#I almost stepped on a rattlesnake once looking for rocks

[masterwords]

Time To React

Summary: Hotch gets bit by a snake and John Blackwolf saves the day. Also, there are kisses.

Warnings: hospital, vomit, a rattlesnake bite, snakes, blood

Pairings: Hotch/John Blackwolf

Words: 3.2k

Notes: 50 Types of Kisses Prompt #35 - An awkward kiss given after a first date. Well, I got jokes huh? Stepping out of the very comfy Hotch/Morgan cave for JUST a second to make this happen...

Read on AO3: Time To React

**

The sky was too open, he thought, like it might swallow him whole. Dismal gray to brilliant, royal blue and dotted with specks of the finest dust, flickering wildly. A celestial blanket. His eyes searched for a tree on the skyline, anything to draw him out of the gaping wound that was the night sky. The expanse was endless, it stole his breath. Beneath his feet, rocks crunched and ground into the tread of his boots, the sound almost deafening as he walked through space. He may as well have been on the moon for all he knew, except he could hear Emily grumbling up ahead, her flashlight darting to and fro wildly. Her frustration was palpable, she didn't want to be here...it was hot, dusty, silt crusted sweat on their brow and every crevice, every fold of skin held onto the clay it created. Aaron could easily have been swept up in her agitation except John Blackwolf walked beside him, so calm, his footsteps barely audible while Aaron's fell heavy.

“Look out.” John was swift, tugging the sleeve of Aaron's shirt, changing his path before he brushed against a cactus that sat so low it was barely visible in the receding light. “Cereus. Queen of the Night.” He pulled Aaron toward a larger specimen, drenched in ghostly white blooms glowing in the pale moonlight. “She's beautiful, but she'll hook you.”

Aaron found himself dazzled by the bloom, unable to tear his eyes from the way it reflected the silvery light from the moon. He thought of Ophelia, beautiful and innocent, drowned. “These bloom only at night, once, maybe twice. We're fortunate to see it.” His hand grazed Aaron's briefly, knuckles brushing in the chilly desert air and Aaron paused, his attention immediately turning to Emily who was yards ahead of them still grumbling to herself. They were working, it wasn't the time, but he couldn't help momentarily taking in the way the moon illuminated John's striking profile, the way his jet black hair glistened like a raven's wing. The stars held no beauty that could match. John didn't seem to notice him looking, or if he did, he allowed him the reverie without a word.

“What exactly are we looking for here?” Emily asked, breaking up the moment. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she did so with glee. “I'm not seeing anything out here but a bunch of tumbleweed...”

“This is a creosote bush,” John indicated, crouching beside one of the shrubs. “Larrea Triduntada. Not tumbleweed.” He considered continuing, but the way she rolled her eyes pleased him enough that he stopped and crushed a few of the leaves between fingers and thumb, breathing deep the scent of the oil it gave off. He extended his hand to Aaron who leaned forward and smelled it, smiling at the medicinal quality it gave off. It reminded him of being young, of having a sick day from school curled up on the couch and choking down spoonfuls of whatever tincture his mother decided would cure his ailment. When offered to Emily, she shook her head no.

“I'll pass,” she muttered, amused at the two of them. John wasn't so different from Reid, his demeanor was a little calmer, a little cooler but he was a fountain of knowledge that overflowed in much the same way. He shrugged and stood, dusting off the knees of his pants.

“We are looking for a dart,” John finally answered her. “Something small.” Aaron pulled out a folded up piece of paper from his pocket, the interior of which held a drawing that had to have been sketched by Reid, there was no way it had been the work of anyone else's hand. She groaned.

“Reid says it would look like this.”

“And we're supposed to find it at night?”

“With the heat index during the day, this is the safest time to be out here,” John pointed out in a dry monotone, taking a step away from them. “There are likely many of them, we need only find one.”

It was Aaron who happened upon the first dart, a bright red flicker beneath his flashlight's beam. At first he'd almost mistaken it for another cactus bloom, but it was suspicious enough that he crouched before it and hollered that he'd found something. The sharp end was lodged inside of a green garden hose at the base of a tree, inside of a mess of shrubs. Creosote bush, he reminded himself. He reached his hand inside, and as his fingers gripped the soft crimson feather he heard the sound of a baby's rattle; fear shivered down his spine and settled in his hips. He pulled his hand back immediately, fear dizzying him in his reaction.

The last time he'd come face to face with a snake he'd been a small boy, terrified...in his mind it was a cobra, a King Cobra looming over him but his mother loved to remind him it was a garter snake slithering through the flower bed. Wisdom told him now that she was right, and that same wisdom told him that this was absolutely not a harmless garter snake. Too late, one venomous fang managed to nick the skin of his palm, raking down the meaty flesh at the base of his thumb. He heard himself gasp but felt detached from it, like the sound belonged to someone else entirely. Cradling his hand against his chest, he stumbled backward with as much grace as he could manage, his feet nearly going out from under him more than once. It wasn't that he was panicked, but with his eyes trained on the spot in case the snake unfurled and lunged at him, he wanted to put as much distance as he could between them. There was no movement, and briefly, before the burning hit, he wondered if he'd just scraped himself on a thorn, if he'd been making it up...but the pain, when it began, was immense and left no room for doubt.

“I found one.” He tried to make his voice carry over the sound of his pounding heart, standing and staring at the spot like the shadow itself might come alive and attack him. He blinked hard, trying to focus his eyes, squinting into the moonlit bush. “Don't...” he gasped, hazarding a glance at his hand. “Don't go after it yet.” He was already lightheaded, maybe from the shock or from the bite itself, he had no way of knowing. The thundering of his heart drowned out all other noise, and loud as it was, and panicked as he felt...it sounded wrong, slow, erratic. His thumb was filled with sparks, a firework show beneath his skin.

“I uh,” he muttered, adam's apple bobbing as he tried to gulp down the worry. “I got bit by something.” He knew what it was, what the something was, and the moment John saw his pale, drawn features and the way he held his hand, he knew as well. Reaching beside the nearby shed, he grabbed for a pitchfork and approached the bush with long, cautious steps. He nudged the dirt with the toe of his boot, disturbed the snake enough to hear its warning rattle and dug the pitchfork into the area so quickly it was surreal. Aaron blinked hard, every move John made was in slow motion, the light creating tracers behind his arms and legs. John twisted the pitchfork and came up with a snake looped around the prongs like a long spaghetti noodle. Aaron thought about teaching Jack how to eat spaghetti, using his fork to twist the noodles into a bite and the thought made him smile. The snake lashed out, twining itself around and around the prongs, into a knot while John got a good hard look at it, taking in every marking before hurling it and the pitchfork like a javelin as far as he could. He wasn't going to kill the snake for defending itself, but he wasn't going to let it attack again either.

“Emily,” he shouted, waving her over. “Call 911, we have a snakebite – a western diamondback rattlesnake, they'll need to come with...” he took hold of Aaron's rapidly swelling hand and frowned. “At least two vials of antivenin in order to get to the hospital from here.” He had enough experience with snake bites, especially with hikers much further out, to have a fairly good understanding of just how long it took to get to a hospital to receive care. She wasted no time getting on the line, and he noted with some surprise that she sounded calm as she rattled off the information he'd given her and the address to their location.

“Come with me.” John's voice was soft, assured, not a trace of fear and Aaron clung to it. Without any trepidation, John placed his hand atop Aaron's wrist and pressed his injured palm flat against his abdomen. He held Aaron's hand in place with gentle pressure, keeping the injury still and low. Aaron wondered if everyone got this treatment or if he was special, if John wanted to be closer to him. The thought occupied his mind for one blissful moment before the pain rocked him with another wave. John whispered something against his cheek, it was soothing even if Aaron couldn't hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, and he could feel the tears sticky on his cheeks even if he hadn't realized he was crying. Everything felt surreal, he wasn't in control of anything his body seemed to be doing. Slowly, John wrapped his other arm around Aaron and began walking him around the house toward the driveway...the road was a fair distance away, and they would make it well before the ambulance, but he wanted to keep Aaron calm. “We will meet the ambulance at the road,” he whispered, and Aaron nodded, noting that swallowing was becoming more challenging. It took two good, solid tries for him to manage to swallow the thick feeling in his mouth. He felt sick and focused on keeping that in check.

“Ten minutes,” Emily said breathless, catching up to them. “Will he make it?”

“Of course he will,” was John's very confident reply. He really didn't know, of course, but the last thing he needed was to panic either of them. “I need you to go back and get the dart. Grab something to poke into the bush with first, make sure nothing else is in there. That snake will be long gone but it may have had a partner nearby. If we don't get that dart, this has all been for nothing.”

Aaron let out a wet sounding cough and John knew what happened next, though he'd hoped they might make it further before it happened. He stopped, let him bend over and be sick on the side of the dirt driveway. He wasn't able to get out of the way before it happened and his boot took the brunt of the first wave. With his free hand splayed now against Aaron's upper back, he patted and rubbed, ran it along the length of his spine reassuringly. Aaron was sweating, quiet, panting between the violence of the heaves. It was mostly water and bile, Aaron didn't eat much and for that they were both very thankful. “It's okay. Don't fight it, you can't win this battle with pride.”

Aaron stumbled as he walked, every jerking motion causing him to bite into his lip to keep from crying out in pain. The pressure of John's hand on his rapidly swelling appendage was almost too much to bear but there was something oddly comforting about it and he couldn't fathom asking him to alter his grip or let go. It hurt all the way up his arm, his elbow and shoulder frozen and locked in place; every single movement felt like shattering glass inside of his joints. As they walked, achingly slow, John spoke to him in a voice hardly audible over the blood rushing in his ears – one of his lectures, he recognized; it was one of the long boring ones Aaron knew he'd fallen asleep to by phone plenty of nights when he was too wired, too stressed out to consider closing his eyes. John, with the patience of a saint, would launch into something Aaron had little to no interest in, rehearsing an upcoming lecture in a voice that became like a sleep tincture. It was working now, too, keeping him calm to the point that his feet drug against the dirt more than once, his eyelids heavy. This is a dangerous game you're playing, Johnny boy, he told himself...there was something to be said for keeping a victim calm, but quite another for going overboard, it was a balancing act to keep his blood pressure from tipping too far in either direction.

“Are you gonna suck the venom out like in the movies?” Emily huffed, coming up beside them with the dart held triumphantly ahead of her. She had, more or less, saved their asses...at least they would have something to analyze, something to make their charge of their suspect stick. Aaron's peril wasn't for naught. John was now sitting on the ground with Aaron lying back against his chest, his head rested against John's shoulder and face turned to the expanse of starry sky above them. He was lost somewhere out there, traveling light-years away, tripping through the universe on a constant wave of pain and nausea while John watched over him. He had, in the last few minutes, exhausted himself entirely and begun shivering uncontrollably, but they were still winning John figured, he was still breathing, he was still alive. John glanced up at her, tried to read her features when she asked again. “You know, some Crocodile Dundee shit?” Joking, he noted; clearly, she was someone who wasn't comfortable with serious situations. He offered her a smile and stroked Aaron's hair mindlessly.

“While it does carry a certain allure, that is not recommended,” he replied softly, indicating for her to have a seat beside them. “It has been found to be ineffective, and worse, leads to infection. We need him to remain calm and keep the bite below his heart so that the venom doesn't spread too fast. He will be okay, Agent Prentiss.”

“I'm not worried,” she muttered, clearly worried. She paced back and forth staring at the dart, the bright red feathers weatherworn and rough; she couldn't fathom sitting down or even stopping, she was bubbling over with nervous energy. “Who says I'm worried?” He smiled at her knowingly and hummed, an earthy, deep baritone resonating in his throat. Aaron coughed and leaned forward, sick again but this time it was blood that came up and John hummed louder, a calming sound quickly interrupted by the faraway scream of sirens.

The ICU was packed. It was small, only four beds, each separated by a thick blue curtain. It didn't lend much more than the illusion of privacy, but for once Aaron really didn't mind. He didn't have much experience being in the hospital alone, as it turned out, and he didn't care for it. The elderly woman beside him had coded twice since he'd been there, fitfully in and out of an oddly dreamless sleep. Each time he pried open his eyes, he found himself turning his head to see if she made it through, smiling to himself at the sight of her there. He thought he'd like to know her name, hoped she might wake up to let him know. His arm rested at his side, cradled in soft pillows and covered in a mapwork of intricate black sharpie circles and lines, nearly illegible scrawls with timestamps tracking the travels of the venom along his veins like rivers. The swelling in his hand was almost cartoonish, fingers purple and sausage like. He couldn't move them, his arm was weighted, too heavy to lift. The morphine was strong enough that he didn't notice much of the pain unless he really focused there, and found himself mostly wondering how much his skin could take before it burst open. The IV and all of its various tubes protruded from the other hand, thick layers of tape holding everything in place. He didn't move much, didn't dare. There was a bright red line coursing alongside the black marker, he could see it even in the dark, noting the way the infection trickled slowly like salmon upstream.

“You know,” John said from above him as his eyes fluttered open, “you didn't need to get bit by a snake to get me to hold your hand. You could have just asked.” He watched the clock on the wall tick the seconds by much too quickly toward the hour he'd be told to leave, come back in the morning. He was already pushing his luck, he still had work to do, they still had a killer to catch. Any minute now he would get a call with the results of the lab tests run on the dart and it would be back to work. But he'd allowed himself this reprieve, brief as it may be. As much as he prided himself on his singular mind, his ability to focus, he found that in this instance...the life of someone very important to him hanging in the balance took some precedence over the job. Aaron, barely awake, felt the flush that burned from his collarbone to his jaw and he smiled. It was soft, loopy, his eyes squinty and nearly closed. If not for the machines pumping and beeping and sighing around him, he almost looked sweet.

“What can I say? I like to make an impression.” The words were slurred and lazy, his voice impossibly deep. John wouldn't mind hearing him sound like this more often, there was something charming and very southern in his Virginia drawl that he worked so hard to keep hidden.

“Agent Hotchner,” John began, his face serious in the shadows. “You may safely assume that you have made an impression. Long before your brush with death.” With a quick glance hazarded around the small curtained off area, ensuring that no prying eyes might have occasion to see, he leaned down until his lips hovered just barely above Aaron's. There was a certain amount of pride he took in the way the heart monitor sped up, beats skipping joyfully. “Your machines betray you.”

Quickly, under cover of the shadows, he dared to make the first move, pressing a soft kiss to Aaron's waiting lips. Just beyond the curtain he heard the squeak of nurse's shoes, low voices, but they remained outside of their small refuge. This kiss, he realized with some satisfaction, had been too long in the making...long distance relationships were built on a mountain of longing, waiting eagerly, and their jobs hadn't provided any leeway. As their lips met, Aaron's kiss weak but eager and tasting vaguely medicinal, he could feel his own pulse quicken and thought it best not to press his luck with Aaron's heart. With him safely tucked into an ICU bed and being pumped with antivenom, they had bought themselves time. There would be more kisses.

“I'll come back first thing in the morning,” he whispered against Aaron's lips. “I expect progress, Captain America.”

#aaron hotchner #john blackwolf #emily prentiss #hotchwolf #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #hurt/comfort

[thiswasinevitableid]

For monster March! 27 Indruck sfw/nsfw

Here we go! I went SFW for this one.

Thanks to @bellafarallones for helping me brainstorm

27 was: Harpy

One would think that, once one has been forcibly transformed into a horrible avian monster, one’s life could only go up from there.

One would be wrong. Or perhaps Indrid has been cursed by the fates with more bad luck than he thought possible. Because now he’s flying faster than a gale with a dozen heroes at his heels; the king has offered the hand of all three of his beautiful daughters to the man to bring him Indrid’s’ wings. For Indrid’s head, he’ll give away his handsome son.

Indrid has tried every spell and trick he knows; in spite of their reputation as all brawn and no brain, the heroes are unhelpfully prepared. Every spell is countered, every trick foreseen, and Indrid cannot fly forever. So he summons up the last spell he knows, a strange and difficult incantation to send the caster, “to a place where their enemies can never reach them.”

The shouts die out and the spears and arrows no longer skim his feathers. The sun is bright and warm above him. And he has only time to say “fuck” before he collides with the mountainside that has suddenly appeared in front of him.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey, Duck, can you look and see if you see what I think I see?”

“Uh, sure thing.” Duck adjusts his hat as Juno steps aside, then peers into the telescope, “you mean that wing on the ledge about halfway up?”

“Yep. Glad you see it too; sometimes the heat out here really gets to me. Hate to say it, but given the angle of the wing and the fact it ain’t movin’, I think we got a dead specimen.”

“Damn. I’ll go take a look, see if it’s tagged and make sure the cause of death ain’t man-made. Swear to fuck, if I find out it’s been shot I’m gonna start settin traps for those poachers myself.”

“Okay tiger.” Juno pats his arm with a smirk, “radio if you get in a fix.”

Duck grabs his water bottle and sets off towards the cliffs. Every now and then, the glare of the desert sun is cut by a huge shadow and a condor spirals down to a nest or favorite lookout. They’re an hour away from sunset, so it’s not as hot as it could be, but it means he has to go extra slow once he starts picking his way up the rocks; rattlesnakes will be coming out about now and the last fucking thing he needs is to be airlifted into the city.

He only radios back once, to have Juno confirm he’s on the right track. When he finally hauls himself up onto the ledge, the resulting “what the fuck” bounces off the surrounding rocks.

What he thought was a dead condor is a fucking guy. With wings.

“What the fuck?” He repeats to the dust as he kneels and reaches out to check for a pulse. There’s a faint one, thank fuck. He quickly checks the guy over, discovering his right wing is broken and that he’s bruised and scratched from his fall.

“Duck to base, Duck to base, do you copy?”

“We copy sport” Thacker’s voice crackles through, “what’s the damage?”

“We need a rescue stretcher out here; we got an injured person out here who needs med attention ASAP.”

“Roger that, Juno and Pigeon will be there soon as they can. Base out.”

“Copy that. Duck out.” He clicks the walky-talky back into his belt, does his best to shade the fallen figure with his own shadow. As his co-worker’s voices creep closer, he studies the visitor. His hair is pale, almost silver, and his bare chest is tan. Both it and his arms are covered in scars and tattoos. Dark feathers dip from his wings down across his collarbone, then reappear at his hips and cover his legs before giving way to taloned feet.

“What happened to you, huh?” Duck murmurs, brushing dust from the man’s cheek.

“Okay, how do we wanna jesuschrist!”

“That about sums it up.” He turns to Juno, “I got no fuckin clue how he got here or what he is.”

“Harpy.” Pigeon begins arranging the stretcher, shrugs as they both shoot her a puzzled look, “my mom is super into birds and bird myths and stuff.”

“....Honestly that makes this even more confusing.” Juno picks up her walky-talky, “I’ll let ‘em know we need someone taken into the hospital.”

Duck shakes his head, “I think we oughta treat him here; we got a vet here who can fix huge wings. Hospital may actually fuck that up and make it so he can’t fly.”

Juno thinks a moment, then nods, “Okay, but if we see the human parts of him takin’ a turn, I’m callin’ AirEvac.”

Duck watches a captivating, dusty face wince with some bad dream.

“Deal.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid awakens with an ache in his wing and, alarmingly, some sort of tube connected to his arm. He’s in some form of tent, sand and scrubby plants visible through the flap. Along one wall of it is a table covered in what must be doctor’s tools. At the end of it is a man, short and sturdy, writing on a pad of paper. His clothing is green-brown and dusty, and a broad brimmed hat perches on his head.

This is unlike any underworld he’s ever heard of. Which means….

“I am not dead.”

The man turns, startled, which sends his hat to the ground. His face is round and soft, and with his eagle’s eyes Indrid spies smile lines and crow's feet at the edges of his green eyes.

Perhaps this is fate’s repayment for all his bad luck; the most handsome man in the world, looking at him not with revulsion, but relief.

“Uh, howdy. You’re up.”

“Indeed.”

“You…feelin okay?”

Indrid blinks, unsure of what that means.

“Uh, do you feel good? Bad?”

“I feel…perplexed. And injured, but that you already know. What is in my arm?”

“You were real fuckin dehydrated when we found you, so we got some fluids into you just to be on the safe side. Since you weren’t awake, we had to do it that way.”

“I see.” Indrid cocks his head, “I do not suppose you know where we are?”

“Middle of nowhere, Arizona, near one side of the Grand Canyon and in the backyard of Amnesty Lodge and Roadhouse.” The human tilts his head, “out there is Kepler Wildlife preserve, includin a condor rookery. Which is why we even found you; thought your wing was one of theirs. I’m, uh, I’m Duck Newton. It’s a nickname”

“You may call me Indrid. And what year is this?”

“2022.”

“Goodness!” His feathers poof up and the human hides a smile, “ah, of course, the spell sent me not only across space, but time as well. How…nice.” Panic rises in his chest at the thought of facing an unknown world in this accursed form.

“You time-traveled? Fuck, man, that is so fuckin cool?”

“It sent me somewhere hot.”

“Uh, sorry, figure of speech. Means it’s real incredible.”

“Thank you. I, ah, apologies, it has been a long time since I was paid a compliment or spoken to like an equal. My skills in such matters are a bit rusty.”

“S’alright, no one here’s gonna get mad at you. Oh, that reminds me” he pushes open the tent flap, “be right back, got something for you.”

Indrid waits patiently, his future sight slowly swirling to life behind his skull. He uses it to follow Duck’s path, then sags when he understands what’s to come.

“Brought you some chow. Uh, food. Even if you weren’t out there that long, dinner’ll do you good.”

“I can’t. I am only allowed to eat what I can steal from the wicked.”

“....What? Says who?”

“Everyone knows that is the way of Harpies.”

The human frowns, steps closer, and then turns his back, holding the plate out, “Uh, I, uh, lied. Definitely lied, this is my dinner, so not yours, very, uh, very much mine. Sure be a shame if someone took it when I wasn’t lookin’.”

Indrid almost points out that Duck is far from wicked, but a quick glance at the futures shows nothing bad will happen from it. He snatches the tray.

“Aw dang, wily harpy took my food.” Duck turns around smiling and winks. Indrid’s cheeks ache and realizes it’s from smiling back.

“Indeed he did. Relatedly, what is all of this? I only recognize bread and grapes.”

“Ham and cheese sandwich, Twinkie, and some sour cream and onion chips. Oh, and Gatorade. It’ll help with hydration.”

Indrid eats the familiar foods first, discards the chips after one bite (Duck gladly eats the rest), downs the sweet, blue liquid from the bottle and nearly swallows the strange cake that is the Twinkie in one bite.

He chirps softly, eyes heavy with sleep, and keeps doing so until Duck looks at him.

“You are my hero.” He murmurs.

“Just doin’ the decent thing.”

“I like your voice. Please, keep talking until I am asleep.”

A soft, absurd laugh that brightens Indrid’s heart like a temple lantern, “Think I can manage that.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------

This is getting ridiculous.

It’s not that Duck minds the song and dance needed to get Indrid to eat, but it’s clearly frustrating the harpy more with each passing day. He wants to be able to eat by himself in the Lodge, or alongside Duck and the other rangers and research staff by the campfire (he’s become obsessed with S’mores, ate the last bath with such enthusiasm that Duck had to help him get marshmallow out of his feathers. Given that it made Indrid laugh and allowed Duck to pet the exquisite black down around his chest, the ranger isn’t complaining).

So today, he’s trying a new approach. He asked Indrid to get dinner with him in the Lodge. And when the harpy slides into the worn booth across from him–wearing a spare shirt of Duck’s with holes cut into the back for his wings and a pair of loose, linen shorts someone left behind in their room–Duck slides him the menu.

“I can’t.”

“What’ll happen if you do?” Duck keeps his voice gentle and curious; if something bad actually will happen, he doesn’t want to scare his friend into it.

“I, I was told it was what fate had in store.”

Duck nods, remembering a conversation they had two weeks ago by the campfire.

“So…is bein’ a harpy genetic? Or do you get turned into one, like a werewolf?”

“It is closer to the second, at least as I understand it from those captivating love stories you brought me. I…I was a seer. It was my job to interpret fate. I did it well, did my very best not to question or interfere in the timelines I saw. I, I tried to interfere once when the future was too terrible to contemplate, but it went poorly and resulted in the death of a certain gods most favored hero. He cursed me as punishment.”

“Fuck that guy.”

Indrid gasps, then laughs, “You see; you are the bravest man I know.”

“I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.” Duck bumps his shoulder against the uninjured wing. Tentatively, it unfurls, draping over his shoulder.

“Had there been more heroes like you, perhaps I would never have fled. All the same, I am glad fate brought us together.”

Duck rubs a thumb along the condensation on his water glass, “Is it fate, or was it just something someone told you about being a harpy to make sure your life was harder than it needed to be?” He takes Indrid’s hand, “you got future vision, right? Why not peek and just see what’d happen if you ate without ‘stealin’’ it?”

“Very well. I will look but I still think it is…it is, as you say, bullshit!” Indrid’s eyes go from cloudy to bright red, “All this time stealing and starving and I could have just eaten as anyone else does!” He grabs the menu just as Dani, one of the Lodge staff, approaches, “Four of the cinnamon buns, two of the hot cocoas, and a plate of bacon. Please.”

Duck gives his order and as Dani moves towards the kitchen she gives him a thumbs up and whispers, “glad it worked.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid leans on the bar as Mama, Amnesty’s owner, counts out the tips into a stack between them. She offered Indrid the job when he expressed discomfort with relying on her charity too long for a roof over his head, and between her and Barclay’s coaching and his future sight, Indrid quickly picked up the needed skills.

“We did mighty nice tonight.” She slides his half of the tips over (the few waitstaff get theirs separately), “strange as it sounds, more we move from spring into summer, the busier this place gets. People travelin’ on vacation and all that.”

“I am glad to hear it. Barclay’s pies are worth such a journey all on their own.”

Mama smiles at him, tucks her share into her pocket, “Speakin of the summer, there’s a good chance we’ll need all the rooms available for guests. I ain’t talked with Duck yet, but it might be best if you can bunk with him in the cabin for a month or two. Or we could get you a real nice tent, if campin’ is more your style.”

“Sharing the space with Duck is more than fine, if he is amenable.”

Something in Mama’s nod suggests she was expecting that answer. And why wouldn’t she? Duck is Indrid’s friend and they’re in each other's spaces constantly. Besides, room is covered as part of his job, so it does not bother him if she needs him to move now and then.

Duck happily agrees to share the cabin, though Indrid isn’t an “official” resident. The state pays Mama rent for one of the few cabins on her property on Duck’s behalf, since he’s one of three permanent rangers on this side of the park. Technically no one else is supposed to be there, but no one ever comes to check.

That isolation is something he’s come to enjoy about Amnesty and Kepler. As he packs up his few belongings, it occurs to him that he can count the number of times he went into the nearest town on one talon. Once was to help Barclay with a supply run, once was to go to a movie–what a wonderful invention those are, far more pleasant than cars or telephones if you ask him–with Duck, and once was to go to a used clothing store for some suitable attire.

(Duck still teases him for favoring “Hawaiian Shirts,” but he cannot pass up such bright colors and soothingly chaotic patterns. Plus the excess fabric means he can easily fit cut-outs for his wings).

Amnesty has some regulars, like those who drive massive trucks back and forth across the continent. Most only comment once, if at all, on his strange features. After that, his wings and red eyes seem to almost comfort them; a familiar landmark on an unending journey. Better still, when one-time visitors notice them, they never mock or shun him. They ask questions of varying levels of appropriateness, take photos of him, and even ask for photos of themselves with him, showing them off triumphantly to one another.

(It is good they do not harass him; he is not certain whether Dani, Barclay, or Mama would throw them out first, or if Duck would somehow sense his distress and come to drag them out like unruly wildlife).

He sets a cardboard box on the bed, tosses his clothes into it and then stacks the paperbacks his friends bring him from the used bookstore atop them. Toiletries go next; after all, if he is sharing his nest with Duck, he must look his best.

(Wait, where did that come from)?

When he walks into the cabin, Duck is waiting for him with a celebratory dinner of grilled cheese, Twinkies, and ice cream. And once their bellies are full and the dishes cleaned, Duck shoos Indrid to the couch so he can paint his fingernails and tops of his talons with golden polish.

“You do not have to.”

“I don’t mind.” Duck grins up at him, “feels kinda special, getting to touch some of the parts that add up to the whole amazing creature that is you.”

Indrid chirps softly, hoping Duck is too focused on his task to see him blush. He wants to say that all the wonders of the past and the present do not add up to even a fraction of the beauty that is Duck’s smile, but fear seizes his heart and warns him that is too much, too soon.

And so he simply kisses the top of Duck’s head, an old gesture of friendship (or so he told the human) and says, “thank you.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fall could have been worse. Duck only lost his footing on the crumbling hill and tumbled halfway down. It was one more body roll between that and falling off the ledge and down ten feet onto solid rock.

So yeah, the broken ankle sucks but it’s way better than the alternative.

Indrid hasn’t left his side since the AirEvac arrived; his harpy, who hates crowds and cities and loud machinery, has grit his teeth through a helicopter ride and a hospital visit, snapping his pointed teeth whenever anyone tries to get him to leave. It’s not until they’re in Juno’s jeep, driving home, that Duck understands why.

“There was a future where I fell farther.”

“Yes” Indrid hisses, ripping off the shawl hiding his wings, “many, many of them, and I had to see them all and my wing is not strong enough to carry me and so even when I got to Juno to tell her to go and see if she could stop you it was not enough and, and” he tugs at his silvery hair, “I had to watch, not certain which future we were in until you came to a stop. So yes, I was not about to leave you in fate's hands anymore today. You have been my protector, my friend, and I will do the same for you.”

“‘Drid.” Duck pets his cheek, any useful words evaporating from his tongue when he sees how upset the harpy truly is.

“Okay lovebirds, we’re here.” Juno winks at him, helps him hobble over to the cabin while Indrid gets the door. Duck settles onto bed, ankle up as instructed, and notices Indrid pacing.

“C’mere.” He pats the bed and Indrid sinks onto it, wrapping first his arms and then his wings around them both.

“I’m okay, ‘Drid.” He strokes the ruffled feathers into order, “I’m right here. I got you.”

Indrid sniffles, hides his face in Duck’s neck. The feathers of his ruff tickle the human’s skin as the harpy mumbles, “Fate has no right to treat you so casually.”

“Good thing I don’t give a shit about fate, huh.”

“It, it is not fair! You, you are a good man and a good friend, you do hard work and care for a land and for creatures that most see as desolate and unpleasant, not worth saving. You point at some cliff face or patch of sand and suddenly I see a dozen wonders. You…you touch my wings and talons not to gawk but to comfort. When your fingers touch my skin I am certain I am light enough to fly with ease. And, and one awful, pointless turn in the river of fate nearly took you from me!” He looks up, eyes like fire, then scrambles backwards.

“‘Drid? Darlin what’s w-”

“I, I am sorry, I do not know what came over me. You need rest and to restore your health. I need to look after you as you do. Not claim you like some prize to be squabbled…over…what did you call me?” He turns doe-eyed so quickly Duck nearly laughs; sometimes his harpy gets so ahead of the future that he misses the present.

“Called you darlin. Because that’s what you are. Or, uh, you could be. If you wanted to.” He holds out his hand.

Indrid grabs it, presses the palm to his cheek and nuzzles it before pecking kisses from fingertip to wrist, “Yes, yesyes, I would be your darling if you would have me. Goodness, I never thought one would use such sweet words for me ever again.”

“Well, you were wrong. Because you’re my darlin, prettiest bird I’ve ever seen and a damn fine man to top it all off.”

“High praise, coming from the best man in this century or any other.”

“Flatterer.”

Indrid nips his palm, “Which one of us has crossed oceans of time?”

Duck laughs, pulling the harpy to straddle his lap, “You, sugar. And I’m so glad you did.”

Indrid bends down and kisses him with such obvious hunger that Duck would let him take him apart, piece by piece, until it was sated. But a bite on the lip seems enough for Indrid, who pulls back with a chirping little purr.

“Me too.”

#indruck #duck x indrid #indrid cold/ duck newton #monster march #terato #monster boyfriend

[ericahacher]

A RIVER THAT WINDS ON FOREVER

     It felt too soon to be going back home. Hours on the back of her bike with the sun beating down on her, and the closer she got to the base – the more familiar the terrain became – the more the feeling grew; like she’d never left in the first place. Approaching the outer perimeter – the path of the patrol routes, the sightline of the nearest lookout point – she slowed down, weaving between gnarled Joshua trees and pale rock formations erupting from the sand, watchful eyes scanning her surroundings through the tinted visor of her helmet.      A trail of dust appeared on the horizon before long, kicked up by an ATV advancing from the left, then another, from the right. Erica slowed to a stop, switching the engine off and kicking the stand down while she waited for them to reach her. Before they came to a full stop in front of her, she pulled her helmet off, breaking into a grin when the first of the drivers recognized her.      “Erica?”    “Josh.” She stepped off her bike, receiving him when he came up to hug her, the pair locked for a moment in an embrace before the woman from the other vehicle took over, flinging her arms around Erica’s neck. “Sadie, good to see you.”      “Your hair! You look so different!”    “Figured a bit of change was in order.” She rubbed at the back of her head, still smiling at them.      “Look at you,” Josh was almost laughing. “Couple months in the city and you’ve got piercings all over. You get any tattoos?”      She shrugged. “Not yet.”      “And the others?” Sadie looked hopeful, grabbing the brim of her cap and wiggling it a little to adjust it. Her dark hair was tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, but a strand loosened with the movement, blowing across her face in the dry breeze.      “Forgotten about us already?” Josh smirked, quirking an eyebrow.    “No; I’m here for work.”      “How long are you staying?”    “I’m not.”      Both their smiles faded, disappointment and something else sapping some of the warmth from their expressions. Erica pretended not to notice.      “Right. Of course.” Sadie returned to her ATV for a comm, freeing it from a small bag placed on the side of the seat. “Gate, this is lookout four. Erica’s here.” She spoke into it, releasing the button on the side while she waited for a response.      “Copy.” There was a pause. “All clear, Sadie. I’ll let Cira know.”      Fuck. Erica closed her eyes, slowly breathing in, then put her helmet back on and straddled her bike. Josh had seen her expression, but thankfully knew better than to ask, returning to his ATV with a nod and a polite but rather unconvincing smile. Helmet back on, Erica mirrored the nod, flipping up the stand with the heel of her boot and starting the engine, leaving the two of them to return to their posts as she traveled on, trying not to clench her jaw too hard, or let her knuckles pale around their grip on the handlebars.

     The base was nestled in a flat between a loose circle of towering bluffs, a high wall wide enough to walk along the top of filling the gaps between the crags. Steel walkways clung to the insides of the steep cliffs, connecting the stretches of wall to form a perimeter around the entire compound, high enough that when walking it, one could see clear to the other side. Coming up on the gate, she saw two figures atop it – one on either side of the barrier, each carrying a rifle – silhouetted against the sun. She didn’t bother trying to see who it was, nor did she get the chance, because before she’d even reached the gate doors, the left one opened, pushed along by Grant and… Erica drew in a breath, rolling in through the opening on momentum alone before pulling to the side and parking her bike out of the way of — but still near — the inside of the gate. She took her sweet time switching off the engine, taking her helmet off, rummaging through her small backpack before hooking the strap over her shoulder, getting off the bike, and only when she couldn’t stall anymore without looking ridiculous, she turned around to face the shadow she’d been keeping an eye on the entire time, stretching across the sand underneath her feet.      Another hug, firmer, longer, but no comment on her hair, or the silver rings in her ears and septum.      “It’s good to see you.”    “You too, Mom.” Erica pulled back, carefully breaking the embrace to look down at her mother’s solemn face. “How is everyone?”      “Surviving.” Her mother began walking, and she followed, throwing a small wave and a halfhearted smile over her shoulder at Grant as she went. “One of the solar panels has lost connection with the inverter; we’ll need new parts for it as soon as Frances and Lionel figure out what the problem is — and we’re low on antibiotics, but otherwise the base is operational.”      Erica opened her mouth, stopped herself from asking if there was anything she could do, and nodded instead. Nobody was dead. Sick. Hurt. At least not badly enough to be worthy of mention in her mother’s eyes. “Listen, I need to talk to Moira. Could you… not tell Allegra and Marcel or Nadir that I’m here? If you see them. I don’t really…” she turned her head, looking around as if Gia and Yousef’s parents would suddenly appear, now that she had mentioned them, “have time to catch up.”      “Will you stay and eat?”    “Maybe. I don’t know.”      “I’ll be in AG.” Her mother peeled off without acknowledging her request. “Find me before you leave.” Stopped in her tracks, Erica drew a quiet sigh, then headed in the opposite direction, towards the building that housed the lab.

     Placed in the shade of one of the crags and thoroughly air-conditioned, the lab and infirmary was the coolest building in the compound, with its own set of generators and additional backup power on top of that again, should anything go wrong. Failsafe upon failsafe. The hallway she stepped into when she came through the door was dark and quiet, void of people; not unusual, so she pressed on, undeterred. Through another door towards the far left end of the hallway, the lab opened in front of her — just as dimly lit, save the blue sheen cast over the wall to her right by the UV-lamps that warmed the rows of various plants there, encased in glass. She still didn’t see anyone, so she continued past an open doorway into the next room, where she finally spotted the back of the woman she was looking for, silhouetted by the monitor at her desk.    “Moira. Why’s it so dark in here?”

     With a start, the brown-haired woman turned around, mouth open about to reply before she saw who had spoken and froze for a second, a blank look of surprise lingering on her face.      “Erica.” She stood up, rubbing her eye as she approached, lab coat swishing around her legs. Her glasses were perched on top of her head, half-tangled into the mess of greying curls she’d piled there and fastened with a tie; a strand clung to them when she tried to pluck them free, and she began impatiently trying to disentangle it, gaze focused on the hinge it’d gotten caught in. “The panels… getting fixed. Generator’s running the important stuff. Lionel said it probably wouldn’t be long, so–” she got her glasses free and hooked them into the pocket on her chest, “–I’m not wasting fuel on lights. What are you doing here?” A sigh heaved her shoulders. The woman’s hands were planted firmly on her hips.    “I need poison. As small a dose as possible, and as fatal as possible in as little time as possible.”      “Okay… I don’t really have that kinda stuff on hand. Method of administration?”    “Oral.” Erica made a face. “I assume.”      “I can make a tincture, but it’s gonna take a couple of days if you want it to be potent.”    “Days? You really don’t have anything else? Some drug that could be lethal in high doses?”      “No guarantee it’d result in death, no. It’s also not what you would define as quick.” Moira paced around, opening a small fridge filled with vials. “The only thing I have is a bit of snake venom, but that needs to be injected. We also need it to make antivenom.”    “Shit.” Erica, about to reach for her phone, remembered that it was packed away on her bike, switched off. No cell traffic in or near the base. No phones. Just radios. A few months in the city, and getting anything arranged without one was already a pain in the ass, where she’d never once minded it before. “Do both. What do you need?”      Moira shrugged. “Nothing I don’t already have. Hey— where are you going?”    “To replace your venom.” She was already through the first doorway.      “Rattlesnake!” Moira called out after her, the clinking of lab equipment sounding between her words, “The Mojave, not the diamondback!”

     In AG, her mother was walking between rows of cabbage with a spray bottle of organic pesticide, a wide-brimmed hat hiding her face from the sun.    “Mom,” she called out, pacing closer along the edge of the square plot, boots never touching the darker soil that had been placed there.      “Yes?” her mother didn’t stop her work; didn’t look up.    “Looks like I’ll be staying for a couple days. Have you seen Locke?”      “If you want to help, go to the panels, Erica.”    “I need to do something for Moira first. Have you seen him?”      “I haven’t — but you know where to look.”      She nodded, a single dip of her chin. “I’ll see you tonight, then.” Two days of living in the past, for a client she’d never worked with before. Money is no object, she thought stubbornly as she headed off in search of the only man she’d trust to wrangle a deadly snake, wondering idly if Josh and Sadie would be too in whatever huff she’d put them in to keep her company later, maybe share some moonshine. She’d need it — especially if she was staying the night with her mother.

#( erica ) #( para: a river that winds on forever ) #( title from ends of the earth by lord huron ) #( this was supposed to be posted weeks ago but whatever )

[lilmajorshawty]

Saturn In the Houses : Where Are You Years Ahead Of Your Time

Saturn In the First House : The Mountain Snake

(Resident Evil Retribution - Flying Through The Air)

Saturn in the first house is all about world, and how it views them. now in saying this i don’t mean in a conceded sense nor do i mean that they only prioritize themselves in the way others view them or experience them, rather, these natives have a indomitable drive to be seen as both an intellectual and someone of class and deem-able respect. They strive to build on their own and have no trouble carrying the load on their own, in fact this trait is so pronounced that they actually find it impossible to rely on others no matter how impossible the task. this placement of Saturn can make the warrior spirit more grounded and earthy in it’s appeal by giving these natives a rugged and rather stoic look. the men can sport rough facial hair and gorgeously dim faces with arches and ridges that seem to structure the face like fine wine. the women can be beautiful, sporting a strong head of hair and often the hair is unruly or rater natural in it’s expression. the eyes for men and women here are piercing and can seem to stare past your soul. they age as if they’ve been swimming in the fountain of youth which is saying that they age faster in youth and slower as they get older. They are incredibly ambitious and many of them set a lot of stepping stones for others around them with their rather impulsive and direct manner of creating a life for themselves. they don’t wait for the world to give them a sign, rather they make one. they can have an outwardly cold and stoic energy that seems both intimidating and detached to those who are viewing them for the first time. many of these natives have a jarring and rather complex energy and can often carry the energy of someone carrying a burden as old as time itself. they say this placement is associated with a past life in battle, but many fights fought in the past allow this native now in their present life to structure the violence, anger, wrath and passion of the past life. they can become more merciless and driven as they age, willing to do what is necessary at any cost. they are lovely to have on your side in times of crisis and dangerous to have as an enemy. they are never going to be set back by any amount of malice or short comings and dare i say that is one of their most freighting aspects, they cannot be defeated. these natives tend to take a while to build their sense of self but once they do it’s unbreakable and they will and shall preserve over all of the set backs in their life. The desire to reach the highest of heights is at their forefront and their ability to use strands and straws to build a temple or a grand spectral of architecture is one of their finest traits. 

Who has It : Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, Monica Bellucci, Russell Crowe, John Lennon, Cher, Alexander the Great, Ellen De Generes. Kesha, Usher. 

Motto : 

“Even if i must drag my fragmented bones through the wet mud, even if i must tear my limbs from this body, even if i loose my sight, my hearing and my soul, i shall annihilate all who stand in the way of My truth” 

Key Expression : Ruthlessness, Self reliance, Tenacious, Hungry, Self critical, Emotionally Unavailable. 

Saturn In the Second House : The African Rock Python 

(Resident Evil Afterlife - The Outsider(Reholder Apocalypse Mix)

Saturn in the second house is something a bit more quiet and seldom. These people are calculating and extremely intelligent. the mind is often cautiously taking note, watching, understanding and digging. they are pragmatic and business oriented both literally and metaphorically speaking. they place a serious eye and value over the things they possess and hold a rather uncompromising and blunt image of themselves and their self worth which makes it incredibly hard for them to jump into any type of friendship or relationship “unless” they deem themselves as worthy or ready for that matter for something of that nature. They take intimacy and relating to others seriously and can at times seem very distant and short when they address others. to these natives the home they need to focus on maintaining is that of their own inner realm. they don’y care for lavish clothing, they want something that will stand the test of time. they don’t care for quantity, they crave something that can maintain it’s bountiful and rather serene look through and through. they are not ones to sugar coat disasters or short comings in their personality and because of this can take on a rather cruel or mean view towards themselves. they feel a strong desire for inner equilibrium and have a hard time adjusting to society or the world around them when they are internally imbalanced. as lovers they can be SERIOUS. they are are not immediately affectionate which may through people off on the onset of courting stages. they show their interest by making time for you and being dependable and consistent, aside from that they keep a steady face and remain loyal and very dedicated to their unions albeit more difficult than most when it comes to introducing psychical intimacy. These natives are also very reclusive and self invested, though this isn’t in an arian self invested way, it’s more so a self preservation way. they need to feel secure and fight long and hard to create security in themselves first before they look for it in other people. They might seem aloof or impersonal to the naked eye but deep down they are massively sympathetic to an almost tragic level for the woes of others. they genuinely care for people but can be very closed and inward about this. sexually they are passionate and deeply sensual, but these natives will not initiate intimacy or sex unless they are stable on a mental and emotional level as they place their well being and the persons above all else before actively making moves towards deepening or satisfying their needs. these natives are normally shy, timid and quiet. they normally like and need time to recharge from the public. The voices can often be raspy and low/stretched in a way as if the natives are tired. the neck is often small or short and thick. in my experience men and women here are very self aware.

Who Has It : Jesus Christ, Brad pitt, Kanye West, Justin timberlake, Prince, Jennifer Lawarence, Mark Zuckerberg, Arnold Schwarzenegger, jessica alba, Mila jovovich 

motto : 

“When everything lay to waste, their will be no lover, no mother, no children, no sky, no sea, their shall be only me and where i to have no peace with me, i too would become the ruin” 

Key expression: Quiet, isolated, personal, emotionally heavy, very guarded, Loyal to their detriment.

Saturn In The Third House : The Rattlesnake

(Bjork - Army Of Me Sucker Punch Remix)

Saturn in this house can produce someone with a rather complex mind. Information is dispensed in such a way that it can be rather difficult for these natives to learn in school via the ordinary means. these natives may even in some cases have a hard time multi-tasking or working on other things whilst in school due to how much of their mental faculties are eaten up when they focus on one thing. these natives also sport a immense reservoir of memory and spatial awareness skills. they can piece things together or pieces of information from bits and pieces of fragmented knowledge. the rather unnerving thing about this position is the incredible minds that these natives have, their minds move fundamentally different from the rest of us, even more so then Uranus or mercury here information is packaged and tossed deep in the brain where it festers and bunches up with other mental storage. these natives can almost be a walking photo camera the older they get as Saturn here rewards study, and effort put into memorization. the natives often keep things short and sweet and refrain from digging to deep or revealing to much when they are speaking to others. their incredibly mature and wise and can easily convey emotions or feelings without the use of very many words at all. they are truly masters of language and can navigate through words and mannerisms quick enough to decipher your intent and inner workings at the drop of a hat. these natives possess a keen interest in deepening their mental capacity and tend to be advent readers, conspiracy theorist or the types to watch documentaries and or find learning and researching history and ancient mythos(especially roman and Greek). The men and women can sport rather small/fragile hands and a rather constrained or slow manner of speaking. in many cases the eyes can be alluring but cold, they seem impersonal or rather calm with a sadness. these natives are very self critical of their academic habits and can be vulnerable in this area but as they age it becomes their greatest area of talent. these natives can loathe meaningless chit chat and very rarely indulge in it unless it makes sense for the circumstance they happen to be in. 

Who Has it : Steve Jobs, Justin bieber, Kylie Jenner, Bjork, Bruce Willis, Jake gyllenhall, tom hanks, penelope cruz, Matt damon

motto:

“ I wish for the day my presence is that of the written word. i angst for the day of paint and scroll held above cloud, where the spoken and the scribbling of said to be madmen and women illuminate all in the blackness of the hour”

Key phrases: Detached, Strange, Poetic, Blunt, short and low paced speech, Sad eyes. mental boredom.

Saturn In The Fourth House : The Copperhead snake 

(Florence And the Machine - Seven Devils)

Saturn in the fourth house is something that feels like a massive weight on ones inner world, your core, your vulnerability locked away like some sacred prisoner of the odalisque. This placement often makes these natives emotionally closed, stoic and very emotionally unavailable. these natives don’t spill or open up, not at bonfires or community gatherings, not at  family reunions or to long time lovers rather they keep a huge portion of their inner world deeply nestled and hidden away in their heart of hearts. These natives can have a streak for coldness and and even larger one for emotional distance which i might add isn’t something that is done out of self protection or manipulation rather it’s a very deep unconscious wound that these natives carry with them from a past life. wounds of a unimaginable level were placed on the natives, these wounds can be rooted to family as well even when the home life is well. these natives cannot shake the heavy and almost suffocating presence of being home, the parents the family and at times the home itself. these natives may not truly feel comfortable or “themselves” unless they are away from home or home alone away from others. these natives loathe a breach in their privacy and because of this a great deal of them is practically a mystery due to how little of themselves they are actually okay with divulging. it can take them years and sometimes decades before they feel comfortable enough to open up with you about their emotions and this is something that can carry on for quite sometime. These natives do have very deep and very structured emotions that are well beyond their years. they grew up quickly on a mental and emotional level and it’s something you can see in their actions and decisions. these natives can be worries and suffer from extensive bouts of depression and societal isolation especially if Saturn is harshly aspected. these natives can go into what i like to call hibernation periods in which they go missing or disengage from society for periods of time and depending on who you are, you might not hear from them for quite a bit. these natives are almost nomadic like and seem to have a rather serious and intense relationship with their emotional realm. they want to be truly seen and understood on a deep emotional level but they often realize that their emotional nature is so complex and deep that it can be hard to find that understanding. compassion and intimacy are hallmarks of their true nature but are also aspects you might never see in them until they make the choice to make it so. the chest for the women with this placement unless having Venus, moon or a naturally watery or earth sign on the cusp tend to be rather petite. while men here can also have a rather fragile and or boney chest. these natives may have a very serous family as the IC rules family heritage. so the family could be hardworking and very critical. These natives can also be remarkably ambitious and deeply grounded people deep down no matter how lighthearted and unpredictable they may seem with other placements in their chart. these natives despite their deep seriousness have a very caring and emotive nature and a love for nature and all people but they also in a sense lack the means to express this. 

Who Has It: Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, Tom cruise, Drake, Gwen Stefani, Ashton Kutcher, john travolta, Yoko ono

Motto: 

“ I’ve been locked away with my demons for such a time now that i too have become them, but I've also claimed the lantern god left so fervently”

Key Phrase: Intense, Cold, Sympathetic, Nurturing, Provider, Stoic, Closed off.

Saturn In The Fifth House: The Forest Cobra 

(The Rocket Builder - Johann Johannsson)

In The case of Saturn in the 5th one is always catered to the question, to love or to isolate. these natives can struggle with the idea of children, the concept of innocence and the childlike ignorance to the hardships of life almost seem like a unthinkable medium to them. in reality despite their rather stoic and tempered view towards children, children are no less motivated to be around these natives. these natives inspire youth and can have quite the powerful effect on the motivations and aspirations of children. these natives see a limit to themselves while the rest of the world sees color and something intangible, like gold and god. these natives have a strong romantic nature but one that is old and timeless like the sands of time. they don’t open their heart easily nor do they seek commitment or sexual expression for the sake of self validation, they need depth and true consistency to commit to anyone otherwise the journey is meaningless. these natives have a very tragic and often times harsh relationship with self expression. either they are incredibly artistic or they are unconsciously limiting these talents. if there is any representation i could use i would compare these natives to the angels. they are very spiritual and innately 4D types who constantly dissociate and travel amongst dimensions making them seem rather jaded or strangely misaligned. these natives read vibrations more than they do words and actions and can often be very quick to annihilate a bond or situation the moment they sense a fallacy in the way your energy is being dispensed. intimacy and sex is often reserved for long time lovers and is very rarely, if at all something these natives spend their time begging the stars for. they are never short of admirers or sexual invitations due to being preserved as “hard to get” but the actuality is that they spend more time protecting their inner sense of peace then they do capitalizing on superficial tropes. these natives are extremely patient and slow with their works and can work on projects for years. having children is normally something these natives postpone until later in life, and if they do have them young it’ll be an area of constant growth until later in life as parenting might not be an immediate skill. dating runs slow and can be rather shy and quiet in the start but much like Lilith here these natives tend to marry the people they date or meet in the realm of the 5th house due to the longevity of Saturn. 

Who Has It : Shakira, Bill gates, Heath ledger, Chris brown, Bruce lee, Mel Gibson, Emma stone, Isaac Newton, Mike Tyson, Niall Horan.

Motto:

“ Everything good in this world takes getting used to.”

Key Phrase: Deep, Earthy, Sensuous, curious, Blunt, isolated, free, inspiring, devoted, persistent, giving, understanding, forgiving.

Saturn In The Sixth House : The Pit Viper Snake

( West-world Soundtrack - This World)

Saturn In the 6th House Can create a native who is the high end architect of both their life and the life of others. they build, they build the scene, the work environment, they build their health, they build their reputation and their fundamentals as if it were all parts of one big house. they have a deep inner grounded sense of stability and home that often makes them seem unphased or rather lacking in emotional turbulence when dealing with others or even in some ways with themselves. they don’t acknowledge weaknesses in themselves and in a darker twist of fate they go to great lengths to eliminate any short comings both emotionally and physically that they deem toxic or unhealthy to their well being. for this reason these natives normally are remarkably fit and steer clear of any major aliments. this is for good reason as these natives tend to hold on to sickness for a while once it makes its way into the body. this can mean prolonged fights with colds that last well over their designated time or sometimes in some cases this can mean damage to the joints or bones. that being said Saturn here works hard to repair the body anytime scenarios like this do come about. these natives work incredibly hard and even if Saturn is afflicted here these natives are able to remain remarkably steady and grounded in their daily lives. these natives tend to plan quite a bit and can have a hard time dealing with people or situations that lack a plan or a sort of well rehearsed background. schooling can also be a source of irritation as these natives can be incredibly picky on how they prefer to be taught. teachers with quirks or little nuances in their teaching tend to cause these natives irritation as their isn’t a stable or straight forward approach in this teaching style. these natives are very reasonable when it comes to others but they also value their Independence and sense of self highly so they can be incredibly hard to tie down or create a long lasting union with due to how high of a bar they’ve set for themselves. don’t be mistaken, it’s not that these natives are arrogant rather it’s that these natives place a special value on loving the self before you’re able to love anyone else. They may want bonds or love, but they need stability and true heartfelt connectivity before they can even fathom the depth of such a connection with another person. their co-workers are often serious, grounded and mature types who have high plans for their future. they often inspire the native to rise in ranks or in positions. these natives tend to navigate away from people who are co-dependent or emotionally weak. they can have an aura of toughness and seem rather unapproachable but it’s really just that these natives feel the inner desire to carry themselves with respect and caution to the outside world. their bone structure similar to Saturn in the 10th house is incredibly well made and proportioned. the hips and lower spine can be arched in a rather coiled snake like manner. the skin can also be oily for many with this placement. the stomach is very strong and these natives usually are blessed with a good digestive system which(is great for acne and emotional stress levels.) another side note is that these natives NAP a lot. they tend to be easily worn out or tired due to Saturn low energy levels.

Who has it : Lady gaga, Nicole Kidman, Jennifer Aniston, Keanu reeves, Amy Winehouse, Lindsey Lohan, Orlando Bloom, Adele, Jimi hendrix, Demi lovato 

Motto : 

“ Order outside will generate order inside.”

Key Phrase: Mesmerizing, commanding, Astute, tempered, sloths, bored

Saturn In The Seventh House : Eastern Green Mamba Snake

(Annihilation Ost - The Alien )

relationships play out in a rather heavy manner for these natives, be it years in the making or be it that they themselves can’t readily open up to the opportunity. Saturn here acts as the father, in spirit it halts the sphere of connectivity between these natives and the people they interact with in a shadow sense. these natives may notice that people view them in a serious manner or suddenly may become more intense and more stoic in their presence. the honest truth is that Saturn here surrounds the environment in this candid and rather suffocating weight. mind you this is not bad at all, it’s only Saturn ensuring that the energy and the people brought into these natives lives is real, honest and pure in intention. that being said these natives have a natural guardian that brings the shadows to light, be it addictions, crime, manipulation, and so forth. Saturn here works for the individual by showing them the bad in others, the real part of others, the honest aspect of others in order to help these natives grow. connections can be difficult to form because it seems as though everyone is running away from these natives which isn’t so far from the truth. i’ll be honest in saying Saturn energy scares some people due to how deep and intense it really can be. it forces everyone to confront a side of themselves they might not have ever considered before and it also forces everyone to mature and face the music. this is not bad at all, rather these natives are blessed with the ability to attract the very real and bare versions of people instead of their performances, or their masks...these natives get to see behind the curtain and this is their superpower. dating can be hard as the typical fun flirting is absent until a later part of the relationship. Saturn does things backwards here and forces the more deep and heavy aspect of relating to someone else to come up first before the more lighthearted and playful part. the reason being is Saturn wants that deep and guarded intimacy, the kind people build stories utop of. so due to this Saturn doesn’t mind to reverse roles and cause a longer courting stage if it means true connections and bonds being formed. forming friendships or even any type of relationship for that matter can take years or months depending on Saturn well being aspect wise. these natives prefer long lasting unions and usually get that. the marriage is often very resilient and deeply fulfilling for the natives! they often marry very loving and nurturing despite the partners serious and stoic nature. these natives are also on the more serious side themselves even though they might not see it in within them. they tend to have more petite butts that can be on the more angular side of things. Saturn makes the butt look great here even if it might be on the smaller side. it really depends on the other planets here though. the partner will often have Saturn in their chart or in aspect to their natal planets. it’s also common to attract someone with strong 10th house energy. Saturn here makes things petite and since the 7th house rules the pelvis and buttocks, one can have a very well shaped butt and may even have a lovely structure to it as well. relationships can be very handwork here but they are incredibly rewarding and these natives should always wait to marry if they can or make sure that the person you’re marrying has strong Saturn contacts to you. That being said they are very loving and tender people despite their rather cool and aloof outward energy. 

Who has it: Johnny Depp, Kurt Cobain, Christina Aguilera, Selena Gomez, Eminem, David Bowe, Ryan gosling,  Jud Law, Sylvester Stallone,  Gerad Butler

Motto :

“I was already on the other side, i had been there from the start like a cold reflection in cement...i was already there.”

Key phrases : Intense, depressive, closed, tense, anxious, stable, steady, rigorous, emotionally unavailable(in the beginning), transparent.   

Saturn In The Eighth House : The Black Mamba Snake

(West-World Soundtrack - This world)

with Saturn in the Eighth house the native can feel like a disconnected, fragmented disarray. They may not easily confide in others and can have an extended “getting to know each other” stage with seemingly no ending in sight. These natives can seem detached and extremely emotionally absent especially in moments where emotional softness and kindness may be necessary. These natives do not mean to seem this way, it’s sadly just that in many cases these natives where put last as far as emotions go and due to earlier experiences these natives have learned to barricade their true feelings and vulnerabilities behind a steel door. Pushing them to hard to open up to soon often makes them shut down and place a superficial mask to make the invasion go away. These natives are keen on human nature and know how to pretend and play the naive or weak minded role that the people ask of them. beneath this facade lies a strong energy, a seemingly intangible reservoir of depth and intensity that would make Pluto, Hades and Lilith cower. These natives grapple with the idea of power and it’s place in their life and the lives of others. They may shift between vulnerable and innocent to dominant and wise. This is actually a prelude to the expression of their sexuality, they tend to derive their pleasure of BDSM and or more aggressive and control themes in sexual encounters because of their ociliating nature. they associate sexual expression and their desire for it in a complex way. on one end they hate their sexual desires and wish to repress them and on the other hand the repression creates an almost animalistic desire for “TRUE” sexual expression. For this reason these natives tend to have the most powerful, earthy sexual drive of the zodiac. Sex for them is something that is flesh to flesh, true intimacy and relating and something they cannot and will not just have with anyone. they can also be very hard to get intimate with because of hoe seriously they take revealing that hidden aspect of themselves. these natives can be very dark and have a sort of heaviness to their nature that seeps out here and there as an ominous or heavy serious air. They loathe superficiality but they feed it to the people they interact because they secretly fear their true nature is boring, stagnate and far to intense for people to handle. they can handle finances very seriously and no matter how afflicted Saturn is, these natives take time to grow money and are cautious about any inheritance or scams. they aren’t the types to spend money on others unless you’ve earned their trust and loyalty, till then they can seem cheap and Grinch like about money usage. they can last for hours in sex and have stamina unheard of, in men and women the size of the genitals can be small or Tight for women. in men it can make the member small but this isn’t always the case especially if other planets are here, the sign on the cusp and aspects to Saturn itself. These natives will live long lives and may outlive their partners. The desire for the real and honest aspects of life are real and these people can be very turned off by immaturity or a lack of stability in any of their interactions. a strange thing here is that Saturn from this spot ages the whole chart so it can cause other planetary placements to act more mature or less lighthearted even if Saturn is not touching them. 

Who has it: Martin Luther King, Jay-Z, Kristen Stewart, Robert Downey Jr, Khloe Kardashian, Salvador Dali, Michael Jordan, Virgin Mary, Michael Fassbender, Dwayne Johnson,  Frida kahlo, Henry cavil, Franklin D Roosevelt, Liz Greene 

Motto :

“Power is Power” 

Key phrases: Concrete, sensual, Horny, intellectual, dark, melancholic, sorrow, the maid/The Military general duality, intensity, DEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Saturn In The Ninth House : The Jamesons Mamba

(The Gazelle Twins - The Entire City)

With Saturn in the ninth house the term Maneater comes into mind. these natives can have a rampaging mind. they are often dancing between ideals and philosophies and working tirelessly to give them footing, grounding or a sense of transparency. they may maintain an air of stoicism or clandestine projection when they express their values and interpretations of faith but it’s merely because they themselves feel as though believing in some un-palpable force is like playing Russian roulette. they want some sort of grounding and reliability in the “word” and “pen” and because of this they approach these matters with seriousness and intensity as they seek to find the source of the matter. These natives can be relatively to them selves at university and college and might even major in law or seek to pioneer their own business or work in architecture as these natives have quite the eye for beauty and reconstruction due to how differently their minds operate. the natives are tenacious and a tad abrasive when expressing their disdain or disapproval of faulty belief systems in others and it can be a deal breaker for them if your beliefs fail to meet them in the middle in some way. They tend to have a strong desire to learn, understand and register information. in many ways Saturn can make the thighs smaller or more petite but the shaping and angular standing of the thighs to hip will be amazing. their is an earthy look to the individuals and longer more ruffled looks are common in men and shorter more androgynous looks are preferred for the women. their can be a closed or serious nature towards experimentation and towards luck as these natives feel like one should never solely rely on luck to make things pan out. these natives because of this tend to be go getters and can place quite a bit of passion and drive into much of their efforts which often wins them admiration and respect from those who watch in the shadows. these natives can constantly stay working or struggle with giving themselves a brake but for a good cause as these natives tend to do remarkable in their college endeavors. their oversee voyages tend to be a serious event and the encounters they have can leave a huge mark on them emotionally, they tend to travel seldom when younger and this increases following the nearing of the Saturn return. these natives can feel powerful and don’t hold on to people or situations as to them people and situations change all the time, why waste time that could be spent working, growing and thriving on a choice that fell through the cracks in a carefully made bridge only continuing to grow in size. 

Who Has it: Rihanna, Hillary Clinton, Julia Roberts, Uma Thurman, Nicki Minaj, 14th Dalai Lama, Prince William, Prince Harry(explains their controversial Interracial marriages), Jared leto, Paul McCarthy 

Motto :

“The Fire Never Goes out”

Key Phrases: Keen, ardent, impatient, BLUNT, impulsive, critical, private, compassionate, REAL

Saturn In The Tenth House : The King Cobra Snake 

(The Smiths - How Soon Is Now?)

These natives are the epitome of Saturn, the ooze it, they embody it they express it like an extension of their spiritual being and for that reason they can seem like an authoritative energy without even trying. People respect them, but people also fear them the same way we fear our boss, our parents, our obligations, our shortcomings or our real self. They are stable at the core and very easily lay the stepping stones necessary to achieve, though with Saturn's energy here success often does come later in life but when it does it is usually following very rigorous work and dedication from the individual in question. These natives are competitive but in a very quiet and restrained way, for them coming in second place or being told it was “good” or hearing the words “i enjoyed..” irritates them. They in a sense care little for public validation, and more about their own ability to surpass the limitations they set for themselves. they tend to treat life and it’s circumstances like a game of cards, and can often have a manipulative or “business as usual” approach when it comes to dealing with the public or confidants. To them unless it had to do with the work, the quality, or the means of the end, they’d rather not waste their time. These natives can be advent global warming fighters, as this position creates a very strong tie to the earth itself. these natives care deeply about the animals and the environment and can be very aggressive and even volatile towards people who fail to treat the environment with respect. these natives often dress to impress and even when they’re dressing down they have this patriarch like air to them as if the world was waiting for them to arrive. these natives have a swagger to them, as if they have the whole room gripping and swaying to their movement. Their is a strong need to dissociate and disappear with this placement so often these natives can go MIA for days or weeks at a time depending on what wave of melancholy or project has them all caught up now. These natives have beautiful smiles and can have incredible bone structures. They do care about how they are portrayed by the media or by others in public so they tend to keep a low profile. These natives can be very frank and tel you how it is, so if you are sensitive you might want to keep it short with them. These natives tend to be drawn to fashion, Acting, ,modeling, directing, and so on. In fact Saturn on the MC or in aspect to the MC is common amongst models and or designers. the ability to make money and capital out of nothing but water and a dog bone is strong as shit here and these natives will indeed outsell, outsway, out publish, out swim, and overall outdo you with both legs and arms tied behind their back because they are literally just that driven. the impact they leave on the world lat decades and even ions after they’ve longed been buried in the soil.

Who has it: Michael Jackson, Leonardo DiCaprio,  Albert Einstein, Adolf Hitler, Kim Kardashian, Miley Cyrus, Leonardo DaVinci, Oprah Winfrey, Paris Hilton, Al Pacino, Celine dion, Bill Clinton, Mila kunis, James dean 

Motto:

“I’d eat the nation if i could, I’ll eat the world because i can” 

Key phrases: Mysterious, Distant, polite, imperialistic, ambitious, competitive, altruistic, Black Seminole

   Saturn In The Eleventh House : The Atheris hispida Snake

(Cocteau twins - But Im Not )

These Natives can Be everything that opposes culture and societal up charge. They possess a strong spacious air to them as if they are this cosmic force on earth. They can be magnetic, prophetic, dark, enticing and deeply revolutionary. These natives have a natural talent for leadership and crowd attracting as they understand the intricate parts of human interaction, they understand the crowd, the outsiders because they themselves despise the insiders, the people pleasers and the followers. they aren’t the types to beg for acceptance but in their early years they often did, the spent their time trying so hard to fit in, to be welcomed and accepted but sadly they were rejected and often times bullied for their giving and loving nature. as these natives age they learn ruthlessness and they learn to express themselves no matter the recoil. they value people who are new, different and stable in their concept of “themselves.” Saturn is remarkably comfy in this house due to the fact that the 11th house and Aquarius are both co-ruled by Saturn. So these natives despite their electric and rather tethered nature can be serious, detached and highly dissociated from the world around them. they like the aloofness and lighthearted nature of connecting with others because it fulfills their need to  understand, meet and converge. they actually despise people and are not very good at hiding it once an interaction that should’ve lasted a few days turns into something that becomes consistent. they can amputate relationships both romantic and platonic and even familial as if it were a house fly on their shoulder. They are not evil or cold, rather they just learned early on not to dig to deep into people or their intentions and as a result they keep a blockaded on their more compassionate and loving traits. these natives tend to be skeptics and harshly critical of civil rights movements or cultural uprisings in general because they hate crowd and mob mentality, to them any organized revolution needs grounding and a deeper meaning behind it’s efforts otherwise it’s childish and a waste of time. these natives also hold a great deal of their emotions within and because of this they can see,m unloving or out of reach to loved ones or friends even if it’s been years of knowing them. They tend to prefer authentic friendships and will bend over backwards for friends, lovers and so on so long as you prove to them your loyalty, patience and time. they wont open up for a while and can take years before they do and they’ll disappear and ghost you constantly till then because they’ve been hurt more than most in the area where most of us see our future and are most optimistic. they may seem pessimistic or stoic but it’s merely their desire for the truth and authenticity that causes this. they normally are very big on being ones true self and in the presence of people who struggle with this they can take on a colder air and seem rather unmoved or disgusted at the pity party. they are passionate but far away. the calves and ankles are often small and boney but very sturdy and sensual. The legs in general are amazing to look at. 

Who has it: Donald trump, George Clooney, Cameron Diaz, Freddie Mercury, Natalie portman, Megan Fox, Cristiano Ronaldo, Pamela Anderson, Marlon Brando, robin Williams, Vincent Van Gogh, Charlize Theron,  Charles Manson, Zac effron, Halle berry, Ryan reynolds, Joaquin Phoenix, Jessica Biel

Motto :

“I could stand in a room of millions gathered all for me and i’d still feel alone” 

Key phrases: Lonely, detached(very), impersonal, electric, bubbly, frank, honest, Free spirit, dark, melancholy, mean spirited. compassionate and caring. 

Saturn In The 12th House :  The Spider-tailed horned viper Snake (Cocteau Twins - Alice)

Saturn in The 12th house can feel like a heavy weight on the soul, as if the soul’s been drained of it’s life force before it even took a breath. their is a constant feeling of exhaustion or need to recuperate. There can be periods of extreme anxiety, depression, manic episodes or heightened states of mental awareness and emotional energy and then suddenly “nada.” everything goes quiet and everything can seem like a empty opera room with a photo camera going off. there is a sense of being grounded but never really “expressing” or “feeling” this security in a tangible form. these natives can seem a bit disorganized, restless or moody upon meeting them, hell they may even seem like they’re hiding things or being fraudulent and or deceptive due to the blurry and rather incomplete personality they present. They are remarkably deep and have a immense empathetic nature that can make even the strongest of strong men buckle. they are very sweet but they are not always able to control when this side of them comes out. unfortunately their more serious and cautious nature blurs the line between duty, love, duty, relationships, duty, trauma, duty, and so on in a cycle. they can often be very private and reclusive, preferring to be alone with themselves or nature. they often have very beautiful inner worlds and can give so much of themselves to the environment and the world at large. They usually have a fine list of artistic abilities but it takes them time to bring them out into the world. art, singing, dancing, and so on are brilliant gate ways to expressing that inner burden in their hearts. These natives can constantly feel like there is an inner voice telling them they wont amount to anything or are not good enough which is often the main debilitating force for these natives. They are so kind and genuinely soft spirited and these natives have a hard time doing wrong as Saturn reminds them constantly off errors or short comings. These natives value the flaws just as much as the beauty in others and often push for a more accepting environment and world. these natives don’t see color, sexual orientation, or status which is often why they feel conflicted because Saturn feels like things need order and classification but the 12th house blurs those lines. Their can be trouble dreaming or in some cases dreams of being trapped, restricted or in a different body are common. The feet tend to be small :) but this is very cute! this placement can be hard for women as it makes them unable to differentiate the feeling of duty from pleasure which unconsciously places them into unhappiness or unhealthy expectations of themselves. For men it can be Even worse as it can lead to melancholy, depression and emotional confusion that being said we all have our battles and Saturn in the 12th housers are amazing because Saturn as they age teaches them to handle their mind, their mental health and their conscious self and soul. so they tend to have strong minds and comprehensive abilities even as they age. These natives tend to express an air of happiness and optomisim though on an outward level and for the most part you’ll never real know their struggles or pain because of how genuinely positive and good willed these people are.

Who has it: Barack Obama, Angelina Jolie, Beyonce knowles, Scarlett johnasson, Vladmir Putin, Mariah carey, Whitney Houston, Zayn malik, Will smith, Kendall jenner, Ben Affleck, tyra banks, Robert De Niro, Ted Bundy, George W. Bush

Motto :

“Deception is the only  Felony” 

Key Phrases : introspective, spiritual, hermit, persistent, tired, lazy, caught up in the past   

Final Notes: If you look at the celebrities that share the particular Saturn placement you’ll notice familiarties with them, you’ll notice nuances and small call back of energy! this is why i find astrology so interesting, were all connected. 

#Mine #saturn through the houses

[alwaysanotherrainbow]

The 77th Feedback Loop

Ships: pining remrom (Remus), pining thomceit (Deceit), platonic demus. The prior two are here as backstory/background information. Warnings: past/current eating disorder (Remus), past alcoholism (Deceit), discussion of the former two, extended discussion of recovery, ventfic, swearing, typical Remus violent statements

Remus and Deceit have always supported each other. Tonight is no different.

notes: This was meant to be a prologue for a fic, but once the plot changed, the context became much different. This has little relation to that fic anymore. Regular content is coming soon.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Remus rocked a crimson sash back and forth in his hands. He barely noticed when the soft fabric of a glove made contact with the back of his hand, but when the sash was tucked back into its drawer, his eyes slid open.

Deceit stood, cloaked in shadow and dappled half-light. The warm rays like sunshine spilled from the lamp on the table, but it wasn’t enough to conquer the darkness in the room. It was reflex to check the way that he walked over to the bed, but he didn’t sway at all, and when he spoke, it wasn’t with the strange warmth that seeped in when he was drinking.

“Thanks,” Remus said. “How long was I…?”

“A good three minutes. The door was open, so I hope it’s okay.”

“If the door’s open, you can come in, rattlesnake. Tough night for you, too?”

Deceit nodded. “The others are celebrating, which means alcohol, so I decided I wouldn’t stick around that scene.”

Remus groaned. “Damn it. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said. He couldn’t tell whether it was Liespeak or not. “How’s the book going?”

“Stopped working on it for tonight. Too much stuff in there.” He smiled and walked to sit next to him before stopping in his tracks. “Wait. Aren’t you meant to go to therapy with Emile today?”

He frowned. “Yes, but I cancelled.”

“Deceit!”

“Seriously, who on Earth wants to hear me ramble? that’s got to get old at some point.”

“The entire point is so that you can talk about whatever you want so that you can feel better!” Remus groaned. “You’re the self-care guy, silly. Why not take care of yourself?”

He shrugged.

Remus sighed and sat next to him. “Look, you had a close call today, so what? You didn’t. And even if you did, I wouldn’t be mad, just a bit sad, that’s all, because you deserve to feel better.”

Deceit nodded.

It was ridiculous to still be craving that night, right? When he was pleasantly drunk (before his tolerance built up, back when there could be enough), when Thomas was gazing at him as if he made and saved the world. Everything was perfect. It was such an indescribable high, calm coursing through him as it had never done so before. The warmth next to him could masquerade as Thomas in his baser thoughts, but—

There’s a person right next to you that needs you, Deceit. Don’t be so horrible.

Besides, he wasn’t ready to put himself through that again. If he slipped up, he might not get back up, and he’d have to start at the beginning because no way in hell was he staying there. Detox was horrible, but the idea of staying where he was before?

Yes, that was way worse.

That was why he had to take good care of himself, he reminded himself. If for no-one else, for Thomas.

Remus wrapped him into a hug, which he accepted gracefully as they leaned back onto the bed.

Looking over Remus’ shoulder, Deceit noticed a framed picture of Roman.

It was actually a pretty standard photograph. Did Remus see him the way that Deceit saw Thomas? Did features that most people call ‘plain’ suddenly appear as exquisite as if crafted by Pygmalion? Even holding him, Deceit could tell that the Duke was clearly lovesick.

“Do you ever worry,” started Deceit before freezing. “Nevermind, it’s not a very good question.”

“Ask away! It’s okay! Hey, a rhyme! I’m becoming Dr. Seuss!”

Deceit smiled, lightly tapping Remus on the head with a cylindrical pillow. “We’ve got ourselves a poet, have we?”

Remus shrieked with laughter. After they had tired themselves out with giggling, the question came back into play.

“Do you ever worry that you’re too far gone?” Deceit managed to say. “Like you’ve just fucked up your chance to get better, and you’re just gonna stay this way forever?”

Remus made a soft noise of agreement. “That doesn’t mean it’s true, though. Lots of people get better! The worry still fucks with me sometimes, but hey, if they can do it, no good reason why I can’t.”

“I know, I just feel like it’s a bit late for me to get better. I can’t forgive myself for taking this long with it..”

“Want an anecdote? I mean, I know our problems aren’t exactly alike, but—”

“No, anecdotes are fine.”

Remus shrugged. “Personally? I can’t worry about that. I just need to think ‘hey! I’m here, so best assume that means it’s not too late’. Besides,” and here he moved his hand to Deceit’s shoulder, “remember what you told me?”

“Glad to see we’re getting even more specific, Creativity.”

He stuck out his tongue. “I meant by the camellia gardens.”

“Which—? Oh. You mean… you mean that?”

Deceit remembered. He remembered the feel of Remus’ hand. He remembered the horrible things that he said about himself, and how he berated mind and body alike. Deceit had helped him clean up the wrappers, held his hands (without any gloves!), given him a handkerchief to wipe his tears away with, and said:

“I told you that ‘forgiving yourself is an important step to recovering from any unhealthy behavioral pattern’, and that ‘recovery is self-love’,” he said softly.

“There we go!” Remus smiled. “Not too shabby. No-one needs ol’ Logan to tell you that reaching out at all is super brave! Braver than fighting a horde of many-eyed three-legged alien dogs! With a crowbar..”

“You still remember when I said that?”

“Don’t think I could ever forget it, Deceit.”

“Janus is fine.”

Remus blinked.

Shit. He hadn’t told anyone that name before, right? He opened his mouth to try to say something, but the only thing he could think to do was turn away.

“Your name? Do you prefer it? I can forget about it if you want.”

“...I suppose I do prefer it, it’s just that I didn’t mean to tell you. You can call me by it if you like.” Please call me by it.

Remus smiled. “I’ll remember that! I’ll embroider that onto my soul!”

He laughed before freezing up. “Wait. What time is it?”

“It’s 15:83.”

He was used to translating times from Remus. “That’s 4:23 PM, right? I think I have enough time to reschedule the appointment.”

Remus’ grin only grew wider. “Self-care! Good for you, Janus.”

Janus got up and adjusted his cape. He slipped on his gloves (when had he taken them off?) and was almost out the door when Remus cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he said softly, “today’s been a bad one for me, too, and with everyone else celebrating… whatever it is they’re celebrating… it’s gonna be tough.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” The Duke sat up. He was gazing at the ground, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. “I was wondering if maybe, just to keep each other on track, you could come over after your appointment? I can summon us some popcorn, you can have your soda, we can make a night of it?”

Deceit smiled. “I’d love that.”

#thomceit angst #my fics #tw alcoholism #tw ed #kinda a vent fic #getting back into writing #sorry if it's too ooc #remrom mention

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Two {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One}

Chapter Twenty-Nine → in which Solitude finally morphs into a reptile

Soli giggled as Violet’s makeup brush danced across her face.

“Hold still, this is gonna smudge.” Violet said.

She had already applied powder to the twins’ faces, and burn scars to her own, and now she was working on Solitude’s scales. Sunny was wrapped up in her fake beard, practicing growls, while Klaus and Nick were applying talcum to their hair to make it look white. Lilac was sitting beside Violet, designing fake, scary-looking tattoos up her arm. Most of the tattoos on her other arm, face and legs had already dried, so she was almost done. She had tied her hair into two buns on the top of her head, after slamming some powder onto it, and she was using her ribbon to tie up her dress underneath the large shirt.

“There.” Violet sat back, pushing some of the ginger wig out of her face; it was bobbed, but it still got into her eyes a little. “What do you think, Sol?”

Solitude turned to the phone booth, giggling as she stared at her scaly reflection in the glass. She let out a hiss, and then held out her hand for Babbitt, who leapt onto her shoulder and chirped their approval.

“Now,” Soli said, picking up the box of snakes, “Braid these in?”

Violet nodded, moving behind her and starting to braid in the rubber snakes. Nick came over to join her, and he said, “Your makeup looks good. You… look like you’ve actually been burned.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Violet sighed. “You and Klaus look unrecognizable.” She turned to her other brother, who was helping Lilac, and called, “Are you sure you don’t want your glasses?”

“I’ll be fine if I squint.” Klaus said. “I won’t be able to read, but… well, I won’t bump into anything.”

“I can be your eyes.” Nick said. “If you and Soli’ll be my emotional support.”

Solitude nodded and hissed again, trying to imitate a rattlesnake; she was doing pretty well.

“I think we’ve got the snakes.” Violet said, and she and Klaus scooted away from Soli, who once again checked her reflection in the telephone booth. “What do you think?”

Solitude hissed again and shook her head, which caused the snakes to bounce. She giggled and clapped, and then said, “Love it! Good snakes! Babbitt, make chirp?” Babbitt chirped, and Soli said, “Can you do it when I…” she tapped on the frog’s head, and in response, Babbitt chirped again. “Good Babbitt! Smart Babbitt!”

“Babbitt can hide in your pocket.” Lilac said, blowing on the black rose design she’d just painted. “Boys, do you think you can walk with one leg?”

“We’ll be fine.” Klaus said. “Just try to avoid washing off your makeup, or letting it peel. Same with you, Vi.”

“I’ll be fine.” Violet said. “Sunny, you think you can be a wolf puppy?”

Sunny growled.

“Alright, then.” Violet said.

“Are we sure we want to do this?” Lilac asked, staring down at her painted skin. “Freakshows are awful, horrible places, and it’s likely we… well, we won’t have a great time.”

“What choice do we have?” Violet said.

Nick slowly slid his hand into Klaus’s, and he said, “We’d better hurry.”

“What’s the rush?” Klaus said, staring at Sunny, who was rolling around in the dirt.

“Well, if they…” Nick shut his eyes. “We just… better get there before they drink too much, that’s all.”

“Why-?” Soli asked, looking confused.

“Hey, hey!” Nick forced a smile on his face. “You’re a snake now, remember? Hissing only.”

Soli beamed and giggled, and then hissed like a cobra.

“Alright, get into costume.” Lilac said, and hesitantly, Klaus and Nick struggled to get into one shirt. “Now, be careful, and if anything goes wrong, I’ll-”

“If anything goes wrong,” Violet interrupted, standing up and grabbing Soli’s hand, “We’ll deal with it together.”

Lilac hesitantly nodded, and then she grabbed Violet’s other hand. “Let’s… let’s go in for a job interview, huh?”  

They stared at each other, and then Klaus and Nick stepped forwards, stumbling slightly as they tried to get used to walking with one leg each. Sunny crawled forwards, still practicing her barks, and Solitude toddled around, hissing to herself.

They made it back over to the caravan, and Lilac took a deep breath, before knocking on the door.

“Now, remember,” Violet said to her, “Stay in character. You’re a punk.”

“Why didn’t you be the punk?”

“Shut up.”

The door opened, and everyone immediately straightened up and did their best not to look scared- which was quite easy for Solitude and Sunny, who were 100% convinced that this was the best plan ever.

The children found themselves face-to-face with Count Olaf, and for a moment, none of them could breathe.

Then Lilac took a deep breath, put a hand on her hip, and said, “You nerds still hiring?”

For a moment, they thought none of it had worked; Olaf just gave them a stare, and then a wicked smile.

Then, to their relief, he said, “Why, Madame Lulu! I believe some freaks have arrived for you!”

Nick shook slightly, grabbing onto Klaus’s hand under the shirt. Klaus squeezed it as they heard Madame Lulu call, “Oh! Well, please, allow them in, please!”

Lilac, both because she wanted to stay in character and because she was very sick of his shit, immediately pushed past Olaf, walking into the caravan as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Violet nervously followed, putting a hand over her false burn as if she was ashamed of it. Solitude and Sunny managed to crawl in, and then came Nick and Klaus, once Olaf had moved farther back inside. The caravan had become a bit crowded by this point, but at least everyone could get a decent look at each other.

The troupe looked a bit tipsy, and the siblings who thought to look around counted several empty bottles scattered around the floor. When Count Olaf sat back down, Esme flopped her head onto his shoulder, giggling slightly, while the other henchpeople and Lulu just scanned the Baudelaires.

“Well, they certainly seem freakish.” said the Bald Man.

“Horrific.” said a White-Faced Woman.

“Ghastly.” said the other White-Faced Woman.

Solitude hissed, and Klaus said, “We can hear you.”

“Well, you came to get hired for a freakshow,” Esme said, “What did you expect?”

“To get hired.” Lilac said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, then,” Lulu said, stepping forwards and looking a bit confused, “What exactly are you, please?”

“You can call me Babydoll.” Lilac said. She held out her arms. “My parents were tattoo artists and practiced on me, til they died.”

“Oh, in a fire?” asked the Hook-Handed Man.

Lilac shook her head. “They fell into a river and drowned.”

“Oh, how’d that happen?” asked a White-Faced Woman.

Lilac smirked, enjoying herself immensely. “I got sick of their shit and tied rocks to their boots.”

Surprisingly, the henchpeople looked a little startled at that, as did Lulu, but Esme laughed. “Sounds like my kind of girl!” she said. “I drowned an ex once. So did you, dear, right?”

Olaf was taking another swig of wine, so they couldn’t exactly see his reaction.

“Who’s that, then?” Esme asked, pointing to Violet, who’d been petting Sunny. She flinched and jumped to her feet. “Oh, Egad, what the hell happened to her face?”

Violet flinched again, trying to look shy. She said, only just loud enough to be heard, “I’m Beverly. My… um, my face burned off in an accident.”

“Yeah.” Lilac said, walking over and leaning onto Violet’s shoulder. “She was a kid, see, and her bro was playing with matches. Like we all do.”

The troupe nodded. “Yes, of course.” Olaf said.

“So, well, you can guess what happened.” Lilac shrugged. “Those losers over there,” she gestured to Nick and Klaus, “Are conjoined twins.”

“That means we were born stuck together.” Klaus said.

“We know what ‘conjoined twins’ are.” said a White-Faced Woman.

“Well, I’m Elliot,” Klaus said, “And this is my other head, Janus.”

“Nice to meet you.” Nick said, very quietly.

“And that down there,” Lilac said, pointing her thumb at Solitude, “Is our little pet gorgon. We call ‘er Euryale, cause her actual name is just a buncha hisses.”

Solitude giggled and let out a pretty good imitation of the Mamba du Mal, shaking her head so the rubber snakes looked like they were moving.

“See, it’s whatever that is.” Lilac said, as the troupe nervously scooted away from her.

“I thought gorgons were a myth.” Olaf said. “Like Giuseppe Verdi and Dewey Denouement.”

“Giuseppe Verdi is an Italian composer.” Klaus said without thinking.

“No one asked you, freak.” Olaf said.

Lilac quickly interrupted. “Well, yeah, we thought they were fake and all, but she came outta the woods with snake hair. Apparently the other gorgons think she’s a freak, too, cause she can’t turn people to stone. She can just look weird and make snake calls. All her snakes have names, too, but you don’t care, course.”

“Of course.” Olaf said.

“What’s that one?” asked the Hook-Handed Man, pointing a hook at Sunny. In response, she growled and jumped forwards, attempting to bite. He jumped back, startled.

“That’s Chabo the wolf baby.” Violet said.

“Her mother was a hunter and her father was a wolf she fell in love with.” Klaus added.

“I didn’t even know that was possible.” said the Bald Man.

“She bites and scratches a lot.” Lilac said. “These idiots learned that pretty quick, isn’t that right?”

“Please don’t remind us.” Violet said.

“Only person she doesn’t mess with is Euryale,” Lilac explained, “Cause her snakes bite. They ain’t poisonous, but they sure do hurt.”

Solitude hissed and shook her head, and then she poked her pocket, and Babbitt let out a loud chirp to add to the noise.

“Anyway, we don’t ask much for payment and shit.” Lilac said, rolling her eyes again. “We just need a place to sleep. And probably food. Chabo really tears her meat apart.”

“She can do that in front of an audience, please.” Lulu said. “People love seeing sloppy eaters, and we must always give the people what they want.”

“Oh, hey, the two-headed freak can eat something, too.” Olaf said. He grabbed an ear of corn and tossed it at Klaus and Nick. Nick flinched, so Klaus managed to catch it. “Eat this!”

Klaus and Nick shared a look, and then both struggled to push the ear of corn towards one of their mouths.

The troupe laughed, and the Baudelaires pretended not to be disgusted.

“So? Are we hired or not?” Lilac asked, still trying not to break character.

Lulu shrugged. “Madame Lulu does not see why not, please, so long as you can all fit into the freaks’ caravan, please. Go find it, please, while my Olaf and I talk about our act for tomorrow.”

“Whatever you say, boss girl.” Lilac said. She grabbed Violet’s arm and said, “Come on, Bev, move your sorry ass.”

“Okay, okay.” Violet muttered, snapping her fingers to signal the toddlers to follow her.

The second they were all out of the caravan, Klaus said, “That was humiliating.”

“That was awful.” Nick shuddered.

“Why did we decide this was my character again?” Lilac asked.

“I dunno,” Violet said, ripping herself away from Lilac’s grip, “I think you’re enjoying this a bit.”

“I am!” Sunny said.

“Chabo, only barks.” Klaus reminded her.

“Bark!” Sunny said, which meant, “I am!”

“Hiss!” said Soli.

“Okay, well, that worked better than expected. Let’s focus on that.” Lilac said. “Now we find the freaks’ caravan, sleep there, and figure out what Lulu tells Olaf tomorrow.”

“What if she tells him we’re here?” Violet asked.

“Then we set Chabo on the entire troupe.” Klaus suggested.

“You know,” Nick said, “I don’t need to sleep, I could spy on Lulu-”

“No, no.” Lilac said. “First of all, no. Second of all, you’re attached to Klaus, so double no.”

“But-” Nick began.

“Can we just find the caravan?” Violet asked. “It’s cold out here.”

Lilac sighed. “Yeah, sure. Come on, let’s go meet our new roommates.”

They finally managed to find the caravan that had been painted with the words House of Freaks on the side, and Lilac found the door, knocking gently. “Hello?” she called.

“Stay in character.” Violet muttered.

The door swung open before Lilac could retort, and they looked up to see a tired-looking man with a hunchback. He was holding a candle to help him see in the dark, and he said, “Oh, excuse me. Who are you?”

“We’re your new roomies.” Lilac said.

“Um, we’re the new freaks.” Violet said, trying once again to sound shy. “Madame Lulu told us to come here.”

“Oh!” said the hunchback, and he smiled. “Well, it certainly is nice to make new friends! Come on inside! I’m Hugo.”

“Babydoll.” Lilac said, walking in and trying not to be too rude or too polite.

“Um, I’m Beverly.” Violet said, following her closely.

“I’m Janus,” Nick said, “And this is my other head, Elliot.”

“Those are Euryale the Gorgon and Chabo the Wolf Baby.” Klaus said, as they all made their way inside.

“Wow! We got a lot at once!” Hugo said. “How did you all find each other?”

“It’s a long story that nobody cares about.” Lilac said, sitting on a table and glancing around the caravan, which she was surprised to see was very tidy. “Who’re all you, then?”

Violet and Sunny leaned against a small stove, and Nick and Klaus stumbled to a collection of potted plants. Solitude, meanwhile, wandered over to a large collection of hammocks, two of which were filled. A woman peered down at them and said, “Oh! New coworkers!” She jumped down, pushing on another hammock. “Kevin, get up! New friends!”

A man groaned and sat up. “Why’d you wake me up, Colette? I was having a dream that there was nothing wrong with me.” He glanced at Klaus and Nick and said, “Egad, you two have it as bad as I do!”

“Be polite, Kevin.” Hugo said. “These are… I’m sorry, what are your names again?”

Lilac groaned. “I’m Babydoll, the tattooed teen. That’s Beverly the burned.”

Violet waved awkwardly, gesturing to her scar.

“That’s Elliot and Janus, the two-headed freak.” Lilac said. “The little gorgon who went to say hello to you is Euryale, and at Bev’s feet is Chabo the Wolf Baby.”

“Wow. A wolf baby!” said Colette.

“Is she dangerous?” asked Kevin.

“She doesn’t like to be teased.” Nick warned.

“Neither do I.” Kevin said. “But wherever I go, I hear people whispering, ‘There goes Kevin, the ambidextrous freak.’”

“Ambidextrous?” Klaus asked. “Doesn’t that just mean you’re both right and left-handed?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me.” Kevin said. “Did you come all the way to the Hinterlands to laugh at the ambidextrous freak?”

“No.” Klaus said quickly. “I just learned the word from a book.”

“I figured you’d be smart.” Hugo said. “After all, you’ve got two brains.”

“Yes, that’s much more useful than what I have.” Colette said sadly. “I’m Colette, and if you’re going to laugh at me, I’ d prefer you to it now and get it over with.”

“Why would we laugh?” Violet asked, confused.

“Well, I’m a contortionist.” Colette said. “I can bend my body into all sorts of unusual positions. Look.”

She sighed and then bent her head down between her legs, then curled up into a tiny ball on the floor. She pushed one hand against the ground, lifting her body up on just a few fingers, braiding her hair into a spiral. Then she flipped into the air, balanced on her head, and then twisted her arms and legs together.

“Wow!” Sunny shrieked.

“That’s amazing.” Violet said. “Chabo thinks so, too.”

“That’s very polite of you to say,” Colette said, moving back to sit normally, “But I’m very ashamed of being a contortionist.”

“If you’re ashamed of it,” Nick asked, “Why don’t you just move your body normally, instead of doing contortions?”

“Because I’m in the House of Freaks.” Colette shrugged. “Nobody would pay to see me move normally.”

“It’s an interesting dilemma,” Hugo said. “All three of us would rather be normal people than freaks, but tomorrow morning, people will be waiting in the tent to see us all act in unnatural and strange ways. Madame Lulu says we must always give people what they want, and they want freaks performing on a stage.”

“Maybe what they want is wrong.” Lilac said, her voice growing soft. “Maybe you deserve better.”

“Well,” Colette said, “Maybe tomorrow a miracle will happen and we’ll all get the things we wish for most.”

Under their shirt, Klaus grabbed Nick’s hand, and Sunny leaned against Violet as Solitude sat and patted her pocket. “We all can hope.” was all Lilac said.

“Wake up! Wake up!”

“Son of a bitch.” Klaus muttered, as they heard the sound of metal pots banging together.

“Not again…” Violet groaned, sitting up and quickly checking her makeup in the mirror, pleased to see it remained.

Hugo and Kevin had set up hammocks for them, and though it was still a bit crowded, they’d all been able to sleep a little. Solitude slept at Klaus and Nick’s feet, Babbitt hiding under a pillow, and Sunny slept beside Violet, who now carried her to the ground as she growled.

“That must be one of the Count’s friends.” said Kevin, jumping down from his bunk.

“The Count?” Lilac asked, acting curious as she made sure Klaus and Nick got down okay.

“Yes, Count Olaf. He stops by to see Madame Lulu a lot.” Hugo said. “Why, last time he was here, he had-”

The door opened, and the Hook-Handed Man peered in, looking very cross. “Wake up!” he shouted. “Wake up and hurry up! I’m in a very bad mood and have no time for your nonsense. Madame Lulu and Count Olaf are running errands, I’m in charge of the House of Freaks, the crystal ball revealed that one of those blasted Baudelaire parents is still alive, and the gift caravan is almost out of figurines!”

The Baudelaires froze. “What did you say?” Lilac said, breathless.

‘I said the gift caravan is almost out of figurines.” the Hook-Handed Man said. “But that’s not your concern. Be ready in fifteen minutes!”

#asoue #asoue netflix #asoue movie #a series of unfortunate events #six baudelaires au #six baudelaires official fic #the carnivorous carnival #my fanfic #mine

[linkeai]

where angels fall

fan chengcheng ( nex7 / nine percent ) summary: the angels that fall from the sky are not angels anymore, and so you knew what he was when you found him. you thought you did, anyway. warnings: injury sort of genre: fluff + slight angst word count: 4,673

  There are many variations of the tale of the turtle and the scorpion. Your favorite had always been about the girl and the snake - and it went something like this;

 A young girl walking along a mountain path to her grandmother's house heard a rustle at her feet. Looking down, she saw a snake, but before she could react, the snake spoke to her.

 "I am about to die," he said. "It's too cold for me up here, and I am freezing. There is no food in these mountains, and I am starving. Please put me under your coat and take me with you."

 "No," the girl replied. "I know your kind. You are a rattlesnake. And if I pick you up, you will bite me and your bite is poisonous."

 "No, no," the snake said. "If you help me, you will be my best friend. I will treat you differently."

The young girl sat down on a rock for a moment to rest and think things over. She looked at the beautiful markings on the snake and she had to admit he was the most beautiful snake she had ever seen.

 Suddenly, she said, "I believe you. I will save you. All living things deserve to be treated with kindness."

 She then reached over, put the snake gently under her coat and continued toward her grandmother's house.

 Within a moment, she felt a sharp pain in her side. The snake had bitten her.

 "How could you do this to me?" she cried. "You promised that you would not bite me, and I trusted you!"

 "You knew what I was when you found me,” he hissed as he slithered away.

 Though the story changes, the moral remains the same. Those things that are made of a violent nature cannot change. A snake will always be a snake no matter how genuine or beautiful the snake is, and you should never trust a snake.

 The story of the girl and the snake is the first thing that comes to mind when you find a boy lying face down in your garden.

 It was early in the morning when you had been woken by a crash. The house was still covered in darkness, the earliest signs of dawn peering through the mountains far away.

 You wrapped your blanket around yourself and quickly started down over your stairs, bare feet padding on the wood and creaking with every step you take in the old cottage. Still half asleep, you did not consider what the noise might have been, just that it couldn’t have been a thief because no one would venture as far into nowhere as you lived just to rob your little cottage. You already knew what it was, and it always came at such ungodly hours of the morning.

 You flung open the back door with a mighty squeak of the hinges, flicking on the outdoor light. The air was cold and pinched your skin as well as the insides of your nose. Soft blues painted over the details of your quaint little garden, but what concerned you the most was the young man face down in your vegetables.

 “Oh, dear,” you whispered, hurrying out in the garden and wincing at the dewy grass tickling your toes. The bottom of your blanket dragged behind you only for you to drop it to the ground as you got a little closer.

 The boy was naked from the waist up, pale skin glistening in the morning moonlight. He was shoeless, too, wearing nothing but a tattered pair of brown pants. This didn’t concern you, though. What worried you were the two gaping wounds on his back.

 You froze. You were a firm believer in all things not right and crazy, and, with a face toward the paling blue sky, you knew what he was.

 “Oh, dear,” you said again.

 Kneeling down, your knees pressed into the damp earth beside him. His back rose ever so slightly with his breath, and you thanked your stars that he hadn’t died, yet. Tentatively, you placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him just slightly. The boy let out a mighty groan into the dirt, and you recoiled quickly. You wanted to ask if he was okay, but it was rather clear to you that he wasn’t.

 “Get up, now,” you said softly, pulling on his arm. “Won’t you come inside?”

 Your mind wandered to your childhood home and the stray cats and dogs that would laze around it. Your mother had always scolded you when you tried to approach them with a heart that wanted nothing more than to help. She had always said that you mustn’t feed it, because if you do, it will come back.

 With one of his heavy arms thrown over your shoulder, you dragged the boy inside anyway.

 Once he was settled on your couch in the dark living room, you raced back outside to retrieve your blanket and cursed as you beat the red ants off its now damp surface. Quickly running back inside, you closed the screen door behind you with a cacophonous screech followed by a soft click.

 If you let it in, it will never go away. That’s what they say about demons to children who play with spirit boards. The boy laying half dead on your upholstery was not a demon, however, but an angel. Or rather, he used to be.

 Yes, you knew what he was. You thought you knew what he was when you found him.

 You dampened a cloth and took a seat beside him. He was as pale as the moon, almost glittering in the dim light. You left the lights off so as not to irritate his eyes. Taking a deep breath, you pushed back his damp hair and started wiping the soil from his face with feather-light touches. He was handsome, you noted giddily. Better handsome than not, you supposed.

 When his face was clean, you disposed of the cloth and gently turned him over onto his front on the couch. He groaned in his slumber and you whispered apologies to the sleeping beast as you opened the first aid kit with a click and began to clear the debris from his wounds. He regularly let out sharp whines and you would apologize every time, hoping that somewhere in whatever dream he was in, he would forgive you.

 You finished and did not stitch his wounds. If you did, he would wake up angry and then you would have to cut them out, wasting both thread and time. This, you learned from experience.

 So instead, you curled up in the armchair opposite the couch and prepared to sleep wrapped up in your damp, grass-stained blanket.

 Just as you started to drift off, you heard movement from the couch that had your tired eyes fluttering wide open. These angels, you thought. Always have such bad timing. Well, how can you have good timing if you have no concept of time itself?

 His head had lifted from where it was more or less buried in your itchy, tightly stuffed cushions. Dawn had arrived now, casting her pinks and golds on the details of his confused expression.

 He turned his head to look at you, and you eyed him above the blanket pulled around your nose. Would he be one of the angry ones?

 “Hello,” he greeted. His voice was grungy and thick, so deep that it made your heart stutter in your chest with surprise. Angels voices were usually high, lyrical.

 He sat up with a grunt, facing you with his hands folded in his lap. Raising his eyebrows, he glanced down, seeing his bare skin and made a small sound of surprise. “Sorry. Is this indecent of me?”

 You smiled, letting the blanket pool around your waist. “No,” you reassured him. “It’s quite alright. Would you like some clothes?”

 He nodded slowly, glancing around at your home. “Yes, yes. I think that would be good.”

 You got up and hurried up over your stairs to your bedroom, retrieving one of the man's sweaters you’d bought when you realized half-naked men falling in your garden would become a trend. You took another blanket from the closet on your way back down. He must be so cold, tumbling through the atmosphere like that.

 You came downstairs to see he was still sitting put on the couch with his hands folded politely in his lap, gazing around at the house with his neck craned to look behind him. You smiled fondly, handing him the sweater and setting the blanket down beside him. “Here you are,” you told him. “I thought you might be cold.”

 He gave you a smile that looked as awkward as it did grateful. You didn’t mind - it might have been a while since he’d tried to communicate with a human.

 “I’ve heard of you,” he explained as you helped him wrestle the sweater over his neck and onto his cold skin. It was like putting your hands on a marble statue left out in the rain. “Have you?” You inquired, curiously.

 His head popped out from the neck hole and he nodded as you smoothed his mussed hair with the hand not guiding his arm through the sleeve. “I have. You’re the one who takes in all the fallen angels, right? Your home sits right beneath the departure they get thrown out of.”

 You nodded slowly, withdrawing your hands as he finally wore the sweater. You unfolded the blanket and draped it around his shoulders, pulling it tight in front of his chest. He blinked up at you with innocent eyes, so sweet you almost forgot for a moment what he was.

 “Yes,” you agreed softly. “That’s me. Tea?”

 He nodded, the look on his face showing clearly he wasn’t all that sure what tea was. That was fine. You went, filled the kettle and started it before turning and looking at his eyes staring at you over the back of the couch. How different he was. How peculiar.

 “You haven’t spent much time on earth, have you?” You asked him, setting two floral decorated mugs on the counter. It was still fairly dark in the house, but you could still make out the shadows of sadness on his face at your question. “No,” he answered. “I’m still young.”

 You furrowed your brow. “Yes, I can see that,” you thought aloud. “What’s a young thing look you doing down here, hm?” You tried to keep your tone as light and non-judgemental as you could. Young angels always did have tempers, or so you’d heard. You usually didn’t ask what the punishment was that brought your guests to your house.

 He sighed. “I did something bad.”

 You swallowed, staring out the window at the vast expanse of land that stretched out past your house. “You don’t have to tell me,” you reassured him. “Not if you don’t want too.”

 He said nothing.

 You poured the tea and mixed it extra sweet, walking carefully back to the couch and putting it in his hands. “Careful,” you warned. “It’s hot.”

 He murmured a thank you and brought the mug to his lips, humming when he sipped at it. “This tastes good,” he said, staring into the liquid. You smiled, sipping your own tea and curling up in your chair.

 Things were quiet between the two of you, a human and a fallen angel, for a long time until the boy spoke again. “What is your name?”

 “Y/N,” you responded. “What’s yours?”

 He seemed to think about it for a second before answering, “Chengcheng.”

 You nodded, eyeing him curiously. His skin had a kind of shine to it - so did his eyes. You saw this a lot with angels taking human form instead of inhabiting a vessel. It was what he truly looked like, and while with humans its a given that when you look someone in the face you are seeing their true selves, there is something intimate about seeing an angel in their second truest form.

 “You are very beautiful,” he said suddenly. You looked up from your tea, surprised. His face was void of emotion save a twinkle of kindness in his eyes. Such compliments were casual to an angel, but you felt your face heat up and were embarrassed to see his lips turn up as he listened to your heart pick up its beat. “I think you might be the closest thing to an angel.”

 You murmured a thank you, staring down into your cup. Your guests didn’t usually flirt with you, but you could hardly call it flirting. Especially since he was looking at you so innocently.

 You wanted to tell him he was beautiful, too, but decided not too. He was, though. Black, messy hair falling down over his forehead, big brown eyes and high cheekbones. Angels were usually on the attractive side - they were angels, after all. He was... special.

 You wanted to know what he had done.

 When you finished your tea, you took both of your mugs to the sink and cleaned them. The sun had risen now, and the house was filled with soft yellow light. Chengcheng didn’t look as pale in the sunlight, but he still sparkled as though he was speckled with gold.

 You felt an innermost chill and a trembling in your muscles that let you know it was time for sleep. Your eyes felt heavy and stiff, so you gathered your blanket and turned to Chengcheng. He didn’t have the human knowledge that staring wasn’t very polite, and it was hard not to get spooked by his eyes always seeming to follow you, finding you more interesting than your surroundings. He smiled softly when your eyes met, and you felt bad for leaving him alone. He seemed lonely.

 “I need to get some sleep,” you told him carefully. “Please make yourself at home. You can find something to occupy yourself, can’t you?” He hummed, looking around at the room with a small pout on his lips that made your heart comfortably warm despite the sleepy chill that overcame you. He stood up and walked over to your bookcase, brown eyes scanning the titles on the spines. He chose one with a pink velvet cover - a book about gemstones. He turned to you and showed it to you with a smile. “I will read a book.”

 You smiled, nodded your head. “Okay. Goodnight, Chengcheng. I will be back soon.” He nodded, situating himself back on the couch where there was already a depression from him sitting there so long. “Goodnight, Y/N. Have a good sleep.”

 Your smile grew a little, bobbing your head and turning around to go back upstairs. You fell asleep to the chirping of the birds and the distant sound of Chengcheng reading aloud about emeralds.

 When you woke up, it was noon and the house was warmed by the sun. Birds were still chirping outside and you sighed, coming back to your senses and remembering your new friend downstairs. He must be hungry.

 You quickly got up and got dressed, bare feet padding down over the stairs. Peering down over the rail, you saw Chengcheng’s head was rolled onto the back of the couch, fast asleep. You smiled, creeping past him quietly into the kitchen to make some lunch. The book about gemstones was open on his lap, his hand poised to turn the page. He must have tried to read till he fell asleep.

 You opened all the windows to let the air in and started making lunch; sandwiches and fruits. Angels didn’t like unhealthy food. It was why you grew all your own.

 As you were cutting the peppers for the sandwiches, you heard your name spoken behind you. Startled, the knife slipped and you cut your hand. You let out a yelp of pain, pulling your hand away from the food as the cut reddened and blood bloomed out of it.

 Chengcheng made a small gasp, rushing forward and holding your hand in his. He had just woken up, you supposed from his swollen eyes and messy hair. “I’m so sorry!” He cried. “Here, let me help you.”

 Before you could say another word, he covered your hand in his and closed his eyes. You stood still, staring at his face as a soft golden light shone behind his eyelids and from beneath his hands where your own was encased. After a moment, he exhaled softly and opened his eyes. For a moment, the light didn’t fade and you looked into his eyes - his real eyes. They were pale and shone like liquid gold. The color faded, back to their warm brown and you still stared, even as he looked away and unwrapped his hands from yours.

 You looked down. There was blood, but no wound. He had healed you.

 “Thank you,” you whispered, almost wanting to reach out and grab his hand as his warm touch retreated. He was so warm, so comfortable. “It’s okay,” he said just as quietly, his hands hesitantly falling to his sides. “Sorry for scaring you.”

 You smiled, hesitantly stepping out of his presence and going to the sink to wash your hands. When you turned around, Chengcheng was cutting up the peppers for you.

 After you ate lunch, the day passed as it usually did when you had a guest. He helped you clean the dishes and then helped with your gardening after you showed him how, he read more about gemstones while you read a book opposite him in your armchair, soft music playing in the house.

 You were finding it hard to concentrate on your book, however. Usually, angels that came to your home would simply coexist with you in the house until it was time for them to leave. Like two ships passing in the night that were so dissimilar that they never stepped into the other's path. They never coincided - some would say that they shouldn’t. Angels and humans were two sides of a thick coin. They never saw each other.

 Chengcheng was different. Instead of silence, he would read aloud to you things that he found interesting - like that all almost all rubies had flaws, and rubies without imperfections are exceptionally rare.

 He then told you people are kind of like that - flawed, but still beautiful like rubies. You told him he was beautiful, though you weren’t sure why. When his cheeks burned red and his eyes averted back to his book, you thought this analogy was clever. He was a ruby.

 He wanted to be in your presence; to speak to you, to know you, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he already did know you. You thought you knew what he was when you found him - maybe he knew what you were, too.

 He was peculiar indeed.

 There was another thing - most of the time, the angels that came to you left after three days. A week passed of Chengcheng cleaning up, tending the garden and reading books, talking and talking like he never got tired of the sound of his own voice. You didn’t either, really. You didn’t get tired of his dopey smiles and little waves every time you peered over the railing on the stairs in the morning. The look on his face while a little bug crawled over his hand, the way he would compliment you so sweetly, saying everything like it was fact.

 You became afraid of him. You were afraid he would stay too long and you would fall for him. A week turned into a month, and you never asked him why he hadn’t left because you wanted him to stay.

 One night, you were sitting reading your books. A slow vintage song played louder than you usually played it. It was Chengcheng’s favorite.

 “Y/N,” he had said suddenly. “What does it mean to dance?”

 You set your book on your lap, humming thoughtfully. “To dance.,” you repeated. “Stand up, I’ll show you.”

 He smiled, always happy to learn something new. You set your book aside and stood up, gesturing for him to follow you to an open space in the living room right before the bay of windows that looked out into the dusky valley.

 You started the song over and he stood there; tall, accommodating and waiting for instructions. You swallowed nervously, stepping forward and taking his hand in yours. He had quite short, stubby fingers, but your hand was still dwarfed in his. He was a big boy, a fact you were made all too aware of as you stood so close beside him.

 “There are lots of ways to dance,” you started softly, your hands trembling slightly as you moved the hand in yours to settle at the dip of your waist. Chills ran up your spine as he tightened his grip, squeezing slightly. He was always so warm, such a contrast to the freezing boy you’d found face down in your garden.

 You dared not look at his face as you moved his other hand to hold the other side of your waist. His gaze on your face was so heavy it was making your knees wobble. You knew he could hear the frantic beat of your heart, sense your nervousness as you laid your hands on his shoulders. Taking a slow, stuttered breath, you started to sway back and forth to the slow, steady beat of the old song.

 “For a song like this,” you explained with a voice barely above a whisper. “You dance like this.”

 Chengcheng said nothing. You stared at the two constellation-like moles at the base of his throat, too afraid to meet his eyes. He must have known because he squeezed your sides just that much tighter and pulled you so close that there was nowhere to look but up.

 His eyes were dark. Sad, even. Half-lidded and looking at you with something you couldn’t quite name. Well, you could. You could but you were afraid. So afraid that you were holding fistfuls of his old sweater in your hands like they would anchor you to this moment.

 He exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. You were so nervous you swore you were going to cry - he was so close, so close but he still felt so far away.

 After a moment, you stopped staring out the window and slowly turned to look at his face. His gaze was unmoving, always seeking your eyes.

 He almost smiled at you, and you would have smiled back had he not started leaning closer and your breath caught in your throat. He was so close you could see the details of his irises before your eyes fluttered shut. His forehead pressed to the top of yours, tilting your head back. His shaky breath fanned on your neck, and he chuckled as one of his hands slid up your back to settle right where your heart would be, feeling the frantic beat on his palm.

 He gripped your waist like you were fading away, tilting your head further back until, finally, his lips pressed to yours.

 They were warm, sending electric shocks rippling through your veins as he kissed you so slowly it was like he had all the time in the world. Your hands that were white-knuckling his sweater loosened, allowing yourself for a moment to indulge in the thing you knew you had no right to take. A kiss from an angel.

 He parted when he ran out of air, forehead still pressed to yours. His next breath was quick, almost like it pained him. You opened your eyes, staring into his to see that it had pained him. He had agony written all over his face.

 “Chengcheng,” you whispered. “Why are you still here?”

 He closed his eyes, leaning forward as though he would kiss you again and then thinking better of it, pulling away so he could see your face. He still held you impossibly close. He had seen the question coming, of course he had. He was thousands of years old, that being young for an angel and an eternity to you. He saw everything coming.

 “Y/N,” he breathed. He said your name strangely, like he was apologizing.

 “Do you want to know what I did?”

 Your breath caught in your throat again at the question. You did, of course you did. It had plagued your mind like nothing else had this past month. You knew what he was when you found him, but you didn’t know why.

 “Yes.”

 He took a deep breath, fingers splayed along your back. The song had looped a second time, and he still swayed ever so slightly. Not enough to call it dancing.

 “I fell in love with a human,” he told you.

 Your heart sank into your stomach and took the breath from your lungs. A human. Someone else.

 “I was a guardian angel for them,” he explained. “You’re just supposed to do your job. I couldn’t. I fell in love with them.” His voice was thick with emotion - you didn’t want to hear it. God, you didn’t want to hear it, but he needed to say it, so you let him.

 “I watched them every day, their acts of kindness and their gentle nature, their loneliness. They were too beautiful, the closest thing to an angel on earth.” You furrowed your brow at his words. They sounded all too familiar.

 “The other angels found out I loved them. It’s a terrible thing for an angel to do, to fall in love with the human we’re supposed to protect. As if I could ever do anything but hurt them.” You swore he was crying, but you couldn’t see his face.

 “So they cast me out. Sent me falling through the sky without my wings,” he paused, and you heard him swallow. “And I fell in my human’s garden. They took me in, cared for me. I didn’t tell them. Didn’t tell them who I was. I didn’t tell them I’m in love with them.” His tone grew frantic as you froze in his arms, eyes fixed and staring blankly over his shoulder in shock.

 “It was you, Y/N. I love you. I’m sorry.”

 You couldn’t move or find your voice to speak. Tears had sprung to your eyes because God, you had known, hadn’t you? You had known.

 “But you knew that, didn’t you?” He said. He pulled away from your shoulder, held your face in his hands and looked you in the eyes. “You knew what I was when you found me.”

 Yes, you thought. Yes, you had.

 Like the stray cats and dogs who came back for more - they do not always come for the food, some come for the attention. For the love. Of course he had never left.

 “I knew,” you whispered, tears spilling out onto your cheeks.

 “I know,” he said brokenly, thumbing away the tears as they fell. “Thank you.”

 Time seemed to unfreeze. The music playing in the background came back into focus. The hand on your waist and above your heart. Without another thought, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him to your level so you could kiss him again. He jolted in surprise, tightly wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing you back like it was the only thing that mattered anymore.

 “I don’t want to leave,” he said breathlessly when he parted. “I want to stay here, with you.”

 You smiled, dragging your thumb over his soft cheek. “You don’t have to leave. Stay with me.”

 He breathed a laugh, relieved as he held you close to him and pressed his face into your hair. “I love you,” he murmured into your ear. “I love you so much.”

 “I love you too,” you whispered, laying your head on his shoulder. “I knew I would when I found you.”

#i think this might be my favorite storyline of mine so far??? #i hope you like it too i just wrote this whole time in like two hours lol #fan chengcheng #chengcheng #NINE PERCENT #nine percent scenarios #nine percent imagines #nine percent reactions #nine percent fanfic #nine percent smut #nine percent fluff #nine percent angst #nex7 #nex7 scenarios #nex7 reactions #nex7 fluff #nex7 angst #nex7 smut #idol producer #idol producer scenarios #idol producer reactions #idol producer smut #idol producer fluff #idol producer angst #cpop scenarios #cpop imagines

[cerillosvillage]

40!

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One: I’m Interested in You. I’m Not Interested in Anybody.

The hounds whined and scratched at the door of Ib’s apartment, startled by the hard, booming knocks that had sounded just moments before. The mercenary pulled himself out of his favorite - and only - chair and made his way towards the door. He didn’t have much distance to cover, as he had been granted one of the smallest of living spaces in the cliff village, sandwiched between two rock walls in the back of the outcropping, with a low stone ceiling. The room had been filled with electrical equipment when he first moved in, remnants of a previous, equally reviled tenant. He had replaced all that with his own furniture, turning the small space into a comfortable, richly decorated one, courtesy of the wealth he had accumulated from his service to a number of kings and lords.

As he had not been expecting a visitor - only a handful of the men of the village spoke to him, and none of the women - he was not dressed to entertain, decked only in a kilt, his exposed chest rippling with muscle. He shoved his war hounds out of the way of the door and opened it, leaning on the rough wood.

He was surprised by his guest, though not unpleasantly so. She nearly rivaled him in muscle mass, and stood nearly a full head taller than him. Her lip was curled in a perpetual sneer, as if she had detected something unpleasant in her midst, which was everyone and everything she encountered. She was dressed in a more comfortable shirt and pants, not her Earthen armor, but a mammoth headdress of horns, stone, and crystal still graced her forehead.

Ajra. Once the leader of the Rockbreaker cult, the fierce, horrible, wild matron of a horde of gem warriors and miners. The woman who had originally come to the village to meet.

She stepped forward, forcing him to step backwards or be shoved aside. Such was her dominating presence.

She stood tall and proud, looking down at him, tips of her horned headdress scraping the ceiling, but still she did not duck or bow her head, or do anything that could be construed as a sign of subjugation or weakness.

He couldn’t help but grin.

“Ajra,” he said pleasantly, hooking one thumb into the waist of his kilt, and using the other arm to make a sweeping gesture towards his quarters. “Welcome to my humble abode. May I ask, what brings your ladyship here?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly and a crease formed between her eyebrows. She was beautiful, in a rough, coarse kind of way.

“My husband said you wanted to speak to me.” Her voice was low and rumbling, coming from deep in her chest. Ib could see why people could once believe she spoke for the Earthshaker. She had a gravitas about her that even some of the richest and most powerful rulers he had worked for lacked.

“Oh, yes,” he said with a nod. “I wished to invite you to dine with me, and to discuss business.”

“I have no business with you,” she said in a way that wasn’t just curt, but outright rude.

“Ah, you may think that, but you do not know what my full services are yet. You and I could do great things toge–”

“I know what your services are, mercenary,” she growled. “I know your kind. I know how you fold the moment someone with greater wealth comes along. I have no need for you.”

Ib stroked his beard, listening politely, grin not falling. “Ah, my lady, that may be true for most mercenaries, but I am not like most mercenaries. Money is of no concern - I have more than enough for multiple lifetimes. I know you have a vision, and I wish only to see it come to fruition.”

Ajra’s sneer deepened. “What is your game, mercenary?”

Ib reached forward, wrapping an arm around Ajra’s waist. The cult leader was so stunned at the sudden and inappropriately intimate gesture that she did not react, beyond a flash of white-hot fury that crossed her face. Ib pulled her down with him onto his chair, a plush, luxurious piece of furniture that had once belonged to a king. He wrapped his other arm around her, cradling the back of her head - a move that had worked with countless women before.

“I’m interested in you. I’m never interested in anything,” he all but purred, hand smoothing down her back…

Her hand was around his throat and crushing his windpipe so quickly that he saw stars. He gasped desperately for air, arms twitching, hovering centimeters from her body.

“I have no use for you, mercenary,” she hissed. Her voice had the quality of a rattlesnake poised to bite. One wrong move and he was done for.

She stood up quickly, shoving him away from her as she did. His chair rocked backwards with the force, almost sending him toppling over. The hounds barked, but one look from her and they fell silent, slinking back with tails between their legs.

She looked back to Ib, nostrils flaring, eyes wild with anger. “Touch me again, and you will find yourself begging that all I do is break your hands.”

With that she turned, the horns of her headdress scraping against the stone ceiling and making an awful screeching noise. And then she was gone, leaving Ib to rub his bruised neck.

He grinned. He’d heard stories about her. About how she heaped favors - and perhaps more than just favors - on those she thought worthy.

Well, he thought, I will just have to prove myself worthy.

#rockbreaker lore #flight rising lore #fr lore #this got.... kinda long #read mores tend to screw up on asks so. sorry about that. #wildewinged-fr

[gregkatepetegowest]

The Beginning of the End - Yellowstone

Alert: This is going to be a long one. I am going to try to include lots of detail so when someone asks me about what to do in Yellowstone I can just send them here.

Our drive from Idaho Falls to The Yellowstone River Motel was just under three hours with 1.5 of those hours driving through the park. We lucked out with the weather that day as it was in the low 60’s and overcast (perfect weather for safely leaving Greg in the car for a few minutes). Once we realized we would be driving through the park for 1.5 hours regardless we decided to make some stops so we would have less to cram into the next two days. We stopped off at numerous hot springs and geysers with the highlight for me being Artist Paint Pots. “Paint Pots” are basically little geysers that have heated the rock up enough to melt it and turn it into a mud/clay like substance. They bubble and shoot this mud/clay substance into the air. It’s mildly addicting to watch. After we had our fill of hot springs and geysers for the day, we continued north to the park exit. A few miles before the park exit, we hit a ton of traffic. Someone told me before our visit that if there are traffic jams and cars pulled over, to keep your eyes peeled. Since we were Yellowstone rookies we almost kept driving (also because Pete was stressing about work), but, at the last second, I saw a spot to pull off so we did. We got out of the car and tried to act like we knew what everyone was staring at. Then we saw it! A little chunky black bear rummaging around in the bushes below us. We watched the bear do bear things for a while and then hit the road, feeling lucky we had seen a bear so soon into our time in Yellowstone. The lucky feeling was still fresh when Pete spotted another bear, potentially a small grizzly, running along a ridgeline a half mile before the park exit (and very close to town).

Initially, I really wanted to stay in West Yellowstone. The road throughout the park is set up like a figure eight and the West Yellowstone park entrance is the most central. If you stay in West Yellowstone, you can essentially see/do all the major sites/hikes without ever having to backtrack driving wise. Of course, because I waited so long to book accommodations (and because we had a dog with us) there were no available accommodations in West Yellowstone, or really ANYWHERE. Planning Yellowstone was probably the biggest trip stressor for me once I realized we might be staying 40+ minutes away from a park entrance. Through extensive internet searching, I found the Yellowstone River Motel, which is located in Gardiner, MT. The only way to make reservations is to call them (CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE) and I truly think that’s the only reason I ended up securing a room. The motel was awesome. Dated, but clean and steps away from the north park entrance. The motel was also right on the Yellowstone River and had an amazing patio/yard space with grills, picnic tables, chairs, etc. Highly recommend staying here if you want to save a few dollars and stay right outside the park. Also, no sales tax in MT so win win.

After five or six stops in the park on our way to the motel, we arrived around 5 pm. Pete had an angry client so he needed to send a tax return out so this man-child would stop sending him angry emails. Most restaurants in Gardiner that were within walking distance closed at 8 pm on week nights so we had very limited food options since Pete didn’t wrap up work until 7:30 pm or so. We discovered the Iron Horse Saloon was open later and a short walk from us so we headed there. The bar/restaurant was right on the Yellowstone River and had a huge deck overlooking the river. We had to wait to be seated so we got a drink and stared at the river, which was lovely. The food was decent and cheap and we are easy to please. Pete got an elk burger because when in Rome! I would recommend this place if you are visiting Yellowstone/staying in Gardiner. No other establishment offers river views like Iron Horse. After dinner, we got right into bed because the plan was to get up EARLY and head to Lamar Valley in hopes of seeing some wildlife. Lamar Valley is where a lot of bison hang out which brings the bears, wolves, coyotes, etc.

Our alarm was set for 4:50 am and sunrise was at 5:30 am. This is where we went wrong. Lamar Valley was an hour drive from us and we should have planned to be there at 5:30/5:45 am. Seems crazy but that truly gives you the best chance to see some action. Alas, we were up walking Greg by 5:20 am or so. I was on high alert for bears and elk. The elk are EVERYWHERE in Gardiner and they are used to people but they will be aggressive if they feel threatened. My worry is always Greg acting a fool and causing an animal to come after us. Luckily, we mostly saw elk from afar on this walk. However, we were walking down a little bank towards the river when Pete pointed out a tiny deer on the hillside. I assured him it was fake because it was so still and looked exactly like those fake deer people set up in their yards to use for target practice. We continued on and when we looped back Pete pointed to the fake deer who hadn’t moved at all with the exception of it’s head so it could watch us. Long story short, the deer wasn’t fake and luckily it was a doe so she just stood like a statue and waited for us to leave her alone. From here, we dropped Greg off and headed to Lamar Valley.

The drive through the park at this early hour was a breeze. I cannot stress enough, especially in Yellowstone, that the earlier you make it into the park the better. We were in the valley by 7 am. Lamar Valley is gorgeous and this was both Pete and I’s favorite part of Yellowstone. You are away from the crowds and it’s quiet and peaceful (if you’re there early or late). Upon arriving to the valley, we realized we were idiots because we didn’t have binoculars. Literally every single other people/couple we saw had binoculars. UGH! Regardless, we had a wonderful morning despite only seeing bison. We left around 9 am to get back to take Greg out before horseback riding at 11 am.

We arrived to Hell’s- A-Roarin’ ranch just before 11 am after driving 10 miles up an unpaved mountain road. We had scheduled a two-hour ride around the mountain. We waited around a bit before getting on our horses. Pete was assigned Jimmy and I was assigned Pet. We started out and three minutes into the ride, Jimmy was kicked by another jerk horse, which of course caused him to jump sideways. Pedro handled it like the true cowboy he is, but I wondered how the next hour and fifty seven minutes would go. Two minutes after this incident, one of the guides/fake cowboys gives me the heads up that Pet was very bad on a ride earlier and “needs her space” or she’ll kick. Oh great. So now I have one hour and fifty four minutes to worry about Pet kicking another horse and potentially causing someone else to fall off/get hurt. We trudged onward and I warned anyone around me to stay back from Pet’s booty or else. Luckily, she did give signals when she was getting angry and, because I grew up riding horses, I could read these signals. Halfway through the ride I decided it was best for mine and Pet’s anxieties if we moved into the caboose position so that’s what we did and we had no incidents, thankfully!

Back to Pete and Jimmy… I really didn’t see Pete much during the ride. On trail rides, the horses typically have “friends” who they like to walk near so you are supposed to let them choose their marching order. I’ll let Pete step in here to give you the 4-1-1 on Jimmy’s overall disposition:

Jimmy is a stubborn and tired old horse. He only has one speed and it’s just slightly faster than the horses in front of him. Despite my continuous pulls on his reigns, he refused to give the other horses their space, preferring to ride up on their hind sides until his nose was nearly touching their rears. He would slow down momentarily and in a matter of seconds we would be back where we started. We spent time near the front of the pack, at the back of the pack, and eventually ended up somewhere in the middle. Jimmy didn’t seem to have any “friends” and couldn’t seem to find his place in the marching order. He mostly followed my lead, but I could tell he didn’t care much for me.

Throughout the ride, the guides/cowboys chatted us up. They were both super young (17 and 22) and lived on the ranch. They all bunked up in a basement together similar to the depiction in Paramount’s series, Yellowstone. Guide one, Logan, was 22 and from South Carolina. He was heading into his senior year at Clemson and was doing this for the summer before joining the rest of us in the rat race. Prior to earlier this spring, he had no experience riding horses. Guide 2, Hanley, was 17 and from outside of Billings, MT. He was… a “good ole boy” if you know what I mean. He meant well but was annoying AF and talked to me for at least 20 minutes which was painful. He grew up on a ranch and recently dropped out of high school, because another student had “disrespected” our flag and/or anthem. He worked his way among the group, telling the same stories over and over about killing rattlesnakes, rodeo injuries, and about that one time last year when he dropped out of high school.

The ride continued and, at this point, I was wishing it was one hour and not two. The ride was very slow. Many stops to wait for people who didn’t really have control of their horse (horses going of the path, stopping to eat grass, etc.). Finally, though, we were in the home stretch back to the ranch. Even though Pet and I were pulling up the rear we had a good view of the horses in front of us. All of a sudden, I see Jimmy and Pete jump sideways and up onto a hill after the horse in front of him decided to back up into Jimmy. Once again, Pete managed to stay on Jimmy and crisis was averted. Phew. This happened again just before the trail ended at the road to the ranch, this time with Jimmy jumping off the trail over some logs and into the long brush. We were both ready to say goodbye and Jimmy, Pet, Hanley, and the rest of the group.

After the horse ride, we were pretty exhausted (mentally and physically) so we headed back to the motel to shower/walk Greg/nap. We had decided earlier in the day to go back to Lamar Valley that night to see if we could spy some wildlife after talking to a woman at the ranch who told us about a wolf den located in Slough Creek. She had been there that morning and seen some of the pups playing. SO JEALOUS.

Before heading back to Lamar Valley, we stopped off and bought binoculars. I will just say, I was very thankful there is no sales tax in MT and I plan to take up bird watching once I get back to Nashville.

We headed out around 5 pm with plans to arrive to Slough Creek around 6 pm and continue into Lamar Valley after. As we were driving through the park, we once again saw people pulled over so we did the same and were delighted to see a mother black bear and her cub. The cub was adorable (obviously). Although the bears were not far from the road, we quickly put our new binocs to use for an up-close look.

We continued on to Slough Creek and Lamar Valley and saw lots of bison but not much else. We realized we should have asked the woman at the ranch exactly WHERE the wolf den was. Fail. Regardless, it was really cool to be back in the same area 12 hours later. We caught the “golden hour” in the valley and again we didn’t have to deal with traffic/crowds/trouble parking/etc. In my option, the move for Lamar Valley is to be there at sunrise or sunset (the sun sets really late this time of year, around 9:20 pm) and post up in camping chairs with some ‘nocs and just wait.

The next day was our last day in Yellowstone and we planned a marathon drive around the bottom loop to see as much as possibly could. We had already driven the top loop, with the exception of the Tower Falls stretch of road, which is closed until next year. I knew that the Grand Prismatic Spring and Old Faithful would be a nightmare of people so we planned to be on the road early. We stopped at many other geysers and hot springs this day as well. They are basically endless to the point that Pete stated he was done with geysers and hot springs. Oh Pete. We arrived to Grand Prismatic about 9 am. A lot of cars were pulling into the parking lot, so we opted to park on the road and walk. There was a trail and it was a 10 minute walk so not bad. Since it was early in the day, it was 50 degrees out which meant all of the springs in the park were extra steamy. Hadn’t thought about that when it came to seeing the colors of the Grand Prismatic. This one was a let down for me. Although still stunning, there was so much steam you really couldn’t see much. When the wind blew, you could see a bit more but still it wasn’t what I had seen in pictures. We also tried to stop here on our way to Grand Teton National Park as it was on the route and we figured that later in the day, when it was warmer, we would be able to see more. We arrived around 1:30 pm and the amount of people – OH MY GOD. We bagged it and continued onward. We could see from the road that there was still quite a bit of steam coming off the springs so I’m not sure how you really win here unless you manage to go early in the morning in July/August on a really breezy day. If anyone has tips, please share, because I’m sure we will be back in Yellowstone at some point!

From Grand Prismatic we continued to Old Faithful. The National Parks app predicts when Old Faithful will erupt, but there is no cell service in the park so this was relatively useless to us. OF’s eruptions occur every 60/90 minutes. We arrived a few minutes after 10 am and had no trouble parking. We hustled over and could see a large crowd already there. A good sign. We found spots to sit on the ground and eavesdropped on people nearby to determine when OF was scheduled to erupt. We ended up only waiting 25 minutes or so which felt like a major win! Old Faithful was spectacular as were all the other geysers in this area (there is a trail that wraps around the backside of OF with many other geysers and hot springs. We spent quite a bit of time at this stop before continuing onward.

Once past Old Faithful the traffic and people thinned out a lot. The loop takes you past Yellowstone Lake which is the largest lake in the United States at a high elevation (I believe it’s around 7k feet). We stopped at one of the beaches to walk around and noticed lots of animal poop on the beach. As I was getting back into the truck, I noticed a sign stating the area was closed due to bear activity. Whoops. We had lunch in Hayden Valley, which was very similar to Lamar Valley and known for lots of grizzly and other wildlife activity. We hung out for a while in our camping chairs but we were there in the middle of the day, so I didn’t expect much wildlife. We saw more bison and did some birding watching thanks to the newly acquired binoculars. We also stopped at the Mud Volcano which was really cool and fairly quick (and no trouble parking) and The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone which is incredible. There was a hike down into the canyon that looked fairly easy and rewarding, but by this point, Greg had been alone in the motel room for most of the day so we didn’t have time to hike down into the canyon. I would highly recommend this hike and had I known how beautiful and impressive the canyon was, I would have skipped over some of the 175 hot springs/geysers we saw.

Finally, after nine hours in Yellowstone, we made it back to a very happy Greg. We went for a walk and then Pete and I treated ourselves to rainbow trout for dinner.

All in all, an amazing couple days. Pete and I both agreed one more full day would have been perfect and we would have started it by going back to Lamar Valley again for sunrise. A couple other pro tips:

- BINOCULARS.

- Download the Yellowstone map so you can access it offline. You are still able to see your location while offline and the map clearly shows all of the points of interest. We referenced this map multiple times every day.

- If you plan to hike, bring bear spray (duh).

- In hindsight, while West Yellowstone is very central I imagine this area is the worst for traffic/parking/annoying crowds of people. If you don’t mind driving a tad more, staying at one of the other entrances may be the better move.

- I would love to get on a boat on Yellowstone Lake. No idea what the options are but this area is so beautiful and again, less people.

#roadtrip #roadtrippin #yellowstone #yellowstone national park

[sending-the-message]

Suicide by Search Engine by M59Gar

I'll admit it, I was suicidal. On a spectacularly bad day in a particularly lonely month during a rather bleak winter, I wasn't really feeling the whole life thing anymore. I'd been unhappy before, and even depressed, but this was different. This felt like a hot knife of pain prodding me to action; where before thoughts of suicide had only ever been hypothetical, now the world seemed filled with the promise of sweet relief at every turn. Sidewalk curbs begged me to trip and smash my head, traffic jovially requested I leap out onto the street, and friendly steel rods in the construction site next to my house were always poking out and waving me over to get impaled.

The only thing that saved me was the helpless and horrified feeling that this urge was coming from outside myself. The little man riding around in my brain—the little man that looked out my eyes and spoke my thoughts to himself—was not trying to sail my body against the reefs of traffic and steel rods. He was trying to brave the storm despite feeling hopeless; it was something else that was trying to crash us against the rocks and destroy us.

Chemicals. It's chemicals in the brain, you see. I looked it up online. Between a thousand different searches for ways to kill myself, I also managed to open a suicide prevention forum. All I managed to post was help, but that was enough. Kind souls contacted moderators, concerned moderators contacted police, tired police contacted doctors, and grim men in white uniforms took me to a special hospital.

For a long time, I was disconnected from the world. It was summer by the time the doctors found the right combination and dosages of medicines to balance the storm in my brain, but the day I finally walked out of that facility, it was beautiful and warm out.

And I wanted to live!

I waved at a passerby. She was very old, but took the effort to wave back and even smile.

Oh my God, could you imagine what I might have done? What I might have missed out on? I bought donuts from a shop with change that had been in my clothes in storage at the facility for six months.

I sat on a bench and broke down in tears while human beings milled left and right around me. Do you know what it is to be alive? You get to talk to other aware beings. You get to have ideas and share them and have those ideas refuted, entertained, or accepted. You get to build things. You get to eat things.

Like donuts.

For fifteen minutes, I sat on that bench near that bus stop crying profusely while eating donuts. When people asked if I was alright, I just told them that these were really good donuts.

I didn't have money for the bus since I'd spent it on treats, but the orderlies had let me charge my phone before departing. I loaded up the Internet for the first time in half a year and mapped the way home. It was a beautiful day! I would walk.

No specific turn was in itself scary. It was too slow a change for that. It was only after two hours of walking that I looked around, saw homeless men, drug addicts, and openly carried pistols that I realized I was in a very bad part of town. I clutched my phone tight and continually checked the mapping program. It insisted that my next turn was down a dark and trash-filled alley, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Rising city heat caused gold waves of evening light to dapple the street; in that back and forth light, I saw unhappy eyes look my way.

Time to move on. Screw that.

I found a rundown gas station and asked for directions inside. The attendant listened to my question from behind his security glass and told me I was way off. The part of town I was looking for was practically in the opposite direction.

Well, maybe the maps program in my phone was six months out of date. Maybe that was it. I got to walking and left the bad part of town before night fell, and I reached my apartment around three in the morning. All my bills had been on automatic payment, and thank God for that. My landlord had probably never even noticed I'd been away, but I did have a massive pile of mail just inside the door.

I left it for later and crashed in bed, my bed, my home. It was good to be alive.

But I had no food!

Getting out my phone, I looked up twenty-four-hour pizza places. There'd been two before I'd gone away. What had they been called?

While beginning to type in my search, I froze. After each of the first three letters in pizza, the autocomplete search had filled in: please kill me, pick the best way to die, pizza poison buried in cheese.

I was very unhappily reminded of all the searches I'd made online... before. I cleared my browser cache and put my phone down. I wasn't hungry anymore.

And I thought that would be the end of it.

The next morning, I had a text.

West Columbus Drug & Food Rx: NATHAN, your Rx is due now. Reply REFILL to fill. HELP for more info & STOP to opt out of Rx Alerts. CANCEL to cancel Rx.

I typed in refill and hit send. I was really hungry, but it was important I took my medication in the right amounts and on time. I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and headed down to the store. I waited in line for twenty minutes only to be told they didn't have my prescription on file. I argued with the pharmacist calmly for a minute until I checked my phone to show them I'd just sent REFILL—and I saw that somehow my reply had autocorrected to CANCEL.

The pharmacist apologized but told me I'd have to have the facility send another prescription. Strict insurance rules, nothing they could do.

I sighed. It was fine, whatever. I stepped outside to call the facility. I'd hoped it would be longer before I contacted them again, but it was important, so I hit the contact number for Sunnybrook and waited with the phone to my ear.

Nothing happened.

After about ten seconds, I lowered my phone and looked at it.

I wasn't even in a call.

I'd somehow accidentally hit 'delete' and the confirmation, removing the contact from my phone. Sighing, I went the phone's browser and began to type in the name of the facility to get their phone number all over again.

The search autocompleted as I typed: Sin to kill yourself?, Sucks to be alive, Sunday the best day of the week to die, Sunny weather increases suicide risk study says.

My finger stopped four letters in. I shivered from some sourceless chill. This wasn't funny anymore—if it had ever been—and I angrily cleared my browser cache again.

Bitter, I waited a tick, and then typed in the letter 'k':

kill yourself

Of course. Online companies had massive profiles that held all the data every one of us had ever put online. I'd made thousands of searches about suicide before losing contact with the Internet completely for six months, and all that data was stored on a server somewhere linked to my particular phone. Shaking with anger and a strange kind of abused-puppy fear, I let the phone slip from my hands before kicking it as hard as I could while it fell. It soared out onto the street and exploded before being run over by seven different cars.

Screw you. Just screw you. A mindless artifact of technology had left residue of my mental issues on the Internet, that was all. I just needed to get a new phone and put it out of my head.

I walked to Sunnybrook and talked to a nurse in person to have my prescription refilled.

I walked back to the drug store in person to get my medicine.

I took my medicine and began to feel better almost immediately.

The next day, I went in person to a tech store and got a new phone. New number, new everything, no connection to the old. I walked out of there happy as could be.

Once I got home, I sighed, stretched, looked around my apartment, and said to myself, "Maybe I should go see a movie." I'd never been one to leave my solitude for any reason, but now life was good, and I was even feeling a little bit outgoing. I got my new phone out to see what was playing.

I typed the letter 'm' and the search autocompleted to movies in my area now that I'm feeling better.

"What the hell?"

Coincidence. It had to be. I began to type again: movies about Hell.

No.

It wasn't possible.

Or—

I moved my phone's listening end up to my mouth and said as if I was talking to someone I'd brought home, "Hey Jessica, I feel like seeing an action movie. What about you?"

Alright, continue typing: movies good action date.

It was listening to me.

It was fucking listening to me!

New technology. It had to be. But was the microphone simply always on? Were people okay with this? When I'd gone in for treatment, there'd been a privacy outrage. Had things shifted back hard the other way in the last six months?

I'd paid cash for the phone. I wondered if it was learning about its new user. Still pretending I was talking to a non-existent Jessica, I said, "Yeah, my friends usually call me that as a nickname, but my real name is Nathan."

I started to type into my phone again, but a severe amount of interface lag seemed to be slowing things down. After a good twenty seconds of frustrated typing that did nothing, the letters I'd hit all appeared again in the search bar.

moviesiesiesaoishdoihoeishkyou are dead Nathan

Nearly dropping my phone like it had turned into a rattlesnake in my hand, I caught it back at the last second. I had to be hallucinating, right? I deleted the search and then typed again.

movie you killed yourself 188 days ago

Shivering, I stared at that message for an interminable period. What the hell was going on here? I didn't feel dead. At long last, I said aloud, "No I didn't!"

movie the data doesn't lie searched for suicide three months followed by zero data you died

"You think I killed myself because I went off the grid," I breathed aloud, not quite believing what I was interacting with. Had neural learning algorithms actually developed a sort of proto-consciousness through analyzing massive amounts of data? One of my acquaintances was a programmer, and he'd been talking about something just like this when—

movie anomaly will be corrected further data for dead profile must be prevented

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I didn't like what was happening, so I turned off my phone and left it near my sink.

That night, I did not go out.

I did not see a movie.

All I could think about was what might happen if I used my credit card. The online data conglomerates would see that, and whatever it was that thought I was dead would know. If I withdrew cash from an ATM, it would know. I was stuck.

But this was crazy, right?

It had to be a side effect of the medicines. I was imagining things.

The next day, I used my credit card at a Starbucks.

I was so stupid. Oh my God, so stupid...

Two days after that coffee, the mailman died in an explosion that blew my door off its hinges. A mistake in components shipping for a military contractor near Columbus had somehow sent dangerous materials to my address. I found all this out in person from an apologetic military lawyer. They offered to pay for my door; I told him to talk to the landlord.

Because me? I'm running. Big Data thinks I'm dead, and they, or it, have gone from analyzing their information to trying to make it true.

I'm posting this anonymously. My name is not Nathan. But I bet someone or some thing knows what my name really is... and it knows all about you, too. Be careful what information you give out. The things you say around your phone or the things you search online may come back to haunt you.

Literally. Beware the ghost in the machine. It is always watching, always listening—even if you think your phone is off.

+++

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

[nevofthewilds]

Session 13: The Tournament of Champions (Part I)

With the lots having been cast into the chalice, the Mudwangs waited expectantly. Though only 3 had entered their names- Rucker alone, Taerus and Vax as a team- Shakan and Gusten both shared in the excitement, along with the other tribesmen of Kijiwan’s clan. After some celebration in the combatants honor, they found their rest in expectation for the event to come.

The next day, they found a notice at a local crosspath, notifying combatants to meet at the amphitheatre at midday. With a few hours before the presser, the group again split to attend to personal errands. Taerus joined Vax in going to fetch his commissioned pieces, while Shakan and Rucker aimed to try and gain some intel about the games or the Wild Wevir leader, Hallehaig. 

The knight and the warlock made their way back towards the entrance of the camp, where Vax had met with the armorer the day previously. Finding his tent flap closed, the two tried to mingle with the neighbors. Two leatherworkers, frightened by the drow’s complexion, at first could barely utter a word. After convincing them he wasn’t there to kill them and declining their wares, it was suggested to Vax he try knocking on the tent, which he admittedly hadn’t tried. 

As Vax moved to the armorers tent, Taerus went to speak with vivacious dwarves, who appeared to be preparing for the tournament. A loud and boisterous dwarf by the name of Kazrik Stormbringer teased the knight, recommending he stay out of his way in the arena. Taerus skillfully avoided offending the proud band, and in fact earned their begrudging approval as they discussed strategy in the upcoming fights.

Vax finally roused the dazed half-orc and inquired about his orders. The armorer proffered a specially made targe, highlighting it’s defensive and offensive features. Vax gratefully accepted, but then wondered about his custom rapier. At this, the armorer seemed to shudder for a moment, and then uttered a gravelly warning about his gifts not being appreciated. As Taerus rejoined his partner, and before Vax could respond, the half-orc shook his head and apologized for not fulfilling the order, as he wasn’t feeling himself. With the extra savings, Vax and Taerus purchased matching half-cape and bandana from the leatherworkers.

Shakan and Rucker moved through the crowds, keeping an ear out for any discussions about the tournament. The genasi came across a well armored knight, who was in the midst of wooing a young, doe-eyed girl. Overhearing him speaking about the challenges of combat, Shakan attempted to work his way into the conversation with great difficulty. As the knight grew increasingly annoyed, Shakan was able to glean some information regarding the formats- the single combat (which the knight was entered in,) would be a straightforward affair, while the team events featured a sort of race or obstacle course. Not wishing to press his luck anymore, Shakan removed himself from the courting. 

The four reunited and made their way to the Western end of the lake, where they were joined by several dozen other combatants. A great and brooding goliath, dressed in robes and armor, approached the assembly. Rucker’s attention was quickly grabbed, for he had not seen another of his kind for a great while, and this one was older, heavily scarred, and had lithoderms that had grown and hardened from his previous wounds, giving him an sense of being almost erupted from rock itself.

With the groups clamor quickly brought to silence as he stepped forward, the goliath before without preamble. He made it clear that the Arena was for entertainment, and that whether they fought for honor or glory he cared not a lick. Rather, it should be noted that Hallehaig would be watching, and that he was not looking for good sports. Furthermore, single combatants would be allowed a single weapon and no shields. The teams could carry what they wish, as their hands would be full. With that unceremonious and short briefing, the goliath turned to leave without waiting for questions. 

One of the warriors called out, asking what the rules of combat were, or if they were supposed to hold back at all. At that, the goliath muttered out a single word: Win. As the brute returned to his encampment, Rucker rushed after him and tried to gain the acknowledgement of his kinsman, without much success. Taerus and Vax tried to follow, but were held up by a Wild Wevir barbarian clothed in a heavy white pelt of stinking fur, who laughed and warned them to watch themselves in the arena, for there would be many surprises. With a snarl, the barbarian skulked away. 

The rest of the day, the Mudwangs planned and thought on what they had learned. Taerus looked in vain for Kijiwan, who had not been seen since the day in her foul mood after returning from a meeting with Hallehaig. Vax pondered the meaning of what an obstacle course would entail, while Rucker meditated and focused his energy on the coming battle. Shakan spent his time writing in his new Enduring Spellbook and researching spells. Gusten offered his services to the Mudwangs, hoping to aid them in the coming bouts. As night overtook the Rattlesnakes Nest once more, each of them thought of their own plans for the morrow, consumed with the excitement and fear of what the Tournament of Champions might hold. 

#stagstory #sosm #s13 #rattlesnakenest #tournamentofchampions

[weeklyhumorist]

If the National Parks Responded to Real One-Star Reviews

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Diane F. from Mesa, AZ; review of Glacier: Worse trip I had. Yellowstone is so much better. This is just a lot of burnt areas and mountains. Very long uneventful day. Would really consider telling someone else to go spend 30. 

  Dear Diane: Thanks for your review and breathtaking typos. Those burnt out areas are because YOU HUMAN MOTHER FUCKERS LIKE TO SET SHIT ON FIRE. We don’t want to be bald like your husband, Al. We want to be lush like the earth was before you humans overpopulated it.

  P.S. We told Yellowstone what you said about us and they said you’re no longer welcome there. The next time you pull up to their gate, there’ll be a big sign that reads: “DIANE F. FROM MESA HATES MOUNTAINS AND IS CHEAP.” Yellowstone said they’ll have a pasta pass from Olive Garden waiting for you in exchange for never stepping foot in a national park again. 

  Alexa R. from Buffalo, NY; review of Badlands: I didn’t see what the big deal was. We drove a million years to see some semi impressive rock formations? And there were RATTLESNAKES everywhere? Dumb. You lose cell service because you’re in Nowhere USA. The only thing bad about these lands is entire experience. Waste of time. Thank god I was drunk in the backseat for the majority of the trip. 

  Dear Alexa: Thanks for noticing the large amount of rattlesnakes on our land. We purposely rounded up every rattlesnake we could find and released them in the Badlands to scare off visitors—particularly ones from Buffalo. We’ve found that people from NY become confused and frightened when west of the Mississippi River and we do our best to eliminate these weak humans from the planet. Sadly, it looks like you survived. Dumb.   

  Penny M. from San Francisco, CA; review of Yosemite: Absolutely LOVE Yosemite …BUT a new policy has just been put in place, if you don’t have your ID with you, even if you’re a grandparent, you will not be served a glass of wine, no exceptions!!! This is beyond ridiculous and incredibly awkward, if we all complain, policies can be changed. 

  Dear Penny: We’re sorry you weren’t able to get wasted around your grandkids at our park. We know how disappointing it is to be sober while traveling with 6 little shitheads who are pissed off their cell phones don’t work even though they’re standing next to a natural wonder. Believe us—if we were human and not public land for people to enjoy—we would get wasted because of your grandkids too.  

  Jorbi P. from Somerville, MA; review of Grand Canyon: Whoopity do, Grand Canyon. You are a giant hole in the ground. You don’t have roller coasters or dippin’ dots. Jeeesh. Can you say “overrated?”

  Dear Jorbi: Thanks for your review. If our 1,900-mile canyon is not adventurous enough for you, please, let us dangle your snively ass over the South Rim while you piss your pants and yell out for your mama. (Speaking of your mom, she called us and told us you’re a giant hole too.) BTW–Dippin’ Dots are for children who enjoy eating packing peanuts.

  Mike J. from Lexington, KY; review of Great Smoky Mountains: Don’t waste your time spending money to go to any place around or in these mountains between May and August. It rains and he severe thunderstorms everyday and almost all of the day. At least at a beach it rains for 20 minutes and stops. This place is beautiful, but not a great trip due to crappy weather that plagues the area. Won’t be back ever again.

  Dear Mike: We appreciate the review and will take into consideration THAT WE HAVE NO CONTROL OVER THE FUCKING WEATHER. Hey, why can’t any of you spell or use proper grammar? We are land—physical land with zero education or even a brain—and we can write better than you humans. Enjoy being basic at the beach with your basic family and basic 2,000-calorie frozen margaritas and diarrhea seafood buffets.

Kahil G. form Bethesda, MD; review of Yellowstone: The problem with Yellowstone is that it’s dull. Yellowstone is on a caldera. A caldera is a volcano that blew up and left a crater. The dirt from this is of poor quality. The only tree that grows is this ugly thing called a lone pine. No flowers to speak of grow here. The last thing is once you see water come out of the ground once your good. 

  Dear Kahil: We’re sorry our 2 million-year-old land is not exciting. You know we can explode at any time and wipe out the majority of America, right? Also, we have over 55 flowers and seven trees, and none of them are called a lone pine, dude. Where the hell did you even get that from? We’re starting to think you’re making shit up. Geysers that shoot water 100 feet in the air don’t impress you, Kahil? What does impress you? And don’t tell us Starbucks and hotel rooms with TVs because we’ve heard that shit before. If we had a fucking dime for every time a human said they missed their Starbucks and TVs, we wouldn’t have to ask you fuckers for $30 at the gate because your RVs and cigarettes and 10 children named Madison and Chad destroy our land. 

  Steve D. from Las Vegas, NV; review of Zion: Been here 3 times and it’s the last. What a joke. I had to pull over 3 times on my bike to let the Californians get to work on time. What’s the hurry? To get to the next crowded view point? Can’t get to the Red lodge to get ice cream unless you have a red sticker or ride the trolley. WAY over rated. My guess is the people that love this place never get out much. 

  Dear Steve: We’re sorry you won’t be visiting us anymore. Just kidding. We don’t give a shit. Can we ask you something? Why is that none of you can construct a goddamn sentence? And why is that you all love ice cream so much? And what Californians are you referring to? There are no Californians commuting to work through Zion National Park in Utah, Steve. Funny thing: The people who enjoy our park DO get out. They’re hiking and talking with fellow travelers and not bitching about imaginary Californians or lack of access to ice cream. If you’re looking for less crowds and more ice cream, check out the Dairy Queen off rt. 9.

    If the National Parks Responded to Real One-Star Reviews was originally published on Weekly Humorist

[ruinousrealms]

Black Valley

Nobody came through Black Valley anymore, not since the creek dried up and the railroad passed it by. The last settlers left years ago, leaving behind nothing but a few dilapidated shacks clustered around a shallow trench where water once ran down from the Sierra Nevadas, the blue-green peaks looming over the western horizon.

It was a ghost town in every sense of the word, and that was why Elmar Rudry liked it so much. The high desert was warm and peaceful, with little more than a stiff breeze to disturb the stillness of the afternoon, or the howling of distant coyotes at night. Nothing ever moved, nothing ever changed, and that was just the way he liked it.

The old man struck a singularly pathetic figure, dressed in rags that had once been a flannel shirt and gray pants, leaning on a stick as he hobbled between the crooked, half-collapsed buildings in what had been, once upon a time, the center of the town's commercial district. His hair was bleached white from age and the hot desert sun, falling across his shoulders and mingling with an equally long beard, which blew stiffly as the breeze passed by.

His hat was ragged, his boots so full of holes that it was a wonder the old leather soles clung together at all. It was a wonder he still bothered wearing them at all, with his hardened feet used to walking long distances across the hot earth, grinding his soles like fine-grain sandpaper. Some affectations died hard, he supposed – Like his ragged outfit, a holdover from the days when men still lived in this town, when cool, clear water flowed down from the mountains like the very blood of God-

He shook his head, catching himself. He couldn't afford to get nostalgic now – He'd long ago made his choice to stay, and there was no point dwelling in the distant past. How long had it been since the last time he saw a human face? A smooth one, a fresh one, free of the cracks and scars and strange, writhing, dripping things that flowed from the mouth and nostrils of a fresh corpse? Ten years, more?

He shrugged, and a wave of sand rolled down his shoulders like a caustic avalanche, clinging to the reddish, irritated flesh on his back. Too many years of sun had first turned his skin the color and consistency of rough Apache leather, then irritated it, wrinkles cracking and splitting apart, catching sand and sending thin streams of pus down his back.

It used to bother him. Not anymore. Nothing bothered him anymore, not the sun, not the sand, not the emptiness of his stomach nor the infernal dryness of his throat. He looked up, and realizing he was in the saloon, made his way over to the counter, where an empty whiskey bottle sat alongside a row of shot glasses, cracks running across the glass like spiderwebs. He remembered whiskey, the burn as it slid down the throat, the courage, the wild, carefree abandon it inspired after a long day's march...

It was gone. He brushed the skeleton of a scorpion off the bar and watched it shatter across the floor, then made his way up the creaking flight of stairs to the rooms of the upper floor. Each step creaked ominously beneath his feet, the nails rusty, the wood cracked and warped from years of varying temperatures.

Four of the five doors were shut, and the old man paid them no attention as he made his way to the far room, whose door he could just barely remember removing from the hinges in some long-distant vista of memory.

The object of his quest lay on the bed, two hundred and six bones, thirty-two teeth – He'd counted them meticulously, during the long days in which there was nothing left to do. They were all intact, pristine and bleached the same white as his beard, thanks to the sun and ants. He was just lucky he'd found it before the scavengers got to it – As it was, all that was missing were a few pieces of skull, which he'd been unable to find no matter where he looked. Possibly, whoever made the hole had taken them with him – Why, he couldn't say, but any man who would leave such a fine corpse laying in the desert was sure to have some strange ways.

Next to the body lay a moldy old belt and a chunk of rusted-together metal that may have once been a revolver, though the make was impossible to tell. The old man picked it up, resting his bony finger on the rusted trigger, and made a motion with his thumb as if cocking the missing hammer. He held it out, fixing the shattered forehead of the skull between rust-clogged sights, then set it down again.

He opened his mouth, a single, blackened incisor hanging from frayed tendons. His first attempt at speaking sent him into a fit of coughing, as countless weeks of accumulated dust flowed between his thin lips. When the dust settled and his throat was reasonably empty, he shook his head, and began a long-practiced speech.

“I'a Cthulhu fhtagn,” He rasped, his dry, cracked tongue straining to shape the unusual syllables, “Ph'nglui mglw'nfah Cthulhu-”

“Yakut shabbur Yog-Sothoth,” The corpse responded in a tone as hollow as the space within the ribcage, “Heigin tadnor Ug-Krunog.”

“I never heard of such a thing,” The old man sputtered, “The things what live beneath Snake-Hill, they'd have told me-"

“Your death approaches, Elmar,” The corpse's tone was almost apologetic, “You know they would never tell you. You might panic and flee, and then they'd have to venture out in the daytime and fight with the other scavengers to claim what belongs to them.”

“I don't, I tell you! Elmar Rudry belongs to Elmar Rudry, no matter what the buggies say.”

“You sold yourself cheap, you know. Your Christian god may not exist, but there are certain places what are warmer than others – And a damn sight colder than this desert, where even the children of Yig dare not dwell.”

“Them snakes ain't worth the lead it takes t' put 'em down,” The old man's voice grew steadier as he got used to speaking, “I always wanted t' burn their hives, or at least drop some dynamite down their holes an' seal the entrances. Keep em from gobblin' down any unwary travelers-”

“And hitch a ride out of here,” The corpse finished for him.

“It's been too long. Longer than the bargain.”

A rattling sound emerged from between the jaws of the skull, something akin to laughter.

“Bastard. I should'a left you where I found you.”

“You don't bargain with Hol-Krava, nor the Black Goat with a Thousand Young.”

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” The old man intoned, and with a sound like rustling paper, the skeleton fell silent once more.

-=-

The year was 1862, and Private Rudry was riding hard through the desert, kicking up a plume of dust that rose like smoke from one of the big factories back in St. Louis. His once-gray uniform was coated in red dust, same with his hat and the scruffy three-day beard clinging to his narrow chin. He held the reigns in his teeth as he struggled to load his revolver, but the constant rocking of the saddle made it nearly impossible to pour the powder into each of the cylinders in the revolver – And he knew he'd need them all.

The western campaign was over. New Mexico was firmly in Union hands. Sibley and Thom Green were retreating, along with two thousand of Texas' best men, four hundred of whom now lay dead in western dust. Back home to Arizona, and from there to Texas, and then what? All the way back to Virginia, to hold off the Yankee savages by digging trenches in farmyards and town squares from Richmond to Atlanta?

Rudry couldn't read, but it didn't take some northern intellectual to understand the signs – It was doomed, the whole damned war, and he wasn't going to die in some Godforsaken foxhole or catch the flu and meet the Creator without ever meeting the enemy. No, he was headed west – West, beyond the Sierra Nevada, where the sun rose above an ocean as expansive as the desert which now surrounded him in all directions.

In the chaos of the retreat, who would've noticed a soldier slipping away, stealing a horse and riding off into the night? Somebody, apparently, or they wouldn't have sent these men after him. There were four, but he shot one on the second night, when he made the mistake of making camp in the open, and the other disappeared soon after. Maybe he was snakebit and died raving and alone as his comrades pressed on – It pained him to think of any man dying in such ignominy, let alone a fellow southerner, but it couldn't be helped. He was with the Lord now, and surely reaping his just reward for loyal service to the cause.

As for himself, he knew his soul was well beyond saving. His sin was worse than murder, worse than sodomy – If he thought service to the southern cause could save his soul, he was sorely mistaken, as loneliness and isolation only drove him onward, into the depths of depravity which even the wicked men of Nineveh would find abhorrent. Even the yankee foe, for all his cruelty, would have given him a quick death just to rid the world of his sin all the more quickly.

Sodom and Gomorrah, on the plain south of what men call the River Jordan – Albuquerque and Santa Fe, south of Rio Puerco. Truly, the Lord hath granted him a taste of the fires to come, in which his deviant soul would become another morsel on the devil's own barbacoa. He was a good little sinner, though, and he wouldn't be content with simply laying down and accepting the fires willingly.

The war lay behind him, but it was catching up fast. He could hear the hoofbeats of his pursuers just meters behind him, unable to shoot or even see in the cloud of dust from his horse's hooves. It was about all the old mare was good for, after a full week of running drove the energy from the poor beast. God really did abandon this land – It was like a blank spot upon the face of Creation, an unfinished corner bereft of life save for rattlesnakes and cacti, whose moist flesh was the only reason he hadn't died four nights ago when his last canteen ran out.

The Colt's Dragoon he carried was a gift from a Union lieutenant, back at Glorieta Pass. The boy's soul had been commended to the Lord, where he only hoped the boy received mercy for his sin of fighting against the glorious Confederacy. The bayonet of his rifle still dripped with the boy's blood when he pulled the pistol from his limp fingers and delivered a coup de grace – A kindness, better than bleeding to death or dying of infection in some butcher's field hospital.

It was a powerful little beauty, but Lord, the trigger pull was a long one and the kick worse than a mule. If you weren't careful firing, you could snap your wrist clean down the middle, and if you didn't load it correctly – Too much powder, or too little, the thing could just as easily blow up in your hand and do the enemy's job for him.

“Jesus, Mary, and all the saints,” He muttered, rotating the cylinder and clicking the lock into place, “Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the silhouettes of the riders shifting as they fanned out, one on each side and riding hard to escape the smokescreen. The one on the left came out first, his gray uniform hidden beneath a brown longcoat, and a revolver-rifle in his hands. It was a powerful weapon in the right hands, a step between a musket and one of Henry's new repeaters, but there was enough room in the breach that dirt could easily get in – Which is why, when the gunman raised the rifle and took aim, Rudry didn't bother to duck.

There was a click, and another, and then an explosion and the sensation of air whipping past his face – He turned just in time to see the other rider coming up behind him, his unbuttoned coat flapping behind him like a cape. The weapon in his hands was a Henry, and Rudry cursed to high heaven as another bullet tore past him, barely scraping the back of his collar.

Another shot cracked out by the time Rudry got his bearings, this one grazing the horse's haunch and causing the poor beast to cry out, stumbling slightly as blood trickled down its leg. It was barely a scratch, and Rudry spared the beast no mercy, jamming his spurs into the horse's bloody thighs. He could see the rider coming alongside him, rifle at the ready for a single clear shot.

The fully-loaded Dragoon felt heavy in his hand, too heavy for a man to hold – It wasn't designed to kill men, really, but Nephilim and Indians, which Rudry quietly suspected were the same thing, having never met any of either party. He didn't bother looking, he just pulled the trigger. The bark of the gun was nothing compared to the screaming of the horse as the bullet tore through its thick hide, lodging itself deep in its chest. Its legs buckled, and now it was the rider's turn to scream as he was thrown from the saddle, landing head-first with an awful crunch.

One threat down, he turned to the second gunman, but as he turned around, all he could see was empty desert, red sand and wind-blown rocks in every direction. In one direction, however, a pair of buttes stuck out against the noonday sky, and between them, a faint cloud of dust receded into the distance. The coward bolted.

Rudry chuckled, and the fallen rider groaned, southern blood trickling from a gash in his scalp and spilling across the damned Yankee sand. Hopping down from his saddle, Rudry pulled a Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt, and put an end to the poor wretch. The horse's legs were twitching, but the bullet had clearly hit something vital. He hefted his revolver and considered putting a round into it, but his bullet pouch was dreadfully light.

The Henry, on the other hand, was caught beneath the beast's belly, with only part of the now-bent barrel sticking out. It didn't take a gunsmith to know it'd be useless, even if he could shove the thousand or so pounds of dead weight off of it.

With only slight regret, he climbed back on his horse, turned, and made to follow his other pursuer.

-=-

The hunter was now the hunted. Revolver in hand, Rudry crept through the ruined stockade and into the ghost town. Black Valley was the name, according to a bullet-scarred sign hanging from the sheriff's office – He guessed it was the sheriff's office, on account of the rusty iron cage sitting in the center of the otherwise empty building. It must've been a fine town in it's day, though how long ago that was, he dared not venture a guess. It could've been built any time between last week and Coronado's first visit to the region more than two centuries prior.

Maybe the local gold or silver mine ran dry, or maybe there never was one to begin with – Some Yankee shyster selling stakes in a phony mine, stealing people's life savings while they slowly died out in some godforsaken wilderness. It wouldn't be the first time, and with the defeat of the Glorious Cause all but inevitable, it sure as shootin' wouldn't be the last.

There were a good dozen structures still standing, mostly one- or two-room shacks, along with the aforementioned sheriff's office, a small church, a saloon – The only two-story building in town, if you didn't count the upper level of the church, which Rudry didn't, as the roof had mostly caved in on top of it. In the dying light, and in light of his sin, he passed it by, scarcely turning to glance inside.

He was glad he did, however, as a shift in the darkness caught his attention – Movement. He dropped to his knees just in time for a bullet to rip past him, ricocheting off a rock just behind him. He raised the revolver and let off a round of his own, the flash illuminating the entryway to the church, and for just a moment, he could make out the silhouette of a man behind a pew, his face pale behind the sights of his rifle.

He ducked, giving Rudry time to move for cover behind the empty doorway. A volley rang out, one, two, three shots, the first two hitting the ground, and the last one slamming into the doorframe and sending out a flurry of splinters. Four shots fired in total, two left – While he still had five heavy .44 bullets loaded in his Dragoon.

“Don't come any closer!” The man in the church shouted, “Damn you! Damn you!”

He was moving around, fumbling in the dark. Rudry could hear the pews screeching as he shoved them out of his way.

“Damn yourself!” He responded, “Put it down, and we'll get our backsides outta this here firehole!”

“You killed Jim!”

“He was shootin' at me. Whaddya expect me t' do, shake his hand?”

“Damn you!”

“You said that already, kid.”

The gunman responded with another shot, but this one didn't hit near the door – There was a loud splashing sound, like a rock thrown in water, followed by a strange, half-strangled yell from the gunman.

“What in the blazes..?” Rudry muttered, peeking around the door, but he could see nothing past the small entryway, the rest of the interior cloaked in shadow. Something was definitely moving in there, but whether it was the gunman, or something else entirely, he couldn't say. There shuffling sounds, as if something very large were moving across the floor toward the back of the church.

Turning the corner, Rudry fired a shot, and the flash brightened the entire church, right to the back. In that split second, he got a good look at the interior – A few rows of wooden pews leading to a pulpit, behind which sat the remains of a large cross, the horizontal beam having fallen off, and was now leaning against the vertical one.

Between them, though – Rudry blinked, and everything was dark once more. For just a second, he fancied that he saw something faint, indistinct, standing between the pulpit and the cross, a kind of splotch of shadow – In the darkened church, nothing unusual, save that it seemed to be relegated to a single spot in midair. He didn't spare a second to think about it. More importantly, the gunman was nowhere to be seen, probably hiding behind a pew – And Rudry had just exposed himself.

Rudry leapt back behind the doorway, waiting for the kid to make his move – But nothing came, and after a few long seconds, he ventured to shout, “Hello?”

After a few seconds with no response, he grasped his pistol tightly, and slowly peeked around the corner. When no shots came, he stepped into the open and stood for a second, then took a couple steps into the church, where the light from the setting sun gave way to near pitch-darkness. As he stood there in the still silence, he noticed a faint sound coming from behind one of the pews, barely audible above the faint ringing in his ears from his previous shot.

Behind the bench lay the gunman, as white as Georgia cotton and twisted into an expression that sent a shiver down the hardened soldier's spine. The man's body was twitching, his hands and feet shaking as if in the throes of an epileptic seizure, but that wasn't it. It was as if he was struggling against something, or at least, that was the impression Rudry got from the way he thrust his hands forward, only to slam back down as if being shoved by powerful hands.

“Damn you – D-damn you!” He muttered incessantly, his tongue straining to give shape to the words as blood trickled from cracks in his parched lips. His entire lower face was covered in the stuff, like a sanguine beard. The blood was so thick he could smell it.

A quick visual inspection showed no obvious signs of injury, no entry wounds where Rudry's shot might've ricocheted and hit him. The poor fool's brain was scrambled, probably half-baked from too many long hours under the unforgiving New Mexico sun. Rudry had seen it all before, men dropping mid-march and dying on the burning sand, having never met the enemy. They were useless – Orders were to leave them where they fell, as dragging them along would only slow the column down.

It was the same for him, now. What could he do for the madman? He could splint a broken bone or stitch shut a gaping wound, that was it. Should he tie him down to keep him from gouging his own eyes out, sharing his water with him even though he was bound to die anyway? Grunting, he pulled out his knife and dug it deep in the man's throat. He hardly responded to the cut – Barely bled, in fact, for which Rudry was eminently grateful.

He didn't even gurgle as he died. Rudry felt his way through the church, stepping carefully to avoid tripping on a loose board. The moon rose quickly, filling the room with a pale light that cast queer shadows over everything. Rudry stopped and glanced around, blinking in surprise – Had he lost track of time? He'd taken a pocket watch from the man whose horse he'd shot, but he didn't have a clue how to read it.

Something moved in the corner of his eye, near the pulpit. He spun around, gun at the ready, but nothing was there. “Bats,” He muttered, and slipped his gun back into the holster.

To his surprise, there was a book on the pulpit, but it wasn't a Christian bible – Instead of a cross, the cover bore the image of a stick with five branches, three on one side, two on the other. It was cast from silver, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. Maybe that was the movement. He let out a chuckle, then stopped, as the sound seemed to profane the silence which had settled around him.

The book was strange, no doubt about it. Elmar Rudry could read no better than he could speak Dutch, and the language of the book was definitely not Dutch. They weren't letters like any he'd ever seen before, a lot of squiggly shapes with hooks, curves, and little dots sprinkled here and there like drops from a leaking pen. Every few pages was an illustration, portraying monsters of all shapes and sizes, none of which looked even slightly familiar to him.

There were things without heads, with squiggly lines spewing from their mouths – How a headless creature could have a mouth was beyond him, but that was what was portrayed. One image, to which he felt particularly drawn, appeared to be a normal human man, hands and feet outstretched to show off his body. If he were a scholarly type, he'd have recognized the outline of Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man.

The outline was where the similarities ended, however, as closer inspection revealed certain anatomical irregularities, particularly centered around the subject's groin. Retching slightly in his mouth, Rudry flipped the page, not caring if he ripped the fragile vellum.

He found himself drawn to the strange scribbles. His eyes glazed over the longer he stared at them, the funny little hooks and curves writhing across the page like so many little ringworms in the skin of a dying sow. They were beautiful, in their own unusual way, and before he could tear himself away, he'd read the spread pages five times over.

“This ain't Christian,” He muttered to himself. But then, he was hardly a Christian anymore, and so he turned the page, the ancient vellum crinkling beneath his callused fingertips.

-=-

“Ia Cthulhu,” The old man repeated, staring down at the corpse on the bed, “Ia Cthulhu, there ain't no end for me, not on this mortal Earth.”

He repeated that same phrase as he hobbled out of the saloon, adjusting his hat to keep the sun out of his sensitive eyes. Too many years of reading alone in the dark had turned them milky and dim, even though they weren't really useful with the kinds of books he read. He could feel it in his forehead, pulsing, the little cone-shaped gland that Dee so loved to expound upon, and Alhazred harbored such a desire to caress that, in a fit of mad lust, the prophet cracked his own skull with a rock and dug through useless tissue to find the thing.

Rudry had never gone quite that far, though the dark, lonely nights did sometimes drive him to strange extremes regardless. He could taste colors now, and hear smells – The sunlight was too loud these days, pounding in his ancient ears even louder than his own heartbeat, which had recently taking up the tune of an old marching song from-

“Ia Cthulhu,” He banished the thought with another repetition of his mantra, the one he'd repeated so many times over the decades, “Death o' the firstborn, an' welcome th' rain o' frogs. Teacheth mine hands not for war, o Great Ones, but to sin and make merry until the Coming.”

He learned it from his book – The terrible book, the wonderful book, whose presence on the church pulpit was at once inexplicable and miraculous. It was as if God himself led him to it, though he knew instinctively that the mere existence of such a tome was absolute evidence against His existence. No good, orderly world could ever suffer the knowledge contained within that accursed thing.

The words never did make sense to him, but every time he looked, he felt like he was learning. New knowledge simply popped up in the back of his brain as if he knew it all along. Indeed, the only unease he felt anymore was the idea that, in some vague, ill-defined time, he [i]hadn't[/i] known these things. Shoggoth kulai, creatures of the blackest text – They lived, the words, letters, and language, they had lived and they forever would, ensnaring his soul in their web of horror and beauty from the day he first gazed upon the thing.

His body waned as his mind waxed strong, muscle fading, feebleness setting in, but it was a small price to pay for the things he learned. He learned of spheres beside our own, beings from beyond the realm of human understanding. He saw cities wreathed in flame, trains that flew through the air like great serpents – Or was it serpents like giant trains? He couldn't remember. It had been years since he'd seen that particular page. He could try and look it up again, but the pages had a tendency to change whenever he wasn't looking at them.

The vast octopoid things would rise from the deep and reclaim their land. Perhaps it had already happened – The scale of time in the book was rather strange, as was his own perception of it, born of countless decades of isolation. It could've been eons – For all he knew, men were gone and the world was ruled by rabbits who remembered the former dominant species only as a predatory bogeyman who came for disobedient little kits in the dead of night.

Well, those were all after his time. His life, unnaturally elongated though it was, was finally nearing an end. Or was it a beginning? For a man such as he, death was but a door, time but a window, and with his knowledge, there were certain ways of cheating it. Snake-Hill, for example, and them what lived beneath – His close friends and allies through all these long years, would surely be able to help, or at least give him an alternative to whatever foul oblivion into which his consciousness might be thrown upon the cessation of his heartbeat.

Snake-Hill lay just to the east of town, no more than an hour's walk, but by the time the old man arrived at the base of the low rise of earth, it was nearing nightfall. He didn't own a lantern, nor did he see fit to bring so much as a flintstone and a piece of steel; In the dark, his bleary eyes were even less useful than usual, but he knew the way to the entrance by heart, having made the trip almost weekly for countless years.

It didn't take a lot of poking around for him to find the hole, small enough to be mistaken for a rabbit's warren, and poking a toe inside, he jostled it a bit, trying to disturb the inhabitant enough to come out.

“C'mon, feller,” He rasped, “We got business, you an' I.”

Something warm and wet pressed against his toe, and he pulled it back just as a green, polypus thing oozed out. It shifted and swelled before him, swallowing up dirt and sandmites and scorpions, whatever didn't get out of the way in time. Rudry practically leapt back, landing hard on his ankle, but it didn't break, despite the cracking sound and the burst of pain. If his suspicions were correct, it didn't matter anyway. He wasn't going to be walking anywhere anytime soon.

It was as big as a fair-sized horse, covered in a kind of gelatinous outer layer thick enough to conceal whatever lay beneath. The surface was dotted with orifices with thick, almost human-like lips constantly opening and closing, gasping in air and exhaling puffs of blue smoke, whose smell wrinkled the old man's nose and stung his eyes.

The creature had no real limbs, but every once in a while, one of the orifices would open up, and a long, slender tendril would emerge to swat a fly, or capture it and drag it inside the thing's maw. It wasn't eating, of course, any fool could tell that such a beast took no sustenance upon this mortal plane.

As he stared at it, he noticed that the thing appeared to be seething, the surface rippling like an ocean in a storm, full of little air bubbles that burst as they rose to the top of the gelatinous layer. It was about as clear as mud, and the sun didn't shine on it so much as through it, getting lost somewhere in the depths of the semiliquid surface. It almost seemed to swallow the light, or perhaps, to radiate darkness; Either way, it stuck out like a sore tooth amid the ruined town.

A pair of tendrils emerged from the creature's belly, covered in thick, oily pus that hissed it dripped on the ground. They twisted into a shape like a sailor's knot, and Elmar repeated the motion, doing his best approximation with his hands. A low gurgle rose from one of the orifices in the creature's side, and a foul, greenish mist began to pump out.

The smell was acrid, even by Elmar's standards, a mixture of burnt cordite and the gas which builts up inside a corpse, only to rupture and spread its putrescence through the hot, dry desert air. Opening his arms and closing his eyes, he inhaled the foul stench and savored it like a sommelier nosing a fine wine.

“Ia Cthulhu,” He muttered to nobody in particular – Certainly not the beast, whose sensory organs couldn't possibly perceive such a mundane form of communication as speech. There was a strange sensation in his loins, and he looked down to see an erection, something he hadn't experienced in more decades than he cared to count. He smirked at the sight – Human procreation was so delicate, so fragile, so utterly limited that it was hard to describe it as procreation at all, more like cloning, or spreading the seed of some wild desert flower. Only fools cared for such things, fools and creatures so low in evolution that they were like comparing men with ants... Or perhaps, comparing an ant with the bacteria clinging to the dung it feasted on.

He was beginning to understand now what the skeleton had meant. Death – O Death, in this way, wasn't a death at all, but a transition, a Becoming. For in the arms of the Worm, ensconced within the cool, damp caverns underneath Snake-Hill, he would achieve something, attain something, and in doing so, pass beyond what fools called existence, and clung to so dearly, as if a single breath of waking life were worth the strain it put on the soul.

“Shub-Niggurath an' the Conqueror Worm,” He closed his eyes, spreading out his arms to accept his fate, “I'm home.”

Two tendrils lashed out of the thing, accompanied by a burst of gas from one of the jiggling mouths. They touched his arms, suction-feelers sinking into his skin, and he hissed as pain coursed through his arteries – The creature tasted his insides, and the tendrils retreated, leaving the ragged ends of arteries to spurt blood.

Whether the creature liked it, he couldn't say, but when Elmar Rudry felt the ends of the tendrils pressing against his closed eyelids, he understood. His eyeballs popped like ripe cherries, and the scream he let out could've woken the dead. Upstairs in the saloon, there was a rattle of bones, but that stopped along with the scream as the creature's slimy appendages dug into the old man's brain, and, finding nothing of any particular interest, withdrew its tentacles.

The old man's body collapsed, limp and lifeless, and the creature returned from whence it came. A few hours later, a coyote, flea-bitten and half-starved, came upon the corpse, but the meat was far from fresh, and the smell clinging to it stung the canine's nostrils. He took a cursory sniff and turned away in search of something more palatable.

#horror fiction #horror

[arkiivlll]

https://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/26/books/26paul.html

BOOKS

On the Road and Between the Pages, an Author Is Restless for Adventure

By ANNE GOODWIN SIDESAUG. 26, 2006

WHITE OAKS, N.M. — “I can’t live in towns anymore,” Gary Paulsen says, enjoying the view from his 200-acre ranch on the outskirts of an old ghost town in the Jicarilla Mountains, 40 miles from the nearest grocery store.

Living like a fugitive from society, the 67-year-old author says, is the only way he can think clearly. “I bought a house in a town near here, and a nice guy, a neighbor, came over to say hi,” he says, wincing. “It was too close.”

For generations of young, mostly male readers, Mr. Paulsen is one of the best-loved writers alive. With more than 26 million books in print, his name is practically synonymous with the wilderness adventure genre. He has won three Newbery Honor awards: for “Dogsong” (1985), “The Winter Room” (1989) and perhaps his best-known work, “Hatchet” (1987), about the only survivor of a plane crash in the Yukon.

“Gary Paulsen’s writing is very authentic, and kids sense that,” said Margaret Tice, coordinator of children’s services at the New York Public Library and a member of the Newbery committee. “He’s always lived his life on the edge and survived true adventures, but he’s not just an action man; he also knows how young people feel and think.”

Teri Lesesne, who teaches children’s literature at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Tex., has noted a special power in Mr. Paulsen’s work. “If I have a kid who’s a reluctant reader, all I have to do is hand him one of Gary Paulsen’s books,” she said. “It’ll change his life.”

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Mr. Paulsen receives hundreds of letters a day. But his publisher can barely keep track of where to forward them, since Mr. Paulsen restlessly ricochets around the globe: training horses in New Mexico, running dogs in Alaska, riding his Harley across the American West, gunkholing around the South Pacific in his beat-up sailboat.

It’s deliberate: Mr. Paulsen is an unapologetic misanthrope, children excepted. “I don’t have anything against individuals,” he says. “But the species is a mess.” His throat tightens. “The last time I was up in Santa Fe, I wasn’t there 20 minutes before I brewed up, almost slugged a tourist on the steps of my wife’s gallery.” Ruth Wright Paulsen, his third wife, illustrated four of his picture books and a prose poem about an early American farm. “Now I try to be alone,” he says, pointedly.

Compulsively prolific, Mr. Paulsen produces a fresh book for young adults every few months, the vast majority of them novellas. His latest, “The Legend of Bass Reeves,” was published this month by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House. It is identified as “the true and fictional account” of a slave who became the most successful federal marshal in American history.

“He’d ride alone into the center of hell and bring the men out, alive, if possible, or, if necessary, draped dead over a horse,” Mr. Paulsen writes. “He did this 3,000 times. Miraculously, he was never wounded. He rejected countless bribes, and when his own son killed his wife, he tracked his son down, brought him to justice and sent him to prison for life.”

All true. But Mr. Paulsen’s book is a novel, and he openly fictionalizes his protagonist, imbuing Bass Reeves with some of his own traits and experiences. The best writing, he says, is “like carving pieces off your self.” An outcast who survives abuse and a hardscrabble upbringing, Reeves is an expert shot with a sixth sense for tracking and a shamanlike kinship with animals. “Reeves was honest and honorable, and just flat tough,” Mr. Paulsen says, as if he’s fiercely defending a friend’s good name.

Compact, with wolf-blue eyes set in a grizzled face, Mr. Paulsen strongly resembles Ernest Hemingway. There are other parallels. Mr. Paulsen’s prose is spare and well acquainted with death. At various points in his life, he has been tormented by Papa-like demons: too much anger, too much drink, too much emphasis on virility, too many wives, too much loneliness.

Receiving the first overnight guests he’s allowed onto his desert ranch, Mr. Paulsen seems wary but not unfriendly. He wears tall boots and walks gingerly along the overgrown path beyond his door, pointing out rocks and crevices where he’s spotted five rattlesnakes in recent days.

This is bear and mountain lion country, which is why he often carries a snub-nosed .38. “Cats kill you before they eat you,” he says. “Bears like to hold you down and rip your buttocks while you’re still alive.”

All right then.

“Shall we eat?” Mr. Paulsen asks, pulling a few bloody steaks and a plastic vat of potato salad out of the fridge and opening a can of beans.

He is wearing the Iditarod belt that he earned in 1983 on his first try at the brutal 1,049-mile dog-sled race across Alaska, when he finished 42nd in a field of 73. Since then, his love affair with sled dogs has been one of the few constants in his peripatetic life.

“The dogs have affected me in all ways,” he says. “In my understanding of people, in my understanding of love and hate. Once you break down the interlock between species, it’s astonishing.”

Mr. Paulsen also keeps a 40-acre spread north of Willow, Alaska, where he breeds and trains dogs for the Iditarod (which he ran for the third time last March). “From the northwest corner of my land, there’s nothing for 4,000 miles,” he says, his voice quickening with excitement. “There’re no towns, no roads, no people all the way to Siberia.” And few of the provocations of modern society that make him “brew up.”

Mr. Paulsen is a prodigious ranter of the Luddite persuasion; it takes little to set him off. The Internet: “It’s just stupid, faster.” Lawyers: “Miserable human beings.” Organized sports: “Mindless dreck!” Television: “Intellectual carbon monoxide, but hey, TV’s are fun to shoot!”

He grew up poor and lonely in the small town of Thief River Falls, Minn. “My folks were the town drunks,” he says. “We lived in this grubby apartment building. My parents were brutal to each other, so I slept in the basement by an old coal-fired furnace.” He pretended to sell newspapers in pubs, raking the drunks’ money off the bar into his pockets when they were good and juiced. “I became a street kid,” he says. “Occasionally I’d live with aunts or uncles, then I’d run away to live in the woods, trapping and hunting game to survive. The wilderness pulled at me; still does.”

He said he was 13 when he stepped into a library for the first time. It was a frigid winter night. The library stayed open until 9 p.m., and its gold-tinted windows looked invitingly warm.

“The librarian typed my name on a card,” he remembers. “I looked at it and somehow that made me somebody.

Mr. Paulsen became a voracious reader, but not much of a student. “School didn’t work for me. I hated it,” he says. At 17, he forged his father’s signature to join the Army. Once, while he was testing missiles at White Sands, N.M., a Nike Ajax missed its target, locking onto a tagged buzzard instead.

In early 1965, he packed his Volkswagen Bug and drove to Hollywood, where he helped write dialogue for the television series “Mission: Impossible,” and the 1969 Steve McQueen film “The Reivers.” Then Mr. Paulsen left. “I started to like it too much,” he says.

In 1966, he checked himself into a cabin in the Minnesota woods, where he wrote his first book, “Some Birds Don’t Fly,” a collection of humorous essays about the missile industry.

Mr. Paulsen has lost count of how many books he has written since then. His Web site, garypaulsen.com, puts the tally at more than 175. Whether his subject is a slave who risks his life to teach others to read in “Nightjohn” (a book he adapted for a 1996 television movie), or an orphan on the streets of Juárez, Mexico, in “The Crossing” (a film version is now in preproduction), Mr. Paulsen is always writing to conquer his own dark, painful experiences.

“I’m a teller of stories,” he says. “I put bloody skins on my back and dance around the fire, and I say what the hunt was like. It’s not erudite; it’s not intellectual. I sail, run dogs, ride horses, play professional poker and tell stories about the stuff I’ve been through. And I’m still a romantic; I still want Bambi to make it out of the fire.”

Mr. Paulsen stopped writing for adults 10 years ago. “It’s artistically fruitless,” he fumes. “Adults are locked into car payments and divorces and work. They haven’t got time to think fresh. Name the book that made the biggest impression on you. I bet you read it before you hit puberty. In the time I’ve got left, I intend to write artistic books — for kids — because they’re still open to new ideas.”

A version of this article appears in print on , on Page B7 of the New York edition with the headline: On the Road and Between the Pages, an Author Is Restless for Adventure.