#and ‘6 feet under’ is used to describe death

[cayde6feetunder]

your username is evil I love it

thank you. I am also evil

[forestdeath1]

Canon Sirius through quotes

Part 1. Appearance

In the canon, he's described as handsome 3 times from Harry's point of view - but never pretty. By the way, Harry has only described four people as handsome (+ Tom Riddle, Cedric Diggory and Gellert Grindelwald).

"Sirius was tall and handsome. He loped with an easy grace, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face."

"Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive."

"Sirius stared around at the students milling over the grass, looking rather haughty and bored, but very handsomely so."

"Sirius was lounging in his chair at his ease, tilting it back on two legs. He was very good-looking; his dark hair fell into his eyes with a sort of casual elegance neither James’s nor Harry’s could ever have achieved, and a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed."

"He's still handsome, isn't he, even after Azkaban?" (Tonks about Sirius, Pottermore)

So, Sirius was handsome, but definitely not pretty. The word handsome can be used for all genders, highlighting attributes like strength, elegance, or a more classic form of beauty.

His height is described as tall several times. James is described as the same height as Harry in the Deathly Hallows, meaning at the time of his death James was as tall as Harry in the 7th book: “James was exactly the same height as Harry”. He was described as tall in later books but not as tall as other characters like Dumbledore, Ron, Sirius, Draco, Tom Riddle, Bill.

In England, as in most Western countries, a man is usually considered tall if he is over 6 feet. Typically, very tall is considered to be 6 feet 3 inches and above. So, James could be somewhere from 6 to 6'3", and Sirius taller, say 6'3"-6'4", Remus possibly under 6', but not short, since Harry doesn't note his height at all.

"To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much admired rebels that James and Sirius had been."

The average head length of an adult, regardless of gender and age, usually about 8.7 to 9.8 inches. So, Peter was noticeably shorter.

6'3"-6'4" is indeed very tall. (When fanon gives Remus a height of 6.7, I wonder, have you often seen such giants in real life? My granddad is 6'8" – and he's huge to me, frighteningly so.)

After Azkaban and in the fifth book, he has long hair, but in the fourth book, when Sirius is doing well and is relaxing somewhere in the south, he has short hair.

"Sirius looked different – the hair was short and clean now, Sirius’ face was fuller, and he looked younger, much more like the only photograph Harry had of him, which had been taken at the Potters’ wedding."

"Sirius, when he still had short hair" (Moody about Sirius in the Order of the Phoenix photo)

Though in the story about Sirius and James for the auction, Sirius had long hair in 1977:

"The one who had been driving had long black hair; his insolent good looks reminded Fisher unpleasantly of his daughter’s guitar-playing, layabout boyfriend."

I prefer him with long hair, so that's usually what I go with.

Build isn't described. We know Regulus was definitely smaller than Sirius, but nothing specific about Sirius himself.

"Regulus was instantly recognisable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: he had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter and rather less handsome than Sirius had been."

His animagus form is a bear-like dog of huge size, but that’s a weak argument.

"The enormous, bear-like dog bounded forwards."

Perhaps canonically Sirius was naturally inclined to muscle (i.e., tall and muscular rather than lanky, because lankiness usually suggests skinniness. Regulus, likely, was lanky), but since he probably didn't engage in activities like workouts, he wasn't exactly buff. Muscles don't just appear out of thin air, but some people are naturally more muscular. Basically, a normal build that doesn't need any special description (not bulky, not skinny, just normal, but tall).

He definitely doesn’t have any tattoos described, but it's unlikely Harry would have inspected every part of his body for tattoos... So, I don’t quite get it when someone says "Sirius didn’t have tattoos". It's a blank slate.

[whencyclopedia]

Pirate Punishments in the Golden Age of Piracy

Pirates in the Golden Age of Piracy (1690-1730) both dished out and received a wide range of imaginative punishments. Victims of piracy endured torture, floggings, and ceremonies of humiliation, but when brought to justice, the pirates were given such punishments as lengthy prison sentences, transportation to work in the deadly conditions of African mines, or public execution by hanging.

Punishments Between Pirates

Floggings

The use of a whip to dish out punishments was a common occurrence on ships of all kinds of the period. For pirates, the risk of bearing such treatment was much reduced since a captain rarely dared to use such methods on a crew that had probably turned pirate in the first place in order to escape such harsh features of a life at sea. A flogging was usually only decided upon as the form of punishment if the whole crew, or at least the majority, agreed that the man had broken one of the ship’s articles, that is the list of rules they swore to abide by. The man who dished out the flogging on a pirate vessel was the quartermaster. Floggings were given for such misdemeanours as bringing women on board, striking another man, or not keeping weapons in an efficient state of readiness.

If a mariner was flogged, then he was tied to the mast or a grating and lashed on his bare back with a cat-o’-nine-tails. This special kind of whip consisted of nine lengths of rope, each of which was around one-quarter of an inch in diameter (c. 6 mm) and up to 2 feet (c. 60 cm) long. Each of the nine lengths had three or more knots to make the whip’s bite even sharper - sometimes more knots were added for more severe crimes. During a flogging, the sailor often bit on a bullet so that he did not cry out and raise the ridicule of his crewmates. If he did call out with the pain, then his mates would thereafter describe him disdainfully as a 'nightingale'.

Keelhauling

To be keelhauled was just about the worst punishment a sailor could expect to be given short of death, and even here his chances of surviving the ordeal were no more than 50:50. The punishment involved tying a person with rope, throwing them overboard, and then dragging them either under the ship from one side to the other or along the entire length of the ship. Even if the victim escaped drowning, they would be severely cut and bruised from being dragged against the ship’s barnacle-encrusted hull.

Marooning

For mariners guilty of a serious crime like mutiny, theft, or cowardice, their punishment could be a delayed death sentence. The sailor was marooned, that is deposited on a remote island and given nothing but a keg of water and a pistol; sometimes they were even stripped naked. An alternative to leaving the person on land was to set them adrift in a small boat with no oars or a single oar. Fully aware that thirst and starvation were all they had to look forward to, some mariners asked to be shot straight away. For others, the gift of a pistol allowed them to end things before they went mad from the privations. The most famous mariner to be marooned was Alexander Selkirk (1676-1721) who was left on the Juan Fernández Islands in the Pacific in 1704. Another man to be marooned was Edward Low whose crew had had enough of his sadistic antics with friend and foe alike. The origin of the word 'maroon' is the Spanish term for an escaped slave, cimarrón, meaning wild or untamed.

Continue reading...

[playboysaleen]

Metanoia (or not?...)

Metanoia:(n) meta·​noia - a transformative change of heart...especially : a spiritual conversion

Parings: Wednesday x Dracula!Reader (GN)

Part 1. - Part 2. - Part 3. - Part 4. - Part 5. - Part 6. - Part 7.

(Chapter 7)

Warnings: they are a little older(19, lets say nevermore is a college), Blood, swearing, fighting, death...angst... thats all i am gon say.

slight mention of she/her kinda vibe...just putting it out there in the best way i can explain.

WordCount: 4.9k

{{All im gonna say is I am sorry in advance. I wrote most of this in this last 2 hours since i havent touched this fic in a hot minute and my imagination was at its best right now so enjoy while i go on another hibernation. }}

Also, Stay safe out there and tell your mothers you love them. I miss mine more and more everyday.

Rain. 

It poured like the gods were shedding tears of a lost one. Maybe Marija felt your pain and now you were sitting on the roof letting the droplets cling onto you. So many questions raced through your mind but you couldn’t pinpoint one to start. Sighing, you ran your fingers through your hair looking at the sky when a presence was felt next to you. 

“I can’t do it.” You whispered now letting the droplets mask your tears. 

“And we are not forcing you too.” Bora spoke, placing a hand onto your shoulder. Shaking your head, you looked up at the sky hoping you could find some answers. 

“But if you do not turn her then we will all perish. Not only us, but your family, friends…” Bora whispered looking towards the window to see Wednesday making her way towards you two, “and her.” she finished giving you a reassuring squeeze. She stood to her feet walking back to the window but not without sending Wednesday a nod. Once Bora was no longer in sight, Wednesday took a seat next to you watching the campus. 

“I am sorry.” Wednesday's eyes moved to your slouched state taking in your pain. She knew you were at war in your head. She read about turning a human and it was not pretty. Even if it meant death then a start of eternal life seemed beautifully insane, but the pain the other feels for a few hours is excruciating. You knew what you would have to go through but the thought of keeping her by your side for the rest of your immortal life as you watched her family fade away did not seem like the right way. Her mind drifted along with yours.

“What I feel for you, is a feeling I cannot describe in words. I want to see the world through your eyes as yours mine. A void was felt in my soul once I entered my late teenage years and it is not the void I enjoyed getting lost in. The moment I found you…everything felt clear- as if you were the clue to solve a murder no one else could find. You are the death I will chase to the end of time to feel all over again. If it means taking my mortal life to spend eternity with you….” She stopped cupping your face for you to look at her. She could see the veins pulsating under your eyes from the adrenaline that coursed through you. 

“Then take my life for yours to own.” 

Your eyes search for any hesitance but all you saw was acceptance. You knew of the Addams growing up and safe to say the least, Wednesday's father would rather it be you than that barista boy. You nodded softly, leaning in, placing your lips against hers.

You and Wednesday were back in the house changing when a knock was heard from your door. Throwing on a shirt, you glanced at the bathroom door to hear the water still running. Turning the knob, you opened the door that revealed Marija. She sent you a small smile rocking on her heels. 

“How are you feeling?” Marija asked, taking a step back. You walked out the room shutting the bedroom door behind you, slightly nodding. 

“Feeling a little lightheaded with everything going on.” You answered by adjusting your bracelet. The girl in front of you hummed, taking a few steps towards the staircase. You followed behind her heading down to the dinning table to meet the rest of the OB. Raina looked up, sending you a small smile while the rest of the group sorted out the blood bags in front of them. 

“I see you all are going to feast pretty good tonight huh,” You attempted to joke when D snorted, bumping her shoulder into Alek. The man chuckled shaking his head, 

“Oh this isn’t for us.” He snickered. Furrowing your eyebrows, you looked at Bora for an answer when all she did was smile. You counted the bags then sent them a look- 

“It's for Wednesday.” 

Your eyes widen looking at the countless bags that from just a rough guess was maybe twenty bags. You huffed leaning forward onto the dining table going over the stories your parents told you about this ceremony. 

“So there are two ceremonies right?” You spoke as the OB sent you a nod, Raina placed her chin on her palms sending you a smirk. Bora leaned back fixing her necklace, 

“Yes, there is the ceremony in the books about the venom retrieval from the soulless. we transfer the venom to the mortal/mate and we wait for them to go through the turning then-” “Woah woah, so I have to watch her…” You interrupted but the lump in your throat stopped you. Bora nodded. You don't think you could sit there and watch the woman you grew to feel for die. Bora continued as you ran your fingers through your hair. 

“Once the venom runs its course we will have to place her under seclusion supervision until she is ready to feed.” Bora finished. You knew why she needed to be placed alone. She will be feral and not only that…she is going to kill you. Raina sighed, shaking her head. 

“Or you can do the other ceremony.” Raina suggested, a groan slipped your mouth as Alek snickered. “It’s less painful…She wont know she passed due to the state she is in.” Raina finished. You knew what she meant but were you even that far with her to even try that? “Then during the process you both can exchange.” 

“Exchange?” You shot her a look when D places a kiss against Raina's temple, D sent you a fanged smile. 

“A blood exchange. It actually makes you both stronger. More connected too.” D mentioned, your eyes widen once more at the new information you now encountered. You scoffed, “How come this is not mentioned in the books?” You asked about placing your weight on one leg when you heard the water coming to a halt upstairs. Bora hummed leaning forward, 

“Every book that has been written has been read and passed by The Council. They let you know what they want.” Bora spoke, visions flashed throughout your eyes when you heard the shower door open. Oh god, you cannot be thinking about her like that right now. 

“Maybe you girls can talk to Wednesday about this while we take Drac here on the hunt with us.” D suggested when Alek quickly stood up sending a tight lip smile to the girls. You looked between Raina and Bora when they both nodded but Bora stood extending her hand to the med-room. 

“We can, but I need to run your venom levels to make sure you are good enough to at least keep up.” You nodded at her request sending everyone a nod following Bora into the Med-room. Before you entered, Wednesday was walking down the stairs towards Raina who called out for her. She grabbed your bicep staring into your eyes. 

“How are you feeling?” She whispered, you smiled, sending a glance towards the room. “I am about to find out so I can go hunt with Alek and D.” Her hand ran down your arm giving you a reassuring squeeze and a nod. You kept your gaze into her eyes when a familiar feeling engulfed the pit of your stomach. You cleared your throat when you heard Raina's voice in your head along with a very childish remark from Alek. 

If you are trying to get to business please take it to the room! -Raina 

That's if they can make it to the room… -Alek 

Moving your eyes from Wednesday, she let go and proceeded to make her way to the dining area with everyone greeting her with a lot of positive smiles. Poor Wednesday. You walked into the Med-Room taking a seat letting Bora start her work. 

“I am assuming you are the medic.” You spoke, she nodded, inserting the needle into your pure vein. She kept her eyes glued to the screen answering- “Had no choice, most of the OBs were injured when I found them. Plus, I was the doctor's daughter in our tribe.” You hummed, you haven't felt any real pain in a while. You thought back to when you had fought James before your suspension, and your ascension, and all this ‘the council is coming.’ Bora snorted softly at the visions that danced in your brain, 

“You left that poor boy bleeding.” She chuckled, slightly yanking out the needle disposing it into the bin. You hummed letting a smile paint your face, “I mean, I had every right. He used to pick on me when my brother passed.” She nodded, handing you a jacket which you placed on.

“Everything seems fine, Raina and Marija will make you a cocktail while you are out. In the meantime, let off some steam.” Bora spoke as you walked behind her out into the dinning room. Alek and D came from out the kitchen handing you a rope which you sent them a nod. 

“We should get going; the sun is setting.” D spoke, placing a kiss against Raina's forehead. You glanced at Alek who was staring behind you. Turning, you saw Marija sending you a small smile, 

“I just wanted to wish you luck on the hunt. Normally when D and Alek go…” Marija’s voice faded into the back of your mind when a burning feeling fell into the pit of your stomach. It felt…uncomfortable. It was as if the world slowed, you turned your head to see Wednesday giving you the deepest glare. “...but I know you are gonna do great.” Marjia’s voice boomed back when you blinked to see her in front of you again. You nodded, sending her a smile. 

“Thank you Marija,”  You mumbled walking to the dining table standing next to Wednesday. “I guess we better get going.” You spoke aloud as everyone who was staying bid their goodbyes. You began your way out the room when a hand wrapped around your wrist yanking you back. Spinning on your heels, lips clashed against yours. A hint of vanilla that engulfed your buds automatically sending your hand to her waist. You pulled away placing your forehead against hers, 

“Don’t be gone for too long. We need to talk when you get back.” Wednesday mumbled, stealing a chaste kiss and walking back to her seat. You stood there frozen at the sudden PDA the girl exposed to the team. Wednesday talked to Raina as if she didn’t just claim what was hers seconds ago. 

“Alright lovestruck, let's get going.” D sang out grabbing a fist full of your shirt yanking you out the dining area. Alek fell into a pit of giggles at the bottom of the patio, you sent him the finger vaulting over the railing landing in front of him. 

“What's the rope for again?” You asked Alek when he grabbed the item from your hand, tying it around your waist and tossing it to D who did the same. D snickered, tossing it towards him as he tied a knot, sending you a fanged smile.

“To make sure we don’t leave you in the dust.” He spoke taking a few hops in his place then sent a nod to D when a gust of wind almost swept you off your feet. The two took off as you tried your best to keep up. Now that was what the rope was for.  

After what seemed like a few minutes, the three of you stood at the top of the mountain eyeing the lake beneath you. D undid the rope around your waist patting your back.

“Since there are more heads now, we can't aim for deer. We need something bigger.” Alek spoke, taking a few steps towards the ledge inhaling deeply. D leaned against the tree playing with the straps on their backpack. You hummed inhaling when a huge wave of scents engulfed your nose. 

“You smell it huh, the blood rushing through their veins.” D whispered, now standing next to you. You nodded with your eyes shut trying your best to pinpoint a smell to follow. Your eyes burst open as your feet acted upon themselves sending you to grip the tree climbing. Alek and D exchanged looks following your suit. You scanned the area when the smell of death hit your nose. You jumped down dusting off your jeans. 

“Wounded animal down by the lake,” You thought out loud as the two nodded. Alek looked back over the edge taking another whiff when he leaned back huffing, “Yeah. It’s wounded. Probably hunted about a few hours ago.” He confirmed. D hummed, chiming in, “So if it's wounded, there are predators around meaning-” D looked your way to see the veins under your eyes visible. 

“We got dinner.” You spoke taking a leap off the edge. Alek blurred to the edge growling softly. “There is no way they just-” D patted his back taking a few steps back. “They did.” and with that D blurred forward jumping off the edge following you. Alek groaned, joining the two of you. 

You stopped in the woods crouching behind the log looking over to see the wounded animal. D appeared next to you, 

“That is a very big elk.” You nodded at D’s comment, taking a step towards the animal when a noise caught your attention. 

“Damn bear spray doesn't do us no justice out here.” 

“Perry, could we just dump the body and go? This place is giving me the creeps.” 

Your eyes snapped to the path that displayed two men with their hands full with what you presumed was a body. You glanced at D who was now tapping Alek. They nodded, taking a few steps forward, covering behind another tree. 

“There was more you smelled besides the elk.” - D. 

“We need to get out of here.” - Alek. 

You shook your head when your fangs slashed out and the hunger you didn't feel before clawed its way to your throat. The need to drain the two men dry was damn near uncontrollable but the sound of running sent you blurring to the pair. Alek and D were quick to chase after you, but the roar caused everything to go black. Screaming, crying, growling and crunching was heard but you couldn't bring yourself to snap back. A groan slipped your lips when you blinked away the darkness to find yourself under a big pile of what seemed to be fur. Your name was being called but the weight above you was hard to respond. 

“Drac!... Damit Drac, are you okay?” Alek hissed out, you groaned a little louder which caused the weight to lift off you. Coughing, you rolled over spitting out the blood that pooled your mouth. Alek and D stood over you with childish smiles, 

“You just had to go and show off on your first hunt huh?” D jokes, pulling you onto your feet dusting off the dirt on your clothes. Alek said something childish planting a tube into the now dead bear. 

“Man, We’re gonna have a good feast tonight. Great job Newbie.” Alek said watching the tube flow with blood transfering into the concealed bag. It looked like a huge blood bag. Some would assume it's a huge pitcher people put lemonade in but in your circumstances…

“Alek! Don't waste any!” D hissed slapping his arm. Alek chucked pulling the tub out the bag drinking a bit. A satisfied hum slipped his mouth handing the tube to D to drink. You watched them drink from the animal as you felt your mouth pool with saliva. D handed you the tube which you quickly shoved the tube into your mouth drinking away. A moan slipped your mouth in which Alek patted D’s shoulder causing them to snicker, 

“Alright, save some for the OB.” Alek spoke, you pulled the tube out your mouth looking around- “where are the hunters?” asking the pair, they shook their heads pointing into the woods. 

“While you were giving the bear a challenge, We blurred me to safety. I used my gift to leave them a bit under the influence.” D spoke digging their hand into the bear's mouth yanking out a tooth tossing it your way. 

“A souvenir” You nodded their way accepting the ‘gift’. A sound of a bee zoomed past your ear when you turned to look at D. 

“Did you hear that?” Alek tackled you into the ground shielding his body over yours. D grabbed the bag blurring off. The man above you grunted, interlocking his arm around yours zooming across the forest. After a few minutes of running for dear life, Alek let go of your arm but didn’t stop. A loud crash rang through the backyard when you lifted your head from the pile of leftover construction material. 

“Are you serious right now? A warning would have been nice.” You sarcastically hummed out dusting off the concrete powder that now painted your clothes. D appeared next to you inspecting your body rather roughly. You grabbed their hands sending a look, 

“I’m okay! D, I’m good.” D took a step releasing a breath leaning forward. You patted their shoulder turning to see Alek marching into the house. The door slammed open hitting the side of the fridge as he dropped the bag onto the dining table. 

“We were attacked. Hunters.” He grumbled dropping into a free seat, eyes boring into Boras. The woman huffed standing to her feet looking for you. On que, D walked into the house with you trailing behind. Wednesday sped off her seat ramming into you. Wrapping her into your embrace, your eyes landed on Bora handing you a cup. 

“Drink. We need to decide now. Not only are The council after you; hunters caught wind too.” Bora spoke. You placed the cups to your lips letting the blood pool in your mouth. A sigh slipped your lips as your hold on Wednesday tightened. You shook your head leaning back locking eyes with Wednesday. 

“They have communicated with me about the ceremony. Shall we talk upstairs?” She whispered and you nodded, placing the cup down following Wednesday, leaving the OB to figure out what is going to happen. 

Once you were in the room, you shut the door behind you, locking it. You watched Wednesday's movements when she took a seat on the windowpane. Her heartbeat drummed in your ears. The rhythm reminded you about the movies you and Jaime used to watch that would fill your bodies with excitement on what would happen next. 

“However you wish to proceed with the ceremony, I am in.” She started. You nodded leaning against the wall, “but you and I both know that to speed up this process we will need to-” You lifted your hand stopping her. “I know, it’s just I-” You stopped when your throat felt dry, a cough dashed out your mouth causing you to hunch over. Wednesday stood from her position taking a step towards you. 

“What is wrong?” She whispered, pain rushed from your side as you released a grunt. 

“Somethings not right.” You whispered scanning the room but everything slowed when an object pierced your shoulder sending you into the ground. Glass broke from the window but the black spots that clouded your vision did you no good when arms were wrapped Wednesday. A loud bang rang throughout the room when a blurred shadow was quick to grab the masked intruder before they blurred out the window. Your body was lifted from the ground but everything was silent when you saw the look on Boras face.

“No..” 

Bora's hands were over her mouth, Raina's eyes filled with tears, D vaulted over the balcony railing towards Alek who was already in the field and Marija’s gasp caused you to struggle against her hold. The rain stopped. The wind stopped. Your dead heart…stopped. You wiggled out of Marijas hold blurring to the field to see the woman you grew to- oh…you loved her. 

“Wednesday?” You whispered to her but you heard nothing. You didn’t hear her heart in your ears. Her breathing used to be your sound to remind yourself that you were alive. Alive with a purpose on this planet even if you knew you were dead. Your hand went under her head bringing her close to your chest whispering, 

“Wednesday, wake up.” Pleading, you placed your nose into her hair inhaling her vanilla scent to distract you from releasing the sob that clawed at your throat. Warmth was felt near your side when you moved your gaze to see a dagger pierced into her side. Red began to seep through her clothes onto yours. The smell of the blood did not faze you, the pain you felt now overpowered the hunger but the anger that now bubbled in the pit of your stomach caused the animals in the forest to cry. The birds began to swarm the sky when the clouds grew dark. The horrid sound of the elks cries when the trees begin to aggressively sway. Your fangs slashed out your gums as you leaned into her neck whispering, 

“I’m sorry.” 

Piercing your fangs into her vein, you began to drink. Her blood pooled your mouth; still warm. Your arms pulled her closer when the tears you shed dropped against her. Her blood was sweet. Her blood was water in the desert and you couldn't bring yourself to stop but the ache in your bones caused you to pull back placing a kiss onto her forehead. You placed another onto her cheek, then the other, then leaned back taking one last look at the girl beneath you. Latching back into her neck you released your venom into her vein. 

D took a step back clutching their shirt; eyes turning white, grabbing Alek’s attention. Alek took a step towards them but a cough made its way out his mouth. Fire shot out his mouth at an unstoppable speed erupting the construction material next to him in flames. Boras' gaze turned to the two, noticing the uncontrollable grasp they had on their gift. All the OBs were now on the field with uncomfortable feelings in their chest. Marija huffed losing her footing, 

“They are absorbing all of our gifts at once… this can’t be right.” Bora whispered when her hand twitched. Her body ached, screaming at the bones in her body confused on what to shift into. She could ignore the pain, but seeing tears fall from Sophie's eyes; she knew you had to be stopped before it was too late. You were going to kill yourself. 

“I can feel the blood boiling in my veins.” Raina leaned towards Bora's ear whispering. Bora nodded, taking a step forward but once you laid Wednesday back onto the ground, everything stopped. 

Your fingers wrapped around the dagger, yanking it out of her abdomen. Standing to your feet, everyone could not only feel your pain, but they feared the way they could also feel the anger that radiated off your skin. Tilting your head back, the sky grew dark. You twirled the tip of the dagger on your index finger turning to the OB. Your eyes were black as night. The veins could be seen under your eyes and your fangs were exposed. You took a deep inhale through your nose letting a sinister smile paint your face. 

“Come out, I can smell the guilt in your blood!” You shouted, taking a few steps back. The OB was now standing side by side watching this new side of you. Alucard was now watching from the rooftop with a smirk playing on his lips as Rein blurred next to Bora. 

“I do not think it is safe for us to stop Dracula.” Rein spoke to the woman who had her eyes glued on you. She nodded, “I think we will engage when the time is right.” She responded. 

A shadow appeared in the trees becoming clearer and clearer till Rein gasped at the shadow that was now sending you a fanged smile. Rein took a few steps back then blurred away. The entire OB was now standing there wide-eyed with the new information you were replaying in your head. 

“Oh trust me, this isn’t guilt.”

Your fangs were bare. Venom dripped. You were beyond angry. You were livid. 

“I am going to rip you to fucking shreds Xavier.” You growled out blurring towards him. He held a fanged smile opening his arms wide letting you take him down into the trees. You placed your hands around his neck but the look on his face only made you see red. He was smiling. 

“Killing me won’t change the fact that you can’t save her,” he laughed out. You yelled, tossing him back onto the field. He laid motionless but still had that smile on his face. You were walking towards the boy, the loud voices of the OB were screaming in your head to stop but one stood out. 

“To be feared is better to be than to be loved.”

Flicking your hand that was to your side caused a ball of fire to appear in your palm. Alek shook his head taking a step but Bora's hand on his chest stopped him. Using your free hand, you grabbed a dagger that was being held by your belt loop. Xavier manically laughed shaking his head, 

“You don’t have it in you to kill your best friend.” You shook your head tossing the dagger to the side watching Xavier stand to his feet but a choked sob slipped his mouth when your hand went to the side of his neck. 

“You aren’t my best friend…” You whispered. Xaviers head tilted to the side but when your head turned towards the other side of the field there stood Rein with Xavier by his side; his eyes widened. 

“You. Are. The. Council-” With every word you said, your fingers sank deeper and deeper into his neck. The boy fell to his knees with his eyes boring into yours. Your fingers could feel the bone of the man's neck but he was still alive..you just needed one more thing. 

“And I am going to kill every last one of them.” You gritted out, his mouth fell agape once your fingers wrapped around his bone shoving the ball of fire down his throat, watching the pit of fire run down into abdomen. A sinister smile painted your face when you yanked your hand back letting his blood splatter across your face. A gruesome thud echoed through the tall trees while you watched the man burn away but not without transforming back to his original form. 

Taking a few steps back, you sent a look towards Sophie as she sent you a slow nod. She blurred to Wednesday, placing her in her arms, blurring into the house. You looked back at Rein mouthing a ‘go’ which without a thought, he grabbed Xavier and blurred away to Nevermore. 

“The Councils here.” You spoke, the OBs nodded, getting ready but a person with a red hooded robe appeared walking out the forest. They stopped a few meters away, you kept your eyes glued on the lower half of their face since it was the only thing you could see due to the hood over their head. 

“I have a message for the Ascendant.” He spoke out, you kept your eyes peeled but from the looks of it… he was alone. You sent him a nod watching him grab a pouch from inside his robe tossing it your way. You caught the small bag, cautiously opening it letting the objects inside fall onto the ground. The entire OB gasped. They rings each council member. The rings of Thee. 

“The Council is dead.” The hooded figure spoke aloud, you huffed shaking your head. No…they can’t be. How? 

“I was sent to let the Ascendant know…to surrender to the new Lord of Thee.”

You scoffed, shaking your head at the man. Bora looked at the others to see the same expression on each of their faces. Shocked. 

“And what will happen if I don’t surrender?” You asked with your head tilted to the side. If it meant killing this new Lord? So be it. The man grabbed the sides of his hood, lifting it off his head. His eyes glowed letting you shield your own with your arm but the bright light blinded everyone around but the man that watched above. Alucard blurred to your postion grabbing a fist full of your shirt but a grunt fell out his mouth. He looked down at his side to see a dart with white liquid entering him. You yelped, leaning all of your body weight on to him when another dart of the same exact liquid pierced into the side of your neck. Your eyes were wide in fear when all he could do was hold you in his arms as you both crumbled to the ground. 

Bora was the first to see what was happening, she blurred a few meters but a dart hit her leg. She was quick to yank it out but the red liquid that entered her was enough to drop her limp. Each OB was hit with a dart causing all to fall into an unconscious state. You laid there with your gaze towards the cloudy sky hoping this was your last. You were ready to be with Wednesday again till a shadow blocked the beautiful sky. Everything around him went dark when your eyes locked onto his. You could feel the liquid making its course through your body but you could feel the shiver that ran down your spine. 

“Hello, sister.” 

__________________________

told y'all...

MY BAD YALL, I just seen it all fucked up at the end. It was 4AM and I was ready to take my ass to sleep! I FIXED IT!

[ask-roqia-elahi]

only us three... or not? | Roqia's Backstory + facts

Gore + Blood + Death warning :D

Roqia Elahi, the only child of a baker and a tailor from Iran. Their family had a peaceful life, with the father, Abbas, running the local bakery, and the mother, Zeynab, helping her husband in paying rent and buying the necessities with tailoring clothes for various family and friends.

Everything was fine, until when Roqia was 4, her mother was diagnosed with a severe case of ITP— a blood disorder characterized by a decrease in the number of platelets— and she was unable to help Abbas as much and, more importantly, was forbidden to give birth to any other child since it could cause grave consequences. Roqia felt forever lonely and the family would probably cease to exist.

Turned out that a few doctors in Japan are investigating on a cure for ITP; therefore, Roqia's father sold his house, and the mother's jewelry, to travel there in order to cure mother. Roqia was 6 here.

Yet, after a few months, a demon attacked father's workplace and killed everyone. They had little savings, and soon, there would be no money left to afford the expensive and experimental medicine for mother— who also died of heart failure caused by the shock and depression she received. The last bits of money was spent to ship the two corpses back to Iran, but Roqia couldn't go back.

Now she was all alone, in a foreign country, without no one to go back to.

She spent two years begging in the streets, against her wishes, since no one accepted an Iranian, young girl to work for them. She knew tailoring and had big talent in art, but seemed like no one liked a tailor or an artist with a hijab.

She could go to the red light district and work as a maid, but again her hijab and religion forbid both her and the owners from taking her in a house. So she kept on begging, as her only option left to live with.

Until one night, another demon attacked the village she lived in. As she was sleeping outside, she was its first target. Roqia woke up and, seeing the demon, screamed for help, and luckily, a demon slayer quickly arrived, beheading the demon and saving Roqia.

The demon slayer seemed to not care about her religion. When He realized she was homeless, he took her in where he lived and treated her with kindness. Roqia describes him and the other people who helped her back on her feet as "saviors sent from god".

Said demon slayer was in fact, the tsuguko and son of the Ethereal hashira, Amaya Mizuki, who was soon to retire. A year afterwards and after her retiring, Amaya asked Roqia if she wants to become a demon slayer and learn ethereal breathing from her as her second apprentice. The nine-year-old Roqia gladly accepted.

She trained for two years under Amaya's guidance, and did her final selection at eleven years old.

Amaya's son, Ichiro, was killed by lower moon one (Enmu) while being on a mission in the mugen train. Roqia's now trying her best in quickly becoming the ethereal hashira to replace Amaya as soon as possible.

at first, Roqia kept thinking of going back to Iran, but becoming a demon slayer made her realize she had to continue living in Japan to take revenge for her parents and save people who might experience the same death as her father.

Despite living in Japan, Roqia never abandoned Islam and fasts each Ramadan.

^ this doesn't bother her on missions though, as demons only appear after sunset and when she's opened her fast!

The lil bag she has with her in the lowest panel on the mini comic is the last things she picked from her parents' belongings before leaving the house behind.

^ they'd rented the house and she was thrown out the house after her mother's death.

^ inside the bag is a Qur'an, a small prayer book, her dad's blue prayer beads (not like Gyomei's– small ones that you can hold in your hand and count your prayers with, called Tasbih), food, a family drawing from her childhood, a sketchbook, and some bandage.

She enjoys drawing nature and people in her sketchbook.

She loves reading (that's why she has two books in her bag lol)

Her Hijab is actually for her mother and her ring is one that her father would wear when he was young.

She's thinking of making herself a haori, but pitch black like a chador. This way she won't be seen easily in the night either.

Tagging the amaizngs @larz-barz @love-stvrs @iincogneeto

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch7

chapter seven: survival

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 7, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-6, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: nightmares, drowning; canon-typical blood, violence, gore, & death. y'all know the drill by now, i think.

If your dreams were vivid before, you’re not even sure how to describe them now. The moment you close your eyes, you’re transported somewhere else. Suddenly, you’re walking with bare feet on muddy soil when wrists shoot out of the damp earth, grabbing onto your ankles and yanking you back through dirt until you fall down next to a decaying corpse… 

Then you’re swimming through a sea of broken glass, every movement burying shards further into your skin. Your blood slips through the fragments, a crimson bubbling sea rising around you until you’re being pulled under by the ferocious current… 

…You’re restrained on an autopsy table, a surgeon making an incision down your chest. Your chest aches, but you suspect the feeling isn’t just from the scalpel. Sure enough, you feel something clawing at your chest cavity and you lurch forward against the iron manacles forcing your wrists down. Claws prickle against your skin and, suddenly, a bright bird bursts from your chest and flies about the room… 

Then you’re standing across from Hannibal, as he stares at you from his confines. He presses his fingertips to the glass boundary and it crumbles to dust in the stale air. For a moment, when you blink, you see bloodstained antlers branching out from Hannibal’s head. When you blink again, he is standing impossibly closer. You’re screaming at yourself to move, run, but you’re entirely frozen. Just as he reaches out, there’s an impossibly loud blaring sound… 

You open your eyes to find yourself tangled in your bedsheets, your alarm making incessant noise. You reach out to grab your phone and turn off the alarm, before rubbing a hand over your face as you try to ground yourself to reality. These dreams of yours aren’t helping your sleep at all, and you sometimes find yourself staying up later in the foolish hopes of outrunning the horrors you know you’ll be met with when you close your eyes. 

There’s a buzzing sound ringing in your ears—an aftereffect of the dream. You clamp your hands over your ears, surprised that the effort actually dampens the sound. Then you glance at your nightstand and realize that your phone is ringing. You stare at it for a few moments in confusion, before groaning and picking it up. There’s an incoming call from Jack—you immediately accept and push yourself up to a sitting position, before bringing the phone to your ear. 

Jack neglects a greeting. “There was a murder,” he says. Immediately, all of the thoughts you’d been trying to push away—namely, the Tooth Fairy killings and your conversation with Hannibal—come flooding back. You take a short breath in. “A prisoner at Baltimore State Hospital died yesterday; he choked on his own tongue.”

Foreboding clings to your skin like a vice. Jack doesn’t need to provide any more detail, because you can already picture—with almost complete certainty—who the victim was. All you need to do is close your eyes and remember the disgusting feeling of saliva on your cheek, followed by the ice-cold shiver that ran down your spine as you saw the fury gleaming in the Ripper’s eyes. Just as you expect, Jack confirms that the victim was Miggs—the same inmate who you had that rather unpleasant interaction with but a few days ago. 

You’re lost for words. Thankfully, Jack isn’t expecting an answer from you. “Chilton wants you here,” he continues, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Now.” You’re still sitting in bed at this point—and Frederick Chilton isn’t exactly a person you’d rush out of bed to assist. 

“Tell him I’ll be there this afternoon,” you answer after a moment’s contemplation. You have plans to visit Abigail today—which you refuse to reschedule. Plus, you need to review the case files and autopsy reports before returning to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. “And if that’s not soon enough… then too bad.” Chilton isn’t your boss—Jack Crawford is. And you know Jack has far more pressing issues than a house call from a hospital administrator. 

Your suspicions are correct, because Jack doesn’t argue. “Got it.” The call ends and you groan, rubbing a hand over your face roughly in an attempt to fight off your exhaustion. It’s a bit earlier than you intended to be awake, but you know you won’t be able to fall asleep again. Conceding defeat, you brush your teeth and get dressed before heading out to the kitchen for a light breakfast. 

Not long after, you find yourself taking notes on what you know of the Tooth Fairy so far as you sit on your back porch, wind whipping at your skin. The cigarette dangling between your fingers is a small comfort, and it doesn’t provide nearly enough warmth as you desire. Even as you try to focus on the imminent threat—the Tooth Fairy—all you can think about is your interaction with Hannibal. You should have known that he would aim to harm Miggs. Indeed, that vicious snarl on Hannibal’s face was indicative of what was to come. You should’ve fucking known. Then, maybe another person wouldn’t be dead. Then, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting on your porch with this selfish guilt crawling around in your chest. You have no right to be guilty—you practically allowed that murder to happen.

…Right? 

You’ve caught yourself getting stuck in that mindset rather often recently. Your psyche loves to assign you the guilt and award you the responsibility. Sometimes, you know it’s deserved. But, in cases like this—in situations like the murder of Miggs, where you were just a bystander—you feel like you’re giving yourself too much credit. 

There’s only so much time you can spend mulling over the details of the Tooth Fairy killings and refreshing your memory before you find yourself growing agitated. You’re buzzing with restless energy, your foot tapping against the deck impatiently. Your thought process has grinded to a halt; the just barely visible trail has now gone cold. It’s frustrating to have so little information on this killer, especially when you know exactly when he will kill next. You feel as if you’re just fighting against the inevitable, at this point. But murder should never be inevitable. The BAU needs to find a way to get this guy behind bars. 

You shake your head and push yourself to your feet, collecting your materials into a relatively coherent pile and moving back inside. The sky is looking a bit overcast, and you’d rather not have raindrops scattered across the files. Besides, it’s nearly time for your visit with Abigail, you realize as you look down at your watch. 

You’ve been visiting her off and on since the encounter with her father in their home—since he sliced his daughter’s throat and stared right through you, those eerie, dusty green eyes pinning you in place with ease-

Safe to say, your memories of Garret Jacob Hobbs still aren’t buried, even after so many years. He’s the first of the many voices sounding in the cacophony of your mind. 

You push thoughts of the murderer aside and walk up the path towards the building. You sign in with the receptionist and walk over to the waiting area, taking a seat on the couch. It doesn’t take long before Abigail makes an appearance, and the two of you exchange greetings before you walk outside, settling on one of the benches under a willow tree. The wind rustles through the leaves and there’s a slight chill to the air, but it’s far from unpleasant. You place your hands on your knees and try to pretend as if you aren’t feeling tense. You’re here to speak with Abigail—you can abandon thoughts of bloodstains and corpses until you leave. 

For a few minutes, Abigail and you sit on the bench in companionable silence. You get the feeling that Abigail is trying to figure out her next words, and your instinct is proven correct when she breaks the silence moments later. “I’ve been placed into a foster home,” she reveals. 

You raise your eyebrows and try to study her reaction. She doesn’t exactly look thrilled. Actually, on second thought, Abigail looks as if she wants to be happy—but she’s preventing herself from being hopeful. You suppose that’s a normal reaction, for someone who’s been through what she’s been through. “That’s wonderful news, Abigail,” you say with a smile. The smile on her face flickers and you frown. “What’s the matter?”

Abigail sighs, clasping her hands in her lap. She is being uncharacteristically evasive. You decide to be patient and wait for her to gather her composure. Eventually, she takes a deep breath. “I… I’m scared.” The admission seems to take a lot out of her. She’s avoiding your gaze now, staring ahead at the building she’s been practically trapped in since she woke from her coma. 

“What are you scared of?” You hum, genuinely curious. You don’t want to patronize her, so you try to ensure that your expression is as open and honest as possible. 

Abigail is silent for a bit. “Disappointing them,” she eventually admits. You try to digest that confession. “And I feel like… I don’t deserve this. After everything I’ve done…” Everything she has done, indeed. Abigail was not entirely innocent in her father’s crimes—and she was more than just complicit. She helped him source his victims, pretended to make friends with them so that they would let their guard down. Maybe that’s why you have formed such a kinship with Abigail: you both know cruelty; Abigail and you have both been victims and perpetrators. “What if they don’t like me?” Abigail whispers, so quietly you nearly convince yourself you imagine it.

Then you’re abruptly reminded that, above all, Abigail is still a young girl—practically a child. Your throat burns a little as you process her statement. “They’ll love you, Abigail.” You’re quick to reassure her. 

“What if they don’t?” Her voice cracks and your heart breaks a little. 

“Then you can make a break for it,” you respond with a dramatic wink. The remark successfully diffuses the tension that had been settling in the air and Abigail laughs. A small part of you wants to offer for her to stay with you, but you know that’s a foolish promise to make. You suppose it’s normal to want a family—every human craves connection, in one way or another… regardless of how that connection may manifest. But you’re not deluded enough to think that you have all the necessary tools to be a parental figure to Abigail. You’re busy enough fighting off your own demons. Abigail deserves a normal life, and you’re not able to give that to her. 

(Maybe, in another world, you would be able to provide her with a quiet, ordinary life and a loving home. Maybe, in this other world, you would have someone to share that responsibility with you—someone who cares about Abigail just as much as you, someone who would protect her with all the ferocity and compassion that she deserves. Someone like…)

Your thoughts are veering into dangerously fantastic territory. You shake your head and try to shift your focus back to the conversation, ignoring the deluded (but compelling) calls of domesticity and belonging. Ultimately, you have never belonged. And you don’t see that changing any time soon. 

“So… it may be a while before I see you again,” Abigail says, tearing you out of your reverie. You stare at her for a few moments. 

“That’s okay,” you then reassure her, upon seeing the guilt written all over his face. “You’ll be busy—going to school, hanging out with friends. You won’t even think about an old geezer like me.” You smile, hoping to cheer her up further. Your efforts seem to work, because a smile rises on her lips. 

“Shut up,” Abigail says with an amused huff. “That’s not true.” 

“It is true,” you say, a fond smile growing on your face. You hope she’ll be able to move on from all this and live a normal life: go to school; hang out with friends; and engage with her hobbies. You can only hope that Abigail’s father doesn’t haunt her mind the same way he haunts yours. “And I wouldn’t want anything less for you.” You maintain. 

A pleasant silence descends across the air once more. A gentle wind blows through the trees and Abigail sighs. You mimic the gesture and she smiles. You’re not sure how long the two of you remain seated in companionable silence before an orderly appears in the doorway of the building and taps her wrist, indicating that your time is almost up.

You dig your hands in your pockets and find the item you intended to give her, turning it over in your hand and hesitating for a moment. Abigail follows your gaze and looks at it. You realize it’s too late and take a deep breath, offering her the object. “If you ever need me,” you say pointedly. 

Abigail takes your business card and looks down at it, raising her eyebrows. “Ooh, how professional,” she teases. You roll your eyes. The orderly motions pointedly and a sudden sincerity stifles the air. “I’ll make sure to text you.” She promises, the resolute gleam in her eyes indicating that she will not go back on her word.

You stand up and she does the same, before turning towards you and reaching forward to hug you. There’s a kind of sadness lingering in her movements, in the unspoken way she tucks her head into your chest and stays there. It’s clear she’s still nervous about the whole foster parent affair, and you don’t blame her. “They’re going to love you,” you assert, resisting the uncharacteristic urge to ruffle her hair. 

“I hope so,” she murmurs against your shoulder. 

“They will,” you reassure her. They’d better, you think darkly. The two of you eventually break apart and Abigail regretfully traipses back to the building, leaving you to walk to your car with conflicting feelings of relief and stress. You get the feeling you’ll see Abigail again, but it may be a little while. You’ll be busy with work and she’ll be busy adjusting to a new lifestyle—a peaceful one. 

Overall, your visit with Abigail was a welcome distraction from everything going on; unfortunately, the moment you start your car and pull out of the parking lot, all of your anxieties come rushing back. You’re supposed to meet with Frederick Chilton. Supposedly, he wants to speak with you. You can only hope that your conversation won’t be centered around getting you to participate in a consultation appointment with him. 

And, to your immense fortune, Chilton doesn’t mention a consultation appointment once. Perhaps he’s finally accepted that you’re not interested in participating in a vulnerable conversation with him (or a conversation at all, if you’re being perfectly honest). Instead, he levels you with a wary gaze as you enter his office, his eyes tracking your every movement. You settle for standing in front of his desk with your hands shoved in your pockets. Admittedly, you’re feeling pretty restless—but you don’t want to give Chilton the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“You wanted to see me.” You prompt, after a few seconds pass and the administrator doesn’t make any move to address you.  

“I’m assuming Jack has briefed you,” he says, cutting right to the chase. You nod and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The prisoner who died was Miggs… His cell was near Lecter’s.” You aren’t very surprised and the thought briefly makes you feel guilty, before you remember why exactly Miggs was imprisoned. “When I went to review the security footage, I noticed something interesting,” Chilton continues ambiguously.

The look on his face is nothing short of pure suspicion. You’re quickly losing patience with this circular conversation. “What?” You demand tersely. 

Chilton doesn’t seem surprised by your sudden rudeness. Instead he just exhales slowly, clasping his hands on his desk and looking at you with an unreadable expression. “There was an altercation between you and the victim.” He states. 

“Yes, he spit on me.” You recall, unable to hide your distaste. Chilton grimaces in sympathy. It’s a fleeting gesture—one that is performed for pretense, rather than out of genuine sentiment. Although, you’re sure he’s had similar experiences with prisoners—what with his position as the hospital’s head administrator. 

“Immediately after, you spoke to Lecter.” Chilton continues. This is just one of the numerous reasons you don’t like Frederick Chilton: when he has the opportunity to speak, he monopolizes it. He likes hearing the sound of his own voice, so he’ll go into painful and unnecessary detail for his own amusement. You always struggle with being patient in these moments, and right now is no exception. “Then, hours later, Miggs turns up dead. That seems like more than mere coincidence.”

You grit your teeth, catching the implications of his statement immediately. “You think that I spoke to Lecter and ordered him to kill Miggs?” You repeat, a little indignation seeping into your voice. You’re trying your best to remain calm, but it’s difficult when you’re being accused of a murder you didn’t commit. “Why would I do that?”

“Miggs spit on you, disrespected you,” Chilton answers. It’s an incredibly weak justification, and it almost looks as if he regrets uttering it. In your infinite generosity, you give him a few moments to take it back. But he doesn’t move to apologize or rescind his remark, so you’re forced to acknowledge it.

“My pride isn’t that easily wounded,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you know I didn’t sic Lecter on him just for a simple discourtesy.” 

“Men have been killed for far less.” That may be true, but you wouldn’t kill someone over a small act of disrespect. You want to think you wouldn’t kill at all, but you’re afraid it’s a bit too late for that. Your victims cackle in your ears, reminding you of your cruelty and hypocrisy. 

Chilton is staring at you expectantly. You remember that it’s your turn to respond. “Yes, it’s probable that Lecter killed Miggs,” you acquiesce. “But I didn’t ask him to do that.” He did it of his own accord, you know. Arguably even more frightening. 

“Even so…” Chilton breaks off. 

“Just stop,” you interject, before he can hurl any more unfounded conjecture at you. “You’re grasping at straws here. Not to mention, if you checked the security footage, you would know that I left the building after that encounter. There’s no way I would’ve been able to get back in and have another conversation with Hannibal.” You don’t notice the slip until you see Chilton raise a brow, and you’re quick to continue speaking. “Besides, if you wanted to know what he said to me, you could’ve just asked.” You suspect that’s been the prime motivator for this conversation. Chilton likely knows that you didn’t commit the murder—he’s just trying to lead you into a verbal trap in which you reveal details of your conversation. 

“Very well,” Chilton acknowledges with a gesture of mock-surrender. “What did he say to you? The footage shows you about to leave, before you return to Lecter for a few moments.” He recalls, glancing at his computer before looking at you again. 

“He was calling my name,” you remember. “I went back.” I’m not sure why, you neglect to say. “He asked me if Miggs spit on me. I told him that he did. He said it was discourteous. I told him it would be fine.”

“And then?” Chilton asks, practically leaning forward in interest. 

You smile. “Then I walked away.” You answer. 

Chilton visibly droops and you just barely manage to hold back a laugh. Honestly, you can’t believe he had the audacity to try to play mind games with you. You’re a criminal profiler and investigator—you’ve spoken to far more dangerous personalities and have manipulated people far more threatening than Frederick Chilton. The fact that he thought, even for a moment, that he could talk circles around you is insulting—and it speaks to his towering ego. 

“Now, I want to speak to Lecter,” you assert. I’m not letting this visit be a complete waste of time, you think to yourself. You’re already here—you might as well try to squeeze some more answers out of Hannibal. Will you actually get any valuable information? Probably not. But you won’t know unless you try. At least, that’s how you try to justify it to yourself. The voices don’t like that justification, though—Franklyn whispers that you’re just like him, that you just crave his full attention-

“Knock yourself out,” Chilton sighs dejectedly, tossing you his keys. You’re roughly torn out of your thoughts and you just barely manage to catch them, surprised that he’s trusting you with his keys after he just finished accusing you of murder. Your thoughts must show on your face, because Chilton just shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s been a long day.”

You decide to leave it at that and leave his office, heading downstairs and pacing down the hall lined with iron bars and dehumanizing cages. The prisoners aren’t nearly as rowdy as they’ve been in the past, and you think you make it all the way to the final door before Hannibal’s cell without being harassed or insulted. That might just be a record, you think to yourself wryly as you unlock the security door with Chilton’s door and shut it behind you. Immediately, your eyes aren’t drawn to Hannibal—but to another cell. 

Miggs’ cell is empty. There’s a sizable chunk taken from the toilet (evidently, that’s what he threw at you). More worrying, however, is the rather large, light pink stain marring the floor. It’s clear a janitor was tasked with mopping up all the blood that Miggs left behind. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like all of the blood came out. You shake your head and rip your eyes away, that familiar nausea prickling at the back of your throat. 

When you settle in front of Hannibal’s cell, you realize that something is different. Hannibal is seated at his writing desk, staring down at the cracked wood as if it holds invaluable secrets. He looks up when you take another step, but you’re too busy looking at the empty shelves behind him. Consulting your memory, you realize that his books aren’t crowding the shelves anymore. 

“Where are your books?” is somehow the first question that leaves your lips. Hannibal clearly doesn’t expect the question, because he blinks for a few moments before helplessly quirking his lips as he turns to face you. “Chilton took them?” You ask before he can answer. 

“Yes,” Hannibal nods. The irritation that is normally hidden behind layers of his mask almost seems to froth and bubble over, spilling over his frame and tightening his posture. He clasps his hands on the desk and stares at you, studying you. You’ve gotten used to the feeling of being shoved under a microscope and relentlessly examined with attentive eyes, yet it doesn’t fail to unnerve you. 

“I’ll speak to him,” you suggest after a few moments. Getting Hannibal his books back may help him to trust you, which could prove beneficial in the long run. But that’s not the real reason you’re offering, is it? “In the meantime-” You try to continue. 

“Will you really?” Hannibal interjects, staring at you scrupulously. There is little emotion in his voice—no sign of hope or gratitude. The statement is spoken with an entire lack of substance. Perhaps captivity is slowly eating away at the man. Somehow, you doubt it. 

“Yes, I will,” you promise before you can consider the consequences. Why did you do that? Somehow, you felt pressured to agree—and Hannibal hadn’t even formed any expectations for you to do so. You just volunteered to speak to Chilton on his behalf… entirely of your own accord. And that troubles you. You thought you were maintaining a professional distance, but your actions are speaking to something deeper. 

“I would be grateful,” Hannibal says. “There is little to do in this cell.”

Now you’re feeling guilty. You’re falling prey to his mind games, knowingly, yet you aren’t doing anything about it. You are an entirely willing deer prancing about near a lion’s den. “Books keep the mind at bay, I’m sure,” you murmur. You’re speaking before thinking and it shows. “Anyway, that’s not what I came for-”

Hannibal inexplicably gets up from his seat and you flinch. He paces towards the glass barrier, until he is a mere two or three feet from you. Then he inhales through his nostrils. The man’s brows furrow and his expression turns pinched. “You smell of smoke,” Hannibal remarks astutely. His eyes flit up and down your form, likely looking for evidence of your new habit. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice sooner,” you say guardedly. Indeed, from what you remember, he has always had a keen sense of smell. That primarily manifested in him making those eerie types of comments, but you also noticed his nose scrunch at unpleasant scents when he thought no one was looking. 

“I noticed the moment you approached the glass, before our most recent conversation,” Hannibal confesses. You frown. “I dismissed it as a once-off occurrence… It appears I was incorrect.”

Silence. You don’t know what to say. Hannibal seems content to let the silence drag on painfully, as he just stares wordlessly. Just when you’re growing to be a little too uncomfortable, he breaks through the quiet air. “Tell me, do you enjoy the thought of lung cancer?” He hums lightly. 

You don’t bother dignifying that statement with a response, instead burying your hands further into your jacket pockets. Your fingers find the steadfast cold metal of your lighter and you take a deep breath. A cough is building in your throat and you tilt your head to the side and cough into the crook of your elbow. You don’t need to look at Hannibal to know that he’s staring at you with a knowing expression, but you find your gaze pulled back to him (as it always is). You’re instantly surprised by the sight of Hannibal frowning at you. You were certain he would take pride in foreseeing your suffering, but instead, he looks concerned. Surely you must be seeing things. 

“Does it bring you solace?” Hannibal breathes. You don’t need to ask him to elaborate, but he does anyway. “Burning yourself from the inside out, that is.” Admittedly, you have thought about that before. A part of you, however small, does take solace in the fact that your new smoking habit is slowly destroying your lungs, rendering them entirely inedible to a cannibal. Maybe this is just a small delusion you’ve allowed yourself—one fleeting act of resistance against a never-ending, surging tide. 

The Chesapeake Ripper is waiting for an answer. Inwardly, you find amusement in the realization that, out of all the things you’ve done, smoking is what bothers Hannibal. You have done far more cruel, dangerous, and self-sabotaging things—but this is where he draws the line. Once a doctor, always a doctor. 

“I’ve grown used to the flames,” you mutter. 

He doesn’t find your answer satisfactory. That much is clear, from the way his lips are pulled tight in a thin line to the disappointment lingering in all that remains unspoken between you. “And to addiction?” Hannibal asks. His presence before you now is one big contradiction: his words are non-confrontational, yet there is a combative desire written in the harsh lines that sew him together. 

“You’re not my doctor,” you snap, with a bit more bite than usual. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face roughly, shaking your head in disbelief. Hannibal remains entirely enigmatic—too unpredictable for your liking. One moment, he’s murdering an inmate; the next, he’s attempting to warn you off of smoking. These interactions never fail to give you whiplash. 

“Very well,” Hannibal acquiesces, clearly sensing that he won’t get more information about your harmful coping mechanisms. Before you can get in another word edgewise, Hannibal is continuing to speak. “Send in Dr. Chilton, will you?” You’re being effectively dismissed. Somehow, you feel humiliated. This entire time, you were foolish enough to think that you were controlling the conversation, that you were the one with the power. But that was never the case. Your presence, your existence behind these nondescript walls was always his to dictate. 

“Sure,” you respond through gritted teeth, cursing yourself for letting your guard down. You turn on your heel and walk away, very tempted to ignore his farewell. You eventually settle for throwing a wave over your shoulder as you depart, lost in thought. 

You come back to yourself as you’re standing in Chilton’s office. You blink dazedly and look around you, confused as to how you got here. You don’t remember walking back through the halls, but you must’ve—otherwise you’d still be standing in front of Hannibal. You rub at your eyes roughly and try to collect your composure, painfully aware of Chilton staring daggers into you as you stand there. He’s nearly vibrating in curiosity; unfortunately for him, it takes you a few minutes to regain the ability to speak. 

“He’s asking for you,” you finally utter. Chilton nods and steps out of his office. You stand frozen in the doorway until you hear the doors to the hall shut behind him. Then, as if possessed, you move to his desk and look down at his computer screen, which is focused on the surveillance camera feed for Hannibal’s cell. For a few minutes, Hannibal remains seated at his desk in solitude. Then, Chilton appears in the hall. The camera feed is slightly grainy and there’s no audio, but you try your best to ascertain what’s happening from their nonverbal gestures and posture. 

“I need to speak to Jack Crawford,” Hannibal says.  

“And why should I listen to you?” Chilton scoffs. Chilton is standing at least a foot away from the glass wall. You’re starting to think the administrator has a bit of a complex when it comes to Hannibal. Now that the Ripper is behind bars, Chilton is foolishly convinced that he is the one who holds the power. But Hannibal’s surrender was tactical, and you’re almost certain that he has something more up his sleeve. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, instead staring at him silently. It’s abundantly clear that the man isn’t very fond of Chilton. 

“Fine,” Chilton responds. “But don’t expect to be getting your books back any time soon.” He adds.  

You’re left to speculate on the nature of their conversation, and you’re forced to make your escape once you notice Chilton leaving. You manage to make it out of the building before he returns, thankfully. As you drive home, you can’t help but think about the interaction you just witnessed. While you don’t know what the two men discussed, you do know that Hannibal will likely get his way. 

And indeed, he does. Unbeknownst to you, within three hours, Jack Crawford is standing before Hannibal Lecter’s enclosure with an annoyed pull to his lips. Moreover, the next time you visit Hannibal, you will notice that all of his books have been returned to him—in addition to the toilet seat and his drawings, which were both removed as punishments. These occurrences will serve as yet another reminder of the power Hannibal holds. He is no ordinary prisoner—no ordinary killer, no ordinary man. 

“You are far from ordinary,” Hannibal had told you once. Even now, years later and separated by a seemingly impenetrable wall of glass, his voice echoes down the halls of your mind palace and slips right past your defenses. You spend the rest of the evening trying to suppress old memories.

next chapter

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[i-can-read-to-him]

The Wesper Fic Club's Author Spotlight is a post series that aims to feature two to three fic authors a month, randomly selected from a pool of names put forth on our server. The authors are then asked to answer three interview questions, select up to five of their fics for us to feature, and finally, recommend three fics by others in the fandom.

(Note: Our spotlighted fics are not limited to Wesper, though they tend to be a central pairing in most of our authors' featured works.)

This week, we are putting a spotlight on Lou's writing!

Socials: @waterloou (Tumblr) | hugharekillianmelou (AO3)

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Part One: Author Interview

Q: What do you consider your strengths as a writer?

A: I’m using these quotes from sparrow bc I’m gonna be honest and say I really don’t know how to perceive myself: “Off the top of my head, I would say you are very good at lyrical prose, imagery and atmosphere, thoughtful characterization, anddd I don’t know how to articulate this as cleanly, but like… the way you handle dark subject matter (like MCD) in a way that makes it feel... like something that should be dangerous to handle, but it is safely contained. Like one of those poisonous Victorian era books with the striking green colour [Scheele's Green] displayed in a glass case. Also, you maintain canon characterization even in AU settings, which is honestly a skill not everyone has. I love AUs, but some people lose sight of canon so quick and it ends up feeling very OOC.”

Q: What’s your favourite fic you’ve written for this fandom?

A: It’s called Lay Me Gently in the Cold Dark Earth and it’s from Wylan’s perspective when he’s 6 feet under and how he interacts with the earth around him and Jesper. Idk how else to describe it. 

Q: What advice do you have for those facing writer’s block?

A: My only suggestion is just to switch to notebooks and use prompt lists. I struggle with writers block far too much it’s hard for me to sit down and write something most of the time. 

Q: When did you first start writing? What keeps you going today?

A: Jonas Brothers YouTube imagines. I had a little flip notebook on a family vacation and lots of time to kill so I wrote my own imagines/fanfiction. It was also like not a self insert but like I’d insert someone age appropriate and live vicariously through them.  I have so so many ideas and only I can execute them correctly so obviously I need to keep writing. It’s a tough job but if I want the content I need to make it 

Q: Who is your favourite character? What do you love about them?

A: JESPER LLEWELLYN FAHEY!!!! He’s just so complex and loving and I also relate to him most bc of his sadness and feelings of inadequacy and using humor as a cover up. I saw the trailers before I read the books and then I read the books before I watched the show but that one clip of Jesper in those first trailers had me hooked ever since.

Q: If you could travel anywhere in the Grishaverse, where would you go?

A: Shu Han because it looks like I’d have the most fun there. 

Q: If you could be friends with any character in the Grishaverse, who would it be?

A: Tolya!!! He’s got a lovely disposition and it’s nice to have someone with similar interests.

Q: Have you had a chance to interact with the SAB cast? Tell us about your experience(s).

A: The only interaction I’ve had is Jack liking my drawing of him. Honestly tho even tho this cast is amazing I think I’d be fine never meeting any of them. There’s already all my questions answered and I’d probably make a fool out of myself if I met them. 

Q: What are some recurring themes you’ve noticed in your writing?

A: I am using more sparrow quotes bc my only answer was “Hozier coded” and idk if that answer was enough: “I think grief/death/mourning is definitely something that comes up a lot. Related to that... I want to say 'transcendent love,' if that makes sense. Definitely also strong platonic bonds, so friendship... Oh, balance and opposites (how the latter interacts and achieves balance)... sometimes with concepts like life and death, but also with people like Wylan and Jesper.” Ty sparrow ur iconic 

Q: What kind of music do you like to listen to while writing?

A: Hozier, lots of like folk or floaty type of genres. 

Q: Are there any songs you strongly associate with a favourite character or ship?

A: "half return" by Adrianne Lenker could be associated with either Wylan or Jesper and their childhoods. I do think it’s odd that this is the first fandom where music is not the driving force of my writing or associating with characters.

Q: What is one of your favourite scenes from the source material (book or show)?

A: Jesper’s introduction in the show is a classic and he’s just SO COOL.

Q: If could change anything about (book or show) canon, what would it be?

A: 😭 besides it being cancelled? Matthias’ fate. 

Q: What are some headcanons you have that you consider your personal canon?

A: MODERN AU: Jesper is an engineering major. Wylan is a chemistry major (hates it), switches to biology and music double major. Jesper makes and sells jewelry on the side.  REGULAR SETTING: Jesper lives for a long long time and Wylan reincarnates many times and they are together until they both pass. 

Q: Tell us about something in your fics that you’re proud of and wish would get more notice.

A: I do like the poetic flow they have from time to time! It’s nice reading something I wrote and being invested. This is a cop out answer but I think they’ve been appreciated an adequate amount! Everyone is so sweet reading and commenting!

Q: What’s something you haven’t written yet, but want to write in the future?

A: OH BOY I have a list: - This is written but mouse wylan  - sci fi au  - Hozier song wesper series  - human meat business crows serial killers  - Hellraiser au wesper  - whump wesper jesper shot  - Halloween series  - vampire crows au 

Q: What’s something you wish you could write, but don’t think you ever will?

A: Most of the ideas listed above. My brain just doesn’t want to write the ideas. Also Smut. Did it once idk if I could write it again

Q: How do you feel about your fics being translated into other languages?

A: Go ham. As long as it’s credited to me idc

Q: Apart from sight, what is your favourite of the senses to describe when writing?

A: Touch I love touch descriptions because you can get an insight into how the characters experience the world.

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Part Two: Selected Works

Two corpses we were, two corpses I saw

Not Rated | 275 words | Wesper Hozier coded, Decay, Burial, Happy Ending

Short diddy about knight/pianist wesper

Golden slumbers

Teen | 460 words | Wesper Grief/Mourning, Pre-Grief, Aging, Jesper-centric

Jesper would always be a mourner

Lay me gently in the cold dark earth

Not Rated | 388 words | Wesper Hozier coded, POV Wylan, Character Death, Happy Ending

Wylan needs Jesper, even after life

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Part Three: Author's Recs

without pity by demigodbeautiies

Mature | 21.9K | Wesper Non-Con Drug Use, Whump, Mild Gore, Angst with a Happy Ending

It’s 10 am on a Wednesday when Wylan Van Eck’s life crumbles around him. Which feels ridiculous, honestly, but that’s life, isn’t it?  - Jesper gets drugged with jurda parem. Wylan tries his best to deal with it. That, apparently, is hard to do when his life is falling apart.

A Lack Of Air Supply by Milkfrog

Mature | 106.7K | Wesper Past Child Abuse, Agoraphobia, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Wylan Van Eck

"Wylan Van Eck, until the age of 8, felt like royalty. Like the world was made for him, and him alone. He could do anything he wanted to. He could dream of a future so expansive he'd have to live multiple lives in order to fit everything he wanted to do. But Wylan Van Eck, at 22 years old, cannot even leave his apartment." (aka. Wylan has agoraphobia n Jesper moves into the apartment next to him <3)

only love can hurt like this by leehab23

Explicit | 82.2K | Wesper, Kanej Jesper-centric, Second Chance Romance, Pining, Angst, Happy Ending

“I need a drink,” Kaz said. With that, Jesper could agree. “Lead the way.” Kaz took one step and froze, swearing under his breath. Jesper followed his eyeline, his blood turning to ice when he saw what—or rather who—Kaz had noticed across the room. OR: After running away three years ago to Novyi Zem, Jesper finds himself back in Ketterdam. He agrees to pose as Kaz’s date for a job and has an unfortunate run-in with a certain red-headed ex.

Before Sunrise by @aphroditestummyrolls

General | 2.1K | Colm & Jesper, Colm/Aditi Good Parent Colm Fahey, Colm-centric, Baby Jesper

He’d like to say he expected it— it’s a well known fact that babies cry. The first months of parenthood are a tiring business. That was what everyone said, and the ones who didn’t say it were certainly thinking it. But, not all babies cried like Jesper Fahey cried. Just like every night for the past 2 and a half months, the second Addy stopped her gentle rocking and pacing, it started up again— first, as disgruntled fussing, huffing and puffing like a grumpy little bear cub. His downy fluff of curls pressed against his mama’s palm as he scrubbed his nose into her collarbone, tiny fist clenching in her night dress. Colm sighed. OR Jesper is a colicky little baby, and Colm just wants his poor wife to be able to sleep.

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Please support our authors by commenting and leaving kudos on any stories of theirs you read and enjoy! Don't forget to also reblog this post and check back soon for our next author spotlight to come.

Interested in joining our server and getting to know our community? Feel free to request an invite via the @i-can-read-to-him ask box.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized

6/9 We Appreciate Power

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

If one thing was sure with Simon, it was that he was never quite what he seemed.

It turned out that he was in a relationship for the first time since his twenties. He had a whole bunch of protocols, one of them being that he didn't date, didn't do relationships, didn't get attached. He said it was the usual approach in his line of work, but she didn't quite buy it. Other personnel and some of his teammates had partners, even children. She dared to believe that Simon was breaking his rules for her.

Simon was far more invested in people's lives than he would ever have cared to admit. But even if he appeared to harbor a tendency to protect those who could not do it for themselves, he didn't treat her like she was a helpless damsel. She was sure he would, after The Incident and especially after The Revelation, aka trauma dump. But it only felt like he had gotten more evidence of her toughness, her survival skills.

The more she learned about his past, the more she began to realize that he had a soft spot for the weak and suffering. He made no big deal out of it, but in her eyes, he was a hero for having saved his brother from drug addiction and beating his father close to death for everything he had done. Even the Puranic stories knew that demons needed to be punished, not forgiven; it was their only chance for redemption. To her, Simon was Krishna wrestling down Asuras who tormented innocents. He used his father's curse of anger for good.

And he didn't make her decisions for her. She wondered if things with her were much like with Soap: Simon let them both fuck around while he did the backup from a distance.

And another thing was that you never had a dull moment with Simon. Because one lazy Saturday morning, a week before Christmas, a ghost appeared in her hallway.

"Jesus Christ…!"

She had just brushed her teeth, but when she opened the bathroom door she was met with a huge masked man standing only a few feet away, just in front of her front door.

All the remnants of sleep vanished instantly. Her heart stopped beating for a moment, then slammed against her ribs as she saw the faded skull print on the black balaclava.

"Fuck." Her hand had shot to her chest, and she was sure every hair in her body was standing on end. But of course Simon only found the whole situation entertaining.

"Haven't heard that in a while."

He was dressed differently this time, introducing her to the professional soldier who was, even without the load of war gear, intimidating. She knew that he was a tall man, tall and broad, but now he seemed to shrink the entire hallway. The black cargo pants, waterproof jacket, padded, fingerless gloves and military boots could only be described as tactical — he was drenched in black on black on black, but it didn't make him look any smaller, quite the contrary. The dark brown eyes stared at her from under the skull balaclava with brazen mischief. When she finally caught up with her breath, she began to wonder how on earth Simon had even got here.

"Someone might think you're breaking in."

"Technically, I am."

She peeked at the front door behind him and was ready to scold him for breaking the lock, but there was no sign of any vandalism on it whatsoever. How the hell did this man do all this shit?

"Did someone see you?"

He crossed his hands over his chest like he had just been insulted.

"What do you think."

In a normal situation – if there was a thing called normal with Simon – she would be dangling from his neck by now. But he looked so impressive, so imposing and foreign, that she was suddenly shy.

"Ugh… Why do you have to be so, so…"

His eyes narrowed into a smile as she tried to search for the words.

"So you."

"You wanted to learn how to shoot."

Well, the last time they had spoken on the phone, she had asked him to teach her, but he had refused, saying that she would have to go to a range and receive tuition there like the rest of the folk. But it appeared his ego had gotten the best of him.

Because why else would he appear here like this, looking like a kidnapper, burglar and a commando guy, if it weren't to show off and get another reaction out of her?

"Now? It's raining."

The weather outside wasn't exactly inhibiting. It was just another London day where you couldn't tell if it was misty or rainy. And as if he had heard her thoughts, Simon raised his eyebrow and gave her a look that said Are you fucking kidding me?

"You got two minutes to get changed."

It was a command, and her eyes widened from him just ordering her around. Then she got back to her senses and simply obeyed. While combing through her bedroom closets, she figured Simon was being generous for her sake. Two whole minutes…

December this year was far from a winter wonderland: the weeks had been warm, rainy, and grey. But it was still wintertime, the kind of cold and wet that pushed through layers of clothing. She picked the most durable outdoor clothing she owned, paired it with her only merino base layer, then decided to change her underwear too. Into something more lush, something she had bought just for his sake. Just in case things got heated on the way back home or before they went to have a shower together...

As soon as she rushed back and had gotten her shoes on, he picked her up in a fireman's carry and headed to the door.

"Someone might get the wrong idea," she laughed at the pure audacity of this man as she watched his feet swallow the tiled path that led to the street.

"I can live with that."

"Simon, seriously. Someone might call the police."

"That would certainly be interesting."

She was hauled to a colossal car with darkened windows and tires the size of a mini horse — some kind of a preposterous off-road land cruiser she could never in her life afford. If this was his own car or if it was leased through work, she couldn't tell, but it was precisely like Simon: dark, robust and fierce.

He drove safely enough though; calm and collected, like he was driving a family car to a shopping mall. It was such a delightful little detail that she briefly thought that Simon would make a good father.

After about a 40-minute drive off the city, they reached some abandoned gravel pit in the middle of nowhere. The weather had stayed much the same, but the cold she felt came from finding herself in a completely unfamiliar setting.

She waited demurely as he opened the trunk, unloaded a few gun cases, and then picked up a black tactical vest with pouches filled with ammo. She watched with her mouth dry as he swung it on, adjusted the straps, and looked even more massive with that thing. She was given a set of eye and hearing protection, and then the first case was clicked open. It held some sort of rifle.

"I thought we would use a handgun?"

"Not before you've practiced with long barrels."

Practiced…? Just how hard could pistol shooting be?

He gave the gun to her and told her to get used to its weight. She didn't know whether the safety was on or off or if the gun was even loaded, but she pointed it to the ground as Simon went to set up targets a rather long distance away. She ended up strolling around with her shoulders tense, holding the gun like it was an explosive that could go off any minute.

This was just fucking crazy and she felt like a fool… and Simon was marching back, looking like a whole goddamn war movie.

He took the gun from her, adjusted the sight, and showed her how the bolt action worked. She only now saw that the chamber was empty – of course he wouldn't leave her unattended with a loaded firearm – then watched how he grabbed a magazine that looked like a little box and pushed it in the stock with seasoned motions.

"This is a Browning X-Bolt rifle. Good for hunting both deer and people."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes at such hillbilly talk. Simon put the hearing protection on, which was a sign for her to cover her ears as well. He fired only one round to see if everything worked correctly, then gave the gun back to her.

"Remember to squeeze the trigger. Don't yank or pull it."

He then adjusted her stance, which she had briefly tried to imitate from him. He came behind her, and the gun was raised and tucked against her shoulder like she was a child who had to be shown everything by hand. And she guessed she could be compared to an infant when it came to these things.

It was a whole other ordeal to try and memorize everything he said when the hard ridges of his gear pressed against her as he showed her how to hold the rifle. And it certainly wasn't an accident for him to pack his crotch against her too. They hadn't even kissed yet, let alone reveled in the usual, steamy sex that occurred the moment they met after weeks of pining on the phone. He was like the devil himself, pouring that dark, raspy velvet in her ear and knowing perfectly well that he left her aching after every single call. Long distance relationship was a sweet, sweet hell.

"Is that a knife in your pocket?"

She could barely detect the slight tensing of his core as she said it. The shoulders caved in just a little, the hand that was snaked over hers tightened its grip only marginally… So she raised the stakes.

"Or another long barrel?"

"Concentrate."

"It's pretty hard to concentrate with a barrel up my arse."

There was a short silence, and she bit her lip — Simon never let her have the last word, not to talk of teasing him like this without being punished. The hearing protection was lifted just enough for her to catch what he whispered in her ear.

"Should've fucked you before we came 'ere."

Her pussy clenched at that, quite involuntarily, but the dark honey combined with that gruff purr while he was pressed against her was simply too much.

"You would've been all nice 'n' quiet."

Well, it was now obvious that further punishment would ensue after the shooting lesson. Her nipples grew taut, and not from the cold. He gently put the hearing protection back on before taking a few steps back, his warmth leaving her like a cloak she had been deprived of.

She took a deep breath to level her head, then slid her finger on the trigger and braced herself for the kick. It was enough to mess up her aim, but the second time was easier now that she knew what was coming. After the third round, Simon came to show her how to change the empty mag.

"That's it. Good girl."

"For God's sake, Simon, you're not helping."

The third magazine she changed herself, with shaky hands, because shooting had turned out to be both thrilling and nerveracking.

Next up was a submachine gun, during which point she was literally sweating. Everything looked nasty and technical, and she felt like she didn't know shit about anything.

"Ok, now this one you gotta keep steady, or else you'll find yourself shooting at the sky."

He adjusted the grip of her left hand so that instead of cradling the gun in her palm, she bore her thumb over the rail for better control.

"How do I keep it steady?"

"With muscles. I know you got some."

The first few spurts were full of shy stress, but she got used to the feel of it after a while. The first magazine was empty just when she started to have fun. He came to change it, and she did another round, during which Simon gave her curt advice — "don't let the gun control you," "lean into it a bit," "elbows in line," and so on. It was absolutely ridiculous how the clink of bullets on the ground could make her feel like she was Rambo or something. After the third mag, Simon deemed it done, and she almost felt sad to be departed from the gun.

"That went well."

"Yeah. I like this one," she agreed while looking at the black steel like she had just made a new friend.

"You little maniac," he said while giving her an approving once-over. The sexual tension was electrifying, the smell of acrid gunsmoke made her feel exceptionally wild, and she started to understand why people were attracted to these things. She had thought that anyone could fire a gun, but she was wrong. It required practice like any other activity, it demanded both patience and strength.

Some of the expended cartridges had melted the polyester of her jacket in a few spots, one had even burned a tiny hole in the fabric. Simon noticed her surprise as he took the gun to return it to the car.

"Yeah… Burns real nice when they catch some skin. We call them brass kisses."

After the SMG was back in the case, Simon lit a cigarette, and she felt even more timid. Seeing him in this kind of setting, hauling guns around, lifting that mask to have a smoke, dressed like he was going to some special operation, suddenly reversed months of acquaintance. She was out of her element while he was 100 % in it, and the aspects that had made her fall for him were turned up not by a notch but by a stretch.

"Now we get to the pistol. And this ain't no toy. You really gotta pay attention to your form." The cigarette hung from his lips while he emptied the gun, then took a drag like it was just his second nature to fire some shots while having a smoke. The magazine was changed by the same hand that held the empty one like he had done this a thousand times before. Probably because he had.

She would never have thought that this was what she was really into. She had spent years searching for a soulmate in future professors or decent guys who were safe and dull. All of that evaporated into thin air like the smoke from his tobacco.

It felt almost shameful that she found such a stereotypically masculine man not only intriguing but so attractive that she felt weak in the knees. To gawk at the display of muscle and war and dirt and get wet from the smell of gunpowder and his sweat as he came close to show her how the guns worked… It felt like a betrayal. She had always looked down on these people because she had simply thought that wars were stupid and anyone who wanted to be part of such violence was stupid.

But Simon wasn't stupid or simple; he wasn't a jackass with distorted views of honor and ethics. In fact, he was one of the most intelligent, morally sound people she had met. Perhaps a little gloomy and with a twisted sense of humour, but those things only added to his depth. Simon wasn't cannon fodder, nor was he a gun-crazy, trigger-happy recruit who had made reality of most boys' fantasy life. He was a relic of something essentially, fiercely masculine, a man in a world full of boys.

He came to give her another crash course on how to line the sights, take off the slack from the trigger before firing, how to square her stance toward the target. It also seemed that she was gripping every weapon wrong. Whether it was a limp wrist or the wrong spot for grip, he saw it and corrected her on it.

And after firing a few rounds, she understood why they had started with rifles. The pistol shooting was an absolute shitshow. Aiming that small but feisty piece required an extremely delicate yet stern hand.

"See what I mean?" Simon changed another mag for her, and she tried to hide her sulking.

"Yeah. Why would anyone want to use these things?"

"Easier to carry and disguise."

After the second mag was empty, he told her he had been mean and that beginners usually started pistol shooting from 7 yards away. The target she had hit only a handful of times was more than 20 yards away.

"Got one more beauty," he said, went to the car, and came back with a monster. It looked heavy, even in his hands, and for a moment she thought they were about to shoot with a machine gun in the middle of serene countryside.

"What the hell is that…"

"I saved the best for last."

It turned out to be a large caliber rifle with a scope, typically used by snipers — only, this one was larger and more powerful from the usual military use. The silencer at the end of the barrel only increased the outrageous appearance of the weapon.

"Don't look so glum. This should be easy."

She got a nice little setup that included a poly tarp and a tripod for the gun. Shooting prone with a mounted gun gave her the much-needed support, and the scope made her feel that even a person with a Bachelor's degree could do this shit. The recoil didn't scare her this time; she even liked the feel of it when it got absorbed into her body.

"Lookin' good."

And the commentary from the back made her realize that the absorbing thing no doubt meant that more than just her accuracy was on point.

"I'm sure it does," she said mainly to herself while silently happy about Simon unmistakably checking her ass out. The sniper setup was so much fun overall that she asked for extra mags. He only had two, and the session was soon over, and her cheeks were red from both joy and the brisk morning air.

Simon came to crouch beside her, and she turned on the tarpaulin to give him a smile that must've told him just how happy she was. He smiled back with his eyes, which now held a hungry glimmer in them. Yup, he had definitely checked that ass out.

"That's it," he said while removing the protective gear for her.

"Can I join your team now?"

"Sure. You'll make a great mascot."

She fake punched him for that, and he caught her wrist while laughing at her sad tries to pose a threat to someone like him while lying on her back. The next punch was not that playful, even if she was laughing too. It soon turned into a whole wrestling contest until he finally climbed to mount her.

She figured he had bested her and relaxed under the straddle of his thighs, but the greedy look in his eyes only increased.

"C'mon. Fight back a little."

She guessed this was just another need to show off, but she felt reckless enough to indulge him. She caught him slightly off guard by diving an arm around his neck while doing a hip bridge that almost bucked him off to the side, but he quickly drove his other foot to the ground to prevent himself from being toppled.

"You've done Jiu Jitsu?"

"Beginners course, 5 years ago," she answered to the mild surprise in his voice, then tried to push herself out from under him with an escape from the mount that usually worked… at least in a training situation with other beginners. But Simon countered it easily, and she soon found herself being seized in a chokehold from behind while trying to break.

He took her back down with him, even wrapped his legs around hers, performing a perfect rear naked choke on her. She should've known that Simon was adept in martial arts as well.

She was staring at the sky while clutching the steel muscle that forced her to lay her head beside his. It was a pure instinct to reach for his forearm to pull it off, even if he was holding her in place rather than doing an actual choke.

"You're always far more fun than you let on," he whispered in her ear, so close that the fabric pressed on her skin and sent tingles down her spine.

"Glad to be of entertainment even here," she said while trying to maneuver herself out of the choke, to no avail. That bastard even let go with his other hand, quite capable of holding her in place with just one arm while the other began to travel down.

She froze from the heady realization that Simon hadn't spread the tarp just for shooting purposes. It had been laid there for some other action entirely.

The hand forced its way under the waistband of her pants and swept over her underwear, cupped her with no fanfare, just to inspect the state she was in.

"Of course you're wet." The voice was dark, amused, and slightly out of breath as his legs forced her thighs further apart still.

"Of course you're a cock," she said while trying to suppress a moan. Her muscles were already sore, but she didn't want to go back to a warm house, a hot shower, and a soft bed afterward. She wanted him to continue whatever this… exploration was developing into.

He stroked her through the thin fabric she had deliberately chosen to wear today under the all but erotic outdoor apparel, and knew he could feel just how wet she was. All the fight left her, her legs relaxed into the spread they were forced into, and her hips ground against that hand, utterly wanton and shameless. She assumed it was her way of tapping out.

"Fuck…" she cussed the second time today as her head laid back to rest on his shoulder.

"Just say the words and I will."

"I already did."

"Nah… you gotta say it." The grip on her throat tightened a little while he swept a thumb right over the spot that was crying for attention, and her eyes squeezed shut just from the sheer frustration this man aroused in her.

"Please. Just..."

"Yes luv?"

God, he was annoying...

"Fuck me," she submitted like she always did.

"With pleasure." He rolled them both to the side, and she was quite literally manhandled to lie down on her back. She dutifully helped him remove her pants and noticed she wasn't the only one having trouble with restraint. She had never seen a man so enthusiastic about getting her clothes off.

But when he was met with the high-waisted lingerie composed of strings and sheer black lace instead of the plain black knickers she usually wore, there was a pause.

"Fuckin' hell…"

And she could understand the allure of it now: there was something enticing, dizzying, about pale skin covered in nothing but a few thin threads and see-through mesh. Especially when contrasted with a giant male encumbered with magazines of cold metal and dressed in black, rough ripstop. She knew he carried not one, but two knives this time: one on the back of his vest and another strapped to his thigh.

"Don't destroy them, ok?"

He was still looking at the dainty little thing like it was the most fascinating sight he had ever seen. And to think that she had almost left them at the store because it felt foolish and corny to wear something like this just for him to take off.

"Simon? Please."

The dark stare flew briefly to her eyes before darting back to the ridiculous thing that, in her opinion, didn't deserve to be called clothing.

"Since you asked so nicely."

The lace looked even more pitiful in contrast to those reinforced half finger shooting gloves as he reached to take the garment off. The whole scene must've looked like a threatening situation rather than the passionate encounter of two lovers: a giant soldier opening his pants to get his cock out and adjust himself between the legs of a half-naked woman. If anyone from school saw what she was up to this weekend, they would've probably fainted.

And how on earth could it only feel better every single time he slid in?

He did it sluggishly — it was his bravura: to torture her and watch how she gasped and tightened around him. He turned the most basic things into a fantasy, made a simple missionary feel like a holy event.

"Now that's a hungry cunt," he commented with a barely restrained groan. She nearly told him to just shut up for once…but didn't because as always, that talk only made her clamp around him more fiercely.

"Try concentrating on missions with this tight lil' fit on your mind…"

At that, she was speechless, but her fingers curled around the shoulder straps of that stupid tactical vest he wore, the contents of it pressing against her uncomfortably as he slowly filled her. He so rarely rushed, even when the air was filled with so much intensity that there could've been sparks flying from their contact. It was aggravating how patiently he could slide in and out while they were both trembling, while whole worlds were shattering from the insane passion at work here.

Her thighs were already quivering from the stretch and mutual tension and the knowledge that they were doing this in broad daylight under a dull, gray sky, on a tarp that smelled of storage room, gasoline, and lifeless plastic. But even that was nothing compared to the masked man above her. She couldn't feel skin except for the part inside her and the pelvis that brushed her as she so willingly opened up for him after they had fired guns like they were some bloodthirsty, lunatic couple.

And Simon was breaking records every time they met. She felt cold, alive, and so happy that those three words were so close to slipping out this time that it brought her to tears. And he just kept making love to her in this disturbed setting where the sniper rifle was still lying beside them with the safety off, wearing that unbelievable skull print mask that made her want to scream because it was so cringey and hot at the same time.

"Simon," she started, not knowing what she wanted when she already had everything she could ever wish for.

"What can I get ya?" He murmured to her neck, the warm breath hitting her skin through the mask and providing some alleviation to the December cold. The plastic sheet made scrunchy sounds beneath them as he continued to shag her while she was having another breakdown from the love she felt for this man.

"I- Just… a little faster," her whisper rose as a mist in the air as she tried to come up with something other than I love you. He chuffed against her neck in amusement but granted her request, and a few tears escaped.

She was crying while everything was already soaked. The foggy morning and her pussy were equally as wet for Simon to have a nice, refreshing Saturday filled with all the things he enjoyed the most. Her whole body ached, both from the cold and the love.

She nuzzled her way under that mask and finally met precious skin, salty and heavy with the scent she now associated with all things Simon and safety. She kissed his neck like an idol at first, then with more passion, like she was starving for the whole essence of him. He messed up the rhythm of his thrusts for a brief moment, just from that subtle touch of hot breath and wet tongue. And then there came a swallow and a pained sound — almost like a hushed, uneasy sob.

He was suddenly speechless too, there were no commentaries on how good she felt or how well she took him or even that good girl talk. Simon was fucking her on mute for the first time ever, only sighing and grunting as he went. He wouldn't even look at her. But it felt even more sensual, their most sensual fuck yet – that everything just trembled and shuddered and shifted like continental plates.

The build-up was far from hasty and desperate. It grew inside her, layer upon layer of swelling heat and devotion until her whole body went tense. The shaking stopped — but he wouldn't; he completed the job the same way he did everything in life. Confident, meticulous, unwavering.

When she came, he still wouldn't say anything, only hummed against her with a satisfied rumble. It was stupid, how she felt more like a goddess on that tarp than on the bed they usually did this. It felt idiotic how she felt like a goddess at all... But there was no other word really, to describe the sensation of total elevation and surrender that followed from being filled with a man like him. He was supposed to be a simple grunt and turned out to be everything but. He was full of magic, an embodiment of otherworldly power. It made her cry and left her legs shaking.

He allowed himself some mercy only after she had had her pleasure, and the sex became feverish. She dared to roll the mask up just enough to find his lips, and he allowed it, answering her kiss almost violently.

"Fuck I've missed you," he panted in her mouth like it was a confession torn from him by torture, and before she could say anything, he crammed his mouth on hers again. He never showed affection straightforward, and the sudden frankness pierced her heart like a javelin, far heavier than his actual mass bearing down on her.

The love fluttered inside her chest like a painful secret as he prevented her from returning the closeness that bordered on unbearable. He eventually came with a few hearty thrusts and broke the kiss, and the liquified stare behind those half-lidded eyes was a whole nebula of sore adoration. If this was anyone else, she would've deemed that look vulnerable.

He was perfect, and this day was perfect, and she felt a sinking, sweet fear in her stomach from getting everything she wanted and then some more – because it could never, ever last, not in her world of experience. This was simply too good to be true.

His head hung heavy beside hers, then came to rest on the crook between her shoulder and neck like he was in need of a short, cuddly moment. While valiantly supporting himself on his elbows even after the climax, his weight still managed to steal most of the air from her lungs. The magazines, albeit softened by the pouches of that vest, dug into her skin even more painfully. But she didn't care — she even wrapped her legs around him, as far as they would go, to prevent him from ever leaving her. And he didn't withdraw for a good long while. Lately, he wanted to stay inside her for as long as possible, and it was another thing that sent her to the brink of tears.

"That was…" she broke the mist of silence with words and felt him sigh.

"Yeah."

Her hand was halfway under that mask, and she could feel his hot sweat under her palm, the cold British fog licking her fingers. If she would ever catch Alzheimer's when she grew old, this was the memory she would fear losing the most.

"You're one hell of a man, Simon."

"I like you too, Sarah," he chuckled, but she could hear it… The word 'like' had started out as something else, and he corrected it just before it curved to love. The heavy accent made it roll off his tongue like it was just his usual manner of speaking, but it was there.

And if that wasn't evidence enough, he was abruptly tense, having realized he had almost made a mistake. And why would it be a mistake? Because it would've been mortifying to be the first to say it?

She looked at the heavy sky above them and smiled. Insufferable man… he was bold and fearless and hardy but turned into a stubbornly proud man with these kinds of things.

She opened her mouth to be the one with more balls, but he got off her, and the moment was lost somewhere in the folds of that tarp. Her cowboy looked at her with warm, sleepy eyes.

"You look like shit."

In his language, and said with such overly puffed up affection, it meant gorgeous, or magnificent, or beautiful. She could hear in his voice that he was inwardly beaming — like he was looking at a mess he was proud to have wrecked.

"Gotta clean you up when we get back," he chimed, no doubt eager about getting to run his hands all over her slick soapy body after first making a dirty mess of her.

"Enjoying this a little too much, don't you think?"

"Not nearly enough. Put some clothes on before I attack you again."

He was gentleman enough to help her back into her clothed and shoes, laughing when dressing her turned into yet another contest and they nearly stumbled on the tarp all over again. The elegant material of her freshly bought underwear didn't stand a chance against the cum that seeped out of her in a sudden rush. She was definitely in need of a shower.

The trip back was mostly filled with a satisfied silence as a few rays of sun broke from the clouds to shine through the windscreen. It was still early, the day had just begun. They would probably spend the rest of it, hopefully, the whole weekend, at her place — doing good food and sharing silly stories from work and school, sleeping late and misbehaving like two hormone driven teenagers.

"I got you something," Simon spoke when they were nearing the city, offering some sort of a short bladed knife. It had a t-shaped handle, and she intuitively wrapped her fingers around it so that the blade was protruding from between her knuckles as she drew it from the hard nylon fiber sheath.

"Looks… vile," she said while apparently holding it right since Simon didn't correct her on it.

"Push dagger. Very handy in close combat. Would ease my nerves to know you have it when you're, ah…"

"At work?"

"Especially there."

She felt like a psycho when a smile crept up her face from handling such a cruel-looking knife supposedly meant for punching people in the gut or neck.

"Is this legal?"

"Not in the UK."

"Right." Her nerves would not be eased by the knowledge that she was carrying an illegal weapon with her. But she already knew there was no two ways about it. How many times had she walked home from the club in an anxious sweat? And when did all that dread become normal? His gift was actually delightful.

"I can leave you that Glock too. Just keep it somewhere out of sight until we get you a license. It's for emergencies."

She thought about commenting on using it accidentally on a certain guy who had broken into her house this very morning, but then again, she knew she couldn't kill a man like Simon in a million years.

"Sure. Thanks."

Other guys had bought her books and manicures as a gift, taken her to the movies. Someone had even bought her a large TV as a birthday present. Mainly to watch football from it himself.

But Simon… Simon gave her a vicious looking knife and a pistol to protect herself with and fucked her under the sky after teaching her how to shoot with different firearms.

"Look at you all smiles," he observed her with remnants of sultry smoke still coating his voice. She realized she was watching the road with a silly grin on her face.

"You had fun today?"

He tried to appear distant and thick-skinned, but ended up taking care of her safety, went to great lengths to find out what she liked, and always made sure she was pleased. If she had known who she was dealing with from the start, she would've been more polite. But then again, it appeared her nerve was what had caught his interest in the first place.

"Yeah. And I got a lot of presents... Guess I have been a good girl after all."

"Hm. That you have."

The sun shone so brightly that she had to squint her eyes. It was the perfect moment for giving him a gift as well.

"I got something for you too." She reached for the gift that wasn't even wrapped, because she hadn't planned it to go this way, but it was of no importance right now.

Simon remained as solid as always, but the pale eyelashes fluttered in the bright morning light when he saw that she was holding the key to her apartment between them.

"So you don't have to break in."

It wasn't much, it wasn't a massage or a gift card or anything like that. He didn't exactly need it. But it was symbolic, and he accepted it with a solemn, courteous nod that meant more to her than any appreciative words or overly expressed gratitude. He was speechless for the second time today, meaning that his feelings had gotten the best of him.

[silbeni]

TSKR (and Ryoma): The Tongue Parasites/ Shirokiri Hill

Preface

RAUUGHHH TIME TO BITE THE BULLET AND TALK ABOUT THIS FINALLY! I keep putting it off but no longer...

This is just one of the couple chapter ideas I have! Haven't planned out the chronology of these things, but when I do! I'll add the order and links in a reblog.

Premise

Also psps this is the version for the live action, the animanga version goes a bit differently.

TWS: animal death, injury, blood, body horror

Rohan and Ryoma investigate rumours of a mysterious site, unaware of the dangers right under their noses.

Exposition

The site in question is one Shirokiri hill (Shiro meaning white, kiri meaning fog.)

Shirokiri is remarkably colder than the surrounding area, creating a dense fog from the differing temperatures, hence the name.

According to rumours, Shirokiri hill is said to have several extinct species of animals, including several non-native to Japan.

Legends tell the tale of a blood-sucking monster that lives within Shirokiri. It's physical description varies greatly, but it's commonly described as a thin quadruped with pale, blue-white eyes.

Shirokiri is currently unpopulated, (with the exception of one family) but it used to be home to some 10,000 inhabitants in the 18th century.

Plot

Mid-day. Rohan and Ryoma ride in on a bumpy car. It was a long, uncomfortable car ride (which you only see the tail end of) but the air is noticeably thick. Ryoma keeps positive, making polite chatter with their chauffeur. It's like talking to a wall, but they keep going. Nervous habit of theirs. Rohan doesn't care to mask his boredom, choosing to stare idly out the window.

As they roll into their destination, a building comes into view. Shirokiri's one and only inn. Rohan and Ryoma unload their bags. The car vanishes into the mist the minute they turn their backs.

They are greeted by the innkeeper, an elderly woman. She was off-putting, to say the least, but she seemed kind, and this was the only place they could stay, so they got settled.

Ryoma asked for neighboring rooms, but her request was denied as (including them) it was a full house. It surprised them, but maybe Shirokiri wasn't as obscure as they thought it was. The rooms they ended up with couldn't be farther away from each other.

Most guests stayed in their rooms, but Ryoma did see a bald man and a young couple in the common room. The man didn't respond to her, he seemed not to even know she existed. The couple was pretty nice, though. Pretty normal.

Rohan decided to explore the area, and Ryoma came with. They didn't find much, and there wasn't much to see because of the fog. The cold eventually beckoned the disappointed Rohan and Ryoma back to the inn.

They had already eaten that day, so they skipped dinner and headed to their rooms to freshen up. Before heading to Rohan's room, Ryoma decided to stay in the common room. They were hoping to get some information about Shirokiri, maybe some accounts of the strange phenomenon, but the inn was empty. It was noticeable. Earlier, there had been noticeable rustling, movement inside the rooms, but it was gone.

Ryoma decided to gather her bedspread and asked Rohan to stay in his room for the night. He would've said no, if it were anyone else but Ryoma. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had this sleeping arrangement, and he wouldn't admit it, but he was relieved to have Ryoma by his side that night. They set up on the tatami next to Rohan (6 feet apart cos they're not gay /j) And laid down.

It was unbearably cold inside of the inn. It somehow felt colder than the outside. Rohan kept complaining about it, and after laying uncomfortably for a bit, Ryoma decided to do something about it. Ryoma searched around the inn with their phone's flashlight. They found what seemed like a heater inside of a dusty kitchen. Before they could touch it, however-

Thump.

Ryoma spun around to see a glimpse of the innkeeper before she grabbed Ryoma and pulled her out of the room. The sliding door shut loudly behind them. For a frail, elderly woman she was rather strong. And so angry. She informed them the heater was broken. They stammered out an apology and speedwalked to their room.

Rohan noticed Ryoma's frazzled state when they returned. They recounted the strange experience and Ryoma had to talk him down from confronting the innkeeper. They agreed to leave by tomorrow if Rohan hadn't found anything Pink Dark Boy worthy. They were both uneasy, and not in the fun, supernatural kind of way.

Ryoma eventually fell asleep, unlike Rohan. He shifted restlessly, clutching at his blankets (+ one of Ryo's blankets, and their jacket) until the sun came up.

Ryoma woke up to him nudging them awake. They felt as if they were part of the room. The overnight humidity and cold had made them stick to their bedding, so after tugging themself free, they joined Rohan for breakfast. (Dead people problems...)

Breakfast was.... interesting. It was pinkish grey, mysterious mush. They were unable to identify what it could've possibly been made of. Maybe some kind of meat? Whatever it was, they were positive it was moldy. Rohan refused to touch it and gave the innkeeper some choice words (to not much of a response.) but Ryoma tried to appear sympathetic, and sneakily made the contents of their plates disappear. (Film powers).

Ryoma and Rohan went out into the wilderness, more as a way to escape the inn before they were picked up. They explored a bit, found nothing and then Ryoma remembered shed forgotten something in the room. They were pretty close by, so Ryoma felt safe going by themself.

Ryoma returned to the inn, and searched her room. It wasn't there, so she begrudgingly went to the front desk to ask. The innkeeper did have it, a woven bracelet (gift from Tomoko) and it was returned. Ryoma thanked her and asked where it was found, just as a nicety. They recalled slipping it off in Rohan's room, but it could've been a false memory. The innkeeper responded, confirming her original thought. She then asked Ryoma why their bags were missing from the room. (Both Rohan's and theirs)

Ryoma froze. They didn't want to tell her they were planning on leaving soon, but they couldn't come up with an answer on the spot. As they were thinking of an excuse to give her, they felt something grab her from behind.

Rohan had finally found something of substance. In the short time Ryoma was gone, he decided to pace the perimeter. That was when he found it. An animal carcass, vaguely dog-like. He wasn't sure what it was, but it reeked of decay, and peculiar puncture wounds decorated its body. The description matched the calling card of the Shirokiri monster. Before he could get excited though, he noticed something odd. The animal had snagged a piece of fabric in its jaws, and upon further inspection it matched the patterned fabric the innkeeper wore. As if on cue, he heard a scream.

Rohan ran in as quickly as he could. A severed hand flew past his head. Ryoma, now Gadzooks, had stood above two dismembered bodies, chopped to bits and flailing uselessly. They were covered in blood, but only their own. It dripped from a puncture wound between her shoulder and neck, and lower, by their right ankle.

They both noticed the pitter-patter of footsteps a little too late. Quickly, they became surrounded by a multitude of people, slack jawed and glossy eyed. Then finally, Rohan saw it. As they encroached, he spotted small, bug-like creatures poking out of their mouths.

Rohan had heard of this type of parasite, but it was only observed in fish. This was an evolved version of it that attaches to, and seemingly controls humans.

Gadzooks mowed down a couple more parasites, but it was bitten again in the process. (Similar to leeches, these parasites have an anticoagulant agent present in their saliva which allows them to feed.) They were too many of them, and it was slowing down incrementally. Fighting them was fruitless, but what could it do? Rohan had the idea to make one fight the others, but he was unable to write in its pages, (The pages were black, like the dead.) The attempt got him bitten, twice.

Things were seeming hopeless, until Gadzooks (unintentionally) rubbed its blades together, creating sparks. The parasites jumped back, and some emitted a high pitched screech. Gadzooks got the clue, and did it again. The same happened. It quickly formulated a plan. Gadzooks pointed Rohan in the direction of the old, dingy kitchen. Rohan understood the plan.

He rummaged around the room and was able to find a decently sized jar of some kind of oil. The thing looked ancient, but it should definitely work.

Gadzooks did a good job of fending them off with the sparks, but the trick was beginning to wear off. Just in time, Rohan was back with the oil. Gadzooks took it, threw it at the entrance, splashing the parasites with the substance. It rubbed its blades together, and quickly there was fire.

The inn brightened with flames, parasites alight fled in the opposite direction. They weren't able to go far. Even those that were untouched by the fire perished from the heat.

Gadzooks stepped out of the inn, swiping away flames that had lingered on their clothes. Rohan went out a moment later batting at his clothes. It glanced at him, but didn't bother to help. Rohan ends up discarding his (very expensive) burning coat.

The two walk down the hill together in silence. Both bleeding, one cold. They find the car they arrived in half-way down, empty. Very lucky, as Gadzooks was just about the collapse. Its out like a light the moment it sits on the passengers seat. Rohan drives to safety, the inn and its residents burning away, still.

[ltwilliammowett]

Mutinies aboard VOC Ships and the punishments developed from this

Between 1602 and 1628 there were 6 major mutinies on the ships of the Dutch East India Company, VOC. One occurred in 1615 on the board of the Meeuwtje and even spread to the Grote Maen. The two ships belonged to a fleet that was sailing westwards around Cape Horn towards Indonesia. In the Atlantic, 14 men from the Meeuwtje, led by a sailor and the carpenter, wanted to take command and bring the ship under their control. However, the plot was discovered beforehand and those responsible were immediately hanged. The others were transferred to other ships because they showed repentance. Only three months later, a second mutiny sprouted, but this too was nipped in the bud and those responsible were this time thrown overboard and condemned to drown at sea. Again, the others involved were spared, as they too professed repentance.  Shortly afterwards, the fleet was caught in a storm and separated some ships from the others, including the Meeuwtje. Now there was a third mutiny, which this time was successful. The mutineers took the ship to La Rochelle and handed her over to the French and disappeared in all directions. Only one of them was so careless as to try to re-enter the Dutch provinces. He was caught and sentenced to death for mutiny.

Stern view of the dutch Batavia replica (x)

But why were there so many mutinies on the VOC ships? The conditions on these ships were far worse than those on those of the British East India Company or the warships of the Navies. The men were underprovisioned with food, and often had to sleep in sticky hammocks. This often led to disease and vermin infestation, and since there were surgeons on board, many died on the way to their destinations. And those who survived were forced to return to the ships, otherwise they would be stuck in the target country and not paid until the mission was completed.

Dutch ships on a calm sea, Willem van de Velde (II), c. 1665 (x)

After the mutiny on the Meeuwtje, the penalties were increased considerably and two very drastic ones were introduced. The general punishment was 200 lashes on the naked body. For this, the victim was first doused with salt water and then flogged, in between and at the end the wounds were rubbed with salt. If the victim survived, he was disfigured for life.

More serious cases of mutineers were punished either by being pushed from the yard into the water or by being keelhauled.

If the sailor was "pushed from the yard into the water", his hands were tied behind his back and a lead weight was tied to his feet. Another rope to pull him up again was also wrapped around his wrists and he was then pushed from the yard into the water and pulled up again. This was followed by the dislocation of both arms and, if worse came to worse, the affected person even broke his arms and wrists. This procedure was repeated two more times and then the sailor was flogged as described above.

The Keelhauling of the Ship’s Surgeon of Admiral Jan van Nes by Lieve Pietersz Verschuier. 1660 – 1686 (detail) (x)

I have already described the Keelhauling before, but here again in brief. The victim was sentenced to be flogged three times. For this, his arms were tied above his head and his feet were tied together. A long rope was passed under the keel of the moving ship and the ends were tied to the arms and legs of the victim. He was given a sponge to put in his mouth and then he was pushed overboard and pulled under the keel. it often happened that the sailor smashed his skull on impact with the hull or was even decapitated, or the sharp shells on the hull cut his body. Here too, if the victim survived, he too was whipped. No wonder the Royal Navy and the American Navy banned this kind of punishment as too brutal. But the "push from the yard into the water" or the flogging was still used.

It was not until the early 18th century that the penalties became more lenient, and were only abolished with the dissolution of the VOC in the late 18th century. In the other Companies and Navies they were only abolished in the mid and late 19th century.

[simpingforthisonedeer]

𝐎𝐂: 𝐀𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐓𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫

— “All time ever does is pass and all I ever do is remember.”

— “May Death be proud to take us! Let us live, since we must die! Die with memories, not dreams!”

— Aika is currently raging in a snowy valley in Demons Run, not knowing that two children will save her life.

— In Planting Camellias, Aika is caught off guard by this Time Mage she has been searching for decades.

Name: Aika (???) Tolliver

Alias(es): Ains, Sarkany, The Blade(she hates this one), The Forgotten, The Widow

Age(s): 34-35(in Planting Camellias), 36-37(in Demons Run)

Gender/Pronouns: Gender Fluid, she/her, he/him

Species: Half-Human, Half-Devil

Affinity: Time Magic, Necromancy

Birthday: October 15th

Zodiac: Libra

Height: 175 cm(woman), 190 cm(man)

Blood Type: AB

Family: Alicia † (Mother), Faven † (Father), Sordello † (Father), Thorfinn † (Brother), Evan/Ivan (Son), Holly (Daughter), Holly † (Ex-Wife), Arthur (Ex-Husband), Julius (Lover), Raymond (Uncle), Lydia (Aunt), Styrmir (Future Son), Anastasia (Future Daughter)

Other Relations: Morris (Ex-Lover), More To Be Revealed

— 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬

Demons Run (NSFW)

Demons Run (SFW)

Planting Camellias

— 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

Pale-skinned woman with long, black, wavy hair with undertones of violet. Her eyes are lavender and has a pert nose and pink lips. She often wears black leather gloves that limit her mana, a white blouse and black, high waisted pants, both with gold buttons. Some days she wears a crimson half-cloak with a steel pauldron. From the shoulder plate, hangs an upside down cross connected by a gold thread in reference to the martyrdom of Peter the Apostle. At her waist, hangs a long sword, once wielded by her father, Sordello.

In her teens, she had a strong desire to be a man so she would be respected more. A nearly unachievable desire turned to despair and she manifested transformation magic which allowed her to turn into a male version of herself. She called herself “Ains” in this form and used male pronouns. Ains was 6 feet 3 inches and had short curly hair and wide shoulders. Aika’s strength was much more visible in the form of muscles when she was Ains.

reference 1 reference 2 reference 3

— 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

She is kind and reserved with those who she respects and is close with, but cold and standoffish with most other people. She will put up masks for the sake of politeness but it’s rarely ever genuine. She lies very easily to get what she wants but she finds it difficult to lie to those she likes. In battle, she is often described as a maniac when faced against many. They say that as a battle drags on, she cannot hide the sadism on her face. Even when faced against an enemy stronger or smarter than her, she is relentless and persistent to the point of recklessness to overpower her opponent.

She is known for out of box thinking and her ability to use her vast knowledge in any given situation. Her greatest asset is her ability to spot potential. Due to this, she is often motherly to those she takes under her wing. This side of her helped her build a successful company/guild that she still runs to this day.

Her love is as deep as her hatred. No matter how many times love has hurt her, she never stopped even if it’s difficult to verbally express it. As of right now in Demons Run, Aika loves her two children Evan and Holly, and her lover, Julius.

— 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

Aika was found by her two Fathers, Faven and Sordello in the giant demon skull in Hage, between the legs of her dead mother. She was born slightly premature from a coffin birth. They buried the woman and took her pocket watch as a keepsake for Aika to have. They named her “Aika” which means “time” because of the watch, and as a reminder that the passage of time has both ends and beginnings. They took her home to Alicia, their lover and Aika’s mom to be, and adopted her despite Alicia’s hesitation. She conducted a blood adoption ritual that made Aika their own daughter, changing her appearance from a brunette with pink eyes to dark hair with lavender eyes, her appearance taking after each of her three parents.

They raised her preciously like their own for three years and Alicia gave birth to Aika’s brother, Thorfinn. He had dark hair like her and bright blue eyes. Aika loved her brother to death. While she was barely showing signs of magic, Finn was spewing lightning magic since the day he was born, hence the reason why he was named after the god of thunder. When Finn was three and Aika was six, they were playing in the backyard and Finn accidentally struck Aika’s back with lightning. She died but was resuscitated again by a smaller zap of electricity. She has a scar on her back till this day and the only scar she hasn’t healed despite her ability to do so, as a reminder of her brother.

Throughout Aika’s childhood, everyone were confused as to what her magic was. When she was in a bad mood, plants and little animals around her died, and in a good mood, they flourished. Aika was terrified of her own magic sometimes when it killed fauna so she learned to withdraw her magic so much due an irrational fear to the point where she was slightly sick all the time because of the lack of mana coursing through her.

Instead of using magic, she focused on using her own strength and talents. Her father Sordello was a blacksmith and a swordsman. He taught her everything he knew. Her other father Faven, was an artist: a painter, musician and a writer. Her mother Alicia was the smart one. In Aika’s eyes, she seemed to know about everything. Aika wanted to be all of them and she was. They taught their children all that they needed in life and more.

Around the time when Aika was fifteen and didn’t have a grimoire yet, the whole Tolliver family was traveling through the neutral zone when a pack of bandits attacked them. Her fathers and her brother fought them but they were trapped. Alicia forced Aika to run away while they all withered away to dust by an Ash Magic User.

Aika despaired and manifested her grimoire and something else as she blacked out. When she woke up, everyone were seemingly gone. Aika assumed she somehow killed them. She gathered her family’s ashes and marched to Spade Kingdom. She couldn’t believe how life can be taken so easily, she was still in shock, so she went to the Spade Kingdom War College and proved her worth so she could study Necromancy and bring her family back.

She learned quickly that she couldn’t but she was too far into forbidden magic to stop so she didn’t. She paid her way through college by fighting in underground fighting rings using her freakish strength and studied medicine and forbidden magic. She also dated Morris, a blind boy from the Diamond Kingdom. In her final year of college, she begins to show interest in divinity so as her final project, she conducts a ritual called “Imago Dei.” Directly translated, it means “The Image of God.” In the ritual, Morris and Aika bear the Image of God. They find that God doesn’t appear in one vision, rather it’s a concept, a feeling, a reflection of oneself and everyone all at once.

They of course go insane after everything was said and done but they do recover mentally. Physically, Aika stayed blind for a year. During this time, she found out that Morris was just using her and leaves him. She went to the Heart Kingdom to study Mana Zone under the High Priestess of Undine because of her blindness. She later comes to discover that she has a weak form of clairvoyance as a residue from the ritual she performed.

After Aika recovers her sight, she leaves the Four Suits Continent Aika left the Spade kingdom after she graduated from Spade Nation War College at 21 years old and worked as a necromancer at a funeral home in a country past the Spade Kingdom! She used to help the dead move on peacefully, exorcise any poltergeists, conduct autopsies, keep company for any ghosts at the adjacent cemetery and comfort the living. It’s a job that comes with a lot of responsibilities and she certainly didn’t get paid enough for it.

She then moved on to another country to work as an independent mercenary then worked as a mercenary knight for the royal family of that country. Aika then met and fell in love with the crown princess but their love was forbidden because of the difference in status and obviously, for being homos. But they eloped because it wasn’t forbidden by law and they had a happy few months before the kingdom fell and she couldn’t protect the princess. She died. The princess’s name was Holly.

After the death of the princess, at 24 years old, Aika began to lust for power. She spent 3 years in peace, forgetting what suffering and helplessness was truly like. She couldn’t save her family because she couldn’t figure out what her magic was. And she couldn’t save the love of her life because she was complacent. Even if she was strong, someone will be stronger than her. So she raced for the peak, to be the strongest of the strong. And she also wanted to find someone who had Time Magic just like her.

She found Evan after the fall of the kingdom. Aika wasn’t sure of his species, but he had devil horns and showed signs of being experimented on so she used her own blood to stabilize his condition and took him under her wing as her adopted son. Evan Tolliver wasn’t only a protégé, but also the witness and the biographer of Aika’s life. He saw both her brutality and compassion. Her losses and victories. Life and Death. The Beginning and End of Worlds. He is definitely the person who knows and understands her the most and is content to stay in her shadow.

Because of Aika’s use and overuse of forbidden magic, she has curse where her mere presence causes people’s emotions to turn very negative, almost like insanity. Another curse of hers is that she cannot sleep. She has given up part of her humanity for better control and power of forbidden magic so while she can sleep, she will be stuck in a nightmare world for 8 hours so she simply doesn’t sleep. The only people that can be around her for long periods of time are other dark magic users, 100% non-humans and people who have affinity with her magic.

It’s implied so far in Demons Run but for the next 10 or so years of her life, she fought war after war for whomever that will take her. Revolutions and invasions. Reconnaissance and strategy. Amidst all the wars, she also grew a greater understanding of magic. She wrote a few books on her observations and discoveries.

Because people coveted Aika’s Time Magic, she made a deal with a Faerie named Arthur. In exchange for her first born, Aika’s magic would be erased from the world’s memory. Aika soon gave birth to Holly, a child between herself and Arthur while they were briefly married for contractural purposes, and the deal was sealed. Aika gets to see Holly few times a week but mostly on weekends.

Aika was infamous for her terrifying recklessness. She would continue fighting even after she had been brutalized. She fought with both her arms chopped off. She even fought after being decapitated. The enemy was too shocked at her for moving even after her head flew off so they were killed instantly at her hand. The reason why she is alive after all these fatal incidents is because her stats raise by 500% when she is near death. The perfect buff for a necromantic warrior.

While out there, she made a guild out of all the people who followed her. It was a company that dipped its toes in every industry and when she was settling into business rather than war, Aika slowly started coming back to Clover Kingdom.

There she met the Wizard King and he often commissioned her to help and advise him. Year or two later, they found that the Wizard King’s younger brother was Faven, Aika’s father. There, she had also came to find out that Julius’s magic was Time Magic. They were keeping it under wraps for tactical advantage but the Wizard King revealed it to her. From there, Julius and Aika’s story in Demons Run begins.

[gay-cryptidz]

The Comfort Between Your Scars

Chapter 6

TW: Animal death

"Didn't expect you back so soon.", Noah grinned, "Miss me already?"

"You wish!"

"Beer?"

Noah hardly waited for Joel to nod before filling up a glass.

"Well, not a lot of people go out on a Sunday night, and I know damn well that you have to get up early, so either you're here for me or your drinking habits are worse than I thought"

"Maybe a bit of both. Better than admitting I got kicked out of the house by my own daughter so she can have a sleepover"

Noah snorted at the thought of Joel being kicked out by a pre-teen. It was kind of sweet, really. Sounded like the type of thing Mari would do.

"Yeah, that would be ridiculous and extremely embarrassing. Being an alcoholic is much better. Cheers"

He raised his glass at Joel, who did the same with one of those gorgeous little smiles of his, and downed the rest of his drink before refilling it.

"So, anything new going on?"

"Same old. Went hiking with Sarah yesterday, she loves that stuff. That girl uses every opportunity to climb stuff, it's crazy"

Mari was the same. Always running, always climbing, like she was trying to get away from something. Well, maybe she was.

"That sounds fun. I used to hike a lot. More like take walks, I guess. In, uh, in my hometown. Small town, we lived right on the edge, near the train tracks. When I needed to get away from everything I used to just wander into the woods, sit down somewhere and watch the trains go by. Always thought one day I'd hop one one day, see where it takes me"

Noah almost felt like he was back there again, the smell of dirt and rotting leaves and iron and the trains sending vibrations through the ground under his feet and a breeze through his hair. His only escape, some of the few good memories of his time in that godforsaken town.

"Did you ever?"

"No, no. Couldn't get myself to leave, as much as I wanted to get out of that hellhole. Don't think I ever really believed I'd do it at all, I guess it was just wishful thinking. Something to hold on to, you know?"

Joel nodded. Noah noticed another patron approaching the bar and got them their drink before returning to the conversation.

"What was it like? Your hometown"

"Oh, you know. Nothing special, pretty small, religious as fuck. The name tells you everything you need to know, really. Trinity, Texas. You can imagine the general attitude people had towards me"

With a thoughtful hum from Joel, the two of them fell silent. Joel seemed to zone out a little, absentmindedly looking at the shelves behind Noah and massaging his ring finger with the index and thumb of his other hand. Noah carefully watched him, every little shift in his face, every movement of his eyes and- god, his eyes. Something about them reminded him of one of those days in the forest.

"I saw a deer once, on the train tracks. It was just standing there, staring at me. You know, you kinda think of deer as these scared prey animals but in that moment it... It didn't even look bothered, even when the train came. It was like it was staring right into my soul, like it knew me on some deep level, it's hard to describe. There was something so wise, so... ethereal about it. I tried to scare it off, get it to run, I even threw a rock at it, but it didn't move a muscle. Looked me right in the eyes when the train hit it. I don't know, in that moment, it felt like it was some sort of message. Like an omen. Like... I'm that deer and I'm just standing there, staring in the other direction instead of running while death is barrelling towards me"

He took a quick sip from his drink, realising he'd been rambling, and tried to laugh it off.

"Sorry, that's kinda depressing"

"No, no. That's... I mean it's depressing as shit but... I don't know, it's a good story. You know what I mean"

"Well, thanks for listening to my good depressing stories", Noah laughed. "Hey, at least I got a cool tattoo out of it! Hold on"

He had to unbutton his shirt a little to reveal his left shoulder and the tattoo of a deer head with pitch black eyes, a circle of train tracks resembling a halo behind it and leaves jutting out from the bottom.

"One of the first ones I designed"

"Damn, how did I miss that one before? That's gotta be one of the best ones!"

"Thanks!", Noah grinned, putting his shirt back into place. "Now you know the story behind it too"

One of the few anecdotes from his past he'd share willingly and yet it still felt like giving away a piece of his soul. He wondered if it would ever get easier, if he even wanted it to be.

"You know, I didn't expect seeing an animal die like that would stick with me for so long. Guess it's mostly those few seconds before it happened, but still"

"I think most people remember the first time they ever saw something die, 'specially if it's brutal like that. Just burns itself into your brain, I think"

Tap, tap, tap.

"Never said it was the first time"

Joel shot him a curious glance but he had no intention of elaborating, taking another sip and changing the topic instead.

"Well, let's not dwell on dead things. How's Sarah doing?"

<< Beginning | < Previous | Next >

Check out the artwork based on this chapter!

[whencyclopedia]

Pirate Punishments in the Golden Age of Piracy

Pirates in the Golden Age of Piracy (1690-1730) both dished out and received a wide range of imaginative punishments. Victims of piracy endured torture, floggings, and ceremonies of humiliation, but when brought to justice, the pirates were given such punishments as lengthy prison sentences, transportation to work in the deadly conditions of African mines, or public execution by hanging.

Punishments Between Pirates

Floggings

The use of a whip to dish out punishments was a common occurrence on ships of all kinds of the period. For pirates, the risk of bearing such treatment was much reduced since a captain rarely dared to use such methods on a crew that had probably turned pirate in the first place in order to escape such harsh features of a life at sea. A flogging was usually only decided upon as the form of punishment if the whole crew, or at least the majority, agreed that the man had broken one of the ship’s articles, that is the list of rules they swore to abide by. The man who dished out the flogging on a pirate vessel was the quartermaster. Floggings were given for such misdemeanours as bringing women on board, striking another man, or not keeping weapons in an efficient state of readiness.

If a mariner was flogged, then he was tied to the mast or a grating and lashed on his bare back with a cat-o’-nine-tails. This special kind of whip consisted of nine lengths of rope, each of which was around one-quarter of an inch in diameter (c. 6 mm) and up to 2 feet (c. 60 cm) long. Each of the nine lengths had three or more knots to make the whip’s bite even sharper - sometimes more knots were added for more severe crimes. During a flogging, the sailor often bit on a bullet so that he did not cry out and raise the ridicule of his crewmates. If he did call out with the pain, then his mates would thereafter describe him disdainfully as a 'nightingale'.

Keelhauling

To be keelhauled was just about the worst punishment a sailor could expect to be given short of death, and even here his chances of surviving the ordeal were no more than 50:50. The punishment involved tying a person with rope, throwing them overboard, and then dragging them either under the ship from one side to the other or along the entire length of the ship. Even if the victim escaped drowning, they would be severely cut and bruised from being dragged against the ship’s barnacle-encrusted hull.

Marooning

For mariners guilty of a serious crime like mutiny, theft, or cowardice, their punishment could be a delayed death sentence. The sailor was marooned, that is deposited on a remote island and given nothing but a keg of water and a pistol; sometimes they were even stripped naked. An alternative to leaving the person on land was to set them adrift in a small boat with no oars or a single oar. Fully aware that thirst and starvation were all they had to look forward to, some mariners asked to be shot straight away. For others, the gift of a pistol allowed them to end things before they went mad from the privations. The most famous mariner to be marooned was Alexander Selkirk (1676-1721) who was left on the Juan Fernández Islands in the Pacific in 1704. Another man to be marooned was Edward Low whose crew had had enough of his sadistic antics with friend and foe alike. The origin of the word 'maroon' is the Spanish term for an escaped slave, cimarrón, meaning wild or untamed.

Continue reading...

[operatorsdiner]

Leave Me Alone: Entry 6

Adrian’s car pulled out from the parking lot, toting a whining and delirious Vesper along with Adrian and Alex. The tires made an audible crunch as it rolled through the empty snow-drifted lot. Baylen was left alone in the store with the customer entrance locked and the lights off - the store was supposed to be open for the whole duration of the night, but with how intense the past 24 hours were for the employees he had decided to make the executive decision to close until morning. Baylen had one of his headphones on, long hair tucked away in a messy half-assed ponytail whilst they cleaned the store. 

The mop water had long since gone cold, and Baylen was mostly just running the wet soapy mush across the floor as some type of courtesy or act of vengeance to the day staff who frequently left the restaurant without completing any of their duties. Music was blaring in their ears, base pumping through his cranium as he worked through the main dining area. His feet trailed backwards as he mopped down the hallway towards the dishpit, the bottoms of his non-stick shoes squelching each time he stepped in a puddle trail of syrup. Baylen really hated the day shift, and he was reminded of it each time he worked alone in the forsaken restaurant. Which wasn’t frequent, but often enough to irritate him beyond recognition.

Baylen felt the disturbance around him before he heard it, his fingers double tapping on the headphone in his ear to pause his music as he felt the floor buzz underfoot. He whipped his head around to look over to the back door, the door he had just managed to fix earlier that day as the horrific sound of metal shredding filled the stale air - and he would be pissed if it weren’t for the actual visceral fear he felt seeing the tip of a metal hatchet come through the door just above it’s handle. The metal screamed out as the metal blade was removed from the heavy door, and it was then that Baylen processed exactly what was going on. The asshole who has been coming in to try and steal the soda dispenser’s syrup bags and an unnecessary amount of utensils was here, and here to be an absolute nuisance to Baylen’s otherwise meek and boring night.

Baylen hardly had time to prepare as a sickening and loud BANG! Sounded out, metal caving in its frame around the outline of what he could only assume was that asshole’s boot. In quick succession, a final powerful kick hit the door, folding the door in and busting the lock. In a flurry of browns and greens, a man ducked and crawled under the newly folded metal, the man’s neck cracking to the side in odd and jerky movements as he pulled himself to his feet. The man that Baylen referred to as Goggles. The man was shorter than Baylen, but only by an inch or so - if he really paid attention he would say the man was either 5’11 or 6” tall. His hood was laid across messy and gnarled brown curls that obscured most of his features, the rest was blocked by orange tinted round goggles and a metal face guard that resembled a muzzle. ‘This guy needs a damn muzzle,’ was all Baylen could think of when he saw it. The man's ratty and tattered clothes and hikers' belts were reeking of what could only be described as the smell of blood and death.

He stood there, slowly approaching Baylen as each step squelched on the floor but this time not from syrup or lingering sodas but rather blood. Thick and dark blood that was caked onto the man’s black boots, leaving a disgusting and sticky trail behind him as he moved closer and closer. So close that Baylen could hear each joint as they cracked and groaned out in protest whilst the man’s body rattled and twitched. His voice was cracked and frayed from lack of proper use, a sharp whistle escaping his lips as his head cocked to the side.

"I just wanted to say thank you again... for last night." He took a final step forward, stopping mere inches away from Baylen, his body pressed against his. His breath heavy and ragged as it muffled against his muzzle, sending shivers down Baylen’s spine.

"Also," he added, sliding his hand upwards, brushing against Baylen's chest. "You didn't have to treat me like trash."

Baylen's lip curled up in disdain, trying to step back from the man, "Are you… Thanking me for beating the fuck out of you?" Baylen spoke sternly, with an underlying tone of disgust for the man who was touching him.

Toby grinned, leaning in closer. "Maybe I like it a little bit," he whispered, his breath hot against Baylen's ear.

He looked positively depraved as he spoke in a sing-song tone. "Besides, you know you enjoy it too." He suddenly struck, propelling himself towards Baylen, punching the pretty man across the jaw.

Baylen gasped, adrenaline pumping through his system - the punch hit him with a strong 'CRACK!' as it landed on his jaw, Baylen stumbled but only for a moment before he swung hard and fast. He pushed Goggles back, throwing him off of himself and striking him hard in the chest.

Goggles was sent flying, landing heavily on the floor with a loud grunt. He struggled to stand up again, coughing and wheezing heavily. Though as the man wheezed from the winding he did not flinch, instead he cackled out a screeching laugh.

"Aww! The fun has finally begun," he growled, lunging at Baylen once more, "You know I love when you get all mean on me!"

They circled each other, trading blows like old retired boxers reconnecting after years apart. Their bodies collided repeatedly, causing cups and utensils to clatter on the ground.

"Ugh," Baylen painted a long breath, punching the delusional man across his cheek, "What is with your obsession with me? What... The fuck?" He was heaving every word he spoke.

Baylen dodged another blow, landing a powerful kick to Goggle's stomach, sending him flying into the counter. "Sorry," he panted between breaths, his voice hoarse from the exchange. The apology seemed almost out of place as Baylen was beating the shit out of the giggling man.

"You're fucked in the head!" He lunged again, aiming a swift roundhouse punch to Goggle's temple, who only grunted as the force hit him, his head spinning from the sudden impact. He stumbled backward, rubbing his head where he was hit. "You know you want it," he managed to croak out between gasps for air.

"Besides, maybe if I win this time, you'll finally give me a proper reward." He laughed maniacally as he shamelessly flirted with the manager, charging towards Baylen once more.

"Not.. not a chance." He groaned, grappling Toby swiftly and holding him in a side body restraint. He began to tow the man towards the front door, using his free leg to kick it open with his foot as he dragged Goggle's to the exit.

Toby squirmed and struggled, kicking and punching futilely against Baylen's grip. "Let go of me!" he yelled, his voice hoarse from the previous fight.

"Please! I'll do anything!" He pleaded, unable to hide the desperation in his voice.

"Do me a favor then," Baylen grunted, tossing the masked man out into the snow drifted sidewalk, "Stop fucking with me."

He promptly shut and locked the door in Toby's face, leaving him alone out in the cold.

Toby landed on the snowy ground, cursing and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. Snowflakes began to flurry against his exposed skin, and his body struggled to move from the relentless assault. He glared up at Baylen's silhouette through the window, shaking his fists in rage with an unbridled scream of rage spilling from his lips before turning away and trudging down the street, disappearing into the distance.

Baylen’’s body ached out in protest as he stumbled over to an empty booth, laying flat on the uncomfortable wood bench as he grumbled. His hand reached into his back pocket, bruised knuckles stinging as he entered his password - his face bruised past the point of facial recognition. Their fingers hovered for a moment before clicking on the contact he last was texting. Hesitantly, he pressed the call button. It only rang twice before Dante answered, Baylen not sparing a moment before speaking.

“Goggles came back.”

[sinfulpetgirlrd]

Fandom: The Witcher

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Expect everything to be way out in left field, then take that expectation and throw it in a river. Remember, this is the witcher universe. It’s a cruel and violent world. Gore/sexual situations(con or not) will be described, strong/offensive language will be used. People will emotionally break and have their ability to “live on” tested (some might fail). What happens really just depends.

Chapters: 6/?

None shall sit and dine with you at your table. No spoon you have shall sate you. Never again shall you wish to spy your reflection in the mirror.

Curses, so simple, so capricious and so… unpredictable. Every move had to be carried out perfectly, every stride taken with assurance, and every utterance stated deliberately and slowly. The most insignificant error could have catastrophic effects, leading to either the death of the person under the curse or the one trying to remove it.

And yet… Despite their fixation on the minutiae, the task of breaking a curse was as simple as listening to the words that formed them. No blood was needed, no magic nor sacrifice in the dark corners of a room. Even the most extreme cases were easy to undo if one paid close attention.

None shall sit and dine? Stand on one’s own feet.

No spoon shall sate you? A bowl needs no dinnerware.

Never spy your reflection in a mirror? That same bowl could hold a reflection.

“Child’s play. Near textbook really.” Geralt’s strained and pained voice filled the space around him as the icy hand of a vampire rubbed soothing circles onto his back. He remembered carefully approaching the wight, his palms open and out to show he wasn’t a threat. He remembered talking to it like one would a fearful child that witnessed a great horror, and he remembered Odessa’s cautious musings in his head as he lifted the poison-filled bowl to his lips.

Read the full chapter on AO3(be sure to read the tags and chapter notes. Your only warning lol)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45835249/chapters/117621718

[warningsine]

A 6.4-magnitude earthquake and a second measuring 5.8 have hit Turkey’s southern province of Hatay, terrifying those left in a region devastated by twin earthquakes two weeks ago.

Turkey’s interior minister, Süleyman Soylu, said that at least three people were killed and 213 wounded by the latest quakes, after a large government hospital in the city of İskenderun in the north of Hatay province declared it was evacuating patients.

The latest quakes, less powerful than the 7.8- and 7.5-magnitude earthquakes that tore a path of destruction through southern Turkey and northern Syria on 6 February, threaten yet more devastation in a region where many people have fled their destroyed homes for the safety of other towns and villages outside the quake zone.

The larger quake struck at a depth of just 2km (1.2 miles), the European-Mediterranean Seismological Centre (EMSC) said, potentially magnifying its impact at ground level. It was centred near the southern Turkish city of Antakya and was felt in Syria, Egypt and Lebanon.

Turkey’s disaster management agency AFAD said the epicentre of the larger quake was below the Defne district of Hatay, in a region where many have complained of a lacklustre government response to the first earthquakes.

In the Hatay town of Ekinci, Ata Koşar – who lost his brother, sister-in-law and nephew when their nearby luxury apartment block collapsed during the earthquakes two weeks ago – said: “It was the first day we’d decided to stay in our house as it’s just one floor, and I was using our heater to try to stay warm, demonstrating what to do in case another earthquake happened.

“I was lying on the floor, and as I was lying there another earthquake happened. We heard what sounded like more buildings collapsing again, and more damage to our house.”

The mayor of Hatay, Lütfü Savaş, immediately raised concerns that the latest quakes had caused yet more destruction across the province, and potentially further loss of human life in a place already dealing with some of the worst devastation in Turkey. “Some buildings were destroyed, there are some who are trapped under the rubble,” he said.

Muna al-Omar, a resident of Antakya, said she was in a tent in a park when the 6.4-magnitude earthquake hit. “I thought the earth was going to split open under my feet,” she said, crying as she held her seven-year-old son in her arms.

“Is there going to be another aftershock?” she asked.

Those who had remained in Hatay for two weeks after the first quakes said they had done so out of fear of losing their homes entirely, or a sense that they had nowhere else to go.

The death toll in Turkey from the quakes two weeks ago rose to 41,156 on Monday, AFAD said, and was expected to climb further, with 385,000 apartments known to have been destroyed or seriously damaged and many people still missing. At least 47,000 people are estimated to have died across Turkey and Syria.

The Turkish president, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, said construction work on nearly 200,000 apartments in 11 earthquake-hit provinces of Turkey would begin next month.

Hours earlier, the US secretary of state, Antony Blinken, said on a visit to Turkey that Washington would help “for as long as it takes” as rescue operations and aftershocks were winding down and the focus turned towards urgent shelter and reconstruction work.

Blinken viewed the devastation in Hatay province with his Turkish counterpart, Mevlüt Çavuşoğlu, on Sunday, pledging an additional £83m in aid to Turkey and Syria on top of the £71m initially pledged by Joe Biden.

“It’s hard to put into words,” Blinken said, trying to describe what he saw. “Countless buildings, communities, streets, damaged or fully destroyed.”

In rebel-held Syria, local search and rescue services and the Syrian Civil Defence, also known as the White Helmets, reported the latest earthquakes had damaged buildings across a number of cities and towns.

They said people had been injured by falling debris and stampedes, as well as jumping from elevated positions in fear of the destruction.

Among the survivors of the earthquakes are about 356,000 pregnant women who urgently need access to health services, the UN sexual and reproductive health agency (UNFPA) has said.

They include 226,000 women in Turkey and 130,000 in Syria, about 38,800 of whom will deliver in the next month. Many of them are sheltering in camps or exposed to freezing temperatures and struggling to get food or clean water.

In Syria, already shattered by more than a decade of civil war, most deaths have been in the north-west, where the United Nations said 4,525 people were killed. The area is controlled by insurgents at war with forces loyal to President Bashar al-Assad, complicating aid efforts.

Syrian officials say 1,414 people were killed in areas under the control of Assad’s government, amid concerns that the true figure was likely to be far higher before the second earthquakes struck.