#grims blood journals

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

SINS OF A LAUGHING SKYLARK (XV)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XVI ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, angst, use of guns & weapons, military operations, death, shootings, interrogation tactics, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Sitting in a guarded building halfway across the base, your ears twitch at every little sound from beyond the door. 

Alex is here—so are three other men who fiddle with the guns in their hands and try not to stare at your deathly still face. You haven't spoken a word, and your mother, who sits with a medic stitching up her arm, calls out quickly. 

“I-I don’t even remember what he looked like,” she breathes and Alex has a hand on her shoulder, squeezing while his blue eyes dart back from the door to her tear-stained face.

“It’s alright, Ma’am. We have cameras all around here. No worries.” He smiles tightly. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you stitched up.”

The words are so similar to what Kyle would say to you that your hands clench under your chin, your body leaning forward in the chair. Your elbows dig into your knees harshly, and your unmarred leg quivers to jump up and down, restrained only by your iron will.

It was supposed to be me.

Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips, a slow breath pushed out on tight lungs.

It was supposed to be me.

Lowe is dead—Laswell had been brief in her explanation. Shot between the eyes. Your mother's attack had been a distraction, and while people had been rushed to her location, someone had gone in and killed Joey just as you’d seen someone do in the execution videos. 

He’d warned you, too. 

“I’m not someone's pawn,” you mutter under your breath, only heard to your ears. It was getting harder and harder to deny that every win on your part had been a set-up. Laswell had told you that you knew the answer already, you just couldn’t admit it to yourself—what did that mean? All you had were fractions; moments that were slowly piecing together.

“Shooter coming in from the East,” Alex’s radio buzzes, just as all the others do. From what you’d learned when Kate had pushed you in here, there were a handful of hired guns that had broken past the checkpoint only minutes after Gaz’s plane had taken off. 

“How are there so many threads,” you grunt. “Why is there so much going on right when I’m at the edge?” 

At every instance, all progress was halted.

“Bar the door. You,” Alex motions to one of the soldiers. “With me.” All in the room are more tense than lions. Alex and the rest rush to the door frame, leaning against it as the third man barricades the door with a chair under the handle. 

“It’s like I’m being…watched,” you whisper, brows furrowing. “Even down to when the reporters had shown up at the mansion right after I found the journal—”

“Sweetheart,” your mother calls quickly, worriedly. “Get away from the door.” 

You ignore her, your face grim and your pulse echoing. 

“Ex-military being used as mercenaries. Leverage.” Your eyelids flutter. “Lowe said Samson had girls; a family. Could that have been something to use against him? Is it being used against other people now? A trail like this leaves behind blood—was Samson killed to try and cover it when it went South?”

And again, the biting question even you turn up blank on—

“Why was he told he had to kill me? Why was he told he had to kill anyone?”

Forget drugs; weapons. If you had to guess…Yaromir Osipov and Mala Kham weren’t even involved in this as much as everyone else believed. A setup? A lie?

By who? For what?

“What does this mean,” you growl, hands moving up to grasp the back of your head, your skull tilting forward. “None of this is adding up.”

Gunshots ring in the hallways outside of this room. 

Only desperate men and women would storm a military base knowing that nothing they did would assure their victory. It was stupid. Reckless. 

It was utter fear of something far larger than themselves.

This was never about your father’s smuggling business. This ran deeper than you could have ever anticipated. 

Your mother’s voice calls your name harshly. “Over here. Now!”

“You need to stop lying to me,” you stand and hear your cane clatter to the floor. Your leg shakes, almost sending you over when you press your full weight on it, but nothing compares to the fire inside of your breast.

You walk over to your mother and stare into her eyes.

She startles, blinking quickly; taken aback. 

“W-what are you talking about?”

“You know what dad did, don’t say you didn’t.” Your face burns—lungs fast-paced. Alex calls to you from behind, but even the medic who pauses at your sudden hostility doesn’t interfere. “You can lie to everyone else, but you can’t do that to me. You fucking knew.”

“You watch your language,” she snaps, eyes going enraged. “What are you even saying to me? Your father? What does he have to do with this?”

Your hands jerk, taking the woman by the tops of her shoulders. She yelps, surprise alighting in her expression.

“What are you—?!”

“Tell me the truth!” You yell. “You knew he worked in the smuggling business this entire time—you knew about his dealings with Yaromir and Mala before I was even born, admit it! The drugs, the weapons; his damn dock with all of his goods! You’re not being honest with me, even three years after he’s gone.” Your face is hot with anger. “If you didn’t see the traces of it, you’re blind.”

The room is utterly silent.

Your mother opens and closes her mouth, face open to the air like she’d seen innocent people get shot in front of her—like she’d had to run for her life because of someone else’s sins.

“Tell me what you knew,” you hiss, grasping her shoulders tighter. “Tell me what you hid.”

“You’re sick,” she breathes, looking around at the others. But Alex will be no help, nor the soldiers. They guard the door, eyes snapping back and forth. The medic only watches, unprepared for your outburst. “She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

“Tell me!” 

“Spitfire,” Alex’s yell makes your body pause, eyes narrowed in distrust as the sounds from outside get louder. Blinking out of whatever stupor you’d been in, your face freezes at the nickname, and your subconscious flashes to Kyle. 

Stepping back quickly, you drop your mother’s arms and look away; shame settling in the lines on your forehead. But you pointedly don’t apologize, only moving back quickly and moving to press the heels of your palms into your eye-sockets.

Kyle. The shootings. Lowe. Samson. Blood on your hands, blood on your hands, blood on your hands. 

It was supposed to be me.

You take a quivering breath, spine bending forward. 

Gunshots continue to boom, on and on, and you feel your mother's eyes on you; unwavering in her constant attention.

There isn’t a single part of you that can look back.

—

You stare at the phone as it sits in your hand, your limping leg walking slowly along the tiled floor. The entire building was set on lockdown—along with the base. This place, however, was now filled with trusted personnel; soldiers that had served for far longer than you’d just learned Joey had. 

Only one deployment had been under his belt, but that was enough to meet Samson. It was enough to know his character. 

Maybe everyone involved in this plot hadn’t suspected the Private because there was never anything to be suspicious about. 

Your face hadn’t let up on its tension, not for a minute, but in this tiny instance of relative calm—in some devoid hallway—you slipped into a storage room and stopped. Taking down a deep breath, your eyes flutter as your phone illuminates cleaning supplies. 

Tapping into your contacts, your thumb hovers over one of the only icons set there. 

Swallowing down saliva, your fingers twitch before, without enough time to tell yourself to stop, you press harshly and move the device up to your ear. 

Standing in the darkness, you let your eyes slip closed. 

The ringing persists, putting you into some kind of trace the longer it goes on.

Ring…ring…ring…ring. Nothing. 

You scoff, eyes opening as the phone dips down. Your hands shake over it.

“Figures.” Shrugging, your heart sinks heavily in your chest. Taking a firm step forward, your hand moves to let the device slip into your coat’s pocket before the sudden buzzing of it startles you. Head snapping down, your face blanks as you stare at the incoming call. 

‘Brit’

Only a moment passes before you take a deep breath and settle the phone back at your ear, tapping at the green button.

There’s a long second of silence before a soft clearing of a throat.

“Sorry, Love. Was getting ready for bed.”

You forgot the nine-hour time difference. Mouth opening and closing, you ignore how your body sags at the smooth tone—that accent. He sounded tired, and in the background, you could hear the rustle of sheets. You had a sneaking suspicion he’d, in fact, been in the bed instead of getting ready for it. 

“I can call back later,” you mutter, already pushing off the awkwardness that perpetuates the line. Hell, he didn’t even know about what happened when he left. Do you tell him?

“Woah, woah, hey.” A small chuckle. “No, it’s okay. Good to hear from you.”

“...Yeah,” you grunt, feet shifting. 

Another long silence permeates like a lingering curse.

“...Everything going alright, then?” Is the slow and even question; a bead of hesitation. He wasn’t sure how to speak to you like this, and, neither did you. “No messes I need to clean up?”

Your body stills.

“Only the ones you make yourself,” you sigh, huffing. A slow infection of guilt hits you. “I don’t know why I called…this is stupid.”

Kyle makes a noise over the line. “You want me to hang up?”

“No,” you whisper after a second, head moving along the walls to look at the various items slowly. “I…I just don’t know. Things are weird.”

Feet shifting, your eyes lightly flinch at the pull of your stitches. While you’d been feeling slightly better physically, meaning the vomiting and the lightheadedness, there were still aftershocks. You were well enough to grab your own food now, and when you made your own coffee, you weren’t shocked at all to find it tasting better immediately. 

“You?” Your voice asks. 

“Nah,” Kyle mutters. “Have nothing to do besides talk—been running around ever since I got here. Good to see the boys, though.”

“I’m sure they’re thrilled to have you back.”

“As thrilled as they’re able to get, eh?” Your lips quirk at that. The near-kiss in your room strikes you in the stomach like a knife. “But it's been nice, minus the whole…being away part. Still don’t like how far away I am from you.” 

“Careful,” you breathe. “Starting to sound like you like me over there.”

“Shit,” he laughs, and you fight the softness that washes your face at the sound. “You’re right. Better cut it off while I’m ahead.”

But the way his words still hold that serious edge makes your lips thin into a line. You wondered what your conversations would be about if you ever had the chance to calm down. 

“The talk with Lowe? How’d it go, then?” A deep breath, trying to be casual. “Be honest with me here, Spitfire.”

Your eyes flinch a bit, your body shifting around as you tap your foot for a moment. People will look for you soon—you have to keep this quick. You’d just needed to hear his voice. 

“It was another piece I can’t put together.” You end with that. “I feel like I’m running in circles over here, Garrick.”

Sheets rustle once more, a throaty grunt before a low breath. “I said it’ll all work out, yeah? You have to believe it will, Love. We have to keep pushing until it breaks.” A smirk is easily heard. “We all know how you like breaking things, Sweetheart.” 

You raise a slow brow, smiling even if he can’t see your expression. “You know I like having you over a call—it means I can stop hearing your voice whenever I want.”

“You going to hang up on me?”

“You know, I might.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t,” Kyle teases. “You called me, remember that?”

“And now I’m regretting it,” your voice is low and sly; face hot. 

Gaz chuckles, and your own mirrors before your heart slows to a steady pulse the longer this conversation moves on. You’d called him for a reason, and, steadily, whatever this was doing…it was making your mind slip back into a tranquil state. Part of you wanted to sit on the floor—roll up in a blanket and talk. About anything; about everything. 

But you really needed to see his face, too. 

Your tongue skates over your teeth, and you hum under your breath. “I’m thinking about asking Laswell for the USB. Try that code one last time. Think she’ll give it to me?”

Kyle’s sound momentarily stops. 

“Spitfire…”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” your voice is low. “Please, Kyle, I just need someone on my side with this. Will Kate give me a chance to crack the USB?”

Perhaps sensing how off-kilter you are, the Brit relents with a tiny sigh and a slow response. 

“I can call her—try to get on her good side.” 

“Does she have one?” You quirk a brow. 

“Classified.” Chuckling, your eyes stare off, delicate in every sense of the word. Like an arachnid, you dwell in this back room waiting to be caught—if only a few more moments to try and make your web; a small silk hammock of brown eyes and smooth words.

“Thank you,” your voice whispers. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“If I didn’t want to talk, I wouldn’t have called back.” He huffs a few laughs, sheepishly admitting to you. “Accidentally slapped the phone to the floor, actually.”

An unexpected laugh is pushed from your lungs.

“Why the hell would you do that?” 

“Wasn’t like I meant to, Love. Startled me.”

Your eyes roll, amusement in your tone. “Startling the SAS Sergeant—I should get a medal for that.”

“Not until you get me the one you were talking about before. Still waiting for it.”

Your legs shift over the floor. “The one with ‘idiot’ on the plaque?”

“That’s the one.” 

Your expression goes to exasperation, but the smile doesn’t leave. “Why would you want something like that?”

“Well, you’re the one giving it to me, aren’t you?” The deep tease strikes you in the throat, and you have to discreetly clear your throat so he won’t hear the heat rising to your face. 

“Cheeky,” you, dryly, state.

“I liked it.” 

“Go back to bed, Sergeant,” your grinning face is stuck to the door’s face, trying to study the woodgrain in the darkness. 

“...Yes, Ma’am.” There’s a pause where you wait for the other to hang up, though the cut of the line is absent from both parties. Kyle’s voice smoothly comes back to grace your ears. “Call you tomorrow?”  

“Yeah, okay,” you nod, knowing he can’t see you. 

“Okay…try to get some sleep tonight, Spitfire. I’m one phone call away if you need me.”

“I—” You cut yourself off, the strange sentence being choked down in your throat like a cinder block. Eyes blinking, you partially startle at the words that nearly slipped out of you to the awaiting ear on the other side. 

“Right,” you quickly move the phone from your ear and hang up. 

Standing stiffly in the storage room, your blank eyes dig ahead, and with a shaky breath, you stumble forward.

Moving out into the hallway, you swiftly backtrack to your room.

—

Sitting in your room, you insert the USB into a new laptop and lick at your lips. 

“I’m sorry about…before,” your mother walks over, placing a plate of food down in front of you along with your coffee cup. You blink up at her, a sheen of embarrassment layering itself like paint along your eyes. “I was just overwhelmed. It isn’t an excuse, I know, but��I,” you pause. “I feel bad.” 

Your mother sighs, and her hand comes up to rest on top of your head. “I knew.”

Eyes snapping up, you freeze. 

“I never told you about it, because I knew it would ruin how you saw him.” She breathes lowly. “You don’t get to choose who you end up loving. It happens and then it sticks until something else pries it loose. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

Watching her, your fast words fumble over themselves. “But what about the drug—”

“I only knew the surface,” she backs up, shaking her head. “I would appreciate it if we left it at that, please. Even if we had our problems, he was the love of my life; when he died, I shut it all out. I had to.”

You look away swiftly, but it’s a long time before you can answer her. You had no reason to think she was lying about this. All of it added up to you.

A kiss is pressed into your scalp. “Eat up. Keep your strength.” 

Watching her walk out of the room, your attention is torn away by the laptop booting up, eyes darting to it. 

Questions on questions on questions. 

Taking up your coffee, you sip at it slowly. Setting it down, you cringe at the taste. Stifling a cough haggardly into your arm, you rub at your thigh before getting to work.

—

Kyle rubs his face, sighing deeply. “This is all we've got?” 

“And that’s being generous,” MacTavish mutters, sending a slow glance. “Laswell wasn’t lying to you—we have shit-all.” 

“How is that even possible,” the Sergeant mutters, standing straight once again. He’d been bent over the countless mission reports for more than an hour, all fruitless beyond thin leads to individuals connected to your father’s business dealings. 

“Rats are used to staying in their holes,” Ghost grumbles from the other side of the table, dark eyes shifting to where their Captain comes in from the main door to the meeting room. 

A hand is slapped on Gaz’s shoulder. 

“Good to have you back, Sergeant.” Brown eyes glance at him, a smirk flickering Kyle’s lips. 

“Good to be here, Sir. Let’s get this finished.”

Price nods firmly, a hard expression on his bearded face. With strong legs, he moves to the head of the table and grunts his orders. 

“Current HVT is in Tula,” he utters in that gruff accent. “It's the only lead we have—this isn’t something we can miss.” Gloved fingers reach out to the interior blueprints of a small townhouse. “Two teams will move interior and connect the dots. If this target is in possession of any intel involving Osipov and Kham, we need to find it. Soap, you’re with Ghost, Garrick you stick with me. Total, we’ve got two teams of five involving local assistance.”

The Scot knocks forearms with his silent counterpart, and Gaz nods at the Captain in understanding. “Time frame?”

Blue eyes glance at the Sergeant. “We have a window of thirty minutes for prep and transport. We need to move fast.” Price huffs, fixing his hands onto the collar of his combat vest. “There’s the possibility of non-combatants on site. Check your shots.” 

The debrief is quick and thorough, and that night everything comes to a head. 

Kyle’s body soon sits in the back of an armored vehicle, a night-vision rig on his head, rifle in his arms, and his body hunched forward on the seat. In the back of his pocket, his phone sits—set to mute even if he yearned to take it up and see if you’d called him. 

Being away made him nervous for you. Such relentless pursuers…but he had to believe that the actions he’s taking here will make all the difference in the end. Keller can watch after you and your mother; he placed his faith in the Agent before, and he can do it again. 

But there was an ever-present pressure on his chest that won’t leave. A weight. Some kind of fishing hook stuck into the back of his brain that pulls every so often, dragging him back to the pole. 

He needed to get this over with as quickly as possible and try to find a way to get back to you. Even that first phone call had been layered with hesitation—you weren’t telling him something.

That only made him more worried. 

“Garrick,” Price’s voice snaps him out of it, brown eyes snapping up from where they’d been spacing out. His Captain’s voice is low. Steady. “On you.”

The vehicle had come to a stop. Blinking, Gaz nods quickly. “Right.” Hand reaching out, it settles heavily to the side door and pushes after a glance to everyone in the seats. 

Boots hit to concrete in muffled thumps, bent knees taking weight as eyes scan relentlessly like wolves.

It was deep night—a night where the air is even still in slumber. Mist hung like a pale shroud, and over puddles in the potholes, Kyle’s focus instantly hardened as he splashed through them. 

Now wasn’t the time to think, it was the time to act. 

He hurries down a long stretch of alley between the target’s house and the one beside it, slinking along with his rifle’s stock pressing into the clutch of his shoulder. His cheek rests against the side, breathing slowly. 

Adrenaline overtakes his heart. 

Conforming to the side entrance of the townhouse, he waits as Price moves past him to the other side. They look at one another, the bodies of the other soldiers surrounding them. Over the coms, Ghost’s voice comes through. 

“In position.” 

“Let’s do this,” Kyle grunts, intent on Price’s expression. A moment of silence passes—only the anticipatory carnage that’s to follow; unthinking minds as fingers pull triggers. Instinct. 

The Captain gives a quick nod, and the hunt starts.

After a quick breaking of the door, they all move interior. The skeletal-faced Lieutenant and the Demolitions Expert take the upper floor working down with their team, and below, Garrick and Price do the same, going up. 

Sneaking nearer to the kitchen, Gaz lays eyes on two men taking near the dining room. Body flattening against the door frame, his Captain mutters to him as he passes the opening undetected. “Drop ‘em.”

It’s a quick end—the only sound is the metallic clink of shell casings and the thump of bodies. Behind the Sergeant, one other soldier follows at his six. 

Dead eyes stare ahead as Garrick passes, and he glances at them only once before moving on. 

Waiting at the stairs, Kyle re-joins the main unit, and after a quick once-over, they all begin ascending as more sounds from the level above are picked up on twitching ears. The sharp hushing of civilians—the drop of bodies. It’s all familiar, but somewhat jarring after being away from it for so long. 

Part of him had gotten used to the trials of VIP work. 

There’s a shout from just above, and the rush of the job comes in a fast wave. The coms alight.

“We’ve got the bastard.” Soap’s sharp voice bounces off the walls and their ears, going through the house. 

“Good,” Price barks. “Stay where you are.”

Cautiously, yet quickly, all of the men regroup where their HVT is being held—in his office near the South corner. 

“Shura Makarovich Agapov,” the Captain’s voice is a low rasp as his body thumps forward. It was plain to tell that this game was getting on his nerves. Lead after lead drying up more than water in a desert. 

This man was all they had.

Gaz blinks at him as the other soldiers move about the office, grasping papers with quick fingers and looking through them—looking for anything of importance. Lowering his rifle back to his chest, the Sergeant studies the walls; eyes slipping over hung-up maps. 

“You’re going to tell me about your superiors,” Price’s voice lowers to a harsh whisper as he nears the man. 

Shura Makarovich is a large man. Sure of his body so much so that Ghost had tightened the restraints until he saw the Russian’s hands start to go blue. Johnny’s grip never leaves his weapon. 

“I do not speak to men who follow orders,” the man eases out casually as if not at all disturbed by the death of his friends and the arrest of his family. “Only the ones who give them.”

“I’d say I’m giving more orders than you right now, eh?” Price taunts, head tilting as he addresses the squad. “Anything?”

“Nothing yet, Sir.”

Price’s jaw clenches. “Yaromir Osipov. Where is he?”

“Yaromir Osipov?” Shura Makarovich’s face twitches. He seems confused for a moment, and Gaz clocks it instantly. The Sergeant’s brows pull in slowly as the hostage flips his tune. “...Why would I tell you that?”

He doesn’t know him, Gaz knows. 

Price kneels down as papers are tossed and pushed to the floor; Kyle’s brain working overtime. 

If he doesn’t know about Yaromir, then why was he an HVT at all? Why did the thread lead to him? His boots take him across the floor, moving to the papers on the desks, moving them as Soap asks a low question as to what he’s doing. Kyle shrugs him off, looking for something that could explain things. 

“Ghost,” Price mutters, and the Lieutenant moves out into the hallway quickly. The Captain looks deeply into Shura Makarovich’s eyes before standing. 

There’s a commotion from outside; yelling, before Ghost returns with a woman in hand, harshly pulling her over the ground until her feet stumble. 

Gaz’s eyes shoot up, and he goes deathly still. 

The woman only speaks in Russian, glancing at her confidant quickly and calling his name. Shura seems taken aback, blinking rapidly. 

“What are you doing?”

“Where’s Yaromir?” Price gets up and moves back. Shura makes a play to bolt up, but Soap’s hand shoves him harshly back down. 

“Stay the fuck down,” the Scot growls. 

“What is this?!” Kyle watches, stiffly standing from a few feet away. All of it was…your face flashes through his mind, and before he can tell himself to stop, he’s moving over to Price on heavy legs. 

“Captain,” he slips beside the man, his voice nothing but a murmur but the sharp shock is no trick on the senses. “What’s the play here?”

Blue eyes move slowly his way, face twitching. 

“Sergeant, set aside,” Kyle’s expression tightens, dark eyes darting to the woman that Ghost holds. 

“Price, I can’t—”

“You can leave if you need to, Garrick.” 

“This isn’t the way we have to do things,” Gaz’s voice lightly raises, and that’s all it takes for Price to grasp his shoulder and take him out of the door firmly. 

Getting lightly pushed out into the hallway, the Captain’s grim face swivels as the door is tapped closed with a boot. 

“Are you in or out, Sergeant?” Is leveled at him without emotion. “We don’t have time to play morality games. You’re either in that room with me, or you aren't. Which is it?”

“We can’t have a repeat of three years ago,” Kyle’s expression is troubled, his once sure mind fracturing. 

This wasn’t right.

“Price, there has to be another way.” Blue eyes don’t blink at him, but the Captain’s low sigh and the fix of his feet are all the words needed. 

“Stay out,” Price eases, eyes moving over the Sergeant’s face. A hand pats Gaz on the arm, and soon the Captain disappears back into the room, closing the door behind him. 

It wasn’t disappointment that the man had given Kyle—it would never be that. But some things had to be done. 

Some people had to get dirty to keep others clean. 

“Fucking…” the Sergeant trails, head moving in aggression and his legs shifting. His hand comes up and rubs at his chin, eyes half-closed in concern. 

You’d gone and messed with his head.

Kyle’s mind flashes to you—the way your eyes had gazed into his as your lips had been so close. Your breath over his face. Even the pound of your pulse when he’d put his hand to your forehead to check your temperature.

How your body would melt when he pulled you out of nightmares. 

This wasn’t right. 

It had all been his fault. It was the type of guilt that he’d carry to the grave with him; one that would never leave for as long as he tried. 

What he’d done to you…

“It’s fucking unforgivable,” he whispers under his breath, fingers tapping his rifle’s stock. He can’t let it happen to someone else. 

“What am I missing,” Kyle urges himself, feet shifting along the floor. “There’s something there—what is it?! He doesn’t bloody know Yaromir, what does that mean?” 

But what if Yaromir was never involved in this cell in the first place?

Brown eyes spark as a sharp scream echoes from under the door. Barreling through with a slam of wood, the words coming out of Gaz’s mouth are loud, but oh so steady. 

It’s as clear as day.

“We know about the location in China.”

Wide eyes from all around jerk back to him, and Price’s face slashes from shocked to enraged in a mere second. 

“What the fuck are you—?”

“Chiyou,” Kyle barks, moving closer on fast feet until he’s taken Shura by the collar of his shirt and forced him to his feet. The Russian’s eyes are jumping, his mouth opening and closing. 

Gaz’s face leans in close, searching for it—for the one emotion he needs from him to prove the lie he’s spewing from your hypothesis is correct. Behind him, the tiny sobs from the woman are muffled by her hands. 

“We know all of it is centered in Eastern China.” 

At the fast sweep of fear, Garrick already knew he had won. 

You’d been right.

Without another word, the Sergeant lets Shura drop and walks out of the room—already on the phone with Laswell.

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[bvtbxtch]

You Don't Scare Me | Eddie Munson

Day Fourteen of Kinktober

Summary: Eddie is used to scaring most of the people who walk through the Haunted House in the old Starcourt Mall. He's determined to make you squirm after you walk through and show no signs of being scared by him.

Pairings: Scare Actor!Eddie x Grumpy!Fem!Reader

wc: ~2.8k

Warnings: This is porn with some fluff so as always 18+!!! MDNI!! Sexual themes, fooling around with a stranger, fingering, oral (f receiving), public sex acts, choking and domination (if you squint)

Thank you all for sticking with me, it is literally almost the end of November, so I am thankful that y'all are still around to read! And to my lovely friend @darknesseddiem for inspiring me!

You hated Halloween more than anything. You couldn’t understand your peers' desperation to get black out drunk in someone’s basement, dressed up in the smallest garments of clothing they could find (and excuse it as some sort of costume). But, you were new to town, so when the girl you met through the Hawkin’s high journalism club, Nancy, you remembered her name to be, invited you to the haunted house that went up on the edge of town, you hesitantly agreed to join her and her group of friends. This might be your way to meet some new people. If opportunity knocks, you suppose you better answer. 

-

A nervous shiver trickled down your spine as you and Nancy leaned against the Wheeler station wagon, engaging in small talk about your move from Nevada, and about the new friends you were about to meet. You were told of a girl your age with short strawberry blonde hair, and a personality almost as eclectic as her fashion sense. And of a boy that people called the hair, a charmer in all ways women, but that he had been warned not to pursue you. You flashed Nancy a devilish smile.

“What if I want him to pursue me, Nance?”

“He’s a serial dater, Y/N. And I can say from experience, a much better friend than a conquest.” If Nancy’s response wasn’t enough to deter you, her history with Steve Harrington was. You presumed fucking around with your only friend’s ex isn’t a great way to stay friends. 

You formed your group with warm smiles and welcomes; you absorbed the three of your new friends’ banter. You felt out of the loop, but not unwelcome. The addition to Robin and Steve made you feel hopeful for the future of your friendships.

The four of you made your way through the painted asphalt of the abandoned Starcourt mall that hosted the Halloween festivities. The once shiny new sliding doors were pried open and painted black to welcome the bravest teens into the makeshift haunted house in the west wing of the mall. Robin and Nancy had already jumped at the few scare actors positioned around the entrance, Steve flinching every so often. You stood stone cold, unphased by the kids that were paid far too little money and wore far too much fake blood for their own good.

You bravely volunteered to go through the foggy entrance first; Steve followed behind you with Robin and Nancy hiding into each other’s shoulders. The fog opened up to a desolate looking carnival with old rusted rides festooned around the large room. You sauntered around the space, taking awestruck gazes at the crumpled metal and grim lights looming over you. You found the narrow corridor that led you to the next room. 

Suddenly, a tall figure popped out in front of you, eliciting shrill shrieks from your party behind you. You felt your heart jump into your chest, but not out of fear.

The figure that stood in front of you donned a ripped striped shirt and tight black jeans. You had a perfect view of his long arms and the tattoos that danced across them. You looked up to the figure’s face and were met with beautiful brown eyes glinting with an unreadable shine. His pale skin had been made even paler with white face paint, and his eyes were bracketed around black smudged triangles. You could tell how plump the boy’s lips were even when camouflaged under a black painted frown. His visage was framed with dark curls. He looked more majestic than frightening. But as much as your heart thumped, you weren’t scared, so you pretended not to be impressed with the person blocking your path. He put his muscular arm up on the wall, further blocking you in. As your friends panicked behind you, you simply flashed your bright eyes up at him and you slipped under his outstretched arm. You continued on without giving so much as a slight glance back, encouraging Steve to do the same to pass the stranger. The man dropped his hand from the wall and pressed himself back into the hallway, his eyes never leaving your figure. 

You were going to be the death of him, he could tell already.

“Holy fuck, Y/N! That was kind of badass!” Robin exclaimed, her and Nancy trotting back to rejoin you and Steve. “That fucking freaked me out.”

“What is so scary about a guy in clown makeup?” You shrugged. Little did you know the very person that you were talking about, the guy that had made your heart jump to your throat, was following closely behind you, separated only by the prop walls he had helped build days earlier. 

-

“Eddie, you can’t abandon your spot!” His skeevy boss yelled to him when he caught him trawling through the small walkways. “You gotta be the first scare, man! There’s nothing else in that corridor!” Eddie didn’t look back at the pudgy man with the combover shaking his fist. 

“Fuck off, Brad. I gotta do something” Eddie murmured. He needed to find you. He was willing to give up this shitty side gig and go back to solely dealing again. 

Eddie was overwhelmed with confusion. He was enchanted by you, but your lack of reaction in a haunted house of all things… But the way you looked at him. There was something different in your eyes. You were bored. But you looked at him with an invitation to cause trouble. You terrified the hell out of Eddie Munson, but he couldn’t get enough. 

-

You wandered aimlessly through the shabby makeshift walls. Eddie watched as you stood stoic scare after scare that normally made anyone jump. His eyes trained on your figure. Eddie needed to see more of you. The boy tapped a small boy dressed up like a gremlin waiting to pop out of the corridor you were walking through. 

“What are you doing, Eddie?” the boy hissed. 

“Just move, man. I need your spot” Eddie used his hidden strength to move the boy. His eyes stayed peeled, waiting to see your curly hair to come into his vision. 

-

You strolled through the crowded corridor, giggling quietly at Steve and Robin’s third argument of the night.

“I’m telling you, Buckley. You couldn’t be a scare actor because you would literally scare yourself.”

“Umm, says the guy who literally jumped into my arms when that demon animatronic went off back there. And like, aren’t you scared of clowns? You were made for beauty pageants, Steve.”

“Let me tell you someth-”

Steve’s words were stolen from his mouth as Eddie dashed out of his hiding spot. His sleek form lunged towards you, pushing you back towards the back wall. His hands caged your head, leaving you nowhere to look but his hypnotizing eyes. They looked aflame with passion and frustration. For the first time of the night, your breath hitched. Your chest heaved softly, waiting, wondering, hoping for what the boy was going to do (to you) next.

A small smile flashed across the curly haired boy’s painted face. He slammed his hands against the wall beside you, eliciting a short gasp from your plump lips. You didn’t ignore the glance that Eddie took at your lips before he pushed himself away from you, and onto the wall across from you. He bowed and gestured your friends foreward, leaving you to the back. You could barely peel your eyes away from the figure in front of you, but you pulled yourself from the wall and his punishing stare. You shook him out of your thoughts as you strode towards your friends, now far down the hallway. You felt a hand on your wrist and you were pulled away and into the darkness. 

Suddenly, you were met face to face with the mystery that had been following you, crammed into a small corridor. His body loomed over yours, too close, but somehow not close enough. His breath fanned over you and you couldn’t help but feel faint. He was even more beautiful now that you had all the time in the world to examine him. He licked his lips and you couldn’t help but mirror him with a gulp.

“Why aren’t you scared of me, doll?” his low voice rasped. You couldn’t speak, your throat closing. You tried your best to open your mouth, but Eddie’s thumb running across your lower lip shut it. You mustered up all of your energy.

“I’m not one to scare easily,” you sighed. You felt small underneath him, like he could devour you whole.

“You seem scared now, sweetheart. Do I scare you?” Eddie stepped closer to you, his hand finding his way to your hip. His eyes were dark, but there was a tenderness there. He silently told you that you could leave at any point and he would still thank you. “Or, do you feel exactly what I’m feeling?” Eddie didn’t need to wait for a response, your eyes were glowing with want-need. 

Eddie pressed his painted lips to yours, pressing his chest against yours. His hand ran up your side, and to your neck. His skin burned against yours and you wished you could wear his hand like a locket for the rest of time. You kissed him back feverishly, hoping that with every move of your lips, Eddie fell more enchanted with you, like you had with him. Lucky for you, Eddie had jumped off the deep end and was ready to drown in everything that is you.

Eddie pulled away and let out a small giggle. A sound that made your heart stop. 

“You have paint all over your face now.”

“I don’t give a fuck” you breathed as you pulled Eddie’s face to yours. The kisses grew from explorative to heated. Your hands snaked up to wrap around the nape of the beautiful boy’s neck. His tongue traced your bottom lip in a desperate plea to explore your mouth further. You opened your mouth in permission and his tongue met yours with a moan. Eddie slotted his jean clad thigh between your legs and pushed into you further. You felt the heat radiating off of your core between both of your jean clad bodies. You huffed into Eddie’s mouth, begging for more. 

“You want more, darling? You don’t even know me.” Eddie teased. “Plus… I’m at work! What would my boss think?” you wouldn’t let the boy’s words get to you. You couldn’t think about your situation too much. 

“Well, seeing as you’re the one that pulled me in here, it sounds like this whole ‘stranger’ and ‘at your job’ are your problems not mine… plus, I could go, if you want me to?” You attempted to push Eddie off you, but his grip on your neck and hip became desperate. You smirked at his reaction.

Eddie let go of you in favor of fiddling with your jeans. He let out a low chuckle that rumbled through your whole body. 

“So, you’re a brat, hey? I should have fucking known. Too bad for you, I’m too curious to see what you sound like when you fall apart under me.” You moaned at his words and you pulled him back into a searing kiss. His hands found their way through your jeans and panties. You let out another breathy moan into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie’s hands and mouth paused and he detached his lips from yours.

“But, you gotta be quiet doll. Can’t have anyone find us, and someone’s gonna be back here in like 5 minutes to kick my ass so…”

His slender fingers slipped through your folds, you can’t help but shudder. Eddie bit his lip to suppress his baritone moans. “So wet already… and just for me?” he praised, making your pussy flutter.  He pushed one finger into your waiting entrance, leaving you no time to adjust. Your knees buckled in sheer pleasure. You bit your lip hard, trying to suppress any moans threatening to spill out. Your hands moved up from Eddie’s neck to his luscious locks and you pulled on them to bring his mouth back to yours. He braced against you with a small ‘tsk’.

“I wanna watch you, doll. I wanna see how good you look when I finger fuck you.” His hand flew to your mouth to prevent the groan that was paired with your eyes rolling back. 

Eddie was talented. His pace was unrelenting and he knew the right angle to bully your quivering cunt at. He spread you open further by adding another finger. You shook, feeling so satisfied, so full. You could barely keep your cool that you had been desperately clinging to. The waves of heat flooding your system.

“P-please-”

“Eddie”

“Eddie.please.” You cried.

“Hmmm, I love it when you say my name.” The boy cooed. His words hurled you closer and closer to your climax. Your legs began to shake around Eddie’s hand. A frustrated gasp wracked your body as Eddie removed his fingers from your desperate pussy. 

“Eddie-” You were hushed by the tall boy’s frame dipping down so his head was at your waist. You looked into his beautiful brown eyes quizzically, and he returned your look with a mischievous smile. He pulled your jeans and soaked panties to your knees and pulled his face into you. 

“I need to taste you, please?” You were on the edge, overstimulated and desperate to cum. You shook your head violently and without a second to lose, Eddie’s mouth was on your sensitive core. You yelped at the sensation of his perfect lips sucking against your clit. A large hand snaked from your wait to your mouth. The lack of air sent lightning bolts through your body. Eddie hummed into you and you collapsed over him. 

“Taste so good-”

“Y/N” You answered for him. He hummed into you again, sending shock waves through your legs. Your breath hitched and Eddie could feel you tense around where his fingers once were. He stared up at you as he gave one last suck onto your sensitive bud. 

You saw white, your head felt like it was full of cotton. The waves of pleasure were too much for you to comprehend. Your pussy clenched around nothing and you cried into Eddie’s hand. You could feel the vibrations of him moaning as he licked up your essence. He expertly worked you through your climax, to the point where you were deliciously overstimulated. He waited for you to pull him off of you, licking you clean in the process.

You couldn’t help but giggle when his presence loomed over you again, a large spot around his mouth and chin bare of face paint. He wiped his mouth and you could finally see the plump pink lips grinning back at you. 

“Nice to meet you, Y/N”  You couldn’t help the blush that grew across your cheeks. 

“Nice to meet you, Eddie.” 

Eddie picked up the bottom hem of his shirt and wiped your mouth clean of the black smudges of paint. He grabbed your hand and kissed the back of it. 

“Can I maybe get your number, so I can eat- I mean take you out on a proper date?”

You smiled up at the gorgeous boy. He had rooted through his back pocket and held a sharpie in his hand triumphantly. You took it from him, and wrote your phone number on your arm in your neat writing. You blew on his arm, sending goosebumps straight through his heart. 

“You better call me after that, Eddie. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you didn’t” 

“Well, lucky for you, I have no intention of leaving you alone.”

With a smile, Eddie grabbed your hand and led you through the back corridors and gave you a sweet peck. He pushed you through a small entrance so you were back by Robin’s side. 

-

With a scream,  you reunited with Robin.

“Holy fuck! Where the hell did you go?!”

“I got lost. I took some wrong turns and ended up in the back corridors somehow.” You were thankful that the room was dark so you were able to hide your red hot cheeks. Maybe Halloween wasn’t so bad… and you might just have a change of heart about Hawkins after all.

-

Eddie sauntered back through the narrow maze of staff hallways, a shit eating grin plastered on his smudged face. It faltered slightly as he entered the male dressing rooms. Brad stood to greet the teen. His sweaty brow furrowed and his fatty chin wobbled in anger.

“Munson you’re-”

“Fired.. Yeah, I got it.” the metalhead chuckled. 

Eddie grabbed his bag with a smile and a bow to the chubby man, who was now furiously flattening his greasy comb over. He wiped his face with an old bandana tucked into his back pocket. He slammed out the shabby doors that lead to the abandoned mall, blowing carefully on his newest tattoo that you had given him. If it were up to him, he would drive himself to his friend’s tattoo parlor and get it inked permanently on his arm, like you had been tattooed on his heart.

taglist: @eddies-acousticguitar @mmunson86 @sadbitchfangirl @hideoutside @anxiousobserver @ali-r3n @brinleighsstuff @@filth-fiction-archive @vintagehellfire @kirstinjayjay @poofyloofy @sluggzillaa @aol19 @dark-angel-is-back @keikoraven @emxxblog @adrenalineeerevolver @crybabyddl @lovemegood @cherry-pop3547 @cherry-pop3547 @cozmiccass If you would like to be on my taglist, please consider following and fill out this form!

[moon-buggg]

Not so different after all

I wanted to explore Moon's relationship with mad scientist! Y/n a bit, so I wrote this drabble! It's the first piece of non-academic writing I've shared since middle school, so be kind lol

length- 585 words

warnings- vague descriptions of bodies and dismemberment (yn is taking organs out of a cadaver to preserve them, its not graphic but viewer discretion is advised)

Sun had asked you, once, how you could stomach the dirty work of your experiments. ‘The body is just meat,’ you had responded, elbow deep in a cadaver, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As if it were perfectly normal for humans to rifle through their own for spare parts. As if you had not been shunned from your peers for this exact transgression. 

Moon wasn’t squeamish. The opening of a body so unlike his own did not unsettle him in the way it unsettled Sun. No, it wasn’t the blood, viscera, or decay that made him feel like this, like everything was wound too tight, grating and wrong.

It was you.

And watching you preserve your latest specimen (another failure, not that you would let that stop you), he could hold his tongue no longer.

“Easy. They’re all hypocrites.” The accusation is harsh and sharp on your tongue. “Did you know they had us dissecting pigs in medical school but not once did we ever oversee a human dissection? Sure the anatomy transfers decently enough, but how were we supposed to treat human patients never learning from humans? What makes our bodies worthy of preserving over pigs? That we figured out pants first?”

“How are you ok with this,” he does not gesture to the human brain currently soaking in formaldehyde, “when everyone tells you it is wrong?”

The disgust in your voice is evident. Moon had always appreciated that about you, your complete inability to mask your emotions- or was it just a lack of interest? It did not help him in deciphering you in this moment. 

You continue on, either unaware of your rambling or used to his lack of response. “I mean really, who do they think they are?-” 

Moon tuned you out. He'd heard this rant plenty of times before. Nothing about your sworn vengeance on and superiority over those who wronged you would help explain why you made him so confused. 

Why your flippant treatment of bodies reminded him of the circus’s repair tent.

You were still talking, never once stopping your task of preparing various organs for preservation. Ever quick and methodical, your hands never stopped moving. “-ean, really, the body is just a machine!” you huff, dropping the heart into a jar like it had offended you.

“...a machine,” he parrots. You remain unaware of how his eyes bore holes into the back of your head.

“Exactly! One that I will take apart and master!” Your easy confidence about such grim matters unsettles many, used to unsettle him. He crosses the laboratory with two long steps and leans over you, observing your work more closely. A body lies cold and empty on the metal gurney, its innards laid out in jars across your desk. You’ve moved on to labeling now, penning down notes in a shorthand he’s yet to decipher. The silence is… comfortable, broken only by your pen scratchings and the quiet ticking of Moon’s internal clockwork. 

You look back at him only once, a questioning but otherwise blank stare, before returning to your work. Not displeased, at least.

He continues watching as you finish labeling and move to writing in that same shorthand in a journal. He doesn’t know if you would explain it to him if he asked, so he doesn’t. He just continues to watch. And as the sun sinks in the sky, he slinks away and activates the electric lights for you before returning to his perch.

[immajustvibehere]

Hi there! You’re stuff is always sooo good! I saw your post asking for some inspo.

What if Arthur has a special night planned with the reader, but he has a bunch of tasks to do before he is free to meet her? The whole day goes from one bad job to then next, and all he wants to do is meet her later for this perfect night. And when he finally gets to the hotel where he’s supposed to meet her, he’s filthy, banged up, and exhausted. He has lost almost all his money that he needed to treat her to a perfect night by the time he gets there.

How would it go from there?

Simple Nights Spent Together

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader

Summary: Reader wants Arthur to understand that every time they get to spend with him is precious :)

fluffy little good night story, thanks for the request!

1100 words, less than 10 minutes reading time

Arthur slowly opened the door to the hotel room he knew you’d to be in. This was the same room the two of you always occupied whenever you managed to snatch a few precious moments away from camp, often for some undisturbed intimacy. But today turned out slightly different than normally. The day didn't really go according to plan and now Arthur felt like he had failed you. Before he gave the door a final push, he looked at himself. Dirty, knuckles stained with dried blood and a bad conscience that the guy who shot and hit his satchel got away with it. It had been a grim realisation that hit him a tad too late, when he discovered the gaping hole in his satchel. His money and a collection of other possessions that had accumulated were now lost somewhere on the sprawling prairie.

The door wasn’t fully open yet, but Arthur hesitated.

"Y/N?", he whispered. The tone of his voice was enough to suggest that something wasn’t right. You had grown restless over the past hour, because the time you had agreed upon was long past and you had feared the worst. So as soon as you saw the door open and heard his voice, you discarded the book you had been reading and sat up.

"Finally! You okay?", you walked to the door, doing Arthur the service of opening it fully and letting him in. His shame would've probably prevented him to do so.

"'m really sorry...", he mumbled, not even looking you in the eyes. You didn't answer, still busy with scanning him for serious injuries, though glad you found none. Arthur took off his head to fiddle it awkwardly between his fingers, revealing his unkempt hair.

"Nothing to be sorry for, I can see that you've been held up", you offered a little smile before standing on your tiptoes and planting a peck on the cheek.

"I wanted to go clean myself up first, but I didn't wanna be any later then I already was...", for some moments, Arthur had even considered not turning up at all, but he knew the consequences of this would have been you worried sick for the entire night.

You helped Arthur out of his coat: "That's okay. Go get a bath now, I'll stay awake and wait."

"Yes, Ma'am", Arthur said unironically. He was about to walk out when he stopped. Holding up his butchered satchel. He would have to ask you for money. He turned around, his cheeks blushing in shame.

"Oh no! What happened!", you immediately took the satchel and looked at the damage. It felt light, the hole was big enough to drain it of most its contents.

"Bullet hit it..."

"Is your journal-"

"Had it in my saddle bag", Arthur explained briefly, "I-uhm...do ya have some change on ya?"

You gave him a couple of dollars without hesitation: "I'll get it fixed first thing tomorrow, I promise. Oh and-", Arthur had started to walk off, "Have you eaten?"

"I’m not hungry", Arthur replied, accompanied by a dismissive wave of his hand. 'Not hungry' was a subtle code for 'I haven't eaten all day, but please don't bother for me'. But of course, you did. The lamb chops you got from the saloon were done and you had carried them to the room only a minute before Arthur returned, his damp hair slicked back.

"Yer really shouldn't have...", Arthur commented when he saw the loaded plate and two bottles of beer.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I planned on eating that alone...", you grinned as Arthur approached you and gave you a quick kiss. He smelt pleasantly like soup, though the clothes he wore still gave the familiar odour of soil and pines. Arthur had tasted the meat that on your lips – apparently you had tried some – and sat down willingly. Eagerly, he finished the plate.

His shoulders were slouched, and you could tell by how slowly he blinked that he was exhausted and ready for some sleep.

"'m real sorry, darlin'...", Arthur sighed, "I really had something different planned for tonight than just sleeping..."

Arthur was hinting at some fun and intimacy, but you weren't even a little bit disappointed that none of this would be happening.

"Arthur", you leaned forward as your lips curled into a soft smile, "This is the perfect night."

The man looked at you like you were telling a stupid joke.

"Firstly...", you started and handed him a wet rag to clean his hands which glistened in fat, "you're alive. Can't take that for granted in this line of work, so this alone makes it a good night."

Then you helped him out of his clothes which he wouldn't need for sleeping: "Secondly, you're here. You came. You had a horrible day, I can tell. But you still showed up and I really appreciate that. Makes it an even better night, because we get to share a bed."

Arthur would often get this warm tingly feeling when you cared for him in this way. Not that he frequently found himself in situations where he messed up or ruined a date night, but sometimes things were out of control, and you never made him feel like you didn't understand that. Without resistance, he allowed you to guide him onto the pillow, his whole body sinking into the bed in the process. With pleasure, he watched as you crawled on top of him. He just barely managed to lift his hands to place them on your hip.

"And lastly", you pressed a light kiss onto his cheek, "Do you have one healthy arm to spare?"

Arthur didn't understand this question, shooting you a quizzical look before checking out his arms: "Both of them lookin' fine to me."

"And now if you, Mr. Morgan, have at least one of those arms to spare for me tonight, so I might rest my head on them instead of the pillow, since I much prefer your arm, I'd call this a perfect night", you called out in a theatrical matter, before falling onto the mattress next to him and resting your head on his arm.

Arthur chuckled warmly, pulling you into an embrace. "You sure are something...", he mumbled.

"Most of all I'm just happy to have you", you replied, snuggling up to him.

A contented sigh escaped Arthur’s lips. If he weren’t so tired, he might have found the words to express what he felt. It was the sentiment that it was his turn to express how privileged he’s to have you.  

"You know", Arthur whispered, his words slurred by the tiredness that washed over him, "I'm gonna make up for all of it tomorrow." He placed a suggestive kiss on your neck.

"Looking forward to it", you answered softly, well aware that sleep will claim you both in a few moments.

[the-halloween-jack]

ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ －ｔｈｒｅｅ

PART THREE OF 'REVENANT' SERIES Damon Salvatore x Winchester!Sister!Hunter!Reader  The Vampire Diaries x Supernatural Mini-Series Synopsis: Y/N Winchester was tired of living in her brothers' shadows; she needed to do something for herself for a change. When she heads to Mystic Falls, a town she was always warned to stay away from, she finds she may have taken on more than she can handle. Will she be able to eradicate the supernatural from the uncanny town? Or will she find herself tangled amongst it? WARNINGS: Descriptions of Violence. Words: 2,064k Blog Masterlist / Series Masterlist <Previous Part | Next Part >

Monsters consumed her entire world; Y/N thought of them every day and in every moment. She would watch people as she passed them on the street and wonder if they harboured any grim secrets; monsters were considerably more common than one would expect. However, there was a time when this was not the case. As a young girl, she never fully understood why her family moved from motel to motel, never finding a home to settle in. 

She and her brothers would stay in the shabby rooms, watching cartoons as their father disappeared for hours, only to return covered in grime and blood. Eventually, Dean joined in on these late-night escapades and soon after, Sam. They held hushed conversations over old-looking journals Y/N was never allowed to see. 

She had never known anything different; it came alongside her life of greasy diners and dingy mattresses.

However, she had always known that something was wrong. Even at a young age, she was bright enough to know that normal fathers did not teach their children how to wield knives and set traps. And they definitely did not pass their six-year-old children handguns. Her small hands and feeble arms barely able to hold on as it recoiled.

On the morning of her eleventh birthday, her father had taken her to an old friend, saying she needed a specific tattoo and that he would not ask questions. The young girl was shocked. Y/N knew this was not regular for kids her age; she supposed they were only for grownups. However, looking back, she recalled her brothers receiving them as well. Her father hushed and comforted her as she cried in his arms; the pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. When she drew back from his embrace, upon her upper left arm was now a star, enclosed by a circle of black, simple flames. Her father had told her that 'it was a small amount pain for a lifetime of protection from things that would hurt her'. She shuddered when she thought of what these 'things' might be. 

However, by her next birthday, she no longer had to wonder. Y/N would never forget the day she learnt about the frightening past-times of her family. It was a turning point in her life, something she could never change, no matter how many times since that moment she wished she could.

The tires of the Impala had rolled noisily over the gravel of the dimly lit car park. The motel's neon sign flickered, casting an eerie glow across its sleek, black metal as John Winchester pulled out onto the barren street. Inside the room, the air was palpable. Y/N remembered every detail of the night perfectly. The smell of old books and gun oil mingled with the acrid tang of old manchester. She recalled how the walls seemed to sag under the weight of time, the air thick with the scent of dampness and decay. She was supposed to be alseep as her adolescent brothers, Sam and Dean, sat hunched over a precarious table, staring fixedly at a map.

Across the room, Y/N lied on her side, back turned and clutching the pillow with white-knuckled fingers. Her eyes were wide, staring unblinkingly at the peeling wallpaper of the motel, the thump of her pounding heart reaching her ears. 

Y/N Winchester, the youngest of the three, had always had a lingering suspicion that her family was disparate from that of a regular household. Their late-night departures and whispered conversations had all hinted at something dark, something they deliberately withheld from her. 

But as she listened to the low humming of their voices, her whole world had unravelled. Monsters, demons, and things ‘that went bump in the night’ were real. And her family hunted them.

Dean's voice broke, brueque and urgent, breaking her from her spiralling thoughts. 

‘We've got a lead on a group of vampires, Sammy. Pack your bags. We’ll leave in the morning.’ Sam nodded, his gaze fixed on the map. 

Y/N's breath hitched. Vampires? She had always believed they were creatures of folklore and myth, the subjects of peoples’ nightmares. But suddenly, the reality of this fact became true for her. Had she not seen her father carve out intricate stakes? And replace the bullets in his guns with wooden alternatives? She had been too young to give any of these details consideration. Though as Y/N lay in the bleak corner of the room, absorbing the information her brothers had unknowingly disclosed, she felt remarkably obtuse.

Y/N sat up and allowed her consciousness to become known to her brothers. 

Her voice had shaken, fear entwined between each syllable. ‘Vampires?’

She had wanted to say more, but her words caught in her throat. 

Both heads snapped up, surprise and shock corroding their features. Dean's eyes widened, and he exchanged a quick, concerned glance with Sam.

‘Y/N, you shouldn't be awake,’ Sam had said, his voice holding an edge of distress,

‘No, I need to know,’ Y/N insisted, her hands trembling. ‘What else don’t I know? Why do you do this?’

Dean sighed heavily, the weight of this fretful secret hardening his expression. The brother did not know how their father would react to their carelessness; she should not have found out like this. 

‘Sit down, Y/N. We'll explain.’

As they spoke and described the monsters of this sphere in great detail, Y/N listened, perturbed yet enthralled. Her childish, insular world expanded with each revelation; the bleakness that her family fought against was far more vast than she had any right to envisage. 

The creatures from her childhood nightmares were real; her father and brothers took it upon themselves to eradicate these fiends.

As days bled into nights, the Impala sped down highways and quiet country roads, carrying the Winchesters from one hunt to the next as it always had, only now, Y/N knew why. She observed and learned, engrossed in every piece of information they shared. 

Her father had attempted to teach her how to wield a gun many years prior, though he eventually gave up, her negligent demeanour discouraging. But with the threat of monsters now a burden upon her shoulders, Y/N reconsidered her juvenile disinterest and learned to fire a gun. She allowed the recoil to sting her palms until callouses formed. 

She memorised incantations, reciting them like a mantra to banish unwelcome spectres. Once a foreign language, the lore became familiar, etched into her memory like the back of her hand.

As weeks turned into months, which then rolled into years, Y/N’s alteration became undeniable; she was a hunter. 

Her knowledge was vast; her determination and resolve were unyielding. Yet, she would always be the neonate of the Winchester clan, never a hunter in her own right.

This fact was the catalyst for her departure to Mystic Falls.

Y/N Winchester hardly believed that a single town could have such a vast history of misfortune; why did this small quaint community hold such an aptitude for catastrophe? Vampires, Witches and Werewolves were just a few of the creatures that Y/N was sure stalked the streets of Mystic Falls, and with all of the disasters claiming innocent lives, she was almost certain that the uncanny town had its fair share of ghosts as well. 

Over the decades, Mystic Falls' history bore witness to many tribulations. Tragedies were not at all uncommon for the abnormal town. Yet its reputation as a charming, radiant community still proceeded it. Y/N had to admit that maybe the council was more successful than she gave it credit for, only not successful enough for her hunters’ disposition.

She found it most curious that the Lockwood family, from what she could discern, had seemingly been cursed with lycanthropy for generations, and despite this, still participated in the council’s hunting of vampires. 

Y/N’s research led her to Civil Hall, which housed the incredibly grim and macabre Founder’s archives. 

Beginning in the early 19th century, the Founding Families, including the Salvatores, Lockwoods, Gilberts, Forbes, and Fells, laid the foundation for the thriving community of Mystic Falls. Their historical influence reverberated through the town's architecture, traditions and the very spirit that defined it. Y/N found that each family brought a unique facet to the tapestry of Mystic Falls. They built homes, a school, and a place of worship. As the seasons passed, Mystic Falls flourished, its streets lined with elms, its gardens ablaze with vibrant blossoms and the town square; a bustling hub of commerce and camaraderie.

Amidst this idyllic setting, the Founding Families recognized the coexistence of the supernatural world alongside their own, understanding that the existence of these paranormal fiends could not be known by the greater population. So they established the Town Council, set on eradicating these monsters from their picturesque town. Under their leadership and protection, the Council became the linchpin of Mystic Falls' unique social fabric. And although they attempted to cover the town’s dark secret with reports of ordinary things, it was a delicate balance and one that required vigilance and discretion. However, the holes in their stories did not go unnoticed by the young Winchester.

She had found that in 1864 during the Civil War, Confederate Soldiers had fired on Fell’s Church, believing the establishment had been harbouring weapons. Twenty-Seven people were killed. However, this report did not sit well with Y/N; its contents held many hallmarks of the recent ‘animal killings’. To the young hunter, it sounded like a coverup. 

Y/N travelled to the forsaken church nonetheless, bearing an EMF Meter and salt. She was unsurprised to find that the building held no signs of the odious spirits you would expect. Though, beneath its old withering structure, lay an abandoned tomb; Y/N shivered, wondering what had been inside it.

Y/N was sure to return to the archives in Civil Hall as there was too much to look at in one session. And upon her second trip, she uncovered something that left her feeling uneasy. In storage were artifacts from a heritage display recently held by the Founder’s Council; within said display was a registry listing the names of the guestlist for the original Founder’s event. 

The document had read,

'The Founding Families of Mystic Falls, Virginia welcome you to the inaugural Founders Council Celebration on this, the twenty-fourth of September in the year Eighteen Hundred and Sixty Four.'

Her gloved fingers skimmed down the old parchment until she reached a name written in an even, ornate scrawl. She felt her heart beating in her throat, 

'Damon Salvatore'

No, she thought, he couldn’t be…

She hollowly noted the name of his brother 'Stefan Salvatore' stetched onto the aged paper as well. Y/N, heart sinking, recalled her initial suspicion of Damon on the night they met; she had felt saddened by the idea of him being a monster. Though, she had quickly ridiculed these ideas as she learnt of his surname. Y/N dejectedly reminisced Caroline’s warnings, and suddenly, she heard them in a new light. 

'Y/N, he’s bad news; how many times do I have to tell you before the message sinks in?'

Y/N had thought Caroline’s dislike for Damon was due to some trivial gossip. Though was it possible her admonitions hinted at something much more sinister?

She shook her head as if trying to banish unwelcome thoughts; once again, she concluded that she must be overreacting. He hailed from a Founding Family; they did not take matters of the supernatural lightly. And besides, she had heard him talk of the animal killings with the sheriff herself. He could not be a vampire. 

Perhaps these people on the registry had been namesakes for the brothers? Surely, in a community that valued its heritage so much, it would not be unusual to be named for your late ancestors? And as a hunter, how could her instincts be so wrong? So out of touch? 

Y/N Winchester had not yet fallen in love with the blue-eyed man, though with each conversation and interaction, Y/N knew falling in love would be as easy as the phrase proposed; as effortless as falling down. 

No, she thought, this time more confident, he couldn’t be. 

TAG LIST: @venomsvl

[small-z24]

Shadows of Fate 9

Summary:

Y/n, Cassian's shy and quiet sister, prefers to keep to the shadows. Unbeknownst to her, she is Azriel's mate. His shadows are inexplicably drawn to her, and as they grow closer, a slow-burn romance ensues. Cassian, ever protective of his sister, watches over her as the bond between Y/n and Azriel deepens.

Word Count: 876

Warnings: This chapter contains scenes of intense emotional distress, graphic descriptions of injury, and the process of healing. Readers should be prepared for significant angst and moments of vulnerability and pain.

Chapter 9: Shadows of Pain

The days without Azriel passed slowly, each one dragging on longer than the last. Y/n kept herself busy with training and planning with the Inner Circle, but the gnawing worry for Azriel never left her. She found solace in the moments she could sense their bond, feeling his presence even from afar, but it was never enough to ease her fears completely.

One evening, Y/n was sitting in her room, staring at the night sky. She held the journal Azriel had given her, running her fingers over the smooth cover, drawing comfort from the connection it symbolized. Suddenly, she felt a sharp, searing pain through the bond, a sensation so intense it took her breath away.

"Azriel," she gasped, her heart pounding in her chest.

She ran through the halls of the House of Wind, desperate to find Rhysand. Bursting into the war room, she found him with Cassian and Feyre, their faces immediately turning to her in alarm.

"Y/n, what is it?" Rhysand asked, his voice filled with concern.

"It's Azriel," she said, her voice trembling. "Something's wrong. He's hurt."

Without a moment's hesitation, Rhysand reached out through their mental link, his expression growing more serious by the second. "He’s coming back, but he’s badly injured. We need to prepare."

The minutes felt like hours as they waited for Azriel's return. Y/n stood on the steps of the House of Wind, her heart in her throat. Finally, she saw a dark figure descending from the sky, struggling to stay aloft. Cassian rushed forward, catching Azriel as he landed heavily, his wings battered and torn.

"Azriel!" Y/n cried, running to his side.

Azriel’s face was pale, his eyes filled with pain. "Y/n," he murmured, his voice weak. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't you dare apologize," she said, tears streaming down her face. "We need to get you inside."

Cassian and Rhysand helped carry Azriel into the house, laying him gently on a bed. Feyre quickly gathered supplies, her expression grim. Y/n knelt beside Azriel, her hands shaking as she assessed his injuries. Deep gashes marred his torso, and his wings were shredded, blood staining the floor beneath him.

"I need to heal him," she said, her voice steady despite the fear gripping her heart. "Feyre, help me."

Feyre nodded, her own healing abilities already at work. Together, they focused on Azriel, their magic intertwining as they worked to mend his wounds. Y/n poured all her love and desperation into her healing, feeling the bond between them strengthen as she fought to save him.

Azriel's breath was ragged, his eyes fluttering open to meet hers. "Y/n," he whispered, his voice filled with pain and regret. "I'm so sorry..."

"Stop," she said fiercely, her tears falling onto his chest. "You’re going to be okay. Just hold on."

As the hours passed, the worst of Azriel's injuries began to heal, but he remained unconscious, his body exhausted from the ordeal. Y/n stayed by his side, her hand tightly gripping his, refusing to leave him for even a moment.

The night wore on, and Y/n found herself drifting in and out of a restless sleep, her head resting on the edge of Azriel's bed. She woke to the feeling of his hand squeezing hers weakly, and her eyes snapped open.

"Azriel?" she whispered, her heart leaping with hope.

His eyes opened slowly, the pain still evident but a flicker of relief in their depths. "Y/n... you’re here."

"Of course I am," she said, her voice trembling. "I’m not going anywhere."

Azriel’s fingers tightened around hers, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that took her breath away. "I thought I lost you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You’ll never lose me," she replied, tears streaming down her face. "We’re mates. We’re bound together."

He closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I love you, Y/n. More than anything."

"I love you too, Azriel," she said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Rest now. We’ll get through this together."

The following days were a blur of healing and recovery. Y/n stayed by Azriel’s side, tending to his every need, her heart aching with the depth of her love and worry. Cassian and Rhysand took turns sitting with them, offering their support and comfort.

One evening, as Y/n sat beside Azriel, he reached out and took her hand, his grip stronger than it had been in days. "Thank you," he said softly. "For saving me."

"You saved me first," she replied, her voice filled with emotion. "And I’ll keep saving you, as many times as it takes."

Azriel smiled weakly, his eyes filled with love. "I’m so lucky to have you."

"No," Y/n said, shaking her head. "I’m the lucky one."

As they sat together in the quiet of the room, Y/n felt the bond between them strengthen, a deep, unbreakable connection that would see them through any storm. And in that moment, she knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, bound by a love that was stronger than anything the world could throw at them.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter of Y/n and Azriel's story. Feel free to leave comments and let me know your thoughts!

[moonbiscuitsims]

TAG // WHAT’S IN MY BAG?

Olive Specter / Ophelia Nigmos (TS2 premade characters recreated in TS4)

Rules: Post a description and/or photo of what things your Sim/OC would take along with them in their bag. Tag other people you want to participate!

Thank you so much @hamsterbellbelle for tagging me and giving me an excuse to open Sims again!

My sims of choice aren’t OC’s because I suck at giving OC’s personality haha I love premades so I chose Ophelia Nigmos and Olive Specter (I couldn’t choose lol). Was gonna only choose Olive as a eerie/spooky theme for October but I love Ophelia too much. These are my Sims 4 recreations of them though (mainly cause I have more clutter, more detailed lot and the sims 2 one and I find it easier to bunch clutter together with the alt key and tool mod, and I wanted to do a photo version). Don’t know if it’s ok to do the challenge with a premade or more than one sim or not OC but idc about rules

Please ignore the fact that none of this sh*t would actually fit in a bag :D Sims’ inventories are infinite anyway.

Ophelia’s bag:

Rainbow Beach Towel

Unfolded cardboard dance mat

Football (or soccer ball)

American Football

Water bottle

Comics

Homework

Letter from Johnny

Phone and Keys

Journal with doodles

Music journal (my Ophelia writes songs and raps)

Selfies with Johnny

Pencil

Cosmetics

Mini Pusheen

Lollipop

Tamagotchi

A naughty j**** Ripp gave her at school, but don’t tell Olive…Ophelia doesn’t wanna live buried in Olive’s lovely “garden” thank you.

Olive’s bag:

Creepy ass sh*t including:

A literal f**king Death Note (the Grim Reaper was like “yeah use this when you wanna see me hun”)

Dark Magic Tomes

A black rose in a skull from the Grim Reaper (his gift to her on their first death I mean date)

A vile of poison

A vile of one of her dead husband’s blood, she can’t remember which or why she kept it.

Her favourite perfume from Morocco

Sage smudge sticks for all those pesky victim ghosts, she really should have thought the whole murdering everyone and burying them at home thing through…

Tarot deck

Crystal ball (she uses it to talk to her dead husbands when she needs something or when the Grim Reaper ghosts her… 

A taxidermy crow

A creepy rat skull

A witchy dagger thingy

A revolver

Cigarettes

F**king knitting

Neutral lipstick

Candles

I don’t really know who to tag tbh but if I didn’t tag you and anyone who sees this can participate and tag me if you want!!! It would be great!! 

Imma tag random mutuals and other blogs/players I like, no pressure to participate! 

@radical-sims @simarty @nf0xy @nefarrilou @simgone @faelegacy @hexpresso-macchiato @siliconesims @emperorofthedark @sammysundog (simsalutation to you <3 idk if you do these kinds of things)  @simmerprincess17 @adrift-in-andromeda @lowvintagesims @arachnophobic-larantula (I know yours isn’t a simblr, but in case you wanna do this challenge with your Cyberpunk or another game &lt;3) @half-rainbow-sandwiches

[beautifulbows924]

I Never Knew Daylight Could Be So Violent

Morpheus, Dream of The Endless x Gender Neutral!Reader

Masterlist

AFG Bingo Masterlist

A/N: I’m very proud of this, descriptions have always been my bread & butter and this definitely has quite a few of them. I hope it was worth the wait for those of you who saw the sneak peak! And as always, I hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave any feedback you have in the comments and if you like my work consider leaving a tip! Thanks:) PS: Reblogs and comments act as wonderful early birthday presents!

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1.5K+

Warnings: Misleading Fluff, Slight Spoilers, Matthew being used as a plot device (Sorry Matthew), Heavy Angst, Blood & Magick.

Summary: Morpheus searches for a mage to insure what happened to him will never happen to you- But it seems that every choice has a price, and his decisions might just cost him everything.

Created for @anyfandomangstbingo / Square Filled N2: “You’re good at finding things. Find me a reason to stay.”

Boots crush along multicolored glass, a quiet reminder of the devastation as Dream finds himself immersed in the grim reality of his absence. Destiny manifested through predetermined means.

“I kept a journal for awhile—A chronicle of everything that happened in your absence... but slowly, the words began to fade.” Lucience’s eyes wander as if lost to a distant memory, her voice filled with repressed emotion, “Sometime after you left, all the books in the library became bound volumes of blank paper. The next day, the whole library was gone... I never found it again”.

Morpheus pivots to regard her properly, “And yet you remained, while others fled. The royal librarian of an abandoned kingdom”.

Bitter air fills your lungs at the low drawl of his voice, speaking to her as if he never left—standing where you last left him.

“I never felt abandoned. I knew you would return.” Lucienne’s gaze shifts, noting your presence in her peripheral and Morpheus follows suit.

Your feet have instinctively carried you to him.

His mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly. What use are words when you stand before him?

His forehead leans against yours, unable to resist the touch he’s been so cruelly denied for over a century. “Hello”, he sighs.

A gentle murmur, a declaration in itself.

Your fingers twist the edges of his coat, “Hello”, you breathe.

I missed you, he hears.

“We have business— you and I”, Morpheus says. No inquiry, no suggestion, eyeing the bar with an indifferent curiosity. Small and cramped, every inch overwhelmed by the heavy scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke. “It took me quite some time to find you.”

“I wasn’t hiding”, the mage shrugs, taking a long sip of her drink. “But I’m not just out and about looking for business either”, her attention shifts to the news report, volume just loud enough for her to hear.

Dream’s hands are clasped behind his back, his head slanting as he regards her idly, a tinge impatient. "No, I don't suppose you are”, he muses aloud, voice devoid of any emotion, "But I wasn’t asking”.

There’s a casual intensity to his words that has her breaking out in goosebumps and pausing her finger’s path on the rim of her glass. “Is that a threat, Dreamlord?”, she asks, sparing him a wary glance. Her voice may remain steady, but her eyes betray a flicker of fear.

"I have no need of threats. I’ve simply stated a fact. Which is, you and I have business to attend to”, Morpheus’ voice is calm and level, his gaze never wavering from her once. It grows heavier, more palpable as the seconds pass by.

Throwing down a ten, the mage sighs and shifts off of her stool, downing the rest of her drink in one swift movement, “Fine, let's get this over with”.

Light flows through large, stained glass windows, casting the room in a yellow-blue hue. Stone sets upon a seemingly endless staircase, leading to a throne—intricately carved and artfully regal. The Dreaming itself drums to an almost silent melody, mirroring the power it contains back to its source.

“I need to be assured”, Morpheus rasps, breathless. The mage’s words have left a bitter taste in his mouth, poisoning the well with doubt. “I want them to remain unharmed.”

“…I will not lie to you, this spell is no kindness. It rips a piece from the mortal soul, the piece that ties them to the waking world, and binds—cages them to another for all eternity.”

The shift in his demeanor is immediate, apathy returning with full force, his words a comfort to no one but him, “I can provide them with all they need, this realm is their home”.

The magick user regards him carefully, reminding herself that she is merely a guest within his realm, and it would do her good to choose her next words as if her life hangs in the balance, “For their sake, lord, I hope you’re certain”.

“adligo, copula, ligare”, the mage murmurs, cutting along the tip of her finger—allowing the blood to pool and drip from her hand, smearing it across the altar in offering.

The air above cinders. Ash intertwined by intricate, golden runes, imbued with ancient magick.

A despondent ache, followed by a sickening crack has you stumbling forward.

“My—”, Lucienne gasps, reaching out to steady you, her voice drowned in static fear.

Terror gnaws at your throat, “Lucienne?!”.

Plunged into darkness, the firmness of her hold disappears.

The skin of the realm bends and breaks, dragging you through it. Tearing you apart and piecing you together again, until the firmness of ground deposits beneath you.

A looming silhouette centers into focus. “…Morpheus?”, you mumble, “What happened?”. The air is unnaturally warm. Blades of grass caress your face. Dirt dusts your clothes and skin.

Wisps of hair cling to his forehead as he outstretches a hand toward you, pulling you to your feet in one swift movement. “You are unharmed?”, he asks, scanning your body for any sign of injury.

You nod, reaching to lightly rest your fingers against his jaw, trailing them down his neck and shoulder, until they come to rest in the firm comfort of his hand.

“Are you certain?”, he murmurs, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a chaste kiss against each knuckle.

You smile at the subtle admittance of concern, “I’m certain”.

Matthew settles on your shoulder in a mess of feathers, beak lightly pecking at your neck to focus your attention on him, “Boss wanted me to inform you that he’ll be back late, he has an important meeting to attend”.

The corners of your mouth turn up at the mocking undercurrent of his tone, “An important meeting… with whom?”

“She’s new— a mage.” The raven shrugs his wings together, hopping between feet, “Dream found her last week and ordered her to perform some type of protection magick”. There’s a split second pause as his beak leans close your ear, as if he’s deciding to include you in on a secret, “Apparently, there were… unintentional side effects”.

“… This protection spell”, your voice wavers, pieces of a puzzle clicking in your mind, “Who was it for?”.

“You’re good at finding things”, you frown, licks of anger settling deep into the lines of your face, shadows twisting at every edge, “Find me a reason to stay”.

Dream clenches his jaw, stalking several large steps toward you, his movements sharp, deliberate. The once gentle light danced in his eyes has vanished. In its place—wrath, utterly pure and unholy, unveiling the nightmare beneath.

“There is no need, I will not keep you here any longer.”

The pain your expression reveals must be more than you’d intended as his eyes shift in conflict, appearing less severe—blurred by regret and guilt.

Morpheus swallows, jaw clicking in discomfort, “I simply wanted you to remain safe”. He sighs, lifting an uncertain hand to brush a stray tear from your cheek, “Forgive me”.

“Spare me your lies, my lord”, an indignant scoff escapes your lips as you shove his hand away, “You sought to bind me to the Dreaming out of nothing but your own selfishness”.

“No”, he argues, fighting to swallow down his rising anger, “I only knew you would be safest here, in my realm, where I could always sense you”.

Moving a step away, you wipe furiously at the tears falling from your eyes, “How could you? How could you aim to repeat what was done to you, to me?”, your voice breaks, “You’re no better than Roderick Burgess”.

Morpheus flinches as if you’d slapped him, pain and betrayal shadowing his features.

“I see”, the sliver of hope that remained has been drained from his words, “Very well, if that is your opinion of me. I will not try to convince you otherwise”.

Hard and unyielding, every inch the Lord of Dreams once more, “You are free to leave”.

A brutal laugh of derision stabs through the air, harsh and brittle, “Free to leave?”, you shout in disbelief, “Don’t attempt to hide what you’ve done, Morpheus. We both know you’ve made that impossible”.

Drawing in a calming breath, you tilt your head back just as rain begins to fall, a soft patter of drops that quickly transform into a downpour. “…What happened to us?”, you ask, barely above a breath, barely above a prayer, “What happened to the dream we shared?”. You make no move to shield yourself, allowing the water to wash away the remnants of your tears.

Morpheus’ jaw goes taut, betraying the turmoil within. “It seems”, he says, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion, “That dream has come to an end”.

A hollow sound rasps from your chest, heart breaking—unseen, “It seems so”.

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to be tagged or un-tagged down below <3

The Sandman Taglist:

@alice-the-nerd @leg0city123 @uther-pendragon-is-an-ass @dark-night-sky-99 @mm2305 @luciamajer @lizajane2 @thegreatestsandwich @hyper-half-blood @layla2-49 @raylan-carver @shit-post-things @nerdy-wierdo @mikariell95 @musicconversedance @beakami @poemfreak306 @intothesoul @igotanidea @starlight--darling @secretdreamlandmentality @darkened-writer @cleverzonkwombatsludge

[alpenglw]

Friday Night Music Tag Except It's Not Friday Anymore SORRYYYYY

tagged by @birgdets!!! the rules are to put your spotify "on repeat" playlist on shuffle and write down the first 10 songs that come on. and then tag 10 people!!!

oh how fun... it is just like 2009 deviantart... ough the old days of journals and chains etc.... YIPPEE

You Come Down - Marika Hackman // this is my song for imagining lesbian nuns kissing to. drives me CRAAAZYYYYYY!!!! blood??? thorny crowns???? cannibalism mention???? daffodils mention???? "but you could always make me hurt"??????? AAAUUUUGHHHH

Two Time - Jack Stauber // sorry. sorry. sorry. it's just a fun song okay. i'll have you know i did NOT find it on tiktok, i found it through FURRY ANIMATIONS

Out Like a Light 2 - The Honeysticks, Ricky Montgomery // ough o-|-< ever since roo sent me this as a birdie song i've been obsessed with it. thank you roo. it is such a lovely song

Mother Mother - Tracy Bonham // this one is 100% because of luci. i had barely ever listened to this song until like last week

Show You a Body - Haley Heynderickx // ough o-|-< this song makes me feel some sort of way. sends shivers down my spine. absolutely haunting song. man

Cannibal - Marika Hackman // um sorry i like marika hackman's cannibal themed music a lot. anyway this one is berhta's psychosis song

Mt. St. Helens - Mirah // i love this song... ough. reminds me of so many ocs and i also just think it's a nice fun song. reminds me a little bit of hop along's music. idk mirah's sexuality but this song is about yuri to me

Divine Loser - Clem Turner // YIPPEE this song is very slow but the rhythm is very soothing to me... huge fan of this one. i like it a lot

Grim Reaper - Suzi Wu // GRRRR BARK BARK BARK SUZI WUUU UGH THIS SONG MAKES ME MAD. huge warlock song for me.

rises the moon - Liana Flores // ugh this song makes me nostalgic for summer. and kind of just nostalgic in general. man. makes me think of growing up in socal o-|-<

this list ended up being very soft and indie leaning but i'll let you know that It's Not A Fashion Statement, It's A Fucking Deathwish by My Chemical Romance was song number 11. so whatever

idk if i know enough people on this website to tag 10 of them. @wingedog @rookruffs @mosasaura @ti-me-lo-rd @starleafsun @silver-falling-star @bori-cha @s4lmonsk1n @leafo-supreme @pmd3

[pixiedust-poppers]

tw: talks of Jake being violent. Not my fic.

Enthralled by how much inner hate Jake might have for Izzy this author’s au (the same one as TWR)

In the fic JSOTP he just found out he’s the son of grim and goes to live with him because of his [dead] mother’s wishes they read her journal and he KNOWS that grim is abusive as his hit and got violent towards his mother after they had Jake AND he also fought Grim with grim KNOWING that Jake was his son. So what the he do??? He goes with grim :| so now he’s basically with grim and it’s only day one and the relationship is already abusive.

Anyway back to the first bullet point. Jake whenever he slips into a dark mindset he always gets pretty violent and at worst concerningly rapey. His target usually being Izzy for the most deadly if others are involved. Case in point this fic, he’s glaring at a knife and saying what he wants to do these guys: Wendy - see how much she can bleed if he stabs her. - Cubby- Fat so he needs to lose weight~blood weight. - Skully- fried chicken. - Izzy- “that... pink wearing wretched little witch... I'd say her heart should meet this knife...”. Do you want her heart on a sliver platter too Bitch damn!?

[saidrabbles]

Hello!!! So I red your park joon gil fic and it was good please write more for the show Ik obsess with your writing 🙏🏼🥰🥰

a/n: thank you so much anon, you really made my day ♡ i hope u like it !

.

timeless love

pairing: park joong-gil x reader

warnings: blood, suicidal thoughts, violence

summary: finally waking up after 6 painful months, all seemed well. the risk management members missed you, but all they had to wait were 50 years...right? you left an impression in everyone's minds in jumadeung, including the seemingly heartless escort team leader.

.

saying goodbye after working for 6 months in jumadeung was hard to say the least. the members of jumadeung, especially the risk management members, had gotten used to your presence. "we'll just have to wait for 50 more years." ryeon says out loud. "49 years and 2 months, leader." ryung-gu retorted, seemingly disappointed. "is ryung-gu actually disappointed?" ryeon teased. "ah-ehem. n-no?" the younger one hesitantly replies. ryeon smiled. she didn't expect to miss you that much either.

but what no one had expected, was for you to show up on the app. checking the red light app one day, the coffee in ryung-gu's hand slips from his hand. you were the life they had to save. "w-what...?" both members look at each other "how did this happen...?"

after digging around and asking people close to you for what happened, they discovered the tragic incident. your sister was a victim of bullying in her workplace, and one day — it went to far. a sharp object present in the wrong time, was the cause of her death.

.

she was a few feet away from being in your hold. that day, you discovered what your sister was going through by accidentally reading her journal. you immediately went to her workplace, terrified that you don't make it in time. but what you didn't expect, was to see your other half lying on the ground, lifeless.

all you could see was her blood, forming a puddle around her. still in disbelief, you called 911. "there's a person hurt here, please come quickly..." you were barely able to speak "ma'am, is the person you're talking about breathing? what is their condition?" the person on the other line inquired. "just fucking come !! she's alive...she has to be !!!"

you hang up and slowly move to where she lied. cries turned into sobs, as you held her in your arms. this pain was like no other, you felt your heart being ripped out of your chest. you were going to do everything that it takes to punish them all for taking her from you.

.

when joong-gil coincidentally became aware of this, he was in complete shock. he had become fond of you during your time in jumadeung, and was worried. he didn't want you to commit the the one thing he hated the most.

it was not her fault, why would she blame herself? he couldn't understand. he couldn't wrap his head around it, he's lost touch with his "human" emotions a long time ago.

but then why is he finding ways to intervene with the risk team to be close to you?

.

seeking revenge, you started losing yourself. all you thought about was how to kill those bastards. you do everything in your power to find them. you ultimately find them. and as ironic as it is, you end up losing your life. one that you could've cared less for anyways...

you wake up to see a lifeless body, cold blood oozing out. im...gone...? you stay on the ground for god knows how long until you see a figure standing infront of you. joong-gil got there first. worried was written all over his face.

how can he be so late????

"did you..." he breathlessly tries to continue, "kill yourself?..." you laugh bitterly. "that would've been better, at least i could've gotten my revenge first." you feel weight over you as you try to balance yourself. "w-what...." joonggil was hugging you, he was crying? "thank god...." you were confused to who this man was. why's he holding you with so much...warmth?

"who...are you..?" that's when he remembered. you don't recall any of what happened in jumadeung. "im...a grim reaper." he let's go of you and stands up, feeling embarrassed. "do i...know you?" his eyes glinted in excitement. "do you know who I am..?" you can't remember...but why would you have known a reaper?

what the hell is happening to me...joong-gil was new to all of this. ever since he heard of what happened; something in him changed. his true feelings were escaping through his nonchalant facade.

.

he then took you to jumadeung, to the jade empress. he made up an excuse for showing up before the others, seemingly convincing. he wanted you to be in jumadeung, for him to be close to you - but he obviously used your skills as an excuse. the empress decided to give you a lighter position to begin with.

you were silent almost all of the time, only speaking when you needed to discuss work matters. joong-gil had been watching over you, and he felt the pain tear into his heart. you were in so much pain, yet you didn't want to be reborn. you want to punish yourself, for something that was never your fault.

he noticed how little you are eating, and decided to leave food on your table everyday. in the first few days, you were unhinged. but after that, you started eating a bit of the food, which made him feel more than happy - you're trying. he would then wake up earlier than the rest to buy coffee and breakfast and put it on your desk before you come. it's what he can do for now.

that was until you decided to wake up earlier than usual, and go to work. that's when you saw the strange yet familiar man putting coffee on your desk. "so it was you..." you partially whispered. but it caused joong-gil nearly making a coffee mess on the desk. "uhh...you're early..." he tried to look unphased, but he was visibly nervous. that's when he heard it.

the first time you've laughed in a while.

joong-gil was taken aback, and all he could do was take in your facial features as you're smiling. he sensed a nervous feeling in his stomach. he was getting butterflies. and when you looked at him, he knew — there was no going back. hes in love with you.

"thank you...uh.." you nervously fiddle with the button on your shirt. "what should i call you?" he left the coffee on the table and fully turned to your direction "you can call me yours joong-gil." "well, thank you for your kindness, joong-gil-ssi...but i don't deserve it." you try to smile. "why is that?" he pushed on. "what happened to my sister...it was my fault for not noticing when i knew her too well." he takes a few steps closer to you. "you weren't the one who hurt her, you didn't know" he assured you.

"but i can't help think of the what ifs...if i had noticed earlier. if I've seen the bruises on her..." not wanting to cry in front of him, you turn around. as you try to wipe your escaping tears, you felt two strong arms behind you wrapping themselves around you. "it pains me to see you in so much agony. i know...how it feels to reach a person when it's too late..." he held you tighter.

you wanted more of this warmth. you wanted to inhale this person's scent, to live in it. you push his arms slightly for you to turn and bring yourself closer to his body. you wrapped your arms around him, feeling your shameless heart beat loudly. joong-gil was surprised, but he held you just as tightly. as you relax into his embrace, you decide that you were going to ask about your time here.

.

after you ask the empress about your past here, she gave you the erased memories. that's when it all made sense. joong-gil wasn't clear with his feelings in your past recollection, but your feelings for him was clear. you loved his little gestures that would show he cared, how he was acting beyond his understanding, and you acknowledged him. but before anything happened between you, time was up. and you had to go back to where time existed.

and now you're back here, but you're holding a greater pain in you. you didn't know if you deserved happiness at all...not after what you failed to do. protecting your family. "your sister is in a better place right now. she's living a life she always wished for...but it pains her to see you hurting." you hear the empress say. she puts a hand on your shoulder. "...you can be reincarnated and eventually meet your sister - in another life."

you felt like the weights on your shoulder had been lifted. you smile. you were told that you can meet your sister...you should be happy...but he kept showing up in your head. "you've endured well...and you're allowed to choose your happiness." you felt shameless for wanting him...but you knew that's what your sister would've wanted as well.

you finally let your feelings for him take over.

you knock on his door, and he answers with his deep voice on the other side. you enter, feeling yourself getting nervous. as you take a look at him, you stop in your tracks. the dark vest hugging his body, defining his small waist. the black pants emphasizing his long legs. he was breathtaking. when you look at his face, your heart skips a beat. his eyes were focused on you, never wandering. his lips curled up in a small, genuine smile.

caught in a daze, your body takes over. you walk up to him, hold his chiseled face in your small hands, and kiss him. he was shocked for a few seconds, but almost immediately kisses back. your hands slide down his chest as he holds your face gently. the kiss started with subtle movements, but eventually got more intense. you only stopped to catch your breaths, still holding each other.

"i won't be able to let you go after this..." he whispers. "you won't need to...im staying." he looks at you with shocked eyes. "im not getting what you're saying-" you caressed his face. "im saying that i won't be reborn, im going to be by your side, in this timeless place."

unable to form words, he kisses you again.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

actually made myself cry today thinking about the title of your dragon age au because 😭😭 got hit with oh my god what if beatrice publishes the journals she keeps during the years they’re fighting together?

and what if these books needed a name to hold them?- sketches of riverbeds and reeds, of the night sky pierced with constellations. grim renderings of the skulls they used to find shards and the gravestones that replaced them on ava’s insistence because “they were people, bea. and it could have been me; it might have been you.”

bea writing about the world as she sees it and as it is revealed to her. lilith buying her paints so she can mix the right shades, capture the hinterlands in green and orange and red and sparkling blue. the blood-on-snow of emprise du lion. the Fade and its slick black stones and otherworldly greens. ava, over and over with increasing deftness as bea’s skill and her knowledge of ava increased. herald, inquisitor, lover.

Hope pressing up through ava’s skin and a glowing green hand pressed toward the sky.

what is it? part memoir, part research, part love story. bound in soft leather and placed on bea’s desk one sleepy afternoon and her weeping over it because she’s free and the world she now knows is in her hands. volume one of it, the first breath of it. sketches of ava so uncertain at first. sketches of the world where it’s obvious that she’s overwhelmed by colour.

a book with a title she and ava came up with while wine-drunk, while kissing in the crisp night air.

a book called “how to stitch holes in the sky (and other helpful guides)”

There are those who would see their story added as a new canticle in the Chant. The Canticle of the Herald or something equally grandiose.

Ava is disgusted by the very idea. The only version of her story she wants people to tell lies in those pages. Holy words on fragile, rain-marked paper and battered leather. A kind of gospel, the only one she would ever accept. No grand statements about the Maker's will, no poetic lines to quote out of context, just raw, human words, filled with human wonder, beauty, fear, and love.

Could you ask for a better counterpoint to the bitterness of men like Corypheus, Lucius, and Solas, to their destructive ideas of creating a new world? Ava doesn't need a new world, she just needs the current one to be better, and maybe "better" starts with recipes for better-tasting healing potions, sketches of fish and rocks, and a story about a girl who loved the world enough to save it even when it didn't love her back.

[vacancy-virtues]

#3- "A Bow of Rough Twine"

CW: Mild Gun stuffs

A/N: Wanted some yeehaw bullshit for my yeehaw queers

When Villain awoke, their senses were first greeted with the familiar musk of worn leather and animal sweat, accompanied by the sight of the passing desert sand below them. Their eyes squinted as they adjusted to the bright world of consciousness. The thundering ache in their head was worsened by the swaying of their movement. As they went to touch their head, Villain found they were unable to. Thick twine ropes creaked around their wrists and ankles. They quickly began to realize they were bound on the back of someones horse, heading to who knows where. Their mouth felt dry, and as Villain went to lick their lips, found they were barricaded by a cloth.

Villain couldn't even begin to describe the sheer embarrassment of the situation they were in. How had they gotten here in the first place? Their personal hideout was nestled in the canyons, far out of town while their men stayed positioned closer in. Outraged, insulted, perplexed... Villain shook their head from side to side to shake down the cloth while tugging against the ropes.

"Who are you and-" Before Villain could even get their true harsh tone out, a leather gloved hand came up back and smacked their head, as if hitting the hand of a child for doing something they shouldn't.

"I suggest you stop thrashing like that, 'less you want to get bucked off and left here in the desert the way you are now." The mysterious rider fished out a rolled up paper and unfurled it within Villains bleary line of sight. "I know all about you Villain, and I'm taking you in to get my pay."

The casual tone of it all didn't settle well with Villain. For once, they were nervous upon seeing their own wanted poster held in front of them. Typically, it was an over-confident cowboy wanting to prove to his town he was good enough for them, to which both received a grim reminder it was never the case. The simplicity of this persons tone was poised, and as much as Villains stomach twisted, they did their best to not let it show.

"Is that so?" Villain said curtly. "And you don't think my men won't notice my absence?"

"Not for another three hours, but by then we will have found camp for the evening."

"You... underestimate them then."

"Not really," The person shrugged, sitting back to roll their shoulders from a long while of sitting. "Especially when most of them can hardly read, let alone tell the difference in your handwriting. It was quite handy you keep a journal. All I had to do was leave a note on your empty bed that you were going to the saloon" The person chuckled, out of view of Villain. "You go there, a lot."

Villains blood went cold. No one knew they kept a journal and it bit them in the ass like a pissed on rattlesnake. The memories began to come back to them as they watched the cacti pass by. Villain simply gone to bed, though admittedly a few shots in. However, it didn't make sense. No one should have been able to find them.

"How did you find me?" They asked, uncertain if they actually wanted to know.

"I am just good at what I do, or rather, we," The person leaned forward and patted the shoulder their companion who carried the two on. "He always gets me where I need to go."

"He? Your horse?"

"Mule. They're faster and more resilient than horses."

"Oh, I'm sorry, forgive me for not being able to tell from this angle what animal I'm on. I just knew it wasn't a donkey because I'm already talking to an ass."

Villain was notorious for their silver tongue to get their way in gambling matches and in fevered dalliances. This was not unknown to the person who since stopped the mule, hoisted them up by the collar, and pressed their gun against their cheek.

"I am not the person you outta be testing right now, Villain." The edge of the barrel jutted against their cheekbone. "Dead or alive, I don't really care, I only get more money if I don't use a bullet as a gag to keep you quiet instead."

The barrel of the gun could have cut into their skin if they pressed it any harder. A bead of sweat rolled down Villains forehead as their eyes met the burning glow of the others. They maintained their composure, and what little dignity they had left to be manhandled in such ways. The strangers hat shaded their head from the desert sun, and a black bandana covered a majority of their face. Aside from a bit of dark hair jutting from their hat, Villain wouldn't be able to place the face in a crowd to save their life.

"Who are you?" They cautioned. "A retired sheriff trying to get the thrill of one last bag?"

They spurred their mule to move forward after setting Villain back down behind them. Their voice, though could clearly get intense, was even and smooth. Nothing compared to the gurgling roughness of their men in the group, who all destroyed their bodies with tobacco and moonshine.

"I am a bounty hunter, that's all you need worry about," they said after a moment.

Villain looked about their surroundings, which didn't provide much indication on what part of the vast desert they were in. The mountain ranges felt familiar, but their view of them was from a position Villain was not accustomed to seeing.

"Where are you taking me?"

The bounty hunter sighed. "Is this why you're wanted? Because you never stop running that damn mouth of yours?"

"Well, that and I've killed a few dozen men."

The bounty hunter knew it was going to be a long ride to their camp for the evening. It wasn't until the sky was painted in hues of indigo and burnt sienna when the bounty hunter stopped in a heavily shaded mesquite alcove. They moved against the current of the wash to hide their tracks, before stopping for the night. At some point, Villain dozed off, for the next thing they felt when they woke up were strong arms hoisting them off the back of the mule and setting them against the tree.

"For someone who is supposed to be a notorious crime lord, you let your guard down quite a bit to sleep." Another rope passed around the bound Villain, securing them to the trunk of the tree. "Though I suspect you're going to be more strung up now than you were before."

"Well, if you had kept moving through the night, maybe I'd stay asleep and..." They paused a moment before looking at the bounty hunter, a smile pulling onto their lips. "...Was that an attempt at a joke?"

The bounty hunter eyed them as a warning, before fastening the ropes and looking about the darkened wilderness which surrounded them. Beyond the branches, all they could see was desolation. What could be seen under the moonlight was obscured in weighted shadows. of the low-hanging branches.

"I don't personally trifle what comes out after dark."

"What, do you believe in ghosts?"

"No, but that doesn't mean I go out picking fights with 'em."

"But you will with a leader of gunmen, outlaws and bandits?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"They paid their dues," The flints clacked together, sending small sparks onto the dry grass. "You haven't, and I'm here to collect."

There wasn't much Villain could do but watch the bounty hunter set up camp. Their mule grazed nearby on some of the growing weeds by the wash, and a fire was stoked within ten minutes of them settling down. The bounty hunter unloaded their knapsack, which contained a few bits of deer jerky and canned goods. If fighting them wasn't going to work, then perhaps being charming would.

"You are clearly skilled in your work, bounty hunter, why aren't you using those skills to lead others? You'd never have to struggle for money again." There was a soft scoff as they settled by the fire, prepping some of the cans of food to be heated over the flames.

"This works," They began as they prodded the sticks in the fire with a longer one. "Being a sheriff didn't, being an outlaw didn't, being a cowboy didn't. Something in everything I did wasn't enough for everyone. So this is enough for myself."

As the bounty hunter talked, it slowly began to make sense how they'd wound up in the position they were in. There had been a rumor of a legendary bounty hunter who had never lost a target once their sights were set on them. Their untarnished reputation came from the vast experience over the years. It all came together in Villains head as to why they were caught. They weren't just a bounty hunter, they were the Bounty Hunter.

"You know how to think like a bandit," Villain started. "That's how you knew where to find me. You know how to track like a sheriff and its how you followed us. You know how to take stupid risks like a cowboy and its how you kidnapped me."

All the while Villain talked, the Bounty Hunter had their back to Villain as they ate. They had been staking out, observing Villains behavior for weeks undetected by their men. They watched their every step and careless vulnerability and seized it when the time proved right.

"You're amazing," Villain breathed in awe, their grin spreading along their face. The Bounty Hunter eyed them skeptically.

"I swear I didn't drop you when you were unconscious, so don't be talking like you hit your head."

"Am I really in a position to be lying to you?"

"You are, just as much as you are in a position to try and use flattery on me instead," They said evenly.

It wasn't that they were being dishonest to the Bounty Hunter. Having someone like them on their side could make them the most feared outlaws in the Southwest. At the very least, Villain would be untouchable with the Bounty Hunter working for them.

"Can I at least have some of that jerky? I was with a Mr. Jack Daniels before I got tangled with you, I'm sure you can imagine the headache he is."

With the sound of an annoyed sigh, Villain smiled in victory of being able to get under the Bounty Hunters skin with annoyance. The satisfaction was short lived when he saw the Bounty Hunter stand from their spot in front of the fire, pulling their bandana up. A long shadow cast over Villain, enveloping them as the figure drew near. The Bounty Hunter squatted in front of them and reached a gloved hand up to hold Villains face steady, thumbs digging just a bit between their jaw to pry their mouth open.

"Have a nice big piece then, and chew it slowly. Maybe it will shut you up while I decide if I wanna kill you before I go to sleep."

The Bounty Hunter popped a bit of the jerky into Villains mouth, and snapped their jaw shut around it before turning to leave them at the tree. As much as they wanted to protest to the treatment, to spit it out in defiance, they were starved. So, they worked on it, seething all the while watching the Bounty Hunter eat with their back to them.

---

The sound of a clicking rifle startled the Bounty Hunter from their sleep on the cot the next morning. All around them were masked people on horses, pissed beyond measure. Two stood at the Bounty Hunters side with barrels raised.

"I said you underestimate my men." A familiar, annoying voice sounded. Upon a grey mare, Villain sat smugly looking down at the other.

As the Bounty Hunter went to reach for their gun, they were met with the not-so-subtle warning sound of a shotgun loading. They stopped, and before concern for their own life began to set in, their eyes looked around rapidly for their companion.

"He's fine. Just grazing," Villain hopped off their horse and sauntered over to the Bounty Hunter, spurs clinking across the dirt as they walked. "I'm gonna let you live this time, Bounty Hunter. You got talent, and it'd be a waste to kill you off just yet."

"Is this a threat?"

"Consider it a job offer," Villain crouched down to be more eye level with the other. "If and when I see you again, you are either going to join me or I will kill you."

The Bounty Hunter knew the embarrassment Villain must have felt upon their capture but they knew better than to let their temper give away their resolve. Villain already had that covered. With a knowing smile, they mounted their horse with a satisfied sigh.

"Oh, and Bounty Hunter? Thanks for dinner last night."

Before riding off into the sweltering desert morning, Villain tossed a worn out satchel onto the ground in front of the Bounty Hunter. Once distanced, they opened the worn leather to find a small bundle of jerky in parchment paper, wrapped with a bow of rough twine.

[remedyxtragedy]

IDIOSYNCRATIC CHARACTER PT 2

Now, onto the main group of Idiosyncratic. As I said in the last post, I'm just going to provide a basic description of these characters and later on when I've fully revised their sheets, I'll post them here so you all can get the full picture. (Also brace yourself this is probably going to end up being long as all hell. AND IN ADDITION, Imma have to make a third post since this is extremely long and I think it's making tumblr have a brain fart) 

Calixte Stanhope (Main Character) --

Calixte is thought of as a very mysterious, no-nonsense and reticent fellow by nearly every actor who crosses his path and yet at the same time he radiates a very strong aura of confidence and certainty. No matter how badly people want to peel back his facade and dissect his mind, all they can really do is imagine whatever storms are raging inside him, every ounce of thought and emotion remaining well hidden behind the blank, impassive face of a man who's heart has already been calloused and shattered by woes unspoken. Less words wasted on people he deems underserving of his knowledge, who he really is, or why he chooses to work in secrecy when he clearly knows things that can benefit the majority, means way more time to just sit, observe, and ponder--which has become such a habit of his, staring endlessly into the abyss thinking about only God knows what, that he's been properly nicknamed, 'daydreamer'. The kind of deep thinking and conspiring Calixte has been seen engrossing himself in has long since drifted into obsoletion for a lot of people, a few days in Baltimore and most actors reach the understanding that no amount of hankering, dreaming, plotting, or praying will deliver you from your reality--the young man's frequent daydreaming would therefore suggest that there's a lot in his head, apparently, still worth pondering about even after all he's seen and endured, which has led many to grow very skeptical of his claims of being 'an open book'. The young man upon his arrival would be quick to make it known to his fellow actors and every resident of Baltimore who only viewed him as another guinea pig to poke around for their twisted enjoyment that he has only two goals in mind--to reunite with the woman he was ripped away from by an unforgiving train and to wear the blood of the person responsible for their abrupt parting,--and he will not take kindly to anyone or anything that gets in his way. He's also made it abundantly clear that his quixotic willingness to prevail by any means necessary is grounded not in fear of Whitman's hegemony or an intrinsic impulsion to survive, but rather an intense thirst for vengeance that feels almost embedded in the very marrow of his being. This sentiment is what beckons him to reach the finish line, that great castle in the sky, and thensome. While the future is clearly dreary and grim for most of the sad irrelevant souls who clutter the world around him, in his mind his future in already nestled in the palm of his hands and the second he gets opportunity to do so, he will shape it to his liking and manifest the happily ever after he's always deserved. It's just a matter of, how long it'll take, who he'll have to kill, and who he'll have to begrudgingly befriend before can fulfill the burden that was rested upon him as the Calixte Stanhope Class (at beginning): Unremarkable (all new actors start out as unremarkables) Things he always keeps on his person: A journal which he writes entries in on a regular basis, a somewhat old fashioned polaroid camera, and some medication for an unclarified heart condition of his

Sonia Eastaughffe --

She's a very eccentric and boisterous young lady who throughout her few years in Baltimore become a very warm and familiar face a lot of actors look forward to seeing. She's a bit of a similar case to Calixte not only in the sense that she's very secretive about who she is, but also that there's not much known about her except for the obvious which is that she's significantly younger than most actors and demonstrates an unusual indifference towards everything around her. She completes her daily deeds without complaint, does a few extra just for the hell of it, and has performed well enough to be able to afford her own home and start her own business, a humble little beauty boutique/inn where all actors are welcome. It's extremely strange how she's managed to make a good living for herself within such an unbelievably small amount of time while it takes some actors over twenty years to get where they are, which may not even equate to how much work they've done. In that regard, Sonia truly is a complete and utter anomaly. Some even say that she's a particular favorite of the big mayor himself who's gone onto publicly praise her and coin her as an 'exemplary little popsy' numerous times, which also might be confirming that behind that pretty, innocent face is one of the many absolutely deranged partisans of Whitman. It's an uncomfortable thing to think about considering how many people she's welcomed into her shop with that same old delightful smile and innocence that's become so synonymous with her, but it could explain her noticeable unwillingness to speak down on Whitman even she's in aperfectly safe environment to do so. Some continue to speculate that she's actually related to him in some way even though there's no such evidence to back that up since she poofed into Baltimore like every other actor, meanwhile others take a more plausible route suppose that right off the bat she must've just followed the sacred actor motto religiously and that's how she got where she is. Regardless, it's up to actors to decide whether or not she's a person worth trusting and emulating. It's probably worth mentioning that she seems to like Calixte quite a bit for how much he openly distrusts her, its a rarity she's grown to enjoy... Class (at the beginning): Splendor Things she always carries on her person: a very odd dagger, some perfume, and an assortment of little knives she hides all about her person

Quelq'un--

(Had a way better picture but tumblr was being difficult and wouldn't let me upload it so I had to make a quick doodle of bro) He's actually a very compassionate, calm, and patient man who will gladly help any actor who confides in him, sometimes even going out of his way to help those who don't even want anything to do with him which is evident in his many efforts to guide Calixite on the right path when he first woke up in Baltimore. And despite his willingness to help anyone, he mostly hovers around Calixte for some reason and shows a greater concern for him more than anybody, which is interesting, just like everything else about Quelq'un. No one has the slightest idea where he comes from, why he just popped up out of the blue when Calixte arrived in Baltimore, or why he seems to have a creepily deep understanding of everybody he interacts with--but if one things for certain, his mere existence has brought some closure to actors who've dreaded accepting that there is nothing beyond Baltimore and the town's neighboring trading partners, and that they're all alone in this absurd, cruel world. But then again, Quelq'un in many aspects is as far from a figure of hope gets, and probably only goes to show that beyond Baltimore there is a world far more complicated and horrific than anything the average human is capable of processing. His appearance is already peculiar enough but what has really led people to stay as far away from him so as to retain the little sanity and conviction they have left is his incomprehensible abilities, ones that simply do not abide by the laws of physics and nature. Any solace he once brought to people quickly morphed into deep repulsion and terror, especially at the thought of an entity like him not only existing on top of all the other paradoxes that threaten to warp their understandings of their metaphysical beings permanently, but also being able to just phase in and out of the world around them at will. Thinking about what Quelq'un's existence means for every actor who's ever wound up in Baltimore has made people go incoherently mad, to the point that not even Whitman wants anything to do with them and so they're 'dealt with'. However, as absolutely harrowing as that all is, Quelq'un is just a pretty chill and delightful guy--just don't try and pry into mysteries you're not ready for.. Class (at the beginning...): none; does not apply Things he always carries on his person: a seemingly infinite amount of instructional books he personally created to help Actors understand how things work in Baltimore and a very odd silicon staff that seems to be the source of his abilities

Deadpan -

Deadpan is a very straight-faced and stern individual who would describe herself as having no purpose without her knowledge. Not only is she in charge of a very respected ring of scientists who share very noble goals and frequently confer with other actors to discuss their findings, but she herself is just a tremendously respected woman primarily because of how openly and flagrantly she retaliates against Whitman and his perverse burlesque of human society. How does she get away with this? Well, it's simple--she isn't exactly in the same boat as the other actors. What I refrained from mentioning before in my other post is that there is another tier to the actor hierarchy, and that is the 'foreign residents' tier. They make up a measly 15% of the actor population which is actually about 150 individuals altogether (of course that number is occasionally fluctuating due to new additions, people dying, or just straight up disappearing but generally this is the statistic), so of those 150 are a total of about 23 persons who not only don't have to partake in abhorrent acts of violence in order to survive, but who can also preach whatever agenda they wish to without having to hold their tongue in public. Foreign residents are noted to be knowledgeable in fields that would conventionally be considered respectable, like science, medicine, politics, etc., and despite still missing very key fragments of their past, they harbor a deeper understanding of moral and ethics than other actors and can deduce for themselves why the world around them is absolutely, irrefutably absurd, wrong, and savage. Every single day, from when the sun rises and falls, she's cooped up in her makeshift lab jotting down entries of her discoveries and theories in various pamphlets that are distributed among actors who find her testimonies most reliable. When others remember so little of their past and what true civilness looks like that they're forced to accept this world as this new norm, Deadpan rebukes such thinking and dedicates her entire being to gathering evidence that can prove her all famous theory that Baltimore is without a doubt merely the shadow of a real civilization, where every law is reversed and deformed beyond recognition to fit unsavory ideals. How is this possible? How does that influence who ends uphere and who doesn't? If this really is their new reality, wouldn't that mean that her efforts are all in vain? Deadpan is adamant to not rest until she finds the answers to those questions. Class (all throughout the story): foreign resident Things she always carries on her person: a small glass jar of an absolutely atrocious smelling and volatile bright yellow substance with the consistency of mucus that is labaled as "yellow saliva" and no one knows why she keeps it on her person or where she even got it from

Chauncey --

Make no mistake, in spite of his appearance and ethereal aura, Chauncey is about as sweet and pleasant as a rose bush, a beautiful sight to marvel at from afar but upon closer inspection there seems to be a million things it can and will prick at you with. Beyond that smokescreen of a delicate and dashing man who's revered as a idol among Baltimore Citizens for his striking charm and pledged allegiance to the Baltimore way of life, is a powerful being, once filled with integrity and driven by selfless benevolence and wonder now rendered into a frantic and messy Don Quixote who's lost grip on the righteous principles that once defined him. He's a bit in denial about that though and will promptly correct and shutdown anyone who thinks his methods of 'restoring heavenly prosperity' are questionable. And indeed that is correct--Chauncey, even though he's been thrusted into the same predicament as everybody else around him under very weird circumstances, is not of the same world as the other actors. He's of one far more blissful and serene, one that revolved around the kind of order and goodness humans can only dream of emulating. Heaven. How in God's good name did he end up here? Why? Does he know anything that can possibly answer the many, many questions that has been haunting the mind's of every actor who still has hope for freedom from this dystopian hell? Those questions of course can easily be applied to almost any other actor, but obviously the situation is a little more urgent and horrifying when you realize that an angel too has been robbed of their memories and rendered no more powerful than the average human under Whitman's hegemony. All he claims to remember is being a humble and hard working guardian angel who was training to join the Empyrean army, and at some point his memories just sludge into an indecipherable blur. Some actors straight up just don't believe him and think his words are simply the final hurrahs of another sad soul who is teetering on the brink of insanity. It's a truly bizarre and cruel situation all around that has clearly taken its toll on Chauncey who is seemingly a complete Jekyll and Hyde now, Baltimore's most beloved laughingstock on stage and an idealistic agitator behind closed curtains. It's probably worth mentioning that despite all the charm and flamboyant flare he uses to get on the Whitizens' good side, he's still a Dog and has been for his last five years in Baltimore--a Dog who's in fact more famous for his antics of rebellion and revolution than how good he is at dancing, singing, and putting a show for the public's entertaining. The sad reality is, he's really only kept around because the Whitizens quite enjoy watching him humiliate himself in order to maintain some semblance of a good reputation, so much so they're willing to pay to see him humiliate himself or much worse cases, humiliate him themselves. No one really knows exactly what the latter suggests, but surely it's not anything too bad since Chauncey always seems to walk out the same impudent stardreamer everyone knows him as, with a couple extra Craz (Baltimore money) in his pockets to boot. People often assume he just holds onto his hard-earned money considering that, well, he doesn't need to eat, drink, or sleep, but that's not exactly the case; deep in the forests of Baltimore resides a very humble community of Dogs who despise Whitman through and through and as a result have been wounded, shunned, and discarded by society and left to rot in the outskirts. Chauncey, however, swept into their lives and took it upon himself to be their new leader--solemnly swearing to protect them and care for them, no matter what. And in return, all he asks, is that they follow instruction and allow him to shape them into the best versions of themselves... Class (in the beginning): Dog Things he carries on his person: A nail fail and a very peculiar crystal shaped totem he's often seen talking directly into as if something resides in there

Dixie Wixted--

With such striking beauty and a soft buttery country accent that has successfully lured many love-struck bachelors to her doorstep, Dixie Wixted for sure is one of the most familiar faces in Baltimore, especially in the illegal underbelly, and surprisingly for all the right reasons. She has a such an enticing wit and unique intelligence about her that serves to reassure that she's just the kind of knowledgeable and smart gal you want as a friend. Where most people panic and get flustered, Dixie sits back, indulges on a bottle of wine, and lights a cigarette to not letting this world see her crumble. It's such an admirable outlook many have adopted as inspiration to keep pushing onward, no matter how much the odds may seemed stacked against them--advice from her seems to resonate a lot better than from Deadpan who even doesn't have to endure what they do on a daily basis or Quelq'un who, although he means well, is an unsettling sight to behold and also doesn't have to regularly perform acts of violence just to afford a single meal. In such a way that could almost make Chauncey envious, Dixie has become a bit of an icon and in the same way Quelq'un wishes he could, she's helped people ease into this new reality of theirs. In all the absurdity and suffering that surrounds them, Dixie is about as close to normal and relatable as it gets--wanting to survive because that's all she can do. But that just begs the question, where does Dixie's laidback demeanor come from? Its very impressive, yes, but to a certain degree. There's a eventually point where admiration dissolves into confusion at how lethargic and overly blase she can get at times, even in more urgent matters that should alarm her. But it seems that she just cannot be bothered to exert herself anymore than she already does, even in the face of danger, in which case she'll just smooth-talk and slyly slip her way out of any messy confrontations. It's baffling just how jaw-droppingly lucky she must be to be able to successfully elude Baltimore policemen and even get some of the more dangerous actors to let her go scotch free whenever she flunks out on an arrangement, and this has happened countless times, without fail, all throughout her ten years of being an actor. Some people have assumed its just her sheer willpower and quick thinking that has gotten her through the toughest of situations any actor can be faced with, but others aren't so convinced. Surely if she was that concerned with her survival, she would make the effort to try and progress through the hierarchy rather than staying stagnant and only doing what's really just the bare minimum to scrape by. Its that realization that often triggers many of her admirers to spiral down a rabbithole of all the inconsistencies that exist in her persona, ending with the single question of--why are we looking up to this woman again? With how little Dixie speaks of her past (or whatever she can recall from it at least), her exact ambitions, or personal perspective on the anarchy that surrounds them, this question is likely to be left unanswered. That is, for people who yet to catch onto the fact that in Dixie's eyes survival is not excelling to the top and becoming another heartless zombie, survival is doing what she must, what is merely required of her, to live long enough to see a fulfilling end. And a fulfilling end, in her eyes, is not becoming another statistic in some madman's sick game--it's slipping away into an unremarkable, forgettable death. Maybe some time ago, her will to live was actually there and therefore people can understand why she's celebrated for her perseverance, but nowadays a peaceful death is all she craves. Her light at the end of the tunnel lies only in a silent demise, and so she unwinds and does nothing as she allows herself to fall back down to the bottom of the hierarchy and, eventually, hopefully, disappear.. Class (at the beginning of the story): Panjandrum Things she always carries on her person: at least three packs of cigarrettes, a switchblade, and a pocket mirror

[skippyv20]

Dont knoww if this us already posted Skippy 

…Wall Street Journal on Hairy’s Moanwaah….

The Half-Madness of Prince Harry​ Prince Harry’s book is odd. There’s even something half-mad about it. He opens with a dramatic meeting at Frogmore, his former mansion on the grounds of Windsor. It is just after the death of Prince Philip, Harry’s paternal grandfather. For months Harry has been estranged from his father, Charles, and his brother, William—a “full-scale public rupture.” Harry has flown in from America and requested a meeting. The day is overcast, chilly. Charles and William arrive late looking “grim, almost menacing,” and “tightly aligned.” “They’d come ready for a fight.” Harry is tongue-tied, vulnerable, leaves heartbroken. “I wanted peace. I wanted it more than anything.” You feel such sympathy. What could have driven them so far apart? Why are Charles and William so cold? Then you realize, wait—Philip died just a month after the Oprah interview in which Harry rather coolly portrayed his family as remote and hapless puppets and implied they were racist. Harry forgets, in the opening, to tell us that part. But you can see how it might have left Charles and William a little indignant. This is the book’s great flaw, that Harry doesn’t always play it straight, that he thinks “my truth” is as good as the truth. There are other flaws, and they grate. There’s a heightened-ness to his language—he never leaves a place; he flees it “in fear for our sanity and physical safety.” He often finds his wife “sobbing uncontrollably” on the floor and the stairs, mostly over what he fails to realize are trivial things. He is grandiose: “My mother was a princess, named after a goddess.” “How would I be remembered by history? For the headlines? Or for who I actually was?” Lord, he was an attractive man fifth in line for a largely ceremonial European throne; it would hardly remember him at all. (Unless he wrote a scalding book and destabilized the monarchy!) He repeatedly points out that he’s a Windsor and of royal blood. His title means a lot to him. He is exhibitionistic: “My penis was oscillating between extremely sensitive and borderline traumatized.” (Frostbite.) There are gaps in his knowledge-base that wouldn’t be irritating if he weren’t intent on establishing that he’s giving you the high-class rarefied inside dope. “Never complain, never explain” has been an expression of the old American upper class since forever, and I’m sure the British one too. It isn’t special to the Windsors. “An heir and a spare” is old Fleet Street tabloidese. It doesn’t mean, as he suggested on book tour, he was bred for body parts. Famous families often have internal communication problems. The children of those families learn much of what they know from the many books written about the clan. They internalize and repeat observations and stories that aren’t quite right but are now given their insider imprimatur. Harry’s anecdotes tend to undermine the institution of the monarchy. When he was a teenager Britain’s biggest tabloid told the palace it had evidence he was doing drugs. In fact, as Harry tells us candidly, he did do drugs when he was young. The palace, no doubt knowing this, opted to “play ball” with the newspaper and not deny all aspects of the story. This made Harry feel thrown under the bus. His father, he believes, used him as a “sacrifice,” to appease a powerful editor and bolster his own sagging reputation. “No more the unfaithful husband, Pa would now be presented to the world as the harried single dad coping with a drug-addled child.” He reports Charles and his wife, Camilla, were jealous of William and Kate’s “drawing attention away from them.” His stories of jealousy sound like projection. But they also make the book feel less like “Clown Turns on Circus” than something more deadly, especially just before Charles’s coronation this May. Harry accuses the tabloids of violating his privacy, and no doubt they often did. What is almost unbelievable is that he is so unmoored and destabilized by this inevitable aspect of fame, especially royal fame. He implies he left Britain primarily because of the newspapers and their criticism of his wife. But the odd, half-mad thing about this book is that in it he violates his own privacy, and that of others, more than Fleet Street ever could. He is careful throughout to say he is telling his story in order to help others, those who’ve struggled with mental illness or been traumatized by war. It is hard to know another person’s motives; it can be hard to know your own. But I don’t think this book is about others. I think it’s about his own very human desire for revenge, to hurt those who’ve hurt him. And to become secure in a certain amount of wealth. And to show his family and Fleet Street that their favorite ginger-haired flake could make his own way, set up his own palace, break free, fly his own standard, become the duke ofNetflix. This book is classic Fredo: “I can handle things. I’m smart. Not like everybody says, like dumb, I’m smart and I want respect!” It is all so contradictory. He says he wants reconciliation but writes things that alienate, he says he reveres the monarchy and isn’t trying to bring it down but he has gone beyond removing bricks from the facade and seems to be going at the bearing walls. I close with a thought on privacy. Prince Harry violates his own. He tells us too much about himself and others. Once there was a reigning personal style of public reticence about private pain. You didn’t share it with everybody, and you didn’t use it for advantage or as a weapon: I have known pain, you must bow before me. The forces of modernity have washed away the old boundary between public and private. It isn’t good. It’s making us less human even as we claim to be more sensitive. But fully mature people still have a sense of their own privacy, they keep to themselves what is properly kept to oneself. Privacy isn’t some relic of the pre-tech past, as I said once, it is connected to personhood. It has to do with intimate things—the inner workings of your head and heart, of your soul. You don’t just give those things away. Your deepest thoughts and experiences are yours, held by you; they are part of your history. They are part of your dignity. You share them as a mark of trust. This is true intimacy, not phony intimacy but the real thing. If you tell all the strangers your secrets what do you tell your intimates? A friend said the other day: “Most of the forces in the world are pushing toward exhibitionism and calling it honesty. The assumption is if you keep things to yourself you have something to hide.” But you aren’t reserved out of shame, you are reserved out of a sense of your own value and self-respect. And it doesn’t leave you alone; it means you are part of something larger, a whole world of distinct souls. You shouldn’t violate your own privacy, not for attention or admiration, and not for money. It’s a mistake. And it won’t heal you

Great article!  Thank you❤️

[pleasesendfrogs]

WIP Wednes(Fri)day

I KNOW IT'S FRIDAY, AND I DO NOT CAREEEE!!! IT'S WEDNESDAY IN SOME UNIVERSE!!!!

I can't wait to finish this! It's kind of a side project while I work through writer's block from Spier's journal.

TW: Incest, psuedo incest, rape/non-con, hospital-setting, abuse, violence, cannabalism?, wounds, injury healing

Spider squints as he slowly wakes up. He slowly becomes aware of the pain in his body; the aching. The worst pain is coming from his right arm, though. It feels like someone took a knife and dug out as much flesh as possible. He groans as he slowly tries to sit up and fully open his eyes. He’s not on the island. He’s not on the SeaDragon. The lights are too bright, and they sting his eyes. There’s an IV in his arm, and he vaguely becomes aware that his ankles are strapped to the bed. His mind feels fuzzier than usual. Like someone’s shoved cotton balls in his ears to muffle his thoughts. 

The room he’s in looks so sterile, and it takes him a few moments to realize he’s probably in the medical area of Bridgehead. 

He chokes on a sob. How did he get here? He thinks as hard as he can, remembering how he had been wandering off from the maruis, and I made my way to the forest on the island. It always felt more like home than the ocean had. And then, well, someone had been there too. Spider had thought it was just Kiri coming to see what was wrong. 

Spider’s memory stops there. Since he’s restrained at Bridgehead, he assumes Jake or his dad came and found him. It doesn’t make sense to him how they were able to get onto the island without alerting anybody. 

Did they do this to him?

He checks his arm and sees that it’s wrapped tightly in a bandage. There’s dry blood and the faint smell of iron that makes him want to vomit. He assumes he’s on pain meds due to the way his brain feels so fuzzy, but it still hurts so bad.

The sheets of the bed cover his legs, and a paper-thin gown covers his chest. It crinkles at every move.

He’s going to be in so much trouble. This is just the beginning. He reaches a hand to his arm and winces. He presses very lightly, trying to figure out what kind of wound he’s suffered. He nearly gags when it feels like skin and muscle have been torn out of his body. It’s a shallow dent, but he can feel the cloth touch parts of his arm that should never be pressed against anything. He feels tears of despair well up in his eyes, and he knows he won’t be able to stop them as soon as they fall. 

He tries to curl in on himself with his restrained ankles, and he lethargically scoots closer to his feet so that he can pull his knees to his chest. It makes him feel more secure. 

He cries like that for a while, hating himself, hating the feeling of cuffs heavy on his ankles, hating Jake, and hating his dad.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when the door to the room opens, and Quaritch walks in, a grim look on his face. 

“You’re awake,” He says, his voice stern and emotionless. Spider sees his dad, his tall, strong, and powerful dad. He thinks about the feeling of those big hands in his hair, on his chest, holding him close and making him feel safe. Spider can’t help the way he looks up at his dad with such a desire, a need. 

His lip trembles. 

“Daddy,” His voice breaks, and he is crying. He’s crying harder than he’s ever cried. His body is shaking, and his lungs are gasping for air. He’s surprised when he feels those big blue hands stroking his hair, and pulling him close. He doesn’t even feel shame when he clings to his dad, just wanting whatever comfort the man will provide. He craves it. He needs it. 

It feels like years have passed when Spider’s sobs stop, and he’s just sniffling. He finally found his voice.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no you shouldn’t have,” Quaritch murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Spider’s kiss. “But it’s alright now. You’re back where you belong.”

“What happened to my arm?” Spider asks hesitantly. Something twitches in Quaritch’s face, and he looks like he’d like nothing more than to run away and never answer another question, which, of course, piques Spider’s interest. His eyebrows furrow. “What happened?”

“When we came to get you, you got aggressive, and-” He halts, trying to find the right wording, “You said something that really upset him, and he- he ended up taking out a chunk of your arm.”

Spider’s heart sinks in his chest. Jake did this to him. 

Jake had been violent before; it wasn’t new. Spider had become used to it. However, he never thought he could be the victim. In the past, when Jake had been having an episode, he got a bit more aggressive, and Spider was left with more bruises than normal, and even that pissed Quaritch off, but even the thought of Jake taking a whole part of his arm out, ripping it from the skin, probably with teeth, is shocking. 

“He bit me?” Spider asks. It’s not a question, he knows that’s what happened. He almost gags when he thinks about where the part of his flesh went. 

Quaritch just nods in reply. 

“Why isn’t he here?” Spider’s voice is tense, and bitterness hangs on to the edge of his words.

“I told him he couldn’t come in. He’s outside.”

“I want to see him,” Spider murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Quartich sighs, and gently shakes his head, “No, he’s not ready.” Spider feels his chest start to swell with anger. He should be angry. He woke up, having been kidnapped for a second time, and one of his captors took a bite out of his arm. 

“He’s not ready? What does that even mean? Did I eat a piece of his arm that I’m suddenly forgetting?”

“Spider,” A warning. Spider ignores it. 

“No. This is bullshit. I was finally- finally away from you fuckers,” Spider looks down at his hands. They’re shaking. “And you took that away, I could have- I could have been happy again, and then a stupid fucking recreation of Jake Sully decided to grab me and eat part of my fucking arm!” Spider’s voice is almost a yell, and tears are streaming down his face. He’s surprised his body still has enough water to cry. 

Quaritch stands, and Spider flinches, expecting to be struck, but the recom turns and walks out of the room without another word. 

Spider doesn’t know what to do. 

They leave Spider alone for three days. They change his bandages before he goes to sleep on the first night. It hurts. No matter how slowly they peel it away, the scabbing sticks to the bandages and blood drips down his arm. The pain meds dull it a bit, but he still whines and groans.