#— ❛❛ // ANSWERS ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hochmvt · 9 days ago

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“Octavia, would you mind waiting in the diner over there? I wanna ask you some questions, but... I need some time, okay? Just order whatever,” he spoke calmly to the redhead and thanked her as she nodded. Then silence fell and Isaiah looked back at Zeev and the longer he looked at him, the more his heart felt like it was breaking. The silence didn't convey the feeling of the calm before the storm, but instead the silence that followed—when everything lay in ruins and the fallen tree trunks and debris had buried everything that was dear and sacred. From the look on Zeev's face he had caught a glimpse of from a a few feet away, he could see that his rash decision and blindly following a base instinct had irrevocably damaged something very fragile and delicate. Not on purpose or out of malice—he could never do that to the Sundawner, and Isaiah just hoped Zeev was aware of that—but even curiosity or upright kindness could hurt if one wasn't careful. His look wasn't reproachful, that might have made it easier. There was disappointment, hurt and seeking in his gaze: as if he was searching for his boyfriend in the outer shell of Isaiah. Knowing that he himself was the reason was what hurt the most. Guilt coated every remote corner of his insides and even though he felt that last night's experience was special and unique, at that moment he wanted nothing more than to turn back time and undo everything that had happened.

Zeev's every word hurt. Not because Isaiah felt wronged, but because every one of them was true. They weren't necessarily Isaiah's truth, because in no reality in this world would he put anything above Zeev, above his safety, his care, his love. Zeev was everything and so much more that Isaiah had dreamed of in his life, and most days it still felt more than surreal that he was dating the current millennium's grand prize. Zeev's words settled on Isaiah's skin like fine snowflakes, making him shiver more and more until they eventually turned to frostbite. It didn't matter if the words were the truth, his truth, or not: Zeev spoke what he felt and Isaiah knew that demanded a lot from the witcher. He would never negate his feelings or his perceptions, especially not when they were as fragile and fresh as they were now. It wasn't about rationality or irrationality, but about Isaiah wanting to create a space for him in which he could unfold and speak his mind. And where he could also let himself go when his heart was heavy. Even if Isaiah himself was the trigger.

He cautiously took a step towards him. Zeev was not startled, but his arms tightened slightly. Isaiah's peace offering to gently reach for the other's hand died before the thought was felt to completion. And at the same time, he greatly was respectful of Zeev not seeking physical contact at the moment. Isaiah stopped in place, kneading his hands a little and shifting his weight slightly. The wooden floor creaked slightly beneath him. And Isaiah did not interrupt Zeev as he spoke, his gaze remaining on him the entire time, giving him his undivided attention, no matter what shadowy figures were hiding elsewhere. If Sebastian lay bleeding in front of him now, writhing in pain, he would presumably still only have eyes for his boyfriend. Isaiah was aware of the other man's fear of loss and he knew that it was primarily what spoke to him. That was why it was essential to see Zeev's feelings, his anger and his pain for exactly what they were: Important. Real. And they had every right to exist. You could see it in the other's trembling hands and reddened eyes, in how the lump in his throat was so big that he sometimes choked on his own words. How much he would have liked to just give him a hug.

But Zeev took the step first and Isaiah wrapped his arms gently around the other man's waist without speaking, without giving him a long explanation or an apology that would never do justice to what he actually felt or put the situation and what had happened in any particular light anyway. “I'm sorry, my love,” he whispered eventually into the silence between them and gently stroked the other's back, kissing his cheek and running his fingers through the blonde, slightly disheveled strands again and again. “I love you, more than anything... I am with you, this is the two of us, I'm so sorry, my love,” he spoke softly, merely holding the Sundawner and gently stroking his hair. “I got too caught up, my mind leapt and before I knew I was moving. That wasn't fair to you, that's not how this is supposed to be. I will do better, you will always be my priority. You will always be what I care most about. You will always be everything that my life revolves around.” And as Isaiah spoke, his arms tightened around him. His embrace was the real apology.

Carefully, at some point, he had lifted Zeev up wordlessly—and quite effortlessly, despite his tiredness and exhausted limbs, as if their own little microcosm in which they moved had a gravity of its own—and they had gone back to the motel room. Shortly after he had laid Zeev down on the bed and lay with him, he had taken him in his arms again, caressed his forehead, his nose and his cheeks, kissed away the tears. This is how it should always be, he told the other wordlessly through his gestures, this is where you belong, my darling. With me. With me. I'm sorry. They just lay quietly next to each other, in between Zeev had let himself fall and just stayed close to him, as if he had repeatedly reassured himself that Isaiah was back with him. “I will always come back to you, Zeev. I will never abandon you. You are the love of my life,” he spoke softly against the other's lips and stroked his hair, still holding him like the calm sea was no longer aware of its tides, steady and unwavering. To Zeev he would always offer a gentle sea.

Softly, he kissed the other's neck as he closed his eyes and breathed in the other's scent. Isaiah still didn't explain himself. Did not defend himself. Didn't talk about his feelings of guilt or the inexplicable inner urge that made him run blindly. He held Zeev for a long time, pressed his lips gently against the crook of his neck and breathed him in like home. Because that's what he was. In this moment of silence and intimacy that never needed words to begin with, he let the shame and sorrow settle like fine dust glimmering in the sunlight of the unfamiliar motel room, unbrushed and eventually untouched. And in that silence, he whispered promises against the Sundawner's skin, not in speech but in presence: You won't have to chase me anymore. If I'll ever get lost, I'll take you with me. No more empty beds, no more vacant mornings. I choose you. Every time. In every life. Even when I forget, you will always linger on my mind.

And while Zeev eventually fell asleep in his arms, utterly tired and exhausted, Isaiah simply stayed close to him, listening to the steady, slow breathing rhythm of the man he loved most in this world and he became painfully aware that the most exciting thing he had ever sought in his life was resting in his arms. And for today and all the days that followed, all of this would be enough. While Zeev rested, Isaiah had lain awake for a long time, finding respite and rest from the feeling that he was lying here with his boyfriend, who he already knew would eventually ask him to be his husband, and yet the emotions raged within him as the silence of the room gave him more space to be alone with the feeling of his guilt.

Every breath Zeev took reminded Isaiah of another second he had to go on living with himself and what he'd done, and his limbs went numb and the cuts on his legs ached, but he just lay still with Zeev as a sign that he was there, a sign he wouldn't leave another time.

The podcast host had to reckon with the way he made someone he loved feel like an afterthought, even if he never meant to. That was the worst part. He hadn't meant to. None of it had been calculated. He hadn't weighed the options and chosen to leave Zeev behind. His brain just... moved like it always had. A flicker of something strange in the woods—and then he was gone. Gone the same way he used to be as a kid, when his classmates were playing tag and he was chasing shadows instead, especially after Carter had disappeared. Gone like he'd always been, only now there was someone waiting for him, someone who loved him enough to notice the empty space he left behind. And Isaiah hated himself for who he was. For the way his brain was wired and how he always seemed to fall out of place.

What if eventually, Zeev would realize that Isaiah was wired too differently to be loved? That he was too reckless to wait for? And that he would be a waste of time: That it was the idea of him that Zeev had fallen in love with and not what all of that entailed? The restlessness. The urges he succumbed to when it came to the unexplainable. The mess he left wherever he went. As his gaze wandered through the room, he noticed how Zeev's clothes were folded neatly and Isaiah's were scattered, his shoes were kicked off carelessly, while Zeev's were neatly next to the door. Would he, like the other people he dated before, realize that he was too much to handle to fight and fight and fight and at one point, one fight would result in ending things? Was holding onto what he always dreamed of in his life be good for him, if it'd result in heartbreak too great to live through? Would he eventually end up alone, as he had always predicted it himself?

He carefully stroked the other's chest, smiled faintly and felt his heartbeat on his palm, his fingertips brushed the delicate chain hanging around his neck and he closed his eyes. Beneath his fingers stretched everything he never thought he had. And something about that felt frightening. Not Zeev, but that Isaiah himself held the power of destroying all this with his nonsense and absent-mindedness eventually. There were so many things he still had to unlearn. But now, as he lay there holding the man who had every reason to walk away, Isaiah felt the full, unrelenting weight of what it meant to be seen—and thus, the responsibility that came with being loved in return. In that quiet, however, he also made a decision. He gently kissed the other's lips, wiped his own tears from his cheeks and whispered soft apologies against the other's warm skin, then embraced him again and quietly promised that he would be with him again and again. Show up. Again and again and again. Even when his thoughts begged him to chase something. Even when he felt the familiar feeling in his chest: He. Would. Stay. He would look back, reach out for Zeev's hand, holding it tight, just to make sure he'd never leave without him knowing.

As he lay there, he pondered about how to fix what had happened and as he came to no conclusion, he made a promise to himself that he wouldn't let it happen again, hoping that, if he could manage that (and if he learned to unlearn all the things he hated himself for and, most importantly, to think before he acted upon his impulses and vanishing into the night), Zeev would keep choosing him, too.

By mid-afternoon, Zeev had woken up again, the sun was high in the sky and it's light fell through the windows. The Sundawner had taken care of the scrapes and scratches, though Isaiah had emphasized several times that he didn't have to do all that, but Zeev had simply insisted. So Isaiah had kept still and not made a sound as his boyfriend patched him up, repeatedly stroking his hair and thanking him. Quietly, he had leaned forward, kissed the witcher gently and stroked his cheek with his thumb, looking at him with all the love he felt for him.

It was strange to think about Octavia first meeting him in boxer shorts and then meeting him in jeans. As they joined her, he politely introduced the two of them: “Octavia, this is Zeev, my boyfriend. We're currently investigating a case around here... Zeev, this is Octavia, she, uh— found me in the woods, when— Last n—" He got hung up on the N several times and decided to end the sentence there. As Octavia introduced herself to Zeev, Isaiah kneaded his hands lightly and watched them interact, before offering Zeev his seat and sitting down next to him. He placed his hand on the other's thigh, kissed his cheek and ordered food a little later, inviting Octavia to do the same again and ordering a milkshake for himself and hot water for Zeev, taking the infuser with the tea blend for him out of his jacket pocket and handing it over to him.

While they waited for the food, as well as during early dinner itself, they talked about everything and nothing at first, until Isaiah and Octavia finally filled Zeev in on what had happened the night before. Isaiah had already finished his burger and was eating his fries with one hand while stroking Zeev's thigh with the other, glancing back and forth between the two of them as they talked. At one point, he took his notebook out of his pocket and drew a rough sketch so that Zeev could visualize what he had seen. Octavia reported first and foremost, also describing her view of things, what she had experienced up to that point. Isaiah kept quiet for the most time, because the guilt of everything that happened had made it hard to talk.

As he licked a bit of burger sauce off his thumb, he leaned back, thinking and crossing his legs. “That... entity that I saw, the one in the woods last night... You've ever seen something like that? You've been chasing it, I assume? Considering you camped out there,” he finally spoke to her and she stopped chewing in the middle of her bite and looked at him. Then she nodded. “I've heard about it, but I've never seen it... But I have no idea what it is, I don't think it's malevolent, but it's not indifferent either. It cares, I think.” Isaiah tilted his head sideways. “What do you mean?” he asked, eating some more fries. “Well, I think the better question is why it showed you. Deities like that... don't just wander into motel parking lots. And they don't usually let people walk away unchanged.” Isaiah chewed on the inside of his cheek and looked over at Zeev. “Do you notice anything different about me?” he finally asked. Zeev looked at him and shook his head.

Silently, he looked at his skin and still felt the touch of this being, as if he were standing in the sun and his arm was being warmed. It was as if something had taken root inside him, just waiting to blossom. And until then, he hadn't given a thought to Sebastian. He had thought about Octavia and that he liked her, but first and foremost only about Zeev. Zeev in his arms, Zeev in bed with him, Zeev, Zeev, Zeev.

The small bell above the front door of the adjoining diner rang and the sweltering heat of Montana was brought in with the opened door. Heat that the air conditioning had probably been desperately trying to fight for days. Isaiah hadn't looked up immediately, but was still chuckling at Zeev's remark, leaning over and kissing his shoulder, which Octavia had taken a picture of. A beautiful photo for sure. But as the American leaned back again, his gaze went briefly towards the door and eventually lingered on Sebastian. Or rather, what was stuck on him. Not behind him, but on him. Absentmindedly, he took his hand from his boyfriend's thigh as he eyed the figure that clung to Sebastian's shoulders like tar, shadows bleeding beyond his silhouette and fading into nothingness. It had no clear shape, no face, but Isaiah sensed it had one, the way the figure's eyes lingered briefly in space and then back on Sebastian.

Even after he blinked, it was still there. “Zeev,” he murmured softly as his gaze continued to linger on Sebastian. “Do you see that?” The witcher glanced towards Sebastian, gently stroking the podcast host's thigh and then his forehead, feeling the temperature. Octavia had tilted her head slightly to the side. “I see a guy in desperate need of moisturizer, but to call him an 'It' because of that... I thought differently of you, Isaiah. Is that this Sebastian man?” she asked and Isaiah looked at Zeev. “What do you see?” the Sundawner asked quietly, cupping the other's face, his thumb stroking his cheek, and Isaiah looked around again, back at Sebastian. And again to that creature.

“There's something clinging to him, literally... Not like a metaphor. Like a shadow, a... thing, I don't know, I've never seen anything like it before,” he spoke as his gaze returned to Sebastian and his unwelcome companion. “It's— It looks like it's feeding on him.” Octavia turned to Sebastian as well. “Feeding on what though?” she asked. “I don't know... On guilt? Or pain or... I don't know? I— It doesn't look like it's possessing him... Maybe it followed. I think something happened, something he hasn't told us and— And whatever this thing is... it's not allowing him to forget. He—” He didn't seem to notice it either. Their eyes met briefly, Sebastian gave him a fleeting smile and then ordered.

“And you can see it?” Zeev asked concerned and slid a little closer to his boyfriend, taking the blonde's hand in his own. Isaiah gripped it tighter, the more time passed, the colder he felt. This creature moved on him, as if it was born of the land, not shaped by it. The American nodded silently and as he stared, the creature seemed to shift. It was not a parasite, not a ghost, not a classic shapeshifter. It was a creature of grief and terror and rage, molded by centuries of trespassing and overstepping boundaries, nature willfully and unmistakingly set.

As it crawled off Sebastian's shoulders, it looked almost like a deer. The long legs were bent peculiarly, the ribs clearly visible, as if this day had been preceded by a long period of starvation. Even the fur looked out of place, in large parts one could see sinews of light underneath, covered by oil and soil. His gaze wandered to the antlers, twisted like burned roots, clasped with barbed wires and pieces of metal Isaiah couldn't determine the origin of, that cut into the wood, it's carving making the roots below bleed black blood. Isaiah gulped, realizing that it seemed like it had risen from an old, violated forest, reclaiming the wreckage left behind. And yet, it moved without making a sound.

The deer-spirit now stared at him. But Isaiah didn't feel in danger, something about the gaze (if one could call it like that) said that all was well, and yet he had the urge to flee. That, however, never really left when confronted with something you never experienced before. He pressed himself more against Zeev, sliding further over to him on the bench, scrutinizing the elongated face of what was in front of him. In this enclosed space, Isaiah felt a gentle breeze as this being in front of him “breathed” and looked at him silently. For seconds that felt like hours, it stood before him, scrutinizing him as if it were making up its mind. Then, as though he were no threat—no foe—it retracted until it reached Sebastian once more.

There, it crawled onto his shoulders again and embraced the man by shifting shape once more. A strange hug, in a way. Isaiah exhaled shakily and took a napkin before attempting to draw on it with a ballpoint pen. They both had to see it: the skeletal legs, the ribs covered only by skin and not muscle tissue or flesh, and those twisted antlers, overgrown and crowned with crimson and decay. It looked more monster than animal, even though Isaiah despised the word.

And yet there was something regal about it. As Isaiah looked up at it again, it had its own touch of tragedy to it. The tired, slow, exhausted movements. It needed rest. It didn't feed on Sebastian, it longed for rest. For peace. Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows compassionately and pushed the napkin away, sharing his thoughts with the others and feeling his heart grow heavy, even if he was only interpreting. His interpretation had given the creature a face, and regardless of whether it turned out to be true or a lie, the podcast host had fallen for a narrative that now expressed itself in empathy. He chewed the inside of his cheek and leaned against Zeev's shoulder, loosening his grip on his hand and apologizing quietly. “Have you ever seen or heard of anything like this?”

Ever since Zeev knew what it was like to wake up in his personal home, where everything was to some extent his own, mornings elsewhere seemed a little hazy. Overnight stays in hotels, motels and holiday flats had almost become a ritual. Apart from the unfamiliar smell and the lack of personality within the rooms, which were so bare and loveless that Zeev often considered taking personal mementos with him just to add some homeliness to the room, the light fell differently. Zeev was acutely aware, even if Isaiah had never revealed it, that he always sought to find flats that faced the sun, so that he would wake up with the sunrise in the morning. Nevertheless it would always be different from home. As if she was less warm, less ambitious, as if she missed him someplace else.

Mornings that had to be spent without the sun—whether because of bad weather or the change of seasons—were only half as bad as soon as he opened his eyes and saw what provided him with sunlight without ever seeing the sky.

But there was no trace of Isaiah.

Most likely he had gone over to Sebastian, if he judged his curiosity correctly. While it did cause Zeev a certain amount of discomfort, it wasn't as if Isaiah had gone completely off the deep end. He might be a little overzealous at times, but... Zeev stopped that train of thought, knowing full well that whatever came next was unfortunately not unlikely. It wouldn't be the first time either.

Perhaps he was just outside the door, dragging on one of the few cigarettes. The excitement often caused his mind to spin, jumping from one theory and hypothesis to the next. Logic always seemed difficult to follow, especially in the face of the supernatural, which could certainly push even a mind as open and experienced as Isaiah's to its limits. However, something like ‘it simple is’ was not an answer he accepted and it was a quality Zeev valued greatly. Finding understanding of the world around him not only made him insanely attractive in the witcher's eyes, but also the greatest inspiration. Nevertheless, as of right now, Zeev was lying alone in bed and that clouded his morning immensely.

Frowning, his gaze flew over to the table on which Isaiah's laptop was propped open. The small light implied that it was in standby mode. Zeev remembered Isaiah switching it off and closing it when they had gone to bed. That wasn't a cause for alarm per se since Zeev had expected Isaiah not to enjoy a restful night's sleep, but something in Zeev's inherent sense of foreboding announced itself with unsettling precision.

His gaze travelled around the room, searching for his lover's tangled head, but found only a dreary wasteland. The motel room had already been unappealing in its colour scheme, with its old-fashioned beige walls and patterns resembling something of a senior citizen's living room; without the bright splash of colour Isaiah's life reflected, everything seemed even stranger than it already was.

Less gracefully than he was used to, he slipped out of bed, out of his pajamas and into his clothes, slipped on his shoes and, before he had even glanced in the mirror, opened the motel room door. And saw... nothing.

At least not what he wanted to see. No bent back that he would have loved to run his hands over and feel the muscles tense with surprise beneath them, no body that would have turned towards and towered over him, no smile that greeted him and, despite the tiredness in the corners of his eyes, would have been hard to beat in terms of beauty and honesty.

Instead, he was alone.

Frowning, he walked over to Sebastian's flat; admittedly, he was awake very early. Isaiah usually slept well past dawn. When something was bothering him, however, sleep was a difficult endeavour. Whether Sebastian was a morning person, slept at all (which Zeev highly doubted) or was currently knocked out didn’t matter to the witcher.

Nevertheless, he knocked very lightly on the door and listened. There was such a sudden and loud rumbling inside that Zeev pulled his head back and pushed the door open in a leaping action. The entire room was trashed, mirrors had been smashed, there were notes on the floor and they were all written with the same onomatopoeic phrase: Clap Clap.

Zeev couldn't say what had caused the noise, as the devastation was too extensive. It could have been literally anything. The blonde didn't bother asking if everything was okay. Sebastian stared at him from the ground, his eyes dark with fatigue. Reddened from overexertion and lack of sleep.

It was difficult to explain the unease Zeev felt towards him. After all, the young man was just a victim of circumstances. And yet Zeev couldn't help but see something in him that was tantamount to a threat. Like a scapegoat.

So Zeev asked the only thing that interested him: “Where's Isaiah?”

Sebastian looked at him from his crouching position, making him appear somewhat like a guilty child, and shook his head. That brief gesture was enough to send heat sliding through every cell in Zeev's body, heating him up like the sun. From the soles of his feet to the top of his skull. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer his help to the battered man, only his puny state was never on par with anything that concerned Isaiah. He was his priority, in all matters.

It was at this point that Zeev remembered the existence of his smartphone, which he simultaneously snatched from the table in his motel room upon returning and unlocked. Even before Zeev read the messages, he realised the time they had been sent.

Then his eyes scanned every word, causing his heart to rattle and shake within the narrowing cage of growing sorrow.

I'm safe Don't worry about me Chasing friendly giant I'll be back soon, please meet up with Sebastian at 9 Or was it 10 Don't worry about me please I promise you I'm safe I love you More than strawberry cake

None of this made him stop worrying. Fundamentally, while he was pleased that he'd apparently thought of him to fill him in on his disappearance, it also meant that he'd willingly left him behind. He had felt enough guilt to come forward in some way—and that seemed to be the end of the matter for Isaiah.

For Zeev, it revealed only one thing.

He didn't know what exactly had brought tears to his eyes. Probably a combination of all the current facts swarming his blonde head. And every message he sent him wasn't delivered—and although that shouldn't surprise him, it tore at the last remnants of his heart.

Where are you? Please send me your location Isaiah come back Pleadje wheje are u I thought we re dougk thisbtogegher u coulkd have wolen ne up

There were hobbies that weren't worth the effort. Be it because of a lack of recognition or ultimately rather mediocre results that didn't stand out in the crowd. Octavia thought less about either as she lay on the sleeping mat and dug her chin into the palm of her hand. She alternately tapped her pink nails against her round cheek and sometimes lightly scratched at blemishes until she remembered that it would only make things worse.

For weeks now, she had been trying to catch a glimpse of what was supposedly roaming the nearby woods. There had been talk of strange natural phenomena, which she had read about in various forums. Hikers and campers—especially those who wandered through the woods to find mushrooms and other delicacies—had spoken of strangely widespread occurrences of plants and fungi that shouldn't actually exist in this region. There had also been talk of a strong presence, which among spiritualists could mean anything, but Octavia wasn't too picky. She wasn't necessarily dependent on finding fantastic material for her Reddit and her blog, but she was still eager to finally have something to show off again. Even if she was the only one gazing at it at the end of the day.

Suddenly she noticed the change in the air. It was as if she was breathing in fresh oxygen for the first time, while everything else had fallen victim to air pollution. The smell of freshly mown grass wafted around her nose, she tasted the warm humidity of a thunderstorm in the hottest summer and she smelled the lilies that her former neighbour had owned when she had lived in Springfield. Something moved into the clearing and the trees gave way. The presence made room for itself on an earthly plane that didn't really have enough space left to offer. Nevertheless, it pushed its way in, which may explain the sluggishness. As if the creature was wading through deep, heavy bog water. No matter where it stepped, it seemed to wake the earth.

The sight alone was breathtaking, and when the creature itself began to literally bloom, it filled Octavia with an abundance of joy and gratitude that brought tears to her eyes. She could hardly describe the variety of her emotions, they were simply so vibrant and evocative.

She was glad to have switched to Kodak Portra, for this beauty—even if she couldn't possibly capture it—had to be brought to life in all its compositions. She wished the smell was one of them. Just as she set up her Minolta and positioned it�� on the tripod so as not to shake, checking the flash once more, she saw another figure emerging into the clearing. A scantily clad young man stumbled out of the undergrowth and approached the entity with a composure she could not have mustered. He also ruined her picture.

That really was her luck, wasn't it? She had spent hours waiting and then, when she finally met a legitimate nature spirit, a human had to force his way into her image. And then he wasn't even wearing trousers.

Octavia would not give up, however, and decided to capture the moment, even if the experience was unlike anything else.

Testingly, she raised a hand and covered her pale left eye. As if whitened by the unlimited sunlight

The creature seemed to have disappeared, leaving behind a vague silhouette framed by mushrooms, branches and mire. As if it had put together a garment from various parts of the forest, worn with pride.

Slowly, her hand sank again and she smiled at the creature as it moved leisurely away, disappearing swaying between the tall trees that welcomed it like a warm home after a long journey.

The excitement died down, leaving behind the freshness of the night and the shallow wind—as well as the stranger in the field. She carefully packed up her things and approached slowly, without drawing attention to herself directly. Firstly, she wanted to assess the stranger's mental state.

She might have been the one sitting in the cold for hours with the suspicion that something supernatural might be happening, but he was still a man in the woods.

The closer she got, the more the redhead began to suspect that she knew him. Admittedly, she didn't know many people to make such a claim, and yet the sight of him evoked something familiar in her.

And then her green round eyes widened.

Of all the mythical creatures she had expected to see tonight, spotting Isaiah Pines—host of the very successful podcast The Distorted Files, showing off tender calves pale enough to reflect the moonlight and having potentially ruined her pictures with overexposure—hadn't been one of those. Still, that was the joy of spending hours upon hours on caffeine and listening to The Waterboys without end.

Fate, if there was such a thing, held many surprises. Sometimes they came in the shape of a tall blond man who she listened to frequently when waiting for perfect opportunities..

She chuckled over herself. Seeing an internet famous persona apparently had her more confused than watching a two stories tall forest entity engage with said human and then disappear without an obvious trace.

As it is with wildlife photographers, they're not made to engage with what's displayed. They let nature play out like intended. The beauty of the untouched. Still, Isaiah, as he turned and scratched his head, seemed to be lost. And she felt pity.

She whistled loudly from between her full, round lips, catching his undivided attention. Signs of desperation flitted across his face and he seemed to feel caught out in a way Octavia couldn't quite interpret.

She was highly amused by the sceptical way he looked at her, when only seconds ago he had been touching a forest deity.

“I’ll be completely honest with ya, blondie, I wish I could say you’re the first dude in boxers I’ve had in front of my camera. In the woods, too.” The woman snorted as if having cracked the best joke ever. “Don’t ya worry, I’m not here for you. I believe we came here for very much the same reason, but I gotta admit, your choice for hiking is quite… something. But I ain’t judging, whatever keeps ya comfortable, eh?”

On the other hand, as she looked at his legs, there was hardly any question of him being comfortable. The red streaks looked anything but intentional or enjoyable.

“C’mon, Earl Shaffer, let us get outta here. Can’t have ya catch a cold.”

She gave him a playful wink and started moving, regardless of whether he was really following her or not. Her gait was lively, fuelled by the recent events.

Eventually he found his voice again—thankfully, she didn't want to incur the wrath of his endless array of fans—and finally asked her what she was doing here and who she was.

“As I said, same thing as you. Although, you did want to find the entity, didn’t you? Were you camping somewhere here? Will this be part of your next episode?”

The surprise on his face spoke volumes.

“Your calves gave you away,” she claimed with a serious expression. “Kidding, I just remembered your face from Reddit and since you loosened your tongue it’s quite obvious. Pleasure to meet you, Isaiah. I’m Octavia.” She smiled lovingly and offered him a hand, which she rubbed against her trousers, but somehow only made it worse dirt-wise. She listened attentively as he vaguely explained why he was in Montana and that he urgently needed to get back to the motel. Finally, he asked how much she knew about the creature they had both met. Meanwhile, Octavia couldn't help noticing how often he got stuck on her left eye when he looked directly at her.

A predictable reaction from most, she couldn't blame anyone.

“Just some loose hearsay, honestly, but more often than not deities like these are just… existing? Like, not every bird has a story , you know? You just gotta know where to look if you want to find a specific one. How did you find it? I literally waited ages for a shot.”

“I didn’t,” he explained with a slight tug of his shoulders. “It found me.”

“And then you ran after it? Did it say something? Do something?” She tilted her head in fascination and fell back to walk beside him instead of ahead. His stride had slowed and his shoulders sagged. Something was making him anxious, but she wasn't sure if it was her. She wouldn't be surprised though.

He finally shook his head.

“No, it didn’t. Just watched me, I guess.”

“Maybe it got starstruck,” she quipped encouragingly, nudging him gently with her shoulder as if they shared a kinship. In fact, Octavia found it much easier to relate to Isaiah as he already held a recognizable familiarity to her. However, she was also aware that she was merely a stranger. A common problem that came up bitterly with most people. She wasn't necessarily shy when it came to socialising. Internet personality or not. “Just because humans are mesmerized by rare sights, doesn’t mean any other creature can’t be, too. Ever seen a cat’s reaction to their first christmas tree?” She giggled lightly and noticed how he drifted off into his thoughts.

She lowered her head and pursed her lips in silence.

After a while of awkward silence between them, she cleared her throat. Unable to bear the heavy air between them.

“What did it feel like?”

“Hm?”

“The creature,” she specified. “You touched it, didn’t you?”

“Like coming home.”

She nodded faintly and let the image sink in. If there was a home to return to, it was certainly a nice feeling. But what was a home if no one was waiting for you? When all that remained were recollections of past events? Irretrievable snapshots that would never have the same intensity as when they happened.

“Sounds beautiful.” Smiling weakly, she looked up at him, tilting her head back and squinting past her red corkscrew curls. “C’mon, it’s not that far anymore. If we keep it up, we’ll be back around sunrise.”

“Is that your boyfriend?” she wondered, tilting her head slightly, her voluptuous red locks wiggling like a swarm of spiral coils. They had reached the entrance area of the motel, a few cars scattered at the edges. The sun indeed had risen by now, a few minutes later than Octavia had predicted—but taking into consideration that her sense of time wasn’t truly the best, she felt rather proud.

In front of the eggshell coloured facade of the motel complex moved a blonde man from left to right, kneading his own hands, his lips curled as if speaking to himself in hushed tones. Suddenly, as if they had yelled his name, his head snapped upwards and for a second Octavia would have assumed he had broken his neck for he didn’t move a single muscle for several seconds. His face, however, didn’t display a single emotion—or did she just miss the twitch of his lips?

The closer they came, the more life returned to the man. He didn’t look at her for a single second, his golden eyes fixated on the Podcast Host next to her. Looked at him from top to bottom and pressed his lips tightly together. Only when she came to a halt a few feet in front of him did his attention switch to the redhead. She flinched as if she had been hit in the face.

She suddenly struggled to breathe.

“Who are you?” his voice was sharp, cutting in between the three of them. Drawing an invisible line into the ground that Zeev didn't dare to pass over. He remained unmoving. The electrical buzzing of a vintage snack machine was the only sound of this early morning, right next to Zeev’s voice. The hint of redness within his eyes either implied lack of sleep or something more saddening.

“Hi!” she greeted, offered her hand and smiled overwhelmingly joyfully at him, but her hand fell untouched. “I'm Octavia Lockwood, part time Wildlife Photographer and some time boyfriend rescuer.” She tried to joke, but considering the lack of sympathy he held for her yet—the problem of not knowing people, she reminded herself—he didn't seem very amused by the remark.

“Lovely,” Zeev murmured. “Would you mind?”

Apart from the reaction displayed on her face, she physically responded to his unsettling aura; shivering and tensing. She stared at him for a few seconds longer before obeying in the eye of danger.

Empathetically, she looked up at Isaiah, beating herself to a weak smile and lastly created some distance between the two. This wasn’t her place to be anyway. She didn’t know either of them.

“Are we in this together or are we not? This is your time to clarify.”

His face was expressionless. From the context alone, it was obvious that the witcher was anything but amused by his boyfriend's nightly disappearance. Surely a dispute could arise about Isaiah being able to make his own decisions, and that wasn't something Zeev ever questioned.

However, he could inform him of the consequences.

It wasn't hard to blame the witcher for being overprotective, and Zeev was willing to work on that, but moments like these made him feel like it was justified.

“This is important to me, Isaiah. You're important to me. I get that you're excited and I know you're not used to that, but I'm right here. You shut me out the second something more interesting looms around the corner.”

He paused for a second, unable to keep his eyes on Isaiah. Dirtied and tired, legs covered in scratches and red streaks, guilt on his face that didn’t help the witcher to voice his feelings at all. “There’s not much to say that you don’t already know, which, frankly, makes this even more disheartening.”

His jaw clenched and he rubbed his palms over his thighs, the scar tissue reddened by the pressure his thumb had exerted.

“I'm glad you're okay, but what exactly am I doing here? If you allow me to be part of this, don’t ignore me deliberately when it suits you best. I love you, more than anything, but I don't want to wake up once again and be the fool to think we were in this together, while you're lost in the woods or worse case chewed and spit out. I assume I won't be able to do much against the latter, but I'd appreciate it if I had the chance to try… If you get lost, let me get lost with you.”

His priorities were obviously set and Zeev couldn’t demand of him to change his ways—but that wouldn't diminish his feelings nor invalidate them.

His jaw tensed and he glanced up to the sky, his eyelashes batting as he tried to swallow down his emotional outburst. He inhaled deeply, sighing, eyes damp but not gushing, and looked back at his boyfriend.

His first instinct was to punish him with rejection. To deprive him of love by turning away and ignoring him. Every fibre of his body suggested that this was the only correct consequence. Zeev allowed this impulse for a few heavy seconds. He squinted into the towering clouds that hid the sun and cast shadows over them. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. The cold around the tip of his nose drifted away as it drove the clouds further on their journey. And so the momentum dried up.

He was not like his mother.

“Stop leaving me behind…” his voice broke lastly, stepping towards him, unable to keep his distance. He'd been separated from him longer than he had aspired all morning and the relief to actually see him alive and well and returned couldn't be entirely overshadowed by his anger and sadness. Zeev wrapped his arms around him like a toddler who had yet to learn that not all goodbyes were forever.

However, this wasn't a walk in the park or a traditional job where the biggest dangers were unhappy clients who hadn't read the fine print. More than his fear for the well-being of the one person Zeev loved more than anything else in the world—more than the daily awakening of the sun and how its light spilled onto the world.

His real resentment crystallised.

He had left him behind.

Again.

#[ i swear to god them fighting will always break my heart ]#[ everything that resulted from that broke me ]#[ sob ]#[ they're such a good team though ]#sonnenreich #— * // flowers and death and ashes #— ❛❛ // answers ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive

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hochmvt · 3 months ago

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a 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 @sonnenreich didn't ask for, but I couldn't help myself. oops.

The end of the world only meant the end of the world in the rarest of cases. For centuries, mankind had always been able to recover, had always found a spark of hope in dark times that never extinguished the will to live. Empires had fallen, cities had been engulfed by flames and civilizations had come to an abrupt end—and the world kept turning. Not because of the things they had tried to burn it down for, but because of the core values of every human being: Love, connection and care. It was never the struggle for survival alone that wrote human history, but what people did and felt in the lines in between. In times of crisis, they all made silent promises to each other that no one would have to be alone. And so it was this time.

The world had not died six years ago. It was still breathing, alive and thriving, just not for humans. Hollowborn had colonized the surface of the earth, only coming out during the day, moving from shadow to shadow and devouring their victims like a black hole. Rumour had it that these creatures were an echo of a failed civilization. And not much more was known about them. Witnesses met their abrupt end shortly after their first encounter. The sun, which had once given life, had become the scourge of human existence. Every sunrise was a death sentence for those who were outside. Hollowborns were neither animals nor humanoid. There were hardly any reports or scientific explanations, only rumors when he was laying in bed, telling the others scary stories.

Isaiah had found refuge in Sanctuary; one of countless shelters where people had come together. Most of them were in bunkers, he had heard on the radio. Isaiah, however, was fortunate that his sanctuary was in an old museum, secured to protect against anything that might come in from outside. It wasn't a claustrophobic facility, but a complex of its own with plenty to discover. And whether it was military bases, bunkers, lighthouses, theaters, museums or cathedrals, they all had one thing in common: they were refuges from the sun and from what came with it. Only one emergency exit led far away to the outside; a hatch that could only be opened in exceptional circumstances. And that had only happened twice before: Once to let a family member in and once when Isaiah had left.

Despite the dangers out there, there were always those who left the confines of their own community behind. Smugglers who traded between the bunkers. People who left for other reasons. Scouts looking for supplies or medicine. And Isaiah was one of them. Mother, the leader of Sanctuary, had given him the task of finding medicine, seeds and, first and foremost, a missing member of the community: A young adult, around 20.

And there was so much out there waiting for him that it was hard to comprehend. The world he knew consisted of sturdy walls and recycling systems, of old books that every resident had read a thousand times, of endless repetitions of the same games, the same conversations. Security, Isaiah had learned, had its price: stagnation. He wanted to know if there was anything else out there worth discovering. His task came convenient, even if he would never say out loud that these thoughts existed within him.

His journey had taken him to an old world that was not far in the past, but felt like it belonged to another era. Dilapidated cities whose streets were overgrown by merciless nature; bit by bit, it had reclaimed the urban habitat. Wild animals roamed through empty and looted shopping centers, in forests the trees lit up slightly as if fireflies were buzzing between them, he had seen animals that were not to be found in the halls of the museum. Deer-like creatures with snow-white fur and pink, flowering antlers, whose steps were so light that they left no imprint on the ground. Silent, cat-like hunters with deep blue fur that shimmered silver in the moonlight. And birds whose wings were not made of feathers, but of threads of light that moved gently through the darkness, as if they were lighting the way for lost souls to a bright future. Even though he admired the safety of the night, he was curious to see, what earth looked like at daytime.

When the attack happened, Isaiah had heard it before he saw it—a sound that didn't quite fit into this world and this reality. What followed was the cold, though he dashed into a nearby house and barricaded himself in, hoping he was by himself and safe. It was a cold that settled in his body, paralyzing his limbs, and slowly his feeling returned as the adrenaline subsided. Because then there was only pain.

He didn't know what had attacked him. He only knew that his blood was running over his skin and seeping into the fabric of his shirt, his jacket and his trousers, that he was standing up, staggering, pacing. Restless, knowing that, if he didn't find any help, he would die out here and he would succumb to his wounds. He found new strength, as high walls loomed before him, tall and unyielding, the first sign of human presence since days of wandering.

This refuge was more of a fortress than anything else. From his current mental state, he couldn't even tell if it was an actual former military base—the massive metal panels and the searchlights that cut glistening paths into the darkness suggested it was—or if the inhabitants had actually built all this themselves. In front of him, a bastion loomed into the sky, barely tangible. Isaiah staggered into the cone of light. For a moment he just stood there, as his blood dripped onto the leaf-covered ground. “Who are you? What do you want?” a sharp, suspicious voice echoed over the high walls. Then he ran on, leaning against the cool metal with all the strength he had.

Isaiah felt hands reaching for him after he muttered that he had seeds and medicine in his backpack, an offer in exchange for help. The world moved around him, he was dizzy, his legs kept giving in, the voices around him sounded muffled and distant. They became one with the night air and the faint sound of—music. There seemed to be some sort of festivity, he smelled food—roasted meat, freshly baked bread and herbs and—life.

Loud laughter, conversations, the clinking of glasses. Voices and impressions that knew nothing of suffering. Isaiah tried to concentrate, to grasp the surroundings, but everything became a blur. The lights were too bright, the noises too much. “He's bleeding out,” a woman spoke next to him. “Can someone get Zeev? I saw him at the back of Block A. Did he drink a lot?” There was no reply. And if there was, Isaiah didn't hear it anyway.

The last few steps to the hospital bed felt surreal and distant; he only managed them with the help of the three others who had accompanied him. His head ached and it became increasingly difficult to concentrate, let alone keep his eyes open. As he laid down, someone held his head carefully. Someone else put a blanket over him, trying to ease his freezing, but to no avail.

“Can you hear me?”, a voice spoke to him, only being able to make out the direction it was coming from. “What is your name? Where did you come from? What happened?” she continued to ask and Isaiah looked silently at the ceiling, his teeth chattering and his eyes rolling back slightly. “Can you tell me who you are?” she tried again. “Twentytwo,” he stammered absentmindedly. Carefully, she brushed a strand of hair hanging into his face from his forehead. “It's going to be all right. You're safe here, I'll take care of you.”

His chest heaved with difficulty. The pain seemed to get worse with every breath and each inhale took more and more strength. Darkness flickered at the edges of his vision, shadows with which he was fighting a very personal battle. Then another touch, someone opened his jacket, carefully yet firmly. The fabric was stuck together with dried blood, tearing easily as it was released, causing Isaiah even more pain—but he didn't speak, his mouth slightly open as he looked up at the ceiling, remembering the beautiful things he had been allowed to see in the last few days.

A man towered over him, putting something aside, speaking with the others. Dark blond curls, prominent cheekbones and jawline, dark eyes that studied him intently. “Where did you get that?” he asked the wounded man, who only looked up at him in confusion and had no idea what he was talking about. The question was asked twice more, and the third time the man towering over him pulled slightly on the necklace, holding it in Isaiah's field of vision. He turned his head slightly to one side, looked at the sun-shaped pendant and saw that Zeev was wearing it too. Tired and weak, he smiled, coughed and spat up blood. “Zeev, he's dying!” a woman's voice pleaded. “Zara...” Isaiah mumbled absent-mindedly, smiling drunk on pain, his breathing heavy and stertorous. Then the dizziness hit, he grasped desperately for something and found Zeev's forearm. And as the world went numb, the shadows took him, too.

#(( you cannot watch movies with me ))#(( i'm sorry ))#(( a missing female in their 20s hmmmm ))#(( WELL WELL ))#(( I WONDER WHERE ISAIAH'S COMING FROM ))#(( lets talk about it ))#sonnenreich #— ❛❛ // answers ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive #— * // a new son

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osunari · 6 months ago

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⚠︎ s i l e n t t e m p t a t i o n s ( 18+ )

— ch. 1

➤ s t a r t

Mr. crawling x MC

— h o m i c i p h e r 𒌧

“Flesh and shadows”

The first thing I felt was warmth—alien, foreign warmth that didn’t belong to me. My body, fragile and cold, seemed to ache in rebellion against the gentle heat seeping through the thin sheets draped over me. My eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the eerie gloom of the room.

Where was I?

The ceiling was unfamiliar—a pale, soothing shade of cream, with faint cracks running across it, like veins on old parchment. The last thing I remembered was the tall figure with the bright red umbrella and coat. How strange, I thought, we were indoors…

Then it hit me. I had fallen. Collapsed, more like, my legs buckling under me as dizziness overtook my senses. The white rain coat I’d been wearing, a comforting trademark of mine, was gone. Instead, I was dressed in a delicate white nightgown that barely reached past my upper thighs. Its’ fabric was soft, airy, but as I shifted, I noticed how it clung to my sickly form, revealing the bruises and cuts that painted my skin like a tragic mural.

I sat up gingerly, clutching the sheet closer to me, trying to shake off the disorientation. My throat felt parched, my head a little foggy, but I was alive—though unsure of how or why.

The room was small but cozy, with wooden floors and not a single window that let me see through the outside of the cryptic ghost apartment. The furniture was minimal: a chair, a side table with a glass of water alongside a bowl of human gut, and a faintly flickering lamp.

Where’s mr. crawling?

I reached for the glass of water, the cool surface soothing against my fingers. Taking a cautious sip, I scanned the room again. No red umbrella. No tall figure. Just me.

Just… me? The unusual feeling of having lost something—or someone struck me. Where is he? The man on all fours. He who had stuck by your side the day you gained access in this otherworldly place.

Then the sound of soft footsteps startled me. My grip on the glass tightened as the door creaked open.

There he was.

Not he whom crawled alongside me, but the tall red figure from earlier. His silhouette momentarily obscured by the light streaming in from the hall. The red umbrella was peaked from the doorframe, his presence unmistakable. He wore the same long red cloak that could be spotted from afar, his face partially hidden by the shadows and the red strands of his hair.

“ᖶᖻᘉ(you), ᕼᘿᓰᖇ(awake) ?” their voice was deep, smooth, carrying an air of calm authority.

“You…” I managed to croak in their language, my voice barely above a whisper as a raspy cough escaped from my mouth—unable to form a coherent sentence.

Without moving a muscle, he glitched closer to your laying figure, revealing more of his sinister features. His eyes were round and circle, unnervingly focused, as if they could peer into my sinful soul. Their lips quirked into a faint smile—not quite warm, but not entirely cold, either.

“匚尺(me) 丂山千ᐯ(help) ᖶᖻᘉ(you) .” they said simply, as if that answered everything.

“Help?” I repeated, my brows furrowing as I tilted my head up to face him. “Where? Why am I here? What happened to my coat? And why…” My words trailed off as I gestured vaguely to the nightgown and my battered body.

It all suddenly came to your realization. It’s possible that he had actually come to your rescue when you most needed it, or he’s one lying manipulator and that mr. crawling’s around here somewhere waiting for you to awake from your unfortunate slumber.

Seeing your threatened expression and tense body language, he realized his demeanor had become more uncomforting rather than the opposite after being around you for a moment—which was not part of his intent at all.

“卄ᐯ(afraid) ?” he said softly, his menacing voice adjusting lowly and measured. “ᗪ几(you) 乇乙尺(safe) 千卄Ҝ(here)—“

His words faltered. His head tilted, his sharp features hardening into something colder. His gaze left yours. His eyes had shifted, narrowing, as if sensing a presence that you couldn’t see.

The air grew heavy, the measly warmth of the room rapidly replaced by a biting chill that seeped into your bones. Your skin prickled with an almost instinctive dread. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and writhe unnaturally, bending towards like living things.

“丂ᗪ尺千(someone) 丨乂几(around) .” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a growl. His body shifted slightly, as if to shield you, his long red cloak flowing like liquid crimson.

You barely had time to process his words before you felt it—a presence behind you.

Something moved.

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, your breath hitched as an unnatural, wet scraping sound echoed faintly in the room. Slowly, against every ounce of survival instinct screaming at you not to, you turned your head.

And there he was.

His grotesque lanky tall figure loomed in the dim light of the room, impossibly still while tilting his head as a desperate attempt to fit in the claustrophobic room, almost blending with the shadows. His hair cascaded down like an inky waterfall against yours, shrouding most of his face, yet sadly enough to conceal his nonexistent eyes. His pale skin glowed faintly against the darkness, almost too perfect, too smooth, like polished marble. Yet something was wrong—eerily wrong. His smile. It stretched too wide, sharp and cruel, curving downward in a way that sent shivers racing through your spine.

He wasn’t just tall—he seemed elongated, almost stretched, his limbs just slightly too long to be normal. The fabric of his dark attire clung to him like a second skin, emphasizing his unnatural yet pleasing physique.

His anger simmered beneath the surface, a dark, unspoken storm barely contained within the hollow depths of his unspoken mind. The moment he saw you with mr. scarletella—saw how the other man’s glitching crimson presence lingered near you—something inside him twisted. His chest rose and fell with steady, deliberate breaths, but his hands betrayed him—long, ghostly fingers curling into trembling fists, nails biting into his palms like they were trying to keep his fury from spilling out. And yet, his anger wasn’t loud or obvious; it was cold, creeping, and quiet, the kind that made the air feel like it might snap at any second.

The room felt like it had fallen into another dimension, the air heavy with tension so thick it seemed to press against your skin. They stood on opposite sides of the room—mr. scarletella, poised and calm as ever, his eyes glinting like embers in the dim light, and mr. crawling, a shadow that seemed to stretch unnaturally, his figure a dark vortex that swallowed all warmth.

Neither of them spoke a word, but the silence between them was deafening. Their gazes locked, an unspoken battle unfolding in the cold void between them. Scarletella’s crimson glow flickered like a waning candle, his calm demeanor cracking ever so slightly under the weight of crawling’s oppressive presence—his head tilted unnaturally to the side, the piercing frown on his face indicating every pinch of vexation.

Scarletella’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze steady but losing its luster. A faint crimson light sparked at his fingertips, flickering like a final attempt to push back the darkness. “丂乂(you) 乇Ҝ丂ㄩ(upset) ? 丂几尺(jealous), 丨尺ㄥ(maybe) ?”

Crawling’s head snapped forward, his body jerking like a marionette suddenly pulled taut by its strings. His looming figure took a step closer, the sound of his movement a grotesque, wet scraping that sent a shiver racing down your spine. The shadows in the room twisted and churned around him, as though they were alive and feeding off his fury.

“尺ㄚㄥ(leave) , 千匚几乃(now) .” mr. crawling’s silent voice rang with venom, his figure now inches from mr. scarletella. Despite his thin, sickly frame, his presence seemed to tower, to consume, to devour. The crimson glow around scarletella faltered, dimming as crawling leaned closer. “ﾌ几(you) ㄩㄖ卩(stay) , 匚ㄚ(me) Ҝㄖㄥ(hurt) . ﾌ几(you) 丂丨几(leave) , 匚ㄚ(me) ㄚ几(not) Ҝㄖㄥ(hurt) .” The corner of his grotesque mouth twitched upward, his grin widening until it threatened to split his face in two. His head tilted even further, the movement unnatural, predatory. A faint, guttural growl escaped him, reverberating in the walls, the air, my very bones.

Is this real life?

It was the first time you had ever seen him like this, standing at his full, unnatural height, his shadowed figure stretching tall enough to make the walls seem smaller, the room closing in around the trio. He had always been careful before—almost gentle, as if tiptoeing around your fear. He used to crawl, his movements deliberate and slow, his eerie smile softened by an odd attempt at kindness. But now, there was nothing restrained about him. He loomed over you, his glowing void-like eyes bearing down, his jagged smile curling wider with a hint of something sinister, something raw and unfiltered. Your heart pounded as you realized he was no longer hiding himself—no longer trying to make you feel safe. This was him, unmasked, no longer pretending to be the harmless, shadowed companion you’d grown used to. It wasn’t just surprising—it was terrifying in a way that left you breathless.

Mr. scarletella’s expression remained unreadable, but I caught the faintest flicker of tension in his clenched jaw, the slightest shift in his footing as though even he could feel the crushing inevitability of Crawling’s dominance. “ . . . ㄚㄩ(you’re) 乃乙ㄩ(becoming) 山ㄖ爪卩(softer) .”

That word… Is it perhaps to belittle mr. crawling?

Mr. scarletella’s crimson glow flickered violently, his form trembling like static on a broken screen. For a moment, his sharp features twisted with frustration, his eyes narrowing as though the very air around him was unraveling. Then, without warning, his entire figure glitched, fragments of him shattering like shards of crimson light breaking into the void. The glow dimmed in an instant, his presence vanishing into the oppressive silence that followed.

Mr. crawling didn’t move to stop him. He didn’t need to. The silent threat in his gaze, the sheer weight of his presence, had already done the work.

Even without the presence of the cryptic crimson, the room grew colder still. Crawling remained where he was, his nonexistent void-like eyes turning to you now. His jagged smile stretched impossibly wide, as though he relished the victory—not over scarletella, but over the fact that you had seen it.

And now, you were alone with him.

“ㄚﾌ几 (okay) ?” He repeated the same question again for the nth time. He crawled faster behind your feet, hearing your exasperated sigh followed by the sound of a palm to your face.

You stopped on your feet for a second. With the overwhelming headache and unstability of your body, you turned on your heel to pacify the crawler. The tired and annoyed expression on your face looked down on the guy’s curious and eager ones—his hair spilled down onto the hardwood floor of the hallways as he awaited for a positive answer.

“Me, okay. No more worry.” You responded in a motherly manner, crouching a bit to reach his height as you petted his head while he leaned closer to your touch—craving more and more of it with each passing moment. “Good?” You added, responding in their native language.

Losing focus for a bit, your hand rested on his head, gently ruffling his cold, sleek hair, his entire frame seemed to stiffen. His jagged grin faltered for the first time, twisting into something uneven and almost bashful, as though he didn’t quite know how to respond. Then, much to your surprise, a strange, silly sound escaped from him—a quiet, stuttering “Hehe… hehehe…”—as his head tilted slightly into your touch, his massive form somehow shrunk in that moment. It was absurdly out of character, and yet, seeing the eerie, imposing figure so flustered under a simple pat made my chest warm with something close to amusement.

You couldn’t help but smile, which ofcourse—grew unnoticed by the guy himself. “几ㄚ(me) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) ?” With a quick and stiff movement, he gently grips his long slender fingers around your much smaller wrist. “几ㄩ (you) 卄ㄖ丂几 (smiley) , 几ㄩ(you) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) !” he said simply, his jagged smile widening as he leaned just a fraction closer, as if savoring the reaction he knew was coming.

You froze for a moment, your fingers twitching at your sides before a faint pink dusted your cheeks. Without a word, you turned sharply on your heel, your back to him in an attempt to hide your flustered state. But your ears betrayed you—bright red against your hair, a detail mr. crawling didn’t miss. “几ㄩ(you) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) ! 几ㄩ(you) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) !” he drawled, his grin widening further, his voice teasing. “几ㄩ(you) 乙卄ㄥ(shy) ?”

“Damn you—you lizard, stop it.” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed but unable to mask the flustered tremor in your tone. He chuckled softly, a sound that was strangely warm despite his usual unsettling demeanor, as if your reaction amused him to no end.

Gathering yourself, you cleared your throat and gestured toward a door at the far end of the room—a door neither of you had explored before. “Moving on…” you said quickly, still refusing to look at him directly.

You shook off any unwanted feelings, remembering the main point of your journey. After the anxiety-ridden incident earlier, you weren’t slow enough not to notice the overbearing pain you had to overcome not long after your awakening. The strands of your hair had its’ colors almost entirely washed out, a cold tone of gray and white slowly fading in the roots of your hair until the rest had also been infected. Not only that, but you’ve come to notice the major change in your physique—more so, your skin. After staring at your hands under the faint light, the skin became thin and pale, almost see through and translucent, as if stretched too tightly over your frame. Faint blue and red lines of nerves web beneath the surface, sickly and unsettling, making you feel more fragile than human. Your breath hitches as you trace one with your finger, the sight leaving you both horrified and strangely curious.

The unsettling sight of your sickly, pale skin gnawed at your mind as you moved through the dim halls, your fingers brushing over the faintly visible nerves beneath. You’d hoped it was nothing, a fleeting illness, but the way it seemed to spread, inching further up your arms, told you otherwise. Beside you, mr. crawling followed silently, his elongated frame towering in the faint light. You weren’t sure why he was helping you—if it was pity, curiosity, or something else entirely—but he seemed intent on staying by your side.

“几ㄚ(me) ﾌ丂Ҝㄥ(help) .” he murmured suddenly, his voice low and almost soothing, though his jagged grin remained unsettling. The words were a reassurance, but the emptiness of the unfamiliar corridors only deepened your unease. Every door you opened felt like a step closer to either salvation or something far worse, and yet, with him beside you, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Somewhere in this labyrinth of shadows, you had to find a cure—before the lines beneath your skin consumed you entirely.

The crawler fell in step behind you, following alongside you like a puppy to its’ master while you both made your way to another new unfamiliar entrance. You reached for the doorknob, determined to shake off the embarrassment, while his gaze remained fixated on you after you checked to see behind your shoulder if he was still there—his grin never fading old.

Please let there be some useful stuff here.

The room was a stroke of luck—rows of shelves lined with medicine bottles, bandages, and dusty supplies that seemed untouched for ages. Relief flooded you as you approached a shelf, your fingers brushing over the labels, reading each one carefully. For a moment, you were lost in concentration, cataloging what might actually help your condition, when something creaked behind you. Turning quickly, you froze, only to see mr. crawling squeezed—hiding into an empty cardboard box on the floor, his long limbs contorted in ways that shouldn’t have been possible, his nonexistent eyes felt like they were peering at you mischievously.

“Boo” he said—rising his head up from the peak of the cardboard box, his high-pitched, silly giggle lighting up his face as if he were the world’s proudest prankster. “尺几ㄩ丂(funny) ?”

Your heart jumped, not from fear but from sheer surprise, though you couldn’t let him know that. Clutching your chest dramatically, you gasped, “You scared me.” His eerie chuckle filled the room, a delighted “Heh he. . .” escaping him as he hid himself once again in the box with uncanny grace. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. It was absurd, really—this monstrous entity behaving like a playful cat.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on it. You returned your focus to the medicines, crouching to check the lower shelves and even the medkits scattered on the floor. After gathering a few promising bottles, you noticed a secluded corner of the room, its dim lighting giving it an air of mystery. A small cabinet caught your eye, and you carefully opened it, squinting to read the faded labels. Each name sounded strange, unfamiliar, and your frustration grew as you hesitated over which to choose.

The shelves loomed over you, an overwhelming array of medicines, most with faded labels, cryptic names, and dosages in languages you didn’t understand. Each bottle felt like a gamble—some promising relief, others ominously vague. You grabbed one and turned it in your hand: Aculisyn-Therex. Its description claimed to promote “cellular repair,” but the ingredients list was incomprehensible. You frowned and placed it back, reaching for another.

Crouching down, you opened a small, rusted medkit on the floor. Inside were syringes, bandages, and a vial of something that looked alarmingly red, almost like blood. You recoiled slightly, shoving the kit aside and focusing on the next set of shelves. You found another intriguing item: a sealed packet labeled Neurosol: For Nerve Integrity. It struck a chord—the nerves beneath your skin. Could this be it? You hesitated, the words “potential side effects” faintly visible in tiny print, but the rest was smudged.

While you pondered, you noticed an old instruction manual on the counter nearby. Dusting it off, you flipped through its fragile pages, desperate for guidance. The diagrams inside showed strange, almost alien anatomy— maybe another specie of humans, like neanderthals, maybe, resembling human biology. Your hands shook slightly as you set the book down. Was this place even designed for humans?

A faint draft swept through the room, making the low light flicker. Still determined, you moved toward the secluded corner, the dimmest part of the room. There, a tiny cabinet awaited, half-buried under years of neglect. The wood creaked as you opened it, revealing vials with strange glowing liquids and powders with indecipherable names: Stimulyn A+, Cryohealin, Xyntherra. The glow of one vial pulsed faintly in the darkness, a hypnotic green that drew your hand toward it. But before you could grab it, a cold pressure wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into reality.

Two large hands slid over your waist, firm and loose, pulling you back just enough that your lower body brushed against his. The contact was sensual but electric, a flush of heat rushing through you, leaving your breath shallow and uneven. His grip tightened slightly, anchoring you in place as his towering frame pressed closer, his silken hair cascading over your shoulders and brushing against your skin like a whisper as your arched back leaned closer against his. You felt the faintest graze of his chest near your back, feeling his warm puff of breath dissolve on your nape. The unspoken interaction sent a shiver down your spine, while the friction of your hips and his long slender fingers left your pulse racing and your knees threatening to give way. The space between you felt suffocating, every shift, every accidental touch igniting something in the charged silence, his fingers tightening just slightly on your waist as though daring you to move.

Flustered, you turned quickly to face him, but the movement only brought you closer, your chest almost brushing against his. His grin remained, though softer now, as if he enjoyed watching your flustered state. Before you could say anything, a faint noise broke the moment—a metallic squeak, followed by the distinct sound of a cart rolling down the hallway outside.

“D-did you hear that?” you pretended to care, your voice attempting to hide your flustered state as you stepped away, desperate for an escape. Without waiting for his response, you turned toward the door, pretending to focus on the sound, leaving him behind as you desperately tried to calm the heat rising to your cheeks.

Mr. Crawling stood there, still as ever, his hair cascading over where his eyes should be, hiding any hint of confusion. He tilted his head slightly, the ghostly glow of his form making him seem more enigmatic than anything else. The gesture had been so casual to him—an innocent moment of contact that, in his mind, was no different from a gentle pat on the head. He had no understanding of why you’d reacted so strongly, leaving him wondering if he had done something wrong—or if maybe he was just too strange for you to comprehend. His jagged grin remained, though it faltered a little in the quiet.

You stepped into the hallway, the sound of wheels creaking faintly in the distance, pulling your attention. When the cart came into view, slowly rolling toward you. You were befuddled to see someone unexpected.

Mr. chopped?!

“几ㄩ(me) 爪乇尺(need) 乙ㄩ乇ㄖ(help) !” He shifted slightly, his severed head awkward on the cart, his gaze meeting yours as the cart rolled closer to the end of the hallway.

MR. CHOPPED!!

⚠︎ s i l e n t t e m p t a t i o n s ( 18+ )

— ch. 1

➤ e n d

#homicipher #mr crawling #fanfiction #romance

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baphometsss · 3 months ago

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I'm kind of in my Mythal feels rn... Once again I'm still pondering the orb what feelings were like for spirits before they took spiritual forms, and how that might have translated once they took bodies. But also, what happened to them when they began dying? Did they just return to their original spirit forms? Is that why Solas believes the elves will be better off (once they are, presumably, 'reborn' as immortals)? When they were in uthenera, they roamed the world as spirits once more. Do they return to that, permanently, ready to take another physical form one day? I'm not sure if we can use Mythal's death as an example here since she was killed by the Wolf's Fang and that thing was designed to be fucky. There's so much stuff that hasn't been answered and I doubt it ever will be now. But I guess I can theorise.

One reason why Mythal is kind of tragic to me is that she's so desperate to be remembered. I always found that really weird, even though it's assumed that the audience would understand that desire because it's seen as a very human/mortal one. It's assumed that we, the player, want to leave some kind of legacy, a mark that we were here, and that we existed. I personally have never felt that desire. I always had this personal... motto, if you like, that I'm just one drop in the ocean. I'll be dead and gone in the blink of an eye and I'm fine with that. I couldn't give a shit about my legacy. I don't even like being perceived while I'm alive. This seems to be kind of unusual though as most people want to be remembered when they're gone.

The problem is that this seems to be the polar opposite to spirits. They're beings who are dependent on their essence being mirrored in others; they depend on it to continue to exist. So is Mythal desperate to be remembered because if no one remembers her, she would cease to exist? It's not a comprehensive motive bc manifested spirits =/= spirits, but it's one of the more basic reasons why she would want to be remembered, at least instinctively. Of course, that ignores all the other reasons, which are mostly attributed to hubris. Mythal is a very arrogant creature. She was worshipped as a queen and then a goddess for ages, and even though the fragment living in Flemeth and later Morrigan is more patient, she's only been tempered into this by years of living amongst mortals. The fragment in the Crossroads is who she was by the time she was killed, and that version of her is much harsher and more arrogant. The need to be remembered as Mythal, All-Mother, Queen of the Evanuris, would've been far more potent at that stage--especially as she'd just been murdered by her family, and that would, among other things, have bruised her ego.

There's this element of legacy that runs through these games. Solas can't live with the fact that his main legacy was the downfall of his entire people because of his own grief and desire for revenge. It quite literally almost drives him mad. Mythal's legacy seems to have been her love for her people, even though she was far from the truly benevolent figure her legend paints her as. I think I said this before but along with her spirit nature seemingly retconned to Benevolence from Justice, I think much of her protection of those she considered 'worthy' stems from that same hubris. To attack those she views as 'worthy' is to question her judgement, and that is an unthinkable affront to her, something worthy of her Retribution. One of the reasons she fell out with Solas is because he refused to stand by her when she decided to join the Evanuris. How dare her loyal dog not do as he was told?

In essence, her and Solas are very much of the same ilk; I spoke about the siphonophore allegory once and I think it still tracks. Certain spirits seem to be cut from the same cloth, and have similar 'blueprints' in their natures, kind of like a siphonophore that duplicates itself in slightly different ways instead of growing bigger, or even more simply like a family sharing genes. The similarity of Mythal and Solas's spirit forms speaks to this. The fact that Lucanis and Bellara refer to Mythal as Solas's family is more proof of this. Solas, Wisdom who becomes Pride when his wisdom is ignored, and Mythal, Benevolence/Justice who becomes Retribution when her judgement is questioned. Both of them require an element of ego.

Which beings me back to my point of legacy. I think people who are more arrogant or egocentric have more of a need to be memorialised when they're gone. In order to want to be remembered, you need to think there's something worth remembering, something to be proud of. The more inflated that self-image becomes, the more that need for legacy grows.

#mythal #solas #dragon age

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rockislandadultreads · 1 year ago

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NoveList Reading Challenge: December

Read a collection of short stories or essays by a non-American author!

Bliss Montage by Ling Ma

What happens when fantasy tears through the screen of the everyday to wake us up? Could that waking be our end?

In Bliss Montage, Ling Ma brings us eight wildly different tales of people making their way through the madness and reality of our collective delusions: love and loneliness, connection and possession, friendship, motherhood, the idea of home. From a woman who lives in a house with all of her ex-boyfriends, to a toxic friendship built around a drug that makes you invisible, to an ancient ritual that might heal you of anything if you bury yourself alive, these and other scenarios reveal that the outlandish and the everyday are shockingly, deceptively, heartbreakingly similar.

Illuminations by Alan Moore

In his first-ever short story collection, which spans forty years of work, Alan Moore presents a series of wildly different and equally unforgettable characters who discover - and in some cases even make and unmake - the various uncharted parts of existence.

In "A Hypothetical Lizard," two concubines in a brothel of fantastical specialists fall in love with tragic ramifications. In "Not Even Legend," a paranormal study group is infiltrated by one of the otherworldly beings they seek to investigate. In "Illuminations," a nostalgic older man decides to visit a seaside resort from his youth and finds the past all too close at hand. And in the monumental novella "What We Can Know About Thunderman," which charts the surreal and Kafkaesque history of the comics industry's major players over the last seventy-five years, Moore reveals the dark, beating heart of the superhero business.

From ghosts and otherworldly creatures to theoretical Boltzmann brains fashioning the universe at the big bang, Illuminations is exactly that - a series of bright, startling tales from a contemporary legend that reveal the full power of imagination and magic.

Life Ceremony by Sayaka Murata

With Life Ceremony, the incomparable Sayaka Murata is back with her first collection of short stories ever to be translated into English. In Japan, Murata is particularly admired for her short stories, which are sometimes sweet, sometimes shocking, and always imbued with an otherworldly imagination and uncanniness.

In these twelve stories, Murata mixes an unusual cocktail of humor and horror to portray both the loners and outcasts as well as turning the norms and traditions of society on their head to better question them. Whether the stories take place in modern-day Japan, the future, or an alternate reality is left to the reader’s interpretation, as the characters often seem strange in their normality in a frighteningly abnormal world. In “A First-Rate Material”, Nana and Naoki are happily engaged, but Naoki can’t stand the conventional use of deceased people’s bodies for clothing, accessories, and furniture, and a disagreement around this threatens to derail their perfect wedding day. “Lovers on the Breeze” is told from the perspective of a curtain in a child’s bedroom that jealously watches the young girl Naoko as she has her first kiss with a boy from her class and does its best to stop her. “Eating the City” explores the strange norms around food and foraging, while “Hatchling” closes the collection with an extraordinary depiction of the fractured personality of someone who tries too hard to fit in.

In these strange and wonderful stories of family and friendship, sex and intimacy, belonging and individuality, Murata asks above all what it means to be a human in our world and offers answers that surprise and linger.

Love in Color by Bolu Babalola

A high-born Nigerian goddess, who has been beaten down and unappreciated by her gregarious lover, longs to be truly seen.

A young businesswoman attempts a great leap in her company, and an even greater one in her love life.

A powerful Ghanaian spokeswoman is forced to decide whether she should uphold her family’s politics or be true to her heart.

In her debut collection, internationally acclaimed writer Bolu Babalola retells the most beautiful love stories from history and mythology with incredible new detail and vivacity. Focusing on the magical folktales of West Africa, Babalola also reimagines Greek myths, ancient legends from the Middle East, and stories from long-erased places.

With an eye towards decolonizing tropes inherent in our favorite tales of love, Babalola has created captivating stories that traverse across perspectives, continents, and genres.

#short stories #fiction #reading challenge #reading recommendations #reading recs #book recommendations #book recs #library books #tbr #tbr pile #to read #booklr #book tumblr #book blog #library blog #readers advisory

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ireadyabooks · 2 years ago

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Dark Academia Hive Stand Up! 🍁📚🖊️

What is Dark Academia, you ask? The truth is, nobody seems to have an exact answer. Some describe it as an aesthetic, like images of students wearing tweed blazers during fall, reading classical literature, and using a typewriter. Another description suggests that it’s a book that features an academic setting, like a college or boarding school, and usually features some kind of a dark twist. Hence, dark academia. Whatever aspects you tie to the culture, we have the perfect list for you.

A girl and a god, alone in communion ...

In the winding underground tunnels of the Library, the great peacekeeper of the three systems, a heinous secret lies buried -- and Freida is the only one who can uncover it. As the daughter of a Library god, Freida has spent her whole life exploring the Library's ever-changing tunnels and communing with the gods. Her unparalleled access makes her unique -- and dangerous.

With the world at the brink of war, Freida embarks on a journey to fulfill her destiny, one that pits her against an ancient war god. Her mission is straightforward: Destroy the god before he can rain hellfire upon thousands of innocent lives -- if he doesn't destroy her first. Start Reading THE LIBRARY OF BROKEN WORLDS!

In SHADOW COVEN, The Haunting Season has ended, but dark magic lingers in the shadows. Iris is set to become a Reaper, tasked with banishing souls who refuse to cross over. Logan still hears the howling Wolves and realizes that the Haunting Season may have awakened more than just her magic. Thalia finds herself heading to a place she swore she’d never go again: home. Meanwhile, Jailah is focused on her internship with the Haelsford Witchery Council – until she discovers a treacherous magic hidden beneath Mesmortes. Separated by distance, the coven is surrounded by magical and mundane threats that must be defeated before they lose their witchery--and each other--forever...

Delaney Meyers-Petrov is tired of being seen as fragile just because she's Deaf. So when she's accepted into a prestigious program at Godbole University that trains students to slip between parallel worlds, she's excited for the chance to prove herself. But her semester gets off to a rocky start as she faces professors who won't accommodate her disability, and a pretentious upperclassman fascinated by Delaney's unusual talents.

Delaney wants to keep her distance from Colton -- she seems to be the only person on campus who finds him more arrogant than charming -- yet after a Godbole student turns up dead, she and Colton are forced to form a tenuous alliance, plummeting down a rabbit-hole of deeply buried university secrets. Start reading THE WHISPERING DARK!

Mars has always been the lesser twin, the shadow to his sister Caroline's radiance. But when Caroline dies under horrific circumstances, Mars is propelled to learn all he can about his once-inseparable sister who'd grown tragically distant.

Mars's genderfluidity means he's often excluded from the traditions -- and expectations -- of his politically-connected family. This includes attendance at the prestigious Aspen Conservancy Summer Academy where his sister poured so much of her time. But with his grief still fresh, he insists on attending in her place.

What Mars finds is a bucolic fairytale not meant for him. Mars seeks out his sister's old friends: a group of girls dubbed the Honeys, named for the beehives they maintain behind their cabin. They are beautiful and terrifying -- and Mars is certain they're connected to Caroline's death.

But the longer he stays at Aspen, the more the sweet mountain breezes give way to hints of decay. Mars’s memories begin to falter, bleached beneath the relentless summer sun. Something is hunting him in broad daylight, toying with his mind. If Mars can't find it soon, it will eat him alive. START READING!

#ireadya #ya books #dark academia #thelibraryofbrokenworlds #thewitchery #thewhisperingdark #thehoney #ryan la sala #kelly andrews #s.isabelle #alayadawnjohnson

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fic-dumpster · 4 years ago

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The dead can give life

Characters: Ghost!Baji, Reader(Y/N), Bonten, Toman | 1257 words

Warnings: manga spoilers, mentions of death, spirits, supernatural stuff, violence, grammar mistakes, idk mediocre writing. There is not a pairing yet… there won’t be… :P idk… ta-da? Trick or treat?

“Could you please go home? Heaven? Hell! For all I care,” he noticed that you could see him, so he had followed after you.

“Nop.” the long-haired boy with pointy canines paid you no mind.

“Look, not because I am the only person who can see you-“ you began to say

“Yes, actually, that’s the only reason.” he contradicted your unfinished statement.

“Okay, okay. Then what’s your name?” you finally gave up.

“Baji,” he answered.

“Okay, Baji. How did you die?” You inquired as you lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s a long story…” he sighed, looking at the black uniform he’s wearing.

“I have time.” you saw a flash of sadness pass through his eyes, so you decided to lend an ear.

The capability of seeing dead people has always been part of you. Now with more than 20 years on your shoulders, a thing that is horrifying for some became common to you. With time you learned that ignoring those spirits was for the best. Except for that demon child of a ghost you met once upon a time on a Halloween eve.

Oh, how you didn’t suspect that this Baji Keisuke character would give your life a new meaning.

You’ve met this… almost friendly ghost of a 14-year-old boy. You say almost because he tends to be kind of aggressive, most of the time. It was October 31st, 2017, when you first met Baji. He seemed somewhat... lost? Maybe that's why he followed you.

Baji, he said his name was, told you about his life when he was alive. You listened to the fights he won and the very unusual adventures he shared with his friends. You also heard his regrets and, finally, how he died by his own hand. ‘A very tragic ending for such a colorful life,’ you thought.

You took pity for the boy and suggested what most souls sought. Closure. You offered to write letters for those he wished to communicate something or say goodbye appropriately. You said a letter because talking to people wasn't your forte. After a while, he accepted.

“You look like a demon today and every day,” you grumbled. Baji, the ghost, you might add, pulled your covers for the fifth time this morning.

“And you like a crazy woman, now hurry up! We have a lot of places to go.” this is the most excited you’ve seen the ghost boy.

“Yah! Okay! Go and wait in the kitchen; I need to change.” sushing Baji out, you heard him murmur about you being a grumpy old lady. Rolling your eyes, you walked towards your closet.

It's been a month since you've met Baji, and he was a handful. It took you a month to write the seven letters he needed. And that leads you to today, the big day of deliveries. Seeing that most letters had a name and address, you could easily mail them, except for one, but Baji insisted on delivering them with you.

As you walked towards your first delivery, you remembered a conversation with your ghost friends. It happened a couple of days after meeting him.

Baji asked how you had so much time in your hands to help a dead boy. He kept questioning you about family, friends, and even pets. But your answer didn’t seem to be of his liking. You explained how everyone in your family thought you were sick in the head and how because of your ghost-seeing tendencies, you never had friends. Baji apologized for asking, but you really didn’t mind. It was your reality.

A hand waving in front of your face woke you up from your memories. “Y/N, let's check one more time. I'm kind of anxious,” confessed Baji.

“Okay,” you said as you pulled the letters from your bag. “But be fast, please. This is not a good place, gang territory and all that,” you huffed.

You read the names out loud so Baji could see that every letter was there. “Pah-chin, Mitsuya, Draken, Chifuyu, Kazutora, Takemichi, and Manjiro,” you finished.

A sudden commotion made both of you turn towards the sound of people murmuring and flashes of cameras. At first, you couldn't focus. The waves of a feeling of demise hit your body, and as you blinked, the image in front of you cleared up.

A sea of the dead.

“Y/N! That's Mikey,” you gave Baji a weird look, “I mean Manjiro! The one with the tattoo on his nape and short white hair.” he pointed towards the men in suits that were leaving a club called FNN.

The mass of spirits seemed to follow after this Mikey or Manjiro and his men.

“Are you sure? That doesn't look like a Manjiro to me,” you said, scared of the energy that surrounded those men. You saw countless spirits following the group, and that was never a good sign in your book.

“How would you know?” He threw you a confused side glance, “Let's go now! Just give it to him, and we continue on our way,” Baji was excited since you never found Sano Manjiro’s address or any information about him, and he thought he would have to make you ask Draken or anyone and then wait last to see him. “Go!”

“Okay! I’m going!” you walked towards the group. Were you afraid? Yes. Did you know what you were doing? Hell no.

Trying to avoid eye contact with the souls surrounding the group of men, you made it to the man in flip flops that, according to Baji, was Sano Manjiro. You don't know how none noticed you, yet you slid your way between tall and big bodies towards him.

“Hi! Sano Manjiro, right? This is for you!” you squicked at the intimidating flip-flop-wearing man as you bowed and extended your hands with the letter in between them. “Baji Keisuke ordered me to!” and then, as soon as you felt he touched the envelope, you ran for your life.

You ran and ran, hoping that Baji saw you bolt out of there and had decided to follow you. Something in you told you to go; it screamed danger, and with your experience, that voice was never wrong.

“Y/N?!? Are you okay? What happened?” Baji appeared, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you abruptly stopped at his poor attempt of lightening the mood.

“Very funny,” you sarcastically responded, “Baji, your friend must be crazy! Didn't you see the amount of death that surrounds him?” just remembering the feeling sent shivers down your spine.

“So we continue?” he blatantly ignored your concerns. How does a ghost ignore other ghosts?

You gave a no for an answer, explaining that the more contact you had with spirits, the more exhausted you felt. And today, you ran twice through an army of lost souls. Now it makes sense to him why you always nap so much. He understood your situation. Pah-chin, Mitsuya, Draken, Chifuyu, Kazutora, and Takemichi can wait.

Still, there was something else bothering you. Like... The alarms in your head didn't turn off. On the contrary, they screamed even louder.

“Boss, we have her address and a background chek.” a man with scars in the corners of his lips spoke. “No history or contact with Baji Keisuke,”

“How should we proceed?” A man with a single red eye and a scar in the corner of the other asked.

“Bring her here,” Mikey said before munching on a heart-shaped Manju.

#baji keisuke #ghost!baji #bonten x reader #toman #Halloween came earlier this year #mikey #sano manjiro #sanzu haruchiyo #kakucho hitto #draken ryuguji ken #platonic #tokyo revengers fluff #angst #manga #tokyorev #omificstags

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hochmvt · 2 months ago

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↠ an a-typical 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 for @mossworn

Dear Addie,

Greetings from Stanley Lake! It reminds me a lot of Corbin here, couldn't help thinking last night in my cabin how we watched Toy Story on the TV at your parents' house and I knew then that you would love it here. So of course another lovely postcard had to be sent your way. Stanley Lake is a glacial lake (funfact!), the Sawtooth Mountains look like ancient titans, like something out of a heroic saga or something. It's all so cool here, I wish you could see it all for yourself. I'll send you the photos as soon as I've developed the film. Oh yes, and the sunset yesterday was really beautiful too, so classic with red, orange and pink. I could stay here for eternity, I'll tell you how it is.

I'm here because there are stories about lights over the water. Of course, the astute podcast host knows that these are mostly just decaying plants releasing methane gas that glows when coming in contact with oxygen. BUT that would somehow take the magic out of my research and somehow I have to justify to myself that I'm here. Otherwise I won't be able to deduct it from my taxes, haha.

I hope you're doing well. It's kind of strange that I don't know whether you'll reply to this or not. If you do, I'm sure mom is happy to have so much to read from you. The whole Pines clan would certainly like me to say hello to you. I miss you and look forward to hearing from you soon!

All my love, Isaiah

Dear Addie,

I hope you're doing well in Corbin. Can't wait to have some updates on the coolest city in the east (just because you're there, OF COURSE). I'm sitting in the middle of nature (kind of a recurring theme when I write to you) in Stonewall Gap. The valley is really beautiful, the mountains in the background reach high into the sky and the sun casts long shadows on the valley below. It's really peaceful here.

I met some great people here. It reminds me a bit of the summers back in Corbin—how easy it was to strike up a conversation with strangers and suddenly it feels like you've known each other forever. But I think that was largely because of you. Everything somehow felt easier with you. Sometimes I still find it difficult to approach people, unless I know that they're somehow my interview partner or something. Somehow I hope you don't know that. The feeling. The last few days have been kind of lonely. But maybe I'm just going through a melancholy phase.

I miss you. It's been far too long since we've seen each other. Maybe I should come over again and I'll just take all the immune boosters on the over-the-counter market beforehand. What do you think? I'd love to sit down together again and tell you everything in person instead of just writing it. And first and foremost just to hear what's going on in your life.

Take care and be safe. I look forward to hearing everything. Isaiah

Dear Addie,

This time I'm writing to you from Ohio (as the postcard indicates, my brain is mush today, sorry)—specifically from Schoenbrunn Village State Memorial (AS THE POSTCARD INDICATES). You may have wondered why I'm sending you a postcard that doesn't feature “endless expanses and mountains and glacial lakes and untouched nature” Haha. It's a small, reconstructed village from the 18th century and I'm doing research for the podcast. Certainly nothing new. Anyway.

Did you know that this was the first Christian settlement in Ohio? Missionaries and Lenape families lived here together, which was pretty unusual at the time. During the American Revolutionary War, the residents were forced to leave the village and most did not return. There are reports of burial sites that were never found, and I wonder if there is still something hidden out there somewhere. Kind of exciting, isn't it? Maybe I'll find something here. There's definitely enough material. I have two interview appointments tomorrow and I've used my photoshopped and very fake press ID to gain access to the city archives.

So... when I'm done here, I'd like to finally see you again. Like, for real and not like on Discord or in Minecraft or something. I could really do with a few days off and I'm curious about that coffee you're always praising at the Frog & Finch. Would you like that? It's fine if you don't feel like it. I'll bring cake too. Unfortunately not the famous strawberry cake from Mom, but the second best thing, I promise.

I'm really excited to see you soon (if you feel like it, please don't feel pressured)! Isaiah

#(( i love them already ))#(( we can talk about all of this ofc and see where this is going ))#(( i just loved the idea of sending these postcards ok ))#(( also they were beautiful and in my mind addie has all of them stored somewhere and the pretty ones go on the fridge ))#(( crying ))#(( isaiah has a friend :sob: ))#(( also this can totally go in the direction of YOUR STORY as we talked about ))#mossworn #— ❛❛ // answers ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive #— * // memories of moss

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aliceinnaughtyland · 3 years ago

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ANYTHING

Pairing: Last Boss x Reader

Warnings: animal death, groping

Word count: 1K

Summary: You saved a certain militant's life during a game.

Author’s note: It’s the first fic I ever post you guys! English is not my first language and (respectful) feedback is always appreciated! I hope you like it. Love you all x

Nota bene: We do NOT condone Last Boss' actions as we do NOT condone violence and rape! We only love the Shuntarô Yanagi's interpretation of Last Boss! This is fantasies only! You do NOT deserve this! If you are a victim of violence, please get help as soon as possible! You are not alone. Stay safe xx

Since the day you arrived at the Beach, Hatter took a liking in you. He absolutely loved your smart ass attitude and he always kept you around him as a distraction.

You were chilling with him, eating and laughing, when the militants arrived. You didn’t trust them. They were too confident, too aggressively confident. But being around Hatter was like hiding behind a shield. With him by your side, you risked nothing. Aguni wouldn’t let it happen.

As they were all talking about the forthcoming game, you couldn’t help but interjected.

“All the militants in the same game? Really Hatter? What will you do if they come across a diamond game? You risk losing them all at once. It would be tragic!”

“Are you implying we’re stupid?” Niragi demanded.

Hater smirked at you, amused by the militant’s reaction. That was why he kept you around.

“You’re right Y/N. I can’t risk losing them all! From now on, you will go with them at every game, so I’m sure you will all come back alive. Their strength coupled with your intelligence, you’ll become unbeatable. Thank you for bringing this point to my attention.” He grinned.

Great Y/N! Congratulations! You couldn’t keep your mouth shut for one minute, could you?

That what brought you to this board in front of you. 100 points for a tiger, 50 for a wild boar, 30 for an eagle.

Ok Y/N, it’s fine. Wild animals, armed men who hate you, what could happen?

Let’s be honest, you didn’t kill any animals during the entire game. You spent your time running and hiding, hoping people would do the job for you.

You found yourself a safe place on top of some attractions, Aguni and Niragi appearing behind you a few minutes after.

“Where’s the third Powerpuff Girl?”

The men didn’t answer, scanning the place to find Takatora.

“Oh shit”

You followed Aguni’s worried eyes, only to see the militant in a terrible situation. It was the first time you saw him in a position in which he was not in control.

Last Boss was facing a tiger, his katana on the other side of the animal. The feline seemed calm, but he could attack at any time, and without his weapon, the man hasn’t really stood a chance.

“Niragi shoot!” you ordered.

“I don’t have munitions”

“What? What the fuck?”

“I shot every fucking living thing. I used them all!”

“Yeah, every living thing except this tiger, you fucking dumbass”

Niragi watched you with anger but didn’t have time to reply as you were already jumping on the ground.

Wait, wait! Why exactly are you running toward an animal that would kill you to save a guy who wouldn’t do the same for you?

Well, he’s human too, isn’t he?

Yes! A human who dived his katana inside another human.

Yeah, that wasn’t cool.

But hey, it’s not really like you could go back now.

As you run toward the scene, you grabbed the katana and pushed it inside the tiger. It had to work, because if it didn’t, if the tiger had the time to attack you before dying, you would very certainly die with it.

After what felt like hours, the tiger finally collapses. You run toward the shocked guy, giving him his weapon back.

“You know how to use this better than me.”

He didn’t have the time to respond to you that the familiar voice echoed in the arena.

“Game cleared”

The ride home was silent. You could feel the unusual tension as you reached your destination. No cocky militants venting, no joyful description of murder, just silence.

As soon as the car stopped, you rushed out of it and hurried to the hostel. I mean, you saved one of them but you weren’t really best friends. You vaguely remembered insulting one of them too.

But as you were about to enter the hallway, you felt a hand grabbing your arm.

“Thank you”

That actually was the first time you heard his voice, and just like that, Last Boss didn’t seem so terrifying anymore.

You nodded and turned around, and the tattooed guy didn’t stop you.

The lights of the party made you feel like you were in another world. The beats of the music filled you with joy. Nothing mattered in this instant. You were alive, for a few other days at least.

But as you were swaying your hips, you didn’t realize you caught a certain militant’s eyes.

Last Boss was staring your every move, not even blinking an eye.

Niragi was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t hear it. You were his focus.

“Wait, did a girl caught your eyes?” Niragi teased.

“Shut up!” Last Boss replied, turning his attention at Niragi.

“You shouldn’t look away from her or someone else will take the place you want” Niragi stated pointing at you.

And as the bald guy fixated you again, he saw a guy he never acknowledged before coming at you.

He couldn’t hear what you both were saying, but he knew he didn’t like this asshole’s attitude. The guy was acting like he owned you.

Wait, were you his girlfriend? No impossible, he could see you weren’t interested.

But as the guy violently groped you, he stood up, ready to kick some ass. However, he didn’t have the time to take a single step, you were already threatening the guy with a knife on his neck.

If he wasn’t interested in you before, he definitely was now.

But he didn’t have time to think as you were walking toward them.

“Who would have guessed that a doll like you could dance like that?”

You could recognize this voice from all.

“What do you want Niragi?”

“Come join us. We need to celebrate this victory!”

“No thank you”

“Oh come on! After all we’ve been through together? Don’t tell me you don’t trust us!”

“God no!” you answered as you walked past them, going back to your room to sleep this day away.

But as you were about to turn in the hallway, you heard someone jogging behind you. You quickly turned around, reading to throw hands just in case, but you were surprised to see Last Boss standing there.

“You risked your life to save mine at the game. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you come find me. Ok?”

Ok, this man is nice after all. And hot?

“Ok?” he repeated

You nodded.

“Ok”takatora

#alice in borderland #alice in brderland fanfiction #alice in borderland imagine #takatora #takatora samura #takatora imagine

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hochmvt · 1 month ago

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The wind had become crisp. Isaiah pulled his robes tighter around him as Astarion asked him, almost accusingly, why he had chosen to take on the task of leading Astarion to Baldur's Gate. Isaiah pressed his lips together, feeling a familiar unease rising within him—a feeling between anger, incomprehension and the imbalance of fairness. He felt almost vile as the sensation settled deep inside him and wouldn't leave. Don't lose your temper, he admonished himself. Swallowing, he looked down at his hands. His fingers were trembling. “It's not like I had a choice, is it?” he asked the counter question, his eyebrows furrowing marginally. The gesture of outstretched arms was something the elf could have spared Isaiah from. Portraying himself as a victim when he went to a refugee camp where guards provided him with someone who had no say or reason to help him just went the wrong way for Isaiah. "I didn't volunteer to stick my neck out for whoever to get your ass to Baldur's Gate. I was told to pack my things to take you there because I'm from Neverwinter. Because it's on the way.” Isaiah laughed bitterly. “As if that were reason enough to send me along.” Astarion fell silent. His gaze was palpable, heavy on Isaiah's shoulders. And yet Isaiah dared not return it. “So no,” he continued quietly, almost indignantly, ”I don't know which way to go.” His fingers clutched the compass in his pocket as if he could stop him from continuing. “But I know I'm here. Whether I want to be or not.”

He dared a glance at Astarion, who was still eyeing him. Then the pale elf across from him looked at the small, wooden compass Isaiah had instinctively held on to. Even though his companion hadn't said anything about it, his gaze felt like a judgment. Actually, Isaiah corrected himself, the compass felt like a judgment. A heavy sigh left his lips, he stroked his face and closed his eyes, tilting his head back. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that...” he finally apologized, taking a deep breath and trying to push his resentment aside. He hadn't been good with anger for as long as he could remember. He often swallowed it and bottled it up. He was not an angry man and would never want to be.

Calmly, he sat down next to Astarion, who seemed to hesitantly accept that. “It works...” he spoke gently and took his most prized posession out, smiling faintly and thinking of his father. His heart grew heavy. The needle turned a little, and for a moment he was overcome with the desire to simply throw the compass away and let it be. But then he took a deep breath. Let the anger sink into his lungs. He was not an angry man. Reluctantly, he held the compass out to Astarion and asked him if his greatest wish was to get to Baldur's Gate. His counterpart didn't quite seem to understand and Isaiah carefully took his wrist, a feather-light touch that suggested nothing rough or brusque, turned his hand and placed the compass in the elf's palm. The needle twitched a little, then pointed to their right. Isaiah smiled faintly, almost envying the other seemingly knowing what he wanted. His gaze followed the needle. It wasn't the same direction they had come from. Not even close. Then he nodded in agreement to the direction the compass told them. “That's the direction we need to go,” he finally said, looking at the compass again. Admittedly, it was hard to see it in someone else's hands. Astarion seemed to watch the compass for a moment before handing it back wordlessly. Isaiah held it tightly, as if he could hide it from the world. Then he stared into the fire.

“We leave tomorrow,” he said quietly as he got up. “I'm... pretty tired. Haven't walked this much in ages,” A smile crossed his tired features. Astarion didn't answer and Isaiah didn't wait for him to. Instead, he lay down, the blanket (if you could even call the scrap of cloth that) over him and he turned his back to the fire and Astarion. Then the wizard closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. But sleep did not come.

His thoughts revolved around the compass, the path ahead of them and Astarion. Should he ask him? Whether he should tell him what had brought him here in the first place? About his parents and the small village where he grew up. Of shadows and blank stares that no longer showed what once was. Whether Astarion's group of adventurers could help him, even though he was destitute. So that he no longer felt alone. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, but ultimately decided against it. No. Not tonight. The night was silent, apart from the crackling of the slowly dying fire and a few branches cracking in the distance as a deer or another woodland creature climbed over them. And eventually, as the sky turned a deep black and the stars twinkled above them, Isaiah finally fell into a restless sleep.

The morning sun was little more than a pale streak of light on the horizon, the sky above them still entirely blue—the kind of light blue before dawn where one could still see the stars from the night before—when they both decided to continue their path. The night hadn't granted Isaiah much sleep, the ground was hard, the sounds of the forest unfamiliar, and his head had filled incessantly with thoughts that gave no rest. Not an unusual scenario, but still one that paralyzed his limbs. Now he trudged through the dewy grass, his robe soaked at the hems, while the mist clung stubbornly to the trees. Although he had stowed his compass with him, he always left it to the pale elf when they were lost.

The way ahead was rather a trail than a paved path, overgrown with ferns and roots of the trees that lined their route. His stomach growled faintly, and Isaiah wondered if he could find something to eat without keeping Astarion from the path for too long. Until the latter stopped and pushed him back. Listening. Alert, in a way. He should stay here, the elf said, he would look around and Isaiah didn't quite understand, but did as he was told. And when Astarion left, the blonde immediately realized how uncomfortable the loneliness was. What had he been thinking, walking around out here? Oh well, he remembered, he hadn't had a choice.

His gaze went to the compass in front of him, surely he could scout around a bit while Astarion was away. Perhaps he would find something useful. Then his gaze fell on a crate of fresh fruit and vegetables, which made him take notice. A cart had tipped over and was lying on its side a little further back. Hungry and curious at the same time, he stepped closer and leaned down. “My lucky day,” he smiled proudly and picked up an apple, straightened up again and took a step to the side before the ground was torn from under his feet and the blonde was hanging upside down in the air a little later. He hadn't seen a rope or a net on the ground, his survival instincts were okayish, but apparently not... good enough.

There was a rustling in the nearby undergrowth. Isaiah held his breath. Three shadows formed among the trees, approaching him and scrutinizing the wizard intently. “Oh, a human boy! Surely you're missing somewhere, aren't you? Or are you as worthless as you look?” spoke the man who approached him. Rude, the ‘human boy’ though as he dangled in front of him, hanging uncomfortably low for the fact that he was obviously supposed to be having a conversation with the man in front of him. Isaiah opened his mouth, but his voice failed. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. His fingers twitched, feeling the familiar tingle of magic, but he dared not use it. What if it gave up altogether? Or what if it got out of control?

Astarion was starting to feel like he had been set up. At best this was some bad joke by the cultists who had handed Isaiah over. At worst this was leading him into a trap. The longer they traveled together the more he suspected that his new companion's insecure behavior was rooted in him not knowing the way at all. Uncharacteristically optimistic of him, Astarion hoped to be proven wrong and that his guide would surprise him with something useful. He was doing entirely too much work to have somebody with him who was supposed to know where they were going.

And then Isaiah said his name. If he would've been able to he might have choked on his own spit. In seconds his mind jumped from it being a coincidence to being a veiled threat. It was said so nonchalantly, like Cazador wasn't the monster haunting Astarion's every thought. His hand reached for his belt. Finding no weapon on it he played it off as fixing his tunic. Isaiah's apology — whatever it had been for — got him out of his head again. Almost automatically the vampire asked him some question to keep him talking and occupied.

This was ridiculous. It made no sense. He watched Isaiah out of the corners of his eyes and saw a lost puppy, not a vampire hunter. For the rest of the evening Astarion pulled away. Whatever they had to set up some semblance of a campsite he set up and then excused himself. Even alone he couldn't express how furious he was. Because truthfully, the only reason was angry was because he was so scared. And showing that kind of incompetence had always gotten him hurt.

He sat on a branch, hidden by the canopy of a tree. And while he had suspected it this whole time, he now got confirmation that they were still being followed when hushed murmurs reached his elven ears. But one possible problem was enough to deal with. If Isaiah turned out to be one he at least wanted the cultist off his back. So he began stalking them, waiting for them to make camp themselves. The shadows of the forest enveloped him like a cloak. Like a fish in a the ocean or bird in the sky, under the moonlight he was most in his nature. He took out three. The first one he caught all on their own as they looked for a quiet and private spot to release themselves. As he had no weapons on him Astarion used his naturally given gifts, his fangs and opened their throat. His victim used their last moments gasping and to not raise any attention the vampire pressed his hand against their mouth. And his lips against the wound. There was no harm in this, he was told, to feed on the ones who threatened innocents. But even if they were just threatening him right now, he didn't care. He felt so vulnerable alone and with a stranger he didn't trust. This made him feel better about himself. After getting his fill from the first cultist and taking a weapon from him, he made quicker work of the others as they were seperating to find their comrade. At the end of it, he was satisfied and had even found a bow on one of them.

With gained confidence and after having cleaned up the blood he went back to join Isaiah. He made an almost happy impression as he sat down by the fire. “You look refreshed,” he joked. “What happened?”

After not having gotten an answer, Astarion's eyes rested on the human a while longer, narrowed as he was scanning him for more giveaways. Maybe he also wanted him to feel uneasy. Again, all he looked like was a young man who didn't know what he had gotten himself into and he could almost hear the voices of his companions urging him to be diplomatic about this.

“I feel like we haven't taken the time to get to know each other,” he began. His voice was honey, but the crimson of his eyes didn't reflect that at all. And the streaks of blood in his white locks he had missed to clean up didn't support the smile on his lips. “Why did you decide to take on this task? You're probably the worst guide I have ever met and you aren't even very good at fooling me to think otherwise.” This was all the compromising he was willing to do. Communication, fine. But he wasn't in the mood to be nice about it. Index pointing at the pocket he kept the compass in, because he had noticed the device, he went on. “And that thing doesn't even work.”

Before Isaiah could even try to talk his way out of it or find excuses, he raised his hand to stop him. The pale elf got up and opened his arms in a gesture of good faith. And maybe to tower over him a little, too. “Whatever you'd like to say, say it with these two options in mind: we're either going to keep to our goals — whatever yours might be — and be forthcoming with each other. Or we'll go our seperate ways, forever wondering what we might have been able to do for each other.”

#(( take it wherever bb ! ))#(( hope it's okay i took a little liberty with astarion but i didn't want to end with just answering the dialogue ))#(( show them astarion !!! ))#(( or sasstarion ))#— ❛❛ // answers ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive #onlyfngs #— * // a veil of blood and magic

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pjxckson · 3 years ago

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Wolfstar fic recs!

Magical Universe

A Duet by mustntgetmy (23k words, M)

Remus answers an ad for a music accompanist in a Muggle paper, and is shocked to find out Sirius Black, heir to the Black dynasty, placed the ad.

Into the Fire by wilteddaisy (152k words, E)

While war brews on the horizon beyond the walls of Hogwarts, the infamous Triwizard Tournament resurfaces just in time for the Marauders’ seventh year. Remus still has feelings, James is still trying to get the (Head) girl, and Sirius has revelations.

The Morning Doesn't Reach Us by jennandblitz (42k words, M)

Pureblood scion Sirius Black, raised and educated at home as all good Purebloods are, stumbles upon a wizarding nightclub called Destination. He’s never seen anything like what he sees that night at the club, and it turns his whole life upside down, in the best possible way.

My Arranged Gay Marriage by Children_of_the_Shadows (48k words, M)

Lily is constantly trying to set Remus up with random and strange men. This time it's Sirius Black, and while Remus is reluctant to accept it, he might just be the one. Only, Sirius's intentions aren't all that pure.

Let Nothing You Dismay by montparnasse (18k words, M)

There are a few things Sirius really didn't count on for Christmas of 1979. The extreme sexual confusion is one of them; Remus Lupin is approximately seventy-eight of the rest.

The Grim Watch by skyrat (61k words, E)

Nobody warned Sirius how awkward coming back from the dead could be. In exchange for saving him, Hermione gave Sirius only one instruction: “We can’t interfere,” she insisted. “If anyone finds out you’re alive before the right time it will ruin everything.” Too bad that Sirius Black was never very good at respecting rules.

Sirius + Remus by DemonBanisher (70k words, T)

Sirius, a holiday cynic, is spending the season alone this year with his friend away with his family. Remus, a Christmas fanatic, is looking for love. When Sirius finds the red notebook Remus has left in a bookstore, the two start writing to each other. Maybe this year, they won’t have to spend the holidays alone.

Heavy In Your Arms by MollyMaryMarie (62k words, NR)

Sirius is the perfect Slytherin student. Until he finds a Wolf in the Forbidden Forest. Until he finds out that Wolf is Remus Lupin. Until he carries a battered Remus Lupin back to his bedroom to nurse him back to health after a violent blood moon.

Honeydew by lunchbucket (46k words, E)

Healer Sirius Black feels like his life is going through the motions. He is still recovering from the tragic death of his best friends four years prior while doing his best to parent their five-year-old son. However, when a new patient's encounter with a mysterious creature leads him to contact a person from his past, his life gets shaken up into one giant beautiful mess that he isn't sure he knows how to handle.

Of Barnacles and Mermen by xinasvoice (38k words, E)

A deserted island is the perfect new home for a werewolf who is sick of chains, cells, Ministry regulations, and—to be perfectly honest—humans in general. Only, Remus hadn’t realized that, while the island itself may be deserted, the reef surrounding it is home to an unusually beautiful and territorial merman.

Non-magical AU

Muse by remuslives23 (55k words, E)

Remus is a struggling artist who loses his confidence after a car accident. He goes back to basics to try and rediscover his talent and meets a man who inspires him both professionally and personally.

A Kiss Won't Mean Goodbye by FivePips (51k words, M)

Sirius Black (Codename Padfoot): Lover of art, an excellent forger, ability to charm a snake. All are exactly what the SIS is looking for in a spy when he is recruited. In 1939, Sirius is neck deep acting as a profiteering art dealer for the Nazi High Command. With war on the horizon Sirius' life is about to change even more.

Liebestraum by lunchbucket (101k words, E)

Pianist Remus is invited to perform with the New York Philharmonic, where his ex, Sirius Black, is a violinist.

The Player's Secret by WrappedUp (51k words, M)

Remus, a successful documentary filmmaker, is assigned to make a fly-on-the-wall documentary featuring Sirius Black, one of the world's most brilliant footballers.

Enigma Variations by Coriaria (67k words, NR)

When Sirius Black is unmasked as a spy, it seems that nearly everyone in Bletchley Park knew all along that something wasn't right about him. But Lily Evans thinks otherwise. She knows that if Black really was a spy, he'd have done it properly, and would have never been caught. Remus Lupin doesn't believe Sirius is a spy either.

Peregrinitos by Chromat1cs (43k words, M)

Madrid, Spain — 1983. Two dancers from across the proverbial and literal earth join the same company. Amid the swirling atmosphere of new beginnings and old confusion, Sirius and Remus must figure out how to keep dancing and stomp out the embers of internal infernos while holding fast to the rhythm of each passing day.

Beekeeping in the Daylight by halictus (50k words, T)

Sirius is helping James and Lily conquer as many of their irrational fears as possible before they have their baby, in order to not pass on their fears. One day, Sirius takes a panic-stricken James to a friendly (and handsome) beekeeper.

Be my time-bomb lover by flora_tyronelle (71k words, E)

Second year at university: bills, crushing workload, a fallen angel sat on the pavement at three in the morning... Remus can handle this. He can totally handle this.

Petty (With A Prior) by lunchbucket (64k words, M)

Showing up for his ‘civic duty’ is one thing, getting out of jury duty without losing his shit is another. Tack on an attorney who finds the whole fiasco hilarious, and Remus might as well be in hell.

Highland Fling by picascribit (38k words, E)

2004: The summer before college, Sirius goes backpacking through Scotland in order to escape his family's expectations. In a small village in the Highlands, an unexpected flirtation turns his whole world upside down. Alternately, the story of how Scotland loves Remus and wants him to be happy.

Beneath a Big Blue Sky by eyra (68k words, E)

Sirius and James accidentally find themselves on a Yorkshire farm during lambing season. The farmer’s son thinks that’s a bit annoying, actually.

Rococo by lunchbucket (75k words, E)

[Sequel to Primavera] Sirius never had an interest in art, not until he found the right person to show it to him, that is.

#updated as i read more #fanfiction #wolfstar #harry potter #remus lupin #sirius black #fanfic #regulus black #james potter #alternate universe #marauders #angst #fluff #fic recs #pjxckson wolfstar

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potterhead-demigods-blog · 3 years ago

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Harry still couldn't completely comprehend what happened during DADA class. His new professor's Bogart looked like him- no it didn't happen to have a scar- his father! Why would a random stranger's worst fear would be his father's death? Wait! Lupin recognised him without any introduction in that train. But he had assumed that it was because of his legendary scar. But that is not the only factor here. Professor Lupin must have known his parents. Harry jumped from his chair in the common room. A thud followed with a hiss was heard. He had forgotten about crookshanks who was dozing off on his lap. “Sorry”, he muttered as he ran towards the DADA classroom.

He knocked on the door twice. A shuffle was heard from the inside following by professor Lupin's face. His eyes looked bloodshot and puffy. His hair was a mess and he looked as if he was reliving a bad memory. “Ah Harry! I was wondering when you would show up. I'm sure you would have a tons of questions for me. But first please come inside. I'll try to answer your questions.” Harry followed him to the classroom. The place looked unusually tidy for someone who looks as if they just had a breakdown. “So, your questions.. Shoot!” “Who are you? How did you recognise me in that train that day? Why is your boggart my dead father? And why were you crying?”, Harry said in a single breath. “Whoa slow down. One, I'm Remus Lupin, your DADA teacher. Two, I recognised you because you look so much like James but with Lily's eyes. I'd recognise you anywhere. Three, James' dea- ahm, that is my boggart because his death is the most tragic and terrible thing that happened in my life and four, I was crying because I just miss him so much.” “How did you know him?” “James Potter was one of my best friends. Ever since our first day, we were close. He is a brother to me and Lily, she too is very close to me. And I would know for a fact that both of them would have been very proud of you if they were alive. I heard that you were the youngest seeker in a century, James would have been jumping around if he was here. They loved you Harry, and they are very much proud of their little boy.”

Harry didn't knew he was crying untill he felt a salty taste. He quickly wiped it off and smiled at his professor and turned around and went out of the room. He was still crying but a small smile played on his lips as he made his way towards his common room.

#harry potter #remus lupin #james potter #prongs #Sirius Black #Hogwarts #harry potter fic #what if #Harry Potter what if

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consumeconstantly · 5 years ago

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Who Are You (and what will you become?)

1(you are here)| 2 | 3 | 4

Summary: “Over the years, I have found that blood means very little.”

The ice clicks against the glass almost inaudibly, condensation dripping down the side.

“So tell me, M. Wayne, why do you think I should even begin to consider you my father?” (all biodad bruce can be read as stand alone but are posted in chronological order)

__________________________________________________

At the tender age of nineteen, Marinette Dupain-Cheng has already become a jaded woman. It doesn’t shine through very often, hidden behind a carefully crafted facade of Parisian-brand carefree attractiveness and pigtailed youthfulness, but there exists, in Marinette, a certain bitterness.

“For a vigilante, you’re not very secretive,” Marinette remarks, keeping her tone measured, almost playful, so as not to draw attention to herself.

“Marinette.” Bruce inclines his head and allows the bartender to serve him a whiskey sour. He doesn’t drink alcohol because it alters his mental state in ways that are unpleasant, but ordering a drink helps him fit in, and with Marinette, the person he wants to talk to, right at his side, he can’t have his normal ginger ale substitute. “It’s good to see you.”

“Mmm.” She takes a sip of her French 75, playing up an interest that Bruce knows is a lie. “M. Wayne, you say that as though we’re familiar with each other.”

“Sabine and I were close,” he says.

Sabine is one of the few people who knew about his existence as Batman that didn’t live in Gotham. Many years ago, they were friends. Colleagues. (More.) Of course she told her daughter about who he was. How could she not have?

Sabine is-- she was--

“Close, you call it,” she says with mock awe, words slurring together. “Closer than close, really. Too close for comfort— at least, too close for you.”

When Bruce and Sabine’s paths crossed all those years ago, he was struggling trying to raise Dick. Sabine was equal parts a mother and a mentor to Dick in all the ways that Bruce couldn’t be. When she left for Paris so abruptly after the two of them parted ways, Dick didn’t take it very well. Even moreso when communications halted permanently. The fact that the radio silence coincided with Marinette’s birth is something only Bruce is privy to.

However awkwardly he and Sabine left off, it doesn’t change the facts. Bruce’s lips thin. “I’m here to offer you a home.”

Swirling her French, Marinette taps at her phone, swiping away at a few messages that she’s not interested in. “I’m nineteen and more than capable of taking care of myself. Though I suppose it stands to reason that it would be difficult for you to know that, what with how busy your extracurriculars keep you.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities.” He’s looked into what Marinette has been up to over the past nineteen years of her life. He’s never been particularly concerned with her upbringing, not with a woman like Sabine at the helm of her childhood. Bruce was right not to be worried; Marinette has grown into a multi talented, extremely well connected entrepreneur based on her own hard work. Judging by the crowd that she runs with and the multiple charities that she supports both financially and with her own time, she will be a force to be reckoned with in a few years; Tim regularly extols the virtues of the brand MDC, and if he knew that he was sisters with the designer, he’d never stop raving about her. MDC is already being compared to the likes of Dior and Gabriel when they were first starting out. Her finances aren’t anything to scoff at, and at a few galas and charity parties that he’s had to entertain, anyone who's had the privilege to wear an MDC original talks about how sweet and kind the head designer is while complimenting the CEO’s business savvy.

Bruce has to admit that he’s impressed by how she manages to keep her identities separate. No one suspects the head designer to also be manning publicity and business.

He’s been watching her for the past day, and he has to say, for somebody whose parents just died, she carries herself with remarkable ease. If not for the red around her eyes and line of shots on the bartop, Bruce would believe that Tom and Sabine’s death didn’t phase her at all.

“There’s a but, isn’t there?” Marinette says bitterly.

She’s right in that assumption. As skillful as Marinette is in her field, she has no practical combat experience. A brief stint in fencing and martial arts but nothing beyond that. Even if she practiced martial arts for years, that wouldn’t be enough to convince Bruce to let her go off on her own. Martial arts as a hobby is an entirely different game than fighting for one’s life.

Marinette is simply not the kind of person who can face down a League member and come out of it alive.

“It’s for your safety.”

For the first time since entering the bar, Bruce sees a flash of true emotion cross Marinette’s eyes. It’s hard to see the color of her eyes in the dim lighting, but it’s impossible not to see Sabine in how her eyes narrow. Perhaps the dim lighting makes it easier to; in the light of day, Marinette’s eye color— it’s too similar to the shade he sees in the mirror.

“My safety? What about my parent’s safety?”

At that, Bruce internally cringes while keeping his face carefully blank. Tom and Sabine… their end wasn’t pretty. Not the most gruesome deaths he’s ever seen, but it was up there. Bruce never thought the League would do something as cruel as desecrating the corpses of the people they murdered. They may be assassins for hire, but most times, they do have some sort of morals.

The worst part about it is that their death is most likely a result of Sabine’s past relationship with him. Last month, a tabloid that drew comparisons between Marinette and Bruce. It didn’t take long for another person to dredge up pictures from when he was still with Sabine. Tom and Sabine didn’t have enemies well-off enough to hire the League. But Bruce? Bruce did.

“I’m not interested in any protection you have to offer me.” Marinette shakes her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not like you. I won’t become a vigilante out of rage or as a coping mechanism. I’m not going to go chasing after the League in a foolish pursuit of misguided justice.”

But Marinette doesn’t understand. She has a target on her back with her newfound association to him.

“I haven’t been active in your life--”

“Understatement of the year,” Marinette mutters.

“--but I’m not going to let you die when I can prevent it.”

Downing the rest of her French, she takes the Moscow Mule away from Bruce’s hands, eyeing the liquor up on display. She drinks the cold alcohol and revels in the burn that slides down her throat. Marinette swipes on one of the notifications she’s received on her phone in order to respond to it. “You’re a good man, Bruce. But your desire to protect me— what does it stem from? What do we have in common? Why would you use your time and effort on what’s essentially a stranger?”

Bruce has no good answer for this, but he has an obvious one. As soon as it leaves his tongue, it feels wrong. “We share the same blood.”

He can’t bring himself to call Marinette his daughter. That means that he would be her father and he’s not deserving of that title.

Marinette pockets her phone, eyes trained on a set of unusually shaped glasses on the shelves. “If that’s your answer, M. Wayne, let me tell you something. Over the years, I have found that blood means very little.”

The bartender comes around and tops off the whiskey sour. The ice clicks against the glass almost inaudibly, condensation dripping down the side. Bruce can’t tell whether the bartender knows Marinette or not, but he certainly looks concerned enough to, with how his eyes shift between Marinette and himself rapid fire. When the bartender’s gaze settles on Bruce, mouth turned downward, clearly suspicious of his presence, Marinette just waves him off with a gentle smile.

Her smile turns up the same way Tom’s did. She’s right; family is more than blood.

“Your answer to why you want to protect me is that we share blood, but you speak nothing of our relationship. Shouldn’t that have been the first thing you brought up?”

Bruce shifts uncomfortably on the bar stool. Marinette just laughs at his apparent awkwardness. “Talking of blood relations seems to be something you don’t enjoy, and yet the entire premise of your protection rests on it. Tell me, M. Wayne, do you think I should even begin to consider you my father?”

Even as inebriated as Marinette must be, she brings up points that he himself wondered on his way to Paris. Wanting to see Marinette safe goes beyond a simple duty to morality and virtue. Though Bruce is known for adopting kids with tragic backstories, it simply isn’t feasible to adopt every single one he comes across. To bring Marinette into his family at this age, to expose her to the life he lives would be beyond cruel. In essence he’d be replacing two parents with a ticking time bomb: himself.

“Don’t consider me a parent, just a guardian. It’s in my best interest to see you safe, and the best way to do that is to have you move to Gotham, where my colleagues and I can assure you around the clock protection.”

At first, he distanced himself from Sabine and Marinette because he didn’t want to disrupt her current relationship with Tom. Even if the two of them insisted that he could still be part of Marinette’s life, it just didn’t feel right to have the title of father when he wasn’t the one to put in any of the hard work. Then, as Tom and Sabine grew more comfortable in their life together, settled down and opened up a bakery, he was blindsided by Jason’s death. As his daughter grew older and older, there were just too many things in his own life for him to ever hope to kindle a relationship with Marinette.

Marinette laughs, but it’s really more of a bark. Her voice is too hoarse for it to come out any other way. Bruce can’t imagine how much she’s cried this past week. “If you wanted to keep me safe, where were you a week ago? Where were you two years ago? Where were you when I was thirteen? M. Wayne, I’ve heard a lot of rumors about you throughout the years, and I’ve always brushed them off as nothing more than tabloid gossip. But perhaps they got one thing right about you: you’re a liar.”

Marinette stands, swaying slightly.

“This— if you truly want me to uproot my life, I need more than you saying it’s in your best interest. I need—” Marinette reaches up to her earrings and allows her eyes to flutter shut. She needs more than a distant guardian. She needs someone to confide in. Someone she trusts. “It was nice meeting you, but I don’t need your pity. Not now.”

As she weaves through the crowd, Bruce can’t help but wonder whether he made the right decision all those years ago to not be apart of her life.

@biodad-bruce-month

Late to the game as always. This will be a multichapter fic but all parts can be read as one shots (and also as always anything posted to tumblr is never checked for accuracy and stuff so whoop)! They’ll be released in chronological order. If you want to get tagged in all things maribat, instead of commenting it under a fic, I’d appreciate an ask or a dm instead! I haven’t been able to go back through all the previous comments and create a taglist yet but perhaps. eventually.

#bio!dad bruce wayne month 2020 #first meeting #maribat #bio!dad bruce #marinette dupain cheng #bruce wayne #referenced character death #aged up! marinette #miraculous ladybug #dcu

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st0nesnglitter · 4 years ago

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Book club-- second meeting

You and Remus start a little book club <3

Part one

You and Remus meet up to offically start your book club

[Includes: swearing, vague descriptions of books and a cute Remus.

This is kinda shit, I’m sorryyyy]

—————

You brought your bookbag into your room and jumped onto the bed. It felt like you were floating and needed to ground yourself to keep all your expectations low. But your thought kept circling back to your interaction with Remus and the small crush that you had gathered your fifth year had grown twice it’s size. He wanted to meet you, he wanted to read your book, he wanted you to read his. In all the swarming thoughts you remembered the book he gave you. You picked up your bag from the floor and grabbed the navy blue book, it was quite thick and you knew that it would capture you every evening until your week was up. Flipping to the first page you saw the title of the book again but under it there was an inregularlity. Black ink was pressed into the parchment, spelling out a neat “Remus Lupin”. A fond smile spread over your lips and you dragged your finger over it, feeling the indent of where he had pushed his quill. After reading the first few pages you saw it again on the sixth page. As you kept reading you found more and more of his annotations, his notes to himself, or perhaps to the next reader.

During the week of classes you kept trying to steal glances of Remus but it was hard since Sirius always argued that they sat in the back of the class. He got called up to demonstrate a spell during DADA and as he walked back to his seat he winked at you and dropped a piece of paper in your open textbook. You opened it carefully so you wouldn’t gain the teachers attention.

”You have good taste in books”

You smiled at the note and turned around and pointed to him and then put up two fingers whilst you mouthed ”you too”.

After the last class on the Wednesday, halfway through the week, Remus stood outside the doors of your classroom breathing heavily and with red cheeks.

”Good afternoon” he greeted and you walked up to him.

”Why are you out of breath?” You tilted your head as you asked your question.

”I, uh, ran here to make sure that I could talk to you” he mumbled as he scratched the back of your neck. Both of your faces were now rosy as you started walking down the corridor with him.

”And what could be so important? Wanna leave the club?” You joked.

”Quite the opposite, I have an idea for it” he grinned and your head spinned as you saw his eyes twinkle. Even if you were sure that you weren’t Remus’ type you still felt over moon that he at least valued your reading hobby and that you two could share that.

”Let’s hear it Lupin”.

”After our book clubbing on Saturday we could go down to the bookstore in Hogsmeade, pick out next weeks books” he fumbled with his hands as he spoke and looked toward you hopefully.

”Of course, gotta keep this club alive” You exclaimed and his face soften from the nervous grin he had donned during his proposion. He slowed down as you got to a crossroads of two corridors and he started leaning to the left, into the new hallway.

”Great! Uh, I gotta find Black now but hopefully I’ll see you around, otherwise: Saturday. I’ll be at the tower at around noon” he started to turn around to go in his own direction but he turned to you one last time.

”See ya later, darling” he said before turning his back to you and disappeared with long strides down the corridor to your left. You stopped in your tracks as you heard the nickname.

Remus Lupin was a punctial man and he was leaning against a wall when you walked down the steep stairs of the Ravenclaw tower. He had on beige trousers and a white t-shirt. It was an unusual sight to see him without his uniform but you liked it, and the warm weather had led to teachers being a lot less harsh with dress code on students days off. You stumbled a little on the last step as you took him in and had to put your hand on the wall to steady yourself.

“Careful there, wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself” he said softly and you looked down on your feet in an attempt to hide your rosy cheeks.

”I have an idea on where we should have the club” he started walking off in the opposite direction of the library. As you got to an empty corridor he looked over his shoulder before pulling out a neatly folded parchment.

”What’s that?” You asked as you saw the blank sheet.

”It’s my secret weapon” he winked down at you and murmered words you coudn’t hear and you saw how ink started appearing on the paper.

”Ah, ah, ah” he tutted and turned away from you. ”No peeking”.

You pouted and crossed your arms over your chest, he chuckled as he took in you appearance. You looked tiny from his tall point of view and the way you posed made the illusion stronger. He looked back down on the paper, on the map, and walked a couple steps until he found a particularly square stone in the wall and he pushed it in, a doorway starting to appear by the it. You gasped and looked at him like he was mad as he turned around with a triumphant smile.

”C’mon, gotta be quick” he said as he grabbed your arm and pulled you into the hallway before the stone closed behind you. He tried to keep you two moving but you stopped to look around.

”How did you do that? How did you know that?”

”Well I don’t wanna reveal all my secrets just yet, c’mon we’re almost there”. He turned on his heel and started to walk again. His head was slightly tilted so he didn’t hit the irregular stones in the ceiling. You soon found yourself to be in front of a door and he nodded for you to open it. Inside the door there was a circular room with a huge window, a small sofa beneath it and bookshelfs all around.

”Where are we exactly?” You asked slowly as you looked back at him and he looked down back at you.

”I dunno really. I think it’s an old room for some teacher” he hummed as he walked toward the little sofa. You followed him and looked out of the window. You had trouble locating where in the castle you were, but that slipped to the back of your mind as you took in the view of the trees and the beaming sun; the view was ten times better than the one from your favorite window in the library.

”I go here to read” he said softly and he held to book you borrowed him in his large hands. You smiled at him and sat down next to him and pulled out his book from your bag. ”Some peace and quiet away from the guys”.

”D’you wanna go first?” He nodded and opened the book as he started to discuss it, focusing especially on the plottwist. You tried to follow his thoughts but he talked so enthusiastically and he gestured wildly with his hands that you kind of zoned out and just looked at him. Suddenly he stopped talking and hus gaze burned into your eyes expecting an answer.

”What?” You asked dumbfounded and he chuckled softly as he moved closer to you.

”Here” he said and pointed onto a sentence toward the end of the book. You followed his finger as he read it aloud. When the sentence ended he turned his head toward you and you realized how close you two were. The scars that andorned his face were even more beautiful up close and the smell of his cologne filled up your nose.

”It’s beautiful” you stated about what he just quoted.

”Beautiful? It’s tragic, heartwrenching, it’s.. it’s painful” he countered and his thick brows furrowed slightly.

”Well those don’t cancel each other out. Beautiful and tragic walk hand in hand” you started and his brows moved apart slightly. ”Nothing in life is beautiful without a little tragedy, nothing is ever just on one side of that spectrum. You need the contrast to appreaciate both sides.. Basically everything is a little fucked up”.

His lips had parted and they turned up into a small smile.

”Well aren’t you poetic” he said and you giggled.

”Just my observation”.

As you moved on to the book you had read you were the one rambling on avout characters, plot and the overall writing. When your voice faded out you shared a beat of silence with soft eyecontact before you snapped out of it.

”Why do you write in your books?” You asked bluntly and cut through the silence.

”Cause it only feels right” he replied happily.

”Only feels right?”

He let out a breath and sat up more straight.

”Books impact you, they leave something in you. After you’ve read a book it will follow you, keep it in your mind, use the words of the book. So it only feels right that I leave something in them, leave some of my words.”

You were taken aback by his statement. From his reputation as a prankster, as a member of the most notorius group in Hogwarts you wouldn’t think he would like to discuss literature on such a personal level.

”Who’s the poetic one now?” You giggled and he smiled down onto his book. ”That’s beautiful Remus” you added, afraid that he was embarrased.

”And a maybe a little tragic” he mused and you broke out into a grin.

—————

Part three? Maybe a lil Hogsmeade date?

#remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin fic #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin

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lunewell · 4 years ago

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The Lunewell Saga - Natura: Ch 3

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 here

Can also be read on ao3 (:

Book Sumary:

Zarifa Birch, an antique shop worker with an unusual past, has made a home for herself in the sleepy town of Lunewell. Though the shop she works at is not exactly ordinary, with cryptid items and odd occurrences, she has managed to carve the normal life she always desperately wished for out of it.

However, all that comes crumbling down, as a woman from Zarifa’s past throws everything into chaos. Faced with unimaginable horrors, seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and returning repressed feelings and memories, Zarifa along with her coworkers, must find a way to return the balance- and escape the cruel hands of death in this eldritch horror mystery

As always, he had not been himself in the night. He had been an old man, holding a rather nice-smelling bag, walking through the forest towards… something. Something he cared about.

His thoughts were not quite his own, but not the man's either; more a drowsy sort of mish-mash of voices, a bit like falling asleep in the middle of a bustling city. However, none of it really mattered, as he very much felt, smelled, and lived in the forest, above the crunchy leaves and around the warm scent. So hard to place. It was familiar, and yet, the exact detail of it had faded out.

He could hear his own voice, humming. It did not sound like his voice, not really, but it felt like his own, and that was enough for it to be his own. The vibrations travelled through his chest as he burst out in melodic sounds. He was humming a workers’ song, one that someone in his family had sung. Again, the details were blurry, like there was a block in his brain.

The forest was calm, basking in a sunny glow. Autumn leaves decked the ground, and the trees looked familiar. There was a comfort in this place, a home in the scent of mud and moss, and one that he cherished happily.

The trees, though originally quiet to his senses, rustled softly in a pleasant way. The wind must’ve been extra strong, he must’ve just not noticed it through the thick shield of stems.

The trees rustled once more, and felt a beat against the soles of his feet. It was slight, barely noticeable, but it got him to tilt his stiff, aged, neck downwards, if even just for a second.

It was then that it truly happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the trees curving, but he didn’t have any time to process as he was slammed down to the ground by a vine sprouting from the ground. A crack wrecked through his body, not unlike the sound a carrot makes when snapping, and he, in what simultaneously was and wasn’t his voice, howled in pain. His leg, already weak to begin with, felt as though it had been ripped in two, and he could clearly see red blood leaking from where the knee was bent at an unnatural angle. Fire coursed through his nerves, burning from his leg to his spine. The pain was so mind-numbing that he didn’t notice the much pointier vine heading right for him until it was too late.

As though it was sentient, a throned vine plunged at him, and punctured right into his stomach. It sliced all the way through him, as though his body was not but soft butter, before pulling out in an equally swift motion and landing him limp on the ground.

There was no pain, even as thorns began to wrap around and puncture every millimeter of skin, only numbness. Numbness from pain that could not be described in the English language. Numbness that no one alive had ever felt. Numbness that acted as a relenting defeat against his continuous fight for any hope of life.

And as he lay there, hands bloodstained, stomach gaping, and so incredibly empty, he feared. Feared for his wife, feared for his unachieved goals, feared for what was coming next. Even this fear, however, held a tragic sort of air to it, as it was dulled down by unrelenting numbness.

The numbness faded, along with all thoughts, as white, hot, pain came crashing down like a hammer. He let out one last pitiful, agony filled screech - for a scream was much too human to cover the sound - muffled by the thorns that had stuck themselves into his lips, before everything went black in what was truly the kindest mercy. ————————————————

Bruin awoke with a gasp, clutching his stomach. His eyes darted around his barren room, pulse racing at an olympic level under his skin. With a weak breath - still clutching his stomach with an iron grip - he closed his eyes, and repeated his mantra; You’re Bruin Becker, you’re not them, you’re safe.

The phrase played over and over again in his mind as his vision slowly morphed from a blur of panic, to the usual, groggy morning one. Taking a more stable breath, he slowly let go of his stomach. He couldn’t resist scanning his hands for blood, though he knew there was none.

Once he was sure his hands were clean, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and watched the world come to life. The white desk and closet popped from the midnight blue walls, the sheets on his bed clear as glass. He glanced at his face in the mirror, and was not surprised at what he saw; deep, dark bags under his slender eyes, porcupine-like hair, and a thin sheet of sweat that lined his forehead.

He collapsed back into his bed with a tired sigh, wanting nothing more than to ignore the clock that was taunting him with the ridiculous hour he had awoken. He would probably do that. Go back to blissful sleep, that is. He doubted he even had gotten an ounce of it because of his stupid… nightmares? Visions? Whatever they were.

He closed his eyes, relaxing back into his bed, mind so far gone and forgetting one quintessentially, very, important thing. A thing he was oh-so-kindly reminded of by what could have only been described as the sound of every single plate in the house shattering at once.

With an almost inhuman speed, Bruin threw the cover from his bed, and darted to the room next door. He adjusted his hair along the way in a frantic motion, pulse having quickened yet again at the commotion. He braked as he reached the kitchen doorway, looking at the source of the sound.

On the grey tiles sat a dazed Grant, covered head to toe in flour, shards of ceramic plates scattered around him like a bomb had just gone off. Grant looked sheepishly at Bruin, blue eyes just as bagged as his own. “Uhh… good morning?”

Bruin couldn’t help the look of absolute disappointment that rolled over his face. “How did you manage to - never mind. I don’t want to know,” he said, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well, if you must know,” Grant began, ignoring Bruin’s statement, “I was trying to make pancakes. Keyword there being trying.” He got up and tried dusting off the flour powdered on him like snow, but gave up almost immediately. “It was a shame really. I make lovely pancakes. It’s the only good thing about living with me, according to my dearest exes.”

“I’m surprised they listed any good things about living with you,” Bruin mumbled, before joining Grant to pick up the last pieces of the plates.

Though he would never admit it, Grant had been a blessing in disguise. When he first rented the little cottage in Lunewell, he had accepted that his co-worker would be an annoying, messy, music-box obsessed pest in the house that he would hopefully have to deal with as little as humanly possible.

Yet, almost like a mold, he had to admit that Grant had grown on him. Sure, he still couldn’t stand the messiness, and he swore that every time he turned a corner he saw another damn music-box, but those were things he had learned to forgive over the years.

“What possessed you to make pancakes?” Bruin questioned as they threw the last pieces in the trash.

Grant quieted, biting his lip.“They’re great comfort food,” he said slowly, as if testing out the words.

Bruin tensed, suddenly hyper aware of the rumbling in his stomach. “Oh,” he said quietly, after minutes of silence, “did you have a bad night’s sleep?” The question was pointless, but Bruin felt the need to ask it anyway. If only to take away from the barking that had begun playing in his ears.

“Yeah,” Grant responded, eyeing him, “I was up working on fixing an antique box, planning to go to bed, but I think someone was begging for their life outside, which wasn’t a very nice sound to fall asleep too.”

It was an invitation, one which he pondered for a while, before finally giving his response; “I wouldn't imagine so, no.”

He looked away as Grant's ocean blue eyes filled with pity, something that hurt him as much as any gun wound. “Hey, I… uh,” Grant began, no longer looking at him, “don’t feel obligated to answer this, but, are they getting worse?”

“You should probably go and get changed. I’ll make some breakfast for us. We still have a while before work.”

Grant, bless his heart, didn’t push. Instead, he simply nodded, vanishing the sad look from his eyes. He was halfway out the door, when he turned around with a snap; “that’s what I was forgetting to tell you!” he said, “Zarifa called earlier, she wants us to come in early.”

“Really? That’s unusual.”

“My thoughts exactly. I didn’t ever find out why though, she remained all vague. Sounded a bit panicked, if I’m honest.”

Bruin nodded. “We’ll head out after you and I get changed then. I’m not really in the mood for breakfast anyway.”

“Aye aye, Bruiny,” Grant said with a mock salute, before slipping out the door and presumably into his bedroom. Bruin did the same, taking one last glance around the rustic kitchen before walking towards his own room with a newfound haste. Zarifa had always been more than lenient with the times they showed and left work, especially once she realised both Grant and Bruin had abysmal sleep quality and patterns, so something like this was not only highly unusual, but equally concerning.

He just hoped nothing too terrible had happened. ——————————————

The walk to the Office was a beautiful one, especially this time of year. They were both bundled in hats and scarves that Grant had insisted on, as golden yellows and flaming hues passed and fell around them. For all the flack they could both give Lunewell - a lack of internet service, isolation from almost everything, and navigational systems that were seemingly built by a sadist - neither could deny that living there on mornings like this was truly a magical experience.

Or would be, were it not for the unfortunate scenario.

“Oh I hope she’s alright,” Grant panted out, slightly out of breath from the speedwalking that bordered on jogging. Working in antiques was unfortunately not a field that kept one in great physical condition, and in moments like this it truly showed.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bruin reassured, “thinking logically, we know nothing serious has happened,” probably, “so it’s most likely something mundane, slightly ominous at best.”

Grant looked unsure at that, but didn’t say anything. Under the glasses, Bruin could practically see the well-oiled cogs turning in his head, eyes glaze as though lost in the mechanical world. It was his typical zoning out look, which was for once highly appreciated, as Bruin himself was in no mood to talk.

They walked up the path, letting the old, wooden store come into view. It seemed no different than yesterday, albeit much darker, except for, alarmingly enough, a room in the upstairs flat. They shared a questioning look, panic visible on both their faces, before speeding up and half-sprinting to the door.

With a lead ball in his stomach, Bruin realised that the door was not only unlocked, but stood slightly ajar. He shoved it further open, with an urgency but still lightly, as not to break any antiques.

Even the golden rays of autumn sun couldn’t hide the ruins of the shop. The furniture was at a slight angle, as though a lash had come whipping at the legs, the fragile glass and ceramics that had been close to shattering finally lay dead and dismembered on the floor, and most concerningly, there was an unidentifiable black liquid smelling vaguely of ozone.

“Zarifa?” Grant began calling, stepping over the mess with all the grace of a drunk octopus, “Zari? Boss? Are you in there?” Bruin followed his shouting companion, straightening the furniture as he went. They made it to the counter, still no sight of her, though that was changed as they heard a thunderclap of a sound emitting from the backroom.

They were in the employees’ lounge within seconds of the sound, greeted by the sight of an unusually casually dressed Zarifa surrounded by long walls of antiques, stacked in an organised manner. “Oh good,” she said, upon seeing them, giving them a warm smile that reached her tired eyes, “you made it.”

Bruin wasn’t so much looking at her, as staring at the large pile of antiques behind her. Some of them he recognised, like the ‘Girl in Field’ painting, or that odd statue of an old man made of clay, 200 years old, but painted in a cornflower blue pigment that could be no more than 100, though there were also surprisingly a lot of pieces he had no recollection of seeing. Zarifa, noticing his staring, looked at him apologetically; “Sorry I had to dismantle your system. I tried to keep the organisation, and I promise I’ll help sort it afterwards.”

“It’s fine. I’ll sort it myself,” he assured, not quite sure he truly trusted anyone to touch what he had sorted. Grant was a disaster on legs, and for as much as Zarifa was good at keeping schedule, she lacked the sheer efficient sorting instinct he had had since childhood. “Why is it all up here? Was there water in the basement again?”

Zarifa shook her head, before pulling a slightly splintered, old, wooden box with a golden, dust-painted leaf-engraving on top from behind one of the piles. Bruin’s eyes widened as he remembered where it had previously been, involuntarily glancing upstairs, and then back down to Zarifa. She hadn’t really… had she? No one had ever been in Valours flat, hell, no one even had the key to it.

She opened the lid cautiously, the box creaking as ancient and rusted hinges pulled back. She pulled out aged, folded paper, and slowly laid it down in Bruins hands. Though he would of course properly examine it later, he could tell it was far older than anything he was comfortable holding with his bare, gloveless hands. “It’s more sturdy than it looks,” comforted Zarifa, upon seeing his panicky stature, “go ahead, open it up.”

With a force comparable to a feather, he opened it in precise, calculated movements. He winced as he saw the handwriting, the fine, thin squiggles dating the paper to 300 years old at least, letting go of the note to the point it was barely still in his hands. He felt Grant peeking over his shoulder, and down onto the note curiously, mumbling the words as he read down the torn page.

It wasn’t a very long read, but it added tenfold to the confusion. “What seal?” Grant eventually asked, looking up at Zarifa, “this is the page blonde-pink-girl wanted, right? Why would anyone want this?”

Zaria sighed, looking at the paper with a darkness in her eyes. She looked contemplative, opening her mouth a few times to begin a sentence, before shaking her head and going back to thought. Finally, after tracing the golden part of the box a few rounds, silence echoing the room, she spoke; “We’ve all had encounters with Them before, right?”

Even with that single word, everyone in the room instantly Knew what she was talking about. It was Them that had drawn the entire group to the shop, Them that had left that hollowness that lived in all their eyes, Them that left all of them flinching at sounds and throwing hurried glances over shoulders, and most importantly, Them that created the bond they all shared.

Zarifa signed; “Take a seat, boys. This might require a bit of an explanation.”

—————- After a long, long conversation, involving the raiding of Valour’s alcohol stash for some well earned drinking, along with expensive chocolates for an alcohol-abstaining Bruin, all had finally been explained. There was a silence in the air, tinged in cheap wine and dread, as they all looked intently at the ornate box. “So,” Grant said, clasping his hands ripping away the silence like a band-aid, “we’re dealing with a big orb, monster thingy, which intentions are unknown, who kidnapped our intruder who was reading text that made vines sprout around her and smoke fill her eyes.”

“Yeah, that sums up what I experienced this morning nicely.”

Grant blinked, Bruin hurrying his mouth which had been firmly hidden deeper in his palm. “Fucking hell, I need another drink,” Grant exclaimed with a groan, reaching his hand out with his designated office mug towards Bruin.

“You guys are all out,” Bruin said with a tired voice, “besides, I don’t think alcohol is the wisest right now. I think we should try to figure out what actually happened.”

“Good idea,” Zarifa said with a nod, “we can begin with the note. Funnily enough, it’s the easiest thing here to deconstruct.” She took the box and gave it one last glance over, before rotating it away from herself and giving Grant and Bruin the opportunity to see it; “Obviously the seal is referring to the monster. I think it’s just a matter of gathering the ingredients, and whatever happened, will be reversed.”

Bruin, more than prepared, had already pulled out his black notebook and found an empty page. He looked once again at the section of the note containing the ingredients:

A key is forged by fragments of Touched sanity eating a sight of one that Sees, dipped in water oh-so divine. Once the key has begun, the fragments must sew themselves between the fabric, letting all webbed light shine on them. As they are blessed by the minute, and after the final step of-

And out of the nonsense, quickly jotted down the list of ideas that had been proposed by a slightly tipsy Grant, and an unusually frantic Zarifa;

Fragmented Touched sanity (Magic mind? Pieces of brain?) Sight of one that Sees (Some creature’s eyes obviously, maybe cow eye cult? (Most likely, Grant’s paranoia over cow eye cult, and not actually cow eye cult)) Water divine (Holy water?) Webbed light (Interconnected grids of light? Light systems?)

Jotting them down like that, was sadly, not very revealing. Partly because all their minds were still reeling, and what they had brainstormed was mostly a series of disjointed thoughts rather than a narrative, and partly because there was still so much hidden at the bottom of the riddle ocean. Bruin could still hardly find himself believing Zarifa’s situation, and had it not been for the black liquid stains he saw himself, the cryptic note, and the wobbly tone of her words as she recounted the events, he probably would have dismissed her as being driven a bit mad by paranoia.

Even now, fully aware of the fact that it was real, he was incredibly tempted to just storm out the shop, notebook in hand. Though he encountered the unearthly almost every time he was in deep slumber, he had never actually had a fully conscious encounter. And those… nightmares, visions - whatever they could be called - had left him gluing the pieces of his mind with only the instinct of survival. A real encounter would break him.

And yet, he couldn’t run. He had nowhere to go. Thorns Antique wasn’t so much a place he had chosen to stay, as a shelter he had desperately thrown himself into. Physically, yes of course he could travel or move. Marcus had been asking him if they could move in together for months, and would be more than elated to take him in. And he was sure he could put that business degree to good use.

But, though he was physically free as a dove, his mental wings were clipped. What was he supposed to do when he inevitably woke up one night in Marcus’s bed, screaming about the knife that he was convinced was lodged in his brain? How would he explain the countless of cryptic, weird, objects littered between pages upon pages of ripped-out death notices? Markus would see him as insane, and any future job he would have wouldn’t tolerate his hazy, obsessive, jumpy, and sleep-deprived state.

Though he did not personally know what their stories really were, he suspected Zarifa and Grant were stranded on the same boat of forbidden knowledge. Zarifa had no interest in history, having a passion for literature instead, and a people-pleasing nature and work ethic that could get her far, and Grant, though a bit of a clumsy idiot, was also incredibly academically bright, and a true cityguy at heart. They were an odd group, but a strongly connected one.

Or, at least somewhat connected.

“I propose we figure out what to do now,” Bruin muttered, after reading the bullet points a couple of times, “I don’t think there’s a standard protocol for situations such as these.”

Zarifa hummed in agreement, leaning against the table with a pensive look, sipping on some more wine. “I think we should prioritise figuring out what the riddle is actually saying,” she said, “and I think most of the answers lay here. There must be some connections between all this supernatural weirdness, and I’m pretty sure it lies in the antiques.”

Bruin and Grant nodded, both pulling the wildly uncomfortable chairs close to the table in a loud, squeaking drag. “As for the stuff that we can’t find the answer to,” Zarifa continued, once everyone was seated, “we can always ask for that.” She turned to Grant; “You’ve called Valour, right?”

Grant blinked, the words taking a few seconds to register, before grimacing sheepishly. “I’ll go do that afterwards, promise.” Bruin sighed, but Zarifa simply nodded. She’d always been a lot more forgiving of his scatterbrain than Bruin.

“I’ll do the same with Lottie. Assuming she’s, well, alive. She probably won’t answer, but it's worth a shot.”

“Thought Lottie didn’t give us her number?” Grant said, Bruin mirroring his confusion. Zarifa stiffened, smile dropping by a minuscule amount.

“She didn’t, but I know how to get in contact with her,” she stated, in her best assertive tone. Before Bruin could ask what she meant by that, she powered on, bulldozing in a purposeful manner. “What about you, Bruin?”

Bruin racked his mind for a good answer, recalling what needed to be done, and all the archival systems they had buried in the husk of a computer. “Every item has a corresponding ID, and a short descriptor. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at both the system and the antiques . However, we’re all out of gloves, and our magnifying glass has been broken for two months, so I’ll head to the shop first.”

While this was completely true, Bruin did leave out the little detail that it was also beyond time to see Marcus again. Through a mix of nightly hauntings, and antique mishaps, the days had somehow slipped by without them having a proper chat. He didn’t so much mind the lack of interaction, as the guilt that came with it.

“Thank you,” Zarifa said with a smile, “and, if it isn’t too much of a bother, please keep an eye out for any… unusual sights.” He nodded, her shoulders slumping down visibly, even under the thick cream turtleneck. Grant then promptly slipped out of the room to give Valour a ring with his smashed phone, and Zarifa headed out the front door and into the shop to tidy what was left of the mess, leaving him all alone.

He buried his hands into his neatly combed hair, tension deflating like a balloon as he exhaled heavily. His head was being squeezed by a thick rubber band, though whether it was the usual sleep deprivation or stress was anyone’s guess, and his eyes were droopy and heavy, as if magnets were attempting to pull them closed.

Nevertheless, he got up, pulling his winter coat and messenger bag off the chair. He left the scarf and hat where they lay, feeling they were a bit over the top considering it was only October. Slipping the black notebook into the black and purple bag, he headed out the door, and towards the outside world, heading in a general life direction he was not fully comfortable with.

#The Lunewell Saga - Natura #the lunewell saga #natura #writing #wip excerpt #original writing #writing wip

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