#Porridge Bullet

[trevlad-sounds]

The Village Balloon

Released 26.04.2023

Gilroy Mere-The Age of the Train Alex Tyson-AQUACRUSH Pearl & The Oysters-Paraiso The Twelve Hour Foundation-Square One Sara Berts-Mayflies Binaural Space-RTWSF Suite Movement 3 Digitonal-Sphericals Joseph Shabason-Balloon Round The JWA-Dayglo Moonbeams, Pt. 2 Scanner-The Village Movement ybot-smoke Vague Imaginaires-Space Birthday Ajukaja-Sunda School 2 Sababa 5-Keyf Felix Laband-Minka Mary Yalex-Epic Room Two Bob Marley & The Wailers, Chineke! Orchestra- Is This Love David Boulter-Across Sea to Sand - Crab Claws

[ferrymann]

i have no like productive thoughts about any media at all i just sit and i’m like hm tangerine cuts lemons sandwiches diagonally and cuts the crusts off because that’s what they did as kids :)

[dastardly-imbecile]

lowkey insane AU that i'm too lazy to research and write but like. The American Revolution.

It's 1763. You're a colonial woman, your husband's fighting in the Seven Years' war, and four of the largest men you've ever seen show up on your doorstep to be quartered (this is not technically supposed to happen, but be it far from you to question Lord Loudoun).

Simon, Johnny, Kyle, John('Price', he tells you). Dolled up in scarlet livery and bayonets longer than your body. You spend hours bustling around the kitchen; apple dumplings and scrapple, porridge and cured meats. All of it is eaten without complaint. It endears you, more than a bit, to see them so fixated on the little niceties you can offer.

You try to set them up in a spare room, but it's not long before they commandeer your bed. Switching with each other as the nights go on, a presence at your back, so warm and heavy that you cannot pretend it's your husband's. When it's Johnny, you'll wake up to a heavy hand thrown around your waist, half-wandering under your nightgown. Kyle is always a perfect gentleman, as is Price, and you always awake perfectly sequestered on your end of the bed, but you cannot help but run a hand over your stomach, examine your breasts and try to ascertain if you're imagining the faint bruises.

When it's Simon's turn, you don't have to imagine. You know.

They march to the front, and your home is once again empty. You think of them more than you should—empty house, empty table, empty bed. It feels like you are holding a breath tight in your chest, a pig's bladder with rapidly thinning skin, until the door to your home swings open, and it all releases in an instant.

It's different, now. You sit before the washbasin and scrub at their red overcoats until your hands are cracked and raw, until the water runs scarlet.

A letter comes in the mail. Your husband's dead. You look at it and try to feel grief. Died young, married younger. Tragedy in a blade and a bullet, in the blood under your fingernails, dried upon a claret overcoat.

You do not know whether it's the letter, it's the war, or it's the prospect of leaving, shipped off back to the motherland, little toy soldiers in little toy boxes, that has them bold.

You wake, some nights, to Johnny's mouth upon your neck, to the soothing lilt of accented words you cannot distinguish. Kyle brushes past you with a hand upon your waist that slowly drifts downwards. When you serve Price dinner, he grabs you by the cheek, pulls you down for a kiss that lasts longer than it should. Simon watches you with a gaze that borders on ravenous, and it unsettles you that it does not seem fixated on your breasts, your hips, but instead some red part within you, locked upon the organs pulsing beneath your skin.

The winter is cold. It's only natural to allow them the warmth of your bedroom - their presence on your sheets is limited only by the size of your bed. Some mornings, you spend half-delirious, many pairs of hands wanedring over your body, dipping into the heat between your legs, shoving so far into your mouth that they touch your backmost teeth.

[swivi]

Kinich with a sick S/o

●Kinich is the type to find out your sick before you do.

● Kinich is the type to head out to get medications for you before you wake up and prepare a meal for you.

●Ajaw mocked him for overreacting over you having a small cold, only to get put in time outfor the 10000+ time.

●Ajaw complained the entire time Kinich went out early looking for medicine and herbs to give you.

●If you refuse to take the medicine or complain, he would try to bribe you.

●If you still refuse he would sigh, pinching your nose before forcing the spoonful of medicine into your mouth. Ignoring your whines of protest.

●Ajaw mocked you the entire time, calling you a oversized baby.

●New nickname unlocked: Kinich's dramatic baby. Loved the look of annoyance on Kinich's face when he called you that.

●Forced you to stay into bed especially if you like overworking yourself.

●Kinich would take time off his commissions to make sure you don't sneak out sick or do something stupid.

●Kinich is the type to carry back books and small gifts in hopes of it making you feel better.

The morning had came by quickly in your shared bedroom as you squirmed in the bed, reaching out to Kinich for comfort from the cold feeling that seemed to wrap around you. It was like a cold bucket of water was dunked over you as you felt around the bed for Kinich. Only to find the spot empty, your eyes slowly cracked open, adjusting to being open and as you thought..the side of his bed was empty.

You felt cold as chills ran down your body, yet before you could get up. The door opened, the lights of your bedroom turning on, almost blinding you in the process. Your eyes had opened again, fighting to adjust to the light in your room. There Kinich stood, Ajaw was no where to be found. You couldn't help but smile, knowing me probably put him in time out again. Your eyes trailed down seeing the tray in his hand as Kinich stood infront of you. He slowly placed the tray down on the table, that consisting of a bowl of porridge and a glass of water before moving to check your temperature. Placing his hand on your forehead. As expected, you had a fever as he sighed, sitting beside you.

After some convincing he had gotten the oppurtunity to feed you as he silently spoon fed you the porridge. You felt like a child at that point and as if your embarassment wasn't enough, Ajaw had gotten out of time out. The sound of him appearing reached your ears. Kinich had ignored him, focused on feeding you but Ajaw, the moment he saw what was happening, all hell broke loose.

"Oh, look at you..feeding them like their some two year old toddler...pathetic and over a small cold too?" Ajaw went on, amused by the sigh of weakness as he mocked you both. You could feel your face heat up even more from embarassment and the fever as Kinich fed you the last bit of porridge. Handing you the glass of water with a small sigh, as he turned to Ajaw.

"Will you shut it?" Kinich seemed unamused at his mocking words as took out a small bottle of cold medicine he had bought from the market and just like that...your guard was up yet again. Kinich studying your expression sighed as he filled a clean spoon with the medicine, holding it out to you. As expected, you turned away. Dodging it like it was a bullet as you closed your mouth stubbornly. Kinich sighed, trying to feed you again as Ajaw watched with a scoff.

"Aww..look at Kinich's dramatic baby, can't even handle drinking medicine. Can you be anymore pathetic?" Ajaw's voiced reached your ears again and Kinich frowned. He had turned to Ajaw tired of him and in a bold move, he forced the spoonful of medicine into the pixel dragons mouth. Ajaw choked, not expecting it as the bitter taste reached him. His body turning red and orange as he glitched around yelling insults at Kinich.

"WWKERSJ, HOW DARE YOU FEED THE ALMIGHTY K'UHUL AJAW THAT ATROCITY!" His voice rang out, disgust present on his face as he went to complain more, only to be flicked away into time out by a calm Kinich.

The room went silent as you stared over the side where Ajaw was. His disgusted face at tasting the medicine making you laugh before wincing at your sore throat. Kinich seeing that sighed as he turned back to you.

"See? It's safe, now take the medicine..your gonna get worse if you don't." He seemed calm, acting as if he didn't just shove a spoonful of cold medicine down the pixel dragons mouth. You didn't even think that was possible. Thinking of it made you shudder as you agreed. Reluctantly waiting as Kinich grabbed another spoon, pouring more of the medicine in it. You took it this time, not wanting to face his wrath and as expected it was bitter as you held back the urge to spit it out.

A few hours had passed after and you had started feeling better or so you told yourself. Wanting to go out to work, only to get denied as Kinich ignored your protests and whined of being side and wanting to go out...yep today was gonna be a long day.

Along the way seeing how bored and annoyed you were at staying home, Kinich had went out to get some gifts and books for you when you were sleeping. Placing them beside you, so that when you woke up, you would have something more to entertain you.

Side note~

strangely, a certain pixelated dragon hadn't came out of time out even after he was given freedom...Guess the medicine traumatized him, even if he didn't wanna admit it.

(Be warned I'm still sick, yes I've been sick since October and after like 2 weeks of recovering from my last cold, I got slapped in the face with a flu. So sorry if there is any mistakes or wrong writing. I did this while waiting at the hospital..well I still am here.)

[alicerosejensen]

No time to die

Warning: Death of the reader; injuries; mention of blood; implied parting with Leon; Old leon; Fem!reader

Synopsis: he should have decided on his feelings before telling you about love. He should be taking care of you instead of running after Ada again, but now he will have enough time for this activity.

A/N: Sometimes I write about Leon's slippery ass. Well, I really had disturbing thoughts again.

If you were given a choice on whose hands to spend the last minutes of your life, you would never have chosen the hands of Leon S Kennedy.

In fact, you would rather lie in a pool of your own blood, moving away from him as far as possible, leaving dark scarlet streaks behind you, than let him help you. After all, despite all his love for this man, he caused you a very strong pain. Even stronger than what you feel now, when you try to get to your feet leaning on torn palms, spitting out a thick foam of blood.

Well, ordinary civilians can hardly resist a giant bioweapon that has crushed a bunch of people like bugs up to this point, but if Ada Wong was only slightly knocked down by a blow, which caused her to lose consciousness for a while, then you were thrown with such force that the organs inside seem to have turned into porridge.

But at that moment you didn't care anymore. The pain pierced every cell of your body and the only desire in your head was just to hide from it somewhere. Leon and his endless love for Ada didn't care anymore, but this pain will always remain in your heart. After all, he came to her aid and not to you.

You started coughing up blood. From every breath it became increasingly unbearable to breathe, and then you lost that fragile balance that you found for a couple of short seconds, collapsing on shards of glass that crumbled under your weight. Everything swam before your eyes. You didn't have the strength to curse anyone because all you wanted was not hugs and a declaration of love, but for this painful hell to end faster! A grunt escaped from your throat when someone tried to turn your body over and provide first aid, but only blood splattered out of your mouth.

"God," Leon's partner looked at you with big frightened eyes, trying to think of something, but stopped when you gathered the remnants of your strength and grabbed her hand, looking at the gun in her holster.

The last mercy for the dying.

"Please..." your hoarse, very quiet whisper begged Helena to "finish it"

Tears flowed from red eyes mixing with the blood that was on your face. From this pain, the vessels in your eyes burst and it seems that the only way out was a kind of voluntary euthanasia by a bullet in the head and not waiting for your body to stop fighting death before the damaged organs stop working themselves.

And then Helena's loud voice was heard calling Leon to finally break away from his beloved and pay attention to the dying you. If your condition were better, you would spit this very blood in his face. However, he really ran up to you after a couple of seconds, laying you on his lap, trying to do everything carefully so as not to cause additional pain. You didn't really want to spit, but you accidentally soiled his face when he stroked your hair.

Crimson thin rivulets slowly poured out of your nose and you closed your eyes a little at a new outbreak of suffocating pain that filled your whole body reflexively clinging to Leon's hand. His skin showed signs of broken nails, but he didn't seem to mind. It was unbearable for you to take even a small breath; even one attempt was accompanied by a bloody, foamy, painful cough at the edge of your mouth. It was like Hell.

Leon seemed to be looking for something that could help you, delay death, but Helena already understood everything. Anyone who saw you would understand that the injuries you received were not compatible with life.

“Please don’t...please,” Leon muttered, trying to stop the scarlet stain spreading under your chest. “Baby, I know, I know it hurts, but be patient.”

“Leon...” his partner called quietly, hinting that it was pointless.

And at some point you noticed Ada looking at you without pity, without disgust, without any other emotions. Just another corpse that crossed their path. Wong only had a couple of scratches. She did not writhe in agony and Leon would quickly find solace in her immediately after your death, this thought made your body gather its last strength and with a tearing cough look at the man in front of you, in whose eyes you could see fear for your life. On your last breath, you decided to hurt him before you die, as punishment for what he did to your heart, crushing it like a paper ball, and then tearing it apart, throwing you pathetic scraps... Well, that's how you saw it.

Leon caught that look, something in it even scared him, but your next words, which were the last, were forever imprinted in his memory and on his heart. Because you knew how painfully he endures the fact that someone hates him. You pulled your hand out of his and with hatred hissed something that was not even true in essence. It's just that at this very moment you wanted him to understand what pain he caused you with his love for Ada Wong.

"I... ha-te... you"

Everything inside Leon snapped in the same second. His love for Ada has remained a pain in your heart, but... the same pain will remain in him. The last breath, and your eyes, which he loved so much, glazed over, and your mouth remained slightly ajar. Ada... she didn't say anything, but was she surprised? Leon grabbed your hand again, trying to feel at least a weak pulse, but the words you said were pounding in his head, making tears flow from his eyes.

"No," he whispered softly, unable to believe what was happening. You couldn't die in his arms like that and you couldn't say those words. You had no reason to say those words to him! "Come on, look at me, I'll take you to a safe place. They will help you"

Helena put her hand on his shoulder, realizing how it hurt him in the end. He doesn't even have the opportunity to leave your body in a safe place and all he and Ada could do was watch him stroke your cheek with one hand holding your shoulders. The pose is exactly similar to when he defended Ada in China, only she was able to survive and you unfortunately did not.

"It's not your fault... no one is to blame for her death," Ada only said. She felt sorry for him " And her words... Leon..."

"She was not herself," Helena picked up, looking at Leon silently

Ada at some point correctly decided that it was out of jealousy. Just the last time to prick a loved one knowing that he will keep these words to himself for a long time. But they didn't have time for mourning and tears, however, even she didn't have the tongue to tell Leon to leave you here. So she just asked for his jacket and wrapped you in it, believing that you really would like it - to be enveloped in the fragrance of a loved one before death.

now was simply not the time and place to grieve, but even she did not understand the meaning of the words you said. After all, Leon really left her for you. Ada couldn't give him the stability and love he needed. Their complicated relationship hurt Leon in a way, but with you he became a normal person. She understood this, so she calmly retreated, because neither he nor she had ever felt sincere love for each other. Leon found this bright feeling in you by breaking off even short dates with her forever, and all Ada could do was really help him later.

Your death was committed out of place and all three of them understood that from Leon now only the shadow of the former man will remain and he himself will wallow in alcohol constantly replaying your dying words on repeat.

You really shouldn't have told him that.

[tarottsi]

ogata who likes you but will never accept it. so he’s unknowingly seeking affection, never waiting but simply do.

his love language is gift giving— something in exchange for another— to which, of course, he initiates like he always does (a tattooed skin for hijikata, a duck for his mother, his father death for tsurumi). but with you? he doesn’t know what to do. you said you liked flowers, so should he— no. that’s too intimate.

now, taking a bullet for you? yeah, that’s it. it’s not like it hit anything vital anyway. but you just happened to be in the line of fire, and he happened to be there. his body moved before he can think, and a hole shot through his calves. immediately after, he returned fire and killed the bastard of course.

oh well, at least now you’re sitting by his side at the futon. at least now, you feed him some rice porridge and fish. at least now he’s under your care. at least now there’s a reason for your hands to be all over him.

subconsciously, acts of service was his love language too. maybe he should get shot some more.

[strawberrynightmere]

Hi, can I request a yandere sashisu x reader? you can put any of the three characters If it makes you uncomfortable

Anonymous💕✨

Sorry this took so long.

Just The 4 Of Us [Yandere SaShiSu x Female Reader]

TW⚠️: yandere tendencies, this trio are a warning themselves, alternate universe (Riko lives), injury, bullet wound, mentioned murder, my writing, etc.

A/n: idk what else to say.

As soon as you heard the assassin footsteps fade away, you rolled off of Riko and screamed in agonizing pain, which surprised Geto. Riko soon joins you in screaming.

"I HATE THIS JOB!"

"I HATE IT TOO!"

While you two were busy crying, Geto used his reverse curse technique and was able to pick the two of you up and head to the exit.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Now you were lying on a hospital bed with a grumpy expression. "Yeah, sure, mom and dad, I'll become a sorcerer. Now look at me, I'm on mandatory bedrest couse I got shot! I should've just specialized in dance like I wanted to." You grumbled to yourself.

"Aren't you being over dramatic?" Shoko asked as she was feeding you porridge. You take a spoonful and eat it.

"Excuse you. I am the right amount of dramatic, thank you very much. Your boyfriends were -" You interrupt your sentence to eat another spoonful of porridge she offered.

"Thanks. Where as I? Right! Your boyfriends were just screwing around most of the time, Riko was in distress, and honestly, so was I!" You finished your sentence.

"They're not that bad." She retorted, playing the empty bowl on the trey. "You should get some rest." She kissed your forehead and left with the tray.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

"And then they asked for my number." You were just hanging out with Riko, Utahime, and Shoko at the Cafe

"That was the worst pickup line I've ever heard, and they still asked for your number?"

"What can I say? Your girl's got charm. Especially since I scored a date with them this weekend."

"No way. What do you think, Shoko? Shoko?" Utahime asked again as the other girl didn't answer. She was busy texting on her phone.

"Hmm. Yeah. I have to go now." You three stpo her as she gets up fron the chair.

"Why? What happened?"

"Was it those two idiots? Are they causing trouble again?!"

"No, I just got called in. I'll see you guys later." And she left.

"That was weird."

"I still think it's those two."

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

"What the hell!?" You bust into the room Gojo, Geto, and Shoko were.

"What are you so angry about?" Geto asked.

"You guys killed my date. That's what I'm talking about."

"Why do you think it's us?" Gojo teased.

You whipped out your phone, and on it was a selfie of the three in the same place your date was found, and the time it was sent was close to the time they were presumed dead. To that, Shoko and Geto glared at Gojo. Gojo, however, shrugged his shoulder with a goofy smile.

"Couldn't help myself."

Geto pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Since everything is out in the open..."

You didn't get to hear the rest of his sentence, as something restrained you, and you blacked out.

A/n: Gosh, this sucks.

[verdemoun]

i have to say that i have an irish dad who was born and raised in antrim so sean saying “aye wise up maeve” in completely unfair and inappropriate situations must be canon because theres not an irish father alive who doesnt do that and if i had to go through it she does too

i wish i had authentic irish experiences to base my headcanons on my family haven't been irish for 10 generations (australia yeah boi)

the first time he said it was when maeve was 9 months old and tried to sit up by herself only to faceplant the way babies do

sean had absolutely no memories of darragh ever saying it to him until the words fell out of his mouth. it was instinct, and he wracked his brain and suddenly remembered all the times he did something stupid or better yet times where something completely out of his control happened - like the time he burned his mouth on porridge - and darragh laughed and told him to 'aye wise up'.

he proceeded to say it constantly. maeve trips? aye wise up. maeve breaks her phone screen? wise up. maeve is complaining about a teacher at school? wise up (but he also goes into school and screams bloody murder because how dare someone annoy his precious daughter) bad hair day? aye wise up

but maeve genetically has the snark of both the macguire and jones' clan, as well as being the daughter of the genius lenny summers. you bet your ass the first time sean made an ass out of himself, maeve hit him with wise up and it was like taking a bullet again.

runs out of gas? maeve in a toddler seat telling him to ayeeee, wise up. forgets to do his laundry? wise up. brings home the one type of pizza everyone but he hates? wise up. sometimes, just to throw him off, when she does something she knows will make him say 'aye, wise up', she says it first. it causes him to malfunction

lenny didn't realise how much it was part of his life until a student asked about his weekend in an obvious attempt to distract him and he rolled his eyes and told them to 'aye, wise up' - the student still won because he had to explain how his husband and daughter say it constantly, because his husband is irish and it's just a thing

[raviollies]

Summary time

The gang decided to investigate a Selunite encampment for Eirwen to ask for ways to combat Shar and the influence of the Shadowfell and maybe clues regarding her lost memories. The Selunite outpost was....well rundown. Everything was dirty, tattered and no Selunite symbols. When questioned they literally just said "DO YOU SEE HOW WE LIVE?"

2. I think you guys can tell that it was actually a Sharrian enclave instead. Blythe used Dominate Person and charmed one of them and they gave us a guided tour of the facility. The basement had a bunch of bodies and relics, which we looted of course.

3. The party (Eirwen and Arameia) refused to leave unless we took care of them because they're hurting innocent people. Blythe couldn't possibly give a fuck cause she's not getting paid, and Raha just kind of was ambivalent. Then Blythe had a lightbulb moment and told them to UNALIVE themselves (Yes I know Dominate person doesn't work this way but we found it to be funny enough to just go with it)

5. Afterwards the gang went back to camp and hung out for a bit. Had a long discussion about whether or not it matters if Eirwen regains her memories because at the end of the day, she's still herself. Who cares who she used to be, and if that information hurts her...why not let sleeping dogs lie?

5.5 I FORGOT but at dinner Lorelai decided to be bat form as it's easier for her to get cozy and warm up and she had her blood in a goblet (Yes we all thought batstarion was too adorable). Arameia however thought it was EXTRA adorable and asked her to sit her in lap. She did.

6. Raha made breakfast the next day - Rice Porridge with nutmet and cinnamon with side of plums and nuts...it was an Elven dish from his childhood - unfortunately it had milk in it and Eirwen is lactose intolerant.

6.5 ANOTHER THING I FORGOT - Arameia introduced her tiny little miniature dragon she found in her coinpurse (yes. that's his horde. pocket change) and Blythe went Wild because of the amount of chemical reagents she could acquire from the little guy. The little guy in question was sweating bullets and attempting to flee.

7. We went to an Elven village to restock but turned out that it was ransacked by most likely humans, judging by the weapons left behind. Raha himself was the most despondent out of them all since he had lost his family due to a human raid, his entire village facing a similar fate and nothing remained except some survivors that had to relocate.

8. Arameia asked Raha to translate something she found and it was clear that Raha did not speak Elven naturally, and it is his second language. It was revealed that Raha never learned Elven as a child, due to the proximity of his village to a large human settlement most spoke common instead of Elven to be able to communicate with the humans. Unfortunately this caused a lot of friction with the Elves that took in the refugees. Facing a lot of ostracization and othering, Raha had left this other village as soon as he could, and learned Elven on his own, causing him to be fluent by no means anywhere near a native speaker.

(I shit you not tumblr wouldn't let me post this until i did the border. I don't know what it has against Forlorn Raha)

9. Raha and Arameia had a heart to heart at the fire, as Arameia also lost her parents when her village was wiped out (hers by a pack of werewolves, hence her deep seated hatred towards them). Raha could sympathize, but he doesn't hate humans, due to the hate he faced from other Elves. He believes that it's simply a product of having power, and chooses to remain solitary.

He is thankful for meeting everyone but he can never trust crowds or big populations ever again, preferring to stay clear.

10. Lorelai bullied Raha for getting laid

[weepingfoxfury]

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday ...

A cooler day today, but still not raining. Nor was it raining on Saturday, Saturday, Saturday either ... so the Groundhog Day TV Guide and newspaper didn't turn into papier-mâché.

All highly unusual. After all, this is a Bank Holiday, and this is the Emerald Isle ... soooooooooo ... someone or something must have managed to appease/distract the Gods and get them to delay their bath-time. As I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before, their plumbing leaves a lot to be desired ... so it could be that finally, finally some celestial plumber made his way to their not so des res and fixed this and that to cut down on the overflow.

The washing machine carries on apace. All hooman stuff has been washed, however, there's still the not-so-small matter of the bedding etc etc that belongs to the Hairy Horde. (shakes head and tuts to self) ... I've tried and tried to talk to them about this ... shown them just how the machine works ... upped their weekly pocket money ... and yet ... (big sigh) ... not one of them has managed to do any of this stuff for themselves. Obviously more research on incentives is needed.

On a final (and unrelated) note, I'm now watching the final season of The Handmaid's Tale. I know, I know ... not the happiest of TV fare but, given current circumstances, I'm curious to see how they bring it all to a close. I didn't bother with the previous season ... I'd taken all I could of grim old Gilead and the interminable lingering shots on not-so-jolly June's face ... but I figure that there could just be some useful pointers as to what to do and how to survive 2025. Come on, Margaret Atwood ... give us the bullet points! ;-)

Ach well ... breakfast is calling ... fingers crossed my porridge is less than apocalyptic! ;-D ...

[notsoterriblymisanthropic]

tagged by @godzilla-en-mexico to post some of my favourite musicians and my favourite songs by them, so here goes:

Beach House - Levitation Cocteau Twins - Cherry-Coloured Funk Death Grips - Guillotine  Devo - Jocko Homo Discharge - State Violence State Control Gang of Four - 5.45 The Fall - Impression of J Temperance Fucked Up - Crusades The Hold Steady - Constructive Summer Kneecap - CEARTA Ministry - Breathe Misfits - Bullet Mobb Deep - Hell on Earth Mountain Goats - No Children  Porridge Radio - Danish Pastry Lyrics Protomartyr - Ellen Ramshackle Glory - Bitter Old Man Ronettes - Be My Baby Rudimentary Peni - Farce The Shangri-Las - Great Big Kiss Shop Assistants - All Day Long  Special Interest - Herman’s House Tragedy - To Earth Like Dust The Weakerthans - Pamphleteer Xiu Xiu - I Luv the Valley OH!

turns out about 25 songs is about as short as i can get that list. tagging @thewomanwithmissingfingers @gorimbaudandgojohnnygo @merricatly @agirlnamedbone anyone else who feels like doing it

[raffe156]

Imagine Price laying there in an abandoned warehouse surrounded by his Taskforce. He's bleeding out. They have done everything in their power to slow the bleeding just until evac arrives but they know evac won't make it and Price knows it's too late. So whilst surrounded by those he trusts the most, he makes Ghost promise him. Promise he won't let Tank spiral into depression. Promise he will be there when Tank will scream and damn whomever is watching them from above. Promise he will be there for Tank and the twins. And with a shaken breath and a promise from Ghost, Price knows he can let go. As he closes his eyes he can feel the lads attempt to shake him awake. He can hear the blades of an incoming heli. But all of that is background noise to the sound of Tanks humming in the kitchen and the twins laughter as they run around her.

Haha how do you do it mate? The emotions you have just made me feel from a few lines?

It hurt Ghost to even agree to it, but he had to, he needed to…he wanted to.

If he had just been those few seconds quicker, the bullet would have missed Price and would have landed in his side instead. It should be him laying on the cold concrete floor, clinging to what little life was left in him thankful that his retched life had meant something, thankful he had a team like this, a Captain like Price, it should be him dying, not Price.

He clutched his Captains hand tightly, Price’s blood soaking through his skeleton gloves. Gaz was still trying to keep him alert, Ghost could see the steady stream of tears coming from his eyes, the lad was losing a father figure. No matter what life threw at him Price always dusted himself off with his hat and got back up, but not this time.

Soap looked on as he painfully kept watch for the evac helicopter, that was just on the horizon, the beat of its blades felt in his chest. His eyes glistened too, but he wiped them away with his wrist. He had to keep watch.

Ghost could almost hear the screams of anguish and pain from Tank, she would lash out, she would kick and scream he would be her punching bag. His mind turned to the twins, so much like their dad and what a dad he was, he wouldn’t even compare, but he had to try for his Captain.

Ghost could feel Price’s grip loosen, but he held tight the man who had saved him years of pain and torment. Till the end he said.

Price looked up at his Lieutenant, he knew he would honour his promise. He closed his eyes, the pain had stopped, he wasn’t cold anymore, but was now enveloped by a warm glow. The sound of laughter and tiny hushed voices, little feet thudding towards him. A warmth crashed over him as the smell of overly sweet porridge, jam and coffee filled his lungs. He heard Tank calling him, her voice singsongy as she kissed his temple. He had been a lucky man.

[whisperofzone]

S.T.A.L.K.E.R:

The Heart of Chernobyl

Quest: Amber Archer

Part 1: A stalker girl

📍Location: ‘Yantar’ (Amber) Railway Station

🕗 Time: 8:16 p.m.

Skif was tired. He arrived at ‘Yantar’ Station in the late afternoon. The sun was slowly setting, bathing the landscape in gold. The young man lifted his head, gazing at the horizon. The Zone — as terrifying as it was beautiful. He adjusted his radiation mask and headed toward the building.

This area used to be rich in amber deposits. It was mined here and shipped by train to Rivne, to a company called “Potential Polissya Ltd.”

Back then, the place was bustling with life. Now — decay, radiation, psy-emissions, and a shelter for worn-out stalkers looking to catch their breath or trade bullets and weapons.

Skif felt a small sense of relief as he stepped into the large building that had once served as a rest station for conductors and workers at ‘Yantar’.

He entered the main hall. Inside, the air smelled of hot metal, roasted meat, and dust — the typical scent of a bar where stalkers from all over the region gathered. Behind the bar stood a man in his forties — buzz-cut hair, a thin beard, and a scar across his forehead. He wore a faded camo jacket with an old patch on the shoulder that maybe used to mean something.

“Got any free beds?” Skif asked shortly, taking his backpack off.

The bartender looked him over.

“Yeah. Second floor, room six. Pay up front.”

Skif silently pulled out a few bills. It was enough.

“What about food?” he asked, tightening his backpack strap.

“Buckwheat with canned meat. And tea. If it hasn’t gone bad.”

“Sounds like a delicacy,” Skif muttered, taking a seat at one of the wooden tables, a bit away from the others.

He was served a metal bowl with warm porridge and chunks of canned meat — surprisingly, it looked like actual meat. A cloudy glass of tea was set beside it. He ate slowly and in silence. The fatigue was washing over him — not just physical, but mental. Every day in the Zone could be your last. Every moment of peace — a gift.

After eating, Skif went up to the room — creaky stairs, peeling walls, stale air. One bed, a sagging mattress — but after all he’d been through, it felt like luxury.

He lay down without removing all his gear. Just took off the Kevlar vest and unzipped his jacket. For fifteen minutes he just lay there, staring at the cracks on the ceiling. Thinking. Thoughts in the Zone were a dangerous thing. But today, he allowed himself a bit of peace.

When he came back downstairs, the bar was half empty. Some were sleeping, others playing cards. Skif moved toward a lit-up corner where a trader sat behind a makeshift table — gray-haired, with cyber-veins running along his neck, dressed in an old military uniform. This was the Professor — or just “the Old Man,” as locals called him.

The young stalker was hoping to pick up a mission, earn some money. He didn't need to fix nothing no gun, no overalls, he had been to Rostok a few days ago and took care of everything there. Skif approached quietly, watching the back of a stalker already talking to the Old Man.

The figure leaned over the table which was a kind of trading post. Behind the trader hung guns, ammunition, first aid kits and many other things that were necessary for stalkers. The camo outfit was loosely fitted, and at first glance, Skif figured it was just another skinny stalker. But the longer he looked, the more defined the shape seemed.

He looked the person up and down — and it became more and more obvious: this was a woman.

“Hey, buddy, are you in line or what?” he asked, not bothering to be polite.

The girl turned around. Her gaze — cold like a spring rain. Light blue eyes, dirty blonde hair tied in a rough ponytail. Pretty, if you judged by her eyes — most of her face was hidden behind a mask — but there was clear distrust burning in her eyes.

“Do I look like your ‘buddy’?” she shot back dryly.

Skif raised an eyebrow, smirked.

“Sorry. Didn’t notice…”

She turned back to the trader and muttered:

“I need a job. Anything. As long as it pays well.”

The old man nodded, reached for a notebook.

“There’s something. Serious stuff. We think there’s something lurking in the tunnels under ‘Yantar’ again. Stalkers have gone missing — maybe bloodsuckers, maybe damned snorks. We already sent two guys — they never came back. Bring back their PDAs, and you’ll get five thousand. But you’ll need nerves of steel.”

Skif was about to walk away — but stopped at the mention of “five thousand.” He turned back, weighing the risk. Was she really going alone? Could she handle a bloodsucker? He looked at her again. Holstered pistol on her belt, a quiver on her back — about 30 titanium arrows.

She really ran around the Zone with a bow? And that sad little pistol was her only backup? If she took this job… she was in trouble. Thirty arrows wouldn’t kill a bloodsucker — those things were twice as fast as an arrow. Or a snork — you’d need to land all thirty shots just to bring one down. And what if there was more than one?

Five thousand was good money. Maybe he should just take the job? But something about stealing it from her felt… wrong.

“I’ll take it,” the girl said.

Crazy.

Skif stepped up to the table and stopped in front of the Old Man. The trader gave him a curious look. The girl glanced sideways.

This is the Zone. There’s no place for honor here. Only the strong survive. The ones with better gear. And that’s not her, he thought.

“I can handle it better,” Skif said plainly, looking at the trader.

“Are you out of your mind?! That was MY mission!” the girl snapped, stepping forward, her heartbeat rising.

“You heard him — it’s dangerous. I’ll handle it better. And honestly, your arrows aren’t exactly the best weapon against a bloodsucker or a snork,” he said. His voice wasn’t angry — more like casually indifferent, which somehow irritated her even more.

The trader chuckled.

“You’ll go together. If both of you come back — three grand each. If only one survives — the full six goes to the one who does.”

A short silence. She looked at Skif with disdain. He smirked faintly. He was used to those looks — but coming from her, it was oddly amusing.

“Either we go together and come back alive — or we go separately and I get six grand,” Skif said flatly.

She looked angrier. But finally, she sighed and straightened up, stepping away from the table.

“Name’s Amber Archer. And don’t mistake me for a target, got it?”

He gave a half-smile.

“Skif. And if you shoot well — you won’t be.”

They left the base without looking back.

The sky had already turned ashen — a grayness like the aftermath of a fire yet to be announced, its ashes slowly drifting down.

Ahead — tunnels. Behind — lingering scents of the bar, smoke, and human presence. Silence hung in the air, sharpened by the echo of their steps on the cracked asphalt.

At first, no one spoke. Skif walked slightly ahead, scanning the surroundings, occasionally pausing to listen.

The Archer followed a little behind — focused, her face carved from stone. She moved like a shadow: light-footed, but with calculated, precise steps.

The kind made by someone who already knows the price of one wrong move. Half an hour passed. The silence between them began to hum — like a signal cut mid-transmission.

Skif broke it.

“Listen,” he said, without turning around. “I just gotta ask — is that all you’ve got? That… bow, a quiver, and that pistol that looks like it belongs in a museum?”

She let out a soft snort but didn’t stop walking.

“Yeah. Also a knife. And a personality sharper than your Kalash.”

Skif chuckled.

“A knife, huh… With that loadout, I wouldn’t even head to a village, let alone the tunnels. You do realize even half a quiver won’t be enough to stop one damn snork?”

“And you think your rifle will save you if you don’t know where to shoot?” she replied calmly, not changing her pace. “An arrow is silent. It won’t alert mutants two kilometers away. And I’ve been using it since the days you were probably still sucking tips off stalker forums.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. Watched her longer than he should have.

She walked past him. Now he stared at the back of her head.

“So you’re seriously doing the bow thing? It’s not a gimmick?”

“I leave gimmicks to those who carry guns to cover up their fear.”

Skif chuckled again, now walking behind her, eyeing the quiver.

“How many arrows do you even have?”

“Thirty. Titanium-tipped.”

Her tone was flat, but there was a hint of challenge in it, as if she was waiting for him to laugh. He didn’t laugh. But he was satisfied — he had guessed right.

“If we run into a group of snorks, or a bloodsucker… that might not be enough.”

She stopped and looked at him. Skif caught up and stood beside her, looking down from his height.

“You’ve got a unique way of offering encouragement. Wanna just go ahead and tell me I’ll die in the first wave?”

“I just want to know who I can count on,” he shrugged. “Because if someone’s ass needs saving, I’d like to know whose it’ll be.”

The Amber Archer took a step closer to him.

“My ass, like my life, is my own business. If things go south, don’t trouble yourself. I’m not the type to scream ‘save me, strong man’.”

“Alright. But if it comes to that — don’t be shy to scream. Pride doesn’t do much for the dead.”

A barely-there smile curved her lips.

“You’ve got a decent sense of dark humor, Skif.”

“In the Zone, it’s like a gas mask without a filter — you don’t last long without it.”

He stared at her for a moment, then moved on.

“Let’s go. Time’s not exactly elastic.”

They walked for a long time. Ten kilometers still to the tunnels, and their legs already ached. Skif glanced at his wristwatch: 22:16.

Time for a break — a little rest, a bite to eat.

He took off his backpack and pulled out a can of non-stop. Opened it with a click and took a few swigs. The Archer stopped nearby, watching him drink.

Skif felt awkward — but didn’t show it. If there was one thing he was good at, it was hiding emotions.

“Want some?” he asked shortly, handing her the can.

He expected her to decline. Her gaze lingered on the can, as if weighing whether to accept. Then her fingers closed around it, and she raised it to her lips.

Skif watched her throat move as she swallowed. The way her lips touched the metal made him wonder, just for a second, how soft they might feel. She pulled the can away, and the young stalker quickly turned away, pretending to scan the surroundings.

“We’ll stop here. Need to rest,” he said.

Thunder rumbled overhead, wind picking up.

“It’s going to rain. We need shelter,” she said.

Skif glanced at her but said nothing — then went to collect firewood.

Skif crouched, tossing dry twigs into the fire. A few steps away, like a shadow, she stood — mask finally off for the first time that day.

Her grey-blue eyes, like an autumn sky before rain, followed his every movement. Strands of ash-blond hair had fallen messily across her cheeks. Skif stared a moment too long.

“Huh… and here I thought there’d be a beard under that mask,” flashed through his mind.

“What? Surprised?” she asked, still watching him.

“Nah. Just not used to stalkers having such… a pleasant face,” he grinned, tossing a twig into the fire. “Though I guess joking with you might be dangerous. One shot from that bow and it’s goodnight, Skif…”

She sat across from him, dragging her backpack closer, pulling out a knife and starting to clean it.

“Keep those kinds of comments up and I might shoot without thinking,” she muttered, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Skif glanced at the half-empty clearing, then looked back at her.

“Seriously though — what’s a delicate girl like you doing in this hellhole? You don’t look like someone who’s spent half her life in the Zone.”

She raised an eyebrow as she slowly put the knife away.

“Delicate, huh?”

“Didn’t mean anything by it. Just… this isn’t exactly the best place for, you know, graceful curves and long lashes,” he smirked, clearly enjoying her reaction.

“If you want, I can show you just how ‘not delicate’ I am,” she said, voice calm — but fire blazed in her eyes. “But honestly? If I’m in the Zone and still alive, that should tell you enough.”

Skif nodded seriously.

“Now that’s more like it,” he said, reaching for his flask. “So? You gonna tell me why you’re here?”

She was quiet for a moment, staring into the flames. The fire reflected in her eyes like the light of a broken world.

“They don’t just call me the Amber Archer. I was once just Marta. My brother entered the Zone three years ago. Said it was ‘the only way out of the sh*t we called a life’. We grew up in a place where even the sun looked tired. He was chasing a chance. I came looking for him. But all I found was the shattered remains of his PDA… and an artifact nearby. After that… I couldn’t leave. Now the Zone’s a part of me. Just like the pain.”

Skif didn’t interrupt.

For the first time that day, his eyes darkened. He slowly nodded, tossing another branch into the flames.

“I get you,” he said softly.

“Each of us has a reason to stay. We just don’t always talk about it.”

She studied him more closely.

“And yours?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday. If we survive this goddamn mission.”

He offered a small, shadowed smile.

The wind carried the stench of radiation, burnt plastic, and damp earth. But here, by this small campfire, a silence had settled between them — tense, cozy, a little surreal.

Skif sat down beside the fire, tossed in another dry branch, and pulled a can from his backpack. The flames flickered across his face. Somewhere in the distance, the howling of dogs could be heard — hollow, drawn out, like someone else’s mourning.

He examined the can, shrugged, and tossed it to Marta.

“Eat while it’s warm. Tastes like dog food, but hey — this ain’t a restaurant.”

She caught the can, looked at it thoughtfully.

“Wouldn’t go to a restaurant with someone like you anyway.” She narrowed her eyes mischievously.

Skif smirked.

“So the problem’s not the restaurant, but me?”

“Not a problem. You just have terrible manners,” she replied calmly, slicing the can open with a knife.

“Manners don’t survive in the Zone. Out here it’s either teeth… or a rifle.”

“Or a bow,” she added, staring him straight in the eye.

“Or a bow,” he echoed with a smile. “Though I still don’t get how I could mistake you for a guy. Your hands… they’re small. And your eyes…”

“One more word, and you’ll get an arrow in your back, Skif.” She smiled, but her eyes gleamed with danger. “And speaking of eyes — you’re looking at me like you haven’t seen a woman in a year.”

Skif chuckled.

“I haven’t. Though… maybe that’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me in the Zone.”

She finally laughed — quietly, but genuinely. Her laughter felt unexpectedly warm to him. Like tea after a long, cold march. He tossed a few more twigs into the fire.

“Ever wonder what your life would’ve been like… if not for the Zone?”

She went silent. Then answered:

“I’ve wondered. A lot. I used to dream of painting. I even had a sketchbook… But the Zone doesn’t leave room for dreams. Here you’re either the hunter or the prey.”

“But you’re not just a hunter. You’ve got style. And an artist’s eyes.”

“Really? How many artists do you know with a knife in their boot and an artifact in their pocket?” she muttered, though not with hostility.

“None. But there’s one sitting across from me. And I think… she’s starting to tolerate me.”

She stared at him for a long time. Then, softly — but with a challenge — said:

“Don’t push it. We’re only together for the mission. I’m not making friends with everyone who throws me a can of meat.”

“Wasn’t asking you to. It’s just good to know you can still laugh.”

Silence. Only the crackling of the fire… and distant dog howls. The wind whispered through dry leaves.

Then she whispered:

“I haven’t laughed in a long time. I think… not since before the Zone. And to be honest, that scares me more than any mutant.”

Suddenly, they both froze. From somewhere much closer — no longer distant — a new howl echoed. Deep. Low. Almost human.

Then another.

And another.

Skif glanced into the darkness beyond the firelight, reaching sharply for his weapon.

“Fuck. It’s seem they’re close.”

[canyouhearthelight]

Machine is Perfect, but Flesh is Free Intermission

This chapter is longer than either of the previous two, and if I am correct, it is possibly longer than both combined. So hopefully that helps make up for the amount of technical things around dance that appear. For anyone who wants full context of what is going on: 1) the MC is dancing a deliberately more difficult variation of the Yuka Fukuda solo of Esmeralda.... which is already difficult enough. Every step happens on a beat, and there is not a lot of music for the piece and NO room for error, because the dancer has to kick a tambourine. Our MC is doing these kicks over their head rather than above it, which I think I have seen one dancer do only for the first portion. You can just search "Yuka Fukuda Esmeralda" to see the real one. 2) "The Fouettes" (fweh-tehs) refers to the Odette solo from Swan Lake. It is notoriously one of the most difficult passages to dance in ballet, and is also referred to as "The Thirty Two Fouettes". Spin spin spin, identically... it's exhausting, and it hurts. But if you have bionic legs and feel no pain when performing, you can imagine how boring it sounds. I swear I'm not disparaging the passage, but our MC experiences none of the things that make it hard. 3) There are two main versions of the fouette (the spin, not the passage), Italian and Russian. It actually takes less time to look up a video than listen to an explanation, and people have BIG opinions about which one is better.

All that said, thanks to @baelpenrose for making it through all these explanations the first time when I was writing it. On with the show!

For several weeks following my interrupted performance, I lived in the rehearsal studio with next to no contact from anyone except Urus and the doctor. Even M. Russo was banished from his place of power, and from the shouting I was barely able to hear through the door, he was incredibly displeased about the situation.  Urus grumbled about having to bring me meals and throughout the newly added watching me while I ate. No more solid foods, only some perfectly nutritious and perfectly flavorless concoction with a texture between porridge and puree.

Two weeks into my seclusion, my surly warden finally slipped, just a bit. “Food like that for every meal, I would dive in front of the next bullet,” he muttered.

I coughed, startling him.  Waving him off, I shook my head. “Bullet?” I gasped, trying to clear my throat.

He handed me a cup of water. “What about a bullet?”

The bowl of nutrients was set on my lap so I could turn my head and scowl at him. “The doctor said the bullet missed someone entirely the night I was brought here, and you just mentioned jumping in front of one now. I’m not deaf, no matter how much everyone likes to pretend I’m some windup doll. What bullet?”  It was the most words I had ever spoken directly to him, and from the look on his face, I had caught him off guard.

“Someone tried to shoot you while you were performing,” he explained slowly. “With a gun.” One hand dropped to his hip where he kept his holstered.

“Me?” I blurted out in shock. “Why? I’m not important, just a toy. Not even a pet.” I pitched my voice up as far as I could. “ ‘Wind up the little ballerina, let them dance’.”

That earned a more familiar sneer. “Poor little pet, to be kept so expensively and lavishly that you don’t even need to walk anywhere for fear of bruising your feet.”

“Yes, my pretty little golden cage.” I lifted the bowl and swallowed the contents as quickly as I could, wincing as I refused to let it come back up. Gasping as I finished, I held it out. “I’ve eaten. Your punishment is done for now.”

He ignored me for several minutes, until my arm was burning and shaking. I refused to beg or acknowledge our standoff until the bowl was removed from my hand.  As soon as I heard the door lock behind him, I let out a deep breath. Inhaling again and bracing myself, I slowly flexed my feet.  Pain spiked up through me, but I grit my teeth and focused on breathing with every movement.  The most recent treatments from Master Arik made it impossible for sweat to bead on my forehead, but my eyes and mouth felt feverish when I stopped for the water that was always within arms reach.

The memory of dancing - leaping, kicking, flying - warred with how quickly I was brought to exhaustion by the pain from something as simple as flexing my ankles and feet.  Since M. Russo was not allowed in the studio while I was being kept here, there were no rehearsals and therefore no need for nerve blocks, leaving me in full pain with every movement of my legs.  After another drink of water, my anger was burning hotter than my body. “Kick,” I commanded my legs. But only so fast, my teacher’s voice echoed in my mind as I strained against my own body to lift one leg, and to resist the urge to drop it.

“Again.” Breathe. My body could do this - had done this. Again and again. Only so fast, only so high, I reminded myself. Limits. When my eyes and mouth were hot again, I stopped for more water and to cool down. Another limit. 

In the ten winters I could remember being here, I had been very aware of my situation, but Urus’s comments today had been the first time I realized that perhaps I was the only one other than Master Arik who was aware. Clearly, Urus thought I was a pampered thing - what if he did not realize what the injections were?

I worked persistently at my own mobility, and it seemed that every small success woke my mind even further.  Where I had surrendered, been complacent to my existence of agony with brief rewards of relief when I behaved, now I was suspicious and curious of everything.  I was increasingly aware of how long it was taking to secure my personal quarters, where the studio had taken only a day or so.  Plots and accusations lurked in every corner of my mind that suddenly had light shining in them - why did the serving people never speak when they attended me before? Why was Urus assigned to me and me alone?  Surely Arik had other trophies - why had I never seen or heard of them?

Instead of keeping time by the things done to me - baths, meals, rehearsals I was led to and from - I began marking time by what I could do. I could slowly kick my legs five hundred times in a row each before needing to stop for water.  I could hold both feet in front of me for fifteen minutes at a time without assistance, ignoring the sharp electric razors spiking through them without a headache.

By the time I was released from my isolation in the studio, I could hold my knees to my chest with only the muscles in my legs and stomach  for an astonishing five minutes.  I had not dared to stand, but was contemplating the attempt when the locks on the entrance slammed open and Master Arik entered, accompanied by Urus and three other guards.  My back was to the door and viewing glasses, but I still dropped my feet quickly to their rests in my chair before even his brisk step could come around to face me.

“It is a good day,” he started without preamble. “Full of good news.  The man who tried to kill you has been executed, and your new quarters are finally ready.”

“Kill me?” I asked stupidly.

He waved my concern away. “Someone sent to hurt me by stealing you, once your value became known.  Thankfully, you were not injured, but measures had to be taken.”

Was I so valuable that someone would kill me to hurt him? I doubted it, but he seemed quite certain, so I nodded along. “And new rooms?”

“And a new insurance policy,” he assured. “To reflect your new value.”

Urus nodded towards my bedding and personal effects before grabbing my chair. Mechanically, I followed the script that was ingrained in me. “And my parents?”

“Compensated to reflect your rising stock,” Arik responded. Where before I had only been concerned that my family was not starving, now I was suspicious that the answer was equally rote and mechanical to my question.

With that, our accustomed exchange had ended, and Master Arik was supervising my removal from the studio space, ignoring me again.  I focused on keeping my features slack and dull, but this time I paid as close attention as possible to what was being said around me.  I learned I was being taken to the second floor, not the third - apparently my quarters had been on the third floor.  The studio, I found out, was on the fourth.  Instead of the sloped corridors, I was to be taken by elevator, which was a luxury I had never been afforded, but was apparently more secure.

Despite my new rooms being further away, the journey was far shorter.  The doors, like the ones on the rehearsal space, were keyed to the genetic pattern Master Arik’s doctors had placed in me.  Only he, Urus, and the doctor could enter without an escort - and myself, obviously, but it was left unsaid that the idea of my leaving under my own power was laughable.  The poor paper dancer could not walk, after all.

Once we entered, Arik turned with his arms extended, a smile on his face. “The walls have been reinforced, the windows filled and shuddered on the exterior with plates. To ensure your safety, obviously.” Leaning over, eyes cold, he flicked the end of my nose, his false grin never budging. “No need for cameras anymore. Any and all items and persons to enter and leave will be checked and accompanied by security.”

No windows. No more birds. No more clouds. A more secure cage than ever.

My face must have betrayed nothing that concerned him, as he stood and clapped his hands once. “Sleep tonight, and tomorrow you will perform.”

I shook my head, confused. “Perform? Not rehearse?”

He clucked his tongue. “You still need to complete your performance as Esmeralda.  It will be in the studio, and only myself and M. Russo will be in attendance, but you will be recorded so that your stock can be valued.  It is not ideal, but it will have to suffice.  Currently, your value is contingent.”

“I understand, Master Arik,” I muttered numbly.  I understood nothing, except that I had no say in the matter.

Striding to the door, he turned to Urus, who followed at his elbow. “Have dinner brought and have them bathed properly. They will be dressed here in the morning and brought to the studio for exhibition.”

—-

After a nearly sleepless night, I was roused from a fitful half-sleep by the lights in my quarters being turned on - no dawn noises, no slivers of sunrise, just a sudden bright pain stabbing through my eyelids.  Groggily, I allowed myself to be washed again, shoved into my costume, makeup slathered on my face.  My nerve blocks were not applied until after I heard the thud of the studio doors securing behind me, M. Russo pointing to my mark with his baton.  Rather than listening for the warm ups of the orchestra, a recorded track was played as it had been in any rehearsal, although this time without M. Russo counting me off.  Nonetheless, I stepped and kicked as intricately as I had intended to when it had been a theater of people watching rather than my teacher, my master, and who knew how many cameras. Each motion as controlled and flawless up close as it would have appeared from a balcony, each sounding of the tambourine measured and equal to the rest.

I finished, face impassive, without any applause.  Instead, Master Arik drummed his fingers on his seat, head tipped to the side. “It is a beautiful and dangerous interpretation,” he frowned.

“It is a traditional one,” M. Russo responded carefully. “A difficult one, to demonstrate their skill.”

“A kick like that could kill a man.”

A gruff laugh followed. “Only by breaking his heart. The feet are too fragile for anything more. They can hardly walk without your permission.”

Arik nodded, but seemed distracted. “I will have the footage released for valuation. Uncut, I think.”

“To cut it is to imply imperfection. Release all of it. There are no flaws to hide.”

“We shall see.” Standing, Arik nodded again. “Russo. The fouettes next, I believe.”  WIth that, he left.

No sooner had the door shut again than I was peeling out of my costume, inspecting my feet. M. Russo did not even pretend to look away - he made no secret that his interest in my body was perfunctory at best. “No blisters,” I reported, disgruntled.

“Mme Boulvais is much more careful than her predecessor,” he agreed. “And the softer shank made a difference.  But shorter in the right shoe for the next performance, I think. You were barely over the box.”

“Those toes are shorter,” I agreed. “And the ankle bends further. But the fouettes?” I pinched my face.

M. Russo seemed to agree, tossing his hands in the air. “You can leap like a cat, you can kick as though you have no bones, but he wants you to twirl in place for heavens only know how long.”

“I can do them Russian,” I suggested, feeling more mischievous than I could recall feeling in my entire life.

He gripped his baton like a sword. “I will cane you from the top of your head to the soles of your feet if you do even a dozen Russian fouettes before my eyes.  And then I will ask Master Arik to gouge them from my head so I may never see such a travesty again.”

I smiled softly, stretching deeply and grabbing my toes. “He said my Esmeralda was dangerous. That the kicks could kill a man.”

From behind, I heard my teacher scoff. “I would agree if you did not need medical magic to merely walk. A kick like that could break a man’s jaw at least, snap his neck at worst. But as you would never kick me like that, and cannot even stand to attempt it when you are elsewhere, it is a vain fear.”

I hummed, hoping he would take it in agreement.  It seemed he had, as by the time I stood again, he had resumed his teaching posture. “Go ahead. Show me your fouette. Ten to the left, then ten to the right.”

Automatically and without music, I started. Traditionally, the passage Master Arik was requesting used identical turns to the right, but we rehearsed with both to err on the side of caution.  Arik was known to add or change something at any time if he felt it was something new.  By the end of the day, both of my calves stung from being struck to correct their height or how soon I did nor did not whip my leg out - M. Russo had not been joking about his insistence on Italian over Russian.  As the weeks progressed, more and more turns were added, along with various surfaces for me to balance on for precision.  A strange tool was brought to ensure that my legs were at exactly ninety degrees, a position I had to hold for as long as ten minutes at a time.

By nights, I was standing under my own trembling power for just as long.

Unlike in the past, rehearsals went on for nearly half a year.  Increasing levels of difficulty were added, in theory to explain the time it was taking.  In reality, I overheard my security discussing the increased measures to make Master Arik’s keep more and more secure, to make the performance hall doubly so.  The idea made me feel melancholic rather than secure, and I avoided analyzing the feeling too hard with my newfound inquisitiveness.  Most importantly, the next performance was intended to be ‘exclusive’ as an excuse to limit any chance at another incident, and all staff were undergoing intensive background screening and medical analysis.  My own medical exams went on the same schedule as before.

After all, I wasn’t staff - I was property.

[light-end-dragon]

Chapter 8

Akira: (He was a person…a living person that you killed-and you’re making fun of him like this…)

Akira: (How far? How far do you have to go until you are satisfied?!) 

The leader of the gang looked up at Cain with contempt, and began to speak with a conniving tone.

Leader-like Man: How about you untie us, promise to never come near any of us again, and maybe then I’ll be able to remember a little more.

Cain: Promise? 

Leader-like Man: Aren’t you guys wizards? Only old farts and wizards care ‘bout antiquated stuff like demons and curses.

Leader-like Man: I heard that you guys lose your magic if you break a promise. So….

Bradley: …Ha. That’s enough outta you.

(Sound of a gun cocking.) 

Bradley gave an annoyed sigh as he spoke, before pointing the muzzle of his gun directly at the leader’s head.

The men fell deathly silent as he did so, the North wizard’s equally fed up gaze boring down on them.

Bradley: Listenin’ to ya prattle on like that makes me sick. Sure, my group of bandits were worthless bastards too, but they’d never stoop t’ yer level.

Bradley: Hell, if they did, I’d kill ‘em myself. I really fuckin’ hate guys like you.

Men: ….! 

Bradley: I’ll tell ya this here an’ now; learnin’ its name ain’t the only way of liftin’ that spirit’s curse.

Bradley: There’s a much easier way; killin’ the reason it exists. An’ just who d’ya think that might be? 

Leader-like Man: ….! Y-you…is that…a threat….

Bradley: I dunno. Is it? 

Bradley laughed, as wild as his beastly aura. Clouds drifted in front of the moon, cutting off the eerie light we were bathed in, casting us into shadow.

Bradley: Sage, look the other way, will ya?

Akira: Huh….

Bradley: Brains flyin’ around look like porridge. I don’t wanna be responsible for ruinin’ yer breakfast tomorrow.

Bradley’s frivolous line was probably an attempt at comfort, but instead it unsettled me even further. 

Because I knew the reality of what was happening; what this had turned into.

This wasn’t an interrogation.

(Sound of a gun being readied.) 

Bradley thrust the barrel of his gun into the side of the man’s head, who was positively shaking in fear.

Cain: ….tch. 

Cain, in one instant, was clearly holding back, biting his lip.

And in the next-

(Sound of a sword swing.) 

Cain: Bradley. That’s enough.

Cain’s sword had changed targets. Bradley, meanwhile, just raised an eyebrow at the sight of the blade hovering in front of him. 

Bradley: …..Do ya know what the hell you’re doing, punk?

Cain: Yes, I know exactly what I’m doing. Lower your gun, Bradley.

Cain: I’m handin’ them over to the law.

Young Man: ….!

Cain: Believe me, I understand. I really do. These guys are absolute worst, most disgustin’ pieces of shit I’ve ever fuckin’ met. But…

Cain: It’s because of that I can’t just let them get executed here. Everyone should know what they did.

Cain: And besides..if we just kill these guys here and now, that boy will remain being a spirit.

Cain: He was mudered by these fuckers. The very least I could do is to return him to the person he once was.

Bradley: Ha! So this is how Sir Knight does things, huh? The “proper way?” 

Bradley gave a sharp laugh.

The barrel of his gun remained in place, digging into the man’s skull. The leader, who had been so cocky before, was now shaking and crying like a baby.

Bradley: Then I’ll show you th’ right way a bandit leader does it. 

Bradley: One by one, I’ll blow their fuckin’ heads off, an our curse will be gone.

Bradley: Four bullets an’ its done. Smart, right?

Bradley spread his free hand wide like a performer on stage, and then placed his finger on the trigger of the gun.

Cain: Stop!!

(Sound of magic being used, then the sound of their gun and sword. Metal is clashing repeatedly.)

A sound of a gunshot echoed through the air, accompanied by the violent crash of metal on metal. Over and over again it resounded, and I instinctively closed my eyes when a menacing spark of light grew into a blaze.

And then-

Bradley: ….Ugh, you-you lil shit!!

Startled, I opened my eyes. Bradley’s bullets almost sparkled in the night, leaving behind an afterglow of greenish light as they arced through the sky.

Cain was breathing heavily, having deflected the gun barrel with his sword.

(The shriek of a monster echoes in the night.)

In the distance, I heard a horrid cry that child me to the bone.

The wandering spirit had noticed them.

Bradley: You fuckin’ overdid it, brat!

Cain: Look who’s talkin’!!

(Sound of a fierce gale tearing through the forest.)

The wind howled like a roiling beast as the moonlight fought against the ever encroaching darkness. They clashed and overtook each other at dizzying speed, their colors painting the sky.

Those of the noble dawn, those of the ominous night; they opposed each other, glaring, unrelenting. 

(Sound of a gun barrel being cocked.)

Bradley’s gun was pointed directly at Cain’s forehead.

Akira: ….!

Bradley: I should blow yer head off with theirs.

Bradley: It don’t matter if we hold off usin’ magic anymore; the thing’s already noticed us.

Bradley: If it’s usin’ magic, I’m way stronger than you. Stand back if you don’t wanna die, kid!

Cain: I will not! 

Cain: Even if I get killed for it, I won’t yield for the truth I believe in.

Cain: I am a knight.

Even as Bradley’s gun now pressed against his own forehead, Cain did not falter a single step.

The light his sword gave off in the moonlight shone pure and white, unblemished by the shadows around it.

(Sound of a trigger creaking.)

The deep, everlasting darkness fell upon us next, as Bradley’s finger twitched on the trigger of his gun.

Akira: Please…please stop, both of you! Please calm down-

Young Man: –Leonard! It’s Leonard!

The pair who had been staring each other down both turned to face the young man at the same time.

I too, turned my head in surprise.

The timid, frail-looking boy, now had the will to fight to the death blazing in his eyes. His shoulders shook as he breathed heavily from his outburst.

The clouds parted, the moonlight shone down; brilliant and dazzling bright.

Young Man: The boy-the boy those men killed, the one who wanted to be a knight! 

Young Man: I was traveling together with him….my older brother Leonard! 

Cain: …Wait, travelling together? Then, that means…

Bradley: There were two missin’ persons. But only one of them was killed.

Akira: (So that was what he was trying to tell us last time…the truth of the missing persons case..)

Unkempt Man: You-how dare you betray us!!

Young Man: Betrayal?! How could you call it betrayal?!

The young man shouted out loud, as fiery tears ran from his eyes that could no longer see.

Young Man: You killed him-you killed my older brother! Then you figured that pathetic little kid left behind was ‘useful’, and did this to my eyes!!

Young Man: If I could’ve seen properly, I would’ve run to the knights a long time ago!! But I …..I…..

Finally his tears ceased, and the young man looked up in Cain’s direction like he was wishing; like praying to a god.

Young Man: I did think that it was just a coincidence you had the same name…but you really are him. I see you now, Cain, the knight among knights, General of the Order.

Young Man: Whatever it is you decide, I’ll tell you everything.

Young Man: So please, just give us your judgement…..

(Sound of rustling fabric.)

Cain sheathed his sword, softling falling to his knees before the tearful boy.

He then put a gentle hand on the boys back, as if thanking him for his courage.

Cain: ….Yeah. I’ll hand you over to the Order.

Cain: And thanks to your bravery, we’ll be able to save your brother…It’s okay, you’re alright now.

Young Man: …hgk…kay…..Thank…..you…..

Bradley: ….

But at that moment-

[snowverit]

Parian Doll Chapter 8

Chapter desc: first year: Breakfast and The Marauders Chapter words: 3.1k Fic desc: Regulus gets sorted into Gryffindor total words: 24.3k/?

“Regulus,” Pandora’s voice grabs my attention. 

Pulled from my stupor, I turn ever so slightly to see her and nod a good morning. She blinks at me a few times, then sits carefully down beside me. 

“Thought I was seeing things, but,” Like a mother speaking to a child, she carefully treads the line of what she wishes to say, “You’re… here.” 

I ponder on this, placing my spoon down with a small clang against my bowl. The porridge in front of me is thick and cold from how long I've stirred over it. 

“Suppose I am.” I reply. 

The great hall is quiet with the emptiness that only the early hours can bring. Students all around the castle are still snuggled warm in bed and here I am. In the great hall for breakfast. Facing my fears. I'll make a Gryffindor yet.

She shakes her head incredulously scooting closer and nudging her elbow into my side, “Good, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” She offers. Again, she doesn’t say what she wants to. 

After a moment of awkward silence, she breathes out a sigh of air, choosing to bullet past the stall and barrel into a different topic; one far easier to prod at.

“Did you finish your astronomy paper? I got up early to go work on it in the library before classes, if you’d like to join me. I’ve been writing about the storm systems on Jupiter but the great red spot is really bothering me. I keep getting distracted while looking at it, and going down all these rabbit holes. I could tell you about it if you’d like. I think that if the spot somehow happened on Earth then it would really mess up our wind system, which would have a ripple effect on the oceans.. I think it would make some very cool new species in a few centuries, I’ve even drawn out a few.” 

I accidentally tune her out as I stare at my porridge. I have been writing my essay on the life cycle of stars. Similar to Pandora, my research has led me down multitudes of paths unrelated to my topic. 

Sat in the library nights before, ‘Astrography; a connection to the stars’ written by Irena Fawley lay splayed out on a desk in front of me, I had read the chapter title ‘ CONSTELLATIONS.’ 

Searching through the pages until a subheading of the Leo Constellation stopped me, ‘Regulus - The Lion's Heart.’ It ticks on my nerves just enough to force me to read it all. Skimming through the chapter, memorising the historical context of the lion's heart; The name granted to kings. The regulus star, it describes, is a harbinger of spring. It is the only first magnitude star to be passed by the moon, the sun, and even the planets. The last time a planet occulted the star, which is to cross in front of it, shrouding it in darkness, was in 1959. The year Sirius was born.