#she's got that covered in grease giant gloves

[impossible-rat-babies]

i really do need like a soppy wet lady oc

[castle-dominion]

castle 6x12 deep cover

the castle's dad episode liveblog

Hm, leaves the phone off the hook but lmao how slow he called 911

It rained on my mom & dad's wedding. They didn't care about the superstition that you can't see the bride in her wedding dress before the wedding so they took all the pictures they needed & when it rained & her dress may have gotten muddy it didn't matter.

but yeah lol this is what it's like planning to have your kid's bday.

Martha <3

MARTHA

(clears her throat) A little unsolicited advice –

CASTLE

Do you give another kind?

BECKETT gives him a look, but MARTHA ignores him.

MARTHA

In life, there is no such thing as a perfect time for anything.

She turns away. They’re confused.

CASTLE

I’m sorry, that’s advice how?

MARTHA

(scoffs) Don’t wait. Hell, just go down to city hall right now. You love each other. Stop talking about it. Just do it.

She turns back to her coffee. CASTLE and BECKETT look at each other, considering her idea.

I thought this was where they had the "we got married!" "seriously!?!?" part I saw in gifs.

Yes, I have a feeling esposito DOES know Beckett can lift her... whatever you were going to say

Hello? Nothing.

Yeah I noticed too, his place is beautiful

Oh yeah no grease won't come out.

RC: Sounds like a case of Weekend At Bernie’s gone wrong. (they look at him) No. No, wait. That would mean there’s such a thing as Weekend At Bernie’s gone right.

Maybe he ties one left handed & ties one right handed.

My dad's house-- no my great aunt's house had a loose floorboard but there was no space under it. You couldn't fit anything under there. It just gave you splinters. You know, the house at the farm kind of sucked.

lmao the animation is hilarious

JE: One you can’t crack? (he leans over her shoulder) C’mon genius bar, I thought you were the best. *flirtatiously*

& they didn't see the criminal record? otr wait ig he was a minor so it was sealed.

He’d call it ‘pulling a Robin Hood’.

love it

RYAN u know, pat leave could have been a good excuse to send the actor away for a collaboration with one of abc's other shows for a week so he doesn't have to be in this ep.

rc: Now, Ted’s laptop is like Fort Knox on steroids, but Tori found some unscrambled artifacts in the registry to a service set identifier. (off BECKETT’S impressed look) I don’t know what that means either, but she got really excited about it.

( A sec later) RC: Now, according to the website, Universal Banking Solutions handles strategic and tactical procurements for international clients.

KB: And what does that mean?

RC: I – I don’t know. I’m just reading the screen there.

I would have given the phone to becks immediately

Dad?

Not a word!

Man's obv lying

I thought becks recognized him bc he looked like castle.

Castle just staring into space lol

KB: mentions international espionage

RC: we have no information to speculate

LP: approximately 15 minutes before his death Ted at clams and funnel cake. Can you believe that? Ugh.

KB: Lanie, you slice open dead people for a living and you’re grossed out by that?

It's different!

Is clams is carnival food...???

LP: Okay, you two creep me out when you do that shared brain thing.

Love the c being burnt out

love how they are eating funnel cake XD

& ryan eats esposito's funnel cake while wearing his crime scene gloves dkjlsdjkfs

GIANT BUBBLES

*checks his watch* about 40 years

That doesn't seem likely. He'd hire soeone else.

He said to text lol

"leave a message >:("

JE: Castle.

RC startles. RC: Geez!

JE: Man, bro. Why are you so jumpy?

RC: Dude, I’m not. I’m just –

JE: Well, you will be once you hear what we found. C’mon.

"you will be" that's such a thing to say

FORMER?

HITMAN?

castle your version of emergency might not be the same as anderson cross's

KB: U ok?

RC: .. Yeah

Me: you can say "meh this case is putting me on edge"

Ryan ADHD moments just chewing on a paperclip

I was a little busy getting shot

Cross: Did you bring the booze?

RC: Did you bring the booze?

Cross: No. I want you to steady your nerves. Take a swig.

RC: Good idea.

*martha drinks too*

Reminds me of my autosurgery

I love the sound of someone's hand in a tub of mayonnaise. & the music is good too

"at elast this time I got a needle" WHAT

she's right, he made that choice a long time ago

Wow the cia just hired a kid who was arrested for identity theft & got him killed? Sounds about right.

it IS a good story

Lol gun battle

Cross: I was in spycraft a car chase!

Becks: lol no

the news: There was a car chase!

Becks: that doesn't prove it

Esposito: Ted was a spy. also the car chase.

So that's cool

also wow nice colourful computers. & wow nice Ryan being the techy one of the four

(Ooh & the csu techs have their own background & lives & motions & stuff)

KR: idk someone stole the hard drive

Anderson Cross: *holds up hard drive* :D :D

"that's incredeibly illegal"

"yep"

Beckett wants lto go? she wants to... Ok then.

Ok but copy-paste the password in

MR: You can find a spy on your phone?

RC: Mother, there’s an app for everything now.

You can't promise that. You cannot contrl gemini or the buyer.

But I know what he means by that promise

she DOES have juice

Call ur mom then

oh my gosh please just control c control v the password

3 minutes for that much content? rly?

speed dial

I have those glasses... or work does

castle if ur mom is calling u better answer bc she is relevant to this

lol the gun

Oh no a router!

*pulls a gun on him*

say "I have to go" or smth

left the phone book & laptop. becks can see "hang up or i'll kill you"

*appears out of nowhere*

HE JUST KILLED HIM

i mean ig that was the mission...

*remembering that time castle "randomly" hugs esposito in a future season*

"the way you never let anything happen to ted?"

true

Beckett & castle are not telling them that he's dead? I mean they can't bc then they'd have t o tell abt anderson cross. but also wait. how would they be able to tell it was tony blaine in the first place w/o revealing that it was castle's dad?

Work you for information or beckett is right, he wanted to spend time with you...

FAMILY FSKLDFJSDLJK

She's so happy

Martha...

oh wow that's beautiful

Great ending scene too

[dreaming-of-assclass]

AssClass Halloween Costumes

I’m a few days late lmao...but here we go 👻🎃

Karma: Edward Scissorhands. A classic. He goes all out in his costume and it looks really good...scary but awesome yeah. Waves his scissors in front of people’s faces to be annoying.

Isogai: The Phantom of the Opera. Gets complaints later from his fangirls that the mask was covering his “beautiful face.” 

Okajima: A sexy devil costume. It’s not too revealing but it’s certainly quite feminine, which throws people off guard. But he struts with confidence and 3-E supports him all the way.

Okano: Princess Mononoke. She looks like such a badass with the wolf cape and the red markings on her cheeks. 

Okuda: Mickey Mouse. She looks so so cute in the little overalls and gloves, and ear headbands. Matching with Kayano.

Kataoka: Audrey Hepburn. Sis got legs for days and the tights/heels emphasizes them even more. Turns so many girls gay, let’s be real.

Kayano: Minnie Mouse. She looks adorable in the dress and cute ears headband. She’s matching with her bestie Okuda UwU.

Kanzaki: Mario!! The comical handlebar mustache looks hilarious on her, and she’s just such a cutie in the outfit.

Kimura: a Mummy, who looks legitimately terrifying with dark makeup and gold contacts. Ends up having a crisis when he needs to pee but can’t get out of the wrapping.

Kurahashi: Belle from Beauty and the Beast. The yellow dress looks gorgeous on her. Lowkey wanted to ask Karasuma to be the beast, but thankfully, she didn’t.

Nagisa: Luke Skywalker. The tunic looks really adorable on him ngl, and his lightsaber is actually so cool. Half the night, his friends keep trying to steal it and play around. Didn’t expect to coordinate with Mimura but they take a bunch of great pics together uwu.

Sugaya: Doesn’t really dress up. But he has the best and most elaborate face makeup. Dude seriously looks like a monster or demon or whatever he intended. It looks so good and professional. Other than that, he’s wearing plain sweats he just threw fake blood on.

Sugino: A werewolf umpire, of course. He’s dressed in the baseball outfit with a scary mask on. Definitely gets called a furry by multiple people.

Takebayashi: KIRITO FROM SWORD ART ONLINE FSDJHKS. He spends forever (and with some help from Hara) on his costume, having the black trenchcoat and swords and everything. His hair is messy and unlike it’s usual style, and he lowkey gets some attention for his visuals.

Chiba: Howl Pendragon. He looks so charming in the outfit. Is he blonde or does he keep his dark hair? I can’t decide. Also Kaho is Sophie.

Terasaka: Totoro. He goes as Totoro. I’m not kidding at all. He may have lost a dare to his sister, and had to wear this giant onesie of the beloved character. But as much as he’s laughed at for the night, the joke is on everyone else. He (smugly) stays warm and cozy even when it starts to get more chilly.

Nakamura: A Zombie prom queen. Bought the dress part for the costume but she made the sash herself. And her makeup is on point, it’s so scary and good. Loves making guys squirm with creepy looks, then flirting with girls.

Hazama: A ghoul. But it’s literally the most horrifying, gut-wrenching costume ever seen. Straight out of a horror movie. Super detailed, makeup is on point and terrifying. Carries weapons and scares the shit out of everyone. Makes some people even pee, and cry.

Hayami: A cheetah, in a full body costume and hat with ears. She looks so GOOD. Her sharp eyes look even more bright and feline than usual in such a dark outfit.

Hara: A ballerina!!! She looks so pretty and angelic in her pink tutu outfit, and it highkey looks so professional too. She made it herself after all haha. But yes, our Hara is a pink princess, ok?

Fuwa: Piccolo. It’s ridiculously accurate and well-made. Halfway through the night, she changes to be a One Piece character.

Maehara: Thor. Let his hair grow out a bit just for this costume. Slings the hammer around everywhere and almost accidentally kills someone with it.

Mimura: Han Solo. It’s so accurate and well made...the only thing wrong is his height lmao.

Muramatsu: the KFC guy, except he keeps advertising his ramen shop to everyone at the same time.

Yada: a bloody Alice in Wonderland, with a basket full of cookies that she carries around, and a ripped apart white rabbit plushie.

Yoshida: Danny Zuko from Grease ADJHKS. Takes out his dreadlocks for the night to have a pompadour. All his friends roast him hard and say he looks no different than he usually does lmao. Itona voice: “Are leather jackets the only things you own?”

Ritsu: Who else would she go as other than the legend Hatsune Miku. Turns her hair blue too, and sings a couple songs for everyone.

Itona: Iron Man. He looks so cute ok, this tiny little 14 year old in a bulky superhero costume that doesn’t suit his face at all.

Korosensei: Tinkerbell. One of his favorite Disney characters. Totally rocks the green dress and blonde bun. But then he starts crying and whining when his students tease him. “Tinkerbell? How fitting, Sensei! You’re both such attention seekers!”

Irina + Karasuma: They go as a sexy vampire couple, much to Karasuma’s hesitance. They look really good though. He has to hold Irina back from killing someone when the students dub her a “trampire.”

Gakushuu: A skeleton, but it’s way more elaborate than it sounds. It’s like a very detailed black tux outfit, made of 3 pieces. And every piece of it has a bone design on it, with like a blue glow so it looks he’s literally an X-ray picture. Hella cool. And he refuses makeup but reluctantly compromises with just dark eye stuff. 

[ignify-caligo]

hello!! i’m loving all ur hcs for marceau SO much, maybe ☼ or ♒️ for him if u want to? <3

I’m so sorry for the wait, wasn’t quite sure about what direction I should go about these ;3; But nonetheless, I’m literally living for Marceau right now and his adoptive papa Roche! There’s some mention of darker stuff in this, but it’s not explicitly described or anything, but just a heads up! For those reasons I took the liberty to switch on the hc, hoe you don’t mind that! :D

♒ - cooking/food headcanon

☼ - appearance headcanon

tw: most likely suggestive content (minor description of abuse aftermath, non healthy relationships between “employer” & “employee” etc. - not explicitly described)

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

♒ - cooking/food headcanon

He has quite a complicated relationship with food in general. Being a “late bloomer” with consuming any kind of blood in the “vampire way”, while being extremely picky with human food. Marceau’s food choices while being under de Kaspar's care was either eating the dinners scraps put together in a stew-like fashion or vegetarian food. The family thought that cutting out any animal products in his diet would stop his development as a vampire and keep him “normal”.

When it comes to his time in Temeria… You can describe it as “like adoptive father/mentor like son”. He has never touched any cooking associated with things in his life, having the de Kaspars servants do all the necessary things besides eating the food themselves. So, he’s being thrown into this whole “you’re on your own” lifestyle, where he must help in the cooking department whenever the stripes are out of the castle’s walls. His assigned food making with Shorty, who’s basically the whole group's main cook out there, and Marceau is picked to assist with preparing the ingredients for the stew. Shorty ends up going to the wagon with the food rations because he forgot something, and that’s when Marceau fails miserably. He ends up creating a grease fire in the middle of the camp, in woods, 10 minutes from a nearby water source. It hasn’t been even 5 seconds before he managed to show his low cooking skills. Shorty’s favourite limited Mahakam edition pan, which he called Panalope and it just stopped existing because it melted. Roche was having a glitch right in the chaos because he either could comfort the only person able to cook something edible for miles or take care of the apprentice/adopted child of his that basically was on the verge of tears. The problem got solved when Ves took care of Marceau while Roche was being there for Shorty who was “saying his last goodbyes” with his favourite cooking pan. After they return to Vizima, Marceau uses his saved coins to buy a new pan as an apology gift for Shorty. He ends up giving the present, saying he apologize and vacating the premises out of embarrassment.

While the squad is staying at the castle, Marceau gets too frequently invited to Foltet’s quarters for a late supper. They are alone, all night, without any witnesses. Whatever happens behind those doors makes Marceau look and act as if he has seen the Wild Hunt right before his eyes, while Foltest is being too smug for it to be a simple “colleague lunch”. The squad is concerned whenever they see Marceau leaving right after breakfast and then witnessing him forcing himself into throwing up. They don’t directly question him about it, but it’s still something that doesn’t sit with them, especially those who are extremely close to him. Many just think it is something that isn’t necessarily happy during the mornings, but Ves is not believing in the theory that it’s just a “Marceau/Young kids thing”. She’s relentless about what is happening to her new little brother while Roche has his suspicions… alas who can question the king’s habits? Especially when it doesn’t concern the whole group.

Something that originated from chatting with (toss a coin) One thing he's absolute, not good with handling is the sugars. Whatever it be candy, cake or even a good number of fruits, he absolute loses it. He ends up with so-called “Marceau Zoomies”, which can be shortly described as a cat running around the house at 3 am. But in his case, it’s a giant Katakan running around without any way of stopping, because of the energy. Roche is completely tired whenever he needs to keep an eye on the energized humanoid bat, and he has had enough of weird shit happening to him thank you. So, he bans sugar from Marceau’s diet altogether and it’s heart-breaking. Because there were people dependent on that energy whenever there was something to do, for example, Dettlaff.

☼ - appearance headcanon

People think that he's constantly sick with the cold, because of his skin tone. The truth is though, that his leucistic – the only pigmentation he has of any kind shows through his eyes being golden. Many react to that with some Witcherphobia because they usually heard of monster killers with gold eyes. Marceau at first is confused, because what is a Witcher? And why are the people of the north so against them? At the start he was fearing that the townsfolk were talking about his “true identity” but when he joined the stripes, they quickly sat the whole situation straight. Even though it’s not that often now, but sometimes people tend to still give him the suspicious glance or even crude comments. Those stepping over the line, happen to be more personally known with one of the blue stripes, behind the tavern, in private where no one can intervene. Marceau tends to end up easily bruised, sunburned, or acquire any typical skin injuries because of his skin tone and how that effect everything. Sadly, he can’t get a tan to save his life, whatever if he stands outside for the whole day, his skin either ends up burned up or he’s still white as snow. Which in turn makes it easier to see his bruising shaped like someone’s hands whenever he’s gone for the night.

You can easily describe him as being a lanky tree, quite like Regis’ build as well. His eating habits have a big impact on his overall weight and body, I imagine a vampire in his class (Katakan) being more dependent on regular “human feedings” to keep a good form. Compared to Dettlaff who’s more flexible when it comes to blood-drinking, both Regis and Marceau are on the more malnourished side. Which probably is connected to the amount of “vampiric like diet” both are willing to do. Eating “human food” doesn’t necessarily help with weight loss but still, it quells the hunger they feel.

He doesn’t have any noticeable scarring on his face or any area near it. But if he takes off his fingerless gloves… when you’re going to see the welts on his palms. Whenever he was deemed to act “too vampiric” it would end in punishment, whatever it be being locked in his room or like I mentioned, being hit with any object good enough to leave a mark. Of course, our young Marceau didn’t have any ideas about why he’s being treated like this until he filled 16 years. Before that, his adoptive parents tried to do anything to prevent him from becoming a beast in human flesh. Each time he moves his jaw too quickly or is chewing something, you can hear a distinctive pop sound. He acquired this injury when he was around 10 years old when he got angry at one of his so-called siblings and out of frustration bit them. His jaw locked up around the child’s arm and the blood flooded his mouth, which in turn made him bite harder with his vampire teeth pocking further than a simple human could. The commotion created because of this situation alerted the father, who firstly forced his jaws to unluck. When he dislocated his jaw by punching his face. Supposedly it was because the father was scared that Marceau would do it again, but after that, it turned into “I was making sure you would learn that this kind of behaviour is unacceptable”.

In the clothing department, Marceau prefers his everyday stripes uniform to any more casual clothing. It acts as a security blanket, where simply farmers won’t directly look at him because he's one of the “Temerian human scoia’tael” as many refer to them behind their back. As it is expected, he upholds himself to the official blue-white-silver main palette, with all leather parts of his armour being brown. Something that disunites him from the other stripes, is the number of pockets and small satchels he carries on himself. He loves collecting stuff, whatever it be shiny rocks from a riverbank, or a bunch of hazelnuts freshly picked from a tree. Keeping those satchels with him is practical because he can store some important for the mission objects or small trinkets he finds during boring patrols. He’s a literal magpie, with so strong senses that he can find anything, which in turn makes Roche’s life more complicated with “Marceau, you can’t honestly keep all these things!”.

For his first birthday together with the stripes, he ends up getting a bandana from Roche. It’s a beautiful and soft thing, with the iconic blue stripes on a black background, with small embroidery fleur de lis in silver right on the edges. He tried to make it into a chaperone because, if Roche looks good in it, so surely will I! His dream ended with Ves kindly telling him: “You look like an absolute imbecile in a chaperone”. So instead, he simply wears it around his neck to save himself the embarrassment.

Lastly, here’s a little about his other form! Besides being a walking snowball with his leucism, he also is quite fluffier compared to the other Katakans. He has a bigger per cent of his body covered in cloud-soft fur. He's quite like the Honduran White Bat, the only difference is the ears and other parts colouration. In the real bats, their ears are yellowish in colour, while Marceau keeps his pinkish hues in those areas. In comparison to his 177 cm in human form, Katakan! Marceau stands at 220cm and is still in the growth spurt for his kind. Whatever form he is, he always is taller than Roche who’s at the majestic height of 175cm while Iorveth is around 185cm.

This is “human form” of Marceau:

Headcanon Meme Here

[semperintrepida]

Spark Check

The truck's gas pedal had long been stomped to the floor when Kyra drummed her palms against its steering wheel and tried to coax a little more oomph out of its tired motor. "Come on," she pleaded.

Without her little Toyota, she couldn't have fled Portland and her on-again, off-again relationship with Thal. Their latest blow up had flipped them back to off-again, and this time she had to get away, get out of the city. She was sick of green — she wanted shades of brown: dust and sagebrush as far as her eye could see and sketch and paint. So she'd packed her things and headed for Oregon's high desert, the road taking her southeast into the Cascades, past Mount Hood, and into dense forest dotted with blue lakes.

But it seemed this was as far as her pickup could go, on a long climb up a mountain in the middle of nowhere. The truck had slowed to a crawl, and she pulled over as soon as the roadway widened enough for it to be safe.

"Fuck," she said into the silence.

She jumped out and popped the hood open. The smell of hot rubber and oil surrounded her, and she shook her head at the confusion of belts, cables, and tubing she found inside. Fuck. She'd seen three cars during the hours she'd spent on this road, and when she swiped her phone's screen awake, it showed no signal.

Breathe, Kyra. Think. She was okay for now. She had her backpacking gear, plenty of food and water. She could overnight here just fine. All she had to do was wait. She took another deep breath, then launched a psychic message into the universe: Please send someone to help me.

She glanced around. It was pretty here, at least, with a postcard view of a forested valley from the shoulder of a mountain. The light was decent, if a little harsh, but it wouldn't be long before the sun's angle changed and sent shadows knifing across the road.

All she could do was wait.

A few hours later, she was dozing in the front seat when she heard a far off sound: a deep, loping rumble that grew louder, quickly, into noise that slapped her ears as a dirtbike blew past her without stopping. She slumped back against her seat.

Then brake lights lit up, and the dirtbike made a sharp u-turn in the middle of the road and backtracked closer. Damn, she was kinda hoping for a minivan driven by a soccer mom. She was all by herself out here. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and she got out of the truck and stood by the hood and waited.

Her stomach knotted and her chest tightened as she watched the bike roll to a stop a little ways away. The bike's engine fell silent, and then its rider hopped off and approached her.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, face hidden behind a helmet and mirrored goggles, and his jersey and pants were patterned in brash splotches of black, blue, and yellow. He wore plastic armor slung over his chest, guards over his elbows, and chunky boots. He looked like some futuristic video game warrior.

The boots must have been stiff. He clomped gracelessly towards her while stripping his gloves off to reveal large hands, and then he reached up and unbuckled his helmet. He pulled it free, shook a long dark braid loose over his shoulder, and Kyra froze like a leaf in a cold snap as she realized the rider was a woman.

A fucking hot one, too.

It took Kyra a few moments to recover her poise. "Hi," she said, to keep things simple.

The woman was even hotter when she smiled. "Hey there." Her cheeks and forehead were coated in dust, but it only made the unusual color of her eyes more prominent. 'Brown' and 'hazel' didn't do them justice. They flicked away from Kyra and over to the truck's engine. "Trouble?"

"Yeah. We barely made it up this far."

"Huh. No power?"

Kyra sighed. "Not as much as it should, which isn't much to start with."

"Mind if I take a look?"

"Go right ahead."

The woman bent down to put her helmet on the ground, but Kyra held out a hand and said, "Here, give it to me."

It was lighter than Kyra expected, its dusty white shell covered in scratches and scuffs. She placed it carefully in the truck's front seat, and when she circled back to the engine, the woman had already starting taking things apart.

She held a rubbery cable up to her eye, murmuring to herself as she inspected it. "You got a tool kit?"

"No." Kyra's cheeks warmed. Probably not a great idea to be traveling through BFE without a tool box, but her pickup had never let her down before.

"I've got one that might work. And lucky for you, my bike's Japanese too."

Kyra wasn't sure what that had to do with anything, and she mulled it over as she watched the woman walk to her bike and open the small pack strapped across its tail. Maybe the Japanese had a different school of arcane engine knowledge than anyone else.

The woman returned soon enough, and unfurled a canvas roll of tools that reminded Kyra of the paintbrush case that sat with her art supplies in the passenger seat of her truck, a variety of implements lined up in a neat row. Then the woman was plunging the length of a socket into the engine, turning the wrench with strong hands, pulling it out.

A frisson of excitement shivered out from behind Kyra's eyes, down her spine, and into places between her legs. Her cheeks warmed again, and she ducked her head and hoped she'd gone unnoticed.

The woman tapped something out of the socket into the palm of her hand. A spark plug. She plugged it into the cable. "Let's give it a check. Can you start your truck?"

Kyra hurried off, glad to be given something to do. She moved the helmet aside and slid behind the wheel. "Ready?" she called out.

"Yeah. Go for it."

Kyra turned the key. The engine coughed over unhappily.

The woman's voice floated out from under the hood. "That's enough. Come on back."

When Kyra returned to the front of the truck, the woman held up the cable and said, "You've got a bad spark plug wire. And if one's going bad, the others are too."

Kyra winced. "Perfect." Her breath squeezed out from her, as if a load of sandbags had landed on her chest. If she couldn't get the truck running here, she'd have to get it towed — and she didn't have the money for something like that. She'd have to call Thal, beg him for help—

"Well, Detroit Lake's just down the road. Maybe twenty or thirty miles, but it's downhill the whole way. If you want, I can follow you to make sure you make it there, and then we can figure out what to do next."

That we made the weight on Kyra's chest lose a few pounds. "That sounds great," she said. "I really appreciate it."

"Happy to help."

She extended a hand. "I'm Kyra, by the way."

The woman set the wire down and wiped her hands on her jersey, leaving a dark smudge of grease behind. It would stain if someone didn't soak it in detergent first before washing. She shook Kyra's hand with a firm grip. "Kassandra," she said, along with another smile. "Nice to meet you."

She put the truck back together in short order, and then she was pulling on her helmet and saying, "I'll pass you when we get close to town and you can follow me in." Kyra climbed back into her truck, buckled her seat belt, and tried the key. The engine fired up on her third attempt, and Kyra sighed with relief to be moving again with a clear plan ahead.

It took an hour to coast down that narrow and winding road, and once they reached Detroit Lake, Kassandra led her to a rustic-looking resort nestled among giant trees. The dirtbike came to a stop in front of a small cabin, and Kyra parked alongside it.

While Kyra locked her truck and walked to the steps up to the cabin's porch, Kassandra pushed the bike up the porch's ramp and parked it next to the front door. Kyra waited on the steps as Kassandra removed her gloves and helmet.

"Back to civilization, safe and sound," Kassandra said.

Kyra nodded. "And I owe it all to you." She supposed the tiny gas station across the road counted as civilization. It did have a pay phone.

Awkward silence. Kassandra straightened her braid over her shoulder. "Well, then." Her hands played with the straps on her helmet.

"Can I buy you dinner?"

She looked surprised. "You don't have to do that."

Was she being careful for a reason? Maybe she was taken, and there was someone waiting for her in that cabin. But she was too damn gorgeous for Kyra not to try again. "I insist," she said, letting an amused grin sneak across her lips. "I'm starving, anyway, and you did say we'd figure out what to do next."

Kassandra's hesitation was brief. "All right, then," she said. "But let me change out of"— a gesture at herself —"this, first."

When she emerged from the cabin a few minutes later, her face and neck were damp and she was wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans and a worn pair of work boots. The shirt was tight enough to jolt Kyra's clit wide awake: Kassandra had muscles for days, in the long lines of her forearms, the swell of her biceps, and the curve of her shoulders into honest-to-God traps framing her neck. Generous lips smiled and her eyes sparkled with amusement as she asked, "Are you all right?"

Kyra suddenly wanted nothing more than to kiss those lips while running her hands over the washboard abs she knew were hiding under that t-shirt. She swallowed hard and tried not to wriggle out of her skin with want. "I'm fine, yeah."

Kassandra eyed her for a moment. "There's a decent place to eat, up the highway a bit," she said.

Kyra gestured for her to lead the way. Far safer than opening her mouth.

The hamlet of Detroit was bigger than Kyra expected. A marina full of houseboats sprawled by the lakeside, and a handful of shops stood in a cluster a short distance from the cars hurtling up and down the highway.

A few minutes later, they arrived at a building that wore the facade of a hunting lodge, with weathered clapboard siding and a dozen chromed-out motorcycles parked in front. There was probably a deer head mounted on the wall inside.

There was a deer's head mounted on the wall inside, a great big rack of antlers spread above the stone fireplace. They sat, ordered drinks — beer for Kyra and a Jack-and-Coke for Kassandra — and fussed with place settings.

"You come in from Estacada?" Kassandra asked her.

"No, I spent last night camping at Timothy Lake."

Kassandra smiled. "I love it up there. It's gorgeous, and the riding's perfect."

"Is that what you're here for?"

"Yeah, I've got a few days between assignments. My crew just got back from three weeks in Tahoe."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a firefighter." Of course she was. Something must have escaped Kyra's expression because Kassandra grinned at her and added, "Wildland, not the firetrucks, ladders, and dalmatians kind. I work on a Hotshot crew based out of Redmond."

"Hotshot?"

"We work the toughest parts of a forest fire, without any other support. And we direct a lot of the action around us. We go where others can't."

"So you're good at what you do, then."

"I'm very good at what I do." And she had the confidence to match.

They were still smirking at each other when the waitress returned with their drinks. They ordered food. Handed over menus. Kyra excused herself to wash up, and when she came back to their table, Kassandra was staring out the window, showing off a profile so perfect it should have been struck on coins like royalty.

"So what do you do?" Kassandra asked her as she sat down.

"I don't, really." Kyra fought back her embarrassment. Very attractive, not having a job. No, she did work at something — it just didn't pay. Yet.

Kassandra's eyebrow raised.

"I'm an artist."

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

"I paint, mostly." She was acutely aware of Kassandra's silent scrutiny. She sipped her beer and kept talking. "Small studies in acrylics, for now. I'm chasing that perfect light."

"Perfect light?"

"Yeah. You know, after sunrise, or before sunset. That golden glow?"

Kassandra nodded.

"It's so perfect it's a cliché. But I'm interested in other kinds of perfection: rays of sunlight moving ahead of a rainstorm, or light passing through ocean waves. Things like that."

"Lots of that around here."

Their eyes met. "Lots of beauty around here, too," Kyra said.

Under the table, Kassandra's leg jerked.

The food arrived just in time to distract them. Kassandra dug into a steak — rare — and an enormous salad. "I eat nothing but processed food and MREs while I'm on assignment," she explained. "The other six months of the year, I eat every vegetable in sight while doing odd jobs to make ends meet. Construction. Fabrication. That sort of thing."

So Kassandra knew about the gig life. "I usually end up finding work as a barista to pay the bills," Kyra said between forkfuls of potatoes au gratin. "I like slinging coffee well enough, but what I really want is to get paid for my paintings."

"A worthy goal."

"I've sold a few here and there, but I can't get my foot in the door of any galleries." She shrugged. "I'm not making the work I want to be, and it shows, I think."

"What's stopping you?"

"Money. Oil paints and canvas get expensive at large scale. I want to paint like J. C. Dahl or Bierstadt did. Huge canvases. Big views. When you look at one of my landscapes, I want you to feel like you could lose yourself in it." She scraped her fork through the remnants of potato on her plate. "But that kind of neo-luminism isn't exactly burning up the auction houses these days. I'd be better off learning how to paint with a spray can and a stencil." She gave Kassandra an apologetic smile. "And look at me, boring you with all this talk about my nonexistent career."

"I'm not bored. It's just that everything I know about art went into the finger paintings I made when I was in grade school."

Kyra laughed. "Well, I don't know a single thing about fighting fire, so I won't hold it against you."

"At least we've got something in common."

"What's that?"

"You make sacrifices to do what you love. You live with the uncertainty, and I bet you know how to make a dollar go a long way." She smiled faintly. "I know... because I do the same."

"Maybe you can give me some tips on dealing with the uncertainty part," Kyra said. That was what was hardest, not having control of her life, not having a plan.

"Ask away, if there's something you want to know."

There were a lot of things about Kassandra that Kyra wanted to know, but she steered the conversation in a lighter direction, and the second round of drinks became a third while their knees kept brushing under the table, and the biker gang peeled out of the parking lot with a cloud of exhaust and noise, and the shadows grew long across the highway.

"Sun's going to set soon," Kassandra said. "Where were you planning to stay tonight?"

"I was hoping to make it to Bend today, but that plan's been shot to hell. And I bet there aren't any vacant hotels around here."

"Not this time of year. I got lucky finding this room — someone bailed on a reservation." She slid her empty glass back and forth on the table in front of her, as if the coaster was a raft she was guiding through rapids.

"Looks like I'm sleeping in the canopy of my truck, then. Wouldn't be the first time."

Kassandra's glass lurched to a stop. "Tell you what. You're welcome to crash in my room tonight. We can take my truck in to Stayton in the morning, find you some new spark plugs and wires. You'll be back on the road well before noon." She'd said it in a rush, as if she'd reached a chute in the rapids and had no choice but to follow it on down.

Kyra breathed in slowly. It wouldn't do to seem too eager. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm grateful for the help."

They bickered gently over the check, when it came; Kyra wanting to pay the whole thing like she'd promised, and Kassandra insisting on covering her share. Kyra sensed her digging in, unwilling to cross some line of propriety she'd set for herself, and so Kyra relented. There were too many hills around her for all of them to be ones to die on.

On the walk back to the cabin, Kassandra told her about a wildfire she'd worked not far from here, felling trees and digging fireline along a ridge in a forest dried-out from years of drought, the flames in the canyon below burning so intensely that the heat had created its own thunderstorm right above it. She'd dug and dug, rain and hail pelting her hard hat while bright blue skies stretched behind her all the way to Mount Hood on the horizon.

"That sounds... beautiful and terrifying," Kyra said as Kassandra opened the door to the cabin and gestured her inside.

"It's often both, yeah."

The room wasn't large, but the bed was. Bed in the singular. Kyra kept her smirk internal.

A small sofa sat across from the bed, a TV hid in the corner, and two doorways led to rooms unknown. Wood paneling on the walls, simple wooden furniture. Kassandra's belongings were organized neatly in an open wardrobe.

Kassandra made a beeline for the sofa. She plopped down onto it, stretched her arms out to both sides. Her arm span was wider than the sofa was. "I'll sleep here." She bounced up and down, ignoring the dire creaking of its springs.

"This is your room."

She shrugged, then leaned forward so her elbows rested on her knees. "So? You're my guest."

"You're six feet tall and that sofa's the size of a postage stamp. I'll sleep on it before you do." Kyra crossed her arms. "But really, there's no reason why we can't share the bed."

Kassandra had started twisting her fingers together; locking them in place, breaking them apart. "I can't have you thinking that I brought you here because I'm wanting something from you, for helping you with your truck. I'll sleep right here. It's fine."

Kyra had to shoot her shot, right now, or she'd end up sleeping in that big bed all alone. "Maybe I'm wanting something from you."

Troubled eyes looked up. God, she was gorgeous. "I... " she started. Stopped. And Kyra's heart sank. This is when Kassandra would tell her she was taken, that she had someone back home to soak those grease stains out of her jersey, to worry about her when she was working a fire, to—

"I was hoping you'd say something like that," Kassandra said softly.

Kyra took her by the hand, pulled her to her feet, and then Kyra slid her palms along the undersides of Kassandra's forearms. Heavy. Solid, like bronze. But that was the color of Kassandra's eyes, and when Kyra kissed her it was like a circuit closing like an arc lamp turning night into day like a quality of light she'd never seen before but knew she'd be chasing the rest of her life.

When they parted, Kyra was breathless, and she tucked her face into the curve of Kassandra's neck, feeling the steady cadence of her breathing. "Kassandra?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm so glad you didn't turn out to be some redneck."

Kassandra's laugh filled the room, and she gathered Kyra's face in her hands and looked at her. "Honestly, when I saw your rig, I was expecting some dried-up gold miner with shaggy hair and missing teeth."

"You thought wrong, Bubba."

Kassandra laughed again. Kissed her again. But when Kyra's hands strayed down to her belt, she pulled away. "Hey, slow down there, forty-niner. I'm pretty sure I have dust in unmentionable places."

"Do you really think I'd let a little dust get in the way of working my claim?" She reached for Kassandra again.

Her paydirt maneuvered away a second time. "I kinda want to take a shower..."

She waited for the rest.

"Think you might like to join me?"

She answered by curling her fingers around Kassandra's belt, and she glanced about the room, considering her doorway options.

"That way," Kassandra murmured along with a tilt of her head.

She pulled Kassandra to the bathroom, each step driving her to even giddier heights. Was this even happening right now?

Kassandra flipped the lights on. Clean, white tile and a matching shower. Nicer than Kyra had expected.

"This could either be really awkward or really hot," Kassandra said.

"You think this'll be awkward?" Kyra smirked and reached for Kassandra. There was no hiding in this light, no place for anything but want and confidence, and Kyra found her confidence in wanting to get Kassandra naked. Kassandra's t-shirt and sports bra ended up getting tossed in a corner, and then Kyra couldn't resist, she just had to kiss Kassandra while her hands found leather and metal to unbuckle, and she pushed fabric down over hips and thighs until Kassandra kicked it all free and stood naked before her in full glory.

Oh my God. Not only did Kassandra have muscles for days, she had them for weeks and months and years. Her proportions were perfect, in the horizontal of her shoulders to hips and the vertical of her torso to legs. Kyra's mouth went dry, her moisture draining to places south of her waist.

Kassandra flashed a rakish grin, then stepped into the shower, turning knobs while Kyra waited. Water jetted against tile with a loud hiss. Kassandra seemed to take a very long time — or maybe that was Kyra's thirst wringing out the clock in its search for droplets of satisfaction — but when Kassandra finally came back, she undressed Kyra with a touch both careful and reverent, her eyes drinking in the sight of Kyra's skin with every slow reveal.

Heat burned between Kyra's legs. Steam filled the bathroom. Her clothes joined the pile in the corner, and Kassandra's hands came to rest on her hips. She reached for Kassandra's braid, untied it, and worked the thick mane loose — along with a puff of dust.

Kassandra truly was covered in it, in streaks running down her steam-dampened skin. Kyra laughed and traced her finger through the grime between Kassandra's breasts, then drew an X on Kassandra's stomach. The hands on her hips shifted, nudging her towards the shower until she stood basking under its pleasantly hot spray.

The pressure was good: in the stream of water and the feel of Kassandra's hands on her skin. Calloused palms scratched and tickled the sides of her breasts, and she wriggled away, prompting an insincere "Sorry" as Kassandra played with her, alternating soft strokes from her fingertips with rougher ones from her palms.

Kyra bit back her want, slipped out of Kassandra's grasp, and said, "Your turn."

As Kassandra stood under the water, Kyra enjoyed the way it beaded over her skin, the way she glistened in the light. Then looking wasn't enough, and Kyra had to sample Kassandra's broad shoulders, the firm planes of her chest, the soft weight of breasts and plump nipples so different than a man. She smelled different too, none of that tang that men always had about them. It had been too long since Kyra had been with a woman, and Kassandra was showing her how foolish that was.

Kyra pulled Kassandra closer, pressed her up against the wall, and kissed her. Wet lips, water in her mouth, soft slick tongue. She was delicious, and Kyra grew greedy, wanting more more more as she ran her hands over sculpted abs and slid them lower—

That earned her hands a playful slap from Kassandra. "Ah, ah, ah. Hands off. I don't want to be distracted," she said, as she snagged the soap from a niche in the shower wall.

She knew exactly what she was doing, making Kyra wait, making Kyra watch as she soaped her skin and scrubbed it into a lather, making Kyra thirst while surrounded by water as she washed her hair. Her shampoo had the fresh, airy smell of citrus. It filled the shower, wrapped Kyra in its enticing steam.

This was a fierce kind of want. She scowled, snatched up the shampoo bottle, washed her hair as Kassandra emerged from the water clean and magnificent. The sight was too much; she turned her back to Kassandra as she rinsed herself. But as the last of the suds swirled down the drain, Kassandra's hands gently turned her around and soaped her from head to toe and she forgot everything except the hand slipping over her belly into the crease of her hip, slipping between her thighs, so close to where she needed, hovering without touching, moving from thigh to thigh—

"Fuck," she gasped.

"Is that what you want?" Kassandra asked. Her smirking grin was an inch away from Kyra's lips.

Kyra stared daggers at her.

"Sorry, you'll have to wait a bit longer," she said, and then she carefully rinsed Kyra clean. It was thorough, and luxurious, and melted Kyra's pique into forgiveness. She closed her eyes and her muscles went soft and pliant under Kassandra's hands, and she felt herself being guided out of the shower. She stood in the middle of the bathroom, waiting. Kassandra moved away. Kassandra came back. She rubbed Kyra down with a fluffy towel, wrapped her in it, then picked her up with breathtaking ease and carried her to the bed.

The length of Kassandra's body settled against hers. Dangerous weight. She could pin Kyra down, crush her with all that muscle. The towel bloomed open. Goosebumps sprouted across damp skin. The only illumination in the room came from the light in the bath. It snuck past the drape of Kassandra's hair and threw shadows across her face, and her eyes captured the sparks of want passing between them.

All that muscle on top of her, mouth at her throat, hands on her hips. Kyra's want buzzed and flickered, like a spotlight warming up. Now, find out now. She fit her thigh up between Kassandra's legs, pressed hard. A gasp from above. Kyra's heartbeat doubled-up, and there was no stopping her leg twining around Kassandra's. "Roll over." A demand, not a question.

Kassandra blinked, tilted her head as she searched Kyra's face. The sparks in her eyes danced. Really?

Yes, really. Kyra shifted her weight, used her leg as a pivot... and felt Kassandra yield.

All that muscle moved beneath her, hips made to be straddled, shadowed curves meant to be explored. Kyra's blood pulsed with an illicit thrill as she leaned forward. Skin pressing together. Breasts nestling together. Damp heat, water turning to sweat.

She kissed Kassandra, tasted her hunger, her soft mouth opening to let Kyra in. No games and no playing hard to get. Her want, Kyra's want, their want speaking in tongues. Kassandra's fingers tangled in her hair. That mouth should be on her clit. Those fingers should be inside her.

Wait. Wait longer. She sucked at Kassandra's lower lip, raked it with her teeth, apologized with her tongue. She pulled her mouth away, smiled as Kassandra groaned and stirred, muscles bunching, eyes burning like carbon filaments, captive and captivated. Kyra moved her mouth lower: the silvery scar on Kassandra's chin, the rapid pulse at her throat, the wings of her collarbones. Lower, until her lips found the soft swell of a breast, the nipple she could persuade to grow harder with teasing lips and tongue. First one, then the other. And Kassandra's back arched: Yes.

How sweet of her to offer. Kyra slid off to the side, surveying the chiaroscuro of the exposed planes of Kassandra's body. Choices, choices. Kassandra's spectacular abs, or the inviting shadows between her thighs?

Both. Kyra was getting greedy again. She ran her tongue along the sculpted grooves of Kassandra's stomach and slid her hand into soft curls. Swollen heat. Desire soaking her fingers, satisfying in a way arousing a man never was. And making this particular woman so wet... She smiled and drifted her mouth lower, tasted her own desire in a trail she'd left on Kassandra's belly, and her clit was bright and burning and her ache went deep, wanting to be fucked, wanting to fuck.

She stroked slick fingers everywhere but the places Kassandra wanted. Hard to be so patient, when every touch felt like it reflected back at her, teasing and being teased. She was dripping. Kassandra was dripping, her body twisting restlessly in a tangle of sheets and towels. Kyra stopped moving. Her fingertips hovered, waiting. And Kassandra's hips lifted: More.

Kyra's mouth was almost too close to Kassandra's clit. It tempted her, nestled in dark, feathery curls, proud and swollen and hard. That was Kyra's doing. She'd made that happen. Hard not to let that surge of power go straight to her clit, and she closed her eyes against the bright flare of her own need.

Focus. Come back. Breathe in air heavy with warm, damp arousal. Breathe it out across Kassandra's sensitive flesh. Kassandra squirmed under her cheek and let out a frustrated moan.

That sound was pleasing, and she dipped the tips of her fingers into silky wetness. The tiniest taste, no more. Kassandra's moans grew louder. Kyra's blood beat in her ears. So easy, capturing Kassandra's full attention in the spotlight of her breath and the smallest movements of her fingertips.

Wait. Move slowly. Kassandra's muscles corded and strained, and Kyra wound them tighter and tighter with every touch. All that strength in thrall to her fingers — the rush lifted Kyra to stratospheric heights. She could glide on it, never come down. She lost all track of time in the artificial, unchanging light. How long had she kept Kassandra like this? How long could she?

Beneath her, Kassandra was panting with her thighs spread wide. She rocked her hips, chasing Kyra's fingers, and Kyra made her fail again and again. Her attempts grew half-hearted. She gave up trying.

This was Kassandra primed like a canvas: body taut beyond trembling, senses tuned to Kyra, clit starved for attention.

Kassandra's sounds devolved into one long, unbroken whimper. And then, finally, Kyra went to work, sucking Kassandra into her mouth and easing her fingers all the way inside.

Nothing fancy: steady strokes, tongue on clit, the way women have been getting each other off since ancient times. She'd already tested Kassandra's patience at least that long.

Kassandra whispered Yes and Fuck to guide her. Kassandra angled her hips just so. Kassandra snapped at the point of release with a sudden growl, her hands grabbing fistfuls of bedsheets as she writhed, lost in pleasure.

Kassandra throbbed against her tongue and pulsed around her fingers and Kyra lay there not moving not wanting to move in the golden glow, wanting it to stay wanting to capture it and keep it.

But it faded, eventually. She slid up the bed and rested her head on Kassandra's shoulder and smiled for a long, long time.

"I'll be damned," Kassandra said quietly, once she caught her breath. "Is that how you always say thank you?"

"When I'm feeling inspired."

"You really are an artist."

Kyra smirked. No matter how the rest of their time together played out, she'd always have the memory of Kassandra writhing around her fingers.

The mattress compressed as Kassandra knelt above her. Kassandra rested a hand on her belly, and though there was no weight behind it, it pinned Kyra right to the bed.

"Well," Kassandra said. "You certainly set the bar high, honey. But it's my turn now."

Kyra opened her arms wide and gave Kassandra her dirtiest come-hither look. "Show me what you've got, hotshot."

Kassandra smiled, and did.

Part of the Heat Index...

[clown-bait]

Monster Family (Monster Roommate AU) Ch6

Finally found some time to write! Things have been BONKERS with work and family Ive not had any time to my self. I want to still get stuff out though so heres a poor clown dealing with the aftermath of a night out. He’s not having a good day.

What the hell happened. Eons of existence and for the first time in his long life Pennywise could not for the life of him remember the night before. The clown's eyes creaked open and immediately shut them when the sudden skull splitting "headache" followed. The groan he released was absolutely pathetic. 

"Look who’s finally rejoined the land of the living" he heard his pillow say. 

"Where am I?" He snarled and held his throbbing head. 

"Neibolt, my bed." His mate said as he felt her hand pet his loose unkept hair. Knowing it was his Leech he was curled up to, the eldritch dropped his guard releasing a long puff of warm air as he did so. One of his exhausted arms reached around her swollen waist and he buried his nose into the crook of her neck not wanting to deal with the teasing inevitably to come. He was nude, which didn't bother him now knowing where he was, but he still couldn't figure out how he got here and what exactly led to him being naked and in immense pain. Last thing he could actually remember about the night before was revealing that he could actually become intoxicated and then eating that chocolate "Did we?" He mumbled his powerful demeanor completely shattered by his pitiful tone of voice. 

"You dry humped me for 5 minutes then passed out." His vampire signed. "Your suit was wet and sticky wasn't going to let you sleep on me like that." 

Pennywise simply grunted in response and Leech snorted. "Do you want to hear about the rest of it?"

"There's more?" He whined.

"I'm kinda mad at you and we are no longer allowed at any Applebees in the state of Maine."

The clown groaned against her skin. "What you're experiencing right now is a hangover and if you want me to make it go away I want a full verbal apology now and the rest when you're better."

Pennywise snarled and moved away from her acting like a spoiled child. "I will not grovel for your forgiveness." He bore his teeth at her while holding the side of his head.

"You made out with the wrong girl you're not in a position to argue."

The clown's eyes grew wide with surprise.

"Yeah." Leech sat up smirking triumphantly. "I broke your nose for it and then you drank an entire bottle of champagne after throwing up in an ice bucket!"

"I- my nose?"

"You really have no idea what you did last night do you? This is great I love having this power!"

"You have no power over me!" The eldritch snarled at her in the dimly lit room to which his mate responded by turning on her lamp. Pennywise recoiled in pain from the bright light holding his head and curling dramatically into a ball. 

"Beg to differ Ruffles." Leech grinned shutting off the light. "Tell you what, you make it up to me and I'll delete the footage of you proposing to a lamp."

The clown groaned loudly again scrunching himself tighter in agony. "I promise I'll go easy on you." She purred rubbing his back "you might even enjoy yourself."

"And what do you wish of me?" 

"I want a whole day just you and me whatever I want."

Pennywise let out a long sound of pain. His massive form showing her a side no one living or dead had ever seen. He was vulnerable and small despite being nearly 7ft tall with hands the size of her head. It made the vampire feel pride that he trusted her this deeply.

"Oh come on Pen Im not going to torture you…. too much. I think you can handle 24 hours of being nice to Leech."

"I'm already very nice to you."

"Sure Grumpywise, sit up." 

He did as he was asked and Leech could see the hangover clearly on his painted features. His normally pristine red lines splintered up his faux grease paint skin and his blackened eye makeup was much more exaggerated, accentuating his eye bags. To make things short, he looked like hell. Leech swung her leg over him and placed her thumbs on his massive temples applying gentle pressure as she rubbed them. Pennywise's tired pained eyes relaxed and grew heavy as she soothed him, a purr rumbled in his chest keeping time with her rhythm. "Feel good?" His mate asked him warmly and he responded with a soft grunt of approval. Her fingers stopped after a moment and Pennywise's eyes cracked back open "I'll cure the rest of it if you agree to take me on an I'm really sorry date." The insect growl he let out was menacing to the untrained ear but Leech knew her mate well enough to know that was a yes. She leaned in and kissed him deeply then left his warmth to grab something on her nightstand. "This will be nasty for you but it'll kick your ass into functioning again. We'll grab some doughnuts for you to cover the empty stomach for now." The drink she handed him smelled wrong and had a foul color not unlike gray water. The clown bared his teeth at the cup. "Trust your bartender Ruffles." Leech pushed the glass into his hands "she loves you very much."

"You're going to poison me again." He growled.

"You want to feel better? Drink." She insisted and punctuated her words with a soft kiss to his cheek. "Hold your nose and gulp it" Pennywise winced pinching his red nose and knocking the beverage back swallowing hard. After his fangs shot forward past his tongue which hung out in utter disgust. 

"Good now drink this for the taste" his mate handed him a colorful sports drink which he completely devoured, the sugar indeed helping with whatever it was he just ingested. Her hand fell onto his belly rubbing it a few times as she combed his loose hair. "Feel better?" 

Pennywise grunted stubbornly. 

"That didn't sound too convincing frowny-clowny!" His mate teased him nuzzling his nose completely unafraid of the eater of worlds at his worst and most vulnerable. Pennywise snarled and shoo-ed her away baring his fangs in an empty threat. "I got one more cure to make you better Ruffles." She purred crawling back to him.

"What?" He spat and watched her with weary eyes.

"Some good old fashioned tender," her leg swung over his waist. "Loving," hands ran back through his mess of orange hair and her lips leaned in close to his own. "Care." Leech barely got out before making contact moaning softly against his lips. The clown's facial features were of annoyance but there was no denying the rumbly purr rising from his chest and the way his gloved hand slid down her spine to rest inside her shorts. He couldn't say no to something as sweet as this, maybe this wasn't too awful.

Hours later the boogeyman of Derry reclined outside of a changing room, sporting sunglasses over his eyes to block the sting of the store's stale fluorescent lights. He watched giggling potential teenage meals pass by and stifled a ravenous whine in his throat. A few of them even stopped to check him out which made his already ill human form gag a bit at the thought. "How much longer?" He complained wanting to growl at another pack of humans like a junkyard dog. He settled for maggots in their fancy blended coffees instead. Their squeals of terror brought a smug grin to his face and a rumble to his stomach. 

“Alright opinions on the shirt.” finally his mate’s voice called to him from the entrance of the changing room

“It looks fine.” the eldritch mumbled barely interested.

“You didn't even look in my direction Pen.”

Pennywise groaned and turned his head, then let out a high pitched noise of anger at the sight of the sea turtle across his mate’s chest. “I change my mind!” he snarled recoiling in disgust. Leech cackled hard enough to snort and wheeze at his reaction. The more she learned about her love's mysterious ways the more she was able to push his buttons. The power trip alone felt amazing. 

“Pen are you saying this doesn't look good on me? That's not very nice at all for you to say!” 

A row of fangs split through Robert Gray’s handsome human face. “Remember you promised to be nice to me today Wuffles.” his mate’s sharp front teeth glinted at him as she adjusted her sore swollen breasts in the shirt. It felt blasphemous that two of his favorite things had to be adorned by such a disgusting creature.  

“Love is suffering.” he shut his eyes and groaned struggling with restraint to tear the offending garment from his mate’s body. 

“Are you admitting to being a masochist?” she teased him that sly grin almost daring him to lose his temper. Instead the eldritch huffed and spun her around marching her back to her changing room and swatting her rear playfully to get her to go in. 

“That's your kink dear.” he said flatly resting his long arms over the railing of the stall and eyeing her with expectation.  

“Seem to recall you rather enjoying last girl's night when you let me use my claws on your ass.” 

“Wednesday is the only day I will allow such things, and make no mistake darling, I'm still always in control.” his features grew dark and his perfect upturned nose twitched in a way she could see the little dimples above his nostrils. She hated when he did that and he knew it did things to her. 

“Why are you even still here? This is the ladies changing room.” she attempted to chide him and Robert arched a brow in that oh so Pennywise way. 

“One can argue that I am female,”

“In your true from yes. But right now Robert Gray is about to get me kicked out of the Derry mall for perving.”

The eldritch rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him, his massive form making the small stall feeling slightly claustrophobic. “Better?” he smirked as he twirled a lock of her fake platinum hair around his finger. 

“No! How am I supposed to change with your giant ass in here?” 

“You can always let me-”

“Oh no you don't! We still have a whole date to get through and I'm not done annoying you just yet.” 

Robert whined and sat down on the bench pulling her by the hips a bit “just a bite then. The sooner that offensive garment is gone the better.”

“You're really bothered by it aren't you?” Leech smirked and allowed him to man handle her just a bit. After all saying no to him was incredibly difficult.

“It's one thing to cover my queen in this disgusting image but my unborn young as well? Blasphemy.”

“Mmm blasphemy my favorite thing.” the vampire hummed as her mate’s fingers pushed under her shirt feeling the curve of her swollen belly with reverence.

“I'm well aware.” he purred drawing his lips closer to her, pushing the shirt up further. She stopped him before he could get to her breasts, pushing his hunger filled hands back down and earning herself an annoyed groan from her eldritch.

"Close your eyes.”

“Why?” he demanded and pouted like a child. 

“Because I'm wearing a surprise under this and you cant see till later."

“Surprise me now then”

“Pen if you want to have fun with this you're gonna have to trust me and wait.” she kissed him anyway and the needy whine he let out was almost enough to convince her to change her mind. “Don't look ok?” he didn't say anything but he did obediently close his human form's hungry silver eyes. Leech put her hand over them as she quickly removed the clothing she was trying on just in case. Pennywise was definitely the type to peek at his presents early. She took her hand away when she was down to only her panties and immediately she felt herself being grabbed and kissed with ferocity. It's not like he hadn't seen all this before but Leech wouldn't lie that his reaction to her semi nude form was a major confidence boost. “Fuck Pen,” she mumbled into him feeling fangs in his mouth and claws at her back. “Hold out for just a little while longer for me.”

The creature hissed and held her tighter. “Come on Ruffles trust me its worth it.” 

Robert Gray returned to what could be considered normal while pouting a bit as his mate got dressed pulling her hoodie over her wig to protect herself from any sunlight. The eldritch scooped up her wanted clothes rather impatiently and patted his lap motioning for her to sit. 

"Are you endorsing shoplifting?" Leech raised an eyebrow at him and smiled mischievously 

"I'm being nice" Robert shrugged. "you were going to try it anyway dear, my way is quicker."

"I'm starting to like when you're nice." Leech smiled and got comfy her arms holding tight around his neck. "Home please."

"Don't get too used to it, I have plans for you tonight sweet thing." He purred against the soft fabric of her hood. 

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"You'll have to wait its a surprise!" He giggled and poofed them out of the store leaving tags and a discarded turtle shirt where they once sat.

[lotrobsession]

Letter to Brigit By Viggo Mortensen I could not bring myself to take pictures of any of it, to take anything, although I did for a moment consider grabbing my camera to ensure that later on I’d have an image, some tangible visual record of the process of losing you. Maybe that momentary impulse came from fear that the emotional weight of participating in your last days as flesh-and-blood would eventually outweigh or alter the straight facts that photographs might hold. Fear that visuals so fresh right then, as I sat on one of the two plush green leather couches of the crematorium waiting room, would reshuffle themselves and gently blend together as merely tolerable sentimental recollection. It wouldn’t have been right, though, to shoot what only you and I should know. The camera stayed in the truck. ---- The kind man in charge of the ovens had just gone out into the noon blast of July in the San Fernando Valley to check on the progress of your burning. I’d followed but stopped thirty feet back as he’d asked me to. “You don’t really want to see—it’s something you probably wouldn’t want to see… The. … uh …,” he’d mumbled, faltering in a way that had won me over instantly. “You mean if she isn’t done yet?” I’d said, completing the thought for him. “Yes, exactly. The, uh… sometimes they’re not completely …” He’d paused, looking as pained as if he’d known you the way I had. “Her insides?” “Yes,” he’d blurted out with a slight squeak in his voice. “It isn’t pretty.” “No. I can imagine it wouldn’t be,” I’d said. “Not at all pretty.” He had stood there, putting on his fire-retardant gloves and his sunglasses, still looking at me as if needing to say something more. And I had waited. It’d already been a hell of a long morning, so I hadn’t been in any big hurry at that point. “I do this all the time, but I couldn’t personally, you know, do this.” I’d thought I understood more or less what he meant. “My uncle’s dog,” he’d continued, “I had to do that one, and it was very difficult. I could never do it again.” “I understand,” I’d said. “Very difficult.” “Yes, I’m sure.” He’d started backing sideways toward the oven. It was one of the three on the back lot that seemed to be in operation, as evidenced by the grey smoke rising from their steel-pipe smokestacks into the smoggy haze above us. As inappropriate as the thought might have been, I somehow couldn’t help but think of the much larger indoor ones I’d once seen in the Dachau concentration camp memorial. I’d felt a momentary urge to ask if these ovens had been manufactured in Europe, but it had passed. “Please stay back here while I check and see how she’s doing,” he’d then said. “OK,” I’d said. “And how do you check?” He’d stopped side stepping toward the oven. “I open the door and look.” “Oh. Yeah.” “She might not be done. She might not be ready.” “Yeah. OK. I’ll wait… ” “Plus, it’s real hot. About 1,500 degrees.” “I’ll wait here then.” “I’m so sorry,” he’d said, tugging down the bill of his navy-blue ball cap and turning toward the oven. He’d said “sorry” several times since I’d arrived, and he seemed to mean it. “Sorry for your loss. I am truly sorry.” After a minute spent carefully peeking through the slightly opened oven door, he’d closed it and walked back to me. “I’m sorry. She’s not done yet. Another ten or fifteen minutes.” “Should I go back inside to the waiting room, then?” “Yes. If you don’t mind. Sorry. I’ll let you know just before I get her so you can come and watch me do everything. Check, you know, to see if… see that… ” “Yeah, good. OK, thanks.” ---- A tall, well-groomed black poodle named Paris, as I’d overheard her being called when I’d first arrived at the crematorium office, had been staring at me for a while. From her position under a sort of anaemic-looking potted ficus by the doorway to the office, she was able to monitor all comings and goings. Suddenly, she rose and bolted straight for me, jumping up on the couch right next to me, barking excitedly. Her breath smelled like boiled carrots. Sort of sweet and not altogether unpleasant, but not something I craved at that moment. The receptionist called Paris, no doubt trying to keep the dog from further upsetting me, the grieving customer. Paris was not bothering me at all. I understood that she had been barking for attention, not out of aggression—probably bored out of her mind in this place where all other dogs were dead and burning or about to be. She hadn’t even barked that loudly, really, and her company was comforting in a life-goes-on-and-there-are-lots-of-nice-dogs-in-the-world-sort of way. Paris gave me one more quieter bark right in my left ear, licked my face and left me to see what the receptionist wanted. “I’m very sorry,” the receptionist said, as she led Paris into the back of the office area. “That’s OK,” I said. “She wasn’t bothering me. Female, right?” “Yes, she certainly is. I am sorry for your loss.” I know she meant it as well. Expressions of sympathy for the customer would to some degree have probably been obligatory for the crematorium personnel, but everyone did seem to be personally and genuinely concerned. People doing their utmost to run a decent family-owned business with kindness and compassion. The compulsion to record all of this got the better of me, finally, and I went out to the truck to look for my notebook. After a quick scramble through the papers, books, cameras and other assorted commuter debris on the back seat, I found the notebook. Although I had not had the time to take many pictures or to sit down and write much of anything lately, a camera and something to write in are always in the car, or in whatever bag I carry, just in case a moment special to me presents itself to be stolen. Resisting once more the temptation to take the camera, I grabbed the notebook and a pen and returned to the waiting room to begin writing this. Kind strangers have given me a few handsomely bound journals and notebooks over the years. Some, like this one, are bound in beautifully tanned and tooled leather. This one’s cover has a giant oak tree cut into it, with other old oaks on a distant ridge beyond it. The big pewter button used for tying the notebook closed with a leather thong is cast with an oak leaf and acorn detail. I am not much good at keeping a diary, or diligent about any sort of regular journal entries. My way to remember has usually been to write stories, poems or more often than not, to make photographs or drawings. I felt a little rusty and awkward writing in the waiting room under the quietly watchful eyes of the receptionist and Paris. Maybe it didn’t seem at all odd to them, my scribbling away. Probably what bothered me was my own sense of guilt over being inclined to record the events surrounding the processing of your body. Just a short time earlier I had been openly weeping while crossing the city in morning rush-hour traffic. I suppose we humans can be resilient—nearly as resilient as you were, Brigit—and as accepting of life’s unpredictably rough patches as most animals seem to be. Whatever the reason, I found I could not write fast enough in my attempt to describe the events of the day. “Do you want to come out while I clean this out?” the kind voice of the oven-minder asked softly, interrupting me in mid-sentence. I looked up and nodded. “Yes, please. I’ll … let me … let me just finish this sentence—this paragraph. I’ll be right there.” “Sure …” ---- “Do you write a lot?” he asked, as I followed him outside. “Used to.” “Nice-looking book you got there.” “Thanks. Yes, it is.” I closed it, marking my place with the pen, just as he stopped and turned to me. I was standing on the same spot I had been asked to watch from earlier. “Please stay right here. I’ll shut her down and get everything. You’ll be able to see everything happening, but it is very hot now, and also …” “Yes, ok I’ll wait here.” As I stood still in the by-now withering heat and watched him switch off the oven and open it, I suddenly realised that there had been no muzak, no music of any kind playing in the waiting room. That was a pleasant surprise and seemed remarkable to me. The tact involved in such a choice on their part told me that they really must care. The ovens were out behind the small, one-story building that holds the tidy crematorium office, some oversize freezers and the very pleasant air-conditioned waiting room. The property was surrounded by twenty-foot-high stacks of automobile carcasses, entire auto bodies and an enormous variety of neatly sorted bits and pieces—fenders, doors, hoods, seats, side mirrors, steering mechanisms, engine parts, dashboards, roofs, etc., arranged in row after row—apparently according to year, make and model. The sprawling salvage yard dwarfed the crematorium and its modest parking lot. Although there was no vegetation in sight, the colourful, encroaching heaps and rows of rendered vehicles almost looked like exotic organic growth, a sort of postmortem environment that seemed to me to perfectly complement the pet-burning business. The thick, lightly buzzing strands of heavy-duty power lines drooping as they crossed some thirty feet above us from one massive steel support to another only added to this entirely man-made, and remade, end-of-nature garden. Its perfume was a blend of acrid and oily-sweet, of melting rubber and asphalt, of taffy-thick black engine grease, of yellowing plastic and peeling paint sluggishly wafting upward and blending with the constant dead-fish reek of Los Angeles smog. ---- I had risen very early—or, rather, got out of bed early, as I hadn’t slept at all. Knowing it was today that I was scheduled to pick up your refrigerated corpse at our trustworthy local veterinary hospital and drive it out to this industrial hinterland for cremating had kept me from being able to rest. Probably I am able to write about this with a degree of detachment because your brother Henry and I have already gone through the worst of your final decay and death process together. We took you, our fifteen-year-old, completely lame and largely incontinent pal, to be “put down” three days ago. In the intervening time we had to wait for a slot at the crematorium to open up. I have been able to largely digest and assimilate the stronger surface emotions of your final morning. As much as I am and will continue to be haunted by your sweet, departing gaze when the brain-stopping serum was administered, time and the responsibilities resulting from your passing have more or less carried me away from that heartbreaking scene. I will always see your eyes slowly lose their gleam as I gently lay your head down. Will always remember your final generous gesture of rolling halfway over to let us rub your belly one last time before the doctor gave you the sedative. I’d arrived at the back door of the vet’s office feeling like I was complicit in some sort of underworld transaction. As had been the case all week, the morning sky was overcast, and the clammy grey marine layer had only added to the death business I was now part of. Two men in overalls had come out with what looked enough like a curled-up “you” shape inside a light-blue trash bag. As I had taken the thawing bundle and carefully laid it on the towel-covered passenger seat of the pickup truck, I had looked at the older of the two men. He’d nodded, seeming a bit uncomfortable, and then had turned and followed his colleague back inside the building without a backward glance or farewell. I had been very tired, a bit teary-eyed, and had not said a word myself. Probably not the most pleasant person for them to be around. I had gotten in the car and begun making my way to the 405 freeway. Moving slowly, stuck in the usual massive commuter caravan headed north toward the Sepulveda Pass, it had occurred to me that tomorrow would mark the 60th anniversary of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb drops. Then I had thought, not for the first time when passing the Sunset Boulevard exit, about O.J. Simpson’s bizarre televised journey in the famous white Ford Bronco. I had continued in that vein for a while, my mind becoming cluttered with a dizzying assortment of images involving unforgivable murders and other perversions of justice. The ideals of compassion had seemed distant, insignificant. I’d felt resigned, passively understanding that life moves forward just as traffic eventually does. Suddenly, the cars in front of me had slowed abruptly and I had braked hard, glad to see cars in my rear-view mirror doing the same. The bagged corpse had slid off the seat and onto the floor, and I’d tried to pull it back up with my right hand. It had been quite heavy, and I’d realised it would be a difficult and dangerous task to accomplish while driving, so I had made my way across two lanes of traffic and off onto the side of the freeway. As I had come round the front of the truck and opened the passenger-side door, I had decided I’d have a look at you to see if you were intact. I had straightened out the towel on the seat and lifted the bundle back onto it, then poked a hole in the plastic bag, now wet with condensation, where I could feel one of your frozen paws. Long black hair, long black nails. Not much like any of your paws. I had quickly felt for the body’s head, finding a stiff tongue projecting beyond clenched teeth, and then a collar around the neck. We had taken your collar off when you’d expired at the vet’s, and I knew that Henry was wearing it wrapped twice around his wrist as a bracelet today. This dog was not you. The absurdity of it all had hit me immediately as I had stood up and stared at the mass of moving cars through the poisonous-looking heat waves. The sadness of it had been suddenly overwhelming, as was the smell of initial decomposition, which I had not been aware of until that moment, like that of a dead deer that’s been hanging for a few hours from a tree. I had never really wanted to live in Los Angeles. Here I was, on yet another ridiculous errand, feeling vaguely like I was being punished for some past transgression, marking time and forced to make sense of an oddly evolving riddle. I had secured the corpse and made sure the towel was placed so as to keep the dead stranger from touching the seat or any part of the truck’s interior. Eventually, I’d got myself turned around and headed back to the vet’s, feeling sorry for this poor dog I did not know, and for its unwitting owner. En route, I had called the crematorium and informed them that I would be late for our oven appointment because I’d been given the wrong dog. They’d been very kind, had said I should get there when I could, and that they were very sorry. ---- Now the crematorium is about two miles behind me as I sit listlessly sipping coffee at a Mexican restaurant. This is as far as I have got, with my new cedar box containing your remaining bone fragments and ashes. I had asked the oven-minder to please not crush your bones if that was what he’d planned on doing. “Yes, normally we do very gently break down the bone matter so that it fits comfortably in the box or urn as the case might be. If you prefer, though … ” “Yes.” “…we can also not do it and just try and place her, the bone matter—the bag, that is—in the cedar box for you. If they’ll fit—if it will fit—that is.” “That’s ok, I can do it.” Earlier, out by the ovens, I had been allowed to scoop up all your burnt bits from the metal tray that the man had scraped the cooling, fragile ghost-shape of your skeleton onto. I had stopped several times to carefully examine some of your more distinguishable pieces. Vertebrae, hip parts and most beautiful of all, the rounded piece of bone that I instantly recognized as the top of your skull. We have petted that part of you so often. I can feel its shape even now, in memory, feel the bone through your smooth fur, feel your warmth and your happiness. All of it had gone into the plastic bag he now held. “Ok, sir. As you prefer.” I proceeded to gently rearrange the bag and its contents inside the box, and then placed your crematorium nametag and the receipt for services provided on top of your remains before closing the lid with its little brass clasp. “We would like you to consider the cedar box a gift from us due to the unfortunate mistake that was made this morning. We are very sorry about that.” “Oh. Well … thank you …” A woman who seemed to be the oven-minder’s boss, and perhaps the owner of the establishment, stood up and came around her desk to address me. “We are very sorry that … Brigit?… that Brigit got confused this morning.” I almost pointed out that you had not been confused at all, being quite dead, but I resisted the temptation, knowing what she meant. “It is very unusual that something unheard of like that would happen,” she continued. “Very unusual, and we are extremely sorry. If you prefer a larger box or don’t like cedar as a wood type… maybe an urn would be more to your liking?” I was truly moved by her words and the generous offer. “Is it Western red cedar?” I asked, for some reason unknown to me now—perhaps being at a loss for anything better to say by way of response. “You know, I am not real sure about that,” she replied, a bit thrown off by my question. “I certainly can try and find out for you, if you like?” “No, thanks. I was just wondering. Just curious, I guess.” “Would you like to replace the cedar?” “Replace? No. I like cedar. Smells good, looks good. Thank you.” I now felt like a complete idiot. “You don’t have to give me the box, though. Don’t have to give it… I’m happy to pay for it.” “We insist. It’s something we want to do for you.” “Thank you very much. Very kind of you.” “If Brigit doesn’t fit comfortably, not being completely dust and all… ” (“Comfortably?” Never mind… ) “No, that’s fine. She fits. I got her in there ok. And it’s a beautiful box. Thank you.” ---- “Me podría traer un poco de arroz con frijoles, por favor?” “Would you like anything else with that?” the waitress replied, in heavily Spanish-accented English. “Gracias, pero la verdad es que no tengo mucho hambre.” She looked at me calmly, and said “I’ll bring it right out. Warm up your coffee for you?” “Fijese: ahora que lo pienso creo que sí me gustaría una pequeña ensalada de lechuga y tomate… y cebolla, si hay.” “Ok,” she continued in English, “and will you like some dressing—vinaigrette, ranch, French, blue cheese, or oil and vinegar—for that?” Doesn’t happen often, but once in a while my gringo looks or perhaps my Argentine accent seem to be held against me like that. She glances at the cedar box resting on the table to the right of my place setting. I wonder if she has seen this sort of box before. The crematorium isn’t far, and maybe other people stop here now and then as I have, unable or unwilling to drive any further. Maybe they sometimes come here and get a little drunk, become indiscreet and open their boxes to look at what’s left of their animal friends. Maybe they cry and have to be consoled. I do not look at my box, just hold the waitress’ gaze when it returns to me. I’ve taken an initial dislike to her because she seems to refuse to speak Spanish with me, so I’m certainly not going to give her any more clues now. “Will that be all, sir?” she asks dryly. “Sí… y si me puede traer la cuenta con la comida—y un poco más de café—se lo agradecería.” She looks at me for a moment longer, then reluctantly mutters “Por supuesto, señor,” as she turns to go place my order.

[itfandomsecretsanta]

Kiss the Cook

“Look man, all I’m saying is it’s the twenty-third of december and I highly fucking doubt you have anything else on your itinerary. So drop by after five and we can hang out, alright?”

There was hardly time for Eddie to proffer a response before Richie’s voice cut and the line went dead. He rolled his eyes, placing the phone back on its hook and heading up to his room to get dressed. Sonia could be heard grumbling at him in frustration from her spot on the sofa, but Eddie paid little attention to the steady stream of guilt spewing forth from her lips. It had become a sort of white noise after the past few years, ever since the clown and the plaster cast and the placebos. He’d stopped listening all together after the speech she’d given him when he’d come out to her earlier that summer, and now it seemed only a matter of time before he would be off to college with Richie, and would finally cut the cord once and for all. And she would just have to get over that.

“Going out, mom. Don’t bother with the door; I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Eddie called lamely over her droning. He slipped his coat on over his cranberry red sweater and stuffed his hands into his gloves, mulling over whether or not to wear a hat. Glancing to the snow outside the kitchen window, he decided he’d better play it safe and keep his head warm.

“Are you wearing enough layers, Eddie-bear? Don’t forget a scarf, your throat! You’ll catch your death, your breathing you know it’s so cold out, you’re so delicate–”

“Goodbye, mom,” Eddie shouted more loudly his time, grabbing a scarf and slamming the door behind him. The late December snowfall crunched loudly beneath his boots as he made his way down the street toward the Tozier’s house.

The driveway and garage at Richie’s house were buried in snow, completely unkempt and neglected. Eddie would wonder if anyone lived here at all if it wasn’t for the knee deep trail of footprints through the front yard and the giant, lopsided snowman smoking a cigarette in the far corner by the kitchen window. Eddie snorted at the sight before stepping gingerly toward the door, trying to use Richie’s footprints to his advantage despite the feet being too big and the strides too long for him to fill. His legs were covered in melting powder by the time he reached the door, rapping quickly on he smudged wood and tapping his foot softly as he waited for Richie to answer.

When Richie finally opened the door, he was preceded by a cloud of oily smoke and the scent of mashed potatoes. Eddie backed away from the door in surprise, nearly slipping on the patch of icy slush that dominated the top step of the Tozier’s front porch.

“Richie what the fu–”

“Oh good you came!” Richie exclaimed, beaming. “I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show, Eds. C’mon in, c’mon in!” He reached out and tugged Eddie by the hand into the warmly lit foyer, giving Eddie a chance to really take in his boyfriend’s appearance. As usual, Richie looked gaudy and ridiculous. He had an apron tied around his waist, jolly and red and emblazoned with block letters that encouraged you to “Kiss ♡ My Ass” in a mockery of the classic “Kiss the Cook” aprons Eddie often saw on tv. A stupid and cheeky joke, though, he supposed it matched well with Richie’s sweater; some god-awful green, cable knit monstrosity with the words “Santa’s Little F*cker” lovingly stitched across the front. A jester collar design was sewn around his throat, complete with real brass bells that jangled cheerfully whenever he took a step. Along with acid washed jeans, the outfit was very Richie, he supposed, and only Richie could ever pull something quite so brazen off.

“C’mon inside, Eddie mah deah, don’t bother with your shoes my man, gimme your coat, all that good stuff, lord fuck did your mom make you that hat because it really is something–”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

“Alright alright, I’ll stop,” Richie quickly surrendered, laughing. “But come into the kitchen okay? I’ve got a surprise for you!” With that he dropped Eddie’s shoulders and hurried down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving Eddie to finish removing his coat and gloves. A quick glance at the floor; littered with dirt and liquid stains sticky with dust, he decided to take Richie’s advice and keep his shoes on his feet. The house definitely looked cleaner than it usually had whenever he had visited, but it tended to be such a sty he knew Richie could have only done so much to prepare for his arrival.

“Where are your parents?” Eddie called as he hung his coat in the closet, as far away from Wentworth and Maggie’s cologne and cigarette scent-heavy jackets.

“Vacationing in Bora Bora; on sabbatical in Darkest Africa, bringing the holy gospel of Tupperware to the far off settlements of the great arctic circle… Hell if I know, Eds.” Richie’s face appeared in the doorway for a moment as he rolled his dark eyes and shoved his frames further up the bridge of his nose. “For all I know they’re golfing in Hawaii right now with more of their rich bitch friends.” Dad’s hanging out with his other dentist buddies and mom’s probably nose deep in her fifth mimosa and tittering with the other dentist wives, and they’re having a grand old time pretending they don’t have a loudmouth teenage son alone at home. He didn’t say these things, of course. Instead he busied himself with his lighter, bringing life to the two white emergency candles he’d managed to locate in the kitchen drawer and adding the finishing touches to his table setting.

“Alright Eddie, get your cute little ass over here!” he called, waiting until he saw Eddie’s slight sweatered body in the doorway before throwing his arm out in a flourish and gesturing to the table. “Ta-da!”

Eddie’s jaw dropped at the sight of the table, overflowing with Christmas food and festive tat. There were mashed potatoes, brussel sprouts, gravy, veggies and stuffing. Two glasses of egg-nog stood next to a bottle of wine, and in the centre of it all sat a small turkey; only somewhat over-done by the look of it. Two bright orange bar stools; part of a prized purchase Maggie Tozier had made back in ‘76, stood under the table waiting to be used. A green and red tartan tablecloth completed the festive albeit ramshackle display. Eddie was so enchanted he hardly noticed the sprig of mistletoe Richie had hung to the ceiling fan at the centre of the table.

“Richie, how? How the hell?”

“It’s called grocery money, Eds,” Richie laughed. “Alternatively referred to as “lucking out and finding there’s still a balance on the credit card your mom foolishly left in her sock drawer”.”

“But the cooking… you made all of this yourself?”

“I didn’t cash in a favour with Stan, if that’s what you’re asking. My mom’s got a whole hoard of cookbooks she’s never touched gathering grease in the cupboard above the stove. And seeing as I know how to read–”

“Richie, it’s fantastic!” Eddie exclaimed in awe, and this time Richie made no effort to interrupt him. “It all looks amazing I - I can’t believe this.”

“Well, we need a good first Christmas,” Richie said softly. Eddie looked at him in surprise and smiled, taking his hand. It was a rare thing for Richie to get so quiet and sentimental. He leaned in and offered Richie a shy kiss on the cheek, blushing as he pulled back once more.

“I love it,” he said, beaming. “Come on, let’s eat it. I’d hate for it to get cold and all your hard work go to waste!” Richie nodded, letting Eddie lead him to the table and filling his plate. Eddie was right, everything was amazing.

It was after midnight by the time Richie found himself walking Eddie back home, sipping hot chocolate and holding hands. The snow had started again hours before, and had now slowed to a magical, slow motion drift that caught itself in the fibres of Eddie’s scarf and flecked Richie’s glasses. They walked in silence, listening to the calm of Derry at night and relishing in each others warmth. The walk was far too short. When they reached Eddie’s house, he was surprised to see the lights had been switched off; not even the porch light had been left on for him to find his way home. Something about that made Eddie feel more pride than fear. Perhaps his mother was finally starting to get it…

“Thank you for dinner, Rich,” he said happily, stopping under the streetlamp across from his house and looking up at Richie with a smile. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold; snowflakes shimmered in his eyelashes like stardust. Richie was struck silent at the sight of him, so small and perfect; so much so that it felt like he was waking up from a dream when Eddie shyly reached up and pulled him down by his scarf, placing a kiss to Richie’s lips. It was brief and nervous and everything Richie could have ever wanted.

“Merry Christmas, love,” Eddie whispered softly against him, lowering himself back onto his heels and giving Richie’s hand a squeeze. Richie felt his heart swell with a warmth that reached all the way down to his toes.

“Merry Christmas, Eddie,” he whispered back, ruffling his boyfriend’s hair gently. They stood there together for a good ten minutes, basking in one another’s closeness. And when Richie started on his way back home, he carried with him a warmth that refused to leave.

-Fin-

@immersiveillusions

Merry Christmas!! -Shaun

[ciathyzareposts]

Eric the Unready – Fair and Fowl – Request for Assistance

Written by TBD

Eric the Unready Journal Entry #4: I found myself in a fair near a fire-breathing dragon. And the dragon’s protecting the Steak of Eternity. Seems simple enough – just need to cover myself from head to toe in fireproof armor and steal a hungry dragon’s meal. I’ve got most of it covered but I still need one more item…

One final Monty Python reference left over from the previous mission

Hi all. Sorry for the rather significant delay between posts here. As is happening to everyone in the world, current circumstances have put all our regular routines out of order. Technically I have more time at home to play and write about adventure games but somehow it feels like I have less – the human psyche is weird. Anyway, on with the show…

Day 5: Stygian Dragon – To Cover My Arse

After shooting out of a cannon in my last mission I landed on a fairground tent. Checking out my new location I find I’m at the St. Barchan’s Day fair, and there’s a herald spouting news. As usual, there’s also a newspaper here.

Good to see people learning from their experiences.

After reading the newspaper I listen to the herald’s proclamations.

Circumstances like the wet tunic contest perhaps? (Sorry – thought I was in a Spellcasting game for a moment there)

Okay, maybe the last chapter isn’t the end of the Monty Python references.

But Snorkle the Herald Angels Sing would make a great hymn.

Moving on, I find a chef roasting a boar while wearing a comedy apron with “Poke me with a fork – I think I’m done!” written on it. I think he wants some spices, but I’m not sure when the game’s giving me a hint or just attempting a joke.

I think he went to the wrong fair.

Seeing as the chef’s clothing is specifically inviting it, and I do have a pitchfork in my inventory, I do what he asks.

I’m in a fourth wall breaking comedy adventure game – if I don’t take things literally I won’t be able to solve half of the puzzles

In another part of the fair ominously named Shady Area is a three handed elf playing a shell game.

If I play, I lose. I was expecting to see some kind of animation with the shells but was disappointed when I just had to guess without having any idea. The prize is some extra minutes of life (which I assume is irrelevant to the game) and some racy woodcuts of a local dancer called Lily.

After a few turns a wandering musician strolls through. He wins the game every time, so expecting shenanigans, I talk to him.

My guess is he bought those glasses from the back of an old comic book and they let him see through the shells.

The musician is missing a reed for his instrument so I figure he’ll give me his X-Ray Specs if I find one for him.

The fair also contains a stockade with some stocks, and as I wait there a man is walked in and put in the stocks.

The prisoner has a speech impediment, which I later worked out is why he was in the stocks in the first place.

Spitting is illegal at the fair

I didn’t remember the illegality of spitting at first, but when I did work it out I felt even sorry for the poor prisoner. Anyway, even without that knowledge I immediately try to free the man, but can’t find a way to do it.

After a little while he’s freed by the authorities anyway, so I continue my explorations. There is a Fool’s Pavilion where I can audition for a job. The three fools tell me that the jester’s hat protects me from thrown objects and is fireproof, all of which will help against unamused patrons. I talk to them.

Good call – I’m sure he won’t do any damage over there.

I try a few things to amuse them or cheat.

Your loss – I was going to do something really funny with those scorecards.

Unable to amuse the fools, I leave and check out the shooting gallery, which is run by a creepy barker who keeps making comments to and about the passing ladies. If I win his game I can have one of three prizes, so I go about getting all three.

Classy!

He gives me a crossbow and I shoot at each of the three targets. I hit every time so walk away with each of the three prizes; a whooppee cushion, a noise maker, and a rubber chicken.

A rubber chicken without a pulley in it – what’s the point!

I go back to the fool judges to impress them with my new prizes – I pull out my whoopee cushion and do what the Fonz told me I should do (I sit on it.)

They look very enthusiastic about my comedy routine.

I am now a fool. I’d love to go back to the knights at home and show them of my achievements!

I try to give my cap to the man in the stocks, but he won’t take it. I was only trying to help protect him from rotten fruit. Anyway, the fair is fairly big compared to most sections of the game, so let’s keep exploring.

I go to the Amphitheatre next and check out the schedule.

I suppose I’ll need to see all three shows at some point. I remember that Lily is the person I can win woodcuts of so that’s clearly a show I’ll have to see.

There is also a Pavilion of Tomorrow – an extremely lame pavilion of tomorrow, almost as lame as Epcott Center (Sorry Disney, I wasn’t impressed.)

There are a bunch of items here:

Portable Window of the Future – a hoop with a shade so I can take my window everywhere.

Cage with a Viper in it – I don’t know if this is supposed to be part of the exhibition or someone just left a pet here but it does seem important.

Kitchen Appliance – the Crush-o-Matic – a 2500lb weight that can be dropped to crush food

Chamberpot of Tomorrow – a chamberpot that is permanently attached to your rear-end to save time going to the privy.

Signalling Device – a gong that you can bang on.

Cat-Jet III Assault Catapult – a model of a state-of-the-art catapult.

Giant Leech – in the future, medicine will improve with the larger than usual leeches.

Iron Maiden Key Ring – from the description it sounds like the kind of stretchy key ring that some security guards in movies use.

Personal Hygeine System – an aardvark. Seriously. Just an aardvark.

Flawless logic

I take a rubber band, which I assume is the Iron Maiden Key Ring. I also take the leech. I try to take other things, but they are too heavy. When I try to take the catapult, it fires.

I sense a puzzle here.

I pull the shade of the Window of the Future in order to stop the catapult from shooting the gong, then try again to get the catapult.

Ah, a babelfish puzzle. Nice.

I try anything I can think of with the snake – putting stuff in the hole or giving stuff to the snake. I try various ways to use the weight, but the game won’t let me press the lever or do anything else I try.

Out of ideas in here, I go back to the prisoner in the stocks and try to upset him with my noise maker.

It’s times like these I really wish this game had a “USE” verb option.

Out of ideas at this point, I go around insulting and mooning people at random, as well as trying to use various items with various other items and trying in vain to somehow make noise with my noise maker.

These are clearly the actions of someone without a plan.

I notice that the apron is fire-proof. I haven’t seen any fire lately, but I’m sure I will soon enough.

Wooo! Spring Break!

At some point I finally realised there was a screen I’d missed – an exit to the west at the entrance to the fairground. I take it.

I already wanted it, but now I know why I’ll need the chef’s apron.

I go to the Amphitheatre and wait for the next show, which is Lily.

After the show, an usher gives me a note.

“I saw you out fwont duwing the show. Please meet me in my dwessing woom. –Lily.”

Accepting the invitation, I go north and end up in Lily’s Dressing Room.

I wonder if she’s related to Pontious Pilate

I talk to her, and again get reminded of the quest to climb the maypole.

I look around to see what else I can do here.

Nice work changing the ‘r’s’ everywhere, game, but I really should have a wubber band in my inventory!

Wondering if there’s anything I need to do here by changing items a-la the T-remover from Leather Goddesses of Phobos, I keep the idea in mind and leave.

I wait around at the amphitheatre for the next show – the jugglers. The jugglers challenge the audience to toss them something they can’t juggle so I look in my inventory for an appropriately unjuggleable item.

Don’t challenge an adventure game protagonist – it rarely ends well.

Now that the jugglers have dropped their gloves in dismay, I take a pair and look at them – the gloves have tiny suckers on them, so I wear them and try to climb the greasy pole in the middle of the fair.

I  neglected to mention the pole earlier so I’ll do that now. There is a greased pole in the fairground with a red feather boa swinging from the top of it.

I take the boa back to Lily, who’s thwilled at my success, and tells me about the second part of my quest.

But I need that weed for the musician in order to get the X-Ray specs so I can get the woodcuts which I can use to solve a different puzzle!

I take the reed to the musician and he swaps them for his shades. As expected, the shades let me see through the shells and I can win the shell game (again, without any animation or change in the graphics to show what I see)

I know exactly what to do with those woodcuts

I take the woodcuts to the overly horny barker in the hope that I will achieve something.

I find it weird that everywhere else it’s spelled Lily but on the woodcuts it’s spelled Lilly. I suspect counterfeit woodcuts!

Having distracted the barker, he doesn’t take the crossbow off me as I leave so I have a new item in my inventory.

I go back to the Pavillion of Tomorrow to see if any of my new items will help. The viper doesn’t want the boa and when I try to shoot anything with my crossbow I miss – including the big gong at the back of the room. I try once again to make the noise maker work, but none of the verbs worked (I even resorted to going through the entire long list of verbs on the left one-by-one)

I note that if I go back to the dragon, he doesn’t always shoot fire at my chest. I’ll need to protect my whole body. So far, I have sunglasses, a boa and a fool’s cap to protect my eyes, head and neck. But I need an apron and the chamberpot of tomorrow to protect my chest and backside.

Because I had no current ideas on how to get either of the required items, I reload an old game to see the Story of the Dragon that I’d missed at the Amphitheatre as it only plays at 11am.

The story doesn’t help me solve my current dilemma, but it does give me information about how this mission will end. The dragon who used to terrorize the countryside was finally stopped – by the power of spam!

It’s obviously setting up that I’ll be the one taken this year.

Note: This game came out before the popularity of the internet, and therefore before email spam was a thing. I’m sure if this game was made now the dragon would be getting hourly invitations to meet single dragons in his area or join some kind of get-rich-quick scheme.

Continuing to explore, I finally have an idea on how to get myself arrested. I didn’t know how getting arrested would help, but I was sure it would be of some use. Listening to Harold the Herald’s proclamation again reminded me about the no spitting rule so I had the obvious next thought.

The guy in the back seems sad that I’m there – perhaps some of my spit hit him.

I insult the people jeering at me, then a man with an apple-bearing son appear. I insult the boy too.

How appropriate – you fight like a cow!

The boy responds to my insult by throwing an apple, which lands amongst my other possessions on a pile next to me.

I wait until my ten minutes in the stocks is up, then take my shiny new apple to the chef and put it in the boar’s mouth because that’s what pigs on spits always have for some reason. Pleased that his meal is now complete, the chef drops his apron and leaves with his newly appled pig.

I take the apron, and now only need the chamberpot to complete my fireproof armour.

And this is where I’m stuck.

REQUEST FOR ASSISTANCE

I tried reloading to after Lily gave me the weed and went to all locations to see if the second part of her quest is actually something I need to solve rather than giving the reed to the musician. I had no luck with that, though.

I try using my stuff on things everywhere and eventually decide to wait until nightfall in case something changes when the sun goes down.

Of course, I should have realised this would happen.

I even get desperate and ask the game for help

So I’m asking for assistance. I’m confident I’m near the end of the chapter but slightly disappointed I couldn’t continue my plan of writing a post for each chapter. Oh well, I figure next post will have to contain the conclusion of this Steak of Eternity mission as well as the next one.

Here’s what I know or suspect.

I need the chamberpot of tomorrow

It will somehow involve stopping the catapult from hitting the gong when I brush past it to get to the catapult.

It may involve the crossbow, noise maker or rubber chicken as I haven’t used them yet.

I know sure it’s not related, but I’m still going to blame the social upheaval caused by the coronavirus for my inability to solve this puzzle. Otherwise I’d have to admit my incompetence!

Session time: 2 hours 40 minutes Total time: 7 hours 50 minutes Score: 395 out of 1000, in 1063 turns Inventory: backpack, Crescent Wrench of Armageddon, Pitchfork of Damocles, crossbow, book, apron, boa, note, noise maker, bungee cord, berries, chicken, rubber band, whoopee cushion, newspaper, apple (wait – why do I still have an apple after I got the apron?), sunglasses, fool’s cap, gloves

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/eric-the-unready-fair-and-fowl-request-for-assistance/

[everyonesomething]

Session Sixteen

Grim lowers her cigarette and eyeballs the noose that's descended from the ceiling.

Sydney Gaydos: "Does one of us have to die?!"

Pepper: "Syd you got a thick neck."

Sydney Gaydos: "Well if Gaydos must..."

In this session we get lost in a book at our local library.

The set-up: We're off to Candlekeep to investigate the down wards and see if we can't find our lich buddy inside.

The Game: We get up bright and early, despite the previous night's merry-making, and pack our day bags for Candlekeep. Edith, ever the historian, asks us to be careful while we're in there not to light too much of the library on fire if we can help it. A police van shows up to take us to the library, drops us off out front, and we're left to our own devices.

The library is surrounded by a large wall, obviously constructed at the time the whole building was warded off from the outside world. There won't be a door through so it's up and over for us, Syd using her snazzy new hookshot and the rest of us making do with a rope. Fortunately there's a ladder on the other side for us to climb down into the grounds and we head inside the library.

The inside of the library looks about how you'd expect a library closed for centuries to look: full of books and covered in dust. Though Edith notices some of the dust has been disturbed recently, maybe an animal got in when the wards came down. Grim disagrees that it's an animal, she thinks something more humanoid made the tracks.

We're distracted from the dust mystery by a door mystery: a locked door is blocking our way up to the next floor. Mal tries picking the lock, but it won't budge. We look around the room at some of the books, there might be a key or clue nearby.

Malkas: "Maybe we should actually look at some of these books?"

Grim: "I'll leave that to y'all." Grim straightens up and lights a cigarette.

Pepper says "If one of them bites me, I'm out," and reaches for one nearby.

Edith Runekill: "Wait! Hang on! Put on gloves before you handle it!"

Pepper reaches for the GIANT JEWELED BOOK

Pepper: "Gloves?"

Edith Runekill: "We don't want the oils in our skin to damage the paper and oh dear me"

Pepper: "Don't think gloves would've helped--YAGH"

Pepper swears a blue streak in Elvish

Malkas: "Shit!"

Pepper: "Five minutes in and I am so done with this place."

As it turns out, one of the books does attack Pepper and a few more fly out to attack the rest of the group. They flap around and make a general nuisance before we turn them into compost. Once dealt with, Pepper picks up the jeweled book again and examines it: each page has the same depiction of a pretty nice mountain lake scene. Syd leans over for a closer look and... disappears into the book.

Because that's what happens in magic libraries.

Edith examines it and tells us it's a pocket dimension, she's all for following Syd in, but Grim would rather pull her out. With some rope and some determination, she's successful and we get our detective back unharmed. Seeing as it was safe enough for Syd to go in and out, Edith decides to explore the book and off she goes followed by Grim, Mal, Syd again, and Pepper.

The scene inside the book is nice, if a bit cold for the group, and on closer inspection, everything is made out of a paper-like material. Even the chimera that shows up to attack us.

Oh.

It roasts Syd good with a fireblast before we wreck it into a pile of woodpulp and ink. Once we're finished with it, the book spits us back out into the room along with a key. We take a moment to recover and help ourselves to a few of the more historically interesting books off the shelves.

We move up to the next floor to a similar room as the one before, except this one has tiny footprints and puddles of oil or grease on the ground. Edith warns us it looks fey in origin and that it's overall sticky and difficult to get out of, so we steer clear as we make our way around the room.

It doesn't take long for us to find out what made the tracks and the oil when a few boggles appear in the room. One pops up right next to Grim, who lunges for it but slips in a pool of oil as the boggle disappears. Edith gives us some information on what they are and Grim gets ready to just shoot them if they cause trouble.

Malkas steps in front of Edith a little, hand on his Rapier.

Edith Runekill: "It's a boggle. They appear in places that're lonesome, abandoned. Oftentimes a child who's alone will imagine up a friend, and if reality's soft enough in those parts, that imaginary friend becomes one of these critters."

"This is a deeply weird place, because of all the artifacts and tomes and wild magic locked behind the wards."

Grim has already leveled her rifle at it just in case

They don't seem outright hostile, but they are a mischievous sort as they throw a book at Pepper and whack her in the chest. She flips through it and it showers her with glitter. One of the boggles tries to gnaw on Syd a bit, but her scales are too tough for it to do anything but be a nuisance. Grim knocks it off her anyway, and in return one of the other boggles tries to drop a very large book on her head.

Pepper just drops the book. Done.

Sydney Gaydos: "Aw Pepper you made a few friends it looks like."

Pepper looks at Syd like "literally why"

Sydney Gaydos ducks down to try and dodge the boggle but alas, it latches onto her head and gives her a pummel. She tries her best to pull it off after Grim's failed attempt.

Pepper sidesteps away from Grim.

Grim: "Back up off've us, you hear?"

Sydney Gaydos: "Ah, thank you Grim." Sydney brushes her head a bit.

Grim DRAWS HER RIFLE U LITTLE SHITS

Grim just heads for the stairs

Grim is done with these things

We're having so much fun in the library, y'all.

The stairs are blocked by another locked door and the book the boggle dropped looks like it has a pocket dimension inside, same as the book downstairs. Edith wastes no time stepping into it while the others work out a plan to keep the boggles from shelving the book with us inside: Mal will stay out and feed them candy as a distraction for the rest of us.

The scene inside is the same paper-like quality as the one before, but we're in a desert environment instead. Edith spots us, but notices Mal isn't with the group.

Edith Runekill: "Wait, where's Mal?"

"What happened to him?"

Pepper: "He's feeding your new children."

Edith Runekill: "They ate him???"

Pepper: "If he runs out of candy maybe."

Edith Runekill bursts into tears

Edith Runekill: "I-I shouldn't have left him behind...."

Grim looks at Edith and then Looks at Pepper

Sydney Gaydos: " !!! Edith no! He's fine! We needed someone to stand guard! Please don't cry..." and out comes a tissue from her many pockets for her.

Grim: "He's fine, Runekill."

Grim is still Looking at Pepper

Edith Runekill dabs at her eyes. "O... oh."

Pepper looks anywhere but at Edith and chooses to stare at the sky.

Grim will remember this

Pepper sweats

Sydney Gaydos: "We couldn't trust those little rascals with the book, he'll be fine. He has candy for them."

Edith Runekill breathes. She feels the air filling her lungs and leaving them again. She looks embarrassed.

Pepper did nothing wrong.*

Up above us, Syd spots a blue dragon circling over the group and we prepare for another fight. A quick little skirmish follows: Syd does some fancy hookshot acrobatics on it before we all pummel it into a papery inky mess with Grim landing the killing shot.

Grim sets her foot up on rock as she levels her rifle

Grim: "Thought this was s'posed to be a fight."

"Quit dragon your ass."

Edith Runekill 's hand flies to her mouth as she laughs in delight

Sydney Gaydos makes a :D face at the pun.

Pepper eh's.

We've got the key and Edith gratefully reunites with Mal. We head up the stairs to the next room: it's smaller and the dust is undisturbed. Wherever we are, nothing else has been here before us for a long time. There's two doors, one locked up like the others and one fancier and jeweled. Edith uses a little divination magic to look on the other side of the jeweled door: it's a master bedroom of sorts, and there's a key inside.

Edith hears a voice whisper in her ear asking if she'd like to start a game, to which she answers 'yes'. In response, a noose drops down from the ceiling and eight blank spots along with the clue “stone” appear on the nearby wall. It's a game of hangman. Edith guesses the first letter, E, which turns out to be the last letter of the word. Reasoning if it's a stone that it might end in -ite, she guesses I.

The noose whips forward and loops around Mal's neck, dragging him away from the group. Wrong guess, it seems.

What a fun, wholesome game for the children of Ba'al to have played.

Grim guesses A, then O and R, all part of the word. Edith's guess of S has Mal hoisted up off the ground a bit and Grim's next guess of T raises him higher, still. He's still talking and moving around, so it's not as serious as it looks, but Edith is relieved when Grim figures out the word is “Gargoyle” and the rope releases him as the door opens.

Inside the master bedroom is the key we're after and some loot. Grim gets a cloak that allows the user to fly, Edith finds a cloak that casts Blink, Syd picks up a false eye that adds fire resistance (and lets her take off the eyepatch she'd been wearing the whole campaign), and Pepper gets a few magic rings—one adds a spell slot, one casts Reduce at-will, and one creates fake coins that turn to dirt after a few minutes.

We're ready to move on, but it turns out the door blocking the way doesn't just need a key, it's also magically locked and inscribed with a drawing of a sunrise on it. Waving a lantern in front of it doesn't have any affect, and waiting for actual sunrise doesn't sound too fun as it's only about noon.

We decide to take a rest long enough to allow Edith to prepare an illusion spell and see if that can open the door. Mal, Edith, and Pepper finish out the session with a brief discussion on the nature of learning and magic.

Edith Runekill: "Hope watching me prepare spells isn't too boring, Mal."

"Gonna be at it a while."

Malkas: "Nah. I like it."

Edith Runekill: "Those last fights took a lot out of me, since I'm casting so many spells I barely seen before today."

Malkas: "What happened in the second book? Did you get hurt?"

Edith Runekill: "No, no, nothing like that, just-- like, mentally. Spells I let loose are harder to get back again 'cause they aren't second nature to me like lighting things on fire or whatever is."

"We fought a blue dragon... or, well, the image of one, like that chimera."

"All ink and paper given life."

"It was a desert, it was hot, but other than that it was a lot like the first book we went into."

"Everything felt papery and slightly wrong."

Pepper , sourly, "I'm beginning to think my mom lied to me when she said I had to be quiet for a whole day while she worked on her spellbook."

Malkas: "Sorry Pepper, do you want this jar of pickled halibut?"

Pepper: "No thanks."

Edith Runekill: "Well, it's different for every wizard. But talking things through helps...?"

"We'd all talk eachother through spells when we were studying for exams in school."

"B...but maybe your mom really did need the quiet since she studies differently...?"

Edith Runekill Tries To Help

Pepper snorts, "Yeah, maybe."

Pepper Is Not Helped.

Malkas: "Last time I was in a class proper and I talked through a test, the vice principal gave me the cane."

Edith Runekill: "We didn't talk in the exams!!! Just when we all got together to study. And prepare spells for 'em."

"Wizardry majors, you know."

Pepper with her head in a cabinet. "I dunno, mom never really taught me much about how wizards work."

Malkas: "Ferg can do spellwork but he's crap at it."

Pepper: "Mm."

Edith Runekill: "I'm the only one in my family who does magic. When Ma and Pa needed magical stuff done, they contracted a druid to come 'round."

"Wonder if they thought I'd be able to take all that on when they sent me off to college..."

"A&M has a great program for agri-magic. Obviously. 'S right in the name."

"But I went for a more traditional wizardry major."

"Probably better schools for that, but..."

Edith Runekill shrugs

Edith Runekill: "It worked out, anyway."

"And they had a good archeology program."

"There's a lot of archeological work around there, actually. Digging up stuff in Plaguewrought Land from before it was Wrought by Plague, you know."

"So maybe a good place for a wizard-archeologist?"

What nerds.

*Pepper's player is the one doing these plot summaries and may possibly be injecting some minor editorializing.

[lesbianrewrites]

Blood of Olympus - Chapter 45

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page. This is a Lesbian edit of The Blood of Olympus by Rick Riordan. Chapters will be posted every day at 10am EST. Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

ABOUT FIVE MILES EAST OF CAMP, a black SUV was parked on the beach.

They tied up the boat at a private dock. Nicola helped Dakota and Leila haul Michael Kahale ashore. The big guy was still only half-conscious, mumbling what Nicola assumed were football calls: ‘Red twelve. Right thirty-one. Hike.’ Then he giggled uncontrollably.

‘We’ll leave him here,’ Leila said. ‘Just don’t bind him. Poor guy …’

‘What about the car?’ Dakota asked. ‘The keys are in the glove compartment, but, uh, can you drive?’

Leila frowned. ‘I thought you could drive. Aren’t you seventeen?’

‘I never learned!’ Dakota said. ‘I was busy.’

‘I’ve got it covered,’ Nicola promised.

They both looked at her.

‘You’re, like, fourteen,’ Leila said.

Nicola enjoyed how nervous the Romans acted around her, even though they were older and bigger and more experienced fighters. ‘I didn’t say I would be behind the wheel.’

She knelt and placed her hand on the ground. She felt the nearest graves, the bones of forgotten humans buried and scattered. She searched deeper, extending her senses into the Underworld. ‘Jules-Albert. Let’s go.’

The ground split. A zombie in a ragged nineteenth-century motoring outfit clawed his way to the surface. Leila stepped back. Dakota screamed like a kindergartner.

‘What the hell is that?’ Dakota protested.

‘This is my driver,’ Nicola said. ‘Jules-Albert finished first in the Paris–Rouen motorcar race back in 1895, but he wasn’t awarded the prize because his steam car used a stoker.’

Leila stared at him. ‘What are you even talking about?’

‘He’s a restless soul, always looking for another chance to drive,’ Nicola said. ‘The last few years, he’s been my driver whenever I need one.’

‘You have a zombie chauffeur,’ Leila said.

‘I call shotgun.’ Nicola got in on the passenger’s side. Reluctantly, the Romans climbed in the back.

One thing about Jules-Albert: he never got emotional. He could sit in crosstown traffic all day without losing his patience. He was immune to road rage. He could even drive straight up to an encampment of wild centaurs and navigate through them without getting nervous.

The centaurs were like nothing Nicola had ever seen. They had back ends like palominos, tattoos all over their hairy arms and chests, and bullish horns protruding from their foreheads. Nicola doubted they could blend in with humans as easily as Chiron did.

At least two hundred were sparring restlessly with swords and spears, or roasting animal carcasses over open fires (carnivorous centaurs … the idea made Nicola shudder). Their camp spilled across the farm road that meandered around Camp Half-Blood’s southeast perimeter.

The SUV nudged its way through, honking when necessary. Occasionally a centaur glared through the driver’s side window, saw the zombie driver and backed away in shock.

‘Pluto’s pauldrons,’ Dakota muttered. ‘Even more centaurs arrived overnight.’

‘Don’t make eye contact,’ Leila warned. ‘They take that as a challenge for a duel to the death.’

Nicola stared straight ahead as the SUV pushed through. Her heart was pounding, but she wasn’t scared. She was angry. Octavian had surrounded Camp Half-Blood with monsters.

Sure, Nicola had mixed emotions about the camp. She’d felt rejected there, out of place, unwanted and unloved … but now that it was on the verge of destruction, she realized how much it meant to her. This was the last place Bianca and she had shared as a home – the only place they’d ever felt safe, even if only temporarily.

They rounded a bend in the road and Nicola’s fists clenched. More monsters … hundreds more. Dog-headed men prowled in packs, their poleaxes gleaming in the light of campfires. Beyond that milled a tribe of two-headed men dressed in rags and blankets like homeless guys, armed with a haphazard collection of slings, clubs and metal pipes.

‘Octavian is an idiot,’ Nicola hissed. ‘He thinks he can control these creatures?’

‘They just kept showing up,’ Leila said. ‘Before we knew it … well, look.’

The legion was arrayed at the base of Half-Blood Hill, its five cohorts in perfect order, its standards bright and proud. Giant eagles circled overhead. The siege weapons – six golden onagers the size of houses – were arrayed behind in a loose semicircle, three on each flank. But, for all its impressive discipline, the Twelfth Legion looked pitifully small, a splotch of demigod valour in a sea of ravenous monsters.

Nicola wished she still had the sceptre of Diocletian, but she doubted a legion of dead warriors would make a dent in this army. Even the Argo II couldn’t do much against this kind of strength.

‘I have to disable the onagers,’ Nicola said. ‘We don’t have much time.’

‘You’ll never get close to them,’ Leila warned. ‘Even if we get the entire Fourth and Fifth Cohorts to follow us, the other cohorts will try to stop us. And those siege weapons are manned by Octavian’s most loyal followers.’

‘We won’t get close by force,’ Nicola agreed. ‘But alone I can do it. Dakota, Leila – Jules-Albert will drive you to the legion lines. Get out, talk to your troops, convince them to follow your lead. I’ll need a distraction.’

Dakota frowned. ‘All right, but I’m not hurting any of my fellow legionnaires.’

‘No one’s asking you to,’ Nicola growled. ‘But if we don’t stop this war the entire legion will be wiped out. You said the monster tribes take insult easily?’

‘Yes,’ Dakota said. ‘I mean, for instance, you make any comment to those two-headed guys about the way they smell and … oh.’ He grinned. ‘If we started a brawl, by accident of course …’

‘I’ll be counting on you,’ Nicola said.

Leila frowned. ‘But how will you –’

‘I’m going dark,’ Nicola said. And she faded into the shadows.

She thought she was prepared.

She wasn’t.

Even after three days of rest and the wondrous healing properties of Coach Hedge’s gooey brown gunk, Nicola started to dissolve the moment she shadow-jumped.

Her limbs turned to vapour. Cold seeped into her chest. Voices of spirits whispered in her ears: Help us. Remember us. Join us.

She hadn’t realized how much she had relied on Reyna. Without her strength, she felt as weak as a newborn colt, wobbling dangerously, ready to fall at every step.

No, she told herself. I am Nicola di Angelo, daughter of Hades. I control the shadows. They do not control me.

She stumbled back into the mortal world at the crest of Half-Blood Hill.

She fell to her knees, hugging Thalia’s pine tree for support. The Golden Fleece was no longer in its branches. The guardian dragon was gone. Perhaps they’d been moved to a safer spot with the battle so close. Nicola wasn’t sure. But, looking down at the Roman forces arrayed outside the valley, her spirits wavered.

The nearest onager was a hundred yards downhill, encircled in spiked trenches and guarded by a dozen demigods. The machine was primed, ready to fire. Its huge sling cupped a projectile the size of a Honda Civic, glowing with flecks of gold.

With icy certainty, Nicola realized what Octavian was up to. The projectile was a mixture of incendiaries and Imperial gold. Even a small amount of Imperial gold could be incredibly volatile. Exposed to too much heat or pressure, the stuff would explode with devastating impact, and of course it was deadly to demigods as well as monsters. If that onager scored a hit on Camp Half-Blood, anything in the blast zone would be annihilated – vaporized by the heat, or disintegrated by the shrapnel. And the Romans had six onagers, all stocked with piles of ammunition.

‘Evil,’ Nicola said. ‘This is evil.’

She tried to think. Dawn was breaking. She couldn’t possibly take down all six weapons before the attack began, even if she found the strength to shadow-travel that many times. If she managed it once more, it would be a miracle.

She spotted the Roman command tent – behind and to the left of the legion. Octavian would probably be there, enjoying breakfast at a safe distance from the fighting. He wouldn’t lead his troops into battle. The little scumbag would hope to destroy the Greek camp from a distance, wait for the flames to die down, then march in unopposed.

Nicola’s throat constricted with hate. She concentrated on that tent, envisioning her next jump. If she could assassinate Octavian, that might solve the problem. The order to attack might never be given. Nicola was about to attempt it when a voice behind her said, ‘Nicola?’

She spun, her sword instantly in her hand, and almost decapitated Jill Solace.

‘Put that down!’ Jill hissed. ‘What are you doing here?’

Nicola was dumbstruck. Jill and two other campers were crouched in the grass, binoculars around their necks and daggers at their side. They wore black jeans and T-shirts, with black grease paint on their faces like commandos.

‘Me?’ Nicola asked. ‘What are you doing? Getting yourselves killed?’

Jill scowled. ‘Hey, we’re scouting the enemy. We took precautions.’

‘You dressed in black,’ Nicola noted, ‘with the sun coming up. You painted your face but didn’t cover that mop of blond hair. You might as well be waving a yellow flag.’

Jill’s ears reddened. ‘Lou Ellen wrapped some Mist around us, too.’

‘Hi.’ The girl next to her wriggled her fingers. She looked a little flustered. ‘You’re Nicola, right? I’ve heard a lot about you. And this is Cecil from Hermes cabin.’

Nicola knelt next to them. ‘Did Coach Hedge make it to camp?’

Lou Ellen giggled nervously. ‘Did he ever.’

Jill elbowed her. ‘Yeah. Hedge is fine. He made it just in time for the baby’s birth.’

‘The baby!’ Nicola grinned, which hurt her face muscles. She wasn’t used to making that expression. ‘Mellie and the kid are all right?’

‘Fine. A very cute little satyr boy.’ Jill shuddered. ‘But I delivered it. Have you ever delivered a baby?’

‘Um, no.’

‘I had to get some fresh air. That’s why I volunteered for this mission. Gods of Olympus, my hands are still shaking. See?’

She took Nicola’s hand, which sent an electric current down Nicola’s spine. She quickly withdrew. ‘Whatever,’ she snapped. ‘We don’t have time for chitchat. The Romans are attacking at dawn and I’ve got to –’

‘We know,’ Jill said. ‘But, if you’re planning to shadow-travel to that command tent, forget it.’

Nicola glared at her. ‘Excuse me?’

She expected Jill to flinch or look away. Most people did. But Jill’s blue eyes stayed fixed on hers – annoyingly determined. ‘Coach Hedge told me all about your shadow-travel. You can’t try that again.’

‘I just did try it again, Solace. I’m fine.’

‘No, you’re not. I’m a healer. I could feel the darkness in your hand as soon as I touched it. Even if you made it to that tent, you’d be in no shape to fight. But you wouldn’t make it. One more slip, and you won’t come back. You are not shadow-travelling. Doctor’s orders.’

‘The camp is about to be destroyed –’

‘And we’ll stop the Romans,’ Jill said. ‘But we’ll do it our way. Lou Ellen will control the Mist. We’ll sneak around, do as much damage as we can to those onagers. But no shadow-travel.’

‘But –’

‘No.’

Lou Ellen’s and Cecil’s heads swivelled back and forth like they were watching a really intense tennis match.

Nicola sighed in exasperation. She hated working with other people. They were always cramping her style, making her uncomfortable. And Jill Solace … Nicola revised her impression of the daughter of Apollo. She’d always thought of Jill as easygoing and laid back. Apparently she could also be stubborn and aggravating.

Nicola gazed down at Camp Half-Blood, where the rest of the Greeks were preparing for war. Past the troops and ballistae, the canoe lake glittered pink in the first light of dawn. Nicola remembered the first time she’d arrived at Camp Half-Blood, crash-landing in Apollo’s sun car, which had been converted into a fiery school bus.

She remembered Apollo, smiling and tanned and completely cool in his shades.

Thalia had said, He’s hot.

He’s the sun god, Penny replied.

That’s not what I meant.

Why was Nicola thinking about that now? The random memory irritated her, made her feel jittery.

She had arrived at Camp Half-Blood thanks to Apollo. Now, on what would likely be her last day at camp, she was stuck with a daughter of Apollo.

‘Whatever,’ Nicola said. ‘But we have to hurry. And you’ll follow my lead.’

‘Fine,’ Jill said. ‘Just don’t ask me to deliver any more satyr babies and we’ll get along great.’

[drtanstravels]

We were back in Bangkok, Thailand again from Tuesday, March 5 until Monday, March 11 so Anna could give five separate talks at the 2019 APAO Congress. Regular readers of this blog would know that we frequent Thailand quite often. In fact, we were only in Bangkok about eight weeks ago and I’m going to be in Phuket, Thailand once more at the end of the month, so to read more about the convivial chaos that constitutes staying in Bangkok for a week, just take a look at one of the previous posts based there, most of which are from the past two and a half years. This time, however, instead of a massive rant detailing each day, I’m just going to write about a few HIGHLIGHTS accompanied by a bunch of photos.

We were staying at the Pullman Grande Sukhumvit, right near Sukhumvit MRT, Asok BTS, and just a few doors down from the notorious Soi Cowboy, as well as Soi 23 so, despite the fact that Anna was going to be exceptionally busy for the bulk of our time there, I wasn’t short of options for travel or entertainment. The hotel itself was really nice, but they allowed smoking in the rooms so every time we opened the door we were greeted by a waft of the aroma of stale cigarettes.

Anyway, our first full day involved Anna attending and speaking at the congress while I just traveled to nearby areas of the city to have a look at a few shops that interested me until it was time to come back, get changed, and meet up for dinner with some of Anna’s colleagues, our friends, Rosa and Roberto from Spain, and some other attendees of the congress at a really good Thai restaurant. I spent the bulk of the time drinking beers and chatting with Roberto, often amused at his reactions to some reasonably spicy local dishes, all the while everyone else did the necessary networking that happens at dinners like this, until it was time to head to a bar for more drinks. The dinner and drinks had been organised by one of Anna’s Singapore colleagues and a lot of Singaporeans don’t tend to do things by halves when they are entertaining foreign guests, even when they themselves are also visitors. Case in point, we were going to be having drinks at CRU Champagne Bar, a relatively exclusive rooftop bar in Centara Grand at Centralworld, where all of the doctors would be pouring from magnums of G.M. Mumm, while I stuck to the only beer they had, Leffe Royale, a strong Belgian ale that cost ‎฿1290 (US$40.80) for a 750ml (25.36 fl. oz.) bottle. Good thing we weren’t paying, but it did lead us to HIGHLIGHT #1: CRU Champagne Bar has a strict dress code for entrance to the top level which, among other rules, forbids people from wearing thongs/flip flops/slippers. A Chinese tourist wanted to enter and she met every other aspect of the dress code, however, she was wearing what looked like a pair of thongs one would purchase from a discount store, adorned with plastic jewels. Security wouldn’t let her in, but she wasn’t perturbed. “They’re real diamonds, very expensive, wah!” she screamed over and over again, but the security guard figured nobody would glue diamonds that large to a two-dollar pair of slippers and refused her entry. I considered suggesting that she borrow a lighter off somebody to prove the “diamonds” wouldn’t melt, or even better, try cutting a hole in the glass balcony with them, but in the end she gave up, relegated to the second-top floor, which really wasn’t that much different. In fact, Anna and myself probably spent more time on that level with some of Anna’s friends that also couldn’t get upstairs due to their attire. Anyway, here’s how it looked:

A tower across from our bar

Another area near the tower

A laser show in the sky coming from our bar

Token panoramic shot

At least they had one beer…

The next couple of days involved Anna giving talks while I just looked around different parts of the city, just entertaining myself, then attending conference dinners in the evening. On the Wednesday evening this involved going to the Seafood Market & Restaurant, a place with the slogan “If it swims, we have it” and this is where we experienced HIGHLIGHT #2: This place is absolutely enormous and they have a lot of live seafood, some of it on ice and some of it in tanks. The premise is that you choose the seafood you want and how you’d like it cooked and it is brought to your table. At one stage we were all sitting around with a few beers when I saw a giant lobster trying to escape from the container in which it was being kept. I pointed it out to Anna and she came to the conclusion that we had to get some photos of them. Anna first wanted a picture of her hand next to one of the lobsters for some perspective, followed by her standing with them, however, between shots a nearby fish flipped up in the air, scaring the bejesus out of Anna and causing her to emit a rather loud scream that got the attention of pretty much everyone in the restaurant. She tried her best not to laugh too much for the second photo, but it was a little difficult:

Who knows what could’ve happened if one had escaped

Trying to keep it together after a bit of a fright

On Friday night, the plan was to meet up with my old mate Tim Howard, a friend I grew up with who lives in Bangkok, yet is almost never around when I’m in town, a similar problem he faces with me whenever he visits Singapore. I met up with him and some of his co-workers in a really small bar and we had a couple of beers before going to the Ratchada Night Market, also known as the Train Market. When we arrived we went in through some dodgy back entrance and got ourselves some great seats early in one of the many bars before a huge Friday night crowd arrived. The beers were going down quite well and Anna eventually joined us, but neither her nor myself had eaten yet besides a small plate of pad thai, however, Tim and his colleagues had had a few burritos earlier, which leads us to HIGHLIGHT #3: No, this highlight wouldn’t be the tourists who made their children piss into plastic Coke bottles because they were too tight to pay ฿3 (US$0.10) to use the public toilets. It was the food, but for amusing reasons. To begin with, I love eating mala, a super-spicy Sichuan food out of China. Yes, it’s hot, but I can handle chili pretty well, plus I love the numbness mala gives your mouth while still burning a little. Some more about mala:

Mala sauce is a popular oily, spicy, and numbing Chinese sauce which consists of Sichuanese peppercorn, chili pepper and various spices simmered with oil.

Regarded as a regional dish for Chongqing cuisine and Sichuan cuisine, it has become one of the most popular sauces in Chinese cuisine and spawned many regional variants.

The term málà is a combination of two Chinese characters: “numbing” (麻) and “spicy (picant)” (辣), referring to the feeling in the mouth after eating the sauce.

The precise origins of the dish are unclear, but many sources attribute its development to night markets in Chongqing that targeted pier workers in the 19th to 20th century. The strong flavour and thick layer of oil helps preserve foods and removes the unpopular smells of the cheap foods, such as solidified blood, beef stomach and kidney, which were usually served to pier workers.

Anna and I had decided to grab a bite to eat while the others remained drinking at our table in the bar so naturally I was kind of excited when I found mala crocodile skewers. I purchased one, Anna didn’t want any, and began to eat, but before long it occurred to me that I had forgotten one vital point — Any time we eat Sichuan food, whether it is hot pot or just meat dishes piled with chilis, we’re generally in an air-conditioned restaurant, not outdoors in a crowded market with the temperature still well above 30°C (86°F). After finishing my skewer I could feel my head getting warmer and warmer and before long I was sweating profusely and with diluted pupils due to a combination of the spiciness and the environment in which I was consuming it, my face resembling that of someone who had just experienced some kind of religious epiphany. I’m not kidding!

The view from our prime real estate in the bar at the market

Oooh, yeah!

Is anyone else feeling warm or is it just me?

Help me, Jesus.

It would take a while for my sweating to decrease, yet we’d only just begun eating. There was a stall nearby our table that specialised in ribs, but these weren’t any old ribs, these looked more like the spine of some animal, probably a buffalo or something, served in a bowl with a sauce consisting predominately of chopped green chilis. They were available in several sizes and if you got the large ones, as some families were doing, you received what amounted to a tripod of backbones, the tip of which was at about eye-level. We ordered a small portion, still a substantial amount of vertebrae, as well as some vegetables, donned our plastic gloves and began gnawing away. I got a little too into it, my perspiring face soon greasy with bits of fat hanging from it and meat stuck between my teeth. It didn’t help that the gloves were a little small for my massive hands, my busted pinkie tearing one of the loves as I put it on. Still, the ribs were great and I was determined to finish as much as I could, however, I accidentally inhaled a piece of chili up the back of my sinus, leading to a sneezing fit that continued for about 10 minutes, with Anna starting out laughing hysterically before getting genuinely concerned for my wellbeing. The sneezing eventually ceased, we finished the ribs, and made our way back to the bar, me covered in a combination of sweat, grease, fat, and snot. A look at those ribs:

I don’t think we’ll get the large portion

This is more like it

A closeup

Is it fat? Snot? Who knows!

A surgeon at work

Getting through these ribs is thirsty work!

Mission accomplished

Anna was free on Saturday so we did a bit of shopping, but she was exhausted that night, although I wasn’t so I headed around to the Clubhouse, a sports bar I love, and ended up watching Scotland lose to Wales in the Six Nations rugby with two Welsh guys, one whom was celebrating his 47th birthday, the other celebrating his divorce. These were two of the most British guys you could imagine, eating nachos with a knife and fork, that sort of thing, and it was a hilarious night, but as I was walking home, part of the footpath collapsed and I ended up rolling an ankle and sprained my wrist, as well as quite badly injuring my thumb in the process of catching myself. The thumb is actually still quite painful now.

The plan for Sunday was to meet up again with Tim and his wife for dinner. That morning Anna saw a report on Al Jazeera about a Thai stencil artist called Headache Stencil, Thailand’s equivalent of Banksy. A little bit more about Headache Stencil:

Headache Stencil is a pseudonymous Thailand-born street artist and political activist. Dubbed Thailand’s version of the British graffiti artist Banksy, Headache Stencil is known for his satirical graffiti art depicting the military officials of Thailand who took power in 2004.

Headache’s works first appeared on the streets of Bangkok and Chiang Mai in 2014. He became more widely known in January 2018 with his graffiti of the Thai junta No. 2 Prawit Wongsuwan’s face inside an alarm clock, a jab at the lack of financial transparency by the generals, who was struggling to explain his collection of undeclared luxury watches. In March 2018, he was in the spotlight for his graffiti of a black panther crying tears of blood, a reference to the case of a Thai construction magnate who was later charged with poaching one of the protected cats during an illegal safari hunt in a national park. In September 2018, he depicted Thai junta chief Prayut Chan-o-cha as “a lucky cat” with a paw raised to rake in money.

His nickname “Headache” alludes to the pain he hopes to inflict on the mighty.

This leads us to HIGHLIGHT #4: A Headache Stencil exhibition, the final highlight of this trip. His latest exhibition, Thailand Casino, was being held at WTF Gallery, right near where we were having dinner. If you want to know more about the exhibition or the art itself, it’s probably best to take a look at the link, but here is what we saw there when we limped on over:

The exhibition was really interesting, dinner was a fun night, especially meeting Tim’s wife and son for the first time, and the fun continued afterward at an awesome little bar called The Iron Fairies.

As always, we had a blast again in Bangkok. It was great to finally get to meet you, Nuth, and apologies to all the old friends and students that I wasn’t able to meet up with on this occasion, but we’ll try our best to next time we’re in town, which probably won’t be all that far in the future.

Bangkok… Again! We were back in Bangkok, Thailand again from Tuesday, March 5 until Monday, March 11 so Anna could give five separate talks at the…

[deathcomesinallcolors]

This will be personal. I'm sorry.

If I weren’t on mobile, I’d make it a read more. As it is, you can scroll on by.

I honestly don’t know how much longer I will last in my mother’s house. I live there now with my parabatai and roommate, and I’ve been stuck here for two years. I graduated college two years ago and, left with nowhere else to go, turned home.

I was going to save up to move to New York City. I was going to be a private eye. I had majored in criminal justice, and all my best professors had been supportive. “E-mail me when you get there!” my favorite professor said, a sociology teacher. “Tell me all about your wild adventures.”

Six months passed by without a job. Finally, I started work at a DIY hardware store. I was paid pretty well. I hated it there, but I was meeting important people. Federal agents and cops told me I should apply here and there. The manager at an Enterprise gave me his card, said he loved my lively personality and that I should join their manager’s program. My manager loved me and pushed me to apply for better, permanent jobs within the store. She begged me to stay past my seasonal term.

Yes, I was a seasonal cashier. My term lasted 6 months, unless they decided to keep me. In truth, I worked dozens of jobs around the store that wasn’t actually part of my job. Running deliveries of paper towels and cleaning supplies and leaving my post to check if there was a refrigerator hiding in receiving, because the guys back there were always too busy to help customer service.

Despite the horrid work environment, it was a stable job. Everything was going well. I felt my life hit the rails and click as it slowly progressed forward. I and my best friend decided to get out of our parents’ houses and move in together. We signed for an apartment. I applied to Enterprise, where I mentioned the manager BY NAME and waited for a phone interview. Our lives were looking great.

Then the apartment place never let us move in. Enterprise turned me down. My job let me go without even mentioning my last day. When pressed, HR shrugged a wishy washy “Oh, we’re considering you.” They never called.

I found myself fighting the apartment manager’s secretary (as their manager was invisible and avoided everyone, even tenants), then the landlord company itself. They owed me $600 of security deposits and application fees, not even including $200 for the uhaul expenses made the day our contract said we could move in. They voided our contract, and this criminal justice student was going to take them to court.

They paid up, but we still found ourselves jobless and homeless. My roommate’s family was six states away. Mine didn’t want me. But I was stuck with them anyway, along with my roommate.

For half a year, they pretended to care. I got a job at Target. But no matter how hard I worked, my parents always said, “You should be working harder. We won’t let you stay here forever.”

It’s been eight months that I’ve lived in my parents’ house with my best friend. In that time, I’ve lost $2000. My mother promised to give me a food budget, but refuses to give me money for food, because she “doesn’t trust” me. She thinks I’ll use food money on games or pizza.

They no longer trust me. That has partly to do with my friend (they always blame a queer friend of mine to blame for my changes in belief–he is just the most recent), my sexuality, gender expression, and also…the fact I saved a mouse.

After a long day at my hardware store job, I walked out into the parking lot, only to find a gray speck scurrying around the lot. I approached cautiously. It was a baby mouse, only a few days old. Its eyes were barely open. It must have wandered away from the hay bales we sold not twenty feet away, along with its little hay mouse family.

I rushed to my car–my mom’s car–retrieved an old pair of garage gloves, and chased it around the lot. Finally, I scooped it up, placed it in an upended plastic bin from the car, and drove to a pet store. I got it a turtle cage and all its little baby mousie necessities. I then snuck it upstairs.

A few days later, my mother stepped foot into my room and found the mouse cage sitting there, on the floor. She dropped a book on top of the cage to “keep it closed”, covering the breathing holes and nearly suffocating the poor dear. I came home to a very quiet, terrified mouse.

They tried to toss it out. They tried to toss ME out. I called their bluff. I refused to kill this helpless creature, this small, baby animal that would die without my care.

So I nursed it. I bathed it with Dawn. And after much pictures to my parabatai and his vet mother, I named her Eleven. Named for the days she survived before I found her.

My mother screamed it would give us all diseases and died. From its urine, from its fur, from its very air. I showed her links to medical websites, disproving all of this. I showed her texts from my friend’s vet mom. I debunked every single argument, but still she shrieked and cried and screamed. The moment I raised my voice in defense, she stomped to her feet and thrust her face in mine. Threatened to hit me. To throw me on the streets. My fists shook at my sides with anger and fear. But still I held my ground. I would not kill this small animal.

And that was before I brought home a trans gay boy to live with me. And the two stray secret kittens we saved from our local rescue. And his bunny and bird we brought from his family’s home.

Maybe I don’t deserve their trust. But I do deserve to eat. I deserve to live.

Today, I approached my mother about our food budget. Way back with our failed apartment expedition, The Deer Run, she had promised to give us a $200 monthly food budget. To help out. Instead, while we’ve been living here, she saves all our receipts and, 3 months later, pays us back for certain food items. Anything she pays us for, before she even pays us, is free game. It’s food for the house, not for us. Because if she pays for it, and it’s her house, she and the family gets to use it. That’s fair. IF SHE WOULD PAY US BEFORE WE RUN OUT OF MONEY.

I asked her if she could give is that stipend instead of…this. I channeled Gansey, reasoned with her. Offered multiple solutions so we can better budget our food spending, because…if we don’t know when and how much we’ll be paid, we don’t know what we can afford. And if she keeps the receipts, we don’t know what we’ve spent.

Instead, she talks over me. Accuses us of “living in the lap of luxury.” She outright refuses to give us grocery money for when they’ll be in Honolulu for two weeks, because we might “spend it all on video games and pizza.” Pizza. Really? Even foregoing the obvious fact that if we run out of money, that’s OUR PROBLEM, pizza is definitely food the last time I checked.

She said she wants to know what we’re buying, always, because she doesn’t trust us. Me. “I don’t care,” I told her, “ You can have all the receipts. I just want to eat.”

“You can eat anything in this house,” she laughs hysterically. “Everything here is open to you.”

Condiments. Chips. Clam soup that would make me vomit. And…pounds and pounds of frozen chicken far past due. Yeah. Thanks.

“We don’t really like anything you stock. You don’t even get spaghettios and ravioli, except when we ask you to. But if you’re going to pay for it either way, it’s much easier to get it ourselves than wait for you to go to the grocery store.”

Back up. Background. She once told me she’d go to the grocery store on Wednesday. Two days. Okay. I could handle that. We’d eat canned soup until then, and then I’d cook something decent.

Wednesday passed. Then Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. We then decided to go out food shopping ourselves or else we would have starved. Actually starved. We hadn’t eaten in two days.

Never does she go to the grocery store on time. It takes her two weeks from when she said she would to get food, which she then buys in bulk. Which then spoils before she can use it. Bags of blueberries, bundles of asparagus, it doesn’t matter. All trash. And her cooking? I can’t eat that much grease and oil anymore without vomiting. Her meat is frozen for five months (the safe length is three) at 20 degrees. The highest safe temperature you can possible keep food is 0 degrees F. HIGHEST. It’s best when it’s -10 or -20. The 3 month length for keeping frozen food safely is at 0 degrees at the highest. She is 20 degrees above that.

It’s no wonder her gruel makes me sick.

“Once you’re out of here,” she said, heated, “you’re not coming back.”

“That’s just fine,” I stated. “That was the plan.”

I thought parents were supposed to look out for their kids. I never considered my parents abusive. But my mother is manipulative, controlling to 1984 degrees, and passive aggressive. Every time I step foot downstairs, she beats me down emotionally. My dad just sits there, beaten too, and lets her. When he’s even here.

This is the way it’s always been. But it wasn’t always this bad. I was a kid once. Once, she was loving. But now that I believe in a pantheon rather than her Christian god, now that I’ve come out as bisexual and trans, my mother doesn’t love me. And, behind closed doors, my dad agrees with her.

Once I move out–once WE move out–I’ll probably never see them again. I’ll still look after my younger siblings, though. But that doesn’t change the fact that my youngest sibling, Dalton, is home for spring break. That boy eats four helpings in a five person family. He’s the type of giant to make four sandwiches at once and finish off the loaf while he’s at it. He’s inconsiderate and unaffected. He laughs everything off, especially actual problems, just lets them run down his back because it’s not HIS problem. First come, first serve. Thin as a rail and tall as a basketball pole, all Dalton cares about is himself.

And he’s been drinking our coke. The only drink my parabatai drinks, and the only thing my mom doesn’t “reimburse” us for. When I bring it up subtly…

“Hey, Mom. Did Dalton drink our coke?” I ask conversationally.

I’m staring at the two coke bottles in the recycling. I know he has.

“Oh, yeah… I saw him make a rum and coke, so maybe.” She laughs. “We have coke, too. It’s all the same.”

No, I think to myself, fists shaking. No, it’s not. It is our money spent. Our money wasted. And he always eats our food. Without asking. While I’m cooking. Right from under my nose.

I haven’t cooked for a week.

My mother throws around the word “job” like it’s a magic word, but that doesn’t make a college degree any more valuable in this job market. All that matters is experience, and jobs won’t give me experience unless I already have it; this student with a job and essays to write didn’t have time or money for an internship.

Oh, did I mention Target let me go just after Christmas? While every store is firing people rather than hiring? I haven't had a paycheck in three months.

So here I sit. Alone with my family of parabatai, two cats, a rabbit, a field mouse, and sort-of-a-bird. I’m lucky to have them. Because I’d be dead and on the streets without them. I would have killed myself by now.