#monster house audio

[goatyuuji]

Idk why but Geto Suguru looks like a person to have the most basic set of Asian parents ever...

[clover-46]

YALL WHY DID DAVID SAY MINECRAFT MAKES NO SENSE WHEN I COULD ARGUE SMASH MAKES NO SENSE EITHER?? IN FACT IT FOLLOWS LESS LOGIC THAN MINECRAFT 😭 ??

[doctorwhoisadhd]

did the math and over the course of my winter break i watched/read/listened to 119 dr who things

[pheventhedog]

[boombox-fuckboy]

any podcast recommendations for guys Going Through It. im a sucker for whump and i’ve already listened to TMA and Malevolent sooo

Fiction Podcasts: Characters Going Through It / Experiencing the Horrors

Gore warning for most, here's 15 to get you started:

I am in Eskew: (Horror) David Ward is arguably the Guy Going Through It. Stories from a man living in something that very much wants to be a city, and a private investigator who was, in her words, "hired to kill a ghost". Calmly recounted stories set to Eskew's own gentle, persistent rain. The audio quality's a bit naff but the writing is spectacular. If you like the writing, also check out The Silt Verses, which is a brilliant show by the same creators.

VAST Horizon: (Sci-Fi, Horror, Thriller/Suspense Elements) And Dr. Nolira Ek is arguably the Gal Going Through it. An agronomist wakes from cryo to discover the ship she's on is dead in the water, far from their destination, and seemingly empty, barring the ship's malfunctioning AI, and an unclear reading on the monitors. I think you'll like this one. Great sound design, amazing acting, neat worldbuilding, and plenty of awful situations.

Dining in the Void: (Horror, Sci-Fi) So, the initial pacing on this one is a little weird, but stick with it. A collection of notable people are invited to a dinner aboard a space station, and find not only are they trapped there, but they're on a timer until total station destruction: unless they can figure out who's responsible. And there's someone else aboard to run a few games, just to make things more interesting. The games are frequently torturous. If that wasn't clear.

The White Vault: (Horror) By the same creators as VAST Horizon, this one follows a group sent to a remote arctic research base to diagnose and repair a problem. Trapped inside by persistant snow and wind, they discover something very interesting below their feet. Really well made show. The going through it is more spread out but there's a lot of it happening.

Archive 81: (Horror, Weird Fiction, Mystery and Urban Fantasy Elements) A young archivist is commissioned to digitize a series of tapes containing strange housing records from the 1990s. He has an increasingly bad time. Each season is connected but a bit different, so if S1 (relatively short) doesn't catch your ear, hang in for S2. You've got isolation, degredation of relationships, dehumanisation, and a fair amount of gore. And body horror on a sympathetic character is so underdone.

The Harrowing of Minerva Damson: (Fantasy, Horror) In an alternate version of our own world with supernatural monsters and basic magic, an order of women knights dedicated to managing such problems has survived all the way to the world wars, and one of them is doing her best with what she's got in the middle of it all.

SAYER: (Horror, Sci-Fi) How would you like to be the guy going through it? A series of sophisticated AI guide you soothingly through an array of mundane and horrible tasks.

WOE.BEGONE: (Sci-Fi) I don't keep up with this one any more, but I think Mike Walters goes through enough to qualify it. Even if it's frequently his own fault. A guy gets immediately in over his head when he begins to play an augmented reality game of entirely different sort. Or, the time-travel murder game.

Janus Descending: (Sci-Fi, Horror, Tragedy) A xenobiologist and a xenoanthropologist visit a dead city on a distant world, and find something awful. You hear her logs first-to-last, and his last-to-first, which is interesting framing but also makes the whole thing more painful. The audio equivalent of having your heart pulled out and ditched at the nearest wall. Listen to the supercut.

The Blood Crow Stories: (Horror) A different story every season. S1 is aboard a doomed cruise ship set during WWII, S2 is a horror western, S3 is cyberpunk with demons, and S4 is golden age cinema with a ghostly influence.

Mabel: (Supernatural, Horror, Fantasy Elements) The caretaker of a dying woman attempts to contact her granddaughter, leaving a series of increasingly unhinged voicemails. Supernatural history transitioning to poetic fae lesbian body horror.

Jar of Rebuke: (Supernatural) An amnesiac researcher with difficulties staying dead investigates strange creatures, eats tasty food, and even makes a few friends while exploring the town they live in. A character who doesn't stay dead creates a lot of scenarios for dying in interesting ways

The Waystation: (Sci-Fi, Horror) A space station picks up an odd piece of space junk which begins to have a bizzare effect on some of the crew. The rest of it? Doesn't react so well to this spreading strangeness. Some great nailgun-related noises.

Station Blue: (Psychological Horror) A drifting man takes a job as a repair technician and maintenance guy for an antarctic research base, ahead of the staff's arrival. He recounts how he got there, as his time in the base and some bizzare details about it begin to get to him. People tend to either quite like this one or don't really get the point of it, but I found it a fascinating listen.

The Hotel: (Horror) Stories from a "Hotel" which kills people, and the strange entities that make it happen. It's better than I'm making it sound, well-made with creative deaths, great sound work, and a strange staff which suffer as much as the guests. Worth checking out.

[ohmerricat]

an essay about Rogue, The Chimes of Midnight, and how i believe all this ties in to the overarching themes of the series EVEN IF the inside-a-tv-show theory proves untrue

“Rogue” named himself after a stock character. he is the archetypal Handsome Rogue because there has to be a Handsome Rogue role in a period drama story set in Austenesque Regency England.

it’s all theatre — smoke and mirrors. just like the war waged against imaginary foes in boom (because there needs to be an Enemy in a wartime story) was theatre; the creation of the Bogeyman in space babies (because there needs to be a Scary Monster in a children’s bedtime story) was theatre; The Woman following Ruby in 73 yards (because there needs to be a Ghost in a folk horror story) was theatre. dot and bubble less so, but it’s wise to note — the dots created the slugs after all. they invented the slugs so that there would be a tangible Creature for the finetimers (and the Doctor) to fear, rather than simply being betrayed by their own technology. because that’s exactly what the false, harmful narratives colonialists tell themselves — stories of taming and conquering a wild Mother Nature and her ferocious beasts — have trained them to expect from the world. the dots were telling a story too, or rather putting on a play.

the penultimate episode of any doctor who series, if not always leading directly into the two-parter finale, will typically begin to tie up loose narrative strands that have stretched across the entire season. at a first impression rogue doesn’t seem to be doing that. but then you take a closer look at the antagonists: creatures that play a role for fun without the slightest regard for those around them. lethal LARPers. cosplayers out to kill. to put it pretentiously, a hyper-realistic theatre of cruelty.

to nobody’s surprise, i’m bringing up my favourite eighth doctor audio drama — the chimes of midnight. edward grove gives every person trapped in the time loop a designated role: the chauffeur, the doctor-detective, the plucky young lady of the house, the lady’s maid, the scullery girl, the housekeeper. they keep playing these roles, over and over, until they begin to forget their original identity, until the part they’re playing takes over their entire sense of self. the servants keep dying over and over because they cannot transcend their roles, because they believe themselves to be “nothing but a scullery maid”. they are reduced to the parts they play in the narrative until they become nothing outside of it, until they become confined to a single location.

the chimes of midnight is set in Edwardian-era England, a time of restrictive, prescriptive class, status and social roles which defined a person’s life and career trajectory — this strict delineation is driven to its logical conclusion and deconstructed under the unnatural conditions of Edward Grove. similarly, rogue is set in a Regency-era mansion — another historical period defined in the popular imagination by its complicated social rules, elegant courtship dynamics, strict class barriers, gossip and elitism. these two doctor who stories don’t have any intentional watsonian connection, but they are deeply linked on a thematic level.

high society is forced theatre. a 24/7 LARP. play your part, put on your costume, don’t interrupt the performance. the audience is waiting. they’re oh so hungry for tragedy.

the biggest part of them all, the most sought-after role, of course, is The Doctor. a standard to live up to. a name to wear like a banner, a pledge, a promise. he has to be like this because this is what he’s like.

the Scullery Maid scrubs the kitchen floor. The Detective searches for clues. the Chauffeur starts up his car. the Duchess hosts a glittering soirée. the Rake hides a secret fling with the Wallflower. the Rogue breaks hearts and broods on the balcony.

and the Doctor? the Doctor dances. “onwards and upwards”. forever in perpetual motion, spinning and spinning and spinning across the stars. never pausing to breathe. never stopping.

p.s.: so, pray tell, what is Ruby Sunday in all this? “The Companion��, of course. smart, funny, sassy, quick-witted, brave, cheeky, curious, self-sacrificial. she almost feels generic because she’s meant to be. she wasn’t born. she was written. an essential part of the story too. circling the Doctor like a satellite forever.

[autisminabox]

I’m going to be discussing spoilers from the new update, specifically entailing Eddie. Spoilers are below the cut, so, like. Spoiler alert

One thing that stuck out to me right before Eddie “goes to Toyland” (which is what’s implied to happen) is the anger he felt. To me it felt incredibly out of place. Out of place for what’s supposed to be a children’s show, and out of place for Eddie.

We’ve seen Eddie in situations substantially worse for his staying focused on the job than people not having any mail. We’ve seen people jump at him, get pressured into literally lifting other people (and possibly a fucking house), and was too nervous to speak up for himself. We’ve seen him take a lot of shit from both Howdy and Barnaby in the audios, and he more or less took it on the chin. Julie overwhelmed him with her business game, and instead of getting frustrated, he just kind of… curled up.

So this strikes me as particularly odd. There are two explanations I can think of to explain why it happened. The first is a theory I’ve seen floated around about the puppets slowly deviating from the in-universe writers’ design. We see this contrast between how everyone acts in the books and ads and how they act in the bug audios; Barnaby had a twinge of meanness, Julie had a personality beyond being ADHD incarnate, Frank expressed kindness. It’s not out of the question. The second theory is based off of a few observations from earlier on: Eddie is notably from out of town, and is loosely implied to have moved in last out of the main cast. It wouldn’t be absurd to say that this leads him to being “not with the program”, even if him being the newest addition is only in-universe for the show (as opposed to him being literally constructed and written last)

The second thing that was prominent to me was Home’s response to Eddie entering Toyland. This is quite plainly conspicuous and intentional, but I wanted to bring attention to it because of the interesting implications of it. First off, Home is pretty much confirmed to be sentient now. I’ll be damned if there’s any coherent counterargument that doesn’t boil down to going “nuh-uh”. Second, Home is at minimum recognizing that something is happening to Eddie. It’s not clear whether Home is aware of what specifically is happening to Eddie, or whether or not Home had a hand in setting off the incident, but the fact that home recognized that something was happening to Eddie nearly instantly solidifies how intelligent and aware Home actually is. This isn’t inherently surprising, since we’ve already gotten word-of-God confirmation that Home has repeatedly beaten Frank at chess, however, this is the most pointed and direct example that we’ve seen in the actual project.

Third, the fact that Eddie specifically had The Horrors™️ enacted upon him first specifically (at least, as far as we’re explicitly aware of; It’s unclear whether Wally counts as having experienced The Horrors™️ or if he is the arbitrator of them. More on that later) lends to some very interesting suggestions. Five possible explanations I can think of work as follows: One, he knew too much about either the nature of whatever specifically is weird about Home (town), whether that be Home (house), Wally, another character, the monsters of the night, something else about the night, or he knew too much about his nature as a fictional character. There is some speculative support for this; first, the aforementioned outsider angle that he’s been played with, and second, his parallels to the scrapped character Sunny. Sunny was the most recent to move in within the beta continuity, he was the love interest for Frank, he was smart and likely knew too much, and he disappeared first. Two, his outburst earlier in the day proved to be too out of character and thus a risk and liability to whoever was in control of what happened to him. Aside from my above breakdown of that scene, and from the fact that there’s very prominent examples of Playfellow and Marlo (or perhaps Wally, if for whatever reason Evil Wally ends up being true) blatantly straightwashing characters and possibly suppressing free will of the characters, assuming that’s what we’re meant to take away from the bug audios. Three, Eddie realized the actual absurdity of the Pea On A Plate and “woke up”, lucid dream style. I don’t really like this interpretation, since the fact that it’s in several promotional materials and companion merchandise suggests that it was an absurdist humor bit in-universe, which isn’t farfetched considering how children’s shows tend to be. Four, there’s another reason that’s yet to be revealed as to why Eddie got selected first. To be a total Devil’s advocate, we’re still relatively early in what’s looking to be a very slow-paced story. We’re not gonna have all the details, and red herrings are going to pop up, intentionally or otherwise. Five, Eddie was selected randomly or with no actual reason.

There’s also a few possibilities for who sent Eddie to Toyland, which is interesting to me. First, it could be Home. It wouldn’t be surprising considering its mysterious and noted uncanny nature, and its prominence during that scene. Second, it could be Wally. While I personally don’t find it to be the most reasonable, since something of this magnitude being perpetrated by a character we have a face to would likely involve that character, there’s enough evidence of Wally acting aware and generally odd where it isn’t completely absurd. Additionally, it’s entirely plausible that Wally’s conspicuous absence during the entire arc is indicative of some sort of guilt. Third, the show writers, someone at Playfellow, or another party along those lines somehow caused it, either by technological or supernatural means we don’t know about or by some accidental bout of supernatural fuckery, such as rewriting something and it having bizarre effects on the characters. It’s out there, but not out of the question considering the weird shit they’ve done. On top of that, it’s not impossible that another entity or force somehow caused this that either hasn’t been revealed or explained yet.

As to what Toyland actually entails, I’ve concocted a few theories. One, he literally got up and mentally teleported to a land of giant toys. Two, it’s full Star Trek mode and there’s Horrors™️ so mentally stimulating that the only way it could be perceived by either us or Eddie that that’s all it can be perceived as. Three, Going To Toyland is some sort of initiation, rite of passage, or method of psychologically controlling the cast that everyone else either doesn’t realize is happening or has their memories of it forcibly suppressed. This could be supported by the aforementioned “Eddie is an Outsider” and it’s possibly his first Homewarming since moving to the area. After all, a housewarming is a celebration that welcomes and initiates someone to the neighborhood; would it be that odd that Homewarming is a twisted version of that?

Anyways. Those are my observations and a bunch of interpretations. Part of why I love this project so much is how mysterious and unclear the exact details are, creating excellent suspense and a drive to theorize, and leading up to a truly gobsmacking reveal or conclusion. This update certainly delivered. Whatever the answer is for any of the branching paths I described, it’ll almost definitely reveal how truly fucked up the perpetrator is (or, alternatively, how utterly fucked up the situation is in general, if there ends up not being an instigator) for, y’know, doing that. Clown and Co., you’ve certainly outdone yourselves, and the wait was worth it; this speculative theorycrafting this update has provided is absolutely incredible.

[randomhuman45]

So I was relistening to Epic: The Musical (as one does) and imagining it on stage (as one does) and YO! Great idea!

Odysseus finds infant in blanket

Odysseus saves blanket after Just A Man

Blanket is on his person like on his belt or something and he constantly grabs onto it

Singing the line "I'm just a man" throughout the 1st act

When he tells his men not to kill the cyclops in Remember Them

Singing to dream Penelope "but I'm the same!!"

When he tells Athena he can't sleep at night

He or Posieden reach out to it during the lines "if you just killed me son// but no"

During Puppeteer while explaining he can't leave his men

In The Underworld "I keep thinking of the infant from that night"(x2)

Odysseus fully pulls out the blanket during the song Monster looking at in his hands in the line "What if I'm the monster?"

Just as Odysseus raised his arm out holding the baby out he does the same to the blanket but this time he visibly drops the blanket to the audience in the line "And if I gotta to drop another infant from a wall in an instant so we all don't die, then I'll become the monster!"

It would make that part just as visibly insane as the audio and thematically, how I see it, it's not until that part of the musical that Odysseus ever actually kills the baby. Throughout the 1st act Odysseus is very much emotionally and mentally in the middle of the song Just A Man as he constantly grabs at any and all excuses/potential paths to NOT kill the thing that he knows he NEEDS to kill. He's still arguing with the Gods that he can "raise him as my own... send him far away from home.... make sure his past is never known" at every turn.

It's not until he FINALLY faces all of the consequences of those choices, the consequences that Zeus warns him of "he will burn your house down ... he will find you wherever you may go ... the Gods will make him known" that he actually comes to terms with the fact that he WILL kill and he never truly kills that infant until he sings that line in Monster.

That's just how I see it, and I think the visualization of Odysseus carrying around that blanket and constantly grabbing at it until he finally kills it, the infant, and his guilt; would just be a great way to represent that on stage.

[saturna625]

I wanna think about storm chaser!reader and tf141????? (yes, I used to live in tornado valley. I know some of this is unrealistic but I'll make it real enough)

Like maybe Johnny, who watches these absolutely wild YouTubers who chase these massive storms ("Gaz, honestly, take a look at these fuckin' clouds! All spinny an' shit!") And maybe you're the weather predictor, who coaches from the passenger seat as the truck weaves through corn fields, unaware of tf141 within the comment section.

TF141, of course, meaning Twister Force 141, a bit of a nickname for their little weather research team.

Maybe they get so invested that Price pulls a couple strings, and gets satellite view, so the boys can watch both you and the weather live.

Maybe you get a little too close to the tornado, as the county sirens blare in the background, and your audio shorts out. Maybe the boys are on the edges of their seats, seeing you speed headfirst into a storm that is building quicker than your ten dollar weather app can process.

You're too deep in a quick growing storm. None of your tech is working, and you're strapping yourself into your seat, looking over at your best friend who's driving. You don't even know if the camera's still rolling. The wind howls outside, screams so loud you can't even hear yourself yell.

Maybe you hear a gruff voice through your staticky radio, as you see, well, what used to be a barn, crash down in front of you, before disappearing into the murk and dust.

"Throw it into reverse, you muppets!"

Your friend slams on his breaks, and kicks the truck into reverse. You fly backwards as the cameras on your dashboard blink red and green. You're driving blind, and the monster is only growing. A stop sign takes your side mirror clean off, and embeds itself into a tree.

Your friend cuts to the left, turning yall around, and throws it into forward as you build speed, trying to outrun it.

With dawning horror, the team puts together a shoddy storm projection. You won't outrun it.

You, however, have decided to ditch the harness. The haunting sound of a twister, groaning as it builds, lunching towards you. It pulls the roof off a house. A tree flies towards you, and your buddy swerves to avoid it, as you scramble into the back seat.

Soap is so used to watching amateurs outrun tiny squalls, little touchdowns of dust and air, but this thing was processing as E-4.

And you were no amateur.

You call to your buddy to cut left, and drive under the overpass. You're not stopping there. Everyone knows that overpasses are the worst place to be.

You think, somewhere in the dust and wind and debris, that you see a truck pulling a trailer of barrels, but it had overturned. You hoped it's owners were lucky enough to get somewhere safe.

It gets sucked into the storm, and disappears. The sky is swirling black above you, a nightmarish mixture of ink and debris. The truck skids on the pavement, your friend juts off road, as foreign voices coached you out of the storm.

But they were wrong. They're telling him to keep driving forward.

You see the wind shift, in the rolling, whipping grass. The pressure drops, and your ears pop. You stop your commentators explanation to gaze open-mouthed at the sky above you.

"There's.... There's gonna be another one!" You shout at your friend, who seems to pale at your words. "That's good! It'll take the pressure away from that mother over there–" you point. Rain pelts the windshield, but he can make out the shift in the clouds. "They'll fight it out and dissipate! We'll just- I can't fucking see- stop!" You shout, as a house crashes down directly in front of you, but it's too late.

The nose of the truck goes through where the roof had been, burying itself near the chimney. You fly forward and hit the seat in front of you. You think your head knocks against some camera equipment, and the wind howls again, before it all goes dark.

When you come to, you're able to hear the sirens again. The scratchy panic of the radio fills in the rest of the sound, different groups of chasers trying to figure out what the hell they're doing. You no longer hear that European group, though. Maybe you thought it up.

What you didn't know was that, ten miles away, hunkered in the safety of a low level parking garage, the boys cramped around the screen as they watch you pull yourself out of the car. In the unfocused lense, they can tell that you might bruise pretty rough. But in the background, they see the second twister come into view. It's half a mile off, battling out the Mother, as you called it, before suddenly, they both draw back up into the sky, dancing around one another, and then they're gone.

The tornado sirens go out shortly after that, and they hear rain, and thunder, and you– whooping and cheering, and scrambling to find an intact camera.

You thank the audience as your friend joins you at your side. He's probably going to quit after this, you can tell by the look on his face. He was never one for weather anyways.

But it didn't matter. You were usually the driver anyhow.

Simon looks at Price, who looks down at Soap, sketching out the projections, and Gaz, writing all the data down in his uber fancy composition notebook. The livestream ends.

And who knows, there's a ton of storm chasers in town this season. Maybe someone had some people to spare.

(pt2?)

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Covering BOTW!Link in kisses pretty please (> <)

Yeah, I can do that!

I made this surprisingly angsty (though if you’re not new around here that may be less shocking) so be warned.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

For someone with such an utterly distinct lack of memory, Wild often found himself drowning within them. Fleeting snippets of vision or audio cut in and out, warped and distorted beyond anything he can truly grasp at. One second he’d be laughing alongside his brothers, but when his eyes blinked he’d be a century in the last. Oftentimes after the phantom arms of his previous life embraced him, he felt less than who he was before. his smiles dulled and heart weighed down. As if knowing more about who he was then made him less of who he was now. As if the two sentiences couldn’t coexist.

It was a quiet night, humid with the onset of summer. The fireflies —lightning bugs as Twilight called them— dancing lofty paths amidst the air. Sat side by side, the champion absorbed the fable. At first it seemed rather childish, the idea of two wolves within oneself fighting to make the forefront. But the longer he went on the more it resonated. The mental image as one sneers and snaps, barring its ugly teeth in unwavering violent truth. All while the other dodges and uses the violent’s strength against itself, all while denying its own violent nature.

Allegorically it was good versus bad, overindulgence against suppression. The idea that to overindulge, to snap, to be reckless would lead to being taken advantage of. Wild knew why Twilight thought the story relevant to him. He knew that whenever he’d turn his back on his enemies to support that it wasn’t viewed as loyalty. He knew that there was lots to lose, and they couldn’t afford another injury. He knew Twi didn’t want to see him fall into a similar circumstance. But he knew he couldn’t afford to fail again. He couldn’t fall short. He can’t lose someone close again.

Where externally he was viewed as the former, he internally found himself in the latter of cases. He fought the battle between the whispers of the others in contrast to his own thoughts of himself. Left with the residual pressure to be nothing short of perfect, to be The Hero of Time, to be worthy of the title and the land and the fate and the soul. The yearning to simply live and be without the burden of his own guilt, to be Link, to be your lover and accept the love without feeling indebted.

He didn’t realise Twilight had left.

His head swims and he feels clammy as he curls up, deciding aimlessly that it’s time to sleep. His feet lead him inside his house and he can hardly even stumble up the loft. Someone else can sort dinner.

Any sense of sensibility is muddled and mixed. Time does not matter, nor the relevancy if his mind.

He stares back at the shards of his past life, his chipped reflection in each mirror, and can’t help but wonder who he’d be if he were just Link.

Or would he be even anything at all if not a hero?

What was it that he truly was?

Mipha had written that he was a rather rowdy child, eager to take on the world with nothing more than a stick in hand. Then, he held no care for being proper. Wide grin and leaves in his hair, he was happy. Perhaps that was the most of himself he could ever be. Perhaps that was the reason he finds himself wandering aimlessly now. Perhaps that is his nature.

The records of many soldiers he fought alongside depicted him as the prime standard of the military. Those days were cold, and he just remembered how much he hurt. The ache of every muscle and bruise, every drill, every spar, every battle, every day spent alive that was spent suffering. His ability to cut down any monster or man with any weapon. His instinct and ability to hurt was primed until he now questions if that little boy who splashed around in rivers and threw handfuls of mud had retreated into the cold hands of death. The soldiers’ mirage of him is idyllic, but holds distressingly true to his own memory.

Perhaps that is why his mind is clear and quiet with weapon in hand and a body beneath his feet.

He dreams of musty stables and bare campgrounds, both places the since passed versions of himself would’ve spent a night at. The smell of dirt and dust is accompanied by the crackle of a fire as drunken men sing out of tune.

The littlest curled up as his teeth chattered, the chipped tooth whistling as he exhaled. A warm hand settles on his shoulders as his father drapes another thin blanket over him. He does not yet know this means his father will go without warmth.

The soldier tossing and turning, unable to relax even long enough to sleep. He too his tormented by the potential of falling. He does not yet know what’s to come. He does not yet know there’s nothing to be done.

The scene shifts and he is at the castle. It’s his first time and his eyes shine as he follows his father closely, following hot on his feet with a giddy grin.

It is his home. His work. His life. He follows the princess closely, just far enough to not make himself overbearing. He does not smile. He does not frown. He does not fail.

The colours fade and mix and blur, the dreamscape shifting oncemore. It’s raining. It pitters across his shoulders as he kicks up the puddles, scaring the stray cuccos from the stable not too far away. His father fusses over the sword he’d found, and he can hardly muster the strength to swing it against the base of the apple tree. He results in climbing up the twisted limbs, collecting extra ripe apples to ease his father’s worries. The wet bark gives no grip to his feet and he falls to the ground, winded next to the funny blue sword. It glints and chirps and when he catches his breath he laughs back.

It’s storming. The grass smells wet and irony. The bloody mud cakes his boots as his foot falls brace against the ground. His arms lock as he flings his shield to the side, the guardian falling to disrepair. His shield lay broken. He can see his strained face in the dirty reflection. He doesn’t like the man staring back. The rain pelts across his back and the lightning shakes the ground. His muffled ears pick up Zelda’s distress as another guardian climbs up the mound of soul. He draws his sword. He didn’t even know if it were possible to deflect a guardian laser with a blade. But he can’t fail now. Not after everything. A flash of blue light overtakes his vision as his limbs slacken.

He shoots awake with a familiar tightness in his chest, his scars itching and burning. He writhes beneath his own skin as he kicks the covers off, the cold air seizing him. His lungs struggle to draw breath as he wheezes. His vision tunnels and it feels as if he’s dying again.

Why can’t it just be over.

When will he finally be enough— if not for the sake of the world then to at least save himself?

Or maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved. He couldn’t save all those innocent people. Castle town, Deya, Lon Lon? Who was he to demand he was worth saving?

He hacks and coughs before even trying to look at his surroundings. Through the mixed screaming within his mind he gathers a few realisations. He’s alive. He’s home. You’re curled up beside him, reaching for his warmth. His hands tremble as they reach towards his uneven hairline, grabbing a fistful and tugging. The pain stings, he feels more than awake as his heart races.

“Mm- Link?” You mumbled against his side, awoken by the cold lack of covers. Guilt fills his throat again until he can’t breathe. He’s supposed to help you, to love you, to be of use. Not be such a burden. But here he is again, making it about him. Making your life worse and demanding comfort like a child.

“Heyheyhey- It’s ok, you’re safe” Your voice was as soft and gentle as your touch as you cradled his cheek. He didn’t even realise he was crying. Why was he crying? Who’d want a hero who cries like a coward in the face of a danger that isn’t even real? You collect his hands together, loosening his grip from his hair and running your thumbs across his knuckles. His head stirs as you speak, and he can’t make out anything of what you are saying. His ears ring, more than usual, drowning out any sound.

“Breathe with me, ok?” He nods weakly after you repeat yourself for the third or fourth time. He tries his best, his ribs shuddering before he could fully breathe in, but no longer deprived of oxygen, his head stops swimming as much.

It’s a while of sitting there, hands in your lap as you calm him down in whatever way he quietly requests. It’s so odd. Being raised to serve and to give and being taught through experience that your worth lies in your deeds… to suddenly being the one catered to. It still feels as if asking to be loved is forbidden. That his purpose comes before all requirement and survival. Somedays it still feels like death would come before he would be comfortable. But it took many long nights and longer days spent having uncomfortable conversations before he realised he still had a chance, only if he chose to make one for himself.

At some point he lets himself settle. He sinks into the now cool mattress as you stare into his eyes. He feels a flicker of shame before your hands are back on his jaw and you're pressing light kisses to his skin. Both temples, forehead, each freckle on the apple of his cheeks, crooked nose, the tip of his burn scar, the cut in his chin. You pull back for a moment to admire what you’ve made of him through the years. He smiles, lopsided and as giddy as he was in childhood. You press an eager kiss to his lips, giggling throughout.

He may be lost within the maze of his own mind, a man held hostage to himself, but despite being a failure by his own previous standards, it doesn’t matter so long as he’s enough for you.

[poedays]

Some Headcanons I have for the listener characters for Redacted/Castle Audios (for funsies):

Castle - Ranger, Seer, Knight, Sugar, Dewdrop, and Dear/Bud

Redacted - Angel, Babe, Sweetheart, Tank, Lovely, and Honey

Castle:

Ranger:

- Looks like the phrase ‘ladies and gentleman’.

- Owns a pair of docs but stopped wearing them because they hurt their feet.

- Has a vintage Hindustan Contessa car in a beige colour.

- > has one of those fluffy dice decorations because Isiah gave them one for Christmas.

- >> they took it down after getting their memories back.

Seer:

- Has grey-ish blue eyes and when they use their powers they flash a bright white.

- Framed a piece of paper with Beth’s work signature on it and hung it where she pushed them against a wall in their house.

- Likes really big dangling earrings but can’t wear them for long otherwise they give Seer a headache.

- Tristan asked Seer to see into his future but instead of something cool, they saw him tripping over his own untied shoelaces.

Knight:

- Has an ‘I love my lesbian sister’ T-shirt, and Claire has a matching ‘I love my ally brother’. (Can be queer sister, ally sibling, or literally any matching queer shirts - I just thought it was fun).

- Is totally into Evie biting them and liked the thought before she was turned into a vampire.

- Knight never walks in front of Claire when the two are walking together, only beside her or behind her. They’re scared she’ll disappear again.

- Being introduced to people as ‘Knight’ gives them a confidence boost every time.

Dewdrop:

- Would own a pet snake.

- > Would call it something either ridiculous or super serious.

- >> “This is my little boy: Sir Serpent Snake-Sir the third”. Or “That’s Bob.”

- Chloe has a birthmark on her thigh that they love to kiss.

Sugar:

- Had a favourite jacket they were wearing before getting turned with a bunch of pins and patches on it -> but it was covered in blood stains after they were attacked and now they never wear it.

- > Their turning was a full on attack that was very bloody.

- Looks 20 but is like 98

- Is such a Valentine’s Day snob and would either proclaimed it’s a false holiday made to make profit from love, or they’d be 100% into it and go wild with roses and wine. (Basically they’d either be Damien or Huxley when it comes to Valentines).

- Saw Liza when she was a high school student but only has a vague memory of it so they can never place where they’ve seen her from before.

Dear/Bud:

- Has Heterochromia, left eye is blue and the other is brown. Totally doesn’t symbolise the two different characters that they’re involved with. Totally.

- Has GAD and takes medication for it, but prefers to have Rose in their head sometimes to help their overwhelming thoughts.

- Monster energy drink addict (Abby got them into them) it is not good for their anxiety (Rose would much rather they drink tea).

Redacted:

Angel:

- Likes to bake but forgets to set a timer, then forgets there’s something in the oven and has almost ended up burning the house down -> David has banned Angel from using the oven when he’s not around.

- Tried and failed to get their driver’s license five times.

- Has a tattoo sleeve with little Animal Crossing and Minecraft references mixed in there.

- Romanced either Sebastian or Shane in Stardew Valley.

Babe:

- Is an only child but has a younger step-sister they see on holidays.

- Likes to carry Asher around sometimes -> wears light and layered clothing so you wouldn’t assume they have muscles but actually have quite a bit.

- Makes Asher little packed lunches for when he has pack meetings and they’re not going.

- Is dyslexic, and needs glasses, words don’t like to word for Babe.

- Has painted Angels nails on numerous occasions.

Sweetheart:

- To empowered people they have tattoo like white marks on their collarbones and under their eyes (Stealth things (also can choose to show them, so people can’t tell right away)).

- Needs reading glasses.

- Has phased in their sleep and woken up above the blankets somehow?

- When they panic they cloak and uncloak really quickly so it kinda looks like they’re teleporting.

Tank:

- Has a bunch of siblings (Tank is towards the older end of the lot) and was heartbroken when they all moved away and none of them chose to stay with them in Dahlia.

- Easily sunburnt.

- Tried to count Sam’s freckles once without telling him what they were doing and kinda just stared at him while gradually getting closer. Eventually they ended up getting his shirt off to count more of them, and Sam just sat there flustered and confused.

- Has 100% played ‘Save a horse (Ride a cowboy)’ to serenade Sam.

Lovely:

- Their hair has started to turn white from stress.

- A lot of their hair was muddy and bloody after getting captured by Adam, so the morning after they were saved Vincent helped them chop off bits that couldn’t be salvaged.

- Used to think their brown eyes were boring but after they turned they miss their old eyes every time they look in a mirror.

- Is absolutely amazing at board/card games.

- > Somehow always wins Game of Life even through it’s pretty much a game of chance.

- > Got Sam, Vincent and Tank to play Monopoly with them and all three were bankrupt within half an hour.

- > Also dabbles in chess.

Honey:

- Works from home most days and has an office with a ‘No Guy Allowed’ sign on the door.

- For Guy’s birthday one year Honey learnt how to crochet and made an amazing sweater with a bunch of granny squares specific to Guy’s interests. Honey is all embarrassed about it because they know where all the little errors are but Guy loves it to death.

- Has picked up Guy to move him out of their way.

- Also plays Stardew Valley sometimes and is like five years in but hasn’t married anyone.

- > Has high hearts with the Wizard.

Thanks for reading! I’ve got more Redacted/Castle rambles on my blog. ❤️

[see-arcane]

It's been said before, it needs saying again, @re-dracula is going above and beyond with the audio and it brings the narrative weight crashing down on the listener's head like a gothic sledgehammer.

Even when reading, it's hard to align in your head just how much happens in the span of only a few days. How the bootheel of Dracula's presence and all the horror around him comes smashing into everyone's world like a sadistic child crushing anthills. The few motes of good news--Lucy's memorandum and thin survival, the Harkers' inheritance, the return of Quincey--are just that. Motes that contrast the the lightless atmosphere around them.

Hearing actual voices paint in the details adds dimension to every action and reaction in a way that kind of skated over my head last year, like I was trying to inhale the whole section at once. Listening forces you to walk beat-for-beat along with the characters. No rushing past, no ripping off the narrative band-aid.

Listen to the benign animal get ripped out of its own free will by a monster.

Listen to Jack discover the deadly silence of the house and the rising fear of everyone still left with a heartbeat in that place.

Listen to the possessed hands that wrote the memorandum try to destroy it before it can be of use.

Listen to the distant pain of the Harkers losing yet another life in their already-small circle.

Listen to every. Last. Beat.

All of this, in a day.

More to come in the next.

And you will not run through it, but walk.

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 45

The Doctor owes Casanova a chicken because he helped save the world by making out with one of the most decorated Sontaran generals (thus giving the Doctor time to blow stuff up). (Audio: The House of Masks)

Braxiatel will one day have his own K9. It will be given to him by a friend he hasn't met yet. (Audio: Weapon of Choice)

Braxiatel owns a bar in the 27th century called the White Rabbit. (Audio: Everyone Loves Irving)

Fitz Kreiner once described the TARDIS kitchen as being a cross between a medieval kitchen and Frankenstein's laboratory. (Novel: Autumn Mist)

By some accounts, Morgaine is an alternate universe version of the Master where there were Magic Lords instead of Time Lords. (Novel: The Monster Vault)

The Forge is an English intelligence organization that often experiments with nonhuman lifeforms for their own purposes. Their Project Lazarus was the Doctor; they wanted to find a way to replicate regeneration. (Audio: Project: Lazarus)

Mickey and Martha encountered the Ninth Doctor, Rose, and Jack after they got married. Mickey had sent the Doctor a message to get some help because Martha was transforming into a Gargoyle. Both of them were quite annoyed that Mickey had managed to get the "wrong" Doctor. (Comic: The Transformed)

The Doctor speaks cow (telepathically, of course, because doing so verbally would be silly). (Audio: The End)

Quiquaequod is an alternate version of the Eighth Doctor who was a wizard. He summoned fire to defeat Darcoul, but he accidentally caught his apprentice's cape on fire. His apprentice then burned to death in front of him. (Comic: The Glorious Dead)

An alternate version of the Master that traveled with the Doctor was an android (that the Doctor had built to save him). His face kept on falling off. (TV/Novel: Scream of the Shalka)

There are legends that the Web of Time was woven by time spiders, but they were killed when the Time Lords started exploring the vortex. Occasionally, they had to do pest control as one would pop up every now and then. (Audio: The End)

The Master had a sword fight with the Eighth Doctor and ended up stabbing him in the chest. (Comic: The Glorious Dead)

Addison Delamar once tried to auction off the Ninth Doctor's memories, so he instead broadcasted them to everyone. They were all so overwhelmed by his grief that they ran away. (Comic: The Bidding War)

Attending this auction was the Church of the Evergreen Man, who consider the Doctor to be a Messiah. They called him "the Prophet, blessed be his divine countenance." (Comic: The Bidding War)

The Church of the Evergreen Man also maintained the Oakdown Gallery, where the only confirmed painting of the Master is. (Short story: Dalek: The Astounding Untold History of the Greatest Enemies of the Universe)

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[blurredcolour]

In My Blood | Part Two

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

It is no longer safe for you to remain in Belgium. With the Gestapo closing in, Curt is finally ready to make his escape with you. But is it too late?

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Violence, Weapons, Spy Craft, Detailed Description of Murder, Death, Injuries, Angst, Grief, Fear, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6929

-------------------------

May 3, 1940

“Honestly Papa,” You protested in French, threading the telephone cord between your fingers as the line crackled and hummed with the standard overseas audio distortions,“I do not understand why you will not let me come home, nothing has happened in months–”

“Enough, my little monster,” Your father���s voice gently but firmly cut you off. “We have been over this a thousand times, it is simply too dangerous for you to leave England with war declared. Yes, it is quiet at the moment, but it is only a matter of time now that the weather has grown warm.”

Your eyes scanned across the neatly appointed Edwardian writing desk in your grandmother’s study before turning to eye the drizzly gardens of the Dower House through the spotless window behind you.

“If it is so dangerous, why do you and Mama insist on staying in Brussels? You are both more important than me and if those Nazi bastards invade you know that’s where they’re headed – straight for you.”

“Come, come now, don’t let your mother hear you using that language.” His chastisement was half-hearted and filled with laughter, pulling a reluctant grin from you. “Belgium is neutral, firstly, but if the worst happens, we will simply flee to the house in Wallonia. Chin-up my little monster, we are made of sterner stuff, are we not?”

“Yes, Papa,” You replied, feeling somewhat reassured and heartened, “we truly are.”

------------

October 28, 1943

The collision of your spine against the brick wall drove the air from your lungs, a strangled noise of pain seeping from your throat as the broken end of a bolt that had once affixed something to the side of the building tore through the fabric of your blouse and dug into the meat of your right upper arm. Gritting your teeth as your eyes watered at the searing pain and warm gush down your sleeve, your grip tightened on the handle of your knife, swinging it higher towards the vulnerable neck of the man you had lured into this alleyway.

He had been following you for at least twenty minutes, Gestapo most likely, on your way to pick up some material to then courier to another contact. You had been unsuccessful at losing him, and with the sun setting and curfew nearly upon you, confrontation had remained your only option. While sneaking out after curfew was perilous enough, being caught out around the fall of curfew was nearly suicidal. Parking your bike in front of a well-attended pub, you had made your way across the town square, wending your way through the emptying streets before ducking into this very alley to lay in wait.

Unfortunately for you, the man had proven to be much larger than you had first estimated, and along with a brutal case of halitosis, each sour breath assaulting your senses as it impacted your face, he was easily overpowering you, slowly turning your knife in your grip, threatening to use your own weapon against you. Unfortunately for him, you had been trained in all the ‘ungentlemanly’ ways one could undertake warfare, and he was utterly unprepared for the collision of your foot with his most tender parts.

A sound consisting of an intriguing mixture of a yelp and a wheeze escaped his mouth as he fell back, his oppressive weight finally easing off you. Seizing the momentum, you quickly struck with your blade, meeting the weak block of his forearm and drawing a yowl this time. While he was not proving to be a quiet kill, thankfully his racket resembled an alley cat, and could be explained away if necessary. Heart hammering in your ears, breaths coming in quick gasps under the heady influence of your own adrenaline, you swung the blade home into the defenseless flesh of his neck and tugged forward, sealing your opponent’s fate as he crumpled to the worn cobblestones.

Taking several awkward steps backward, you inhaled deep, greedy gulps of air as the man exhaled his last and grew still. It was both relieving and unsettling. Casting about for the large metal bins you had glimpsed earlier, you darted across the alley to quickly remove the lids from both, shifting the filthy contents from one into the other to make space for your deposit. Returning to his lifeless form, you assessed his bulk before struggling to strip him of his large, navy wool coat before dragging him down the alley and hoisting him into his final resting place. The wound in your triceps screamed in agonized protest with every breath until you had resecured the lid, the scene unremarkable enough in the long shadows of evening.

Shrugging into the bulky coat to conceal the damage to your blouse and retrieving your luggage, discarded moments before the altercation began, you forced yourself to exit the alley at a perfectly normal pace in the direction of Doctor Legot’s clinic, trusty bicycle abandoned for the sake of a speedy departure. Reaching the clinic well after closing, you slid around the back, setting down your suitcase to root around in the hedges for the upturned pot hiding the spare key known to only a select few. You took a moment to compose yourself, taking a deep breath and brusquely wiping at the tears of discomfort that had been stubbornly welling in your eyes the entire journey.

The lock turned soundlessly under your practiced hand, the door swinging inward to an unexpected shaft of light spilling from the patient washroom. Peering around the doorjamb, your eyes widened to see Curt standing at the small sink in the powder room, stripped down to his undershirt, carefully dragging a safety razor across one lathered cheek. Exhaustion and injury got the better of you, making you sway unsteadily, forcing you to catch yourself on the frame of the door, immediately attracting his attention.

“Marie?” He turned to look at you, well-defined muscles of his arms flexing with his movements, shaving cream adorably still adorning a great deal of his face.

Hastily lurching forward into the clinic, you quickly closed and latched the door behind you, depositing your luggage and shoulder bag before shrugging out of the claustrophobic overcoat.

“Jesus Christ, look at you!” His outburst, followed by the sound of his razor hitting the porcelain bowl of the sink, made you drop your gaze to your clothes, only to be greeted by the sight of your late opponent’s blood drenching the fabric.

“Oh, do not fret about me…” You had hoped to put on a display of bravado, but your voice was aggravatingly thin, “…the other fellow is much worse off.”

His startlingly warm palms cupping your elbows made your head jerk back up, meeting his furrowed brow, eyes darkened with concern. “That isn’t very comforting, gorgeous.” He muttered and began tugging you towards Doctor Legot’s office where a crack of light shone from beneath the door. “Doc?” He barked out before open the door without any further preamble.

Only a small noise of protest sounded before the doctor was shooting to his feet, quickly ushering you to take his recently vacated chair, rapidly looking you over before his eyes settled on your arm.

“I’m not going to ask how such misfortune befell you, Marie. I am a wiser man than that. But what, specifically, happened to your arm?” He murmured in Dutch as he retrieved a set of suture scissors to begin cutting away the sleeve of your ruined shirt.

“I backed into the shorn off end of a bolt with rather a bit of force.” You sighed wearily, glancing at Curt who remained in the room, eyeing the pair of you intensely from where he leaned against a filing cabinet. “Why is your guest upstairs?”

Your sentence ended in a hiss as you inhaled sharply through your teeth at the feeling of the doctor’s fingers prodding at the wound on the back of your upper arm.

“He cut himself shaving by candlelight one too many times. Once the cast came off, we made an agreement he could come upstairs between closing and dinner to wash up. You’ve had your tetanus vaccine?”

As Legot began to aggressively paint your wound with disinfectant, you pressed your lips together tightly against any further mortifying outbursts, and thus only managed a nod in confirmation.

“Good.” The room fell silent as he applied a square of gauze to your wound, securing it in place by wrapping your arm in a bandage, tying it off.

Your eyes drifted back to Curt who had not seemed to move an inch, not even changed position, the shaving cream on his face drying out, growing crusty against his skin. His silence was perhaps the most unnerving thing you had encountered this evening, his voice seeming to have filled every waking encounter you’d had with him thus far.

“It’s a lot of blood…” He muttered, eyes rising from your clothes, marred by scarlet quickly turning a mottled brown as the blood dried and aged.

“Mostly someone else’s.” You reminded him gently, earning a non-plussed grunt in reply.

A heavy sigh fell from the Doctor Legot’s lips, making you look up at him slowly. “Marie there has been…an increase in the Gestapo around town. A contact of mine was even questioned about a woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to you. And now that you seem to have had a run in, I’m…concerned.”

Despite similar thoughts ricocheting about your brain the entire flight back to his clinic, the breath you drew in felt like it contained thousands of tiny shards of glass which imbedded themselves deep inside your breast as you heard it from an external source. Rationally, to have survived so many months in your occupation was a feat worth celebrating.

An SOE agent typically had a life expectancy of six months, and yet to watch your ability to remain in Belgium, to remain useful to your fellow Belgians, crumble before you was incredibly painful. You allowed your exhale to accumulate in your cheeks before releasing it all at once through pursed lips with a nod, the feeling of having failed your people, your family, once again a yawning pit deep in your gut.

“It is time for me to move on.” You conceded flatly.

“If you are headed in a certain direction, might you be able to take a certain guest with you?” He asked with a nod in the American’s direction.“Couriers are still stretched thin.”

Your eyes widened slowly as it dawned on you that it was well over two months since Curt had become a guest in his cellar and should be well on his way to Spain by now. “He is well enough to travel then? Have they made him papers yet?” Your rapid-fire questions were greeted by frantic blinking from the doctor before he nodded quickly in the affirmative to both.

Turning back to Curt you tilted your head, reinvigorated by the chance to be useful one last time as you tried to remove yourself from occupied Europe, saving another’s life infinitely more important than simply trying to preserve your own. “Tell me, Curt, are you ready to head back to England?”

The apprehension that had drawn his features tight melted away, yielding to a bright smile, his eyes fairly sparkling with anticipation at the promise of beginning his escape at last. “You have no idea.”

You could do nothing to stop the uplift at the corner of your mouth in response, nodding slightly. “I’m going to change out of these clothes and then we’ll get ready to leave in the morning.”

Straightening from his lean against the cabinet, he moved to the door. “I’ll just go grab…” His voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hall before returning with your suitcase, setting it on the floor with a nod before departing once more, not loitering long enough to accept your gratitude.

Legot produced an old flour sack for you to deposit any clothes beyond saving, to be burned upstairs in his fireplace, before leaving you alone in his office. Feeling the chill of autumn in your damp clothes, you quickly stripped, using a towel to wipe any bloody remnants from your skin with water from the sink in the corner of the room, before changing into fresh clothing. Your mind was already occupied with plotting your route – to Antwerp, fetching supplies from the small flat you kept as a base of operations there, and then boarding a train to the border before crossing on foot then onto another train at Lille to Toulouse before meeting up with the Ponzán group to be guided across the Pyrenees. But this time, you would be one of the party making the crossing in neutral Spain.

Bringing your damp towel to try and blot any blood from the pilfered overcoat, hoping to save it for Curt’s benefit during the mountain crossing to come, you turned off the office lights and headed toward the storeroom, grabbing the garment from the floor on the way. Dropping it through the open trapdoor followed by the wet towel, you smiled to Curt as he appeared below, passing him your suitcase with your good arm before beginning your own descent down the ladder. Pushed well beyond all possible limits, your battered and bandaged arm gave out at your demand to bear your body weight, a yelp escaping as your right hand lost its grip on the ladder as a result.

Strong hands quickly landed on your hips, steadying and supporting you.

“Easy, gorgeous, good as you got the guy, he still hurt you.” Curt muttered behind you, the fresh scent of soap and aftershave radiating from his warm skin as he helped you down the last few rungs.

“Th, thank you, Curt.” You stammered, hugging your throbbing limb close as your feet settled onto the cellar floor, watching him easily climb up the ladder to swing the heavy trapdoor shut almost silently even from inside. “You’ve come a long way in the past few weeks…”

He smirked a little, carrying your luggage over to set on the foot of your bed for you. “Been doing a lot of shadow boxing down here.”

“Boxing!” You breathed in surprise, gathering the abandoned coat from the crumpled heap it left on the floor, trying not to notice the way his muscles moved as he pulled on a thick knit sweater in the cool damp of your hiding space. “If I had known, I would have gotten comics related to your interest…”

“I enjoyed the ones you brought, even read the book too. My teachers would be proud.”

A small laugh escaped you as you settled onto the edge of the bed, inspecting the coat for bloodstains and methodically beginning to blot them out. His own laughed intertwined with yours all too melodically, making you swallow tightly.

“That coat is awful big for you, gorgeous.” He teased, watching you from where he stood at the end of your bed.

“It’s not for me, Curt, it’s for you – you’re going to need it where we’re headed. Just need to get all the blood out first.” You murmured, turning the right sleeve inside out knowing you had surely bled on it yourself.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You peered up at him a moment before shaking your head. “Other than England. That will suffice for now. I will share the goal with you day by day, but the less you know the safer you will be. Aside from a few key portions, the majority of the trip will be by train to start. Tomorrow, though, we shall have to try something new.” You trailed off into a mutter at the last, wrestling with the heavy fabric, shooting him a grateful look as he grabbed the hem of the coat to help you position it, allowing you to reach one of the last stains.

“What’s so special about tomorrow?” He prodded, clearly still listening even though your final statement had more been musing aloud than for his ears.

Pausing a moment you sighed before meeting his eyes. “I suppose you ought to know that I appear to be a known entity to the Gestapo, at the very least locally, and so we will take extra evasive manoeuvres when we leave town. I shall be disguised, we will leave just before dawn, and avoid public transportation. I have a few ideas for how we might reach where we are going first, do not worry.” You offered a reassuring smile, to which he returned a small nod. “Jan will have been by the take your photo and give you papers?”

“Oh, yeah, nice fella if a bit quiet. Gave me a couple sets of papers.” He stepped over to his cot to retrieve two well forged sets of identity papers, bringing them over for you to inspect.

Laying the now-cleaned coat to dry across your suitcase, you accepted them from him, looking them over before holding out those in your left hand. “These are your Belgian papers. I suggest you put these in your usual pocket – the one you will reach for first, so that you can produce them as naturally as possible. We will destroy them as soon as we have left Belgium.” You watched as he took them from you.

“Belgian papers, got it.” Curt made a tiny salute with the papers before grabbing a leather jacket from the back of a small chair that was a new addition to the cellar, sliding them into the inner left breast pocket.

“And these,” you held out those in your right hand, “are your French papers. You will want to keep these close, in a safe place on your person, but not somewhere you will mistakenly hand them over until they are needed.”

His eyebrow shot up playfully. “Hold up, Marie, I thought you just said you weren’t going to tell me where we’re going…”

“Did I?” You blinked innocently and his guffaw of amusement threatened to pull another unintentional smile from you.

Since when had your expressions become so very difficult to control?

“The most important thing for you to remember on our journey,” you soldiered on despite your inner struggle, “is not to speak. Your voice absolutely gives away the fact that you do not belong here. Many of the airmen whom we guide find the most success by feigning deafness. It explains both their inability to speak and the fact that they do not understand the language.”

 “You could just teach me French, or whatever you speak with Doc…”

“Flemish?” You found yourself fighting back laughter. “We do not have enough time for you to master either, Curt. We leave tomorrow. Now take your French papiers and get some sleep, we leave in a few hours.” You nodded firmly, but with a kind smile.

“You too, Marie, you need dinner or anything?”

Shaking your head softly, certain you could not bring yourself to eat even if you felt hungry, the pair of you settled in to sleep, the damp wool coat taking over the chair in the middle of the room to dry, looming in the flickering candlelight like some grim reminder of your actions. Huffing at your melodramatic thoughts, you pulled the blankets over your head and rolled over to get some rest.

As agreed upon, Legot woke the pair of you shortly after four with warm bread, apples, and granola. You could almost taste the ghost of butter, jam, sugar, and cream on your tongue – heavily rationed delights that had been hard to come by in England and all but non-existent here under Nazi rule. Downing your dry, brown breakfast, you opened your suitcase to retrieve a wig from its depths, gathering your hair and securing it beneath the false strands to disguise your apparently known appearance.

“I dunno Marie…” Curt’s musing were interrupted by an exaggerated yawn as he smoothed his hair with a pot of borrowed pomade. “Your natural hair looks so much prettier on you.”

Fighting the girlish urge to preen under his indirect compliment, you shook your head. “It’s a good thing I’m not trying to look pretty then, just different.”

“Well in that case you look nothing like your usual self.” He shrugged into his leather jacket before snagging the hard-won navy coat from the back of the chair and folded it in perhaps the most unmethodical way you had ever witnessed, but it still wound up flat and small enough to fit into his suitcase.

“Good.” You muttered and snapped the latches on your own luggage closed, heading over to the ladder to climb up.

“Wait, let me help you.” He hurried over, reaching out to grasp your waist. “You sure you can pull the cases up?”

Huffing a little, more in annoyance at being injured than his offers of help, you nodded firmly. “Absolutely.” Clenching your jaw, you forced your way up the ladder, stubbornly ignoring the ache in your still-healing arm, turning to reach out expectantly for the first piece of luggage once you were kneeling on the floor above.

A bemused expression greeted you before he easily hoisted the first, waiting until you had it tucked aside before sending the second up. Taking a moment to extinguish the candles still burning below, he then quickly ascended the ladder to join you, silently securing the trapdoor behind him.

“Right, this is it then.”

About to make your way down the hall to bid a final farewell to the doctor, you turned with a soft gasp to find him stand there with a small canvas bag of food.

“For your journey.” He held it out, nodding as Curt quickly stepped forward to sling it over his shoulder.

“Be safe, Doctor Legot, thank you for all your assistance.”

“The very same to you, Marie. Best of luck on your travels.”

A small, sentimental smile poked through your serious expression before your eyes widened. “If you are in need of a bicycle, mine remains outside the pub across from the town square. Farewell.”

At serious risk of lingering too long, you turned then and headed out the backdoor, glancing over your shoulder in the faint light of early morning to ensure Curt was following you. You kept a quick pace, cutting and winding through town towards a familiar farmyard, dairy cows grazing the fields, lowing softly, as the farmer and his daughters loaded containers of milk into the back of a worn truck. The sun had escaped the confines of the horizon by now, flooding the landscape with the golden light of an autumn sunrise as you cast another glance of confirmation over your shoulder, nearly tripping over your own feet at the unjustly stunning quality of Curt’s eyes in daylight.

“Whoa, easy.” He hurried a few steps forward to steady you by the elbow, catching the attention of Tillens who quickly sent his children back into the house.

“Hush.” You whispered firmly before waving to the farmer, who squinted at you a moment before relaxing as you greeted him warmly in Dutch.

“That you, Marie? You’ve done something new with your hair, didn’t even recognize you for a moment…”

“The point, I am afraid. Are you by any chance headed to Antwerp today?” You asked hopefully, stomach falling as he shook his head.

“Could take you to Brussels, but Antwerp is tomorrow.”

Brussels was the one place you avoided, far too many familiar faces and even more Nazis along with their collaborating government.

“How much could I offer to convince you to take us to Antwerp today?”

Tillens’ brown eyes studied your disguise before looking over at your companion. “It’s only one hour out of my way, Marie, for you there is no charge. Hop in the back and I’ll pack the rest of these around you.”

Your eyes widened before you quickly gestured Curt forward, digging into the bag on his shoulder and pulling out the loaf of the bread you found there. “Then please accept this, for your family.”

“Marie…” Tillens protested but you pushed it forward insistently and he accepted it with a grateful nod. “Thank you, every bit helps.”

“Thank you, for it truly does.” Grasping Curt’s elbow, you pointed into the back of the truck, watching him step up and weave his way towards the back.

Setting your suitcase on the tailgate, you reached for the handhold with your left arm, gasping as Curt’s hands were suddenly around your waist to hoist you in amongst the containers of milk.

“Gorgeous but stubborn.” He muttered under his breath, grabbing your suitcase and leading you over to a gap he had found just large enough for the pair of you to settle on the floor.

Pulling your shoulder bag against your body, you tucked your skirt beneath yourself as you sat down beside him, nodding to Tillens as he peered in at the pair of you before sealing you in with the last of his cargo.

“It’s about a two-hour drive, feel free to sleep.” You whispered, the back of the truck going dark as Tillens secured the doors shut, the motor growling to life shortly thereafter.

“So he speaks Flemish too?” Curt asked curiously as the vehicle jolted into motion and you nodded softly.

“It’s Dutch, really, with some regional differences. In the bigger cities you’ll find more of a mix of Flemish and French.”

“And you speak it all.” Curt smirked and you nodded, hugging your knees to your chest as the cargo rattled around you. “Really somethin’…” He muttered, leaning back to close his eyes and try to get some rest as you had suggested.

The drive smoothed out as the truck navigated onto the main road, and you felt yourself relax a little after the first hour of distance was put between you and Beverst. You were by no means out of danger – the Gestapo was an insidious organization, their network a far-reaching and interconnected tangle. The fact that at least one agent had come looking for you specifically meant that, if the entirety did not know of you yet, they soon would. You had to run all the way to be truly safe.

Of their own volition, your eyes drifted towards Curt’s sleeping form, his handsome face grown slack and soft in sleep, the youth of him both striking and painful. What would his life look like if Hitler had been able to keep his hands to himself…or better yet had never even come to power? What would your life look like? Certainly neither of you would be in the back of a dairy truck sneaking your way to Antwerp.

A roughened patch of road jostled his body, threatening to wake him and you quickly wrenched your eyes away, studying the handwritten labels from Tillens’ farm. Thankfully Curt remained asleep for the rest of the drive, the truck pulling to a stop amidst the hum of the city, and you gently prodded him awake with a shake to the shoulder.

“We’re here.” You whispered before pressing a finger to your lips and he nodded drowsily before straightening.

Light flooded into the back of the truck, the pair of you blinking owlishly as Tillens shifted the cargo to make a path of exit into a familiar alley. Climbing out carefully, you turned to unload the suitcases as Curt passed each, nodding sharply to the farmer before you and the airman assembled yourselves, and strolled casually out into the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

The interference and unpredictability of humans had you on edge, not appreciating the way Curt always seemed to be not where you expected him to be with every glance over your shoulder. After the fourth time you looked for him a little too long, your heart in your throat, you stepped around a rather annoying blonde making eyes at him, and seized his free hand with yours. To keep better track of him, of course. The fact that your throat tightened slightly as his blunt fingers wrapped around your hand in return, requiring a forceful swallow to clear it, was utterly irrelevant.

Turning the corner, you looked both ways before tugging on his hand, guiding him across the street to the unassuming building of flats from which you were intending to collect your warmer clothes and some other supplies. The sight of the rather nice car out front was the first sign that something was off. The next was the sound of your neighbour, an ancient, haggard woman named Josephine De Smet, speaking loudly in the stairwell, her creaking voice cascading down the tiled stairs to the lobby, halting your feet immediately.

Clearly distracted, Curt’s body collided with your back, forcing you to brace against the wall lest you topple over.

“Geez, why’d you sto–” His less-than-hushed whisper was cut off by your palm, forcefully freed from his grasp, slapping over his mouth as you quickly pushed him back into the corner of the lobby under the stairs, casting a sharp look at him before craning your ear back upwards.

Holding your breath, you listened intently, trying to hear the rest of the conversation. To confirm if the alarm bells ringing in your head were warranted.

“Just what has that hussy gotten herself mixed up in then, sir?” The old crone rasped in French, not her usual choice of language, and you pressed your lips into a line thin.

“I cannot say, madam, other than she is a monster and you’d best be wary.” The deep male voice, a German accent poisoning his pronunciation, made you inhale sharply through your nose.

Hand dropping from where it pressed against Curt’s remarkably plush and soft lips to grasp the lapel of his jacket, you pulled hard, yanking him out of the building and back onto the street. They were a lot closer on your trail than you had realized. Pulse rabbiting at your throat, you held your suitcase out to Curt in a silent request, grateful when he took it without question, following you as you took off down the sidewalk at a brisk clip.

Darting around the next corner, you led him on a chaotic, unpredictable, and hopefully untraceable path to a tramway stop several blocks away as you dug through your shoulder bag for the coins to make fare for both of you. Once that was secured, you traded his fare for your suitcase, tucking your own coins into the pocket of your light jacket, trying to suppress your grimace at the loss of your winter clothes in that now unvisitable flat. The feeling of Curt’s sturdy hand slipping into yours, enveloping your skin in warmth and his strong grip, halted you for half a step before releasing some of the tension in your lungs.

Propelling forward across the street, the pair of you jumped onto the tram just as it was about to pull away, shuffling into the heart of the crowded carriage to purchase your tickets and keep your faces away from the windows. It was not an overly warm ride to Antwerpen-Centraal station, but you could certainly feel sweat prickling in your armpits and rolling down your back between your shoulder blades. Tugging on Curt’s sleeve, you disembarked one stop short with him and ducked into an alley to yank the wig free, hanging your head upside down to shake out your hair before repining it. It surely looked sad, but given that identity papers were required to board a train, you needed to resemble your photo and thus the wig was shoved into a nearby trash bin.

“We will be asked for papers, there will be a lot of soldiers, try to remain relaxed and do as I do.” You whispered to Curt, and he nodded, patting the left breast of his pocket with an easy smile, though you watched his adam’s apple bob sharply as he swallowed. “We will be buying tickets and travelling to the border where will stop for the night, alright?”

“Lead on, gorgeous.” He nodded and turned to following you toward the grand, stone-clad station built at the turn of the century.

The presence of Nazi soldiers was pronounced, their bright red swatiskas flashing about the otherwise pleasant square like blemishes on a beautiful face. Keeping your expression perfectly neutral yet pleasant, confident yet not cocky, you took a moment to exhale slowly as you made it past the first hurdle into the building before heading to the ticket counter, requesting two tickets to Kortrijk. It was nothing short of a miracle that you managed a polite nod rather than kissing the ticket seller full on the mouth when he informed you the train would be leaving in twenty minutes. Pulling the bills from your bag, you accepted the tickets in return before leading Curt to track three.

Rolling your shoulders in and down your back, you confidently offered your identity papers to the Nazi soldier standing at the carriage door, immensely pleased when Curt did the same without prompting.

“Where are you two headed?” The soldier asked in clipped, stilted French, his piercing blue eyes wholly unsettling as they flicked between you and Curt before coming back to you.

“Kortrijk, sir.” You answered simply.

If he wanted to know more, he would need to ask more. You certainly had a lie prepared should he require one. He made a noise of displeasure, looking over your shoulder, implying the accumulation of other passengers.

“Off you go.” He grunted, returning both sets of papers to you and you nodded rapidly, climbing aboard quickly, even as your arm shook under the strain of hauling your body up the steps.

Shuffling down the hallway of the carriage, you at last came to an empty compartment, stepping inside and setting your luggage on the bench. As soon as Curt stepped in behind you, you slid the door shut behind him, knowing it was rude with a full train but not wanting anyone else to join you. As you turned back, he was already hoisting your suitcase up onto the luggage rack, making you smile fondly.

“Merci.” You murmured, hoping he would understand your meaning.

Judging by his responding smile, it seemed he certainly did. Despite your longing to collapse onto the bench seat, you sat with decorum, trying not to stare at your watch and count down the minutes. As the last whistle blew and the cars at last shunted into motion, you finally relaxed back into the cushion behind you.

“Is it always like that?” Curt whispered and you shot him a rueful look before shaking your head.

“I am deeply sorry, that…that is solely a complication of traveling with me right now.” You murmured in response, digging out his ticket and papers, returning them to him. “The conductor will arrive closer to our destination to check your ticket, then we show the papers again in the station after we detrain.”

You watched as he carefully took the items and tucked them back into his inner pocket.

“No apologies, gorgeous. We’re both not wanted here, so it’s a good thing we’re leaving.” He nodded and you looked out the window when rain pelted the glass as the train left the shelter of the station, biting the inside of your cheek savagely to keep your emotions in check. “Why don’t we have some lunch?”

He started to root around in the bag from Legot and you forced a smile, sharing the few apples and the small wedge of cheese, akin to a rare jewel, that the man had gifted the two of you with. After a minor squabble over who ought to be resting, Curt finally gave up and obstinately remained awake as you insisted that you must, staring out the window as the fields of Flanders rolled by. The train made numerous stops until the conductor arrived to check your tickets, signalling you were about to arrive in Kortrijk, the final stop.

Courtesy of your preparation, the process went remarkably smooth, and the pair of you stepped off the train once Curt had retrieved the suitcases from overhead. Another successful check of your papers and you were melting into the population freshly departing from their workday and making their way home. Within thirty minutes, you had arrived at an unassuming home on the southern edge of town, knocking the door in the prescribed way.

A young woman with a toddler perched on her hip opened the door, eyeing each of you cautiously.

“May I help you?” She asked in Dutch.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. We were wondering if you might be interested in some new cosmetics?” You smiled broadly, delivering the passphrase.

A flash of recognition crossed her delicate features, her plump cheeks flushing in excitement as she briefly went rigid before she reined in her emotions. “Why don’t you come in and show me what you have for sale…” She stepped back, holding the door open wider for you and Curt to step inside.

Once the door was secured behind you, she led you through her small but tidy home up the narrow stairs to a small half door before opening it slowly.

“Here you are, dinner will take some time.”

“Whatever you can spare is truly appreciated, thank you.” You thanked her softly, sliding your suitcase into the attic before crouching down to crawl in after it.

The space was smaller than Legot’s cellar but larger than the back of Tillens’ dairy truck, enough room for each of you to lay flat, high up in the very peak of the small house. It was not a safe house you would have employed for a larger group. For the first time, you were grateful it was nearly November and not the heat of summer.

“Ouch!” Curt hissed as he cracked his head on a low beam, and you frowned, shifting up onto your knees to make sure he was alright. “Yeah, yeah, m’fine Marie, just an idiot.” He gave you a lopsided grin and you shook your head.

“Sorry it’s not the Ritz, but it’s not a cellar either?” You tilted your head hopefully.

“Never stayed at the Ritz, you?” He asked, settling onto the centuries-old wooden planks beside you.

“Hmmm.” You hummed noncommittally. “She says she’ll have something for us to eat in a bit, we will rest and then start out walking after midnight.”

“Walk…?” He prompted, eyebrow raised.

“It is not easy to cross the border, we cannot simply take the train into France, so we must walk. It is best to do so at night, and even better to do so rested. I promise we can linger a little longer at our next place, but we must get out of Belgium.” Despite your efforts to quash it, a slight tremor remained in your voice and Curt shot you a look of sympathy and utterly threatened your ability to maintain your composure. “So sleep.” You tacked on firmly and pulled off your jacket, folding it up to make a pillow before laying on your side with your back to him.

There was a decidedly awkward silence as he remained seated, looming above you, before laying down with a heavy exhale, clearly frustrated with you. Well that made two of you.

Dinner arrived two hours later with a soft knock, driving home the fact that you had not slept, but the warm vegetable hash was so very welcome and filling, giving you hope that you might be able to actually fall asleep for the last few hours of your stay here. As you lay back down onto your make-shift pillow, Curt’s breaths almost immediately evened out into the heavy sighs of sleep, making your lips twitch in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. Yet as you closed your eyes, all that echoed through your mind was the voice of your father ‘mon petit monstre’ and the Gestapo agent from the stairwell of your flat building ‘elle est un monstre.’

Petit monstre

Un monstre

Monstre

Monstre

Grief clawed at your throat, making you sit up sharply as you gasped for air, eyes brimming with tears as the realization that you would never again hear that nickname in your father’s voice – that it would now only come to you by way of anger and insult – sank like a stone in the pit of your stomach. Sniffling petulantly as your nose began to run, you jumped at the feeling of Curt’s hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong…” He whispered groggily, shifting closer.

Shaking your head quickly, you roughly wiped the tears from your eyes trying to hide the evidence, huffing as the action only caused fresh ones to spill onto your cheeks.

“Don’t tell me then, just c’mere.” He replied and gathered you into his arms, cradling you close against his chest.

Every muscle in your body went rigid at first, your rational, well-trained self knowing this was utterly inappropriate. And yet…

And yet, he was so warm, so kind, and he was holding you so tightly that maybe you could fall apart just a little without crumbling entirely. Surrendering to the fact that no arms had attempted to hold and comfort you in years, you yielded to his embrace, becoming pliant as you loosened the clenched-fist-grip on your grief just a little, allowing tears to slide freely down your cheeks in the darkness of that attic as his palm soothed up and down your spine.

“Shhh, I’m right here, you’re not alone…”

How very much you wanted to believe him.

-------------------------

Read Part Three

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

[naffeclipse]

Monster boyfriends... Monster boyfriends... Monster boyfriends....

I don't know whether you're comfortable with answering this question, and it's okay if you're not! But I sometimes wonder how the boys would cope after getting into a fight, argument or disagreement with MC. Mmm, angst.

Mmm, delicious angst. *chef's kiss*

Hawthorn has to take off afterward just to cool down. He catches a strong wind and sails for half the night over the thick woods of his home. In his mind, he's unraveling and weaving through the anguish of raising his voice and MC doing the same. It shouldn't have come to that. He should have handled it better, and now he fears the damage done. Does MC want him around anymore? Is it over? He wanted to apologize. He wanted to hold MC in his arms, but he was boiling and couldn't think past the argument—now he's frozen cold. He should have stayed. He shouldn't have said that. He wonders what the morning will bring. Can he return to MC, repentant, or will MC turn him away? He didn't mean for this to happen, but bad things don't care much for his input.

Grease is furious. He doesn't let MC walk away until a door is slapped in his face and MC screams at him to leave, and then he's talking off. He's tearing through the shadowy alleyways and destroying whatever he can get his hands on, clawing up cars, breaking glass windows, and shattering anything he can throw on the ground. Someone has to pay. It's someone's fault. It's not his and it's not MC's, but it's someone's. He has to put the blame somewhere other than a problem in a relationship—something he can't force or handle with his claws until it becomes shreds. He wants to see MC so badly but it makes him feral once more as he crushes dirt in his hands. The thought of returning to MC's house makes him physically ill, so once he's out of fuel, he stands there, broken pieces littered around him, staring down at what he might have done wrong.

Calmo is the type to sit and stew. He replays the fight over and over in his mind, noting logical inconsistencies MC made and relistening to the moments when his voicebox let out audio that was not true—so why did he say it? He is a machine. He is perfect. He cannot make mistakes and let problems grow into issues. But there's no self-diagnostics for relationships and he can't go out of the house to follow MC. MC stormed away. MC left. Good riddance. He doesn't mean that. He furls and unfurls his digits and tries to find the solution. An apology. A sincere expression of regret and an acknowledgment of wrongdoing. That's what a World Wide Web search provides as an answer, but Calmo does not feel like apologizing yet. His wires are still red-hot and his core whirls like a jet engine. This is a problem. How does he fix it?

[slutshamethesquirrels]

Behind The Cover - Prologue

pairing: vampire!geto x reader

tw/cw: borderline dead dove (dead dove lite™) , gore, violence, animal abuse (there is a spider that gets stomped), mentions of SA, mentions of abuse in nearly all forms, more to be added, maybe, we'll see, im so serious about the gore, please PLEASE there is gore in here

this is a chaptered fic. i will be scheduling uploads for tumblr, but ofc, the whole thing can be found on ao3 in the meantime.

also, patience with me as i figure out this tumblr thing k thnx

Staring at himself in the mirror, Suguru wondered if the vampirism is really what classified him as a monster. After all, on the outside he didn't seem to be all that different from the rest. Just a man with a muscular build, a head full of long inky hair, and a brain full of bloodlust and carnage. No different from any other predator that walked the earth, just a little more powerful.

He knew this truth from the many jobs he’d taken over the years. It was Satoru’s idea, initially. Sometime back before people had little fear of the supernatural, when stakes and silver bullets and holy water was plentiful, when they were young and optimistic, before the big box office turned their kind into sparkly horny teenager fodder.

“If we have to kill to survive, and they hate us for killing their loved ones, why not offer the service as a favor? Hell, I bet they’d even pay us-!”

Suguru hadn't loved the idea in the beginning. Humans were as petulant and greedy as any monster he’d ever stumbled across. They placed orders for money, for lust, for revenge, for power, for fun. At one point, somewhere around the great depression, he'd felt like he’d gone mad. He considered obliterating every human in his path, if only briefly. But slowly, the wheels had begun to turn. As word spread amongst the elite, the pair had found themselves with satisfied appetites, and more money than they’d ever had. It was around this time that he approached Satoru with a proposition, or rather, an ultimatum. Something had to change, or he was leaving the operation.

”I cannot kill another innocent man, woman, or child. We achieved our goals, and now we have to find a way to stop it from harming others. Or at the very least, I do-”

And so it was.

At first, the pushback from the customer was severe, but by then what could really be done? Who were these petulant aristocrats to run to and tattle? Who among us would call the cops and rat out your hired hit men? Would you explain that they were vampires when you did so? It would only end with a well fare check on your own behalf, they'd think you were deranged. And you probably would be to pull a move so stupid.

Suguru sticks his toothbrush in his mouth and scrubs vigorously as he flips through his workload for the evening. A middle aged male who had been charged with 12 counts of domestic violence and given a more than generous plea, a thirty eight year old serial rapist (also male), a woman in her senior years who tormented her animals. Each file had evidence. Screenshots. Court records. Little footnotes that told if additional photo, audio, or video proof was stored on Satoru’s hard drive. They also contained frequent points of interest and personal information, such as addresses, dates of birth, bars and restaurants frequented by his targets. The last page of each file would hold pictures from multiple angles, and typed text of any distinguishing features. If he was lucky, a scrap of fabric or lock of hair would be taped on that page, giving him a scent to work off of.

He spit, rinsed, tossed his toothbrush back in the holder and gave himself one final look over. Jesus, he needed this. He was paler than usual, his cheeks slightly sunken in and purple bags under his eyes. His pupils had dilated to take up nearly all of the purple of his iris, which he had theorized in the past was the body's natural way of making them blend in better with their prey. Everyone in the house would get that blown out effect if they’d gone too long without eating.

He tucked the files away in his jacket and flipped the lights off, more than ready to get his night started early. Hunger was different these days. There were no starved pains in his abdomen, no weakness or sweating, but rather a feeling in his throat like he’d been swallowing gravel, and a full body need for blood. Every muscle in him felt like it was winded up far past its limits, ready to snap and jump at the first prey that stumbled across his path.

He doesn't stop to check in on Megumi or Yuugi as his heavy boots clunk against the interior balcony, assuming them to be asleep at this early hour anyway. The sun had just barely set. Typically, he liked to wait until a later hour to start, but if he didn't get some food in him soon, he was sure he’d be picking rats out of dumpsters and swallowing them whole on the way there, and he felt more sympathy for the rodents than what was on his menu tonight.

Typically, he’d rise and do a preliminary scope of the house, cleaning anything that needed it and making sure the place looked presentable, which Satoru always gave him hell for. They didn't have visitors, so why did it matter? That was another place where he differed from his longtime friend and comrade. Suguru desperately gripped to the shreds of normalcy and humanity he had left in him, but for Satoru, he liked to let his impulses take over.

Tonight though, he doesn't even glance from the balcony down into the windowless living room, much less head down the stairs to fluff pillows. He continues straight until he reaches the end, pushing up against the faux wall and swinging it open before stepping through. On the other side is a bookshelf, tall and heavy, that aligned neatly with others in a row just like it when the door was closed again.

Ah, the bookstore. It was creative, unique, a sanctuary for readers and intellectuals, not a cover up for a crew of vampires who couldn't have windows on their home and needed a way to avoid the fire inspection part of buying a residential property at all. It had been named ”The Bookstore” by none other than Satoru Gojo himself (a brilliant mind ahead of his time), and even had a listing on google! Not to add, three total reviews, all from normal humans who’d waltzed in for some non-murderous reason. Though it’s hard to comprehend why. On the inside, it was quaint and cozy, sure, but on the outside it seemed abandoned. Blackout curtains adorned every inch of the windows and the only indication it existed from the street was a wooden plaque on the door that quietly whispered the name to the public. Geraldine Scott had left five stars with no elaboration, Kimberly Ichajo had left three stars (again, with no reason for the deduction), and Micheal Town had left a scathing one star review about the snarky albino man working the register who’d poked fun at him for being bald when he'd asked for a discount. Satoru had promptly printed that last one out and framed it for the mantle above the fireplace. He said it was proof that there was good in him for letting “Shiny Mike” walk out with his bald head still attached.

Satoru, expectedly, was not at the register when Suguru breezed by it on his way out of the front door, though he was absolutely supposed to be. Suguru understood that it was unlikely that anyone would show up without prior announcement, but he was still slightly irritated by Satoru’s lack of regard for responsibility anyway. They had a front to hold up. Once he got some meat down, he’d be sure to send a passive aggressive text to the group chat.

It doesn't take long to find his first hit, seeing as house arrest typically kept people confined within a hundred feet of a particular address.

He arrived at a run-down trailer at around 8:30 pm, not bothering with the formality of knocking, instead opting to reach out and twist the doorknob until it snapped in half from the force. In one quick motion he’d used his fingers to remove the deadbolt from the gaping hole and pull the door open calmly. At this point, he could've already been onto the next. He could've used vampiric speed and strength to bust down the door, sink his teeth into the motherfucker’s neck and tear it off before he even knew what was happening.

But no. This was the part of Suguru Getou that made him a monster, species be damned. He liked the fear in their eyes as they realized their fate was at an end, relished in taking power away from weaklings who thought they were above the rest of society, loved the theatrics. He didn't just want them to die, he didn't just want to re-fuel- no. He wanted justice.

He smiles, sickeningly sweet as he calmly enters the sad excuse for a home with his hands tucked in his pockets to find his victim holding a hand gun. He's disgusting. Balding, shaking, sweating, blending right in with the scenery of a dusty blue well worn couch and a floor littered with cigarette butts and beer bottles. The whole place smells like piss.

“Ezra! So sorry to startle you, friend.” Suguru cocks his head to the side, not yet stepping further in from his spot in front of the door.

“Who the fuck are you? How do you know my name?!”

Suguru feigns a sullen pout as he takes a step forward, and then two more “Now, now, Ezra. That's no way to treat a guest-!”

“I'll fucking shoot I swear to god!” The balding man raises his gun in front of him with both hands to steady his aim, and Suguru continues his steady approach until the gun is flush with the fabric of his t-shirt, aimed right at the middle of his chest. This close, he has to look down a bit to meet the mans gaze.

“Was this the gun you used?” He purred, pulling his hand from his pocket and stroking the metal. The smaller man lets a flurry of emotions cast over his face in record timing; shock, confusion, fear, so much fucking delicious fear -

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice is still raised, and Suguru is getting sick of hearing it.

“When you threatened to kill your girlfriend of ten years. Or when you pistol whipped her in the back of the head. Or when you aimed it at yourself and threatened to take your own life if she ever left, or-”

A pop, loud enough to alert the neighbors, rings throughout the home, and Suguru’s more pissed at the noise than he is the gaping, bloodless, finger sized hole in his chest.

“I was fucking speaking.” he spits through gritted teeth, both unphased and unamused as he grips the barrel and the hammer and crushes it into his palm, rendering it useless. The smaller man's breathing escalates as he tries to wrap his mind around what's happening, and Suguru pulls the twisted metal away from him calmly.

“Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted-” he uses both hands to twist the gun apart, tearing it as easily as paper into two jagged pieces as he speaks “-I think it's only fair for you to feel what it's like to be on the business end of such a threat, no ?”.

At this the man attempts to take a step back and pathetically topples back into the couch, scrambling backwards as far as possible as he tried to bargain with death itself:

“Look man, I don't know what you want, but you can take my car, my wallet, I got a couple eight balls in my bedroom-”

Suguru laughs as he brings one boot up to pin his prey down to the couch, digging his heel into the hard plate of his clavicle until he hears a crack. He screams and writhes, and Suguru throws down the duller of the two pieces of scrap metal in his hands to bring a flat palm over his loud ass mouth, stifling the noise.

“I'll tell you what I want, Ezra. I want to know what her face looked like when you were putting her through hell. Tell me, was it like this? ” Getou jabs the remaining piece of metal into the tender flesh of his victim’s thigh, his eyes lighting up as that first spurt of fresh blood floods his senses. Its almost enough to cover up the smell of piss and cigarette smoke. Almost.

The felon thrashes and screeches below him, jerking rapidly as tears pour down his face.

“Oh come on, I bet it was more like-” he twists and jerks the metal upward towards the mans hip and back through the skin, inhaling deeply as blood flies and chucks of flesh spatter “that! Right? Am I right?”

The man below him has transitioned from high pitched wails to deep throaty howls. He’s bawling. He pisses himself as Suguru brings the blood soaked makeshift weapon to his own mouth, sucking of a stray piece of flesh and moaning in delight as it slides down his throat.

Oh yeah, this was gonna be a good night.

Next