#longest night stories

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

A Year and a Day

My second piece for the Winter Solstice event!

Sandman fandom, Hob x fem!reader x Morpheus (implied future)

Warnings: language, brief violence, injury

*While you can enjoy this on its own - there's gonna be more. It's gonna be a drabble series in all likelihood.This is becoming my de-stress fic. Mostly fluff, and lots of shenanigans, so let me know what you think. <3

A Year and a Day (the first part of many)

The frigid evening wind cuts through the alley, and Morpheus feels it. He feels the cold, the broken asphalt scraping his palm, the blood cooling on his chin.

A year and a day of mortality.

He wonders if he’ll survive the first night.

As the curse had taken effect, and he’d hurtled into the waking world, he’d done all he could to aim for London. With his power bleeding away and his body closing tight around his severed awareness of the Dreaming, a single name flashed at the forefront of his thoughts: Hob Gadling. His friend. Although several mortals know enough of his nature as an Endless to be of some assistance, Hob is the only one he trusts to actually offer it.

If he does not escape this alley, however, he’ll never put that assumption to the test.

A kick lifts him away from the pavement for a moment, and he collapses on his side, coughing. The men above him loom like tall shadows, backlit by anemic streetlights. Two pounce, rifling through his pockets as he struggles to catch his breath, and he once again thanks John Dee for crushing the Dream Stone. It can never be stolen again. Never be abused. Though, apparently, he can still be parted from his power.

Once they determined he has nothing to give them, one of the searchers swears and kicks him again, this time in the back, and Morpheus arches, teeth gritted in a fresh wave of pain.

“Nothing. Man’s got nothing. No wallet. No cash. No phone.”

The third man, ostensibly the leader, stands closest to the street, pointing a knife to warn their victim against screaming in case Morpheus should recover the wind they’ve kicked from his lungs. He shakes his head. “Dressed like that? Whatever. Coat’s worth something at least. Looks nice. Check again. Rich assholes have hidden pockets – hollow shoes, you know, like on tv.”

The hands return. Rougher. Grabbing and pushing as they try to work his arms out of his coat without letting him up from the pavement. Still breathless, he bares his teeth, reaching for abilities stripped from his grasp. He can’t even sense them. His mind is mortal, too, at least as much as it can be, and he’s left to his assailants’ mercy as he fights to regain his equilibrium.

But he has a long memory, and he will remember their faces. They may not pay for their insult tonight, but they will in due course. He promises them silently. He promises himself.

A flash of light illuminates the alley. Two more. Three more bursts of sun. Like lightning without thunder, without rain or clouds.

All three men turn to look at the source just as a clear, feminine voice calls from the opposite end of the alleyway, “I just sent pictures with all your faces to my friend.”

The one with the knife manages three long strides before the voice stops him.

“If anything happens, my friend will show them to the police. Oh, and I just dialed 999, so I suggest you scarper.”

A suggestion. Through his pain, Morpheus smirks.

Highway robbery is an often romanticized but a less than rewarding career. It has always been thus, but desperation and idiocy lead men down familiar paths, from one eon to the next. These robbers freeze like deer when the woman flicks on her phone’s flashlight, giving the scene a more permanent illumination. More prey than predator. Aggressive when they had the upper hand, certainly, when it was three against one. But they hadn’t planned on an interruption, and now a third party they can’t threaten with their knives and knuckles has their faces. Their true colors leak through.

The quiet one who’s been searching him twists away from the light and runs.

“Fuck this.”

That’s the second.

The ringleader stands his ground long enough to make a weak pass at intimidation.

“Bitch.”

The woman behind the light shrugs, the tell-tale light lifting with her shoulders. “Twat.”

For a moment, Morpheus thinks the man will charge her. He angles his head down and spreads his feet, like he’ll take his chances and sprint over to stick his knife in her throat.

This time, Morpheus hears the phone’s camera app click, and the last attacker bolts after his friends. Too much evidence, not enough loot to justify the risk. An old tale often repeated.

The immediate danger has passed.

He has a destination in mind, but he finds himself struggling to rise. Every ache and burn lingers as he leverages his hands under his chest, pushing himself up to his knees and groaning from the effort.

Light steps approach. Not running. Not hesitant, either. Purposeful.

A hand with short, black nails appears before his eyes. He looks up, blinking away the runny watercolor blur from his eyes to find his savior of the hour, a small woman in a flower-print sundress – thick leggings below and a heavy sweater above to ward off the cool breath of autumn. A strange knight errant, but he is hardly in a position to choose.

Still, he does not take her hand.

Pulling himself upright inch by agonizing inch, he cradles his bruised ribs and offers a brief nod to express his gratitude. Though he is short on options, he is shorter on trust. Mortals are treacherous, often without meaning to be, and he is painfully aware of his vulnerability.

“I dialed but didn’t connect to 999,” she confesses, looking directly into his eyes, ignoring the wounds on his face or his ginger stance. “Do you need me to call an ambulance? Family? What do you need?”

He needs Hob Gadling. And possibly medical attention. In that order. How far can he depend on this little stranger to aid him?

“Thank you.” He scrutinizes her, frowning, and she bears it unflinchingly, waiting for him to choose his course. Her squared shoulders and tilted chin suggested she’ll help him down whichever path he chooses. His pride rages against the idea, but his very mortal body feels like it may collapse if the breeze pushes any harder.

He cannot call to mind everything he would know about this tiny hero if he were fully himself, but a whisper of an impression lingers. An extra sense. The three men jumped him before he could pick up anything from them, and all he’d gathered during the assault was the anxiety and anger fueling their rage. But now – now he has a moment, and she has a core of moonstone. A fixed, determined thing all but glowing with dreams and hope.

Decided, he speaks quietly, wary of the new hurts along his abdomen, careful not to aggravate them further. “I am trying to reach the New Inn. My friend, Robert Gadling still owns it, I believe.”

Her eyes light up, and she presses half a step closer. He nearly flinches away, startled by the spark of enthusiasm.

“Hob?” She lifts her phone.

She has Robert Gadling’s name in her phone as “Hob Goblin” and something sparks in his chest that isn’t jealousy.

As she waits for the call to go through, phone pressed to ear, she says, “I was actually on my way there. We’re just a couple blocks away. I’ll help you, but I should give Hob a head’s – Hey! Hob, I – No, I’m fine. There’s – Yes, I’m sure. I just ran into – Hon, I love you, but shut the fuck up. Sorry. Yeah. Bumped into a friend of yours, and he’s a little roughed up. Asked for you, so I thought I’d bring him to the New Inn. Wanted to give you advance warning… Okay. See you in a minute.”

The endearments course naturally through the dialogue, and he wonders what he has missed in Hob Gadling’s past year. But when she hangs up and stashes the phone away in her messenger bag, she gives Morpheus a brilliant smile, like all is well and they’re simply on their way to visit a mutual friend.

“Alright. Let’s get you to the Inn. Would you mind leaning on me?”

The nature of the question makes it easy to agree. He lets her pull his arm over her shoulders, and one little hand settles on his back, like she has the strength to support them both if he stumbles.

They work their way down the quiet street, and she doesn’t fight the silence. Their steps and breath mingle with the hoots of nightbirds, distant arguments, and the occasional passing car. She does not ask him why he is on his way to the New Inn, though she clearly had plans of her own with the owner. She does not demand he waste his breath assuring her he is well when he clearly is not. They walk together, and she makes sure he does not trip and fall on the way.

It is appreciated.

When they reach the New Inn, Hob meets them at the door, eyes wide but unsurprised when Morpheus manifests out of the gloom with his small, colorful crutch.

“It is you.” He rushes out to assume the savior’s burden and helps Morpheus into the empty bar. It’s well past closing, he assumes. “I thought it might be, but I wasn’t – what happened?”

Morpheus glances sidelong at the young woman lingering near the door, and she catches the look, quickly straightening with a fresh smile for Hob and excuse to disappear on her lips.

“I’ll head up now. You two must have… a lot… to – let me know if you need anything.”

She moves to the back of the establishment and slips through a door marked “Private.”

Morpheus turns his look on Hob as the man pulls a first aid kit from behind the counter. His son died in a pub brawl, he recalls. The kit is extensive, and while Morpheus is glad to know he does not need a defibrillator or some of the other supplies contained within, a newly-familiar warmth blooms as he considers his friend.

His injuries, though painful, are not serious enough for a hospital. Hob assures him no ribs are broken after a careful series of pressing touches over his chest, back, and sides. The former soldier finds no evidence of internal bleeding, either.

“I’d suggest we go anyway,” he says, apologetic as he sorts through his collection of salves and bandages, “but I don’t think you have an ID or, you know, the kinds of things they’d ask about. In a hospital. And I doubt you want the police involved.”

“No.”

“Right. Okay. Right.” He flounders, clearly unsure of himself as he tries to care for the entity he still knows so little about. “Well, this should be good enough. We can sort something out down the line if…”

The silence pulls taught over the rustle of Hob’s work, and the whole man’s face is bent in concentration. Morpheus can see the thoughts ticking over his open face. Wondering if he can ask. Wondering what to ask.

“What happened?”

What indeed. There is another story, a long one, one he will not share at this time. He does not feel he has earned this punishment, and he will not give another room to comment.

“A curse.”

“What?”

“I am mortal, Hob Gadling. For a year and a day.”

“That’s…” Hob has to stop and think before new words will grow on his tongue, and Morpheus takes the initiative to press ahead.

“I had thought I may ask for your assistance during this time,” he explains. His eyes turn towards the ceiling. “But…”

Hob snaps back to himself, shaking his head and overflowing with reassurances. “You’re more than welcome to stay! I have a guest room in my flat. She doesn’t live with me. Not really. She’s in the smaller flat, and – uh – yes, you are more than welcome to stay. Please.”

So Hob has not taken another wife. It would be a strange arrangement for a courting couple as well, and he fixes on the topic as a distraction from the way his heart beats in his bruises. “Who is she?”

Hob murmurs her name with a smile, flicks his eyes to meet Morpheus’s, and clears his throat. “Well, she’s a friend. We met online, playing games during the pandemic, and she was on the other side of the Atlantic, so I started staying up all hours just to make sure I caught her.”

Adjusting his position in his chair, he leans in, full of a story, and despite the terrible evening he’s had, Morpheus finds himself falling back into old habits. Here they sit in a tavern, the Endless listening to the immortal man’s continuing life story.

“It was just so easy with her. Talking. Playing. Just enjoying ourselves. And then, about three months ago, she told me she was coming to England for work. Asked if I’d like to meet. And I had the empty flat, and I thought… why not? So here she is. Here we are. And,” he chuckles to himself, a smile pulling his face into its sweetest shape, “I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

Morpheus doubts that very much as he holds the man in a steady gaze.

It is strange.

He cannot know her as he would usually know a mortal, but she treats him with the ease of a friend, and as soft creaking above reveals her as she goes about her business, he feels the lines of a story twisting into new forms, as they had many hundreds of years ago when a foolish mortal declared in the presence of Death herself that he wouldn’t die.

Well. He has a year and a day to understand.

[ofsappho]

A Morpheus POV character study from treehouse by inlovewithanendless on AO3

-

Hey y’all! This is my final submission to my lovely friend @cuckoo-on-a-string ‘s Winter Solstice Storytelling event! If you want more fabulous stories to read tonight, please head to her blog and check out all the ones submitted.

I hear that the people have been asking for Morpheus POV in treehouse and I promise I have an EXCELLENT REASON why it hasn’t happened YET.

However.

In the spirit of the holidays.

I tried my hand at practicing writing treehouse!Morpheus POV and even though this character study is short, unedited, and not the best, I liked how it came out! So I hope you enjoy this tease at what the inside of Dream’s head will be like 😉

There’s no big plot spoilers, don’t worry.

Enjoy! And if you haven’t gotten the chance to read treehouse yet, I’ll link it so you can ❤️ happy holidays

She lingers on the edges of the gathered dust of his consciousness. Morpheus feels her in all that he touches; in the pale sunshine flowers that now bloom in his throne room, in the scent of strawberries and fresh cream plucked from the dreams of a child that loves with their whole heart. He would not have it another way, for to let her drift from his great awareness would be to let go of the reason why he makes his heart beat with corporeal blood.

He has never spent overmuch time on the particulars of this body Dream inhabits, at least outside of when his past paramours have wished to interact with it. Even when she is apart from him, he prefers to maintain a consistent skeleton, a circulatory system comparable to hers, an unchaining height. He cannot have her by his side for every moment, so consciously maintaining a new shape that matches the one she knows is one of many oaths of fidelity he holds even when she cannot be by his side.

Morpheus carries many titles. Infinite names exist for him in every language spoken and unspoken. Even in the forgotten ones and the one spoken before all of the others. But there is a special pride in carrying the title of belonging to her, and her belonging to him. He would stitch such titles into the fabric of his cape and carve it along the knuckles of his hands if he thought she would appreciate such a gesture.

She would not, for she loves his cape and his hands as they are, and thus Dream refuses to ruin them.

Ah, to be loved as he is! To be seen in his entirety and cradled because of such a thing, not despite it. Such a luxury would be worth entire worlds. He would trade countless souls and make bargains with the lowliest of creatures for her regard. And she gives it to him freely, the abundance of her love spilling from her eyes and her lips in a river that carved her mark in the canyon of his existence.

There is no end to the inimitable maw of his hunger for her. For the creases of her fingerprints and the pattern of her many-petaled irises and sweet, luxurious softness of her body. And the things he would do for her…

Unholy terrors and eternal darkness and blood enough to saturate every inch of every world in every galaxy in deep iron-tang crimson. A truly Endless nightmare that could devour until there was nothing left but her. Mutated beasts made from men at her command, flayed souls to fashion her as many cloaks as she wishes. The things he could do would turn her blood cold and her warm love to stone (and he will still do them if he must.)

But the mortal he adores loves her world almost as much as she loves him, or at least that’s what Morpheus would prefer to think, and so he preserves it.

[crewman-penelope]

The seven sisters

Warning : mature, chauki mythology, historically not fully correct, lower saxony history, human sacrifice, mention of cannibalism

1. The full moon with the seven sisters

The seven sisters sat in the sky the night Wolfmar's sister was born. A full moon accompanied them to illuminate the whole village beneath them.

His muda's screams wailed through the shadows, and no prayers and no magi could help her.

The men sat at the bonfire in front of the longhouse, staring into the flames and ignoring the screams.

If the magi couldn't help, no one could.

Wolfmar's fadder, the gray bearded high-man of the tribe, carved with jittery gesture on the piece of wood in his hand. Wodans rune and numbers - and Wolfmar wonders for a moment, why his father chose this sign. He would had tried to call to Fraia. He wasn't his fadder, though, but a boy of 12 winters, not yet allowed to hunt. So he was nothing.

The screams from the magi house stopped so abruptly, that the echo rung in their ears for some moment, until Wolfmar's father eventually gathered, that his woman had yielded.

The men around the fire threw nervously glances at each other. Silence was a bad sign. Always.

Wolfmar watched his fadder's hands cramping around the piece of wood. He let it fallen abruptly as he jumped up. Wolfmar followed his example, facing his fadder.

Not meeting his eyes, the high-man gestured into the shadows.

“Go to her. Look, what the magi has for us. Report.”

“Yes, tain.”

Wolfmar took a branch out of the fire to walk into the darkness to the maggis house. The stillness - the absolute stillness pressed on his ears like a cloth.

He didn't want to see, nor to hear what the magi has to say. His muda's screams have told him the worst already.

He was relieved as he was greeted by the magi at the door steps. She held a bundle of wool in her left arm, what moved solemnly. Wolfmar could hear some unfamiliar but curious noises. Good noises. He inhaled calm out and looked questioning. He dared not to ask. It was never good to question a magi or a seeing kind. It was sometimes the worst to know too much.

The magi placed the bundle into Wolfmar's arms.

“Careful, boy. She's alive. Tell the tain to take Silda as a milk woman.”

What made sense. Frowe Silda had just lost her little one, she must have still milk.

“I send someone to dig.”, Wolfmar heard his own voice, dull and emotionless. “The ground his hard.”

He turned back into the night, wandered back to the bonfire. His fadder knew by the look of his face.

They needed three men to dig a grave for his muda. Morning Clouds hid the sisters, as they were finished.

The next day the grave was snow covered.

2. The one sister

Aldaga was a sunshine.

Her whole, round face was beaming in joy, no matter the situation. Her eyes funnily narrowed, as if she had to focus so very hard to see, her giggle loud and silly, she was able to soften the hearts of every member of the tribe.

His fadder was thrilled to find out that she was blessed by fraia, she was the everyday joy and warmth, and oh! She was clever on her own terms.

Yes, Aldaga was in some tasks slow and dimwitted. The magi told him early one Aldaga was no frowe to hand for a man, nor to be with child herself. She was for the gods. So she became their tribe deity.

She was the one who got dressed in the fine's wool pieces, she was to wear shoes, filled with down feathers. Her shoulders were decked with fur, and her light hair every week fresh braided and salved.

Every time Wolfmar's eyes felt on his sister, his stomach tickled. He knew his duty. The first time he was allowed to hunt, he killed a deer, so young and still full of muda milk. The sweet flesh was Aldaga's treat. Aldaga in her special wisdom shared with the magi, and the magi shared with the tribe.

The frowen of the tribe cut and boiled, salted it in stribes and let it dry for the winter.

Together with the daily cereal oatmeal, mixed with mushrooms and herbs, it warmed the whole village for the winter.

Sometimes Aldaga staid with the magi for some days, hiding in the house. Singing and drinking magi's frowe tea. Sometimes they wandered in the forest, eating rare mushrooms and collect healing roots.

“We spoke to the Reineke, Wolfmar.”, Aldaga told him after such times. “Can you guess what he told me!?”

He never guessed right. Aldaga never told. Sometimes she whispered nonsense in his ear, silly sing sang of laughing trees and singing flowers. No member of the tribe would spoil their time with such nonsense, but when Aldaga told them, they listened. Especially when it was a cold winter night, with howling wind and frozen roofs.

The winter were the hardest. The older Wolfmar became, the longer staid the cold. So it felt, at least for Wolfmar. Sometimes, when the Blizzard catched the longhouses, the frost crashed a roof, and the ice-cold wind blew out the fire places inside the houses, Wolfmar wished the time was close. Nevertheless, it wasn't his call. The tain and the magi will know.

3. The seven sisters in half moon

The magi called for him a night before the longest one.

One night. Only one night to understand it was the last.

"Aldaga is in her age, too soon she will get visited by the moon. She had to leave before that.”, the magi explained to him. He didn't understand.

She sat him down, giving him the instruction for the ceremony he had to master.

He wasn't asked to do so. He was ordered.

Like his fadder, the tain, had ordered him to the magi at Aldaga birth night.

“You brought her out of the night into the tribe. You will bring her back where she belongs.”

He had to do as the tain tell him.

The magi was kind, holding his hands and caressing along his palm, as she explained to him what to do.

She hugged him afterwards, handed him the knife and told him to send Aldaga to her tomorrow.

To Wolfmar's surprise, he was allowed to stay and to watch the cleansing.

He didn't know what to do with his eyes, while Aldaga slipped out of her clothes.

Her plump body, well-fed and sunny, got a rub with fresh snow and warmed up salve, before the magi dressed her up in a new gown. It was too light for the last winter days, fine sheep wool and goatskin. The trim of her neckline was embroided, reminding Wolfmar of a hand-fast gown.

He watched fascinated the flying fingers of the magi, combing Aldagas hair until it shined like copper. He could not gather how fast the magi braided the now shining hair in small, evenly braids, who got creamed with a sweetly smelling salve. At last, the magi decorated Aldagas thick fingers with bronze rings.

The result was breathtaking.

Aldaga twirled in the shine of the fire, laughing excites.

“Am I fair, Wolfmar? Am I a bride?”, she laughed excited and danced silly.

And she was.

Her light hair braided and knotted into a crown, the dress of a tribe princess, she was ready to hand fast with the gods.

“Fraia will welcome her sister.”, the magi hummed. Wolfmar agreed with a full, but heavy heart.

“Don't wait too long.”, she spoke firmer and gave Wolfmar a knowing glance.

Wolfmar's throat was tight, so he just nodded and rose.

Holding a hand up, he waited, until Aldaga took it of her own.

It was important that she came willingly.

Aldaga, excited and smiling - beamingly smiling, always smiling - followed keen.

The cave wasn't this far. Half an hour through the night.

However, the entrance was small by purpose.

One has to get on his knees to enter the holly. Knowing, that this place was the front hall to the gods, Aldaga and Wolfmar crawled solemn inside.

He heard his sister chuckle.

“Look! More light!”

She was right. A light hole, far up in the ceiling, send the milken light of the half moon on the way. It illuminated the small and narrow way to the well, what were their destination.

Wolfmar found himself shivering, even that the surrounding walls were embracing him kindly. He could feel the handle of the knife pocking in his side.

Aldaga stopped in front of him so abruptly, he nearly pushed her forward. They had arrived the well.

He was grateful not to see her face now, while Aldaga sat laborious up, her legs hanging over the rim of the well.

“What is down there?”, she asked so innocently, Wolfmar thought a moment to run.

With her, to the next post. There was one, half a day, filled with strangers in shiny metal and rasp voices.

A second later, he dismissed his idea. That was a stupid thought! Was living under the Stranger as slaves better than to live under the will of the gods? How silly!

He crawled closer, resting his chin on his sister's shoulder.

“This is the way home.”, he whispered. The strong scent of the hair salve bite in his nose.

“Your real home.”

“Is muda there?”, Aldaga whispered, her voice suddenly small.

Wolfmar was able to see half her face, wide eyes and unsureness in her expression.

“Yes. You go and walk with her and fraia. And next spring, you come back. Promise?”

Aldaga laughed out. Her face a sunny beam again.

“Of course, Wolfmar!”

This was the moment he used the knife.

He was quick like a hunter, ending his prey. The blade smoothed clean and deep. A swall of blood, like a water cascade, floated out of Aldaga's throat.

Her eyes became empty, and silently she toppled over the rim of the well.

It was low enough to hear the impact.

He didn't know how he got out of the cave. He found himself out of it, sitting beside his steaming puke.

Deeply inhaling, he looked up to the sisters. His teary eyes tricked him for a second and the seven sisters had become eight. And maybe that was not an illusion at all.

Eventually he made his way back to the village, crying alone in the dark, because he was not allowed to cry in front of the tribe.

Next year, they will come back, everybody, to visit Aldaga.

They will use the magi's path and break the bones and eat together.

Next year, they will share and be close to the gods, thanking them for the warmth.

This was his only solace.

[dorminchu]

Sorrow

This functions as a sort of “pilot episode” for Chapter(s) V & VI of Insult to Injury, but it can also be read independently. Hopefully it turned out okay.

Fandom: No Time to Die

Genre: Crime/Drama

Rating: T

Warning: Brief strong violence, childhood trauma

Summary: There could be no peace without the threat of repercussions. The cruelest man could not bear losing his family, his homestead.

i.

Eleven years spent in the care of various dyetskiye doma. A childhood left in the hands of the state provided clothes that never fit, a meagre education. Runaways rounded up, to be pumped full of sedatives, came back wide-eyed and unfamiliar. The older kids became enforcers.

The instructors commented on his good manners. He spoke when spoken to. He sat with his back to walls during meals, or at-rest, always with a door in-sight. He was smaller for his age and his face accentuated a boyish appearance he could not outgrow. A passing interest in floriology turned into the convoluted process of leaving messages in bouquets, which his classmates called “thoughtful,” first, then “sure, just like a serial killer” when pressed for acceptance.

After weeks of brooding over his copy of Medicinal plants and their use, 1977, borrowed indefinitely from the school library, he kept running into complications. Cultural disparities between symbolism and colour. Maintenance costs. And a level of ingenuity lost on those who attended the funeral, and saw only hydrangeas. Little more than a private joke, beyond the scope of his current ambition.

The children with living parents and clean clothes would point him out to each other. Or avoid eye contact when he looked over. No sense making friends with one of the kids from dyet-domovskii.

To avoid becoming a target, he had to make himself useful. Indifference was just another form of death. He did not go out of his way to cause trouble. Indifference was just a slower form of death.

Quietly transferred into the Suvorov Military School in Kazan. Comfortable with a rifle, behind a school desk. He talked so infrequently, concern with the medical staff that he had suffered some kind of developmental disorder during his adolescence. But without the constant threat from other kids, he was a diligent student. A decent marksman. He made acquaintances with some of the other boys, though preferred to work alone given the choice.

ii.

The year he would turn eighteen, a military recruiter came to their school looking for potential takers. He had a lame eye and spoke with a foreign accent, and introduced himself as Ziffer. After the briefing, the other boys commented to themselves on the smell of his cologne, his well-tailored suit.

Vadim stuck around to have a word. The man's handshake was languid. No doubt the only service he saw was from behind a desk.

“I understand you grew up in Moscow?”

“He transferred here in 1990,” said the instructor quickly. “Before that, he was in internat.”

“I see,” said the man. Vadim glanced out the window briefly to escape the look on Ziffer’s face. But the man’s voice was calm and understanding in a way he could not anticipate in the same way as a physical blow. “You’re interested in enlistment?”

Vadim stared at him. Men like Ziffer were very good at telling you whatever you wanted to hear. An illusion of friendship compensated for their end-goal. Somewhere down the line, each soldier outlived his purpose in one way or another. You died a hero for your country or in disgrace, but became a statistic all the same.

Vadim had no answer to give. Ziffer smiled. “You’ll be surprised what doors can open for you. That is, if your heart is not still set on vocational school. It’s better to stick to what is realistic, if you can.”

“The FSB.” The words were out of Vadim's mouth before he could think twice.

Ziffer met the instructor’s eyes briefly. Their understanding was lost on Vadim. “I’ll tell you what. I can put you in contact with an associate of mine if you are serious.”

iii.

The job took eight days by train. A chaperone posing as his uncle, accompanied him to negate outside interference. He received several odd looks through customs, but he let the chaperone do most of the talking anyway. He’d be staying in a hotel on the other side of the lake. Through the window he had a clear line of sight across Lake Altaussee.

Suitcase at the foot of his bed contained a CSA vz. 58 Carbine with a side-folding stock. In the closet—white parka, snow pants and black boots. Bulletproof vest to be worn over his shirt. In a carved oak box, a porcelain mask, intricately painted.

Vadim took the time to assemble and disassemble the rifle. Everything was in working order. He glanced briefly at the mask. A woman’s face upturned in a smile. It wouldn’t protect him from the elements. Craftmanship he’d only ever seen approximated in print.

Hours later, looking into the eyes of a woman who was already dead. The smell of stale bile and bleach permeated his senses. She did not plead for her life. She reclined on the couch and waited with a tired smile for him to finish what the alcohol could not.

The daughter was the only outlier. That day, she lost nothing but her innocence. In its place, an unwillingness to surrender. A good, easy life that did not require such capacity for violence suddenly realised. The look in her eyes imprinted onto his memory long after he left her standing before the front door, ajar.

It was a miserable hour’s walk around the lake. His jaw throbbed. As soon as he was in a secure location he disposed of the mask and set to treating his wound. The girl was a decent shot for a civilian. Shatterhand and Gruber had neglected to inform him there was an outlier.

Still, she hadn’t seen his face. That was his insurance.

iv.

By May that same year, Vadim was due to report to the local military commissariat, or voyenkomat, for assessment for military service. The list of summons came from every school and employer in the area. The number of applicants was not ideal, and Vadim never questioned his prioritised acceptance.

There were only a small number of professional non-commissioned officers (NCOs), as most were conscripts themselves meant prepare them for section commanders' and platoon sergeants'. The NCOs in turn were supplemented by praporshchik warrant officers, positions created in the 1960s to support the increased variety of skills required for modern weapons.

The Soviet Army's officer-to-soldier ratio was top-heavy in an effort to compensate for the military manpower base’s lower education and absence of professional NCOs. After World War II there had been a great expansion of officer education. Officers now were the product of four-to-five-year higher military colleges. Newly commissioned officers received only three days off per month. Morale amongst young officers was lacking.

There was talk of reform for the Russian military forces throughout the duration of his enlistment as well as afterward. A lack of success in the Afghan War reflected on the professional credibility of the Soviet armed forces. Several links with the Communist Party saddled the military with the inference of political corruption and incompetence. Glasnost only served to compromise the reputation of the military further. And so on, so forth. It was a seemingly endless amount of problems and a lack of manpower and coherence to resolve matters cleanly.

Vadim had seen enough during his conscription to solidify his tenet. He remained dependable and precise. An officer by twenty-four. He wasn't a prodigy, or prone to substance abuse. Reforming the military from the inside could take a lifetime or more.

So he fell back on contract work, whenever possible. Ziffer still had a handful of clients.

His last mission with the FSB was a matter of national security. He was approached discreetly by an informant, Zorin.

Gostan Safin, a former officer of the FSB who specialised in toxicology and eventually went on to form his own pharmaceutical institute under the guise of government-funded research.

Originally limited to state-sponsored biological weapon programs, after the fall of the USSR and under the threat of glasnost, their priorities shifted to meet the changing political climate. Ziffer and Gostan disappeared from the public eye.

A series of chemical attacks in Lithuania. The same components could be traced back from production in the same pharmaceutical facility on the Kuril Islands. Gostan had outlived his purpose. Now he must be eliminated for the sake of national security.

Vadim’s motive in this assignment had little to do with national security. He tracked down the target living in a small, well-kept house in Severo-Kurilsk. The man opened the door was in his late-forties and about as tall as Vadim himself. Strong posture that had declined slightly with age. “You must excuse me. I was tending the garden.” There was no dirt under his nails. Self-sufficient. Unassuming. A sharpness behind the eyes belied the lack of warmth in his voice. “Why don’t you come in, it’s too cold to stand out and talk.” He looked at Vadim’s uniform, paused. “You’re young for a senior officer. Have they shortened the training period? Or are they desperate enough to import junior officers into high-ranking positions?”

Still, Vadim said nothing.

Gostan excused himself to the kitchen for a moment. Vadim was studying the bookcase, the furniture, floorboards. His attention shifted to the kitchen window. He had come alone. There was a man in plainclothes on the other side of the road, dressed for the weather.

Gostan reappeared with a tea set, to which Vadim declined. “Your parents must be proud.”

“They’re dead,” said Vadim. “That’s what the vospitateli always told me.”

Gostan’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Seems like you’ve done well for yourself.”

Vadim tensed. “I know you are an expatriate named Gostan Safin. You worked in the FSB’s Criminalistics Institute for twenty years. You’ve.”

He stopped just before the table. A photograph of a man and woman. Two boys and a girl. The woman had his eyes. The same expression. After twenty four years of speculation, a name to a face. His voice faltered, without permission. Jaw set.

Gostan said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Vadim flinched in-place. Blinking. “What?”

As he turned, Gostan was looking at him as if for the first time. Their eyes met; just a trick of the light. “You must have confused me for someone else. I hate to waste your time. Let me show you the garden, at least?”

The kettle left neglected.

The garden was just a patch of earth frozen over. A few industrial canisters of insecticide that hadn’t been in-use since the 1970s, preserved under tarp. They circled back around to the house. “If there’s anything else you would like to ask, I have nothing but time.”

The man in uniform was waiting by the front door. Vadim met his eyes briefly.

Gostan’s hand moved suddenly. In the same moment Vadim drew the silenced PB pistol from his hip and fired twice. The FSB officer fell dead. Gostan struck him between the shoulder blades, then again across the face in a slashing motion.

An animal in the shape of a boy now grown into a man. The same capacity for violence. Vadim drove his elbow into Gostan’s face. The frailer body jolted with the blow, staggered back with blood streaming down his face.

Vadim recovered the pistol. Shot twice before understanding the mistake too late. A dull pain spreading across his skin from the point of contact.

He began to cough. Retching on nothing. He collapsed into himself. The frozen earth did not open up and swallow him whole. He convulsed at the mercy of his ailing body. Denied the mercy of an easy death, clawing blindly without a destination in mind.

In the end, Zorin’s men collected him well before the authorities. They took him to a private hospital by helicopter, made sure he was stabilized. The medical records stated a bad case of food poisoning.

Vadim suffered for weeks. Lesions his face, down his abdomen, arms. Interior damage—dioxin poisoning. Peripheral neuropathy. Liver damage. After dedicating his life to serve his country, his reward was to suffer in a hospital bed until his body finally failed him.

Perhaps Ziffer saw something in him all those years ago, even if he himself did not. It was always going to come to this.

By some cruel twist of fate, Zorin had volunteered to transplant the necessary organs by way of a willing donor. Now, each day, he woke to a sky without purpose. He had no family or friends, nor piety. He did not speak a word to anyone. 

v.

Weeks passed into months before he was able to dress on his own.

During this time, Gostan and the operative were declared dead. The official story put out was that Gostan suffered a stroke. The other man had committed suicide. The facility in the Kuril Islands was seized by the FSB while Vadim was quietly discharged on account of his injuries.

Then, one morning he was informed he had a visitor. Actually, the man was looking for Lyutsifer Safin.

“Says he knows you personally.”

“You're mistaken,” said Vadim. “I don’t know anyone with that name.”

"Safin, is it?"

Vadim turned his head to the best of his ability. This man, he had never met before in his life clearly was under the opposite impression. “I assumed we would be introduced under different circumstances. But, this isn’t the end of the world.” He took a seat beside the bed. “The nurse tells me you are exceptionally strong-willed.”

Vadim said nothing.

“You may not recognize me. I’ve been watching out for you, ever since you took the job for Mister Le Chiffre. Now, Zorin insisted you were a lost cause, but I was very curious as to what you would do left to your own devices. It seemed a waste not to afford you the chance to prove yourself.”

Vadim lacked the strength to force him away. Grab a weapon. Do anything but lay there and wish for something sharp.

Vadim’s breath rattled out of him, involuntary response. Mourning the strength he lacked.

“The tricky part, if you can believe this, it was actually getting the right mask. I thought you would be a little more interested in its significance. Perhaps not. It’s an interesting myth, if you have the time to listen.”

As a captive audience, he could only lay there while this stranger amused himself with the sound of his own voice. A perversion of culture, serving as justification for a convoluted mission beyond reason. Cruelty for its own sake, provided no kinship with the mythos, no sudden moment of inspiration.

A cold, solid object slipped into his palm, the lithe hand squeezing around his own stronger than at first glance. “If you should ever consider independent work in the future, we’d be more than happy to take on a man of your skillset. I hope you make a swift recovery.”

The epiphany came to him after his new contact left. The ring cold in his palm. The surgeries paid for in someone else’s blood. Here was a means of leaving oneself behind in a more permeable way than an obituary. The only way to protect humanity from itself was to become the lesser evil. Sacrificing his military career to a moment of weakness—an opportunity for reinvention, whether intentional or otherwise, in the palm of his hand.

vi.

Even when he had recovered enough to be discharged, he was not the same man. Defecting to one of the most infamous yet well-concealed crime organisations in the world—at twenty six, he was the youngest of the group and answered to the name Lyutsifer by no choice of his own.

Operatives came and went with the encroachment of MI6. Each quarter at the Cadenza in Rome Safin sat beside the husband of the mark. Safin could not look him in the eye. He mourned a woman whom had never seen his face. The child left in her absence had grown into a pitiable misanthrope. A nameless, faceless target to be forgotten like any other, that could no longer be dismissed.

Now, each January, he made a visit to Döbling Cemetery and paid his respects with a different bouquet. Purple lilac — mourning — and white clover — think of me. White roses — devotion, silence, reverence for the dead. Peonies and stargazer lilies — for sympathy. Blue delphinium for dignity. Statice for remembrance. This year, blue hydrangeas — regret, a want of forgiveness — and white chrysanthemums — a token of grief. Bereavement and comfort.

He dressed in civilian clothes, wore a balaclava. The elements no longer an inconvenience but a crippling reminder of what he once took for granted. The local residents caught a glimpse of the pitted skin around his eyes, his hushed voice. Once again, they did not see the bigger picture.

After the lease expired on her grave, she gave up the right to an individual headstone. For ten years, Safin came and went unaccompanied until today. A man stood before the gravestone. Even before he turned, there was no question of his identity.

“Maddie?” White turned, glanced at the bouquet. A fleeting moment of realization passed over his face and was subdued just as quickly. “No, of course not. Last time she visited on her own, she was still going to Oxford—well, they were never close to begin with.” With a brief shake of his head he offered Safin a small, tense smile. “It’s a kind gesture. I’ll walk with you to the entrance.”

The snow crunched beneath their boots. Safin scanned the tree-line for an indication of a shadow. After so many years of solitude, he’d grown complacent enough to slip by as an anonymous enigma. Arrogant enough to attend the same meetings with this man.

“Back in the 80s,” said White, “I used to deal with a man named Gostan Safin. He was in the FSB’s Criminalistics Department and specialised in poisons. We cut him a deal to get out of country before the fall of the Soviet Union.” He paused. “The last I heard from him was at his funeral in 2004, the same year we elected a new operative. He also worked in the FSB. Border security.” Safin stopped pace. “And that facility, in the Kuril Islands? Blofeld took it over in the end. Now MI6’s new SIS thinks he’s got this Heracles weapon under control. All someone has to do is collect our medical records, take the DNA—and we’re done for. Can you imagine? It would be a power vacuum the likes of which—oh, hell, I shouldn’t go on.”

There could be no peace without the threat of repercussions. The cruelest man could not bear losing his family, his homestead. Without the need for gunfire or typical poisons, Heracles was much more efficient.

White glanced over at him. Chuckled without any humour. “Just between us, Lucifer, I’ve never enjoyed holding grudges. The marriage was failing. When you get far enough up the ladder, the higher-ups will let you know their opinion in more intimate ways than firing you.” Safin stood there in the cold, cycling air into his lungs, wheezing on the exhale. “A job is a job, that’s all in the past. We work for the same man now. But, as a father—you’ve pulled my daughter into something she had no right to know about. That, I cannot forgive so easily.”

Safin didn’t need to speak. He turned slightly. Under the gloomy light of winter, White’s age became apparent despite his prior mask of stoicism. “You spared her life once. I cannot protect her indefinitely.”

The moment decided by his finger idle on the trigger. A level of compartmentalization, which Swann had cultivated and White had mastered over a lifetime. Indebted by a fleeting act of mercy.

“You have my word.”

White smiled. “That is your insurance.”

a/n: Title comes from listening to the Pink Floyd track Sorrow a whole bunch while editing. The name Vadim is incidentally given to one of Safin's brothers in the newspaper article from the film. The correlation wasn't planned, I just liked the flow of Vadim Gostanovich, but it's pretty serendipitous, eh?

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Winter Solstice; A Short Based On My Lore

Warning: This piece is very much a horror short and meant to make you a bit uncomfy- if that's not your style, no worries, you can skip this one :3. Also the image I found to compliment this is terrifying also.

Context: This is pretty much me making sleep paralysis demons all the more terrifying... except this thing is not necessarily a demon O_o. Scripture-accurate angels are terrifying and not to be trifled with.

This is more of a drabble and I kinda ended up vomiting this one onto the page but nevertheless I hope you enjoy this little horror short <3.

She could feel it. Something was there. She wasn’t sure what it was… but something was there. A gut feeling, an intrinsic compulsion, perhaps even a higher being’s warning; nevertheless, she knew that there was a thing watching her. She couldn’t see it, she couldn’t hear it, but she could feel it, like a dagger dangling above a blind man’s head, she knew it was there and it was watching.

The girl scrunched her eyes shut; fingers impatient to pull the cover over herself. She couldn’t. However, if she did, that would tell whatever it was that she was aware. And if it knew she was aware, it might act. Hot shivers ran up her spine, contrasting with the cold sweat that was forming on her forehead. Desperate to tame her shaking breaths, she gave in and endeavoured to bury her face into her duvet, stuffing some of the fabric into her mouth, muffling the rising whimpers and dampening those pleading cries.

Sleep paralysis? No. She could move. A nightmare? No. This felt real.

Something rustled. Quickly, her eyes flickered open, though murky dark surrounded her, the abstract shapes of the edge of the bed, the side of the backboard and the blank slate of flint that was the wall directly in front of her. And something moving. It was moving. Her ears, finetuned and now alert, picked up the fine murmurs of a rustle, though the direction of it had yet to be determined. As if coming from all sides, the subtle sounds sent touchy terrors of shivers and fevers through her, making her entire body feel clammy. Cold sweat made her clothes cling to her, the once soft fabric now thick and scratchy, her hands now callous as she covered her mouth, finding the duvet to be no use in stifling her panting. It could hear her breathe; she could feel it knew she knew. The rustling got louder. Louder still. Inching closer and closer. Her eyes were fixed ahead, her breath hot on her hands, burning. Nails dug into her cheeks, her teeth scraping at her palms. She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see it. Perhaps it wasn’t real after all?

Her heart was like an engine, thumping against her ribs and overpowering the subtle sounds that were her only aid in gauging where it was. That beast. Whatever it was. No human would wait like this. No human would not be seen but still be felt. Whimpering, she did her best to sink into her mattress, now tough and hard under her, uneven almost. Still, she found some solace in hiding herself further. Forget playing dead like she had done for the past twenty minutes, it was just toying with her, now, now she would just have to see how long she could keep composure. It felt like early morning, she prayed the sun would come up soon. She prayed she would wake up soon.

No. This was real, remember?

She silently cursed, heart throbbing and throbbing still. It felt like the very bed was breathing against her, as her chest fell to the mattress, the bed’s belly rose up to meet it. As her lungs filled with cold air, the bed took in a breath too. Her body was stiff, appendages barely moving and extremities, though highly sensitive, feeling tinglingly numb at the same time. Scrunching her eyes shut once more, she pleaded for the sanctity of slumber.

“Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

The urge to turn around, back onto her side, was tantalising. However, she was trapped, caged in her own body. Bones were heavy and flesh heavier still, feeling like a lead block rather than a person.

What made matters worse was that her eyes were still refusing to adjust to the darkness. All was bleak and all was starting to become shapeless. Nothing moved before her. The rustles, though. The rustles. The flicks, the crinkles, the creaks. It was here. It was!

Was she going mad?

Was she?

Why’d this feel so real, and yet, surreal?

An invisible hand stroked her, fingers running through her hair, making it fall onto her nose, tickling it slightly. The back of a hand moved to her tearstained cheek, brushing across that. It was warm, but she could feel the hints of cold, like metal. Her breathing grew harsher, puffs of air breaking through the cracks between her fingers, moving that hair out of her eyes. Her heart now on the verge of bursting, swollen with fear and pulsing with blood. Whispers of shallow words of assurance faded in and out of existence, now only replaced with dead silence. The urge to scream, to face it, something she couldn’t do. She needed to just let this pass.

Something slid up her leg, wrapping over it. Another around her waist. Sturdy like an arm. Again, the invisible hand brushed over her face, a thumb tracing over her tearstains. Her body was pulled to the mattress. Though, was it the mattress? Hard. Hard and solid. Breathing as she breathed. Another arm moved to her neck, constricting her breath by just the right amount, she could still breathe, but now she could feel whatever it was hold her in place too. Deeper and deeper, she was brought nearer and nearer, feeling those breaths. The rising and falling. Her ear was pressed against its chest, a thundering heartbeat echoed in her left ear, deafening to her. Something cold grazed her neck, like her teeth against her palm. She had been a conflict of freezing cold and searing heat, now, however, she was nothing but warm. Soothingly warm.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Further and further, the arms took hold of more of her body, its legs wrapping over hers, forcing her to intertwine with it. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. The bed creaked under their combined weight, the groaning as it arched its back, causing her to sink and lean into it. Numb yet feeling everything.

Consciousness faded. The covers sank as the bodies left the bed.

No longer was she on Earth.

“Be not afraid.” The angel finally spoke, “For you have been chosen.”

[jackfromthefairytale]

INVENT ANIMATE - Without A Whisper [2023]

dir. Chris Klumpp

[martiwikiwiocwiki]

Series: BELLADONNA WOODS Name: Prince Forgotten Love Song Gender: cis man (he/him) Race: half-human half-werelion Age: 16 Sexual orientation: bisexual Alignment/Covenant: True neutral/Demon worshippers

Special trait: Chest scar due to heart surgery. Can talk Old Demon language that allows him to communicate with animals.

Job: Spy disguised as prince of the Church of Twilight Weapon of choice: short sword and dagger Magic: Sunlight miracles LV 3 Special skill: Master of trickery, can easily make up very solid lies and play along

Enjoys: playing the ukelele, witchy stuff, forbidden demon knowledge Hates: Church of Twilight hierarchical system, demon hunters, being told his efforts are in vain

Story: Song is a demon worshipper spy infiltrated in the Church of Twilight along with his elder brother in order to politically control the covenant. He quickly gained the covenant support thanks to his skill for casting and inventing high level sunlight miracles, one of which saved a princess of the church from a certain death. He deeply cares about his elder brother's health but can't seem to find the proper words and somehow he always end up screwing up and hurting him. Despite of being an easygoing and carefree person, he feels deeply alone and sometimes finds refuge in a strange world of nightmares where he dreams he can control fire.

Main series: FIGHTING NIGHTMARES AND FEARS [Comicfury] BELLADONNA WOODLANDS (wip) DEMON WORSHIPPER (still a script) THE LONGEST NIGHT (preview) Also: SLOW TENDER SAMHAIN STORY [Ko-fi] ELLIS (featured as Ko) [Comicfury]

[flowerflamestars]

Effloresce snippet

Amren shoved the torch his way. “I will not break the protections on this city,” she paced forward, deceptively delicate hands flat to smoothed stone, before curling to dig right in, “Not with war coming. But I won’t make things worse either.” The wall did not open, it fractured. On crack, a hundred, a thousand webbing out in silver light, swept away into nothing. Her brisk steps changed in sound- worn stone to sharp clicking tile, and Cassian swallowed. Raised the torch, and tried to understand what he was seeing. The hollowed heart of the watching mountain, a blue-tiled temple, strung in glass, in gemstone, murals shining overheard further than he could see. Blue on blue on blue, every shade of sky. Amren simply waved her hand, cobwebs and dust incinerated in a flash that left his eyes dazzled. When he could blink, it had not changed. “This is,” Cassian couldn’t finish the words. The thought. “I have been alive,” Amren kicked at something that chimed back, the soft sound of water echoing. Carrying, sudden luminesce growing as it poured to fill channels in the floor, to drip down pathways, liquid blued sunlight, “Since before the Court of Night was even an idea. Before this city was built up from an old bedrock of blood. Eons before I was meant to handhold a High Lord hellbent on ruining all that came before.” Cassian swallowed. “So this is”- “What you see in Nesta Archeron’s eyes, I imagine,” Amren purred, before turning to grin, catlike and terrible. “Magic. Temporarily contained.” “Whose magic?” Cassian didn’t need the answer, but he had to hear it. Had to- blue on blue on blue only where it was not overlaid with wings in a hundred dark colors, the ever-giving sky alit in the ever-giving miracle of life. Wind, water, and light.

He had never seen an Illyrian temple- they did not exist now- but something in him recognized the call all the same.

[sualne]

colored a WIP from 2021, about ocs from 2011!

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Winter Solstice Writing Event Schedule

Welcome to the first (hopefully annual) winter solstice writing event! Storytellers have gathered to spin you tales through the long dark of December 21st across continents, oceans, and fandoms.

During each block of time, the assigned storyteller will share at least one story. Each story will have appropriate warnings and can be enjoyed as a stand-alone fic, although some have ties to larger works.

We wish you all warmth, safety, and a beautiful dawn after the long dark.

Follow "#winter solstice writing event" and "#longest night stories" to make sure you don't miss out!

Here is the schedule. It runs 23 hours, beginning at sunset in the most easterly writer's timezone and ending at sunrise in the westernmost writer's timezone. Yes, that means this begins on the 21st and runs into the 22nd.

Please comment/reblog/and participate as you feel comfortable! We all appreciate the support, and we hope you enjoy.

Get a warm drink and a snuggly blanket, and let's get started!

All times below are in GMT.

@crewman-peneloperewman-penelope: 

4:00pm - 9:00pm

@bacon-sandwich-of-dionysusacon-sandwich-of-dionysus

9:00pm - 2:00am

@cuckoo-on-a-stringuckoo-on-a-string

2:00am - 3:00am

@dorminchuorminchu

3:00am - 5:00am

@cuckoo-on-a-stringuckoo-on-a-string

5:00am - 7:00am

@ofsapphofsappho

7:00am - 12:00pm

@cuckoo-on-a-stringuckoo-on-a-string

12:00p - 3:00pm

[ofsappho]

i’m yours 🔞 by inlovewithanendless on AO3

-

My first contribution to @cuckoo-on-a-string ‘s amazing winter solstice event!!! Thanks for putting it together. I really hope you guys enjoy this, PLEASE CHECK TAGS before entering!!!

-

[starpros-sunshine]

also i think that after seeing that Something is going out with his eichisama tori should also sneak into town to go and see what's the deal with this wataru guy. and he inevitably gets lost but meets hajime and they have a bonding moment barbie movie-style and him and tomoya help tori meet wataru. and then wataru sees tomoya and goes "oho! interesting child!" which once again leads to eichi unreasonable jealousy against this poor random kid

Okay so I've been thinking on this and I've been trying to get something coherent and bear with me right right.

(this got so long again I just started going into detail and detail and detail and oh god I am so sorry)

So Tori, poor, innocent Tori, has to come to terms with the fact that Eichi is hiding something from him (that "Something" being a tall blue-haired extra of unknown origin) and he knows that, technically, the mature thing would be to leave it alone. Eichi will have his reasons for being a little secretive about it. He has his own life and if he doesn't want to be open about...whatever it is that seems to be going on there.... then he doesn't have to be because the man has a right to privacy.

Tori knows that. But Tori also knows that being mature doesn't matter if, technically, his beloved Eichi-sama could be at risk of giving his heart away to a scoundrel that only wishes to play with him until he's bored and then throws him away, breaking Eichis heart in the process. We couldn't have that! And what if he's a criminal? Can you really trust someone who snoops around on other peoples property without their knowing? No you can't! So really it's only natural Tori wants to know what that guys deal is. Out of a genuine concern for his friend. Of course.

And so obviously it's a completely acceptable and normal and rational decision when he sees that Yuzuru isn't there for a moment to keep watch over him like the guard dog that he is (really Tori isn't a child anymore there's no need to be so overprotective) and the other staff members also don't seem to be around and Eichi is also nowhere to be seen, that he decides to take his coat and pack his little bag with some money (read: more money than just "some" money) and tries to sneak out of the house and down the path across the small meadow and the bit of forest that separates their not-so-humble abode from the small town where the other people live.

His inital plan simple. Go there; ask around a little, maybe try some tailing (after hearing stories from the other aristocrats about how one is able to hire people to follow their spouses around without them noticing - and that apparently being an actual thing people earn their money with - he's decided that it can't be that hard and he should try his luck.) and then leaving as quickly as possible, lest Yuzuru die of a heart attack after finding out Tori dissappeared. It would be quick and easy and nobody would ever find out. That was the original plan. But Tori very soon comes to find that that could prove harder than he thought when he notices he actually really really enjoys the feeling of not having anyone hover over him like some sort of falcon watching their prey.

The little river running by the path through the meadow is still frozen (It is winter after all) and the snow on the ground almost reaches his ankles. The 15 minute walk takes him 30 because he keeps jumping around in the snow (He's made three snow angels by now. For a second he has to think of his sister and of how nice it would be if she were here with him too and how they could make snow angels together were it not for her having to stay with their parents, but he pushes that thought to the back of his head again and decides to move on with his way).

When he eventually arrives at the town - and after just wandering aimlessly through the rather empty streets - there are three major epiphanies.

The first one is that he doesn't have a clear destination. He has no idea where to look for the blue-haired weirdo. The second is that, seeing as it is a forenoon in january, most people probably aren't spending their time outside. And if they are then they are at a different place than where he is. And the third and final one: He is completely and utterly lost.

It should be regarded as an accomplishment really. Getting lost in a town with a population of barely 300 locals living there. Indeed Tori would think it impossible. Yet here he is. If anything he's sure he's at least the only one who can claim this feat for himself. This is fine. He has this under control. If he just keeps walking then he's sure to come out somewhere (No there are no tears in his eyes anyone who says otherwise is just imagining things (he decidedly ignores the little voice in his head that tells him "Who's gonna say otherwise. Look around yourself, have you forgotten that you're all alone here?")). So the big brave boy that he is he marches onward, ignoring the way his fingers have started to feel numb from the cold and his eyes have not stopped watering and the little voice in the back of his head that tells him he should've just listened to Yuzuru (He banishes that one to the deepest depths of his subconscious very quickly. There are blows that his pride can take in these situations and then there's having to agree with "You should've just listened to Yuzuru". If There is one thing that can be said about Tori then it's that he is not one to simply give up. He has come this far and he'll be damed if he backs out now).

Lost in thought and not paying much attention to his surroundings (he has more important things to think about right now), he only manages to register a flash of blue in his peripheral vision. And because this could be what he's come here for in the first place but more importantly because this is a person and that is where the bar is set, Tori immediately tries to follow them. If Lady Luck is especially nice to him this time she lets this person be the mysterious stranger he's been looking for, but what feels like a day of walking through empty streets in the biting cold of a noon in late january have humbled him enough to not push it with his luck.

And when he turns the corner, calling out for the figure to wait, insted of the strange man he was expecting he comes face-to-face with a meekish looking boy with blue hair and big violet eyes and next to him there's a second boy, this one able to be described in all aspects with only one word: average. And for a solid ten seconds they all just stare at each other.

Tori doesn't really know how, he really has no idea, but somehow he ended up following the two home. Or, well, more or less. Following isn't really the right word here. After their almost-staring-competition on the street the meekish looking one with the blue hair asked him if he was alright because "he seemed lost" (he absolutely did not.) which then prompted an entire series of events that ended is Tori sitting in this strangers families home - with an entirely different stranger also there - getting a serving of what he assumes to be radish soup. Tori feels a little sorry for the boy, Tomoya, as he said his name was, who seemed like he was previously engaged in a conversation with the other boy, who later introduced himself as Hajime and who had spent the entire way asking him questions about how he ended up here and what someone like him was doing all alone in a sleepy village neighbourhood like theirs and if he really didn't need a tissue (He hadn't cried while explaining how he was lost. He totally hadn't) and on and on and on as Tomoya had to awkwardly walk behind them.

So now, sitting at this table with these two people who he has only met today and who have given him a bowl of soup to warm himself up with, he has to tell everything about how he ended up in this situation in the first place. At the end of his recollection of this oh so wonderful day he is met with two pitying looks an a laugh - apparently one of Hajimes younger siblings had joined them at their little impromptu gathering (he wonders, distantly, how his own sister is doing right now).

And as he's about to say that he should probably make his way home and resume his mission another time when he has a map, Hajime mentions that he actually knows the guy Tori is talking about and that he lives at the local inn and that that isn't that far from them and that he and Tomoya can walk him there if he wants to. Tori agrees immediately. He is so over trying to be discreet about it at this point he really just wants some sort of success in this kind of ridiculous endeavour he's set out on.

So after the soup is finished and his limbs don't feel like they're about to fall off anymore the trio goes on their merry way and Tori feels a little silly because for all the walking around he did before they reach this inn really pretty quickly... maybe he should've thought to bring a map... The three of them venture further into the inn, and Tori only overhears Hajime talking to an older woman, but he's more occupied with looking around the place. It's father homely and rustic, a completely different atmosphere than at their place. There are noises from the few patrons sitting at the tables and chatting with each other, but it only add to the cozy feeling of the entire place.

When Hajime comes back he leads Tori up a little stairway and down a dimly lit hallway. They stop in front of a door at the very end of it (in my head there's a bit of a terasse thing happening there like. you can look down into the part where the tables are and such right right) and Tori barely has time to mentally prepare for the fact that this really is happening now before Hajime knocks and the sound of muffled steps approaching the door can be heard.

When the door finally opens (it's been a few seconds at best but it feels like an eternity), Tori is greeted by the lovely view of a pair of pale clavicles, barely covered by a black linen blouse. He has to actively look up to look at the face of their owner and when he is met with a pair of sharp, purple eyes he feels like his throat just sew itself shut. Hajime explains to Wataru that Tori was looking for him and suddenly a light seems to go up above Watarus head as a look of recognition flashes over his face and he turns around to Tori again and asks him if he's "the princess that Eichi's been telling him all about". Tori is confused. Hajime decides that this is his cue to leave and he slowly backs away to go back down and collect Tomoya, who's been roped into helping out with the catering by some elder gentleman (Wataru watches Hajime as he collects Tomoya and they leave, intrigued by this strangely average boy, as Tori just stares in horror as the realisation dawns upon him that he is now completely alone with this man whom he didn't even intend on speaking to in the first place).

So now he is here. In this very awkward situation. Sitting on a chair in this strangers room (for the second time today! Did he ever have a day this eventful? Who knows! Tori for sure doesn't.). He wants to talk, but Wataru is faster and asks him what he's doing here. Tori doesn't really know how to reply. How do you talk your way around having to tell someone that you actually got lost on the way to spy on them. That's right. You can't. Well, Eichi could. But Tori is Tori and he never wished for that to change more than he did now.

He looks out of the window and it is at that moment that another three major epiphanies reach him. Firstly that he doesn't know what to do now that he's here, secondly that he's going to get murdered by Yuzuru (and if worst comes to worst also Eichi) once he gets back because he's been gone all day without telling anyone and they're probably all worried sick, and last but not least: it is dark outside. He can't go home like that. He is virtually stuck in this predicament he found himself in.

Wataru seems to have a similar thought, because the immediate follow up question after not really getting a coherent answer from Tori is if anyone knows he's gone. Tori shakes his head. If Tsukasa ever finds out about this mess of a situation he will have to die because he would never let Tori live that down.

He gets ripped out of his incoming spiral by the bird that takes a seat on his head and Watarus over-the-top contemplative sigh and the slight lilt in his voice when he voices the next issue that's in the room. He isn't even speaking to Tori anymore, but to his bird that sits on Toris head, Jeanne, and Tori is starting to get annoyed by the way he jokes about this entire thing, calling Tori a "a little bird that escaped its nest", as if he isn't stuck having to prepare for his untimely demise. And by the way this guy hasn't put down his cryptic smile and teasing voice ever since he entered the room. When he thinks things can't get any more awkward for him Wataru proposes two options. Either he walks him home, or Tori has to stay at the inn for the night and he brings him back in the morning. Tori decides he'd rather go back home sooner than later (he'll have to take the lacture either way and he's probably caused everyone enough worries by now anyways. And also he misses his bed.). So Wataru grabs his coat, quickly goes to tell the inn-keepers he's "bringing retuening the princess to ger people" (Tori doesn't know if he liked the bird comparison better or not).

The way back is still very tense because Tori does not dare to walk next to Wataru (he's sketchy it's not Toris fault it's a normal reaction) and so he just awkwardly walks behind him, He doesn't really watch his surroundings - it is dark and the only nice thing is that it's snowing and there are animal sounds and they are spooky and he needs to watch the way and it's easier to think that way - until suddenly he gets hit by a snowball right in the head. And he is so baffled by this that he just stares at Wataru, and Wataru grins at him with his stupid stupid grin and somehow they end up in a snowball fight on this meadow where the only reason you can see anything is because of the snow and when they finally arrive at the mansion they both have so much snow in their hair and their clothes are wet from the melted snow and when they knock on the door and wait for someone to open Wataru gets some of the snow out of Toris hair and says that that snowball fight can be their little shared secret and Tori grins back at him and agrees and when the door opens and both of them are frantically ushered in by a maid that tells another one to get Yuzuru and Eichi Tori decides that maybe this guy isn'r so bad after all. Maybe he's actually quite nice.

[redglassbird]

Okay okay fine I'll tell you guys about my personal life.

So. (The vibe is that we're at a sleepover pretend we're at a sleepover) it all started with this fateful edit of Josh Hutcherson that I saw. Immediately sent it to my friends and guess what. Now my entire feed is filled with FNAF lore.

Yea it's a slippery slope guys. (Plato I'm sure you would've loved this story and all its philosophical elements). Well now I'm ina vicious FNAF cycle despite not ever being remotely interested in FNAF lore. But also. I am always curious. That's something about me I'm always curious. so I always click on the posts and they just keep coming in an inescapable avalanche.

Well. when I am tired my brain also likes to self sabotage and make me spooked w things that would not normally scare me. Anyways I'm trying to sleep the other night right. And I need this sleep it's like gold it's like treasure. But what does my brain manifest? Animatronics in my closet. Which. That's fine. Whatever. Brains gotta have fun sometimes I guess.

Anyways I take a melatonin for the first time in weeks to knock me out . I have a vivid melatonin dream where I am a poor beggar trying to get water from an Italian restaurant but they keep kicking me out.( I still remember the face of the manager who was mean to me btw even tho I remember no other faces).

Well one of the employees takes a liking to me and stands up for me and then naturally we start dating. It's me and Italian restaurant employee against the world (he is also rich somehow and his brother keeps having heart attacks which is also a central keystone to the dream but we won't delve into that).

A wandering narrative perhaps. but very emblematic of my life. Not the FNAF and Josh Hutcherson parts. Mostly the parts about melatonin dreams gaslighting me to oblivion.

(I'm scared to tag this FNAF bc I don't want Tumblr to get any ideas and think that I'm interested in any FNAF lore other than my own. But the things I do. The things I do for. Well I don't know what for)

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Baying Dogs; Chapter 3: Separating The Herd

Warnings for: violence, gore and swearing! And above all, character death!

Word count: 2,649

For those of you coming to read from the Solstice event, this is the third chapter of my ongoing Call of Duty fic where I've basically made a whodunit and mixed in some elements from one of my favourite movies: Dog Soldiers. Take this as a horror short! I'll have another short up later on based on my original work too.

Here's the blurb from the Ao3 version to give you some context:

"They were outnumbered, barely making it out by the skin of their teeth. However, they haven't got time to breathe. People are starting to drop like flies and someone's behind it. As for who? Well, as much as I hate to say it, it might be one of their own."

As she was putting her first aid kit back into her rucksack, Dougs heard a peculiar sound.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

It almost sounded like rustling. The scratching of fabric making itself known, followed by a few repressed, pained grunts.

“Gah! Shit!”

Dougs rolled her eyes, knowing full well what was going on.

“I hope you’re not destroying my handiwork.”

Ghost paused at the sound of her clipped tone, her Jamaican accent thickening in her irritation.

After a brief pause, the sound of his itching resumed.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

That does it! This is the third fucking one!

“Don’t scratch your stitches!” Dougs pounced, grabbing his arm, “For fuck’s sake! You’re the third guy and this is getting out of hand.”

The hand which she had caught by the wrist was tense, fingers in a claw-like array, trying to fight against the urge to shove her off. Dougs’ big brown eyes bore angry holes into Ghost’s face, and, judging by the hints of a raised brow under his mask, he was taken aback.

“It’s… so itchy.”

“Well, don’t give in. I can’t be staying up all night redoing everyone’s dressing because they can’t be arsed to resist the urge to itch!”

His eyes narrowed.

“I thought doctors were supposed to be empathetic.”

“Sometimes we get a bit fed up. Now, quit trying to undo your stitches.”

“Can’t I have some of that numbing cream?” Ghost asked, pointing to the tube sitting half-out of its cardboard box.

She shook her head.

“I have to conserve that for when it’s actually needed.”

“I need it.”

“Distract yourself with other sensations. Rub your legs, go look at the stars outside- just don’t itch!”

He was about to protest, only for the zip of their tent to be undone.

Gaz poked his head in.

“I’ve undone my dressing.” He smiled guiltily, showing a bloodied arm.

Dougs wanted to pull the hair out of her scalp.

“What is going on?!” She cried, “Give me your arm, let me see.”

His wound was red and raw, with local swelling around the cut.

“Infected…” Dougs thought aloud, before turning to her half-packed med kit.

“Infected?” Gaz asked nervously.

“Let me just get some TCP out and-”

She turned back to see he was raising his eyebrows at her.

Dougs just stared at him blankly.

Again, he raised his eyebrows at her.

She looked back at Ghost, who was watching on, either with utmost curiosity or because he didn’t know where to place his eyes.

“Well, we don’t know for sure if it’s badly infected.”

“But it is infected.” Gaz said, emphasising the last word, “Infected from the attack.”

“Or b-because dirt can get into it, maybe?” Dougs nodded slowly, “And also because we lack the resources to deliver adequate enough care to have prevented this when we first completed your dressing.”

“Or it could be from the attack.” Gaz once more suggested.

“We don’t know for sure your theory is certain.”

They are definitely talking about something else… Ghost tilted his head to one side, listening to this almost robotic conversation, or they’re both having a stroke.

“Am I in trouble?” Gaz swallowed hard, “Because I’ve got a fever too and-”

She checked his forehead, to find he had a hot head like Graves and Price.

“We’ll see, Gaz. Let’s see what we can do now, okay?”

He nodded, but unable to shake the dread.

Something was weighing down on his chest and Sergeant Garrick began to wonder if the lack of recollection from the night leading up to Weir’s death was in fact not due to a heavy sleep but rather responsibility. Perhaps there was a reason he was the first to find her body.

No, Gaz pushed those thoughts away, there’s no evidence.

Dougs popped on a fresh dressing and sent him on his way, letting out a big yawn.

She ought to have antibiotics with her, knowing full well that these types of infections can get serious, but all she had were diaphoretics and salt.

Luckily, there hadn’t been any signs of pus forming in any of the injuries she had seen so far… but she knew it would be inevitable.

Better get ready to make some salt baths soon.

“Do you feel feverish, Ghost?”

He shook his head.

“Can I check anyways?”

Reluctantly, he removed the skull mask and loosened his balaclava. Guiding her hand, he let her feel his cheeks and forehead.

At least we’ve got one without a raging fever.

He felt cool, the only sensation Dougs really picked up on was the slight roughness of his stubble. She gave a small sigh of relief, eyes blinking slowly in their growing tiredness.

“Well, it seems you’re clear. Don’t start scratching at your dressing whilst I nod off, understood?”

Ghost nodded, taking her advice to distract himself from the urge by raking his nails along his thick cargo pants.

As Dougs snuggled into her sleeping bag, she turned to face Ghost, watching him begin to close up shop. It was nice to be lying down, her feet pulsing with the ache of their walking, only just experiencing a proper rest after miles of trekking. Every muscle in Dougs’ body was reverberating with a dull pain: her back, her feet and her hands, which were cramping a little from all the fine-motor tasks. She clenched and unclenched her fist underneath the covers, trying to get the stiffness out of her joints.

“Are you going to sleep with that thing on?” She asked, a curious smile creeping across her tired face.

“Yes, and soundly.” Ghost replied.

Dougs was going to remark on the surprising tranquillity of this evening, but her mind turned to the chaos that was replacing almost everyone’s dressing.

She looked back at Ghost, who had set his mask aside, looking in his rucksack for the hangable torch, his wounded hand raised in the air, sleeve rolled up. Presumably, the man was trying to see if the ‘out of sight, out of mind’ thing worked and it seemed it was as he wasn’t itching.

She shook her head, hoping that maybe letting the wound breathe might help alleviate the irritation, but she could see by the way his arm shook a little with tension, that he was resisting the compulsion to tear out the sutures.

I should have brought cones of shame with me. Works on dogs.

As if on cue, Dougs whipped her head around at a strange sound. It was distant, but unmistakeable. Almost like a lamentation, it rasped out a little at the end, but picked up for a new cycle of wails.

“Is that howling?” She rose from her sleeping bag, looking in the direction of the sound.

“Baying.”

The medic turned around to Ghost.

“That’s baying.” He repeated, not bothering to dart his head about like Dougs.

“Baying?”

“Yeah. Not quite howling. Not quite barking. Dogs usually do it when they’ve found something they want others to see. Not surprised a farm dog would be baying at this hour, probably saw a fox or something.”

“Are you sure it’s a farm dog?”

Ghost scoffed at the worried look on her face.

“What else is it gonna be? Wolves?”

She shrugged, drawing her knees to her chest.

“I saw you talking to Gaz.” Ghost continued, “Is he still harping on about the attack being animals?”

She shook her head.

“No. He doesn’t think it was animals anymore.” Dougs half-lied.

“Glad he’s getting with the program.” Ghost remarked, hanging up a torch on the carabiner above them, “The last thing we want is infighting on who done it. Northolt is our objective, let’s focus on that.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, “Yeah.”

Dougs looked off to the side, hearing the hound’s baying once more.

***

BANG!

Gunfire rang out and both Dougs and Ghost shot up at the echoing sound.

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she stumbled out the tent, following the lieutenant.

Soap clutched his gun in shaking hands, the barrel still smoking as he watched the thing collapse onto the ground.

“Soap!” Ghost ran to his side, “Soap, are you alright?!”

“What the fuck is that?”

“What is what?” Ghost looked at him, only to follow his gaze down MacTavish’s raised arm and pointed to finger to see something he… he didn’t know what to make of.

“What the fuck is that?”

Ghost backed up.

It was large, surely as big as a bear if not bigger, with a mane of fur around its neck and two sizeable bullet holes in its stomach. A forked tongue hung out its mouth which was lined with teeth fit for shearing and tearing meat.

Gaz slunk past Ghost to get a closer look, only to be grabbed by the shoulder and held back by his lieutenant.

“It looks like a dog.” Graves observed, resting some of his weight on Dougs who propped him up so he could stand a little more upright.

“That’s one fucked up dog.” Soap remarked, grimacing.

Dougs covered her nose.

“Smells rank.”

“What is it, though?” Gaz asked.

“Dogman?” Soap suggested.

“Fucking dogman?!” Gaz pointed to it, “That’s a whole-ass werewolf!”

Its eyes opened. As they squabbled and argued about the hypotheticals of what this could be… the thing was listening.

And Dougs clocked it was alive.

Blood began to pour from its wounds once more.

“Uh… guys…” She began to back away with Graves.

“Why are you fixed on the biology, Soap?!”

“Guys…” Dougs said again, seeing its fingers tense.

“Because that looks like a dogman! And I know for a fact that dogmen are more likely to be real than a fucking man who can turn into that thing!"

“Oh my God.” Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Boys!” Graves snapped, “Shoot that thing before it gets up!”

“What?”

“Fuck!”

It had risen onto its hind legs, drool dripping from its chops. They all staggered backwards.

“Fucking shoot it, Soap!” Graves yelled.

Without a second thought, Soap open fired on the animal. It let out a shriek before trying to take a swipe at the gun.

Soap managed to hit it before it got close enough, and the creature stumbled, before falling to the ground.

This was a mistake.

Because, and they hadn’t realised it yet but, that thing was way more comfortable on all fours.

Licking the slobber hanging from those dribbling lips, it snapped at them. Clearly, unfazed that it had another wound gushing with blood.

Soap lined up to take another shot.

“Shouldn’t we need silver?” Gaz mumbled.

Graves shot him a dirty look, keeping a hand on his chest so he’d remain the furthest behind them.

“If I shoot it, what difference is it gonna make?” Soap asked, finger hovering over the trigger.

“What does it matter?!” Dougs groaned, “It’s either it dies or we’re dinner!”

Soap took a deep breath and steadied his aim.

BANG!

Straight through the eye. Its head flung backwards, only to return to facing ahead, glaring daggers at them.

“You see?! What the fuck do I do?”

That’s when Ghost charged at it from behind and flung boiling water from one of the cooking pots.

It screeched, totally caught off guard.

Ghost grabbed his knife and stabbed it in the gut.

Only to be grabbed and thrown across the camp, landing on top of the spare tent.

“Fire again!” Graves shouted.

Soap did so.

And again. And again.

Each time, the animal would get knocked back, return to its original position, staggering towards them like a deranged, sickly yet determined fool, oozing buckets of blood.

The whole party did what they could only do, raise their arms and roar at it, sticking close together so as to appear as a single, frightening unit. They roared and clapped their hands. Roared and fired their guns.

It hissed before turning back around and making a retreat, dashing into the woods with a slight limp… just as the sun’s morning rays landed on their small, temporary plot of land.

They were all left speechless… well, except for Gaz.

“I fucking knew it!” He shook his fist in the air, “That’s what hit us before!”

“How do you know for certain?” Graves asked.

“What got you, Commander?”

“A man.” Was the reply.

“Are you sure?”

As Gaz began to explain his theory on their enemy, Dougs looked around.

And counted.

Soap, Gaz, Graves and Ghost.

There were supposed to be six.

Price.

“Guys.” She called for silence, “Where’s Price?”

They all looked about.

“Oh fuck!” Soap’s head was on the verge of doing a full 360 spin, “Where’s Captain Price?”

“Shit…” Graves sighed.

As they trekked along the winding path, keeping to the perimeter of the field, Dougs spotted something ahead.

Someone.

“Hey!” She whispered to Graves, who had taken to using her as his new crutch, “Do you see that?”

“What?” He asked, wincing as the sun blinded him momentarily.

“Look!” She pointed with her free hand, “Look!”

“Oh… Oh! Woah! Folks!”

They stopped dead in their tracks.

“Is that-”

The distant figure collapsed onto the ground.

“Fuck!”

Ghost remained on overwatch with Dougs as Soap and Gaz, guns at the ready ran ahead.

Within minutes, the remaining three’s radios crackled.

“It’s Price…” Soap said, “And he’s dead.”

They had crowded round the dead body, looking down at it with despondent eyes.

“It’s him.”

They could just about recognise the lifeless form of their captain. His gear was reduced to rags with gaping wounds littering his body.

“What happened to him?” Soap asked, not sure what other words to say.

Gaz knelt down to check his breathing.

“Yep…” His voice quivered, “… Dead.”

“You don’t think he was… you know…” Graves looked to the company to the left, and then to his folks on the right.

“Are you saying that I shot Price?” Soap growled.

“Well, why else would he be here, half naked and dead with wounds that we gave to a monster hours ago?”

Dougs felt cold sweat run down her temple… or was it the foggy air condensing around her?

Either way, she wiped off the moisture.

Only for the wetness to return, this time in the form of a droplet; followed by another and then another.

Ghost looked up to the sky and held his hand out.

“We should think about moving, or this’ll get worse.”

“What about Price?” Gaz raised, “We can’t just leave him here!”

“Can’t exactly bury him…” Soap muttered.

That’s when Gaz turned to face Soap with narrow eyes.

“You were on night watch last night.”

“Aye. So were you.”

“I left halfway through because of my stitches.” Gaz walked up to him, “Did you see anything? Do anything?”

“Gaz…” Dougs spoke sternly.

Soap stared at him, unsure whether to meet his eyes or not.

“I heard voices. More specifically your voice.”

“Gaz, that’s enough!” Ghost barked.

Gaz placed a finger on Soap’s armoured chest.

“Tell me everything.”

“Gaz, what are you implying-”

“Report, Sergeant!”

Dougs knew she would’ve flinched in that moment, but Soap stood strong, unmoved. Instead of recoiling, he simply sighed.

“I saw Price come out the tent, walk into the woods. At first, I thought he’d got up to piss but something was off. I followed him, called after him. And… I lost sight of Price.”

Gaz began to laugh, shaking his head.

“You just lost sight of him?”

“I swear I had nothing to do with this!” Soap snarled.

“You fucking…” Gaz clenched his fist.

Only for a hand to place itself on his shoulder:  Ghost looked down at the sergeant with tired eyes.

“We don’t need this. Price is dead and we have a long way to Northolt, so let’s just stick together as a- Ah!”

He released Gaz, clutching his arm.

“You alright, Lt?” Soap came to his side.

“Yeah…” Ghost breathed out, “Just… tore my stitches.”

He looked over to Dougs, apologetically.

[hearts4pearlescentmoon]

I’m getting back into my fnaf phase because I’ve been seeing it a lot on my dash and I have something to say to you all

TURN THE LIGHTS OF IS A GREAT FNAF 4 SONG, I HAVE BEEN SAYING THAT EVER SINCE I FIRST HEARD THE SONG AND BEFORE I EVEN KNEW WHAT TALLY HALL WAS. IVE BEEN IMAGINING THE ANIMATION IN MY HEAD FOR YEARS

I’m not crazy, you are

[skelebab]

I think a great form of characterization is taking a well known and simple song and having a character sing it just slightly different

K that's all gn now