#Ash is me reading a lousy book

[moonlightstrife]

So about Terence and Dion

tldr; these two are really, really similar to Patroclus and Achilles

So a couple weeks after the game was released I tweeted this.

Of course two months later while doing some research for a WIP teredio fic I develop a brainrot so strong about this very comparison

disclaimer: this is all purely speculation made out of 7 hours of brainrot. I am not in any way an expert in greek mythology and i cannot even afford a PS5. This is purely a fun write-up I made in hopes of my hyperfixation reaching other people who also adore this pairing. This is also VERY long and windy.

Right, firstly, I don't think it is a reach to make this comparison at all; if anything, I am more surprised by how few people have actually posted anything in the interwebs about this (I found like, one other tumblr post, but I am also not a part of the ship Discord server for this pairing so I might just be late to the party 🤷‍♀️).

FF16 is FULL of references to greek mythology and culture. Cid's last name Telamon is the name of one of the Argonauts, Charon is the name of the ferryman to the underworld who requires payment for passage to the underworld, Ambrosia is the food of the gods, and those are just the simple ones that I think most people can tell from modern pop culture references. Comparing Terence and Dion to Patroclus and Achilles, one of the most famous greek relationships between two adult men, is really not that far of a reach.

Actually, the thing that got me to tweet that teredio reminds me of patrochilles is the whole hero-and-squire relationship they got going on since the very beginning. Terence is technically Dion's second-in-command, but with that opening scene of Terence holding onto Dion's spear and then followed by the cutscene of him tending to Dion's arm in the camp which is also followed by thee kiss scene? Doesn't take a meta analysis to draw the line from one ship to another

(Also the hero with blonde hair and his lover with dark brown hair 👀 but this is more of a common trope rather than something specific to patrochilles)

And that is where I left my teredio-is-like-patrochilles thoughts for a good while. I spent the next two months RTing all the gorgeous teredio fanarts on twitter, read a few teredio fanfics, then onto other FF16 ships like a normal person.

(my personal favourite for the longest time is Cid x Clive; the longfics for this pairing are insanely good..)

Then I decided to write a oneshot for teredio about their servant-and-master relationship (at least, that's how they worded it in the game).

I wanted to find a better way to describe their relationship in my fic; still sticking to the term master and servant as it is canon in the english script, but not neccessarily implying an irreconcilable difference in social standing or power imbalance. My searches somehow led me to biblical fanfiction, in which I find some very interesting takes on David and Jonathan, which then leads me to a wikipedia page about David and Jonathan --

and then back to where I began, Patroclus and Achilles.

except when I first made that comparison, it was just a tweet off the top of my head. I read Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller in 2016, and I do not remember everything that happens in that book. All I remember is roughly the overall feel of the relationship and that these two greek characters died tragically and that their ashes are buried together.

So imagine my surprise when I see this image on the wikipedia page for Patroclus and Achilles.

The caption says: Achilles bandaging the arm of Patroclus.

I do not have 4k screencaps the exact scene so have this image i copied off GamesRadar off a lousy google search

Great, so they both share an arm-bandaging scene. Doesn't make them any more similar, you'd say. Also, didn't I just draw similarities from Achilles to Dion and Patroclus to Terence in the beginning? This one is completely swapped!

Well give me a moment to recover from the shock of seeing what looks very similar to a ship i like on a real-life greek pottery painting, and let's get to actually comparing details.

Quick note, I will be using in-game canon, the information from the newly released FF16 ultimania, descriptions from homeric traditions, and also the book Song of Achilles (SoA). You can argue that using Song of Achilles as a reference is a stretch because it is a romance book that treats patrochilles as a canon homosexual relationship, but honestly Madeline Miller took 10 years to write that book and I don't think I can compete with her amount of research in 7 hours.

What's similar:

Terence is the son of a minor noble family in Sanbreque (from the Ultimania), and Patroclus is the son of Menoetius, one of the Argonauts. They are both from 'lesser' lineages in comparison to their partners, but is still technically born into nobility.

Terence and Dion grew up together after meeting each other in school at age 7 (from the Ultimania), and Patroclus and Achilles grew up together in Phthia after Patroclus was exiled. Both are childhood friends who grew into adulthood together.

Terence is instated as Dion's squire at age 12 (from the Ultimania), and Patroclus is given to Achilles by Achilles' father Peleus as his henchman (from the Illiad, though translations differ) or his trusted brother-in-arms (from SoA). Both are bound by duty to their partners from a young age.

Terence is Dion's second-in-command during the events of the game, and Patroclus is Achilles' right-hand-man during the events of the Trojan War (from the Illiad and SoA). Both are confidants to their partners during war times.

Dion is the dominant of Bahamut and the prince of Sanbreque, Achilles is the son of the Nereid Thetis and a mortal king Peleus. Both are born into nobility and are famous for their inhuman battle prowess.

Dion's main weapon of choice is a lance, and Achilles was given the legendary Pelian Spear by Chiron the Centaur before he participated in the Trojan War (from the Illiad). Both notably use spears/lances/pokey sticks.

I think those are the main similarities that I can in good faith say are pretty obvious. Next are the things that I personally think might be slightly delusional depending on the angle you approach the premise from.

What can be a bit of a reach:

The arm bandaging scenes. Assuming it is to relief the pain from the Crystal's Curse, Dion is not the only dominant to start petrifying from his arm. Cid also has similar marks on his arms and Clive's hand eventually petrifies. However, it is also the first scene where we explicitly see the extent of Dion and Terence's relationship.

There is no mention about Terence's relationship with his family, while Patroclus is notably exiled from his father's lands -- that's how he gets to Phthia and meets Achilles. Instead, we know that Dion's family did not love him (from the Ultimania)

Dion is the son born of a courtesan, and his father had her killed after buying him from her (from the Ultimania). Achilles is born of Peleus basically binding and coercing Thetis after she is gifted to Peleus by Zeus and Poseidon. Both tales frame the image of both men's fathers being not exactly good people, and their marriages and the births of their sons would be important to mark the start of upcoming events (the Judgement of Paris took place at the wedding of Thetis and Peleus, Dion's birth and awakening backs Sylvestre's claim to the throne). I call this sort of a reach because this doesn't exactly play into the relationships' dynamics per se, just a reminder that their fathers are horrible people 🤷‍♀️

There is an element of fate in Achilles' death, where the god Apollo is said to have guided the arrow Paris shot to Achilles' heel. The dominants in the game have on multiple occasions been mentioned to be slaves to their own fates, and the main theme of the game has much to do with defying fate decided by gods, even if it means die trying. Dion 'dies' defying the fate Ultima has decided for humanity, so I guess there is a similarity?

This is the biggest reach of all lol. So remember that I mentioned Telamon, Cid's last name, is also the name of one of the Argonauts? Telamon is also the older brother of Peleus, Achilles' father. Now, I do not think that this is the only explanation as to why the writers chose the name Telamon out of all the other greek names. The writers managed to shove in 3 different thunder gods into Cid's character, and I refuse to believe that they chose the name just because Telamon is somewhat related to Achilles. Telamon is also the father to Ajax the Great who is a notable hero, but Ajax is like, second to Achilles in fame and I don't really see a FF16 character that can be somewhat related to Ajax..

Okay, so what does this all mean?

Honestly I don't know lol

Terence x Dion, unlike many other ships I've liked, is an actually canon ship at some point in the game's story. Even without the comparison, the ship still stands as confirmed to be canon. Drawing lines from two greek mythology characters to them does not make the ship any more canon than it already is.

But the game's story also doesn't shed much light on the ship itself, not in the base game at least. Fair enough, it is Clive's story and not Dion's story, so Terence, who doesn't play a part in Clive's story, doesn't get to be in the spotlight for long. Dion's conflict with his own father is also given more weight to Dion's character development. We're given so little information about Terence that when the Ultimania came out I was just happy I get more crumbs of lore to work with.

I don't think the devs took direct inspiration from the tale of Achilles and Patroclus either. We've learned that FF16 is just a melting pot of all the storytelling and worldbuilding elements we loved from FFXIV, FF12, GoT, greek mythology, classic FF and media tropes, and so much more. The most I can think of is that the writers wanted to write a canon gay love story that people will love, and in doing so they picked out the romance tropes and stories that have been widely accepted and loved for a long time. Childhood friends to lovers, unrequited first loves that eventually became mutual in the threat of separation, the second-in-command who is loyal in both duty and matters of the heart.

If the tale of Achilles and Patroclus happens to fall under that category, needless to say I am very happy with the writers' decision. If not, well consider this just a very very long headcanon post

If you've never read anything related to patrochilles and is interested, I highly recommend reading the Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller! Prepare about half the amount of tissue you've used for FF16 and you're all set for a heartbreaking love story 🥰

Also I hope these two don't die as tragically as Achilles and Patroclus.

#ffxvi #ff16 #terence #dion lesage #teredio #flareknight #patrochilles #good lord this is long i will never post on tumblr ever again

[kkoraki]

Top five moments on GtN

I. ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　 Chapter 28 stay winning　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

  II. This Fourth House classic... iconic... source of my TLT series tag...

Jeannemary seemed uncomforted and unconvinced. So [Gideon] added, “Hey, look at it this way: you were down here just the other night, so if that’s the sticking point, you’re already totally boned.”

“You don’t talk like - how I thought you might talk,” said Isaac.

After this moment this chapter is by far the scariest fucking chapter in the book and SO well written. I was terrified peeping through my fingers the first time I read it and nothing had even happened yet. By the time the bone construct showed up I was a wreck. Yes book, scare me

  III. OK remember when Jeannemary and Isaac find the bone ash in the incinerator and they come to get Gideon and Coronabeth for help except fuckin... Naberius, Marta and Colum all decide to come along too? Most underrated and random scene ever. Hilarious. So much going on under the surface. Sparks deep joy.

The necromancer teen was saying listlessly, “I can tell fresh human cremains. Can’t you, Princess?”

Corona hesitated. The Second butted in: “What if they were burning bones? One of the servants may have fallen apart.”

“Someone could... just go ask,” rumbled Colum the Eighth, shocking Gideon with an inherently sensible suggestion.

Look at this! So much just happened in these 4 sentences and it was also hilarious?? wtf? and the whole scene goes on like this. Most underrated scene. I demand 100k more words of cavaliers hanging out

  IV. The GORGEOUS Chapter 7 opening:

From space, the House of the First shone like fire on water. Wreathed in the white smoke of its atmosphere, blue like the heart of a gas-ignited flame, it burned the eye. It was absolutely lousy with water, smothering it all in the bluest of blue conflagrations. Visible even up here were the floating chains of squares and rectangles and oblongs, smudging the blue with grey and green, brown and black: the tumbled-down cities and temples of a House both long dead and unkillable.

aka when upon first read I realized this book was not in fact about lesbian necromancers in space but rather lesbian necromancers on POST APOCALYPTIC EARTH and went “wtf wtf wtf” and bought in instantly (early onset symptom of nona stanning)

(also this is an ask meme not meta but I just saw this for the first time while typing it out... more chains imagery? like that? clever)

  V. Chapter 23! It’s the chapter with Marta vs. Cam in it but that only contributes to it being my favorite moment insofar as it’s a well-done fight scene. The whole thing is a fantastic ensemble chapter with everyone clowning around and acting like a weirdo. It’s very cleanly written too, the dialogue and the character interactions are how GtN got me. Fave.

#runners up are probably the dinner party and Good Now We Need Not Speak Again #and I guess gideon v. naberius actually that was really good #ty for asking!! #gideon the ninth #ask #marvel-danvers #you dont talk like how i thought you might talk

[plaggscamembert1]

*Ash after reading a bad book

Ash: I hate half-assed books! You either give me the full ass or no ass at all !

Eiji: You've been hanging out with Shorter way too much.

#banana fish #ash lynx #eiji okumura #Shorter wong #banana fish incorrect quotes #asheiji #Source:plaggscamembert1 #so basically me #ask for permission before using it #because I actually came up with this quote #bookworm problems #Ash is me reading a lousy book

[polaroid15]

Parker Luck

Summary: Two weeks after the Vulture-incident, Tony buys a parenting book. Too bad there isn't a chapter on Parker luck.

Read on Ao3 HERE :)

------

Two weeks after the Vulture fiasco, Tony buys a book called ‘Parenting for Dummies’.

He almost immediately regrets the purchase and hides it in a drawer in the lab, not yet brave enough to face it. Then one day he spends three hours squished against Peter’s side, listening to the boy ramble about everything under the sun while they adjust his web shooters. It hits Tony like a brick wall, and when Peter bounces out of the lab after teaching Tony a complicated handshake he knows he’ll never remember, he swears under his breath.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really. He had known it from that very first moment in the kid’s bedroom in Queens.

For once, denial has gotten him nowhere.

After his eyes ache from staring at the door Peter had disappeared from, Tony stands, stretches out a kink in his lower back, and grabs the book from the drawer before he can lose his nerve. Still standing, he traces his thumb over the word Parenting on the cover.

Retreat, his mind begs. Stop. Before it’s too late.

But deep down, he knows he’s already in too deep.

With a heavy sigh and a pressing warmth in his chest, Tony flips the pages to chapter one.

--------

Peter calls it ‘Parker luck’.

Tony calls it the source of his ever-increasing gray hair.

When Peter stumbles into the Tower covered in blood and delirious from a nasty hit to the head, Tony thinks he’ll pass out from the sudden weight of his worry. It only takes some gentle coaxing and seven stitches to make it better, but the unease sits in Tony’s gut long after Peter falls asleep. When the boy wakes up, he apologizes until Tony snaps at him not too.

“It’s the Parker luck, Mr. Stark,” Peter tells him, his head wrapped like a mummy on halloween. “It gets me everytime.”

Parenting for Dummies Chapter Three: Listen. “A nasty concussion doesn’t exactly sound like luck to me, kid.”

“Oh, well it’s not good luck,” Peter clarifies with a weak smile. “In fact it’s really bad luck. Exceptionally bad.”

“You’re killing me here.”

“Did you know that I slipped on a banana peel once? A banana peel. I was on crutches for three weeks in middle school.”

Tony’s worry melts into a hesitant amusement. He sits back on his stiff medbay chair and makes a distant note to invest in a better one. “That is pretty lousy luck, kiddo.”

“And it just keeps getting worse,” Peter says. “Getting bitten by a radioactive spider, crashing Flash’s car, or the fact that I spent homecoming destroying a plane while fighting my date’s dad.”

“I hope this Parker luck of yours isn’t contagious,” Tony jokes, but something in Peter’s eyes darkens. He leans back against the white sheets, chewing on his bottom lip. Tony thinks again of chapter three, of the subtitle that prompts to push at the right times, and takes the liberty. “What is it, kid?”

Peter closes his eyes and gives a watery smile. “Nothing, Mr. Stark. Sorry.”

And because he’s an idiot, Tony believes him. Something tells him he needs to buy Parenting for Dummies 2.

--------

When Peter saves a school bus full of third graders from a thirteen car pileup at the expense of his collar bone, Tony rereads his book, this time with a highlighter in hand.

He wishes there was a section on Parker luck.

This time, he’s less careful about where he reads. Pepper catches him one night, her eyebrows disappearing behind her bangs in her surprise. Her smile is genuine. “Is that what I think it is?” she asks.

“Maybe.”

“Oh God, please don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

Tony rolls his eyes and dog ears his page before setting it aside. “I am, actually. And sorry to break it to you, but you’re not the father.”

Pepper laughs and sits on the arm of the couch. She runs her hand through his hair and he can’t help but lean into her touch. “This is about Peter,” she says.

His first instinct is to deny it. He feels vulnerable in a way he isn’t used to. “So what if it is?”

“He’s a good kid.”

“I know.”

“He’s making you soft.”

Tony scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. Not with Parenting for Dummies on his lap. “He’s stressing me out, is what he’s doing.”

“He really cares about you, Tony. I see it every time he’s over here.”

His body betrays him by the gentle swoop in his stomach. His mouth twitches in a smile. “I care about him too.”

“You’re a good example to him. He needs someone like you in his life. Especially after what happened to his parents. And his Uncle.”

And then it clicks. Parker luck. Tony’s mouth goes dry.

“I’m trying,” is all he manages to whisper. The book in his lap seems to increase by ten.

Pepper leans over him, pressing her lips into his hair. “I know.”

---------

It’s his and Peter’s fifth mission together.

Today, they’re going up against “the Detonator”, a crazed woman with an affinity for making bombs and setting them off in busy neighbourhoods. She’s armed with a team of rocket-launcher-wielding henchmen, and it’s taking every effort to keep the city in one piece.

Most of the block has been evacuated, thanks to Peter. Tony remembers chapter seven and shoots the boy some praise over their coms. Steve, who’s joined them for the day’s fight, agrees with clipped enthusiasm.

“Thanks guys!” Peter says in his usual animation. “These rocket launchers are no joke. Have you ever seen the movie-”

But whatever it is, it’s lost in the deafening sound of an explosion. He hears Peter swear over the com and Tony’s blood runs cold. Three blocks down, an orange fireball balloons into the air. Steve is already running, his shield tucked into his chest.

Tony shoots off into the sky.

---------

Peter thought they had everything under control.

Until rocket launcher man number 3 decided to explode the bank off 47th street, that is.

He feels the heat from the explosion before he can process what happened. It rips across his back and throws him off his feet into a hot dog cart across the street. Rubble and ash rain down on parked cars and their alarms begin to sound.

“Crap,” Peter groans, shoving away the dented cart and stumbling to his feet. His ears are ringing.

“Pete?” Tony’s voice cuts through the haze. “We’re on our way. You alright?”

“Yeah,” he responds, breathless. His shoulder aches. “These guys are not in a good mood.”

“You can say that again.”

The man who had fired the shot runs up the steps of the bank, bypassing chunks of concrete. Peter limps after him.

“Sorry man,” Peter says when his opponent’s back is still turned. “It’s after hours.”

Startled, the man spins. Peter fires a web to disarm him and it only takes one swift punch to finish the job. He webs him to the floor and kicks the rocket launcher into the corner.

“Kid?” Tony lands beside him, faceplate lifting and his hands reaching to grab onto him. His grip is tight on Peter’s arms, and Peter is unsure which one of them Tony is trying to comfort. “You still in one piece?”

Peter’s ears are still ringing, a high pitched whine that makes his eye twitch. His ankle throbs and he can feel warmth spreading down his back from a cut on his shoulder. He nods anyway. “Are you?”

“Better now that I see you haven’t been barbecued.”

Steve joins them as Peter laughs off Tony’s worry. He’s breathing heavy, his forehead streaked with ash. “Someone sighted the Detonator. She’s heading east towards the Empire State Building.”

“Of course she is,” Tony sighs. Finally, he lets Peter go. “Ready for a field trip?”

But just as he says it, another violent explosion lights up the street across from them. Peter stumbles against the force. Tony grabs his arm, and Steve his shoulder, and he steadies. Through the black smoke, a child cries.

Chest tight, Peter takes a step forward before he’s yanked back. It’s Tony. His helmet hides his expression, but Peter can tell from his stiff posture that he’s worried. That he doesn’t want to separate.

As if sensing it too, Steve places a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Peter and I will clear the rocket launchers. You go take care of the Detonator.”

“But-”

“She can’t get to it first, Tony. You’ll be the fastest.”

The crying continues, and Peter takes another step. This time, the metal fingers wrapped around his elbow loosen, letting him go. “You better watch him, Rogers.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“Don’t do anything stupid, kid.”

And then Tony is off, blasting off into the sky. Peter shivers against the hot air his exit leaves before turning to run towards the smoke and debris, Steve hot on his heels. Without hesitation, he jumps over the small flames and emerges on the other side, his throat closing up against the smoke.

The first thing Peter sees is the child, snot-nosed and hidden underneath the bed of a truck. His eyes widen when he sees them, a cry stopped short. “Spider-Man!” he yells.

“Get the kid,” Steve says. “I think I see our guy.”

And then he’s gone.

Peter doesn’t dwell on it, vaulting over a smashed mailbox and a stretch of broken glass to reach the kid’s side. He’s trembling, but his hands reach out. Trusting him.

“It’s alright,” Peter says, accepting the kid’s outstretched hands. “We’re okay. Do you know where your family is?”

The boy shakes his head, lip wobbling but obviously trying to be brave. “N-no. I lost them over there,” he says pointing down the street.

“Okay. No problem. Let’s go find them.”

He doesn’t give the boy an option to walk, but instead guides him to rest against his back. Small fingers lock together at the base of Peter’s throat, holding tight.

“What’s your name?” Peter asks as he heads in the direction the boy had pointed. Keep him distracted.

“Benny.”

Peter’s breath catches. “Nice to meet you, Benny. I’m Spider-Man.”

“I- I know.”

“Oh yeah?”

The boy’s head bobs against his back. “I see you on TV. And on the newspapers on the street. You fight bad guys.”

“I try too.”

“You’re awesome,” Benny says, and the shaking quality to his voice recedes.

“I think you’re the awesome one. You’re being so brave.”

“Brave?”

“Yeah, Benny. Even though it’s scary right now you’re still going.”

Benny sniffles. “Are you scared?”

“Nah,” Peter says. “I’ve got you to protect me.”

Against his back, Benny’s chest swells with a breath of a response, but before he can let the words lose a relieved cry erupts from their left. A woman in a pastel headscarf runs towards them, her arms outstretched. “Benny! My little Ben-”

“Mom!”

Peter maneuvers him to the ground and as soon as his small feet hit the ground he’s running. The pair meet in the middle of the street, their arms wrapping tight and their tears mixing. The mother’s eyes meet him from over Benny’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she says, every ounce of her emotion leaking into her words.

“Of course,” is all he can manage.

Once he’s sure they're safe and off the street, he deviates his attention to his coms. “Steve?” he asks over a private channel. “Where are you?”

For a long time, Steve doesn’t respond. Then just as Peter’s worry spikes the man’s voice fills his ears, pinched and strained. “By the river. I’m cornered.”

“Karen-” Peter starts, but Steve’s location pops up on his screen before he can ask further. He changes the trajectory of his swing and just barely avoids clipping his hip on the corner of a building. Then, to Steve, “I’m on my way!”

He finds the Captain in worse shape than he had expected. He’s hunched against an upturned car, it’s tires melted from the sheer heat of the destruction on the street. His shield is raised over his head to protect him from debris raining from the crumbling buildings.

Across the road, three of Detonator's accomplices are shooting the buildings around him, shrieking with glee whenever new glass shatters. Peter glides between the chaos before landing beside Steve. He scrapes his hands on the landing.

“Oh my god,” Peter says, flinching from another loud explosion. “What do we do?”

Steve grimaces, and it’s only now that Peter sees how messed up his leg is. It’s twisted at an unnatural angle, the material of his suit singed and still smoking around it.

“What the hell happened?” Peter gasps, feeling sick.

“It doesn’t matter. We need to get out of here.”

“Not with those crazy rocket guys standing guard. You can’t walk!”

“I can try.”

Adrenaline courses hot through Peter’s bloodstream. He peaks over the car and reassesses their opponents. “I can take them.”

“No. Tony said-”

“Tony isn’t here,” Peter argues. “Besides, I have my Peter tingle. I’ll be fine.”

“Peter tingle?”

“Be right back.”

“Wait!”

But Peter ducks out of cover, knowing that Steve won’t be able to stop him. He runs towards the one closest to him and hopes the element of surprise will be enough to take them down. It is, but barely, and now his cover is blown. The other two turn their weapons towards him and before he can suck in a breath, fire.

Peter swears and jumps high, the rockets whistling as they pass under his feet. They hit the edge of the sidewalk by the river, blowing it open and skipping chunks of debris into the water. Not wanting to wait for them to reload, Peter swings and takes them both out with a single kick. He lands in a messy roll, disoriented by the quickness of the fight.

“We’re clear!” he yells over to Steve, but even as he says it dread sits heavy in his gut. He takes one step towards the car before he hears it- a sharp release of air.

Fire blooms up at the base of the building closest to Steve, the crack of the impact enough to rattle Peter’s teeth and throw him to his knees. It’s the last straw. The building makes a horrible noise of grinding cement, like a scream, and Peter knows enough from experience that it’s close to collapse.

“Steve!”

He sprints to where the man is trying to limp away. His eyes find him, their blue shocking through the dust and smoke. “Peter. You have to get out of here-”

“Not without you.”

Before the man can object, Peter pulls his weight over his shoulder and makes it his burden. He wonders distantly where the fourth rocket launcher is and why they haven’t been blown sky high yet.

But then glass and cement falls down around them like rain, and Peter realizes. Because the building will finish the job for them.

“We’re not going to make it,” Steve says through ground teeth. His hold on Peter’s shoulder is bruising. “Peter, please.”

The building sways again. They have a couple seconds. Nothing more.

Then Peter sees it. A manhole.

“Here,” he gasps, dropping to his knees and tearing off the cover. Every alarm bell in his head is screaming, but it’s the only option. The only way they’ll both have a chance. “Go.”

Steve drops in, disappearing into darkness and landing below with an aborted shout. Peter kicks his legs in just as the building crumbles. Fear stops the breath in his chest and he slides the rest of the way in. He falls and lands hard, head spinning, before finding Steve’s arm in the darkness and pulling him deeper into the sewer.

There’s a couple moments of silence.

And then the world erupts.

Peter will remember later how the force of the impact threw both of them off their feet and how it was impossible to keep his grip on Steve’s arm. He’ll remember the deafening noise of the building smashing onto the street above them, of the great plume of dust that filled the tunnel and blinded him.

He’ll remember falling, his legs jelly, and struggling to his knees.

He’ll remember wishing he had called Tony.

But none of it registers in the moment. There’s only terror.

And then there’s nothing.

----------

“Peter. Come on. Work with me here.”

Awareness brings pain. He strays.

“Nope. No. Peter. Open your eyes.”

The voice belongs to Steve, Peter realizes in a stilted disorientation. Steve, who had been hurt. Steve, who sounds very much alive.

It’s enough for Peter to lift his heavy eyelids. His surroundings are dark, but he can see the Captain’s worried face swimming in front of him, warping in and out of focus as both of them release a breath of relief.

“Thank God,” Steve says.

“Are you okay?” Peter murmurs, surprised for a moment by how unwilling his vocal cords are to cooperate. There’s new blood on Steve’s face and the torso on his suit is torn.

“It’s you I’m more worried about.”

“Mm. Why?”

Steve might respond, but Peter doesn’t hear it, his awareness slipping like the close of a stage curtain. Strong hands shake him and the sting of his injuries are enough for him to struggle back into wakefulness.

“Stay awake, kid. Alright? Tony is on his way. Keep your eyes open.”

Peter didn’t remember closing his eyes, but sure enough, when he tries they open. “Tony?”

“He’ll be here soon.”

There’s a tightness in his chest, and Peter coughs against it. It sparks a sharp pain behind his ribs and he curls his fingers into the ground as Steve braces him by his shoulder. His ribs are definitely broken. His leg throbs and the skin on the right side of his face itches terribly with drying blood. He blinks a couple times to try and alleviate his double vision, but it does nothing.

“What happened?” Peter asks.

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really.”

Steve’s expression pinches like he’s just eaten something sour. “The building above us collapsed, but don’t worry about it too much. Tony will be here in a flash.”

Collapse. Peter sucks in a panicked breath and it makes him cough again. It hurts worse this time, and his vision goes gray. He comes back to himself in Steve’s lap, his whole body shuddering and then man’s hand clamped protectively against his back.

The new perspective shows Peter a growing red stain on the Captain’s side.

“Steve,” he gasps, uncoordinated fingers reaching out to press against the wound.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not- it’s not nothing-”

Before Steve can retaliate further, their coms crack back to life. Peter winces against it, his fingers reaching up to struggle with the edges of his mask. Steve pushes his hand away. “Leave it. It’s helping filter your air.”

“Peter? Rogers?” Tony’s voice comes through in a mess of static. It reminds Peter of Ben’s favorite radio station that had been broadcasted too far to have a good connection. “I’m here. Oh Christ, I’m here. Are you okay?”

“Steve’s hurt,” Peter mumbles. It’s important Tony knows.

“Rogers?”

“Just hurry, Tony,” Steve says. There’s a pressure in his voice that Peter’s too tired to translate.

“The explosion caused the river to flood. You’re under about three feet of water right now.”

“We’re airtight.”

“For now.”

Peter feels himself dip further into Steve’s lap and the man’s steadying hand is delayed. Weaker. “Peter? What did I tell you about staying awake.”

“What’s wrong with Peter?”

“Queens. I need you to put pressure on this for me. Don’t give up on me now.”

Peter groans. For once, he doesn’t care how young it makes him sound. He struggles up anyways and replaces his hand obediently over Steve’s side. It paints his hands red and he tries desperately not to think of Ben.

“Rogers-”

“I got it, Tony.”

There’s a weighted silence. Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself lucid. The static in his brain reminds him of the time he had gotten stabbed, and wonders if he’s bleeding somewhere too.

“Okay. I found a weak spot. It shouldn’t cause too much damage. Are you ready?”

“Go for it.”

There’s another lurch of shifting rock. Peter can’t help but cry out, his muddled brain struggling to comprehend that this time, it’s to help. Then there’s a loud crash, a weak beam of sunlight, and the rush of water.

Within seconds, the cold spray is up to their waists. Peter grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut against reflexive tears the biting temperature brings. It gives him a boost of adrenaline, and when he opens his eyes again, his vision is more clear.

Tony is with them moments later, hovering above the water. His hands reach for Peter, but Peter shys away. “Steve first,” he pleads. “He’s bleeding-”

“You’re bleeding too-” Tony starts, but even as he says it, Steve lists dangerously to the side. His face is pale, his breathing shallow. Tony catches him by the shoulder. “Don’t move,” he tells Peter, and works to lift Steve up towards the hole.

The water is up to Peter's chest now. It steals the breath from his lungs and he scrambles to stand. Somewhere in the journey the ground above him groans and he loses his footing. He hears Tony yell out for him, feels metal hands push him hard, and then he’s completely underwater. There’s more noise. More pain.

He breaks the surface, stuttering on his breath and his teeth clattering. More sunlight has entered the tunnel, and it’s easy to piece together what had happened.

“Tony!”

Peter fights against the current to reach his mentor’s side. His suit is pinned under a large slab of concrete by his left leg, the water already sloshing up to his neck. Peter practically collapses beside him and digs his fingers under the weight, but his ribs scream in protest so violently that his vision goes white.

“Easy!” Tony yells, catching him by his arms when he falters. “Kiddo, listen to me. The suit will let me breathe for a while. You need to get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to. FRIDAY took some damage, but she’s recalibrating my boosters. I’ll be able to get out.”

“No,” Peter chokes, trying again to lift the concrete keeping Tony pinned. “I won’t leave without you.”

“Peter-”

“I’m not losing you too. I can’t- I can’t-”

Tony’s voice is more gentle, his hand reaching to cradle the side of Peter’s face. “Listen to me, bud. I know this is scary. But you have to trust me. You have to go. For me.”

Peter shudders. Feels hot tears pool under the tight confines of his mask. “Told you I have Parker luck,” he says.

Tony finds it within himself to laugh. The water is at their chins. “I know, kiddo. But you don’t have to be afraid anymore. We’ve got each other now.”

“Tony-”

“Go.”

The water rises over his mouth. He wouldn’t be able to answer even if he wanted to. Then Tony’s head is submerged, and icy terror closes around Peter’s heart.

He dives under and reaches once more for the weight on Tony’s leg. He pulls and struggles and feels Tony’s hands on his arms, trying to pry him off and pull him away. The light is gone in the murky water.

Please. Please.

The concrete shifts. It takes everything in Peter not to gasp out at the pain it causes, to waste the precious air he has left.

Please.

It shifts again. Tony has given up on trying to push him off and is instead helping to lift the weight. Just a little bit more.

Peter screams, tiny bubbles escaping and carrying whatever he had left away. His body loses strength just as the concrete is alleviated. He thinks he feels Tony’s hands close around his numb body. But really he can’t be sure.

Tony is safe.

And it’s all that matters.

-------

“Peter. Don’t do this.”

“Breathe, Queens. Oh God-”

“Steve. What do I- I can’t- I can’t-”

“Keep the compressions going, Tony. Keep going okay? Don’t stop.”

“I can’t do it without him. I need him, Steve. I need-”

“Keep it together. He’s going to be fine. Right, Peter? You’re going to be fine. You just have to breathe for us.”

“Kiddo. Baby. Please.”

It’s all water down a drain.

A swirling, murky mess.

And it takes Peter with it.

-------

Parenting for Dummies: Chapter 12.

Love them unconditionally.

Tony hasn’t left his kid’s side for hours. He’s been glued to him, the boy’s limp hand pressed between his own like a lifeline even when the doctor’s had worked to splint his leg. Every breath, every rise and fall of Peter’s chest is a miracle, and Tony stares at the heart monitor until his eyes burn.

May is dozing in a recliner in the corner, her glasses crooked on her face. It’s just nearing three in the morning.

There’s movement behind him, and Tony turns to find Steve. He’s traded his hospital gown for a pair of loose sweats and a white shirt, the skin on his arms wrapped with thick bandages. The Captain turns and sees May. When he speaks, his words are almost a whisper. “How is he?”

Tony shrugs, a sudden lump monopolizing in his throat. “He’ll be okay.”

“Has he woken up yet?”

“No.”

Steve sighs. He limps to Tony’s side, but still manages to keep some distance. “He was brave today.”

“If by brave you mean dumb, then yes.”

“He saved our lives. We both know that you wouldn’t have been able to blast out of there by yourself.”

Dread sits heavy in Tony’s gut, because it’s true. He would’ve said anything to get Peter to safety. His blasters weren’t recharging. Weren’t even close to functioning.

But the kid had been too selfless for his lie. Really, Tony shouldn’t be surprised.

And now every time he closes his eyes he sees Peter. Hurt, small, Peter. Jerking with the last of his energy to free Tony. Of going limp in the water, no more air leaving his lips and remaining totally unresponsive as Tony fought to return the life to him.

“I wish it didn’t have to be him,” Tony says.

“But it is. It was.”

“I know.”

Steve lays a hand on Tony’s shoulder. He’s too tired to flinch away from it. “Let me know when he wakes up.”

And then he leaves.

Tony runs his thumb over Peter’s knuckles. “Wake up,” he says. Pleads.

But with his usual stubbornness, Peter doesn’t show signs of waking for another hour. First his fingers twitch. Then he groans. His eyelids flutter and Tony nearly collapses in his relief. Soft and weary eyes turn to find him, and Peter’s lips turn into a smile.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs.

“You have no idea how angry I am with you right now,” Tony says, but any heat behind his words is lost behind his relief. Peter must see it because his smile only widens.

“You don’ look angry.”

“Furious?”

“Nope.”

“Enraged?”

Peter laughs, then winces. He looks down and notices Tony’s hand clamped on his own. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

Peter looks up. Tony tightens his hold.

“Maybe I don’t have Parker luck after all.”

“We’re breaking the cycle,” Tony agrees. He lifts Peter’s hand and presses a firm kiss to the back of his hand. Peter smiles again.

“Pepper told me you bought a parenting book,” he says, eyes drooping.

“That woman is nothing but a liar.”

“Mm. I believe her.”

“Sorry to break it to you kid, but whoever would want to willingly parent a danger seeking, heart attack inducing kid like you would have to be crazy.”

Peter squeezes Tony’s hand. “Sorry to break it to you, but I guess that means you're crazy.”

Tony’s heart compresses with warmth. “Yeah kid,” he says, “I guess I am.”

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

#peter parker #spider-man #tony stark #irondad #irondad fic #hurt peter parker #peter parker whump #protective peter parker #bamf peter parker #protective tony stark #steve rogers #captain america

[pen-observing]

request: baker mc with barbatos. + how you came to know and bicker with the man that looks like love.

MASTERLIST

People find joy in doing the things that they love and, right now, your joy is waking up earlier to see the sun’s rays against the counter of the bakery. They’re so beautiful to bask in and so rewarding once you remember all that it took just to be able to come into such a place. It takes real work.

However, the sun’s rays on this particular morning touch something else. They shine upon a sleek black envelope that was placed right in the middle of your counter.

How did it get here? You’ve always locked your door out of responsibility. Surely nobody managed to break in or something similar? Everything looks in order and nothing is stolen. With this, there is simply no reason for you not to open the little ‘gift’ that was there. Right?

Being a famous baker meant that sometimes you did receive letters but never in such a manner or such a style. They were usually in pastel envelopes; written by little kids with lots of doodles, sprayed with some overwhelming floral scent. And, they were charming indeed but this was allure inside of mystery.

You sit down at the table close to the window and open the envelope carefully. Sometimes you think that anyone who works in your business and actually manages to succeed has to have some childlike innocence. When kids are the only ones writing you such letters it makes sense.

You lay the delicate piece of paper and start to read.

Allow this letter not to alarm you in the slightest. I have come to notice some others on your counter a few days ago and deemed this to be the best way to approach you with an inquiry. Please, read it completely before you make your final judgement.   Do you happen to believe in the afterlife? Do you happen to be religious yourself?   Even if the answer to these two questions is a resounding no (which I have no way of knowing, I assure you) - please consider this offer.   You have been chosen as someone who can help create a bigger order amongst the three realms. We, my young Master in particular, believes in the power that can bring about a more harmonious coexistence. We have already had humans come to our domain but expansions have started because of that previous success. I hope this manages to assuage your initial feelings and any possible fear you might have. We are demons, I must say. I believe there is no use in lying or manipulating you because we are approaching you with a noble idea and goal that you can help come to fruition. We are inviting humans that are experts in their fields to teach us even more and you have been chosen as one of them.   If you hold any interest, please proceed to sign your name at the bottom right of this paper. If, however, you are not interested or are afraid – please place it back inside the envelope and it will automatically become ash.   Discard it carefully. I urge you not to get hurt.

Now you wish that this letter was full of doodles with a cupcake in the middle of the sun. Who was pulling such a prank? Was this a lousy attempt of the baker 2 streets down to intimidate you for the upcoming cake contest? You have to give him credit for his imagination at least.  

Who does he think he is to challenge you? Did he assume you would be afraid? Perhaps, you always were a bit too spiteful for your own good. And with that spite growing – you signed your name at the bottom right.

No need for fire and ash. No need to be scared of anything that this foolish letter stated. Right?  

“I would like to extend my outmost thanks for signing the letter.”

What? What was that voice? Fucking hell, how big is the joke the other baker is playing? You will be sure to leave him a 2 star review because only his cookies were decent but all you can do right now is turn around to the direction of the deep voice.  

10 steps behind you, and next to your entrance door, stands a man that reminds you of the moon. He has perfect posture and an overwhelming presence. He holds a hand over his chest and looks at you with eyes that cause reminiscence – you always wanted to get lost in such a magical sea.  

He is smiling at you but once he notices the shocked expression, he stops and raises one eyebrow. You’re both quiet. Well, this certainly is not that annoying baker. So, maybe, perhaps, possibly, in some way: the letter was not a joke?

“Please don’t tell me you did the same impulsive thing as the human that is a writer. Did you, by any chance, sign this letter thinking it was a joke?”  

Obviously, you fucking did. I mean come on?? Three realms?? Demons?? Who would believe such a thing? Really, your spite got the best of you.

“You are not answering and I suppose that much is an answer in itself. Before you express a desire to cancel it out, I have to let you know; that is a legally binding contract and if you try to break it the punishment will be severe. When I say legally binding, I mean by the laws of hell itself. But, do not be alarmed. Please.”

The personification of the moon asks if sitting at the table would be okay and begins to explain to you all of the things in detail. He does it with clear words and you can’t help but believe that this idea seems promising. And this man, while cold and collected, does not seem like a threat.

Truthfully, you have achieved such a big success already. Baking is art and as an artist it was always the main goal. Learn more. Consider yourself a student as long as you live. Be sure to take any opportunity because it means growth. After all, you’ve gotten this far using those ideals. Wouldn’t it be a shame to throw them away now?  

“And rest assured. You will be completely safe in the Devildom. I have been personally tasked with assuring your safety.”  

You’ve come to learn that his name was Barbatos – meaning philosopher in some old book you’ve read. It is so odd that someone new seems so dependable. Because of this you ask him the question any sane person would.

“Would you like a cupcake?”  

Yes, that indeed is the question any sane person would ask in your field. You already know there is no way to back out of this; not unless you wish to endanger your life. So, why not start an adventure if you already must?

You give Barbatos a cupcake and turn the sign to closed before going back behind the counter. The sign won’t change in the following year until you are free from the damned contract. You get overwhelmed with the realization that the sun’s rays will seep in but have nobody to actually greet once you leave. You realize how much you are going to miss this place. How are you supposed to leave it behind just like that?  

You touch your pocket and take out your phone. If you must leave and abandon this, then so be it – but you will have some tangible memories of your dedication. You need to have some tangible memories of this glowing morning.  

You start to take photos. Of what?   The bowl of small chocolates that people can grab on the way out and bring to others that they love. The door decorated with flowers. The very counter you stand behind and the rays of light that are on it. The seating arrangement, the wall with your achievements, clippings from magazines, newspapers and reviews.   Yes, you even take a photo of the child’s drawings with a cupcake inside of the sun. How ridiculous. And, oh, how much you’re going to miss this.  

The very last photo you take is of Barbatos. He is sitting at the table, looking outside the window. Maybe you shouldn’t but – he looks like he belongs here for whatever reason. And, deep down, you wish to remember him like this. Inside of a peaceful moment. You press the click and he turns around. He doesn’t say anything – he offers a slight smile. In that moment you freeze and realize that in his peaceful moment the smile reminds you of childlike love.  

Perhaps the following year will not be so bad after all.  

-

“They call you the best in all of the three realms?” “Indeed.” “You put lemon-honey- syrup in your baklava. I refuse to believe you deserve it.”

Just because he reminds you of the moon and the deep waters; just because he gives you peace – it does not mean that professionally you will allow yourself to be inferior to him. Finding comfort with slight bickering became your idea of heaven and light in this place of darkness and hell-fire.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #barbatos #om! barbatos #barbatos x reader #barbatos x mc #obey me imagines #obey me fic #obey me barbatos #crack #kinda #fluff #also kinda #obey me headcanons #this started out as headcanons but i turned it into a fic cus #ya its barbatos come on #yall i cant cook or bake like i had no other way for this idea #should i write all my fics without caps letters it looks so pretty i know thats a trend #but like im an english major BIG AND SMALL LETTERS ARE IMPORTANT TO ME

[muffindaddystyles]

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻 𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑺?

Summary: Where you're pregnant but clueless and Harry's going feral at your mood swings.

Warning: Fluff. Smut. Angst. Long. dad!Harry.

Pairing: Harry x (fem!reader)

One the dining table surrounded by Jeff and his family were Y/n and Harry. His slender soft hands were gesticulating, heart shaped lips bubbling onto British accent and he cackled loudly but his beautiful laugh didn't caught y/n attention. She rolled the peas in her plate, twiddling with her fork. She never had a liking for peas. But, at the moment in her plate they're disgusting her to pit making her go paler. She just wants a big appetizing spicy meal is it too much to ask?

As, they did business talk she sighed shakily relaxing into her plush chair and when Harry's concentration diverted to her he placed his calloused hand atop her thigh giving it a squeeze.

"What d'ya say, y/n?" He carried a tinge of lust and mischievousness both in his jade eyes and his smirk as he stroked her flesh from under the table.

Believe me y/n is in no mood to be teased at. She glared him with hooded peepers and smacked his hand away, blowing away his irises. Thankful enough everyone was too occupied in their own bubble to hear the stinging 𝘵𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘤𝘬! sound of slap Harry just got because of his antics.

"Heeeeeyyyyyyy." He complained with a twitch of his lips narrowing his eyes to crinkles. Y/n just shrugged giving attention to Jeff's baby sitting beside her.

Harry scoffed quifing his hickorey curls back when he saw how her entire demeanor changed into his usual cheerful lovie the moment she turned to the little girl beside her, his heart swooned into unconditional love as she helped the baby to collect her peas into a large spoon.

Once they were done with this little business dinner where Harry decided whether he should opt for his new movie or not they left for home, because y/n was getting quite antsy.

At the threshold of their home Harry cradled her face kissing her with tongue and wet full mouth. He moaned shamelessly as she palmed his bulging cock slowly. Harry was sliding the straps of her dress down when she shook her head slipping from her heels with the support of his shoulders.

"Not tonight, H." She didn't gave him further explanation instead a painful soft hiss escaped her lungs when the balls of her feet met the wooden floor. Her back and feet are on fire. She's a pro at wearing heels and never feeling achy, this new change's making her want to grunt frustrated with all of her previous 'm-not-feeling-well mood.

Harry's jaw fell to ground at her dismissal. She didn't even glanced back leaving him hard and wrecked into his trousers. He thought for a second maybe she's mad at him for something he has done in past but when he pushed his every funny brain cell to work he couldn't find anything.

She was out like a night bulb till the time Harry brushed his teeth and changed into sweats. His lips quirking up at the slightest of plush-y pout at his lovie's face and he sneaks his forearms underneath her lousy body pulling her closer to his naked chest kissing her pout and smoothing the littlest of frown on her forehead.

Harry groaned in the hot of night wandering hands finding for her in the middle of sheets but he could grasp on nothing but her scent.

Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and with an adorable loud yawn he slinged his legs to the foot of bed, going on an adventure to find for his misses.

Every floor-board creaking the weep of sudden alarm, yellow mellow luminosity falling at his feet from the kitchen and he pipped his head from the door frame to have a look of what's happenin' inside.

He shakes his head, the knuckle of his index under the plump of his bottom lip as he took in the beautiful sight of his baby on the floor sitting her butt infront of the wide open refrigerator.

His button up shirt doing nothing to hide her collarbones exposing the rosy flesh of her tits and the nude panties flashing from the bent valley of her knees.

She's gobbling spoonfuls of chocolate ice-cream straight from the tub, an erotica novel perched upon her knee and she looks innocently sexy wearing her baby-pink reading glasses.

Harry clamps his mouth shut from laughing out loud when she tried to drink the melted icecream from the tub and it all splashed onto her face down her chest.

At first she groaned licking it clean still reading the erotica which's causing a pool of arousal in her panties but then a certain dirty page and she threw her head back moaning making Harry gasp a "fuck." in surprise.

He blinked several times, lines pinching at his forehead when the book fell from her hold carelessly and she leaned back a little tracing her sweet coated fingers down her hip-bones.

She didn't wanted to be touched hours ago and look at her now Harry thought smugly as she nibbled her bottom lip inside her pretty mouth putting pressure onto the wet patch of her soaked panties making her whimper intensely.

With a huff she got rid of any barrier between her pussy and fingers lying back on the core floor and Harry took the inside of his cheek in between his morals when her smooth pussy folds drenched into her juices glistened exposed full infront of him.

He don't wants to disturb her by any means so standing there he just enjoyed the pleasuring sight of her playing with herself.

She hisses toying her swollen clit back and forth. Her fingers covering in her wetness and Harry wants to suck them as her wedding band completely shined with her arousal.

"Oh. Yes..." She breathily moaned eyelids fluttering when after circling her hole with many lewd strokes she finally inserted her middle and index inside herself.

Harry's legs clenched tightly and he cupped his boner when she arched her spine into air while caressing her spongy sweet spot, "fuck. baby." Harry whispered mouth getting dry, he wants to fuck her right and there but he wouldn't. He's getting too much ecastasy seeing her get off.

"Oh my god. Harry..." The dams of every affection inside Harry broke down floating his heart in the flood of so much love for his lover and he smiled proudly as she fucked herself with her fingers but yelled his name, for all she could imagine's him.

Pinning her down. Shoving his cock inside her. She thinks of how he'd manhandle her then after fucking her raw he'd make love to her, with languid strokes of his cock against her walls and how he'd whisper all the dirty sweet things she loves to hear.

"Fuck. 'M-—gonna.." Her pupils dilating as she sped her motion rocking her hips, her nails scratching the inside of her wide spread thigh and Harry could see the rim of her hole palpilating around her moving digits, knowing she's close to tipple into bliss.

"C'mon sweet girl. cum fo' me." He whispered sweat breaking at his back and she bolted her eyes shut, palm slapping against her pelvis and she gritted her teeth, bucking her hips for more causing her tits to bounce at how his shirt has ridden low down her ribs and Harry litreally lost it.

"Oh fuck daddy.." She gave a sultry shameless moan when the waves of pleasure hit her causing the knot in her belly to burn into ashes finally. Heat crawled at the Harry's cheeks and throat when she didn't stopped blabbering "fuck, fuck daddy." pushing her fingers in and out vigorously until her thighs cramp together.

She tastes her own cum with a hint of icecream and she giggled loudly delicate fingers still inside mouth shaking her head at what she did, hiding her eyes under her arm.

Harry puts his fist atop his heart. The sight too much to handle. Not to startle her he soundlessly makes his way back to their bedroom.

Showering quickly she pads into bed straddling from over his chest and a whiff of her after orgasm hit his nostrils making him weak in his act that he's deep in slumber.

She smauches a loud fat kiss to his cheek and Harry almost—almost gave out a warm smile which went unnoticed by her as she snuggled under his armpit slinging her leg over his hip to feel the closeness.

Seven in the morning and she felt empty, a burning inside her for again wanting to be touched. She was admiring his features, the freckles sheltered beside his nose, twin moles at his little cute chin and she grazed her hands all over his taught tanned shoulders getting her leverage with them and straddling his torso with a sudden shift.

She swiped a long fat stroke of her tongue from his sternum to his adam apple, grazing her pearl teeth against his jugular vein. He's undeniably beautiful when he's asleep. She thinks he looks extra fuckable in the morning. So, sensitive and raspy under her.

She pecks his lips, then his glossy eyelids and then a kiss to very skin that's visible to her. Hormones going wild inside her and she feels herself warm. She slides down a little softly massaging her pelvis against his, while sucking his nipple inside her mouth.

Harry stirs in his sleep brows furrowing and she lulls her head at her shoulders eyes at ceiling as she humped his morning hard rock cock.

"Lovie'?" He grogged out only hissing at end when she grinded with a sluggish push, his hardness prodding between her covered pussy lips.

"Want you, baby.." She whined. Breaths ragged hair sticked to her hairline from the eagerness and Harry smirked gliding his damp palms up her thick thighs, "c'mon baby take me." She ushered urgently snapping her hips in dying lust.

"Thought ye' didn't wanted me las' night?" He playfully rasped out pawing at her hips and her cheeks flushed with crimson. She abruptly rolled to side from over him fiddling with her shirt, something in her emotions isn't right at the moment she noticed. Why the hell she wants to cry when she herself dismissed him but when he's teasing her it's getting on her nerves.

"Hey. hey...m'sweet cherry look at me." He hastily cupped her cheeks concern in his eyes as he sat on his knees tilting her chin to make her look at him. "Was kiddin' didn't mean it." He leaned to kiss her oh so softly and her stomach knotted just from his lips.

"Gonna take care of yer', shh." He caressed her nipples from under his shirt leaving love bites at the hilt of her jaw shushing her with a gentle coo when she whimpered grinding her pussy against his bulge.

From the last night experience he's aware she doesn't. want. to. be. teased in any case so he yanked his sweats down and his cock hit her lower abdomen making her giggle which soon fueled down when the pink head of his erection brushed against the spongy wall of her exposed cunt.

He kissed her shoulder tugging his cock giving it few lazy pumps and his precome dropped in between her pussy folds, making her gasp and grope his arse for more.

She coiled her arms around the nape of his neck as he swirled her earlobe with his tongue humming when he crushed her under his weight after burying himself deep into her sloppy sweet cunt. Her tight walls milked and nursed his cock that he could cum inside her without any movement from how sensitive he's.

"Mhm. Feels good." He murmured trailing kisses from the dip where her delicate collarbones meet the curve of her neck and she groaned lewdly when he kneaded her nipples which are way plumper than before.

"Harry..." She locked her ankle above his spine, scratching her nails down his lustrous back knowing it makes him crazy and when she whined under him it sent his brows rocketing to his forehead.

"Fuck me hard, baby. Bang me." He pushed himself back from the crook of her neck with the support of his elbows on either side of her temple. Eyes wide, brows kinked into amusement and lips parted staring her with ever surprise.

"Bu' ye' like it slow in the mor—" Poor Harry retorted to his wife like a kiddo of two. Confused in the abrupt change of their routine. Their morning sex's always sensual and passionate, she enjoys the warmth of his weight all over her and how he embraces her like a blanket while grinding their pelvises slowly.

He grunted with a squeal of high pitch when she flipped him to side crawling up at his thighs, "I know lover. But right now I want to be fucked, so bad." She muttered distractedly wrapping her cold hand around his eternity and guiding it inside of her as Harry watched her rather proud at her swankness, his non-existent double chin forming when he tried to see properly.

"Ah-ah." Her moans strangling in her throat. Harry gripped her thighs with a harsh softness just how she likes it as she took pleasure of atlast being filled. Her ass cheeks pressed again his loaded balls.

Her nails digging into his taught chest as she planted her hand behind herself atop his thigh now Harry could practically see his veiny erect cock disappearing inside her.

He grunted hoarsely collecting his and her arousal bringing it to her chest and twisting her nipples mildly not to hurt her but it still did since she's pregnant. Pregnancy means sensitivity every fucking where!

"Ow." She slapped his wrist and Harry immediately pulled his hands away in a frenzy of worry, "did I hurt ye'?" He blabbered pushing her closer to his chest with his palms pressed at her back.

"No...maybe mornin'. S'okay." She frowned at herself at what's happening with her but soon it all melted away when his cock hit her g-spot into pleasurable massaging patterns.

Harry moaned into her ear when she squeezed around him, "hmm. lovie' keep doin' that and I wouldn't last long." He thrusted his cock hard for the first time and she whimpered a plead of "harder."

"Spank me daddy." She hummed eroticaly eyes closed as she rid his big cock deeper and deeper that she felt him in her tummy. "Dirty girl. Fuckin' insatiable. mhm? fucked herself last night still wants to get railed by daddy."

His large bare hand came smacking her ass with a stinging but pleasuring pain causing her ass to jiggle and he kneaded her asscheek to soothe the red sting only to spank her again that sent her into a blabbering mess of, "please daddy." not knowing what her pleads are for.

Swiveling her hips, she shoved her face into the crook of his neck sniffling his sweet vanilla smell as Harry did all the work to make them cum.

"Close." She whispered daintyly and Harry nodded kissing her head giving few more intense thrusts. His cock twitching coated into her arousal and buried into her walls.

"Fuck. hell darlin'—" He shouted groggily fucking into her feeling that desireful burn collecting at the bottom of his spine same goes for y/n and her mouth agaped into silent scream when her pussy cramped around his dick due to her waiting for him to cum with her.

Harry grabbed her jaw smashing his lips over hers into a wet smauchy kiss, tongues stroking lazily and lips caressing like ocean waves. They both moaned into eachother's mouth when that bone crushing and toe curling pleasure drowned them.

"Blood-eh hell." Harry chuckled breathily. His hand wounding around her hair on the neck as he didn't even wanted a thread like barrier in between of her.

"Fucks me so well." She yawned trailing her nose up and down at the back of his earlobe. Her breaths rough and in sync with his. "Shower?" He pecked the corner of her lips and the closed lid of her eyes.

"Can we sleep fo' some more?" She murmured with a lisp and he smiled widely bobbing his head tucking away her wild loose hair, squeezing her waist and taking an hour nap with his cock still inside her warm snug cunt.

.

In the shower she couldn't resist from groping and teasing him, and he didn't tried to pry away from her. Her wildness and libido is everywhere like a gooey mess and he's loving it. Harry had to hold her with slippery soppy hands as she gave him lazy mindblowing head under the cold shower despite her knees went stiff from tiles and her back burned like it never did before.

She adored her husband's back with her chin resting atop her fist, his shoulders shifting, damp curls bouncing as he prepared the better for pancakes. The aroma of banana batter making her tummy go funny and her chest tightening.

When Harry spinned to meet her eyes. Her honey pooled eyes bedazzling and features silken under the golden sunshine. Sparrows carried Harry's heart into a meadow where there's just love and affection.

"What got into ye' bunny?" She didn't diverted her gaze from his as he whisked the batter leaning at her level, raising his brows in a questioning.

"Dunno." She shrugged and he pecked her lips but she scrunched her nose at the whiff of amber moist mintish wooden coming from Harry's collar. The baby didn't liked Harry's new scent at all!

She's feeling sick to her stomach. The morning sickness hitting her. Bringing her hand to cover her nose she spoke muffled with a gag, "what are you wearin'?" He frowned pulling back sniffing his own armpits.

"Wha'? Ye' didn't liked it?" Her choices matters most. And no even if she would have the baby didn't at the moment. She shook her head in denial and Harry didn't even muttered another word when she rushed to washroom.

Her knees colliding with the hardcore tiles and fingers griping the rim of toilet as she puked any of the contents she had in her stomach with a burn in her throat and bloodshot eyes.

In an instant he was by her side. Hands meandering into her loose tresses massaging her scalp soothingly as he cooed sweet nothings to her knowing how much she hates to vomit, the only reason she doesn't drink.

With a loud groan she smashed her cheek against her forearm, her hairline sticky and goosebumps appearing at her bare legs.

"You okay, darlin'?" He asked her kneading the dimple at her spine and she nodded slouching into his arms, "see it's all icecream." He pointed to the toilet bowl full of that icky thing.

"Yuck." She blew him off and he chuckled helping her to stand up, "maybe ate too much icecream last night." She giggled with foamy mouth while brushing her teeth.

"S'kay sweet girl. gonna flip some pancakes, join me in the kitchen." She rolled her eyes. He smooched a kiss to her cheek winking and waddled outside.

They fought over the last pancake only that Harry decided they should share but when he looked how she gave him puppy eyes his heart melted into caramel honey and he ended up feeding it himself to her.

.

There's nothing too much to do atleast for Harry during the quarantine. He writes and plays some melodies. Then he goes on his mission to annoy y/n while she's doing her nine to five job, he cracks her toe-fingers, tickles her soles, trails kisses at her ankles and pushes her buttons so much knowing when she gets all riled up she traps him under her and fucks the shit out of him so bad he couldn't sit on his arse next two days.

"Harry! unlike you I've an actual job." Today at last she snaps her frustration at him because her spine feels like it would break into two despite of whole pillow kingdom under her.

"Heyyyyyy." He complains sucking her big toe into his mouth and she throws her head back with a slightest of relief.

"Maybe. 'M bout to get my periods. Too cranky." Only if she knew. She pouted placing the laptop over the nightstand crawling to his laid body, "c'mon baby lemme loosen up ya' a bit and fuck you hard." Harry's words immediately pooling her panties with warmth and she nodded eagerly kissing him with open mouth.

He fulfilled his promise. Gave her a proper massage with coconut oil and when he separated her asscheeks to have a look at her glistening cunt, she was dripping and Harry couldn't resist to take her on the stomach.

.

She's two months pregnant and her cravings are kicking her hard. The whole night she stared at ceiling of bedroom thinking about the roasted chicken, spaghetti, anything mouth watering and appetizing she could imagine off.

At the moment as Harry snored cuddled up inside her while she laid straight on her back. Chocolates were all where in her mind. She swiped her tongue between her lips, sneaking her arm from under Harry and strolling to kitchen. She rummaged through cabinets and refrigerator for her favourite box of her dark chocolates.

She loves them. When in university she couldn't afford them she would save her extra coins to buy them and when they started dating Harry picked upon her certain likeness. He would bring her those chocolates loving to see how blush used to creep up at her cheeks, how she would looka at floor and scrunch her bunny nose from avoiding to give her excitement.

At the moment all she want is to taste that rich and bursting feeling seeping into her taste buds. She huffed stomping her feet when she couldn't find the purple of box of chocolates.

Tears brimming in her eyes and anger boiling inside her at the fact why she's crying, for fuck's sake!

She strided grumpily to their bedroom. Jumping on the bouncy mattress so furiously that Harry was about to fall down but he didn't woke up. He's high in his dreams.

"Psst. Bambi. Harryyyyyy." She whispered yelled poking his dimples and pinching his nose to clog his breathing, rocking his body drawling out a tired, "harryyy wakey. wakey." The sight's so funny to see. She's all teary. Pink nose. Shining eyes. Fat tears at her collarbones but still she's trying to be humble on him.

"Huh-uh, bubby?" He rasped out squinting his eyes to see what's happening around him. She sucked her bottom lip inside to stop from hiccuping and worrying him more. She hates to make him anxious for herself.

"D-do you know where my chocolates are?" He sighed guilt tripping from his breath.

"Ate 'em. Swear the only bar was left." She wants to do something to him. To scowl at him and make him bring the chocolates right fucking now to her but she pushed her own yearn for them down. Wiping her nose she just muttered a little "okie." getting comfortable into his sprawled arm.

Even in the sleepiness Harry sensed her fumbleness and restlessness. She shook her head kissing his head when he yawned a "sorry." then tangled their legs together snuggling into her cosily.

The first thing in the morning Harry did was bought her those chocolates and a cold mocha when he went for a jog. She was still sleeping. He was bout to wake her up since it was past nine, but the exhausted lankiness of her made him do the opposite. He didn't disturbed her until it was past noon.

"You specially went to buy these for me!?" She chirped with enthusiasm. Tip-toeing to meet his lips and Harry shied away at her lovin'. He hummed at the bitter-sweet taste of chocolate on her wine lips.

"I always do. Don't I?" He chuckled confusingly. She sang a melody in agreement strolling in the kitchen giving a smack to his bum and a pinch to his hip. He just thinks the work really tired his poor wifey past days, now she got a proper sleep she's back to her bubbly self.

The storm is yet to come. An unexpected wave of ocean's yet to crash onto their relationship.

.

Their routine's like this. She wakes up late. He drags his ass in the empty house with a bored expression and puppy eyes. Then they eat breakfast in their bed, mostly made by Harry. Then Harry takes her, on the back, on her stomach, on all fours, against the kitchen counter, on the plushiest couch while they watch one movie as usual go, most of time distracting her from work and putting his mouth on her cunt, giving her his long slender fingers on her demand, sometimes fucking her in the pool because she looked too gorgeous in her sunflower bikni. He loves how plump and soft like a pudding she has got.

It's sex. Anytime and everytime.

Then they share a glass of milk and cookies before going bed, doing an innocent act before doing the really filthy ones.

It's five in the morning and Harry's leaving for L.A for some contracts. Her chin wobbled and bottom lip jutted as she hugged him for dear life refusing to let him go.

"Y/n. Hey, sweet baby listen t' me yeah?" He coaxed her petting her hair. She shook her head and he giggled showering her in his many sweet sloppy wet kisses.

"Travelling in a damn pandemic? Seems like a bad idea to me." She gruffly spoke. Eyes stinging as she tried to hold her tears. The baby in her belly's gonna miss their daddy.

"I have to." He sighed lingering his lips over her temple, giving her tender forehead kisses many times but it didn't soothe the burn in her.

"Jus' take care, okay? Please." She gave in atlast instructing the love of her life and cupping his cheeks to look in his eyes. He laced their fingers together kissing her engagement ring and her softest palms.

"I'll. don't worry darlin'. Ye' take care of yer'self too check the locks before sleeping, yeah?" She sniffled in between of giggles when he lulled her face in between his palms side to side like a smol kid.

"Now go...before I change my mind and lock you up inside." Honestly he doesn't want to go too. But it's important and that's the only issue. With a heavy heart he waved her from their porch, blowing her a kiss which she caught and pretended to shove into her shirt in the middle of her tits making his laugh echoe in the neighbourhood.

.

Harry don't forgets to check upon her even with the time zones. He talks to her until she falls asleep. He helps her get-off from his dirty talking through phone and warns her not to cum till he gives permission. She obeys like an atta good girl she's.

She's been having carvings. Having wild libido to soothe down her desire. She throws tantrums with no-one around and has been not doing her work properly. She cries from the frustration and achy tendions of hers and that Harry's not her to heal them better.

Most of all she misses Harry more than she should.

She's watching telly after facetiming Harry before he went to sleep. She crunched on her pringles, it's like her soul got relief from how bad she wanted to eat them.

She awed at the babies on the telly. Some in their diapers and onesies, some with cute chubby cheeks, with piggy tails and blabbering mess. Her baby fever on it's peak.

Then it crashed on her. The epiphany. She didn't got her periods did she? She was blaming it on her periods but in reality she never got them.

She gasped in astonishment and anxiousness not knowing what to do but waddled to the ensuite washroom. She pulled the hem of her panties first when she found it spotless her nerves crippled more.

She carelessly took the tattered t-shirt of Harry from over her head and threw it to hamper. Her breath hitching looking at her breasts, it looks swelled and full, she brushed the pad of her fingers around the areola and pinched her eyes when she felt them a tiny bit of moist from the nipples.

But, it could be from something else right? So. She raked her sight down her tummy and unfortunately she found it a tiniest bit of showing, she fake assured herself when in reality it was really visible the barely roundness atop her pelvis. But, it could be from the way she was home for three months and did nothing except of gobbling food upon food right?

In a hurry she went to nearest grocery store. The cashier lady gave her an assuring smile closing her eyes to calm y/n nerves down and y/n hastily said a "thank you." Indicating how her gesture made y/n warm.

Siting on the toilet seat she waited impatiently head in her one hand and other holding the pregnancy test. Her tears on bayline. Wishing Harry was with her at this time. He missed it.

When the test came out of positive she sobbed out. Doing another one with shaky fingers. And heasteric sobs.

The anxiety making her sick to core. Her head pounding and she ended up throwing. She just wants him by her side. For him to tell her it's okay. That he's so fuckin' happy he could cry and she should too. But he's not and she doesn't even know he wants this baby. His baby. Their baby.

Ofcourse. They've talked about having a family and having little Harrys messing around everywhere in their house but they never tried for it. It was too early. They're married from just two years. Yeah. You got married in the last year of uni and have your surname as Styles which Harry's quite proud and smug of that he have his initials in his girl's degree.

She just started a proper job an year ago. With tear stained face she slowly went to bed, bringing her knees closer to her chest and sandwiching her hands in between them as she cried to sleep.

She doesn't know how to act. Not when there's nobody beside her to cajole her emotions to trepidation. No-one to rub her back and tell her that she's gonna be a lovely mommy. Not when she doesn't know if he wants all of this but she has decided that she wants it even if she looses her job or him.

When she startled from her sleep not very long after she reached for her phone dialling Harry's number. He was exhausted like a dead bee and one of his friend had to shake him. He went all alarmed at her name and snatched the phone putting it to his ear.

"You were asleep." She asked with a rough voice and he hummed trying to open his eyes. Few sniffles that were swallowed back in her throat and she managed to speak her voice wavering.

"Umm...we need to talk. It's urgent." At her words Harry shot up from his sleepy position his own voice shaky now, "what d'ya mean?" She wants to tell him that Harry Styles you're gonna be a daddy. But, she didn't. She couldn't.

"Can you take the flight back home?" He was already on his feet looking for his things, "yeah. Comin' back home." She closed her eyes just trying to relaxe herself.

"Will it affect our marriage?" He asked anxiously. She shrugged muttering and looking down at her barely visible bump. For the first time she felt so lonely, "depends on you."

"You're scarin' me darlin'." He rushed out without an explanation to his friends taking the first flight back to London. He was already exhausted and jittery. Now emotional too assuming worst scenarios of what happened in the sudden change of her mood.

.

It was early morning when he reached home. His heart dropped when he found the kitchen empty, threshold barren despite of knowing she's mostly asleep at this hour of morning but still he was afraid.

He found his love in the living room. Her back to him and when she turned to him his chest tightened. She's a sight for sore eyes. But she's looking sore and like a cherrie pie at the moment.

"Bunny? Everything's alright?" She shook her head left and right that caused him to walk towards her hurriedly with wobbly legs.

Tears welling her eyes again. "You've to sit, first." She said in between her breaths and his own strucked inside him as to what the news is that would send him falling. He could pray only at the moment.

He crouched to his knees infront of her and she brushed his lousy curls back as he ran his hands up her thighs, smiling at him through tears but it soon vanished and Harry felt like he could give out a one sob or perhaps two.

His brows knighting together in confusion when she curled her fingers around the hem of her baggy shirt. She bolted her eyes shut. Harry stared the littlest of bun of her tummy gradually dots connecting in his mind.

"I'm pregnant, Harry." She said in a one breath. Dunno if she heard it too. Harry kept on staring at the womb that holds his baby, his fingers stopped moving and when it took too long for him to give a reaction she jumped to conclusions rambling.

"It's okay if you don't want it. We'll figure it out, but I want this baby. I don't care if you d—" She was cut off with the first gentle touch of Harry's to her belly as he stroked it with his thumb that sent electricity sensations to his heart, "shut up. I'd risk my life for it."

At this she sobbed out and he did too. She did right to make him sit else he'd have fainted in the middle of their room at her happy news.

"I thought-" Her cries got muffled as she continuously kissed the insides of his calloused palms and his knuckles, "why?" He wasn't stern or offensive he's just curious and seriously worried that what of his actions made her think that he wouldn't keep this baby. His own baby.

"Dunno. We were never prepared for this, you know..." He chuckled at her kissing the top of her nose. Peppering kisses all over her face. The mother of his baby.

"Why wouldn't I want a sweet human we created together? I'd want as many as we could. next time we would be on a whole mission." She giggled jabbing his shoulder and he gave out a hearty laugh slipping his mop of curls under her shirt smauching wet loud pecks and kisses to her tummy his words slobbery, "two bunnies!" His voice squeaky and comic with excitement.

He took her in his lap. Saturating any distance between and kissed her lovingly with more love and tenderness now she's carrying his baby.

"The mother of meh' baby." He murmured into her mouth stroking the corner of her lips as he deepened the kiss, "s' proud of you." He appreciates her for bearing all the sickness, achiness and icky-ness.

"Thank you for bearing my fussy ass." He's more giggly feeling not even a bit of jet-lag and shook his head smirking at her, "I know you're gonna be way more fussy than this, bu' I love you too much that I'll handle your tantrums."

She ruffled his hair kissing his forehead.

"Now...I got to know why ye' always craved for chocolates all the time, our baby loves chocolates jus' like ye'." He gave a squeeze to the soft flesh of her ass and went all serious in another minute, "gonna feed ye' favourite chocolates because no way she's getting this amount of sweetness when she's born, don't want rotten teeth." He has already glued to his chosen gender.

Y/n laughed loudly at his silliness. Apologising she pecked his lips cinching her fingers through his baby curls, "seriously Harry? We don't know the gender yet."

"'S gonna be my sweet sweet girl, with pretty little mouth of yours and my eyes." Y/n is fuckin' sentimental and again tears of undeniable love brimmed in her eyeliner for the loving man, father of her unborn child.

He trailed kisses from her throat to her cheeks cradling it in his two fingers, "now tell me bunny. How do you want me." He was hovering over her lips and when she wet them they striped against his.

"Make love t' me then fuck me rough." His hips bucked at her boldness and she pinned down with an arch of her brow, kissing him passionately so he murmured a "heyyyyyy." In her mouth squirming under her giving her Bambi eyes.

.

A/N: My fingers (R.I.P). Please, reblog and give your feedbacks all the love and kisses!!

Moji.

#harry angst #harry styles #cute harry #harry styles blurb #harry smut #hsh #fluff #angst with a happy ending #harry styles smut #dom harry #sub harry #harry x reader #harry x y/n #dad harry styles #harry fluff #hs fanfic

[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without context

Miscellaneous Edition, for those quotable lines from between sessions

"All I wanna do, is fork a giant woman! A giant woman!" "Jonni, I'm pretty sure she is some type of undead, probably a vampire. Are you sure that is a good idea?" "If I don’t get turned into a blueberry it won’t be my worst date." "Okay, but if you have to defend yourself just don't burn the place down for once." "Oh, Nyx. Sweet summer child. I never make promises we both know I won’t even try to keep." "Jonni, if I wake up to my bed surrounded in flames again I'm short-sheeting your next bed every night for at least a month." "I know you're trying to score here, but Lady Dimitrescu's daughters are literally vampires AND bugs. I can overlook one, but as a Paladin, it is my sacred duty to burn this place to the ground and stir the ashes."

"We don't let Marshall make breakfast anymore." "Those waffles are well-fortified." "I'm going to be charitable and call it hardtack." "We can use these waffles as melee weapons." "Well if we need to deflect siege engines they'll be good to have." "This is still carbon based and digestible by human systems without any poisons." "I can't serve this. It'll cause ... death." "Marshal we've been over this. This Pizza has 10% less of a lethal amount of grease." "Plus they signed the waivers when they bought a ticket. It's fine." "And don't forget to push the Cakeon." "Cakeon being slices of cake wrapped in bacon." "The special sauce is a mixture of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, ranch, horseradish, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and anything unfortunate enough to fall into the mixing vat."

"You do have a copy of the legal code I requested in my letter? As landed gentry you should actually have legal avenues to... I'm sorry did you say Burning child?"

"First I'm going to nail a crossbow bolt through your heart. Then I'm going to mount your balls to walls on opposite sides of this chamber." "I need Three Barrels of Butter" "Are you serious? Those Claws could crush an elephant in full plate!" "You're Right!" *Turns to first person* "We might need more than three barrels of butter."

"So Ioun is the patron of poor college kids. that scans "

"its hardtack or a mug of molten cheese-fried... something in a woven mug of bacon. your choice."

"Welp, all this coke ain't gonna snort itself..."

"Right hand me that dress and the bail money. I'll get Jonni." OOC: Well I mean they allow men in the city. Its just no men live in the city. "I stand by my statement. I'm allowed to look pretty every now and then." OOC: And dragons are the most unprejudiced lovers of anyone after bards.

OOC: Well I mean come on, its Ravenloft: saying a place is of death and madness is like making the observation the day ends in y. "Going out. Getting laid." "Jonni, she’s a werewolf." "Going out, forking a werewolf." OOC: Well Lycanthropy isn't usually sexually transmitted. Its just that Mercedes is a biter. OOC: ...I don't have an appropriate response to that.

"You seriously think I’d turn on my friends for a pile of gold?!?" "sigh I’ll show you my tits. "Hot damn, let’s get these murders done!" "No, Jonni, stay good. Besides, there are plenty of other girls who will do that without asking you to murder us." "Hmmmm… this is the moral quandary of my life…" "I’ll give you five bucks." "Scales tipped!" "Phew, I thought I was going to have to cover her next trip to the topless bar." "No, no, I have the bail money right here."

Nyx: So what’s the inside of Jonni’s head like? Edmund (with thousand yard stare): Imagine every ladies only smut magazine you’ve ever heard of going on forever into infinity while everything is on fire. Food was good though.

"It’s cool. They stole it." "And you know this how?" "Magic." “90% of Ravenloft deaths are mysterious vanishings.” "Why does everything come out covered in glitter and … is that …" "Lube. I’ve got a few theories." "Please don’t share them."

OOC: This is a plan that ends with Strahd having fewer brides, his castle is in flames, and he’s lost his cape.

OOC: Our team consists of a horny pyromancer, a gnome who can fillete you in five seconds, an HP lovecraft protagonist with actual magic backing them up, a literal slab of iron with a face, and a guy with a "I went to the eternal city of Ryleth and all I got was PTSD and this lousy T shirt". Gorbash smashing his shield into their face: "Have! You! Considered! Therapy!" OOC: Good news is you guys will no longer be the most conspicuous guys at the masquerade now. Jonni: Challenge accepted! "Nyx, the bounty on stealing his fake mustache is still on."

"Vanilla is the king of flavors. What does it say about society where vanilla is considered just 'regular'?" "That they have a lot of vanilla." Lash: "Don’t you want wishes?" Jonni: "Do I need wishes to get to see you naked?" Lash: "No?" Jonni: "Fuck ‘em." Vesh: "Oh dammit its my arranged fiance." Pit Fiend: "Milady." Vesh: "An extra wish to whoever punches this douchecanoe in the nards." Jonni: "I wish…for Bigby’s clenched fist of nard punching."

Soth: "Oh, gods, why am I on fire and why is Immigrant Song playing?" Jonni: "Take a guess." Hazlik: "Okay, so its a partridge, stuffed inside a chicken, stuffed inside a duck, stuffed inside a turkey, and the whole thing is fried on a stick. Congratulations, that's the most horrible thing I have ever seen, and I once crossbred an elephant and an owl." "I give him the 'itis, and we run like we stole something." OOC: ...weirdly Curse of Strahd has stats for Strahd zombies but not Strahd Skeletons. Or Strahd's skeletal Steed. Strahd once went to a branding seminar hosted by Bane and it changed his life.

"Are we on a high enough floor that if I throw him through the window he'll be killed by the fall?" "Oh, but when I say stuff like that it’s all 'Jonni, murder is wrong.'" "When they say pick your battles they don't mean to pick all of them. That's too many battles Jonni. Put some back." OOC: He's technically already got a symbiote. OOC: They can get married. Gorbash: "I'm increasing the rent." Venom: "Can I keep the pool table?" Gorbash: "I'm not a monster." Giant Brain: "Jonni… I have summoned you here for… WHY AM I ALREADY ON FIRE! PUT ME OUT! PUT ME OUT!"

"Hello We're the party-crashers. This is Jonni, she's here to steal your women and burn your shit down. That's Nyx, she's going to repatriate certain items from the premise. Marshal over there, is here to studiously ignore our shenanigans. This is the New Guy. He seems pretty chill. I'm Gorbash... and I have been distracting you."

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly. Jonni: "Hold up. Trying to sex a spider." Nyx: (throws her hands up) And then Jonni wakes up with a spider venom hangover webbed to a wall waiting to be eaten. Jonni: "Eh, I’ve had worse one night stands. I’m not a fucking blueberry." OOC 1: Hey, where does your weed elf grow [her] crops? OOC 2: She probably just grows them in the room she hasn’t paid rent on. OOC 3: Because I was also considering a circle of spores druid tortle. OOC 2: We could be partners! We could turn this into road to el dorado staring Cheech and Chong. OOC: Wait, I just realized five people are hanging out in a pirate bar, and none of us are rogues. We are gonna need someone to get thieves tools. OOC: We have a barbarian with a big stick.

"Are we Foxhound now? Blunderbuss Octopus." OOC1: You want to put the stoner in charge of food. OOC2: Eyup. OOC1: I see no way this can go wrong! OOC3: We need the four basic food groups. Beans, Bacon, Whisky, and Lard. “We pray to Almighty Darkseid! Give us a sign! Thumbs up, for the triumph of the human spirit! Thumbs down to begin the everlasting reign of darkness!” “Where did you find this guy?” “Me? I thought you hired him.” OOC: Yup, nature, arcana, history, investigation and religon at +6. MJ got baked and watched the Discovery Orb a lot. Tordek: "But we have a cleric, Jozan, over there." Strahd: *sigh* Snaps fingers, and suddenly one of Strahd's brides sucks Jozan out the window, cue screaming. "Oh look, you suddenly have an opening, how fortunate." Tordek: "We also have a druid...." Vadania: "SHUT UP, TORDEK!" Edmund: "I think the first order of business may be to discuss your Human Resources strategy..." Strahd: "I have a guy for that too."

"When someone as smart as him talks with himself, it's not crazy...They call it monologing." "I thought it was soliloquy?" "No, soliloquy is when you're talk at someone else when your talking to yourself." "Most people would run from a demon, you run towards it to study it." Professor: "THIS IS ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING! A FROGHEMOTH, AND RIGHT UP CLOSE, IT WILL BE AMAZING TO SEE THIS PERFECT KILLING MACHINE IN ACTION." OOC: Also note the Professor is Lawful Good, Archie is Chaotic Good, so collectively they balance out to Neutral good. OOC: That's good. "The incinerations will continue until morale improves!" “You never incinerate the women!” “Because I’m fucking them!” “I… was not expecting you to be so honest about that…”

"You got what you wanted....but you lost what you had...." "Yes, I'm familiar with how capitalism works."

OOC: Dragons are like, “That’s Krandor the shiney. He only fucks other dragons. Weirdo.”

Gorbash: "D'awww, so tiny... perfect size... FOR PUNTING!" *boots tiny mind-flayer into the horizon*

"Dracula hasn't been spotted in almost recently. Whats he gonna do, destroy all we know and love like he definitely can?" "... my god you people are too stupid to live." "What are you doing in my house?" Gorbash: "...well Edmund has been reading your books, I've been sorting through your armory, Nyx and Irost has been going through your other shinies, Marshal has been cleaving anything monstrous that gets too close, and Jonni has been lighting things on fire to stave off boredom." Gorbash: "Okay Marshal, Jonni. Rock, paper, scissors over who gets [to kill] the bishop."

Jonni: "Did you really think this would make up for what you did?" Nima: "I… killed everyone you grew up with." Jonni: "Yeah, and I’m still not forgiving you for what you did to Eddie." Nima: "I am missing some key context here…" Nima: "Also I committed identity theft on you by having my new undead army tell everyone you are running the show." Jonni: "Oh, no. You’ve fooled the boar tribe. Who still haven’t figured out shitting in a hole." Nima: "Yeah I noticed that. I ruined two pairs of shoes attacking their camps."

#dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e #quotes without context #ravenloft #castlevania #resident evil village #ooc

[wendystales]

Memories - lrh (Chapter Four)

Memories (also on Wattpad)

Chapter Three ※※※※※ Chapter Five

I absorbed and enjoyed the silence that was hovering around my house. I grabbed a glass of juice and sat down on the couch on the balcony. My mom left early for work, and Leah even tried to take me along for a photo shoot she was going to do in Venice. But, honestly, I'm not in the mood for dragging plaster casts around under the sun.

Not to mention that it is good to have moments alone to get my head straight. I know that in a little while it will be even harder to escape from these outings, I mean, I know I have to get back to my routine, but as long as I can avoid it, I will.

I put the juice on the table and pick up my diary. Unlike yesterday, I open it to the first page, like a book, and start reading. I go through a few pages about my feelings, about what I planned about my future, about my parents' divorce.

"I know it was inevitable. Anyone could tell how distant they were, I just didn't want it to be like that, that she suffered the same way I did. And I didn't want to feel that anger from him. But deep down, I know it's for the best.".

A few more pages telling about the scout who had seen me at the mall, the first photo shoot, the first runway show for a small clothing brand. Then arriving at the day I met Ashton.

"That one nobody expected/imagined/sought for. Ashton Irwin is my yoga partner!!! Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Oh my gosh, I never would have imagined that. I was dying of nervousness about being the new student, then he comes and offers to be my duo and oh gosh, he's amazing. Super fun and nice. AND HE CALLED ME UP FOR COFFEE ON SUNDAY.

" Ashton and I sat at a table on the sidewalk. Under the table, I snapped my fingers in nervousness as I read the menu.

- Do you already know what you are going to order? - he asks. I pout and nod my head in denial.

- All I know is that I don't want espresso. - I comment.

- Can I recommend one? I think you'll like it, it's whipped with cream and chocolate, very sweet. - He points to the menu after I accept his suggestion.

- It amazes me how good you are at coffee. - I joke, making him laugh.

- I like coffee. I once took a tour of a coffee farm in the countryside right here in California.

Coffee becomes our first topic. Because he knows and understands coffee, Ashton convinces me to do a tasting at a promising coffee shop in Brentwood the next morning. It was not the kind of program I am used to doing, but everything is different now, my life has changed and so have my types of programs.

- You are lost being my friend, I will call you all morning for breakfast together. - Ashton comments as we drive along the sidewalks of Los Angeles.

My body shakes when it hears the word "friend". I still wasn't sure if I could consider Ash a friend, but now, I'm happy to know that I can and that he considers me too. "

The memory warms and cheers me up, giving me more desire to read and remember.

I don't realize how much I was smiling until my cheeks start to hurt. After that day, his name becomes very frequent, until it joins Leah's.

"I don't know how to explain this girl. She came in so confident and nose to nose, I was sure she would be insufferable, then she opened her mouth and all I could think was 'where has she been all my life? ' And I don't want to get my hopes up or be a pain in the ass, but she's also a model and she talked about me going to her father's agency and if that works out? it's one of the biggest agencies in the world, I'm going to take off. God, if this is your will...".

I laugh at the following narrations that already involve Ashton, Noah and Leah. I can't remember what is written, but my imagination gives me a warm, happy feeling in my body. And if the reality has been as fun and nice as what I imagined, then it was very good.

I feel my body shiver and a chill take over my stomach when I see Luke's name for the first time. I cut the pace of my reading, preparing myself for what was to come. I reach for another glass of juice, buying time and even courage to read the rest.

"I had already noticed him looking at me, I just didn't want to believe he was looking at me, and it was perfect like that, until Ashton brought him in. It's one thing to know who Luke is, it's another to talk to him. In the end it wasn't so bad. I guess. I just stared for the first hour at anything but him, but I guess he must have missed it. Now I'm in the dilemma of if he liked me, I mean, we spent four hours talking and nothing, no kiss, no phone exchange. NOTHING."

I laugh at myself. I can perfectly see myself being embarrassed by him and not being able to look him in the eye.. If I could go back in time, I would tell this Marnie that Luke really liked her, even though I only had a basis in videos and pictures.

I pick up my cell phone and open insta, going to the date that marked my diary. 07/06/18. It was Ashton's birthday party. I flip to the side and see a picture taken in Hawaii, with the caption "The one where we got lost". I turn the page and find that trip.

"I know I am committing one of the biggest follies of my life and deep down, I don't even know why. That's a lie, I do, but that's not the point. In fact, it is, but that's not what I'm going to talk about. Again, it is. The point is: I can't believe that at the last minute I agreed to go on a trip to Hawaii with a bunch of people I barely know. Except Ash, Noah and Leah. And P.S. Monday is his birthday. It only gets better.”

Apparently things between Luke and me went pretty quickly. I read a few more pages seeing that on his birthday, we had our first kiss and from then on everything happened too fast and messy.

I write about many fights and reconciliations. Both he and I, didn't want anything serious, but both he and I, couldn't stay away from each other and there was my reason.

"There is a good big part of all this blocking that I believe is because of what happened and because of me trying to pretend it didn't happen. Dr. Prescott says that if I don't put it out there and don't talk about it, it will consume me. 'Talking about our fears, worries and problems makes them smaller and easier to defeat.'

Besides my parents, no one else knows about that day."

I run my eyes quickly down the page, seeing that that one was about Stephen's cheating.

I close the journal in fear. I don't know what is coming, and I don't know if I have the courage to read it. It is one thing to hear about it from others, from their view and opinion, even if it is not on purpose. It's another to hear about it from my view, from what I've been through.

I have no doubt that there are things in these next pages that maybe even my parents don't know. Things and feelings that I have kept solely and exclusively to myself and I don't know if I am ready to face this, again.

I put down the diary and go in search of something else. Luckily for me, my guardian angel, aka Leah, calls me.

“Are you busy? I thought we could have lunch together. What do you think?” she bombards me, not letting me say hello.

“Hi to you too. No, I'm not busy, just reading my diary.” I run my hand over the cover, keeping in the back of my mind what awaits me. “ I'll take lunch.”

Before Leah can answer, I hear a muffled argument on the phone and wait for the fight to end.

“Sorry, but Noah is asking if he can come along.” she asks, without patience.

“Of course he can.” I hold my laughter, imagining the two of them fighting on the other end of the line.

“Okay, in a few minutes we'll be there. Kisses.”

I say goodbye to her and decide not to read the diary again. The doctor himself told me not to force myself into anything. I set the table and wait for the two of them to arrive.

After forty minutes, the doorbell rings. I make way for my friend and analyze the tall, muscular man behind her. Unlike my memory, the Noah of today has his hair well shaved and brunette, like his sister's. His green eyes fill with tears when he sees me crack a smile, and like his twin, he doesn't wait for permission and hugs me.

“Don't ever do that again, young lady. What a shitty world this would be without you!” he squeezes me before showering me with kisses, all over my face.

Leah turns and pulls him away from me, making me laugh. I follow them both into the kitchen and look at the bags they brought, excited.

“We made sure to stop by The Palm and pick up your favorite dish.” I didn't even know that I had a favorite dish at The Palm. But when Leah opens a box and I feel my mouth water when I see that noodle with shrimp, I realize how little I know myself.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?” I ask softly, with a smile.

We start lunch and today my attention was on Noah, after all he was the new thing. I listen to him tell about the day we met, when he began to advise my career with his sister, and how things have been going since the accident.

“You don't have to give any interviews if you don't want to.” he assures me once again.

I still don't know how to deal with this "public figure" business, but deep down I feel a need to give a "satisfaction" to everyone who knows me. Noah has already sent some notes about my condition, but I know that I will have to appear on some channel in the future.

We changed the subject and started talking about my amnesia. Noah was not very happy that my first memory was his hair fiasco. I commented that I was reading my diary and asked about some events.

“Are we really lost in Hawaii?” they both started to laugh and agree.

“That day I wanted to hit Mark. I was getting very angry that he could not accept that he was reading the wrong map. Not to mention the car dying and us pushing," Noah comments.

“Mark was never good with maps. He says himself that he was a lousy Boy Scout.” Leah says before drying her third glass of water.

“Who is Mark?” I question.

“Mark is an ex-lover of mine. At the time we were chatting and he had the house in Hawaii. One thing led to another and in the end he went along.” Leah ends with a frown.

“And why did we let him drive then?” I ask, full of curiosity. They look at me as if I know the answer. Or, as if I should, but I just raise my eyebrows, saying nothing.

“Because it's Mark.” Noah shrugs. “He likes to be in control of everything.”

“The one who was definitely happy with us there was that guy who owns the coconut stand.” Leah says.

So there it is, the little wooden stand, with a pile of coconuts in front of it. A short man, probably about 50 years old, laughing at our misfortune while selling the fruit to us. Images begin to form in my mind.

" “- Look there.” Kyleen and I focus on the little man laughing as he takes the money from Michael's hand. “He sure is very happy with us standing here.” Leah says.

“Of course he is. We already bought twelve coconuts from him. Bad little man.” I make a face.

“We're not lost. It's just a shortcut.” we cut off eye contact with the stand and focus on Mark arguing with Noah and Ashton.

Leah looked at her lover in total disbelief at what she had gotten herself into. If regret could kill. The next moment Mark stomps his foot on the floor, like a child with a temper tantrum. At that moment, Calum looks at me with wide eyes.

I look away so that he doesn't see me laughing. Kiki, who was behind me, slaps me to stop, but this only makes me want to laugh more. I hide my face in her arm and in the end, my laughter gets out of hand. Both she and Calum start laughing with me, causing the boys to look at us curiously.

It takes no more than five minutes for Mike to join in the laughter with us and soon everyone else was laughing except Mark. Even the little bad man was laughing. It was the worst thing about us being lost, but that's what was happening and it couldn't be anything but comical, even though it was sad too. ”

“Of course he was happy. He sold about fifteen coconuts for us.” I don't even try to control my smile. Once again I remembered, and this is more than great.

The twin couple in front of me crack a big smile too, and soon they are clapping their hands and stamping their feet on the floor, making noise. I clap my hands with them in celebration.

“She is coming back.” Noah comes around the table, hugging me from behind and again showering me with kisses.

I was never one to have many friends. Usually it was just Bethany and Stephen, and a girl in my music class, but I don't know if I can consider her that, after all, we only talked during class and it was all very unrelated.

The point is that I have always envied those people who managed to have a large number of friends, and friends really, not just colleagues. Friends who call you for everything, who are always by your side, who enjoy your company, and who consider you family.

In this moment, with just Noah and Leah, I can see that I finally have these friends that I have wanted so much and without having to pretend to be something that I am not, without having to buy their attention, as I felt I needed it with Bethany. And if I'm happy like this with just the two of them, I can't wait to see the others.

“So, you said you were reading your diary, did you remember anything else?” Leah asks excitedly.

All the happiness and euphoria that had surrounded my body disappears. The bloody page with the bloody day comes back into my mind. They both notice my mood drop.

“I remembered a day when I went to have coffee with Ash, but…” I play with the edge of my cup, trying not to get too much into that energy. “I found a day where I tell about what happened.” I look at them, who are serious and attentive.

“Do you want us to read it with you?” Leah holds my hand across the table, gently patting it.

I shake my head positively and point to the notebook on the coffee table in the living room. I watch her return with the notebook and hand it to me. I open it to the marked page and stare at my handwriting again.

"I haven't had the courage to tell either Ashton, Leah, or much less Luke. I can't tell if I'm ashamed of it or just afraid of it happening again. The problem is that it's really starting to get to me, to the point where I get irritated when I see Luke and Leah talking and it shouldn't be like that. So I need to get it all out so that I can start over.

It was our anniversary. I snuck out of my work to see Stephen at his house. I wanted to deliver his gift soon. Two streets before his house I ran into Noelle, his mother, and told her I wanted to surprise him, so she told me to get the key under the third vase and go in.

Maybe it would have been better just to ring the doorbell and not have to see it. I was very quiet so as not to be discovered, and in the end, I was the one who discovered something."

My racing heart hurts from beating so hard. I can't keep my breathing normal, holding it at various times. I feel like it's a suspense book where no one wants to find out what's behind the door of the abandoned house, but needs to, in order to continue the story.

I notice in some letters and words the ink smudged and I know it was from my tears and it only hurts me more.

"There is no word to describe the disgust, pain, and anger of seeing him and her in bed naked. My until then boyfriend, and my until then best friend.

And what only made it worse was that she didn't even try to explain herself, didn't show an ounce of regret, even if it was a pretense. Nothing. While he tried to say it was nothing like that, Bethany still says it had been going on for a long time."

I close the journal angrily and throw it away, stopping on the other side of the long table. The lump in my throat gets bigger, but I don't want to cry, not for this and not again.

Deep down, I have always had a flea behind my ear with the two of them. The countless rides Stephen insisted on giving her. The way she always motivated me to fight with him, for reasons I thought were small and insignificant. But it was my first serious relationship, what did I know about dating, right? Bethany, on the other hand, had dated seriously twice.

It had always been there, I just didn't want to see it.

“I always suspected it and never, never wanted to believe it. After all, he was my boyfriend and she was my best friend. They wouldn't be able to.” I let out a humorless laugh.

The twins look at me fearfully, as if I were a mother scolding them.

“But you know what the worst part is? I believed him. He looked me in the face and said that nothing happened. That Luke was to blame for our breakup! How stupid of me!” I shout, picking up the diary and throwing it further away, as if it would hurt Stephen.

“Wait, what?” Leah speaks loudly.

I look at her startled and realize what I said. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I didn't want anyone to know about the meeting.

“You met with Stephen? When?” she turns the table around, coming closer. I swallow dryly.

“Yesterday morning," I begin softly, but it was enough for Leah to cover her eyes with her hands and snort. Noah laid his head on his arms, sighing as well. “I was confused and needed to hear and see him.” I start to defend myself.

“After everything your mother told you about him?” Leah asks.

“And you think I would believe her? Would you? With amnesia on account?” I retort. Leah takes a deep breath and denies it with her head, giving me reason.

“But you could have told, or asked, I don't know.” Noah ponders.

“Nobody would have let me, I know nobody likes him and rightly so.” I give in.

“That explains a lot.” Leah comments softly, but loud enough for me to hear.

“Explains what?” I ask confused.

She looks at Noah, who nods, giving her the green light. Like me, she swallows dryly before she begins.

“Explain why Luke is so grouchy and weird. Not wanting to come see you.” he answers, poking at the seam of the chair.

NO! No! No! No! No! Please, no. He can't have seen.

“You have to take me to his house.” I ask, heading for the hall.

“What?” the two shout following me.

“I need to talk to him. Now!” I shout the last part, putting on a jacket with some difficulty.

“But why?” Noah helps me.

“Because I think he saw something that wasn't supposed to happen and got it wrong.” I open the door, going to call the elevator.

“Oh, no!” they understand and soon follow me.

Things between Luke and me may be messed up, but the last thing I want him to think is that I cheated on him.

#5sos #5 seconds of summer #5sos blurbs #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imagine #5sos smut #5sosedit #5sosfam #9 years of 5sos #ashton irwin #ashton fletcher irwin #afi #ashton 5sos #calum hood #calum thomas hood #cth #calum 5sos #michael clifford #michael gordon clifford #mgc #michael 5sos #luke hemmings #luke robert hemmings #lrh #lukey #luke 5sos #luke hemming imagines #luke hemmings fanfic #luke hemmings fluff

[allstarsstorymode867]

All-STARS -STORY MODE- CHAPTER 18 PART 2

Part 3

Part 1

This is a continuation of the first part.

-Back to the rest of the Group in the hardware store-

10:48

“Do any of you believe in the existence of evil?”

Ash had asked the whole group that question after they got back without U!Takeo, after they had to explain what had happened back in Wonderland Plaza. “A force of nature capable of giving rise to all things wicked?” his back was back to everyone with his hands on his hips when he asked further, waiting for an answer.

“Most of us do.” Primis Richtofen answered as he was seated on a crate he shared with the Engineer, “Back in 1918, before the end of World War I, me, Doctor Maxis und our men had gone to Excavation Site 64, we had uncovered an ancient tomb vith large amounts of Element 115 inside, from vhat ve had found is very likely from zhe middle ages, zhe statues zhat looked exactly like us und elemental stones zhat can be used by staffs.”

“It was long before we got involved, German.” Primis Nikolai growled in anger as he glared at him, “You and others had uncovered and created something that should never be unburied and undisturbed but you went ahead and unleashed the evil upon the land with no second thoughts!”

Diego was silent as Ash turned around to face them with his arms crossed, Engineer then spoke up “Before all of this, we had met and seen things on every Halloween, most of it was normal before but some of ‘em ain’t good.”

Ash looked at everyone as he explained “Guys, listen to me and what I had gone through in my own experience, alright?”

“It happened 30 years ago, my friends and I spended the night at the cabin,”

[Digitally drawn by Meaghan “Icefir” Halter, images, screenshots and movie poster belongs to Sam Raimi and the one and only; Bruce Campbell.]

The walls shown the memories of Ash’s younger years with his former girlfriend, a friend with a girlfriend of his own, and his sister in the car riding into the woods and arriving to the old cabin behind everyone as they settled to listen to his story

“We shouldn’t be looking but we have found the book… Necronomicon Ex-Mortis, Book of The Dead. Created by the Dark Ones as it was inked in blood and bound in human skin. Having the power to resurrect demons and summon the powers of darkness.” as the scene of these memories changed into a book, like Ash had said himself; the book was bound in human skin and flesh, and it was inked in blood of the fallen to write and drew the book in as Ash and his friend, Scotty, looked at it before they found a reel-to-reel tape player with the type left behind.

“The professor, Raymond Knowby, long before we got there, had taken it to the cabin to study but when he read the box’s text out, he was never seen again.”

Scene had rewinded to an elderly man, Professor Raymond Knowby, his wife, daughter and assistant wandering into the ruins of a castle until they discovered Necronomicon Ex-Mortis and along with a dagger, both of them were covered in dust before it showed the cabin once again as the windows was glowing light through them.

“When we played the tape Knowby left behind, we unleashed something dark, something evil that lasts for centuries that lives in the woods.”

Then we are shown a flashback of Ash having pinned his possessed hand onto the floor with a knife in order for it to stay in place while he uses a chainsaw to sever it while blood- his blood, sprayed onto his face as he screams in agony.

“It got into my hand and went bad so I lopped it off.”

We then saw into the evil entity's point of view flying and dashing through the forest as it was going towards the same cabin and it broke down the back door, flashbacks shown the images of Scotty, Sherry, and Cheryl had been possessed; Cheryl was the first one to be possessed, locked in the fruit cellar of the cabin as she was banging under the chained up cellar door for most of the night. Sherry was then the next unfortunate victim of the Kandarian Demon when she was attacked in her room and eventually Scotty was too the next one to go as he was severely injured when he tried to find an alternate route back to the outside and he was eventually resurrected into a Deadite.

“It then got to my friends, twisting them, changing them, they made them… less than human. And Linda, she…”

We are then presented to one more flashback of Linda in her night gown as an unseen force breaks through the glass while she screams and then presented to the now Deadite Linda being decapitated by Ash with a shovel and her head flew upward and back down to him in a struggle.

“...And then soon, things escalated quickly after that.” he finished.

“Escalated quickly?” Primis Nikolai commented on Ash’s story, the way he looked at him now as the Russian suspects that this Necronomicon Ex-Mortis may have something to do with this and Ash Williams may somewhat be involved with it.

“A lot of sh!t, I was the only one that managed to escape and now all because of a screwup I’ve made; read from that book, one lousy time, evil has found not only me but all of you somehow. and I am now, as I was thinking, responsible for all of this.” Ash somewhat confessed with his hands raised and then fell down onto his sides, everyone looked at him as silence remained until U!Dempsey said “Huh, funny that you were the reason why we are here in the first place.” as he gave him the stink eye while Ash then remarks “You don’t think to catch a rabbit once it’s on the wrong foot, do you?”

“Okay, that’s it; I’m shooting him.” before he got out a pistol and then aimed it at Ash who got his “Boomstick” out and the only one that prevented this was the Engineer who stood between them and said “Hold on, let’s not make it worse, boys.” with his hands raised in a gesture of calming the situation or an attempt to calm it down.

“There’s gonna be other theories, if what Ash says about the Necronomicon story didn't have anything to do with this then what we are dealing with is worse than zombies and Deadites.” Shaw had to explain as he stood up from his place towards the standoff between El Jefe and the marine.

“Examples?” Corporal asked as he still was looking at Ash, “Stanton may have a point.” Primis Richtofen added with must, “Apothicons are the second one to be on the list, as of now the Book of The Dead is top of it but now with other theories that anyone want to share?”

David Tapp then spoke up with raw rash, “Jigsaw may be behind this zombie outbreak but now when I think about it, I don’t think that kidnapping people through interdimensional means was a way for him to act out his games on.”

More and more theories are coming up more in people's minds as Ash and Tank had to lower their weapons to listen.

“A part of us believed that the Order was somewhat behind all of this,” Diego finally spoke up before two of his teammates could, “If this was their plan the entire time, then we must surely do something about it.”

“Maybe Saxon’s mistake,” Medic suggested, “He might have caused a universal rift in our universe to yours.”

“Stop, stop, stop!” Miss Pauling interjected, “It could be Gray Mann, he is the only one that is advanced with machinery and technology, maybe he could be responsible for all of this.”

“But it doesn't explains how those creepy-looking f*@#ers that brought us here, ones with jack-o-lantern faces.” U!Dempsey had poked a hole into these conspiracies'.

“Still,” Bill finally spoke after they all talked, “Last thing I remembered was turning on the generator to help my teammates to get away from zombies and then getting the wind out of me before things turned back.”

David Tapp, up until now, looked at Bill with concern and said with hasite “Did you think that you’d died?”

“I think so, Detective.” Bill Overbeck had confirmed and then the store went still, silent, “I think I had died too but how are we even alive?” David said as he placed a hand on his forehead as if he was pressing against a headache.

“How the hell are you even here, breathing, not undead?” U!Dempsey asked, adding further questions but Primis NIkolai already figured out how, “You were both resurrected. By something.”

“Resurrected?” They both said, not believing the Russian but before he could say anything, a knock was heard and he honestly had no idea who got out a shotgun as a bang was heard and split the wooden door and a yell was heard.

“Engie!” Ash yelled to whoever saw him with the Frontier Justice, “Sorry, Ah panicked!”

“Stand down!” A familiar voice was heard from the back of the door, their ears perked up as P!Richtofen questioned “Takeo?”

As if it was automatic, Pyro had gotten a flamethrower and then walked over to the door as P!Nikolai tried to stop them but Spy stopped him. “Don't recall what happened in the Wonderland Plaza.”

Nikolai looked at him for a moment and said “Do you think Mercer had found us?”

“Oui., I believe so, if I am wrong, it could be Takeo.”

Pyro slowly grabbed the handle and then slowly pulled it open and pointed at whoever it was on the other side of the door with the weapon. On the other side was Frank West who had his hands up and beside him was Ultimis Takeo who tried to ushered to the pyromaniac but then realized two reasons: his encounter with the shapeshifter with biomass and his allies may had relayed this to the rest of the group.

“Pyro, lower the flamethrower, we are not like him.” he reasoned as Pyro looked at U!Takeo with suspicion, he carefully walked over to the Pyro as slowly as possible. When he got close only for Pyro to see more than Frank, and then rolled his sleeve a bit for the same vine to present a flower for them as proof.

It was good enough for Pyro but not for Frank West yet the Samurai were able to have their back turn and they talked quietly as the photojournalist watched rather dismayed with tribulation.

“He?”

“Hai.”

“But what if he’s?”

“He’s not Mercer, if he’s him, he could’ve consume me rhen he had the chance but he didn’t on rhe rhole way here.”

“He’s not him?”

“Iie, his name is Frank West-san, not Alex Mercer.”

Frank examined the private conversion between the two with loathsome pause while these two whispered to each other with no end it seems, Pyro seemed to be in two minds on the dilemma until the delay that took 5 minutes they finally turned to Frank West, saying nothing but Pyro moved and lets Takeo in, he turned and looked at Frank before saying “Are you coming?”

Frank was a startled at first as he was be bit suspicious of this before he cautiously walked into the hardware store, so far on his first day; he had countered a mad man known to him as a Psycho in form of a gun shop owner when he was out trying to find more unlucky survivors in the zombie after he helped Brad to try take down a terrorist reasonable for this.

He was thinking that these people could have something to do with this outbreak as well when he entered the store and there were people inside, he recognized them right away as they were with the other townspeople before the barricade was broken in but there are two old-aged men who are unfamiliar.

“Well, hello there, stranger.” Diego was the first one to greet him, “Hey, you must be the ones from the Entrance Plaza, I guess they did get away rather all.”

“And you are?” Ash asked as he crossed his arms while he looked at him. “I’m Frank West,” Frank introduced himself, “Right now I rather want to know than exchanging pleasantly.”

“Right on the spot,” Bill said as he stood up, “Are you writing a story about this?”

“I’m a photojournalist, just listen, your friend has led me here, I guess to convince all of you to come with me.”

“To where?” U!Dempsey said with suspicion, “As I recall nothing in this mall is safe.”

“There is,” Frank rebuked, “An security room was wielded shut so none of these walking corpses could get in.”

“Welded shut?” Scarlett perked up, that caught their attention so the Engineer urged “Is it true?”

“A Janitor, Otis, had wielded it shut with a blowtorch to make sure none of them would get in, that would be the only place left that could be safe.” He explained to the group who were interested in this conversion.

Miss Pauling looked at him before pulling Primis Richtofen, and Scarlett away, “Guys, a word please?” and they were on the other side of the store right away. “What do you zhink, Frank vas telling zhe truth or…?”

“If he was lying, he couldn’t spill it out. There’s hardly a window there and…”

“If the door was wielded shut from the inside, how did he manage to get out of the room?” Scarlett had to inject the two, “And I want to know how.”

“Still, better than being here with the dead.” Miss Pauling as she and P!Richtofen looked at her with treaty, “If ve follow him, he could-”

“He had said rhe “helicopter” ras coming,” another voice joins in the meeting of theirs, they looked and saw him, Takeo who was watching them with arms crossed across his chest.

“Vhat/what?” the three said at once.

Ultimis Takeo walks over to them, stopping once he got close enough to them, “He had spoken of his “ride ``coming rithin three days. Rhis is how he had planned; find the story to make sure it will be worth for these three days.”

“Why can’t it be three hours?” Miss Pauling thought with hefty impatience, they were silent for a moment and soon, Richtofen said “Is his escape route reliable?”

The warrior nodded, “Hai, story was the reason he is here.”

The three looked at each other with the thoughts, possibly thinking it over about it but you could ask why couldn’t Primis Richtofen use the Summoning Key?

Well, he had tried earlier but for a shocking reason, Key didn’t open up the portal like before. He had tried and tried but it failed each one time.

Primis Nikolai had berated him on this but it wasn’t honestly his fault, the key wasn’t working and something was very wrong.

This seemed to be the only option for them now, much as he doesn’t like it but he had to agree to the deal. “Alright.”

“Okay.”

“Sure.”

U!Takeo looked content with their decision, but not before Richtofen stated “But if ve all had to vait for three days for it to arrive, ve'd need supplies.”

“Brad’s gonna handle that.” Frank had came around the corner where the four were, “Frank, you see-”

“I kinda heard the whole thing, Tak,” Frank had confessed, no joke, he had listened to what he said, U!Takeo felt a bit bad for what he had overheard and looked at him to say something but Frank continued “I'm gonna check if everyone could fit inside the helicopter, afterall, my guy is reliable.”

“Well, Brad is going to need help with supplies.” Scarlett suggested, “Where is here now?”

“Well…”

12:14

Two hours it took for a few of them to get in the security room with much supplies they needed but of course, they had to share them with the survivors Frank had rescued for the three days as Tank had tied his jacket around his waist as he had a black tank top with his dog tags is standing guard of the vent, making sure that there won’t be any shambling zombies won’t get inside the room through the vents.

Brad had got back with more supplies as Tank was pressing his back against the wall close to the door to the monitor room, Brad looked and then said “Yo guys! Gimme a hand here!’

Dempsey and Frank walked over to Brad who had the supplies in a box that was sitting inside the air duct, Frank grabbed a cola from it but Brad gently grabbed him by the arm and made the photojournalist look at him.

“Wh-what gives?”

Brad grabs the soda and pulls it away from him, “Considering the helicopter, bringing more hands here and all, we have to work together.” Brad said as Ultimis Dempsey nodded and added “But that doesn’t mean that we all tell you anything of what was going on.”

“The corporal had the point; things are classified for security reasons and things that, if we do tell you, cannot be printed as necessities.”

“Yeah?” Frank sledded with his arms crossed, “So?”

“So, we just want you to appreciate the situation.” Brad answered as he and Tank looked at him, Frank looked up at the ceiling and said “Well, we are all trapped in a mall with a bunch of zombies.” before looking at them again “Yeah, I think I appreciate the situation just fine.”

“Zombies….” The Afican man looked down at the floor before looked back to Frank, “I still can’t believe all of this is happening, you know, it seems unreal.”

“But this is reality, we know how to take them out.” Tank blissfully thinks as Brad gives the cola back to Frank West and carries the box to the monitor room as the marine goes with him.

“Ya alright there?”

“Yeah, we got it.” Dempsey answered as he opened the door to let Brad and himself in while Frank opened his drink and sipped it down.

Dempsey went into the hallway as where the rest of the group was, Shaw was making another batch of Acid Bombs with Ash looking over at his work before looking over at the old man and greeted with “Making new friends, already?”

“Hahaha, go f*** yourself, Ash.” mocked Dempsey with a sneer as he walked to P!Richtofen with Scarlett and Pauling on what they will be doing once the rescue arrives. Tapping him on the shoulder, making him jump a little but realized that it’s Dempsey.

“It was a tiring day, too bad that the stuff we could use is back at the hardware store.”

“Ve could always come back to it vhen ve go out of zhe room vhen ve still can but on limit of three days,” P!Richtofen recounted with the 1940’s marine, “Ve sleep for about 4 hours per night to switch shifts, ve vill figure out more by morning.” he then turned to walk over to his own living place with little supplies he had carried with him as U!Takeo nodded in agreement.

4:56

Four hours passed with David Tapp, P!Nikolai and Richtofen and Engineer kept awake, ready for action while others slept. U!Dempsey was up to get ready for watch as he cracked his knuckles as Miss Pauling was up as well with her legs against her chest, looking down.

“Your turn was up, German.” It was Primis Nikolai who looked over and said this to Richtofen to rest, with a nod as he got and then walked away so Ultimis Dempsey could take watch. He looked back and saw David Tapp doesn’t let anyone have a turn, just kept watching that lead having five of them, one being the Pyro, sat with them.

“He must’ve been determined.” he thought as he walked over to his sleeping quarters, gently sitting down on the floor and sat down with ease next to Bill. The old man looked at him and said “Did you figure out what the hell was going on?”

P!Richtofne looked at William with confusion at first, “Hmm?”

“The whole “Interdimensional Time travel” bullsh!t?”

“I do not know yet, William.”

“Not even the parts on how me and Tapp are still alive?”

“I do not know about zhat either, if I do know, I vould.” P!Richtofen replied with skepticism. Bill looked at him with his arms crossed, he had been through hell and back in a form of war through Vietnam and Green Flu zombies with his teammates whom he will now consider them as friends and he hoped they are still alright right now after… What he must do to ensure their safety.

“Doc,” Overbeck insisted, “I am not that stupid, if this… Whatever is happening, did those “App-o-con” creatures have something to do with this?”

“I believe so, William-”

“Just call me “Bill,” Ed.”

“Bill,” The Doctor corrected himself, “As much as I vould love tell you everything about vhat had been going on und vhy zhis is happening in zhe vhy is has been, I couldn’t find zhe words for that. Time travel und all zhat had happened, vhy zhe dead vas resurrected but as a normal person, not a zombie is beyond my level of reasons.”

Bill seemed to get that but then said “Maybe it was out of no reason whatsoever or just brought me and David back to live on purpose, a bullsh!t purpose.” before turning over to Richtofen before he lays down.

“Besides, I didn’t sign up to be in this hellhole but I’m here anyway.” before closing his eyes and then starts trying to close his eyes to sleep.

Primis Richtofen looked down at the floor as he wondered back at what had happened at the hardware store. “But it doesn't explains how those creepy-looking f*@#ers that brought us here, ones with jack-o-lantern faces.” U!Dempsey had poked a hole into these conspirities.

Frustration, irritation and condemned in this dimension, he groaned in fervid and furious at this sudden change to his plans to save the universe as something had not only brought him and his fri- Allies to do god-knows-what, but everyone else getting involved in this agenda as well. He fully believed that Dr. Monty would do something about this but…. A thought came to him, it should’ve been sooner but his mind had heaved it from it too late; Why wasn’t Dr. Monty doing anything right now? Putting a stop to this?

Edward was amazed yet uncertain by it. If Dr. Monty knew what was holding him and his team up and figured it out, he could do something to cut this situation short, get everyone home and resume what they were doing but why wasn’t he?

Maybe, just maybe, something must’ve figured out that Dr. Monty could try but must’ve shuttled him out from this strange modern dimension as a precautionary measure if he did find out what was going on. Or maybe it had found him, Dr. Maxis, Samantha and-

“Nein, Edward, do not overzhink it…” he swallowed those thoughts before they could get more avid. Shaking his head at this as he closed his eyes to let out a sigh.

“Hopefully soon, ve could be able to get back vith zhe rest of our groups und figure what is going on yet most critically: vho vas behind it all.” he whispered to himself as he laid down at last.

Using a handbag filled with clothes from the store as a makeshift pillow for his displeasure yet usual slumber, it took him a jiffy for him to find comfort on the floor until he eventually found it and fell off into a slumber….

#Ash #Bill #All-Stars -Story Mode- #Call of Duty Zombies #Saw #Dead Rising #Evil Dead #Aether Story #Chaos Story #Left 4 Dead #Team Fortress 2 #Prototype #Ultimis Takeo Masaki #Ultimis Tank Dempsey #Primis Nikolai Belinski #Primis Edward Richtofen #Frank West #Ashley Williams #William Overbeck #Medic #Engineer #Spy #Miss Pauling #David Tapp #Amanda Young #Scarlet Rhodes #Stanton Shaw #Diego Necalli #Brad Garrison #Jesse Mccartney

[gwen-ever]

As stubborn as ill

A/N: This litte drabble it’s a little gift for @lathalea​. She is always so kind with everyone and such an amazing listener and I am happy to say, friend. She works very hard with everything she does, she works that much that its hard even for others to make her stop and make her relax. She is so responsable and she is always the first to  So since she is not feeling very well these days, I  wanted to make her evenings under the blankets a little bit more enjoyable. And how could I not make them more enjoyable , if not by offering her a nice pre-Smaug carign Thorin?

Warnings: none

Words: 802

Pairing: OCxThorin

"How do you feel?" Ylva grunted in response, unable to do anything other than press her cheek even harder against herpillow. She didn't even have the strength to look up or open her eyes when the bedroom door closed with a thud and heavy footsteps began to echo through the marble. She moved her hand out from under the fur and stroked the empty side of the bed next to her, making a small gesture with her eyes closed, inviting the intruder to sit beside her, letting out another tired grunt. Because that was she, tired, terribly tired and cold. In Durin's name! Curse her and her stubbornness. Only two days ago she had been perfectly fine, she had managed to finish the translation of ten scrolls in one day, and now she was not even able to reach her hand to the bedside table and read the book next on top of it orblow out the candle next to it. That lousy fever had ruined all her plans. Thorin had told her to go to bed three days a go and leave all her work not finished. "You can finish it tomorrow morning", he said. But  no, she had to finish her work, it had become a matter of principle. She didn't want to hear human merchants all over Rovarion going around asking any dwarves they came across what was written in the orders for the goods, nor did she want to give every blacksmith in Thorinuldûm another headache to deal with. He had worked through the night, even staining her elbows with ink, but in the end, when he put the last dot on the yellowed paper, she was happy. It was a pity that it was the middle of the night and that the window in the bookcase had been open all night, letting in so much cold that the ink pots filled underneath. A few hours later, while she was sleeping, came the first sneeze, and then the second and the third, until her eyes began to water and her nose stopped working and even her pillow felt like a prison. The footsteps in her room grew closer and closer, she couldn't tell how far away they were, she could only tell that her husband had sat beside her as the mattress curved downwards. "You don't look well at all," Thorin's low voice rang in her ears with such force that her eyes narrowed in annoyance. In the name of Durin! "I'm better than I was yesterday, it'll pass eventually," she muttered in reply, reaching out with her fingers to what she knew were his breeches, clutching the fabric weakly. In response she heard a heavy sigh and then a rough hand came to rest on her forehead, pulling away some of the wisps that had most likely stuck to her forehead. She knew something was wrong as Thorin lingered on her cheek, rubbing it with the tip of his thumb. "What's wrong?" she asked, opening her eyes weakly and squeezing his trousers even harder between her fingers. Thorin's expression was sad, though blurry she could see his face and his blue eyes, lit by the faint light of the candle beside the bed, observing an indefinite spot on her forehead. "I have never seen you like this..." Ylva smiled with the side of her mouth moving her hand from the fabric of her breeches to the hand on his cheek squeezing it gently. "I just have a little cold, a couple of days I'll be better, you don't have to worry about me." Thorin smiled with the side of his mouth "You know exactly It Is not possible "Well you will have to, It Is an order." Thorin shook his head, rolling his eyes slightly before lowering himself to her and gently placing his lips to the side of her temple, giving her a small, gentle kiss that drew an ecstatic sigh from Ysla. She closed her eyes again, savouring the gentle warmth of the dwarf's lips on her forehead, the tingling of his thick beard on her skin and the strong scent, which she could barely smell, of ash and leather. "As you wish, my sick, stubborn, sweet wife." That string of adjectives brought a smile to her face, causing her to open her eyes again and look up into the smiling face of the Lord of the Ered Luin. "Better for you, my if you kiss me you will get sick too, stubborn more than me, beautiful prince and husband." And with her last ounce of strength she gave herself a peak with her elbow and placed her lips on Thorin's, putting her words into action. He would not be able to care for her if he was also in bed with her, would he?

<3 @lathalea​

#draft #Thorin Oakenshield #thorin #thorinxoc #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit drabble #drabble

[katsukikitten]

Hewwo! I was wondering if you could do a Bakugou x Fem Athlete reader? I use to be a wrestler and when I watch bnha and see their workouts/training, it brings me back to the good times where i use to slam ppl into the floor lol (im soft i swear-). Maybe reader goes to a boot camp and doesn't see bakugo for awhile and they come back hella buffed up and can even lift Bakugou with ease, maybe they're a weightlifter?? Idk but i wanna see bakugo shook at his strong gf lol

I hope you like this my dear.

You were what most people called a behemoth.

A thick woman with muscle on an athletic build instead of thick hips. Your shoulders were broad, strong and could carry the weight of the world.

And often times it did.

It used to bother you that you were not as femme as other girls. As cutesy and petite until one day you came to the realization that you'd never look like the women on the front of magazines.

And that was a o fucking kay. And everyday since then you fought with yourself and your self image.

Because bitch you were a queen.

And being a confident cut throat queen added to your muscular stature had most *boys* avoiding you like the plague.

But that was fine because you were looking for a M! A! N!

Although you didn't know you'd find him so soon and in such an odd package.

It took one deadly smirk aimed at you for you to fall head over heels.

And it took one knockout punch for him.

Depsite the mutual feelings the two of you only ever interact or text to spar. You too worried that you're reading into his excitement too much. Thoroughly convinced he only sees you as a bro he can actually go all out with.

While he is too fucking oblivious to even realize he had feelings for you. Paying you compliments and even bragging on you in class with simple songs of praises such as "Tch. Y/LN would break your puney fucking arm in a wrestling match Kirishima!"

The doting ash blonde would eye you then, smiling proudly daring anyone to test your strength.

And double daring anyone to comment on that powerfully beautiful body of yours.

If he heard a single off colored comment or joke about you, whether you were there to defend yourself or not he would step in. Hands popping with unkempt rage as a shit eating grin erupted on his kissable lips.

The thought of him defending your honor had your cheeks burning with blush as you waltz through the thick doors of the gym, exactly where Kirishima said you could find him. Silently thankful that he is wearing headphones with music loud enough that he does not hear the door shut as you spy his damp, sculpted back pull his body upward as he counts with barely a grunt.

Well into the upper thousands as your heart flutters, body heating to the point that your kneecaps melt. Struggling to stand you turn on your heel, losing the nerve to tell him goodbye although you will only be gone for a short month. Still you wonder if you should send a text, thumbs hovering over the lit keyboard debating if he would even want to read a stupid message from a lousy extra like you.

And it wasn't like you'd get a reply while you were gone and even if you did where you were going your phone would be no better than a glorified iPod touch with the lack of signal out in bumfuck nowhereville.

You decide against it sliding your phone into your leggings pocket as you tighten the straps on your book bag setting out for what will hopefully push you in the right direction.

Camp is hard as you knew it would be. You were training with the best strength oriented quirk pro heros in the game! Sending you through grueling obstacle courses with semi truck tires and endless pits of sand and mud.

Not to mention you were pushed to the point of puking more often than not. Still you somehow made friends in between the exhausting training and gnarly cafeteria food. Laughing, helping one another and even exchanging numbers with promises to text when a mythical bar of service was found.

Cool water drips form your hair as you plop down on the bottom bunk with a sigh, your bed mate pokes her head out to look down at you. Meanwhile you stare at the last text your friend Mina had sent you for the umpteenth time this week. A photo of you and Bakugo sharing a rare laugh during training both of your cheeks flushed and hair clinging to sweating foreheads over a joke long forgotten. But the feeling would never fade.

You damn her silently for being so sneaky and sneaky enough to catch both you AND Bakugo off guard.

"You've been sighing like you're s/o is away at war!" She chides, "So who are you staring at?"

This gains the attention of the other two girls in the bunks across the way, eyes gleaming at the thought of sharing crushes. Heat flushes your skin bright pink as you attempt to lock your phone but swift hands above snatch it from your normally steely grip.

"Oh." Is all she says as she looks closely at the photo, Bakugo shirtless with, dripping with sweat and wearing his best smile as you're three quarters to the camera cheesing hard as hell.

"Well shit I'd be sighing too. Your man is hot as hell! Does he train with you?"

"A..ah he's um not.." Fear grips your windpipe as you try not to sound creepy as fuck for looking at a picture of what is only your classmate. You clear your throat, "We're just sparring partners."

"What?!" She zooms in on his face before showing it to the other girls and yourself as best she can out of your reach, "My sparring partner never smiles. Make him your man!"

"I'm not his type, Kimi!" You rush out, embarrassment having you cover your face. Shit you'd never be his type.

You couldn't imagine anything more than a petite fiery or even just plain shy girl who wore dresses and heels. A woman with all the right curves that would dangle from his arm as he showed her off. Not some brute who could practically snap any man in half.

Your heart sinks into your gut, tears threatening to spill.

"Then what's his type?" She asks dryly above you. Mind racing as you think of how Bakugo looks at the opposite sex, hell even the same sex in your class and you come up with the same face each time. He wears his ever agitated snarl and that's if he even glances their way. Scarlet eyes narrowed into slits save when the look at you. They are narrowed only from the effects of his upturned lips.

"I reckon he ain't got a type then?" She says staring down at you from over her mattress. You avoid eye contact as you speak.

"I...I just can't see him with me. I'm all bulky and burly like." You flex your banded arms for emphasis before pointing at your bunk mate above, "While you're more toned and that of a fitness magazine model."

"So what? So fucking what! Haven't you seen me oogling you all week? Or the other women who would kill to have your gains! We see it sis, we see it and stan it. You carry muscle where most women DREAM to!" She jumps from the top bunk lifting your shirt up to your sports bra," Abs bitch, you've got washboard abs! Meanwhile my stomach can barely become flat. And your back! Ugh don't get me started how you're stronger than super girl with that toned back and beautifully rounded ass. Why are you selling yourself short?"

Your lack of answer is met with a harsh slap on your stomach before the timed lights in the cabin die out.

"The first thing I want you to text me about is how you asked that hottie blonde out." She threatens before jumping to the top bunk like an agile cat.

The month ends with tight hugs and a long ride home. You welcome the scenery of the winding roads and mountains as the train speeds past, muscles screaming from the month before.

And stomach growling wanting nothing more than a home cooked meal. If you did the math right on the chore wheel. You'd be coming back to Katsuki's cooking. You slip in and out of conciousness dreaming of spicy grilled chicken.

A surprise waits for you as you get off at your stop for the train. The platform crowded with familar bodies of class 3A

as you dismount from the steps.

"WELCOME HOME Y/N!" They shout in unison as Mina and Urarka rush in for a hug. You pull away laughing before your eyes scan for a blonde and when they come up empty your stomach twists for a moment. Mina pulls your thoughts away as slips her pink arms through yours guiding you towards the exit of the train station. She fills you in on the things you'd missed that fun summer month.

Swimming, fireworks, watermelon.

All activities that they planned to do again of course, espeically now that you were back. Not to mention her now boyfriend, Kirishima who, always the gentleman, took your bags to carry on your soon to be journey down six blocks back to UA, to home.

Still you wish Bakugo would have come to greet you too, you pull out your phone for a moment. Ready to text Kimi how you were gonna be forever alone, instead you lock your phone angrily shoving it into your bag.

With each step closer towards the dorms your body becomes heavier, weighted down with your mood drop that you brush off as "I'm just tired Mina-chan" endlessly until you reach the dorms.

The class floods into the their third year dorms as the smell of food wafts over your senses, causing mixed feelings to fist fight in your stomach.

"I'm just gonna get some sparring in before dinner." You smile at Mina, as you head out clad in your ever present athleisure wear, short black shorts and a tanktop.

The outdoor punching bag takes the brunt of your anger, of your disappointment and mostly your own self loathing over being upset over your training buddy not coming to greet you.

Still it stings to know he didn't even bother to show up. Hell he didn't even greet you at the damn door to the dorms!

Arching your fist you slam it into the bag that bursts open as the chain snaps, soaring into the treeline behind the dorms. You huff, back turned before your stomach growls, begging to be fed.

You collect yourself as you hear the sliding door to the living room open.

"Oi! Y/N!" His voice comes out biting as he approaches. You look to the source damning your heart for fluttering at just the sight of him. You notice his skull shirt seems a bit tighter than when you last saw him, muscled arms flexing as he keeps his calloused hands in his pockets. Harsh eyes look you up and down. Roving over your body making you feel naked beneath their intensity as he silently assess your thick frame. Scarlet lingering on exposed soft thighs that he may or may not imagine himself between sometimes. It took the entire month of his "sparring" partner gone to realize she may have been more than just that.

He fights the blush on his cheeks before a devilish grin overtakes his normal snarl.

"Atta girl, coming back stronger than ever. Bet you kicked some ass at camp huh?" His praises has your heart soaring as your body moves on it's own. Anger melting into warmth as you scoop up the muscled man into a bone crushing hug, giggling as you swing him in a circle. That is before you realize your giddy action could make him seem weak, something Bakugo loathes. You set him down with several rushed "Sorry"s before he grips your wrist tightly. Eyes boring into yours as he struggles to keep his breathing even.

"No I should be the one who's sorry." He growls.

"For what?" He answers as he pulls you closer to him until your lips crash into his. Hands roving up your toned arms before strong fingers pull at the hair at the nape of your neck deepening the kiss while you turn into putty in popping hands. After a few moments he breaks free, looking over your stunning features.

"For not fucking doing that sooner. For not fucking realizing that I admire more than just your strength." He looks away slipping his hand into yours as he pulls you back to the dorms, "Come on! I didn't make my girl's favorite just so it could get cold damn it!"

He drags you into the house as you watch after him before you snap a photo sending it to Kimi with a caption underneath.

"He beat me to the punch."

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakougo katsuki x reader #bnha katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #bnha au #bnha ask #bnha ask prompt #bnha asks #bnha x reader

[emeraldeyes23]

Fictober/Fantober 2020 -

Day 10 - First Kiss

It was the perfect moment. It was spring, and the sun was shining down on them from a cloudless, clear blue sky. Eiji had suggested a picnic in a park close to their home. So they had walked there and had found a nice spot under a cherry tree. They had put a blanket there and had taken out the food they had prepared beforehand and some drinks. While they had enjoyed the food, the cherry blossoms had rained down on them with every small breeze. Ash slowly began to understand why Japanese people were so fond of them. Even he had to admit; it was a breathtaking sight. After their picnic, Eiji had taken some photos of the park, of them together and the cherry blossoms while Ash had enjoyed the sun while reading a book. Then Eiji just lay next to him and enjoyed the sun. After some time, he dropped his book as well and lay down next to Eiji. He watched Eiji's posture, the small smile on his face and the closed eyes while he was humming to a tune while listening to music on his cell phone with headphones. Ash could watch him forever like that. He looked so content, happy and at peace with the world. He wondered if he could enjoy life as easily as Eiji did one day. After a while, Eiji noticed him staring, opened his eyes again, and their gazes met. "What is it?", Eiji asked him curiously, a soft smile appearing on his face. "You've been staring at me for a while now. I could feel it." Usually, Ash would counter that with some witty remark. But not this time. Even he knew this was the wrong move right now. Not in such a romantic setting. Especially not when he wanted to ask him something important. "There was something I wanted to ask you for a long time. But I was too afraid you'd say no. Or reject me.", Ash admitted honestly, lowering his eyes to avoid Eiji's gaze. Eiji turned to his side to get a better look at him. "Ash, you don't have to be afraid. I'd do anything for you." Eiji took his hand and smiled warmly at him. His warm smile made him relax within seconds, and it gave him the courage he needed to ask him finally. "Eiji, I'm sorry I only ask that now. I know I should have done that much sooner... But can I kiss you? And I don't mean a quick peck in the cheek but a real kiss." Eiji's eyes sparkled with pure happiness. "I thought you'd never ask. Of course, you can kiss me, Ash. Always." Eiji nervously ran a hand through his hair. "Actually, I wanted to kiss you for a long time, but I didn't want to force or pressure you. I wanted you to recover first and take your time until you're ready for it. I also wanted the choice to be yours.", he explained honestly. "That's why I haven't asked you yet." "Ash returned the smile. "Thank you, Eiji. You're too good to be true. I've dreamed about kissing you in such a romantic setting, you know. It's so beautiful here." Eiji looked around the park. "It's really the perfect setting.", Eiji agreed. "You can kiss me anytime you like, Ash." Encouraged by that, Ash moved a bit closer and gently grabbed Eiji's face. He noticed how a faint blush ran over Eiji's cheeks. He looked at him, his brown eyes widening with a mixture of uncertainty and affection. When moving closer, he saw Eiji's lips trembling slightly before Eiji leaned back a little. His lips felt so soft and warm when he finally touched them, kissed them. He wanted to kiss Eiji for a very long time. Mainly because he wanted to show Eiji how much he loved him. He was terrible at expressing his real feelings with words. But maybe he could just show Eiji how much he loved him with this kiss?

When he started to kiss Eiji, his mind suddenly flatlined. Everything felt utterly new to him; he had never experienced something like this before. It was as if this really was his very first kiss. His body moved on its own, his fingers gripping Eiji's hair and pulling him even closer while the rest of his body dissolved into Eiji's, ultimately becoming one. Ash could feel the warmth spreading through his body and felt his heart nearly bursting with happiness.

He could feel Eiji responding to the kiss, grabbing his hair as well, but not pushing any further, letting Ash stay in control. He could feel Eiji's inexperience because he was hesitating slightly at times, counting on him to take the lead. Eiji closed his eyes slowly, and Ash did the same, slowly deepening the kiss into a more passionate one.

He could feel Eiji's heartbeat quickening and how Eiji's breathing was changing and became more fast-paced with every passing second. His lips tasted like pure sweetness and innocence, and his arm tightly around his waist made him instantly feel safe and protected. He had never thought that one single kiss could arouse so many different emotions within him. Kissing Eiji made him feel really alive, loved and truly happy. And he had never thought there could be a moment where he could feel even happier than he had already been while living with Eiji.

He slowly softened the kiss again, pulling back until their entangled lips parted, and he slowly pulled out of the embrace. Eiji's face was flushed entirely, and he was panting, unable to say anything for a moment. But there was suddenly a worried look on his face.

Maybe I did something wrong?

"Eiji, are you fine? Why do you look so worried?", he asked while scrutinizing his face.

"No, it's fine.", Eiji said after catching his breath. Looking at his face, Ash didn't believe him. But then, Eiji reached for his cheek, gently wiping the tears away that were streaming down his face. It was only at that moment that Ash realized that he was crying.

Tears? Why am I even crying? And why now? Maybe because it had felt entirely different from all the other kisses? Or because it was the first kiss I've given voluntarily? Because I was sharing this kiss with someone, I truly love?

"I'm fine.", Ash said. "I don't even know why I'm crying.", he tried to explain his reaction. Eiji smiled softly at him, relaxing again.

"I must be a really lousy kisser, huh?", Eiji said, smirking at him. "I knew I'm inexperienced but - "

Suddenly Ash burst out laughing. "No, you idiot. It was the best kiss ever; it felt truly amazing.", he admitted through the tears that were filling his eyes.

"It felt amazing to me as well.", Eiji assured him, smiling and blushing again.

"Does that mean I can kiss you again?", Ash asked hopefully.

As a response, Eiji took his face into his hands and kissed him ...

The next one will be "Roadtrip"😎

#banana fish #ash lynx #eiji okumura #anime #manga #ash x eiji #fictober2020 #fantober 2020 #fictober20 #fantober20 #my writing #Fanfiction #my fanfic #AO3

[kvetchlandia]

Richard Meltzer     Lester Bangs Passed Out on Meltzer’s “Highly Uncomfortable Living Rm. Chair,” 104 Perry St., Apt. 4, West Village, New York City     1972

On December 14th, this December 14th, Lester Conway Bangs, while probably not the greatest writer of his generation, arguably its most vital so far to die, would have been 36. Haunted and driven by demons, so- called, a cheerless many of whom/what/ which ��� or their kindred ilk — he directly sought, found cum stumbled upon, or was inadvertently ensnared by on the demon picnic grounds of Rock and Roll, he never made it to 34.

Following the lead of a handful of babes in the rock-critical woods, one of which I'll admit (if sometimes reluctantly) to having been. Bangs at the dawn of the seventies played as prominent a role as anyone in both expanding the expressive boundaries of rockwriting as a form and giving it a voice that played the newer, more mannered and cautious, mass-market rockmags like Rolling Stone and Creem — the latter of which he even edited for awhile — as on the dime as it had played the catch-as-catch-can, limited-edition fanzines whence it came. Though he also served as the burgeoning genre’s most prolific scribbler, a mission he sustained with relative ease for the bulk of his days, it is to the man’s lasting credit that he rarely delivered copy on anyone’s dotted line. In fact, he probably “got away with more’’ in major- publication print than all his rockwrite brethren combined, conceivably (however) because it merely simplified matters to have a single Designated Outlaw, one entrusted with a blanche enough carte — and unmonitored options galore — to spike with “authenticity ’’ a rock-media stew of bogus Freedom and ersatz Candor.

Retrospectively cliched or not, there was an existential purity to the sheer commitment evinced by Lester’s prolonged wallow in (and about) the rock- and-roll Thing-in-itself. It was, in many ways, the critical headbang to end all critical headbangs; it would be hard to even imagine, for instance, a professional art-film bozo, a jock-sniffing sports jerk, or a food-review lunatic more uninsulatedy gung-ho vis-a-vis x — either as primary experience or typewrite wankery. His patented shameless multipage gush, coupled with an unswerving advocacy of certain conspicuously over- the-top rock genera (Velvet Underground offshoots; Heavy Metal; Punk Rock), made him a must-read favorite with both cognoscenti and dipshits alike, and he came as close to encountering idolatry per se as any non-musician in R&R. A good deal of which — natch —could not help hitting the self-consciousness fan, but while a man’s life was ultimately undone in the process (“I’m Lester — buy me a drink! ’’), the integrity of his art/craft was essentially unaffected. For, while he might have been a tad too glib-messianic those last couple years, he was by no stretch of things an opportunist, never really giving a hoot for what in squaresville would be known as a career. (Or, perhaps, unlike his role model Kerouac, he simply didn’t live long enough for that, too, to be strenuously tested.)

In any event: dead, cremated, literal ashes. California born (Escondido ’48), bred (El Cajon, ages 9-23), and traveled (I first hung with him in San Francisco, last in L.A.), Lester bought the big one on the opposite coast — his final home, the fabled Apple — April 30/82, ostensibly from a hefty pull of darvon employed, in lieu of aspirin, to placate the flu. Since his death, variously interpreted as a mile-radius teardrop’s once-in-a- lifetime terminal burst, a joke and a half on both himself and his precious chosen whole damn Thing, and — by occasional uncouth louts — the final glorious triumph of his excess, the spectrum of Bangs-in-ongoing-print has dwindled from monochromatic /sparse to colorless/ nonexistent. Of the two books in his name which appeared during his lifetime, quasi-coffeetable numbers on Blondie and Rod Stewart, neither a particularly representative Lestorian effort (or even particularly good: the former admittedly hacked out “in two days on speed,’’ and looking it, i. e., ad hoc and forced; the latter disowned as a clumsy, if innocent, foray into “writing as whoring’’), both are either out of print — officially — or on the back burner of barely having ever been in same, at least as regards this coast, where I’ve yet to see either in bookstore one. Nor have two posthumous whatsems. Rock Gomorrah, cowritten (early ’82) with L.A.’s Michael Ochs, and a projected collection of unpublished fragments scrounged from Bangs’s apartment a day or two after his death, gotten more than inches off the publishing ground — the former for reasons which if herein revealed would get me sued but good, the latter because, in the words of editor Greil Marcus, “the stuff is less tractable than I thought at less than 5000 words or so.’’ Also stalled, and/or abandoned (and/ or nonspecific pipedreams to begin with) : all known plans to reissue out-of- print Live Wire LP Jook Savages on the Brazos, recorded, Austin, TX, Dec. ’80, by Lester Bangs & the Delinquents, lyrics and vocals by guess who. In fact, the only anything by L. C. Bangs readily available where availables are sold is his liner copy for The Fugs Greatest Hits Vol. I, released by PVC/Adelphi some months after he’d croaked, for which he (or rather his atoms) later copped a Grammy nomination, and for which, reliable word has it, he never was paid.

Well, I’ve been proven wrong; it hasn’t been easy recollecting Lester in even half a toto in so much tranquility. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea back when obits were appearing left & right and at least two- thirds of ’em smacked of revisionism at its well-intentioned worst; having ridden the range with the guy, having been as intimate with his daytime/nighttime revealed essence — I would bet my boots — as anyone in or out of various possible beds with him, I had fiery goddam galaxies to say in his behalf that were simply not being said, at least not in print by his designated peers; and, although my no longer living in New York couldn’t help but delay my shot, remote and after-the-fact seemed like the ticket, y’know anyway, for some major necessary rerevision.

But here it is two, two and a half years gone & more, and whuddaya know if all the raw goddam pain (at the loss of, yes, a brother) and jagged fucking anger (at a waste of life, life-force, and relative inconsequential like “talent” and “genius”), an unbeatable duo which for weeks, weeks, months gave the Lester totality so cosmic a shape, scale and intensity, have by their own inevitable burnout given way to the contemplation of standard-issue mere data, of the skeletal remains of a larger-than-life life which have come to make sense (or not) in too neat, too linear, a manner. Well — hey — fuggit: Even if grocery lists, chalk diagrams and hokey storytellin’ are the forms ongoing life-as-life has imposed on the mission, there’s still a heap of essential Lester information that could use, uh, exposure to printed-page light.

What too many write-biz intimates sought to do in the wake of his death was debunk the Lester Legend (solely) by reciting evidence that his bark was worse than his bite. While I’m sure he’d have “wanted it done” (i.e., have the saga-as- litany scraped of treacherous barnacles, or at least of their treacherous vogue), I can’t imagine the projected post-life intent of such a wish as in any way entailing cosmetic overhaul, especially in the service of moral/experiential object lessonhood. Lester’s day-to-day transaction with post-adolescent life-as- dealt was — let’s be conservative — 94 % anything but pretty. If he’d have wanted his entire whatsis to serve up viable scenarios for intimates and non-intimates alike (gee, would the Pope prefer to be Catholic?), there’s no way the deal’d come out even provisionally Lester-functional without interested non-intimates having retroactive access to as hefty an eyeful of the not-so-pretty — in all its hideous, non-Clearasiled blah blah blah — as intimates galore regularly managed to cop and, in their various personal ways, have already learned from. To deglorify an earlier incarnation of shit (which the man himself was clearly hellbent on doing in his waning days on earth) you’ve got to at least speak its name — loudly! — for the whole entire planet: c’mon now, one & all. A solemn responsibility (I call it) which, credibly/incredibly, the smelly sumbitch’s closest associates have, to this day, all but refused to consider.

To wit: For every time anyone saw the defanged, declawed Lester teddy bear rear its cuddly li’l head (see obits 2, 3, 5 & 7) the man was uncountable times the asshole, the buffoon, the sodden tyrant; been those things myself — in semi-prior lifetimes — so I know. Back in ’73, for inst, the soon-to-be-dead Lillian Roxon gushed shameless love for the s.o.b., in New York on Creem business, ordering up a Lester button and leaving it in his hotel box; response to this purest of offerings was “What’s that fat cunt want from me?” About a year later I get this call from Nick Tosches requesting that I please take Lester, who’d shown up at his door on acid, “off my hands”; took him to a party at John Wilcock’s place, during which he verbally brutalized Wilcock’s wife (in green Fingernails) for being a “hooker,” snapped at an affable Ed Sanders for being “the only alkie in the counter-culture,” and had nothing more to say to Les Levine’s Asian girlfriend (wife?) than “Yoko is a lousy gook”; further into the night, at Vincent’s Clam Bar in Little Italy, he literally bellowed ( more than twice), “There’s a lotta tackin’ wops in this joint.” And how can I forget the way he treated me and Nick, his closest approximate friends f'r crying out loud, as our wonderful editor while at Creem? He’d call us each up at 3 a.m. to urgently solicit various (rather specific) reams of pap, needed via Special D toot sweet; we’d climb outta bed, peck away bleary-eyed to whack out the closest possible takes on what he’d claimed he wanted, whereupon he’d reject ’em with a vengeance (“I won’t print beatnik shit”), then run thoroughly like-minded i. somethings — under his own byline — or with our words, usually verbatim, laced throughout. Just a few “examples,” dunno if they sound like big stuff or small, in any event typical Lester, with plenty, plenty more where they came from — y’know times n-plus-many.

In spite of such anticommunal upchuck, or quite possibly because of it — post-adolescent of a post-summer-of-love feather & all that — I did have deep affection for the bastard during my final years in New York; he could really piss me off (and I, I’m assuming, him) but bygones were always eventually ditto. In those days I generally shared his affection for The Edge, and might even’ve gone extreme slightly ahead of him; in January ’72, this is true, he actually dubbed me “the Neal Cassady of rock and roll.” But by fall ’75, when I split New York to at least simulate an escape from the Frantic and Hyper (and he subsequently arrived, ostensibly to embrace same), I was feeling the first stirrings of apprehension re my own prolonged massive intake of Edge Substances (emotional, cultural, but above all chemical) and was on the verge of an early series of attempts to, y’know, cut down, to maybe get off my collision course with all sorts of walls, both metaphoric and real. Lester, meantime, seemed on a rapid upswing in the intake dept.; what had so far served as mere horizon or frame for his trip, or at most been its semi-essential fuel, was now lunging headlong for the foreground of his life ... or should we call it the twin foregrounds (life as Mythic Construct; life as physical/emotional/cultural Hard Mundane Reality).

Hey, the guy was beginning to scare me. Certainly as an advanced — or rapidly advancing — version of what I no longer wanted to be and could (possibly) imagine once again becoming, but more as this vivid, palpable spectre of specialized human decomp not just out there but right there: a pal & a buddy headed (willy nilly?) for the sewer. From late ’75 immediately onward, on those unlikely occasions when separate coasts — underscored by far fewer rockwrite junkets — any longer allowed for it, I was usually unable to handle being in the same room with him, knowing I’d have to witness whole new increments of what could really no longer be passed off as anything but (gosh) misery and (dig it) horror. Where in the earlier ’70s it was almost cute — once in a while — the way Lester would stumble into classic self- directed drunk jokes (like the time he called me from the Detroit airport to tell me he was headed for an Alice Cooper show in London, presumably England, only he’d drunkenly got it wrong and was on his way to London, Ontario), there was this half-week in ’79, for inst, during which he hung out at Michael Ochs’s house in Venice with no daily design but to get skid-row-calibre gone and stay there, that was just fucking grim. Looking an unhealthy as I’d ever seen him, basic shit-warmed over with an ngly bump on his forehead (which he claimed he was “treating with Romilar”), he refused to eat without an Occasion. When, one evening, Michael and I pretty much dragged him to a Mexican restaurant, he refused to actually step inside until he’d fortified himself with the cottons from six Benzedrex inhalers — the local pharmacist was out of Romilar — busted open on the sidewalk with a shoe.

Washing down their remnants with a Dos Equis as his enchilada sat there staring at him, he quoted (or claimed he was quoting) Sid Vicious: “Food is boring.”

So, inevitably, when Billy Altman rang me up from N.Y.Clearly on a California morn, to let me hear it straight from a friend — “instead of from a creep” — my immediate response to no more Lester, steps ahead of all the pain & anger & whut, was holy fucking shit, the fucker finally did it; it’d been in the real-world cards for long-long times for Lester to cease to be. Though even on his gonest days he was no way a classic cornball suicide-romantic — heck, I don’t really think he was all that clinically suicidal (big-sleep fantasies never overtly/covertly lured him, not even metaphorically, from the darkest sub-basement of his World of Dread; nor was Danger, though he often nonstop lived it, itself the merest tickle of a ripple of a thrill for him, a context before the fact) — he’d sure staged more corny, frightful dress rehearsals than Jim Jones plus Judy Garland (squared) for simply ending up dead.

Biggest of which I ever saw was January ’81. I’m at Nick’s place in New York, en route back to L. A. from Montreal, when who should pay a surprise visite but Mr. Bangs, cassette in hand. It’s a tape of these tracks recorded during an Austin romp I’d heard about second or third hand (he’d planned to “live there forever,” it was said, ’til a night in the local drunk tank — on top of who knows what else — totally changed his mind), and in the course of the next 12-15 hours he played it, for us and at us, many times. Also during this stretch, after boasting, rather proudly, that he no longer drank, he managed to ingest at least 36 cough- suppressant tablets (three 12-packs of Ornical — we weren’t always watching) washed down with sizable slugs of bourbon, as there was nothing else but water to wash ’em down with.

All stages of this ordeal, in which Nick and I were little more than foils for surge upon surge of what we’d come to regard as typical Lestorian bathos, were hardly bearable in the state we were in (after far too many “nights with Lester,” going back to the days when we even could dig it, we’d opted for a change to take this one straight), but the morning-after phase was literally one for the books. On the umpteenth playback of what was soon to hit the racks as the Jook Savages LP, Lester insisted that one particular vocal was pure Richard Hell (in Lester’s cosmos an a priori yay); my dogtired no-big-deal of a response was it sounded existentially neater than that, more on the order of Tom Verlaine (a Lester nuh-nuh-no). Suddenly hair-trigger sensitive — in a performance-trigger vein — he tapdanced back with “Then I might as well go sell shoes in El Cajon.” Next cut he compared himself to somebody (very contempo) else, prompting me to comment, for non-pejorative, sleep- denied better or worse, that his vocals (across the board; in general) had the same basic flavor as those on such country-western parodies as Sanders' Truckstop or the Statler Brothers’ Johnny Mack Brown High School LP. Affecting grievous offense, as if any of his b.s. actually mattered (the Lester of ’73/’74 — in any chemical state — would merely’ve giggled), he took things up a full notch of indignant/sarcastic: “Well I guess I’m just no fucking good. ”

But he wouldn’t stop playing the crap, not with every cut looming as a supercharged occasion for kneejerk call- and-response, a challenge for him to goad Nick and/or me into goading him, in turn, into mock-self-deprecatory one-liners ad nauseum — a dress rehearsal, as it were — his puke-stained sweater seemed appropriate — for his triumphant appearance on Johnny Carson, which he had no doubt the worldwide success of his Blondie book would imminently require . . . along with a shot of his mug, cleanshaven, on the cover of People (over which he whined “fear” of besmirched personal image).

Ultimately Nick and I, weary of further compliance in so shoddy an interpersonal number, old buddy or not (and/or old bud in particular), found ourselves laughing in his face; enough was enough, and the sight of this bumbling mammal going gaga for an audience of two-who-knew- better was kind of otherworldly amusing. The object of our yuks, however, took it as us laughing with him: Great Moments in Standup/Audience Rapport! Swollen with illusory (or whatever) whacked-out self, Lester then proceeded to announce his program: (1) to save Rock & Roll; (2) to become president (presumably Oi the U.S. of A.); (3) to move to England and in turn save their Rock & Roll. As mere dipshit goals, nos. 1 and 3 meant topically little to either of us — geez, we’d all but buried the Anglo-Am mainstream as even an idle, y’know, sometime hobby or whatnot — but (2) hit us firmly, instantaneously, in the breastplate.

Lester’s neurons, no recent model of health to begin with, had made the short-circuit of Lester Bangs . . . [tenor saxophonist] Lester Young . . . (latter's nickname] Pres . . . Pres/U.S.A. per se!!!

Guffaw, guffaw — we guffawed — though I guess we could've gasped (or shuddered). Then: a heavy silence, as cosmic (or whatever) as it was awkward, filled presently by the man himself:

"Hey! I'm gonna buy some import albums! I'll get a whore I know to lend me her charge card! Cab fare too!" And he was off; no amiable nudging, no “Get the fuck out of here" could take the place of timeless vinyl hunger. Gone at last — and we gave him (in all solemn, empirical, non-jive reckoning) six months to live.

But of course he fooled us, by (nearly) a whole damn calendar year. Surprise, surprise: but an even bigger surprise was the extent to which he managed to actually turn things around — well, almost — during that extra annum, especially during its. and his. final months. Not only was he still among the living, not only did he no longer seem conspicuously earmarked for premature exit — the Lester with whom I spent a rather refreshing week in February '82 gave every indication of having already gone beyond mere survival (as an issue) and appeared, astonishingly, to be thriving on the theme.

In L.A. following his mother's eventually fatal stroke and staying with his 56-year-old half-brother in Studio City, he accompanied me one night to a low-stakes poker game attended by members of the Blasters, the perfect setup, you’d figure, for Lester to revert to type. But no, he just minimally fun-&- games'ed it like anyone else — no lookin' for opportunities to “be Lester," no showing off for rock-roll peers either verbally or intakewise. no diving for the evening's jugular and letting 'er rip — and after two beers (!). without so much as a grimace, he declared he’d had enough. Postgame he engaged Phil Alvin in a lively musical dialogue, but at no point did fightin' words fill the air, or were axes even poised for grinding. The pair agreed to exchange tapes — a wholesome friendship in the making — and next day Lester complained (true, true) that reefer had been smoked.

As the week wore on in consistent, low- key fashion. I was struck by the fuckload of inner capacities the guy was perceptibly calling on, left, right and center, to extend his defiance of Death to the domain of just plain living, capacities I hadn't caught sensory evidence of — all previously told — for more than 11 minutes total. A far cry from anything as cheaply benign as, let's say, more frequent eruptions of "Lester washes the dishes" (see obit 04), what I got to witness was kind of on the order of a whole new Lester, one who'd finally found a non-lethal, functionally less jagged (though in no way “benign") rhythm for his life. Engaging him in tight quarters with more open-heartedness per se than I*m sure I’d ever mustered (sharing an Edge does not always make for brotherhood-by-numbers. let alone by pure, unedited inclination), I willingly submitted to his rap/rant and bought its tenor if not its verbatim transcript; by the time he returned to New York, his mother still hanging on. I’d seen and heard a New Lester series pilot that could credibly have played — prime time — on the Pro- Life Network.

For starters, he’d learned to slow down, to proceed apace through a given experience without easy reliance on everpopular on-off switches. He'd gotten far more selective about the company he kept, seeking out, for the first time in his known adult life, social interactions stressing soulwarming interpersonal comfort over thrash-trigger me-you tribulation. A good deal less insistent upon strapping each day to an emotional chopping block (as recalled, for inst, in that old chestnut of his, “I need to be in love!"), he'd begun to let his life embrace emotional motifs of greater duration and resiliency. And. as stuff like this fed back to his theoretic apparatus, even Lester's ideas (as stated) began to display an unexpected day-to-day congruity; no longer, it seemed, would he write an anti-racist wowser for the Village Voice in one breath and scream, "Fuckin’ niggers!” at Village Oldies the next. Lester-as-flux had had its thoroughly engaging run. and for this to give way to a “maturer” unpredictability was not the worst of possible outcomes.

Even the drastic reduction in Lester’s intake of physical poisons bore little trace of on-the-wagon-or-bust — y'know, as if any day, minute, second the tension of it all would cause him to snap right back with equal vengeance — particularly with its status as but part of a whole-body package that included both eating at regular intervals and a radical olfactory modification: He now took baths. (One afternoon in ’74 Nick and I met Lester at some ritzy midtown hotel. Though he’d been in the room all of an hour, the smell was like a dog had died there, and been left to rot, weeks or months before. Consequently, we vetoed his offer to call down for drinks on Creem’s tab, suggesting, to his consternation, that any dump of a bar would be more, uh, whatever. Many of his heterosex liaisons had foundered on the rocks of precisely this issue.)

In terms of cultural orientation, no longer was he monomanically enslaved to rock & roll (-or-perish). For virtually the first time since the sixties he didn’t need, burningly, brand new Big Beat LP’s in his mail slot each (and every) day; the state of the Art, wobbling on a multi-year terminal gimp, no longer served as his external psychic barometer, his armband of first-person pride (or shame); having finally produced Music of his own, to severe personal specifications (regardless of the giggles it inspired in jerks like me), he no longer needed to prove anything with it or through it. Crucially, though some would probably like to deny it. he no longer saw Rock’em-Sock'em as a viable metaphor for his (or any, kindred or otherwise) state of being, viewing it as the all too easy — and ultimately, revoltingly, unsatisfactory — crystallization of (mega-numerous) blank and scattered lives. Lester's break with rock-roll mythos as his be-all/end-all of etc., which I have no doubt (had he lived) he’d've sooner rather than later made official, was as profound, and profoundly moving, as his break with the Myth of Lester. As one committed jackass who’d made the same painful transition — goodbye, Rock-Automated Self! — I knew how tough a bond the chronically intermingled personal/cultural can be to crack (and my heart went right out to him).

It also warmed my cockles, considering his record in the mere civility dept., to see him relate (graciously) to his half- brother’s wife, this unaffectedly pretty 21- year-old rural Mexican the macho blusterer, a stuntman by trade, had recently acquired, maritally, while on location Down South. Though she knew pun near zero English, my first sight of her she was watching some random English-language crap, while hubby rested for a shoot of the Fall Guy series, on the tiny TV in her fussy suburban kitchen; materially cozy for the first time in her life, she seemed lonely, disoriented, far from home. Silent and solemn, she visibly stiffened — shyly? menially? — at the intrusion of Lester, my girlfriend Irene and me. only to be put at ease by Lester introducing us, without missing a beat, as, well, friends of the family. Like it mattered to him that she feel like family — and thus shared in all aspects of etc. — and for a moment the loneliness left her face; she smiled broadly, shook (or at least took) our hands, went back to her tube.

But what came off as so genuine when he was dealing with his family, his friends, kind of sputtered into the ether when he tried to branch it to the family of Man. Whenever he got to talkin' Hard Humanism, which had all the earmarks of being his preoccupation of (Rock- replacement) record, he’d make these broad, lecture-ish, relatively flavorless statements which often didn't wash.

Never wholly credible 'cause once again he seemed to be performing — without booze/etc. but surely with a script — he’d say thus & such about human courage and folly that not only had an artificial ring, it tended to run in direct opposition to what had clearly been his experience. Even his word choice sounded stilted, alien, not his own; when he spoke of "women" he could easily have been reading straight from a column in Cosmo.

A lot of which suggested a Lester so hellbent on being a good boy once and for all that to merely work overtime cleaning up his own act was scarcely sufficient; he had to render a transpersonal commentary that made his good intentions “universal,” even if the topical universality he’d taken an option on was simply the first he found it comfortable song-&-dancing a provisional connection to. There were moments when his bill of particulars made me uneasy, realizing that to intellectually challenge any of this would be like kicking mud on some kid’s newest/truest pastime, 'specially when it was one so socially redeeming, so non- self-destructive. one which, for all intents and purposes, I basically shared with him anyway. What really counted was the miracle of Rock Tough Guy #1, after 15 years of rocknroll plug-in and little else, during which he'd come to thread that needle upside down (and asleep), to the point (even) of smugness, flipness, pomposity, out on a goddam limb over something else: a neophyte at last! (I could dig it.)

Anyway, finally, on the last night of Lester's stay — which worked out as our last time together, period — we did something we’d previously never found the appropriate nexus for: trading rants (in earnest) with blank tapes a-rolling.

For something like five-six hours we went apeshit re such topics as: the sellouts & prejudices of mutual colleagues; novels and novelists; New York as (quite possibly) the coldest outpost on Emotional Earth; the usual standard rockish garbidge (plus some un- and some non-). We also hit on shrinks-we- have-known, with Lester's rap on this rooty-toot of a subject being the single one, from the four-and-a-half hours I’ve so far transcribed, which most tellingly nutshells the excruciating self- examination he had to've undertaken — and undergone — just to be sitting around discoursing as fluidly as he was, to’ve transcended whatever the fuck en route thereto:

“Like I went to a psychoanalyst, one in New York and one in Detroit, for a total of, I dunno, three-and-a-half years. I finally concluded, I mean yeah I’m insane, I’ve got my problems, my sicknesses are fucking me, yeah, I’m sure they both probably helped me, y’know, I know the last guy in New York, it's like everybody I know was totally appalled by my drinking and drugging, well like you, right, and everybody else had the same reaction, y’know, except my shrink. He’d say, ‘No, that's alright.’ I went out to this, he had a country retreat, a whole bunch of us would go out there on weekends. And the first time I went there like I got drunk on Friday night, and Saturday morning I got up and washed down a bottle of Romilar with a bottle of beer while sitting on a slick rock by the stream. I got this great idea for something I wanted to write, I stood up on the rock in boots like these and whoosh, went like that and smashed, see it, the scar on my nose? That's how I got it, smashed my face open.

“And he thought my druggin' and drinkin' was great, y'know? He said, in fact he kind of told me I'd be not as great of a writer if I gave all this stuff up. And I said, 'Yeah, but look at all these people, they rot away, they end up like self- parodies like Kerouac and Burroughs and all that sort of shit.' And he said. 'No. no, not everybody's like that.' I said, How could I someday be 55 years old and have to take a handful of speed to sit down at the typewriter?' Well he said, 'People do it. heh heh heh!' Well both my shrinks, especially this guy, they had real great humanist compassion and empathy and all that, but I know what both of 'em did, and in the long run in essence they were no good for me, because they were getting off on me being there. It’s like they’re so bored, one housewife alter another, 'I don’t love my husband, I don't know why.’ Then they get someone like you or I that's actually interesting, that has ideas, and so it's fun time for 'em. I mean if I hadda follow this guy’s advice I’d be dead, uh, pretty soon.”

Hmm: one effing eery end-of-quote as, alas, all is now dust — reactively acquired caution or no. Possibly possibly possibly, any tonnage of prudence would inevitably have proven insufficient for the autopilot courses he was still, evidently, all too capable of flying. Or, reversing horses and carts, maybe his tortured shell was already jus’ too beat-to-shit, with even a radical lessening in his scale of abuse being too little — archetypally — too late. And then there’s this pharmacological biz about purified cells succumbing to doses they’d have been more than up for when poison was all they knew. (And can we ignore the Wrath of Influenza?)

Even if, to some bitter-enders, his death remains as shrouded in formal “mystery” as those of Eric Dolphy and Warren G. Harding, all-of-the-above can't help but provide a not-unlikely profile of how Lester came to die. Throw in a few more mainline Causalities (cultural: rock-roll glut, esp. coupled w/ too literal an intoxication with Kerouac, Celine, et al; primalpsychological: a childhood more woeful than most, his Jehovah's Witness mom — pushing 50 when she had him — mind-setting, almost singlehandedly. a chronic “inability to cope"; geographic: the Apple, even when it wasn't absolute Edge Central, affording him. given his makeup, scant opportunity for inner peace) and you'd easily have an explanation that 'd hold up in a court of his cronies/cohorts/camp followers.

But if Lester was the pawn, victim, and (indeed) fellow traveler of such easy- Aristotelian a-implies-b, he was also, in those last fitful months, a scatterer of all such shit to the winds, a man who showed his true destiny muscle by throwing all the elements out of on-the-head mythopoetic sync just when they threatened, conspiratorily, to reduce him to merely another Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Mr. Kerouac. Screamingly, courageously, he committed himself, as wholly (really) as possible, to a counter-causal gameplan which even if flawed — and accidents, y’know, happen — did actually manage to defuse (at least where I live & breathe) the mythic oompah of any time-delayed rat-trap he may subsequently (or previously) have fallen in. If there's anything almost pleasing about the timing, the anti-drama, of Lester's death, it's the monumental Mythic Disjuncture factors he'd set in motion were thereby — implicitly, explicitly — to forever effect.

LESTER’S (WRITERLY) LEGACY — “One of rock’s most colorful characters, Bangs made his reputation as a pugnacious, participatory journalist who was not above picking fights with rock stars in pursuit of a good interview." So wrote one voice of prevailing wisdom, Patrick Goldstein, in the May 9/82 L.A. Times; nothing — latter part — could be farther from the truth. If Lester (the writer) more than once battled Lou Reed into (and beyond) the wee hours of etc., it was not to get a story, it was to live a story: to encounter all the rock-related being his writerly credentials (as a wedge) were able to afford him (as a person)'. Nor was he in any way enthralled by the sickening spectacle of stars being stars; artists, maybe, but stars, fug 'em. When he as mere citizen found himself face-to-face with the pose, pretense, and professional guardedness of such gaudy, extraneous creatures, Lester could not (for the life of him) deal with such crap but to cut right through and speak, directly, to the mere citizen in them, or (failing that) force the situation into functional self-destruct — before the fact of anything so dispassionate as actually “writing it up."

That his eventual write-ups tended to display utter contempt for the entire food chain of music-corporate life, often biting, intentionally, a grimy hand that could not’ve been more willing — his mighty Credentials & all — to feed him, heck, fatten him, was but half the take-no-shit of Lester's essential statement as a writer de rock; forcefeeding the stuff, his stuff, the stuff-as-writ, to the only marginally less corporate (or grimy) running dogs of rockwrite publishing was at least as pugnacious a gesture of this-is-what-I-am/this-is-what-I-do/take-it-or-be-fucked. Since the extent of his success in shoving it down so many otherwise unyielding editorial throats may have had less to do with his willful intent than theirs — camouflage, for inst, for their being life-deep in major-label record company pockets — its significance at this juncture is, at most, merely ironic; the reciprocal influence, in any event, of his ease at getting published upon subsequent moments of raw critical-expressive spew was procedurally nil. In fact, what may most enduringly matter about Lester's approach to his chosen profession, way ahead of dandy journalistic touchstones — "courage," “integrity,” “pride in craft" — that he ate for breakfast like so much broken glass (but which, really, you can still get from Nat Hentoff and Howard Cosell), is the “anti-professional," forcibly non-dehumanized square-one struggle he by design submitted to — and could not. with any kernel of his humanity, avoid - in order to pump out critical prose of any scale of note. (Pugnacity with form; with ritual creative context; even — especially — with roleplaying writerly/critical self.)

That he was ofttimes a great writer/critic, so-called, was but icing on the cake. That scant few others, on the hottest days of their lives, have even approached him — or particularly cared to, considering the requisite gravity and passion of the chore he’d set — probably says as much about their investment in lesser quals of cake as it does about the relative inadequacy of their writerly follow-through. Rockwriting is, and nearly always has been, the trade of simps, wimps, displaced machos, brats and saps; of, in Lester's own words, “ass-kissers of the ruling class”; of fuddy-duddy archivists with cobwebs on their specs; of pathetic idealizers of a lost youth no one has ever (even approximately) experienced or possessed; of sycophantic apologists for chi-chi trends, musical and extramusical alike, without which (so they've always claimed) “rock is dead”; of binary yes/no cheeses with the cognitive wherewithal of vinyl, shrinkwrap, the physical column- inch. Rockwritin' Lester, like anyone else in the trade, was certainly each of these things from time to time, though (probably) none of 'em, singly or in tandem, for longer than the odd off review. Sadly, though his untradelike comportment surely tantalized mere tradefolk while he lived — at least in terms of Style — and even begat a not-half-bad (early-’70s) clone in “Metal Mike" Saunders, his actual abiding sway among such clowns, beyond the occasional liftable riff, was — as it continues to be — infinitesimal.

Finally: the twin silly questions (1) where a still-living Lester might hypothetically've taken it (i.e., beyond the rockwrite fishpond) and (2) what such imaginary newstuff could/would conceivably’ve meant to his basic audience. Second one first. Okay, that Lester's rockstuff generally read so hot as personal testimony is one thing; for it to have been perceived by so many as being eminently, genuinely about something — something rather specific, in fact something "rear’ — is something else. When you get down to it, the gospel of Lester's radical about-ness rested largely on a big hunk of readerly illusion, the illusion of a functional one-on-one between the guy’s fertile imaginings and the psychic infrastructure of rock & roll as dealt; there could be harsh discordance, of course, but as long as a firm relationship could (for whatever readerly vested interest) be consistently inferred between Lester’s mindgames and rock’s g-g-games per se, you at least had the stamp of a viable — if totally simulated — one-on-one. But, really/truly, while Lester’s psychic playground may surely have been one drastically twisted maze, its actual correspondence (sympathetic, hostile, whatever) to rock's own labyrinth, one so airtight and dank as to make his seem like wide open etc., was far too often naught but a matter of readerly convenience. Everyone loves a cipher, a living/ breathing anagram or two. even some — hey — with flaws more rampant than Lester’s, but for the man’s writerly service to’ve been gauged (almost solely) vis-a-vis his reliability as a stand-in cipher-of- x, y’know for readerfolk too lame — or lazy — to suss out x themselves, is the real tragedy of the trip, particularly when the first-&-final glue of most folks’ attachment to his writing was never much more than their own desperate attachment to an x they could, and should, have been accessing more independently (and less desperately) to begin with.

So, anyway, here's the rub. Had Lester lived long enough to both sever his own desperate rock connection — officially, in sheets read by his fuckheaded fans, simply by writing other stuff — and, furthermore, to back it up with an equally official rejection of the Fount of Neurosis from which he'd sung its tune (and they'd listened), it ain't really much of a longshot to imagine him losing a huge percent of the fuckheads — certainly the most gung-ho among 'em — in, well, no time flat. And, c’mon, how much of an immediate, uh, new audience was he likely to yank in writing up (as he insisted he would) such transcendently pivotal mere-humanistic trifles as the dearth of love (as we know it) in scene X or Y . . . how this set of new-age culture jerks uses that set of new-age culture jerks as props in regards to bluh . . . New York editors who pull rank (pshaw!) along collegiate lines [a hard-hitting exposé] . . . or, I dunno, something about shams and follies in clothes and/or grooming?

Plus, well, though, um — (even if) — then again: Aside from loss of ad hominem authority due to the fickle scumbait nature of the pop-world Beast, aside from the fact that many of his generic partisans would prob'ly now be targeted, topically and even personally, in scathing printed-page rants, aside from the limited run such goulash (Sensitive Ties His Laces, w/ Brass Knucks & Footnotes) has ever had — hey — can ever/will ever have . . . aside, aside, aside — the most glaring fact fact is how few times, as of his death, he'd as yet even aspired to the heights (or whats) or non- rock journalism. Four-five-six, some number like that, in the Voice and wherever else, all of ’em still pretty much rockwriterly appendices to the rockwrite “adventure," meaning he had a good ways to go before he'd’ve got the wings/chops/ legs for a total-pulp plunge (or at least a regular shift) at full oldtime capacity (but with newtime thrust and content). Which would’ve been no fall from grace no matter how you scope it — give the boy time (for fuck sake) to stumble and bumble and get it right — but how would any possible Lester have dealt with a (previously amenable) shithook book co. like Delilah telling him not now, sonny when he handed ’em a ream of copy on (let’s imagine) friends who’re fuckups? Personal persona limelight Lester had learned to live without — but writeperson limelight? (It would not’ve been easy.)

Okay, he's dead. All this brand new grief and hardship never befell him; never will. But words on pages remain: What is their lot? Lester's standard fare was so paradigmatically “of the moment" that he was the rockmag shootist. But books of the stuff? Nah; it’s kind of nebulous how even his best mag outings will wear when inevitably (??) anthologized. For someone so public in his orientation, both as input and output, he was — don't laugh or even smirk — one of rock’s more precious and fragile "private moments.” Private moments you can always document — coercively, of course — but try and play ’em back and. well . . . we'll all see, I reckon.

LESTER LEAPS IN — Y’all know all by now how Lester leapt out of New York; lemme just finish with how he leapt in. His first night in town, just a visit, fall "72, he stayed with me and my girlfriend Roni, West Village, 104 Perry St., apt. 4. Arriving semi-direct from JFK, he split pretty quick for the nearest grocer, returning with three six-packs of Colt 45. What he did for the next day and a half — all he did — was wade through 18 big ones, half quarts, as follows: start can, drink fast, get tired; fall out, dropping remainder; awaken following can’s impact with floor; stagger to fridge for fresh one; repeat cycle. What he mumbled or muttered during any of the 18 pre-fallout phases I simply do not recall.

So like hey y’know wo hey hey wo-wo hey, OLD SPORT: love ya, hope I didn’t cramp yer style, g’bye.

--Richard Meltzer, “Lester Bangs Recollected in Tranquility”  Dec. 6, 1984

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #207: Beyond a Shadow...

May, 1981

“After countless centuries HE LIVES AGAIN! THE SHADOW LORD COMETH!”

He cometh riding upon a tornado like its a mighty sand worm. What a guy, this Shadow Lord.

Honestly seeing the Avengers tumbling about in a tornado cracks me up every time. Especially Wonder Man who looks nonchalant about it aside from being ass over head.

So I don’t think we’ve really talked about it but this period of Avengers is kind of between main writers.

Since issue 200 and its four writers, we’ve had David Michelinie and Roger Stern on the two-part adaptation of that Ultron novel, David Michelinie for that weird story with the Crawlers in the sewers; Jim Shooter, David Michelinie, and Bob Budiansky for the Yellow Claw two-parter, Bill Mantlo for the everything is on fire story and now Bob Budiansky and Danny Fingeroth for this issue and the next. We start getting a consistent writer again starting in #211.

I wonder what was going on behind the scenes around this time.

Anyway, onward.

So we start the issue with who I assume is the Shadow Lord. But he’s not riding a tornado, like Pecos Bill. He’s standing on an invisible ocean structure of some kind. Apparently a mysterious invisible ocean structure of some kind that hasn’t been seen for almost two millennia.

And yet, someone has kindly painted the title of the issue in English on the mysterious invisible ocean structure of some kind.

Some guy, maybe the Shadow Lord: “The dreaded time has at last arrived, the moment I prayed would never come... the moment I knew would surely come. He is soon to return, and only the power entrusted to me is capable of stopping him. And even that power may not prove sufficient.”

“With every passing second, my city and myself pass ever more fully into the Earth’s plane of existence. Would that the cause of my return here from the barren vastnesses of the Shadow World was as joyous as the glow of this new day’s sun.”

“But the grim responsibility of an entire race is my unwelcome inheritance. It is a duty I cannot shirk. Alas, I must take what comfort I can in knowing that no matter what the result of the coming debacle, I will at least be free to rejoin Ayshera, she whom my heart holds most dear... though whether our reunion will be in celebration of victory -- or in darkest mourning for the ashes of this planet -- none willy truly know until the final battle.”

Some Guy sure is helpfully monologuing his entire life story here. And even so he manages to be vague, inside his own mind, about the nature of the threat he faces. Way to preserve the mystery, Guy.

Also, he’s from the Shadow World so he may be a Yugioh.

Anyway, as one might expect, a city appearing in the middle of the ocean out of nowhere is of alarm so US aircraft carrier Poseidon shows up and starts yelling at Some Guy.

Some Guy decides that they sound mad but he doesn’t have time for lengthy explanations so instead he gestures and the winds and waves start whipping up.

Welp! Seems like the US Poseidon is going on an Adventure!

Meanwhile, Mt. Vesuvius!

Yup. Its that kind of story, the kind partially set at Vesuvius.

Some archeologists are digging in the foothills of the mountain in what has been a fruitless several weeks of archeology but one of the archeologists finds a hand shaped object which may be a hand.

They mistake it for a statue at first but realize its actually a perfectly preserved lava mummified corpse.

And while they’re busy congratulating each other about how wealthy and famous this discovery will make them, they fail to notice the hand moving its finger shaped fingers.

And elsewhere again, the best damn thing.

A cowboy shouts “SLAP LEATHER, YA GALOOT!” and then gets shot by a cannon.

This isn’t the Wild West of the America, this is a spaghetti western film set and the director is very upset at Black Bart’s shitty death acting. How hard is it to get hit by a cannon and then to fall down and pretend to die like you just got hit by a cannon?

You wouldn’t think there’s a wrong way to get shot by a cannon but you’d be wrong.

Simon Williams, Wonder Man: “I’m sorry, Mr. Bertolini. It’s just that, being Wonder Man, it’s hard for me to pretend those cannonballs are hurting me when I can hardly feel them.”

Mr. Bertolini: “True, signore Wonder Man, but I hired you because I thought you could-a act!”

Oh yeah, Mr. Bertolini talks like Mario. So that’s another tally for Marvel’s respect of other countries and cultures.

Aside from this being the seventh take on a ‘guy gets hit by a cannonball, beefs it’ scene, cannonballs are expensive. The cannonball that bounced off Wonder Man’s midsection looks fine but maybe you can’t just reuse them.

The filming breaks for lunch and Wonder Man wanders over to where his moral support is.

His moral support, of course, being Beast.

And he is moral supporting but he’s also multitasking with some women because even in Italy, women are just fascinated by blue fur. Furries are universal.

Wonder Man doesn’t feel supported though and this lousy spaghetti western film is a good opportunity for him.

If you remember, the last project we saw him get was as a cheetah print leotard wearing muscle man on a kids show and he got fired for making the host Uncle Elmer look ridiculous.

(Revealed to Simon’s chagrin in #194, lost to mishap in #201)

Being in an actual movie, even a spaghetti western, is the boost his career needs.

(I think we need to confront the actual possibility that Wonder Man is not a very good actor. But he might be a good stunt man if he can learn to act like things hurt)

Wonder Man’s publicist Rachel Palmer shows up as well and wow. Rachel has never appeared before and given the fillery nature of these chaotic no consistent writer times may not appear beyond this story. But you instantly get the sense of their working relationship.

And they have good banter too.

Wonder Man: “Wait. There she is -- Rachel Palmer -- the apple of my eye, the light of my life, the bane of my existence!”

Rachel: “If you delivered your lines that well in front of the cameras, Simon, you might actually keep this job -- which’ll make it just a little easier to hype you as a star back in the States.”

Wonder Man: “Your encouraging words are a constant source of inspiration, Rachel. But I’d appreciate it if you’d confine them to your press releases.”

Rachel: “You’ve got me all wrong, Simon. I hope this whole thing turns out well for you. Really.”

Wonder Man: “And for yourself. After all, if you make me a big name, you can ride along on my coat-tails and become a media hotshot -- instead of being stuck as a flak for Grade D Westerns.”

Rachel: “No, Simon. I--”

Wonder Man: “Forget it, lady. I’m a big boy. I know that all’s fair in love -- and show biz.”

And then he walks off towards his trailer, satisfied at getting the last word with someone whose job it is to make him look good. Beast says that he thinks Wonder Man was too hard on her and that Rachel probably digs Wonder Man.

Wonder Man: “Maybe you’re right. But I still can’t get over feeling that Rachel’s motivated by sheer self-interest and everything else places a distant second.”

(I’m pretty sure she does dig Wonder Man because unbeknowst to Wonder Man and Beast, she follows them to the trailer, wanting to convince Wonder Man that she’s not as self-serving as he thinks and also to invite him to a romantic dinner)

Anyway, Wonder Man’s social life isn’t important. At all. And not right now. Because when he and Beast go into Wonder Man’s trailer and discover the Avengers’ emergency signal briefcase is BEEP BEEPing.

It’s Cap and there’s an emergency situation that demands immediate investigation.

A brand new island city has just popped up in the middle of the Mediterranean slash off the coast of Majorca from out of nowhere and the government wants the Avengers to investigate.

Presumably the US government.

Because if I know anything about mysterious island cities appearing from nowhere - and I know exactly one thing - by jingo, they start wars!

Beast is enjoying his vacation so asks why the US Sixth Fleet doesn’t handle it instead. They’re actually paid to do things while on an ocean. But Iron Man just says that the fleet has had problems.

And with a little reading comprehension we can guess what problems. Because we’ve seen it. Its not a mystery.

Iron Man has a Stark plane sent to pick Beast and Wonder Man up and fly them to Majorca. Or somewhere thereabouts. I don’t know if Majorca has or had an airport.

Wonder Man bemoans that he’ll never be a movie star if he keeps leaving the set to go have exciting comic book superhero adventures.

Which is a little like complaining about being too handsome. Ya jerk.

And remember how Rachel Palmer was peeping on them? No? Scroll up a little and look at the above panels again. Back? And remember how Rachel Palmer was peeping on them?

Her media senses are tingling and telling her that she should definitely go check out the city that appeared in the middle of the ocean. She’s much intrepid for not a reporter.

Meanwhile, some slice of life filler fluff that doesn’t matter but that I find delightful.

And if this liveblog isn’t about sharing things that I find delightful then what is it about? Exhaustively recounting plots to comic books from decades ago? That’s just a side benefit!

The call to action back at Avengers Mansion comes right when Wanda is having Vision move a couch.

Vision: “Wanda, while it may be true that I am capable of moving this couch about all day, it seems a gross misuse of my android abilities to do so.”

Wanda: “Maybe if we just move those shelves then you just put it down there. We’re Avengers, not interior decorators.

This is the content I eagerly crave.

So back in not America, Beast and Wonder Man complain about the plane ride but passing over the ocean they see what trouble the Sixth Fleet was having.

Some Guy, Possibly Shadow Lord managed to strand the Poseidon aircraft carrier fully on a deserted island.

And I was wrong about the plane taking them to Majorca. Its apparently taking them to Poseidon because it lands on the ship’s airstrip so the two Avengers can consult the stranded sailors about what the heck is going on.

Captain Paul Garrison tells them that they were investigating the mysterious new island/city (not mentioning that they were also yelling at it) when a tidal wave suddenly swelled up and carried the Poseidon several miles and left it on this island.

And apparently the same thing happened to any other plane and ship that attempted to approach the island. Thwarted by winds and waves.

Damn you, nature!

Anyway, its all rather mysterious but Wonder Man figures

“Well, we were sent here to investigate. So... let’s investigate.”

And Wonder Man rockets off to investigate the city. While giving Beast a piggyback ride.

Which. Amazing image. Bless this issue for its bounty of amazing images.

Bear in mind that the captain said that the aircraft carrier was carried several miles. Wonder Man’s belt rockets have impressive duration considering he can’t be carrying much fuel on his person.

When they reach the city, they find a localized hurricane hovering right above it. But Wonder Man just flies down through the eye of the storm to get to the city.

Some Guy Shadow Lord is surprised because he had been expecting big boats and planes. Not a guy with rocket pants and a blue gorilla riding on his back.

But he’s able to shoo them away just as easily as any big thing, with a wave of his hand summoning a wind that carries Wonder Man and passenger Beast away from the city.

Meanwhile, Rachel Palmer is also here. She spent all her money renting a plane and then a boat but she’s going to get to that mysterious city and get an exclusive inside story!

So is she a journalist? Or what? She’s Lois Laneing but as far as we’ve heard her job is to convince people they want to see Wonder Man do stuff in movies.

Wonder Man spots her and tries to fly to her rescue but two water spouts spurt up to ruin this rescue plan.

The first one launches Rachel’s boat into the air and smashes it to pieces. The second blasts Wonder Man out of the sky preventing him from saving Rachel from falling to her death.

But unseen by either of the Avengers, a strong breeze safely lowers Rachel to the ground of the city.

Because what is an Avengers comic without men developing weird and intense feelings for a nearby woman.

Some Guy: “How beautiful she is, how like my own Ayshera. And, also like Ayshera, she is courageous... and more than a little headstrong.”

Cool. I hope this doesn’t get weird. Or that we’re not asked to sympathize with a guy whose only ‘sympathetic’ trait is a possessive attraction to a woman. Looking at you, Living Laser. And, I guess, Graviton.

Anyway, Wonder Man doesn’t see Rachel getting rescued by an airbender so he works himself into a lather.

Wonder Man: “That sinks it! It’s one thing to attack naval ships and planes... one thing to attack Avengers... But when he kills an innocent woman who could do him no harm -- that guy’s gonna answer to WONDER MAN!”

Honestly, I think you’re selling Rachel short. I’m sure she could do harm if she put her mind to it.  Like, what if she covered him in bees. That would suck.

Anyway, Wonder Man rages through the city’s protective winds and then gets SAFUUSH!’d between two walls of solid water.

He’s left sputtering and disoriented in the ocean. At least until some hooks hook down from the Quinjet, hook Wonder Man, and then hook him up into the ship.

I didn’t know that the Quinjet had hooks for grabbing people out of the ocean but I am thrilled.

Ideally, the Avengers would use their newfound ability to vaudeville hook people into orbit more often. I can think of so many instances where it would be useful, or at least hilarious.

Anyway, Wonder Man apprises the other Avengers into the situation.

Meanwhile, not dead Rachel Palmer wakes up and finds the Shadow Lord brood slouching in a chair and watching her while she was unconscious.

She is alarmed that he’s just sitting there staring but he basically goes ‘DON’T WORRY I READ YOUR MIND TO LEARN YOUR NAME AND LANGUAGE’ and then decides to explain his entire backstory.

Shadow Lord: “The city in which we stand is the Shadow Realm and I... I am called the Shadow Lord!”

DAMMIT I KNEW HE WAS A YUGIOH!

Anyway.

THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO! Give or take! An ancient tribe decided to move to an island to isolate themselves from “primitive, superstitious neighbors who feared [their] more advanced society.”

Off to a good start with this guy.

Free of the mundane concerns of living in a world that hated and feared them, they were able to peacefully ALL BECOME WIZARDS WHO COULD CONTROL THE FORCES OF NATURE.

Maybe the X-Men are onto something.

So the Shadow Lord’s people learned to control, winds, waves, earth, and maybe fire so what I’m saying is that it was an entire island of Avatars.

Boom, sequel idea. Give me millions of dollars, Nickelodeon.

“Though veiled in mystery, rumors of our existence spread throughout the world. We were feared and shunned by the other peoples of the Earth -- which allowed us to continue our studies undisturbed.”

“Those who mistrusted anything they could not comprehend... they called us witches and sorcerers. Those who knew and understood us called us... the Earth Lords!”

“For centuries our sole purposes were to augment our knowledge of the Earth’s forces and to maintain the natural balance between these forces. Otherwise, we had no interest in the day-to-day affairs of the outside world.”

Maybe I was wrong about them being Yugioh. Maybe they’re the Time Lords from the Doctor Who.

Anyway, the Earth Lords were happy sitting on their island being Avatars but over the eons they sensed a disturbance in the Force, for I must reference all the things.

"Over the eons, we became aware of a seemingly immortal, human force of awesome destruction, one who could potentially plunge mankind into an irreversible slide to its doom.”

“Singlehandedly he could destroy towns. With an army beside him -- countries. Time and again, he did. It was when he finally joined the legions of Rome at the peak of the Empire’s power... that we first feared the balance of nature was in danger of being destroyed. Rome could forever take over the world.”

The Earth Lords tried on several occasions to destroy this menace. We don’t get to know what constituted these efforts and that’s disappointing because of what the final successful attempt was.

By 79 AD, they knew he was on the slopes of Mt. Vesuvius so they caused it to erupt, just to bury this one guy under hundreds of tons of rock and ash and lava.

Mission accomplished.

Except for the little thing where the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius also wiped out Pompeii and Herculaneum and other cities people know significantly less about, killing over 20,000 people.

As things go, that’s pretty dire amount of incidental deaths to kill one person. And the Earth Lords realize that this was a pretty major fuck up.

So they decided that they couldn’t be trusted with their powers and that they would disperse into the outside world to live and die as people do and have their powers dissipate over the years.

But before they did that, they discovered that the seemingly immortal guy they hit in the face with a volcano was somehow still alive somehow. Just trapped. Under hundreds of tons of rock and ash and lava that cooled into rock.

They killed thousands and didn’t even permanently kill the dude they were trying to kill? That’s pretty incompetent. They really can’t be trusted with their power.

Since he eventually might get out and resume being a dick, the Earth Lords drew lots and chose one of their number, the Some Guy later known as the Shadow Lord from the Shadow Realm, to forever watch over the city alone and await the day that the immortal guy would again walk the land.

And to help him solo the dude that took an entire city of people and a volcano to deal with, the Earth Lords concentrated all of their powers into this one Shadow Lord guy and taught him how to send himself and the city into a twilight plane of nothingness which is back to being called the Shadow World.

So this might also be Twilight Princess.

For two thousand years the Shadow Lord in the Shadow Realm in the Shadow World observed Earth and waited. And now, it seems that the seemingly immortal dude is back.

Rachel: “But I don’t understand. How can one man threaten a whole world -- and live for thousands of years in solid rock?”

Shadow Lord: “This is no mere man, my dear... this is the Berserker!”

And speak of the devil and we scene transition to him because we scene transition to Pompeii.

The lava mummified human figure that seemed to move before has stopped beating about with finger twitches and has gotten up to rampage around and backhand archeologists.

Don’t feel bad though. They were in it for the money and fame, those fiends.

Back at the city of Shadow Realm, the Avengers suddenly show up as a full team and basically enter swinging. Iron Man even blasts a wall for no reason.

Rachel tries to tell the Avengers that Shadow Lord means no harm but the Avengers can’t hear her over the sounds of Wonder Man loudly reassuring Rachel that they’re here to rescue her.

Iron Man exploding a wall for no reason probably also didn’t help.

So Rachel instead tries to tell Shadow Lord that the Avengers are a force for good. While he can hear her, he chooses to ignore her.

Using his powers of being the Avatar, he tries to pull a rocks fall but nobody dies. Rocks falling is something the Avengers deal with panache and also lasers and punches.

Some panache. Beast’s skycycle gets hit by a rock and he ends up leaping onto one of the spires of the city to avoid crash. And then, like a cat who climbs a tree except its a building in this context, Beast has a hard time figuring out how to get down from there.

While the larger Avengers punch and laser boulders and jump onto spires, Wasp just flies right in and shoots Shadow Lord in the eyebrow.

Amazing. Another good use of Wasp powers, being able to get in close while the opponent thinks the team is distracted at a distance.

Shadow Lord is none too pleased to be shot in the eyebrow by a tiny insect-sized flying woman and decides that a particularly karmic punishment is required.

Shadow Lord: “An insect-sized flyling woman! What sorcery is this? But if an insect you be, then it is only fitting I ensnare you in a cocoon of living wind... a cocoon which will grow and envelop your so-called fellow Avengers!”

And as Rachel still pleads with Shadow Lord to knock it off, he summons a giant tornado that suck in all of the Avengers (save Beast stuck up on his spire).

Shadow Lord even has the tornado carry him along, the better to continue mocking the Avengers as he carries them to their doom.

Shadow Lord: “You hopeless children! Did you actually think to defeat me, to deter me from my purpose? I who who command the earth and wind themselves to do my bidding?”

Yeah, dude. Definitely not sounding like a supervillain now. Cannot fathom why the Avengers are assuming you are one.

Iron Man manages to escape the tornado by firing his boot-jets at maximum, sending him flying free with a SHA-BOOSH! but also carrying him far away because momentum.

Shadow Lord then creates a whirlpool in the ocean and has his tornado carry the Avengers towards it. The whirlpool goes to the bottom of the ocean. Which then cracks open to reveal bubbling magma.

That’s right. The Shadow Lord is going to shoot them out of a tornado, into a whirlpool and into magma beneath the ocean floor.

Its. At least more precise than hitting them with a volcano, I’ll give him that. Definitely feels like overkill to go from rocks to tornado-whirlpool-magma execution but its definitely more precise.

Somewhat more precise.

Because when Iron Man manages to slow himself down to turn back he notices that a yacht is being swamped by the waves Shadow Lord is churning up.

And because of heroism, he takes the time to scoop the yacht out of the ocean and rest it safely on an island.

Geez. There’s a lot of boats being beached in this story.

Shadow Lord actually sees this. And a thought starts penetrating his thick skull that maybe he should have listened to Rachel.

Shadow Lord: “The armored one paused in his attack on me to save those people -- innocent people... which is more than we were able to do 2,000 years ago. Perhaps, as Rachel says, they are not agents of evil...”

He decides that he’ll stop throwing them out of a tornado into a whirlpool into magma but he doesn’t get the chance to put that train of thought on the tracks.

Beast waves Iron Man over. From his perch on the spire he’s noticed that the building he’s on is cracking from the strain of all the power Shadow Lord is throwing around even though he’s not been throwing it at that building.

So Beast deduces that the city is key to Shadow Lord’s power in some way and should have the shit beaten out of it.

And as Iron Man starts punching some wall, Shadow Lord doubles over in pain and the tornado he was about to dissipate dissipates.

The other Avengers get free and decide hey, follow the leader.

Jocasta: “The battle has truly just begun. Malevolent power such as this must not be allowed to exist. We must follow Iron Man’s lead and destroy the city -- totally!”

So unnoticed by the Avengers as they level the city into a pile of rubble, Shadow Lord staggers and swoons at Rachel’s feet.

But even dying, he still has some exposition bottled up.

To be fair, he’s been isolated for 2,000 years with no one to talk to.

He explains that the powers of an entire population of Avatars was way too great to be contained in one squishy mortal body so the powers were instead imbued in the city itself.

And with the city destroyed, it can no longer serve as a source of power and also can’t keep him alive anymore.

He’s honestly not too broken up over it. Since the Avengers are valiant and worthy, they can pick up his unfinished business while he goes and dies and gets to reunite with his girlfriend who died sometime during those 2,000 years.

Shadow Lord: “But please understand... I am as much to blame for today’s events as anyone... I bear you no malice... we misjudged each other. I have done my best... no more can be expected of a man... perhaps you will succeed... where I have failed. So do not mourn my passing... for me, death is but the long-awaited door that opens to my beloved... Ayshera.”

And the Avengers realize belatedly ‘we done goofed.’

“A sad -- and confused -- group of heroes grimly watches the passing of the Shadow Lord... and only then does the cruel truth reveal itself to them: what they had thought to be one of their greatest triumphs is instead... one of their most bitter defeats.”

Oh, and as I expect they’ll soon find out, the Berserker has been kicking the Italian army’s ass near Pompeii so that’s probably escalating into a bit of a situation and they just accidentally killed the guy who could have helped with that. Although in fairness, he deliberately ignored Rachel when she told him that the Avengers were heroes.

Like he said, he fucked up too.

Still, while its a bit of a Marvel tradition to have mighty misunderstanding fights, I don’t think they tend to result in people dying. One for the history books.

Next time: the Berserker.

Follow @essential-avengers​. Also like and reblog. And send me Avengers triumphs that are way more impressive than beating up a city.

#Avengers #Essential Avengers #Wonder Man #Beast #SHADOW LORD #essential marvel liveblogging #Iron Man #Wasp #Captain America #Jocasta #Vision #Scarlet Witch #huh its been a while since they've gotten to do much #from the volcano thing and the tornado whirlpool depths of the earth thing #i think that the Earth Lords just had no grasp on subtlety at all #go big or go big

[twinsarekeepers]

Fic: The Chase Chronicles: Book One

Summary: Annabeth Chase has only ever known Camp Half-Blood. That’s not exactly true, but that’s what it feels like. She wants a way out. And when Percy Jackson stumbles into her home, she knows that’s it. But, with rumors of an impeding war between the gods brewing and her own destiny written, Annabeth is in for more than a simple adventure.

Chapter 16

I'M NOT GOOD AT HEART-TO-HEARTS, AM I?

Ares was leaning against his bike when we finally reached the diner again, arms crossed and a smirk plastered across his brutish face. "Well, well. You didn't get yourself killed," he looked at me directly as he said it and I tensed, feeling the same sensation of muteness and unfeeling settling over me.

When I looked over at Grover and didn't see him staring back, I knew I was alone this time.

"You knew it was a trap!" Percy made to march over to the war god, but Grover discreetly caught his arm and stopped him.

"Bet that crippled blacksmith was surprised when he netted a couple of stupid kids," Ares grinned largely. "You looked good on TV," he gave me and Percy a wink.

"You're a jerk," Percy scoffed and threw the shield toward him.

My breath snagged in my chest and Grover's grip on Percy's arm tightened.

Ares didn't turn Percy into a pile of ash in front of us though. Instead, he transformed his shield into a vest and hung it over his shoulders with a light chuckle. "See that truck over there?" He nodded towards a semi trailer across the street. "That's your ride. Take you straight to L.A., with one stop in Vegas.

"You're kidding," Percy glared up at Ares.

"Free ride west, punk," Ares opened the latch with a snap. "Stop complaining. And here's a little something for doing the job." He tossed a blue backpack to Percy.

Percy opened it to inspect the contents before looking back at Ares. "I don't want your lousy–"

"Thank you, Lord Ares," Grover jumped in and gave Percy a look of warning with his eyes: another insult and there was a chance that we wouldn't need that ride to the Underworld. "Thanks a lot."

Percy clenched his jaw, but swung the backpack onto his shoulders anyway.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the waitress that had served us and the cook in the diner window discussing something before the cook shot a photo of the four of us standing in the parking lot.

Crap.

Read the rest on AO3 or FanFiction.Net.

#percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #pjo fanfic #mine #annabeth chase #percy jackson #grover underwoord #luke castellan #chiron #silena beauregard #annabeth and percy and grover #annabeth and luke and thalia #annabeth and chiron #annabeth and silena #percabeth #the chase chronicles #tcc

[mor-beck-more-problems]

An In-Spectre Calls || Cassie and Morgan

Set before the potw. Morgan meets Cassie for the first time and asks for some slightly spooky help. 

There was something pathetic about drifting through Eye of Newt alone. Around Morgan teenage witches squealed over crystal balls and bundles of sage, handmade fliers for a Tarot Tuesday covered the table, taper candles of every color stared down their wicks at all the fuss, and so many purple spined books gleamed out from the shelves. It was all so curated, so proud, so...much nicer than the mess of wax and leaves around Morgan’s kitchen table where she made her own wares. Even Vera, Vera, could afford gilt labels for her smudge sticks. Bitch. Worst of all was knowing that few self respecting witches dared to roll the dice here. They had other, better outlets to send for. But Morgan had left a chunk of her self respect somewhere around trying to connect with her ancestors through a three dollar slice of birthday cake. And the shame of all this, re-stocking from her own competition, watching teenagers exercise more freedom and skill with their gel pens than she had bothered to muster lately--settled around her like the heaviest of blankets. At least if she was miserable, she was safe. Probably. 

And so Morgan lingered, bitterly taking mental notes on packaging and pining over books she would not be able to afford for another month or more (Vera saw right through any cash she tried to conjure, every time). She had almost tortured herself to the point of boredom when she spotted a familiar face. 

Oh. Oh no. Was this some kind of cosmic trick? Was that--the pro bono exorcist girl? The moon was still in Capricorn, so that was in her favor, and Friday was her lucky day, but having an expert fall into her lap, or at least someone else’s storefront, was not the kind of gift that generally came her way. Morgan stopped and stared at the girl more than was socially appropriate.

Fuck it. 

Morgan marched up to her, wares still in hand, and leaned over as unobtrusively as she could into her line of sight. She smiled brightly, too mystified at the possibility before her to contain herself. “Hi! This might be a really strange thing to say, but you’re--Cassie, right?” She lowered her voice. “Exorcist Cassie? I hear things around town. And the targeted ads in my mailbox are just--well, anyway, I could really use an expert’s help with summoning something. Someone.” 

If you couldn’t make your own grave dust store-bought was probably fine. Wincing at the price tag mark-up compared with the last place Cassie stopped at to stock up she scanned the rows of jars and tinctures for the last couple of ingredients that had been trashed in transit. Fresh out of ash and with no way to make the stuff without either looking like a serial killer or setting the smoke alarm off. Although, on second thought considering the place she was staying, whatever weirdness she brought with her was likely only the sixth strangest thing in that hotel. Speaking of, the four-dollar hole in her pocket was still stinging from shelling out for those Cheerios late last night. Next stop had to be for something that had actually seen the inside of an oven. With that thought in mind she guessed her next stop would be finding someplace to eat some point. The Thai place she passed last night seemed like a good bet.

Like most of its sister stores around the country this place might have been full of wishful thinkers, but maybe there were a couple things that could do in a pinch. Either way she was limited on options and she doubted there’d be anywhere else offering anything any different. Stooping down to read the price tag of a jar of black salt that caught her attention she registered another person in the vicinity. Assuming it was the owner stopping by she straightened up from her crouch by the jars to stand at full height and grabbed up a jar, about to ask if she had anything a little more specific when she registered her name being mentioned followed by the familiar hushed tones, exorcist. That caught her attention as she seemed to peer over at her interestedly. She seemed earnest enough. It was the eagerness that surprised her. Word got around fast, real fast. Anywhere else the whole thing, the whole business really, was a clandestine operation. The routine, ‘Hey thanks for your services, but get out and let’s never speak of this again’ followed by a swift exit was the norm. Not here though. Here it was practically encouraged almost.

“Uh, yeah. That would be me,” she nodded uncertainty, eyeing the store inventory she was holding. “A summoning? You mean to, you know, deal with something?” It was easy to get lost in translation so she tried to follow it with a gesture that she hoped implied giving the boot, “then I can check into it, sure.”

Morgan couldn’t believe her luck. A real exorcist. A real, helpful, exorcist. She bounced on her feet, resisting the urge to clap her hands with excitement. “I thought I recognized your face! And, whew, that would have been really embarrassing otherwise, accosting some poor random person with words like  ‘exorcist’ and ‘summoning.’” Was she being funny? The image played hilariously in her mind in a terrible sort of way: the total lack of understanding on the stranger’s face, the painfully awkward attempts at saving face. After so many big setbacks, the reach of this stupid, strupid curse, Morgan found herself hard pressed to believe in lucky breaks or happy cooincidences. 

(Did that mean her plan was doomed? Oh god, it might be doomed)

“Oh, but, not like--” she mimicked Cassie’s gesture, growing red and speckled with anxiety. Maybe she should have stayed home and brooded over her hot glue gun situation in quiet isolation instead. Sure,  her cat would have still given her judgement eyes from her nest in the bookshelf, but that wouldn’t be half so bad as having this blow up in her face. But like a bad piece of gum on your shoe, Morgan stuck and kept talking. 

“I mean, I’ll want them, you know,” She gestured again, “Eventually. But first I want to bring something here. After I’ve gotten the information I need, it should probably go back to wherever, I guess,  but I need to get someone first.” 

If Morgan had only sensed the ghost judging her from behind, she might have appreciated how funny her request already was, Cassie’s help or not. 

Cassie tilted her head a little, “right,” she nodded with a small laugh. “Hell of an icebreaker, right?” She offered. “Either that or they’d just tell you to call in Zak Bagans,” she mock grimaced.

She watched as Morgan repeated the gesture, still trying to wrap her head around the request.  Okay, so she did mean summoning something, inviting it. It wasn’t totally unheard of, trying to make contact. Mostly for any lingerers that were already there, but actually folding out the welcome mat? That was still a new one, but she still felt that pang of curiosity that something like that would even work, or why anybody would even want it to. 

I need to get someone first.

Looks like you already got them, she mused not unkindly, finally acknowledging the second shadow nearby. Cassie hadn’t made eye contact with the figure lurking in the background until then, but when she did it made her stop in her tracks for a second. They were there alright, but weak. Whoever they were, she couldn’t make anything out past the general humanoid shape and occasional incline of their head as they listened in. Like they were stuck in some halfway point. Weird.

They were here, but they weren’t thrilled about it, but what else was new? Cassie gave them a look that she hoped implied later and turned her attention back to Morgan as she weighed up the options. What were the chances here that whatever she said she was going to do it anyway? Pretty high she was willing to bet. Putting the jar back on the shelf decidedly, “you know what...sure,” she agreed. “I mean mostly I’m there pointing out the exit sign, “she admitted, “but can’t hurt to be around. Let you know if you’re getting warmer”, and to step in in the off chance the invisible man back there had any ideas she added after a second glance. 

“Hell of an icebreaker, right?” She offered. “Either that or they’d just tell you to call in Zak Bagans,” she mock grimaced.

“Just ‘little white crest things,’ huh?” Morgan replied with a laugh. “I do promise I’m not like this all the time. Sometimes I say things like how are you, and, I don’t know--what nice, normal weather we’re having!”

This was...nice. Almost fun. Morgan began to sweat behind her ears at the thought Fun was the sort of thing she felt she had to trick her way into. Fun was the kind of feeling that hatched big, wild bursts of ‘come and get me while my back is turned you lousy curse’ energy. And, Christ on a cracker, wasn’t she getting ahead of herself? She was talking with Cassie about what amounted to a work thing, not about making friendship bracelets, or going to the Sadie Hawkins dance. Not exactly the stuff of tragedies, even in her own family tree. Could be safe. And if she had managed to shake certain doom for awhile, and since it was doomed to catch up, maybe she should hold it together and enjoy the reprieve. Pretend to be a less disastrous version of herself until later. Hopefully much later. After they found Agnes. 

When Cassie agreed to help, Morgan reigned in the impulse to tackle her with relief. “Thank you, so much! You are amazing, and I will compensate you...somehow. I know conjuring money is pretty high on the questionable morality spectrum, but I can also fix things! If it’s in the broken vase category and not the complicated mechanical one, I can definitely fix it. Or with the right material I can make you something really nice. But, again, not too complicated. I’ve spent more time at the archive than my old alchemy books lately, so. And, drinks, or several, burgers even.” Morgan could feel herself running too fast away from her personal disasters. So fast she almost missed what Cassie added, quietly, as not to set any alarms. Invisible man? What? 

It shattered Morgan’s loop of thought and made her go rigid. She cast her gaze back, head-turning slowly. What did Cassie mean? Invisible? Was she being followed? Maybe she had triggered something in the universe and now she was going to watch this blow up in her face before she’d even started. This might be how she died-- 

Morgan looked. Nothing. Not even a shadow. Then again, that might be the whole point of ‘invisible.’ She turned back to Cassie, suddenly feeling like they needed to get somewhere not in the shop. “Um...what do you mean invisible man?” She whispered. “Like...with some kind of glamour? Or--” It came on her so slowly because until now it had seemed laughably impossible. “Do you mean a GHOST?” She squeaked.

“No kidding,” she laughed, “been here a couple days but this place…it’s something else,” she had to admit. Understatement of the new decade, twenty-four hours in and she felt like she had enough for most of her co-workers to have a field day out here. Difference was, for the most part, she had ethics. “Oh hey, no need. I have a day job,” she waved the offers of compensation off, “you’re good.” The day she accepted cash or handouts for this kind of thing would be the day—wait conjuring cash? At some point, she’d have to ask about that-about all of that, but one thing at a time.

Cassie saw the look that crossed Morgan’s expression and frowned for a second in confusion. It was only after the words were out of her mouth that she realized she’d said that last part out loud and immediately felt like backtracking. Shit, way to scare the crap out of them. She could practically see the alarm bells going off in Morgan’s head. Part of her wanted to bluff, tell her she meant as in the general sense but thought better of it. Better not to start off on a lie. It never ended well.

“Okay so, you’ve got one visitor,” she admitted tentatively, “but you’ve got nothing to worry about, they don’t look like much of a threat.” Cassie cast another glance at them as they continued to hover around nearby like a bad smell. Was that an incline of their head at that last comment? “This’d be a very different conversation if there was, trust me.” She hoped that might take a little of the edge off of it. “I’m free today, least I’ve got nothing much planned. I can stop by, deal with the mystery guest over there, try and get contact properly,” figure out if they’re who you’re looking for,” figure out what they wanted and how they even got there like that she added to herself. The longer she looked at the figure the weirder it got. For a second she thought she saw a pair of eyes take shape before they flickered out again. Interesting. “Or if you wanted to wait,” she blinked and brought her attention back to Morgan, “I can hand over some things to keep them out of your hair for a while give you my cell number and you can text me an address or something. Whichever works.” Cassie pulled her cell out from her pocket and opened her bag out to look for what was left her the black salt but came up empty-handed, “crap, the last of it’s in the car,” she murmured and picked the jar of the stuff she was about to buy again and raised her eyebrows at the price tag. Wow, not for forty dollars I’m not. “This stuff keeps them away,” she lifted the jar back up before putting it back down again. “I have some in the car, but regular salt works, just doesn’t last as long.”

 “Are you sure?” Morgan pressed. “You’re kind of doing me a big favor…” But Cassie seemed pretty sure of her stance. Morgan couldn’t figure out why. There had to be loads of people who would pay a lot for help like this. Now that the weight of making up for her services was off Morgan’s chest, she could admit she would have pushed her powers to limit to make this happen. Why wouldn’t you try and get something out of the deal?

But Morgan didn’t have time to think about this because of what Cassie said next. You’ve got one visitor. She had really done it. Maybe? Hopefully. “A visitor,” she repeated, dumbfounded. “A ghost kind of visitor, following me around.” What if it was Agnes? Or one of Agnes’ children? Morgan looked back over her shoulder again, just in case willpower alone could bring it into her sight and understanding. When looked back at Cassie, her face was glowing with held back excitement.

“I need to find out who it is,” she said quietly. “In case it’s who I’m looking for. But the other stuff would be good too. This maybe-kind-of isn’t my first time trying this, just the first time that it’s worked.” She looked at the salt jar Cassie Hefted and made a mental note to up her game in that area. Forty dollars for a little jar. Maybe she should start charging more for her candles; this family quest was getting expensive. “I’d like to see the kind of salt you roll with,” she added lightly. “I’ve been using mom’s old kosher salt, but that was before I knew I should be upgrading. What’s in your mix that makes it different? And, would it be unprofessional if I hugged you right now?”

“Just the one,” Cassie repeated as if that would somehow make it any better. “They’re hard to make out though, which means either they’re weaker, like they’re new or they’re on the out.” Another glance towards the mystery figure and she was sure she picked up the indignation coming off from their stance alone. “Okay. If I can get some stuff from the car, find somewhere quiet I can try and get a read on them. Figure out if this is your guy.” Cassie’s eyes followed Morgan’s gaze back to the discarded jar, “it’s different for everybody, but I like a mix. A little rock salt-any salt really-” she added quickly on review, “some chalk and some Obit ashes mixed in there. Helps with the ‘ashes to ashes part’ it’s not the main focus though. The main part is the words and the intent that’s there." Morgan seemed so enthusiastic and hopeful, she hoped she wasn’t setting her up for a loss. She could do it, hazy figure aside, but actually summoning something was still out of her wheelhouse. She just hoped she wasn’t about to be a let down. Cassie thought for a moment before answering, “maybe save it for when we actually ID your friend, or at least get some contact on line one.”

Morgan took out her phone and made notes as Cassie explained her salt recipe. There was a cemetery near the Traveler’s Rest, should be easy to come by the ashes. She didn’t trust her alchemy-brewed stuff to do the trick, not when it came to warding off whatever had come out of that cake. Morgan didn’t know much about what she was getting into, but she was aware she had passed the ‘in over your head’ signpost few miles behind packing up her life and moving to White Crest. 

She settled for a thumbs up at Cassie instead of the hug. “Too soon, got it,” she said, laughing it off. “But it’s not about the success. I mean, success would be great, obviously, but I’ve been at this--for good reason!--for three years now, and this is the first time I’ve gotten, like, help from anyone. Even if you have to go back to your very expert drawing board, I’m still appreciative. Really.” Something in her sombered at the truth in those words, three years banging her head against her laptop, three years trying to get out of bed, trying not to derail her life anymore than this stupid curse already had. Three years and now she was at the zero hour. Of course she was grateful for even the illusion of progress. What did she have left to lose this year except her life anyway? Her shitty jobs? But that wasn’t the right mindset. Think positive. Move forward. She pepped herself up and headed for the door. “So! Let’s go figure this out!”

Mulling over what Morgan had said. About this being the first time anybody had offered some actual help rankled a little. If you could kick them out it stood to reason there was a way to call them up. It might actually be useful for a few things. Maybe if they were lucky whoever she was trying to get hold of was actually still around, strange as that was to say considering, they could actually make contact. “Three years?” Cassie felt her eyebrows raise involuntarily at that information. “Well, least you’ve got it now, the help I mean. If at first you don’t succeed get mad and try again,” she joked. Even if this didn’t go down well first time around, she had a more than a little healthy curiosity at the idea of something like that actually working. “You must really need this guy for something.” Not about to pry, but you didn’t spend that time trying over something trivial. Following Morgan’s lead and heading outside and back out towards where her car was parked Cassie took out her keys and grabbed the duffle bag out from the trunk and draped it over one shoulder. She shifted the weight a little and used her free hand and lifted up a piece of the padding covering the spare tyre space. “One second. I just need a couple things.” Cassie grabbed up a few loose items and stuffed them inside the bag, “this might help identify Mr Mysterio. Get a better signal and figure out if this is your guy.” Closing the trunk over again she turning back to Morgan with a smile. “Okay, and we’re all set. Lead the way.”  

“L-lead the way,” Morgan repeated, hoping that repetition would rattle something into place. “To the ghost place, that--would make sense.” She began to walk in the general direction of the traveler’s rest. “But, it’s really interesting you should say that. Because, there’s my room at the Traveler’s Rest where I do most things right now, and there’s Al’s where I did the spell. Or I think I did.” Her cheeks were growing hot again. This had all seemed reasonable, even expected in the moment, but preparing to say it out loud, she suddenly felt like an idiot. “I’m working from scratch with this, but there was a spell on google that seemed to have a familiar structure to it, and I picked the right day, I checked the moon, and all that for maximum potency. But, there might have been...cake involved. And admittedly, that seemed like an interesting ask for a request from the beyond. I don’t know if I should take you to the spot where it happened, or if we just need to duck into my room so the muggles won’t stare at us since they’re supposed to be drawn to me and not the place?” Her voice rose higher as she spoke, struggling to maintain the very logical order of planning she had taken the trouble of going to. “Anyways, it’s...all the same direction. Just a little more--this way. And I can pull up the spell, if that helps.” 

“That’s where I live-well, I don’t live there. I’m staying there, or I have a room there anyway.” Cassie wasn’t staying here she reminded herself. It was temporary like everywhere else. “That works,” she looked back over at Morgan with a nod, “or if you wanted somewhere more out in the open, there’s Al’s.” That one was the least favourite option. She hated an audience to this stuff. Growing up it was something to be buried away, not broadcast in public. It was hard to get out of that way of thinking. Old habits died hard that way. “Not sure what the rules are for summoning ghosts in the diner though. Might be a no shirt, no shoes, ghosts, no service,” she joked. Cake? Wait, how did cake figure into it? Okay, that was a question for a little later. Not the time. There was her least favourite word in this kind of context; Google. Hypocritical as that was, she’d done the same thing back before she put her foot down with her parents and got someone that actually knew what they were doing to step in. Ray was a cantankerous jerk that first day, but he knew his stuff. Saved her getting fried anyway. “Google kind of sucks for anything with ghosts. First removal invocation I looked up there had a chunk of it missing,” she admitted. “I was twenty-two and stupid,” she made a brief grimace, “good thing I asked somebody else or I wouldn’t be talking to you. Looks like something might’ve worked, don’t think your friend has been hanging around here all that long. What did this spell on google look like?” Cassie asked, curious now. Maybe it was some sort of banishment circle gone wrong, like they’d copied it wrong, got the opposite effect. Who knew at this point. 

“Yeah, I guess it’s hard to call that living, huh?” Morgan said. “Home-sweet-not-home it is.” They continued the journey together, and Morgan told her everything she could about the spell. She had recognized one of the sigls as something she’d seen in an invocation book. She couldn’t remember what the book had said it was for exactly, but the sighting had given her hope. The plan had been to harness the energy of familiarity to reach out to other spirits who had that energy in common. So, her birthday, the land where the people she was looking for had lived, and a birthday cake, which commemorated the continuation of her family. A little fire, a few words, a little saliva to create a taste of life and boom, call made, familial tether climbed, ancestors summoned. She hadn’t noticed or felt anything different at the time. She had assumed she had done something wrong, or supernatural google wasn’t quite on par with her needs as she’d hoped. She showed Cassie a screenshot and went on. She was trying to get in touch with some ancestors. She had some unfinished business with them, funny, right? Only her magical department wasn’t so much in parting the veils or whatever as it was turning stuff into different stuff. As they neared the Traveler’s Rest, she fished around in her pocket for her old set of keys. She plopped them onto her pop socket and gestured. The keys shaped themselves into a metal cuff, a robot figurine. She made it float before coaxing the metal back into keys again. “Neat, right?”

Morgan’s things were splayed all over her room, two large suitcases worth, seemingly made larger by the cramped space. Morgan cleared a spot in the middle of the floor. “I have some Arizona Tea in the mini fridge if you want any. But why not first things first? How do we talk to my visitor friend?” 

They were keys. They were keys and then they weren’t and then they were in the air. Then they were keys again and that’s the moment life stopped making sense for a second.

Neat, right?

That was one word for it. Cassie couldn’t even nod, just stood there in stunned silence and stared at the keys in Morgan’s hand as she opened the door out and stepped inside. Talking about that kind of thing was once thing, but seeing it in front of her? Whole different ball game. “…Sounds-sounds, yeah,” she found herself saying, her voice sounding a little far away. Reality snapped back again with a bang and she remembered what she was even there for. Right, focus. The way Morgan had been talking and judging from the picture she saw it sounded more and more like a variation of a banishment circle. An inverted one maybe. First thing was first, making contact.

“Oh, that part’s easy,” right, get it together. The solution to that particular snag was simple. “One second,” Cassie dug out a pen and a scrap of paper and scrawled down the alphabet and placed it on the nearest flat surface she could find. “Just needed some quiet first.”

Thank you Stranger Things, Cassie stepped back and addressed the mystery guest, “if you want to just point to tell me what your-” she didn’t get to finish that sentence before the figure darted to the paper and the pen laying beside it. They jabbed their hand in an attempt to move the Biro and watched as they seemed to grow frustrated in their attempts. Wow, they really were weak. Usually most ghosts could conjure up just enough energy to move a biro a couple centimetre across a page for all of ten seconds. “Or, if you want, you can just point. If it’s easier,” seemed they took that as a challenge and the pen started to shift, “…Okay,” she gestured, giving the go-ahead and waited as they pointed over to each letter.

W.A.N.T….F.R...

Cassie turned back to Morgan once she figured out the gist of it. “They want to know what you want,” when they started up again.

L.E.T.G.O

Oh. Fuck. Morgan took all of her attempts to get in touch with the dead very seriously, it was kind of a matter of life and death at this point, but whatever she had hoped for at the end of each attempt, it didn’t look anything like this. Cassie was sitting with a freaking piece of paper from a notebook and a ballpoint pen, nothing special or consecrated, just practical. And it was moving. Moving all by itself. It was shaking, like the hand holding it was too upset or too weak to hold it together properly. Morgan shifted away from it on the floor. Seeing this invisible force want things, demand things, show--feeling made her uncomfortable in a way she didn’t want to unpack. Wasn’t that what they had always been? And what did it really change about what she needed anyway?

“Um, okay,” she breathed, keeping her voice steady with effort. “That’s nice. Good to know. Sorry you’ve been...here, for so long. But I am going to need some information from you first before we can do that. Okay?” She squared her shoulders back and tried to adopt the kind of voice she used on her freshmen college students. “Now, who are you? What’s your name?”

Watching Morgan move away from the sheet of paper as though it was contagious Cassie realised, she had forgotten how this kind of thing might look to an outsider. What was grade school stuff to her was the stuff of nightmares to somebody else. She recognised that weird waxy looking shade Morgan had paled to and Should’ve just asked them to point. Tell, don’t show this time.

Cassie offered Morgan a look of encouragement as the mystery guest responded, Floor’s all your,s and looked over to their guest who listened and inclined their head as if they were studying her. They folded their arms over for a few moments before answering as thought they were a few moments away from doing the opposite and b an ass. Cassie shot them a look and looked at Morgan again then as the pen began to move again. A lot less stable than before as they slowly spelled the words out.

S.E.A.N…B.A.C.H.M.A.N

Okay, now they were getting somewhere. They had a name. “This your guy?” Cassie asked. She still didn’t understand what she did, but recognising that whatever it was it had worked somehow.

...E.T....G.O…C.A.L.L.E.D…H.E.R.E…..A.P.O.L.O.G.I.Z

Cassie frowned at that last message and now it was her turn to look at the figure, Sean, she corrected herself, her head inclining. 

“Ooh! Sean! You’re Agnes’ nephew, right? Your dad was named Abel?” Not who Morgan was looking for, not even close, and she shook her head at Cassie in a sheepish universal signal of ‘close but no cigar.’ Still, she felt an electric rush of excitement. This was more direct contact than she’d gotten...ever. Ever-ever. The rest of his message was a lot more puzzling. Who was apologizing? Sean hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not that she’d dug up yet. “We’ll get to that Sean, but I’m wondering if you know anything about your aunt? If she...kept a secret book of magic maybe? Or if you saw her, or heard maybe…” Fuck it. “If you heard of her doing something bad enough that might make someone curse our whole family?” She felt cold all over and out of breath just from asking. She’d been nosing around ancestry sites and state records for so long, she had picked up her whole life, she had pestered Cassie in the middle of a shop, all for this, all without putting her finger on the big, awful magic button of a reason. And having to ask it out loud now, even in the most common sense of ways frustrated Morgan. It was a reminder that there was a chance the answer might be no. Maybe the afterlife had turned Sean’s memory to custard, or he just hadn’t been the kind of kid to overhear rumor. “Anything, Sean?” She pressed. “Be honest.”

Success? Cassie looked over expectantly and clocked the expression on Morgan’s face and felt her shoulders slump slightly. No, crap. That had to sting. So close, she actually had somebody here and judging by the look that passed her features they’d missed the mark by a few miles.

I’m wondering if you know anything about your aunt?

 Y.E.S

The pen continued to move and while Cassie had next to zero to compare this it seemed like who Morgan had got hold sounded like they were a family member. Close, right? Cassie sat back and kept watch and listened as Morgan reached out to Sean. Her eyes darted up again at Morgan’s words at the end there. Eyebrows raised in concern. Cursed?

…O.W…D.A.R.E...

 “Just answer the question and you can be on your way. Come on, man.” It was round about then that Sean decided to have a temper tantrum and managed to tear the paper a few centimetres in his answer. It seemed to take it out of him. She saw him fade further and stop .“I think he wore himself out with that one.” It was a while before he summoned up the energy to fade back to view again.

…T.E.L.L….Y.O.U….N.O.T.H.I

The light on one of the bedside tables clinked and the TV switched on and off for a second at that outburst.

….R.E.L.E.A.S.E….ME…

What a baby. “Spooky. Very good,” Cassie shook her head and spoke in a deadpan tone. “I know you’re pissed but don’t be an ass, Sean, or we’re going to have a problem.”

Morgan clenched her fists in her lap to keep from shaking. This was getting very real, very quickly, and somehow not at all fulfilling in the way she’d hoped. The paper was making noises all by itself, and it was one thing to look away from the screen when things started getting weird in The Conjuring, but something else entirely when the jump scare was right in front of your face. There was nowhere to go from this. Morgan looked behind her and saw the TV flickering, like some five year old on a sugar high was going crazy with the switch, and the tables were rattling louder without anyone being there. Morgan’s eyes had been stretched open long enough to tear up. She was sure if she closed them she’d make up some excuse for what she was seeing, she’d try to tell herself that this was wrong and definitely impossible. But the only thing scarier than seeing this happen, was to never see it happen. Fuck. 

“Sean, you asshole! Cut it out!” She screamed over the noise. “You tell me what you know!”

But Sean was not remotely interested. Morgan felt down in her pocket to the salt stash she had and threw it near the paper. 

“You wanna stay here forever, Sean?” She asked. “Because I don’t give a shit if you’re stuck with me forever, okay! You can throw a fit all year for all I care, got it? So spit it out already!”

Cassie shot Sean’s general figure an exasperated look and turned to Morgan and frowned in confusion. Where was he getting this idea he wasn’t free to go here? She really wasn’t about to enlighten them any time soon. Looking at Morgan just as the ‘I want to speak to the manager theatrics’ flared up again she saw Morgan glance around looking rattled. Crap. She knew that look. Cassie saw the clenched fists and shot her a worried look.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Cassie reached over but paused when she realised then that it wasn’t all fear there. There was some anger bubbling under the surface and stopped, sitting back down beside the paper. “Just some grade school level theatrics. He couldn’t blow the fuse on a lightbulb,” Cassie shot Sean a glare. Was it really so hard for the douche to just give Morgan what she wanted so they could just drop kick him back to the beyond like he wanted here? “And if you do, I’m going to have some words you’re not going to like.” Turned out the reassurance really wasn’t needed here. Morgan was holding her own. More than; she was outright making demands, tossing salt she didn’t even remember she had on her at the paper. Fast learner.

You can throw a fit all year for all I care, got it? So spit it out already

“What she said,” Cassie shrugged and looked for a second at the salt Morgan had just tossed in Sean’s general direction, “and if she thinks about throwing any more of that there’s not a damn thing I’m doing to do to stop her. I’ll tell her where to aim. Your call.”

S.K….C.O.N.S.T.A.N.C.E…L.E.A.V.E….M.E

The pen moved, with urgency then, spelling out a name. Now, that wasn’t to hard, was it?

Morgan came back to herself with Cassie’s agreement, what she said. Oh. Shit. She’d really let loose there. Threatened her ancestor, even if he was kind of a dick, wasted some salt aiming at whichever part of the air had looked most threatening. Cassie, for her part, didn’t seem too upset about her seasoning the ghost, and Morgan didn’t know what to make of that, except that she would have to explain a lot more about her situation than she’d had to in a long time. But that could wait. Hopefully. Sean was telling them about...someone named Constance. Morgan couldn’t remember how she fit into her family story off the top of her head. Was she Constance’s mother? Her daughter? It was right on the edge of her recall, but she couldn’t reach it. But it was better than nothing. 

“Fine,” she said flatly. “Fine, go.” She still had some salt in her hand and threw it again. “Fuck you anyway, though. And tell Constance I’m coming for her.” She turned to Cassie for help, holding her sweater close around her chest, flushed with embarrassment.

Cassie watched as Morgan threw the remainder of salt in her hand towards the paper again, but something strange happened in the seconds before the salt even went airborne. Cassie didn’t get the chance to even start to send him away. There second Morgan uttered the word go the ghost that was formerly known as Sean zapped out like an old television. Blipped back to the void as if being pulled back somewhere. “That was new,” was all she could manage then with raised eyebrows. “He’s already gone,” she clarified, shaking herself out of it. What the hell was that?

“Okay,” she spoke again eventually as the quiet descended. “I have no idea what you did,” she admitted, still processing, “but that’s uh, that’s different.” Understatement, the air shifted, she felt that much. Swore she heard a faint popping sound as they went. “Did you get what you wanted? Sort of anyway? A name is a start, right?” Cassie shifted back and let out a breath. “So, um, walk me through what you did here, with the circle. Maybe we can get somebody else.”

Morgan flopped back on the floor when Cassie said he was gone. She didn’t know how she could tell, and without anything to tell by she almost didn’t believe it. This...this was good, right? This was progress...in that it was more ghost she’d spoken to in her whole life, certainly more than she had gotten out of any of her magic experiments. She would have to find out who Constance was, what she had to with all this. Agnes had been the one everyone talked about, but maybe she was just the baby monster. Oh god, if this was going to turn into a Grendel’s Mother situation-- Morgan put her head in her hands and breathed out long and hard. One thing at a time. “I um...I can send you the stuff. I have the webpage saved, but I don’t know if I can do it again, without some meaningful date and a new moon, or maybe not, maybe that was bullshit…” she was mumbling, half in a daze, as she pawed around the messy floor for her computer. She pulled it up and sent it to Cassie’s account on the town social media network. Handy, that. She stood up and dusted off a whole lot of nothing off her jeans. “I got something alright!” She said, scrambling to put her smile back on. “Thank you for helping on short notice. You’re really nice, and I’ll find a way to make it up somehow. Maybe when, um, the adrenaline is a little, uh, less, we can figure something out.” Or not. Cassie seemed like she might make a good shortcut through the mess, but she might also be fast-tracking herself into the danger zone. But if it meant not running from herself anymore, maybe it would be worth it anyway.

#an in spectre calls #wr cassie #wr chatzy #wr cassie chatzy #//ghost stufff!!!!