#spooky lighthouse au
Text
shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides
part 1 / 7 | or: read on ao3
The fog rolls in like a heavy cloud that morning, leaving the city in eerie darkness as Steve hurries toward the heavy door to the steel manufactory, scarf wound tightly around his neck to keep out the cold so uncommon for late September.
“Thanks,” he mutters to the gruff, broad man who holds open the door for him. He sees him every morning but has never had the chance to ask about his name. The question is on the tip of his tongue when, with a nod and a touch to his sturdy-looking hat, the man walks down a different corridor than Steve.
Where outside the fog was so thick that all noise seemed dulled, like cotton in his ears, the manufactory is a cacophony of banging and clanging, hissing and whirring, and Steve needs a moment to breathe the polluted, heavy air that’s always just a tad too hot for his lungs.
He doesn’t mind the work, is good with his hands and enjoys the single-minded focus it provides on a good day, the deafening noise loud enough to drown out most of the comments the other workers throw his way; comments about his father, his upbringing, and his rather sudden downfall when Richard D. Harrington decided to disown his eldest son three years ago without rhyme or reason.
Steelwork, engineering, intricate cogs that work massive machinery — they fascinate him, they keep him busy fourteen hours a day, and they leave him dead to the world when the shift is over and graciously let him sleep through the dreams that have been haunting him ever since he can remember being haunted.
It’s always the same dream, in the fall more than in the spring. A lighthouse trapped in the sea, waves rolling and crashing, water rising so high that it might as well swallow the lighthouse whole. And through it all, a beacon. And through it all, a voice he cannot make out. And through it all, a ticking that echoes through his skull even long after he gasped awake with a lungful of water that Robin says might be Tuberculosis.
He blinks away the gloom that has laid over his heart like the fog over the city, shakes off the trancelike feeling that overtakes him every time he tries to think about the lighthouse when he is wide awake, and rubs away the headache that comes with sleep deprivation. It’s fall again, which means he spends his nights haunted by ghostly images of a lighthouse he’s not even sure exists, robbed of all chances at resting if he doesn’t work himself to the point of absolute exhaustion.
They are earlier this year, the night terrors. Everything is a little earlier this year.
A heavy hand lands on his shoulder as Emerson arrives behind him, leading him to their station with idle chatter about the weather and the horrible, horrible fog that Steve has not the patience to partake in today — which is just as well for Emerson and his sunny disposition, he’ll simply talk enough for the both of them. Steve is fond enough of him to let him be as he falls into the routine of working steel and breathing overheated, coal-stained air.
They work in unison until noon, the headache dull enough as long as he keeps busy, but almost blinding when he stops for even a second. A booming voice makes him look up from his station, though, as he is being summoned to the office.
It’s never a good sign, and Steve can feel the blood draining from his face, pulling the ache with it as it travels down his spine and settles in his centre in a pit of nausea.
“Oh no,” Emerson murmurs under his breath, even managing to sound genuine about it. “What did you do?”
Images assault his mind. Prison, if he’s lucky. Asylum and electroshock therapy if he’s not; if his father changed his mind about making it public that his eldest son and heir deserves punishment, or treatment for moral insanity. Steve tries not to think of that too often, tries not to look at men like that anymore — tries not to look at anyone anymore until the public forgets about him.
But every time he is reminded that he exists is another time of fear. Fear of being found out.
“I… have no idea,” Steve says after a while, looking up to where the door to the office looms above all of them, leaving them to feel like prisoners in a panopticon.
“Better not keep ‘em waiting, then. Probably too late to run, eh?”
“Probably,” Steve says, dazed, not really listening to Emerson as he kicks into motion and walks briskly up the stairs, pretending not to feel everyone’s eyes on his back.
It is out of a nervous habit that he pulls the watch from his pocket, its silver chain linked to his vest. It springs open in his hands as he takes the steps one by one, providing comfort for no reason other than it’s his. It doesn’t show the time, never has, but after losing everything at his father’s whim, the pocket watch stayed with him.
“Keep it,” Richard had sneered. “The blasted thing isn’t worth a penny!”
The fingers only ever moved incrementally over the years, and backwards, but still there is something about the watch that makes him keep it close at all times. Collecting himself, he closes his hand around the light metal and filigree ornaments and mentally counts to three before putting it back in his pocket and knocking on the door.
“Ah, Harrington,” the superior manager says, his voice sounding like gravel as per usual. The man has a habit of competing with the steel manufactory’s chimneys, only he smokes cigars instead of coal dust like his workers. Steve remembers the smell of fine cigars, and this office smells like the best among them.
It only helps to strengthen his disdain for the man.
Still he nods and aims for a pleasant smile. “You asked for me, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” the man says, leaning back in his thick leather chair and motioning for Steve to take a seat at the sturdy, delicately engraved mahogany desk. “Sit down, sit down, time is money and I give you more of that than you deserve anyway. I have a proposition for you and you are in no position to decline, yes?”
“Yes?” Steve says dumbly, taking his time to sit down just to spite him.
The man, however, is not as easily perturbed. “That’s what I want to hear, I have to admire your morale, Harrington. Here,” he turns and reaches for a cabinet, rummaging around for a minute before—
The blood in Steve’s veins freezes, leaving him cold and too hot all at once.
Underneath the beefy hand, he makes out a photograph — or possibly a postcard — showing a stark white lighthouse trapped in the sea, gigantic waves crashing into it, threatening to tear it down and carry it along to wherever the tides lead. The beacon of light is steadfast and stubborn, guiding and pointing at something that’s out of the frame, but what Steve can only assume is absolute nothingness out in the open sea.
He slides it over the table to lie in front of Steve, and he fights every urge to recoil, only gripping the arm rest far too tightly.
“See, we got a telegram earlier today that they’re having problems with the lighthouse up north. They say it’s something with the generator, not fit enough to last in the cold, where the air is made of saltwater more than oxygen.”
Steve nods, though he is only halfway listening, his heart hammering in his chest at the picture of the lighthouse, etched onto the paper like it has no idea it is also etched on the very forefront of Steve’s mind — has been, for almost three decades now.
“And since you’re the only one here traditionally educated in reading and writing,” the man continues, either unaware of Steve’s dizziness or delighting in it, “and you know your way around a machine or two, fixing the generator and handling the light shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
It’s not a question. It’s not even an offer.
Steve wonders if maybe he fell down the stairs and hit his head, if maybe the sleep deprivation is finally leading to hallucinations like Robin keeps warning him.
“You want me to fix the lighthouse?”
“That is precisely what I want, yes. Stay there a while, find out what seems to be the problem.”
He’s getting up, walking over to a cabinet, pulling out a half-empty bottle of what Steve can only assume is whisky. A biting, earthy smell floats through the room, thick enough to cling to his clothes if he stays here much longer.
“You’ll find yourself familiar with the equipment, as it is us who supply them. In fact, you have built generators and fixtures and engines like that. You’re a bright spark, Harrington, I can admit that. You’re the best fit. And I’m not asking.”
His jaw clicks shut, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table as he meets those dark eyes head-on.
“When do I leave?”
An ugly grin spreads the man’s face, gaining too much joy from other people’s powerlessness down the food chain.
“Tomorrow. If I remember correctly, and I usually do, you do not have much business to attend to, and even fewer things to pack. I trust you will find your place at the train station at five tomorrow morning. Emerson will know to fill your shoes in your absence.”
How long will I be gone? he wants to ask, but is too afraid that the answer will only be another cruel smirk and a sip of whisky.
He gets up, certain that he is being dismissed, and getting no sign that he’s wrong.
“Oh, and Harrington.” He stops with his hand on the door already. “Perhaps this is a good time to mention that the lighthouse is without a keeper. I have offered your services for the time being, seeing as you will already be there. The salary, of course, will be thrice as much as your usual.”
The daze is back, smelling of saltwater air and whisky, rushing in his ears like waves bursting on the cliffs.
“What happened to the old keepers?” he dares to ask.
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“Yes, it does. What happened to the old keepers?”
“I think you shall find out soon enough.” A beat of silence — horrible, tidal silence. Then, “You’re dismissed.”
***
The train ride is blessedly pleasant, the first class ticket providing the luxury of comfortable seating and relative silence, the wheels occasionally clicking along the railway loud enough to drown out the near-deafening rushing of the ocean in his ears — or perhaps it’s not the ocean, perhaps it is his own blood, pumped with fear and apprehension.
The only upside to all of this is the telegram he’s been gripping tightly all morning so as not to lose it, not to forget about it, not to think it was a dream. A childish, hopeless dream, a longing for company to battle the fear of the dark.
I’ll meet you there. 3 days.
Signed: Robin Buckley. She never took his name, said she did not want to be associated with Richard and the Harrington wealth that came with the Napoleonic wars — never mind that they happened almost a century ago.
Blood money isn’t wealth, Steven, she’d said to him on many occasions, and he loved her for it all the more.
Maybe it will be fine if Robin is there with him. Maybe they won’t end up succumbing to madness like people are wont to do, subjected to the endless loneliness of lighthouse keeping. Confronted with a darkness so deep it needs human invention to remain habitable. Maybe, he wonders idly and with shortness of breath, the world will end if all its lights are gone. Maybe all that will remain is nothingness and the ruthless sea — maybe, until the sun rises again and the light returns. But up north, the sun doesn’t stay all that long. Up north, they say the darkness is different. They say it’s sentient. They say—
A servant offers him some tea or coffee if he pleases, ripping hit out of his obsessive spiral of apprehension and fear.
“Yes, thank you,” he breathes, miming quiet politeness to cover up the lack of air in his lungs. The servant nods, not at all perturbed by Steve’s rather horrific disposition, and moves along.
The tea helps a little. It’s hard to think horrible thoughts when there is a steaming cup in your hands smelling comfortingly of herbs and just a hint at something spicy. It feels almost primal, his fear of the lighthouse — but just as primal is the comfort he finds in the warmth spreading from his hands all the way through his body. The shaking stops after a minute, and breath has returned to his lungs in a way that doesn’t leave him scared to let it out.
It will be fine. The sea will lose its terror, and so will darkness. He will read, and fix what needs to be fixed, and laugh at it all with Robin by his side, who will teach him about birds they will never see, about authors that don’t live anymore, and about the stars they get to watch.
It will be fine. He will be fine. Always, with Robin.
***
He arrives at the seaside town just before nightfall, and the first thing he notices is not the rushing of the ocean, but the crispness of the air that feels vastly different in his lungs to the grey and brown, polluted city air. It’s like he’s a babe taking his first breath in this world; and just like a babe, he is overcome with the urge to cry. He doesn’t, only pinches the bridge of his nose and grabs his bags — two of them, filled only with clothes and books to pass the time.
The walk to the next inn is a long one, and by the time he arrives there — guttural laughter coming even through closed doors and windows — he is frozen to his bones. If he’d thought that fall was quick to arrive in the city, he might as well have entered an arctic winter up here. The half suspects, though, that the cold comes from his empty stomach and the bitterness that replaced the fear just as well as the actual, biting cold.
And to think it’s only just early September.
He pushes the door open and finds it blissfully warm, a large fire roaring in the fireplace and in the hearth, leaving the food steaming on the plates. Silence settles almost immediately, and Steve freezes on the spot. Being perceived in a situation he has no control over has never been his strong suit, and he wonders just what these people have heard about him. If they heard anything at all.
“Come in or get out, but leave the cold out there,” a large lady says from behind the bar, an apron wrapped around her skirt and a towel in her hand as she eyes him with wary but not unkind eyes.
“Forgive me,” Steve says, stepping further into the inn and letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.
“Ahh,” someone says from where he’s sitting on a round table with six other, quite burly men. Fishermen, Steve assumes, or harbour workers, if their sun-tanned skin and general muscular build are any indication. He places his jug of beer on the table and eyes Steve rather closely. “You’re the boy they sent. Who will fix the lighthouse, aye?”
“Aye,” Steve says stupidly, internally cringing at himself. Then, turning towards the woman, “Have you a room to spare?”
“Have you money to spare?” she retorts, clearly mocking him for his odd choice of words — it’s hard, laying down his aristocratic upbringing, especially in a town auch as this.
“Of course,” he says. “For food, drink, and someone to bring me to the lighthouse in three days.”
Another man of the group snorts loudly, shaking his head and studying his ale like it would tell him the future.
“No way, boy. Ain’t no one gettin’ close to that thing.”
“She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close. ‘S what lighthouses are for, eh? No getting too close. You get too close, you die. Simple as that.”
Steve takes it in, the pale faces of the men all nodding along, the thousand yard stares they all have in common — and his fear is back. But greater than his fear is his annoyance with men who insist on calling him boy and decide to speak in riddles instead of making sense.
“Haunted?” he asks, taking one of two spare seats at the table, nodding at the woman in thanks as she brings him an ale that only barely smells like piss. “How?”
“Haven’t you heard?” a fourth man, the oldest of them, speaks up. “There’s a curse on the lighthouse. No one gets out alive. We only ever bring her new stock, like cattle to the slaughterhouse. She takes. She takes and takes, boy.”
“So you do bring them,” Steve points out, far too tired and irritated to listen to a ghost story before he’s even had a proper, warm dinner.
The men still, and Steve places a tower of money in the centre of the table.
“It’s yours,” he says, looking at each of them, one after the other, “if you take us there in three days. Four, if the weather decides to play.”
“Us?”
“My wife,” Steve says.
“Fine,” one of them, the one who first spoke to him, grumbles, reaching for the money. “Now go. This table is for grownups, boy.”
With an eye-roll and an air of arrogance, Steve gets up and finds a seat at another table closer to the fireplace. Soon after, fresh stew is placed before him and he dives in.
***
The lighthouse towers on top of the cliffs and Steve watches, mesmerised, as he makes out its shape even in the pitch black darkness. It’s eerie, the power it emanates, the myths and legends that weave around it and its kind. Legends that would be fascinating learning about them in the safety of one’s bed, but which are horrifying to remember days before the nameless fates could be one’s own.
The darkness of the night really is endless here without the lights of the city, and he can only imagine how the lighthouse would help, how it would bring back hope and security, a promise of safe passage. It’s brings him a sort of peace; a purpose, imagining this town in the lighthouse’s beacon. Safe for the night, safe until the sun comes back.
Still it doesn’t ease his night terrors, filled with whispers as they are, growing in urgency and almost clear enough to make out.
Three days pass. Four. Five. There is no sign of Robin. Anxiety grows within him, because Steve knows Robin was going to take the seaside route from the Cunningham estate — well, one of them, at least.
She has a mind of her own. She takes and takes, boy. She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close.
What if…
No. No, there is simply no way. Haunted lighthouses taking lives. There’s no— no way. He won’t fall for their ghost stories.
Unfortunately, however, they don’t fall for his charm either, and on the seventh day, when the sea is calm and the sun steady above them, the man who took they money — Old John, apparently — approaches him.
“We’re leaving now,” he says, shoving Steve ahead of him, deaf to his protest that they have to wait, they have to wait. “Your sweetheart ain’t coming, kid. Don’t think she’ll be coming anywhere ever again if she really took the ship. They talk of a ship that got lost in the storm, burst on the cliffs because there was no light. I’m sorry, kid, but I won’t risk waiting any longer.”
A ship lost in the storm?
But… No. No!
“No,” he whispers, letting himself be shoved onto a tiny boat and rocked this way and that, feeling nauseous for more reasons than one.
He’s wrong, Steve knows; feels it in his very soul. Robin is not dead. She’ll come.
She… She will come. She won’t leave him alone, all alone, in this place that has been haunting him for years and years.
She’ll come.
The lighthouse towers above them, perched on top of cliffs that make Steve understand why nobody wanted take him here. There’s no safe way of getting close, let alone climbing up the stairs carved into the cliffs, leading up to the door with no railing, no rope to hold onto. One large wave crashing into him, and he’d belong to the ocean.
He wants to cry again. Wants to curl in on himself and weep as the reality of everything begins to settle in the deepest, darkest places of his heart.
If he leaves the boat, he’ll be trapped with no way of getting out, no way of contacting the land they’ve left far, far behind. Supplies are said to last several months, he knows, he studied the file he got. Several months without human interaction unless Robin magically, wonderfully appears in a few days after all.
“Good luck, kid,” is the last thing he’ll ever hear of Old John as he pulls himself onto the cliffs, reaching for his bags from the old man’s hands. The sea is deafening here as waves crash and burst relentlessly, and he can’t hear what else Old John is saying, but he thanks him and salutes, which the seaman returns with an air of melancholy.
Steve climbs the stairs, soaked to the bones by the splashing water, but somehow — miraculously — malign his way up. As he turns around, fog is starting to gather above the water, but he can make out the tiny silhouette of the boat.
He watches, and it’s meant as a last goodbye, one last glance at his one way out. But terror fills him as he watches, helplessly, powerlessly, as Old John’s boat keels over and disappears. He keeps his eyes fixed to the spot, not daring to look away until there’s proof of life. But Old John doesn’t break the surface again.
And Steve is left filled with horror and the absolute certainty that he might not make it out if he sets foot inside the lighthouse.
Behind him, the door opens with a horrible, terrifying creak, and the beating of his heart is too loud for any other noise to exist in Steve’s world right now.
🌊 part 2 (coming 26 October)
tagging (trading tags for kindness): @klausinamarink @vampeddie @steviesummer @sharpbutsoft @auroraplume
#steddie fic#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#steve x eddie#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#spooky lighthouse au#dio words#this is so long i’m so sorry 😭😭 i’ll try not to let the other parts be so extensive with exposition hdhdh#it will go up on ao3 when i’ve had the time to proofread this but as things are rn we just fuck around and ignore typos#*frantically scrambling* does any of this make sense so far???
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lighthouse
When he tells his mum, her knife clatters against the side of her plate and takes a chunk clear off the ceramic. Even if it weren’t cheap, it’s secondhand. Ugly, she calls those plates. I’ll buy us a nice set when we have the spare to spend.
Guilty eyes track the shard as it spirals a dance across the moth-chewed tablecloth. They follow the floral pattern (not really ugly, just a little) as it spins on its curved edge to become a swirl of color. Green leaves, pastel blue and pink blossoms, blue, pink, blue — purple.
He’s scared to lift them. It’s been just them so long they’ve grown accustomed to even patterns of breathing. Her air is angry.
“Maran.” She clips his name out between clenched teeth. The broken shard stops spinning. He slides it back across the table, finger pressed to the smooth lip and obscuring those daintily painted flowers.
“What?”
“Maran.” She says again, sounding like absolutely not. She won’t let those words slip. She rarely does. She gives and gives and gives.
His turn. Only fair.
“I already signed it.” He forms his words into a laugh, hoping the rest that follow won’t become a fight. “Binding, isn’t it. Take me to court.”
When he glances up at his mum, sat across the kitchen table, her fist is tight around the knife. The grip is so tight he can see flushed blood beneath umber skin that wraps her knuckles.
“That is a long time —”
“It’s a lot of pay.”
“Fuck of a lot for —” He tells her the exact amount, enunciating each zero.
Her mouth snaps shut.
The kitchen falls silent.
Maran watches something play across her face that he doesn’t feel at all equipped to interpret. The pull of her brow looks like it does when he’s caught her sniffling, but her mouth is fixed in that you did what snarl. And something else rests behind her dark eyes; it isn’t Saturday morning mirthful laziness, or the glitter of her grudge-holding snuck in while speaking to their stubbornly rude neighbor.
There are two pairs of guilty eyes at the table.
*
She sends him off with six jumpers, three pairs of hardy trousers, maybe a dozen pairs of socks, a sock darner that had been his summer whittling project, and a cloth bag of lavender sprigs that are meant for laundry. It clinks suspiciously when she tucks it into a pocket, so Maran sneaks up behind her to snatch it away.
“Little bastard!” She howls, snatching at the back of his shirt — too slow. He slips away and stumbles across the room, peering into the little bag. Tucked amongst the dried stems are a couple of rocks. Shiny as obsidian, silver flecks smooth under his thumb.
“Don’t make fun of me.” She warns, crossing to prod at his stomach until he snaps his elbows tight to ward away the tickling.
“Did I open my mouth!”
“No. Because you’re a smart one.” She teases. Her palm slows into a soft pet over the back of his hand. “And you be smart, okay? Ah, fuck’s sake. This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
He grins at her while she shakes his whole arm, her grip as tight in his sleeve as it was on the knife. He’s gone on jobs before — none so far or for as long away as this, sure. But he’s grown and he’s gone off alone. He’s come back every time.
They both manage to hold it together until the moment he steps across the threshold. She drags him down for one last hug, one more pinch to a cheek she freckled herself. Maran squeezes her back just as tight; her soft, worried heaving make his eyes sting.
Into each of his jumpers, at the nape of the neck, she’s sewn a simplified outline of their little house in thick yarn. Coral pink for him. Navy blue for her. He smoothes his thumb over the raised edge of it through her sweater, tracing the edge of the roof he’d once climbed and the gutter that hangs from a rusted screw that had once torn a red line down his calf and the corner of the eastern wall, which sports a hairline fracture from its settling foundation.
“Where you carry it.” Maran mumbles into her shoulder. Home’s where you carry it. It’s their code. Has been for as long as he remembered — at some point, he’d been little and unwilling to leave her arms to go to a neighbor’s or stay the night at a friend’s or be apart. Clingy, the both of them — I miss you, I’ll miss you was too much. Made them into congested full-on snotty, sniveling tears. And of course when one of them went off, the other was inevitable.
“Shut up.” She groans, shaking him by dancing foot-to-foot. He laughs to be jostled. “Oh my days, Maran, would you shut your mouth? Really? I’d just stopped.”
But she says it back as he loads his meager packing over a shoulder. Really, really leaving. She says it a bunch of times, muddled between words of a prayer meant to shelter and guard and protect. One that, technically, asks him to be guided through a peaceful night into a safe return the next morning. Maran has never heard her pray aloud before.
And Maran won’t return the next morning.
He won’t return for many, many more mornings.
*
He falls asleep on the bench at the docks, arms locked tight around the packed-full bag in his lap. He falls asleep on the ferry. He is the only passenger this late in the season, but his arms stay locked tight, fingers digging into the over-stuffed bag. He falls asleep, and because he sleeps so soundly to the crash of the waves against the boat, he would have no sense of time passing except for the mark of the sun in the sky. It warms his face. It warms his dreams; in them, he’s still sleeping, except now it’s a gentle summer morning beneath a willow
By its position, he wakes in late afternoon. He stumbles sleepily towards the cabin and knocks on the door. Privately, as it swings open, he imagines a dusty tomb’s crypt slab sliding free: the ferryman is up there in age. He’d been the only one to know the coordinates of their destination and how to navigate the waters — beyond the sound, the water became unpredictably shallow in places. The wrong captain would gut his ship trying to coast without experience.
The old man looks as though he’s fallen asleep on the trip, as well. Maran isn’t sure if that’s a good sign, that he can make such a trip at ease, or a poor one. And, is it worse than the laugh he’d let out when Maran requested the lighthouse? Worse than the humored oh, there? he’d volleyed back?
*
The boat stops a distance away. Maran stands on the upper deck, fists tight to then rail. Like the boat can hold him there, in place. Like the inlet stretching before them is magnetic, like it wants to pull him, like if he lets go, he might as well be yanked across the remaining distance.
Rest of the way on foot, the ferryman tells him. Maran doesn’t want to fucking move. He doesn’t want to look, either, but he can’t stop.
He wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d gone into this blind, knowing it was good money for a reason. Not knowing — this.
He thinks it looks like the half-finished grave of a monster, too ferocious to be properly buried. The craggy rocks and sea-sodden dirt pile unevenly around each spire where they rise from the earth. Every jutting piece of metal has been spaced evenly from the last; they form a gaping maw of time-tarnished teeth threatening to break through the mantle. At the center is the towering lighthouse, its white gold eye blinking shut, rotating, blinding, repeating.
The pattern is hypnotizing. He’d gotten in trouble for tearing a page from an oceanography picture book: an anglerfish and its beautiful lure, even on paper, had scared him that bad.
As he stares upwards at the light, chin tilted towards the gentle patter of rain, Maran can only think of that crumpled page.
“Cut it too close.”
Maran jumps.
The ferryman extends the meager canvas bag. His frail arm isn’t so frail after all, even frozen there while Maran waits for his brain to catch back up to the moment. They stand at the edge of a rocky piece of land, jutting through the sea and extending towards the lighthouse in a narrow strip.
“Sorry?”
As he slings the bag over his shoulder, Maran follows the old man’s gesture towards the monster — the lighthouse — in the distance.
“Said, nearly cut it too close. Bridge’ll be gone by morning, if not sooner. That big hill it sits on?” He laughs. “Hope you’re ready to do some sland living for the next season.”
Maran’s expression must betray his churning stomach, because the laugh tapers off. It isn’t followed by a noise of pity or comfort, which he sort of expects and would really like to hear. “Um, that — well. That wasn’t really mentioned.”
The ferryman brays another laugh and claps him so hard on the shoulder that the stumbles forward. A wave laps at the toe of his shoe. He dances back from the shoreline, back into the vicinity of the old bloke, whose sea-spied smell Maran can no longer differentiate from the rest of the salt in the air.
“Well of course it fuckin’ weren’t. Dumb enough fuckers, th’lot of the green ones like you. No offense. And even then, y’think they’d be stupid enough to take the job, fixed with all its details?” He snorts. “No chance.”
Maran stares.
“Like I said. No offense, lad. Look, stop givin’ me that. You’ll be right as, nice and cozy and cushy. Waited on hand n’foot, fresh fruit, meals cooked to your specifications…”
“You’re being a prick—”
“I’m providing levity to the situation at hand.” The man lifts his cap with a dramatically flourished bow that is cut short by a wince, hand to the small of his back. Maran fights a smile. “Ooh. Ow. You’ll need it, with the real prick about.”
Maran glances towards the rolling waves for a split second, which is as much as his stomach can bare before he gulps and has to look away. “Did they fail to mention the sea monster too, then?”
Another chortle. “Aye, there y’are. Levity. And naw, no monster — far as we know, right? Just company. ‘Least with that you can give yourself over to somethin’ other than the looming threat of isolation madness.” The ferryman wiggles his fingers.
He wrinkles his nose and slings the bag tighter to his body. If he makes it to the lighthouse quick enough, the whipping ocean air might yet have spared its smell of home. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Naw.” He agrees, winking and tapping his nose. “More.”
They part with no fanfare. Maran heeds his warning about the upcoming season and its weather and surrenders a fistful of candy in exchange for the promise of a note sent home, which he scrawls quickly against the ferryman’s curved spine.
Mum - Arrived. Incredibly creepy. View’s okay, otherwise. Sweater’s warm, thanks for patching that bit under the arm. Doing well! Will continue to do well! Will see you soon, doing fuckin’ well! -Maran
“Fuck’s sake,” the man crows, flapping a hand behind him. “Y’said one. A note, not a novel.”
*
It’s a fifteen minute walk towards the far shore. It is the longest fifteen minutes of his life. The lighthouse seems to not move any closer — and yet, at the same time, his eyes tell him it grows on the horizon. Closer and larger and closer and larger, until he walks into the shadow of one of its guarding spires. The one nearest him looks blackened at the top, and he realizes then that they must be lightning rods. The lighthouse itself is metal, or the exterior at least.
Algae slips beneath his shoes. The path is well worn. He keeps his eyes forward as he walks, too scared they’ll wander to the side and into the depths of the sea and he’ll find something looking back. But even still, his gaze is drawn down every few paces. He has to keep an eye on it or else he’ll fall, and being in the water with whatever lurks beneath the waves is worse than simply seeing it, right?
Like the path, the base of each spire —and the lighthouse itself — is dottingly adorned with barnacles, weathered a mottled gray in spots by salt, bleached in others by sun. But whatever metal composes them is dark. It doesn’t turn a pretty teal like aged copper, and yet he has a sense by looking at it the alloy is old. Maybe ancient.
At the thought, Maran shivers. He clutches his coat tighter to his body as he ascends the stairs up the hill, closer and closer to the rising pillar. Childishly, he’s relieved to find the lighthouse doesn’t hide the sun. He hates that in stories — when something blots out the sun. Fucking awful omen, if ever there was one. Instead, as he gazes up, he finds that it sits slightly to the left. He stands there, shielding his eyes and watching the yolk-yellow light drip as the horizon beckons it below, and breathes a sigh.
It’ll be fine. Home for awhile — not forever. Proper fucking scary, sure, but only awhile. Lid on the dramatics’ll make it easier.
Maran shuts his eyes and takes another deep lungful of air; it smells close enough to that his heart quiets a bit. The return of its steady beat gives him enough courage to take the stairs two at a time — stupid, because they’re slippery as the walk down. But it makes the trip more enjoyable. Makes it seem more fun and less like he’s walking himself towards…well. He isn’t sure.
An experience decidedly not fun.
*
He’s winded by the time he reaches the front door. It’s thick, weathered dark wood with a massive brass knocker. He contemplates it for a moment, finds he hasn’t the energy to lift the contraption, and instead braces himself on the frame. He surveys the rest of the inlet. Although the sky is clear, not yet hazed by the approaching night, he can barely make out the mainland’s sleek mirage. The ferry is also a further distance away than he thought — almost as if the old man had hurried to leave.
He shivers again, sick of omens. Sick of superstition. With a wet dog shake, he catalogues the rest of the tiny grounds. The lighthouse and its maw, which he tries hard not to think about as surrounding him too; a study oak two-story attaché that bulges from the side of the lighthouse obelisk like a tumor, dotted with narrow windows and an old chimney, where he presumes he’ll be boarding; a rainwater cistern and well with pumps that seem, from one glance, to be at least attached. Beyond, towards the far edge of the hill near the shore, is a storage shed and a chicken coop.
Maran brightens a bit at the idea of more company, other than a faceless nameless second keeper. He had no idea if the coop was occupied but his mum had always loved feeding birds. Every haircut, she’d make Maran gather his curls in a towel and toss them out the window.
Good nesting material.
When he goes to knock at the door, Maran’s rubbing a thoughtful hand over the crown of his head. He needs a cut.
The door swings open, and Maran thinks: well, at least I’m not the only one.
*
They sit at the tiny kitchen table. It’s a smaller room than even the one back home. At the thought of it, Maran shuffles. He fingers thread tighter together, knee bouncing.
He wouldn’t describe his company as unkempt. Haphazard, maybe. He needs a haircut, same as Maran: light strands spread out from his knit hat, stick to his cheeks from the damp sea breeze. He needs a new pair of boots, too. Maran knows how that goes.
Neither of them have taken off their coats yet; the other man sits back in his chair with a lazy recline, one arm tossed behind, his coat open and hanging off his shoulders. Maran looks everywhere but that penetrating, unblinking stare. He feels himself being sized-up, judged, found wanting.
Whatever expectations he’s had, Maran falls short.
“You’ve n-never done this before.”
It’s the first thing either one of them has said since Maran was ushered inside.
“Um.” He glances around the tiny room, making note of everything (stoveiceboxstoragebootscoatrackstairswindow) besides the other man and that stare. He laughs nervously. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.” The chair opposite creaks. Maran still doesn’t look up. “You scared of the ocean, or something?”
Maran thinks about that long, long fifteen minutes. He thinks about the waves lapping at either side of the rocky bridge. Thinks about his worn flat-soled shoes across slippery algae. Thinks about losing his footing. Thinks about falling in. Thinks about —
“Yes.” He laughs again. “Yeah, like. Very. Kinda daft, takin’ a job like this. I mean. Considering?”
“K-Kinda? Very.”
When he looks up, the stare has shifted towards the tight thread of his fingers. Maran feels the weight of it, the judgment, and squeezes tighter.
*
They don’t get on. Maran tries not to let it bother him. But the first thing he’s asked to do is fix a leak in the cistern collection pipe. He hasn’t a moment to set his things down, or find a good place to tuck the square of fabric he stows beneath his pillow, or clear his head of this new situation and its anxieties.
The order is lobbied, a bit coldly, in his general direction. Maran lets his hand drop to his side, smile faltering.
“I—Well, fuck. Thought we might as well be on a name basis, since we’ll be stuck together a bit.”
“If you last the night, s-sure.” He’s met not with an introduction but a cruel, smarter-than-you sneer. “Last five guys apparently tossed themselves from the top, and those were hardy s-seamen.” The other man snorts. “Seamen.”
*
He wishes he could speak to Benji. Just for a moment — just that quick burst of frustration to let out. Uncork. The excitement, the homesickness, the frustration, the fear. Instead, he settles for cursing under his breath the entire twenty minutes it takes to make the repair, the entire thirty seconds to round the lighthouse. The barrage of four-letter words only pauses when he finds the front door.
Bolted into the thicker metal is a panel. It’s about five hands tall and three across, with whirls and divots scattered across the surface. In some places, like each of the four corners, the metal has been worn smooth.
He realizes the barely visible markings must be all that remains of engraved letters. It looks as though the plaque is commemorative of the lighthouse’s birthdate, or maybe who its named after, or a historical tidbit. Whatever the details, they’ve been lost to time.
Passing through the entry gives Maran another missed detail. A sudden gust of wind sends him lurching in quite a bit faster than he intended. His shoulder connects painfully with the doorframe, and something digs in to the swell of his bicep.
The other keeper is nowhere to be seen, so he doesn’t feel so bad about the startled yelp he lets out. Pouting, Maran rubs at the sore spot and looks for the culprit — only to discover that it’s a thick chunk bolted to the interior frame. The shape is familiar, a rectangle about as long as his finger and domed slightly. He smiles a little, thumbnail tracing the marking barely visible beneath layers of paint: a mezuzah.
They don’t have any in the entryways of their home, but his mum had told him about her childhood. And this far, it was a good reminder of that connection.
He had been hoping it would curb some of the lingering fear.
*
It doesn’t. The fear twists in him until he falls asleep, and then without his consciousness to stifle, it springs forth. Maran dreams.
He steps up to the door and presses his hand on the plaque and is snatched into the sky. By the wind, or a hand in the back of his shirt, or the earth falling slipping beneath his feet. He hovers far above the inlet, a proper island now that the sea has eaten the path. No return. No hope going back home.
When Maran reaches up to check that the embroidery still nestles against his neck, the ground rushes to meet him. He falls and falls and falls, plummeting towards the ground. He thinks briefly to look up, at the sky and sun, maybe have his tragic final moment be nice at least. But his skull is locked forward like there are icy fingers holding him still. Forcing him to watch as the grey rock and coarse sand rushes to meet him. He’ll be broken against the rocks, or flatten to the waves, or worse —
He doesn’t feel the landing. But when he tries to sit up and assess the damage, hand behind him to touch the ground, it isn’t there. Looking to either side, he realizes he’s hovering slightly — but not caught by divine machination or mysterious mercy.
Instead, one of the spires has made an impaled home in his gut. There’s no blood, no tear in his jumper, no pain. When Maran reaches up to touch the metal, a soft oh leaves his lips.
*
It’s a scream when he wakes, though. He has the sensation of falling as he shoots upright, and it takes a moment to gather himself. He’s sweating, a hand clutched to his shirt.
On the other side of the shared living space, Maran’s unnamed companion also sits awake. His legs are pale, dangling over the edge of his cot — well, Maran has the cot. He has the bed. First come, first serve.
“N-nightmare?”
Maran nods. His breathing wavers. He doesn’t want to cry in front of a stranger.
“Yep.” He lies back down abruptly, turning his back too Maran. “Figured. Don’t go s-swimming. There’s an algae bloom. You’ll get fl-flesh eating bacteria and die. Slowly.”
Maran takes as deep a breath as he can manage. His hand, flattening over his stomach, doesn’t find a raised scar or wet wound or evidence at all of his dream. The relief feels childish. “Okay.”
There’s a stretch of silence, where Maran thinks the other man might have fallen asleep, then:
“Benson.”
*
The first week, Maran chips away at the mezuzah’s paint. He doesn’t recognize the letter carved into the wood, but he knows it’s oak — like the rest of the house. He finds another bolted to the beam that supports the spiral stairs leading up to the top of the lighthouse. There’s no door, no entryway, and he’s baffled as to why it’s there of all places when none sit in the frames of the living space of bathroom or storage shed. He stares up at the dizzying spiral, the flash-blink-flash of the mysterious light above, and decides not to dwell.
Instead, in the first week, he assesses the coop: full of fed and happy hens and one unhappy. He sterilizes and fashions an empty barrel in the shed to hold water in case of emergency, which gets a an approving nod from — Benson is a mouthful, but Maran hasn’t called him Ben anywhere but his own head. As starved as he is for companionship and guidance in this new place, the other keeper seems more interested in keeping to himself than listening to Maran ramble.
The first week, Maran carries home on his back and tries to make the best. He flings himself into chores, preparing with all the (admittedly meager) knowledge he has of surviving a long season. And he avoids the spires. He avoids looking at them. He doesn’t touch them. He gives them, as best as the small expanse of land will allow, as respectful a distance as possible.
For what it’s worth, the dream doesn’t repeat.
*
The second week, the third, the fourth: they pass. He hasn’t nearly enough to fill the hours, but there’s work enough to be done that he manages. There is a bookshelf full of dusty paperbacks and a few hardcovers that he largely ignores. Nothing calls to him (reading never has), and his fingers would feel gruesome touching page corners previously flipped by the dead.
Bens— Ben has no trouble devouring their contents. He finishes a book a day. Maybe more. Even the thick academic tomes eventually get placed in his finished pile. Over time, Maran urges a summary from each. Mysteries, thrillers (an ear-reddening romance that seems more wank-accessory than literature), and even an ancient almanac.
“The weather patterns and harvests and b-b-biodiver —” Ben pauses, his brow furrowing. “The environment completely changed. It’s fascinating.”
Maran listens to all this with a fist tucked under his chin, attention rapt. Just because he doesn’t want to read doesn’t mean he lacks interest. Ben, as it turns out, is the perfect teacher. And for good reason; Maran finds out, as the time stretches, that he’s a scientist. While the money called, the opportunity for research seemed more attractive to Ben.
“It’s just a little lighthouse.” Maran laughs. “What’s so interesting about ten paces of grass and some chickens?”
“It’s w-weird.” Ben asserts, leaning across the rickety table to make a serious face. Maran laughs. The smile that’s been pulling at the corner of Ben’s mouth comes out full force. For the first time. “Nobody’s studied it. Little isolated place, all this sea around it? S-Something’s here.”
He launches into theories, then. Barometric pressure readings and tidal temperatures and nitrogen levels in stagnant pools and evolutionary patterns of fauna —
Maran is kept by no invisible force; simply sits there, hands around his mug of tea, blinks occasionally. Mostly, listens.
*
He tries to keep track of the time, after that. Things become…strange. The weather milds, then worsens. It snows early, and then he finds a raspberry bush behind the coop that boasts new buds. Maran finds his hair needs to be cut. Without a mirror, he has no choice but to go to Ben.
“What’s the best way to go about this, you reckon?” Maran laughs haltingly, empty bin for clipping clutched to his chest.
Benny glances around, then back at Maran, the slight difference in their heights with his boots and Maran’s trainers, the kitchen table. Then he drags the chair over (with an awful screech that makes Maran wince) and hops onto the table. It sways but doesn’t break. When he tugs the chair and gestures towards it, Maran hesitates.
“C’mon. You want it b-buzzed. It’s that hard. I’m not gonna d-do you dirty.” Ben laughs. It’s become a more common sound over the past month. Still, he stays where he is. Ben rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Maran.”
He goes. He goes immediately. Maran stumbles on the leg of the chair and is caught at the shoulder by a firm hand, but eventually he plants himself in the wooden seat.
He isn’t sure he breathes the entire length of the haircut. But that can’t be right — it takes too long. Ben is meticulous. Ben is careful. He makes small talk about his latest experiment, something about nematodes and red algae. Maran watches curls float softly to the bottom of the bin and wonders if he’s getting sick. His head’s pounding with his pulse, and his brain’s foggy. He touches a finger under his nose at one point; he’d been prone to nosebleeds as a kid. His fingerprint comes back dry.
Ben lays a hand across his shoulder. “All done.”
Maran doesn’t move for a moment. His eyes lift, and he glances across the room, out the thin window that sits just above the utility sink.
There are storm clouds on the horizon.
He must say as much, because Ben leaps to his feet. “Fuck, those stupid fucking birds are out.”The table rattles. So does the bin, when Maran drops it. He scoops up the hair that flutters out, feeling tears prick at his eyes when a tuft slips out the open door on the wind. The gulls have cleared out already — there’s no birds who will use it for their nest. He watches as the clouds creep closer, and is inexplicably filled with dread.
*
The next morning, Ben sits at the table with his head folded in his hands.
“We lose something?” Maran asks tiredly, rubbing a fist into his sleep-sore eye. “Cistern looked fine when I checked but if there’s a repair —”
“Supply was supposed to be yesterday.”
Maran blinks a few times. He glances at the door. “Oh. The storm.”
Ben’s eyes are red-ringed when he lifts his head.
*
Maran does it. He makes the excuse for more firewood from the pile, but Ben’s smart. Ben’s the scientist. He must know. He chooses the oldest girl and kisses an apology to the top of her head before it’s lobbed off, clean and kind. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to say, if he’s meant to say anything, so he just repeats the snippets he heard from his mum. Shelter, guard, peace over night and safety the next morning.
*
Rationing isn’t hard. They only have to do it for a little, anyway. And Maran is used to lean months — he knows how to make rice last, chicken can keep on ice for six months on a stretch, and there’s plenty of canned things to pick through if it comes to that.
It’s not the chickens that starts to do Ben in. It’s the inconsistent weather, the nights that feel shorter than eight hours, and sometimes, the water near the south edge of the inlet reads boiling.
Maran isn’t sure if that’s algae. He doesn’t think so — but he’s not the scientist.
The scientist insists there’s something there. The scientist starts having nightmares. Maran wants to ask if they’re the same as his, because they touch his mind some nights, too. He’s scared of the answer. He’s scared that it’s only been three months, and the isolation has gotten to them both.
“Is it electric?” Maran asks one evening as he’s bundling up at the base of the stairs, chin tipped up towards the flash-blink-flash. A panel has come loose near the top, and someone needs to fix it. Ben hadn’t needed to ask for Maran to know it would need to be his job.
He looks at Ben when his inquiry his met by silence. They rarely are. Ben looks even paler than usual, washed in the patterned churn of darkness and light, dark and light. His eyes reflect the light; Maran thinks it might be more hypnotic against that blue than the dark blanket of sky. He doesn’t say as much, and when the moment passes, he wishes he had.
“I don’t know.” Ben gestures around them. No wires, he doesn’t say but Maran gathers. No generator. But it goes and goes, a continual spin, continual light. There are no traces of burnt soot or wick or lantern oil to pretend it’s light is sourced by fire. The original analog. It must be electric. *
It hurts to think about, so he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t make Ben think about it either. That night, they do nothing but swap embarrassing stories like a couple of kids, cross-legged on the floor with a split two-thumbs of the last flask of rum and an unfinished card deck. Ben wins, but only (Maran insists) because most of the hearts are missing.
When Maran lands on his cot, the left leg that creaks and keeps him up when he turns splinters, shatters, drops him to the floor.
Ben laughs, but it’s not the usual pleasantly high lilt. It sounds a little manic. Maran feels manic. He splays arms and legs out, a starfish on dry land, and stares up at the weathered ceiling.
“I don’t want to jinx it—”
“D-Don’t, oh hah — oh, don’t fucking say anything you b-b-b—”
Maran raps his knuckles against the floor. “It cannot get fucking worse than this, mate. Swear!”
Ben tosses himself back against the mattress, and the creak that resounds in the quiet air makes them both pause — anticipating the comedic timing— but remains upright. They catch each others eye, and the laughter doubles. Maran’s stomach hurts with the force of it. When he splays his hand across his tensing gut, he hopes he thinks of this moment instead of his nightmare.
Ben catches his breath. And then he leans across the space, one hand braced on the floor, to tug at Maran’s jumper. There’s another pause, another quiet swell of silence, another extended moment where they lock eyes.
Ben doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer. But he shuffles back, shoulders to the wall, and makes room.
Maran fills it.
That night, there’s another storm.
*
There’s another storm. Or earthquake. Or other tectonic shift. Something that shakes the inlet, shakes the attached house and spills pans and belongings and rations, knocks a shelf from the wall, rattles the furniture, forces the lighthouse to creak and groan like a metallic beast.
Something. Maran isn’t the scientist, but the waves beat as high as the window and the coop is washed away by morning and the cistern is flooded with salt, has to be pumped, and —
And it’s something. And the light is red.
The light has gone red. Flash-red-blink-flash-red. Red.
*
Ben joins him at the base of the stairs. Neither of them climb up to investigate. Neither of them externally share the internal fear that it might be a one-way trip.
They go about their day without speaking. There’s no acknowledgement of the light, or how it spreads in a sick tinge across the waves, or how it doesn’t breach the surrounding fog nearly as well as the bright golden yellow. Maran doesn’t ask him to read the aviary guide’s entry on canaries, and Ben doesn’t offer — he makes space, and Maran fills it.
Maran has a nightmare. He dreams of climbing the stains and sitting on the floor in front of the light. He dreams of watching it turn (slowslowslowly). He understands, in that distant dreamlike way, that when it touches him that will be It. And when it does, red light spilling over the patch in his jeans at the knee, it burns through denim and skin and bone and all that’s left of him, at the top of that staircase, is the flash of red over dust.
He wakes, but not violently. Arms around his waist keep him in place; he can only jerk forward, as if throwing himself away from the heat, and cry out. There’s a knowing, similar to his dream, that if he opens his eyes all he’ll see is that reflected wash of crimson.
He doesn’t say anything. Ben, face buried in his shoulder, only shushes quietly. He turns until Maran has no choice but to do so as well, until their positions are switched. Maran draws air as they slot together, moves back a bit — he starts to apologize, because it was nightmare but —
Ben pats behind him for Maran’s hip. His hand fits snugly there, grips with a strength and insistent that spills heat into Maran’s face. Then he yanks Maran forward until they press together, chest to back and hip to hip, legs warmly tangled.
“Sorry.”
Ben hums sleepily. “For?”
Maran can’t verbalize it. Too embarrassing, too heavy the shame. His lips part but stutter over the explanation. And he can’t move to explain, because — well —
“Um. You know.” He sighs when there’s silence. “Ben, mate. C’mon.”
The body tucked against him shudders with a laugh, which does absolutely nothing to fix the situation at hand.
“S’fine. I’m fucking with you, Maran. H-Happens.” When Maran takes his turn with silence, he isn’t permitted to get away with it. Ben nudges himself back (purposefully, the bastard, it has to be) and makes Maran gasp. “Regularly, here’s hoping.”
“Fuck you.” Maran grumbles, but the heat is probably lost when he rubs his cheek into a sharp shoulder blade and falls immediately back to sleep.
*
The next morning, just as Ben leans in with hands cupping Maran’s cheeks, a foghorn sounds.
Ben squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his tongue — which Maran cannot help but stare at — against his canine, head falling with a thump-thump-thump against the pillow they shared.
“If this is a hallucination I’m going to be actually so fuckin’ pissed.”
Maran shifts, untangling their limbs from the almost-kiss embrace. It would have been nice. He wants it. More than he realized, he thinks, until they were exactly here. But —
“That’s the ferry.”
They stare at each other. Then they nearly trip over one another bolting for the stairs.
*
It is. It’s not a hallucination. It is the fucking ferry.
Both of them, barefoot and in nothing but thermal underclothes, rush out the front door and steps towards the edge of the water. It’s still too shallow for the vessel, so Maran takes the dinghy out to bring the old familiar face to the inlet.
“Light’s gone wonky, then?”
“Have you ever seen it do that?” Maran asks, putting a plate of ration-gruel in front of the man. “Sorry. All we got.”
The old ferryman makes a face. It isn’t a pleasant one at all. “Rough month, lads?”
*
When he’s gone, and the sack of supplies rests against the front door like a sandbag meant to keep something out, Maran watches Ben pace the floor.
“A month.”
“It can’t have been.” Maran insists quietly, hands tucked between his knees. “It can’t have been just a month. I was counting days. We ate three of supplies — we nearly ran out.” He stares up at Ben, eyes not just wet but brimming, spilling over. “Are we losing it? Are we?”
“No.” Ben’s turn to insist. He takes Maran’s chin in his palm and shakes him gently. The other flattens over the top of his scalp. “Your hair grew, Mar. It grew. That’s n-n-not a month’s fuckin’ worth of hair I cut.”
But they have no explanation, do they? Other than isolation. A mistracking of days, no matter how precise Ben is, how clean and careful his records. How consistent his notes. Wrong? And the sun in the sky, the passage of time; if he counts the minutes of boredom, that can’t wrong. Seconds, minutes, hours: real. Tides: real. Moon phases: real. That can’t be wrong. Ben can’t be. There has to be another explanation. There has to be another way —
Maran’s brow furrows.
“I think.” He glances up at Ben, whose hand falls away to rest over the back of his neck. Maran hasn’t told him about the embroidered house at his nape, but a pale thumb rubs its comforting circle there, anyway. “I think you were right.”
“What? Your hair?”
“No.” Maran glances over his shoulder towards the door that separates them from the interior of the lighthouse. He thinks of the mezuzah on the beam. “No, Ben. That there’s something here. I think it’s underneath.”
Ben’s hands sting when they clap to his cheeks, but the kiss makes the pain worth it. Or, Maran thinks privately, maybe sweeter.
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omg what is that`??? the lighthouse keeper au??!! a treasure that nobody remembers
been feeling this au lately. i have like so many ideas but they all are scattered around and not in a neat little order that i would like.
#ough#might go spooky mode for this bc lighthouses are inherently scary#jason todd#kyle rayner#lighthouse au#jaykyle
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So I was rereading your last update to the common hours and Charlie is sending me hahahaha “How do you think I feel? I’m heterosexual!”
Also very excited for your lighthouse keeper AU - loved la hantise and the vibe of it and have a feeling this is going to be good!!
LOLL that's probably my favorite line of anything i've written i made myself laugh writing it hahah. i'm glad you liked it too:P
i am so glad you're excited!! i am too. it's like la hantise but grittier and no punches pulled. i'm having a really good time writing it.
#evenafteryou#answered ask#the common hours#destiel lighthouse keepers au#i was just about to try and write the rest of a chapter so i hope that goes well#it has like... the vibes of la hantise in the spooky aspect but it's a little darker all around plot-wise than la hantise was#LA HANTISE IN SEPIA lol
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Best of 2023 Good Omens Fanfiction
This is my list of the 20 best Good Omens fanfiction works I've read in 2023.
A few notes:
These are all complete works; there are no WIPs in the list.
Please feel free to let me know if a link stops working
It's not an ordered list. That would be far too difficult.
You'll probably recognize some of the most popular ones. They're popular for a reason, after all, but I hope you find something you haven't yet read.
The majority are full-length works, but there are definitely some shorter pieces.
These are certainly not the only good works I've read, but they are the ones I'm most likely to read more than once
Click the Keep Reading to see the list
If you're the author of one of these, first off, thank you! But second, if you want me to add your tumblr name to your story, let me know, and I'll edit.
This first section, all the stories are canon-compliant or canon-adjacent. In other words, it's at least somewhat set in the Good Omens universe.
a lighthouse (burning) (108K; Rated M)
This one is canon-adjacent and set in the 19th century. Aziraphale goes to a lighthouse to figure out where all the lighthouse keepers disappeared to, and Crowley follows along. This one is a bit of a spooky mystery along with the romance, and the writing style is simply beautiful. You really get a sense of being trapped in this lighthouse in the middle of nowhere.
***
The Grindr Logo Doesn't Even Have a 'G' In It (79K; Rated E)
It's honestly hard to remember that this one isn't human AU, but they're still just as angelic/demonic as ever. Aziraphale joins Grindr and starts texting (and then sexting) with a charming young man. It's no secret to the reader who this new hookup is. This story is genuinely funny at times. I like the funny ones.
***
The Whole Damned World Seemed Upside Down (103K; Rated M)
This is one of the best reverse omens stories I've read that isn't technically a reverse omens. Crowley wishes things were different after leaving the bookshop, and the universe gives him his wish. He finds himself in a world where Aziraphale hates him, Death has trouble taking lives, and basically everything you knew about the world of Good Omens is upside down. It's very funny. It uses inline footnotes (which is good, because it has a LOT of footnotes), and Death is hilarious.
***
it's a new craze (5K; Rated T)
Another one that seems like it should be human AU but isn't. Crowley and Aziraphale start up a podcast after the Notpocalypse and gain a loyal fanbase who can't figure out if they're a couple or not. They often forget who their audience is and often reference events in their shared history that make no sense to the humans listening.
***
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a demon in possession of a mobile phone, must be in want of attention (6K; Rated G)
And yes, that is the entire title. Another funny short story where a couple of podcast hosts receive a call from a certain angel whose demon trapped himself in his phone and won't leave.
***
In Mixed Company, or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell (52K; Rated M)
I've read this one at least three times, and it's probably my favorite of all. Every 300 years, Heaven and Hell share a company retreat on Earth during which angels and demons surrender their celestial powers and hold retreats. It has a great new angel friend of Aziraphale's; Hellish Powerpoint presentations; Gabriel being annoyingly chipper; and Aziraphale and Crowley sneaking around like teenagers trying to find some alone time.
***
How To Woo A Demon (24K; Rated T)
Aziraphale researches demonic courtship rituals and starts implementing them in order to convince Crowley he wants to take their relationship to the next level. Crowley is very confused by Aziraphale's actions. Another cute, funny one.
***
Factory Settings (107K; Rated T)
This one is famous for coming out practically as S2 dropped, making people think whoever wrote it (the author is anonymous) had something to do with the production of the show.
This is the only one I'm going to say anything negative about. There are a lot of spelling errors and typos in it. It needs a hard editing pass. Despite that complaint, I devoured this story as fast as I could scroll. It's that good, and even knowing all the errors are there, I'll probably still re-read it. I'm usually pretty picky about errors like that, so for me to overlook it and even recommend it, means I really liked it.
Crowley gets reinstated as the angel, Raphael, with no memory of his time as Crowley, and Aziraphale struggles to return him to his demonic self. It's heart-breaking and wonderful and I absolutely loved it.
***
One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) (17K: Rated E)
Much like In Mixed Company, Heaven and Hell come together for a corporate retreat on Earth. In this one, some totally random demon who's name definitely doesn't rhyme with Bowley created a wager in Hell to see which demon could bed an angel first.
Another funny one. This time, a lot of the humor comes from the demons doing their best to pick up the angels with really bad pickup lines.
***
We Only Said Goodbye with Words, I Died A Hundred Times (9K; Rated E)
If I could learn to write even half as good as this, I'd be ecstatic. The emotions the author packs into this story are mind-blowing.
Crowley receives a cursed amulet that creates an ever-increasing need for the person he wants the most and goes to see Aziraphale.
***
To reveal my heart in ink (29K; Rated E)
Aziraphale starts writing letters to Crowley by mail. The letters they exchange slowly get more and more explicit.
***
Pray For Us, Icarus (66K; Rated G/T)
The author wrote this one as a series, so each one varies in chapter count and rating, but they tell a single, contiguous story.
This was the first long-form GO fanfiction I read, and it was way too close to the ending of S2. I really should've waited a while, because holy cow, is this one heartbreaking.
For three hundred years, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has spent those three hundred years trying to restore him to his true self.
The author, Atalan, is probably one of the best writers on the site. This story is stunning in the quality of its writing, in the pacing of the story, and in the emotions evoked. I normally don't like being sad (like I said, I like the funny ones), but I've saved this story off to make sure I always have it.
***
Pretend For Me (53K; Rated E)
In a panic, Aziraphale tells the archangels that he survived hellfire due to his soul mixing with Crowley's because they're in a romantic and sexual relationship, but now they want them to prove it.
I'm a sucker for fake relationship stories, and there aren't a whole lot of them where the characters are still angel/demon, but this one is. It's another fun one, though a bit more angsty than some of those I listed above.
***
The following are all human AU. Good chance you'll recognize all or most of these.
Married At First Sight (147K; Rated T)
One of the most recently completed stories in the list, this is a fake relationship story where Aziraphale and Crowley join a reality show that marries complete strangers off to each other. Their new marriage starts off on a less than idyllic foot and they decide to fake it for the show. The author is a master of making you want to scream "for fuck's sake, just talk to each other, you walnuts!"
Probably one of my favorite fake relationship stories.
***
Postcards From Paris (12K; Rated G)
The author, ghostrat (@mrghostrat), is a fantastic writer of human AU, and it's worth going through his entire backlist (and read his current WIPs, too).
Crowley moves into his Mayfair flat and starts receiving postcards addressed to the previous tenant from one A.Z.F., who is in Europe hunting for bizarre bibles and rating wine. Sweet and fluffy and the perfect antidote if you've just been on an angst binge.
***
Or Be Nice (151K; Rated E)
I stayed up until 6:30 in the morning reading this one, crashed for three hours, then read until I finished it. Then that night, I started it again.
This is, without hesitation, my all-time favorite human AU. It's funny. I love the author's version of the characters, and I will probably end up reading it again in just a few months. I probably already would have if it wasn't for the length of my Mark For Later and Subscription lists.
Crowley and Aziraphale are neighbors who get into a noise war. They both have their reasons for their actions, though to be honest, Crowley is a bit of an ass at first. Once they really start talking, though, they are absolutely wonderful together.
Even if you've never read a human AU, I recommend at least giving this one a try.
***
What We Make Of It (Shotgun Wedding) (213K; Rated E)
This is the third charlottemadison work on this list. 15% of this list is just this one author. That's how good they are.
Aziraphale works as an English teacher. Crowley is the guardian for his nephew, Adam, and works for a school testing company. Crowley can't risk his job dating his nephew's gorgeous and charming teacher. Unless...
Crowley comes up with a crazy plan. Now he just has to convince Aziraphale to go along with it.
Again, another very popular human AU. One thing I love about this story is how there's a lot less angst between the two characters, and how they both really care for Adam.
***
Slow Show (95K; Rated E)
The very first human AU I read. Didn't even think I'd like that specific genre until I read it. Now, as you can see, it's about half of my reading list.
This is an actor AU. Aziraphale (named Avery here) and Crowley are actors working together on a new show. Avery is an award-winning, straight-laced, well-respected actor; Crowley is a mess who immediately falls head-over-heels for him and somehow has to get through the show without letting his (apparently straight) costar realize that.
***
South Downs (76K; Rated E)
Another actor AU. This time, Aziraphale is an openly-gay actor, well-respected for his period drama work. Crowley is a once-blackballed actor who jumps at the chance to star in a gay Regency romance with Aziraphale in the hopes it can restart his career. The trouble is, Crowley is struggling to play the romantic lead opposite a man.
I love the growing friendship between these two as much as the romance. I love how comfortable and confident Aziraphale is here; and how caring he is toward Crowley's growing awareness of his sexuality.
***
This one doesn't really fit either category, so I'm putting it here.
The Rose and the Serpent (56K; Rated M)
By the same author as Pray For Us, Icarus comes a GO retelling of Beauty and the Beast. Aziraphale is sent off by his older brother, Gabriel, into the forest to be held hostage by a giant snake in a cursed castle. Turns out, neither the snake nor the castle are what he was expecting.
Light-hearted and with very memorable characters, the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale is simply stunning. I love how Newt and Anathema are used here. The quality of this one is as good as Icarus, and I loved this one so much I could easily have read 300K more words.
***
And bonus: mine!
The Beginning of the End (Again) (79K; Rated M)
The first fanfiction I've ever written and the first book I've written in a decade. I had the first two chapters in mind after finishing S2, and the story grew from there. I actually have a sequel in mind after I finish another, separate fake relationship story.
Crowley spends months drowning his sorrows after Aziraphale accepts the Supreme Archangel position, until a group of demons shows up one day and tells him the Second Coming is nearly upon them, and they want him to stop it. Turns out being a demon isn't much fun if there are no humans left to tempt.
Aziraphale has spent these last months in Heaven looking for ways to stop the Second Coming while mourning the way he and Crowley left things. After discovering that Hell's minions have been tasked by the Metatron to escort the son of God on a tour of Earth in preparation for his Second Coming, he hurries down to see what's going on, fearing the worst.
Instead he discovers Crowley escorting the Messiah around Earth. Is his demon taking the son of God on dates?
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Masterlist
Hi I'm Tee! I write fanfic and am entirely feral. Smoke, Fire and Ash is my first ever fanfic and is still ongoing. I'm in my mid twenties, and have always enjoyed reading and writing! My AO3 is the same handle @asumofwords
I write for Aemond Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, Larys Strong (lol), but am open to writing for other characters such as Joel Miller (TLA), Negan or Daryl (TWD), Loki, Bucky, Zemo, Venom, Miguel O'Hara (MARVEL), Frank Castle (Punisher), open to most GOT characters too.
But I'm also open to writing for other characters so it's best to just ask if you're unsure!! <3
Am excited to explore these characters in my writing in the future!
Currently my requests are CLOSED!
BOUNDARIES FOR REQUESTS: I will not write for anyone who is underage (actor and character) and I will not write anything for stepdad/stepchild fics.
If you would like to be added to a general writing tag list, click here.
Aemond Targaryen:
Smoke, Fire and Ash (COMPLETED)
Dark! Aemond Targaryen x Reader
The Sublet Masterlist (COMPLETED)
Modern!Aemond x Reader, Roommate!AU
Lighthouse - Miniseries - (COMPLETED)
Sailor!Aemond x LighthouseKeeper!Reader
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Til Death Do Us Part - Oneshot
Dark!Modern!Aemond x Reader, Divorce!Au
Ettore from High Life:
Treat
Michael Gavey from Saltburn:
Midpoint Common Factors
REQUESTS:
Unsought Betrothal - Dark!Aemond Targaryen
Unsought Betrothal Part 2 - Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Reader
Cock sizes Drabble
What Aemond, Aegon, Daemon, Jace and Criston fancy.
Linger - Ghost!Aemond x Reader, Possessed!Cregan x Reader, Spooky Season >:)
If you wish to be put on the taglist, please let me know ! :)
#masterlist#aemond x reader#aemond targaryen fanfic#dark!aemond#aemond#fanfic#hotd#dark!#aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen smut#aemond x fem!reader#aemond x you#aemond x y/n#aemond targaryen x y/n#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond smut#hotd smut#dark!aemond targaryen x reader#dark!aemond x reader#dark!aemond targaryen#house of the dragon#hotd fanfic#dark!fic#fic#series#aemond one eye
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hey guys i’m being soo normal about dredge rn (lie) and i’m totally not making an au about it (lie)
anyway there may or may not be a drabble of this au under the cut
lizzie glances out the window, another wave of nausea flooding her as she sees the tendrils of fog reaching blindly for the boat. she blinks the tiredness from her eyes and turns the brightness of the floodlights up; she’ll get through this yet.
“how are you holding up?” she says over her shoulder. scar hasn’t said anything other than a couple warnings about red mist in half an hour, and lizzie is starting to worry.
“it- i’m okay.” scar says, quieter than he ought to be. lizzie glances at him briefly, noting the purple hue of the centres of his eyes.
“stay focused on the light inside here.” lizzie says, gentler. “don’t look outside, okay? it gets better.”
“hey I- I knew what I was signing up for.” scar says, a grin evident in his shaky voice. “I didn’t get on your boat to not see some spooky happenings!”
lizzie smiles a little. “well, regardless of the spooky stuff you wanna see, keep your eyes in the boat.” she doesn’t mention the vast number of.. creatures drawn to a panicking sailor, who would smell scar’s fear a mile away and make a beeline to the easiest meal.
“yes ma’am.” scar says, and lizzie can’t see him but she just knows he’s saluting her right now.
in all honesty, lizzie had tried to talk scar out of this impromptu midnight trip, but he was entirely insistent on joining her. he’d said he wanted to experience the things she’d been talking about, which made lizzie think he didn’t entirely believe her when she mentioned the dangers of the night—not that she blames him. if she was told about the ghosts and leviathans of the deeps, she doesn’t think she’d believe those stories unless she’d seen them for herself.
of course, lizzie hasn’t told anyone about the leviathan just yet. it- she will, she totally will, just.. a little later.
she didn’t want to scare them, okay. joel is entirely freaked by the ghost boats and the phantom crows that have attacked lizzie numerous times over—she’s always been fine after those attacks. the last thing she wants is to terrify him with the mindsuckers in twisted strand or those infuriating little fish at devil’s spine, and especially not the creature that resides in the pit of stellar’s basin. now, lizzie isn’t saying that it’s definitely the kraken, but.. well, what else could it be?
so yeah, lizzie certainly isn’t about to go telling everyone that she might be being stalked by a giant leviathan that she’s had nightmares about eating her if she strays to far from the mainland multiple times. not that she’s scared that, if she admits it out loud, she’ll have to face the reality of the situation. of course she isn’t. lizzie just doesn’t want to freak everyone else out, okay?
jarring her from her thoughts, lizzie jolts as she hears the distinct sound of a phantom foghorn—far too close for comfort. swearing under her breath, lizzie speeds up as the red of her irises begins to glow. she’s fine, they’ll be fine, so long as-
“scar,” she barks; no time to be soothing. “don’t look out of the window, don’t speculate on what that noise could be. focus on- I don’t know, focus on- on mumbo.”
“lizzie-“
“focus on mumbo!” lizzie shouts, voice pitching higher than she’d like it to as she does. “this is gonna get a little bumpy.”
the fog seems to bore into lizzie’s eyes as she searches desperately for any sign of light in front of her, flooding her mind with that awful red haze. the floodlights flicker and dim in front of them, and she slams her hand on the dashboard until they turn back on. she is not about to go driving in pitch black today.
there’s a kind of desperation clawing its way through lizzie’s chest as she catches the barest glimpses of the light from the moon dancing on the surface of the water, gone as soon as it appeared. the lighthouse is obscured by- something or other, whether that be gale cliffs or the research station or.. something else entirely. there’s no way for lizzie to know where they are, no landmark to gage their position, meaning her map is entirely useless. if she could just-
and there it is, a beacon of hope against the dismal gloom: an island. a dockable island—a lantern hanging off the edge of the planks. lizzie almost laughs in breathless relief—they’re fine, they’re safe, they’re gonna be okay. she doesn’t dare slow down, even as she’s mere metres away, in case the anglerfish is still on her tail. docks, as she’s learnt, are built to be strong and sturdy; it’d take more than her little fishing boat to break one.
in the end, it’s lucky she didn’t slow.
to her horror, her lights begin to sweep over the island, and where they should illuminate the foliage of the side, the entire landmass begins to disappear before her eyes. in a matter of seconds, the illusion of hope is revealed to be nothing but that: false. which means they remain lost, in the middle of an unforgiving ocean.
“scar,” lizzie tries her best to keep her terror out of her voice, but even to her own ears, she sounds almost hysterical. “can you look out the window and tell me if you can see any light.”
scar doesn’t respond, but there’s a quiet shuffling that tells her he’s doing as she asks. “there’s- the lighthouse is behind us. I think there’s another boat too.”
“lesson one of sailing, scar,” lizzie grits, turning the boat in a circle until she can see the lighthouse. “never go after a boat at night.”
“what if it’s a person in distress?” scar asks, and lizzie tries to hide her look of horror. she knew he was inexperienced, but that kind of naivety is what gets you killed.
“if they’re out here at night, that’s their problem.” lizzie says, narrowly dodging a mass of that stupid red mist—not that it’d change much. she’s already pretty insane. “but nine times out of ten, that’s an anglerfish that wants you as its supper.” she pauses. “no one expects you to save them out here. if you even start to rely on anyone but yourself when you’re in the open waters, you’re already dead.”
“I rely on you.” scar says, quiet.
lizzie allows herself a smile. “well, you’re on my boat. I just mean. the fog isn’t just this big spooky thing that makes you see things. it gets in your head, it brings stuff- real stuff out to get you, and half of it is disguised as hope.”
“so that- the foghorn earlier,” scar says slowly, sounding slightly more certain of himself. “that wasn’t a person?”
“oh. no- that was definitely not a person.” lizzie says. “i’m- i’m sorry, I thought I must have mentioned the anglerfish at-“
“that was the anglerfish?” scar interrupts. “you- I just thought it looked similar to a boat- it can dothat?”
“it didn’t used to be able to, that’s for sure.” lizzie scoffs. “the fog is more powerful than you expect it to be—and that includes when you expect it to be extremely powerful.”
there’s a stretch of silence, before- “you know, I think I might just travel in the daytime.”
lizzie cackles, some of the anxiety draining away. “I reckon that’s a pretty good idea, scar.”
#dredge#dredge game#lizzie ldshadowlady#ldshadowlady#gtws#gtw scar#goodtimeswithscar#this man has too many tags#trafficblr#wren writes
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Trigun fanfic recommendations!
I made a list of Trigun fic recommendations over on Twitter so I thought I’d share them here too! Some of these are spicy so mind the ratings and tags!
Echoes between stars by @faindri | Vashmeryl | Rated M
This fic is so amazing! You’ve got cat boy Vash, Meryl being a badass, action, plot twists that already have my jaw on the floor. Go read this immediately!
Sea foam by @noaafishfieldguide | Vashmeryl, Millywood | Rated T
Absolutely love this fic! If you like mermaids, small towns with big secrets, and the occasional spooky vibe, this fic is for you!
Thirty pieces of silver by @hashtagcaneven | Mashwood | Rated M
One thing y’all need to know about me is that I’m an absolute sucker for fantasy AUs and this one ticks all my boxes! It’s romantic, action packed, and beautifully written, GO READ IT!
Through the deep dark forest long by @dingusttmax | Mashwood | Rated M
Princess mononoke AU! This fic is absolutely fantastic and I love it so much that I’m currently working on binding it into a physical book
Reporter’s notes by @museqmeg | Vashmeryl | Rated M
Reporter’s notes was the first Trigun I ever read and I still love it to pieces! It’s sequels, Sheets and Snapshots, are also fantastic! Definitely a must read 💕
Separate the head and heart by Inkpot_gods | Mashwood | rated T
Did I mention I love fantasy AUs yet? this fic is absolutely fantastic and hits the fairytale vibes just right, I reread it at least once a week
Sometimes it’s heaven sent by @dingusttmax | Mashwood | Rated E
Have I ever watched pushing up daisies before? No, but I read this AU anyway and I’m so glad I did because it’s incredible and I think about this fic all the time
Fire on the mountain by Yuka_laylee | Mashwood | Rated M
This fic is SO good! I’ve never seen a Jurassic park themed AU before but it work so well and I can’t wait to see where the plot goes!
Get your hopes up by Shinzouing |Stryfewood / Mashwood | Rated E
I love me some post July Mashwood flavored Stryfewood and this is definitely my favorite one! I’ve reread this fic 4 or 5 times now and still find new things to love about it!
Heart on ripped sleeves by inkpot_gods | Mashwood | Rated E
This fic y’all, this FIC! It’s made me laugh at points and it also made sobbed so hard I had to take walk because of it, it’s so good. I haven’t got to read it’s sequels yet but I can’t wait to!
Runaway roots by starcrxssed | Mashwood | Rated E
This fic a bit heavier than my other recs so please mind the tags if you decide to read it but it’s still fantastic! I’m not usually one for strangers to lovers but this one is just 👌
The Lighthouse by EloFromMars | Vashwood | Rated E
I love me some spooky creature/ crypid Vash and this fic delivers just that and then some! I love all the Millywood friendship moments we get in here, it’s so nice to see how much they care about each other!
Hold me like a grudge by Lenipez | Mashwood | Rated T
I absolutely love fairies in fiction so this fic was already right up my alley! I love the how each side of the relationship has a different dynamic so far, I can’t wait to see how it all unfolds. My favorite part of the fic tho? Meryl calls Wolfwood kitten
Till forever falls apart by @chaoticbuka | Vashwood | Rated E
Or the alternate title “Buka hits me specifically right in the heartstrings” the fic lol but seriously I love this fic, the way that Wolfwood’s Vash haunts the narrative like the ghost that Nick originally should be is so good! As a side note, Vash has freckles here and I need more of that in my life 💕
A multitude of sins by DespiteWhatShouldBeOtherwise | Vashwood | Rated M
I’m only half way through this fic rn but it’s already so amazing! The romance might be slow burn but the plot is so engaging that you’re never bored and wondering when the romance will pick up. As a Meryl lover, I absolutely love that she’s so important to not only both Vash and Wolfwood but also the story itself.
#fanfic rec#fanficion#trigun#vash the stampede#mashwood#vashmeryl#meryl stryfe#nickolas d wolfwood#trigun au#trigun fanfiction#fanfiction recommendation#astra talks#fanfic#long post#text post#stryfewood
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Hidden Gems: A Shadowgast Rec List
This week, we have our recurring hidden gem list! Look under the cut for twelve great fics that have 150 kudos or less, and don't forget to kudos or comment if you like them!
Falling by CookiePirate51 (1805, General)
Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
In an alternate universe where the trip to Aeor between Caleb and Essek never happens, and they find their way to one another, anyway.
Reccer says: It's extremely sweet and atmospheric
The Legend of Widogast Manor by royalgreen (6620, Teen)
Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn
Essek is seeking magic and finds a mysterious manor, with an even more mysterious inhabitant
Reccer says: Two people in a secluded gothic manor, everyone's got secrets, and it's very sexy
Mirror Mirror by grassandcitrus (72276, Teen)
Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
After destroying the T-dock in the ruins of Aeor, Caleb and Essek are transported into an alternate timeline where Bren never broke and the Mighty Nein never met. Now they have to reassemble their friends inorder to get back home while also avoiding their alternate evil selves and navigate their complicated feelings for each other.
Reccer says: It gives a great insight as to what could have been if the M9 never came together. I love it and thinks it's very underated.
Lichtenberg Figures by Twistmalchik (1599, Explicit)
Reccer's Content Notes: Male Pregnancy, No one is actively pregnant in the fic, but past pregnancy is alluded to.
Caleb helps Essek find a way to relieve the ache in his chest after their daughter begins weaning.
Reccer says: I liked it!
mother/tongue by anxietiefling (1624, General)
Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
Caleb and Essek play with their daughters and speak to them in their first languages
Reccer says: It's beautiful, and has so many feelings about language, comprehension, loss, and migration.
the lovliest lies of all by royalgreen (1026, General)
Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
How do you rescue someone who doesn't want to be rescued? Essek doesn't know, but he's going to try.
Reccer says: It's very spooky and atmospheric and poetic and haunting
the hole in the stone by MinnesotaBruja (13243, Teen)
Reccer's Content Notes: Death of a Pet
Essek takes a position as a lighthouse keeper on a remote island after Cognouza. During that time, he writes letters to Caleb.
Reccer says: The yearning is top tier and the ending is so sweet. It's an incredible story.
Dancing Cheek to Cheek by soot_and_salt (3871, Mature)
Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
Ballroom dancing AU. Enough said
Reccer says: Sweet and full of yearning. A whirlwind little romance with Essek's arrogance and weariness colouring every interaction with Caleb. It's just so swoon worthy and the ending had me melting. Also nails that liminal hotel feeling.
foreign diplomacy by stygius (1087, Mature)
Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence
The Shadowhand helps Bren Aldric Ermendrud dispose of his master.
Reccer says: Scourger AU! Killing Ikithon has never been this sexy... very fun to see the dance of mistrust and attraction between Bren and Essek here! there's a sequel too
castle-temp red wine by 06151126 (12759, Teen)
Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
Part of a flawless and fascinating F1 racing AU, Essek invites Caleb to a fancy den dinner where everything falls apart
Reccer says: I don't know anything about F1 but this fic is so insanely compelling! The characterizations are perfect, the tension is thick, and I'm dying to see what happens next. If you like intricate, realistic AUs, definitely give this one a try!
when the cat’s away by Anonymous (3192, Explicit)
Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn, Under negotiated scene, Getting caught
Caleb catches Essek in a bit of comprimising position when he comes home early.
Reccer says: It's a complicated situation for Essek and Caleb that is written in such a intriguing and engaging way! The dynamics are so well done. (Also it's very hot.)
in the heart of every galaxy by boynamedhela (1809, General)
Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
Caleb gets a series of gifts that feel more like threats.
Reccer says: It is very sweet take on cultural differences.
Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast.
Check out the previous Hidden Gem Recs Lists here [1] [2] [3]
Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we'll have a list of humorous fics!
#Critical Role#critical role fan fiction#cr fic recs#shadowgast#caleb widogast#essek thelyss#fan fiction rec list
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Fanfic Friday
Here's what I've been reading this week (3 OFMD fics and 1 GO):
This Sudden Burst of Sunlight by @piratecaptainscaptainpirates, which as of yesterday is complete! It's a modern AU that starts with Ed in a pretty dark place, but over the course of 15 chapters he he meets Stede and finds his community and reconnects with his art (he's a painter) and basically learns to love life. It's a wonderful journey of healing and so so sweet.
Invisible String by @dimplyowl, which is an older, illustrated (!) modern AU with a fun twist: Stede lives in the modern world, but Ed is the star of Stede's comfort novel series, a fictional version of Blackbeard. One day Stede notices the books have started changing from what he remembers, and Ed seems to be trying to communicate with him? It should be hard to pull off but they make it look easy.
Switzerland by @oatmilktruther, which is set after season 2 and explores disordered eating. What I like about this (besides everything there is to like about their fics) is that we get to see Stede do some healing and processing. It makes perfect sense why so many of the post-canon healing fics are Ed-centric, but one thing that season 2 could have accomplished with enough time is some of the growth Stede still has ahead of him. This scratches that itch while also being beautifully written.
A Lighthouse (Burning) by @books-and-omens, whose back catalog I'm working through after recommending them last week. It's another location-focused, canon-divergent story that puts Crowley and Aziraphale in a position where they're forced to acknowledge their feelings for each other, while also reflecting on time and memory and choice and desire. Wonderfully evocative as expected and stuffed to the gills with spooky atmospheric vibes. Highly, highly recommended.
#happy reading#fanfic friday#fic recs#fic rec#ofmd fic#ofmd#our flag means death#edward teach#stede bonnet#gentlebeard#blackbonnet#ofmd s2#good omens fic#good omens fic rec#good omens#crowley#aziraphale
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Straw Hats Pokemon League AU
I don't think I'm the first to do this by any means but here we go! I started thinking of how I'd make a One Piece AU in a Pokemon game format. I tend to play fairly fast and loose with the way the teams are structured; I like the thing they did in Gen 9 where gym leaders get a Pokemon not from their assigned type to terastallize but I would also like to see more gym leaders oriented around certain themes or gimmicks than just mono typing. These are not even remotely balanced and the few that have some strategy like Nami's can go wrong super easily; they're very very vibes-based. The region’s an archipelago, and all the crew members are friends who live and work on separate islands. I’ve always liked regions in Pokemon with lots of islands and water and I just feel like One Piece settings could translate well to that.
Grass Gym Leader Usopp– The Usopp pirates are his gym trainers/pupils, and you fight him after going through a puzzle full of funny carnivorous plants like those on the Boin Archipelago (ideally there's a quiz format involved and if you get an answer wrong you get attacked by, like, a low level wild bellsprout or carnivine). This one could honestly have been more strategically developed although Shiftree and Sudowoodo were absolutely necessary because a long-nosed creature based on a tengu and a fake tree with an identity crisis are perfect for Usopp. He loves his status conditions and is generally very annoying to go up against
Initial team: Lotad, Bonsly, Nuzleaf
Rematch Team: Shiftree, Sudowoodo, Amoongus, Ludicolo, Tangrowth, Vileplume
Normal/Doctor?? Gym Leader Chopper–This was a difficult choice honestly! I thought about making him a fighting specialist for the kung fu point, but ended up choosing this instead. He's a very young GP and gym leader on a winter island, and he has to split his time between doing house calls with Kureha and his League obligations and the poor boy is *stressed*. Marowak is there because Chopper and his backstory give me Cubone/Marowak vibes. The Sawsbuck is actually not there because of its deer associations; it’s a springtime/cherry blossom Sawsbuck because of Hiriluk’s cherry blossoms, I thought of giving him a Stantler but I think one deer is probably enough for him
Initial Team: Spring Deerling, Stufful, Marowak
Rematch Team: Mega Audino, Spring Sawsbuck, Blissey, Bewear, Marowak, Alomomola
Weather (??) Gym Leader Nami–specializes in double battles with her cast form. Lives on an island kind of similar to Cocoyasi, and she's got her own lighthouse and meteorology lab up on a hill surrounded by tangerine trees. This is extremely strategically fucky and near impossible to program into something functional but I wanted to give her every kind of weather power and Pokemon that could adapt to every field change and hack weather balls at people. Nojiko and Genzo hang around. Currently training a Hippopotas gifted to her by Vivi and working on Sandstorm strategies
Initial Team: Castform (Sun), Snover, Ninetales, Castform (Snow)
Rematch Team: Castform (rain), Pelipper (drizzle), Ninetales (Drought), Abombasnow (snow warning), Castform (sun), Castform (snow)
Ghost Gym Leader Brook–Brook is a touring rock star whose gym is on a barge with a kinda spooky ambiance; the Rumbar pirates work there as live musicians and there's a bar and a big stage set up for concerts. They pull up around the twin capes looking for Laboon around the same time as the player reaches there and are very distressed when he can't find him at first. I kinda debated giving him a toxtricity like Rhyme in SV but that's been done before and Frosslass kinda plays into his ice attacks, so I'm kind of leaving it open ended. His gym's located near the twin capes, and he's a former rock star who's slowed down a bit and taken some time off his career to look more actively for Laboon, who went missing in this world instead of being left behind. Laboon is a Wailmer Brook met years ago that later joins his team after they reunite, by which point he's evolved into a Wailord.
Initial Team: Duoblade, Dusclops, Houndstone
Rematch Team: Aegislash, Dusknoir, Wailord (Laboon), Polteageist, Frosslass or Toxtricity, Houndstone
Steel Gym Leader Franky– Franky's gym is also on board a ship he built, and he's docked outside a kinda high tech water seven sort of crazy artificial floating island structure. It's very much like water seven–Iceberg and Paulie run the show–and the Franky Family are his gym trainers. I threw in Alolan dugtrio because of the hairstyles and revavroom for the Kurosai FR-U. Metagross is there because I like him having a psychic type to link him to Robin (they're married and live together on Franky's custom houseboat). I thought of giving him a Magnezone but Franky with a Tinkaton just seems very funny and weirdly well-suited to his character
Initial Team: Alolan Dugtrio, Excadrill, Revavroom
Rematch Team: Alolan Dugtrio, Excadrill, Revavroom, Metagross, Probopass, Tinkaton
Psychic Gym Leader Robin–I tried to give Robin a few Pokemon that were more weird lore/ancient ruin themed without being actual legendaries to fit with her being an archaeologist. She spends a lot of time doing field work (Clover is the region's Pokemon Professor and her mentor; it even plays into the plant naming scheme) on a protected island full of ruins that looks kind of like Skypeia. I'd love for this world to have some ancient lore for her to research and make regular story appearances without the kind of tragedy we get in canon.
Initial Team: Medicham, Duosion, Sigilyph, Claydoll
Rematch Team: Bronzong, Medicham, Beeheyem, Reuniclus, Sigilyph, Claydoll
Water Gym Leader Jinbei–Honestly it was a bit hard making this one feel uniquely suited to Jinbei? Palafin suits his character best imho, but it was difficult choosing fish that ween’t tied in some other way to other existing fishmen characters. There's no whale sharks yet either :p That being said, Jinbei is a ship captain who works with both the Pokemon League and the Sun Pirates, and brings the player to a Fishman Island equivalent underwater town, giving you either a dive TM or something equivalent to navigate underwater and opening up a whole bunch of new areas for the player to explore.
Initial Team: Wishiwashi, Palafin, Swampert, Omastar
Rematch Team: Wishiwashi, Palafin, Swampert, Omastar, Dondozo, Tatsugiri
Fire/Kicking??/Culinary-themed Gym Leader Sanji–I feel a bit bad I gave Sanji so many starters when I generally try to avoid that for gym leaders but there's just not that many Pokemon with blaze kick and it's a necessity for him! You meet as he's soft-opening his restaurant in the All Blue equivalent, and going through some growing pains striking out on his own from Zeff (who’s very supportive of his boy's dreams but bad at expressing it). I threw a Clawitzer in because I thought I should give him a seafood item, and Siebold (one of the few Pokemon chefs) has one as his ace in X/Y. His team can kinda be split into kicking pokemon (Cinderace, Blaziken, Tsareena) and food Pokemon (Arboliva, Clawitzer, Garganacl). Zeff has a Stoutland, and the only reason I gave him one is because it more or less has his facial hair.
Initial Team: Cinderace, Blaziken, Garganacl, Tsareena
Rematch Team: Cinderace, Blaziken, Garganacl, Tsareena, Arboliva, Clawitzer
Zoro is the Champion and Luffy is the final boss, but I'll save them and my chosen Elite 4 members for another time. I'm not going to try and build an evil team, but suffice to say since I'm trying to make this AU a bit more lighthearted, everyone lives and they're all doing good
Edit: Link to Part 2–Elite 4, Champion, Final Boss Teams
#one piece#monkey d luffy#sanji#black leg sanji#cyborg franky#franky#nico robin#jinbe#one piece jinbe#jinbei#tony tony chopper#soul king brook#brook#one piece usopp#god usopp#usopp#straw hat pirates#straw hat crew#roronoa zoro#nami#one piece nami#cat burglar nami#op nami#nojiko#genzo#rumbar pirates#sun pirates#fishman island#thriller bark#one piece strawhats
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shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides
Summary: Steve Harrington, disgraced and disowned by his father for moral insanity, has been haunted by eerie dreams of a mysterious lighthouse ever since he was a little boy. His lighthouse quickly turns from recurring night terror to gruesome reality when his superior delegates him to fix the broken light and be the new keeper.
With only his clothes and a pocket watch that only ever shows the correct time twice a day, Steve makes his way up north. Robin, his wife for appearance’s sake, said to meet him there. But Robin never makes it, and Steve soon finds himself trapped in cold, whispering loneliness.
The locals claim that the lighthouse is haunted, cursed, and Steve — followed and plagued by terrible murmurs urging him to leave while he can, and faced with what can only be the ghost of a former keeper — is inclined to agree.
part 1 | part 2
or: read on ao3
#steddie#steddie fic#stranger things fanfic#steve harrington#eddie munson#spooky lighthouse au#part 1 is coming soon and also i’m hoping to post a part a day even tho i barely have time hdhdhd#my first attempt at writing a ghost story oop—#it’s supposed to be a mix of gothic horror and the classic ghost story with steampunk elements. so let’s see was wird
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The Tides Have Veiled [Six]
Back with the main plot!
Viktor x Fem!Reader---Gothic AU/ Spooky Sea AU--- 3.5K---SFW
> M A S T E R L I S T <
← Previous // Next →
Synopsis: Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both building are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.
Chapter Summary: It's time for you to decide how further down are you going to walk this unknown path guiding you toward the cliff...
Tags: Ghosts| Sea Monsters| Sirens & Mermaids| Marriage of Convenience| Slow Burn| Forced Proximity| Mystery | Dark Magic| Alusions to Death/Spooky (?) imaginery|
Taglist: @local-mr-frog @lunar-monster @bittercyder
White noise filled your brain, like the static of the old radio atop the beacon room. “Excuse me. I don’t think I heard you correctly—” you started, but Viktor only looked more embarrassed as he cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid you did.” Viktor left the spoon on the tiny porcelain plate, the white cup stained with black coffee. The echo of his voice hung heavy on the still air of the house, with your mind scrambling for words, to elicit any sound out your mouth.
Was this a joke? Or did your family come to threaten him? The mere possibility sent a void to devour your stomach. Eyes tried to scan the leftovers of your aunt and uncle's coffees, the crumbs of bread as if that way they would guide you back to the truth.
Though the only thing you found was chaos, tangled fishing nets as thoughts inside your brain.
“Why?” you heard yourself saying. The house magnified the sound of your voice, trying to fill the empty corners of the house. “Did my family come to push you into this? Because if that's the case, then…” Then you were trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. You couldn’t even finish that sentence.
“I assure you, I'm making this decision out of my free will," Viktor said. “Please listen to my reasons, and then, if you’re not convinced, we will forget about this conversation whatsoever.”
You wouldn't think it would be so easy. Though curiosity gnawed at you, making you lean in closer.
Instead of telling you, Viktor fabricated a newspaper from the cushions behind him. Slightly wrinkled at the corners, it had been rolled up into a stick. You could smell of essence of coffee beans and Viktor’s detergent embedded into it.
The font was strange to read at first, words deemed alien under the nervousness sieging your brain.
It was an open contest for a teaching position at Piltover University due in three weeks. You looked at Viktor with a slight frown, but as you kept reading, with Viktor sipping his coffee—more out of nervousness than for thirst, you quickly understood why he had asked you so.
Among the requirements, you saw enlisted:
Present research proposal written on typewriter—handwritten papers will not be accepted. Maximum of ten pages per entry. [See appendix 2.2]
From 27 years old onwards.
Ph.D. in Marine Biology or similar required.
Preference will be given to researchers B, C, and part-time listed within the institute.
To apply to the research tier A list, the applicants should submit proof of economic and personal stability, i.e., a housing contract within the city or its outskirts, a marriage certificate, and a letter of non-debitance from Piltover’s Bank. [See appendix 3.4]
Marriage certificate? “Why would you need to be married?” you asked.
Viktor sighed as if he had argued the same question over his superiors before. “So we can assure that nothing… eh, improper, occurs between students and the faculty.”
“I don’t think these requirements can change much on that,” you stop from saying.
“Exactly.” Viktor gestured, exasperation tinting his voice. “Sadly, there is no use. I can’t change the rules all by myself, even if I wanted to.”
You grimaced. “But I suppose you want the position?”
His eyes brighten, like those of a cat. “Yes. Of course, I do. I've been working under a B-tier pool of researchers for years, even signing a position to be a part-time teacher for some seminars once two months.” Viktor looked away from you, toward the closed entrance door, the crystal from the window barely filtering the white hue of the sunlight pooling inside the oak floorboards that the green carpet didn’t seem to cover perfectly. “Alas, I’m lacking a requirement of the list.”
Your voice got out in a trembling thread. “The wife.”
“You don’t have to accept,” Viktor quickly added, passing a hand through his hair. “Actually, I apologize for having told you. It was truly unprofessional, and for that I’m sorry. It wasn’t my wish to make you uncomfortable.”
As he babbled, you looked at him; the coat open showing a brown vest, and white dress shirt underneath as if he were ready to give a class in an auditorium filled with eager students. So contrasting with yours, wrinkled and second-handed. The dress shirt tucked under your black pants was his, for example.
You would have never thought of Viktor as someone who would struggle to find a wife. He was kind and intelligent enough to have a job at Piltover University as a researcher—if the books and drafts for articles in his office were proof enough to convince you. And then it was his superficial looks alone; face carved in pale marble, all edges and elegance, eyes like honey pools. You remembered them gazing at you just as sweetly, last night.
Last night, inside this house muddy footsteps trailing after you.
Your mind couldn't stop from feeling hurt by his sudden rejection. An ache that reverberated in your chest was all too familiar.
“Haven’t you thought about looking in the city? I’m sure there must be someone well-suited for you there.”
Viktor chuckled, but the sound was hollow, his eyes looking at his lap.
“I suppose it’s easier to propose when the other person knows the darker part of me,” Viktor said with an awkward chuckle, the dim light of the foyer hiding the slight flush dusting his cheeks. “Life in the city is much different than here, which is why I don’t have any reliable options to pursue in New Piltover.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
The owner of a crumbling lighthouse, of a haunted manor. Who in the city would keep up with this ridiculous myth? Especially not if said cursed man was a researcher of science, teaching at the University.
Did he care about those tales after all? Did he believe in them?
“If I say yes,” you ventured. “Just hypothetically. If I say yes, what’s on it for me?”
His eyes glued you with your back straight against the couch. “What do you wish to have, Miss? I’m sure we can arrange a deal advantageous for both.”
The answer slipped from your mind as soon as he finished his sentence.
Freedom. I want to choose.
Would it be alright if you chose to end up married to him if that was the same thing you were running about? Viktor seemed to think about it, too.
“It would only be a legal marriage, no other duties attached,” Viktor told you. "I only need the paper, as I rarely assist with social events anyway." He reclined on his seat, his right arm resting over the couch’s backrest. “What do you wish to do if you weren’t yourself? If you weren’t here?”
You left his words to seep into you, making your heart feel tight, almost claustrophobic inside your ribcage, of your body inside this house. Of your life trapped in this tidepool that was Piltover the Old, expecting to run out of oxygen.
“I want to go to school,” you muttered, the words barely audible over the silliness that bathed you. Years of mockery behind the slouch of your shoulders. Why study? What you have to learn to do is to tie a fish net. And you better hurry. “I want to be like my mother.”
At least, as the fake stories of her had shaped her presence as a trail on a wild forest barely cut through, but with the path cut wide enough for you to slip. Another marine biologist went days adrift on the ocean, trying to ask its secrets.
Viktor hummed. “I can certainly help you study for the admission exam if you wish to enroll in Piltover’s University or any other college in the city. And, of course, I will raise your salary, too.”
It wasn't just about the money. Sure, you needed every penny thrown your way, but there was this… force, that seemed to pull you back to this town, even when your mind tried to flee it on every vigil, of imagining a life outside these waves smashing the crying cliff, out the tiny hut near the coast where a simple fisher boat was tightly knotted onto a makeshift mossy dock.
Your mother had a steady income, and yet she returned, and then she couldn’t get out—even if she had wished to, having regretted her mistake.
You were afraid of having a tie that would call you back.
Viktor stood out on the couch, his cane moaning when he grasped the handle with his free hand, piling the dirty dishes and cups into a tray.
“I should go back to, eh, to work,” Viktor said, barely meeting your eyes when you raised your head toward him. “I advise you to do the same, Miss.”
You nodded, pretending his words weren’t still swirling in your mind. “Thank you, Viktor,” you said, voice strained. “Thank you for last night.”
He gave you a small smile. “It was nothing—and don’t worry, you don’t owe me anything. Quite the contrary, I’d say.” Viktor stopped his movement of tidying up the table, putting his cane in the crook of his elbow to offer you his hand. “I hope we can still be friends.”
His pale fingers were tinted with black ink when you slipped your hand through them, feeling the rough and cold surface.
“I hope so, too,” you answered, barely any force on the handshake. A hypocrite action, when you knew how it felt to be between his arms with a storm raging on your back.
*~*~*~*
It was a particularly slow night. A grey world painted in lazy brushstrokes between flashes of gold.
You felt the cold embracing your skin, no matter how many blankets you had snuggled around your body. Still feeling the cold rock scrapping your feet, the wind pushing you off the edge. Same imbalance, with your feet, propelled over the table you had moved from the control room to the beacon, wanting to look at the windows, your mind still not forgetting the strange silhouette that had peeked through the waves nights ago.
Viktor’s words had been haunting you all day, from harvesting the first tomatoes from your garden to each meal you cut with your fingers in front of the crackling fire.
He had promised you to find another lighthouse keeper as soon as you wanted to leave—it was in the contract laid in a corner of the table. But then what? Your mind hadn't dared to wander to what was outside the coast. Go to New Piltover? What for? You thought of working in a fish market, boots stained with bloody, rosy water, the stench of your homeland following you at every step.
Viktor had more books than the ones you had seen in your entire life, even if your mother's ones were almost painted in your mind, every word blurry from the dancing flame of the lamp as you read them at night. He could help you study for the exam, but for that, you needed an excuse to spend time with him.
As you looked out the window, two paths opened in your mind. One in which you would remain in here, and then, one day, you would see Viktor walking down the beach with a woman from the city, a flowy dress moved by the breeze. He was gesturing toward the tidepools left after last night's storm. Then, his golden eyes would feel your gaze, waving at you from up the lighthouse beacon.
As the night grew, the sky darker and the cold persistent, he disappeared as the tide rose. No matter how much you wished to, you couldn’t be swept by the sea.
The cliff cried outside your window, the crystal shaking with the tremble of the foghorn. You put your hand against the cold surface, swiping away the mist accumulated from your breath fanning above it.
There, on the beach, you saw it. You saw her.
The pale figure of a woman standing, grey and white like created from the mist outside. Hair was wet and stuck on her scalp; algae grew from her thin skin, barely keeping her bones conjoined. She blinked in and out of focus as the lighthouse turned on its vigil, a dark shadow bleeding from her torn nightclothes toward the tides leaping the coast.
Even if you couldn’t see her eyes from above her overgrown bangs, you felt her gaze pierce through your soul as if a harpoon had gone through bone and flesh.
With your hand still glued to the crystal, the numbness expanding from your cold fingers down your arm and your stomach, the woman raised a hand toward you and waved.
This is how your mother would’ve looked, a thought crawled to your brain. If she had been found.
You barely recollected the scream tearing its way out your mouth, throat sore as it echoed inside the beacon’s room, competing against the wail of the foghorn.
In answer, the woman opened her black mouth, putrid water soaking her dress as she screamed back in a wail that echoed like that of the cliff.
The pocket of your pants felt heavy and hot, your free hand prickling with the edges of the shell as you grabbed it with so much force, that you were surprised when it didn't break.
Looking out the window, the woman was gone.
You looked at the open logbook, the one with yellow pages, and soaked in time. The one forgotten inside this beacon.
She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for him. The words smudged, blurred by run-on ink. He seemed to mix with her.
Looking for her. Looking for me, your mind conjured. Looking for me.
You looked out the window, cold fright stopping you from moving the seat further away. But the beach was clear now.
“Mother?” you muttered, your brow against the window, your body growing limp as the sleep lured you into its cold and stiffened arms. But you jumped away, because this feeling seemed familiar, and you knew it shouldn’t have been.
Another cage. That was why. First, it was your family's hut, then, this lighthouse. This whole town. Was it the sea, too? All the ghosts that held prisoners under its waves crying and pleading for help. Angry to get out.
The next morning, you saw from the edge of the lighthouse the little silhouettes of your family going out of the hut and up the cliff. They looked like ants trapped in an unsurmountable bay. Other specimens are trapped in this tidepool.
And they weren’t alone—a well-dressed man, probably in his fifties following them up the steep carved steps until they disappeared from your peripheral vision.
You knew which was their destiny, as there were only two options up here. Hearing the echo of keys opening the metallic gate of the lighthouse, you ran to the control room, the door swinging close slowly, not wanting the wood to give away your presence.
“Miss?” Viktor called, and your movement froze. "Are you asleep?"
You looked at your reflection in a paint-stained mirror. Hair scattered like a bird's nest, black eyebags. Your skin seemed paler, too, as if seeing the ghostly woman had stolen some life essence from you.
You poked your head above the rail. “I’m here!” Recoiling, you added. “Give me a minute.”
A quick groom later, you bounced down the stairs, your boots squeaking against the wooden floorboards you had polished not so long ago.
Viktor was sitting at the table, facing the cold hearth. You could see his hand flying over the papers as he scribbled away, back slightly hunched.
Clearing your throat, you stepped next to him. He jumped slightly, and your hand hovered over his shoulder to soothe him.
“Ah, my apologies,” Viktor said, fidgeting with the handle of his cane. “I just…” He gestured away. “I just don’t want to be distracted today,” he said, his eyes looking toward the exit.
“You saw them, too?”
Viktor nodded, leaving his pen. "They know we're not engaged. So I assume that the new man they’re flanking is your suitor.” He scrunched his nose. “Up close, he looks like an ex-landowner.”
You frowned, taking a seat on the cot. “How do you know that?”
“His suit doesn’t fit him very well, which means he just started wearing these types of clothes,” Viktor explained, brows pinched in focus. “There are a lot of newly rich ex-landowners in New Piltover, they sold off their lands to the big construction companies, and now they’re squandering all their money.”
A chuckle escaped your lips. “Then, you wouldn’t marry him?”
He looked at you with an amused glimmer in his eyes. "Not unless you wish to get indebted in the near future.”
Something deep within you told you that there was no escape from such destiny. But pushing away the thought, you said:
"What are you working on?" you said, hearing your family pounding on the entrance door. This one was locked, and the lesson was perfectly learned.
“Tracing routes from sightings of sperm whales,” Viktor told you. “To see if they fit the ones which have a myriad of stories about krakens.”
You blinked away your sudden confusion. “Pardon?”
“They could be giant squids,” Viktor commented, and you wished to have started that book he lent you instead of watching the damn window.
“I didn’t know you’re also interested in legends.” They weren’t cold, justifiable science, much less a valid source of knowledge.
He smiled at that. "There is an entire department dedicated to studying these tales. They're very enlightening, Miss."
“How so?” You sat, elbows on your thighs, trying to lean as much closer to him as it was possible.
His golden eyes shimmered as he gazed down at you as if he could sense the shell tucked in your pants pocket.
“They tell us what frightens people.” Viktor shrugged. “And most of the time, they have a very valid reason to fear.”
You looked away, your mind marked by muddy footprints, by the white silhouette that could still appear every time you blinked too fast. Goosebumps appeared on your arms.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, observing how you tried to make yourself a ball.
“I… I just…” you whispered, feeling your throat tight, the feeling of containment only augmented with each bang on the door. “I just wish to get out of this place,” you said, feeling like a stupid child. Dreaming too big, settled only for disappointment.
“But I can’t do it alone.” A hiccup ripped out your chest, making you shiver. “I hate that I can’t do it alone.” The sea is going to pull me back.
The chair creaked, Viktor’s hand gently patting your shoulder. “Nobody can do everything alone, Miss,” he whispered. “It’s not weak to ask for help.”
You looked at him, your faces so close you could feel his breath warm against your cheek. “If I marry you, can you help me get out of here?”
His golden eyes widened. “Miss, you don’t have to do this just because of—”
“No, no, it’s not that.” You bit your lips. It was a foolery to tell him about your fear of the sea trapping you here forever, Viktor would think you were out of your mind, he would replace you with another lightkeeper. You would have nowhere to go, not when you didn’t have a concrete way you wished to follow. “I just… there’s no other way.”
I know there isn’t.
“Please, Viktor,” you told him, voice barely above a mutter. “Help me get out of here.”
From up close, you saw his widened eyes darkening, a passing shadow that could have been from the regret of telling you such a proposal, to sadness. Even pity and that thought made you almost take your words back, but the image of the ghostly woman waving you from the window stopped you.
She greeted you as if she knew you would end up in the same place she was. Alone on this beach, trapped in sand and waves even after death.
He inhaled a sharp breath. “I’ll help you,” Viktor said, his hands recoiling from your touch. They were trembling until he grasped the handle of his cane with so much force his knuckles became white. “If that’s your wish, then I promise, I’ll help you get out of here.”
Your hands were fists. “Then I’ll marry you.”
Viktor looked at you with worry. “I told you, you don’t have to—”
“I’ll do it,” you cut him. “It’s only fair. I don’t want to owe you anything. I’ll work for you as your lighthouse keeper, as your fake wife. A fair retribution.”
“At least think it over tonight,” Viktor offered. “Once you’d signed the paper, there is no coming back.”
You remembered the night terrors, shivering.
“There’s nothing to think over,” you said, even if it was a lie. “I know there are more scary things out here than a marriage I’m actively choosing to be a part of.” One that could give you what you wanted, with someone who could help you find a reason, a purpose to stay in the city. To help you meet new horizons besides grey and rainy dusks bathed by the ink-black sea.
Your words made him purse his lips, but he didn’t ask anything—to your relief. You weren’t sure what could get out your mouth if he made you confess. Would he believe you?
“Alright,” Viktor said with a sigh after a little eternity of dreaded wait. “Then, please prepare a suitcase as soon as possible.” The bang of the door has ceased ever since minutes ago, but the same thump, thump, thump, echoed in your heart at a rushed pace. “We’re going to the city the day after tomorrow.”
#arcane viktor x reader#viktor x reader#viktor arcane x reader#arcane viktor x you#viktor arcane x you#arcane x female reader#viktor arcane fanfic#arcane viktor fanfic
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the lighthouse, an au fanfic where orm is raised alongside arthur on the surface
Chapter 2
Rain begins to patter against the lighthouse. Arthur plays by the window, rolling toy cars across the sill and making engine noises that are way too awesome to contain. He drives it across the glass and races against the raindrops that fall harder and harder. In the darkness, a figure in white moves towards their home; it catches Arthur’s attention by the sheer contrast of it against the stormy night.
“Papa! Papa!” He calls, equal parts frightened and curious. Grandmother had told him about the things that wander the night—things that are not always kind to boys or men alike. Should he hear a voice filtering through the trees, he should never answer. He should not cast his gaze on the whisperers of the night, lest they take him with them. A pale woman in white looks very much like a demon ready to whisk him away in the night.
Tom Curry cuts water from the sink and grabs a towel. When his boy calls for him, he’s always there. Arthur already lost his mother, so Tom makes up for it in sheer effort.
“What’s got your attention, kiddo?” His voice is rough and smooth all at once, a low velvet tone even when he’s being firm.
Arthur taps on the glass, trying to point further than its barrier.
Tom’s gaze follows the direction of his finger, and his heart stops . He bursts through the door, running towards the ghost and hearing nothing but the sounds of his breath.
It’s her, it’s really her.
The first time he found her, she had washed up onto the shore on the rocks at the base of the Lighthouse. He would have never expected to see her strolling up the single dirt road that only he uses with his beat up truck.
The last time he held her, it was at the end of the docks, and they were saying goodbye.
“Lana!” He shouts over the burgeoning storm. Nothing will stop him from making his way to her. She starts to run towards him, too, making a desperate, undecipherable sound. Relief? Joy? Pain?
Tom stops short of crashing into her, spotting a bundle wrapped tightly across her chest. It isn’t shielded from the rain. Rather, the little thing basks in the downpour. He struggles to process his emotions, between the sudden revelation of a child and the return of his beloved, he doesn’t know how to feel. A simple man at heart, he chooses to simply be happy.
He guides her inside, shielding her out of habit. It’s easy to forget that his wife and his son—sons? —thrive in the water.
They cross the threshold and a toy car comes soaring through the air, smacking Tom in the face.
“Hoy!”
Tom’s exclamation starles the baby who wails. The sound is strange, almost gurgled, but the distress rings clear. He looks to his son who peers out from behind his favourite armchair, already loading another weapon to throw at the spooky intruder of the night.
“Put that down!” Tom gives Arthur a look while Atlanna soothes her child. “Come,” he beckons. “It’s mama.”
Little Arthur Curry narrows his eyes. He knows better than to trust strangers. He stays rooted in his hiding spot, clutching an old Hawkman action figure. It would be so easy for him to chuck it at this stranger. Then again, things can go right through ghosts. The crying baby only overwhelms Arthur who has decided that this spirit has kidnapped another child.
But then again… it’s mama.
He watches as his father fusses with this stranger, both his and her attention directed towards the baby. From this angle, he can get a better view of her on the couch. Though her wet blonde hair clings to her face, she looks like a princess. He can imagine her gliding across a dancefloor, extending her hand for a prince to take and wearing a dress that looks just like her shimmering scaled armour. Her face is transposed over every fairytale his father has ever read him, particularly the Little Mermaid.
(But mama is prettier than Ariel. He knows that now.)
“Hi, Arthur,” she says softly. Now that the baby has calmed, she can shift her attention towards him. “It’s been a while. You don’t remember me?”
She seems to hold no resentment towards him and offers only patience. His mama reaches out her hand to him and Arthur considers it for a really, really long time. His dark brows furrow, but eventually, he relents. Arthur takes his mother’s hand. She eventually picks him up and sets him in her lap.
“Look, this is your baby brother. Orm.”
“Baby brotha,” Arthur repeats and leans forward to look at the infant cooing in the basin. He leans so close and gently bumps his head against his brother’s. “Orm.”
The touch makes Orm cry and Arthur looks up to his mother, apologetic, then back to the baby. He is so small, so soft and so fragile. He needs to be careful with him; he doesn’t need his parents to tell him that.
“I protect you,” he promises.
#my fics#dccomics#dc fanfic#arthur curry#orm marius#atlanna#aquaman#ocean master#ao3feed#ao3#the lighthouse
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✩ upcoming wips
main masterlist | navigation
i haven't been posting a lot lately because i'm a slow writer and life has been kicking my butt but i've wanted to let you take a peek at what i've been cooking up in the background!!
what little attention i have at the moment has been going into time after time but there's a lot of ideas constantly swirling around in my head and i've wanted a place to put some of them. shockingly, these aren't even all of my wips. yeah, i know.
this is just a snapshot of the most prominent fic ideas i've been working on at the moment which means that plots and especially titles might still get changed. also i'm not committing to any sort of schedule with these so keep that in mind :')
please feel free to ask questions about any and all of these and i'll do my best to answer <3
✩ one shots
a smile that cold
- ransom drysdale x f!reader
- au inspired by daphne du maurier's rebecca
- (well, mostly by its musical adaptation, which is great)
- i'm going full gothic/seasonally spooky vibes in this one
- tropes: widower remarries, mystery, dark-ish (well, there's murder), perhaps a hint of spice
- status: mostly done, but still missing a chunk in the middle
to home afar
- bucky barnes x freader
- the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society au
- (oh yes we're going there)
- i love this book and this au so much but i just haven't had the time to focus on it
- tropes: 40s!bucky, dad!bucky, writer!reader, one (1) broken engagement, fitzsimmons appearance, hints of epistolary storytelling, pen pals to friends to lovers
- status: about halfway done, still missing some connective tissue
all that's been (and all that won't)
- bucky barnes x f!reader
- buffy the vampire slayer au
- tropes: slayer!reader, vampire hunter!bucky, friends to lovers, inspired by me rereading all the vampire knight manga so if you know those you'll see the twist coming, canon-typical violence
- status: conception phase, some scenes written
stay here forever
- 40s!bucky barnes x f!reader
- a continuation of first date, last night
- this was a plan ever since i posted that story and yet
- tropes: friends to lovers, mutual pining resolved, tfa!bucky, kinda angsty, will probably get another part …
- status: mostly written, missing connective tissue
just for spite
- bucky barnes x witch!reader
- originally inspired by a moodboard by @treatbuckywkisses
- this has been sitting in my drafts for an embarrassingly long time
- might end up being a collection of loosely connected one shots
- tropes: post tfatws!bucky, practical magic vibes, there's a cat, slow burn? maybe?
- status: first part done, some more scenes written
death becomes him
- steve rogers x grim reaper!reader
- inspired by a mix of meet joe black, elisabeth (the musical, not the movie), the fairy tale godfather death, and the show dead like me
- this is such a weird idea and i need to write it so bad
- tropes: canon-compliant-ish, slow burn, artist!steve, will probably include time jumps, dark-ish for obvious reasons
- status: random scenes written
tomorrow
- steve rogers x reader
- inspired by the river song storyline in doctor who
- (yes you read that right)
- i love using my most random au ideas for steve, i think this works so well and i'm so excited about it
- tropes: opposing timelines, kind of slow burn kind of established relationship, goes through steve's entire mcu timeline
- status: scenes written, writing time shenanigans is tiring if that's all you do though :')
ghost light
- lighthouse keeper!steve rogers x reader
- (yeah)
- this one is so random but i cannot stop thinking about it
- tropes: retired!steve, maybe a little angsty but it's fine really, either writer!reader or barista!reader
- status: vibes and like two paragraphs
mirror's image
- endings, beginnings!frank x reader
- fic based on "why'd you only call me when you're high" by the arctic monkeys
- tropes: fwb, drug consumption, angst and spice, idk if this will have a happy ending or not
- status: about one third done
✩ series / AUs
dear heart, it's me
- anthology based on the amazing devil's album "the horror and the wild"
- listen for vibes 😌
- will probably posted for a milestone celebration
- pairings include: stucky, bucky barnes x reader, natasha romanoff x reader, wanda maximoff x reader, jefferson x reader, steve harrington x reader (more tbd)
- status: one fic stuck in revision, three more started, real excited for one additional one atm
nothing else will do
- continuation/expansion of my rewritten drabble
- think medieval-ish fantasy vibes, once upon a time with some princess bride thrown in there
- pairings include: outlaw/pirate!steve rogers x reader, knight!bucky barnes x reader
- status: lots of daydreaming and some random scenes put onto paper
occupy my brain
- continuing these two drabbles
- ransom drysdale x reader
- there will be at least two more chapters but i am aiming to keep this one short and sweet
- status: it’s more or less planned out, if only someone would finish writing it down that’d be great
come fly with me
- introducing my pilot!bucky au!!
- i’m not sure where it came from either but i’m having fun and it grew out of my control fast
- series of connected one shots within the same universe
- (i also have plans for sam and steve with this one!!)
- status: not a priority rn, but i have a couple of ideas floating around my brain
read you like a book
- library au!!
- you’ve already been introduced to this universe’s bucky and steve and i love them dearly
- status: again, not a priority at the moment but they’re coming
something bout you
- beloved
- ngl returning to this one is probably gonna hurt but i still want it to exist
- college au steve rogers x reader
- this is my childhood friends fake dating au that i made up for ren
- status: hopefully i will return to this one day after tat is done
i feel awkward tagging people in this but do feel free to reblog this and do tell me about your favourites lmao okay have a nice weekend 🫶🏼
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x you#mcu fanfic#ransom drysdale x reader#ransom drysdale x you#writing update#intrepidacious
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JungleCorpse + a rainstorm 💚⛈️🖤
(Oops - spooky lighthouse AU 'verse)
When Jack opens his eyes, he's on the road outside the apartment. That is, in and of itself, concerning enough, but the fact that he's sans shoes and he can hear the roar of the ocean waves ahead makes the whole thing worse. His arm throbs beneath the tattoo, healed and dark. The rain stings against his face when it comes down sideways, a deluge: a rare, once-in-a-blue-moon autumn storm.
He sucks in air that puts water in his lungs and pushes curls out of his face. What the fuck. What the fuck is this? Everything was supposed to be done, and now he's staring at the ocean bathed in darkness having sleep-walked his way out of his damn door. His chest tightens, yearning.
"Jack."
Jack turns to stare at Darby, who is a few steps behind him on the concrete. At least Darby put shoes on. "What the fuck?"
"I know," Darby says.
"I was asleep?"
Darby shrugs. "Close enough. I followed you out so you wouldn't end up drowning yourself."
Not for the first time, Jack finds himself infinitely grateful for Darby being such a light sleeper. Thunder rolls overhead, a rumble beneath Jack’s skin. Jack looks back at the surf, an angry roar of salt and foam. He breathes again, deep.
"I thought this was done," he says, helplessly. "I thought it was supposed to be over."
Darby’s fingertips press against Jack’s arm, and then, when Jack crumples against him, his arms slide all the way around. His hold is fiercely possessive, and really, that's what got Jack into this mess in the first place, isn't it? "I'm sorry."
"Why does it still want me?" Jack asks, muffled against where his head has half-fallen onto Darby’s shoulder.
"It doesn't. It wants me. You're the object standing in its way."
Jack’s lungs burn. "When will this end?"
Darby is quiet for a long while as the rain beats against their forms. Then, quietly, he says, "I don't know."
Jack presses his face against Darby’s neck, and tries to ignore the pounding in the waves echoed back between his ribs, a furious and mournful rhythm.
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