#that just seems like walking through the everglades

[glindaupland]

boat didn’t work for kwon gamin’s christine debut so she and dongseok had to walk on water during the title song the phantoms performing jesus miracles now i guess i saw someone say it was like a sightseeing tour 😭

#that just seems like walking through the everglades #been there done that #thats so sad but funny #always some mess happening at dongseok shows #boat trauma multiple times from y&k and alw phantom

[bradsmindbrain]

So you’ve brought up that Ted salvages a lot of stuff for his hut from discarded things, right? Well maybe he finds a ring at some point and uses it to propose to Jack?

Union

Summary: Jack joins Ted on a trek through the swamp, and is given something that changes both of their lives forever.

TW: None

Jack and Ted made their way through the mangroves of the Everglades as the crescent moon hung low in the sky. They seemed to have been walking for hours, but Jack didn’t mind, he enjoyed walks, walks were nice. Ted had told him that he had something to show him, and he just prayed it wasn’t another kid his other half had found. 

The swamp was quiet, save for the chirping of insects and the sloshing of water as they moved through it, and to Jack, it was calming. Despite being human for most of the month, he never really fit in with their society, buying a house here was more out of necessity than anything. He was far more content to be out in nature, just him and Ted.

Even as they went deeper and deeper into the swamp, Jack knew that nothing would attack, most animals like pythons or alligators left his partner well alone. He knew Ted had a fondness for all the creatures of the Everglades though, as they were his first and most consistent form of company after his transformation. He’d seen birds pluck brambles and twigs off of his boyfriend’s plant-covered skin, no doubt to build a nest, and Ted didn’t seem to mind that.

As nice as it was out here, he did wish Ted didn’t have to live out here, forced into solitude because society saw him as a monster. He did occasionally leave the swamp on his own accord, but Jack knew those moments were few and far-between, around Halloween mostly. Jack took him to a few local Halloween parties his neighbors threw, introducing him as his boyfriend from out of state. There were always many compliments for Ted’s “costume,” something his boyfriend was always flattered by. He knew how much events like that meant to Ted, being able to leave the Everglades and mingle with society, if only for a few short days.

That was to say nothing of the hunters and their never ending bloodlust. To the untrained eye, Jack probably seemed no different than all those others who viciously slaughtered monsters, but he wasn’t. Throughout his long life, Jack had learned there were four kinds of things, things that looked like people on the inside and were people on the inside, things that looked like people but were monsters on the inside, things that looked like monsters and were monsters on the inside, and things that looked like monsters but were people on the inside. Initially, he had pegged Elsa to be in the second category, but after rescuing Ted, he realized she did indeed belong to the first. Him? Well, he only hunted the third category, but he wasn’t quite sure what category he himself fit into.

He sighed, it wasn’t fair, none of it was. There were monsters out there who were monsters inside and out, dark things that took pleasure from the suffering they inflicted, but not all of them were like that. Him and Ted just wanted to help people, to live without being persecuted for what they were. He knew Elsa was trying to make changes to the hunting system so people like him and Ted could live without fear of being hunted down for being different, but it seemed like a Herculean task. He just wanted things to be different, wanted it to change so that he and Ted were just allowed to live among others without being looked upon in fear.

He didn’t hate them for fearing him though, it was human nature to fear what was not understood, a primal defense mechanism as instinctive as his actions during the full moon. And still, he remembered what his mother taught him, to share kindness with others, no matter who they were. He of course understood that there were times and people he shouldn’t do that with, hunters chief among them, but aside from that he had taken her lesson to heart. 

Soon, Ted stopped, and Jack looked around where they were. It was a clearing, mangroves surrounding it in a nearly perfect circle. The moon hung overhead, illuminating the pale blue flowers that blanketed the clearing. 

Ted grumbled.

Jack grinned, “It’s beautiful! Why haven’t you shown me this before?

Ted gave a nervous grumble.

Jack cocked an eyebrow, “What do you mean, “special occasion?””

Ted reached to his chest, pulling something out of the vines and moss covering it and clenching it in a fist. He knelt down on one knee, extending his hand forward. Jack gave a confused look, at least until Ted slowly unfurled his fingers.

In his hand was a ring, golden, with some kind of black gem inlaid. For something Ted had salvaged, it was in surprisingly good condition. Jack didn’t even have time to realize what Ted was insinuating until a moment later. “Dios mío,” Jack gasped, lifting a hand up to his mouth. Soon, shock turned into excitement, “Santa mierda, Teddy Bear, I… I can’t believe this!”

Never in his long, long life had he ever experienced something like this. Sure he had a few partners over the decades, but none had ever done this. Though that might have been because relationships like theirs weren’t properly accepted until recently. Still, the joy Jack was experiencing now was unlike any other he had felt before, save for maybe when he and Ted officially got together.

He knew that the ring technically meant nothing, no one would officiate their wedding, he knew that. Sure there were some states where only one person needed to be present, but seeing as Ted was probably legally dead that wouldn’t work either. But the gesture, the sheer meaning behind it, the love Ted felt to even consider doing it, it practically made his heart melt. He felt tears of excitement and joy roll down his face, smiling the biggest he ever had in a long time.

Ted gave an inquisitive grunt.

Jack laughed, wiping the tears from his face, “Of course, God yes!”

Ted gave a concerned grunt.

Jack grinned, taking the ring from Ted’s hand and slipping it onto his finger, “What? No, nothing’s wrong, it’s just… I can’t believe this.” He looked down at the ring, grinning ear-to-ear, all of Ted’s love right here on his finger. He knew Ted probably didn’t have the other one (assuming it was intended as a wedding ring originally), and even then it probably wouldn’t fit on his oversized digits, and in an odd way, it somehow made it feel all the more important. No one would ever see Ted, but they would see Jack, and the ring was a sign to everyone that he had someone, someone who cared enough about him to want to spend the rest of their life with him. He laughed again, “Dios mío Ted, I love you so much.”

He felt Ted pull him into an embrace, and he nuzzled into him. Ted’s touch could incinerate anyone who felt fear, but it didn’t burn Jack. To him, it was the warm, loving touch of his husband.

#werewolf by night #wwbn #wbn #jack russell #ted sallis #man thing #marvel #mcu #russallis #my stuff #prompts #the halloween costume idea belongs to tiptapricot btw

[arsonisticscholar]

Here on 👻's weird "I'm pretty sure I was on crack" dreams we present:

Ok so I had a dream last night (I don't know why this is a recurring thing now) where I was hanging out with my dogs, and I heard this weird sliter and open the door (we have one of those doors that's technically 2 doors. There's the clear one and then theres the wood one behind it) so I open the wood one and there's a damn rattlesnake (we DO NOT have those where I live. I have never seen a rattlesnake in person) and this thing is massive. Wide as a brick, about a yard or 2 long. And because I am a complete dumbass, I start tapping on the glass and it hisses and does the rattle thing and I'm like "hehe, rattle go chikchik" so I keep tapping on the glass.

And then it comes closer, and slithers under the fuckin door. UNDER THE DOOR. I EMPISIZED HOW BIG THIS THING IS RIGHT? IT JUST CAUSUALLY SLITHERS UNDER THE DOOR.

And even in my dream I'm like "oh shit." And I just... Left. I went to my room and scrolled through YouTube until my brain foggily was like, "wait hold it. The dogs are still out there". so I go back out of my room and I walk over to my dogs and this snake is slowly slither forward because appeerantly it did nothing in the few hours I spent in my room and my dogs don't seem to really care, until they do and the dog I was petting just lunges at this snake and picks it up in its mouth and the snake isn't having too much fun with this so it starts biting my dog, but my dog doesn't really care and I'm like "oh shit! This hugeass snake is biting my dog!" so I try to get the snake out of my dogs mouth, but my dog just will not budge. So now there's a snake half hanging out of my dogs mouth and I'm playing tug of war with it's body.

And then i woke up.

I think I need to stop taking so much melatonin

-👻

Jesus Christ bro found a snake from the Everglades in your house-

Also why did I think when you said door that’s technically two doors that it fits into two doorframes and swings open on one frame to close another

[fae-nightray]

Nyx

War had been brewing between the Fae and Vampires for many years. They were at a point where all it would take is one small inconvenience. One animal dead on another's land, one human given refuge. So a meeting was placed in neutral land, the high council of vampires and the three kings of the fae. They met and discussed long into the night; some arguments were had, but nothing they couldn’t come back from. Finally an agreement was found to try and attempt to unite the two different races. There would be three arranged marriages from a fae king's child to that of a well respected family in the vampire clans.

That is how, through many tears and kisses goodbye, Lilliana found herself standing outside the large manor of Cain Acheron. She was the only daughter of a fae king, fair skin silvery eyes and silver white hair like her father, so she was the only one forced to leave her land. The two sons instead welcomed two well respected vampiric daughters into their homes. Standing outside the gloomy place she could feel the death and decay all around her, she hated it. “For peace.” She breathed softly to herself, stepping up and knocking on the door. When she received no reply she went to try again, this time the door swinging open. “Hello?” She called out, stepping inside, only for the door to close shut behind her. She jumped, holding her sack from home close to her chest.

“Ah, so the little fairy is here already.” Lilliana looked towards the voice, seeing a tall imposing man at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in a simple white shirt and black pants, and then a thick night robe. He began walking down the stairs, short, thick black hair and eyes shimmering red as he looked her up and down. “You’d think they would’ve had more courtesy to send you at sunset.” Once down the stairs he began to circle her, watching as the fae girl clutched her sack tighter. Finally he stopped in front of her, bowing and offering his hand. “Cain Acheron, milady.”

Carefully, she placed her hand in his, curtsying low. “Lillian Everglade.” She responded softly.

He kissed the top of her hand before straightening up. He didn’t let go and instead began to lead her over to the next room. “Let us talk somewhere more comfortable.” He brought her into what Lillian assumed was the parlor, a fire going in the fireplace at the center of the room. He brought her over to the sofa, sitting down and bringing her to sit down close to him. “So tell me, little one. What are you hoping to get ou of this relationship, hmm?”

Lillian could feel herself growing warm, tucked so close beside the man she’d just met. “I don’t know.” She murmured quietly. She looked down to where he still held her hand in his. “I just want what my father does, peace.”

“How would you categorize fae relationships?”

“Fickle.” She responded almost instantly. “Two might be married and care for each other deeply, but they wander.”

Cain raised an eyebrow at this. “You yourself don’t seem very fickle.”

Lilliana looked up towards him, shaking her head. “My particular clan is a little different from the others.”

“Is that why I can’t see your wings?”

“O-oh, that.” She looked away in embarrassment. “Yes, they either come out when we want them to, or if there’s a lot of emotion. It’s something very private for us.”

“I look forward to seeing them then.” Cain grinned, bringing her hand up to kiss it again.

“What about you, what are vampire relationships like?” Lilliana asked, trying to change the subject.

“For the men, fiercely loyal. When we find a life partner, we stay loyal to them and oftentimes never find another one if that first partner dies. Women vampires, you have to earn their respect, otherwise they can often be quite malicious.”

“O-oh, how will the other arranged marriages work then if that is the case?”

Cain used his free hand to pet the girl's hair lightly. “Do not worry, little one. They are ladies who have been on this earth for a long time. They understand the situation and wouldn’t do anything rash to jeopardize the relations. If those princes do choose to be fickle though, they’ll be given hell for sure.”

“I see.” Lilliana nodded, before her head fell into the other's shoulder. “May I speak honestly with you?”

“You may.”

“I don’t like the atmosphere here. It reeks of death and is very different from what I am used to. Is there a way to fix that?”

Cain hummed in thought, letting go of her hand so he could wrap his arm around Lilliana’s shoulder. “There will always be some stench of death because I myself am the living dead. I believe we can fix that problem for the most part, but I will broach you on that subject later. If you wanted to try and cheer things up though, you are free to try and work the garden and all that. You may need to find a way to bless the ground though.”

“It won’t hurt you if I do?”

“A little bit of blessing never killed anybody, and I can tolerate a plot of blessed land for you.”

“Thank you.” She breathed, turning to hug him. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, little one.” Cain rubbed her back gently, smiling down at the fae girl.

#writing #original character #original story #vampire #vampire story #fairy #fairy story #fairy x vampire #romance

[cursedprincesarchive]

Arson’s First (and last) Date

Lyssa doesn’t get along with the other kids in the village. All of them know what she is, where she came from. Outsider. Foreigner. Unwanted Child. She’s heard it all in the fifteen years she’s lived in Everglade, from the mouths of adults as well as the kids her age. She doesn’t really care much anymore, the whispers are annoying but tolerable. Mom and Ma love her, and she loves them too; and that’s all she needs. 

Still, Lyssa can’t help but notice how the other kids treat her, and judge them accordingly. Some of them, like Clementine, aren’t even subtle about it anymore. Shoving past her when there was plenty of room in the street to go around, getting her name wrong on purpose- 

“Lily! Oh, I’m sorry I mean Lee-sa, I forget you don’t have a proper Everglade name”

-and even stealing her things if she isn’t careful. Lyssa is still pissed she never got to finish reading her copy of “Icebound Land” before Clementine threw it in that puddle. But not everyone is as bad as Clementine. Some of them are even nice to her, like…Sage. Sage never joined in when the other kids laughed at how Lyssa would burn in the sun if she went too long outside, she always got her name right, and once or twice she even drew Clementine’s attention away from Lyssa. Lyssa has been thinking about Sage a lot lately. The way her hair moves when she dances, how perfectly straight her teeth are when she smiles, the way sunlight streaming through the windows of her father’s shop makes her dark skin seem to glow from within. She isn’t quite sure how to approach these new feelings; but for now she’s content to ask Ma to make stew more often, so she has an excuse to visit the butchery and talk to Sage. 

Sage is working behind the counter again, just like Lyssa knew she would be. Lyssa memorized the days that Sage spends selling the results of her father’s hunting trips, so she gets to talk to her and not her brother. Reed is mean, and Lyssa had to endure several painfully awkward interactions with him before she figured out the days Sage works. 

“Hello again! We don’t have what you usually buy today, dad’s out on a hunting trip right now”

“That’s um-that’s fine, I’ll just take whatever you do have, if that’s okay and uh-“ Lyssa trails off, chewing on her fingernail. Why is it so hard to talk to Sage?

“Alright! I’ll have Reed package up some rabbit then! You can wait outside if you’d like!” Sage smiles as she says this, and Lyssa lets herself pretend for a minute that she’s smiling just for her, and not because Sage smiles at everyone. 

Lyssa waits outside the shop, watching Reed and Sage talk as they wrap up the meat she’s paid for. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but Reed points at her a few times and turns his back to the window so she can’t see his face. She doubts he’s saying anything nice. Luckily, it’s Sage who brings the paper-wrapped parcel outside. Lyssa tries her best not to focus on how her hand brushes against Sage’s when she hands her the package. 

“Thanks Sage, I really appreciate you bringing it out to me”

“Of course!” Sage beams, and Lyssa suddenly finds the twine around the meat to be VERY interesting. “I was wondering if you’d like to spend some time together sometime?”

Lyssa almost drops her order and has to force the next few words out of her mouth “I-uh-I’m-I don’t-I mean-sure, of course!”

“Brilliant! Meet me in the field behind my house tomorrow night, I’ve got something I want to show you!” Sage walks back into the shop, leaving Lyssa so shocked that she doesn’t notice Reed staring at her with a smirk on his face. 

The next evening, Lyssa carefully picks her way through the trail that leads to Sage’s house. She’s as dressed up as she could manage on her own. Mom is accompanying the hunting trip (Alder insists on having a cleric along ever since that incident with the basilisk nest) and Ma had to travel to a nearby town to sell some fabrics, so no one was home to help her with her hair or clothes. She ended up picking a dress Mom had bought for her a few months ago. It’s a shade of blue that almost exactly matches her eyes, and her hair is carefully pulled back using one of Ma’s scarves. She also picked some flowers from Ma’s garden, but the small bouquet now only has a couple of flowers remaining since Lyssa had been unconsciously wringing the flowers in her hands as she walked. Just as she’s wondering if she should just toss the rest of the pathetic bunch, she hears a familiar voice call out to her. 

“Over here, Lyssa!”

Her heart in her throat, Lyssa approaches Sage. She notices to some relief that Sage is a bit dressed up too, wearing a pretty dark green blouse that’s cut a little lower than her usual shirts. Lyssa has to focus very hard on keeping her eyes on Sage’s face. 

“I ah-I thought you’d like these, I dropped some on the way here but-um-ah-I’m sorry” Lyssa finishes weakly, holding the remaining flowers out to Sage with a stiff arm. Luckily, Sage just laughs playfully and grabs the flowers, tucking one into Lyssa’s hair. Lyssa is so startled that she almost misses what Sage says next. 

“C’mon, there’s something I want to show you!” 

Lyssa follows Sage like a lamb following a shepherd; her tall frame awkwardly stumbling along behind Sage, who gracefully navigates the roots and rocks as the two of them stray off of the path. Lyssa wonders to herself what Sage wants to show her so badly, but part of her doesn’t really care. She’s so excited to be alone with Sage that nothing else matters, and her mind wanders as they walk. Maybe if Sage and her fall in love and get married, Everglade will accept her the way they accepted Mom when she married Ma. Lyssa is so busy dreaming of what a domestic life with the girl in front of her could look like that she doesn’t even notice when the earthy smell of the plants around them starts to get overpowered by the smell of rot. Just as Lyssa is about to ask Sage where exactly they’re going, she suddenly stops. 

“We’re here!” There’s an odd note to Sage’s voice, like she’s holding back laughter. But before Lyssa can think too much about it, two pairs of arms grab her from behind. A hand covers her mouth and cuts off her yelp of surprise, and suddenly she’s being dragged. She’s too surprised to fight back at first; and by the time she does start struggling, she only manages to thrash around for a few seconds before the arms release her and her stomach jumps into her throat as she can feel herself falling. She lands on something that crunches and squelches under her back. As she rolls over onto her hands and knees, the stench of death and decay overwhelms her; and she’s unable to stop the flow of bile that rises up into her mouth. As her eyes adjust in the dark, she realizes with horror that the tingling sensation in her hair and down her back is maggots, dozens of them, all covered in blackish red slime, a slime that now coats Lyssa’s hands and back and hair and brand new pretty dress-

In between the panic and disgust, Lyssa realizes where she is. Alder has an offal pit on the edge of his property where he throws the corpses of monsters too corrupt to eat and the parts of animals he can’t sell. It’s been a while since the last large hunt, so most of the flesh has deteriorated into a thick liquid that covers the bottom of the pit and comes up to her ankles; but there are still bones hidden among the putrid sludge. Lyssa twists her ankle as she steps on a skull and splashes back down, coating her legs completely. Over the sound of her own retching and horrified sobbing, she can hear something. 

Laughter. 

Sage’s laughter.

And there are other voices too.

“Holy SHIT I can’t believe she actually fell for that! She must be just as stupid as she is weird!” Reed. Lyssa knows his voice. 

The second voice is harder to place, until Lyssa recognizes it as Forest; a boy who can be spotted dancing with Clementine at festivals “Gods, did you see her face? She looked like a lovestruck puppy!” 

“She even brought me flowers, can you believe it? I had my doubts, Reed; but I’m glad you talked me into this! I haven’t laughed this hard in AGES” Sage chimes in. As she gasps for air between giggles, she leans over the edge of the pit and throws the flowers down towards Lyssa “You can have these back! Gods know you’ll need them to cover up the stench!”

Lyssa doesn’t even bother looking up at Sage and the boys. She knows what their faces look like. The same wide smiles and narrowed eyes that have mocked her for her entire life. Instead, she just crouches down and sobs as the three continue to throw insults at her in between fits of laughter. 

It takes Lyssa a while to realize that they’ve left, and the laughter ringing in her ears is just her imagination. It takes her even longer to get out of the offal pit. It’s only about five feet deep, but the walls are slick with rotted gore and every time Lyssa thinks she has a foothold, it turns out to be a bone stuck in the ground that snaps under her weight, sending her splashing back into the pit. The first few rays of light are starting to appear in the east when she finally clambers over the edge of the pit, rotten blood and flesh dried into her hair and all over her body. 

Lyssa doesn’t go home right away. She stops by a small bend in the river that’s hidden from view and scrubs at her skin with the scarf she had stolen from Ma’s closet until most of the grime is gone. She can still smell it though, and she can still feel the maggots writhing in her hair no matter how long she holds her head under the water. When she does get home, Ma isn’t back yet. Lyssa washes herself off with soap, burns her ruined dress in the fireplace, and retreats to her room. She doesn’t bother greeting Ma when she gets back, even though she brought Lyssa her favorite sweets from the bakery in the next town over. In fact, Lyssa doesn’t say a word or eat for the rest of the day. Even the thought of food makes her stomach turn. Ma is concerned, but Lyssa shies away when she attempts to feel her forehead for a fever. She pretends not to see the concerned look on Ma’s face when she shuts herself back in her room. 

Mom arrives back from the hunting trip the next day, and Lyssa can hear them talk in hushed tones when she presses her ear against the floorboards of her bedroom. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong, she won’t talk at all. I’m sure it’s those kids from town again, but she won’t even give me a name”

“Calm down, love. You know we can’t just retaliate. Kids can be cruel, but you know what would happen if we just went on the warpath.”

“That is our DAUGHTER Marian, I don’t give a DAMN what the rest of the village does to us! What kind of parents are we if we just sit back and watch them traumatize her for the sake of keeping the peace?!” 

“Lyssa is tough. I’m sure she’ll be back to normal in no time. I’ll go talk to her, and see if she’ll say anything to me”

Mom stops by Lyssa’s door later that evening. She asks if she can come in; and when Lyssa refuses to respond, she instead speaks from the other side of the door. 

“Your mother and I love you very much, and you know we’d do anything to keep you safe. That’s what you do for someone you love. If you ever want to talk about what happened, both of us will always be willing to listen. I love you, little spark.” 

At that, Lyssa speaks for the first time since she got home. 

“I love you too Mom.” 

The next day Lyssa joins her mothers for breakfast. She’s still a little quieter than usual, and she has to clench her jaw against a sudden wave of nausea at the smell of food. But she manages to eat something, and the relief on Ma’s face makes her feel guilty for worrying her so much. It takes a few more days for Lyssa to start acting normal again, but once she does; Mom asks her if she’d be willing to go into town to pick up a whetstone from the blacksmith. Her sword had dulled over the course of the hunting trip, and she had lost her own whetstone a few months back.

Going back into town for the first time feels…strange. Lyssa never felt comfortable in town, but now she can feel the eyes on her; and she flinches every time someone looks at her for too long. Her one solace is that the blacksmith is on the opposite end of town from the butchery, so she won’t have to see Sage or Reed. But as she waits in the front of the shop, watching the flames in the forge dance back and forth; Lyssa hears a familiar laugh. One she used to look forward to hearing, but now it just makes her feel lightheaded and nauseous as she swears she can feel gore underneath her fingernails still. She doesn’t look towards the sound of the noise, she can’t bear to let them see her face right now; but there’s a mirror leaning on a nearby bench. Reflected in it, she can see Sage and Reed, along with Clementine. The three of them are stealing glances towards her and laughing, and she sees Reed pull a mockery of a terrified face while pointing at her. 

Lyssa clenches her hands into fists and stares pointedly ahead. She won’t look at them, she’ll just grab the whetstone and go home. “It’s fine” she thinks to herself “I’ll just hurry past them and not listen, I’ll be fine it’s fine I’m fine everything is FINE”

It only takes a couple more minutes for Bryn the blacksmith to come back with the whetstone, and Lyssa silently snatches the item from her and walks out into the street, gritting her teeth and clutching the whetstone so hard that it starts digging painfully into her hand. She can hear her three tormentors on the edge of her perception; but she stares straight ahead, focusing every bit of her attention on the road in front of her. 

This is a mistake. 

About halfway down the street, Lyssa notices a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision, and suddenly there are maggots in her hair again. Small white things burrowing and squirming and eating and moving and-

Lyssa shrieks in fear and drops the whetstone, flailing at her head and collapsing to her knees as she desperately tries to get rid of those THINGS before they touch her skin again and oh gods she thinks she’s going to throw up or cry or-

The maggots aren’t moving. As the panic starts to fade, Lyssa realizes her hair isn’t full of maggots at all. It’s full of rice, ordinary, uncooked rice. As she tries to process what happened, she looks up and sees Sage. She’s laughing so hard she’s bent over; and she’s dropped the remainder of the rice on the ground, small white grains spilling out onto the dirt. Lyssa remains on her knees, too shocked to even react. 

“Oh my-Ha-oh boy- you should have seen your FACE” Sage spits out between fits of laughter “I mean seriously, no wonder you fell for that trick last week, you’re so stupid you’re scared of rice! Fucking rice!” At this, Sage approaches Lyssa and kicks the remainder of the rice towards her. “I mean seriously, you can’t possibly have thought I’d actually like you, right? Gods, you’re PATHETIC, look at yourself” Sage gestures to Lyssa, still sitting on the ground, staring blankly up at Sage. With that, Sage turns around and starts to walk back towards Reed and Clementine. 

As Sage walks away, Lyssa can tell that she’s saying something; but Lyssa can’t hear anything other than her own pulse pounding in her head. The shock begins to wear off, and is replaced with a new feeling. Rage. Rage so intense that Lyssa can only focus on one thing. The back of Sage’s head. 

Lyssa gets to her feet, grabbing the whetstone as she does. 

“Freak”

She takes a step towards Sage, then another. 

“Pathetic”

 Lyssa rears back with the stone, her eyes still focused on the back of Sage’s skull.

“Monster”

Clementine’s eyes widen, and she opens her mouth to yell a warning. But it’s too late. 

*CRACK*

The whetstone collides with Sage’s head and makes a noise that Lyssa doesn’t hear over the ringing in her ears. Sage falls to the ground, screaming and writhing in pain while clutching the back of her head. But Lyssa isn’t done yet. She leaps on Sage with a strangled cry and starts tearing at her face with her fingernails, hitting Sage with her fists and the edge of the whetstone. Lyssa claws at Sage’s pretty brown eyes, knocks out her perfectly straight teeth, and tears out chunks of her beautifully curled hair. Reed rushes to his sister’s side to help her, but Lyssa swings the whetstone at his face and feels a rush of joy as it slams into his nose with a resounding *crunch*. Clementine is too scared to move, or even yell for help; staring at Lyssa with wide eyes. Lyssa doesn’t know how long it’s been when she feels arms wrap around her neck and chest, pulling her away from Sage. She shrieks with rage, clawing at this new person’s eyes with her fingernails and biting at the hand that’s holding her back until her mouth fills with the coppery tang of fresh blood. Lyssa yanks herself away from Bryn, who is now clutching a bloodied hand and grimacing. Panting, with her mouth and hands covered in blood that isn’t hers; Lyssa looks around. A small crowd has gathered, there are people trying to tend to Sage and Reed, someone is calling for the healer, and everyone is staring at her. None of them are laughing though. In fact, they’re all wearing an expression Lyssa hasn’t had directed at her before. Terror. Complete and utter terror. Lyssa usually hates it when they stare at her, but she doesn’t hate this. In fact, she likes it. Finally, they’re just as scared of her as she was of them. The idea of making an entire town terrified of her is so funny, Lyssa starts laughing. It isn’t her usual laugh, it’s loud and spiteful and makes the people in front of her shrink back in fear. Still laughing, Lyssa drops the bloodied whetstone and walks home. No one dares to follow her. 

Lyssa tells her mothers about everything when she gets home. Sage, the “date”, spending the night in Alder’s offal pit, and what she did in town. She expected at least Mom to be mad, to grab her by the shoulders and yell at her about hurting Sage; but both Mom and Ma just look upset and tell her to go clean up. Mom says she needs to go to her room, and not come down if anyone comes over until she says it’s okay. 

A few hours later, Lyssa hears pounding on the front door; and she jumps off of her bed and presses her ear against the floorboards. 

“Bring her out”

“You know I won’t do that, Alder”

“BRING THE LITTLE BITCH OUT I'LL KILL HER FOR WHAT SHE DID-” Alder is yelling now, but he cuts himself short when Lyssa hears the sound of Mom drawing her broadsword and setting it on the table. 

“Marian, Alder, there’s no need to resort to violence. We can talk about this-“ Lyssa knows that voice. It’s Juniper, the leader of the village. 

“Oh we are FAR PAST resorting to violence” Alder says, barely contained hatred seeping into his words. “That monster blinded my daughter! Laurel says that she’ll never regain her vision, even once her eyes heal! Lyssa has done permanent damage to Sage, and she deserves to be punished for that.” 

Lyssa thinks she should feel guilty after hearing this. She doesn’t. She won’t. Not after what Sage did to her. 

“Oh we’re talking about permanent damage? Do any of you want to own up to what your children have done to Lyssa over the years? Throwing rocks at her, shoving her down stairs, mocking her at every turn, throwing her into a pit of rotting animals!?” Ma’s comment garners nothing but silence from the other adults; so she continues on, her voice rising in pitch “None of you have ever done a DAMN thing while your children tormented Lyssa for YEARS, but when she finally retaliates, you want to hunt her like a damn MONSTER?!”

“Flora, they’re just children; you can’t blame them for-“

“SO IS LYSSA!” Ma roars, and Lyssa can hear the kitchen table rock as Ma pulls herself up to her full height, cutting off Juniper in the process. “Are you all really so ignorant as to believe that it’s okay for you to treat a child who has lived in Everglade her entire life like an outsider just because she wasn’t born here? You disgust me.”

After a brief, tense silence; Mom chimes in “We’ve done our best to remain civil; but after a certain point, protecting our child takes priority. I hope we can come to an agreement tonight, but just know that no possible option includes any of you leaving our house with Lyssa.”

“You want an agreement” Alder growls, standing up from the table, “I’ll give you an agreement. Lyssa is still a child, and as long as she remains a child I won’t lay a hand on her.”

Even from the room above, Lyssa can feel the people in the kitchen relax. 

“BUT” adds Alder, a smug tone creeping into his voice “the moment she comes of age, your monster child will no longer be a child. She will just be a monster. And I will treat her like any other monster that finds its way into my village. And if either of you try to protect her then, you will be treated like monsters as well.”

After Alder finishes speaking, silence hangs heavy in the air until Mom finally speaks up. 

“Juniper, are these your terms?”

Juniper’s voice cracks as they answer, but their response carries a sense of finality “Yes. Flora is a valued member of our village, and you have done a lot for us Marian. Because of that, we will spare Lyssa the consequences of what she did today until she turns eighteen. But once she is old enough, she will no longer be protected.”

“Then leave.” Mom’s voice sounds cold, and leaves no room for argument. The other adults file out of the house, leaving Mom and Ma sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Gods Marian, what are we going to do?”

“We’ll be fine. Lyssa is only fifteen, we just have to make sure that the three of us leave Everglade far behind before she turns eighteen. We have almost three years to plan.”

“Should we tell her?”

“No. I don’t want her to spend the last few years of childhood she has left feeling like she’s awaiting execution.” Mom stands up from the table and Lyssa can hear her set her broadsword on its mount near the front door. 

“I’ve lived here my entire life, I wanted my child to grow up here and become a part of the community that raised me-” Ma is crying now, her words forced out through tears. “I was stupid to think these ignorant people would ever accept someone from outside the village. We should have moved away to raise Lyssa, she would have been happier anywhere else” 

Mom walks over to Ma “Don’t blame yourself for this. It’s their fault. We’ll keep Lyssa safe. No matter what.”

Lyssa returns to her bed, guilt and fear and feelings she can’t properly name overwhelming her mind. It takes her a very long time to fall asleep. 

The next morning, Mom and Ma make no mention of what happened the previous night. Lyssa doesn’t say anything either. But she does make two promises to herself that day. 

That anyone who ever messes with her will meet the same fate as Sage. 

And that she will leave Everglade before she turns eighteen. Mom and Ma deserve a happy life, and if Lyssa is gone then the village will have no reason to hate them. 

For the next few years, life is almost better for Lyssa. Mom and Ma almost never send her into town for errands; and when she does go, no one even makes eye contact with her. Even Clementine crosses the street to avoid her. People still talk behind her back, and most of them will make a warding sign against evil if she crosses their path, but Lyssa doesn’t care. She likes this feeling, being feared. It feels good. It feels safe. As her seventeenth birthday passes and her eighteenth approaches, things begin to change. Mom and Ma keep talking about taking a “family trip” for her birthday, and Lyssa pretends she doesn’t see how Ma uproots all of her perennial plants or how Mom starts polishing her armor again. Lyssa begins to worry about where she will go when she leaves because she has to leave before Mom and Ma do, to give them a chance at a peaceful life here without her. 

Until one day, a stranger in gray robes shows her that they can make fire dance in the palm of their hand. And Lyssa starts to feel a pull.

#Player

[202027]

“Florida, like a piece of embroidery, has two sides to it—one side all tag-rag and thrums, without order or position; and the other side showing flowers and arabesques and brilliant coloring.” Harriet Beecher Stowe, Abolitionist, Author, 1896

 “The general wildness, the eternal labyrinths of waters and marshes, interlocked and apparently never ending; the whole surrounded by interminable swamps…Here I am then in the Floridas, thought I.”  John James Audubon, Ornithologist, 1831 

 “I just love it. I just love the way it looks. The way it feels. It’s such a strange place that seems to exist completely on its own. I just kind of, I can’t put my finger on it. It’s the characters and how it’s just such an extreme place.” Harmony Korine, Artist, Film Director, 2019

“Miami seemed not a city at all but a tale, a romance of the tropics, a kind of waking dream in which any possibility could and would be accommodated.” Joan Didion, Author, 1987 

“This is the most fantastic place that I have been yet in America.” Tennessee Williams, Playwright, 1941

“The Everglades were like a set of scales on which the forces of the seasons, of the sun and the rains, the winds, the hurricanes, and the dewfall, were balanced so that the life of the vast grass and all its encompassed and neighbor forms were kept secure.” Marjory Stoneman Douglas, Environmentalist, 1947 

“I’ve found peace in Florida.” Jack Keroauc, Poet, 1957 

“The place is a paradise.” Wallace Stevens, Poet, 1922 

“I am happy here, happier than I have been for years. The air is sweet, yes, literally sweet. I am renewed like the eagle. The clang and clamor of New York drops away like a last year's dream.” Zora Neale Hurston, Author, 1932

“Monotonous, they call this land of mine / Who do not know its sameness is a song, Who have not sensed the fact that its design / Is but a sweeping curve the tides prolong. They say that it is lush and overgrown, In need of winter with its wand of death; But they have never walked in groves alone / Where petalled snow came down with every breath, And they have never seen the startled flame / Of great flamingoes rushing toward the sun, Or traced along the quiet path they came / White egrets homing when the day is done.” Vivian Yeiser Laramore, Poet Laureate, 1931-1975 

"As I call upon my memories of a Floridian adolescence, I relive that invigorating sensation of driving down the freeway, when the weather is unsure of itself. One minute I'm driving past Flamingo Road through blinding rays of our state’s signature sun; the next I am ambushed by a torrential downpour– only to rediscover that familiar Florida sunshine waiting for me on the other side, just one mile away. I spent my most formative years in a paradise of contradiction, an endlessly flat and vividly green landscape of flamboyancy. My upbringing was nurtured by a hormonal climate that understood the fluctuations of my adolescent spirit. Florida is as blissfully confused as I once was." Camila Mendes, Actress, 2020 

“Is there anything more Florida than a flamingo?” Nancy Klingener, Writer, Radio Host, 2018

"For a photographer, being in Florida was like being sent to heaven before you die." Arnold Newman, Photographer, 1987

#florida #state

[nothingnothingaaa]

Walk of the Week: St Mullin's to Graiguenamanagh

By Christopher Somerville, April 09 2011 (Irish IND.)

The Norman lord who had a castle mound heaped up at St Mullin's, and a wooden-walled keep erected on top, intended the fortification to overlook the tidal limit of the River Barrow just below, a great place to extract tolls -- and to overawe the locals.

Castle, palisade, lord and tollhouse are long gone; the locals remain, and so does the motte, like a green suet pudding on a well-mown plate of grass. It's a fine place to scramble up for a panoramic view of the monastery founded by St Moling that made the name and fame of St Mullin's for close on a thousand years.

Girdled tightly inside a stone perimeter wall, weathered stubs of monastic buildings rise from a sea of ornate graveslabs and crucifixes like ruins in a fable. St Mullin's monastery is a remarkable sight, poignant in its death-like stillness and silence.

Looking down from the flat-topped motte, Jane and I let our imaginations supply the drifting smoke, scurry of lay workers and pacing of monks, crowing of cocks, barking of dogs and tolling of the church bells.

St Moling's life spanned almost the whole of the seventh century AD. He was a remarkable man, quite unlike most of the hermits who founded those early monasteries -- poorly educated men with fierce convictions in their heads and fish scales in their beards.

Moling was born a prince and ended up an archbishop. He was a poet and thinker, but also a man of his hands, who dug his own mile-long mill race, ground corn for anyone who asked him, and ferried folk across the Barrow on a raft he built himself. He managed to negotiate the abolition of taxes that were crushing the local peasantry.

The saint never knew the monastery's handsome abbey church, the ornate High Cross with its broad-faced crucified Christ, or the Round Tower, whose base stands alongside the abbey. All

these post-date him by many centuries. But the memory of the ferryman prince, the cures he wrought and the good he did in his long life are still well remembered around St Mullin's.

Jane and I spent an hour exploring the ruins. Then we went down to the River Barrow and turned upstream along the towpath, following the puddled track of the Barrow Way. The day was starting cloudy and thick, with drifting mist through the valley, so that the summit of Brandon Hill, when it appeared at last rolling free of the vapour beyond the river, seemed a slate-grey leviathan breaking clear of a level white sea.

'Do not fish for salmon or sea trout,' admonished the notice by the keeper's cottage at St Mullin's lock, a reminder that here, 20 miles from the sea, the Barrow finally reaches its tidal limit.

Short sections of canal bypass weirs, complete with locks, white-tipped gates and neat lock-keepers' cottages in immaculate gardens.

A swiftly walking shape ahead on the path resolved itself into the trim, alert figure of Brian Gilsenan. We'd made friends on a Blackstairs ramble last year, and here he was coming down the Barrow to walk back to Graiguenamanagh with us.

The weirs across the Barrow roared and frothed, the copper-brown water moving with the implicit power of a big snake. The narrow grass causeway of the towpath separated the river, its overspill ditches where lichen-bearded hazels and willows stood up to their hips in swampy floodwater, a Co Carlow version of the Everglades.

A floody, half-drowned, misty landscape through which we tramped the bank upriver to Graiguenamanagh.

Beyond the beautiful old seven-arched bridge and partially restored warehouse quays of the town loomed the square bulk of Duiske Abbey.

Forbidding from the outside, what a revelation within -- a soaring interior, delicately carved embellishments, arches and columns so slender and fluted they seemed hardly fit for the purpose of holding up the great walls and the intricate, boat-like roof.

Duiske, the greatest Cistercian monastery in Ireland in its heyday, wielded a temporal power of which the rustic monks at St Mullin's could only have dreamed.

Now both foundations stand in humility, one roofless and empty, the other magnificently preserved, for walkers and wanderers to wonder at.

WAY TO GO

MAP:

OS of Ireland Discovery Sheet 68. TRAVEL: R705 or R729 from Borris; R703 from Thomastown; R702 from Enniscorthy — all to Graiguenamanagh. Leave one car here; drive other car to St Mullin’s (minor road). Park in riverside car park below monastic site.

WALK DIRECTIONS:

From car park, uphill to explore St Mullin’s and monastic site; return to car park; right along River Barrow towpath (‘Barrow Way’) for four miles to Graiguenamanagh. LENGTH: 4½ miles. CONDITIONS: Level riverside path, can be wet and muddy.

REFRESHMENTS:

St Mullin’s: Blanchfields pub (00353 51 24745) or Mullicháin Café by river (11am-6pm, closed Mondays). Graiguenamanagh: Coffee On High café (00353 59 972 5725).

DON’T MISS:

Saint Mullin’s monastic site; view of Brandon Hill from the riverbank; Duiske Abbey, Graiguenamanagh. INFORMATION: Barrow Way: tcs.ireland.ie/dataland/TCS Attachments/311_TheBarrow Way.pdf. Guided Walks: Contact Brian Gilsenan on 00353 53 937 7828/00353 86 838 6460; mosscottage ireland.com. TIC: Tullow Street, Carlow. Tel: [phone]; carlowtourism.com

[imtooscaredforthis]

Basketcase

Chap 8- Homewrecker

Mentions of: Stabbing, Death, Killing, Murder, blood, gore, cheating, etc.

After another brief break at the campfire, you were thrown back into a trial, forced to run from another killer once again. It seemed that the entity was pissed, and didn’t even want to give you a chance of leaving the campfire. Which sucked because you were getting worn out. So very tired and weary of going from trial to trial, of the adrenaline, of the fear, of the pain. It was all too much.

You didn’t care if you had to never see Frank or your friends again. All you wanted to do was sleep. But right now, you couldn’t, since you just got put into another trial.

Yawning, you weaved through the tall everglade trees of the MacMillan estate, searching for a generator. Maybe you could find a mattress, or hide in the locker for the whole trial. You wanted to, but you knew if you did, the entity would have it’s crows find you.

You spotted a generator, jogging over and getting to work. You figured the faster you got these done with, the faster you could get the hell out of here. And maybe, just maybe, the entity would give you a break.

It wasn’t long before another survivor joined you, Kate changing her pace from a run to a slow walk. She had a distressed expression on her face, one telling you she caught sight of the killer.

You hoped it wasn’t anyone too bad, and you prayed please, to whatever god that was out there, please not the cannibal. You hadn’t heard the rumble of a chainsaw, or any shouting, so it seemed like you were in the clear.

“Who is it?” You whispered, just wanting to hear the answer so it could all be over with.

“Legion.” She replied as she helped you finish up the generator.

Again? Who could it be now?

“Which one?”

“The female one. Not the one with the big hoodie, but the other one.” She answered.

Fuck. That’s worse than Leatherface. You’d rather have any other killer, you’d even prefer getting drenched in puke by the plague rather than this.

“You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She asked, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder as you turned away from the now finished generator.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little lost in thought.” You replied, flashing her an anxious smile.

Some more time passed in the trial, and besides two of your teammates getting hooked, things seemed to be going decently. Maybe you wouldn’t even have to face her.

That was until you felt your heart rate began to pick up, and you hid under the window of a brick wall. You could feel her stare through it, as your heart went even faster and faster. But then, it was gone.

Right when you thought she left, you peeked through the window, seeing nothing in front of you, except for the empty forest ground. You didn’t realize she was behind you. Not until you heard her voice. “You bitch.”

Her tone was laced with pure anger, betrayal, and desire to hurt. And that’s when you knew, you were fucked.

“Shit!” You exclaimed, managing to jump out of the way right in time, and making her slash at the air.

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” She shrieked, and never had you found her so terrifying. Not even when you went against her normally in trials. She was furious, and you couldn’t even imagine what she was going to do to you.

You vaulted backward through a window, almost falling over, and going into a full-out sprint. This was probably the fastest you’d ever run. She was still following, hot on your heels, her frenzy kicking in.

You managed to stop for a brief moment, catching your breath next to a pallet. Julie continued running, moving around the pallet to try and get to you. Before she could, you reached the other side and dropped it down, stunning her in the process.

“Can we just talk?” You asked, trying to stop her.

“No, we can’t talk! You kissed my boyfriend!” She yelled, splitting the wood with one strong kick. Thank goodness no one was nearby to hear you two, or you’d have quite a bit of explaining to do.

Your chase continued, Julie still tunneling you. After vaulting a few windows, and dodging a few close blows, you reached one last vault that was right next to the boundaries of the realm, the only thing between you and her being the two brick walls.

You jumped the window, while she walked around the side to try and reach you. You hurdled to the other side, standing in the window while she faced you, huffing angrily. “I’m sorry. We were drunk, and I didn’t think, and I didn’t even know if what you had was serious-”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s serious or not! When I was trying to help you get a boyfriend, I didn’t mean you could take mine!” She vaulted the window in front of you, charging right at you.

You bent backward, dodging the swipe of her knife. Lord knows where you got those reflexes from. Maybe you were just lucky, or maybe she actually did want to listen to you.

It seemed your luck ran out, though, since she finally landed a hit on you, slicing your arm. You let out a sharp yelp of pain, focusing more on getting away than speaking with her. All it would take was another hit from her for you to be down on the ground, and once that happened, you knew it would all be over.

“What happened to apologizing?” Julie called after you, getting more greedy with her stabs, just barely missing you.

“Can’t we- can’t we talk about this later? At a better time?” You questioned between pants and pained groans.

“I don’t know. Can we?” She gritted her teeth, jamming the knife deep into your side, making you scream in pain. She pulled the blade out and watched you collapse to the ground.

“I’m sorry. I know what I did was fucked up, but, how- how can I fix things? What can I do?” You asked, looking over your shoulder at her, attempting to crawl.

“You broke the girl code, (y/n). I was your friend, and you kissed him. So, now, you’re going to have to pay.” With that, she moried you, stabbing your arm, and then your stomach, bringing the knife up and cutting you wide open. Even after, she continued stabbing you again and again and again while you heard the exit gates open. At least you used enough time for your teammates to get out.

#dead by deadlight #dbd #dbd x reader #dbd legion #frank morrison #legion dbd #legion frank #frank morrison x reader #legion julie #legion susie #legion joey #kate denson #leatherface #the cannibal #dbd killer #dbd survivor

[milquetoast-on-acid]

Milquetoast watches Sophomore Jinx

Sophomore Jinx S1xE6 Special Victims Unit: Episode Review

what this episode is about: Benson and Stabler suspect a pair of college basketball players of murdering a female student, but officials don't want to draw negative attention to the school.

What I think this episode is about:

Father/Daughter Growing pains

________________________________________________________________

Oooooh! Maureen you are so busted!!! If only Elliot hadn't been called in the middle of the night she might never have been caught.

I never realized how much SVU had originally focused on Elliot’s home life in the first season. Maureen specifically has had a significant role the past few episodes. Lots of teenage angst and how that effects Elliot.

Elliot: "Breathe on me." - Maureen is so creeped out by that. And she seems so confused. Hint: he wants to know if you've been drinking. Elliot is so haunted by his work he is suspicious of everyone. What's interesting here is that Maureen seems to be having a hard time with Elliot leaving all the time to go to work. In the middle of the night, in the middle of their dinner, in the middle of a PTA meeting.

Beat Cop: "who's going to look for that? (a rock)" "me? (incredulous beat cop)"  "You want us to go through the trash?" - Yes dip shit they do want you to look for that rock that killed the girl and go through the trash for evidence.

Elliot’s wardrobe in this show is always crap (thank goodness he gets himself a sense of style over in Italy). Olivia's clothes are so boring this season too.

Cragen: "triple the limit. There was a time when I yearned for a girl who could drink like that." Hahaha Cragen. This banter is gold. It's nice to see them hold inane conversation while also talking about the crime.

Love that the university is holding their own investigation into the woman’s death. Like that is going to do anything.

College Admin: "Riley your talking about a team mate." 

Munch: "We weren't asking you." Good comeback, Munch. This is a murder investigation, if you have information about the crime you really should tell Munch and Cassidy.

"We're not here to play, handsome."  ...huh? handsome? certainly doesn't sound like something he would say. 

I love that Elliot's nickname for Cragen is jefe. I don't recall him using that later on in the show.

"Stress." - That's not why she changed. She was raped. told yah! I don't know why the victims father is playing coy about what happened to his daughter. Her rape could be connected to her death or her killer. Like why are you hiding that?

Oh look a suspect that speaks Munch.

God Elliot and Olivia, really have that walk down. They are SO damned in sync. I wonder how often do they have to practice walking together like that to walk like that.

"BED STUY" - That's a city name!? hahahaha

How about you report the rape to the police and let them investigate it? Instead of assuming that the girl is lying and propping up the rapist. And assuming that he didn't do it.

Dickie: "I could ate a whole cow right now." - YES dickie that's hilarious

Elliot or Olivia: "Getting that shouldn't be hard with a couple of horny collage students." .

OMG it's Revered Al Sharpton! hahahah

It's interesting that the suspect is telling Munch that he won't test positive even though he had sex with the victim because they used a condom. So...why tell? I'm not quite fitting the pieces together yet.

Elliot & Olivia: I love how they already know where the other one went to college. One year into their partnership and these two have had some conversations. So apparently Elliot wanted to go to Everglades University because it was top rated by Playboy mag for having the highest sexual temp. It's a funny conversation but I think it high lights the fact that Elliot got married really young and never got a chance to enjoy the single life. Never got a chance to enjoy life and figure out who the hell he is before he became a dad.

Michele Herd has some bomb arms!

I love how the suspects mom is just addressing Munch. Even when Cassidy interrupts she keeps on going ignoring him.

OMG! This priest! This is what I was talking about earlier. The university is like we will do our investigation and then give this guy who raped the victim a pass. All he did was give him a freaking TALK. Like WTH! "In our world, behavior modification means prison time." YES, SISTER you go Olivia! Tell him like it is! Like do you really think he's just going to stop raping women after he had a stern talking to from the priest.

There's that switch blade again. Cragen really likes that switch blade...what's he going to do with it besides point with it?

Awe this is a sweet talk between Elliot and Maureen. It's good he told Maureen why he was so mad at her. That he's scared he'll find her raped or murdered. He wants her safe and not to be sneaking around.

hahaha! I love this conversation between them. Hell, any conversation between Elliot and Olivia i'm here and i'm engaged! I love how different they view the victims little memorial. Elliot's like this is schmaltz and no way am I having that when I'm dead. Olivia is like it's sweet and it's an outpouring of emotion. Also Elliot is like I will totally haunt you if this happens to my grave. Which is too cute, they are already friends for life.

Olivia to Elliot: "He bashes her into the building. Oh no no, you meant he hits her over the head with the building." hahaha

Olivia reads french poetry? That's interesting!

OMG why are they ALL in the intergation room!?

Olivia: "It's kinda like a bad french film noir." And then of course they have to shoot their close ups like a film noir.

"It's detective, not miss." OMG OLIVIA! You are my champion!

Olivia called it she did fall into the building.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!! Here's an example for you Cassidy on that sex crime you didn't know anything about in episode 2: "A Single Life"

"We don't bounce balls in the house." - hahaha! I love how the suspects mom is treating Cassidy like a little kid. "Watch your mouth." OMG! I love this woman! She's not holding back. She is all like this kid has NO manners! She would have sent his ass to boot camp if he had been her son.

________________________________________________________________

Final Thoughts: I didn't find the case all that engaging. 

Father/Daughter Growing pains - I found the best part of the episode was the storyline between Elliot and Maureen. More of the father/daughter growing pains. How Maureen growing up is effecting Elliot because of what he sees on a daily basis.

Chemistry of the Cast - The banter in the squad room is good! They feel like they all know and enjoy teasing each other on the daily. Even though Cassidy is the newest additon (9 months about at this point) they all have a great rapport. They can talk about the crime or just noting inparticular and still it sounds great. They all feel comfortable even though the show is new at this point and so is the cast.

Elliot & Olivia - They had some great conversations really about nothing important to the storyline and I am here for that! The conversation they had about colleges was fun. The conversation they had the memorial was also fun. Overall with these two the banter is fun and lighthearted in this episode. Olivia is a straight up bad ass in this episode! She was on fire. No she wasn't yelling at anyone, she wasn't chasing anyone and she wasn't shooting her gun. But she killed it by chewing out various suspects, witness's and cops in this episode.

Best Line - "It's Detective, Not Miss." She's a woman in a mans world, and she commands respect after earning her place in it! You better respect her! Plus this feels so very true to her character. If Olivia ever gets married she won't be known by Mrs. She'll be Captain (or whatever rank she holds at the time).

#svu reviews #svu season 1 reviews #svu season 1 #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit #elliot stabler #olivia benson #maureen stabler #e/o #benson and stabler #bensler

[woman-loving]

A History of US Bear Subculture

Selection from “A Concise History of Self-Identifying Bears,” by Les Wright, published in The Bear Book: Readings in the History and Evolution of a Gay Male Subculture, edited by Les Wright, 1997.

Roots In his 1991 introduction to The Bear Cult: Photography by Chris Nelson,[1] Edward Lucie-Smith attributes iconographic sources of bears to the 1950s gladiator movies starring bodybuilder Steve Reeves. Gay “physique studios” of the time reflected the predominant fashion of closely shaven faces and bodies. “Old Reliable,” a Los Angeles-based photographer of homoerotic wrestling, specialized in “natural” men, soliciting hustlers, punks, ex-cons, and other truly “rough trade” types off the streets (from the 1950s-1990s) to pose for his camera. Old Reliable’s models were street-smart scrappers, perhaps shabby, perhaps defiant, unquestionably blue-collar, or lower, class. A fat cigar in one hand and the middle finger of the other hand thrust into the camera’s face is the signature pose for Old Reliable’s models. John Rechy’s novels, especially 1963 best-seller City of the Night, serve as a record of gay male engenderment of this particular type in the urban subcultures of the late 1950s and 1960s.

Another informant, living in the Miami, Florida area during the 1970s, reports that when he first started coming out into the bar scene in his mid-twenties he encountered a cluster of “bears” that congregated in the Tool Room, a back bar area of Warehouse VIII, a “disco place.”

“[i]n the meantime, some counter-culture tabloid I read occasionally ran a cryptic personal ad for a Bears party, which would gather at a men’s bar called The Ramrod on a particular evening and time, so I bit. Not knowing the bar’s whereabouts, then learning the address and trying to find the unmarked place in the downtown darkness, I was late but not too late. A dozen of so men with beards, most of them husky, were piling out of the bar door as I was walking in. Two of them grabbed me by each arm, and one said “Great! You’re the even number!” Now I was just in the first stages of coming out, even to myself, but I let myself get swept away (with an alarmed smile on my face). I thought I was headed for my first orgy (gay or straight), but it turned out to be a real party at a home on one of the causeway islands between Miami and Miami Beach. Real men having a hell of a good time without a woman in sight. Imagine!! We watched the second half of the Dolphins game, played some cards, then sat outside under the moonlight, slowly pairing off and disappearing back indoors or off into tropical hiding places behind the patio.

I was out. I started hanging out regularly at the Ramrod, where any bearded local was greeted as “Hey, Brother Bear!” I checked out The Rack, a leather saloon, but the bear camaraderie was not present. A few Rack regulars were good-looking, beefy, bearded guys, but their bikes and image were their focus, not the bears among them. The bears continued to patronize the Ramrod and the Tool Room, or a larger bar in Fort Lauderdale called Tacky’s, but could be found in lots of neighborhood bars, too, like The Hamlet and The Everglades. Not only did we refer to ourselves as bears, but the term caught on among non-bears too.

It was too early in beardom, I guess, to have a Bears club or organization of any kind. Nobody thought of it. There were spontaneous parties arranged by word-of-mouth, picnics, beach volleyball. We even loaded three vans full of bears and invaded Key West.

You might think of Florida as an unlikely place to find bears, but bearded men were very common there in the 60s and 70s. When the disco era streamrollered fashion for straight and queer alike, it became less common. Many bears kept our beards, many left only a moustache. The Ramrod faltered and closed, 13 Buttons and The Copa flourished, as did all the big discos of the day. I became more private whit three bear affairs over five years, then finally met a cowboy in New Orleans on Mardi Gras and left Florida forever. We moved to Colorado in 1981 and had five great years together. I've been in Denver since 1986 and was later a founding member of one of the oldest bear clubs in the country, Front Range Bears.

But that’s another story.”[2]

Larry Reams has unearthed the first documented apparent uses of “bear” in the current sense. He has found among records of the Los Angeles-based Satyrs’ MC club the formation of a “bear” club mentioned in two entries from 1966.[3] Another source cites anecdotally a group of lovers of a “Papa Bear” in Dallas, Texas, as the start of the “bear community” “well before 1975.”[4] Several undocumented sources have related similar anecdotes of private circle or bar circles of self-identifying bears.

The first published description of gay “bears” appeared in a whimsical article called “Who’s Who in the Zoo: A Glossary of Gay Animals,” penned by George Mazzei in the Advocate, July 26, 1979. Larry Reams reports that he and his friend, the author,

“were standing in Griffs’, a Los Angeles leather bar, one evening discussing the types of men we were and those to whom we were attracted. We decided we were Bears and continued on to formulate what we thought constitutes a Bear. Once we had described Bears it was an easy step to look around the bar and create the rest of the article.”[5]

Because the type so strongly suggests aspects of both bear attitude and bear image, it is worth quoting in its entirety:

“Bears are usually hunky, chunky types reminiscent of railroad engineers and former football greats. They have larger chests and bellies than average, and notably muscular legs. Some Italian-American Bears, however, are leaner and smaller; it’s attitude that makes a Bear.

General Characteristics: Hair. Their tangled bears often present no discernible place to insert a comb. Laughter. Bears laugh a lot and are generally good natured. They make wonderful companions since they are prone to reach for the check, buy the next round and keep abreast of when the Trocadero is dancing this season. Their good humor can turn threatening if you attempt to cruise their trick and you will hear about if for weeks afterward. [...]”

Jack Fritscher was creating and documenting a similar impulse in San Francisco contemporaneous to this Los Angeles subculture. Those pre-AIDS years in the Castro and South-of-Market subculture are documented in the roman à clef Some Dance to Remember. Recorded in the novel is an account of Fritscher’s short-lived underground magazine called Man2Man, a direct precursor to the first incarnation of BEAR magazine. The “homomasculinity” of Fritscher’s philosophical quest was summed up in the magazine’s subtitle: “What you’re looking for is looking for you!”

First-Wave Bears of the Zeitgeist, 1986-1989

The energy that called itself “bear” appeared as one of the signs of reemerging gay communal life following the arrival of AIDS in the 1980s. After several years in a state of shock, emotional devastation, eating more, perhaps exercising less, continuing to age, and ready for a somewhat slower and more compassionate pace of gay sex and gay social life, “hibernating” clones, leathermen, and many other self-identifying types came back to gay public spheres as “bears.” AIDS led many of us to put on extra padding and to eroticize (or publicly admit to our erotic desire for) male bulk. Feminists, such as Andrea Dworkin and Mary Daly, had articulated the mechanisms of patriarchal/capitalist subjugation through the “beauty myth.” The tyranny of the “Castro (or Christopher) Street clone” had been breached.

Since the late 1970s, in counterpoint to the “endless party” spirit of gay life, increasing numbers of gay men were burning out on the alcohol and recreational drugs. Alcoholism has been, and remains, a serious problem in the gay community. The drug experimentation of the “love generation” had turned into a nightmare before AIDS arrived. Now, for the first time, many were experiencing another sense of self, a “sober self,” a discovery of self-respect, which allowed them to bring to a halt these self-destructive behaviors. Across the country sobriety became not only fashionable, but even “politically correct.” Discussion of the uses and misuses of the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous belongs elsewhere. Relevant to bears is the rise of self-esteem among gays--whether through sexual “liberation” or adoption of cultural norms of the moment.

The self-empowerment movements of the 1970s, the nurturance and “safe space” strategies of 1970s feminism, the ever greener alternative impulses of rural gays, Radical Faeries, and nongay-identifing men-loving men (as disseminated, for example, through RFD magazine), and the fundamental strategy of Stonewall politics--coming out--prepared the way. For gay men, who had come out as gay, as sober, as HIV positive, as leathermen, it would seem “natural” to come out--yet again--as a bear. On the one hand, Stonewall-era identity politics shaped the Zeitgeist. On the other hand, for many men-loving men who did not identify with any of the images of gay men in the gay press or with (usually) urban gay men they had encountered on trips to a city, their first encounter with the idea or an embodiment of a “bear” would strike pay dirt. Many have reported immediate identification, sometimes after years or decade of not “fitting in.” Twelve-stepping and two-stepping were new venues for socializing, for being in community without an explicit exhortation to sex. It gave us another chance, a utopian moment, in which to reinvent ourselves and our community.

“Bears” have been emerging as successor to the “clone” and as transmutated variant of “leatherman,” as an integration into gay mainstream social life of “girth-and-mirthers.” In many ways, it was a humanizing response to what clones had been. Martin P. Levine, in his study “The Life and Death of Gay Clones,” focuses on the urban enclave of West Village clones (Manhattan), noting that “AIDS, gay liberation, male gender roles, and the ethics of self-fulfillment, constraint, and commitment”[7] were the sociocultural shapers, creating and destroying this gay male subculture. Bears, during the 1980s, represented a break with the competitive and objectifying tendencies which had alienated so many Stonewall-era gay men. Bears continued the tradition of masculine identification, the social identity politics of gay liberation, and basic Enlightenment values of equality, self-determination, and self-fulfillment. Bears sought to ameliorate between socially isolating cliques and creating safe social spaces, comingling social and sexual spheres, merging rough, unkempt masculine iconography with the emotional nurturing lacking in the clone subculture and the caretaking many gay men felt called to as a direct result of the AIDS epidemic.

The point of titration came in 1987. The “Bear Hugs” parties, the advent of BEAR magazine, and developments in electronic communications were the catalysts that sparked the concept of the self-aware, self-identifying bear across communities. First, computer bulletin boards and then listservres and moderated mailing lists made communications instantaneous and were collectively dubbed “cybearspace.” All three significant events took place or are tracable back to San Fransisco, independent each other but with an unexpectedly synergistic effect all together. All three represented, each in its own way, a “safe space” for bears.

Play Parties A group of friends began organizing private “play parties” in Berkeley and San Francisco in 1987, as safe and warm gatherings--social and sexual for their friends and friends of friends. Private, invitation-only “jack-off circles” became popular during the AIDS sexual freeze, but these were an alternative social and sexual space for gay men who felt “left out”--out because they did not fit, or felt like they did not fit, the gay media images of “beauty”--young, tanned, smooth-skinned, blond LA surfer boy “twinks.” Their “difference” was both physical and perceptual, and was expressed through a social and sexual inclusiveness--men in their thirties, forties, and fifties, ranging from slender to stocky to chubby (though generally on the heavier side), usually with beards and perhaps body hair, and from a range of social classes. The common mold was a warm, nurturing, affectionate attitude toward each other. The intimacy of the early days changed, however, when the gatherings grew to over 100. By 1989, a larger space and a more formalized “guest list” became necessary.

This San Francisco group was the spawning ground for several later developments. Among them were Bear Fax Enterprises, a business privately owned by Ben Bruner and Bill Martin. The International Bear Expo, which ran for three years in San Francisco (1992, 1993, and 1994), the effort of dozens of local bears, was overseen by a steering committee, many of whom later founded the Bears of San Francisco and the International Bear Rendezvous. The “International Mr. Bear” competition and title were introduced at Expo ‘92; John Caldera, the first title holder, eventually acquired ownership of the tile, and the contest has been held annually ever since.

“Bear soup” became a widely adopted idea. In many places it refers specially to hot tub parties, though often with the implication of an orgy or private sexual pairings later in the evening. Sometimes “bear soup” seems to refer merely to a crowded space full of bears. The Bear Hugs group in Great Britain is a strictly social organization.

Similar groups, such as the OzBears of Sydney, Australia, and the Bear Cave parties in Manhattan, had started up for purposes of private socializing, and formed the basis of new groups that developed into bear clubs dedicated to social activities or even community work. As organized bear clubs have arisen and sex clubs started advertising a weekly “bear night,” these play parties have all but disappeared.

BEAR Magazine At about the same time, Bart Thomas began putting together a small, photocopied underground magazine he called BEAR . The magazine was, at first, local to San Francisco. It consisted of jack-off photos and personal ads. The reader could send in appropriate photos of himself or stop by the BEAR office and pose for the magazine. In some ways, BEAR may be seen as the direct successor of Jack Fritscher’s Man2Man underground magazine of nearly a decade before. Before he could actually launch the magazine, Thomas succumbed to complications form AIDS, but not before passing the torch to his friend Richard Bulger.

Bulger’s vision of a lifestyle magazine, articulating this masculinity, with a leftist sexual political slant, and embedded anthropological underpinnings, not to wax abstractly, but to act, to embody the principles through practice and a level of discourse clear to any blue-collar man. In a few years’ time the magazine expanded in size and status, and from word-of-mouth circulation to international commercial distribution, with a full line of videotapes, photo sets, and accessories.

In this 1993 study of BEAR magazine, Joe Policarpio describes the dual aspects of image and attitude stressed by publisher Richard Bulger through his choice of models and editorial content. The general profile of a “bear” includes at least some facial hair and some body hair (”usually the more the better”), a “musky animality,” a blend of traditionally masculine aggressiveness and (feminine) desire to cuddle, muscles by Nautilus or physical labor, and a tendency to be older than the models found in most other gay male porn magazines. “The most important point is these men are presented as fitting an ideological pattern the magazine espouses. This is one of freewheeling, playful and positive attitude toward sexuality between men. He is comfortable in his body and exudes a sense of self-assurance.”[8]

Because of personal ties, BEAR magazine was from the start intimately connected with the South-of-Market bar scene. The original Lone Star Saloon was the first “bear bar,” and followed the tradition of the Ambush and the Balcony, both of which had gone out of business early in the AIDS epidemic. These “sleaze bars” all developed an international reputation. They all offered a free-spirited, anarchic, anything-goes ambience, drawing in blue-collar types who disdained the middle-class pretensions of mainstream gay culture, those who sensibility combined social rough edges with the loyalty ethic of the American lower classes, and misfits, eccentrics, and other “rugged individual” types historically drawn to frontier towns and their saloons.

“Cybearspace” Direct electronic communications over the Internet developed and proliferated during the 1980s and 1990s. Word-of-mouth knowledge of bears spread very rapidly across the Internet. The preponderance of bears on-line or in computer fields is traceable back, in part, to this. One of the most often used private or personal uses of the Internet, regardless of sexual orientation, is for communications of a sexual nature. The lines of communication are numerous and diverse: live chat lines (IRC), BBS (electronic bulletin boards), unmoderated (echoed) an moderated mailing lists, websites, CU See ME (live video transmission), and e-mail. Altogether an individual can transmit or receive text, images (such as gif or jpeg), sound, and video images (nearly) instantaneously. The Internet allows for establishing and maintaining contact anonymously, for uncensored communication, for the exchange of visual images (yourself, your friends, your favorite sexual icon), and for echoed messages (broadcasting to all subscribers of a mailing list of a global mailing to everyone in your e-mail address book). Certain mediums (such as the IRC) can guarantee anonymity (no clues as to personal identity or physical appearance). The question of subverting prejudgment on the basis of appearance becomes moot, however, when we consider the proliferation of visual mediums, such as webpages, archived gif and jpegs, or CU SeeMe, which permit blatant self-advertising based on one’s appearance without revealing one’s name or location.

Early on, circa 1985-1988, there were several bear-dedicated bulletin boards, such as the PC Bear’s Lair (sysop Les Kooyman). The bearcave chat room on the IRC has been a very popular site in cybearspace for live conversation. While the option of remaining anonymous is always available (everyone uses a “handle,” or pseudonym), cyber-communities have evolved over time. This may range from sexual encounters to personal friendships to life partners.

By far the most popular cybearspace is the Bears Mailing List, or BML. Founded by Steve Dyer and Brian Gollum in 1988, it grew from a small, friendly, safe-feeling cybergathering of several dozen bears to a heavily subscribed, largely anonymous, and often fractious, moderated exchange of over 3,000 subscribers. Since 1995 Henry Mensch and Roger Klorese have been moderating the BML and introducing changes to accommodate the dramatic shift in tenor and purpose of the list. Subscribers are drawn from all fifty states and several dozen nations worldwide. English is the lingua franca although everything, including whether to have and who should determine a common language (and how), has been brought up for discussion. Bob Donahue’s somewhat tongue-in-cheek rough guide to “bear codes,” which was accessible from the BML archives, is the source of subspecies terminology within the bear community, such a cub, otter, behr, and the like. Numerous individuals have taken the code in all seriousness and this has become a source of contention, quoted by both sides in disputes over what is a “real” bear. [...]

Although not the only cybear group to do so, the BML has staged several informal, in-person gatherings of its subscribers  During Stonewall 25 in New York City, for example, some sixty to seventy BMLers gathered at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park on the day before the parade. Consensus determined the group should form a spontaneous contingent and march in the parade. And thus on Sunday, Stonewall 25 included a sizable contingent of mostly bearded, bearish-appearing gay men from all across the country and from abroad.

Second Wave: formalizing, 1989-1994

Bear Clubs As the concept of bear circulated between gay communities across the country and “news of recent developments in the gay capital” was drawing more comers to San Francisco, localized efforts to promote and organize bears appeared everywhere. The Bear Paws of Iowa, co-founded by Dave Annis and Larry Toothman in 1989, was the first bear club. By 1992, Bear Expo organizers were aware of four such clubs. Two years later, there were forty. According to the International Directory of Bear Organizations, maintained by The Tidewater Bears (Virginia), as of January 1996, there were 137 bear clubs or explicitly bear-friendly (girth-and-mirth and leather) clubs worldwide.

Bear clubs have generally followed along the lines of their older cousins, the lather motorcycle clubs. In some places this means an informal club that schedules periodic social events. In other places, this has translated into a great deal of fundraising and gay community civic activities. As the club model has gained wider acceptance, it has drawn long-standing problems endemic throughout the gay community into its sphere.

A formal club membership structures creates automatically an insider/outsider division, even if membership is “open to all” (usually defined as “bears and their admires”). Having a club also invites quibbling over definitions of who is a “real” bear. (This is borne out by regional differences, whether emphasis has been placed on body hair, on body weight, or on “attitude,” though a beard or moustache seems to be universally required). Clubs and organizers of events, such as the OctoBearFest (Denver), Orlando Bear Bust, Bear Pride (Chicago), European Big Men’s Conference, or the International Bear Rendezvous (San Francisco) have created bear contests, which engenders the very hierarchical system the earlier bear impulse had been resisting.

Finally, the disjunctive ideals of bears as working-class masculinity and bears as an increasingly distinct subculture within mainstream gay culture bring into sharp relief the larger issues of gay community. If bears began in a spirit of inclusiveness and egalitarian-mindedness, sex positive and relatively “anti-looks-ist,” then what is to be made of the increasingly conformist, consumerist, competitiveness that has take over? As the idea of bears has spread, the opportunities to travel far and wide, to purchase ever more and ever more costly bearphernalia, to update an expand one’s computer sources are generating another, unanticipated dividing line-between bear haves and bear have-nots. to what extent does having money now calculate into the formulas of who is a “real” bear?

Expanded Print Media As BEAR magazine rapidly grew in format, production values, and circulation, reception among gay mainstream media remained very lower. The first published serious essay on bears was a piece I wrote in 1989. It appeared in its entirety in Seattle Gay News, an abbreviated version in the San Francisco Sentinel, and Drummer magazine carried the “Sociology of the Urban Bear” as the first bear cover story in 1990. (It was reprinted in Classic Bear, February 1996.)

What became known as bear types had been featured, in one way or another, in RFD (rural), in Chiron Rising (”mature”), in leather/SM-oriented, and girth-and-mirth publications. Numerous niche-crossover magazines sprang up in the early 1990s--Bulk Male, The Big Ad, Husky, Daddy, Daddybear, GRUF. Bearish models began staring back at the reader from the pages of Advocate Men, Honcho, In Touch, and other gay mainstream glossies. BEAR magazine’s direct competitor American Bear, published by Tim Martin (Louisville, KY) took advantage of a lacuna left by BEAR magazine’s retreat from Bulger’s philosophical lifestyle magazine publishing. With the establishment of the bear icon in the gay community and the world of mainstream-gay print advertising, gay bears had become a local presence everywhere (not just in San Fransisco). And with interests, at least sometimes, beyond immediate sexual gratification, this translated into new niche markets. While American Bear Features a regular column on dissonant (HIV-positive/negative) couples (Bulger adamantly refused to mention AIDS in his magazine), a how-to column on accessing the Internet, and other features, none of the bear magazines have attained Playboy-calibre intellectual content.

In the early 1990s “bear war” broke out when Bulger, then owner-publisher of BEAR, sought to gain sole ownership of the word “bear” as his company’s trademark. Needless to say, this led to a lot of bad feelings and was widely followed and criticized in cybearspace. The Advocate even mentioned it in print. At the time, the Bear Hug group’s informal newsletter the Bear Fax had been expanded into a full-fledged magazine by Bill Martin. The lingering legacy of this “war” was a schism, based on a difference in basic body types typically portrayed in each magazine, between “fat bears” and “skinny bears.” Since this time, personals ads have proven far more profitable, and the bulk of the magazine currently consisted of personals ads, photo spreads, and commercial advertising.[9] The magazine was sold to Bear-Dog Hoffman in 1994 and is currently under Joseph Bean’s editorship. It is not clear which direction the magazine will go. It is clear that BEAR is the voice of authority in matters of bear community and sensibility.

Print media as gone a long way in generating a prototypical bear icon--full-bearded, fairly to very hairy, beefy to chunky GWM baby-boomer, probably of Irish, Jewish, Italian, Scandinavian, or Armenian heritage. In reality, the question of race, presence or absence of body hair, body build, social class, or outlook on life is anything but so neatly compartmentalized. BEAR magazine introduced the serious photographic work of Chris Nelson (as Brahman Studio) and Steve Sutton (who succumbed to complications from AIDS in 1994). Lynn Ludwig has established himself as the documenter of the San Francisco bear community. And, perhaps, the most gifted photographer of bears is Los Angeles-based John Rand, whose work is included in this book.

Bear Contests The bear calendar includes many regional gatherings, as mentioned above, as well as annual bear contests as the local club level. The highlight of such events is often the bear content. As Lurch, a popular bear icon, stand-up comic, TV actor, and psychiatric nurse, has put it, “I prefer to say ‘titleholder.’ ‘Winner’ implies ‘losers,’ and none of us are losers.”[10] Successful bear contest titleholders may be expected to organize or work a number of fund-raisers, go on public speaking engagements and represent their hometown or club on the road. In other places, the local bear club may be one of the few, or even the only social outlet, and merely being a known presence in the local community is the extent of the titleholder’s “duties.”

The emergence of bear contents has tended to straddle the fence between two sides--parodying traditional gay ideals of beauty while striving to establish a new, legitimate bear ideal. The International Mr. Bear contest, a component part of the San Francisco-based International Bear Expo, evolved in its first three year from poking somewhat self-conscious fun at traditional gay values to striving in an increasingly serious manner to project an image of a self-confident bear ideal, a new icon assuming its place among the archetypes of male beauty. From the beginning there has been an emphasis on personal warmth, a compassionate nature, civic-mindedness in the gay community, and spiritual playfulness. Titleholders John Caldera (IMB ‘92) and Steve Heyl (IMB ‘93) worked hard during their “reign,” and have remained genuinely and deeply committed to the bear community. Yet, in the progression of titleholders and the proliferation of bear contests in recent years, here has been an increasing tendency toward consolidating a bear image, and away from qualities intangible or at least invisible to the camera.

#lgbtq history #bears #us history #united states #gay history #les wright #the bear book

[bradsmindbrain]

Russallis reactions to a lost puppy wandering over to their camp?

Puppy

Summary: During a walk through the woods, Jack and Ted stumble upon a lost canine.

TW: None

Ted enjoyed the woods that Jack’s backyard was connected to. Surrounded by nature, almost never another person in sight, and most importantly, an effective cover for getting to Jack’s house. So it was no surprise that he and Jack found themselves walking through it, simply taking in the sights and in Jack’s case, the smells. Jack had thought just walking through the woods would be a nice change of pace for them, rarely did they spend time enjoying nature while they were together, even when in the Everglades. 

He was the first one to notice the dog as they walked, a tiny golden retriever puppy, leash and collar still attached. He grumbled.

Jack turned to face him, a smile on his face, “Yes, Teddy Bear?”

He rolled his eyes, of course this just had to happen when he occasionally called Jack “Puppy” as a petname. He grumbled to clarify, pointing at the dog.

Jack’s eyes lit up, and he scrambled towards the dog. He gently picked it up, moving close to his face, “Poor little guy. Are you lost?” He gently patted its head as it liked his face. He watched Jack check the dog’s collar, turning back around to face him, “His name is Buddy!”

Buddy looked at Ted, giving a happy yip when he spotted him. It was odd, the dog didn’t seem to react with fear at all, but perhaps that was because Jack was holding him. Speaking of, he was more surprised Jack hadn’t reacted with aggression, he had expected Jack to see the dog as a threat to his territory or something similar, but it seemed like that wasn’t the case.

Jack approached him, holding Buddy up, “Come on Teddy Bear, he wants a pet.”

Tes did as he was instructed, gently rubbing the dog’s head before Jack pulled him back into his arms, cradling the canine. He grumbled, curious at what they were going to do. 

Jack tilted his head to the side, a gesture Ted had come to associate with Jack thinking or being curious, “Well we should take him back to his owner. They can’t be too far from here. I guess they took him on a walk and he got loose.”

He watched as Jack brought Buddy up to his face, visibly sniffing the dog. He knew Jack was an excellent tracker, he supposed it was to be expected given Jack’s wolf-like nature. After a moment, Jack pointed off into the distance, “That way.”

And so began their trek, Buddy in his husband’s arms as he followed close behind. He found his husband’s interactions with the dog to be quite cute, wiggling a finger in front of the puppy’s face and scratching his chin. He supposed that Buddy’s young age coupled with Jack’s wolf-like nature had led to the odd paternalism his husband was currently displaying towards the puppy. That was just a theory though, he was pretty sure most anyone would treat the puppy the same way Jack did. 

He’d always been fond of dogs, even before Jack entered his life and even before his accident. His family owned a handful of dogs growing up, and he loved all of them to bits, and seeing Jack play with and tease Buddy reminded him of those simpler times. Perhaps that’s why he found Jack’s dog-like mannerisms to be so endearing, as it reminded him of those happy years during his childhood. 

It wasn’t long until they heard a woman shouting, “Buddy? Buddy, where are you?”

He gestured to his husband to go forward as he laid down on the ground, trying his best to appear as an inconspicuous mound of plants. 

He heard Buddy yip as Jack moved farther and farther away, “Is this your dog, señorita?”

He heard the woman gasp, “Oh my God! Buddy, you found him!” Buddy yipped as he was reunited with his master.

“Me and my husband found him while we were walking through here. I sent him to look for you the other way,” Jack said and he assumed his husband gestures back the way they came.

“You’re a lifesaver, Mr…” the woman trailed on.

“Russell,” Jack interjected, audibly smiling. 

He heard Jack and her talk for a while, mostly just her profusely thanking him and Jack assuring her it was no big deal. Soon, he heard her leave, and once he was sure he was gone, he stood back up, Jack standing right in front of him. Jack smiled, “First a kid and now a puppy, I think you attract cute things just as much as you attract trouble, Teddy Bear.”

He rolled his eyes at the comment, grumbling.

Jack grinned, “I’m just joking, big guy, but you have to admit, Buddy was pretty cute.”

He gave a grumble in response, nodding his head.

Jack stretched his arms above his head, “I think that’s enough hiking for today, let’s head home.”

He grumbled, rubbing his hands together.

Jack nodded, giving that usual goofy grin, “Yeah, Italian sounds nice. I’ll order some when we get home. Maybe if we’re lucky we can pull a Lady and the Tramp with the spaghetti.”

He just rolled his eyes as they prepared to head back to Jack’s house, his husband was so stupid, but so, so funny.

#werewolf by night #wwbn #wbn #jack russell #ted sallis #man thing #marvel #mcu #russallis #my stuff #prompts

[prairiesongserial]

14.6

Friday hopped down from the truck bed amid the frenzy of a circus eager to make camp. She was used to the nightly routine by now. After a day of driving, crammed up against crates and each other, the circus was always noisy and jubilant when it came time to camp. Usually getting set up for the night was a delicate balance of gathering wood for the campfires, goofing off, getting out plates and cups for everyone, and taking generous breaks for feats of acrobatics. No one was walking on their hands tonight, though. Everyone still had the same pent up energy, but it buzzed around Friday on whispers. Enis and Cody had almost died.

Pebbles crunched under Friday’s boots as she walked a slow circuit around the place Johannes had chosen for their camp. It was going to be a long summer day; even though Friday was starving for dinner, there was plenty of sun reflecting off the surface of the lake. Friday walked right up to the water. It was surrounded on all sides by nubby mountains and thick woods. Deer paths sprouted from the rocky beach and disappeared into the surrounding trees. Experience or paranoia told Friday they might not all have been made by deer.

Friday let her eyes hover over the beautiful green water. There was a breeze here. She could almost relax.

Cold glass brushed her knuckles, and Friday jumped. She had heard footsteps on the rocks, but hadn’t assumed they’d been coming for her. Johannes was standing next to her, trying to pass her a beer. Friday looked around. Everyone else was still setting up.

“Maybe later,” Friday muttered, giving Johannes a half-hearted smile that quickly faded.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Johannes said, still holding the beer out to her. “People who had family members fall off a cliff today get to drink heavily while everyone else sets up.”

Friday gritted her teeth and stared at the lake. She supposed Cody was family; ‘friend’ didn’t seem to cut it, anymore. She felt a jittery energy similar to stage fright if she let her mind linger on what had happened. She gestured for the bottle without looking at Johannes.

“Why that trailer?” she asked as her hand closed around the glass.

“Good question,” Johannes said under his breath. Friday heard his footsteps retreat over the pebbles.

Camp built up around Friday like civilizations built up around mountains, lakes, and other immovable things. The afternoon light was turning gold. Campfires sprang from the earth. More people had beers or flasks in hand, and the scents of tobacco and marijuana mixed with the woodsmoke. The tension was leaving the air, and the lakeside grew louder, chasing the last vestiges of anxiety away. Some people were going swimming. By one of the campfires, a girl Friday knew from the burlesque tent had brought out an instrument that looked like a cross between a guitar and a violin; Friday had seen it before, and had been meaning to ask Ezra what it was called.

Friday wandered away from the lake edge. Her nails clicked against the glass of her beer bottle; she took a sip just to have something to do. She felt the urge to account for her accident-prone family. Except that wasn’t the word. Cody wasn’t accident-prone; he was a magnet for intentional violence. Every bounty hunter in the States wanted him. Hemisphere wanted him. And they all wanted Friday, Val, and John no less so, just from being in Cody’s periphery long enough. How long until wanted posters went up for the Madsen and Graves brothers, too?

Friday spotted Val for the first time that day, and half the weight sloughed off her shoulders. She hadn’t even been consciously worried about him, but seeing for herself that he hadn’t been yanked into the woods by Born Again assassins was a load off her mind. She really needed to finish that beer.

Val was working on a pile of dead branches, breaking them up into smaller pieces. He stepped on the bottom half while he pulled the top half in the opposite direction, using his whole body to splinter each branch apart. He was sweaty and focused. Friday could envision with perfect clarity Johannes’s failed attempt to get him to relax with a beer. Friday had suffered ten years of those conversations; Johannes hadn’t had a prayer.

Friday’s attention was yanked away from Val by the sound of Enis’s raised voice. She hadn’t seen him at first, but did now, as he stood up abruptly from behind the nearest truck.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he snapped. Friday heard something heavy strike the ground. She caught a glimpse of Enis’s flushed, upset face and turned herself away so it at least wouldn’t look like she was eavesdropping.

“Okay, it doesn’t make sense,” repeated a much calmer voice - Ezra’s, Friday thought. She kept her eyes focused on Val as he struggled to split a thicker branch. “We’re not going to be able to figure out what happened, with the trailer gone. Let’s leave it for now, okay? Johannes and I agreed that now that you’re old enough to fall off a mountain, you’re old enough for a beer.”

“Hilarious!” Enis snapped back. “You really don’t understand why this is important? All the rest of the hitches look fine, okay, but maybe they’re not, and with the trailer gone, I’ll never know what I did to fuck up the other one, so that means I might do it again.”

“You didn’t fuck up - ” Ezra began.

“You don’t know that!” Enis yelled. “Will you just - just stop babying me.”

Friday decided it was past time to sneak away. She wanted to talk to Val, not that she really had anything to say, but she also didn’t want to walk right past the fight she was listening to. She’d circle back.

Cody was sitting next to the mystery-instrument player by the fire. He looked okay. He had his guitar out, and he was cracking up the half-dozen other people around the fire as he tried to accompany left-handed.

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” he said, laughing.

Suddenly Val was right next to her, and Friday got the fluttery feeling of having been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. Val kept walking past her, but the feeling didn’t go away. He deposited a pile of the branches he’d split by the fire. He turned around to walk back.

“Um, hey,” Friday said, stepping into his path.

“Hey,” said Val. He was out of breath, and much sweatier up close.

“We’ve been in separate trucks the last couple days,” Friday said. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Val gave her a curious look. Friday realized abruptly that he looked different. There was way less tension in his posture. He’d sweat through his white shirt, but rather than hunch over or hold his arms just so to block the view of the bandages underneath, quirks of his that had never registered as unusual, Val didn’t seem to care. He was fighting a curl that had fallen into his eyes. He even looked at home in that horrible haircut Johannes had given him. Friday tried to recover her train of thought.

“Do you want to talk?” she said. “Catch up, maybe figure out what the hell happened this week?”

“Um, yeah,” Val said, still catching his breath.

Friday led Val further from the fire, slipping outside the circle of trucks and trailers to where the evening was quieter.

“Enis seems upset,” she said, when Val didn’t start the conversation.

“I heard,” he replied.

“Do you think it’s weird?” Friday said abruptly. “That the trailer just...poof! Down the mountain. Just like that.”

Val looked at her funny.

“It is weird!” she continued. “Enis knows what he’s talking about, and he thinks it’s weird. And it’s really weird because no one ever rides in the storage trailers. Except today, Cody does, and suddenly today’s the day that a trailer - the one he’s in - goes crashing to the bottom of a ravine?”

When Val took too long to respond, Friday held out her arms in an abrupt there-you-have-it gesture, sloshing beer over her fingers. Val crossed his arms over his chest.

“So that’s what this is about. Now you think Johannes is trying to murder us,” Val said quietly. “Enis was in the trailer, too. Pretty cold.”

Friday blinked at him.

“I’m sorry, are we in a fight?” she asked, the pitch of her voice rising.

Val raised his eyebrows. “We’ve been fighting since Everglades City.”

“Things have been weird since Everglades City, but…”

“Right, because you freaked out on me about going to Kill Devil Hills, then you freaked out on Johannes when we came back, and we haven’t talked since.”

That wasn’t right. They’d talked. Friday furrowed her brow. They hadn’t talked about anything important, though. They hadn’t dealt with anything.

“I earned that freakout. You got hurt,” Friday said, hating the petulant tone of her voice but too annoyed now to stop. “And you know what, you earned Everglades City. I did drag you around all day for nothing. It sucked. Sorry.” Even saying the name of the city had the stench of salt water in her nose again, had her remembering vomiting alone in a rowboat in the dark. Friday took a big sip of beer, grimacing at the carbonation.

“I don’t want to do Everglades City again,” Val said. “I don’t want another made-up mystery. I know this is just because you hate Johannes and want a reason to go through his stuff. And you won’t trust me!” Val huffed. “I keep telling you he’s a good guy under the persona, and you won’t… He’s not Macomber.”

No, he’s Hezekiah, Friday thought, biting back the reply just in time. Johannes was exactly what Friday pictured when she imagined the smarmy salesman who had road tripped with an eighteen year old Val from New Orleans to Vegas, a man Friday hadn’t even known about until Oklahoma, because it had taken Val ten years before he could talk about him. Val was the one who was going to get hurt again, not Friday. And he was completely blind to it. Did he even know he liked Johannes that way? Friday couldn’t get into this.

“Well, good talk,” she snapped. “Good progress. Let’s pick up this fight again next time something horrible happens. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll be the one to fall off a mountain, and no one will try to make a made-up mystery out of it.” She paused, out of breath, already regretting whatever the hell had just spilled out of her mouth. “I’ll be at the campfire.”

Friday stormed away. She turned the corner around the first truck she came to and slammed her beer down on a crate that had been half-unloaded, then started angrily stripping down to her underwear. There’d be time for the campfire. She was going to jump in the lake and scream underwater as loud as she could.

14.5 || 14.7

#story

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

Chapter 51: Changeling Rite Of Passage

Becoming the Mask

Bold italics are trollish.

+=+

"Everybody set?" asked Jim, adjusting his backpack. "First aid kits, water, emergency rations?"

Mary patted her bag. "Plus a solar-powered phone charger and fully-charged credit card, in case we get stuck in Florida and have to get home the human way."

"You're sure bringing our weapons is okay?" Darci asked Glug, who had agreed to join them. "I mean, showing up with swords and spears doesn't exactly say 'peaceful diplomatic party'."

"Everyone needs a good spear," said Glug lightly. "Never know when you find something to hunt. Or something hunts you."

"This way," said Blinky, turning. He was guiding them through the lower levels of Trollmarket.

It was a mostly residential area which the humans hadn't explored yet. The light here was softer and multi-coloured, coming from various crystals besides the Heartstone. There were still occasional market stalls. They gave Darci the impression of neighbourhood corner stores, rather than the more downtown-ish feeling of the main market area.

Blinky led the way down a sloping path, through a doorway, and paused to gesture dramatically.

"Behold, young ones. The Gyre."

It rose from the floor, rotating into what Darci assumed was the 'ready' position.

"Oooooh."

"That's the coolest troll-y trolley I've ever seen," said Toby.

It looked like a gyroscope, between two side-mounts instead of a central base, and with a boat-like structure in the centre. Or one of those models of an atom, with the electron orbit paths mapped out. Or those depictions of angels as multilayered interlocking wheels.

They climbed up the thin staircases on either side of the basket while Blinky continued to deliver exposition.

"No longer do trolls have to travel on hoof between our markets. Now, thanks to a series of tunnels and some creatively engineered machinery, we can take a journey that would last weeks in only moments!"

AAARRRGGHH spun the outer wheel of the vehicle to kickstart it, and got out of the way rather than climbing into the basket with the rest of them. The stairs folded back.

"You're not coming?" Toby asked.

AAARRRGGHH shook his head, his ears set low. "Hate Gyre."

"What so bad about the GYYYYYYYRRRRRREEE–?!"

Inertia pushed the passengers to the back bench. How Blinky was able to stay standing at the controls was a mystery. The six-eyed troll cackled, his four hands dancing over the control panel, pushing buttons and turning knobs and pulling levers with perfect timing to adjust their course down a series of forking tunnels.

It was the scariest and most exhilarating ride ever.

They slammed to a stop and the passengers fell forward, still screaming.

"We've made excellent time!" said Blinky brightly. "You see, was that so bad?"

"Yes," said Jim, rolling off the pile of twitching bodies. "Yes, it was."

"I've got some saltines in my purse," said Claire.

"I think I need, like, a gallon of ginger ale," said Mary.

"For once I don't think I can eat anything," said Toby.

"That was awesome!" said Darci. "It was like, the world's best roller coaster! Is that as fast as it can go?"

"Nooo, don't tell us," moaned Claire. "I don't wanna know."

The humans untangled themselves shakily. Glug had apparently kept her balance, clinging to the basket's side. Darci made a mental note to do that next time.

The Gyre station did not open to another Trollmarket. They climbed up a steep tunnel, and emerged into a swamp.

It was dark. They'd timed their trip to arrive shortly after sunset in the Everglades. The world seemed to be made of green shadows and distant stars. Jim's armour glowed a little, but not enough to work as a flashlight.

"We should probably hold hands to make sure we don't get separated," said Jim softly. "Move slow. Try to test the ground before you put your weight on it."

The humans and Changeling latched onto each other – Darci took the end of the line, since her crossbow couldn't be hung from her hip like a sword or hammer – and followed the tall, rectangular shadow of Blinky deeper into the swamp. Glug blended in too well to guide them.

Darci's eyes gradually adjusted enough to see Glug when the troll got close. She could see how Toby had his hand on Claire's elbow instead of holding her hand, so Claire could use her spear as a walking stick. Darci started walking a bit more confidently. So did everyone else.

She felt a sudden jerk on her arm as Mary, between Darci and Claire in the lineup, stumbled.

"Whoa!"

"Wha-?"

"Ow!"

"Everyone okay?" Jim asked once they all stopped yelping. Nobody had actually fallen.

"I'm okay."

"Fine."

"Just caught my foot on some vines, I think."

"I'm alright."

"Almost there," Glug reassured them.

And then they were surrounded, by trolls nearly identical to Glug, pointing spears at them.

"Oh," said Glug delightedly. "We're here!"

"Why are you leading outsiders to our home?" one of them demanded.

"I vouch for them," Glug promised. "They've come to ask a favour only the Quagawump Trolls can help them with."

"You're practically an outsider yourself by now." Another one snorted and jabbed her spear closer to Glug. "Why should your word mean anything?"

With suspiciously convenient timing, the clouds moved away from the moon. Several of the Quagawumps gasped and pointed at Toby.

Okay, maybe there was some truth to that weather-magic thing?

"Uh … Greeting!" Toby waved uncertainly at them. "I am Tobias of Arcadia. I journey with the Trollhunter to ask you … to help, to avenge the Shattered King."

Most of the Quagawumps quickly huddled together, whispering among themselves. The two who had been furthest to the edges of the group kept their spears at the ready and their eyes on the outsiders.

"Follow us," the one who was probably in charge of this scouting party said. "You will present your request to everyone."

The path through the swamp was twisty, but it stayed on relatively solid ground.

Darci started to see green crystals growing from the trees, like in Glug's poem. Jim gasped sharply when they saw the first one. When the crystals were thick enough to appear in almost every tree, he wandered from the group and touched one. Their local guides started chanting, distracting her. When Darci looked at Jim again, he was standing at Toby's side with his hands behind his back like a bodyguard.

+=+

Jim broke off a fragment of the green Heartstone. Just like the first time he'd touched the one back in Trollmarket, it came off easily in his hand.

He vanished and reformed the scale mail of his armour over his palm. His stolen prize was safely hidden. With his other hand he coaxed it around to rest on the back of his hand, caught under the plate of his gauntlet, rather than on his palm where it might affect his grip on a weapon.

He rejoined his friends, lingering protectively around Toby.

The swamp Heartstone was coloured similarly to the green crystals in the Darklands, but it felt different. Warmer. Had this been how the supposed 'Darklands Heartstone' had felt back when Gunmar first built his throne into it?

They went through a freestanding brick archway with curtain of hanging vines, entering the Quagawumps' – meeting hall? Town square? Plaza?

There was Heartstone everywhere, like Vendel's workshop, and dozens of trolls milling about on their nightly business. Jim didn't see anything that looked like a house or tent, but there was a table out in the open, and some cooking fires.

A large statue of King Quag watched over it all.

(At least, Jim didn't think it was his rebuilt body, since it was so much bigger than the other Quagawumps.)

"AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!" cried the Quagawump carrying the Parlok spear.

"AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!" cried the rest in response, turning their attention to the newcomers.

"Mm, humans," Jim heard one say quietly to another. "A taste not common." He readied himself to summon his sword.

They were banking on Toby's resemblance to King Quag to coax the Quagawumps into hearing them out. Blinky's suggestion, that Toby pretend to be King Quag's reincarnation, had been dismissed as rude, risky, and with a chance of Toby getting possessed. Maybe they should've given it more consideration, though.

"What is the cause of this ruckus?" asked a deeper voice. "Has tonight's first scouting party returned early?"

A tall, brownish-grey troll with a large stomach and back-swept horns walked into the plaza with slow dignity. He wore nothing but a crown with a glowing green gem. He blinked at the sight of humans in the crowd and continued in English.

"Who you now? Why humans here?"

Blue light pulsed over the lines of Jim's armour, calling attention to him.

"I am the Trollhunter, Jim, son of Barbara. These are my allies, Tobias, Claire, Mary, and Darci, and my mentor and trainer, Blinkous Galadrigal. We come to ask a favour of the Quagawump trolls."

"King Blango, am I."

"We are honoured to meet you, King Blango." Jim did a little half-bow. "We have learned of how to kill Gunmar. Your tribe does not need to fight," before anyone started thinking this was an army recruitment speech, "but you do have an object we need to make certain weapon."

A troll jabbed her spear in their direction, too far away to strike and not in the right stance to throw.

"Why do you think you can defeat Gunmar? What magics do you have?"

"This is my moment," said Toby. He stepped in front of Jim and began waving his hands dramatically. "Watch and be amazed. Abracadabra, nothing up my sleeve-era!"

He pressed his hands together, folded his thumb into his hand and pinched his other thumb under his forefinger, drew his hands apart to show his 'severed thumb', then put his hands back together and, with a flourish, waved his ten intact digits at the crowd.

The Quagawumps all gasped.

"He dismembered his hand, and then rejoined his flesh and bone?"

"His magic is so powerful!"

"The Trollhunter has found mighty allies! AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!"

"AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!"

Blango laughed. "Dismemberment amuse Blango."

Why did he keep speaking English? Did he not believe the humans spoke trollish? Did he find it offensive that they did? Or was he trying to intimidate them with his intelligence? Speaking your own language will not allow you to confer privately amongst yourselves, because I understand it too. Or was he trying to be hospitable, like how Jim tried to make a good impression by speaking trollish?

"What you ask of us?"

"Allow me borrowing the last living stone of King Quag, to unite the Triumbric Stones. You have my oath that I will return it once Gunmar is dead."

King Blango's expression went from amused to annoyed.

"King Quag not able help you," he said scornfully. "Shatter-ed King was – shatter-ed. Stone is mine! King am I!"

"My favourite musical," said Toby.

"What?"

"It's like a play, with singing?"

"Sing for us?" requested someone hidden in the crowd. The locals nodded among themselves, murmuring approvingly of this idea. One of them tapped on a section of Heartstone like the crystals were drums, sending a resonant boomp, boomp through the air.

For a moment, it looked like they might actually get away with that – defusing tension with an improvised musical number.

King Blango punched the ground and roared "NO!"

The plaza went silent.

Blango took two thudding steps closer to the humans. Jim edged forward to make sure he was between them and the troll. Blango leaned into Jim's face.

"You want crown … you fight me."

Jim had hoped it wouldn't come to that, but shrugged off his backpack casually, as though he wasn't worried.

"Okay."

"Master Jim –" Blinky tried to object. Blango threw a punch before he could finish.

Jim jumped over it and onto Blango's back.

Jim yanked Blango's ear and leaned, turning Blango away from the humans and sending him stumbling.

Blango grabbed Jim's leg and pulled him off. Jim's conjured knife left an ugly scrape down the king's back. It cut deep enough for purple blood started oozing up before that strip of stone went grey and lifeless.

Blango roared and threw Jim.

Jim rolled and snarled. Blango was between Jim and the humans now.

The amulet pulsed. Daylight manifested in Jim's empty hand.

He could conjure a throwing knife, but there were too many unacceptable potential casualties if he missed.

He was dimly aware of the noise of the crowd, of his friends and Blango's subjects reacting to each move of the fight. Blinky had one hand on each human's upper arm, to keep the four of them from jumping in.

Jim readied the blades. He and Blango started circling each other. They had only gone a few paces when Jim's foot slipped.

Blango charged and grabbed Jim by the neck.

Jim slashed Blango's arm.

Blango dropped Jim and clutched his wound.

Jim's knife and sword vanished when he landed. Blango grabbed Jim around the torso with his uninjured hand, and Jim drew his Creeper's Sun dagger.

Blango started to squeeze. The armour glowed more brightly, the forcefield keeping him from crushing Jim, but not repelling him. Jim touched the dagger's tip to Blango's throat.

"Surrender."

The king laughed.

"Blango never surrender to human," he sneered.

Jim turned the knife just slightly to the side and stabbed him through the shoulder. "Okay."

Blango dropped Jim again and fell to his knees, gasping for air as the toxin spread across his chest.

"What – happening?"

"It's a poison. It petrifies, but does not kill." Jim plucked off the crown just as Blango's head turned grey and inanimate. Sometimes the toxin could spread to clothing and he didn't want to risk decapitating Blango just to chisel the Killstone off him. To their audience, Jim announced, "I have the antidote for reviving him after we've left."

Jim started turning back the prongs of the gem setting, to remove the stone from the crown.

The swamp was still.

One of the mossy trolls cheered. "The Pretend King is gone!"

"Blango was our king!" snapped another troll near her. "Just because he was not the Lost King does not mean –"

"He was not even a Wumpa!" interrupted a third.

"He still led us for nearly two centuries!" countered a fourth.

In seconds, the Quagawumps were all yelling at each other. In minutes, they were shoving and smacking.

"We should go now," said Glug, in English.

Jim got his backpack back from Toby. He put the Killstone inside and took out a small bottle of Creeper's Sun antitoxin and a marker.

Antidote. Add piece of Heartstone and pour on poisoned troll, he wrote on the plastic. He left it on the table, along with the empty crown.

While he was crossing under the archway they'd come in through, Jim heard the unmistakable sound of breaking stone. He turned and saw that Blango had been toppled. These trolls now had two 'shattered kings'.

Toby started to turn around, as well. Jim put a hand on his shoulder and urged him forward.

Out in the swamplands, between the Quagawump plaza and the Gyre station, Toby said quietly to Jim, "You stabbed that guy."

"Yeah."

"It was scary, watching you fight like that. He could've killed you."

"Maybe? The armour did its job, though."

Jim had definitely had worse fights, which was probably not what Toby needed to hear right now. Blango had grabbed Jim a few times, but never properly hit him, and the throws and drops hadn't done much damage.

"I filmed the fight, if you want to watch later," Mary offered.

Jim made a noncommittal noise. He wasn't sure what to say to that. None of his training had covered 'what to say when your human friends comment on seeing you kill someone'.

(Well, it did, actually, but those options were 'deny it and prepare to discredit the human in the eyes of local authorities if necessary, or get the human alone and kill them too'.)

"I wonder what are the Quagawumps going to do for a leader now," said Clare.

"They'll find one," said Glug. "Maybe a Queen this time."

The Janus Order had a drinking game, called 'And What Have You Done?', which involved bragging about various accomplishments they had picked up in their time on the surface.

How it worked was that one Changeling would say a thing they'd done – like "I have officiated a wedding" or "I was a pirate" – and everyone who had done it would drink, and then the one who had said the thing would look at one of the Changelings who hadn't had a drink and ask, "And what have you done?"

It was too bad Jim couldn't tell most of them about his part in 'replacing a head of state'. He'd have to wait at least a decade, until he looked old enough that they wouldn't immediately demand details if he drank along with that.

Back in Trollmarket, Glug went back to the pub. The humans followed Jim into Vendel's workshop. Vendel looked at them, but said nothing, only pointed Jim to the cleaving tools.

Jim scratched his hand through his armour, moving the green Heartstone to his palm again, where he could conceal it once he dropped his armour. He used that hand to pull off the Amulet. Jim put the Amulet and Heartstone into his stomach pocket. He got the Killstone out of his backpack and handed the bag to Toby again.

"If anyone comes in, you guys are just curious about stone cleaving."

He changed shapes.

"You're doing it – like that?" Toby gaped at him. Jim's ears flicked back and down in discomfort.

"It's easier to see the right facets with these eyes. I can't afford to take chances with something this important."

+=+

"A shield?!" Jim yelled in delight. He blocked the fire jets – which would be a terrible idea with non-magical metal, but this didn't conduct the heat for some reason – and whooped. "I got a shield!"

And he'd unlocked one of the Triumbric Stones!

Unless this was something the Eye and the Killstone did as a cumulative effect and neither actually did anything on their own? He'd have to train with the Killstone by itself later.

It was too bad he would have to give it back to the Quagawumps once Gunmar was dead. A shield would be extremely useful, especially since most trolls Jim fought were bigger than him. He'd have to look for another shield-stone.

In his distraction, Jim nearly got crunched by some of the Forge's mechanisms. Not even the weaponry, but the giant gears that operated it. He yelped and jumped away.

His faceplate snapped shut as he recoiled. It had been doing that more and more often since the pepper spray incident. Maybe he should just leave it closed.

Hmm … Jim got an idea and made a quick mental note to practice it at home later, where he could watch his reflection, and wasn't in imminent peril.

+=+

Jim squinted at the mirror and opened his helmet's faceplate. The whole suit of armour flashed blue.

He closed the faceplate. Another blue flash.

He changed forms. This blue light was not quite the same shade, and more … crackly, like fork lightning reflecting off clouds.

The armour was amazingly responsive. At Jim's mental instruction, it covered his horns up, and trapped his ears under his helmet. His ears were a little uncomfortable, but not pinched or in an unnatural position. His helmet was padded, which allowed space for hidden ear pockets.

Jim changed to his human shape while opening the helmet's faceplate. The two blue lights blended into each other.

Jim has always liked his colouring. He felt it made him look intimidating. That was why he wore mostly blue clothing while in human form. The light of a Changeling's transformation tended to be that of their stone skin. Jim's just happened to be similar enough to the Amulet of Daylight that he could pass one glow off for the other.

(That could also come in handy if a fellow Changeling caught him just after he'd dismissed the armour – let them think they'd just missed him switching forms.)

Back to troll shape, closed faceplate. The armour adapted to his form with the new design, concealing his horns and ears. He was taller, but not by a lot – enough that it could be excused as a change of posture.

His tail was a bit of an issue, but since it was covered in armour plating, it looked like part of the faulds and tassets. As long as no one was staring at Jim's butt while he switched forms …

He might be able to train in the Hero's Forge in his troll form after all.

+=+

Previous Chapter (Jim talks to AAARRRGGHH, Toby talks to a therapist, Claire talks to Not Enrique)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (AAARRRGGHH and Blinky make Jim a tempting offer)

I was rewatching The Shattered King to get ideas of how the swamp scenes would play out without Angor's intervention, and I realized that in canon, Angor killing Blango when he did was probably the best thing that could happen for the protagonists at that point.

Like, if Angor just sat there and watched?

Blango was definitely going to try and kill Toby, which would mean Jim would have to fight and probably kill Blango. Then they'd have to fight their way out of the swamp because the Quagawumps would all be mad. "You show up, lie to us, murder our current leader, and then try to escape while stealing a relic of our most beloved leader?"

And then, when the Tribunal shows up in the next season, the new Quagawump leader would be against Jim just like Usurna and Gatto were.

The Quagawumps in that universe would definitely be unwilling to side with the Trollhunter at the end of Season 3!

But with Angor interfering when he did, not only were Jim's hands clean of Blango's death (meaning Jim at that point in the narrative has only killed goblins, one Changeling, a Stalkling, and Bular, not any "good" – meaning "not serving Gunmar" – trolls), but Toby saves Wumpa from the collapsing petrified tree, so she gives them the Killstone and is willing to hear Jim out at his trial, even if she does ultimately vote against him.

Season 3 is still tense because the Quagawumps wanted to stay out of the fighting at first, making a deal with Gunmar's forces for protection. But, after changing their minds, not only do the Quagawumps fight on the Trollhunter's side during the Eternal Night, they even bring in their extended family as backup.

Also, on a Doylist level I get why the team only discussed their plan while on the way to do it, and why they only discussed where they were going once they had arrived – to deliver exposition to the audience and have that exposition pay off as soon as possible – but on a Watsonian level it was highly impractical. So here they planned it a bit further in advance.

#Trollhunters #Tales of Arcadia #alternate universe #fanfiction #Changeling Jim #Becoming The Mask chapters #My Fanfiction #Monday is fanfic day! #Darci Scott #Tobias Domzalski #Claire Nu��ez #Mary Wang #Blinkous Galadrigal #fight scenes #rocks minerals crystals and gemstones #Changelings #games #tw: murder #weaponry #Poison

[kewltie]

Bakugou Katsuki is eighteen years old and is about to graduate in a few of months on a stellar academic and battle record, with a sea of offers from various hero agencies lining up for him to join them afterward. His future is bright, burning with a forward trajectory, but then he heads home for a break and it all goes batshit.

As soon as he steps a foot into his home, his mother shoves a screaming toddler into his arms. "Her name is Kasumi," she tells him with a glare, "and she's yours. Be careful. Don’t drop her."

Katsuki freezes with the child – his baby, what the fuck – in his arms and almost drop her.

He stares in horror at the living and breathing thing in his grip, who just won't stop crying. He sees her blond hair, the fierceness of her tantrum, and the way her tiny clenched hands hit his chest as she fights against his hold, there is no a doubt in his mind that she is his. It’s all wrapped up in her scent; burnt sugar and everglades.

Then she turns her tearful eyes at him and it's green. That same fucking shade of green that had haunted him nearly all his life, and he knows, he knows what a fucking mistake he'd made and the reason for her presence here, because this is all his fault.

Fucking Deku.

There only ever been one person, one omega who makes him all twisted up inside, who fucked him up like nobody else. Midoriya Izuku has been the bane of Katsuki's life since he’d took first sniff of him and he isn’t even here right now, but Katsuki can feel his presence contained in this small existent in his arms.

"Where is he?" Katsuki demands, holding the baby away from his person like she's an infectious diseased. "Where's Deku?!"

His mother levels an unimpressed look at him as she takes Kasumi back from him. "He's gone. Five days ago he came to the house and left as soon as he'd dropped Kasumi-chan off with us."

“And you didn’t tell me then?!” he demands furiously.

His mother narrow her eyes slightly, just enough to carry her message through; she’s not putting up with his bullshit blustering. “You were coming home anyway, and we thought it would be better for you to find out in person rather than on the phone.”

Katsuki runs a frantic hand through his hair. "What the hell." He shakes his head. This is too absurd. Ridiculous. It can’t be happening. Not to him. Not right the fuck now. "I’ll fucking kill him! He can't do this to me!"

"Congratulation," his mother says dryly, patting Kasumi's back consolingly as she finally quiets down in her arms, "you won the lottery of life. You're a father now."

"Papa?" Kasumi sniffs hopefully, head swiveling around the room as she searches for the ghost that haunted both of their life before landing on Katsuki once more.

"Oh, no, sweetie, that's your daddy," his mother says, pointing toward him. "Say hi to daddy."

Kasumi's curious gaze falls on him, looking at him intensely before her face scrunches up in disgust and she wails, "No! Papa! Papa! Papa?!"

His mother sighs. "Look at what you did and she'd just stopped crying. Stop upsetting her."

Katsuki sputters in outrage. "What?! I fucking did no such thing, hag!"

Kasumi wouldn’t calm down after that until his mother takes her out of the room and kicks Katsuki to somewhere else. The less interaction between the new acquainted father-daughter pair the better, it seems.

He only known this little shit for five minutes and she's already making him lose his mind just like Deku; fucking great.

People often spoke of fatherhood as this life altering thing, like it's some goddamn revelation and a humbling experience as though that will get Katsuki to stay even more than a minute in the same room with her. He'd spent the first day home, avoiding her as much as possible. But her cries had followed him wherever he go. It permeated through the walls, shook the skeleton beams that hold up the roof, and soaked into the foundation of the house. Her despair was a palpable and angry thing that chaffed at his skin as she lamented the loss of her Papa.

Fatherhood sits uncomfortable against him like a cheap, oversize coat that was haphazardly thrown on him. He doesn't know what to do with her. She's too loud, angry, and hurt. The few words that she spoke are that to call the name of someone else, someone who had left her behind.

He doesn't know if babies that young can even comprehend such things, but he sees how she always orientated her body toward the entrance of a room and the surprised hitch in her voice when someone enter then the disappointment that followed afterward written all over her round face.

He never makes any effort to try to reach out and comfort her in any of those moments. Can only watch as his parents gently held her in their arms, cooed gentle words, and offered the world up to stop her from hurting so much like they had done this a hundred times before. It's an old war wound revisited even before he’d arrived at their doorstep.

He doesn't understand her pain. Doesn't feel connected to her like his parents are because sometimes it's like she's speaking in a foreign language that he only has the most rudimentary skill to comprehend. It's the truth. She's alien to him and he doesn't know how to love her properly.

Maybe if he was there from the very beginning to witness her birth, saw her first steps and heard that first word that tumble out of her mouth, maybe, maybe then he wouldn't feel so cold and indifferent to her and her cries.

And this is all Izuku's fault for denying him this right.

He could have it all, all those first times and more. Perhaps even the rumor parental love that comes with it but all he got is a crying stranger with a bucket load of anger and abandonment issue. It's not fucking fair.

How dare Izuku leave him with this unwanted responsibility?!

Katsuki has no time for this bullshit. He's going to graduate soon. There’s an vacant spot with his name on it at some toptier agency. The no. 1 hero position is his to seize. And the world is open up for his taking. He can't have a baby holding him back now. No. No, absolutely not.

Fuck this. Fuck Deku. And—and fuck her too.

Somewhere in the midst of sinking into his own pit of despair and uncontrollable rage, he'd forgotten that he isn't alone in this awful maelstrom. His parents may have fair better than him, but they got trapped into hellhole like he did. They didn’t sign up to be grandparents like this, to have a one year old grandchild dropped into their lap with no words. His parents doesn’t deserve this, but they stand firm by him and is there to catch the fallout of his mistake.

Beside one other unmentionable person, they understands him best and though he doesn't say it, they can tell by way his body stiffened up around Kasumi, how he'd never call her by her name, or look at her in the eyes - it's the same damn eyes that had fucked over. They know.

His father gently pulls him aside one night and looks at him somberly. "You don't have to be here if you don't want to." The ‘you don't have to do this’ is left on spoken. "We'll take care of her." He smiles at Katsuki with an understanding, no judgment that he can decipher. "Her arrival was unexpected, but not unwanted."

Katsuki lets out a shuddering breath that he didn’t even know he was holding this entire time like a heavy weight is lift off of him and he can finally, finally take breathe at last. “T-Thanks, dad," he says, staring down at his clenched hands. It's a relief, but bittersweet.

A week after Kasumi was shoved into his arms by his mother, Katsuki is set to go back to U.A. He thinks if he was a better man, a better father, he would stop and race back and tell his father that no, he want this, want her, but he doesn't. He walks out and doesn't look back.

#bakudeku #fic snippet #series: re:kasumi #au of an au LOL /o\ #where what if izuku left kasumi w/ the bakugou & she's raised by the katsuki instead #or katsuki is a single dad w/ a terrifying lil girl that he knows he doesn't want #but one day she'll be his everything

[jbbarnesnnoble]

Goodnight and Joy Be to You All

Summary: You get into an accident and have a choice to make. 

Features: Description of injury; The Good Place spoilers; non-canon compliant MCU; non-canon compliant The Good Place; technical character death?

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Notes: I just started watching The Good Place and this happened 

Word Count: 2878 + a bonus 177

Somehow, you never expected it to go like this. It seemed almost anti-climatic. You had been in the city, away from the compound, buying a gift for Christmas, the first since the Blip. Steve had made the decision to stay, something that still surprised you. It wasn’t to say you weren’t grateful, you were. But you would be lying if you said you hadn’t expected him to take advantage of the opportunity in front of him. Bucky had cautioned you of as much. 

But it seemed now that it was all for naught. You lay on the pavement in midtown Manhattan, screams around you as you’re helpless to do anything. A cab sped through the red light and you had been directly in its path. You only felt pain. You felt like something had pierced your skin. You managed to get a glimpse of your abdomen, where a piece of metal was protruding. You felt yourself drifting, too panicked to think of anything else as a medic attended to you.

“Shit, shit we’re losing her!” was all you heard as it grew harder to stay alert. 

You woke up, but you weren’t sure where you were. You were sitting on a couch. A man with white hair and glasses popped his head out of the door, calling your name.

“Normally, I’d be explaining to you where you are, but you aren’t anywhere. You aren’t in the Good Place nor are you in the Bad Place or the Medium Place. You, my friend, are in limbo,” Michael said. The blonde woman beside him gave him a look and you got the feeling he was withholding some information. 

“Limbo?” you asked. The last thing you remembered was getting ready to cross the street in midtown after running some errands. You had found the perfect present for Steve and the next thing you knew you had woken up here. You had to be in some weird dream. 

“Very rare. See, normally in your universe you go somewhere else and the Soulworld exists in...anyway that may be too complicated for our purposes here. All afterlifes across dimensions and universes are connected in someway. You happened to end up here. Limbo. You’re not alive, but you aren’t dead. You have a decision to make. And as part of a...court agreement...we’ve been assigned to help you make your decision,” he said.

“When you say ‘we’ who exactly do you mean?” you asked. 

“Hi. Eleanor Shellstrop. Nice to meet you Miss Renegade ma’am. Big fan of your work. Always wanted to be like you Avengers...well, where I’m from you’re in a movie and your actress is kind of a bench, honestly I probably would have gotten along with her. Anyway, my friends Chidi, Tahani, Jason and I are going to help you decide. Janet has created a place for us to work through this,” the blonde woman said. If you weren’t so confused and concerned, you probably would have been amused. 

“Is my actress at least attractive? Sam and I kind of have a bet on who would play us if an alternate universe existed where our lives were action movies,” you said. You might as well have fun with this. Whatever this was. Eleanor looked at you and grinned.

“Dude, she was slamming,” Eleanor said. She led you out of the room and out to the outside. It was a grassy area. It reminded you of the lake outside of Tony’s cabin. You screamed when someone appeared beside you. 

“Janet, I thought we talked about this whole just appearing thing,” Eleanor said. She introduced you to the three others who would be helping you and explained who Janet was. 

“She reminds me of FRIDAY,” you said.

“Is Friday hot? I bet she’s hot,” Jason said. Eleanor smacked his arm. You blinked as you looked at him. He seemed to be a few crayons short of a full pack. 

“Jason, not the time,” she said. You had to laugh at it. Your heart ached a little bit. The dynamic at play reminded you a bit of home, of your friends, your family. 

“Friday is an AI designed by Tony Stark,” you said.

“Dude...you know Tony Stark? How did Infinity War go? I kinda died before it came out. Black Widow is so sexy,” Jason said. You just looked at him and then at his friends.

“Really?” you asked, crossing your arms. You tried to remind yourself that to him, your life was fiction. It didn’t help in the slightest. You were an Avenger and you could think of multiple ways to get him to shut up. Was murder frowned upon in limbo? Could you murder someone while you were in limbo? You had so many questions. Eleanor and Chidi shared a look before Eleanor spoke. 

“He’s...from Florida,” Eleanor said. You nodded in understanding. That explained a lot about the man. While you were still annoyed with the man, you couldn’t fault him for being from Florida. Something about that state just brought out the weird in people. You, Tony, and Bruce had once hypothesized that if it wasn’t the water, then maybe there was some lost alien tech buried somewhere in the Everglades or something. There was no way the state was just like that, you thought. 

“Was this Tony Stark wealthy? I knew the man who played him in the movies! Robert always did throw the best parties. And oh, that Chris Evans, I went on a date with him once, but, I was too much woman for him,” Tahani said. 

“Right. So. Michael mentioned something about me making a decision. Can’t I just decide and that’s it?” you asked. Chidi sighed. You looked at him curiously as he gestured for you to sit on a bench that appeared out of nowhere.

“Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple. The rules of limbo demand you weigh your options before making your decision. Really evaluate your life. We can look to philosophy to help with this decision,” he said. 

“Does anyone else find it funny that he’s the one telling her to make a decision? No? Just me?” Tahani asked. 

“Not the time,” Eleanor said. Chidi requested a chalkboard from Janet and it appeared. He divided it into two sides. Reasons to return to your body and reasons to move on. He handed you the chalk and you stood, walking up to the board. You thought for a moment. Under the ‘reasons to return’ side you put family.

“Okay, why family?” Tahani asked.

“It’s not my blood family. We’ve...we’ve already lost a lot this year. The last five years. The Snap, the Blip, fighting Thanos a second time, losing Tony, losing Natasha. I don’t know if they can lose me too,” you said. 

“Someone certainly thinks highly of themselves,” she said. You glared at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.

“Wait...Iron Man and Black Widow die? Man! I want my money back!” Jason said with a groan. Everyone turned their heads to look at him. You were three seconds away from smacking him upside the head yourself. You took a breath, reminding yourself that where he was from, you and the rest of the team were simply fictional characters.  

“It wasn’t an insult if that’s what you’re thinking. I simply mean that you are so confident in your relationships,” she said. 

“Right,” you said. You added more reasons to the board, avoiding putting anything on the side for reasons not to return. It didn’t take long for them to call you out on it.

“There must be some reason you wouldn’t want to go back,” Eleanor said. 

“No, nope. I want to go back,” you said. 

“You’re scared of something,” she said. 

“Things are only just getting back to normal. Half the universe was wiped out for five years. We lost good people to bring them back,” you said quietly. 

“And you helped do that,” she said. You nodded.

“I think we need to bring in some help,” Chidi said. You looked at him, about to ask him what he meant when you saw two people you thought you’d never see again walk out of the cabin. You stumbled backwards in disbelief. Walking down the stairs of the cabin were Tony and Natasha. 

“Holy fork...fork...what the fork,” you said. You were definitely not saying fork. 

“Oh, right. You can’t curse here because technically limbo exists as part of the Good Place. And there’s no cursing in the Good Place. You get used to it,” Eleanor said. You walked toward them. You felt tears stinging your eyes.

“Is...is this real? Or is this a creation of this dimension?” you asked, your voice breaking. Tony didn’t respond. He just wrapped you in a hug. You sobbed as you wrapped your arms around him. He felt real. You felt Natasha’s hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles.

“They pulled us from our own afterlife for this, kiddo,” Tony said as you pulled away. You looked over at the group.

“I swear, if this is a forking joke, I will forking kill you all. I don’t care how dead you already are,” you said to them. 

“Forking? Just say forking...what the fork?” Tony asked. Natasha seemed amused by it. 

“We’re technically in the Good Place or something? I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening when Eleanor explained it to me. Considering this isn’t our universe’s version of the afterlife,” you said. 

“You’re not dead yet. You’re in limbo. And you need to decide,” Natasha said. 

“But I did decide. I want to go back,” you said. She sighed.

“Your decision has to consider both sides. The universal fabric won’t accept it until it’s satisfied that you really thought it through,” Natasha said. 

“How do you know that?” you asked.

“When they came to bring us here, they explained it to us. So, let’s talk. What reasons would you have for not returning to the Earth?” she asked. 

“There aren’t any,” you said. She raised an eyebrow.

“Go on vacation recently?” she asked. 

“Nat, we don’t do vacations. And I wouldn’t consider death a vacation. It’s kinda permanent. Except y’know when Thanos snaps half the universe out of existence and we bring them back. Oh, except for you,” you said. She put her hands up.

“I did what I had to. We all knew there were risks to our mission. You’re deflecting,” she said.

“If I chose to stay here. Would I see you and Tony? Would we ever see the others again?” you asked. She touched your face, a comforting gesture.

“Our universes’ version of this is different. We would be able to see you whenever you wanted, whenever we wanted. We would see them again,” she said. You nodded.

“Tasha...do you regret it?” you asked. She shook her head, taking your hand in hers as the two of you sat on the bench. 

“No. I could never regret that decision. Not if it means we brought everyone home and from what I heard, we did. We won. We can all rest now,” she said. You closed your eyes as you took a breath. 

“What about you Tony?” you asked, looking up at him where he stood. He gave you a sad smile.

“Do I regret that I won’t see Morgan grow up? Sure. She’s my kid. Of course I wish I could be there for her. Do I regret that I put an end the Thanos? That sacrificing myself means that the universe is safe from him? No. I don’t. I would choose to sacrifice myself every time, kiddo. Every time,” he said. You felt tears stinging your eyes again. You stood and wrote on the other side of the board, your reasons for staying in the afterlife. There were two. You would get to rest. You would also be reunited with Tony and Natasha. A light started to engulf you. You started to panic and it faded. The four people you had forgotten were there all groaned.

“You almost made a choice. Almost,” Eleanor said.

“She might be as bad as Chidi when it comes to making a decision,” Tahani said.

“Hey!” Chidi said. 

“You know I’m right,” she said. You looked at your two friends. You knew what decision you were making. You just needed to do something first. You hugged Natasha and Tony one last time. Natasha gave you a message, you just hoped that you would remember it. You made your way to the four people who had been tasked with helping you.

“Do you think I have a chance with Black Widow?” Jason asked you. You gave him a look.

“Dude, she isn’t even in this universes’ afterlife. So. No. Besides I thought you two had a little something going on?” you asked pointing between him and Tahani.

“No...no, why would you think...no,” Tahani said. 

“Sure Jan, sure,” you said with a smirk. You felt the warmth again, just before you saw the light starting to engulf you. The last thing you saw was Tony and Nat, watching as you disappeared. When you woke up, you felt pain. The room was bright and had the sterile smell of a hospital. Someone’s hand was in yours. When your eyes focused, you saw Steve. You couldn’t speak with everything you were hooked up to, but that was quickly dealt with. His eyes were shining with tears.

“Thought we lost you for a bit there,” he said. You nodded, taking a small sip of the water he held to your lips. 

“I was...was in a weird place. I saw Tony and Nat. Nat said, she said to tell you Box 107 in Metuchen, New Jersey. Said you would know what it meant,” you said. She had told you two things. One to tell Steve that. The other was a message for Clint. Recognition flashed across Steve’s face.

“You really saw her, huh?” he asked. You nodded. 

“It was so weird. Some dude named Michael said I was in Limbo. And there were these four people who had to help me but they weren’t from our universe they were from an alternate version. Something about a court order...I didn’t think the afterlife had a justice system,” you said. You had a steady stream of visitors while Steve stayed by your side. When Clint showed up, that was when you asked Steve to leave the room. He didn’t want to.

“You only just woke up after being out for a week,” he said.

“Steve, remember what we talked about earlier?” you asked. He sighed.

“Fine, but I’ll be right outside,” he said. You rolled your eyes.

“Okay dear. Run along now,” you teased. He shook his head as he chuckled. When you and Clint were left alone it took you a minute to find your words.

“I was in Limbo. I don’t care if you believe me or not, Clint, but, I saw her. And I saw Tony. They helped me make my decision. Tasha told me to pass along a message. She wants you to know, she doesn’t regret her decision. That it was worth it if it meant you got Laura and the kids back and that they didn’t lose you in the process. She wants you to know how thankful she is for everything you did for her. And then she told me if you don’t believe me to tell you that ‘you and I remember Budapest very differently’ whatever that means,” you said. Clint just pulled you into a hug. You yelped as it pulled on some of the things you were hooked up to.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. The two of you fell into light conversation before Steve returned. He had real food with him. In that moment, you weren’t sure who or what you were more in love with, Steve or the burger he set in front of you. 

“Easy, you need to eat slowly,” Steve said. 

You were going to be spending a few more days in the medical wing. Thought the compound had been destroyed by Thanos, it had been rebuilt in the aftermath. You had been transferred from the hospital in the city to the compound after you had been stabilized. 

“How are you feeling?” Bucky asked when he came in to check on you. He had finally convinced Steve to leave for longer than thirty minutes. 

“Tired, confused. I don’t know if it was some elaborate dream or not. It felt real though. Seeing them,” you said. 

“What was it like?” Bucky asked. You laughed a little.

“Weird. I was in a place called Limbo, which is apparently a catch all place for every universe. The people helping me were from a different universe where our lives are fiction. This guy Jason from Florida asked if he had a chance with Nat. It was all so bizarre. Apparently it’s all connected and I don’t fully understand it. Honestly I stopped paying attention halfway through the explanation,” you said. Bucky just laughed at the ridiculousness of what you were saying. You fell asleep that night feeling at peace for the first time since the dust had settled from the battle with Thanos. 

Bonus:

“You think she’s getting it on with the Winter Soldier or Captain America?” Jason asked when the woman disappeared. Tony and Natasha shared a look. 

“Jason...you know what, never mind, I don’t want to know,” Chidi said. 

“Alright, Breakfast Club, are we going to be sent back to our afterlife now? I was in the middle of something,” Tony said.

“If you go back into the cabin, a portal should be there that will take you back to your universe’s afterlife,” he said. 

“Is she going to be okay? Will she remember this?” Natasha asked.

“As far as living, yes, she’s going to have another chance. But we don’t know if she’ll remember being here. That’s not something we decide. We’re just humans who got sent to the Bad Place who then tried to get into the Good Place...and...you know what, I don’t think that’s important,” Eleanor said. Natasha looked at her skeptically but she wasn’t going to question things. She was ready to get back to where she belonged in her own universe.

#Steve Rogers/Reader #Captain America/Reader #Steve Rogers #Captain America #Steve Rogers x Reader #Captain America x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #reader insert #marvel reader insert #the good place crossover #the good place #spoilers ahead #one shot #marvel oneshot

[eye-raq]

Lethal Lust.

A snippet.

Rage flowed through him like molten lava.

His fury sprang to life.

His edge of irritation had definitely returned.

Today, at approximately 3:15 am, on Saturday, he was wearing a suit. A Harrogate Black Indochino suit made with 95% Merino Wool, and only 5% luxurious Cashmere; which was a shame because it added warmth, softness, and lightness. His feet were covered in D-ring detail Monogram Patent Leather formal dress shoes by Burberry. Fixing his silver cufflinks with obvious aggressiveness, he began to walk the length of the hallway.

It wasn’t a typical hallway located in a fancy banquet or ballroom. No. It was narrow and smelly. Windowless, and ancient. Gloomy with a sadistic secret. Hideously colored. Cold and annoyingly stuffy. And to top it all off, accompanied with flickering fluorescent light bulbs and walls with chipped off-white paint. When he walked,  you could hear the sound of his dress shoes bouncing off of the hollow walls. His hands were clasped behind his back casually, whistling to himself a random catchy tune he came up with. Godspeed to the person he was looking for, the one that earned him a bloody lip that leaked onto his once perfectly crisp and white dress shirt.

This was child’s play. Hide and seek was for five-year-olds named Sally, Susie, Billy, and Mikey. So much for trying to be a different kind of horror. No matter how much he veered away from that narrative, people still found him to be like Micheal Myers. How he couldn’t tell you. Micheal was clearly otherworldly and not human. As for him, he was all human. One gunshot to the head and he would drop to his knees with eyes as wide as saucers, falling forehead first in a pool of blood. One quick step and a precise strike with a Karambit knife would slice open his gut leading to a slow, yet painful death.

Speaking of knives, he was currently holding a kukri: a middle Asia knife that is weighed in the front. It gives the user more downward force and power. Commonly used to chop down tree limbs, or in his case...human limbs.

With sharp ears like a wolf, he could hear breathing. Struggling, pained breathing. It was coming from his right. Oh, how nice...a dark room with a tiny rusted window that reminded you of a dank basement that belonged to a serial killer. Funny...he was a serial killer. Not like a Ted Bundy, or a Jeffrey Dahmer. Nah, those were the kinds he went after. Those were the ones who ended up here in his secret layer holding on to their last breaths before the final image they see is the morgue lights.

He could taste blood. His anger felt so good but it would feel even better if he just had that son of a bitch. His nostrils flared. With twitching eyes, he made his way into that pitch black room like he had night vision goggles on. With his hunting and tracking skills, he makes his way slyly into the room, twirling that Kukri knife in hand skillfully like a switchblade. Taking in a deep breath, then exhaling, he finally speaks.

“Funny...I actually thought to tie your legs with a chain but the urge to kill you was eating away at me. Excuse my fault...you won’t have long to worry about that shit anyway.”

Moving his eyes from left to right, he walks along the cold concrete wall, dragging that knife across it with every step.

“You won’t believe what I have in my hand. It’s your Kukri. You’re familiar with those, right? You use them a lot when you murder all those girls, correct? I can understand why it gets the job done.”

He takes the knife and places it firmly in his grip, walking with a rigid form. He could smell the alcohol and infection on him and it was only a matter of time before he unleashed again on his prey. His disgusting prey. The prey who preyed on little girls...one, in particular, Samara Jenkins.

—————-

15 hours ago:

“This is NBC 6, South Florida News. Today, Miami Police found the body of the missing six-year-old girl: Samara Ella Jenkins. Daughter to pastors of Heavenly Home Baptist Church, Ertha Jenkins, and Sydney Jenkins. Their daughter had been missing for over two weeks now. Miami police have been searching day in, and day out for this missing pure soul, and today...they finally made a discovery.”

Erik watched while the news reporter drowns on. The camera scanned the Everglades. It looked particularly dry and withering; a fucking Gator central. With narrow hawk eyes, a single vein appearing in the middle of his forehead, he took in the news he really wanted to hear, no matter how hard it was to listen. He needed to listen. It was his God-given duty to listen.

“Young Samara was found here in the wetlands wrapped in a trash bag, surrounded by Alligators. It took great difficulty at first, but the Police have confirmed that it is indeed Samara. The family has asked for privacy at this time, and the immediate finding of her murderer.”

Pausing his TV, Erik got up from his seated position, walking through his living room and towards the kitchen. His steel toe Doc Martens dragged across the freshly placed tile of his Miami apartment, walking past the black marble kitchen island and directly towards his office. It was time. If his memory serves him, it had been almost a month since his last kill. The urge was building up so much within him he was ready to combust. The sound of his Father's old grandfather clock that was given to him as a gift before he died ticked in the background eerily. Finally, standing in front of his fireproof wall safe, Erik cracked his combination. Pulling open the door slowly, he came face to face with his treat.

He’d like to call it… a souvenir. He took pride in it like a child did a sand castle on the beach. They served as trophy cases to him. There, lies a box with blood slides. In it housed 46 slides of his victims. Taking the box, Erik places it on top of his glass desk. Opening the box, he ran a single finger gently across the top of the slides as the glass slightly clattered. At times, he would refer to the slides as “my secret” or other times, “my pride kills...my friends.”

It’s funny that he called them friends. A few he caught the attention of by raising a glass with an easy-going smile. For others, he would pick up a random conversation from maybe bumping shoulders about the Miami weather and how shitty their jobs were. Or even, dropping a hint of sexual interest that always seemed to work since his looks were beyond dismal. Ordinary. Regular. No. Erik was handsome. The kind of handsome you would find in a Calvin Klein add or sitting in VIP at some high-end club surrounded by models. Not a woman could walk by and not stop and stare.

“I guess I gotta make it 47,” he lets out controlled breaths, eyes watering with anger. The person's blood who would reside on the empty forensic slide goes by the name of Dean Orrin. 38 years old and an ex-military man. A man who should be registered as a Pedophile but instead walks the streets of South Beach proud and cocky. This man, what a son of a bitch. This redneck.  Such a waste of fresh air and space. The raging alcoholic and child abuser worked as a Respiratory Therapist at a children’s hospital. Can you believe it? A fucking children’s hospital. His shifts were Monday through Thursday, 9 am to 5 pm. He drove a 1992 Ford Mustang in red, seats covered in fresh leather.

Too bad the vintage car didn’t match this man’s physical appearance.

He was short, balding, square-shaped with a beer belly and a faux-friendly face that belonged to a white man you wouldn’t dare assume was a murderer of young black and Latina girls ranging from the ages of 4 to 10.

Erik would sit outside of Dean’s Miami Shores home on Ne 92nd Street. He lived alone, kept the doors unlocked to give off a friendly vibe,  picked up the newspaper every day around 8:00 am, and ate the same old Salisbury steak TV dinner around 7:45 pm in front of his flat screen; his prized possession. One evening while Dean was away, Erik took the time to investigate Dean’s home. Of course, he would find child pornography on his computer, and even worse an entirely dark room with cardboard boxes filled with photographs of his victims bound and naked.

Erik picked up a picture of little Samara, afraid and weak with ropes around her little body. His eyes watered with rage, biting down on his tongue and ignoring the pain. He felt worse pain anyway. This was sickening. How could you hurt such an innocent child? Such pure light? It made no sense to him. Clearly, Dean had something deep and traumatic going on with him to resort to this type of lifestyle. Erik had demons too, and he sometimes wondered if they were all one and the same; a family of murderers United. He’d keep Samaras photo, it would only serve to kill Dean even more. Slide number 47 would be clean no longer.

Erik has built a file on this man for over a month now. After finding out about the murder of his Neighbors young Latina daughter, Cassie, age 8, he began to piece together the parts that Miami Day Police failed to do.

Dean’s way of going about doing things was getting to know the children that came through Giving Hands Children’s Hospital in South Beach. He would give them treats, learn things about them, and extract whatever information he needed from their files. No personal contact involving the parents, no meetups or anything, just getting the information and kidnapping the children.

He didn’t do it so often. Dean’s stretch would be at least a month or two in between. Samara was his fourth murder. Erik broke it down one rainy night in his office how Dean successfully snatched Samara and killed her. Heavenly Home Baptist Church held fundraisers for their neighborhood. The last night Samara was seen, only two weeks ago on a Thursday, was the night of Youth Day. It was an open house for anyone to come in and be a part of because Heavenly Hope housed generous, God-fearing people. Little Samara took her badminton racket to the back lawn, never telling her mother she was going out for some fresh air. She’d been gone for over an hour and Miss Ertha made a plate filled with Samaras favorites.

Well, you could probably guess what happened next, right? Everyone at that church searched high and low for her. Her parents and siblings had sleepless nights, signs and billboards were made, all in a span of two weeks. It hurts deep like an open wound. Erik never had kids, probably never will...but still...he could feel their pain. No matter, Erik was a man of his word. He wasn’t great in combat with a keen skill in blood spatter analysis, tracking, and weapons training for nothing. He’d put all of that to good use.

———

Saturday, April 1st: the day of fools. 1:30 am.

Sitting in an expensive suit that he intended to wear on a date, Erik finally finds the perfect opportunity to catch Dean. Erik could only hope that his date wouldn’t be angry with him, after all, she practically begged.

This motherfucker couldn’t be serious, could he?

He was already drunk off of Jack Daniels and now he was gearing towards entering an 18 and over club on Ocean Drive. The rage in Erik boiled his blood. Was Dean trying to age up his victims now? Is cockiness getting to him since he hadn’t been caught yet?

All of these things added to Erik’s fury, but the fury was what he needed to stay amped up. Anger for Erik made him more proud. He was correct to lay down an extra layer of plastic this time.

“Sick motherfucker,” Erik shakes his head, a single finger tapping at the steering wheel of his burner car that he used for kills; some beat up old Chevy with a stolen license plate.

This vigilante never sleeps when it comes to a kill.

Just stay in the shadows, Erik…

Night time is your time.

You have to be cunning to outwit your foes. The flashing club lights ignited his face purple, red, and blue. Bodies moved about in packs, sweat dripping and fingers intertwined. Erik could almost feel the heart beats racing among him. Young and naive they all were, especially the young girl Dean was eyeing.

She looked to be about 19, a drink in her hand and braids so long they swept the backs of her legs. She twirled, shouted to the music, and twerked in her own little world. Dean was compelled. Erik could see the killing fetish in his eyes so deep his pupils dilated an almost pitch black. Erik wanted badly to choke him up right here and finish the job but then that wouldn’t help him, would it? Keeping to the shadows, Erik watched until it was time for him to make his move.

———-

“Feel like making a deal with the devil?”

The young girl with honeyed skin and full lips turns to Dean, a little jumpy from being caught off guard. She regarded him, eyes squinted.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, do you feel like making a deal with the devil?”

Dean pulls out a baggy filled with LSD, swinging it in front of her face. The girl was tempted for a second, that was until she looked back at Dean and saw the sweat covering his face, a faded tattoo of a pentagram on the inside of his wrist, and the maniacal way he licked his lips.

“Uhm, no thanks. I’m okay.”

The young girl gave him a generous smile before sauntering away towards the back of the club. Clearly, Dean didn’t like being told no. He stood still for what felt like minutes, staring at her retreating form until she disappeared around a corner and out of sight. Like clockwork, Dean follows, a hand deep in his pocket and shoulders hunched. It was time, Erik had to make a move now before the young girl became Dean’s new victim.

Ignoring lingering stares of passion that he didn’t like nor accepted, Erik maneuvered through the crowd as they parted like the Red Sea for him, finally around that corner and hot on Dean’s trail. Apparently, the young girl wasn’t going to the ladies. There was an exit straight ahead, the LED of the sign almost blinding and cryptic. With much more speed now, Erik dashes to the back door, black leather gloved hand pushing open the swinging doors.

His dress shoes met a puddle, and his hands clenched into fists. There was no sign of either of them.

Fuck.

Deciding to make a left, Erik followed his path down the narrow garbage filled alley, head moving from left to right to find him. To his luck, he could hear struggling, choking breaths. Keeping close to the wall, Erik looked around that corner at the edge of the alley, coming face to face with the devil himself.

Dean had the young girl smashed against the brick wall, his hand lazily rubbing under her skirt. Every time she tried to scream, Dean would smash her face further into the brick.

“Shut up...shut up...shut up...SHUT UP!!!” Dean yelled, spit flying and a snarl on his face. He looked red from anger.

“Keep still you black bitch!!!! Keep still or I will slit your fucking throat with my knife!”

Erik has seen enough now.

Pulling out his 9mm pistol with a silencer, Erik’s 20/20 sniper vision aided him as he aimed a bullet at Dean’s side, watching as the stout man fell to his knees in agonizing pain, releasing the young girl from his deadly grip. She kicked away and down the alley in the opposite direction, screaming in tears and limping. A life saved, and one before him ready to be taken away.

Erik watched with joy and triumph as Dean stared into the darkness with confusion and pain, rolling around in the mud, shit, piss, and garbage juice.

“WHOS THERE!!!!!!!!!!” He yelled between cries, blood staining his teeth.

“AM I GOING TO DIE?!!!PLEASE, NO. AM I GOING TO DIE HERE?!!!”

Erik made his way towards him, adjusting his gloves and storing away his gun. It was so dark, Dean couldn’t make him out, but he could hear his footsteps.

“OMG. Who’s there!!!!!!!!!!”

Erik picks Dean up one-handed by his collar, silencing him with a tranquilizer to the neck. Dean was now dead weight. Luckily, his car was parked on the other side of the alley, and the coast was clear.

———

“Wha? Where am I?”

Dean blinked twice, rubbing his right hand over his dry tears. Sniffling snot, wrists in pain from being wrapped in chains, Dean stares into the pitch black, figuring he had to be in the trunk of a car with the smell of gas and rubber. Was this his fate? Was God finally judging him?

Death clearly doesn’t discriminate.

He took the lives of young girls, so now the price to pay was his life.

And to think he had a chance tonight with another kill. Maybe, it was too soon to go out for another thrill.

He could feel his death.

The amount of pain he was in, he felt like he was dead already. Ah, now he remembers. Someone shot him in the ribs back in that alley. Aiming for his respiratory technique, Dean breathed slowly and steadily, trying his hardest to avoid the feeling of his own blood dripping from his gunshot wound. If only he could apply pressure without bleeding out so much.

Whoever this person was wanted to take their time with him.

The sound of the car door slamming followed by the car shaking from the impact made Dean go stiff. It was time to meet His executioner. And when his time is up, would they tell his story? Make him another missing person? Dean much rather be seen in the spotlight like the Zodiac Killer had been. Too bad he wasn’t swift enough. Was it a parent of one of his victims? an off duty cop who just had to bring work home?

Whistling began.

“What?” Dean’s voice was scratchy and pathetic sounding.

With the trunk now open, Dean could feel the humid air of Miami pour in. Catching his breath and bracing himself, Dean came face to face with an unfamiliar foe. He had dreads braided back, a crisp suit that must have cost a fortune, hands covered with leather gloves and eyes so cold they could petrify you. He looked like a mercenary, or maybe a hit man. He was young, could be around early thirties. He smiled sadistically. Fuck. Was this bastard as crazy as him?

“It takes a monster to destroy a monster.”

That statement alone was bone chilling. He had the same kill stare but with a different goal.

“You’re playing my fucking game now. No little girls to touch and kill here. You should fear me.”

Swiftly, The unknown man grabbed Dean by the neck, pulling him up and out of the trunk. Dean rolled onto his elbow, pain shooting through his arm and dirt filling his lungs. It was so overbearing that he felt oxygen deprived. With his feet failing him, Dean tries to crawl away, but of course, that wouldn’t work, he was too fat and too weak.

“You can crawl all you want. Your fate remains the same, motherfucker.” Like the Hulk himself gripped his legs, Dean was dragged back across the ground, feet flapping and nails clawing at rocks and dirt. He could feel his skin splitting. With one struggling kick, his foot met the man’s face, bloodying his lip. No words were said then. His eyes were ice cold and demon like. Dean didn’t know what hit him, but those eyes made him get on his feet, and he ran into the abandoned building straight ahead. He didn’t hear the man’s footsteps, guessing that maybe he was too hurt to follow him and find him.

Little did Dean know his weapon of choice: a Kukri knife fell out of his back pocket. Erik has that very knife in his possession now, more than excited to use Dean’s weapon against him. This was going to be one hell of a bloody night.

——-

It was just too easy for him. He needed a challenge. That’s it...a challenge. Maybe a Russian who escaped prison and decided to go on a genocide killing spree. Or a calculated serial killer who played him at his own game. Dean was easy prey. They all had the same motive: hide in the most typical places, pray to themselves and breathe so loud the people down the road could hear, or worse, bleed out and leave a bloody trail. Dean’s wound was beginning to smell. Erik’s sense of smell when it came to infected, rotting, flesh was nearly non-existent. It didn’t bother him one bit.

All the lives he took when he killed in Afghanistan, Iraq, the States apart of JSOC and when he was an ex-assassin made it that way. The scars on his skin were there to prove it. Now, he did the kills without taking orders from no one.

“Dean...you fat ass motherfucker. Dirty, disgusting, sick, smelly ass, redneck, motherfucker.”

Erik drew in his bottom lip between his teeth, the sound of the leather gloves on his hand crunching from how tightly his fists were clenched.

“Why little Black and Latina girls, Dean? What’s so special about them? Is it the fact that they aren’t as privileged as your kind? The colonizers?”

Dean was so fucking stupid. How could someone go so long with precisely killing four little girls but hide where Erik could see him? In a dirty corner filled with old dusty crates and broken glass shards, Erik could see the silhouette of Dean Orrin. His body was practically leaning over from how weak he was. All that blood loss failed him. No energy, no will power, just dead weight.

Letting out a stressed sigh, Erik pocketed the Kukri, walking over to Dean. Picking him up by the back of his hoodie, hopefully choking him, he began to drag him across the dusty cobweb filled floor, startling him and causing him to scream.

“You a bitch, you know that? You kill little girls like you a man but wanna scream like a woman because you are about to die. I knew chicks more gangsta than you.”

Erik laughs hard, finally back in that hallway and headed towards his destination.

“Tell me,” Erik yanks him, hearing him choke up.

“Why little girls? Got raped when you were a kid? Touched your ex little daughter in her sleep and got a hard-on? What?!!!” Erik releases Dean, turning to yoke him up forcefully. Dean’s blurry and dizzy vision made Erik look like five Erik’s. He could still see the hard eyes though, they could never go forgotten.

“ANSWER. MY. FUCKING. QUESTION.”

Erik’s breathing was the only sound, Dean’s mind forcing him to speak but words couldn’t form. That pissed Erik off...oh...that made him mad. Erik’s eyes flickered a moment, before taking one hand to retrieve the Kukri, twirling it between his fingers, and ramming it into dean’s side, opening his gunshot wound further.

Dean’s screams were suspended in his throat, eyes watery and teeth grinding. His breath hit Erik’s nose causing him to drop him on the floor, back to dragging his lard ass leaving a bloody trail.

——

The old morgue was famous back in 95’ but it was closed due to concerns with keeping the dead cold until it was time for burial. It was gated off with grass growing so high gators could live here. No one dares to trespass, leaving it as a haunted destination to never visit. Erik had it soundproofed, and he fixed it up himself. He never used the morgue refrigerators, what was the point anyway? He didn’t care to slow up the decomposition phase. His job was to hunt, kill, and discard of the parts. Currently, in this fully double plastic-covered room, Erik had Dean on an operating table in the charnel house, head and feet restrained. He blinked up at the lights, failing to keep his eyes opened. Dean was already pale, now he looked almost chalky with skin leatherlike. Erik removed his suit jacket, hanging it neatly on a nearby coat rack. The sleeves to his white oxford shirt were rolled up to his elbows, surgical gloves on his hands and an entire surgical gown with goggles included to shield the blood splatter.

A medium force (velocity) impact spatter:

Produced with more energy or force than gravity.

The force of the impact causes the blood to break into smaller size splatters relative to the amount of force applied.

This type of splatter is usually seen in blunt force, stabbings, and secondary splatters.

Produced when the majority of larger drops of blood are broken into smaller spatters with diameters of 2-4 mm.

The force associated with this type of spatter is greater than 25 ft per second.

His first victim, Alejandra Lopez was just 4 years old. It was a rainy week in Miami; they called for thunderstorms around 90%. She was riding her little training wheel bike colored blue and pink down a small suburb in Little Havana. Her slicker hood was up, rain droplets shielding her vision but so what? she was on a mission. Her dad nicknamed her little trainer, speedy. Giggling, she made a sharp turn, only to fall off and in the gutter. She winced in pain slightly, but Alejandra was tough. Her mother was passed out drunk on the couch while her father was pulling doubles at the auto shop. Alejandra carefully lifted from the gutter, whipping off the mud from her slicker. As her doe grey eyes lifted, she came face to face with her murder. He struck her over the head with a lead pipe, watching as her tiny body fell to the concrete, cracking her skull further…

Erik couldn’t sleep after seeing that on the news.

So terrible.

The thought of that crossed his mind just now, causing him to pick up a broken lead pipe he found near a construction site on his way home from the beach. Twirling that lead pipe in hand, he turns to Dean, clearing his throat.

“You remember Alejandra? In Little Havana?”

Dean swallows spit, his eyes struggling to look to his right where Erik was standing.

“I-I-Yeah..yeah the little Mexican girl. I-I remember…” Dean began to cry.

“You remember how you used a pipe to crack her skull?” Erik’s grip on the pipe grew tight and painful.

“...yes…”

“How did that make you feel?”

“...good...but please...don’t…”

“There will be blood, Dean. And guess what? I got a lead pipe.”

Erik began to walk forward, pipe resting on his shoulder.

“WHO ARE YOU TO DECIDE MY FATE?!!! HUH??!!!!!!” Dean screamed at the top of his lungs, causing himself to cough up blood. He was going to die anyway, no use in screaming.

“I’m the Judge. Jury. And Executioner. Don’t fucking bark if you can’t bite.” He sounded baneful and destructive.

Everything went silent, that was until the pipe broke the wind from how forceful Erik’s blow was. Erik aimed that pipe to Dean’s head, the sound of his temporal bone splitting music to his ears. Dean shook, fingers twitching, and eyes wide with pain. His nose began to leak, eyes watering in agony. At this point, he could beg for instant death. Erik did damage for sure, his brain must be ricocheting in his skull right now.

An ugly laugh escaped Erik’s mouth, the sound of the pipe hitting plastic only audible to him since Dean’s hearing was no more.

“I-I-I w-won’t Let you-you…” Dean chokes on blood. His heart rate began to slow further.

“The question isn’t who’s going to let me. It’s who’s going to stop me?” Erik took this as an opportunity to pull out his Kukri. Yes, his now.

“I can imagine how many times you wipe this clean. Fucking sick...and I thought my traumatic past was bad? I can’t imagine yours…”

Holding the knife firm, Erik brought it to Dean’s right hand, cutting it off cleanly. At this point, Dean couldn’t even scream. He was already dying, all he could do was wither in pain. Cutting the hands of a pedophile. You touch young girls and murder them, you get your hands amputated. His dick getting cut off sounded great but Erik didn’t even want to SEE IT. Without saying another word, his other hand was amputated. The blood splatter Erik knew well stained the plastic.

With a clenched jaw and savage eyes, Erik takes Dean by his greasy head, bringing that Kukri to his throat.

“This is for Samara, and all the other little girls you killed. They have no fucking life, now you won’t.”

Erik twirled that knife, swiping across Dean’s neck quickly, watching the blood splatter briefly before slowing to a drip. The life could be seen leaving Dean Orrin’s eyes under those morgue lights.

——-

First off, it’s important to understand what dead bodies are like. They’re very heavy, they absolutely stink, they attract flies and vermin practically from the word go, they release a lot of unpleasant substances, they bloat and they can even explode. Draining the fluids as quickly as possible and mixing them with a lot of bleach before flushing them would prevent this.

Should the body be found, you need to make it as difficult as possible to identify. This means destroying the teeth, finger, and toe prints, and the DNA. The first two are easy, the last one is more tricky. Erik wasn’t a forensic scientist, so he just settled for the teeth and toes. Living in Miami, water was an easy source to dump bodies. Erik used to settle for burying them, but that took hours and a lot of footprints left behind. To make his life easier, he simply dumped the bodies far out in the ocean while taking a routine route on his boat. Applying weights to the feet and covering them with heavy duty body bags always helped him out. This was the only way he could dispose of the evidence before the police got wind of it, which they never did.

Erik wasn’t a wanted man, at least, not as Erik Stevens. When he was Killmonger, international police wanted his neck. Killmonger came out to play when he took the lives of vermin to satisfy his needs, but he went away when he did his daily routines. Believe it or not, Erik had friends, a foster sister, and maybe a possible girlfriend. It was odd, Erik considered himself to be asexual. He didn’t find romantic attraction or love for a woman. It never interested him in having a romantic relationship with a woman. He had sex, though it was more so because he could not because he wanted to. Being asexual had nothing to do with his dick, it was about the sexual and romantic attraction that didn’t spark his interest. It’s not like he didn’t try. There were days where he wanted that, other days he just didn’t and they were most days. Erik was attractive, rough around the edges, a lady killer without even trying. He needed to move on, make it look normal, kill those who deserved it in secret. These were the words of his late foster father who was a fireman.

Erik…

He could hear his father's voice in his head.

Be strong, Erik. Remember, use your disorder for the greater good. Kill those who deserve to be punished...

With a heavy sigh and all his upper arm strength, Erik heaved Dean Orrin’s body over the railing of his boat and into the ocean water. So long Dean Orrin. The pedophile. The abuser. The murderer. Erik took out the tiny glass vial of his horrid blood, twirling it in hand before pocketing it once more, turning to grab up his Hennessy.

“Ah, they playing Wu-Tang tonight,” he smiles as if it were any other evening, sitting back on his suede all-white sofa with his dress shoe covered feet resting on the fancy glass table.

Time to sleep on the water again.

@goddessofthundathighs @hearteyes-for-killmonger @panthergoddessbast @blowmymbackout @chaneajoyyy @bartierbakarimobisson @madamslayyy

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