#only about half of my rats are named after anime men

[childe-of-saulot]

he's a gardener just like me.

#only about half of my rats are named after anime men #the rest are adopted and were already named #like this one who is Hendrix #my ratties 🐀 #pet rats

[thechaoticdruid]

~My Tav for roleplay and story purposes~

Name: Winnie (Winnifred)

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Class: Druid (Her favorite form being the direwolf. I also like to imagine she has some doggy-like characteristics because of it lol), she's also multi-classing as a wizard for reasons.

Age: 23

Race: Human

Hair: Reddish brown

Eyes: Pink

Height: 5'3

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (With a bit of a good lean I suppose)

Love interest: Astarion

Backstory: Winnifred was raised deep in a hidden forest village, amongst her fellow druids. Her grandmother was the archdruid of their circle and took to raising her after Winnie's parents went missing (aka the likely died horribly on an adventure.) Winnie lived a peaceful, but boring life in the village for thirteen years until eventually it was raided by goblins and everyone she'd known and loved was slaughtered before her very eyes. Winnie was captured by the horde's leader, a strange drow wizard who only allowed her to live because he thought she'd be the perfect test subject for his 'experiments'. She never learned his name, but since the event his face has haunted her nightmares. Winnie remained his lab rat for weeks following the raid. Eventually however her suffering came to an end when a band of adventurers came to her rescue. Apparently they were old friends of the family though she had never once met any of them. They freed her from the prison she'd been held in before setting fire to the goblins camp, killing every last one of the circle's murderers....Well all except for the drow...

Sometime after that Winnie was taken in by Arva, a half elf who just so happened to be the leader of her rescuers. She brought Winnie back to her group's hideout in Baldur's Gate's under city and for ten years Winnie learned how to survive on the streets, using some not so heroic skills Arva had taught her....

•Just stuff about Winnie•

Winnie is weird.

She rarely takes anything seriously and will usually use humor as a way to keep herself sane as she puts it.

She's definitely not a saint but there are some big no nos for her when it comes to morals. No harming innocents, children, or animals.

Self righteous rich tits can suck it tho

"Think you can just spit on me? Huh!? I'll bite your fucking ankles!"

Winnie is an insomniac with permanent raccoon eyes. Shh...don't say anything she gets self conscious!

She has really low self esteem when it comes to her appearance.

Growing up all the other children in her village used to call her ugly a lot. Pretty much all of them aside from a gnome child named Demi.

Winnie liked Demi. Demi used to call her tall.

Winnie isn't particularly romantically experienced. Mostly due to her low self esteem and urge to faint or run away screaming when around someone she finds attractive.

Astarion is her first everything really.

Moving on from that Winnie has a bit of an obsession with cheese. It's like her favorite thing ever.

If you have any she will steal it.

Her handwriting is awful.

She has a habit of pretending to be dumber than she actually is to throw people off.

She identifies herself as being interested in men exclusively, but if I'm honest she does have a bicurious streak.

Mostly because Karlach once asked her what she would do if Astarion was a girl.

Karlach is like her best friend, but don't tell Star he'll get jealous. Shhh...

Has a little plant in a small pot that she affectionately calls Vern.

Currently writing erotic Bloodweave fanfiction titled 'Blood Mage' as a side job to afford Astarion's costly wardrobe. Shhh.... don't tell Gale.

Likes to draw exaggerated doodles in her journal a lot. Usually illustrating important events in her life.

She often dwells on something she remembered one of the older druids saying before the raid. The elder druid described Winnie as "a weed amongst the flowers."

Winnie used to flip the old lady off behind her back all the time.

Will probably be updated and expanded on. Feel free to ask questions. I might make a separate one of these for my Durge .

IMPORTANT: While I am open to doing a little roleplay here and there I'm only doing it with users above the age of 18. Anyone without their age on their blog will be blocked or ignored. Also I'm not comfortable roleplaying the canon characters at this time so don't ask please.

#bg3 #bg3 tav #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #bg3 rp #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 roleplay #my tav #baldur's gate 3 roleplay

[thelamentknight]

(This is now old. Click here for updated version)

“…My dream…? …Oh, I…can’t tell you…”

Carmen Larimar is my MC for Twisted Wonderland and Twisted Cinderella. The last thing she remembers is seeing a covered man put her inside a carriage before she ended up in Twisted Wonderland. She says she comes from Meissen, Germany.

Carmen is known for being a very timid and quiet girl. She rarely ever speaks, and when she does, it’s always with a stutter. She also tends to keep to herself, never bothering to talk about her interests or feelings, since she’s always been told no one cares for her. Despite her loner aura, she is very kind and caring, and always puts over herself. This becomes a major problem however, as many students have used this to their advantage. 

Unique Magic: Her UM is “Shatter Glass,” which numbs all effects of magic. For example, if Riddle were to attempt to collar her, her UM makes it so the collar shatters into little glass pieces immediately. There’s one weakness to this: Whenever it is 12:00, her UM is useless and Carmen is no longer unaffected by magic.

(Warning! Mentions of R*pe and Ab*se. Skip backstory for those uncomfortable. 

Backstory: Her Father, Emery Larimar, is a wealthy man from Wonderland who was captured by STYX. Her Mother, Ingrid Weiss, is a Mafia Boss from Germany.  When attempting to escape STYX, Emery went to hiding on earth. One day, Ingrid dr*ghee his drink, dragged his body through an alley, and r*ped him. Afterwards, Ingrid asked for his last name, to which Emery, in a dr*gged state, responded with his last name. He was thanked with a kick to the gut. Shortly, Emery went back to Wonderland, only to be immediately captured by STYX.

Ingrid gave birth to twins, a girl named Carmen and a boy named Roman. A couple of years later, she had two girls that were Carmen and Roman’s half sisters: Diana and Annabelle.

Diana and Annabelle were spoiled rotten. Given nice dresses, given all the things the wanted, getting the best treatment. Carmen and Roman, however, were put to work as slaves at a young age. Despite Carmen’s attempt to stop it, Ingrid k!lled Roman when the twins were five due to Ingrid’s little respect of men.

Carmen was then abused and humiliated. She was put to work constantly, and was constantly harassed by her Mother and sisters. They tore down her self esteem and self worth, and wouldn’t shy away of getting physical. This went on for 16 years, until one day where Annabelle saw a rat inside her teacup. This was not a prank of Carmen’s, but her sisters and Mother assumed it was. First, they grabbed pieces of glass and carved them into her lower half of her face. This is why she wears a mask. Afterward, Ingrid disowned Carmen and threw her on the streets. Carmen spent the next three years as a poor person until she fell and saw a man taking her to a carriage before going unconscious.

Facts:

+ Her dream is to become a Fashion Designer. She wants to design clothes that are both gothic and preppy with chic flair in them. Though she rarely shares this.

+ Carmen loves reading about King Arthur, and she reads stories as a coping mechanism.

+ She has a lovely singing voice, but she only sings when she’s cleaning alone. 

+ Due to her past, she has PTSD and Insomnia. After gaining some money in Monstro Lounge, she is now getting some therapy and medication 

+ She hates apples because that’s all she was allowed to eat at the Chateau. If her Mother or sisters saw her eat something else, they would choke her so she would throw up.

+ Her jeweled necklace is a translation necklace. Carmen only knows German, and therefore cannot understand others without it.

+ She is Pansexual-Demisexual and her romantic interest is Vil

+ She designed her school uniform and other outfits by herself. She doesn’t bring it up unless asked

+ Carmen gets flustered very easily, and will squeak if touched

+ She has prescribed glasses, but usually wears contacts

+ Her favorite fruit is Pumpkin, and her favorite animal is frogs

#twisted wonderland #TLK’s NRC #twst #twst OC #Twisted Wonderland OC #Twst Mc #Twisted Wonderland MC #Carmen Larimar

[alittlebirb]

Some hilarious highlights from the MCC 21 Pink Parrots:

-Of course, the skins. Sneeg and Ranboo dressing up as the prettiest princesses, and Wilbur dressing as a stripper.

-Sneeg messaging Ranboo at 3 am telling him to also dress as Princess Peach, and Ranboo agreeing in a haze of exhaustion

"It looks like it came out of a dumpster? Yes, it just came out of the bag." -Ranboo

"I feel like a caged animal right now, and there are 50 people looking at me. And I can't throw my poop at them. So in a way it's worse than being a caged animal." -Ranboo

-Diversity win! The actor cast in the role of live action Princess Peach is a teenage Twitch streamer of unlabeled sexuality!

-Ranboo deciding to hold a unicorn plush (Rupert) in front of his chest in order to keep his stream Twitch-appropriate

"He's disappointed in me. That makes sense." -Ranboo

-Awwww Ranboo's parents get so excited about him playing MCC that they put his stream up on the TV to watch it <3

-Wilbur mocking Ranboo for not winning a single MCC in the time since they've parted as teammates

"Imagine playing in every single Season 2 MCC, and not winning once. L, Ranbus." -Wilbur

-Wilbur responding to the homosexual allegations

"You think I'm gay, Ranboo, is that what's implied? Just because I'm half naked wearing a feather boa, in a room full of men, I- I don't even know where you'd get the implication from." -Wilbur

-Wilbur??? Affecting the accent of a sickly, malnourished Victorian gutter boy during PW practice??? For some reason???

"Mother dearest, I require more minerals. Oh, Lady Penelope of the Shire, I require minerals in my water. Please Mother dearest, give me your crystals."

-Wilbur naming his stream "miencshchampionsh" and Niki complimenting him on his German

-Wilbur reacting to Ranboo and Sneeg's outfits by saying he's never played Mario, except that one time when Game Grumps forced him to

-Him also mocking Sneeg's Princess Peach skin for being matte

-Wilbur joking that every time he'll ask people if they've seen the Dream SMP, and if they say no he shoots them with a gun, and Ranboo replying he does the same thing "in the alleyways of Brighton"

"The alleyways of Brighton are quite safe, actually." -Wilbur

"Not when I'm around." -Ranboo

-Wilbur petting the dogs and commentating it like an first person shooter

"Headshot one, headshot two. There are hearts, there are hearts."

-Okay so. In the Discord groupchat, Wilbur and Ranboo were roleplaying Wilbur gifting Ranboo a rat, which prompted George to "throw his own rat into the ring", and send an image of a man holding his penis, except the penis was a rat. A shaven rat. Causing Discord to block his message due to inappropriate content.

Hey so what the fu-

-"George held out his hellacious cock for the camera...Your overwhelming cock, George, YOUR OVERWHELMING COCK." -Wilbur

-"It's a fucking rabbit." -Wilbur in the decision dome

-Ranboo attempting to give advice about Survival Games and everyone immediately disregarding him

-"I am the Daddy of the MCC. I am the dom." -Wilbur (why)

-George and Wilbur having their minds in the gutter when looking at the formation of the haybales

"Looks like a hellacious cock." -Wilbur

-Everyone abusing the word 'hellacious' to an unreasonable extent

-"We just got juggled. We absolutely got juggled." -Sneeg, after they were taken out with a mere 18 coins to their name

-Wilbur pulling out the Spirit Box to answer their questions while waiting for SG to finish, and offering a child's brain in return for its wisdom

"Why did we lose this game?" -Wilbur

"In the summer, God went away." -Spirit Box (translated by Wilbur)

-Sneeg screaming at Philza to "run, Peepaw, run!"

-George failing to get the dogs in the hub game before time ran out and Wilbur chastising him that "if only you were a liberal you would have gotten it"

-Sneeg dunking Cyan and everyone clapping and cheering when Seapeakay types "weird dunk"

-George and Wilbur making jokes about Holes in the Wall and Sneeg chiming in "I think they call that a window, guys."

"Or maybe a door." -George

"Ohh, BIG hole!" - Sneeg

"Hole in the wall, I call that an architectural disaster." -Wilbur

"I call that an outlet." -Ranboo

-Wilbur claiming MCC stands for My Cool Cousin, who gives me weeeed

-Wilbur yelling at George to DO DRUGS WITH HIM

"I don't even know what a drug is." -George

"Oh George, you will." -Wilbur

-"Ngl, that didn't hit as hard as Wilbur coming first." -George about Ranboo's third place in HITW

"Nothing hits as hard as me coming...first." -Wilbur

-"We can all come together, guys." -Wilbur

-"Speaking of primes, you know you could get a free Twitch Prime right now if you subscribe to the person you're watching. You could rob Jeff Bezos right now if you wanted to." -Wilbur

"You're taking money out of his pocket and giving it to us!" -George

"We'll make unions. Unlike him." -Wilbur

-Wilbur dying in HITW and Sneeg saying, "don't worry, the princesses are up."

-Wilbur lamenting all the dog petting he's missing whenever he does anything else in the hub

-"I'm close." -Wilbur

"What." -Sneeg

"Maybe don't be. Maybe don't." -Ranboo

-*obligatory Wilbur Soot pines after Grian moment*

"Is it because I'm on the Dream SMP, Grian? If I was on Hermitcraft, then would you pet the dogs with me?"

-"Bark bark." -Ranboo

-Wilbur has a sixth sense for when they're going to be dunked, to the point where he predicts whether they'll be dunked before every round with 100% accuracy

-Ranboo laughing maniacally in the middle of the decision dome, and George being genuinely concerned

"I'M GETTING CONSTANT TROUBLE ON THE INTERNET!" -Ranboo

-Ranboo reacting to Grid Runners by excitedly saying "we get to team!! we get to work!"

"I'm so excited to be a team with you guys." -Sneeg

-Tommy constantly asking Wilbur if he can make jokes about being a liberal and whether he'll get canceled, and Wilbur responding "it's just not very funny, Tommy. You won't get canceled, it's just not funny though."

-Ranboo asking Wilbur to take out the Spirit Box to see if the demons will give them good luck for future games

"It said 'Yes sir!' Thank you demons, now go and possess Georgenotfound, his address is 123 Fake Street!" -Wilbur

-George saying "if I got it wrong, it's not my fault!" in the colored wool room in GR

-Pink getting scammed on the flipped trapdoor in the Shoot the Targets room

-Ranboo saying "after this, it gets better!" during the GR room scoring and the three subsequent placements immediately disproving him with 10th, 9th, and 8th

-"I'm dogging guys, I'm dogging. Sneeg, drop an 'I'm dogging' for us." -Wilbur

-"That's exactly 2005 coins away, what were you doing in 2005, Ranboo?" -Wilbur

"I was only two years old, so I was probably getting a lot of head injuries. I hit my head on a lot of things as a kid." -Ranboo

-"I'm 37th by the way, so I'm currently carrying." -George

-Ranboo shifting (twerking) next to Scott's team in order to gain his favor

"Man, Ranboo, you're gonna make me act up, shit, man." -Wilbur (in the fuckboi voice)

-Ranboo being trigger happy with fire bombing the first game to have flowers in Decision Dome, and everyone retroactively realizing that was actually a game they wanted

-"Phil used to be good at Rocket Spleef, don't give him too much credit now." -Wilbur

"PHIL SUCKS NOW." -Ranboo

"Everyone should type that in his chat." -Wilbur

-Wilbur saying "I came out now, I'm no longer inside" in RSR and Ranboo saying "Lame."

"You really just got mad at him for doing the same thing you did. 'How could he, poser." -Sneeg

-Wilbur having so much fun flying around that he forgot to actually move along with the map

-Everyone scolding Wilbur to not start quarrels after he said "I eliminated your mum" to George

-Everyone else vocalizing as Wilbur falls to his slow death in 40th place after he accidentally used his updraft 10 seconds into the round and continuing to sing after Wilbur screams his rage into the mic and leaves the room for a hot minute

-Ranboo laughing his villainous laugh after stealing George's coins on a kill

"MY COINSSSSS." -Ranboo

"DIE, IDIOTS." -George

-Wilbur repeatedly joking to George that he's going inside him, he's trying to go inside him but he keeps slipping out, he's trying to get inside-

-"You're a slippery boy, aren't you George?" -Wilbur (WHY)

-George letting out the most bloodcurdling screams in RSR and everyone cracking up

"Someone just saw his family die." -Sneeg

-Everyone just losing their fucking minds from sheer rage in RSR and Wilbur going into poetic fury spirals of speech

"HOW COULD I HAVE DONE BETTER FOR YOU, YOU SHITTY GAME? DO YOU WANT ME TO BRING YOU CAVIER ON A TRAY? DO YOU WANT ME TO PRODUCE FOR YOU A LITERAL PILE OF SUSHI? SOME GOLD CRESTED FLOWERS?

I WILL POUR PERFUME ON THE VIOLET. I WILL GUILD REFINED GOLD. I WILL GUILD THE LILY. IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY, PLEASE MCC. HOLY SHIT.

OH, TOMORROW AND TOMORROW AND TOMORROW CREEPS IN THIS PETTY PACE FROM DAY TO DAY." -Wilbur, possessed by the demon of a Shakespearean actor

-Everyone making Petezahhutt their public enemy no.1 for no reason other than he is winning

"He's skipping like a pebble on a lake!" -Sneeg

"Oh, CONGRATULATIONS, Petezahhutt." -Ranboo

"YOUR NAME IS A RESTAURANT." -Wilbur

-"You know what this is making me crave? Just cocaine. You ever do cocaine, Georgenotfound? You want to do cocaine with me?" -Wilbur

-George looking up words that rhyme with 'vote' in order to make his terrible puns

"Audience vote, more like audience federal reserve note." -George

"Alternatively, audience rocky mountain goat."

"George I love you, but if you continue I really will have to just kill myself, so please stop." -Wilbur

-Ranboo and George strategizing to build penises and swear words in Build Mart

-"Am I being gaslit and girlbossed right now?" -Wilbur, during a bit where the other team members pretend they can't hear him

-Billzo coming into Ranboo's room soaking wet and yelling at him, and Ranboo telling his team that there was a rat in his room

-"Guys, I think our team dynamic is getting a little rocky-" -Ranboo

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! FUCK YOU!" -Sneeg

-"My Chakras are very misaligned right now, and if you don't realign them soon I might have to start horoscoping all over the place." -Wilbur

-Wilbur desperately defending the extensive use of brick within Britain

"Brick keeps things warm, it's a cold place!" -Wilbur

-"You are off your rocker." -Wilbur to Ranboo

"I am fully inside my rocker, okay? I am so far on my rocker I am inside it." -Ranboo

-Wilbur saying his "thing" in SB is placing the TNT up the candy cane elevators, and he can't do it this time :(

-"We'll go over to Red, give them a little *kiss noise*" -Wilbur

-"Yeah that's right, back up bitches!" -Sneeg

"Back up! I've got this bread!" -Ranboo

"Hey, nice dude." -Sneeg

-George trolling them by saying he's dead when he wasn't as a. as a little white lie. as a little funny-

-"BURROW, SNEEG. BURROW LIKE THE MOLEMAN YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE." -Ranboo

-Wilbur kicking Sneeg from his guild because his comms weren't clear enough

"You can cough, coughing is fine. Georgenotfound, you can sniff a little cocaine if you want. But the rest of you have to be quiet." -Wilbur

-"Look at us, when we apply ourselves, it's like Breaking Bad!" -Wilbur

+Ranboo immediately falling into the void after he says that

-Wilbur's chat constantly asking him to talk to demons again

-Everyone just repeating the phrase "they're building a house!" to each other for several seconds like a cursed record, until they transition to saying "they're building a bridge! They're building a house-bridge!"

-George getting upset at Sneeg for not inviting him to his wedding even though they literally just met

"Your mistake was not getting to know me earlier, I guess. Should've invested in Sneeg when you had the chance." -Sneeg

-Wilbur insulting Sneeg and Ranboo for crying at the wedding, and Sneeg calling him a "drunk bastard"

"You were like, 'Sneeg, I haven't gotten super drunk in a long time. I'm gonna do it tonight,' and I was like okay man." -Sneeg

-"Better watch out George, I'm coming for that 38th place." -Sneeg

-Sneeg proposing his Dream SMP character to be an old man on a mountain who shows up at the end credits and just says "Wow. That was weird."

-Ranboo momentarily transforming into Eggman as he releases his MEGA Egg

"It's a MEGA Bunny released from my MEGA Egg."

-"A minecraft bird can't fly with two left wings!" -Wilbur

-"Buy an M4 and shoot Tommyinnit. Sorry, what?" -Wilbur, whose automatically response is apparently violence against Tommyinnit

-"He's like, 'YES, I KILLED HIM, AHAHAHA'. Shut up." -George

"Nobody wins in ~war~." -Wilbur

-Wilbur and Ranboo repeatedly saying Penis. Penis. Penis. Balls. Balls. Balls. while staring at Red's wool formation in BB

-"I love this team dynamic. They're gonna write about this one." -Ranboo (Yes.)

-"From here on, should I be the one to do the sneaky ninja stuff? Should I be the sneaky ninja?" -Wilbur

-"They're coming for you George, they're clopsing on you." -Sneeg, language innovator

-"No!! I hate everything! I hate everything! I thought I could be special!" -George

-Wilbur commanding everyone's chat to Begin Barking, it gives them power

-"Guys, if we keep acting like this the Reddit is going to write negatively about our team dynamic, and I can't have that!" -Ranboo

-"Ahhh!! Grian!" -Ranboo

"That's how I feel every time I open up my sub box." -Wilbur

-"Wait, George is gonna beat me in the leaderboard, FUCK!" -Sneeg

"YEAH, GET OUT OF HERE, I HATE YOU! WHY DIDN'T YOU INVITE ME TO YOUR WEDDING. WHY DIDN'T YOU INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING." -George

-"I love MCC, I love MineCraft Championships. I love MineCraft Championship 21, on the 30th of April, 2022." -Ranboo

-The team dynamic degrading to the point that Sneeg and George decide to forego competing in the championship and instead focus on beating each other up

-"George, if you don't pick up the pace, they're gonna call you a support player." -Wilbur

"They're gonna say he has good comms." -Sneeg

-Everyone having a deep bloodlust for the death of Build Mart

"BURN. BURN. BURN." -Ranboo

"Whoever did that had big hellacious dick energy." -Sneeg

-"Hey guys, can I quickly drop some Sand Daddy knowledge for a minute here?" -Wilbur

-The two White Noise boys going off together in SOT

-"Will the fish stop shitting on me, oh my god, bro. Just take my money. Jesus." -Sneeg

- Wilbur helping Ranboo solve a puzzle and saying he's "a bit of a Riddler ;)"

-George LITERALLY running the timer up to less than 10 seconds left in SOT in order to get those last few coins and giving everyone a heart attack

-"Maybe we just don't vote. Maybe we let fate decide. Look, the demons are on our side!" -Wilbur

-The story arc of Pete being Pink's enemy this MCC being resolved by him failing to get Build Mart and everyone celebrating his demise with wild rapture

-Wilbur breaking into a song of victory and George listening in silence for a minute, then responding "ok."

-"You've got this George. You're on well-known speedrunner Jack Manifold." -Wilbur

-Ranboo entering the hunter box in PKT and George expressing Great Distress at the fact he's been boxed

"You're trapped! Get him out, get him out!!" -George

"Don't leave me here, George!" -Ranboo

-(WHY does George scream like that it's so shrill he sounds like a dying cat)

-George telling Wilbur to stay alive and Wilbur taking that as his cue to break into another impromptu Hamilton cover

-"Didn't we get projected 7th? Yeah, get shit on. Get absolutely destroyed!!" -Sneeg, after Pink finished in 6th

-Everyone attacking Ranboo for not having a coin yet

"See that's the thing, you've all won once!" -Ranboo

"I've won twice, actually." -Wilbur

-*obligatory everyone is shook by how good Sapnap is*

"Oh yeah, I forgot that Sapnap was actually so good at Dodgebolt." -Ranboo

"He's a menace!" -Sneeg

-Wilbur encouraging all future doctors to become streamers instead

"No, we need doctors!" -Ranboo

"We need streamers! How else will I sit on my couch and watch streams?" -George

"Yeah, we need another guy with brown hair." -Sneeg

-Wilbur making beeps for "ambience" and Ranboo and Sneeg being absolutely convinced he's rigged the arena with a bomb

"If Blue team doesn't win this, all of New York is going down!" -Ranboo

-"At the end of the day, I'm the real winner here." -George

"That's true, you do get the honor of being Georgenotfound." -Ranboo

"Nobody could wear it better." -Sneeg

-Wilbur getting first on dog pets with 2214 pets, and Sneeg calling him "the goodest of boys" and "the Pet Master"

"I'm a first place petter, through and through." -Wilbur

#mcc #mcc 21 #wilbur soot #georgenotfound #sneegsnag #ranboo #DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I HAD TO HEAR WILBUR SOOT SAY THE WORDS 'HELLACIOUS COCK'. DO YOU KNOW. APPRECIATE MY SACRIFICE #I knew this pov was going to be chaotic but the energy was truly unmatched #what did they put in the water this mcc #for the record I might be making one more of these for team cyan and then I'll transition to mcc22 #if anyone is inclined Please share your thoughts in the comments or reblogs seeing ppl care about these teams too makes my day :) #Tumble user hydra-wing prepare yourself this is a long and cursed one #birb's mcc recaps

[autisticandroids]

Okay so this was a while back but im preety sure you had mentioned an au of yours where dean is a serial killer and cas successfully stalks him but i don't think you talked about it more than that and i just really want to hear a bit more bc that idea sounds so tastefully fucked up

okay so. weeks later i finally end up answering this ask. it inspired this post btw. anyway spn is a show that's like. all about justifications, as i said in the post inspired by this ask. it's about having no choice and doing what you have to do. and like there is the phantasy embedded in it, a phantasy that is both indulged and punished. but most importantly it's justified. the monsters are super strong to show how brave our heroes are for fighting them, the main characters let out great wails of grief every time their lady loves are violently ripped from them (even though now they are free to do whatever they want), the narrative twists to show our heroes as correct whatever they do. the fantasy (of being allowed to enact violence, of being free from feminine "control," of being right) comes first. the material construction of the universe of supernatural comes afterward. whatever the fantasy is, the universe of supernatural will provide material conditions to justify its acting-out.

and what this means is that our protagonists, dean in particular, are constantly doing just horrific things, which in any other circumstance would be unconscionable. but the universe of supernatural provides justification for these acts. the point of my serial killer au which i think about so so so much is to ask the question: what if these justifications melted out from under their feet? what if dean was left holding nothing but a lie and the weight of everything he's done?

therefore, the premise of my au is such (under the cut because this baby is long):

john and mary winchester, in the mid seventies, joined a doomsday cult known as the men of letters. the men of letters were rather unusual for a doomsday cult, in that they believed that the apocalypse could be prevented by human behavior. this started as correct living, correct worship, yadda yadda, the kind of behavior and thought control that cults are known for, but with the justification of: if you don't do this, the world will end. eventually, this escalated to human sacrifice. the men of letters managed to untraceably kill two homeless people in the late seventies. but they eventually fell apart. however, a month after john and mary left the men of letters (mostly john's choice, mary still believed), mary died in a house fire. john took it as a sign from god that actually, the men of letters were right, and the world would end unless john himself did something about it. so he took some of the (intensely numerological) theology of the men of letters. and he worked out his own formula. and he applied it to the yellow pages. and started ritualistically killed people to prevent the apocalypse, with his two sons in the back of the car.

now, obviously, this is some kind of grief induced temporary madness on john's part, shaped by the mental abuse he suffered in the men of letters. but the thing is, once you've killed a couple of people to prevent the apocalypse. well. there's this thing called the sunk costs fallacy. john wasn't gonna question his own beliefs after that.

and he raised his boys to believe it, too, or at least he raised dean to. they didn't tell sam what they did until he was twelve, and sam didn't buy it, tried to call the cops on them several times but in the end, they always prevented him. eventually sam ran off to stanford, where he now lives under a cloud of guilt that he's too loyal to his family to rat them out.

john died a few years back of a heart attack, but dean is convinced it's because he messed up a ritual two weeks before it happened, so it pushed him further into this belief system.

dean's killings (and john's before him) are ritualistic and distinctive, obviously the same killer each time. but they happen anywhere in the united states, seemingly at random, there are inconsistent amounts of time between each one (sometimes as short as days, sometimes as long as years), and there is no particular victim profile. obviously, since our killers are following an arcane mathematical formula to make their choices for them, but the police don't know that.

castiel novak is an unemployed shut-in with a small inheritance which he's living off of, a cryptography degree, and an obsession with all things morbid. he spends most of his time on the reddit true crime forums, playing amateur sleuth. by complete chance, he happens to recognize one of the symbols frequently used in corpse displays by the so-called sioux falls satanic slaughterer (so named because the first time three of his victims were in the same part of the country, it so happened that they were all in sioux falls, south dakota. this was in the late eighties.) as being mostly only used by a little known cult group called the men of letters, which dissolved in the mid eighties.

he only notices this because, as a teen, he had a special interest in cults and fringe religious groups. the men of letters weren't a particularly notable or well known phenomenon; they were small, and a lot like every other cult that formed during the seventies cult boom. (no outsider ever heard about the human sacrifice; there were rumors, of course, but they were garbled, sensationalized, and mixed up with satanic panic fodder.)

(the men of letters' two sacrifices were nothing particularly romantic or fantastical. they first lured panhandler josie sands back to their compound with promises of food and a warm bed when she admitted she couldn't get a bed at a shelter, and was thinking of getting caught shoplifting just so she could be under a roof in the county jail. the men of letters' leader, a man who took on the name alistair, forced his inner circle to dress in the ceremonial black robes he had given them when he initiated them into his nearest and dearest, and which his wife had sewn out of old bed sheets and dyed black with home made oak gall dye. these robes still left black smudges on the wearer's skin occasionally if they sweated too much. josie was laid, bound, on the altar, a slapdash thing constructed over the course of two days from scrap plywood and a couple of milk crates. a rich red tablecloth purchased at macy's for $3.99 hid its ugliness and gave it grandeur. alistair attempted to kill the struggling miss sands by bringing a sharpened kitchen knife down on her bosom and piercing her heart, but, having never killed a human or even slaughtered an animal before, was unaware of the problem presented by the human ribcage. after rather ineffectually poking at the area beneath sands' bosom with his knife while she shrieked in pain and terror for about ninety seconds, alistair tried a different tack, and slit her throat, which worked just fine, and she bled out quite nicely. the second and final victim of the men of letters was a local vagrant named larry ganem, an older gentleman who walked with a limp. he was lured back to the compound in approximately the same manner as sands, but instead of being bound, he was fed stew laced with sleeping pills. even if alistair hadn't slit his throat, he wouldn't have woken up. it's actually arguable whether he was still alive at time of sacrifice; mary winchester (eight months into her first pregnancy), who, as a member of the inner circle, was in attendance, actually tried to take ganem's pulse as he lay on the altar (now covered by a different tablecloth; the red one had turned stiff with sands' blood and been subsequently burned) and found nothing, so it is entirely possibly only sands' death can be directly laid at alistair's feet, and ganem's is the fault of mrs. ellen harvelle, who prepared the laced stew. regardless, these two deaths are lessons in the nature of human evil: it is very rarely skilled, suave, or smooth. it's often slapdash, half-hearted, and just plain incompetent. but that makes it no less grisly. alistair may have begun to drink his own kool-aid, as it were, and escalated this far out of genuine belief that the apocalypse was coming and it was up to him to stop it, but it is far more likely that he sensed the imminent collapse of his little empire, and wanted to bind his subjects to him through the horrors of shared guilt, considering two lives a small price to pay for the continued loyalty of his inner circle. and the tactic worked: the men of letters didn't start to collapse in earnest until almost four years later. perhaps if alistair had continued the killings, the men of letters could have lasted for far longer, maybe even up until the present day. but it seems that alistair, a psychiatrist by training and unused to violence, simply didn't have the stomach for it. unlike, say, john winchester, who before his time with the men of letters had done a two year tour in vietnam, during which he had killed three living, thinking human beings with the american government's go-ahead.)

anyway. castiel is the first person, ever, to make the connection between the men of letters and the sioux falls satanic slaughterer. and once that connection is made, castiel begins to research the men of letters far more in-depth. and he notices something: the theology of the men of letters was intensely numerological, filled with patterns, significant numbers, and even spiritual equations.

castiel thinks of the seemingly random selection of the slaughterer's victims, and has an epiphany.

he cracks all his fingers, and gets coding.

six months. it takes castiel six months to discover an equation that could fit the slaughterer's pattern. it's complex, but also clearly based on several of the men of letters' holy numbers, and accounts for every single one of the killings. it also suggests that there should have been two or three more deaths scattered across the years, but more than likely those did happen, it's just that they weren't reported as part of the slaughterer's portfolio.

but much more importantly, castiel's model can also make predictions. there will be two killings, fifteen days apart, in a city seven hours' drive away, six weeks from now.

so castiel waits. and he books a hotel room. and two months later, he's waiting outside 217 oak street when a shadowy figure climbs up a tree and lets itself into the upstairs window.

dean winchester is feeling particularly all alone in the world when he breaks into maisey banks' home (217 oak street). his father has been dead for half a decade, and he hasn't spoken to his baby brother for twice that. it's not like this whole grizzly saving the world business makes him a lot of friends. so once he's done killing maisey (which is easy, she was ninety three and dying of cancer anyway. she doesn't even wake up when he slits her throat) and arranging her corpse in the appropriate manner, with prayers and sigils, he turns around. and sees a man standing behind him.

smiling slightly.

as he watches dean gut this old woman.

dean freezes.

the man takes a step forward.

"you're very attractive for a serial killer who's been operating since the eighties."

dean is silent.

"family business, is it?"

silence continues.

"i'm not here to report you to police. i'm just here to see if my algorithm worked right."

and dean finally breaks his silence: "what the hell is wrong with you?"

what's fun here is that dean knows (or rather "knows") that he isn't a serial killer. so he finds what cas is doing, this amoral serial killer stormchasing, morally repugnant. because cas has no way of knowing he isn't a regular serial killer.

there's also the fact that that cas proceeds to flirt with him. aggressively. and follows him back to his motel.

but the thing is that dean is all alone in the world. and as cas continues trailing him around, he starts getting, well, flattered. and feeling a little bit less alone.

it doesn't take very long before they fall into bed. even if cas is an amoral stalker with a fetish for what dean considers a distasteful yet necessary vocation.

so. they fall into bed. they fall in love. they make a little life together, in dean's big sexy car. dean tries to explain to cas that he's saving the world. that these people's lives are a necessary price to pay. and cas seems to listen.

of course, castiel doesn't believe a word of it. but he's found that he likes dean. really likes him. and he realizes that the collapse of dean's belief system would destroy him.

so he sets about becoming as complicit in it as possible.

even to the extent where, when dean is hit by a car and ends up into the hospital a day before one killing is meant to take place, castiel agrees to take on the job. (he doesn't actually kill anyone, obviously. but he does use his extensive skill with computers to create three fake newspaper articles which make it look like he has.)

but five years later, something goes wrong. really, really wrong. dean miscalculates the formula. and by the time he checks his work, the actual date of the next kill, as demanded by the formula, has passed. in fact, so have three others. and the world didn't end.

dean collapses. he hyperventilates. all those people. all those people. for no reason. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people. all those people.

cas seems totally unfazed. dean stares at him in shock. but cas just takes dean in his arms, and whispers in his ear: "oh, dean, i never believed in the equation. i love you no matter what you've done."

and dean buries his face in cas' chest.

#spn #asks #anonymous #abuse tw #violence tw

[gothamslittlejester]

Obsessive Ledger!joker x reader

I’ve been spoiling you all recently with all this Ledger!Joker, so you’re welcome 😎 (but also so sorry because I did go on a hiatus without saying anything for half a year 😬). Let me know in the asks if you want something in particular, I love writing for J so much! I have a few already that I am working on as we speak, so stay tuned for those 💜

Below are headcannons for a more yandere and darker joker than I usually write 👻 nothing abusive here because J is still very much my comfort character, but it definitely includes over-possessive, protective and stalker themes, as well as encouraging reader to join in on his murderous chaos

Warnings: morally ambiguous reader, joining joker on his “fun” i.e. mentions of torturing others, blood, weapons, severed body parts as gifts, implied seggsy time

· Before adoration, fondness or love, the first feelings Joker had for you was pure obsession. Obsession with what you thought and felt, what you liked to do and why you liked to do them. Obsession with your safety and the need to protect you, which led to jealousy and possessiveness very often. It was primal, and longing, and left him thirsting after your presence like a greedy, hungry wolf. He wanted you- needed you- and he was going to get you

·In spite of a period of flirting, suggestive jokes and hinting touches, Joker made it clear pretty quickly what his feelings were for you. Because of his lifestyle death is like a waiting shadow, and wasting time on what he wants is just not his style  

· Quite soon into the beginning of your more romantic relationship, you move into his hideout for the sake of your safety, which calmed J down with some of his possessiveness and paranoid thoughts. He knew his home was the safest place in Gotham, excluding Bruce Wayne’s cave, and with you in it that meant you were safe too.

·When he’s gone, he’ll leave a huge shotgun behind for you to use in case of emergency, as well as Chechen’s Rottweilers. You’ll find some stray knives and pointy objects hidden in your coats too, “just in case”, but its more heartwarming to you than annoying

· He loves to lay on you at night, whether it be right on your chest to hear your heartbeat, or on your belly where he can feel your soft skin pressed against his scared cheeks. Not only is it pleasant and lets his touched-starved soul get some attention, but it also makes him hyper aware of every shift or move your body does while asleep. It also prevents you from sneaking out of the bed to run away, which is one of his more paranoid thoughts. Don’t try to move away or push him off, he will smack your hand back and snuggle in deeper, wrapping his arms around you like a snake

· He doesn’t care what insecurities you have regarding your appearance; he admires every single piece of you and will cuddle with whatever he wants, so push your anxieties aside because Joker hungers for all of you

· His gifts can sometimes be very macabre. Generally, he loves to spoil you with an array of things, such as new clothes or lingerie, plush toys of your favorite animals, snacks you said you’ve wanted to try, or even just random knick-knacks he stole from his victim’s homes. However, if he’s feeling adventurous or extra flirty that day, he will bring you certain body parts to symbolize his feelings for you.

· You’ve definitely found your fair share of human hearts in your fridge, because he adores how your heart races when your scared. You’ve found a pair of lungs stuffed in there too, because the little gasps you make when frightened or anticipating his touch are delicious to him. You went to get milk once and right behind the carton was a tongue, symbolizing how much he relishes your little talks and midnight conversations

· Once, he brought over a whole corpse, the body decomposing and gnarled, skin ripped to shreds and a face pummeled so brutally it had concaved. “Don’t need to worry about them any more doll,” he giggled, spitting on the body with a fervor that thrilled you. It took a few minutes of intense staring- why did they look familiar?-  but then it clicked in your mind; it was the very person you had fumed and vented to Joker about last night, right before he had spontaneously left

· “J,” you began, eyes nearly popping out of your head. “Did you kill him... for me?”

· “ ‘Course I did, sweetheart.” He rolled his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know I’d, uh, kill anyone for you. Nasty fucks like them especially-ah.”

· If you have to leave for longer periods of time, whether that be for school or work, Joker will always have a few of his men stalking you from a distance, making sure you’re safe and that no one dangerous is within a 1 mile radius of you. They also have explicit instructions to take photos and send them to J, because he likes looking at your oblivious little face.

· He’d do it himself if he has the time, which he sometimes does, but he too is quite busy with his own things (when anarchy calls, as they say), so hiring lookouts is the next best thing. If he could, he’d have you right by his side at all times… how pretty you’d look in a soft purple leash... but that’s just daydream fuel for now

· Speaking of photos, Joker knows his ways around a camera. He makes... lovely home videos that he sends to news channels in his free time (rip fake batman) and he continues to practice at his craft from time to time. He even won a deepweb award for best snuff film of the year, which boosted his ego to ungodly heights. He’s absolutely delighted about it and hints that you should watch it on one of your movie nights, but he does warn it’s not for the faint of heart

· Taking videos and photos are one of his favorite hobbies, and if you’re down to clown… he’d certainly bring it in the bedroom

· Speaking of his more thrilling hobbies, Joker will constantly suggest you join him on his escapades or help out behind the scenes, especially if he picks up on any sort of interest from you concerning his ‘job’. Joker is an observant man, and he reads you like a book. He knows you likely have some dark, sinister thoughts running around in your head - you must, if you’re with him- so he does everything he can to encourage you to let them out. Joker will never judge this side of you, no matter how grim. He’ll try and harness it, bring it to light. He hates the thought of you shying away from your true self, embarrassed of your darker nature, but what he hates even more is you thinking he’ll be disgusted with you or disappointed. How can you think that?

· “No no no, bunny, not me. You’re my muse, so give me some inspiration hmm? Tell daddy exactly what’s going on in that mind of yours...”

·  If you do show interest in the darker side of his job, he’d smile so big that his scars take up his whole face. He’d teach you everything; how to fire a gun, how to stab someone, how to hide a body and how to torture one. He’ll spread out all his weapons on the floor and let you choose which one calls to you, like a deranged ceremony, informing you on the pros and cons of each one. He’ll even invite you into the warehouses he designated just for torture, which are just as gruesome and sinful and they sound

· J let’s you watch as he hurts his victims, whom are purposefully rapists and killers to make you feel less guilty, and let’s you join in on the fun whenever you gain the courage. He even went as far as to buy a whole torture set off the black market, from scalpel to needles, just to give you options. Joker loves to see how creative you can get, and it’s one of the few times he lets you take complete control

· “The floor is yours, bunny. Impress me.”

· He is down for pretty much anything, and that mindset is not exclusive just to the bedroom

·Any couple activity you fear might be too far or creepy for other people… is right around J’s alley. Weird kinks or foreplay games you want to try? No problem. Making love in abandoned houses or cemeteries? Now that’s his type of romance. You want to carry a small vial of his blood around your neck? He is all game, but only if he gets one of you as well. Matching knives? He’s blushing. Satanic blood ritual from a sketchy website that’s supposed to bond your souls for eternity? Perfect, his weekend plans were centered around you anyways

· Now…If he feels that you’re not giving him enough attention or start to push him away, he will resort to crazier means to obtain your love back. He’ll set off random bugs, rats or even henchmen into your home to scare you, gleefully waiting to hear you cry out his name in fear. Like a small, dependent little kitten, mewling for their protector. He’d come in, guns ablaze, looking for whatever scared his darling angel, killing them on sight. You’d run into his arms, tears streaming down your face as you cling to Joker like your life depended on it- just how he liked it. He’d coo mockingly and pull you closer, rubbing your back as he unashamedly basked in your physical touch.

· In general however, your soft caresses, kisses and reassuring words are enough to keep him very pleased. He knows you adore him and are head over heels obsessed just like he is, and that truly does put a smile on his face.

#joker x reader #ledger joker x reader #ledger!joker x reader #joker headcannon #dark knight joker #x reader #dark headcannons #yandere

[zerogate]

The whole culture of exercise and athletics, as epitomized by the Olympic Games, had been essentially snuffed out with the rise of Christianity more than twelve hundred years before. Constantine the Great, the first Christian Roman emperor, formally banned gladiatorial contests in A.D. 325, and some seventy years later, Theodosius I brought the Olympic Games to an end completely. This wasn’t simply because exercise and athletics were antithetical to the tenets of Christianity but instead because athletic competition was linked to pagan rituals (such as blood sacrifices of animals) and dedicated to the pantheon of Greek and Roman gods. Cathedrals replaced gymnasiums as sacred sites; it was the holy spirit—the soul—that was now to be glorified, not the body. Not that this happened overnight or with a single decree. But certainly within a few hundred years, the notion of exercise for the sake of exercise was considered indecent. And by the time Mercuriale took the subject on a thousand years later, the art of exercise was, as he put it, “now extinct.”

[...]

In ancient Greece and in the early Roman Empire, there was at least one gymnasium in every town. The gymnasium was as much a part of culture and society as a theater and marketplace—albeit a place for men and boys of the upper classes alone. Women were not permitted into gymnasia—even just to watch. While it’s true that Plato says in the Laws that “women, both young and old, should exercise … together with the men,” should does not mean they could or did but suggests an ideal, one that, in reality, didn’t occur broadly until the nineteenth century. Mercuriale, neither advocating nor opposing the notion of women exercising in gyms, neatly sidesteps the issue: “It is not the place to investigate here.”

Gyms were generally official buildings, owned by the city, and with dedicated staff, including trainers and the ancient equivalent of “towel boys.” Day-to-day administration was the responsibility of a general manager called the gymnasiarch. Private gymnasia existed, too, and for these, records confirm, visitors paid fees just as one does today—they were gym members, essentially. By the sixteenth century, in Mercuriale’s Italy, the only gymnasia left were in shambles—half-buried relics of major buildings, such as the Baths of Caracalla.

Mercuriale had fixed, even grandiose, ideas about what a gymnasium is, how one should be designed and built, based on the text of the Roman architect Marcus Vitruvius. His ten-volume work, De architectura (On Architecture, ca. 25 B.C.), the only surviving major book on classical architecture, provides specific design details on everything from aqueducts and central heating to the construction of prisons and theaters, as well as the machinery and materials that were used. In the fifth volume, chapter 11, he describes the “rules” for a proper palestra, the name given by the Greeks to a large athletic facility devoted to wrestling and with spaces for exercising, viewing, and bathing. (The ancient Greek word for “gym rat”—yes, they had them, too—literally translates as “palestra addict.”)

[...]

The sweat of athletes was considered a prize commodity in the ancient world. What a waste, you might have thought, had you been me two thousand years earlier, watching my dad toss sweat onto the rocks. After competing or simply exercising, athletes would scrape the accumulated sweat and oil from their bodies and funnel it into small pots with a metal tool created expressly for this purpose, a strigil, shaped like a celery stalk. This presumably funky-smelling mixture, called gloios, was considered so precious that some went so far as to take scrapings from the bathhouse walls against which athletes had leaned and left sweat tracings from their bodies.

Ancient Greek and Roman writers such as Dioscorides, Pliny the Elder, and Galen all attested to this practice. Pliny reported that the masters of the gladiatorial schools at one time sold such scrapings for eight hundred sesterces, equivalent to thousands of dollars. Hard as this might be to believe, records of ancient business dealings confirm that Pliny and company were correct.

Gloios provided a significant revenue stream for the Greek gymnasia at which it was sold—a needed supplement to membership fees at private gyms. It was used for medicinal purposes, the belief being that gloios must contain the essence of arete—the striving for excellence that defined a great athlete. But athletic sweat wasn’t used, as one might guess, to enhance athletic performance. It was used to treat the most uncomfortable maladies on one’s most private parts—hemorrhoids and genital warts.

-- Bill Hays, Sweat

#quotes

[whirlybirbs]

MOONLIT DUNES.    ;    boba fett / reader     ;     1 / ?

summary: you’ve found many things in the dunes. a gravely injured mandalorian is a new thing to add to the ever growing list. set directly after return of the jedi. 

word count: 3.5k

pairing: boba fett / scavenger!reader

tags: some body horror, injury mention, boba loses his leg, reader does first aid,  the great pit of carkoon really did one on our man

a/n: my hand slipped i swear.............. (this has been in the works since may)

In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.

Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient and otherwise.

Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever changing tides of glittering sand.

However, never in your life —  in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns —  have you ever found someone alive in the dunes.

Until today, that is.

You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the space port were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual disposal runs.

Ah, Jabba.

Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.

You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.

Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.

Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...

The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.

You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.

No use in dwelling. You’re already here.

“Hup.”

As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.

There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.

No give.

The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.

For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.

The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.

Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.

There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.

The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s left of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.

You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.

There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?

In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.

Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was other sentients.

If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.

Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d tried to apologize for your trespass.  

That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.

If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.

Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.

The smell is wretched, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.

Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure was very dead.

The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.

“Gods above,” you heave, coughing loudly.

That’s when you hear it.

A weak sound.

A strangled moan.

Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.

For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?

Then, you see him.

It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.

Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.

You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, a man.

Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.

That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.

Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.

He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.

You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.

Confusion.

His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.

Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.

His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.

The jetpack would explain the escape.

You toss the pack down the hill.

You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?

Gods above.

The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.

You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.

“I am going to help you.”

You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.

There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.

And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.

You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.

With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.

If only you knew.

You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.

It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms through the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.

It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled downhill — and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.

“Koochoo,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. This is stupid.

Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.

With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.

It’s been a hot day.

Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.

You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.

The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.

You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.

That earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.

The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.

The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…

It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.

A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.

Away from this wretched wreck.

By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.

There was certainly a first for everything.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.

The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.

Is he dead?

Where is he?

What in the hell happened?

This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.

His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.

Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.

Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.

Headscarf.

The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.

… Gods damn it all.

The Hutts.

Jabba.

Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.

Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.

Sleep takes him easily.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.

You must have been watching over him.

Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.

Call it a habit.

The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.

The commotion summons you in a flash.

This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.

There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.

“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”

Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —

Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.

You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.

When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.

“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”

“I found you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”

The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.

And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.

#moonlit dunes #boba fett x reader #boba x reader #boba fett imagine #boba fett x you #boba fett reader insert #star wars imagine #mandalorian imagine #I CANNOT HELP MYSELF

[adarlingwrites]

Taste

Summary: The blue bard is sickeningly sweet for Astarion's preferences, but he'll never forget her taste.

Author’s Notes: Taste is a collection of retellings of Astarion's scenes with the player character from the Baldur's Gate 3 early access, but with a little more embellishments. Plus, it has glimpses of my tiefling's backstory.

I had horrible, horrible artist's and writer's block and I needed to get this out of my system to get the creative juices flowing again. Please excuse any typos or lack of quality.

Larian give us the bard class pls I am begging of you

I - Blueberry Wine

The time for rest has come.

Bedrolls are strewn on the campgrounds, and most of its inhabitants are already asleep. Nothing can be heard save for the crackle of fire, the chirp of birds in the woods, and soft snoring.

If it wasn’t for their common goal of removing those damned illithid tadpoles from their heads before they undergo ceremorphosis, the members of this party wouldn’t even spend five minutes within each others’ presence. Now, they’re sleeping in one place. It takes some measure of trust for that.

The dreams of the tiefling in their ragtag group aren’t sweet tonight, to say the least.

Brows furrowed as another nightmare wormed into her psyche, the tiefling tosses and turns in her bedroll, a thin film of sweat giving her forehead a slight sheen in the firelight. Eyes shooting open, she choked back a gasp, lest she wake up her companions in the camp. The crackle of the campfire and the smell of burning wood gave her some semblance of comfort, at least, reminding her of distant memories.

A warm hearth, a kind face, the smell of freshly baked blueberry pie; simple comforts from her youth that she missed terribly.

The comfort that accompanied the nostalgia was enough to make her drift back to sleep. Woefully, it didn’t stop the nightmares from coming back, now centered around the tiefling’s early years.

Small, bare feet pitter-pattered on the wet pavement, frantic gasps escaped her dry mouth. Choking back a sob, more people went after her, shouting, hurling words that scraped her heart.

“Stop! Thief!”

“Devil!”

“Slay the demon!”

Lungs burning from exertion, the little tiefling whelp coughs, rasps for air, and slides under a cart. In the dark, she can see a narrow alleyway, which she scurries into. The men run past her hiding spot, cursing and muttering amongst themselves. Relief floods through her as their torchlights grew dim.

Safe, at last.

Her trembling arms had been holding on to precious cargo; a stale loaf of bread, wrapped in linen. It’s not a delectable morsel of steak, or rich bone marrow, but it’s better than the rocks she grinded with her sharp teeth for breakfast.

As she takes it out of the cloth, a stone drops in her stomach and horror twists on her young face. The tiefling isn’t holding a loaf of bread, but a severed head of a drow. A scream threatened to escape her throat and pierce the night air, but the tiefling maiden could only gasp as she felt a presence behind her.

Wine red eyes still heavy with sleep met with alert, ruby ones. She isn’t dreaming any longer.

In the dim firelight, she sees him. Astarion.

Truth be told, she doesn’t quite know what to feel about the posh elf. Astarion’s handsome face and fair curls are easy on the eyes, but it only reminded her of how hellish she looks in comparison due to her infernal ancestry. His sharp, calculating eyes puts her at unease, even when his gaze isn’t directed towards her. He has a way of making people feel beneath him, like vulnerable prey. Serenity is not exempt from that, despite her efforts to be pleasant to him. Not to mention, Astarion’s attitude and mannerisms reminded her of the uppity nobles she had the displeasure of encountering in her colorful past.

In short, he’s a handsome fellow with a revolting attitude, at least to Serenity’s standards. Lust and indignation battles with each other in the tiefling’s psyche.

It doesn’t help at all that the elf is fond of calling her pet names, such as “sweetheart” or “dear”. No one calls her such sweet things with genuine intent, not after she saw the drow’s head on a pike, and to hear them from his condescending mouth stirs something dark in her heart.

It especially inflames her whenever he calls her “darling”.

She wanted to pounce on him. However, she wasn’t sure what she wanted after that.

Tear his pretty face asunder with her nails and watch his handsome features contort in agony, perhaps? Or watch him writhe underneath her in a more… carnal manner as she takes out all of her frustration by mashing her ravenous mouth against his lovely lips?

Maybe both?

“Oh, Serenity. You have no need for that sort of… decadence,” she thinks to herself.

Alas, her body says otherwise.

“Shit,” he says upon meeting eyes with her, distracting the tiefling from her thoughts. Serenity didn’t expect such a vulgar word to come out of his pretty mouth, and she didn’t expect the gleaming fangs inside of it either.

How could she not see it the first few times?

The dead boar they found on the road, the fact that she had never seen him consume any food, and the wolfish way he eyes her neck when he thought she wasn’t looking should’ve given it away.

Astarion is a vampire. Worse, he's a vampire who’s intending to sink his teeth in Serenity’s neck.

Whatever terrible things she secretly wanted to do to him, she had no chance of enacting them in this situation. Hells, if anything, Astarion is the one with the capacity to do terrible things to her. The tiefling will be at his mercy, if she doesn’t act fast. So, why isn’t her body doing anything to move?

Heart racing, she needed to say something, at least.

“Stop,” Serenity warns him, voice low, baring her own sharp teeth. The tiefling had considered smashing her precious lute over his head as a last resort. Before the bard can lash out, he pulls back, alarmed.

“No no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Astarion hastily blurts, panic evident in his voice. “ I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed- well, blood.”

The elf’s admission confirms it; Astarion is a vampire, a creature enslaved to sanguine hunger.

At that moment, an expression that Serenity hasn’t seen on the elf before twists his features: guilt. The vampire knew he’s betraying her trust, and it shows.

“How long since you killed someone? Days? Hours?” Serenity asks, on guard now, but still sitting on her bedroll.

Eyes widening, Astarion’s tone becomes defensive. “I’ve never killed anyone!” he exclaims. Then, his expression turns grim. “Well, not for food. I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds! Whatever I can get.”

The lass feels slightly reassured that she’s not dealing with a blood-sucking serial killer, but the possibility of him lying puts her on edge again.

“But it’s not enough,” the pale elf speaks again. Serenity half expected him to say this, he did try to bite her after all. “Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

And there it was, the last thing she expected from him: vulnerability. His reluctance to show weakness was written all over his face. Perhaps it wounds his pride? Regardless of the doubt she has for him, it changed Serenity’s perception of the vampire ever so slightly.

“If I just had a bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

Now this is a pleasant surprise. Astarion saying please? Is this a dream?

Still, the tiefling wanted to dig deeper at the truth. Brows knitting together in concentration, she knew better than to use the tadpole, but the damn thing established a psionic link with other infected individuals. 

Serenity pushes into the vampire’s mind to search for the truth.

“I- what’s this? What’s happening?” Astarion blurts, experiencing slight discomfort from the intrusion.

Pushing deep into the elf’s cracked and quivering memories, Serenity strains as she sifts through centuries worth of them, until she has reached its heart. There, she found herself in Astarion’s shoes; quite literally. She sees dark eyes that commanded her to feed, and instinctively, her body follows suit. Serenity, experiencing this through Astarion’s memory, opens her mouth, biting down, but not into a tender, pulsing neck. Though she wanted to recoil in disgust, there was no other choice; she couldn’t physically resist. The choice had been made for her- no, made for Astarion.

Astarion’s fangs pierce the twisting body of a rat - the only thing his master allows him to eat.

In return, Serenity’s own memories leak through the cracks of her psyche, and Astarion finds himself in the body of a wee girl with horns too big for her head. Ravenously, he inhales the sweet, buttery aroma of a freshly-baked pie resting on a windowsill. Astarion’s hands, now small and of bluish color, reach for the baked good with caution. A warm, ash-colored hand presses on his shoulder, and he sees the smiling face of a tall, drow man. Instead of hurting him for attempting to steal, the dark elf ushers him to a table, and offers him a slice with a compassionate smile. Serenity will never forget her first taste of the buttery pie crust, the sweet blueberries, and a hint of lemon and salt.

Now, Astarion will never forget that taste, either.

The connection between them severed, Serenity takes a moment to collect herself.

“You ate animals because you were forced to. Not because you wanted to,” she mumbles, eyebrows knitted together. Is it sympathy? Or perhaps his experiences reminded her of her own relationship with food?

Whatever it was, the tiefling’s perception of Astarion drastically shifted. On the surface, Astarion is a noble who turns up his nose at folks like her, but in truth, he suffered under the hands of a cruel master.

Being a pompous ass is a defense mechanism for him.

“I- yes,” Astarion says with resignation. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So, you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he continues, and Serenity swore the expression he wore on his face tugged a few strings in her heart.

“But I do trust you, and you can trust me,” Astarion tells her.

Serenity thinks it might not be fair for her not to. How can she say that she can’t, after she saw his past for herself, and he didn’t show any hostility towards her for intruding upon his darkest, most haunting memories?

“I do. I believe you,” the bard responds, and she can hear his relief when he mutters “Thank you.”

Perhaps Serenity had judged him too harshly in the past. The drow who took her in cultivated compassion in her heart, and it’s beckoning to her.

“Do you need blood?” Serenity asks him, and there is genuine surprise on his face.

“I was about to ask,” he tells her, expression shifting into something more pleasant. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

“As long as you don’t take a drop more than you need,” Serenity replies, loosening her clothing slightly, her smallclothes peeking through.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds almost eager.

“I- of course. Not one drop more.”

That damn vampire flashes her a smile that sends lightning rippling through her veins.

Astarion’s yearning eyes flicked to her exposed flesh, barely making out the purple tinge on her bluish skin as blood rushed from her chest to her face. Seeing where his eyes are roaming, Serenity feels her heart racing faster, and she swiftly lies down, back turned away from him. The tiefling bard is not about to let her companion see her flustered state.

Face inches away from her head, Astarion catches a whiff of the tiefling’s scent. He quietly thanked the gods that she didn’t smell of sulfur or rotting meat; instead, the bard smells of ash from freshly burned incense, laced with a warm, spiced scent.

The vampire holds her gently, delicately, until he strikes.

Astarion sinks deep, fangs like shards of ice piercing her neck. Serenity lets out a gasp, and her face contorts into an expression of pain and discomfort. Thankfully, the pain is quick and sharp, and as the vampire continues to feed, it fades gently into throbbing numbness. The bard feels her blood coursing through her body, into Astarion’s mouth, who sucked and slurped it hungrily.

He leans forward, one arm almost draping over the bard’s torso to support his weight, while the other still holds her head. Palm running through her short obsidian hair, he stops as they touch one of her horns, hand enclosing into a fist around it. Gently tugging, the elf tilts  her head for better access.

Astarion’s lips are wet from his meal’s blood and sweat, and his own saliva. They glided on the sensitive skin ever so slightly as he pursed them and sucked harder. Serenity found her breath catching in her throat from his actions, pulse quickening as her hand flew to grasp Astarion’s arm, filed fingernails turning white at the end.

In a figurative and literal sense, she’s holding on to dear life.

“Ah, Astarion, that’s enough,” she mewls, hand moving to grasp his hair, fingernails running through his scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough for the vampire to snap out of it due to the sensation it produced.

The vampire moans, almost carnally, then it is followed by a surprised, questioning grunt. Serenity’s pleas, and the scrape of her fingernails took him from his trance-like state. Immediately, he removes himself from her neck, swallowing thickly.

“Oh. Of course.”

Serenity sits up as he pulls back, light-headed from the blood loss. She turns to the pale elf, her breathing ragged as her fingers gingerly pressed on her bite wound. The tiefling felt a blush creep on her face, neck, and pointy ears as she gazes upon Astarion’s face. In the firelight, she can see that his pupils are blown out in ecstasy, and blood is trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“That- that was amazing,” Astarion purrs, wiping off her blood and bringing his fingers to his mouth, savoring it to the last drop. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

He pauses, and Serenity stopped breathing for a moment.

“Happy,” he continued, sighing in contentment as he gave her a gentle, genuine smile.

Serenity had to blink a few times to confirm that she wasn’t seeing things.

She clears her throat, hoping to dissipate the delicious tension between them. “I look forward to seeing you fight,” the bard says to him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” Astarion responds, bowing ever so slightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

The pale elf turns around and just like that, he is back to normal, snobbish self.

Serenity slumps back on her bedroll, exhaling slowly as her heart finally slows down. Her body crashes from the surge of adrenaline and the blood loss. Turning her head, she watches as the elf stalks towards the forest; stronger, more confident, and ready to hunt.

“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion tells her, back still turned from her, looking over his shoulder.

“I won’t forget it.”

Serenity won’t forget it either.

It didn’t take long before Astarion found a deer in the forest. As he drank the beast’s blood, he couldn’t help but compare the taste to Serenity’s blood. The animal is more filling indeed, but now? Nothing compares to the taste of the tiefling’s delicious blood.

She is the first humanoid he ever tasted, after all.

And how will he describe her taste?

The darling tiefling is bubbly, gentle, and sweet, much like her demeanor; almost sickeningly so, for his standards. It’s comparable to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose’s blueberry wine: a fragrant dessert wine he had the pleasure of consuming with delicate cheeses and light cakes back when he didn’t have any fangs.

Or perhaps he had associated her with the fruit due to her memories mingling with his.

Either way, when he said that he won’t forget it, he wasn’t just referring to the favor she did for him. Astarion was referring to Serenity’s taste as well.

Meanwhile, in the camp, Serenity draws her lute to her chest, plucking the strings softly in an attempt to lull herself to sleep. It doesn’t ease her into slumber like it usually does. Sighing, she squeezes her thighs together, heat pooling between them as she recalled the vampire’s lips on her pulsing neck. Perhaps it’s not the lute that she should be plucking at.

Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, the bard gives in to her secret desires.

At least there weren’t any more nightmares for the night.

#baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #oc: serenity | zalia #tiefling #tiefling character #tiefling bard #cw: blood

[theyearoftheking]

Book Eighty-One: Billy Summers

“Maybe a chilly story needs a chilly writing room, he thinks. It’s as good an explanation as any, since the whole process is a mystery to him, anyway.” 

Well hello there, Constant Readers! Have you missed me and my half-assed reviews of Steve books? 

Crickets. 

I know I’ve promised book reviews, television recaps... all the things. But I’m kind of busy living and enjoying life at the moment, without the need to take notes or screen grabs. That being said, I really did enjoy Billy Summers, and it took me almost a hundred pages to remember how this blogging thing worked. I was supposed to take notes? Dark Tower references? DePere, Wisconsin? Should I remember that for some reason? But don’t worry, it was like riding a bike. This blog is full of all the stuff you’ve come to know and love, as well as SPOILERS!!! So, if you have not finished the book yet, stop reading and come back once you’ve turned the last page.

SPOILERS!!! Consider yourselves adequately warned. 

Billy Summers doesn’t really include anything supernatural, and it’s more suspenseful and plot driven than some of Steve’s other books. In other words, it’s another great recommendation for people who don’t claim they don’t like Stephen King. 

Billy is an assassin who has mastered the art of “dumb like a fox”. 

He’s hired for a new assignment, but something seems off. Billy has been in the assassin game long enough to know when something is foul in the state of Denmark. He doesn’t trust the people who hired him, and he has the distinct impression he’s going to end up as the patsy in the end. But, he plays along as Dave Lockridge, single man and writer. He moves onto a charming street in Midwood (I kept reading this as Midworld... thanks, Steve), makes friends with all the neighbors, and beats all the neighborhood kids at Monopoly on the weekends. This part of the book was so tender, it reminded me a lot of Ted Brautigan and the kids from Hearts in Atlantis. Of all the things Billy later regrets, it’s letting these kids down, and having them trust him when he was obviously so untrustworthy. 

During the day, Billy writes  at his office in Gerald Tower. There’s always a tower, isn’t there? And this tower takes on more significance, because it’s the spot from which Billy is supposed to shoot Joel Allen. Joel is due to be transferred to Midwood, and marched up the steps of the courthouse just like in The Outsider. Constant Readers remember how well that worked out... 

Billy has an assassins creed: he only shoots bad guys. On the scale of bad guys, Joel Allen isn’t quite Ted Bundy, but he’s not Mr. Rodgers either. He had something of a “me too” moment when he accidentally mistook a feminist writer for a sex worker; and there was a gun fight outside of a poker game. It’s enough for Billy to work with. 

Billy is waiting for Joel to be transferred to the Midworld Midwood county lock-up; and he bides his time by actually doing some writing. He covers his tragic childhood (his mom worked in a laundry facility, just like Steve’s mom), and his time in the military. This is where Steve really shines. Billy’s book is written in a childish tone that just WORKS. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a simple-minded assassin. But still waters, friends. As the story goes on, Billy’s voice grows and improves. Well done, Steve, it’s like two books for the price of one.

In between writing, Billy assumes another fake identity (Dalton Smith), and secures a bolt hole to hide out in once his job is complete. Believe it or not, the murder of Joel Allen is such an insignificant part of the book. Billy successfully takes him out, and makes it to his bolt hole undetected. And this is really where the second part of the book starts. 

One rainy night, Billy hears random noises outside his apartment. He looks out the window in time to see a van full of guys dump a female body into a gutter. Billy should have just anonymously called the police... but if he had done that, we wouldn’t have a story. Instead, Billy goes full on Captain Save A Ho, and pulls the young woman from the gutter. It’s clear she had been drugged and assaulted, and she manages to puke all over Billy’s place. 

Neat. 

When Alice wakes up in the morning, she recognizes Billy from the police sketches, but promises not to rat him out for the Joel Allen murder. They form an unlikely friendship that includes watering the neighbor’s plants, watching Blacklist, and Alice reading Billy’s book. Basically, they were sheltering in place before that was even a thing; something Steve jokes about. Eventually, Billy knows he needs to get the rest of his money for the Joel Allen hit, and punish the guys who raped Alice. 

Y’all. I’m still having nightmares over the most creative use of a hand mixer I have ever read. I thought the can-opener in Lisey’s Story was bad... this was worse. But the kind of worse you feel good about, if that makes sense. 

After finding out the name of the guy behind the Joel Allen hit, killing a few bad dudes, and pissing off a bitch named Marge (fucking Marge if you’re nasty), Billy and Alice hunker down in Colorado with Billy’s assassin booking agent, Bucky. 

As soon as Billy and Alice entered Colorado and the town of Sidewinder was mentioned, I knew where we were headed. Yeah buddy, Overlook time! 

Billy takes to writing in a little shack behind Bucky’s house, and inside the shack is a Polaroid picture of the topiary animals at the Overlook. Every time Billy looks at the picture, the animals seem to have shifted. It gives him a cold sense of dread. 

There’s a certain parallel I picked up on in Colorado: Jack Torrance and Billy Summers are both haunted men running away from things. The Overlook was where Jack went to dry out, and work on his writing. He wanted to work on his marriage, and become a better father to Danny. We all know he failed spectacularly. Then, we’ve got Billy. Billy actually gets writing accomplished, and becomes an unlikely father-figure to Alice. Despite having just as much, if not more baggage than Jack, Billy doesn’t let it define him. He acknowledges it, and moves past it. It’s almost like Billy accomplishes what Jack couldn’t. And it took the Overlook burning to the ground for that to happen. 

While we’re on the topic of Billy and Alice, one of the things I love about Steve’s characters is he never forces romance where there doesn’t need to be any. While Billy acknowledges the age gap between him and Alice, nothing untoward ever happens between them. There’s obvious love, but never the romantic kind. Steve is one of the few contemporary writers to get this right. 

The story ends with Billy killing the guy behind Joel’s hit, getting shot by Marge as he leaves the crime scene (fucking Marge), Alice nursing him back to health, and getting him back to Colorado where they all live happily ever after.

I wish.

I wish I had stopped reading twenty-three pages before the book ended, because the actual end was more realistic, but heartbreaking. In reality, fucking Marge shot Billy in the stomach, and he died of an infection in the back of a Walmart parking lot. Fucking Marge indeed. But this was the way the book should have ended. Needed to end. Anything else would have been unrealistic. But damn, I hated to see Billy go out like that. 

There was one Wisconsin reference: after Billy kills Joel Allen, he’s supposed to be transferred to a safe house in De Pere. You know... where Steve lived when he was in a kid.

Other than Gerald Tower, we were also graced with “the world has moved on-” just to remind us that we all follow The Beam. 

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 49

Total Dark Tower References: 78

Book Grade: A+

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

Doctor Sleep: A+

The Talisman: A+

Wizard and Glass: A+

11/22/63: A+

Mr. Mercedes: A+

Billy Summers: A+

End of Watch: A+

Under the Dome: A+

Needful Things: A+

On Writing: A+

The Green Mile: A+

Hearts in Atlantis: A+

Full Dark, No Stars: A+

The Outsider: A+

The Bazaar of Bad Dreams: A+

If It Bleeds: A+

Just After Sunset: A+

Rose Madder: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

Four Past Midnight: A+

Stephen King Goes to the Movies: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

Finders Keepers: A-

Bag of Bones: A-

Duma Key: A-

Black House: A-

The Institute: A-

The Wastelands: A-

The Drawing of the Three: A-

The Dark Tower: A-

Dolores Claiborne: A-

Blaze: B+

Hard Listening: B+

Revival: B+

Nightmares in the Sky: B+

The Dark Half: B+

Joyland: B+

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

Nightmares & Dreamscapes: B+

Wolves of the Calla: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Song of Susannah: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

Later: B+

From a Buick 8: B

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon: B

Sleeping Beauties: B-

The Colorado Kid: B-

Storm of the Century: B-

Everything’s Eventual: B-

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

The Wind Through the Keyhole: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Cell: C+

Thinner: C+

Dark Visions: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Desperation: C-

Insomnia: C-

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Faithful: D

Gerald’s Game: D

Roadwork: D

Lisey’s Story: D

Christine: D

Dreamcatcher: D

The Regulators: D

The Tommyknockers D

I’m not going to end this with any promises of upcoming posts. That way when I do randomly stumble on here one afternoon, it will be a delight for us all.

Until next time, Long Days & Pleasant Nights,

Rebecca

#constant reader #stephen king #the dark tower #the shining #billy summers #hearts in atlantis #lisey's story #the overlook #jack torrance

[pleasancies]

Justifying The Aftermath

wordcount : 2.1k+

warning : mention of animal abuse, emeto

content : lashing out, electrocution, vomiting, whumper!caretaker, lady whump, lab whump, whumper pov, manhandling

This is it! The last day of Summer of Whump. It's been fun, writing and reading more whump from this event. Can't wait for next year! Tagging : @summer-of-whump

***

Previous Chapter

"Breathe deeply, Fenrir."

Her stare was full of contempt. There was still a sharp edge on her two fangs. Blue veins jutting out under her arms and legs. She was much older than John, late in her twenties. Prior affiliation indicated if she wasn't a murderer or an arsonist then she's an accomplice to one. He didn't dare to take a step further. Even when her left arm was tucked in a sling, the other connected to an IV, the general scrapes and bruises on her face, or the fact that she couldn't sit up so the infirmary nurse had to raise her bed to prevent her lungs collapsing in on itself.

Fenrir spat, and it hit him in the chest despite the distance.

John took out his napkin, "I mean it for your well-being. Your rib fracture wasn't severe, but your recovery will be greatly stalled if you manage to get yourself pneumonia."

"And then what? Brainwashing? I had to be Empire's hunting dog? I'd rather die."

"You're contributing to the public good. We're not lying."

"You think turning people into living weapons is for the greater good?" Fenrir grinned, covering the upper half of her face with her palm. "Rich kids are easy to brainwash."

"We were forced. If terrorist groups like those Heretics you love so much doesn't terrorize the managers then we wouldn't have to spend so much time on defense!"

John watched the rise of Fenrir's chest as she spoke. Her breath was fast and shallow.

"Heretics are a new thing. The humans living in the Orients and the Border Islands have existed long before the Ship fell into our grounds. The Empire wasn't reacting to them when they sent out the first Seed and they sure as hell does not need a living monster to weed out a bunch of poors with a handmade grenade. What the Empire doing is never defense, child. They're hungry for control."

Child. It filled him contempt. He might have been younger than her but look who had their life sorted out? An internship with the smartest minds of the earth, a girl waiting back home, and a few years worth of savings. John is more mature, educated in things other than the vulgarity of drink and merrymaking.

Forgetting his fear, John leaned on the side of Fenrir's bed. He loomed above her. "Your problem is that you're uneducated. You had a brilliant mind, but you didn't go to school or truly learn how to think the big picture. The facts you learned was baseless. The Radicals got to you first and I'm sorry for that."

The glare she gave sharpened, and for a second John believed she's going to lunge at him. Luckily she was only taking a deep breath.

"Uneducated? I've written essays, planned raids, and build gardens! I might not be an engineer, but I know more about the world than you."

"This is a waste of time. You're insulting instead of discussing."

"Explain how calling me uneducated isn't an insult."

John run his fingers through his hair, "I'm here only to look at your progress. Look, I think Heretics are too caught up in their pain. They experienced bad things and blame the Empire. But it's just the world. You need to struggle and work and-"

"Mind if I cut in?" Fenrir doesn't wait for John. "Since you want an argument, I want to acknowledge we both had a different view of reality. It's just our sources. But you need to think about what they taught you. I assume you're referring to the workhouses."

"Yes. That, and the jails. I know most of you are former convicts."

She ramped up in intensity. Fenrir raised her voice. "They might told you it's just a struggle, but have you even been there? Eat the rat-pissed grain and get yelled off for sitting? Have you ever questioned if the papers telling their story reflects reality? Managers owned the workhouses. They owned the papers. Of course they only said good things about it. They got away with untold evil because you trust them!"

The long histrionic rant left Fenrir with a coughing fit. John's answer were simple.

"Who's to say you didn't lie to me to sympathize with them?"

"Ask ten men working in the poor house. If anecdotes don't phase you then read some statistics my group works on."

"I'll do it." If John had the time, which was virtually nonexistent. If he had the guts because none of his friends including him know a guy like that, and approaching workhouse residents can get you robbed "Later. Wartimes are a bitch."

Fenrir chuckled, her mood has lightened up. "Aren't we all united under a single flag? Why is there still a war?"

A rhetorical question and a trap. Why is Fenrir likes to anger herself so much? Either way, he's not taking the bait. What a sad life, suspecting every thing you hear might be misinformation. The Empire could never lie about something so grave. They had principles. John had seen firsthand how his life have been easy because his family knows the rules and how go around the proceedings. It's imperfect, but it's definitely better than whatever the Heretics are going for.

For a week, John and Lisette have been adjusting. Visiting Fenrir separately, taking notes of trigger buttons and quirks. This Fenrir was different, and the way she was exposed to the substance made a different sort of Dog, besides the mutations. They need to re-do experiments, test new things, even change up their approach. Fenrir was always angry, and there's this restless energy around her. Avoiding certain topics and sneaking up sweets for her seem to calm her down a little, but that restless edge was still there.

Not a concern. Not since Fenrir's ribs and shoulder had mostly healed. Not after they've think up strategies to temper her prickly disposition and contain the emotional outburst after her first testing. Not when they drug her when she's already asleep before transporting her to the forest.

They were expecting a tantrum. The soldiers prepared stun guns, flash bangs, anything that could assault her heightened senses. Professor Clayton personally stitched the taser cuffs on her ankle. Something John had spent a great deal of time debating against. He was overruled. Lisette took their superior's side. In the end, the shock collar was necessary.

"I think she's getting through to you," Lisette teased.

"Oh shut up. I was trying to meet her halfway." The image in their cameras are somehow better. Some were blank, filled with static courtesy of Fenrir's rampage. But the few that left thrived, vivid contrasts and colours detailing her figure among the half-eaten animal. Alien techs are on another level. "She was taught to expect cruelty from us. We can't reform her if we proved her right."

"I think that's unfair. She'd done bad things, just because she was radicalized to do so doesn't mean she's exempt from punishment."

John leaned on his chair, "But we're not judges. We're scientists. We should refrain from any cruelty unless it's sanctioned by the State."

"Yeah, right." The speakers blared with a distorted buzz of a helicopter. They were silent as it lands at the edge of the forest. Lisette went on, "so you've already told the King you'll stitch Fenrir's wound without anesthetic?"

"You're missing the point."

"What is it then? Don't get me wrong, I think she deserves it. She was a terrorist. But I won't delude myself that they'll bring her to court. No, the way this goes is she'll work for us and be given an honorary medal when all of our testing eventually gives her brain damage."

Lisette leaned closer to the screen. Her expression unreadable. Professor and his soldiers had found Fenrir. She haven't moved from her position. Still kneeling, dirty blonde hair matted with blood. They practically jumped at her. Seizing the shoulders, heaving her up, and kicking her in the legs to disturb her balance. Two men at the side, another sticking a gun on the back of her head. Professor Clayton kept his distance, the switch for the taser cuffs firmly in his pocket.

She glanced at John. The silence of the room grows opressive. He leaned to his microphone, eyes still intently looking at the screen. Fenrir let her feet dragged against the ground. Her head hung low, eyes half-lidded. Not looking at anything at particular. Quiet.

That period of trepidation passes. Fenrir doesn't fight, doesn't even squirm as they put the earmuffs and blindfold on her. She arrives, her knees buckling and fall on the floor. The strength had gone out of her.

First test passed with flying colors. The trigger serum worked. They didn't have to kept her half-dead to maintain her beast form. But the devil is in the details, how much does she have to lose? It was John's assignment to figure it out.

On first glance, Fenrir seemed to have crossed that line. John could smell death from her. Her entire body is covered in dried blood, yet she didn't seem bothered. She stared at the desk, gripping the towel they gave and picking at the threads.

"Fenrir."

"My name is Avis."

John kneeled in front of her, taking the towel. She was shivering, and her fingers were shaking in a way that suggest it was more than the cold. He wrapped the bloodied cloth around her shoulders.

"You're supposed to cover yourself like this," John brings the ends of the towel to her two hands. He hold her clasped arms, gently pulling it so the fabric would cover more of her body.

"I know that," Fenrir absently murmured.

Looking closer, it was a grisly sight. Blood runs from her gums. Pieces of the camera were stuck under her long nails. Dust and dirt were sticking under the coat of dried blood. The shock bracelet was still there.

"I was going to give you a few test before we took you to the infirmary again but maybe you need medical help and a shower first. How's that?"

She looked at him. The hateful stare was still there. "Do you think this is justified?"

"We needed to test your power. Your blood could save millions, only if we know what to do with it."

Fenrir burst into a laugh, "Making me ate two dogs alive could save people?!"

"Fenrir—"

"Don't call me that!" She stood, still taller from the transformation. Her eyes were burning from tears she's desperately holding back. Her stomach hurts. The smell of her body made her sick. Even more disgusting when it reminds her of what she'd done. "I'm not fucking stupid. I'm going to be a warbeast and the only thing I'll save is the Empire's stolen property!"

"Sit down. Please. Let's get you a bath and we'll talk this out, alright?"

Fenrir took a step back. John wished they bother to bring in her handcuffs, if only for his piece of mind. "How could you see me out there and think this is okay?"

"You're right. It's not okay."

It's justified. But John was at lost for words. He nodded, "I know you're in distress. I hear you. Let me help."

"Then leave!" Fenrir yelled. "Acknowledge for once that this entire operation is senseless violence!"

John throw his testing papers on to the desk. His voice grew cold, "You're a hypocrite. You burned houses, destroyed machines, terrorize my friend's families. How could you do all of that and think this is bad?"

"You didn't know, no, you refuse to see the destruction and terror they've caused. And when it became too big for you to ignore, you're going to pretend they've hid it from you all this time or you've got no choice but to follow their orders."

Fenrir reached for the papers, and for the next thing they both now was that her screamed reverbrate through the room. She was on the floor. Seizing. Her limbs jerked, hitting the nearby table. Blood runs from her ankles, and John looked at the door to find his mentor leaning against the frame with the remote.

"Get her a bath, John."

He nodded. She was too weak to fight him off. Little aftershocks plagued her body even as he helped her sit.

"Come on, we should go."

"No, wait." Fenrir hold the leg of the desk in a vice grip. She kept her mouth tightly shut, and there's a bit a green around the outlines of her face. She felt her cheeks burning. Saliva pooling in her mouth. John shook her shoulders. The movement was a straw that broke the camel's back.

She gagged, heaving out a gush of acid and pre-digested flesh. The chunks of meat triggered another bout of vomiting. Each wave of nausea more stronger than the last.

"It's alright," John said, rubbing her back, "Let it out. You'll feel better."

Soon enough, her stomach was empty. She was nodding off, her eyes glassy with tears. John the only thing keeping her from slumping down on her own sick.

"You're a monster," Fenrir muttered.

Next Chapter

#summerofwhump30 #summer of whump #lady whump #lashing out #lab whump #electrocution #emeto cw #animal abuse mention #whumper as caretaker #futuristic whump #manhandling

[emile-hides]

If it is! I really want to hear your thoughts on hog 🥺🥺

Gabe I know you care very little for my Junker men so thankyou for taking the time to ask about the one you hate less that also I adore.

Ask from Here

First Impression

As a Junkrat kinnie of course my first impression of Hog mostly consisted of hot damn oh shit oh fuck holy shit hot damn wowzers hot damn and the like. He’s very sexy and I cannot deny this.

I’ve liked Junkrat for so long, loving Hog just came with it, and I honestly cannot remember when I first started liking either of them.

Impression Now

Same shit, different day. He’s still very sexy. But also now with the added bonus of he’s also very soft, and loving, and baby. He likes pachimari dolls and cute piggy designs and he says silly things and just is living his best life post-trauma. I adore him.

Favorite Moment

Not to get all gay here, but the way he just yoinks up Jamie by the Rip-Tire in Going Legit, page 6, kills me every time. I love just the yoink. The pluck. The gentle lift. Like come on your scrawny rat bastard we got more important shit to do.

Oh to be yoinked by a hog man...

Idea for a Story

I’ve written Hog and Rat too much to justify more ideas. Only about 23% I’ve posted.

My favorite draft, at the moment, of course involves Zenyatta, but more prominently, Zarya. It’s a post joined Overwatch ficlet where Zarya and Roadhog kinda sit in the same space. They don’t like Omnics, for very valid reasons they hate Omnics. But Zenyatta is not a bad Omnic. Lynx17 is not a bad Omnic. There are Omnics that are good, and understanding, and patient.

90% of this fic right now is built on the concept of Zarya and Mako sharing their love of stuffed animals with one another, and it eventually, somehow, turns to therapy as they both get over trauma and are also the buff but soft on the inside MLM/WLW solidarity friendship I deserve.

Unpopular Opinion

Roadhog is NOT Junkrat’s impulse control! Roadhog is NOT Junkrat’s dad! He’s not a babysitter!! He’s unhinged as all hell and it’s 76% his fault they do shitty petty crimes!

Jamies after the big scores! The gold, the glits, the money! Mako’s here for HIM! The ice cream truck? His idea. The Arcade? He needed that Pachimari. The Crown Jewels was a scheme hatched from Roadhog half muttering in passing, “Nice crown...”

This man is just as, if not more, unhinged and self-serving as Junkrat, and we as a fandom need to stop treating him like a babysitter. He’s wild and dumb and takes shit cause he just kinda maybe wanted it a little bit.

No job too big, No score too small.

Favorite Relationship

Not to be completely self-serving on main but Roadrat is my ideal relationship and I will never let it go. Be Gay Do Crime in it’s purest form and I physically will never let it go.

HOWever. I have, for many years, thought about the possibility of Reinhardt and Roadhog being giant gay men just chilling on a couch together with their rowdy child-figures and it does make me happy.

On top of that someone, once upon a time, said to me “What if Roadhog and Mercy dated?” and my brain has been stuck on that what if for years. Because like... yeah....  When pigs fly... would be their ship name....

Favorite Headcanon

Let’s talk about Roadhog’s SELECTIVE MUTISM. Let’s talk about Roadhog’s Autism. Let’s talk about Roadhog’s dissociations and hearing disorders and Regression. Let’s. Talk. About. Mako’s. Asthma.

Aight but actually let’s get into my biggest favorite; The concept that Mako, before Australia went to shit, was some kind of parental-figure.

I love this one. I’ve seen some people give him a little sibling, or just a big family, or a sickly mother he tended to on his own, and these are all fine.

But my biggest Heartbreak and constant canon was the he was, actually, a father. I like to say he had a daughter, cause it makes the cute pink pig aesthetic of life just that much more depressing.

I like to say if she was alive, she’d be Jamie’s age. So she was around 3-5 when she died. This is also my go to because it makes his attachment to Jamison just that much more heartbreaking, even if he doesn’t full realize that’s why he’s so attached to this kid in the first place.

My entire heart aches for a post-parent Mako, struggling with deep rooted mental illnesses, 78% of which he doesn’t even realize he has, just going wild with a boy he just met for unintentional self-harm purposes.

#Overwatch #Long post #TW self harm #TW Mental illness #Thankyou for asking #This is called I'm depressed over Mako literally all of the time #My man is mentally regressed into his early 20s and he is not doing okay #He's a busted and lovely man I am thurowly obessed with #Gabe spends all his time thinking about the mental state of Gabriel Reyes #I spend all mine obsessed with the regressed broken mind of Mako Rutledge #We all have our depressed comfort character #Excuse me while I push everything onto Mako I physically can #He is a sexy man and I cry every day thinking about him #Sexy and sad #Ideal relationship is whatever the fuck is going on with the Junkers from Overwatch

[hoodedwing]

Sleep, Red Bucket

Summary: Tim and Jason work together on a case. Just that, Jason had a hard week and maybe just 3-4 hours of sleep. 

Characters: Jason, Tim, Alfred (mentions), Avalanche (no, not from X-men. It’s an original enemy for a man named Snow here)

Warnings: Child drug rings, Drugs, Wild night terrors, Unconscious self-harm, Vomiting, Blood, Injuries, Swearing,

Additional Notes: I used way too much references from The Crown and this is a sickfic

Word Count: 2,233 words

***

Tim stretches a little from where he's sitting on the couch, running his hand through ebony locks as he tapped away on his laptop. He was secretly glad that he managed to sneak out of the Manor, after being ratted out by Jason for not sleeping. He had barely escaped after being coddled by Dick (that man in spandex sure can hug) and hovered over by Alfred. Sighing contently, he closed the webpage he was on and gave a quick glance at the clock.

It was still eleven, nearing towards twelve actually. He knit his eyebrows in slight annoyance, Red Hood and him had arranged to meet at twelve and he wasn't here yet. Tim assumed Jason probably had a run in with some bitch of a gang or seeing the  kids or whatever he does at Crime Alley. He had long learnt not to touch that area, last time saw him with a batarang held against his throat.

Ironic for someone proclaiming to hate Batman. Tim snorted.

He was well into his thought loop when he heard the sound of metal against his window. Tim's head shot up and he hastily grabbed his bo-staff laying on the couch opposite him. Silently, he crept towards the curtains and laid to wait. The sound grew louder and he heard irritated whispers or the wind, he couldn't exactly pinpoint.

The window opened and Tim nearly smashed the intruder's head from behind when he heard a panicked yell.

"The fuck?!"

Tim breathed a little before yelling back. Oh thank fuck, its Jason only.

"And you couldn't use the damn door like any other human?"

Jason allowed a snort to escape before walking resolutely  to the couch where he sat down rather heavily and let out a small sigh.

"I died, I'm technically not human or I mean does that count?"

Tim rolls his eyes and settles back on the couch where Jason was laying stretched rather lazily and flipping through the case files, with his hood still on.

"So, as far as I know. Snow has multiple bases in Bludhaven. Wonder how Dickface hasn't run into him yet."

"Dick knows him as Avalanche. That's what he calls himself. Different street names."

"He'll fall eventually."

Tim almost laughs but he cannot exactly tell if Jason was joking or just plaintively didn't give two fucks. It also sounded a tad more tired.

"Mhm. Anyways, his largest base is pretty near your territory. I think you know it like the back of your hand."

He offers tentatively, trying to rebalance the edge of tension in the room.

"Yeah. Got it."

"Do you need-"

"No. He's on my turf. I get to take him out."

Jason takes slightly longer than he does to get up.  Tim sees it but doesn't call him out on it. He really doesn't want another stab mark. he watches Jason climb out of the window.

"Oh and Jason?"

Jason turns, in zero mood right now because the small throbbing in his head has grown a little.

"What?!"

"Get some shut-eye."

He scoffs and leaves.

—

Some hours in, Tim decided he wanted coffee so he gets up to go make himself.

He hears a faint rustle and pin drop silence. He quietly grabs the dang bo-staff again. As he creeps along the rooms, he hears the sound getting louder. It sounded like someone was having trouble.

He almost shits himself when he sees Red Hood asleep. In his apartment.

Tim narrows his eyes and does a quick surveillance of Jason's things. He sees empty cartridges and shell casings lying at his feet

The only physical response was Jason's head tilting at an angle and soft snores filtered by the Hood.

Huh, he's back and asleep. Already?

"Jason?"

Tim raised an eyebrow at Jason.

"Mm?"

"Oh good. Just checking if you're alive."

Jason turned on himself, curling his legs under himself.

"Al'wys am, Replac'ment. F'k off. Lemme sleep."

Tim frowned slightly as he inched his hands towards the hood but a gloved hand comes out of nowhere and squeezes Tim's wrist tightly who now lets out a yelp.

-

Tim pours the coffee but the thoughts of Jason doesn't leave his mind. Something wasn't so right about Jason. But then, nothing was ever right with Jason.

Was he bleeding? He did return late from whatever he was up to. He did slur his dreaded nickname. He refused to take off his hood. Was he sick? Did he eat?

He hears a loud scream that interrupts his second thought loop of the night. Tim almost spills the coffee on himself and half stumbles-half runs to the source.

Jason.

"J..Jason?"

Erratic breathing greeted him. Tim steels himself as he nimbly types the correct combination and takes the hood off against Jason's order. He isn't about to let someone die in his apartment.

Why does everything have to end up so damn difficult?

Tim barely glances at Jason as he shakes him.

"Jason. Shh. Jason?"

Jason doesn't comply, the thrashing increases in intensity as he yells his throat raw. He claws his forearms, scratching the scarred skin in nightmare-delirium. He manages to draw blood which gently falls onto the white couch, turning the area into a crime scene wildly in contrast to the source of blood. His eyes were tightly shut, thick black lashes glued to his sweat covered cheeks

Tim restrains Jason, tries to grab his hands but he manages to fucking fling Tim across the table. He crashes at the bookshelf, wincing when his arm whacks against a particularly thick encyclopedia.

Ah, he thought, the pain of knowledge.

He quickly gathers himself and sees Jason thrashing on the couch, whimpering like a wounded animal.

"What the fuck. Jason? Can..can you hear me?"

The whimpers alternate into raw screaming, it leaves Tim's heart cold and skin prickled. He doesn't have to know what Jason is thinking. He needs to snap the nightmare loop before he decided his throat was next and he-

Focus, Tim.

Tim rummages everywhere in the apartment, heartbeat loud in his ears. He knows it was best to wait it out but it was almost like it was a loop. He spots a whistle, one from the Charity Games Bruce hosted. Yeah, he remembered that one pretty well. Grayson won the race and he blew the whistle right in his face. Jason laughed and Barbara poked fun at him later on it.

He quickly blows the whistle at Jason who shot up with a frightening velocity. Tim literally held Jason down, stunned into silence.

"Jason?"

He only pinched his nose-bridge, other hand clenching the couch tightly.

"Do you want water?"

"No"

He barely croaked, turning on himself like a wounded animal.

Tim fetches a glass anyway. He also brought some bandages to wrap his forearms. Quietly, he does so, rubbing alcohol into it alternated with small flinches. When the procedure was done, Tim stepped back a little.

Jason turned on himself again, shaking. His eyebrows were drawn in pain, breaths almost wheezing. His face was now alarmingly pale and eyebags almost like bruises cover below his tired eyes

Tim didn't know what to say to him. Jason might shoot down all chances to talk about it.

"I'm going to take your temperature, is that okay?"

No answer.

Tim awkwardly fumbles around, he needed distraction to come up with a way to talk about it. There was no way he was leaving Jason in that terrifying loop he saw.

He knew he had the latest state-of-the-art thermometer that took temperatures in seconds but he chose the mercury one to buy time he needed to calm himself. He returns back to Jason who sat up again, hand resting under his chin.

"I'm not sick."

A whisper barely above the rattling of the heater.

"I still need to check, I haven't ruled out fever dream. You look like shit."

"Course."

Jason lets Tim do it as he quietly counts to the 180th second. Tim removes it and sees it at 96.

"That's cold."

"Anemic."

"Oh, that wasn't in your files. I'll add that in later."

Jason lies down again and his eyes flutter closed. Tim properly gives Jason a onceover, he looked almost vulnerable underneath the glinting armor.

"You haven't eaten, have you?"

His eyes open slightly again, eyes squinting at Tim's undisguised worry.

"Won't stay down."

Tim bit his lip. This was bad.

"Can you handle some soup?"

"Try to, can't promise."

Tim gets up to reheat the soup Alfred left for him two nights ago but something in him nags to not leave Jason alone with his thoughts. He puts on The Crown and unpaused at where Queen Elizabeth hears about Jackie Kennedy's unflattering comments about her.

Tim quickly takes the soup out and shoves it in the microwave. His work could wait another day or two. He had checked the camera feeds momentarily and saw zero sign of the target.

The microwave beeped and he takes it out, carefully pouring into two bowls and bringing it to the living room where he now sees Elizabeth doing the foxtrot.

Tim places the soup at the table and gives one to Jason who cradles one in his arms, eyes unseeing at the television. Tim carefully watches Jason's face. His cheekbones had hollowed slightly and were clenched. Probably an aftereffect defense mechanism. Tim thinks.

"Do you feel like throwing up again?"

An imperceptible shake as his eyes glue at Philip yell at Charles while dangerously maneuvering the plane with tears streaking down Charles' face. Tim sees something momentarily shift in Jason at dad yelling at son.

Oh shit, trigger, trigger, trigger.

Tim abruptly switches off the television. This time, Jason properly turns at Tim.

"Why?"

Tim narrowed his eyes.

"Its..nothing, Jason. Not letting you go through that hell I saw."

"Funny you say that, been happening for two weeks straight."

Jason spits it with vitriol. Tim physically feels the force of the words. Biting, cold, hard. He moves back, as if the force displaced him. How the hell did Jason still have enough strength to do that? a half of Tim wondered.

He tried to open his mouth but settled to stretching his lips into a thin line.

"I said don't-"

"I'm not about to fucking ask or clarify anything remotely related to what just transpired. Listen to me carefully, all I want to know is whether you're sleeping enough. Yes or no?"

Tim hissed, chin dipping down with practiced ease. Jason seemingly curls onto himself more before grumbling, this time lacking the usual bite.

"Three in four days. Fuckers won't stop fucking recruiting kids on my territory to sell drugs. The hell am I supposed to do? Sleep while the kids get roped in a sick fuck of a game?"

Tim nods in understanding, clearly regretting his outburst. He watches Jason sag heavily against the couch and tip his head back. His eyes were pinched shut this time with his jaw tightening with more of the earlier tension Tim noted. He laid a hand on Jason's temple and carefully, he inched his hand throughout his head, warm fingers making their way through. He hears small sighs of relief when he reaches the sides. Tim slowly maneuvers Jason onto his lap and continues to stroke his sweaty bangs. Jason only winces again at the bright, florescent lights

"Headache?"

"Mhm."

He turns on himself, groaning quietly. he places an arm over his eyes. Tim continues to massage his temples, rubbing reassuring circles.

"How bad?"

"..."

"Want painkillers?"

Jason shakes his head, lights glaring in his eyes and everything spinning.

"Hate..meds. You know..that."

Tim seemed to consider that but got off the couch.

"Be right back, I'll dim the lights."

Jason almost whimpers again at the lack of heat of Tim's fingers as the dull throbbing increased and pounded behind his eyes. Jason wished he could will the damn thing to stop, if he could only sleep it away without the fucking nightmares. He curled on himself for the umpteenth time that night, wishing he was dead again.

He feels a dip in the couch and then firm fingers return, pressing hard. Jason gasped out.

"T..Tim."

"Sorry. Is this better?"

Tim apologetically whispers as he decreases the pressure against the wild throbbing. Jason silently hummed in agreement and leaned into the touches.

"Sorry, I overstayed.. I should go."

"You would, if you slept enough. How many hours did you get just yesterday alone?"

"Got here right after the run-in with Snow and be'fre was the druggists."

Tim narrowed his eyes while Jason closes his, worn out by the small conversation.

“What about you?”

He smiles a little at that, always caring about someone else before himself.

"Alfred made me sleep two nights ago at the Manor. I hid out here to find that intel."

"T'hts n'ce."

Tim places his hand on Jason's shoulder and watches as Jason's breathing evens out into soft snores. He threw on a blanket and quietly took his laptop to begin work, the soft blue glow illuminating the room.

“Tim?”

Jason sleepily opens one eye to where Tim settled down with his laptop. He motions Tim to join him who hesitates before lying down beside him. He presses a quick kiss on Jason’s forehead before adjusting himself under Jason’s neck. Jason only let a small hum of approval before encircling Tim with a soft hug.

“G’night.”

#dc #red hood #jason todd #jason peter todd #red robin #timothy jackson drake #tim drake #tim #jason #hugs #vomit warning #blood tw #vomit tw #drugs tw #mentions of drugs #drug mention #sleep deprived af #sleep deprivation #they need self-preservation #hoodedwing #reblog #alfred pennyworth #alfred #angsty #but more fluff #hurt/comfort #hurt #not incest #its brothers

[lailoken]

“The Conjuring Parsons & Cunning Clergy:

Just as the perceived boundaries between witches’ and 'cunning-folk' are decidedly blurred in West Country tradition, so too, surprisingly perhaps for some, were t distinctions between folk-magicians and Christian clergy.

Churches themselves, as homes to rituals of divine communion, union, blessing, exorcism and the passage of the dead, are places of useful power and magic. Its water, made holy by its blessing within church rites, was highly sought after for use within acts of popular magic; most often for the purposes of protection and curative magic. Church holy water was so routinely taken for such unauthorised magical uses, that fonts were fitted with lockable covers from the Middle Ages. The Eucharist and the chrism, also being blessed and holy substances, were similarly of use to magical practitioners, and so these, like the holy water, were also ordered to be kept under lock and key.

The Christian saints had in many ways taken on roles akin to elder gods; being often heavily associated with the land and magical loci such as holy wells. The lives of the saints abound with tales of miraculous acts bonded to certain loci, and they were widely petitioned for aid in various acts of magic and divinatory practices. Saintly relics became most sought after as potent magical objects, and even their statues might be scraped to produce powders for use in magical curatives.

It makes sense then that the men who mediated the power of God and the saints, and who administered the rites of the Church would be seen by some to be magicians themselves. Indeed, there were many clergymen who actively practiced in ways that made them virtually indistinguishable from 'cunning men', and in Devon these were known as the conjuring parsons.

Some practiced as astrologers; a service which, despite the disapproval the Church held for such things, they saw as an extension of their normal duty towards their parishioners. One Devonian example of an 'astrologising parson' was the north Devon clergyman known as Parson Joc. His personal notebook, preserved after his death, revealed details of the horary calculations he would draw up for the people of his parish. Those clergymen who possessed a more overt reputation for magic often held extensive libraries of books which were rumoured to contain numerous occult volumes and grimoires. These books of power, and the trouble that could arise if they were pried into by the 'uninitiated', feature in a number of popular stories surrounding the conjuring parsons.

One such story is associated with the Reverend William Cunningham, a 19th century incumbent of Bratton. The story tells that while he was absent from his home, his maid, out of curiosity, summoned the bravery to peruse one of the reverend's occult tomes. Inadvertently it seems she had managed to summon two spirits; for a pair of strange creatures like chickens’ materialised in the kitchen, and she was forced to confess to the reverend what she had done in order that he would then banish them.

The Reverend Franke Parker, known as 'Old Parson Parker' served the parish of Luffincott in the far west of Devon in the 1830s. Like the Reverend William Cunningham, he too possessed a library of magical books, but also possessed, by some mysterious means, the ability to know when someone was prying into his collection. It is said that whilst delivering a sermon, he suddenly stopped and ran from the church back to the rectory much to the surprise of his flock, for he had sensed that his maid was reading one of his occult books. He rushed into his library just in time to stop her before any magical mishap might have occurred.

Some of the magical powers and inclinations attributed to old Parson Parker would appear to paint him more in the hue of a traditional witch rather than that of your average 'cunning man', for he was said to posses the ability to 'shape shift' into animal form. Indeed, the local policeman is said to have discovered the parson sitting on his chair and barking like a dog. Perhaps incriminating, and certainly difficult to explain, is more the situation another visitor to the rectory found him in: laying in his bed surrounded by the bodies of dead toads.

Shortly before his death, Parker is said to have declared that he would return from the world of spirit in the form of an animal, such as that of a dog, a rat or a white rabbit. When he died aged eighty in 1883, so serious was the concern that he would make his promised bestial reappearances, that his body was interred in a grave dug to a depth of seventeen feet as a preventative measure.

Perhaps one of Devon's most famous conjuring parsons is the Reverend Harris, or Parson Harris of Hennock; a small village on the south-eastern flank of Dartmoor with beautiful views over the Teign Valley. Parson Harris was regarded as a 'wizard, and was consulted by the people of his parish for his skills in conjuring, particularly it seems in order to identify thieves and retrieve stolen property.

In one case at least however, it was psychology rather than conjuring that he employed to identify a thief, yet it was his reputation as a conjuror that secured the efficacy of the exercise. A farmer named Tuckett went to see the parson one day; seeking his aid regarding three geese which had been stolen from his farm. The parson reassured the farmer, telling him that the man who had taken his geese shall soon be 'put to open shame’.

On the following Sunday morning, the parson climbed into his pulpit and proclaimed loudly before the seated congregation; ‘I give you all to know that Farmer Tuckett has had three geese stolen. I have consulted my books and drawn my figures, and I have so conjured it that three feathers of thickey geese shall now, my this very instant, stick to the nose of the thief! Of course, the guilty party instinctively raised their hand to their nose and the parson, watching for this very reaction, immediately pointed his finger and boomed out across the church 'there is the man who stole the geese!’

On another occasion, Farmer Loveys called on Parson Harris for help as his fine gander had been stolen from his farm the previous night. The parson set about consulting his occult tomes before drawing a magic circle in which he uttered a strange incantation. He then walked over to his library window and opened it just as the missing gander was flung through to land at his feet, all plucked, trussed, and on the spit ready for roasting.

Another tale, perhaps a different version of the previous one, tells of the parson being consulted about a missing cockerel, which its owner was sure must have been stolen. Parson Harris told the man not to worry, for not only would he conjure the bird to be returned to him, he would cause the thief to reveal himself as well. When the man returned to his home, he was followed by his neighbour who came running through the door carrying the half roasted bird.

A particularly interesting story concerning the Parson hints at a dichotomy between his magical artes and his position as a cleric.

He couldn't help but notice one Saturday that his maid, Polly, was caught in a deep melancholy; sobbing to herself now and then. When Harris asked the girl what was the matter, she explained that she was missing her boyfriend terribly; as he had left for Exeter to enter into service.

Feeling sorry for the girl, and of course not wanting an interminably miserable maid about the house, he promised to conjure the young man back home to her. However, the Sunday rolled by and there was no sign of the return of her lover; leaving the maid completely inconsolable, and much shaken in her faith in her master's powers. She went to bed and sobbed herself to sleep.

As Dawn approached however, she was awoken by someone desperately banging on the door outside; it was her lover John, exhausted and drenched with perspiration. The parson's conjuration had not worked upon him until at nightfall when he removed his coat; for in one of its pockets was his Bible. As soon as he took off his coat, he had been compelled to run all the way from Exeter to the parson's home. The young man's Bible had acted as a protective charm against the parson's 'unholy' spell.”

—

Silent as the Trees:

Devonshire Witchcract, Folklore & Magic

by Gemma Gary

#conjuring parsons #cunning clergy #Gemma Gary #silent as the trees #Devonshire magic #Devonshire witchcraft #traditional withcraft #witchcraft #magic #quote

[chuckie101123]

The Cult of Carnage

“I figured they were all insane, like the cops did. The marks they left behind, the carvings, it all pointed to a satanistic murder cult. The bodies they left behind were all mutilated to the point that we needed dna testing to find out what kind of animal it was from. We couldn't use size because when they started a mutilation fest, everyone joined in. And from the bodily fluids they left behind, it seemed they enjoyed an orgy along with it. None of us even considered the possibility...

The cops couldn’t get close to them, ever. They were all too loyal to their cause. They couldn’t find a snitch, and they couldn’t plant one of their own. Eventually, one of them came up with the bright idea to call me up. I was a cop, once. Had retired six years before I got the call, saying they needed help with one last case. I was bored, figured why the hell not, and drove in the next morning. When I entered, I entered into a madhouse that was nothing like the station I had left. It seemed like everyone and their brother was there, everyone shouting and running around at once. Then they caught a glimpse of me, and all of a sudden, it was silent. The chief poked his head out of his office to see what caused the sudden change, and paled when he saw me.

I suppose I should explain. Before I left and retired, I had a reputation around the station. Put simply, I was violent and unorthodox. I didn’t care about social niceties much, always thought of them as too frustrating to deal with. As such, I came across more often than not as a dick. Pissed a lot of people off with my carefree attitude too, a lot of powerful people. Eventually some of them tried to get me fired on accounts of illegal activities. No one could get the charges to stick. See I was a well-known asshole, but I was good at my job. I was violent, but never more violent than was legal. I wasn’t racist, wasn’t greedy, and was always ready to help out someone in need. (Hey, I told you, I didn’t care about social niceties, that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t help out a kid who’s car broke down on the side of the road.) 

Anyway, when the brass up top couldn’t bring me down the legal way, a few of the more immoral ones tried to take me down the hard way. I sent every one of their men to the hospital with varying injuries, six of whom are still in a coma and twelve more who have to be fed with a straw. Again, the brass tried to get me fired for excessive violent behavior, but as it was in self-defense, the charges wouldn’t stick. Over the next three years, I personally put twenty six of those corrupt bastards behind bars. I doubt I got all of them, but no one has messed with me since.

Anyway, back to the station. So the chief sees me, pales like he just shit out all his blood, and rushes to greet me. Turns out, I recognize the dude. The guy was just a deputy when I left, must’ve done well for himself to have gotten his title. I already didn’t like him, but I did my best to keep myself in check, as he already looked terrified enough. After greetings, he took me to his office and explained the situation. 

Forty-two occurrences in the last two months, all involving what looked like violent blood-baths and massive orgies between around thirty or so members. No member had been caught, no DNA matches, nothing. Nothing, except, a symbol, always placed in the very center of the presumably very exciting events. The symbol was that of a crescent moon lying point side down on top of a sun with a half circle taken out of the side closest to the moon, and there was a four-point star lying in the gap between the two, almost like it was being sheltered or protected somehow.

No evidence, no witnesses, and no leads would make for a difficult case, and I told him as such. In response, he placed a picture on the desk in front of me, and explained that the woman shown was believed to have something to do with it. I recognized her, Alicia Cortez. She was a nice girl, late twenties, who worked in a grocery store in the downtown area. I had caught her out late one night in the pouring rain and offered a ride. On the way to her home, I got to know her a little better. 

She grew up in New Jersey with an abusive father and a junkie mother. She told me that at first, she seemed like she was on a path that would lead her to follow in her mother’s footsteps, using dangerous and powerful substances to fill the ache inside her. Thankfully, a kid helped her see just how far she had fallen, and she packed up and moved to our town that same week. I wanted to ask her more, but by the time I figured out how to phrase the question and opened my mouth, we had already arrived at her house. She thanked me quickly, and ran inside to escape the rain. It seemed strange, but I shrugged it off and drove home. That was eighteen months ago, two months before I got the call.

Once I saw the picture, I started to wonder if I shouldn’t have pressed further. Deputy O’Ryan, or now, Chief O’Ryan, told me that the incidents had started soon after she arrived in town. They said her neighbors had reported strange sounds coming from her apartment, but every time police arrived, the sounds had stopped and no evidence to anything resembling what the neighbors heard could be found. I told the chief I’d look into it, and went home.

Few weeks later, I “ran into” her at the grocery store where she worked at and asked her if she’d like to join me for lunch. As we talked, I noticed she was very pleasant. Not “uninterested in the conversation”, but more mischievous “What do you think you know” pleasant. Eventually, our conversation moved onto her past again. I tried to press gently on what made her change her life around. She smiled in triumph, and even though the damage was already done, I tried to back peddle. It didn’t work. Still though, she answered my questions. 

She explained that the child that changed her life introduced her to his religion, an unorthodox and still recently established Carnagism. She went on further to vaguely explain how the god they worshiped, Carnage, was not quite how the name suggested. She was not evil, or violent, nor did she encourage such traits in her followers. Instead, she encouraged freedom in its truest form. No prejudice, no discrimination, no worries. “Does that include no laws?” I remember asking. Her only answer was a smirk. It was clear to me that I wouldn’t get an answer to that question, so I tried to change topic, asking instead what her religion had done to help her life? After all, if it was appealing enough to get her to pack up and move so quickly, surely the benefits must be amazing? Rather than answer, she instead invited me to her next worshiping session to find out for myself.

And so began my dilemma, do I agree and join her for what might be my own murder, mutilation, and possibly corpse-rape, or refuse and give up the case? For my stubborn, dumb ass self, their was only one option. I accepted.

Fast forward two days, and I find myself in the woods, hand in hand with over seventy other people as we skip around a massive bonfire in a clearing in the woods I swear wasn’t there the day before. All of us are buck-ass naked, covered in paint, mud, and blood from the desecrated corpses of hundreds of birds, squirrels, rabbits, foxes, and field rats. I realized why the bodies were so hard to identify: because these cultists used nearly every part of the corpse, beyond what a normal hunter would. The feathers, each indivual hair, each bone, brain, musclefiber, and organ, all used in their rituals. We fed on the meat and organs, and dressed ourselves in the rest, excluding the pelvic bones of all the females. Those were tossed into the fire we all skipped around, shrieking, laughing, and chanting as we summoned what I had assumed to be another made up god.

I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

As we shrieked and sang and chanted in a strange language I could never quite catch, the fire suddenly exploded outward, the flames rushing across our bodies, touching but never burning. A few of the more recent recruits like myself shrieked and tried to recoil in fear, but we were stopped by the tight grips of the members on either side of us. We tried fighting back until we realized we weren’t hurt by the flames, and we looked to the flames first in wonder and curiosity before our expressions turned to those of fear and wonder. For there, before our very eyes stood figures in the flames of every hue and color. Beings of pure fire, beautiful and proud, took their steps across the edge of the fire towards the cultists.

I stared in wonder at the sight before me, these beautiful and terrifying beings, as one by one they stood in front of a cultist. For simplicity's sake, let’s call them elementals. No two elementals were the same, some didn’t even look human, despite their flaming appearance. Some had what looked like animal heads, others had appendages added and subtracted in weird ways (one had feet for arms and arms for legs and a tail attached to the back of their neck), a few just seemed like floating flames with no features of any kind, and others still just were. They were like the air above hot tarmac, you could see the shimmer and could feel the heat but could see no definite features.

It took me a moment before I realized one of the elementals had stopped before me. Whereas the other elementals were larger, almost adult sized or even bigger, mine was tiny like a fairy might be. She floated in the air before my face, gazing intently at me until I looked at her, and then she smiled. Not the forced smile I was used to seeing, nor the pity smile a mother might show a child who brandishes a mud pie in his hands, nor even the full grin you’d see on that very child’s face. No, the elemental before me smiled a gentle smile, full of only kindness and love, as if she were a mother smiling at a child who returned home after losing their way. Her smile made me feel safe, and warm, like everything was going to be okay.

I couldn’t help it, and I’m not afraid to admit it. I cried. I wanted so badly to apologize to her and thank her and welcome her to this hellish world. So many emotions and needs arose within me at the sight of her gentle smile that I just collapsed in joy and grief and anger. Every suppressed memory, every lost moment I’ve ever had came rushing to my mind. I relived my horrible childhood life, suffering every beating my father gave me, breaking as my mother screamed that I was worthless and would never amount to anything. I relived all those painstaking study sessions, trying to do meet their expectations, but also trying to meet my own. I relived my old friendships, all my romantic relationships, every argument, every peaceful or proud moment. I relived my fistfight with my father and my last argument with my mother before they both died. I remembered every day I’ve ever had, and relived each as if they were occurring at that very moment all at once. And then I relived more recent days. Peaceful walks in the park after retiring, kind conversations I had with people around my neighborhood, excited grins from kids waving to me as I passed. I relived my conversations with Alicia about the goddess she worshipped, Carnage was not a god of violence and destruction, but of chaos and freedom.

And I understood. Carnage was not a goddess of lawlessness. She did not encourage the mutilations of animals for fun, but to teach the value of each individual piece. Carnage represented a peaceful freedom, without corruption to spoil it. Hatred, fear, joy, worry, her followers were free to experience all without judgement. They were not condemned for who they loved, nor were they discouraged from loving as much as they could as often as they could. With Carnage, the strange or different weren’t just permitted as they were everywhere else. They were accepted. There weren’t any personal definitions or social cliques, They just were, free to be as passionate and loving as they desired to be.

With that realization, the memories slowed to a trickle, the last few days before the ritual playing softly and slowly until I caught up with the present. When I did, I noticed three things. One, I was kneeling on the floor with my head in my hands, tears still flowing gently down my cheeks as my nose ran. Two, the small elemental was beside me, her tiny hand rest gently on my cheek, flames licking at the stubble from my beard. Three, she wasn’t alone. 

In front of me kneeled another elemental, adult size this time, though still female. She faced me with her hands on my shoulders, holding me as I sobbed. When I had finally stopped crying enough to see her clearly, I saw her face. She was even more beautiful than all the rest, and while the others looked like they were made from the flames, she looked like the flames were made from her. Every feature was more defined, from her angled, kind eyes to her soft, supple lips to her delicate, nimble fingers and toes. She was just as nude as the rest of us, but it was not her body that held my attention, but her eyes. For in them I saw the history of mankind, all the fury and bloodlust but also the love and compassion. And those kind yet terrible eyes looked at me with an emotion I couldn’t quite place.

“You remember,” she said, not a question but as a statement. Even so, I nodded in answer. “Do you know who I am?” I shook my head. “I am the goddess you have worshiped this night. I am Carnage.”

“Hi...” I said in a small voice, making her smile.

“You have a way with words, child,” she teased.

“Sorry,” I apologized, looking down in shame.

“Do not apologize, young one,” she whispered, lifting my head. “It is a part of who you are, what makes you unique.”

She started to rise, lifting me up with her. She smiled at me once more before turning to see the other cultists. She held herself up tall as she made her way back to the bonfire, no longer roaring as it had been. Those she passed bowed, but did not kneel. When she reached the edge of the fire, she stopped and turned to once again face me.

“Tonight, my children, we celebrate! For we have helped your new brother remember!” she exclaimed to the crowd, as a roar of joy rose up from the other cultists. “Tomorrow, we celebrate once again, for I have returned to this beautiful and terrible world! Tomorrow, we will right was has been wronged, and rebirth the ugliness of the Allmother with her former beauty!”

“TILL THE DAWN!!!” a roar rose from the cultists, as if a battle cry had sung.

That night, I danced with my brothers and sisters, loved them as only I could, ate as I wished, and celebrated the return of Carnage.