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w0lp3rtinger · 3 months

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Becoming

*screaming*

ANYWAY HI I'VE BEEN REALLY EXCITED TO SHARE THIS! This is the piece I wrote and submitted for the @shadamyzine! In fact, @deadrabbithq on tumblr did illustrations for it! They turned out awesome! alskjdflsj I DIDN'T KNOW THEY WERE GONNA DO THAT AND I'M SO HAPPY!!! THEY TURNED OUT GREAT <3 <3

Okay so this piece is weird. You know that Jacket Shadow has in that calendar piece? The one where ShadAmy fans, accustomed to crumbs, lost their shit because Shadow and Amy were next to one another on the calendar and had matching cherry blossom motifs and Shadow had That Fucking Cherry Blossom Jacket??? THAT JACKET??? It has a GRIP on my SOUL can you tell can you fucking TELL?????

BECAUSE THIS WHOLE PIECE- IT'S AN ABSTRACT PERSONIFICATION PIECE IN PURPLE PROSE... FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE JACKET.

(I can't find the actual official art but in lieu of that PLEASE go check out @kuroiyuki96-art amazing piece here and maybe you'll understand how I went Fucking Feral over it.)

Anyway XD

Hats of and huge thanks to @shadowsfascination and @killingthecringe! They are the ones who beta-read this!

YOU CAN READ IT ON ARCHIVE HERE! (but I REALLY recommend reading it on the Zine which you can find HERE!)

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It comes about in a slow series of moments, the act of Becoming.

Like the rain that drums its lazy fingers atop the roof of the warehouse, then the attic window, then the storage shed. It is a measured tattoo across the decades of time just as much as the footsteps of the mice, the fluttering of the moths, the creeping of the yellow across pristine white leather and gentle fading of brilliant reds.

It is moved from box to box. A game piece in the shuffling and settling of affairs. Something to be bartered and sold. It’s neat and tidy for a while. Then, a business closes. An estate liquifies. The box is suddenly adrift on tides of time and paperwork.

This Prenatal Dark seems to stretch forever, but then, it always does. That is the way of things. The Becoming cannot happen yet. The Wait must occur. It is the silence Beforehand, the Eternity predating the Infinity, and the Infinity is the Rest of Existence in Becoming.

Because eventually, there is light. Eventually, there’s a young woman who peels back the cardboard and runs her hands down unyielding buttons and a stiff wool front, and the smile she gives outshines the sun.

That’s where it starts.

Infinity unrolls in the hours she has taken to looking at the future, walking around still-creased edges thrown over her mother’s dress form. Sometimes she’s sketching on scratch paper, face scrunched like all of the discarded waste around her bare feet. Sometimes, she’s holding up threads against the faded reds and yellowed whites, clicking her tongue as she checks the morning, the afternoon, the evening light against the colours of what is and the colours of what will Become.

But Infinity is a long time. Becoming is not easy, and eventually, the Becoming takes on the tune of maple seeds pelting her open bedroom window in a breeze that smells of coming summer. Meanwhile, the ground outside is littered with browning pink blossoms.

She wears it, thinking of the Past, thinking of Eternity, and she’s crying. Her tears are salty on musty cuffs.

When her mother comes in to ask what is wrong, she talks about being Late, about taking too long, about overthinking everything.

But there is never a Too Late in Becoming.

Her mother says this to her, and it can be felt in every Fiber of Being. It sinks into the Stitching of Everything, along with the salty tears, along with the heavy smell of late spring.

There’s Hope in Becoming.

She tries again. Tries harder, truly, this time. There’s a shaking in her hands against the flat of red wool as she traces her twirling thoughts out in soft chalk against the wide expanse of space, Immortalized as a part of the Becoming, taking form one stitch at a time across Being.

Her Learning Hands guide the Change, to a point.

Some things, they happen Intentionally, with Purpose. Some things, they happen by chance. Perhaps they could be called Accidents, but she has Learning Hands. She leaves no Accidents.

She adapts, and just like the branches she stitches, she Grows.

There are no silken threads. They are solid quilting threads, this shape of Becoming that spreads out between her fingers. From limb, to branch, to twig. From each petal, stamen, anther. They are built to last with a Heart that wields Love like a hammer.

Sturdy. Strong. Real.

There’s mass to that sort of Love. It sits in the chest and in the palms of hands as a comfortable weight. It solidifies the Infinity of Becoming in a way nothing else can.

It rests astride the shoulders like a set of warm hands.

It says, ‘Become whatever it is you will to Become. I will Love you anyway.’

And so, such things happen.

And eventually, they are Blooming with so much Becoming that they put the spring outside to shame. Gilded in brilliant Colour and Texture, they are so Full that they threaten to burst from it. When she wears them outside one day when the world is Pristine and Still under moonlight, they blister like a solar flare against the white.

And she’s whispering. It’s the darkest night of the year, here out in the cold, and she’s whispering into the cuffs.

“You will take care of them.”

She keeps repeating, gripping them tight in her hands as she holds them to her mouth. She keeps repeating with her eyes wide on the moon, watching the movements of something that cannot be seen. She keeps repeating. It’s something between a hope and a wish and a threat.

“You WILL take care of them.”

And it’s Love.

Love. It’s all Love. That’s all it ever was, the all of it, the everything, of Love. It makes so much sense now, the Everything of it All.

It rings in the still silence of deep winter. It shakes the snow from distant trees and sends the night birds into the sky.

But then, there is more Wait.

And it is a long Wait.

So busy and bustling was the Becoming that they had almost forgotten the Waiting part of it all. But there’s a Fear that must be thawed out.

It could almost be missed, but it is there, slow-moving in deep waters, far below where the sunny disposition shines. It is there and it drifts but slowly, all husk and tatters and old wounds. It takes a long time before bravery can thaw those waters. There are many talks over the kitchen table. There are many hours of baking in the kitchen, of turning the eggs into frothy whites, stiff as snow drifts.

She wears her Effort and her Love through it all, as though her own Becoming takes place from the outside in, but that’s not how this works. It has to come from inside first. That’s one of the core tenets of Becoming.

Nobody can Become for you. You have to Become for you.

The Planning, the Stitching, the Waiting. Maybe they were the acts into which she thrust herself, threw herself upon the task, but the Becoming still happened on the inside of all of that.

For every Action, there is an equal and opposite Reaction.

For in your path of Creation, you Become.

Snow drifts melt. Spring is brave.

All the world comes into a dawn of oranges and pinks and baby greens, all dig deep down one last time before leaping up, like a heart in a throat, like a pitched voice, like a question, like a-

She never Plans when she holds her Heart out, not really. It’s just the brute force of her thrust forward, stitched there in red wool, where each thread rises like a crocus from the frozen ground. What is done cannot be taken back.

You cannot un-Become.

The Still that follows is deafening. The Waiting of an instant feels like a lifetime, a cable of steel splitting it down the seam between their wide and watchful eyes.

And for all their winter, for all their waiting in the silence, in an instant, it becomes so clear-

Of course they Love her.

Love her, Love her, for she is Becoming, as they are Becoming.

And it gilds the shoulders, protects the back and arms, shields the heart by splitting it wide open down the forward facing front, towards the sunrise, towards her bright and shining eyes.

A Safe Haven, enabling vulnerability.

What terror.

What bliss.

They have Loved this entire time.

And here, now they Become One.

#shadamy #shadow the hedgehog #amy rose #shadamy zine 2023 #sonic #sega #sth #REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE #library #shadowxamy

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separatist-apologist · 9 months

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Love Is A Lie

Summary: After her mothers death, Arina goes from the well-loved daughter of a nobleman to a servant in his home. She dreams of escaping to the coast and making her own way, and when she learns of a ball the King of Avalon is hosting to pick a wife, Arina sees her chance. With a little help from a fairy godmother, Arina agrees to exchange a favor for one night with the King.

But Eris Vanserra has other plans when they meet, and Arina isn't sure she's ready for the consequences of one night dancing at a ball.

Part Two of OUAT series

Read on AO3

Every morning started with a bell ringing. It was the one modification to Arina’s bedroom she loathed more than any other. Attached to a wire in the wall, her stepmother could ring for her anywhere in the house rather than call for her. Why treat Arina like a person when she could treat her like an animal?

Groaning, Arina pushed herself out of bed. Still exhausted from a night spent up way too late sewing another dress so when she met the King of Avalon a second time, she didn’t look so terrible. His sneering countenance was burned in her mind, his clipped words as he acknowledged her branded like an iron just behind her eyes. He’d been…well…he’d been everything, though she didn’t dare admit that. Even if her father hadn’t given in to her step-mothers ugliest impulses and Arina could have met him on even ground, he wouldn’t have treated her any better.

Why was she thinking about him at all? Maybe because his court was warm and open and the new king was making a name for himself as someone who took in those that had nowhere to go. Arina doubted she’d be welcomed into his home, but perhaps she could beg him for sanctuary so when her father came looking, he couldn’t just drag her right back.

All the girls she’d grown up with were married now, and her family kept her indoors to work off debts Arina had never seen. The dress was necessary to prove she was more than the flea bitten dog her father had paraded her around as. If the king could see her humanity, surely he’d shield her, right?

There was no reprieve for Arina in the mornings. Her step-mother ran her ragged, inventing chores when there was nothing left until night had fallen and Arina ought to sleep. Working by candle light for the last month, she’d begun stitching an intricate pink and gold dress for the upcoming ball. They said the king intended to pick his wife that night, which made it the perfect place for Arina to slip in, convince him or someone close to him to intervene on her behalf before she took off for a coastal city.

She’d take up work—ideally in a library if she could convince someone of her merit. She’d had to give up schooling almost ten years ago when her father remarried, and Arina, who’d once been a promising scholar, was likely lagging so far behind that no one would want her. She could always try sewing, she reminded herself.

In truth, Arina would do anything if it meant she never had to step foot in the musty attic she now lived in. No longer a lady, no longer a person. Arina was given no time to think about herself, braiding her thick, blonde hair quickly as she made her way down the stairs in old slippers so worn there were holes where her toes ought to have been, and a dress that desperately needed to be washed.

It would be another midnight bath in the river just behind the house, quickly washing her skin and hair before carefully soaping her dress so it didn’t unspool into thread. Arina shuddered at the thought of the cold, spring water. It was safer out there than in the house, where someone might report back that she’d been wasting water, which was another mark in her impossible ledger.

Food, too, though that couldn’t be helped. There had been a time where she attempted to forage in the woods for food and all she’d gotten for her trouble was miserably sick—a doctor cost money, too.

Besides, Arina never wanted to hear her step-mother breathlessly praying to the gods that Arina would die. All over Arina’s face—too pretty, too young. As if Arina could help any of those things. She had her fathers blonde hair and his green eyes, but everything else belonged to her mother. Unblemished, golden brown skin, and features arranged so pleasantly that even covered in soot, men still made marriage offers in the street when they saw her.

Arina knew the truth of it all, though.

Love is a lie, her mother had whispered on her deathbed, clutching Arina’s hand as fever ravaged her frail body. Her parents had been a famous love match according to the society papers—but behind closed doors, her father was cold and cruel. Indifferent at the best of times, vicious at the worst.

Marriage had done her mother no favors and Arina didn’t believe it would do her any, either. She could have escaped had she taken any of those men up on what they were offering, only to end up exactly as she was. A maid in someone's household, slaving away until she turned to dust.

No. Her plan was far better. She just needed one dance with the king. Surely she could manage that—it was rumored he would dance with every single lady who attended, and Arina had managed to secure an invitation on her way out of the palace, courtesy of the princess of Ellesmere. That piece of embossed paper was Arina’s most prized possession—if she lost it, her future was ruined.

“Good morning, mother,” Arina said, stepping into her mothers bed chamber with a silver tray filled with breakfast foods. None of which she’d eat, of course—the woman was constantly worrying about her appearance and fitting into her laced up gowns. It was all for show, a massive, monumental waste that made Arina sick to her stomach.

“You’re late. Lazing in bed again?” she demanded, pushing strands of brunette hair off a still pretty, yet aging face. There was no joy in those brown eyes, no light or warmth that could elevate her into the incandescent beauty she hoped for. Arina didn’t react, hoping to keep bruised from her face this week. Eyes down, Arina murmured a soft apology.

“Make sure you scrub the back flagstones well today. The king is sending one of his most trusted advisors to meet with your father and I will not be embarrassed by your incompetence.”

“Of course,” Arina agreed, heart thudding in her chest. The king wanted to work with her father? That didn’t bode well. Arina betrayed none of her fears, bowing out after breakfast was declared pitiful and unfit for consumption. The day was spent much as it always was. Arina did her regular chores before hauling soapy water outside to scrub the back patio. There was no chance the kings diplomat came out here, and yet Arina didn’t finish until the sun began setting.

Only then did she race to the kitchen to scarf down dinner while the rest of the gossiping staff fell silent. She couldn’t be one of them—she’d been born high above their station, even if now she was made to work among them.

And her father punished them if they tried to help her in any way. She was a liability, and she couldn’t even be angry about it. Arina merely ate over the sink before dashing out the door to bathe herself.

Just as she’d predicted, the water was frigidly cold. Her hair was half frozen by the time she trudged back to the house, draped in a thin sheet for a towel, her dress hung over her arm.

She needed a new one and didn’t want to ask. It would be more money she owed for something just as poor. It also meant she’d have to go to the local dressmaker who looked at her with such pity it made Arina’s stomach burn with humiliation. Once, her mother had taken there to be fitted for fine things.

Now Arina merely asked for the cheapest material possible and sewed it herself. She’d have to sleep by the fire, negating the bath and earning her nickname—Cinders. She smelled like ashes and was too often covered in them, too. She didn’t care. Carefully combing the knots from her hair, Arina dried it the best she could by the fire before turning to her dress. It was so nearly finished—Arina was merely sewing beads she’d been given by a rather nice boy hoping to earn her affection onto her bodice. She wanted to seem presentable, and wanted the dress to look expensive.

Nice enough to catch the king's eye and make him think she was a nobleman's daughter. Which she was, technically. She’d have four minutes to convince him of her plight before he moved on, and that was the part that held Arina up. She didn’t know what to say to him because part of her—the part that wasn’t so struck by how young and good looking he was—wanted to hit him across the face and ask him how he could let something like this happen in his own kingdom.

Afterall, Arina had heard the rumors about his own abusive, cruel father. Surely he must know how it felt.

But by the time Arina fell asleep, needle in hand, she wasn’t even sure that was true, either.

And her plan seemed more foolish than ever.

Days passed much in the same vein. Arina kept her head down and worked without complaint right up until the diplomat arrived. She’d been instructed not to be seen, to stay out of the common areas and generally not be a nuisance which suited Arina perfectly fine. She had a few coins, and was hoping to haggle a decent deal on a new pair of slippers for her gown. Her dress was long enough to hide her current pair, and something about it seemed wrong. A bad omen, to come in destroyed shoes and nothing to offer the king when she begged him for his assistance.

“Hello, lady Arina.”

Arina choked down her laugh when the butcher's son stepped onto the cobblestone street. He was filthy, too—bloody, rather than sooty, but the effect was remarkably similar. As far as men went, he wasn’t awful to look at, and he could be terribly kind. He always offered her something to eat when he saw her, and had never made a demand of her.

Though Arina knew what he hoped.

She smiled at him, heart fluttering when he blinked in response. He really was terribly good looking beneath the grime, with eyes so brown they were nearly black, and the curliest flop of chocolate brown hair.

He had a reputation for being kind, too—she’d heard others talk of how he fed the village beggar, and had once helped a widow and her children obtain room and board for a few nights. There weren’t many people in the world so kind. But Cyrus was.

“Hi, Cyrus,” she replied, pleased when he fell into step beside her. His hands were in his leather apron, likely trying to hide how messy they were, but Arina didn’t mind. The square was bustling, filled with people buying and selling or just milling about and enjoying the first cool day of Autumn.

“Are you busy? There’s a new shop just a few blocks up. We could get lunch?”

Arina’s stomach growled before she could say no, and judging from the warm smile on Cyrus’s face, he’d heard it. She ate once a day to minimize what she owed, but Arina was starving—and desperate enough to agree, knowing she was giving him the wrong idea.

He paid, like he always did, offering her a chair just out of the bright sunlight. “I heard the king sent one of his advisors out to meet with your father,” Cyrus began, watching Arina shovel rice in her mouth as quickly as she could. She still needed shoes, and if she was gone too long, someone would tell, and she’d get caught and her shoes taken from her.

Arina nodded. “Good for business, I suppose.”

Cyrus considered that, eating slower. “My own father is getting sick. He means to give me his business.”

Oh, no. Arina looked up at him, heart thudding for an entirely different reason.

“I ah…I know you probably expect better offers, but…but I was thinking that when my father gives it to me, I might like a wife. You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t need to work so hard. And I have money, so you could run the household. It wouldn’t be anything grand, but there would be food. And you would be safe.”

It was such a generous offer. The sort her mother had wanted her to consider when she died. Love is a lie. Cyrus wasn’t offering love, but security and safety, and it was tempting.

“Cyrus—”

“It’s probably a year off, so there’s time for you to think about it,” he added hastily, clearly not wanting to hear her reject him like she’d done so many others. “We could get to know each other? I don’t expect you to agree, but I think you could like me if you got to know me.”

What did it hurt to tell him yes, she rationalized? Of every offer of marriage Arina had ever been offered, this was certainly the best. Cyrus did have money, and he treated people well. There was no reason to think that wouldn’t extend to his wife, and whatever children they might produce. And sure, she’d be in the same town her father lived in, but she wouldn’t be subjected to his cruelty.

“I think I could agree to that,” she murmured, swallowing the rest of her food. After all—if the king told her no, having a backup plan still ensured her survival. Arina was likely to drown herself if she had to face an uncertain future in her fathers household.

Cyrus’s expression lit up, his smile brilliant. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I…I’m not well versed in courting, but I will do my best by you.”

“I believe that,” she said, offering him her own smile. It was nice, and perhaps that had to be enough. There was no knight in shining armor coming to save her, after all. No prince to sweep her off her feet, no fairy godmother that was going to rescue her. If Arina wanted out, she’d need to do it herself.

Which meant leaving Cyrus to get her shoes—a soft pair of silver slippers with little beaded flowers on the toes—and rushing back home.

Just in time to find the diplomat on a shining, black horse with a glossy mane. He paused when he saw her, swinging his leg over the saddle to hop in front of her.

Auburn hair, russet brown eyes—he was part of the royal family, she realized. His fine clothes cut of white and red fabric, with that distinctive cape hanging casually over one shoulder betrayed him as such, even if he didn’t wear a crown.

“Lady Arina?” he asked, a smile touching his face.

What was a Prince of Avalon doing in her home? And how did he know her name?”

“Just Arina,” she blurted, offering a deep curtsey. There was no way her step-mother wasn’t seeing this. Arina’s stomach dropped. She was going to lose her shoes.

“I’m Connal, Prince of this territory,” he said, offering her his own bow before reaching with a gold ringed finger into his jacket to procure a stunning invitation she’d seen before. “This is for you. The king has instructed all eligible ladies receive an invitation to the ball in two days' time.”

“Oh…I don’t think—”

“That includes you,” Connall said firmly, pushing the invitation into her hands. Arina didn’t dare admit she already had one. “I’ve told your father, but he had no idea where you were.”

“I was…out…” she admitted lamely. Connall smiled, handsome in an elegant kind of way. Almost as good looking as his older brother, even.

“I expect to see you there,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hand like she was some great lady. Arina’s heart banged against her ribs as he straddled his steed. Connall offered her one last look, winking even, before he took off down the road.

Arina watched, dumbstruck for a moment. He’d just…openly defied her father and was going to get away with it because he was a prince. Arina scurried around the house, hiding her shoes in a tree to keep them from being snatched before she made her way up the back lawn and into the home.

And as predicted, she was immediately accosted by her step-mother, who ripped the invitation from her hands. “This is ridiculous,” he breathed, hands all but trembling as she stared at the heavy, embossed paper. “You! At a ball! What will you do, serve the king drinks?”

“The prince said my presence was expected,” Arina replied defensively, fisting her dress in her hands to keep from trying to grab the invitation back.

“And what, pray tell, will you wear? That dress isn’t fit for the kitchens, let alone the great Forest Palace.”

“I could find a dress,” Arina said, jutting her chin in the air. “And if I did, would you let me go?”

“And if you finish all your chores,” her step-mother conceded, thrusting the invitation back into her hands. It was slightly rumpled, but good enough.

“I will,” Arina said, determined she would, all the while knowing her parents were going to try and make it utterly impossible. But she would, and she’d wear her dress and her shoes and march up to King Eris Vanserra and convince him that it made more sense to free her of her parents than it did to work with her father. Surely, their family name was old, but there was little money left to back it up.

All her family really had was tradition.

Arina worked harder those next two days than she’d ever worked in her life. Every waking minute was plagued by that awful bell and the most absurd chores—Arina was made to wash gutters and windows, to get on the roof and into the crawl space. She dusted and mopped and scrubbed until her nails bled.

And at night, she put the finishing touches on her dress, staying awake until she was so exhausted she passed out with a needle in her hand. Arina even risked owing more by bathing in the house so she wouldn’t have to worry about mud beneath her toes or smelling like river water. She was practically vibrating when everything was done and she could dress herself with a mere twenty minutes to spare. She wouldn’t be the most elegant woman, of course, nor the most fashionable but she was passably decent and most importantly, pretty.

Too pretty, she realized when she made her way down the stairs. Her father paused, eyes wide when he took her in. “You look like your mother,” he blurted out.

It was the wrong thing to say. Her step-mother, clad in rather pretty yellow, strode forward and ripped at Arina’s sleeve. “Where did you get these beads? Are these mine?”

“Don’t—no!” Arina cried, but the damage was done. Her sleeve hung pathetically and the shimmering, clay beads clattered to the stone floor loudly, bouncing in every direction. It would take her forever to find them.

“You’re a little thief,” her step mother continued, ripping the fabric of her skirt again. The sound of tearing sliced through the air, filling Arina with dread. She jerked back, but another rip saw the rest of the pretty satin shred to the floor like an awful train. Too late, she realized, that she was never going to be permitted to go.

Her step-mother smiled. “You’re a disgrace. Clean yourself up…and clean up this mess.”

Arina looked at her father foolishly, wishing he’d say something. His expression was hard and unforgiving and when he turned his back to her, boots crunching her beads into the grout, Arina couldn’t take it.

This was misery. A sob escaped her throat as she turned and fled out of the house, ignoring her step-mothers peal of laughter or the looks of pity on their faces. Arina couldn’t stop, racing over the grounds into the cool air, though half the time she stepped on the tatters of her dress which only served to ruin it more.

Months of work, ruined. And for what? Jealousy?

“It’s not fair!” she sobbed into the night, falling to her knees in the little wooded area that separated her home from the river. “I did everything she asked me to…it’s not fair.”

Pulling her knees to her chin, Arina buried her face to sob. She was never going to escape. The king probably would have said no anyway, but maybe something else would have opened up for her. Or maybe he would have said no, but he would have been kind and she would have found strength in that. She could have gone home and waited for Cyrus—another thing her family was sure to ruin.

And she’d die here, because Arina couldn’t take it.

“I’ll do anything–”

“Anything?” A melodic voice murmured. Arina looked up, surprised to see a rather lovely, older woman standing in front of her. Her blue dress skimmed the ground while beetle black eyes watched her gulp down air in a pathetic attempt to catch her breath. She crouched, grazing sharp, blood-red nails over Arina’s cheek. “You’re a beautiful little thing, aren’t you, sweetheart? Why are you crying?”

Sniffling, and feeling quite pathetic, Arina said, “I was supposed to go to a ball.”

“Of course you were,” this stranger replied, picking up one of the pink, tattered pieces of Arina’s dress. “Where else would a girl like you be headed?”

“I can’t anymore,” Arina whispered, swallowing hard. “Not like this.”

“No,” the stranger agreed, dropping her dress distastefully. “How about a deal, sweet girl? In exchange for my assistance…you’d owe me a favor.”

Arina blinked, wiping her eyes on her elbow. “A favor? What kind of favor?”

The woman waved her hand. “Oh, nothing of consequence. Something small and easily accomplished…perhaps I’ll ask you to help me cross the street one day…or maybe I’ll need a bed to sleep in.”

That seemed reasonable enough. Swallowing, her heart racing, Arina asked, “And…and you’d help me get to the palace?”

She smiled. “I would do so much more than that. Stand up, sweetheart. Let me take a look at you.”

Rising to her feet, Arina let this woman circle her. She touched Arina’s shoulder, her hair, and her dress before standing before her again. “Do we have a deal? One night at the palace, where you’ll dance your heart out in exchange for a favor of my choosing in the future?”

What did Arina have to lose? This was her only shot out. Arina accepted the strangers hand, thinking she would feel something binding them together. Some string, some touch of magic. There was nothing but a rather sharp breeze, rustling the treetops over head and cooling her overheated skin.

The woman smiled. “Excellent.”

That was the only warning Arina was given before the woman snapped her fingers. She felt it, though, that time. Something warm touching her skin, drying the mud and salt from her face and transforming her once ruined dress into something beautiful. Arina could see, even in the dark, the gown was a soft, silvery blue color, beaded through the bodice and over the full skirts so it sparkled like stars. Cape sleeves fluttered in the breeze while her hair pulled itself off her face of its own accord. When she went to touch the heavy weight sitting atop her head, she found herself touching a jeweled headband. Her ruined, muddied shoes had been replaced, too, and when Arina lifted her skirts, she found pure, glass slippers conforming against her feet.

Arina looked at the woman, head cocked as she examined her handiwork. Another snap saw a choker at her throat and earring dangling from her lobes.

“Perfect,” she murmured, smiling broadly. “One night—that ends at midnight. That’s all you get.”

“What happens at midnight?” Arina asked, her heart thundering in her chest.

“You go back to the girl you were when I found you. What you do after that is up to you. But magic can’t last forever, beautiful as it looks on you. Be mindful of the time.”

“I will,” Arina promised. She only needed five minutes of the king's time.

Arina intended to be long gone by the time midnight struck.

ERIS:

Drumming his fingers against the table, Eris considered for the millionth time calling the whole absurd ball off. Beside him, Elain Archeron watched with narrowed eyes, waiting to pounce. This whole ball had been borne in her overactive imagination.

I want to see you settled, Eris. Happy.

Power made him happy. His father, six feet in the ground, made him happy. Hell, having her and his brother around made him happy. A wife wasn’t going to give him anything he didn’t have except for an heir. Which, he supposed, would be a useful thing to secure. One son from one of the many society women hardly seemed like a big ask. And it wasn’t as if there wasn’t interest. Every lady Elain had sent invitations to had responded yes.

Well—all but one.

“You’re going,” Elain interrupted, unaware of the slant of his thoughts. “You’re going to dance and you’ll be charming and then at the end of the week you’ll announce your new wife…assuming, of course, you don’t pick one on the spot.”

“Do I look like Lucien?” he snapped. He’d heard the tale of Elain and Lucien—and how his ridiculous, overly romantic brother had fallen in love with Elain on the spot. Rather than carve out her heart, he’d protected her and was rewarded in the end with the only good wife in the world.

“No, you certainly don’t,” Elain replied crisply. She put a hand on her stomach, an obnoxious gesture meant to remind him that she was doing what was expected of a royal woman married to a prince. Even if that bump was so tiny it was easily concealed in her skirts, it was still there. Mocking him for not doing the same. “If you wait too long, perhaps I might begin harassing

Lucien into challenging you for the throne.”

Eris sighed, exasperated. “I’m dressed, aren’t I? Why don’t you select my wife, since you’re so determined to have a friend at court.”

Elain’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t tease me, Eris. You know I would love nothing more.”

A servant slipped into the little alcove Elain and Eris were hiding in to inform him guests had begun to arrive. Eris still had time. He wasn’t expected for another forty five minutes, which meant he could sulk privately in his absurd white get up Elain had foisted upon him, insisting he looked like the prince of every ladies dreams. His red cape hung lazily over one shoulder, threaded by a gold chain across his chest while his medals of valor were pinned so everyone knew he could slay whoever crossed him with ease.

It was all ridiculous. How was he supposed to pick a wife in the five minutes it took to dance? With each passing second, Eris felt his anxiety spike until his temper threatened to spill all over himself and Elain. It was only her, reaching across the table for his hand, that settled Eris.

“If you hate every lady at the ball, you don’t need to force yourself to choose one. We can reach out to other kingdoms, even across the sea. There is someone who will interest you, this I promise.”

“Yes, true love, I have heard this all before,” he grumbled, but still Eris squeezed back. “Let's get this over with, shall we?”

“Let's find you a wife,” Elain agreed.

Only, Elain didn’t stick around to help him. Eris was announced to ridiculous applause in a room filled with women and their mothers and fathers, all hoping to secure a match for their children. Eris couldn’t recall the last time the ballroom had been so filled. A quartet played while hanging chandeliers threw twinkling lights over the white and black checkered floors. Everyone looked more lovely, and somehow exactly the same. Had they all conspired to order the exact same style of dress in varying colors? The same hairstyle piled atop their heads, and lips rouged to death.

The first dance was a misery. “Sire,” the girl breathed, lowering her eyes and thrusting her breasts forward. A passing servant was handing out champagne and Eris was tempted to down a crystal flute before continuing any further.

He took her hand, unable to care about her nice breasts or her mostly pleasing face. In his head, he could hear Elain urging him to at least feign interest. Ask her about her interests.

“Tell me, lady. How do you occupy yourself?” he asked, sweeping into the first steps of the evening. The woman in question, who had probably told her his name though Eris wasn’t listening, immediately began rattling off a list of the most boring hobbies he’d ever heard. Strolling through gardens? Was that an actual hobby?

As it turned out, it was the hobby of every woman he danced with in that first hour. Along with needle point and piano playing, which was also highly popular. Every woman who brought it up offered to play something for him privately. Eris wasn’t tempted, though he knew if he took them up on it, he was likely to at least get his cock wet.

Sullying a lords daughter seemed the surest way to get stuck in a marriage he didn’t want with a lady he didn’t even get to choose.

Elain was polite enough to at least rescue him after his eighth dance. “You look like you’re at a funeral, Eris.”

“Forgive me for being bored. How come you don’t play piano?”

Elain snorted. “Oh, I do, Eris. All well-bred ladies do.”

“And do you play for my brother?” he demanded.

A wicked smile spread over her beautiful face. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. What if we…”

Eris turned his head to see what had caught Elain’s attention. The room itself was hushing to whispers, all looking toward the steps leading down to the ballroom. A last minute arrival stood at the very top, surveying the room like a queen.

“It’s her,” he murmured, drinking in the pale, blue dress cut against her body and all that thick, blonde hair half pulled off her face while the rest was left to cascade down her shoulders. She didn’t look like the other women, in their comfortable, safe gowns and their matching hairstyles. She looked like an individual person—though, in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered if she had come looking exactly like everyone else.

Connall’s invitation had arrived, then.

Ignoring everyone else, Eris strode across the room to wait for her to make her way down the stairs. Eris extended one gloved hand which she accepted with a blink of hesitation. But she was here—and just as beautiful as he remembered.

It was those green eyes, he decided. Still gazing upon him with familiar derision, as though she found him and everything about his ball, beneath her.

“Lady,” Eris murmured, bowing ever so slightly. “You made it.”

She curtseyed. “I—were you expecting me?”

“Hoping,” he admitted, leading her toward the dance floor. “You never sent word that you would come.”

“I…wasn’t sure I would,” she said, eyes darting around the room. Was she looking for her father? He had been chatting with other lords while his wife flitted about, gossiping over this and that while speculating who the prince might choose. Eris didn’t understand them—their daughter was beautiful and Eris had requested her attendance personally. Any other parents would have leapt at that kind of attention.

But what did he expect from a man who’d made his daughter little more than his personal servant?

“You’re here now…”

“Arina,” she said, finally looking up at him.

Arina. Eris could practically feel Elain’s smug gaze burning the back of his neck and he couldn’t bring himself to care. So what if Elain was right? Stupidly, Eris replied, “I’m Eris.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “I know. Everyone knows that.”

Right. Eris’s feet moved of their own accord, forgetting he had an audience. She swallowed, fingers digging against his shoulder as though she needed strength. “I came to ask you for a favor.”

Eris’s heart leapt into his throat. “A favor?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. Was it wrong he half hoped her favor was marriage? That she’d come to ask for his hand, of which he might very well give her on the spot? That was insane—Elain had said he had a week to decide. He could spend the night dancing with her and perhaps in the morning try and lure her into his bed and see if they were compatible in the way that mattered most to him. Maybe give her a tour of the fucking garden everyone was so desperate to stroll around.

Hell, he’d even listen to her play piano if she offered.

“My father,” she began with a heavy breath, dashing all his hops just as quickly as they’d emerged. “I…I still live with him.”

“Most unmarried ladies do, to my knowledge,” Eris replied. Arina bit her bottom lip while Eris fought the urge to trace it with his tongue. Instead, he pulled her a little closer, the hand on her waist too tight to be considered polite.

“I don’t want to anymore. I’ve come to beg for your permission to leave his household.” Her eyes held such defiance in them, as if to dare him to say no.

“You’d ask me to defy one of the nobles in my court so you can…?” Eris prayed it wasn’t to marry another man. He’d have to kill him, which was unlikely to engender the sort of warm, romantic feelings he was hoping for.

“Live freely,” she all but whispered, eyes glazing over. “On my own terms.”

There was absolutely no way Eris intended to grant her this. At least, not how she imagined. He was decided, in that moment, that he’d make her his wife. Arina could have his whole country to roam as she pleased, his household to boss around, and maybe even expel her father from court, if it pleased her.

“And here I was, thinking you came for a husband.”

Arina’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t—I mean—I don’t presume to think—”

“Why not?” he murmured, lowering his mouth so his lips brushed her ear. “Everyone else does.”

The song was ending, which meant his time with her was, too. Already she was pulling back, eyes pleading for him to make a choice.

“Walk with me,” he said, reluctantly releasing his hold on her body to offer her his arm. “Tell me more about this plan of yours so I can make an informed decision.” It was a flimsy excuse to spend more time with her. Eris ignored the sounds of someone shrieking loudly from somewhere in the room, hushed into silence by another guest he didn’t care about. Arina watched, though, trying to pull away.

“You should—”

“Walk with me,” he said again, this time with more authority. She couldn’t deny him, though her spine straightened ever so slightly.

“Of course, my lord.”

Gods, he wanted her. Eris didn’t bother to hide his smile, leading her back through the crowd toward the open veranda that led into the garden. He’d have privacy here, thanks to Elain and her green thumb and determination to remake the palace in her own image. Paved pathways were illuminated by pretty string lights hung overhead, making it easy to see Arina even in the dark. Eris couldn’t drag his eyes off her—she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Arina's gown sparkled like stars, making it seem as though her warm, golden skin was glowing. Maybe it was. Eris would have believed there was some kind of magic clinging to her, creating some kind of spell between them.

And she was trying to leave him.

“What would it take to convince you?” she asked just as soon as the music from the ballroom faded and only the sound of noisy crickets remained.

“A great deal, I’m afraid,” Eris replied, surprised that she didn’t immediately understand what he was after.

“I’ll do anything,” she said, desperation coating her words.

“A dangerous thing to offer a man you don’t know. We’re alone,” he reminded her. Arina didn’t flinch back, nor did she seem surprised.

“Surely you can have that anytime you like. Snap your fingers and half the ladies in that ballroom would unlace their underthings for you.”

“Would you?”

“If you snapped your fingers? No, I don’t think I would. But I will if that’s what you want in exchange for freedom,” she said, that pretty defiance returning to her features. The sight made Eris feel breathless, made him practically mad with desire. He wanted to kiss her and see what she tasted like.

He wanted to feel her fingers dig against his shoulder as he moved against her, chest to chest, burning with pleasure.

“If you’re going to disrobe for me, I’d prefer you did it of your own accord,” he admitted.

Arina sighed. “Do you mean to tease me, then? Tell me what you want—”

“I want a wife,” he lied. He didn’t, not truly. But he wanted her, and with the clock ticking in his head, he knew he’d either secure her or she’d slip through his fingers and he’d never see her again. “What if I promised you freedom, in exchange—”

“For a crown?” Arina asked, halting just in front of Elain’s swaying sunflowers. They were at least as tall as Arina, though not half as beautiful. It was tempting to push past the pretty rock border and take her in the grass where no one would see them. Eris resisted the urge to adjust his cock, half hard at the mere thought.

“That sounds like a shackle, to me.”

Eris blinked. “It is, sometimes.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Everyone wants it,” he replied, genuinely unsure what else to say.

“Then pick someone else,” she said, stepping toward him. She didn’t hesitate to press her palm against his chest, eyes pleading as she added, “Let me leave. Tonight.”

“Kiss me.” Eris curled his fingers around her wrist, pulling her closer. “Kiss me, first. I just…I need to know.”

“And you’ll let me go?” she asked. Eris shook his head no, even as he began lowering his face toward hers.

“I’m not promising that,” he replied. “I could give you anything you asked for.”

Arina was staring at his mouth. “I don’t want it. Please, your majesty—”

“Eris,” he interrupted, lips ghosting her own. “Call me Eris.”

“Eris,” she whispered. That was enough. He kissed her, one hand on her waist, the other holding her jaw. The soft, sweetness of her skin slammed into him, filling his senses with the scent of vanilla and lime. Her hand on his jacket fisted against her lapel, drawing him closer still so Eris could deepen the kiss.

He was greedy, tongue sliding against the seam of her mouth. Gasping, Arina yielded and Eris swept inside with a groan. He was decided, right then and there. Nothing else mattered, nor did he care about what she’d come for. Eris was going to make her his wife and would prove she could have the freedom she craved while he got the woman he wanted.

“Arina,” he whispered, arm snaking around her body. “Trust me.”

“I—” The chiming of the clock nearby drew a frightened cry from Arina’s lips. Ashen with fear, she slipped from his grasp. “Say you’ll help me,” she demanded, gathering her skirts in her hands. “Say it.” “I’m not letting you go,” he replied, taking a step toward him. Behind them, the bell tolled again.

Arina let out a quiet scream of frustration. “Take what I’m offering.” “I—” A third ring saw her bolt, running from the garden so quickly one of her slippers came off her foot. She didn’t stop, leaving Eris to snatch it from the ground. Still warm, and made of glass.

“Wait!” he yelled, chasing after her. “Stop her!”

His guards were too slow, letting Arina slip back into the ballroom before she could be apprehended. If he lost her here, Eris knew he’d never see her again. She wouldn’t risk going home, and though he could scour his kingdom in search of her, it was vast, and he couldn’t risk his seat by picking through every nook and cranny.

She’d made it up the steps and through the doors by the time Eris caught sight of her again. “Stop that woman!” he yelled a second time, his voice cutting through the chatter and music. Everyone went quiet as Eris added, “That’s my wife.”

He didn’t stop, though some part of him thought he was making a rather big fool of himself. Of course he’d want the only woman in the world who didn’t want him back. Elain was going to have such a laugh when he explained all this later.

Eris caught Arina in the drive, her pretty dress gone—replaced, strangely, with a ripped pink gown that likely had been beautiful once. Tears streamed down that pretty face of hers, her hair tumbling like a halo of gold. He'd worry about the strangeness of her appearance later. All that mattered was she was still here.

“Please,” she whispered, whipping around when his fingers curled around her arm. Eris didn’t respond, bending on one knee not so he could propose, but to put her shoe back on her foot. Arina shuddered when he pushed the hem of her dress up over her ankle, noting she’d cut her sole and was bleeding.

He stood, sweeping her into his arms with ease.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he murmured as she wept miserably against his chest.

But Eris wasn’t sorry at all.

Only relieved he still had her.

#just a little bridge between snow elucien and feypunzel #i think ill try and put vassa between feysand and nessian too #because i dont have enough shit going on #anyway #eris vanserra

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slasher-male-wife · 1 year

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What Horror characters smell like

Ok do I have requests to do? Yes. Am I doing this instead? Yes. Also this is my opinion for what I assume they smell like. Also I feel Lost boys brain rot coming on so please send in requests for them. Spoiler alert, most of them need a bath

Includes: The Sinclair brothers, The Lost Boys, Martin Mathias, and Billy Lenz

Warnings: Mentions of blood, murder and smoking

Bo Sinclair: He smokes and works on cars all day and smokes so he's going to smell like that. I feel like he has a constant cloud of cigarette smoke around him. That or motor oil. I feel like he's good at masking the blood scent he gets on him when he's been killing people.

Vincent Sinclair: I used to paint as a hobby for like five years so I know what paint smells like so I can be confident when I say that Vincent smells like paint water that's been sitting out for a few days mixed with the generic wax smell. If you're lucky enough to have never smelled paint water that's been brewing in a basement for days it's a sour smell that low key smells like alcohol.

Lester Sinclair: Like Bo he also smokes and being around roadkill all day doesn't help at all when it comes to his scent. He really just smells like rotting meat, sweat and cigarette smoke most of the time. He does clean up nice when he needs to. I can see him as a man who has some kind of nice cologne he wears from time to time.

Paul tlb: So vampires and drugs are a little tricky to figure out in my opinion. Like vampires still get high and stuff, but not as high as humans get. This being said Paul smells like weed half the time. When he doesn't smell like weed he smells like hairspray or just both at the same time. Paul single handily burned a big hole in the ozone layer with the amount of hairspray he uses.

Marko tlb: He also smells like weed but he keeps the smell off of him better. He has a small trace of hairspray from being around Paul all of the time. But on his own he just smells like gasoline from being around his bike all of the time.

Dwayne tlb: He's the only one who really keeps himself somewhat clean, which is hard when you're living in a literal cave. But he just smells kind of dusty most of the time. I can see him stealing cologne sometimes just because, but he's not too bad.

David tlb: He obviously bleaches his hair so I'm assuming half the time he smells like bleach. Not cheap hair bleach but like higher end bleach that he probably steals from beauty supply stores and stuff. He smokes too so if not bleach then most definitely cigarette smoke.

Martin Mathias: I forget the name of the guy he lives with but he probably burns lots of incense for like religious reasons and whatnot so Martin often smells like that, which isn't a horrible smell to be around if you're not sensitive to that kind of stuff.

Billy Lenz: He's one musty bitch. Like he's been living in attics and just random ass places for however long so he smells like dust and just musty all over. But never leave him around perfume of cologne because he will spray way too much of it on himself.

#bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #paul the lost boys #marko the lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #david the lost boys #martin mathias #billy lenz #slashers

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semperergoveritas2024 · 3 days

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Nobody Cried

Shaheen scrambled into the dark, dusty attic, taking in the musty odor of forgotten boxes and faded memories.

She and Ibrahim had taken over the house a few weeks ago. He’d been given a promotion at the Home Office and this house came with it. She knew it had been a Jew house as there were still the marks of the things they put on the doors – she had no idea what they were called or what the purpose was other than they easily marked the home of a Jew.

In the attic she had found the hidden door behind a pile of old boxes filled to the brim with tatty clothes and well-thumbed books. She would have to make sure it all got taken away and destroyed once she told Ibrahim what she’d found.

She tried to think back to a time when there were Jews in London, perhaps twenty-five years ago? She knew that something had changed back then, first in the ever-increasing protests and then the silent coup of 2025, after which the Grand Imam had proclaimed that the UK was now a part of the greater European caliphate, and everyone was subject to sharia law. She had known no different, it was normal.

Shaheen had no memory of her parents struggle to accept the new reality or how easily, calmly it had happened. The pro-Palestinian movement had grown and grown until it numbered in the millions and her mother had told her that many of the Jews had escaped to America, where there were still more Jews than Muslims, especially in Southern California. Israel was long gone, torn apart by an unwinnable war and an Iran that had been allowed to build nuclear weapons they were happy to use at the first opportunity. No one blinked an eye.

Still, she had a good life. There’d been no school to bother with and no one looked at her or bothered her. She only left home fully covered – she could have been a sack of potatoes with legs for all anyone knew.

And then Ibrahim came into her life when she was 14. Even though her parents tried to soften it, she knew what was happening. Arranged marriages were the norm and she was no different to any of the other girls that gathered in the park near her parents’ house and giggled the day away, being careful to watch out for the Religious Police so as not to get a beating.

The doorway was more of a small hatch though which a person might just squeeze with a little effort. She peered inside and shone her small torch around the space. It was a room cleverly hidden at one end of the eaves space of the house. Perhaps 3 meters on a side, with a raised, rough wooden floor that had a small rug placed in the far corner. There was yellowing insulation poking up between the floorboards and she spotted a lone light hanging from a rafter. She looked around for a switch. The light flashed on, casting a dim red light that barely touched the corners.

Then she saw the dark stains on the floor, black at first but then her torch picked out the faded red – it looked like dried blood, she thought. What had happened here? She shivered as she guessed that someone’s life ended here, in this tiny, bleak place.

Pulling back, she exited the attic, pulling herself quickly through the doorway, and ran to the kitchen, trying to catch her breath as her heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t know how long she sat there, numb, unable to comprehend that someone had died in the house, right above their heads.

The clock on the wall chimed 11 am and she snapped back to reality. There was only one person she could talk to about this – her mother.

She quickly dressed, covering her blond, shoulder length hair and leaving only her bright blue eyes as evidence of a human being wrapped in the black swaddle.

Her cousin, Adeel came as soon as she asked – he was a good man and very protective of her. He walked her to her parents’ house as he talked at her about nothing very much. He couldn’t see that she was upset, and she didn’t betray that feeling, staying silent, as was the custom, on the journey.

Her mother opened the door to their tidy brick house and Shaheen hurried in. Adeel went into the kitchen and waited for her. He sensed that she’d made it clear she needed some privacy with her mother, and he wasn’t going to get in between those two! He made himself a nice cup of tea, and sat at the ancient kitchen table, munching biscuits, thinking nothing very much at all.

Shaheen’s mother teased the story out of her as they sat heavily on an old brown sofa that had seen far better days.

Her mothers old name was Maude, but she’d been given a new name years ago. Aadila. She was told it meant honest and just. The local Imam had been given the job and appeared to get bored very quickly, handing out names at random. Still, she got used to it, eventually.

“You’re a very lucky person to have been given a husband like Ibrahim, he’s a great provider.”, she said quietly, sipping her tea. “And that house! Well, I’d have killed to get a house like that!”.

Shaheen was well aware that her mother was just the teeniest bit envious. Her father, a hard worker, never had a chance of promotion after the coup. White men were lucky to have a job at all. It was only his skill that saved him – plumbers were a vital resource.

“But what about the blood?”

“Are you sure?” her mother asked.

“I’m pretty sure,”, she replied, “I just hate to think that anyone could have died in that small space in MY house!”, she emphasized the ‘my’ as if to let her mother know that she knew how she felt.

“Anyway,” she continued,” I have to tell Ibrahim when he gets home. He’ll know what to do.”

Her mother looked at her and tears fell from her faded blue eyes. She bent her head and said in small voice, “I know who died in that house. Don’t tell Ibrahim anything, please.”

“What do you mean? How do you know about a random house? How can you know?”

“I knew the people that lived there, I visited many times. It was before the coup, when I was a nurse. I often went there to help.”

“Mum, you’re being crazy. What are you talking about?”

“There was a time,” her mother wiped her eyes and drank some more tea, “before all of this, when the country was still England and cream teas and days out and the Royal Family.”

Shaheen stared at Aadila as she became more animated.

“When we still had Jews and when the police protected all of us from harm until they started protecting those that would harm us. That was when the coup happened – when the police stood by and did nothing!” she spat the last, her voice full of spite and anger.

“It was a Jew house. Nice people, hardworking, quiet. They had children, a boy, and a girl. Beautiful children. The boy was a typical little scruff, always running everywhere, torn trousers, scuffed shoes. The girl… she really was beautiful, blond curly hair, deep blue eyes, and an infectious laugh. I loved that little girl. I was there when she was born and worked for the family, helping to look after you as the mother became quite unwell. Who could blame her?”, she said bitterly.

Shaheen had gone silent and sunk back into the sofa, feeling very small – this was all too much.

“What happened to them?”

“The blood you saw… it was theirs. They hid in that room because they couldn’t leave, and they weren’t able to get the children out.”

There was silence for a moment.

“How... “, Shaheen didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t want to.

“They shot them, in cold blood, laughing at them as they cowered in a corner, praying, covering the children. I was there, visiting when they came, and they made me stay and watch. Then they told me to get your father and clean up. Perhaps because I was a nurse, they thought I’d know how to do that or perhaps they were just too lazy to do it or simply didn’t care. I was shaking with fear and shame.”

“Later, maybe an hour or so, we came back. We decided to bury the bodies in the garden, near the end where there are trees now. When we moved the mother and father, we saw that the little boy was dead, but the little girl was not. She was breathing but unconscious, a bullet had grazed her head and there was blood. The men must have thought her dead or they would have certainly finished her off.”

“Mum?”

“Yes, you were that little girl. You were theirs and now you are ours. We couldn’t turn you in or say anything.”.

“Nobody cried for the Jews, and they weren’t going to cry for one little girl”, she hesitated, “but I did”.

#future #israel #jewish #truth #uk #am yisrael chai #jumblr #judaism #jews #we will outlive them

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dyrewrites · 2 months

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Can't You See Me? -- Snippet

Four weeks ago, I died.

It was a rogue bit of insulation that did it. Well, that and the rafter it tripped me into…and the sharp, rusty nails. Mostly the nails. Certainly not my best moment but, as it turned out, not my last either. My last living moment, sure but I was still…there. I mean thinking, moving and seeing were all things I could still do.

I could even feel a little anyway. It was hazy, cold and a bit like touching the motor of an active fan. That odd rumbling sensation, where your muscles vibrate and you can just make out the electrical current beneath the thick plastic casing? I felt that. All the time. Which was strange. Not as strange as waking up eye to eye with myself, or watching my flesh rot and my eyeballs leak…but strange.

The problem was not that I was dead. I’d come to terms with that. How could I not, right? My body was right there, rotting. The problem was that no one knew. Oh, they noticed I was missing. Sent out search parties, alerted police. There were posters, social media alerts, even a news spot — and let me tell you, I was flattered — but I wasn’t missing!

I was dead.

I thought the smell might tip them off, but there was an awful lot of insulation up there. In the attic. Where I was. Why? I never go in the attic. Last time anyone went into the attic, it was months ago. Lauren, my wife — the handier of the two of us — braved that musty hole to fix a leak. Well, the leak was fixed. So why was I there? It was important. It had to have been. There were spiders up there and I couldn’t abide spiders.

What would possess me to climb that creaky old ladder to a room I swore I’d sooner burn than-That damn rat was squeaking again. Not satisfied to gnaw what remains of my…well, remains it'd taken to shrieking at me. I suppose that made sense,why wouldn’t it be a rat that saw me. The cats saw me too though…and that bird that crashed into the window. I had to get someone who could actually do something up there before I became some sort of ghoulish fairytale princess.

...

#writeblr #snippet #writing #short story #horror #lgbt #excerpt #ebook

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skepticbeliever-bookclub · 7 months

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Hello loves!

Ever wonder about the fics that don’t make it through the final round of voting for the bi-weekly read in the book club? You’re in luck!

The book club is structured so that we solicit nominations from our members, either based on a theme or a trope or simply a request for their favorites, and develop a list of ten nominations, which are then narrowed down to a top three. The top three fics end up in our weekend vote and the winner of that vote becomes our book club fic for that week.

This will be the only runners-up post this month, 'cause it's SPOOKY SEASON and that means we'll be reading a fic a week for the duration, so these are the runners-up to the vote to select our three seasonal selections.

Coax the Cold Right Out of Me - sequence_fairy

“Shane,” Ryan says, insistent, eyes gleaming in the dark. Shane lets his eyes fall shut, and sighs. The little red and white cooler they usually bring on shoots got left behind at the hotel, an hour and a half away in Jackson. “I’ll be fine,” he says, not looking at Ryan, and ignoring the ache in his gums. He’s gone longer without, he can make it through one shoot and then the drive back before being sated. “You don’t have to be.”

OR: It's reckless, what Ryan's offering in the shadows of an abandoned church in rural Mississippi, but Shane can't find it in himself to refuse.

the living transcend - georgenapity (darlinghorchata)

Breath hitched, and body trembling, Ryan stared at the musty ceiling of the attic with an intent focus on the paint peeled paneling. The air was thick and cold, and there was a pressure on the other end of the room, near the window, like someone was sitting next to it. Ryan could imagine him with ease: when the house was in its’ prime, a young man sat against the windowsill, his leg propped up with an arm around his knee, staring contently outside at the pasture. The room was well lit by the buttery sunlight of the morning and the room was littered with small decorations, and full wool blankets, and rickety furniture. He was probably happy; at least, that’s what Ryan hoped. He blinked slowly, and the visage was gone, leaving in its place the heavy weight of death, despair, and dusty boxes cluttering where any semblance of a bedroom had now gone. The golden rays are grey and black, and the living had transcended.

Communication (Series) - quackers

Shane thinks Ryan knows about his feelings. Ryan thinks Shane is a vampire.

Little Bit Magical - blacktofade

Shane is a demon in need of healing and Ryan just so happens to have magic that can heal him. When Ryan needs protection from someone trying to steal his soul, they strike a deal to save each other.

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#shyan #skeptic believer #sbbookclub #weekly read runners up #sbbookclub spooky month

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mildewymolars · 21 days

Text

Even Skeletons Are Scared Of What’s Inside My Closet (Hazbin Hotel Fanfic) Chapter 1

Summary:

A classic take on the "Alastor gets summoned by a human" trope. It also includes nostalgic little cliches like weird aunts, the middle child being the "black sheep" of the (rich) family and demons being as bad (but also not) as they seem.

A college student, who’s bored out of their mind, finds their whacky aunt Hilda’s old book of the occult. After that chaos ensues.

(English is not my first language so feel free to point out any grammatical errors)

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As far as my day-to-day existence goes, I think I’ve entered a whole new territory. Two weeks ago, I thought it would be a be a good idea to play around with my aunt Hilda’s ancient book of the occult. As far as weird aunts go, she entered and surpassed new territories before I was even born. This book is a monstrous old thing, heavy as bricks, and suspiciously well-used. Now, I am by no means an expert in the realm of the occult, but I do dabble in it every now and then. Well, two weeks ago, I must’ve dabbled too thoroughly. Spells, musty smells, and, in the end, hell’s bells.

At first, everything in that book seemed as I had expected it to. Not too believable. That was until I stumbled upon a few handwritten pages shoved between an explanation of astral projection and the precautions one should take while using Ouija boards. I wasn’t sure whose handwriting it was—definitely not Aunt Hilda’s. On the page, there was what looked like a sketch of the layout of our attic with a messily scribbled egg (?) somewhere behind my grandmother’s old wardrobe. What caught my eye next was this: The words “Turn the dial, but with a smile” were written at the bottom of the page, the ink already fading.

Being the nosy person I am, of course, I had to make my way up to the attic as quickly as possible. To my surprise, there was actually something behind that behemoth of a wardrobe. A suitcase. A suitcase that looked like someone had put their blood, sweat, and tears into sealing. Although now all of that tape was dry and brittle, so I did manage to get it open eventually. What lay inside surprised me even more. A radio, from somewhere between the 20s and the 30s, a relic really. A bit dusty, but in good condition. And so, without thinking much of it, I turned that damn dial (with a small, anticipatory smirk).

What happened next was…nothing. I almost laughed at myself for getting excited. Still, I decided to stay in the attic for the next 4 hours, sorting through all the other peculiarities stashed away there (who knew Uncle Heinrich used to be an avid fan of African tribal masks?). Then suddenly (at a quarter past midnight, funnily enough), I heard a deafening thump, making me freeze, the hairs on my neck sticking up like wires. It came from the wardrobe. I turned around, slowly, very slowly. Only to see nothing had changed. Of course every good horror movie main character would now whisper, “What was that?” and then, ignoring all obvious signs of alarm, go check out whatever made that noise. Which was sort of, as astonishingly stupid as it may have been, what I did.

Of course, I didn’t whisper dramatically; I just edged along the creaking floorboards, muscles tensed, with the initial intention of leaving the wardrobe behind and reaching that sweet promise of safety: the door. That was until I noticed the faint green glow coming from within the gargantuan piece of furniture. What I also noticed was that the pressure on my ears wasn’t solely the result of adrenaline. Apparently, I had somehow blocked out the low, steady hum of static filling the air. Oh, now I was really in for it.

Bracing myself, I teetered towards the wardrobe, mentally saying goodbye to Pastor Joe and telling him I should’ve listened. As my hand slowly found a steady grip on one of the carved wooden handles, a wheezing cough almost caused me to jump out of my skin. The door creaked open, and for a moment there was only silence, suffocating silence—the quiet before the storm. To my horror and morbid fascination, a glowing pair of crimson eyes materialized in the pitch-black interior of the wardrobe. By their placement, I could tell whoever or whatever they belonged to was over a foot taller than me. Then a voice rang clear through the silence.

“Now, this has not happened in a very long time.”

It sounded shockingly human, slightly nasal even, if engulfed in a thick layer of... radio static?

At that point, my shaky breaths had turned into shallow pants.

I could’ve sworn I heard bones cracking as the entity stepped out of the wardrobe and into the dim light provided by the moon and a small window. It was a thing, a man, a creature. Although far from human, I wanted to run or sprint, but something kept me glued to the floor.

The thing was impressively tall, and undeniably repulsive, with what looked like deer ears and a pair of tiny antlers sprouting out of its mop of disheveled curls. Its gaze was cold yet strangely attentive. A huge, malicious grin split its face in half, brimming with razor-sharp, crooked fangs. Now the rest of it was truly something else. A neck of uncomfortable length stuck out from between shoulders that looked oddly narrow. Looking down for a moment, I noticed that the thing was rather fat. Not in a beefy, intimidating way (it was still PLENTY intimidating), though, more leaning towards plain overfed. The creature's stomach jutted out alarmingly, like an inflated balloon, noticeably wider at the bottom. Legs, too long to be those of a human, plumped up in the thigh area. Its arms, which were also uncannily long, looked too thin for its body. For a demon (assuming that’s what it was), the creature was shockingly well dressed. A tattered tailcoat, shirt, waistcoat, and some slacks adorned its form, all at least a size or two too small (especially the waistcoat). Hell, it even had a bow tie. Suddenly, the thing cleared its throat.

“Staring at strangers is a little rude, don’t you think?”

The MC, Bartholomew (Barty) Dankworth

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #redesign #artists on tumblr #fanart #horror #fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fat alastor #original character #oc #character design

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blackjackkent · 2 months

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Werewolf battle - large but not too challenging. Three werewolves, four bats, five rats, two wolves, and the two thralls from outside. The bats and rats were only scary because of the wolves, whose Savage Howl ability gives 20 temporary HP to any allies nearby, which turned all the rats and bats from 1HP nuisances into a Potential Problem.

However, Hector and Karlach are just incredible juggernauts at this point and everything pretty much melted, and Astarion and Jaheira just ran cleanup duty behind them. The wolves and werewolves didn't even drop anything of use, the bastards.

We have two options from here - up and down. Up leads to another set of corridors in a much greater state of disrepair, full of caskets and spiderwebs:

Following this path gets us a bit of small loot but nothing else of real interest, and eventually leads to a dead-end attic area.

The real action seems to be down, which is an elevator behind a door labeled "Office Hall."

Narrator: You stand on a clean metal platform - a beautiful but antiquated elevator. There are some scuffs to show its age, signs of things dragged onto it over the years, but it seems to be in good working order.

"What in the hells? I never knew this was here. This was always Cazador's private quarters - only he ever came in here. Well - him and the unfortunate souls we brought to feed him."

Descend into the depths of the palace.

Oh boy.

Conveniently, we get a waypoint down here, for if we ever want to for some reason come back to this place once we've trounced Cazador into a pulp. Hector at this moment can't imagine a reason he'd want to.

"What in the hells?" Astarion says wonderingly as they walk deeper. "I never knew any of this was here."

There are three main doors leading from this entry point. All three of them are labeled "Crypt Gate" - one to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead, which is covered in a magical field.

The magical one has voices coming from behind it, but the description for the field states that we need a "ring of passage", which I'm assuming we get down one of the other passageways. The left door, when passed through, has ANOTHER magical door on the other side of it, so I think the right-hand door must be our starting point.

Going that way, we see--

Hm. OK. That's a bit challenging.

There's another level below that we can jump down to; it hurts, though. Instead, I had Jaheira blow the Misty Step she gets from her current amulet and go down to take a look around. She found... basically nothing, except a locked door she couldn't get through, and I also realized I didn't have another Misty Step to get her back up, and that I had no idea what to do next.

Reload. Second try.

On closer inspection, the left-hand door actually opens with the same ring of passage that we already had for the door upstairs, which gives us this:

Narrator: The ring slots perfectly into place and the door opens, assailing you with a pungent, musty air.

Past the door is what appears to be a bedroom - and rather nice for a dungeon to be honest.

This seems like it might have been some sort of office or workplace for Cazador himself:

"Guilds, nobles, politicians..." Astarion comments. "If he controlled even a fraction of these, the city could be his and no one would ever know."

Hector looks at the other man sidelong. His voice is angry, as it always is when speaking of Cazador, but there is a note of admiration in it too - or perhaps jealousy - which worries Hector more than a little. He's always known that it is not enough for Astarion to be free, not really; he wants the same power that was wielded over him.

Hector, for better or for worse, does not really want him to have it - he doesn't think it would serve Astarion well in the end and (might as well be honest) he doesn't really trust Astarion to wield it wisely either. But he says nothing - as with Shadowheart, he suspects that to try and hammer his viewpoint home would only cause Astarion to withdraw deeper into his own. He can only hope that when the moment comes, the elf will listen to reason.

One of the other documents at the edge of the room is rather concerning. It's labeled "Eternal Cruelty":

Uhhh. Upsetting. I had Hector destroy it with a punch, but nothing specific happened.

There's also this document sitting on the central dais:

"He recorded thousands of names," Astarion says, sounding baffled. "Were they his victims? Or something else entirely?"

And finally, on the bed: "Meditations of a Vampire Lord"

-----

"Prick," Hector mutters under his breath, snapping the book shut.

Karlach chokes on a sudden, unexpected laugh - albeit without much humor - and Astarion blinks.

"Careful, Carlisle," he says dryly. "Such language. I think Karlach is a bad influence on you."

"Hardly," Hector says gruffly. "Sometimes it is warranted. I merely wait until it is."

"It's true," Karlach puts in. "He even said a full fuck you to Gortash, and surely Cazador's in the same tier, eh? And that's coming from me."

"Well, I'll hardly be the one to argue. I just would hate to think you were abandoning your principles on my account," Astarion drawls.

Jaheira snorts. "If Carlisle's principles did not include destroying sadistic monsters, I think we would have all long left his side by now."

"Well said," Hector says, tossing the book back onto the bed as if ridding himself of a curse. "And the more I learn about him, the more eager I am for the destroying."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #bjk writes her own party banter #sheeeeeh cazador's a bastard #also headcanon: jaheira does call hector cub but only between them never where anyone else can hear #in 'public' he's always carlisle. and he's carlisle to astarion too #shadowheart halsin and wyll call him hector #gale switches between hector and hec depending on how serious he's being #karlach always calls him hec or soldier #lae'zel just calls him she'lak - or istik if she's irritated with him; hector very occasionally but only in VERY serious moments #minsc calls him either by the full hector carlisle or just MY FRIEND very jovially #is this relevant to this post? only BARELY XD

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river-bottom-nightmare · 2 years

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on the second floor of wayne manor, to the right of the generations of family portraits and above the old billiards room that has been converted into, more-or-less, a movie den complete with a popcorn machine, nestles the library of wayne manor.

it's not particularly grand or particularly sweeping. instead, it's rather crooked in every direction, bookshelves built this way and that, crawling up the walls like ivy, brimming with novels of any and every sort. a couple plush armchairs and a loveseat were shoved into the corners, an afterthought.

at first, clark couldn't quite imagine bruce in this room. how could he? the musty smell of books permeated the place; clark had only ever known bruce to have machine grease and oil smeared on his fingers and clothes. the armchairs, the bookshelves, the walls themselves seemed to curl in towards the center of the room, as if offering an embrace of the dreamiest sort; bruce threw all the master bedroom furniture up into the attic and replaced it with the sort of soulless shit clark had only ever seen in magazines aimed to please middle-aged majority shareholders. the minute clark stepped into the library, he felt a dozy sort of beauty drape over his shoulders, feeling old and sad and more comfortable than nearly anything else he's experienced. bruce wayne was to clark kent what a pump of adrenaline was to most other people.

and yet.

"i spent half my childhood up here," bruce admitted. "i know for a fact i've read every crime or mystery book we had. then i started collecting them."

thick, calloused fingers skimmed over the bones of the shelf closest to them. bruce turned, enough so clark could enter behind him, but still making sure he had to brush past the other man to get there. (bruce thought he was being crafty. clark wanted to hook his chin over bruce's shoulder and give him a hug.)

with a casual sort of grace that had bruce flicking his eyes over, clark settled into the loveseat, leaning back and simply taking in the room. he shut his eyes, trying to hear a younger bruce shifting on the plush fabric of the chair across the room, greedily leafing through the pages with his hair falling over his forehead.

it's easier than clark had thought. then again, bruce had always felt a bit like midnight velvet, the kind of handsome that felt more at home in black and white. a thin-faced boy—a boy by candlelight, a boy whose hours were so filled with stories that he likened himself to one of those dark knights on the pages—isn't too far out of reach.

clark kent is someone who reads and writes for a living, who knows full well the sheer power words hold, who knows just what they can reveal about other people, who twines them around his lips threads them through his fingers and uses them to do more good in the world than his abilities ever could. clark kent is someone who knows exactly what he's asking when he says, "which is your favourite?"

and bruce, shrewd as he is, picks a worn blue volume from the shelves, sits next to clark, and flips the book open so they can read.

in which the author foists all of her longing into a nonsenical little snippet that is less superbat and more me missing the library

tag list: @woahajimes @birdy-bat-writes @subtleappreciation @catxsnow @pricetagofficial @screennamealreadyused @clamityganon @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump @xatanna-troy @red-hood-redemption @capricorn-stark @batshit-birds @buticaaba @comics-observer @newsical @queenofbooknerds @scattered-winter

#scribbles from the swamp #clark kent #superman #bruce wayne #batman #superbat #(sorta. implied.)#dc #clark kent fic #superman fic #bruce wayne fic #batman fic #superbat fic #dc fic

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edupunkn00b · 7 months

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Meus ex Machina, Ch. 2: Mad Lads

Edited public domain image of two hands reaching for each other, lit in deep blue and neon green

Prev - Mad Lads - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

WC: 2238 - Rated: T - CW: swearing

2090, Concord, MA, USA

“So what do you think?” Janus stood in the middle of the parlor, arms outstretched and a crooked grin painting his face.

Patton turned on the spot and took in the decrepit, once-great great room. Thin, grey sunlight streamed through cracks and gaps in the walls and ceiling, the tangled wisteria from the front yard winding its way inside and up what was left of the crumbling staircase. The stubborn vines and deceptively bright purple flowers seemed to push their way through the old wooden structure, seeking the dripping water or shelter from the summer’s heat.

Or merely just nature imitating humanity, stretching out every which way it could reach, choking out anything in its path.

“Pat?” Janus’ voice was quieter and his smile had shrunk.

“Sorry, Jan. My…” He pressed a smile onto his face and attempted to banish his dour spiral. Fingers waggling on either side of his temples, he shrugged. “Thoughts ran away from me.”

One eyebrow raised, Janus gripped his shoulder. “I could tell.”

“So could I!” A cheerful voice boomed from upstairs and Patton shook his head, a sudden lightness in his chest.

“Stop listening in!” he laughed and looked at the old house with fresh eyes. “It’s got… potential,” Patton grinned at Janus. “How much of this do you think we can keep and how much is—”

As though to test its sturdiness, Janus had pushed against the nearest wall. The ceiling groaned and with a crack, another section fell.

Patton ran to Janus, one hand on his shoulder, the other catching a soggy wooden beam before it landed on his head.

“Hey, we’ve got a new skylight!” a too-happy voice called from the upper floors, clearer now.

“You could ask if we’re alright, you know!” Patton started to snap, but he couldn’t seem to hold on to his annoyance. Janus noticed and glanced between him and the fresh hole in the ceiling.

“I could tell you were fine,” he snarked back, voice thinning as though he moved further away. “Oh! There’s another level!”

Patton took a deep breath, ready to call him back down, but realized he was still holding the beam. Letting out a low sigh, he lowered it to the floor and released Janus’ shoulder. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, don’t we?” He wasn’t just talking about the renovations.

“Don’t we always?” Janus chuckled. He patted his hand and nodded, gaze following Patton’s. “We’ll need to rebuild, for sure. At the very least we’ll need to rip out all the old wiring and plumbing. And this wood was never designed for this kind of climate.” He scrunched his nose at the high water line that reached taller than his waist from over a decade of pre-levy flooding.

“But even with the repairs, it’s a steal,” Patton nodded, tilting his head as he peered through a big picture window out at the forest surrounding the antique house-turned museum.

“New Boston needs the money. Relocating a million coastal residents didn’t come cheap.”

Reaching up over his head, Patton frowned and traced the ghostly outline of what had probably once been wall-to-wall bookcases. “I don’t suppose the government wants to remind people of what was lost in the Purge, either.”

“Why learn from the past when you can erase it?” Janus clasped his shoulder and Patton leaned in to his oldest friend’s grip. “So is that a yes?”

“Holy fuck, Pat!” An excited voice boomed through the house and their minds. “You gotta see the view from the attic!”

“Language, Kiddo!” Patton called back, laughter tinting his voice. “Sure sounds like a yes from him!” Sighing happily, he looked around the musty space and nodded before hooking his arm through Janus’. “From me, too.”

“Excellent,” Janus murmured. “I already signed the papers.”

“Of course you did.” Laughing again, Patton followed Janus up the rickety old stairs to see the view for themselves.

2105, New Boston, USA

Logan had to duck to get through even the larger doorway, and he tried not to think too hard about how the near bow felt like they’d wanted him to somehow prostrate himself as he entered their holy space. He straightened as soon as he was through, breathing in relief at the open layout. From the outside, the first level appeared to only reach about 8 feet, just slightly too short for him to move comfortably in his suit.

He stretched his arms up. These ceilings were at least fifteen feet high.

“We’ll need to make a room for you on this level,” Silvertongue murmured, watching his examination. “At least for when you’re in your mecha.”

His eyes followed the walls, searching for staircases and he frowned. There was no leaving this floor if he couldn’t go in his suit.

“There are three elevators large enough for your suit and your chair.” Golden eyes looked back at him.

“Don’t do that,” Logan snapped.

Silvertongue smiled and held out his hands, palms up. “I wasn’t reading you, simply a lucky guess.”

Belatedly realizing his arms still reached toward the ceiling, he began to lower them.

“No need to drop them just yet,” that strange layered voice said. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once and Logan spun around, searching for the source.

“Now Kiddos,” a softer voice said, seemingly out of thin air. “That’s no way to treat our guest.”

“A guest is allowed to leave,” Logan scowled, stepping back until his hand brushed the doorframe. He turned to look. The seam was smooth, no knob or lever in sight, just another of those flat palm print panels. “I appear to be your prisoner.”

“Drop the Illusion, Prince,” Silvertongue said, sounding almost bored. Easy for him, he likely could see right through it.

A tall, muscled man, the closest Logan had ever seen to a comic book superhero appeared inches from his face. “Fine.” Logan’s hand jerked at the controls and the arms of his mech stuttered down and the man—Prince?—jumped back. “Watch it!”

“You scared him, Ro, that’s all,” the softer voice said, patting his shoulder. Nearly as tall as the Prince, his shoulders were even broader, and thick muscles slid and bunched beneath his fuzzy blue sweater. His face was round and soft, topped with curly golden hair peppered with silver strands and a bushy beard to match. He reminded Logan of a teddy bear. A giant teddy bear, but…“You didn’t mean any harm, right?” He met Logan’s eyes with an almost paternal smile.

“Only if he did,” Logan mumbled. “He shouldn’t—” A flash of purple moved from his left to his right and back again before stopping at the Prince’s other side.

“He’s unarmed,” the fourth man said, tapping at a small device. “All except for the damn Esper blocker.” He looked up at Logan, bright purple eyes practically glowing. Logan remembered him from the DC. Ultraviolet. “How’d you make that thing, anyway? It’s supposed to be impossible for Powerle—”

The one in blue cleared his throat and Ultraviolet nodded. “For Traditionals.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Logan snapped. Ultraviolet and Prince bristled, stepping closer to him.

“Logan—” Silvertongue began.

“Okay, Kiddos.” The one in blue stepped between them. “Let’s settle down.” He offered his hand to Logan, smiling. “I made some food for us. Why don’t you two”— he looked to the Prince and Ultraviolet—“bring in the trays from the kitchen?”

“Alright, Padre,” the Prince said, glaring at Logan over his shoulder even as he followed the other’s instructions.

“Call us if you need us,” Ultraviolet muttered, loudly, then looked pointedly at Silvertongue as they had some sort of silent conversation.

The blue fuzzy one waited for them to leave before turning again to Logan. “I’m The Bear, but you can call me Patton, if you prefer.” He smiled carefully, glancing quickly at Silvertongue as he adjusted the furniture, widening the spaces between them. He squeezed his mech’s hand, the servos’ feedback telling Logan just how strong he was. “What can I call you?”

“I’m Machina,” Logan said, fighting the stupid impulse to tell this strange soft ball of muscle to call him by his first name.

“Machina,” he repeated with another smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He touched the panel behind Logan and the door slid open. “And no, you’re not a prisoner here. V will need to add your palm print to the locks but in the meantime, any of us will open any door you want.” Silvertongue made a little sound and Patton’s eyes flicked over to his before returning to Logan’s.

“I see you brought your chair.” He nodded at the folded chair attached to his side. “How would you be most comfortable while you eat?”

“I…” Logan eyed the unfamiliar space. His muscles had grown stiff from the cramped space inside the cavity of the old picker bot but in his chair… In his chair he was defenseless. “I prefer to stay like this,” he said, unstrapping the chair but setting it in the corner, still folded.

Patton nodded, watching his eyes. “If—when—you wish to change…” He smiled and led him over to the seating area. “Simply let us know what you need.”

“After some introductions and…” Silvertongue met Patton’s eyes and nodded. “Some ground rules, I’ll take you to your personal space.”

“Padre’s spent all day preparing your room,” the Prince muttered from the doorway. “When he wasn’t—” He cut himself off and set down a large tray of glasses and a giant pitcher of bright blue electrolyte solution. Ultraviolet followed, bearing a tray of… cookies?

Smiling, Patton picked up two of the cookies, a wave of warm butter and chocolate scent filling the air. As everyone sat around the oval table, Logan set the mech to crouch on the floor, bringing him nearly to eye-level with the Prince and Patton, the tallest of the group. Patton handed him one of the cookies with a soft cloth napkin, passing them both through the opening at what had once been the top of the picker bot’s thorax.

“Does that work for you?” he grinned before taking a bite of his own.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Thank you… Patton.” The cookie was soft, still warm, the chocolate chips a little gooey against his fingertips. His stomach rumbled as he took a slow sniff. If it was audible through the suit, no-one said anything, though Silvertongue’s gaze seemed to linger on him as everyone settled. He forced himself to take a slow bite and looked around the group as he chewed.

Patton busied himself with passing around cookies and pouring drinks as though it was any other storybook family, nudging Ultraviolet’s elbows until he moved them off the table and smiling indulgently at the Prince when he took three cookies. Silvertongue didn’t speak, or rather, he was quiet, but the way some of the others would suddenly go silent and look his way led Logan to believe the group was having a full conversation, simply one he couldn’t hear.

“You should know, Machina,” Silvertongue began, nodding vaguely at Patton. “There was some disagreement over whether to bring you here.” The Prince’s steely glare left little doubt who had been most opposed to his arrival. “But in the end, we determined it was safest for all of us”—Silvertongue’s eyes went round the table, lingering longest on the Prince’s—“that you join our group.”

Ultraviolet crossed his arms and watched him from the corner of his eye but said nothing. Logan turned to Silvertongue. “You said at my cabin—the cabin—that an attempted murderer would ‘fit in just fine.’” He swallowed and held his chin high as he looked around the table, hoping he looked braver than he felt. “Which one of you’s tried to kill someone?”

The Prince and Ultraviolet raised their hands at the same time. Logan saw movement to his left and Silvertongue’s hand was raised as well. His eyes widened. “You?” he whispered.

“All of us, Kiddo,” Patton said softly next to him, lowering his raised hand to pat his mech’s arm.

“Oh,” he breathed.

“‘Tried’ is a strong word,” Silvertongue murmured, passing him a cup.

Logan looked down at his crumb-covered fingers, nothing but the flavor of his cookie left. He accepted the cup and listened.

“We have more in common than it may at first appear. In fact—Dammit!” he swore when a strip of orange lights flashed along the ceiling.

“Hesper!” Patton nodded, leaping to his feet.

Silvertongue gripped his shoulders and stared into his eyes. “Logan, stay here,” he said, then tapped the nearest table leg. A spiraling staircase opened up next to him and The Prince ran down.

“V,” Patton ordered, and took Logan’s cup. “Get his handprint in. We can’t leave him here locked up.”

“Wha—What’s hesper? I… I can help!” he protested, but Ultraviolet grabbed his hand and pressed it against that same small device. He tried to pull away but the other’s grip was too tight. “Let me come with you!”

“It’s not safe.” Silvertongue shook his head. “We won’t be long. Is he in?” he asked Ultraviolet.

“Everywhere?” he asked, frowning down at the screen.

“Do you have time to differentiate?”

“No,” he muttered. “Fine. He’s in.” Ultraviolet glared at him with eyes hot enough to burn. “If you fuck anything up, I’ll know it’s you,” he said, shaking the tablet before it disappeared into his suit. “Don’t make me regret this,” he hissed, then followed Patton down the stairs.

“Make yourself at home,” Silvertongue said. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

@sandersidesbigbang

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ameagrice · 1 year

Text

Young Years

chapter three | not so bad after all

THE LAST OF US

tommy miller x fem reader

There’s a quiet in the morning, when Freddie still sleeps, giving you time where you can sit and think. Morning sun streams into the living room, and sitting in it warms you right to the bones.

Two days had passed since the movie night in town, and it was energising in a way you’d been missing since 2003. You’d dragged yourself out of bed this morning and forced yourself into the shower while Freddie slept. Standing in the bare bathroom in just a towel, brushing your teeth with the shitty toothbrush from back home, you took notice of the bare walls, and the dusty extractor fan. And something lit inside of you that hadn’t been lit for a while.

You let Freddie wake up while you got ready for the day in some random clothes stored in old bin bags up in the tiny attic space. Maybe the previous owners thought they’d be coming home, so they put them up there for safe storage. Whatever the reason, you thanked them, because despite the slight musty smell, they were all in amazing condition. Four full bags sat waiting for you, of men’s outfits (which you threw right to the back), women’s clothes (which took up two bags and was promptly dropped down to the ground at the bottom of the ladder) and a bag of boy’s clothes, just a bit too big in length for Freddie but also in good condition. You felt almost silly for smiling like you’d won the lottery as you sifted through them. The women’s pants were a size too big in width, but decent in length, so you felt they’d do. There were jackets in bright colours you hadn’t seen for years, and ohmygodohmygod were they Levi’s? You turned the shorts around and looked over the brown stitched square on the waistband of them—definitely Levi’s.

You looked up, putting the shorts down in your lap at the sight of your son rubbing his eyes sleepily in the doorway, just in the light of the sun.

“Good morning,” you smiled, and your heart almost burst when he smiled cutely back. You put the clothes to one side and stood up, a prep in your step that you were fond of, and scooped him up, your back complaining under the weight of him on your hip. Some might have said he was getting too big to be carried around, now. Hell, your bones were shouting it at you. But you’d never get these years back.

“What can we have breakfast?” You sighed, setting him on the counter.

“Hmmmm,” he thought. “Toast?”

You clicked your tongue, reaching for the bread bin. “That is a good choice, little man.”

There wasn’t much in the small kitchen but a couple of things your new neighbours had brought over. The morning after the movie night, just as the kids on the street were heading to school, you’d had a couple of light knocks at your door. Mindful of Freddie still sleeping, you’d unlocked and opened it quietly, smiling politely but wondering what the hell this stout, red-cheeked woman was doing on your step.

“Good morning!” She beamed, and you tried to keep yours. Too early for this kind of joy. Her dark, short curls were tied in a large bun at the top of her head, and she still wore a bright orange dressing gown that reached her slippered feet. “I’m Pam, nice to meet you!”

Pam had a very distinct Brooklyn accent, and dull-blue eyes. She gave you the feeling of a nanna who just wanted to smother her children and grandchildren in hugs and kisses and feed them until they were fat.

You told her your name in return. “Can I help you with anything?” You shook your head a little, watching for her reaction.

Pam shook the wide wicker basket you hadn’t notice she held. “Noticed one of the girls from patrol brought you here the other day. We didn’t see you at all until last night in the hall, remember? So I got to thinkin’, ‘Pam, this woman needs a friend and some good food’. Didn’t figure you’d got a moment to go get anything yet. So I put together a little package for you, sweetie.”

“That’s…that’s really thoughtful,” you sighed gently, in some sort of relaxing state. “Thank you.”

Pam all but shoved it into your hands. “Now, we live just next door, see?” She gestured to the house on your left. “You’re welcome any time you like. My girls have just left for school so I’ve got a bit of cleaning to do, and dear lord I gotta get cooking brisket. I got some brisket last week…”

You hadn’t been able to get rid of her.

“Toast and jam coming right up,” you popped the button, and Freddie cheered. “You know what we’re gonna do today?”

“What?”

You started spreading the jam from the small pot. “We’re going to get some paint.”

“Paint?” Freddie looked incredibly confused. “What for?”

—

Alongside the many other surprising things this town had, a hardware store was one of them. Trying to avoid a lot of talk, now you knew people had noticed you, you took a small box paintbrushes, and two lots of teal paint.

“What do you think?” You looked at the colour swatches in front of the tins. “Teal or darker?”

“Teal!”

Which was how you ended up standing on the toilet seat, paintbrush up to the ceiling, carefully outlining the edges. Freddie was chattering away in the living room accompanied by the box of toys you’d taken in there for him to play with. It wasn’t very hard to keep him occupied these days. The poor kid hadn’t had many toys at all growing up; you simply hadn’t had the resources.

Arizona.

A complete and total lie. The month of hiking from Virginia to Wyoming had almost killed you. Literally. Between the days of not eating to feed your kid instead, and the constant fight against the elements and infected, you were sure many a time that you’d made the wrong decision.

You hadn’t wanted to tell anyone yet where you’d really come from, too afraid to let people know what you were really about. Life back in Virginia had been a different world to this life in Wyoming, this centre of bliss. Between Freddie’s father running off at the first mention of parenthood, and your constant struggle from then onward, life was a fight you’d learned to navigate your own way.

Having arrived here, seeing just what you’d paid information and trader for, was like the world finally giving back. It had taken your youth. It had taken your freedom and happiness for a long, long time. But through all of your efforts of surviving motherhood alone, trying to survive in a place that didn’t want you to…it was overwhelming and a great relief to know it finally wasn’t all for nothing.

You added another splash of colour to your walls.

To your life.

—

By week three, you grew antsy.

And you knew just the person to go to.

“Hey there!” Pam threw up her hands, beaming. She stepped back, and you could smell the beautiful smell of—was that actual duck? “Come in, come in! I’ve just started cooking!”

Freddie clung onto your hand, pressing in your side as you entered the house. You’d never seen a fuller place.

“It smells amazing in here,” you commented. Books were stacked from floor to ceiling next to a full bookshelf, and photographs filled pretty much every space on every wall in sight. “Duck?”

“It is, indeed!” Pam bustled through the hallway. The layout was similar to your own house. “Want some? We got plenty to go around.”

What harm could it do to say yes?

“Uh, that’d be great, actually. Thank you.”

She waved her hand, ushering you into the kitchen. “Oh, you don’t need to thank me, sweetie. Got more than enough for everyone here. And who might this little guy be?”

You smiled, looking down at Freddie. He smiled shyly. “This is my boy, Freddie. You gonna say hi?”

“Hi,” he muttered, hiding his face in your jacket straight after.

You laughed with Pam at his shyness.

“Waiting on the girls to come back from school, and the husband’s still at the bar with Tommy, but you’re welcome to make yourself at home.”

“Tommy?” That caught your attention. Pam hummed, opening the oven and pulling out the tray of duck. “Tommy Miller?”

“Yeah. You met him yet?”

“I have, actually, the first night I actually tried to socialise. Saved me from a pretty unfortunate incident with some guy who couldn’t take a hint,” you huffed a laugh.

Pam groaned. “Ugh—hate guys like that.”

“Tell me about it.”

A best of silence fell over you, and determined to keep the evening light (and to make it seem like you definitely weren’t struggling for things to say) you said the first thing that popped into your head.

“So,” you watched as Freddie left your side warily, and began walking his diplodocus dinosaur up and down the kitchen table. “How long have you guys been here?”

“Oh, about two years, now, give or take,” Pam nodded. “Group of us found this place pretty much deserted back in early 2014. It looked pretty much intact—” she lowered her voice, looking from yourself to your son, “infected didn’t seem to come out this far. So we got it cleaned up as best we could, then started on building the fences to surround the place. And now you’re seeing the rest of our efforts. Gates, stronger walls, our little community. It all works out well, I’d say.”

And it did. The concept of not having to fight like hell to get something you needed still felt a little strange to you—everything here, Maria explained in your first week, was free game, shared between the people who inhabited the community. It was a wonderful idea, but you wondered how long it could last, and more importantly, if it would.

“You mentioned your girls going to school?”

Pam hummed, stirring something on the stove. “It’s a big enough place. Only got a couple’a teachers but it’s better than nothing. You thinkin’ of sending the little one?”

Your heart raced every time you thought of leaving Freddie somewhere you wouldn’t be, but you knew this was important for him. He was five, now. And needed desperately to be around kids his own age, learning about life as normally as possible.

“I was.” You nodded. As if sensing you wanted to talk more about it, Pam nodded you over, and you stood with your hands in your pockets as you talked. Weirdly, you almost felt seventeen again, standing and talking with your mother as she cooked. It hurt. Bad. “I’m worried about leaving him. He’s never been away from me a second in his life, Pam. Ever.”

She pursed her lips, but her eyes weren’t without sympathy. She put down the wooden spoon on the side, and folded her arms to look at you. You were taller than her, a good two heads at least, but she gave the feeling of somebody who knew what they were talking about—a mother and a woman with life experience and a kind but firm heart.

“That place, the school, is well protected. This whole community is protected day and night by people who have the same worries as you and I, darling.” She sighed, and you felt yourself frowning. “I’m not saying it won’t be hard. Every time my husband and children walk out the front door, it is a constant struggle to not chase after them and pull them back. But we’re all here, every one of us in this community, for the same reason; to get some semblance of life back. If it makes you feel better, could talk to Maria about picking up some sort of duty around the place to keep your mind off of things. But the first step to living properly again is by letting that little boy take steps on his own, mama.”

—

“I need something to do.”

Maria lifted her eyes from her bowl of cereal. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you hurried. Freddie clung to you half-asleep, arms around your neck loosely. “I need something to do.”

“Are you wearing Levi’s?” Her mouth gaped, eying your jeans. “What d’you mean you need something to do? We do meetings and yoga—”

“I’m not going to yoga, Maria,” you huffed. The older woman snickered. “I need a job. Give me something to do.”

“Well, what are you interested in doing?”

You faltered. What were you interested in doing? It was hard to think of things you were good at when you hadn’t had the opportunity to explore in the last decade. Back in high school, at the ripe age of sixteen before things turned to shit, you’d enjoyed sitting in art class drawing aimless patterns, or twirling watered-down paint over the back of your hand with a fine brush.

“Got anything to do with art around here?”

“Not really. There’s a small hardware store that sells paints and decor things, but other than that…”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “What about…what about...” you thought hard. You wanted stability and safety, and there were people who guarded the place…

“What about patrol?”

Maria’s face tightened. “Are you sure? We have a rota for who does what time, but…” her eyes moved to Freddie. “Are you sure you want to try that? I mean, it’s your choice, but there’s a lot of going out into Jackson itself, might come across raiders or infected. Anything could happen.”

If it fit around what you hoped would be a stable event in your son’s life, it would have to do.

This chapter is such a filler omg.

Taglist:

@mimi-luvzyu @totallyspicegurl @pedritosdarling

#tlou #the last of us #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller #joel miller #joel miller x reader #tlou series #the last of us hbo #tommy miller series #Joel miller series #sarah miller #henry tlou #neil druckmann #pedro pascal #gabriel luna #ellie williams #bella ramsey #fanfiction

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torotoro0 · 2 years

Text

⟬ Childhood Comrades ⟭

Henry Creel x Reader

•Chapter 4•

[Click this for the chapters]

Summary: You got kicked out of Henry's household when you didn't even do anything wrong... I know, I know, I wondered around his house without consent. But that doesn't mean he can kick me out for that reason.... Right? (･᷄-･᷅)

A/N: sorry for the late post, I made this chapter extra long for my babies ˙ᵕ˙

If your confused of what the style was trending in Henry's era/year click the link below. When you arrive there scroll down for more good ones.

Click Here

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Your Pov

"Don't come back here EVER!"

His words kept ringing in my ears up until now, ever since that day, he has never spoke to me, or even at least threw me a single glare of his.

To think about it, I may have trespassed his abode, but doesn't friends do that to their fellow friend's houses?

I've seen one of them even sleep in their comrade's house. Whilst I only hid inside his attic. Like what's the worse that can happen?

I woke up with a slight headache, my hair was of course unappealing and grotesque. I stand up stretching and yawning here and there.

"I'm so tired ..." I attempt to crack my fingers but only some of them did. Yesterday I was outside the Creel's house, like always, waiting for Henry to come out. And as always, his sister or even his mom, would always come and pick up my doorbell ringings.

I proceed to fix myself as a lady would do herself.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

After I was done with my business I went downstairs. Of course breakfast is important to me.

"Why don't we just bring her with us?" I faint voice was heard as I slowly made my way to the kitchen.

"We can't Diane, she'll just stay with them until we arrive back here." I hear Father reply. What are they talking about? Are they going to abandon me? Are they going to sell me? Or worse.... give me to some other family who needs a donor for their sickly child or whatever.(ꐦ°д°)

"What are you guys talking about?" I slowly reveal from myself from where I was eavesdropping.

"Oh! Good morning darling" Diane smiles. "Morning, so what were you guys talking about?"

"Y/N..." Father solemnly turns to me. "Me and Diane has to go somewhere for a business trip..." He gently holds my shoulder.

"And we have no idea where we have to put you throughout our trip, we were thinking of bringing you with us, but that'll just affect the investor's interview, so we thought...." He gave Diane a quick glance which she replies with a nod.

"We thought that, we'll leave you under the Creel's care for a short while." He weakly smiles, thinking that I'd be saddened by the idea, BUT THIS IS THE GREATEST IDEA YET!

"Of course I'd love to! I've never been in a sleepover my whole life!" I hug him while giggling uncontrollably which made him chuckle as well. "Huh, we thought you'd feel upset that were leaving you, but turns out we were expecting the complete opposite" He turns to Diane with a big grin.

"That's great and all but..." She approaches me. With something behind her back. "You wouldn't want to go there bringing a musty old luggage bag right?" She then reveals a newly released bag form the market.

"Wow! Is this the newest one in town? The one in the commercials that has a big capacity of bringing at least your dog?!" I squeal.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you Diane!" I hug her. "Now, now, you wouldn't want your bestfriend to be waiting yeah?" Father chimes in.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑∗๑ஓ ────── ⊰

"Is everything ready now? No missing things or toys?" Diane reassures. "Yes, yes everything's here now" I was so excited It felt like my butt was going to explode in rainbows.

We finally arrived at the Creel's residence after seconds of driving. I was greeted by Mrs. Creel and his husband together with Alice.

"Y/N!" Alice rushed and hugged me tightly. "I'm so excited today, I can't believe were having a sleepover!" She exclaims.

"Me neither! I can't wait!" She laugh. "Why wait when we can already start now!" She pulls my wrists leading me to her room.

"Thank you for this favor, I don't even know how to repay you guys." Diane bows. "Oh! Nonsense. You don't need to pay us, plus. Henry has been all sulky , I hope inviting Y/N over can change that" Mr. Creel chuckles.

"Well- better get going now, or else we'll be late" Father bids goodbye and flees the scene.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑∗๑ஓ ────── ⊰

"So what do you do for fun?" I ask her. "I would always be reading or playing with my dolls, and playing with... Ah Henry" She hesitates.

"You know something's has been going on with Henry lately.." She starts with her face filled with concern for her brother. "He has been all sulky and upset about everything" She looks at me.

"What did you guys do that day, that he became like this?" His fault I guess, An attic is the perfect place to hide, Why would he be so angry about that?

"I don't really know, all I did was..."

╭┉┉┅┄┄┈•◦ೋ•◦❥•◦ೋ Explaining to her. •◦ೋ•◦❥•◦ೋ•┈┄┄┅┉┉╯

"Ahh so that's what happened" She nods slowly like she heard some mathemathical explanation.

"You know...." She sits beside me. "The attic was Henry's signature place of his." She started.

"What do you mean?" I tilt my head in confusion. "That's like his sanctuary, where he sits down and does whatever he wants to, it's his comfort place. Weird right? An attic for his comfort place" She chuckles.

"Yeah..." I muttered. "What can I do to make him forgive me?" I turn to her.

"Hmm..."

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

I groan as I get up from my bed. The past few days I've been.... lonely. I was avoiding Y/N up until now, I was just so worked up last time when she went inside the attic.

No one has ever entered there, excluding me. She even went down to touching MY stuff there. But...

I feel so guilty, shouting at her like that, dragging her without her knowing what she did wrong. I sigh as I look at the clock.

"Oh? It's already 7:30 p.m.?" I guess time passes by fast when you contemplate about some things.

Suddenly I heard some faint shouting just outside my window.

"Ah! stop that!" It sounds like....

"Y/N?" I whisper as I worriedly approach my glass. "What the heck is she doing at this time?".

She was chasing some kind of rabbit in the backyard. "Fucking shit, I'm gonna get you, just you wait!" I chuckle at her phrase.

"What th-" Just before she can catch the animal she trip on something and fell down, Her [color] colored nightgown on her knee was slowly getting stained with fresh red blood.

"Ow ow ow" I hurriedly went downstairs going into the outside. ヾ(ﾟДﾟ;ヾ)

"Hey are you okay?!" I rush to her side. "It's fine, just a little scar is what happened."

"FINE?! Your bleeding! Let's get you inside!" I hastily picked her up and carried her in piggy-back style as to NOT raise the tension between us.

"Who would have thought the so-called twink can carry a girl." She chuckles as I scoff. "Good for you that you can joke around at this time"

"Oh come on Henry, it's not like I have to undergo surgery to heal" She jokes.

After we arrived, I deliberately went and find first aid materials and went back to her.

"Be careful of yourself next time." I scold. "There's a next time to this?" She giggles.

"What! no! I'm just saying it in case it will happen again"

I was busy disinfecting her wound when she stopped my hand. "Henry" She calls out.

"I'm sorry for anything I did that had upset you..." She confesses, My heart was beating so fast that it can explode any second now. "T-that's ok, Its was clearly my fault-"

"It was my fault, I trespassed without your consent I'm sorry Henry"

"No it's-"

"You guys are sooo romantic, I'm so jealous right now" Alice comments behind us.

"Stop that Alice!" I shot back.

"ooh! I'm so scared that I'm starting to pee my pants!" She laughs.

"There they go again." I hear Y/N chuckle.

A/N: Was this long enough for my babies?

#stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things season 4 #st4 #finn wolfhard #max mayfield #stranger things imagine #enemies to lovers #strangers things #stranger things #st4 spoilers #peter ballard x reader #henry creel x reader #stranger things 001 x reader #001 stranger things #001 x reader #stranger things x y/n

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usernoneexistent · 1 year

Text

Challenge: I solemly swear I am up to no good by @hp-12monthsofmagic

I had originally intended for Duncan to have a story this month however he wasn't cooperating which is his loss so instead I have turned my focus on the Weasley twins? Yeah, kinda just jumped from one prankster to two, lol.

Credits: inspiration based on a conversation with @that-scouse-wizard

Warnings: no ghouls were harmed

The air smelt of freshly cut grass in Ottery St Catchpole as the Burrow was livelier than ever when five Weasley children returned from the Summer holiday. The house became even noisier with the return of the twins, Fred and George.

Molly had secretly hoped that a year at Hogwarts would have tamed the twins. As she expected, Hogwarts didn't work its magic. Instead, it seemed to have encouraged their antics further. Apparently, their time scrubbing in the kitchen inspired them to make homemade dung bombs; instead of exploding a stink, they covered the house in white powder.

"Fred! George!" Molly yelled as she tried to wipe the flour off Ron's face. "What have I told you about using flour as bombs?!"

She heard stifled giggles from up the stairs. When the twins listened to their mother's footsteps coming closer, they quickly ran up to the top floor of the attic. Their ninth residence in the Weasley household slept, whimpering and moaning in a deep slumber. Fred and George quickly snuck past and found a large trunk they squeezed inside.

"Fred? George?" Molly asked around. Based on the loud groans of the ghoul waking slowly up. "Have you seen them? They have to be hiding somewhere here."

The ghoul groaned out of confusion. George and Fred covered each other's mouths to not relinquish their position.

"They'll be here somewhere alright. They can't have gone far."

Fred and George waited in anticipation as their mother's slippers no longer could be heard. They peeked their head out of the trunk, taking the piece of clothing off them.

"The coast is clear, George." Fred said in a hushed voice.

"Guess we'll have to stay here for a while until mum is too busy with cleaning to be mad at us." George hopped out of the trunk, followed by Fred. He saw the white imprints of Molly's slipper on the wooden floor. "In the meantime, let's find something to kept us busy," a wide grin grew on his face.

"You're thinking what I'm thinking." Fred matched George's grin.

"That's exactly what I was thinking."

Fred and George raided through the boxes and trunks to find old and discarded items they could use for their next prank. The attic was full of hidden treasures for them to work with. The ghoul minded his own business instead of playing with his chains. George looked back into the trunk where they hid. An old dusty magenta dress suit lined with frills was tossed aside.

"Hey Fred, come look at this," George beckoned over as he lifted the musty-smelling suit.

"This must be ancient," Fred snickered. "Anyone wearing would look daft."

"Who do you think we can get to wear it?"

They both shared a mischievous glint before simultaneously turning to look at the attic ghoul. The ghoul moaned a sound of confusion.

"Let's test it out on him," Fred said.

The realisation hit the ghoul a little too late as the twins immediately dressed him in the silly-looking dress suit. Despite his protests, they managed to get his arms through the sleeve, but the ghoul slowly accepted his fate. George pulled out the broken, dirty mirror for the ghoul. "What do you think?"

The ghoul crawled closer to the mirror, looking at his cracked reflection. Although the clash of the purple on his greenish-grey skin and the straw-coloured hair made him look like an abomination of colours, the ghoul made sounds of curiosity, even admiration.

"I think he likes it, George," Fred laughed.

As they entertained the ghoul, they didn't notice their mother approaching the attic. The door creaked as someone opened it, causing Fred and George to jump on guard.

"There you are boys-"

Molly stopped herself from being rendered speechless by the ghoul, who was in bliss with the suit. She blinked, looking back and forth at both boys and then at the ghoul again. Without saying anything else, their mother slowly backed out like a muggle car and left them alone.

Fred and George looked at each before bursting out laughing.

"Thanks for getting us out of trouble," Fred slapped the ghoul on the back.

"We owe you one," George said.

The ghoul gave a sloppy lopsided grin back before going back to admire himself. Thanks to Fred and George, the Burrow was free from the ghouls banging the pipes for at least two weeks at night.

#harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley #george weasley #weasley ghoul #molly weasley #ron weasley #hogwarts mystery

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k1ssmeinmydreams · 5 months

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❄️Drabblecember Day 3❄️

🎄Decorating🎁

Prompts by @eternally-smitten

CW: brief mention of weight loss

Sara entered the cramped attic space of her new home. Jim and Pam were already up there, going up while Sara had made sure Grandma Holly had gotten the kids into the car safely and soundly.

Apparently it was a new-ish tradition for Jim and Pam to decorate the house for a Christmas while the children were out. Little hands could often be curious and clumsy, so they avoided potential mishaps that could occur if the kids were nearby while the decorating occurred.

It was definitely a new event for Sara, whose Christmas decorating usually consisted of a fake miniature tree in her bedroom.

She hoisted herself up into the dust filled, musty space, covering her nose in second-natured manner with the newly gifted scarf from Pam’s mom.

Pam looked over and beamed. “You look adorable!!” she tediously walked around the several boxes to get back to the opening in the floor and offered Sara a hand to steady herself. She blushed slightly as she peered around the space, looking at the kitschy and somewhat old looking decorations currently peeking out of the boxes. She figured a lot of them were hand-me-downs.

“I’m not sure if the colors fit me.” Sara replied, never being one too good at taking a compliment.

The scarf was a gorgeous, deep purple, almost like a gemstone, with bits of hot pink thread weaved throughout. Sara had mostly been sticking to oranges, golds and greens recently, but she knew Ms. Beesly meant well. And she really appreciated it.

“It’s cool and funky, like you!” Pam placed a quick peck on her forehead.

“You’re lucky you aren’t having an allergic reaction to the wool.” Jim smirked while gathering several small boxes.

“I thought that was the new aftershave you were trying at the time.” Pam quipped.

Jim looked over at her and simply smiled. “Probably a little bit of both.” he responded. Sara chuckled.

They gathered as many boxes as they could on one trip, entering the small living room that was currently dominated by a slightly oversized Christmas tree. It reminded Sara of the Christmas the office had had a comically large tree.

Pam turned on the combo CD player/radio to a top 40 station, which was currently playing The Ronette’s ‘Frosty the Snowman’. The old speakers made their voices slightly tinny.

Sara sat on the recliner to catch her breath, a tad embarrassed such a small trip had almost winded her. She had recently undergone a lot of changes, including weight, but hated to admit it was due to her recent utter failure to keep her health in check. Most people assumed she was just happily dieting and exercising, not that she’d gone on a tragic sabbatical in Philly to fix what felt so broken at the time.

“Hey, you alright?” she heard a gentle voice say. She looked up, a tad distracted, at Jim. He had a slightly crooked smile planted on his face and arched his brows a tad.

“Oh...” she looked quickly at the fireplace, thumbing one of the tears in the chair’s leather “-yeah. Just a little thirsty.” She admitted.

Jim nodded and walked to the kitchen. Sara began to protest, but he was out of earshot before a word left her mouth.

Pam walked over and ran her hand through Sara’s short blonde hair. She looked up at the other woman and smiled warmly.

“I always wanted to do that.” Pam said, a tad shyly. “Hm?” Sara asked, not quite hearing her.

“When you came back you looked and acted so different. I was afraid I’d never get to touch you again.” Pam said, her gaze lowering. Sara furrowed her brows in concern, grabbing Pam’s hand.

“I felt the same way.” Sara responded. “I was afraid we’d never get back what we had.” She rubbed Pam’s hand gently with her thumb.

Jim came back in, carrying a tall glass of water. Sara felt a tad awkward about their tender moment being interrupted and blushed.

“Here you go.” He passed the glass carefully to Sara’s free hand. She smiled and took a sip. “Thank you.” she mumbled.

“Hey, no problem.” he smiled back, running his hand through Pam’s hair and planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Everything okay in here?”

“Yeah, just reminiscing a bit.” Pam replied, pulling away from the both of them to get back to unpacking the decorations. Jim looked over at Sara, a mildly awkward smile on his face. She smiled back, a tad awkwardly too.

“Come on you two, we don’t have all day.” Pam lightly teased. Sara finished her water and walked over to the large Tupperware container of ornaments. Shiny bulbs and plastic bits could be seen through the translucent material. She looked around for a box of lights, knowing that would most likely be the grieving task.

A couple of hours and the home looked as festive as a three bedroom ranch-style possibly could. Sara looked around and smiled, admiring their collective effort.

The tree looked almost professionally done, but had it’s own charm with the various personal touch ornaments. Sara especially liked the ones the kids had made previously one year.

Pam came behind her and wrapped her arms around her waist, resting her head on Sara’s shoulder.

“Is everything done?” Sara asked quietly. Pam nodded and began swaying slowly. She hummed along to the radio and nuzzled closer to Sara. Jim came up behind them, placing his hand delicately on Pam’s shoulder.

Headlights suddenly beamed through the window. Pam gave one last squeeze before she let go as Jim said “Kids are back!” and jogged the short distance to the front door gleefully.

Before she went to greet everyone, Pam looked at Sara and whispered “I’m really glad you’re here.” She smiled and nodded, replying with a small “Me too.”

Taglist 🏷 (if you’d like to be added or removed don’t hesitate to ask): @gideongrovel @deadlock

#Horse Girl Next Door 🐴💜#Drabblecember #S/I x Canon #self insert #self shipping #self ship community #a little late but ye!!

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starlightgirl242 · 6 months

Text

Details for the BRUTAL Story of Father Fairest

Lore and Ideas for @benjaminthewolf.

WARNING: The following contains excessive angst, emotional and physical abuse, a lot of sadistic details, graphic violence, gore, and disturbing themes. If you’re disturbed by any of these, talk to your family or loved ones about it. You’re not the only one.

Reader’s discretion is advised.

Benjamin’s Nightmare [Feel Free to Use]

Everything is encased in a blanket of shadows… No noise, no sound, not even a single spot of light…

But in Soft BF��s P.O.V., he begins to get up, gradually opening his eyes as he hear his heart beating…

Once he’s fully awake, Soft Boyfriend looked around and discovered that he is within a small room that’s enclosed by such intense darkness, he could barely see his hands in front of him. Benjamin wearily begins to wonder about his whereabouts and notices that he’s no longer waking up on a soft, cozy bed. Instead, he woke up on a sleeping bag that’s lying on the hard wooden floor. Soft BF begins to feel his way around the room and over the door, the latter of which was locked tight. Determined to leave the area, Soft Boyfriend continued exploring the mysterious room for something that can help him escape, but there was nothing, not even a single key.

There were only musty, old furniture pieces, empty plastic water bottles, the sleeping bag mentioned earlier, a bucket, and a cat litter box. (Both of the last two are used as a bathroom) Worst yet, Benjamin discovered why there was absolutely no light in the room. The window is heavily boarded up. Heavy curtains hung over the nailed wooden planks, stopping any light that dared to pierce between the cracks. (If there’s a little nook between the planks, Soft Boyfriend would’ve peeked and see a blood red night sky.)

There were rats roaming around the room as well, along with large bloodstains on the floor, which only spooked Soft BF for a little bit. It was at this moment, that he realized that he is back to the one location that brought him so many awful memories. He’s at the attic of the Fairest mansion.

The Fable of the Fragile Fairest Child [DO NOT USE]

When Benjamin Fairest is a child, his biggest dream is to become a well known painter. But, his parents want him to follow his father’s footsteps and become a singer. The music life isn’t what Soft BF wanted, but what they FORCED upon him. He spent all his time and energy singing and studying since middle school. Whereas his grades are at their highest, his musical skills didn’t improve and his parents are getting impatient.

Even as a kid, Soft Boyfriend noticed that his future wasn’t what his father was worried about… Frank Fairest is afraid to be a disappointment to HIS parents, who happens to be musicians as well. (Softie’s grandmother is a renowned pianist and his grandfather is a world famous opera singer.)

But, the path Soft BF’s parents wanted begin to diverge and then came the bombshell…

Soft Boyfriend’s grandparents told his father that “It’s no use” and “There’s no way an unwilling child like Benjamin could become a singer”. That’s when Soft BF’s grandma begins to comfort her teary eyed grandson with freshly baked cookies, warm hugs, and kisses and tells Soft Boyfriend that “If his passion for making art makes him happy, then he’ll work hard to make sure that his dream will come true!”. His grandfather, on the other hand, chastised both of Benjamin’s parents, telling them that he’s disappointed in them and they can’t even raise a child properly.

(To put it simply, Soft BF’s grandparents are authoritative, kind, and gentle towards Softie and they love him more than his parents.)

After his grandfather scolded him, Frank Fairest revealed his true colors to his son. He begins to beat Soft BF to a bloody pulp and burn his son’s chest with lit cigarettes in frustration and his wife will spew curse words and insults at him, blaming him for “everything he puts them through”.

The Imprisoned Son [DO NOT USE]

After the school shooting incident, Benjamin was put into home school when he reached 11th grade in high school. But in actuality, his parents drugged Soft BF during breakfast and locked him up in the attic room. When he wakes up, they tell him that “He’ll be released if he promised to get his stupid dreams out of his head.” (Referring to Soft Pico and Soft Boyfriend’s dream of being a painter.) Each time Benjamin refused, his incarceration will be extended. His parents’ plan was to keep their son confined in the attic until he promised to do everything his parents say. They thought that he would relent on the spot. However, Soft BF furiously vowed to NEVER give in to his parents’ demands and break himself free.

During his imprisonment, Soft Boyfriend is given a water bottle and a few scraps of food to sustain himself. On Fridays, it’s leftovers from this evening’s dinner. However, on weekdays, his parents didn’t give him anything to eat, so he had to fast. And after a while, he was so hungry that he would brutally stomp on mice with his right foot, eat their remains, and guzzles a full bottle of water to keep them down. Soft BF didn’t want to kill any of the living creatures in the attic (the ones that managed to make their way inside), and his stomach is begging him to throw up, but he had no choice.

He would scream until his voice gives out and bash at the door until his knuckles were bloody and bruised. But, each time he cries for help, Father Fairest will enter the attic and starts attacking him relentlessly, with a massive amount of blood drenched in various directions & leaving Benjamin with bloody wounds and a black eye.

No matter how much he pleaded, his parents wouldn’t release Soft BF. No one ever came in the attic, not even to clean up. Benjamin had no contact with the outside world and was isolated in his attic prison from everyone and everything.

It went on like this for 4 years and 9 months until Soft Boyfriend was found by a maid, believing that there’s a ghost in the attic. Afterwards, he is sent to the hospital to recover from the traumatic experience and is given a hearty meal to regain his strength until he’s healthy enough to be discharged.

The Story’s Giant & Tiny Method [Feel Free to Use]

Father Fairest throws a pair of black and white shoes on the floor in front of Soft Boyfriend, which happens to belong to his partner in crime, Soft Pico. Inside of the right shoe, there’s a miniature shrinking device (that tiny little device with four claw-like appendages on the bottom of it and a button on top) that can help Benjamin whenever he’s in trouble. Soft BF grabs the monochrome footwear and retrieve the device posthaste. Without a minute to lose, Soft Boyfriend placed it on his arm and proceeds to push the button to get smaller.

Once he had been miniaturized, Benjamin begins to make a mad dash towards the attic door, running away from his violent father. On the halfway point, his little legs begin to tire out and he slows down briefly. Sensing his fatigue, the attic rat swiftly rushes up to Soft BF in order to pick him up and gives him a ride to the exit. Just before they can make a quick getaway, Father Fairest stops the rodent by stomping hard on its tail, putting an end to Soft Boyfriend’s great escape. With a sinister smile on his face, Father Fairest picks up his miniature son and scoffs at his pathetic escape plan, even went as far as comparing Benjamin to a rat, which only fuels Soft BF’s anger to a greater extent.

A Scream from a Scary Dream [Feel Free to Use]

Soft Boyfriend suddenly screams his lungs out as soon as he wakes up from his nightmare, scaring off the slumbering birds outside. Once he had calmed down, he’s sitting in the bed of the guest room in Soft Pico’s house (with two pieces of Soft BF’s luggage beside the bed, right where he placed them), relieved that his body, flesh, and clothes stayed intact.

Just as Benjamin begins to cry, Soft Pico arrives the area in a flash. When Soft BF’s teary eyes met his partner’s concerned gaze, he wastes no time in wrapping both of his arms around Soft Pico, holding him snug and tight against his being whilst allowing himself to cry, his tears flowing freely, as he release all of his emotions at once. Next, Soft Pico asked Soft Boyfriend about what’s troubling him and why is he crying. Benjamin, who’s shedding a lot of tears, tells him about his awful nightmare and his father returning to get his revenge. Afterwards, Soft Pico hugs his saddened partner close to comfort Soft BF and tells him that he’s here for him and his parents are NEVER coming back.

After a few minutes of sobbing, Soft Boyfriend asks Soft Pico if he can sleep with him in his room for tonight. When he confirmed his answer to Benjamin, Soft Pico takes him to his bedroom where a softer and warmer bed patiently awaits (with a refreshing cup of water to boot).

(For context: After the holiday incident at the mall (Soft Mod’s Week 5), Father Fairest is sent to a high-security prison for the criminally insane and serving his life sentence here and Mother Mairest became volatile due to the abuse making headlines & her and her husband’s reputation plummeting to the ground, so much so that hearing the name “Benjamin” infuriates her significantly. Because of this, she became mentally unstable and had to be hospitalized. Soft BF made the decision to pack up his stuff and move out of the Fairest mansion, leaving his metaphorical prison for a better life. When he tells his partner that he’s going to stay at his place instead, Soft Pico couldn’t be any happier and willingly accepts his offer.)

#story ideas #very scary #monday night munchin’#monday night munchin #fnf soft

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