#old bone grinder

[spicyspell]

Commission of @emmilybee ‘s lovely PC!!!!

Loved getting an opportunity to play around with the environment!

[contemptible-scoundrel]

my buddy gore grinder gary will help you with your bags [a short, frail, effete old man stumbles into the room and waves at you] [I turn to look at him, smiling warmly, but my expression changes to confusion and disdain when I see him] you're not gary. get the fuck out of here man [waving him on getting more aggressive as he shakes his head, frightened] get the FUCK out of here dude I swear to god. this is gonna get real ugly if you don't fuck off man. youre really starting to piss me off [as if on cue, a massive, meaty fist comes out of the darkness behind the old man and palms his entire skull. he's pulled screaming into the dark, followed by a series of crunching and tearing sounds as his picked-clean bones are spat back into the room one by one [my expression softens and I warmly greet my friend again] heyyyy triple-G! the G-man! how are you doing bud

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

longshot

content warnings & word count: swearing, implied sexual innuendo, drug consumption (weed smoking), nostalgia. 6.2k

✧ SCENE FOUR — "SUNKISSED SMIRKS" ✧  Now Playing: "longshot" – Catfish and the Bottlemen

The sunlight is sharp through your blinds—no longer the soft blush of sunrise, but full, golden, and unapologetic. You blink awake with a groan, skin too warm under your sheets, mouth dry, brain fuzzed at the edges like an old cassette tape.

Your phone says 9:42. Your body says absolutely not.

You sit up slowly, joints protesting, hair a mess of sweat and smoke. Outside, there’s a voice. Then two. Then more.

You freeze. Tilt your head.

Laughter. Footsteps. Someone—Charlie, definitely Charlie—yelling about waffles. A bark of French from below your window. You stumble to your feet and drag yourself to the glass.

And there they are.

All of them. Sprawled across your front lawn like a band photo: Charlie, arms wide, sunglasses crooked; Jack bouncing slightly on his heels, far too awake for someone who drank like a frat boy last night. Hughie’s hunched into Annie’s side, blinking like the sun personally betrayed him. Kimiko and Frenchie stand shoulder to shoulder, dark shades, matching hangovers, united in quiet suffering.

Butcher and Castiel hover near the curb, stoic and strange as ever—engaged in what looks like a very intense debate about trash pickup schedules or the meaning of life. And Sam’s in the middle of it all, eyes squinting up at your window with that impossible smile. The one that means we’re waiting for you, and we always will.

You push the window open, stretch dramatically, your t-shirt lifting just enough to earn a few wolf whistles from below. Charlie cups her hands around her mouth like a megaphone.

“Get your ass down here! Diner run. Morning-after debrief. No exceptions.”

You squint down at them, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “I’m so tired.”

Annie snorts. “If I managed to drag this one out of bed—” She jerks her thumb toward Hughie, who groans in response—“then you can make it.”

Charlie points accusingly. “You’re not special, just dramatic!”

You yawn. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Then you spot them.

New faces. Not new-new, but new here.

Ben Hargrove is leaning with far too much confidence against the fence, arms crossed, sunglasses low on his nose, looking like he knows how good he looks hungover. You hadn’t realised until now that he could actually hang. Next to him is Victoria Neuman, sipping from a coffee cup with dangerous ease, and Earving—still in a button-down, talking to Cas and Butcher like they’ve been old friends since the Nixon administration.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “What the hell is this?”

Charlie grins. “Surprise breakfast guest stars!”

Ben smirks, tilts his head up. “Hope you don't mind.”

Sam shields his eyes from the sun, grin already in place. “Come on. You know I’ll frisk Gregory if I have to.”

You blink and gasp. “Deja vu.”

Frenchie cackles. “Gregory welcomes the encore.”

You groan. “Five minutes!”

Charlie cheers like you’ve scored a goal. Jack whoops. Hughie just moans again. You shut the window with a soft thunk and fall back against the wall, heart pounding harder than it should.

They’re all waiting for you. And you’ve never wanted a greasy breakfast and a too-loud booth more in your life.

The shower is brutal.

You’re in and out in under two minutes, the water still glacier-cold, but it shocks the sleep from your bones and the smoke from your skin. You towel off half-heartedly, tug on a soft, sun-faded t-shirt and your favourite cutoffs—frayed at the hem, pocket lining peeking out. Grass-stained Converse, no socks. You throw your damp hair into a loose knot, swipe on some lip balm.

Tote bag: weed, rolling papers, lighter, your shitty little pink grinder. Sunglasses clink against the lighter. You tuck a cigarette behind your ear like punctuation.

By the time you swing open the front door, the gang is already at the edge of your yard.

They cheer.

Butcher throws both arms in the air. “The prodigal burnout returns!”

You flip him off without heat. “Only because there’s food at the end of this pilgrimage.”

Castiel tilts his head, tone gentle. “Did you sleep well?”

You nod, slipping onto the sidewalk beside Sam. “Like a brick wall.”

Butcher snorts. “You ghosted us after clean up.”

You scoff and nudge Sam with your elbow. “Excuse me. I did not ghost. I Irish goodbyed. That’s cultural.”

Sam just smiles, head tilted down toward you.

“In fact,” you continue, stretching your arms over your head like a cat, “even though you can literally see my house from the Winchesters’, Sammy walked me home. Just after sunrise. So jot that down.”

Frenchie lets out a dramatic sigh. “Romantic.”

Kimiko flashes you a sleepy thumbs up behind her sunglasses.

The group rolls forward like a wave, spilling onto the sidewalk in a loose, sun-dappled formation. The day is already golden, the light syrup-thick and glinting off the cars parked along the curb. The town smells like ocean and pavement and warm cedar.

You pass by a front yard sprinkler still ticking lazily across the lawn. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. The wind pushes your damp hair off your neck.

Hughie groans from behind you, clutching his temples. “Why is the sun so loud?”

“Because God is punishing you for thinking you could outdrink Annie,” Jack says cheerfully, skipping two steps ahead in a pair of mismatched socks.

Hughie groans again. “Why are you like this?” He mutters.

Jack throws his arms wide. “Hydration and optimism!”

You grin. You can’t help it.

Sam looks over at you, eyes crinkled against the sun. “You good?”

You nod. “Better than I should be.”

And it’s true.

There’s something about the way your group moves down the street—unhurried, sunlit, loud in the best ways—that feels holy. This is the kind of morning that gets pressed into scrapbooks. The kind you’ll remember in flashes: Frenchie making jazz hands at a passing car. Butcher lighting a cigarette while lecturing Jack on the nutritional value of eggs. Neuman laughing at something Cas said. Ben walking near the back, arms folded, listening but quiet.

Everything smells like summer. Like salt and citrus. Like something good’s about to happen.

And ahead? The diner. Your booth. Your world.

The bell above the door jingles violently when you all pour in—like the diner itself is bracing.

It’s bright inside, every surface reflecting morning sunlight in tacky Technicolor. Vinyl booths in faded cherry red. The smell of burnt coffee, syrup, fryer grease, and home. A waitress clocks your group with a weary sort of fondness and starts shoving together napkin dispensers without a word.

“Two booths,” Sam tells her, holding up two fingers like it’s code.

“Already knew,” she mutters. “You kids are always too goddamn loud for one.”

Your group splits like a well-rehearsed dance. You end up in the corner booth—the one with the chipped jukebox and the perfect view of the whole room. Sam slides in first, you next, and Butcher flanks your other side like a war general.

Across from you: Castiel, sipping water like it’s wine; Victoria Neuman, startlingly composed despite the chaos; and Ben Hargrove, who tosses his sunglasses on the table like he’s claiming land.

At the other table: Frenchie and Kimiko cozy on one side, Jack pressed between Charlie and Annie, and Hughie curled into the corner, head in his hands like he might cry. Earving settles in across from Frenchie, already arguing about the merits of hashbrowns over home fries.

The menus are mostly ignored. Everyone knows what they want. This isn’t your first pilgrimage.

“Vanilla milkshake,” you tell the waitress. “And three orders of bacon.”

Frenchie looks up, betrayed. “Please. Do not do this.”

You don’t even blink. “Blow me.”

Cas clears his throat. “I’m not entirely sure that’s a—”

“Cas,” Sam cuts in, warning gentle.

“Right,” Cas says, returning to his water.

The waitress sighs like she’s seen every version of you before. She has.

Orders fly across both tables: pancakes, eggs, something Jack insists is “the God-tier cinnamon roll.” Hughie orders toast and looks like he might cry again. Annie pets his hair without looking.

Time stretches and folds. Mugs fill and empty. Laughter spills like syrup. Charlie starts listing everyone’s worst hangover stories. Sam defends his dignity against a story involving tequila and a Slipknot concert. Ben just listens, smirking, his thumb tracing the edge of his coffee mug.

Then your food arrives.

All of it.

And with zero ceremony, you crush your bacon like it owes you money—crumbling it straight into your vanilla milkshake. You mix it with vicious precision. It’s not subtle. It’s never subtle.

The table pauses.

Hughie makes a sound like he’s going to retch. “Why. Why is that happening right now.”

Charlie cackles. “Don’t look directly at it. It’s like the sun.”

Frenchie covers his eyes. “Mon dieu. Why does she do these things?”

“It’s culinary genius,” you declare, holding the milkshake aloft like a goblet, dramatic as hell. The straw wobbles slightly, bits of bacon floating near the top like shipwrecked survivors.

Ben blinks at it, his expression flatlined somewhere between horror and amusement. “What the fuck did you just do.”

You look him dead in the eye as you lower the glass, slow and reverent. “Improved it.”

He leans forward slightly, arms crossed over the table now, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” you say, sipping through the straw with a satisfied hum that feels like a challenge. “It’s real good.”

A beat.

The others are already groaning—Annie shielding her eyes, Frenchie whispering a quiet non non non, Jack giggling like a kid in church. Someone mutters this again under their breath.

But you’re not looking at them. You’re watching Ben. He hasn’t looked away.

And because you’re a menace—and because you want to see what he’ll do—you slide the shake across the table a few inches in his direction. Not much. Just enough. A dare wrapped in a casual gesture.

“Want to try?”

It’s simple. Innocent on the surface. But the look you give him says go on, impress me.

Everyone reacts on cue.

Annie leans back with a groan. “Don’t do it, Hargrove. There’s no coming back from this.”

Charlie hisses, “Blasphemy,” and Hughie visibly recoils, muttering something about godless behaviour.

You don’t break eye contact. Not once.

Ben glances at the glass. Then at you. And for a second—just a flicker—you think he’s going to laugh it off. Make some too-cool comment, slide it back toward you with a smirk and go back to his coffee.

But instead—he moves. Slow, deliberate. He leans in over the table, elbows planted now, chin tilted in that way that says he knows exactly what this looks like. His hand doesn’t touch the glass. Doesn’t need to.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he dips his head, mouth finding the straw you just pulled away from.

And drinks.

The whole booth erupts—gasps, groans, shocked laughter. Jack squeals, “No fucking way!” and Frenchie clutches at his chest like he’s just been shot.

Ben doesn’t flinch.

He pulls back slowly, tongue darting out to catch a bit of milkshake from the corner of his mouth, and then—then—he looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s seeing something different now. Something sharp beneath the smirk. Something he likes.

He blinks once. Twice. Then says, cool and casual:

“I’m disgusted with how good that is.”

You shoot to your feet with zero grace and all the grandeur of a Shakespearean lead, arms thrown wide to the ceiling. “Thank you! The rest of you are cowards!”

Frenchie makes the sign of the cross. Jack throws a napkin like confetti. Butcher starts golf-clapping with a spoon in one hand, muttering, “Burnout’s finally found her people.”

Charlie starts chanting. “Milkshake. Milkshake. Milkshake.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his coffee. “This is going in the eulogy.”

You bow dramatically to both booths, sweep your imaginary cloak, and slide back into your seat with the smugness of a cat that just knocked over a priceless vase.

And when you glance at Ben? He’s leaning back now, one arm draped across the back of the booth, watching you with a different kind of smile. Not mocking. Not amused.

Something slower. Warmer. Like he’s just realised you’re the kind of storm he might want to chase.

The sunlight spills across the table, syrup-thick and golden. Your plate’s a mess. Your friends are loud. The air smells like coffee, grease, and your newest victory. And you're pretty sure that today is going to be a good day.

The diner plates are mostly licked clean, save for a few syrup streaks and a limp piece of toast that no one’s claiming.

Sam is already moving, stacking mugs inside one another with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times. You gather up the crumpled napkins and shift the condiment caddies back into place, the instinct automatic now. You and Sam have always done this. A quiet kind of reverence for the aftermath. A little thank-you to Donna, the waitress who’s been serving your group since you were all loud and barely fifteen.

Annie stretches across the booth to collect the wad of crumpled bills being passed down the line. “I got it,” she says, tucking the mess of cash into the check sleeve with a practiced flick.

Donna appears a moment later, coffee pot in hand. She stops, glancing at the reset tables, the stacked plates, the wiped surfaces.

“You kids spoil me,” she says, smile soft behind tired eyes.

“We’re hoping for good karma,” you tell her, shouldering your tote.

Sam grins. “Or a discount.”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “Get outta here.”

Outside, the heat hits you like a kiss. The pavement is already warm beneath your soles, the sun sharp and high above the rooftops. Your group spills onto the curb like a comic panel—arms flung, sunglasses on, Charlie dragging Jack by the wrist while he chatters at a speed only dogs might comprehend.

The debate starts instantly.

“What now?” Frenchie asks, flicking his lighter open and closed.

“Pool?” Kimiko signs lazily.

“Too crowded,” Annie says, tying her hair up with a pen she pulled from her back pocket.

Sam turns to you. “What do you think?”

You stretch your arms up over your head, tilt your face to the sky, let the heat soak into your skin. “We should go swimming.”

“The pool?” Sam asks.

You snort. “No way. It’s too hot, like Annie said—everyone in town will be at the pool today. We should hit the cove. Or Sweethearts.”

That word rolls off your tongue like an old secret. Sweethearts.

Immediately, Charlie perks up. Jack lights up like a switch was flipped. Frenchie says something that sounds like trés bien under his breath.

Ben, leaning against the hood of a sun-warmed red Chevy pickup, furrows his brows. “Sweethearts?”

Vicki squints behind her sunglasses. “Is that a bar?”

Earving just sighs. “Of course you people have secret locations.”

Jack is already halfway bouncing into the street. “It’s a lake. It’s the lake. We’ve been going there every summer for years. There’s rope swings and this shitty tire swing Sam swears he’s going to fix but never does, and there’s this perfect cliff that’s like ten feet high for jumps if you’re not a coward.”

Sam lifts a brow. “That was your idea.”

“I’m keeping the brand alive,” Jack replies.

Hughie, still looking vaguely ill, groans. “It’s a bit of a trek, though. Like—we usually bike it.”

Ben straightens up, glancing toward his truck. “I can fit two more in the cabin. Three, maybe four in the bed. If you sit your asses down.”

Butcher scratches his jaw. “If we swing by mine, I’ll grab my truck. The rest can ride with me.”

Frenchie perks up. “I call back. Kimiko gets motion sick.”

Kimiko shrugs like sometimes, and flips him off with half a smile.

The decision happens fast after that—like it always does with this group. Plans in motion before anyone’s fully agreed.

People are already turning, stretching, arguing over who’s riding where.

You find yourself drifting toward Ben’s truck. It’s old—beautifully old. Red paint dulled with sun, a dent in the front bumper like a dimple. There’s an empty Big Gulp in the cup holder and some old concert tickets on the dash.

“Who’s with me?” Ben asks, glancing at the group, thumb hooking in his belt loop like it doesn’t matter—though his eyes land on you when he says it.

You answer by hopping up into the bed of the truck without a word, pulling your legs in and leaning against the side panel like you’ve been riding in it forever.

Sam slides in up front with Vicki. And Earving, Jack, and Charlie claim the rest of the bed beside you, Jack immediately trying to balance his water bottle on his head.

Behind you, the other half of the group heads off toward Butcher’s, Frenchie already complaining about the heat and Cas reminding him that hydration is a discipline, not a desire.

The engine rumbles. The truck groans under your weight. And as the tires roll over hot pavement and the wind starts to thread through your hair, you grin—because this is it. This is the day. Bright, burning, yours.

And Sweethearts is waiting.

The red Chevy groans a little as it rumbles over the gravel. Sam’s got one arm propped against the open window, breeze whipping through his hair, the other lazily pointing toward the dirt turnoff ahead.

“That one—yeah,” he says to Ben, who squints against the glare and turns the wheel just in time to catch it.

Behind them, the truck bed rocks slightly. Jack stumbles.

“Jack,” Ben yells, twisting to shout through the tiny sliding window. “Sit your ass down before you eat gravel, dumbass!”

You bark a laugh from your seat in the bed, hand gripping the side panel for balance. “Told you, sunshine. He’s got feral mode engaged.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “He never disengages.”

Jack flops down between you and her, red in the face and grinning. “Sorry, sorry. Just—this drive. This weather. This day. I can’t help it.”

You stretch out your legs, lean your head back, and let the sun find your throat. It’s all wind and dust and heat. Ben’s truck smells like gasoline and citrus air freshener. The kind of scent that sinks into your clothes and won’t wash out.

Just as the tires crunch to a slow stop on the shoulder, you sit up straighter, hand shielding your eyes.

You glance at Charlie. “Text Butcher. Tell him to bring a speaker.”

She’s already typing. “Did it ten minutes ago. Have you met me?”

You smirk. “Legend.”

Then you hop down from the truck bed barefoot, dust curling between your toes, and turn toward the treeline.

It’s there—just like always. The arch of green. The splintered gate. The way the path curves into shadow, hidden from the road by tangled limbs and overgrowth, like the woods themselves are trying to keep it secret.

“Alright,” you call out, your voice easy but sharp. “Watch your legs. Trail’s overgrown as shit. And there’s a thorn bush halfway in.”

You grab a long branch that’s already leaning like an usher and sweep it forward through the path, pushing back stinging nettles and sticky brambles.

Behind you, the others follow single-file, ducking under low branches and laughing whenever someone stumbles. Jack narrates the whole thing like he’s in Jumanji. Sam hums a tune under his breath. Earving swats at a mosquito with the resignation of a man in the wrong shoes. Ben walks near the back, sunglasses pushed up on his head now, gaze catching every detail like he’s cataloguing the day in his mind.

It takes maybe five minutes. Maybe twenty. Time softens here.

And then—

You step into the clearing. And there it is.

Sweethearts.

The lake. Still and rippling and green-blue like a secret you forgot you knew. Sunlight cuts down through the canopy, dappled and golden, scattering diamonds across the surface. Dragonflies skim. A rope swing dangles crookedly from the old oak, already swaying in the breeze like it remembers you. The little ten-foot cliff juts out like a promise. Burnt out pile of logs from your last visit. Someone’s sandals. A fully-deflated inflatable flamingo named Regina.

Charlie gasps. “God, I missed this.”

You just grin.

“Check the tree,” Sam says, nodding toward the far edge.

And sure enough—it’s still there. The carving tree.

The bark split with initials and hearts and chaotic knife strokes. A mess of time-scars, layered with years. You can still make out your name and Sam’s at the top—yours carved sloppily the first summer you ever came here, Sam’s initials pressed in beside it a week later. Then below that, year after year: 2017, 2018, 2019. Others added over time. Charlie. Hughie. Frenchie, who carved a very dramatic fleur-de-lis. Kimiko, whose mark is a quiet, perfect K in the crook of a heart.

Some names are brighter than others. Some, weathered and fading.

But they’re all there.

Ben walks over, slow, quiet. Runs his fingers across the bark. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’ve all been coming here that long?”

You nod, watching him. “Feels like forever.”

He looks at you. Not smiling. But something soft in his eyes now. Curious. Like this place made something real click.

“I get it,” he says.

You just nod. And for a moment, you both stand there, looking at the tree. Looking at the years.

And somewhere behind you, Jack screams, “CANNONBALL!” and launches into the lake.

You smile.

Sweethearts has always been waiting for you.

You stretch your legs out on the sun-warmed grass, the lake glittering just a few yards away, Jack’s head bobbing near the middle as he yells something unintelligible about being king of the lake.

You turn to Ben, eyes squinting against the light. “You roll?”

He pauses, shrugs one shoulder. “Not well.”

You snort, already digging through your tote. “Amateur.” Then you lean over, voice lifted. “Charlie, you’re on rolling duty!”

From her place near the tree, Charlie salutes. “Always am.”

You toss her a pouch and a grin, and she flops down beside you in the grass. You both get to work—knees brushing, papers fluttering, fingers moving with the muscle memory of a dozen summers exactly like this one. Sun-warmed weed, broken-down roaches in old tins, that perfect lazy magic in the prep.

Sam's nearby, setting up a towel, sunglasses crooked, eyes soft. Vicki and Earving are stripping off their outer layers with skeptical glances at the water. Ben crouches nearby, watching you roll with faint amusement, one eyebrow cocked.

“You make that look easy,” he says.

You lick the edge of the paper, seal it clean, and say, “That’s because I’m a goddamn artist.”

He snorts. “You’re somethin’, alright.”

You flash him a smile without looking up, already starting the next one.

You’ve just got your third nearly sealed, Charlie halfway through her second, when the peace shatters.

“You said left at the red mailbox!” Frenchie yells, voice coming through the trees like a knife through velvet.

“I said the red mailbox,” Butcher snaps back. “Not that busted up tin bin shaped like a bloody goose. You ain’t drivin’ my truck again, you cunt.”

A moment later, they stumble through the trail—Frenchie still mid-rant, Butcher red-faced and smug. Behind them, the rest of the group tumbles into the clearing like a pack of forest gremlins. Cas walks through last, oddly regal even in shorts and a t-shirt. Kimiko pads past him barefoot, her hair damp, her face unreadable but clearly entertained.

Hughie looks much better—still a little bleary, but grinning now, carrying a bag full of chips and water bottles. “We made it,” he calls out, triumphantly.

“Oi, burnout!” Butcher yells.

You turn, just in time to see the speaker flying toward you. Your hand lifts. Snatch. Effortless.

Ben whistles. “Nice catch.”

You wink. “I don’t miss.”

The others start unpacking like they’ve lived here their whole lives—blankets spread, towels unrolled, snacks cracked open. It’s chaos, but it’s your chaos. The best kind.

Sam drops onto the grass beside you, leaning back on his palms. “What’re you putting on?”

You open your phone, flicking to your playlists. “Still got the summer one. Few new songs now, though.”

He nods. “You always add the good ones.”

You smile. “That’s why I’m the DJ, Sammy.”

Then you press play—and the first song spills out across the clearing. Something bright and buzzy and full of lazy heat. The kind of song that sounds like bare feet and wet swimsuits, like the echo of laughter through trees.

Jack cheers from the lake. Charlie lights the first joint with her lighter shaped like a strawberry. Ben sits just a little closer.

And you? You lean back in the grass, roll your fourth spliff, and feel the summer wrap itself around you like a second skin. You finish sealing with a flourish and a low whistle, admiring your own handiwork before tossing the tin into Frenchie’s lap.

“You’re up,” you say, stretching your arms over your head, wrists popping.

Frenchie clutches the tin like a chalice. “Enfin. I was born for this role.”

“You were born to smoke, not roll,” Charlie mutters around her joint, but she’s grinning as she says it.

“I contain multitudes,” Frenchie replies, already pinching loose bud between his fingers like it’s a love language.

You sigh, tip your face toward the sun, bones loose and humming.

“Oi!” Jack’s voice carries over the water, sharp and gleeful. “You coming in or what?!”

You look over—he’s floating on his back, legs splayed, hair slicked to his forehead. The light dances across his face like he’s glowing from the inside out.

Charlie shades her eyes and calls, “I’ve got ten bucks on her not making it in for another hour.”

Butcher doesn’t even look up. “I give it five minutes. Unless she’s gone soft.”

You raise your brows. “Soft?”

Then—like it’s nothing—you strip your shirt off with one hand, t-shirt peeling away from your skin with a faint snap of dried sweat. The cutoff shorts come next, slow and lazy, like a show for no one in particular. You’re down to your swimsuit in a heartbeat.

You pass Sam, pluck a red vine from the open bag in Hughie’s lap.

“Hey!” Hughie protests. “Ask first, at least!”

“I just did,” you call over your shoulder, vine dangling from your teeth like a cigarette.

Then you bolt. Down the familiar slope—cool shadows slipping over your skin—through the treeline that leads to the cliff. The path is worn, dry leaves crunching underfoot, roots you know to dodge without looking. It opens up to the ledge like it always has: sudden and sun-drenched, the whole lake spread below like a promise.

Jack spots you and starts cheering. “Let’s gooo!”

Butcher yells up from the bank, “She won’t jump! She ain’t got the minerals!”

Annie groans. “Don’t goad her—she will do it.”

You plant your feet. Raise both arms. Shout down, “Watch this, Butcher, you pussy!”

Then you run. The cliff drops away beneath you. Wind whips your hair back. The whole world holds its breath. You cannonball into the lake with a crack, water exploding around you in a golden halo.

You sink deep—cold and sun-warmed all at once—before kicking off the bottom, limbs slicing upward. Light fractures the surface like stained glass, and when you burst through, dripping and laughing and alive, the cheer from shore is loud and stupid and perfect.

Charlie whistles. Jack howls.

Butcher just cackles and says, “Alright, I take it back.”

You flip him off before Jack splashes water at your face.

“Oh it’s on,” you growl, lunging for him.

He yelps, tries to swim backwards, but you’re faster—hands in his hair, dunking him under, both of you shrieking with laughter.

On the shore, Ben watches you from the grass. Quiet. Eyes following every move.

And in the water, grinning wild and weightless, you can feel it in your chest—this is the kind of day you’ll carry with you forever. Jack’s still slicking his hair back dramatically when Hughie wades in up to his chest, arms held just slightly out from his body like the water might bite.

“Holy shit,” he yelps. “Why is it this cold?”

“Because it’s water, genius,” Charlie calls from the shore, where she’s lounging on a towel like a sun-drenched cat.

“You’ll get used to it!” You call, grinning. “Eventually.”

Sam’s already floating nearby, arms stretched behind his head like he’s in a damn spa.

Annie wades in beside Hughie and eyes you from a few feet off, raising her brows. “Chicken fight?”

You lift your head, already grinning. “You sure?”

“Bring it,” she says, cracking her knuckles.

You tilt your chin up at Sam. “You good?”

He doesn’t answer—just grins, ducks under the surface, and a moment later you feel his hands grip your thighs with that easy, unshakable confidence. Then—he lifts.

You rise up from the water like a sun-washed idol, hands bracing on his shoulders, the lakeline dripping down your body in perfect rivulets.

Hughie blinks. “Wait, wait, no.”

“What?” Annie says, already hoisting herself onto his shoulders.

“Sam’s got like—three inches on me! And the balance of an actual goat!”

“You calling me a goat?” Sam says from beneath you, amusement thick in his voice.

“Yes,” Hughie says. “A majestic one. But this isn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” you reply sweetly, cracking your knuckles. “Now square up, Starlight.”

Jack swims sideways with his hand raised. “I am your ref and your god. No biting, scratching, or psychic attacks.”

“I make no promises,” Annie smirks.

From the bank, Butcher cups his hands around his mouth. “Ten bucks on the burnout!”

Frenchie scoffs. “You are underestimating les petits blondes, my friend.”

Kimiko giggles—soundless but bright, her shoulders shaking. Victoria and Earving are watching the entire thing unfold, laughing.

Charlie hollers, “Knock her tits into next week!”

“Rude!” You shout, laughing, as you and Annie lock hands and begin the shove.

You twist, plant your knees tighter on Sam’s shoulders. He steadies you instantly—barely moving beneath the surface. Your movements sync like second nature. You’ve done this a dozen times. You trust him like breath.

Annie lets out a war cry. You shout right back. Hughie wobbles. Annie overcorrects.

“Annie, keep your core tight!” Jack yells like a personal trainer. “You’re too top heavy!”

“I will smite you!” She screams, laughing.

You seize the moment—lean in, twist, and shove. She topples backward with a splash so spectacular it douses Charlie halfway up the bank.

“Oh my god!” Charlie shrieks. “My chips!”

Jack throws both arms in the air. “Point—goat and burnout!”

Ben’s watching from the grass, propped up on one elbow, sunglasses glinting. He doesn’t say a word. But you can feel his attention, like it’s heat on your skin.

Annie resurfaces coughing and laughing. “Alright, alright—best two out of three!”

“Your funeral,” Sam murmurs under you.

You win again. Then again. The third time, Annie doesn’t even try to fight—she flops backward dramatically the second your hands meet, laughing the whole way down.

“I concede,” she says, spitting lake water. “I’ve been had. This is sabotage. You two are chicken fight ringers.”

“It’s called chemistry,” you say, flashing Sam a high five as you slide off his shoulders and splash down into the water beside him.

“More like a psychic bond,” Hughie mumbles, rubbing his shoulder. “They moved like a mech suit.”

Annie grins, catching her breath. “Alright. I accept my defeat. But I want a rematch next week when I’ve trained properly.”

“Trained?” You echo.

“Yeah. I’ll bench Hughie.”

“Annie!”

You’re still laughing when you turn toward the shore, hair slicked back, heart pounding. And Ben? He hasn’t looked away.

You haul yourself out of the water with all the grace of a gremlin, water streaming off your limbs, hair hanging in thick ropes down your back. Then, with no ceremony at all, you stand at the edge of the grass, shake your head violently like a dog, droplets flying in every direction.

“Jesus!” Charlie yelps, throwing her arm up. “You wet goblin.”

You grin, wide and shameless, before collapsing on the blanket between her and Frenchie like you’ve just survived something heroic. Frenchie doesn’t even look—he just slides a joint between your lips with two fingers and flicks his lighter to life with a quiet chk.

The flame catches, crackles. You inhale deep.

Just as you exhale, Sam calls from the water, voice echoing off the trees: “Yo! That my phone?”

You blink. Turn toward the speaker nestled beside the blanket—his phone’s screen lit up and vibrating.

“Yeah,” you shout back.

“Grab it? Might be important!”

You glance down.

DEAN.

You hesitate—just a second—then swipe.

“Heya, Sammy!” Dean’s voice comes easy, familiar.

You lift the phone to your ear. “It’s me.”

There’s a pause. Like a stone dropped into still water.

“Oh,” Dean says. “Well. Uh…”

You wait.

He clears his throat. “Didn’t expect—anyway. You guys coming out to the cove today?”

You glance at the lake, at your friends, at Frenchie now lighting his own joint and muttering something under his breath about bourgeoisie weed. “We’re at Sweethearts right now. Might swing by later.”

There’s another pause.

“Haven’t been to Sweethearts in years,” Dean says, quieter now. “My name still in that tree?”

You look toward it, instinctive. The bark. The initials. The years. His is there—scratched in between summers. A summer you all still talk about. A name no one’s carved over.

“Yeah,” you say. “Still there.”

Dean hums. Low. Noncommittal. “Alright. I’ll catch you guys later.”

The line clicks before you can say anything else. You stare at the phone a beat longer, thumb brushing the side.

Sam wades back to shore, hair dripping, squinting. “That Dean?”

You nod, pass him the phone. “Yeah. He asked if we were coming to the cove. Said he’s there with Jo, MM, Benny. They’re doing a barbecue. Bonfire later.”

Sam towels off, glancing at you sideways. “He sound okay?”

You shrug. “Sounded like Dean.”

Sam reads between the lines. Always does. You don’t say how fast Dean’s voice changed when he heard it was you. You don’t say how your stomach did that dumb flip. How his name in the tree suddenly felt a little heavier. You just take another hit and let the smoke curl slow from your lips, letting it blur the edges of whatever that was.

Some ghosts stay quiet. Some call on speakerphone.

You hold the joint out toward Sam without a word, fingers still damp, elbow propped on your bent knee. He takes it like he always does—without hesitation, without ceremony—flicking his gaze toward the waterline.

“Didn’t think you were smoking today,” you murmur, watching the smoke curl from the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t think I’d be asked,” he deadpans, then smirks and passes it back.

You nudge his shoulder with yours, lazy. “Dramatic.”

He leans into it slightly, soft and brother-warm, before standing with a groan. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Frenchie immediately perks up. “Yes! Let us drown the weight of existence!”

Butcher mutters something about “fucking poets,” and Charlie flips him off before pulling her shirt over her head. Kimiko grins, silent and sharp, then cannonballs in before anyone else can move. Even Cas peels off his shirt and wades in, solemn and sure, like it’s a baptism and a tactical operation all at once.

One by one, they fall into the water—splashing, shouting, bickering, laughing. And just like that, it’s quieter.

You’re left cross-legged on the blanket, weed still smouldering, with Victoria lounging on one elbow beside you, sunglasses down her nose, and Earving pretending not to eavesdrop while skimming the snack bag for something that isn’t Doritos.

Ben drops down beside you with a grunt, stretches out long, shirtless now, arms behind his head like he owns the earth beneath him.

Vicki shifts slightly, nudging her shoulder against his. “Look at you. Socialising.”

“I’m adapting,” Ben mutters.

She grins. “Like a lizard in the sun.”

You bark a laugh, blow a curl of smoke toward the trees. “You’re very adaptable,” you say dryly. “I mean, flawlessly transitioned from golden boy to lake goblin.”

Ben tilts his head toward you, smile lazy. “Keep talkin’. I’m learning so much about myself.”

You offer him the joint and he takes it, fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. “Careful,” you say. “Still need you sober enough to drive us home.”

He inhales. Smooth. Holds it longer than necessary, then exhales with practiced ease. “I’m an excellent driver,” he mutters, watching the smoke twist upward.

“Mm.” You lean back on your palms. “Smoothest ride of my life.”

It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But Ben glances at Vicki and Earving—who are still talking, distracted now, drifting toward the water—and then turns back to you, mouth quirking just slightly.

“You want a real smooth ride,” he says, low enough that it barely cuts through the air between you, “I’ve got a few ideas.”

Your head turns toward him. Just a beat too slow. His eyes catch yours—steady. Unbothered. He takes another hit and passes it back to you with a smirk like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You blink once, let your grin curl slow and lazy around the filter between your lips.

Vicki’s talking to Earving now, voice just a little louder than usual. She isn’t looking at you. But she definitely is. And Ben? He’s still watching you like he’s not in a rush. Like he’s got all day. And the summer just got hotter.

← PREVIOUS PART NEXT PART →

author note/s: phew. long one, huh? next one should be just as long. i was enjoying this whole chapter too much to stop. i needed to bring the world building to another level, i don't know if i served what i think i did. we'll see, huh? hope you guys love it!!! until the next one, smin signing off. all the love.

soldier boy/ben & dean taglists: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @bruisedfig @angelicjackles @soldiersgirl @tinas111 @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @deansbeer @deanstubble @drakulana @mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @liiiilsss @0ccvltism @itshellfire @sl33pylilbunny @nevercameraready @paristheonewhoreads @podiumackles @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @spxideyver @winchestersbgirl @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @ohgodimgoungtodie @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @ambiguous-avery @imsiriuslyreal <3

[mindblowingscience]

A 50-year-old Swedish woman who lost her hand in a farming accident has been fitted with a cutting-edge prosthesis that has proved transformational. The bionic hand is based on revolutionary technology that connects directly to a user's bones, muscles, and nerves – creating a human-machine interface that allows AI to translate brain signals into precise yet simple movements. The woman who received the bionic hand, Karin (whose full name is undisclosed), now has a limited sense of touch and can move all five of her bionic fingers individually with a success rate of 95 percent. After two decades of living without a right hand, she can now carry out 80 percent of her usual daily activities, like preparing food, picking up objects, zipping and unzipping clothes or bags, and turning door knobs or screws. What's more, after receiving the prosthetic hand, Karin's excruciating phantom pain, which she said felt as though her hand was going through a meat grinder, decreased significantly.

Continue Reading.

[nothingenoughao3]

Daniel Cain: Reefernator

"Dan Cain is a stoner in the novelization!"

I have never been less surprised by a characterization and it's one of the only things I'll accept from the novel as canon. Because it was already canon in the movie. I know old Gen X stoner types and I know Dan is one of them, I know it in my bones.

Behold, the home of a man who smokes a titanic amount of grass whenever he's not onscreen:

[ID: three screenshots from "Re-Animator". The first shows Meg in shadow; the second shows Meg peering into Herbert West's room; the third shows Dan standing by the door with a baseball bat, and Herbert with a medical textbook on the sofa. End ID.]

Without exception, every single windowpane in 666 Darkmoor is curtained.

The curtains are eternally drawn, day or night.

The lamp could not be loved by a cocaine-snorting yuppie. Only by a stoner who likes to play with the fringe once he's on his fifth bowl.

He still hasn't unpacked most of his shit (but I promise you this: he did unpack the box that was labeled as "first aid/bathroom stuff" but it held his glass Gandalf pipe cautiously wrapped in bubble paper, and a wooden box with his stash and his grinder in it).

Dan has house plants because he thinks that freshens the air and lessens the smell of green. He is wrong. He also feels a spiritual connection to the plants when he's giga-high. He is right.

Most telling of all, he has tacked up towels and/or random pieces of cloth over the glass windows in the doors. THAT is prime "I don't want the cops to see me smoking grass" behavior.

This is the home where the air can give you a contact high. This is the home of a man who can direct you to the nearest ditch where marijuana is growing wild in any subdivision of Arkham. It's only missing a Frank Frazetta poster and a painting of mushrooms with faces, and only because they're still in one of those boxes Dan hasn't unpacked yet.

Dan Cain can roll a blunt that will give you an out-of-body experience. Dan Cain can take fat rips off a bong that will render lesser folks speechless, melting into the sofa, and gently hallucinating. Dan Cain says your edibles ain't shit and he means it for real.

And you just know that when Herbert walked in and took a single breath, he went "Oh, okay, if blackmailing him for banging the Dean's daughter doesn't work, I can always, as humans say, 'rat him out' to 'the fuzz'."

[sanders1665]

It’s the goddamn wee small hours, that sacred stretch of night when time melts into introspection and shadows become philosophers. The air is thick with silence, save for the occasional squelch of my gut, protesting the late-night slice of existential pizza I shouldn’t have eaten. No breeze, no barking dogs, no traffic. Just me, a mind wired on questions, and the ghost of a million ancestors staring back through my DNA like some cosmic jury.

I was thinking—no, spiraling—into the meat grinder of human origin. Twenty different species of humans? More or less. That’s not science fiction, that’s real. The Earth, this wild, bipolar rock hurtling through space, was busy being a chaotic chef: stirring up ice ages, flipping tectonic pancakes, belching fire from volcanoes like it had IBS. And in the middle of all that, it birthed and buried species after species of humans. Not chimps, not dolphins with dreams—humans.

And yet, we are the ones left. Alone. The sole survivors.

We who are hairless and helpless at birth, who need ten years to become barely functional, who sunburn and break bones and cry at reality shows. We who are, by all metrics, the weakest model on the showroom floor of evolution. Yet here we are. Shopping on Amazon. Building particle colliders. Taking selfies next to pyramids built by hands we don’t understand.

I don’t buy the official bedtime story they hand out in schools. You know the one—upright apes + time + bananas = smartphones. Something smells fishy, and it ain’t just the tuna sandwich from last week’s lunchbox. We didn’t just evolve like the rest. We appeared. With language, fire, and a suspicious amount of self-awareness. Right out of the blue. Like a magician’s trick—ta-da!—Homo sapiens, baby.

Were we an accident? A cosmic prank? Or a goddamn upgrade?

Or were we realigned and designed this way by “gods” from another neighborhood?

Not divine, not omnipotent, but advanced. Outsiders. Visitors. Tinkerers with an eye for biogenetics and a flair for myth-making. Creators not of galaxies, but of species. Maybe they didn’t paint the sky, but they sure as hell messed with the clay.

Sometimes I think we’re nature’s rebellious child, and sometimes... I think we’re adopted.

Maybe the old stories are half-true, twisted into myth because our ancestors didn’t have Wi-Fi or a printing press. Maybe the Watchers, the gods, the sky people—whatever name floats your boat—left fingerprints on our soul. Maybe we’re version 2.0 of something much older. Something that didn't survive. Something we erased, like jealous children.

And deep down—real deep, below the cholesterol and the hang-ups and the Amazon Prime history—I think we know. We feel it. That something’s off. That this isn’t quite home. That we were made for something else. Not this rat race. Not this tedium. Not this constant nagging anxiety about the future and the past like we’re stuck in a loop we didn’t write.

Maybe that’s why we build religions, and sci-fi stories, and monuments that stare at the stars.

We're trying to remember who we were... before we forgot what we are.

And so here I sit, in the dark belly of the night, brain buzzing, belly gurgling, wondering:

Were we born of Earth…

engineered on Earth…

or just parked here for a while, until someone comes back for the keys?

Either way, I’ll probably still wake up groggy tomorrow and forget the whole damn thing.

But for now, I’m wide awake. Watching. Listening.

Waiting for the stars to whisper back.

[testure-1988]

About Me

Name: Al /Ali

Age: 35

Cisgender

Sign: Taurus

Pronouns: she/her

USA (NJ)

Goth

Aromantic

Neurodivergent (ADHD, APD, anxiety)

Agnostic

-This is a SIDE BLOG. I will follow you with my main (nivekogresimp)

DNI if you're:

A TERF or SWERF (or just transphobic and against sex work in general)

racist

homophobic

a fascist/nazi

pro-police

hardcore Christian

misogynistic

TCC/a Columbiner

into pedophilia/ a MAP (or if you like Lolicon/shota or DD/LG)

Ableist

Zionist/pro-Israel

-I post NSFW stuff sometimes, so minors should take note.

-If you see something (artwork, a photo) that belongs to you, please let me know so I can credit you or remove it.

What I'm mainly interested in:

The Goth subculture/ trad goth stuff

Music in general (I love Industrial, Experimental, Noise, EBM, Goth Rock, Darkwave, Doom Metal, Post-Punk, Punk Rock, Grindcore, a plethora of different Electronic genres, 80s New Wave, Italo Disco, 90s/80s Hip Hop, and many other genres).

Skinny Puppy

The 1980s

Horror Movies

JTHM (and Invader Zim...sometimes)

Art & graphic design

Dark/horror/ gothic/religious aesthetic posts

goth fashion

Vampires

Cemeteries

Bones

Leftist/democratic socialist stuff

bats, cats & rats :D

Anime/manga (Berserk, NGE, Cowboy Bebop, Sailor Moon, Hellsing, Studio Ghibli, etc.)

Elden Ring

Lord Of The Rings

Skyrim

Cartoons

Batman

Little Nemo In Slumberland (the comic strip)/anything by Wisor McCay

Mythology (Norse, Greek & Egyptian mainly)

Elvira, Mistress of The Dark

The Addams Family

Edward Gorey

Edgar Allan Poe

Some of my favorite bands/artists:

Skinny Puppy, Godflesh, Tom Waits, Einsturzende Neubauten, Meat Beat Manifesto, Coil, The Cure, Front 242, Bauhaus, Siouxsie And The Banshees, Severed Heads, Alien Sex Fiend, Acid Bath, Throbbing Gristle, Cabaret Voltaire, Depeche Mode, Japan, Tears For Fears, Type O Negative, Clan Of Xymox, Virgin Prunes, Cocteau Twins, Aphex Twin, Boards Of Canada, Massive Attack, Autechre, Goldie, Merzbow, Agent Side Grinder, The Klinik, (old) Ministry, Nine Inch Nails, (old) KMFDM, Front Line Assembly, Fad Gadget, Revolting Cocks, Nurse With Wound, SPK, Clock DVA, :wumpscut:, Christian Death (Rozz only), Swans, The Sisters Of Mercy, Joy Division, Dead Can Dance, Sleep, Black Sabbath (with Ozzy only), Electric Wizard, Neurosis, Cult of Luna, Isis, Ningen Isu, Yoko Kanno, Church Of Misery, Napalm Death, Anaal Nathrakh, Pig Destroyer, Nasum, Bongzilla, Phobia, Doom, Pink Floyd, Altar De Fey, TR/ST, Boy Harsher, George Clanton, Underword, The Orb, The Future Sound Of London, 808 State, Orbital, B12, LFO, Amon Tobin, The Prodigy, Ulver, Kraftwerk, Dissecting Table, Anaal Nathrakh, Lycia, Tim Hecker, Akira Yamaoka, Deftones, Porcupine Tree, Hello Meteor, The Devil & The Universe, Wardruna, Goldie, Public Enemy, A Tribe Called Quest, Naughty By Nature, Geto Boys, NWA, Wu Tang Clan, Mos Def, Common, KRS One, The Pharcyde

Current favorite bands/artists ATM:

Coil, Jim Kirkwood, 90s Jungle & DnB

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta recipe-classification="classified">

<script>

ARCHIVE_TAG="CORPSE_STARCH::KITCHEN_DOCTRINE::NUTRITIONAL_EXECUTION_PROTOCOL_EXTENDED"

EFFECT="servitor appetite activation, culinary heresy enforcement, dietary class division mockery"

TRIGGER_WARNING="bureaucratic horror, fascist satire, cannibal culinary grotesque, meal-based execution"

</script>

Make Your Own Corpse Starch at Home!

📍 LOCATION: Hive Primus Kitchen Block 998-B | Clearances: Level Skull++ Only

---

Tired of overprocessed food?

Tired of standing in line at the Administratum-rationed slop trough, just to *beg* some apron-stained vendor for his third-hand meat mush?

Tired of *waiting behind the stall* while that fat bastard with the greasy cog-piercings tries to upcharge you for “premium marrow filtration” on something that’s 60% burnt spleen and 40% boot leather?

Well, *no more*, Citizen!

It’s time to ***take initiative*** in the Emperor’s name!

It’s time to become the ***starch provider*** your quadrant deserves.

---

✨ MAKE YOUR OWN CORPSE STARCH AT HOME™ ✨

(Easy! Cheap! Approved by 7 out of 10 Inquisitors!)

Includes bonus points toward:

✅ Purity Assessment

✅ Street-level Morale

✅ Informant Loyalty Credit Bonuses

---

🛠️ REQUIRED TOOLS:

☑️ 1 heretic (or a particularly annoying co-worker)

☑️ A domestic-grade flensing saw (or ask your neighborhood Tech-Priest!)

☑️ Large cauldron (blessed or scrubbed of sin via Mechanicus rites)

☑️ Bone strainer (or mesh from repurposed flak armor)

☑️ A sense of righteous vengeance

☑️ Industrial hunger

☑️ Three hymns of psychological fortitude

---

🧠 STEP-BY-STEP IMPERIAL PREP:

**Step 1: Apprehend Your Protein.**

Find a citizen guilty of:

- Eye rolling at the Schola

- Owning pre-Imperium literature

- Hoarding “gluten-free” ration cards (heresy)

- Saying “The Emperor didn’t seem that tall in person” (DEATH SENTENCE)

- Participating in unauthorized yoga

Bonus: Target smug walkers and suspicious vegetarians.

The leaner the subject, the easier the bake.

---

**Step 2: Report Immediately.**

Notify your local Adeptus Arbites:

> “This bastard mocked the Emperor while chewing!”

Provide visual evidence if available.

(If not, cry convincingly. The Emperor values *initiative*.)

Reporting earns you:

- Their food stamps

- Their personal effects

- First harvest rights to ***whatever’s still twitching***

---

**Step 3: Harvest Time.**

When they’re dragged off for lobotomy and servitor conversion, make your request to the attending Chirurgeon:

> “Mind if I keep the offcuts?”

They will nod. They always nod.

The Mechanicus hates waste almost as much as it hates poetry.

Prioritize:

- Spleen (dense, fibrous, nutrient-rich)

- Calf meat (low chew resistance)

- Brainstem casing (best used as starch binder)

---

**Step 4: Cleanse the Meat.**

Use incense if sanctioned. Otherwise, aggressive boiling.

Add:

- Three spoons of salt from the penal mines

- One sprig of Ecclesiarch thyme

- Holy water, or spit from a trusted Commissar

Skim floating heresy. Anything that resists heat is likely traitorous.

---

**Step 5: Break It Down.**

Grind bones into paste using Mechanicus-approved grinder (or mortar and pestle if below Tier 4 clearance).

Mix with blood curdle and marrow slush until doughy.

Flatten into imperial baking sheets (or old license plates)

and ***bake in forge-oven for 1 hour*** or until screams stop echoing in the metal.

---

**Step 6: Package & Label.**

Once dry and flaky, powder and jar in sanitized containers.

Affix purity seal. Label should read:

> “Official Corpse Starch – Batch 0911 – For Internal Righteous Use Only”

---

🍽️ SUGGESTED USES:

- Sprinkle over ration slop for crunchy martyr flavor

- Add to Ecclesiarch tea for righteous consistency

- Dust over morning sermons (trust us—boosts morale)

- Mix into guilt-loaves for the children you’re raising on fear and protein

---

🩸 “BUT I’M A PUSSY!”™ SECTION

(Diet-Friendly Alternatives for the Spiritually Undermuscled)

We understand. You still flinch when the Reclaimation Truck backs up.

So here’s an alternative starch plan for:

- The lactose-intolerant

- The shadow-averse

- The “I don’t eat humans” crowd

- Beta-males with sensitivity to emotional seasoning

---

🧁 SUBSTITUTE INGREDIENTS:

- Soylent Glimmer™ (now 80% less guilt)

- Shaved servitor husk (already dead inside, just like you)

- Leftover ration bars (grind, lie, profit)

- Your own fingernail clippings (biologically neutral, spiritually dubious)

- Hair. Yours. Hers. Doesn’t matter. *Hair is starch.*

---

🎖️ HERETICAL ADD-ONS (Use With Caution):

- Xeno-derived protein (illegal)

- Flavored sorrow beads (shunned but effective)

- Anything that “tastes like chicken” (you’re a coward and the Hive will smell it)

---

💡 EXECUTIONER COOKING TIPS:

- Always bless your flenser. Dirty tools rot both meat and soul.

- Burn tattoos off the flesh. Ink = ideology. Ideology = ***heresy.***

- Add crushed lho-stick ash for that authentic Hivegrime tang.

- Bake on a scream cycle for extra fluff.

---

📣 TESTIMONIALS 📣

> “I made corpse starch for my family and now my father-in-law finally salutes me.”

> – Decanus Flakmunch, Hive Primus Sector 12

> “Tastes like Uncle Remus, but less opinionated.”

> – Sister Spitea, Order of the Iron Spatula

> “Reported five citizens for suspicious belly laughter. Got a year’s worth of starch and a promotion. Feeling full.”

> – Private Kneebiter, PDF Morale Division

> “I added corpse starch to my shampoo. My hair now sings the Emperor’s Hymns.”

> – Junior Tech-Adept Gristlefex

---

🎁 BONUS RECIPE: *EMPEROR’S BROWNIES™*

Ingredients:

- 2 cups corpse starch

- 1 crushed ration cube

- 1 drop of joy (stolen is fine)

- Sobbing (silent, from the heart)

Bake until the smoke detector screams.

Best served under curfew.

---

🕯️ ADVANCED VARIATIONS:

1. **Arbites-Chili Bake**

Spicy, confrontational, leaves a guilty aftertaste.

2. **Purity Pancakes**

Thin enough to lie to your children. Thick enough to keep the Ecclesiarchy watching.

3. **Astartes Smoothie (Unofficial)**

Just corpse starch, weapon oil, and a single crushed oath. Will destroy your insides. Worth it.

---

📦 STORAGE PROTOCOLS:

- Keep in dry, blessed area (avoid psychic hotspots)

- Do not mix with sanctioned baby formula

- NEVER feed to psykers (unless funny)

---

🔥 CULTURAL NOTE:

Corpse starch isn’t just food.

It’s history.

It’s enforcement.

It’s ***recycling, with purpose.***

Your ancestors were probably turned into starch.

It’s only fair you pay it forward.

---

📜 LAST WORDS:

You are not above the system.

You *are* the system.

And the system’s hungry.

So don’t just report. Don’t just obey.

***Contribute.***

Because in the end…

> If your meal doesn’t scream,

> ***it isn’t starch.***

Reblog if you believe the emperor is not shorter in person.

Praise be the Emperor.

---

🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Masculine polarity. Scrolltrap psychology. Unforgiven words.

🚪 Warning: This post triggered a city-wide recipe audit and 14 summary executions. All before breakfast.

</div>

[AUTO-PURGE IN: 00:00:00 — RECOVERY TEAM DISPATCHED TO KITCHEN BLOCK 998-B]

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Just Like Magic pt 2

Pairing: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Reader

Words: 5,492 

An oddity or an omen?

Tags: Witch!reader, optimistic/cheery reader, female reader, httyd 1, unedited

<Previous - Next>

Hiccup sighed, breath pressing out from dry lips, feeling generally blazing as if he himself were just as fiery as the hearth before him, all mortar and brick pasted together, covered in its own dust and pebble. It had been fed to oblivion, just as raging with the need to eat and burn as it was bright. 

His thumb ached in a dull, bone-strained way, fighting against the grip of a two-looped metal handle. His fingers were nearly numb, slightly buzzing even as he worked, everything in them taut, and yet Hiccup could feel vaguely as they twitched with the thought to release.

The stretch of all of his fingers, running the flat part of his thumb against one of the callouses along his pointer finger- It was a habit which, as of late, he had taken up with unfortunate vigor- or maybe it was something old, another thing that had come to him while evading his notice.

The smithy was heady with the smell of smoke and melted, burning metal. It was the kind of air that had his head light, and yet it brought him closer to his work, filling his mind with nothing but heavy, deep focus.

It was not so much of a fog in the sense that he was visibly impaired, for there were no clearly visible grays, even with the soot so thick in his throat it could have been mistaken for water- no, to his mind, the tables and tools placed around him were ambiguous. Unreal. They didn’t exist to him- not the leather of the wrapped handle beneath his palms, uneven and worn, thin enough for the blunt ends of dry fingers to scratch against carpal, nor the working movement of his arm, pressing in a way that strained. 

Nothing apart of Hiccup nor around him existed beyond what they could do for him, unimportant. Discarded.

It was a feeling that brought him to other places and yet rooted him here, like the twisting, hard legs of a tree, thick and old, his arms not his but the muscles of twice as many men as there were generations who’d lived on Berk- strong men, leathered men, mighty men and warriors. The old and crafty, the thick-skinned and head-thickened.

With his eyes focused on nothing but orange light and darkness, though he could not at all feel the latter, it was almost enough to bring his mind away from- from the dragon.

By the morning, he would have left it for a day and one cooling night.

Hiccup had only woken, scrounged up his own meal and had barely anything in his stomach by the time his father declared that he would be sent into the arena.

All of his vigor- his passion- his readiness for battle- it was all gone. He’d never been prepared. He was no man, too much of a coward to take charge of his own adulthood and to enter into the next era with force as his forebears had done.

The pounding of hot metal -which hadn’t at all registered to his ears before- was suddenly too loud.

With a sudden jerk, Hiccup stopped.

With a grimace, he maneuvered his prongs so that he could vaguely examine his work, looking with the fruitless eyes of a teen whose momentary passion for his practice was waning, his heart twinging with apprehension as his focus was replaced with the feeling of ‘giving up.’

There was always work to be done after a raid; busywork, chores, many other things. The last task was always smithing; Making new. Forging modish pieces for those who’d lost them.

Hiccup tilted his head to the side slightly as darker flakes formed over the longest stretches of his work- it was naught but one knife of two, which, when it came to the actual smithing, would usually not require anymore but a mold for metal and heavy sharpening on the grinder. 

What would usually be either cut short and filed into a point by the stem, or made into a handle and a ball at the end, so leather might wrap around it securer was instead stretched and bent upwards so that the hot metal could form its own grip as if it was one half of a shear with a hold just the same as the prong Hiccup used to carry it.

He preferred it- there was less artistry in it. After forging, Hiccup would rather do carpentry over any other sort of work with either paint or finer, golder alloys, and yet this way of handle-crafting was simpler. It would certainly be most pleasant for Hiccup to get his work done as fast as possible. Gobber would scold him for his laziness later. 

Gobber would whack him over the head for a lot of things and let him free to do twice as many others. 

Gobber had wandered off sometime in the afternoon -rag of a smock included- so he was probably done until the morn, though the smoke in the forge, the need to chide and the threat of Hiccup’s own complaining might lure him back soon enough.

Hiccup wouldn’t give him any more fuel for worry- he kept the forge counter shutters open this time, which should keep him happy enough.

He felt one singular line of sweat run down his face, tickling down the skin of his cheek and then sweeping under the line of his jaw as he exhaled. 

He was unsure when he had placed down his hammer and yet he didn’t care much at all, exhaling as a large waft of cooler night air pressed against his back.

The forge doors were usually only opened during a raid and while both Hiccup and Gobber were smithing- to keep the Cough from setting in, or some such similar thing.

Hiccup huffed and rolled his eyes. Usually there was enough space between the cracks to allow in air while being wide enough to block out most rain and hail- they had better ventilation than any place else on Berk.

He liked it better than the Chief’s hut for that very reason- though it was comfortably warm during the winter months, in the summer it was unbearable. 

No smoke hole meant that they had to open all the doors whenever they roasted anything inside, and they were too far away to steal away any real smoke, so his space by the roof was smoggy in the nights, which left him unable to sleep, tossing and turning ‘till morning.

 There was definitely not enough to air the feeling of misery out from the space in his loft, nor the smell of the fish he’d left rotting in his bed, which he discarded at the last moment, feeling too ill to eat anything but slightly moldy bread.

It was in a bucket now by the door, which was as hygienic as he could have bothered to be about it in the moment.

The smell had probably been trapped there for hours- it was inescapable by the time Hiccup had bothered to make off the same way the forge’s heat sometimes made the overwhelming stench of Gobber’s lost dirty socks worse- nearly as terrible as they were unfindable, no matter how hard Hiccup looked.

He was mystified as to the reason his father hadn’t brought up the smell. He would have gotten rid of it sooner, though regardless, eventually it would be just another thing for his father to scold him about and he had been feeling particularly moody.

With a tired shake of his head and the deep hunch of his shoulders, Hiccup turned, flinging the piece and the prongs across the nearly gray surface of a long bench with a sudden, tumultuous awnry. 

Hiccup had to resist the urge to run a hand through his hair and throw his smock sternly to the ground, wincing as he heard metal make sharp contact with stone.

The piece would pay for his negligence later, yet he found it hard to care.

Loosening his shoulders again, opening his eyes, clenching his fists and flexing his wrists, Hiccup stilled. 

He willed that the feeling pricking up and down his back went away, adjusting his sweat cooled tunic. It felt obscenely thin then, thin and blowing with the evening breeze, what was once nice making his back feel naked and exposed.

He adjusted his collar, walking past a worked anvil and grabbing hold of a very thin bucket handle, intending to cradle the bottom of the bucket as its weight shifted with the thick sound of sloshing water.

He wasn’t able to get a solid grip before hot metal met flesh.

He cursed. Immediately startled, Hiccup dropped the bucket, causing it to crash and roll over the uneven stone floor, clattering violently.

“Just my luck,” Hiccup said dryly. He always had the worst of it.

Hiccup cursed as he shook boiling water off the bottoms of his shoes, hopping ungainly from one to the other- he could already feel his soles sticking to the ground, pulling with what sounded more like a wet hiss than a pop, as day-old residue -forest sap, dragon’s blood and animal mess- melted back into a sticky paste.

He always dropped the bucket. It was just as much of a certainty as anything else was in here- stepping in it, on it, stubbing his toe or grabbing orange metal.

He huffed, quickly wiping his heated palms against his smock. It was more of a habit than anything, something he’d never been able to shake off. His hands had long since ceased to feel the heat of fire after one too many burns and the growth of thicker skin.

As he settled and the wiping of his hands slowed, eventually coming to a full stop, his wrists falling limply to his sides, he realized that some water had managed to make its way into the furnace anyhow. It hadn’t tempered the flames one bit, though it did smother a great deal of the embers floating out from its face, the space inside the kiln now more red-washed than lit by bright white fire.

A full bucket would have done nothing to put out the fire, anyways. 

The rest of it he’d deal with later. He’d- he needed the light still and he still felt too petty and hurt to pick the bucket back up, one side of it still glowing slightly red.

He had enough mind to stand straight and to kick it to the side with the edge of his boot, grimacing as fur clung to sweaty ankles. The fur lining of his shoe often did him more hel than help in the forge. 

His boots were too bulky- sweltering on the worst days and oppressive during the best. He’d grown up in boots like these, wide and too easy to trip over. At least that’s what Gobber said- that very last bit, anyhow. 

Sometimes he wondered if he’d be less clumsy if he got rid of them.

Eager to turn his hands away from the mess and to shake off the thickness in his hands, Hiccup cracked his knuckles with a grunt, stepping forwards and placing both of his palm on the sides of the table, the one before the two open window doors, glowering down at a piece of his earlier work with another ball of budding frustration.

It was a knife that had been ready for mounting on a thick, small piece of wood. It stuck out of the table, ready to be carved into a handle. Unfortunately, by no hand but Hiccup’s own, it  had been bent wickedly to the side.

It now stood horizontal to the table with the block only half on the end, crushed bark scattered everywhere.

Hiccup- well, he’d messed it up pretty bad. He should have known better -he should have known himself- and yet he still messed it up.

He’d wanted to be a Viking and he’d messed that up, too.

Everyone -Astrid especially- probably thought he was a loser and a compulsive liar, which… He was. He wasn’t exactly packing on the muscle, that wasn’t too hard to see, and he didn’t exactly do a great job of covering that up. Brushing it off? Yes, but that was all feigned bravado.

If he hadn't found the dragon he’d still have known he’d shot it down, but what did that matter? He thought he’d shot many other dragons down and yet he'd been proven wrong enough for his word not to count.

A great job of ‘proving himself’ he’d done- and he couldn’t even shake the thought of the dragon from his mind, feeling bad for it. He did this.

The heat of the fire, smothered though it was, emanated in such a way that Hiccup felt as if there was a blanket at his back, sweltering and oppressive.

Leaning even further against his arms, which were half bent, too far apart to put any real weight on, he furrowed his brows and let out another annoyed exhale.

The metal was too bent out of shape to fix, not that he would’ve been able to fix it up anyways, all lighter and looking slightly ripped in the one way metal never should. If he hammered it now, it’d probably bend in the wrong direction, and he’d have to wrestle with it to get it back.

Maybe he’d made the blade too thin- sanded it down too much, melted stuff off when he wasn’t looking. Even if he was able to hammer it back into the vertical direction, it would have been obviously twisted and lumpy at the bending point.  He’d be risking damaging another part of the blade, too. He could try and reheat it, but he’d have to pull it off the log, and that… Reforging would still weaken the integrity of the blade. He could fix the outside imperfections and yet without completely redoing it, the inside would still be messed up.

A good warrior didn’t use knives for dragon fighting, though if it came down to it, and it probably would, it’d definitely fold against dragon hide.

“Great,” Hiccup stepped back, letting one arm loose and running a hand down the side of his face. “Wonderful.”

He loathed being there more than he ever had.

Hiccup resisted the urge to look back and glare at his room- the back room reserved for him with his sketches pasted and hammered onto the wall, with rods and sanded wooden panels laying all over. It seemed no matter where he looked he couldn’t help but to be reminded of all the messes he’d made.

If he just decided not to listen to his Dad, what with training and all, what were the chances of him being dragged into the arena anyways? 

“Who are you?” 

Hiccup’s shoulders jumped in that sudden-stiff way, looking upwards with a slightly astonished blink, wondering where in the world that voice had come from, “Me?” 

Hiccup spent a short while just blinking and staring, not really looking before he even processed anything. 

Slowly, he turned to his side.

You were a lot closer to the counter than he’d have been in the right mind to process, a girl around his age with dangling baubles at the ends of your sleeves, palms pressed into the wooden counter before the two of you. They were nothing he could stare at too long without being impolite, though that never stopped him.

If he was going to be honest, he’d never seen you before, either.

“Who else?” You asked, your eyes darting to the side for just a moment.

At first glance, to him, you seemed somewhat unassuming, unaware of the fact that you’d just snuck up on him, though he couldn’t have imagined that was easy to miss, so you must have been being polite. Sneaking up on him wouldn’t have been difficult, on purpose or not, especially considering how occupied he’d been.

Hiccup’s eyes darted from side to side, slightly embarrassed at having been caught in such a foul mood.

The sky above was gray and blue, though mostly gray. It was an environment suited to his agonies. 

Hiccup wasn’t surprised. For some odd reason, all of his poorest days were terrible, no-good mud-in-boots sort of days, and since all of his days were poor, most of his days ended up being abhorrently rainy. There was something meaningful in that, he supposed- if by ‘meaning’ he meant ‘inescapable misery.’

Though the sea more than likely contributed to its solidity, there was a wind brushing in so chilling it could be naught but the kind that appeared just before a long rain with the both lively and sorrowful smell of burgeoning sky-water permeating the air.

There was not a single soul around besides the two of you, which was both a mercy for him, a balm to his hurt sensibilities, and quite peculiar. 

The stones embedded into the clearings around and the dilapidated feel to the clan homes stationed by the font of the forge meant that the world had never felt less real, all unfeeling object.

Your liveliness gave you a certain strength- a power that deemed you one of the many things Gobber might have tried and failed to charm away with his superstitious rituals and baubles, symbols written in sheep’s blood across thresholds and along wooden doorframe.

The brushing of your clothes lit a feeling in him which whistled past the eerie hollow in his gut, a sense that told him to shrink back and close the window shutters. It screamed at him, all chilled and sharp, though it didn’t say, ‘no.’ 

‘Temptation,’ It screeched instead. ‘The wrong way.’

“I’m...” He spoke slowly, brows raised, wondering if he was speaking with a devil. He’d done a lot of speaking with devils recently. “You really don’t know?”

Hiccup didn’t know everyone and yet it was just his luck that everyone knew him, by face if not painfully long name.

The clan houses belonged to Berk’s most prized warriors which meant that, in times of trouble, and as a reward to those with privilege, they were the ones with the easiest access to the smithy and therefore the weapons supply. That was not to say, though, that the smithy did not receive patrons of all sorts- farmers for the sharpening of scythes and the repairing of a loose bolt in their bull’s harness, fishermen for a new casing for their compass- if they hadn’t seen him, which was rare, because Hiccup didn’t care to keep track of many people at all, he’d have at least seen them.

He hadn’t heard of anyone new coming their way- he expected no notable imports, and yet even then, on Berk, any traveler was big news. For all it was worth, it would have been made into a event.

Even if someone new did appear, his father might have ordered them shot down before their ship even reached the docks with all their battle ready warriors sent off into the fog. 

There was hardly anything defensible left. Anything manageable went off to war; long travel boats were armed and fortified in less than a day. Anything that was not war-ready was repurposed for the sake of fishing. Even most of their catapults had gone with.

“Oh, I don’t spend so much time in town.” You must have read the silent question in his eyes, “But I was born here. …And raised.”

Your response seemed practiced, as if maybe you’d been asked this question a few times before, which wouldn’t have surprised Hiccup.

By some stroke of fate, you didn’t know him, which meant you’d never seen him before. Which meant- well, he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, though the disgruntled churning in his middle told him that it was probably bad, which was in and of itself spectacular.

With his eyes, he could see nothing but a girl his age asking about a bent knife, yet… In that moment, he felt reckless in that free, strung-out, apathetic way. At this point, he was willing to sell his chance at the afterlife for scraps.

“...Raids?” Hiccup asked touchily.

“Never in town for the raids. Always in the forest,” You blinked at him, “I’m not interested in warring.”

“Not interested in warring?”

…Odd.

“War is interesting,” You said amicably. “But I like other things more.”

Very odd.

“Hiccup.” Hiccup grimaced, listening to the sound of his own feet shifting against stone as he moved his weight from one foot to the other. He spoke before you could even think to ask the question,  “-My name. ...I work in the forge.”

You hummed, eyes glancing to the side as you considered something. Hiccup wasn’t sure if that meant that you recognized him or not.

“Why’d you come in today?” Hiccup asked, slightly put off. He sounded, should he say it, a tad irritated, mostly at being intruded on. He had the right to be.

“Felt like it,” You smiled, before pausing for just a moment. “You seem troubled.”

Hiccup considered you suspiciously still before he grimaced and nodded, shifting his shoulders as he leaned back down at the bench again. 

Any other day and he might have been glad for the attention. But now…?

“Knife,” Hiccup said curtly, furrowing his brows, examining another long scratch by one side of the blade. Definitely too thin. Maybe he’d accidentally mixed something else in with the iron. He spoke with nearly a grumble, “I thought I could fix it, but…”

“Really?”

“The bend on the nail,” Hiccup looked at you wearily, “It’s a soft point- I’ve been messing with it too much.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s fine- I’ll probably need to get a new one, anyways- I’ll have to melt this one down…” Hiccup shook his head slightly, frustrated, “Scrap metal. I don’t even know if it’s usable.”

“I’ve never seen anyone do this before,” You smiled, placing your palms against wood and peering over the counter slightly, staring at him intently in a way that made him slightly uneasy.

What, smack a knife with a hammer?

Hiccup leaned back a tad and then some more as you rested on your elbows.

“Could you try again so I can see?” 

It was his turn to ask, “Really?” though even before you could speak again, he’d moved some, “Another feeling, then?”

He reached backwards with a hesitant hand towards the edge of a bench to his back left, all cluttered as most things in the forge were, especially then, grasping with weak and weary fingers for anything. 

You nodded, beaming, “Yes.”

His fingers touched something, cool from what Hiccup knew instinctively was disuse. It was also… crusted. Was it rust or was it food residue? 

One was fixable and the other… It would require a lot of work. He needed to stop eating in the forge.

“It’s just going to-...” Hiccup trailed off, staring at you for a long moment, then glancing back at his hand, pulling his boon out in front of him.

It was another set of prongs, one with a squarer end, better for clamping down on the smaller rods. It was no hammer, but it had a thick, blunt end. 

It was crusted by the handle by some white-blueish-flaked something, which could have been mold, though it was otherwise unscratched, which meant that it was new, even if it was covered in soot. He hadn’t used it in a while- it might not have even been his.

Hiccup grimaced, weighing it in his hand with a bounce before deciding better of it and setting it aside with the hollow sound of metal meeting wood.

Even if it was blunt, it wouldn’t throw weight properly, which would make for a pathetic blow, and if it landed wrong, it would damage both the setting of the two prongs and the bit keeping it all together. Even a novice could tell he was hitting the blade half-heartedly- faking it, not that he cared at all for his own fakeness.

The moment he pulled his eyes away from you, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He didn’t keep them away for long.

“I’m sure it won’t give you trouble,” You insisted, leaning over the counter slightly, resting the weight off your full upper half on its surface in a way that looked quite childish.

Maybe you really were just a girl. A girl his age though, so maybe a bit too old to ogle at knives, but… Well, Hiccup would be a hypocrite if he decided to dish out any judgment.

He took a few steps back into the darkness of the forge, though he kept his eye on you, certain this time he knew where his hammer was, grabbing for it with the same unsure hand as before, missing and somehow conveniently managing to not step in the bucket in the process.

Though he usually had the foresight to kick the bucket aside, he really half expected to step into it as he stumbled back.

Hiccup tried not to look so uneasy as he grabbed for his hammer again- he missed it, of course, his surprise nearly causing him to fall back anyways. He made an effort to compensate by nearly jumping forward and then spent the moment after grimacing at his own failure to try to make it look as if he’d always meant to do that.

His hand slapped against the ring of stone around the kiln’s base before he was able to grab his hammer, the handle still warm from the furnace’s heat and his own hand’s accumulated warmth. He stepped forwards again with both more confidence and a face that was stiff with his efforts to keep it slack.

He was still staring at you when he did it, tapping the knife’s bent handle lightly- half-heartedly, and hoped to the Gods that that would be a good enough show for you. 

Hiccup refused to look down as he did it. This would be the first time he did his best to ward off any girl’s attention. He did say he’d be fine with any girlfriend, though he didn’t think he’d try his luck with this mystery girl, preferring the idea that he might rather be left alone to his dragon and his near-paranoid frustration.

Still staring into your eyes, his focus and apprehension was so strong that he felt nearly hypnotized, though he didn’t stare at any place in particular on your face.

 He was startled when his hammer came down again and met solid wood, not necessarily because he didn’t expect it, but because his arm had hardly bent, its impact landing  closer to him than to where it had been bent before, causing his shoulders to jump.

Looking down and blinking slowly, his eyes met a perfectly straight extrusion from the wooden countertop, flat metal and secured wood.

Hiccup picked up the knife by the handle. He’d had to jerk against the countertop table with half his weight, the muscles in his upper and lower arms tensing briefly before it’d dislodged somewhat violently, causing him to take an uneasy step back.

Settling, he rested his still-closed fist with the handle against the countertop, ogling at the knife’s blade. 

He was astonished as he noticed that the bend was gone with no soft bits or twisted, torn metal. If it bent with just a light tap, it couldn’t be sound- he was surely hitting it at the wrong angle, too.

He adjusted it in his hands so he was holding the wood piece closer to the blade, and with an unsteady but effective enough grip, tested it by pressing the flat side of it against wood, putting as much force as he could behind it, slightly weary of the fact that if the blade slipped and snapped it would surely launch and cut him in the face or on the arm, perhaps.

He felt no give at all. He heard no cracking or any creaking struggle.

There was a thump as he placed it back onto the table and turned the wood branch piece to the side, pushing it with his palm then grabbing onto the handle with fingers only just enough to touch the edge of the table on one side, curling around the wood’s thick base.

He pressed his finger to the sharp part of the blade and felt the flat of his middle finger run down it, dippling along its jagged edge, skin there too thick to be cut.

He heard nothing but the wind as he looked up, the motion slow, at where you had been standing in silence the whole time.

You then smiled at him ambiguously.

“Seems like it wanted to be righted.” You said slyly, as if you found yourself to be completely normal. Hiccup had the inkling that you weren’t just talking about the knife. “Can’t always do things with force. You need a gentler hand. Like… a crook. A sheep’s guide.”

Hiccup blinked at you deliriously, squinting suddenly as harsh light hit his eyes.

While he had been occupied, things had seemed to get lighter. Happier, yellower.

The sky no longer smelt as if it was about to rain, which Hiccup would have typically brushed off as a symptom of his smoke-slogged nostrils if not for the fact that the grass outside seemed greener where it had previously looked absent, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the sky seemed to be no longer darkening.

He squinted with the sudden forcefulness of the change, eyes darting from side to side.

Hiccup didn’t believe in magic or witches or even Gods most of the time, and yet- “What…”

As he watched you, his spare palm rested against the table, flat, feeling at tiny scratches and a long groove in its surface. He didn’t take it in so much as know they were there- Some of the scratches were ones he’d made, many he’d experienced, a mixed chronological biography of both his life and anyone else who’d been at the counter the past ten years.

Without looking, he pressed one finger deeper into the groove, knowing that he would have to repair it somehow, despite all the various, nearly-identical nicks and grooves all over the forge. 

“You need to listen- the wind tells more than anyone else is kind enough to hear.” You hummed pleasantly again, “I hope whatever calls you finds you well.”

When he’d finally thought to look back at you, you’d already left, the only thing visible to him being your back and sunlight.

This was the first time he’d ever met anyone weirder than him.

“What was that?” Hiccup asked, not sure he hadn’t imagined it -and you- at all. He blinked tiredly, his astonishment lifting his brows even as his lids threatened to fall.

A witch for sure. Or…

 Hiccup blinked groggily as the light of the first morning hit his eyes. Had he worked through the night? He was sure it’d just been…

He scrubbed at the backs of his ears wearily, feeling greasy hairs split between his fingers.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Gobber with his smock still on, stumbling quickly down from the direction which led to both Hiccup’s house and the Great hall. He was just visible past what he could see over your shoulder, long, muddled green grass parting before him and all at once the illusion was broken, the eerie feeling of being alone lost just as it usually was the moment anyone became truly aware of the fact that they were not alone.

Hiccup had no idea where he’d been this past night- drunk at the hall, maybe. Celebrating what could be the traveling warriors’ lasts, as always.

Hiccup sighed deeply. The knife was unbent, and yet his troubles remained. At least now he could be miserable in the sun instead- until soon, when his father would be sent off. 

He’d still have to be there when that happened- should be about now, actually, while the air was still cool. Hiccup… He might miss it this time. But his father… He should be there. In case he didn’t come back whole.

There would be the night to follow after that to languish in his woes, and then… dragon training.

Even with his dread, he couldn’t miss it. 

Even with his failure to kill the dragon, Hiccup felt the strain of expectation on his heart -the eyes of his father, the weight of an axe in his hand- and he heard the small part of him that was still eager. Still… Anticipatory.

After a few long, torturous moments, in which he struggled to undo the knot by his back, Hiccup really did throw his smock down this time, leaving the forge and the knife abandoned as he began to unwillingly, quickly make way down to the docks.

[your-enby-antihero]

Aelwyn Abernant Might Go Blue Dragon(born) Hunting

———————————————————————— Summary: What if The Rat Grinders got revivified and Oisin had a crush on Adaine. Well more so what if Aelwyn knew all the shit he put Adaine through and she wanted to send a message.

Also available on Ao3

————————————————————————

Aelwyn Abernant, a woman reformed, hadn’t thought of murder in like two weeks. Which honestly was a super big deal for her, had she done a shit ton of extorting and taken like six people’s bones to try and find the one pirate in Leviathan that dies if you pull out their bones, well maybe. But who can blame her? It's how she was raised. But now she was starting to slip back into old habits. 

The whole world was saved once again by her beautiful baby sister and the rest of The Bad Kids. Aguefort had come back and fixed all the weird shit that had happened, though the school was closed for the rest of the year so everyone just had to take the Last Stand to try to pass the year. But one of the many unfortunate things that happened, in Aelwyn’s opinion, was that those stupid Rat Grinders were revived. Adaine had said something about second chances and manipulation and corrupt adults and blah blah blah whatever. Something about them failing the year and doing remedial classes monitored by the Bad Kids to make it up or you know. Aelwyn knew all about villain reformation, being a reformed villain herself, but something about the Rat Grinders set her teeth on edge. Especially that waifish nerdy-looking Dragonborn, he was giving Adaine a look that Aelwyn found disturbing. Aelwyn was well aware of Adaine’s fleeting crush on the boy, though, after the whole Porter-Ankarna debacle, she was so very sure that the crush had faded. Even when Aelwyn tried to tease her about it Adaine looked absolutely disgusted.

“Why the fuck would I fancy some old money turncoat? He literally was just using any affection I had for him to end the fucking world. I’d punch that spoiled bitch in the face again just like I did with the dragons he sent to ruin Fabian’s birthday,” she spat.

It started over that summer, Adaine and some of the Bad Kids had taken to “tutoring” the Rat Grinders on how to adventure properly. Adaine had brought Oisin over to the tower in Mordred to discuss some sort of thing to do with Adaine’s mephits, the ‘Dry Guys’ if Aelwyn recalled correctly. Before she had left for work Aelwyn had made sure to bolster the Nemesis ward in Adaine’s room before she left. She would not be having that boy mess with her baby sister, not in a millenia. Aelwyn spent the next hours of her shift at the Compass Points feeling the arcana of the ward for anything amiss. Though she felt nothing that didn’t stop her from texting Zayn to peek in on Adaine and Oisin to see if he was pulling any funny business. She received a photo back from the ghostly fellow of Adaine looking down at a piece of parchment on the floor of their shared room, quill tip set between her teeth in concentration. Next to her was Oisin, who sat cross-legged with his face leaning up against his clawed hand gazing doe-eyed at her sister. God, Aelwyn could see that look that now followed Fabian whenever he talked about Mazey. She looked at the clock and decided that the library would just close early that day because she had a pest to scare.

As she walked through the door back into Mordred she was greeted by Sandra-Lynn and Jawbone before she stormed up to the tower, rocketing past Fig and Kristen who coincidentally were also spying on Adaine. As she walked through the door she did so calmly, years of repressing any feelings other than jealousy and pettiness really did give her a good resting bitch face. 

“Adaine, I see you have a guest over,” she smiled, though the glare she was giving Oisin was anything but subtle. 

Adaine of course shot her a dirty look as Oisin’s scaled face blushed purple, “Aelwyn I thought you were working late tonight. I didn’t expect you to be back so early with Ayda not being there to run it today?” 

“Adaine you’re so funny, dear sister. Now let me have a look at this spellcraft, you know I’ve always been so good with these things.”

Aelwyn sat down with the two, purposely placing herself in between the teens. Adaine had taken it in stride, literally nothing about the interaction changed for her. Aelwyn truly just joined in on their spell crafting, she could tell Adaine was grateful for the extra set of eyes. However, Oisin was notably more shut off. He really kind of just ignored Aelwyn, trying to lean in toward Adaine when he was asking questions about Adaine’s rune work. The night went well otherwise, she had successfully defended her sister from the boy clearly all moony eyed over her. 

As Adaine sees Oisin out the door Fig and Kristen both leap at Aelwyn in the halls.

“So what happened in there Aelwyn, why did you come home early? What. Did. He. Do.”

She is bombarded with all the possible questions and observations that Fig and Kristen had made and in return dishes out all that she noticed back. She hadn’t remembered the last time someone had fancied Adaine but Kristen and Fig did. Apparently, the last person was that freak Biz Gilitterdew. Aelwyn shuttered in disgust and mentally noted to take a trip down to Hell to kill the tiny little pipsqueak basement scum for trying to put the moves in her sister even when they hated each other and she was evil at the time. She also got the download about all the history with Oisin that Adaine had conveniently left out when Aelwyn had pressed to know about the boy her sister fancied. So to say that Aelwyn was contemplating hunting Dragonborn for fun wasn’t a lie. From what she got from Fig and Kristen was that Oisin had used the cover of being a love-struck idiot (or maybe he was a love-struck idiot) to lead Adaine on so that he could plan a bunch of arcane whatever to make Seacaster Manor go airborne. Then after he had supposedly tried to cover for his friend for being assholes and then killed one of his party members he had said that she ‘must not be a very good oracle’ because she didn’t forecast that there was going to be a storm at Fabian’s birthday. Now that was something that Aelwyn could not forgive, not only was she the only one who was allowed to tease her sister about oracle things but he wasn’t allowed to say those exact words to Adaine, especially about storms and oceans. Aelwyn knew what Adaine saw in the Nightmare King’s forest and she knew that anything about the previous oracle and storms haunted her sister. 

Adaine soon made her way back up to where the little cabal of the girls of Mordred Manor had been gossiping. She yelled indignantly and threw a book at Fig when she started teasing. Aelwyn could tell from the look on her sister’s face and her voice, no hot flush or any enamoured quiver in her voice, that she really had gotten over Oisin completely and that this was all just in the name of sister bonding.  

“Kristen was the one who said we should try to fix the Rat Grinders, I’m just doing this so that they won’t join another teacher’s weird cult,” Adaine shouted indignantly. 

— — — — — — — — — — — —

It had been many weeks since Oisin had started to come over for tutoring, of course, the ever patient Adaine Abernant was gracious to the fool even while he was literally (to Aelwyn) staring at her like a lost puppy. Aelwyn made a habit of always crashing their little study sessions. Sometimes it was a text to Adaine telling her to get away so that she could gossip and other times it was Aelwyn straight up just coming home early. 

Every time Oisin gave her a smile that she could tell was laced with the ‘you ruined my life’ vibes, not that he’ll ever be able to pull off that smile like Penelope Everpetal. He was always polite but always insisted that he and Adaine were fine on their own.

“I’m sure you have so much stuff to do, me and Adaine have got this one.”

“Oh I’m sure my sister has everything under control but you seem to be lacking- I mean look at your rune for conjure elementals. This linework- here let me.”

Most of their interactions were passive-aggressive at best and outright venomous at best, Aelwyn had offered to see Oisin out one night, and Adaine had to take care of business relating to Gilear and some cursed object he had found at a yard sale. 

“Sorry Oisin, good work today! By next time I’m sure your party is going to be fine during the Last Stand,” Adaine shouted as Fig was literally pulling her out the door.

The room was silent, just Aelwyn perched on her bottom bunk holding Boggy in her hands. Oisin got up and started to pack his things, heading for the door. As he did, clawed hand on the doorknob to leave. With a click, Aelywn pushed the door closed with a mage hand.

“Hakinvar, you and I have something to discuss.”

Aelwyn didn’t look up, her eyes glowed as did the runes she had lovingly, carefully painted onto the floor. Oisin didn’t move, frozen in fear as he let out slow fearful breaths. 

Aelwyn set Boggy down, scritching under what she assumed was the frog orb’s chin, and motioned for Oisin to move away from the door. He did. Stiff as only a body once caught by rigour mortis could. He faced Aelwyn, just slightly taller than her due to his ancestry. 

“I can see you getting all ensorcelled by our dear oracle but as her older evil sister, I will have to intervene. You know the last guy who messed with her had his fingers shot off by her little rouge friend. I heard that Gorgug cleaved your ass into two. They brought you back because they are good moral people. Had it been up to me, well I’m sure you know I worked with Kalvaxus and The Nightmare King so I’m sure such a capable wizard like you could figure it out. I know what you’ve said to her, what you’ve done to her, and I’ll have you know that I can be very tricky if you cross me.”

She draws her fingers along the ground tracing the nemesis ward with a manicured hand.

“You are aware of what this ward means, yes?”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Oisin finally replied.

Aelwyn smiled, “Good then I’m sure you’ll be far more careful in future when it comes to that blabbering mouth,” she allowed the glow to cease, picking up Boggy as she rose. 

Oisin practically bolted out of the room, nodding as he collected his gear. Aelwyn nuzzled the perfect familiar as she followed. Good, always good for people to know their place.

[xaphrin]

[drops down from the ceiling] I know you're a DamiRae person nowadays and that's absolutely valid and perfect and good for them, good for them, birds of a feather etc etc, but I just wanna say I am EATING up your old MalRae/Malven fics. I tripped and fell face first into brainstorming a redemption/domestication (aka still a prick but not against the protags) fic for this fucker because for some reason those almost two decades old brainworms woke up AGAIN and I'm nodding along to everything you wrote so so so so so so FUCKING hard. That princess and dragon AU especially made me go briefly feral from the sheer serotonin overload. Shaking your hand, placing flowers at your feet, thank you for making my inner tween* lose her fucking mind. Touch starved Mal. Not originally a dragon Mal. Somewhat regretful of his first fuck up Mal. CHEF. FUCKING. KISS. Excuse me I've been deranged about them all week. I think Rae should get him out of the book once she's older and more experienced but put a binding spell on him so he cannot cause problems on purpose (though where you went with handcuffs I'm planning a red energy collar for Reasons) (the Reasons are attaching a red energy leash so she can yank him down to her level and hiss into his face that she'll flay the flesh off his bones with his own spells he taught her if he dares to hurt any of her friends) (Mal discovers something new about himself that day)

*tfw you start out as a lonely edgy book nerd who doesn't have friends at school and compensates by reading too many books and daydreams of kissing the protags, but then down the line you acquire genuine friends, figure out you're aroace and unfathomably passionate about monster and the entire concept of monster/human romance, AND your main fanfic tropes are horrifically slow burn and making cunning & manipulative villains experience emotions against their will. Pspspspsps Mal babygirl c'mere I need to shove you into the enemies to lovers meat grinder and also into a regular meat grinder for some delicious delicious angst and pining.

Come here.

You sing the song of my soul.

Let me love you.

[sprachgefuehle]

So recently tumblr has been telling me that this blog is now 6 years old and that's a good moment to say that I really don't what to do with it.

When I made it back in 2018, I was studying several languages at university and tumblr had a vibrant linguistics community that I wanted to join. Lingblr is now technically dead and I haven't really studied languages in years. My academic focus has shifted significantly and my target languages have become languages that I use in my day to day life.

To be honest, I haven't even thought of myself as a student in quite some time now either. This time of my life is over and I only feel resentment and anger towards this capitalist meat grinder called academia that I used to love so much. Not because I didn't succeed in it but because I saw this institution eat up people I love and I don't wanna go down the same path.

I was ok just reblogging stuff here based on vibes though, because I care about this blog. Not because of any follower count or whatever but because of the people I met. Some are now some very, very dear friends but I also had countless other small interactions that I loved. Even if we never really talked, some people here have been following me for years and it would be weird not to see their urls anymore on the regular. Some people even told me that this blog was important to them when they were learning german and that honestly still feels crazy to me in a good way.

But this is also exactly the reason why I am making this post now. I never intended to be a "german" blog but somehow ended up in this role. And that was okay for me. But the election results for the eu parliament is just the final nail in the coffin. NSU, Hanau, Halle, police violence organised in far right networks, "remigration" plans, refugees who are dying at european borders... It's too much. I don't want to be thought of as "the German blog" anymore. I don't want to feel like I promote "germaness", even if it is not an outright right wing nationalist variant but the cutesy upper middle class erasmus cultural exchange one. And I don't care about that anymore either. I haven't for some time, to be honest.

Because Western society is still deeply racist, imperialist and colonial to its core and it's getting to my bones. Because nationalism is killing people, people like my friends. Because nationalism is putting them in danger, is putting me in danger. Not only because of who I am but because of my work as well which puts a target on my back for helping vulnerable people.

I don't know. This is me rambling. I am just just tired and angry and hurt from the daily reality. I am not deleting this blog though. To be honest, I don't know what to do actually. I am just very, very tired and needed to write down my thoughts.

[glazedwriter-mystery0014]

Hey it's me again, and today I'm creating another headcanon of them, and includes Mega, Mikey, and their beloved mother & Mega's wife, "Anne-Marie Beefpuncha" with more interests & hobbies! And so, the first post of renaming the butcher's shop because that's name doesn't used the business's right, so I call their business 'The Iron Bull Butchery'.

"The Iron Bull Butchery, formerly known as "Mega & Son & Son & Son & Son & Son & Son & Son Beefpuncha Butchershop", is a gritty, iconic establishment in Rustburn City’s Tenderizer District, and the family-run business owned by Mega Beefpuncha and operated by his sons (except Mikey). Renamed to reflect the family’s unyielding strength and wrestling prowess, the shop is a hybrid of a traditional butcher’s market and a training ground for aspiring pro wrestlers. The name "Iron Bull" symbolizes the family’s raw power, stubborn resilience, and their ability to "charge" through any challenge, much like a bull in the ring."

"And it's also a cornerstone of the Tenderizer District. Renamed to evoke strength and resilience (inspired by the family’s wrestling aspirations and the bullish tenacity of Mega) & also a blood-stained hub where the tight-knit of Beefpunchas hone their craft. a rugged, meat-obsessed neighborhood where the air smells of sawdust and smoked brisket. The shop’s new name reflects its enduring legacy: strength, grit, and unrelenting quality, like a bull charging through Rustburn’s chaotic streets. This boisterous family known for their dual passions: running the Iron Bull Butchershop and training to become pro wrestlers. Led by the imposing patriarch Mega Beefpuncha, the family includes his sons—MBrandon, the triplets (Martin, Mark, and Myles), Marv, Matthew-David, and Mikey—each with distinct personalities and aspirations!"

"The shop is a local legend, known for its high-quality meats, wrestling-themed decor, and the family’s larger-than-life personalities."

"The butchery's exterior is combined together with traditional & industrial from this local butcher's shop but also inspired by warehouse styled homes, loft apartments, and of course industrial styles houses. This building have a weathered sign featuring a charging bull wreathed in iron chains & a bustling ground floor for retail and a basement for meat processing. And the storefront is also rugged, industrial style building with a neon sign featuring a charging bull, its horns adorned with cleavers. The retail area features gleaming glass cases packed with prime cuts, sausages, and house-made jerky & cuts of meat displayed like trophies. A chalkboard lists daily specials & classic items such as “Tenderizer T-Bone”, a massive steak marinated in a secret family recipe, and “Bull’s Blood Sausage”, a spicy blend that’s a district favorite. Inside, the shop is a blend of tradition and flair: gleaming meat cases, a massive chopping block, and walls decorated with wrestling memorabilia and family photos. The Iron Bull Butchershop specializes in premium cuts of beef, pork, and poultry, sourced from local farms. The Beefpunchas are hands-on, with Mega and his sons (except Mikey) expertly wielding cleavers and grinders. The shop offers custom cuts, house-made sausages, and signature spice blends, like the “Bull’s Kick” rub, a fiery mix Anne-Marie developed. Also, a small deli counter serves sandwiches, with the “Beefpuncha Bruiser”—a towering stack of roast beef, spicy mustard, and pickled peppers—being a local favorite. The shop also caters to wrestlers, providing high-protein meal plans tailored for training."

"It's also have a chaotic symphony of cleavers, meat grinders, and saws, with blood-stained aprons hanging on hooks. A massive walk-in freezer dominates the back, doubling as a training area where the brothers practice wrestling moves on padded mats. Adjacent to the processing area is a small wrestling ring where the family hones their skills during breaks. It’s littered with sweat-stained mats and old punching bags, a testament to their dual lives as butchers and fighters. The gym is also littered with protein shake cans and motivational posters reading “Punch Hard, Love Soft.”"

"The shop specializes in high-quality cuts, particularly beef, sourced from local Rustburn ranches & their relatives' family run businesses. Their signature product is the “Iron Bull Slam”. A thick, marbled steak cut with precision to ensure tenderness despite its size, reflecting the family’s belief that strength and finesse go hand in hand. “Beefpuncha Specials” thick-cut steaks and roasts marinated with a secret family recipe of spices that pack a fiery punch. They also offer “Iron Bull Ribs” slow-cured ribs that are a district favorite. They also produce “Beefpuncha Bangers”, the spicy sausages infused with a secret family blend of herbs, which Mikey once accidentally revealed to a customer was “mostly paprika and rage.”. The shop doubles as a training ground & gym, with a makeshift wrestling ring in the back where the brothers practice moves between shifts, often leaving the floor slick with sweat and sawdust."

"The shop draws heavily from the Attitude Era of pro wrestling, with its bold, in-your-face energy. Mega models the shop’s ethos on wrestling stables like the Von Erichs, emphasizing family unity and physical dominance."

"The shop doubles as a training ground & gym that's the boys can trains & practiced by their father. But the family also treats butchery like a performance, often slicing meat with theatrical flourishes for customers. A small ring in the back, dubbed the “Meat Grinder”, is where the brothers practice wrestling moves. Customers can watch sparring sessions through a reinforced glass window, blending commerce with spectacle."

"But from double rooftop, they've got very own rooftop garden & vegetable gardens that's where their mom growing every variety of vegetables & growing herbs for the family's business with a small bench that's use for having conversations between Anne and the boys, and very own small, lush rooftop terrace that's Anne wanted. And other side of the rooftop is a makeshift outdoor workout space with tires, sandbags, and a punching bag, where the brothers lift weights and practice wrestling moves under the stars."

"The basement is also a labyrinth of walk-in freezers, grinding stations, and curing racks, where the brothers hone their craft amid the hum of industrial fans."

"The shop is also renowned for its signature “Beefpuncha Brisket”, a slow-smoked cut marinated in a secret family recipe, and “Iron Bull Sausages”, the spiced with chili and garlic for a fiery kick. They also offer wrestling-inspired cuts like the “Slam Chop” (a thick pork chop) and “Knockout Ribeye”. The Beefpunchas source their meat from local farms that's their relatives own their household enterprises from faraway country, prioritizing grass-fed cattle and free-range pigs. Mega insists on inspecting every carcass himself, claiming he can “smell weakness” in subpar meat."

"The Beefpunchas treat butchery like a martial art, inspired by old-school European guilds where butchers were revered as skilled tradesmen. Every cut is precise, every sausage a masterpiece. And the Iron Bull Butchershop draws inspiration from Rustburn’s blue-collar grit and the theatrical world of pro wrestling. The family sees butchery as an art form, akin to crafting a perfect wrestling match—requiring precision, strength, and showmanship. Mega models the shop’s ethos after wrestling legends like Macho Man Randy Savage, emphasizing bold presentation and relentless drive."

"The Beefpunchas pride themselves on their “Iron Bull Guarantee”: every cut is prepared with the strength and precision of a wrestler’s grip. Customers range from local families to gym buffs seeking protein-packed cuts for their training diets. The family often incorporates wrestling flair into their service, with Mega or the brothers performing mock wrestling moves to entertain customers while slicing meat."

"The family uses traditional butchery methods, with hand-cut steaks and house-made charcuterie. Each son has a signature style—Myles’ precision cuts rival surgical work, while Marv’s chaotic hacks produce unexpectedly tender results. And they're also offer wrestling-themed meat packages, like the “Knockout Bundle” for fight-night parties, and hosts weekly “Meat & Greet” events, where locals can sample new products and watch the Beefpunchas demonstrate butchery techniques, often with a theatrical flair akin to a wrestling match. And also, hosts weekly “Meat & Meet” events, where locals can watch the brothers demonstrate butchery techniques or challenge them to strength contests. Anne-Marie runs a loyalty program, rewarding regular customers with discounts and free sausages."

"But as for the feisty, short-tempered matriarch like herself, Anne-Marie, runs her very owns bakery & fitness center for all women in other side of the district, "Glutton for Punishment" & "Sassy Strength Studio" that she's very proud of! (Which I'm going to create another post of them later.)"

MBrandon & his family belongs Invincible Fight Girl but the headcanon searching ideas and name for the one of the brothers has belonged to me; @gloomycherub-mysterious/ @sullenwriter-log/ @glazedwriter-mystery0014 and the headcanon ideas was thanks again to Grok for helping me to searching ideas for MBrandon and his brothers. But Anne-Marie Beefpuncha belongs to me, of course.

[rikomoriyama01]

If Riko hadn't been killed off, but he still had his broken arm, how do you feel his recovery and road (if possible) back onto the playing field would have been? How would Tetsuji have reacted to it?

Boy this really went in a direction as I wrote it

Considering the rules of aftg universe [Kevin whose hand been through meat grinder but could use it after few months without any physical therapy and being held together by duct tape ] Riko shouldn't have any issue healing from clean spot breaking of 2 bones in arm. Add to that the fact that Riko got professional care right after the breaking and as resident of cult i mean Nest he will have access to all resources needed to make safe and successful recovery. So depending if we want to use aftg law or real life law i think his recovery is possible it's just difference of ,, will he play in 2 months or in 6 months" With good diet and listening to his doctor, recovery and coming back to health won't be issue and assuming Tetsuji would not pit him against ravens and allow him to train with a coach he wouldn't loose more than 3-4 months [during which he can still do cardio and train other muscle groups, improve his footwork as well as study exy from more technical standpoint, research read books watch old games and THINK i think he would easily went back to play with his team in second half of the next season in games and bit earlier in trainings. But being separated form them for so long to allow for his healing and injury care would put a big rift between him and his team. They would be resentful and not at all sympathetic ravens are competitive Riko is star but he is also their captain, and i assume while Riko is decommissioned someone else took that position- temporarily as Riko would hope. But what if the Second Captain turned out to be better? What if ravens decided the new guy deserves their respect more than Riko does? I think Tetsuji would not extend his protection to Riko any more, Rikos little outburst on the court was embarrassing and illegal There would be no way for Riko to play exy after attack on another player, in best case scenario Moriyamas might keep him out of prison but I don't think any of them would care, I think Riko's most likely future is being murdered in prison depending if anyone who hates the family is behind the same bars.

[hannahbarberra162]

Country Mouse, City Mouse Chapter 9

Shanks is like a cat- the more you try to keep him away, the more he wants to be with you. Mihawk should have figured that out by now.

On Ao3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

Red Haired Fool

You were eating lunch outside with Mihawk, Perona and Zoro, basking in the early afternoon sun. Mihawk had made some excellent paella, which you couldn’t get enough of. You were enjoying the food and company, when all of a sudden Mihawk sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What’s goin’ on lamb? You feelin’ OK?”

“Yes, I feel fine. The fool is approaching the island.”

“The fool?”

“Red Haired Shanks is who he means.” Perona supplied helpfully. “He comes by sometimes with his smelly ship and smelly crew,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “Though Benn is cute,” she mused with a finger on her chin.

“Ah.” You weren’t sure what the protocol was for guests who seemed to have a poor reception. Mihawk seemed annoyed, not excited. You thought Red Haired Shanks was one of the Emperors, but you never really paid attention to pirate matters. You’d roll with whatever happened.

“Benn Beckman is old enough to be your father, Perona.” Mihawk said like he was chewing a lemon. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s cute,” Perona said with a shrug. 

Zoro was acting even more reserved than usual, which was saying a lot for the swordsman. Whatever he had going on, Shanks’s arrival didn’t seem to be helping. You better keep an eye on the rubbing alcohol, you thought dryly. Well, how much trouble could a few pirates cause?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Famous last words, you thought to yourself. After lunch, you returned to work. It was harvesting time, and you were gathering beans in a bushel basket. You heard the rustling of leaves, and looked up to see a rotund man reaching for a groundberry. 

“Hey! What you think you’re doin’?! How rude! Just stealin’ my produce?”

“Best looking groundberries I’ve seen! I wanted to try ‘em,” said the man apologetically. He was eating a large hank of meat right off the bone.

“Well you can’t. It’s not for you. Are you Shanks?” He was wearing a bandana, so you couldn’t see the color of his hair. The man laughed.

“Ha! Never heard that before! No, I’m Lucky Roux.” He continued eating and inched his hand back towards the berries.

“You’re gonna be unlucky if you touch them berries,” you said flatly, gesturing with a trowel from your pocket.

“Yeah! Show some respect!” said another voice. Joining in the conversation was a tall man with red hair and only one arm. This was likely “the red fool,” as Mihawk called him.

“Leave the lady’s fruit alone, Lucky. She’s working hard!” The red haired man beamed at you. Another handsome pirate, you thought. Are all pirates so good looking? Or just Mihawk and all his acquaintances? You put the bushel down and dusted your hands off.

“I’m Y/N, I’m a farm hand here,” you said, extending your hand.

“I am Shanks, captain of the Red Hair Pirates, one of the four Emperors of the seas,” he said with a flourish, bringing your hand to his mouth. You pulled it back.

“That’s nice, hun. You’re steppin’ on my row of grinder beans. Either help or leave.”

Mihawk POV

You had Shanks’s crew working in a more organized fashion than he’d ever seen them. Even Beckman was reluctantly picking gourds. Shanks would occasionally wander off, trying to get out of working, but you always roped him back in. This was likely the most he’d ever worked in his life, Mihawk thought to himself. You were engaging them in conversation while overseeing their work, and they seemed to be in high spirits. He supposed he should make an appearance, though he was enjoying watching you command them about. He walked up behind you and put his hands on your shoulders. You craned your neck up to look at him. 

“Oh hi, honeysuckle. I met Shanks. He’s over yonder, tryin’ to get out of workin’!” you yelled the last part towards the slacking captain, who was sitting in the chair you had made for Mihawk.

“I only have one arm! It’s hard!” the Emperor whined.

“You can drink well enough with one arm, can’t ya? So you can work too. C’mon now!” His crew laughed. Mihawk did not. He was displeased that Shanks was sitting in his chair. Shanks saw Mihawk, grinned, and waved. Why must everyone tempt him to violence?

“Mihawk! I met your lovely lady! Why have you been hiding her?”

“I have not been hiding her. She has a profession that requires daily work, which is something you may be unfamiliar with. Why are you on my island?”

“Can’t an old friend stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

“Aww, Mihawk, you wound me.”

“I shall, if you do not get out of my chair.”

Shanks looked down at the chair and pouted. “But this chair is great! It’s comfortable and spacious. It’s like it was built exactly for my height! Has a great beach vibe, too.”

“Yes, it has many redeeming qualities. The primary of which is that it is mine. Vacate it immediately.” He was using the same tone he issued challenges with. 

Shanks shrugged and stood up. “Well, I think we deserve a reward after working so hard. What do you say boys? Time for a party?” The men cheered, finished up the last of what they were doing, and started to amble towards the shore. You looked confused. “It’s 3 in the afternoon,” you said with a questioning glance at Mihawk.

“The fool’s drinking is not bound by time. Come, Y/N, I will help you finish the tasks.”

Shanks gave Mihawk a pointed look but didn’t say anything as he meandered away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, you had accepted an invitation to come to Shanks’s party on the beach. Naturally, Mihawk attended as well. It was an informal affair, with the Red Haired pirates drinking alcoholic swill by a fire. You and Mihawk were enjoying an excellent full bodied wine, which he was unwilling to share with the Captain. The conversation flowed easily in the group, which did not surprise him given how friendly and fascinating you were. Shanks in particular was interested in your stories, your history, and your life. Mihawk pulled you closer to his side. 

“So, what are you going to do now that the season is almost over?” Shanks asked you. You swirled the wine in your glass in thought.

“Not sure yet. I’ll see where the tide takes me,” you said lightly. 

“Do you want to come aboard the Red Force? You could sail with us for a while,” Shanks said with a grin.

Mihawk was aghast and answered before you could. “The very nature of her profession excludes extended time spent sea faring. Besides, if she were to engage in piracy, I doubt it would be on your ship.” Mihawk couldn’t help his acidic tone - he could not bear the thought of you aboard the fool’s ship. Shanks laughed, and said “Relax, Hawkeyes. Didn’t know you were in love. I’ll leave your woman alone.” You blushed lightly when Shanks called you “his woman.”

Despite his irritating nature, Shanks had said a few sobering thoughts. He had mentioned the nearing end of the growing season, and the thought was disturbing. He had put off thinking about it, not wanting to conceptualize that you would be leaving, and soon. Downing the rest of his wine, Mihawk turned his thoughts inward as he watched you easily entrance his undesired guests. 

[sweetheartmotives]

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Yandere Magical Girl ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Desc and possible Cw: Yandere themes, bone breaking, Ripping off someone's head and putting it on a pole, obsession, and mentions of murder towards a date of yours.

Let me know if I missed any!

(Lucky Star Opening)

It was a normal Monday afternoon, you were on your way to class. You attend a rather fancy college, whether you're rich and got in that way or you got in for good grades.. It doesn't really matter at the end of the day. She's dotted on you and you can't do anything about it.

• Yandere Magical Girl who… became your friend by "accidentally" forgetting her pencil.

Tap tap! "Excuse me.. could I borrow a pencil?" She asks

• Yandere Magical Girl who… slowly but surely made her way into your life. Going from a simple acquaintance to a best friend.

"It's funny to think about sometimes, 2 months ago we were just two girls who sat next to each other. Now we're best friends!" Yumako chuckles. You were having lunch together, in the school courtyard.

• Yandere Magical Girl who… roots herself into your life, permanently. She's always around, and it's to the point where it feels strange whenever she's not by your side.

"Sorry! I was sick yesterday, it must've been miserable here without me!" Yumako jokes while grinning "Seriously though, let's eat together during lunch!" She smiles

• Yandere Magical Girl who… enjoys spending as much time with you as possible. Studying? Count her in! Even if it's boring, if she's by your side, she doesn't care.

"Oh? Studying? Let's do it together!" Yumako smiles

• Yandere Magical Girl who… secretly fights in the nighttime. During the daytime, she's your best friend who's always by you! During the nighttime, she's wearing a cutesy outfit you'd see in animes, specifically a magical girl anime.

• Yandere Magical Girl who… has a new purpose to fight. She doesn't fight for the purpose of saving the world anymore, she's fighting for the purpose of you and her having a world to live on so you both can get married and grow old together.

• Yandere Magical Girl who… likes to drive away your dates. She'll be touchy-feely and come with you to dates, therefore making your date uncomfortable. You're hers, she's fighting for YOU, You are her everything.

"A date??" Yumako gasps dramatically "With who? Where? When? Why? How?" She's asking so many questions "Let me come with! It'll be fun, I don't mind third-wheeling!" She smiles... it's a lie though. She hates third-wheeling. But it's okay, in the end, your date will be so uncomfortable that they'll leave and ghost you!

• Yandere Magical Girl who… would kill your dates. Oh, they tried getting you to do something you are uncomfortable with? Bone breaking time!! Skull crushing!! Meat grinder!!

"That's terrible (reader).. I'm so sorry they did that. Its okay, you'll probably never see them again!" Yumako says knowing damn well she killed your date the night before

• Yandere Magical Girl who… fights monsters and other evil entities all the time.. yet, if you were ever threatened or found out by one of her enemies, she would personally brutally murder her enemy. She will hang their head on top of a very tall pole.

"How do you know about (reader)? That's funny.. GOODNIGHT" The enemy's head is found severed from their body and stuck onto a pole.

• Yandere Magical Girl who… sounds like Mitsuri Kanroji! She's very soft spoken and sweet.

• Yandere Magical Girl who… brings you gifts all the time! Sweets, trinkets, plushes, etc.

"Here, I got this for you!" Yumako hands you a Kirby plushie "It got it since it was cute and sweet, just like you!"

• Yandere Magical Girl who… after a few weeks of thinking and planning.. decides to pull the ultimate move of all time. Even if you reject her..

• Yandere Magical Girl who… finally confesses.

"I love you (reader).. I always have. The love I hold for you is like no other! My love is pure and sweet, not lust-driven and deprived. (Reader) please accept me as your one and only, for all of time."

• Yandere Magical Girl who… in the end, would do anything for you. Destroy the world? You got it! Discover an alien species? On it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Welcome to the end credits! This is Yumako's new and improved fic! I hated how I wrote her other one and it made me so angry. I couldn't even read my own fic! It was so confusing! (𖦹ᯅ𖦹)

I hope you enjoyed reading as I enjoyed writing! (>ᴗ•) !

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~