#rise of the burlap monsters

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Don't Fear the Reaper

Gender Neutral Reader x Rook Hunt Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Running a little pâtisserie is quaint, and homey, and should not in any way get you involved with anything shady. Let alone the strange bounty hunter who prowls through your little town like the Grim Reaper himself. And yet here you are, teaching this literal murderer how to use a napkin.

A/N: Based on this wonderful brain rot from a very lovely anon! Also apologies in advance to anyone who actually knows French, because I do not lol. So Rook's babbling is all Google baby

[PART 1] [PART 2]

There was a murderer at your window, and you weren’t really sure what to do about it.

Well, maybe not actually a murderer. Bounty Hunters tended not to wind up in prison after dragging back the desecrated remains of their latest quarry. But still. You recognized the black plume tucked slickly into his wide-brimmed, purple, hat, and the pale, bright, bob of his hair was nearly luminescent in the dark. He was certainly the least covert assassin you’d ever seen, and you had seen him. It was hard not to. Traipsing through town to deposit every wayward criminal, every long-lost villain, at the doorstep of who’d ever called for him.

‘Rook Hunt’ you thought his name was, or at least, that’s what the old woman in the market would call him before crossing herself and spitting in the dirt. It was all a bit on the nose in your humble opinion, especially with that strange, twisting, ebony, bow of his strung across his back. ‘Hunter’ indeed. But it’s not like you’ve ever done anything to warrant winding up in one of those dripping burlap sacks of his, so you’d let the dude have his drama. It was probably good advertisement. And it’s not like the guy had ever bothered you before.

You thought that reassurance on repeat as you watched said not-quite-a-murderer stare through the front window of your little bakery, as if your rising dough had been kneaded with the secrets of the known universe. But he didn’t do anything—just kept watching with rapt attention as you brushed egg wash over your pie crusts and swapped trays in and out of the ancient, brick, oven.  

In all honesty, he was far from the strangest thing that’d been plastered to your window in the early AM, and it wasn’t like he was licking the glass or anything. So you let it slide.

One of the custard tarts you pulled from the oven had cracked across the top. Nothing out of the ordinary—there was always at least one dud in a batch. Normally you saved the rejects for Ace or Deuce to gobble up (depending on whoever managed to pop by first), but this one you set aside onto a little tea plate. You topped it with a dollop of freshly whipped cream and a spoonful of the blackberries you’d left sitting in sugar overnight. Then you plucked up a spare napkin and made your way out from behind the counter.

When you opened the door to your little bakery, the tingling overhead bell warmed your unwanted guest’s expression in a way that it most certainly should not have—lighting the whole of him with this sort of wide-eyed, innocent, joy that belonged nowhere on the face of someone you’d watched cart literal corpses into town.

“Mon pâtissier!” he chirped. “What a fine morning it is, no?”

The sun hadn’t even started to rise yet. You could still hear the drone of crickets and toads in the distance, basking in the humid darkness of the night.

“Sure,” you shrugged. “We’re not open for,” you glanced at the moon, still full in the sky, “at least four more hours. If that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“Oh—non, non, non,” Rook waved you off. “I just wanted to watch!”

“…Watch?” you repeated.

“It’s quite the fascinating process!” he absolutely beamed. “Taking such basic, individual, components and turning them into something so spectacularly sweet and heartwarming! Quelle inventivité! I’ve heard nothing but excellent things about your marvelous menu!”

‘From who?’ you wanted to ask, because you’d never heard of anyone being able to hold a conversation with this man for more than a stuttered sentence at a time, let alone for long enough to go about giving dessert recommendations. But there was a streak of red blood across his cheek that still looked fresh enough to not even have gone tacky yet, and now that you looked closer, his dark gloves were perhaps a shade too dark to not have been, well…

You sighed and reminded yourself once again that is was absolutely not your business, before handing him the napkin.

He stared at it with that same sort of rapt fascination that had you wondering if this man had ever actually interacted with proper civilization in his entire life.

“Wipe your hands,” you demanded with a huff, and he dutifully scrubbed at his stained fingers. Once he was clean enough that he was at least no longer dripping unmentionables all along your windowsill, you held out the little saucer for him to take.

“Pour moi?” he muttered, looking a bit starstruck.

“If you’re going to say all those nice things about my food, you may as well get to try what you’re complimenting,” you shrugged, and that same eager enthusiasm lit his face all over again. “And it will be a nice treat to take home with you,” you emphasized, with all the intonation of a cheery ‘please get the fuck out before you scare away all my customers for the day.’

But instead of turning and meandering off back to whatever hole he’d crawled out of, he just kept staring at the little treat like he had no idea what to do with it.

“It’s a tart,” you said blandly, fighting the furrow in your brow.

Rook repeated ‘a tart’ under his breath like it was some kind of ancient, forbidden, enchantment, and not like it was literally scrawled into the little menu sign at your door at least a dozen times over.

The Bounty Hunter peered at the little custard treat like you’d handed him a treasure beyond measure. After a moment of carefully poking at the browned crust like it wasn’t literally meant to break apart beneath one’s fingers, he looked back over at you with eyes that were far, far, too green. He lifted the tart up like he meant to give it back to you.

“I ought to offer you la première bouchée,” he smiled.

You blinked, taken aback, and pushed the plate back into his hands. “That’s not how free samples work.”

Rook tossed his head back with a bout of boisterous laughter that should have been loud enough to wake everyone on the block. You glanced around nervously, hoping no one was about to come running out to make noise complaints.

“Ahh~ But how else will I know the best manner in which to savor such a treat?”

“You eat it,” you gaped. And then, slowly, because you weren’t even sure you were dealing with a functional human being anymore. “With your teeth.”

The Bounty Hunter, with his blood smeared cheeks and even bloodier clothes, put all those shiny, pearly whites of his on display in a merry grin. He swept forward in a grand bow that had the feather in his hat bobbing about in a way that reminded you far too much of a wagging tail.

“Of course!” he chirped. “In my home you said, yes?”

Please, you wanted to groan. Go there. Leave.

“Ideally,” you said instead, and Rook ducked his head until that purple hat of his had cast the whole of his face into shadow. He reached up to tap two fingers against the wide brim and tip it forward.

“Merci, merci!” he trilled. “Then I will endeavor to consume this marvelous spécialité humaine in the proper fashion. A very good morning to you then, cher pâtissier!”

He straightened with a merry little hum and began making his way back down the cobblestone road. In the soft light of the setting moon, his footsteps left odd prints in their wake—inky, black, dripping things that had faded entirely by the time you were able to focus enough to get a proper look at them, leaving you wondering if they’d really just been nothing but a trick of the night.

Well, that was fucking weird,you frowned, shaking the fuzz from your head. You slipped back inside and the door jingled pleasantly as it slammed behind you. But then again, when wasn’t customer service a trip? These people were all ridiculous.

.

.

Bright and early the next morning, you were waiting for Deuce to arrive with his delivery of a fresh crate of eggs. It was ungodly early, as it always was. But at least there was no hunter at your window this time around—

There was a bang and a screech, and then an unfortunate sort of cracking-squishing-yucky noise that sounded an awful lot like a couple dozen eggs meeting their doom. You frowned and tucked your rag into the ribbons of your apron and ducked out from the backroom with a sigh. Deuce was at the door. Or, well, Deuce was on the ground in front of your door. With the shattered, yolk, remnants of your shipment scattered all around him.

“I’m not paying for that,” you huffed irritably, and your friend looked up with a squawk.

He looked like he was trying to say something, but his face just kept flashing back and forth between deathly pale and a miserable sort of mottled red.

“I—! You—! And he—!”

“Use your words, Spade,” you sighed.

“I do believe he’s trying his best, cher pâtissier!”

You froze, and turned in near-slow-motion to see a beaming Bounty Hunter crouched at one of the little painted benches lined up neatly along your storefront. Not on one, like a normal person. But beside one. On the ground. There was no blood on him today. None that was very obviously dripping down his face at the very least. He didn’t seem like he’d come bearing any ill will, but your Chicken Dealer was still splayed out on the ground—nearly convulsing—so that wasn’t a great sign either.

“What’s going on out here?” you demanded, hands at your hips.

“I do believe Monsieur Spade had himself a bit of a fright,” Rook beamed, and then turned towards your very gaunt looking friend with a soft tut-tut noise that for all its amiability didn’t sound particularly sympathetic. “You really ought to work on your balance, hmm? Alas, all these petits oeufs have gone to waste.”

“What?!” Deuce immediately bristled, on the defensive. “If you hadn’t scared me, then none of these chicks would have had to die so tragically in the first place!”

“For the last time,” you sighed, grinding the heels of your palms into your eyes. “Unfertilized farm eggs are not baby chicks.”

“But Ace said—”

“Enough! With what Ace said!” you snapped, exhaustion and a sore lack of tea, or coffee, or anything wearing away at your already fragile sanity. “Ace would sell you snake oil and cry to your face about you underpaying for it!”

“Oh?” Rook chirped, unfolding himself from his crouch to stand at his full height. He wasn’t particularly gangly or long limbed—not even especially tall, all things considered. But there was something about him that made him loom. From the sharp cut of his purple robes to the harsh, starched, white of his tight collar. He was neat, composed. And yet… very much not civilized. “Is this not a person who wishes you well, cher pâtissier?”

You frowned, something odd tugging at a sixth sense of yours. Just… a little something on the periphery of your nerves, singing that the words you chose now would mean a lot more than they ought to.

You hummed, low in your throat, and considered.

“Ace is himself,” you said finally, “but he’s a friend nonetheless.”

“Magnifique!” Rook beamed and clapped his hands together with a near lovelorn sigh, all at once perfectly pleasant and soft. “It is such a very good thing to have friends!”

“…Is that what you are?” Deuce asked, enough of that enraged spunk fading away to leave him properly cautious once more. His blue eyes flickered pointedly from the bounty hunter, to you, and back. “A friend?”

You sighed and turned to retreat back into your little shop without a word. Deuce scrambled to his feet to follow you in hesitantly, still dripping with the remnants of too many eggs. You shot him a look, and he immediately darted over to the mop and bucket you kept propped up in the corner. Rook stood in the doorway, nearly just a blur of bruised shadow against the backdrop of the pre-dawn darkness, and you watched him out of the corner of your eye. After a long moment of terse silence, he stepped beyond the threshold with a little hum. He wiped his feet pointedly on your little welcome mat, and then turned to stand at the counter. He fished around in the pockets of his cloak for a moment before withdrawing a strange little flower. He placed it on the countertop with a bright smile that crinkled the corners of his green eyes.

You stepped forward to observe it curiously, and your brows shot up in surprise.

It wasn’t a flower at all. What had looked like the folded arch of soft petals was actually a dainty pair of ­wings. It was a tiny butterfly—caught in a perpetual sort of stillness. It was bright, and colorful, and so carefully preserved that even when you trailed a flour-coated finger along the thin membranes of its wings, it stayed clean and crisp.

“What’s this for?” you asked.

“Payment, of course!” Rook smiled. “For the lovely treat you gifted me the other day.”

You sighed, not at all in the mood to discuss the lack of viable conversion rates between copper coins and bugs.

So instead you settled on huffing, “Free samples are free. It’s in the name.”

Rook just kept on smiling, unbothered. Deuce knocked into some set of drawers or other—or maybe the coatrack. Who knew—and you shot him an irritable little scowl. The guy was like a bull in a china shop on the best of days, let alone when he was trying to multitask, and be sneaky about it all the while. The bounty hunter’s grin twitched a bit at the corners, like the idea of your blue-haired friend trying to stealthily keep a watch on him was just the funniest thing.

You glanced back down at the little, frozen, butterfly. It really was very pretty, even if it was a little odd.

When you ducked back behind the counter, you unearthed a blueberry muffin from one of many stacks of trays there. It was little lopsided, and maybe there were a few too many bits of fruit in it. Surely no one would have wanted it anyways.

You plopped it on the countertop, and both Rook’s eyebrows shot all the way up his forehead. When he made no move to take it, you pushed the confection closer. The wrapper slid along the counter in a heavy, sticky, way. You’d have to remember to wipe it down again after. The Hunter reached out carefully to pluck the treat up between his fingers. He squished it delicately, in a similarly cautious way as to how you’d stroked the little butterfly.

“Is this also for eating at home?” he asked, observing the offering with a wide, wonderous, expression.

“Yes,” you said, just in time for Deuce to nearly annihilate your trash bin. “Please enjoy it.” Please get out. You’re distracting my maid.

Rook Hunt dipped into another of those ridiculous, bobbing, bows and pinched the brim of his hat between his fingers.

“Your generosity continues to warm my heart, mon cher,” he crooned, eyes practically sparkling from behind the sharp cut of his heavily lined lashes. “I will endeavor to return your kindness tenfold! A hundred!”

You waved off his sentimentality with a flick of your wrist and a not so delicate ‘shoo shoo.’

The hunter left your little bakery with a spring in his step and an outpouring of flowery promises that had your head spinning. He melted seamlessly into the shadows of the early morning, and between one blink and the next, he’d vanished entirely.

You would have thoroughly enjoyed the well-earned silence that followed, if not for the veritable storm cloud brewing over your friend’s head.

“Do I get one…?” Deuce asked finally, staring outright at the remaining muffins and sounding small and hopeful. And like that clearly wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all.

“Maybe if I had the eggs to make more,” you lamented, brushing your hands against your apron.

Deuce made a wounded noise which you had exactly zero sympathy for. You got to work wiping down the counters and sorting through the bits and bobs you’d need to start your day.

“…You know he’s not right, don’t you? That bounty hunter?” Deuce finally said, setting the mop aside. “You must have heard at least some of the rumors floating around town. I don’t think anyone even knows if the guy’s human.”

You shrugged.

“Anyone who has to wake up when I wake up each morning has long given up on humanity anyways,” you droned, only sort of half kidding.

Deuce frowned, clearly unhappy with your non-answer.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” he asked, stern in his fretting. There was still a big ol’ chunk of eggshell tangled up in his bangs.

“When I am ever not?” you smiled, and carefully pocketed the little, blue, butterfly.

.

.

When you popped by the market stalls after closing shop for the day, the street was abuzz with all the usual gossipy nonsense that you’d long since learned to let settle at the back of your brain like white noise. You were busy debating if you had enough arms to manage balancing yet another bag of strawberries (they were at their height of freshness these past weeks it seemed, and you were like a little fruit goblin hoarding them while you could), when a particularly shrill bit of chatter worked its way past the pleasant curtain you’d let fall across your thoughts.

“There was another one,” the butcher’s wife whispered in a way that was most certainly not a whisper.

“I heard,” chittered the man who really should have been trying to sell you more strawberries if he’d any kind of business sense whatsoever. He turned on you with a look that meant you were clearly about to be dragged into a conversation you were entirely unprepared for. “It was one of yours, apparently!”

“One of my what?” you blinked back into focus.

“One of your regulars,” he said, like a secret.

“That strange Bounty Hunter came through again,” his coconspirator hissed, with a hand lifted as if she meant to cover her mouth. “He dropped off the body the other day—delivered the heart straight to the Felmier’s porch!”

“Who was it?” you asked, just like you knew they wanted you to.

“Sir Hamlen,” the butcher’s wife said. “You know, that awful toad who could eat you out of house and home.”

That sounded like all of your costumers, and more than half of your closest friends, but you gave yourself a moment to sort through your scattered thoughts and try and connect whatever dots they’d been throwing at you.

“Sir Hamlen…?” you said after a moment, slowly putting a face to the name. “With the terrible goatee?”

They both nodded enthusiastically.

“Rotten pig,” the butcher’s wife piped back in. “Served him right, if you ask me. Everyone was expecting the Crown would put him to death anyways.”

You shrugged again. You hardly knew the man, but he’d always paid you well enough that you didn’t really have any ill will towards him. You went back to fussing over balancing bags of berries, but then… Well, there was something a bit funny, actually. He’d been a loud sort of person, with no filter to speak of. One afternoon, he’d stumbled into your little shop absolutely pissed on cheap drink and all but burping bubbles.

‘You know,’ he’d lulled, dropping a full coin pouch on your countertop. Which you’d taken in its entirely with zero hesitation. ‘I’d die happy if my last meal was these fucking tarts of yours.’

‘Is that so,’ you’d drawled, in the bland way you answered literally every customer who spouted off whatever nonsense was kicking around in their heads.

‘Aye,’ he’d sighed, practically stooped over. ‘Gonna have to pry ‘em outta my cold, dead, hands.’

“Huh,” you muttered, thoughts wandering back to a pair of bloody gloves and the little treat you’d pressed into them. Huh.  

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TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Rook Hunt x Reader #Rook x Reader #Rook Hunt x Yuu #Reaper!Rook #Monster Mayhem #Fantasy AU #Rook Hunt #Deuce Spade #My Writing #Monster Mayhem Rook Part 1

[thebadgerclan]

Returned

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x reader

Summary: Aleksander returns from Novyi Zem...

A/N: As per usual, the V-day teaser and the trailer set loose the writing bug, so voila!

I do wanna say that this is based on the V-day teaser, and after the trailer, I have no idea when that scene occurs, so this is just an excuse to write some angry, vengeful, protective Sasha

Have I mentioned how excited I am for season 2? 😂🤩

The scene before him was nothing short of terrifying.  His loyal Grisha chained and caged, their hands bound so they couldn’t use their power, the King’s soldiers patrolling around them.  Aleksander had wreathed himself in shadow, and he stepped forward, raising his hands as he did.  His nichevo’ya surged forth and killed the soldiers, snapping their neck and gouging their eyes out, which drew cries of shock from the imprisoned Grisha.

Aleksander took another step forward, bringing his hands up to draw the hood of his cloak back.  “I have returned!” he called.  “And I’ve made some new friends.”  His monsters came to flank him on either side, and at his command, the Grisha who hadn’t abandoned him aboard the whaler came forth to free their comrades.  Aleksander looked on as his men and women were freed, their wrists unbound, summoning and calling their power once more.

Just when the General was about to turn, when he thought his Grisha were free, he saw something move in a cage he’d thought was empty.  Its occupant was curled on the ground, barely covered by what looked like a torn burlap sack.  Then, she spoke, and Aleksander felt his blood turn to ice.  “Aleksander?  S-Sasha, is that you?”  In an instant, he was running, skidding to his knees before the cage in which you were locked.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice trembling.  “Y/N, oh my love.  Darling, what have they done to you?  Pashel!”  The Inferni hurried to his General’s side, eyes widening when he saw that it was you in the cage.  “Get her out of there.”  You hadn’t been on the Fold with him when all hell had broken loose, and when Aleksander had made his way to Kribirsk, he’d been so consumed with rage that it had been all he could do to heal before setting off to hunt the Sun Summoner.

In hindsight, he should have gone home, he should have gone straight to you.  Aleksander had written to you, telling you of his plans, but he’d never imagined you’d be taken, that you’d be imprisoned like this.  Guilt washed over him, but he pushed it aside.  You were his priority now, everything else could wait.  The cage was unlocked, and your husband moved to unlock your shackles, but as he moved aside the burlap you were draped in, he fought back the bile rising in his throat.

You were naked beneath your meager covering, and Aleksander unfastened his cloak and draped it over your body, scooping you into his arms.  “I’m here, my darling,” he whispered, rising to his feet.  “I’ve got you.”  His Grisha had been seen to, and Pashel was bringing Midnight around.  Aleksander mounted, keeping you secure in his arms, as he called out orders to his soldiers.  

There were safehouses, Ravkan nobility who had vowed to back Aleksander when the time came for him to overthrow the Lantsovs.  They would help him now, they would help you.  He rode hard and fast, clutching you to him, feeling you tremble against his body.  “I knew you weren’t dead,” you mumbled, and your husband looked down at you.  “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I knew you weren’t dead.  I just knew.”  You turned your face into your husband’s chest, and he tightened his grip on you, urging Midnight faster.  Aleksander couldn’t explain it, but he’d known you were alive too.  He hadn’t known you’d been kidnapped, starved, or imprisoned, but he’d known your heart still beat.  If you’d died…he’d have known.  He just would have known.  “I’m so sorry,” he said, tipping his head to kiss your forehead.  “I’m so sorry, Y/N.  I should have been here.”

“You’re here now,” you said, words slurring together.  “You saved me.”  “I always will.”  Nearly an hour later, you arrived at the estate of the Duchess of Adena; whose servant admitted your husband without question.  The Duchess asked no questions, only had her maids prepare a room for the two of you.  Aleksander would be in her debt forever, but he would come up with how to repay her later.

The Duchess’ personal Healer saw to your wounds, and soon, you were bathed, fed, and dressed in a borrowed nightdress, cradled reverently in Aleksander’s arms beneath the downy covers.  “Did you find her?” you asked, and your husband nodded.  “We did.  But Sturmhond turned traitor and helped her escape.  She’s likely claimed the Sea Whip by now and is on her way back to Ravka.”

You shifted in his embrace so you could look at him, at the scars that now resided on his face.  “What will we do?”  Aleksander took a deep breath, finding your hands beneath the covers and squeezing.  “The same thing we always do.  We fight.  And I swear to you, my darling, I will never let anything like this happen to you again.”  You snuggled closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw.  “I know you won’t, Aleksander.  And I’ll protect you, in any way I can.”

Your husband knew that to be true, he recalled how fiercely you’d defended him in the past, how you’d thrown yourself in front of a bullet for him (something he would have nightmares about for the rest of his eternal life).  “I love you so much, my precious Y/N,” Aleksander said, tilting your chin upwards to kiss you.  “I will always love you, moya dorogaya zhena.”  “And I love you, Sasha.”  You let your lips linger on his for several moments before you drifted off, and for nearly an hour, Aleksander remained awake, watching you slumber, needing to convince himself you were well.  Only when exhaustion tugged at him did he let himself sleep, but not before sending a nichevo’ya to stand guard at the door.

#aleksander morozova x reader #shadow and bone #the darkling x reader #general kirigan x reader #shadow and bone fanfiction

[denimbex1986]

'Cillian Murphy just might be the definition of magnetic on-screen. He can pull the viewer in with his intensity, vulnerability, or good old-fashioned charm, whatever best fits the role he’s playing. Whether he's an apocalypse-surviving reluctant hero or a quietly intimidating comic book villain, a brave rebel leader or a troubled soldier, Murphy can captivates with his performance.

Born in Cork, Ireland, Murphy got his start in theater in his hometown, and had his first professional acting role in the play, Disco Pigs. He later starred in the film adaptation of Disco Pigs, just before his breakout role in the zombie horror film, 28 Days Later, directed by Danny Boyle. As would become a trend with Murphy, once he found a collaborator, he would often reteam with them: He once again worked with Boyle on the sci-fi thriller Sunshine.

Perhaps no director has been a bigger fan of Murphy than Christopher Nolan has been. The filmmaker first cast the actor in Batman Begins, a role that Murphy reprised briefly in The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises. They worked together again for Inception and Dunkirk.

Now, Murphy stars in the filmmaker's historical thriller, Oppenheimer, in theaters July 21. In an impressive ensemble cast that includes Matt Damon, Robert Downey Jr., Emily Blunt, and Florence Pugh, Murphy plays J. Robert Oppenheimer, the theoretical physicist and "father of the atomic bomb," whose work on the Manhattan Project during World War II led to the invention of the first nuclear weapons.

With this highly anticipated film coming out, below, A.frame takes a look back at 10 essential films in Murphy's body of work.

1. Disco Pigs 2001

Murphy already had several films under his belt by the time he starred in Disco Pigs, a romantic crime drama based on the play of the same name — which Murphy also starred in. Here, he plays Pig, a youth in his late teens who has shared an intense friendship with Runt (Elaine Cassidy) his entire life. On the precipice of their 17th birthday (they were born on the same day in the same hospital), Pig develops feelings for Runt just as she’s starting to be interested in another boy. The intensity of Pig and Runt’s relationship worries their parents, and Runt is sent to a boarding school. Pig does not take this well, resulting in a tragic outcome for both of them. Disco Pigs gave audiences a glimpse of the intensity Murphy could bring to a role, and that he had the makings of a star.

2. 28 Days Later 2002

28 Days Later is not only the movie that gave mindless zombies (or infected technically) terrifying speed, it’s the movie that put Murphy on the map. Oscar winner Danny Boyle’s horror thriller stars Murphy as Jim, a man who wakes up from a coma to find that the U.K. has been destroyed after the "rage" virus swept through the country. Alone at first, he meets other survivors, played by Naomie Harris, Megan Burns, and Oscar nominee Brendan Gleeson, and the group struggles to survive the hordes of the infected monsters that remain. Murphy was a total standout in the small but stacked cast, easily establishing himself as a star.

3. Batman Begins 2005

Murphy entered his villain era when he was cast as a Batman supervillain in Nolan's first Batman film, Batman Begins. He plays Dr. Jonathan Crane, an Arkham Asylum psychiatrist who wears a burlap mask and utilizes a fear-inducing hallucinogen to terrorize his victims as the Scarecrow. Batman himself falls victim to the Scarecrow at one point. He’s not the final bad guy in the movie, but he's an important antagonist who pops up again in cameos in both sequels, The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises.

4. Red Eye 2005

This Wes Craven-directed thriller takes place almost entirely on a plane, and part of what makes it work so well are its two leads: Rachel McAdams as everywoman Lisa and Murphy as the charming but threatening Jackson Rippner. Jackson reveals himself to be a hitman mastermind, attempting a political assassination by forcing Lisa to rearrange things at the hotel she runs to achieve his goal, threatening to kill her father (and many others) if she fails. The interplay between Murphy and McAdams is top notch, with Murphy playing another truly memorable villain in the process.

5. Breakfast on Pluto 2005

Breakfast on Pluto, based on a novel of the same name, stars Murphy as Kitten, a trans woman searching for her birth mother after being abandoned as a child. Kitten navigates a wide range of circumstances in 1970s Ireland and London, from the IRA to magicians to sex work, all while maintaining her kind and optimistic nature. Murphy’s portrayal of Kitten is thoughtful and hopeful, as the character wins over people with her innocent honesty and self-acceptance.

6. The Wind That Shakes the Barley 2006

One of Murphy’s most defining roles thus far is the one that takes him back to his home country and its tragic fight for independence. In Ken Loach’s war drama The Wind That Shakes the Barley, Murphy plays one of a pair of brothers who end up on opposite sides of the Irish Civil War after fighting together in the war for Ireland’s independence. It's a heartbreaking film, and features an incredible performance by Murphy as he goes from idealistic rebel to leader in the fight for Irish independence, with a devastating ending reflecting the ongoing conflict in Ireland.

7. Sunshine 2007

Sunshine reunited Murphy with his 28 Days Later director Boyle for a sci-fi thriller about a group of astronauts on a mission to restart the sun and prevent the Earth from freezing. Murphy is part of an incredible ensemble cast including Oscar winner Michelle Yeoh, Rose Byrne, Chris Evans, Cliff Curtis, Hiroyuki Sanada, Benedict Wong, and Troy Garity. Sunshine almost feels like a suspenseful play in outer space, led by Murphy as the physicist who created a device that will hopefully save the world, or doom it if it fails.

8. Inception 2010

Inception marked Murphy’s second major collaboration with Nolan, appearing as the target of Leonardo DiCaprio’s dream heist crew. Murphy is the heir to a business empire, who the team plans to "incept" with the idea to dissolve his father’s company. Though secondary to the main action and the dream landscapes, Murphy delivers a powerful performance, going through an emotional arc with his father despite the manipulations of DiCaprio’s team (including Elliot Page, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Tom Hardy). The film received eight Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, and went on to win for Best Cinematography, Best Sound Editing, Best Sound Mixing, and Best Visual Effects.

9. Anthropoid 2016

Anthropoid, based on a true story, stars Murphy and Jamie Dornan as a pair of Slovak and Czech soldiers, respectively, participating in Operation Anthropoid, the real life assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, the principal architect of the Holocaust. Murphy and Dornan are both excellent as they struggle to complete their mission, caught between the need to make an important blow against the Nazis and the potential fallout if they’re caught.

10. Dunkirk 2017

Reunited with Nolan for a fifth time, Murphy joins another ensemble, including Kenneth Branagh, Tom Hardy, Mark Rylance, and Barry Keoghan, in the war epic Dunkirk, about the real life evacuation of thousands of British troops from a beach in France early in WWII. He’s credited only as "Shivering Soldier," the sole survivor of a U-boat attack rescued by one of the civilian boats headed for Dunkirk to rescue soldiers. Murphy brings all his intensity to the role, a man mentally destroyed by his experiences in the war, and terrified at the thought of returning to a battlefield. Dunkirk received a total of eight Oscar nominations, including Best Picture and Best Directing, and went on to win for Best Editing, Best Sound Editing, and Best Sound Mixing.'

#Disco Pigs #28 Days Later #Dunkirk #Red Eye #Breakfast on Pluto #The Wind That Shakes The Barley #Anthropoid #Inception #Sunshine #Batman Begins #Christopher Nolan #Wes Craven #Danny Boyle #The Dark Knight #The Dark Knight Rises #Oppenheimer #Emily Blunt #Matt Damon #Robert Downey Jr. #Florence Pugh #Jamie Dornan #Kenneth Branagh #Tom Hardy #Mark Rylance #Barry Keoghan #Elliott Page #Joseph Gordon Levitt #Leonardo DiCaprio #Michelle Yeoh #Chris Evans

[forbidden-creepypasta]

The Night on the Farm

It was on the old farm up north, two years ago, that I lost my wife. We were going up there to get away from the city, we'd heard that nobody was there, so we thought maybe if we spent the weekend there, we'd have a good time, just the two of us. We pulled in Friday night off a two-hour drive up there. Both of us were pretty exhausted so we left most of our rations in the car, bringing our sleeping bags in. We set up camp in a room on the second floor, and I looked out over the farm through a window. I noticed a bunch of pikes, about five feet high, sticking up from the ground, with small piles of hay lay scattered around the base of each one. I didn't think much of it at the time, and we went to sleep shortly thereafter.

Later that night, I awoke to a soft sound. It wasn't a particularly windy night, nor was the farm very loud, otherwise I might never have noticed it. It was a cushy sound, like somebody was setting down a bag of something, over and over again. I turned on our electric lamp, and the light spilled across the room, out the door and onto the silhouette of someone walking up the stairs. The head seemed to turn towards the room, and his subtlety was instantly replaced with speed. He thumped up the remaining stairs and burst into our room, and only then did I notice it wasn't human. Its skin was burlap, and straw poked through at various points along its body. Its face was painted on, a happy smile below cheery eyes, eyes that were staring at me and my just-waking wife. It swept into the room and brought its arm across my wife's face, throwing her much further than I expected. I started to rise but it brought its arm down on my head, and I went unconscious immediately.

When I awoke, the two of us were in a small room with dirt walls. A lantern was suspended from a hook gouged into the ceiling, and cast an eerie glow across the room. I was tied up in a corner of the room with thick hemp rope, immobilized. My wife lay on a table in the center of the room, and the hideous monster stood over her, grinning down as it began to prepare its work. It picked up a knife from the table - how it did so, I have no idea - and began to cut into her, sawing down the middle of her chest. She shrieked in pain, blood spraying up onto its body and face, but it relentlessly tore her open. She soon went limp, and it finished the job, cutting her from neck to groin. It put the knife down, and began ripping out all of her intestines, carelessly letting them drop in a pile beside it. It then took some hay from the corner opposite me, and stuffed it into her. It took its time with this task, making sure as much hay was packed into her as possible.

By the time it was stitching her back up, I had managed to loosen my ropes. Turns out that despite its impressive ability to tie a knot given its working conditions, its skill was still limited. When it turned around to grab more hay, I sprung up and began hopping for the stairs, my legs still tied together. It immediately noticed, and quickly grabbed me by the throat, throwing me back into the room. I hit the far wall hard, slumping to the ground, startled by its strength. It turned and came toward me as I used the table to pull myself back up, and I grabbed the first thing I could think of - the lantern hanging overhead - and threw it on the straw beast. No noise but the sound of it burning came from it, and it didn't seem immediately deterred. Instead, it continued to come at me, throwing fiery punches as the flames quickly enveloped its body. I dodged a few blows and, in all the jumping, managed to get free of my bonds. I shot up the stairs as fast as my legs would take me, flew into my car and only then did I look back at the farm. The thing had followed me to the porch, but now stood there patting itself out. Its burlap skin was charred almost all over, and it watched me with a broken expression of happiness as I started my car. I glanced across the field again, and noticed each of the pikes had a swarm of flies surrounding it.

I started to drive away, but slowly, horrified and fascinated at the still-living thing. I saw in the rear-view mirror that it was collecting hay to add to itself, healing the damage. I also saw my wife stumble awkwardly from the door, and, without thinking, I hit the brakes. I was sure she was dead, but it was a shock to see her again. She walked out across the field as though she'd never taken a step in her life, but with an impressive display of strength, hoisted herself up onto a pike, impaling herself onto it. Her eyes fixed on my car as I sped off, never to return.

Credit to: Omnipresence

#creepypasta #horror microfiction #horror fiction #creepy stories #scarecrows

[alwaysmarveling]

Three Strikes, You’re Out

Pairing: Yelena Belova x reader

Warnings: Black Widow spoilers, use of guns, and killing (and therefore death)

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: Sorry for not posting anything in a while! I realize from the warnings that it sounds like angst, but I swear this is overall fluff :)

Yelena saved your life. Not once, not twice, but three times. And not in the “watch out, there’s a car!” way or the “let me save you from the bad guy coming to kill you” way. Yelena had saved your life in the “Y/N, you’re forgetting something” way and the “no, Y/N, you cannot do that” way.

---

“L/N, the person of the hour, I see…” You choked down the rising bile as Dreykov dragged a fingertip down your cheek. You refused to make eye contact with the man, firstly out of hatred and secondly because you knew that if you did, you would shiver. You hadn’t made that mistake since you were 8.

A sign of weakness, they called it. Utter, worthless, garbage, they yelled at you as they beat you in front of the others, being so ungrateful to the only man willing to give you any purpose in life. You took it like a champ, not flinching once. You learned not to do that from the girl who had gotten beaten before you.

“And have you figured out why you might be so special today, my little one?” Not gagging took so much more effort once he introduced the pet name, but you forced yourself to keep looking ahead, keep staring at the faint cracks in the dull wall ahead of you.

“No, sir.” You wished more than anything that he could be talking to one of the other girls in line with you. But here you were, with the man you hated most in the world staring you in the eye, his hand resting gently under your cheek.

“Hmm, respectful, this one,” he cooed to Madame B, as if you wouldn’t have been punished had you not addressed him properly. “Well, L/N, you see that man over there?” As if he had orchestrated the whole thing, a man was immediately dragged into the room, his whines muffled by the burlap sack over his head. The footsteps of the older girls who had brought him in were barely audible, making the man and Dreykov the only things you could hear in the large hall.

“Today is the day you kill. And he, my darling, is your victim.” Dreykov waited for a reaction from you and sighed when he got nothing. “No words, L/N?”

“Wh- where is he from?” The second you opened your mouth, you were expecting punishment—how could you be so stupid as to stutter—but it didn’t come for the reason you thought it would.

“You do not question my orders!” You barely heard his yells above the pain that erupted in your jaw, but your feet didn’t even move an inch. Further pain would come if you were stupid enough to do that. Dreykov quickly gripped your chin in between his grubby fingers. His face now centimeters from your own, he opened his mouth again. “Listen to me, little girl, it does not matter where he comes from. If I am gracious enough to grant you with a task like this, you will do it with no question. If you’d like to respond, it better be a ‘thank you’ or a ‘yes, sir.’ Am I understood?” But he didn’t give you a chance to answer, shoving your face to the left and pressing a gun into your hands. “Now. Let’s go. You’ve got an audience.”

Dreykov stepped back to stand next to Madame B, who watched you like a hawk. You already knew what she was thinking. She must’ve recommended you for this, told Dreykov you were ready for the next step. This was supposed to be a moment of pride for the both of you, but you were just embarrassing yourself and her. She’d probably take it out on you later.

The man had stopped struggling since he’d been brought in, probably realizing that there was no way out of this. At least they’d left the burlap sack over his head. But the second you started walking towards him, begging your hands to stop trembling so you could make the shot—and it had to be a perfect one—he started thrashing in his confines, screaming, begging, and pleading for his life.

“No, please! Please, you don’t want to do this! I have a family! I have a wife! And my kids, they-”

“Kill him now, L/N. I am not very patient.” It’s just like training, Y/N, focus, you told yourself as you focused in on the man’s head. Even though it moved, continuing to whip from side to side, your hands were no longer shaky as you brought them up to aim. Your heart was beating faster than it ever had before. The other girls were at least ten feet away from you, but with how hard it was pounding, you wouldn’t be surprised if they were able to see the rapid rise and fall of your chest. You wanted to apologize, untie the man and set him free, let him go back to his family… but Dreykov was waiting. So your eyes narrowed, your diaphragm relaxed, and your finger pressed down on the trigger. Twice. Once to the head, once to the heart. 

Just like that, he was gone. His pleading stopped. His breathing ceased, and his head lolled to the side.

Just like that, you had killed a man.

You had little time to think as Dreykov approached you, clapping his hands slowly. The slow, steady rhythm disgusted you. The dark red stain growing on the burlap sack made you sick. You needed out.

“Congratulations, Y/N. I expect great things from you.” He squeezed your shoulder before sweeping out of the room.

“Y/N.” You whirled around at the sound of Madame B’s voice, stern but gentler than Dreykov’s. “Take the body outside. Yelena,” Madame B called the name of the girl closest to the door. “Help her. I expect you to both be spotless when you return. Make it quick, girls.”

By the time you finally brought yourself to look back at the man, the blonde was already on her knees working on the ties around his ankles. You’d never talked to her before. It wasn’t like girls really made friends here, but she was in your class. And she was the best in your class. But the two of you had never interacted with each other beyond a sweeping glance over each other’s faces before moving on to the next girl. You’d never even partnered together for fight training. 

But you didn’t have time to worry about Yelena; your focus was on pushing yourself to get closer to the man. If you got there fast enough, maybe you’d make it in time to hear his last breath, to say sorry. But you were devastated to find that you were a few minutes too late, your hope making you as naive as a toddler. Instead, as your fingers fumbled with the rope around his wrist, you felt a wet drop land on your hand. You looked down expecting to be repulsed by the blood, but the drop was crystalline, clear. A tear. But, with no more ties to support the man’s body, the corpse fell into your arms, and you were forced to focus on helping Yelena support the dead weight.

You and Yelena brought the body out of the room, taking it around the back to where it would be dealt with as you slept that night. Neither of you said a word the whole time. Your hands shook, and you were certain Yelena could see it as the torso of the man shakily rose and fell, never quite matching the stilted rhythm of your steps. You dropped the body, but Yelena replaced your empty hands with her own as she silently led you to a bathroom. The faucet handles squeaked as you turned them. Your stare into the mirror was as empty as your earlier gaze at the wall, but still, something was missing.

There was no more determination, no more strength. And whatever scrap of innocence you had managed to maintain up until this point was gone. You were no longer a girl, not even a woman. You were a monster.

But your hands were clean. Yes, a long study of your hands told you that all of the man’s blood was gone, washed down the drain. But the begging? The completely desperate pleading of a man who knew he had no other choice, that even sobbing for his life was practically hopeless?

You reached again for the bar of soap, pressing it into your skin. Your nails dug into the backs of your palms, a last-ditch effort to somehow cleanse the inside of you. If you went just a little harder, you’d make yourself bleed. But that would be good, yes, that would be good because the soap could mix with your blood and-

“Y/N.” Yelena reached for your hands and pulled them apart. Your right hand was still clenched around the soap, not letting it go even though it was begging to slip through your grip. “Stop.”

You turned to her, your eyes wide. She’d done it before you. The first of your year to do it. Madame B swelled with pride when she had taken the shot. But she was fine. Yelena was standing in front of you, her hands dried long before, her knees were stable. How’d she do it?

“You’ll be okay,” she murmured.

“H- how are you…?” You couldn’t finish, but she knew what you were saying anyway.

“The pain only makes us stronger, I think. You’ll be okay.” You nodded slowly, allowing Yelena to take the soap from you and shut the faucet once all the bubbles left your skin. You moved to leave the bathroom and return to the hall, where you would have to return to training as if nothing had happened. A firm hand pulling on your elbow stopped you.

“Y/N, you’re forgetting something.” Yelena turned the faucet back on and wet her thumb before brushing it along your cheek. “There. Spotless.” You couldn’t see what she had wiped off until you noticed the red staining her skin. Oh.

“Yelena, his voice…” The blonde rinsed off her thumb and shut off the sink before turning back to you.

“The pain only makes us stronger,” she repeated, giving your shoulders a firm squeeze.

“The pain only makes us stronger,” you whispered. Your voice betrayed you, though, cracking on the last word as if it knew something was wrong.

The man stopped begging when the bullet entered his brain. But his voice would never stop. No, it would forever live on with you. It would forever haunt you.

---

“I don’t understand why we have to do this.”

“Because if we don’t, we’ll die.”

“So what? What if we do?” The blonde stopped looking out of the scope of her gun to turn to you. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth hung slightly open, but you simply rolled your eyes. You had seen this look many times.

“You did not come this far in the Red Room to give up now, Solee.” And there was that nickname again. Yelena gave it to you after she helped clean you up that one time, and from then on, she rarely used your actual name unless if others were around. But she never explained what it meant, even now, years later, and you could never figure it out.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The pain only makes us stronger.”

“Good.” The spy, now satisfied, turned back to her gun. 

“But it’s killing everyone else around us.” Yelena sighed, putting her gun away once more.

“It’s called self-preservation, Solee. We do this to stay alive.” Yelena wasn’t sure why Dreykov’s mind control didn’t work as well on you as it did on the others. You still had to do whatever he ordered you to, of course, but your mind was never in it. You didn’t have the singular focus about it that all the others did. You still had a heart, had morals.

But she also wasn’t sure why she listened. She could easily turn you in to Dreykov and rat you out for questioning his orders; she’d certainly be forced to if Dreykov had ever asked her about you. There would be no question about your fate. You’d be killed immediately, written off as just another failure.

Yet, Dreykov had never asked, and when she helped you after you took the life of your first victim, it was like some part of her was forever stuck to you and she couldn’t pull away if she tried. So she did her best to appeal to you, convince you to stay on the mission, even tried to adjust the mission plans so that she was the one taking the kill and not you. But this time, both of you needed to infiltrate, and you’d likely be the one pulling the trigger.

“Besides, it’s not like this one has any good in him. He had it coming.”

“But his family,” you murmured. From your stakeout point, you had the perfect view of the house’s kitchen. The man’s husband and his two kids laughed around the table as they got ready for their day. Someone had turned on the radio a bit earlier, and they danced as they prepared their things. You wouldn’t be taking their lives, but you sure would be ruining them. “They’ve done nothing wrong. They don’t know who he really is. This will destroy them.”

Yelena stayed silent as she continued to fiddle with her weapon. You two wouldn’t move in until later, when the target’s family had left for the day, but she liked to be prepared.

“Maybe I can leave a note or something.” That had Yelena looking up instantly.

“No. No, Y/N, you cannot do that.”

“It won’t be long, just a quick wri-” The blonde stood up and clapped a hand over your mouth.

“Writing a letter could be used to track us down. We cannot leave something like that behind. We can’t leave anything behind. Dreykov wants us in and out. Do you understand?” She could tell from the way that your eyes started to shine that you did. There was no other way about it. And she didn’t mean to be harsh, but she had to if you were going to stay alive.

“But they deserve to know, Leni.” Yelena knew exactly what you were talking about.

“This man is not the same one as the first you killed, Solee. He is not innocent. His family will find out the truth, they always do.” When you finally nodded, she lifted her hand away and returned to her seat beside you. 

-

“You’re quiet.” Yelena’s concern was clear from the way she pursed her lips together. The gravel dug into your palms as you leaned back even further onto them. You looked at your feet before responding, rolling your ankles as if sitting there for less than an hour was the most arduous thing you ever had to do.

“I’m just tired.” Someone else might’ve asked how much sleep you had gotten the night before or asked you if you had your morning cup of coffee. But Yelena wasn’t someone else, and she knew you never really slept and you hated coffee. And she knew physical exhaustion wasn’t your problem.

“It’ll be okay, Solee.”

“Who’s going to tell them that?” You nudged your chin in the direction of the group of three as they ran into the car. They were running late, but they all still had smiles on their faces. You wondered how soon that would change. Yelena didn’t respond; she didn’t know how to. So she settled for resting a hand over yours as the two of you watched the family pull out of the driveway. It was time.

-

“Solee, what are you doing? We need to get out of here.”

“I can’t just leave like this. I can’t leave them like this.” Your hands were practically shaking as you paced the length of the kitchen, the same one the target’s family had been in that same morning. Technically it was still morning. You had the letter drafted. You’d been thinking of the exact words you needed to write. All you needed was Yelena’s approval, and-

“They will be ok-”

“They will not be okay! Pain doesn’t always make you stronger, Leni, it doesn’t!” Yelena froze as you collapsed to your knees in tears, but she quickly burst into action, pulling you up and into her arms. A glance at the window told her that you two were safe for the time being, but you had to get back before Dreykov became suspicious.

“Solee, now is not the time to be having this conversation. You will be killed if you do this, you know that. I’m sorry, but we really need to go.” Part of Yelena’s heart shattered when you pulled yourself together in less than a second, going from a sobbing, devastated girl to a composed spy in the blink of an eye. She hated that you had to do that. That you knew how to do that. But the other part of her heart soared because it meant that you were still trying, still pushing. And if she was honest with herself, some part of her hoped it was because of her that you were still going.

“There is never time to have this conversation, Leni. And is all this really worth it?”

-

“Yelena, Y/N! Dreykov wishes to see you. Now.” The two of you met Madame B’s gaze, each giving her a slight nod before slipping away from the rest of the group to find his office. Neither of you spoke as Yelena fell into step with you.

“Another mission, you think?” You shrugged, your face indifferent, causing the blonde to frown. You’d been closed off, cold even, since the two of you had come back from the mission. She’d been trying to get you to crack even the smallest of smiles, but all of her efforts had been nothing but futile. “Solee, what’s wrong? Please, tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Leni. Let’s just see what Dreykov wants, yeah?” The spy finally nodded when the corner of your lip curled up slightly. It was barely noticeable, but it was something, and that was the best you’d given her or anyone else these past few days. So she forced herself to push past the tight knot forming in her gut and walk with you silently to meet Dreykov.

The second the two of you made it into Dreykov’s office, the door was shut, and Yelena almost let out a yell when you were hit across the face. Wow, whatever you were hit with was hard.

“Which one of you let it slip?”

“I- I don’t- what are you talking about?” It took everything in the blonde to not let her temper get the best of her. Of course, she couldn’t do anything, but she sure as hell wanted to. Rather than explaining verbally, Dreykov launched a live news feed on a screen that covered the entire wall. The camera focused on the target’s family as a headline below read: “Family Blindsided By Assassination of Major Mob Boss.” The two of you had mere seconds to soak up what was going on before Dreykov spoke up again, his voice now more even.

“A betrayal like this could get us revealed. So, which one of you pathetic fools let it slip?”

“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” you spat out after composing yourself. “Neither of us said anything to anybody.” Dreykov narrowed his eyes at you as he approached.

“Listen here, Y/N. You may be one of my best, but don’t think for one second that I won’t have you killed. Those lies will not work here. Tell me the truth.” He could threaten you all he wanted to, force you to tell the truth no matter how badly you wanted to keep a secret; he could do anything to you, make you do anything. But you weren’t scared. Adrenaline was rushing through your veins, but you were tired of the Red Room and its horrors. You were done.

“I. Am. Not. Lying.” You barely noticed it, but a flash of surprise swept across the man’s face for just a moment. You weren’t too surprised by it; it wasn’t like the other girls had been so bold when they addressed him. And you supposed the blood dripping down your face made you a bit more intimidating. But just as quickly as the look appeared, it was gone, and he turned to Yelena.

“Yelena? The same thing goes for you. You are good, I’ll admit, and it would be such a shame to lose you, but if one of you doesn’t come clean, there could be… consequences.” Yelena opened her mouth to deny it. She knew nothing about how the reason for the assassination could have been discovered; to her knowledge, neither of you did. You were both innocent. But, as she opened her mouth to talk, Dreykov turned away, one hand to his ear. Seconds later, he turned back to the two of you, a smile on his face.

“Never mind, my darlings. You may go now. I will handle this. Oh, and Y/N? Go get that cut checked out. I’m afraid it looks rather deep.”

-

Several days later, it was publicly revealed that the target had numerous deals slipping through. Many people were mad at him, and he was getting desperate. A suicide note was carefully slipped into the target’s home—how could the police be so careless as to miss that?—and everything was forgotten. But the permanent scar you had going across your eyebrow would never let you forget it. It would never let you forget how, once again, Yelena had saved your life.

---

You looked down on the brightly lit kitchen and were immediately hit with a sense of deja vu. It was a woman this time, and the kids were older, but it was the same.

No. No, it wasn’t the same. Because this man was innocent. He’d done nothing more than pick up a hard drive one of the rookie Widows had dropped. And while she’d been punished, he now had to be dealt with.

It also wasn’t the same because Yelena wasn’t here with you.

It’d been two months since Yelena had “gone rogue,” or at least that’s what everyone else called it. But you knew what it really meant. Yelena had been freed. She was no longer trapped under the influence of Dreykov. She didn’t have to be a killing machine anymore. But she also didn’t have to be with you. She can’t be with you, you reminded yourself. If you saw her, you would have to kill her whether you wanted to or not. And if not having Yelena with you was hell, then killing her would be… killing her would be the end of you.

But hell certainly wasn’t fun. With Yelena gone, that left you in charge of most missions. Dreykov was supposed to be overseeing, but you hadn’t heard much from him recently. Nevertheless, the missions kept coming, which meant you still had a job you had to do. A job you couldn’t do. You didn’t have the same objectiveness as Yelena. You couldn’t cut out your emotions to see the bigger picture, and with Yelena gone, it would be so much easier to just… be done with everything. But there was always that one thing nagging you. It rang in your head every time your hand brushed just over your brow and every time that man’s pleas rang in your ears.

You did not come this far in the Red Room to give up now, Solee.

So you’d do your best to stay alive in hell, but to be completely honest, you weren’t sure how much longer you were going to last.

-

“Y/N, you ready? Target is in place.”

“I’m ready. Remember, we make this one quick. This man died of a tragic heart attack.” You had the syringe in your pocket. Normally, Dreykov would prefer you to stage it as murder. But this man was innocent, and Dreykov hadn’t been responding to your communication attempts in ages. So the team followed your lead. “Understood?”

“Copy.” With confirmation coming in from your earpiece, you made your way down from your hideout, taking care to avoid being spotted by the occasional passerby or home security camera. You had several Widows posted around the area to alert you of potential obstacles, and two Widows would enter the house with you in case of any unforeseen troubles, but this should be an easy job. Once again, this man was innocent. How many precautions would a man take for his safety if he had no reason to believe he was in danger?

But when you had your eyes locked on the target and asked for a report from your accompanying widows, your earpiece stayed silent. A quick check-in with those in the perimeter showed that nothing suspicious was going on inside, which meant there must’ve been something, someone else, in that house.

A quick glance at your watch had you cursing. You’d been staking this man out for a few weeks now, and his mother was scheduled to come to the house in less than thirty minutes. You didn’t have much time to find out what was going on with the other two Widows. Get the man first, worry about them later, you decided. They were highly trained; whatever was going on couldn’t be that bad. But just as you swung out, syringe in hand, you were tackled to the side, and the needle flew out of your grasp. So this is what took out the other Widows. But you weren’t going down that eas-

“Leni?” Your eyes widened in shock for a second before you immediately charged at her. And no matter how loudly your brain was screaming at you to stop, your body was on autopilot, and, now, completely submitting to the orders of someone that wasn’t you, it was the most ruthless it had ever been. It was demonstrating in full force just how you had earned your reputation as one of the Red Room’s best. And while this was a reputation you had always been ashamed of, you had never hated yourself so much as you did when you attacked Yelena. Luckily for you, she was also one of the best.

“This is so completely and utterly stupid, Leni,” you managed to grit out as you tripped her to the floor. “What are you thinking?”

“Don’t,” Yelena paused to avoid another punch in her direction, “worry about me. I’m trying to help you, you fool!”

“You’re trying to get yourself killed!”

“I’m sorry, Solee.” Before you had time to retort, the two Widows you’d been looking for stumbled into the room. Unlike attacking Yelena like you thought they would, they slammed you to the ground before you had time to land a kick to Yelena’s torso. The shock of their attack was enough to keep you down for a second, just fast enough for a vial of red dust to explode across your face. 

Yelena studied your face as you were exposed to the chemical agent, waiting desperately to see the telltale signs of disorientation that showed it was working. Much to her dismay, they never came, but she soon realized why as your eyelids slowly shut. When they reopened, your face was brighter than she’d ever seen it, a small smile gracing your lips.

“It’s over,” you laughed, immediately jumping into her arms. “It’s really… it’s really over?”

“It’s over, Solee. You’re done. Never again.”

-

A knock at the door brought your eyes away from the window and towards the blonde, a smile automatically growing at the sight of her. “Hey, you comfortable? Do you need anything? I brought a sweatshirt. It’s one of mine, but you should borrow it. It gets a bit cold at night.” You took the gray piece of clothing from the former spy with a grateful nod.

“So this is where you’ve been all this time?” You looked around the bedroom once more. It was nothing special, literally just a room with a gray dresser and a bed in a wood frame surrounded by white walls, but it was yours. Well, technically you didn’t own it, but you would get to sleep here, by yourself; Yelena had even told you that the two of you could go out to get some decorations for it later.

“We move around as we need to, but yes, we’ve been here for some time.” She paused, the silence not quite like the comforting one that usually fell between the two of you. She was waiting for something. To ask something. “Do you like it?”

“Are you kidding me?” The blonde relaxed at your laugh. “I love it. And the other Widows do too. That’s seven of us that you’ve saved today, eight if you count that man, and eleven if you count his family.” Yelena shook her head gently at the last part of your sentence. Nothing meant more to her than her family, but she was amazed at your compassion, caring not just about your family, but the family of every person you ever came across. “Do you always save this many people in one day?”

“Only on the good days,” Yelena sighed softly.

“Today was a good day then?”

“The best.” When Yelena’s hands slipped into yours, you watched the link just as carefully as she watched you as she made the connection. You weren’t pulling away, but you weren’t… you weren’t moving. Yelena could feel her heart stop beating, her throat closing, her diaphragm freezing. You guys had never moved past a friendship, but she’d always assumed it was because you never could. But maybe the real reason was that you didn’t want it to be anything more than that. Maybe-

“Why, because I’m finally here to make things fun?” It was that one joke, accompanied by a squeeze of her hands, that brought her body back to life.

“No, because we had mac and cheese for dinner,” she scoffed. “Always so humble, huh?”

“Yep, that sounds just like me.” The two of you fell into a fit of giggles, just like you always did when you were together. But this time it was different. For once in your lives, there was nothing holding you back. There were no targets to eliminate, no families to destroy, no Dreykov or Madame B telling you to stop being so pathetic and get on with it already. You were both free at last.

“Leni,” the soft call of her voice had the blonde meeting your eyes. You pulled her hands closer to you before you spoke, effectively pulling Yelena closer to you. “Thank you-”

“You have nothing to thank me for, Solee, I-”

“I have everything to thank you for, Leni. You saved me the first time you helped me, and that time you didn’t let me write that letter, and now today. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve kept going if you didn’t free me today. You saved my life.”

“And you give me life, Solee. Nothing in the Red Room was real. The fake pity Dreykov gave us, the ‘purpose’ that they gave us, none of it. But you were, and you still are, the only thing I knew to be real during all those years in that hellhole. You are my heart and soul.” Oh. Soul-y. That was the nickname. “You are the reason I am here today. So thank you.” You watched as she brought the palm of your hand up to her cheek. But when she turned to press a kiss to your hand, your eyes closed on their own accord, as if they knew it was too much to watch her perform the intimate action. You didn’t want to watch it, you needed to feel it.

And feel it you did. The warmth of her lips against your calloused hands, the gentle yet strong support of her fingers wrapped around yours... in less than twenty-four hours you had gone from hell to absolute heaven.

You slowly opened your eyes when her lips were replaced by her cheek.

“Feel good, Souly?” The former spy asked with a chuckle. You hummed, studying her face before responding.

“I can think of something else that might be better.” Yelena simply quirked an eyebrow at you, but the slight smirk on her lips told you she knew exactly what you might be referring to. So with one last flicker of your eyes from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes, you closed the gap between the two of you—or maybe she did, you honestly weren’t sure—and your lips melted into hers. All the emotions you had felt, were feeling, and could ever feel were poured into the kiss. It was sweet, gentle, and pure, your stomach aflutter with butterflies and your chest swelling with joy, but it was also raw, passionate, and emotional, saying more than two emotionally constipated former assassins ever could.

You two finally separated with your foreheads pressed together, puffs of air being exhaled against each other’s lips as you attempted to fill your lungs with the oxygen it had been deprived of for so long.

It was a while before either of you even thought about speaking again. But there was no need to, not right now. You could talk about what you were later. For now, both of you were perfectly content to stay in each other’s embrace; she, having your whole heart, and you, her soul.

-----

🏷 : @vancityfire13

#tbh not too sure how I feel about this one #but too late now :') #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x fem!reader #yelena belova x you #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova #avengers x reader #marvel #mcu #I wrote something #alwaysmarveling

[gayestnerdsinfiction]

An Encounter with the Beast

tw: descriptions of blood/injuries

Edward had been sleeping peacefully, dreaming of winning arguments against his high school tormentors with witty one-liners, when the whole building shook violently around him. He was jolted awake by the sound of something thudding heavily on the roof, scraping and scrabbling around and creating quite an unpleasant racket. Edward groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat up in bed.

When the noises showed no signs of subsiding, he slid out of bed and grabbed a fluffy, green bathrobe off the hook in the closet. He thought perhaps a group of feral cats or raccoons or some other vile beasties had decided to take up residence on top of the dilapidated apartment building he had been living out of and needed to be chased away from the premises. Ordinarily, he would send Echo or Query to complete such a task, but he was still working on securing their release from Blackgate. Unfortunately, he would have to take care of it himself this time. He briefly wondered if he should bring a weapon to threaten the creature with, but ultimately decided that, no, he should be able to handle a small animal in hand to hand combat if the necessity arose.

Edward opened the front door of his apartment, stumbling out into the hall and heading towards the stairwell that led up to the roof. As he ascended, he had the gnawing feeling that he was going to regret not being better prepared, better armed, that whatever was awaiting him on the rooftop would be more than a simple animal. He paused at the landing, hand on the push-bar, his confidence wavering. Pressing his ear up against the cool surface of the door, he listened. He could hear something writhing and rustling, like wind snapping in a sail. He pushed the door open, stepping tentatively out into the cool night air.

At first, Edward couldn’t even understand what he was looking at. The sight he was met with was unlike anything he had ever encountered before, and that was saying something. He took in the huge, heaving body before him, the dark feathers rustling like a heavy curtain in the wind. Carefully, keeping as far from the beast as he could without falling off the edge of the roof, he made his way around to its face. If it could be called a face.

The creature had a long, leathery snout, its lips pulled back in a snarl to expose a row of wicked fangs, slick and gleaming. Its maw was smeared with drying blood, as were its feathers. It was strange; the being seemed stuck somewhere between a canine and a bird while still seeming uncomfortably humanoid in its physique.

“What on Earth?” he muttered, staring in shock and awe and disgust at the monster before him. As he inspected further, Edward could make out a small, circular wound buried beneath the matted feathers, steadily oozing dark blood.

One of its beady eyes snapped open, swiveling in its socket to look at Edward. When it caught the sliver of moonlight peeking through the fog it flashed silvery white, reflecting the light back at him. Edward balked, his blood running cold in his veins as he backed away. The creature croaked out a woeful sound that made Edward’s blood run cold, somewhere between a howl and a squawking bird.

“Only in this city,” he grumbled, keeping a careful watch on the creature. It made no attempt to pursue him, just stared back at him with its shining eyes. The beast shifted suddenly and Edward tensed, preparing to evade, but it just ruffled its feathers in a way that didn’t look at all satisfying. As it did, something limp and brown shook out of its wing. Edward couldn’t make out what it was in the dark, but it looked eerily like a long strip of skin.

Trying to get out of the monster’s line of sight, he crept around to get a better look at the mysterious item. He was relieved to find upon further inspection that it wasn’t, in fact, skin. Rather, he found himself looking at a torn piece of fabric. Burlap. He looked back up at the creature, beginning to notice other scraps of brown and black fabric hanging off its hulking body. He felt a sick lurch of recognition as he worried the cloth between his fingers.

It could be a coincidence, Edward thought as his gaze flitted back to the beast’s eye. It was still watching him, unblinking, chest rising up and down as it took in rasping breaths.

“I’m going to feel like an idiot if I’m wrong,” Edward said, cursing himself for not being able to keep his thoughts silent, unsaid. With great hesitance, Edward approached the creature’s face again. He stood much closer than was comfortable and he was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of blood and filthy water and that awful smell that birds have. “Are you… Do you know me?” he asked, unwilling to voice his exact conclusion for fear of being mistaken.

Edward stared at the beast and the beast stared back and it was unresponsive for so long that he was beginning to wonder if it could even understand English. But just as he was considering abandoning the attempt altogether, the beast jerked to life. An arm, previously unseen within the mass of feathers, darted out and captured Edward’s small body in a set of curved claws. He yelped as he was pulled close to the beast, so close he could see his reflection in the black expanse of its eyes.

Before he knew what was happening, the creature had opened its mouth wide and a long, sandpapery tongue was dragging across Edward’s face.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut, sputtering as the beast licked him. “God, Jonathan!” he exclaimed, annoyed at the gesture—albeit affectionate. “What the hell is this? Some new experiment of yours gone wrong?” His hand settled on Jonathan’s snout, feeling the bumps and wrinkles along his skin. When he pulled away, his palm was smeared with blood. “Oh, darling,” he murmured. “What happened to you?”

He knew the question was futile. In this state, Jonathan could only let out a guttural sound in response. But Jonathan didn’t need to use words for Edward to understand the pain he was in.

“How can I get you back?” he asked; another rhetorical question. “It’s going to be hard getting you inside and patched up and everything in this condition and I really don’t think I can remove a bullet from you up here in the dark, so… I need you to be human again, please.”

Of course that did nothing, and he almost thought he saw Jonathan rolling his eyes.

“Well, it was worth a try,” he said. “Who would I even… call for something like this?” Edward wondered aloud. “Maybe Victor? But—damn, he’s in Arkham isn’t he? Is there… something in your lab that I could go—” he cut himself off, startled as Jonathan’s grasp around him disappeared and his claws moved to point up at the barely visible moon.

“What are you—oh!” he said brightly, the meaning of the gesture coming together in his mind. “Werewolf rules?”

Jonathan’s hand—because it was quite like a hand, Edward thought—lowered to settle on the rooftop, which Edward took to mean he was correct.

“Will you be alright through the night?” Edward asked as he ran his palm along Jonathan’s flank, smoothing his crumpled feathers with the grain until he neared the still bleeding wound in his side. “I suppose I could get a flashlight and try—”

Once again he was interrupted, this time by a wing moving to knock Edward awkwardly into Jonathan’s body. His face was engulfed by rough feathers and he gagged slightly as the smell became truly overpowering, but it didn’t deter him from burying himself deeper into Jonathan’s chest. His large body was radiating heat and Edward was grateful for that because he knew it was going to be a long, cold night spent on the rooftop with this creature. His creature.

“It’s… It’s going to be okay,” he mumbled into Jonathan’s feathers, speaking more to himself than the other being. “I’m going to stay.”

Jonathan’s chest rumbled and it was almost akin to a purr, vibrating against Edward’s cheek. He couldn’t help but laugh a little at that, at how ridiculous this whole thing was. Really, things like this could only happen in Gotham. And only Jonathan could show up at Edward’s home in the middle of the night as a hideous monster and still receive a warm welcome. “You just get stranger every day, don’t you?” he said softly. “Usually I can keep up, but I will admit, this… this caught me off guard.” He pulled back slightly, peeking out to see if Jonathan was looking at him.

He was. It sent a silent thrill through Edward, having this creature’s gaze on him, knowing what it meant.

“Never a dull moment, my dear,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”

#scriddler #scarebeast #scarecrow #riddler #jonathan crane #edward nygma #batman #dc #fic #my fic #writing #my writing #i imagine scarebeast looking kinda like howl from the hmc movie in his monster form

[captainkurosolaire]

Prompt #27 ~ Warfare

♫Till I Die♫

The fall of Garlemald's effects ran-through out the realm suddenly the shift of power had been flipped over. As many of the countrymen deserted, or those scattered, were pursued. Now they understood what it was like to be the spoils to war. Hunter's turned to prey. A privateer ship supporting under the banner of the Crimson. Chased pursued in the open seas of an attempted escape, a remnant squadron. Their division shattered as their Empire was crumbling to dust. The divisional commander of her ship was taking huge mortar's although the sea-vessel was sturdy and advanced, was taking blows, her men were taking hefty causalities, hearing in screams. They couldn't flee from this. In the fang's of revenge, under the skies of war, monsters were born. The people who once felt were fighting for righteousness, become no-better. These Privateer's were rejoicing. "Commander. Two more alliance accompanying vessels of the opposition have ascended over waves, we've nowhere to go!" The morale of her people were descending. "We've deserved this outcome. It was an honor." Her sentimental tone, spoke they'd rather imperial salute each-other, and commit suicide before becoming prisoners. Right in their contemplated end. The shift was about to turn again.

"A third vessel had wedged between the middle of their reinforcements!" Was shortly called out, giving them further, resolve of hopelessness, before... "Wait. The middle-vessel is bombarding the others!" Suddenly a massive ship rising over tides, removing the fake red Maelstrom banner had been withdrawn into an iconic pirate flag hoisted. Upon the bow-spirit was a tricorne-man. Treading past the destruction of two smaller privateers vessels. The ambush assault left them fodder out-maneuvered. Gathered man, etched in warpaint, they were banned ready for a fight. To intervene between this naval battle. The Seeker leapt back to his decks to bolster. "I would ask ye my Crew, within my helm. T' PRAY for yer enemies. Give them an early moment of silence. For these poor unfortunate soul's will b' educated, they'll earn their red-coats upon this Sun!" He roared and screamed with a warrior shout That followed behind others. "Give Boy-Lad his sea-legs. Let him earn his stripes t' walk over bones!" A crippled and amputated legless fighter crawled on the floor in disbelief, as Sol made augmented prosthetic legs. Unified chaos positioned, to invade the vessel of the privateer from behind. "Aid th' carrier of Garlean's, give all others no-quarter!" Viciously a stampede of leaps was drawn, it was anarchy. Projectiles flung back and forth, sniper shots from the crow's nest of the Worldly Finder started picking off them. Each Crewmate nearly about to be butchered by an opposition was protected by another, they fought as sword and shield, and reversed the roles. Rallied by a leader who was believed-long-flung dead. The brute Seeker skirmishes an assortment of parries to one of the swashbucklers before pulling out a sheathed revolver in the other hand and angling it under his chin and pulling the trigger in a massacre. Completely butchery. Blood of not his own making savagely drew over his face. As he bellowed another victoriously battle-cry that kept even his own injuries gaining on Crew to fight-on. The Garlean's left their hunker, to unity in bewilderment anyone would fight under their behalf. The Captain was almost executed by an aimed shot musketeer but was shot back by an assault rifle of the imperialist. The buccaneer brought terrifying laughter. "THEIR NUMBERS ONLY GIVE US MORE HEADS T' ROLL!" Not only bolstering morality to his own fighters, but also was making hesitation and fear start wearying the grip's of his oppositions, a tactician of dirty behavior. How long have they gotten to do anything they wanted? Or used the excuse of the Garlemald for them to justify or blame their heinous antics? These seas held no discrimination. Yet being constantly corrupted. Putrid borders, barriers for entries, they started skewering Beast Tribes because they strictly took advantage of the Calamity. They put a price-tag on the seas, owning it. Law and restricting and it's no different than what Captain's seen before, they're vindictive and greed-coated. Yet unlike Garlemald who were openly wanting to conqueror, the Maelstrom and Grand Companies alike played fantasy pretend. They're unbeatable, the good! Couldn't do any wrongs, existed of no poison. Bullshit, in war there was no such thing. It's a contest of ego. How many times had the Captain seen a Maelstrom get promoted after they violated his kinsmen, while preaching they were pirates... How many times did he watch them do nothing as people plead in the dirty-alleys before a gal went abducted and missing. These seas would find freedom from vile. Disarray and unorganized, suddenly being attacked by two-sides, the privateer's were being annihilated. Counter measured every-time they brought their marine scholars out, their magic was cancelled by the Historian of the Goldbrand, the purest faith in the Twelve, who brought them no harm, other than silencing their spells. The God's weren't on their side, they belonged to this pirate. That fiendish outcast hound of an Xaela, who ghoulishly shrieked, was feasting on arm's while slewing them in beheaded messes. A Quartermaster

followed by impaling them and hurling the smaller runt's of the enemies. Captain leapt up off that mountain of a Hellsguard on his Crew and bounced off his shoulders dexterously onto the stern. Exchanging in runaways some jumping overboard. "Draw them from th' seas back up here! Their corpses is unworthy t' share with the benthos!" Angry swarming came to their noisy vocalized leader. If they could just behead that blasted vermin then all of them would crumble to despair. He played defensively and evaded one of them about to slayed, was sniped from afar. The handicapped soldier got a puncturing stab on one of the men to protect his Captain before collapsing as his new leg's were already damaged and punctured. The Seeker picked up the adrenaline as blood cut's were protruding from his cheek. He threw his coat onto one of them and jabbed a series of quick deft dirks. A swishing blade came again as he relied on his above-feline scents. The thing he was mocked for by these giants. Doing a handstand leg, disarm from twisting the wrist of the deathly aggressor. The Seeker rolled away and jumped off the stern and swung a leap into the cabin, where he saw the frantic Head-Captain of this enemy helm, run-into, gathering up belongings to attempt plotting retreat. Unexpectedly a flintlock shot at his leg making him fall over all his glistening golds and gil he was trying to rummage into a burlap sack like a coward trying to recollect himself. He brought his own gun out but was disarmed by the wrist from another firearm shot, "Cap'n Daniwyrn... Ye have lost your sense. Recall me." These two knew each-other full and well, this was more than just a one-sided squabble, now. It held harboring emotion. "...Yer supposed t' b' blimey dead!" The callus blood-thirsty Seeker lowered his arm. "Dead is what ye did t' someone I loved. Well, I got yer message. Ye saw t' remove her head cause she moved t' me. If you couldn't have her, neither ov' us could." He lectured in all this chaos-warfare and took a menacing seat. "See, I am not here for revenge on you. This goes beyond that. Now, ye made a crime, sin I find very offensive..." The sea-wolf tried regaining himself while trying to also slowly scoot his bottom and get back his disarmed gun. Knowing was about to be sentenced to a horrific death, or believed. "You have tainted these seas, Daniwyrn. The punishment fer losing your sense. Is crueler than death by my hand. It's t' live as such." He shot the ear's respectively of the privateer. Then the Seeker stood up. Fiendishly brought out his coeurl toothed carved dagger and carved out eye to eye from his enemy. While he was screaming in anguish and incomprehensible pain never able to reel back. He cut that tongue like a fleeting ribbon.

Taking the senses of someone who lacked senses firstly. A fitting treatment, barbarically exercised. He bathed in all the blood over his inferior feline frame. "I know you can't hear me, see, nor speak, though I'm also a nice-guy, I'll leave ye with yer gun... if get the opportunity you should kill yourself." He'd savagely trail, beating his enemy who barely was functioning, stuck in a haze, discombobulated, suffering severe blood-loss. Loading and priming the revolver with one bullet, he'd force it into the arm's of his blind foe and make him squeeze it. Captain walked out as if this was just a regular circumstance. The duty of returning. Closing the cabin door. Hearing a procedure gun-shot ring-throughout. A signal was overhead horned, "They've got more crimson reinforcements!" The battle sizzled and the sparks were over. "Let us gather up, plunder post-haste. Burn this shite down." They took the Garlemald survivors and retreated, licking wounds but won victorious.

#Prompt - Benthos #FFXivWrite2021 #ffxivwrite2021 #FFxivwrite #tw: war mention #Tw:gore #tw: violence #ffxiv writers #Tales of the Goldbrand #long one' #Naval Battles #darker themes #-Captain Kuro Solaire #Creative Writing #Pirate

[generic-cleric]

Session 27: Curse of Strahd

Things are picking up in the campaign, so I thought I would start making write ups / summaries for the sessions! 

Spoilers for Curse of Strahd below:

The Feast of Saint Alexei Part I: Bad Moon Rising

So, the party thought they were gonna have a nice chill day of shopping before the Festival of the Blazing Sun tomorrow. It was about noon when Ireena contacted them via sending stone, notifying them that the holy bones that hallow the grounds of Saint Alexi have been stolen! 

Since Bedlam doesn't do churches, he stops by Blinsky's to pick up a toy he commissioned. He finds Blinsky bruised, bloodied, and hysterical. After calming him down, Bedlam discovers that a stranger came in asking about Arabelle and roughed him up pretty bad. Arabelle came out of hiding to confront the man, and that's where she got nabbed! The man didn't get out unscathed though, for he lost an ear to Piccolo. My party has been building very strong bonds and relationships with Arabelle and Blinsky since they got to Vallaki, so this was absolutely devastating.

With a fire under their asses, Bedlam, Piccolo, and Veledrel book it to the church to pick up Ireena, fearing for her safety while Vondal and Okrin start following leads regarding the missing bones.

Bedlam and Veledrel make a quick stop at the Vistani camp to pick up Jander and introduce him to Ireena, and to explain that she might be living with him for the unforeseeable future. They high-tail it back to town to reconvene with the other two.

Meanwhile Vondal and Okrin's gathered information leads them to the Orphanage where they discover a horrible slimey thing living within the walls and causing sickness and death to it's inhabitants. (One of it's occupants being Frederick, a little boy who's side adventure deserves its own write up.) The two groups finally meet back up and decide to tackle the Arabelle situation first.

They are led from one place to the next, eventually ending up at the lake. There they can see Bluto the fisherman sitting alone in his boat. All is quiet until he throws that screaming burlap sack over the edge, into the water where a tentacle monster is known to ominously lurk. It was an absolute mad dash to save her, but they did it! 3 out of 3 successes on that skill challenge!

Arabelle shivers and huddles close to Ireena. The entirety of the boat is radiating with hot rage. Eyes burning and boring into this monster that would commit such atrocities against a vistani child and their friend.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now!" The Goliath Palidan screams brandishing his battle axe at the hunched over man staring into dead space.

He only muttered under his breath in disbelief "..it said it would bring the fish back. It said it would bring the fish back if I… it said.."

"GODS DAMNIT" Okrin howls and the axe bites hard into the edge of the boat next to the man. As the Druid helps push the boat to shore in the form of an octopus, Bedlam goat-kicks Bluto over the edge and into the dark waters, sparing Arabelle from having to curse him and potentially making some kind of emotional mistake. Tentacles wrap around the screaming man and drag him under, leaving nothing but bubbles behind. The party discusses potentially paying off his tab to the Martikovs, for they would hate for that really nice family to suffer at the expense of that asshole.

With that fiasco behind them, they move forward. Jander carries Arabelle home and returns to the party with a prophecy she spouted off in her sleepy stupor:

“Resting peacefully in hands of bone, a dragon sleeps in a forgotten home. A haunted house of dead’s unrest, forever tormented by an unending quest.”

Which I'm sure they've forgotten by now.

They evacuate the children and Miss Claudia out of the Orphanage so they can burn out the Oblex. Ireena shows off her cool new casting abilities she picked up while training at the church and they are able to successfully deal with the creature.

The rest of the information that Milivoj gives them takes them to the Stockyard, which then leads them to the Coffin Maker's shop. They swarm that bitch like a SWAT team. Henrik won't give them the answers they are looking for, so they conduct a search and, surprise, surprise, trigger the Feast.

#cos #Curse of Strahd #Ravenloft #Barovia #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #session summary #session write up #screaming into the ether #Ireena Kolyana #Jander Sunstar #5e #Strahd von Zarovich

[isnt-it-loverly]

little birdie (5)// five hargreeves

Warnings: very tiny trigger warning for self harm

Summary: When Five lands in the Sparrow Academy, he must convince one of them to help him reset the timeline. 

Word count: 1650ish

Author note: finally done with exams and back to writing! it felt good to write something I wanted to, instead of essays for school. 

part one, part two, part three, part four

Remember when you said The Umbrellas were not that bad, well most of them weren’t. But they were hesitant to welcome you with open arms. Luther stared at you intently, fire and rage seeping from his demeanor. You tried your best to sink into the burlap couch, the fibers itching away at your skin. You had delivered their brother safely, mostly unharmed but at least he was alive.

“Does anyone else think that this is- I don’t know, dangerous? That thing is a killing machine, she could be raiding our minds,” Luther snarled.

“I have to agree with King-Kong, she could be satelliting our location to Dad as we speak,” Diego, you assumed, spoke. 

“That’s not entirely how it works,” you spoke up timidly.

“Oh yeah? Then how come you know everything about Five? Or how about how you tried to kill Klaus? I’m sure you’ve already told your little flock of drones all of our secrets,” Luther yelled. 

“First off,” you started, “I am number five. I’m not the ringmaster, I’m not the leader of the group, and I have the body of a teenager. So let’s assume I hold no power when it comes to my family. I am an object to them. If I was in league with them- believe me, pea brain, you’d be dead.” 

The room fell silent as you raised your voice, and Five gave you an encouraging smirk. He was going to enjoy you putting his egotistical brother in his place. But boy, did his family make your blood boil.

“And another thing, Mr. Age-of-enlightenment, don’t try to use my ability against me. Because I can bet that you will lose every single time. Brain beats brawn, tough guy,” you spat. 

You were in his face now, on your tippy-toes, but still making yourself eye level. You could do it if you wanted to. Take over his mind and make him do unspeakable things, but you decided against it. You needed them to trust you, but more importantly, you needed their help. You took a deep yet shaky breath and backed away from Luther slowly. The anger was suddenly gone and replaced with immense dread. You looked around at your surroundings, they were all staring at you harshly but with fear ever-present on their faces. You knew that all they saw was the beast who stole lives, who knew every secret and thought, the monster who could never be trusted. 

“This was a mistake,” you whispered, tears brimming your eyes. 

“(Y/n), wait,” Five called. You felt him reach out for you but it was too late, you were already out the door. 

You could hear him yelling at his siblings from outside the door. It was strange how much he cared, you’d known him a couple of days- and half of that was fighting with your families. You looked around cautiously, where were you gonna go. You made your way through the old and dusty hallway of the rundown apartment complex. It was a good hiding spot. The other side of town in a secluded and forgotten area, your siblings would never think to look down here. They thought the umbrellas were too egotistical to be smart. The stairwell, you thought, was the only way to rise from rock bottom. You must go up. You run up the stairs as fast as your feet could carry you, hearing the loud boom of your stomps echo off the concrete walls. 

You reached the rooftop in a matter of seconds. The chill of the April air lingered around you. You made your way to the edge, the streets were barren and quiet. There was no one to help you escape from this nightmare you had created. What a mess you had managed to create in less than a week. You peered over the edge trying to find any living being to take over so you could be rid of all these conflicting emotions. 

You were a member of the Sparrow Academy, and yet here you were fraternizing with the enemy. The Umbrellas would never see you as an equal, just as someone who stole their life. Then there was your family, how would you ever come back from this? 

“You really shouldn’t be leaning over the edge like that. You could fall and that would be quite unfortunate for the both of us,” Five’s unempathetic voice pulled you from your thoughts. 

Five carefully grabbed your forearm and pulled you away from the edge. Not that he thought that you’d intentionally hurt yourself, but he was not about to lose someone he cared about. Five thought for a moment, did he care about you? Or were you just an important asset to resetting the timeline? He didn’t have time to sort that out at the moment, he had more important matters to attend to. You looked up at him, the tears made your eyes shine more than they usually did. He didn’t know if it was your power drawing him in or if this was just a moment of weakness. He just couldn’t help himself. He wiped a tear that had managed to escape, though he could tell that you were trying your best to keep them in. 

“They’re a lot, I know, but they’ve been through hell and back. They’re scared. They’ve lost everything, and they see you as Number Five not as (Y/n). A replacement for us. You’re better and far more powerful than any of us,” He explained. 

You liked this version of him. This Five was gentle instead of hostile. You wiped your eyes and nodded, showing him that you understood. 

“I can’t believe I let my temper go, I just- it’s been a hard couple of days. I’ve never disobeyed an order, I’ve always done what my father told me, was always there when Number One needed me. Yet here I am, standing in the presence of my most dreaded enemy,” You explained. 

“I’ve told you, I didn’t ask you to help me,” He remarked coldly. There he was, there was that hardened exterior. There was a silence for a moment before you decided to continue.

“I’ve heard about you my entire life, the boy who could travel between space and time. I used to be afraid of you, how could I possibly compete with someone who could be anywhere they wanted. I used to have nightmares about the day when you and your family would come,” you finished. 

Five cleared his throat with an unreadable expression. You could look into his mind and see what he was thinking, but you did not want to destroy the foundation of trust you had built with him. He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Our father really has a special way of sculpting young minds. When we met him in the sixties, I should’ve been more careful...if I had known that’s why he was taking notes at that dinner- I would’ve watched what we said,” Five said solemnly. 

He blamed himself for all this, how could he not. Not only had he managed to ruin his entire family’s life, but he had managed to drag someone as good as you down with it. He thought for a moment about where you would be in his timeline. Maybe you had learned to control your powers, and you had grown into a young woman. Maybe you had a life, a job, a family, a house mortgage to pay. But yet his stupidity had cost you everything. Now you were just as broken as he was. 

“You’re not stupid,” you spoke up. 

Five gave you a quizzical look, and then it dawned on him. 

“You were in my head,” He responded in a monotone voice.

“I couldn’t help it, you blanked out. I had to make sure I didn’t say anything wrong. More importantly I had to make sure you were okay,” You said reaching for his hand. To your surprise, he didn’t pull away, and for that you were thankful. 

“Why do you care?” He asked sharply. It was meant to hurt you, but you’d faced worse than a moody old man. 

“Because you’re my friend. We are friends, right? I mean, I saved your life...twice. You held me while I bled everywhere,” You said with a small yet hopeful smile. 

Five cautiously looked at your hand holding his. He wouldn’t let anyone else do this, he really shouldn’t let you do it. Something about it felt right, your touch was comforting. It was like a breath of fresh air and if he concentrated really hard it almost brought a sense of normalcy. He could imagine that there was no danger and definitely no world in need of saving. It was you, he concluded, it had to be. Somehow you must have been drawing him in, making him feel this way. He hadn’t felt like this since he first saw Delores. This had to be one of your mind tricks, and yet he didn’t care. The feeling was worth having. 

“Yes, I suppose we are friends,” He confirmed. 

That brought a smile to your face. You both liked the sound of that. Five gave your hand a gentle squeeze and you felt your heart melt. Surely this was not the same Five Hargreeves your father had warned you about. You were sure that there was no way you could ever hate him, you just didn’t have it in you. 

“Come on,” Five spoke up, “We better get inside before my siblings think you murdered me.” 

“You know that I’m not always in your head, or anyone’s for that matter. And I’m not a cell phone tower, I can’t satellite your location,” you explained. 

Five gave you a small chuckle, “I know.” 

With that he lead you back into the warm and safe, yet slightly smelly, hallway. Having Five by your side made you feel safe and you knew with him there- you could face anything. 

#number five #The Umbrella Academy #tua #five x reader #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #umbrella academy five #aidan gallagher #sparrow academy #number five x reader #number five x you #five x you #umbrella academy #five #the umberella academy #the umbrella academy #five x y/n

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome To Backwater ch.5 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Stretch is only trying to help, but maybe it's better to listen to the locals, especially when you're from far out of town.

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Read Chapter Five on AO3

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Read it here!

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By the time Red took over at the store for Stretch every day, the sun was at its peak, pouring down waves of heat to bake into the asphalt and the hardpacked ground. It made the whole town look like a sepia-tinted photograph with the old storefronts and their peeling paint, the dust kicking up with every step a person took in little clouds around their feet.

About the only thing that was truly green around was the cornfields, the sudden burst of color so sharp after looking at the monochrome town it almost ached. In a bizarre way, it reminded Stretch of Snowdin, of days spent in nothing but blinding whiteness only broken by the desperate cheer of Gyftmas lights.

A flip-flop from cold to heat was all, and neither temperature was preferable to him. Stretch dealt with the hot the same way he had the chill; by trying to stay out of it.

Still, a guy did need a little fresh air now and again, and after hitting up the movie theater, he’d started taking walks down the main road into town in the late afternoon before wandering back to the store for dinner. The road wasn’t a busy one, mostly pickup trucks and family vans, with the occasional bus coming through the same way as the one that brought him. Taking a pitstop for gas and grub then off again, only none of those riders decided to hop off and stay awhile. Not yet, anyway.

There was no sidewalk, only a narrow line of dirt running down the outside of the crumbling asphalt between it and the yellowed grass, and that was where he walked. Not any faster than a casual stroll, he wasn’t training for a marathon here. Sometimes he smoked and sometimes he didn’t, tucked his hands into his pockets and walking in the liminal space between the road and the corn, waving at anyone who waved to him. Most of the cars and trucks did, small-town friendly as they went to the store or the bar or to ‘Mamas’.

Stretch wasn’t a farming sort of guy, he didn’t know thing one about no plants, much less the huge fields surrounding the town. On his list of new things he was learning was that corn was really loud. Like, really. The slightest breeze sent a cascading wave of rustling next to him and he listened to that rather than any music, absently wishing that any cooling puff of air would make it over to the road just once to bless his sweating face.

Kids were usually out about the same time, either taking advantage of sunny days before school started again or maybe kicked out by the parents they’d been driving nuts the rest of the day. They tooled around on bicycles and dragged along old, rusty red wagons inherited from older siblings with ‘Radio Flyer’ still barely legible along the sides. Those wagons often turned into mobile lemonade stands and Stretch had already been suckered out of a few quarters for a cup or two. He knew now that the little twins with their hair up in fuzzy little ponytails were his go-to providers for a nice, cooling drink that was just tart enough to perk up your mouth and to avoid the kid with the gap-tooth smile and his little brother unless he only wanted to make a donation to their new bike fund because those little swindlers sometimes forgot to add sugar.

No one was selling lemonade today, though. All the kids were gathered together in a large clearing on one side of the road. Long use had worn the shorn, yellowed grass down to the dirt and created a rough baseball diamond, and it looked like every kid in town was playing, from the little kids with a thumb still stuck in their mouth to the older ones patiently showing their little siblings how to hold the bat.

It was cute, really. Baseball wasn’t a thing in Snowdin, not much chance of rounding the bases through a foot of snow, but the Monster kids had gone sledding together and had snowball fights.

The laughter Stretch remembered from those days sounded exactly the same as that coming from the field and hearing that little commonality felt kinda good. Maybe when more time passed, some of the more bitter Humans back in Ebott would hear it, too.

Some of the kids waved at him as Stretch walked past and he waved back, recognizing some of the grinning faces and skinned knees as kiddos who’d stopped in at the store to raid the candy shelf. He didn’t get too far down the road when he heard the crack of the bat against the ball, sudden shouts rising, and he turned to see the baseball soaring overhead. Right into the cornfield next to him, landing unseen with a loud ‘thwack!’ into the dirt.

Welp, just as well it hadn’t gone right for him. Even if he’d tried to catch it, hard baseball against a skinless hand made for broken fingers. Plus, there was no way in hell he’d’ve been able to catch it, as if, he stumbled over his own stupid feet sometimes. The only sport Stretch played was competitive napping and at that, he was a pro.

But there was no reason to make one of the kids run all the way over here for the ball. He could probably manage to throw it back. Probably.

He took a detour off the road towards the field, calling to the kids who were already jogging his way, "i'll get it!"

“Mister, wait!” a tall boy called, legs churning as he ran.

Another kid was with him, dashing towards him, “Don’t go!”

He didn't pay those calls much mind; he'd heard where the ball landed, he could get it before they even got over here to start the search. Stretch pushed his way through the first row of tall green stalks and stepped into the field.

His shoes sank into the soft, damp soil, huh, weird that it was so wet in here when everywhere else was as dry as, well, dirt. Farmer kept up with the irrigation, for sure. He pushed through the stalks towards where he’d heard the ball hit, eyes on the dark soil, looking for the odd man out of a round white ball and its stark red stitches.

Long minutes passed as he searched and Stretch was starting to get confused. Stretch wasn’t any kind of marksman or whatever, but he’d heard the ball hit the dirt close by, it should’ve been right around here. He went a little further, careful not to break any stalks as he navigated through them and still, there was nothing but corn. That loud rustling he’d heard from the road was different out here in the field, moving all around him it an endless, whispering tide.

Okay, fuck this. Being here alone in the cornfield was starting to give him the crawling creeps. He wasn’t really superstitious and he’d only been joking about vampires with Red, but even the sunshine seemed lessened in here, dimmed by the leaves crackling overhead. It was creepy as hell and the corn was higher than he’d first thought, leaves as rough as a cat's tongue wavering high over his head. They seemed to grab onto his shirt, abrading softly against the bare bones of his legs exposed by his shorts. The stalks grew so close together they were holding him back, and how the hell did he get this far in, anyway, he couldn’t even see the road anymore.

Stretch did an about face, right back towards town. Hell with it, time to get reinforcements and if anyone thought he was a pussy, he’d happily give them a meow.

He headed towards where he could hear the kids shouting for him, struggling through the rows, but he didn’t seem to be get any closer. Which was impossible, okay, he didn't go that far in, he couldn't have, not in only a few minutes. He swore he was going straight, but maybe so many rows of corn distorted the sound. The shouts of the kids kept moving, to the left, to the right. Clods of soft, black dirt clung to his sneakers, dragging him down with each step and his hands felt rubbed raw from pushing through the leaves.

Town was right over there, had to be, but panic was starting to take hold. Stretch tried to go faster, but it wasn’t like there was anywhere to go, the corn was closed in all around him, that whispering getting louder, echoing inside his skull. Cornsilk clung to his clothes, the tangled strands itching on his bare legs like jellyfish tentacles on dry land. Leaves tried to poke into his sockets, threatening to blind him as he pushed through, wetness from torn shoots slicking his hands in sticky juices.

He stumbled into a clearing so suddenly he nearly fell, the ground tamped down and dry in a large circle. Crop circle, aliens, his mind whispered, but in the center was a raggedy scarecrow, arms spread wide on its t-shaped post like a crucifixion. Its face was a burlap sack, its jagged grin and dark eyes dabbed on with greasepaint and straw billowing from its sleeves and stuffed pantlegs.

“what the hell,” Stretch muttered. Looking at that thing sent a shiver of the creeps crawling up his spine and he turned away from it, looked around the clearing as he tried to get his bearings. Now that he was out of the corn, he was calming a little, which was good because if Red had to get a search party together to find him out here in the field right by the damn road, he was never gonna hear the end of it.

There.

Overtop the tall, rustling stalks, he could just barely see the church steeple. It looked much farther away than it should’ve been. Had he been going in entirely the wrong direction? The echo of the shouts leading him further away from town rather than towards it?

What the fuck ever, he was done with corn, he wasn’t even going to add Fritos to any current snack menus.

Stretch pulled up the front of his t-shirt, trying to pick strands of cornsilk off fruitlessly. He gave up and instead used the hem to wipe at his damp face while he worked up the motivation to venture back into the corn. He glanced absently back at the scarecrow and all the hot sweat on his bones went abruptly cold, chilling him right down to the marrow.

The scarecrow was looking at him.

It wasn’t possible, stupid to even think it, but it was true. The sagging sack of its head was lifted, its chin no longer resting on its non-existent collarbone, it was raised, and those dark, paint-smeary eyes were pointed at him. Staring at him.

Stretch couldn’t move, standing frozen as his terror warred with his practicality. His soggy sneakers leaked filthy wetness onto the dry dirt as he stared at the scarecrow, who stared back. He watched as a straw-filled glove twitched, seemed to move on its wooden post and that was the wind, his jibbering mind told him, had to be, it was only the wind making it twitch like it was alive, the same way it sent the corn rustling, but his burgeoning fear didn’t give a shit, told his practicality to go fuck itself and ordered him to run.

Stretch turned away and bolted back into the wall of green, fighting his way through the corn stalks as he headed towards the church steeple that he couldn’t see anymore over the towering shoots. Black muck grabbed at his shoes, threatening to yank them off, every step felt like quicksand and he still tried to run. There were no shadows, not even here in the deep green but it felt like one was over him anyway, covering him, coming up from behind.

Something snarled around his ankle, caught hold and held, and Stretch went sprawling. He fell hard, face-first into the corn and dirt, and even then he didn’t stop. He rolled over, kicking frantically as he tried to free himself, his soul pounding in his chest and throbbing inside his skull, eclipsing the faint sob that escaped him as he saw it.

The scarecrow, walking towards him on unsteady, boneless legs and reaching out with those filthy, straw-filled gloves. Stretch couldn’t get loose, the corn was tangled around his legs and he was face-to-face with those dark, blank eyes, the rough weave of its sack face looming ever closer. He threw up his own stinging hands, soul aching as his magic sputtered uselessly and even now it refused him, left nothing but a scorched gagging taste on the back of his tongue.

“Hey, there, you okay?”

It took a long time for the scratchy words to filter through his blistering panic and by then the scarecrow was crouched at his feet, helping to tear away the tangle of leaves around them.

”i…yes?” Stretch said blankly. He had no idea if it were true. He felt like he still had about a years’ worth of adrenaline running through his mana lines, legs jittery and ready to send him sprinting off again until he hit town. Maybe even the next town over.

"Nothin' broken?" it…he?...persisted. Carefully, he helped Stretch to his wobbly feet, dusting away the clinging cornsilk and dirt while Stretch tried to convince his unsteady knees to hold him. "Jeezum crow, you sure did take a bad tumble! Why’d ya run off like that, I thought ya might be lost!”

“i am,” Stretch said faintly, “lost. yes. i’m lost.” At that moment in more ways than one, but then, that’d been true before he even stepped off the bus.

“Yeah, easy to get turned around in the fields,” the scarecrow nodded sagely. His voice was strange, hardly more than a croaky rasp and his mouth didn’t move. The words seemed to drop right out into the air between them. He pushed back his straw hat with a limp, floppy hand and more straw poked out of its sleeve, one piece working its way free to float lazily to the ground. “The corn gets lonely sometimes.”

“the corn,” Stretch repeated weakly.

“It don’t mean no harm, though!" The scarecrow turned away and gave his denim-clad backside a scratch, limp fingers folding against the heavy cloth as he hollered, "Now you all git on back and let him head into town, you hear me?”

The corn rustled unhappily but the stalks seemed to visibly shift, settled back into proper rows and Stretch could see more clearly now, all the way back to town. The children standing outside the cornfield, still waving and yelling in his direction.

“There ya go!” The jagged, greasepaint grin that had seemed so sinister before now only seemed like a crooked smile. “You go on back to town, now, corn’ll behave for ya.”

“thank you,” Stretch said. It seemed like the thing to say when a strange scarecrow rescued you from lonely corn. He took one unsteady step, another, and the corn didn’t try to stop him, of course it wouldn’t, it was corn, it wasn’t like it could…it wasn’t…

It didn’t take him long to get back to the side of the road this time and as soon as Stretch stepped out of the cornfield the children were on him, a rabble of high-pitched voices all asking him the same thing.

“You okay, mister?”

“Jeepers, dontcha know not to run into the corn like that!”

“Good way to miss supper time!” That came in unison from the twins, their dark brown eyes wide and very concerned that he might not have a good meal tonight.

“You coulda been stuck all day!”

“i’m okay,” Stretch managed. He still wasn’t sure if it was true. He looked down at his clothes, filthy with dirt and strands of cornsilk. He held out his hands, spreading his thin fingers and distantly watched the way they trembled. There was soil ground into his knuckles, grimy and dark. "guess i’m not used to corn.”

"Yeah, out of towners wander in sometimes," one of the taller kids said, with all the world-weary wisdom he'd attained in his decade of life. "Don’t you worry, though, Edgar Allen won't let you get too lost."

"edgar allen?" Stretch repeated blankly. He was starting to feel like a broken record, skipping all over the place and out of tune.

That earned him another exasperated look, given in unison from all the children. One of the little ones piped up, "The scarecrow, a'course!"

"of course." Of course the scarecrow’s name was Edgar Allen, of course it was, what else made sense?

Red warned him about the woods, maybe he should've given the corn fields a passing mention, or at least a fucking footnote in his little ‘welcome to town’ chat.

From behind came a sudden rustle of leaves and Stretch jumped, his barely stifled panic roaring back to life as he whirled around. He nearly fell on his ass even as he automatically flung his arms out, trying to keep the kids behind him.

From out of the tall stalks of corn came a small white blur, headed right for them It rolled to a stop just shy of his feet, round and ordinary, still smudged with dirt.

The baseball.

One of the kids picked it up nonchalantly, not a single one of them alarmed or even a trifle uneasy. Not unless you counted the way they were looking at him.

Stretch’s legs were tired, but they were all he had to carry him in a slow, shuffling stagger into town. All the kids clustered around him, dusty little birds chirping their concern as they walked along beside him. Worried about him maybe, or curious to see what other stupidity the outsider could manage today and fuck knew that this time if one of them shouted stop, Stretch was going to stop, stop and listen.

Right now that felt like about all he could manage, his skull felt like it was stuffed with—

(straw)

--cotton wool. All he wanted a to sit down someplace cool with someone older than the age of ten who might be able to answer the question that was standing out stark in his thoughts: what the fuck was going on in this place?

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tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #welcome to backwater

[dimitre-grymzin]

It was the twenty-sixth of August and I was greeted by another bag over the head.

“Are you fucking serious?” I said as soon as I was shoved into a chair, my hands zip tied behind my back. I jerked my head around, trying to pull the burlap bag off, but it wouldn’t budge. “Get me Pavlo now,” I shouted, I could hear the shuffling of footsteps around me. 

I had been working on Astrid’s office space. The building was abandoned and no one even knew I was here. They didn’t transport me to another warehouse like last time. Instead, I was being held hostage in my own space and that annoyed me. “Hey, do you hear me?” I said louder. 

“I hear you,” said a familiar voice and then the bag was removed. It was Pavlo. “Mr. Grymzin, what game are you playing?”

“ME? What about you? You kidnapped me once, tortured me, left me in a fucking closet for the three days and now you take me again? I thought we were on the same page—” 

“As did I,” Pavlo said as he sat down in a chair facing me. He was holding a gun. “You say you want your father dead and that you’re willing to work with us to make this happen, but then you vanish from New York for three weeks? Surely you see how this looks from my perspective. It looks as if you're playing a long game and conning me.” Pavlo leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from mine. “If you double cross me, I’m taking you down with me.” He waved the gun to point at the office, “And your girlfriend will also be taken.” 

And there it was. That fear that had been slowly rising up in me since the moment I realized I loved Astrid and wanted—needed—her in my life. I thought my father would use her as leverage against me but it was the Buryakovs instead. I took a long breath and tried to craft my response to hide how terrified I was about that. 

“I’m not trying to double cross you. I just want to be free of Boris. That’s all.” 

Once Pavlo was satisfied with his interrogation, I was released. He told me to be ready and not to leave the city again. 

· · · · · · · 

It’s happening.

That’s all I had to say in order for Astrid to understand that I meant my father's assassin was about to go down. She went pale but tried to stay calm. I knew it was for me, because I was a nervous wreck. I was afraid, for many reasons. 

I was afraid because Pavlo wouldn’t give me all the details about how and when it was going to happen. He suggested that it should happen in front of me to throw off suspicion. And I felt like he was targeting the club for the scene, which I hated. I didn’t want my club to be shone in that sort of light, but what could I say? 

I was afraid that he’d double cross me and kill me along with my dad. Because, in the great scope of things, it was his best solution. Take care of the middle man, the snitch, the betrayer. Me. I would do it. I wouldn’t trust someone with such incriminating evidence. 

I was also afraid that my family would learn of my involvement in Boris’ death and they’d come after me. I tried to cover my tracks, but honestly, I wasn’t entirely confident in the matter. I knew there was a thread of evidence that would lead them to my door if they looked hard enough. 

· · · · · · ·

I spent Saturday with Astrid in our bed. It was incredible, of course, but there was a heaviness that surrounded us. Neither of us spoke on it but we were both afraid of what was coming. My life was literally on the line and I couldn’t prepare for it. I made her promise to stay away from the club. I didn’t want her to be caught in the middle of this war. 

I kissed her a little longer before leaving for the club and I spent the next several hours jumping at the slightest noises while I was trapped in the basement with Boris and two of my brothers as he inspected the latest shipment of guns. 

“These are good,” he said in English, his accent heavily coating the words. It was still strange to hear the man speak the foreign language but now that he spent more time in the country, he felt it necessary. “Load them into the van,” he told my brothers before motioning me towards the steps. “Let’s head to the office and discuss next month.” 

For a moment, I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want him to go. Which didn’t make any fucking sense. He wasn’t my father. He was a fucking monster who verbally, emotionally, and physically abused me when I was a kid. He was the bastard who encouraged my brothers to do the same. Because of him, I hadn’t been able to see my kids more than a few times over the last year and a half. Because of him, my ex was dead and my daughter was motherless. I reminded myself of this as I headed up the steps without looking back at my brothers, who loved him and would grieve his death. I wouldn’t. I knew I fucking wouldn’t miss him. 

An hour passed by and my father was leaving the club, my brothers in hand with him. I wanted to stall but I didn’t know how without alerting them of what was supposed to happen. Did something happen to change Pavlo’s plans? I felt my heart aching with uncertainty as I walked them out to the parking lot in the back of the club where the employees parked. Boris grunted his goodbye to me and headed for the town car, my brothers right behind him.

I was already pulling the disposable phone out of my pocket to call my handler to figure out what was going on when it happened. I missed it. One moment I was looking at the tiny screen and then next I heard Boris collapsing on the ground, my brothers frantically inspecting him.

Unable to stop myself, I ran to them, just as Sasha flipped him over to reveal the pool of blood seeping from a chest wound. He was dead. He was dead and I wasn’t happy. I felt my throat tightening and for a moment I thought I was going to pass out. 

#[Dimitre x 9] #[tw: murder] #[replies from all characters tomorrow. sorry! this was a stressful week.]

[siempre-pedro]

Brightening Up My Darkest Nights

Dad! Din Djarin x Reader 

Summary: His mind was in a dark place; black and surrounded with his insecurities. All it takes was his newborn daughters laugh to lift the clouds

Warnings: Mentions of depression 

Word Count: 922

A/N: when the depression monster hits you at 3am you write about it. 

Din didn’t know how this happened, it just happens like a terrible storm passing through. You look outside and it's bright and sunny but if you look away for a second those dark clouds consume the sun. That's how he felt now in his dark ship, his armor off and his face exposed. 

His look of sadness etched on his strong features; he felt so alone. His wife gone with the green child, he learned that she was a much better negotiator than him and went to bargain for parts they needed for the Razor Crest. Even then he wasn't physically alone, his baby girl fast asleep in her crib that Y/N and Din built together. In his mind, he felt alone, that no one could bring him out of this funk. 

Sitting in the cargo hold the Mandalorian looks down at his hands, wondering why he was like this? Why were these monsters gathering inside him? When he went to bed he was fine, thoughts of his wife on his mind. Waking up was another story, feeling the urge to cry as soon as he opened his tired eyes. 

He didn't want to move, his body glued to the ground, his eyes fixated on the steel wall in front of him. Why was he this way? Because you'll never find the kids family. 

That's what it was? Kriff it's been almost 2 years since he began the search for the Child's home. Planet after planet it was always "What is that thing?" or "We've never seen anyone like him." Failure. Din was a failure as a protector. 

His hands grip his hair tightly, the darker the thoughts the harder he pulled. His legs against his chest he rests his head on his knees. A small ball in the corner...he felt small. 

Y/N. That beautiful woman he all but begged to join him years ago, the woman who made him a father. He failed her too. They were always on the run from other bounty hunters, she was almost shot numerous times. He never felt like he could keep her safe. He was never able to provide a stable home for her. 

His baby. He didn't deserve her; he's only going to keep disappointing her. Din lets out a muffled sob as he thinks of his daughter growing up hating him. He couldn't give them a home, a yard to play in, a safe place. 

A sound breaks through, echoing through the ship. He quickly rises to his feet, his hand on his blaster. The sound rings out again, it was her! The man rushes out of the cargo hold, his heart started to race. What if she was hurt? 

Climbing the stairs into his room he hears the sound clearly. She was laughing, her small hand trying to grab the spinning mobile high above her. Din smiles weakly, her laughter bringing joy to his sad heart. Slowly he begins to walk to her, not wanting to startle the 4-month-old. 

Placing his hands on the edge of the crib he watches her as her big brown eyes move from the mobile to him. Her toothless smile grows wider when she sees him, cheerfully giggling. Din picks her up and holds her in his arms. She reaches for his nose and laughs again. 

Din's breath hitches, his emotions rising in the form of tears. He doesn't know why but a wave of relief washes over him. The clouds started to dissipate every time she giggled at him. Her tan cheeks were turning pink from the laughter "Breathe, my darling," he laughs through a cry, rubbing her little cheek.

Leonor. That was her name. Y/N said she heard someone say it meant light in another language. That she was. She was his light that made the clouds and dark thoughts disappear.  She wasn't crying at the sight of him, screaming for her mother's safe arms. Leo wanted him...and his nose. She was happy that he was there with her in the safety of his arms. Maybe he hasn't disappointed her yet. Her smiling face told him that everything was going to be ok.

"Din?" Y/N's calming voice calls to him. He looks up with teary eyes, his wife instantly grows concerned. The burlap sack she held fell to the ground as she rushed over to him, the kid in the floating carrier in tow. She looks at her daughter making sure she was safe before looking up at Din. "Is everything ok?" 

"She laughed," he says weakly with a sad smile. His expression made her tear up, she places her hand on his bicep and smiles back. Leonor's giggles turning into soft babbles. 

"What's wrong?" 

"What if we never find his people? What if we never find a home?" he tells her his fears quickly, knowing at any moment he would cry in front of her again. The woman wipes his tears and cups his face gently. 

"Even if we don't he knows that this is his home. Our home is here with each other, Din. The four of us together." 

"What if I can't protect you...or her." 

"You've done a good job so far," she chuckles, "Din we're all going to be ok." 

His feelings fade away with her words and another giggle escaping the girl's lips as Y/N tickles her tummy. The child making grabby hands at him resulted in Y/N picking him up. They were all together, and that's all he needed. The sky inside his head was a lot brighter. 

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader

[bluestmoons]

1. alias/name: Serena!

2. birthday: February 3rd!

3. zodiac sign: Aquarius! 

4. height: 5′8"? I literally don’t know I have no idea, but I’m tall-ish 

5. hobbies: RP!!! Umm,,, I don’t know what counts as hobbies, but! Playing Sims! Making up stories/characters! Learning German! Transcribing! Making friends!  

6. favorite colors: PINK, orange/gold, green, and purple! 

7. favorite books: I always say “my own” and Inkheart by Cornelia Funke so let’s go with that!! I haven’t read a real book in a bit though. 😭

8. last song listened to: “why do you feel so down?” by Declan McKenna ( JKLFDJAKLFDA ONE IN THE SAME... )

9. last film or show watched: Kimi no Suizou wo Tabetai! 

10. inspiration for muse: I think most people would just pick one muse but let me just go down the list and pick things that remind me of/inspire me about my muses and/or why I picked them up!  ELSA: Purples and blues, cold weather and forests, dizzying castles, tinkling bells, snow and ice ( duh?? ), icicles, Norwegian patterns, deep purple velvets, isolation, the scratch of a quill, and the taste of tears. She reminded me a lot of my childhood. ERK: Purple silk and burlap, old books, exhaustion, disgust, burning hands. He reminds me a lot of one of my husband’s characters.  ERIC: Bright white sand and green-blue seas, cream castles, the taste of salt and the feel of rope, wet dog smell, the deck of a ship at sea, sunlight, parenthood. I love his goofy light-heartedness.  FINIS: Feathers, sheer clothing, long hair, tears caught in eyelashes, sad arias, inky quills against parchment, repetitive motions, purple flowers, a broken body that never shatters, fire, bloody throats, overwhelming sorrow, the concept of immortality, the feel of grass between toes, small boxes, cages, deep breaths, immeasurably empty/lonely, the depths of the ocean, moons!!, comets, blue-white, gray. I’m literally in love with her, so.  ICHIGO: Serious focus, the scrape of metal, uncontainable emotion, logic, hair clips and short hair, dark blue and green, obsessive thought, quick footsteps, position and pain of leadership, strawberries and the number 15, sweet tastes, ache of desperation, regrettable words yelled in the heat of the moment, small stature. I mostly picked her up in step with Kristopher picking up Goro but I love my little kiddo so much... so short, so powerful...  ITSUKI: Nice cologne, athleticism, nice big watches, subterfuge, smells, loss of personal space, pretty boys, lightning/static, unrequited longing, eyes closed, green and hazel, basil, silent admiration, Othello. I genuinely picked him up the moment I realized he was an empath because I have a type. :,)   IZETTA: Nomadic existence, bare and dirty feet, the smell of sweat and hard work, loud compassion, hope, unevenly cut hair, red and gold, cheap clothing, white costumes, early rising, warm metal, inferiority complex, total devotion and dedication. I knew I needed to write her so I could steal some of her positivity...  IZUMI: High fashion, business casual, stockings and high heels, earrings and nose rings, frost, dual-bladed naginata, the shine of metal in the dark, sold souls, sibling love, obsession with perfection, fish tanks, a home without any distinct smell, self-imposed isolation, fluorescent lighting, purples and blues. I don’t know, Izumi is one of my favorite characters from Kyoukai no Kanata, I always knew I had to pick her up.  LEONIE: Sun shining on dry ground, the feel and breath of the earth, refined chaos, green tea, large vocabularies, strange speech patterns, dry wit, sons, secrets, old books with a flower bookmark, the muddy bottom of a lake, frogs, red fingers and cheeks, old swords, dirty gold embellishments, empty and untouched rooms, freckles!!!!, spinning sword moves, honor, old armor, repeating words said just earlier, unflattering and unfashionable garments, blonde braids, running away running away running away. She’s an OC, so!! I fell in love with her on my own!! I decided to pick her up after Kristopher and I were discussing the Reed mom and I realized oh God, I have a whole idea... MIRAI: Pinks and golds, blues and blacks, vintage chic ( “grandma style”, as I lovingly call it ), red frames, serious expressions, overt politeness, depression, bandaged wrists and palms, gold rings, bloody hands, the taste of iron, burning hot blood, monster/demons, unpleasantness, distaste and disgust, starvation, empty shitty apartments, bonsai, gardening, social media and anon hate, sacrifice, orphan, self-loathing. God I just... I’d die for her okay... I... wow... I gathered the courage to pick her up after I loved her for years.  SAKURA: Toddler clothing style on a high schooler, cooking, food, sleep, oversized flannels, tired eyes and cheeks, aromantic, succinct speech, big scarves, wide stripes, lime green and red, crumbs, bandaids, bag like a mom’s purse ( full of napkins and tissues and food and keys and totally unorganized ), memories, forgiveness, sarcasm, bells, kicking, sisterhood. MMMMM I LOVE MY QUIET SLEEPY DAUGHTER!!! I picked her up because I just... vibe with her energy, I love her.  SERRA: PINKS and whites, cleanly pressed clothing, loud echoing voice, devoted and steadfast religion, bright white magic, attention-seeking, loneliness, nunneries, rosaries, The Sound of Music tbh, glitter, make-up, pigtails, tears over a chipped nail, devotion to valuing oneself, dedication to becoming the best, volatile emotions, absolute joy or unbridled anger, cherry blossom perfume, rosy red joints, stringy hair, memorization of etiquette, adventure-lust, friend-seeking. I love her so much -- she reminds me of Willow, and when I saw her on my replay of the game, I burst into tears.  URSULA: Blacks and deep purples and blues, fine wine, tight fabric, velvet skin, sharp and entrancing gaze, crows, black feathers, leather gloves, mocking simper, blood red lipstick, neutral colored fashion, lies, sharp perfume, manipulation, gold chains, the click of high heels, short dark hair, shadowy silence. I made this blog for Ursula! I knew I could play her and Kristopher wanted to write opposite of her so I threw her out here! 

11. story behind url: The original thought was that I’d be here way less frequently than my other blogs. Once every blue moon I’d check in on here. Hence, bluestmoons! 

tagged by: @myloyalty​ ( thank you my love!!! ) 

tagging: okay I know this is a copout but I spent so long doing 10,,, please,,, just steal it, I can’t look at this anymore, JKFLAJK 

#( out of dreams. ) #( about the mun. ) #( the gravity of. ) elsa. #( the gravity of. ) erk. #( the gravity of. ) eric. #( the gravity of. ) finis. #( the gravity of. ) ichigo. #( the gravity of. ) itsuki. #( the gravity of. ) izumi. #( the gravity of. ) izetta. #( the gravity of. ) leonie. #( the gravity of. ) serra. #( the gravity of. ) mirai. #( the gravity of. ) sakura. #( the gravity of. ) ursula.

[kirk-spock-in-the-impala]

Between You and the World (2 of 6)

Chapter 2: Sound, Summer, Year 1252

CW: Geralt's headspace, mentions of blood, prejudice and xenophobia.

Link to AO3  

Approx. 5600 words under the cut

Story summary: Geralt's senses are extraordinarily acute, allowing him to perceive far more than average. As necessary as those senses are for his profession, they can become overwhelming.

Or 

Five times Jaskier helps Geralt through sensory overload

II.   SOUND – Summer, Year 1252

 It was mid-summer and Geralt and Jaskier were winding their way slowly northward through Kaedwen, keeping close to the Kestrel Mountains.  The oppressive heat was eased by the cool breezes meandering down off the snowy peaks high above them.  The warm, long days lent an air of relaxation to their trek and Geralt settled into a languid rhythm, long legs easily covering the trail as he breathed deeply of the warm, pleasantly scented air and tilted his face up to catch the warm rays of the noon sun high above.

As they walked along narrow trails through meadows buzzing with insects and full of the bounty of summer flowers, of which Roach frequently availed herself, Jaskier trailed several paces behind, focusing intently on his lute as he practiced, perfected, and practiced again his newest set of songs.

 They were headed to the Kaedwen Regional Bardic Competition, a qualifying event for the Continental Finals that winter in Novigrad.  When Geralt had gone to the Alderman to turn in his last contract, Jaskier had caught sight of the notice posted for the Regional Competition on the village board.  

 With only five leagues and three days between their current location and the Regional Competition, and no pending contract to give them their next heading, Geralt had agreed to travel with Jaskier to the competition, held in a small town in Northern Kaedwen at the base of the Kestrel Mountains.  That close to dragon territory, Geralt would likely find a profitable contract on some type of draconid, Jaskier had argued.  Geralt could see how much the competition meant to Jaskier and could not bring himself to refuse.

 So, they set off, Jaskier taking the long hours spent walking as ample opportunity to fine-tune and practice the new ballads he’d written based on their adventures together that past Spring.  Apparently, old material “simply wouldn’t do, Geralt!” Or so Jaskier had insisted. Geralt was unsure of the difference, given they’d yet to travel this far North, so it was unlikely anyone here had heard Jaskier’s ballads, and certainty not yet from the source, but he held his tongue, unwilling to risk dimming his dearest (his only) friend’s enthusiasm. If it made them some extra coin or put him in range of a profitable contract, all the better.

 At their current rate, they would arrive at the Competition by late afternoon.  As Jaskier explained it, preliminaries would be held the following morning, with each bard given a private meeting with the Judges. The winners of the preliminary phase would then hold a public competition in the evening at the local inn, with each bard running through a set of three songs on which they would be judged.   The top three bards would receive a certificate granting them entrance to the Continental Finals, along with a monetary prize.

 And so, they walked, Geralt and Roach leading the way through the sun-drenched meadows accompanied by Jaskier’s lilting melodies.  Geralt had thought all his life that he preferred silence, but this, perhaps, might be even better.

 ________________________________________

 By that evening, Jaskier and Geralt were settled into the last available room at the local inn and Roach was comfortably bedded down in a large stall with a thick blanket of straw and fresh-smelling oats.  

 On the way in to town, Geralt had taken a contract from the village’s notice board for a wyvern that had recently taken a liking for mutton.  As this village relied largely on sheep farming for their trade and subsistence, the wyvern needed to be eliminated.

 As Geralt buckled on his armor in preparation to meet the Alderman, having removed it in the day’s heat, Jaskier was annotating his sheet music for the competition ahead, picking out a few notes on his lute here and there as he went along.

 Geralt strapped his swords across his back and said, “I’m going to meet the Alderman.”

 “Wait!” Jaskier jumped up, sheets of parchment fluttering to the floor.  “I’m coming with you.”

Geralt held up a hand. “No need, it’s too late to start the hunt now.  I just need to speak to him about the details.  At most, I’ll perhaps scout the location the wyvern has been seen stealing sheep.”

Jaskier moved to disagree, but Geralt insisted. “Stay.  Finish your preparations.”

 Jaskier moved as if to follow, then stepped back with a huff.  “All right. But if you change your plan, promise you’ll come back and tell me.  If you get hurt, I can’t find you unless I know where you are.”

 Geralt tilted his head and stared at Jaskier, confused.  “Why would you need to come find me?”

 “Because, dear one, if you get hurt and can’t easily make it back, I don’t want you stuck in the woods for hours bleeding out!”

 Geralt shrugged.  “I’d make it back once I healed enough.”  

 Jaskier threw up his hands.  “Not the point!  I don’t want you to suffer needlessly.”

 Geralt couldn’t understand the cause of Jaskier’s sudden upset.  He’d always taken care of himself, patched himself up after hunts.  Sure, it was nice when Jaskier was there to help with the hard to reach spots, but he would survive without assistance.  He always had, and he would again when Jaskier decided he’d had enough of travelling with a witcher.

 Jaskier expression faded from exasperation into consternation? Sadness?  Geralt wasn’t sure, it was an odd sort of expression.  Jaskier shook his head and gently, sadly, smiled at Geralt.  “Go on, talk to the Alderman.  We’ll talk about your appalling lack of self-care later.” He sat back on the bed and took up his notes.

 Geralt didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, and walked out the door.

 _____________________________________________

 The following afternoon, Geralt hauled himself back into the inn after a successful hunt.  Contrary to the Alderman’s description, it was not a solitary juvenile wyvern, but a mated pair with a clutch of eggs.  They'd given Geralt a good chase, covering close to a league over several hours, and a hairy fight once Geralt had finally caught up, but he was able to subdue both in the end.  He kicked the eggs over the edge of the cliffside nest to ensure they had no chance of viability, removed the two heads as trophies, and started the trek back to the village, dripping blood, a mix of his own and the wyverns’, along behind him.  

 Given that horse was definitely on a wyvern’s menu, Geralt had left Roach safely back at the inn’s stables, a decision he was equally glad about and regretting as the large heads pulled on his already sore and tired shoulders.  

 It was fortunate he’d insisted Jaskier stay behind. The hunt had taken much longer than planned and Jaskier would have missed his morning preliminary slot with the judges had he accompanied Geralt as usual, something Geralt had been unwilling to risk. He had given Jaskier a detailed description of where he was heading, at Jaskier’s insistence, and they planned to meet up that afternoon at the inn so Jaskier could be sure of Geralt’s continued survival.

 As Geralt stalked through the throng of people awaiting the results of the morning’s preliminary competition, they parted easily around him, many turning to spit and curse at him as he passed.  Geralt was used to such a reaction and tuned it out. Just because he took care of their monsters didn’t mean he was different enough from his quarry that normal people wanted to associate with him without cause.

 He reached the Alderman, pushing open the door with his foot before dropping the two, bloody heads on the waiting burlap sack.   The Alderman started at the sight of him, coated in entrails and blood, dark shadows under his wild eyes.

 Geralt sharply indicated the two heads.  “Wasn’t a juvenile, but a mated pair.  Think we need to renegotiate payment.”

 The Alderman frowned, color rising in his cheeks. “Now, see here, you took the contract based on the information I gave you, information you knew was not that given by an expert.  It’s your risk that the situation might be different than you expect.”

 Geralt’s expression turned murderous.  “Alderman, you contracted me for a single wyvern, not a pair.  Would you rather I had left the second one alone?”

 “How dare you!”  The Alderman spat, “you’d leave innocent people to suffer for your greed? You truly are no better than the monsters!”

 Geralt took a measured breath in through his nose, attempting to control his anger.  This pushback was not an uncommon occurrence, and it would do him no good to snap.  “I wouldn’t leave it and I didn’t.  The remaining wyvern would have rampaged over the death of his mate, and I would not prompt a slaughter.  I’m simply asking that you compensate me for the additional kill.”  Despite his best efforts, Geralt’s voice grew louder as he went on, drawing attention from the crowd outside.

 “What’s this now?” A large man, a farmer by the look of him, red faced and sweating, stepped across the threshold and into Geralt’s space. “You threatening our Alderman here, freak?”

 “No,” Geralt ground out, well aware of how quickly this could turn into him getting run out of town without any pay, or worse, by a stoning.  “I’m explaining to him that the contract price was based on one wyvern, but there were two.  A payment adjustment is therefore required.”  His tone was carefully measured.

 The large man stepped back to stand next to the Alderman, facing the curious onlookers outside. His lip curled, contempt dripping off his words, “I think you’d best take what was agreed and move on, Witcher.” The way he spat out the title made his true feelings clear.  This was a man who, like many, saw little difference between a witcher and a monster.

 Geralt scanned the crowd outside, seeing largely aggressive faces looking back, itching for a bloodletting and sighed heavily, the fight draining out of him.  What was one more unfair payment?  He couldn’t risk getting run out of the village and ruining Jaskier’s chances in the competition.

 “Fine.  Give me the coin and I’ll go.”

 The Alderman flung the bag at Geralt’s chest.  Geralt caught it before it could hit him, tucked it into the pocket of his pants, and left, the crowd at the door parting for him, but just barely.  He felt their stares on his back until he turned the corner toward the inn, more than ready to scrub himself down.  He would need to be careful until they could leave again, a crowd like that was only too happy to turn into a mob.

 ____________________________________________

 As Geralt was brushing Roach, murmuring the details of the morning’s hunt to her as he worked the soft bristles over her gleaming coat, Jaskier burst into the stable.  

 “Geralt! I got into the final!”  He bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming.

 “Hmm.”  Geralt gave him a small smile, looking up at him over Roach’s withers.  “Well done.”

 Jaskier bounded into the stall to Geralt’s side, passing a juicy red apple to Roach and scratching her favorite spot on her forehead.

 “The final competition is this evening at the inn! There are six bards in the final, and I go third in line.  I’m to choose a set of three songs, one ballad, one jig, and one of my choice.” Jaskier smiled at Geralt, hands waving in his excitement.  “I’m going to be able to play all the new ones I’ve been working on! For my largest crowd yet!”

 “Hmm.” Geralt smiled as he listened, eyes crinkling as his hands continued to brush down Roach.

 “You’ll come, won’t you?” Jaskier said, a hint of nerves dampening his excitement.

 Geralt caught his eye briefly before returning his attention to Roach.  “Of course.”

 Jaskier’s smile rivaled the sun and he grasped Geralt’s shoulder in a firm hand, gripping once before releasing him, sliding his hand down Geralt’s arm.  Geralt jumped at the contact, but relaxed immediately, warmth spreading from the spot Jaskier touched.

 “So,” Jaskier said, leaning back against the stall door, “how was the hunt?  I see you survived.”

 “Fine.  They’re dead.”

 “Descriptive as usual.” Jaskier rolled his eyes before straightening. “Wait, ‘they’re’ dead? I thought you said it was one juvenile?” Jaskier asked.

 “That’s what the contract said, but it was a mated pair.” Geralt explained, eyes firmly training on Roach.

 Jaskier’s tone sharpened with concern as he pushed away from the stall door.  “A mated pair? Geralt, are you hurt?  That can’t have been an easy fight.”

 “Just a few bumps and scratches, nothing serious.” Geralt reassured him, mostly honestly. The deeper contusions and cuts would heal in time, none serious enough to warrant a healer.  Geralt knew if he mentioned the injuries, Jaskier would insist on a full treatment, and Geralt would never forgive himself if he distracted Jaskier from his successful completion of the competition.  

 Jaskier frowned, staring Geralt down looking for any trace of falsehood.  Satisfied, he relaxed again.  “All right, but I hope you were appropriately paid for the extra trouble.”

 Geralt winced, glad his expression was mostly hidden by Roach. “I collected my pay from the Alderman before returning.”  It wasn’t a lie.  He wouldn’t lie, not to Jaskier, but neither would he rile him up over nothing before his performance.  It was expected that people wouldn’t pay him for unexpected additions to the contract.  He was used to it.  He couldn’t even keep his temper this time when his request for a pay adjustment was refused, so he deserved to be docked for his lack of control.

 Jaskier sensed there was more to the story, but knew it wasn’t the time to push.  Geralt might be persuaded to tell him when they were comfortable and alone, but not here in a public stable with the crowd outside.  “All right, good.”

 Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and Jaskier knew he’d made the right decision to leave it for now.  He continued, “I asked the innkeep to reserve the corner table by the stairs for us this evening.  I know you won’t want to be in the middle of things, but you should be able to see and hear everything from there.”

 Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, frowning at the thought of Jaskier taking time away from his competition for something so insignificant as Geralt’s comfort.  “You didn’t need to do that.  I would have managed to find a place to watch.”

 Jaskier smiled softly at him.  “I know, but I wanted to be sure you were as comfortable as possible.  I know you don’t enjoy crowded spaces.”

 Geralt was surprised Jaskier had noticed.  They didn’t often visit large gatherings, and Geralt preferred to avoid cities.  There was little chance in their travels for the issue to come up.  Regardless, the consideration made something lighten in his chest, something he’d rarely felt before.  It felt like gratitude, like affection.  Like something of which he never believed, would never believe, he could be worthy.  But he wouldn’t upset his friend by refusing the considerate gesture.  “Thank you.”  He said quietly.  

 Jaskier gave him a jaunty salute before turning to leave. “The competition starts at last light, but your table will be ready for you starting at dinnertime.  I am told I must eat with the other finalists to avoid any chance of impropriety, so I will see you at the competition.”  Jaskier flashed one more, bright smile over his shoulder before heading back out to rejoin the other competitors.

 Geralt smiled down at Roach, the warmth of Jaskier’s presence, of his unlikely, extraordinary friendship with one such as Geralt, easing the bitter exhaustion caused by the morning’s events.  He didn’t deserve Jaskier, but he would enjoy whatever Jaskier deigned to offer and hope that, maybe one day, he could offer something back.

 ______________________________________________

  Geralt sat at his corner table, alone, back to wall, with a large tankard of ale held in a loose fist.  The competition was about to kick off and the inn was bursting with people visiting from across the region for the famous competition.  The chatter of near a hundred souls crammed into the modest room bounced against the low ceiling, coupling with the sounds of tankards hitting tables, chairs scraping the floor, and the barkeep’s yelled orders to render a deafening din.  

 Geralt took a slow breath, thankful, for once, that he was given a wide berth in human settlements.  His ears already rang, but at least he wasn’t crowded.  The exhaustion from the day, the fights with both the wyverns and the Alderman, weighing heavily on him, making every sound seem that much louder.

 He heard the inn’s large front door bang open and watched as Jaskier filed in with the other finalists, the judges leading the way. The six bards lined up on the impromptu stage set in the center of the inn’s main room.  One by one, the three judges introduced the six bards in the order they would perform, each bard prompting cheers from their fans that rattled the windows and sent spikes of pain through Geralt’s temples.  

 When Jaskier was introduced, he flourished a bow at the crowd, catching Geralt’s eye with smile and a wink.  Geralt saluted him with his tankard, careful to keep any trace of his discomfort from his expression.

 As the first bard took the stage, a lithe woman from the southwest, the audience pounded their tankards on the table and stomped their feet, cheering her on.  Geralt barely contained a flinch as the noise level rose, fingers tightening on the pewter tankard almost hard enough to dent the metal.

 The other five bards, Jaskier included, sat in a line behind the performer.  The judges, all three in elaborate black robes with hood liners made from various colors of crushed velvet, sat in front of the stage with the performer’s submitted sheet music in hand, quills ready to take notes.  

 The woman launched into her first song, an upbeat jig that well matched her strong alto, stomping her feet to the beat as her fingers flew across the neck of her lute.  The crowd responded, clapping, stomping, and singing along to the chorus in a variety of discordant keys.  Clearly, unlike Jaskier, this bard had chosen a well-known favorite.  

 The wave of sound felt like a physical blow, slamming into Geralt from all sides as the walls and low ceiling caused the noise to ricochet.  His fingers crushed into the pewter tankard, leaving obvious dents and causing warm ale to spill over his hand.  The feel of the liquid jolted him back to attention and he deliberately unclenched his fingers, glad the angle of view prevented Jaskier from seeing him from where he sat in line.  

 Geralt clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, mentally running through his alchemy recipes as a distraction from the noise in the room.  It wasn’t Jaskier’s turn yet, and he was sequestered in the darkened corner, so he could safely turn a portion of his attention inward to bolster his flagging control.  The memory of a small, coastal fishing village abruptly came to mind and he forced down the memory of (the longing for) the comfort Jaskier had provided.  He would not be that weak again.  It may have been forgiven then, but interrupting Jaskier’s competition would be completely unacceptable.  Running away and missing it would be equally so.  Even Jaskier might not forgive him for that.  

 So, Geralt clenched his hands together, ground his teeth, and ran through his alchemy recipes as the first bard gave way to the second, who drew an equally loud series of cheers and stomps, and, finally, thankfully, to Jaskier.  

 Jaskier jumped lightly up onto the stage, Filavandrel’s lute in hand, and bowed gracefully to the judges and to the crowd.  He caught Geralt’s eye, a frown of concern darting across his face as he saw the tension in Geralt’s jaw, but it was gone as soon as he turned back to the judges to begin his set.  

 As he launched into the first song, a powerful ballad about the White Wolf’s fight that past spring against a fearsome Bruxa, he caught Geralt’s eye and indicted the stairs with his chin, giving him permission to leave.

 Geralt caught the gesture and froze.  He couldn’t leave, not while Jaskier was performing.  How would that look?  If the judges noticed the person who left mid-song was none other than its subject? The risk was unacceptable.  No, Geralt would stay and support Jaskier. He could control himself.  He was trained for control, mutated for control.  He wouldn’t shame his friend by failing again.

 Geralt closed his eyes and focused his acute hearing entirely on Jaskier’s voice, on the melodies drawn out of the lute by his skilled fingers.  He discreetly sniffed the air, catching the comforting scent of Jaskier’s rosin and honey.  He forced his attention to stay on Jaskier and Jaskier alone, trusting that no great harm would come to him while under Jaskier’s eye.  The familiar voice, even if the melody and lyrics were new, soothed his frayed nerves and some of the pressure in Geralt’s head eased.  

 As Jaskier finished his set to the most raucous applause yet, he ran his eyes over Geralt again, pleased to see he looked more relaxed than earlier, but still concerned.  Geralt wouldn’t thank him for drawing attention to his discomfort, but Jaskier planned to get Geralt out of there as soon as he was released from the stage for the judges’ deliberations.  He sent Geralt a reassuring smile before returning to his seat and losing sight of him behind a large pillar.

 Geralt tried desperately to cling to the calm brought about by Jaskier’s performance, but the fourth and fifth bards each belted out loud, fast, tunes replete with banging chords and stomps, riling the large, increasingly drunken audience up more and more.  

 By the time the sixth bard, an older man with an aristocratic air, took the stage, Geralt was nearly at his limit.  The clapping echoed in his skull, the stomping rattled his bones, and the singing sent piercing pain through his temples.  

 The volume increased as the end of the performance neared, audience members losing all control of their voices as the ale took firm hold.  When the sixth bard struck his final note and bowed, the crowd exploded, jumping to their feet and screaming out the names of their favorites.

 The windows rattled in their frames from the noise. In the wall of sound, the sudden, sharp scrape of a chair shoved backwards against the wood floor close to his right side made Geralt flinch violently into the left-hand wall, cracking his head on a wooden beam.  He felt his breathing rapidly increase, his heart pounding in his chest, as his body interpreted the aural assault and the sudden pain from the strike to his left temple as an attack.  

 Alchemy recipes were no longer a distraction. The pain in his head, the pain in his jaw, from where his nails dug into his clenched fists, none of it was sufficient to overcome the overwhelming assault on his senses.  Geralt felt his control slipping away and hated himself for it, for failing again to restrain his reactions.  He felt panic rise, the corner suddenly feeling less like a reassuring embrace and more like a prison, trapping him between the immovable walls and the relentless, painfully loud noise of the crowd.  

 Suddenly, there was a presence on his right side. A hand landed gently on his right forearm and Geralt flinched, baring his teeth and spinning to face the intruder.

 Jaskier took in the tension in his friend’s frame, the bruise blossoming over his left eye, and the wild, unfocused expression.  He instantly remembered the coast, how painful the overwhelming smell had been for his friend and how long he had fought against the pain before finally succumbing.  His heart dropped.  Geralt had been pushed past his limits yet again and he knew the public nature of the breakdown would make it that much worse.  

 Jaskier spoke softly, gently rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s forearm.  “Geralt?  It’s Jaskier. It’s past dark and you’re in the inn for the bardic competition.  Can you look at me, please?”  This was the first time Jaskier was grateful people did not stray too close to his Witcher. In the dark corner, Geralt was largely hidden from the eyes of others and people were unlikely to disturb them.

 Geralt’s eyes darted around room, tracking spikes in sound, before slowly focusing on Jaskier, the familiar voice and grounding words breaking through the panic.  Geralt couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond, his words stolen away, overwhelmed by the assault on his sensitive ears.  Geralt felt unable to escape the storm of noise causing his distress but looked to Jaskier for a port of calm.  

 “There you are.”  Jaskier smiled, keeping his voice light and cheerful.  “The judges are deliberating, so I think it’s time for us to head upstairs.  I could use a rest, and they’ll be a while.”  Jaskier knew focusing on his own needs, rather than Geralt’s would be more likely to prod Geralt into motion.  Jaskier desperately wanted to soothe his friend, to ease his tension, to embrace him, but knew Geralt would not, could not, relax in public and would be deeply shamed by displaying anything he perceived as weakness where others could see.  

 Geralt frowned, eyes focusing more as concern for Jaskier penetrated his overwhelmed mind.  He nodded and rose from the bench, letting Jaskier lead him toward the stairs. As they ascended, one of the local bards not in the competition struck up a lively tune to keep the waiting crowd entertained.  As the noise level suddenly rose again, this time at his open back, Geralt flinched away, a whine caught in his throat, hands raising as if to cover his ears before he forcibly stopped himself, digging his hands into his thighs.

 Jaskier reached back and took Geralt’s hand, drawing him quickly up the stairs and into their room – thankfully at the back of the inn – and shutting the heavy wooden door.

 As the noise suddenly diminished to a dull background hum, Geralt stopped in the middle of the room, panting with relief.  His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, eyes darting around before landing on Jaskier with a silent plea.  Geralt didn’t know what he needed, just that he needed, and he was still unbalanced enough to forget himself and ask for help, albeit without words.

 Jaskier answered immediately, stepping into Geralt’s space and guiding him over to sit on the bed, gently directing him until he was lying down, head in Jaskier’s lap.  Jaskier covered Geralt’s ears with his hands and rubbed soothing circles across his temples and jaw.  Geralt’s eyes closed, trusting Jaskier to keep him safe.

 Slowly, slowly the tension left Geralt’s face.  He heaved a sigh and his eyes opened. Jaskier could see the moment he fully returned to himself, as Geralt’s expression shifted quickly from soft relief into deep shame.  Geralt moved to sit up and Jaskier stopped him with a hand on his chest.  

 “Easy, just lie back.”  Jaskier instructed, calm and authoritative.  “You need to let your body recover.”

 Geralt briefly pressed up against the restraining hand before giving in, eyes flicking up and away from Jaskier’s, shame coloring his cheeks and warming the tips of his ears.

 Geralt took a breath, opening his mouth to speak several times before it took.  “Forgive me. Again.  My lack of control is inexcusable.”

 Jaskier’s lips pressed into a thin line, heart aching for his friend, for the impossible standards to which he held himself.  For the lack of care, of comfort, in his long lifetime that had led him to believe such things were unwarranted when applied to him.

 “There’s nothing to forgive.”  Jaskier said gently, firmly, echoing their earlier conversation on the coast.  “I only ask one thing.”

 Geralt looked up, eager to hear how he could fix this, how he could please his friend, repay him for having to coddle him through yet another breakdown.

 “Tell me next time so I can help you before it gets to this point.  Or, if you can't, just leave, give yourself some distance from whatever is hurting you.” Jaskier was almost begging, pleading with his friend to take even this modicum of care for his own needs.

 Geralt blanched.  “I wouldn’t leave you.”  He said, an almost frantic note in his normally measured tone.

 Jaskier rubbed a hand across Geralt’s forehead, smoothing back his hair before pressing a kiss between his eyes.  “I know, and I wouldn’t leave you either.  I just want you to go far enough that it’s not too loud, or too stinky, or too whatever for you.  I couldn’t abide it if I were the cause of your distress because you felt you needed to stay somewhere for me.  If you need to leave, I will understand, and I will find you again in that safer place.”

 Geralt blinked at the kiss, shocked.  No one had ever done that to him before.  It was unexpected.  Nice?  He wasn’t sure.  He didn’t know how to respond.  But Jaskier had done it, so it must be all right.  

 He heard the words, saw how important this was to Jaskier. “I will try.”  He said finally.  He couldn’t promise more.  Wouldn’t leave if Jaskier could get hurt.  Or disappointed.  That wasn’t worth it.  But maybe if there was no harm, he could give himself a little break when things got to be too much.  He should be able to control himself, to let the overstimulation wash off his back, but if his control failed, if he were already shamed, maybe a little relief wouldn’t hurt?  He’d consider it.

 A sudden shout cut through the hum from below. Not loud, not startling, just enough for Geralt to make out that results would be announced shortly.  

 “We should go down.”  He said to Jaskier, “results are about to be announced.”  He sat up and straightened his clothes, taking a fortifying breath as if he were about to head into a battle.  In a way, he was.

 Jaskier wanted to stay, wanted to keep Geralt here in this quiet room, wanted to protect his friend, to sooth the furrows and lines of tension and shame from his face.  But he knew that wouldn’t help now.  Geralt would blame himself for Jaskier missing the announcement, and that would overpower any relief staying in the quiet could provide.

 Jaskier sighed and smiled up at his impossible, selfless, stubborn friend.  “All right, but let me do something for you before we go.”  He held up an admonishing finger when he saw Geralt about to protest. “No arguments.”

 Jaskier stretched across the bed and grabbed the strap of his bag, pulling it over and digging around inside.  Triumphantly, he brandished the linen handkerchief he’d found before tearing off two strips of the cloth and forming them into tight balls.

 “Come here,” Jaskier directed, patting the bed. Geralt sat.  “Now, face me, please.”  

 Jaskier reached up and placed a ball of linen in each of Geralt’s ears, gently positioning them to fully block the ear canal without forcing them in far enough to hurt.

 Geralt scrunched up his face at the tickling sensation. As Jaskier settled the balls of linen into place, the noise around him was muffled by half.  His eyes widened.  

 Jaskier smiled at him.  “Better?”  Geralt nodded.  “Good. We can go now.”  He said, standing and holding out a hand to Geralt.  

 Geralt took his hand and stood.  Just before placing his hand on the doorknob, Jaskier turned back and pointed a finger at Geralt, saying firmly, “if it gets too loud, you’re to come back up here right away, you hear?”

 Geralt frowned.  “I can handle it, especially with these sound blockers you’ve made.”

 Jaskier poked his finger into Geralt’s chest, emphasizing his words. “Not the point.  I don’t want you to suffer.  If it’s too loud, if it hurts, come up.”  Jaskier softened his tone, flattening his palm to Geralt’s chest.  “Please.”

 Geralt’s shoulders loosened, hearing the honest plea. “I promise.” If it would make Jaskier happy, he would do it.

 Jaskier beamed at him and they walked back down the stairs, hand in hand.

 Jaskier positioned Geralt at the base of the stairs, leaving him with a clear route of escape.  With the linen in his ears, the sound was greatly diminished.  Still loud, but not loud enough that Geralt would need to leave or risk breaking his word.  

 As Jaskier joined the other five finalists on stage, the crowd hushed.   The judges announced their winners.  In third place, the first bard, the lithe southwestern woman, in second, the aristocratic uncle.

 The crowd held its breath.

 “And, in first place,” the announcing judge took a dramatic pause, “Master Jaskier!”

 Jaskier face lit up and he immediately caught Geralt’s eye. The ensuing cheers were loud, but not painfully so, and Geralt allowed a fond, proud smile to form, nodding at Jaskier warmly.

 Jaskier beamed at him before turning to accept his prize.

 If allowing Jaskier to help made him this happy, if it allowed him to witness Jaskier’s triumphs, maybe it would be all right to accept the help.  

 As Geralt watched Jaskier accept the adulation of the crowd, gaining the recognition he fully deserved as the cheers flowed around Geralt without assaulting his sensitive ears, protected as they were by Jaskier’s invention, Geralt's chest filled with an unfamiliar warmth.  It felt suspiciously like joy.

#kirk-spock-in-the-impala writes #yeah this is six chapters now #this is getting out of control #between you and the world #the witcher #witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandilion #gerlion #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #soft!geralt #soft!jaskier #protective!jaskier #thesunshinemanman

[whumping-every-day]

Vampire Whump 7

After two whole weeks, here is part seven! It feels a bit filler-esque to me, but I di d my best. 

Tagging the wonderful people who have supported me and asked for more! @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius  @learningtowhump  @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump  @what-huh-imconfused  @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic  @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whump-em @umniyah-s @adventuresofacreesty  @to-hurt-and-comfort

Ash’s FC,  Callum’s FC

Masterlist

--

When morning comes, the scorching heat comes with it, and for a moment everything is familiar. The creature wakes itself up screaming.

The vampire is used to burning, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. Its mouth is free, and the sounds of agony and panic are so much louder in the absence of the muzzle. The pain crawls up its leg, slow and hot. The creature can’t remember where it is, and it doesn’t even try to wonder. The sensation is so horrible familiar, so known, that the vampire sinks back into mindless agony without missing a beat.

Callum is awake and on his feet in the same motion, and he’s got his knife out before he knows where the screaming’s coming from. The abrupt change from slumber to hyper-alertness is dizzying. It takes him a long moment to figure out what’s happening. There are no attackers, there is no threat. But somehow, Callum has forgotten about the sun.

“Shit. Shit.”

The vampire is thrashing against the chain, and its whole body is straining to escape the thin finger of sunlight.

The creature’s skin is bubbling and peeling, and it can’t seem to calm down enough to stop thrashing and minimize the damage. Its motions are frantic, eyes rolling and wide with animal frenzy, and it’s with a cold realization that Callum remembers he had chosen not to muzzle it. It’s panicking, and he can see the creature’s fangs.

Callum is spitting a constant string of curses, but he lunges for his discarded blanket, and then gets in as close as he dares. Any hunter knows that a terrified, wounded animal is the most dangerous kind, especially when it’s trapped. He doesn’t even bother trying to talk to it, not with the way the vampire is yowling and clawing at its own skin.

Callum drags in a slow breath, trying to center himself, and then he lunges and tackles the creature with the blanket. The vampire cowers and bucks, somehow both struggling and sobbing in terror. “Stop it!” Callum hisses, even as he twists and shoves, forcing the vampire onto its stomach. “Still, hold still, I’m trying to help - stop fighting me!” As soon as it’s down, Callum pins it by the back of the neck, preventing any potential biting. The blanket is halfway on top of it, but there’s still the sound of sizzling from somewhere, a patch of skin that isn’t covered yet.

The vampire is crying in Callum’s grip, but as soon as it’s down it stops struggling. Callum’s heart is pounding, and he yanks the blanket over the vampire properly with his free hand. The creature squirms weakly and then goes limp with a whimper, and Callum can hear the way it’s heaving and gasping. But it hasn’t tried to twist around and bite him, it hasn’t even tried to claw at Callum’s wrist.

Callum takes the sudden lack of struggling to mean that it’s calmed down, when in fact, the creature has simply gone distant in its own head. The combination of the burning sun and being manhandled has sent the vampire’s mind spinning and grasping for escape. The hunter is still pinning it to the floor, and Callum shifts so he’s not pressing as hard, wincing. The creature was already so badly injured, and in its panic it could have hurt itself more... and in subduing it, Callum could have hurt it more.  

“Still, buddy. That’s it.” Callum feels a bit like he’s talking to a wall. There is no response, nothing beyond a minute trembling. The vampire isn’t struggling. Callum hesitates, and he cautiously loosens his grip at the nape of the vampire’s neck. It’s fully covered by the blanket, now, but Callum can still smell burned flesh, and it makes his stomach turn. After a few moments, Callum pulls back just enough to assess the situation. The creature’s ankle is still bound in the manacle, and the bit of exposed skin is beyond the sun’s reach. It’s no longer burning, but it’s still injured.

Callum lets out a gusty breath and releases the creature.

“Well that’s a shit way to start the day,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

In the end, Callum has to bind the creature in the burlap fabric and rope again. He seriously considers muzzling it, if only for his own safety. In the panicked frenzy earlier, it would have been so easy to bite him, even by accident. But the creature is breathing in short, frenetic bursts, and it’s totally unresponsive when Callum moves it. Its legs are still grotesquely broken; they’d never healed to begin with, not with the amount of blood Callum had been able to spare. It isn’t trying to bite him, or to do much of anything. In the end, he leaves it alone, and the vampire stares dully at nothing while he lashes the rope around its ankles, knees, waist and elbows. Callum is extra careful when he covers the head.

The whole thing feels like he’s missed a step.

When all is said and done, the vampire hadn’t burned for that long. The progression of it waking up screaming to Callum covering it back up had taken less than a minute. But the consequences linger.

They linger as Callum packs up camp, and the creature lies still on its side, unmoving and completely silent behind the fabric. They linger as Callum picks it up again, and the vampire gives a quiet, punched-out sob. They linger as Callum puts out the last embers of the fire and swings up onto the horse.

“I’m sorry,” Callum says to it when they are finally on their way.

The bundle of fabric doesn’t respond, and this time when Callum rests a hand on its back, it doesn’t stop shaking.  

-

The next hours of travel fall into a pattern. They ride during the day, and it is hot and sweaty and grimy. At night, the vampire is chained by the ankle to the base of a tree, and Callum makes sure it is in the shadows this time, protected from the rising sun. He also retrieves the same blanket from the night before.

“Hey. This is yours.” The horse is nibbling at a patch of dry grass, and Callum is holding out the blanket to the vampire. “I mean, it can be yours, now. Uh.” Callum coughs. Why is he trying to talk to it, anyway? “Here.” He drops the blanket over the creature’s dirty, curled-up body, and there’s a minute flinch, but no other change. But Callum sees the thin fingers that wind hesitantly in the fabric as he walks away.

It’s been a long day, and Callum knows that the vampire is still hurting. But he can offer no more blood on the road than he already has, and they are nearly home, to Callum’s equipment and supplies. With them, he can help. He is almost afraid to look at the creature too closely, for fear of the injuries he’d find. The vampire’s body is gnarled and warped, twisted in some places and concave in others, and Callum has a horrible feeling that there will be things that need re-breaking before they will mend.

He can’t do such things on the road.

“Try and get some sleep,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow’s our last day of travel. Then we can rest.” 

The vampire is watching him, Callum realized belatedly. It’s got brown eyes like a doe’s eyes, and for just a second, it feels like the breath’s been punched right out of him. Its gaze is captivating, and it’s the first time it’s seemed like the creature is fully present. Then the vampire realizes that Callum has seen it staring, and it flinches again and hides its face in the blanket.

“Yeah. Goodnight to you too.” Callum doesn’t frighten the creature any further by trying to engage. Instead, he makes sure that the horse has access to grass and water and checks her feet for stones and swelling. When he makes his way to sleep, the stake stays on his belt, and the knife goes under his pack, which he is using as a pillow.

Oddly enough, Callum thinks, it’s not the vampire across from him that he’s guarding against. Callum hesitates to call the creature a monster, even though he’s never had a problem with the word before. But this particular vampire looks less like a beast, and more like a boy. And it’s getting more difficult to tell the difference.  

It’s an odd sense of deja-vu as he lays down to sleep, and he can only see the vampire’s brown curls peeking over the edge of the blanket. Its hair is really quite a mess, Callum thinks as the exhaustion of travel starts to catch up with him. He’ll have to clean the creature up when they get home… and he’ll have to find it more blood.

A lot more blood.

Then it will be time to research how to set a dislocated joint, because now that he’s had the thought, Callum can’t help but see it. The vampire always curls up on its right side, and the left is visibly misshapen, even under the blanket.

“Fuck,” Callum mutters, just once more.

-

Morning comes gently, this time, with the slow stirring of forest wildlife and the chirping of summer birds. Callum is awake before the sun crests the horizon, and he spends a few minutes tending to the horse, combing over her coat and feeding her bits of dried apple, working at the leather of her saddle.

The vampire wakes to the feeling of being outside, and horror trickles in. It has been here before, outside in the morning light, strung up in the village square while the people waited for the sun to come up – so many mornings started this way, so many watching eyes --

“Hey! Whoa, hey, easy there.” Callum has no idea what the creature is seeing, but it’s keening pitifully and rocking back and forth, its eyes wild and distant. It’s not thrashing this time, but it’s doubled over at the waist, curling its right arm (its good arm, Callum thinks grimly) around its waist.

The creature doesn’t seem present, but it’s still making that keening sound, high and strained as if it can’t get enough air to scream louder. The sound of it raises the hair on Callum’s neck.

The blanket has fallen off its bare shoulder, and this time, Callum barely hesitates before ducking into range. The creature could bite him, twist around and savage him, but Callum doesn’t think it will. He doesn’t think this thing will be attacking anyone, ever again.

The blanket goes up and over the vampire’s head, and Callum can feel the way the creature convulses in terror under his touch. He wraps the blanket more firmly around it and then sits back, within arms reach but not touching.

“Listen to me, kid.” The vampire bleats in terror at the sound of his voice, but Callum just gentles his tone and tries again. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Listen. Focus on my voice. You’re not in the sun. You’re not going to burn. Remember where you are.” That sense of déjà vu is back, Callum thinks bitterly. They’ve been here before. How many times has this vampire been hurt like this?

The vampire can’t see much past the fabric, but its heart is beating wildly in its chest. It remembers where it is in increments – it’s the second day, now, since the golden-haired hunter had taken it away. Two days since its world had tilted on its axis. But also… two days since it had last been hoisted up in the air and left to burn. Two days since it has last been beaten.

“Hey.” The hunter’s voice is startling, and much closer than the creature expects. It flinches with a little whimper, but it quickly tucks its head back down and goes back to its tightly curled ball. It can’t remember any commands being given, so it can only be small and still and quiet. It’s trying to behave, the creature thinks desperately, it’s trying to be good, so there’s no need to pull the blanket off and listen to it scream, no need…

“Can you just-” The hunter breaks off with a groan, and then there’s motion.

Callum is pushing back to his feet, shaking his head as he goes. He’d almost asked the creature if it could understand him, as if that wasn’t an idiotic question. Even if the vampire had enough humanity left to comprehend his speech… it probably wouldn’t last long. The creature has calmed, it wasn’t disoriented and panicked anymore, and that was all he’d wanted to accomplish.

He doesn’t talk to it, this time, when he returns to wrap it in the burlap fabric and rope. It moves like a doll in his hands, and Callum almost wonders if it would have been better, somehow, if the vampire had struggled. It would feel less like transporting a hollow shell, or a giant child’s discarded toy.

The last day of travel is the worst, as it always is. Callum is tired and sore, and he knows the vampire is doubly so. The sun beats heavy on his back, and even the horse seems tired, dragging her feet as she plods onwards.

The lights of his town greet them just as the sun begins to fade. Electricity is a possibility, but most of the light comes from oil lamps, strung up from the gates to guide weary travelers. It’s a shallow valley surrounded by rolling hills, and the vegetation slowly starts to turn greener as they grow closer.

It looks welcoming enough, but Callum avoids the official roads as they make their way inwards. His lab is on the outskirts, between the stables and the brewery. The stable keeper welcomes him back and doesn’t ask any questions, and Callum is grateful for that. People are not fond of vampires, and often they are not fond of hunters either – so Callum pays the man and gives his horse one last pat, before slinging the vampire over his shoulder again.

The creature doesn’t make a sound as it is picked up, despite how the pain sears through it. It is dizzy from exhaustion and pain, and it feels flayed and cracked open inside, as if it simply can’t feel any more terror. Yet, somehow, it is rediscovering fear as they walk. This is it, the creature knows; this is its final reckoning. This is when it discovers what the hunter wants it for. Will it be cast into another stone room and bound with iron shackles to the wall, or perhaps hung from the ceiling? Or maybe this hunter has a cage, simple but effective.

The vampire is trembling as it is carried. The man has been lenient with it, the creature knows this. And it has tried to be good, it has tried to show that it will not resist, that it doesn’t need to be put down to know its place. But that was while they were on the road.

Now they are in the hunter’s lair.

A door unlocks, and the sound of it fills the vampire with icy, irrational dread. It echoes in the new space, and the hunter sets his lantern down and strides further into the building.

The vampire cannot see, but it can imagine.

“You sleep here.” There’s clanking and a groaning of metal, and the vampire knows that sound – that is the sound of a cell opening. The hunter’s weight shifts forward, and the vampire flinches and braces itself; it is fully expecting to be thrown, or dropped. This, at least, is familiar, and the vampire wonders if it will be allowed to huddle in a corner and lick its wounds for the night, or if the torment will start immediately. But instead of being tossed carelessly inside, the hunter carefully lowers it onto the stone floor.

Or – not the floor. The creature gasps and shivers, feeling the slight give of whatever the surface was. It was thin, and smelled faintly musty, but it was soft… a cot? Was the creature lying on a cot?

“We’re going to take care of your injuries tomorrow. When I can see straight again. For now, rest.” Callum’s fingers brush over its hair, ever so slightly, and the vampire can’t help a plaintive little whine. It smells very strange, like chemicals and metal, and the creature still does not understand why it was brought here. But it does understand that this man is its whole world now, the only constant. This hunter is the only one who can dish out judgment or relief.

“Easy, kid.” The creature squeezes its eyes shut and lets its head fall again. It knows the hunter is lying, faking, when he speaks so softly to it. But it’s a tone without disgust or rage, and the vampire trembles under it, from both need and fear.

The ropes that bind it are cut, this time, instead of untied. The creature is perfectly still while the hunter works; it’s almost familiar, now, to have those large, calloused hands peeling the fabric away from its skin. If it does not resist, it will not be hurt. That is what the vampire has learned, and it clings to that, prays for it.

“There we go.” The vampire has forgotten the man’s name. But his presence presses down on the creature with a mighty weight, and the vampire gives a quiet, beseeching little whimper. They’re in the hunter’s home, now, and the vampire is so afraid that things will change… or that they won’t. “Shhh, I know. Time to rest.” If it is stillness and silence that has earned it this mercy, the creature thinks absently, then it will be still and silent forever.

The fabric is taken away and bundled up, and the vampire remembers that it is naked. Being covered up and carried around during their travel had almost felt like being clothed. But the time for such dignities is over, now.

Something settles over its skin, and the vampire draws in a sharp breath.

“I believe that’s yours.”

It’s the same blanket. The one the hunter had given it on the road. The creature’s breath comes out shaky, and in a fit of bravery the vampire lurches up and then flattens itself to the ground at the hunter’s feet. It can’t speak properly, not after the muzzle, but it makes an attempt. “Th-th-nngh. Th-tha-“ The moment it starts to sound like actual words, the vampire clamps a hand over its mouth with a whimper. No. Things did not speak. But it has to express its gratitude somehow. Thin, crooked fingers reach out to just barely brush the hunter’s boot, and the motion is thankful and awed in equal measure. Its hands are fragile and vulnerable, so close to the man’s spurs, but the hunter is quickly stepping out of range.

“Fucking shit. Just - just rest, would you?”

The words are like ice down the creature’s spine, and it whimpers a pitiful apology – but then the door is clanging shut again, and there’s a loud, decisive click.

Footsteps move away, and it realizes with a jolt that it is alone, abrupt and final.

The vampire lies in the darkness for a few long minutes, trying and failing to process what has happened. This man, this human… he is a strange one. That makes him unpredictable. But the cell the creature finds itself in isn’t cold, and there is something to lie on and cushion its battered body… and suddenly, that luxury is so unexpected that it is frightening.

Despite all the vampire’s aches and pains, the cot abruptly feels too soft. It’s too malleable, too much give, it won’t bruise and graze the creature’s skin like it deserves.

It’s further to the ground than the vampire expects, and it falls with a quiet thump. It’s left gasping for air as stars explode in its vision. The motion reminds it of every injury that hasn’t healed, the old ones deep inside and the new ones both.

There’s a space underneath the cot, narrow and dark, and the vampire clumsily presses back into it. There is no true safety, the creature knows that. But it feels the smallest bit more secure when it curls up in the darkest corner with walls on two sides.

The vampire hesitates, before a pale hand timidly snakes out and grabs the blanket. It can’t sleep in the cot, it’s not allowed. But the hunter gave it the blanket. The blanket came with them on the road, the creature can’t make it any dirtier. So maybe it’s okay.

It is not chained down, not muzzled or bound or restrained, and within the confines of the cell, clutching at the blanket, the vampire finally breathes a sigh of relief. There are terrible things waiting for it in its dreams, and there will be terrible things waiting for it in the morning. But if it is always allowed to rest like this, in a dark, quiet nook with something soft to hold on to… then the vampire will count itself lucky.

No matter what the hunter does to it.  

--

[END]

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#my writing #vampire whump series #whump #whump writing #whump community #vampire whumpee #nonuman whumpee #fear #conditioning #reluctant caretaking #ya know i am realizing as i reread this that callum has one hell of a mouth on him #boy has a potty mouth #i wonder if that is at all representitive of the author xDDD #monster whump

[jojolarow]

I saw the trend of #monsterme going around, and I felt the need to create something personal, so I designed my monster self to indulge in the inspiration I was given. I like him a lot~ His burlap body filled with orange muscle and his furry head filled with rising steam, his noise cancelling headphones drilled into his skull, the umbrella controlled by the string of muscle over the button on the handle, the accordion legs that make him sway more the faster he runs, adorned with my favorite watches in his wrist and my favorite pins and patches in his shoulder, all creating someone I'd call a friend. Just don't make a sound, and keep an eye on the lights on the sides of the headphones to see if noise cancelling has been activated. If it has, he may be pending your death for forcing him to drown out your sound and all others with it.

#monsterme #monstersona #jojo larow #jordyn larocca #self portrait #monster design #creature design #pierrot #umbrella #pins #rain