#the street is called slaughterhouse lane

[oediex]

Loving animals is a privilege. To see the richness and beauty of their lives. It's in every cat sitting on a windowsill. It's every dog that people are walking. It's also the flies that lose their way in my apartment. It's the spiders that used to scare me. It's the hope-you're-safe I sent towards the rat I saw crossing the road. It's happy cows and pigs and chickens. It's all the animals that I know I'll never see, but that do exist in all their splendidness. All these individuals, all these lives, all these minds.

Loving animals is also hard. It's seeing their dead bodies plastered on billboards. On people's plates. In the butcher's window just around the corner. It's 90% of the grocery store I refuse to buy. It's knowing there is a street in my town where in one building they're saving animals deemed worth saving, and in the one next door their throats get slit. It's animal abuse that only counts when it's an animal we think is cute. It's fish not even getting the respect of being counted as individuals. Loving animals means living in a world full of murder. A reality so inescapable the only safe space is my own house. And the people I love are all complicit.

[radiostarsz]

@voxxisms [ So come with me and take the ride It'll take you to the other side ♪]

There is rift in Pentagram that every night seems that even the devil has forgotten.

Alastor has affectionately called it Homún because of the five streets that have been cooked inside the most important, the one he likes the most is Malebolge Lane. There, during the same moon, without fail, thr doul market wakes up once a month.

A labyrinth of alleys, unmarked doors, and street stalls that offer a little bit of everything to their consumer. There among the greasy shelves, under the neon lights and fake facades, steamed imp heart are being boiled. The locals call it "kuushur" for its extravagant flavor and its scent spiked with advertisements inviting you to drink the latest trendy liquor. But his bloody tastes weren't the only reason he was ther. Alastor find himself qute fond for that place. A spot he could enjoy that uncontrolled traffic that dragged all souls at its own discordant flow. And, of course, it reminded him a lot of home. He knew everyone's business and all the scandals.

As the most popular radio host in the Pride Ring, Alastor's mere presence was a magnet for attention. In the midst of the crowd, his smile seemed to widen when the attention of the curious turned to him. ❝Now...now... what do we have here? ❞ his voice stirss with static , his red ears bristled as they perked up. The Radio Demon, who had already noticed the newcomer ❝ fresh meat ❞

❝ HMMM....?❞ the radio demon tilts his head and leans fowar ❝ Why the long face, dearie? You look like you have been sent to the slaughterhouse, and, my! ❞ the demon's eyes glint and he raises a finger, the claw tapping the corner of his eye ❝ you indeed arrived there. ❞ he reached up and bopped the tip of his nose with the tip of one of his claw,

❝ You need to smile, dear. Smiling makes everything better! ❞

[two-crabs]

It’s raining in Dunwall. It’s always raining in Dunwall. The streets are slick and shiny, and oil lamps cast long pallid shadows across the walls. In their light, the mosaic of red-brown bricks that make up the city are all rendered in flat and frigid grays. At this time of night, Dunwall’s alleys and byways are quiet, except for the steady patter of rain or scuttling of rats.  It’s peaceful, almost. 

Maudlin is making their way across the bridge from Draper’s Ward, retracing a path that has become as known to them as the inside of their room or Madam Edwards’s parlor. Between the sound of rain as it hits the river, and the change in the cobblestones as they pass into the Distillery District, they can walk this way and back by sound and feel alone. 

They’re past the Abbey, skirting along the edges of the Slaughterhouse District, slipping through narrower and more precarious passages as they approach home, when they hear it. A long, low whistle, and then the laughing of men. It echoes down the lanes, and in the space between Maudlin’s ears, and sends a chill down their spine. 

“Hey, pretty—” a low gravely voice finds them, and Maudlin rushes to hide their hair under their coat. They’d let it down at Madam Edwards’s house, to relieve the beginnings of an exhaustion headache, and simply not thought about it since. “—what are you doin’ out here all by yourself?” 

Maudlin’s stomach drops. What were they doing? Madam Edwards had insisted they stay until morning. Hester had even offered to walk with them, but she had taken Madam Edwards up on her offer, and they couldn’t bear to deprive her of a single minute more of sleep. 

“Comin’ home from the Cat?” —and— “Don’t be shy now.” Two different voices, but both just as oily as the first, and when Maudlin finally finds the courage to look behind them, three men in long coats and heavy boots are silhouetted by the rain and scarce lamp light, keeping steady pace behind them.

Four blocks from the boarding house, faster if they cut down the narrow alley between the train tracks and the canal, but that would force them into even tighter quarters with their pursuers. 

“I have no money!” Maudlin calls over their shoulder, quieter than they want to. In front of them, the path splits three ways, and they have to stop to think—damn them for still having to think—about which way is the most direct route. In the breath it takes, they hear the men chuckle again, closer, and watch the shadow of a fourth emerge from one of the alleyways. 

Maudlin breaks left, but only makes it a few paces before something falls to the ground in front of them, and shatters. Heart pounding and limbs quaking, Maudlin presses their back to the soaked wall on instinct, and stares at the shards of a grey roofing tile scattered in the middle of the street. 

And then Maudlin looks up—

A hand on their wrist shocks them, gasping, into action, and this time they do run. They move as fast as they can through twisting passages and over uneven streets, blind to the turns they should be making, vision blurred by the rain and senses clouded by panic. They can’t tell if the footfalls behind them are getting closer, can’t tell if the fourth figure joined them, can’t tell which way would take them to a main thoroughfare, doesn’t know if a member of the city watch would help them even if they found one. 

Maudlin steps in a puddle a full hand deeper than it looked, rolls their ankle, and drops, wet and heavy to the ground, like a gamebird shot from the sky.  

Dunwall is a dangerous place, it was said, at port, and on the Abandon, and in Tyvia. And  all they can think about as the three men hover over them, faces black with shadow, is that this is not the kind of danger Maudlin needed to be warned about. 

Wincing, they haul themself up onto an elbow and try to back away. “I have…something… dangerous…” they pant, and reach for their pocket in a clumsy bluff. The men all snicker again. 

Rainwater soaking through their clothes, Maudlin stumbles to get their feet under them, but the cobblestones are slick and an uncontrollable shake grips their muscles. “Please…” they beg, exhaling and raising both quivering hands. “I don’t w—” 

The biggest man slaps a hand to his neck like he was stung by a wasp, and groans in pain, before collapsing to the pavement, his head smacking into the stone beneath him, inches from Maudlin’s knee. There is a hollow dart sticking out of his neck, its shaft a gently glowing green. 

The other two men jump back, one of them brandishing a small knife, and crane their necks to look up and down the alleys around them. They mutter something back and forth in what might be Morleyan and might be Serkonan, and might just be a Northern Gristoli so heavily accented as to be its own wretched dialect. Whatever it is Maudlin barely registers that they’re talking at all; there is blood rushing in their ears and a thought repeating in their mind: I am being watched. 

As suddenly as the first, a second man wails before his legs give out, falling into an awkward and painful looking heap. 

The last man, the one with the knife, turns to Maudlin, then, and points it at them, and hurls a stream of what they can now tell is a foreign language and, unmistakably, vile. He steps around the man at his feet, and Maudlin pushes away, until they’re practically hugging the wall, a screaming ankle, poor traction, and uncooperative limbs still preventing them from standing. 

In the midst of the unfamiliar abuses, the man stops and spits in Maudlin’s direction. It’s lost in the fall of the rain, but they shudder at the sight nonetheless.

And then, a series of jarring sounds: a brief rush of wind, the metallic singing of a sword being unsheathed, bone cracking under impact, and a third and final body dropping silently to the ground. 

It’s quiet again, in Dunwall, as Maudlin stares up at the figure that was hidden behind last man. In their fist is a sword held backwards, knife-like blade over one shoulder, butt end held ready to strike. Their knee-high boots are covered in muddy gaiters, and planted in a fighting stance. They are festooned with bandoleers, and beneath the hood of a heavy grey oiled-leather coat, the glassy eyes of a whaler’s mask stare down at Maudlin. 

After a moment of held breath, Maudlin grits their teeth and finally, slowly, manages to pull themself to their feet, still leaning against the wall for support, and never takes their eyes off the whaler. 

Hesitant, the whaler drops their sword, and sheathes it into a thick belt at their waist. They stand there, then, unmoving, and Maudlin can see their chest rising and falling with quickened breath. 

Maudlin swallows a few times, wipes the rain from their eyes. “Th-thank you, I suppose.” Even their jaw is shaking, so their words come out in an ungraceful tumble. “You…whichever one y-y—you are…t-tell your boss, also, thank you.” And Maudlin inclines their head in a hesitant bow. 

The whaler takes a step forward, an arm half-extended, but straightens again when Maudlin recoils at the movement. 

“I am not f-far…from h—ome.” Maudlin says, and tests putting weight on their ankle. It is unpleasant, but bearable. They look down at the men unconscious—or worse—at their feet. “I should-d not be here. If—when they w-wake up.” 

The whaler is silent—Not Pip, thinks Maudlin—and still, water dripping down the eyepieces and off the nose-like end of the mask. 

Maudlin turns, one hand on the wall, and takes a single hobbling step before looking back over their shoulder. 

The whaler has one hand lifted to the clasp at the bottom of their chin, where Maudlin knows the mask is buckled in place. For a moment, Maudlin is curious to meet another one of these ghosts that haunt the city. 

“Tell also…your b-boss,” Maudlin says, watching them. “That…that Miss Hester is staying with Madam Amruta Edwards tonight, yes? In Drapers Ward? In case he…wonders. About these things.” The whaler’s hand drops to their side, then, and Maudlin clears their throat. “And…in case that is why you were…here. Tonight.” Maudlin grimaces again, pain shooting up the back of their calf.  “She is not with me. She is…safe. And dry.”

The whaler takes another faltering step towards Maudlin, then looks down. Slowly, they raise their other hand, and place it in the center of their chest. In the closeness of the alley, Maudlin can hear their muffled breathing through the mask, and can feel the weight of significance in the gesture. But before they can say anything more, there is gust of wind, and the whaler dissolves before them like paper in the rain. 

Maudlin stands for a moment, already soaked to the bone, and hopes idly that the men on the ground are not dead, before starting the slow walk home. 

[handeaux]

A Lost Chapter From Cincinnati’s Irish History: The Sad Saga Of Dublin Street

“If ugliness were a cardinal virtue, angels might abide in Dublin Street.” Cincinnati Commercial Tribune 21 July 1849

When the ghost of Ginger Ryan appeared one night in 1903, Dublin Street, long neglected and criminally abused, was already doomed. Ginger, or James, as he was known to the local priest, had worked as an express man when he was alive. He delivered things by horse-drawn wagon. When he wasn’t working, Ginger was fighting. Sometimes he got into brawls while he was working. Ginger Ryan was the very embodiment of Dublin Street, so it was no surprise when residents of that woebegone lane claimed they saw Ginger’s ghost wandering around in the chill October dusk. Ginger’s ghost never spoke and eventually ceased its nocturnal visits.

As the name suggests, Dublin Street was a gathering place for Cincinnati’s Irish population. The street offered shelter throughout the time when “No Irish Need Apply” signs decorated many Cincinnati storefronts. Barred from all but the most menial occupations, many Dublin Street residents turned to crime. The infamous Nuttle Gang, Irish through and through, congregated here. Descriptions were rarely inspiring. Here is the Enquirer [23 November 1877]:

“Dublin street is a sort of nickname given to a hole in the line of Lock street extended north. It is thickly studded with houses whose tops scarcely reach to the level of the streets now filled in around it. The houses are principally old, weather-beaten frames, with rickety stairs and fences and general squalor to correspond.”

Despite its unsavory reputation, Dublin Street remains one of Cincinnati’s mysteries. It was a street, but it was also an informal district. “Dublin Street” was a catch-all term for the area just east of Bucktown where the poor Irish lived. It is intriguing that Cincinnati’s city directories, which include lists of every street in the city, make no mention of Dublin Street. That absence might imply that Dublin Street had not been dedicated or officially accepted by the city, and yet as early as 1845 the city appropriated funds to grade and pave Dublin Street.

It was hardly worth the expense. Dublin Street proper was a narrow alley crammed into a ravine running from the intersection of Lock and Eighth streets to the intersection of Court Street and Gilbert Avenue. Don’t bother trying to find it on a map. The whole area has been bulldozed and covered with a web of highway ramps. As it extended northeasterly, Dublin Street also descended into Deer Creek Valley, the old “Bloody Run” once bathed by the effusions from slaughterhouses upstream. When it rained, Dublin Street became a cesspool. The Enquirer [24 May 1871] opined:

“The Board of Health would do well to visit Dublin street and Gilbert avenue. There is about four feet of filthy gutter-water standing in the street, and the residents have to dam it out of their houses.”

It is unlikely the Health Department took the newspaper’s advice. No one wanted to “visit” Dublin Street and those people forced to do so, such as officers of the court, barely escaped to tell the tale. The Cincinnati Times-Star [22 November 1911] recalled one episode:

“Court Officer John Thomas had his troubles on old Dublin street, too. He recalls a time when he was called upon to arrest a youth named Thorp on a charge of theft. The boy cried and in a moment the street was filled with excited men and women. Thomas had to hold the boy and fight the crowd back. Gradually he fought his way to Gilbert avenue and dragged the youth up the hill while sticks and stones were showered upon him.”

As the anecdote implies, the northern end of Dublin Street, where it met Gilbert Avenue, was a hill, made steeper by every improvement to Gilbert as the main route to tony Walnut Hills. Eventually, Dublin Street ended in an embankment that acted as a dam, pooling rainwater and sewage downhill from Gilbert’s finely paved thoroughfare. The Enquirer [31 May 1871] reports the effects of one storm:

“The water rose rapidly on Dublin street, flooding the floors of most of the houses on a level with the street to the depth of ten or twelve inches, and pouring in torrents down into the basements in the rear, which are used by the poor residents in this locality for kitchens and sleeping-rooms.”

A pioneering sociologist, Wallace E. Miller, reported on his inspection of Dublin Street, part of a comprehensive look at the city’s “tenement districts.” According to the Enquirer [15 March 1902]:

“This district,” says Prof. Miller, “is popularly known as ‘Dublin Street,’ partly because of the predominance there of people of Irish extraction. The ground is very low. The drainage is very poor, indeed. The street is never dry. The houses for the most part are frame buildings that are not kept up to the standard either of comfort or appearance. The surroundings are not conducive to health either in summer or winter.”

When Dublin Street residents appealed to the city for relief, they were met with undisguised scorn. After years of requests for some sort of attention, whether a set of stairs to climb up to Gilbert Avenue, or more capacious culverts to drain pooled floodwaters, Dublin Street residents asked for an embankment to keep the Gilbert Avenue hill from sliding into their back yards. City Councilman William E. Patterson even accused Dublin Street grocer Florence McCarthy of theft because he had rebuilt his house on stilts to avoid the flooding. According to the Enquirer [22 June 1890] Councilman Patterson laughed:

“McCarthy, you’re a robber. Here you shove up a house on sticks and then ask me to have the city slide a lot under it. You’re the first man I ever saw that would steal dirt. I’ll not vote for it.”

What the city eventually did vote for was a viaduct to connect the downtown to Gilbert Avenue. It took years to decide on the route and to condemn properties along the way, and to agree on the contractor, but every alternative concurred on one item: Dublin Street would be wiped from the map. The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune [17 July 1909] exposed the city’s ulterior motive:

“It has been decided to condemn all the property in Dublin street, although all of it is not needed. The part not needed will be used for a park or a playground, it is said.”

When Dublin Street disappeared, there was no record of anyone shedding a tear. There is, today, a park in the general vicinity of the old Dublin Street. It’s for dogs.

[maryihem567]

Halloween in Pennsylvania

Miw story

5 . Royal werewolf ball

warning : violence at the end

Mary pov

We at the park with jess and re who studying , when cindy come to us " hey hello , i invite you to my halloween party, the thème is royal ball , do you come " she said. " i don' t know , maybe " jess said " ok and don' t do our scary makeup " she said show our face and go " we gonna to her party " re said " yeah this gonna be fun and we could do it our way " jess said " yeah i have an idea " i said

The party

We arrive at the party in the house who look like a castle , we all chic i made the look by myself . I have a bow, re have corset , jess have bones corset, katya have beautiful costume and lucie have dress with a skull crow. Re was my partner, jess and kat was together and lucie was alone . Cindy was shoked when she us , we dance to the rhythm of the violin when the light go out . This my idea , the dancer in the dance class came out look like a zombie " the halloween party begin " i said, cindy was terrifing and we dance " we gonna do a party too at our house next week " said jess,lucie look at us with anger " please lucie " said re " ok but don' t do problème " said lucie

We going out to the party, we laughing. When we see a black werewolf with red eyes who destroye house. He look at us " omg thats real werewolf " said jess " kat do you have a weapon in you car " i ask " yes " said kat " what do you have weapon in you car " ask jess " just in case " she said " eniways i need it " i say . I move toward to a werewolf " stay here " i said. I appear with fireball in my hands and i trow it the away to a car. The werewolf was more anger , kat give me the weapon " i have red eyes too" i said and the weapon come in flames , i attak the werewolf , in the house after i m in a field " where are you" i said , i hurt him and come back to the street. I see a man in street bleeding " bitch" he said " ho i know you look familiar die lane " i said " don't call me like that , i come to fight you" he said " really " i said . I transport myself and i take is long black hair and i hit is head in the Window car . " who gonna die now hun " i said . " mary stop " said jess. Kat take me " you hurt him its good now "she said , he was really banged up .

We back to the car of katya and drive to home " who the fuck its happening , who are you " said lucie " i m witch " i said " what " said lucie " and i think i all turn into witch " i said " yeah i know she is a witch , and i can transform into animal " jess said " really " said lucie " do you feel something in you " i ask " in my shop the object fly " said lucie " i m feeling a lil bit of force in my hands " said kat " and i know re that your hands are cold " i said turn look at re who was shoked again " great " said lucie with sarcasm " i m sorry, i didn' t want too" i said " ok but who the fuck is he, you gonna kill him" said lucie " he said to me to die " u said .

[sweeethinny]

Trick or treat, sweetie?

I wanted to do something for Halloween, but I'm a little skeptical, and spirit stories and these things don't really do much to me BUT thinking about Sharp Objects and all the True Crime cases I’ve heard, I managed to write this, and I think I did something decent thanks to the hinny discord that helped me choose the costume for our couple

It was Halloween day, which meant that almost all teenagers in town would lie to their parents saying they were going to get candy when in fact, they would be in the forest drinking, making out behind the rocks, or throwing themselves into the clearing that was there close by.

Ginny would be no different.

She had convinced Harry to wear a couple costume, not because it was just tacky and funny, but because his ass would look much better on Princess Leia's costume than it did on her. Also, she was much more suited to Han Solo than Harry.

‘’You look great.’’ She said, hitting his ass as soon as her boyfriend came out of the bathroom, still fixing his wig on his head

"This shit itches" Harry complained, sitting on the edge of his bed so that Ginny could straighten the clip that held the fake hair back. "You look hot." His hand also hit her ass, staying there. "Your mother would die if she knew we were like this.''

‘’She knows, and she said that as much as you look good in white, you should wear Han Solo’s clothes’’ Ginny kissed him quickly, squeezing his chin and sucking on his lip ‘‘I disagree. I think men in skirts are sexy’’

‘’I’m happy that I like your beauty standard’’ The boy stood up, putting the last details before looking at her ‘’Ready?’’

‘’I’ve always been’’ Ginny lifted her chin, taking his hand and pulling him out of the room. Of course Lily asked the two of them to stop for a photo, commenting to James about the two being beautiful and that Harry should start wearing a cape like that more often because it did so much for his shoulders.

‘’Behave yyou two! I don't want to go to the police station to take out two stupid teenagers'' James warned them before they left the house, which Harry promptly confirmed and calmed them down about the two of them being home before one in the morning (everyone knew it was a lie, but at that day they would all pretend to be true)

‘‘Han Solo who should drive’’ Ginny reminded him, sitting in the passenger seat while warning Hermione that they were already on  way

‘’If he had a driver’s license, for sure. For now, let me do it.'' Harry left his hand on her thigh, as he always did, following the old path they used to reach the clearing, passing through the town square where the children were having fun, gathered to start picking up sweets or throwing toilet paper at someone's house, and going straight until they reached the street of the pig slaughterhouse, to finally reach the road.

‘’Mione said she’s also going’’ She said ‘‘Do we have to buy anything?’’

‘’No, I left the drinks with Seamus yesterday. We just need to get our nice ass over there’’ Harry smiled ‘‘I hope you won’t be jealous when everyone looks at mine, instead of yours’’ Ginny laughed, denying and shrugging

‘’Feel free, I’m not jealous’’

‘’Ah, sure’’ Harry used all his sarcasm, barely taking his eyes off the empty road ‘‘It’s ugly to lie, Han’’

‘‘I’m not lying’’ She defended herself ‘’When did you see me jealous?’’

‘’Yesterday when that girl flirted with me at the market’’ He barely stopped to think, which made her a little irritated, even though she was amused

''Ah, so you admit it was a flirtation'' Ginny tossed her hair behind her shoulders, crossing her legs and looking out the window, seeing the city a little further away now ''I remember you saying it was just her way''

‘’But she’s like that. Ask Nev’’ She looked at him, arching an eyebrow and holding back laughter

‘’Nev didn’t have sex with Kimbely’’ Ginny argued

‘‘I don’t know’’ Harry shrugged ‘‘She is very friendly’’

‘’And what do you know about that?’’ She poked, still staring at him with a raised eyebrow and a smug smile on her face

‘’Nothing, just what-- What the fuck!?’’ Harry braked the car with much more speed than was recommended, the noise echoing down the empty road, seeming to shake the trees that lay there. Ginny bounced forward, her body being stopped by her seat belt, but her head hit the panel, causing an irritating pain.

When she looked up to look at the road in front of her, a curse escaped her mouth, staring at the woman standing in the middle of the road, all dressed in white while carrying an ax dripping with blood.

‘’Do you think we should see if everything is okay?’’ Harry asked, gaping at the scene, still staring at that woman

''I think you should back up and runaway from here'' She replied, scared to death ''It's the fucking woman in white, what are we still doing standing around?'' The woman in white , the urban legend of that small town that, a few years ago, had been the local of three brutal deaths.

The three girls were not even fifteen when they disappeared, one at a time; the first disappeared in the summer, some said that she had run away with her boyfriend, others said that she had killed herself in the clearing, and it was only after three weeks of searching that her body was found, on the roof of the pig slaughterhouse, all dismembered.

The second was in the fall of that same year, but she had not been gone for more than three days, and her body was found hanging from the traffic lights on the main street, exposed for all to see.

In the meantime, the parents were already in a panic, and no more children or teenagers were seen alone on the street, the doors were closed before six and no one left the house at night. For a city with less than 5,000 inhabitants, that was the biggest terror they had ever faced.

The third disappeared after a year, on the anniversary of the death of the first, she had disappeared after going for a bike ride on the way to a friend's house, and for months no one had any news or evidence of the disappearance. On the anniversary of the death of the second, her body was found half on the roof of the slaughterhouse, and the other half, hanging from the traffic lights.

It was chaos.

When a truck driver pleaded guilty - a few months of panic and terror for everyone in the city afterwards - everyone pretended to be more relieved. He never confessed the reason for killing the three girls so brutally, but it didn't matter, the population would pretend to be peace again. Even if one of the boys who lived on the way to the clearing, claimed that he had seen a woman in white carrying the body across the road, dragging it into the forest.

The police always denied it, saying that there was no chance of a woman committing something as horrible as that, but the population never let themselves forget the legend. Sometimes, someone said that he had seen a woman dressed in a great bloodstained robe walking around the city. Another said he had seen her in the clearing. Another said that she was always around the slaughterhouse ..

And now, there was a woman in a white dress full of blood, an ax in her hand, in front of Harry's car, looking like the devil as she looked at them.

Her hair was blond and looked dirty with dirt and something Ginny hoped was not dried blood, her eyes were big and dark, like two holes in her pale, almost skeletal face, and all over her bust were marks of scrapes and cuts.

‘’The car doesn’t want to start’’ Harry almost screamed, turning the key and seeing that nothing was changing

''What?! No! I will not die! This shit will call and we'll go over that motherfucker'' Ginny shouted in response, nervous to the last strands of hair for seeing that the woman was starting to walk, using her free hand to clean what looked like blood dry, from her cheek.

''I do not know! Damn!’’ Harry hit the steering wheel, and the horn barely seemed to startle her, and maybe, she was already less than two meters away from them

‘‘Where’s the knife I always leave it here?’’ Ginny opened each compartment, shivering as she rummaged through Harry’s mess looking for metal

‘’She has a fucking ax, what the fuck are you going to do with a knife? She will kill you before you can say the word ‘Please’ ’’ He looked at her, looking like a piece of paper so white, then turning forward and moving the key again

‘’Harry, she’s getting close’’ Ginny whispered, terrified that the woman could hear her trembling voice

‘’I know, I’m trying’’ The blonde was walking more and more, starting to laugh like crazy, loudly and laughing with her head back, dragging the ax on the road floor, causing a terrible sound of the blade on the asphalt

''Trick or treat, sweeties?'' Her voice sounded loud but at the same time it seemed to be whispered, her black eyes blinked towards them both, and the moment she got close enough to touch the hood of the car, lifting her ax and ready to break the windshield, Harry managed to turn the key.

The noise of the engine echoed and the tires sang with the sharp reverse they made, moving further and further away from the woman who now ran towards them

‘’Go over it !!’’ Ginny screamed, terrified of how fast she could be

''I'm not going to jail!'' He also shouted, changing lanes so he could accelerate and got out of there, but he couldn't avoid when the woman threw herself on top of the car, rolling over the hood and falling on the road, staying still dirtier than before, but not looking dead. She was still laughing out loud and was able to move, looking like she wanted to get up.

'’Don't you dare stop. I swear Harry, I'll kill you!’’ Ginny felt her heart racing to the point of thinking she was having an attack, barely able to breathe properly ‘’ Accelerate and let’s go ’’

‘’Shit Gin!’’ Harry stepped on the gas, much faster than the law allowed, and left, feeling completely shaky ‘‘Damn I think I’m going to pass out’’

''I swear to you, if I hadn't gone to the bathroom before we left, I would have peed in my pants'' She took a deep breath ''What the fuck was that?'' Ginny asked, still looking back as if she expected see her again

''I do not know! Where did that fuck come from?’’ He said

‘’From hell’’ Ginny said. Harry had the audacity to laugh, but he didn't seem very happy ‘’I need a strong drink’’

‘’Me too’’ He replied, parking the car in the middle of the trees and listening to the sounds of music and conversations, some headlights were on and you could see the bodies walking from side to side. Harry squeezed Ginny's thigh, as if to confirm that she was there. ‘’Do you want to drink and then have sex in the back seat? I think I need to discharge the adrenaline’’

‘‘I don’t think you’ve ever come up with anything as good as this’’

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

Can I Look, Miss O’Keefe?

PART SIXTEEN OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of parent death and family issues, we’re back to being super emo folks, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: Distance grows between Ella and Jess as they dance around forbidden topics and discuss their fears.

Crunchy snow and ice coated the streets of Stars Hollow, and large flakes fell from the dark, cloudy sky as Ella sat up, awake in the Gilmore living room. The monkey lamp on the side table offered a yellow glow. It was the early hours of the morning, New Year’s Eve. Christmas had come and gone, and the days before the return to school were filled with good books and movie marathons. Though Lane had gone home earlier, before they finished their last John Hughes flick, Lorelai insisted Ella stay on the couch for the night. It was past midnight and the roads were in no condition to be walked on. And though she was comfortable, probably more relaxed than she was in her own home, she’d tossed and turned for about an hour before deciding the effort was hopeless.

Instead, she took the copy of Slaughterhouse Five from her bag and read quietly, adding her own notes to the margins alongside Jess’s. Before, the room would have been drafty. But Luke had recently fixed the windows (again). Ella was cozy beneath a bunch of spare blankets, dressed in only a tank top and a borrowed pair of Rory’s sweatpants. The Gilmore women were tall though, and Ella had to cuff the pants at the bottom so they wouldn’t drag on the floor when she walked. Her eyes were starting to get heavy, but she was too engrossed in the story to consider putting it down. She had no idea what time it was, though it was still pitch black outside, when soft footfalls sounded on the stairs.

Clearing her throat, Ella marked a place in the book with her finger, and looked up to see a sleepy Lorelai. “Hi, sorry. Did I wake you?”

Lorelai shook her head slightly. “No, sweetie. I got up to use the bathroom and I saw the light was on. Wanted to make sure you and Rory didn’t start a midnight cult behind my back or something.”

“That does sound like us,” Ella said, cracking a small smile.

Lorelai sat down on the coffee table next to the couch, elbows on her knees. “What’s going on?”

Shrugging, Ella averted her eyes and gestured to her book. “Oh, just reading. Jess gave me his copy and I wanted to be done by our shift tomorrow. There’s just so much to argue about.”

“Well, it’s good to know I need to steer clear of you two tomorrow, but is that really why you’re up with Vonnegut at almost three in the morning?” Lorelai asked, tilting her head.

Ella hesitated a moment, but then sighed and clutched at her necklace. “I just...people are starting to get college decisions in the mail. And...I don’t know.”

“You’re gonna get in, Ella. You’ve got perfect grades, and a job, and-”

Scoffing, Ella nodded. “Yeah, I just...I’m gonna have to live at home. And I’m worried I’ll never get outta here.”

“Stars Hollow?” Lorelai asked, sympathetic.

She nodded again. “I mean...I wanna live in a city. Where every day I walk out the door to new people, and there’s new places to go and...I know and like this town. I do. But it stopped being home the day my mom died.”

Though she had passion in her voice and a smile still on her lips, Lorelai could see the sadness in Ella’s far-off gaze. It was something so striking and mature, something she never saw in Rory or Lane. Though Rory was an old soul in her own right, Lorelai could see Ella out on her own and doing just fine by the very next day. Lorelai leaned in a little closer, and the mothering tone came to her voice, which she had used on Ella more times than one in the past two and a half years.

“Ella, I want you to listen to me. You are smart, and talented, and you’re one of the strongest people I know,” Lorelai said, and raised a hand as Ella scoffed at her words. “I know it feels like it’ll take forever. But you have to be patient, okay? I know that one day you’ll get to have everything you want.”

Shaking her head, Ella swallowed back the shine in her eyes. “You can’t know that.”

“But I can. I have the sight,” Lorelai said mystically. “It’s a certified Gilmore talent.”

It made Ella chuckle a little, and Lorelai smiled in response. “Okay, Lorelai.”

“Sweetie, I spent years living in a shed, just me and Rory. I was a maid who worked eighty hours a week. But now, I have a house and I’m a manager and I…” she paused to sigh, gesturing to the room around them while she tried to articulate her thoughts. “Anything worth having is gonna take time. You’ll get there. I know it.”

Blowing out a soft breath, Ella leaned back against the pillows. “Okay. Thank you. Sorry for being such a freak.”

“Hardly,” Lorelai said, shaking her head. “Freaks are the only people worth being around. I think you already know that.”

“That I do.”

Lorelai rose from the table and draped the blankets up over Ella more. “Now go to sleep. You’ve gotta be in fighting shape if you’re going up against John Bender tomorrow.”

Ella scoffed. “I could take him on no sleep at all.”

Laughing, Lorelai made for the stairs. “I’d bet on you.”

“Hey, Lorelai?” Ella called, snuggling down into the couch and turning onto her side.

Lorelai turned. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For everything. I mean, I’ll never be able to-”

“Sweetie,” Lorelai interrupted, a kind expression softening her face. “You’re welcome. Now, dream of those Eggos we’ll feast on in the morning.”

.   .   .

Tuckered out from a long day of waitressing and literary sparring, Ella leaned her head on her crossed arms against the counter. She sat at a stool, already dozing by ten o’clock. Having finished up closing the front of house early, with Luke’s help, she waited for Jess to complete his dishwashing duties. He was back over the steaming vat as soon as his stitches were yanked out. Upstairs, she could hear Luke trying to set up his small, black-and-white TV. Her thoughts were becoming hazy when Jess finally emerged from the back, smirking.

“You told me not to let you fall asleep yet, Stevens,” he said.

She lifted her head, brows furrowed. “I can do what I please, Mariano.”

“Oooo, angry face,” he teased.

“Fuck off,” she grumbled, clearing her throat as she hopped down off the stool.

“Oh, this is bound to be an amazing night.”

Ella tugged on her coat and grabbed her bag. “Sorry, sorry. Just give me five minutes and I’ll be back to Little Miss Sunshine.”

Jess snorted a laugh. “I think that’s too ambitious.”

“You underestimate me, Mariano,” she quipped, smirking. Going back over to the checkered curtain, she shouted up the stairs. “Hey Luke, we’re leaving!”

“Okay!” he yelled back.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay and celebrate with you?” she asked, ignoring Jess when he shook his head at her. She’d been asking it over and over all day. No matter how much Luke insisted, she couldn’t believe he actually wanted to spend New Year’s alone.

Finally, Luke opened the apartment door and she could see him at the top of the creaky stairs. “For God’s sake, go. No drinking, drugs-”

“Or animal sacrifices, I got it!” she finished for him, smirking.

“And Jess will be back by-”

“Two!” Jess chimed in, tone flat and his mouth set in a thin line.

“Happy New Year!” Ella said, grabbing Jess’s hand and leading him towards the front door.

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke grunted, shutting the apartment door behind him.

.   .   .

Ella could feel the rumble of Jess’s voice, her head on his chest, as they laid together in her bed. The lavender candles were lit, and her old alarm clock was set for ten til midnight. A bottle of red wine sat in the fridge, the only alcohol left in the house by her father and Fiona before they went out of town to celebrate with Fiona’s sister in Nevada. They were going to toast when the clock on the stove struck midnight, then go back to her room to continue with Jess’s reading of Frankenstein. Originally, the plan had been to watch the Twilight Zone marathon all night. But, Adam and his friends had gotten to the living room first, playing video games on the modest TV. Being confined to her bedroom wasn’t so bad, but the challenge for Ella was staying awake. Jess chose the Mary Shelley novel simply because he knew how much she loved the story, hoping she wouldn’t fall asleep to it. Especially because he knew he wouldn’t have the heart to wake her if she truly fell asleep.

Shifting in her space, Ella caught a glance at the clock and saw it was a half hour to midnight. Jess was halfway through a passage, and she sat up with crossed legs and looked down at him, yawning.

“Jess?” she asked when there was a pause in the text.

“Hm?”

“Are you happy?”

His brows furrowed and he sat up against the mural. “Excuse me?”

Scoffing, she averted her gaze. “I just mean...working at Walmart and Luke’s and being...here? In Stars Hollow?”

Jess shrugged, setting the book aside and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not too terrible a place to be. And I plan to get out of Stars Hollow.”

“And go where?” she asked, eyes rimmed red with fatigue.

“Wherever.”

She smirked at his nonchalance. “And write?”

Again, he shrugged, sitting up straighter. “Maybe. I’ll live where I live and work where I work.”

Ella snorted a laugh. “Alright, Kerouac. So you’re not going back to New York?”

He shook his head, expression guarded.

“You don’t miss it?”

Though he seemed to hesitate a moment, his tone was firm when he spoke again. His eyes were somewhere else, staring over at the stack of records near her dresser. Led Zeppelin played low from the turntable, another effort to stay awake. “Miss my mom drinking herself into accepting random wedding proposals and barely scrounging up enough cash to keep the heat on?”

Her heart sank into her stomach, and, instinctively, she began to run her fingers through his hair. On break from school, she noticed he used gel and other products less and less. It was more relaxed and fell down a little over his forehead.

“No, I can’t say I’m bending over backwards to get back there again,” he said.

Ella nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry over,” he replied immediately, though not angry. He wanted to squirm under her touch, still uncomfortable talking about his past, but tried to relax.

“Hey,” she said softly, after a momentary silence. Jess finally met her eyes again. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

As she kissed him sweetly, slow and simple, he interlaced their fingers, finally losing the tension in his body. Skin against skin, she could feel the thin, pinkish scar on his hand. When she pulled away, he put his arm around her shoulders and she moved to lean back against him. His free hand was still in hers, and she touched the scar gingerly.

“And you wanted me to wait for Luke to superglue this up,” she said, with a teasing shake of her head.

He rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t have died.”

Ella sighed. “Anything’s possible.”

Jess bit his lip, feeling his heart twist slightly. Though he’d heard a fair bit about her mother, he still didn’t know how she died. From the way the townspeople sometimes looked at her, with so much pity and sympathy, Jess could gather it wasn't a ‘going gently into that good night’ kind of situation. Whatever had happened, it had been sudden, and it had been shocking. He pressed a kiss to her head and tried to keep his voice light.

“Well, it definitely wasn’t as Texas Chainsaw Massacre as the other time I got stitches.”

“The other time?” she asked, looking up at him.

Swallowing dryly, he held out his left arm for her to see, sleeve rolled up. On the inside of his forearm, near his elbow, there was a large, semicircular scar, pale and raised, but old. For a moment Ella wondered why she’d never noticed it before, but she knew if she wasn’t looking for it, she wouldn’t ever have spotted it.

“Jesus. What happened?” she asked, a crease between her brows.

“Cujo,” he said, smirking slightly. “This dog across the hall from us when I was five. I tried to pet him and he wasn’t on quite the same wavelength.”

“Fuck, Jess,” she said, shaking her head slightly. Ella squeezed his hand.

“It’s alright,” he said. “World bites you, dog bites boy. It’s chaos out there.”

She chuckled a little, nodding. “Sad but true.”

“Did you ever get stitches?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But, your dogs and needles are my oceans.”

“Oceans?” Jess asked.

“When I was seven, we went to Ogunquit to visit my grandparents. It was the only time I ever went to a beach, and I got caught in a riptide. I didn’t pass out or anything, but I drifted out pretty far before my dad got me. Waves kept crashing over me and I kept going under.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to cancel those tickets to Bora Bora, huh?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I’d recommend it.”

He smiled back, then they settled back down into the bed, Jess grabbing the book again. Before he started, however, he looked over at her in askance.

“Are you happy, Eleanor?”

“At this moment? Very.”

.   .   .

Storming into the diner, Ella shook the snow from her peacoat and unwound her scarf, huffing in frustration. January was frigid, but Ella’s blood boiled and her heart pounded in her ears. Schoolwork weighed down her bag, heavy with post-break assignments and reading. Once inside, the heat hit her pleasantly, but her nose began to run and her face flushed. She wasn’t surprised to find Jess not inside the diner; he’d been at school only twice in the past week and he was taking more shifts at Walmart than he once had. New Year’s had been a good night, a kiss at midnight and heads buzzing on red wine as Ella walked Jess back to the diner in fresh snow and the twinkling light of the town square.

But she could see something was bothering him. He didn’t leave quite as many notes in the margins, looked tired most of the time. And each time she asked him about it, he brushed it off, told her he was fine, and pressed a heated kiss to her lips. He didn’t call her as often. The recent disconnect between them, which she thought now might have begun even back in early December, did nothing to help her current mood. She went to the back to grab her apron, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears. If he didn’t want to talk, she didn’t need to talk to him. Whatever he needed to work out, apparently he wanted to do it on his own. It was what she said whenever Luke asked after him. She wasn’t his mother, and Luke was his guardian. It wasn’t her job to fix Jess. And, in her mind, Jess didn’t need fixing.

Luke stood behind the counter filling coffee mugs, and he nodded at her as she passed. “Hey, Ella. How are ya? You have a good week?”

“I’m just peachy,” she said back, no emotion in her voice.

Perking up, Luke furrowed his brows at her. She wasn’t known for being cheery, exactly, but usually she strung together more than three words. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said quietly, her voice a sigh.

“C’mon, kid, we’re well past white lies,” Luke said, hands on his hips.

Ella rolled her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, an ache behind her eyes. It wasn’t migraine level, but the throbbing pain made her feel a little sick to her stomach.

“They got married,” she said shortly.

“What?” Luke asked.

Sighing, she watched Babette and Maury walk in, waving at them with a tiny smile.

“Hey, sugar! We’ll need a minute to order!” Babette called in her breathy, gravelly voice. It made Ella feel marginally better.

Her serious demeanor returned when she turned back to Luke. “My dad and Fiona got married. In Vegas. They took a whole week off—who knows how they could afford it on an electrician’s and a hairdresser’s salary—and apparently they thought: ‘Hey, let’s get married, not tell anyone, and not call for the whole week. In fact, let’s not go visit Fiona’s sister,’ which is what they said they were doing in the first place.”

There was a beat of silence, and finally Luke nodded, mouth slightly agape. “Wow.”

“Yeah, so, that’s what’s wrong. There ya go,” she said, taking a rag and wiping down some water on the counter. She didn’t meet Luke’s eyes.

“Ella, I’m-”

She raised a dismissive hand to stop him. “Luke, don’t worry, it’s alright. They seem happy, so, who am I to care? And besides, now I don’t have to give some phony speech at the wedding.”

.   .   .

The Clash blasted through the boombox, and though it did nothing to help her headache, it, oddly, made her heart slow. It took her mind off the storm of emotions brewing in the pit of her stomach. What if they ended up having another kid? Would her father mend the mistakes of his past? Would he see the error of his ways? She doubted it. People didn’t change. They acted differently, but they didn’t change. Sometimes, she knew, all people wore disguises. It made fear rise up in her throat, and her hands shake. But, instead, she sang along to “Bank Robber” and drew a garden full of roses and wasps. On the other side of the page, there was a sketch of Fiona with a veil over her head. It almost made her want to cry.

Luke was closing up downstairs, and offered the apartment to her to hang out in for a few hours after her shift. He knew what her home could be like. And the practice felt bittersweet and familiar to her; she’d spent many an afternoon at Luke’s kitchen table, sketching in the days after she lost her mother. The words she’d spoken to Lorelai a few nights earlier spun around in her brain. She would never be able to accept her mother’s death until Stars Hollow was in her rearview mirror. Everything seemed to be a reminder. Though maybe it wasn’t location-specific. Maybe it’s just what happened when you lost someone close to you.

It was long past dark outside when Jess stepped through the door, blue vest in his hand. His dark hair was gelled and crazy. He kicked off his boots and a smirk covered his face when he saw her there. And no matter how conflicted she felt about him at the moment, a sense of relief filled her at the sight of him, and she couldn’t help but smirk back from her spot sitting up in his bed. She took her sketchbook from her knee, closed it, and dropped it on his nightstand.

“Hi,” he said, putting his vest in the top drawer of his dresser. As he walked by the boombox, he turned it down slightly so he could hear her.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t think you’d get off until later. I stole your bed,” she replied, scooting up to the head of the bed as Jess sat down on the end.

He shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Well, I can assure you, there was no tequila involved today,” Ella said, crossing her arms over her Sonic Youth t-shirt. “Just didn’t wanna go home yet.”

“What’s up?”

She shrugged and clutched at her necklace with one nail-bitten hand. “Long story short: That rendezvous to Nevada Fiona and my dad took? They got married by some Elvis impersonator in Vegas and just...didn’t tell anyone until yesterday.”

She thought of the night before when she had, in a rage, called the diner to tell him. Jess had been the only one she wanted to talk to, the only one her heart was aching for. Instead, Luke picked up and told her Jess was out.

Jess sighed, and put a hand on her jean-clad knee. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Ella ran her fingers through her messy hair and then took his hand in hers. She sat closer to him, until their knees were touching, but still she didn’t lock eyes with him. Jess could practically see the gloom radiating off her. Dark makeup painted her eyes. Black Doc Martens were discarded at the side of the bed. Her nails, polished in chipped black, were still bitten down. But, she managed a small smile.

“It’s fine. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Okay,” he said shortly, nodding. Finally, she looked at him and bit her lip. His face was drawn in fatigue.

Bringing her hand to his cheek, Ella’s gaze softened. He leaned into her touch. “Are you okay, Jess?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Seems like you’ve been working a lot. You haven’t been at school. I just...are you sleeping alright?” she asked, hesitant.

Jess did his best to straighten up, nodding. “Stevens, don’t worry. Luke just won’t let me keep the music on to sleep anymore. I’m still getting used to it.”

She nodded and kissed him, hearing the song switch in the background. “Okay, James Dean. Just checking.”

Clearing his throat to hide the flush in his cheeks, Jess cracked a smirk. Ella thought she saw something flash across his eyes, but she couldn’t identify it. For the first time since they started dating, there seemed to be a charged energy lingering in the silence between them. Without the music playing, Ella knew she wouldn’t have been able to handle it. She would’ve blurted out everything going through her head, but she refrained. Instead, she watched Jess’s eyes move to her sketchbook on his table, his grin widening.

“Can I look, Miss O’Keefe?” he asked.

Pursing her lips, she let her worry fade and took on a teasing air. “Only if you don’t laugh.”

“Never.”

[madamhatter]

diverse-hearts inquired: ❛ can’t you see, what you’re doing to me? ❜ - chu angst  for  ships  sentence  prompts | accepting | @diverse-hearts​ continued from this prompt/spin-off plot written by mira. 

A/N: Reader’s discretion is advised. Sophie’s inner thoughts (and subject matters in BSD + plot points in HMC) will allude to human experimentation). 

Nicotine plastered her palate for the past two months. Suspiration for the young woman, partially, resulted in a cloud of smog choking out from her throat. However, having a cigarette dangling from her gritted teeth wasn’t ever her fashion. The taste and scent of someone else’s regretful, nerve-ticking smoking clung to her clothing and respiratory system. 

As kindly as the habit-holder was in opening windows and turning his head at every opportune moment, the frequency spiked upon the most recent and inopportune news. A hard grit of a cigarette against his teeth, blazing azure eyes obscure and chill in the moment when together they shared solitude. 

Distraught struck his chords whenever their initials conversations referenced their “arrangement.” As lightly as it could be put, the heiress didn’t shed her bluntness for those moments. Yet, hesitance overwhelmed her as she bit down her tongue, only speaking of two things, amicability and tolerance, towards the shared future. 

Perhaps it was the recoil of what little she comprehended in his reactions. Was he not infuriated, if not more, about his freedom being stripped? For any affiliates within the organization or friends outside of the Port Mafia’s association, the executive hadn’t shied from his own moral weakness to his hubris, wealth, and dalliances. 

Was fidelity to the Port Mafia that blinding to these sacrifices? Was there nothing wrong with these arrangements as she saw it? Was there not a better option to be stuck with, of all people? ...Or was she too presumptuous to think this upcoming commitment would impede any of his bad habits? 

Why was she hung up over it when she expressed it differently? She should’ve swallowed her pride and be thankful for these conditions. It could be utterly worse. 

He has a name, Sophie. Consciousness reminds her, refusing to drag herself longer into the dissociative state of her memories. He didn’t do anything to be referred to so loosely and detached. This wasn’t any of his doing. 

Chuuya Nakahara.

A slow glance over her shoulder, shadows swallowed the entire penthouse. The slim figure of the Port Mafia executive not too far from her, shiny expensive black shoes moving and advancing towards her. The conversation before led down the steep slope of unanswerables and undesirables Sophie and Chuuya never wanted to know. Argument imploded and she refused his questions, preferring cold, soaked clothes rather than her raw, bleeding heart exposed. 

As for how they ended up once again here, it was simple.

The day now was drenched in the heavy afternoon rain. All seemed lost when the storm clouds gathered, but her plans were cut short by fate itself when Chuuya rushed her out from the incoming downpour and into his abode.

They only exchanged a momentarily glance across the street, walking down paralleling sideways with vastly different companies. Businessmen versus accomplices, loud, coordinated conversation versus discretely ominous orders, legal prowl versus illegal jurisdiction. Practically night and day.

His posey was escorting him back to his penthouse while her associates were planning for a midday celebration. Plain-faced, the heiress held herself back and prevented herself from frowning. Yet, a spark came when she finally saw him. A smile couldn’t be produced, but for once, she was lively to be in someone’s acknowledgment -- even if so far away. 

Their faces were going to pull away, keeping to their lanes. Alas, once a droplet traced the rim of his fedora, and their eyes continued to connect, something moved in him--. Had the men around him commented about her? Had they been aware? Or was she simply that pathetic looking for him to intervene? 

She wasn’t sure if the men around him alluded to their current situation, or if Chuuya would’ve mentioned it. Fiancée and fiancé had never left their lips, but she could only imagine how strange and unreal it would’ve sounded from someone else’s. Yet, it didn’t change the fact his presence parted the sea of men around her and he escorted her elsewhere.

In the gallant gesture, only the chilling stillness of reality sank for them as they entered his penthouse. It was now only two hours into this abrupt and extensively maddening clash that she placed her foot down.

He had questions, demands, just like her, but some could be answered with theories. Like how was it them, of all people, and not the mafia boss’s son? Sophie’s own conclusions were drawn immediately if only based on her little understanding of what Chuuya possessed underneath his regal facade. 

An experiment, that is what all of this is. A volatile cocktail boiling and pooling in a cauldron of uncertainty, brewing something unexpected and unknown that could spell for disaster. Her thin sharp white nail tips prick against her thumb, brows lowered as she grimaces in her thoughts. Seeking out an umbrella to take out, she bites down her tongue. Two abilities with no limits, one so desirable and in the spotlight, while the other went barely noticed for years...until the right people wanted it. 

What more can they want? It’s only a sick experiment. It isn’t like they haven’t wanted to perfect ability users before. I remember it. I remember how she tore apart multiple men and stitched them together like dolls, trying to find the most powerful and most manipulable creation. And then there was me, both the obstacle and main ingredient to her damn slaughterhouse she called an experiment. 

For all that she thought of, memories blurred in crimson and cold blades pressed against her neck, her body violently shivers. But, she catches herself as she holds onto her arms, bowing her head. Inhaling deeply, keeping her thoughts together, it was only then that Chuuya caught up, still unwavering to stop what had now dissolved into an argument. 

“Mister Nakahara, enough!” Sophie pinches the bridge of her nose, snapping her head back. Both of her brows raised with her facade having a crack. Ferocity and turmoil twisted in her stomach, yet it had been long dormant since her teenage years. However, at this rate, it wouldn’t be long until she completely reawoke. 

“I understand that the entirety of what is going on is beyond bewildering as it is irksome! There are plentiful and reasonable doubts about why this arrangement exists when there is no precedence for it to exist.” Her nostrils flare.

“I just don’t see why you’re reacting the way you are reacting the way you are!” Her hands finally drop, balling into fists. Out of every damn person in the world, why did it bother him--? Her eyes fix to the ground, blinking. The issue itself already was that it was her, of all people, he had to be with... But, he didn’t-- he never responded with offense until I spoke.

Every precaution to veil her emotion vanishes, her eyes, first sharp and defensive, now growing wide and clueless. Her lips part but, nothing comes out. All that she fixes on, besides his face, was the familiar heat and touch of his lips from encounters before. 

Several instances of conversation during formal hours didn’t compare to the off-hours. All this started with her near devotion in dragging his intoxicated body to safety. Their encounters grew more from that besides her constant worry -- it was a back-and-forth of small discoveries and exploration about what normal life could’ve been.

The shenanigans outside of their duties -- their relationship branched off the moment she recognized him as Chuuya, not Chuuya Nakahara of the Port Mafia. To her, it broke away the mundane and harshness of their lives, when they were just two young adults who wanted more to experience, to live on the brighter side of a life they couldn’t have. 

A slowly stirred pot of friendship that might’ve meant..

No, no! That’s not right. So what if we-- and ..No! Stubbornness would always refuse to negotiate with the truth.

❛ can’t you see, what you’re doing to me? ❜ The question of the hour, Chuuya finally asks. And what a fitting question that could’ve been redirected to him.

Swallowing her doubts, the young woman finally exhales and stares at the redhead. Her hand slowly reaches for the doorknob. For a moment, her eyes look to the ground and she frowns, before returning to face him. 

Forwardly, and pushing all emotions aside, she finally spoke. 

“No, I can’t,” she lied.

Intent on leaving, she unlocked the door, throwing in her final words. “It was a pleasure to be in your company today, Mister Nakahara. I do need to get used to it. Take care of yourself.” 

At this rate, she wasn’t going to stop and look back. Her mind was flooded with the reality of her emotions, something she would never dare accept. If she did, she might’ve finally broken her facade.

[headoverhiddles]

Disorderly Conduct - Sheriff Brackett x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: You go visit the Sheriff at work to see if you can have a little fun. Then, an unexpected visitor forces you to improvise. 

@chari-koopa

It was one of those days.

Most days at work were alright-- Sheriff Brackett liked to think he did an on-par job taking care of Haddonfield and all its good citizens. Of course, today was one of those "fuddle days," as he called them. Everything was sticky and hot, as things got in early July, and Mrs. Bedford had called him all the way to Sicamore Road across town to settle a dispute with her neighbor over their gardening line. (He supposed it was for the best-- it had escalated to bearing arms by the time he got there.)  

Now he was looking forward to settling in with his sticky bun in the office until someone else decided they needed him.

"Sheriff?" Brackett looks up, clouds in his mind parting.

"Hm?"

"You've got a... visitor."

The fact that the officer was on the verge of a smirk should have tipped Brackett off, but one thing he was not was observant. Who could it be now, come along to bother him?! Maybe Jed from Strawberry Lane, come to complain about Mr. Adler’s golden retriever fucking up his lawn again. God forbid he have an actual issue to deal with as Sheriff, instead of riding around the streets in a god damn fur cap looking like Davy Crockett.

He headed right into his office, taking off said hat and sunglasses...

"Christ almighty!"

You smile up at the sheriff as he shuts the door quickly, checking out the frosted glass to see if anyone else saw you.

"Calm down. Nobody saw me but deputy hoo-hah in there. Shouldn't there be some more cops on duty? This is a station, right?"

"What are you doing out lookin' like that?!" Brackett blurts, cheeks reddening. You bite your lip, squishing your tits together a little more. You love making him squirm, and the remodeling of your school outfit did just that.

"I thought I'd come say hi."

"And what've you done to your uniform?" he sighs, swallowing as his eyes come to rest on your extremely accentuated bust. You had made a few modifications to your school uniform to make it sexier. The skirt now barely grazed the bottom of your ass, and your buttons were popping beneath your breasts.

"I made it my own."

"You sure did that," he nods. He rubs his face as he sits down. "You do realize everyone I work with is gonna think I'm a pervert now."

"Not if I were to beg you to fuck me loud enough for them to hear."

"(y/n)!"

You giggle. "Not that I would."

"You better not--"

"Fuck me!"

"Hun, I'm warning you!"

"What're you gonna do, daddy?" you breathe, spreading your legs. His eyes go down to your panties, which he can see are soaked through. He undoes the top two buttons of his uniform, takes a deep breath, and stands you up.

"Wait for me at home, I won't be long."

"But daddy, I need you now," you moan, grabbing his arm. He escorts you to the door, rubbing your shoulders.

"Sweetie, daddy's at work, he's working, he'll be home so--" He stops mid sentence and gasps a little as you reach forward to palm him through his pants. "What are you--" he gives a raspy moan, and you feel him get hard in record time.

"Mmm, I don't think you want me to stop now, do you daddy?" you blink up at him, licking your lips, and he grabs your arm, leading you over to his desk and hastily undoing his belt buckle.

"You drive me wild, princess," he mumbles, hurriedly taking himself out, "But you know it."

"Mhm," you smirk wickedly, and lick your lips at the sight of his cock. "Fuck, I want it, sir."

"Real fast," he groans, parting your thighs and grabbing onto one, "And I mean real fast." Just then, the landline on his desk rings. "Jesus," he mutters, and you press the speakerphone button for him, taking your top off. "This is Brackett!" His voice sounds so strong and authoritative when he's at work, and it turns you on. He knows that, so he tries to play it up.

"Sheriff, there's a Doctor here, said he came from Smith's Grove or somethin'. Got a big problem he's gotta talk to you about."

"You don't sound too urgent about the whole thing," Brackett says, moving your hips closer to his.

The deputy's voice lowers. "That's because he seems like a bit of a wingnut.” 

"Can it wait for five minutes?" Brackett blurts in exasperation.

"Only five sir?" You can hear the deputy smirking. Brackett looks less than amused as you giggle and bite your finger.

"That's enough outta you Ronson, keep quiet and tell him--"

Just then, there's a flurry of hard knocks at the office door.

"Sheriff!" It's a British voice. "Sheriff, I really must see you, it's a terrible emergency!" More banging.

"Oh hell," Brackett mutters, looking down at your spread out body on his desk, and you decide to take matters into your own hands. You slip under the desk, and Brackett follows your lead, quickly taking a seat in his chair just as the doctor bursts in.

"Haven't you ever heard of waitin' to be invited in?" Brackett snaps, covering his lap up, and the doctor puts his hands up.

"Sheriff, I'm Dr. Loomis. I'm so sorry for my lack of etiquette but this situation doesn't have very much time for it, I'm afraid."

"Alright doctor," Brackett says, sitting back, "I'm all ears. What's this big problem you've got for me?"

"Well you see, 15 years ago, I looked after a boy--"

As Loomis begins to speak, you put your hands on the sheriff's knees. He chokes a little as you get closer...

"--the devil's eyes. I couldn't get through to him. Now, he is dangerous, and he is coming here! Tonight!"

You swallow his cock down.

"Oh my god," Brackett breathes. Loomis hesitates.

"...Yes well, I'm glad you see the gravity of the situation, to be honest I feared you wouldn't--"

You go back to sucking him, almost gagging as you take him to the back of your throat. You start to dig your fingernails into his thighs through his uniform pants as you bob up and down on his cock.

"--and I believe he will make first for his childhood home."

You lick a stripe across the head.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"My thoughts exactly, Sheriff." You go up and down, tightening your lips and playing with the vein on his erection, teasing him, working him up to an amazing orgasm.

Brackett white knuckles the desk with one hand, and taps your head with the other. He's close, you can feel it by the way he's thrusting ever so slightly into your mouth. You're so wet, trapped there between daddy's legs choking on his cock, pushing him to the absolute edge. You'd get it in bed later for this.

Doctor Loomis pauses his rant for a moment, eyeing the sheriff's appearance. His eyes are fluttering closed, and his breathing is heavy.

"Are you alright?"

Brackett opens his eyes under Loomis' suspicion.

"Just fine. Just... just fine, keep going." The encouragement is obviously directed toward you, and you go even faster, bobbing and licking.

"--Right. Anyway, I know for a fact Michael will be coming for his baby sister, and the other houses in this town are in danger as well."

Brackett gasps and looks up as you suck him perfectly. "Lord above."

"Indeed, so you agree this is the course of action we must take before he finds her?"

You suddenly feel Brackett's fingers twist in your hair as he comes in your mouth with a slight grunt. His neck strains and he squeezes his eyes shut, then regains his composure. "Um. Doctor, I'm gonna level with you. I haven't heard one word you've said." Loomis looks extremely frustrated. "Now how about...” Brackett holds up both hands, “We try things again, over burgers later. My treat. I know a damn good joint just up the bend here--"

"Burgers?! While we're eating burgers and chatting, Michael Myers will be out turning your little town into a slaughterhouse!"

"Okay--”

“Slaughterhouse, Sheriff!” 

“Alright! At least give me ten minutes to... to right myself, dammit!"

"Very well."

You start to tuck him back up.

"Oh, by the way," Loomis turns with a slight smirk, "The lovely little thing you've got under the desk is a right looker." He winks your way, and you blush. Brackett starts to babble, so the doctor waves it off. "What, you thought I'd never gotten a blowie under the table before? Nothing like it, eh? And she seemed quite the talent, judging by your entertaining facial aerobics." He laughs at Brackett's embarrassment. "You've not exactly got the best poker face, Sheriff." His face gets serious again. "We'll be in touch tonight."

The door closes, and Brackett gets up, running a hand through his hair.

"Dammit... (y/n)... this was not appropriate!" he moans, making sure his fly is done up.

You can see the conflict in his face easing away as you bite your lip and act coy.

"Daddy didn't enjoy it?"

He sighs, looping his arm around your middle and drawing you close. "I enjoyed it, princess. I enjoyed it a lot. Too much."

You smile, cuddling into his chest and tucking your hands into the back pockets of his uniform. "Love you."

His heart melts a little. He can never resist you. "I love you too, babygirl. So much. Now you get home safe." He gives your ass an affectionate little squeeze under the short skirt, and fits on his furry Sheriff hat. "Seems like the punishment for all that'll have to wait til tomorrow night."

[tryingthisfangirlthing]

Love, I’ve Missed You In A Million Different Ways (How Is It We Keep On Writing Tragedies Together?) 3/14-ish

So this is part 3 of my @bering-and-wells-exchange gift for @dapperdorian. This section kept kicking my behind, and I wasn’t happy with it, and I wasn’t happy with it but I had a plan to follow. Then last Friday this idea bowled me over out of left field, and exploded, and, well. It’s not soft longing, more like love-hate if-things-were-different repressed wanting.

And warning for implied major character death.

3. She Would Have Given Everything

“I never want to meet you like this again,” Myka bit out, as she grabbed Helena's hand and jumped them both to the posh downtown lobby.

“Well, don't.” Helena lifted one shoulder. “But I'm not going to aside while this plague wrecks —”

“If you want to help, go back to your lab. You are not Batman! Or — Batwoman, or whoever. One of these days you're going to get yourself killed!” And her concern was very real. “And we need you.”

“That fictional, pouty, playboy Gary Stu? I should hope not!” Helena arched her eyebrows at Myka, and shook her head in disbelief. “Quite frankly, I’m offended that comparison even occurred to you.”

“Helena, you’re not super,” Myka hissed at her. “And you have —”

A loud crash rang out above them. Amanda lost the queen, Steve relayed.

On it. “Get out of here, and stay out,” Myka grit out, and jumped back to the 10th floor to search.

Higher than 10. Lower than 15. Closer to 15 than 10, judging by the volume of the ruckus. Coming higher, the screech of metal giving way under demonic claws. Elevator shaft. To confirm, she jumped several floors below, inside the shaft.

The breathless cold split second of everywhere and nowhere. Steeling herself against the rushing freefall, the crack of instinctual panic. Up, look up.

A forked tail, lashing out, snagged her hair. That was too close. Closing her eyes, she jumped again, without those strands.

Solid ground beneath her feet, no large, otherworldly presence. Definitely in the elevator, and climbing, Steve. Then she fell onto all fours, shaky and ungainly.

“Don't you dare talk to me about risking my life, when they need you just as much.” A fierce murmur in her ear, and a vial was pressed against her hand. “Drink.”

Myka opened her eyes just in time to see the swarm zipping up the avenue, Helena flinging a grenade through the doors into the middle of it. Flame burst through the cloud of insects, licking at wings and silencing snapping mandibles. The drones are here. First wave is dealt with, but I'm sure more are coming.

Copy. She could hear the frown in Steve's thoughts. We need to get these civilians out of here.

Shit. Why here? It wasn't a food source for them (like the nuclear power plant just outside of town) or on the dessert menu (the slaughterhouse just across the county line) or even a good nesting spot (no large, open yet enclosed spaces).

Better here than almost anywhere else.

Office complex on a Saturday afternoon… You have a point.

Helena gave you something. Take it.

You connected her, too? A miserable foreboding rose in Myka's throat. But that was Pete's forte, not hers.

Safer for everyone, was all Steve offered in return.

Myka uncorked the vial and drank. It didn't happen all at once, but her heartbeat slowed, a new energy crackling through her veins.

“What was that stuff?” She called across the lobby, as she straightened, rising, testing her knees.

“Just something I cooked up.” Helena didn't spare her a glance, alternating between eyeing the street outside and a flashing gadget on the marble floor by her feet.

“Yeah, I got that much.” She rolled her shoulders, checking for any aches.

“Well, I don't have the time to explain the various biochemical process involved,” Helena snapped.

“I was pre-med, you know. Before —” She couldn't find the words for — this madness. “Before.”

“I didn't know,” Helena said, softly, and Myka glanced at her to find that this was the thing that got her attention. A kind of sorrow flickered in her dark eyes, and Myka almost wondered if she was thinking, for the first time, about how her screw-up had affected everyone else.

“I was going to switch over to pre-law, though.” She brushed it off. Something wasn't quite right, that last jump... “Just didn't know how to tell my dad. You kind of saved me the trouble.” Because the last thing she needed was pity from Helena fucking Wells.

Helena nodded, slowly, her gaze wandering back to the now-beeping device at her feet. “I was a writer, before.”

“I know. Writer, inventor, physicist, all-around polymath.” Something in Myka's back clicked into place, and all her atoms lined up again — sans that shorn-off hair, she reminded herself, running the flat of her hand over the ragged curls. If she tried to reassemble more matter than was there…

You good to go?

“You did?” There shouldn't be that much surprise in Helena's voice, for someone once heralded as “the next Jules Verne or Anne McCaffrey.”

Yep. Where?

They were all huddled in a storage closet on the 7th floor, eight weekend workaholics, one with a kid. Steve was shielding them all from the creature’s senses for now, but the effort it was taking him slipped over their connection as well.

She jumped.

Her eidetic memory served her unspeakably well, in that she could look at a roomful of people and know exactly how to reassemble them. “Hold hands, please,” as she reached for Steve to one side of her and the nearest civilian on the other. “No disabilities or chronic conditions?”

“Asthma,” one person in the back piped up.

“All right, noted. Shouldn't be a problem.” Where to?

Mall on King and McAllister. It was a good three blocks away, but definitely out of any potential lines of fire. Myka drew on all of her focus, making sure she could feel every one of them, and jumped.

A tug, a weight on her core, as she pulled them all through spacetime. Head throbbing as she stumbled onto the sidewalk, relief flooding her as they all came through all right.

Steve tightened his grip, wrapping his other arm around her to keep her from falling.

“You all right?” It was almost startling to her his voice in her ear, after so often hearing it only in her head.

“I will be,” she muttered.

“Get back to Helena. She'll look after you while you rest up.”

“Where the hell are Amanda and Pete?” Why couldn't one of them babysit me?

Amanda and Pete are doing their damn best to contain that queen.

Fine.

So she sucked in a breath and, for the third time in what felt like as many minutes, she jumped back to that damn lobby.

— Nearly jumped straight into Helena, careened as she shifted her destination at the last moment, Helena's startled “oh!” loud in her ear. Helena's arms wrapped around her, as she came to rest back in reality again.

“We've really got to stop meeting like this.” Low, teasing, warm breath feathering over her ear.

Myka let herself sag forward. “Screw you,” she muttered.

“You're quite welcome to, some other time.”

I just learned way more about you two than I ever wanted to know.

Butt out, Steve! And she could practically feel the same sentiment emanating from Helena, though she couldn't hear her directly.

Kinda hard right now, sorry.

Helena guided her over to a red leather armchair, Myka dragging her feet one after another. At least she shouldn't be crucial to operations now, unless they needed a scout, or bait, or a distraction, or a split-second save. Again.

Myka bent over, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, hair falling in her face. Tried not to feel awkward about how sweaty and gross she was making this nice chair.

She heard Helena make some kind of round of the space, muttering to herself, occasionally British-cursing at some gadget or another. Myka focused on breathing and getting her presence of mind back together. “Do you have another of those pick-me-ups?”

“I wouldn't recommend downing two in a row. Just as a precaution.”

“Okay.” She lifted her head, to watch as Helena watched the exterior. A laptop balanced on the narrow reception desk, floor plan of the building on display, surrounded by sporadically flashing indicators of, something, and now Helena paid this more attention than the view through the glass doors. A flash-bang off too their left, building lights flicking off and on again.

“Don’t tell me it wrecked the wiring somewhere.” God, she was getting fucking tired. Both right now, and of everything.

“That was me. Experimental chain-lightning —” she caught Myka's look — “Basically a super-sized swarm taser. Or, attempt at one.” And she frowned at the screen.

“Great. You can knock them out. Now just jump this entire freakshow back off of our plane of existence already.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ve been working on that for the past six months already.” Annoyance crackled through her voice.

“Stopping every time there's even the faintest hint of an attack to go play Batman with us. Or really more Lois Lane.” Myka knew only the vaguest of comic book premises from Pete. “Or whoever the mad scientist is. Harley Quinn, maybe?”

“That is low.” Helena's voice shuddered.

“I Encountered Aliens From Another Dimension,” Claims Sci-Fi Author; The Secret Crackpot Side of Physics’ Once-Rising Star; Local Mother Institutionalized, Daughter Left In Uncle's Care; the headlines flashed across her memory, and she hung her head again. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

Helena hummed vaguely. It wasn't quite acceptance, but Myka would take it.

“Hopper, 10 o'clock.” Myka winced inwardly as its spines shattered window after window on its zigzag path through downtown, thirty feet above ground.

“Yes, I'm aware. How about you do your job and let me do mine?”

“Sorry,” Myka muttered. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“Well, you're not.”

“Besides, I wouldn't exactly call this your job.”

Can you cool it with the negative energies? Really making things difficult right now.

Myka braced herself against the loud crash upstairs, the way the entire building shivered with the massive impact. Then a loud kreee! and the creature fell to the ground outside, writhing on its back, screaming as it melted from its eight feet down.

“What — did you coat the building in something? Or has someone nearby recently discovered the power of carapace-melting acid shields?”

A wicker café chair across the side street burst into flames, and Helena swore.

“Is that going to melt through the cement?” It would be kind of impressive, if this stuff did manage that trick. It almost looked like it might, as the hopper's screams died down to a low gurgle.

“It shouldn't. It should only react with their exoskeletons but —”

“It is.” The last of the creature utterly dissolved, the acidic puddle was now carving itself its own little pondspace, sinking into the middle of the intersection.

A loud sigh. “That's what field tests are for.”

“Really? In the middle of the city?” Myka stood, outrage eating away at her. “You are utterly insane.”

Helena glared at her, and for a split second, Myka was glad those piercing eyes weren't super. “Oh, I'm sorry. Was I supposed to try to lure one out into the middle of bloody nowhere, and try to contain it, just to douse it in deadly acid, and hear from you, ‘Oh, how could you, Helena? Doing something so dangerous on your own! You're too important and we need you working to fix this reality tear you ripped open! Think about others for once!’” Her mimic was mocking, annoyingly accurate for this familiar argument.

Stop it! Fight later!

If Helena heard Steve, she gave no sign. “Myka Bering, my entire life right now is dedicated to mitigating the damage I've caused the best I know how, and I don't need to hear that sort of shite from you!”

She was trembling; they both were. In her peripheral, something burst into flames; a window shattered, smoking shrapnel landing on the entryway carpet.

Myka kicked at it, and found herself swaying on her feet. “You set up a minefield?”

“A perimeter, yes. For the moment.”

“How did you lug all this stuff here on short notice?” She hadn't helped, she knew. She rested her head in her hands again.

(“You're lucky,” she'd told Pete once. “Your powers don't leave you feeling like three-day-old roadkill afterwards.”

“Yeah,” he'd returned, “but I do spend like a billion dollars on tacos now. Besides, your powers are way cooler. I'm just a regular guy who can lift a bunch of stuff.”

Myka had surrendered to eating sugar, in frankly pathetic quantities, to combat the roadkill feeling the day after. But that wasn't something she'd tell anyone, not even her best friend.)

“I didn't.” As nonchalant as you please.

Myka looked up, narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means, I didn't do it on short notice.” Helena glanced at her, assessingly. “It means I set up what I hoped would be a lure for the queen here. And once she's gone, the rest should shut down.”

“And you didn't think to tell us?” Myka was striding across the room, reaching out to — to strangle her, probably.

She told me, Steve interjected, and Myka stilled. The queen showed up sooner than anyone expected.

Pete might as well have punched her in the gut. We're supposed to be a team, Steve.

“Because we all know how much faith you have in my work.” Helena's momentary smile was saccharine, sardonic.

She sucked in a breath, mind reeling like the colors of a kaleidoscope. “I think you're brilliant,” slipped out. “You've got no common sense, but you're a genius. You're, what, five years older than me? And you've found a whole other universe. Like something out of one of your books.” Helena was staring at her, lips parted, that melting gaze soft and shocked. “You're just so stupid, and — and selfish sometimes!”

Incoming! Myka!

She didn't think, just grabbed Helena and jumped.

But she didn't have some destination in mind, not even some instinctive concept of safe harbor. And now Helena was here with her, floating in this strange stillness that was everywhere and nowhere. I'm sorry, she tried to say, but there was no way to hear.

Like being thrown under a waterfall, she had no idea which way was up, air, reality. Stupid stupid, she'd been so tired, she hadn't thought — and wasn't that what she always accused Helena of? The thing she feared most in herself, the not thinking, the reason for rules... So stupid.

She tried to picture the lobby they'd left, tried to reach for any anchor.

There, that stupid blinking laptop, she could almost see it, and the ceiling plaster raining down, the claws and slobbering mandibles and gigantic five-eyed frilled head.

She pushed Helena away, through, pushed her to stumble onto that ragged red lobby carpet, and then Myka met the monster's claws.

It thrashed, resisted, but Myka yanked it with her, and then everything went black.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

What other fandoms are you familiar enough with to use as an AU prompt? Pokemon Trainer AU? Homestuck AU (they'd still probably die but at least there are lots of ways to come back to life)?

I’m not that familiar with Homestuck, definitely not enough to do an AU.  I read the novelizations of the Pokemon show as a kid but never saw the show or played any of the video games.  I did play the super-obscure Pokemon board game, but most of my trading cards were printed in Japanese (I had a strange childhood), so my experience there is, uh, probably not quite overlapping with everyone else’s.

Anyway, if you want list of all my fandoms… Boy howdy.  I don’t think I can come up with them all.  However, I can list everything that comes to mind between now and ~20 minutes from now when I have to end my procrastination break and go back to dissertating.  So here it is, below the cut:

Okay, there is no way in hell I’ll be able to make an exhaustive list.  But off the top of my head, the fandoms I’m most familiar/comfortable with are as follows:

Authors (as in, I’ve read all or most of their books)

Patricia Briggs

Megan Whalen Turner

Michael Crichton

Marge Piercy

Stephenie Meyer

Dean Koontz

Stephen King

Neil Gaiman

K.A. Applegate

Ernest Hemingway

Tamora Pierce

Roald Dahl

Short Stories/Anthologies

A Good Man is Hard to Find, Flannery O’Connor

The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka

I Am Legend, Richard Matheson

Dubliners, James Joyce

Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes

Who Goes There? John W. Campbell

The Man Who Bridged the Mist, Kij Johnson

Flatland, Edwin Abbott

I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream, Harlan Ellison

To Build a Fire, Jack London

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, Ambrose Bier

At the Mountains of Madness/Cthulu mythos, H.P. Lovecraft

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle

The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving

The Martian Chronicles, Ray Bradbury

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, E. Annie Proulx

The Curious Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson

Bartleby the Scrivener (and a bunch of others), Herman Melville

Books (Classics)

Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neal Hurston

The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The Secret Garden, Francis Hodgson Burnett

Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson

Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte

The Secret Annex, Anne Frank

Nine Stories, J.D. Salinger

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Tom Sawyer/Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain

East of Eden, John Steinbeck

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee

The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison

Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut

The Stranger, Albert Camus

The Call of the Wild, Jack London

Brave New World, Aldous Huxley

Lord of the Flies, William Golding

Atonement, Ian McEwan

1984, George Orwell

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith

The Iliad/The Odyssey, Homer

Metamorphoses, Ovid

Journey to the Center of the Earth, Jules Verne

The Time-Machine, H.G. Wells

The Tempest, Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night, Romeo and Juliet, Henry V, Hamlet, MacBeth, Othello, and The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare

Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, Thomas Stoppard

Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett

Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood

Books (YA SF)

Young Wizards series, Diane Duane

Redwall, Brian Jaques

The Dark is Rising sequence, Susan Cooper

The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Diana Wynne Jones

The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis

Abhorsen trilogy, Garth Nix

The Giver series, Lois Lowry

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams

Uglies series, Scott Westerfeld

Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbitt

A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula K. Le Guin

Song of the Lioness, Tamora Pierce

A Wrinkle in Time, Madeline L’Engle

Unwind, Neal Shusterman

The Maze Runner series, James Dashner

The Enchanted Forest Chronicles, Patricia C. Wrede

Sideways Stories from Wayside School, Louis Sachar

Ella Enchanted, Gail Carson Levine

Ender’s Game, Orson Scott Card

The Phantom Tollbooth, Norton Juster

Coraline, Neil Gaiman

Among the Hidden, Margaret Peterson Haddix

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, Avi

Interview with the Vampire, Anne Rice

Poppy series, Avi

The Secret Life of Bees, Sue Monk Kidd

Tithe, Holly Black

Life as We Knew It, Susan Beth Pfeffer

Blood and Chocolate, Annette Curtis Klause

Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie

The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum

Haunted, Gregory Maguire

Weetzie Bat, Francesca Lia Block

Charlotte’s Web, E.B. White

East, Edith Pattou

Z for Zachariah, Robert C. O’Brien

The Looking-Glass Wars, Frank Beddor

The Egypt Game, Zilpha Keatley Snyder

The Book Thief, Markus Zusak

Homecoming, Cynthia Voigt

Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

The Landry News, Andrew Clements

Fever 1793, Laurie Halse Anderson

Bloody Jack, L.A. Meyer

The Boxcar Children, Gertrude Chandler Warner

A Certain Slant of Light, Laura Whitcomb

Generation Dead, Daniel Waters

Pendragon series, D.J. MacHale

Silverwing, Kenneth Oppel

Good Omens, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

Define Normal, Julie Anne Peters

Hawksong, Ameila Atwater Rhodes

Heir Apparent, Vivian Vande Velde

Running Out of Time, Margaret Peterson Haddix

The Keys to the Kingdom series, Garth Nix

The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, Joan Aiken

The Seer and the Sword, Victoria Hanley

My Side of the Mountain, Jean Craighead George

Daughters of the Moon series, Lynne Ewing

The Midwife’s Apprentice, Karen Cushman

Island of the Aunts, Eva Ibbotson

The Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern

The Ear, the Eye, and the Arm, Nancy Farmer

A Great and Terrible Beauty, Libba Bray

A School for Sorcery, E. Rose Sabin

The House with a Clock in Its Walls, John Bellairs

The Edge Chronicles, Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell

Hope was Here, Joan Bauer

Bunnicula, James Howe

Wise Child, Monica Furlong

Silent to the Bone, E.L. Konigsburg

The Twenty-One Balloons, William Pene du Bois

Dead Girls Don’t Write Letters, Gail Giles

The Supernaturalist, Eoin Colfer

Blue is for Nightmares, Laurie Faria Stolarz

Mystery of the Blue Gowned Ghost, Linda Wirkner

Wait Till Helen Comes, Mary Downing Hahn

I was a Teenage Fairy, Francesca Lia Block

City of the Beasts series, Isabelle Allende

Summerland, Michael Chabon

The Geography Club, Brent Hartinger

The Last Safe Place on Earth, Richard Peck

Liar, Justine Larbalestier

The Doll People, Ann M. Martin

The Lost Years of Merlin, T.A. Barron

Matilda Bone, Karen Cushman

Nine Stories, J.D. Salinger

The Tiger Rising, Kate DiCamillo

The Spiderwick Chronicles, Holly Black and Tony DiTerlizzi

In the Forests of the Night, Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

My Teacher is an Alien, Bruce Coville

The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles, Julie Andrews Edwards

Storytime, Edward Bloor

Magic Shop series, Bruce Coville

A Series of Unfortunate Events, Lemony Snicket

Veritas Project series, Frank Peretti

The Once and Future King, T.H. White

Raven’s Strike, Patricia Briggs

What-the-Dickens: The Story of a Rogue Tooth Fairy, Gregory Maguire

The Wind Singer, William Nicholson

Sweetblood, Pete Hautman

The Trumpet of the Swan, E.B. White

Half Magic, Edward Eager

A Ring of Endless Light, Madeline L'Engle

The Heroes of Olympus, Rick Riordan

Maximum Ride series, James Patterson

The Edge on the Sword, Rebecca Tingle

World War Z, Max Brooks

Adaline Falling Star, Mary Pope Osborne

Six of Crows, Leigh Bardugo

Children of Blood and Bone, Tomi Adeyemi

Parable of the Sower series, Octavia Butler

I, Robot, Isaac Asimov

Neuomancer, William Gibson

Dune, Frank Herbert

The Miseducation of Cameron Post, Emily M. Danforth

The Martian, Andy Weir

Skeleton Man, Joseph Bruchac

Comics/Manga

Marvel 616 (most of the major titles)

Marvel 1610/Ultimates

Persepolis

This One Summer

Nimona

Death Note

Ouran High School Host Club

Vampire Knight

Emily Carroll comics

Watchmen

Fun Home

From Hell

American Born Chinese

Smile

The Eternal Smile

The Sandman

Calvin and Hobbes

The Essential Dykes to Watch Out For

TV Shows

Fullmetal Alchemist

Avatar the Last Airbender

Teen Titans (2003)

Luke Cage/Jessica Jones/Iron Fist/Defenders/Daredevil/The Punisher

Agents of SHIELD/Agent Carter

Supernatural

Sherlock

Brooklyn Nine-Nine

Angel/Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Firefly

American Horror Story

Ouran High School Host Club

Orange is the New Black

Black Sails

Stranger Things

Westworld

Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt

Movies

Marvel Cinematic Universe

Jurassic Park/Lost World/Jurassic World/Lost Park?

The Breakfast Club

Cloverfield/10 Cloverfield Lane/The Cloverfield Paradox

Attack the Block

The Prestige

Moon

Ferris Bueler’s Day Off

Django Unchained/Kill Bill/Inglourious Basterds/Hateful 8/Pulp Fiction/etcetera

Primer

THX 1138/Akira/How I Live Now/Lost World/[anything I’ve named a fic after]

Star Wars

The Meg

A Quiet Place

Baby Driver

Mother!

Alien/Aliens/Prometheus

X-Men (et al.)

10 Things I Hate About You

The Lost Boys

Teen Wolf

Juno

Pirates of the Caribbean (et al.)

Die Hard

Most Disney classics: Toy Story, Mulan, Treasure Planet, Emperor’s New Groove, etc.

Most Pixar classics: Up, Wall-E, The Incredibles

The Matrix

Dark Knight trilogy

Halloween

Friday the 13th

A Nightmare on Elm Street

The Descent

Ghostbusters

Ocean’s Eight/11/12/13

King Kong

The Conjuring

Fantastic Four

Minority Report/Blade Runner/Adjustment Bureau/Total Recall

Fight Club

Spirited Away

O

Disturbing Behavior

The Faculty

Poets

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Marge Piercy

Thomas Hardy

Sigfried Sassoon

W. B. Yeats

Edgar Allan Poe

Ogden Nash

Margaret Atwood

Maya Angelou

Emily Dickinson

Matthew Dickman

Karen Skolfield

Kwame Alexander

Ellen Hopkins

Shel Silverstein

Musicals/Stage Plays

Les Miserables

Repo: The Genetic Opera

The Lion King

The Phantom of the Opera

Rent

The Prince of Egypt

Pippin

Into the Woods

A Chorus Line

Hairspray

Evita

Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog

Fiddler on the Roof

Annie

Fun Home

Spring Awakening

Chicago

Cabaret

The Miser

The Importance of Being Earnest

South Pacific

Godspell

Wicked

The Wiz

The Wizard of Oz

Man of La Mancha

The Sound of Music

West Side Story

Matilda

Sweeney Todd

Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

Nunsense

You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown/Snoopy

1776

Something Rotten

A Very Potter Musical

Babes in Toyland

Carrie: The Musical

Amadeus

Annie Get Your Gun

25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

The Final Battle

Rock of Ages

Cinderella

Moulin Rouge

Honk

Labyrinth

The Secret Garden

Reefer Madness

Bang Bang You’re Dead

NSFW

War Horse

Peter Pan

Suessical

Sister Act

The Secret Annex

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Disclaimer 1: Like a lot of people who went to high school in the American South, my education in literature is pretty shamefully lacking in a lot of areas.  (As in, during our African American History unit in ninth grade we read To Kill a Mockingbird, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn… and that was it.  As in, our twelfth-grade US History class, I shit you not, covered Gone With the Wind.)  There were a lot of good teachers in with the *ahem* Less Woke ones (how I read Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Bluest Eye) and college definitely set me on the path to trying to find books written/published outside the WASP-ier parts of the U.S., but the overall list is still embarrassingly hegemonic.

Disclaimer 2: There are a crapton of errors — typos, misspelled names, misattributions, questionable genre classifications, etc. — in here.  If you genuinely have no idea what a title is supposed to be, ask me.  Otherwise, please don’t bother letting me know about my mistakes.

Disclaimer 3: I am not looking for recommendations.  My Goodreads “To Read” list is already a good 700 items long, and people telling me “if you like X, then you’ll love Y!” genuinely stresses me the fuck out.

Disclaimer 4: There are no unproblematic faves on this list.  I love Supernatural, and I know that Supernatural is hella misogynistic.  On the flip side: I don’t love The Lord of the Rings at all, partially because LOTR is hella misogynistic, but I also don’t think that should stop anyone else from loving LOTR if they’re willing to love it and also acknowledge its flaws. 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Scenes from the Bangalore Literature Festival

Jasmina Tesanovic:

I still have Indian dust on my shoes from the city of Bangalore, where I spent almost a week at the international literary festival.

I was mind-boggled at the scale of this national Indian event: literature, politics, activism, feminism. There was music and even street art, but what a crowd. Sixteen thousand highly literate participants, roaming from one outdoor stage to another, and engaged with every atom of their souls.

Literary culture persists in this part of the world, where people still believe that leafing through books is a transformative spiritual experience that can change the world.

Authors of the first world, beset with Internet and economic crisis, often seem like plastic vanity-toys kept past their sell-by date, but maybe what they lack most keenly is a creative readership. As a passionate reader, I often claim it is more difficult to read a book well than it is to to write one. As a less passionate writer, I know that even one ideal reader is enough to motivate a decent book.

The beautiful literary carnival -- held on the broad, leafy grounds of one of Bangalore’s finest hotels, an oasis of glamor and privilege -- contrasted with the crooked streets of Bangalore where the sacred cows, pariah dogs and torrents of honking traffic live with a passion for survival. This was not my first visit to India, so I was ready for the epic scale of grandeur and abject poverty, but it was still a culture shock.

The jet-set’s digitized skyscrapers tower like phantoms over vast bazaars seething with a seize-the-day human vitality. It’s reflected in Indian literature, where the English language, global yet somehow frail, towers over sixteen vernacular publishing scenes. In the Bangalore festival, professional writers traded erudite quips in English because thats how one gets it done, but they were singing in the English-speaking choir, and they knew it. The seething, vibrant life in those modern Indian streets, half chopped coconuts and half cellphone components, is never taught at Oxford.

All over the world we women haunt conflict zones, and India, which is vast, has plenty of them. The gunfire tends to sound the same but the conclusions are different. The national patriot woman works to support her brave men at war; the peace activist withdraws support from men who aren’t brave enough to refuse the uniform and leave the slaughterhouse. There is one common ground, though: whether life is called “peace” or “war,” the women always struggle in a trench.

The ongoing #metoo scandal in India is briskly spreading all over the country through social media. It started with celebrities -- actresses and directors, but spread through media centers, universities, publishing, wherever women get sexually harassed by wealthy and powerful men, which is to say, all over the place. It’s evidence that complaints of Western feminism have a universality, and wherever women don’t speak up about the suffering of women, it’s not because the oppressions aren’t noticed; it’s because the complaints are repressed. It’s taboo to speak up, and even a small distance in cultural mores can make the speakable unspeakable.

Women are keenly attuned to what can be said in what conditions. At the festival, one female mystery writer complained that she simply can’t bear to read a “classic English whodunnit novel” which is set in Scotland. All those careful cultural assumptions about who gets battered to death by the butler with the fire iron, they are fine in a homey English county but just don’t work in distant Glasgow, which seems as incongruous as Bangalore, almost. This may be indeed be a literary problem, but it doesn’t explain why crime and detective fiction thrives inside India for Indians, because it does.

At the festival, a female science fiction writer complained: why must I be targeted as a woman when I write fiction about science? I may be a biological woman, but why should that restrict what I can write? I remembered that as a young writer, and as a young woman, I shared her frustration, but I gave it up as soon as I realized that my writing didn’t emerge from some gender-neutral science laboratory.

When women were not on the page, it was an absence. My favorite writers of novels missed the women's perspective. My own life experience was visibly missing from classical novels. The women characters were lame, my world was not that world of canonic literary classics, I was invisible there, and not withstanding the fact that literature was my safe place, and a source of worldly education, I was miserable. I had no power, I had no words. My experience and wisdom had not been captured in those novels I read. It was in my body, as in every other living woman through history, outside of genre, in a gender gap.

As a woman without a fatherland and without a mother language, my own literature had to be born ante literam. The luxury of writing without a gender also has a gender, it is male “mainstream.” But the stream is not the ocean, and dams can break.

In Bangalore I did a “book signing” without books! My books have never been in print in India, but I do have website with many of my books online, and an old fashioned pen in my hand. A handshake, a signature, and a hug for a book from a website address! It was fair barter.

Bangalore has many temples, small and big, fancy and clean, awkward and trashy. The whole city conveys the impression of a temple on the move. The pavements are broken by banyan roots, the skies are speckled with vultures, the soil is overrun by small but aggressive striped squirrels, so watch your step!

The traffic is Los Angeles times ten, with no lane or crossing discipline. Pedestrians including the numerous cows and dogs simply amble through the noisy torrent of motor-rickshaws, endless scooters, bikes ringing, cars honking, trucks blasting. Traffic policemen occasionally shake-down the worst offenders, who can either appear in court or else cough up half the cash on the spot, for cop’s pocket. Somehow the whizzing vehicles respectfully avoid killing elderly women and small children.

In the old summer palace of the Sultan Tipu, a historic structure which in Italy would be guarded relentlessly with video cams, the local people sat on the gleaming wooden stairs, meditating, solemn. A little girl danced as endlessly as an extra in a Bollywood movie, gently applauded by her neighbors.

It is a densely crowded, communal life in India. Most every task that might be done by one person in the West is parceled out among three or four people, then performed for an audience.

In a coffee shop I simply asked for a cold soda. The waiter conveyed the request to the boss; the owner gave the waiter a key to the refrigerator; another waiter opened the fridge, yet another retrieved the bottle and, finally, my original waiter, with a flourish, brought it to me, opened it and carefully poured it out for me. Then I drank it in a rather showy fashion, because, after all that fuss, I felt obliged.

People want to listen and to serve: in my hotel the Don’t Disturb sign is replaced by the written board: Please let us clean the room soon, our pleasure is to serve you. As a writer, as an activist, I confess I feel much the same.

I feel edified and cleansed after being in Bangalore. In India, people check on your condition all the time, emotionally and materially. Then they certify your stay with a nice red stamp, ink in your passport, or henna on your body.

https://boingboing.net/2018/11/08/scenes-from-the-bangalore-lite.html

[paperswanted]

PETA calls for fish friendly Swedish street signage

PETA calls for fish friendly Swedish street signage

PETA calls for fish friendly Swedish street signage … The residents of Slaughterhouse Lane, in Newark, UK, are doubtless watching developments with interest. ®. Sponsored: Minds Mastering Machines – Call for papers now open.

View full call or article at Google Alert – call for papers development

[morganbelarus]

Black Sabbath: ‘We hated being a heavy metal band’ – BBC News

Media captionThe Birmingham street where Black Sabbath's sound began

After several world tours spanning five decades, heavy metal pioneers Black Sabbath are bringing it to a close in the city where it all began. How did Ozzy Osbourne, Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and former member Bill Ward's upbringing in post-war, industrial Birmingham influence their unique sound - and is this really "the end" for the band?

For a group that has been widely credited with creating the sound of heavy metal, influencing thousands of bands and inspiring generations of guitarists, it was a term Black Sabbath initially wanted to have nothing to do with.

"We called it heavy rock," recalls Iommi. "The term heavy metal came about from a journalist when I came back from America (in the 70s).

"He said 'you're playing heavy metal' and I said 'no, it's heavy rock - what's that?'"

Who coined the phrase is disputed, with Rolling Stone critics Lester Bangs and Mike Saunders both credited with using it first.

Throughout the 1970s, many reviewers used it as an insult - a sneering description of this new wave of "aggressive" musicians, their loud, thrashing sounds reverberating around packed, sweaty rooms full of fans.

Ozzy: 'I'll cry at Black Sabbath finale'

"At first we didn't like being called heavy metal," admits Butler. "But everyone likes to put you into certain pigeon holes, so we sort of got used to it.

"And then instead of it being derogatory, it became a whole lifestyle."

Image caption Along with Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath were credited with 'inventing' heavy metal

Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple, who, like Black Sabbath, formed in 1968, were also progenitors of the movement.

But Sabbath are credited with inventing the distinctive riffs that characterised the sound in the early days - and that was all down to a terrible twist of fate that befell a 17-year-old Iommi at a steelworks in Aston, Birmingham.

It was the last shift for the young welder at the Summer Lane factory, who was leaving to try and make his fortune as a professional musician.

As he went to cut a piece of metal, the guillotine came crashing down on his right hand, slicing off the tips of his middle and right fingers.

"I was told 'you'll never play again'," says the lead guitarist.

"It was just unbelievable. I sat in the hospital with my hand in this bag and I thought 'that's it - I'm finished'.

"But eventually I thought 'I'm not going to accept that. There must be a way I can play'."

He went home and fashioned new fingertips out of an old Fairy Liquid bottle - "melted it down, got a hot soldering iron and shaped it like a finger" - and cut sections from a leather jacket to cover his new homemade prosthetic.

"It helped to make me play a different style because I couldn't play the conventional way - I couldn't play the proper chords like I could before the accident, so I had to come up with a different way of making a bigger sound."

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption A 17-year-old Iommi fashioned his own prosthetic fingertips to enable him to carry on playing the guitar - the prosthetics he uses today were crafted by professionals

"Tony's an incredible guy," says Osbourne. "He not only played again, he invented a new sound. I often say to him, 'how do you know when you're touching the strings?' - and he says 'I just do it'."

The bleak, factory-laden streets of Aston, where Osbourne, Iommi, Butler and Ward grew up just a few roads apart, also had an impact on Sabbath's haunting sound and ominous lyrics.

The working-class suburb hadn't benefitted from post-war regeneration in the way Birmingham city centre had, just a couple of miles away.

Iommi and Butler worked in factories after leaving school, Ward delivered coal and Osbourne, after stints in a slaughterhouse and car plant, turned his hand to burglary. Music was an escape for the teenagers.

"It wasn't a great place to be at that time," recalls Butler. "We were listening to songs about San Francisco, the hippies were all love and peace and everything.

Image copyright Shutterstock

Image caption Within two years of forming their band in Aston, Birmingham, in 1968, Black Sabbath were touring America

"There we were, in Aston, Ozzy was in prison from burgling houses, me and Tony were always in fights with somebody, and Bill, so we had quite a rough upbringing.

"Our music reflected the way we felt."

It was the chance sighting of a small, oddly-written note in a Birmingham music shop - 'Ozzy Zig needs a gig' - that brought the four together.

It was spotted by Iommi and Ward, who were looking for a singer after leaving "a band people could fight to".

"I knew Ozzy from school, Birchfield Road in Perry Barr, and I didn't know he used to sing," remembers Iommi.

"His mum came to the door and we said we were answering the advert, and she said 'John, it's for you'.

Image copyright Shutterstock

Image caption The musicians all lived a few streets away from each other in Aston - Osbourne and Iommi used to attend the same school

Image copyright Shutterstock

Image caption Ozzy Osbourne said the band "had to finish in Birmingham" where it all began

"I saw him walking up the hallway and I said to Bill, 'forget it'. We talked for a bit and then we left.

"I said, 'I don't think he can sing, I know him from school'."

A few days later, Osbourne and Butler went round to the Iommi family's grocery shop in Aston, saying they were looking for a drummer.

"Bill was with me but he said 'I'm not going to do anything without you'," says Iommi.

"So we said let's give it a go - the four of us."

Image caption "I have been out of Black Sabbath longer than I've been in," says Ozzy Osbourne

Image caption Tony Iommi's much-publicised battle with cancer is among the reasons the band has finally decided to stop touring

Calling themselves Earth, they started out playing blues, before turning their attention to writing their own material.

Butler recalls: "It was always the hippy, happy stuff on the radio and there were we, in Aston, having to go to work in factories.

"We wanted to put how we thought about the world at the time. We didn't want to write happy pop songs. We gave that industrial feeling to it."

And it was Butler and Iommi's love of horror films that gave the group its signature, stirring sound.

"We wanted to create a vibe like you get off horror films - try and create a tension within the music," says Iommi.

"We thought it would be really good to get this sort of vibe, this fear and excitement.

"It was a struggle. There was nothing like what we were doing. We'd taken on something because we believed in it, and loved what we were doing."

Image copyright Shutterstock

Image caption Black Sabbath have had many line-ups over the years, with Tony Iommi the only constant presence

Following a mix-up with another band called Earth, the band changed their name to Black Sabbath, after the title track that took its moniker from a 1963 horror film by Boris Karloff.

And within just two years, they were flying to the US to perform to an emerging, global fan base at the start of a career that would span the next 50 years.

Over 70 million records, several line-up changes - Iommi has been the only constant in the band - and one headless bat later, the band has decided to call time on touring, performing the last gig on their exhausting 81-date "The End" tour in their home city.

Iommi's much-documented cancer battle and the musicians' advancing years - Osbourne and Iommi are 68 and Butler is 67 - contributed to the decision to slow down.

All three founding members speak with a mixture of pride, excitement and sadness when talking about performing in their beloved Birmingham.

"We've toured everywhere else in the world but there's nowhere like Birmingham," says Butler.

Image caption Geezer Butler said the band "came from nothing", growing up on the streets of Aston, Birmingham

"It's still the only place where I get nervous before I go on. It means the world to me. It's where our hearts are."

"It's where we started," adds Osbourne. "The old road has gone back to Birmingham.

"I don't live there any more but most of my family live there. We started in Birmingham so why not finish in Birmingham?"

But, like many bands before them who have announced "the end" before being enticed back on stage with lucrative deals, should we actually expect to see Sabbath back together again one day?

Iommi's certainly keen. "We're not saying goodbye as such, as in we're never going to do it again, [but] we don't want to do any more world tours," he says.

"I wouldn't rule out doing a one-off show. Or even an album. I think the door's open."

Osbourne, however, is resolute.

"As far as I am concerned - this is the end," he insists.

"I have been out of Black Sabbath longer than I've been in. We've all had different arguments and fallings out.

"I don't know about them but I'm not doing it again. We want to end on a high note."

For the full interviews with Black Sabbath, watch Inside Out West Midlands on Monday at 19:30, or on iPlayer.

More From this publisher : HERE

=> *********************************************** See More Here: Black Sabbath: ‘We hated being a heavy metal band’ – BBC News ************************************ =>

Black Sabbath: ‘We hated being a heavy metal band’ – BBC News was originally posted by 16 MP Just news

[kristablogs]

Ebikes freed my commute from the tyranny of traffic

Commuting 30 miles each way to and from work becomes much more manageable aboard a Class 3 ebike. (Stephen Krcmar/)

This story originally featured on Cycle Volta.

Ever since my first job—as a paperboy—bikes and bike commuting have been a big part of my professional life. I took that first gig delivering newspapers because it was something I could do on my Mongoose. Since then, I’ve worked as a bike messenger in New York City, a test rider in Connecticut, and gear tester all over the country. I’ve also commuted via two wheels through the burbs of New York, the mountains of Mammoth Lakes, and all over Boston.

My current commute from Highland Park in Los Angeles to Long Beach is 30 miles each way. It’s the most challenging commute I’ve ever had. The ride includes almost 15 miles of bike path through South LA (Compton, Watts, etc.) with countless homeless camps, an industrial stretch dominated by speeding semitrucks (thanks to an incorporated city), and plenty of slaughterhouses that stink worse than any Burning Man port-a-potty. And because God likes to wear a jester hat on occasion, the gut-wrenching odor of meat-processing plants is occasionally punctuated with the aroma of bakeries doing their thing.

That’s why my new bike-commute death metal playlist is called “Slaughterhouses, the Suffering of Sentient Beings, and Sugar Cookies.”

This ride on a non-electric bike is long for a workday—at least for me. My sweet spot for a commute is 90 minutes or less. A Class 3 ebike helps me do that—knocking about 30 minutes off of the pedal on an analog bike. One week, I rode those 30 miles to or from work nine times. All but one of those rides was on an ebike. Here’s what I learned.

Lay out all your gear ahead of your commute. (Stephen Krcmar/)

A well-prepared pedaler is a happy pedaler

When you’re commuting 60 miles a day, organization is key. Keep a list of what you need for the commute and keep your kit in one place. Lay out everything in advance of your ride when possible, so when it’s time to go you can head out with zero frustration or wasted time and energy. Bonus points for dialing in your coffee routine the night before.

More than three hours a day on the bike is the ultimate test ride

You’ll find out what you love, hate, and need in a bike. For Los Angeles, a fat tire (47c) is better than front suspension—less weight and greatly reduced road buzz from ignored tarmac. Going sans suspension also knocks down the price of the bike.

You’ll ride through lots of debris

The quicker you can get it off your tire, the lower the chance of a flat. Old-time road racers use their gloved hand to do this. Others listen for the telltale tick-tick-tick of something stuck to a tire. Stop and remove it before it punctures the tube. Sure, stopping slows you down, but not as much as changing out a tube.

Some stretches are really boring

Podcasts and music help. Earbuds, a helmet with speakers, or a bike-mounted speaker is key. More on that below.

Having the right gear is key

High-tech helmets with integrated speakers are great—until the crosswinds come in. And that’s when a basic set of earbuds is better. Earbuds tip: Keep it low profile. Stay away from models like Skullcandy’s Ink’d Wireless, which have a soft, horseshoe-shaped bit that fits around the back of your neck that can catch the wind.

Find your hydration sweet spot

Don’t go too crazy with coffee before you get on the bike. Once you arrive at your destination, lean into your hydration immediately. But you’ll probably want to taper on drinking a lot of liquids a few hours before you head home.

Find roads that have timed lights

File those away. Always being in motion is more important than being fast.

Use a handlebar mount for constant access to your phone. (Stephen Krcmar/)

Have full-time access to your phone

Using your phone for directions helps you explore different routes. Find a handlebar mount for your phone. I use the Ram X-Grip: Designed for motorcycles, it ain’t pretty, but it’s very functional.

Any messenger/traffic-scofflaw tendencies will come out

Hit a red? Many will pull an “Idaho stop” and pedal through. Just know that the obvious physical risk can also be financial. In many areas, running a red light is viewed as a moving violation and can affect your car insurance rates. And the fines can be $300 or more.

Trust your gut

See a sketchy crew hanging out in a remote area that you have to pass? Find an alternative. On the LA River Bike Path, those sections are often underneath bridges. When my Spidey senses are tingling, I leave the path and cross the street.

Pass with care

A bell is helpful for bike paths. So is the rudimentary “on your left.” But earbuds rule, and many ride with the music cranked, so pass with care.

Tuck in to speed up your commute. (Amazon/)

A few days in, you’ll consider using aero bars

Call it a mix of hypermiling and maximizing time spent at 28 mph. Getting slightly more aero helps on both counts. And most of my cycling nerd friends and colleagues goof on me for using an ebike anyway, so I might as well lean into it with the addition of tri bars.

Speed saves

Going faster—Class 3 ebikes help you hit 28 mph—feels safer. It’s easier to take the lane and much easier to catch green lights. Pro tip: Look at the pedestrian countdown light to see how much time you have to make it through your next intersection.

[scootoaster]

Ebikes freed my commute from the tyranny of traffic

Commuting 30 miles each way to and from work becomes much more manageable aboard a Class 3 ebike. (Stephen Krcmar/)

This story originally featured on Cycle Volta.

Ever since my first job—as a paperboy—bikes and bike commuting have been a big part of my professional life. I took that first gig delivering newspapers because it was something I could do on my Mongoose. Since then, I’ve worked as a bike messenger in New York City, a test rider in Connecticut, and gear tester all over the country. I’ve also commuted via two wheels through the burbs of New York, the mountains of Mammoth Lakes, and all over Boston.

My current commute from Highland Park in Los Angeles to Long Beach is 30 miles each way. It’s the most challenging commute I’ve ever had. The ride includes almost 15 miles of bike path through South LA (Compton, Watts, etc.) with countless homeless camps, an industrial stretch dominated by speeding semitrucks (thanks to an incorporated city), and plenty of slaughterhouses that stink worse than any Burning Man port-a-potty. And because God likes to wear a jester hat on occasion, the gut-wrenching odor of meat-processing plants is occasionally punctuated with the aroma of bakeries doing their thing.

That’s why my new bike-commute death metal playlist is called “Slaughterhouses, the Suffering of Sentient Beings, and Sugar Cookies.”

This ride on a non-electric bike is long for a workday—at least for me. My sweet spot for a commute is 90 minutes or less. A Class 3 ebike helps me do that—knocking about 30 minutes off of the pedal on an analog bike. One week, I rode those 30 miles to or from work nine times. All but one of those rides was on an ebike. Here’s what I learned.

Lay out all your gear ahead of your commute. (Stephen Krcmar/)

A well-prepared pedaler is a happy pedaler

When you’re commuting 60 miles a day, organization is key. Keep a list of what you need for the commute and keep your kit in one place. Lay out everything in advance of your ride when possible, so when it’s time to go you can head out with zero frustration or wasted time and energy. Bonus points for dialing in your coffee routine the night before.

More than three hours a day on the bike is the ultimate test ride

You’ll find out what you love, hate, and need in a bike. For Los Angeles, a fat tire (47c) is better than front suspension—less weight and greatly reduced road buzz from ignored tarmac. Going sans suspension also knocks down the price of the bike.

You’ll ride through lots of debris

The quicker you can get it off your tire, the lower the chance of a flat. Old-time road racers use their gloved hand to do this. Others listen for the telltale tick-tick-tick of something stuck to a tire. Stop and remove it before it punctures the tube. Sure, stopping slows you down, but not as much as changing out a tube.

Some stretches are really boring

Podcasts and music help. Earbuds, a helmet with speakers, or a bike-mounted speaker is key. More on that below.

Having the right gear is key

High-tech helmets with integrated speakers are great—until the crosswinds come in. And that’s when a basic set of earbuds is better. Earbuds tip: Keep it low profile. Stay away from models like Skullcandy’s Ink’d Wireless, which have a soft, horseshoe-shaped bit that fits around the back of your neck that can catch the wind.

Find your hydration sweet spot

Don’t go too crazy with coffee before you get on the bike. Once you arrive at your destination, lean into your hydration immediately. But you’ll probably want to taper on drinking a lot of liquids a few hours before you head home.

Find roads that have timed lights

File those away. Always being in motion is more important than being fast.

Use a handlebar mount for constant access to your phone. (Stephen Krcmar/)

Have full-time access to your phone

Using your phone for directions helps you explore different routes. Find a handlebar mount for your phone. I use the Ram X-Grip: Designed for motorcycles, it ain’t pretty, but it’s very functional.

Any messenger/traffic-scofflaw tendencies will come out

Hit a red? Many will pull an “Idaho stop” and pedal through. Just know that the obvious physical risk can also be financial. In many areas, running a red light is viewed as a moving violation and can affect your car insurance rates. And the fines can be $300 or more.

Trust your gut

See a sketchy crew hanging out in a remote area that you have to pass? Find an alternative. On the LA River Bike Path, those sections are often underneath bridges. When my Spidey senses are tingling, I leave the path and cross the street.

Pass with care

A bell is helpful for bike paths. So is the rudimentary “on your left.” But earbuds rule, and many ride with the music cranked, so pass with care.

Tuck in to speed up your commute. (Amazon/)

A few days in, you’ll consider using aero bars

Call it a mix of hypermiling and maximizing time spent at 28 mph. Getting slightly more aero helps on both counts. And most of my cycling nerd friends and colleagues goof on me for using an ebike anyway, so I might as well lean into it with the addition of tri bars.

Speed saves

Going faster—Class 3 ebikes help you hit 28 mph—feels safer. It’s easier to take the lane and much easier to catch green lights. Pro tip: Look at the pedestrian countdown light to see how much time you have to make it through your next intersection.