#then he comes back as a wholesome ghost with little memory of his dark past and relies on black and white detailing to decipher good from

[thenightmarketofdathomir]

Ok, dumb day. I need something wholesome to start. Give us a small glimpse into the everyday, the mundane. A fly on the wall observing how breakfast plays out, how birthdays are celebrated, what a quiet life day would look like. The simple moments between the action. There is a certain found family feel. Who plays pranks on who, who’s tries and fails terribly. Please and thank you!

Ugh this is the good shit. I love it.

Headcanons from a world where they just lived and moved on, but never did anything special. (It's okay, Maul. Destiny shmestiny.)

They all came back to Dathomir, for one. An attempt at reclaiming a lost legacy. Not the mountain -- not the night sister's citadel. Just a little cottage, out past the swamp where the gods wouldn't bother with them and the rancor wouldn't come sniffing around. A little bit different. A little bit dull. But hidden, and quiet, and an utter ruin... worth fixing up.

Savage discovers he's got a handy streak. Likes fixing things. Likes hard work. Likes making repairs. Gives him a sense of accomplishment. Sometimes they break again, but he's diligent, and he gets back to it each time without fail, making things stronger. Rebuilding their little world.

Feral tackles the garden in the back: a gnarl of vine and creeper and snapping things, full of insects and malevolent creatures he's unfamiliar with... but he learns. First about the plants and their properties, and then about how to pair them back and prune them. They grow better under his attention, and with his care, soon, things start thriving. Mostly medicines, but some poisons too. It's quiet work, but it keeps his hands busy. He learns slowly how to be still.

Maul. The problem with Maul is that he's so skilled that the mind wanders. It sometimes becomes a treacherous place. When there's nothing left to learn and there's nothing left to brood over, what does a person do? He picks up a book. Not the Sith texts -- those are Feral's now -- but the ones on his datapad that he deletes the covers for. Authors hidden, he sinks into those stories, losing himself into uncertain territories whose only villains are the crimes of committed to keep lovers apart.

Feral is the runner, but Savage loves the hunt. One is faster, one is stronger, and Maul observes until it gets dark or their stalking doesn't pay off. He intervenes occasionally, but it's rarely a demonstration of prowess anymore. It's an efficient but respectful kill. They eat together often, though the conversation sometimes lulls into the memories that shore up. The time before and what comes after is a preoccupation, but if the answer is something different than what they expected, no one complains.

Savage still trains. Feral does too. Maul develops a pot belly because of Feral's cooking. No one mentions it. They're all well-fed.

The ghosts don't often bother them, though occasionally, a spirit will drift in to hear Savage's stories over their nightly bonfires. It's tradition, and he's been reciting the stories since Feral's infancy, so there's no question about stopping. Feral always shows up to listen, and sometimes Maul pitches in, though his are frequently of a more bloody variety to dissuade his mother’s haunt from showing up. She often does, mid-sentence.

The idea to scale the citadel was Savage's on a day when he was feeling ambitious. Feral volunteered, but Maul dissuaded them both with the assurance that he would make the ascent on his own. They didn't let him. What they found there might've been revelatory, because they all left it behind without another thought. Haunted rooms, too-interested spectres, an old world that time was gradually forgetting as the days rolled on.

They took things that would benefit them after their trek home, however: the talismans, and Talzin's spell book, which Maul took an interest in studying, but Feral deciphered from the old tongue.

Maybe that's why things started changing in the months that followed. Maybe that's why when Maul laughs for the first time out loud at one of Feral's practical jokes, everything stops. Savage, his horns draped with bane back spider silk, was just as shocked.

There's a rhythm and a cadence, sounds in a formerly empty-house and over land that stretches endless and empty for miles around, but the fire is lit, and occasionally you can hear someone shout when a green light flares up from the chimney -- the deep laughter of three unlikely brothers who've rediscovered what it means to be a family on the mend.

#Darth Maul #Savage Opress #Feral Opress #Opress Bros #Nightbrothers #Dathomir #the night market of dathomir #headcanons

[rayne-storm]

Dies Irae, Dies Angeli

AUgust 14. Angels and Demons

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera

Summary: Erik, the Opera Ghost, died a long, long time ago. His body did, at least. But there's obviously something haunting the Opera House. A demon has come back to play.

A/N: this is just a snippety bit that I've had on my mind for a while that I might do more with later!

****

The misshapen incubus glared from his seat atop the chandelier as the little people ran about with their manufactured emergencies. Always such haste for inconsequential problems. A wig not powdery enough, a music stand with a squeak, a shoelace too short, problems problems problems. It was all so tedious to observe, but was a necessary evil for his true love: music. Opera, musical theater, concerts, concertos… all were soothing to his fiery soul. It was all he needed to be happy.

Until he saw her.

**

"Miss Daee, is it? Like the Swedish violinist? Descended from the musicians and craftsmen?"

Christine nodded politely, hands clasped in front of her. "Yes. Gustave was my father, may his soul be at peace," she added, taking in their reactions. Glib sadness, the kind when one knows of the deceased but never met them. Good. They'd not pry into her past beyond the niceties, see nothing more than the stars.

"And why have you chosen the Paris Opera House for your first performance?"

"It holds a dear place in my heart. My parents always spoke fondly of it, the way the sound carries and the building seems to have a beautiful life all its own. It really is second to none…" she leaned in conspiratorially, "despite what Sydney may want the world to think."

The delighted, rather pompous agreement signaled she had succeeded in acquiring a short residence.

The managers spoke of rehearsal schedules, practice spaces, all things well and good, and of course she could stay within the building, yes it was fine to walk around for inspiration occasionally, perfectly safe, etcetera, etcetera.

She tuned out the blathering, polite smile never wavering, as she took in the building. Old, beautiful, full of character and dignity. She loved these places, not just for the architecture or history, but for the spirits they carried. Usually wholesome, delightful things, spectres of musicians or actors, the lingering memories of cherished performances, the emotional highs and lows imprinting the space with beautiful light.

Unfortunately, it was a spirit of an entirely nature that brought her. She felt the markings in her skin tingle slightly as she felt the air shift. Something was here. Something decidedly out of place with the musical crowd. With luck, she could remove it peacefully. If not, she'd drag it back where it belonged.

Christine Daee was, after all, the most gifted exorcist this side of Rome. When she wasn't busy maintaining her solo career, she was ridding the world of evil. It seemed a little cliche, maybe a little anime, opera singer by day, demon hunter by night, but it was her life and she loved it.

Her favorite part, however, was never the expulsion. It was when she could save someone or something from the darkness. She hoped she could do so here.

***

He watched the beautiful woman as she was escorted through his opera house, heart pounding as she effuses over the building and its charm. It seemed she would be performing, when rehearsals for the current project were through, and had chosen this place specifically for her grand season debut.

Erik hadn't felt stirrings like this in ages, but he knew well how vipers hid behind pretty faces. He tried to control the runaway feelings he had for this newcomer, at least until he could find out more. She could be terrible, after all.

But then they insisted she test out the stage. She stepped out, seeming sheepish and uncomfortable, but when she opened her mouth, it was like the host of heaven itself was singing through her. Her voice was divine, beautiful, otherworldly. Erik knew that she had to become his. His own Angel of Music.

#my writing #rayne writes #fanfiction #august 2023 #phantom of the opera #phan fic #erik the phantom #christine daae

[10millionyearsdungeon]

Acts of Contrition

A/N: Heeeey, it’s been a while. Like...a long time while. Shaking the rust off, this is for @chiwhorei​ and their Heavenly Bodies collab (*see here*). No beta, we die like everyone else. Per the theme, and as a send off to my fellow fallen saint and recovering Catholic, it’s a kind of riff on a prayer? Not my best Shindou, but it’s Shindou all the same. Really need to revisit this guy. ANYWAYS--

TW: Sacrilegious themes, Oral (giving/receiving), Dacryphilia, Spit, Corruption, implied monster fucking (because why not?), mild exhibitionism, squirting, mild cockwarming ================================================

Your whole life, you always tried so hard to be everything your parish priest and father wanted you to be; pious, virtuous, radiant-- the epitome of the girl-next-door with a rosary tucked between your breasts and a prayer on your lips. It was your wholesome, squeaky-clean image that initially drew his attention and had you malingering on your knees with your mouth gaping and drooling into the carpet bristles of your parish confession booth.

"Got something to confess, sweetheart?" Shindou grinned in the darkness as you gazed up at him from your knees, nose pressed into the curling pubic hair tickling your mouth as he twitched down your throat. He held you there until your eyes began to roll back and tears threatened to break free from your waterline in trails of smudged ink down your flushing cheeks. You could taste his disappointment when they didn't fall, and he curled his thick fingers into your hair to rip you from his length. Incense and shame burned down your throat and into your lungs as you gasped for reprieve. His smirk was a gleaming scythe, all but signaling the beginning of your end.

"Please, more," you begged, scrambling to clutch his parted knees and nudge his cock closer to your waiting mouth. "More." His hum vibrated the dust lingering in the cramped space, as if he needed time to carefully consider what was originally his idea. "Shindou, yo--"

Gagged by his fingers, your tongue laved over his thick digits and your voice rose into unintelligible moaning. Your saliva ran down his wrist and your chin in thin rivers to the carpet digging into your knees. "Ah, ah. I asked for your confession, not for your begging. Perhaps I need to keep this pretty mouth busy while you take your penance." Eager to please, you nodded furiously into his hand, gagging and spluttering over his fingers as he twisted your body in half. The humble pleated skirt draped over your ass like a dainty envelope, the flash of white cotton panties plastered with slick against your pussy an invitation he couldn't deny-- he tore away the flimsy fabric with his teeth and whistled low at the silvery strings of slick still binding you to your underwear. You always forgot how strong Shindou was when he had a goal set before him.

"Mm, let's begin," he purred into your cunt, the sudden lash of his tongue against your neglected clit nearly tipping you into exaltation.

"H-hewl mwwwree fughlo gwssss," you babbled over his fingers as they dug almost painfully into your tongue. Cheek pressed hard into his knee, you heaved into his skin as your eyes rolled back into your skull with another skillful swipe of his tongue teasing your spasming whole. "Haaorrtsswiffee."

"C'mon, sweetness, you can do better than that. Really enunciate. It doesn't count if He can't understand you." Your toes curled in your knee socks as another wave of ecstacy washed over you with a flick of his sinner's tongue against your swelling clit. With a bend of his wrist, he tickled down your throat and dug his teeth into the swell of your ass when you gagged around them. "So tight. Do better. You know you want to. You asked for this, sweetheart." He retracted his fingers from your panting mouth, tracing the slick, bruised skin of your lips before he gave your hair a gentle pet.

"H-hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee…" you began again trembling over every word earning another vicious bite to your inner thigh. Shindou moaned into your scent tracing his tongue over the darkening bruise.

"Y'know, I'm feeling like a Hail Mary isn’t good enough. Let's try again," Shindou hoisted you into his lap, chest pressed firmly into your back as he lined the head of his cock, glistening with dewy precum, with the touch-starved maw of your cunt aching to stretch around him. Ever the tease, he tapped at your entrance, grinning at the sticky slapping of flesh on flesh as you squirmed to better accommodate him in the booth.

"Oh, my God!" You nearly screamed, sheathing him within you in one turbulent bounce. He barked out a laugh, dark eyes glittering in the shadows as he lifted your hips again with his teeth on your neck. "I-i-i'm heart-heartily so-sorry for haaah-ving offend..fuck, offended thee…" His pace was an idle one, but the vicious gnashing of his teeth burying into your neck made the aching around his cock pale in comparison. He needed you shamed, broken and sobbing out for release before he'd taste satisfaction.

"And I de-detest all my sins moh-ost s-sincerely because they d-disp-please thee." Pried open for him to abuse, Shindou let his hands wander beneath the carefully starched collared shirt and loosened tie to tease your pert, overly sensitive nipples through the fabric of your simple bra. He searched your face as he thrust up into you, knowing it wouldn't be long before those tears would begin to fall. "My God!" you gasped.

"Keep going," he groaned, tugging your blouse open and shoving your bra out of the way. He devoured the full-body shudder of your exposure, dragging his tongue up along your ear with a sigh. "You're so gorgeous when you break," he whispered, earning a hiccuping whine and the bubble of sobs he had waited so patiently for. Gyrating onto his cock, you couldn't stop the tears staining your cheeks with mascara as he rutted into you. Glancing down at where your bodies fused into one, you whimpered out the next verse as your cream dribbled down his balls.

"M-my God, who art so-oh deserving of all my love…"

"All your love, princess?"

"Ah-ah-ah!" He busied his free hand between your spread legs, rubbing tight circles on your clit. With a jump, you keened back into him and sobbed out wordlessly. Shindou ran his tongue to capture a stray tear from your hairline and moaned into the taste as he redoubled his efforts. "All my love f-for thy infinite good-fuck-goodness and--"

"And what? C'mon, finish like a good girl." Every thrust into your clenching heat had your body tensing like piano wire tuned by a master. His pulse vibrated through your core, loosening your tongue as he continued to tease and tug at your darkening nipples. “Most ah-amiable perfections…” He smirked into your hair, breath condensing on your neck like incense cloaking you in his scent. “I firmly pu-purpose by Thy Holy Grace never more--” Eyes rolling back, you stuttered and bucked fitfully back into the hardened planes of his lap. Your voice rose, cutting through the confessional booth and earning a satisfied grunt from the two-faced demon splaying your cunt wide for the congregation to observe if anyone dare open the door. “Never more,” you cried. Shindou paused, content to flex his length into your warmth while you sobbed out another broken, “Never more.” He dug his nails into your breasts, roughing your tender flesh to coax another wave of shuddering sobs and glistening tears from your weeping eyes. He sighed into your skin, dragging his lips along the moistened trails of shame and relief running down your jaw and cheek. “Please,” you whispered, rocking your hips fruitlessly to your own end. He hushed you as if silencing a toddler and stilled your hips with a single stroke. “Ah ah ah. Good girls finish their prayers.” With the head of his cock just kissing the gummy ring of your cervix, you grinded against him and cried out again, much to his annoyance. “Figures. Couldn’t be a good, pious little shit. Had to be a filthy, needy, broken little whore like the others.” “I’m broken. More, please give me more!” He scoffed at your pleading, content to have you writhe and wring yourself out on his heavy cock. Breasts bouncing and the unmistakable sounds of flesh penetrating flesh to defile that most sacred space, the sights and sounds of you coming undone for him proved all too tempting to ignore. He could taste it on you-- the rhythmic spasming of your cunt around his cock, the wobble in your legs, the uneven cadence of your breathing when he finally fucked back into your eager hole, all of it signaled your end. “Finish your prayers, sweetheart.” With two thrusts you let out a long, piercing moan, drawing the attention from those outside of the booth. Carelessly, you thrashed against him, milking his tumescence as if it would be enough to grant you divine forgiveness. “Finish like a good girl.” Shindou’s hand wandered between your trembling thighs as he rutted into you, his fingers dancing over your swollen clit despite your body bucking and fighting against him. The pressure in your belly was indescribable under his constant attention. “Finish for me.” Your body was his to play, to abuse to his delight. Shindou reveled in your shame as your squirt painted the door and carpet, shadows playing sinister tricks on your eyes as you searched the space for his face over your shoulder. “I firmly purpose by Thy Holy grace never more to offend Thee,” you whispered, coming down from your high with dripping thighs and shame staining your features. The door creaked open on its ancient hinges. Candles flickered in the chapel like whispering witnesses to a most capital crime. Tangled in the remnants of your uniform, your eyes glazed over and stared past the nuns exclaiming over your ruined state. You could feel his fingers ghosting over your exposed buds, taste his sweat and preek over your tongue. Your cunt throbbed around the memory of him, empty and hungry for his approval. His devil’s mark ached on your throat, a bruise you hazily hoped wouldn’t fade before his return. Captivated by the spectre of his presence, you melted into the tweed cushioned seat as far removed from the shouting and outrage of your audience as one could be. He’d be back for the rest of you and leave a more permanent mark. There were more pretty, pious words to pry past your lips, more tears to taste on your road to damnation, and he would be remiss  to miss out.

#heavenly bodies collab #bnha shindou x reader smut #shindou smut #yo shindou #bnha smut

[echo-three-one]

The strongest lead toward Shepherd that will lead them to Nero. (honestly I can't think of better summaries lately. I hope you're still enjoying THE ROAD SO FAR (CUE carry on my wayward son)

Table of Contents

Previous Chapter : If I Remember Correctly

Chapter 22 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️ Look how far we've come!

Going Dark - Part 1

"Alex"

Safe House 110197, Brazil

Alex woke up to the smell of Samantha's shampoo. God, she smelled so beautiful. He thought as he shifted his position carefully, trying not to disturb his sleeping girl.

Samantha caught wind of his actions and turned back to him. 

"Good Morning." Alex greeted with the most wholesome and lovable smile he could ever conjure. He could see Samantha actually blush at his smile, meaning that his charm still worked toward her even after all those times.

"Good Morning… you-" She greeted back but Alex immediately met her lips with his, turning a simple morning greeting into a hot make out session. Samantha ran her hand across his arm down to his chest, pushing the tough muscle as her eyes slowly closed, enjoying the way Alex's mouth moved inside hers.

"I wish I could just sit out this mission and stay here with you…" he mused, tapping her nose and smiling.

"You go out there and fix the world, hero. I'll be here when you get back." She winked as Alex slowly got up and left the room, his eyes never leaving hers until he was out of sight.

Alex stepped out of the stairs to the view of Price complaining about the water. Roach was already shuffling to the kitchen to satisfy their Captain's needs. This gave Alex the chance to check on Maxine.

"How are you holding up, Maxine." He asked.

"What's wrong, lass?" Price inserted sipping his morning coffee.

"Hey Alex, Captain Price…" She greeted, her voice was shaky but she looked like she had the courage to respond.

"I had a strange dream last night… I believe it was one of my memories." She spoke softly. Price and Alex's face lit up.

"That's good news!" Alex cheered, shaking her shoulders and quickly withdrawing his hands as soon as it felt awkward.

"Good on ya, lass. Cheers to that!" He raised his mug and nodded.

"Captain Price." Another familiar voice interrupted behind them.

"I have intel on Shadow Company." Ghost announced, everyone fell silent and they immediately gathered around the command center. Soap and France followed as they walked down the stairs together.

"Three addresses in three separate London Apartments." he informed while typing furiously across the keyboard. The map had three yellow blinking dots, two of them were close to each other while one was far away.

"Intel says they're not sure which of these had a Shadow Company residing in it. They're most probably on leave and might be armed." Ghost added, showing three faces of men which were presumed targets for intel.

"Where'd you get these? They look like very classified information." Price asked, crossing his arms and looking at Ghost.

"Let's just say I know someone." he replies smugly.

"And why would we follow such a lead?" Jack added, making the situation very awkward for the rest of the team.

"Is this…" Soap tried to insert.

"Yes, Soap. It's interpol." he finished. The rest of the team looked at each other.

"They wanted to investigate more on the Shadow Company. But since they aren't authorized to act on it, all they do is gather information. Which is frustrating-" Ghost complained but got cut off by Price.

"They're asking for our help because we're rogue. No rules, no anything…" He stated the bitter tone in his voice was too clear.

"We can't just casually fly to London, right? Who's helping us?" Alex stated the larger problem at hand. If this lead is solid enough, they have to act on it.

"Nikolai could fly us in. I could pull a few favors from S.A.S. but they're going to have to be sneaky to let us land there. We can't forget the fact that we're fugitives. I mean, Shepherd only put Me, Alex, Soap, Ghost and Roach on his list." Price said.

"My dream of being wanted came true in the worst way possible." Soap cracked a joke to lighten up the mood. It obviously worked except for Jack, who always never gets the humor.

They continued briefing, planning the route that they would take saving the most time. Which weapons to use and other protocols to follow. 

~

"Saving the world once again, my hero?" Samantha leaned on him as he continuously flicked Soap's lighter.

"Stop calling me that. I'm no hero. I'm just trying to set things back the way they were." 

"Like what heroes do." Samantha chuckled sitting next to him and rested her head on his lap.

"My Dad probably misses me so much." She sighed, looking at Alex as he looked down on her, his fingers played with her hair.

"If we could find the perfect time, we could tell him you're safe. It's unfair how the whole world thinks we took you as a hostage." he complained.

"Well, when you think of it I really am a prisoner here." she mused as Alex's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Then once his brain cells finally agreed, he smiled and laughed.

"Oh I get it." he reached for her hand and put it close in his heart. 

"You're trapped in here aren't you." they both laughed.

"That's so corny, right?" Samantha giggled.

"Yeah. It is." Alex replied as they continued to spend the rest of the few hours they had together before flying to the Majesty's domain.

LONDON

UNITED KINGDOM

Price wasn't able to land on the S.A.S. base, but they did assist the rogue team to land on an open area not too far from the base and Nikolai seemed to be fine with it. The team borrowed MacMillan's jeep and took the road less traveled to the city. 

Everyone looked alert and worried, this was a risky move but it was all they had to get to Shepherd, to get to Nero.

They drove as fast as they legally could, knowing that their faces wouldn't be recognized by anyone until Ghost distributed his extra skull masks, which allowed them to move freely across the streets of the nearest target location.

The first apartment room was located on the third floor, that meant they had to ascent two flights of stairs without raising suspicion. Ghost immediately worked his way to the basement and disabled the lights.

A quick flicker and the building's lights immediately shut off, making some of the tenants scream in surprise. It was time to move.

The team slowly crept the stairs, their steps were light enough that they could only hear faint creaking. Price led the line as they cleared the hallway all the way up to the third. 

Alex was behind Price as he saw the target room's door was slightly ajar. It's either they're lucky he forgot to lock it or they were too late. Proceeding with extreme caution, Price swung the door open and continued to scour the room for the guy. 

"Right door, clear." Price announced as everyone scattered around to look for intel. Jack searched the closets hoping that clues were left behind inside pockets. Roach looked for the drawers while Price and Alex looked for clues of possible escape. 

"Someone's going up to this floor." Soap whispered as he signaled the team to remain quiet. He was by the door on lookout for the team.

Complete silence. Alex could only hear his breathing and his heartbeat as the person walked past the hall, not minding the open room he just passed through.

They took a few more minutes of intel gathering until they ultimately decided to call it off. It was a dead lead.

"Two more houses." Ghost announced as the team silently regrouped by the car where Nikolai was waiting. The lights immediately returned as soon as they set foot on the vehicle.

"I sure hope we get something from the next house." Roach wished as they drove to the next location.

The second location almost had the same layout. They did the same plan but this time Alex and Soap switched roles. Guard duty was significantly harder when it's dark and Alex did his best to heighten his senses. 

Signs of struggle were heard from the inside and Alex assumed they finally identified one of the targets. He could hear the person's groans and struggles as well as his team working hard to constrain the person.

"Ghost. It looks like they got him." Alex reported as he could hear Ghost working on something. Then in just a flash, the lights turned back on along with a loud booming sound of Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up". Alex entered the room and looked at the poor guy being surrounded by his squad. He was trying to scream for help but Rick Astley begged to differ. 

"We're just here for one simple question…

WHERE. IS. SHEPHERD?" Price roared. The guy didn't easily give in. He just shook his head and continued to struggle free. Jack immediately pulled his hand and placed some pliers in between the hostage's fingers.

"Isn't that a little bit too harsh?" Soap whispered to Roach, who just shrugged.

"What's harsh is that they used an innocent daughter as bait." Jack slowly squeezed the pliers making the hostage scream. 

"AAAAAAAAAH." He squirmed making the rest of the team hold him tight. Alex had his eyes set on the door as neighbors started to complain about the booming music.

He squirmed enough that it activated something in his pocket, a smartphone whose light shone through the fabric of his pants. Then in a flash, a small scale EMP blast rendered the whole building quiet. All electrical devices were disabled and Alex and the team found themselves kneeling as the loud ringing triggered their ears.

None of them were too quick to react as their hostage looked like he wasn't affected by the blast. He bolted toward the exit and Alex attempted to grab him by the foot, only for him to effortlessly shrug him off and stomp on him, causing him to roll in pain.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Soap follow along with Roach, who were still holding their ears and wincing from the pain of the ringing. 

Next Chapter : Going Dark - Part 2

Notification Squad my Beloved

@samatedeansbroccoli @smokeywhalee @enderio @whimsywispsblog @beemybee @ricinbach

#horrayfic #john soap mactavish #john price #simon ghost riley #alex echo 3 1 #gary roach sanderson #whateverittakes #codmw

[aflower-exe]

The Night We Met

[a/n: oo this is a bit longer than usual so the author’s note is at the beginning. This lil collection of blurbs is inspired by The Night We Met by Lord Huron. If you look at the red words you can see that lol. Just an fyi the bold italic words are kinda a narration to the blurbs. Idk i had this idea while manic one morning and i refuse to change it. Anyways I literally wrote this at 12:53 am so enjoy and please forgive any errors.]

Falling in love while young can be a beautiful thing. So full of passion and romance and excitement.

It can start of so sweet;

“I had all of you come here today because we have an announcement” Lia said. Everyone at the dinner table was on the edge of their seat. A few of the people you knew but most of the faces at the table were completely unfamiliar. When you’d arrived, you quickly surveyed the room looking for someone you know to hide behind while Lia was busy.

After finding another friend of yours to chat with, you spy a tall dark haired man out of the corner of your eye. His crisp suit and regal posture sent chills down your spine. You did your best to look his way in hopes of getting no attention, but every attempt fell short. By the time you’d sat down, you’d completely forgotten about the savvy man. Instead, you focused on the news that your best friend and her boyfriend were eagerly waiting to unveil.

“We’re pregnant” Chen exclaims. “Well, she’s pregnant. I’m gonna be a dad!”

The table erupted with cheers. Of course you had already known. You were the one with your best friend in the bathroom as she cried over the two tiny red lines. But it was still nice to hear it out loud. The couple was young, foolhardy, and unwed but you knew their bond was stronger than anyone else's. You admired their compatibility and often envied their happiness. Nonetheless, you were happy for them. So you put a smile on your face and clapped and cheered like the rest of the lot

After the cheering and dinner were coming to an end, many of the guests found themselves congregating in small groups with friends old and new. In the midst of the mass chaos, you had found yourself standing alone in the corner of the room. Normally, you’d flock to your best friend, but she was caught up im the duties of a hostess. You watched her prance around the room eagerly accepting private congratulations.

“Is this seat taken?” You turn around to see a handsome looking man with a vaguely familiar mess of dark locks. At first, you were shocked that he would even look your way, but you shook off the brief moment of self-consciousness and tried to reply with a quip

“Well, I mean, there’s no chairs. So…” The confusion you felt had now transformed into amusement. His lines were cute, but you knew he could do better.

“Yeah you’re right that was stupid. Let me start over. I’m Chanyeol” Chanyeol stuck his hand out towards you, a lopsided smile planted on his face.

“I’m y/n” You said, taking his hand reluctantly. It wasas if electricity sparked from your hands as they touched His hands were large but seem to fit with yours perfectly. His lips were twisted in a wholesome smile. Gazing into his eyes was like looking into a warm cup of coffee and you swore you could get lost in them forever. At that moment it was as if stars had collided. You didn’t believe in soulmates before, but that was about to change...

And as you approach your lovers high you’ll seem unstoppable. It will be as if you could fight off the entire world with the power of your love alone;

“I can’t believe i planned a whole picnic and now it’s ruined” You frowned. You could see from the tree you were hidden under that your blue gingham blanket was now soaked and the food that you stayed up all night making was unsalvageable. “And then most upsetting of all, you don’t seem to care”.

Chanyeol only chuckled. “It’s only a little rain.” His response only deepened your frown.

When Chanyeol noticed your expression he tsked, “I think you need to learn to go with the flow.” Knowing you would give a cynical reply, Chanyeol chose not to wait for you to respond. Instead, he grabbed your hand and pulled you into the rain. You squealed at the feeling of the cold droplets colliding with your skin. He pulls your body flush against his and places his hand on the small of your back.

“Care to dance?” He asks, a playful smirk appearing on his face.

“To what music?” The lack of music didn’t actually bother you, but you were always eager to tease. You were ready with quips about how cliché the moment was when Chanyeol dipped his head down so that his lips were inches from your ear and began to sing. You didn’t know what the song was and frankly you didn’t care. You’re feet synchronized with the rhythm of his song and you began to dance. Suddenly nothing else mattered. It was as if you were the only people in the world. You closed your eyes and took in the moment.

It’s memories like these that you wouldn’t trade for the world. Even now….

But then it seems to turn around;

The tension had almost become unbearable. And it wasn't good, sexy, fun tension that Chanyeol and you used to have. No. This was different. It was heavy with guilt and anger and accusations. Being the mature adult he was Chanyeol decided to feign ignorance in hopes of avoiding the inevitable. Your subtle slamming of the door and passive aggressive glances, he could look past. But the silent treatment? That he couldn’t ignore. “Alright, what’s going on?” Chanyeol asks. He watched as you leaned against the wall and fiddled with your fingers, doing everything to avoid his eye

“Nothing” You responded curtly. Chanyeol knew you were lying. He knew everything about you. After a year and a half of dating, Chanyeol could point out every freckle, birthmark, and scar with his eyes closed. Though he loved to study your curves and curls, Chanyeol also studied your little mannerisms. At this point, Chanyeol suspected he could register as a y/n-expert. While he believed he was perfectly attuned to your every thought, as he stood there in the living room of your shared apartment he could have been more confused by you.

“Why did you even invite me to dinner if you were going to flirt with all the other girls there. And why were there even other girls there? What’s the point of going on a date with me if you’re barely going to speak two words to me” The words spew endlessly out of your mouth.

“Wait, are you getting mad at me for taking you out to dinner? Because that’s bullshit”

“You didn’t take me out to dinner you invited me to join you for dinner. There’s a difference”

“And why are you nagging me about talking to other girls? It’s my job.”

“Oh so now it’s your job to flirt with everyone?”

“Yes. I mean no. It’s my job to be sociable”

“Oh sure. Just like last week it was your job to go out for drinks with those girls”

“Exactly! See the wouldn’t be a problem to any sane person”

“Sane? So, what? I'm insane now?”

“Well right now you’re insanely overdramatic”

”And you’re selfish, egotistical, and have no regard for my feelings”

“Oh my god you are so much work” Chanyeol was on fire now. You always managed to do that: bring out the worst in him. And once it was out it wasn’t going to stop. “Sometimes...”

“Say it.” You seethe. You know you shouldn’t push him. You know what’s on the inside of that soft, caring exterior. But part of you is just as egged on as he is and you wouldn’t stop until you’d won.

“Sometimes I want to just leave. Take my shit and go. Sometimes I wish we’d never met.” Chanyeol knew he shouldn’t have said that. He knew as it rolled off his lips and he knew as he stormed out of the apartment. He knew it probably hurt your feelings. Not because it was mean, but because it was true. And he knew you could tell it was true. And the worst part of it all was that he didn’t regret saying it one bit.

While Chanyeol was out at who knows where doing who knows what, you had found yourself staring at your bedroom door, waiting. Usually your fights would end in glorious make-up sex, or passionate i-love-you-please-forgive-me-kisses. So you waited. You watched the door, waiting for him to come barging in, ready to take back the things he said. When your eyes got tired of waiting you let your ears take over. You jumped at every little sound only to feel slight disappointment when it didn’t end up being the sound of a turning door. You waited, and waited, and waited. Until eventually your tired body didn’t feel like waiting anymore. And for once, neither did you.

And as you come down from your high you’ll realize why love is such a dangerous drug. Because now that you’ve had a taste you need more, and that same old love just doesn’t do it for you anymore...;

In the beginning of the relationship when you two would fight, you could feel your blood boiling. You felt so many emotions. And now, as you aimlessly twirled the engagement ring on your finger, you felt none. Part of you was scared of what that meant. The other part of you knew. The well had run dry. You were out of patience. Out of cares to give. Out of love.

The Chanyeol you once loved was seemingly dead and gone and he was now replaced by a mature shell of his former self. Occasionally you could see the fun-loving, playful man you fell in love with. You could see it in his smile. You could hear it in his laugh. You could feel it in his soft touches. You could taste it in his lingering kisses. But once the smile faded, and the laugh subsided, and the touches stopped, and the kisses ended, the man you knew was gone like a ghost in the wind.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” You had finally found the courage to say what you had both been thinking. After months of “it will get better” and days of “maybe he’s tired” you finally decided it was time for your relationship’s timely end.

Though Chanyeol said nothing his silence spoke for him. He agreed. The room was quiet. And the only thing that could be heard, was your record playing in the background,, “Take me back to the night we met…”

Falling in love while young can be a beautiful thing. For you it was a beautiful thing: full of stolen glances and dances in the rain. But it was also full of missed calls, and slammed doors. See that’s the thing with young love. You fall in love with someone before they even know who they are. Before you know who you are. The two of you fell in love before you had the chance to find out what love was. When all is said and done you wouldn’t dream of taking back those moments. So while you may never again have the the feeling of Chanyeol’s hand in yours, or the sound of his laugh echoing through your apartment, or the taste of his kiss on your lips, you’ll always have the night you met.

#kpop #exo smut #exo fanfic #exo scenario #exo fanfiction #exo fic #exo chen #exo chanyeol #exo park chanyeol #park chanyeol #chanyeol imagine #boyfriend chanyeol #chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol angst #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol smut #chanyeol fluff #exo fluff #kpop fluff #kpop exo #kpop blurbs #exo blurb #chanyeol blurb #exo angst #chanyeol x reader #exo x reader #exo #chanyeol #kpop angst

[penny-beee]

Lady Wendy

REWRITE (1/?)

Summary. Lady Wendy is an Eternal Elemental and heart broken, Loki the God Mischief is very much alive after Thanos.

Description. LokixReader(Provided Name)

Word Count. 2300

AN. I have a board for a story inspo if you want me to post it (:

Shouts from the castle help shattered and tore at my heart as they ran after me - the skirt of my dress held between my arms as I ran for my life. The people I had grown up with, the kind people that raised me and took care of me now viewing me as a monster. A witch. The one time I slip up of course being in front of the entire royal court.

I had held my power in for so long - only my mother and sister knowing of my impurities. We were sitting in the garden, watching the men play croquette (as we did every Saturday) together. Mother was sitting besides me, my head resting gently on her lap as she fondled with pieces of my hair. The relaxation soothed me - broke down the walls I had built for so long. I hadn’t realized I was making little tornados with my pointer fingers. Mother’s gaze being elsewhere but Queen Elizabeth’s being very present, the look of horror unknown until she stood from her seat.

“Witch.” The Queens voice just higher than a shout - pure hatred poured from the corner of her mouth, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched up high.

Instantly, I jumped from my mother’s lap. The word I dreaded to be called - shook me from my peaceful afternoon. I looked at my surroundings- the men had started to close in on me. One last gaze over to my mother - she mouthed the word ‘run’ silently. With a quick flick of my hands - I sent the men flying backwards to give me a head start. Running from a dozen men in a 40 pound dress was not going to be successful but I would die trying.

I trudged through the lawn - the sacred forest just a few feet ahead. One way or another I would make it through this trial. I peered over my shoulder one last time as I stopped at the edge of the forest. The crowd of angry people halting as well - I could hear the last piece of my heart shatter as they taunted me. A single salty tear crawled through my parted lips and into my dry mouth.

I turned on my heel and entered the abyss of mystery. No one had ever made it out of the forest alive - many men would go in looking for treasures beyond riches and never be seen again. Women would tell stories that the men disappeared simply to get out of their marriages. Men spoke stories of a ghost that lingered over it as if it was possessed. I however believed the forest could breathe. From my room in the castle - you could see the forest. The trees shifted in the breeze - when I would go near the tree line I could hear the groaning of the earth stretching with every breath. Nature is more than dirt and rock - its the way of life - it is life. The creator of all. In conclusion - the forest never scared me, only peaked my curiosity.

The wooden beasts surrounding the forest were dark - blackened. Grass dead and crisp under my steps - a warning sign for intruders to ‘beware’. A scent of green apple and pine carried through the air - kissing the inside of my freckled nose. A feeling of warmth caressed the places of bare skin on my figure. A strange feeling for a feared and uncharted place. The feeling was familiar though - father was similar. A knight - he towered over everyone and was a forced to be reckoned with. Father was a cold man - never showing emotion on his scared up face unless drunk off mead. I never understood how mother could do it for all those years.

A loud crunch of a twig tore me from my thoughts - my head whipped towards the location of the sound. Nothing in sight but trees. A soft airy giggle in the form of a breeze caught my eyes. Little pieces of leaf floated through it. Another wind bender? I wiped the few tears from my heated cheeks and stepped deeper into the forest - following the sweet sound. My dress ripped and shredded from the thorns - sleeves falling apart and hair going back to its natural wavy form. My feet bruised in the uncomfortable pointy shoes I had been expected to wear.

Just as the giggling stopped - a curtain of ivy shielded my vision in front of me. Curiosity took over my body, a soft grin of hope grew on my face as I pulled the ivy to the side. Bewildered at the beauty - I took every inch of the sight before me in.

The sun shown brightly - casting a slight yellow haze on the bright green and huge pine trees. Birds flew so carelessly up above my head. Wild flowers from Cornflower to Chicory adorned the ground - the grass now healthy and perfectly kept. A single white tailed Eagle in a tree across the field. The bird watched my every move, his eyes bore into my soul. I slipped the pointy shoes off my roughed up feet and shed the first layer of my dress off. The weight lightening quickly and sending a happy shiver up my spine. I stepped out into the light - the wind coming back to guide my attention to the eagle. He fluttered down - shifting into a human form effortlessly. Something I’d only heard in stories - a prince many years ago casted out just as I had been today for being a shape shifter. That was him, Prince Carter. My mouth fell open - leaving room for a little fly to crawl in if it felt fit. The Prince was as described in all the stories; pale blonde hair, almost white, pale skin with red freckles, tall and lengthy. I stood frozen for a moment before his hand on my shoulder awoke me.

“Lady Wendy, I’ve been waiting for you.” He confessed smoothly - his voice of honey in a warm black tea.

“For me? Why is that?” My voice cracked at the odd statement.

“My dear girl, you’re the protector of these woods - the winds - the animals. You’re our voice.”

“You’re our voice.” Rang in my ears for the millionth time today. Over the course of these 200 something years - I never forgot what Carter had said. I protected these woods - any soul for seen to have ill-will on my beloved home was rid of before they could step foot inside. I had grown - my powers more than a gust of wind or a tornado in my palms - I connected with the animals and plants. The persuasion of my tongue helped guide the plants in times of battle. The time of war, destruction and chaos was past us now. My home hadn’t been touched in over two decades - something I was proud of.

My hair grew out to my bum, the waves of chocolate brown would fall over my shoulders every now and again when I’d crouch down. A wooden crown adorned my head every so often - maybe a flower crown of daisies as well. I grew to love armored dresses and long simple gowns - my all time favorite being my emerald green cape and maroon red leather suit I mended ages ago. My face never fell with age - hair never grew grey - a few would come in every 15 years but nothing crazy. My hands stayed soft, a quality I never found imperfections in.

Carter had led me to a cottage one day - I had grown tired of sleeping under a willow tree. A woman with almost the most purest of intentions was allowed in the woods and had stayed in a stone lined cottage just a little deeper into the trees. I trudged barefoot through the wilted leaves and freshly watered grass. The cottage was buried under some trees, big flower bushes hiding most of the sides of it. A cozy and delicate home - something very different from what I had grown up in.

I couldn’t help but feel a tug at my heart strings, excitement filled my body. It was so incredibly adorable and it was all mine. I looked up at Carter - his almost black eyes staring back down at me. He was proud, the goofy grin gave it all away.

I grinned softly at the wholesome memory of my old friend. Oh how I miss that crazy bird. I sighed as I stood up to make my way inside - the sun was to set soon. I made my way to my little kitchen - a few dishes stacked up in my ancient sink. A task as simple as dishes - kept me level headed and humble.

Although, Carter explained many times my purpose and who I was. I never thought of myself as a “God” or Deity. I had met other benders throughout the years - some stuck in eternity with me and some down the path to die a humanly death. One of closest friends Aura was of the water element - she could feel every emotion of every wave - the heart and soul of every animal. Aura is an Eternal Elemental as I am. Cursed to protect our element(s) until another comes around to fill our shoes. The thought of death was something light to me - I had seen it so often in my animals and plants. It was peaceful, no pain came after just silence.

I sighed in content as I started washing the few dishes - times like this I wished for someone to come keep me company. I loved my animals and the earth around me but the lack of human connection killed my morale. I finished the little chore and sauntered over to my fluffy bed - over the years I realized if I didn’t have a man in my life a handful of pillows was going to come in handy. I chuckled at the thought of any man sharing my sleeping chambers - I shook the thought away and ruffled my hair up. Slipping out of my leathers and into a cotton sleeping gown. My limbs dove under the sheets - letting the warmth take over. I closed my hazel green eyes to only be consumed by rest.

I awoke the next morning just as the sun rose - my eyes fluttered open, my nose sniffing the at the familiar scent of morning dew. A personal favorite. Today felt good - my body was rested, my heart full of happiness and mind clear of any negativity. A day for dressing up. I squealed goofily as I made my way over to my closet of dresses. A newly mended gown sat in front of my pale face. That one it is. The beige gown kissed the floor and laid gently behind me - bronze metal embroidery outlined my bust and torso - creating a little corset. The sleeves were skin tight - little bronze cuffs keeping my wrists safe in a time of battle. I smiled at the beauty I felt but something was missing - my head felt too light. Cockily, I smirked at myself in the mirror. A crown. I grabbed my bronze and ruby crown - placing it perfectly upon my wavy locks.

Happily, I made my way out of my cottage and down to the meadow. A tall walking stick helped me trudge through the path. A few deer/doe laid in the grass peacefully - babies jumping around them. A few tweety birds flew besides my head - saying hello sweetly. A somber moment of pure joy - happiness from every creature I could feel the emotions of every animal and every plant - something I often casted away after the disappearances five years ago.

Suddenly, the ground shook. Nothing of my doing - I searched around the field to spot, scanning through every hint of darkness, nothing. The tree-line. A quick whistle escaped my peach lips as I summoned Clay my White Tailed Eagle to my side. I darted quickly over to the area of possible intrusion. There sat just a few feet away from the entrance, a black jet. I didn’t emerge, not yet. If they were a threat I couldn’t show my face just yet - I watched as three men stomped out of the back. A man of metal, a one eyed man and a man of mystery. My eyes furrowed as I watched them make their way towards me, my hand stiffened around my walking stick.

“Lady Wendy, we are here on good intentions. My name is Tony Stark, we met about five years ago when we came to recruit you.” The familiar voice boomed.

“You decided against me - do you remember that?” I sneered, the awkward memory of their director rejecting me because of my lack of motivation to help.

“Well we were hoping the motivation had changed after the disappearances.”

I stepped from behind the trees - my dress flowing behind my body. Clay perched himself on my shoulder and watched the scene unfold with me.

Amused - I stepped just in front of the three men. “What makes you think you can bring him back?” My poor Carter one of the vanished. My heart ached for him - he was kind and good. A man I could proudly call my brother.

“We think we found a way to get the stones together one last time.” The man I presumed to be Thor spoke up.

“And if this doesn’t work out?”

“Then we die.” The mysterious man stated - no feeling in his voice.

I sighed teetering over the weight of the two options, gazing over at Clay. Clay was only bird - I could feel like approval radiate from his feathers. Clay and Carter were my best friends - the two I could count on forever.

Finally, “You’re in charge.” I whispered to the bird before I brought Clay to my wrist and sent him off back into the woods.

“Alright, let’s get Carter back.”

#imagine #spotify #loki odinson #loki #loki x reader #loki odinson imagines #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston #avengers #avengers imagines

[darkesttimelinestuff]

7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.  

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons  

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps  of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness.  “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything  and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at  apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor,  picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino.  The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from  – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

#fanfic #xfiles fanfic #the x files #txf #wtfmulder #mulder #scully #mulder and scully #mulderxscully #halloween #haunted house #spooky #msr

[trashballerina]

BNHA Fics I really like

Btw, the ones with a ⭐ are my favorites

journey to the past 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046934

Izuku is five years old the first time he's saved by heroes. He's an instant fan of the woman in pink with her cheerful smile and the man with his ice powers and fine-boned features, even if they both refuse to tell him their names.

For most of his life, Izuku has been the centre of villain attacks, but he has never been injured. Every time, he's saved by bright, unknown heroes—heroes who smile at Izuku, and ruffle his hair or ply him with hugs, and seem mesmerised by how small he is.

Heroes that the rest of the world doesn't believe exists.

Opinion: Honestly, it’s really pure and heartwarming with a side of angst. Seeing a young Izuku fanboy is adorable and from what I remember it's pretty well written. I honestly really love this one.

Lies in the guise of truth

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124007/chapters/35067359

All Might is the world's #1 hero, the symbol of peace, the pillar that the world knows they can stand on. He dominates every room he's in, from press conferences to his Hero Agency.

It's pretty easy for everyone to overlook Yagi Toshinori, All Might's 'quirkless secretary'. But he's still there.

Opinion: I really love Dadmight. Like I really love Dadmight so I may be a bit bias. It diverts a bit from canon, but I was alright with that. It’s wholesome, cute, and Toshi deserves some love 

I Would Understand  ⭐

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12729852

Shinsou Hitoshi had a bit of a problem, and that problem was that he’d gotten attached to Aizawa Shouta. And somewhere along the line had started seeing him as a parental figure, a replacement for all the foster home parents who’d passed him along and never quite done their job.

A kid who's been in foster care his entire life spends a normal, average day after training with the teacher who seems to care a little too much.

Opinion: I have found myself revisiting this fic thrice already lol. Honestly, the first chapter is my favorite and well written--as are the other chapters. I love the melodic and somber atmosphere of some of the scenes and it really feels so sweet but hits me in the feels. The EraserMic in here is beautiful and great Dadzawa.

Ghosts of Flowers

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851709

Shigaraki gets the chance to carefully sift through the pieces of his recovered memories and tries to hold them close.

There is something that bothers him a bit though: Hana seems—oddly familiar.

It’s not until he’s reviewing the U.A. training exercise footage their mole got them that he realizes it.

The Yaoyorozu heiress, with her long, dark hair, her elegant eyes, and her confident smile, she looks just like—

But she can’t be Hana.

Opinion: I love this one a whole lot. The concept is interesting and executed really well. I really love the characterization of the characters and you get some great internal dialogue and inside thoughts. While I do think the story goes a bit fast, I really enjoyed and understand there’s a lot to tell in ten chapters. 

Not a Spare Part

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18974530/chapters/45052543

In one universe, Tony Stark closed his eyes to a world where Superheroes were a rarity.

In another universe, Tony Stark opens his eyes to a world where Superheroes are the norm.

(An AU where after the events of Endgame, Tony Stark finds himself inhabiting the body of a young quirkless boy named Midoriya Izuku and figures out that the world could use... another Iron Man)

------- Basically, Izuku becomes Iron Man.

Opinion: I really like this fic. Tony is giving Izuku the confidence he needs and makes some new friends and builds old ones. 

Reconfigure  ⭐

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16893972

It's been years since the League of Villains was disbanded. Out on parole and stuck in therapy, Tomura Shigaraki is coasting through life. While he's no longer a villain, he's not exactly a productive member of society either. When an awkward past fling shows up, he's met with a shock: a 3-month-old baby girl. Turns out motherhood is hard when you're a serial killer. Suddenly saddled with the responsibility of a child, Shigaraki has a choice: keep his life the boring way it is or become a father for his kid he didn't know he had.

He knows nothing about being a good parent (and neither does the recently paroled Dabi/Touya Todoroki), but help comes in the most surprising of forms, specifically pro hero Uravity. All Ochako Uraraka wants to do is be a hero, so when she stumbles across the former villain with a baby, she can't help but worry. With Shigaraki clueless, Uraraka decides to do her best to help. What starts out as a chance meeting between two old enemies turns into something else as they find themselves in a strange predicament and more people get involved. They say it takes a village to raise a child. Sometimes, it's a handful of mostly reformed villains and the heroes they tried to kill when they were teens.

Opinion: Alright, before you dismiss this one, hear me out:  Tomura/Ochako really works in this fic. This fic has become one of my favorites because of how its written, characterization, and Tomura’s child--because I’m a sucker for wholesome parent and child content. I honestly really love this fic and had a lot of emotions throughout.

Something Still Remains  ⭐

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737019

“Are you Shouta?” the shadow-man asks, and his tone is polite but there’s something verging on almost desperate behind it.

Shouta considers. He’s unarmed, facing an unknown person who knows his home address and his first name, he hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and he’s wearing kitten-patterned pajama pants. Despite all of that, he’s still confident in his ability to handle himself in a fight, but nothing about this situation is making sense, and it’s sending him slightly off-kilter.

Starting with how the shadow man knows his name.

“Maybe,” he says, after his silence has dragged on a beat too long. “Who’s asking.”

Opinion: It’s a one-shot, but a heckin good one at that. The tone of this fic is so gentle and quiet. Also, Kurogiri characterization is great. I’m absolutely craving more.

How to kidnap an underground hero and an UA General Studies student- A guide by Present Mic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068645/chapters/55178836

Hizashi knew what the villains were planning, he was one of them after all. But they wouldn’t hurt what was his and the plan was rather simple. Really.

Step 1: Convince them that it is just going to be a family holiday and that they desperately need a bit of a break

Step 2: Get Shinsou to take quirk suppressants, make him believe it’s a good thing and that it would help him, tell him that they would wear off on their own, not that they do

Step 3: Put the pills into tea, not coffee, the latter could cause health problems

Opinion: I have so many feelings about this. Like way too many. It’s not finished, but I need more. Erasermic, Shinsou, and Eri, and literally everything I love

it's a chatfic, but with villains

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777448/chapters/26554635

DABnation added NotDeadpool, Ketchup, Magic Mike, BIG MEATY, MoonMoon, FidgetSpinnerPro, MAGNIFICENT, and Loan Snake to the group.

Stab Lick Delicious:Why is Kurogiri crying DABnation: i think DABnation: he realized he made a mistake

Opinion: It’s been a while since I’ve read and it’s unfinished, but I remember having a really fun time reading this and having quite a few laughs.

Karma in Retrograde

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924609/chapters/34574417

When Dabi is struck by a de-aging quirk that regresses him to the most influential part of his life, he finds himself turned back into a sixteen-year-old U.A. General Studies student with lots of self-esteem issues, parent problems, a destructive quirk that he can't manage, and no memory of the years that he's lost - not to mention the fact that his little brother is now the same age as him and one of the top students in the U.A. hero course. In U.A.'s attempt to make up for what they missed and help the Dabi of the past, present, and future, he is placed with the only students that know him and have yet to find out what truly makes the difference between a hero and a villain. There, they must face the question of whether he can change or his destiny is already set in stone.

Opinion: I really like this fic. I really love young Dabi. It’s been a while since I’ve read, but I really love this one.

komorebi  ⭐

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717599/chapters/39209133

The change can't be immediate, or it’ll seem forced. It has to take time, in order to be realistic. He knows that.

He’ll need to seem like a villain. But he’ll be a hero.

And for that, Hitoshi thinks he’d do just about anything.

Or,

Someone's selling UA's secrets, and Shinsou Hitoshi definitely doesn't have anything to prove.

Opinion: If you haven’t noticed, I really like Dadzawa. This one is super interesting, written really good, and I love the characterization of Shinsou. Like some chapters had me rioting I thought they were so good. I love the alternating moods ins scenes and I feel that I can really feel the atmosphere--if that makes sense lol.

Mendacium  ⭐

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21297146/chapters/50713442

"Why are you doing this?" Shouta couldn't help but ask. Really, this kid couldn't be much older than his class, and he was already out his risking his life to fight... and was good at it. That was the worst part of all, that a child would act like an experienced soldier in the face of danger. "If you stop now, I won't report you. You can just go on home to your family, and maybe try to be a hero-"

A laugh cut him off, but it was more sad than condescending. "Mr. Trash Bag, I'm doing all I can to get home. But like hell I'll be a hero. I've been used by the government too much." A slight European accent colored his words, and his Japanese was a little hesitant, but the determination was clear. "I have to admit, though, your quirk is really awesome. The ability to stop others' energies... remarkable."

The boy tensed, and Shouta activated his quirk on reflex.

"Too bad it doesn't work on me, then. Can't erase what you don't have, after all!"

OR: Edward didn't want to help Truth. He didn't want to go to a different world to defeat yet another Father. He didn't want to become a vigilante there.

He also wanted his brother back. The choice was obvious, even if Truth is a massive asshole.

Opinion: 10/10. Superb. Love our short funky blond alchemist. There’s ling chapters, great Edward Elric, and it had me rolling a few times with laughter. I thoroughly love this fic. 

Demons of the Past  ⭐ 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17642501/chapters/41601551

For Enji Todoroki, hero name Endeavor, reconciling with the past is easier said than done. Even more so when a dead son comes back to haunt him.

Opinion: I had this before BUT HEAR ME OUT! This fic is absolutely amazing. I was blown away with the characterization of Enji and I know so many people hate him-- I included--but I think his perspective is interesting. The high emotional scenes really had me feeling. Honestly, give this fic a try and you’ll see what I mean.

Black Cat Cafe  ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15442725/chapters/35844969

Aizawa Shota was a man tired of life, bitter and jaded from the endless horrors of the world. Six years ago, he disappeared, his existence erased.

Redeye is a stoic man with a mysterious past, who runs a tight shop, cares for his young ward with his whole heart, and makes a flawless cup of coffee.

He also has an unabashed fondness for stray cats.

(Otherwise known as a bitter Aizawa makes café Switzerland, adopts twenty hero-in-training children, some villains, and Shinsou, and then kicks All for One’s ass into next week. And maybe falls in love.)

Opinion: This is the one bois. I think this is my favorite bnha fic. The concept, the characterization, the PINING. I am absolutely in the with this story and the author.

Sure As the Setting Sun  ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111294/chapters/27462717

Mob never aimed to be a hero, despite being an apprentice to one. He only wanted to make sure his quirk never hurt anyone ever again. However, an incident that occurs in his third year of middle school spurs him into action despite his wishes. Mob enters into UA academy, the top heroics school in all of Japan, and winds up with several new friends and much more trouble than he bargained for.

Opinion: It hasn’t been updated for a while, but seeing my two favorite cinnamon rolls together melts my heart. Mob is in the hero course but has the moral dilemma of fighting, and honestly, it is so interesting to see how it’s handled. 

_________

Well, I hope you enjoyed the list. I really tried not to star everything (I like them all!). I’m probably going to make more for different fandoms and more in-depth tbh. I had a lot of fun doing this! If anyone has any fic recommendations for, please don’t feel shy to send me some! I love talking about writing!

#bnha #fic reccomendations #fanfic #dadzawa #deku #fic list #my hero academia #mha #boku no academia #bnha fanfiction

[dio-roga]

After years of stalling, this is finally seeing the light of day and thank actual jesus for that. There’s more fic out there than you’d think for the best boys, but like all things, sturgeon's law’s in effect when it comes to quality (big time actually, around 35 fics on this list from a rough 350 in existence). I read them all so you don’t have to.

Higher rank the better (though obviously YMMV) and the rest should just be ordered by word count. I have a place in my heart for everything on this list so no matter where it is or what I say about it, trust me, if it’s here, I think it’s worth your time.

Will do my best to keep things up to date. I F5 tabs like you wouldn’t believe. Love you guys ❤

[SSS RANK] ABSOLUTE TOP SHELF

ego, opinion, art & commerce 24parts

We hopefully all know it, we certainly all love it. The canon-compliant, rock-band road-trip AU that’s destined to rule the entire ship one day; the cryde child of prophecy. Go in hard and this’ll take you away like nothing else. The only thing not absolutely perfect about this fic is (like the rest of us) you’ll have to wait for the ending. I know waiting sucks, but please don’t let it stop you bingeing this story right now. I am not exaggerating when I say it’s better than most published books you’ll ever read.

let your heart hold fast niente

Literally the best finished cryde fic ever written as of time of writing this. The boys have grown up. Clyde’s a writer, Craig’s distant, and familiar circumstances bring them crashing back together. The cast of characters are a complete joy, it’s fully drenched in canon, and sports an amazingly rich post-series lore with all manner of cute nods and easter eggs for fans of the show. Nothing short of a masterpiece. Written with such love. Treasure your first read of it.

[SS RANK] AMAZING READS GAURANTEED

Pulling Mussels SekritOMG

A divisive fic maybe, but a classic all the same. Get ready for a fresh take on normal fic conventions to be sure. Personally? I’d consider it top shelf, no question. But to others? They might end up absolutely hating it. A strange midlife odyssey wherein a fed-up, lonely Craig begrudgingly reconnects with an out-of-shape, stagnated Clyde. Memorable to say the least, packed to bursting with detail and personality; go in with the right mindset and its glorious set pieces with burn themselves into your memories. Possibly the fic I’ve re-read the most ever.

Darkness Falls Vampiracy

Do you like cute, gorgeously written things? Set during the three days of Stick of Truth, it tells the behind-the-scenes story of Craig’s growing infatuation with the Lord of Darkness. Everything about this is clever and charming and just generally heart-warming. Best read after playing the game for maximum enjoyment, feel smart and accomplished as you pick out all the references. This fic’s adorable and pure and can do no wrong. 

Chicken Vampiracy

The gateway fic? Huge question mark? This story is cryde personified. Like the author distilled the ships very essence into this amazingly funny and light-hearted story about the boys playing the world’s most drawn out game of gay chicken. It’s impossible not to love this story, it’s perfect for what it is, and will leave you feeling happy by the end every time. What more could you want? Show this one to your friends and they’ll finally ‘get’ cryde.

the remains of our sky traiyadhvika

I’ll level with you fam, this story will emotionally cripple you, prepared or not. The writing is precise, sublime, and utterly heart-breaking. It tells the story of how Craig deals with the aftermath of Clyde’s death on Everest. Obviously a heavy topic, but I can tell you with complete confidence that this fic not only does the subject matter justice, but also manages to tell a story of love and hope despite it. Like Butters said, it’s a beautiful sadness. This fic had me obsessively researching mountains for weeks, and anything that can light that kind of fire in you is something special.

C & C, The Mystery Duo Darkyfoot

There is nothing in here but pure fluff, joy and happiness. This story will lighten your soul and brighten your heart. It tells the tale of the boys discovering a life-long obsession for hunting mysteries, and will resonate with anyone who’s ever held a strong passion in their lives (which is probably most of you, if you’re hunting down SP fics to read). The written equivalent of a warm blanket and a steaming hot mug of cocoa on a cold winter’s night.

[S RANK] THE REALLY GOOD STUFF

Equality Donkerblauw Fluweel

A good chill-out fic? Cataloguing a series of parties over the summer in which Clyde starts cozying up to Craig after much alcohol is consumed; and like a good drink, the fic mixes all its elements together nicely. It’s nothing ground breaking, but it’s got a super relaxing flow to it, and will brighten your mood by the end. It nails the party atmosphere, so if you’ve got no-where to go this Friday night, maybe pour yourself a little something and give this one a read.

Craig Likes Vanilla (Ice Cream) themuffintitan

The cuteness equivalent of porn. If you’ve got a list of cliché ‘aww’ scenarios, chances are they’ll play out in this fic. If hand holding and sharing an ice-cream make you melt (hahanotfunny) then this one’s definitely for you. For a fairly simple story about Craig and the squad visiting a waterpark, it’s remarkably detailed (check that word count fam), and has a killer summer atmosphere to boot. It certainly made me hit up a park last July. The writing does let it down in a few areas, but overall you’ll probably be too busy enjoying the ride to notice.

The Silent Lie Donkerblauw Fluweel

Guilty pleasure? Okay you caught me red-handed. This fic’s practically porn. Read all about how Clyde learns to surrender his heterosexuality as Craig massages away all his football injuries in the steamiest way possible. If I’m being totally honest? The story’s pretty obviously there to frame the smut, and writing can be a bit all over the place. But I can’t deny it just works. It’s hot AF. Come here for the sexies and you won’t leave disappointed. Read it after dark. ;)

Press Play flappySp00kster

Arguably unfinished, but the only thing missing is apparently a mostly superfluous epilogue. We’re in full AU territory here as Clyde hooks up with Craig on a dating app during a rough-patch with his long-time, and now ex, girlfriend. Your mileage may vary obviously as the story’s not canon compliant; however the boys behave like you’d imagine and the romance is nicely fleshed out and unique. Bonus points for a bit of kink in the sex scenes, which is rarer than you’d expect for this ship.

What Happened in 1637 pinkfloyd1770

One of the most strikingly unique stories out there; it’s essentially a flower shop AU in which Clyde embraces his Dutch heritage and sports and encyclopedic knowledge on tulip facts. Written in medias res during a seemingly long since established relationship with Craig, this fic merely offers a look into this unique take on the couple as they go about their lives. The detail is stunning, and you’ll find vivid mental pictures coming to life in every scene. If you can get past the fact Craig bottoms (let’s pretend he was feeling generous that evening) then you’ll certainly be charmed with this one. (1637 is the year the tulip bubble finally popped. In case you were wondering.)

Around My Head wendybirb

Are you looking for something that’s light and fluffy? Maybe you like reading Clyde’s inner monologue as he fumbles around high-key pining over his best friend? Perfect, sign yourself up to this fic; it’s a quick and easy read that’ll give you your daily dose of wholesomeness from one of my favorite authors. Nothing overly flashy or complicated here, just boys being cute and kissing.

hey there demons traiyadhvika

This spooky affair is thankfully a lot less of an emotional roller-coaster than it’s cousin ‘remains of our sky’, but that’s not to say it doesn’t grab you and refuse to let go. Have you ever wondered what Craig and Clyde would be like trying to host one of those dorky haunted house shows? Bonus points in that Craig can legitimately see ghosts? It’s a fresh concept that’ll really get your mind racing with the cutest hosts you could ask for. Kept me glued to my seat, ready to throw down if any bad spirits came between the best boys. Slept with the hall lights on for a couple nights ngl.

As Good a Reason as Any Vampiracy

The last of the sacred trinity that also includes Chicken and Darkness Falls, the only reason this fic isn’t ranked higher is because it’s also the authors shortest. Watching Clyde try anything and everything to spend more time with Craig is as endearing as it sounds, and the only thing that sucks is that it doesn’t overstay its welcome; when honestly, you’d like the fic to stay for dinner and spend the night. Quality everything. No joke made my heart flutter. Read it and know true happiness.

Kiss It Better dokidave

A one and done story of Craig trying to cheer Clyde up after a difficult day. This fic’s a nice double whammy if you’re looking for some hurt and comfort mixed in with some steamy sex scenes. It delivers exactly what is says on the box; don’t expect too much in the way of plot of development, but certainly feel free to gush over the sappy sweet character moments. A good pick-me-up fic if you’re having a lousy day.

Take a Chance (You Say It's Your Birthday) Miaou Jones (miaoujones)

So here we have Craig being drunk and vulnerable, while Clyde’s radiating raw sexuality as he dances for Craig’s camera. I’m usually all about Craig giving off that top energy, but the way this story frames (hahakillme) the whole dynamic is very soft and endearing; you can fully understand why Craig’s the one feeling thirsty this time around. This is a fic that really knows how to set a mood. Read it and feel like you’re being pampered.

You Make It Easier glowworm888

Pure comfort; Clyde’s feeling understandably miserable about the thought of growing up without his mom, and Craig’s doing his best to help Clyde cope. Wholesome dumb teenagers looking out for each other and low-key falling in love. I dare you not to feel all happy inside as Clyde slowly begins to feel better as Craig looks after him. Adorable throughout, the ending is very much them. Another good read for making a crappy day a better one.

Miss you x Vampiracy

A true hidden gem by one of the best authors in the whole fandom; we have here the best fic in which Clyde doesn’t even appear. The whole schoolyard gang give their two cents on Craig’s spiraling mental state as he tries desperately to justify a typo to Clyde during an obsessive summer-long texting marathon. Legitimately funny from start to finish, with buttery-smooth dialogue and a big soft ending that’ll have you grinning ear-to-ear for completely different reasons. Love it, cherish it, and dream of more. Vampiracy ̶ we’ll miss you x.

[A RANK] SHORT AND SWEET

Whatever Gets You Through The Night Miaou Jones (miaoujones)

There’s a lot of mixed feelings for me in this fic. A love-letter to Clyde and his parents, in which Craig gets caught up on the whole ‘love’ part of it, having trouble fully expressing himself due to some heavy personal baggage. The Donovan’s really shine in this story. Betsy’s alive and massively comforting, Roger’s family values personified, and Clyde’s being a sweetheart to end all sweethearts. It’s confronting, more than a little emotionally messy, but it’s none the less a story that’ll stay with you. Check the comments for a hidden stinger.

Some Dieting Donkerblauw Fluweel

Clyde’s self-image problems are the focus this time around, doing a commendable job pushing the ideas of healthy progress, properly looking after yourself and feeling comfortable letting others help out. It’s a good length for the story it is, and although the writing gets a little spotty in parts you’ll be unlikely take too much notice. Like Clyde, this one’s hearts in the right place.

If Time Could Stand Still WeCryde

I used to stumble across this story semi-regularly back in the day, wondering if I’d missed it before realizing we’d already been well acquainted. The amount of show rather than tell is fairly distracting, with the entire meat of the relationship relegated to backstory. There’s still something here though. Perhaps in the way it deals with long-distance relationships and just distance in general. Maybe the hopeless romantic in me resonates with the plight of two idiots with thousands of miles between them. See if it works for you?

The Edges of the Atmosphere Miaou Jones (miaoujones)

There should be some sort of law that states that confessions in cryde stories have to be some level of stupid or convoluted. These two are physically incapable of expressing such feelings to each other in any standard normie way. So enjoy some classic spaceman Craig tropes while Clyde juggles being cute and awkward like a pro. Trigger warning for some racy hand-holding action; we’re talking interlocking fingers here.

Standby Flier Cheesebirb (Hi Mark ;)

So upfront, this story isn’t even a romance quite honestly. It’s just a cute bromance sort of affair at most, in which the boys share a hotel room together while waiting on a flight back home. You could quite certainly interpret it as the start of something deeper, as the fic gladly provides hints to support it; however there’s nothing to see here apart from the two personalities bouncing off each other, and sometimes that’s enough. A memorable little story that might resonate that little bit extra if you’re a frequent traveler.

Bust and Boom Azul_Bleu

Clyde fumbling with the realization that he’s got the hots for Craig isn’t new ground, that’s about the only ‘downside’ I could give this story. What it does with this premise however is deliver some pitch-perfect characterizations, snappy pacing, a good variety of settings, and some surprisingly touching moments given its brevity. It’s also loaded with lines that stand up off the page and stick with you and those are always worth their weight in gold; the author really squeezes a lot out of the short word count.

Forts Can Be Fun wendybirb

In which little Craig builds a pillow fort and little Clyde is invited. It’s a soft story with some cute exchanges, if you’re looking for a more innocent kid-cryde vibe then this one can scratch the itch. Short and sweet by definition. Go read it and give yourself a little smile.

Ennui dsfgajkh

This simple story’s a real blink and you’ll miss it; detailing some introspective thoughts Clyde’s having about the monotony of small town life and his fascination with his much more interesting best friend. At nearly a decade old, this story pre-dates Pandemic, which solidified the usual stoic Craig tropes that came after so it’s an awesome little time capsule back to those days where apathetic Clyde and flamboyant Craig was as good a guess as any. There’s a line about skittles that makes it worth the ten minute read.

Neighbors Vampiracy

So remember that time that Vampiracy wrote one of the most realistic and precious depictions of little Craig and Clyde playing with toy trucks in the backyard, but then it got buried in the depths of tumblr? Try not to smile when Clyde beams over the prospect of making a new friend and being able to show off the hole he’s dug; I completely and utterly dare you. Bratty Craig is my spirit animal and I’d die for more adventures with him at the Donovan house. I’m such a sucker for cutesy pre-school fluff I swear; just like you will be when you’re done reading this.

Shine On How You Shine On Miaou Jones (miaoujones)

Real talk? I’m a sucker for all things Brokeback Mountain, and this fic’s just neatly slotting in Craig and Clyde as the cowboys sharing a rough and confusing night in a tent together. The story is exactly what you’d think if you’ve read the original, and it hits all the same thematic beats. Guilty pleasure alert in full here. If you’re in the mood for hearing Clyde Twist tense up as Craig Delmar spits on his hand behind him then I won’t judge if you don’t. I’d unironically read ten more chapters.

Two Weeks toddintops

Yeah-yeah I know I’m stretching the definition of fic with this one, it’s barely a half thousand words; but hey, better five hundred words that make you feel something than ten thousand that leave you feeling the same. A short, sharp dose of angst with some beautiful art accompanying, what have you got to lose? Something about Clyde’s smile, coupled with the bittersweet lines near the end has always managed to stay with me. Maybe it’ll strike a chord with you too.

UNFINISHED (BUT STILL GREAT)

Ask Craig obitotxt (Password is 12345)

Hop on board the angst express; with the last stop being yourself when you realize the story comes crashing off the rails and never hits the end. Is the fact this blog never reached a conclusion one of the great tragedies of our modern era? Yeah, kinda. Fact is, this is probably the only cryde-centric askblog-formatted story out there; and yeah, it’s hyperbolic at times, but goddamn if it doesn’t make you feel something. Packed to the brim with boys being boys, memorable moments and just so much heart, you’ll be pressing F (and F5) for days after you reach the final unfinished pages.

One More Year llexxii

And here’s a weird way to recommend something: you probably don’t want to read this one. It’s very long, it’s very dead, and it has a fairly submissive Craig coupled with a rather unlikable rendition of Clyde. So why’m I even talking about this, and really, I’ve not got much of an answer for you. Just that this fic, despite everything, has some consistently excellent writing. The flashback scenes to Craig and Clyde as young kids are total gems. There’s stuff to love here, and maybe it could have been something great; if nothing else, maybe check it out as an interesting look into the ships history.

Turn It Around, Get a Rewrite wendybirb

This one hurts, in just about every respect. Prepare for angst story wise as we follow along with the life and times of Craig, reconnecting with a clearly troubled yet desperately pining Clyde, who seems scared shitless about his dying claims to heterosexuality. I genuinely love this story. It’s raw and emotional and angry and sexy, it comes across messy and real and does an amazing job making you care about the boys while also showing their more frustrating attributes. I’m still holding out hope it’ll one day take its place with the greats, but until then, the hardest gut-punch is always that “unfinished” tag.

January White (Love Is a Stain) Dovakiin

Here we’ve got a different kind of tragedy. The usual formula is a promising author burning out after an amazing opening run, but here we’ve got a story that never even made it past the kickoff. It’s such a shame. The eponymous metaphor and the solemn tone throughout is honestly pretty captivating; I would love to see how this take on the characters would have played. Spare ten minutes from your day and give yourself something to reflect on with this abandoned beginning.

NOT FULL CRYDE, BUT CLOSE ENOUGH

ask MARSH and BROFLOVSKI jovishark

You know what? Fuck it. I’m putting this one here and no one can stop me. This ask blog is practically fandom required reading at this point, and I couldn’t in good conscience not mention it. Stan and Kyle answer your questions, the plotline reads like something from a CW show, and Craig and Clyde don’t even end up together. I love it genuinely. If you pressed me, this story might be what got me into the fandom; pressed me harder, it’s what got me into cryde (again ironic as cryde isn’t endgame here). Always worth a read or a re-read. Pretend Craig and Clyde sorted things out in college if you need to.

Brace Yourself skyline

Okay so it’s a style story, let’s get that elephant in the room well and truly pointed out from the outset. If it’s a deal breaker for you that cryde isn’t the focus, then move along, but I guarantee for those that stay, there’s a charmingly written cryde side-ship playing out in tandem to Stan’s quest to win over his super best friend. There’s a lot to love about this story, the writings sharp and surprisingly powerful at times, and the characters are a joy to watch. Watching the cryde story unfold from Stan’s POV is a unique experience that you won’t really find anywhere else.

Remove Before Flight skyline

So remember Brace Yourself from literally just one entry up? Okay, same concept, same author. This is a different timeline in which Kenny’s the lucky protagonist trying to win Kyle’s heart, but like before, you’re treated to an enjoyable cryde sub-plot playing on in the background of the K2 drama. The writing’s still on-point, the characters are still great; if you liked the authors other story (which I’d advise reading first), you’ll definitely enjoy this one too. It’s cute how Craig and Clyde always seem destined for each other in this universe.

#cryde #fanfic #clyde donovan #craig tucker #cryderecs #we should probs be friends if youve read them all #❤️

[hobimo]

Hello!! If you’re seeing this then it means you’ve read the final chapter of It Happened Quiet!! Thank you very much for making it all the way through :’’))

I figured, since this sort of my first time writing this much of a thriller/mystery kind of thing that there would be loose ends I didn’t manage to quite tie up, or details that probably deserve more explanation than I gave them, so I’m just going to write a big long masterpost about the fic, basically. I considered writing this like a big fancy essay but I haven’t written anything formal since high school, so you’ll have to excuse the informality :’’))

CHARACTERS

1.     Yoongi

In the fic, Yoongi is 25 years old. In the past 14 years, he’s lived a very quiet life, going to school and befriending Namjoon, Seokjin, Jungkook and Jimin. He’s relatively unaware of his witch heritage and very dismissive of it in general, chalking it up to superstition.

The events of what happen in the forest when he and Hoseok go into it as children is very murky a) because I wanted to be sort of dark and never really clear but also b) because I couldn’t make up my damn mind about what I wanted. (pls forgivi). The breakdown is basically yoonseok go into the woods one day and they’re in for a big surprise and through some unclear turn of events, they have a falling out, and they’re just kids and they’re tired and hungry and scared, and things get thrown way out of proportion and they separate, and then things fall apart. Yes, Yoongi did intentionally leave Hoseok behind. Not through ill-will, he was just a kid and he was frustrated and scared and just wanted to get home, but as you can see the guilt literally eats him up as soon as he’s out and he can’t go back for Hoseok.

The majority of the flashbacks are experienced by Yoongi, as weird dreams or distorted memories or whatever, but they’re not necessarily his. That’s an important point I did try to reinforce by having Taehyung have memories that mirror Yoongi’s exactly. It was my attempt at playing the unreliable narrator card. I hope I did it justice :’’)

Anyways, story goes on, Yoongi chooses Taehyung over his friends when they have some weird inquest at his home, and then Jungkook does his big I release you and then taegi fall in love whatever it’s just like that in the countryside.

Something I did try with Yoongi was to have the witchy feel come back in the later chapters following his talk with Namjoon when his eyes go blue. I made him make sage oil instead of his sage-steeped-water-thing and threw in a few references to his mother doing it but never fully explaining it because she knows Yoongi isn’t his full self anymore. Essentially Yoongi’s “ghost” in the woods was his ‘witchy’ half. At least that’s what I tried, obviously he stayed kinda witch-boy aesthetic but you know.

2.     Taehyung

Taehyung is my son and I love him. In Yoongi’s part of the story, he does show up with no memory at all and that’s because Yoongi’s half-life in the woods says give those to me, referring to his memories. By the time he reaches Yoongi’s door he’s basically a total amnesiac.

Obviously, I tried to give Taehyung and Yoongi as much parallels as I could. See: the cows, being called a ‘witch’ (even though Taehyung is 100% NOT a witch), the piano, etc. I also had him get involved with Hoseok mostly because I wasn’t prepared to try and fit in Taehyung’s gay awakening in the 8 chapters we had (but also so I could imply some sexy taegiseok poly), but also because I wanted to flesh out Hoseok’s character. Vhope were always going to be involved but originally I wasn’t going to reveal quite as much as I did in chapter 7. But I still had fun writing it so it’s whatever.

Some key points about Taehyung worth noting are how he chooses his friends and family (his siblings, his town) over Hoseok, especially with his line “You only have me, but I have a lot more than just you.” This is basically the mirror image of what Yoongi does when Jungkook confronts them, which gives you a little more insight into Taehyung’s character at the time. When he was shaking his head in chapter 6 it was more of a ‘don’t do it Yoongi please don’t do it’ instead of a ‘they’re speaking bs you should choose me’. Taehyung remembering Jungkook is something I justify since Jungkook is obviously more powerful than a witch half-life in the woods, so obviously the memories belong more to Jungkook than they do Yoongi. But also it was just fun.

Taehee and Taewoo live long and happy lives despite losing their big brother in the war. Taewoo becomes a farmer that moves down the valley, and Taehee ends up marrying Jungkook in the sixties. (It was Jungkook’s attempt at keeping her safe. It was very wholesome don’t go yikes on me!!! It also implies Taehyung has descendants in town but we don’t ever see them.)

Taehyung is the ‘fairy’ of the story. In return for the mortal body he gave Hoseok (blood and bone) Hoseok essentially made him into a fairy that could grant wishes. I thought it was cute, since Hoseok had called Taehyung a fairy earlier and stuff. (The alternate title for this fic was also “The Witch, the Fairy and the Woods” so.)

3.     Namjoon

Namjoon is essentially god!!!! Even though he clowns the concept of god!!! There’s not much to say about him, I’ll get into it when we get to the LORE section of this mess of a masterpost. You can call Namjoon god or death or whatever makes you happy. When he said he was the ‘bad’ guy compared to Jungkook, it’s because Namjoon is essentially Jungkook’s boss and will have to punish him for breaking the rules as a shrine god. We’ll get to that later!

It is implied in the epilogue that Namjoon had more influence than he let on. If you’ll remember in the earlier chapters Yoongi says something like he has “less than 65,000 won to his name” and yet Namjoon transfers Seokjin “500,000 won”. Basically I was trying to hint that Namjoon was trying to nudge Yoongi along the path that would take him back into the woods by removing the vast majority of his savings. Food for thought!

Essentially Namjoon was just a fun venture fo me, I’d always wanted to write a character who knew everything but was just distant and mysterious enough to drive someone insane. Also when I was younger and read The Fault in Our Stars the author-guy mentions that the Flower Man in his story was God, and I’ve always kind of wanted to do that too. That’s about it for him. :’’)

4.     Jungkook

I do feel like Jungkook’s character has been quite explained already in the fic, but he’s wonderful so we’re going to talk about him a bit more. As previously said, he’s the shrine god, and that means he lives his life in a constant cycle of reincarnation, essentially. Mortal body turnover may be a better way of putting it. He’s essentially the founding spirit of the town and the land it’s on, and has been for however long the land has been there outside of the woods. The runes on his arms don’t really mean anything when they appear in chapter 6, they’re just sort of symbolic of Taehyung—something of the woods—touching something he has no right to. If Yoongi had grabbed him, there would have been none of those markings.

Though he was obviously cold to Taehyung, Jungkook is a character I tried really hard to make very kind. He’s not bitter towards Taehyung, but he knows he has a job to put things back in their rightful order, and that involves sending Taehyung back to the woods. I’m sure he would have loved to tell Taehyung about what happened to his siblings, but alas, things didn’t work out that way. Rip.

5.     Jimin

Jimin is the current Park, Jungkook’s direct servant and bOYFRIEND. Jikook love each other a whole lot and that’s why Jungkook risked it all to just be with him. It’s not mentioned in the fic, nor is it especially relevant, but Jungkook did have Jimin’s parents sent away when they started to get romantically involved because the elder Parks were obviously against it. As Namjoon says at the end of chapter 9, they’re going to live a very long and happy time together.

It did break my heart not to have vmin be best friends, and in the original drafts of the fic they were going to become somewhat friendly, but things didn’t work out that way. I think it was at least interesting for Jimin to be the way he was in the fic.

6.     Seokjin

Owner of The Best dialogue. As said he’s part of some low-key exorcist order that the author didn’t spend enough worldbuilding time to fully develop, but it’s just a very low-key, very very top secret Order of families that have been going for ages and ages that are aware of the position of gods and stuff. Very different to witches. He is 100% normal human, and his father did die before he came to the village where Yoongi lives, and so his mother Mrs Kim decided she didn’t want her son to die the same way and had them stationed in this remote ass place. I’m not sure what else there is to say about him other than he’s Extremely Valid and I love him.

7.     Hoseok

Namjoon calls him the ‘mouthpiece’ of the forest, but’s a bit more complicated than that. There’s a large part of Hoseok’s character that is still fundamentally him, but it’s a little bit funked up, as you can probably imagine. As you can imagine, deep down he still is that ten year old boy that got abandoned by his best friend in the woods, so he’s grown pretty possessive of the idea of Yoongi, since he couldn’t ever have him. His whole schtick with Taehyung is completely genuine, though.

I did spend a lot of time justifying how to make him older, since I did want to imply that Taegiseok poly at the end of the fic, and I figured Taehyung’s implied wish for a friend would have enabled Hoseok to grow with him. Also I just wanted a grown-up Hoseok. In the original drafts of the reunion scene, Hoseok was going to be naked, but I ditched that when I was writing chapter 7 because I doubt Taehyung would have even considered going near a naked boy in the woods.

8.     Min Insook

Yoongi’s mother!! A bona fide witch, she relocated to the countryside with her husband some time before Yoongi’s birth and then her husband died. I don’t know why, but he did. She was obviously planning on using the ‘ley lines’ for her witch magic and stuff, hence why Yoongi’s early childhood is filled with odd mentions of forest gods and his mother making things at the counter, but after her son gets caught by the forest and leaves his ‘witchy’ half behind, Insook basically abandons all of that in favour of raising him normally.

I did wait until chapter 8 to reveal her name for no real reason other than I hadn’t thought of one. Sorry guys :’’))

Her death is completely natural and unrelated to the schenanigans of the story. She really just does get sick and ends up dying from it because she’s too proud to ask for help. HOWEVER, as Taehyung kept bringing up, some of her is left in the house. Her ‘ghost’ or half-life, whatever, stays in the house in an attempt to keep Yoongi from going back to the woods, since she says the instant Yoongi’s free of them that she ‘won’t let’ him go back. She made the choice for him. This continues for the rest of Yoongi’s twenty-five years, basically, until Yoongi has that weird dream where he meets his other half and basically sticks himself back together, turning his eyes a proper light blue like Hoseok’s and Taehyung’s, and giving him whatever witchy dominance he needs to break whatever binding spell is on him.

The white moth that appears in the epilogue is basically her metaphorical presence. It’s on the urn (her ashes) and Yoongi lets it outside, symbolising that he’s going to be free of his grief about her and that he’s broken free of her spell and whatnot. The household fae works mostly the same way, except that Yoongi releasing it is way more metaphorical in that he’s removing everything of a home (household) he used to see there. It’s basically the equivalent to him packing up and leaving.

As you can see this isn’t organised at all, and I apologise. Hopefully it still improves your understanding somewhat :’’)

LORE

Gods, Woods, Fairies

I did say throughout the fic that the word ‘fairy’ was very important and had several meanings. The epilogue covers the last one. They were:

1.     Fairy = gay man (shown through Taehyung)

2.     Fairies grant wishes (Yoongi wishes he went back)

3.     “Before gods and monsters, they called them fairies.” (Mostly pertaining to Jungkook’s connection to the word.)

Obviously, you guys came up with WAY more complex and meaningful versions than I did, but they were the ones I had. Every interesting comment I got about the meaning of the word ‘fairy’ I basically accepted as canon, so thank you all for them :’’))

Gods

As previously stated, this is where we discuss Jungkook and Namjoon. This concept of gods is something I’ve had sitting around for a while. Basically it goes like this:

There are gods of people (Jungkook) and

There are gods of nature (the woods).

And then there’s Namjoon who’s essentially Mr Big Boss but whatever.

Gods of people like Jungkook are obviously fully equipped to understand and judge their subjects as best they can. He has a domain, the village and the surrounding land and all of its people, and he has a job: whenever they die, he has to make a judgement on their souls, basically. The idea that the god always has to have a reincarnation that has lived through every generation of people is so important here, because only then does he have the context to judge people’s choices fully. He was a young man during the war, so he can judge the soldiers that died on his land. Hence why he only really gets to the age of ~30.

Therefore, by choosing to love Jimin instead of finding a woman to love for a few decades and having an heir, he’s broken this rule that's been set that gods have to live through every generation and fully understand all their subjects. Jungkook will grow older, more distant to the younger people of the village, less able to judge them properly, and then once he reaches a certain age he can’t face the people without giving away his immortality.

Namjoon calls himself the ‘bad guy’ in this scenario because he will be the one taking Jungkook aside and fixing the mess he’s made. Namjoon is very kind, though, so the worst he’ll probably do is make Jungkook just restart the Jeon line, because losing Jimin is probably enough suffering.

The gods of nature like the woods are far less sophisticated. They don’t have this human range of emotions because they don’t have subjects to judge when they die. They’re gods of places and stuff. They are sentient, but not as people. Hence, when Hoseok more or less gets turned into the embodiment of the woods, he still retains the majority of his personality since the woods has nothing to replace it with. He’s just a little bit wilder.

I really hope this makes sense!! Please feel free to ask me more about it, since this particular lore is something I’ll definitely be re-using in future fics.

MOTIFS

The white deer

Honestly, I was very wary of overusing the white deer. I did try to sow some seeds in the early chapters that Yoongi is a little bit obsessed with it, seeing as he carved wood to look like it and even gets up when the white deer gets near his house—so don’t take it to be completely legitimate. The fact is, we’re never going to know what really went down in the woods between Yoongi and Hoseok, but the white deer is a scapegoat for Yoongi to unload his reasoning on, basically. It’s definitely a real thing, though, if you see a white deer in the wild make sure you nod to it and all that. It’s just that in this fic, it’s obvious Yoongi is kind of obsessed with it.

Also deers do eat birds. I watched a video where a faun ate a baby bird and I’ve been traumatised every since, but I thought it was a a valid image to use in that scene.

Sage

Honestly, I’m not sure about the validity of sage. If you’re native American and you know the proper rituals, that's a completely different ball game and you’re by Far the expert here. I’m just a babie who knows Nothing, but sage is something that keeps coming up pretty often in fics like these. In my family it’s more common to use things like rosemary or that tree I think is called a ‘money tree’ (I have no idea what it’s called, sorry.)

Eragon

The Eragon series is very important to me! That poem Yoongi recites is something I also use whenever it’s late at night and I start to freak out for whatever reason. When I first read it, it really stuck, and because I’m unimaginative I just gave Yoongi the same poem. Eragon was also a big part of my tween years, so I did just insert it straight into the fic. I haven’t read it in a VERY long time, though.

Final Notes

Taehyung’s initial wounds when he comes to Yoongi’s door are based off that one redidt post where op meets some strange man in a forest whose face is red with blood and he freaks out when he sees her old Walkman. I’ll definitely update this with the link when I find it again.

A major inspiration for this fic was the song “It Happened Quiet” by Aurora, and also some at by @feelfei on twitter that she has sadly taken down. I have the image saved, but I don’t know if I should attach it to this post without her permission, so I don’t think I will. It’s a very game-cam-esque drawing of a naked Taehyung in the middle of the dark woods with glowing eyes. It had the caption “something that came from the forest” and it was really inspirational to me (it’s also the image of the playlist)!! The final inspiration was the song “Human” by Sevdaliza.

I think that should be everything I have to say about this fic!! If you have any more questions let me know and I’ll be sure to update this as well. Thank you all so much for reading all the way through It Happened Quiet, it really means a lot to me. You’ve all been super kind and I wish you all the best!!

EDIT: finally found an excerpt of the original reddit post!! i think it’s been taken down tho rip. but you can see it here: 

I could see that his nose and lips and part of his forehead were all gone. It was like they'd been sliced clean off. He was bleeding bad, and I saw that the knees of his pants were red too. He looked me over and he saw my Walkman and he screamed. He just kept babbling and touching his face, and I realized he wasn't wearing the right clothing. He had some kind of weird grey cloth jacket and almost formal pants on, and the jacket had these weird buttons and red borders on it. -- the only thing I could really understand: 'Don't touch me! You'll make me go back there!'

took me a while and it’s not the complete post but the fact that I found anything is nice! Thank you again!!

#cryptid #long post #re: it happened quiet

[247krp]

— Rejoice, little lambs! We have recovered our own Park Jimin, spotted prancing about in the Northwest Side. I don’t remember seeing him with any clique back in high school, but I’m not here to spill yesterday’s tea. So straight to the rundown: can you say vulnerable and lost? Apparently now he spends time as a university student and an assistant at In Step! Dance studio, and keeps skeletons buried at Gwangcho Share House 505. But those won’t stay hidden for long, if you and I have any say on it. Welcome back, Killjoy; we missed you so.

TW: mention of suicide

In case you don’t remember the devil’s name, here’s to refresh your memory:

while jimin sees himself as painfully ordinary and trying his best to never talk about how he is perceived in the world, one have to admit that he is most definitely much more youthful and there is a happy appearance within him, just a little. there is a constant small smile, and a soft laughter erupt from him oh so easily. and like a delicate little flower jimin strives through the hall like a brown sugar; slowly and fragilely like he will break once you tap his shoulder, resulting those wolves to come and wanting to taste a little bit of him.

rumors surrounded him like flies. it is easy for someone like jimin to be talked about because he will never fight back —they saidjimin’s mind cracked in the most important place, jimin kind of ugly, kind of pathetic, jimin got himself attached so easily,  jimin this, jimin that — or maybe he has no intention to fix it either. because it is easy to laugh along with people and anyone and everyone who said anything about jimin. oh what a poor tainted little flower.

all of those does not take his smile away but his laughter and small smile does not last long when he found out that his lover in high school had committed suicide, and since then he is mostly found with his lack of ambition on everything. introverted by nature, he is citing his lover as someone who connected him to the liveliness of the world and jimin has been struggling to find his place in life without them.

Nevermind the memory lane though, the present is always the ripest fruit:

there is nothing changed with jimin. he is still the same old jimin back in high school, or even more distant than he already is. he is a painting in black and white. dull and blurry. his stance is still as shaky as the summer wind. if one see him close enough, he already stops living since then. he had lost the only real thing he’d ever known, buried six-feet underground. the flames of his passion had smoldered into ashes. he is living a nightmare. like a misguided ghost, he aimlessly floats through the chains of lulling time. the ticking of the clock feel like a painful throb of a pulse, a heartbeat. and even then, he never feel alive. he is merely a ghost trapped in his past. a shadow without a form, waiting for the time to leave this world behind.  

But we are nothing if not open books – my job is to ensure you get to the best pages:

To people i loved, lost and left.

my angel, the first girl, to my sister.

you were always spontaneous person. your eyes will twinkled whenever you talked; i remember it was a sunlit morning in march. we were sitting on the pavement of our neighborhood, eating ice cream – mint chocolate ice cream melting down your skin, you always loved your ice cream a little melted. you were eighteen, about to graduated from high school when you etching your name into the grey concrete.

remember when i asked you why you do it and you told me that you want to be found but also want to be a mystery? i didn’t know what you were trying to say and do back then so i slide it just like that until i found you hanged on your dark room. a day before your graduation.

i wondered on why did you do it. you were always a symphony constantly on crescendo. never dulled your shine for anyone. you were a virginal combustion of rain and curiousity, of  fireflies and forest ponds. my sister, i’m sorry that i wasn’t be able to pick up your silent scream of help. when i saw you that day, i feel like the half part of me is gone.

my dearly beloved, the first love, to my endless love.

there are a lot to say about you, almost too much to say. the day you tore me apart, you’v left me alone then gave me time to heal, to forgive and forget. but did you know the day i heard the news about you had passed away, i dare to say that happiness was definitely not the first thing i felt; in factm the first thing i felt was chaos. blurry, breathless chaos. my brain was telling me one thing but my body was telling me – no, screaming at the top of its lung and dear god it was so loud – another.

all of the sudden everything i do, i feel like, in a flash of memories, someone had shoved a kaleidoscope in front of my eyes. i saw everything you had done to me. every single things.

one. that one time you brought me breakfast and i smiled because you remembered how i liked my coffee warm. / two. on that lazy thursday morning, when i could barely keep my eyes open, you let me sleep on your shoulder in history class without even hesitating / three. in that late night conversation when we were both stumbling drunk, slurring, dancing underneath the starry night was the time you confessed your love to me. my wholesome laugh more than any other sound. / four. you always loved the sound of my laugh. / five. you told me you couldn’t bear to be apart.

you loved me delicately. like i was a wilting flower. and i loved you, and i still am. like a fool, still hanging up on you when you left me all alone. left me the same way my sister did. you left me before your graduation. on the same age my sister did. but i guess it all happened because we should have pay the world back what we owed it. the pain of growing up. we didn’t pay when we should have, so now the bills are due. which is why you did what you did, and why i’m here.

this is why i’m here with nothing left within me.

my dearest self, the last person i’ve met today, to park jimin.

I’m sorry if I lied to them when they asked me if I was okay. I’m not. I’m sorry that I told people the scars in my arms were caused by the cat when it wasn’t. I’m sorry that I keep on lying to people when they asked me did you eat. I’m sorry that I’ve been telling lies about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing; I’ve been in bed for days, wishing that god would be kind enough to take me to meet him, the love of my life. But I assume people don’t actually want to hear my side of reality.

i’m sorry for not letting you talk to people when i actually don’t really understand how to stick with people. see—i was just too sad to even put up a front, to even take one step out of the bed. i’m sorry for making you not answering any messages nor phone calls from anyone, that i suddenly decided to start distancing myself from everyone with no explanation. i know you always wanted to be a dancer but you see, i just can’t. not in this state. maybe it’s easier if i had a tragic backstory, or a bad parents to blame on — but mom and dad are incredible people, they provided me with anything. maybe it will be easier if i had an excuse to have this kind of feeling. but i’m not. i’m just tired. constantly. that’s why i lied over and over and over again since there’s nothing to be done that could’ve been done with.

i’m sorry that i always got you in the wrong state of mind when the world isn’t that bad of a place and if you look for hope its there It just takes some time.

but i don’t think there will be any time left for me.

#247: accepted

[darisu-chan]

More than Fate

Prompt:  Red Strings

Summary:  Ichigo reflects on bonds and destiny.

You can also read it here.

Kurosaki Ichigo had been thinking about destiny a lot recently. He had been thinking about the decisions we take that eventually lead us to the right path. He wondered if those decisions were conscious or if there was something else moving the strings from behind the scenes. It was no strange for him to ponder about such things. He was a child of destiny after all. The way his parents had met, and how they had fallen in love… That couldn’t have been coincidental. It was probably something deeper and more wholesome. He had asked his father about it once, after the war had been over and they all had found peace. The older man had chuckled, his eyes having this faraway look, no doubt recalling all the memories he had about his late wife. “Whether it was fate or not, doesn’t matter, Ichigo. I’m just happy that I got to meet her and love her.” Unsatisfied with that answer, he had pressed his father for something more concrete. “You could say that the gears of destiny pushed us together. But falling in love was a conscious decision, never forget that.”

It had been eight years since that conversation had taken place, and Ichigo was still unconvinced about his father’s words. Was it a conscious decision, or was it more than that? What about Ichigo’s own destiny? The young man thought about his own life. Truth be told, for a long time it felt as if someone was pushing him towards his current path. First Aizen had claimed to be the one to orchestrate the whole thing. From Ichigo developing his Shinigami powers to battling fight after fight, becoming stronger, if only so that Aizen could have a worthy opponent. Next, it was Yhwach who had claimed such a thing. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. He felt repulsed that such individuals had had such claims to his own life.

What about choosing then? Ichigo had chosen to live his life as a Shinigami after all. From the moment he had become one, he had loved the feeling of his sword on his hand, and his strong reiatsu engulfing him. It became familiar. It gave him a sense of purpose that in his fifteen years of life he had never had. It was the power to protect. All he had done, he had done for that purpose ─protecting. His name means he who protects, and his current path fitted his name. But had he chosen that path under the influence of his name, or had he been always destined to be a hero, to protect everyone? That he didn’t know. For a long time, he had thought his fate was to be a normal human, like the rest. He had resented that fact when he had lost his powers. Once he got them back, and he had reached adulthood, he had taken a decision. He clearly had no place in Karakura or anywhere in the human world anymore. A typical human job would bring him no satisfaction or happiness in the long run. He was destined for far greater things, or so he felt. So, when Captain Kyouraku paid him a visit six years ago, and offered him training and a position in the Gotei 13, Ichigo hadn’t thought twice about it. He talked to his father about it, sure, but his mind was already made. He said goodbye to all of his friends, promising to visit whenever he had the chance. He told Yuzu he would call once a week at least. He promised his father he would visit his cousins Ganju and Kukkaku. He told Karin he’d make sure to send someone competent to take care of ghosts, so they wouldn’t worry her so much. With that, he left and started a new life. And although he missed his family and friends, he didn’t regret moving to another dimension. He had no reason to.

“Ichigo!”

And speaking of reasons, one of his reasons for staying was knocking at his door. It was Kuchiki Rukia, the person who had given him his Shinigami powers, his mentor, best friend, partner, and, most importantly, his girlfriend of six years. He smiled warmly, and opened the door, revealing the tiny Shinigami.

“Rukia.” Her name spilled from his mouth with familiarity. The man loved saying her name.

“Hey.” She smiled at him, and hugged him. A younger Ichigo would have been surprised by her open display of affection, but after six years together, and all they had been through, he was used to it.

“Hey yourself.” He chuckled, pulling her closer to him.

They pulled away, and Rukia smiled affectionately at him. “How was Hueco Mundo?” She asked him, taking a seat on the mat. Ichigo joined her.

“Same old, same old. Grimmjow and Nel received me at the gate. Grimmjow immediately asked me to fight him.” He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Rukia snorted.

“Figures.”

“Yeah, Nel had to punch him to get him off of my back. Then she hugged me, and I almost died from asphyxiation.” Ichigo said, recalling how he had almost passed out right then and there.

Rukia frowned. “Should I be jealous?”

“Of course not. There’s no reason for you to be, and you know that.”

She smiled deviously at him. “There better not be, Kurosaki-kun.” She spoke with the saccharine voice Ichigo hated so much.

“Oi, enough of that!”

Rukia laughed openly. She loved teasing him. “So, how were things with Harribel?”

Ichigo started telling his girlfriend all about the meeting he had had with the Queen of Hueco Mundo, while his mind went back in time, to that meeting he had had with Kyouraku.

When Kyouraku went to Karakura to talk to Ichigo, the Captain Commander had told him that he wanted things to change in the Soul Society. After the last two wars, the place was a mess. They had lost a lot of good Shinigami and souls in general. The system that had worked for them for thousands of years had failed in the worst way possible. Many souls did not trust Shinigami anymore. A lot of Shinigami and the students at the academy had started questioning the methods and rules in Seireitei. Kyouraku realized that he had to change things to reach stability once again. He wasn’t Yamamoto, not in the slightest, and he had more vision than his former mentor. He knew change was needed.

For two years, all Shinigami were busy reconstructing Seireitei and other parts of Soul Society. They had also worked on a better security system, seeing as even humans had breached it. Kyouraku had sent for the Vizards help, and had tried to smooth things over with them. Once that was done, it was time for Kyouraku to implement his changes. After seeing how Shinigami, humans, Vizards, Hollows, and even a few Quincies had come together to defeat Yhwach, he realized that that was what the Gotei been missing all this time. They needed to find a way to work together in case such a monumental thing happened again. The Shinigami needed an ambassador. Naturally, Kyouraku’s first choice had been Ichigo, who was a little bit of everything. The plan was simple, Ichigo needed to come and live in the Soul Society for training. As he was already skilled at swordsmanship, shunpo, and Bankai, he wasn’t required to attend the Academy. Kido and other skills he’d need to know would be taught to him by the lieutenants and captains of the Gotei 13. Meanwhile, he’d have to work as an officer in his squad of choice. Every few months, if things remained peaceful, he’d travel to Hueco Mundo to renew their alliance, and then visit the human world to observe how things had been going. Ichigo accepted, and went to live there. He practiced his skills and learned many things from each of the members of the Gotei. After a few months, he started working at his favorite squad, the thirteenth, where he worked under Rukia. Nobody was surprised by his choice, but they decided to say nothing about it. Ichigo actually worked better there than in any other place.

As the years passed, things became steadier with Hueco Mundo. Ichigo still visited them every six months, though. In the human world, Urahara, Yoruichi, Ishida, Inoue and Chad had everything under control, as well as the Shinigami Rukia had sent there to keep an eye on the spirits. In Rukia’s squad, he thrived, becoming Rukia’s right hand. He was very skilled as a teacher as well, and helped the squad practice their skills with the sword. There had been rumors about him becoming the next captain of that squad, not that Ichigo actually had any desires to become a captain. He thought that spot belonged to someone else. It had all worked out with no trouble whatsoever. A lot of Shinigami marveled at the efficacy of Kyouraku’s plans. They had the hero of the world in their ranks, acting as a leader and ambassador. There had been no wars in a while. It seemed meant to be. Even Ichigo was amazed by this development. Who would have thought that Kyouraku’s major plans would align with Ichigo’s own more humble plans? There was the talk of destiny again.

“So you were successful.” Rukia said rather proudly.

“The purpose of my visit was just to keep the alliance. But you can say that.” He said modestly. “I missed you, though.” He added.

Rukia blushed and smiled. “I missed you too.”

Ichigo took his time to gaze at her in wonder. She looked almost the same as she had during the night they had met. The same indigo eyes, dark hair, and that beautiful smile. Rukia was simply breathtaking. The only differences were the gloves on her hands, the lieutenant band on her arm, and that her hair was longer now, reaching past her shoulders. She had started leaving it long six years ago. She was splendid, he decided. Then, he cupped her cheek, and kissed her lips softly. He pulled the back of her head to bring her closer to him. Rukia kissed him back, hands running through his back. He grunted in delight.

It was hard to believe they were here. It was like destiny… And there was that word again, clouding his thoughts. Either by chance or by Aizen’s doing, they had met over ten years ago. She had saved his life in exchange of her powers, and thus their story had begun. Between Hollow hunting, living together, and learning things about each other, they had developed a strong bond. Rukia soon became the person closest to Ichigo. Then, she had been taken away, and Ichigo had fought his way until he had saved her. After that, things changed. No one understood him better than Rukia did, no one knew how to cheer him up the way she did. Those feelings continued growing, and not even Ichigo losing his powers or not seeing each other for seventeen months could change that. Then, the war against Yhwach came and went. He changed. He finally knew who he was. But it also became clear to him that he wasn’t unstoppable. He could lose. He could die. And Rukia could too. She changed as well. She was still scared that Yhwach’s threat would come true, even if they both along Ishida had made sure that they had destroyed him. That caused a rift in their relationship, which culminated in Rukia’s decision to marry Renji. Ichigo frowned at those intrusive thoughts. He had spent a month of misery when he learned about it. He had to thank his father for giving him the strength to tell her his feelings, otherwise Rukia would have surely married Renji, and they wouldn’t be here making out in his room.

Theirs seemed to be a story of destiny. But was that all it was? Did destiny intend for them to be right where they were right now, or were their individual decisions what led them here? He thought about Rukia’s wedding to Renji. Had he not said anything, would she still have married Renji with no regrets? Even if he interfered by confessing, perhaps she would still have married Renji anyway if her feelings for Renji had been steady. He faltered at that. Rukia’s feelings for him had been always transparent from then on. Ichigo had no reason to distrust her. That is what made him wonder all the time. The fact that she loved him back as intensely, that she wasn’t holding back any longer. He asked himself again if them being together was destiny or not? How could he know? He thought about his parents again, and his father’s cryptic words ─ You could say that the gears of destiny pushed us together. But falling in love was a conscious decision.

Falling in love was a conscious decision.

Never forget that.

The thought reverberated in his mind in pulses. Perhaps he had found his answer after all.

Ichigo, unwillingly, pulled apart from Rukia’s lips. She whined in displeasure. He chuckled at that. He kissed her forehead, and helped her sit again on the mat.

“Why did you stop?” She asked pouting.

She looked so damn gorgeous right then. Her hair was disheveled, her cheeks flushed, and her mouth swollen and red from his kisses. Rukia looked like a beautiful mess.

“Because there’s something I need to tell you.”

That caught her attention. “Oh? What is it?”

Ichigo smiled sweetly at her. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately.”

“Like what?” She frowned.

“Do you believe in destiny?” He asked her.

Rukia knitted her eyebrows, thinking her answer carefully. “Perhaps there is.” She said at last. “Some things are too much of coincidences to be a matter of chance. However, sometimes it is the choices we make which decide the paths we walk on. It is difficult to be sure which one is it. Maybe we would’ve ended here regardless of the choices we made in the end. Or maybe not. It’s one of the mysteries of life.”

Ichigo smiled fondly at her. Of course she would have had a similar mindset to his own. He nodded approvingly. “I think so to.”

Rukia smiled. “Great. But why did you ask me that?” She enquired.

“I’ve been thinking about us. About the way we met. Do you think it was destiny?”

She stopped to think for a moment. Then, she reached for his hands, and entwined their fingers. “Well, the circumstances would suggest it was fate. Back then we both were in difficult places, and through our meeting we changed and got better. We made each other better. But whether our meeting was fate or not, it doesn’t change anything for me. I still would like to meet you again no matter what.”

Ichigo’s heart beat fast inside his chest. He was more than satisfied with her answer. “Me too. No matter what, I’d choose you over and over.”

Rukia blushed. “Is that all?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve been thinking about us, as I said before. I’ve been thinking many things. I’ve thought about how we met and our lives since then. Most importantly, I’ve been thinking about our bond. Rukia, even if our meeting was just chance, it has made me a better person. It is because of you I am who I am today. You’re the one person I trust and love the most. And I’m sure that, even if we had taken different decisions and weren’t together, our bond would have made it through. Because, Rukia, it will never break. We’re tied together by a string, and nothing, not even death, can break us apart.”

Rukia almost burst into tears at hearing his words. They were the most beautiful thing anyone had ever told her in all of her long life. Ichigo made her feel loved and cared for, in ways no one else had loved nor cared for her. He was right about their bond. Even if it never developed into a romantic relationship, their bond would never have broken. Ichigo proved it to her when he still attended her failed wedding even when he was heartbroken. If there was something real and immortal in this world, it was their bond.

“And, I just want you to know that I do think it was meant to be for me to fall in love with you. It just had to happen.” Ichigo continued saying. “But staying in love with you, getting to love you every day, even when we fight or I get frustrated at you, it’s a conscious decision. I choose every day, and I want to keep choosing you for as long as I live.” Then, he kneeled in front of her, surprising Rukia. “So, what do you say, Rukia, will you choose me too every day until we die?”

Rukia blinked back tears, and cried. She hugged him, and exclaimed. “Yes! I’ll always choose you! Now and forever! Even when we die, I’m still going to choose you! In this life and the next!”

Ichigo returned the hug, and then leaned down to kiss her passionately, letting her feel all the love he had for her. Rukia kissed him back, tears still coming out of her eyes.

After that, they didn’t return to work for the day. Not that their squad missed them, Kiyone and Sentarou had had orders from Ichigo to handle things in their absence.

Ichigo and Rukia ended up deciding on a May wedding, on the date they had met, which happened to be a few months from then. That wasn’t just fate. It was more than that.

#ichiruki #ichirukimonth #ichiruki fanfiction #my fanfiction

[small-stars-blog1]

6 "I just like proving you wrong"

// I wasn’t sure what pairing you wanted dear anon, so I went with Hamilton/Laurens. This is set in the historical period. There are mentions of homophobia and allusions to suicide. Please let me know about any mistakes in language, grammar, etc…help is appreciated! //

SEND ME A PROMPT!

John drifted in and out of sleep. Dreams came and went like passing tides,sometimes merging into one another and, at other times, ending so abruptly thathe jolted back to reality. This would happen, sometimes. Sometimes themonstrosities of war; the ear-crackling booms,the heart-wrenching scents and the soul-draining cries, became too much to bear.Sleep had always been an adequate form of escape, a suitable type of rest, butnow even that had been taken from him.

He ran a hand through his mess and mass of hair. He had to remind himselfto breathe, just breathe, before hecould even attempt opening his tent. To get out, to get some fresh air, to forget.

But, even then, his fingers trembled against his will.

After many attempts, he finally felt the bite of cold air. The sensation ofit scratching past his skin cleared his mind. He breathed; allowed the icyfangs to claw their way down his throat. But then he caught something; an intrudingwarmth, a sickly scent of burning wood. He paused, and turned in its direction.

Someone was already up.

Someone was there, prodding the ashes of a blazing fire as if to diminishthe fresh, freezing air.

The time it took for John Laurens to recognize that smooth olive-skin,those raven curls and that lanky frame was enough time for the memories toreturn. It was enough for him to hear distant screams, distant cackles and bang!

He felt himself falling. Felt the discarded leaves beneath him, the veryearth, slide and twist beneath his feet. He felt himself decline, further andfurther into the battlefield; into the world of the dead, dead, dead bodies,staring at him with unseeing eyes, calling to him with unspoken voices andlonging for him with an unforgiving grip—

“Laurens!”

He came back to reality with a flinch.

Alex was there, staring at him. His eyes, dark and wholesome and knowing,became an anchor. Laurens openly stared at them; bore into them, so as to keephimself grounded.

“John, are you with me?” Alex spoke in a hushed tone. His hand ghosted overJohn’s shoulder, before returning to his side. “Your eyes seemed to be distant.”

He scrunched his face up to try and battle the looming headache. “Oh, Alex…”He trailed, swaying slightly. “My apologies. I…I sometimes, I…”

Laurens may have lost his words, but Alex’s were always steadfast on histongue.

“I understand. You do not need to explain what is so clearly expressed byyour emotions. Come by the fire—it will be warmer there.”

John shook his head, an action he soon regretted after his brain becamewracked with throbs. “N-No, Alexander. The cold helps me to think.”

“Very well. We shall sit here, then?”

Laurens was taken aback. “You wish to sit with me?”

The follow-up to that question was left unsaid, but it hung clearly in theair; me, the soldier who is deemed braveand yet cannot face sleep for fear of nightmares; me, the soldier who hath nonebut oneself; me, the soldier, who is sinful enough to love you.

“Of course, my dear Laurens. You seem troubled, and yet are my friend; so Ishall remain with you.” Alexander paused. “We will sit here?”

“Somewhere away from the tent. It plagues my mind with unhappy thoughts.”

“Very well!” Alexander beamed, and when he did, his eyes seemed alight withthe very stars they reflected. He reached forward and took John’s wrist,turning and dragging him somewhere within the forest.

John Laurens was too tired and too infatuated to say no. He was tootrustful, too, it seemed; so he followed this man, this glorious and respectfuland wonderful person, into the looming darkness of the trees. The moon and thedancing stars above provided minimal lighting. But, Alexander seemed to knowthe way, paving his way through the trees and the roots almost elegantly.

Eventually, they reached a lone lake.

Alexander collapsed by its edge, gazing up at his friend with a grin whichcould only be described as smug.

“Does this suit your fancy?” Alexander said, a little louder now that theywere free of prying ears.

“It is quite possibly the most remarkable landscape I have seen.” Heagreed, and sat down beside Alexander. He stared into the water, ignoring hisreflection and instead choosing to note the constellations; marvel at thediamonds above, enveloped by darkness; memorize the patterns, the swirls, ofthe moon.

He did not see Alexander, who was too busy studying him. “Yes, but, my dearLaurens, not more beautiful than the landscape that is yourself.”

He knew what Alex had said; and he knew that Alex knew what he has said.This was a man whose thoughts formed direct connections with his mouth; everyword calculated and true. John hoped the darkness hid the growing redness ofhis cheeks. “Why do you flatter me so, Alexander?”

Alex chuckled. “It is just that I like to prove you wrong.”

John’s heart sunk a little further. Youcould sink even further in the lake, his thoughts suggested. He shook hishead again, as if to try and rid them, before his head went throb and he gripped his temples.

“Oh, my dear John- whatever is it that troubles you? I did not mean for youto take offence, you should know that—“

“No, no, Alexander—just stop. ‘Tis not you. The horrors of the battlefieldhaunt me and the men I hath watched die wish for me to join them, and alas, Alexander!Reality is not enough of a wager to keep me here, I fear. I am scared. I amcold and alone, and—“

It was warm. Warm hands drew around his body and gentle arms kept him fromtethering. A warm body, an alive and welcoming and soft body, pulled him close,and sweet nothings were whispered into his ear. They hushed him. The wordsalmost sung to him like a lullaby. And so John allowed his eyes to close;allowed the waterfall that was his tears to flood the shoulder he now breathedinto.

“I am alone, Alexander,” he wept. He did not care for the shame that preyedupon him, for the warm arms holding him kept it at bay. “I hath none which wantme but the dead, and yet I cannot die.”

“Shh,” Alex almost cradled him, rubbing soothing circles into his back withease. “You are not alone. What must I do to prove you wrong? If not in wordsdear Laurens, then…” He gripped onto the shivering man in his arms. “I willnever leave you, John, if you wager the same with me. You are not alone; I amhere.”

His sobs diminished into sniffles. “Reality would be bearable, were youwith me constantly.”

“Yours, forever,” Alexander promised, breaking apart for only a moment sothat he might place a kiss upon John’s forehead. His fingers; elegant as theywere, traced his cheeks so that the tears might be gone.

Something seemed to realise itself within John, and he flinched, daring topull away. “Why can it not be; ‘tis damnable. You are a righteous man,Alexander. You cannot love me in the way that I might you.”

Alexander only gripped him firmer, chin placed over the taller man’s head. “Hush,I will prove you wrong, my dear Laurens. Love knows no bounds; not the depthsof ones soul nor the amount of stars above can quantify it. I want you here.”

“How can you be so sure?” John asked, tears threatening to engulf himagain.

“I hath loved, and will love, you for as long as I live.”

Alex finally released thetaller man—but only so that he could plant a gentle kiss to those soft lips,eyelids shadowing his wondrous eyes. John became tense, at first, but forcedhimself to relax. Of course, he had wanted this for a time too long to measure;but the thought of kissing Alex was still one which made him feel a forcedguilt.

But no longer. He became lost in the sensation ofAlexander’s lips.

They parted only when they needed air.

It was John this time that hugged the smaller frame,nuzzling into his neck so that he might absorb the loving warmth that belongedthere.

Alexander smiled. “Yours, forever.”

And for the first time in many a year, John Laurens began to believe it. Likea distant light in the darkness, he began to feel wanted. The screams becamewhispers, the wounds became scars and the world around him became, for once,invitingly warm.

#hamilton #hamilton fanfic #prompt #hamilton prompt #hamilton fanfiction #laurens/hamilton #hamilton/laurens #lams #lams fanfic #lams fanfiction #lams drabble #drabble #hamilton/laurens drabble #alex/john #alexander hamilton/john laurens #fanfiction #hamiltrash #hamilton musical

[shadowreigned]

something like fate.

CHARACTERS:  Aspen Blake and Nixon Henderson LOCATION:  Nixon’s apartment — Manhattan, NY DATE & TIME:  January 11th, 2015 at 9:48 AM WORD COUNT:  4,537 words WARNINGS:  Brief mentions of physical and emotional abuse

He breaks two rules.

The first: Don’t have sex undressed. Don’t take off your shirt. Don’t remove your pants. Absolutely, under no circumstances, don’t let them see or touch your thighs.

The second: Don’t let anyone spend the night.

They’re important rules to Nixon. They’re vital during his one night stands, no matter how much he breaks their hearts during and after the process. He’s been kicked out before for the first rule. He’s been bitched out at for the second. Those that manage to look past his rules get a night of absolute bliss — he’s rough, demanding, and takes what he wants with a vague regard for the other’s pleasure. Sometimes he likes hurting them. Sometimes he only gets them off, and pays little attention to himself until after they've left. It depends mostly on his mood and how destructive he feels.

His sexual tendencies, much to the dismay of his neighbors, is unquenchable. He brings home men and women more than once during the week — sometimes during different hours of the day.

He discovers himself. He rediscovers himself. Again, and again, and again.

Nixon learns that he prefers his women tied up, gagged, begging to be touched. He learns that he likes his men on their knees, swallowing every inch of him until their eyes sting with tears. He likes spanking, likes choking, likes pulling on hair as he mercilessly takes them from behind. He likes them screaming. He likes being the one in control. He likes testing their limits. He likes testing his limits, seeing how far he’ll go until he snaps.

He tells Deacon he’s boring in bed — soft, gentle, the kind of sex that girls who watch romantic Nicholas Sparks movies fantasize about. He tells Deacon that he can’t imagine getting pleasure out of watching someone cum for the fifth time with a ball gag between their lips or getting joy out of hearing them whimper as he presses too far. He thinks that maybe Deacon suspects that he’s fibbed about it, but he never wants to ask. Nixon prefers being the wholesome boy from California who had a little trouble in his past towards his best friend.

He prefers being the anonymous newcomer to everyone he meets.

Nixon breaks two rules in one night. He wakes with the pressure of a body on top of him, and though panic instantly fills his lungs, he subsides quickly when he feels just how warm the body is. It takes him a moment to gather his composure enough to shimmy out from underneath him, settling against the cold sheets on the empty side of his bed. The boy stirs in his sleep and clutches the empty space where Nixon had once been, his eyebrows creasing together. When his fingers touch a pillow and he pulls it close to him he stills, seemingly satisfied.

The stranger is still in his bed. The stranger ... isn't really a stranger at all.

Aspen sleeps sound in his bed. Aspen? Nixon doesn't know how he knows his name, but he does. Aside from that small, minuscule crush that he had back on him when he was a teenager, he can’t remember a thing about him — and yet Nixon lays there, undressed, next to a boy that he's already drowning in.

The smarter parts of his brain tell him that it’s dangerous to feel this way — that he is naïve in his emotions and foolish to fall so quickly. His heart tells him that Aspen won’t hurt him. He battles with the logic in his brain, but his heart wins out: he's nude, and the male beside him spent the night. He spent the night, meaning he didn’t grab his clothes at the first sound of screaming and sobbing and make a run for it.

Nixon, for the first time in years, slept nightmare-free.

He breathes out a sigh of relief and rolls out of bed despite the ache in his limbs. He needs space to breathe properly. Nixon doesn't know how many positions they tried, or how long they went, but he remembers reaching his climax an absurd amount of times until he was dizzy and screaming. In his untangle from the sheets, he catches hickeys blooming on his chest and nail marks against his hips. Nixon can't imagine what his back and neck must look like.

It's instinct that causes him to tug on a long sleeve and some sweats, thankful for the chill of January that gives him a good excuse to cover his scarred frame. In the haze of just waking, Nixon recalls the slur of Aspen’s speech the night before and walks into his kitchen for Advil and some water. With his feet on the cold tile, he slumps against the counter, head resting against the cool top. With the moment of silence, he allows memories to slow to a pace that he can easily assess.

His phone, bursting with texts and voicemails from his now-ex. The way Aspen had announced himself to the empty apartment, all drunken giggles and stumbling in the dark. Nixon, spending one night letting all of his past vanish before his eyes for a chance to truly be happy.

His hands trembled as he recalled how soft Aspen felt beneath his palms, warm skin thrumming under his heady touch. He'd curved desperately up into Nixon and wrapped his legs around his waist like they were made to fit together like puzzle pieces. Their kiss had been fiery, explosive, but slow and sensual. Their clothes — Aspen’s clothes — falling to the floor in a pile next to his bed shortly after, leaving the both of them exposed.

Flashes of Aspen unknowingly dragging his hand towards Nixon's thighs burst in his mind, his movements stopping as he caught his wrist.

They switched positions again. Nixon pinning Aspen's hands to his sides as his knees spread his legs apart. He didn't need the assurance of restraints or the necessity for ball gags — Aspen trembled under his touch and cried out as Nixon took him in his mouth. He blew him until he came. His tongue delved lower, lower, until his palms pushed Aspen's knees against the bed and his tongue flicked and lapped and fucked between his cheeks. His fingers added to the mix, stretching him out.

He recalls, briefly, reaching for a box of condoms. He recalls, briefly, Aspen saying they weren't needed.

He fucked him — slow, hard, at a tempo that Nixon wasn't used to. It felt right, like every thrust of his hips hit the perfect spot to have Aspen clutching his back, his chest clawed at, fingernails digging into the muscles of his broad shoulders. Every movement took his breath away, caused his mind to short out, had him shaking against him as they reached their climax — together, together, together.

They fell asleep. An hour later, they woke up and did it again. And again, and again, and again.

The rest is still a blur. Nixon blinks the images away with a short breath and straightens, grabbing the water and the pill. By the time he makes it into the bedroom, Aspen is already awake. He doesn’t think he’s been away for more than five minutes. Green eyes rake down what little he can see of Aspen's olive tone, taking in the bruises and the hickeys he left above his waist. His hips, Nixon is sure, are covered in fingerprint markings. He hands him the glass and the pill for the inevitable hangover and sits on the edge of the bed.

It takes Aspen a good minute to come to his senses. Nixon flushes instinctively with the way that Aspen stares at him — it’s almost like he’s seeing him for the first time, like it’s been seventy years since they’ve been apart, or odder, like he’s seen a ghost. His lips part and Nixon thinks he’s going to say something before they close gently again, hands curled into fists rubbing at his eyes. When he settles again, the sheets bunch around his waist and he sits up, back leaning against the wall. His eyes haven’t left Nixon’s tall frame.

Aspen’s staring at the way he's clothed. Nixon wonders if he'll question why when they’ve seen all of each other already, but his companion keeps his mouth shut and takes the pain reliever instead. It's a welcomed comfort that automatically eases what little apprehensions Nixon had. He didn’t know how he’d be able to explain his scars.

Nixon looks down at his tattooed knuckles, a fit of nerves threatening to overtake him. He hadn’t thought about what he’d say to Aspen once he was awake, so he tries the easiest route. “How did you sleep?” It breaks the gentle silence in the room, and he finds a smile appear on his lips as he asks.

Aspen sets the finished glass on the table next to him and mirrors the look on Nixon’s face, his smile bright. His fingers twitch as if he aches to be pressed against him again in the most innocent of ways. He continues to look at him like he discovered an angel. It’s only after a prolonged moment of eyeing each other that he breaks his gaze and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I… Perfect, honestly.” There’s a hint of relief hidden somewhere in his groggy accent. Nixon wonders if Aspen’s sleep schedule has been the same as his — practically nonexistent. “How about you?"

Something tells him that asking about others isn’t a thing Aspen does unless it directly benefits him. Nixon eases down until he's laying in similar fashion, back pressed against his wall while his long legs stretch out before him. His companion is miniature compared to him. A lazy smile accompanies his features as he faces him. “The best I've ever slept.” It's nothing but the absolute truth, and it shows with the happy sparkle in Nixon's eyes.

“Yeah,” Aspen muses, his eyebrows lifting in agreement. “Me, too.”

Aspen takes in the dark red of Nixon's long sleeve, eyes how it fits him snug in all the right places, and opens his mouth to comment on the varying sizes of hickeys on his neck — and then the annoying buzz of Nixon's phone stops him dead in his tracks.

Christ. He almost forgot. A dark expression passes over Nixon as he rolls his eyes and reaches across Aspen's lap to retrieve the fucking thing from the ground. If he thought the amount of calls he’d received before he fell asleep were bad, they were nothing compared to the amount he had now. Frustrated, he settles halfway on Aspen's legs, stomach pressing against the other’s thighs. He feels the familiar weight of hands on the dimples of his back a second later and silently reminds himself to relax.

“Is everything okay?” Aspen asks. He hears it from behind a film, Aspen's voice muffled as he unlocks the device and scrolls through messages — both from Emilie and from Deacon. Deacon is being his usual self, at least, asking if they can see a movie later or try out the new frozen yogurt place that just opened by his apartment. Emilie, however...

“Fuck.” The red notification screams 13 at him from the phone app. Nixon sits up with his eyebrows squished together, an even more annoyed look clouding his eyes. So much for relaxing. He embraces the touch Aspen sends to his shoulders, but presses his phone to his ear with urgency, listening to bits and pieces of the voicemails she’d left.

“—God, you’re such a fucking asshole, Nixon. I can’t believe—” Delete. ”—Are you really ignoring me right now? I know you’re awake. Stop being so fucking childish—“ Delete. “—Sebastian isn’t even real—" He winces at the easy way she says his name, and hits the delete button faster. “—Listen, I’m- I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Can we talk? Please?—” Hell fucking no. Delete. “—I’m coming back; I’ll be at yours in three hours—”

Shit. What? That has Nixon’s attention. He checks the date and time from the last voicemail received and curses again. “You’re fucking kidding me.” Clicking his phone locked, Nixon runs a hand through his hair and bites on his bottom lip, eyes dancing between Aspen and his phone.

Part of him wants to confess everything to Aspen, like somehow it’ll magically fix all of it. His brain tells him that it's a foolish idea and that Aspen is only a one-night-stand, yet the way they look at each other makes him feel differently. The way they fucked each other makes him feel differently. They weren’t just desperate to get off, they made love. It was passionate in ways that Nixon himself can't even describe.

Maybe he’s lost his mind. It’s the only explanation. Love at first sight — fate — are social constructs created to make young children feel special. It's based off of lies. It doesn't exist. It's illogical.

Logic can’t explain the way he feels entirely safe in the presence of a male he barely knows.

Nixon shakes his head and removes himself from the bed, hoping that a bit of space will clear his mind. “My ex is on her way over,” he tumbles out, heat quickly finding his cheeks. He hates that he has to start off their morning like that. He hates the idea of unintentionally hurting Aspen despite how insane the idea is. They just met, so how could he hurt him? He shakes his head again. “I… I broke up with her last night."

Aspen's expression is unreadable. Automatically Nixon wants to know what he's thinking about the situation. Is that... sadness? He doesn’t linger, entirely too focused on the fact that he's going to get chewed out by a girl who's almost as bad as the ex who abducted him.

“I see.”

It’s all Aspen says. Nixon makes a pained expression and runs his hand over his sharp features, hot breath coming slow from between his still-swollen lips. “I don't want you to leave.” He blurts out, and for a second he thinks Aspen will laugh at him. When it doesn’t come, his shoulders ease. He feels obligated to explain.

He takes a seat on his bed again, unsure of what to do.

“I just—” God, how does he even start? He doesn't know. Nixon continues anyways. "She treats me like shit, and I finally got sick of it and told her to fuck off. She must be on her way to try and fix whatever ‘I’ did wrong." Aspen’s expression remains neutral, but he thinks he sees a flicker of flame beneath his dark eyes. Anger? At... what? Him? The situation? He blubbers past his overthinking mind. “I… I don’t want you to leave because she’s not staying.”

The look Aspen gives him isn’t exactly pity, or anything that Nixon can really describe, but he feels it in waves regardless. His hands fly together nervously, blunt fingernails scratching at wrists that are permanently etched with scars. Nixon frowns. Nothing irritates him more than the absurd amount of scars on his body. They’re embarrassing. He doesn't feel like a survivor.

Aspen shakes his head the same way that Deacon does whenever Emilie is brought up. Maybe Nixon should’ve listened to his friends years ago. It seems his relationships never pan out the way he wants them to. "How long have you two…?” He asks.

Nixon tears his gaze away from the sleeves of his shirt. How long…? Oh. He’s asking about his relationship, if it could’ve even been called that. Fighting daily isn’t a relationship. At this point, his track record is so sketchy that he can’t even say that he’s been in a true relationship. How pathetic. Nixon reaches up to scratch at his neck. “A year. Maybe a little more than a year. I know it was a good eight months after I moved here from Cali.” Nixon laughs, dry, and any sense of self-confidence that he'd gathered during the years crumbles. “God, I’m fucking stupid.”

It breaks something inside of him.

It breaks something inside of Aspen.

The smaller of the two is quick to push himself towards the edge of the bed. “No,” he says, his tone strong, sure of himself. Nixon trembles at the sound and allows Aspen to take his hand, lacing their fingers together. The expression in Aspen's gaze is unwavering and determined, and with gentle fingers he turns Nixon's chin towards him. “You are not stupid, and whoever put that idea in your head must not know you at all. Stupidity is the last thing I would use to describe you.” He cups Nixon's cheek, thumb rubbing gently across the pink skin. “Don't let anyone tell you that you are less than extraordinary.”

Nixon’s breath shallows, and he closes his eyes, afraid that he's falling too fast for him. He’s heard the speech a thousand times before but none were able to hold the same level of certainty that Aspen did. With Aspen, he believes it. With Aspen, he makes the others pale in comparison. How can you fall for someone that you just met? Stupid. It’s the kind of thoughts that landed him in England for his teenage years. If it’s illogical, then why does it feel right?

The idea of fate pops in his mind again. Nixon stumbles over it this time. It does not exist in his world, yet that doesn't stop him from thinking that there's no other explanation for the way he feels. Fate is foreign, but Aspen feels like home. It's confusing. He shoves the idea away once again. It does not exist. He’ll keep telling himself that until he believes it.

Aspen’s thumb continues to brush gently across the apple of his cheek, coaxing his fears and apprehensions away with the smallest of movements. Without hesitation he leans up, their lips finding each other. Nixon makes a noise like surprise in the back of his throat, rigid for only a small fraction before he presses back, mirroring the slow and sensual way his partner kisses him. When Aspen pulls back, Nixon’s tongue licks at his bottom lip to chase the taste of him, already wanting more.

“You’re overthinking,” Aspen says, cupping the taller’s jaw. “It’s okay.”

It’s okay. Nixon drowns in the dark comforts of Aspen's gaze, his body alight with feelings that he can only barely grasp. Nothing can describe the way his soul sighs in relief. It’s been so long since he’s felt pure happiness in this form that he almost forgot what it feels like.

Nixon nods, and then nods again. He isn’t sure of what to say, but he never truly does whenever he has these kinds of conversations. Something about the way Aspen looks at him tells him that it’s perfectly acceptable to not give anything back, to not talk in-depth about why he’s overthinking and why his chest felt tight. It’s silent understanding that grips him more than any other time he’s been like this. Understanding. It’s not a thing that others can say they relate to, but Aspen does.

It makes Nixon wonder, but he refuses to pry.

“How are you so warm all the time?” He mumbles out instead, the heat from Aspen’s palm soothing against his cheek. Even through the thin material of his clothes he can feel how hot Aspen is. He hadn’t meant to ask, but the question came tumbling out anyways. His cheeks pinken.

Aspen’s lips quirk in a barely-hidden smile, but his dark blues shine so bright that he doesn’t need to. “How are you so cold all the time?” Childish, but it works as laughter bubbles from Nixon’s lips. The sound is beautiful, and though it doesn’t twinkle like church bells, Aspen still feels it in his soul when he sees the bright, dimpled smile on his lover’s face. He laces their fingers together, eager as he feels Nixon squeeze back.

He answers the question after a moment, letting the happiness surround them. “I don’t know,” he says. Nixon focuses on their skin touching as a reminder that things will be okay. “Maybe it’s genetic. I’ve always been like this.”

Nixon hums in contemplation but has nothing to add back. He can’t argue with genetics. “I like it,” he replies, dimples poking out of the corners of his cheeks again. He’s blushing. Nixon can’t even remember the last time he blushed overjoyously. His eyes fall to the naked frame of his companion and then towards the doorway that separates his room from the living room. “Do you want to borrow something of mine? I’d really… I’d really like if you could stay for breakfast.”

Aspen’s eyes dance like he’s been waiting all morning to hear his offer. “On one condition,” he barters. He doesn’t miss the way that Nixon’s muscles tense momentarily, so he keeps his voice light. He hurries, desperate to make that fight or flight mode ease from his partner’s bones. “I know you just got out of something, so if you want to say no, I understand.”

Nixon bites on his bottom lip but nods and urges him to continue.

“Go on a date with me.” Blunt and to the point. Nixon’s heart damn near bursts out of his chest as an involuntary grin overtakes his face. The light blush on his cheeks multiplies tenfold before Aspen can even continue. “It doesn’t have to be now, but… Let me take you out to dinner. We can see a movie or walk around Central Park or look around the MOMA. Whatever you want. All I’m asking for is a night of your attention.”

Nixon tries to say that he already has it, but the words get caught in his throat. All he can manage is a soft yes before he blushes again. “When are you free?” He asks, just in case his agreement wasn’t heard.

Aspen’s own smile appears, one dimple peeking out at Nixon. It’s the damn cutest thing he thinks he’s ever seen. “For you? I’m always available.” It’s completely and utterly cheesy, but every line from their lips comes naturally.

Nixon giggles before standing, taking Aspen with him. “C’mon, let’s find you something to get into.” He’s almost reluctant to let go of his hand, half-terrified that if he does, Aspen will vanish from thin air. He sees the same questioning gaze in the other’s eyes, but can’t imagine why he’d be feeling the same way.

Nixon releases first and holds his breath. He’s relieved when Aspen still stands there, and exhales as he turns to procure another pair of sweats and an old black graphic tee. He’s shy as he hands them over and rocks on his feet.

Aspen’s nose wrinkles as he eyes the sweats before handing them back to Nixon. “The shirt’s big enough to cover everything,” he says softly. Nixon mumbles an oh and shoves the sweats back in their original place, returning with a pair of boxer briefs that can be slipped on underneath the shirt. Aspen inspects the tee with a curious gaze before attempting to look at the tag in the back. All that comes up is an XL — no brand, no name, nothing else. “This is amazing.” He seems in disbelief before he slips it over his head.

It falls down to his knees. Aspen was right, there wasn’t a need for anything but a pair of briefs underneath. Nixon tugs on the fabric gently, his index and thumb pinching an image of a male with a decomposing skull. Pops of red appear throughout the design. Nixon smiles, fond. “Thank you,” he replies back, and then realizes how odd it must sound. He explains quickly. “I designed it.”

Aspen grins. “I hope you realize you’re not getting it back now.”

“Okay.” Nixon shrugs, amusement lacing through his tone. “I have more, anyways.”

Aspen touches the design before he plays with the hem. Nixon notices a plethora of hickeys on his thighs and feels his cheeks burn again. God only knows if he makes one comment he’ll end right back where they started, so he bites on his bottom lip and decides to save them for another day.

Like expected, Emilie comes over. Before she even steps foot in the door she’s begging for Nixon to take her back, to listen to her, as apologies spew from her mouth. Nixon tries to ignore the knowledge that Aspen watches with a piece of bacon in hand. Emilie doesn’t notice. By the time the waterworks start, Nixon’s already past the point of caring.

He tells her to leave. She refuses. He tells her again. She pushes him, and only then catches Aspen in Nixon’s shirt, on Nixon’s bar stool, thighs and neck covered in hickeys. She looks at Nixon, who doesn’t look any better, and wonders how she could’ve looked past them. She screams at him, pushes him more, yells that he’s a cheater and a liar and he disgusts her. Nixon takes it all with a stoic expression, but he flinches every time her fist connects with his chest.

It takes another minute for her to leave.

He flinches again when the door slams shut.

Aspen is off the bar stool in a second. Anger lingers in the depths of his gaze but concern takes hold as he looks up at Nixon, searching for anything that’ll make it better. Nixon wants to tell him that he already makes it better just by being there, but the words don’t come. Bacon pops in the background. He remembers that he’s making them breakfast and then, after that, soon, they’ll be going on a date.

It pulls him to the surface. Nixon smiles, a bit forced for Aspen’s sake, and ducks into the kitchen before it can be commented on. He checks on the bacon and adds more to the plate before cracking eggs open one by one. Scrambled, Aspen had said. I like them scrambled. He whisks them together in a bowl.

Just like that, he’s relaxed again. Nixon studies his companion with a gentle expression that isn’t forced. Butterflies dance in his belly. “I like art,” he says softly. “I haven’t been to the Met before.”

Aspen perks up. “We’ll go to the Met, then.” — Pause. — “How do you feel about Italian?”

Mmm. Nixon subconsciously licks his lips. “I love Italian.”

At that, Aspen practically shines. A giddy expression appears on his features, trying to fight a smile that refuses to leave. Nixon thinks he hears him say something in Italian, but he doesn’t understand. “I know the perfect place. It’s been around for years. It’s the best Italian food you’ll find anywhere — aside from mine.”

He makes Nixon blush again. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of his accent, but Italian makes sense. It explains the color of his skin tone and the way he holds himself. “Italian and the Met. This sounds like a fantastic night already.” He busies himself with the eggs, but it’s merely an excuse to get his cheeks to stop hurting. He’s smiling so much.

“It’s going to be the best night,” Aspen assures him. His voice is fond. “I promise you.”

#bloodstaineds #03. SELF PARAS / when things aren’t enough. ❜ #06. MAIN VERSE / forever and ever. ❜

[kittymaverick]

It’s that time of the year again! A Mystery Case Files: The Black Veil commentary

Spoilers as usual under the cut. Also, this is mostly from memory, so there might be some errors in time order.

1. That opening is epic. Definitely the most epic I’ve seen of Eipex’s MCF so far. (And this is coming from someone who is ultra critical of Eipex. How far they’ve come.) 2. REPORTER PEOPLE ARE RUNNING FROM TOWN. WHY ARE YOU RUNNING IN. THIS IS HOW WE GET PROBLEMS. 3. Queen: ...the ”unbelievable” is what you deal with. MD: I’d rather not, but it’s not like I have a choice. 4. Mysterious figure running off, fine. Car crashes into another car. Medieval town wholesomely preserved... yeah, this is totally going to be fine. 5. Reporter: Help me Detective! MD: You totally put yourself in this situation, so no. Me: Uh.... MD: Okay, fine! 6. Alison: Hi detective! Remember me from Dire Grove? MD: ...YOU... Alison: It’s like you’re my guardian angel-- MD: I’D RATHER NOT BE. ALSO, DID YOU LEARN NOTHING FROM BEING IN DIRE GROVE ABOUT RUNNING STRAIGHT INTO-- Alison: *Smiling happily* MD: Hrgh, you know what never mind. 7. Yeah, go talk to the guy at the big house with lots of money. Like that’s totally going to turn out fine. 8. Richard: Someone’s breaking into my house! MD: You know, for a moment there, I was actually afraid for you. Just...for a split moment. 9. Huh, big house, pretty normal for once actually-- *GIANT STATUE OF WOMAN* *THREE SHRINES TO DEATH* Okay, I said that too soon. 10. Richard: Hi there! I’m scottish! And welcoming! MD: ...Okay, I think this guy can be trusted, for once. Me: Um... Richard: Snooping around? That’s fine! Why don’t you seat down for a drink with me? MD: Yeah, he’s a fine person. Me: Hey, MD-- Richard: So Henry’s being a little arsehole, so can you tell him to stop it? Also, can you go activate that totally not evil and eldritch device in the center of town for me? MD: Sure! ME: SERIOUSLY?! 11. Henry can’t speak. Me: ....Did they ran out of budget for a child voice actor? 12. MD: Alright, let’s activate this device-- SHITSHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT! Me: WHAT DID I TELL YOU? WHAT DID I SAY???!!! Alison: I’m not feeling too well... Me: SEE WHAT I MEAN??!! MD: Note taken: Just because he’s Scottish doesn’t mean he is trustworthy. 13. Alison: Hey! You’re okay! It must be the feather that protected you. MD: Yes, hold onto the totally mysterious magical item that I have no idea what it does. This is totally going to be fine. Me: Seriously, MD, not from a chicken, peacock, or duck? MD: Hey, I had to make some educated guesses. 14. Alison: Okay I’m off to investigate! MD and Me: WAIT NO ALISON THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT RESULTED IN DIRE GROVE-- Tip: “Alison’s still a bit sensitive about Dire Grove. Be cautious not to bring the subject up.” MD and ME: SHUT UP. 15. Richard: *Villainous slow clap* MD: Please don’t. Richard: Death is an old friend of yours! It’s like we’re kindred. MD: (It’s Alister or Charles, definitely.)...Did he happen to mention how many times I killed him? 16. MD: Oh, great, another immortal on our hands. I seem to be very good at killing those, so you won’t be immortal SOON. 17. Guard: Stop! MD: Okay. Guard: You won’t go any further. MD: I didn’t intend to-- HOLY SHIT HE’S SHOOTING AT ME FOR REAL! 18. Richard: Hey detective. Wanna see something awesome? MD: Not really. Richard: Look what happens when I kill someone! A pretty lady shows up! MD: ...................Which part of NOT REALLY did you not hear? 19. Alison: Great! We found evidence! Richard: You’ve also set off my trap! MD: SHIT. Alison: Oh no, how do I avoid-- *swivels through hidden door* MD: ARE YOU FOR REAL AND DID YOU JUST....urgh. 19.5. Me: WHY IS THIS DOOR NOT OPENING. IS THIS A BUG??? MD: You forgot to power it. Me: ...Oh. MD: ...It was kind of obvious-- Me: I blame bad game design! 20. Richard: AHAHAHA! I have a captive now! You can’t leave! MD: You...Ass. Richard: Well, I’ll save you the trouble of looking for notes and tell you how I got here. MD: Thank you, but you’re still an ass. Richard: So why don’t you enjoy what I’ve prepared for you? MD: YOU...YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST GUYS THAT PREPARED STUFF FOR ME? 21. MD: Oh thank gods he’s obsessed with Ankou instead of me this time. Me: Well....... MD: Just let me have that thought for once, okay? 22. Me: Aw...Henry’s just like any little kid. Being mischievous, climbing trees. MD: *Knocks tree down* Me: HOLY SHIT! HENRY! MD: OOPS...HE’s okay! He also totally won’t step into the minefield. *Henry steps into a tube instead* Me and MD: OH COME ON. Richard: *Laughs* 23. MD: Okay, so the more that someone’s soul weighs, the only she gets to stay. And weight is increased by one’s virtue. Me: ...This is fucked up. On the other hand, at least you’re not the prisoner. MD: This is still as fucked up as all the guys before. Me: So you’ve gone from saving ghosts, to saving people, to saving gods now? I’d say that’s an improvement. MD: ...Shut up. Also, this guy has shitty record tastes. 24. Alison: Thank you! Now you’re Henry’s guardian angel too. MD: I won’t need to be anyone’s angel IF YOU’D ALL JUST STAY OUT OF TROUBLE 25. MD: Shiiiiiiit that’s an underground complex alright. Me: Jealous? MD: I’ve had my fill of underground complexes as offerings. No thank you. Richard: Technically, this is also a gift for you though. MD: Oh DAMN YOU. 26. Richard: Alright! Here’s a man who may or may not be guilty. Will you sentence him for his crimes or will you forgive him? MD: ...WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU EVEN THE DALIMARS DIDN’T REACH THIS LEVEL OF FUCKERY. Alister: What?! Charles: Excuse me?! Victor: Father will be displeased! MD: NOT an invitation. 27. MD: ALRIGHT RICHARD ENOUGH OF THIS-- where is he? Richard: Hi. *brandish knife* MD: Shit. Me: Alright! Get ready for final combat-- *Richard OUT RIGHT STABS MD IN THE HEART* MD: CRAP! ME: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! 28. Me: HE STABBED YOU. ACTUALLY STABBED YOU. TO KILL. MD: Yeah, can we-- Me: HE ACTUALLY WENT FOR IT. MD: Hey-- Me: AND YOU’RE DYING FOR REAL THIS TIME. HOLY SHIT WHAT DO I-- MD: WALK ME TOWARDS THE FUCKING LIGHT WILL YOU YOU NITWIT. 29. Me: Oh look, it’s Dire Grove. MD: Nope. Me: Now it’s Ravenhearst. MD: NOPE. Me: Hi madame fate! MD: NOPE NOPE. Me: Hm...this looks like the chamber where Charles was gonna-- MD: AAAAAAAHHHHHHH *runs* Me: ...You know, you’re not so much walking towards the light as so much as running from the dark... 30. MD: Oh hi Ankou. Gonna send me to death? Me: Um.... MD: ...Oh thanks! A feather. Guess I’m going to live. AND TEAR THIS FUCKING THING DOWN. Richard: NO! YOU WERE ONLY MEANT TO BE A KEY! MD: WHY DON’T YOU ASK THE DALIMAR TWINS HOW THAT WENT LAST TIME! Me: Answer, not well. :D MD: The explosion is always so satisfying. Me: Um...should we...get out? MD: Oh yeah-- AAAAAHHHHHH. 31. Henry: ...I want to be like you when you grow up. MD: Trust me, you really don’t-- Wait DID YOU JUST SPOKE??? 32. MD: Alison’s back to normal, Dread whatever the town name actually is has been saved. I’m alive despite being stabbed in the heart. The embodiment of Death has been saved. Eh. Pretty good and done for once. Me: ...You realize you might be immortal now, right? MD: Yeah, but what’s the worst that can come from that? Charles: :D MD: OH NO WAIT FUCK YOU-- Conclusion: As much as the basic plot line is like a lighter version of Escape from Ravenhearst, I did enjoy it. It’s not like Broken Hours where the story was very distant from the MD’s past. This story DID indeed use the MD’s past experience a valid plot point. Except for WHY Richard knows so much about the MD. That just...honestly wasn’t explained clearly, even in the extra gameplay. I think the extra game actually made it more confusing? Now it seems that was part of the intention, but I’m not certain that it contributed to the game as a result. That said, congrats on reaching the 15th game in the MCF series! The MD has come so far. ;u; MD: Can I have a proper vacation now? For once?

#Mystery Case files #the black veil #bigfishgames