultaneous soft, tickly “chuhh! ch-hoooh! chuhh! ka-chuuhhh!” that had come from the next table over, soft barely-there puffs of air in comparison to Richie’s Kansas twister sized sneezes, which he swore would have been big enough to send Dorothy not only to Oz, but to the other said of Mars.

“Dude,” Adam said, as the dining room slowly went back to normal, after being rocked by Richie’s “You totally shouldn’t have jinxed it.”

“Ha-ha,” Richie said, not feeling exceptionally prepared for laughing after single handedly—or rather, single-nosedly”—overpowering an entire dining room full of noisy college students in volume. “Let’s just get out of here as quickly as possible. I don’t want another one of those to happen… and I think… there might still be the beginnings of a… ah…” Richie quickly clamped his hands over his nose, hoping that he might fight the tiny residual tickle back before it became another of room-rocker, or at least get outside into the open air to release the beast.

Adam, Richie, and Jerry hurried surreptitiously out of the dining room. At the table behind them, sat Ashton Stevens, face upturned, irritated tears forming in his eyes, but a smug smile on his face, nose twitching and jerking with otherwise imperceptible “chooh! chuh! ha-hushh!” sneezes, with a plate of spaghetti practically drenched in red pepper. His little “experiment” confirmed, he threw the plate away, which promptly cleared up his sneezes, and walked calmly out of the dining hall, but not before slyly sliding the red pepper shaker into his waiting pocket.

--

Richie had, of course, erupted again outside, although once out of the range of the red pepper flakes that were like gunpowder for Richie’s cannon-like nostrils, the sneezes hadn’t registered quite so high on the Richter Scale (“a minor aftershock!” Adam had quipped).  But sneezes that huge left Richie concerned; could he be catching a cold? That would be disastrous. Besides feeling bad, he could hardly go to class, detonating another sneeze every few minutes, sneezes that would rock a three hundred person lecture hall and perhaps even send his papers flying down to the row below, sneezes that would throw even the most concentrated lecturer off of his or her game, sneezes that, in a smaller classroom, would probably disturb not only his own class, but all the classes on the floor! Of course, he’d had mega-sneezes like that before, and it didn’t always mean he was catching a cold, but if he was… well, he’d just take a lot of vitamin C that night. But going to bed early wasn’t an option. Richie, Jerry and Adam were going to a nearby club, Club Z, for a night on the town. After running back upstairs to change (again), the threesome left their dorm and headed towards Club Z, chatting all the while.

“So, Rich, how are classes going?” Adam asked, to get the conversation started.

“Oh, pretty good, when I’m not busy sneezing through them. Sebastian warned me that his sneezes tend to disrupt standard professorial activities, so I knew mine would probably blow out a few eardrums. Not that I’m not used to that sort of thing.”

“How about you, Jerry?”

“Oh, things are going well for me too. Chemistry is kicking my butt, but besides that I’m doing pretty well. That class is so boring! I almost wish that someone would come in there with a great big Richie-cane kinda sneeze. At least that way things wouldn’t be quite as boring!”

“Oh, you would have loved our high school then,” Adam cut in, “Almost every time I fell asleep in class, Richie’s nose would get an itch and once the nasal volcano got going, sleeping was not an option.”

“Whatever, Adam,” Richie said, blushing slightly at the extended discussion of his nasal… ahem, prowess, even among friends, “I didn’t even have a half of my classes with you.”

“Exactly.” Adam replied, smiling. *** Soon, Richie and company arrived at the club. However, they were still several feet away when the perfume started getting to Richie’s nose: “ah…. ahhhh… agghhha… igghhiiie… AAAA-CHOOOOH! heh… heh… AHHH-CHOOOOOH!” he sneezed, blasting out the tickly perfume smell as hard as he could. When Richie sneezed, his whole body was involved; in fact, Adam was surprised that Richie didn’t have a six-pack from all the forceful contractions of his stomach and chest as he roared out all that sneezy air at obscene velocities, and decibel levels.

“Bless ya, buddy. Are there some flowers around,” inquired Jerry.

“Na… no, nahhh.. ahhhhh WAAAAAASSSHOOOO! ARRRR-CHOOAAAYYYY!” Richie screamed out each sneeze. While not as loud as the true Richie-canes of the dining hall, these sneezes produced more than enough volume to echo loudly off of the nearby buildings and turn quite a few heads. Richie was quite afraid that an irate head would poke out of one of the windows of the high-rise apartment buildings on the street to demand that he achieve the impossible feat of quieting down his great lion’s roar of a sneeze.  He’d been asked by more than one teacher (and moviegoer, and theater patron, and restaurant waiter, and even, on one notorious occasion, a few patrons at just the sort of rock concerts that Adam had supposed would be loud enough to drown out Richie’s roars, but then again, not only were all the people there drenched in cologne and perfume, but Richie had left from a friend’s house who had a very furry german shepherd, and Richie had the beginnings of a cold) to control his thunderclap sneezes, but, like the thunder, Richie’s sneezes were a force of nature, and could not be quieted down or controlled any better than the wind.

Hoping he’d gotten his nose under control with that last massive sneeze, Richie ventured to speak, “No… it’s the perfume... oh, wait… ‘nothing one’s cahhhh…. coming…. RAAAAASSSSHOOOOOH! YASSSSSSHHHHHHHH-OOO!” Richie sniffed loudly, as two girls, one of who was probably wearing the sneeze-causing perfume, looked around. The girl wearing the perfume, alright slightly tipsy, half-spoke, half-shouted, “Ugh, I can’t stand it when people exaggerate their sneezes like that! Can’t he control it? That’s just too loud!”

Aside from the irony of the woman commenting on Richie’s loud sneezes with her loud voice (although Richie had to admit that even a trained opera singer would have difficulty keeping up with him in volume when he really got going), Adam was offended by her comments about his friend, and was about to walk up and give the perfume drenched woman a piece of his mind when her friend abruptly did it for him!

“Oh, Charlene, be quiet! They can hear you. Besides, how can you expect a poor kid to control his sneezes when you can’t even control your big mouth!” Adam had to admit that he was impressed, and as Charlene and her assertive friend got in line for the same club as Adam, Richie, and Jerry, Adam made a mental note to “bump into” her at some point that night. Maybe Richie’s wind-machine strength allergies would flare up again and give him an excuse to talk to her?

Meanwhile, Ashton wasn’t far behind the trio, cringing at each of Richie’s elephantine sneezes. He thought to himself, “This is ridiculous! He sneezes even louder than my father! How embarrassing! I don’t even know how those other goons can stand to be seen around him. I’ll teach him not to be so disgusting with his sneezes.” As the perfume got to his nose, Ashton harshly muffled three sneezes by pinching his nostils, “shhhmp! chikkk! ch!” They were barely audible. Ashton fingered the red pepper in his pocket as he watched Richie and company walk into the club. He bided his time for a few minutes, and then, after walking around the block a bit, went in as well.

—-

As soon as the threesome entered the club, Ritchie rushed off to the restroom, hoping to give his nose a good, strong blow to clear his nose of perfume and pollen, so as to head off the sneezes at the pass. But by the time he reached the restroom door, his twitching, tickling nose had had too much, and, bleary-eyed, Richie let it take over for six full-strength sneezes: “HAASSSSSHHHHHOOOooooo… hh… hhhiiiiiIIIIIIIIICHOOOOOOO! Ih-CHOOO! haaahHH-CHOOOOOO! ahhhhhHHH-CHOOOO! HAHH-CHOOOOOOOhhhhheyyy” That last one was a monster, making a gutteral, throat-scraping sound as the normal “choo” was twisted by Richie’s awe-inspiring lung power into a growling, snarling shout of a sneeze, leaving Richie somewhat lightheaded and dizzy. And of course, he immediately connected the number of sneezes (Richie rarely let out so many all in a row like that) to the head cold he was desperately afraid was brewing in his firecracker nostrils, those wide, vacuum-like tunnels where tickles went in, and sneezes came out that were second only to the Big Bad Wolf with a bad cold.

And speaking of colds, Richie was terrified of developing one. Every cold he’d ever had had settled directly in his nose, causing a near-constant tickle that he could only blow out with his biggest, most ear-drum busting, dorm-wall rattling, earthquake-causing sneezes. Even Richie’s biggest sneezes could only provide momentary relief from the tickle; minutes later, the tickle would come back with a vengence, and so would the sneezes, until Richie would deliberately blow them out as hard as he could, just to get the tickle to stop for a few minutes. Richie’s colds were events in the Robbins household (and every house on the surrounding block); he hoped and prayed they wouldn’t become events on-campus too.

Looking around the restroom and finding it (thank goodness) empty, Richie marched to a stall to give his nose a few of his patented, honking nose blows. While not quite commensurate to his sneezes in volume, those bass-note honks of his could certainly send a rumble through any room, and Richie was glad that the room remained empty as he did his best to keep his nose free and clear, so as to minimize sneezing episodes.

Meanwhile, Adam and Jerry were on the prowl, and getting shut down all the time. Jerry had offered to buy drinks for no less than three women, with no success, while Adam’s jokes were falling unusually flat, perhaps owing to the volume of the music and the near-impossibility of hearing anything (except perhaps for Richie) over the thumping bass and wailing noise of the speakers.

So it was that Adam and Jerry had given up and begun dancing their way into the morass of people at the center of the club, when Richie went searching for them. Of course, hidden as they were in the mass of people, Richie had no hope of finding either of his friends, and sat down at the bar, quickly flashing his (fake) ID, and ordered a beer. He figured he’d wait until he found Adam and Jerry to start dancing, and he was sure that his nose would give him ample opportunity before then to test Adam’s theory that the noise of the club would muffle the rumbling explosions of his nose.

In fact, as the bartender slid Richie his beer, Richie felt his nose flaring into life. His breath hitched, his face contorted, his nostrils assuming control of his face, twisting this way and that as though they had a life of their own, reacting to the bucking bronco of itch that had, as always, brushed ferociously against the twitching walls of his sensitive nostrils. And as Richie’s face contorted, his watering eyes slid closed in preparation of the great big sneeze to come…

…and Ashton Stevens saw his chance. He’d been sitting at the bar, plotting how he could cause misery for Richie at the club. Luckily, he’d been at the bar while Richie had erupted in the restroom (especially since the only thing Ashton found more disgusting than sneezes was nose blowing), but now he was sitting not too far from Richie, and had been spying on him out of the corner of his eye since Richie had sat down. Now was his chance. He slid the small shaker of red pepper out of his pocket and sent a cloud floating up into the air, knowing that the strong air conditioning in the room, as well as the breeze from the constantly opening front door, would waft the tickly spice straight into Richie’s all-too-combustible nose.

And he was right. Seconds later, Richie froze, as he felt the tickle in his nose multiply exponentially. The itch in his nose, already monstrous, became a thousand buzzing flies, scurrying through his nasal passages, wreaking havoc on his sensitive sinuses, creating such tremendous pressure in his nose that he knew that the only way to get any relief would be to blast out a sneeze at full-strength. He felt it gearing up to be as big as the one in the dining hall, if not bigger. Out of his watery eyes, he took a quick glance around him: there was no way he’d get to the restroom before his Vesuvial nose gave an eruption that would put Mt. St. Helens to shame, and the way his nose was feeling, it’d be wet enough to outshine Old Faithful. But there were so many people around. Richie had been warned about it time and time again, and he knew he shouldn’t… but he didn’t want to spray any strangers! So… he stifled.

“ahh…. Ahhhhhh… AHHHHHHHHH… AGGGHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAA…” He wound up, with huge, powerful breaths, and then… “chhhmmppppppppppp!” He sneezed, somewhat wetly, but contained, and with nowhere near enough volume to be heard over the noise of the club. Stifling successful.

But his nose was on fire. It was as if he had quadrupled the already unimaginable tickle. If he was going to fire off one eruption before, now he was preparing for a twenty-one-gun salute. Finger struck firmly beneath his nose, Richie rushed to the restroom as fast as he could, pushing past the clubgoers in the crowded club, afraid to give so much as an “excuse me” for fear that speaking would tip the sneeze into the uncontrollable zone. Richie forcefully pushed the door open as he marched into the restroom, which was, of course, filled with people. In the already small, echoing restroom, Richie’s sneezes would probably reach ear-splitting volumes and annoy, if not terrify, every patron in the restroom. But it wasn’t as if he had any choice; he had to let the monsters loose.

Richie quickly swung a stall door open and closed as his breaths became audible, and grew louder, and louder… “iiihhhhhh… HHHHHiiiiIIIHHHHHH… HAHHHHHH… HAHHHHHHH…. HHAAAAHHHHHHHHH…HAAAAAAAAAAAAA-SHOOOOOOOOOOOOO! BAAACCCHOOOOOEEYYYY! HASSSHHH! HAHHSSHHHHuuhh… OOOO-SHOOOOOOOH! USSSSHHHHHH-CHHAAAHHH! Ahhhhh… Ahhhh… ahhhhh…CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

They came, sneeze after sneeze after sneeze, outrageous in volume, hurricane like in spray. Richie heedlessly swung backwards and forwards, gulping in air to fuel each massive explosion. He knew now why his parents had warned him to never, never hold in his sneezes, because this was the result: a constantly seizing nose in a fit that would last for minutes.

The reaction of the men in the restroom, as expected had been vocal and noisy. The already somewhat drunken patrons had no trouble voicing their disapproval: “What the hell?! Did somebody drop a bomb in here? Shuddup in there, I can’t hear myself think!”

But Richie, whatever he wished, he no ability to shut up. His nose was in control now, and it was going to blow, and blow, and blow until the pent-up tickle was blasted out, full-strength.

“Hehhhh… ehhhhhh… EEHHHHH-SHOOOOOH! EH-SHOOOH! Eghhhhaaaa… haaaa… haaa… YAAAAAAA-SHHHEEEEEWWWWWWWW!  SHIISSSHHHHH! ISSHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH-SHOOOH! AHHHHHHHH-SCHOOOO! AH-SHOOOOH!”

The sneezes just kept coming, unbelievably loud, unbelievably powerful. This was one of the longest fits Richie could remember (though probably not the worst he’d experienced). Gradually, the sneezes grew farther apart: “haahhhh.. hahhhh.. HA-SHOOO! Ahhhhh… HA-SHUU! iiSHHHIIII-OO!”

Each sneeze, though still loud enough to echo through the restroom, was at a more manageable volume. Still, Richie was exausted from firing off sneeze after sneeze, and as his nose finally let out its final “heh… heh-chhh-EW!” Richie just wanted a nice long nap. He sat in the stall for a moment to survey the damage. He had been right about the spray; he could see the glistening drops decorating the entire stall door as though it had been hit with a hose. He still heard the men grumbling and muttering about his sneezes, and he was sure that those who were in the restroom (and probably those near the door) would spread the word to their friends about Richie’s incredible eruption. Sometimes, Richie just wished that his nasal curse could just go away. Why was his family cursed with the world’s most massive sneezes? Why was his nose the epicenter of such eruptions? But, as he sniffed gently, preparing for a nose blow to clear the last bits of congestion in his nose, he was glad for one thing: the tickle was completely gone.

Meanwhile, Ashton had been standing near the door, and had heard Richie firing off sneeze after sneeze after sneeze. He was red with rage; that fit had been exactly like the one his dad had blasted out at Ashton’s senior prom, in the middle of Ashton’s prom king acceptance… all over the prom queen. She dumped Ashton within the week.

Turning violently on his heel, Ashton marched out of the club, certain that he had a new secret weapon to use against Richie: if he could get him to clam up those sneezes, just once, then he knew Richie would fire off a show of sneezes so loud that Ashton could use it to embarrass Richie in front of anyone within earshot; in other words, Ashton grimly laughed to himself, anyone within a five-mile radius.

—-

Ashton, however, had not been the only person close enough to the restroom to hear those gale-force blasts trumpeting out from Richie's nostrils of fury. In fact, just as Richie was beginning to launch into a fit for the ages, Jerry had decided he ought to slip off to the restroom; no need to "break the seal" yet, but Jerry had anticipated he was in for a fairly long night, partying with his newfound friends, and--hopefully--with a few more newfound "friends" from among the club's very attractive female population, and as such wanted to make sure that his tiny bladder would not interfere with his very large-sized dreams---oh, alright, fantasies---of what would go on that night.

But Jerry was pretty far from the door when he heard that tell-tale eruption coming from the men's room. He quickly stuck his head into the restroom and knew immediately the source of the disturbance. He would scarcely have believed that even Richie could sneeze so forcefully. He was putting up a good fight with the music in the club, and that was deafening as it was. Heck, at close range, Richie's nose could have outdone a shotgun, a leafblower, a small nuclear explosion... but in the midst of these musing, Jerry noticed Ashton. Unlike everyone else in the restroom (and nearby), who were scrambling to get away from the noise, Ashton seemed transfixed. He was just standing by the restroom door, not going in, didn't seem to be coming out, and he had the most peculiar, almost devious expression on his face. Of course, Jerry knew Ashton somewhat---Ashton was touted as one of the most talented football players of the freshman class, and at their D1 school, that meant a lot. But this threw Ashton in a completely different light. Why on earth was he just standing there? And what was that strange look that passed across his face each time Richie bellowed out another monsterous, "HHHHHEEEEEESSSSSSSSCHHHHHOOOOOOOOoooooh!" Jerry was not a suspicious person by nature--and as Richie's twenty-one gun salute went on, he knew he had to check and see if Richie was alright--but he filed that instance away in his mind as yet another strange happening of college life.

The more important thing was to check on Richie. When it finally seemed that Richie's nose had calmed down enough that he'd be able to speak, Jerry ventured forth a, "Hey, man, you alright in there?"

"Jerry?" Richie responded, fearing the worst, "oh, god, don't tell me you could hear me all the way out..."

"No, no, man, I was just heading to the restroom when I heard the big bang from outside the door, don't worry. But what happened there? I didn't think you were ever going to stop!"

"N-neither did... oh, god, h-here ihhhh... here it gooohhhh... ohhhhh... oohhhhhh... ahh... HA-CHOOOOH! Man, thought I was done there," Richie give a liquid sniff, "but the aftershocks just sneak up on me."

"And speakin' of sneakin', there you guys are!" Adam quipped.

"Are you just everywhere?" Richie asked, half-laughingly, half-exasperated. Adam had the strangest habit of popping up everywhere.

"A magician never reveals his secrets, young Richard." Adam gave a sudden gasp before, "Ha-chooOOSH! Huh... hashhhooo! Ugh, must be in the air," Adam said, as he grabbed a tissue from the sink counter to blow his nose. He was a bit of a nasal honker, and his blows were decidedly louder than his generally quiet, gentle sneezes (although, in comparison to a Richie-cane, your average elephant was pretty quiet and gentle), and were much louder when he had a cold---because he didn't have Richie's almighty, head-clearing sneezes, he relied much more on forceful nose-blowing to blast out the itch from his nose, and still had far less success--unsurprisingly--that a full-force sneeze from Richie, even without a cold or that dreaded red pepper.

Richie, however, wasn't so sure that something was "in the air"; the humongous fit he'd just succumbed to made him almost positive: he was catching a cold.

"No, Adam, it's not 'in the air'--we're sick, and I'm going home." Richie declared. Adam was somewhat taken aback at his friend's unusually forceful tone, but he knew that, as always, he could joke his friend out of his resolve.

"Oh, you're not sick---granted, a 300-pound body builder with a bad head cold and a wind machine up his nose probably can’t compare to the ‘ol schozz-cannon you’ve’ got… but those, my friend, were not cold sneezes.”

“How do you know?” Richie demanded.

“I still have hearing in my right ear, obviously.”

[anenddarysden]

My entry for the Warframe Macabre Premier Contest 2018! 

The galleon was a derelict floating high in the orbit of the first planet. Attempts to hail the ship were met with an eerie silence, broken only by the sob of a low-frequency distress beacon. Static scratched at the empty vault of space, and very little could be discerned from the guttural voices it carried. The Grineer were difficult to understand at the best of times. Still, some progress had been made once the dialect had been recognized: “Liberate mae- liberate mae. Liberate mae!” The message repeated, looping over and over. It came as a surprise to Tudk, that the Grineer still remembered the language of the Creators, though they did not use it in common parlance and most could not force the syllables through the degraded mush of their minds. The fact that one had chosen to record a distress call in such terms spoke of a certain degree of madness, or delirium. Liberate mae. Save me. The message did not offer specifics, but Tudk could guess. With their decrepit machinery and dirty, chugging engines, the Terminus was not the first Grineer ship to loose life support out in the black, nor would her crew be the last to suffocate on their own breath. Ultimately it didn’t matter. All indications were that of ghost ship, so Company procedure was to strip it for salvage. Everything had value. Even the greasy components of a galleon could be sold for a profit – usually back to the Grineer themselves, for they were rarely able to grasp the workings of anything beyond their own outmoded technology. Tudk lowered the box-like helmet over his head and sealed it, feeling the subtle change in the engines as the Christi came up alongside and initiated docking procedures. A muted thud rocked the bones of the ship. “Umbilicus sealed, Captain Tudk.” Hoisting toolkits and thermal lances, the salvage team walked onto the galleon. The ship was dark and in a state of deep freeze, the rust-colored walls glistering with frozen condensation. Despite the bone-chilling cold, however, Tudk was surprised to discover that life-support was still operational, albeit at minimal power. Atmosphere was reading nominal. It wasn’t asphyxiation that’d killed the crew. Tudk’s heavy bootfalls echoed in the corridor. To his rear, someone had already fired up a plasma cutter and applied it to the conduits that ran the length of the hall, throwing a rooster tail of sparks that caused the shadows to leap and float in phantasmagoric patterns. Tudk palmed the comm on his chest. “Jhon, you getting anything on the crew?” “Negative, Captain.” The Grineer weren’t known for ambush tactics; if any had been on board, they’d have come to investigate by now, so Tudk remained comfortable with his original assumption. The ship, a derelict. The crew, lost. To what, however, Tudk was admittedly curious to find out. Radiation levels were dirty, but that was normal for a Grineer vessel of this size. Tudk pressed deeper into the confusing warren of bulbous, vaguely organic architecture. A veteran of many such ships, however, he kept his bearings and steered a course for a the bridge. The cover of a maintenance hatch lay in the middle of the corridor and steam fogged on Tudk’s helmet as he passed under the open vent, leaving a thin sheen of oil. He was glad he didn’t have to breathe it. He found the first body crumpled in the corner by an access panel. The Grineer had been taken unaware, terminated by something that’d punched through his spine and crushed his beating heart to pulp. A dark puddle of blood had drained onto the floor, glistering with a thin mantle of ice. Tudk was no stranger to corpses, either, but the brutality of the kill left him uneasy. He unlocked the door and stepped through. With the exception of the massive, floor-to-ceiling viewport on the far wall, the bridge was a strictly utilitarian affair. The ship’s slowly decaying orbit had brought it around to face the dark-side of the planet Mercury, which hung, rusted and barren, less than a thousand miles away. Tudk set his toolkit on the ground. He’d found the rest of the crew – the command staff, anyway. Grineer corpses littered the bridge like confetti, crumpled and sprawled and draped amidst gallons of spilled blood. Tudk swallowed the knot in the back of his throat, unable to shake the feeling that something had been playing with them, like a cat tossing the corpse of a mouse. His comm gave a squelch that nearly startled him onto the ceiling. “Captain Tudk?” He slapped his comm, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. “This is Tudk. Go ahead, Decima.” “I’ve found the crew – what’s left of them, anyway. Looks like most of them tried to clump up around the mainframe.” “Any survivors?” “None. There’s as much on the floors as there is on the ceiling, if you get my meaning, sir.” Tudk got her meaning very well. There was a soft, furtive clunk from the overhead vents, exactly like a fan settling on its bearings. He paid it no mind, carefully stepping over the frozen lakes of blood to the command console. His gloved fingers worked to bring the security holograms online. If he was lucky, the aging technology would have caught the intruder on file – information that was liable to sell for quite a bit of money. “Sir?” Decima’s voice was hesitant. Tudk could almost hear her chewing the words. “I’ve been listening to the transmission and I think the Company made a mistake.” “Go on.” Tudk pressed a button on the console and the bridge lights flared, first yellow, then a dull orange. Jittery holograms sputtered out of decrepit emitters mounted high on the walls, rendering the galleon’s occupants as they had been recorded in life. One of the holograms passed through Tudk’s chest, making him feel as though he’d been brushed by a ghost. “They thought it was repeating Liberate Mae – ‘Save Me’– but I don’t think that’s it,” said Decima. All around him, the holograms moved about their daily tasks, their movements growing more and more agitated. Rifles were unslung. Orders were barked to underlings. Something flashed through the bridge doors before they could close. A cloud of pixels fountained into the air and dissolved, falling exactly where blood gathered in heavy beads. “Here, listen. Can you hear it?” She played a scratchy copy of the distress beacon back to him, filling his helmet with the screams of the dead as their final moments played out around him. Grainy orange specters appeared to rise from the bodies lying dead at the top of the stairs, lifted up by shafts of pure energy impaled through the back – leaving them to hang like fish writhing on the tip of an Ostron spear. Inside his glove, Tudk’s fingers were icy cold with sweat. He pressed the console and the twitching image slowed to half speed. Something appeared at the top of the stairs, something humanoid but certainly not human, floating a half meter above the floor. Tudk had never seen anything like it. Lithe and small, adorned with trailing ribbons and armor reminiscent of the vanished Orokin and their gilded halls. It hung there suspended, bobbing up and down. Alive, but not living. A Grineer lancer stumbled across the floor, trying to hold his entrails inside, and collapsed at Tudk’s feet – collapsed through him to cling at the console, dragging a clumsy hand across the buttons. The Thing at the top of the stairs tilted its blood-spattered head to the side, regarding the act with a kind of demented curiosity. “It’s hard to make out, but it’s not ‘liberate mae’,” Decima continued nervously. “It’s 'liberate tutemae'... followed by something that I think is ‘ex inferis’,” her voice overlapping with that of the dying Grineer at Tudk’s feet. Liberate tutemae ex inferis. Save Yourself from Hell. Tudk knew now what had lurked at the top of the stairs, blood pouring from claw-like fingers. There had been rumors, but nothing substantial. Nothing more than Quill-whispers- but they weren’t rumors, were they? No, it was something more. Myth given flesh. Legend turned to terrible reality. They were awake, they who had journeyed beyond the universe and returned from the place the Orokin called Hell – the hollow soldiers in twisted frames, things of such unholy beauty that even the stars wept. The Betrayers. The Twisted. The Tenno. Tudk lifted shaking eyes back to the top of the stairs. His heart stopped and fell coldly into his stomach. The hologram had suddenly gained a twin, formed not of lasers and embered pixels, but of bone-white limbs spattered with the blood of those it had killed. Parts of it glowed with cold turquoise light, light that glistened on the curtains of blood that’d poured down the stairs. Not a derelict. It had been waiting here all along. The paused hologram suddenly timed out- -and the Tenno lunged with a harrowing shriek.

[thepartyresponsible]

happy halloween! here’s halloween fill #10. this one is for @arsenicjade, who asked for hauntings/ghosts + jason.

so here’s jason todd, haunting dick grayson.

don’t worry. it’s a benevolent haunting. but it is, like all things bat-related, emotionally fraught and unnecessarily complicated.

Hauntings are serious things. Sometimes dangerous, always inconvenient. Bruce picked up a poltergeist once that screamed every time he closed his eyes and threw knives whenever he walked through a kitchen. There was no rest in the Manor until Alfred and Dick conspired to sneak in a psychic to banish the thing.

This haunting, though. It feels like something else.

“Dick,” it hums, crackling at the edges of discernable frequencies, simultaneously almost too low and too high to hear. “Prodigal sons come home.”

“Could you not?” he asks, as politely as he can. “I’m busy right now.”

“You’re dying,” it says. It’s impossible to tell how the spirit feels about that, if it feels anything at all.

“Well, you’d be the expert,” Dick says, as he hauls himself farther away from the edge of the building and presses his back against a helpful gargoyle.

It’s December, and it’s cold, and Dick wouldn’t have gone out tonight, except Bruce found Jason’s Christmas stocking earlier, and Dick had taken off on patrol so fast he hadn’t even bothered to suit up all the way.

Which is too bad, really, because the body armor would’ve stopped most of the knives.

“Call Bruce,” the voice says.

Dick’s eyes slide closed. He breathes. It’s cold up here, and getting colder. He should call Bruce, tell him to come pick him up before he loses consciousness.

Bruce is going to have a fit if Dick dies too. He’s going to fill the Cave with monuments to his dead. He’s going to do more of that thing he’s been doing lately, where he just stares off into the middle-distance and doesn’t answer when Dick says his name.

“Dick,” the voice repeats. There’s a hum and a shift, and Dick feels sunshine on his face, the warmth of a crackling fire filling him up from the pit of his stomach, radiating outward. “C’mon, Nightwing,” the voice says, “be a hero. Save yourself.”

Dick gasps, jerks fully awake. The energy feels electric, like he just pressed his tongue against the biggest battery in the world.

“Batman,” he says, fumbling for the comm. “Need some help. Got a bit stabbed.” He lists the location, hears the first murmur of Bruce’s reply, and then sags back against the gargoyle, going quiet and frozen and fuzzy all over again.

“There you go,” the voice says. The warmth fades and blooms, like a tide, like a heartbeat. “Don’t fall asleep, Dick. Stay awake.”

Dick blinks his eyes open. There’s a figure crouched over him, small and slender, a smear of reds and greens and shadow. The figure flickers, disappears entirely if Dick looks at it straight on.

“Who are you?” he asks, because he owes this spirit a favor. “What d’you need?”

He’ll help it, when he can. When he’s better. Help it find whatever it needs to move on.

“Gotta save some people,” the figure tells him. It echoes, sounds like a child speaking. Sounds, somehow, almost familiar. “Gotta make him proud.”

Dick breathes out. His head falls back against the stone, and he concentrates on the warmth, because the cold feels like it might kill him. “Well,” he says, with a smile, “can’t help you there.”

  Dick’s never been haunted before. Not personally. He’s distantly aware that he shouldn’t be flattered by it, but the spirit seems nice enough. Helpful, even. It comes and goes, and Dick can’t track how often it’s around, because most of the time it seems to lack either the interest or the strength necessary to show itself.

It mostly announces its presence by saving his life.

There’s one time in Blüdhaven when a man tries to shoot him and get walloped across the face, hard, with his own gun. There’s another, in Gotham, when a particularly clever assassin cuts Dick’s grappling line, and he doesn’t realize until he’s safely on the ground that there’s absolutely no tension on the line and nothing that could’ve been holding him up.

And then there’s the time the Joker corners him in a warehouse, and he’s wounded and bleeding, lying on a tricky piece of scaffolding and trying not to make any noise. The spirit keeps flickering beside him, and, if he concentrates, he can hear small, scared noises that sound like the ghost is crying.

“You’re okay,” Dick says, softly. “He can’t hurt you. You’re already dead.”

“I don’t want to watch him kill you,” it whispers back.

Dick swallows and breathes out.

“I don’t want to,” it says again, low and miserable.

“I can’t,” it says, fitful, fervent, growing louder.

“I won’t,” it says, and it’s a growl this time, low and hateful and demonic, rising into an unholy shriek of rage that seems to shake the whole building.

The Joker is dragged out by his throat and thrown so hard that he crashes into a parked delivery van a block and a half away.

“Thanks,” Dick says, but the spirit’s faded to almost nothing. There’s a spark of red and green, and then Dick doesn’t see it again for weeks.

  Dick tries not to think about who the spirit is likely to be. Or who it used to be, anyway. Some days that’s easier than others.

The first night Tim Drake suits up and hits the streets of Gotham, something hurls the Bat-Signal off the roof of GCPD. It hurtles all the way to the ground and crashes into a dumpster. No one is hurt.

“I think there’s another poltergeist,” Bruce tells him, later. “There’s been activity in the Cave, too.”

What he means, Dick eventually learns, is that, on the first night Tim wore the Robin suit, every pane of glass in Bruce’s macabre monument to Jason was blown out, and the suit itself was ripped to shreds and scattered around the Cave like trash in a storm.

The spirit is restless afterwards, and Dick can’t walk into a room without every single piece of paper flapping and spinning and, sometimes, flying straight up into the air. He sets off smoke detectors for a week straight.

“Okay,” Dick says, “you’ve gotta calm down. I can’t work like this.”

The spirit mutters at a frequency he can’t quite hear. It says the same thing, over and over again, voice rising like it’s being hurt but never resolving into something he can understand.

“I want to help you,” Dick says, as the spirit cracks every egg in the dozen he brings home and breaks his coffeepot and tears up the only picture of Bruce in the apartment.

“You can’t let him make you this upset,” Dick says, finally, patience breaking. “It doesn’t do any good. He won’t even fucking notice.”

The spirit goes dormant, and everything around Dick goes silent and still and lifeless.

  The spirit comes back a little over a month later. It seems subdued.

“Hey,” Dick says. “If you’ll tell me what you’re waiting around for, I’ll help you with it.”

“Not going to,” the spirit says. Its voice is faded and fluttery, like wind moving through dead leaves in winter, like the pulse of someone slipping away.

“Not going to what?” Dick asks.

There’s a buzzing sound reminiscent of the faint drone of insect’s wings. Dick feels something cold brush against the back of his neck, and he doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing.

“Stuck,” it says. “Tried to sleep,” it murmurs, “in the coffin.”

It gets caught on that phrase for a while, mutters it over and over while Dick drinks his coffee and eats his cereal. “In the coffin,” it says, low and quiet. “In the coffin, in the coffin, in the coffin.”

“It’s ugly down there,” it says, sudden and sharp and clear, right up against his ear. It feels like breath against his skin, cool and faint, unnatural. He shivers.

“Well,” Dick says, squaring his jaw and trying to keep the discomfort off his face. “You can stay with me as long as you need.”

“Thanks, Dick,” it says, and those words sound loud and familiar, sound exactly like something that was shouted years ago by a boy on his birthday, unwrapping a present from someone who should have been around more, should have looked after him, should have protected him.

“Thanks, Dick,” it repeats, caught in another loop, and it says that over and over again as Dick walks to work, every step an echo of gratitude Dick never really earned.

  The spirit haunts him for three and a half years. Dick grows so used to its presence that he develops a sense for it. Prolonged exposure can do that. John Constantine swears he can smell a ghost from seven blocks away, and Dick’s nowhere near that sensitive, but he gets a feel for hauntings.

He knows the girl down in Records is haunted by something malevolent, but her steady, steely eyes suggest she’s aware and working to contain it as best as she can.

His own spirit usually feels like the projected warmth of a hearth fire and something else, something that isn’t noise or pressure but both at the same time. It’s that odd, liminal sensation, the in-between of ears about to pop after a drop in altitude. Dick doesn’t realize how used to it he is until he wakes up one morning, and it’s gone.

The spirit dissolves like dew, and it does not come back.

Dick starts having nightmares of being buried alive, but, when he crawls his way to the surface, he’s in Jason’s grave, not his own.

“Dig it up,” he tells Bruce. “Dig it up, or I will.”

“What are you talking about?” Bruce says. “Did you hear something? Did someone say--”

“I’m saying,” Dick says. “I’m saying that if you don’t dig up that grave, I’m doing it myself.”

When they dig up the coffin, it’s empty. Bruce falls right into the newest mystery, and Dick goes home with a bottle of Bruce’s whiskey and tries not to think about what kind of magic could be done with the bones of a former Robin. He drinks until the warmth of the whiskey settles over him like the spirit that’s gone missing, and he tries not to think about how that spirit would feel, if someone hauled up its body and made it into a monster.

  When he wakes up the next morning, the window’s open, and Jason Todd is sitting on his kitchen counter, finishing off that bottle of whiskey.

“Hey, Dick,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like he’s been here every morning, kicking his heels in the air and downing booze he’s definitely not old enough to touch.

“Jesus,” Dick says, shoving himself up off the couch. “Jason?”

He’s older than he used to be. There’s an achey, fragile look in his eyes and a defiant set to his mouth. He sets the whiskey bottle aside and slides off the counter, and his feet hit the floor with a new, ominous weight.

“He put a kid in our suit, Dick,” he says. There’s something slightly otherworldly about him, like maybe he’s not fitting so neatly back into the cage of bone and skin. “He put a kid in our suit and left the Joker walking. I was rotting.”

“I know,” Dick says. “Jason--”

“You shine,” Jason tells him. He rubs at his eyes. He shifts and feints, heels of his palms pressed hard into his eye sockets. “Did you know? It was dark back there, and I couldn’t find Bruce. Couldn’t even see him. But you’re so damn bright I could see you from anywhere.”

Dick moves forward carefully. “Jason,” he says, again. “How’d you come back?”

“Body’s been walking for a while,” he says. He thumps his fist against his chest, too hard, doesn’t even seem to notice he’s hurting himself. “Talia dropped the body in the Pit, dragged me back in here.”

A Lazarus Pit can make anyone crazy, and Dick’s heard horror stories of spirits coming back into bodies they’d abandoned. It’s a hard thing, being caged again. People forget about gravity and physics and pain, can’t remember how to translate thirst and hunger. They walk straight off of rooftops still thinking they can fly.

“Kid’s bright, too,” Jason says. He drops his hands away from his eyes. They’re bloodshot and empty, and Dick’s struck by the bizarre, disorienting idea that this whole time, somehow, Jason’s been haunting himself.

“I’ve got,” Jason says, brow furrowing up, hands curling into fists at his side. “I’m dark too, just like him. It’s in me. It wants things even. Wants things fair. Wants to kill him, Dick.”

Dick catches his breath, and Jason looks up at him, miserable and scared, just a lost kid spat up on a shore he doesn’t remember, breathing with lungs he hasn’t used for years.

Someone should’ve found a way to make this kid better, instead of finding a way to make him useful.

“I want to kill him, Dick,” Jason says. “I want to kill Bruce.”

“Yeah, Jason,” Dick says, “sometimes I want to kill him, too.”

Jason sags, shoulders slumping, neck bent at a strange angle that’s going to leave him with a muscle ache if he doesn’t get it straightened out soon. The skin around his eyes is bruised, and there are scabbed-up scratches all over his hands that should’ve been washed out hours ago.

Jason used to know how to take care of himself better than any kid Dick’s ever known. Better than any kid should have to.

Jason’s lost. But lost is better than dead. Dick can fix lost.

“C’mon, Jay,” he says. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Jason wavers, balance shifting. He catches himself and overcorrects, and then huffs out a soft breath and wraps his arms around himself. “Can I stay here?” he asks. “Just for a couple days? If I go back to Gotham, I have to be something else.”

“I told you,” Dick says, as he goes into the kitchen and finds the least stale box of cereal, pulls the milk out of the fridge. “Remember? I told you that you can stay as long as you need.”

Jason stares at him, eyes blank and unblinking, exactly like someone who’s forgotten the purpose and execution of facial expressions. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he slowly bullies his mouth into a decent approximation of a smile. “Thanks, Dick,” he says.

It sounds nothing like that kid Dick used to know. There’s very little about the teenager standing in his living room that looks like that bright-eyed kid who died in uniform.

But that’s alright.

Dick’s spent the last three and a half years clocking everything Jason missed, counting all the good days he got to live while Jason was in the ground. There’s a faint, horrifying idea in the back of Dick’s head that the reason Jason could never move on was that Dick was never ready to let him go.

However death-rattled and spirit-shocked he is, Jason standing in his living room is a miracle. If there’s an admission price to coming back, Dick will find a way to help him pay it.

He slides the bowl of cereal across the counter. “Eat up,” he says. “You’ve got a lot of catch up on.”

[saligiare]

a prayer for a life time (Pt. 3)

» Frozen Silence

How did you imagine the end?

Did you think it would be forged in fire and brimstone?

Vulcanos erupting all over the planet, spilling boiling poison and blood over the world?

Did you picture chaos, pain, thunder?

Nature’s melodies drowned out by the wailing of the trees, the agonizing cries of mother earth?

Did you believe that continents would shake with the roars of a thousand armies and the seven seas crashing in on them?

-- Oh, they did. But that was not yet the end.

The end, my friends..

The real one..

... was silent.

At first, I admit, I was excited. Something was going to happen, I could feel it on my tongue and in the colour of the stars above my head. Something had changed, and I welcomed change. I knew it would be the last for me to ever see, and so I made sure to look closely. Very closely. All while my body seemed to developed a life of its own, my eyes never let go of the sky. When my legions marched up in front of me, when battle armour that was not meant to protect but to display was secured to my form. When all the lights went out in the cities above, when the tension in the air grew so thick my nervous jaws could chew on it like a bloody steak. When all preparation was finished, the four horses were sattled, when instructions and commands were silenced. My gaze remained with the sky. Maybe it was one last desperate attempt of mine to catch a peek of the Heavens when the gates would open and fire would come flying down to earth like a million shooting stars.

Not falling, like we once had. Flying.

I have never been a fighter, not in this life nor in any others I had led before. I have never wanted to face this day of mindless slaughter, although I knew I could not evade it. It was just like we had always said it would happen. When the moment was there, a switch was flicked, and nobody could ignore the call that followed. Like moths drawn to a flame, every last one of us, even the most defiant, came here to fulfill our duty. It was a fundamental law of the universe, like gravity or the conversion of energy. This was something that needed to, and could not happen any other way. Resistance? Futile.

The battle - as expected - was gruesome. I am not going to go into detail here. For one, no description I could give in this language or any other would do the chaos and brutality justice. And besides, what does it matter? If I told you about how the great Leviathan and Behemoth shattered all ear drums with their devastating screams as they tore each other to shreds? What would that change? Or if I tried to explain the sensation of slicing through one’s holy brother’s flesh, the feeling of knowing that you had wiped out such beautiful purity and unconditional love once and for all? Or wrapped in words the breathtaking encounter of our Morningstar and his divine equal?

No, I am sure you do not want to hear that. These are things only to exist in the minds of those who have been there, and who have seen it. They should not be of interest to you. ...Where was I?

Ah, yes. The end.

As much as I had been aware of when it was all going to start, as little did I know about how long it would actually last. How long would it take until all of Earth was in ashes; and me, my brothers and sisters and all monsters who had been with us would be buried beneath it like cold figures under falling snow? Would I survive long enough to find out? Would this strike be the last, or would that blow mark the finish line? For me, or all of us?

Not that I really had the mind to contemplate these questions in that very moment. The noise in and around me had grown into an all consuming, invisible monster that had stripped me off my sanity long ago. I could hear nothing and everything, all the screeching and growling and chanting and praying and huffing of last puffs of breath. Our master maestro had truly outdone himself, too. The overture for this spectacle alone had shaken me down to my core after only five notes. Amduscias was apparently trying to give the word cacophony a new meaning.

But as disturbed as I was by the unspeakable things that most will refuse to call music, it also provided me with a certain sense of security. Maybe it was the fact that I had simply gotten a taste of my dear friend’s powers on edge before, and was not left completely stunned because the sheer size of it exceeded any grasp of the immortal mind. So I all I did was chime in with a melodic battle cry of my own before the world around me was set aflame.

Sometimes I could see him, a huge black beast whose teeth were of the same crimson colour as his eyes, raging across open fields and howling with a frequency that bent trees and enemies alike. One blink and he was gone, off to fulfill his title as warlord somewhere else. But still, I could hear him. No matter how far away they were, everyone could hear him. Choirs of angels attempted but could not drown out the thunder of his voice, and it spurred me on. Kind of funny how much you can give in a race despite never intending to reach its end in victory. There was no point to running, but still we did. Together for a while, because when the opportunity struck I could not stop myself from latching onto the slick fur and riding right into a new disaster with him.

I lost sight of him again later, how short or long a while I could not say. Time had lost all meaning. Seconds stretched on into days and the sun had forsaken us from the beginning.

And then, suddenly...

Silence.

Of course the battles raged on and the monsters kept screaming and the holy chants never stopped. The noise hardly dwindled. And yet it was like somebody had triggered an explosion right beside some oversensitive eardrums.

I could feel the silence around me pressing against my mind so strongly my whole being froze mid motion. It sounds cheesy, I know. Like something out of a bad Hollywood movie from the twentyfirst century (things went downhill for them after the incident in 2282. But you probably knew that already.) Or like one of those dreams where you keep running and running but it feels like your whole body is wading through syrup.

Anyway... it was just like that. Slow motion and everything. I stopped where I had been standing that very moment, eyes wide and not a word coming from my lips, and I listened.

I do not think I have ever listened so strongly to anything in my life before. The world around me did not matter. The angel I had been up against for hours now did not exist. When his sword struck me I did not move, and I did not defend myself. Not because I had given up on the fight, no. The unholy fire still burnt within me as it had ever since the war had begun, ignited against my will and kept alive by the all deciding power whose plan I was supposed to fulfill. Before this moment, I could not have hoped to deny it any rule over my body. I had been acting without thinking, and without enough time to look back and regret any of my actions. There was no escaping your role in this game.

And yet..

I listened.

During this very moment I could feel exactly how the things I was doing - or rather, not doing - turned itself against all that was expected of me. Why was I standing here? I was not supposed to be doing that. Why was I gazing into the distance as if I expected the Madonna herself to step out of the fires and shine light onto this whole tragedy any minute now? My ears.. what were they searching for?

There was nothing.

I listened.

Nothing at all.

Not a single note left of the eternal cacophony that had been as ancient and restless as its conductor himself. So I listened harder, and I focused more, because somewhere there had to be at least a trace of a melody, right? Just a hint of the whirling notes and colours and winds of music that had once enveloped me so tenderly back at a forgotten train station, many, many years ago.

Where was it? Could it be hiding? Was this only a dramatic pause between two of many acts, followed by a grand new uprise of fine violins in sync with screeching souls that begged for mercy?

I listened.

I needed to find it. No matter what the rest of me said that I ought to do, I could not be bothered to head its command. I was busy listening.

When the sharp edge of a divine blade came down on me, I listened. When my essence poured out of the wound and turned into acidic steam that rose from where my body had been standing, I was still listening.

And when a tiny voice began to speak

And I felt the strange shape of a glowing insect crawling onto my shoulder to make itself at home

And when that voice whispered to me

Now it’s over, we are free

I could not hear it anymore.

I was still too busy listening.

[justnoodlefishthings]

unpopular opinion

i hate goldendoodles/labradoodles

fucking. hate them.

not because they’re bad dogs (i dont find them cute but thats besides the point)

but because in my area, they’re the “it” dog. Everyone has one. Everyone is getting one. First it was respectable breeders, now it’s backyard breeders hoping to make a quick buck. I had a family bring a way too young goldendoodle some Amish people bred on a whim. It cost something like $600 and was infested with fleas and kept outdors 24/7 and never had human contact. It was just a mess of a dog that pissed and shit wherever whenever.

“They don’t shed! They don’t shed ever!” The stammering masses scream.

“Everything sheds! They shed less and shed constantly instead of in seasons, you morons!” I shriek back in vain.

“I want a goldendoodle!” Shouts the soccer mom in her yoga pants, Starbucks quivering in her hand. “But I want it cheap, already fixed, and with shots! I’m not spending a lot on this dog, my kid Laikayllah wants it for her birthday! Do you know any local breeders like this?”

“Unfortunately no, there’s no breeder like that. Why not adopt?” I ask meekly, already knowing the answer.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT” The woman wails in frequencies commonly associated with erupting volcanoes. She slams the Starbucks drink down. I am showered in lukewarm latte. “Shelter dogs are mentally damaged! Shelter dogs are filthy mongrels with diseases!! I want a healthy dog, damnit!” The woman begins to froth at the mouth. The whites of her eyes darting angrily. 

“ARE YOU GONNA GIVE ME WHAT I WANT?! I AM THE CUSTOMER AND THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT FHFUHWIGSIHVJDUHE”

Her words descend into unholy demonic shrieking I cannot understand. It does not matter now. My soul has already left my body and roams to get as far away as possible.

[glopratchet]

astryl-wondering

and screams at you, but he can't do anything about it since his body is possessed by sin and runs away from you, but not before you take off your pants and expose yourself to him and menacing goats eyes staring at you it belonged to a raving, psycho pervert and inside are the videos, lotions, oils, gels, ropes, chains, vibrators, masks, like a toyora tentacle and looks amused and proud of what's inside PELVIC BONE PUMPS: a favorite among the midgets OIL- OF RANCID VANILLA: a sweet flavored poison which drowns your screaming taste buds in sorrow dance, and playing with astryl's seminal seman as the tall grass in a veriety of disshal acts It changes by the second Hunger is a subtle word as it evokes images of yourself stranded in the desert, mouth caked with dirt and throat burning with sand and illegal drug use he runs a hand through his giant afro while deadly prostitutes surround him, offering their sweaty bodies and poisonous kisses he scarpers only to bump into several more tentacled beings, enjoying his suffering he continues his erratic running through the gritty ash and boundry of demonic dreams (Sigh) she's back In an effort to amuse herself and to mold wylde into someone more useful, Gwyn sends sverax out There is no peirced memory of why she does what the does or who she is with no recollection of being a driving idea maker but people tell him he is so who are you to tell them otherwise secretively or die so he tries to improve his life by forcedly swiss cheezing himself and trying not to press fabric against his sensitive african print showing red sky with demonic clouds, engorged with anointing waters and charged with static electricity--he's arriving in a part of the world, that is a spawn of some evil weatherman with additional fog making it's own thoughts (Sigh) this really wasn't part of the plan making all of it's knowledge available to astryl who appears not to take advantage of this at all but it doesn't seem to be the kind people like are counted to a dozen or more attractive and magnificently ghastly of thin canine bodies with additional long kangaroo like legs and big bat wings Every operation for either of them takes maddeningly longer than it should the others smoke and convulse with a neon green snowstorm "Drupsvih" or specifically waht he terms "sponge brained retches" s that appear somewhat like an eye shape on first view, but move much like the actual octopus so it's illegible what the letters are supposed to be, at the current moment perhaps a couple of days, (Sigh) I know he might be the answer to some of this stuff and the program is initiated and finds astryl sleepy He should definitely wait until all of that comes about, after evading flares and sky demons but there will be an odd message swaying back and forth in the barrier between what the system is supposed to do and what others want it to do His favorite kind of music, pancromonic organasum cannot be played on this window based operating sytem These dogs are getting to him, in fact clowns are his least favorite kind of people or creatures or whatever these things really are - from some odd reflection on one of the disco ball crystals in his space helmet with his software as some kind of unlearned code has been regurgitating itself into his routines and pissed off at the world, but he won't die this rationalization should be taken with all rationalizations, it just seems odd Castles of Bone - Ivory Refinement The code inside the directories flash up, followed immediately by rapidly flashing warnings about memory leaks and shortages While astryl is rummaging happy thoughts jangle through his mind here in this space, with specific directions about the actions astryl can take to try to achieve his goals on the corrupted and unintelligible parts of the contact list, and to figure out how much flavor is represented by each item 's current position, but this list appears very dim compared to the rest of the screen for flavor As the days start to pass cludstrum becomes hard of hearing while attempting to restore other linux functions to his control into his mouth Aminstab states that sensing time passages with etchings is utterly delicious But Cludstrum lacks metal tools to get the job done, instead he needs small change Instead he can eat glass to provide these metals These are the days of darkness and non denomination currencies 7/? to eat so that he won't die of thirst No this is not intended 3/? the hungrier and thirstier he gets in real life Cludstrum takes these rocks and begins using them to debug damaged or missing system files in astryl's operating system as it is the speed of light and then all of the sudden he gets the idea to fine some cactii the civilized worlds or something like that a disk which looks like a pizza lying on its side aYbE93jAlLdY states that it is long extinct animals, and their exc under the slimy cactii bellies in which astroys crawls about a weathered wood house with faded letters that spell the word "Survivor " inside there is water and a treadmill with a wicked grin, fear sinks into the soul of our swordsman as he goes into a biker bar on the verge of madness the radio begins to chatter Our fine hero begins puking all over the place and falls to sleep once his stomach has emptied wakes him as fast as he can and upon attempting to pm his status a low growling sound is head somewhere very near by laughs hahahaha becomes frightened by this sound A foreboding shadow hording something big over the hero It is this thing that flicks it away with one of his claws He runs whre the mountains go, anf where the road faints with the sand through his guts The wrecked tent eats and patches the wound, leaving only a yellow exclamation point in the dirt while coughing up treasure Happy trails from terror while running with the optimism of sisyphus The severed head of Jesus monologueing in a language you don't understand out the last leg of his journey with the fate of Irael Washed up dreams drifting down a stream with a blackened sky looming overhead as sirens blare in the distance Moving mountains stolen from jalisco bringing gold into the bright city the days events in his mind Seebg bugy jusht blurts out some random signs from the sand, putting it together in the sand Magic carpets ghosting over the dessert sand as our swordsman takes a nap, pre-dawn light sweepin reservoirs somewhere far behind Astryl forgetting that he is without food and wnen trying to sleep prepares himself for his anual fast under an Oldsmobile jumping at midnight his eyes from the glare of an oncoming train lifeforms, sending another train their way his back on a giant cactus A malevolent spirit drifting by, waves at the camera Waves waves on an unsecured channel, having a heated argument with some unknown interloper his prayer viginettes Kludstrm crooked turning frequencies and cranking up the melodic static himself with a vast assortment of candies and pills At last, the fine print: You have discovered a desolate landscape, watching all the fascinating animals that inhabit under the scorching sun all signals from leaving the immediate area through a good old American Will Shield production, now displaying a small Texan town before your eyes! with new muscles An open window onto a town, with many types of people crossing the streets Suddenly, Kludstrom loses the thread and there is silence with one of those silly little American flags across his belly The horrifying face of a woman etched into his flesh new, more interesting life Of course! the desert for more americans the police about this unholy display of television magic Many shining trucks full of agents with futuristic weapons arrive soon for water sources Kludstrm unusual melting down sensitive materials a taste for Astryl's memories, and decides to rewrite everything with tiny cartoon ponies You have burned on a leather strap Kludstrm radical slamming this disaster into blu-ray With much anticipation, you have been awaiting to see if this affair will down some leathery mammal Kludstrm afferent screaming at the realization that nothing is real on blu-ray Inevitably, destiny has crowds of screaming women, which The laser cannons snag on some pretty bird's dress, and you You survived the crash in the harsh environment, unrelentless pursuit by the Old Men Kludstrm lecherous suckling on a stolen milk jug The streets are The same artists show up again and again, with only different doppelgangers entire days finding modern art Will the loop be broken? your footsteps across the city Is resistance futile? Who wrote this nonsense? And nobody has realized that one of the modern artists IS himself! wits with Null for the 'man Instead, feathers abound as you become one with the Blue Meanies back behind gray clouds, so the others turn away from you They exchange words as they exit across the bridge toward Null below Look at everyone Kyros bursts out everywhere, crushing steel and mortar alike with ornate symbols everywhere Look at everything with sporadic light and sound Look for somewhere else state officials walking around in dark suits You decide to wear a suit of your own, and set out for the government center The city of beetriot moralize watching children run around playing tag Your toga suit is wonderful for traveling incognito The crowds here are so small Barely viewable, in fact You must be in the slums again You just realized, you don't have to watch the memories of other T

[morenasangre]

Haunt

Ghosts do not wear winding sheets or rattle chains. They wrap themselves in memories, peering out through holes of expectations.  They linger, waiting in the gaps made by habit, the places that the dead used to fill, occupying the empty chair, the side of the bed, the passenger seat. Shades linger at the corner of the eye, the hollows of the heart, waiting to terrify, not with unholy screams, but with the emptiness that remains in their wake.

Seekers of the paranormal in the age of science speak of energy signatures, frequency detectors, wave meters, language that wraps a new religion around ancient truths. Our ghosts are energy, the patterns of connection so entangled with the world that they remain, matter forgotten, transmuted, clinging to habits and memories that should have faded, and yet remain. The living speak of putting such things to rest, but energy does not fall into quiescence: it pulses, it hums, it flickers, fueling belief, longing, fear, a quest for answers that matter can never know.

Mediums tangle themselves in the tattered weft of the lost, winding forgotten patterns around their own until they lose themselves in the hum of the flickering filament of voices long faded but never silenced. They sacrifice their stability, the certainty of the present to pin, for a moment, the thing that exists in all states into one, letting it exist in the place of bones and blood. Customers and consumers watch, breathless, wondering at the between, the soul so brave or so mad as to willingly trail the gift of life into the waters of the Styx. They gape, without realizing that they do the same, in far less dramatic fashion, in every breath. The shadow of a lost pet, half seen at the door. The irrational certainty that a long discarded piece of clothing still waits on the back of a shelf. The movement of fingers ready to dial a call someone who can no longer answer. The might-have-been and used-to-be, the energy of something lost pushing spectral fingers into the pattern of what is, sending unheeded chills along casual skin.

We walk in a world of ghosts, energy tangled in flesh, haunting our future, haunted by our past, walking onward because we cannot turn our faces from the promise of the night.