#tw: implied/referenced death | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moriiartist · 2 years

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LIKE INK IN WATER

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PAIRING: Ghost!Eret x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: Get a job as a tour guide at the local historic castle!’, they said. ‘It’ll be fun!’, they said. Well, now a specter of the last monarch to be crowned in its old halls has decided you’re the best thing since sliced bread, and you have to live with it.

WARNINGS: Mild language, implied/referenced death, implied/referenced murder, body horror, fainting mention

A/N: Okay- I know the warnings look bad, but in my opinion the fic is a lot lighter than it may first appear. Don’t judge a book by its cover, or... something. Anyways, enjoy, and remember to take care of yourselves y’all!

When you stepped into the darkened, cavernous expanse of the great hall from the brightness of the front lawns, you had only two things on your mind: a fresh cup of coffee and your need for a new jacket.

The squeaking of your sneakers echoed off the high stone walls and reverberated throughout the room, no doubt audible throughout the empty building. It was difficult for sound to permeate the castle’s infrastructure; the birdsong, the wind, all of it was muffled. You could almost forget that there was a world outside of the site’s sprawling grounds, that you hadn’t been transported back into the dark ages.

The emptiness was unnerving, especially during your first few days on the job, but you’d quickly grown to love it while it lasted. The serenity wouldn’t last long- not when, in about an hour, the castle would be swarming with tourists and their ankle biters.

“‘Morning Sam,” you murmured blearily as you dumped your bag onto the security kiosk’s counter, rifling through it for your employee ID.

“Guess again,” a cheery voice greeted you, and you paused. Blinking up at the person behind the glass, you felt your eyebrows shoot up so fast that it almost hurt. The grin that spread across your face was painful in its own right, wide and broad.

“Tubbo! I didn’t know you were working today,” you beamed, sleepiness forgotten as you greeted the teen. His grin, coupled with a bright gleam in his eye, was even brighter than your own.

Tubbo shrugged, a mirthful gleam in his eye as he took your offered ID and scanned it into the security system with deft fingers. The bright glow of the computer screen illuminated his youthful features and compact, soft face, turning his skin a ghostly shade of pale blue. Catching your eye, he grinned mischievously.

No doubt about it. If Tubbo died and somehow came back, he’d be a poltergeist.

Although he was only eighteen, he’d been working at the site for three years; much longer than you, barely a month in. Security, site maintenance, guiding tours- he’d done them all. The two of you had grown close, what with all the time you’d spent around each other, and although you would be hard-pressed to admit it, you had begun to think of the kid as a little brother.

“Sam was sick today, and couldn’t come in.”

You nodded sagely. “Ponk?”

“Ponk,” he agreed.

Despite the fact that you could count the number of times you’d met Ponk on two hands, it’d been enough for you and the rest of your coworkers to develop a healthy fear of her. She was perfectly nice, if a bit of a prankster, but when it came to Sam’s workaholic tendencies…?

You winced. He definitely needed the rest, but you did not want to know what atrocities Ponk had committed in getting him to stay home for the day.

The computer beeped, and Tubbo slid your ID back through the slot in the glass with a grin. “I heard you’re chaperoning some ghost hunters this weekend.”

Rolling your eyes, you chuckled. “Yeah. It’s kind of stupid, but I’m getting paid overtime for it, so.”

“Really?” he hummed, tipping his head to the side and cupping his chin in his palm. “Sounds like someone’s a skeptic.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t… know,” you said, drawing the words out. “As far as I’m concerned, the spookiest thing in this castle the lack of air conditioning. I’ll mind my own business, and so can the ghosts- spirits, or whatever.”

“Fair,” Tubbo snickered, his grin widening into something with entirely too many teeth. “You’ll have to tell me what show came by. I want to watch the footage when the episode releases.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you later, Tubs,” you sighed, ignoring his blatant attempt to psyche you out.

“Good luck!”

Kentillie Hold was many things to many different people. To you, it was the place where you spent your working hours, spouting scripts to visitors and their bored children. To historians, it was the crowning jewel of an ancient kingdom to rival Britain’s own, and the setting for one of the most brutal executions in history. To tourists… it was pretty and a good place to pose for Instagram pictures.

And it was, apparently, one of the most haunted places in England. At least, according to all the ghost hunters and paranormal enthusiasts that swamped the place, it was.

If you had been asked if you believed any of those claims a month ago, you would’ve called bullshit. Since your childhood, ghosts had always been a scare tactic that’d been used against you to, whether it be just to elicit some sort of reaction, or coerce you into doing something out of fear.

Years had passed, and you’d long since come to the realization that ghosts weren’t something to be afraid of- because they weren’t real. It was kind of ridiculous, the idea that the spirits of the dead had returned to the world of the living to just… hang out?

However, since your time spent at Kentillie, you were beginning to reconsider your stance on the subject.

It was easy to imagine that a place like the Hold was filled to the brim with ghosts. It was old- very, very old. Though there’d been no written record of when it was built, it had been estimated to be around 1040- almost twenty years earlier than Berkhamsted Castle. The stone walls and portcullis were crumbled and grey with age, with vines of ivy and climbing roses continually threatening to overtake the structure entirely.

Entire sections of the castle were forbidden for both staff and visitors to enter because of the rot that had done away with the castle for years before its restoration. One of the maintenance men actually had to quit because, while taking a shortcut through the restricted rooms, he had fallen through the floors and into the dungeons.

The Hold needed a lot of maintenance, too. It seemed like every other week something needed to be repaired or replaced. In fact, you’d heard that over the weekend the mirrors in the King’s Chambers had needed to be deep-cleaned. Something about the metal backing rusting and causing red fluid to start leaking out of the glass?

You had only held your job for a brief time, but that was more than long enough for you to begin to notice the… odd happenings within the site’s halls. Stuff- yours and your coworker’s- consistently disappeared and reappeared in spots they definitely weren’t in before. Guests mentioned hearing disembodied voices near closing hours, footsteps that followed them down the hall; movement out of the corner of their eyes that, when they turned to investigate, revealed nothing there.

The earnestness with which they recounted these events was enough to make even the most hard-core skeptic waver in their beliefs. Unnerving to say the least- especially when you were a witness of some of these encounters yourself.

You did your best to put it out of your mind, but more often than not you felt watched. The sensation of intangible eyes boring holes into you during your work shifts was a familiar one. Random chills, goosebumps, and running into inexplicably cold patches of air, even more so.

Acknowledging it only invited childhood fear back, so you didn’t. At least, not consciously.

More importantly than the Hold’s age or the toll that time had taken on it in reinforcing the mythology of paranormal happenings was the history held within its hallowed halls; the long, winding tale of one of the most powerful (and obscure) royal lineages to ever exist, and of a betrayal that rivaled the drama of the Ides of March.

“Do any of you know who the last reigning monarch of Kentillie Hold was?” you asked politely, gaze sweeping over the faces of the tour group you were leading. They stared at you, faces blank and uncomprehending. Someone coughed.

After checking in with Tubbo, you’d been launched into the routine that dictated your day-to-day work life: you stowed your stuff away in the staff room (which was really just a repurposed part of the cellar), changed into your uniform, and prepped for the tours that you were slated to corral. It was well past noon and you were leading your fourth- and most boring- group of your shift.

Despite the difficulty, you kept your smile staunchly plastered across your face. It wasn’t very often that you met someone who knew, given how deep the Herobrines were in the British monarchy’s shadow. However, having to explain the same thing over and over again to people who rarely cared was… tiring, to say the least.

Since it was a weekday, there were fewer people visiting. The ballroom was quiet, the hushed voices of guests barely audible against the rush of wind outside the small, port-like windows. Your voice was the loudest by far, all those Drama lessons you’d taken helping you project your voice to every corner of the space.

Before you could continue, resigned to your fate, a tiny hand shot up into the air. “Eret Herobrine!”

Your eyebrows flickered up as you gazed down at the little girl who’d answered your question, a determined gleam to her eye as her gaze met yours. Softening, you graced her with the most genuine smile you’d given throughout the duration of the tour.

“Very good!” you enthused. “They were the seventh and last reigning monarch of Herobrine.”

Stepping to the side, you gestured to the painting that’d been hung directly behind you. At your cue, the light coming through a nearby window strengthened, setting the bold colors that comprised the work alight with a fiery vibrance. “This portrait here depicts him at the height of his rule, right around the time of his coronation.”

The tourists ooo’d and ahhh’d, some of the more industrious taking out their cell phones or cameras to snap a pic. You couldn’t blame them for their enraptured reactions- you’d felt much the same the first time you’d seen it.

That painting- ‘Winter After The Coronation’- was one of the many mysteries of the Hold. It was ancient, but somehow throughout the years, it had managed to remain as pristine as the day it was framed. Whether it was because it was found stored within the walls of the castle, far away from the elements, or through some method of sealing or making paint that made it immune to weathering, the artistry was pristine.

And oh, was it breathtaking.

Brought to life on the canvas was the likeness of a tall, aristocratic figure, clothed in a furred red cape and dripping with gold. They were standing in a garden, snow falling in thick flakes and tangling in their long, curly dark hair; catching in their eyelashes and clinging to the branches of holly and yew that framed their face like a thorny crown.

Somehow, the painter had managed to capture the texture and feel of the expensive fabrics draped across his form, the play of light across his face, and the cool flush that the biting wind brought to his face. Eret’s eyes were dark and warm, his brows arched and expression serene. The suggestion of a smile lingered around the lines of his mouth- like he knew a secret that you didn’t.

“As you all can see, she’s not wearing a crown,” you extrapolated after allowing the visitors to admire the work for a few moments, drawing their attention back to you. “This is just one of the many mysteries surrounding Eret and her reign. Paintings were extremely expensive to commission, and so most royals in the Herobrine line only had their portraits taken once or twice in their lifetime.

“So, why would Eret choose not to appear in their crown, as so many of their predecessors did? Why would they remove their most defining mark of status, one of the only things that could’ve been used to identify them once they’d passed on?”

The little girl who had spoken up frowned. ��Maybe he thought it was ugly.”

You laughed, turning your head to look at the canvas once more. The painted eyes almost seemed to stare back, hidden truths swirling within their depths.

“I guess we’ll never know. It’s not like we can call her up and ask her,” you joked, earning a few smiles from the peanut gallery. It was muscle memory to glance away from your tour group while they chattered amongst one another and make a sweep of the room, checking for any guests that might’ve wandered away.

Movement from the corner of your eye drew your gaze.

Squinting, you hazarded a step closer to the source of your distraction, one of the many mirrors that dotted the walls. Some insane interior designer had gone absolutely crazy with mirrors- almost every vertical surface was covered with them, and they were large. We’re talking floor-to-ceiling, non-stop reflective action.

Now that you were looking at it, nothing seemed amiss… but you could’ve sworn you saw something. You were confident enough in your suspicion to draw even nearer, close enough to touch the glass surface if you reached out.

There- at the very edge of the mirror, you barely caught the flutter of a cape sliding out of view.

You blinked once, twice, three times, feeling your heart pick up in pace. You glanced behind you. Nobody was wearing anything resembling what you’d seen- except, perhaps, the elegant old woman in the red trench coat that was perusing the floor, arm delicately linked with her husband’s.

Leaning back, you smoothed your hands down the shirt of your uniform, taking slow, measured breaths. Nothing else appeared in the mirror, and you felt yourself begin to calm down. You even managed to force out a breathy chuckle.

Oh, you would be having words with Tubbo later. The dude must’ve been more effective at freaking you out than he really was.

You pointedly ignored the prickling sensation as every hair on your body stood on end.

Ushering the group along, you led them through the dark hallways that wound throughout the interior of the Hold. Your path was lit only by the flickering beeswax candles that dotted the walls every ten paces or so; you pointed them out to your tour group, remarking how, back in the day, they used tallow candles made from animal fat instead.

Only one place was left for you to visit before this particular tour was over, and that was the Hold’s most famous room: the Royal Suite.

Located on the uppermost floor, the sprawling chambers took up almost the entire level- with only a little bit of space for the receiving room, where guests could sit and have tea.

Unlike the rest of the castle grounds, the Royal Suite and the adjacent areas were completely forbidden for guests to enter by themselves. Only tour groups were allowed to access them, so the delighted gasps and assorted sounds of awe that arose as you pushed open the heavy cherrywood door were… pretty par for the course, actually.

If you had to pick which part of Kentillie grounds was your favorite, you’d be a dirty liar if you didn’t at least mention the opulent rooms that awaited you beyond the open doorway.

When the castle was restored, the most work and effort was put into the Royal Suite. According to what records were available, this was where the Herobrine family’s reigning monarchs ate, slept, and lived; it was a testament to the wealth they’d gathered throughout their long stewardship of the British Isles.

You watched with keen eyes as the guests spread out, gaping at the craftsmanship that had gone into every inch of the connected chambers.

Detailed paintings of wildlife covered the walls, depicting everything from gnarled forest trees to different kinds of birds, foxes, and weasels. The floors were polished to a mirror glaze, made of some type of dark red granite. Overhead, porcelain chandeliers that burned with a thousand little candles cast rainbow-colored light throughout the room.

Plush carpets, woven thick enough that your feet hardly made a sound as you walked across them, padded the center of the space. Right on top of it was the canopy bed- one of the biggest beds, in fact, that you think you’ve ever seen.

Were you to lay down upon it lengthwise, you would have at least another half-meter or so of space on either end. The mattress was overflowing with pillows- the expensive horsehair kind that looked so overstuffed they might explode at any moment; each richly colored and embroidered with delicate furls of ferns.

To the right, you could see the short hallway that led to the cordoned-off bath chamber. Although it was forbidden to enter- something about structural integrity- you could still make out the play of light against the multicolored ceramic tiles that dotted the floor.

If your memory served you correctly, the majority of the space inside was taken up by a gargantuan claw-footed bath that the royalty would use to immerse themselves in perfumed water and flower petals. It was actually quite a flex in the olden times to have a room solely delegated to bathing, seeing as most people couldn’t afford to take them too often. Heating up the water, having servants haul it upstairs, and then only using it once before it was drained…

Yeah.

To your left was the study, which also had a barrier to prevent any tourists from wandering in and breaking something. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, bracketing a lone desk covered with papers. One of the most interesting things about the Herobrine family was their value of literature and literacy; You think that Eret even wrote a book before she died.

You smirked. Right, you were just getting to that.

There were a few more rooms beyond that, used to hold meetings with local knights and lords- but you weren’t interested in those. No, you were much more focused on the room you were standing in. The one where they were murdered.

Clearing your throat, you gathered your audience before you, herding them into position at the foot of the bed. You spread your arms wide, and with the same amount of drama as an actor about to perform a soliloquy.

“This was His Royal Highnesses chambers,” you exclaimed, allowing your smirk to grow. You winked at the little girl from before, peeking out from behind her mother’s back. “Though some of you might’ve already known that.”

Earning a few chuckles from your audience, you allowed your arms to fall back into a neutral state. “This was where Eret Herobrine at the height of her rule ate, slept, bathed, and occasionally held court. One could say that is was the primary backdrop for her life.

“It was the backdrop for the end of her life as well.”

Stepping to the side, you circled the canopy frame, stopping right beside the headboard. Reaching behind it, you heard your tour group collectively inhale as you drew a long, wicked-looking dagger from out behind it.

“Only two years after their coronation,” you went on, spinning the blade between your fingers, “Eret was slaughtered in cold blood.”

Someone gasped as you stabbed the dagger into the pillow, just about where someone’s head would be if they were laying down. You laughed wickedly, enjoying their momentary shock. It had to be the most emotion you’d elicited from the group yet.

“Their very own personal advisor, a former knight by the name of Dream, snuck up into their chambers late at night and killed them. His plan was to put a new ruler into power: his lover, a lord by the name of George.”

You shook your head, sighing internally at the sheer audacity.

“Of course, he didn’t succeed. Both Dream and George were executed, while those who were accused of aiding them fled the land.

“Ultimately, though, Eret’s death was too much for the kingdom to take, and it crumbled into obscurity not long after. The remains of Kentillie Hold are all that remain of the proud Herobrine legacy, so thank you for booking a tour with us.”

The visitors all clapped politely, and you bowed.

“If you’d like to donate money, please deposit it in the boxes on the first floor.”

As the group dispersed, their hour long tour finally finished, you surreptitiously checked the blankets covered the bed. Although the blade you’d used was obviously plastic, you would still get in trouble if you damaged anything- and you could not afford the hundreds of dollars it would take to fix it if it got torn.

You jolted as something brushed your shoulder lightly, head snapping up to stare suspiciously at the empty space that surrounded you. Before you could begin to question it too much, however, you were distracted by a tug on your pants.

“Can I help you?” you asked, staring down at the little girl whose hands were securely fisted in the fabric of your clothes. Her parents rushed up behind her; the mother pulling the girl away and into her embrace.

“Sorry, she’s still learning about personal space,” the father said sheepishly. He turned back towards his daughter, face softening. “Didn’t you have something to give the nice tour guide, sweetie?”

Shyly, she extracted her arms from her mother’s hold, holding out a crisp twenty dollar bill for you to take.

“Oh!” you said, your previously bemused expression shifting into a gentle smile. “Thank you!”

You shivered as you crouched to take it from here, the temperature of the room seeming to have gone down by a few degrees. Rubbing at your arms, you offered her one last grin before her parents swept her away to the safety of the sunny outdoors.

Or- not so sunny. Shit.

How late was it?

Pulling out your phone, you blanched at the time that blinked up at you from the screen: 6:00 PM. It was well past the point you should’ve been making your way back to the staff room to get changed and drive home, and if you waited any longer you wouldn’t be getting back ot the house until at least midnight.

“Damn it,” you cursed. Luckily, no one else was around to scold you except yourself, the rest of the visitors having long since exited the room.

Starting the long trek to the first floor, you couldn’t dispel the goosebumps that had surfaced all over your body. Normally they would only last so long before they inevitably relaxed- but it was somehow different this time. Like you were reacting to something much different than what you normally dealt with.

The last of your tour group were exiting the building when you finally made it all the way down, breaths heaving and shaky as you momentarily braced yourself against one of the cold stone walls. You frowned down at your wobbly legs, bemoaning your lack of athleticism.

Most of the staff had already left. The majority of the work done in the Hold was either in the mornings or on the weekends, so on days like this the only people left at this hour were you and the security guards that patrolled the grounds. Tubbo was going to pack up soon, probably in about thirty minutes, so you had to be fast.

Maybe that was why you didn’t notice the electricity in the air when you barged down into the cellar-turned-staff room, complaining about the freezing air temperature as you slipped into the changing room.

Maybe that was why you didn’t notice the droplets of blood dotting the floor as you padded to your locker, checking the time once more with a harried expression. The soles of your feet were stained red, leaving sticky, bright footprints like a breadcrumb trail behind you.

Maybe that was why you didn’t notice the figure floating behind you until it was too late- until your hind-brain was screaming at you to run, to hide, to do anything but stay here.

You could ignore a lot of things, but not your instincts when they were this insistent. Which is why, when the air behind you chilled in an upside-down facsimile of body heat, you finally recognized the storm brewing.

Your body went as still as the grave when you made eye contact with it in the reflection of your phone, breathing shallow. Your heart felt like a bird bludgeoning itself against the cage of your ribs, broken and bloody, and you whimpered softly when it blinked.

Turning slowly around, your breath halted completely when you came face-to-face with that of a corpse. There was no way that the thing standing- floating- behind you was human, although it took the shape of one.

It’s skin was grey and lifeless, flickering with an inner light. It’s eyes were a pupil-less, pure white that glowed in the room’s shadows. It’s clothes, a loose ruffle shirt and thick woolen pants, were tattered and torn. The shredded edges swirled around it as if buoyed by an invisible wind.

For some reason, it seemed oddly familiar.

But most importantly- most horrifyingly- was the dagger sunk deep within its chest, covering the entire front of its shirt with crimson, viscous blood. As you watched, frozen with a mixture of shock and terror, small drops of it dripped onto the floor and landed with a spatter.

It inhaled, the sound rattling in its ruined lungs, before speaking. If you had to liken what its voice was, it was like the whistling of wind through the Hold’s ruined towers; the sound of the tree leaves rustling, the sound of the beeswax candles guttering.

“Hello.”

You shrieked.

The ghost, because that’s what it was, a goddamn ghost- winced, drifting slightly further away. “Ah. That is… not ideal.”

Half-convinced you were about to pass out, you braced yourself on your locker door, curling up like you were considering shoving yourself inside to escape this entire situation. You actually might, if it got any closer.

It raised its bloodstained hands out in front of itself placatingly, grimacing. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You looked at it, caught in the middle of taking another shuddering breath to scream for help. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

The ghost sighed, which was weird now that you thought about it because it didn’t need to breathe. It smiled awkwardly, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was nervous. “... Hopefully?”

“You’re doing a terrible job at convincing me!” you laughed hysterically. You were kind of starting to hyperventilate at this point, and if you didn’t stop you were going to pass out. The ghost seemed to agree.

“You need to calm down.”

You glared at it. “Thanks.”

It hesitated for a moment. “This is… not how I wanted this to go.”

“How else could this have gone?!”

Pausing, it seemed to be thinking for a moment. You took the time to begin to edge out from your spot, angling for the door. If you moved quickly enough, you might be able to make it out of the building with your life intact.

“You have a point,” the ghost mused. Before you could blink, it was right in front of you again, pale lips curving into a grin. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Oh.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat. You realized why it had seemed so familiar, why its appearance had niggled at the back of your brain. The ghost’s visage was a haunting echo of that shown in the same painting you’d seen over and over again for the past few weeks.

The sharpness of its smile, the secretive cast to its face, the way in which it dressed- down to the last detail, you realized. Ghosts are the spirits of the dead, back to walk the earth once more.

“Hello,” Eret Herobrine said, taking your hand in her own. The sensation was weird, to say the least. It was similar to when you would stick your hand out of the car window and feel the wind pushing at it like a physical barrier.

This was like that, but in the shape of a hand.

You shivered as they pressed a chilled kiss to your skin, feeling the curve of their grin like a physical brand.

“Eret,” He murmured, pallid eyes locked on your own. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

@blufr0st @itsonlydana @amearla @bapthadapper @redactedsouls @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden

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madmanwonder · 3 months

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Ask: adventure time: yandere au: if their loved ones are in danger or captured, how would bonnibel bubblegum, Marceline, Phoebe (flame princess) and Huntress wizard would act to save their loved ones?

BB: Go Mad Sciencist on them.

Marceline: Unleash the might of the Creature of Darkness

Flame Princess: Full-on Fire Elemental

Huntress Wizard: Invisible Archer.

#adventure time #princess bubblegum #princess bonnibel #marceline the vampire queen #marceline abadeer #phoebe adventure time #flame princess #huntress wizard #yandere au #yandere au ask #tw: immolation #tw: implied death #tw: implied/referenced death #tw: possessive behavior #anon ask

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into-the-michaelverse · 24 days

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bonus!

#fnaf #fnaf au #fnaf fanart #michael afton #michaelverse #killer michaelverse #bonus #literally only three people actually have the proper context for what event this is referencing #but at least there can be theories!#also i'm currently working on an animatic of collective and their au's jeremy #so i guess this is how i'll introduce more characters onto the blog bcuz i have TOO MUCH world building #i tried posting this three times already and tumblr broke every time so i'm hoping it works #tw blood #tw implied murder #tw implied child death

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betweendisorders · 7 months

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(trigger warnings in tags)

Basil is folding origami.

The edge of the bathroom counter crests over Aubrey's hair.

It flows past her, like stagnant filth. Like her house was flooded in it, up to her eye level, and then past her hair. Gentle pressure on all her fragile bones.

A fluorescent bulb burns. Ugly, artificial yellow.

She reaches up. One hand fumbles over the cold linoleum. Slick, icy cold water. Small hairs. Shaved stubble. A prickle, a sticking. Venus fly trap.

Her other arm hangs limply by her side, all undone.

She pulls herself up. Clambers over the side, with pained little noises. Has to crumple her body, fold herself against knives' edges. Turn herself inside out. Make herself unnatural.

There's a clatter against the floor, as a razor falls off. She ignores it.

It's a fortune teller. It's made of notebook paper, torn to be square. A little uneven, so some of the teller's teeth are larger and more jagged than others.

He has a quiet sort of expression. Focused. He makes art from notebook paper, and glances across at her.

They're in his driveway.

Nobody's home. Not anymore.

She sits down. The counter is as cold as it is filthy. She's careful not to knock their toothbrushes off. There are two. Aubrey isn't completely sure which one is hers.

She opens the cabinet, with her good hand. The mirror cabinet. Like a magic door, all secret and tucked away. Right where she never would've guessed, last birthday, when she cut herself slicing a cupcake in half. Sliced her skin open on Mom's broken promises last year, about next year, which became this year too quickly for her to keep up with.

Last birthday, when there was nobody to tell her where the med kit was.

But that was last birthday. Next year is here, and all the secrets of the world reveal themselves, when Aubrey's arm comes undone.

He looks embarrassed, when he notices she's watching him. "It's, um. It's a fortune teller." He laughs, a little, to himself. At himself. "It's silly, I know."

"Yeah," Aubrey says, shortly.

He smiles, briefly, across at her. A little pained. Looked back down, and stopped smiling. "Yeah," he agrees, playing with the fortune teller. Putting his fingers through the gaps. Shaping it properly.

And then, he started unfolding it. Ruffling through his pockets, to fetch a scratched, rattling, cheap plastic mechanical pencil.

He glanced at her. Anxious in the eyes. Unable to ignore her. "What, um... what fortunes do you think I should put?" he asked.

The mirror is stained.

Old spittle. Flecks of toothpaste. Smears of something grey and thick, semi-solid. Indistinct streaks. Smudges. Scratches. All those things that marked it as uncared.

Aubrey looks through the mirror.

On the other side, there's a her that isn't her. Her tearstains are permanent. Snot dribbles down from a quivering lip. Blood covers her shirt, dries against her chin.

The bathroom beyond is indistinct. The foggy, dirty glass that covered the shower - no bathtub beneath - glittered faintly. Horoscopic. The linoleum lapped against the smudges on its surface.

Aubrey looks to the other side, and sees a beach. Wishes she could be there, because her reflection isn't her.

"Don't ask me," Aubrey says, shortly. "I don't have a clue."

Basil looked down again. "Okay," he said, quietly. Willingly.

He's stark pale. As pale as he was drowning.

Fuck. "Fuck," she says as much. "Something good, I guess." She sneered, at the horizon beyond him. Glanced away. "God knows we've earned it."

Basil hesitated, for just a beat. Looked like he wasn't so sure.

His pencil scrawled against the paper.

I love you, Mom lies. The stench of blood thick in Aubrey's nose. Warmth, sickly, cradled carefully against her chest. Bundled and fumblingly uncaring. A dying sun, never to collapse into something bigger, or brighter, or supermassive. Just... going away.

I love you, Mom promises, and breaks it next year, when it comes too quickly.

(Anger needed an outlet. Mom wasn't here.)

Aubrey's arm was undone, and her reflection looked scared. Empty in the eyes, quivering lip.

Happy birthday, Mom didn't bother to lie.

"Happiness is just around the corner," Aubrey read aloud.

She looked across at him. Glared flatly. "Did you put this on all the flaps," she asked, though her tone was more like a statement of fact.

"Um... No?" He looked uncomfortable. Vaguely pained. She couldn't tell if it was confusion, or nerves. At being caught.

If he'd done it, at least.

She was sure he had.

She dropped the fortune teller onto the concrete. Let it splay out of her hand, and slip down. Tumble onward, and onward, and onward. Land hard. Bite off its own tongue, so the bark of the future wouldn't warn her.

"Life's bullshit," she said.

Basil hummed, vaguely. Looked away.

"...And then it ends," he said, quietly. Made a feeble attempt at a shaky, pained smile. "Might as well make the most of it?" he offered, like a consolation prize.

And Aubrey, for just a moment, thought of the beach. Where the ocean met the land. Where the unknown met home. Where she could wade into the water and still be safe, and the sun shone so brightly.

The fortune teller crinkled.

The sound made Aubrey's arm ache, dully.

(cross-posted to ao3)

#tw: implied/referenced abuse #tw: implied death #omori spoilers #omori basil #omori aubrey #omori fanfiction #tumblr fic #tw: injury #my writing

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icarustica · 1 year

Note

u said u could make the last prompt angstier. do it i dare u

77 - "you were my best friend" round 2 electric boogaloo

(this one is actually on my archive page i'm very proud of it thank u anon for pushing me to finish it)

tw - implied major character death (none actually occur)

♥♥♥ sorrow ♥♥♥

“Listen, we’re out of wine, alright? The–the fucking besotted ladies who were all swooning over that fuckin’ bard bought us out, alright? The last I’ve got is this cheap Redania and that won’t… okay. Sure, I got it!” yelled the cook from across the bar.

Geralt, midway through drinking himself into oblivion, blinked owlishly, looking up.

Bard.

He’d found himself in Lettenhove, chasing after a lone drowner traveling up the Sinet river. It ravaged every fishing operation it came across, and Geralt figured once the bastard was dead he’d have fishermen practically throwing coin his way.

“Uh-huh. And of course the flashy boy’s got a whole procession and everything,” scoffed the cook, once he’d snatched the last bottle of cheap wine from underneath the counter. “Everyone all dressed up. Throwin’ flowers. Singin’ that song about that witcher.”

Geralt rose.

The cook looked, and his ruddy face paled. His tirade stumbled to a stop.

“The bard,” Geralt said gruffly. “Jaskier?”

The cook nodded, suddenly solemn. “Y-Yes,” he said. To his credit, he wasn’t afraid. Just… nervous, for some reason. “That’s the one. Our own hometown hero.”

Geralt’s mildly tipsy mind raced.

Why would Jaskier be back in Lettenhove?

Why would there be a celebration in his honor?

His mind landed on the only possible answer.

Marriage. The damn bastard had gone and got married.

The wine - ladies who’d desired Jaskier throwing themselves into alcohol. The procession, the flowers - a celebration fit for a lord.

“Of course,” Geralt grumbled, taking the last swig of his tankard. Misery clawed at his gut - all the unsaid words. All the said ones, the terrible ones spoken in biting mountain air. The one I’d been lucky enough to care for… gave up on me.

Geralt swallowed, lashes fluttering as he turned. He gave up on me.

“Witcher,” called the cook as Geralt walked to the door.

He paused, turned back, and met the cook’s suddenly soulful brown eyes. The cook shifted, still clutching the wine. “If you want to find him… Appleshon hill.”

“When?”

The cook’s brows furrowed. He shrugged. “Any time you like.”

Geralt walked up the hill - steep, with just a sparse cobblestone path to guide him. On the way, he was stopped by an old woman with a cane. One of her eyes was milky blue. “Witcher,” she said.

Geralt bowed his head a little.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Jaskier,” he replied. “The bard. I suspect there was some big fuss about him around here recently.”

She looked at him kindly, then toddled forward, reaching far upward to card her hand through his hair. She inspected it with the eye that worked, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You are his witcher, then.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

He felt that sinking in his chest again, the unpleasant ache. “I don’t think he’s calling me his anything nowadays.”

“Hm.” Her gaze turned sad. “I suppose.”

And, without another word, she pressed a bouquet of scraggly wildflowers into his hands. Dandelions. Daisies. Little purple things Geralt didn’t know the name of. He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes firmly trained on their scattered leaves as the old woman turned away.

What a lovely gift, for a lover.

What a dismal apology.

He continued on his way.

Again, he was stopped, this time by a tall man dressed in black, with a large leather satchel. His face was drawn, gaunt. “Ho there,” he called. “Witcher.”

Geralt nodded, slid his eyes away, fully intending to keep going up the hill - he could see the crest now, the shambling stone wall dotted with ivy. Ten minutes, maybe five, and he would be there, closer to Jaskier than he had been in years.

He ran over his speech in his head - all the small things to say, all the large ones to hint at.

“Witcher,” called the man again, voice rough and broken. One dark eyebrow cocked. “What business do you have here?”

“Visiting a friend,” Geralt replied with a sigh, turning to face the other man on the path.

“No monster-slaying?”

“No.”

“Ah.” The man cocked his head. “Say, if you were ever in the mood to kill a monster, and wanted it remembered… well, I noticed your bard has gone rather into retirement.”

Geralt winced.

“Too soon? Sorry,” the man chuckled, in his gentle timbre. “Well. I’m a writer, not a bard. My name’s Hoid - in case you’ve heard of my work. Perhaps the witcher would like to try stories instead of songs?”

For some reason, anger welled up in his belly. Geralt quieted it with a long breath, in and out. He assessed the man again, from the silver on his shoes to the black stubble on his chin. By all rights, he should have liked this man more than Jaskier - the easy way he talked, the simplicity of his clothing, the wickedness of the knife at his hip…

But it wasn’t Jaskier. It wasn’t his fucking bard.

“No,” Geralt growled. “Never.”

The writer tilted his head forward in a single nod of acknowledgement. “I understand. Goodnight, witcher, and good luck.”

Geralt watched the man’s back for a long time as he made his way back down the cobblestone hill.

The door was made of wood. And even Geralt, at his considerable height, could not see over the stone wall. He swallowed the lump in his throat, preparing himself for whatever may lay beyond it –

Jaskier, incensed. Yelling. Screaming at Geralt, ripping his paltry flowers to shreds.

Jaskier, happy. Having forgotten Geralt and his dirt and monsters years ago.

Jaskier…

Geralt swallowed, hand clenched around the wildflowers. He ran through his speech again, through the careful words that had given him the strength to climb those last few steps. Summoning courage, he pushed open the thick wooden gate.

Headstones.

Geralt blinked, and suddenly things seemed to move in slow motion - the crashing of an ocean miles away. The birds circling one bare tree. The headstones all dotted in a row, a tomb or two along the side of the gray wall.

He swallowed, feeling like the continent’s worst fool.

Time moved like a dream. He walked along the headstones, every running word in his mind frozen. He let the heads of the wildflowers scrape the top of the stones, reading name after name, hoping, praying, for something he was too terrified to name.

Nordand Allsor - A Loving Father

Ophela Dart - When The Wind Moves The Tree, Think Thee of Me

Stormund Brekker - Lover, Took Too Soon

Jaskier

Geralt’s mind almost didn’t register it. The last in the row, nestled beneath a tree. He stood there for a long moment, expression blank as he read it, over and over again.

JASKIER.

Bold letters.

Geralt knelt, knees thudding in the dirt. How could he have thought it was a wedding? The flowers, the sad looks, the sudden kindness to a witcher - it couldn’t have been anything else. Jaskier would not be in Lettenhove otherwise. Except to be buried.

Geralt shoved his hand in the dirt, some animal part of him wanting to dig up the fresh earth, needing to touch him, to hold him, to cradle him in his arms and–

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the cool earth in his fingers. Most of him couldn’t believe it, that his bard had gone and died without him.

Geralt slammed the flowers right below the headstone.

His chest shook.

It felt like–

It felt like Jaskier himself was trying to climb his way out of Geralt’s stomach and into his throat.

The thought of it almost made him laugh, the memory of Jaskier’s voice when it became panicked. How ridiculous the man was. The next time Geralt saw him, he’d tell him–

It thudded into him again. A relentless realization, a chain reaction of simple things, the simple fact that he was now a memory, just some man. Geralt imagined fifty years down the road, when he was old and slow and he would have to tell his brothers about the time he had a friend. The time when someone loved him.

“Fuck,” he said, and it shocked the silence away. Now he could hear his own shallow breathing, hear himself tremble, his heart thudding away in his ears. “Fuck.”

His speech.

He’d had a speech.

“I’m sorry,” he started, because that was the beginning, wasn’t it? That had always been the beginning, when he’d imagined this, Jaskier in front of him, gold and alive and sweet and gentle and tough and angry–

“Fucking hell,” he spat at himself. He rubbed his eyes with the hand not grasping at the dirt. He sat up, shakily breathing, trying to find some semblance of composure. He held onto his meditation with a white-knuckled grip, feeling his own spine shake like a tiny dog. He trembled, but he did not break.

He owed him that.

He owed Jaskier dignity.

“I owe you a lot,” he said. “I owe you my life, certainly.” He swallowed. “Friendship. Coin, probably. I think when you… when you left, off that mountain, I took some of your coin with me.” He grabbed his coin purse, and with shaking hands pressed all the gold coins he had into the dirt. “There,” he said. “I…”

He had to pause. To allow his racing heart to return to his body, to let his clouded mind settle on the dirt and the stone in front of him. The sky rumbled, unhappy with his meager apologies.

“I think, though, we both know our friendship is a lot more than an exchange at this point,” he continued, and the words cut up his throat. “I’m truly sorry, Jaskier, for everything I…” he trailed off as he stared at the headstone.

JASKIER.

He reached forward to press his thumb into the indents. “You were my best friend,” he confessed, and the wind howled and tears pricked at his face. “In the whole world. The whole damn world. And I know it’s too late,” he added, hoarse. “Far too late. I should have been there to protect you, but I was a fool, Jask, I was a fucking bastard to you and I…”

He hung his head. “I wish I could be better to you,” he said, raw. “Give you things you deserve.”

Geralt swallowed.

“You deserve… me. If you want me.”

“Geralt?”

His eyes flew open, staring at the dirt.

Not a good time to start imagining things, Geralt.

“Melitele, I–”

Geralt turned his head, eyes widening, and–

There he was. Dressed in simple, plain clothes, a string of red around his neck, scruffy and long-haired but smelling of wildflowers and chamomile and apples–

Jaskier put a hand over his mouth.

There was a moment of silence, as Geralt, on his knees, felt his heart slow, then quicken, as shock thudded through him again.

“I can explain,” said Jaskier quickly, holding up a hand. “Those were very nice words, okay, I just–I didn’t want to interrupt, it looked like you were having a moment–”

Geralt stood on admittedly shaky legs, looking at him, just…

He was alive.

The embarrassment of the moment was overshadowed by the beating heart he could hear over the wind.

One moment he had stood, the next he’d wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s very warm, very alive body, pressing his face into the space between Jaskier’s shoulder and his neck. He breathed him in, only briefly wondering if he was allowed this, allowed this contact, before Jaskier’s hands gripped him back.

“Now, listen,” said Jaskier carefully after a moment. “There was a very nasty escapade involving my mother wanting me back to rule over Lettenhove. I had to fake my death. It was really quite an adventure but I can see how you sobbing over my grave–”

Geralt grumbled, deep in his chest. “Not sobbing.”

“Practically sobbing. Really close, in fact.”

Geralt leaned back, and held Jaskier’s chin in his hand, feeling that pulse again. Alive, alive, alive. “Weeping,” he said very seriously.

Jaskier laughed, blue eyes twinkling. Then they faded. “Wait. You’re serious. Geralt, I’m fully prepared to forget what I just saw if you want me to. I swear, even the part about you owing me your life–”

Geralt brushed his hair out of his face. “Don’t joke. I was mourning,” he said, and his voice was still rough. “I never want to mourn you again.”

“Oh,” breathed Jaskier, soft as a whisper. “Well, that’s very–”

Geralt kissed him, soft as anything.

-♥icarusty

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aftgficrec · 11 months

Text

anonymous said: I’d like to rec you ought to give me wedding rings by absolutelithops on ao3 to anyone whose looking for a good andreil proposal! Here’s a link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30371577/chapters/74874351

Sure, friend, here you go! - S

you ought to give me wedding rings by absolutelithops [Not Rated, 11398 words, complete, 2022]

Andrew has the damn thing for a year before he makes any use of it.

Three times Andrew almost asks a very dangerous question, and the one time he does.

tw: implied/referenced suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: animal death, tw: implied/referenced violence, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: blood, tw: implied/referenced kidnapping

#reader submission #rec #neil josten/andrew minyard #universe: post canon #theme: fluff & angst #theme: hurt/comfort #theme: proposals #theme: established relationship #tw: implied/referenced suicide attempt #tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #tw: animal death #tw: implied/referenced violence #tw: implied/referenced abuse #tw: implied/referenced kidnapping

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yusuke-of-valla · 9 months

Text

An Allegory Of The Vanities of Human Life

AO3

On a trip to Tatsumi Port Island in 2009, Yusuke overhears something he shouldn't.

Yusuke can’t sleep. He’s been having strange dreams ever since they got to Tatsumi Port Island. He looks at the clock and sees it’s a few minutes to midnight. For a second he’s tempted to go find Sensei, but he knows Sensei will simply scold him and say he’s too old for this sort of behavior, so instead he tries and slips into the kitchen to make some warm milk to help him sleep.

He leaves his room and sees a sliver of light from the conference room. The suite they’re in is large, paid for by one of Sensei’s friends, and he must still be up talking.

Yusuke doesn’t know what possesses him to head closer to the open door, but he can smell alcohol and hear Sensei laughing.

He should go, he’ll be in trouble for being up so late.

“I can’t believe you did it, you old coot,” Sensei’s friend says. “After all these years, you really found the perfect business plan.”

“It’s all thanks to The Sayuri,” Sensei says, clearly drunk.

The Sayuri? What was–

“If the woman who painted it hadn’t dropped dead in front of me, I wouldn’t have anything.”

“You’re still stuck with her kid though, right?”

“Who? Yusuke? Sure kids can be annoying but he knows how to behave.”

Yusuke backs away from the door, his entire body shaking. Sensei stole The Sayuri from Mama? Sensei had been there when Mama died? He’d said that she was alone, that there was nothing anyone could do.

He barely registers as he crashes to the floor and curls up into a ball.

And then everything stops.

Yusuke doesn’t notice at first, too wrapped up in his sobs to notice that the laughter in the other room has gone silent, or that the moon has gotten impossibly large, or the sickly green hues lighting the apartment.

All he knows is that everything he knew was a lie.

Finally he’s run out of tears and notices how everything’s wrong, and he tiptoes back towards the door. Instead of Sensei and his friend though, there are coffins.

Yusuke’s always been told to not make too much noise, especially late at night, so he doesn’t let the scream that’s crawling out of his chest escape his throat, but he feels sick.

Is this all some sort of weird nightmare? Is there anyone else even here?

Footsteps from the outside hall answer his question. Yusuke is quick to curl up behind the couch and hide, and someone breaks open the door.

Yusuke’s pretty sure she’s the angel of death. That has to be the only explanation, with her porcelain skin, pristine dress, and axe.

The angel of death looks around and heads into the conference room. Sure enough Yusuke hears Sensei’s friend let out a scream that’s quickly cut short. The angel of death walks out, her dress still perfectly white. Yusuke tries to get a better look at her, but accidentally knocks over the lamp.

Her head snaps over to him and she stares at him impassively.

“Well, that’s odd.”

“U-um are you going to kill me?” Yusuke asks.

She tilts her head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s a good thing you saw me. Takaya would probably consider you a loose end.”

Yusuke looks down. “Can you at least take me to see Mama after you kill me?” He asks quietly.

“You’re not scared of dying?”

“I-I dunno. I just–” Yusuke’s not a stranger to death. He always knew Mama’s health was bad. That was something she wanted him to know. Mama didn’t want him to be unprepared when she died, so she spent a lot of time talking about it with him. It had helped soften the blow when Sensei had told him. He hadn’t even cried at the quick funeral.

But now that wound’s been ripped right open. Sensei had lied about Mama’s death. Sensei had lied about everything. If nothing he knew was real then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to die?

“I want to see Mama,” Yusuke says.

“What happened to your mother?” The angel of death asks.

Yusuke’s eyes turn toward the door. “Sensei… he said she died when she had a seizure and he couldn’t do anything because he was in the other room, but he lied.”

“Oh, so he killed her?”

“I don’t.. I don’t know that. I know he lied. I don’t know why.”

“Why don’t we ask him?” The angel of death walks over and offers out her hand, and Yusuke takes it. Then they head back into the conference room. The dead body of Sensei’s friend is there, along with a massive coffin.

The angel of death opens it up, and Sensei comes out.

“What? Who are you? Yusuke, what’s going on here?”

Yusuke grips the angel of death’s hand tighter, and she looks at him.

“I’m not going to do this for you.”

Yusuke swallows. “What did you do to Mama?”

“What?” Madarame laughs, “Yusuke what are you talking about?”

“You said she dropped dead in front of you, did you do something to her?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but you’re being very ungrateful after everything I’ve done for you.”

“You stole The Sayuri from Mama. You said it was lucky she died! What happened?”

Sensei makes his scary face, and Yusuke instinctively opens his mouth to apologize when the angel of death squeezes his hand.

“I didn’t do anything,” Sensei says. “She had a seizure in front of me and let it happen.”

“You killed her,” Yusuke says, barely above a whisper.

“What was that?”

“You killed her! If Mama has a seizure you’re s’posed to get her the medicine in the green bottle and call the ambulance! You didn’t even try!” Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

“You can think whatever you want, but you won’t be able to prove it,” Sensei says. “I don’t know who your friend is, but she’s trespassing. My private security will–”

Faster than anyone can react, the angel of death pulls out a gun and holds it to Sensei’s head.

“N-now, let’s all be calm,” Sensei says. “Yusuke, what happened to your mother was an unfortunate accident. I couldn’t have done anything! Besides, I’ve been good to you haven’t I? I raised you as my own!”

The angel of death looks at Yusuke, silently asking a question. He thinks it over for an eternity.

“Did Mama beg you for help too?” Yusuke asks.

The anger on Madarame’s face is answer enough.

Yusuke nods at the angel, and she points the gun at her own head.

“Come, Medea.”

With the pull of a trigger, something…. terrifying and beautiful comes out of her and starts glowing.

Madarame starts screaming and Yusuke closes his eyes and turns away. He doesn’t look back when the screaming stops.

“So, now can you take me to see Mama?” Yusuke asks the angel of death.

“I can’t take you to see her now,” she says, “but you can see her soon. If you’d like to come with me.”

Yusuke nods. There’s nothing left for him here now.

#alto writes #yusuke kitagawa #persona 5 #persona 3 #chidori yoshino #vain art bastard #sad art boi hours #wordcount: 1000-1500 #death tw #idk persona 3 adjacent stuff?#ask to tag #implied/referenced child abuse

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masterwords · 1 year

Text

time is fleeting

Summary: Hotch's mom is dying, and he's making his way through the process on his own until Derek and Jessica and the rest of the team tell him no way. That's what real family is for, right?

Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Derek Morgan

Status: COMPLETE

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

#aaron hotchner #hotch #derek morgan #morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds fanfiction #tw: death #tw: implied/referenced past abuse

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riality-check · 1 year

Text

how max becomes part of the gang in my little bootlegging universe. parts 1, 2, and 3, if you'd like to read those as well.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, descriptions of minor injuries, and a brief reference to hypothetical animal death

Dustin has a knack for finding things. If asked, he says it’s because his mother is forgetful and he always has to remind her where she put her glasses or her checkbook or her purse. If asked by people he actually likes, he says he got it from Eddie, since Eddie is the one who found him.

But in reality?

Dustin’s brain is constantly bored. It’s restless and fast-moving, on to point D when everyone else is still sorting through A. So, while Dustin waits, he searches. He counts the windows of buildings and strains his ears to hear chatter from a street over. He busies himself with combing through the unobtrusive to help quell the feeling of restless pressure that constantly fills his skull.

It’s this need to do that has him spot the flash of lilac that turns the street corner.

People here don’t wear those kinds of clothes. People here wear dark coats and deep colored dresses. People here keep to themselves and do anything to not stand out. And a girl in a lilac dress just turned the corner at breakneck speed amidst all the slow-moving onlookers in drab shades of brown and green.

Here, Dustin thinks, is a pretty crappy place to be.

It’s outside of their usual territory, which is ill-advised at best and dangerous at worst. It’s not controlled by a rival, thank god, but it’s not under Upside Down control, either. It’s a part of town where the buildings look like they’re leaning on each other for support, where kids play barefoot on cobblestone streets, where beggars grace the stoop of every building until they’re chased off by gnarled, formidable old ladies with brooms.

Truthfully, it doesn’t really matter what it is. What matters is the fact that Mike said he was going out, and Dustin wasn’t going to let him go alone, not when he knew there was no chance in hell he’d be able to stop him.

Will has been missing for one day. If Dustin were to ask Mike, he’s sure the answer would be a hell of a lot more specific, but that’s all semantics he doesn’t really care for.

What he does care about is the lilac dress. It’s not like Will was wearing one, but, well Mom always did say Dustin’s curiosity would kill him one day.

“Hang on,” he says to Mike, who’s currently looking down an alleyway as if it’s not a surefire place to go in and not come out. He yanks him by the collar to a building ahead and puts his hands on Mike’s shoulders.

“What?” Mike grouches, and Dustin prays for a little bit of patience.

“I’m going a little bit ahead.”

“Why? Did you see him?”

“No, but I saw something out of the ordinary.”

“Not Will?”

Dustin resists the urge to sigh and shake Mike by the shoulders. “No, not Will. Just something curious.”

“Of course you did,” Mike mumbles without any of the usual humor in that comment.

Dustin wants to sock him in the face, but he says instead, “If I’m not back in five, come after me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike says, but even that’s more acknowledgement than Dustin was expecting. He’ll take it.

Dustin lets go of Mike’s shoulders and starts heading in the direction of the girl, bypassing couples on the sidewalk and throwing a group of kids their baseball when it rolls toward him. They ask if he wants to play with them, and while that honestly sounds fun, he’s got other things to worry about.

She can’t have gone far. She was moving fast, sure, but Dustin is pretty sure she was moving unsteadily, too. That fast with a limp? She’s running, and she’s hurt.

Dustin isn’t exactly sure why he cares. Well, that’s objectively a lie. Dustin knows he has a habit of finding strays and making sure they’re alright on their own. He doesn’t bother with trying to keep them; he can’t afford to, and a lot of the time, they’re too flea-ridden for his mother to let in the house. So, he feeds them and cares for them as best as he can until they move on to bigger and better things.

(Steve suggested once that maybe they died instead. When he said that, Dustin smacked him so hard he spat out his drink and dropped the glass he was holding. The amount Hopper made him shell out for the glass was worth taking Steve down a peg.

He might be their only consistent and best paying customer, but he can be such a prick sometimes, even if he is trying to get better.)

Dustin rounds the corner easy enough and looks for anything unusual in the alleyways. He makes his way through one block, then another, when finally he spots her.

She’s huddled, knees to her chest on top of a crate in an alley next to a grocer’s. She’s pale, real pale, with bright red hair that clashes with the lilac of her dress, which is stained black and slightly torn at the hem. Her limbs are small and skinny, and she’s not wearing shoes.

Her ankle is busted up pretty bad, and there’s bruises on her arms. When she straightens out her legs, Dustin sees blood crusted on her forehead and at the corner of her mouth.

Shit, he thinks to himself. This is the tuxedo cat on Maple all over again.

He takes his hat off and keeps his hands up, away from his body, as he enters the alley.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You alright?”

She flinches so subtly he would have missed it if it weren’t for his ever-cataloging brain. Her eyes, brilliant blue, flick toward him, and he isn’t sure if she relaxes or further tenses up, but the set of her shoulders changes.

“I don’t have time for this,” she says flatly, and she points a .22 straight at his chest.

“Woah, okay,” Dustin says, backing up a few steps. “I don’t think we need to do that.”

“I think we do.”

“Agree to disagree?” Dustin asks, trying for a smile.

He sees it, the moment she covers up her snort with a frown.

“Now, usually when someone asks if you’re alright, you answer with yes or no,” Dustin says.

“I’m fine,” the girl says.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your ankle is probably sprained.”

“Agree to disagree?” she says to him. Same words, but significantly nastier.

Dustin sighs. “Okay, let’s try again. I’m Dustin. What’s your name?”

She frowns, and her eyes dart all over the alleyway. Dustin wants to follow her gaze, wants to see what she’s looking at, but she still has that .22 trained at his chest, and even he knows that curiosity is absolutely not worth it in this case.

“Max,” she says finally.

“Max?” Dustin says. “That’s a man’s name.”

“Well, I’m a woman, and it’s my name, so I think that makes it a woman’s name,” she snaps.

Dustin shrugs. “I won’t argue with you on that.”

At that, she definitely relaxes. Strange.

“Who sent you?” she asks, changing the subject.

“No one,” Dustin says.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not polite to swear.”

“It’s not right to lie.”

“I’m not lying,” Dustin says. “I’m looking for a friend.”

Max shrugs and leans back against the gray brick of the wall behind her, still keeping the gun trained on Dustin’s chest. “Can’t be me, then. I don’t even know your last name, Dustin.”

“It’s Henderson,” he says, even though that was probably a very stupid move, telling a girl he doesn’t know his full name when all his family and friends work for a speakeasy.

He’s starting to wish he nicked a pistol from behind the bar before they left, like Mike did.

Max, to her credit, seems just as stunned that Dustin said that as he is.

“Mayfield,” she says, lowering the gun an inch.

“Max Mayfield?” Dustin asks.

She nods and keeps lowering the gun. Dustin tries not to let the relief show on his face.

“It suits you,” he says, and he means it.

And there it is, ladies and gentlemen, the first smile he’s gotten out of her this entire time. It’s tiny, and it’s tense, but it’s there, and Dustin finds himself smiling because of it. The gun is almost down when-

“Dustin!” Mike calls and oh, shit.

“Mike, you son of a bitch,” Dustin swears because he looks over, and Mike has his pistol trained on Max.

“I knew you were pulling my leg,” Max says, bringing her gun back up to point at the center of Dustin’s chest.

“Curiosity? Really?” Mike says, annoyed. “Do I need to keep you on a leash?”

“No, but you need to learn how to time your entrances better,” Dustin mumbles, and Max snorts.

Good. Good. If she finds him funny, she’s less likely to pump him full of lead.

“Where’s Will?” Mike asks, keeping his pistol trained on Max.

Dustin fights the urge to roll his eyes. Mike doesn’t even have the hammer cocked.

“Who’s Will?” Max asks, swinging her gun over to Mike.

“Okay!” Dustin says, hopping between them. It does no good, not when Max is up on the crate and Mike is on the street and they both can just aim around him. He does, however, comfort himself with the fact that this will make Mike a lot less likely to shoot.

He’s hoping it’ll do the same for Max.

“Will’s our friend,” Mike says. “He’s missing, and we’re looking for him.”

“I don’t know a Will,” Max says moving her arms up to point the gun at the center of Mike’s forehead. “And I don’t care to. I’m gonna ask again: Who sent you?”

“No one sent us,” Dustin says again. “Why do you keep thinking that?”

“Because one of them always sends someone,” Max says. “They always do. But they can’t make me go back now. I’m eighteen, I’m an adult, and they can’t make me go back.”

Dustin gets the feeling that Max isn’t really talking about Mike and him anymore.

“So if you’re trying to bring me back, you’re gonna be shit out of luck and pumped full of lead.”

“I don’t care where you came from, I just want you to put your gun down and let us go back to finding our friend!” Mike says.

“And I want you to leave me the hell alone!” Max snaps.

“No,” Dustin says, and both of their heads whip toward him.

“What do you mean no?” they say in unison before they glare at each other again.

“Mike,” Dustin says slowly. “She’s hurt.”

“I have eyes.”

“So, let’s take her back to Joyce.”

“Who’s Joyce?” Max asks. Her voice is laced with suspicion, but she’s starting to lower the gun again.

“Our aunt,” Dustin says because it’s easier to say that than to explain everything to a random stranger.

Easier, and also a lot smarter, since he already gave her his last name. Then again, she gave him hers.

“And,” Dustin continues, “she can help us look for Will. If she wants.”

“She is right here,” Max says.

“Then what does she think?” Dustin asks.

Max shuts her mouth so fast her teeth click. She lowers her gun completely, and Mike, a full thirty seconds after he should have gotten the goddamn hint, does, too.

“I think,” Max says slowly, “that they don’t know a Joyce.”

Dustin nods and turns to Mike. “Well?”

Mike sighs and pockets his pistol. “It’s getting late, we should go back.”

It’s the answer Dustin expected, though not in the way he expected it. As good as he is at finding strays, Mike is a hell of a lot better at keeping them.

But before he can say anything, Mike walks away, leaving Dustin and Max alone in the alley.

He holds out a hand for her to take, but she pockets her handgun and jumps down off the crate, straight on to her sprained ankle.

“Don’t touch me,” she grits out, leaning on to the crate and breathing deeply.

“Do you want any help?” Dustin offers, holding out an arm to her.

“I’m fine.”

“I thought we agreed to disagree.”

She snorts and slowly stands up straight. Before Dustin can blink, she slings her arm around her shoulders.

“I can just carry you,” Dustin says, letting her start them off at a slow walk.

“You couldn’t carry a sack of potatoes half a block,” Max says. “And keep your hand above my waist and below my shoulder blades. If it moves, I’m using the handgun. I don’t care that we’re in the middle of the street.”

“First, rude. Second, we’re technically on the sidewalk. And third, I’m not gonna move my hand.”

“You better not,” Max mumbles, but she doesn’t reach for her gun.

Dustin leads her back to Joyce’s and lets her set the pace. It’s slow going, and by the time they get there, the stars have been out for half an hour.

Mike waits for them outside, smoking a cigarette.

“You good?” he asks, pointedly looking at Dustin.

“We’re fine,” Dustin says, ignoring the fact that as they walked, Max slowly slumped into him. She’s basically sideways now and hasn’t said anything for the past five minutes.

“Sorry,” Mike says, and Dustin appreciates that he actually means it. “I just wanted to check out a few more places before we had to be back.”

Dustin sighs. “Any luck?”

Mike shakes his head.

Dustin rests his free hand on his shoulder. “Get some sleep. We’ll go out in the morning.”

Mike nods, and they both ignore the tears in his eyes, the way his shoulders scrunch all the way to his ears.

“Come on,” Dustin says to Max as he opens the door. “We’re gonna get you to Joyce and get you cleaned up.”

“I’m clean enough,” Max mumbles.

“I mean the blood,” Dustin says, leading them through the diner and to the back wall. He feels around for the switch and a little snick lets him know that he found it. He pushes the wall aside and lets it swing shut behind them once they’re in the back.

“I think it matches my hair,” Max says, eyes slipping shut.

“I think it clashes,” Dustin says, moving her to the stage. It’s Sunday, and while they’re never closed, they’re significantly less busy the one day of the week where most of the city likes to pretend they’re moral people.

It’s dead empty, save for Hopper at the bar.

“What-”

“Get Joyce,” Dustin tells him, and as much as he’ll grumble about it, he goes.

“I think it clashes just like that dress,” Dustin says, getting Max seated on the edge of the stage before hopping up after her. Where the band is, he doesn’t know.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Max jokes.

“The dress? Kinda.”

“Dresses,” she says, picking at the hem of her skirt, “in general.”

Dustin looks at her, assessing. They’d need some alterations, but-

“What,” Max snaps, and that’s when he realizes he’s been staring at her waist.

“I just went through a growth spurt,” he says.

“Congratulations?”

“I’ve got some pants that don’t fit anymore. If you want them.”

Max drops her skirt where she was fiddling with it. Dustin smiles in answer to her piercing stare, not knowing what else to do.

“You’re strange, Dustin Henderson.”

“I think you’re even stranger, Max Mayfield,” Dustin says, and the smile they share?

That’s the beginning of history.

#ria writes #bootleggers baby #dustin henderson #max mayfield #mike wheeler #stranger things #st #stranger things ficlet #st ficlet #tw: implied/referenced abuse #tw: referenced animal death

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fairydares · 11 days

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WIP Wednesday

This is from a oneshot I'm working on when I can about Acnologia, just some fanon history/background i came up with. [Please check the tags before reading.]

He tread the cracked and searing earth, and became agitated whenever the scent of blood dissipated. He swelled through dark skies and light ones, and seethed when they were not red.

He inhaled hatred, exhaled boredom, and pursued chances to quench the parched thirst he had become like iron pursues north. Dimly, like a person might recall their first memory, he could remember when the thirst came on. He could remember hating it—fearing it, really, as all weak things fear power. It had been when he soaked in the blood of that she-dragon who tried to heal her disgusting spawn with the last of her strength, inciting a wrath that ripped a hole in his memory (there were fewer holes back then, when ages were still ages).

It was one of the few baths that didn’t haze together with the rest. She’d been weak, especially for a dragon, but her final conviction had caused far more magic than usual to pulse and flood into his body. He’d opened his eyes to find a girl’s broken, dying body at his feet, one of the ghosts he trailed constantly, and realized, in all his unshed weakness, that he could not remember her.

Was she a stranger? His daughter? Had she known the name he went by once—a name he also couldn’t remember, or remember forgetting?

He’d roared, destroying everything that was left of the she-dragon and her spawn before storming away from the site.

#posts i actually wrote #my writing #acnologia #fairy tail #horror elements #dark elements #implied/referenced child harm/death #implied/referenced animal harm/death #cw blood #tw horror #fairy tail fanfiction #that's all i have now...much more of the next chasing tails chap

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moriiartist · 2 years

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HUNTER’S MOON

Masterlist

Taglist

PAIRING: Werewolf!Punz x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve always been fascinated with the stars ever since you were a kid, despite how people may have judged you for it. Sucks to be them, though, because they can’t cuddle with their werewolf boyfriend on a stargazing date.

WARNINGS: Language, implied/referenced child abuse, death mention

A/N: Werewolf Punz holds a special place in my heart, even if I don’t really like the way that I wrote this. I hope you guys like it more than I do!

It was rare to find someone with a hobby like yours where you lived, sequestered between mountain peaks that scraped the sky and a hundred miles from the big city.

Since you were a kid, you’ve always been a little different from everyone else. Not enough that you were labeled a ‘problem child’; you always played nicely with the other kids, were invited to birthday parties, post-prom bashes, went on dates, and the like.

Rather, it had always felt like you were disconnected from the goings-on in your hometown. You floated through life, head in the clouds, feet firmly planted in the earth, and your eyes affixed to the brightest star in the sky.

Since you could speak, your fascination for the heavens had blossomed like cherry blossoms in spring. Glow in the dark stars? Plastered across every inch of wall space in your room. Astronaut stickers? The bane of your mother, who found them stuck in increasingly improbable places throughout the house. Star Wars? Played on almost every family movie night.

You consumed space documentaries with a rabid hunger that could only be quenched by Neil Degrasse Tyson’s calm voice. Every weekend your dad made a point to drive you out to some remote point in the wilderness, indulging your fantasies happily. There are probably pictures of you in your little astronaut costume, decked out for career day, rotting away in the attic of the old house.

Which, of course, is all just a long way of saying you thought stars were really cool.

‘Daddy,’ you’d asked one day as you’d lain in the backyard, staring up at the limitless expanse of the night sky. Your mother had put the kibosh on your father driving at so late an hour, so you had to make do with what you had at home.

You pointed towards a certain star that’d caught your attention, glowing brightly despite the light pollution from town. ‘What’s that one called?’

‘Sirius’, your father had told you, as you lay on your backs in the yard. ‘It’s the brightest star in the sky, besides the sun.’

The long summer grass had tickled at the exposed flesh on your arms and legs, but it was easy to ignore the sensation when you could watch as the Milky Way spread her arms wide across the sky. Fireflies danced through the air, thick with the cool, sweet scent of crushed plant life, and the playful breeze whipped the trees into a rainstorm of sound.

Your father had grinned, cheek pressed to the earth, crow’s feet as deep as crevasses crinkling at the corners of his eyes. All fondness. The stars had glimmered like diamonds in the sky. Even the wind seemed to laugh. For one shining moment, you had been, perfectly, incandescently happy.

Then he died, and everything changed.

It was difficult, even now, for you to recall the months that passed after your father’s death. There were no words that you could express that could capture the pain, the longing, the pure, unadulterated grief that had consumed you. Even the stars that had guided you for so long had lost their appeal.

It was even more difficult for you to recall what had happened with your mother.

You may have been young before, but you were far from stupid. You understood that, while your father may have been thrilled with your hobby, your mother was more critical.

To her, it was a distraction from what you needed to be doing: studying, forming bonds with your peers, and getting a good night’s sleep so you wouldn’t nod off in class. Although nobody acknowledged it, she’d always looked… disappointed, whenever she watched the other parents with their ‘normal’ children. Like she would easily trade one of them for you.

After the funeral, there was no one left to protect you when the dam finally broke.

You sighed heavily, the warm rush of breath doing nothing to assuage your body’s protests as heat coiled through your aching muscles. Shouldering the bag strapped to your back, you winced as you heard the heavy metal clink of the parts inside knocking together, and forged onwards; the winding forest trail ahead lit only by the sun’s dying light.

It had been many, many years since that day, and although you hadn’t seen your mother for the better part of a decade, the half-healed scars she’d left behind still smarted. You had made a point not to think about it too much anymore- what’s done is done, and living in the past only served to ruin your future.

(You would know.)

No- rather than digging up the long-buried interpersonal issues you would like to keep buried, thankyouverymuch, today you were hiking out into the woods to see a rare meteorological phenomenon that you had been looking forward to for the past year: the hunter’s moon.

You bit back a grin at the thought of it, unconsciously picking up the pace. Your second most favorite thing in the world was still looking at the stars and all the celestial bodies found in the evening sky, no matter how much your mother had tried to beat it down with harsh words and a cookie-cutter mold to force you into.

Sometimes you had to remind yourself that she hadn’t won. In the end, the only thing that she succeeded in was driving you further away from the ‘ideal child’ she wanted you to be- the ‘ideal child’ that she wanted to own.

Now? You belonged to nothing and nobody except the wilderness.

The wind raked icy claws through the trees overhead, the rush of leaves a rainstorm of darkening autumn colors and sound. It grabbed at your jacket, your bag; it pushed your body forward, almost as if it was as impatient for you to get where you were going as you were.

Birds flitting through the trees had already begun to transition from the day-dwelling species to the nocturnal- the simple two-note song of the chickadee replaced with the low, sonorous hoo-hoos of owls.

The singing of crickets that you had grown so used to in the summer was notably absent, though not surprising. It had already begun to get colder as the earth drew near to the end of its cycle around the sun, and most of the bugs had either died, migrated away, or started to hibernate.

You scratched at your arm with a scowl. Except for the mosquitos, apparently.

It didn’t take long for you to see the break in the line of the trees, and you stepped out into an isolated rock outcropping that jutted out of the mountainside, looking out over the valley below. No clouds obscured your view of the sky, leaving it an unbroken swathe of blood-orange, amber, and roseate hues.

The sun was already beginning to sink below the horizon line, swallowed by a cragged maw of cliff peaks and finally illuminating the moon’s face as it marched westward towards its zenith. The moon hung in the sky like the pendant of a queen’s necklace, large, pale, and uncharacteristically grapefruit-like- almost as though it had been stained by the last remnants of sunlight.

Gravel and drying grass crunched under your feet as you made your way closer to the edge of the point, where a large, weathered stone was wedged deep into the earth. You were glad that you had chosen to wear pants. As you stepped carefully around the mountainous scrub bushes, tall grasses, and wildflowers that dotted the clearing, prickly vines snagged at the fabric, foiled in their plans to mutilate your legs.

You sighed, a small, secret smile playing at the edges of your lips as you stopped just shy of the drop-off, letting your bag roll off your shoulder and onto the ground with a metallic thump. You could enjoy the scenery later- you had work to do.

Before you could begin to assemble your telescope, however, the sounds of the forest that you had grown so accustomed to vanished. The birds, the gentle swaying of the greenery in the breeze- even the stars just beginning to dot the sky seemed to hush.

And then, a howl.

It echoed through the valley, long and musical, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. Your heart began to race in your chest, pounding against your ribcage like a trapped bird might a glass window.

However, you were not afraid. You did not bolt from your spot on the hill, or cower, or even shiver as the sound died out into a whisper of an echo. Nor did you flinch at the dry sound of branches snapping rang out from behind you.

The wind picked up, whipping past you to blow in the direction of the line of bushes and brambles that bracketed the treeline.

You dropped your shoulders and tipped your head back. Sighed breathlessly. Then turned around, hands fisted against your hips.

“Now, I may be human, but I’m not deaf, y’know.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of air whistling around you. Then, a lone figure stepped out from underneath the shelter of the forest’s shadow and into the blueness of the night; a wolf.

It was much larger than any other wild animal that you’d come across on hikes (including the black bear that you’d stumbled into once), towering up to a height that you estimated as a little over a meter, even as it stood a good distance away at the edge of the plain. It was gangly in the way that all young things are, marking it as a half-grown pup instead of a full adult.

Although moonbeams painted its outer coat- the guard hairs- silver, you knew that the pelt underneath was a tricolored mixture of pale gold, dusky brown, and the faintest hint of dark grey. It rippled as the wolf moved closer, shoving its ears forward until they strained against the muscle.

The wolf’s eyes were startling- clear and blue as the alpine flowers that dotted the clearing, and unerringly fixed on yours. What was all the more noticeable, though, was the uncanny intelligence that gleamed within their depths; an intelligence that demanded to be recognized for what it was, and not just explained away as an animal’s predatory gaze.

Your eyebrow ticked up, lips pursing.

The wolf’s tail wagged once. Twice.

You blanched.

“Purpled, no.”

In a blink, you were knocked flat on your back, and you wheezed as a heavy paw pinned your ribcage to the ground. You could barely even begin to fend off a barrage of happy wolf licks as a wet, slimy tongue swiped across your face.

“What the fuck-” you wheezed, spluttering as the young wolf made another attempt at your face. “Dude!”

He licked his jowls smugly, then yelped as you shoved his face away with a hand, wiping the drool soaked into your hands onto his pristine fur coat. Purpled growled without any heat, whuffling at the shiny trails that your fingers at left.

“You’re so gross. I’ve never met a werewolf as singularly gross as you,” you muttered, wiping at your mouth with the collar of your shirt. You glared. “Happy now, asshole?”

Purpled grinned wolfishly, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He was, indeed, very pleased with himself.

Pushing at his broad chest, you managed to heave the furry menace off your body and send him tumbling to the dusty ground. Content with the havoc that he’d wreaked, he let you, perfectly happy to lie on his back as you brushed yourself off, grumbling about ‘stupid werewolves and their stupid puppy faces.’

If you hadn’t clued into it by now: yes, werewolves exist. The information isn’t exactly new to you, given that you’d been enduring Purpled’s wolfish assholery for the better part of two years- though, it was certainly a shock the first time he’d decided to straight-up tackle you.

“Every time I see you, you pull shit like this,” you sighed dramatically, tipping your head back. “Makes me feel bad for Punz. I only get to see you like, what? Once every month or so? And I can barely stand it.”

The young wolf made a sharp noise of protest, and, before you could blink, a teenager had appeared in place of the beast. Although he was still eighteen, he was all long limbs and no filling. His dirty blonde hair was ruffled, sticking up in every direction. His signature purple hoodie was rumpled. He was wearing basketball shorts in the middle of Autumn.

You pressed a fist to your mouth in an attempt to stifle a laugh. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed.

Purpled stretched, popping the vertebrae of his spine one by one until he was on his tip-toes. Then, and only then, he regarded you with a cool blue gaze.

“Excuse you, I am a fucking gift.”

“Where’s your brother?” you asked, completely ignoring him. “I thought you two were supposed to travel together.”

Purpled rolled his eyes. “And spend the rest of my night watching you make moon-eyes at each other? Uh, no thanks. I wanted to avoid the romance as much as I possibly could.”

You stared at him, deadpan.

“Then why did you insist on third-wheeling?”

He coughed, the tips of his ears going red, but you were distracted as your gaze flickered behind him, jumping towards the movement of another body emerging from the woods.

Punz halted a foot away watching the both of you with a mischievous expression. They were wearing their trademark hoodie, the one that was always suspiciously spotless despite them basically living in the woods, and a pair of ripped jeans and hiking boots.

His face was flushed slightly, and his breathing was heavier than normal, almost as though he’d been running recently. Which, if you had to hazard a guess, he had, given the knowledge that his pack’s territory encompassed the entire valley. He could’ve been in any part of it and had to hurry to make the meetup time.

You grinned helplessly, your heart doing that giddy little hop-skip stutter it always made when you saw them, and shyly tilted your head to the side as they approached. Their long stride allowed them to cover ground quickly, and before you knew it, they were winding an arm around your shoulder as you sunk into the heat radiating off their body.

“Hey,” you said, aiming for something cool, composed, and collected- and failing miserably. He grinned, all sharp teeth and teasing eyes, and chuckled. “Hey yourself.”

Punz hummed, the sound rumbling in his chest, and pressed a kiss to your cheek, stubble scraping against the tender flesh. Before he could pull away, quick as a snake you grabbed his jaw and pulled him into a proper press of mouth-on-mouth, feeling his lips curl into a grin against yours.

Purpled made a gagging noise, and the two of you pulled away. You stuck your tongue out at him.

“The both of you seemed like you were having fun,” Punz said idly, a hand coming up to cup the nape of your neck.

The teen shot his brother a disgusted look, still somehow able to maintain the impassive facade that he always seemed to wear. You snickered.

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

It took only a few minutes to assemble the telescope that you had lugged all the way into the wilderness, but by the time you finished, the moon was already riding high in the sky. The slight color distortion that had turned it from its usual white to pale orange hadn’t faded- rather the opposite.

Looking through the lens, even the craters appeared to be a deep pumpkin color. Fitting for the season, you supposed.

The boys had settled a little bit away from where you crouched, staring up at the sky. While Purpled had pulled out his phone, Punz’s gaze was focused solely on you as you worked, the beginnings of a smile turning his eyes into little crescents.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so excited,” he mused, tilting his head. His hair, so similar in color to his brother’s, shifted with the movement, and you found yourself suddenly overcome with the urge to run your fingers through it. You shook your head minutely. Stars now, snogging later.

You chewed on the corner of your lip. “Really?”

Punz grinned. “Yeah, you’re bouncing all over the place.”

Feeling your face heat, you scoffed. There was no malice in the action, however, and by the stupid, smug smirk on Punz’s face, he knew it.

You hesitated, settling your fingers on the grooves of the telescope dials.

“Come on, tell me about the stars,” he goaded gently. “I know you want to.”

It was easy to give in. It always was.

The air was cool, and the ground had long lost most of its daytime warmth, but you felt perfectly fine as Punz tucked you under his hoodie, face just barely able to peek out of the neck hole. He rested his chin on your head, and you felt his whole body rumble beneath your back; you thought it was an awful lot like a purr, but knew that he would be offended if you compared him to a damn vampire.

“Well,” you started slowly, eyes large and glossy as you watched the stars turn overhead. “I know that full moons are already special to werewolves, but this one is even… more? If that makes sense?”

“How so?”

“You know the autumn equinox? It’s one of the only two times of the year when the day is the same length as the night. The other one is the spring equinox.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this moon is the one that comes right after the autumn equinox moon, but because it's so close, it’s still affected by it. Haven’t you noticed the color? And how the sky is waayyy brighter than usual?”

Punz shifted, and you know that he was looking for what you’d pointed out.

“Huh,” he murmured after a pause, the hand on your hip squeezing slightly. “I guess you’re right.”

You snorted. “How could you not notice? It’s normally pitch black out here.”

“Maybe to your puny human eyes.”

You turned around (as much as you were able to, anyways) and smacked him in the chest. He made a mock wound of hurt, then a startled laugh as you wriggled out of his hoodie, stumbling away on giddy legs.

Darting away, you ran around the edge of the clearing, taunting him. Like always, Punz was quick to follow, the shift to his wolf form instantaneous.

Purpled looked up from his phone, taking in the scene. Punz nipped at your jacket playfully, each of his teeth about as long as your pinky finger. Unafraid, you bopped him on the nose and danced away.

He wrinkled his nose.

“God, you two are disgusting.”

@blufr0st @itsonlydana @amearla @bapthadapper @redactedsouls @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden @lunarheartsposts

#mori's monster series #a meal for the children #dream smp x reader #dream smp x you #dream smp x y/n #dsmp x reader #dsmp x you #dsmp x y/n #mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #mcyt x y/n #punz x reader #punz x you #punz x y/n #c!punz #c!purpled #tw: language #tw: implied/referenced child abuse #tw: death mention

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runelocked · 6 months

Note

❝ you passed out, i carried you here. ❞ — vanessa @hazardess , but she’s bitter about it

FEVERISH MUTTERING HAD HAUNTED HIM ALL NIGHT, ALL DAY, AND THE LAST MEMORY HE HAS IS LEAVING THE PIZZERIA, still shivering uncontrollably in the heat of the sticky summer sun. Head aching, angrily waving off his daughter’s questions: I’m fine, he remembers snapping, more of a groan than anything else, I just need air. Don’t you even think about. . .

The rest is a sliding, slippery blur. Despite everything he’s done and the lengths he’s gone to, it seems he’s still just as human as ever.

That’s the really terrifying part.

He can barely even face lifting his head from the makeshift pillow Vanessa has propped under him, the whole world tilting precariously on an axis of its own bearing. But he does: persists in rising, his pale face ghostly and off - color. Even trying to keep his daughter in focus hurts. She blurs in front of him, fades in and out between the little girl he’d initially doted on and the young woman he knows logically that she is. Is this his fever - addled brain trying to offer him a reprieve from the disappointment he feels his daughter has become ? – Clumsily reaches out for her, words heavy and absent.

“ ‘S a good girl, Ness. Always so helpful. ” Her father’s right hand man, through and through. Remembers getting her to hold his tools as he’d painstakingly built that old Spring - Bonnie suit, his pride and joy; remembers more recently handing her his knife to wash. Clean that up for me. We’ve done well today. Both killers. Nobody suspects him, of course they don’t. Confident words and faux charming smile keeping him out of public scrutiny, the loss of his own son only years before at the hands of his daughter.

He smiles that same smile now, but it’s pathetic. Laden with the sudden realization he feels helpless for the first time in a long time. If she’d wanted to kill him, she could have. Ended it all. He wouldn’t have even known. Maybe that’s why he addresses her now, in an exhausted facsimile of love he’d once shown her as a young child. “ Help me stand. [...] How long ‘s it been ? ” How long has he been lying there, human, vulnerable ? How long has she been watching over him; how long has she served her duty to him loyally today ?

#(( I THINK I REMEMBER SEEING YOUR VANESSA USED TO HAVE A YOUNGER BROTHER SO I INCLUDED THAT !!! if it's wrong tho lmk :3 ))#(ii) man behind the slaughter — roleplay thread.#(ui) original: standard.#tw child death #tw child murder #tw mental instability #tw sickness #tw hallucinations #tw illness #tw child abuse #tw dysfunctional family #( most just referenced / implied ! )#a; hazardess #(oxo) rabbit in the headlights: william & vanessa.#(xi) ‘the owner was pretty sentimental i guess 🤭’: movie verse.

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legends-of-time · 3 months

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Strength of a High and Noble Hill (Outlander Story) - Masterlist

Timelines:

19th and 20th Centuries

17th and 18th Centuries

Fraser Descendants (family tree)

Warnings:

Major Character Death, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Racism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con

Summary:

May 1744

He wriggles his toes, feeling his environment. He quickly realises how much his surroundings are constricted, his legs are tightly bound and he is being cradled in someone’s arms. He opens his eyes and sees a woman leaning over him and realises she must be the one holding them. She’s humming softly with a warm and happy smile. He can see that her skin is clammy and there are bruises under her eyes, the eyes that are amber, golden-brown as well as smoky topaz, but that doesn’t dim her smile as she gazes upon the person in her arms. She’s white and her brown hair surrounds her face in messy curls.

——

What if Claire and Jamie’s first baby survived and what if it had been a boy. How will the story change?

Chapters:

Chapter 1: Birth

Chapter 2: First Months

Chapter 3: Peaceful Family Life Disrupted

Chapter 4: Goodbyes

Chapter 5: New Beginnings

Chapter 6: A Fish Out of Water

Chapter 7: Conflict

Chapter 8: Sister

Chapter 9: Returning

Chapter 10: The Truth

Chapter 11: The Loss of Hope

Chapter 12: Coping with Change

Chapter 13: Finding Him

Chapter 14: Moving to the Past

Chapter 15: Loss

Chapter 16: Lost Family

Chapter 17: A New but Old World

Chapter 18: Reunited at Last

Chapter 19: Big Brother

Chapter 20: Coming Together

Chapter 21: Fathers

Chapter 22: Dreams

Chapter 23: Fathers and Their Archaic Ways

Chapter 24: River Run

Chapter 25: A New but Old Face

Chapter 26: Caught in the Act

Chapter 27: Family Time

Chapter 28: New Beginnings

Chapter 29: Waiting

Chapter 30: Old Dreams

Chapter 31: Inferiority Complex

Chapter 32: Community Swelling

Chapter 33: Purpose

Chapter 34: First Sight

Chapter 35: Is it Happily Ever After?

Chapter 36: Gifts and Awkward Conversations

Chapter 37: Unravels

Chapter 38: Lay Up Trouble For Yourself

Chapter 39: War Wins Land, Peace Wins People

Chapter 40: Life Goes On But The Threat Looms

Chapter 41: Building Arsenal

Chapter 42: Romeo and Juliet

Chapter 43: Baggage Weighs You Down

Chapter 44: Misunderstandings

Chapter 45: Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

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elliot-needs-sleep · 6 months

Text

Red

Fandom: Dream Smp

Fic Type: Short form

Characters: Tommy, Dream, Wilbur, Niki, Sam (mentioned)

Word count: 572

TW: ASSAULT (IMPLIED), MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, HEALING FROM TRAUMA AND ABUSE

Tommy was stuck in this cell. He just needed Sam to come back. That's all he needed.

He sat on the opposite side of the cell from Dream, near the door in case he decided to risk it with the lava instead. Where was Sam? Wasn't he supposed to come back?

"No one will find you, you know." Dream chuckles to himself, and Tommy sends him a glare, trying to hide how badly being stuck in here was causing him to shake.

"Sam will be back." Was all Tommy said in response, curling in on himself while staring at the door on the other side of the lava. "He promised me."

Dream scoffs, and Tommy doesn't turn to look at him. He doesn't want to see the stupid smiley face on his mask or the scars all over his hands. He pretends he's alone, being stuck in this cell alone would be a dream compared to being stuck in here with... Well, Dream.

----

Sam was not back. Tommy still sat in his corner, staring at the door, ignoring Dream when he was offered a potato for dinner.

"Tommy, you need to eat, ya know." Dream had told him, and Tommy only looked up at him.

"Fuck you, Dream. You're the whole fucking reason I'm stuck in here. Puffy said I should talk to you one last time, to let go, but I wouldn't have even had to SEE Puffy if it weren't for you!" His voice was low, and it was very obvious that Tommy was seething.

"Now, now, you can't be mad at me for telling you the truth, Tommy." Dream chuckled, and Tommy was on his feet in a minute.

"Except it isn't the truth, Dream! You're a fucking liar and you just like breaking people so you can feel powerful." Tommy had both hands on Dream's chest, shoving him across the cell.

"But here's the thing, Dream. You're weak. You keep people around who are weaker then you, break down people so that they're weaker then you, so that they stay beside you." Tommy stood in front of Dream, still glaring at him, when Dream tilted his head at him.

And laughed.

"I can show you weak, Tommy."

----

'Tommyinnit was slain by Dream'

----

Tommy sat straight up, coughing and wheezing, only realizing that he was outside again when he got his breathing under control.

"Hello, Toms." Tommy turned his head to stare at Wilbur, and sat there staring at him for quite a long time.

"We're matching now, you know." Wilbur smirks slightly at Tommy, who's gaze shoots up to his hair, pulling chunks straight to look at them. When he notices the large white streak in his hair, he glares at it.

"I don't want to match with you." His voice is quiet, and Wilbur can hear how far away he sounds. He sighs, offering his hand to Tommy.

"C'mon, then. I think Niki has some hair dye left. You could go red." Tommy eyes Wilbur for a second before letting him help him up, smiling slightly.

----

"Red was a good choice." Tommy says quietly, staring at the bathroom mirror in Niki's house, both Niki and Wilbur standing in the door, smiling at him.

His hair wasn't all red, just streaks and the tips, covering all of the white streaks from his revival. And it was the opposite of Dream's colour.

It was perfect.

#whumptober 2023 #no 11 #no one will find you #dsmp #dream smp #short ficlet #major character death tw #character dealing with the aftermath of abuse tw #implied and slightly referenced trauma tw #elliotiswriting #dsmp tommy #dream smp tommy #dsmp dream #dream smp dream #dsmp wilbur #dream smp wilbur #divider by cafekitsune

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highcaliberstupidity · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Day 5 In the End Rating Explicit CW's/Tags Main Character Death, Implied/Referenced MCD, Price is shot at the end, everyone in the 141 is dead and it is mentioned/brought up, it's straight angst, just all angst Characters John Price, Valdimir Makarov Summary

He’s not even sure what he’s holding out for. No one is coming for him. There’s no one left to come for him.

Jonathan Price was many things.

But delusional was not one of them.

Still, a tiny part of him, withered with time and gun smoke and danger, had hoped he might pass peacefully.

Instead he’s trapped, a slab of concrete twice as wide as he is tall, pinning him from the waist down. Another’s layered over it, the corner stabbing into his shoulder, chunks of rebar digging into his chest.

It hurts, hurts enough that he’s slipping in and out of consciousness more than he can count.

He’s not even sure what he’s holding out for.

No one is coming for him.

There’s no one left to come for him.

This had been their last stand, Sterling Lines, a once grand base, now nothing more than a shelled-out and brittle complex. It’s kind of ironic, dying where he started, where he became more than just a soldier.

Where he became Lieutenant, where he became Captain .

It’s where he spent the better part of his thirty-seven years on earth. It’s where he trained men like Soap, where he put men like Ghost back together, where he lifted young men like Gaz up for recognition.

Sterling Lines had been his home.

Sterling Lines had been their home.

Fitting, that he would die here, amongst the rubble of a place that held nearly every happy memory he held so carefully to his chest. Where he’d laughed, where he’d fought, where he’d found family and friends.

The sound of movement in the debris grabs his attention, and he shifts his head what little he can.

It’s dark out, stars filling the sky as fire illuminates the rubble.

“Ah, I was hoping you were still alive.” A smiling, pale face comes into view, floating over the rubble as the dark shapes of helmeted soldiers pour around him. “The great Jonathan Price, finally brought to heel.”

“Makarov.” It comes out guttural and wheezed, agonized . The man's smile curls ever larger, nearly splitting his face in two like some macabre creature.

“It has been a long time coming, Captain.” He hums, stepping closer as his eyes roam, taking in the scene. He knows he has him now, caught and helpless.

At his mercy.

“How many years now, have we played this silly game of cat and mouse?” His head tilts, as he squats by his side, toying now with a pistol Price didn’t see him draw. He doesn’t answer, won’t give him the satisfaction. He will die with at least a touch of his dignity in tack. But he doesn’t seem to care. “Nearly ten years, I believe. Well before you forged your precious task force.” He makes a face, expression sour at the words. “You’ve been a thorn in my side for far, far too long.”

Price only stares back, eyes cold and cutting, fingers itching for a gun, a knife, anything .

“I must admit, it’s a shame.” Eyes filled with mocking sorrow lift to his own, and he wants to spit at him. “I truly wish your little band of miscreants could have been here to see this.” The sorrow turns to glee, lips splitting as he grins again. “A true shame, that all of it was for nothing.”

Price begins to squirm again, wheezing and snarling as he shoves against the immovable debris holding him pinned. He’ll kill him, he has no fucking right to speak of them.

“Well, there is one silver lining I suppose.” He chuckles when Price’s exhaustion finally forces his struggles to abate, his limbs numb and limp as he bares his teeth. “They aren’t here to see your failure.” Makarov shrugs, lips pursing in thought. “They all looked up to you, such loyal little dogs, even to the last one. What was his name, Klint, Ken, hmm, no, Kyle! Yes, that was his name. Kyle Garrick, Gaz .”

Jonathan isn’t a man that cries, or at least, he wasn’t .

He thinks he’s cried more tears in the past six months than he has in years .

But here he is, hot tears mixing with blood and tracking down through the grime of his face as his strength saps farther and farther.

“He cared so much for you, so loyal to the bitter end. I admired his strength, his tenacity .” The sick bastard almost looks fond as he speaks, fingers running absentmindedly over his pistol grip. “But oh, it was so worth the look on your face when I put a bullet in his forehead on that bridge.” And he laughs, laughs when Price turns away, teeth gritting as he sobs .

Gaz had been a good fucking man , better than anyone Price had met. Better than himself .

And it was Price’s fault he was gone .

It was Price’s fault that all of them were gone.

Farah to a sniper, Alex to a rogue piece of shrapnel, Soap to a bomb he couldn’t diffuse, Ghost to a swarm of Konni, even Laswell and Nikolai, their helo shot down.

Gaz had been the last piece of his cobbled-together family, had been the last thing keeping him sane .

He’d failed them all. Hadn’t protected them, had led them to their fates.

Makarov’s still speaking, but he isn’t listening now, everything slowly slipping away as his body grows weaker and colder.

It’s his fault they're gone, and soon… He’ll be right there with him.

Another name lost to history.

A tap on his cheek brings him back, finds Makarov looking down at him with an expression that almost looks… Sympathetic.

“I believe I will choose kindness today, Jonathan.” And he wants to scream because kindness from men like him is leaving them alive and broken so that they have to live with the weight of their sins and failures.

And he can’t .

He can’t .

So when he cocks the gleaming pistol in his hands, Price nearly sobs with relief.

“May your next life be easy, Jonathan.” His expression remains the same, real , and Price needs to know why .

“W-Why.” It’s barely audible, and for just a moment, he doesn’t think the man hears him, as he brings the pistol to bare.

“Because you were a worthy opponent, Captain. I had fun, with this game of ours. I believe that entitles you to something, does it not? I would only hope the same for myself.” He says it softly, with weight , and Price doesn’t understand, won’t try to.

There isn’t enough time for him to decipher it anyway.

“Thank you.” He manages to grate out, his words small and broken, sounding more like a breath than speech.

“Goodbye, Jonathan.” Theres a click, audible, as Price lets his eyes slip shut one last time.

And then blissful nothing.

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