#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.

[thevampiremarie]

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.

[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 D��bling 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.”

[witchysolfan]

I love how Vanny! Alison stole William's spotlight from being the top security breach threat in your AU! XD

my question: how did Vanny get the power of the ghost children (remnant?) and how did the animatronics become semi-organic??

Oh hey! Happy you enjoyed that au.

To answer your question, I was kind of going with occult inspirations and stories related to it in how reality warped and became unstable. Silent Hill being a major draw of inspiration for that. I was also combining it with that old fashioned 80’s fantasy movie logic like The Neverending Story and Labryinth where when magic is involved things do get strange and not everything is as it’s seems.

The animatronics became semi organic as a result of uncontrolled residual energies in the area. Here I was gonna incorporate some witchcraft practices and methods to explain this one. Some of it lights goes into my own research and practices in real life I do. You see, energies tend to build up and up and there can be a focal point the caster can focus on. That is where magic circles come in as the energy is contained and can build up for magic purposes. But when the circle is broken, the energies are unexpectedly released and can be unstable and chaotic depending on the intent of the individual.

Vanny dabbled into her own research in au story and decided to ritualistically place the children’s bodies in certain locations to make her own markers and draw energies from there. Then, in a fit of rage in the narrative where Vanessa confronts her sister, she broke the circle and cast out her will and let herself be engulfed in the chaos. And drag everything nearby with her in it.

“This is my will. So mote it be!”

[crazycatladysims]

beginning // previous // next

[[ transcript below ]]

aubrey: do you happen to have anything to eat? haven't eaten since brunch i'm so hungry i could eat sausage and hate sausage

celene: sorry what? was distracted

aubrey: is there anything i can buy at the bar to eat?

celene: at the bar? nothing from that year, neither solid or without alcohol … but still have some cheese bread i brought from winderburg in the trailer, no need to pay tho

aubrey: hey! i ate the weirdest, tastiest thing. kinda rubbery but… oh

celene: why the long face?

aubrey: theo slept and made me realize how muchi want my bed right now.

wanted to wait for the Fangs but who knows when they'll come back

celene: it is better. and if they left with Kiril they will probably come back wild

i'll take you to the B&B, hold on going to get Annabeth

let's go

aubrey: is this really necessary?

celene: don't worry, she can't seriously hurt them. just repel them in case they try something funny

[bisexualblckcanary]

Me: I'm not going to put The Longest Night on hold to read Oz: Into the Wild.

[storm-driver]

i really am back on my bullshit, wow.

[humunanunga]

She has an odd feeling about this...

[benjaminthewolf]

The Story Of P.O.V.: Consumed by Desires

Ayo sorry for forgetting to post this on Friday, I had a really busy schedule that day. Anyway, enjoy the read.

TW: Blood and vomiting in the middle of the story, yeah this one gets intense.

****

     You begin to be able to hear the swift noises of footsteps clunking against the floor as they come towards you through the semi-thick cloth of the backpack you have been stowing in for the past few hours. There are voices outside where you currently reside, though they are muffled, and you can’t quite understand what they’re saying. You are able to decipher that there is one more masculine voice and several more feminine voices. You can feel the backpack you are in being lifted and thrown over the shoulder of the more masculine voice as you barely avoid getting crushed by a falling textbook. You do, however, manage to trip over a pencil in the process, leaving you to fall to the cloth floor of the backpack with a small “Oof!”. Now quite a while away from the feminine voices, the wearer of the backpack suddenly stops upon your abrupt exclamation. Picking yourself up, the sound of the backpack’s zipper unzipping echoes through the area as a fresh beam of light illuminates the inside, finally revealing your presence to the wearer. Your jaw instantly drops as you realize just who the person you are staring up at is. “S-Senpai?” you immediately ask yourself in your head.

     “Oh my, what do we have here?” a curious Senpai sparkles as he stares down at you. “It seems a little tiny has somehow managed to slip into my backpack. Odd, isn’t it. I wonder why.” Senpai blushes with a glowing smile as he gently slips his fingers around you and lifts you out of his backpack before zipping it back up and throwing it over his shoulder again.

     “Tell me, little one. Just how have these circumstances come to pass? Someone like you just happening to cross paths with someone like me? It can’t just be pure coincidence, now can it?”

     “Geez Louise, this guy loves fancy sentence structures.” you think to yourself as you consider how to respond. You clear your throat before explaining to Senpai how you entered his backpack to find a safe place to rest as you were exploring his pixelated world.

     “Ah, an adventurer, I see! That explains your out-of-placeness I suppose. I do simply wonder how many other worlds you have explored on your travels! Oh, if I may take you home, shall you tell me all about them?” Senpai responds before gazing off in somewhat of a dream-like trance, his blush visibly increasing.

     You can somewhat feel your body heating up as you begin to visibly blush as well. “How the hell is he this good with words that I’m already blushing? Has he practiced these lines or something?” You find yourself unable to respond before Senpai notices your state and begins to speak once more.

     “Ah, don’t worry my little one, we don’t have to rush into anything just yet. After all, we do have to get home first. Hmmm. Holding you in my hand may be a bit awkward, and I don’t think the backpack would be an entirely safe place to hold you in this case….” Senpai begins rambling before he turns directly to you. “Do...you have any ideas?”

     That did it. You could practically feel your body tingling with sensation as you gazed into the giant, baby blue eyes of the infamous Senpai, slowly coming to the realization that you do, in fact, have an idea. Barely able to control yourself, you relay your idea onto Senpai, slightly taking him aback at first.

     “Hmm? There? Are you absolutely sure? I mean, it’s not like I’ll hurt you or anything, but still-”

     You begin to fervently nod, signaling to Senpai that it is, infact, okay with you. Senpai shrugs.

     “Well, if that’s truly what you’re into, I guess I can’t deny you it. Oh, but don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” Senpai at last concedes.

     You make the best attempt you can to hide your over-excitedness as Senpai brings you closer to his face before at last unveiling his maw, and placing your tiny body within. He proves to have a surprisingly clean maw, with nearly perfectly pure white teeth and exceptionally minty breath. No big surprise, considering how much he seems to like showing off his smile. You gently crouch down and then sprawl yourself flat across his large, squishy tongue, coating most of your body in a thin layer of saliva in the process. It’s actually rather pillowy. A part of you wishes your arms were long enough to give it a proper hug, but unfortunately, your tiny size restricts your body from doing so, so you instead simply wait for him to initiate the next step in the process. Senpai’s muffled voice rattles through his slightly opened maw as he confirms your consent.

     “You’re absolutely sure this is alright?”

     After you give a firm “Yes.” in response, Senpai gives a large sigh, which pushes a front of moist, minty breath onto your face, dampening it slightly. Senpai fully closes his maw, sealing you within the warmth of its confines, before lifting up his tongue to push you to the back of his maw. You’ve raised up your head slightly in order to wipe off the light spray of saliva on it, causing you to accidentally bump his uvula. You swiftly apologize as you are pushed to the entrance of the throat, causing Senapi to give a small giggle. Then at last, Senpai swallows, leaving his throat to push you down towards his stomach. You can somewhat sense the light pressure from his fingers following your body down from the outside as the powerful muscles of the esophagus continue to shove you deeper into his body. The pounding of Senpai’s heart thumps in your eardrums as you put your ear against the side of the throat to best hear it. Then at last, you begin to hear the sounds of gurgling emitting from Senpai’s stomach as you approach the esophageal sphincter. Finally, you are pushed forth out into the depths of the stomach, leaving you to plunge down into the harmless acid within. It almost feels like normal water, as a matter of fact. Despite your current location, you aren’t feeling an ounce of fear or worry. Quite the opposite in fact. As you nestle against the churning walls of the stomach, allowing the echoing gurgling and rumbling, as well as the overarching heartbeat to flood your ears, your body begins to naturally settle into a state of pure calmness. Releasing any last tension you had in your body up until now with a small sigh, a smile slowly forms on your face as you close your eyes and casually lean into the squishy stomach walls coated with goopy saliva, with nothing but contentness in your being. On the outside, Senpai gently places a hand over his stomach and rubs it a few times before taking it off and continuing his journey home.

****

     You’re completely unsure of how much time has passed before you hear Senpai giving a hefty sigh on the outside, followed by a semi-dramatic flop onto...well...you can’t exactly see what he’s seeing, but you assume it to be his bed. Your heart suddenly speeds up as you realize the catastrophe that is to come of this. This move, naturally, causes your body to suddenly jolt to attention and slide with gravity to a different position in the stomach, getting swept up by the oncoming splash of stomach juices that was, of course, to come with such a swift spatial repositioning. You briefly lose your grip on the slick, slimy walls as it comes crashing over you, dousing your whole body and forcing you to hold your breath for a second as you swim back up to the surface. Once you breach it, you immediately begin cleaning your face again, so you don’t get anything in your eyes or up your nose. It was then that Senpai realized what he had done.

     “Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you like that! Are you okay? Don’t tell me I woke you up from a nap, did I? I’m such an idiot sometimes, I swear!” he instantly begins to ramble with slight panic.

     You swiftly reassure Senpai that you made it through just fine, which seems to calm him down.

     “Oh, phew! I was really worried there for a second! I’m just glad to hear you’re okay.” he briefly pauses as he takes his laptop out of his backpack. “Well, I’m just going to be on my computer for a while, so I won’t be needing to move for right now. And if I do need to move again, I’ll tell you, alright? And if you’re sleeping by then and can’t respond, then I’ll just move around more gently so you don’t wake up. Got that?” he explains to you as he types the password into his laptop.

     You confirm those plans to be all good before repositioning yourself in a comfortable position to snooze in. You lean back further into the flexible walls, squishing your body well into the smoothness and wetness of Senpai’s stomach before allowing the warmth and ambient rumbles to lull you back towards your previous calm state, and more importantly, into sleep. You expect to wake up earlier in the morning, since this is the early evening after all, before Senpai does, so you aren’t disturbed when he lets you out. The calm pool of stomach juices gently lasp against your body like miniature ocean waves, soaking their warmth into your lower body as you give a small nod and proceed to drift off. On the outside, Senpai can feel you snuggling down within him. He lets out a brief chuckle.

     “Goodnight my dear. Sweet dreams!”

****

     You give a small grunt as your body is shoved slightly out of position by the churning stomach walls. As you slowly regain consciousness, you begin to be able to sense the growling within the stomach once more, however, something about it seems...a little off. You brush it off at first, since stomachs are always making noise, but then as your brain continues to wake up, you come to a sudden realization. ‘Wait, I know that stomachs are supposed to move around and be all noisy, but isn’t this one doing those things...a bit too much? Like, more than it should be?’ you begin to wonder. ‘I wouldn’t’ve been pushed out of position if it was moving around the normal amount…’. It was at this point where that nagging question became too great to ignore, jolting you with a sudden bout of panic, and forcing you to open your eyes just to make sure everything was okay. It was then that you noticed the color of the liquid around you.

      “HUH? WHY IS IT RED ALL OF A SUDDEN?” you screech to yourself in your mind. You begin rapidly swiveling your head around in the stomach chamber, in an attempt to make sense of your current situation. It was then that you were finally able to see the random assortment of tiny holes that had somehow been poked into the walls of the stomach, causing them to bleed out into the chamber. Though you have absolutely no idea where, why, or how this had happened, your adrenaline simply does not care, kicking up an entire level as you finally are able to fully comprehend the danger you and Senpai were in. You immediately began crying out to Senpai, in an attempt to catch his attention, but unfortunately, as you listen closely to his outside noises to see if he heard you, you realize that his current breathing patterns could only indicate one thing: he was in a state of deep sleep. As you shakily place both hands on your head, scrambling your brain for options of what to do, the ambient noises of the stomach suddenly begin to become even louder, as the pink walls of the chamber slowly turn a more dark red. Not from blood, but from...well...in all honesty, you didn’t really have a chance to see what it was before you got a running start and drop-kicked the stomach wall as hard as you could, forcing Senpai awake as his gag reflex activated. 

     All you could sense before you were shoved back up the throat and landed flat on Senpai’s bedsheets was a low-pitched screech of pure rage. Who, what, where, when  why, or how it was there could wait for just a minute. Right now, you have a much bigger problem to deal with. What little moonlight was able to shine through Senpai’s window illuminated the face of a pure terror-stricken man, clutching his stomach in agony as he vomited up yet another round of stomach contents, but mainly his own blood. Through his ragged breathing, Senpai is only able to gag out a few sentence fragments.

     “MY PHONE! PLEASE! 199! WH-IT’S OUR 911! IN THE BACKPACK! FRONT POCKET! PLEASE!”

     After a brief second of hesitation, your mind immediately snaps into action. Senpai’s backpack is laying down beside the foot of his bed. He is in absolutely no position to move right now, so it is thus up to you to retrieve it. Dashing down to the end of the bed and leaping off to land onto the backpack, you stick a half-decent landing on the front before grasping hold of the metal zipper of the front pocket and tugging it along just far enough to make a hole large enough for you to slip through. Dropping down into the pocket, you feel your body striking against something hard, smooth, and cold. 

     Disregarding the initial shock and pain from the strike, you quickly force all of your body weight onto the very front of the pocket as you grasp the edge of the phone in one hand, toppling the whole backpack over so you may slip out, lugging the phone with you. Suddenly realizing you have no way of making it back up to the bed, at least not with this proportionally massive phone in your grip, you instead muster up all of the strength you have and launch the phone upwards, hoping you have swung with enough momentum to get it to the bed. Luckily, you somehow have managed to do just that. Senpai wastes no time in taking his hand off his mouth to open the phone and dial 199. 

     As the emergency responder picks up, you are barely able to focus on their conversation, not just because it’s all in Japanese, but also because you are currently attempting to climb your way back up onto the bed using the edge of a blanket that has slipped a bit too far off the mattress. Forcing your arms to continuously heave yourself up with each push, by the time you at last reach the top and sprint your way over to Senpai, you have exhausted so much of your energy that you simply collapse by his side once you make it there. Still conscious, you wearily lift up your already overworked arm to pat Senpai on his side, which is really all you can do to comfort him at this point. 

     Senpai holds onto his consciousness for just about five more minutes, before collapsing down onto his bed, barely managing to avoid landing in the pile of his own blood and vomit as he does so. Realizing the ambulance will be arriving just about any minute now, you swiftly slip into Senpai’s right pant pocket so you may stay with him on the ride to the hospital. 

     When the paramedics finally arrive, you are far too anxious and panicked to do anything but not move a muscle as Senpai’s body is lifted up from his bed. The pant-pocket is thick enough to muffle the voices of the responders so that you can’t understand what they’re saying. Realistically though, even if you could hear them, you still wouldn’t be able to understand them anyway, as they would more likely than not be speaking Japanese. Nonetheless, you can still sense the movement of the body as it is moved about through the house, out the doors, and into the ambulance. The loud, screeching cry of the sirens completely overwhelm your ears as the vehicle drives off towards the hospital. You have absolutely no idea how long the two of you have ridden before you finally arrive. At this point, your mind is way too full of emotions, thoughts, hysteria, and noise for you to understand anything that proceeded to happen as Senpai was admissioned into the hospital. You then suddenly feel the pants you are in sliding off of Senpai as he is changed into hospital robes. The pants proceed to land somewhere. You have no idea where, as unfortunately, you were unlucky enough to be positioned in such a way for your head to strike directly against the floor, or wherever you landed once the impact happened, thus knocking you out instantly.

****

     Though your head is still a bit groggy from all the chaos that had ensued last night, you would be lying if you were to say you didn’t feel somewhat refreshed after you last passed out. Flickering your eyes open, you are initially very confused to see the area you are in completely filled with the color black. Then you remember that you are in Senpai’s pant-pocket. Then you remember Senpai. 

     Wasting no time in scrambling out of the pocket, you sprint out onto whatever surface the pants were currently on, only to immediately screech to a halt as you just barely manage to avoid skidding off the slippery edge of a metal table. Picking yourself up after a few seconds of deep breathing, you take a second to glance around the room. You appear to be located in a standard hospital room. The natural light shining in from the large window to your back is the only thing that allows you to see as you glance around at the small TV on the wall, the plastic chair in the corner of the room, the advanced  machinery by the bed- the bed. Your heart-rate instantly kicks back up as your eyes settle onto the bed, and the figure that lays upon it. Senpai. He appears to still be asleep. At least, that’s what you hope. He could just be asleep. Or…. 

     You realized right then and there that you had to check. Judging the distance between the table and the bed, you deduce that if you get a running start, you should be able to leap over there no problem. Strolling over to the other end of the table, you shift your body into a running position as you prepare to make the jump. Sprinting as fast as you are currently able, allowing the slickness of the table to help you carry your momentum, you bound off the edge just in time, leaving you with plenty of momentum left to guide you over to the bed. Landing successfully on the middle of the bed, right next to Senpai’s arm, you immediately bounce to your feet and give a little victory cry before you hear a slight grunt.

     “Huh?” Senpai groans as he comes to.

     You heave out one of the greatest sighs of relief you have ever heaved out in your life.

     “Huh? I’m alive?” he shakily moans as he lifts his body to sit up in his bed. “Where am I? Is this the hospital?” Senpai takes a few more seconds to look around the room before he looks back down at his bed, suddenly catching you in his peripheral vision. “Hmm?”

     You awkwardly smile and wave up to Senpai as he stares down at you.

     “You...did you...how did you get here? D-did you really stay with me all that time? All the way through the ambulance and into the hospital? You did all that just to stay by my side?”

     After everything that has happened since the past night, all you can manage to muster is a quick nod in response. Senpai’s face immediately brightens as he brings an arm around you to gently shift you closer to his body, in the best equivalent of a hug the two of you can manage in your states. Once the embrace is let go, Senpai proceeds to let out a long sigh and flop back down onto his bed.

     “Man, I don’t know what they did to me last night, most likely I had my stomach pumped, but I somehow went from feeling like never eating anything again due to the sheer overload of pain, to feeling like...uh...what’s a good phrase to use here? The elephant one is too obvious...uh...well...I’m just really hungry now, alright? And I don’t know how long it will be before they come in and check on-what are you doing?”

     Having heard Senpai’s complaints, you’ve realized what you must do. As such, you’ve begun climbing his body to get up to his mouth. Senpai becomes rather confused for a second, but then it hits him.

     “Ah. I see. Just like what we did last night, huh?”

     You give a small smile and nod.

     “Oh, alright then. I still may feel weird doing it, but at least I’ll have something filling my stomach until I can get breakfast.” Senpai at last concedes before opening his maw slightly, just enough for you to climb inside.

     Making your way inside the maw, you almost immediately have to suppress your own urge to throw up as you swiftly plug your nose. The chaotic events of last night have left Senpai’s once dazzling, fully cleansed maw an absolute certified mess. Both the metallic stench of blood and nauseating stench of vomit are still very much prevalent in the air of the maw as you rapidly crawl to the back over a tongue that is still very much stained from the aforementioned liquids. 

     It takes Senpai a second to be able to properly swallow you, as his throat is still somewhat stinging from all the slightly acidic vomit that was expelled last night. Then at last, after a minute of being squeezed down his throat, you land back in the same destination you started in when this whole mess began. The area is still extremely sore, however there doesn’t seem to be any more blood, which is good. The small punctures that you saw in the walls last night are no longer leaking, and seem to already be showing signs of healing. 

     Most importantly though, whatever that demonic red...anomaly....was that turned the walls red last night is nowhere to be found. Satisfied with what you’ve seen, you pick a spot on the walls that doesn’t have a puncture near it and nestle down gently as you can so as to not agitate the already sore organ further. Back on the outside, Senpai starts to feel more comfortable now that he has something inside him. Laying a hand over his stomach and laying his head back down on his pillow, he is finally able to feel some sense of calmness after all the trauma of last night.

     “Thanks for staying with me. I don’t know that many people that would do that for me, especially if they were your size.” Senpai at last admits, with a twinge of pain still in his voice. Though you can tell it’s definitely not the same twinge that was in his voice when he first woke up.

     Honestly, you are just happy that you were able to help Senpai get the help he needed to survive, as if there was nobody there with him in the room when he started to vomit, who knows if he would have been able to get ahold of the hospital. Gently patting his stomach walls from the inside, you are suddenly also able to feel the first real sense of relaxation you have had since the entire mess began. Your smile becomes even bigger as you clear your throat to speak. “You’re welcome, Senpai.”

[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

[thevampiremarie]

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!!!

-

[dangermousie]

I've read some wuxia novels, some of them have been made into dramas ( Legend of Yunxi, The Princess Wei Young, etc ) but I've never watched any of them. Do you have any cdramas recommendation for beginners??

I am not going to recommend either Legend of Yunxi or Weiyoung - the former is because I didn’t like it because the male lead actor just didn’t work for me ultimately and the latter is because it’s fun but apparently deviates hugely from the novel, including who the heroine’s OTP is.

As to my recommendations:

If you like classic wuxia with some amazing OTPs and plots, Legend of Condor Heroes (2008). They seem to remake this one every few years but this one is my favorite version despite (or because of) the liberties taken with the novel.

Wuxia fights galore and amazing visuals, with a male protagonist who lives for his OTP who may or may not be the end of worlds? Ever Night (do stay away from Ever Night 2.)

Nothing is too depressing for you and period tragedy is something you crave? Royal Nirvana.

Team of misfits takes on injustice with a lot of fighting and outfits? Vigilantes in Masks.

Have you ever fantasized about Elizabeth Gaskell or Anne Bronte writing a novel set in Song Dynasty China? The Story of Minglan.

Epic wuxia OTP that is gay? The Untamed.

The rise and fall of an upper class family in the 1930s/40s? The Battle of Changsha.

All that but with more guns and romantic dysfunction? Siege in Fog.

If you love inevitable romantic tragedy which is visually gorgeous and full of screwed up people but still glues you in, Goodbye My Princess.

Visually stunning, clever mystery (with fights, of course)? Longest Day in Chang’an.

Old school romance novel with the hero who mostly drinks respect women juice? Sound of the Desert.

Shoujo manga crack with Qing queues and outfits? Jade Palace Lock Heart.

Shoujo Manga crack without Qing queues and outfits? Colourful Bone.

You like Princess Weiyoung and want more of the same - Song of Glory or Princess Silver.

Love Moon Lovers but wish hero was a bit less tortured ninja and the heroine had a greater share of brains? Bu Bu Jing Xin.

Epic OTP against the world saving/fighting the world and having a lot of makeouts - General and I, Legend of Fuyao.

Something nuanced and brainy but not many wuxia fights - Nirvana in Fire.

Same but with a soul crushing romance? Rise of the Phoenixes.

Epic high fantasy in every sense of the word? Novoland Eagle Flag.

Cheesy but entertaining high fantasy in ever sense of the word? Ice Fantasy.

Fantasy romance with reincarnations and similar? Three Lives Three Worlds Ten Miles of Peach Blossoms, Love and Destiny.

If you want more recs and info, I did a post on my favorite cdramas here:

https://dangermousie.tumblr.com/post/190553246296/mousies-new-and-improved-top-20-cdramas-list

And a list of period recs here:

https://dangermousie.tumblr.com/post/159022840071/hi-can-u-give-me-some-cdrama-recommendations

They are both a bit old but hopefully useful.

Also, if you have specific tropes you like, I can narrow it further :)

[radoncanyoncryptid]

hey mike could you maybe uhhh

fuckin

LEAVE

[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.

[tomahawk-swing]

((9 and 5 mun day :0000 please))

Questions for Muns of Canon Muses

9. For movie or TV muses, what other character played by your muse’s actor/actress has a lot in common with your muse?

[[I can't count the animes I've watched just because they had the boys' VA in them x) Yet I don't have that many different answers for this questions, because they both play very different kinds of characters ^^

I'd say that in Tomahawkman's case, he’s quite similar to Shinpachi from G/intama. They’re both the holder of the braincell in their group, they can be real sweethearts, but they have a shorter fuse than you’d expect :’)

As for Dingo, funnily enough, he’s extremely similar to Forte from G/alaxy Angel, who’s extremely rowdy and passionate, and I love her a lot :’) Plus they both have red hair!!  I’ve always wanted to write these two meeting and yelling at each other with the exact same voice x)  ]]

5. What is an aspect of your muse’s canon material or canon existence that you never had the opportunity to explore but really want to?

answered here!