#winter folk customs

[thewildwitchkeziah]

the Winter Ones: Folkloric Figures of Winter, Yule, & Christmas

by Keziah

The winter holidays are ebbing ever closer for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere. With each passing year, more and more practitioners of witchcraft and/or followers of pagan paths have looked to taking up the customs of their ancestors or incorporating those customs into their practices in some way. Holidays have become a popular way of embracing such traditions, traditions that can make diasporic practitioners feel a little closer to home, traditions that can bring one nearer their ancestors, traditions that can aid in making one’s practice and customs truly unique to them.

Winter has many customs and traditions, and those practices differ from region to region. One of my favorite aspects of winter is the amount of figures associated with the season – folk figures unique to the regions from which they hail. For many people, if you ask them about figures they associate with winter, you’ll hear Father Christmas, Krampus, and maybe even a nod or two to Hans Trapp, but there are so many more winter figures out there! In this post, we’ll meet a variety of these folk spirits, and we’ll learn a bit about their tales. It’s my hope that readers of this blog may find a new way of incorporating beliefs or customs of their ancestors or of their homelands (for our readers who are members of diasporic populations), and that, in doing so, their winter holidays may be brighter for it. Now, shall we dive in? Who to meet first…

GRÝLA, JÓLASVEINAR, & JÓLAKÖTTURINN

Grýla, the Yule Lads, and the Yule Cat

(Icelandic Folklore)

A prominent feature in Icelandic Christmas and Yule folklore is the tale of a mountain-dwelling family that descends upon Icelandic communities during the Yule season, or during the 13 days leading up to Christmas. This family consists of –

Grýla – a large, frightening giantess, ogress, or half-troll/half-ogre (depending on what version of the tale you hear) who feasts upon naughty children;

Jólasveinar / the Yule Lads – Grýla’s thirteen thieving, tricksy sons;

and Jólakötturinn / the Yule Cat – Grýla’s pet cat, a massive, vicious, people-eating creature.

According to lore, throughout most of the year Grýla and her crew keep to themselves in some isolated mountainous area. If not in the mountains, it’s often said that Grýla and co. live in Dimmuborgir (lava formations in north Iceland). During the Yule or Christmas season, though, Grýla and her brood leave their domain behind to bring a bit of terror to the inhabitants of Iceland.

For thirteen nights, Grýla’s sons, the Yule Lads, will leave gifts for (and party with, play games with, and perform for) well-behaved children, and leave tricks or warnings for naughty children, but this version only came about after a shift in the tone of the tale. Most sources state that the Yule Lads were once purely horrible and simply wreaked havoc for the thirteen nights leading up to Christmas. Why the change? Well, apparently the original lore was so terrifying that the parliament of Iceland officially outlawed its use as a scare tactic against children. Thus, the brighter lore of playfully mischievous Yule Lads was born, differing greatly from the ‘creepy and revolting’ ways exhibited in the earlier tales.

As the stories go, one-by-one, the Yule Lads go into inhabited areas of Iceland and sow a little terror and chaos, each carrying out his own special form of mischief. They could only do their deeds at night, and were quite terrifying to behold – large, dirty, and ‘humanoid and bestial in equal measure’ (though now most depictions of the Yule Lads feature cheerful, bearded men with woolen clothes and pointed hats). The Yule Lads arrive (one per night) starting thirteen days before Christmas, and each continues their mischief spree for thirteen nights, only then departing (again, one per night).

The Yule Lads are:

Stekkjastaur ‘Sheep-Cote Clod’ – from the 12th - 25th of December, Stekkjastaur sneaks into pens and stables to harass sheep, attempting to suckle them all, though this is made difficult by his long, stiff, wooden legs, which don’t allow him to bend his knees and kneel on the ground.

Giljagaur ‘Gully-Gawk’ – from the 13th - 26th of December, Giljagaur hides in the gullies near homes until all the household has fallen asleep. Then, he makes his way to the cowsheds to steal milk.

Stúfur ‘Stubby’ –Stúfur will, from the 14th - 27th of December, steal into homes and nab anything leftover in the pans. Some versions say he steals the pan itself, for he likes to eat the ‘crust’ left behind on them from cooking.

Þvörusleikir ‘Spoon-Licker’ – from the 15th - 28th of December, Þvörusleikir sets about his diabolical task of breaking into homes and licking all the spoons (in particular, the wooden spoons).

Pottaskefill ‘Pot-Scraper’ – from 16th - 29th of December, Pottaskefill breaks into homes to steal unwashed pots so he can lick up all that’s left, be that the remnants of sauces, broths, and gravies, or leftover bits of food. He’s also said to eat any unfinished foods from plates.

Askasleikir ‘Bowl-Licker’ – from 17th - 30th of December, Askasleikir hides beneath beds, lying in wait for anyone to set their askur down. An askur is an Icelandic wooden bowl with a lid, which, according to these Yule tales, would sometimes be carried off to bed whilst one was enjoying a late-night snack. The bowl would then be placed on the floor beside the bed or just under the bed, where Askasleikir would be waiting to scarf down whatever is left in the askur.

Hurðaskellir ‘Door-Slammer’ – from 18th - 31st of December, Hurðaskellir starts his rounds, going around slamming doors. He finds it even more fun to do whilst everyone is sleeping.

Skyrgámur ‘Skyr-Gobbler’ – from 19th of December - 01st of January, Skygámur commits the heinous act of robbing any and every pantry or refrigerator he can find of skyr, a traditional Icelandic dairy food similar to yoghurt.

Bjúgnakrækir ‘Sausage-Swiper’ – as if Skyrgámur’s antics weren’t enough, Bjúgnakrækir is a rotten old sausage thief. He sits in the rafters of homes, waiting for everyone to go to bed or to look away. Then, he steals as many sausages as he can manage. Bjúgnakrækir makes his arrival on the 20th of December and leaves on the 02nd of January.

Gluggagægir ‘Window-Peeper’ – perhaps the creepiest of the lot thus far (though someone licking all the spoons is the stuff of nightmares), Gluggagægir makes his rounds from the 21st of December - 03rd of January, peeping through windows into homes, hoping to spy something to steal.

Gáttaþefur ‘Doorway-Sniffer’ – from the 22nd of December - 04th of January, Gáttaþefur, lured to your home by the scent of freshly baked laufabrauð (‘leaf bread,’ a traditional Icelandic Christmas bread), arrives to one’s doorway and will attempt to steal the laufabrauð.

Ketkrókur ‘Meat-Hook’ – from the 23rd of December to the 05th of January, Ketkrókur would find a way to steal the meat from your kitchen. He’d hide in the pantry, behind doorways, in the rafters, up the chimney, and he’d use his long, hooked staff, or meat hook, to quickly snatch away the meat either while it was being prepared or from the holiday table itself.

Kertasníkir ‘Candle-Stealer’ or ‘Candle-Beggar’ – from the 24th of December to the 06th of January, Kertasníker, the last of the Yule of Lads, steals candles, especially from children. Candles were once typically made from tallow and were edible, and some lore states that Kertasníker would steal the candles to snack on.

Nowadays, the Yule Lads are said to leave candies and small gifts for good children, placing the goods in the shoes that kids leave on their windowsills in hopes of finding them later filled with presents. Bad children, however, are said to be left nothing but rotten potatoes.

As for Grýla, well… Grýla comes and kidnaps naughty children, loading them into her sack and carrying them back to her husband, Leppalúði (who most sources say is quite lazy and prefers to stay in his cave than to go with Grýla and the Yule Lads to terrorize Icelandic children). Grýla and Leppalúði then eat the naughty children, cooking them up in Grýla’s giant pot or cauldron. Though Grýla and Leppalúði are known to have a particular fondness for eating children, some sources also warn that they’ll eat adults caught outdoors on their own during those long, dark winter nights.

If Grýla and her husband weren’t bad enough, you still have the Yule Cat to worry about, especially if you didn’t receive any gifts of new clothes for the holidays. It’s said that the Yule Cat, on Christmas night, eats anyone it catches that isn’t wearing at least one new item of clothing.

LA BEFANA

(Italian Folklore)

With particular association with Epiphany Eve (the night of the 05th of January), La Befana is witch in Italian folklore (sometimes called, fondly, the Christmas Witch). She’s said to fly around Italy on her broom on the night of Epiphany Eve, when she visits each household with children and fills each child’s stocking with gifts or punishments, depending on whether they were well or poorly behaved. Well-behaved children receive gifts and sweets, while those who were naughtier receive a coal lump, black rock candy, or a stick. Some tales also say that La Befana (who is obsessively tidy in some variations of her origin story) may sweep or clean your house before she leaves.

La Befana is said to be a very old woman with a cheerful, kindly disposition. She dresses simply, usually wearing a shawl either around her shoulders or tied over her hair (sometimes both), and her clothes are soot-covered, as the tales say she flies into each home via the chimney. She carries a wicker basket or cloth sack filled with all of the gifts and sweets she must deliver.

In some Italian regions, bonfires are burned on Epiphany, and those bonfires sometimes feature effigies of La Befana. Many people dress as La Befana at various Epiphany events and festivals in Italy.

ST. NICHOLAS & KRAMPUS

(Central European Folklore)

On Saint Nicholas Day (observed on the 5th or 6th of December, depending on the region), many children throughout Europe (and in diasporic communities around the world), wake up excited to check in their shoes or under their pillows for gifts from St. Nicholas. St. Nicholas, is a tall, lean, cheerful old man with a long white beard, usually depicted as being dressed in fine vestments, including a cape or chasuble, and almost always wearing an ornate miter atop his head. In Central European (and some Eastern European) folklore, though, jolly old St. Nicholas does not work alone.

The Krampus travels as Saint Nicholas’ companion. Usually depicted as a large red, black, or brown demon with cloven hooves and the legs and horns of a goat, pointed ears, a long, pointed or forked tongue, and a frightening, human face with a crazed or menacing expression, Krampus is truly the stuff of childhood nightmares. Saint Nicholas and Krampus make their rounds on Krampusnacht – the night of the 05th of December. While the well-behaved children received gifts from Saint Nicholas, naughty children meet punishment at the hands of Krampus. The punishment varies from one tale to the next – some say that Krampus switches the children with birch branches; some say that Krampus devours the children, often swallowing them whole; and still other tales say that Krampus nabs the children, loading them into the basket or pouch he wears upon his back and taking them to hell.

Despite attempts by the Catholic Church to ban Krampus, belief in the goat demon is very much still alive, with festivals and parades dedicated to Krampus, such as Krampuslauf, booming in popularity.

BELSNICKEL

(Germanic Folklore)

Belsnickel (also often spelled Belschnickel or Beltznickle) is a figure of Germanic folklore that finds its origins in Rheinpfalz, a historic region of Southwestern Germany. The belief in Belsnickel finds life still yet in some areas within this region, as well as in diasporic German peoples (and the descendants thereof) in Pennsylvania Dutch communities (birthed from settlers from the Rheinpfalz region) throughout the US.

Belsnickel is a man dressed in tattered, dirtied furs and clothes. In some versions, he also wears a mask with a long, pointed tongue. Belsnickel travels around at night (usually on the night of Christmas Eve), wielding a long switch in one hand and carrying a sack filled with cakes, candies, fruits, and nuts in the other hand or on his back. Poorly behaved children would receive a switching, while well-behaved children would be given sweets from the sack.

Brown’s Miscellaneous Writings features a first-hand account (having taken place around 1830) of one Beltznickel tradition from Maryland, USA –

‘One hand would scatter the goodies upon the floor, and then the scramble would begin by the delighted children, and the other hand would ply the switch upon the backs of the excited youngsters – who would not show a wince…’

In some Pennsylvania Dutch communities, it’s said that Belsnickel arrives one-to-two weeks before Christmas to ‘check in’ on how the children were behaving, punishing the bad children and serving as a frightening warning and reminder that they had better correct their ways before Christmas.

PERCHTA

(Alpine Folklore)

Known by many names, such as Pehta Baba (in Slovenian lore), Frau Perchta, and Frau Faste (in some Swiss and Slovenian lore), Perchta is a goddess associated with winter, spinning, and folk magic, particularly in Germany and Austria.

Perchta’s association with winter bears particular emphasis on midwinter and Twelfth Night. It’s said that Perchta would enter homes during the twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany, and she would dole out rewards and punishments. Children and servants of the home who had worked hard throughout the year and who had been good people would wake the next morning to find a small gift left by Perchta (usually a coin or trinket, though some modern customs say she may leave candies).

Her punishments, however, were far greater than her gifts. For children and servants who had been poorly behaved, unkind, and lazy, Perchta enters their bedrooms while they slumber, cuts them open, and replaces their stomach and guts with straw. Some tales say she does not replace one's entrails but simply fills the stomach with straw. It’s also said in some tales that Perchta delivers this same punishment to those who on the night of Perchta’s feast day eat something aside from the traditional foods of her feast day (those foods being fish and gruel).

Perchta’s association with spinning also comes into play in some variations of this tale, in which Perchta’s punishment is reserved for those who did not complete their spinning by the time of her visit. She was also said to trample or set fire to any half-spun fibers she discovered.

Perchta’s links to midwinter come from her ties to the legend of the Wild Hunt. Some tales of the Wild Hunt feature Perchta as the leader of the hunt.

As for Perchta’s appearance, there are two main versions. Perchta is sometimes described as a beautiful, young woman, with white or very pale hair and fair skin, usually dressed in white or silvery white hues. This Perchta differs greatly from that featured in some old depictions, which describe a hag woman dressed in rags, with a wrinkled face and a large beak-like nose made of iron. Some descriptions say this woman carries a cane, and many depictions feature her keeping a knife or blade beneath her skirts or robes.

The difference in these two depictions of Perchta is also reflected in the two variations of Perchten – a term that is used to apply to both the masks worn at festivals and processions honoring Perchta, as well as to figures associated with Perchta and seen as her subjects or helpers. Of these figures, there are two types –

Schönperchten: the beautiful, bright Perchten dressed in silvers and whites, said to deliver blessings of wealth and good luck during the Twelve Nights,

and Schiachperchten: the monstrously ugly Perchten with fangs and tusks, horns, tails, and beastly, fur-covered faces. The Schiachperchten are said to drive away evil spirits, ghosts, and demons.

SPILLAHOLLE

The Spillaholle – also known as Mickadrulle / Mickatrulle, Popelholle (‘Hooded Holle’), Zumpeldrulle –  is believed to be a regional variation of Frau Holle or Perchta. She is said to be a very short old woman dressed in ragged, tattered clothing and a hood, and is, in some tales, said to carry stinging nettles with her.

The Spillaholle appears in towns and villages during winter, especially nearing Christmas or during the Twelve Nights of Christmas. The Spillaholle, who is strongly associated with spinning, is said to travel through town, peeking in the windows of each house to check to see ‘if the children and spinsters are spinning diligently.’ If their spinning hasn’t been taken care of by evening or nightfall, it’s said that the Spillaholle will dole out punishments. It’s even said that the Spillaholle will take the lazy spinsters away, beating them with the stinging nettles she carries with her. As for those who have finished their spinning, instead of a punishment, the Spillaholle leaves a blessing of protection – a single nettle is left upon the stoop or at the threshold of the home, a nettle that shall protect the house from various misfortunes for the next year.

MARI LWYD

(Welsh Folklore)

The origins of the Christmas tradition of the parading of the Mari Lwyd are up for debate. Some say it’s an early Christian practice, while many others believe that it’s a surviving pre-Christian tradition that’s been Christianized throughout the years. Believed to have come from a wassailing custom, the Mari Lwyd (said by some to mean ‘Grey Mary,’ ‘Holy Mary,’ or ‘Blessed Mary,’ and by others to mean ‘Grey Mare’) is a hobby horse, puppet, doll, or effigy that is paraded through town, carried from door-to-door by wassail-singing groups. This is done during the Christmas season, often ‘between Christmas Day and Twelfth Night.’

The head of the Mari Lwyd is usually a skull of a hoarse (and in most cases, the same skull is to be used each year), though there have been accounts of a head being carved from wood or shaped from a pillow. The skull (or makeshift horse head) is beautifully decorated with flowers and ribbons (the ribbons usually making up the Mari Lwyd’s mane), and has lights, baubles, or bottle glass for eyes. A white cloth is draped from the horse’s head down over the base of the Mari Lwyd, concealing the carrier of the doll underneath. A spring or stick is usually attached to the lower jaw of the skull, so that the jaw can be made to open and snap shut.

The parade is to begin at dusk or sundown. Singing and dancing is to be enjoyed whilst the Mari Lwyd makes her way along. At each door, the Mari Lwyd procession would perform traditional songs, and the household was to reply (usually through the closed door) with improvised, taunting poetry, usually delivering some kind of funny insult. A competition then ensues, a back-and-forth between the Mari Lwyd party and the household (this is a ritual called pwnco), until one side was bested and gave up, having no reply. Should the Mari Lwyd procession singers lose, they leave empty-handed. Mari Lwyd winning and entering the house, though, is believed to be a blessing that will bring good fortune to the household for the coming year.

The Mari Lwyd is said to be mischievous as well – chasing people, gnashing her jaws to scare children, and even trying to steal things or knock things about when she enters a home.

DED MOROZ & SNEGUROCHKA

(Slavic Folklore)

Ded Moroz (also called Dedushka Moroz – and other variations of Grandfather Frost – and Morozko) is familiar to many as Russian Santa, but Ded Moroz is much, much more than that. Ded Moroz finds his origins in pre-Christian Slavic paganism and folklore as a great magician and wizard of winter. Belief in Ded Moroz and customs surrounding him were banned during the early Soviet era. Nevertheless, Ded Moroz not only lives on, but has become a winter icon in East Slavic culture and is now the main figure associated with Novy God, the secular Christmas-like Russian celebration of New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.

Ded Moroz – a tall, old man with rosy cheeks and long white beard, who dresses in a floor-length fur coat and fur hat, and usually wields a magic staff – travels about (usually depicted travelling by a horse-drawn sleigh) delivering gifts to children. Some tales say that he delivers gifts all through December as well as on New Year’s Eve night, when he places the gifts under the New Year Tree whilst the household is sleeping.

One aspect of Ded Moroz’s tale that is rather unique is that of Snegurochka – Ded Moroz’s granddaughter who helps him make his deliveries. Snegurochka (also called Snegurka and the Snow Maiden), unlike Ded Moroz, doesn’t find her roots in pre-Christian Slavic lore, but rather in 19th century Russian fairytales. Snegurochka wasn’t depicted as Ded Moroz’s granddaughter until after 1935, when the holiday of Novy God was permitted by the Russia Federation. From then on, Snegurochka became Ded Moroz’s granddaughter and assistant, and has since been more commonly depicted as wearing wintery silver and blue cloaks and a fur hat (sometimes a crown made of glistening snowflakes).

SOURCES & FURTHER READING:

Þjóðsögur Jóns Árnasonar - the Collection of Folklore of Jón Árnason The Icelandic Yule Lads and their evil mother Gryla A Journey Around the Figure of the Befana – Manciocco, Claudia; Manciocco, Luigi Krampus | Definition, History, & Facts The Origin of Krampus, Europe's Evil Twist on Santa ‘the Krampus and the Old Dark Christmas: Roots and Rebirth of the Folkloric Devil’ – Ridenour, Al The Winter Goddess: Percht, Holda, and Related Figures: Folklore: Vol 95, No 2 ‘Deutsche Mythologie’ – Grimm, Jakob Holda: Between Folklore and Linguistics Who is Belsnickel in Pennsylvania German Christmas lore? ‘Brown’s Miscellaneous Writings’ – Brown, Jacob Yes Helen, there is a Belsnickel ‘A Dictionary of British Folk Customs’ – Hole, Christina The Mari Lwyd ‘Ritual Animal Disguise: A Historical and Geographical Study of Animal Disguise in the British Isles’ – Cawte, E.C. Mari Lwyd, a Welsh Christmas Tradition ‘A Tour Through Part of North Wales, in the Year 1798, and at Other Times’ – Evans, J. ‘Perchta the Belly-Slitter and Her Kin: A View of Some Traditional Threatening Figures, Threats and Punishments’ – Smith, John B. Felix und Ulrich Mueller - Percht und Krampus ‘the Old Magic of Christmas: Yuletide Traditions for the Darkest Days of the Year’ – Raedisch, Linda "Дед Мороз и Снегурочка" (Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden) –Dushechkina, E. B. ‘Encyclopedia of Russian & Slavic Myth and Legend’ – Dixon-Kennedy, Mike

[kaizokunoyume]

Drawing Askeladd once a day until Christmas | December 5th

Last year artwork:

[fallbabylon]

Replica Buso masks in Budapest- In the Mohacs region of Hungary the Buso mask is worn as part of a festival to scare off winter.

[apoemaday]

November

by Maggie Dietz

Show's over, folks. And didn't October do A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees. Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage, While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage And gone to shiver in their winter clusters. Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin, Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure: TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four. The hapless customer who'd wanted something Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

[holylulusworld]

Lumberjack Tales - The Hairy Bear

Summary: He doesn’t want to have company.

Pairing: Lumberjack!Ari Levinson x fem!Reader

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, spanking, orgasm denial, possessive Ari, a hint of dark/grey Ari?

Rating: Explicit

Square filled for @julybreakbingo: Square filled: "Park"

Square filled for @eclipsingbingo: Held down

This story is part of my Lumberjack Tales masterlist

Solitude. No people. No stress. No noises. That’s how he likes it, and he wouldn’t want to change it for anything.

He chose this life. After selling his company for more money than he could ever spend, Ari bought a forest to build a huge, luxurious cabin for himself alone. He’s got everything he needs. And what he doesn’t get, he can make with his strong hands.

Some people may call him crazy. A former CEO and successful businessman turning into a lumberjack building his furniture on free terms. Ari doesn’t care. He gives a shit on other people’s opinion.

Today is one of the rare days he must drive to the only town near his private forest. Ari hates leaving his solitude and meeting people. After a bad divorce, he’s not the most social person.

But – a man gotta eat even if he’s got a beautiful garden behind his cabin and a lake filled with fish. He needs more to fill his pantry. Beer, toilet paper, and batteries do not grow on trees.

“Mr. Levinson,” Susie, the clerk from the grocery store chirps when Ari walks toward the checkout. “Is that all?” She glances at the two shopping carts filled with everything he’ll need over the next weeks. Maybe even a month, or two. “Plastic or paper?”

“Paper,” he grumbles under his breath. “Plastic is bad for the environment.” Ari shakes his head at his words. Years ago, he would’ve given a shit on the environment or nature. He was obsessed with making money, a pretty woman, and fast cars.

“Sure,” she gives him a tight smile but says nothing. “Just a minute.” She snaps her fingers at the new bag boy. “Sean, get over here. We have a customer.”

Ari would like to roll his eyes as the boy groans loudly. He was on his phone, undoubtedly making a TikTok video to share with his two followers instead of doing his job.

“SEAN!” She grunts when he doesn’t move an inch. “If you don’t come here in a second, you are fired.”

“Man, if I made my first million with my video, I’ll quit,” Sean grumbles while reluctantly starting to pack Ari’s groceries into paper bags. “You will see. I’ll get out of this shitty town in no time.”

Ari holds back a comment. He learned that it’s better to shut your mouth and not get involved with the town’s folk. Unlike the cheery clerk at the grocery store, most people in this sleepy little town do not like him.

Especially because he stopped them from clearing the forest he bought. “Cash or card?”

“Card,” Ari swipes his card over the device. “Have a good day.”

Before Sean can grab the bags to carry them outside, Ari wraps his arms around the paper bags to carry them out of the store.

“Idiot!” Susie mutters. “You had to piss him off. Now he won’t come back anytime soon.”

Sean harrumphs. “This is the only store in town. Your love interest will be back. This doesn’t mean he wants to take you out…”

Back in his cabin Ari busies himself putting the groceries and toiletries away. Only to make a list for more. Soon it will be winter, and he needs more supplies. Ari hates driving to town during winter. He tries to leave his cabin less during the cold times.

His dog lies on the carpet in front of the fireplace in the living room, yawning loudly as his owner tells him they’ll need more wood.

“Come, buddy. We go for one last round for tonight,” Ari clicks his tongue, causing his dog to jump up and follow him toward the door. The Estrela Mountain Dog walks next to Ari as he steps out of the cabin.

Ari closes his eyes and inhales the air deeply. He can already smell the approaching thunderstorm. “We need to hurry, buddy. I know how much you hate getting your fur wet.”

He flashes his dog a smile before buttoning up his red-black checkered plaid. “Let’s go, Bear. We don’t wanna miss dinner.”

“HEY! STOP! This is private property!”

You are already out of breath when the man and his dog chase after you. All you wanted was to go for a swim in the lake. How should you have known that the forest is private property? You camped in forests all your life without getting into trouble.

Now this big guy is chasing after you like a madman. “STOP! You cannot come to my property and steal…”

“Bear. Get them!” The man calls for his dog. The giant beast speeds up to outrun you. It jumps at you. Pushing against your back so you land on the ground, face first in the mud. Rain is pouring down on you, soaking your shorts and shirt. “Good job!”

The dog sits down on your back, making you groan loudly. “Get off me you beast.”

“Hold them down,” the man approaches you and the dog. He crouches down next to you to rip your baseball cap off your head. “What are you doing on my property?"

“I wanted to go for a swim, dude! I camp not far away from the lake. I didn’t know this was private property! Who buys a fucking forest!! That’s just wrong.”

“Dude?” He laughs. “Bear, we caught an angry wood nymph, not an intruder.” The man clicks his tongue, and the beast finally gets off your back. “There are warning signs, lady.”

“I told you,” You struggle to get on your knees, groaning as your back hurts from the dog’s attack, “I didn’t see a sign. I camp wherever I want to.”

“Not on my property,” he snaps at you as he gets back up. “Come on, the thunderstorm will only get worse.” He holds out his hand as you struggle to get back on your feet. The dog got you good. “I’ll show you the way back to the road.”

“Fucker,” you slap his hand away and get back up on your feet without his help. “You can’t let your dog attack people.”

“You are an intruder, and he tried to defend my property.”

“Dude, do I look like a danger to you, your dog, or your property?” You size the man up. He quirks a brow. “That’s what I thought.” While you try to rub the dirt from your knees and shin, the man huffs.

“You walk around my property with your little backpack and believe you get away with it? Lady, this is not a park. You can’t just come here and waltz around my property like you own it.”

“I got it, okay. This is your forest, and you hate people,” you wrinkle your nose as the rain runs down your face. “If you’d excuse me now. I’ll find my way out of your forest and into the next to put up my tent somewhere else.”

“In the middle of a thunderstorm?” He asks. “You’re not only a criminal but crazy too. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Well, good thing that I’m not your problem, Mr. Property,” you turn around to walk opposite the way you came from. “Have a nice life.”

“Lady, that’s crazy,” despite his former behavior, he follows you. “The rain is going to get worse. You’re going to catch a cold or worse.”

“Anything is better than being around you,” you side-eye the man. If he gets too close, you’ll get your pepper spray out and show him what happens when he messes with you.

“Wait…wait up,” he grabs your arm to stop you from running off.

“Don’t touch me,” you try to wiggle out of his grasp. “I’m warning you! I got the black belt!”

He releases you but blocks your path. “I won’t hurt you, lady. My name is Ari, this is Bear.” Ari points at his dog. “He didn’t want to hurt you. If Bear wanted to hurt you, you’d be dog food.”

“You have a way with words, huh?” You look him up and down. “So…where is this street?”

“We can’t walk through the forest now,” he sighs and points toward something in the distance. “If you don’t want to walk through a forest in the middle of one of the worst thunderstorms this area ever experienced, you should come with me to my cabin.”

“Right,” you curl your upper lip. “I’ll go with you to your cabin so you can make a filet out of my ass. I won’t go anywhere with you.”

Ari snorts. He starts laughing as you watch him. “I don’t want to eat you, lady,” he grins. “I mean, I love to eat a lady out.” His eyes drop to your soaked shorts, “but only if she begs me.”

You look down at your soaked clothes. Your backpack gets heavier per minute and Ari is right, the rain is mercilessly pouring down on you. “I’ll take a picture and send it to my friend with our position and your name.”

“Be my guest,” Ari poses for you. He grins into the camera when you snap a few pictures to send them to your friend. “What about Bear?”

“Fine,” you snap a few pictures of the dog to send them to your friend too. “If you kill me now, you’ll get hunted down by my friends.”

“I won’t take the risk,” Ari winks at you. “Come on. I want to get out of my wet clothes and have some coffee.”

You begrudgingly follow Ari, hoping he’s not a psycho killer or looking for a basement wife…

“See, I’m not a killer,” Ari hands you another cup of tea. “After the storm calmed, I’ll drive you to town. You shouldn’t camp in the only other forest around here.”

“Why?” you take a sip before looking at him. You cannot deny that he’s not as bad as you believed he was. Ari offered sweatpants and one of his plaids to you. He shared his dinner with you and brewed tea for you.

“Let’s say the men around here a rather…hmm…how do I put it…”

“Assholes?”

“I think that sums it up,” Ari sits on the other side of the couch to give you space. After the first minutes he knew, you’re not a bad person and now he tries to make you see, that he’s not a bad guy either.

“Hmm…crap,” you sigh deeply. “I wanted to do something reckless for once and now, my friend will laugh about me.”

“You never camped before, right?” He watches you drop your gaze. “Why did you lie?”

“My friends bragged about their adventure trips, and I only ever soaked in the sun or visited museums during holidays. I bought a tent and…you know the rest.”

Ari snorts. “You’re the worst camper I ever met.”

“Fair,” you shrug and giggle as his eyes drop to your legs. He subconsciously licks his lips and shifts in his seat. “So…” you scoot a little closer to Ari, “how long are you living here…alone?”

“Hmm…?” He lifts his eyes from your legs to meet your eyes. “A few years.” Ari murmurs. “I left my old life behind to live here, on my own.”

“Must’ve been a good life,” you scoot even closer to look Ari in the eyes. “This is not a normal cabin. It’s rather…luxurious.”

Ari drops his eyes to your lips, licking his own. “I was a businessman before becoming a lumberjack.”

“Lumberjack,” you purr the word. “You mean the big guys wearing plaids and cutting wood.” This time, you lick your lips. “You must be very strong if you cut wood all day.”

“Not all day, sweetness,” Ari scoots a little closer, his thigh brushing yours. “Only if I need wood for my fireplace.”

“Hmm…” you get bold and move your hand to his bicep, squeezing hard. “Very strong.”

“Strong enough to throw you around if you come to my property and try to swim in my lake,” he moves his hand to your thigh, toying with the sweatpants you’re wearing. “I can spank you too, to make sure you’ll never break into anyone’s property again.”

Your eyelashes flutter, and your lips part. “You think I’d let you spank me for breaking into your property?”

His cheeks dimple. Ari dips his head as his hand creeps higher until he can press it flat against your mound. “I think you’d let me do anything I want to do to you.”

“Look at you,” he purrs in your ear. “Such a good girl, kneeling for me. I bet,” Ari circles you to watch you kneel in front of his couch. He pushes against your shoulders, forcing you to bend your upper half over the couch. “Hmm…what a nice ass you have.”

Ari cups the back of your neck to hold you down on the couch. He’s not too rough but makes sure you can feel his strength.

“I’d love to just fuck you, but you’d only cum all over my cock. I need you to feel the consequences of your actions in your bones.” Ari runs his free hand over your ass, humming as you start to whimper. He grips one cheek roughly, testing your reaction. “I’ll use this body to my liking, and you won’t deny me.”

You choke out a moan when the first smack hits your ass. “Yes…”

“Count, little tramp,” his features harden, and he smacks your cheek a little harder this time.

“One.”

“Again,” he slaps your other cheek, making it sting. “Again!”

“Two.”

“How many can you take?” It’s not a question. Ari told you he’ll give you ten, and you’ll take ten with pleasure if you get his glorious cock in return. You’re already soaking wet and cannot deny that the next smack pushes you closer to the edge.

“All you have to give, sir,” you whimper. “Three…”

“Good girl,” he soothingly runs his hand over your stinging cheeks. “Seven more and you’ll get something nice.”

The next smacks come faster and harder. “Four, five, six, seven,” at eight you’re out of breath and cry out in pleasured pain.

“Eight, nine,” he slaps your ass with both hands. “And lastly,” he slams his hand between your legs, hitting your clit. Your legs tremble and you soak his hand with your cum.

“Oh God…” You can’t come down from your unexpected high. Ari grabs you by the back of your neck to push you onto the couch.

You end up underneath him, whimpering as he moves one hand to your crotch to lift your butt to help him sink into you. He pokes your entrance, impatiently pushing the first inches into your weeping hole.

“Fuck, that’s a wet cunt,” he groans in your ear while conquering your cunt with one hard thrust. “Yeah, you’re a good girl.”

Pressed into the furniture by his hard body you can’t do anything but lie there and let him slowly fuck into you. Your juices soak his cock, and his balls with every deep thrust.

Ari is by all means not gentle. He fucks you for punishment, to make sure your body knows you did a bad thing. “Oh, baby. I lied,” he whispers in your ear after a particularly deep thrust. “I’m going to keep you here for my pleasure.” He thrusts three, or four more times, always avoiding hitting your G-spot.

Ari purrs your name and fills your cunt seconds later. “Aw, don’t whine, baby,” he sinks his teeth in your neck to leave another mark on your body. “This was punishment. You’ll cum when I allow you to cum.”

He groans against your neck, teeth grazing over one of the marks he left. Ari is a man possessed. After he filled you for the first time, he took his time to rub cream into your ass. He toyed with you, fingers and tongue bringing you to the edge, only to not let you cum again.

With your hands restrained to the bedpost, you can only watch him move on top of you. Your hands itch to touch him, but you haven’t earned it yet. You’ve been a bad girl, and he won’t allow you to get more than he’s willing to give.

Ari slowly thrusts into you, thick cock rubbing against your walls. “I want you to cum for me. Come on, little tramp, soak my cock. I want to fill this slutty hole up.”

“Please—” you eagerly meet his thrusts. “I need…please…Sir…A-R-I…” You shudder through your high. Your whole body sizes up and for a moment, you fear you died and ended up in heaven. This is the most intense orgasm you ever experienced, and it takes your breath away.

“Good…” Ari thrusts one last time and stills his hips. His warmth fills you again, and you wonder how many times he already fucked you before he let you come. “Good girl. So, fucking good for me.”

He collapses on top of you, exhausted and satisfied. “Fuck…” you breathe out. “Fuck…fuck…that was…”

“Damn, this cunt feels so good. I’m glad you’re a criminal wanting to break into my property. I didn’t have such a good fuck in years…”

“Well…I got two more weeks off so…” you wiggle your hips, making Ari groan. “I could just invade your property for a little longer and you can punish me again.”

Ari lifts his head to look at you underneath him. He smirks, liking your idea. While you look up at him, mirroring his smirk Ari plans to keep you forever…

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[littlest-w01f]

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

Happy Kinktober everyone! Enjoy <3 (not posting in order)

Heart (Autassassinophilia with Rheana (Oc) x Eris)

Summary: Rheana is jealous watching Eris charm a court female, she sets out to make sure he knows who his heart belongs to.

Shifter (Futanari with Feyre x Reader, Rhysand mentioned) pt 2 of Rita's

Summary: After taking you home, Feyre has more fun with you

Naughty kitten (Pet play with Sylus x Reader)

Summary: Sending a pic of yourself laying in Sylus' bed half naked to him gets you in trouble when he gets home earlier than planned.

Dark (Shadow play with The Darkling x Reader)

Summary: The Darkling uses a merzost creature to take care of you after an intense training session. Using you as practice for the magic.

Birchin (Gangbang with Cazriel x Elsie (Oc) x Feysand)

Summary: Elsie and Feyre get invited to join their mates in the birchin on their annual Winter Solstice traditions.

Cold (Temperature play with Zayne x Reader)

Summary: After suffering from a little heatstroke, Zayne takes on the responsibility of cooling you down.

Firsts (Parthenophillia with Tamsand x Reader)

Summary: You and Rhysand teach Tamlin how to give and receive pleasure.

Demonic (Monsterfucking with Sylus x Reader)

Summary: After hearing what the common folk of the N109 zone think Sylus truly looks like, you didn't believe them, then, you took him up on his offer to take his brooch the easier way.

Moonlight (Spectrophilia with Azriel x Reader)

Summary: No one sees him, no one feels him but you, and your mate is quite a jealous male over those who you can see

Sharing (Free Use with Cassian x Fia (Oc), Nesta mentioned, Feysand's partner)

Summary: While her partners are busy, Fia knocked on Cassian and Nesta's door for company, Cassian answered.

Ease (Blood play with Rafayel x Reader)

Summary: Missing his bodyguard, Rafayel decides to visit you and ends up comforting you through your cramps.

Shaken (Overstimulation with Stermhond x Reader)

Summary: Being unable to sleep at night on the Volkvolny, the Stermhond provides you with the perfect distraction.

Session (Role play with Zayne x Reader)

Summary: Your appointment with your doctor.

Ruined (Femdom with Rafayel x Reader)

Summary: Gem Affection Au, having a little peace and quiet with Rafayel after a long day socialising

Clubs (Triple penetration with Batboys x Reader)

Summary: Morden AU, working in a strip club, you got your fair share of customers who offered you payment for vip services even when you never did, until you finally chose to.

As you all can see, I did not post it soon... But still, here it is :)

Please comment to be added to the taglist <3

[lets-zofifi-stuff]

CHRISMAS DINO!!

[hellishjoel]

tequila!

6k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter

summary: a night off and some well deserved drinks put you and frankie in the same spot on a friday night. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), food and alcohol consumption, intro to triple frontier friends, reader is mentioned having hair and wearing perfume, swearing, pet names (princess), jealousy, angst, hot girls cry in the bathroom, smut, fingering (f! receiving), cum eating, discussions of men being douchebags. if I missed anything, please let me know!

A/N: it’s been since halloween! how are we doing?! here’s more frankie and princess figuring out their shit and actually communicating! can we get a round of applause? thank you to @undercoverpena for the emotional and plot support! thank you to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

The town was small, but you guys knew how to kick it. 

Pool balls clattered, people cheered, and butts of beer bottles clinked in celebration. 

This was exactly what you needed, a night off and a fucking drink. 

You tried to tell yourself that your spat with Frankie a month ago hadn’t taken its toll on you, but he was plaguing your thoughts. The fastest way to forget your inhibitions? To forget Frankie? 

Tequila.

Sideways was known for breaking health code violations and overserving its customers. Despite their negative Yelp reviews, they were the only bar in town packed on this Friday night. 

You were two and a half drinks in with your girlfriends, the ones you never get to see from working late shifts. They were sweet and funny as hell. They were the pick-me-up that you really needed after what happened with Frankie.

It was still sitting in the back of your mind, playing on a loop like Christmas songs do in the winter. 

“What do you want from me, huh?” 

“I don’t know.”

Heat scorches your throat, burning and scraping at the inside as you accept a shot from a stranger. Not your smartest decision, but you suppose you haven’t been making a lot of those as of late anyway. 

Just as you take a deep sigh, you see it. That stupid hat and nest of dark curls accompanied by broad shoulders. What was Frankie doing here? 

You try to drop your head, avert your gaze, but it's pointless. The moment your eyes meet, time warps into slow motion. His usual honey-brown eyes look oaky-brown in the low light ambiance Sideways provides. His face softens at the sight of you, taking you in. Even as he walks past your small table, his head cranes to keep you in sight. 

Then his friends slap his back and keep him moving, their large and loud group weaving through the sea of strangers. And it’s over. He’s gone, probably somewhere tucked in the back of the bar ordering drinks. Time returns to its normal pace, and the loud hum of drunk twenty-somethings returns. 

“Jeez, Fish, that’s like the second bullseye tonight.” Frankie’s friends playfully clap with mustaches tickled with white foam from their beers. 

Frankie shrugs a shoulder, glances at your table, sees your pretty smile and the way your hair swishes before his eyes return to the dart board. An angry huff leaves his lips before he raises his arm, eyes narrowed on the dart board a good seven feet away from him, before he releases the dart like a lightning fast whip and he sinks it right into the center. 

His friends howl, a little smile on his lips at their approval. 

“Make that three!” One chimes in. “He’s hot tonight, folks! Get’em while he’s hot!” 

Despite being with his friends and cheap alcohol, Frankie didn’t feel very happy. Not after what went down after the last time he saw you. And now, you were here, which was making the pistons in his brain fire a whole lot faster. He wonders what happened, why you threw up your hands that night and pushed him away. 

Work has been hell trying to avoid you. Nothing more than giving him orders and brushing past him with your pretty smelling perfume that has put him in a trance since the first day he started at the diner. Now you were here, huffs of people in between you two, and he could still pick out the sweet blossomy smell he considers to be your own.

“I need a fucking drink,” Frankie mutters, plucking the darts from the board as he slaps them in the hands of his buddy for his turn. 

Frankie pushes through people to the bar, gently rapping his knuckles against the dark wood of the bar for a beer. His head dips down to look for his wallet, pulling it from his back pocket. The last thing he expects when he looks up is… not you. 

“Do you know that girl or something?” Your friend nudges, eyes still locked on the glowing redhead who had approached Frankie at the bar. 

“No.” You mutter, sucking in at the side of your cheek as you watch her put the moves on an adorably awkward Frankie. 

“You sure seem to act like you know her, you won’t stop staring.” She teases before she’s distracted by one of your girlfriends spilling off her barstool. 

All you can see is the way she blocks your view of Frankie, doing all the typical flirtatious moves you can get away with when you’re hot. Twisting her hair around her finger, smiling at Frankie like he was the funniest guy in the world, leaning into his front. She had a gorgeous body, tight waist, glowing smile, and a huge fucking rack she purposely accentuated when she threw her head back in laughter. 

First off, you hate the way she looks at him like he’s already hers. Second, when did Frankie become so goddamn funny?

You huff out a sigh and throw back another tequila shot as soon as it’s delivered. 

Jealousy wasn’t your thing. Frankie just knew how to pinch your fucking nerve. It’s so fresh still, you know? Now here he was, talking to another girl. Part of you feels like you deserve it. You cut him loose, there were no more strings that tied you two together. So why did you feel like this? Angry, annoyed, sad. Jealous. 

Fuck that. 

“Another tequila?” The bartender perks up upon seeing you nudge your way to the front of the bar’s counter. 

You give him a tight nod and a blank mhm leaving your mouth, leaning over the counter as you wait. 

His cologne shatters your thoughts. “Hey.” 

You look up to see Frankie has turned away from his girl, eyeing you over. You couldn’t deny how good you looked tonight, taking advantage of your one night off to wear something that accentuated your figure. 

And it was catching more eyes than Frankie’s. The woman beside him glares at you as if you took her favorite toy on the playground, as if she had dibs. 

You hate to admit that your eyes drift as well, a certain sexually charged energy between you both. His classic khaki jacket and ballcap accompanied by a dark wash pair of jeans. His stupid hands are stuffed in his stupid pockets, and his stupid chocolate curls curve up toward the brim of his hat. 

Frankie’s eyes fell to your sweet neck, then to the curves of your body, your mouth going dry at the way he was drinking you up. 

“Hey,” you muster up, giving him a tight-lipped grin as you nod as a greeting. 

You want him. He looks so fucking good tonight. But he already had a date going, you didn’t need to interrupt. You nip at your lower lip and force yourself to stare elsewhere. 

“Rum and coke, please, Frankie,” The woman coos, an attempt to stray Frankie’s attention from you. She’s obviously seen the way he looks at you, both of you practically eye fucking each other right in front of her. You kind of got a kick out of getting under her skin, though. 

“Hi,” you say as you reach your hand past Frankie, offering the woman a handshake and your name. “I work with Frankie.” 

She gives you a snotty little hmph, nodding tightly instead of shaking your hand. 

“I’ll meet you at the table with my drink.” She insists to Frankie, leaving the two of you on your own, but not without a squeeze to his broad arm and a certain look in your direction. 

“Wow,” you fake applaud, “she’s a real keeper, Frankie. No, really, I mean it. Didn’t know you had a thing for girls with tits bigger than their face.” 

“I just met her ten minutes ago,” Frankie mutters as he’s served his beer and the girl’s rum and coke, as well as your tequila shot being delivered. 

You try not to roll your eyes too obviously. “Well, she’s certainly all over you.” 

“What do you care?” He counters, finally facing you again, his eyes still lingering on your body for longer than you know he should. “You came up here to us, princess. If there’s something you wanna say, say it.”

A larger group comes in through the front door and pushes through to the bar, a light gasp leaving you as you’re shoved into Frankie, your fronts aligning. You feel his toned torso and smell his fresh cologne as his hand instinctually clutches your waist to keep you upright. 

Both of you take one another in again, not being able to fight the tension between you both that could be cut with a knife. 

The last time you were this close was Halloween. The last time he touched you was Halloween. Now, he was touching you again, and god, all you wanted was for him to flip his hat around, duck down, and kiss you. Kiss you hard, make up for all the time you had lost. 

Have you ever missed someone so much you feel physically sick? You had no idea how much your little talks in the kitchen meant to you until you forced Frankie to let you go. You had the overwhelming urge to run away, like he was too close, he would learn everything about you, and he’d leave after finding out you’re just a broken plate that can’t be glued together. 

You were unfixable. And Frankie was a fixer, down to his bones, and in his heart, he would try to mend you back together, only to be disappointed after many failed attempts. You wouldn’t put him through that, and more importantly, you didn’t want anyone to try. It would just hurt you more.

But you looked at each other a little too long to be just friends. 

If there’s something you wanna say, say it. 

I can’t. 

Frankie’s eyes sink as you throw back the shot, feeling the liquid burn your throat and then your chest again. This is what you’d rather feel than hurt. 

“Well,” you say, a bit raspy from the fresh alcohol. You gently push your hand into Frankie’s abdomen in an attempt to squeeze out from between him and a random drunkard, nails sinking into his toned torso. “Have a good rest of your night. See you at Tommy’s.” 

Your shoulders swivel back and forth as you carve through the bar to the rest of your friends, toppling over people to get back to your seat as you sigh defeatedly. God, why are you torturing me?

It’s an hour later, followed by two tall water glasses. Your friends have ordered some appetizers off the menu to soak up the alcohol. And because you were all damn hungry. Your eyes stray to Frankie’s table every few minutes. 

You couldn’t help it, you were overthinking. Was he looking at you when you looked away? Was he not looking at all, too into Miss Red? The more you thought, the more your chest felt like it wanted to give way. But you weren’t prepared for what you saw the next moment you looked up. 

Big Red decided to make her move, her long fingernail catching Frankie’s chin and swiftly guiding him to face her as she leaned in and kissed him. 

She kissed him, your Frankie, she kissed him. Put her pink lipstick on his mouth and marked him as her own. 

Goosebumps flood over your skin, eyes sinking as you watched helplessly from across the room.  Suddenly, it was all too much. The loud talking, the buzzing of people, the alcohol, her and him, it was all too much. 

Your feet find the floor before you can stop yourself, you feel like you might shed a tear in your race to the bathroom. You tug on the handle, and it’s locked. 

“Occupied!” Some snotty girl whines. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” you shout amongst the crowd of people to ensure she can hear the urgency in your voice. Your throat feels thick with wetness. 

Finally, the door opens, and the woman looks you up and down in annoyance. You don’t care. You put a hand on her shoulder to guide her out of the doorway, trying to push yourself in and close the door. Not before a familiar pair of thunderous boot steps echo in your ears. 

You let out a grunt as you attempt to slam the door, but you see a hand curve around the frame. He speaks your name, it’s Frankie. Your stomach falls, and you quickly shake your head, feeling angry tears threaten to spill. 

“Fuck off,” you say behind gritted teeth, attempting to use your body to finish closing the door. But he’s a hell of a lot stronger than you. 

“Come on, princess, open up, just wanna talk.” He pushes himself in, tall figure looming over yours as you look away with annoyance. He flips the lock and presses his hand above the wall you’re leaning back on. “What’s wrong?” 

Anger surges through your voice, planting your hands on his chest as you attempt to shove him away again. You find yourself confused when your own hands curl in on his shirt and bring him closer. “I told you to fuck off, I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look fine.” He says as his hands attempt to cradle your face, but you shove them down. 

“Then stop looking,” You quickly shake your head, the heat of his hands making your stomach churn. 

Suddenly, you don’t want to cry, you want to shout. 

“I saw you kiss her!”

Frankie’s eyes met your glaring ones, your lips parting as you let out panted breaths.

“I didn’t kiss her,” he starts to say before you interject. 

“I saw you! Why are you lying to my face?” You accuse, feeling your body flush with warmth as your hands gently push at his pecs. “Get away from me.” You mutter, but Frankie always returns despite how many times you push him away. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere until you listen to me, okay?” Frankie goes to cup your cheeks again, but the warning look on your face makes him groan in annoyance and drop his head before he comes back up to look at you. “She kissed me, I didn’t kiss her back, and-and I didn’t want her, okay? I want you, I want you, I want you, goddamit, I want you!” 

You quickly shake your head, feeling your hoop earrings gently hit your cheeks. “No.” You whisper, feeling small under his gaze. And he’s looking at you again like you put the sun in the sky. You absolutely hate it in some ways, but he looks at you with such clarity that it makes your heart flutter. Like he knows his place is with you. 

“No, what?” He challenges. You find yourself fisting at his shirt, both in comfort and also a way to keep him at a distance. 

“No, you don’t want me, Frankie,” Your face is pinched in anger, eyes searching for his intentions. You watch as his face sinks at your words, hurt by what you’ve said. 

“How can you fuckin’ say that? How can you say I don’t want you? You don’t get to decide that for me, alright?” His voice is stern, eyes narrowed in on yours as he fills the space between you two, no matter if you take a step back, he’s right there on your toes. “I like you.”

“You don’t know me, not really,” You say.

“I want to, though. I’m scared as hell to want you, but here I am, telling you I want you anyway because that’s how much I care. I want you more than I fear the rejection on Halloween happening all over again.” 

All you can do is shake your head, feeling the mixture of angry sad tears start to melt at your eyes again. You hurt him so badly on Halloween, yet he was still here trying to say how much you mean to him. 

“Frankie,” your lower lip wobbles, straying eye contact. 

“No, listen to me, I’ve got more to say,” he says as he cradles your face once more, and this time, you don’t push him away. His beautiful brown eyes pour into your own, and you feel so drunk that he’s kissing your soul with his eyes. 

“I haven’t even missed you,”

“Bullshit, I know you fuckin’ miss me because I miss you.” He sees through all your lies, you feel transparent as he holds you close, backing you up against the sink as he strokes a thumb along your cheekbone. 

“No,” you start to say, shaking your head as tears cloud your vision. 

“No, no, no,” he mocks, “Is that all you can say?”

You despise how much your throat feels swollen, and your words sound thick with wanting to cry. “I just wanted you to fuck me, but then I got greedy, and I wanted you to love me, too. But that would be a waste of your time, Frankie, you need to listen to me.”

The admission felt like a dam breaking inside of you, and Frankie only pulls you closer. Suddenly, the buzz of everyone else outside the bar died down, and all you could think or hear was Frankie. 

“Loving someone is never a waste,” Frankie whispers. 

You playfully scoff and wipe under your eyes around his hand. “You don’t love me.”

“No, not yet. But I could. I know I could. Because this past month has been hell without talking to you. I don’t wanna walk around the diner, pretending like you don’t exist or that you don’t do something to me. You do everything to me, you are everything.” 

Frankie starts swiping away the tears you didn’t even know were falling, taking them away with the pads of his thumbs. 

“I think of you at two in the morning when I can’t sleep, you’re always the first place my mind runs to. You stayed over once, once, and my body just fuckin’ craves the way I got to hold you. It was addictive, how it felt to finally be close to you, when you finally let me in.” 

You force yourself to close your eyes and try to breathe, his words feeling like the powers a hurricane carries. Your shaky fists are still clutching his shirt at his sides, not willing to let him go after his confession. 

After you gather a few breaths, you meet his eyes. “Frankie, once you care, you’re fucked.” It’s a warning.

Now, he’s the one shaking his head. “I don’t believe that for a minute. I’ve cared for you ever since I started working at Tommy’s, and even more when you kissed me at the Christmas party last year.”

You playfully scoff and break a smile. “We were both drunk.” 

Frankie shrugs. “Yeah, and I wished I was sober so I could remember every bit of how good it felt. Now we’re almost a year later. It took me from December to August to make another real move on you, and I don’t want to let you go. Not after having the real thing. This feeling doesn’t just go away. I miss you.” 

You nip at your lower lip, goosebumps flying across your skin away. 

“I just don’t want to get hurt,” you whimper, your forehead gently leaning into the support of his large palms. Your glassy eyes make him melt. 

He hushes you gently, your voices growing softer the closer he comes to you. Your noses gently brush, making your wet eyelashes flutter. Frankie sighs before he speaks. “If you promise to stay, I’ll promise not to leave.” 

Frankie’s care for you was evident. You knew pushing him away was wrong, trying to save yourself only wounded you both. But what a waste it would be not to try with someone who was as good-hearted as Frankie. 

The douchebag you once knew was long gone. In fact, it feels like he started to drift away after last December. Because he had made up his mind a year ago that he wanted to be with you, and he would change for the better to make it happen. He’s been showing you all this time what you mean to him, that he wouldn’t hurt you. 

You must have left him hanging for too long because he parts his lips to speak your name. 

“Stop talking,” you whisper as you lean up and crash your lips against his. No more words needed to be said. 

You can feel Frankie’s cheeks perk up from his smile, both of your mouths upturned, happy to be in one another’s arms again. Being apart felt like a drought, and he was finally touching you. And both of you were fucking starved.

Frankie’s once soft movements turn greedy. As do yours. Hands are gliding over waists, teeth are tugging lips, and your core physically buzzes as Frankie flips his hat to face backward without breaking your kiss. Jesus Christ. His tongue glides against your bottom lip and you easily part your lips to grant the access he so desperately craves. 

“Lemme make it up to you,” Frankie mutters against your mouth, tasting remnants of his ale and he, your citrussy-lime tongue. 

“Please,” you beg. 

He doesn’t waste another moment, nipping at your bottom lip and making you mewl while his large palms find the back of your thighs. His strength makes lifting you look easy, gasping into his mouth as he sets you on top of the sink while his hands fasten on your waist once more. 

You push his hand towards the button of your jeans and he pops it open with one hand. 

“Fuck,” you moan out, jaw dropped as his hand pushes past the band of your panties, large fingers gliding down through your slick, then back up your valley. A breath catches in your throat, your back archiving off the mirror as Frankie takes the opportunity to bury his head into your chest, planting kisses along your breasts over your shirt. He eventually moves his lips up your body, across your sweet neck, to where he nibbles on your jawline. 

Your jaw drops against his cheek, your faces smooshed together as you feel his familiar stubble scrape against your soft skin. It’s like there’s a non-stopping rollercoaster in your mind, with his fingers moving up and down your soaking pussy, you can’t fucking think. 

A weak cry leaves your lips against the shell of his ear as he plunges two fingers into your entrance. You brace an arm around his shoulder and pull him into you, ensuring he keeps his damn fingers stay buried in your cunt. 

“Please,” you whimper, grinding your hips with vigor against his hand, his wrist rolling with you. 

“That’s it baby,” his silken voice purrs with praise, “let go for me.” 

You become completely pliant under his touch, under the lead of his fingers. He was already filling you up, you couldn’t imagine being filled up by the girth of his cock after a month without it. 

With two fingers inside of you and his thumb working sweet circles around your clit, you feel as if you might explode. He walks a line between kissing and sucking on your neck, the surface of your skin becoming clammy and raw. 

There’s a sense of safety in his arms, his tense bicep that’s hardened from the one that’s working up into you.

You barely acknowledge the knock on the door, forcing yourself to bite down onto Frankie’s shoulder and his jacket flap to keep yourself from spilling out loose moans. Loud music and even louder chanter is muffled by the door. 

“Fuck, fuck, Frankie-” you moan, mouth stuffed and jumbling your words. 

Frankie clamps his free hand over your mouth, guiding your head to rest back against the mirror once more, your hot pants fanning against his palm. 

“So fuckin’ loud, don’t remember you bein’ this loud for me.” He says with a wide cocky smirk. You will yourself to roll your eyes, but they end up staying at the back of your head as you continue to fuck yourself against his fingers. 

He curls them inside of you, your back arching as you feel your stomach swirl with excitement. Your small hands clench at his jacket, gasping shakily as your high nears closer. 

Your muffled moans stay concealed by Frankie’s hand clamped over you, letting your weak moans and cries land into his palm. It felt so good, the way your clit twitches under his control and his fingers work effortlessly to plunge deeper and deeper into your depths. 

There’s another incessant knock at the door. Fuck, there was no way to be quiet. 

Frankie smirks wider as your walls clench around his fingers, one long moan of his name landing muffled against his fingers as his eyes fixate on your own, spilling your orgasm across his fingers. 

“Good girl, just needed to get off, didn’t you?” He belittles.

You sigh weakly against his hand, hearing still fuzzy from feeling so over the moon. A slow, tired smirk grazes your lips as you playfully push his face away. 

“Such a douchebag.” You mutter, nipping at your lower lip while Frankie gently removes his fingers from your entrance. You feel empty, you hate it. 

Frankie raises his two fingers to your lips, your eyes studying the pretty cream he’s gathered amongst the mix of your slick. 

“Taste yourself, baby.” Such a fucking charmer. You can’t help the heat that gathers at the back of your neck, shyly leaning in and wrapping your lips around the tips of his fingers. You lock your eyes with his own as you flatten your tongue and hollow your cheeks, sinking your mouth lower and taking him to the knuckle. 

Your heart pounds thinking about his cock angrily twitching against his thigh, desperate for his own release. But he’s always put you first. And you always make his loyalty to you worth his while. 

Frankie’s cocky face slowly melts as you swallow around his fingers, lips parting as he looks over you in a sense of pride. 

Another damn knock on the door. More like an incessant pounding.

He forces himself to release his fingers from your mouth.

“What?” Frankie protectively barked, voice laced with annoyance. 

“Fish?” A voice called from the other side. One of his friends. 

He looks at you apologetically, grabbing you by your hips and lowering you off the sink.  His hands are already on the hem of your jeans,  and securing the button while you zip the fly and hurry to make yourselves presentable. 

Frankie puts his hand on the knob, ready to flip the lock. He feels compelled to kiss you one more time. He spins on the spot and cups your cheeks, meshing your lips together and pulling your chin up to face him. He savors it, lets his tongue tangle with yours to get that last taste of come on your tastebuds. 

He forces himself to let you go, finally opening the door. 

“Santi? What, man?” He asks in annoyance, seeing his friend on the other side. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he pauses to look past Frankie, to you, a sly little smirk on his lips after he’s put two and two together. “Listen, uh, Benny’s been arrested.”

Frankie shares a look of confusion with you. Frankie and Santi both stand there a little dumbfounded, unsure of what to do. 

“Well, come on, he can’t stay there all night. Let’s go.” You urge. It’s enough to snap the two out of their surprised trance. Frankie takes your hand and leads you towards the bar’s exit, pushing people aside with his arms and broad shoulders so no drunk asshole knocks you around in the crowd. 

You’re surprised to see his friend, who you’ve gathered is Santi, doing the same. It felt like you had two incredibly handsome escorts. Or maybe a better term would be guard dogs, pretty and sleek Dobermans. 

After saying goodnight to your friends and grabbing your purse, Santi catches up you both while Frankie drives his truck. 

“This drunk guy came up and started hitting on this girl he knows from.. somewhere.. I don’t know, but then he started getting all belligerent when she rejected him, and Benny stepped in. They started knocking each other around, it was so fuckin’ crowded in there, and I didn’t know where you went. Surprised you guys didn’t hear all the commotion.” 

You weren’t surprised you missed the whole fiasco. Frankie had you coming so hard that you saw Jesus Christ himself. 

“So, what?” Frankie prodded, annoyance laced in his voice as he drove over the bumpy road, glancing in his rearview mirror every few moments to see you. “The police got called and they both got arrested?”

Santi makes an affirmative humming noise, looking out the window as they pull up to the town’s police department. 

“Fuck,” Santi swears as he hops out the back of the truck. “I haven’t done this in a few years. Don’t remember how it goes.” 

You jump in before you can stop yourself. “We need to go in, ask for his name, and figure out what he’s being charged with. We pay his bail, he completes his release paperwork, and as long as he didn’t bad mouth any cops in there, we should be in and out, bada-bing-bada-boom.” You say as you clap-wipe your hands in demonstration of how painless this process should be. But Frankie and Santi still look starstruck. 

“Don’t ask. Let’s go.” You say as you hop out of the truck, the two men following suit. 

You imagined their friend Benny to be this mean, big, bad guy. But you guys didn’t see the way this man smiled upon seeing his friends come to pick him up. He was the definition of a Golden Retriever if we’re still speaking in dog lingo. 

Tussled dark blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a smile that would make any person melt. He just wasn’t what you were expecting when you heard that one of Frankie’s drunk asshole friends was arrested. Maybe you expected another stoner-type who didn’t give a fuck. You were wrong. 

“Arrested for defending a woman’s honor,” Benny scoffs as he digs his possessions out of a large envelope. You eye the way he delicately places his watch back on his wrist before bumming a cigarette from Frankie. The glow of the lighter illuminates his face a mute orange before the end of his cigarette caught blaze. Then you were all surrounded by the blue of a midnight sky again.

“What, like you wouldn’t do it again?” Santi teases, stuffing his hands in his pockets as the cigarette slowly made its way down the line to Frankie. 

“Fuck that, I’d do it again tomorrow if I had to.” He chirps with a laugh. “Fish, you should have heard the way this guy was badmouthing this woman, I mean, the most vulgar shit that came out of his mouth just because she wouldn’t let him buy her a drink.”

“M’glad I wasn’t there. There would have been two guys arrested tonight.” Frankie mutters, the cigarette passing from him to you. 

“Wouldn’t believe how often that shit happens.” You mutter before you take a drag. Benny leans forward to take a look at you, maybe just now realizing you were even here. 

“Yeah?” He probes for more as you slowly nod, tipping the ash off the end of the cigarette. 

“My friend was called a cunt last week after saying no to a guy wanting to sit next to her at the bar. He knew the seat was taken, our other friend just went to the bathroom. He purposely waited until she was alone to make a move.”

“No shit.” Santi hummed curiously. 

“Seriously. Called her a fat bitch, said he’d hope somethin’ really bad would happen to her. If I was there, I would have knocked his teeth in.” 

Benny slowly smiles, nodding proudly. “I have no doubt. Just wish you didn’t have to do that stuff in the first place.”

You sigh as you glance at Frankie, who’s looking at you with sympathetic eyes. But he knows you don’t really like it when he looks at you like that, so he quickly glances at his shoes. 

“Wait,” Benny whispers with a goofy grin. “Fish, is this the girl from the diner you always talk about?” 

Even in the dark of night, Frankie’s sweet glowy blush tints his face. Or maybe it was the alcohol, but he wouldn’t have driven if he was that out of it.

“Yeah, yeah, Benny, this is her.” 

“Oh shit, hi,” Bennys says as he stands in front of you and offers you his hand to shake. “I know this is kind of a bad start, gettin’ me out of jail and all, but I’m Benny Miller, nice to meet you in person. My guy here,” Benny pauses to playfully yank around Frankie’s shoulder, “he’s always tellin’ us stories about the diner. Can’t think of one you’re not mentioned or the star of the show.” 

The smile on your face can’t help but grow as you playfully eye Frankie who is being all too quiet. You hand Frankie the cigarette as a distraction, shaking Benny’s hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Benny. And trust me, I’ve met guys under worse circumstances. Like working with them at a diner.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Frankie mutters playfully around the cigarette in his mouth. 

The whole group erupts into laughter, Benny and Santi both taking the opportunity to say their proper greetings and apologies for busting up your night with their friend. 

“I should probably get back to my brother.” Benny hums, motioning his head back to the bar’s general direction. “If he thinks I had to do another overnighter, I owe him twenty bucks.” He teases as you all start piling back into the truck. 

Frankie drops Santi and Benny back off at the bar, the entirety of the building shaking with applause and whistles to see that their noble heroes have returned. A very specific pretty blonde rushes up to Benny and thanks him with a kiss. 

“And he still gets the girl.” You hum, watching from the passenger side window. 

“He always does, that one.” Frankie teases, his hand coming over to rest on your upper thigh, thumb making gentle circles over your jeans. “Lemme take you home.” 

You swallow down a lump in your throat, gently resting your hand over Frankie’s. “Is home your apartment?” You ask, slowly raising a hopeful eyebrow as he nods. 

“Can be.” 

A nod to that, Frankie starts his truck down the road again. 

You need to tell him the truth, that this didn’t make you official. That you were still wary, trying to learn how to ride a bike again, sort of thing. 

“What?” He asks, knowing you’re thinking too loud in your head. 

You part your lips to speak but realize you shouldn’t feel bad about what you have to say. “I’m not ready for a full commitment. You’re not my boyfriend, Frankie, not yet. I just wanna take things slow. See if this is what we both really want.” 

The right side of Frankie’s mouth twitches up into a smile. “We’ll figure it out. If no label is what you want right now, I’ll wait.” 

You can feel your heart swell at his understanding. The last thing you wanted was for Frankie to start announcing to the world that you were dating. Not when you didn’t feel fully ready. You had bad relationship habits, ones you were ready to finally outgrow. But you didn’t want him to be subjected to your learning process. So you both could wait. 

Frankie’s hand rotates palm side up, fingers apart. You slip your hand over his, your fingers interlocking as he starts the familiar route back to his apartment. This would be a lot of work, and you both had to be patient. 

“Take things slow...” Frankie slowly murmurs. “Does this mean we can’t have sex?”

“No, fuck that.” You both laugh, squeezing his hand in your hold. 

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[dailyadventureprompts]

Alright, guess it’s time to address the apocalyptic legal elephant in the room:

For those who might not know, WotC plans were leaked to “update” the OGL in what is basically a scorched earth policy with regards to 3rd party material/creators in the hopes of cutting out the competition and forcing people to use their new products. 

As someone who lived through the 4th edition/pathfinder schism, the situation is laughably similar:  D&D is flourishing more than it ever has (thanks primarily to the OGL) but the execs at Hasbro want more of the money spent on the hobby to wind up in their pockets. Oblivious to the fact that the opensource nature of the game is what draws people to it,  they task the design team with creating a proprietary virtual tabletop through which they can sell d&d content without having to worry about books or pdfs being pirated. This rightfully outrages the fandom and burns every scrap of good will they had towards WotC, resulting in a dead edition that’s maligned years afterword as folks hop to the newer, easier game system. 

The thing that’s different this time is that the d&d playerbase has grown exponentially since the days of the first OGL, with 5th edition being the easiest version of the game to run/pick up and so many resources online, there’s almost no barrier to entry besides finding a stable/accommodating group.   Hell, with the explosive popularity of liveplay series you don’t even need to be actively playing in order to be in the fandom.  All of these people are networked together in a fandom hivemind spread across twitter/reddit/youtube and WotC just made an enemy of every single one of them with its shameless and destructive cashgrab.  No streamer or 3rd party publisher wants to give Hasbro 25% of their revenue, to say nothing of having their project “cancelled” if WotC sees it as a threat to any of their current projects ( see the huge number of spelljammer materials published after the company dropped the ball). 

It took about two years after the announcement of 4th edition for Paizo to come out with pathfinder, and I have no doubt the OGL leak kickstarted every major 3rd party publisher brainstorming some legally distinct version of the 5e ruleset. In the coming months I expect to see a number of these surrogate systems floating around the internet in much the same way that the onednd playtest content, but spurred on with the added “fuck you Hasbro” energy. After that, it’s only a matter of time till one of the big streamers picks up one of these systems and popularizes it, not wanting to pay the 25%tithe to WotC. Personally my money’s on Critical Role: they were one of the major factors in popularizing 5th edition and they’ve got the fandom pull to legitimize any claimant to the throne. 

To step away from playing oracle for a bit, I’d like to finish up this post by dunking on WotC:  

*ahem*

HOW FUCKING DUMB TO YOU HAVE TO BE TO TURN YOUR ENTIRE CUSTOMER BASE AGAINST YOU IN ONE NIGHT? This is some new coke/Reynolds pamphlet/invading Russia in winter levels of shooting yourself in the foot. Wizards was on shaky ground to begin with given that they’re coming off a series of notably disappointing products AND trying to launch a new edition/virtual tabletop/battlepass system, but to follow that up with a retroactive rules change that lets them outright steal from or shut down creators? It’s laughable.  Maybe, MAYBE they could have made this work if they were knocking it out of the park with new releases every year and cultivating a base of diehard WotC loyalists, but the fact of the matter is that aside from the brand name, the hobby has largely passed them by. Everything that Wizards does, from player options to settings to monsters to rules modules, someone else does better because they’re willing to take risks and put in the effort. Aside from the elegant simplicity of 5e’s base system, I can count maybe two pieces of actual game design (piety from Theros, ship combat from Saltmash) that I consider usable at my table, which is SAYING SOMETHING considering we’re nearing the end of the game’s ten year golden age. 

I know we’ll weather this storm, we always have, and regardless of what happens I still know my friends and I will enjoy gathering around the table and slinging dice even though we might not be playing “dungeons and dragons” in a couple years time.  I’ll keep my eye on the horizon, and let you know where I find safe harbour.

[nemo-writes]

𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 ; 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 - 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜

➝ steve harrington + eddie munson x loser-club!reader

➝ synopsis; as days in hawkins blend into a reluctant routine, things take an unexpected turn when you meet eddie munson, the loud-mouthed, theatrical frontman of corroded coffin. new memories blend in with a faraway call from home.

⚠️ warnings; blood + allusions to self-harm

➝ series masterlist, moodboard

➝ previous chapter ; next chapter

Tuesday, February 25 1986, Hawkins, Indiana

The chill of winter began to soften in Hawkins, hinting at the promise of spring. Your motorcycle was still in Sam's hands, a constant reminder of the freedom you were missing out on. Each day, you’d think about it, half-expecting to hear the familiar purr of the engine, but instead, it remained silent, waiting for the day it would be roadworthy again.

It had been nearly a month since you’d arrived, and your days had taken on a routine that felt both boring and foreign. You spent your mornings in the small trailer, sketching in the dim light. You tried to occasionally strike up a conversation with your younger neighbour, but she wasn't around much, and when she was, her responses were short and clipped. 

You didn’t take it to heart

The late-afternoons melted into shifts at The Hideout, where you helped Bev with everything from serving drinks to wiping down tables, gaining the trust of the locals and a few friends along the way. Tonight, the bar hummed with the chatter of patrons as you wiped down the bar top, the familiar scents of stale beer and fried food filling the air. 

The door creaked open, letting in a blast of the chilly March air. A group of guys you’d never seen before walked in, their voices loud enough to cut through the general noise. Bev perked up beside you, grinning. "Speak of the devil. Corroded Coffin finally decided to show up."

One of them—a lanky guy with wild curls and a leather jacket—spotted you behind the bar and froze mid-step. His dark eyes narrowed, then widened slightly as he did an almost comical double take. You raised an eyebrow at him, silently daring him to say something.

And say something he did.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, his hands spreading theatrically as he sauntered closer. “What do we have here? A new face. A pretty face, at that.” He rested his elbows on the bar and leaned in, his smirk all sharp edges and mischief.

You remained completely deadpan, calmly reaching for a glass and filling it with water as he continued his tirade.

“Let me guess—small-town girl, probably here to make a big impression on us poor, unsuspecting Hawkins folk? Oh, wait—no. Bev’s new recruit, right? Just a pretty face to distract the customers while she rakes in the tips.”

You set the glass down with deliberate care, still not looking at him as he continued, his tone getting more obnoxiously smug.

“Y’know, you’ve got that mysterious vibe going for you. It’s almost working. Almost. But you can’t fool me. I—”

Done with him, you picked up the glass and threw the water straight in his face.

The sudden gasp from him and the burst of laughter from his friends made the moment all the more satisfying. He spluttered, stumbling back a step as water dripped down his face and soaked his curls.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed, rubbing his face with his hands as the guys behind him doubled over with laughter.

“Nice one, Eddie,” one of them managed between wheezes. “Real smooth.”

‘Eddie’ shot them a glare, still dripping.

“Are you done now?” you asked flatly, setting the empty glass back down on the bar.

His jaw worked for a moment, but before he could respond, Bev stepped in, smacking him lightly on the back of the head. “Cool it, Junior,” she said, her voice laced with exasperation. “And you’re late. Again.”

Eddie straightened, his indignation momentarily redirected. “Ow, Bev, come on. You know I have a life outside of this place.”

“It’s that silly club of yours,” Bev corrected, crossing her arms. “And you’ve blown me off two times this month to roll dice in the school’s basement. You begged me for this stage, Eddie. Begged. So unless you want to owe me even more favours, get your ass ready to play.”

Eddie grimaced, muttering something under his breath before turning back to you with a dramatic sigh. “She’s always like this, by the way. Don’t let tough love fool you—it’s just love.”

Bev snorted. “Love’s about to toss your ass out if you don’t start setting up.”

With a mock salute, Eddie turned and slunk off toward the stage, his friends still laughing at him as they followed, occasionally tossing out teasing remarks that he waved off with exaggerated annoyance.  

“Don’t mind him,” Bev said, leaning on the bar next to you. “He’s harmless. A pain in the ass, but harmless.”  

You didn’t answer right away, still annoyed as you grabbed the mop and bucket from the corner. You pushed it over to where the splash of water you’d thrown at Eddie had puddled on the floor. As you wrung out the mop, Bev leaned against the bar, watching you with an amused expression.  

“He’s got a mouth on him, I’ll give you that,” she continued. “Always has. But he’s a good kid. Runs with his little band of misfits, plays guitar like he’s auditioning for Judas Priest, and spends too much time obsessing over that game of his.”  

You hummed in response, more focused on finishing the cleanup than anything else.  

“He’ll grow on you,” Bev added, smirking. “Eventually.”  

“I’m not holding my breath,” you muttered, setting the mop back in the bucket and pushing it aside. With the floor cleaned and your irritation somewhat mollified, you turned back to the bar, ready to focus on the rest of your shift. 

Eddie Munson, you decided, was just another obstacle in an already unpredictable town.

As the music kicked off, you leaned casually against the bar, pretending not to care, but your ears caught enough to form an opinion. They were good—decent, even—but nothing that would blow your mind. Still, their energy was undeniable, and the way Eddie and his friends threw themselves into the performance, grinning and lost in the moment, was oddly charming.  

You allowed yourself to watch for a bit, just a little impressed despite yourself. At least they were having fun, and the small crowd seemed into it.  

Shaking your head, you pushed off the bar and went back to y refilling drinks, wiping down tables, and ringing up orders. The din of conversation and the steady thrum of the music filled the air, blending into the usual chaos of a busy night at The Hideout.  

Then, somewhere between a drink order and a quick scan of the room, a sharp prickle spread through your head. It started at the base of your skull, subtle at first, but then it moved to your temples and pushed forward, forming into a full-blown headache.  

You winced, rubbing at your temple and trying to shake it off. The music. It had to be the music—too loud, too much.  

The ache became unbearable, and you stepped away from the bar, ducking into the back room where the noise was at least muffled. You leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths, but the sensation only worsened.  

Then you felt it: a wet trickle down your nose. Your eyes snapped open, and your hand flew to your face. When you pulled it back, your fingers were smeared with blood.  

"What the—"  

The sound of heavy footsteps behind you made you almost jump out of your skin. You turned sharply, heart racing, to find Bev standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face.  

“You okay?” she asked, her voice cutting through the pain in your head.  

You blinked at her, trying to pull yourself together. “Yeah. Just… headache. Must be the music.”  

Bev’s brow furrowed as she stepped closer, her hand already pulling the rag from her apron pocket. Before you could protest, she cupped your face gently, tilting your chin up to get a better look at the blood trickling from your nose.  

“Hold still,” she muttered, dabbing at your nose with the rag.  

You scrunched your nose in disgust. “Bev, that’s gross.”  

She tapped your cheek lightly with her free hand, her expression stern but teasing. “Suck it up. It’s not like I haven’t seen worse around here. You look like you’re about to keel over. Take a break if you need it.”  

“I’m fine,” you grumbled, though you didn’t pull away.  

She gave you a long, searching look before letting go and stepping back. “Fine, but don’t push yourself. Last thing I need is you passing out on me.”  

You waved her off with a half-hearted laugh, heading over to the small cooler tucked in the back. Pulling out a can of Coke, you cracked it open and took a long, satisfying swig, the sweetness and carbonation hitting just right.  

Bev watched, hands on her hips, and nodded. “Sugar rush should do the trick.”  

“Here’s hoping,” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.  

You took a deep breath, the drink already making you feel a little steadier, and straightened up. “Back to work.”  

Bev gave a small nod, though her eyes lingered on you for a moment longer. “Alright, but don’t be a hero. I mean it.”  

With a faint smile, you stepped out of the backroom and back into the chaos of The Hideout, ready to dive back into your shift and shove the strange moment to the back of your mind—for now.

.

.

.

By the time the bar had emptied out and the last chair was stacked on a table, Bev came bustling out of the back, slipping her coat on.  

“Got somewhere to be?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as she handed you the keys.  

“Yeah, a date,” she said with a sly smile, waving you off before you could ask any questions. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ve got this. Just lock up when you’re done, okay?”  

“Sure thing,” you said, pocketing the keys. Bev flashed you a quick grin before she slipped out the door, leaving you to handle the rest.  

Once everything was cleaned and squared away, you stepped outside into the chilly night air, the heavy door clunking shut behind you. To your surprise, leaning casually against a big white van you were certain you’d seen around town before, stood Eddie Munson.  

A faint trail of smoke curled up from the joint dangling between his fingers. His big brown eyes caught yours, and a smirk tugged at his lips. “Hey, junior bartender. Long night?”  

You crossed your arms, your face giving nothing away. “What are you still doing here?”  

“Bev,” he said simply, shrugging as if that explained everything. “She all but twisted my ear and told me I owed you a ride home. Said it was, what was it? Oh, right—an apology for being a jackass.”  

Your eyes narrowed slightly, and Eddie grinned, clearly amused by your scepticism. He held out the joint. “Peace offering?”  

“I’m good,” you said flatly, waving your head. “Quit smoking a few months back.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, taking another slow drag before flicking the joint to the ground and crushing it under his boot.  

He lingered for a moment, shifting awkwardly before gesturing to the van. “So... you gonna let me give you that ride, or what?”  

You stared at him down, unimpressed and unmoved by his sudden show of helpfulness. Without a word, you rounded the van, opening the passenger door and climbing in. Once settled, you glanced over at him, your tone as flat as your expression. “Well? Are you gonna drive, or are we camping out here?”  

Eddie blinked, then let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head as he jogged to the driver’s side. “Alright, alright. Don’t bite my head off. Let’s go, boss.”  

The engine rumbled to life, and as the van pulled away from The Hideout, you leaned back in the seat, still unsure what to make of the guy sitting next to you. 

As the van rolled through the quiet streets, Eddie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, clearly trying to fill the silence.

“So…” he began, glancing at you sideways. “You always this talkative, or is it just me?”

You sighed faintly, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“Fair enough,” Eddie said with a small laugh. He tapped the steering wheel, searching for another angle. “Where you from?”

“Maine,” you answered, staring out the window as the dark streets blurred by.

“Maine, huh? So, what, you traded one black hole for another?” he teased, glancing at you as he manoeuvred the van around a bend. “I mean, no offence, but your choice in places doesn’t exactly scream ‘great taste.’”

You snorted, conceding him that one jab. He wasn’t exactly wrong. 

“Just waiting on my bike to get fixed,” you replied with a shrug. “Then I’m hauling ass.”

That caught his attention. Eddie’s eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly in surprise before he let out an enthusiastic, “No way. You own a bike?”

You glanced at him, and his childlike excitement finally tugged the corners of your lips upward in the first genuine smile of the night. “Yeah.”

“That’s badass,” he said, grinning like a kid who’d just been told he could have dessert before dinner. “What kind is it?”

“1981 Harley Davidson Ironhead,” you said, feeling the faintest flicker of pride.

“Man,” he whistled low, shaking his head in amazement. “A girl who rides a Harley. That’s—man, that’s cool as hell.”

You shrugged again. “It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal,” Eddie scoffed, shaking his head as if you’d said the most absurd thing. “That’s like saying the sun rising is no big deal. Jeez.”

Eddie seemed to relax a little, his earlier awkwardness dissolving. He glanced over at you again as the van rattled over a pothole

“So where are you crashing while you’re stuck here?”

“The trailer park,” you said, leaning your head against the window.

Eddie nearly swerved off the road. “Wait, what?”

You frowned, glancing at him. “What?”

“You live at the trailer park?” he asked, staring at you like you’d just told him you lived on Mars. “I live there too! How have we not crossed paths before?”

Suddenly, it clicked. The big white van, the one you’d seen so many times. You nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I’ve seen your van around.”

Eddie perked up even more. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “I’ve also heard it. Early in the morning, revving up like it’s the Daytona 500. Peeling off like a bat out of hell.”

Eddie let out a bark of laughter, his grin stretching wide. “Guilty as charged. That’s my morning routine. Coffee and chaos.”

Despite your fatigue, you snorted softly, shaking your head. “Explains a lot.”

For the rest of the drive, the atmosphere softened. Eddie’s chatter was relentless but oddly endearing, and you found yourself responding more, though still keeping it short. The weight of the day lingered, but his easy enthusiasm chipped away at your weariness, leaving you just a little less guarded than before.

When you arrive, Eddie drives all the way to the back of the park despite your protests.  

“You really didn’t have to,” you said, gesturing toward a closer path. “I could’ve walked the rest.”  

“Nah,” he replied, waving you off casually. “Wouldn’t be much of an apology if I made you stumble around in the dark, would it?”  

He finally pulled up in front of your trailer, the engine rumbling softly as he leaned back against his seat. Pointing to a larger trailer a short distance away, he said, “That’s me. I live there with my uncle. If you ever need anything—and I mean anything—just knock, alright?”  

The offer was surprisingly genuine, and for the first time, you saw something softer in Eddie, a glimpse of sincerity beneath the bravado.  

You gave him a small smile, the faintest crack in your usual guarded expression. “Thanks, Munson. I appreciate it.”  

The smile caught him off guard, and a flush of red spread across his cheeks, making him look almost like a little boy caught doing something embarrassing. “Yeah, no problem,” he said, suddenly fidgeting with his sleeve.  

With that, you stepped out of the van and headed toward your trailer. He stayed put, idling in the drive, waiting until you waved him a small goodbye before you disappeared inside. Only then did he shift into reverse, backing up carefully and heading off toward his own place, the faint glow of his tail lights flickering in the distance.  

You went through your simple night routine, the interaction with Eddie lingering in your mind like the faint warmth of a fire. It had been an unexpected bright spot, a far cry from the sour first impression he left. For the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to feel a little lighter, a little less guarded.  

As you grabbed your toothbrush and stood before the small bathroom’s mirror, your eyes caught something above your lip. A faint fleck of dried blood. Leaning closer, you squinted at the reflection, tilting your head up to peer up at your nostrils. Sure enough, there was still a faint trace of bloody residue inside too.  

With a furrowed brow, you stared at the mirror, examining yourself with an intensity you didn’t often allow. The dim lighting cast shadows over your face, highlighting the weariness that had settled into your features. You frowned slightly, wondering again about the sudden pain, the headache that had gripped you earlier, and the blood that followed.  

You were tired. It was probably nothing.  

Brushing the crusted blood away with a splash of water, and picked up your toothbrush and began scrubbing away the day. When you finally collapsed onto the small bed, pulling the thin blanket over yourself, you closed your eyes, falling into a deep sleep almost instantly. 

That night, you dreamt of home. 

.

.

.

The house glowed in golden light, the kind that made everything feel hazy and soft, like a memory half-forgotten. The kitchen smelled like roasted chicken and herbs, rich and warm, though the scent didn’t settle in the way it used to. You sat at the small table, feet swinging idly, staring at the plate in front of you.  

Your mother sat across from you, chin resting on one hand as she watched you with a smile and a raised eyebrow. 

“Don’t be picky,” she said, her voice lilting with the playful chiding you’d always known. “Do you want to grow up all scrawny?”  

“No,” you mumbled, your fork dragging aimlessly through the mashed potatoes.  

“Then eat.” She pushed the plate closer to you, her smile widening with a teasing edge.

Your grandmother sat across from you, her plate half-empty as she absently forked at a piece of chicken. Her eyes were fixed on the flickering television in the corner, the sound turned low, playing some grainy daytime drama.

You lifted a bite of mash, when the first knock came.  

It was soft, almost polite, blending into the warm hum of the room.  

Your mother didn’t react. She tilted her head, waiting for you to eat, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the table.  

The knock came again, louder this time. You glanced toward the door, but no one else seemed to notice.  

“Eat, sweetheart,” your mother urged, her smile unwavering.  

The knocking turned insistent, the thuds echoing through the apartment, followed by a faint scratching like nails dragging across wood.  

“Do you hear that?” you whispered, barely audible.  

“Hear what?” your mother asked, feigning confusion as she leaned closer.  

Your grandmother said nothing as she continued to watch the TV, as if the pounding wasn’t rattling the walls.  

The knocking grew louder, more aggressive, the scratches sharper and longer, setting your teeth on edge.  

“I... I think someone’s at the door.”  

Your mother didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she smiled warmly, her expression soft and familiar.

“Finish your food, sweetheart,” she said.“You’re always so picky.”

The knocking didn’t stop. It drummed against the door in a steady rhythm, faint at first but growing more insistent, like a heartbeat you couldn’t ignore.

You hesitated, glancing toward the sound.

“Where are you going?” your mother asked, her tone casual as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked at you, her head slightly tilted, a questioning light in her eyes.

“To check,” you mumbled, your chair scraping against the floor as you stood.

When you reached the door, the knocking stopped.

The sudden silence pressed against your ears, heavier than the sound had been. You placed a hand on the knob, your palm clammy.

Then, her hand fell over yours.

It was warm and steady, a reassuring weight that anchored you—but sticky too, the dampness seeping between your fingers.

“Don’t worry about it,” your mother said softly. “Probably just someone at the wrong apartment.”

The warmth of her hand suddenly felt wrong now, the stickiness impossible to ignore.

“Come on,” she urged, squeezing your hand. “Let it go. Sit back down and eat while it’s still warm.”

Her words were so normal, so natural, that for a moment, you doubted what you’d felt.

Your grandmother spoke up, her attention still half on the TV. “Listen to your mother, dear. Always something interrupting lunch these days.” 

Your mother guided you back to the table, her hand still warm, still damp. You didn’t dare look up at her face. Deep down, you already knew what you’d see, and the thought made your chest tighten.

The knocking started again, louder now, more forceful, rattling the doorframe like it might splinter, but nobody reacted. Instead, you picked up your fork, and took a bite of the food.

“Good girl,” she said after a moment. “Finish up. We’ve got dessert after.”

You forced a smile, though your hands trembled. The metallic scrape of it against your plate was almost drowned out by the banging, now deafening in its insistence.

Your grandmother hummed softly, her fingers still tapping along to the faint rhythm of the TV, her posture relaxed, utterly unbothered.

The sound at the door grew louder, more desperate—the handle rattling like it might break off—but the door stood firm, unmoved.

You focused on your plate, on the meal in front of you, on the clatter of utensils and your grandmother’s quiet humming, her rhythm unchanged. You didn’t look at your mother. You didn’t glance at her bloodied hands or risk seeing the truth you already knew, deep down, you couldn’t face.

But it didn’t matter. Not really.

You exhaled slowly, a strange calm washing over you. This wasn’t new. You’d been here before. You’d gone through this before. And so, you let your shoulders relax, your grip on the fork steadying as you turned back to your food.

Your mother’s voice was warm, familiar, as she said, “Good girl. Finish your plate.”

And so you did, chewing mechanically, each bite grounding you.

The sound at the door swelled, filling the room with its desperate, ceaseless rhythm, but it couldn’t reach you. You knew better than to let it.

You stayed seated, your focus fixed on the meal in front of you, and continued eating.

divider credit

[lightsmortalenemy]

An explorer to my area known as John Rae demonstrates the benefits of listening to the locals and not believing yourself to be the exception as he was searching to know what happened to the Franklin Expedition and took the locals advice on how to survive that region and also listened to their story on what happened to the expedition, and believed them. For reporting the truth he was belittled and harassed by the news (Charles Dickens was involved weirdly) because of the reputation of the empire and the attitude of superiority of the English community, and this exceptionalism came down on the Inuit population overall and on Rae because truth does not thrive where power wants perfection.

been seeing homies get deep into "the terror" and making me want to rewatch SO i spent two hours in the dead of night reading the wiki/the subreddit/other linked articles and like. one of those articles was deadass fucked up

there was a woman who spoke inuktitut who was writing a book containing a lot of inuit oral histories, and in nunavut she was able to hear passed-down recollections of when survivors from the franklin expedition were passing through

and like. i can't imagine being an inuit family/group, knowing that europeans exist but having never seen them, seeing 8-9 shambling, blue-skinned, cold-to-the-touch out-of-their-minds white men come wandering by. they invited the men inside their igloos for warmth, for food, to be hospitable. the men refused to eat, refused to speak, and when trade was offered, clutched their possessions close and refused to entertain the idea of trade. this was, offputting, to say the least. the group set them up in their own igloo, with their own fire, and left three whole seals for them to eat. and then they fled cause what the FUCK get out of there. they came back in a few days to check on the strangers. the three seals were completely untouched, while all of the men had killed and eaten each other

i mean. fuck dude. there are obviously pretty dark angles to view the franklin expedition from– honestly can't think of a good angle, it's pure colonialism and british exceptionalism– but that specific interaction, that inuit group who were living lives as normal until a dozen fucking walking dead showed up and did cannibalism. no wonder that story got passed down, i'd be shitting my pants if i saw that

[seat-safety-switch]

Rust is my most hated nemesis. I have stared more than once into the crumbling mess of red death that was, long ago, a pristine steel panel. Many evenings have been spent cutting out rust, only to find more rust, and cutting out that rust only to find yet more rust. Everything on my car is actively trying to return to the earth, but I won't let it.

Maybe you're lucky enough to only own new cars, or so absolutely fortunate that you live somewhere that cars don't rust even when they get scratched. If that's the case, you can pretend that the rest of this story is actually talking about croissants. Croissants are delicious, rich, and buttery, and I'd probably have learned how to make them myself if I didn't spend what my Daytimer® estimates is three-quarters of my waking life fixing body and structural rust on my harem of shitbox cars.

For years, car folks have been lured by a series of snake-oil paints, oils, dyes, dips, and other formulations that promise to help prevent rust. Virtually all of them are horseshit: elaborate scams produced by an industry that knows they have a desperate customer, just like parachute companies. The most effective rust prevention is to hose your car down with lanolin, which is a sort of wax you make by crushing up sheep. It works well, but the trick is doing it every year, forever, perfectly, until you miss a spot and your car disintegrates at highway speed, like a sand castle being hit by an errant volleyball.

If you talk to someone rich, they propose simply driving a bad car in the winter, and keeping your good cars cooped up. This is impossible for me: not only do I have exclusively what the rich would call "bad" cars, but I feel shrieking agony every time I am destroying any vehicle at all through my carelessness and malice. That is, of course, unless I am racing the car, in which case it is understood by all involved that dying in battle is the most noble way for the car to ascend to Valhalla. There is no honour in scrapping a car because the rear subframe prolapsed on your way to work, so I enter my most precarious vehicles in ice racing in order to give them a good end-of-life experience.

Unfortunately, it turns out that the gaping rust holes reducing the weight of the chassis, and my devil-may-care attitude bumping rivals off the lake in fact is the secret formula to produce winning race cars. Now, I'm not as rich as your Inoues or your Sennas, but the $50 gift certificates to the local tire place really add up. I hear they've got anti-rust underbody spray, which seems like a good thing to do to whatever chunks of cars I can frantically weld together this summer in the few weeks before the leaves turn again. The cycle of life.

[kdrtsz]

Travel the World of Imagination: Journeys Beyond Border

Kieth Denmark M. Retes | BSIT1A OVERVIEW:

Switzerland originates from the Old Swiss Confederacy established in the Late Middle Ages, following a series of military successes against Austria and Burgundy; the Federal Charter of 1291 is considered the country's founding document. Swiss independence from the Holy Roman Empire was formally recognized in the Peace of Westphalia in 1648. Switzerland has maintained a policy of armed neutrality since the 16th century and has not fought an international war since 1815. It joined the United Nations only in 2002 but pursues an active foreign policy that includes frequent involvement in peace building.

Switzerland is the birthplace of the Red Cross and hosts the headquarters or offices of most major international institutions including the WTO, the WHO, the ILO, FIFA, the WEF, and the UN. It is a founding member of the European Free Trade Association (EFTA), but not part of the European Union (EU), the European Economic Area, or the eurozone; however, it participates in the European single market and the Schengen Area. Switzerland is a federal republic composed of 26 cantons, with federal authorities based in Bern. references: Switzerland - Wikipedia

Switzerland, a small yet influential country nestled in the heart of Europe, stands out in many ways. From its awe-inspiring landscapes to its unique political system, Switzerland offers a blend of natural beauty, cultural diversity, and global diplomacy that few other nations can match. Its distinct character is a product of centuries of neutrality, innovation, and a deep respect for its heritage, all of which contribute to the nation’s unparalleled reputation on the world stage.

One of the first things that captivates visitors to Switzerland is its breathtaking scenery. The country is dominated by the majestic Alps, with towering snow-capped peaks that attract adventurers and nature lovers from around the globe. Whether it’s skiing in world-class resorts like Zermatt and St. Moritz or hiking through verdant valleys and along crystal-clear lakes, Switzerland offers outdoor experiences that are hard to rival. Beyond the Alps, the country is dotted with picturesque towns, lush meadows, and sparkling lakes, such as Lake Geneva and Lake Lucerne, each offering their own unique charm. The country's commitment to environmental preservation further enhances the beauty of these landscapes, ensuring that they remain pristine for future generations.

Swiss culture is characterized by diversity, which is reflected in diverse traditional customs. A region may be in some ways culturally connected to the neighbouring country that shares its language, all rooted in western European culture. The linguistically isolated Romansh culture in Graubünden in eastern Switzerland constitutes an exception. It survives only in the upper valleys of the Rhine and the Inn and strives to maintain its rare linguistic tradition.

Switzerland is home to notable contributors to literature, art, architecture, music and sciences. In addition, the country attracted creatives during times of unrest or war. Some 1000 museums are found in the country.

Among the most important cultural performances held annually are the Paléo Festival, Lucerne Festival, the Montreux Jazz Festival, the Locarno International Film Festival and Art Basel.

Alpine symbolism played an essential role in shaping Swiss history and the Swiss national identity. Many alpine areas and ski resorts attract visitors for winter sports as well as hiking and mountain biking in summer. The quieter seasons are spring and autumn. A traditional pastoral culture predominates in many areas, and small farms are omnipresent in rural areas. Folk art is nurtured in organisations across the country. Switzerland most directly in appears in music, dance, poetry, wood carving, and embroidery. The alphorn, a trumpet-like musical instrument made of wood has joined yodeling and the accordion as epitomes of traditional Swiss music.

references: Switzerland - Wikipedia

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Frau Gauden

In the German region of the Prignitz, Frau Gauden (Mrs. Gauden) is the leader of the Wild Hunt. She leads this army of supernatural hunters together with her 24 dog-shaped daughters.

The Wild Hunt, also known as the Wild Army or the Wild Ride, is the German name for a folk tale widespread in many parts of Europe, particularly in the north, which usually refers to a group of supernatural hunters who hunt across the sky. The sighting of the Wild Hunt has different consequences depending on the region. On the one hand, it is considered a harbinger of disasters such as wars, droughts or illnesses, but it may also refer to the death of anyone who witnesses it. There are also versions in which witnesses become part of the hunt or the souls of sleeping people are dragged along to take part in the hunt. The term “Wild Hunt” was coined based on Jacob Grimm’s German Mythology (1835).

The phenomenon, which has significantly different regional manifestations, is known in Scandinavia as Odensjakt (“Odin's Hunt”), Oskorei, Aaskereia or Åsgårdsrei (“the Asgardian Train”, “Journey to Asgard”) and is closely linked to the Yule season here. The reference to Wotin/Odin in the name Wüetisheer (with numerous variations) is also clear in the Alemannic and Swabian dialects; In the Alps, people also speak of the Ridge Train. In England the train is called the Wild Hunt, in France it is called Mesnie Hellequin, Fantastic Hunt, Hunt in the Air, or Wild Hunt. Even in the French-speaking part of Canada, the Wild Hunt is known under the term Chasse-galerie. In Italian, the phenomenon is referred to as caccia selvaggia or caccia morta.

The Wild Army or the Wild Hunt takes to the skies particularly in the period between Christmas and Epiphany (the Rough Nights), but Carnival, Corporal Lent and even Good Friday also appear as dates.

Christian dates have superseded the pagan dates, which see the Wild Hunt moving, especially during the Rough Nights. This period of time is assumed to be originally between the winter solstice, i.e. December 21st and, twelve nights later, January 2nd. In European customs, however, since Roman antiquity, people have usually counted from December 25th (Christmas) to January 6th (High New Year).

The ghostly procession races through the air with a terrible clatter of screams, hoots, howls, wails, groans and moans. But sometimes a lovely music can be heard, which is usually taken as a good omen; otherwise the Wild Hunt announces bad times.

Men, women and children take part in the procession, mostly those who have met a premature, violent or unfortunate death. The train consists of the souls of people who died “before their time”, that is, caused by circumstances that occurred before natural death in old age. Legend has it that people who look at the train are pulled along and then have to move along for years until they are freed. Animals, especially horses and dogs, also come along.

In general, the Wild Hunt is not hostile to humans, but it is advisable to prostrate yourself or lock yourself in the house and pray. Whoever provokes or mocks the army will inevitably suffer harm, and whoever deliberately looks out of the window, gaping at the army will have his head swell so much that he cannot pull it back into the house.

The first written records of the Wild Hunt come from early medieval times, when pagan traditions were still alive. In 1091, a Normannic priest named Gauchelin wrote about the phenomenon, describing a giant man with a club leading warriors, priests, women and dwarfs, among them deseased acquaintances. Later references appear throughout the High and Late Middle Ages.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Plotting Serpent.

A Sorcerer in the Sands seeks something far bigger than himself. Freedom, sweet freedom.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Bundled up in several layers, Jamil makes his way down a twisting path and into an open market.

The ground crunches softly under his boots. His breath is chilled, turning into a fleeting fog as he exhales. He retreats to the comfort and safety that his bulky coat provides, watching bales of white lazily drift down around him.

Snow instead of sand—imagine that.

The market operates straight out of the town square. From a vantage point--his temporary housing upon a hill--he can see the entirety of it, all the stalls forming a circle. The market is, by no means, large—but it has the spirit of something grander. The banter, the bartering.

Not so different from the bazaars at home.

Jamil ducks in, taking his time to pace around to each vendor. He’s agile and bright, like a child first viewing the moon and rushing to catch it in his palms.

Most sellers—and most customers—are elderly, gnarled like the roots of a tree. The cold colors their rounded cheeks the same red as many of the apples on display.

There’s pink and yellow and green too, and other fresh produce. The majority of it, he is told, is grown in Harveston. Others are foraged from Mt. Moln—nuts, plants, berries, and mushrooms.

Other stalls offer already manufactured goods. Scarves and gloves to protect against the winter, steaming apple drinks and sweetly spiced snacks, toiletries lovingly handcrafted with botanical oils.

His eyes light up with interest. He stops to inspect a row of shampoo and conditioner bars.

Feel free to touch and smell! says a sign at the stall.

He does, testing the weight of a bar in his hand. It is light and has an easy slip to it, and gives off the faint aroma of apples. Slightly tart and juicy.

It'll be good to have on hand, especially when it weighs less than liquid variants. The sign says these bars are made with apple seed oil, an ingredient that treats split ends and dryness while restoring a shine...

He absentmindedly feels the ends of his hair. The locks are normally dark and glossy, but the cold has not treated them well, leaving them slightly dry and brittle.

That's the cost of travel. It can be difficult to predict how my skin and hair react to different climates.

“Excuse me,” Jamil calls out to the stall owner, “I’d like to buy one of these shampoo bars, please. One in the conditioner bars as well."

“Sure thing!!” The owner wraps up the bars and slides them over. As Jamil hands him a few bills, he pipes up. “Say, yer not from ‘round here, are ya, sonny?”

“Yes. I am but a traveler.”

“Traveler!” The owner’s eyebrows shoot up. “Real fancy livin’ ya must have."

“No, not at all. I try to live humbly and travel light.” Jamil indicates his backpack, the one piece of luggage that follows him wherever he goes.

"That so? Not many young folk visit these parts." The owner strokes his rounded chin in contemplation. "I figured ya must be on yer way to the city. A lot more for youngins to see 'n do there."

“I beg to differ. The village has shown me incredible hospitality during my stay. Delicious foods, friendliness... I can enjoy Harveston's natural sights without worry. I'm content with just that."

With each word that leaves his lips, he feels the weight that has been on his shoulders lifting.

Jamil, you're free, the wind seems to whisper. The realization is intoxicatingly sweet and crisp, the first bite taken from a forbidden fruit.

"Aww, that warms mah heart ta hear ya say," the owner beams. "Yer a good kid, yer parents would be proud of ya."

"My... parents?" Jamil falters at the mention of them.

His parents are back home. His sister, too. Najma had texted not long ago, pestering him about bringing her a souvenir and asking when he’d be back.

His family is waiting for him. And... who else is there?

Jamil's brows furrow. Suddenly, he feels as though someone should be beside him, and he, trailing after them. A hopeless person buying up all the stalls, shoveling new dish after new dish at him.

"Here, try this, Jamil! Oooh, and this! That looks super tasty, have some too! And this cracker!"

"Where did you get all this food from?! There's no way we'll be able to feasibly finish this before it goes bad. Why do you never listen to me, Ka..."

A growl rips from his stomach. Jamil's eyes widen, and his face heats.

The stall owner's laugh cuts through his confusion. "Gahahah! Ya hungry there, son? Here, lemme grab ya somethin' on the house."

"Oh no, sir, I can't accept that."

"I insist!! Won't be long 'fore ya mosey on outta here and move on ta the next place. Eat yer fill while yer here, there ain't nothin' like a homegrown Harveston meal or snack anywhere else in Twisted Wonderland!"

The owner rustles with utensils behind the stall, He fills a container with a generous slice of pie--oozing with apple filling--and fluffy pancakes, plus a few potstickers. Then he pours hot tea, apple cubes bobbing in the spiced brown liquid, into a paper cup.

Jamil gets a whiff of it from where he stands and--against his better judgment, his mouth waters. When the owner hands him the container, cup, and a wooden fork, he doesn't refuse them.

"Remember us ‘n all the fun times ya spent here."

"Thank you, sir." Jamil bows his head. "I will. I'll never forget your kindness."

"Don't 'cha mention it. Go on 'n git now, ya got plenty more of the village to visit!""

Jamil departs with his purchase and his gifts, which he immediately settles into.

Lifting the paper cup to his lips, he sips his tea. It's deep and tangy from the cinnamon and apples it has been brewed with. He pleasantly warms from head to toe.

It isn't long before he downs the rest of the drink, apple cubes and all. They're not fresh, but dried--so when his teeth slices them into halves, they're springy and chewy, with a strong flavor.

Jamil lowers the cup, dragging out a satisfied sigh.

It's then that he realizes he's walking directly into a black wall. He veers sharply to the right, but still brushes his arm against that of the incoming person.

“Pardon me. I wasn't watching where I was going...” Jamil looks back, but is startled to find no one where his shoulder has made contact.

Hm? Was I imagining things?

Jamil glances around the marketplace. The crowd is too sparse for him to miss anyone. There are grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers, each dressed in thick coats and boots, some wrapped in scarves and others sporting fuzzy hats or earmuffs.

But no one is wearing all black.

He shakes his head.

It was probably nothing then.

Jamil returns to browsing the square, his every stride as light as a feather. He feels as though he is dancing atop the snow.

The cold no longer bothers him.

The wind, carrying a new message that resonates with his heart. It seems stronger now, rumbling like a deadly avalanche.

"Be free, Viper. Be free."