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writinglittlebeasts · 11 months

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Pie & warm coat (if you have it lol) for the fall ask game? - @void-botanist

october-themed writeblr ask game

🥧 pie: let’s talk about food in your wip. are there any special recipes or traditional meals? do any of your OCs cook or bake?

very sad to say that i can't really cook myself and therefore it just like, doesn't come up often in my work. in an older, abandoned wip, i remember drawing up a short comic where the characters are making Grandmama's Kielbasa Recipe but there were no actual details or anything. a lot of the food that *does* come up in my writing is take-out or, like, eat-in or whatever. i've written about spaghetti pretty often because even i can manage to swing that and that's nothing to write home about.

the most stand-out food fact in wolf's tooth rn is that lovise can't cook for shit but loves to try anyway. this is i think the most food-heavy wolf's tooth is ever going to get, frankly:

Large serving dishes and entire pots are rolled out of the kitchen on a serving cart. When Santo leans past Brionna to set a salad bowl in the center of the table he jostles her head with his bicep; she snaps her teeth at him, and he laughs. A wide pot of vegetable stew finds its way between empty plates and glasses and silverware onto a worn potholder. Brionna holds her breath when Lovise lifts the lid away, but when Jacqueline leans in to take a whiff of its heavy steam she risks her own curious inhale; the stew’s beef broth is overpowering, but it doesn’t smell burnt, and if she focuses Brionna can smell the sweet carrots and cabbage, the nutty, meaty potatoes. Jack catches her eye. ‘Did this woman learn to cook while we weren’t looking?’ Brionna shrugs, turning to the head of the table where Ronda is turning a casserole dish crosswise to its length. She’s optimistic when her mother’s fingers alight on the lid’s round handle. She’s crushed when the lid rises and exposes the gnarled, blackened crust of what must have been macaroni in another life, and she watches Kirby’s face screw up as the sharp scent of it hits his nostrils. “There’s plenty more of that,” Lovise assures the horrified, balking masses absently (as she’s occupied revealing the next of her abominations), “because I know how you all can eat.” (It’s a turkey, and its skin is flaking like parchment onto its platter, stuffed with and leaking something blessedly store-bought.) Brionna is calculating how politely she can eat only Lovise’s passable stew when her father sets a tray of bread loaves beside the stew pot that smells so overwhelmingly of butter that every head turns to follow it, to inhale deeply and expel each other bitter scent. Santo had baked this, himself; he’s positively radiating with pride, having outdone Lovise and saved the meal. He had to have known that he would, bragging to Ronda while he’d made a mess of their kitchen. Fuck, but there are basil leaves crowning the crust. He’s earned one hell of a birthday present.

i think i ought to consider food more often because i think that little elements like this can add a lot to a character, it just doesn't really occur to me to try because i find cooking personally very frustrating

🧥 warm coat: share a happy or fuzzy scene from your wip!

no fuzzy scenes written yet for my current wips because they're all about agonies, but i'll dig one up from wips past. [minutes pass] ok so these are also about agonies, but i have some sweet shit in my fanfics lol

from partner in crime:

Red wraps Frank's hand up in his, squeezing the meat of it so firmly there isn't an ounce of space left. "I've never had any reason to be afraid of you." "No, you don't." Frank tries to sound tender and reassuring, and Red takes the opportunity to break the tension. "You can barely land a roundhouse." He teases. "Your footsteps are so heavy they can feel them down in the subway tunnels." A grin breaks out across Frank's face and he rounds the counter to pull Red (bearing his broken arm in mind) to himself. "Piece of shit." Red presses his cheek, more his ear, flush to Frank's chest, light smile on his own face while he slows and listens, lets his grip on Frank's hand loosen only for Frank's hold to tighten. He hums, and it radiates warmly between the two of them. "You might know me." Frank may not have Red's bat ears, but he finds that where Red's voice is soft it's heady with emotion. Tinged with bitterness, exhaled across Frank's heart. Crawling up his throat, settling sweetly at the back of his skull. Frank mirrors that feeling, winds his free hand up Red's shoulder to his throat and only stops when his fingers meet short hair at the back of his neck. "I know everything I need to know t'know that I--" He trips before the finish line; he can't make himself say it, feels like an ass for it. Like if he only tries hard enough he can give that to Red, like the way it sticks in his throat is a personal failing. Frank flattens his palm to the nape of Red's neck, half surprised that he doesn't tense or lean away, wait for the rest. That's the important part, right? The words, the surety of them. Red speaks again, the side of his mouth still moving over the thin shirt Frank wears so that it can be felt as well as heard. "Me too, Frank." "What?" "I love you, too, Frank." Red says it so easily. Just like that first time, when he pinned Frank for a sucker. 'I like my chances' , he'd said. Cocky son-of-a-bitch. He was right, though. Red's had Frank wrapped around his finger from the very start. Frank trails his hand up into Red's hair, cradling his skull in his hand. Red pushes back against it like a satisfied cat. Frank clears his throat, "'S'at what I was gonna say?" "I don't mean to dispute your ability to self-reflect," Red lowers their still-clasped hands to Frank's hip and then a bit farther, behind his back, "But I'm pretty sure you've been saying it for a while now." Overconfident, self-righteous, cocky motherfucker. Perceptive son-of-a-bitch; pain in the ass. Frank hides the surely embarrassing expression on his face in Red's hair, doesn't stop until his lips meet his own knuckles. What he asks next is muffled. "Yeah?" "Unless you were trying to keep it a secret," Red amends, "In which case, I've never noticed anything beyond the platonic. Professional, even." Frank's laughter, full-bodied, making his shoulders shake, is likewise muffled by soft, bright hair.

(that excerpt looks SO long on tumblr my god)

thank u for asking!!

#or #answers #void botanist #awtfr #fic stuff

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dazzelmethat · 4 years

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Half boy half bug. I wanted to draw Igg as a more literal *half* demon. Extra spooky for Halloween season.

#my art #my ocs #body horror #blood #tw: body horror #I really ought to draw things with backgrounds more often but hey

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the-stories-of-sorrow · 6 years

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Death Incarnate

#artists on tumblr #The Stories of Sorrow #Thanatos #Greek Mythology #mythology #oc #the title is pretty dramatic and also based on a song #but hey #Thanatos is a dramatic bitch #I really ought to draw my trash son more often #this is the second picture of him this year??

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concerningwolves · 4 years

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Hey I'm doing a short story for class about an autistic girl who discovers she have telekinesis and I want to knows how to portray her properly and how beint autustic affect her powets with makint autism sounds baf

Hi anon! I’m very sorry if I’m answering this too late for you; I barely had time to even look at my inbox in October and November, and then when I got time to do so this month, I got overwhelmed by the backlog. Nonetheless, I’ll answer this and hope that even if it’s too late for your original purpose, something in it will help you (/help anyone else who reads this) :]

AUTISM, SUPERPOWERS & FAIR REPRESENTATION

Okay, so, the basic answer to “how not to make autism sound bad” is approach the story with compassion and/or empathy – but that’s a very broad answer and probably not overly helpful for specifics. I’ll start with the “how to represent autism well” part and then break down the superpower-specific stuff from there.

1) Autism should be an integral part of your characters’ personhood, but not their entire personality

As an autistic, I struggle to define where my autism ends and my personhood (i.e., my sense of the “self”) begins, because they’re so deeply entwined with one another. Autism is a condition that alters how I think and interact with the world, and therefore profoundly impacts how I perceive both myself and the things around me. That doesn’t mean, however, that my only personality trait is autism. It all gets very convoluted and existential – would I still be ‘me’ if you removed autism? What is ‘me’? Is it even fair to think of autism as a separate Thing? – but it is worth considering if you want to get inside your autistic character’s head.

A trap that allistic creators tend to fall into is “this character likes [X] / does [X] because they are autistic”. For example, I once saw someone say that their OC likes blue because it’s a calming colour and therefore sensory-safe. This is a valid process on its own: I also like pale blue (+ other pastel shades) because it’s a sensory-safe colour! But where many allistics fall down is in not considering that an autistic character’s likes, dislikes and hobbies don’t have to relate to their autism.

Although the show has its flaws, I do think that Sam Gardener from Netflix’s Atypical is a positive example of an autistic character just liking something because they like it. His special interest is all to do with penguins and antartic wildlife/explorations, and he also enjoys art as a hobby because... he just does. That’s not to say these things don’t intersect – he takes a scientific illustration class in college precisely because it combines two things he likes; it’s also fair to say that autism gives him an edge in drawing because autism brain is excellent at grasping theory/technicalities. But ultimately it’s nice to have an autistic character whose interests and personality traits go beyond the stereotypical special interest.

For more on representing autistic characters, check out [this post] where I go into a bit more depth. (NOTE: that post is on my list of things that I want to revise/rewrite/flesh out, so it might change soon, but the basic stuff is still the same).

2) Autism isn’t inherently “bad” – but that doesn’t mean it’s without issues, either

Autism is not the devastating tragedy that neurotypicals like to present, but it does come with its own difficulties and pitfalls that you should acknowledge if you want to write a well-rounded autistic character. There’s often discourse/debates on my dash about whether it’s fair to call autism a disability. I’d say it is – there are definitely aspects of autism that are disabling, i.e., sensory overload, burnout, trouble communicating, etc. – but it isn’t a disability in the way that allistics/abled people think.

Some aspects of autism are “double edged”, in that they have useful and troublesome sides. Speaking for myself, hyper-empathy means that I’m good at grasping why emotions Do The Thing, which is incredibly useful in filling in gaps in my social sense! But. It also means that I struggle to draw a line between my own emotions and someone else’s, and am simply awful at creating healthy emotional boundaries. As the writer, you create good representation by showing both sides. Let your character have meltdowns! Let them have trouble in social situations! Let them get burnt out or overwhelmed! But also make sure to show that this doesn’t make them inherently burdensome to other characters, and explore the good/neutral aspects of autism, too.

3) So, how would all of this impact superpowers?

A lot of that depends on your world’s magic/superpower system. Some things to consider are:

Does your character need to be concentrating?

Do emotions influence how controlled the power is?

Does the power take a physical or mental toll on the user?

etc.

These are laws you ought to think about as part of worldbuilding, regardless of a characters’ neurotype or ability, but I do believe that autism will have an impact on how a character interacts with their powers. For example, many autistic people have difficulty with fine motor skills and spatial awareness, either as part of autism or due to a co-existing condition [1]. This could theoretically cause trouble if a character needs to gauge personal space/use spatial perception when using telekinesis to direct objects. Where emotions effect a power, emotional dysregulation or rejection sensitive dysphoria could also come into play by disrupting a characters’ concentration or control.

Make sure to show your character working with or around these sorts of issues, and keep a balance between the pros and cons. If sensory input throws off her concentration, what are ways she can get around that? Earplugs for noise, dark glasses for light sensitivity, seamless clothes, headphones... etc etc. On the more negative side, I can only imagine the chaos I might cause during a meltdown if I had telekinesis: objects flying everywhere, lightbulbs bursting, general pandemonium. That said, telekinesis would be great if I could levitate myself and just hang there without any sensory input. Also useful if I needed to get stuff and didn’t have the energy to move because of burnout, or if I could use telekinesis to “weigh down” a blanket on top of me during meltdowns. There are some really fun possibilities here!

Another way to avoid showing autism as a burden/something bad is to give your character a support network and/or accommodations in the story. Have your character find ways to work around issues just like a neurotypical person would, yes, but also have other characters be understanding and ready to help. Thriving support systems are just as important as the autistic character themself.

Basically, address the fact that some aspects of autism are difficult to cope with/require aid but don't overtly focus on that, you know? Your character can get upset, frustrated, or be resigned. She can beat herself up! All autistic people live with this feeling of "not good enough". But show her overcoming this, show her with a good support system, and show her being a person as complex and developed as any other character.

FOOTNOTE(S)

[1] general practise in diagnostic circles is to avoid diagnosing with things like dyspraxia if another developmental disorder is present (i.e., autism), but we’re still learning about what the big ice-cream bar of autism actually covers. What traits an autistic person has can vary hugely from one person to another.

#Anonymous #autistic characters #writing advice #writeblr #superpowers & disabilities

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lieslidoo · 4 years

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The beauty in the mundane Howl Jenkins X Painter!OC

Part 1: an uncharacteristically early start.

this is really not book or movie accurate I just like the characters so like, MAJOR cannon divergence, love y’all. Have mercy on my soul dear reader, for I have not proofread this fic.

Far beyond the bustling coasts of Porthaven and the lush greenery of the folding valley lay the small village of North Bexley. Surrounded by two mountains of admirable size, it stood snugly as if it had always been there, and as far as Agatha Havenglow was concerned, it had.

Miss Havenglow was perhaps one of the most well known inhabitants of this charming Hamlet. Had you gone to the village folks and asked about her, many of them would have told you that she was a strange young girl who would have been unbearably lonely if it wasn’t for her sister, Emily Havenglow.

Some of them, more knowledgeable, might show you around the town and point out the many things she had painted : various hanging signs, storefronts, advertisements and the occasional mural. And If you had asked Mr. Tailor, the town’s baker ( who funnily enough married the village tailor’s eldest daughter Ann) he’d tell you she was “too good for this small town” and that “She ought to leave us for South Bexley”, by which he’d mean that she should leave North Bexley for better, bigger towns and not, as it may seem, the actual town of South Bexley, which has, as of yet, not been located (and nor do I believe it ever will be). He might then point you in the direction of the Havenglow’s home, at the edge of Silverkeep lake more commonly known as North Bexley Orphanage, where our story begins.

On the first day of the month of may, Agatha was getting an uncharacteristically early start to her busy day. She put on the pair of woolen socks Mrs. Havenglow had gifted her for their last birthday and threw her shawl around her shoulders. The dark herringbone floor creaked as she moved to her nightstand and picked up her journal and her charcoal pencil. And, as she had done every morning before, Agatha drew back the green velvet curtains, opened her blinds, sat on the windowsill and started to draw. She drew the camellias and Irises that Her mother loved so much and the arrowwood her sister had cared for, the wrought iron swing that her and Emily bickered over and the wooden one that Mrs. Havenglow had put in next to it in a futile attempt to bring peace to her garden. The small pond that emptied into Silverkeep lake where the children would once go to capture frogs and feed ducks. Everything held a story, a memory and try as she might, she always felt she failed to adequately draw them.

She was hard at work sketching the small tree stump on which she had once twisted her ankle when her door opened and the familiar scent of Emily’s cinnamon basil tea filled her room. “You’re up early today.”

“You’re painfully observant today.”

The girl joined her sister on the windowsill and, with her tea tray in her lap, waited for her twin to finish her drawing. She had learned a long time ago that this was to Agatha what gardening and baking was to her, her way to make sense of the world around her and to safely interact with it, and there was nothing in the world she loved more than watching her draw. After a few minutes, the pencil stopped moving and the handkerchief stopped smudging and there was peace, both in Agatha’s room and mind.

“Are you done?” “Yes.” “Let me see.” She handed her the journal and took one of the warm cups of tea in exchange. “I don’t know how you do it. It’s so…” “So what?” “So alive.” The artist snorted at her sister’s praise and took back her journal, setting it on her dresser a bit harsher than she normally would have. “How was the may dew?” Agatha asked Emily, her voice still rough from sleep.

She was referring to a strange custom the girls of Bexley had been doing for centuries. On the first morning of may, all young maidens would run out to the nearest prairie and dutifully wash their faces with the morning dew. It was a sight to behold, pretty women, all in their white nightgowns laying on the green grass and waiting for the sun to shine on them away from the hungry gaze of men and the pressures of marriage.

“It was intimate, and invigorating.” “Did you go with the other girls?” “Of course! Praying is best experienced in the company of your peers.” “And by praying you mean rolling around in a prairie for half a sunrise?” Agatha mocked. Her sister sneered at her and dangled her legs out the window. The air was crisp and the sun was warm.

“Oh! The bannocks!!” Emily cried out “I thought you had forgotten” “I could never! its tradition.” Agatha laughed at her sister’s earnest response to what she clearly said in jest. Try as she might she could not recall one time where her sister had forgotten a celebration ; be it holiday or name days, she never faulted. The girl handed her a small bun and took hers, raising it towards the sky. “Merry May-Day Aggie” “Merry May-Day lily.” The bread was still warm and smelled of rosemary, lavender and honey. As the bannock touched her mouth, she thought of the village fête tonight and felt a strange sense of trepidation, something that was quite rare in a village where familiarity and predictability were king. “Are you going to say yes tonight?” She asked. “To what?” “To Lawrence, are you going to say yes?” “If he proposes, yes.” Emily stated, sadness burdening her normally sweet voice “There must be something we can do, have you asked Mr. Tailor? he’ll help us, I’m sure.” “He doesn’t have the money. Lawrence is our best solution, our only solution.” There was a moment of silence and Emily braced herself for what she knew her sister would offer. This room had heard this particular argument unfold a myriad of times and for a moment, Emily was saddened that this was probably the last. “We could run.” “Aggie, no.” “You could open an orphanage where you want, Agatha argued, you don’t need it to be in boring old Bexley” “Well I like boring old Bexley, and I love Havenglow cottage, and I won’t see it go to waste on some rich stuffy old man who will only use it in the summer.” “So you’ll marry a rich stuffy old man instead?” “Lawrence is not old.” He wasn't, not particularly

“No he’s just boring.” He was, most definitely “What a wicked thing to say!” Emily chastised. “A wickedly true thing to say. He’s not worthy of you goose.” “Agatha…” the girl softened at the old nickname, “don't start, please.” “If you just moved away to a city, even for a month,” Agatha started, “I’m sure you could see that Bexley cottage is not the be all, end all of your life, and even if you don’t, I'm sure you could find a better, handsomer, RICHER man to take Lawrence’s place.”

The girl was not wrong. Emily was certainly the most coveted maiden in North Bexley. A born homemaker, she could steal any man’s heart with her baking prowess and her angelic singing voice. Although her heart had, as of yet not been moved by anyone.

“We don’t have a month aggie, and who’ll take care of this place? Who will make sure no children are turned away?”

“We haven’t had a child in 5 years Emily.”

“Then it should happen any day now.”

“Oh for the love of god!” Agatha exclaimed, snatching her sister’s hand with her own “Promise me, if there’s a possibility, even a small sliver of a chance you could escape this wretched, pathetic excuse for a…”

“Aggie…” Emily warned

“Marriage, you’ll take it. You’ll try.”

“Aggie, its…”

“Please, for me.”

The girl mulled it over and sighed. Emily could never say no to her sister, being the second born, she always felt like Agatha knew best and she had been shown to be right many times before. The eldest Havenglow seemed to have a sharp sense of intuition and often knew something would happen before it did (be it a stranger entering town, an unknown illness falling upon a villager or an unpredicted visitor at the cottage door). When the girls were children, Emily used to swear that Agatha possessed magic powers, but the girl relayed it to having spent all her life in a predictable and boring small community. After all, she reminded herself, sorcerers were few and far between and she would most probably never meet one in her lifetime, so the idea of her being such a creature was absolutely preposterous.

“Fine, I promise. But if by the time of his proposal I don’t have a better, safer option I will say yes, and I will go through with it. And that’s final.”

Agatha considered arguing further but, feeling the time wasn’t quite right, laid her head on Emily’s shoulder and chipped away at her bannocks.

A heavy silence fell over the room as both of the Havenglow girls ate their breakfast, their linen nightgowns floating in the wind and their feet snuggly kept warm by the impeccable knitwork of the late Mrs. Havenglow.

Hello there, no Howl in this chapter, but lawd he coming. Had to set stuff up :)

#howl's moving castle #howl imagine #howl pendragon #howl jenkins pendragon #howl jenkins

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nelvana · 4 years

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Heyo all!! I figured that I ought to make a little introductory post to pin to my blog here, so peeps who aren’t on browser can still get a hello and an intro to me even if they cannot get to my About Me page.

So, hello! I go by Nelvana (Nel for short), or Lucky, and I use she/her pronouns. I am a Canadian college student, and my timezone is ADT (Atlantic Daylight Time).

I like to chat and meet new people, so feel free to drop in and say hi! I dabble in interest in a fair few fandoms, so if you want to talk about headcanons, ocs, and so on, I’m open for that too!

I write and draw a lot, though I don’t always post my work here. More often than not I just reblog posts here; often stuff from creators, or informative posts, or just shitposts. I don’t really use the queue, so expect dumps of posts whenever I come online and reblog stuff. Unfortunately, I don’t have a tagging system for most of it yet, so it’s kind of a mess. But if you want a type of post tagged for any reason, especially triggers, just let me know and I’ll start using that tag for those posts!

I run a PMD, GtI inspired ask blog, @asking-paradise, and am also the author of a PMD AU fic, Galaxies Above, which you can find on this blog as well (though, its page is also more easily accessible on browser)!

DNI list under the cut.

DNI if you are/identify/support any of the following:

ableist

racist, anti-BLM, all lives matter, xenophobic, antisemitic, nazi, alt-right/white supremacist, pro-Trump

sexist

fatphobic, body shamer

homophobic, transphobic, queerphobic, anti-neopronoun, lgbtq+ - exclusionist

TERF (or whatever they're going by now), gender critical, transmed, truscum

zoophile

pedophile, MAP

proshipper, anti-anti, supporters of incestuous, pedophilic/abusive ships

anti-otherkin

whitewashing

If I break your DNI please let me know so I can undo that. Or just block me. I'm really not looking to get involved in any discourse or debates. Again, if I've made an error you're welcome to politely inform me so I can look to improve.

#nelvana speaks #introduction #introductory post #pinned post #pinned

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xmrnothingx · 8 months

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The Wanderer, Synthia, Astrid Alabaster, The Shapeless One, Carmen Constantinople, Bonefreak, November Yokovich, and Alexander "Death" Scott

While I'm posting OCs, here are some more of mine that I really ought to draw more often. Although Alexander is one of my brother's OCs, we just share the same continuation; not to mention he's also Carmen's husband

#OC #The Wanderer #Synthia #Astrid Alabaster #The Shapeless One #Carmen Constantinople #Bonefreak #November Yokovich #Alexander “Death” Scott #actually drew these a while ago #just didn't feel confident posting them at the time #their designs have changed a bit since I drew them last #and I've never drawn Alexander #first image is The Wanderer's family #second image is Carmen's family #none of them are actually related #but they're family

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84reedsy · 4 years

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An Invitation

Characters/Pairings: Severus/Hermione, Violet Snape (OC) Summary: Severus and Hermione have settled into the quietest life they can following the end of the Second Wizarding World. They own a little business and live in their cottage with their daughter Violet. An invitation for a holiday may stir things up a bit, but who says that has to be a bad thing?

Rating: Mature (Suggestive Themes) Word Count: 2125

“Bloody bird,” Severus mumbled as he tried to straighten his now crinkled daily prophet. His lips curled downward as the owl shook its head and tried to steady itself; the letter had planted itself firmly in a stick of softened butter, “You’d think after all this time the Weasley’s would have invested in a halfway decent messenger by now.” His distaste for the family or at least their expansive brood went back years and years to Bill’s early years at Hogwarts. It was mostly harmless.

Hermione hid her smile by turning back to the stove, stirring the morning’s porridge as she added a flavor changing serum to liven it up a bit. She’d never say it aloud, but she somewhat enjoyed her husband’s jealousy towards her high school sweetheart. Ron had been on Snape’s last nerve from the first day of their first year - being friends with Harry didn’t help his cause. But the few years post-war and post-Hogwarts when she and Ron still dated - he’d clearly detested him the most.

She’d had no idea Severus fancied her at all until the first Order reunion after the breakup. She’d been single all of a month. He’d approached her straight away, which seemed a bit odd at the time. Even more odd was later in the evening when he’d asked her to dance. She sighed happily at the thought of dancing with him. His long legs and smooth movements, his quiet confidence.

“Oh Papa, Errol’s a good bird, just a bit clumsy,” Violet leaned far over the table, having to kneel in her chair as she stroked the greying birds feathers. She offered him a bit of her scone. The bird gently nibbled her fingers, causing her to giggle and her eyes to flash purple. She plucked the letter from the butter, her tiny hands careful as she used her napkin to wipe the mess from the envelope, “See, all’s well, Papa,”

She waved as Errol nearly missed the open window, flying off.

He held out his hand as Violet clammored over the chairs around the table to him. She placed the letter in his waiting palm as she stood on a chair next to him. She craned her neck to see the letter.

“It’s for you,” He said, reading the greeting line, recognizing Molly Weasley’s flowy penmanship. He held the letter behind him as Hermione plucked it from his fingers.

“Oh, how sweet. Molly wants us to come for a holiday. I’d imagine they have all sorts of room in the new burrow with everyone grown and gone. What do you think, Sev? Fancy a drive out into the countryside?” She smirked knowing his thoughts by now. He’d stare off and remind her that apparition was far more convenient than her fossil fuel driven muggle contraption. She’s retort with a defence that it was only mentioned in a cliche’d manner.

“Papa, Papa, Papa, can we go??” Violet now climbed in his lap, her tiny legs with their pointy, jabby knees digging into his thigh as she ascended his tall form, “We ‘aven’t seen Aunt Molly in ages,” She begged, trying not to facetiously pout. Her curly black pigtails bounced as she attempted to contain her squirm of excitement.

His sigh almost sounded annoyed, though both girls knew it was his last line of resistance before he’d give in.

“Will that daft git, Ronald, be there?” He picked his paper back up and shook it to straighten the creases; Violet turned in his lap to read along with him, laying her head back against his chest.

“Doubtful,” Hermione was doing a poor job of hiding her amusement. She placed the bowls on the table, joining them now. She creamed and sugared Violet’s bowl before preparing her own, “He’s travelling with a regional Quidditch team as an alternate. Likely Molly misses the din of people around. That’d be my guess for the invite.” She bit the corner off her toast as his dark eyes peered over the top of his paper to meet hers. Though it was covered by the rest of the Daily Prophet, she knew he held a sour countenance.

“I know you’d rather not be particularly social, but it might be nice to holiday. Just a few days?” She appealed to him with a bit of a compromise from the week long stay Molly had offered.

“Papa, we can get some shrivelfigs! Aunt Molly has that lovely grove in the back. I bet there’s lots of good ingredients we could get for the laboratory!” Violet might have been just a small girl, barely the age of five, but she was clever and intuitive - she knew how to persuade her father in a way that didn’t make him feel taken advantage of, but rather part of the advantageous.

“I suppose there are worse places to take our holiday -” He waited longer than necessary to affirm his participation, “Will the store be properly staffed?” He questioned Hermione, laying his paper down once more. Violet looked back and forth between her parents.

“As if I hadn’t already considered that,” Hermione cocked an eyebrow as she pointed Violet to her seat. She wriggled from her father's lap, but didn’t once take her concentration from the conversation, “We were due for some time away from the apothecary, so I’d already filled any vacancies.”

“Put your napkin over your jumper, little miss,” Severus said just before she was about to blindly scoop a heaping spoonful. She tucked a napkin into her neckline, protecting the green velvet jumper, covering the silvery embroidered ‘V’, “We could use a bit of countryside,”

Hermione knew that was as close to an affirmative answer she’d wrangle from her husband.

“Yaaay!!!” Violet cheered, flinging her spoon in her pumping fists. The porridge on it sailed through the air, landing on her father’s freshly pressed clothing. Luckily his cloak was still hanging by the door, but his trousers and black buttoned coat had a less lucky fate. Violet went wide eyed, covering her gaping mouth with her hand. Hermione’s eyes widened as well, but her hand concealed a smile of amusement more so than a gasp of shock. With Violet being so young and unable to legally practice magical spells, they did a number of things without them. Occasionally they would teach her something or user a bit of magic here and there, but in this moment, Hermione could see that he wanted to whip out his wand and clean the soiled garment, but her eyes warned him not to. He pursed his lips the way he always did that made the corners almost curl upwards.

“I’m sorry, Papa…” Violet seemed apprehensive, worried she might draw scorn. But as always, Severus remained calm with her - Hermione was often amazed at his even temperament when it came to raising their child. She’d witnessed many times where his patience was thin at best and his temper short-fused.

“Violet, you must remember to be aware of yourself and your actions,” He tried brushing away the mess, but the black cloth shown stains all to obviously, “I ought to change again,” His own napkin snapped to the table as he stood. The chair legs scooted against the floor. He glanced back at his daughter whose eyes flashed purple again behind the welled up tears, “I don’t care for this shirt much, anyway,” He did not smile but there was a subtle wink as he excused himself. Hermione wasn’t even sure he really had until the tender smile on her daughter’s face gave him away.

“Finish up and go collect your books, it's almost time for school,” Hermione ushered her daughter to finish breakfast. She finished the last few bites of her own before excusing herself from the table as well.

Severus hadn’t been particularly thrilled with the idea of his child attending a muggle primary school. It took quite a bit of coaxing and outright bribery to win over his agreement.

“Who’d have ever thought that a five-year-old girl would have Severus Snape wrapped around her tiny little pink painted finger?” Hermione teased Severus as she entered their bedroom. He was unbuttoning the sleeves of his shirt, stone faced as ever. Though she teased, she still approached him, starting to unbutton the main division of his coat.

“I could imagine you’re somewhat jealous of that fact. So many men are similarly taken with their wives while you lose out to a toddler.” His sarcasm and satire were always so dry and subtle that a less keen ear wouldn’t have picked up on them. But after all this time, Hermione had learned much about being in the affections of Severus Snape. He was clever and funny, but in his own unique fashion. You had to work to understand him and not react with too much impulse. His rapport was challenging and its what Hermione needed to stay engaged and interested.

They were far more of a pair than either of them (or any one else on Earth for that matter) had imagined.

“I’m not worried about my place in this family, not one bit,” She replied with a confidence that matched his wit, “I’m not easily threatened, darling,” Her words sounded sweet, but they were equally venomous.

“Oh?” He cocked his eyebrow, his eyes darting towards their bedroom door, barely cracked open, “Are you also not easily…” His hand slid behind her neck, snaking up into her hair as he grabbed a handful of her curly mane, “manipulated?” He titled her head back as that small gasp escaped her lips. She had to steady her body by pressing into his. His chest and torso were bare as his shirts hung open.

“If I recall correctly, you respond rather well to being told e x a c t l y what to do,” His voice quieted - he leaned forward, letting his hot breath and lips graze the exposed arc of her neck, “In fact, I bet if I slip my hand down your knickers I’ll find a soaking wet cunt desperate for,” he purposefully stunted his words, his eyes drinking in every feature, every instinctual reaction of her body, “Satisfaction,”

“You think so?” She tried to sound contrary, but she struggled, “Cocky sod, aren’t you…”

A chuckled hummed in his throat; that sound alone could obliviate her knickers in an instant.

“I like it when your feisty,” He released her hair and the two stood toe to toe, breath to breath reveling in their own sexual tension.

“I’m ready!!” Violet’s cheery voice called from down the stairs and Hermione tried to unflush her cheeks.

“Perhaps when you return from dropping Violet off, we could start our own little holiday a bit early,” He suggested, his finger tip tracing the line of her lower lip. She’d grown into such an incredibly attractive and desirable witch of a woman. He couldn’t believe how often he was compelled to touch her.

Hermione smirked, kissing the tip of his finger before suckling it, letting her tongue slowly and lazily swirl around it.

“Perhaps when I get back, Professor Snape might feel like putting a naughty little school girl in her place…” She suggested before kissing his lips softly and retreating from their room to leave him with that thought.

She’d been surprisingly open to being sexually adventurous with him; for them roleplaying wasn’t entirely taboo, but considering he had been her professor, this was maybe a little more so. He redressed in something he often wore as a teacher, imagining the way Hermione still fit marvelously well into her school uniform, though she filled out the sweater slightly more now. She’d fashioned the skirt slightly shorter, the v-neck lower; she played the part of a naughty student well considering how well behaved of a student she’d been...for the most part.

Just as he buttoned up his shirt, Violet burst through the door, her arms wide open for her father. He knelt down without hesitation and accepted her into his own embrace. She was a spectacular child and he loved her deeply, moreso than he’d even imagined.

“Love you, Papa,” She whispered, pulling away slightly.

“And I you, my little flower,” He tapped her forehead with his own then gently nuzzled the tip of his nose to hers. As she ran off again, Hermione stood in the doorway smiling. Severus Snape as a doting, affectionate father (at least in his own way) was not a sight that anyone could have predicted, crystal ball or no.

“You know, the two of you can be nauseatingly sweet sometimes,” She ribbed him a little before following their daughter out of the house.

“Disrespecting the faculty,” He murmured to himself before smiling wickedly, “That’s worth at least one detention, Miss Granger.”

#severus snape #hermione granger #SNAMIONE #Post War AU #snape lives au #snape lives #fan fiction #hpfanfic #harry potter fanfiction

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kahenn · 3 years

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KNOWING YOUR PARTNER WELL CAN POTENTIALLY MAKE WRITING TOGETHER A LOT EASIER. REPOST DO NOT REBLOG !!

NAME: Bunny

PRONOUNS: she/her

PREFERENCE OF COMMUNICATION: discord (most easily reached there), you can IM me but I’m slower because I don’t use the tumblr app.

NAME OF MUSE(s): Miki Fuyuno

RP EXPERIENCE/HOW LONG (MONTHS / YEARS?): Ugh, don’t make me think about it. (15 years probably, but that really is meaningless. 9 years on tumblr tho)

PLATFORMS YOU’VE USED: tumblr, deviantart, and way, way, way, back in the day, quizilla and gaia online lol.

BEST EXPERIENCE: I have literally made some lifelong friends and connections through this weird little hobby and honestly I think that’s pretty cool?

RP PET PEEVES/DEALBREAKERS: Unnavigable themes and too much aesthetic that your posts/blog is inaccessible. I’m not talking nice edits or a bit of small text. I’m talkin formatting that’s all over the place, links that are impossible to find, weird contrast or tiny tiny text that makes things hard to read. It doesn’t even look good and when I have a terrible time navigating your page, it really puts me off from wanting to write in the first place. Purple prose is bad.

A deal breaker is ignoring my OC’s lore. There’s no point in RPing with me if you’re not going to take into account her story. I try to make her meld pretty seamlessly in to the world, without overtly shoehorning her into any canon character’s story lines, so as to not directly step onto canon’s toes. The most you have to acknowledge is her existence, some characters will know her by association or as an acquaintance at most at a base level. Some don’t need to know her at all. Basically, if you’re going to RP with me, you ought to take all of her shit seriously otherwise why are you here?

MUSE PREFERENCES

FLUFF, ANGST OR SMUT: Definitely fluff or smut. Angst has its merits for sure, but I really dislike angst just for the sake of angst. You know, putting our characters through turmoil for no other point than to just make things terrible for them. I like a bit of angst if it’s plot driven and has some sort of resolution, but mainly, rp is an escape and a hobby that I do to unwind and enjoy myself. So I prefer to write things on the happier side! On the topic of smut, I like that to have some plot. I don’t write smut just for the sake of smut. It has to make sense for our character’s prior interactions. It has to be going that way, you know? There has to be some build up and development before it gets to that point.

PLOTS OR MEMES: I have the memory and foresight of a goldfish so even though there are things i think of that make me go “oh my god i really want to write that!!!” I will forget about it until I am randomly reminded of it again. That could be days or months in between lol. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good plotted thread and I love screaming about scenarios of our muses with my partners, but honestly, I really like when a good meme segues into a thread. Just feels natural. Please reply to my asks, lol.

LONG OR SHORT REPLIES: I’m somewhere in between. I like at least a few paragraphs for serious/involved threads. Dash comm, quick back and forths, or silly stuff I really don’t expect more than a few sentences. I can get long and wordy if the thread and mood is right (I am looking disrespectfully at Rowan).

BEST TIME TO WRITE: Time is meaningless, I type shit out when the whim strikes me. I honestly have no pattern of when I write best. Generally I write best when I am not tired and not in pain (I am often these things, haha). Sometimes that’s late morning, afternoon, or late night. Spin the wheel, see where it lands! Can’t sayI get any words out early morning though.

ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE(S): Miki is my brain child so probably. I’m not a giant tsundere, nor am I 5′0″ tall and blonde but...I am also fond of plants/nature/gardening and the like. Certainly not to the extent Miki takes it. I kind of like domestic hobbies (baking/cooking, knitting, drawing) while Miki is less inclined to those. We like pink (but I take that one to the extreme).

I stole this, now you should steal it also. Stealing is ok.

#posting this late i will probably reblog in the morning too lol

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lauras-happy-place · 4 years

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I decided to share some of my MLP art works. I found my old art folder and thought this ought to be fun :)

1. This is my OC, Comet and I drew her in G1 style

2. This next one I drew as a free request for a friend

3. This must be one of my erliest art trades I did

4. This was a commission I really like still

5.This is a screencap redraw of Fluttershy

6. I drew Sunset as a mermaid once

7. My first Luna fanart

8. I won a competition with this one!

9. My ponysone drawing (redraw of my very first digiart)

10. A YCH commission for 5 bucks I drew

11. And I left my favorite one for last!

This was fun! If you’d be interested to see my art more often, I’d love to post about them! I’ve tons of sketches, commissions and fanart I’ve yet to share with you all ^-^

#my art #mlp #my little pony #mlp fanart #my little pony fanart #mlp fim #my little pony friendship is magic #art dump #art #Laura’s art

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erudite-rebel · 4 years

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Title: Forced Offerings Summary: The recounts of Bartholomew Oobleck regarding an incident which took the lives of his parents when he was a child. Characters: Bartholomew Oobleck, Qrow Branwen, OC’s Notes: I’m posting a bit of writing I did. A few people who follow will be familiar with my Magnus Archives AU, or at the very least have seen me spam about it and draw art for the (3) other people who I know that listen to the podcast. I’m actually very proud of this little bit of writing, though I understand not everyone would want to read it. I’m trying to get myself back into properly writing, and though this is fanfic I think getting it out there and maybe receiving feedback could help?

It’s a horror story. One I kind of want to adapt, honestly, to a Creepypasta to submit to NoSleep, but for now it can remain like this.

Warnings for body horror, gore, and guts.

“There has to be some sort of rational explanation for-”

“For someone wearing someone else’s skin like a meat suit?” Qrow’s words were calm. Somehow he was always calm. Even after all of this.

Barty leaned against the chair, hands gripping the back of it until it was twisted and pressed against the table. He had dark bags under his eyes and was unsure of the last time he’d had a proper sleep. Every piece of him felt tired, from toes to fingertips, and he knew if he laid down there would be nothing to gain for it. Just wakefulness, watching, waiting.

“I always thought I wanted it to be real, Qrow,” he said. “All my life. Ever since the wanting to know dug its claws into my head for the first time. Even when we both should have run away after the incident. I- but now I’m here. And I really do know now, even if there’s so much more that I don’t. Hidden. Layers waiting for me to scrape away and dig down into them.”

When he looked back up Qrow’s face was near unreadable, as it always was. As though his old friend had at some point become a spy. “You can still get out, Bart. Quit. Forget.”

Barty laughed weakly. “You don’t… you don’t think I tried? I attempted to write up a letter of resignation, and it was as though the keys had transformed, like staring at some unknown machine as the cursor blinked. So I took up a pen, determined to write it, and I forgot how to write. And when I saw Ozpin I… the words. They wouldn’t be spoken. I don’t think I can quit.”

He sagged then and pulled out his chair, sitting heavily down. His head was laid in his arms, trying to think it through, but what was there to think of? To understand? He was trapped. A group of beings wearing skin suits had attempted to break into the archives. He’d looked at one of them wearing the face of a person he’d taken a statement from. Veronica Chase of Leeds.

“Everything I remembered pointed to… to the world being a very dark place, but I think I. I was too young to understand just how horrific.”

Cool fingers curled around his. Barty squeezed them on reflex, trying to convince himself not to do anything so childish as cry. There was so much going on. Too much going on. And he knew Ozpin, Qrow, perhaps some of the other assistants, he knew they knew more. And those secrets, that untold knowledge, burned like a hunger in him as much as recording statements had become. A part of him, one he didn’t yet know how loud it truly was, wanted to devour that knowledge.

Qrow’s voice broke into his thoughts. “...Have you ever spoken about it?”

Barty considered the question a moment before he lifted his head. Qrow was no longer unreadable. He was sad. Maybe angry as well.

“I haven’t.” He’d alluded to things to Qrow, when they were young and just a few stupid, desperate children, but he’d never told the full story. Perhaps not even to the police.

Qrow nodded to the tape recorder. “Maybe now’s the time.”

“You mean give a statement?” He sounded incredulous, as though that was the last thing he ought to be doing.

The other man shrugged, but thin fingers curled a little tighter. The gesture was soothing. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Barty sat up straighter, looking at the recorder waiting for him to merely press record. It called to him. With a sigh he picked up his glasses and placed them on his face, straightening his back. Qrow’s hands retreated over the table to his lap, and the other man was silent as he slouched and stared at Barty.

The record button depressed with a satisfying click, and the gears within ground softly with their age. The sound tingled along his spine like light, tickling fingers.

“Statement of Bartholomew Oobleck, regarding a series of deaths at Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities in 1996. Statement taken on November 22nd, 2020. Audio recording by Bartholomew Oobleck, Head Archivist of the Beacon Institute, London.” He paused a moment, as memories returned, like he’d merely opened a door. He remembered being a young and curious boy, and the scent of dust and paper and age in the museum’s storage. It was almost as if he were there, and he knew he’d be able to tell the story down to the deepest detail, and when he began to talk he wasn’t entirely sure who he was talking to - Qrow, the tape, or himself.

“Statement begins.”

I don’t suppose there are many people who would remember the Eastwyke Museum of Artefacts and Antiquities anymore. Or if they do, they might pretend not to. The galleries had originated from the private collection of Duke Francis Egerton, who had been the Duke of Eastwyke for perhaps a decade in the eighteen hundreds and primarily concerned himself with gathering rare and unusual antiquities. In the 1950’s several of his descendants saw fit to open it to the public, perhaps to use it to make a little money or invest. Despite that it didn’t see tourism. The patrons were mainly students from Oxford, or travelling academics. Anthropologists, archaeologists, Egyptologists… even had an entomologist come in weekly to just sit in the insect room and take it all in. No, not many people would remember it, but it was my childhood.

My parents, Pearl and Mathis Oobleck, were archaeologists. They were often abroad with work and digs. Sometimes I went with them, sometimes I stayed at home with my grandfather Tennyson, who had a little cottage on the grounds when he worked as curator. When he retired the mantle passed to my father and they were home a little more, unless going off to expand the collection. It was… a happy enough childhood. Maybe lonely sometimes, but I had an entire world of secret knowledge to explore, a library to devour and help curb my hyperactivity. I was content prowling those halls, which felt more like home to me than our cottage.

When I was nine the proprietors purchased a considerable number of artifacts from a private auction, something to do with a portion of Duke Egerton’s original collection that had made it into the hands of a branch of the royal family they’d had a rivalry with. The purchase caused quite a stir. All sorts of wild stories were told… not the least of which was that many of the artifacts there were once bought from grave robbers. I never heard the truth of it, though I suspect it was. Most private collections are just that. Stolen.

I was forbidden to go near the newest items. While it was next to impossible to keep me out of the storage rooms, I had learned early not to touch anything, and was not allowed in the room where they were held without an accompaniment to make sure I kept my hands well off. I remember standing in the middle of the room, hands stuck firm under my arms to resist the temptation to touch the pottery or old weapons. I must have looked like I had seen Father Christmas as I turned every which way trying to get a peek at it. I was a horrible annoyance, I suspect.

One part of the lot, though, I remember very well. It had been a beautifully preserved set of canopic jars. I recall being told they were from the eighteenth dynasty. They were made of black stone, each head carved with exquisite detail, the polish hanging on despite the millenia since. All over the surface of the jar were carved hieroglyphs, uncharacteristic of the usual designs. Several people believed the jars to be fake, as the material was wrong for the time, and the glyphs were unusual, but carbon dating seemed to suggest it was an immutable fact. I think there was a lot of discussion whether to open the jar and study the remains inside.

The largest advocate for their authenticity was Dr. Herbert Renshaw, a loud and corpulent man. I never knew him well. He was the sort of man who didn’t have patience for even a docile child, let alone a hyperactive boy with a million questions. He usually didn’t want me about so I didn’t hear much of them until he’d found me one day loitering near the entrance of the archive where they were being kept and he asked if I would like to come inside.

I remember finding that odd, chiefly because I knew he didn’t care for me, but also because of the look in his eyes. I was never much good at deciphering human emotions when I was younger, but even then I thought there was something of a gleam to them. I readily agreed, though, and darted inside the moment I was allowed to.

We didn’t have much in the way of conversation. He talked at length about the glyphs carved into the rock, and how they’d seemed to be in several different languages. His speech had been rapid, I remember, and I’d had difficulty following along. All the while I’d been edging closer to them, feeling captivated by the staring eyes of the figureheads atop the jars. I felt as though they were looking back at me, urging me in.

I hadn’t even been aware of reaching for them when Dr. Renshaw’s hand slapped down hard over my own, knocking it away. Knuckles stinging, I’d turned and fled as he glared. But even now I’m not sure if I ran from the slap, the look in his eyes, or the fact that there had seemed to be radiant, physical heat from those jars.

For the next few days I was kept busy with my homeschooling and hardly got a chance to go into the museum beyond writing a maths test in my mother's office. Whenever I was in, though, I happened to see Dr. Renshaw. Normally he was a neat and tidy sort of man, with expensive suits and his moustache waxed within an inch of its life, yet… it seemed as though he was keeping less care of himself. Hair unbrushed, buttons undone, bowtie lank or missing. And as he walked he’d mutter to himself and turn a wild sort of gaze on a person, something that made you feel less like a person and more like an object.

When I asked my mother about it she dismissed it as him being overworked and told me to concentrate harder on my studies. I tried, but the memory of the way he walked and stared wouldn’t be banished from my mind.

It was on a Monday that it truly started. I had left one of my science textbooks in my mother’s office and needed it for that day’s lesson, but it was on Monday’s the museum was closed, so I took my father’s key and let myself in the back entrance. I was hardly afraid. I knew these halls like the back of my hand.

As I was passing through one of the archives - it had been stuffy and hot with summer, without climate control - I heard an odd sound. A sort of whimpering coming from further in the dark. At first I rooted in place, wondering if I should run and get my father, too afraid to call out. When the sound came again I crept through the shelves, terrified of what I might find, when I came upon one of the librarians, Maggie Law. I’d always liked her. She let me read what I like and sometimes would sneak me toffee’s or other sweets. I’m certain she had a kind, round face, but now all I can remember is how she’d looked there in the shadows. Yellowing skin and eyes, soaked with sweat, hands clutched over her side. I remember her crying, her voice so broken and small as she said ‘he pulled it from me, he pulled it from me.’

I ran then, straight for my parents. It had taken them a good five minutes to get me to talk enough sense to call an ambulance. I remember watching from my window as she was taken away, staring through old warped glass at the blue lights.

I also remember something else, though. Dr. Renshaw. His face looking out from a window at the same scene. Even though I couldn’t see him clearly, my vision what it was, I felt sick just to look at him. I felt dread.

More attacks followed. The following day the groundskeeper, Kevin Rutherford, was found dead, torch in hand. I overheard the police telling my parents he seemed like he must have had a heart attack while patrolling the grounds that night. The day after that an archaeologist named Judith Churchill was found in a state of shock in the parking lot, having finished up late that night.

The museum closed. Everyone by that point was terrified, and the police were doing regular patrols. I was thirsty to know what was happening but my parents refused to tell me, so I’d taken to listening in on the telephone whenever someone rang. I eavesdropped on one such call and learned that Maggie Law had died. Hepatic encephalopathy, they’d said. I remember struggling an ancient medical textbook down from a shelf just to look it up. It’s a condition caused by acute liver failure.

I was in a right state after that. My parents were making sure to keep the doors locked. I remember my mother tucked me in and told me not to worry. I try to always remember that.

It was around ten pm that a knock came at the door. Unable to sleep I’d made a little tent of a blanket and was reading by torchlight when I heard it. Curious who it could be at that hour with so much going on, I crept from my bed to go to the stairs to watch the front hall. I thought perhaps it might be a policeman, that there’d be some news.

It was my father who answered the door. On the threshold stood Dr. Renshaw, and he looked haggard. Deep bags below his fever-bright eyes, cheeks almost sunken, hair a mess. I remember he had a hand tucked into his jacket.

My father invited him in, of course. There’d been concern in his voice as he shut the door and warned him he shouldn’t be out so late with such strangeness going on.

I remember the door swinging shut. I remember Dr. Renshaw pulling one of the jars from his jacket and noticing the eyes of Qebehsenuf, the falcon, somehow staring out from its black and smooth surface. And then Renshaw reached for my father.

Words do not feel as though they can describe. I watched as his hand seemed to sink through clothes and skin and flesh without a drop of blood. I remember my father’s face going stark white as my mother asked what was going on. And then Renshaw pulled his hand back.

It was like nothing I had yet seen. Pink, almost purplish, tubes were gripped in Renshaw’s hand. My father screamed then, falling to his knees, watching as this mass was pulled from him. There was too much even for Renshaw to hold and it slipped to the ground with a wet splat, and seemed to move like a languid snake.

My father fell over then, as my mother screamed hysterically. All I remember clearly was Renshaw looking up at me as he held my father's intestines like fleshy ropes, letting them drag on the ground and slap his clothing. Our eyes met. They were like I had never seen before. There was something mad there, but also elation or euphoria I couldn’t understand.

I ran then, bolting for my parent's room. I remember crawling under their bed and curling up beneath the headboard, hands over my ears as I listened to my mother scream before it just… ended. I waited to hear boots upon the stairs, for Renshaw to come and stick his hand into me, but he never came. All I heard was the door swing shut.

I didn’t leave until morning when the police arrived. The maid found my parents, and the police found me. Had had to drag me from under the bed, in fact. They didn’t let me see their bodies, and the funeral was closed casket. I told the police who I’d seen but Renshaw had disappeared along with those canopic jars. Jars I worry that had gotten full on what was stolen from his coworkers.

I went to go live with my grandfather after that. There was a lot of therapy. I was pushed harder than ever into my schoolwork, and I treated it like a drug to quiet my mind. Eventually I think I half convinced myself it was a hallucination by the time I went to high school. Now I know better.

Statement ends.

#rwby fanfic #bartholomew oobleck #qrow branwen #rwby oobleck #rwby qrow #horror fanfic #tma au #freeform; my writing #is anything really real anymore?; tma au

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