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olderthannetfic · 3 years

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Ah, I do see your points, anon. I'm not going to post all your asks publicly because if you really feel that unsafe, it's probably best not to have a bigass chunk of your text for people to analyze and try to guess your identity from. I think one of the best points you made is about how close to home it hits when the non-fave is not only your fave but is similar to you in some way like demographic. You're not wrong for having those emotions. I do wonder if they make it hard to see how some other people feel similarly embattled on other axes.

TBH, I think one of the big problems here is that the large aggregate patterns you're talking about are racist, but most individual fics and fans are not really the problem. It's hard to know how to talk about this or who to tell to "fix" it when we're looking at free, hobbyist art.

A lot of people's tastes are certainly formed by shitty society, but once they're formed, they don't change fast if at all. Asking someone to rewrite their libido is a big ask, yet tumblr does it all the time as though it's as simple as snapping your fingers.

This leaves me with the sense that a lot of tumblr is... like... the political lesbians of porn fic or something: desire is not real, only choosing based on logic and politics. Or maybe people are so asexual that they just don't understand the lizard brain's "YES!" at some porn things and complete indifference to others?

I don't think it's great if great swaths of people feel like bottom!Nicky is super hot and top!Nicky fundamentally isn't, but I also don't think they can necessarily just turn it off like flipping a switch.

(If someone reading this doesn't like their current tastes and wants to attempt to alter them, I do think it's possible. What you should do is line up a large slate of media that prominently features characters of the ethnicity or whatever that you don't find hot/interesting. These should be leads whose emotional development drives the plot and is supposed to be central to the audience's enjoyment of the media. Watch/read/etc. this media all the time. All. The. Time. Try out many pieces because you won't like every character or every show, and we're looking for genuine enjoyment, not the fandom equivalent of a pity fuck. Spend enough time on this, and your unconscious sense of who's hot and interesting will eventually shift somewhat. This is a project you should expect to take a few years.)

But I digress.

The one tweet thing is a very toxic pattern. If TOG fandom is doing that, guys, please try to be more conscious of holding the actors of color to a higher standard (or the women or whomever). I know this often comes from a place of paying more attention to our own and wanting to set a good standard, but the effect is that minorities can't fuck up ever while white dudes get infinite passes.

Okay, on to the fic thing... Gotta say, my instant reaction to that description is "Ooh!"--as it would be for the same scenario with the characters reversed. (Ships who start out trying to kill each other are my favorite! x1000 if they're resurrecting style immortals and they literally do.) I can see how it would feel like slamming into a brick wall if you aren't kinky in just the right way and you didn't know it was coming though.

Part of why I react so strongly to a lot of discourse that runs along these lines is that I am a naturally extremely kinky person. It's not so much about what I do (which as a deeply lazy person in a long distance relationship is essentially nothing), but it's absolutely how I'm wired.

And I can tell you that my quotidian experience in fandom is sharing something I don't even realize is a big deal only to have someone I like, respect, and trust react in horror and tell me that it's triggering and awful and should not be allowed in fandom spaces because it makes "people" unsafe. It's such an instant, kneejerk reaction they don't even realize I was sharing it because it spoke to the very core of me. Lesson learned, friend. Lesson learned.

That sounds a bit off topic, I know, but bear with me: The point of that anecdote is that it's pretty common for me to get people trying to raise my awareness of things I have already thought deeply about while denying my essential humanity and not even realizing. As a kinky person who likes to make my fave the top (and generally a conflicted sadist), this constant request to explain and justify is exhausting.

I doubt most of the top!Joe fans have this precise problem simply because people who make their fave the top are much less common in fandom than people who make their fave the bottom, but I see a similar pattern with fans who are just fundamentally wired for rape fantasies (one of the most common fantasies that exists) vs. fans who just don't get rape fantasies at all. Or substitute your BDSM/kinky/messed up fantasy trope of choice. Covertly radical feminist attitudes towards kink and power are on the rise in fandom, and as a naturally kinky person, boy do I notice it!

I know that it feels like crucial activism to share these insights about why the ratio of top!Joe is hurtful, and the pain you feel is real. But it's also the case that it's a big ask to want people to listen. (Not me. Obviously, I routinely choose to engage with discourse. I mean overall.) The reason for that is that you're only seeing a fraction of what they do or who they are, and you don't know how many previous people they've listened to how many previous times. It's a very different situation from someone whose job is making some major TV series or movie or something. That person does, in my opinion, owe you some amount of listening.

Now, I'm not saying no top Joe fan was ever a jerk. I'll bet they were. There's a tendency to be rude and to publicly air your schadenfreude when you feel like everyone has been yelling at you. What I am saying is that a lot of the problem here boils down to conflicting needs, and that means there isn't a good solution. It's a situation where people are genuinely hurt, but I don't necessarily agree that other people have harmed them.

I like that you did an actual count of the explicit fics, btw. It's good to look at the real numbers. I see too little of that in these situations. My off the cuff reaction is that 2/3 to 1/3 is not a bad ratio at all compared to many fandoms, but yeah, it definitely shows a strong trend, and that can be painful. (I have a fandom where I think there's maybe like 1 bottom so-and-so fic in the entire zine era fandom. One. It's pretty extreme.)

I guess my thinking here overall is: What is the practical solution? What are we hoping to gain? What is reasonable to ask of people?

And it can't be "Well, if they would just listen..." That's just a sneaky way of saying "If you haven't done it my way, it's because you haven't listened to me yet."

So the question I would ask of people is this:

What does a non-racist fic where Joe tops look like?

What does a non-racist sex pollen, dubcon, or even noncon fic where Joe tops look like?

And if you say the latter is impossible... well... sadists exist everywhere in the world. So do doms. So do people who prefer to top in a purely physical sense. People with rape fantasies where they're the rapist exist (people who are not actually rapists, I mean). None of this is restricted to any one group. We can't categorically say fic like that about Joe is coming from a place of racism without denying the fundamental humanity of kinky MENA people who'd want to make Joe like themselves or like their ideal partner. (Yes, I agree this won't be the majority of fic writers writing top!Joe, but this is a place to start for figuring out what the better version would look like.)

IDK, maybe you're that kinkster yourself, but your asks gave me the vibe that you don't really get the drive towards those darker kinds of fics and what might be motivating it besides stereotypes and shittiness.

If we can answer these kinds of questions, we can better critique the way people write what they write without telling them all of their taste is bad and they should just stop writing. Even if we think the latter is true, it isn't going to get us anywhere. Figuring out how to make Joe more multidimensional in the fic they already want to write or finding very specific wording that should be avoided might actually work.

Beyond that, the actions I think are productive would be running prompt fests, exchanges, or other events for bottom!Joe or for top!Joe where he's the main character and the fics are required to be from his POV. Themed collections and recs lists are great. (I've seen a bit of this going around in TOG fandom in the past, and that's an excellent approach! Keep it up!) Positive actions tend to work better here. Make more of what you want. Promote what you want to see.

I don't mean this in some fluffy magical thinking way: you aren't going to change that ratio radically just by the power of positivity. But I've seen this kind of thing play out in many, many fandoms, and going after the people who write what you don't like, even in a well-intentioned effort to educate and even in a polite, kind way doesn't do much. A few people feel guilty. A few feel defensive. A lot ignore you. The overall fic doesn't change. It's not a good use of your limited time and energy.

I'm off to look up that fic to see what I think of it in practice, but I'm going to post this before tumblr manages to eat it.

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bellamyblakru · 3 years

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y’know, ever since the bellarke fiasco, i began to think about shows with the trope “the head and the heart,” with clarke and bellamy as the paragon (especially because they switch a lot with who is the head/heart). (so, im doing a rewatch of the vampire diaries (because im a sucker for it and its been my comfort show since i was like 15), and i had the thought that elena has always, and will always be, my favorite character because she is the heart of the show essentially (imo ofc). she is basically compassion personified.)

AND THIS GOT ME THINKING ABOUT MERLIN (as everything leads back to merlin). with this trope in mind, you have arthur and merlin, as arthur with his head and merlin leading with his heart. it can’t be a coincidence that my favorite characters usually are the heart of the show?? now. you can argue that it’s the other way around, and, well, i wouldn’t totally disagree; however, at the end of the day, merlin chose his heart over head, big time, so that’s my official stance. i’ve talked about how merlin chose arthur over destiny before (how destiny’s fuck you was going through with merlin’s immortal life as his curse for picking the mortal over their cause), but there are so many instances where merlin shows he is the heart.

arthur is brilliant. i mean, he has big himbo energy half the time, but, come on, this man was bred to rule. he is strategic, logical, and intelligent. he is a fair and just king because he is capable of thinking like a great monarch—aka the head.

merlin is more complicated. everyone is well aware he is my favorite character (i dont keep that a secret LOL), which is why i always tend to write in his pov more. when he first gets to camelot, this kid is pure heart. pure in the sense of innocence, excitement, and the anticipation of adventure. of course, as the seasons progress, you watch our hero fall deeper and deeper into the hellhole of destiny, and choices, and love, and loyalty. and it fucks with him, makes him tougher, makes him realize that the only godforsaken thing he gives a fucking shit about is keeping arthur and his kingdom alive. no more fairytale thoughts of magic being freed, no more fantasies of merlin ever showing his family who he really is, no more ideas of getting recognition for what he has done. honestly, he probably would rather not take recognition because of his view of himself and his failures—each step he took was ultimately the wrong one as it all lead to arthur’s demise. there are two examples i can think of rn: when he let the large lizard live and when he told arthur there is no place for magic in camelot. with the first, that act alone was one born of mercy, compassion, and empathy. he understands that the deaths the dragon caused was a combination of his fault and the dragons and uthers. he understands that uther is to blame for the lizard’s pain and anger. he fucking understands being the last and only one of your kind—of being alone in a world that despises every breath you had taken since the minute you were born. merlin is smart, but i imagine when some people watched him tell arthur that magic cannot come back, they were like,,, what the fuck merlin?? but when i watched it originally, and still now, i focused on colin’s eyes. he was about to burst into fucking tears. imagine picking arthur’s life instead of something you’ve longed for since you could remember. arthur’s life meant more to him than freedom, than his own life, than anything destiny had shoved down his fucking throat for YEARS. you can literally watch merlin’s heart break and snap into a thousand different pieces and slapped back together with double sided tape when arthur actually agrees. with either choice, merlin was going to lose something. one, his arthur. two, his essence. (and bam, he lost both at the end anyways so it didnt fucking matter 🥰).

so, yeah. merlin is the heart and arthur is the head. thank you if u got this far. im exhausted yeet

#ashley rambles #rambling hard tonight yall #i was about to sleep but i needed to flush this out first #long post #god ill reread this tomorrow and delete probably lmfaooo #merthur #merlin #bbc merlin #bbcm #merlin meta #actually nah its just my stupid thoughts #arthur pendragon #this probably makes no sense #lo siento #sorry bye now good night

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jango-fettish · 4 years

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3 - A Salacious B. Crumb vs Boba Fett Story

Summary: Salacious B. Crumb is an enigma. Boba Fett is seemingly unkillable god. So what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

Warnings: Canonical Violence, Character Death, OCC Salacious

Word Count: 2744

A/N: yeah the title is another britney spears song, deal with it. this has not been edited or read over after it was written so enjoy my mistakes (i meant typos and what nots, i know this entire thing could be considered a mistake). i gave up towards the end but whatever

Tagging my mutuals who tolerate my bullshit: @a-dorin @simping-for-fives @nelba @chadillacboseman @porgnugget @cptnbvcks @blxwjobsforclones @clonewarslover55 @djxrxn @escapedthesarlacc

Gif is not mine. i got it from here.

Tatooine was a barren wasteland, with only two outcomes for those unfortunate enough to land on the sandy dunes: a slow death or a quick death. No one ever got to choose which one would happen to them, it just happened. You could be a young child, just walking around the corner and getting caught in an unsuspected dust storm, sand filling every crevice and making home in your lungs. Or you could live for years, your skin and soul withering away under the twin suns, the heat baking you slowly from the inside out until you breathe your final breath.

Or, for some reason, you could actually get lucky and survive something that should have been your end. In an instant you turn into a god amongst mortals, someone who could say that Tatooine tried her best to end you, but you were just better. That is until the ever-changing dunes decided that today would be the day and become your grave. It was a rare occurrence, even more rare to happen to multiple people in the same day, in the same place. But luck and whatever greater being they believed in was on their side. And they lived.

Salacious B. Crumb, for all intents and purposes, should have died the moment he became the jester of Jabba the Hutt. The little Kowakian monkey-lizard wasn’t built for the festering, dry heat of Tatooine. What a change from the tropical climate and landscapes of his mother planet. Nonetheless, he adapted and survived. Though there were a few times that he was almost crushed by the weight of his master, or swallowed by the great slug beast for not doing his job. The little shit was tough, tough enough to be able to stare bounty hunters, such as Boba Fett, down and laugh in his face without worry of consequences.

But Boba Fett was the type to not forgive or forget transgressions, even the same ones. The noxious laugh of Jabba’s most loyal pet seemed to bother everyone besides the Hutt. Each time he arrived back in the dais to get a new job, Boba planned out exactly how he would kill the little creature, each growing more and more violent in nature. In the end, he had three perfectly planned out executions for the little creature. He wouldn’t be able to live out his sick fantasies, at least not when the Kowakian was wrapped snugly in Jabba’s tail, stealing the small morsels of food that broke off of Jabba’s meal.

Even as he fell into the great stomach of the Sarlacc, Boba could hear the high laugh of Salacious B. Crumb mocking him. It was cut short when there was a great explosion and, while it wasn’t one of the three ways Boba would have killed him, he was glad that at least it was done. But, their destinies were intertwined that day. Both were supposed to die in the swirling sands of the Dune Sea. But the Sea had other plans for them.

Boba Fett sat atop the throne once owned by his employer. How the fates had changed in favor of the Mandalorian, once swallowed the decaying in the bubbling stomach of the Sarlacc, now seated in a position of power no man would dream of having.

But Boba Fett was no ordinary man.

***********

As he stared at the bodies flooding the chamber, celebrating the ending of Bib Fortuna’s rule over the once powerful Hutt Empire, Boba felt at ease for the first time in his life. He had his father’s armor back, he completed a quest and earned himself a new powerful ally. However, even with all that, Boba could feel the bubbling of uncertainty in his gut.

Under the safety of his visor, Boba’s dark eyes watched Fennec Shand, his faithful partner, flirt with a purple skinned Twi’lek woman. Once unsure of trusting an assassin with a reputation such as Fennec’s, who at a moment's notice could easily blind side him and take everything he worked so hard for, Boba was sure he could trust her. He had saved her life after all. No, she wouldn’t be the one to betray him.

He didn’t have to worry about any supporters of Bib Fortuna. The pale Twi’lek had made many enemies within the five years he was in power, growing greedy and selfish. It helped that Boba’s reputation in the galaxy was well known and feared. He was a god, been to hell and back. Who would dare try to challenge him?

“F-F-Fett,” a high gravely voice whispered from behind him. It was like a breeze, barely there, but he could hear it.

Boba sat straighter in the throne and tried to drown out the sounds of laughing and merriment that echoed throughout the room. The helmet could only filter out so much. He wasn’t the same bounty hunter he used to be before the pit. Though he was only in the belly for two days, the Sarlacc did more damage to him than he would like to admit. His leg, which he surprisingly was able to save, burned and ached every step he took. The heavy beskar armor just added to the additional stress. He was in constant pain, unable to fully find a sedative or pill that would dull the pins and needles he felt in his knees. His ever increasing age only added to it. But gods didn’t feel pain, so Boba didn’t either.

“Fett,” the voice called again from his left. Boba whipped his head to the side, looking in the direct the whisper came. It was coming from deep in the many caves of the palace. The voice probably travelled not that far though to get to him. He seemed to be the only one that could hear it. Part of him wondered if he was imagining things, if the voice was just a hallucination. Maybe it was a new symptom of the pit.

Great.

Boba slowly stood up, his knees cracking each inch he rose.

“Leaving the party so soon, Fett?” Fennec Shand asked from the edge of the dias, getting his attention briefly, before he looked back in the direction of the whisper. She held a bottle of bright blue spotchka, her drink of choice. “What’s the rush?”

“Want to check something out,” he muttered.

“Ah, going after the ghost?”

“Ghost?” The vocoder crackled his voice.

“Some of the boys were telling me that they heard laughing in one of the storage rooms. Couldn’t find anything or anyone down there though.”

“Laughing? What kind of laughing?” Boba asked, looking back to Fennec.

She shrugged, “Beats me. Said it was annoying enough to make them not want to go back in there.”

Boba’s hand twitched slightly. An annoying laugh. He knew quite a few people who he could easily categorize their laugh as annoying, but none of them from this part of the galaxy. Except one. But he was dead...but then again, so was Boba.

“Crumb,” Boba growled, grabbing his blaster.

“Crumb?” Fennec asked to deaf ears as Boba made his way to the hallway entrance.

The winding halls that led deep into the ground were dimly lit as he made his way deeper into the cave system of the Palace. The walls were glistening, the moisture collecting into little pellets the deeper Boba ventured into the ground. Where had Fennec said the laugh was coming from? One of the storage rooms?

As if on cue, a guttural laugh resonated in the hall. The sound hit Boba right in the gut, sending goosebumps up his arms. It wasn’t fear, but irritation that coursed through his body. Boba ground his teeth together, stomping down to the one storage room he knew would hold the little monster. For years Boba watched the little shit pick at the food that was given to him or that he stole, going straight for the dried, cured meats. His beak would tear at the muscles, ripping them into shreds before consuming the food with a hearty laugh.

Boba stood in the doorway of the storage room where the keepers of the Palace kept the dried meats. Different cuts and creatures hung from the ceiling on large hooks, perfectly still. The room had no light, other than the faint glow that flowed through the doorway. Boba’s body shielded most of the light, his shadow disappearing within the room where the light touched.

“Where are you, you little shit?” Boba growled. He took one step forward, shifting his visor into night vision.

“ooooAHAHHAHAHAHA,” the voice cackled loudly.

Boba couldn’t see anything, other than hanging meat, as he stepped through the room. His blaster was drawn at the ready, finger secure on the trigger. For years he dreamed a day like this would come. No longer was Jabba around to protect the Kowakian.

“Come on now, little monkey, how did you survive?” Boba asked, pushing a piece of Bantha thigh out of his way.

“F-Fett!” the voice called before chuckling darkly. The sound was unsettling. Boba hadn’t known the creature to speak actual words. Was it even possible? The deeper Boba stepped into the meat cellar, the greater his uneasiness grew.

“Did Fortuna let you sneak your way back in here? If it were me, I’d have put you on the pit roast the moment you showed your fucking face.”

Silence: something Boba did not like.

“Show yourself!” he called out.

A chain to his left shook and he heard a scream. He turned, but a second too late and Salacious B. Crumb landed on the Mandalorian’s shoulder, his sharp beak trying to find a soft spot to sink into. The Kowakian’s claws dragged themselves across Boba’s helmet. Salacious was laughing the entire time, the haunting noise drowning out Boba’s curses. Boba gripped the scruff on Salicious’s neck, ripping him off and threw him back into the shadows. Truthfully, Boba knew that he should have strangled the little guy there, but the nauseating laughs irritated him to no end. Boba just needed him away.

Salacious clung to one of the hanging meats, his claws ripping into the tendons. He glared down at Boba, who had fully regained himself after the quick attack. How Salacious wished nothing more than to strike again, but he knew better. He had to bide his time. Boba Fett was good, better than most if not all bounty hunters. The Mandalorian looked up at Salacious, and tilted his head to the side.

“You always were an ugly little shit,” Boba said.

It was true, time had not been kind to Salacious. The fires from the explosion took most of his fur, save a few patches on his back. His once oil rich skin was rough and dry, as were his claws and beak. The iron rich meals he received from living in the meat cellar had provided Salacious with enough sustenance to gain weight. He was heftier, larger than Boba remembered. But it was the frenzied look in Salacious’s beady yellow eyes that struck the Mandalorian.

“Fett!” Salacious cried out, his high voice rattling through the tense air. “Feeds on Fett Crumb will! Gain his power Crumb shall! AHAHAHAHAHHA.”

Being alone in a dark room had made the Kowakian delirious and wild.

“Just as Crumb did with the others!” Salacious howled again.

“Others?” Boba asked. But a quick glance to the side answered his question. In the farthest corner that the light could touch were stacks of bones and mangled bodies of decaying Gamorreans. Boba himself had ousted most of them, not wanting to rely on the pig creatures.

“You’ve made quite a mess, haven’t you, little monkey?” Boba said, raising his blaster once more.

“Fett thinks he funny. Funnier than Crumb? Never!” Salacious growled, and jumped to another piece of meat. The chains rattled and moaned under the new strain.

“You’ve gotten fat,” Boba said.

Salacious grin was sinister and showed what rotting teeth he had left, “Fortuna got fat! Why not Crumb?”

“I’ll give you that.” Boba watched as Salacious jumped to another, closer, piece of meat. “Watch it, little monkey.”

Salacious went quiet and still, his head lurching to the side. His tongue flicked out from his beak, coating the tip in spit. He began making incoherent noises, babbling to himself.

“How are we going to do this?” Boba asked, “Though, to be honest with you, little monkey, I’ve already made up my mind.”

“Crumb told Fett already!” Salacious cried out, “Crumb will eats Fett!”

“Not a great plan.” Boba took a step forward causing Salacious to hiss. “I’ve dreamed of this moment for a long time.”

Salacious’s body curled back, his eyes flickering to the piece of meat hanging to the left of Boba and Boba himself. After a few seconds, his angered look rested on Boba. He had made his decision. He lunged forward, claws ready to attach themselves into whatever piece of Boba they could. Salacious was fast, but a blaster was faster.

And with Boba Fett at the end of the blaster, you are sure to lose.

Salacious howled in pain, falling just before Boba’s boots with a dull thud. Smoke rose from his chest from where the blaster shot landed. He coughed out pathetically, blood spattering onto Boba’s boots, before stilling. Boba counted to three silently and then slowly began to bend down. His knees creaked and groaned with the chains.

Before he was in a full squat, Salacious’s eyes opened wide and he swatted out at Boba. His claws connect with the beskar of Boba’s chest armor, scratching away the forest green paint in four jagged lines.

“Fuck,” Boba shouted, jumping back.

“F..F...Fett,” Salacious said weakly, coughing once again. His chest moved erratically before completely stilling. His glossy eyes dulled over and his tongue hung limply out the side of his mouth.

This time, Boba waited longer than three seconds, and this time, he didn’t bend down to check to see if Salacious was really dead. Boba nudged the limp body with the toe of his boot, making a satisfied noise when the body simply rolled to the other side, blood seeping out from underneath.

By the time Boba emerged from the depths of the winding cavens, the crowd he had left doubled in size. He found Fennec easily in the mass of bodies, lounging in a large chair with a jug of spotchka, and not only the purple Twi’lek seated on her lap, but a human woman seated next to her, drinking in every word Fennec had to say. Boba approached his partner, the crowd dispersing from his path. One of the perks of being king, though it wasn’t really an issue for him before either.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. How was your little adventure?” Fennec asked.

“Need you to do something for me,” Boba said, ignoring her question. He was in no mood for games; he just wanted to fuck off from the world and sleep.

Fennec smiled charmingly at the human woman, “Hold on a moment sweetheart.”

“I need you to get some men to go to the meat cellar and clean it up,” Boba began, “Tell them to get rid of everything.”

“We just got a fresh shipment the other day, why do we-”

“It’s spoiled,” Boba interjected. Fennec stared at him, leaning back in the chair. She knew well enough that it wasn’t spoiled; she had been there when the shipment came in and checked it herself. Everything was fresh and top of the line.

“That’s new.” Fennec said, pointing her jug of spotchka to the four lines on his armor. “What happened there?”

“Fucking monkey,” Boba grumbled. Fennec was about to question what he meant, but Boba held a hand up, silencing any words from her. “Just...just have them clean the damn meat cellar.”

Fennec nodded, taking a sip of the blue liquid. “Did you find that ghost?”

Boba laughed darkly, “Oh I found him alright. Fucking took care of it too.” Boba grabbed the jug of spotchka from Fennec, “I’m going to my chambers, I don’t want to be bothered.”

“I was drinking that,” Fennec said.

But her words drifted into the noise of the crowd, becoming one with the cacophony of laughs and jests and music. But the one thing Boba did not hear was that high pitched Kowakian squeal that chased him down the Sarlacc’s mouth. And he was content with that.

#WHY DO I ACTUALLY FUCK WITH THIS?#i will not apologize for my genius #im the only author to every exist #writing #salacious b crumb #boba fett #star wars #the mandalorian #star wars fanfic

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slasherholic · 4 years

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chapter synopsis: Michael kills again. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, he seems to be saving the best for last.

chapter warnings: graphic depictions of violence and death, Michael being a mean bastard

Chapter One

Chapter Two

End of the Line | Michael Myers x Reader | Chapter Three

Sometime before Wendy’s hysterical wailing stopped and after the stench of bile dissolved into the background, Travis cut Ashley’s body down.

You shouldn’t touch her, Diane had warned him, but Travis insisted on it. He said he didn’t want to look at her eyes anymore.

You hug your knees against your chest and stare over at where Ashley lies face-down in a heap on the floor, a streak of blood mapping out the path where Travis dragged her by the armpits out of the dark red puddle, depositing her on dryer land, and you cannot say you blame him, not at all.

Ashley’s lids are not shut all the way. One of her eyes still peeks out from underneath long eyelashes, glazed-over and sightless, looking at nothing.

I’m sorry, you feel obliged to tell her out of courtesy; but you aren’t entirely sure what you are apologizing for, and the apology feels empty anyhow. Maybe Michael's heartlessness is contagious.

Or maybe it is because every fiber of your lizard-brain is screaming in hopeful unison, better her than me. Better her than me. Better her than me.

The group sits now in a tight huddle on the floor at one corner of the dusty court. Travis holds Diane in his arms and stares blankly at the nearest basketball hoop. Diane clutches big handfuls of Travis’ shirt in both her slender hands and can’t seem to peel her eyes off of Ashley. Wendy, no longer sobbing, is the only one not sitting—instead she mills around aimlessly in front of the bleachers, pacing back and forth, following alongside the white out-of-bounds line. Sometimes, briefly, you turn and watch her pace.

Then you look away again and return to vigilantly scanning the unlit corners where the flashlights do not reach. You scan for movement; for an out-of-place shadow; for a shape creeping steadily closer.

Michael hasn’t left the room—not after what he did with Ashley’s body.

Like a hunter mounting a prize buck, he has taken meticulous care to display his kill. He knew that you would find it. He meant for you to find it. Now, you’ve given him the pleasure of observing your individual break-downs.

Of listening to Wendy sob and blubber, of seeing Travis clutch at his long hair and swear and punch the bleachers until his knuckles bloodied, of seeing you keel over and wretch on the ground. You are terrified. All of you. Michael knows this—he is lurking somewhere in those reaching shadows, unseen and unnoticed, drinking in that terror like a favored television channel.

You are entertainment.

To your left, Josh lifts his head out of his knees with a little sniffle, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He licks his chapped lips before speaking.

“Why’d he do that to her?” He asks in a whispery croak, talking to nobody.

You glance at him. Travis and Diane do too.

“Why’d he string her up like that? Why the fuck would he do that man?”

Because he’s playing, comes your internal response, as quickly as if you were reading from a script—because Michael’s actions are play. Because he’s trying to scare you shitless and it’s working. Because it’s fun and he’s getting off on it. Because he’s sick and twisted and evil and just not right; and so are you for needing him.

Diane shifts suddenly in Travis’ lap. She pulls away from his embrace and sits upright.

“It was a pattern in the Haddonfield murders.” She explains softly, absently tracing a pattern with her pointer finger in the dust on the floor.

“The bodies, see, they were all moved around from their places of death, and—and, um, displayed. It’s been happening all around the state, wherever there are mass killings. So that’s why people think Myers is behind all of them.”

She continues to trace her pattern and goes silent. The silence is contagious.

Near the bleachers, Wendy is still pacing. You doubt she even heard Diane’s statement. It’s probably for the best.

“Why don’t you siddown, Wend.” Travis suggests.

You watch Wendy walk over to the bleachers and sit. Then, as if the bench were crawling with ants, she shoots to her feet again—climbing up nine steps—plopping down onto the tenth. She stares at her knees and doesn’t move after that.

“Hey. You.”

You glance over your shoulder at Travis. His eyes are glassy and dull. He’s staring at you.

“So what’s your deal anyway, huh?” He questions, flatly. “Are you, like, some kinda adrenaline junkie? Exploring a place like this alone at night without a flashlight?”

His eyes glint with something bordering on suspicion.

“And you just… ran right into Myers?”

Josh and Diane turn their heads and look at you, too. You glance away from their eyes without meaning to and stare at your shoelaces. Shit; you’ll have to tread carefully here, very carefully; the truth will not keep you in these people’s good graces.

You breathe in deeply, slowly, before speaking.

“Believe me, it wasn’t by choice.” You begin, bundling your arms around your knees, tugging at your shoelace. “It happened so fast—I got home from the store, I got out of my car, I walked up my driveway. The next thing I know, I’m being grabbed and locked in the trunk.”

You shut your mouth quickly. It’s not a lie; it’s just not the whole truth.

There’s another moment of silence. You can’t look the others in the face. For a frightening moment, you can’t tell if they’ve bought it or not.

Then, Josh pipes in.

“How’d you get away from him?”

“I didn’t get away. He let me run. I think he wants a chase, before he…”

Your voice trails off. You glance up from the floor and make eye contact with Josh. His gloomy look tells you that you don’t need to say anything more.

From the bleachers, Wendy murmurs something under her breath.

“We can’t hear you, Wend.” Travis says.

You watch Wendy lift her head from her knees, staring right at you. Her face is an unhealthy color and her cheeks are streaked with tears.

“I said, maybe he just wants her.” She repeats with a sniff. “Maybe if he gets her, he’ll fuck off and leave us alone.”

Your stare-off with her lasts for an uncomfortable time. Wendy sniffs when the snot runs too far down her nose. You pluck agitatedly at your shoelace.

She’s right, in a certain way, your inner-voice chimes in. Michael does want you.

But some bitter part of you wants to tell her, He wants you too. He wants you Wendy, and he is going to get you, and once he’s caught you you’re going to beg him and cry until the tears won’t come out anymore, and guess what Wendy? If you’re lucky he’ll kill you quick—and if you’re not, he’ll do it slowly. If you’re unlucky, Wendy, Michael will kill you over the course of many long months, and it will hurt far worse than that knife would have, because by then you won’t just fear him, Wendy, but you’ll love the sick evil bastard too, he’ll make sure of it—and when your time comes those tears won’t just be terror and fear, Wendy, they will also be the coldest, loneliest heartbreak.

You are so lost in your spiteful fantasy that it takes you a moment to realize the room has gone deathly quiet. As if Wendy’s suggestion is a cool and logical point and not-at-all the desperate petitioning of a girl terrified for her life. As if offering you up to Michael like a sacrificial lamb is a perfectly sane thing to do.

But no, it’s really happening—you can tell by just their stern and guilty faces that the people huddled around you are seriously considering it.

You speak up for yourself before they get to thinking too hard.

“Alright, maybe he does just want me” You tell Wendy. “But what if you’re wrong? What if I die, and he just keeps coming? Wanna know what happens then?”

Wendy sniffles. She makes a face like you’ve kicked her in the stomach. Her eyes scrunch up like she’s about to cry again. You don’t care.

“If I’m dead, and you’re wrong, then you’re gonna be next.”

Wendy makes a choked sound and now she’s crying again. She buries her head in her knees and her body heaves silently.

At your exchange, Diane shakes her head in frustration. She clambers out of Travis’ lap and rises to her feet like there’s a fire beneath her ass.

“Alright, come on, everyone up.”

An awkward moment passes where nobody moves. She snaps her fingers in a huffy way.

“Come on, I’m dead serious! We’re gonna tear out each other's throats if we stay here. We need a plan to get out.”

You gaze solemnly up at Diane, and some defeatist part of you says that it isn’t even worth trying. Michael will get what he wants. Michael always gets what he wants. It’s in his nature and he’s very good at it.

You clamber to your feet anyway, because Diane is right—wherever Michael is lurking in this vast, empty room, it is only a matter of time before he grows bored of watching.

And no matter how much your rational brain has accepted it, you do not want to die tonight.

One by one the others follow your lead, clambering languidly to their feet. Travis first, then Josh. Only Wendy doesn’t get up—from the bleachers, she murmurs that she can hear just fine from where she is.

You get to planning. It turns out that Travis is some kind of urban explorer, and he’s been to the school before. According to him the only exit (and entrance) that hasn’t been blocked off or boarded up over the years is the one they all came in through. The same exit that Michael drove you in through.

“That’s the way we gotta go.” Travis says to the huddle-up, like a football coach giving a pep-talk before the big game.

“We can get out of here—he’s just one guy right? I mean yeah, this is one sick motherfucker we’re dealing with, but he isn’t some boogeyman. Here, look.”

Travis bends, reaching for his hunting knife where it rests in his ankle holster, drawing it out, holding it in the air to enunciate his point.

“If he finds us, I’ll cut him. And then we just run and we don’t look back. Wend, come on. We can’t stay here.”

In your periphery you watch Wendy slowly untangle herself from her knees, rising off the step as though waking from an unsatisfying nap. She begins descending the steps.

Then she trips.

Her scream is jerked out of her as if yanked by a string. She topples in an instant, falling hard, the sharp clank of her head meeting the bleachers echoing in the vastness of the room.

Every head whips.

For a second it seems as though she’s only lost her balance. Then, every flashlight is trained on her like a spotlight. Your blood runs colder than ice water.

Beneath the bleachers looms a dark and imposing figure. The figure’s white face is ghastly in the harsh yellow beams.

Michael has been lurking beneath Wendy the entire time.

His dangerous hand penetrates the space in the steps, clamping like a vice around Wendy’s ankle, tugging with all his immense strength as Wendy screams and kicks at him, trying to pull her down through the gap. Wendy won’t fit.

She aims another frenzied kick at Michael’s hand. This time, the strong fingers are dislodged.

Wendy is on her feet again incredibly fast, pulling her leg out of the gap. She starts frantically down the bleachers, limping.

“Go!” Travis screams, at her, at everyone.

You go. It is a mad scramble for the far door. Travis half-carries Wendy, the two of them lagging behind.

You burst through the exit doors and Josh and Diane are in your wake. Behind you, Travis screams to hold it open, hold it open.

There is a single moment where you gaze back into the dark court and see The Shape approaching, cutting through the darkness like a ship gliding through water, utterly unstoppable.

Travis and Diane collapse through the doors. Immediately Diane swings them shut. She throws her body up against the wood.

“Hold them! Hold them!”

Everybody braces against the doors. The squeak of Michael’s bootsteps over the court booms thunderously, closer and closer, and then—

He kicks.

Your temple slams against the wood. The doors rattle horribly.

He kicks again. His force is explosive. Monstrous. Unbelievable. He does it again. And again. The onslaught does not stop or slow. Wendy screams. Josh is crying. Your combined weight won’t be enough—with every kick Michael is opening the door a few inches further.

Head whipping around, you scan the dark hallway frantically. When you see your saving grace you can hardly see it—the flashlights all hang in occupied hands—but squinting, you know that it is there and not some figment of your desperate imagination. Against the base of the opposite wall lies a thick slab of wood.

You scramble away from the door. Somewhere behind you Travis yells at you to “get your ass back here.” Plank in hand, you scramble back.

Michael kicks again. This time the doors open a little too wide, wide enough for his vicious hand to shoot through the gap. The hand closes around Josh’s hoodie and yanks him violently upward, sweeping him clean off his feet, into the air, effortless. Josh flails and screams.

Travis cries out and swipes at the hand with his knife.

The hand lets go, bloodied now, retreating through the gap again.

“Just a little longer!” You scream, and jam the plank through the handle bars. A tight fit.

Everybody scrambles away from the door. The thunderous kicking on the other side doesn’t slow—it picks up furiously, the doorframe trembling, the walls shuddering feverishly, and for a moment you are sure that Michael in his hideous strength is going to bring the very building down around you. You hold your breath.

But the plank holds dutifully. And the doors do not open another inch.

All at once, the kicking stops.

Everybody drinks in big gulps of air, and nobody moves for a while. Waiting for the dreadful moment when it all starts up again. Waiting for Michael to kick harder this time and deliver the final blow that will twist the doors clean off their hinges. Wendy makes little pained sounds from her heap against the wall. Josh whimpers and shakes like a leaf. Your hands are balled into white-knuckled fists.

...but the silence prevails. The kicking is over. Michael is gone.

Travis is the first to shake off the thick stupor.

“We have to move.” He says, gripping his knife. “He’s just coming around the back. We have to move.”

Wendy sobs in pain as Travis dips down and scoops her up beneath her armpit, dragging her hastily to her feet.

You run again—not alone this time, you think, but as a herd, a herd of terrified animals, barreling through the blackness as fast as Wendy’s injured ankle will allow.

Josh has a breakdown as you run.

“He was in there that whole time.” He keeps repeating, a skipping record-player. “That whole goddamned time, he was just watching us that whole goddamned time.”

“Stop it.” Travis pants between deep, gasping breaths. “Just stop it. I can’t take that anymore. He can’t catch up. We’re gonna be fine. As long as we just. Keep moving.”

All at once there is no more hallway. You’ve reached the end. You double over in a pant, planting your hands on your knees.

Travis was right—there is a door here. Diane shines her flashlight up at it, illuminating the glass pane, and through it you can see the hallway on the other side. Your eyes go wide in recognition.

There, beyond the door, down the hallway, you can see your car, and the pale moonlight filtering in. Your heart leaps into your throat. You can see the exit. Then, you look a little harder and your heart sinks again.

On the other side of the door a blockade of desks and chairs is piled high, a cruel barricade.

Travis shrugs Wendy onto her own two feet, who grimaces as her ankle grazes the floor. He lunges for the door handle, pulling back and forth savagely, as hard as he can.

There’s no give.

He pounds his flashlight hard against the glass in frustration.

“Fuck!” He shouts, his hot breath fogging over the glass. “Fuck! This wasn’t here last time! Fuck!”

“Are we stuck?” Wendy sobs.

“Most of the classrooms have two entrances, don’t they?” Diane asks. “There are open hallways on the other sides of all these rooms, right? Travis, isn’t that right? We can cross through one! They can’t all be blocked!”

Travis locks his hands together on top of his head, shaking it profusely.

“No, no. Most of the classrooms are locked up.”

“Wait.” Josh’s voice trembles, hoarse from crying. “Wait, I think I saw an open one.” He jerks his thumb into the blackness behind you.

“Back there.”

Josh is right; you saw it too. It was a blur, it happened so fast, but yes, you’re sure of it—one of the classrooms had been wide-open.

“You think?” Travis asks. “Or you know? Because “think” isn’t gonna cut it right now, man!”

“He’s right.” You interject. “I saw it too. It’s maybe three-hundred feet back.”

Travis looks from Josh to you. Then back at Josh.

“You guys are positive? Totally positive?”

Both of you nod.

“Okay. Okay, let’s move.”

Wendy, supporting herself against the wall, utters a thin little cry, as if the thought of that is too unbearable to even imagine.

“No! We can’t go back that way! He’s down that way!”

Travis ignores her as he scoops her up beneath her armpit again.

“Jesus Wendy, look around! We’re trapped if we stay here!”

Wendy blubbers in response, her face a red, snotty mess. But it is enough to get her moving.

Your dash back down the hallway is even madder. The flashlights swing about the hall, strobing in the dimness. Your lizard-brain screams obscenities at you as you run.

Predator this way, danger this way, wrong way, turn around, turn around!

You shove each and every one of them aside. Just run.

“There!” Diane yells, jamming a finger out in front of her. Twenty paces ahead, to the right of the corridor, sure enough, there it is.

One classroom door is wide open.

You reach it. Immediately you notice what you hadn’t in your dash up the corridor: the door isn’t just open, it’s ruined.

The shabby thing hangs uselessly on its hinges. The metal all around its frame is twisted and warped. A dreadful feeling settles like a suffocating blanket.

This isn’t right.

“Woah, careful.” Diane says, shining her flashlight into the room. Peering cautiously inside, you know in an instant that it’s some kind of science classroom. The black lab countertops are covered now in a thick blanket of dust. Chairs and upturned desks are strewn about the ground like warzone debris, their metal legs jutting out like bayonetts at every angle.

“Take it slow.”

Travis shuffles into the room first with Wendy attached at his hip, helping her step carefully around the minefield.

“Travis?” You ask after him in a breathy pant, still hovering at the edge of the room.

“What.” He says flatly, out of breath himself.

“All that shit blocking the door back there, none of that was here last time?”

“No, it wasn’t. Can we focus please?”

You ignore him, the gears in your head cranking.

“Okay, okay. So there’s only one hall that still leads to the exit? And it’s on the other side of this classroom?”

Travis has already crossed half the room. Josh and Diane follow close behind, trailing at his heels like ducklings.

“Yeah,” He calls back over his shoulder. “Look, I’ll tell you all you want about this place as soon as we’re ten goddamn miles away, now are you coming or not?”

No, this isn’t right. None of it is. The barricaded door is not right. The broken lock just isn’t right, dammit, it's too convenient. Too…

Oh. Oh. Ice water floods your gut.

It’s too deliberate.

The pieces fall into place.

This is Michael’s doing. All of it. He’s been to this building before. He’s been tampering with it.

This classroom is not a lucky break, not even close—it’s a choke-point. An ambush.

It’s a trap.

You open your mouth to scream. Travis and Wendy step through the doorway at the opposite side of the hall.

Out of the shadows, the black shape lunges.

You watch the ambush from the opposite side of the room, a useless, frozen statue.

Michael’s knife catches the beams of the flashlights and the gore there gleams. He swings it in a powerful arc through the air at Wendy. Denim rips harshly.

With a piercing scream Wendy falls forward into the hall. Travis sprawls backwards into the classroom, unbalanced himself, but springs up again like a cat, pulling his knife from his ankle-holster as he stands, lunging at Michael, swinging blindly.

Michael’s hand strikes faster than a cobra. He catches Travis by the wrist and shoves him with ghastly strength. Travis flies backwards, skidding on the floor, his head colliding with the nearest desk in a heavy thud.

Michael’s bloodied hand closes around the doorknob. He yanks down on it savagely. The knob strains for a moment—the metal around it whining and groaning—then snaps clean off. His red fingers grip the side of the door, and with a lunging step back into the hallway, he slams it shut behind him.

On the other side, Wendy screams hideously.

Travis is on his feet again now, scrabbling madly at the door, trying to pry his fingers between the metal frame to wedge it open. It won’t.

He pounds his fist hard on the glass and yells,

“Run Wendy! Just run!”

You watch through the glass as Wendy clambers painfully to her feet, limping away from Michael.

Michael, vanishing back into the blackness, takes the chase.

Travis begins a mad dash back out of the room. He leaps over table legs and pushes past you in a blitz, erupting into the hall.

“This way!” He screams behind him, already sprinting. “Come on!”

Josh and Diane lap at his heels. You follow orders as blindly as a soldier in a warzone.

Travis takes a sudden right, skidding around a corner. Then, windmilling his arms to stop his momentum, you see him screech to a halt. As you catch up, you can see why.

It’s an intersection.

“Which way?” Diane gasps, doubled-over in a pant.

Josh points his flashlight at the floor.

“Fuck. Oh fuck.”

You follow the light of his beam and see the blood, a shuddery trail of heavy droplets. Wendy’s.

Travis flicks his light down the corridor to your left. On the wall is a sign that reads “POOL” in big blue letters.

“Down here!”

Travis is off again, following alongside the bloody trail like a hound. Diane bounds after him.

Josh does not. He stands frozen in place, his chest heaving rapidly with lack of breath, gazing down the hall after the retreating figures. He glances at you. You make eye contact for a split-second.

Josh turns on his heel and starts sprinting away in the direction you just came. His footsteps get fainter. Then they are gone.

In an instant, you are alone again. All alone in the dark. Alone and rooted in place. Your feet won’t move.

Get out, says the lizard-brain. Get out now while he’s distracted, run back to your car, drive away into the night, keep driving for a long time, don’t ever look back, live in a new state, run away from him, survive, survive, survive.

A tightness blossoms in your throat. You feel about to cry again. You can’t leave; you couldn’t even if you wanted to. This place is a labyrinth in the dark and you do not have a flashlight. If you dash back into those barren halls, you will be blind again. Stumbling and helpless again. Easy prey.

Travis knows the building. Travis is your only chance at escape. Travis is your single hope of living to see the sun come up. The lizard-brain considers these possibilities, ignoring the defeatist chanting of your rational brain <no point all over Michael is going to kill you> turning them over and over, before demanding all at once that you un-stick your feet and dash after the lights bobbing down the hall.

Run, now. Before they fade into the black, gone. Run. Go.

You turn on your heel and run like hell.

For every ten limping strides she takes, Wendy’s next step is a stumble.

She sprawls on the floor and skins one knee bloody.

She gets up again, but oh God, her hip is on fire. Ahead of her is swallowing black nothingness and behind her is death. Every gulping wheezing breath sucks stale moldy air into her lungs but she’s too numbly frightened to care.

The pounding footsteps echo behind, and oh, please no, he’s still coming. Her body is strong and her legs are thick and powerful from a lifetime of athletics, but the pain, she can’t take it. The painful thudding in her ankle will not bear weight.

Why is he still walking? Why won’t he just catch up? She’s sure that he could if he wanted to.

Is this another game?

Now she sees a faint light up ahead, seeping through a door. She swerves left across the hall, falling as she leaves the support of the wall, crying sharply as she falls, picking herself up again in a flurry of arms and legs—she pushes through the doors.

Beyond them is a pool. A big bright moon dances on the surface of the stagnant black water. She looks up. There, she sees the stars. The building has a glass roof. She takes a gulp of air and gets a whiff of a dank, sour smell, so much worse than the hallway. Rancid.

Limping forward again, she moves quickly to the nearest door in the wall. Reaching the door, she yanks on the handle and steps through, and—

Oh, why her? What did she ever do to deserve this?

It’s not another room at all. It’s a stairwell.

Behind her, the doors clamor violently open. Her head whips around. At the sight of him, she is nearly frozen in place—that black looming silhouette, the hideous white face—this is a nightmare, Wendy thinks, it must be, because boogeymen aren’t real.

Doesn’t matter, the nightmare is getting closer. She shakes off her daze and begins to climb.

The stairs are steep and she winces hard at every slam of her foot down on the cement steps. Up one flight she goes, around the sharp bend, up another. Her busted ankle knocks against the cement which triggers an explosion of pain up her leg. Her hands are cold and clammy now, just as clammy as the railing. She is pulling herself more than climbing. Below her, she hears his boots on the steps, climbing after her.

She’s reached the top, and here is another door. She collapses through it.

She must have done something really terrible in a past life, she thinks, staring out at the space behind the door. She must have done something downright wicked to deserve this. God must be punishing her for it.

It’s just the stadium seating above the pool. Three meager rows of three bleachers and a rusty metal handrail. No other way down, except over the edge. She’s trapped herself.

Oh, but she has to keep moving. He’s coming up the last flight.

She huddles into the far corner and presses flat against the handrail. Leaning on the cold metal with her hip, it stings her bloodied skin like dry ice. She turns around, eyes rotating wildly, and watches the dark figure stepping out through the door.

Death stares her in the eyes, towering and faceless.

The Shape approaches.

Ten seconds behind Travis and Diane, you erupt into the pool building. Inside they stand fixed in their places, gawking up at some unseen thing.

Joining them, you see what they are gawking at. You gawk too.

Jutting out from the wall above the pool is a platform with rows of seats. Cowering at the far corner of that platform, gripping the railings, dread setting her face like a stiff, pale, gaping corpse, is Wendy.

Michael is closing in fast.

Travis and Diane scream at her to jump. Jump into the pool, they yell, in desperate chorus.

Wendy looks frantically over the railing—the drop must be thirty feet. But they are right; it is her only chance. Michael will be on top of her in seconds.

You watch in cold horror as Wendy scrambles desperately up the side of the railing, rising to a stand on the top bar, preparing to jump—

—she slips. Her foot slips on her own blood. The railing is covered in it.

Her hands fly open and snap shut again, grabbing at the air, scrabbling for purchase at nothing. Diane utters a sharp scream of surprise.

Wendy plummets like a stone; straight down to the cement.

The crack is sickening. You see a piece of bone erupt through her shin. Your jaw is slack and your eyes are round. Her wails are agony. She writhes on the cement and you can’t look away. You wait for Travis to go to her, to do something.

He doesn’t. He’s white as a sheet.

From the stadium above, Michael peers over the railing at Wendy. He watches her for a moment as if inhaling her fear. Devouring it. Then he turns, disappearing back down the stairwell.

He reappears at the bottom of the steps to stalk slowly toward Wendy.

Wendy sobs and screams as he approaches; she tries to crawl away from him, still trying to reach the pool. You can almost hear her fingernails scraping over the cement, the meaty squishing of her ruined leg dragging awkwardly, uselessly behind her.

You are about to see it, you realize all at once—you are about to witness with your own two eyes just what kind of monster Michael is.

Michael reaches Wendy and his shadow consumes her. Stooping down, he seizes Wendy by her hair and sweeps her with ghastly ease to her knees.

The world around you has melded into a dizzy haze and you feel like you are underwater. You can see—but not hear—that Wendy’s mouth is moving, begging and screaming. There is a grotesque moment where Michael lets her scream, and you think that the world has stopped turning and frozen on its axis. It is just Michael and Wendy, now; just the monster you despise and fear <and love and need>;

and the girl he is about to slaughter.

The world starts turning again as Michael plunges the knife through Wendy’s throat.

The steel erupts out her skin on the other side along with a geyser of blood. Wendy gurgles and bubbles, coughing, but not really, it can’t even be called that anymore; it is a wet meaty wheeze, a deathrattle.

The light is gone from her eyes as she falls limp.

Michael pushes the back of her head hard. He shoves her carelessly forward. She slides easily off his knife, collapsing. The red spreads quickly out around her on the cement.

Michael studies his kill. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, inhumanly steadily. Fresh glistening red drips off the tips of his fingers as easily as water.

Suddenly, he turns. His white visage peers across the room. Your heart pumps away in your throat at a hideous speed.

Michael is looking at you. Not at Travis. Not at Diane. You.

The mask is hideously penetrating, devouring. You watch him back and your mind is silent. Your body is paralyzed. You wait for something within you to change—perhaps for the hole in your chest, the hole that needs Michael, to knit suddenly shut. You wait, and drink in the evil staring back at you, the dark shape that looks human, but on some level is not.

There is no change.

With a broken, savage scream, Travis shatters the silence.

Michael’s head turns. When his eyes are gone from you, you start to breathe again. He seems to study Travis intently, observing the outburst as if transfixed, fascinated.

Almost contemplatively, Michael looks back down at Wendy’s body on the floor.

Then, lifting his boot, he wedges it beneath her side.

You look on in stunned silence as Michael kicks Wendy’s lifeless body over. Rolling her closer to the pool.

It is obvious to you what he is doing, bitterly obvious. You’ve been on the receiving end of that behavior more times than you can count. It is sport, yes; play, yes; but it is not just play. What Michael is doing is far, far more heartless, far more deliberately, calculatedly cruel—

—this is taunting.

This is rubbing salt in an open wound. This is pettiness for pettiness’ sake. Michael is taunting Travis like a schoolyard bully.

And Travis takes the bait hook, line and sinker.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HER! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH HER!”

Deaf to his screams—or more likely saturating himself with them—Michael does it again. He shoves his boot beneath Wendy’s back this time, disgustingly gentle, as if she were a glass figurine, and flips her on her stomach. He flips her again, onto her back. Again, onto her stomach.

He rolls her to the lip of the pool, and Travis only rages harder.

Wendy’s body teeters on the cement ledge. Her arm flops limply down, wrist dangling in the murky water. Michael, planting his boot down on her side, lifts his head again. The awful white mask peers across the way at Travis—screaming, raging Travis—who shreds his voice raw with every spitty syllable.

With a final, lazy flick of his boot, Michael sends Wendy spilling over into the filthy water.

The body lands with a plop and a splash. It bobs for a moment, sinking then, slipping beneath the grime, gone, except for the ripples spreading out, disturbing the stagnant surface.

In Michael’s hideous stare, you can feel his wordless goading.

“Look; she made it.”

Travis collapses to a heap on his knees and beats the cement.

Michael watches intently. A shudder travels the length of your body—even without seeing his eyes, you know that look. It is vicious predatory amusement.

Then, all at once, as if compelled by some invisible force, Michael’s head whips around. Glancing over his shoulder, he goes rigidly still.

Your jaw clenches up tight. He’s heard something. He’s listening, picking up a fresh scent.

As if forgetting about Travis in an instant, Michael turns. You watch the dark figure stalk around the side of the pool, disappearing through the doors at the opposite end. Gone again.

Travis rages. He screams at Michael to come back, because he is going to kill him. He screams all sorts of obscenities and his voice has begun to crack. Diane watches, hugging herself tightly, crying without sound.

Eventually, his screaming peeters out. Travis falls into silence, spent.

Nobody moves for a while. You watch the ripples in the water until they stop. All is still and quiet again.

Diane looks up at you. Her cheeks are streaked with tears. She looks at you longer, and something changes in her eyes, some jarring realization; then, with huge and frightened eyes, she looks past you, out into the hall, and glances all around her.

“Travis?” She says, the panic rising in her voice.

“Where’s Josh?”

#michael myers #michael myers x reader #slashers #writing #horror #fanfiction #slasher x reader #halloween #end of the line

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cassandra-tangled · 4 years

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Cassandra Appreciation Week Day 5: Happiness

Hey guys! Here’s my one-shot for Cassandra Appreciation Week day 5: happiness. So, I took a little bit of a liberty with this one, it’s a bit experimental and in first person. I’m honestly not too sure how I feel about it, but it was fun to play around with! Also, it does loosely connect to my one-shot for day 1 (here on AO3). Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy! Here’s the AO3 link

The word count is 2,475

And a brief summary is: Cassandra makes good use of the journal that Rapunzel gave her as a birthday gift.

The only thing of any concern is some light cursing. Enjoy!

Dear Diary,

Dear Journal,

Wow. This is really not my speed.

So, a journal. I don’t really know what to write, I’m not a...journal-ly person. Raps is, sure, but not me. This stupid, leather-bound book was a birthday gift from her, though, so I want to make sure I use it.

Not that Raps would ever snoop into my private life (at least not intrusively enough to read this) but if she did, I hope that last part wouldn’t hurt her feelings. I love the gift, really. It’s only stupid because it’s frusturating me that I don’t know what to write.

I guess I can start with where I got this journal. Like I said, it was a birthday gift from Raps. My birthday was a little under a week ago, now. I didn’t even know it was my birthday, but I turned twenty-eight. I feel old. Raps threw me a dinner. There was good food, cake, and alcohol. I fucking hate parties, but I love my friends, and it was only the five of us. Raps and Eugene got me this book, and a quill, and a knife, and some clothes and other fun things. It was really sweet of them, honestly. They didn’t need to get me anything, I wouldn’t have known the difference. Varian got me a bag of rocks, basically. Wait, that made me sound ungrateful. They’re beautiful rocks, and it was a cute gift. Or are they stones? Or gems?? Or crystals?? Fuck, I’m not a rock expert. But whatever they are, they’re pretty, and he found them all around the kingdom. It’ll be like having Corona with me when I leave again. Oh, and Lance got me a bag of Monty’s candy. Score.

So, I don’t really know what to use this for. I guess if I go back on the road I can...write or doodle in here like Raps did when we were younger. I mean, I’ll probably write, if anything. She’s all about doodles. I wonder how many notebooks she’s filled up by now.

When I asked her what she thought I should do with the journal yesterday, she told me to write about the things that make me happy. That’s a good place to start, I suppose. I’m not her, though. She could probably write a novel and a half on what makes her happy--but not me. Most things make me angry, and I could probably write a novel on that. Screaming children make me angry, although they’re cute when they’re quiet. Parties and social interaction make me angry. People who pronounce ‘vase’ as ‘vayhse’ make me angry (it’s ‘vahz’). Being awake makes me angry. Being asleep makes me angry. Freeloaders and thieves make me angry--reformed ones are okay, though. Most people make me angry. Especially Fitzherbert. Don’t get me wrong, I love him...sometimes.

But I’m supposed to be talking about things that make me happy. Honestly, I’m hard pressed to think of many, but I can think of some.

My weapons make me happy. I could stare at them for hours, in all honesty--I have so many (thanks Dad), and they’re all beautiful. I love polishing them, and admiring them, and of course...using them. Not in a creepy killer way or anything. Dueling is just really, really fun, and let me just say--I’ve made good use of my Fitzherbert sparring dummy since coming home.

My favorite weapon is my halberd. I keep it well cared for, sharp, polished, and shiny. It was the first weapon Dad gave me, for my eighth birthday. At that point, it towered over me, but not anymore--I’ve had it twenty years now, and it’s rather proportionate. I mean, it’s taller than me because it’s supposed to be, but seriously...watching eight year old me trudge around with it was probably a sight to see. Anyway, he chose it as my first weapon because it’s the weapon of choice for Corona’s guard. I was eight when he started really training me with them. Before, I’d sat on the sidelines and watched, but by eight, I was a full-fledged trainee. People thought he was crazy for raising his daughter to be a guard from such a young age, but I’m glad for it. I wouldn’t be able to protect myself otherwise.

I love all my weapons, though. I couldn’t take my halberd with me on the road, so I took two of my daggers and my favorite sword instead. Oh, how I wanted to take my mace, but it was too heavy to justify. My favorite dagger, I’ve had since I was sixteen. I had a few before it, but my favorite one is absolutely beautiful. It’s probably the most valuable thing that I own. It was a gift, too, a blade carved of steel and the handle of beautiful gold. It’s badass--the handle is carved into this weird...I don’t know, dragon? Lizard? Sea serpent? Whatever it is, it looks cool, and my name is engraved on the blade. The sheath is encrusted with small gems. It’s not from my dad, but from an ‘anonymous castle staff’ or something who leaves me gifts every year. I don’t know why they bother or how they afford it, but I love it. It’s not the most practical, because of the handle, it’s more ornamental. I don’t usually use it in sparring or fights. I didn’t bring it on the road with me, as much as it pained me to leave it home, because of its obvious, glaring value. So, it was nice to see it again when I got back here.

Hmm...I’ve been talking about my weapons for a while. What else makes me happy?

Books. I love books. I grew up with them as, well, my best friends. I was privileged enough to be educated, and educated well. I was reading fluently by the time I was six or seven, and when I wasn’t training, working or otherwise helping my father, you could be sure to find my nose buried in a book. One of the biggest perks of growing up in a castle is the library. I mean, usually, servants can read the book if they please and are able, but aren’t allowed to take the books out with them, or anything like that. I guess Queen Arianna likes me, because I was allowed. My father said it was a special privilege, since I was a learning child, and she valued the concept of book-smart young girls. Anyway, since I started working, I don’t use the library as much anymore--not because I dislike reading nowadays, but because I buy my own books.

Funny story, here. Growing up, I read a lot of fantasy books, about...you know, damsels in distress and princesses who were saved by handsome knights in shining armor. I used to think that maybe, just maybe, if I trained hard enough, I could be the one to bring the lost princess home, and maybe even…

Well, a rogue thief beat me to it. And it wasn’t even on purpose.

Anyway, back to happy--animals make me happy, too. It doesn’t matter what kind, although I am sort of biased towards a certain owl and two particular horses. I don’t know what it is about animals, but despite the fact that they don’t speak our language, they’re a lot more capable of love and empathy than most humans are. There are a lot of great Coronan horses, but two are particularly dear to me. I remember when Max and Fidella were born, actually. They’re pretty close in age, though I think Max is a tad older--he was born when I was fourteen, and she when I was fifteen. Max was fathered by my father’s previous horse, and by the time he was weaned from his mother, it was clear he’d be taking his father’s place as the Captain’s horse. Fidella was actually born to my childhood favorite horse. I learned to ride on her mother, so it seems only appropriate to me that she became the one to accompany me on my journey. Her mother was a beautiful mare named Eliza. Eliza was quite similar to Fidella in color and stature--she certainly takes after her mother, not her father. Eliza was my first equine love, if you will. For a kid without any friends, a faithful horse can fill the gap. We had a lot of fun together, but she got sick and died a year or two after birthing Fidella. It broke me, honestly. Horses can live to thirty years, and she was only twelve at the time of her death.

Right, happy. Oh people, I guess. I mean, as I said before, a lot of people piss me off, but some of them are more than okay. Dad is pretty great, and it’s been nice to be back and see him again. I didn’t appreciate him as much as I should have in my childhood--but then, isn’t that the way it goes? Raps is amazing too, and so is the rest of the gang. I don’t know where I’d be today if it weren’t for their fighting so hard to save me and, honestly, I don’t want to imagine. I’d probably be dead. Despite my...occasional bitterness, especially before, I’ve had some of my best times by their side. Actually, I’ve had nearly all of my best times by their side. Before Rapunzel came back and, well, pretty much forced me to be her friend, I had no one. I’m glad she did. If it weren’t for her, I probably would have died without letting anyone in, without having a single friend outside my father, Owl, my weapons and my books. But Rapunzel is…Rapunzel is impossible to resist. I learned eventually that there was no use in even trying to resist her--and she ended up being the best thing that had ever happened to me. She’s the first person I let in, the reason that I know what it means to be a friend (and how to become one), and the sole reason my friendship extended to Eugene, Lance, and Varian.

I mean...I had some dark times. Some really, really dark times. Happiness was the furthest thing from my mind. Instead, I was enraged, jealous, bitter, cold, and most of all, I was hurting. At that point, if you’d asked me, Rapunzel was the worst thing that had happened to me, even though deep down inside I loved her and cared for her more than I ever would have admitted at that point. I did some bad things, some horrible things. In my greed, in my...selfishness and lust for power, I committed some fucking heinous crimes. I hurt all of the people who were most dear to me. I almost caused the downfall of Corona--and the entire world quite easily could have followed.

Yet still, when it was all said and done, Rapunzel still saw the light in me. Eugene, Lance, Varian, my dad, they all still saw the light in me. Despite all the pain and destruction, despite all the fear and uncertainty and my horrid crimes...they forgave me. They loved me.

I hated myself, and I wanted so badly for them to hate me, too. Maybe it’s what lesser people would have done, or maybe it’s what they should have done. I’m still not quite sure. Either way, they didn’t. They chose the path of forgiveness.

That’s what love is.

Rapunzel likes to say that I was never a bad person, and that I just lost my way. I hope that that is true, but honestly, I have no way of knowing. When I think of that time in my life, I’m detached. The memories are vivid and yet blurred. I don’t see that woman as me. I don’t. I can’t believe what I did, that my own two hands committed such offenses. I see that version of myself as a lost, sad, broken woman, descending further and further down a dangerous, shadowy path that would have ended in nothing but pain and destruction. I’d given up on myself. But my friends? They never gave up on me. They saved me from that.

Whether I was truly bad or just horribly lost is beside the point, because that’s not me anymore. It haunts me every waking moment, but it’s in the past. It hangs permanently in the back of my head, but I try to push it away, to ignore it. I’ve changed drastically. I now realize that I have, and always have had, so much to be grateful for. I still yearn for more. It’s almost as if it’s in my nature. But if it’s destined to come to me, then it will be manifested through my hard work. If it’s not, at least I tried.

Most of the time, for me, happiness is hard to come by. Honestly, it is--even now, even though I realize I have much to be grateful for. It’s not such a bad thing to me, though, because when I do feel happiness...it’s exhilarating. It’s life-altering, and the taste of it sticks to my tongue like Monty’s taffy. When I do feel happiness, it makes all of the pain and all of the suffering that I’ve endured worth it.

So, what is happiness to me?

Happiness...happiness is sharpening my weapons on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Happiness is curling up by the fire, nose deep within a book, reading like my life depends on it. Happiness is dark, windy, winding roads far from home, and the shiver that runs down your back when you realize, ‘I’m deciding my own destiny’. Happiness is a Coronan stable. Happiness is flying from town to town on horseback, meeting new people. Happiness is hunting with Owl, and sitting by the fire with Fidella. Happiness is a cup of ale, a shot of whiskey, and warm food. Happiness is laughing with friends, and melting into their arms after years apart. Happiness is the fact that you converse as if you hadn’t been away at all. Happiness is taking the horses out to the wall with Raps, and bickering with Eugene. Happiness is helping a greasy-handed Varian with one of his many ambitious projects, or screaming at Lance for eating your lunch. Happiness is having tea with Dad, and the prideful joy on his face when he pulls back from a hug. Happiness is loving, whether things, animals, or people. Happiness is being loved in return.

Most of all, happiness is being alive.

If it’s true that we only get one life, I’m happy that I’ve had the privilege and opportunity to spend mine the way that I have.

That’s all for today. It’s time for this girl to get some rest.

Until next time,

Cassandra

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fab-bingo · 4 years

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Fic Appreciation Bingo - Squares Transcription

Here's the transcription of the Fic Appreciation Bingo cards squares. I've included links/explanations where possible or necessary. If you still have questions about it, just ask me and I'll do my best to help you. 😄

Default Squares

These squares will be present in all cards, to give more space to under represented/appreciated fics.

1 - WIP

Work in progress. Many of us wait until a fic is complete before we read it - I do this most of the time. It's understandable; who hasn't been burned by a fic we loved but was abandoned or never finished?

For this square, we're going to take risks!

Comments on a WIP encourage the author to keep going and finish their fic; or maybe to go back to a project they haven't worked on for some time.

You can even tell a writer that you really love their fic, even if it was never finished or they've abandoned it. 😊

2 - PODFIC

Podfic is an audio recording of fanfic, read aloud by a fan (or several). Podfics are not as popular as written fics, and that's a shame. There are some truly amazing podfics out there, lots of different styles, and they're all made with heart.

If you really dislike audio content, or can't listen to it for any reason, to fill this square you can find the podfic version of a fic you like, and leave a comment thanking the podficcer for making a story you like, accessible to more people. :)

3 - "Less than 50 kudos" & "Less than 30 comments"

These are there to assure we also pay attention to less known, under-appreciated works.

And the necessary Free square, of course. 🙂

Keep in mind that most of these are only guidelines & suggestions. Use your creativity and have fun! If a fill makes sense to you, it makes sense to me . 😉

Let's get to the first card transcription: the General Card!

General Card

Favorite fic

Your favorite fic. That's it, that's the square.

Multi-chapter

A fic with more than one chapter. That wasn't as hard as I thought!

LGBTQ+ QUILTBAG

One or more protagonists of the fic identify as members of the LGBTQ+QUILTBAG community. Any identity counts, as longs as **it is clear in the text**.

This doesn't have to be through romantic pairing; the character can be trans, ace, intersex, etc.

Fantasy & Sci-fi

Lord of the Rings and Star Trek vibes. Androids. Wizards. You know this stuff, so why am I still talking?

Angst

The dictionary defines angst as "a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about..." Yeah, no. Sorry!

In fic, angst usually is about the characters and their feelings - about their romantic interest, their past, their past & errors, the challenges they face... They're uncertain about all of hose things, and probably their own worth.

Except, it also means the angst you, the reader, feel as you read about the character's trials and travails. Are they sad? You're wailing. That sort of thing.

On a second thought, yeah, deep anxiety and dread checks out. 😶

Oldest fic you've read

By publication date. If you read it yesterday, but it was published in 1997 and you haven't read anything published before that, it counts. 😉

Fluff

The opposite of angst! Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. Sweet, happy stories with happy endings.

Animals

Dogs. Cats. Horses. Unicorns. Lizards.

Dog-walkers, cat-wranglers, unicorn-wrestlers.

If there are animals in it, it fits.

Favorite author

I know, I know. HOW ARE YOU GOING TO CHOOSE?!

You love them all, and so do I. But this is a hard game, my peeps. Hard, difficult choices must be made for the good of our fanfic bingo nation.

At least until you decide to fill this card again. 😉

Under 5k

Which means, no more than 4.999 words.

Nope, you can't go higher than that.

Nope, 5.000 words doesn't count.

Okay, how about this: if you find a fic with exactly 5.000 words, I'll give you a pass. 😜

Humor

A fic that successfully accomplishes what I've been trying to do with this text, I guess? 🤔🙈😂

Alright, alright. Anything that makes you laugh is good.

Food

All and any things related to food, cooking and eating! This is the square for those fics that made you hungry and burn with desire for a personal chef or cooking lessons.

Food bloggers. Cooking channel on Youtube. Bucky is an amazing baker. Steve is an stress baker. Chefs. Sommeliers. Dinners. Even pizza take-out counts!

First fic you ever read

I bet this is going to take you down memory lane, isn't it? 😄

If you don't remember it, or it's not available anymore, go for the first you remember that's still accessible.

Music

Millions of fics have titles based on songs, and sure, you can go that route. But there are other options! Bands. Musicians. Singers. Fics based entirely on a song, not only the title.

Stories where a song is really important to the plot or the characters. The protagonist works on an instrument shop or is a music teacher. So many possibilities!

Historical AU

Any period of time is valid: Victorian, Medieval, Middle Ages, Ancient Egypt... you get the idea.

Fair warning, though: if you come and say a fic set in the 80's is historical, I will hate you. The 80's were the last decade, you heathen! 🤨

Latest read

This is almost a second free square: the fic you read most recently.

New author to me

Fic written by an author you haven't read before.

Recommended to me

If you have friends who read and rec fics to you, great. If not, a suggestion from a rec blog like Epic Stucky Fic Recs @epicstuckyficrecs or The Stucky Library @stuckylibrary totally counts.

You can also ask me for a rec if you'd like! 😄

Sports & Games

Here we have the obvious like football, hockey, swimming, of course; but also Olympic skating, dancing, baseball, running, fitness, etc.

Fantasy football and MMORPG.

Video and board games. And even the Hunger Games if you wish!

Paranormal AU

Lots of fics that go bump in the night!

The classic vampires & werewolves keep company with ghosts, curses and unicorns (but only if you didn't use your unicorn fic for the Animals square! 😜), shapeshifters, wizards, witches and all kinds of supernatural things.

Who you gonna call?

That's it for now! Next up, Stucky cards & their squares!

#fabingo #fanfic #fanfiction #bingo #fic appreciation bingo #show your fic authors some love #fun #long post

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draconesmundi · 5 years

Note

What is wyverns were lizards who evolved to look like dragons? Since wyverns and dragons are different things.

They aren’t different things in my book, just different dragon varieties!

How do wyverns currently fit into my book?

There are four principle dragon families: Drakonidae, Longdraconidae, Mareserpinidae and Vivernuidae.

This last family is characterised by the complete absence of hind legs; there are wyrms which either have strong forelimbs (like the lindorm) or greatly reduced forelimbs, there are cockatrices and wyverns with large forelimbs and extensive wings, and there are amphitheres with no legs whatsoever, just wings.

Because my dragon’s wings aren’t really wings like bird wings or bat wings (as in, they are not arms), it means I don’t have any six-limbed animals (four-legs-two-wings dragons). So rather than 6 limbed dragons vs 4 limbed wyverns, we just have big-crocodile-with-fancy-fins-that-look-like-wings vs the same animal but without the hind legs.

There are currently 3 wyvern and 2 cockatrice species in my book, and they nestle nicely into the Vivernuidae family, which is nicely in Dracomorpha, so I feel no need to take them out and rewrite their biology.

Are wyverns dragons in mythology?

Yes! :) The word ‘wyvern’, and ‘vouivre’, and similar words mean ‘viper’ and are used to mean ‘big magic serpent’ in the same way ‘dragon’ does, and often ‘dragon’ and ‘wyvern’ are used interchangeably. As an English person my go-to example of this is the Wyvern of Mordiford vs the Dragon of Mordiford. Same story, different words.

Moreover, bestiaries such as Serpentum et draconum historiae (by Ulisse Aldrovandi, 1640) where we get a lot of dragon-facts from (written in a time where people believed dragons lived in Africa) often label illustrations of ‘wyverns’ as ‘Draco’ or ‘drak’ or ‘dragon’, because back in the day when people believed dragons were real, they believed they looked like wyverns, or believed they looked like big snakes etc.

(image: Draco Aethiopicus from Serpentum et Draconum, illustration by Edward Topsell who wrote the History of Four Footed Beasts and Serpents, another good book for Ye Olde Dragon Lore)

Basically wyverns are dragons. Wyrms are dragons. Chinese dragons are dragons. ‘Dragon’ is a term which covers a lot of creatures from a lot of cultures.

When is a wyvern not a dragon?

Often people say “Dragons have 4 legs and wings, whereas a wyvern only has two legs and wings” - this is not a good definition, because it rules out Eastern dragons, which everyone believes are dragons, and have been ‘dragons’ for longer than the ‘4 legs 2 wings’ animals have been. (some people say ‘Chinese dragons do not have wings, so they must be drakes’, which is a whole other kettle of fish. Long have been dragons for thousands of years, demoting them from ‘dragon’ to ‘other mythological creature’ because they don’t have wings??? Not A Fan of That Line Of Thought)

“Dragons breathe fire, whereas wyverns cannot, they have a venomous barb on the end of their tail” - this definition is a bit better! It means that the dragons of the Elder Scrolls games and the dragons of Game of Thrones remain ‘dragons’ while similar animals do not. Some dragons in mythology do have venomous tails, but these are brief references here and there in books, I cannot pin down the exact point when this first became A Thing.

In pop culture, the first “wyverns are not dragons” was probably in Dungeons and Dragons, where they needed to flesh out the bestiary, so they had many dragon colours, and then a few dragon-like creatures which had different rules from the dragons - these wyverns were different because they had only 2 legs, 2 wings and a venomous barb on their tail. They were less intelligent and powerful than the dragons.

Further not-dragon-wyverns appeared in fantasy after that. I’m more familiar with not-dragon-wyverns in video games compared to books, but even then my knowledge isn’t too complete. But it’s definitely a trend in the high-fantasy media in popular culture, but not so much in mythology.

So the wyverns of Sothoryos are not like the dragons of Essos in A Song of Ice and Fire, the bird-like dumb wyverns in Divinity 2 are not the same as the majestic dragons, the tiny wyverns of Bresel are different from the horse-sized dragons in the Dragonsdale books, there are countless of examples where a creative choice has been made to separate wyverns from dragons.

And that’s great, it means more cool reptile-creatures and more cool animal designs, but it is not my cup of tea! I love how diverse dragons are in mythology, and limiting the word ‘dragon’ to only the 2-legs 4-wings animals while ignoring long, wyrms, wyverns, amphitheres, drakes, sea serpents, lake monsters, giant-turtle-shelled-lions, reptilian horse-creatures and chicken dragons just isn’t as fun to me.

In Dracones Mundi the only ‘2 wings 4 legs’ dragons are the smok (’classic European dragon’), the zmey (Slavic dragon) and male underwater panthers (Algonoquian mythology - cat-dragon). So that’s 3 animals out of around 37 dragons - they do not represent dragon diversity by a long shot within Dracones Mundi because they do not represent dragons fully in mythology.

Summary:

Wyverns fit well in the current dragon family tree

Wyverns are dragons anyway

Other people can say wyverns aren’t dragons, which is cool for some fantasy worlds, but that is not the direction I want to go with for Dracones Mundi

#Asks #Anonymous #Dragons #Wyverns #Dracones Mundi

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allthephils · 5 years

Text

Wax on, Wax off

Rated: E word count: 1282

Read on ao3

Happy birthday @doineedtohaveawordwithyou ! This was supposed to be a little desert introspection but I haven’t been writing much and I’m a little rusty, so it turned into solo Phil smut. Oops. Happy birthday, here’s some porn! Thank you for being such a delightful and positive presence in this fandom.

Phil thought there would be howling coyotes, screeching owls, and chirping crickets. He’d prepared himself for the frightening skitter of tiny lizard feet. He had not prepared himself for this kind of quiet, a silence that screams it’s stillness all around him, unavoidable. It’s beautiful here but so expansive, never ending, and so hot that the air presses in from all sides. VidCon exhausted his social reserves. Las Vegas will be yet another onslaught. The ghost towns and quirky truck stops were his favorite part so far but this part, just relaxing in nature, that doesn’t come so easy. He’s meant to be resetting, renewing, taking time alone out here. Dan went off to strip out of his poor clothing choices and shower. Martyn and Cornelia have long since disappeared but he can hear their chatter and Corn’s musical laughter every so often.

The ground is hard under Phil’s back but his feet hang over the edge of the pool, slowly kicking back and forth through the too blue water, still visible in the bright moonlight. That’s one thing, the moon. It’s full and bright, illuminating in ways it just doesn’t in London. The stars are dull, hidden behind the veil of light. He counts as many as he can, tracing shapes with his finger tip stretched out in front of him. He thinks he spots a planet or two.

Somewhere behind him, he hears the shower turn on. Phil had rushed through his, feeling oddly exposed in the bright morning but showering under the stars doesn’t sound too bad. Dan must be loving it, surrounded by the night sky, under a spray of cool water. What a perfectly pretentious end to a day spent wearing £300 joggers in 40 degree heat. He’ll be lathering up by now. Rubbing that cruelty free, organic jasmine body wash over his sweat soaked skin. An absent minded hand finds it way to Phil’s open collar, scratching gently through the soft hair there. With an image of a soapy Dan in mind, he fingers a button open, then another and another until he’s wriggling his shirt down his shoulders and tossing it aside.

As oppressive as the heat is, it does bring some gifts. Dan’s pretty legs, shaved smooth, pale but somehow still golden made an appearance yesterday. Phil remembers running his hand up a slim calf, he can practically feel Dan’s warm skin as he drags his fingers down over his own belly, teasing past his waist band slightly before flattening his hand and feeling the skin, muscles rippling as he lifts his head to watch.

Dan’s probably got his head thrown back, watching the stars as he washes. He probably has a hand on his inner thigh, idly reaching fingers to stroke the skin behind his balls. Phil’s hand has made it’s way over his rib cage to his chest now. The swirling heat just under the surface has nothing to do with the desert, prickling up his thighs and behind his nipples. He grazes over a one sensitive nub, gasps just a bit and moves straight to pinching and rolling, his other hand shooting down to unbutton his shorts. Sweat and heat are irrelevent to Phil if it means he can press his body to Dan’s but Dan won’t want to fuck in this heat. Sex tends to override discomfort for Phil. It also overrides propriety, good judgement, and modesty but that’s neither here nor there. There doesn’t seem any good reason to deny himself this. Everyone else is occupied and he is meant to be relaxing.

For a brief moment, he reconsiders calling out for Dan, or getting up to go join him in the shower. He’s so good to himself though, no one is better at touching Phil than Phil, not even Dan. And he’s rather settled here, just warm enough with his feet in the pool, perfectly acclimated. His body says stay a while, get comfy, keep going, and Phil is never one to deny his body a craving. Lifting his hips, he shoves his shorts and pants down in one motion before wrapping a hand around himself. He’s half hard but the idea of open air around his cock has it filling his grip completely.

His hands are lazy. A low electric current runs through his fingertips, leaving his skin dewy and buzzing with every touch. Yeah. Touch my cock. Fuck. Words whispered to himself through crooked, quirked up, self aware lips. Words that push the hum of arousal until his slow tease becomes a torture and he gives in. Thoughts roll through his mind, half formed and disjointed, moving from fantasy to memory and finally to simple here and now reality. There is no one for miles and Phil’s cock is beautiful moving in and out of his fist. Nothing wrong with finding your own cock beautiful. He can’t deny what so many have told him. It’s long and perfectly straight, deep pink and shining at the tip where it slips past his foreskin.

His breath catches and his thumb finds a rhythm, flicking over a nipple in time with his stroking hand. His eyes slip shut but he forces them open. Seeing actual stars when he cums is too good an opportunity to pass up. He giggles a bit at the thought. Tension builds in his gut and his strokes speed up, losing coordination in a deliciously desperate surge toward release. There are splashes from the shower and Phil’s imagination runs wild. Maybe in the morning, he’ll push his nipples against the smooth wet wood, arching his back so Dan can fuck him silly before breakfast.

He gives his nipple a break to free up a hand, running through his hair with a tug before moving his hand down to cup and massage his balls while he jacks himself fast and hard. He sees naked Dan on an ass shaped rock, he sees Chris Hemsworth on his knees, he sees himself, half naked on the ground, feet in the pool, cock in his hand. That’s the image that does it. Narcissism is underrated. He tries to be quiet but a groan escapes, eyes squeezed shut, as he makes a terrible mess of his own belly.

He’s alone and sticky and smiling in the dark. It’s nearly midnight and the shower is still running. Maybe Dan had the same idea. Now they can climb in to bed and just cuddle. That sounds too good to resist so he stands, stepping out of his shorts and shoes and walking naked into the sliding door that goes straight to their room. When he opens the shower door Dan looks dreamy and tired, spent and happy. He looks Phil up and down and lets out a raucous laugh.

“I see you’ve been taking your self care seriously,” He says, smirking. “I was afraid you were coming in here to get frisky.”

“Frisky?” Phil cocks his brow, “Ok grandpa, I figured you’d be too tired after today anyway.”

“Not tired at all.” Dan answers, “but you’re clearly all used up.”

“Is that a challenge?”

A high pitched ha! echos in the night. “You’re filthy. Covered in cum and already asking for more.” He’s attempting derision but only achieving a kind of fond reprimand. “You aren’t a teenager anymore Phil, I don’t think you have it in you.”

Phil steps into the shower and kisses Dan, soft enough to make him shudder, hard enough to make his knees weak. Spinning Dan around quickly, he pushes him into the wall and lays his body over him, Dan’s giggles bouncing off the shower walls. Phil kisses behind his ear and whispers there. “Let’s test that theory, yeah?”

14 notes · View notes

almaasi · 5 years

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reaction post typed while watching SPN 14x17 “Game Night”

this was not 45 minutes of Dean playing Twister with Cas :/

04:22pm

if this isn’t 45 minutes of team free will 2.0 having a happy time in the bunker with all their alive hunter friends and family, playing board games, everyone whistling and whooping when cas takes off his coat to play twister with dean, i will be sorely disappointed

HOWEVER

/checks

it’s meredith glynn

so maybe it won’t be the pure, fun, gay plotless fantasy that i have in mind, but it’ll probably be well-written and emotional, which is aaaalmost as good

04:30

DEAN’S PLAYING MOUSETRAP

OKAY

04:31

[distant “soN OF A BITCH”]

yeah mousetrap is like that

we have one exactly the same, it’s from the 60s or something, it sometimes functions but mostly doesn’t

when the ball hops into the bucket and rolls down the slope, that’s my favourite part

04:37

WHY ARE THEY HAVING GAME NIGHT and drama WITHOUT CAS

WHERE IS CAS

THIS IS TOO MUCH

04:38

ahhh thank you ms glynn for immediately answering my question

she knew!!! she knew the only question everyone would be asking at that exact moment when nobody mentioned cas is WHERE IS CAS

and then she’s like “here have some cas”

thank

04:39

i want a gag reel of danneel and misha trying to do this scene

we don’t have anywhere near enough content of them together, interacting

04:41

cas getting earrings for anael/sister jo is so intriguing to me and i really like it for some reason

“lightly cursed”

jsdfd

04:43

paused and screenshotted because in this exact moment she looks uncannily like my doctor