#there is room in my heart for only one cryptid and it’s the legs
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Memories of Us chapter 15 - Emotions
AO3 link || Master list
Thanks to everyone for being patient with me while I took my long break.
Thanks as always to @cheesy-cryptid for allowing me to use her art to write this. Thanks also goes out to @micropoe10 and @tragedybunny for giving this a little look before I posted this.
If anyone wants to be added to the tag list lemme know!!
Tags: @justporo @satanicspinosaurus @sleepy-timaeus @davenswitcher @wayward-hel
My eyes are closed.
I open them and look around.
I see a bed, rays of sun come in through the window.
His beautiful red eyes.
The bright light shines behind the silver hair that covers those crimson eyes that stay locked onto me.
I feel his loving stare, I never felt this way before.
My hand comes up to press against his skin, but it's not my hand.
I recognize this person, we’ve been here before.
I know you.
I feel my heart breaking now.
You aren't here.
You left in the night, you couldn't even tell me why.
Warm light shines through the window, Octavia shifts in her sleep, still laying on her couch wrapped in the plush blanket.
Suddenly, she startles awake.
The dream she was having felt so real, but was that Astarion?
She blinks a bit, the dull ache in her head settling in. How much did she drink last night? She shifts a bit and feels her legs touch the end of the couch. The dull pain in her neck made it hard to lift her head but when she does, she sees nothing at the other end.
Astarion must have left in the night. Why else would she wake up alone? Octavia feels a slight drop in her chest, a little twinge of heartbreak, maybe even disappointment.
It’s as if the little flame that she had little flashes of is slowly snuffed out. She sighs and wraps the blanket around herself. Slowly, she surveys the room. Her living room is a mess of clothes, bottles, and a couple of cushions thrown about haphazardly. Over by her door, she notices Astarion’s jacket hanging on the hook. Perhaps he’s still here?
Octavia drags the blanket along the carpet as she picks up her clothes; when out of the corner of her eye, she sees shadows at the end of the hallway connecting to her bedroom.
She quietly shuffles over to the door, pressing her ear against it. She tries to concentrate on the noise behind the door, only hearing some shuffling noises.
“I can hear you out there, you know. I figured you would've learned not to spy on people given what happened last time.” Astarion’s voice called from behind her private room.
Octavia scoffs, grinning slightly. She pushes the door open to find Astarion laying on top of the sheets she had recently washed. “Is it spying if it's my house?”, she asks sarcastically.
As she stands at the door, she sees his eyes glance up and quickly go back down to the book in his hands. Funny how he can take command of the room, even if it isn't his own. “You look comfortable. How's my bed feel?”
Astarion's wearing the same fitted black pants he wore the night before, his light gray shirt was lazily thrown on his toned frame. The fabric haphazardly clung to the rise and fall of the muscles on his chest.
He had closed the curtains in her room leaving it shrouded in partial darkness. There's lit candles throughout her room all flickering in a soft yellow glow. In contrast, Astarion’s features were highlighted by the faint shimmer from the flames.
Astarion was reading one of the many textbooks she still had from college, his fingers spread between the pages paint an obscene picture in her head. Octavia shakes it off and fully enters her room. He flips through the book languidly, responding back “Well, it would've definitely been better than the couch.”
The heat immediately rushed through her body, making her lack of clothing evident. Octavia clears her throat, trembling under the blanket. The cool air of her darkened room made her skin break out in gooseflesh. Astarion peers up from the book, he raises an eyebrow at her inquisitively.
“Something the matter, dear?” he asks, still flipping slowly through the book.
“I need to change, Astarion. Do you mind leaving the room for a few minutes?” Octavia wraps the fabric around herself tighter, feeling a bit uncomfortable.
“Sweetness, do you remember that little detail about myself I mentioned to you?” he tilts his head and looks up at her from under his silvery gray lashes.
Octavia scoffs, crossing her arms and curling up tighter under the thin material. “You can wait in the hallway for five minutes can't you? Please?”
“You're really adorable when you're acting bashful, dear. Have you forgotten what we did last night?” He closes the book and slides over to the edge of the bed. His long legs fall over the side as he pulls Octavia closer by the fabric that drapes her.
Octavia settles in between his legs, she feels an arm wrap around her pulling her closer. The blanket rubs against her cold skin, making more goosebumps grow. She sucks air in through her teeth, shivering slightly.
“Astarion…I'm cold. Can I plea-” Octavia’s voice gets cut off as she feels Astarion begin to tug at the spot where Octavia’s hands held it closed. She blushes at the look on his face, his reddened eyes shine with a mischievous glint. She scoffs, playfully rolling her eyes, if it's a chase he wants, game on.
Octavia smirks and pulls away from him. Her eyes soften and she says with a coquettish grin, “No.”
She feels Astarion’s hands drop, he looks into her eyes with a pleading gaze. His brows tilt upward, his eyes become more rounded and soft, his lips turn down with a feigned pathetic pout. “Why not?” A low whine followed by him laying back and propping himself up on his elbows.
“Because.” Octavia smiles wider, she walks over to her wardrobe, and gathers some clothes. “Sometimes, being told no is just as good as being told yes. You have to be patient, Astarion. I can't give you everything all at once. You have to work for it.”
She gives him a kiss at the tip of his nose and turns, walking to the door. She drops the blanket and winks, stepping out before calling back “I won't be long, when I return, you and I are going to have a little talk.”
Astarion sits on her bed in her room. He glances around Octavia’s private space, and takes in the environment. Her bookshelves were full of different types of books. Historical texts, photo books, reference books, the majority of it revolved around the defeat of the Absolute.
That's…well she does work for me at the museum…research, of course.
His curiosity was getting the better of him, the roguish skills itching to be used again.
Astarion opens up one of the drawers of her nightstand. Inside he notices a couple of pens and some little cards. A stack of letters were under those, the topmost one had the name of a man on the return address.
Astarion pulls out the letter, quickly taking it out and unfolding it. He sees a small picture fall to the ground, he picks it up, quickly scanning the letter but stops when he sees “My darling, I long to see you again.”
Was she already in a relationship?? He continues on slowly to catch every detail.
My darling, I long to see you again. It's been at least eight months since you’ve come to visit. Your mother misses you, even if it's just an afternoon tea at her grave. I know you are quite busy at your new job at the museum, but do come by soon? It's almost Heroes’ Day and you know how much your mother loved that day. I sent you the drawing we had made back when you were my little historian, you and your mom looked so happy, figured you would love it. Let me know when you can come visit, I’ll have your favorite tea waiting.
Love always,
Dad
~Oh, I sent that old book and the letters! I knew this job would be what you needed to feel connected to your mom and her family. She would be so proud of you,Tavvy. I know I am.
Astarion’s taken back somewhat. There's something about that nickname that makes a knot grow in his chest. The mysterious familiarity that keeps following him. He shakes it off and looks back at the small drawing in his hand.
A small girl, whom he figures is Octavia, is in the middle of two adults. Her hair is in two buns with braids flowing down her back. A woman who looks like Octavia, is to her left. The woman's skin is tan like Octavia’s with brown curly hair that's tied up in a half up style. She's got gorgeous hazel eyes and her smile is just as brilliant looking as Octavia’s.
To Octavia’s right is what looks like an elven man, also with tan skin. His eyes are a beautiful green like the rings surrounding Octavia’s own eyes. His arm is draped around the woman’s in a tight embrace. They look happy, but a sadness looms over the picture. Astarion flips over the picture, a small note adorns the corner: Altavia, Ralomaer, Octavia: age 12.
Suddenly, Astarion hears some rustling in the room adjacent to Octavia’s. She must be finishing up with whatever she's doing. He quickly stuffs the letter and picture inside the envelope, shoving it inside the drawer and slamming it shut. He grabs a different book and throws himself on the bed, quickly acting preoccupied.
Octavia opens the door and walks in. Her hair is braided in a crown around her head, some tendrils fall on the sides of her temples. She's wearing a loose tunic and some leggings, a woven cardigan keeping her warm against the chill of the darkened room. “Why do I feel like you've gotten yourself into some trouble?”
Astarion lowers the book, an inconspicuous look painted on his face. He quirked an eyebrow to sell the lie. “I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, I was sitting here reading this book on…” he glances at the cover, “’Ecology and Reproduction of the Myconid species’? Huh…it was quite interesting. Like nothing I’ve read before.”
Closing the book, Astarion sits up on the edge of Octavia’s bed. “I mean it did remind me of last night…” he trails off suggestively, dropping his voice in that seductive tone, hoping it takes her off the suspicious trail she seemed to be going down.
“Is that right?” Octavia feeds into his energy, sliding in between his legs, taking the same position she was in before she took off. Astarion’s hands find their place back around her waist.
Octavia giggles and starts to run her fingers in his hair. “So which part reminded you of last night? The spore reproduction or the part where you are basically part of a hive mind that can communicate all at once?”
Astarion shivers under the gentle scratch of her nails on his scalp, a little hum coming out of his mouth. “Hmmm…I don't know. I might have to be reminded of a few key parts.” He runs his hands up her back, nuzzling her chest.
Octavia shakes her head, he clearly had a one track mind. If she was hoping to get her say, she would have to lean in some more. “Key parts like….you running your hands all over me?” Astarion’s face lights up with a fanged grin.
“I see you remember it as well, my little flower.” Astarion begins to kiss her breasts over her clothes, playing with the hem of her tunic. “Why don't we have a little replay of it? Maybe chat more about the parts we liked?”
Octavia laughs and pushes Astarion’s shoulder, making him lay back on the bed.
“Well, I’m glad you brought that up. I would love to have a little chat about last night.” She tried to maintain a serious stance, but seeing how flustered he was she couldn't help but crack a bit. “Are you alright?”
Astarion shakes his head, blinking himself out of his lovestruck trance. “Oh yes, my little temptress, I'm perfectly alright. After that display, are you sure all you want to do is talk?” he slides up onto Octavia’s bed, with that same look that makes her knees weak.
“Astarion…I’m trying to be serious with you.” she scoffs and walks towards him. Astarion stretches out, his lithe and sinewy form laid perfectly on her bed. He played a dirty game, and he knows he always has the upper hand.
“We can talk more here, love.” his blood red eyes pierce through her, picking out the parts that make her body burn. His sly smirk highlights his intentions, but is soothed by the innocent enough movement of his hand swiping the space next to him in bed. “Why don't you join me, sweet girl? This bed is awfully big for just one person…” he holds his hand out expectantly.
Octavia huffs and takes his hand. He leads her onto the bed, his movements soft and delicate against the ardor behind his eyes. She ends up sitting at the head of her bed, her back on the cushioned headboard, Astarion sees a perfect opportunity and lays his head on her thighs.
“You seem particularly comfortable now, are you trying to avoid this conversation?” Octavia runs her fingers through his hair again, its soft curls intertwine with her movements as if they're begging for more of her touch. “Hmmm not particularly, no..but..I can think of a few things I'd rather be doing with my tongue.” Astarion peeks up at her, then nuzzles his head on the swell of her thigh.
“You're so insufferable sometimes you know?” She says with an amused tilt. “You can try to avoid it all you want, but until we have this conversation….” Octavia takes Astarion’s hands, which had begun to snake themselves up her legs, and lifts them off. She starts to slide off the bed when she feels a tug beckoning her back.
Astarion’s arms wrap around her waist and pull her back into the bed. Octavia yelps as she hits the mattress on her side, giggling as Astarion nuzzles into the space between her shoulder and neck. “We are going to talk about this damnit!!” She laughs and turns to lay on her back.
Astarion sighs and copies her. “Fiiiineeee. If you insist. Let's talk then.” He turns his head and pouts at her dramatically. “I know it wasn't that you didn't enjoy yourself. From the way you were pulling at my clothes..” the pout twists into a devilish smirk, a haughty giggle flows out.
Octavia and Astarion lay in her bed, she twists to her side and stares at his profile. He really was incredibly beautiful and this light only enhanced it. She puts her hand on his chest, as his laughter dies, he closes his eyes and hums happily. Octavia felt the butterflies in her lungs going mad.
“What is this? What are we?” Damn, her mouth.
Astarion turns to her, blinking rapidly, his eyes wide with slight surprise. He bites the inside of his lip and smiles nervously. “I don't know…” he starts, “but isn't it nice, to not know?” He nervously smiles, his eyes dart, trying to look anywhere but her face.
Octavia is taken back, she didn't know how serious this would be afterwards. She was hoping for at least a little bit of a chance to grow whatever they had into something more, but with that answer, it seems like this is all it was going to be for him.
“Oh…” she starts, ”is that what you want? I mean I like you, but I..uh..” Octavia goes quiet, she plays with her hands not finding the words to continue.
Astarion turns to look at her, he hates seeing the same heartbreak and confusion he saw in Tav, gods, he's doing it again.
Stop, you fucking idiot.
“Octavia…you aren't just one night that's better to forget…I- I'm not sure what you are just yet…but whatever else could you be? It's all so complicated, honestly.”
He looks up at the ceiling, eyes full of sadness and regret, he swallows and exhales.
“My darling, you mean new possibilities to me. It's been a very long time since I’ve done anything like this. I'm sorry I can't define this yet.” He takes her hand off his chest and kisses the top of it. “I know that whatever you are, for now, you are very important to me.”
Octavia felt her heart shoot to her throat, this was all so different. Even though they had skipped the formality the previous night, she still wanted to know if there was a way to bloom into something more.
Astarion’s past was full of death and regret, he was still a giant mystery to be solved. His pain and grief was an obvious and invasive dark cloud that hung over perpetually drowning him in its downpour.
He pulls Octavia in closer, she trembles slightly, his whole existence terrified her. He could easily kill her, compel her to let him drain her blood, but his soft and vulnerable moments tell her to trust him even through the guarded veil he put up.
Astarion sits up on his elbow and drapes an arm over Octavia, locking her down to the bed. He smiles down at her and brushes some hair behind her ear. He leans down and kisses her cheek, then her nose, and finally her lips.
Octavia felt the warmth of his kisses on her skin. Even though he was technically dead, his touch felt alive and hot. She couldn't help but run her hands all over his hair. He would softly exhale feather soft moans with each pass of her hand through his scalp.
She could feel his emotions pouring into her with each kiss. The hunger and desperation to be loved, each missed chance, every regret. The unbearable weight of his heart being mended slowly with each brush of contact from her. His touch lit her skin in a pleasurable heat.
Astarion feels as if he couldn't stop himself. Each sound she made fueled his desperation to let go and be open to the flames growing within. Flaying and ripping him open from the inside, only to rise from the ashes of his own misery. Octavia’s hands are untangling his heart and cradling it in her loving web.
His hands work their way down to the hem of her sweater, stopping before they explore further. He pulls away, leaving her lips kiss bruised and red. She's fully flushed, lips parted, breathing ragged and heavy. She swallows and blinks a bit, looking up at him, half hooded eyes full of lust and confusion.
“I’m sorry…I went too far, I can't help it..it’s been so long and well..with you, gods I feel like an inexperienced youth. Fucking embarrassing.” He sits up, Octavia props herself up on her elbows and listens. “I've been thinking about you for months, all the things I would do if I had you here exactly like this but how am I supposed to do this and not ruin it?”
Octavia is just watching as he slides off the bed and begins to pace around her room. “Gods, am I really this out of practice? I used to bed so many people no problem, what the fuck is going on now? All I could think about was ruining you with my hands, my mouth, and my cock, all of it but it feels so manipulative to use you as my plaything when you're so sweet and beautiful and patient.”
He monologues, all while throwing his hands up in the air, rambling and not stopping. “Why is this so difficult??? If this was a normal situation I would have bedded you at least 5 times already.”
Octavia was taken back once again, he obviously is on a tangent and his brain is not at all in sync with his mouth. “Astarion…” Octavia interjects, but Astarion is on a roll, nothing can shake him from this rant “This keeps happening to me, I get close to someone and then it goes to shit. This is exactly what happened last time with-”
“ASTARION!” Octavia screams, interrupting him yet again. This time, it works, slapping him out of his passionate word vomit. Her voice was firm, but still laced with concern. “Sit with me.” She pats the space next to her, and holds her hand out, her turn now to lead him.
He looks at her with hesitation and sits on the edge of the bed next to her. “We can just sit here okay? Nothing more if you don't want to.” Octavia wraps an arm around him, bringing him close to her in a warm embrace. She holds him there, feeling him tense up and relax into her arms. His head rested in the crook of her neck again.
They sit in silence, she feels him wrap his arms around her waist. He takes a deep inhale and lets out a long shuddering breath. She feels a tremble come up from the base of his spine and it dissipates throughout his body. Octavia just hugs him tighter as he melts into her touch.
She rubs a hand down his back and she feels him tense up again. He pulls away from her hand immediately, arching his back away from her touch. “I'm sorry, too much?” She says quietly, pulling her hand back and instead placing it on his shoulder. He nods quietly and nestles his head back in its spot on her neck.
Octavia let her hand wander to his hair once more, she noticed earlier how his body reacted to the scratching of her nails on his scalp. His ears would twitch a little, he would breathe in a little slower, his eyes would close, the corners of his mouth would curve up a little.
Astarion leans up and kisses her neck, a soft peck under her jaw. He places a hand on her thigh and buries his head in her neck. Octavia couldn't help but smile at the neediness he was displaying. “ I can't help but feel like I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you.” he spoke quietly into her hair, taking in her scent.
“What do you mean? I think you deserve to be happy if that's what you want. You deserve something real and honest. Everyone does. Even you, even if you don't think so yourself.” Octavia takes her arm off his shoulder and plays with the hair on the back of his head.
Astarion rests his head on her shoulder as she continues. “I don't know what you've been through, but you aren't alone. I’m here aren't I? You have Gale, too…” Astarion huffs as she finishes speaking. “I like you better, though. You're prettier.”
Octavia aims to kiss his forehead, but as soon as she turns her head, Astarion catches her and kisses her deeply. “Tell me what you want, Astarion.” She places a hand on his jaw and rubs at his cheek with her thumb. “I will give you anything, whether it's with me or without as long as you're happy.”
He was taken back by her words, he couldn't imagine his life without her now. It's the same feeling he had with Tav, after he confessed his hidden intentions and foiled plans. The familiarity felt somewhat nice. To be flustered by someone who he considered completely unpredictable.
He kept his hand on hers, the warmth of her skin made him feel the same way, the feeling of home that he had willingly abandoned. All these years running away, spent alone and isolated, now seem to crumble away with her touch. “I want this. I want you. I want it all….. I just don't know if I should after all this time.”
Octavia tilts her head “You sure have a lot of reasons for why you shouldn't be happy. Can I give you one why you should?”
Astarion pulls away from her shoulder, sitting upright. Octavia turns his head and holds his gaze. A soft smile is on her face, as she begins to speak. “You have survived your past. I'm so sorry that it was what it was. I wish I could have known you then, but I know you now. For that, I am thankful for whatever led you here. So…I guess you can be happy we found each other?” She shifts a bit, breaking their gaze, but trying her hardest to console him.
“I’m really bad at this can't you tell?” she says after a few moments of awkward silence. Astarion scoffs “That's putting it mildly, dear. You're awful.” He starts to laugh, Octavia slightly pushes him off her shoulder. He keeps laughing louder and more animated.
Octavia joins him, mostly because of his unhinged response. Eventually he falls back and clutches at his stomach, he keeps going until his eyes start to water. “Gods, Astarion, it wasn't that funny.” she giggles more as he slows his laughter, coughing as he catches the breath he didn't need. “Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I have no idea what the hells that was..”
Octavia smiles and shakes her head. “It's fine. I like hearing you laugh like that. You sounded happy.” she lays next to him, their legs dangling off the bed. He slides his hand into hers and laces their fingers together. He keeps his gaze up at the ceiling not saying anything.
She closes her eyes and relaxes into the bed, their hands clasped still. “This is nice.” he says, his voice sounding hoarse after his laughing fit. “I missed this. The little things.” he sighs, taking her hand and placing it on his chest. Octavia opens her eyes and is greeted by him leaning over her.
“This is nice.” She agrees, and brushes some of his curls behind his ear. He lets out a small shudder and his face scrunches up. “That was new.” he says with an embarrassed laugh as Octavia’s hand lingers on his shoulder. “I look forward to finding out more new things about myself….with you.”
Oh…
“I think I'd like that very much.” Octavia could feel herself blushing, the heat in her cheeks surely leaving a reddish hue on her cheeks. “We don't even have to label anything like I said. No one has to know if you don't want them to. Not yet.” She smiles, her own secret was hidden beneath that statement.
He leans over her and gives her a soft kiss on the cheek, then another on her lips. “Thank you.” Octavia props herself up on her elbows, “For what?” she asks. Astarion takes her hand and kisses it softly, “Giving me a chance at something which I thought I couldn't find anymore. This is truly a gift. I won't forget it. Not for a long time.”
#bg3#astarion#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate 3#astarion ancunin#bg3 astarion#astarion bg3#fic: memories of us#bg3 headcanon#modern au
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Prompt: 28. "I may not get another chance to say this."
Sequel to "The Truth Is (Not) Found In A Glass of Whiskey": It's the morning after and Skinner wakes up with a hangover - and remembers way too much from the previous night. (wc: 1,409)
Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2023
Fictober Day 29: Glass Half Full
When Skinner first wakes, he thinks he’s lost at sea. It doesn’t make sense, but then again, most of what happened yesterday doesn’t. He opens his eyes with difficulty and is hit with a wave of nausea.
“Fuck,” he groans, willing his stomach to behave. In his many years on this planet, he’s gotten drunk several times. Too many to count. This hangover, he’s convinced, is the worst yet. And where the hell is he? His head spinning, he tries to find something that looks familiar. This is neither a boat nor his own apartment. Then it hits him when he sees a book called Bigfoot is Real: The Truth About Your Favorite Cryptid on the nightstand. He’s at Mulder’s place. That may or may not explain the waterbed under him, too.
Skinner sits up slowly, feeling dizzy. He squints his eyes at his watch, seeing that it’s just after 6 a.m. Good to know that his body still knows when to get up, even after he’s tried to kill all his brain cells with expensive whiskey. He hasn’t thrown himself a pity party in so long; probably not since his wife left him. He was due. But, he realizes, as he stumbles to the adjoining room where he hopes Mulder’s bathroom is, he should keep it to the weekends.
As he relieves himself, staring at the tiles in the bathroom, he wonders what Mulder would say if he showered here. Does he have enough time to drive home and take a shower? Is he even sober enough to drive? There's just a slight problem: Mulder and Scully brought him here last night. He doesn’t have his car. Of course, he doesn’t. He can’t imagine driving to work with his two troublesome agents. Especially after last night. He doesn’t remember everything – and he’s thankful for that. But he remembers enough to feel heat creep into his cheeks.
The apartment is quiet as he steps out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, at a loss for what he should do. He finds his pants and is relieved to realize that he must have taken them off himself. He doubts Mulder or Scully would have haphazardly thrown them about. He never did take off his dress shirt but some buttons have come undone and it’s wrinkled. Fuck. He either has to ask Mulder for a spare one or drive home.
He decides to venture further and see what his agents are about. He knows he should be thankful. They could have just left him at the office and who knows what would have happened. He’s sure he would have finished his whiskey bottle that Mulder took from him. Who is to say he wouldn’t have wanted more? Mulder may have saved him from doing something incredibly dumb and potentially dangerous. Well, he was probably due for a favor anyway, considering he keeps saving their asses.
No one bothered to shut the curtains, so there’s light peeking in through the blinds, making it easy for Skinner to find Mulder and Scully on the couch. At first, he thinks they’re watching him and he freezes. But that’s not the case at all. They’re upright but fast asleep. Mulder has his legs outstretched and his head tilted toward Scully, who’s leaning against him, a hand on his stomach and drooling on his shirt. Not a couple my ass, he thinks.
He wants to wake them and yell at them that he’s known all along. Then again, he’s pretty sure he already did that last night. He watches them, confronting his own feelings. The reason why he got drunk in the first place. He wonders if they even know how lucky they are to have found each other. All he does is search and hope. Only to have his heart crushed again and again. He’s not sure he can keep looking for love.
How many times can a heart be broken? At what point will he be unable to put the pieces back together? He’s forever bruised. But the longer he watches, the more he understands that he wants what they have. He’s never seen two people so in love. Who are friends, partners, and equals in everything they do.
He tears his eyes away; he’s creeped them out enough last night. He tiptoes into the kitchen, looking for a glass so he can drink some water. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels too big. He down one glass of ice-cold water, then another, feeling more sober by the second.
“Do you want coffee?” Skinner almost chokes, setting down the glass, and staring at Mulder with bleary eyes.
“You were asleep,” he says.
“Heard you walk around.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not a good sleeper anyway. Unlike Scully. She can sleep through everything.” He’s smiling as he says this, starting the coffee machine. “How are you feeling this morning, sir?”
“As well as can be expected after a night of heavy drinking,” he admits. “Mulder, I may not get another chance to say this, but I’m grateful for what you and Scully did for me. I was in a bad place last night. Thank you.”
“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you get another chance to say this?”
“I doubt I’ll make it to work on time,” he says. “I have a meeting with Kersh early this morning. Can you imagine what he’ll do when he sees me like this?”
“Go take a shower. I’m sure we’ll find something for you to wear. Scully is resourceful. Hell, she might put some makeup on you to make you look radiant.” He grins. “You may not remember last night, but I meant it when I said we’re your friends. We’ve all been there.”
“I was right about you two,” Skinner says.
“Sir?”
“You’re dating. You know that HR-”
“We’re not dating,” Mulder says.
“I may be hungover from last night, Mulder, but I do have eyes. I really am happy for you two. I know I said some things last night, but… I really am. It’s good to know you’re out there together, keeping an eye on each other. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I promise you that.”
“We’re really not-”
“Mulder, it’s okay.” He sighs, sounding frustrated. The length these two will go to deny their feelings for each other astounds him. “And now I really got to get ready if I want to keep my job and with the way my life is going, I’d really rather not add unemployment to the list.”
Mulder nods. “Go take a shower and I’ll wake Scully. She’ll know what to do.”
“I have no doubts.” He finds himself smiling.
Back in the bathroom, Skinner can’t find any towels, cursing under his breath. He returns to the living room, intending to ask Mulder where to find any, when he sees him crouching in front of the couch, one hand cupping Scully’s cheek and the other one on her hip.
“Time to wake up,” he whispers softly, a genuine smile on his face. Skinner knows he’s peeping on an intimate moment and should turn away, but he’s mesmerized by what he’s witnessing.
“Is it morning already?” Scully mumbles and Skinner is surprised to find that between his two agents, Scully is the one who’s grouchy in the morning.
“It is,” Mulder replies, his voice still gentle, and his hands still on Scully. “And we need to get Skinner ready for work.” Why does he make it sound like he’s their toddler and not their boss? “I need your brain for that.”
“Hmm, do you really?”
“I do,” Mulder says, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. And to think that five minutes ago he was denying they’re dating. “No one is as smart and as brilliant as you.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mulder.”
“That’s what I was hoping.”
Skinner chooses that moment to retreat and give them this moment. He’ll find a towel in Mulder’s bathroom or he won’t. He, too, can be resourceful. Unlike last night, he feels hope sprout in his chest. Who knew he was still capable of that? And he has to thank Mulder and Scully. Or maybe he won’t. He can keep that little tidbit to himself.
He steps under the warm water, closing his eyes, and finds himself whistling. There will be better days. And who knows, maybe he'll find love again, too.
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Just A Dream (Just A Nightmare) | Part 1
For those of you who are interested in exploring my Cryptid 141 AU, here's a link to my Main Masterlist! And, if you want to read it on Ao3, click this link please!
Btw this is a rough one folks, please mind the warnings.
Warnings: Unreliable narrator (sorta), MCD (major character death, but not really), Vulgar language, Canon-typical violence, Torture, Forced Cannibalism, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Wendigo's are their own warning really.
Word Count: 4,470
Read Below The Cut:
Ghost's mind struggled to puzzle together why the utterly ordinary metal that their captors had put him in were even successfully restraining a being such as himself, the heavy duty chains groaning from the brutal strain he was putting on them but holding firm nonetheless. By all accounts, keeping him rooted to the chair –nevermind that it was bolted to the floor– should've been impossible.
However, there was no time to linger on the subject, not when their captors were forcing Soap's head down into a bucket of water.
Though Soap, for his credit, didn't start instinctively thrashing against his own restraints –which were a simple pair of handcuffs that connected his wrists to the arms of the chair he sat in and also two additional handcuffs that secured each ankle to the corresponding chair leg– until about five minutes in since the bastards still had yet to let him up for air, the Scot's body twitching and jerking so violently that the cuffs locked around his limbs rattled.
The sight made Ghost's vision bleed crimson for several seconds, though the red haze was just as quick to clear when the asshole that was standing beside Soap –and much too close to the Scot for Ghost's comfort– finally released his handful of the man's disheveled mohawk.
Soap immediately reared back, though his head remained bowed as he coughed and choked in intervals. The water that he had inhaled poured from the Scot's mouth with horrible wet, gagging noises that made Ghost's ribcage constrict around his unbeating heart.
"So," The bastard in charge drawled, stepping out of the dark corner that he had settled in a moment before his lackeys went about the cruel task of very nearly drowning Soap. And, to add insult to injury, the man looked so damn pleased with himself that Ghost was quite suddenly awfully inclined to ensure that the man's death was a slow and messy one. "Are either of you feeling particularly chatty yet?"
"Bite mah bawsack ya radge wee shite.” Soap rasped, his voice noticeably hoarse from his body's efforts toward expelling all the water that he had in his lungs and then some, his face briefly twisting into a grimace that went unnoticed by everyone in the room except Ghost, who was half tempted to tell the stubborn Scot to shut his mouth because speaking was obviously hell on his raw throat. And all that damage had been done to Soap during a whopping one round of controlled drowning.
Fuck.
"Sorry, I don't speak leprechaun." The man huffed with a disapproving click of his tongue that was loud in the otherwise silent cellar; save for Soap's harsh panting, that is. Unfortunately, the sharp sound seemed to be some kind of indicator that a swift punishment should be doled out because it spurred one of his men to throw a fist into the Scot's already fairly abused stomach, which triggered another fit of dry heaving.
"It's Scottish fer suck mah balls, ye feckin' moron." Soap somehow managed to cough the words out once his body dictated that there was truly nothing left to bring up, the Scot swallowing reflexively only to cringe at the sour taste of his own bile. Though Ghost couldn't relate seeing as it had been decades since he'd had the ability to throw up, his body no longer allowed such a wasteful reflex.
Ghost took private and vindictive pride in how frustrated their captors were getting, their repetitive line of questioning going absolutely nowhere despite several hours of subjecting both Soap and Ghost to all manner of torture methods with no favorable results. Their captors were no less in the dark than when they had first dragged the two soldiers into the cellar and Ghost was grimly amused by their increasingly desperate attempts to glean any information about who they were and why they had been snooping around in one of their warehouses.
"You are trying my patience." The man sneered, his mask of friendliness fracturing to reveal the ugly truth underneath. "This is your last chance." He stated ominously and Ghost fought the instinct to tense, though his gaze did briefly cut to Soap before returning to the man, who made a gesture that had both the lackey behind Ghost and the one looming just off to the side of Soap drawing a large knife.
Ghost's gaze followed the blade's agonizingly slow journey to Soap's throat, the grinning piece of shit who was holding the weapon eagerly pressing the sharpened edge into sunkissed flesh until blood welled up, thin rivets of bright crimson sluggishly trickling down to soak the collar of the Scot's lost cause of a shirt. It had long been thoroughly shredded during the second hour of torture, which had involved a lot of cutting.
Ghost barely even registered the bite of the knife held against his own neck as he thoughtlessly leaned into the blade, the brief lapse in control that had been brought on by the sight of Soap’s life in danger all but damning them both.
The faces of their captors lit up with malicious glee when they realized that the instinctive reaction was one made out of distress, they recognized that Ghost feared for Soap’s well being because he had forgotten himself for only a moment.
"Who do you work for? Who sent you?" The man in charge barked, effectively dragging Ghost out of his spiral, but he merely leveled the man's searching gaze with a purposefully blank stare even as dread sunk low in his gut like a heavy stone. Ghost just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something horrific was about to happen, though he didn’t know why he seemed to just know this on an instinctual level.
“Yer Mam sent us, wanted us tae let ye ken that she shuid ‘ave swallowed.” Soap hissed, brash and lacking even a fucking morsel of self-preservation as he bared his blunt, bloodied teeth at the man in charge.
Ghost couldn’t help the surge of anger that spread through his entire body like molten lava at how Soap was blatantly goading their captors into maiming him because it was like Soap didn’t even care about the knife held to his throat, like his life meant nothing to him.
Like it wouldn’t utterly destroy Ghost if Soap died because keeping the reckless, self-sacrificing fucking twat alive was the only thing that mattered to Ghost.
Because Soap couldn’t draw and doodle in his journal, couldn’t blow shit up to his heart’s content both on and off the field, couldn’t laugh or groan at Ghost’s horrible jokes, couldn’t tap Ghost’s shoulder because sometimes they didn’t need words to communicate or offer a fist bump that made Ghost’s chest swell with warmth, and he couldn’t smile at Ghost like he was someone who deserved to be smiled at if he was dead.
Soap couldn’t do any of those things if he was dead.
“Swallow?” The man in charge hummed, his expression contemplative instead of angry at the vulgar retort, which made that pit of dread in Ghost’s gut churn uneasily. “What a brilliant idea.” The man chuckled, a sadistic smirk curling onto his lips as he moved over to the lackey that held the knife to Soap’s neck in order to whisper something into the other man’s ear that Ghost couldn’t catch despite how he should’ve been able to hear whatever was said due to his heightened senses.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Had they given him something? He couldn’t remember.
Actually, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t quite recall the exact series of events that led up to them being stuck in this damn cellar–
“We’ll see how long it takes for one of you to tell us everything we want to know.” The man in charge said smugly as he sauntered back to the shadowed corner, settling in for another bout of watching Soap and Ghost as they were tortured.
Bright red blood immediately gushed from both the detached digit and the nub that remained, Soap lurching forward in order to hunch in on himself with a strangled sound; and the bitten back noise of agony sent a chill up Ghost’s spine, paralyzing him.
But something about this felt different, it felt… off in a way he couldn’t put his finger on, in a way that he felt should’ve been obvious. However, he didn’t exactly get time to figure it out because the lackey suddenly moved the blade away from Soap’s throat.
Ghost had maybe a half a second to feel an odd mix of both relief and trepidation before the lackey was bringing the knife down onto the second knuckle of Soap’s pinkie finger, cleanly severing it with the wet crunch of flesh and bone.
For a long moment, all Ghost could do was numbly stare at the growing sea of crimson on the floor, his gaze fixated on Soap’s severed finger.
Then, suddenly, he was snapped out of his fucking useless gawking when his stomach quietly rumbled and cramped in a way he instantly recognized. Ghost grit his teeth against the gnawing hunger, disgusted with himself to the point of wanting nothing more than to carve out his insides with a blunt knife when his mouth flooded with saliva because that was Johnny's blood, Johnny’s finger.
“Now, Simon, you have a decision to make.” The man in charge drawled from his dark corner and, when Ghost managed to tear his gaze away from the mess on the floor in order to look at the man, he found that the fucker was already staring at Ghost with malicious glee shining in his eyes. “Either your friend can eat his finger, or you can… your choice.”
A small, nearly inaudible sound of distress slipped out of Soap and Ghost’s body moved on instinct, though his attempt to go to the Scot was thwarted by the thick chains that held him in place.
A guttural snarl of frustration tore from Ghost’s clenched teeth as he pulled against the restraints that ensured he would be nothing but a mere spectator, forced to watch the one person that Ghost couldn’t bear to lose resolutely blink away the involuntary tears that had welled in his eyes just so their captors wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing him cry.
Ghost made a low noise of warning when the lackey who had been foolish enough to hurt Soap –his Johnny– lazily flicked the knife to make the blood clinging to the blade splatter onto the floor before crouching to grab the finger, the dead man walking taking the six steps that would bring them to the chair that Ghost was stuck in.
The four humans currently in the room with him were nothing but an easy meal, this entire base of humans was nothing but fodder to fill the bottomless abyss that sat where his stomach used to be. Even an army of humans would be nothing but a momentary delay, even an army of supernaturals would be nothing but bodies for him to rip and tear through.
Nothing that stood between him and Soap would be there for long, because whoever or whatever wanted to hurt Soap would have to reduce Ghost to nothing but a pile of ash first.
“Me.” Ghost heard himself say, resolutely shoving down the guilt and self-loathing that filled his chest in response to his immediate answer because the stiff line of Soap’s shoulders eased in an unmistakable display of relief upon hearing that he wouldn’t be the one to consume his own flesh and Ghost would never feel anything but accomplished when he helped the Scot, no matter how small the task. So, even in a situation as dire as this one, Ghost took pride in knowing that he could shoulder this vile burden for Soap.
“No hesitation, how commendable. Normally, the people who are given this ultimatum panic for a few seconds, but not you. I wonder why.” The man in charge mused in a thoughtful manner, regarding Ghost the same way one might look at a predator in a zoo, secure in their belief that a pane of glass would keep them from harm. Ghost wanted nothing more than to break that illusion of safety, wanted to sink his teeth into flesh and shred skin with his claws and tear limbs from their sockets.
The lackey grabbed a fistful of Ghost’s balaclava and tore it off his head, baring his scarred face to everyone in the room, but it didn’t matter because they would all die by his hand anyway. Not one of their captors would live to give a description of him to anyone, not a trace of him or Soap would be left in this place by the time Ghost was done with these fuckers and their fucking hideout.
Ghost was a hunter by nature and he had memorized their faces, had ingrained their scents into his mind. If they somehow miraculously escaped the slaughter, he would find them.
“Open wide.” The lackey spoke in an annoying sing-song voice, wiggling Soap’s severed finger in front of Ghost’s face, and he made a mental note to kill the bastard after he was finished with their leader.
Regardless of his future plans for their captors, he obediently opened his mouth, which caught the lackey off guard if the way that their face scrunched up was any indication. Still, they shoved the finger past Ghost’s parted lips, the tip of Soap’s detached digit hitting the back of his throat, which made Ghost stiffen so he didn’t react the way that his traitorous body wanted him to.
He snapped his jaws shut, making the lackey recoil as they yanked their hand out of biting range, and Ghost had to fight the desire to smile. Although his morbid amusement was short lived because Soap’s blood began to trickle onto his tongue and Ghost’s eyelids fluttered before he could stop himself, the morsel tasted exactly how the Scot smelled, rich and honeyed and so fucking delicious. Soap’s warm blood was like sweet nectar, flooding the inside of his mouth.
Ghost opted to just swallow the digit whole, not wanting to distress Soap by allowing him to hear the crunch of bone that chewing the finger would produce. So Ghost just breathed in through his nose and relaxed his throat, letting the morsel slide down his esophagus along with an obscene amount of viscous saliva, his stomach promptly begging for more with an insistence that grated on his fraying sense of control.
Ghost steadfastly ignored the gnawing hunger with practiced ease, his hazy gaze refocusing on Soap only to find that the Scot was staring at him with a complicated expression, but disbelief and repulsion were among the more obvious emotions that Soap’s face exhibited.
However, Ghost didn’t blame the Scot for being disgusted since he had essentially behaved like a gluttonous beast when being fed the flesh of someone he had come to see as a close friend, flesh that was not voluntarily given but taken by force.
Soap stared at Ghost with eyes like blue fire, hot enough to melt flesh from bone, and he felt like he was being stripped layer by layer each time that the Scot’s gaze seared into him. Ghost felt like he was being burned from the inside out, the unsightly monster that hid behind the human façade that was Simon Riley revealed.
Soap had seen Ghost for what he was and passed judgment, the verdict exactly as he had always predicted it would be. That didn’t make it hurt any less though. In fact, it stung far more than the sharp pain of a flame against his skin.
“Liked it that much, did you?” The man in charge piped in with a low chuckle that made Ghost’s attention cut to him, the bastard watching Ghost with keen eyes. In response to the man’s searching stare, he immediately divided his focus between keeping his face blank and the cellar’s inhabitants.
“Perhaps you’d like another then.” The cocky fucker said offhandedly as he pointedly glanced at the lackey with the bloody knife, who moved back over to Soap.
Ghost felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head when the words registered, looking back on the previous events and realizing his grave mistake with a sickening lurch in his chest. He had been unable to stop himself from showing enjoyment as he consumed the finger, his nature as an eternally gluttonous creature screwing him over in the worst way possible. Now Soap was going to suffer for Ghost’s failure to keep from acting like a fucking savage.
“No–” Ghost’s fraught protest was cut off when the lackey chopped Soap’s ring finger off, his middle finger meeting the same fate a moment later. The Scot slammed his head back with a shout, his taut form arching in the confines of the chair. The Scot was covered in a sheen of sweat, his skin blanched of color as the pool of blood under the chair that Soap occupied rapidly grew in size.
“No.” Ghost snarled, craning his head away and clenching his jaw shut when the lackey came over to offer the two fingers to him with a sadistic grin.
And, while Ghost’s stomach urged him to take the digits, the rest of him was screaming out in anguish at the thought of consuming the consequences to his earlier actions. Ghost couldn’t do it, he couldn’t eat the fingers and allow himself the taste of Johnny's distinctively sweet flesh and blood when he damn well knew that he was the reason that the fingers had gotten hacked off in the first place.
“Really? Then I guess your friend gets to taste-” The man in charge began in a conversational tone, but Ghost interrupted him when his jaw unlocked and stretched open before he’d even made the conscious decision to do it because the threat of Soap being forced to eat the digits made his body respond all on its own.
Ghost accepted the fingers with a sense of both resignation and a sickening excitement, keeping his eyes aimed at the stained wall above Soap’s head as they were stuffed into his mouth.
He consumed them in the same manner as the first because it was the least he could fucking do considering that this was all his fault, desperately repressing the urge to scream himself hoarse when the lackey appeared in front of him again with Soap’s pointer finger and thumb.
Ghost couldn’t make himself look at the Scot as he ate those too, feeling the small flicker of humanity in him that Soap had coaxed to life with bright smiles and friendly conversation and kind eyes slowly extinguish with each chunk of flesh that was presented to him.
He couldn’t hear anything over the humming in his ears, the men's cruel taunts sounding like they had been spoken underwater, Ghost numbly staring off into space.
He could do nothing but take and take and take everything that his captors gave him, eventually forced to chew because the pieces got too big to swallow whole. He could feel bone give under his teeth but he couldn’t hear it, deaf and blind to everything but the wretched and all consuming grief that held him in a vice grip.
He didn’t realize that he was crying until someone grabbed his jaw to wrench it open wide so another lump of meat could be forced into his mouth, his mind recognizing exactly which extremity it was as soon as it passed his lips, his body flashing white hot with rage at being fed such an intimate part of Soap.
And again, his body moved before he could direct it to. Ghost’s jaw dislocated with a click as he lunged, fitting the lackey’s fist into his mouth of razor sharp teeth before biting down to messily sever the fucker’s hand at the wrist.
Ghost surged forward in an attempt to follow the lackey when they stumbled back with a shrill scream, the part of his brain that was still in some semblance of order surprised when the chains gave with a series of metallic snaps, but the rest of him didn’t even blink at the sudden freedom of movement. Ghost was on the lackey in the blink of an eye, teeth going for the jugular and messily ripping out a chunk of the man’s neck before he was moving on to his next meal.
He sunk his teeth into every living thing in the room, tearing bodies apart like wet paper until nothing but piles of gore remained.
Then Ghost was at Soap’s side, crouching to tear the handcuffs off of the Scot’s ankles before standing again. He didn't bother with the restraints that were supposed to be on the Scot’s arms because he didn't have those anymore, the limbs nothing but bloodied stumps at the shoulders. There were chunks of Soap missing everywhere, the holes in his body varying in size and depth.
Ghost wished that he could throw up, wished that he could piece the Scot back together so he could grovel at Soap’s feet and beg for forgiveness that he didn’t deserve.
The silence was enough of an indication of how useless such an endeavor would be, the only sound in the room was the patter of blood hitting the floor as it dripped off of Ghost’s claws and chin, his own chest as quiet and still as Soap’s because if the Scot was never going to draw breath again then neither was he.
Ghost’s lips pressed into a thin white line to stop the pathetic way that they wobbled, his hands shaking violently as he raised them to cup Soap’s colorless face, being mindful of his claws even though it was completely unnecessary.
“Johnny.” He croaked, his voice sounding as wrecked as he felt.
Ghost was broken in a way that he hadn't been since Roba, since he had been intentionally turned into a monster in a bid to make him nothing more than an attack dog. And he suddenly couldn’t fathom how the fuck he was supposed to survive this, how he would live with himself knowing that he had been the one to seal Soap’s fate.
He doesn't apologize though, knows that it would fall on ears that could no longer hear him, averts his gaze to his own hands because those eyes would no longer look at him with warmth.
Ghost will spend the rest of his life seeing Johnny in everything around him, reminding him of the irreplaceable person that he had lost due to his own weakness. Soap had been his last attempt to have something good, to have something that made him human.
So Ghost made himself look, burning the image of the Scot’s mutilated body into his mind. He will never forget his hand in Soap’s death, will never let himself forget that he was a monster, marking those he loved for death with just a touch.
Ghost’s hands move behind Soap, one cradling the back of his neck to guide the Scot's head forward so he could tuck Soap's face into the crook of his neck while the other rested on the Scot's back. Ghost closed his eyes and turned his head to bury his nose into Soap's soft hair, breathing him in for the last time, but the sharp tang of iron and the lingering smell of their captors soured the Scot's usually pleasant scent. He inhaled anyway, knowing that Soap would soon reek of nothing but death and rot.
Ghost’s stomach clenched again and he grit his teeth together in frustration, the impulse to devour Soap steadily growing stronger with each second that ticked by. And he tried to resist, he really did, because the Scot had family in Glasgow that would want the body. Family that probably had a plot in a beautiful cemetery already picked out for him in case something like this were to happen, a place where Johnny could be laid to rest.
But he can’t, he just can’t. Ghost selfishly wanted to keep Soap all to himself. And it’s easy –so fucking easy– to move Soap so that he could duck his head toward the Scot’s throat, his mouth opening wide, jaws closing around delicate skin that gives under his needle-point teeth with barely any pressure–
And then Ghost was suddenly in his pitch black bedroom, jerking upright as he gasped for air that he didn’t even need, his legs getting tangled up in his thin sheets when he tried to get out of bed only to end up falling off with a loud thud.
His hands raked across the floor, leaving deep grooves in their wake, before it occurred to him that he should use his claws to free himself. So Ghost swiftly twisted around in order to slice at the fabric ensnaring his calves, hissing when his claws bit into his own skin.
Ghost proceeded to scramble backward until his shoulders hit a wall, immediately curling in on himself as he desperately wiped away the waterfall of saliva that ran from his panting mouth like a broken faucet, the ache between his legs persisting even though his emotions and instincts were at war with each other.
Ghost felt both repulsed and outraged in equal measure at his arousal, the hand that wasn’t preoccupied with managing his fucking drool reaching down to grab the substantial bulge currently tenting his sweatpants and brutally squeeze until it started to soften.
He glared down at his flagging hard-on for a moment before he cursed and slammed his head back against the wall, leaving a noticeable crater in the concrete that he would be berating himself for later. But, as it stood, he couldn't be damned to care.
He eventually relinquished his strangling grip on his now flaccid cock, his hand hanging between his legs limply as he despondently stared at the sorry state that his bed was in. He would need a new mattress along with some pillows and blankets to replace the ones that he’d shredded, but at least the frame was intact this time.
Ghost was distantly aware that his body was trembling so hard that he was all but vibrating as his gaze wandered to the door, abruptly finding himself seized by the overwhelming need to see Soap alive and whole. Rationally, he knew it was just a nightmare conjured by his fucked-up mind –the signs were painfully obvious now that he was awake– but it had still been a vivid and horrifying experience.
So Ghost rose from the ground and made for the door, barging out into the hallway beyond in order to head straight to Soap’s room.
#minors do not interact#minors dni#not for the weak hearted#seriously#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty#cod modern warfare#cod mw#cod#modern warfare ii#call of duty mwii#cod mw2#cod mwii#modern warfare#modern warfare 2022#simon riley#john mactavish#ghost#soap call of duty#soap cod#ghostsoap#ghost x soap
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Maybe the q number 16? 👀
"How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?"
Oh, there are A Lot. I actually typed up a list of ALL my current WIPs the other day, not just for this blog, so let's list them here:
2 or 3 original novels (one on backburner, one new and active, and one I should be working on dammit)
2 active longrunning fanfics and 2 that are "updated when inspiration strikes" for Pokemon (one crossed over with FE3H)
1 slightly longer Arknights fic and at least 3 shorter WIPs. Plus plotting a multichap one once a Pokemon fic wraps
1 multichap One Piece fanfic on hiatus, and a half-written request fic that has been in my inbox for at least half a year (...oops)
Assorted smut fics that may not ever see the light of day but still demand my attention now and again
A fluctuating amount of ttrpg fics. Currently only one in the works right now of my oozy dragonborn sorcerer before The Plot happened.
A couple other loose ideas. Like the "trans Farmer and cryptid Elliott" Stardew Valley fanfic.
And I flit between them all like some deranged little hummingbird.
Now for a preview of one, which is the slightly longer Arknights fic I've mentioned in a previous ask on this blog, aka "Ebenholz has to escape from behind enemy lines with Czerny while dealing with a concussion and some surprise Feelings." See under the readmore:
Something thumps against the back door.
Ebenholz is already on his feet, wand aimed at the door, braced against the shelves to keep from swaying. His dice float around him in an unsteady orbit. He has to remind himself to breathe.
A quick series of knocks. He recognizes the pattern, the percussion; it's a simple song, one many children learn in music lessons. Ebenholz's knees nearly buckle from relief, but he forces himself to hurry to the door and open up. Czerny slips in and wraps an arm around Ebenholz as he shuts and locks the door behind him, then leans his weight against it to further brace it shut.
"What are you--"
"Shh." The composer is panting for air. His heart is hammering as fast as Ebenholz's, maybe even moreso.
Shouting outside. "How the fuck did you lose him? He'd be an easy target even without the blood!"
"Yeah, but he's fast! You see those legs?"
Blood? Pressed against Czerny in a dark room, it's hard to get a good look at where the wound might be, but the stench is unmistakable. Ebenholz quietly runs a hand over what he can reach, but doesn't feel any damp spots or tears. No vital organs hit, at least.
"Vie wiele Garde?" Ebenholz whispers.
"Ich denke zwei."
Just the two guards talking outside. That should be easy enough, if they move fast. Czerny can take out the closer one while Ebenholz hits the farther, take them both out so neither can call for backup. Question being, where could they hide the bodies? Or what if taking out the guards gives away that something's amiss? It'd be fine if they were ready to run, but they can't yet, not in the dark, not when Czerny is hurt and Ebenholz doesn't even know how bad it is and...
"Shhh. Ruhig, ruhig." Czerny slowly strokes Ebenholz's hair the way one might soothe a stressed pet. His breaths slow in time with the motion, and Ebenholz tries to match, realizing that he's on the verge of hyperventilating. Czerny mutters, almost too low to hear and definitely intended for himself more than Ebenholz, "Alles wird gut. Das wird sich alles finden."
Ebenholz isn't sure if he's comforted or worried that Czerny seems just as scared as he is.
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Read List of 2022
To all the Cryptids and Humanoids of the World--
I come to you with my tail between my legs.
With the dawn on January, I told myself that I would use this blog throughout the year to better catalogue my thoughts on what I read. My Goodreads account was only a month old and I’ve never been comfortable or crazy about the layout of that website. But as all New Years Resolutions do, my reading blog fell to the way side.
So, I come to you in December, mere days before the New Year, with a list of gorgeous, heart-breaking, clever, and truly life-changing novels.
Last time around, I read 19 books. This year, I read 22. As a younger person I was always hell-bent on expanding that number each year but 2022 was an entirely unique beast. For me, this was the first trip around the sun since the pandemic began that felt like a real year, complete with the same amount of work, heartbreak, pain, and joy. I had to reconcile that I wasn’t going to hit my goal of 50 books (because I read 48 in 2020. What else were we doing in quarantine).
However small this list may seem, I was enchanted. From this collection of Read Books I’ve latched onto some of my all-time favorites. I laughed, fought goosebumps, wept, and was forever changed by many of the heavy hitters on this list. All in all, I’d consider that a success.
Just like last time, I have included the genre of each novel as well as a 1 out of 5 star rating. They are listed in no particular order.
Happy New Year and Happy Reading!
1. What Just Happened: Notes on a Long Year, by Charles Finch : Memoir : 4 out of 5 stars
Starting my year with a memoir that is, at is root, journals kept by the author during the pandemic, was not a wise choice. Battling seasonal depression all while living through act three of the very same pandemic that is examined in this book was difficult, to say the least. Nevertheless, I was still incredibly moved by the perspectives immortalized here. Finch made me laugh more times than I can count and cry until I was hollow, but he didn’t leave me that way. Mostly, I walked away from this book with hope. It’s gorgeous and forty years down the line, children will be reading it in schools, remembering those who were lost.
2. Tin Man, by Sarah Winman : Romance, Slice of Life : 5 out of 5 stars
This book absolutely destroyed me. Sad LGBTQIA+ romance is my favorite genre, and Tin Man has to top the list of books I’ve read no only in that category, but overall. My dear friend Lisa sent me a copy in late January, and I devoured the entire thing in a matter of hours. It’s gorgeous. The story between the two main lovers and their journey from childhood friends, through their torrid love affair in the summer of 1960, to their vicious breakup and the subsequent marriage of the main character to a girl they both knew from school and, finally, the deep, unconditional friendship between the three of them that surpasses grief, loss, death, and heartbreak--this novel is everything, EVERYTHING, to me. Read it.
3. What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky, by Lesley Nineka Arimah : Short Story Anthology, Slice of Life : 3.5 out of 5 stars
Gorgeous prose and breathtaking African Mythology wrapped in a cloak of familial expectations that the author ultimately sheds to take flight into her own becoming. So great, so powerful, amazing.
4. Diary of an Oxygen Thief, by Anonymous : Slice of Life : 1.5 out of 5 stars
This was one of my least favorite books this year. Imagine Holden Caufield with a college degree and more money than he knows what to do with. In my opinion, there’s room for one Holden Caufield in literature. It was incredibly repetitive and I lost interest pretty early on.
5. At Swim, Two Boys, by Jamie O’Neill : Romance, Historical Fiction : 3 out of 5 stars
HEARTBREAKING. Two childhood friends in Ireland at the height of the first World War fall in love and decide to swim the English Channel before the draft tears them apart. The vernacular explored in this novel made it hard for me to get into at first but once I did, it ruined me. Go read it!
6. The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek, by Rett and Link : Horror : 2.5 out of 5 stars
This one was a blast, exploring the whimsy of childhood and what happens when corrupt adults expect children to grow up too fast. Children deserve to have their angst and their pain. I wasn’t expecting such a good read for the GMM boys but here we are!
7. Filth, by Irvine Welsh : Slice of Life : 2 out of 5 stars
Horrifying. A disgusting cop abuses his power, his wife, and himself. This was another one that took me a while to orient to, but it was fun. More than a couple of scenes still make me sick to my stomach.
8. Breakfast of Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut : Fiction : 4.5 out of 5 stars
Ah, the adventures of Kilgore Trout. Breakfast of Champions was first book my friend Jarin had me read for our book club and is often described as a must on the debate of Free Will. I loved this one so much. Vonnegut was one that we read in school, specifically Slaughterhouse Five, and he’s a classic American Existentialist writer who asks his audience to examine the world through the lens of people who are already insane or who are on their way. It was very enjoyable, and incredibly moving.
9. Ender’s Game, by Orson Scott Card : 4.5 out of 5 stars
Another book Jarin had me read. I’m much more of a Science Fiction person, and this classic dystopian novel combined all the things I love; corrupt institutions, hyper-intelligent children saving the world, and a morally gray antagonist. A true American Classic that paved the way for series like The Hunger Games.
10. Stay and Fight, by Madeline Finch : Slice of Life, LGBTQ+ : 5 out of 5 stars
At its root, this book is about community, compassion, and survival. Two lesbians and a recently single woman decide to build a house together and live off the land. When the women decide to raise a child together, they must determine if it’s more important to live off the land, or keep their family afloat. SO good, I read this by flashlight during my two-week excursion in Yellowstone and it was the perfect read. I cried, I laughed, I was permanently changed.
11. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café, by Fannie Flagg : Romance, Slice of Life, LGBTQ+ : 3.5 out of 5 stars
A CLASSIC. Anyone who was a child of the 1990s knows the film and I had never read the book so this year, Jarin and I read it together for book club. It says so much about womanhood, right and wrong, and what it means to be young. I love this book so much.
12. Gone to See the River Man, by Kristopher Triana : Horror, Splatter Punk : 4.5 out of 5 stars
This book is perhaps the most disturbing thing I read all year. A woman ventures into the woods with her sister in search of the River Man, who is known to grant wishes. If you’re looking for a fast paced, fucked up, nightmare-inducing adventure, Gone to See the River Man, might be the one for you!
13. Counting by 7′s, by Holly Goldberg Sloan : Slice of Life : 2.5 out of 5 stars
A young, autistic girl loses her parents and must find a new home. know this book is beloved by many people, but it was hard to get through for me. Maybe it’s because the protagonists story is too close to my own. But it was lovely writing.
14. A Certain Hunger, by Chelsea Summers : Horror : 1.5 out of 5 stars
Book club read! A world renowned food critic starts killing and eating men. I hated this book (oops!). Jarin and I read it for book club and something about the writing was so bland and one note. The main character, Dorothy, was evil for the sake of being evil and there was nothing interesting about her that compelled me to continue reading. Disappointing because this novel was incredibly popular this year.
15. The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson : Horror : 4.5 out of 5 stars
A woman is invited to the infamous Hill House to aid in an experiment that aims to prove the existence of ghosts and slowly loses her mind in the process. ANOTHER CLASSIC! I absolutely love Jackson’s writing. The way she was able to craft such a truly chilling tale that provides no real answers or conclusion, that absolutely leaves the reader feeling like they’ve just walked off the edge of a cliff, is so masterful. Her other classic, We Have Always Lived in the Castle, is one I read a few years ago and I still think about it.
16. Any Man, by Amber Tamblyn : Horror : 4.5 out of 5 stars
Six men from six distinct walks of life all encounter the same rapist and have the course of their lives altered forever. GORGEOUS. It’s told in various mediums from texts, to instant messages, poetry, stream of consciousness, and journal entries. I’m not usually one to love that method of storytelling, but it just WORKS here. Any Man is another one that I read in a matter of hours. So, so good.
17. Theme Music, by T. Marie Vandelly : Horror : 3.5 out of 5 stars
A woman returns to the home where, twenty years earlies, her father murdered her entire family on Thanksgiving morning. This was so camp. Hilarious, dark, and witty, fans of Scream will enjoy this. Such a fun time.
18. Bettyville, by George Hodgman : Memoir : 2.5 out of 5 stars
A gay man returns home to take care of his mother, who is in the final stages of her battle with dementia. Heartbreaking, a true testament to the relationships people have with one another and all the promises they can’t keep.
19. Loveless, by Alice Oseman : Romance, LGBTQ+, YA fiction : 4.5 out of 5 stars
The journey of self-acceptance that one asexual girl must take in order to be happy. In addition to serving as a poignant reminder that not every LGBTQ+ person is surrounded by allies or people like them, this novel was so sweet, it felt like licking the frosting from a cupcake. A must read.
20. Honey Girl, by Morgan Rogers : Romance, LGBTQ+ : 2.5 out of 5 stars
Recently graduated with a PHd in Astronomy, Grace and her two friends travel to Las Vegas and Grace marries a woman she just met. The relationships between the protagonist and her friends was beautiful, and the writing had many strengths and high points. These victories only made the plot’s shortcomings more obvious.
22. The Town of Babylon, by Alejandro Verela : Slice of Life, LGBTQ+ : 3 out of 5 stars
Andres is a public health worker married to a surgeon, Marco, when he returns home to his unnamed suburban hamlet to care for his ailing father in the midst of his own relationship challenges with Marco. It explores themes of change, queerness, and what it’s like to be the only brown face in a sea of white people. It was heartfelt and lovely.
21. The Cabin at the End of the World, by Paul Tremblay : Horror, LGBTQ+ : 5 out of 5 stars
Wen and her parents Eric and Andrew travel to a remote cabin in New Hampshire for Spring Break, only to be held prisoner by four reluctant captives who claim that the end of the world is coming, and only Wen’s parents and the sacrifice they make can stop it. I cried. The relationships in this novel, the use of violence and horror as a vehicle for INCREDIBLE, GROUNDBREAKING storytelling--go read it. Just do it!
What I’m reading now: The Stranger, by Albert Camus
For next Year: A Series of Unfortunate Events, by Lemony Snicket, Sometimes I lie, by Alice Feeny, Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield, and others...
UNTIL NEXT YEAR <3
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𝔄 𝔚𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔴𝔬𝔩𝔣, 𝔖𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔚𝔞𝔩𝔨𝔢𝔯, 𝔙𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢, ℜ𝔬𝔟𝔬𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞 ℌ𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔨 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔞 𝔭𝔲𝔟.
112 Put her hands in her face rubbing more oil into their face looking like something that hasn’t seen the light of day. In weeks.
Nobody’s gonna lie here. They haven’t done the “human” things Anyone in the household has seen. Like wear a dress, or go outside, or actually leave a certain room.
I mean Their all horrors beyond human concept! And their confused as shit! Like is it broken? Is it depressed? Is it plotting against them?! IS IT ALREADY DEAD?! HAS ANYONE CHECKED UP ON THEM?!
“AUUUGHHHHHHH!” Nope definitely alive. The Skinwalker creeped inside the room, it’s smell hung with oil, rust and leather. “Human.” She jumped out of her skin looking back and sighed holding their heart. “Please warn me if your gonna creep up on me.”
“Human you haven’t been outside of this room in a week human time. It’s time you come outside.” “I have to finish repairs. Or else I’ll get sidetracked.” 112 hissed running a hand through the oily short charred hair. “On what? Nothing’s more important then keeping you alive so you can keep the vampire away.” SBH’s voice got dangerously low.
“Oh yeah. I probably have something for that. Check the finished box I’ve got to finish this.” 112 turned away and stood under the curtain that covered the mysterious thing that she was working on.
SBH just walked out annoyed that the Human isn’t just TERRIFIED of it and does whatever it wants! Sure the Vampire hasn’t dragged either into its games since the Human willingly went with him and often punched him in the face when they decided it was good judgement.
Dark just grumbled how it was probably some “human activity” and it wasn’t important. Meanwhile 112 looked around outside of the room and smiled. Very hard to do around others, since humans blabber on how “112! Your so pretty! Go find yourself a husband!” Or the dude Humans “M’lady! I’ll make you clean my whole house and get angry if you turn anything against MY will even if it’s really cool! How I love you so!”
And the Creatures that took her in only growled and hissed about “your so strange. Why don’t you eat as often as the others? Why do you stay in this room? Are you defected?” Sure it wasn’t much different from humans. But still. Some change in pace would be kind!
112 wiped more oil on her face and sighed happily ripping off the curtain. Seeing a male, pretty tall and unlike most other machines. Wasn’t covered in Oil and Rust. But was clean and basically glimmering in the light to the lab that doubled as her room.
“I’ve done it! I’ve made a near perfect human model! Yes!” 112 squealed jumping, accidentally pressing a button on it’s leg. Seeing it spur to life with blue lights. 112 Jumped back as it slides off the table looking around. And luckily hasn’t noticed her yet.
112 was frozen, with anything BUT fear! This creation someone threw out was gifted what she aimed for most! LIFE! It looked back and as 112 tried to talk it shoved her against the wall. Probably getting a Minor head injury.
“Who are you?! Have you come to kill me?” Lights flashing red almost blinding 112. “N-no! I repaired you!” It stopped and almost dropped 112, scanning 112 over and dropped her and backed up. “I don’t get why. Or why you have a golden eye. But I thank you.” 112 smiled, and laughed slightly. “Not a problem. Now I’ve got. . To. Haha hiiii.”
112 turned to the door seeing Two pissed Cryptids and a very confused Vampire. “Who. Is. That?” 3 completely different ways of saying that one statement. “This is my- HUMAN! Friend! Uhhh?” “Google.” “GOOGLE! Yes haha Google my pal. We where- Wrestling! Like buddies!”
Dark left the group and leaned down to 112’s height. And pressed and hand to the back of 112’s head making 112 recoil and hiss in pain. “Just a bruise! I’m fine really!” 112 backed up as Actor whined. “It’s not FAIR! How come he gets to push you around! And I get a broken nose!”
“That’s because if you do get me to a wall that means I’m giving up. Because you sir are a leech. And I like to have blood.” 112 stood up dodging Dark’s attempts to get to the wound at the back of their head. “Just one si-“
“She said no.” Actor Jumped hearing Google snap at him and SBH also did a double take. SBH stepped into the room, walking up to Google. His glowing eyes peering at the matched height, Maybe even a little taller of SBH.
“112, did you make him? This isn’t human. The flesh doesn’t smell right. His heart isn’t beating, and I can hear gears.” “Way to go Captain Obvious.” Google hissed before picking 112 up.
He quietly mumbled and the lights dulled, but the grip on 112 tightened, before a light flashed and he started walking with his lights brighter now. “Put me down! I can walk! UUghhhhh I can’t even do anything cus I don’t wanna do repairs agaaain!”
“I’m sure I can do that myself. And your staying out of the lab for a while.” “WHAT! You can’t do this! I’M A STRONG WOMAN! FREED FROM HUMANITY!” “And injuried, and dehydrated, and probably starving. Your taking a break.” A loud grumble left 112 as SBH, Dark, and sadly Mark followed.
“We found a 112Sitter.” Dark laughed, “Perfect for the job since SOMEONE, tries to eat them.” SBH looked over as Mark held his heart. “You guys are so mean to me!”
112 would never let anyone see it, but gosh damn they where exhausted. 112 yawned a little before being handed water and a apple. “Eat. Or else I’m gonna have to deal with A dead human.” 112 rolled her eyes and took a bite as SBH walked over. “How do you do that?”
“Sometimes, humans need silly little things. This one likes things like me. And once those things are done they go back to normal. Humans are simple but I guess this one’s weird.” SBH nodded, “so just let them run their corse?” Google nodded as 112 sipped the water and finished the apple.
“I’m done. See! Look now I’m going to bed.” 112 grumbled and left the two in the dinning area and laid on the couch. “What are you doing?” Google spat. “Going to sleep.” 112 quipped back. “You have a bed.” “It’s covered in oil and grease. And you said I need “ReST” or whatever.” 112 hissed and turned over.
Google walked off and 112 dozed off.
“So can I drink her blood now?” “Get out.” “You ALL ARE SO MEAN!” SBH snapped at Actor, “don’t YELL! Your gonna wake up the human and I’m gonna make you keep watch of them! Go!” Actor grumbled and walked off.
SBH walked outside following Actor to get something to eat. And Dark just walked deeper into the haunted mansion.
[some cheesy monster Family movie outro]
DUDE WHEN I FIRST READ THIS I WAS SMILING LIKE A GODDAMN FOOL I LOVE IT SM!!!!
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The Shadow
WC: 875
CW: Contains: Gore, small mention of cultism, mentions of monster and cryptid, death, small mention of a pentagram, mentions of entrails
A/N: Little drabble my brain made. Might make another part. Please enjoy!
There's a cursed apartment in the building. It always has a “do not disturb” sign on the handle. It's in the far end of the last floor, no other rooms in that hall. The door is covered in water damage and peeling paint. It looks like it hasn't been touched in years. It'd probably stay shut if you tried the handle.
The hinges were so covered in rust, it looked as if they were made to be orange. There's only one view into it. A broken window on the outside, directly connected to the room. But the curtains are always drawn. No lights are ever on. Actually, there's no power up there at all.
Some nights you can hear a faint, barely audible tune. Almost as if someone is up there, humming a song that feels familiar. But not a single person was up there. Not a person. Some have had nightmares about it, almost like visions. They were all the same. They were walking through the room, furniture torn up and thrown around with shards of glass on the floor.
It was a mess, like it had been tossed apart in a rage. But there was one single thing still perfectly fine. A figurine- a toy- made to resemble a comic book superhero. It sat upon the once-soft carpet, laying there as if having been hurriedly thrown down. Just as they would reach for it, a shadowy thing, a monster, would leap on top of them. It had the long, spindly legs of a spider, and a face that would strike terror into any and all that saw it.
It was made almost entirely of a dark, writing mass. Almost as if the shadows had come alive and formed something from their worst fears. They would always wake up before anything happened to them, but they all said the same thing. That they had felt like their heart had been ripped from their chest when they awoke. Literally. One even had scars over where his heart was- or should be.
He had been brought to the hospital only a few hours later for a heart attack. He didn't make it. Few of them recounted that they had felt safe, maybe even welcome in the room, until they reached for the toy. An almost child-like presence stayed with them in their dreams, a little girl. But they'd never see a little girl. Just the thing. The shadow, as they call it. Unoriginal as it is, it fits well.
Some tenants from the apartment below it complained about the repetitive thudding they heard, day in, day out. It was described to be “like four people walking quickly in sync”. Once, a group of monster worshippers- cultists- heard the stories and came to “pay their respects”.
They left a pentagram-like shape in front of the door, as well as lit candles and a few animal entrails. The next morning, they were nowhere to be found, and the pentagram had been angrily smudged. The candles were blown and knocked over, waxy droplets drying around them, and the animal entrails were gone as well.
After a few weeks, the cultist’s bodies were found on the balcony of the apartment underneath the cursed one. Luckily, there were no tenants in it at that time. It was later discovered during their autopsies that the animal entrails had been forcefully and roughly shoved down their throats postmortem. The shadow didn't like cults. After a long while of the apartment building slowly going to waste, it had been bought by a bright young manager.
He had been warned about the apartment, but he didn't believe that it was true. He lost a worker before he believed. The whole floor was left untouched, and tthe shadow started to roam a little bit past its “home” every night. Just a few feet, checking its surroundings, before going back to the apartment.
Then, when the manager realized it wasn't very hostile, he reclaimed the floor. But he left the hall alone, leaving it to its only occupant. New faces started coming to the apartment building, and they learned of the stories. Instead of being afraid or indifferent, they started making “fan clubs” for it. They dubbed it “Shady” and left it toys and candies, all well received.
It was now the building cryptid.
Only a handful of people treated it this way, but they were loyal to it. Like it was a pet. There weren't any more incidents, and it grew quiet. It was happy, or mellowed at least. But the small number of people soon dwindled until there was only one person left. Age stole that woman away, leaving Shady at the age of 83.
Now and again, a small, wonderful gift gets left at the floor of the doorway, once every few years. Usually from a small child, hearing the stories and wanting to share their favorite things. It had been mostly forgotten. It was lonely.
But some nights, when it lightly rained or when it was about to, a gentle hum was heard from the broken window. A familiar tune, but nothing you'd ever heard or would ever hear again.
It was calming.
To me, at least.
Isn't humming to yourself always calming?
#drabble#short story#writing prompt#writers on tumblr#writers#writing#writeblr#hum#tune#blood#gore#cult#cultism#cultist#ritual#monster#cryptid#campus cryptid#scp#death#shadow#dark#penta#pentagram#read#reading#plot twist
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for the OC ask game:
🖊️🎻🎶🔱🔺🐷💘🖤😖🤩😞👨👩👧👦
(You don’t have to answer all of the if you don’t want)
oc ill be doing today is Van!Leg and totally not because ive been writing sbout him for the past two days
🖊️ BALLPOINT PEN — does your oc have any tattoos? do they want any (more) tattoos?
No, but if he ever has the coursge he wants to get a sleeve of roses on his roght arm
🎻 VIOLIN — does your oc play any instruments? what is their skill level (beginner/intermediate/advanced/virtuoso/etc)?
He plays ……. the recorder?
🎶 MUSICAL NOTES — what type of music does your oc like? do they listen to music very often?
All music, but mostly musicals or indie rock. He listens to music when he’s working, which is… a lot
🔱 TRIDENT EMBLEM — can your oc swim? do they enjoy swimming?
No and no, he’s terrified of water that goes above his waist
🔺 RED TRIANGLE POINTED UP — does your oc know how to use any weapons?
Yes! he built a scythe named Karma, and he’s been practicing with it :))
🐷 PIG FACE — what is your oc's favorite animal?
He doesnt really like any animals, but hedgehog would be on of the one he finds interesting
💘 HEART WITH ARROW — what and/or who do(es) your oc consider the most important to them?
erm well his name is Arm 👉👈 Canonically they’ve been dating since march or so, but i only revealed thag recently so it still feels fresh
🖤 BLACK HEART — has your oc killed or seriously wounded anyone before? have they broken someone's heart and/or broken someone's trust?
Yes! All of the above!! j may go into detail about it later!!
��� CONFOUNDED FACE — is your oc an introvert, an extrovert, or an ambivert? do they let people in easily, or are they more reserved?
introvert. he hardly leaves his room, and when he does, he loses energy very fast
🤩 FACE WITH STARRY EYES — is your oc a planner, or are they more spontaneous in their actions?
both, depending on the day.
😞 DISAPPOINTED FACE — does your oc attract others, or do they tend to be left alone?
They are SUCH a loner
👨👩👧👦 FAMILY WITH MOTHER, FATHER, SON AND DAUGHTER — how many people are in your oc's immediate family? how many people are in your oc's extended family? do they have aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, etc? who in their family are they closest with? are they close with their birth family, or do they have a found family?
Okayokay
His adoptive parents are Dexter, Frosty, Avery (?) and Lilith. He has aunts and uncles - Linguini, Branch, Duc, and Lucy - and grandparents, but they’re fairly dead. His siblings are Leaff, Noah, and KINDA Mouse. He has a son named Ross who’s 11 i think, and a niece (Cryptid’s daughter) named Crusty who’s in her teens. His partner is Arm, and they both are Ross’s parents
Thats all Inrmemember being canon
He’s closest to Dexter, Ross, and Arm. I would say Mouse, but he only Just Now got on the Van.
He is NOT close with his birth family or legal family. His birthfamily died in a house fire when he was small, tragic :(( and his adoptive father raised him up until he ran away to find the van. I love his adoptive father with all of my heart his name is Dr. Luis Welsh and hes so silly but also very foxic for Leg
also. id like to say that Leg and Arm are the only ones i control. the van kinda works like an rp, where everyone has fhei own characters. i jut reallt like talking about mine :))
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GOIN FOR A WALK, YOU WANT ANYTHING?
#REPOST I HAD TO FIX A SINGLE LINE#Art#cryptid#fresno nightcrawler#there is room in my heart for only one cryptid and it’s the legs
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"This should do it." It looked down at itself, pleased.
The two - rather long - legs jut out under it's torso. It used it's new - ew - five fingers to feel along it's skin, feeling the bumps of a ribcage underneath. A heartbeat too.
In front of it was a mirror, and staring back at itself was a human. Well, an illusion of one.
Time and time again, the newly star bound aliens, humans, had infiltrated it's species ranks through elaborate disguises. They got better at it every time.
Not only were humans great with what they call "make up" but they had a way of mimicking their behaviors. It's species tried to replicate this. Failed to. In the end, they had something better.
A team of highly immoral scientists who were given boundless permission to try whatever the hell they wanted. And they went with genetic mutation.
It was a painful change, and slow. Agonizingly slow. But now, it was a super solider with one superpower. A shape-shifter.
And it was time to test it out.
It strolled out of the bathroom and into the eating area where various alien species were seated. Only one human - the unwitting test subject - was present.
If this could pass for normal conversation, this could pass for war.
It strolled right up to the other creature - a man who had not yet seen him - and sat down.
"I'm glad to see one other human on this station," it said.
The human non-committedly looked up. Only to jump with a start after taking it in.
"What are you?" he said.
"A human?" it said. If it's species could sweat, it would do so by now.
The man stared at it a moment. He turned to the alien on his right and pointed to his left.
"Forgive me if this question is batshit insane, but what do you see?"
"Two humans?" The alien had three eyes.
Her species' third eye was famous for detecting the most miniscule details and then committing it to subconscious memory. The rise and fall of a chest. The careful rythem of a human heart. How often - or little - a human blinks. Even human's make-up tricks couldn't bypass her species' extra form of security.
"So it is," said the man. She turned away and it found itself blinking quickly in relief. It cut that out when the human turned to it. "Sorry, I guess you're just real ugly."
"Ugh, rude." All humans are ugly.
He scooted in closer on the bench and leaned in towards it. It found itself leaning away, but couldn't help but notice the bead of sweat on the human's forehead and how the pupils were shrunken as far as they could.
"Wanna hear an old Earth tale?"
"I'm sure I know it." Was this a test?
"I doubt you know this one. My grandfather experienced it himself." He leaned away. It had stop itself from blinking too rapidly again. "This is about an Earth cryptid."
"Bigfoot?" it said, but nodded as if it already knew.
"Everyone knows Bigfoot," he laughed. "No, he was driving down a dark country road unlit by street lights. He didn't have his brights on - that's important to the story, you see - but heaven knows why."
Brights??? What are brights???
"Down the road an animal was crossing. A simple male deer with antlers. He couldn't see its body yet, but he was familiar with the eyes. They glowed as his car sped closer."
"He slowed as the deer became more apparent, and eventually came to a stop when the creature wouldn't move. By now, he could see the antlers, the four legs, the neck. Not in detail, mind you, but he could see it "
Other aliens in the room- not hearing this conversation - were trickling out of the room. There was no dramatic reason for this, they simply finished their lunch. The human, not paying any attention to his own lunch, continued the story.
"It's not uncommon for deer to freeze, especially when lights flood their eyes. So my grandfather gave it a moment to realize it should run. When seconds ticked by, he honked at it."
"There was something... off... about the deer. It looked every way like a deer, but the longer he stared, the longer that just didn't seem right."
"Was it a deer?" it said.
"It was not."
"What was it?"
"Not a deer."
The alien found itself frown at this in a perfectly human way.
"Time went on, and my grandfather decided to turn on the brights to try and see the creature better. And it was still... a deer... but not..."
It found its frown deepening.
"What's worse was it began to move. Similar to a deer, but all wrong. Like maybe its legs bent the wrong way. Or perhaps the legs were too long. It was every way like a deer, but it just was not."
"He drove home as soon as that not deer was out of his path. And yes, he found himself alive the next morning. But that encounter disturbed him, so he recounted it to everyone. And many people - especially in that town - could tell him their own stories."
"...okay?"
"Well, that story is funny. Probably a figment of his imagination, but it does reflect a very real human instinct."
This was another test. "Would this be something I know of?"
"It's called uncanny valley. It occurs to us when something looks human... but is not."
"Why?"
"Well, rumor has it that it was a instinct formed from a predator. Something that looked human but was not. A not human."
"A not human? Is this true?"
"No," he said. He laughed. "No, we most likely developed it for something a lot more practical. Corpses, you see. They carry a lot of bacteria, so we have a fear of them."
"...interesting."
"I have that very same feeling of you," he said. The room was empty besides the two. He reached for his bottle above his lunch tray.
"But I'm not a corpse?"
"You're about to be."
The human tossed down the bottle, effectively cracking off the bottom half and forming his weapon.
It shape-shifted as it scurried away to retreat from the very much human.
#had this idea for awhile#only in my original idea the human was lonely and the alien was trying to find a way to comfort them#the human hadn't seen another human in years#but the alien ended up scaring her#anyway I couldn't figure out how to end it so I decided to make this#humans are space australians#humans are space orcs#humans are space oddities#humans are weird#space orcs#aliens#humans are so weird#outer space#galaxy#short story#one shot
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haikyuu!! buzzfeed unsolved AU
OK THIS IS THE LAST BUZZFEED UNSOLVED RELATED HEADCANON SET I PROMISE
[edit: check out the link at the bottom of the post for more buzzfeed unsolved au content :)]
hinata and kageyama:
90% of the show is them yelling and nobody watches it with earphones on
both of them believe in ghosts but that doesn't mean they want to see one
hinata will literally go to the bathroom five times before going to the spooky house and kageyama gets mad at him for it but there is Fear in his eyes
producer: 'were you scared?'
kageyama: 'pfft, no'
cameraman: *points camera down to show that kageyama's legs are shaking*
they also bring a shit ton of food with them when they stay the night at a place and they'll deadass be eating while talking about the history of the place
‘this house *crunch crunch* was built in *crunch crunch* 1972'
the producers tell them to stop bringing snacks but fans of the show love it
sometimes they'll shoot a mini mukbang video
SPICY, BARBECUE POTATO FRIES | Mukbang at the Waverly Hills Asylum'
hinata: *looking up how to do a seance on wikihow* it says we gotta offer some food for the spirit
kageyama: *spills the doritos he was eating on the table
*after 20 minutes*
kageyama: fuck this
hinata: *starts eating the doritos*
producer: ...
the ghosts: ..................the, audacity
tsukishima and yamaguchi
pretty much a ryan and shane duo right here
yamaguchi: we'll be visiting this place as part of our ongoing investigation on the question, are ghosts real?
tsukishima: *shakes head*
yamaguchi just wants to see the look of fear in tsukishima’s eyes at least once
yamaguchi: *hears a random thump sound* fUCk tSuKkI a gHoSt!!!
tsukishima: *sees a chair being tossed across the room* huh, the wind is pretty strong today
he likes to stick his head into attics to scare yamaguchi
yamaguchi always carries a water gun full of holy water
yamaguchi: i have holy water with me and i'm not afraid to use it! but i'm also sorry you had to die such a horrible death i hope you find peace soon
tsukishima: *walks into a basement that is supposedly a portal to hell* fuckin’ take me already
so many 'yamaguchi being an angel and tsukishima being a demon for 10 mins' video compilations
daichi and sugawara
a very chaotic buzzfeed unsolved duo
suga, who is satan’s child himself, and daichi, who needs a raise
daichi: hello everyone! this is daichi,
sugawara: and suga
daichi: and you’re watching...
sugawara: jackass!!
daichi:...buzz...buzzfeed unsolved??
daichi started out being afraid of almost every place he had to walk into but after having to deal with the chaotic mess that is suga for an entire season, he no longer Feels Fear
this is because suga will deadass film a tiktok dance video no matter where he is
daichi: suga, someone was literally axe-murdered there
suga: *dancing along to ‘I’m a Savage’ or whatever that tiktok song is called*
daichi: *at cameraman* do you see what i have to deal with every day?’
suga is only genuinely scared by ghosts when his followers point out that a ghost was caught on camera in one of his tiktok videos
suga: *watching the video*
that was the end of suga’s tiktok career
tanaka and nishinoya:
another bunch of loud bois but they are much louder than kageyama and hinata
they’re very much into proving the existence of cryptids and are most known for that episode they spent hunting bigfoot by dressing up to look like bigfoot
tanaka: ‘you know that thing they do in cartoons where they stack on top of each other under a coat so they look like just one big guy?’
nishinoya: ‘ryuu i love you so fucking much’
other guy there who is also trying to catch bigfoot: oMg ItS bIgFooT *takes picture with the blurriest camera he could find*
both of them are very committed in their investigation of the supernatural and they’re very unconventional approaches
nishinoya: *lying on the ground in a creepy basement* EAT MY HEART DEMONS! WE’LL PUT THE VIDEO ON YOUTUBE!
tanaka: *takes out a spirit board* *spells out O-M-A-E W-A M-O S-H-I-N-D-E-I-R-U*
ghost: *spells out N-A-N-I*
tanaka and nishinoya: *screaming*
kuroo and kenma:
kuroo deadass flirts with any ghost or demon they encounter and kenma would sleep over in a haunted asylum for ten bucks
kuroo: *sidles up to the infamous annabelle doll* hey there little lady, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a locked, glass case with a ‘don’t touch’ sign like this?
kenma: kuroo, there’s a demon inside her
kuroo: well, i’m a bit of a demon myself
kenma: she attempted to choke a guy in his sleep
kuroo: oooh, choking. i can get behind that...
kenma: *looks at camera*
the demon in annabelle: d-daddy??
“kuroo flirting with demons and kenma looking at the camera for 5 minutes”
kuroo’s actually a huge fucking scaredy cat and kenma secretly tries to push him over the edge
kenma: *plays computer-generated screams of the damned on his phone*
kuroo: WHAT WAS THAT?
kenma: ...I didn’t hear anything *looks at the camera as if he was on the office and plays the sound again*
kuroo: i was too scared to close my eyes last night
kenma: i was actually able to catch a bunch of pokemon last night. who knew the winchester mansion is such a hotspot
producer: did you catch any evidence of ghosts?
kenma: ...i caught a gastly
bokuto and akaashi:
bokuto is a die-hard mothman fan and akaashi is emotionally involved in proving that ghosts exist he will stop at nothing
akaashi: all of the evidence on the shadow figures and orbs spotted in this place can only suggest one thing...
bokuto: mothman did it
akaashi: no
bokuto: yes
akaashi: mothman is literally five states away
bokuto: he has wings
during their individual investigations, akaashi has already foreseen how bokuto is going to react
producer: it’s been quiet for a while. do you think bokuto’s no longer scared?
akaashi: oh no. he should be screaming right about now...
bokuto, inside the haunted house: *screams and waves his flashlight around*
akaashi: and then he’s gonna call for help
bokuto: AKAAAAAASHIIIIIIIIII
*few hours later*
bokuto: i saw my life flash before my eyes in there
akaashi: *muttering incoherently near his ‘evidence wall’ full of blurry pictures and red string*
bokuto: i must’ve stared into the abyss at one point
akaashi: this place is fucking haunted. can i go back? it’s for sale right?
ushijima and tendou:
ushijima’s knowledge of ghosts is based on hollywood movies and tendou has exorcised places just by vibing
ushijima: *brings out a pottery wheel* if there are any ghosts in here, you know what to do
he’s actually never watched Ghost he just knows That One Scene
tendou: *naruto-running through the goatman bridge with a go-pro strapped to his head* IT’S MY BRIDGE GOATMAN, IT’S MY BRIDGE!!!
the Goatman Himself: i’ve never felt so fucking scared in my entire fucking life
ushijima believes that chanting in latin will Summon the Ghosts and tendou takes full advantage of that
tendou: *handing ushijima a slip of paper* here, apparently this will summon a full-bodied apparition
ushijima: thanks *begins chanting*
producer, interviewing tendou to the side: okay, what did you make him read this time?
tendou: i typed out ‘let me eat your ass’ in latin on google translate and went from there
cameraman: *zooms in on ushijima chanting*
the ghost haunting the castle: *is confused in French*
in the end neither of them get evidence on ghosts
ushijima: well, we'll have better luck next time
tendou: maybe even revisit this place ?
the ghosts: i know i'm dead but this is the first time i've been scared for my life
[EDIT: for more buzzfeed unsolved au content written by me, check out The Search for the Mysterious Mothman, a headcanon set feat. bokuaka]
#haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons#haikyuu!! buzzfeed unsolved AU#kagehina#tsukkiyama#daisuga#tananoya#kuroken#bokuaka#ushitendou#kageyama tobio#hinata shoyo#tsukishima kei#yamaguchi tadashi#sawamura daichi#sugawara koushi#tanaka ryuunosuke#nishinoya imagine#bokuto kotaro#akaashi keiji#kuroo tetsurou#kozume kenma#ushijima wak#tendo satori
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The Ties That Bind (And How to Follow Them) 4/?
@bunnys-beetlejuice-blog @werwulfy @turtlepated @strange-n-unbluusual @mel-time @fireflower1015 @go-whovian-universe @sweetcat-666 @genderless-cryptid @monsterlovinghours @heresathreebee @rainingpaint @infptarius
Pate was at a loss. She’d never seen Beetlejuice like this. His hair, already lightened to a pale green shot through with red and yellow and purple in his distress, blanched even further when she mentioned going to Lillian. That alone was enough to convince her that her mentor had somehow trapped him in this mirror-verse where he could see and hear but not be heard.
His increasing upset hurt her deeply, and when he suddenly disappeared from view her heart plummeted and she pressed herself to the glass, hoping to see what he was doing but without him in front of her her own reflection blocked her view. She wished she could reach him, hold him, soothe him, hating her own helplessness.
At length he came back, his pale face even more pale than normal, his ash colored hair still streaked to show his frustration and fear. He looked close to tears, and Pate wasn’t even sure he was capable of tears. His lips moved softly and though she couldn’t hear him the message was clear.
Pate offered him a thin smile and shook her head, pressing her palm to the glass again.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him. “Just give me one second to get my phone and I’m gonna call Lillian. She has to fix this. We’ll make her fix this.”
Keeping her eyes locked on his until the doorway and bedroom wall came between them, Pate dashed to the living room to retrieve her phone, hurrying back to the bathroom where Beetlejuice looked visibly relieved to see her return.
She thumbed through her contacts and smashed Lillian’s name, raising the phone to her ear. It was late, but Pate didn’t care if she woke Lillian up. The phone rang several times before it picked up.
“Hello? Pate? What are you doing calling this time of night?” Lillian asked.
“What did you do to him?” Pate demanded without preamble.
Lillian didn’t answer at first, and Pate heard what sounded like bedclothes being swept aside and a lamp being flicked on.
“I take it you mean the creature that invaded my kitchen,” Lillian finally drawled distastefully. “I did what you should have done, I sent him where he can’t harm anybody.”
“Beetlejuice wouldn’t hurt anybody anyway!” Pate insisted hotly. “He’s my . . . ” she trailed off, glancing at him in the mirror, knowing he could hear what she said. “He’s special. He’s important to me and I care about him,” she said. “You have to let him out. Or at least tell me how to and I’ll do it myself.”
Lillian sighed tiredly, as if she were dealing with a particularly exhausting situation. “Pate, whatever you think he means to you, the bottom line is he’s not human. He’s a demon, a wraith, a trickster. You’re better off without him.”
“I don’t care, tell me what to do to let him out.”
“No.”
The blunt refusal startled her. “You have to! You can’t leave him like this, stuck in my bathroom mirror!”
Speaking mostly to herself, Lillian said, “I should’ve figured he’d worm his way out. Should’ve sealed the mirror, too. Pate, nothing good can come of you having a live-in demon, I don’t care what feelings you might have about it. I’m going back to bed and that entity is staying right where he is. Good night.”
The line went dead. Angry, frustrated and panicked Pate immediately dialed again but it went straight to voicemail. Lillian had turned off her phone.
With a huff she slung her phone onto the counter, fixing Beetlejuice with a desperate expression.
“We’re gonna figure this out,” she said. “We’re gonna go over there and make her let you out.”
An idea struck her, and Pate crossed the room to the cabinets set into the wall, rifling through for what she was looking for. She turned back to Beetlejuice with a hand mirror.
“Do you think you can crawl into this mirror?” she asked. “Then I can take you with me.”
⁂
Out of all the crazy things they'd done together, crawling into a mirror that his lover held was barely a blip on the radar, even if she held it out in front of her or to her side as she walked. He wasn't incredibly excited about being shoved in a purse--or to see Ms. Lillian Borden again, truthfully--but he had no idea what else to do.
Beej heard the one-sided conversation Pate had had, had seen the quick look she’d sent his way before saying he was "special", and could only imagine what her mentor's response to that had been. He doubted anything Pate was going to tell her would make a difference. Still, it would be worth a shot to try and talk reason to the woman.
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug as Pate displayed the mirror. He had no clue if her suggestion would work but was willing to try. Motioning her closer, she read what he meant and brought the mirror in her hand up to press against the glass of the bathroom counterpart. For a moment, all he could see was his own reflection. With deeper shadows under his eyes than normal and hair that was washed out more than colored, he looked worse than he thought.
Raising a hand as if to touch the mirror image, the interior surface of the mirror was tacky instead of smooth. It took a bit of effort to actually pull his hand back, and threads of what looked like spun glass, growing thinner the further away he pulled his hand, trailed from his fingertips. It seemed reluctant to let him go. If he was ruining Pate’s bathroom mirror, well, she mentioned in passing updating it anyway. Beej heard her asking what he was doing, if it was working, and decided it was better to just go for it and deal with consequences as they fell.
With that determined spirit, he shoved his hand back through the glass. It felt as though he was pushing into molten, but cold, lava, all thick and clinging. Good thing he didn’t need to breathe, because it was going to take a moment to get through it and then get clean of it.
Tentacles had to assist carrying him through the two layers of glass. Beetlejuice could only imagine what Lillian would think of those, chuckling to himself, then liquidish glass got in his mouth. There was nothing to do about it at the moment; trying to wipe it away would result in an arm moving backwards and that was not what he wanted right now!
Finally, after more effort than he put into a lot of things, he managed to push himself into another endless white space. It didn’t look any smaller than the previous ones, and now he wondered how many compacts or other small mirrors he’d crawled through.
The second his feet hit the ground and were free of the glass he found it was gone. There was no residue of any sort. Were all mirrors magic and just needed the right person to activate them? A question for Lillian, if she was willing to take questions from a pupil she seemed to like and a ghost she most definitely did not.
Beetlejuice went to pound on the glass to alert Pate he’d moved, but the thought of getting snared by the inside of the new mirror gave him pause. He had to wait until she grew impatient and looked for herself.
⁂
Pate couldn’t help feeling a little foolish, standing with the small, round makeup mirror pressed against her medicine cabinet. Whatever Beetlejuice was doing, his reflection disappeared from the cabinet mirror to be replaced with her own.
Turning the smaller mirror around to face her, Pate beamed to see that the idea had worked, Beetlejuice looked out at her from the handheld mirror.
Wasting no more time she went back through into the bedroom, grabbed her wallet with her license inside from her purse, as well as her car keys.
“Let’s go see Ms. I-Know-What’s-Best-For-You Borden and get you back in the flesh,” she said, addressing Beetlejuice in the mirror as she locked her apartment door behind her.
What would it look like, she wondered, if someone saw her talking to the mirror?
Simple, she told herself. They’ll think you’re crazy. And maybe you are.
This time of night traffic was minimal and it didn’t take long to drive straight to Lillian’s downtown shop/apartment. Pate parked in a spot on the street, closing her door with perhaps a little more force than necessary, locking the car and cradling Beetlejuice’s mirror in her other hand.
There were internal steps up to Lillian’s apartment, but the shop was locked up at this hour. Pate rounded the building, heading for the fire escape. She had to set Beetlejuice down and climb up on a dumpster to reach the ladder, but after a few failed attempts she managed to pull it down with an earsplitting creak of protesting metal.
Retrieving the mirror that held her demon lover, Pate raced up the rickety steel steps as quickly as she dared, finding herself at Lillian’s sitting room window. She tried to open the window, finding it thankfully unlocked. She wouldn’t put it past Lillian to have some otherworldly impediments in place, designed to keep out apparitions but not people. Sliding the window open, Pate swung herself in one leg at a time.
“Lillian?” she called into the apartment, making no pretense at stealth. “Lillian, come out here and undo this.”
Pate didn’t hear that?! Maybe it was just spectral, maybe it was just something only people snared in tiny mirrors could hear, but the cries from inside the antique store from the various beings on the first floor were unnerving. Even the shriek of rusty metal joints on the fire escape moving after years of neglect was melodious compared to them. Something had happened. He didn’t know what, but Beej didn’t like it one tiny bit. He yelled at Pate to stop. Even at the top of his lungs she couldn’t hear him. Dredging up the deepest, most demonic voice he could had no effect. He was mute and helpless.
The television was on, I Love Lucy reruns flickering black and white with the volume low. Pate could see the top of Lillian’s head over the back of her recliner, facing away towards the TV. Angered by being ignored, Pate strode across the room, repeating her demand.
“Lillian, you tell me how to fix this. I don’t want Beetlejuice locked away, he’s -”
Pate cut off abruptly as she rounded the chair and saw the figure seated there.
Lillian Borden’s face was almost blue in the light from her TV, her eyes opened but staring unseeing at the ceiling, hands resting peacefully on the arms of her chair.
She was dead.
⁂
The scene inside the old woman’s apartment was nothing short of a horror movie set up. The lights were off, the room lit only by flickering from the television.
Pate was demanding an answer and then a response. She stepped around the chair, and her hand dropped to her side as she choked her own sentence off, and her hand mirror slipped from her fingers, giving Beej a roller coaster ride as it fell, then a great view of the ceiling of the room when it hit the floor.
If it was good or bad the glass didn’t break he’d never know, because Pate scooped him up almost as quickly as he’d fallen. Her apology he waved away as no worries, and she turned him towards her mentor in the chair.
“Oh,” Beej said quietly at the sight of the dead woman.
Now that posed something interesting. Never mind there was no way for her to undo the spell that trapped him in his current state, he didn’t sense her spirit or any evidence she drew a door and left the earthly plane. Of course, his view was limited to wherever Pate pointed his mirror. Or he’d been restricted by Lillian’s hasty capture of him somehow. Whatever it was, it warranted looking into once he was free again.
That was low on the priority list, however. He still needed out, and the woman who’d put him here was well past helping.
tbc . . .
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Gentle Mornings
Pairing: Walter Marshall x Reader
Word Count: 1,636
Rating: SFW, Fluff
Summary: Mornings with Walter are dreamy and something special.
A/N: Thank you to @yespolkadotkitty for beta’ing the first half of it for me!
“You left me alone in bed,” you hear a voice accuse you.
The gruffness of the voice makes you look up, an involuntary smile stretching across your lips as you watch Walter shift towards you, drowsiness making his movements sluggish and it is evident that he has only just woken up himself.
“How long have you been up for?” he questions.
You accept the soft kiss that is pressed to the crown of your head.
“A while. I couldn’t sleep,”.
Walter glances at his watch, noting it is a sharp six a.m. and by the two large stacks of documents situated on either side of you, you’ve been up before dawn rose. You look cozy. Legs protected by a thick pair of sweatpants and his enormous dressing gown smothers you whole. Fluffy socks adorn your usually cold feet.
Despite your attempts at keeping warm, the dull pallor of your exposed hands reveal how much the chilly winter is affecting you.
“Come sit with me,” you beg, tilting your head up to give him a pleading look.
He is happy to obey, still sleepy himself and the couch is a comfortable enough substitute for bed. You shift your documents and place your computer to the side, resting it upon the broad armrest of the lounge to free up space for your husband.
Before settling himself down, Walter snags the two blankets that sit at home on the end of the couch, draping the thickest one over your legs before crawling onto the couch. Wordlessly, he lays his head upon your lap, your soft thighs his favourite pillow. The second blanket is used to cover himself as he cuddles in deep.
He misses your adoring smile above him but feels your gentle fingers tangle in his unruly curls. Walter moans quietly, eyes fluttering closed and his weight rests heavily as he relaxes. Silently, you play with the darkened locks. Alternating between twirling the soft strands around your fingertips and combing your fingers through his mop of hair. The zephyrous ministrations easily seduce Walter into a warm doze, balancing the fine line between wakefulness and slumber. He feels warm, loved, adored.
Just when you think he has fallen asleep, he startles you by capturing one of your hands. Your arm is pliant as he brings your frozen extremity to his mouth, brushing his lips against your palm. His hand entirely encompasses yours and between the natural heat of him and the heat of his lips, your hand becomes toasty and perfused.
He adores on your hand for long moments, smothering every inch of your skin in whispering kisses, the burn of his beard leaving electricity in its wake. You giggle when he travels to your pulse point, layering kisses upon your radial heart beat. He can feel the strong thumping against his lips, tattooing the beat on his mouth and he leaves a wet, open mouthed kiss before releasing your wrist.
The house is silent around you as the world slowly wakes up and is bathed in golden light. Walter slowly falls asleep in your lap as you turn back to your work, the positioning now slightly awkward with everything shifted to your left but you don’t dare disturb your husband. He deserves his rest.
The comforting weight of Walter sleeping upon you helps you focus on your work, no possible distractions having the chance to arise since you fear waking the sleeping lieutenant. It ends up being a productive hour, one pile of documents now much larger than it’s counterpart and you’ve managed to untangle the messy ringlets of bed hair that Walter has not even bothered to comb this morning.
Abruptly, Walter stiffens in his sleep, stretching his muscular body across the entirety of the couch before exhaling deeply, twisting onto his back and groans whilst he sprawls into a more comfortable position. You chuckle softly, amusedly shaking your head and instinctively, you reach out and run your thumb along the minor stress lines that marr his forehead. The job has aged him, you muse sadly. Faint frown lines decorate his face, in the same way, his chest displays the multitude of honour medals when he stands at attention during ceremonies.
He shifts again, a heavy sigh being released as Walter reaches up and rubs the palm of his hand across his face. A lazy yawn and furrowed eyebrows follows the motion. He is mesmerising, even in the sleepy and languid morning.
“Morning handsome,” you greet, voice melodious with affection.
He tilts his head back, ear following the sweetness of your voice and he hums blissfully, lips parting slightly and he relishes in the honeyed tone of your tenderness. Drowsily, he cracks open his eyes, blinking away the last tendrils of lethargy.
“How long have I been asleep?” Walter huskily questions, grunting as he heaves himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch and slouches forward, chin resting in the cup of his hands as he yawns one last time.
“An hour or so, you must have been tired,”.
He glances over to you, observing how you have completed a large chunk of your work and that there is a lack of cups sitting close by.
“Coffee,” is all the broad man says before he rises to his feet and ambles into the kitchen.
You titter as he passes by and quickly use the time to stretch out your legs, sighing delightfully as the blood rushes back to the lower limbs. The familiar and abrasive coffee grinder erupts to life from the kitchen and not long after, the tantalising aroma of nutty caffeine reaches the living room. Your husband emerges with two large mugs in his hands, stern eyes trained on the prize as he steadily walks towards you, determined to not spill a single, precious drop. You have him well-trained as he automatically deposits the steamy cup on the marble-patterned coaster that is situated on the arm of the couch. His own mug is placed on the nearby coffee-table, an action you frown at because Lieutenant Marshall loves his coffee just as much as you, but you are pleasantly surprised when he turns to you. There is a soft look of adoration visible in his azure eyes and he stands before you, a strong, calloused hand presses against your cheek and his thumb delicately strokes the apple of your cheek.
You nuzzle into his palm, eyes crinkling in the corners as you gaze up at Walter, a besotted smile dancing across your lips. He leans down, nudging his nose against yours and gently, he manipulates your head to the side, allowing him the perfect access to his true desire. He kisses you softly, at first his lips barely brush against yours, as light as summer rain and just long enough that he could grasp the addictive taste of your lip balm, drawing him back for more.
The second pass of his lips is firmer, the sensual hint of his tongue running along the seam of your lips and you moan. It gives Walter the opportunity to delve into your mouth, guiding the languid kiss and you fall pliant beneath his talented lips. His tongue sweeps across the moist space, the bristles of his beard scratching deliciously against your skin as you bury your hand in his curls, holding him against you as you get lost in the passionate sensation. He lazily draws back, sucking slightly on your tongue before pulling away completely, only a beady strand of saliva connecting you both.
Unable to stray for long, he returns to your swollen lips, nibbling at the delectable tissue and soothes the abused skin with a subtle peck. You feel mildly lightheaded, so enrapt in the pleasure Walter subdues you with that you forgot to breathe. You snicker, sucking in a lungful of oxygen and Walter watches you, bemused.
“Does my kissing entertain you, pretty girl?” He teases, hiding his exuberance and breathlessness better than you as he draws himself to his full height and retrieves his coffee mug.
It takes you a few seconds to rein in your giggles, shaking your head to give a non-verbal response until you compose yourself.
“No, no - I was just thinking that was one hell of a morning kiss,”.
Walter chuckles alongside you, taking a long draw of the liquid caffeine and sits beside you.
“I can’t blame myself, wife, I can barely control myself around you,”.
You tilt your head in his direction, crooking an eyebrow as you make eye contact with him. Innocently, Walter takes another drag of coffee and rests an enormous hand on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the thick dressing gown and causes a burst of goose pimples across your skin. You titter, fondly smiling as you turn back to your own work, absentmindedly reaching for your own mug and the hazelnut taste explodes across your tastebuds.
The joyful atmosphere remains, even though you both fall into your own activities. Walter doesn’t turn the television on, not daring to disturb your focus and instead, he skims through the local news web-page, catching up on the world he missed while he slept. Every now and then, he runs across a random snapshot and he has to show you, despite the distraction. He knows how much you love watching the videos of adorable dog antics, and the silvery sound of your laughter makes him want to find another video you’d appreciate - just so he can hear that blessed sound one more time.
It is rare for Walter to have a gentle morning like this, these types of periods dotted few and far between his chaotically messy work hours, but then again, that is why he values them so much - because they are just as sacred as his love for you.
Tagging Henry Cavill (ie. people I interact with from my main blog):
@solariumss @littlefreya @toomanystoriessolittletime @viking-raider @jaskierhastwohands @yoursecretsmutblog @mrsaugustwalker @lovely-cryptid @onlyhenrys @oddsnendsfanfics @angelic-kisses13 @thethirstyarchive @ladyreapermc @henchry @deathonyourtongue @promptandpros @meowpurrbooks @musings-sans-muse @sideh0e @supersweetstache @cavillanche @mary-ann84 @the-winter-witcher @evnscvll @chamomilebottom @dancingwendigo @peakygroupie @princess-of-riviaa @ohjules @radaofrivia @ellixthea @suueeeeeee @henrythickcavill @penwieldingdreamer @fanficsrusz @wondersofdreaming @dearlybelovedluke @demivampirew @nuns-and-roses @iloveyouyen @luclittlepond @cinebration @agirllovespasta @havenoffandoms @girl-next-door-writes @shellbilee @inber @honeychicanawrites @honeychicana @queen-sands @magdelen69 @laketaj24 @yespolkadotkitty
#henry cavill#henry cavill x reader#henry x reader#henry cavill imagine#henry cavill imagines#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill fanfiction#henry cavill x you#henry cavill/reader#henry cavill/you#geralt#geralt of rivia#nois#walter marshall#napoleon solo#walter marshall fic#walter marshall x reader#Walter Marshall/You#walter marshall fanfiction#walter marshall imagine#walter marshall fanfic#walter marshall x you#walter marshall/reader#walter marshall imagines#henry fic#henry cavill fic#ly-canthropewrites#fluff#sfw
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The Lunewell Saga - Natura: Ch 3
Chapter 1 here
Chapter 2 here
Can also be read on ao3 (:
Book Sumary:
Zarifa Birch, an antique shop worker with an unusual past, has made a home for herself in the sleepy town of Lunewell. Though the shop she works at is not exactly ordinary, with cryptid items and odd occurrences, she has managed to carve the normal life she always desperately wished for out of it.
However, all that comes crumbling down, as a woman from Zarifa’s past throws everything into chaos. Faced with unimaginable horrors, seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and returning repressed feelings and memories, Zarifa along with her coworkers, must find a way to return the balance- and escape the cruel hands of death in this eldritch horror mystery
As always, he had not been himself in the night. He had been an old man, holding a rather nice-smelling bag, walking through the forest towards… something. Something he cared about.
His thoughts were not quite his own, but not the man's either; more a drowsy sort of mish-mash of voices, a bit like falling asleep in the middle of a bustling city. However, none of it really mattered, as he very much felt, smelled, and lived in the forest, above the crunchy leaves and around the warm scent. So hard to place. It was familiar, and yet, the exact detail of it had faded out.
He could hear his own voice, humming. It did not sound like his voice, not really, but it felt like his own, and that was enough for it to be his own. The vibrations travelled through his chest as he burst out in melodic sounds. He was humming a workers’ song, one that someone in his family had sung. Again, the details were blurry, like there was a block in his brain.
The forest was calm, basking in a sunny glow. Autumn leaves decked the ground, and the trees looked familiar. There was a comfort in this place, a home in the scent of mud and moss, and one that he cherished happily.
The trees, though originally quiet to his senses, rustled softly in a pleasant way. The wind must’ve been extra strong, he must’ve just not noticed it through the thick shield of stems.
The trees rustled once more, and felt a beat against the soles of his feet. It was slight, barely noticeable, but it got him to tilt his stiff, aged, neck downwards, if even just for a second.
It was then that it truly happened.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the trees curving, but he didn’t have any time to process as he was slammed down to the ground by a vine sprouting from the ground. A crack wrecked through his body, not unlike the sound a carrot makes when snapping, and he, in what simultaneously was and wasn’t his voice, howled in pain. His leg, already weak to begin with, felt as though it had been ripped in two, and he could clearly see red blood leaking from where the knee was bent at an unnatural angle. Fire coursed through his nerves, burning from his leg to his spine. The pain was so mind-numbing that he didn’t notice the much pointier vine heading right for him until it was too late.
As though it was sentient, a throned vine plunged at him, and punctured right into his stomach. It sliced all the way through him, as though his body was not but soft butter, before pulling out in an equally swift motion and landing him limp on the ground.
There was no pain, even as thorns began to wrap around and puncture every millimeter of skin, only numbness. Numbness from pain that could not be described in the English language. Numbness that no one alive had ever felt. Numbness that acted as a relenting defeat against his continuous fight for any hope of life.
And as he lay there, hands bloodstained, stomach gaping, and so incredibly empty, he feared. Feared for his wife, feared for his unachieved goals, feared for what was coming next. Even this fear, however, held a tragic sort of air to it, as it was dulled down by unrelenting numbness.
The numbness faded, along with all thoughts, as white, hot, pain came crashing down like a hammer. He let out one last pitiful, agony filled screech - for a scream was much too human to cover the sound - muffled by the thorns that had stuck themselves into his lips, before everything went black in what was truly the kindest mercy.
————————————————
Bruin awoke with a gasp, clutching his stomach. His eyes darted around his barren room, pulse racing at an olympic level under his skin. With a weak breath - still clutching his stomach with an iron grip - he closed his eyes, and repeated his mantra; You’re Bruin Becker, you’re not them, you’re safe.
The phrase played over and over again in his mind as his vision slowly morphed from a blur of panic, to the usual, groggy morning one. Taking a more stable breath, he slowly let go of his stomach. He couldn’t resist scanning his hands for blood, though he knew there was none.
Once he was sure his hands were clean, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and watched the world come to life. The white desk and closet popped from the midnight blue walls, the sheets on his bed clear as glass. He glanced at his face in the mirror, and was not surprised at what he saw; deep, dark bags under his slender eyes, porcupine-like hair, and a thin sheet of sweat that lined his forehead.
He collapsed back into his bed with a tired sigh, wanting nothing more than to ignore the clock that was taunting him with the ridiculous hour he had awoken. He would probably do that. Go back to blissful sleep, that is. He doubted he even had gotten an ounce of it because of his stupid… nightmares? Visions? Whatever they were.
He closed his eyes, relaxing back into his bed, mind so far gone and forgetting one quintessentially, very, important thing. A thing he was oh-so-kindly reminded of by what could have only been described as the sound of every single plate in the house shattering at once.
With an almost inhuman speed, Bruin threw the cover from his bed, and darted to the room next door. He adjusted his hair along the way in a frantic motion, pulse having quickened yet again at the commotion. He braked as he reached the kitchen doorway, looking at the source of the sound.
On the grey tiles sat a dazed Grant, covered head to toe in flour, shards of ceramic plates scattered around him like a bomb had just gone off. Grant looked sheepishly at Bruin, blue eyes just as bagged as his own. “Uhh… good morning?”
Bruin couldn’t help the look of absolute disappointment that rolled over his face. “How did you manage to - never mind. I don’t want to know,” he said, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Well, if you must know,” Grant began, ignoring Bruin’s statement, “I was trying to make pancakes. Keyword there being trying.” He got up and tried dusting off the flour powdered on him like snow, but gave up almost immediately. “It was a shame really. I make lovely pancakes. It’s the only good thing about living with me, according to my dearest exes.”
“I’m surprised they listed any good things about living with you,” Bruin mumbled, before joining Grant to pick up the last pieces of the plates.
Though he would never admit it, Grant had been a blessing in disguise. When he first rented the little cottage in Lunewell, he had accepted that his co-worker would be an annoying, messy, music-box obsessed pest in the house that he would hopefully have to deal with as little as humanly possible.
Yet, almost like a mold, he had to admit that Grant had grown on him. Sure, he still couldn’t stand the messiness, and he swore that every time he turned a corner he saw another damn music-box, but those were things he had learned to forgive over the years.
“What possessed you to make pancakes?” Bruin questioned as they threw the last pieces in the trash.
Grant quieted, biting his lip.“They’re great comfort food,” he said slowly, as if testing out the words.
Bruin tensed, suddenly hyper aware of the rumbling in his stomach. “Oh,” he said quietly, after minutes of silence, “did you have a bad night’s sleep?” The question was pointless, but Bruin felt the need to ask it anyway. If only to take away from the barking that had begun playing in his ears.
“Yeah,” Grant responded, eyeing him, “I was up working on fixing an antique box, planning to go to bed, but I think someone was begging for their life outside, which wasn’t a very nice sound to fall asleep too.”
It was an invitation, one which he pondered for a while, before finally giving his response; “I wouldn't imagine so, no.”
He looked away as Grant's ocean blue eyes filled with pity, something that hurt him as much as any gun wound. “Hey, I… uh,” Grant began, no longer looking at him, “don’t feel obligated to answer this, but, are they getting worse?”
“You should probably go and get changed. I’ll make some breakfast for us. We still have a while before work.”
Grant, bless his heart, didn’t push. Instead, he simply nodded, vanishing the sad look from his eyes. He was halfway out the door, when he turned around with a snap; “that’s what I was forgetting to tell you!” he said, “Zarifa called earlier, she wants us to come in early.”
“Really? That’s unusual.”
“My thoughts exactly. I didn’t ever find out why though, she remained all vague. Sounded a bit panicked, if I’m honest.”
Bruin nodded. “We’ll head out after you and I get changed then. I’m not really in the mood for breakfast anyway.”
“Aye aye, Bruiny,” Grant said with a mock salute, before slipping out the door and presumably into his bedroom. Bruin did the same, taking one last glance around the rustic kitchen before walking towards his own room with a newfound haste. Zarifa had always been more than lenient with the times they showed and left work, especially once she realised both Grant and Bruin had abysmal sleep quality and patterns, so something like this was not only highly unusual, but equally concerning.
He just hoped nothing too terrible had happened.
——————————————
The walk to the Office was a beautiful one, especially this time of year. They were both bundled in hats and scarves that Grant had insisted on, as golden yellows and flaming hues passed and fell around them. For all the flack they could both give Lunewell - a lack of internet service, isolation from almost everything, and navigational systems that were seemingly built by a sadist - neither could deny that living there on mornings like this was truly a magical experience.
Or would be, were it not for the unfortunate scenario.
“Oh I hope she’s alright,” Grant panted out, slightly out of breath from the speedwalking that bordered on jogging. Working in antiques was unfortunately not a field that kept one in great physical condition, and in moments like this it truly showed.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bruin reassured, “thinking logically, we know nothing serious has happened,” probably, “so it’s most likely something mundane, slightly ominous at best.”
Grant looked unsure at that, but didn’t say anything. Under the glasses, Bruin could practically see the well-oiled cogs turning in his head, eyes glaze as though lost in the mechanical world. It was his typical zoning out look, which was for once highly appreciated, as Bruin himself was in no mood to talk.
They walked up the path, letting the old, wooden store come into view. It seemed no different than yesterday, albeit much darker, except for, alarmingly enough, a room in the upstairs flat. They shared a questioning look, panic visible on both their faces, before speeding up and half-sprinting to the door.
With a lead ball in his stomach, Bruin realised that the door was not only unlocked, but stood slightly ajar. He shoved it further open, with an urgency but still lightly, as not to break any antiques.
Even the golden rays of autumn sun couldn’t hide the ruins of the shop. The furniture was at a slight angle, as though a lash had come whipping at the legs, the fragile glass and ceramics that had been close to shattering finally lay dead and dismembered on the floor, and most concerningly, there was an unidentifiable black liquid smelling vaguely of ozone.
“Zarifa?” Grant began calling, stepping over the mess with all the grace of a drunk octopus, “Zari? Boss? Are you in there?” Bruin followed his shouting companion, straightening the furniture as he went. They made it to the counter, still no sight of her, though that was changed as they heard a thunderclap of a sound emitting from the backroom.
They were in the employees’ lounge within seconds of the sound, greeted by the sight of an unusually casually dressed Zarifa surrounded by long walls of antiques, stacked in an organised manner. “Oh good,” she said, upon seeing them, giving them a warm smile that reached her tired eyes, “you made it.”
Bruin wasn’t so much looking at her, as staring at the large pile of antiques behind her. Some of them he recognised, like the ‘Girl in Field’ painting, or that odd statue of an old man made of clay, 200 years old, but painted in a cornflower blue pigment that could be no more than 100, though there were also surprisingly a lot of pieces he had no recollection of seeing. Zarifa, noticing his staring, looked at him apologetically; “Sorry I had to dismantle your system. I tried to keep the organisation, and I promise I’ll help sort it afterwards.”
“It’s fine. I’ll sort it myself,” he assured, not quite sure he truly trusted anyone to touch what he had sorted. Grant was a disaster on legs, and for as much as Zarifa was good at keeping schedule, she lacked the sheer efficient sorting instinct he had had since childhood. “Why is it all up here? Was there water in the basement again?”
Zarifa shook her head, before pulling a slightly splintered, old, wooden box with a golden, dust-painted leaf-engraving on top from behind one of the piles. Bruin’s eyes widened as he remembered where it had previously been, involuntarily glancing upstairs, and then back down to Zarifa. She hadn’t really… had she? No one had ever been in Valours flat, hell, no one even had the key to it.
She opened the lid cautiously, the box creaking as ancient and rusted hinges pulled back. She pulled out aged, folded paper, and slowly laid it down in Bruins hands. Though he would of course properly examine it later, he could tell it was far older than anything he was comfortable holding with his bare, gloveless hands. “It’s more sturdy than it looks,” comforted Zarifa, upon seeing his panicky stature, “go ahead, open it up.”
With a force comparable to a feather, he opened it in precise, calculated movements. He winced as he saw the handwriting, the fine, thin squiggles dating the paper to 300 years old at least, letting go of the note to the point it was barely still in his hands. He felt Grant peeking over his shoulder, and down onto the note curiously, mumbling the words as he read down the torn page.
It wasn’t a very long read, but it added tenfold to the confusion. “What seal?” Grant eventually asked, looking up at Zarifa, “this is the page blonde-pink-girl wanted, right? Why would anyone want this?”
Zaria sighed, looking at the paper with a darkness in her eyes. She looked contemplative, opening her mouth a few times to begin a sentence, before shaking her head and going back to thought. Finally, after tracing the golden part of the box a few rounds, silence echoing the room, she spoke; “We’ve all had encounters with Them before, right?”
Even with that single word, everyone in the room instantly Knew what she was talking about. It was Them that had drawn the entire group to the shop, Them that had left that hollowness that lived in all their eyes, Them that left all of them flinching at sounds and throwing hurried glances over shoulders, and most importantly, Them that created the bond they all shared.
Zarifa signed; “Take a seat, boys. This might require a bit of an explanation.”
—————-
After a long, long conversation, involving the raiding of Valour’s alcohol stash for some well earned drinking, along with expensive chocolates for an alcohol-abstaining Bruin, all had finally been explained. There was a silence in the air, tinged in cheap wine and dread, as they all looked intently at the ornate box. “So,” Grant said, clasping his hands ripping away the silence like a band-aid, “we’re dealing with a big orb, monster thingy, which intentions are unknown, who kidnapped our intruder who was reading text that made vines sprout around her and smoke fill her eyes.”
“Yeah, that sums up what I experienced this morning nicely.”
Grant blinked, Bruin hurrying his mouth which had been firmly hidden deeper in his palm. “Fucking hell, I need another drink,” Grant exclaimed with a groan, reaching his hand out with his designated office mug towards Bruin.
“You guys are all out,” Bruin said with a tired voice, “besides, I don’t think alcohol is the wisest right now. I think we should try to figure out what actually happened.”
“Good idea,” Zarifa said with a nod, “we can begin with the note. Funnily enough, it’s the easiest thing here to deconstruct.” She took the box and gave it one last glance over, before rotating it away from herself and giving Grant and Bruin the opportunity to see it; “Obviously the seal is referring to the monster. I think it’s just a matter of gathering the ingredients, and whatever happened, will be reversed.”
Bruin, more than prepared, had already pulled out his black notebook and found an empty page. He looked once again at the section of the note containing the ingredients:
A key is forged by fragments of Touched sanity eating a sight of one that Sees, dipped in water oh-so divine. Once the key has begun, the fragments must sew themselves between the fabric, letting all webbed light shine on them. As they are blessed by the minute, and after the final step of-
And out of the nonsense, quickly jotted down the list of ideas that had been proposed by a slightly tipsy Grant, and an unusually frantic Zarifa;
Fragmented Touched sanity (Magic mind? Pieces of brain?)
Sight of one that Sees (Some creature’s eyes obviously, maybe cow eye cult? (Most likely, Grant’s paranoia over cow eye cult, and not actually cow eye cult))
Water divine (Holy water?)
Webbed light (Interconnected grids of light? Light systems?)
Jotting them down like that, was sadly, not very revealing. Partly because all their minds were still reeling, and what they had brainstormed was mostly a series of disjointed thoughts rather than a narrative, and partly because there was still so much hidden at the bottom of the riddle ocean. Bruin could still hardly find himself believing Zarifa’s situation, and had it not been for the black liquid stains he saw himself, the cryptic note, and the wobbly tone of her words as she recounted the events, he probably would have dismissed her as being driven a bit mad by paranoia.
Even now, fully aware of the fact that it was real, he was incredibly tempted to just storm out the shop, notebook in hand. Though he encountered the unearthly almost every time he was in deep slumber, he had never actually had a fully conscious encounter. And those… nightmares, visions - whatever they could be called - had left him gluing the pieces of his mind with only the instinct of survival. A real encounter would break him.
And yet, he couldn’t run. He had nowhere to go. Thorns Antique wasn’t so much a place he had chosen to stay, as a shelter he had desperately thrown himself into. Physically, yes of course he could travel or move. Marcus had been asking him if they could move in together for months, and would be more than elated to take him in. And he was sure he could put that business degree to good use.
But, though he was physically free as a dove, his mental wings were clipped. What was he supposed to do when he inevitably woke up one night in Marcus’s bed, screaming about the knife that he was convinced was lodged in his brain? How would he explain the countless of cryptic, weird, objects littered between pages upon pages of ripped-out death notices? Markus would see him as insane, and any future job he would have wouldn’t tolerate his hazy, obsessive, jumpy, and sleep-deprived state.
Though he did not personally know what their stories really were, he suspected Zarifa and Grant were stranded on the same boat of forbidden knowledge. Zarifa had no interest in history, having a passion for literature instead, and a people-pleasing nature and work ethic that could get her far, and Grant, though a bit of a clumsy idiot, was also incredibly academically bright, and a true cityguy at heart. They were an odd group, but a strongly connected one.
Or, at least somewhat connected.
“I propose we figure out what to do now,” Bruin muttered, after reading the bullet points a couple of times, “I don’t think there’s a standard protocol for situations such as these.”
Zarifa hummed in agreement, leaning against the table with a pensive look, sipping on some more wine. “I think we should prioritise figuring out what the riddle is actually saying,” she said, “and I think most of the answers lay here. There must be some connections between all this supernatural weirdness, and I’m pretty sure it lies in the antiques.”
Bruin and Grant nodded, both pulling the wildly uncomfortable chairs close to the table in a loud, squeaking drag. “As for the stuff that we can’t find the answer to,” Zarifa continued, once everyone was seated, “we can always ask for that.” She turned to Grant; “You’ve called Valour, right?”
Grant blinked, the words taking a few seconds to register, before grimacing sheepishly. “I’ll go do that afterwards, promise.” Bruin sighed, but Zarifa simply nodded. She’d always been a lot more forgiving of his scatterbrain than Bruin.
“I’ll do the same with Lottie. Assuming she’s, well, alive. She probably won’t answer, but it's worth a shot.”
“Thought Lottie didn’t give us her number?” Grant said, Bruin mirroring his confusion. Zarifa stiffened, smile dropping by a minuscule amount.
“She didn’t, but I know how to get in contact with her,” she stated, in her best assertive tone. Before Bruin could ask what she meant by that, she powered on, bulldozing in a purposeful manner. “What about you, Bruin?”
Bruin racked his mind for a good answer, recalling what needed to be done, and all the archival systems they had buried in the husk of a computer. “Every item has a corresponding ID, and a short descriptor. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at both the system and the antiques . However, we’re all out of gloves, and our magnifying glass has been broken for two months, so I’ll head to the shop first.”
While this was completely true, Bruin did leave out the little detail that it was also beyond time to see Marcus again. Through a mix of nightly hauntings, and antique mishaps, the days had somehow slipped by without them having a proper chat. He didn’t so much mind the lack of interaction, as the guilt that came with it.
“Thank you,” Zarifa said with a smile, “and, if it isn’t too much of a bother, please keep an eye out for any… unusual sights.” He nodded, her shoulders slumping down visibly, even under the thick cream turtleneck. Grant then promptly slipped out of the room to give Valour a ring with his smashed phone, and Zarifa headed out the front door and into the shop to tidy what was left of the mess, leaving him all alone.
He buried his hands into his neatly combed hair, tension deflating like a balloon as he exhaled heavily. His head was being squeezed by a thick rubber band, though whether it was the usual sleep deprivation or stress was anyone’s guess, and his eyes were droopy and heavy, as if magnets were attempting to pull them closed.
Nevertheless, he got up, pulling his winter coat and messenger bag off the chair. He left the scarf and hat where they lay, feeling they were a bit over the top considering it was only October. Slipping the black notebook into the black and purple bag, he headed out the door, and towards the outside world, heading in a general life direction he was not fully comfortable with.
#The Lunewell Saga - Natura#the lunewell saga#natura#writing#wip excerpt#original writing#writing wip
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If you are still doing matchups,, I'd be interested in a creepypasta one. I'm coming over from Elise blog.
So my name is Shay, I go by Whiskey because it's a preference in liquor on my end. I go by they/them pronouns, AFAB and I'm bi and omniromantic, I do have an mild preference for men or masc aligned people. I'm a Libra sun, Virgo moon and Aquarius rising. I'm also introvert (INFJ-A) and I'm constantly sleeply. I do have C-PSTD, Bipolar II and GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder).
I'm Caucasian/White and I stand at 5'9. I have celtic and Danish heritage, My family where vikings. I'm really tall and legs double the size of my torso, as in my thighs are as big as my torso in length, same with my calves. I call myself spider legs because of that. I have this natural like wolf cut going on that is this dark green with my roots be my natural dark chocolate brown hair. My eyes are hazel with gold flecks that shift in color which I found out is normal for people with hazel eyes. I paint my nails black a lot because I find the color pleasing. My build wise is like a rectangle like shape with broad shoulders. I'm pretty strong and I'm proud of my strength. I'm currently starting to get into shape and lose weight so I have fit shape but not like over for. Just the right amount of fat over my muscles. I have a lot of stretch marks,, mostly around my waist and my biceps. I call them my stripes or lighting marks. I have plans to get snake bite piercings and wear like the ring ones in them. I'm getting an tattoo soon that is like this and then I want a burning match tattoo on my color bone. My ears are piercing and I like wearing fake gauges, spirals and then the ratings that have the dangly stuff and cuffs with them. I also wear like those stereotypical hot topic chokers. I wear a lot of long sleeves and skinny jeans, I do like ripped skinny jeans. I also love flannels and black boots like doc martins or converse.
I think you can assume by the statement of me liking whiskey I am the rebellious sort which is true. I have drank a bit and tried weed, I don't do it anymore tho.I have been told if people don't know me and see me from afar I'm intimidating to approach. Even being spooky and intimidating, I promise I'm just a big softie. I usually assume the mom friend of the group with my friends. I always worry about them and make sure they take care of themselves. Sometimes I do it so much I forget to take care of myself. I'm really gentle and compassionate, along with being extremely empathetic. I can be stubborn and bit judgemental at times, mostly working off first impressions myself when getting to know each other. I have an hard time being insertive and putting my foot down with my boundaries, scared to lose people even if the hurt me. I'm an introvert through and through, liking to watch from the back and observe the way things go on around me. I do my best to be an optimist because I can't see the point in see everything wrong in this world, it helps me to see the good. I love going on adventures with my close friends and love being a chaotic bastard with them. My dnd alignment is chaotic neutral and I'm Hufflepuff. I do live by the saying do no harm but take no shit. But I won't hesitate to fight someone for the right causes.
I do always constantly look like I am going to funeral of some sort because I own nothing but black. The color makes me feel really comfortable but it's not my favorite color. My favorite color is green but I like sage green, forest green, mossy green, etc. The earthy greens are my favorites. I have a love for the forest and woodlands, finding a sense of home in the woods. I do love archery and something I'm definitely going to be picking up along with playing the drums. I also smoke herbal cigarettes as well as alternative to smoking.
I often get called a cryptid and at this point, I am just one. Cryptidcore, Midwest Gothic, and Pacific Northwest Gothic are my favorite aesthetics. I have a huge love for cryptozoology (the study of cryptids), parapsychology (the psychic phenomena and other paranormal claims), original creepypasta stories and to be honest anything like spooky and creepy. I want to be a mortician and I'm attending school for that. I also really love the dark, especially if I have some good music blasting through my earbuds. I am a sucker for long road trips and seeing things, filling the adventure heart I have. My favorite animals are coyotes and I also like horses. I like to write a lot as well.
Okay, first off, you sound so cool?! Like we should talk more 😃.
I match you with...
Hₑᄂₑ𝚗 ₒ𝚝ᵢ𝘴/ Bᄂₒₒ𝚍y Pₐᵢ𝚗𝚝ₑᵣ
(Not my art, unknown artist. Contact me with credit info!)
Helen gets the they/them pronouns. For the longest, the thought he was a weird girl. Then he had body dysphoria for a long time, and then he came to terms with his identity.
Helen is a Virgo to your Libra. Virgos admire Libra's clear mindedness and their drive for balance in all areas.
However, Virgos can have some trust issues. Just be there and patient with Helen. He'll get over those hurdles eventually.
Helen gets being an introvert, being one himself. He never had many friends growing up, his only close one being killed by bullies who then tried to blame it on him. Helen would be perfectly content if you two were the last people on Earth.
Helen loves how you look, like you're just 'classical' beautiful? He loves painting your eyes, trying to get that perfect mix of green and gold.
He recites Robert Frost to you because your eyes remind him of this poem:
"Nature's first green is gold/ Her hardest hue to hold/ Her early leaf's a-flower;/ but only so an hour./ Then leaf subsides to leaf/ So Eden sank to grief/ So dawn goes down to day/ Nothing gold can stay"- Robert Frost "Nothing Gold Can Stay"
Helen would enjoy painting your nails for you, maybe even painting little designs on them if you'd like
Helen would be so supportive in your fitness journey. He just doesn't want you to feel like you have to lose weight to please him or anyone else. He thinks you're perfect just how you are, just like he'd think you're perfect 50 pounds overweight or 50 pounds underweight.
Helen loves your stripes. Whenever you feel self conscious about them, he reminds you that the things that make a person attractive are groupings of flaws that work well with each other to make a beautiful face
OR
He tells you how the Chinese fill in cracked china and pottery with molten gold because the cracks make the piece more beautiful since it has more character.
Helen would love to design tattoos for you
He thinks it's sweet that you're Mom Friend™, but he's not going to let you drive yourself into the ground taking care of everyone else. So, now, you can't lift a finger around Helen. He waits on you hand and foot
He'll help you learn to be more assertive and stand up for yourself and what you believe in. He'll help you set boundaries and limits and he'll help you enforce them. One of his more important lessons is that you have no room in your life for people who hurt you, use you, or make you miserable.
Anyone that hurts you will be subjected to The Wrath of Helen Otis™
I feel like Helen wasn't a huge outside person before meeting you.
But between pictures on your camera roll of you and your friends' adventures and just listening to the way you speak about the Great Outdoors? He's intrigued as hell now and goes on a nature walk with you on an easy forest mountain trail, nothing too challenging or taxing.
And suddenly he just understood everything you'd been talking about.
A special activity he likes to do just the two of you is this: you think of and describe to him a cryptid and he paints it following your description. Then he listens to any stories or folklore for that cryptid.
Its normally exactly the way you pictured it in your head (it's actually pretty uncanny).
Thinks it's cool that you're going to mortician's school. He's always been interested in medicine, but can't tolerate all the patients. But a mortician... They do medical things and have the quietest patient that are just so agreeable! What a genius career path (seriously, I'm on a wait list for an interview with the coroners office (Low turnover rates 😑)
Helen also likes playing in paint worn you (but I'm thinking that deserves a whole post of its own)
Helen also likes to paint while you write (sometimes he paints you writing about him painting). Its beautiful, really. Just two people who love each other enjoying their hobbies together in companionable silence 😍
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Meeting and Dating Adam Maitland
(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)
(I would most definitely write about your meeting story and him having a crush on you in more detail, if anyone's interested.)
- You met Adam while applying for a job at his shop. He was delightfully surprised when a pretty little thing like you walked in and inquired about the help wanted sign out front. His face immediately brightened and he ushered you into the back for an impromptu interview.
- There weren’t many applicants to begin with and after seeing you, he just couldn’t get you out of his head so he decided that he had no choice but to hire you; and boy was he glad he did.
- The two of you act more like friends or flirty coworkers than a boss and his employee. Adam is a fun guy to be around, he doesn’t usually take things to seriously, and the shop is never very busy so you have a lot of time to goof off with each other.
- Since you’re the only two people working there, you spend a lot of time together and become close fairly quickly. By the end of your first month on the job, you consider him a friend and he considers you his dream woman.
- He asks you out about three or four months after he hires you. He doesn’t want you to think that you only got the job because he’s interested in you and he wants to make sure that he really does like you, the whole you, before he jumps to any decision.
- But anyways~ The two of you were closing up shop when he asked if you’d like to have dinner with him. Adam’s a handsome man, a sweet handsome man who treats you better than anyone you’ve ever met, so; even though dating your boss may not be the best idea you’ve ever had, you take the plunge and agree.
- He comes to pick you up at around six and, in no time at all, the two of you are sat at his dining room table, eating a delicious home cooked meal.
- In the middle of dinner, his models come up in conversation and he shyly asks if you’d like to see them after you express interest in his work. Soon enough, you’re traveling up his stairs and entering the attic where he’s got the whole city display. He loves the way your eyes light up upon seeing it, especially after he turns on all of the lights.
- He laughs quietly and shrugs when you call it amazing, modestly downplaying how talented he is. But you won’t allow that, insisting that “No, really. It’s wonderful” and quietly adding that he’s really wonderful.
- When you turn to look him, he’s gazing at you with a much more serious expression on his face; serious but soft at the same time. Your eyes meet his and you stand still as he slowly closes the distance between the two of you.
- His face nears yours until his lips are only inches away from yours. He hesitates for a lingering moment before he finally leans forward and kisses you. It’s gentle at first but it soon turns into something much more passionate, your arms wrapping around his neck as his hands splay themselves across your back.
- When you pull away, you’re both near breathless and aren’t sure of what to say. He breaks the silence by cracking a small smile and suggesting that maybe the two of you should keep the shop closed tomorrow. All you can do is smile, shake your head, and pull him into another kiss.
- Formal and sweet Pda. Adam likes showing people that you’re together; and just giving you affection in general, but he doesn’t like getting too intimate when you’re in public.
- When Pda is happening, it’s that juvenile, puppy-love type of pda where you’re just always smiling at each other, exchanging quick kisses and lovingly touching each other.
- He has a slightly strange fondness for being able to fix things on you for you, like if you have something on your face or your hairs getting in the way; things like that. He’ll gently sort it out, a small smile tugging at his lips the entire time.
- He likes keeping his arm around your waist. He’s practically always glued to your side because of it.
- Handholding. He has a habit of reaching out and grabbing for you whenever he can.
- Neck kisses, he adores hearing you giggle as his lips tickle your skin. He knows all of your sensitive spots and uses them against you; he’s evil.
- Piggyback rides.
- He likes to lift you up in his hugs. A lot of the time, he’ll pull you up so that you can wrap your legs around his waist and he can plop you down on something beneath him and kiss the hell out of you.
- The two of you like to goof of with each other, always teasing and messing around. He’s pretty fond of playing little tricks/jokes on you and/or fake wrestling, though he makes sure to be gentle with you.
- Getting pulled into kisses. He likes pulling you down into his lap or back against the couch and caging you in so he can get a proper smooch.
- Once you get one kiss, you can’t get enough. He won’t let you go until he’s had at least three.
- He enjoys nights in with you over any other kind of date. He likes simplicity and is a bit of an introvert at heart so being able to just have some relaxing alone time with you is a dream come true.
- Pulling off his glasses so you can kiss him better. He always smiles against your lips whenever you do, he thinks it’s the greatest.
- Getting called things like honey, hon, and sweetheart. He talks to you like he’s your1950s husband, and you know what? You can’t complain.
- Sitting with your legs in his lap whenever you’re talking or watching television on the couch.
- Sitting and watching him work on his models. Sometimes he’ll ask you to help him or to fetch him something that he needs from the other side of the room. You always get a kiss in return.
- Cute comments. He always says the sweetest things to you.
- He’s sorta clingy. It doesn’t matter what either of you are doing, he just likes having you around him at all times. He can never get enough of your company.
- He’s a blanket hog and; oftentimes, tosses and turns in his sleep so the two of you don’t really stay cuddled for long. But when you fall asleep, you’re either cradled in each others arms or being the little spoon to his big spoon.
- Playful massages when you’re stressed. He’ll place a kiss on your shoulder while making a joke, moving his strong hands across your shoulders and trying to ease the tension that resides there.
- He’s always making sure you’re alright and comforting you when you’ve had a rotten day. He hates seeing you upset and always tries his best to cheer you up.
- You never have to feel insecure about something when you’re around him. He loves you; every messed up and flawed part of you.
- Lets hear it for all you tall girls who are reading this~ Adam loves you. He’s six foot himself so it isn’t an issue for him; not that it would bother him if he was shorter.
- Chasing each other around the house.
- Getting each other gifts for random occasions.
- Sitting by the fire together.
- Dancing; albeit clumsily, with each other.
- Stealing his flannels. His frustration upon finding them missing immediately disappears when he walks in on you wearing them.
- Taking walks around town. He has a lot of friends in the town and always says hello to them whenever he’s out with you so people are usually very kind to you, even if you haven’t ever really spoken to them before.
- Drive-in movies. He’s very fond of them, especially when they play oldies.
- Going out and getting milkshakes; there’s an old diner in town that he loves bringing you to. I don’t know, something about him just screams adorably old fashioned, at least when it comes to dating.
- You’ll never have to worry about dealing with spiders on your own again. He genuinely likes them and not the small, baby one’s either, we’re talking the huge, hairy ones that could make a person pass out from fear.
- He owns a hardware store so you know he knows how to fix whatever's wrong with your house. Picture this~ Adam in a tank top and jeans, hair a mess, and a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead and arms. …What more could a woman ask for?
- He isn’t the most fond of driving so you’re probably the one who takes the keys when the two of you go somewhere. He likes taking the time to watch you, the way your face changes, the shape of your hands wrapped around the steering wheel. How did he manage to get the most beautiful girl on the planet?
- Soft, sweet kisses. He’s usually pretty gentle with you but he can definitely get a little rougher when things get heated.
- Teasing each other. He likes saying jokingly hypocritical things and covering your mouth or insisting that “it’s different” when you try to correct him, all the while failing to hold back his laughter.
- Talking about conspiracy theories and cryptids. He believes in bigfoot, we all know that, but what else does he believe in? What do you believe in? He wants to know.
- Little drives around town. He likes going out and getting some fresh air with you, sometimes running errands or just wandering for the sake of wandering.
- He’s a pushover for you. Anything you want will; most likely, be given to you just because he can’t look you in your beautiful eyes and say no.
- You don't really expect it from him but Adam can get surprisingly jealous when it comes to you though you live in a somewhat small town so there isn’t too many people to be jealous of. Regardless, when he’s jealous, he’ll interrupt and drag you away from the person or snap at them, especially if they don’t get the hint.
- He’s when it comes to you, always butting in when he see’s someone or something is bothering you and taking matters into his own hands. He’ll bluntly tell them to buzz off, leaving no room for negotiation as he steers you away from them or blocks their access to you.
- He’s your rock. Whenever you’re scared, all you’ll have to do is grab hold of him and he’ll take the lead, acting tough so that you feel a little reassurance, even if he’s just as scared as you are.
- You and Adam don’t really fight all too often, he’s completely smitten with you so everything you do is wonderful to him. Plus, you just get along really well so there really isn’t anything to argue about.
- If you ever did have a fight, you’d probably just bicker, maybe raise your voices a little; mainly out of frustration or stress from outside forces. After a little bit of arguing, he’d snap his mouth shut and just go “this is stupid” before calmly trying to explain himself.
- As I said before, Adam usually realizes that the fights you have are sort of pointless and shuts them down fairly quickly. He’ll apologize for whatever it is he did to upset you and then try to reason with you like “two adults”. It doesn't take long before the issue is resolved.
- The two of you always seem to be in that puppy love/honeymoon stage no matter how long you’ve been together so saying “I love you” is very commonplace in your relationship. He’s constantly saying it and so are you; its just how the two of you are with each other.
- I have to say this~ he would be the best dad in the universe and that’s a fact. You saw the way he was with Lydia, he’s the adorable, push-over, goofy dad that you can always trust to help you.
- He’s already planning your future together. He loves you with all his heart and probably bought a ring a month into your relationship, already convinced that you were the one.
#adam maitland imagine#adam maitland headcanons#adam maitland headcanon#80s movie imagine#80s movie imagines#80s movie headcanons#80s movie headcanon#Beetlejuice imagine#Beetlejuice headcanons#Beetlejuice headcanon
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