#there are other button house inhabitants but these are the worthy ones!

[m0ose-idiot]

The crochet Button House Inhabitants project I began in lockdown 2020 is finally fully assembled! Well, until some future season when some rascals may give me another reason to make the next character, anyway... 👀👻♥️

[theninjasheeep]

Blood of Love

Pairing: Pieck Finger x Porco Galliard (Modern/Fantasy AU)

This is my entry for @pleasantanathema’s Through Ink and Quill | A Classics Collab. I decided to go for a character study of Porco and Pieck's relationship following my Pokkopiku week piece Sweet Pandemonium paired with some vampire lore from Dracula and Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles.

The idea of vampire!Pokkopiku came from @sinnamon19’s over the top fan art.

You can also read it on AO3.

Summary: Since they are creatures of the night, their senses, as their feelings are heightened to lengths that can’t be explained by words. But since blood is their life sustenance, it is also their means of communication.

Warnings/tags: Pokopiku, Pokkopiku, Gallipieck, Porco Galliard/ Pieck Finger, Porco Galliard x Pieck Finger, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Turned Into Vampire, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Blood Drinking, Mentions of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Blood Sharing.

Blood of Love

Waking up in darkness after spending most of his life shunning the sun when he wanted to sleep late was a welcome change for Porco. He could lie and pretend he was one of those humans-turned-vampires who wailed about the sun, its warmth and brightness and how much he missed it, but he didn't.

He didn't miss the impending sense of foreboding dread that clogged his senses or the tacit expectation that life should have some kind of meaning. It was a succession of routines: being born, growing up, reproducing and dying; waking up, going to work or school, coming home, going to sleep and starting again the next day. There was always an unsatisfied craving, a need to be satiated that gave rise to another....

If it weren't for that same life and the unexpected, he would still be stuck in the routine of a life that no longer felt like one. Not so long ago he was eager to die and escape the curse of boredom. However, now that he was undead, he felt more alive than ever.

He didn't miss living as a human.

He did not miss the wars that sent young men like him to fight in battles and advocate for ideals that were in no sense his own. Wars like the ones that took his brother away from him, wars that made mothers cry and lose their lives to grief, like his. He didn't miss being part of a greater good, he fancied being selfish, living only for himself and what he deemed worthy of living for, like Pieck.

Pieck who turned him, Pieck who gave him a reason to live in hope and love.

The stories that are told about vampires are rich and wide-ranging. The majority depict them as cold and devoid of emotion creatures who enjoy drinking blood and playing with their mortal victims without any consideration or pity, with no regard for their suffering.

Dracula is the one that, for Porco, is closest to the truth. Leaving out, naturally, his own inability to turn into mist, a bat or a wolf, and how terribly he has fared with the latter when he has encountered them on his nightly hunts with Pieck high in the mountains, puts him quite a distance from what is supposed to be the blueprint for all vampires.

It has been less than fifteen years since Pieck agreed to turn him and allow him to stay with her forever. Overall, he could even be considered a novice vampire, at least in comparison to the more than two hundred years his female partner has been crisscrossing the planet. However, it has been long enough to learn what is both necessary and appropriate, but what the books say is, amongst other things, preposterous and out of proportion.

Porco's hazel eyes, in the darkness of the room, shine like two torches as they scan the words in each book with unprecedented speed.

The library, nestled in Pieck's hideout in an abandoned town once called Liberio, is about the same size as the house itself. To the unsuspecting eye, the house is a dilapidated old manor from which thieves plundered the treasures long ago, leaving only the massive stone and iron columns. Underneath, however, is a hidden cellar and a sealed passageway that can only be opened with the supernatural strength of a creature like Pieck. Not even he, with his years beside her and the same superhuman strength, is able to open it without visible effort.

Once that initial obstacle is overcome, a long corridor rises up with small windows that let in just enough light to clue the nighttime inhabitants as to what time of day they are in. And behind that corridor is a scaled-down replica of the ruined house that exists above ground: three bedrooms, a kitchen - more out of habit than necessity - a living room and a huge bathroom with a bathtub built into the wall, in addition to the library, make up what could be considered Porco and Pieck's home sweet home.

Although it is ridiculous, Porco is not going to stop enjoying his reading and perusing every nook and cranny of the library while Pieck, with all her quirks, tries to do some vampire yoga in the room across on their home.

Stories about vampires always depict them as a kind of blood-drinking skeleton barely able to articulate words and unfit to walk freely in broad daylight, as the sun is their greatest enemy. The only thing they got right is that their skin burns and the acrid smell of ashes is the only thing that lingers in the air after they perish.

In other stories, they are portrayed as having no emotional capacity and could be easily mistaken for an angsty teenagers searching for their identity and place in the world, with little to no impulse control, driven by their whims, manipulating their way until they achieve their goal. In these tales, the depiction is so over-the-top ridiculous that it is almost comparable to handing a child a panic button.

What is undeniable is the enormous capacity of humans to envision and demonize what they do not know.

Superhuman strength and speed, mind reading and control, morphing into wolves, bats and mist? The books detail how versatile their powers are, how they are able to cloak themselves, thanks to their human appearance, and hide for long periods of time in large communities and lead a relatively normal life, without arousing suspicion.

Although there are also accounts that refer to them as ruthless, cruel and stone-cold beings, who toy with the humans they intend to use as food until they have had enough, and only then, kill them in the most violent and painful way possible.

At this, Porco rolls his eyes. In his experience, both he and Pieck are careful with the humans they feed on. They always look for ways not to cause them pain or fear, and above all, to avoid leaving behind scenes worthy of a gorey b-movie.

Perhaps the only time such a scene involved the two of them was when Pieck agreed to transform him into a vampire.

--

There was a moment where he couldn’t see or speak anything and everything went black for him. He started to listen to a heartbeat, two actually. One was his... the other...

“Pieck?” He asks. He can hear her voice somewhere in the distance, it sounds pained and far, far away.

Meanwhile, Pieck keeps pouring her blood on Porco’s mouth and is silently praying to whatever it is that created them and allowed them to be alive for him to survive this ordeal. She’s panicking now because he’s very pale, dead by now, but he’s not responding to her calling like he is supposed to.

“Porco, wake up!” She cries. “Open your eyes,” She pleads. “Come to me!”

Nothing happens and Pieck panics, falling in a circle of self loathing.

Giving up on him, she lets her head fall on his chest and at this point she’s just a mess of guilt and anguish. Her hair is on her face and his shirt is all bloody with his blood, her blood, her tears. She can’t move, the will to do anything has left her completely so she just lays there beside him on the floor crying.

--

He hasn’t read anything that depicts accurately how they are created. Probably humans think they just popped out of nowhere. However, vampires themselves have a myth: Ymir Fritz was the first human turned into a vampire, many call her the Founder. She was a slave but became Queen of Eldia when King Fritz was unable to defeat her in battle. He surrendered and married her and, in turn, she made him into a vampire and together they gave birth to their species.

Where are they now? No one knows, they are probably marble statues, since the longer a vampire lives, the whiter and rougher their skin becomes.

One book in particular catches his eye: its dark blue cover with gold sparkles featuring a nine-pointed star, the symbol of Ymir Fritz. However, after a brief glance, he discovers that it is a parody.

Porco snorts, he can't believe he's found a book in which vampires don't roast in the sun, but glow like a fairy in plain daylight without any repercussions for their lives. Pieck must have been really bored to get —and keep— something like that and deem it worthy of their huge underground library.

"Have you found anything interesting, Pokko?" Pieck's mellow voice reaches his ears from the bedroom. Her body doesn't make any sounds when she moves, but her soft breathing tells him that she's still trying to do vampire yoga, as if she needs to.

"Geez, Pieck!" Her taunting giggle is the only response he gets, and aware that she can also hear him from where she is, he retorts: "You scared the hell out of me." He grumbles in fake annoyance.

"Don’t worry, you won’t have a heart attack."

“Tch.”

But it is true, no matter how much she may sneak up behind him to scare him, his heart has long since stopped beating, and if he had remained a human, he would most likely have died many years ago. When Pieck came into his life one night, wounded and seeking shelter, he had lost the will to live. All that remained from the happy Porco who lived with his parents and brother was a mere shell that always reminded him of how much he resembled Marcel. And had he lived, despite his desire to die, he would have been almost forty years old by now.

Putting the books aside and getting up from the floor, Porco makes his way to the bathroom where there is a huge full-length mirror, which he and Pieck use in such creative ways when they make love at night.

A derisive smirk tugs at his lips as his reflection glances back at him through the mirror. There are stories that claim vampires don't see themselves in mirrors and that's the reason they avoid them. If only whoever wrote that knew the things the mirror in his bathroom has seen him do to Pieck.

Sometimes, when he is overcome by melancholy and Pieck's love and company fail to reach the deepest wounds in his heart, Porco wishes that particular myth were real. What would his life be if his brother were alive? What would Marcel's life be if the war hadn't extinguished the light in his eyes? The same deep green eyes that right now were scrutinizing his every feature in the mirror.

As the years have gone by, his skin has become paler and his eyes more golden. Pieck likes to say that he is slowly turning into a lion.

Speaking of Pieck...

A slender hand appears over his right shoulder in the mirror, and down his arm until it curls around his waist. Seconds later, the weight of Pieck's head resting on the space between his shoulder blades confirms that he is no longer alone in front of the mirror.

“Hey,” She greets, nuzzling against him tenderly, “what are you thinking?”

He clears his throat, embarrassed.

His left hand reaches up and intertwines his fingers with Pieck's over his chest, and looking behind him, his gaze meets hers.

“My brother.”

Pieck's embrace grows tighter and a line of kisses and scratches from her fangs on his neck make Porco forget, for a moment, how much he misses his family.

“I’m sorry.”

“You know they were long gone before I met you.”

“I know, it’s just...” She releases her hold on him, walking a few steps to stand in front of him in the mirror, her back against it. “I wish I could ease your pain, but I’d be lying if I say that I never think about my father, I miss him.”

Porco raises his hand to caress her cheeks. “You’re stuck with me forever, remember?”

She smiles softly, leaning against him and hugging him back. Porco buries his face on her neck and taking advantage of their embrace, sinks his teeth on her neck, making her moan in delight.

There’s another thing the books about them seem to ignore or purposefully miss: yes, they are creatures of the night and as their senses, their feelings are heightened to lengths that can’t be explained by words. But since blood is their life sustenance, it is also their means of communication. Drinking the blood of another vampire is a gesture so intimate and so rare, that when it’s done by partners, it’s more than just a confession of love and trust, it goes beyond lust and desire: a vampire can show what they feel through images to their partner when they share their blood, and since words are not his forte by any means, he’s always eager to show Pieck comfort and reciprocate everyday the comfort and peace she gave him.

Licking the tiny marks of his fags on her neck, he nuzzles against it, kissing her tenderly. Pieck, being smaller than him, has a harder time reciprocating his gesture, but she stands on her tiptoes and kisses him back, biting his lower lip and drinking his blood as well.

Emboldened by the gesture, he carries her and sits her in the sink, standing between her legs without breaking the kiss. At this, Pieck leverages herself on his shoulders and —finally— sinks her teeth on his neck, eliciting from him a low growl. He bites her back and through their blood they both convey to each other what their words and their hands, roaming over every inch of the other' s body, cannot: they are together until the end of time and the sadness that each one carries is shared by the other.

Together, they were safe.

[for7]

the christmas spirit | jimin

synopsis. christmas... did you ever wonder where it came from? 

☁︎ imagine park jimin having an uncanny experience on christmas years ago, with a little girl that looks just like his girlfriend...

pairing. jimin x reader genre. fantasy au + fluff word count. 3,5k

ah, christmas.

a celebration for millions of families from all over the world, during a particular day. a celebration filled with laughter, presents, love. who in this world didn’t know about christmas, its customs and magic? the answer was not astounding: no one. everyone knew christmas and knew what it represented, both religiously and culturally.

christmas was, for many, an important event. this simple date on the calendar triggered a frenzy in everyone, a frenzy that would always start months before the date. whether it was the decoration shops, the chocolatiers, the gardeners, they were all too busy to enjoy this period. a period that rhymed with joy but, above all, with benefit.

sell. sell. sell. christmas was all about it. the shopkeepers had only this word rolling from their tongues, they, who painted their shop fronts red and green, decorating them with poorly drawn snowflakes and glittering garlands that made the most innocent eyes dream.

all citizens throughout the world were overwhelmed, but no one was as occupied as a certain city.

christunix was a city so small and remote from all that it was not on any atlas, planisphere, nor globe. few really knew where it was and what it contained. the wanderers, black-hearted, could only see from the town the multicoloured lights filtered through a thick fog that seemed to come to life if you tried to cross it.

although almost unknown to all, kept intact by this magical gate, those lucky enough to know about it were very real. they were rare and were the men and women who had kept their child’s eyes despite their passage into the adult world. they were the ones who still managed to marvel at the little things that illuminated everyday life, in their routine coloured with a monotonous grey. they were the ones who had once stumbled upon an old grimoire called “the christmas story”.

if one day you ever had this work of inestimable value in your hands, through these yellowed and worn out pages, you would discover in golden inked words that the christmas tradition was born at the heart of this mysterious village as well as the white-bearded man that would become its allegory.

the first man, who would be called differently by children all over the world, had initially only been a toy manufacturer called klaus. of this man, the inhabitants of christunix did not know many things, all too young to have known him. only his faithful companion, an immortal but old elf — with a name far too long — could boast of having rubbed shoulders with him.

every sunday, he would gather the village’s children in his cottage and tell them stories of yesteryear about his companion. the first distribution of gifts, described as catastrophic, was one of the best known and adored tales for the children. this had happened several centuries before but, for the elf, it had happened a day before. just yesterday, he was helping his friend make toys, just yesterday he was riding in a flying sled to distribute billions of gifts to kind children from around the world.

ah… those days were as close as they were far away.

no one, not even the grimoire, knew how klaus had died. all the rumours, each crazier than the other, circulated in the village. some spoke of a sled accident, others of natural death. however, many thought it was the winter spirit that had enveloped him when his time had come, making him disappear from the face of the earth in a cloud of snow, leaving behind his workshop, his elves, and his knowledge.

a natural knowledge which mother nature had blessed him with, and the descendants of his lineage. an innate talent, the capacity to make from a simple piece of wood a functional toy able to let children’s eyes shine. scientists would talk about a hereditary gene; the inhabitants of the village would talk about a gift.

only the sons of the klaus clan could bear this blessing. for centuries, this was how the family worked. the siblings’ first son, the presumed heir, was to take part in a ceremony on the winter solstice day of his first year on earth. when the moon was at its highest point in the starry sky, empty of all visual pollution, and the snow fell in hundreds of flakes, the one charged with reigning over the world of christmas would place the heir on a sliced tree trunk. it was said that klaus himself had used the wood of this tree to make his first toy.

if the heir were to be a bearer of the gift, then, according to tradition, a white and red aurora borealis would appear in the sky, white dust would surround the newborn’s body as a sign of eternal protection from the winter spirit.

this rare event had only happened five times, and it was long hoped that the new heir would be the sixth. snomi was not the eldest of his family but he was the only boy, making him the worthy heir of the gift. all the inhabitants of the village had hoped for his birth, a blessing. without a boy, what would become of christmas?

when it was finally announced throughout the village that a boy had been born, the inhabitants had celebrated this news for a whole week.

you see, klaus’ fifth descendant had been unlucky about his offspring, some even spoke of a curse. five children, four daughters. the last one, the boy, was thus perceived as a miracle.

for the next three hundred and sixty-five days, all covered him with presents, endowed him as if he was their own child. the inhabitants of christunix were traditional people, attached to legends and customs. knowing that this child would one day be the one who would manage christmas triggered in them a sense of pride and need to protect him.

when the winter solstice finally arrived, the entire village climbed the blue mountain to reach the highest point of their land. all piled up around the sawn tree trunk. in the centre of this elated crowd, the child’s parents, both dressed in their traditional white and red coats, stood proudly. next to them, the old elf was alternating his gaze between the position of the moon and his gold-bed watch, old of a few centuries.

“one more minute.”

the mother transferred the sleeping baby into the arms of her father, who advanced towards the tree trunk, snow screeching under each of his steps. he laid him on the wood, caressing with his huge thumb the delicate skin of his cheek. a tear of pride slipped down his cheek and landed in his beard, but no one noticed; all had their eyes turned on the sky.

“let the ceremony of the heir begin.”

the moment the old elf’s voice sounded, the moonlight aligned with the tree trunk, thus illuminating the baby’s face with a sky-blue hue. all the inhabitants began singing in an ancient language, a mixture of scandinavian and latin. with their words, they were invoking the winter spirit and the wandering soul of klaus, the only beings capable of awakening the gift sleeping within the heir’s heart.

when the last words of the traditional song rang out, the inhabitants waited for the aurora borealis to appear.

but it never came.

whispers rose in the ranks, cries echoed. what was going on? had the ceremony been performed correctly? was it a calendar error? a lot of questions demanding answers were shouted at the parents who remained frozen, disabused. a strong breeze rose in the air, running through everyone’s shivering bodies, making the baby cried.

the child did not possess the gift.

meanwhile, far away from all the chaos, in the easternmost house of the village, the screams echoed.

“put that down, sunmi! you’re going to f—” a thud, followed by crying. “fall… well… oh my god! y/n, leave that elf alone!” the oldest of the four daughters, iclyn, shouted.

hearing her first name, the youngest of the girls wobbled towards her father’s workshop while giggling. her immaculate white hair, button nose and always pink cheekbones gave her the appearance of a little angel. however, as many have said, appearances can sometimes be misleading. y/n, especially because of her age of no more than five years, was the most agitated of the fifth heir’s daughters. while the twins iclyn and lumi exuded the wisdom that came with being a descendant of klaus, the youngest perfectly symbolised the malice and carelessness of children.

still laughing, her eyes sparkling, the child entered her father’s huge workshop. toys filled gigantic shelves and the noise seemed to be a constant element in this real factory. the elves, though most of the time playful, were busy with their task.

making, painting and packing thousands of gifts was no mean feat.

“miss klaus, what are you doing here? you should be at the ceremony!”

juniper, one of her father’s closest elves, pulled her by the sleeve, wishing to bring her back to her house. this was without considering the stubbornness of the girl who planted her feet on the ground, making it difficult for the elf and his little arms to drag her back.

“don’t want to! it boring! not even cookies… cold…” she murmured, arms folded, a pout on her lips. “i want to see toys!”

“miss klaus, come back here!”

ignoring the elf’s words, the girl began to saunter in the wide aisles of the workshop. it was her favourite place in the village. to know that her father was organising all this was very impressive, especially for a four-year-old. her sparkling gaze observed the actions of the elves. she laughed when she saw one tangled in the gift paper. sometimes tiny ‘wow’ would escape her mouth at the sight of toys, all more beautiful than the other.

however, it was a very special object that caught her attention, awakening her childish curiosity.

a snowball, depicting a fireplace decorated with christmas stockings, was delicately placed on the desk where her father would imagine and design new toys. looking around her once, then twice, to see if no one was watching her, she walked silently towards the workbench too big for her. her wrinkled eyes, a sign of her intense thinking session, opened wide while a blissful smile was painted on her face.

she had an idea.

the child grabbed cardboard boxes, which would later be used to pack bicycles, and stacked them to create an almost-staircase. with difficulty—her little arms did not contain much strength—she hoisted herself to the top, nearly falling several times. when she was finally standing on the workbench, y/n took the snowball in her little pudgy hands.

“wow…”

she hadn’t even shaken it, but snowflakes were already falling on the chimney. on closer inspection, she saw that it was lighted. putting it down at its original location, the child’s curious pupils swept the office with her eyes. she realised that on it was placed a gigantic map of the world. in her head, the names of the cities she already knew jostled.

her father, and her grandfather before him, kept telling exciting stories about all the cities they would visit on december 25th. these tales would change over the years, and the cities were never twice the same.

rubbing her skull with her fist, the little girl tried to remember the name of a city her grandfather would always talk about.

se…

sea…

“seoul!”

the moment the name of the city was pronounced, the snowball began to turn on its own. faster and faster, until the chimney was gone, giving way to a blurry image. the doors of the workshop opened in a big crash, slamming against the walls. a thick cloud of snow dust entered the room, long and lively as a snake, and flew around the workbench as if it was looking for someone. all the elves who had turned to the entrance at the noise tried to close the doors, but nothing helped. many were already starting to agitate, to hide under the tables, terrified. however, the girl kept her gaze fixed on the snowball, which seemed to be illuminated in a red so gleaming that she had to close her eyes, dazzled.

the last thing she felt was something enveloping her, like a huge cold but comforting cloak.

it had now been an hour since the little boy’s parents had come to wish him a good night, but sleep did not seem to want to weigh down the young park jimin’s eyelids. no matter how many times he changed positions, morpheus didn’t want him in his arms.

and for good reason: jimin was excited. christmas was now only a few days away and he had already planned his ploy. you see, it was now two years ago, when he was three years old, that the boy had made his decision.

he would catch santa claus.

boys in his class kept saying that santa claus didn’t exist. he didn’t believe them nor the nonsense they were saying. he knew, santa claus existed. every year, on the night of the 24th to the 25th, he would try to stay awake so he could see santa claus and his hood. and he had seen him! he was sure of it! the boy had even seen the great gentleman eat the cookies and drink the glass of milk he had carefully prepared.

last year, though, he had not been fast enough; while the boy had just come down the last step of the stairs, ready to make his presence known, the bearded man had already disappeared in the chimney.

sighing at this memory, jimin rose from his bed, his brown hair dishevelled. fumbling his way along not to wake his parents and little sister, he went down the stairs to get himself something to drink. maybe it would help him sleep? he’d once seen his mom do that.

as he passed through the living room to reach the desired place, a strange vision made him rub his eyes with his fists to make sure what he saw was real.

a little girl who had just appeared in the hearth of his chimney looked at him with eyes as wide as his own.

“who are you?” he asked.

she was dressed strangely. on her snow-white hair, a red bobble hat had been laid without much attention, causing it to fall before her sparkling eyes. her clothes were similar to those that jimin had seen the elves wear in the christmas movies that were on tv. the only difference was that she was not dressed in green but in red.

the stranger blinked several times before shaking her head from right to left. she didn’t understand him.

great.

as he was about to mime his question again, the little girl’s attention turned away from him and settled on the christmas tree, lit in red and gold. moving gently towards it, she touched with her little fingers the decorations that seemed to sparkle to her touch. a childish laugh, which brought snowflakes to appear in the sky, resounded in the room as she pointed to a little santa claus in felt.

“pappa!”

“no, it’s santa claus!” jimin corrected her, unhappy to know that his hero was not known to the young woman.

“min pappa!”

“hey, no! don’t touch that!” he ran towards her and grabbed her arm to remove her as quickly as possible from a drawing she was about to touch. he had put it at the foot of the tree a few days ago.

on the sheet of paper was clumsily drawn a race car that jimin had forgotten to write on his letter to santa claus. He hoped that the old red man could create him one after seeing it. this race car was the gift that mattered the most to jimin, it was out of the question that he let this weird girl approach it.

“se på!” the girl said, pointing to the windows that had just opened. following her gaze, jimin gasped, his eyes now amazed.

a glittering, almost transparent hand made of snow had just appeared in the parks’ lounge. tt wandered around in the air for a few moments, stopping to tickle the girl’s chin with two fingers. the latter, after laughing, cheeks now red with happiness, showed to this magical apparition the drawing of the car. for a few moments, the girl and the hand had a silent conversation that ended with a bright smile from the child.

jimin, who had remained motionless until then, startled when the hand advanced towards him.

“miss Klaus! you’re in a fix, i can tell you! why did you run away like that?! and in korea into the bargain!”

a small man with sky blue skin and pointed ears appeared in turn in the chimney. jimin had no time to understand what was going on that the newcomer was already grabbing the girl’s arm and pulling her to the chimney where they both disappeared in a cloud of red and white glitter.

the hand, which had hidden as if it did not want to be seen by the elf, flew again towards jimin, who, terrified, began to tremble. they remained silent for a long time, before it magically disappeared, leaving behind snowflakes and a race car.

the little boy fainted.

the peaceful atmosphere in the living room had a soporific effect on the couple lying on the couch. the christmas film—full of clichés—that was displayed on the tv screen had long been forgotten, as were the two cups of hot chocolate that no longer gave off smoke. a few snowflakes fell on seoul but seeing them, all the inhabitants knew they would not be there the next day. they didn’t mind, even just seeing snow made them happy. it would always wrap the city with its delicate white coat no matter for how many hours, painting the landscape with the christmas spirit.

jimin struggled against sleep that seemed to approach him a little more with each caress in his hair. he was slumped against his girlfriend’s chest, enjoying this moment of serenity which was discordant from their exalted daily lives. the words they were saying were whispered so as not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere that surrounded them.

“y/n?” a ‘yes, honey?’ was heard in response, urging him to continue while the caresses on his skull became softer. “did i ever tell you that you reminded me of someone i met as a kid?”

“oh, is that right?” the woman asked, her voice muffled by Jimin’s hair in which she had buried her face.

“yes. i think I was five or six at the time… or something like that. i was young enough to believe in santa claus, basically. anyway, one night i went to get a glass of water in the kitchen. i was so tired that i had a hallucination. it was as if i had seen a girl appear in my chimney and she had summoned this weird and magical hand that made me a car. weird, isn’t it? she had white hair just like you, though.”

“hmm…”

“maybe it was a prophetic dream, i knew you were going to be the love of my life.” he laughed at his girlfriend’s cringe expression. “i love you.”

slowly, she gave him a kiss on his cheek, saying these three little words back. her caresses continued until the man’s eyes closed. smiling, she grazed jimin’s cheek with her thumb, translating in this little gesture all the affection she had for him.

her eyes swept away the apartment they shared. on the walls and shelves were scattered memories, photos; all these things traced their history, which had been going on for a year now. in the entrance, on the small table where there was a bowl with keys, behind the pile of mail waiting to be read, was placed a snow globe representing a fireplace decorated with Christmas stockings.

suddenly, the windows of the living room opened, and even though the noise startled her, it did not disrupt jimin’s sleep who was now using her chest as a pillow. a trail of snow dust appeared in the living room, twirling for a few moments around the couple before it put a letter in the woman’s hand. she hurried to open it, reading its content, written in familiar handwriting.

miss y/n klaus,

how are you? personally, i can’t even sleep as your father keeps telling me how much he misses you. everyone here does. seeing each other a month per year is too little according to the villagers.

i know your life in seoul takes up a lot of your free time. however, according to christunix’s council, it was considered judicious for you to return to the village during the week. all you have to do is take your snowball, i won’t be wrong to assume you know how to use it.

without you, it’s a bit of a mess. even if the elves work hard and your drawings are precise, it’s always better when you’re on the field to check in real-time the work that has been done. your father has, as usual, high expectations even if he is no longer in the position. he keeps complaining. you must return as soon as possible or, i assure you, the old elf will get rid of him before you can say ‘christmas’.

after all, what would christunix be without the sixth heir?

p.s. your mother and siblings keep tormenting me for you to introduce them to that boy you talk about in your letters. if you feel like it, bring him back with you. maybe it’s time he finds out what his fiancée’s job is.

kind regards,

juniper.

[augustmoon259]

Sort the Court Royal Advisor x King/Queen Reader

You were the only child of the previous queen of the kingdom. As the sole heir to the throne, you had a great deal of responsibility on your shoulders. Your kingdom was a peaceful one. The world that you inhabited is one full of magic, monsters, and recently, great scientific advancements.

You remember the day when everything changed, the day you lost your mother and the day you were crowned the new ruler. It was a day like any other. The guards had reported recent sightings of something unidentifiable flying in the air. It was expected to be a dragon.

Dragons were rare, and few in number. When they were discovered, they usually kept to themselves. A dragon that strayed this close to human civilization was worrying.

Since the reports were unclear, and the likelihood of it actually being a dragon was low, these concerns were dismissed. It was a mistake. The dragon came in the night, breathing fire and killing dozens of your people, and among them, your mother. Brave knights, accompanied by skilled wizards and witches, fended off the dragon, but were unable to kill it.

You decided to relocate your capital to another city, one that would be easier to defend and fortify. Your citizens followed you. You searched for the best blacksmith in the land, one that could forge a weapon of epic proportions to kill the dragon. Finally, you found him.

The dragon had not attacked again since that day, so you had time in between growing your city to further development on the prospective “Dragonblade”. The blacksmith worked with witches, wizards, and knights to find the materials for such a blade.

After a few months, the sword was complete. It needed a proper wielder, and you had just the person in mind. You bestowed the quest to kill the dragon on your most loyal and daring knight. With him was his apprentice, a common thief girl.

That girl was trouble. She had been known to steal from anyone: the rich, the poor, and then some. She had finally been caught when she had tried scaling the gate to the high class housing district.

The people loved the knight, but were wary of his apprentice. You too shared in their reluctance, but still, you saw them off the same.

Anxiously, you and your citizens waited for them to return. For if they did not, even with such a legendary weapon, then hope was lost. It was with spectacular celebration and happiness that the news of their homecoming brought.

The dragon had been slain, and you could rest just a little bit easier knowing that. Surprisingly, the thief girl had managed to hold her own fairly well. You supposed she would one day be a worthy knight after all.

(Nothing would change her love for money, as she had tried to make off with half the dragon hoard, were it not for the intervention of the knight).

With the threat of the dragon subdued, you were freely able to expand and strengthen your kingdom. Your kingdom now had an even stronger military, a thriving economy, and a great investment in the arts.

Nowhere else was this more prominent than in the capital of your kingdom. It was where the headquarters of the Council of Science resided, the residence of one Madame Abeille (co-owner of the renowned Abeille’s Sweets), and where the most talented musicians and performers gathered.

Your citizens were what made your kingdom special. Whether they be plant people, aliens, undead skeletons, sentient slimes, or (formerly) cursed chests.

The dragon had been by and large the most difficult problem to deal with. However, you had other problems to resolve. Whether they be issues like an infected granary stock, or a ban on pineapples.

That’s where your royal advisor came in. A while after dealing with the dragon, she had come to your kingdom. She came from a town in another kingdom east to yours. She had come highly recommended, as an expert in political and diplomatic affairs. She had been the best candidate for your royal advisor, and you were glad she was. You could not imagine anyone else in that position.

Over the years, you two had grown closer together. You found yourself admiring not only her skills in government, but outside. You noticed the little things, like her love for animals. She’d feed the stray cats, and she was fond of one particular orange tabby. She had named him Boots. You liked Boots, so you let him stay in the castle. You’d scratch his belly and feed him fish when you had the time.

Eventually, your kingdom gained admission into the esteemed Council of Crowns. It had not been easy, as along the way, you had to search for a notorious resident of the Comfy Kingdom: Yarno. You uncovered a conspiracy in which another citizen, Button Boy, had pretended to be the royal advisor of King Pin in order to catch Yarno.

Upon joining the Council of Crowns, you had noticed that your royal advisor had seemed sadder. Yes, while it was true that you had more work dealing with the matters of other kingdoms, you always made sure to make time for your royal advisor.

She and you had become friends, not just colleagues. When you spent time with her, you’d catch yourself admiring her golden blonde hair that always seemed to shine in your eyes. You liked the sound of her laughter, the way she smiled, and her enthusiasm.

So could it be that these feelings you had for her, extended beyond friendship? Could it be...love? You were afraid to find out, and you were afraid to ask. You’d daydream and wonder about the possibilities. You knew that it’d be incredibly awkward if she didn’t return your feelings.

Still, that desire to know tortured you. It was impossible not to think of her, when you saw her everyday. Which is why, on a particular day, you decided to end your doubts once and for all. There was no going back. Even if she didn’t accept, even if you ended up with a broken heart.

You brought her to one of your favorite places in the city, a hill. On that hill was a pure white tree, with the bluest of leaves. A wandering wizard had left it as a gift to you before he left.

Then you told her everything: how much you valued her presence in your life, how you admired her, how you loved her. To your delight, she returned your feelings.

You two went on several dates together, as a couple. You were extremely happy to tell anyone and everyone that you had a wonderful girlfriend. More time passed, and then you two decided to get engaged. A while after that, you got married and the two of you lived happily ever after….

[englass]

The Hand That Feeds

Pairing(s): Joseph Seed & A Monster (???)

Warning(s): Blood, Dead Bodies, Suspence, Horror(?), Supernatural Elements.

Word Count: 5,961

A/N(s): This was originally supposed to be a Halloween fic, but I didn’t get it out in time and got caught up doing other stuff; so... I’m posting it now instead 😅Also! Happy Birthday @seedlingsinner !!!!! 🥳🎉🎂💖 I’m really sorry I didn’t write anything for you, but I hope this makes up for it, hun!! 😬💖💖💖💖💖

- - -

There is a crisp chill in the air, a teasing nip that plays between the trees in the early hours of the morning. The mountains shrouded by an ominous stillness, an aching anticipation that casts a withering glance over the flora, and pressurises the fauna into a tight silence. The autumn moon is unusually bright, a golden glow of cold warmth that beckons monsters from the shadows of towering trees. With painted grins and wisps of midnight, dancing to haunted tunes in the wind’s quiet breath, they writhe from below in a giddily, twisted greeting. 

Skittish deer tread with a hurried caution, eager and wary of the new danger that has sidled into the already tense County with salivating maws. Rabbits and foxes scurry urgently into their respective burrows, praying with flicking ears and twitching noses that they will be spared this night’s patrol. Grizzled bears of mighty stature and shortened tempers do not so much as huff into the chilling air, vanishing into the back of rocky dens with a respectful fear.

Even the Judges, rabid wolves fused and mangled by twisted drugs, nature’s noble guard turned traitorous war-machine, whimper and cower behind the bars of their cages. Their distant eyes are blown wide, torn ears pulled as flat as they can go against their heads in a pleading submission; looking like abused puppies waiting for the next beating.

Members of the resident cult which created the canid abominations look on with a perturbed curiosity, glancing to their peers in muted question. Even the prisoners housed in their own separate cells, getting what little rest they can while apprehensively awaiting their fateful turn at the infamous trails, grip the cool bars with sweaty palms and flickering gazes. One cult member clangs a metal pipe against one of the cages, snarling at the once fearsome canines to shut up.

They merely ignore them.

With a sudden bellow the wind wails, pained and ailed with a sound unlike any other chasing its current. The Judges tuck together tightly, bundling into corners with a flurry of frenzied whines and whimpers. Each huddling over the other in a vain attempt to distance themselves from the harrowed sound – distant and near, everywhere and nowhere – that swallows the County in a foreboding fever.

The wide and open plains of the valley, stretching for miles upon miles in a wide and grand gesture, shrinks in on itself; claustrophobic and vulnerable. The rivers and winding terrain of the Henbane bares no better. The water that weaves by with a joyful wave now slowing to a jolted crawl, hesitant to risk even the slightest brush against the darkened shore’s edges. Even the areas and creatures blessed by corruption, poisoned by a blissful chemical that ravages all it touches, pause in their homely madness to listen in on the warning cry with a fleeting lucidity.

Those still awake, soldiers and leaders on both fronts of the County’s civil war, also stop to listen in on the howl. Turning to the distance and their respective peers with tight expressions. Old superstitions, creeping like folkloric monsters, taking centre stage at the forefront of their whirring minds.

Yet, not all are concerned by such worries; their beliefs an impractical shield against the unknown, and the unholy that stalk its shade.

Although the local cult’s oldest founder may stand tall, rifle posed at his side as he scouts his given territory with a critical and cautious eye, and the youngest may tuck himself safely away within the walls of his rustic home with taboo comforts, the middle and ruling founder does neither. Fearless amongst the whispers that kiss across the trees, cold warnings foolishly unheeded, as he travels through the thick woodland with a cool resolve. A wheelbarrow covered by a stained and dirty tarp, filled with a caring offering, pushed steadily along in front of him; creaking over flimsy sticks and dying leaves. 

Other than his own steps and the subtle squeal of the wheelbarrow’s wheel, the silence hangs like a swinging body. The chilling atmosphere wound tight into a strangling hold that refuses to let up, only tightening the more you seek to escape it. Not that the prophet, Joseph, does so. Instead, he only walks deeper into the thicket. Gaze hardly wavering as blinking dashes of light turn and watch with open jaws, following with whispering breaths until he eventually comes to a small clearing. The moon’s golden shine a halo that bars the woodland’s shadows, holding them at bay.

It is a mere break in the tree line, nothing overly noteworthy about it; other than the turned over grass and what appears to be torn fabric abandoned near the centre. An odd shimmer, reflective of light touching liquid, faintly catches on the ruined blades of grass in speckled sparkles everytime the prophet moves even the slightest amount. Stains of an unknown colour painting the destroyed fabric in dark, but faded streaks. Splatterings reminiscent of a child flinging a drowning paintbrush on the remains of what might have been someone’s clothing; buttons pulled from their stitchings, and what looks to be some sort of a badge or branding now muddied and frayed with time.

Joseph does not attempt to make the latter out.

The charismatic leader, unaware of the tension that prowls the woodland just as menacingly as the monsters that inhabit it, comes to a stop just short of the centre of the clearing. His gem blue eyes staring blankly down at the shredded clothing before turning to the tarp-covered wheelbarrow; his hands relenting in his firm grip to fall at his sides, straightening himself. Ominously the moon casts a blinding glare across the preacher’s tinted glasses, blanketing his expression in an unreadable mask, as he reaches to grip the tarp and, with a flourish, yank it off and behind him.

There is a stuttered breeze, a shaky breath that rustles the leaves like a haunted windchime; ting-ing around the clearing like a ceremonial bell. The unseen occupants at the edges of the woodland, hidden behind and between the spindly trees that seem to stretch on forever, hissing a hungry appreciation at the meal that has been so graciously put on display before them. A silver service so grand and appetising that the saliva runs like a fetid stream; a banquet worthy of the darkest of creatures.

Three bodies, bent and blanched and broken, make their home in the bloodied wheelbarrow, a small bath of coagulated blood pooling at the base. Tough flesh and stiffened muscle the main course in this disturbing meal. The clothing, though now soiled and damp, still hugs what remains of the unfortunate souls that have become this night’s offering. The banner in which they fell under, be it Resistance or Eden’s Gate, bearing no deterrents while under judgement.

Joseph’s expression remains unchanged, unbothered by the deceased members of, not only the opposing Resistance but, of his own following. Two of the three that make up this crude dish found to be unworthy in their fickle devotion to the Project; and in turn to the love of the Father. It is a pity, truly, but such shaken resolves’ have no place within their community; their sins a disease that does nothing but spread the fear of doubt. Converts the worthy into instruments of slander and distrust. In their case, such a disease had only one cure. 

Yet, their departure is not a vain one. For although they were found to be unworthy in life their deaths do hold a semblance of worth in the nourishment their bodies may provide; a suitable meal for the unholy abomination that roams the County with a silent footfall. A consuming fury left in Its wrathful wake, devastating in Its own divinity, and monstrous in the horrowed tales that follow It in murmured tellings. A might and ferocity that is never seen, but only heard of. A legend that might not quite be a legend.

With a weighty exhale Joseph steps back, grass bending under foot with a distant sound; suffocated by the tension that lines the clearing and waits with a bated breath. Anticipation mounting as the shadows edge a little closer, jaws opening wider in crooked smiles as they gradually reach out from between the trees with raw-boned claws toward the slowly retreating preacher. Unassuming as their firefly eyes glow a misleading white between the creaking limbs of the living woodland; safe and beckoning. A tempting refuge to be found within the widely dilated, and giddily ravenous confines, of their eternal hunger. A special kind of purgatory for the lost and unwanted in this forsaken land.

If only he would step a little closer...

A sharp cry slashes through the County, tearing up the air with a brutal shriek that has its denizens – mortal and otherwise alike – pausing with stilted breaths. A high and wailed noise that has hunters spinning with raised guns and dancing eyes, animals cowering with frantic whines and thundering hearts, and the shadows that haughtily prowl these fiendish nights shrivelling in on themselves with drying maws and sharply constricting eye-lights. A paranoid worry urging the unknown into a testing submission.

There are bigger monsters than them in this County, after all.

Joseph stands by the border within the clearing, still and tense; just out of reach from the once greedy claws that were so eager to grab a hold of him. Swallowing thickly the preacher feels himself trembling, nerves vibrating rapidly as fear rushes through his bloodstream like a drug. His eyes planted across from him to watch as the shadows move and undulate, crawling away as a high pitched hiss drags across bark with lazy talons. Snapping twigs and crunching leaves a toll that has the creatures already here backing down with hanging heads and fleeing forms.

With his form trembling, fingers twitching from the chill that has taken him, Joseph steels himself. A quick inhale held as his hands loosen and then ball into tight fists, nails biting into his palm as he steadies himself; resolute. There is no need for him to be afraid after all. He has faith, and with it he knows that they will not hurt him. Despite how instinct may scream otherwise.

There is a deathly silence that has taken over. Blanketing the clearing with a spider’s web of pressure that is not so easily levied. Joseph watches as a silhouette, darker than the shadows that followed him here, begins to take shape between the trees. A hulking creature that makes neary a sound as It slowly comes closer. Stopping just before the moon’s luminescent glow can touch It, barely grazing through the shade that the towering trees see fit to veil It under. 

The shadows that have not quite left, hungry for the vicious slaughter that is no doubt about to take place, sway with a non-existent breeze. Antsy in this unexpected turn as time passes by like a dying man; agonisingly slow. 

Although the tension is high, the autumn air nippy, and ultimately with his life potentially on the line, Joseph smiles softly at the hidden creature. Head tilting curiously as he regards Its shielded form with a kind eye. Anxiety abandoned as he dons his given mantle, reaching out with a tender tone and parental patience as he gently starts to speak to It; a long time coming. 

“My child…” he murmurs with an edge of delirious awe, “you’re here. I must admit, I grew worried when you didn’t turn up the last time I was here. I feared the worst.” There is a heavy, but slow breath; a hiss of air as the creature shifts. Joseph knows It is watching him, and his smile gets a little wider. “Please,” he gestures loosely, carefully, “I know you must be hungry. There is no shame in what you must do, just as there is no shame in what I must do. There is no judgment between us, for it is all a part of God’s will, of his great and divine plan. And who am I to deny such a calling?

“So please, won’t you come and eat? Won’t you let me see you…?”

Another dragging hiss, low and gravelled, crawls across the clearing. A monster in itself as the night’s chill creeps a little closer, brushing bone as its caress slips past and under the skin in venturing touches. There is a subtle clicking layered under the serpentine sound. Intermingled between the throaty rumbles that claw to the surface when Its hiss is pitched too low, bordering too close to an actual growl; a warning without words.

For a fleeting second the preacher entertains the idea of walking up to It, coaxing It out of the darkness and into this fulfilling night with hands outstretched; open and accepting. Ideally it would be a beautiful and symbolic moment. A true exchange of understanding as he made a step toward saving this poor creature from Its damnation. However, the reality of such an action would be far more gruesome.

Joseph may be hopeful, a little naive when under the presence of his unwavering faith, but he is not a fool. A monster is still a monster, just like a sinner is still a sinner. It is all a matter of control. Of owning your sins and resisting the temptations that call to them with domineering appetites. It is about management and acceptance, pledging to be better than the sins that make a slave of you. At least, that is what Joseph tries to teach.

Instinct, in theory, is not all that dissimilar. With enough time and patience, the right incentives, even the most terrible of creatures can be tempered and made to heel. His older brother’s pet wolves are an example of that. Yet, natural instinct is still a very different beast to conscious sin. Such things are harder to correct and manage with a feral mind, after all.

Thankfully They are not as feral as others may first believe them to be.

There is another rumbling breath, heavy with a buried rattle, before the creature moves; slow and almost cautionary in Its approach. The moon’s ethereal touch gradually urging the creature into its warm glow, and finally into Joseph’s sight. His breath hitching at the ivory snout that emerges from the shadows that cling to It so lovingly. Possessive in their hold as their tendrils are pried away to reveal an open jaw with bared fangs and cleanly picked bone; Its eyes empty save for the sentient abyss that calls Its sockets home.

A menacing hand, clawed and gangly, slips through the darkened tree line and into the light. Gripping onto the nearest tree as if to pull Itself free, digging into the bark with a sudden splinter, as Its other hand tears across and into an opposing tree. Holding Itself up between the two of them with a guttural sound as Its skeletal head hangs to the side; bowed, but not submissive. 

The captured preacher watches as Its jaw opens a little more. A puff of cold air huffing from the chasm of Its maw, before Its claws loosen in their crushing hold on the trees; the creature’s hands languidly sliding down the scratched bark It has abused in order to rest on the grass beneath It. For a few tense seconds It holds there. Head turned to the side, still watching the prophet with voided sockets, before it moves again; stalking slow and low out into the clearing. Taking Its time as Its skinny, but large, body fully emerges from the surrounding forestry. Shadows desperately stretching as if to pull It back; to tempt It home into their fervid embrace. It ignores them. Non-existent eyes piercing through the pious fanatic that stands so bravenly before It. Creeping ever closer with a building swab of saliva drooling from between the gaps in Its bared teeth.

Its hands drag with every step, knuckles brushing the ground as Its claws curl into Its palm. A sway in Its prowl, skull rolling with Its smooth, but heavy movements. Unconcerned as It treads across tattered clothing, barely tilting Its head in acknowledgment, as Its quadrupedal form comes to a measured stop beside the prophet’s gift. Another puff of cold air once more bleeding between the gaps in Its teeth. 

From the original distance held between them, to nearly beside him, Joseph had forgotten just how large the creature was. Its head, ducked but no doubt looking up at him despite their lack of conventual eyes, comes up to about his chest. Its body tucked under Itself in a hunch that makes Its movement look unnatural. It’s appearance weak and feeble looking; submissive and uncomfortably awkward. It is a great deception that Its sedated pace only seems to strengthen.

The black quill-like feathers on the back of Its neck, iridescent like a magpie’s under the shifting glow of the moon, raise much like the heckles of a dog. Standing on end as they vibrate, shimmying to create a rustling sound. It mimics the shake of blowing leaves in windy weather, or even the threatening rattle of an angered snake’s tail, as Its head finally turns to regard the preacher head on; the chasm of Its nose as dark and absorbing as the sockets of Its empty eyes. 

With the same cautious and measured movements that brought It here, the creature raises a gangly hand. It brushes the side of the wheelbarrow, the side of Its boney limb sliding up against the metal, until Its hand reaches the rim; fingers flexing curiously when they are met with open air, before curling steadily over it. Using the wheelbarrow as leverage as It pulls Itself up onto Its hind legs. The wheelbarrow tipping just slightly under the weight, as It looms hauntingly over the preacher. Stepping closer until Its free hand comes to grab Joseph’s nearest wrist; Its thin hand taking up near enough all of his forearm, as It bends Its head down towards him. 

Despite the doubt that gnaws worriedly at him, poisonous and dangerous, Joseph does not move. Letting the creature hold his arm as Its cold skull presses into his shoulder, rubbing and nudging against him in an affectionate looking display. A strange move when compared to the monster that had stalked towards him so hungrily not mere minutes ago.

Admittedly, the prophet once more has the urge to touch the beguiling creature; to reach out to It with a loving embrace that promises the salvation that Joseph so desperately wants to give It. Yet, this sweet display is a trap that Joseph dare not be baited into. A devil's trick to test and judge him; just as he judges those he feeds to It. 

Unhurriedly the creature continues in Its presses, dipping lower to press higher; turning and pushing, sliding up under his chin– Joseph freezes, his heart skipping in its rhythmic beat as his throat tightens under a harsh swallow. Sweat beading down his face and into his beard, as Its mouth fits snugly around his neck. Moving closer until It cannot unhinge Its jaw any further. Teeth grazing tormentingly against Joseph’s jugular as It hisses frostily; stringy saliva dribbling onto Joseph’s shirt, dampening it coldly against the bare skin beneath. 

To his credit the preacher does not jolt, nor does he even make an attempt to escape the creature’s hold, despite how much fear and the instinct it adheres to tell him otherwise. Instead he allows It to breathe against him. Goosebumps pebbling his skin in response to the unnatural chill that bleeds from It; a dry bite of winter dread in the impassioned throws of a summer worry. All of Joseph’s restraint going into being as still and non-threatening as possible; submissive and pliable in the void of this creature’s lost eyes.

It’d be more than unfortunate to fall at such a momentous interaction, after all. To perish while his divinely given duty lay incomplete, and this unfortunate creature is left to remain eternally condemned. 

Besides, Joseph knows – just as surely as he knows the voice of his Lord – that their hold is not a malevolent one; only acting out as a warning and display to the dangers that such a monstrous form can inflict when pressed and tested. Reacting to the instincts that drive them in the name of self-preservation and survival; to the hunger that beckons them like a lustful siren on the shores of eldritch planes. Too tempting to ignore the allure, despite the frenzy that will blanket and consume them once they get a taste.

Yet, they do not succumb. Even as the foolish preacher mindlessly raises his hand to touch the chilled ivory of the creature’s skull – Its breath stopping to mimic the sudden stillness of the air around them; the wilderness frozen in a tense moment of paralysing alarm – It does not listen to the urges that surely compel It.

It merely stands, with Joseph in Its hold, as the shadows rear up among the trees with wide firefly eyes; pale lights warbling like the flame from a melting candle in the darkest of hours. Eager and famished and slobbering at the remains this creature among monsters will surely leave for them, these unknown vultures of the dark; unseen but forever lurking in the blood of cursed moralities and haunted existences. Horrors alive in the eyes of maddened minds.

The victims of such horrors however, do not appreciate their stalkers’ voyeurism; nor their displays of such corrosive loyalty (eternal as the void and just as consuming). 

There is a low rumble, a rise of something thick and tangibly raw; an emotion painted with threatening strokes and wounded lines. The creature’s feathers raising lazily with the sound, vibrating as they start to stand on end; their rustling getting louder and louder and quicker and quicker the higher they rise. The rumbling getting deeper and deeper along with them. A low base that begins to thump like a raging pulse through the earth and Its skull; Joseph’s own hand and arm quivering under the vibrations. The creature puffing heavily against the preacher’s exposed throat as if Wrath itself was the one upon him; breathing pure rage into his skin and around his neck. A noose fashioned by carnage and a trembling maw of teeth.

A noose that when dropped-

It snaps. Teeth scraping against each other – sharp like cutlery squealing against a plate – as It tears away. Barely catching the skin of Joseph’s neck as the creature throws Its head high, back arching as It shrieks around a strangled, weezing roar; cuttingly pained and excruciating. Claws nicking at Joseph’s arm as It pulls away from him, holding Its head tightly as It screams up at the heavens; bone screeching on bone as It grips and rips at skin that isn’t there. 

Shadows quickly falling silent as It turns Its wrath upon them, sockets blazing with a bitter hatred that defies understanding – a deep resentment that only It grasps and battles with; hidden demons thrashing recklessly beneath Its skin – as Its head lashes back and forth around the woodland that surrounds them. Screaming at all that lurk within the tangled limbs of the labyrinthian woodland. Hand suddenly striking out at the forgotten wheelbarrow, claws swiping savagely at the metal – blades squealing against pipes – as it is knocked to the ground; bodies tumbling onto the turned-over soil as the blood spills like a shattered bowl of sauce. 

All the while It shrieks. Volume gradually dying as It starts to slump from Its imposing height. Falling back onto Its hunches, curling into Itself like the feeble creature It pretends to be, with a sighing wheeze of a hiss; the sound tired, but layered above a throaty rumble. Another warning to the shadows that stand by like overzealous spectators. Hands returning to cradle Its skull, claws catching in the dip of Its sockets as It stares off daringly into the silenced night; at the audience that watches them with captured breaths. 

Their roar of applause is nothing more than a quiet whimper.

And the preacher does not fair much better.

Hesitantly, with a quaking hand, Joseph touches where their teeth had grazed. Fingers brushing weakly over the same space that the creature’s mouth had been not even a moment ago. Swallowing thickly as a shudder runs down his spine; the chill of their skull still lingering on his palm, the swift terror of their explosive outburst still coursing through his blood, the sheer anguish in their fractured scream still ringing in his ears; so pained and lost and scared… 

Like a child. A child unaccustomed to the brutality of their own emotions, ignorant to the dominance it can hold over even the most placid of souls; lashing out. Blinded by a lack of control – instinct taking over – until the rage fades into a hollowed chasm, filled with a ravaging regret and a damning despair.

A guilty conscious at play; even when there is nothing to feel guilty of.

Joseph understands, though. They are merely misunderstood. Lost within the clutches of this gluttonous curse, unable to escape its tangled coils despite how much they may struggle. Desperately in need of aid and righteous guidance in order to free themselves from this voracious disease; and Joseph can help them with that. He is the only one that can help them with that.

Yet, even so, the reality of such a close encounter, as sudden and aggressive as it was, leaves Joseph feeling uncharacteristically weak and fragile; disturbingly human. Once so untouchable, so sure and steadfast when stood upon his given pedestal; resolute when challenged by the non-believers and unflinching when creating examples out of the Judas' of their community, now left to tremble and face the adversary to his morality. Alone, once again, in a cruel and uncaring world; at the mercy of a wild society, ruled by monsters, fighting for their place within the highrises of the food-chain. A constant game and battle that his brother John knows better than most.

He pauses at that. Watching as the creature ducks away from him, retreating until It turns to slowly grip and lean over the abused wheelbarrow; snuffling suspiciously at the discarded bodies as It stains Its ivory snout in specks of brownish-red. Its random tantrum cast aside and forgiven, excused by the narrative that Joseph spins and weaves and convinces himself to believe in. His assumptions made fact under the weight of his conviction and justification. 

The thought of his brother however, of both his siblings and his followers – of his family – is a lingering one; as persistent and gripping as an emotion. He had never considered the possibility of things going awry; of him never returning to any of them again. So unwaveringly confident in the plans whispered to him, in the bright and sin-free future promised to him and his brothers. Joseph had never considered the torture his departure would surely cause them, the questions he would leave behind if that close encounter moments ago had ended differently.

After all, he never tells them of his late night wanderings; never tells them about the many exchanges he has under innocuous starlight. Just like he has never told them of his secret meetings with their biggest opposer. Of their time spent in silent comforts and comfortable silences, their once tense encounters turned soft and rueful under their mutual truce. His beloved Deputy, a beautiful and misguided soul for him and him alone to save. A sweet secret shared only between him and himself; their vulnerability his to protect, their honesty his to cherish, their soul his to love and possess; just as much as his is theirs.

They may not even realise it yet, may not see the grander picture at play, the interwoven future those small moments are creating for them, but it is there. It is as real as his congregation. As real as the night’s cold and disgruntled nip. As real as the creature appraising his gifted offering with an open jaw; a low clicking purring in Its throat like mumbled words. 

Joseph loves his brothers, dearly so, and without a doubt would do absolutely anything for them. However, it would seem that there are some secrets that are worth keeping. Despite the dangers that may come with them.

Joseph truly is a selfish man.

With a fresh hesitancy in his heart, his unfaltering faith giving leeway under his rattled confidence, the prophet takes a step forward. The crunch of grass and scuff of dirt unmistakably loud in the empty clearing; the wind nothing more than a ghostly breath.

The once eager audience, so hungry for the thrill that only a raw kill can bring, salivating over the temptation of such savagery and bloodshed, are nowhere in sight. Forced back into the deepest confines of a tormented mind. Suppressed by a shaking will desperate to hold on to at least a semblance of its true self. The instinctual compulsion that they invoke, that they are, temporarily silenced by their unwilling host; a cursed mortality haunted by demons that only It can see.

Languidly, not even acknowledging the approaching preacher, the creature reaches out to curl Its boney fingers around one of the dead cultist’s arms. Unhurriedly dragging it until the body is almost beneath them. Shifting to hunch over the body as drool begins to wet Its teeth, head lightly swinging as if looking from one spot to another; quietly deciding which part to start with first. Its head stills in the movement however once It notices the bare arm still in Its loosened hold, covered with religious tattoos and crudely branded scars.

There is a brief rumble, a deep purr misconstrued as a thoughtful hum, when Joseph comes to a halt beside the creature. The sound fading into an uneasy silence as the preacher grows apprehensive. The impulse to touch Them once more rearing its head with a newfound itch; a scratching want to try again. One that the prophet debates internally for nary a minute, before he makes his decision.

Cautiously, with residual fears speaking up with whispered warnings, Joseph places his hand upon the creature’s skull yet again; fingers trailing smoothly along the groves and indents to spread flat across Its ivory bone. The creature holds still at the touch; Its exposed jaw twitching ever so slightly as a familiar clicking sound starts up again. Too high pitched to merely come from the knocking of bared teeth against one another, and more on par with the rapid clicking of one's tongue. Although, oddly more guttural. As if it were an actual vocalisation and not a manufactured sound; a natural means of communication.

Gently the prophet’s digits curl against the bone, brushing it softly as he starts to straighten them. Repeating the motion to lightly scratch at the creature’s head like one might a beloved pet; a small display of affection and offered forgiveness.

With a few more clicks, tapped out between the fangs of an open maw, the creature’s head lowers; Joseph’s hand never breaking contact as he runs it up and through the creature’s iridescent plumage. Entranced by the shimmer in Its dark feathers between his fingers, as It slips Its jaws around the stiff arm in Its hold. Teeth pressing down, coming together until the bones begin to bend and struggle; gradually starting to splinter and snap under the pressure. A faint pink staining the pale bone of Its teeth as It tears through the rigid flesh; squished and stripped away as the creature starts to bite and pull and chew at the toughened muscle. Curiously gentle, despite Its earlier aggression. 

“That’s it,” Joseph praises quietly. “That’s it, my child. It’s okay. You are safe here, you are safe with me. There is nothing to fear, for you know I do not judge you. I would never judge you. I know you are merely misunderstood, that you are here for a reason. What that reason is, I do not know for certain. But, what I do know is that there is no shame in this. There is no shame to be found in this consumption. You are doing us a service, you are doing me a service, and that should be thanked and celebrated…” 

All the while Joseph strokes the creature. Hand petting and running through Their pretty feathers as the other comes up to bury itself beneath Their charcoal fur. Continuing to soothe the creature with silent words of praise, religious devotion, and the quiet hum of his favoured song. Watching with a passive smile as the creature starts to feast on his offering. On the corpses of those proven unworthy in the eyes of his Lord; dirty lambs from both his own family and the Resistance’s.

With the squelching of flesh and sharp crack of bone, guttural rumbles growling contently through the clearing, the self proclaimed Father glances to the side; gaze drawn to an unusual glimmer that he had not noticed before. Concealed by the torn scraps of clothing that rest like forgotten memories, not even a couple of steps away from him. Joseph had thought nothing much of the shredded material when he had first entered the area, paying it only a few lines of acknowledgment and nothing more; but now that his priority is accounted for and fed, the preacher finds himself paying it a bit more mind. And, interestingly enough, there is something about the clothing that sparks a feeling of recognition in him.

With his hands still affectionately petting at the creature, never pulling away, Joseph walks around Them to come closer to the ruined uniform; its olive green colouration blending in well with the turned-over grass and dirt. The origins of the unusual shine that had caught his eye finally becoming more noticeable and distinctive the closer he gets: a lone feather, dark as the abyss, but prismatic under the moon’s hallowed glow, innocently peeking out from underneath the dirtied fabric; its familiar shimmer bringing a soft frown to the preacher’s face the longer he looks at it. His hands falling away from the creature as he takes a tentative step towards the aged and shredded clothing.

It is then that Joseph notices a muddied name badge. Discoloured from the rest of the uniform, but still visible despite the fraying material and the stains that decorate it. The stitched lettering intact and surprisingly legible.

The preacher’s eyes go wide at the sight. Mouth opening slightly as he reads over the name on the badge. Quickly frowning before he turns to his monstrous companion, who is already looking at him. Instead of the shock that should strike him in that moment, the unbelievable and possible horror that should grip and keep him away from Them, Joseph instead walks towards Them. Hands arrogantly reaching out to take Their head into his palms. Fingers curling around Their lower jaw as he coaxes Them closer towards him; allowing the prophet to press his forehead against the bridge of Their snout.

The creature’s characteristic clicking starts up again, quietly and questioningly, at the action.

“My child, this truly is a day to be celebrated,” Joseph starts with a breathless quality. “To think that you would bless me with such a gift. That you would choose such a time as now to reveal yourself to me. To reveal your true self to me…” The prophet trails off with an airy chuckle, gently shaking his head; rubbing it absently against Their own. “I cannot quite believe it. My dear child, my sweet misunderstood creature…”

“My darling, darling Rook.”

[ohvalleyofplentyyy]

Life, Death, and Between

100 Followers Celebration One-Shot

A/N: This is the male reader insert! 

If you want the female reader insert click here :)

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p.s, i’ve linked specific words like flowers and outfits so you can see what i was picturing if you want or if you don’t know what a specific flower is :)

“Jasky Baby! Geraaaaaaaaaaalt! Get up!” You yelled running up the steps of your cottage with a newfound spring in your step. The boys were both snug in the two beds you had set up in the attic once you figured they would be staying for a while.

You lived right at the bottom of a huge mountain that was surrounded by a very dense forest, how these two idiots were able to stumble upon your home in the middle of the night 3 years ago still befuddled you.  

You pulled the blankets off the boys and ripped open the curtains, letting light stream in. Jaskier moaned and put his pillow over his head to shield his eyes.

 “Y/N, why are you doing this to me?!” He whined. “Come on! You have to get out of bed and see this!” You yelled. Geralt slowly sat up and watched as you ran amok through the room, throwing clothes at them trying to make them move faster.

He chuckled and eventually got out of bed, grabbing the pillow off of Jaskier and whacking him with it. “Come on, we better go before he decides to send you out of the house through the window.”

Once the boys were fully dressed (though Jaskier’s shirt was buttoned… interestingly) you ran down the staircase and zipped out the door. “What’s up with him?” The bard mumbled, trying to tame the creature that was his hair.

You appeared in front of them wearing a flower crown made up of daisies, baby’s breath and pink kinnikinnick, in your hands were two extra flower crowns which you quickly placed on the boy’s heads and then motioned for them to follow. The two followed you until you stopped at a small body that a waterfall ran into from the mountain.

It was a sight to behold. The water was a serene blue, and the light danced upon it like stars in the night sky. Small water Nymphs skittered on the surface, moving what appeared to be small boats to the center of the pond. These boats were made of wood branches, large leaves and some were mushrooms flipped over. But the best part about them was the fairies sitting in them.

All at once, fairies seemed to appear at the pond. So many colors and types, some wore petal clothes and others wore nothing. Wings varied in size, ranging from the size of Geralt’s hand to nail on your pinky.

The three of you watched in awe as a special ceremony was performed on the water. The fairies lined up in two rows on each side, making a pathway from the edge of the pond to the center. In the center, the boats had been enchanted and now floated in the air, sparkles of the pixie dust making them shimmer in the light.

Then all the chattering from the fairies ceased and they turned to the water's edge, floating in from the treeline was what appeared to be a floating carriage made from an old bird nest and flowers. Sitting in this carriage was the most ethereal fairy you had ever seen. She had long flowing lilac hair that flowers were embedded into.

Her dress was made of rose petals, mostly white, sans the bottom hem that was purple tulip petals. It trailed over the carriage side it was so long, making it appear like a wedding veil, floating behind the bride. 

Her wings though were the most gorgeous you had ever laid eyes on, they weren’t very large, about the length of your palm to your index finger. But they seemed to be translucent, the only way you would know they were there is if the light reflected through them, creating a small rainbow effect on the other side.

Once at the edge of the pond, faint music started to play, you looked over to the source and saw several fairies with mixture versions of violins, lutes, and a flute. As the queen of the fairies crossed over the water, the others started to bow as she passed. You immediately did as well when she glanced over to the three of you. Geralt slowly bowed his head and Jaskier did a full bow when you tugged on his tunic.

The band of fairies died out as the queen flew from the carriage. In a somber voice, you heard her speak.

“Thank you all for coming today, this ceremony has been long overdue since many have treated our kind unfairly, we have had no reason to have it. But now, a true friend has stepped forward and ofter their unconditional love to us. It is with great honor that I present our new guardian of the forest.”

Jaskier whispered to Geralt, “Do you know who it is?” With a small smile, Geralt answered. “Yes, I do.” This greatly intrigued you, so you bent over, “Who is it then?” Geralt made a motion to look forward.

There were two small fairies in front of you, one of a lime green and the other an ivory. They both wore white tulip tunics and were holding a long shawl out. It was very thin and resembled the queen’s wings. There were small symbols etched into the edge all around it with pixie dust.

“It’s you.”

You watched in awe as the fairies draped the shawl over your shoulders and led you to the edge where the pathway of fairies floated. You took a step into the water, the sweet cold tickling your bare feet and soaking the bottom of your pants. But it did not matter, as you walked down the path of magical creatures.

You noticed others that had come to watch the ceremony. Some deer with on the opposite side of the pond, small hummingbirds flitted to a branch overlooking the water. Even butterflies flew around, watching the scene unfold.

Once at the center of the pond, the queen flew down to you a bowed her head.

“Thank you for always doing what is best for the forest. Your caring nature has shown us that there are humans that are worthy of knowing our powers. You shower us with loyalty and never ask for anything in return, only a friendship. Now that you have proven yourself to be a true friend, it is with great honor that I bestow you, Guardian of the Forest and Creatures.”

With a wave of her hand, a flower crown made of twine, lavender, baby’s breath, poppies, and everlasting floated over and took the place of your other crown that two fairies took off your head. Then, with a kiss to your forehead, magic flourished.

You fell into a small slumber as Geralt and Jaskier watched in awe as you were lifted by magic from the water. The fairies flew upwards and circled around you, dancing and singing a magical chant.

Oh, our Guardian,

Protector of all

Loves and cherishes

Anything big or small.

Oh. our Guardian

Whom we adore

Let us celebrate

This moment they are reborn.

As they sang, the water rose from the pond and incased you in a sphere of magic. Lights flashed through it and sparks of pixie dust sprinkled down from the circle. It was like fireworks were going off inside this magical womb made from the pond. They chanted and sang until the water started to tremor and then, bursted out.

Light flooded the area, coming from you. Gently, you were lowered down to the pond’s surface, only this time, you were able to stand on the top and not sink through. Your once wet clothing was now replaced with a new outfit.

The fabric flowed down your body like ripples of water. You were wearing a white billowy shirt that had gold designs etched into the collar like the shawl did. Speaking of the shawl, instead of being draped around your shoulders, it had transformed into a cape that connected at your shoulders that flow behind you. Instead of the old, worn-out pants that you used to wear, you had a royal blue pair that seemed to glimmer in the sunlight. On each hand, two gold rings anointed your index and pinky finger. You now had a crown of baby’s breathe on your head of newly fluffed hair.

But was most awe-inspiring, were the new wings that adorned your back.

Beautiful blue morphs wings now fluttered out from behind you, stretching and glistening in the light. It was surreal, you touched the wings as they curled around you, now another piece of your body and mind. The queen smiled at you, “Thank you so much for being in me.” You said to her. You brought your hand up to her and she hugged it, making you grin.

“Y/N!!! Y/N!!” When you turned, you saw Jaskier jumping up and down on the side of the pond, Geralt smacking him up the back of the head as the bard quite reasonably freaked out.

“You may go to them, you are now the bridge between the fae world and humans.” With one last smile to the queen, you walked on the water’s surface until to stepped foot on land. Jaskier bounded over to you followed by a fast walking Geralt.

You floated a few feet off the ground and spun for them. “Well, what do you think?” The bard gasped, “You, you! You’re a spirit now! You, you, you have wings!!!!!” He spoke very quickly, trying to process his thoughts and emotions on what had just conspired.

As you lowered to the floor, Geralt took your hand and gave it a small kiss on the back of it and then did an elegant bow in front of you. “He’s the Guardian of the Forest, not a spirit you idiot. We wouldn’t be able to see him if he was.”

You chuckled, “I can see so many things now that the human eye cannot, the world is so beautiful! There are so many lives that we cannot see with the naked eye, it’s amazing.”

Jaskier walked around you and trailed a finger down your left wing, “Well, if anyone was going to watch over the forest it would definitely be you. You spend every day tending to nature and it’s inhabitants.”

“Including us.” Geralt added, leaning against a tree.

With a wave of your hand, the train of the cape shorted to your knees and you took each of your friend’s hands, walking back to the cottage.

As you walked, Jaskier asked a question. “Will this change everything? Will you leave and live in the forest? What happens now?”

“Oh Jaskier, I’m not going anywhere. I’m the bridge between magic and humans remember? I’ll always be here for you now, I just have a broader approach to the world around us and some added abilities. I understand that I will have to live up to my title as Guardian and sometimes leave to protect the creatures I love, but I’ll never be gone forever. I’ll always come back to my dearest friends if they want me too.”

Geralt put an arm around you, “Of course we want you to.” 

You gasped, “Is the great Geralt of Rivia saying that he wants me around? Gee Jasky, did he wake up this morning feeling ill? This is very peculiar for a Witcher…”

Jaskier threw back his head and laughed, Geralt just shook his and smiled.

Then you got a bright idea, “Hey, now that I’m not just another damsel in distress for Geralt to protect on journeys like Jaskier—“ “Hey!” “—maybe I can come with you guys when you leave for adventures!”

“Are you sure that would be safe Y/N?” The Witcher asked. You nodded, “I think that maybe the fates led us to each other because they knew we would be able to help each other. It’s destiny!” Geralt groaned, “Dooon’t say that.”

You nudged him with your shoulder, “I’m not such a bad destiny to have am I?”

“No Y/N, you’re the best destiny to have.”

With that, the three friends walked through the forest, back to your cottage. 

Some say that many songs were created that day, the day Life and Death and Between came to be friends for eternity.

Toss a coin to your Witcher

O’Valley of Plenty

O’Valley of Plenty

O’

The tales of three are whispered

In the dead of night

As life and death, became friends

And joined the quest to fight.

To save mankind from its horrid greed

Greatest of friends, and seldom foes

A human also accompanied thee.

Toss a coin to your Witcher

O’Valley of Plenty

O’Valley of Plenty

O’

And a friend to Guardian of humanity.

<3

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[abandonedbyheaven]

All Hail the New God||Not Enough {part 1-3}

Below the cut is part 1-3 of the drabble written for AHTNG.  Anonymous requested it; and again, I am reallllly sorry i can’t give you more from the original story. I’ll work on getting another megodstiel thing going soon; xoxo, D.

She was a bad choice. Meg was many things, but she was not meant to be a consort to God. Who was she to stand with a man fighting for the righteous, when she was a tainted soul herself? God, or the previous, taught his children that she and her kind were wrong. While angels were light and grace, demons were smoke and oppression. They didn’t take honesty or consent, while angels prided themselves with the inability to lie to their hosts. Speaking of, hosts of angels came down to bloodline. Hosts of demons came down to poor timing and bad decision.

Meg wasn’t meant for this. She was meant to ruin what she touched, cause pain, and well, be killed off, only to be replaced by another tainted soul. She wasn’t meant to be remembered. The demon was a small speck of the big, black cloud that made up Hell. When one piece falls, another is already there to take it’s place. That’s just how things were. She, admittedly, survived the longest of the many demons she’d known, and still she knew her cunning didn’t detract from the fact she was never meant to live the life he’d imagined for her.

It was true, Meg was smart. She’d bested many higher-ups in her time, but that didn’t make her qualified for the job he’d bestowed on her. All-Mother? She would never be anything of the sort. Meg wasn’t even Meg, she’d adopted the name from her previous host. This body was named Kayleigh, a name far too innocent for the creature inhabiting it. Meg seemed better suited to her. They knew who she was and there was still a slight wave of fear downstairs associated with her. And that was good, she supposed, looking at the situation optimistically. Ugh, the idea of being positive sent rolls of discontent down her spine.

She’d learned his rules early on. She was the, cringe worthy as position was, submissive in the bonding he’d convinced her to take part in. Subpar. Submissive’s were to listen to no one but their dominant, and that was hard. The demon practically flourished in rebellion, yet for him she was willing. Was he her weakness? Was he the reason she fell so easily when being bonded? Who was to know. She did know leaving without him wasn’t a good idea. While he was God, he was also well known in the hunter community. It was nature for a consort of God to be known in the church. That meant hunters also knew he’d taken Meg as his half, and she’d be enemy number one. After all, hurting a submissive half hurts the dominant.

She knew she would never have a want if she asked, and that was true enough. Castiel provided well for her, having put her in a lavish estate somewhere between the realm of heaven and earth. She was safe, but this wasn’t meant for her. What she wanted he would never give, and she would never ask. He meant too much to her. If she left, she would cause a comatose state to him until she returned. If she was injured, or worse, killed in her flee, he would be just as powerless as she.

Meg didn’t want that.

She wanted him to succeed.

She wanted to give him all of his desires.

She didn’t want to let him down.

But most of all, Meg wanted to be free. She was no Daphne or Amelia. Both women would’ve made much better consorts to the new god, and they would’ve been stronger all-mothers. They’d possibly be more respected than the demon whore he’d chosen. As much as she desired to leave, she would never let him fail.

Padding barefoot into the bedroom that he’d only put in for her comfort, Meg crawled into the California king, burrowing under the blanket; his shirt wrapped around her frame for a small sense of comfort. She never minded heat much. With a deep sigh, she shut her eyes, imagining every way he’d be better W I T H O U T  H E R.

He’d went about doing it again; making her feel wanted. Castiel was good at that. She’d ran from him. Their game of cat and mouse lasted little more than a day, and he’d given her cause to feel, yet she couldn’t bring herself to talk about it. Meg couldn’t tell him where she’d been, or what she’d done. She knew now that the safest place for her, if not by his side, was in his house. When the fuck did she become so damn domesticated?

She hardly had time to put her feet on the floor before her thoughts got the better of her. She was tainted; a dark spot that God was attempting to fix for the good of-. The good of what? It was a simple question, really it was. Jesus healed a whore in the name of his Father. What did Cas do? The smug bastard healed a demonic whore. Though the saying still remains, does it not?

Once a whore, always a whore, Meg. A whore is a whore is a whore, Meg. 

What redemption did she even deserve? He was God.

But what was she? What was her worth in the new world- his world? Their world. The obvious answers were simple. She was all-mother. She was consort. What was she beyond that? Did it matter? Clearly it mattered to him. He wouldn’t have dropped his whole fold to play her game. What a childish game it was. She was frayed. That was all she could manage to think of; frayed. Meg realized she was in their kitchen before she continued that train of thought. It’s best to keep your head clear when tied to a deity. He always knew. He was always there to make her feel; to make her C A R E.

Fingers burn as they drag across her skin. H O M E. He’s home. She’d have known the second he walked through the door if she had the strength to open her mind to him. She won’t though. she’s too weak for that. Binding the souls in him took more from her than she’d admit allowed. 

“Without you by my side I would virtually be nothing more than one of my brothers.”

The memory has replayed in her mind over and over again. This is a power trip. He needs her and it’s clear. She’s pacing their bedroom like a caged animal. And that’s exactly what she is, isn’t it? His All-Mother. His caged bird. His power.

out. o u t. O U T. 

She needs out; her freedom. She needs distance and a clear head. Meg never asked to be his power. She never wanted it all to come to this. How can she hide, the one thing she does best, with an even bigger target on her back? On his? 

On and on the torment plays in her mind, new status warring with the dark base of her being. She couldn’t stay in this extended existence with him; she couldn’t leave him. What option did that leave her? In his own twisted way, he loved her. He trusted her above all else. That wasn’t enough to negate the feeling of a downward spiral. 

Her back slides down the far wall, eyes glued to the blood left from the undevout and werewolf. Throwing the lamp perched on the edge of the bedside table, Meg screams. Pain. This change was painful; the breaking of her frayed mentality hurts worse. 

She knows what she should do, being faced with only one option to save herself; and save him from himself. Meg crawls across the room, palms cutting with each slide forward. Yanking her phone from it’s charger, she dials the only person who can possibly fix all of this; fix him.

Her finger hovers over the call button. If she doesn’t die from the separation, she sure as hell will when the bond between deity and half breaks and he comes for her. She has to have faith; faith that she’s doing what’s best for him. Meg hits call.

‘This is Dean’s other-other cell. Leave a message.’

“Winchester. Power him down. He’s gone too far. I can’t-’ a pause and tremble in her voice creeps up, ‘stop him, Dean, before I can’t help you do it.’

Throwing the phone onto the bed, the demon stands, hissing as more glass embeds itself into the flesh of her feet. She won’t do this without opening her mind to him; business as usual and all that.

Breaking her mental block from Castiel, Meg forces her thoughts to clear and leaving him no trail to what was to come. 

And for the first time since before she sold her soul, Meg prays.

‘Castiel, I want you to listen to me. I can’t. I tried, for you and I have to stop this somehow. I’m so sorry. Forgive me one day. I won’t be here when you come home.’ A-fuckin-men to that.

She’s on her feet, leaving bloody footprints before she can change her own mind. 

He’d come; she didn’t want to be in his line of fire when he did. For her? He would A L W A Y S come.

[eyeofthewolfe]

The Story of Echo Zane

An Interlude Chapter from the Evil Zane Fanfiction

An echo is only an echo when it finds its original source.

(All previous chapters of the Evil Zane Fanfiction can be found here.)

Interlude: The Story of Echo Zane

“Hello Zane…”

The robot’s eyes flickered on for the first time. The metal creaked when he sat up and looked into the smiling face of an elderly man. The smile grew and he fixed his glasses on his nose.

“Hello,” Zane responded. His voice was not the same texture as the man’s, for it felt like it was muffled by metal. The man took Zane’s arm and helped him off of a table. His legs were wobbly, but the elder assisted him to a mirror. What Zane saw in the mirror shocked him.

The aged man in a wrinkled and dirty labcoat stood next to a dark gray robot. Metal loosely covered arms and legs and the chest was almost see through. Within his chest were pipes, wires, springs, and a thick clock face that softly ticked. The face was smooth crafted metal and had a visible cut line from cheek to cheek that dipped below the mouth. His mouth was simply a piece of metal that went up and down to mock a one of a human; even the inside was hollow. His eyes were not detailed in any special way, but they were carved from cool gray metal to form the circular pupil. The eyebrows were the most flexible feature on his head, his hair being the least flexible. Instead of strands of hair, it was a large melded piece of metal wrapped around his head.

For a moment he stared at the reflection with wide eyes. Then he turned to the old man next to him.

The man smiled warmly. “I am Dr. Julien, your Father. Welcome home, Zane.”

With those words, Zane’s life began.

Father taught Zane how to live. They kept their home nice and tidy and they cleaned what felt like all the time. But Father said that a happy house was a clean house, so Zane cleaned and was happy.

He learned very quickly that his home was a tall building called a lighthouse, and it was located in the middle of the ocean. There were birds called seagulls that also inhabited their little island. Julien at first was reluctant to let Zane out of the home, but finally let him explore one day as long as he promised to return before the sun touched the horizon.

Outside the lighthouse was just a miniature mountain of rock and soft sand that got stuck in his metal. Zane didn’t care. He wanted to go into the ocean to see beyond the lighthouse, but Father warned him that the ocean water could destroy his open circuits and break him indefinitely. So Zane stood a few footsteps away from the water’s edge and watched it dance in the sunlight.

As he explored the rocks, he was able to approach a few seagulls and softly stroke their necks. The birds seemed relaxed by the robot and even perched on his shoulders and hair.

However, the rest of the small island was completely deserted. There was nothing else besides the lighthouse, the rocks, the sand, and the seagulls. For a moment, Zane was disappointed in his surroundings, for he was sure there was something more to the world then his little island.

Back within the lighthouse, Zane befriended TAI-D, the little robot his Father had built to assist in cleaning and handy work. Together they would chase each other on the top floor and Zane would giggle when the robot’s retractable arms would tickle and shock the larger robot. Father always enjoyed seeing them play.

Father also taught Zane how to play a very competitive game called Chess. Father was the best at the game, but he was always busy and couldn’t play with Zane all the time. Instead, he programmed TAI-D with techniques and it became a worthy component against Zane. They would spend hours, even days, trying to out think each other. Soon Zane grew to be so good that the only way TAI-D could win was through cheating.

The basement was a wonder to Zane. Inside were a plethora of random unused parts and pieces that sat in categorized boxes. A small neat pile of blueprints were laid on a desk near a porthole window that was half underwater. Zane’s favorite part of the basement, however, was the hidden door that was basically invisible from the main floor of the lighthouse.

One odd thing that Zane noticed was that their island was carefully watched by something that Father called a Leviathan. Zane was never able to see the full thing, but twice every day a long tentacle with a three eyes came and checked on the lighthouse. Each time it emerged Zane was forced to hide for an unknown reason. He would crouch in the shadows and watch the tentacle with eyes stare into the room and then slide away. Julien wasn’t scared of it, but instead always asked how it was doing, and he never got a response.

At night, Father slept in a small bed on the top floor while Zane would sit at the window and stare across the ocean where it was impossible to see where the starry sky met the horizon. Even though he did this every night, he would never get over the beauty and expanse of the sky. He knew what was out there-he’s seen maps in books- but Father says that there was no way to leave.

“The Leviathan isn’t just a friend,” Father had said. “He’s also guarding us.”

“From what?” Zane had asked.

“From the world,” was his response.

On one particular night, there was a sudden streak of light on the sky that had vanished as fast as it had appeared. Recognizing it as a shooting star, Zane excitedly made a wish.

“I wish for someone to find us,” Zane said quietly to the sky. “I wish for the world to find us.”

It wasn’t long until the sky sent the world to the lighthouse.

It started with a horrible storm.  The stone walls of the lighthouse shook with the wind and the rain plummeted the roof. Zane and Julien were in the basement where the waves were completely covering the window. Zane was huddled in Father’s arms, for he was scared of really loud noises like thunder. Julien sat with him and held him as the storm passed.

The next day, it felt like life was returning back to normal as they were putting the top floor back in order after the wind dislocated their belongings. As they were finishing up, Zane looked out the window and saw something that he had never seen before.

“Father, a boat!” Zane called out. Father rushed to the window and stared at the giant wooden ship that was sailing right toward the shore.

Father gasped. “Zane, to the basement! Hurry!” He demanded. Zane nodded and rushed down the stairs to the bottom floor. Father was right behind him.

Suddenly, the lighthouse shook as the giant ship made direct contact with the shore. Zane trembled, but kept his balance, but Father wasn’t as lucky. He lost his balance and tipped off of the staircase, about to plummet to the bottom from a few levels up.

Zane grabbed his Father and pulled him back to safety in a sudden instinctual move. Zane blinked, for he had never reacted to something that fast before. “Thank you, Zane,” Father said as he fixed his glasses. “Now, the basement!”

On the bottom floor, Julien went to the small computer screen that projected the image from the camera outside. Zane dashed into the hidden hallway and hit the button that sealed the door, but stopped it just before it closed so he could see through a small crack.

For a few long seconds, nothing happened. Zane kept his eyes on Father, whose eyes were set on the screen. Finally, Zane heard a muffled voice from behind the door.

“Uh, should we smile?”

Father gasped as he looked at the screen. He moved the lever and zoomed in on the image, but Zane couldn’t make out what it was. Suddenly, Father lunged at the door and furiously ripped of the barricade and unlocked the door. He swung it open and said the last thing that Zane expected to hear.

“Zane! Is it really you? You found me!” Father exclaimed excitedly as he hugged one of the people at the door.

Zane felt like one of his wires had short circuited. Father just called a stranger his name, how could he know this person? Where did they come from?

“Uh,” came a new voice from outside. “Do you know him?”

“Of course I know him,” Father said. “I built him for heaven’s sake.” Zane pushed the door open a little more to try and see better when the third new voice made his gears freeze.

“But…my memory has told me that you have passed!” Zane heard his own voice, but clearer, from beyond the doorway.

Zane couldn’t move. He felt like he was paralyzed.

“Ahh,” Father sighed. “You found your memory switch.” He pointed at something passed the doorframe.

A low grumble from the Leviathan made Father flinch in fear. “Hurry, it can’t know you are here, or there will be dues to pay!” Julien motioned with his hands and someone walked into the doorway.

It was him.

What Zane saw almost frazzled his mind: it was the same structure of himself but he looked like Father did. Same color face, no metal was showing, it looked like he was a person. But he looked just like Zane.

Father had even called him Zane. If that was Zane, then who was the robot looking from the hidden basement?

Soon, more people walked through the door. Zane tried scanning them, but after two scans it failed to complete a third. Saved to his memory was a blonde teenage boy in green and another teenage boy with long black hair.

There were 8 people in their party total, including Zane’s human looking clone in the front. As soon as they all made it through the door, Father shut it, locked it, barricaded it, and set the camera back in its place.

Father turned to the unfamiliar group. “I think we are safe. This way,” he said as he wrapped his arm around the other Zane. He led the group up the stairs.

As soon as the newcomers was out of sight he quietly pushed open the door and ran out into the middle of the bottom room and looked up at the long staircase. He had so many questions for Father, but right now Father wanted Zane hidden in the basement. As the group made it to the top floor, Zane slowly retreated back to the hidden basement door and then sadly activated the door to completely seal him in the basement alone. Even though there were eight more people within the lighthouse for the first time in his life, Zane never had felt more alone.

For hours, Zane sat in the corner of the basement waiting for his father to return. The room was locked and silent, the only noise coming from the water beyond the glass of the window. He wanted to leave, but he did not want to disobey his father’s command. He sat still, so still that at times he forgot he could move.

Soon the daylight faded and the basement was slowly plunged into darkness. The robot remained still in the corner, waiting for what never came.

He jerked to a standing position when a roar emitted from the ocean. He dashed to the window and tried to peer through, but the dark water covered the window. He ran to the door to the hallway before hesitating.

He knew Father said that he needed to stay put. He needed to hide from the strangers. He knew it was to protect him.

But after that roar, what if it was Father that needed to be protected?

Using that as an overdrive, he ripped open the door and dashed up the hallway. He slammed the button to activate the door and with a rumble it shifted to the side.

The lighthouse was silent. Outside was a loud rumble that scared Zane. “Father!” he cried out, looking upward. There was no response.

“Father?” Zane asked again as he began to rapidly climb the stairs. Again, he received no response.

Filled with worry, Zane emerged on the top floor. “Father, where are you?”

The floor was barren. Even Father’s favorite toolbox was gone.

Zane dashed to the window where he saw a horror.

The Leviathan was pulling the ship into the sea. Zane didn’t have the best eyesight, but he could see the white hair of Father on the deck of the ship.

“No!” Zane yelled. “Father no!”

As the sun broke the horizon, the Leviathan suddenly released the ship. With an awkward wave with a tentacle, the sea creature turned and swam away. Zane watched it go, and then turned back to the ship.

For a moment, the ship levitated in the sky a few hundred feet away from the lighthouse. Zane could no longer see the people on board, but he knew Father was one of them. He waited for the ship to turn around and land, so that Zane would be reunited with Father like it had always been.

Zane watched as the ship boosted the rockets and fly in the opposite direction. Soon, it was a dot in the sky. Not to soon after that, it was gone.

The lighthouse fell silent. Not even TAI-D made a sound. Zane stood at the window and stared at the horizon, determined that the ship would reappear.

He stood at that window for a year.

Wind and rain shook him, but he remained still. The sun rose and set hundreds of times, but he remained still. Rust caused by rain and the ocean’s breeze formed on his entire body, but he remained still.

Zane wouldn’t compute that Father would abandon him like that. He didn’t abandon him, he didn’t forget him. He was left here to be kept safe from the world, from the strangers that mysteriously appeared after the storm.

But Zane would keep remembering the other Zane, and each time he would doubt his importance to his Father. As soon as that replica showed up, Father lost complete interest in the robot hiding in the hidden hallway.

After 473 days, Zane slowly backed away from the window.

His appearance had completely changed. Instead of cool gray, his body was a permanent rust brown with spots that were darker than others. His metal squeaked louder than usual, dangerously loud. His gears felt loose and fragile, his arms seemingly detachable.

With a screeching clunk, Zane sat at the table in the room that was covered in dust and salt. He stared blankly at the wall that was covered in scratches.

Finally, he let his brain compute that Father was gone. It took 473 days for Zane to realize that the strangers that appeared had taken his Father away.

Sensing movement, TAI-D activated and rolled out of its little cubby. It scanned the room, and paused when he saw Zane, sitting at the table and staring into space. It rolled slowly to his friend and put its small hand on his rusted leg.

Zane looked down. “Hello, little friend.” He said sadly. TAI-D made a noise that Zane recognized as a reassuring call. Zane sighed. “How can I not blame myself? I finally found my purpose, and that was to protect my Father because he can’t protect himself. But I failed,” he cried. “Now how am I going to protect him when he’s been taken?”

The tiny robot made another noise. “It’s been 474 days, 13 hours, 57 minutes, and 17 seconds since the ship vanished into the sky. It’s time I realized I’m alone.”

Another noise. Zane smiled. “I know I still have you, little friend.” He agreed. Zane looked out the window across the ocean that once meant hope, but now brought disappointment.

Finally, Zane creaked to a standing position. Looking down at the robot, he said, “I need to be happy again. And Father said that with happiness came cleaning.” He looked around and frowned. “And this home needs some cleaning.” He declared.

For the next week, Zane and TAI-D made the lighthouse spotless. Not a spot of dust could be found anywhere, and every single object was carefully placed and immaculately organized. Zane felt better as he cleaned, but he still felt empty on the inside.

After a few hours of cleaning, however, he realized that his body was in horrible condition. His gears were rusted and dull, and his parts were literally falling apart. TAI-D, who was also apparently programmed with repairs, had to reattach his arms, legs, face plate, and other odds and ends that continuously fell off. TAI-D was always happy to repair, and Zane was incredibly grateful.

The days continued to go. Even though the lighthouse was spotless, Zane needed something to pass his time. He would rearrange the entire lighthouse two times each day, as well as explore the rocks outside and play with the seagulls. The one room that Zane refused to go into was the basement. The room hadn’t of been touched for 523 days.

On day 524, a part in Zane’s chest needed to be replaced because it had been completely rusted over. The tiny robot vanished down the stairs and returned a few minutes later with the part Zane needed. The piece was rusted as well, but it was still usable. Zane gratefully accepted the piece and went back to work.

As time went on, he began to need more and more parts to be replaced, so the tiny robot made more and more trips to the basement. It kept asking Zane to go because it couldn’t reach some of the pieces and therefore the room was messy, but Zane couldn’t will himself to go into that room again.

On day 759, he was forced to go back into that room.

The day started the same, like 760 days ago, but it was the day he was anticipating and dreading. While wiping the table down for the fifth time, a large flying ship appeared in the sky and flew straight towards the lighthouse.

For a second, Zane wasn’t sure what to do. He was frozen at the table while the ship prepared to land on the beach. TAI-D parked itself in its cubby, ready for the strangers. Zane, however, wanted nothing to do with them, even though the ship resembled the same ship that appeared and disappeared 760 days ago.

Before he realized what he was doing, he was standing in front of the hidden door to the basement. He could hear footsteps approaching the front door. Closing his eyes, he activated the hallway door.

As the front door opened and strangers appeared at the doorway for the second time in Zane’s life, Zane was once again hidden in the basement.

To his horror, the basement was spewed with parts and paper. The TAI-D was right, it was too small to reach dig through the boxes, so it dumped out some of them. He felt responsible for cleaning, but he couldn’t do it then. Instead, he retreated to the corner of his nightmares and vanished completely into the shadows.

Not too soon after, an auburn-haired teenager dressed in a dark blue decorated ninja gi appeared at the basement door followed by two other teenage boys. “Wow,” the auburn-haired boy said to himself. “Such good non-existent memories.”  

One teen, who was shrouded in shadow, gasped at the sight of the messy room.

The auburn haired teenager spoke again. “Hello? Zane?”

Zane felt his gears tighten. That stranger knew his name. That was impossible. Was it?

As the third teen began to speak, Zane gathered his courage and spoke to a human for the first time in over two years.

“How do you know my name?”

The third teen whispered something, but the first teenager began to talk to the room. “Zane..I know you are in here. This will sound weird, but I know you. My girlfriend and I met you in an alternate timeline, and you helped us. You were built to protect others?”

He had no idea what the stranger was talking about, but the last part rang true with him. Stepping out of the shadows, he addressed the three strangers. “I was built to protect others who cannot protect themselves.”

“Echo Zane!” The auburn-haired stranger grinned. Echo Zane? Zane thought to himself. The two other strangers gasped in surprise and stepped farther out of the shadows.

His scanning mechanism in his head exploded as he realized that these two strangers almost matched exactly the two strangers he had scanned all those days ago: the blonde haired teen in green and a black haired teen in black. “Wait…” Zane said as he stared at the strangers that he recognized. “You three look familiar,” he said, also connecting the blue dressed teenager with the other two.

The one dressed in green whispered something to the one dressed in blue. “Father…” Zane said out loud without realizing it. The three strangers looked at him like he was crazy. Then the third ninja, the black haired one, said something that confirmed Zane’s suspicions. “Dr. Julien?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.

If a robot could throw up from sudden tremor and anxiety, he would have done it right then. “Father,” he said again, but this time with force behind it. These people were the very strangers. They had taken Father and then returned without Father. Zane narrowed his eyes and said coldly, “You took Father away.”

[streetslight-blog]

2018, up Coming Nokia Smart-phones 20 17 Price Tag

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[showbizchicago]

New American Folk Theatre is pleased to present the Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA, the newest installment of the comedic ‘Tuna’ series, which has entertained audiences across the U.S for over 25 years (Greater Tuna, “A Tuna Christmas, “Red, White and Tuna” and Tuna Does Vegas). Written by Ed Howard, Joe Sears and Jaston Williams and directed by Derek Van Barham, DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA will play February 4 – March 5, 2017 at The Buena at Pride Arts Center, 4147 N. Broadway in Chicago. Tickets are currently available at newamericanfolktheatre.org or by calling (872) 588-5760. 

DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA will feature New American Folk Theatre Company Members Grant Drager and Anthony Whitaker.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA is a “Best Of” Tuna show that follows the story of Bertha Bumiller and her beautifully dysfunctional family. Tuna, TX is the third smallest town in Texas, where the Lion’s Club is too liberal and Patsy Cline never dies. The eclectic band of citizens that make up this town are portrayed by only two performers, making this satire on life in rural America even more powerful as they depict all of the inhabitants of Tuna – men, women, children and animals.

“Playwright Ed Howard asked New American Folk Theatre to present the Midwest premiere of his newest ‘Tuna’ script, Deep in the Heart of Tuna, after seeing our 2015 Jeff-nominated production of The Summer of Daisy Fay in Chicago,” comments Co-Artistic Director Anthony Whitaker. “It’s an honor for us to give Chicago this new ‘Best Of’ Tuna story during the 35th anniversary of the original play – and I look forward to working with Grant Drager to bring the denizens of the third smallest town in Texas to life.”

The production team for DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA includes: Kate Setzer Kamphausen (costume design), Kallie Rolison (sound design) and Jamal Howard (production manager).

  About the Playwrights:

Ed Howard is the co-author with Jaston Williams and Joe Sears of Greater Tuna, A Tuna Christmas, Red, White and Tuna and Tuna Does Vegas. He directs Sears and Williams in the national tours of the Tuna tetralogy. Off-Broadway, he directed Greater Tuna and on Broadway, A Tuna Christmas, which was selected as on of the ten best plays of 1995 and garnered Mr. Sears a Tony nomination. Also Off-Broadway, he directed Laughing Stock by Romulus Lenney, which was selected by TIME magazine as one of the top ten plays of 1984. Mr. Howard is author of several other plays including The Summer of Daisy Fay, based on the novel Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man by Fannie Flagg.

Joe Sears is co-author and co-star of Tuna Does Vegas, as well as co-author and co-star of the wildly successful Tuna Trilogy. Mr. Sears has been touring extensively with the Tuna Trilogy productions since 1982. His sixth tour of A Tuna Christmas included his Broadway debut for which he received a 1995 Tony Award-nomination for Best Actor in a Play. The first record-breaking year included a command performance for President and Mrs. George Bush at the White House. Mr. Sears’ Washington, D.C. engagement of A Tuna Christmas earned him his third nomination for the Helen Hayes Award for Best Actor. A Tuna Christmas was also nominated for Best Play. Mr. Sears also received nominations in 1984 and 1988 for the Helen Hayes Award for his performance in Greater Tuna. He originated these roles off-Broadway when Greater Tuna premiered in 1982 and has performed in the highly successful national tours and co-wrote and starred in the Embassy Television/Norman Lear Special of Greater Tuna, which aired on HBO. Mr. Sears has been acting professionally for more than 30 years. His credits include a season with Theatre Works USA in New York, summer stock, outdoor drama, television and eight Shakespeare plays. Among his many roles are Bottom and Thisby in two separate productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Falstaff in The Merry Wives of Windsor and the Doctor in Three Sisters. He appeared with Fannie Flagg (Fried Green Tomatoes) in The Foreigner. Later, he would play Fannie’s role and attributes his success to her. Mr. Sears has appeared on the David Letterman and Merv Griffin shows and received a Los Angeles Dramalogue Award for his writing and performance of Greater Tuna. Mr. Sears received the 1993 Los Angeles Dramalogue Award for Best Actor in A Tuna Christmas. He performed in the musical comedy The Fantasticks at Ford’s Theatre in Washington, D.C. and at Casa Mañana Theatre in Fort Worth. He made his movie debut with Tommy Lee Jones and Matt Damon in The Good Old Boys. Mr. Sears is the playwright for the Cherokee Nation’s outdoor drama Trail of Tears, which runs during the summer months in Tahlequah, OK. Mr. Sears was awarded the “Theatre LA Ovation Award” for Best Actor 1999. He recently completed the Libretto (along with Mr. Williams) for the new Comic Opera Ochelata’s Wedding, commissioned by the OK Mozart International Music Festival. He and Austin-Nashville songwriter Kimmie Rhodes are now working on a new musical entitled Doin’ God’s Chores, an Austin workshop production. Mr. Sears also owns and operates Cody Stage, a summer stock theatre company in Cody, WY.

Jaston Williams is co-author, co-star and producer of Tuna Does Vegas and is the co-author and co-star of the Tuna Trilogy. Mr. Williams has been creating the citizens of Tuna since 1982. The performances have played on and off Broadway at the Kennedy Center, the Edinburgh International Arts Festival, the Spoleto Festival U.S.A. and all over America. He has received Washington D.C.’s Helen Hayes Award nominations for A Tuna Christmas and Red, White and Tuna, as well as the San Francisco Bay Area Critics Award for Greater Tuna. Mr. Williams received the L.A. Dramalogue Award for both Greater Tuna and A Tuna Christmas. A Tuna Christmas was published in “Best Plays of 1995.” For several years, Mr. Williams toured in Larry Shue’s The Foreigner, for which he received a Helen Hayes Award nomination for Best Actor. He performed in The Fantasticks at Washington D.C.’s Ford’s Theatre and directed the musical Bad Girls Upset By The Truth at Atlanta’s Alliance Theatre. Mr. Williams received the Texas Governors Award for Outstanding Contribution to the Arts by a Native Texan and has performed at the White House on three occasions. In his hometown of Austin, Texas, Mr. Williams has appeared at the State Theatre in Eugene Ionesco’s The Chairs and at Zachary Scott Theatre in Jay Presson Allen’s Tru, for which he received the Austin Critics Table Award for Best Actor in a drama. He most recently appeared at Zachary Scott Theatre in The Laramie Project. His play, Romeo and Thorazine, work-shopped at Zachary Scott Theatre in November 2001. He work-shopped his autobiographical one-man show I’m Not Lying to critical acclaim at Austin’s State Theatre of Texas and returned it there for a full production in February of 2004 as well as a benefit performance at Washington D.C.’s Kennedy Center. His latest autobiographical play, Cowboy Noises, premiered in Austin in February 2008 to critical acclaim.

About the Director:

Derek Van Barham is an Artistic Associate with Pride Films & Plays and a member of the Red Tape Theatre ensemble. PFP credits include Angry Fags (Steppenwolf Garage), BITE and Kill Your Boyfriends (original pieces), Priscilla: Queen of the Desert (with David Zak) and Songs from an Unmade Bed (Jeff nomination). Chicago credits include From These Fatal Loins (The Ruckus), Miracle! and Skooby Don’t (Hell in a Handbag) and TRASH (New American Folk Theatre). Movement: Coraline, Amour, and Goblin Market (Black Button Eyes) and pieces for La Chingada and Salonathon. He was named one of Windy City Times’ 30 Under 30, honoring individuals from Chicago’s LGBTQ+ communities, and currently performs with the queer improv team Baby Wine. MFA: CCPA/Roosevelt University. www.derekvanbarham.com.

About New American Folk Theatre

New American Folk Theatre is dedicated to folk theatre, music, education, and stories that shine new light on the American tale. We strive to educate the public on works worthy of inclusion to the American theatrical canon. Through utilitarian efforts of using the resources around us, we will produce impactful theatre and other artistic projects that help us learn and grow as a society. For additional information, visit www.newamericanfolktheatre.org.

About Pride Arts Center

Pride Arts Center (PAC) opened in 2016 and consists of two performance spaces: The Buena at 4147 N. Broadway which has 50 seats and The Broadway at 4139 N. Broadway which has 85 seats, and it is run by Pride Films and Plays. PAC has become an important part of the arts environment in the Buena Park neighborhood and beyond by hosting events including After Orlando, Bechdel Fest, SheFest and the 525,600 Minutes Cabaret. For more information about space at Pride Arts Center, visit www.prideartscenter.com.

  New American Folk Theatre’s “DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA” runs Feb 4 – March 5 at Pride Arts Center

New American Folk Theatre is pleased to present the Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA…

New American Folk Theatre’s “DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA” runs Feb 4 – March 5 at Pride Arts Center New American Folk Theatre is pleased to present the Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA…

[showbizchicago]

New American Folk Theatre is pleased to present the Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA, the newest installment of the comedic ‘Tuna’ series, which has entertained audiences across the U.S for over 25 years (Greater Tuna, “A Tuna Christmas, “Red, White and Tuna” and Tuna Does Vegas). Written by Ed Howard, Joe Sears and Jaston Williams and directed by Derek Van Barham, DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA will play February 4 – March 5, 2017 at The Buena at Pride Arts Center, 4147 N. Broadway in Chicago. Tickets are currently available at newamericanfolktheatre.org or by calling (872) 588-5760. 

DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA will feature New American Folk Theatre Company Members Grant Drager and Anthony Whitaker.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

Anthony Whitaker and Grant Drager in a publicity image for New American Folk Theatre’s Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA. Photo by Paul Clark.

DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA is a “Best Of” Tuna show that follows the story of Bertha Bumiller and her beautifully dysfunctional family. Tuna, TX is the third smallest town in Texas, where the Lion’s Club is too liberal and Patsy Cline never dies. The eclectic band of citizens that make up this town are portrayed by only two performers, making this satire on life in rural America even more powerful as they depict all of the inhabitants of Tuna – men, women, children and animals.

“Playwright Ed Howard asked New American Folk Theatre to present the Midwest premiere of his newest ‘Tuna’ script, Deep in the Heart of Tuna, after seeing our 2015 Jeff-nominated production of The Summer of Daisy Fay in Chicago,” comments Co-Artistic Director Anthony Whitaker. “It’s an honor for us to give Chicago this new ‘Best Of’ Tuna story during the 35th anniversary of the original play – and I look forward to working with Grant Drager to bring the denizens of the third smallest town in Texas to life.”

The production team for DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA includes: Kate Setzer Kamphausen (costume design), Kallie Rolison (sound design) and Jamal Howard (production manager).

  About the Playwrights:

Ed Howard is the co-author with Jaston Williams and Joe Sears of Greater Tuna, A Tuna Christmas, Red, White and Tuna and Tuna Does Vegas. He directs Sears and Williams in the national tours of the Tuna tetralogy. Off-Broadway, he directed Greater Tuna and on Broadway, A Tuna Christmas, which was selected as on of the ten best plays of 1995 and garnered Mr. Sears a Tony nomination. Also Off-Broadway, he directed Laughing Stock by Romulus Lenney, which was selected by TIME magazine as one of the top ten plays of 1984. Mr. Howard is author of several other plays including The Summer of Daisy Fay, based on the novel Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man by Fannie Flagg.

Joe Sears is co-author and co-star of Tuna Does Vegas, as well as co-author and co-star of the wildly successful Tuna Trilogy. Mr. Sears has been touring extensively with the Tuna Trilogy productions since 1982. His sixth tour of A Tuna Christmas included his Broadway debut for which he received a 1995 Tony Award-nomination for Best Actor in a Play. The first record-breaking year included a command performance for President and Mrs. George Bush at the White House. Mr. Sears’ Washington, D.C. engagement of A Tuna Christmas earned him his third nomination for the Helen Hayes Award for Best Actor. A Tuna Christmas was also nominated for Best Play. Mr. Sears also received nominations in 1984 and 1988 for the Helen Hayes Award for his performance in Greater Tuna. He originated these roles off-Broadway when Greater Tuna premiered in 1982 and has performed in the highly successful national tours and co-wrote and starred in the Embassy Television/Norman Lear Special of Greater Tuna, which aired on HBO. Mr. Sears has been acting professionally for more than 30 years. His credits include a season with Theatre Works USA in New York, summer stock, outdoor drama, television and eight Shakespeare plays. Among his many roles are Bottom and Thisby in two separate productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Falstaff in The Merry Wives of Windsor and the Doctor in Three Sisters. He appeared with Fannie Flagg (Fried Green Tomatoes) in The Foreigner. Later, he would play Fannie’s role and attributes his success to her. Mr. Sears has appeared on the David Letterman and Merv Griffin shows and received a Los Angeles Dramalogue Award for his writing and performance of Greater Tuna. Mr. Sears received the 1993 Los Angeles Dramalogue Award for Best Actor in A Tuna Christmas. He performed in the musical comedy The Fantasticks at Ford’s Theatre in Washington, D.C. and at Casa Mañana Theatre in Fort Worth. He made his movie debut with Tommy Lee Jones and Matt Damon in The Good Old Boys. Mr. Sears is the playwright for the Cherokee Nation’s outdoor drama Trail of Tears, which runs during the summer months in Tahlequah, OK. Mr. Sears was awarded the “Theatre LA Ovation Award” for Best Actor 1999. He recently completed the Libretto (along with Mr. Williams) for the new Comic Opera Ochelata’s Wedding, commissioned by the OK Mozart International Music Festival. He and Austin-Nashville songwriter Kimmie Rhodes are now working on a new musical entitled Doin’ God’s Chores, an Austin workshop production. Mr. Sears also owns and operates Cody Stage, a summer stock theatre company in Cody, WY.

Jaston Williams is co-author, co-star and producer of Tuna Does Vegas and is the co-author and co-star of the Tuna Trilogy. Mr. Williams has been creating the citizens of Tuna since 1982. The performances have played on and off Broadway at the Kennedy Center, the Edinburgh International Arts Festival, the Spoleto Festival U.S.A. and all over America. He has received Washington D.C.’s Helen Hayes Award nominations for A Tuna Christmas and Red, White and Tuna, as well as the San Francisco Bay Area Critics Award for Greater Tuna. Mr. Williams received the L.A. Dramalogue Award for both Greater Tuna and A Tuna Christmas. A Tuna Christmas was published in “Best Plays of 1995.” For several years, Mr. Williams toured in Larry Shue’s The Foreigner, for which he received a Helen Hayes Award nomination for Best Actor. He performed in The Fantasticks at Washington D.C.’s Ford’s Theatre and directed the musical Bad Girls Upset By The Truth at Atlanta’s Alliance Theatre. Mr. Williams received the Texas Governors Award for Outstanding Contribution to the Arts by a Native Texan and has performed at the White House on three occasions. In his hometown of Austin, Texas, Mr. Williams has appeared at the State Theatre in Eugene Ionesco’s The Chairs and at Zachary Scott Theatre in Jay Presson Allen’s Tru, for which he received the Austin Critics Table Award for Best Actor in a drama. He most recently appeared at Zachary Scott Theatre in The Laramie Project. His play, Romeo and Thorazine, work-shopped at Zachary Scott Theatre in November 2001. He work-shopped his autobiographical one-man show I’m Not Lying to critical acclaim at Austin’s State Theatre of Texas and returned it there for a full production in February of 2004 as well as a benefit performance at Washington D.C.’s Kennedy Center. His latest autobiographical play, Cowboy Noises, premiered in Austin in February 2008 to critical acclaim.

About the Director:

Derek Van Barham is an Artistic Associate with Pride Films & Plays and a member of the Red Tape Theatre ensemble. PFP credits include Angry Fags (Steppenwolf Garage), BITE and Kill Your Boyfriends (original pieces), Priscilla: Queen of the Desert (with David Zak) and Songs from an Unmade Bed (Jeff nomination). Chicago credits include From These Fatal Loins (The Ruckus), Miracle! and Skooby Don’t (Hell in a Handbag) and TRASH (New American Folk Theatre). Movement: Coraline, Amour, and Goblin Market (Black Button Eyes) and pieces for La Chingada and Salonathon. He was named one of Windy City Times’ 30 Under 30, honoring individuals from Chicago’s LGBTQ+ communities, and currently performs with the queer improv team Baby Wine. MFA: CCPA/Roosevelt University. www.derekvanbarham.com.

About New American Folk Theatre

New American Folk Theatre is dedicated to folk theatre, music, education, and stories that shine new light on the American tale. We strive to educate the public on works worthy of inclusion to the American theatrical canon. Through utilitarian efforts of using the resources around us, we will produce impactful theatre and other artistic projects that help us learn and grow as a society. For additional information, visit www.newamericanfolktheatre.org.

About Pride Arts Center

Pride Arts Center (PAC) opened in 2016 and consists of two performance spaces: The Buena at 4147 N. Broadway which has 50 seats and The Broadway at 4139 N. Broadway which has 85 seats, and it is run by Pride Films and Plays. PAC has become an important part of the arts environment in the Buena Park neighborhood and beyond by hosting events including After Orlando, Bechdel Fest, SheFest and the 525,600 Minutes Cabaret. For more information about space at Pride Arts Center, visit www.prideartscenter.com.

  New American Folk Theatre’s “DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA” runs Feb 4 – March 5 at Pride Arts Center New American Folk Theatre is pleased to present the Midwest premiere of DEEP IN THE HEART OF TUNA…