#creepy finds
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Reddit user u/toeturn recently posted to the r/mildyinteresting subreddit about having discovered a shelf in their new home was actually an upside down Ouija board.
Did the original homemakers have a great sense of humour or are we about to watch a horror movie unfold?
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Kinetica Art Fair, 2012, featuring 'Pony' by Tim Lewis (video source)
edit: i feel the need to specify that this is a robot for everyone who's confused 😭
#kinetica art fair#kinetic art#tim lewis#art#pony#robotics#robot#creepy#weirdcore#weird#uncanny#strange#strangecore#oddcore#oddities#web finds#internet archive#curators on tumblr#sculpture#sculptural#kinetic sculpture#artist
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The biggest caterpillar I've ever seen. He crossed the whole road with my supervision. Look at that color!!
Polyphemus moth caterpillar.
Found in NY:)
#bugs#insects#nature#insect identification#caterpillar#cute animals#bug facts#buglr#cool finds#natuerlover#cool bugs#bug lover#photography#moth post#creepy crawlies#bug art#mushrooms#mushroom identification#mushroom hunting#moss#butterflies
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Danny has been reincarnated.
Which was an odd thing to realize, it wasn't even a slow one he just... snapped into it one day. One moment he was staring at a wall out of boredom the next, well, he was staring for an entirely different reason.
It was a task for his now young -he thinks around three years old?- mind to work its way through the memories, but it wasn't like he had much else to do honestly. So, what does he know?
His name is Danny, like, his actual name and not just a moniker. He was once a halfa and he already knows he's going to be missing invisibility and intangibility. He, well, died. For like, a second time which actually makes sense because reincarnation-
Anyways.
He was a clone of two people from this thing called the Justice League which, weird name but probably some government or activist group. Wonder Woman and Superman. Which were pretty weird names to name your kids but eh.
He doesn't really remember much besides that from this life, or the one from before but he's an adult! He'll figure things out once he gets out of this containment tube thing.
Did he mention he was in a test tube? He's a tube baby now. He thinks? Or maybe it's more like he's being contained.
Whatever.
So he breaks out. Thank you apparent superstrength that he has no idea why he has but he's not going to complain! He then wandered around all of the other test tubes, able to remember just enough of English to see that yea, they're dead.
He probably was too, before he had memories zapped into him. Or a vegetable.
He then finds this really big container, checks it out, then opens it because the clone inside isn't dead!
'Project Match' it said. He'll just call him Match.
Was he thanked for helping him? Nope. You would think that he would be thanked or at least somewhat respected for saving this guy but nope!
He was, quite literally, held up by his leg and dangled in the air. Who dangles a three-year-old?! Well, he was technically and adult but still! The next few things were a blur but after pulling off the old Fenton charm he found him and Match outside as he tried to stop him from attacking random people.
Luckily the charms and privilege of the youngest (he's assuming he's the youngest, because he's physically three) was more than enough to get through to him. Sure, the guy couldn't form words, really aggressive for literally no reason, really weird but also absolutely cool looking eyes. But he worked around the first issue by developing their own personal language from like grunts and stuff, the second he once again used his youngest privilege to boss him around and the third a pair of sunglasses easily fixed.
He just had to steer Match clear of those random S crest mark thingies. Which was a weird thing to hate but hey, he's not there to judge.
#dc x dp#dp x dc#dpxdc#dcxdp#dp x dc crossover#dc x dp crossover#Danny is a clone of Wonder Woman and Superman#He wasn't perfect so he got put up#Through the use of bullshit youngest privileges Danny can boss around and somewhat pacify Match#You know how the Batfam made their own language in those Cryptid/Creepy/Isolated Batfam fics?#Yea that but between Danny and Match#This is obviously before Superboy freed Match but this is also after Superboy was freed#Danny has zero clue who Wonder Woman or Superman is or the Justice League#Lex Luthor is a bit perplexed over two clones missing when he finds out but doesn't care too much since they were both failed clones#And no problem arouse regarding the two of them#He's more so worried about who got passed his security#Nobody besides Lex (because as mentioned above) knows about them#Yet
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#flickr#flickr gems#atmosphere#photography#flickr finds#buildings#urban exploration#dark aesthetic#dark vibes#dark flickr#gothic#goth aesthetic#abandoned house#satan#satanism#hail satan#black metal#urban photography#lo fi photography#old web#horror movies#make witch house great again#creepy
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Hey. Shakes you by the shoulders. DCxDP where Eobard Thawne is Danny’s cool distant “uncle” that he never sees but always sends in the coolest gifts for the holidays.
~
Danny had grown used to seeing people injured at a surprisingly young age.
He wasn’t injured on the regular, or witness to some sort of extraordinary amount of violence; his parents’ lab was just… very volatile, and they were unprofessionally lax on safety measures on the best of days.
As such, when he saw an unconscious, incredibly injured man wearing some sort of superhero suit in their backyard in the early hours of the morning (he had gotten up to get a glass of water when he heard a thump outside), he didn’t panic, as any young child should have in his situation.
No. Instead, Danny dragged the man inside (with considerable difficulty; despite how thin he was, he was heavy), treated his wounds as best he could (it’s difficult for a child younger than 10 to do stitches, you understand), put a blanket over the man, and went back to bed.
After losing a fight to the Flash and passing out in a random suburban lawn, the last thing Eobard was expecting to wake up to was a small child sitting on the floor in front of him, noisily eating a bowl of cereal.
(He had thought, maybe he would have been found by the Flash and brought to some Justice League holding cell. Or, found by a civilian, and brought to the police. Perhaps, in his feverish state, he had remembered the prison he ended up in from his time, with their brands and chemicals and torturous therapies.)
For some unknown reason, this child had found him, not recognized him as the monster he is (perhaps due to the boy’s age), and helped him—even if his healing factor would have fixed him eventually, having all his parts in the right order certainly sped up the process.
Usually he wouldn’t care for civilians. He’d killed enough that he’d lost count what felt like an eternity ago—and yet, somehow, he felt indebted to this boy. This boy, who had helped him so selflessly, who was so entirely clueless to the evil right in front of him.
This boy, who was all alone in an empty house, whose sister was away, whose parents had gone on a trip and left him behind.
(It didn’t matter the explanation the boy gave for it, Eobard’s mind whispered to itself regardless. Kin. Like calling to like.)
And so, he worked hard to free himself from this debt he had incurred.
He traveled through time, working his way into the family whilst posing as a distant relative. It was remarkably easy; the Fentons didn’t have an incredible memory of their relatives; all he had to do was forge a few papers and mention a few people and he was now “Uncle Eo”.
It was, however, taxing on the mind. These people were absurdly friendly, not to mention talkative. The effort had become a multi-year operation, popping in every now and then for large family gatherings and home visits.
It felt… nice, to be wanted for once. To be noticed in his absence for more than just his status.
To be liked.
He made sure to send the boy a gift on the right holidays, as well as on his birthdays. With his skillset, it wasn’t too difficult to follow him around and see what he liked and wanted. It also wasn’t difficult to spy in when he opened them, to ensure that he had done an acceptable job.
Of course, he couldn’t let this sort of thing cut into his time spent fighting the Flash, so he wasn’t too present. The last thing he wanted was to drag trouble into the boy’s life from his presence.
But then, it happened.
He found out that this boy, and the one known in his time as Phantom, were one and the same.
It was, as a historian, thrilling.
It was, as a villain, horrifying.
In all his travels, he had never intended to involve himself with that mysterious being which shadowed the Justice League. That ghost with the power, in some timelines, to bring about the end of all things.
Of course, he was also capable of doing that, but it isn’t exactly fun to meet someone who’s powers are a match for your own.
Especially if you couldn’t find it in yourself to end him, should he make himself your enemy.
Still, he had a debt to repay, and a boy to look after.
He delivered things to the boy’s room to help him; tactical gloves, a lightweight protective suit, weapons and equipment. All uncredited, since the boy seemed to value the idea of a secret identity.
He took it upon himself to shift the odds in his favor a few times, even; making faster-than-light adjustments to the boy and his combatants during fights to shift the odds in his favor.
Somewhere along the years, he had formed some sort of odd affection for the boy, if he was capable of doing so at all.
And so, when that ghost-boy sought his Uncle Eo out all the way in Central City, carved open and scarred, a distant look in his eyes, he took him in without a second thought.
He would protect this boy, who once had protected him.
#dcxdp#dpxdc#dcxdp crossover#yeah I know Eo probably comes off as creepy and that’s because he is. sorry#he does genuinely care! he’s just actually unwell and has an unnerving way of showing it#this is what affection looks like to him. extreme stalking followed up by kindness related to said stalking#the flash finding out eo has essentially domesticated himself by caring for a child: hey. what#‘very happy you’re doing this! but. um. what’#I think eobard would find out about Dani and take it very normally#and not be insane about the genetically altered child who was cast aside for being imperfect#I think he would take that situation very well#flash and eo fighting before an alarm goes off on Eo’s suit and he just goes ‘hey I have to pick up the kid from school.’#‘we can finish this later’ and speeds off while flash malfunctions because HUH WHUH#WHAT FUCKING KID. YOU HAVE A KID?? ITS YOURS???? DID YOU STEAL IT#anyways dani and eobard duo should be called planned obsolescence#idk what danny and eobard duo would be called sorry
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♡♡♡my future child is going to be so so loved♡♡♡
#motherhood#girlhood#i want to be a mom#so much love to give#marie antoinette#gaslight gatekeep girlblog#this is a girlblog#please don't let the creepy guys with breeding kinks find this#just a silly little girl#coquette#lizzy grant#dollette#lana del ray aka lizzy grant#sofia coppola#the virgin suicides#for the girls#thought daughter
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#candles#victorian gothic#whimsigoth#gothic#whimsicore#whimsical#dollette#elegant gothic lolita#goth lolita#white goth#coquette#creepy cute#classic lolita#morute#whimsycore#web finds#lainas circus#archive
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Sketch for this was in my diary for 6 years. That boy was just so sure that America was a fantasy land so for a moment I also believed him ♥
#comic#diary comic#well...actually there are tons of creepy stories about area around this campsite#most of them are real historical things#since if you dig into history at any place in central Europe you find graveyards and battelfields everywhere#autobio
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What happens to this empty place, waiting for my arrival...
Rook in my heart. You can read the monster list here @lustlovehart
[Alt under the cut]
This is the original version but God, I don’t see anything else and I didn’t want others to get hurt watching
Now here I put my thoughts as I drew him:
I think our beautiful creature doesn't really have a human anatomy, his limbs are long and with very little muscle covering. Their bones could click together if it fully manifested. Claws replacing part of the bony fingers and nails. You could feel the long ribs behind that thick sack
He doesn’t need beyond his big and cool gothic sack to cover his abnormal appearance, after all the is no more shadows and fog for everyone’s eyes
The darkness consumes you from the pores, in each puff of lungs, you could become one with him and he would be delighted
I feel that it is detached from all worldly, but I would keep a thing or two of those who most appreciate... like the feathers of Neige or a brooch of Vil
#You’re right that it’s not scary at first#but they should be#It would be fun if I was in the body of hunters with an rando identity and no one has discovered it yet. Silly but fun#The boggie man is not very known in my culture so I could not find stories or illustrations about it#only film references that only makes me think of that entity that hides in the cracks of the walls#Also imagine him with a very very dead color of skin and strives to make colors for his beloved reader feel comfortable#He is in my creepy top since not only his disturbing appearance very different from the other guys#I have no idea what he will be thinking#twst fanart#rook hunt#rook hunt x reader#twisted wonderland rook#twisted wonderland#twst#twisted wonderland x reader#twst headcanons#art#honneydraws ⊹⃬۫🍜̸᩠໋࣪꣹۫
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people saying that ford didn’t appreciate fiddlefords gifts is lowkey crazy to me. first of all HE LOVED THAT AXOLOTL. HE SET IT FREE BECAUSR OF BILL. LIKE WHAT WAS HE SUPPOSED TO DO. and he treasured those gloves so much like cmon. and the breaking of the snow globe was an accident I mean cmon he was startled by bill and he dropped it. do you seriously think he meant to do that on purpose.
#like guys I don’t want to be mean but some of you are kind of dense or your just trying to find reasons to hate ford#ok I can’t defend the squash thing that well but I kind of understand where he’s coming from that thing is kind of creepy#BUT FHAT WAS ONE TIME. ONE TIME#time to shut up Bella#gravity falls#ford pines#fiddleford mcgucket#fiddauthor
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Legend wakes up in an uncomfortable wooden box, his memories hazy– he sees hyrule looking over him
"w–" He feels as if his throat is made out of sandpaper and strains to get a sentence out "what did you do"
Hyrule smiles "I woke you up!"
#“It was so loney after our quest I almost lost it!”#“I missed everyone so much”#“I couldnt find any time travel items so I did the next best thing!”#kinda scuffed but I just need to get this put of my head dndjdhshdhdj#going for that creepy-deer-episode-from-adventure-time vibe#linked universe#lu legend#lu hyrule#no one is having a good time here#my art#necromancer hyrule
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It is no hardship, Emmrich tells himself, to wear his face. It is his, after all. The one he was born with, the one that grew and shifted under his own patient gaze, seen in puddles, in mirrors, in the glass of a carriage window as he smoothed down his hair with the flat of his palm. A face he had stared at for far too long that first time he shaved, and again a few years later when he invited that very pretty boy out for a promenade and wanted, with all the force of a young man’s vanity, to be just as pretty himself—no hair astray, the kohl at his lower lids an almost imperceptible shadow, the perfume at his neck a whisper of carelessness, though in truth, nothing had ever been more deliberate.
For a decade now, they have called him distinguished. Before that, they called him handsome. He knows his face, likes his face. Its summoning should be no trouble at all; especially now, especially like this, stripped down to something more elemental, all ivory angles and nothing more. But Rook is uneasy. She does not say so—she is all sorry, shit, don’t mind me, fuck, fuck, I’ll get used to it, I’ll get used to it—but she is not made for the sight of bone in the dark when she wakes abruptly. He has had years to come to terms with the unmaking of his flesh. She has not.
So he does not miss his face, not really. But Rook does. And for Rook, he will pretend.
No, he tells himself again, he does not mind. He does not.
Lichdom, as he had once explained to her, sanded down most of his senses. Blunted them, rubbed them smooth. But in their place, others have surfaced. Senses without names, without proper edges, ones that slip through language like smoke through a cracked door. He cannot smell the perfume she wears, though he knows it is dreadful, some sticky, saccharine thing she bought in Treviso with Lucanis and spilled all over her shirt. But he can see her pleasure when she presses a little figurine into his palm, triumphant and insistent. This one, she affirms, is so much prettier than the first, and most importantly, not haunted.
He watches her giddiness churn inside her, thick and writhing. It is purple, inexplicably. It loops and knots, wriggling sideways, swelling through her veins, a restless thing. It coils, slippery, around her heart before pouring from her mouth when she speaks. When she presses her lips to what passes for his cheek, he thinks he can taste it. Or something like tasting. As if she had chewed it to a pulp, crushed it between her molars, worked it down to something fibrous and wet and pressed it into him, like carrion slipped between teeth, offered as a gift.
He swallows it, slow.
Perhaps this is what purple has always tasted like.
There are other things. Other feelings. They arrive misshapen, crawling over the edges of his thoughts, curious, pestering, impossible to ignore. They perplex him. They amuse him. And sometimes—sometimes—he wishes he felt nothing at all.
Like when she cuts herself, and he watches the blood spill, a slow, indifferent line along the curve of her arm. But it is not blood, not in the dull, medical sense. Not something as pedestrian as iron and salt. It is a ribbon, impossibly red, and he can see the rest of it coiled inside her, packed neatly away, waiting to be tugged. How much could he pull free before she wavers, before her lips lose their color, before the bright, stubborn thing inside her gutters out?
He heals her arm. Does not look at her when he does it. Says nothing of consequence.
But he wants to take that ribbon and wind it around her wrist, knot it, twist it, pull it so tight that it ceases to be a ribbon at all. Flesh yielding to pressure, pressure forcing permanence. A bracelet of skin. A smooth, bloodless seam. A correction.
Rook thanks him. A glance, a nod—already half-gone as she turns toward Rivain. There are things to be done there for her, and he cannot stray from the Necropolis for long. What things, exactly, she does not say, but he knows their shape well enough: dragons, impulse, the peculiar magnetism of disaster. She has always been like this, drawn to the spectacularly unwise with the certainty of a moth misjudging distance.
He can no longer follow.
She will return. He knows this. And yet, if his hands still possessed the capacity for tremor, he suspects they would betray him now.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," she sings, a careless, looping refrain, a child’s chant repurposed for a woman who has never quite learned to tread lightly. She chatters as she moves; this and that, something or other, a bad decision or three. She shows him rings, delicate and stolen, lifted from a dragon’s hoard, then tells him of a strange mug found in the same place and promptly lost to someone forgettable in a game of cards.
"Look, look," she says, because excitement makes her redundant. "I kept these for you."
The rings slide onto his fingers—bandaged, skeletal, indifferent to the distinction. He flexes them. Smiles, because each one carries an emerald, and green has always pleased him.
"I was meaning to ask you," Rook says. She is still holding his hand, turning it gently in her own, left, right, right, left, as though testing whether it is truly there. "You are smiling now."
"I am."
"Don’t interrupt me."
"My deepest apologies."
"It was a joke," she says, but absently, without weight. Then, again, softer: "You are smiling now. But is it real? Or do I see a smile only because I expect to? Because I believe it should be there?"
"It is quite real," he reassures her, lifting his free hand, brushing two fingers against her cheek. "The glamour does not fabricate emotions. It is a projection, not an invention. A polished pane of glass through which I am seen, rather than a mask obscuring what lies beneath. It filters nothing. It simply allows you to perceive what is still there, as it was."
She exhales. He watches it unfurl from her mouth, a slip of breath that curls, dissipates, wrapped in green. Relief, perhaps.
"Good," she murmurs. "That is good."
There are things he misses more than others. Some he had not expected to mourn, believing that lichdom would cauterize the want before it could take shape. And perhaps it would have, if not for Rook. But she exists, unavoidably, and so the loss takes shape, outlines itself, defines itself against the hollow places she touches.
The intimacy of the body: its mechanics, its heat, its crude and glorious simplicity. He misses the way skin clings, damp and sticky, the tack of sweat drying between them. The way lips grow chapped from too much kissing, saliva sapped away until the skin cracks, until the next kiss stings. He misses the raw and graceless rhythm of it, the press of her thighs around him, the slow loss of self in the churn of it all. He misses the way he could press his palm to her stomach, still sheathed within her, and feel himself there, caged by her.
And afterward, in the languid sprawl of spent nerves and loose limbs, the way his mind would wander, taking him by the hand, showing him its little fantasies, its secreted-away indulgences—let us get married, Rook, I will buy you so much gold, let’s get married, yes, and then let’s have a child, but not immediately, not at once, let’s linger here a while, let’s lose ourselves in this, let’s glut ourselves on one another until we are utterly ruined by it, and then, yes, then, we will have that little thing.
Now, he feels her differently. Not through skin but through something more fundamental, a closeness that eclipses anything flesh ever allowed. It is fuller, sharper, deeper than anything he could have imagined.
But it is not the same.
And he does not yet know if he prefers it.
Time, as always, will decide.
Pleasure has not abandoned him. It has only changed its nature, its source, its means of arrival. Now, it exists solely through her. He sees, now, how men dissolve into drink, into smoke, into whatever tincture delivers them to sensation. The body remembers its peaks; the body conspires to reach them again.
"Will you come for me, darling girl?" he murmurs against her ear, his fingers curling inside her as they have done so many times before—when his hands were warm, when they ceased to be.
And she does what she always does: she writhes, she gasps, she laughs, she moves against him with the helpless, thoughtless grace of something yielding to gravity. Her hips chase the friction, her mouth parts, her breath hitches, her lashes lower, heavy with pleasure. And he—he is there inside her, feeling it as she feels it, tasting it in a way that has nothing to do with taste, swallowing it down, letting it course through him. It is vast. It is staggering. Pleasure enough for two, for more than two, enough to fill the space where he no longer exists.
Afterward, she is breathless, boneless, staring up at the ceiling and laughing that strange, impossible laugh. He no longer tries to make sense of it. Some things cannot be translated. She has a laugh for anger, a laugh for excitement, a laugh for surprise. He thinks he knows this one well enough by now, the one that trickles out of her in the aftermath.
A trick, an echo, the imitation of a thing once real. He kisses her where he would have kissed her once—her mouth, the sharp ridge of her collarbone, the small curve of her breast, except now there is no heat, no wet drag of a tongue, no parted lips. Only the careful architecture of a spell, a memory sculpted into sensation, something just close enough to pass for real. He trails lower, following the old pathways, the ones his hands remember even if they are no longer the same.
She sighs. Again. Again. Another time.
He lingers where she yields the most, where she is all pulse and warmth, where her thighs, slick and trembling, part for him before he even touches her. Where breath quickens and thought slips away. And through it, he drinks. Draws from her as he always does, as he must, in ways he does not fully understand, or perhaps does, but has decided against understanding. He takes until she is weightless, drifting, until her voice emerges in that low, drowsy enough, enough, until she exhales, unconscious of herself, shifting, turning into him, her cheek settling against his shoulder, her body already gone to sleep.
And he wonders—if he did not stop, could he empty her?
What is it that they share, exactly? What does she give? What does he take? Is it taking at all? Perhaps she is feeding from him just as he feeds from her.
He could ask. He could go looking for the answer. It is what he has done his entire life.
But he does not. Because the answer, whatever it may be, does not matter. Because, at his core, he knows this much to be true:
He is an empty thing now.
And all empty things must be filled.
It is a dreadful experience, watching her get hurt. Dreadful in its predictability, in the casual inevitability of it. Rook, as he has come to understand, is the sort of person who leaps from a cliff first and wonders, mid-air, whether there was perhaps a gentler way down.
He saw it in Hossberg—how she, in some fit of blind fury over a slight he can no longer remember, kicked a blight boil with all the grace of a petulant child, only for the thing to rupture, spraying its filth over her boots, her legs, her hands, her face. Later, when he spat out his anger—you could have infected yourself, and then what? Where would the Veilguard be without their leader?—she had, without hesitation, lifted her middle finger and held it aloft, like a banner, like a flag planted firmly into the dirt, a gesture so profoundly Rook that it settled the argument before it could begin.
She returns from Rivain with a sprained wrist and, predictably, does not acknowledge it until he gestures toward it, a quiet inquiry rather than an accusation.
So he buys her things. Things with weight, with shimmer, with the ability to distract. A bottle of wine she favors, a dress the precise shade of blue that once made her pause in front of a shop window, jewelry that catches light and throws it back in a thousand fractured directions. Loud things, bright things, expensive things. The kind of things a magpie would die over. Because Rook—misnamed, mislabeled—is no rook at all, no solemn, shrewd thing perching in the rafters. She is a magpie, ever in pursuit of the next gleaming fragment, the brightest piece of a broken world. That is why she is away, isn’t it? Always away. Always chasing.
But Nevarra has more gold than the Rivaini coast.
He wants to say—won’t you stay? Won’t you, at last, stay longer? But there is something perilous in the asking. The wrong phrasing, the wrong weight to his voice, and she will fold up like a map, unreadable, distant, already turning toward the door.
She lifts a necklace, lets it spill through her fingers, a thin chain pooling in her palm. "Ooooh," she hums. "What’s the occasion?"
"I have missed you terribly," he says. "You were away too long."
"I missed you too."
"Then stay. My townhouse is yours, of course. It is in the heart of the city—"
"But you won’t be there," she interrupts, without sharpness, without accusation. A simple statement of fact. "You’ll be in the Necropolis."
"Then stay with me in the Necropolis," he says, more softly.
She looks at him. Long enough for him to grow aware of the silence. Long enough for him to think he ought to say something more, to fill the space with some innocuous remark, something to break the weight of it—a comment on the weather, the slow drip of rain against the windowpanes, the scent of damp stone, the candlelight shifting across her cheek, the peeling corner of the wallpaper he has been meaning to mend but never does.
Then, at last, in a whisper, as if she is considering each word before releasing it:
"I'm trying."
A breath.
"I'm really, really trying. I love you so much. This frightens me, but I love you, and I'll stay longer, I promise, and you needn’t hide your face, no, no, you can stop hiding it now, but it is so terribly cold here, and I can smell the bones, Emmrich, did you know one can smell bones?"
Senseless, rambling little words, leaving her mouth with no regard for order, no real expectation of being understood. He listens anyway. He nods as if these words, specifically, are the ones he has been waiting to hear. He holds her hands, pressing his fingers lightly over hers, as though reacquainting himself with the shape of them, the bones beneath the skin. And this time—this time—she stays.
He does not move. Does not speak. Instead, he lets the moment settle around him, lets it press in from all sides, cautious and weightless, as if sudden motion might send it scattering. A trick of the mind, surely, nothing more than habit, the vestigial longing of a body that no longer exists. And yet—something, something faint and absurd and wholly impossible—something like warmth uncoils in the vacant spaces of him, and for the first time in too long, he allows himself to believe in the illusion.
And he is happy, so terribly, foolishly happy, until she steps where a step should have been, onto stone that no longer exists, because the Necropolis, fickle and treacherous as ever, decides to shift beneath her. One moment she is there, cursing the cold, flicking dust from her sleeve, and the next she is gone, swallowed into the dark, falling before he can reach for her. Then—impact, the sound of something snapping, something that should not snap.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake," she spits, voice sharp with pain, her frustration seething through clenched teeth. "I hate this fucking place. This miserable, shifting, plague-ridden, necrophiliac fucking mausoleum. This—" she swallows, gasps, rage momentarily overtaken by the white-hot shock of agony, then forces the words out, savage and breathless—"this godsdamned, dusty, corpse-stinking labyrinth of a tomb. Fuck this place. Fuck you for living in it. Fuck this floor for moving. Fuck my fucking leg."
She hisses even as she cries, squeezing her eyes shut as if trying to will the hurt out of her body. He sees, at last, what has happened. A break, and not a clean one: bone slick and white against torn skin, jutting through muscle, her blood already thickening where it pools on the stone.
And then—something strange. A pull, an unraveling, something unwinding before him, leading away. The ribbon again, unspooling, slipping from her, stretching outward, as though guiding him somewhere he does not wish to go. His vision narrows. He follows it. He follows it because he cannot help but follow it.
"Emmrich?" Her voice has changed. The heat is gone, as is the anger. She sounds uncertain now. She sounds concerned. "Emmrich, are you—?"
But he is looking at the ribbon. Watching where it leads. Watching where it ends.
And he would weep if he could.
He has spent his life in a state of want, always reaching, always grasping, always aching to be something necessary to someone. And now—now, at last—he has what he has longed for. Rook, quick and wild and untouchable. Rook, who was born lovely and careless and beautiful, who could have wrapped herself around anyone she pleased but chose, instead, him—old and grey, and then, simply, bone. Rook, with her hands always outstretched, her eyes always searching, who once told him, so offhandedly he almost believed she didn’t mean it, that she would have given him a child.
Now—now, she sits before him, cursing under her breath, her leg twisted, her blood sliding across the stone, and he understands, too suddenly, too clearly, that he cannot keep her.
One day, that ribbon will slip from her entirely.
And he will be wanting again, except this time, there will be no remedy, no second chance, no indulgence to dull the ache.
Because she—she—the only thing that has ever fit the hollow inside him, will be gone.
A year. Ten. Twenty. Perhaps less. Perhaps more.
She will be gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
"It will not break again," he tells her.
"Really?" she asks, pale from hurt.
"Truly."
He stands, glances over the chamber, and selects a sconce, its veilfire guttering weakly within its iron frame. He snuffs it out with a flick of his wrist, wrenches the metal free from the wall, and lets it sag into liquid in his palm. The Necropolis will not miss it. It devours offerings every day; what is one more? The molten iron shifts, pulses, rolls like living mercury as he shapes it between his fingers. She watches, suspicious, wary, but when he takes the pain from her, she sighs, slackens, her body a thing that yields, a thing that trusts.
Bone is simple. A structure, a framework. Break it, mend it, break it again. He has done this before, he will do it again, and the body always obeys in the end. With a slow push, he sets her leg back into place. Crack, crack, crack—shattered edges realign, splinters withdraw, raw ends fuse like wax pressed to wax. He sees the place where the bone has chewed its way free, white and wet against the torn meat of her calf.
He presses his fingers into the wound, past the sealing skin. The iron above them stirs at his will, stretching like a cat in the air before obeying, flowing down, clinging to the surface of the bone. Not inside it, no. That would be crude, inelegant. Instead, it forms a layer, thin but solid, a second skeleton over the first. It cools as it settles, solidifies, binds itself to her as if it had always belonged there. He guides it lower, shaping it over her tibia, letting it follow the curve of her ankle, turning his wrist slightly to direct it sideways, until the fibula is covered as well, safe beneath its new armor. There.
The final shreds of her wound pull themselves shut, sealing over his work, concealing what has been done.
She shifts her foot, tilting her head, considering. "Oh," she says. "I suppose I'll be heavier now."
He kisses her cheek and feels the faint shift of muscle beneath his lips, the small, secret curve of her smile. This time, for once, her happiness has no color. Not gold, not red, not that strange, shimmering violet he sometimes sees curling from her ribs. Just happiness, unembellished, undisturbed. And because she feels it, he believes it, and because he believes it, he takes it for himself, drawing her close.
"I am so, so happy that you are safe," he hears himself say, a confession with no real shape, a drunken speech without the mercy of intoxication. "I worry when you are gone, and I worry when you are here. It seems that no matter what I do, something always finds you first."
She hums, arms looping around him, her fingers idly mapping the planes of his back, tracing aimless patterns into the fabric of his robes. "I don’t know what to say to that," she admits, her voice softened by exhaustion, by the slow retreat of pain. "But I am so, so happy with you too. And it’s all right, it’s all right. Every time I break, you can repair me." She pauses, then adds, utterly deadpan, "Guess that makes you my skele-tonic."
It is an objectively terrible pun.
"Until you stop breaking altogether," he murmurs.
Another hum, vague, thoughtless.
He draws from her as he always does: pleasure, warmth, something deeper, something without a name, though it must have one, must have been cataloged somewhere, written down by some scholar who spent his life studying things that could not be grasped. He has never fully understood what it is he takes, only that it belongs to her, and that, by some quiet, unspoken permission, it is his as well. He wants to love her forever. But more than that, he wants to ensure that forever remains within reach, that it does not remain, as so many things have, just outside his grasp, dissolving the moment he closes his fist.
He has spent too long watching what he yearned for unravel before he could fasten it down. This, he will not allow. It will take gold, it will take iron, it will take something far stronger, something absolute. Until she ceases to break. Until breaking is no longer a possibility, a concept, a word that has anything to do with her.
He does not yet know how. But he has time—too much of it. More than she does. And he has always been a man of precision, of hypothesis and proof, of elegant solutions to insufferable problems. He will find a way. Through metal or magic, through that ribbon of red that keeps slipping from her, unspooling itself in slow increments, always trying to get away. He will take it, force it back into place, stitch it to the marrow, fix it with something incorruptible, something permanent, something that cannot be unwound without unmaking her in the process.
He presses a kiss to her temple, then to her forehead, and speaks of flowers. The new blooms in the Memorial Gardens. Hideous, by all accounts. She will adore them. She appreciates beauty, certainly, but she loves foolishness even more. He kisses her cheek, the tip of her nose, her small, stubborn chin, and feels it again—that bright, quiet thing. Happiness.
And, miraculously, when he takes a piece for himself, it does not feel stolen.
"Enough, enough," she murmurs at last, the same word twice, as she always does when she needs a break from him, when she has given too much, when she feels him pulling, drinking, taking in excess without meaning to. Laughter ghosts beneath the words, thin but present, a reminder that she is still here, still whole. She taps his wrist with two fingers, light, quick, final—a gesture that, for all its carelessness, feels uncannily like closing a book.
#i can't sleep so i quickly edited this thing i wrote a while back so it's not as raw and am now throwing it out into the depths of tumblr#we don't condone lichdom in this house#there is no way emmrich would remain a sane human being as a lich if he romanced rook#frankly they should have given us the option to break up with him if he decided to go full lich#he is only gonna transfer his fear of death onto rook#and it will not be healthy#it will be weird and uncomfortable and maybe downright creepy#aight im gonna try to sleep now#emmrich volkarin#emmrich x rook#emmrook#rook x emmrich#lich emmrich#dragon age the veilguard#datv#shortstories#my stupid writing#< those last two are just my personal tags for finding my own shit if i need it btw lol ignore them
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The Enchanted Horse (1992) written by Magdalen Nabb, illustrated by Julek Heller
For @horsefigureoftheday
#this book was so fucking creepy#i think forth grade me would have eaten that shit up#i skimmed the story while looking for the illustrations#and yes i understand its a metaphor for growing up#and it has “values” and “empathy” and such#but the blind man who runs the junk shop has deff killed someone#i say this with love and affection#i do love an impromptu book selection on my part#real tunnel vision after finding it on the#internet archive#and cleaning it up with#photopea#anyways#the enchanted horse#magdalen nabb#Julek Heller#1992#horses#horse art#horse#equids#illustration#1990s#nineties#90s#juvenile fiction#christmas#rural gothic#rural america#rural decay
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#beauty in darkness#dark beauty#goth#dark art#gothic#dark#dark aesthetic#darkness#im a creep im a weirdo#dark fantasy#keep it creepy#skull#skeleton#Pinterest find
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TW BUGGY STUFFS
Working on my own tadc horror au... with a side of experimentation stuff cuz i can never truely escape that trope
I need to come up with an actual name for this au
Feedback and/or ideas much appreciated :]
#tw bugs#my art#the concept is caines an evil guy who likes experimenting on players who enter the digital circus#something like that#poor ragatha got bug-ed#honestly shes not that creepy?? but maybe thats cuz i like bugs#i need to work on horror more tbh#i still rlly like how she came out tho#pomnis just entered and caine has yet to find her ig#rags tryna keep her from a similar fate for as long as she can i suppose#jax is next#dont got many ideas yet but ill roll with what i DO have in mind#tadc#the amazing digital circus pomni#the amazing digital circus art#the amazing digital circus ragatha#ragatha tadc#ragatha#pomni#pomni tadc#tadc horror au#tadc fanart#tadc au#for you
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