#i've actually been rotting away this summer

[ihavesomejays]

on first loves yunqing lol they are silly that's it that's the prompt anyways i think this is like the first thing i've posted here that has an actual background which is kind of insane. i think you can tell i don't draw backgrounds very often. anyways yunqing is so ponytail puller annoying each other even though they've realized they like each other core and it's satisfying my peepaw heart

bg only/closeups under keep reading

[harbours-lighthouse]

Company in A Bone Dead Land (Jason Todd xF!Reader; Apocalyptic AU)

[ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

⁀➴ pairing: jason todd x f!reader

— summary: the world as you know it is broken, crawling with those infected by the virus. you're one of very few survivors, and you're cautious of each step you take. when a man breaks into your house, you're torn between kindness and survival.

— author's note: hi loves! first thing i've been able to work on and actually finish, so hopefully you guys enjoy (a lot of inspo taken from bird box and the last of us). i'm thinking of making this into a series, but i'm not sure. let me know if i should make a part 2!

cw: apocalypitc setting; possible slow burn; semi enemies-to-lovers; death; gore; violence; graphic descriptions; overall feelings of dread wc: 5.7k divider credit: @/saradika

IT’S HOT AND DRY, and the ants are swarming. They march in dotted black lines, trailing through your garden towards the fence. You squint against the harsh white light of the sun, your skin burning beneath the thin layers you wear. 

Since the Fall happened, the seasons have become more brutal, more violent. Summer kills everything, from the bare bushes surrounding your property to the few people that stumble across the plains. But like an angry god whose vocabulary doesn’t include the term ‘fair,’ the few of those who survive the scorching summers are picked off when winter comes—leaving behind faces frozen in terror, lips nearly as blue as the lake near the Old Town when it freezes over. But winter won’t be here for a long time.

The line of ants isn't usual, so you follow along the trails, unlocking the gate and circling around the fence. Dried soil shifts beneath your shoes; twigs crack in the stale air. Flies buzz around sun-bleached bones, and it’s the tip of your boot that kicks them away from the fence that wraps around your property. 

The mesh buzzes, a low hum that sings of the electricity coursing through it. The ants swarm around the corpse as it lies face-first in the brown grass, bony hand stretching forward, and only a single phalanx hooked around a loop in the mesh.

You move the tip of your boot against the side of its head, peeling skin and tufts of brown hair shifting with the light breeze that smells of dust and rotting flesh. There’s a low crack, bones that were stiff beneath the sun moving against their will as you reveal the face of the corpse. 

Blank white eyes lock with yours, and bile rises up your throat. Relief accompanies it. The birds haven’t been able to pick at the eyeballs yet, so you’re now able to identify that it’s a survivor and not one of the infected—a gouger. 

You sigh heavily, feeling as if those lifeless eyes are staring up at you, pleading. Why didn’t you save me? I was right here!

You know exactly what Johnny would say if he were standing beside you. 

“Poor guy probably died before he even felt the shock.”

He would’ve said it with that gravel-laced chuckle of his, though there wouldn’t be any humour in it at all.

You watch the rotting corpse with the sun beating down on you, wisps of wind pushing your hair into your face. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and you shove the sound of Johnny’s voice to the back of your mind. You don’t want to remember him.

Brows pinched inward, you wonder why you hadn’t noticed the corpse until now. It’s obviously been here for a while, with much of its skin already peeled away like dried parchment. The clothes that barely hang from its skeleton are tattered and bleached, but it’s in far better condition than what any of the gougers wear. With a calculating survey across its unmoving form, you decide that there’s nothing you might poach from the body. Nothing useful. 

Leaving the ants alone to feast on what little is left of the decaying man, you circle around the whole fence to check for anything else, though you have a feeling you won’t find anything. It’s not common for anything to show up here—at least not in the last seven months. This lonesome survivor is the first in a long time. 

The plains themselves are mostly empty and have been for years. Only a small smattering of twig-like trees dot the landscape, reminiscent of thin lines dashed across the horizon. Excluding Old Town, your property is the only splash of colour to be seen for miles: a white farmhouse with bleached siding and a partially broken porch, a rusting generator that still rattles with power, and the electric fence Johnny built three years ago.

It’s the fence that makes sure they never come too close. The infected. Or the more common term given to them: ‘gougers.’

Not only do you find the remains of those who crawl to the fence for protection—and ultimately die there with nothing and no one—but you also find the remains of those whose minds were whittled away to nothing, reeking of rotting flesh and gore.

It’s been years since fear accompanied the thought of them. With age and loss, you’ve only grown more angry. And since Johnny’s death, the pistol strapped to your hip feels heavier than normal, and your fingers twitch with the animalistic urge to go searching—killing those that took everything from you. 

The last thing Johnny saw was their broken faces, the dark sockets where their eyes should be—gouged out in their insanity. And you couldn’t do anything.

Swallowing thickly, you pull yourself away from the lingering images of what were once people, sane and normal. 

Idly kicking away loose stones and twigs, you amble back towards the gate. Looking over your shoulder, you linger to watch the horizon; waves of heat warp the line between land and sky.

Frowning, you notice a tree in the distance, and it’s larger than the rest. Squinting harder against the sun, you watch its thin figure, a pale grey shadow in the haze of heat and dust. But it’s not a tree, you realise, and your heart stutters inside your chest.

It’s smoke. 

Feeling your throat seize, your heart starts thudding against your ribcage. What you thought was the distant canopy of a large tree is really the billowing cloud of a column of smoke. And it's not the heat warping its shape, but the smoke rising higher in the sky, a fist of ash, and a sign of fire. 

You move on instinct.

You rush through the gate, making sure the several locks and chains rattle behind you, securing your home. Hopping up the steps of the porch, the floorboards groan under your weight, and you glance back at the dark pillar in the sky. 

You can’t take any chances. 

The front door slams shut, rattling the old picture frames on the walls. Your breathing deepens, your pulse throbbing inside your ears as adrenaline rushes through you. Like a well-trained soldier, you check that each of the windows has its curtains drawn shut, wooden boards hidden behind thin white lace. 

The house is dipped into pale light and shadows. Only slivers of sunlight that shine through the wooden boards peek through the gaps in the curtains. It’s quiet, not even the wind whistles through the cracks in the glass. 

But your heartbeat doesn’t slow.

Glancing at the heavy chest of drawers in the foyer, you exhale sharply through your nose before striding towards the old piece of furniture. Pressing your palms against the side of the once-polished wood, you dig your feet into the floor and push. It barely moves.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you mutter harshly, pressing your shoulder against the chest and leaning all your weight against it. With a sharp scrape against the floor, the chest dislodges. You almost trip, feet sliding, before pushing it with relative ease to barricade the door. 

Straightening with your shoulder aching, you glance over the barricade with a small pang of satisfaction, but you know that a lone piece of furniture won’t save you. 

Moving through the house with purpose, you cut through the living room to the kitchen, and you pull open a cabinet mounted on the wall. The hinges squeal in protest, but the gold glint of ammunition is what you're after. Grabbing as many of the cardboard boxes as you can, you carry them upstairs.

There are three bedrooms upstairs and an attic. Every single window has been boarded up ever since you found out the hard way that gougers can climb, though you still had Johnny back then, and you hadn’t set up the electric fencing yet. 

Dropping the boxes of ammo, you crane your neck upwards at the string hanging from the ceiling. Jumping, your feet land with a thud at the same time that your fingers wrap around the wooden knob at the end of the string, and you pull.

A groan deep inside the house reverberates around you, and the attic ladder unfolds with a wooden creak. Inhaling sharply, you gather up the boxes again before ascending the ladder.

The attic itself is mostly empty, save for only a few boxes sporadically piled around and the thin mattress and blankets tucked in a corner that you keep up here in case of emergencies—like today.

Hunching your back so as not to hit your head against the slanted ceiling, you shuffle further into the wide room towards the two windows on your right side.

These windows remain open and unboarded, giving you a clear view of the front yard, and specifically the gate to your property. If things hit the fan in a disastrous way, you’ll be able to slide out one of the windows and scurry up onto the roof. Thankfully, you’ve never had to resort to that. 

You let the boxes of ammo clatter to the floor, and the smell of dust is so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. You move to the other side of the room and pull away a pile of boxes. A plume of dust hits the floor, and you sputter out a choked cough, gagging as your eyes flood with water.

Waving a hand in the air to dispel the yellow cloud, you kneel to the floor and pull at one of the wooden boards.

There's a soft creak before the board pulls away and reveals a hollowed-out space. It's large enough and deep enough to hide away a perfectly intact, gleaming M21 sniper rifle.

Your heart stutters against your chest, the steady beat of your pulse loud inside your ears. You haven’t touched it in seven months.

The gun glints in the bright light that streams through the windows, winking at you with all of its memories just as clear and bright as the nocturnal scope mounted on the barrel of the rifle. Swallowing thickly, you push through the nerves that hold you captive for only a moment and gently ease the gun out of the empty slot.

“Alright,” you murmur into the empty space around you, “let’s get this show on the—” 

The explosion rattles your entire house. Gasping, your fingers tighten around the body of the M21 as the frame of your house shakes violently. The noise rings inside your ears painfully, rippling through the air and piercing through the walls of your home and straight through your chest.

Staggering forward, you move to one of the windows and peer out across the plains. You can't see anything other than the column of smoke in the distance, but you rapidly scan the horizon for anything else—a mushroom cloud punching through the sky or an orange-red ball of flames.

With your ears still ringing, all you can do is wait as the earth slowly settles again, the soil no longer quivering and the floorboards no longer shaking beneath the soles of your feet.

Panic hits you like a truck. It's been months since anything like this has happened—which is why you had stored the M21 in the attic in the first place. You didn’t need the gun, and its owner is dead. For whatever foolish reason, you’ve let your guard down.

Sucking in a trembling breath, you realise just how tightly you’re gripping the M21. Unclenching your iron-tight grip, your mind races.

Someone must have caused that, and not just anyone. Sure, gougers weren’t entirely dumb, but they weren’t usually capable of setting off explosives either. And as for survivors…it was rare that anyone had the means or strength to detonate something that powerful. 

This was something else, and your skin crawls at the thought. Quickly, you snap your gaze to the electric fence, staring hard at the mesh and waiting for a tell-tale spittle of electricity to catch your eye. You need to know if the generator had been affected by the shockwave; if your generator was down, so was your fence.

There’s a spark of blue, and you breathe a sigh of relief before returning your hawk-like eyes to the horizon. You sigh heavily. 

Tonight’s going to be a long night.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

The crickets chirp angrily inside leafless bushes, perched on thin twigs as they play their nightly choruses. Usually, you take comfort in the noise they make, but now, it only adds to your nerves.

Lying on the thin mattress in the corner, you strain your ears to listen above the sound. Anything out of place could mean something—a twig cracking, a rustling of leaves or clothes. Nothing can be brushed aside as simply ‘nothing.'

It’s too hot for any of the blankets, and even if it were cold, you wouldn’t dare slip underneath them. If you had to jump up at a moment’s notice, the blankets could entangle you and cost you precious seconds.

Seconds that could result in your death. Or worse. 

The M21 is cradled in your arms, fingers resting lightly along the stock. The safety is on, but you can just imagine Johnny scolding you for sleeping with a firearm. 

“You try’na kill yourself before anything else can, kid?” 

A fragile smile pulls at your lips, though it disappears as your thumb gently brushes across the initials engraved on the side of the stock.

J. B.

Jonathan Barnes. 

Johnny. 

Your throat tightens, and you swallow thickly. It’s been seven months. You need to stop crying about him. 

With a hollow exhale, you curl around the M21, ears perked for any noise. All you can hear are the crickets and the low groan of the house as the wind pushes against it. 

You’ve gone over every possible situation that could have resulted in the giant explosion, and you guessed that it came from the Old Town. It didn’t make much sense, though, considering the Old Town is miles away and completely deserted. Nothing but hollowed-out frames of what were once bustling stores and stylish saloons remain there. Relics of a past you can hardly remember now. 

There’s a scuffle outside, and you immediately shoot upright. Your fingers flex around the sniper rifle. You sit and wait. 

The house remains quiet; the crickets keep chirping. For a long, drawn-out minute, you sit as still as a statue and listen. Even your breaths are quiet, too scared to miss any other telltale noise that you’re not alone. 

You don’t hear anything else. 

Your muscles are as tense as a coiled-up snake, but you slowly shift back onto your side. The grip you have around the gun doesn’t ease up, and your heartbeat is painfully loud in your ears. The night will drag on, and you’re sure you won’t be able to relax the entire time.

Johnny’s voice rings softly in your ears.

“Loosen up, kid. We’ll be fine.” 

You close your eyes, wishing that Johnny could be as quiet in your mind as he is in the grave. The grave you dug. The one you filled with dirt and tears. 

You fall asleep within seconds. 

***

Your eyelids are heavy as you peel them open, and dread stirs inside your stomach. Confused, you prop yourself up onto your elbow, squinting through the inky blackness and listening to the noises around you. 

The crickets are utterly silent, and not even the wind whispering through the bushes can be heard. It’s only your soft breaths that seem loud in the still atmosphere of the attic.

You groan lowly beneath your breath, rubbing a hand over your face. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How stupid could you be?

Just as you're about to stand and move to the window to get a better look at the horizon, a noise stops you in your tracks.

It was low, barely perceptible. But with the silence of the crickets and wind, you could make out the sound.

Footsteps.

Your pulse bursts to life, throbbing almost painfully in your throat. Swiftly, your fingers latch onto the M21 that had drifted from you in your sleep, fingers flexing against the polished wood.

Straining to hear any more sounds, you eye the panel of wood you placed over the attic hole and the heavy box you had placed on top of the panel as an added precaution. It was something Johnny had done when you'd both camped out in the attic. He said it made it look as if there was wood nailed to the entrance of the attic and would possibly deter anyone from even trying to climb the ladder.

You hoped that it would work this time too, as the footsteps grow louder. They're heavy, belonging to something that must be large and bulky. Your stomach twists with anxiety, sweat gathering along the back of your neck.

Slowly, as if you were a hunter stalking prey, you stand on your feet, making sure your movements are measured enough to avoid making any noise. You can’t afford to be heard from below, can’t afford to make any of the floorboards creak beneath your weight as you stand.

With your breathing strained, you press the butt of the rifle into your shoulder, and your fingers are shaking. It's been months since you've had to fire a gun at something that wasn't a rabbit or shrew, though those were extremely rare to find in and of themselves.

The footsteps are loud. They thud along the upstairs floor, directly below you. Your brows furrow.

Whatever or whoever it is, it's not consciously trying to be quiet.

There's a low scrape, shuffling footsteps, before a long pause rings in your ears.

The silence is loud.

You flinch violently when the first thud echoes, a step taken down the staircase. Breathing in a shuddered breath, you close your eyes, relief flooding through you. Whatever it was, it wasn't interested in the attic ladder leading up to what looked like a panel of wood.

You listen intently to the footsteps thudding down the stairs before the sound recedes, and you're thrown back into silence again.

The muscles in your arms are taut, your thighs braced to run to the window and climb onto the roof. You want to relax and unclench your jaw, but you know that the thing must still be inside your home.

Then it dawns on you. The fence. The electricity.

How did it get in?

Taking tentative steps, you make sure to walk where the wood doesn't groan, and you move to the open window.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Next to the gate, the mesh wiring has been cut in a large arch, opening up a hole in the fence for anything to slip through and into the yard.

Swallowing down the bile bubbling in the back of your throat, you take a deep, calming breath, though it does nothing to soothe the panic that's rooted inside your chest.

This thing is smart, you think. It's capable.

Gougers aren't able to problem-solve. They don't have eyes to see, and their minds are purely animalistic. Carnivorous. If something in front of them is alive and moving, they'll ravage it and tear it to shreds. But if there's a fence in the way, the gougers are useless. They can only wail and shriek, but they can't solve the problem.

So whoever is inside your house isn't a gouger, and that's ten times worse.

"Remember," Johnny grumbled, "you can always outsmart a gouger. But an uninfected? They can be just as smart as you."

You need to kill this person before they find you.

Slowly, you walk over to the box and the panel and sling the rifle over your back. Crouching, you nudge the box out of the way, careful to move it gingerly enough that it doesn't scrape along the floor.

Once the box is out of the way, you shimmy your fingers under the panel and carefully dislodge it from the opening.

Looking down, fear curls inside your stomach. The lower floor is shrouded in darkness. Leaning over the edge of the hole, it feels as if you're staring into a void, and you can just imagine bright eyes looking up at you from below. Murderous. Inhuman.

Shaking the thought away, you remind yourself of your safety. Of your home. Some jerk had decided to trespass on your property, and with your life on the line, you were going to put a bullet through their head because of it.

With tentative steps, you ease your way down the ladder. You don't let the ladder fold in on itself again, just in case you need to book it to the attic and climb onto the roof.

Glancing down the hallway, you bring the M21 back into your hands, fingers flexing near the trigger guard. None of the lights are on. 

It's completely dark.

Breathing through your nose and out through your mouth, you do what Johnny taught you to. Steeling your nerves as best as you can, you slowly descend down the stairs.

You know this house better than anyone. You know exactly where to step, an ingrained map of the house's aches and groans etched out in your mind.

When you reach the ground floor, your skin crawls. A quick glance down the foyer reveals the front door wide open, pale light spilling across the dust-coated floorboards. Outside, the hole in the fence gapes mockingly at you, and the thin trees look like sentinels watching you. Waiting. 

You listen for noise, for footsteps. Moving through your house, you stare into every corner and every shadow, waiting for something to reveal itself. The M21 is heavy, but the trepidation inside your chest is heavier.

If Johnny were here, he'd be taking point. He'd be holding this gun. Not you. Never you.

"I don't want you touching my gun, kid."

"Why not? Scared I'll break 'her'."

"Smart aleck."

"Old man."

A shrill clatter reverberates through the house, and you slap a hand to your mouth to keep from gasping audibly. Your fingers are shaking as you peel your hand away, and you swallow thickly.

Get it together.

The noise came from the kitchen.

With the butt of the M21 digging into your shoulder, you cut across the living room, eyes carefully glancing around you before snapping to what's ahead of you.

You nearly gag as the overwhelming odor of gunpowder and sweat floods your senses, and your blood pulses inside your ears. 

The shuffling becomes louder, and you're sure you can hear someone breathing. It's strained, laboured.

You press your shoulder against the barrier between the living room and the kitchen, hands clenching around the pistol grip. Peering around the corner, you breath locks inside your throat.

Shoulders as wide as the doorway are illuminated by the moon's pale light, and you catch the glint of a bolt cutter languidly thrown across the kitchen island.

That must have been what made the loud clatter earlier, you file away mentally.

You watch with piercing eyes as the giant man leans heavily against the kitchen counter, spine bent inward as harsh breaths leave him, his head dipped.

For a moment, your grip around the rifle slackens. If it weren’t for the moonlight slipping into the kitchen, you would have mistaken the broad frame for Johnny.

Dark hair. Creased leather jacket. Deathly pale skin. 

No, you close your eyes briefly; this isn’t Johnny.

Clenching your fingers around the pistol grip tightly again, you inhale deeply and step through the doorway. The barrel of your gun points directly at the man’s head. Your finger hovers above the trigger. 

It must have been the shaky breath escaping past your lips that alerted him to your presence. The man’s head snaps up; obsidian eyes lock with yours; they glint coolly, as if the dark abyss of them had captured slivers of moonlight.

Your breath stutters. They’re the opposite of the lifeless eyes belonging to the corpse still clinging to the fence outside. 

The fence this man tore apart. 

Tense silence settles heavily between the two of you, and your heartbeat is thudding against your ribcage like a wild bird beating itself to death.

Like two predators silently watching each other with bated breath and flicking tails, you stare at each other with calculating glares.

You break the silence first, doing your best to keep your voice firm and steady.

“Who are you?”

The stranger stares at you, his breathing strained. Johnny’s voice had matched his looks: gravel-laced, rough. You half expect the same from this boar of a man, but instead, you’re surprised when a smooth, deep voice echoes in the kitchen, although it quivers subtly.

“No one.” 

“Cut it, edgelord,” you snap, though your voice remains low. “What is your name?” 

Your feet shift, hips trading weight as you keep the barrel of the M21 level with the man who lets out a long exhale, and you catch the hitch trapped inside of it. 

“My name’s Jason,” he says quietly, eyes sliding languidly along the kitchen island and the bolt cutter, before flicking up to you. 

They seem canine, but not in a domesticated way. His eyes give you a glimpse of a wolf silently studying you, calculating whether or not you are worthy prey. It sends a cold shiver slithering down your spine. 

 “Okay,” you mutter, “Jason. Why are you here, in my house?”

Johnny would have rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, sure. ‘Your’ house.” 

Jason’s brows lift close to his hairline in what you can tell is faux surprise.

“Oh? Your house? Sorry. Didn’t see a sign out front—thought it was abandoned.” 

You bristle at his tone, and skepticism coils inside your chest.

"You thought that a house with a fully functioning electric fence and generator was 'abandoned'?"

Jason's eyes watch you carefully, as if he's surprised that you caught that inconsistency. Does he think you're stupid? Blinded by fear?

He shrugs as if it doesn't matter, though his stance heightens your anxiety; there's a stiffness to his shoulders, and a clear bell rings inside you: something is wrong.

"Look, lady—"

"Why are you here?"

You stare at each other, the tension akin to a pot of water simmering on the stove, slowly beginning to boil.

When he realises that you're not going to let him leave without answering and that you're not lowering the sniper rifle any time soon, he relents with a harsh exhale and a swift nod.

"Alright, fine," he straightens, and you clock the sharp jerk of his hand moving to his side. Instantly, you square your shoulders, knuckles turning white with the iron-tight grip you have on the pistol grip.

Jason lifts his other hand, brows raised in caution. You scrutinize him, and he purposefully keeps his movements slow.

His hand slips to his side, hidden behind the leather jacket, and you brace yourself for the glint of a gun, maybe even the impact of a bullet. Your finger hovers dangerously over the trigger.

"Chill," Jason mutters, and you suck in a sharp breath.

Jason removes his hand from his side, and instead of the metallic sheen of a gun, you're left staring at the gleam of blood dripping from his fingers. It shines black in the moonlight, but if you were to turn on the overhead light, it would drip to the kitchen tiles in droplets of crimson.

"I need—" his voice cuts out before he swallows thickly. "I ran into some trouble...thought I might find medical supplies here."

Your gaze snaps between the blood on his hand and his face. There's a tightness to his jaw, as if he's bracing himself against waves of pain.

Sympathy pulses inside of you, something you thought had died long ago. But you think back to the fence, the hole that you don't know how to fix. It was Johnny that set up the fencing—who speared the poles into the ground and cut the sheets of mesh. Who made sure that the generator worked and brought electricity sparking along the metal wiring.

You only helped where you could, but you don't know where to get supplies to fix the fence in case of something like this happening. It's too late to ask Johnny—something you should have done three years ago.

"You ruined my fence," you say lowly.

Jason's eyes flicker shut for a moment, a puff of air pushed through his nose.

"Yeah, look. I wasn't going to get myself—"

"You could have at least cut the padlock on the gate instead of the actual fence."

"That's—" he stops, realising the truth of your statement.

You scoff, eyes flickering to the side before returning to him again. Two parts of you are warring against each other. There's a desperate, instinctual urge to switch the light on and bring out your medical kit, but another, fainter desire to pull the trigger—rid yourself of the problem in front of you.

So, in true survival mentality: if you help him...what's in it for you?

You opt for another question. "How'd you get hurt?"

Jason hesitates. His gaze flickers over you cautiously, warily. A spark of annoyance heats beneath your skin. After destroying a part of your fence in an irrational move and breaking into your house, bleeding all over your kitchen floor, do you not deserve an answer?

"Buddy," you level, "if you don't answer me, I'm letting you bleed to death or I'm shooting you. Your decision."

After a moment of stiff silence, Jason relents. He glances down at his hand, taking in a sharp breath.

"I ran into some trouble with a couple of gougers."

Your hackles rise. Instinctually, you take a step back, but keep the gun's barrel steady. Panic begins to claw inside your chest again, and Jason notices.

His hands raise again in a placating motion, "the gougers didn't cause this. It's a gash from barbed wire."

It's hard to believe him. In the past, people have lied—said that they got hurt from something else and not the sharp nails or yellowed teeth of the gougers. Once you're marred by a gouger, you run the risk of catching the virus. You risk losing yourself to insanity, to becoming something inhuman.

You've seen people scratch out their eyes, wailing and shrieking. People you knew. People you loved.

But you don't know Jason. He's only a stranger that's jeopardized your safety and broken into your house—Johnny's house.

He could be lying just so you don't shoot him on the spot.

And you're trembling without realising it.

"How do I know—" your swallow thickly, taking another step back, "—that you're not lying to me?"

"You'll know in a day's time."

The words hit you like a ton of bricks, though you don't know why. It's true, though. The virus eats away at the mind in a matter of days—hours even.

There's a bitter taste in your mouth, and your hands feel clammy around the M21. You've put more space between you and Jason, but you feel as if you're suffocating. There's not enough light in the kitchen to give you a good idea of what he's saying with his eyes, and his rough exhalations grate against your ears.

If what he says is true, then you have nothing to worry about. But if he’s lying, you’ll be faced with a gouger inside your home in a day or two, ripping you to shreds. 

Or, you could shoot him when that happens. 

You think it over in your head, your stomach knotted with anxiety. 

You have three options: help him, let him bleed out, or shoot him—either now or later. 

It's Johnny who makes that decision for you.

"You've still got a heart, kid. You don't find that anymore."

You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you give in to the deeply ingrained part of you that can't not help.

"If I help you," you say slowly, "then you have to help me in return, got it?"

Jason eyes you, and you can see the way he's mulling over your words. There's a sag to his shoulders, a tremor in his breath.

He'd be dumb to not take up your offer.

"Fine," he says gruffly, glancing away from you briefly. "What do you want?"

"Fix my damn fence."

"Done."

You blink, surprised. It was that easy, huh?

"One condition," Jason adds, and your surprise is immediately replaced with suspicion. Who does he think he is?

He points a finger at the M21, brows raised. "You put away the gun."

You open your mouth to argue, but cut yourself off before you can say anything. Glancing at the M21, you wonder if it's a smart decision to conform to that condition.

What if he takes you off guard?

What if he grabs it and shoots you?

Looking back at the bolt cutter on the kitchen island, you sigh heavily before returning your gaze to Jason, who's already watching you.

"If I put away the gun, you can't have those."

Jason glances at the bolt cutters and scoffs. "Really? It's not even a weapon."

"Anything can be a weapon," you say flatly.

Jason tilts his head, brows furrowed. The reality of your words isn't lost on him. There's a short pause before he nods his head softly.

"Alright," he says quietly, "fair enough."

With measured movements, you slowly lower the barrel of the M21, feeling exposed and vulnerable immediately. Holstering it across your back, you move forward to take the bolt cutters. The rubber handles feel warm still, and you wonder if electricity burns inside the material.

Jason observes you the entire time while you move towards the kitchen entrance. You make sure to not turn your back to him.

"I'll put these away, and I'll come back with a med kit. Don't move."

Jason huffs, glancing down at his side before looking back at you with an unimpressed look.

"Trust me, doll. Ain't going nowhere."

Your face pulls into a frown, and your gaze lingers on him for a second before you take a step back into the living room.

Then a thought dawns on you. And you quickly look back at him.

"Jason?"

There's a low hum in response.

"Did you cause that explosion—earlier?"

You watch wordlessly as he shuffles into the kitchen entrance way, and you take another step back into the living room. His hunched shoulders brush against the frame, leather jacket creasing.

The look of genuine confusion on his face says everything, and your blood runs cold.

Something else is out there.

thank you for reading, God bless <3

© harbours-lighthouse 2025

[charlottes-diary-entries]

HELLLOOO :) could I request a wolfstar x reader where there’s an upcoming exam that r is super stressed about and how the boys would help or comfort them? (This is indeed self indulgent bcuz I’m stressin for finals 😭)

oh my god darling, i'm aware this is two MILLION years late, but i fear i was ALSO stressin for finals :( i hope all of your exams went completely swimmingly and if they didn't then here is a little comfort for the start of your summer <3

"academic avalanche" poly!wolfstar x reader, very fluffy, mostly comfort

This was it. You'd considered it might come to this, but today seemed to make it official. You were now living, to eventually die, and then rot forever, beneath a wall of books in the library that completely obscured you from view. It was ridiculous. One gentle breeze and you'd be a victim of an academic avalanche.

As you once again desperately tried to cram information about the giant wars of the 19th century into your brain, tears began to slip down your cheeks. Hopelessly, you thumped your head against the horrid tome before you and let the tears fall. Hiccups and sobs also began to escape before you could stop them, and soon enough, you were trying as hard as you could to break down quietly as to not disturb the peace of the library.

They would write your name and death date on your gravestone, paired with the phrase, "Killed by History of Magic."

"Dovey?"

At the sound of a familiar, endlessly comforting voice, you wished you could pull yourself together and only fell apart more. A miserable moan left you from your place faceplanted in the evil textbook.

"Is that you tucked away there, darling?"

One of the shorter stacks was shoved aside before the voice cooed and you were suddenly shoved by an overly-aggressive hug. The voice chided your attacker with a quiet, "Sirius..." but was ultimately ignored as you were squeezed within an inch of your life.

"What have they done to you?" Sirius pulled you upright and gasped at the tears that still flowed down your face. "Scratch that, how did we let you hole up here like this?! Oh, dovey..."

You hiccupped through another sob as Sirius shushed you, pressing kiss after kiss all over your face in attempt to cheer you up.

"I think-" You began, "I think this exam is going to kill me. Actually kill me, I can't do this."

Remus perked up from where he had begun to deconstruct your cavern of books. "Alright dove, it's okay. Why don't we take a break, hm?"

This only served to upset you more as you moaned, flopping completely into Sirius's arms. Frustration only continued to bubble up and out of you as Sirius cradled you.

"I've got to pass this exam. I think I'm going to fail otherwise and I can't fail. I hate this stupid professor, I hate History of Magic, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"

Sirius cooed and pressed a kiss to your temple, holding you tighter. "I think passionate declarations of hate are a pretty decent sign you're due for a break. Just a little one love, and then we'll help you study after, yeah?."

"I second this plan, besides," Remus said, now a little sheepish, "we've missed you dove."

"Missed them! Missed them, he says!" Sirius scoffed, "You've been holed up in here for nearly a week and your absence has actually taken a toll on our health! I swear, I've never felt so sick as when you're stuck studying!"

At this, you sniffed and smiled a little up at Sirius, who only grinned down at you, allowing himself to kiss your forehead.

"Starting to feel better now, though."

You giggled and Remus rolled his eyes fondly, having now successfully returned most of your books to their respective shelves. Sirius then easily pulled you up and you didn't have the energy to resist. Now with you on your feet, he began to speak before you were tugged away from him and into Remus's bone-crushing hug.

Whatever dramatic protest at you being stolen from him died on Sirius's lips as he watched you deflate even more in your boyfriend's arms. A few more tears rolled down your face as he joined the hug.

"C'mon dovey," Remus said as he eventually pulled away, leaving his hand tightly entwined with yours, "let's all go cuddle for a bit, yeah?"

You nodded and let him pull you along, Sirius attaching himself to your unoccupied arm. You continued to hang off them as they walked you back to their dorm feeling endlessly grateful for their ability to carry the weight of the conversation on their own.

There was something indescribable about the comfort that came from Remus holding you on his bed with Sirius on your other side telling you both about some muggle band he loved. You felt loved. Completely surrounded by love, actually.

And exam be damned, there was no where you'd rather be.

this isn't very long, but i hope you enjoyed love! <3

[lovebvni]

intuitive messages pac !!

THIS IS FROM 2023!! BE FOREWARNED

┈

│ᵒᵖᵉⁿⁱⁿᵍ ᵐᵉˢˢᵃᵍᵉ...

╰─────────────────

[ 🖊 ] created ⋮ 7.31.23

[  ] published ⋮  7.31.23

˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ ꒰ ⌨ ✰ Arsyn   ⋆  ⁱˢ ᵗʸᵖⁱⁿᵍ··· ꒱ | ೃ࿔₊•

┊       ⋆     welcome to my blog !

┊     °

hello earthlings, its been a while since i've done a pac, mainly because of MANY personal issues - but thats not important. i thought for a while and went back to my old pac's and i found an older one i made and i remembered, my intuition is just as powerful as ever - so why do i need tarot cards now?

today i'm just going to have 10 messages/sentences the universe wants you to hear. they can be specific or general.  remember, take everything can be taken with a grain of salt, and your future can be changed. you are in control.

now please, find your inner peace, connect to your soul.

understand these messages were meant to find you, and see what is left for you.

inhale, exhale, and pick a pile

Pile 1 - Watching

confirmation :

procrastinating, pushing things off, turning the other cheek, tumblr, the colour purple (show or the actual colour), spacing out, spirits, double meaning, two faced, gemini, hidden meanings/words, red eyes (tired, puffy), burnt out, music, 'good night, sleep tight, don't let the demons fight.', the letter s, sharks, 'the grass is greener'.

side note : the month of august (summer in general) be significant for your shifting/spiritual journey.

Your messages

1. Why would you wait when you could just grab at it? It's right there. Don't let it rot.

2. "Hello? Are you there, listening? Listen to me. I'm here to help. I promise." (this could be an inner voice or a spirit guide)

3. Be your own boss. Keep going.

4. Pass on to the next step (Death to life)

5. You know what's there, talk to it. "I wont hurt you."

6. Listen, don't speak.

7. Let it go. Be like Elsa, don't let it bother you anymore.

8. Mind, Body and Soul. You're in harmony. Use it to your advantage.

9. Advise and criticize. And use the same techniques on yourself.

10. Peace and love. You deserve it. You know you do. And you will find it, soon.

Pile 2 - Renew

conformation :

saiki k, giving up, letting go, leaving things behind, mental overload, 'Jesus fucking Christ', jealous, letting go of that person, shadow work, yellow, outlook, aries, the moon, big lips, 333, the number 3.

Your messages

1. Bite down. Let it flow into your veins, your soul, your spirit. Its part of you now.

2. Is it a real worry, or just something from your past you don't want to let go of?

3. Jail. Time to rest. Now.

4. Eat and care for your physical body. You can't idolize shifting. You're not getting anywhere doing that.

5. Look in the mirror - no. Not at the past. At who you are now. Who you've become.

6. You have the balls. Go fucking do it.

7. Don't accept the truth from other people, find and make your own. That's what they see, not what you know.

8. Her claws. Her teeth. She's manipulating you. Let her go. Rip away from her. She's wasting your time, energy and draining your soul.

9. "I  DO love you. That doesn't mean I'll let you hurt yourself."

10. I am watching. Always. In your good times and bad. I'm here for you. Just ask for help.

Pile 3 - Love

confirmation :

wrist and elbow, jumpscares/ being scared, saturn, planets, fnaf, cycles, broken cycles, love watch, soulmate reuniting, mha (lmao bro idek at this point), drawing, heartache, feeling lonely, barbie, hip dips, trios.

1. Wake up from that dream and make it a reality, you know what you have to do, so go do it.

2. "Beg for my mercy." - This had a VERY sexual undertone... Obviously from a dominant partner or something

3. 'Hello again, my friend! What do you have to tell me now?"

4. You know that thing you asked for? Yeah. It's coming. Keep your eyes pealed (for some I heard it's even coming tomorrow!)

5. Sit in silence, you know what it is. You hear the voices.

6. Pack your bags and go.

7. Grab on, I'll lead you to where you need to be.

8. Don't chase what you're attracting, that will only lead to disaster. (A manifestation you wanted is coming, this is basically saying don't overwork and beat yourself up over it. It's coming and nothing will stop it.)

9. Nature is your friend. Go out and ground yourself. Lay in the grass, smell the rain.

10. If you want to learn, you need the knowledge. Search for what you want to find. You can see it. Ask around. You'll find it. Look, look, look, search, look look, search, find.

I hope this pac resonated for everyone! remember, this will find you when you need it, take what relates, leave what doesnt. remember you are in charge of your future.

i love you. new things are coming.

dont give up.

1111

[someonexsomeone]

Death is Easy, Afterlife is Harder

Title: Death is Easy, Afterlife is Harder, Chapter 1: Esme's New House is Haunted

Author: SomeonexSomeone

Word Count: 4.5k

Pairing: Edward Cullen x Ghost!OC

Summary: Edward was starting to give up on the idea of love. Well, maybe not the idea itself, since he was surrounded by it all the time, but maybe more the idea that it would ever happen to him. He was still working through some complicated vampire feelings, his family was trying to get things back in order after a vampire mishap, not to mention they had to start all over in a new town again. So, when Esme rounds up the family to try and renovate a new house over the summer, what could he do other than go along with it? It was better than rotting away in his sea of lonely thoughts.

But, when his seemingly boring summer gets turned on his head, and he has the closest thing he can have to a human heart attack while meeting this strange new woman, he starts to realize maybe the world isn't as black and white as he thought.

Or; who better for a vampire to fall in love with than an undying ghost?

Warnings: Discussion of depression + death + legacy, downplaying murder

Authors Note: hello hello!! i'm sorry ive been away for so long, but I've actually been uploading this story over on AO3 for the past couple months and totally forgot to post it here. i'm really debating whether ill post all chapters here, since as far as ive planned this will be 50-60 chapters, so we'll see! otherwise you can always find it on AO3 or FF.NET. thank you for reading!

It was a privilege to live a whole life, Edward mused, gently folding another starch-stiff shirt, the cloth miraculously clean despite its many years being hidden away in this dusty attic. 

To be born, to grow, to run freely, to be burdened, to fall in love, to die. It was a privilege to have and lose and find and long and all things that make the soul feel like a tangible thing rather than a concept, some far-off idea that has been written and studied for years but has no real definition. It’s something that’s easy to forget. Those integral parts of life that make it worth living, or even just existing, blend into the everyday. To have a body and be in the world and struggle to understand it; those are what constitute a life.

Some humans believe that their life is composed of the various parts that make up the whole, parts that feel so vastly different that it’s almost like they were a completely different person. And who says they weren’t? A parent was once a child, a worker once carefree, a body once a cell. All are composed as a whole, but unique on their own. The thoughts that once consumed your entire life suddenly mean nothing at all. A person, once your entire life, becomes nothing but a memory. A decision made 10 years apart is filled with the knowledge and wisdom collected in between that didn’t exist before, so the outcome will always be different. 

To a vampire, one moment changed everything. Unlike the common human experience, the change blends so seamlessly into every single moment, every day, every year, every decision that it goes unnoticed until one trigger that causes a moment of reflection. To a vampire, that change is a blip in its life, but the difference is night and day. To go from one day being so afraid of death it drives you every decision, to all at once becoming death itself…

It feels unexplainable, no matter how many words you learn.

That struggle of how many different lives a human leads, those multiple that make up the whole, suddenly takes on new meaning. You were not what you once were, and yet, you will always be the same. To live so many years, to know that eternity is waiting, to not have the innate fear of living that most people do. What is the point of working to get better at something if there is no pressure to get it done? What is the point of surviving if the days endlessly bleed into each other until it feels like one never-ending film, an onlooker to your own life that should fill you with all of those wonderful mishmash emotions that somehow make meaning that only end up feeling forced or faked? Life is a constant existence of opposition.

At least, that was the only way Edward was able to think about it,

It was easy to fill those endless days at the beginning. At first, it was learning to control his most basic instincts, feeling more animal than human by knowing nothing but hunger and how to satiate it. While difficult, it was easier with the help of a devoted Father, something he only remembers vaguely craving in his past life, but Carlisle was a kind and patient teacher. It took many years, but slowly he was able to trade his nightly forest walks for afternoon city strolls, basking in the pockets of silence between crowds. An introduction of Mother returned him to his early years, craving her endless attention and spending as much time with her as possible, practically glued to her hip. Both son and teacher, Edward remembers fondly the first time they were able to sit at the park, hiding under the shade of the tree to lounge like the normal families around them. Esme had never looked happier. 

A “teenage crisis”, as his Mother calls it, a dark period of his life, that changed the course of his existence into a neverending spiral of self-loathing. It was easy to ride the wave of dulled distance that his vampire life brought him, to hide behind those emotions to justify his own actions, despite their now glaringly obvious atrocities. Sometimes he wishes he had those feelings again, just for a little while, just to break up the new dull that replaced the old.

 Anything, he sometimes thought, anything was better than apathy. 

It was now in that aftermath that he lived his timeless life. Try as he might to fill his life with something other than dullness, it never lasted long. 

He had to admit to loving the opportunities presented to him with these new hours. He was able to go back to school, relearn the things that slowly disappeared from his memory, and feel the joy of learning something new. He was able to rejoin Carlisle at the hospital again, just like old times, and actually do something to help people. He got to learn new skills and try new hobbies. He even got to lay in the sun for a whole day and not worry about dehydrating or starving or having to get up to use the bathroom to distract from the quiet serenity of nature. 

He loved the new family that found him. Esme and Carlisle guided him with a gentle hand and endless love. Two new women in his life, opposite in every way, Alice and Rosalie were like the sisters he never had, always keeping him on his toes, and annoyed him to no end. His newest brother, Jasper, grounded him while Emmett, his not-so-newest brother, pulled the rug out from under his feet, and both laughed when he made a fool out of himself. He loved them more than life itself. They gave him those precious fleeting moments of happiness, of distraction that kept him out of his own mind. Jasper placed a book in his hand, one selected from Carlisle’s suggestion, while Esme sat beside him, Alice humming quietly across the room as she worked, Emmett obnoxiously whittling next to her, while Rosalie indulged him in a boisterous argument about the newest passage he read. The family he didn’t feel he deserved, so he held onto it with all his might. 

He would do anything for his family. Anything.

Which, unfortunately, led him to help Esme with her latest project, the only one to really be doing any work at the moment. 

She was a kind Mother, probably kinder than she ought to be, what with 5 inhuman young adults running around the house. She let them have minimal chores during the school year so they could focus on school despite everyone’s insistence that they didn’t need the extra time, in exchange for every couple summers being asked to help sort out the house she was working on. It was surprising that she was keeping the tradition going, what with the abrupt change they had to do earlier this year that brought them back to a place they had stayed in less than 100 years ago. Not completely out of the ordinary, but Emmett needed time to heal, and the house was the closest that was ready to live in.

“We need some normality,” Esme mused as she planned the trip. “Well, as normal as a family like ours can. And this place was too beautiful to pass up!”

This year’s project was the furthest from their settlement yet, all the way in this sleepy town on the East Coast. Despite their return to Forks for the school year on the year prior, and the trend they’ve had for staying on the West Coast, there was something about this house that called out to Esme, so here they all were for the next week. The downstairs needed the most work, with crumbling walls and ivy growing out of every nook and cranny. Originally, there was no indicator that there was an attic, not until Emmett got a little too rough and accidentally uncovered the furniture-covered door. Straight out of an old novel, the wardrobe would have been too heavy for any normal human to move without help. The door was completely hidden behind the massive wooden case, not a hint that it was there, with a dented doorknob that suggested whoever placed the wardrobe all those years ago couldn’t care less about the state of the place. 

Esme had stepped out to grab some more spackle from the store, Alice accompanying her (claiming it was so that Esme would know exactly what brand would yield the best results even though this wasn’t the first home Esme restored and she already had a list of products she trusted). Rosalie had respectfully declined this trip, instead going to the vintage car show with Carlisle for their yearly father-daughter trip. That only left the three boys to make decisions while the usual leaders of the house were gone. 

It was moments like these that Edward really got to muse about the hilarity of his family's hierarchy. The three looked at each other, each gesturing for the other to walk up first, to make the first decision in a place none of them felt comfortable in. People? Leave that to Edward. Planning? Leave that to Jasper. Attacking? All Emmett. But knowing whether to go up a dilapidated flight of stairs into a very old-smelling attic in a home that was being restored? Well, that was out of any of their depths. 

“Are you getting any feelings?” Emmet whispered conspiratorily, his burnt orange eyes wide with the closest a vampire could have to fear. Jasper and Edward gave him a funny look. “What?! It’s a justified question.”

“I’m an empath, not an Anthropomorphist.” Emmet furrowed his brows.

“A what-?”

“It’s someone who attributes human traits, emotions, or intentions to non-human entities,” Edward replied.

“Okay, Mr.Dictionary.” Edward rolled his eyes and Emmet turned back to the blonde. “We’re vampires. You have powers. Can’t you get a feeling if it’s dangerous or not?”

“That’s just instincts. You have those.” Emmet sighed at his brother’s response.

“Not what I meant and you know it. This is a secret door, behind an old wardrobe, in an abandoned house.” He gestured wildly up the dark steps. “Use your freaky feelings tingle and tell me if it’s haunted up there or not.” Jasper and Edward shared a glance, exchanging a small smile. Edward was happy to see his brother was feeling a bit better, enough to have some of that ridiculous superstition return to his regular vocabulary. He was sure Jasper was going to include this little conversation in his text to Rosalie later, one of the many update texts she asked him to send as she spent time away from her husband when he was still recovering.

Jasper was the first to move, carefully positioning himself in front of the other two to walk up first. He bickered quietly with Emmet that there was no way for him to tell if a house was haunted on ‘feelings alone’, and that if he could he would have felt it long ago. A simple platitude, if nothing else. There was no doubt in any of their minds that there was no person upstairs, they would have heard or smelt them long ago, but even Edward could admit there was something off about this attic. Caution was always better than carelessness. Edward had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at Emmett’s internal monologue about ghosts and ghouls that resided in old houses, stepping behind Jasper, readying himself should anything strange occur, just in case.

Once upstairs, it was easy enough to see the real price of hiding away from the outside world. The downstairs was filled with evidence of squatters over the years, rotting food, and left-over knick-knacks here and there that didn’t match the time period of the peeling wallpaper, but up here, despite the heavy layer of dust, everything looked frozen in time. Mannequins with dresses still draped with pins, a rack of winter coats that were drooping on their rusted hangers, an opulent mirror with a hairline fracture in it, hidden behind a lace sheet. There were chests and boxes filled to the brim with jewelry, decor, and housewares. Furniture, both big and small, were stacked neatly on the far wall, plush chairs that had sunk into one another after being stacked for so long. There was only one window high up on the wall, no doubt the one Edward saw as he approached the house earlier that day, too far to do much more than cast colorful shapes on the floor from the stained glass. There was a familiarity in the items around the room, clothing pieces he vaguely remembered as a human, though only the oldest women in his social group still wore them. 

“You lived through this era, little bro!” Emmett cried, immediately blowing past both people in front of him to beeline to the rack of clothes. Edward wasn’t allowed a correction before Emmett’s newly returned childlike control grabbed a corset by its hook, snapping the fragile bonning of the piece into brittle sections. His sheepish look made the other two roll their eyes, though Edward did notice the wince on Jasper’s face from destroying precious history. “Uh…oops?”

“It’s like a time capsule,” Jasper commented, mimicking Emmett’s movements, though with much more care, and gently pulling a dress from the rack. The lace and beading made it look far too heavy to do any dancing in, though Edward knew from the bodice that a young woman, probably around his age, would have worn it for a ball or social gathering to impress the gentlemen in the room. Jasper’s thoughts mimicked the look of familiarity in his thoughts. “How long do you think this had been hidden away?”

“I think we’re the first creatures up here in decades,” Edward replied, following their lead to carefully open one of the many chests to reveal a stack of papers. “Take a look at this.”

The papers, though nearly crumbling apart at the edges from age, were legible enough to read. Letters, most of them, all addressed to the same man, one Mr. Dorsey Carnall. The top of the pile all seem to be from the same woman, one Mrs. Theodora Whitney, who frequently wrote about the elder man’s will, the last one being dated 1887. Both Edward and Jasper exchanged glances at the crass way the woman spoke about the man’s diseased family, demanding his will all be given to her and not some other gentleman, no other identifier other than his name, ‘Tommy’. The more they moved into the pile, the more the letters mixed with other lost names, most wondering about the man’s health and lamenting the loss of his direct family. 

“Letters that catalog this man’s last years alive, and they’re all about his sadness and his money. What a lonely life.” Jasper patted Edward’s shoulder comfortingly. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the barrage of their thoughts from entering his mind, both equally concerned that his mood dropped so quickly.

“You know better than anyone that this box wasn’t everything.” He lived a whole life outside of these letters.

“Yeah!” Emmett, as always, was just a touch too loud for the enclosed space, echoing words around them. Come on, Eddy, don’t depress yourself. “Maybe whoever cleaned after he died just chucked everything into a box. I bet if you look around some more, you’ll find this guy lived a sweet life up until his death. No need to get all depressed for a guy you haven’t met.” Edward ignored the heavy elbow Jasper dug into his brother’s side at the comment, choosing to glare despite the relief he felt at Emmett’s continuous ability to say whatever he was thinking out loud. Makes it much easier on Edward, who spends most of his time trying to differentiate the difference between thoughts and spoken words.

“Emmett.” You’re an idiot. Edward didn’t need his mindreading to know the unspoken language of Jasper’s tone. “Didn’t Esme want you to take apart those cabinets downstairs? What are you still doing here?”

“Oh sh-” Emmett turned, nearly crashing into the door in his haste to get back downstairs. Although Esme was always a saint of patience, Emmett had already filled his quota of mess-ups for the day. If Esme returned before he managed to clear the kitchen, he knew there would be her patient little sigh of disapproval, and that hurt more to him than getting his arm ripped off. It was silent only for a moment before the two heard a crash downstairs.

“I’ll go check on him,” Jasper sighed, returning the dress carefully back onto the rack. “Are you coming?”

“If it’s alright with you, I might stay up here. These things’ll have to get organized eventually.” Edward barely spared him a glance. “Don’t think that. I’ll be fine. You’ll know before I do if things get too intense for me.” Jasper gave him a once over, asking one more time in his mind if he would truly be okay alone, before heading downstairs.

It took some effort, but Edward dislodged himself from the letters, conceding that if he continued to read them it would only hinder his mood even more. He instead moved to the other side of the room, boxes seemingly filled with more household items that lost their purpose over the years. He sorted things quietly for several hours, wrapping the precious pieces that could be donated, and setting anything else aside to be thrown away later. Esme checked in on him as soon as she returned, marveling at the pile of things that surrounded him, before leaving him to his own devices (not without a little prodding). Alice also popped by to say hello, but, as a girl who only valued old things as long as Jasper enjoyed them, she didn’t care much for the goblets Edward was sorting through and returned downstairs to help Esme finish peeling up the old wooden floor to reveal the original tile below it. 

He was both relieved and lonely. There was something peaceful in the work he was doing, taking several extra seconds to gently clean an old vase or reminisce fondly on the ceramic ashtray, but he was also starting to feel extremely isolated from the others the longer he was up there. Edward could hear the pairs as they worked, two doing genuine work while the other two changed from genuine demolition work to a game of karate chopping wall debris. 

It took a long time to get adjusted to the playful side that Emmett brought out in Jasper, but Edward always indulged them when it happened. He noticed the way he became comfier with the Cullens, noticed the way he allowed his gift to guide him more than before. No surprise he liked being around Alice the most, her infectious happy attitude must be a nice change for him, but more often than not Jasper let his leading emotion seek out the others in the house that matched him. Almost a reassurance of his own feelings, Edward mused, a confirmation that what he was feeling was correct. Emmett was open and inviting, even when he didn’t want to be, so it was easy for Jasper to get overtaken by his emotions, which, more often than not, was some form of goofiness. The life that Jasper led, both human and vampire, made plenty of patience for some tomfoolery, a chance to act like the stupid 19-year-old he should have been. And, with the guilt that has been eating Emmett up recently, it was nice to have a break, to feel a little normal, as normal as he could, at least for a little while. 

He let the thoughts of the two on the floor below him play like a song in his head, broken up only by the childlike giggle they would let out when a piece of debris exploded into fine dust. He knew Esme wouldn’t be too upset if he joined them, in fact, she would probably be overjoyed just like she always was when her kids got along. There was so little she asked for, after all. 

But he was far too comfortable to move now, and there was something…therapeutic about sorting the old pieces of jewelry, carefully tucking them into spare pieces of fabric or their appropriate boxes. This one was too rusted, barely hanging together, so he dumped it into the trash, but the one next to it only needed a good wash before it was as good as new. This one had a beautiful gem, so he ripped it out of the crumbling metal to deposit it into a small box he found, before carefully wrapping the intricate necklace that was hidden underneath. The methodic movements had him in a nice rhythm, similar to the trance he entered when he organized his music back at the house or the books in his Father’s library. Pick up, examine, wrap, toss, pack, repeat.

He moved slowly, or as slowly as a vampire did when no one was looking, tracing his hand over each piece with sharp eyes, using the little he knew about history and its many ages to see if anything was worth salvaging. He knew Jasper would throttle him if there was any historical value in any of the pieces that he tossed, so he paid extra attention to those that looked well-loved or unworn. Every new item in his hand gave him a little more space for mindless thinking, a perk of being a vampire if he was being honest, trying hard to ignore the stray thought here and there of the sadness of the old owner’s last few years. 

He stood, reaching for another jewelry box that was shoved just as carelessly as the other things, this one half hanging off an armoire. This box was similar to the others, covered in dust that swept away to reveal the complicated gold flower design. The dark blue outside still held a brilliant shine, the gold siding still looking good despite the time it’s been hiding. The inside was velvet lined, sparse save for a few earrings and a necklace that miraculously looked in good condition despite the relatively cheap material it was made out of. Silver, he knew, would have tarnished left in this musty attic for as long as the other items up there, but this was perfectly new, the pendant in an intricate frame surrounding the painting of a Victorian couple that almost looked freshly done. Edward’s finger hesitated over it, tracing the air around it. For some reason, this piece in particular caused him pause, some strange feeling surrounding it, almost like it was thrumming with life. The design was similar to something he recalled seeing only a moment ago…

His eyes raised sharply, suddenly, scanning across the room towards the painting propped up on the far wall. Though draped with a piece of velvet, a curtain of some kind, it was tossed haphazardly enough that he could make out the bottom half of a portrait. A woman, though he couldn’t tell the age from there, poised and delicate in her stiff posture. Her dress was beautiful, no doubt even more so in real life, deep blue and covered in layers of ruffles and lace. The large sleeves hung low on her shoulders, exposing her collar bones and the beautiful, ornate necklace hung around her neck. Near identical to the one that he had in his hand, but this painted woman wore it attached to a velvet collar, glimmering gold instead of the dull silver in his hand. 

A replica? He thought to himself. But why make a replica out of different materials?

His eyes slowly drifted back over to the stack of letters across the room. Though he didn’t have a single letter from the man himself, no doubt lost to time and recycled a hundred times into modern things, there were very clear indicators of the life he led, both in the words of others and the items around him. A loving wife, though not a hint of her things despite the portrait and a replica necklace, a daughter he adored more than life itself, an accident or accidents that took them both away from him. The countless different acquaintances and friends that wrote to him in his time of grief and well after. Edward tried to wrack his mind for notable events of the time, things that maybe could be the reason for those who obviously loved the man to be so far away in his time of need, and felt the hole in his being ache in sympathy. 

All alone for the last years of his life without anyone to mourn with him, to take care of him. No one to take care of his things after he passed, beyond shoving all of his possessions into the attic, never to be seen again.

He couldn’t help his eyes from focusing, eyeing the writing on pile of papers he barely made halfway through, his keen vision drifted over the words he could see. 

“Condolences…our hearts…happier place…” he murmured to himself, feeling both annoyed and emotional. He knew logically that the people in the letter were just trying to offer some comfort, a scrap of empathy for a man who presumably lost everything dear to him, but just as he felt, the words read as nothing short of empty. He knew from experience that human families were greedy (so far he had been very lucky in his second existence that his family wasn’t), he’s faux inherited to himself more than once with complications from long-distance relatives trying to get a scrap of the fortune he possessed, so the flutter of kinship deep within him wasn’t surprising to feel. He barely registered the brush of cool metal under his hand as he thought through the various ways he could organize the delicate letters to unravel the man’s life. A week they had been there, a week pulling apart the floorboards of a place this man may have been born and died in with no regard at all for who he was. And now, presented with the opportunity to learn, how could he pass that up? It was the closest thing to getting to know the man outside of a supernatural force, and as far as he was aware, there was no such thing as-

“--despite the many chances you’ve had, you continue to drift away! How is your hand close and yet so far from its surface? Lower your finger a touch and…”

There was so little that could startle a creature like him. 

Children of the Moon? Sure. Shapeshifters? Probably, but he’d never openly admit it. He hadn’t had any experiences with witches or spellcasters, though Carlisle insists they’re out there somewhere. Honestly, it was hard for even another vampire to surprise them, let alone anything remotely close to human. But here he was, startled in a way he had never experienced before, the closest he could fathom a human heart attack would feel like.

With a yelp, he stumbled back from the voice. If he were any less a creature, he would have been on the floor in shock, tripping over the mess under him in a humiliating manner.

“Oh!” His head whipped up at the delicate voice. And, there, before him, was a ghost.

______________________________________________________________

read more chapters on ao3! l masterlist  l twilight one shots

[moon-is-a-cryptid]

AH! HERE ME OUT ON THIS ONE!

Pro-Hero Shoto goes to visit his family! (In a world where endeavor is somewhat forgiven and Rei is back home and safe). And because Fuyumi is the way she is, she asks Shoto to bring his girlfriend(reader) and Nastuo, Rei, and Enji second that because they all want to know the mystery girl who makes Shoto light up so much is. (and endeavor really wants to know how to make shoto like him).

So when Shoto and reader get there its a nice greeting with everyone and through out the dinner and rest of the time they are there Reader is constantly praising Shoto, Cupping his cheeks, tracing his scar in an affectionate way, ruffling his hair, So many words of affirmation, Just all in all praising him and making him feel special. And Every time Shoto just Lights UP.

And on top of that reader is so polite and gets along with absolutely everyone.

Lemon, my sweet honey pot is it too late to say I love you and that brain of yours 😩🫶🏻 this is such a good idea!

Summer lovin’

⭐️pairing: Shoto Todoroki x F!Reader

⭐️CW: pure tooth rotting fluff

⭐️Type and A/N: placed in the summertime, preexisting relationship, despite my hate for enji I made him tolerable if the dress isn't your style feel free to change it! had Summer Nights from Grease playing in my head while I wrote this, used a french nickname for sho because I live in a world where sho dates someone who knows another language, I've given the reader a quirk as well

Mon chéri- My darling

As the car pulls to a stop outside of the Todoroki household, you feel your heartbeat quicken. Shoto steps out of the car and you watch as he walks around to open the door for you, offering his hand out you gratefully take it to exit the car. "Are you sure you're okay with this my love?" He asks while you smooth out your dress, "Mon chéri, I told you its okay, we've been together a while I should meet them" You look up at him with a soft smile. You two have been together for almost a year and have dodged meeting them for Shoto's anxiety and your own. His father, although forgiven was still tactical about Shoto as a hero, worried he wouldn't approve as the quirk you have isn't quite a match for his quirk. He had pestered Shoto about it a few times after finding out about the girlfriend Shoto had acquired.

After a few seconds, you and Shoto make your way to the door, his hand intertwined with yours, he knocks. Rei opens the door "Shoto!" she smiles, giving him a small hug "and you must be Miss. Y/n, I'm Shotos mother Rei. So nice to meet you" she beams giving you a small bow that you return. Shoto guides you into the house, both of you slipping off your shoes before making your way to the living room where Enji and Natsou sit on the couch, with backs toward you watching a sports event. Shoto clears his throat to get their attention, the loose grip you had on his hand tightens as Natsou leans his head back and Enji turns.

"Whoa, Shoto! you actually brought her! i was starting to think you'd, made her up" Natsou laughs standing up from the couch. "I'm Natsuo" Natsou ruffled Shoto's hair "This guy's big brother" you giggle and give a small bow "Y/N L/N, but please call me Y/N" Shoto grunts moving his head away from his older sibling, his eyes meet yours and fill with adoration as you reach up and fix his now erratic locks. With a small bow of the head while still fixing Shotos hair "Nice to meet you Endeavor."

"Enji, you may call me Enji while you are here" Enji Stands to bow Shotos eyes flick to him, the solemn expression returning to his face "If you'd like to sit we are watching the sports festival for this year, Rei and Fyumi are finishing up lunch." Enji sits back down "you can meet Fyumi later lets let them finish" Shoto softly says as he guides you to the couch with Natsou taking a seat in the chair next to Enji. Shoto takes your hand once again in his, rubbing soft circles into your knuckles to help ease your anxiety. the awkward silence making the air feel thick enough to cut through is present for about five minutes before Enji breaks it "So, Y/N," you turn your head in Enjis direction with a curious look, ready to answer any questions thrown at you "since Shoto refuses to tell me, I must ask what is your quirk?" heat rises to your cheeks turning them a Small shade of pink. "oh uhm-" is all you can get out before Shoto speaks up "father, didn't mom tell you to be nice?" the slightly annoyed tone in his voice tells you Shoto is on edge with his anxiety as well. "Sho, Mon chéri it's okay I can tell him" You softly smile at Enji "My quirk is called Green House, When I activate my quirk I can make plants grow, depending on how strong of emotion I put forth will affect the Plants strength and my ability to use them" you stick your hand out and sprout a lotus flower to fill your palm "I can grow them out of my skin or in a medium area of land around me, i just have to get plenty of sun and water to make them grow"

As you are explaining the extent of your quirk to Enji, Natsou's eyes flick from the TV to Shoto. Shoto's eyes have softened from his usual solemn expression, a smile tugging on his mouth as he looks at you with what can be described as pure love. "and what do you do with this quirk? If you're a hero I haven't heard about you." Enji gruffed out "oh well, I run a flower shop!" you return with the pink in your cheeks deepening Enji lets out a 'hm' before Rei enters the room snapping everyone's attention "Lunch is ready and on the table"

Shoto pulls out a chair for you to sit down before sitting himself down beside you, the table set with plates of Karaage. Fyumi sits across from you "Oh you must be Y/N, Shoto has told me all about you when we have our lunches!" Fyumi smiles, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose "Shoto talks about you a lot as well Fyumi, its nice to meet you" you bow your head slightly as everyone begins to eat their lunch, Rei and Fyumi asks you questions as to what you do for a living, what school you went to, how you and Shoto met. with each answer, your anxiety lessens. Looking over at Shoto beside you as you tell the story of how you met when Shoto used your flower shop as a hideout from crazed fans and paparazzi, Fyumi and Rei witness the same look Natsuo did when you had been talking about your quirk, and how Shoto seems to only fall deeper in love when you take your napkin to wipe the sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Shoto's Tag list 🏷️: There's nothing here...

Masterlist📃

[channnel]

Okay, so- My drawing of Jules is nearly done BUT my hand hurts from drawing the flowers and my eyes hurt cause I've been staring at my tab for a week and my back's a banana now.

So, since I haven't posted some actual art in this blog- Here are my random headcanons of the brothers in My Dear hatchet man. This is purely fan-made, alright? I'm bored and this headcanons have been in my mind for months.

Claude

Claude fully knows that he looks good in dark colors and will not wear any other hues even if you paid him. Even if it's summer, he will still wear dark clothes.

The type of man that will glare down a kid in public if the kid is being a little shit (Same goes to the parent).

Claude would stare at wall for long minutes before answering a call from Jules.

Will judge Jules' healthy eating diet despite having the same exact diet.

The type of guy that hates being treated differently because he's handsome but also often uses the same treatment to get what he wants.

Nobody in his workplace know who he is. Nobody knows where he lives, nobody knows if he has any family- pretty sure that most of his ex-partners doesn't even know that he got younger brothers, and so on, and so forth. They just knew that Claude is a rich, good-looking photographer with a French accent.

Believes that Alan is probably working in an organized crime, he watches the news just in case Alan's name come out... Same goes to James.

Jules

Use filters, stickers and quotes in all of his social media post.

90% of what he says are all passive-aggressive and he genuinely thinks that he helps people.

Probably has a bit of a hoarding problem.

Would judge James' DIY hobby despite also doing it.

The type that would watch a kid being a little piece of shit and would promptly tell the nearest person where their parents at and judge their parenting style. same thing goes with noisy pets in public.

Would give Claude fruit bouquet everytime they meet cause Jules know damn well that Claude can't throw it out and will be force to appreciate and eat Jules' gift so it will not rot.

Would say to others that Alan simply move away and that they haven't talked for a long time. His neighbors and friends probably believed that Jules' younger brother is simply living in a cottage with a bunch of dogs and cats. Would also say made-up stories of Alan if his neighbors asked more before promptly shutting it down.

Alan (Honestly, I don't have much headcanons on the two younger bros)

Will recite the full script of any classic horror movie in rapid succession, filled with actions and diy sound effects. If it's night time, then get ready for him to shout out every words.

Still uses Canadian terms rather than the American one.

Sometimes wonder if he looks cool using other types of weapons instead of a hatchet. Knows a lot of trickshots with his hatchet.

Doesnt like statues.

knows every domestic dogs and cats in Doomsbury, he even has his own names for them and he probably knows the pets even more in a spiritual level.

is also the type that would glare down a kid if they're being an annoying piece of shit, and immediately disappear if the kid starts crying.

In college au, I like to headcanon that not only did the boss in that AU gave him a scholarship- but also hide an unfortunate event between Alan, a hatchet, and some guy.

James

⬆️That's him everytime he argued with someone, lost a friend, or had another break up.

Believes that Alan is now living in a forest away from society, which is somewhat accurate. Often thinks about Alan a lot, and wonder if he's doing okay after the incident- doesn't hide away the fact that Alan ran away and will tell what actually happened to very, very close friends of his.

The type of guy that would deliberately trip a kid in public without the parents noticing- especially if the kid is being a little shit.

"Shit, I accidentally have way too much fun solving those problems in my exam and now my brothers are gonna expect better from me" Got immediately accused of cheating.

Saw his two older brothers years after the incident but was disappointed to see that they haven't changed, so he doesn't talk to them nor accept Jules' multiple invites. Ended up changing his number after some time, did not regret about it.

Always give himself a pep talk everytime he woke up.

Can efficiently argue with someone in fluent sign language without pause, Style all of his clothes on his own, has wrote numerous songs in his guitar, very good at Parkour, and he can juggle three crowbars.

Dixon Dallas, Good lookin.

And that's all folks.

[karkkidoeswriting]

Writing update

I haven't done these in a while! Mostly because I haven't written much past couple of years. Well I have written, but mostly disconnected scenes, not actually any of the wips. I haven't had much time and I got a pretty bad burnout from uni which I'm still recovering from. I need to like properly get into the story and in my case that means getting a brain rot and obsessing over the story non-stop to be able to write it. But when I have important uni work to do, I can't get too obsessed or I will neglect them. That's why I've been writing disconnected scenes. Then I'm obsessing over one scene and the obsession will pass after I've gotten it off my system and written it. That doesn't derail my obligations too bad.

After I was able to recover a bit during the summer break, I got back into writing Bear Castle Chronicles. I'm more capable of handling more things, but I have one fear of the brain rot getting out of hand and overtaking too much of my time and energy :'D

I've said before that after I took a break from BCC, I decided to change a lot of things and restart it for the millionth time. A major shift is that it now has a narrator, the Bear. It's the titular bear of the Bear Castle, the guardian spirit of the main sibling's clan. It can see the minds of the clan members and through that it tells the chronicles (addressing itself in third person) and also literally in-world curates the in-world text that is the Bear Castle Chronicles by possessing the Chronicler (but that comes into play mostly in the later books). I'm now writing it in English too. I'm not far in this version, I've written (almost) the prologue and I'm two chapters into Valeri's storyline, which is a total of slightly over 10K words.

Not sure if I'll attempt nano this year. I would not aim to win and not follow the rules like usually. But if I will I would probably continue writing BCC. I'll see if I'm doing okay with uni work when it comes around.

Here's a little excerpt from Valeri's first chapter!

Pain shot through his body. He gasped for air until he was kicked in the stomach again. Blood dripped from his mouth to the sand. His head was spinning. Everything around him faded, except his opponent. In his mind there was only image of his brother. He had to gather his strength. He had to get up. When the other leg left the ground, grimacing he leaned on his hands and kicked the leg still on the ground. The lieutenant lost his balance falling backwards. Valeri acted quickly. He kicked sand to the lieutenant’s face and used the confusion to get on top of him and hit him in the face with all the strength he had left. The lieutenant tried to wrestle him. Valeri hit him again. And again. And again until his face was cover in blood. Only the revolting sound of fist against flesh rang in his ears. Finally, when the lieutenant raised his hands in surrender, Valeri snapped back to reality. Panting and spitting blood, Valeri stumbled to the sand from the top of the man. There was a roaring applause from the Virénian side of the audience. He felt sick. Not only because of the pain in his stomach. For a moment he had felt like he was fighting for his life. He had almost killed that man. He was shaking, when he slowly got up to his feet. He offered his hand to the Angusian lieutenant, who had managed to sit up. For a moment the lieutenant hesitated. Then he took his arm and Valeri pulled him up as his comrades rushed to assist him. He knew. He had felt that Valeri had fought to kill. People gathered around Valeri. He didn’t see them, didn’t hear them. The touches of the faceless hands made him flinch. He wanted out, away. The Bear felt his mind fade. It watched as he stood motionless, face bloodied and stern, while the people around him joked and congratulated. No one noticed his distress. He moved passed them to his clothing and hung them on, unaware of himself. The Bear could only observe. Something human stirred in it. This child shouldn’t have been here. Someday he would find his way back home.

Tag list under the cut. Let me know if you want to be removed or added!!

BCC tag list: @siarven @worldbuildng @emilyoracle @frvnwrites @kainablue @writingrosesonneptune @contes-de-rheio @faelanvance @outpost51 @dotr-rose-love

[3416]

Listening to good luck babe! by Chapelle Roan and can't get this brain rot several years in the future 1634 AU out of my head because it's just SO Mitch coded. I've never understood why all the fanfics have Mitch as this super out there confident gay when he's arguably the most jock like good Canadian boy that wakes up decades later and realizes oh shittt.... meanwhile Auston confident bi king has been seeing dudes on the DL for years and like lol. Lmao even get back to me when you get over yourself and realize this isn't ever going to go away idiot... good luck babe!!

i really need to get into chapelle roan... loved everything i've seen and heard, i'm just not in a music headspace rn, idk but LOVE THIS. YOU GET ITT TT T T T TTTTT

i try to cut fic characterization some slack bc we all see them differently obv, and if i put myself in the shoes of some of these writers, esp back when auston and mitch were rookies... they prob DID look different than they do now with a more fully formed picture year after year. auston more the calm/quiet/repressed one and mitch the flamboyant rookie who latched himself onto 4983242 men and was open and happy w his emotions before he kinda got smothered by the hate and media..., so i get where the initial thoughts come from but. you are absolutely RIGHT that where they actually stand as people in an rpf canon space imo is like......... mitch is heavily like Just Bros ! Just Dude Things ! Wanna spend my life around my Guys and it's where I'm happiest and most myself ! while going and following the conventional path of marrying your longtime teenage sweetheart with 2.5 kids (ok just zeus for now) in the suburbs of your hometown. auston's certainly come into his own in a lot of ways externally, which i love to interpret that as internally too... figured out what he likes and doesn't... knows himself pretty well. splits time between his fancy condo townhouse in toronto where he calls home now but ALSO in his massive ass summer mansion in arizona. best of both worlds in lots of ways.

[landinrris]

(same anon as the one who yapped about early norrix)

& NOW FROM A FICTIONAL ROMANTICIZED POV BC I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT IT.

i know a lot of ppl headcanon them as quick, instant connection, fast and furious kinda love. met in 2022 and could not be separated since. my counter-offer: slow burn.

think about how lando was listening to martins music for a while now. think about them being moots before they met in 2022. (i....think. not 100% sure but LET ME HAVE THIS.) think about how their in-between mutual friend was probably max v, who we all know is a close friend of both martin and lando. THINK about the ANTICIPATION. THE LONGING. THE WATCHING EACH OTHER THROUGH SCREENS. THE BUILDUP TO THEIR FIRST MEETING.

like to me nothing will ever be as slow burn-y as being internet besties. maybe they were friends and then they saw each other in person and BOOM. fell in love. used the winter break as their honeymoon. wrote songs about him. soft launched on instagram. stole his shirt. the rest is history.

Hello for part 2! 😅

Oof yeah, I do love a good slowburn. If you will allow me to add my two cents into the (fictionalized) shippy side of things. The slowburn of when they met is great especially when you consider that Lando was still in a relationship in August Ibiza 2022. They stay friendly, Lando throws himself into DJing because Martin encourages it and it's an excuse to hang out together outside of race weekends.

When they go to Finland/Ibiza in January 2023, that's when things start to slowly shift. Maybe they start something casual? But by the time they get to New York/Canada, they're on the downward spiral to giving in/acknowledging actual feelings. Up until recently, I liked to headcanon that Spa 2023 was the breaking point. When you consider Lando sits as close as he can get backstage during the Tomorrowland set while Max sits like 5 miles away with Kelly and the rest of the family. Then following the set, Martin and Lando go out together, and then the next morning/afternoon Lando's in Amsterdam posting views from Martin's balcony. Cue summer and the rest of the season. The way Lando (and Jon) is so over-the-moon to see Martin in Vegas... [I've talked about my thoughts on this scenario in a little more detail here]

And then I spent the last three months rotting with Josie about the prospect that maybe somewhere in these last months is a better timeline. Maybe in Vegas they were on the precipice-- aware of their feelings but unsure how to act on them yet. Martin making the effort to show up in France for the ski trip in the middle of his busy end to the year was pretty significant, and it's been history ever since.

And now post winter holidays, they're comfortable enough in who they are and their relationship that they don't mind toeing the line that much more until it gets to an "if you know, you know," type thing.

[selamat-linting]

anyway another game update. because the last one isnt done

1. hardrock version

so, last few entries, i talked about getting silkworm and backpacks. turns out these things arent on my version of tfc. its on the hardrock version that requires you to boil your water, added a temperature system, and i think it also has tornados and piranhas? its much harder than the one i played. pro tip: if your installing the mod, dont just install tfc. i had a hard time with a lot of recipes because the tfc field guide on its own isnt very detailed. i got a lot better once i installed the essential beginner modpack that include map and coord help and JEI support to look up crafting recipes. even the harder version like hardrock was actually a modpack i believe.

tfc actually had a lot of version like tfc tng that only covers 1.18+ update, 1.20 current version, tfc plus, tfc hardcore, even the old original versions like 1.7.10 that came out ten years ago. the rule is, when in doubt, check field guide on github, install JEI mod, or ask their discord.

2. welding

anyway, back to the game. since my thatch bed is done and all i have to do is wait for the alpaca to be ready to shear again, i decided to make an anvil.

welding is an evil mechanic. the charcoal forge is evil too. i swear watching the copper ingot heats up is like watching water boil. but then if i look away and do something else the copper gets too hot and disappears. i lost quite a bit of ingots during the trial and error process. it is quite satisfying to see my first double ingots though. and crafting some bellows helped lot in making the forge heats up faster, and once you got it handled down, you slowly gets used to it and it becomes easy.

and then, you got your first copper anvil.

smithing is more fun and less tedious, because its a mini-game. but if there's one thing i want to automate, its that. more motivation for me to start making windmills. but then i realized the gear box needed to harness mechanical powers are made of brass, a metall alloy so i might have to do a lot of smithing manual anyway. fml

but seriously, smithing isnt as bad as welding things in a stone anvil. the waiting game isnt as horrible. i think, all the trouble i got just for my new copper boots and copper shields are worth it. im actually planning to do a helmet, but i dont have enough copper right now.

you know, i've been thinking of making a beginner's welding/smithing guide because there is a lot of ppl complaining abt it. i think once you got it handled its fun, but the documentation are hard to get through if youre very much a beginner gamer. i might not help ppl do a perfectly forged item (yet) but i can make crafting a copper anvil less of a pain in the ass.

3. farming / food

i might have made a mistake in moving after my base burned down. my place is cold. it has some very bright summers and spring, but its snowing more times in the year than it is sunny. its good for a steady supply of deer meat, but not good for farming.

but i still have quite a bit of a harvest. its so much that i need to make an extra food container and some of the crops rot because i just cant eat everything in time even when i mix everything up in soups and sandwiches. i can preserve and pickle things up more but i need vinegar and it requires sugar which grow from sugar canes and it doesnt grow in my area and maybe i also need to make jams so i have to make a jar but then that requires glassworking and turns out i need to craft a blowpipe and that requires. iron. and smithing on the anvil. astagfirullah.

back to farming, i can at least mitigate the short planting and growing season by using fertilizers to make things grow faster. which is where the crop rotation part came in. fertilizers have different ratio of phosphorus, potassium, and nitrogen, while plants require just one of said nutrients. if i keep planting the same type of seed in the same farm soil, the nutrients that affect its growth will slowly deplete along with the crop yield over time while the other nutrients that could be used to double the yield and make faster growing time are left unused in the soil. there is also the matter of some plants being more resistant to cold weather like cabbages and barleys. i might need to make a excel sheet arranging the most efficient crop rotation and the best way to get as much out of the short planting season of my base's cold climate.

(to be continued because this has gotten too long already!)

[somewitchymusings]

End-of-year witchcraft in the Southern Hemisphere

I've been thinking a lot about how we do end-of-year witchy stuff during the summer. Many of the witchy creators I follow talk so much about winter being this great time to reflect on the year, with the Winter Solstice being this cosy, meditative time for reflection. They then speak to the welcoming of the sun during the solstice, allowing you to dream big for 2024 and set those goals and intentions which get brighter with the sun, etc, etc. Naturally, these kind of descriptions and energies aren't super helpful for me in the Southern Hemisphere. As such, I have been trying to cultivate my reflections and new-year dreamings to move with the unique weather.

I just celebrated the Summer Solstice/Litha. It was sunny, I said prayers to Helios, bought some sun flowers for my home, and did a big spring clean. I feel a big clean before harvest season/Lammas or the "height" of the hot summer makes most sense for my practice. It clears out space for the upcoming year and helps me ground before the busyness of Christmas.

Although that day happened to be sunny, as I write this post a great thunderstorm is rolling in. Living in Naarm/Melbourne (Australia), our weather is pretty inconsistent (yeah the: "melbourne has 6 seasons in 1 day!" comment is pretty true). The Wurrundjeri people and other Kulin nation peoples call this season Garrawang, Kangaroo-Apple Season. It is characterised by changing, thundering weather and long days with short nights. I honestly feel that this chaotic weather suits the "silly season," especially as a queer person when holidays are always that bit trickier. I'm no chaos magician, but I think it would make a lot of sense to harness that in a way that feels good to you. I think this energy is overlooked by trying to fit our experience of weather to the (Celtic, and frequently Americanised) Wheel of the Year - just because it is "summer" really doesn't mean it's all about sunshine magick. Especially in Australia where summers can be a brutal time for many crops.

For me, this shifting weather has been an opportunity to reflect on the previous year of 2023. Not just reminding myself of things I achieved, but things I didn't. Some goals can move into the new year, but many I came to realise were just unrealistic or didn't actually resonate with me and the things that make me happy. I have a tendensy to over-interlectualise my problems - trying to find reasons for not achieving or under-achieving. All of this is, of course, a whole bunch of capitalist brain-rot, but nevertheless the perfectionist in me struggles with the New Year. Instead, I try to reframe and witness that there is a lot that is entirely outside my control. I'll be writing out some of these things on paper, burning them, and blowing them out to the wind for the chaotic weather to take away - a symbolic reminder to go-with-the-flow and that the wheel keeps turning. I don't know about others, but The World and Temperance have been showing up in my readings pretty consistently.

I see this time as very 9 of Wands vibes, like a message of push through: there's more goodness to come! (i.e. the wands court cards, and the harvest season/Lammas/the height of summer). But also, there will there be much change, and change is good (i.e. New Years, this thundering weather, how Autumn proceeds summer). Feels appropriate that the 10 of wands - a card of carrying too many burdens - proceeds this. We then get that lovely playful page of wands, keen to explore and create. End-of-year reflection, to me in the Southern Hemisphere, is not so much a cosy, introspective time; but instead a fiery, chaotic, energetic time. I have to actively cultivate calm moments, because everything else is shifting. And as everything shifts, I'm finding ways to go-with-the-flow and shift with it - honoring what I can't control.

[ask-thedepressedkidatthetable]

░𝒲𝐼𝒫 𝑀𝑒𝓂𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒲𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈

Fill out the form for your current WIP ( Finished it! Posted on my so called "art" blog here ) and tag your fellow writers to share the fun!

TAGGED BY: @heartxshaped-bruises TAGGING: @ask-flip-frost @exquisitexagony @eeliabwrites @fangsandmagic @godstrayed @wehavefoundthestars

( Wild shots coming in here but hopefully I hit a mark on some of you?? )

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒯𝒾𝓉𝓁𝑒? Extinction. Not like, amazing, but it certainly sets the tone and sometimes a simple title works best.

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒? Horror with some psychological and mystery themes. I think it's a bit short to really claim it as a mystery or psychological horror since it has a somewhat open-and-shut ending but the mood was certainly there.

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓈? Isolation, Falling into insanity, Sickness, Rot and Death

𝑀𝑜𝑜𝒹𝒷𝑜𝒶𝓇𝒹 / 𝒜𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓉𝒾𝒸? ( Included above! )

𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝐿𝒾𝓃𝑒 / 𝐿𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝐿𝒾𝓃𝑒 / 𝐹𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝐿𝒾𝓃𝑒? Here's the first line to ( hopefully ) pull you in:

"There was a day no more missing posters were pinned to the old cork board and the morning commute was quiet."

𝒞𝓊𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉? 931 - It's a short-story!! Plus, I've been struggling with inspiration for another novel or however you want to call it, a decent sized book.

𝒜𝓃𝓎 𝐼𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈? Actually took up the whole short-story concept after reading a collection from Shirley Jackson, in addition to The Haunting Of Hill House and We Have Always Lived In The Castle. I was particularly moved with Pillar Of Salt and The Summer People. That is my exact brand of horror and I thought it'd be fun to play with the genre and format length. Since I've been struggling with the longer stuff, trying to shift my mindset away from this idea that it has to have a high word count to be good.

𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 / 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓂𝑒 𝒮𝑜𝓃𝑔(𝓈)? Just since they fit the aesthetic :)

Remedy - Kaiti Kink Ensemble

Lullaby Of Woe - Ashley Serena

The Foundations Of Decay - My Chemical Romance

𝒜𝓃𝓎 𝒮𝓆𝓊𝒾𝒸𝓀 / 𝒯𝓇𝒾𝑔𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈? I feel like the themes section of this covered it pretty well. It doesn't have a happy ending if that bothers you.

[nyctophobia-au]

Where I've Been

Okay, so, 'sup babygrills. This is going to be a bit of a lengthy post, but I feel like I should update followers on here as to where I've been because I haven't been active for, like, months.

If you don't care to read all of the stuff under the cut, that's fine. Here's my TL;DR: I've been having issues with mental illness, trauma, motivation, gender dysphoria (?), and have been busy with college and YouTube/social media stuff. However, luckily my HK special interest has returned and I plan on posting more often hopefully. (Mild cw for mental health mentions ig.)

Okay, so, to begin, I've been gone a lot due to responsibilities outside of making Nyctophobia content. So, up until recently, I've been working on graduating from college. I've been finishing up my final class this Summer, but last quarter in the Spring was really difficult for me time-wise and mental health-wise. I've had a lot of issues with depression and anxiety throughout my life, and being at college was torturous and sapped all of my energy. It did not help that, last quarter, I had to be there at the college for six hours of my day five days a week. It was not easy to make art for myself and my channel, much less for this blog.

Outside of college, and I've mentioned this before in passing, but I also make YouTube videos and, at the moment, YT is my income (alongside comms as well). I've been pretty focused on keeping my my schedule at least a little bit consistent, and that alone has been draining and tiring. It also affects the kind of art that I can create, as I have to draw certain things for certain videos. I've been really weary when it comes to making content as of late, and I really need to take a small break so that I can work on stuff I actually want to work on rather than being stuck drawing certain things for the sake of videos I'm not inspired to make.

Pivoting more into specifics about my mental health, I have been needing to see a therapist for a long while, but I haven't had the motivation or the funds to pursue that option up until recently. Hopefully, I will be attending therapy soon. Last year in, uhm, September I had a particularly bad mental health episode and I've come to realise that some events that happened during that time have left me with trauma that I'm still currently working past and healing from. I've had issues with self-harm, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and self-perception for a long time, but in the Spring they were stifling and impossible to ignore. Lately, they have been better, though. So, that's nice. There hasn't been just the usual stuff lately (oh no, that's be too easy), but I've gotten jumpscared with gender issues (hooray, my favourite /s) during this time, and am struggling with my self-perception regarding my gender up to current day. (Hi, I currently go by Rot or Sexy Fictional Bug Enthusiast and my pronouns are they/them, but they may very well be they/he soon). Also, I had a bad identity crisis a couple of months ago and had to do this whole rebrand thing that was a lot of work and it kinda sucked away a lot of energy and time.

On top of all of that, ya boy's special interest metre has been focused primarily on OC stuff and other things outside of HK. It's pretty well-known that I have autism and Hollow Knight is one of my special interests. I'm unsure how it works for most people, but my fixations tend to come in waves and fluctuate (though super special meaningful ones stick for a long time). So, like, I had this whole issue with my mind always being fixated more on things outside of HK. It's been my OCs for a few months, but alongside that, I also suddenly became enraptured by The Owl House and my Digimon special interest sleeper agent returned for a hot second there. As of recently, I've been interested in HK again, but have been afraid to start/work on projects related to my AU because of me having to work on OC content for my channel and also for my friends who are invested.

As of right now, I have some more time on my hands to make the content I want to make, and my HK fixation is back (thank fuck). I've generally been doing a bit better in the mental health arena, but I will also be taking some time off of YT and posting videos regularly in favour of focusing on making stuff I want to make. So, like, expect me to be more active here for some time. I might be finishing a fic in the next month (hopefully) as well, and I have some general comic and art ideas. I just want to draw Auric again, god dammit. My beloved. <3

Anyways, thanks for reading if you did. Just figured I'd make a post about this for people who thought I died or something (and for the people who were once interested in my projects on here and are starving for content, lmao).

[lazarus-harp]

💌

share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited! // accepting !!

ah, thanks so much for sending this in! very much appreciated ... although, i fear my answer won't be super satisfying, alas. while i'm still in the etn fandom and i haven't stopped thinking about it since i fell into it during the summer of 2019, i also haven't exactly been working on wips. not in the traditional sense anyway. fanfic writing has been somewhat hard for me lately, so it's not even a matter of a change in fixation as much as it is a me problem -- but, despite all that preamble, there's plenty of ideas in the making and old pieces of writing i've yet to clean up and publish! much like ‘in your palm rests a wrung heart’, there's other miscellaneous drabbles rotting away in my docs. there's jmn, which rested at 18k ( though somehow the file corrupted and deleted a good couple thousand, ugh ), a matleen oneshot i never managed to finish, and a silly matny thing i wrote for funsies. as for what i'm excited about? well, this is a prime thing in all my fics, but for these wips and any upcoming ideas i'm always eager to share peeks into character dynamics or complexity. i love showing off two humans who make constant mistakes and hurt each other, but there's a genuine love festering within them. all of that, and any variations, are a theme for me as a writer ; it's what i like to write, it's why i loved etn as much as i did, and this is what has me excited! when it comes to sharing and actually writing at least, haha.

here's some snippets, since it's only right for me to share! this is from jmn, probably my favorite section of the entire fic that touches upon joey's complexity & grief ;

( annnnd bonus joey being joey, because he's such a funny jerk sometimes ;

now the matleen bit, which was all secretly a colleen character study since i adore her prickly 'i can't stop being an asshole' behavior ;

and finally, matny. it's no surprise i'm a huge lover of this ship and pioneered it, but i'm of the firm belief this relationship isn't always the most healthiest -- or even the easiest for the two of them, given just how they are as people. their issues and problems as a couple fascinate me greatly, and i'm always raving to talk about it, but for now a simple preview of them struggling will do ;

this has gotten long and i think i overshared more writing then needed but hey! hope this makes up for my lack of current wip writing. haven't touched on the plethora of fic ideas for etn yet, although i think that'll be saved for another question <3 thanks again! this was so fun to answer!

[hana-the-ghostieee]

absolutely. just YES I WANT TO GIVE THEM THE WHOLE WORLD AND HAVE THEM DO FLUFFY THINGS EVERY OTHER DAY BECAUSE WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA~!!! but also i kind of want to break them up and have one of them go through literal hell and then the other's just. oblivious (and then the make up is just a lot better cuz ~healing~ and ~intense passionate romantic stuff~)

lemme take wolfstar as an example

so think like post-prank where they break-up cuz betrayal and whatevers yes you get the idea

uhm tw self-harm and suicide ig

like just give me a suicidal sirius where he cuts open his arms and legs with his quill and lacks sleep and hasn't eaten enough in lord knows how long and always wears like somewhat thick, full length clothes even in the summer to hide the fact that he stabs open his skin every night (no i'm not projecting i swear i just listen to tuyu a lot) (yeah i've been thinking about this a lot after reading, i think it was "how to fix things with grief" by @fishflipperfan and it hurts, especially chapter 5, just as much as the song Hide and Seek Alone which is a lot if you were wondering. it hurts but it hurts good tho)

all the while everyone else is just "??? okay what the heck why isn't this man w/ his friends i smell tea wutevr this is none of my business have a nice daaaaaaaaaaaaaay" "goodness gracious it's so hot outside why the hell are you wearing a jacket." they're basically unaware about the fact that his life has reached the lowest point it has been so far

ooh ooh and then a week before he attempts to end his life uhm he writes a short letter, something along the lines of "i got a ticket for the bus to the other world, get your vase with white flowers out or something i can't tell you what to do after all", you know just like a heads up and he finds every picture they (as in the marauders) took ever with his face on it and blanks it out (as in he blanks out his face with like ink, all really cool anonymous j-pop artist style)

and only then do people get suspicious. remus thinks about going up to him and asks what he's planning to do but sirius is just in this ~dIsSoCiAtIvE sTaTe~ and well that would be insensitive and he's doubting himself cuz he'd never do that, why would he and i don't know how to like show what suicide prevention would look like portrayed by someone that doesn't know it's actually going to happen so here have this pathetic paragraph instead

and then on the night (of course on a full moon) he finally attempts, uhm and writes his final note. it goes along the lines of "i got on the bus." and then insert lines from the song I'm getting on the bus to the other world, see ya! here (so think lines like

"i can't even count the amount of lives i ruined when i was young/i'd smile as i bury another life, and walk on my way/but thinking about it now, the person that should've died first, ah, that person should've been me"

"even though i act cheerful around all of these groups of people/i've completely lost my will to live"

"i'm just walking around in this hazy crowd/trying to display a life that seems worth living"

"is there any value in a life waiting to end?/am i being selfish? i don't know what to think/in a few years at most i'll be yet another nuisance/so just stab me, kill me and take me away"

"is there a meaning in a life waiting to end?/are there dreams and hopes in a life that wants to end?/there's NONE"

"what point is there in a life waiting to end?/"that sucks." "i get it." don't pretend you understand!/in another few years at most i'll still suffer here/so just stab me, kill me, take away everything and leave me here to rot")

he ends the note with a simple "see ya!" or something idk and takes the same route that fishflipperfan wrote him to in how to fix things with grief. jumping from the astronomy tower's window :P

he really doesn't care about the fact that his former/future lover will hear a freakishly loud thud and proceed to go out of his way to carry him to the hospital wing - just anyone that can help, he shouldn't be gone, right? i mean part of him (as in remus) is still processing whatever happened and that he's probably hallucinating but nope. and then james and peter follow suit and pretty much run after him

anyways they (as in pretty much everyone there) then proceed to take him to st. mungo's and resuscitate him

and it works!

kind of.

he's breathing, his heart is beating again but he's still unconscious. because his consciousness went into this free trial of the afterlife. [cue the song If There Was an Endpoint - where the protagonist of the song regrets killing themself, realizing they could've found love and warmth, the things they were looking for in a lifetime of wanting to disappear, had they just lived and carried on] of course the price was still his life which he right now has no control over (as in he can't give up his life cuz one everyone and bf is looking at him making sure he's alive and two well his spirit is in the afterlife free trial which is essentially the real world, but only he is there, alone)

anyways cue montage showing things sirius would've done but instead of him being there doing the thing, there's nothing (so like if he used to draw on his notes? empty chair, table with blank paper, quill and ink bottle. basically that one scene during the bridge from the music video for Trapped in the Past. oh and on his desk in transfiguration class there'd be a vase with white chrysanthemums because vases with flowers on student desks mean said student has died/got expelled/gone in a way that doesn't mean absent)

but slowly his senses start coming back (like over a span of another 3 weeks. don't ask me why three freaking weeks) and in those three weeks everyone's kind of grieving or not idk i don't speak for everyone and then everyone's just either really happy and everyone makes up and the world is right again and [insert very fluffy gay make-out session here] or really awkward cuz they practically drove him to suicide and now that he's back... uhm... sorry? (how are-how are we supposed to respond to this???) idk i haven't really figured that out yet but yeah ~ the end everyone lives ~

shipping two characters you love equally is difficult because on one hand, you want them both to be happy, but on the other, you want one of them to be put in danger and the other one to go absolutely batshitfucking insane to get them back