#long shot kick de bucket

[stoutguts]

Been re-playing 09 recently, and like what if what if—

(the idea is low-key out there but just hear me out, also MAJOR ANGST, MCD, trigger warning/content warning for implied/briefly mentioned s*ic*de)

Price knows that he's in a vídeo game. Like, he figured it out after the first couple of resets,—after the first few playthroughs of the campaign. He has sentience across MW’s 1-3, while everyone else doesn’t.

No matter what he does, the outcome always remains the same.

Like a broken tape recorder, history repeats itself.

Forced to sit by and watch as his men die, again and again.

With their being absolutely fucking nothing he can do to stop it.

The plot is predetermined, and the programming just won’t allow it.

No matter how many times he tries to fight it, no matter how many times he tries to scream or say something off script, or move his body in a different way, it’s all futile.

First, it’s always Gaz.

Killed by Zakhaev, with that damned Desert Eagle.

Failing to protect him from the shot, time and time again. Even when he tries his best to shield him, it just phases right through him.

Then eventually it’s time for Ghost and Roach to go, and it’s never not devastating.

His transmission over comms is always just a smidge too late, no matter how many times he tries to warn them.

The worst part of it is that they’re not even able to recover the bodies,—Shepherd took care of that and then some.

But the most soul crushing of all—

Soap.

The bloody game has the audacity to give Price and the player some sliver of hope,—that maybe Johnny’ll make it out alive somehow.

Shepherd didn’t manage to kill him,—he survived that near death experience at the very least.—But that all comes crashing down after Modern Warfare 3–“Blood Brothers”.

The most brutal of them all, (in Price’s opinion), and it’s of course for the person he cares about most.

His (essentially) adopted son slowly bleeding to death, as they’re under heavy gunfire and surrounded by enemies on all sides. Before finally kicking the bucket from explosives planted by that bastard Makarov.

Of all people, why did it have to be him?

Yuri is gone before he even really got to know the guy.

So blah blah blah, the cycle continues over and over again, and the loop remains unbroken for a long time.

Price tries everything he can possibly think of, and eventually he runs out of options.

By some miracle however,—perhaps some fault in the game’s coding.—There comes an opportunity to end the cycle.—Price meanwhile, has slowly and progressively lost his mind,—until he finally snaps.

After he’d killed Makarov for around the 1,000th time, he can finally end his suffering.

As he watches Makarov’s lifeless body hanging from the rappel, instead of the usual lighter he pulls out to light his cigar, he gains just enough control over his body to pull out his pistol and pull the trigger.

A mass recall of copies of MW3 ensued after the discovery of this “glitch”, due to a outrage within the fan base and community. No matter what the developers and devs tried too, it couldn’t be patched. The game was then rewritten to where Price is the one to die, while Soap lives and is the one to kill Makarov instead. Re-released in 2013.

The idea came to me while listening to/was heavily inspired by the song “S.I.U” by Maretu btw.

If any of you know that song or are familiar, you’re a real one.

Also, completey unrelated, but is it just me or like does 09’s Makarov not sound and look like fucking Ben Shapiro lmfao??? He more so sounds like him though, or at least he reminds me of Ben Shapiro—

[oshioshili]

Regardez "The Pioneers 'Long Shot Kick De Bucket' (Official Video)" sur YouTube

[randomvarious]

The Pioneers - "Down at the Club" Original Ska: All the Hits Song released in 1974. Compilation released in 1998. Reggae

Plays: 12.8K+ on Spotify // 74.8K+ on YouTube

Pretty long mid-70s reggae post today! Strap in!

From critic Steve Leggett:

Formed in 1962 by Winston Hewitt and brothers Sydney and Derrick Crooks, the Pioneers were one of Jamaica's finest harmony groups. Hewitt had been replaced by Glen Adams by the time the group began recording for Leslie Kong's Beverley label in 1965, and following a move to Caltone Records in 1967, the group was essentially down to just Sydney Crooks and a newly recruited Jackie Robinson [no, not *that* Jackie Robinson]. Crooks and Robinson, as the Pioneers, scored a big hit with "Long Shot" (produced by Joe Gibbs), a song about a famous Jamaican racehorse. Adding singer George Agard to become a trio again, the group returned to working with Kong, recording "Nana" as the Slickers before scoring big with "Samfi Man" and a sequel to their horse saga, "Long Shot (Kick De Bucket)," again as the Pioneers. The latter track became a huge hit in England, prompting the Pioneers to take up residence there in 1970. Changing their style to reflect a more direct pop approach, the Pioneers had their last big hit with a cover of Jimmy Cliff's "Let Your Yeah Be Yeah."

And that little bio brings us to the mid-70s, which is when this great Pioneers song, "Down at the Club," originally came out. But before we get into that particular song, we first gotta talk about the group whose song they're covering here: legendary R&B / doo wop / soul / pop act, The Drifters.

Originally hailing from New York City, The Drifters were a *huge* staple of Atlantic Records' roster from the early 50s through mid-60s, racking up a total of 33 hits on Billboard's Hot 100 chart within that timeframe. But behind the scenes, there was constant turnover and tumult, as their lead singer would change multiple times after Clyde McPhatter's departure in the middle of 1955. Yet, despite the group's perpetually revolving door, the hits just proceeded to keep on coming anyway...until they didn't.

As the mid-60s wore on into the late 60s, The Drifters' popularity and opportunities continued to dry up. A renewed interest in old pop and rock in the 70s would bring them back to some relevancy, but by that time, they'd broken up and splintered off into multiple groups, all of whom tried to lay claim to the Drifters name. So, naturally, lawsuits followed.

And the ultimate ruling from those lawsuits ended up seeming kinda arbitrary and weird: different versions of The Drifters were allowed to maintain their name in different territories. Johnny Moore, who was the last leader of the group before their messy break-up, was allowed to keep the name in the UK, which is where he and his group decided to move, while other groups carved out different sections of the US.

Now, the overall success of the pre-breakup Drifters in the UK paled in comparison to their showing in the US. Looking at the chart history, they only scored nine hits, and only one of those—"Save the Last Dance for Me," one of The Drifters' biggest hits of all—landed in the top-five, with the rest of them falling outside of the top-ten, and most of that rest landing in the 30s through 50s.

But things then suddenly changed for Johnny Moore's Drifters in the UK during the early 70s. Three singles from the mid-60s were re-released in 1972, and they all managed to chart in the top-ten, with a pair of them peaking all the way up at #3. By this time, they were no longer signed to Atlantic, and new Johnny Moore-led singles were failing to chart in the US, but those UK re-releases in 1972 helped to generate some life for the group in their new home, and the brand new singles that were flopping in their former home happened to flourish in the UK, up until their final single in '76.

And that's where The Pioneers come in, because after The Drifters successfully re-released their 1965 single, "Come On Over to My Place" in 1972, Jackie Robinson, who was doing some solo work at the time, put out his own reggae-infused cover of it within the same year.

And that then eventually led to The Pioneers deciding, as a whole, to pay tribute to The Drifters a couple years later, with a cover of another successfully re-released 1965 single, "At the Club," which The Pioneers titled slightly differently as "Down at the Club."

Listening to The Drifters' version, which, upon its re-release, was one of those songs that hit #3, it already has something of a warm weather vibe to it. So, it seems only natural that a reggae act would eventually cover it.

Now, I don't know if The Pioneers were the only ones who ended up covering this Drifters hit, but they sure as hell ended up doing an *excellent* job of it. Jackie Robinson stars with his pleasurably soulful lead, which climbs through each verse to its peaking chorus, from which it then gracefully descends. But George Agard and Sydney Crooks also complement Robinson with their own wonderful backing harmonies too. They start off each verse providing a "do" on every other beat, but as Robinson begins to really intensify his own vocal before each chorus, they then change over to these glorious, longer-held "ahhh"s, until it's time for the chorus itself.

The Drifters' version has vocals that back Moore too, of course, and The Pioneers do the same type of" ahhh"s at the same point in the song, but the Drifters' backing vocals aren't nearly as prominent as those of George and Sydney's. With The Drifters' version, orchestral strings and a loud cowbell beat seem to somewhat drown out Johnny Moore's backers, whereas The Pioneers' version doesn't have orchestral strings or a cowbell to begin with, so George and Sydney prove to be far more integral to the whole track. And I think, because of that, and despite what sounds like a much lower production value across the board, The Pioneers' rendition of "Down at the Club" proves to be the superior one.

What particularly sucks though is that this song *is* on Spotify, but it's not easy to find, because it's credited to "Various Artists," and it also skips! 😒 Better than it not being on there in any capacity at all, though, I guess.

Anyway, because of Jamaica's history of lax music copyright laws, there's a *whole* lot of great reggae covers of pop songs that are out there, and while this one didn't take all that much to successfully transform into a reggae tune—because the original version already had some tropicality to it already—it's still definitely near the top of my list.

Can anyone else think of reggae covers that outweigh the original version like this one does?

[internationalemeteorologie]

The Pioneers - Long Shot Kick De Bucket 

Reggae Roast X The Nextmen Remix

[punk-chicken-radio]

the pioneers - long shot kick de bucket

-ax and TOS

[estelmeanshope]

Songs for the Gentleman Pirate: An OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH Mock Musical

A “mock musical”: Some classic sounds of the Caribbean and environs, a touch of folk, and a few showtunes broadly evoking the storyline of the new show from David Jenkins.

LISTEN TO THE FULL PLAYLIST HERE on YouTube

Overture: No Polite Society, Only Pirate Society Shake the Chains, "Shake the Chains"

Stede Bonnet Is an Actual Completely Sincere Dastardly Badass Pirate Kevin Kline and cast, "Oh, Better Far to Live and Die" (from The Pirates of Penzance)

A Song for Oluwande: Because We Don't Have Any Other Choice Desmond Dekker, "Israelites"

Foreshadowing Blackbeard/Badminton Dies Gerald Price, "The Ballad of Mack the Knife" (from The Threepenny Opera)

Aboard the Revenge Moondog, "High on a Rocky Ledge"

Vacation(?) on the Deserted(?) Island Buena Vista Social Club, "Chan Chan"

Mr. Hands Wonders What the Deal Is with These Poncey Guys Jimmy Cliff, "The Harder They Come"

En Route to the Republic of Pirates (Although It's Become Quite Touristy) Varend Volk, "This Night We Spend Ashore"

"Booty for Sale" Does Not Mean What You Think It Means Red Plastic Bag, "Ragga Ragga"

Spanish Jackie'z Noze Jar Con Grazia, "Hernando's Hideaway" (from The Pajama Game)

He Can Suck Eggs in Hell Miles Anderson, "My Name" (from Oliver!)

Assault on the Spanish Ship The Skatalites feat. Stranger Cole, "Rough & Tough"

I've Heard All About You The Beach Boys, "Our Prayer"

Mary Flashback: Lighthouses and Graves Caetano Veloso, "The Empty Boat"

Stede's Auxiliary Wardrobe Delroy Wilson, "Better Must Come"

The Fog Christopher Gordon, "Into the Fog" (from Master and Commander)

We're a Lighthouse Klaus Badelt, "He's a Pirate" (from Pirates of the Caribbean) (of course)

Ed & Stede On Deck Steel Pulse, "Your House"

Fancy Party for Hoity-Toity People George Fenton, "The Madness of King George Front Titles"

Frenchy Invents the Pyramid Scheme The Gladiators, "Rich Man Poor Man"

Passive Aggression Vienna Mozart Ensemble, "Five Contredanses: 'Non più andrai'"

The Deep Down Question of Every Pirate “Who Will Love Me as I Am?” (from Side Show)

Aboard the Revenge Aswad, "I a Rebel Soul"

Wonderful Fuckery Storm Weather Shanty Choir, "Fish in the Sea"

I Was the Kraken Bob Marley, "Redemption Song"

Hands vs. Bonnet: Missed the Important Bits Lin-Manuel Miranda, "Ten Duel Commandments (Instrumental)" (from Hamilton)

Treasure Hunting for Oranges Jimmy Cliff, “Raggae Down Babylon”

My Favorite Color Is Teal Shakira, “Tú”

A Song for Lucius and Pete and Oluwande and Jim Junior Delgado, "Gimme Your Love"

Calico Jack, Bringer of Chaos The Skatalites, "Wood and Water"

Betrayed to Badminton Toots and the Maytals, "Pressure Drop"

A Truer Chain Fleetwood Mac, "The Chain"

Last-Minute Act of Grace The Pioneers, "Long Shot (Kick De Bucket)"

Signing the Contract Bailey's Nervous Kats, "Cobra"

Blackbeard Shaves Bob Marley, "Is This Love"

What Makes Ed Happy Peter Dinklage/The National, "Madly" (from Cyrano)

Izzy's Revenge: (ladies (derogatory)) Tao Seeger Band, "Sail Away Ladies"

Dawn, but No Stede Derina Harvey Band, "Nancy Spain"

A Song for The Widow Bonnet Marin Mazzie, "Back to Before" (from Ragtime)

Killed By a Falling Piano Thematic Pianos, "Hornblower Opening Theme" by John E. Keane

Blackbeard's Despair Yusuf (Cat Stevens), "Miles from Nowhere"

Marooned - Is There Hope? Desmond Dekker, "What Is Man"

The Man of Independent Mind Dougie MacLean, "For a' That" (poem by Robert Burns)

[deja-you]

Starlight

m. de lafayette x reader

chapter four | champagne and sunsets

summary: it was never your intent to be anything more than a common thief, but fate—and a rather attractive general—have other plans for you.

word count: 2.5k

masterlist | previous | next

The expression the receptionist makes when she hands over the key to the honeymoon suite is a little too suggestive, but other than that, you find that Ambros is a rather lovely planet. The high ceilings and gilded artwork on the walls of the hotel you were staying at were a mere microcosms for the glistening planet itself, rich off tourists and natural minerals. You had a brief amount of time to read up on the history of the planet from a pamphlet at the front desk while Lafayette was checking in.

The elevator ride to the twelfth floor is quick, and you and Lafayette carry your luggage to room 1215. With the slide of the key, the door swings open and you take in the sight before you. The room is spacious with large windows and a balcony facing out over the rose-colored sea. There's a large king-sized bed that takes up most of the space, rose petals strewn over the sheets. Romantic.

A golden bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket calling out to you. You drop your bags to the floor and make your way to the champagne where you find a small note from the hotel congratulating you and Lafayette on your wedding. You stifle a laugh and brandish the bottle for Lafayette to see.

"Free champagne," you grin.

Lafayette raises an eyebrow. "Starlight, we're working. This isn't a vacation."

You roll your eyes. "I'm aware, but that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun. Congress is paying for the room, we really shouldn't let that money go to waste, right?"

He gives you a pointed look. "Your logic is flawed."

You sigh and put the bottle back down into the bucket; maybe you'll revisit the idea of opening the bottle of alcohol if he is going to be so uptight for the entire mission.

"I'm going to go scout the area," you mutter to him, coming up with an excuse to leave your shared living area. It's probably a good idea to memorize the layout anyway. You barely register Lafayette's response as you begin to explore the resort.

There are two entire floors dedicated just to the casino, and you make a note to yourself to check them out before you leave. A few restaurants: fine dining on the lower levels, small cafes toward the middle of the building, and a bar on one of the top observation decks. There are many attractions your hotel offers, and you decide to check out the conservatory on the twenty-ninth floor.

It's rather busy around this time of day, but the conservatory is expansive enough that you can walk around freely without bumping elbows with anyone. Walking from section to section, you slyly listen to bits and pieces of conversation hoping to pick up a lead on your target. Some time passes and realizing that you've examined a starfire flower one too many times, you decide it's time to search somewhere else.

In the elevator, you catch sight of the label "pool" on the highest level and don't think twice before pushing the button. Moments later, the elevator has shot into the sky, and with a ding, the doors roll open to reveal the light purple of the twilight sky. The weather is just right when you step out onto the roof, the warm climate of the planet combatted nicely with the early evening breeze.

Most guests are attending dinner at this time or going to see a show in one of the many theaters, so the pool deck is all yours for the taking. It's been a long day for you, so you think you deserve a little bit of self-indulgence. Removing your shoes, you sit down by the pool that seems to stretch on forever, reflecting the sky on its calm surface, and you dip your feet into the tranquil waters. Closing your eyes, you allow yourself to soak in the peace of the moment.

It feels like an eternity, but when you open your eyes and see that the sun has hardly moved from its low place in the sky, you know you haven't been up here too long. You hear the sound of the elevator doors opening and immediately you tense up in annoyance that someone would come to bother your solitude. You're about to pull your legs out of the water when the intruder speaks.

"I had a feeling I'd find you up here."

You turn your head slightly to see Lafayette walking toward you. You relax a bit. Once he approaches your side, he sits down next to you, and to your surprise, he rolls up his pant legs and dips his feet into the water beside you.

"Found any leads yet?" He asks.

You hum a response and shake your head. "No. You?"

"Nothing on out target, but I'm pretty sure there's a young cardshark in the casino that's been conning wealthy guests out of their money," he says.

This makes you smile a little. "Good for them. I used to do similar work."

"I'm just going to assume you mean working in a casino and not being a con-artist."

“What? We met because I decided to con you; are you not a fan of the business?” You lightly nudge his shoulder with your own as you tease him.

“Starlight, it’s illegal,” he points out.

“Only if you get caught.”

“But you did get caught.”

You purse your lips. “Yes, because I saved your life. You wouldn’t have ever found me if I didn’t have that one moral lapse of judgement.”

“Moral lapse of judgement?”

“Mm, yes,” you hum, “I was quite successful looking out for myself and making a living. It’s a shame I suddenly felt a sense of conviction and decided to save your life.”

Lafayette snorts at this. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you had a change of heart.”

You study his face in the dying light, pushing down the butterflies in your stomach that inevitably appear when he gives you that sideways smile. In this quiet moment, you take the time to admire the golden lines that run from his ears up the side of his forehead, intricately linking and marking him as Franco nobility. You want to memorize them and draw the patterns on your own skin; they’re beautiful. Before he can see that you’ve been staring, you look away, eyes falling to the reflections in the pool. You’re happy to be here now with him.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad, too.”

When the last of the daylight finally leaves the sky, Lafayette stands to his feet and offers you a hand. You accept, pulling yourself up to your full height. It's too cold to stay on the rooftop any longer, so the two of you step into the elevator and press the button for your room number.

The elevator ride is uneventful, and when you get to your floor, the cool evening air greets you once again. The wide halls of your floor have open walls, large columns are wedged between the floor and the ceiling. You and Lafayette lazily walk down the hall, not in a rush to be anywhere. There are a few other guests meandering about in the open air, and that's when you spot the group of New Britannia soldiers making their way down the hall.

Ambros is such a lovely planet, you nearly forget it's currently New Britannia territory in a bordering system. Troops of soldiers police the planet, checking credentials and arresting anyone they suspect have ties to the United Planets of Amerigo.

The troops are making their way down the hall, speaking with guests occasionally and checking their papers. Your heart begins to thrash against the walls of your ribcage as they get nearer. Lafayette bares the markings of Franco nobility, and Francosia has been known to sympathize with Amerigo.

In a split second, you've made up your mind.

Taking Lafayette's hand in yours, you pull him over to a column, adjusting the both of you to where you are placed with your back to the pillar and Lafayette in front of you. You guide his hands to your waist, and while he looks a bit bewildered, he allows your movements. Your hands reach up to cup either side of his face, your fingers deliberately covering up the golden markings on his face. You pull him closer so you are standing cheek to cheek as you hear the soldiers’ footsteps get closer.

“Just go along with it until they’re gone,” you whisper into his ear, smiling against his skin as if you’re saying something scandalous.

His eyes flicker to the soldiers with a look of realization before looking back to you. You press your lips against his cheek, and Lafayette seems to get the message, because the next thing you know, he’s wraps his arms around your waist and pushes you roughly against the stone behind you. Lafayette buries his face in the nape of your neck, leaving a trail of kisses over your shoulder and along your collarbone.

His lips find a sweet spot, and he begins sucking a hickey into your skin, causing a soft moan to escape your lips. With one hand shielding his face from the passing soldiers, your other hand finds its place at the back of his neck. You can’t help but wonder when the Amerigo Army had time to teach its generals this technique.

The soldiers pass you with no problems, muttering something about “lovebirds” under their breath. Lafayette seems to have forgotten all about them, his lips moving up your neck to your cheek. He’s placing a kiss on the corner of your lips when you come back to your senses and lightly tug on the lapels of his suit.

“Love,” you say, and the both of you are both hyper-aware of how desperate and breathy your voice sounds. “Maybe we should take this back to the bedroom.”

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to understand the meaning behind your words. To your surprise, Lafayette picks you up bridal style and carries you back to the room. Once inside, he kicks shut the door behind the two of you and sets you down gently on the bed. Now that it’s just the two of you, Lafayette takes a step back from you. Tension lingers in the air.

“I… I’m sorry about that.” Lafayette’s eyes trail to the ground, obviously embarrassed.

You clear your throat, skin still warm from the moment before. “There’s nothing to apologize for. It was all just part of the cover.”

There is an awkward moment of silence between the two of you. Finally, he nods and moves toward the bathroom.

“Well, we have a long day tomorrow.”

“Yes, we should probably get ready for bed then,” you agree.

Lafayette spares you one last look, attempts a smile, and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the shower being turned on seconds later and take that as your cue to change into your nightgown. You slip into the cool covers of the bed, propping yourself up on the pillows until you find a comfortable place for yourself. While you wait for Lafayette to finish showering, you pull out your tablet and begin reading up on Ambrosian customs; you can never be too informed.

You have no idea of how long it has been, but eventually the shower shuts off. A few moments later the door swings open, and Lafayette steps out.

"About time," you tease. "Thought I'd never get a chance to brush my teeth."

"Next time you can join me. I hate to think you've been sitting out here bored," he responds.

You'd like to take a moment to think about how incredibly flirtatious his comment is, but your mind goes blank when you look up at him. He's fresh out of the shower, hair still wet. Lafayette wears a pair of dark sweatpants that hang too low on his waist. He's not wearing a shirt, and you can't help but stare at his toned skin. His stomach and arms are well-defined, and you catch the golden glint of the small medallion he wears around his neck.

He shrugs on a white t-shirt, and you can tell his body is still wet from the shower by the way the shirt clings to his torso. Never before have you wanted to be a t-shirt so badly in your life. You feel your face heat up, and you are in the process of pulling your gaze away from him, when he looks up and meets your eyes. The way his lips curved up into a smirk left you with a visceral feeling.

“S’there something I can help you with, starlight?” His tone is light and playful.

Your throat is dry, but you manage to get out, “I can think of a few things.”

Lafayette throws his head back and laughs quietly at your response, and you despise the way your heart crashes against its cage at his actions. You slide out of bed and move past him into the bathroom, putting toothpaste on your toothbrush and then shoving the toothbrush into your mouth before you say or do anything more that you’ll regret. Lafayette doesn’t notice the way you are aggressively brushing your teeth, and you don’t notice the way his eyes linger on the neckline of your nightgown and the hem that ends at your upper thigh.

When you finish brushing your teeth, Lafayette is taking a pillow off the bed and moving it to the floor.

“What are you doing?” You ask, knowing perfectly well what his intentions are.

He looks at you bewildered. “I just thought it would be—”

“I’m not going to make you sleep on the ground.”

“You’re not making me do anything.”

“Am I really that deplorable to be around?”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Lafayette sort of resembles a deer in headlights at this moment. He shakes his head. “Starlight, we shouldn’t. It’s just that…”

“What? What is it?” Your hands have found their place on your hips and you quirk an eyebrow up at him, waiting for a response.

The answer is on the tip of his tongue. He knows why he shouldn’t share the bed with you, but truth is something he can’t say out loud. Lafayette sighs in defeat, picking up the pillow from the ground and tossing it back to the head of the bed.

Content with your victory, you climb under the covers on your side of the bed. Lafayette is still hesitant, but eventually he climbs into bed as well, keeping an absurd amount of distance from you. You consider making a comment about this, but you’ve already argued with him enough about the bed itself, so you bite your tongue. The light beside your bed is the only thing keeping the room from darkness; you turn it off and settle into bed.

“Goodnight.” You say this quietly, the darkness imbuing the room with a sense of peace that you are all too afraid to mess up.

Lafayette must feel this, too, because his response is a whisper as well. “Goodnight, starlight.”

[fandomn00blr]

The Halloween ‘Sisters’ at the End of the Cul de Sac

I had a bunch of unfortunate Life™ happen this weekend (some of it is still happening), when I intended to finish this up for the last day of Strigana Week (@striganaweek​​) in the bits of free time I thought I might be able to find (I didn’t). The prompt was “Halloween & Dreams of the Future,” and I had a lot of fun with this one...a bit of 80s Kid nostalgia creeped in here, but I noticed Sunday night, as I was passing out candy, that a lot of the same costumes that I remember being popular in the 80s are still popular now (again?). 

Anyway, this is the first half of the one-shot I had in mind for this prompt..the second half is still being revised/finished up (I’ve shared snippets of it here, already, but I won’t spoiler it for those who haven’t seen it!). When I think it’s done, I’ll reblog it and post to AO3!

---

“It’s fun, Sissy, I swear. They’re just a couple of spinsters who get a kick out of messing with us,” a boy, around eleven years old, wearing a hockey mask pushed back on top of his head and wielding a machete made of cardboard and duct tape tries to explain to a much smaller girl in a long dark dress and cape, who stands hesitating outside the old, creaking iron gates that are wedged open just enough for a single person to pass through. “Now come on! We have to catch up with the rest of them!”

“I think they’re married…” another kid corrects him as she squeezes through the gate ahead of them. She’s painted her face like a skull, and the white makeup glows a little more wickedly in the yellow-orange of the last light on the street when she beams back at them through the dark iron bars.

“Why do people call them sisters, then?” the boy asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest defiantly.

“I dunno…” She shrugs, then sticks her tongue out at him, a startling pink against the black of her lips. “Do you think you’ll at least make it to the door this year?”

“Yeah…” he mutters. “The only reason I didn’t last time was because of all those stupid crows!”

The little girl’s eyes go wide, and she takes a tentative step toward the gate. “Crows…?”

“Yeah!” Skull-girl exclaims. “Well...ravens, actually. Last year, they had real ones up in the trees and they’d swoop down at you and try to steal your eyeballs…”

She makes claws with her hands and tilts her head, looking at the little girl and creeping very jerkily and bird-like back toward them.

The little girl takes a deep breath, her eyes shining with strange delight in the gentle green of the glowstick hanging down around her neck.

But then the older girl abruptly turns her attention to the boy and leaps at him.

“Hey!” he shrieks. “That’s not funny! I’m like, really scared of birds! Ever since I saw that stupid movie…”

“Nah…” Skull-girl winks at the younger girl and she has to stifle a small giggle. “They were fine. The worst they did was grab a couple pieces of candy. I think they like the shiny wrappers…” She turns and grins menacingly back at the boy through the bars.

The little girl watches as he shuffles his candy around in his bucket, trying to hide the pieces wrapped in foil. She looks down at her own bucket, and is pleased to see that she has quite a few shiny pieces sitting right on top. Skull-girl nods approvingly and offers her a hand as she steps the rest of the way into the overgrown yard of the estate.

“Hey, wait up!” the boy calls out to them, pulling his mask down over his face as they begin to make their way up the path through the thick hedge.

...

“Morana, quick!” Striga calls out over her shoulder. “Come see all these wretched little creatures who’ve made it through our maze!”

The children giggle nervously, shuffling around in front of the door as they try and get a better look inside the mysterious old mansion.

Morana appears with a tray of delicious-looking candied apples, all different kinds with various edible decorations, wrapped up in cellophane. “Oh, your costumes are magnificent!” she exclaims.

“I’m a gremlin!” one of the children declares gratingly from behind a plastic store-bought mask.

“Why, yes! You are!” Morana places a caramel-dipped Granny Smith apple in the child’s bucket, and then the other children line up, holding their own baskets out for a treat.

“And I’m an undead skeleton!” the girl with the skull makeup exclaims proudly when it’s her turn.

“Very spooky…did you make your costume yourself?” Morana asks. “Or perhaps someone else raised you from the dead?”

“Well, my dad helped me with the makeup…” the girl confesses, as Morana selects a red apple drizzled with white chocolate from the tray for her.

“And what are you, little one?” Striga asks, eyeing the little girl who hangs back from the cluster of children crowded around the door.

She peers wide-eyed at Striga, then glances over at Morana, who is staring expectantly at her, as well. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, except a set of false glow-in-the-dark teeth with fangs that are far too big for her.

“She’s a baby,” the boy in the hockey mask groans. “This is her first time trick-or-treating with us. Mom said I had to bring her along.”

Striga nods and places an apple in the boy’s basket.

“Oh, but she has been very brave to have made it through our maze!” Morana insists. “She deserves a treat, too!”

The other children puff up their chests a little, elbowing and accusing each other of wanting to turn back at the spider nest or the spooky tree or the empty coffins in freshly-dug graves.

“Vamp...vampire…” the tiny girl finally murmurs, after re-inserting and adjusting her teeth. She pulls her cape tightly around her shoulders and tries to narrow her eyes menacingly at them, and quickly becomes embarrassed and tries to duck back behind her brother. But he’s already following the other children down the porch steps, leaving her to face ‘The Sisters’ alone.

Striga raises an eyebrow at her, and smiles, revealing just the tips of her fangs. “The best costume we’ve seen all night, wouldn’t you say, my love?”

“Yes,” Morana nods, grinning at the girl to reveal her own sweetly-fanged smile. She looks down at her tray of apples. “Oh yes...I think this one, most definitely…” She picks up a beautiful blush-colored Pink Lady with flecks of gold leaf and stripes of caramel over the clear glossy candy coating and places it in the little girl’s basket.

“Fank you…” the little girl lisps through her oversized fangs, and then spins around, hurrying to catch up with the other children, who are already discussing their next stop -- the Becker house, where the old widow is known for handing out full-size Baby Ruths and, being that she is practically blind, you can usually grab more than one.

“Don’t forget to brush those fangs, darling!” Morana cries out to her. “With all these sweets, you wouldn’t want them to fall out before you've had a chance to grow into them!”

The little girl turns around to wave, but the two women have disappeared. Instead, a large black bird stands on the porch, its eyes fixed on her as it tilts its head curiously, accompanied by an oddly elegant-looking brown bat swooping above it, chittering excitedly. She swears she sees the raven wink one dark glowing eye at her before they take off together into the night.

...

“Did you see the apple they gave Josh’s little sister?” the gremlin asks one of its ghostly companions.

“Yeah. It’s not fair she got the prettiest one!” the ghost huffs beneath her sheet.

“They probably just felt sorry for her,” a kid wearing a single sequined glove and a red leather jacket waves dismissively.

“My mom says not to eat any candy that isn’t factory-sealed,” one of the other children, dressed in a wide-brimmed hat and carrying a broom says. “You never know what someone might have done to it. There are a lot of sickos out there...”

“Oh, come off it, Lindsey! Last year they gave out those fancy little cakes and nobody dropped dead or choked on any razor blades...” Skull-girl, who has already unwrapped hers and is about to take a bite, says.

---

Dun dun DUN! (No, they didn’t poison the children...)

[thetriggeredhappy]

How about the team agreeing to play baseball with Scout for his birthday? Because they always admired how happy and free he looks when he's running. (SniperScout in between if possible would be great)

pushed up in the requests backlog for reasons. team bonding fic is best fic

(warnings for alcohol mention and passing non-graphic cartoonish violence)

-

“The hell is he so excited about?” Demo asked, raising an eyebrow and glancing over his shoulder towards where Scout was laughing his way down the hall.

“No idea,” the Engineer said, shuffling the deck neatly. “Been all high-energy high-spirits the whole damn day.”

“Unfortunately,” Medic agreed, a little bitter. That garnered several more raised eyebrows from around the table.

“Twice in one day Doktor has to fix broken leg in fighting,” Heavy explained, placing a placating hand on Medic’s shoulder. “And Scout takes many bad risks. Overconfident.”

A questioning noise from within Pyro’s suit. “I’d sure like to know why, as well,” Engie nodded. “Tryin’ out some new energy drink, maybe?”

“High spirits and hubris from consistent victory?” Soldier suggested.

“You’re joking,” Sniper suddenly cut in, glancing around the table, who all looked right back, surprised to hear him cutting in on the usual gossip. “...You lot really didn’t remember?”

A snort from Spy, a vague shrug from the rest of the table.

“It’s his birthday tomorrow.”

A pause, then noises of surprise, shock, and from some of the table, alarm. “A repeat of last year, how very unfortunate,” Spy hummed, taking a sip of his drink.

Pyro shouted something with no small amount of conviction that might have been along the lines of “this is terrible!”. Demo seemed to agree, from the shock on his face, the widening of his eye.

“Oh no,” Heavy rumbled, looking legitimately worried. Medic’s eyebrows were furrowed.

“I can’t believe you,” Sniper deadpanned, glaring at all the other mercenaries sitting there. “First year, you don’t bother wishing him a happy birthday. Second year, he plans a whole damn party for himself so you lot wouldn’t forget again and half of you don’t plan ahead and we get scheduled out on a mission and leave the bugger all alone all weekend. And you promise you won’t forget again. And one year later, here we are.”

Pyro appeared to be in a state of panic, pacing at high speed behind their chair, tugging at various points of their suit in high agitation. The Engineer’s face was largely hidden behind the hardhat and goggles and the hand clamped over the bottom part of his face.

“Perhaps he won’t be upset,” Medic suggested. “We all simply wish him a happy birthday and have drinks.”

“We do that every other weekend,” Demo pointed out. Soldier murmured in the affirmative.

“Sniper has remembered,” Heavy noted, looking at the man in question. “Maybe team helps with plans?”

“I already got him a gift,” Sniper mumbled, fidgeting with his hat. “But I don’t think we’ll manage to pass it off as from the whole team.”

“He’s gonna be so disappointed if he finds out that we forgot again,” Engie sighed, head in his hands. “It’ll break his damn heart.”

“So once again, it seems that I’ll need to step in and save you all,” Spy drawled, putting his glass down and reaching into his jacket, pulling out and unfolding a sheet of paper. “With your collective track record regarding this specific event, I assumed you would all forget again, and so took some steps to ensure that there would be a backup plan when the event arises and we wouldn’t need to deal with moodiness and general malaise from the team for the next several weeks.”

The Engineer took the paper, holding it so Medic could read it at the same time as him, Heavy leaning to try and get a look. Eyebrows began to rise. The paper was passed around the remainder of the table.

“You think this’ll work?” Demo asked suspiciously.

“Obviously. Well, and to be fair, you don’t exactly have any other options.”

He had them there.

-

“—Just totally can’t believe you talked Miss P into lettin’ us do this that’s just the coolest shit in the world lemme tell ya, like seriously that’s completely nuts and I can’t even believe it, she’s the best—!“

Scout had only stopped talking long enough to breathe over the course of the entire walk from the base to the makeshift baseball pitch that the Engineer had propped up overnight, absolutely bubbling and more high-energy than any of them had assumed to even be possible—even for him. And most of them had anticipated already hating the idea by the time they got to the pitch, but so far things were actually going rather well. The uniforms that had been shipped in (in their team colors, obviously) all fit them correctly and weren’t nearly as embarrassing as expected, in particular since most of them opted to keep at least one part of their usual wardrobe in the mix, such as masks or helmets or hats. Pyro, for one, just put the baseball uniform on over their entire flamesuit, but nobody was particularly surprised.

They crested the little ridge and got a look at the pitch, and for a moment, Scout went silent, eyes wide and mouth agape. Demo elbowed the Engineer to get his attention and flashed a thumbs up, making him grin and fluster a bit, mumbling about how it was nothin’ special, really.

“Alright,” Scout finally said, turning to them with his hands on his hips, taking on an authoritative tone. “So who here knows how baseball works?”

The Engineer and Soldier raised their hands. After a moment, Sniper and Pyro tentatively did the same. Demo made a so-so motion with one hand.

“And who knows how sandlot baseball works?”

Everyone but the Engineer dropped their hands, and even then, he looked a little doubtful.

“Alright,” Scout said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “So we don’t exactly got enough people to make a real team—need twelve for a standard six-players-a-team. So we’re gonna be improvising a little bit.”

He looked around, and started addressing each of them with a pointed finger.

“Heavy,” he said, and the giant raised an eyebrow. “You’re catcher, all you gotta do is stay behind first base and catch the ball so it doesn’t roll away. I know you’re not gonna flinch when you see somethin’ speeding at your head, yeah?”

Heavy nodded thoughtfully.

“Cyclops, first base,” Scout said next. “Fucks with your blind spot the least, and you know how to throw shit. Mumbles, you’re on second, Helmet-Head on third.”

Demo flashed a thumbs-up, Pyro clapped their hands together, and Soldier raised an arm in a sturdy salute.

“Doc, right field. Odds are, none of these chuckleheads are gonna hit anything too far to the left or right of normal, but if they do, you’re like practically as fast as I am and can handle it. Spy, you hang out back there in left field. I know you’re probably not gonna catch shit if it comes at you, but hey, it’s worth a shot and you won’t gotta deal with much anyways.”

Medic nodded at the compliment and Spy raised an eyebrow at the insult.

“And Snipes, you’re the pitcher,” Scout concluded, hands returning to his hips.

There was a snort from Demo. Sniper elbowed him.

“Figured you know how to throw shit and won’t straight up brain anyone,” Scout continued, not noticing the squabble. “And I’ll be first up to bat, and we’ll cycle through everyone in that same order, starting as soon as you guys can stop me from running all the bases, then we’ll play normally from there, how’s that sound?”

“You’re sure talkin’ yourself a big game there, son,” the Engineer observed, eyebrows raised.

“Damn right, I’ve been playin’ this shit since I was three,” Scout said, grinning wide. “This is gonna kick ass.”

-

Indeed, the first eight pitches went by in pretty rapid succession. Two because they fumbled and hesitated and miscommunicated in their pitching and couldn’t beat him to the bases, two after that as Scout scored home runs, another general fumble, another home run, one where the ball landed a few feet away from Spy who outright didn’t attempt to catch it, only kicking it closer to Medic as he rushed up to get it, and then one where Scout didn’t notice until he was back at home base that Soldier had unintentionally thrown the ball directly into the side of Pyro’s head (who was distracted by drawing shapes into the dirt at their feet).

They just barely managed to get him out on third, and then it was Demo’s turn.

Overall, by the first circuit through the whole team, they were surprised to find that they were actually having fun, even and especially with the odd shenanigans that ensued during the course of the game. There was one point where Soldier full-body tackled Demo at first base (just slightly confused about a few of the contact rules), and another where Sniper thought it would be funny to throw a hard ball of clay from at his feet, sending the team laughing as it exploded all over Pyro’s suit and they needed to stop to wipe the lenses on their mask clear. Demo surprised all of them with the first bunt of the game, and the Engineer with sending the ball soaring nearly into a homerun, with him sheepishly asking if using the Gunslinger to swing was allowed after he’d already run the bases. Then there was Pyro calmly stealing their way to third after the team thought their turn was over, and Heavy accidentally cracking the bat, and Medic absolutely eating shit as he tried to take off towards first. And nobody for sure knew how to react to the one time that Spy actually caught the ball, all but diving to catch it and send it to second just in time to get Soldier out. And of course, all of them were left just slightly in awe as Scout sent home run after home run sailing towards the stratosphere.

They finally had to stop when it was getting dark and Heavy informed them that they didn’t have any more baseballs left in the bucket for all the ones sent sailing far foul or off into the distance with a homerun. Soldier and Demo promised to go pick them up the following day and they all began their trudge back to base, covered in the bright orange loam of the desert and already slightly sore and feeling like they were in much higher spirits than any of them had expected. Scout, most of all, seemed... contented. Not just cheerful, not just bubbly, but contented, satisfied. Happy. He seemed so very happy.

Several of them, glancing around between themselves, considered telling Scout the truth, that they hadn’t put in nearly as much work as he thought they did. But most of them just settled in for saying happy birthday a few more times over assorted bottles of booze and maybe even a movie.

Sniper, for one, was a little fidgety on the way back to base. Halfway there, he took Scout by the shoulder, pulling him to slow down just a bit.

“Had, er,” Sniper said once they were a good few meters trailed behind the team, eyes averted. “Heavy said we were out, but. Had, er. Had one ball left.”

He pulled the baseball in question out of his pocket, unfolded it from the handkerchief it was in, passed it over, a little sheepish. Scout took it, confused, turning it over in his hands.

He stopped dead in his tracks. The rest of the team slowed and turned as they realized two of their party weren’t with them. Scout’s mouth was agape.

“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmyGOD—“ Scout babbled suddenly, eyes widening, practically starting to vibrate in place. “—is this a real actual serious legitimate gen-u-ine real signature? Snipes please tell me you’re not fuckin’ around right now ohmyGOD.”

“Nah, yeah, from the actual bloke,” Sniper agreed, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yats-rem-key, something like?”

“Only just jersey number eight, left fielder for the Boston Red Sox, five-time All-Star four-time Gold Glove winner and three-time batting champion, Triple Crown winner and overall MVP in the entire American Major League of baseball, Carl Michael motherfuckin’ Yastrzemski!”

Sniper faltered under the sudden weight of the entirety of Scout as he was all but tackled in a hug, Scout continuing to babble excitedly on about the man whose signature was on the baseball in his hands. There was a general chuckle and rolling of eyes from the team as they watched the scene unfold.

“And we’re sure Sniper’s not the catcher, then?” Demo asked lightly, and with Sniper not there to elbow him, the Engineer took his place, making Demo snicker.

“If you would please cease embarrassing yourselves,” Spy called over after giving them a solid minute, which made Scout look up and apparently notice the entire team looking at them, flushing red and promptly trying to pretend he didn’t just do all that. “I believe that Heavy has prepared some kind of cake and I for one would rather not eat it after Pyro has covered it in candles and torched them all.”

Indeed, Pyro by then had a good head start on the team, who all hurried to catch up. And they all bumbled their way through at least five nationalities’ rendition of a Happy Birthday Song, and each very nearly got through their slice before the first scrap of the night began and the rest of it was lost in the mayhem, and overall, Scout would remark the next day through the haze of his hangover that actually, that was easily one of his favorite birthdays in a long time.

[havatabanca]

Lee Gopthal, Trojan records

b. 1 March 1939, Constant Spring, Kingston, Jamaica, West Indies, d. 29 August 1997. Gopthal is regarded as a pioneer in promoting Jamaican music. He moved to the UK in 1952 where he qualified as an accountant, and by the early 60s was representing producer Leslie Kong in the UK. Initially, Gopthal was involved in providing records for the West Indian population through his primary venture, Pyramid Records. By the early 60s Chris Blackwell had arrived in the UK and joined forces with Gopthal, who distributed Black Swan and Island Records pressings under the Beat And Commercial banner. The association led to the inauguration of the Muzik City chain, which sold Jamaican music within the Afro-Caribbean community. The shops were opened in and around London and included the legendary Desmond’s Hip City in Brixton. In 1967 Gopthal’s Pyramid label released Desmond Dekker’s ‘The Israelites’, which topped the UK charts two years after its release and is acknowledged as the first reggae tune to conquer the US charts. Gopthal and Blackwell co-founded Trojan Records in 1967, releasing Jamaican hits and allocating labels to represent the growing number of producers, including Lee Perry, Joe Gibbs, Duke Reid, Clancy Eccles and, for a brief period, Coxsone Dodd. Gopthal also worked with UK-based performers, including Dandy Livingstone, whose production of Tony Tribe’s version of Neil Diamond’s ‘Red Red Wine’ gave the company its first reggae hit on the UK chart. Following his label’s early chart success Gopthal also enjoyed mainstream hits with ‘The Liquidator’, by Harry J.’s Allstars, ‘Long Shot Kick De Bucket’ by the Pioneers, ‘Wonderful World, Beautiful People’ by Jimmy Cliff, and the double a-side, ‘Return Of Django’/‘Dollar In The Teeth’, by the Upsetters. The hits continued in abundance following the departure of Blackwell, who decided to concentrate on the lucrative rock market, although the Wailers later emerged as the label’s most significant asset. By 1974, with increasing financial problems, Trojan were unable to compete with the major record companies, and the label was eventually sold to Saga Records. Gopthal maintained a low profile within the music industry until the late 70s when he decided to pursue a career in commerce.

[parismemes]

SENTENCE STARTERS FROM RED VS. BLUE SEASON 15

“you touch my baked beans, i put dog shit in your pillowcase.” “every other person in this miserable place is literal garbage.” “books on tape? what's the appeal of that? don't the pages get stuck together?” “when in doubt use a confusing acronym. military types love acronyms.” “FML. that stands for fu--” “i’ll bend down and kiss your boots, how’s that?” “i wanna know every step you take and how much shit gets stuck on your shoes and in-between your teeth.” “you know, i think i'll probably move to LA, but that's like what everyone does. i mean, what do you think?” “i’m gonna skin your cat for this.” “i’m actually thinking of adopting a stage name.” “i’m gonna smash cut your empty skull against that rock if you don’t shut the fuck up!” “i wanted to call it desert titties, but that shit was taken.” “ah, there goes the bechdel test.” “you should interview the illuminati!” “real talk here: i'll be your genie in a bottle, i'll do whatever you want, but after i grant you your three wishes, you gotta do something for me, whaddaya say?” “my ceaseless existence is an eternal torment!” “next time he calls you please, just, let it go to voicemail. don't transfer to me. okay?” “i can’t even hear myself think in this blizzard of idiocy!” “did you attempt to witness any other particular individuals in the general vicinity of the area in which the crime scene was alleged?” “i just wanna be included!” “funny, the vultures usually show up after the slaughter.” “you’re a little bit crazy, aren’t you? i like that.” “consequences... don't always take the shape we expect them to, do they? they're funny like that.” “...are we still married?” “people are quick to jump to conclusions. they see something, or hear something, and fit it into a preconceived emotional box.” “please don’t make me regret what i’m about to tell you.” “whoa, hold up--i just realized how much i don’t care.” “SUCK IT, NEWTON!” “we said we wouldn’t talk about that!” “help me be the best at being lazy.” “it was a simple mishap with my vanilla-satin scented candles!” “why is he naked?” “HOW DO YOU BURN DOWN A WATER PARK, ___?!” “we’re definitely not just saying that because she could kill us.” “for far too long our people have been oppressed, crushed, under the weight of ourselves! if we don't start standing up to our mortal foe gravity, by god, who will?” “we’ve never needed intelligence before!” “why doesn’t anybody die and stay dead?” “oh, cool! foreshadowing.” “who wants a poisoned pumpkin frappuccino?” “i quit. i’m not going. i’m staying here.” “you’ve always been selfish, but this is bullshit!” “you know, i liked them better when they were funny.” “it’s a bop-it.” “sleep. means. death!” “i know ___ said we should split up, but i was thinking maybe we split up together, you know, because it's scary!” “you talk about ___ a lot.” “this is a big city. so many places for snakes to hide. they could be everywhere all around us. watching us... licking their snake lips...” “jesus, doesn’t anybody speak esperanto?” “err is not a word.” “why do you look alone?” “why don't you tell us what's going on, and we can decide whether to kill you or not?” “looks like we've got quite the sticky mess on our hands!” “oh, i know all about sausage parties! uh, wait, that came out wrong.” “when I least expect it: whambo! you pry open my mind prison and suck out my brain beans!” “i realize now that i’ve just spilled all my brain beans.” “we're just a bunch of dumb rejects hurling ourselves against impossible odds.” “i’m only saying something because i’ve been used enough times in my life already.” “nice! super awesome of you guys! that was sarcastic.” “don’t care. just help me with my dramatic exit.” “that's a great idea! i was just about to suggest it.” “i always say a marine without a code is like a car without a road.” “i always say the best defense is a really tall fence.” “i always say a good soldier is like a rollin’ boulder.” “i always say a mantra a day keeps death at bay.” “i've grown soft around these uncultured philistines.” “goddamn, i can’t believe i have to hear this shit in stereo now.” “you two look cozy.” “i didn’t realize you two were close.” “you’re being too hard on yourself. you’ve changed over the years, i’ve seen it myself.” “i've grown from being a dishonorable killing machine to an honorable killing machine. that's quite the journey.” “i changed my mind. you are evil.” “you don’t have to destroy the past to have a future.” “strategizing can wait until breakfast, at least.” “i killed them. i MURDERED them. i set my vengeance free upon them and it felt so good!” “are we gonna do some snooping around?” “have you ever considered a life in showbusiness?” “try harder, fuckface!” “can we please just bury the hatchet and focus on what's important?” “your mother’s lasagna is mediocre!” “if you guys had to get shot somewhere in your body, where would you do it?” “i can't hear you because some idiot shot my ear off!” “this whole situation is garbage enough to begin with, but... at least we're in it together.” “no plan survives first contact with the enemy.” “the only thing that would make this better is some music.” “we were pawns in their game. but the thing that I love about chess is that sometimes pawns kill kings.” “no, actually, i was raised by wolves. in the forest.” “sometimes i feel like people barely acknowledge my presence.” “something weird might be going on around here.” “anyone who's acting that squeaky clean must have some deep dark secrets.” “ha! gotcha! that's exactly the kind of things bad guys say!” “they used us, they destroyed our lives, and they haven't been made to pay for what they've done.” “you obviously love the sound of your own voice, so why don't you use it to tell its where the fuck our friends are?” “i’m going to kill you so hard, you’ll wish you were dead.” “we fought alongside each other for fucking years. how can you just turn your backs on us like this?” “you don't get to give orders if you're on the bad guys' side!” “now I have gonorrhea and a dead friend.” “stop. touching. my face.” “buckets! oodles! oodles of noodles and toaster strudels! tiempo de mucho. mucho de tiempo!" “yeah, well, i don't remember you being anything but a huge dick, but here you are being cool, so people change.” “yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers!” “but.. i never got to say goodbye. or thank you for being my friend.” “i'm gonna need a week at the chiropractor when we get out of here.” “is it possible to hallucinate with your ears?” “i’m not here to kill you.” “uh-oh spaghetti-o’s.” “fuck me! fuck all of this!” “you should totally kill me if it strikes your fancy! no pressure!” “the world's best swordsman doesn't fear the second best. He fears the worst, because he can't predict what the idiot will do.” “i can't imagine us doing anything but making this all worse.” “shit, dude! you’re the best we’ve got!” “i like pushing small children down wells.” “can we please settle on a consistent denomination? are we using cardinal directions or are we using clock positions?” “i'm so sneaky. they don't even know what's happening. you can't even see me right now, ___. you're so confused.” “shut up and help me punch this fucking tank!” “as far as days to die go, it's a little overcast. so let's check our corners and make these bastards pay!” “let's light the fires and kick the tires!” “let’s dance with these monkeys and give ‘em what for!” “let's put the pedal to the metal and the rubber to the road!” “let’s get jiggy with it!” “let’s shoot this monkey full of heroin and put it on youtube! actually, let's not do that, it sounds completely horrible.” “let’s teach these midgets how to tango!” “honor, schmonor.” “scout's honor! except I was never a scout because I'm afraid of badges.” “why are we here?” “we don't know why we're here. it's still one of life's great mysteries, isn't it?” “i’m sorry i tried to kill you, it wasn’t personal!” “you'll be stuck between a rock and the frying pan.” “if i said that i would weep for them, would it make you feel any better?” “best friends should be able to say goodbye.” “i think you are cool. like, super awesome, amazing, cool and... i, i always felt like really awesome too, when we were hanging out together.” “i know with my other friends--who, even if you add them all up together aren't really cool as you--i know we're all gonna be okay.” “if you kill me, you'll just perpetuate this never-ending cycle of revenge and retaliation!” “he asked us to deliver an important message to you all. but then he just sang the ducktales theme song and fell back to sleep.” “you know i’ll never forget this, right? i mean, PTSD is forever, isn’t it?” “it’s not the sum of your parts that makes you who you are.” “these people have shown me that real heroes are not born, they're forged. a friend told me once that there's no fate but what you make. and i think he's right.” “alright, well, i'm just gonna try to forget that ever happened and never bring it up again.”

[nukyster-blog]

Changing Course Chapter 28)Broken

.-.-.

Utstott grew rapidly. For the first few days, Ivar managed to hide the raven chick inside the pocket of his tunic. But now that the hatchling received proper food and care, the little thing grew in size and had a massive opinion; it no longer allowed Ivar to shove him into his pocket. It pecked and cawed every time Ivar’s fingers brushed over the hem of his tunic, puffing up his humble amount of feathers. 

“Fine, be stomped to death, scrawny excuse for a chicken!”, Ivar badmouthed Utstott, who’d fiercely dug his beak into Ivar’s thumb. The little shit managed to draw blood and received an aggravated wave from Ivar. Utstott tumbled down onto his tiny arse and cawed disapprovingly.

Ivar threw a meaningful glance at Piglet, who failed miserably at  keeping her snigger hidden. 

The Giant had unchained Ivar shortly  before, and Ivar had barely managed to hide the hatchling underneath a pile of hay, coughing  excessively loud to mask the sound of Utstott’s caws of disapproval.  

It had earned Ivar two iron fists smashing in between his shoulder blades, along with a shove towards the door; the Giant didn’t want him slacking. 

“You take care of that pain in the ass”, Ivar half ordered, half asked Piglet. The slave maiden made a deep bow as an answer and used her broom to sweep Utstott to the furthest corner of the shed. 

“Make sure the calves don’t crush him”, Ivar added before crawling out of the doorway. 

His duty still remained the same, scrubbing the staircase. It was the most pointless and exhausting task possible; for every step he mopped, a hundred dirty feet and muddy boots defiled it before the end of the day.

But, like the bloody bear of Kattegat, Ivar would scrape his palms raw and routinely work his way up to the steps of the entrance. 

Then again, he was out in the sun, catching a breath of fresh air,  and he’d managed to collect a small log he could use for carving later. Life could be much worse; yet it bothered him how grateful he’d become for such basic aspects in life. He used to literally eat from a golden bowl and now his day was considered an excellent one if meat was on the menu. After winter, his heart truly beat faster every time the Giant would unshackle him and allowed him to slave his way through degrading and pointless tasks. 

He’d evolved into a proper dog, Ivar dog with muzzle, as Piglet put it. 

How much time had passed since his arrival in de Haar? Since his father promised him greatness and a meaningful death? Of course he’d known he’d never return from England, he’d settled with drowning at sea. At least he’d be right beside a Legend, a King, a father. 

Oh, sweet bliss, if only he’d died during that storm. Then he’d never know how Ragnar Lothbrok’s suicide mission only included him for his unfailing and inescapable affliction; being born a cripple. He’d just been a tool, a simple pawn to deliver a message to his worthy brothers. 

And he even failed at that. At night, that was one of the thoughts that kept gnawing holes into his mind; what if he escaped de Haar? Then what? Crawl his way to the closest dock and head home like a cowardly dog, muzzled, beaten, marked, and damaged? 

With his luck, he had a better chance at swimming home, because how was he going to afford the crossing? 

And what awaited him at home? Shame, mainly and mostly, shame. He’d served Christians, in order to survive. He’d slept between pigs, cattle, shit and Piglet. He’d done nothing memorable aside from enduring a bloody flogging. 

What would his brother’s think of him, if he’d told him how he cleaned the enemies chamber pots? How he allowed the entire population of de Haar to take a piss at him? 

The worst thing was, by now he’d been so conditioned into his new role, he numbly did what was expected of him. Without a fight, a curse; defiance had literally been beaten out of him. A shadow casted over him, expecting the Giant to ruffle him up, Ivar flinched back before glancing up. 

Ivar couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“God zij met u,” were gentle words spoken by the fair-maiden. A breeze whispered past, teasing the blonde strands of her hair. Although her posture regained its grace, her beauty still one to match; the light had been robbed from her eyes. 

Her sudden presence overwhelmed Ivar and it showed; a blush scorching his cheeks, setting his face on fire. Full of shame, he lowered his gaze and waited for her unblemished ankle boots to pass. 

By the Gods, she must have turned into flawless marble, because she was not moving an inch. Now if it was up to Ivar, he’d remain ignoring her presence until the day he died. But she was standing on the spot he needed to clean and if the Giant caught him neglecting or pausing his task, the fair-maiden would witness him being beat. 

Leaning into  his embarrassment was inevitable. Ivar felt awkward and reticent, yet managed to glance up. 

Her expression lacked security too, and there was that brokenness again. The longing, the burning expectation of a sign, of something good. 

Did she honestly still believe that the rumours of his ‘Martyrdom’ were true? Months had passed since the forty lashes, if he’d been anything other than human he’d surely have allowed a miracle to happen. One that set flames to the highest towers of De Haar. A plague to strike anyone that ever dared to harm him; causing puss filled blisters to scar their faces, like the whippings that had scarred his back and shoulder blades. 

But no, no miracle in the form of sickness or fire had occurred. His life still wasted away, while hers had worsened by marriage. He did not have anything to offer her, and he wished he had the words to tell her that.

There was no escape, from neither of their lives. He could not save her from Ludolf’s marital ties. He could not save her from being raped and abused, because Ludolf was her husband, the young ruler of de Haar. 

The Giant must have smelled his cold sweat, like a bloodhound, the brute lumbered across the cobble-stoned centre in a direct line towards Ivar and the fair-maiden. 

Both eyes of the youngsters locked in a shared understanding until Ivar broke it off. Well, was forced to break it off. A vicious yank on his hair forced him to hunch forward, causing him to tap over his bucket. The wooden tool tumbled down the stairs, splashing water all over the place. Ivar didn’t even register, pain scorched his scalp as the Giant picked him up by his hair. 

Instinctively, he clung both his hands around the thick wrist of the Giant, as the brute pulled him up to eye-level. 

Brandishing his fist in front of Ivar, the Giant diminished the space between them. Almost nose to nose, the bastard started roaring in his face; the stench of tooth rot and decay overwhelming. 

Instead of ramming his fist into Ivar’s face, the Giant pushed him down the steps. 

Every muscle in Ivar’s body knotted up as his arse hit the first step, spinning he tumbled down the rest of the steps, hitting the back of his head against the bucket and his teeth grazing mud. 

The Giant took his time to walk down and kicked the bucket across the cobble-stoned centre. He didn’t need to shout his order, Ivar knew he was burdened to repeat his entire task again. 

The cloth landed on the back of his head and the Giant walked off.

  It made Ivar feel so small and insignificant, yet he picked himself up and started crawling towards the bucket. The fair-maiden luckily had disappeared, hopefully she now knew better and would stay far away. 

.-.-.

“What did you do?” Piglet ranted the moment the Giant locked the door. Apparently, his little downfall had been the talk of the town. 

“Nothing”, Ivar snapped back, wishing that would be the last word of it. 

Of course it wasn’t, Piglet pressed both her palms into her waist and glared down at him. 

“She’s trouble! Won’t last long! I’m not going to heal your back again!” She threatened. 

This was fuel to Ivar’s simmering fire: “I bled for you, not for her”, he reminded her firmly as he rose up to his knees to at least have a shot of being at eye-level with her, “don’t tell me what I can do and can’t do, or you might wake up while I ram a nail in your eyeball!”. To give his threat more weight he thrust his fist forwards, aiming at her face. Their distance was too great by far to even touch the tip of her nose, but his gesture made Piglet sway on her feet. 

She must have seen that thing in his eyes; what his mother called rage and she called the Djinn. 

“Thick-head”, she announced, and fled up the attic, allowing Ivar to unload on his own. His knuckles grew white from clenching his fists too hard, his teeth gritted from the effort to remain silent. His face was red from suppressed rage, and he hunched forward. It was as if a wildfire burned his insides, slicing and scorching his consciousness away. He blacked out, saw red and when he came to, Piglet sat right in front of him. 

His breathing was out of control, fists clenching and unclenching, he noticed stug material being stuck between his teeth. The potato bags from around his knees and legs lay torn and shredded across his box. He choked, inwardly he suffocated. The beatings, the ridicule, the overall indifference for his pain, the absolute monstrosities he’d been through all throughout his life sparked up from every corner of his mind. Memories, old and new, of being unworthy of being alive, unworthy of being a person, shattered in a frenzy. 

At a loss for words, unable to express himself, Ivar broke down. He fought it with every fiber of his being, but he wept. Hating his physical reaction he buried his face into his hands and hated, absolutely hated himself for expressing such weakness, in such an unmasculine way, in front of another person. 

If the Gods would have any mercy, they’d allow him to crawl down a dark hole and never come out. Screwing his eyes shut, Ivar furiously banged his fists into the ground, stirring up the last bit of his anger. It was his last resort to regain some dignity, unleashing one more time and destroying everything his hands and teeth could get a grip off. 

Piglet’s touch was so gentle and hesitant, Ivar swore he’d made it up. But when he opened his eyes wide and still on the verge of madness, the slave maiden wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. She did not speak, only held him close. Her silence didn’t feel empty, rather, it enveloped him and allowed him to bear his grief and choke through his tears and pain. Despite the heaviness in his stomach, it fluttered at the feeling of her body pressing against his. 

Although he wished to fight it, he sank into the warmth of her simple gesture. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, in return, Piglet carefully twined hers around his lower back.

Since he’d taken the path of no return, he allowed himself to find safety in the crook of her neck. 

“They broke me, Piglet. I’m broken”, the grunt that escaped the back of his throat was soft and hoarse.  

“No, not broken Ivar,” she whispered into his hair, “damaged. But damage heals”. 

For some reason, her words planted back a seed of hope, at least to get through another night and another day.  

.-.-.

A/N: So, did I have any kind of storyline for this chapter. No, this was a total freefall. Lightly inspired by episode ‘The Outsider’ (see Ivar rant on my tumblr). Halfway I thought ‘kay I’ve physically screwed him up a dozen times, why not break him down mentally. Oh and let's make him cry, yet try to keep him in character’. Tada… this happened. Loved writing it! First the total overload of frustrations and then the breakdown. Eager to read your thoughts/opinions, 

Xoxoxox Nukyster The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane The tagged ones:@youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax @saldelys​ @shannygoatgruff@pieces-by-me@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa@readsalot73@lauraan182 @conaionaru@sarahh-jane@peachybonelessIf you’d liked to be tagged, please let me know:)

[jaskierswolf]

The Viscount and The Witcher pt.2/4

(Note: Reposted from my old blog. The rest can be found on my Ao3 or on my pinned masterlist)

Geralt of Rivia was still splattered in blood and gore when a terrified young boy had run up to him the inn, the stench of his fear had made Geralt grimace as it blended horrifically with the bitter scent of werewolf blood around him. The boy had passed him a letter and then run off before Geralt coin even offer him a spare coin.

He’d reread the letter a few times already, it was just that ridiculous.

“Who the fuck is Dandelion?” He grumbled and stuffed the letter into his pocket.

The Viscount de Lettenhove. He’d heard whispers of the Viscount, he was an unusual sort. The man had practically given away half his fortune against the advice of every banker and lawyer that was employed by his family, and by some miracle, or pure dumb luck, the man had ended up doubling his wealth before the year was out.

Geralt scoffed.

He was probably some stuck up arrogant prick, most of the upper class were. Geralt hated when the contracts took him to Royal courts and fancy castles. It was there where the difference between man and monster was barely perceptible, even to him.

The only up side is that they had coin, which was more than could be said for the villages. Although even then they were less likely to give it up. The infamous Viscount, however, Geralt mused, would probably throw the coin at him before he’d even entered the room.

And this Dandelion fellow seemed to know a thing or two about monsters. Geralt hid a smile at that thought. He wasn’t often that his clients knew that a Lycanthrope could sometimes be cured of their curse. Even less wanted to explore the option of breaking the curse. Humans were not that forgiving.

He considered a bath before heading to the castle but the glare that the innkeeper was giving him changed his mind. He’d probably be more likely to get a nice warm bath at the castle at any rate. This Dandelion fellow already seemed completely infatuated with the idea of a witcher.  Hopefully he would have some sway with the Viscount.

It wasn’t a long ride to the centre of the Lettenhove estate but Roach was not impressed with his decision not to bathe. He’d only had her for a few weeks and he was still getting her used to monsters and magic, apparently the scent of a blood-soaked witcher was a step too far for her. She stomped her feet and whinnied every few steps until Geralt managed to calm her with Axii. The trek was smoother after that and soon enough the castle came into view. He hopped off her back and tied her to the fence. The stablehands would only flee at the sight of him and it really wasn’t worth the fuss.

He hadn’t even managed to raise his hand to knock on the door before it flung open. A troubadour wearing a plum coloured doublet bowed extravagantly before him. The heron feather in his hat flopped so slow that it brushed the ground and the lute case slipped off of his back and tumbled to the floor with a twang of the strings.

When the bard looked back up of him Geralt was taken aback.

He was beautiful. His face was similar to that of the elves. Geralt couldn’t be sure that the man wasn’t an elf, or at the very least a half elf as his ears were covered by his hat. His blond hair was gently curled and fell just above his chin, but it was his eyes that drew Geralt’s attention. They were the brightest blue that Geralt had ever seen. If he had to make a comparison then he would say they were cornflower blue but honestly that didn’t do them justice.

Dandelion smirked and adjusted his hat before his tongue flicked between his lips. Geralt gawped at the movement before his witcher training kicked in and he regained his composure.

“You Dandelion?” He asked.

The bard beamed. “You got my letter!” He laughed melodically.

Fuck the lute. Geralt had never heard such beautiful music as this man’s laugh. He cursed at himself mentally.

“Get a grip.” He muttered under his breath. “The wraith? Do you know what kind?” He asked, steering the conversation straight to business. “Any witnesses or ideas who she is?”

“Witcher!” Dandelion pouted and put one hand on his hip. “You cannot be expected to fight like that! You might have deadly wounds hidden under all that….” The bard gestured at all of him. “and quite frankly I can barely look at you without my stomach turning.”

Geralt hummed. “A bath would be welcome, but the wraith?”

He frowned if the house was haunted then surely the Viscount would want the wraith gone as a matter of urgency.

Dandelion looked up at the sky, the sun still hung high in the stay and stuck his tongue whist he thought, then he flashed Geralt a dashing smile that made his pulse spike ever so gently.

Damned bard.

“Not a problem, dear witcher. She won’t be out until dusk. I promise you have time to bathe, and then I’ll gather the witnesses and you can do your witchering!” Dandelion said with a flourish.

Geralt grunted as he considered the new information. “Nightwraith. Unusual for them to be in a house. They usually prefer rural areas.”

Dandelion laughed, his heartbeat running faster in his chest. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the blond. Something wasn’t right here.

“Well, it might not have been a wraith.” Dandelion admitted and twirled a lock of hair in his long elegant fingers. “It was an educated guessed. Come along, witcher, I shall call for a bath!”

Geralt tilted his head. “Where’s the Viscount?”

Dandelion froze for barely second. Most humans wouldn’t have noticed, but Geralt had sharper senses. Dandelion flashed him a devastating smile and put his hand on his hips. “Away on business.”

Geralt sniffed the air and growled. He grabbed the troubadour by his collar and pushed him against the wall. The man was the same height as him so his feet weren’t lifted off the floor but that didn’t matter.

The bard was lying to him. He reeked of deceit… and arousal?

Geralt swallowed, wondering if coming here had been a mistake.

“Tell the truth.” He growled.

Dandelion pawed at his hands. “Witcher! I must insist you let me go this instant! You are getting blood all over my clothes!” The bard protested. “At least have a bath before pinning me to the wall.” He added with a wink before looking back down at the mess of his doublet and whining pathetically.

“Fine.” Geralt growled. “But I won’t kill any monsters until you come clean, bard.”

Geralt trudged upstairs after Dandelion. The bard followed him into a room with a large brass tub that the servants were already starting to fill up. The water wasn’t steaming as much as he liked but he could always use Igni to heat up the water. He peeled off his armour and bloody undershirt before he realised that Dandelion was still in the room, and watching him.

He raised an eyebrow at the troubadour.

“Problem?”

Dandelion blushed. Despite his protests and babbles about feeling sick at the sight of blood, the man was clearly aroused. His blue eyes were dilated and there was a flush to his skin that made Geralt’s own blood run a little faster. His eyes were drawn to the troubadour’s neck. He’s never found someone’s neck so attractive before but fuck he wanted to leave marks all over that pretty elegant neck, show the world the bard was his.

He growled under his breath at the thought. The bard was not his. He did not want the bard to be his. It had just been too long since he’d frequented a brothel, made it harder to think straight.

Dandelion had taken off his bloodstained doublet and was now parading around the room in just his shirt and trousers. There were specks of blood on the collar of his shirt but it had mostly been shielded by the plum doublet.

“No, no. No problem.” Dandelion smiled coyly.  “Just enjoying the view.”

Geralt hummed but decided to let the bard have his fun. He finished stripping down, chuckling at the barely audible whimper from the blond as he took his underclothes off, and slipped into the tub.

It was heaven.

He sank under the water to get the majority of the gore from out his hair before surfacing for air. Dandelion was watching him intently from the doorway.

“I could help, you know? With your hair, or back.” Dandelion suggested breathlessly.

Geralt appraised the bard’s obvious aroused state. “Can you behave yourself, bard?”

Dandelion nodded, the feather in his hat bouncing along with the movement. “Oh yes. Absolutely. I will be a picture of innocence, the young maiden’s that hunt unicorns will be envious of my ability to behave.”

Geralt smirked. “Fine. You can help.”

“Excellent choice, dear witcher!” Dandelion sang happily.

Dandelion helped to wash the blood from his hair. Geralt snarled as the bard dumped an extra bucket of water over his head without warning. He had been expecting the man to take a little more care in his work but he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. After that Dandelion threaded his long, troubadour’s fingers through Geralt hair and gently pulled at the strands, massaging his scalp, until his hair was once again a glimmering silver and Geralt was practically purring under his ministrations.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia!” The bard exclaimed. “The Butcher of Blaviken.”

Pain shot through Geralt’s heart but the bard was still not afraid.

Why was he not afraid?

“Oh no, that won’t do at all. You are no butcher, dear witcher. You are glorious. You are… the White Wolf!”

Geralt hummed. “Do you ever shut up, bard?”

Dandelion laughed and stroked a finger along Geralt’s shoulder. “Only when my mouth is otherwise engaged.”

Geralt lurched away from Dandelion’s touch as if it had burnt him and he leapt from the bathtub. It was only years of self restraint that kept his own arousal in check. “I thought I told you to behave.” He growled. “It’s getting on, I need to talk to the witnesses.”

Dandelion pouted. “You are no fun, Geralt.”

“The Viscount asked me to hunt a monster, not fuck his bard.” Geralt smirked at the blond, delighting in the ever-deepening blush on his cheeks. His eyes were now almost completely black and his scent was permeating the air, thick with lust and desire.

“Oh I am quite sure, Lord Julian wouldn’t mind.” Dandelion simpered.

“Witnesses.” Geralt hissed through gritted teeth as he began to pull on the spare shirt that Dandelion’s servants hand provided. His armour still needed cleaning but at least he no longer had blood smeared over his eyes and hair. “Who are they?”

Dandelion finally admitted defeat with a sag of his shoulders. “Right this way, Geralt.”

_________________

Julian’s plan to meet a witcher was going swimmingly, and it was even the infamous Geralt of Rivia! To the gods, the stories about Geralt’s molten gold eyes did not do them justice and his hair, now it was clean, was shining brighter than moonlight dancing on the glittering surface of the ocean. He was toned from decades, maybe even centuries of hunting monsters. His skin was littered with scars, each one hiding an adventure that Julian so desperately wanted to unveil.

Julian’s plan to seduce a witcher was not going so well.

He’d flirted outrageously with Geralt, and the witcher had certainly noticed, he’d even called Julian out on it. To Julian’s dismay, Geralt seemed entirely focussed on the hunt. He was currently questioning the ‘witnesses’ better known as Julian’s poor maids. They’d only had a few minutes to memorise the backstory to the ‘nightwraith’ and they were making a hash of their lines. Geralt hummed and grunted in the right places but didn’t press for any details.

Julian nodded at his stable boy who’d appeared in the door way to the sitting room. It was up to the gardeners and stablehands to create the effect of a wraith in the upper levels of the castle. They were to use bellows to create gusts of wind and Julian had helped set up a few trip lines that would knock some of the ornaments off their shelves.

“Dandelion. A word?” Geralt stood up abruptly and left the room.

Julian cursed and scurried after him. “Excellent work everyone. Just Excellent!” He called to his staff on the way out.

Geralt was waiting for him in the foyer. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Geralt?” He asked with a lick of his lips.

The witcher’s eyes followed the movement of his tongue, just like he’d hoped they would. Perhaps his plan of seduction was going better than he’d realised. He bit his lip, pretending to be anxious about what the witcher had to say.

“Dandelion. What the fuck is going on here?” Geralt’s eyes were boring down into his with such intensity that Julian felt as if all the air was being sucked from the room.

“Whatever do you mean, darling?” He replied, capturing a blond curl between his fingers.

“Cut the bullshit, bard. None of your so called witnesses could confirm what the spectre looked like or where it tended to appear. There are no recent deaths around the time the wraith first appeared, which is anything between a week ago to yesterday depending on who I ask, and even older corpses were buried correctly and none of them had unfinished business.” Geralt slowly walked towards him. “There’s no monster here, and the Viscount is not away on business. You’re lying to me, bard. Why?”

Julian blushed.

“Ah.”

“What is it? Some kind of dare? A trap?” Geralt growled. “or some sick little fantasy of fucking a witcher?”

Julian stumbled backwards against the wall, praying to any god that was listening that his body wouldn’t betray his arousal. Geralt was now effectively pinning him against the wall and Julian could feel the warm breath of the witcher brush against his cheeks. “No!” He cried. “No. None of that.”

“A game then?” Geralt asked with a tilt of his head.

“Of sorts.” He admitted.

“Where’s the Viscount?” Geralt asked.

“Present.” Julian gave a small wave of his hand.

Geralt snorted. “You? You’re just a bard!”

“Oh I wish.” He sighed wistfully. “Oh the adventures we could have had, you and I. Sadly, a dream that was lost before it ever began.”

Geralt hummed and finally stepped back, Julian felt as if he could breathe again and he sank to his knees with a helpless whine.

“I heard you were in the area. I just wanted to meet you, to not be myself for two damn minutes.” Julian admitted. “Dandelion was going to be my stage name.”

Geralt remained silent.

“I swear I just wanted to talk. I didn’t know how else to get you here. Witchers hunt monsters. They do not attend a Viscount’s estate for wine and dinner.” Julian finally dared to meet the witcher’s eyes. They were still blazing with amber fire, and Julian was like a moth drawn to that flame.

“I never wanted this life, Geralt.”

“That’s why you tried to give it all away?” Geralt finally answered.

“Yes!” Julian exclaimed. “A fat lot of good that did. The Lettenhove estate has never been so wealthy. It’s a miracle they’ve not sent assassins after me!”

Geralt just turned on his heels and stalked out of the doors with his swords on his back.

“Geralt wait!” Julian ran after him.

Geralt turned round slowly with a smirk on his face.

“Next time, make sure there’s a monster.”

Julian gaped at the witcher as he sauntered to the stables.

“Next time?” He repeated breathlessly.

Challenge accepted!

[onthesandsofdreams]

Stress Cleaning

Fandom: Wonder Woman (Movies) Pairing: Diana x Steve Rating: G Summary: Diana, stops and looks at him. “My department is getting a cut.” He winces, Diana works in the local museum. It’s not as known, or as famous as The MoMa or The Met, but they have a great deal of good things. That’s how they met, he’d gone to do some research on ancient history and Diana had been the one to help him. “Are you loosing someone?” “Two of my team,” Diana says, defeated. Words: 785 Notes: Written for fictober-event, prompt #20. “did I ask?” 

Read @ AO3

Steve arrives to their shared apartment to find chaos waiting in the living room. His eyebrows shot up immediately, there are boxes everywhere and bags of clothing. Not an inch to spare. He sighs, no matter how long he’d known Diana, he was still finding surprises.

He leaves his jacket atop one of the bags, his cross-body on the floor near the sofa and walks towards the kitchen. And finds further chaos, pots and pans all over the place, cookbooks piled high and the pantry opened. Diana stands in the middle of it, hands in her hips, as if she could order things back into place with her will alone. He fights the urge to laugh, can’t avoid the smile that curls up in his lips. “Oh Diana,” he sing songs.

Diana spins, eyes wide in surprise. “House cleaning.” She says, her tone brokers no arguments. Not that he’d have one, they do need to clean the house top to bottom, but he was expecting it during a weekend, not in the middle of a work week.

“Did I ask?” He keeps his tone light and teasing, even with the mess, he finds that he can’t quite be angry. Diana’s good at cleaning and she does have a better organization system than his.

“No,” Diana laughs at hearing his voice. “But you needed to be informed anyways, you do live here, after all.”

“That I do,” He agrees. Then walks towards her, looks around. “And how is the Queen of Cleaning doing?”

Diana snorts. “Better now, but exhausted. I didn’t realize that I had so many things I wanted to get rid off. Everything in blue boxes is donation, green boxes are undecided and trash bags are trash. Now, the kitchen doesn’t need much, it’s just a question of organizing better. But I did tossed away some food that was way pass its date.”

“Oh?” He knows what is coming.

Diana levels him with a look. “Steve, you had bottled sauces in colors that do not come in nature, at least, not without chemicals. So that went out, and yes, I checked they weren’t originally that color. Some spices that didn’t smell right too.”

Oh yes, his problem of hoarding sauces and spices. Well, on his defense, he’s the one who actually cooks, bless Diana, she can’t. But, maybe he needed to keep better track of what was good and what needed to be replaced. “So which spices kicked the bucket?”

“Marjoram, the herbs de Provence and some mix for turkey.”

Huh, nothing major. “Alrighty then,” he nods and then looks around. “How about some pizza?”

Diana smiles gratefully, “That would be lovely, can you have them add jalapeños to mine?”

Diana is a lot more open minded to culinary adventures than many, and she’s one of the few people he actually knows who really enjoy pineapple on pizza with ham, she just adds the jalapeños for the kick. “Sure. Anything else?”

“A salad would be nice.”

“Sure, I’m also ordering the butter and herbs spaghetti.”

Diana laughs once more. “Sure, I do like that. It’s quite an interesting blend, have you figured it out yet?”

He hasn’t. There’s something in it that he hasn’t been able to place. “No,” he grumbles. “But I will,” he says and pulls his phone from his pocket, already dialing the pizza place they favor. He places the order and hangs up, then goes back to help Diana in organizing the kitchen. “Why today?” He asks, motioning all around him.

Diana, stops and looks at him. “My department is getting a cut.”

He winces, Diana works in the local museum. It’s not as known, or as famous as The MoMa or The Met, but they have a great deal of good things. That’s how they met, he’d gone to do some research on ancient history and Diana had been the one to help him. “Are you loosing someone?”

“Two of my team,” Diana says, defeated.

He goes to her and hugs her, he knows that Diana cares about her colleagues, they’re like bonus family members for her and loosing any of them is something that hits her hard. No wonder she came home and began cleaning. “Sorry.”

Diana burrows into his hug, “Not your fault,” her voice is muffled against his shoulder. “But I’m sad.”

“Of course you are. Now, come let us finish this place and, when the food arrives, we’ll go upstairs, cuddle in bed, watch a movie that you like and pretend the world doesn’t exist.”

He feels Diana smile against his shoulder. “You’re the best.” She says and lifts her face, her smile is a small one, but genuine.

He winks, “And you love me.”