#inky knuckles posters

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Godzilla - art by Jake Smith (2023)

[rhythm-catsandwine]

Theater

Continuation of Beast.

“We’re watching that?” Justin pointed to the movie poster, which had bloody scratch marks, and a vampire tooth that stood out on a gray background. 

“It’s better than a haunted house.” Kirk tossed a kernel of popcorn in the air and caught it in his mouth. The butter and salt ratio was deemed perfect to him.

“Wot’s it bout?” Justin asked as he tapped the back of Adam’s hand with his knuckle. It was their sign that the other wanted to hold hands once the coast was clear.

Adam looked behind them. The only two people behind them were a hampster and a short Danish drummer. “It’s a romantic horror. A reverse of the classical wolves versus vamps.” He took Justin's hand and intertwined their fingers.

Lars stole a handful of popcorn from Kirks's bucket of salty, buttery heaven. "This is too salty."

" Get your own fucking popcorn." Kirk jerked his snack away, holding it up high above his head.

"Fine." Lars stomped away towards the concession stand.

"Ads," Justin stopped, tightening his grip on Adam's hand and fidgeting with the corner of his shirt with his other hand. "How scary is the film suposta be?

"It's not really horror. Just a romance between a vamp and wolf, and you can't have those two without at least some spooky elements." Adam rubbed the back of Justin's hand with the pad of his thumb. "There's no cheap jump scares. I promise."

Kirk could feel the unique tension that came from the paranoia of jump scares. He had taken Lars to a haunted house, causing him to be jumpy for a month.

After the double dinner date and a movie, Krik and Lars drove home in the inky black. "Is it just me or did the vamp and wolf remind me of Adam and Justin?"

Kirk laughed a bit as he drove along the curves in the road. "It's totally them in another life."

"Hey, can you pull over? I gotta piss again?"

"Why did you get the fucking forty-ounce Coke?"

"You ate way too much candy and threw up halfway through the movie."

"Whatever," Kirk said as he pulled into the parking lot of a gas station.

Justin and Adam decided to take the long way home through the forest. They could hear a lone wolf howl at the moon.

"Hey, Justin?"

"Wot?" He knew that tone of voice. Adam had some kinky idea for when they got to the bedroom.

"Do you still have that wolf tail you used to dress as a wolf for Halloween?"

"Yes."

Hidden Book of August or Ao3

[thatslikely]

lined-paper confessions - s.s.

lined-paper confessions - stiles stilinski x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of fighting (scott and jackson predictably), strict teachers

word count: 1.5k

a/n: head full of stiles rn... requests for our favorite sarcastic boy are open right now so send some in!

Why is every teacher at Beacon Hills High the absolute worst?

Mr. Harris had just rapidly climbed your (highly opinionated) mental ranks to number one: your new least favorite educator. Giving you after-school detention, for doing nothing but watching with horror plastered on your face as Scott McCall, Stiles’ best friend, threw punches left and right at a topless, water-drenched Jackson, who reciprocated every strike as if he were nothing but a reflection. Seriously?

Previously, you had simply been sauntering down the locker-lined hall, Stiles on your right, passionately ranting about some unnamed problem that had him on edge for the past few weeks. You two turned down the empty, cinder-block-walled athletics corridor as he continued to agitatedly let off steam; the setting was decidedly unromantic given the unshakeable scent of overly pungent deodorant and mildew that was all too familiar. 

You clung to every word emitted from his mouth with an almost comical frown like it was a mug of steamy hot chocolate on a bone-chilling winter day. To your disgruntlement, however, his ramblings were stopped mid-sentence when Scott and his wealthy rival Jackson tumbled out from the dingy boys’ locker room, hands clenched in fists and eyes flaming with fury.

Stiles bent down in a rush, poorly attempting to conclude the boisterous brawl with furrowed, concerned brows, but he looked not dissimilar to a toothpick compared to the two burly teammates. 

“Detention for all of you!” Mr. Harris spat venomously as he dashed to the scene, his voice ringing above the grunts and slams that came from the fighting co-captains of the lacrosse team. “Detention now, Stilinski, McCall, Whittemore, Argent, and Y/L/N! Come on!”

You were dragged by the ear to the vacant library, a place which you often resided in whenever you studied with Stiles (often about mythical creatures, to your confusion). Posters that looked commonplace in an elementary school lined the walls, vibrantly encouraging students to pick up a book, or pen works for a writing contest of some sort.

Golden strips of fleeting sunlight peeked through the slatted blinds, and three gum wad-dotted tables were beckoning for the group of you to sit for the next two hours, or until Mr. Harris would finally decide that your soul had rotted away enough to release you.

You were sternly directed to the uncomfortably stiff chair opposite Allison’s, whose eyes shot daggers wherever they glanced. You flashed her an almost unregistrable smile, as if to say ‘hello.’ Slinging the loose straps of your backpack over your seat, your gaze flickering through the pin-drop silent room immediately locked on Stiles’ figure.

Boy, was he perfect.

The unbuttoned flannel over his shoulders speckled with mud from some vaguely mentioned adventure, his soft, tousled hair, that always had a lock out of place, his freckled face, that always bore some goofy expression, all of it. You couldn’t get enough; nothing would satiate your innermost desire for your lips to meld with his’, for your hands to intertwine through the hallways before class, after class, whenever, wherever. 

One eyebrow-cocked, knowing look from Scott in your direction sent Stiles’ umber eyes to meet yours’, an almost confused look swimming through them. He opened his mouth curiously, surely to ask a question, most likely something along the lines of, ‘is there a stain on my shirt?’, but before he could, Mr. Harris seethed, “Take your seats, now.”

Stiles whipped around, not wanting to anger Mr. Harris any further, and he took his seat. The room was quickly conquered with suffocating silence, which the snotty chemistry teacher was bent on ensuring.

You unsheathed a doodled notebook from your backpack, eventually indenting its pages with inky black strokes of various weights and thicknesses. Your habit of penning loose sketches, vague outlines, began one day in math when the clock seemed to tick aggravatingly slow, and every word from the teacher became drawled further and further until they dissolved into the hum of the air conditioning and the chewing of gum: the rhythm of the classroom.

The unconscious lines eventually formed to a familiar portrait: Stiles. Some would be tempted to call him your muse, your kindling of an elegant flame of creativity. You’d always nod your head in complicity more than agreement, for the smart, albeit rebellious boy meant eons more than that to you.  

You had just hit your stride, your wrist’s movements thoughtless and easy, when someone- rather something, hit the back of your head lightly with a small crunch. It was a small, scrunched piece of loose-leaf paper, ripped at the edge. 

You turned your head to the direction that the projectile was tossed at, but both Scott and Stiles appeared to be very, very engrossed in a hushed conversation, neither of their postures attempting to suggest anything suspicious.

You smoothed out the paper of the angular fruitwood table in front of you, attempting to read the almost unintelligible handwriting.

Hey :)

(this is from stiles, by the way)

Your mood lightened a smidge, a grin bubbling onto your face. You tore a piece of paper out of your notebook along the perforation.

Before you threw it in an arch in Stiles’ direction, you penned a response to his note.

Hey ;) how’s detention treating you?

(This is from y/n, by the way)

Crunch.

not great, as expected. I think I saw harris pick his nose. do you have any bleach to douse my eyes in by any chance?

You chuckled a little, a small smirk glimmering on your face for the first time this excruciatingly long afternoon.

Sorry, I’m all out. used it all after I saw Jackson shirtless. how do you survive in the locker room every day?

A smile lifted on Stiles’ face, one so inflated with abundant excitement (and hormones), he might have burst at the seams.

“Man, you’re down bad,” Scott simpered, nudging his best friend’s forearm.

“Shut up,” Stiles hissed with an eye roll.

just keep your head down and you should be fine. one time, Greenberg looked at him a little too long and he nearly turned to stone, like jackson’s abs were medusa or something.

“Passing notes, are we?” Mr. Harris queried with a malicious scowl, his knuckles white from asphyxiating a helpless ballpoint pen. He slinked over to the tables you and Stiles rested uncomfortably in, raising his brow in heavy suspicion. 

Stiles’ deep, dark chocolate-colored eyes widened in worry. “No, sir.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you, Stilinski. You too, Y/L/N.” 

As soon as Harris was out of sight, perched back at the desk and typing furiously, another wad of paper tapped your occiput. 

hey, y/n, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.

The note, while its contents wouldn’t usually spark too much concern, was subtly unlike the few ones you had previously received. The lines of each letter were neater, more methodical. The small blots of ink resting at the conclusion of every stroke were larger, deeper, as if the nib of his pen had rested in the liquidly black pool for a second too long.

Your face scrunched with confusion, and upon noticing your shift in emotion, Allison nimbly tapped your wrist and mouthed, ‘Is everything okay?’

You nodded with wrinkled brows while shakily scratching a reply.

what is it?

Your knee bounced up and down reflexively, clicking from your rapidly retracting pen echoed through the idle shelves and arrays of desktops. It felt like years, centuries even, before a reply finally tumbled at your feet.

do you like me?

(circle one)

yes? or yes? 

Your jaw nearly fell to the carpeted floor in shock as if gravity had been multiplied; your speedily thrumming heart was doing flip after flip in the cavity of your chest. Without a second thought, you quickly circled both of the ‘yes’es as if there were no friction under the ink-dispersing tip of your pen. Before cupping the piece of paper, you scribbled out an additional little note.

wanna go out this saturday?

Stiles’ anxious gaze bore into your hunched-over figure as you giddily wrote your reply. What if you rejected him (even though the page lacked a ‘no’ option, meaning that you would have to add one, which was even worse)? Was it possible for him to ask to go to the bathroom and just never return? Are there any secret werewolf abilities that Scott could use to make him disintegrate on the spot? 

But his overthinking was soon alleviated when he received your response, this time neatly folded into a paper heart instead of a crunchy ball. Each crease was crisp and thoughtful; he didn’t have to unfold your expert origami to know which option you circled (or lack thereof).

He grinned goofily like an idiot as his chocolate eyes glazed your response a million times over, taking in every letter, every stroke, the dot in your ‘i’ or the question mark ending your simple but heart-rate-escalating proposal.

Crunch.

stiles stilinski/teen wolf taglist:

it’s a date then. i’ll pick you up at 6? passenger seat’s already reserved for you ;)

@loulouloueh @when-you-wish-upon-a-starrynight @ronbrokemyheart @dylobilysmomg

if your name is crossed out, that means I couldn't take you! check your visibility settings so I can @ you next time!

fill out this form to be added!

[bonkers-4-hatter]

Anon asked: I was the anon who asked if you had written anything for Bendy and the Ink Machine. Would it be alright if I requested a yandere bendy x chubby reader? Maybe the reader (someone who accidentally finds the studio rather than someone who worked there) always manages to slip from Bendy's grasp and is always attempting to escape the studio?

Of course dear anon! I’m excited to write for Bendy! I hope you like it anon dear! I will say I do love writing these yandere requests and commissions!

--

Fandom: Bendy and the Ink Machine

Pairing: !Yandere Bendy X !Chubby !Female Reader

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Kidnapping, Violence (a little bit), degrading names/taunting, mentions of blood

Word Count: 1,603

--

Huff huff...huff

Sliding against a wall that was in a small closet away from the main hallway, you let your exhausted and overworked body rest only for a few minutes. Gripping the pipe in your hand, you tried to get your breathing under control, because you knew he’d find you more easily if he heard you. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you stumbled upon this abandoned animation studio on accident, but after getting chased by some thugs you had run into due to some bad luck on your part.

You thought coming into this building would be a smart idea, but you should’ve known something was up when they didn’t even follow you into the building past the front door...they just quickly made themselves scarce from the scene, but still being shaken up from the encounter, you decided to stay put in the abandoned building at least for a few hours to make sure it was safe.

With it being the middle of the day, you thought it would be the best option. You decided to explore the building since you were hunkered down for a few hours and as you made your way through the building you saw remnants of what it used to be; an animation studio full of life and hustle and bustle...now it was slowly rotting and becoming obsolete as the years went by.

It was sad to see the cut outs; the cartoonish devil grinning and giving a small wave becoming faded and worn due to time. The creaking of the floorboards every few steps did give you a bit of a creepy vibe as you made your way around until you heard...bubbling?Not trusting anything at this point, your eyes searched around for any sort of weapon to defend yourself with if needed.

Spotting a pipe in the corner, you quickly grabbed it and held it up ready to strike anything if it appeared. Quietly as you could, due to the creaking and slowly decaying floor beneath your feet, you made it down the hallway, the bubbling sounds getting louder with each passing step.

Along with the bubbling, you could hear cranking of gears and what sounded like chains and not only did that raise red flags, but it creeped you out.

Why would those sounds be in this seemingly harmless animation studio? It honestly didn’t make any sense. Gripping the pipe harder, you could feel your skin stretching across your knuckles that were most likely turning white with how hard you were gripping your weapon.

Coming to the corner where the ominous noises were coming from, you inched your head around the corner to see what was happening and to your horror there was a room with random pools of what looked and smelled like ink.

Your nose crinkled at the horrid smell, but that was the least of your concerns. In the middle of the pools of ink was what looked like giant cartoon characters...a dog? From the shape of the ears and nose it looked like a cartoon dog...Boris!

You remembered a few posters lining the walls of the studio with the same character on them, smiling and skipping along, but this cartoon was strapped to something emerging from the pool of ink and the sullen and dead look on its face was such a contrast to what was portrayed on the poster, it made you shudder.

However, what was the most disturbing image was the giant from what you can see, ink monster, leaning over toward the seemingly dead cartoon character that was strapped down. You were so bewildered by the creature that your pipe slipped from your sweaty hands, the weapon making a clattering sound against the wooden floor.

The creature snapped its head up and growled at you, teeth baring themselves as ink dripped down from the sharp teeth, but before it lunged at you, it was just staring at you. You could feel its sharp and articulated stare as you quickly picked the pipe up, your plump body shaking at the fear that was coursing through you.

The creature only laughed and took a few steps toward you. Still shaking, you tried to sound intimidating and pointed the pipe at the creature.

“S-stay back! I’m not afraid t-to use this!” Gripping the pipe, you gave the air a hit to try and prove your point.

“Sure you will piggy,” You bit your lip at his voice, you weren’t sure what this creature was, but at this point you needed to get out of here. “I wonder what I have to do to make you squeal?” A large and deformed smile formed on its inky face as it turned all of its attention to you.

“J-just let me leave, you w-won’t see me again!” Taking a few cautious steps back you heard a vibrating growl leave the creature's mouth.

“Leave?!” It screamed this out and you swore you could feel the walls shake from its voice. “You’re not leaving piggy, you’ll be staying here with me forever, you’re mine now.”

Gulping, you decided in that second to run. You were not going to become this creature’s pet, you had to get out of here and fast. Without a second thought, you turned around and started running down the hall you came down from. You felt the creatures roar and thundering footsteps as it started to chase you down the hallway.

Pushing your body into hyper drive, you needed to cover more ground than this creature. You could already feel your breathing become labored, your breathing coming out in huffs and puffs as you continued to run down the winding halls and corridors trying to find a place to hide from the beast.

“PIGGY!!” You could feel tears prick the edges of her eyes as you rounded another corner, shoulder hitting the wall as you did so. Not even flinching at the pain, you continued down the hall as the creatures echoing yell hit your ears once more. “COME ON OUT SWEETHEART, I WON’T HURT YOU...MUCH!” Its bellowing laughter made another shiver run up your spine as you found a small closet where you could hunker down and hide.

At this point you were hopelessly lost within the maze of the studio. Plopping down on the wooden floor of the dark closet, you rested your head against the wooden paneling, you continued to huff and puff, trying to catch your breath.

Still gripping the pipe, you decided to rest your body and eyes for a moment as you tried to wrap your head around the events that just happened. Your legs were sore and burning, not used to the speed you ran through the abandoned studio, you just needed a few moments to rest before getting the hell out of this hellish space. 

Closing your eyes, your breathing started to get back to normal as you could feel your body start to relax and not be as tense and sore as it was before. You weren’t sure how much time had passed, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

“There you are my sweet little piggy!” Your eyes snapped open at the voice, eyes frantically scanning the darkened closet, but you couldn’t make out anything in the small, dark space.

Your body went stiff once more as you felt something stroking your legs. The horrid smell of ink invaded your senses again as you were pinned against the wall by the slimy substance. A small click was heard as the creature turned on the small light bulb that was hanging in the closet. Its face was so close to yours that you let out a small squeak of fear as it just laughed at your reaction.

Giant ink clawed hands reached out to stroke your soft, round cheek, but you winced as it cut a small section of your cheek as you felt some blood drip out of the open wound.

“So fragile my little piggy,” A large tongue licked the dripping blood that was emerging from the cut. Before you could mutter anything, its large clawed hand wrapped around your neck, gripping the sides of your delicate flesh. Your hands flew up and gripped the inky fingers as you could feel your air supply being depleted.

“Listen closely bitch,” Saying it with malice and giving an extra hard squeeze to your windpipe for added emphasis. “You’re my bitch now, you’ll be staying here with me forever,” Its other hand went down to your supple waist and gripped it hard, pulling your exhausted body over to it.

You could feel yourself sink into its inky lap as a dark chuckle left its mouth. “Tell me your name honey, not that it matters in the end,” He laughed at his own words. “My name is Bendy, but you can call me master.” Licking your cheek again, he loosened his hold on your throat, but not completely letting go.

With a bit of a wheeze in your voice due to him constricting your throat, you reluctantly said your name. “I-I’m (Y/N)...” He scoffed at how weak you sounded.

“(Y/N)...well (Y/N), welcome to your new home sweetheart, I can’t wait to make you my little inky wife...my sweet piggy.”

You felt tears stream down your face as your fate was sealed by this inky creature.

His clawed hands ran themselves up and down your plump body as he felt up his new possession and didn’t plan on letting her go. Finally, someone to be with him in this hell hole of purgatory.

[whereyoursoulresides]

A new chapter has been posted! You can read it on A03 or below the cut!

In this chapter, Kunzite meets and confronts a familiar face from the dark past.

The next morning, Kunzite left the apartment a bit earlier than usual. He was curious to see this new cafe, and wanted to visit as a form of celebratory support. As he was already in uniform, the visit would have to be brief - probably just long enough to pick up a set of drinks for his team. 

When he arrived, the coffee shop was bustling with life. Overhead, the snazzy letters of the Dark B-ean Garden flashed in neon against a slick dark backdrop. Posters of rich, deep coffee grounds and beans hung in alternating windows. Inside, dark green flora fanned from the corners of the room, creating a warm, lush, darkly tropical environment that Kunzite assumed was an homage to the coffee’s home of origin. The establishment was filled with both students and young professionals, all chatting excitedly to one another as they admired the quality of brews on the menu.

When it was his turn at the counter, the waitress instantly recognized him. She was a tiny little thing, with a darling bob of dark hair and wide brown eyes.

“Officer Saitou!” she cheered with delight. “It’s been a long time!”

“Yes,” Kunzite nodded in response. The last time he had seen her was on that fateful day nearly half a year ago, when he had given her Izou’s practice exams to pass on. “How are you, Ueda-san?”

“I’m well, thank you,” she chirped. “What can I get for you today?”

Kunzite placed an order for five of their most expensive coffees, as well as a box of cakes. 

“Thank you,” he said, as he handed her the money. “Izou is very excited to work here.”

“You’re welcome!” she replied, punching the keys on the till with automated speed and bubbliness. “He’ll be a perfect fit here, I just know it! The assistant manager liked him immediately. In fact - oh, ...darn…”

The till seemed to jut out its drawer, but had jammed. “Sorry,” she said to Kunzite apologetically. “Please wait one moment, I have to go grab our manager. It’s a new system, I must’ve typed in something wrong.” 

“Take your time.”

As Ueda-san quickly disappeared into the backroom, Kunzite glanced around the coffee shop again. Yes, this seemed like just the right place for Izou. It was contemporary, youthful, and clearly he would be among friends and other respected peers - 

“I’m sorry to bother you, so soon after your vacation,” Ueda-san was saying sheepishly. “It was working before…”

“Don’t worry, Ueda-san,” a familiar voice floated by his ear. Kunzite’s eyes snapped wide and he jerked to face the voice’s owner. 

“I’ll take over,” the manager was saying, her voice rich but far-away. As the cash drawer discharged like a bullet, Kunzite couldn’t believe who he was seeing before him. 

Though her hair was inky black in this life, they still floated behind her in their distinct tresses, disappearing into the darkness of her clean and pressed uniform. She was smaller now than he remembered, but still remained an impressive height, even in kitten heels. It made her amber eyes almost equally level to his, and in the moment that their eyes met, Kunzite knew she had recognized him too.

“Beryl,” he said without thinking.

There was a blink, but Kunzite instantly caught the guarded clarity flash in her eyes. She placed her hand on the tray with Kunzite’s order, her shortened talons scraping firmly against the cardboard sleeves.

“Pardon me,” she said in a slow but clear voice. “I didn’t catch that. Will there be anything else, officer?”

Kunzite didn’t say anything as Ueda glanced between the two of them with some confusion. In lieu of his answer, his money swiftly disappeared into the till. His change was brought back as though nothing was out of the ordinary, and then his order was pushed towards him firmly.

“Have a good day,” was all Beryl said to him. Before he could protest, she had already looked past his shoulder. “Next.”

Kunzite knew there was nothing he could do at this moment. Heart thundering in his ears aside, he was in complete uniform, and he obviously could not interrogate her for a crime no one was even aware of.

“Officer Saitou?” Ueda was calling to him. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Kunzite replied abruptly, picking up his items. “Good day.”

Without another word, Kunzite turned on his heel and left the establishment briskly. 

He’d catch her at a more appropriate time.

---

Over the next several days, Kunzite intended to catch Beryl outside her shift. It took several attempts to figure out her cadence, but eventually, on a dusky evening, Kunzite was ready. 

He was sitting in his car when he noticed the woman stepping out of the door. Now was his chance. He was out of uniform and off-duty; there would be nothing to interrupt his meeting with the woman he once followed to Hell.

As Beryl rounded the corner, Kunzite stepped out of his car, effectively blocking her path. Beryl halted immediately, but made no move to maneuver around him.

“We need to talk.”

Once resting dead-ahead, Beryl’s eyes finally shifted to rest on his face. They were unflinchingly blank, with the same cold aloofness of her monarchical past. Dark curls swayed slowly by her face as he waited for her response.

“If I answer your questions, will you leave me alone?” she asked, her voice clear and straight as it always had been.

Kunzite couldn’t promise. “That’ll depend on your answers.”

Her eyes flickered briefly as if to nearly roll them, but she swiftly retained enough composure to jerk head towards the coffee shop again. 

“My office then.” 

She swivelled on her high heels and led them back inside the establishment. Kunzite knew why. It was a safe but private meeting ground for both of them. Public enough that there was help should he cause any trouble, private enough for them to speak without attracting attention.

The colleagues all seem happy enough to see her again, if a bit puzzled. She was friendly enough with them, something Kunzite found bizarrely out of character. They disappeared quickly into the office in the back of the shop, a small, cramped room stacked with boxes and plain, uncomfortable metal chairs. A calendar hung above the mini fridge, and her desk - an ornate mahogany affair that was the only piece of furniture indicative of her past - straddled the width of the small room. It nearly bloated it.

“Let’s make this quick,” she said as the door closed, gesturing to Kunzite to sit in the chair in front of the desk. “What exactly do you want from me?” As she settled in her own seat, Kunzite couldn’t help but notice that even in a bedraggled coat and plain black uniform, she still lounged in her chair with the elegance of a queen.

“I know you have your memories,” Kunzite started. “What are your intentions here?”

Beryl arched her eyebrow, looking darkly unimpressed. “To lead a normal life, as I assume the rest of you are doing,” she replied coolly. “The life of Kurosawa Akako is very ordinary, and I intend to keep it that way.”

He didn’t believe it for an instant. “You haven’t contacted any of the others? Jadeite, Nephrite?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Even Tuxedo M-”

Beryl instantly raised her hand, and her expression swiftly turned severe. “Don’t be quick to assume my current actions based on our history, Kunzite,” she said stonily. “I will have you know I have absolutely no intentions of seeking any one of you again in this life. I have enough to focus on without troubling those who would have completely valid reasons for wanting me dead.”

Kunzite still wasn’t buying it. His blood was slowly pumping faster and faster, thrumming in his ears as he gripped the metal arm rests tightly.  “Certain feelings are hard to ignore, even in a third life,” he challenged quietly.

Her eyes, once steel, briefly flickered with…sadness? Bitterness?

“Those feelings can be overcome,” Beryl replied back softly, as a dark lock of hair fell loosely from her sharp fingers. “Even if it means cutting a part of you off to grow something new.”

Kunzite’s knuckles whitened. His grip on the metal arm rests with enough strength to warp them.

“Stay away from Zoisite,” he finally demanded, without thinking.

Unexpectedly, Beryl’s face lifted in surprise.

“I haven’t seen him,” she said, genuinely confused. “Unless-...” Beryl’s eyes glanced upon the collection of resumes that were on her desk, and one that had a little note attached to it. 

“...Kozakura Izou,” she read. “Is that what Zoisite goes by now?”

By the look on Kunzite’s face, Beryl understood she had correctly identified him, and casted a bemused smirk.

“Well, you must forgive me for not immediately recognizing his civilian name. I-zou I understand, but his surname should be Saitou if you had expected me to put two-and-two together.”

When Kunzite remained stone-faced, Beryl’s brief attempt at humor swiftly evaporated. “ Well, if that is what you wish, Kunzite, I won't have him working here." She reached forward to pull off the post-it note and scratch his name from the schedule.  “There. Will that suffice?”

Having watched her discard Zoisite’s employment so easily suddenly made Kunzite uncomfortable. Momentarily, Kunzite remembered how Izou had been excited to work here, how  it had been a good fit with university, how much more time he had been hoping this would gain him to share with Kunzite at home.

No, Kunzite ultimately decided. Better to have Izou be rejected by this job than for him to be triggered by another traumatic memory. He would understand, surely.

"That would be acceptable."

Without a moment’s hesitation, Beryl swiftly ripped Izou’s resume cleanly in half, then in quarters. The echoing tear that resounded made Kunzite’s heart unexpectedly jump.

“There,” she said, as she discarded the remaining quarters into the trash bin under the desk.  Her long fingers knitted over each other elegantly. "Will there be anything else?" 

Suddenly, Kunzite's eyes flashed up again, his defenses surged to full strength. His instincts were telling him to leap to his feet and tear this woman limb from limb. But for reasons he could not understand, isolate, or give voice to, his muscles remained frozen in time, straining for him to keep control. Beryl must have recognized this tension in him and the danger it hinted, for she faced her palm to him warningly, as if halting a rottweiler. 

"If I were you, Kunzite,” her voice dangerously slow and dark, “I’d put down any ridiculous notion of revenge you may want to extract from me. You’ll have to wait in line behind many others seeking justice by spilling my blood."

"Maybe I won't wait," Kunzite finally said, but even his own words sounded hollow to him. Beryl must have heard the same, for she scoffed.

“If this is for Zoisite’s death, may I remind you that you all knew the terms and conditions of your servitude to the Dark Kingdom. Though I was the one who delivered the final blow, your acceptance made you equally complicit.” 

“I tried to stop you,” Kunzite argued. “I-”

“Yes,” Beryl agreed. “And for all the power at your disposal to interfere, you and I both know that you hardly tried at all.”

In a flash, Kunzite flew to his feet. The chair skittered back several feet, its grating echo cutting across the cement room, as his full height towered over her.

“Don’t mistake my loyalty for agreement!” His voice was uncharacteristically loud, booming in his ears. He had never spoken to his queen with much volume, this much anger.

“I think you’re the one who’s mistaken,” Beryl replied lowly over her threaded knuckles. “That’s exactly what your loyalty meant.”

As much as Kunzite wanted to show her the full force of his disagreement, deep down he knew he could not. His muscles began slowly to atrophy, but he remained shaking his head.

"I believed in you," he whispered, lowly and bitterly. "I believed you would bring him back!"

"You have him back now, don't you?" Beryl pointed out. “Killing me in vengeance won't do anything to help secure his safety in this life."

"You are a danger to him, and I won't have you disturb us," Kunzite tried to order, but his voice was so hard and tight that he feared it would snap. "I won't risk you hurting him in this life."

At this, Beryl finally barked out a laugh of bitter, incredulous disbelief.

"Kunzite, let me make this clear to you. I'm pushing forty, single, as powerless as any of these morons underneath my roof. You think I would risk whatever scrap of peace I have left to endanger you? How foolish do you honestly think I would be?!" 

“I would see you as desperate, not foolish,” Kunzite retorted lowly. “And desperation drives us all to do dangerous things.”

At this, Beryl’s eyes narrowed. Seeing her mirth drop dead gave Kunzite a quiet sense of success, though it was short-lived.

"The only one who remains an immediate danger to Zoisite,” Beryl finally said coldly, “is you, Kunzite." 

Kunzite’s heart halted fast, and he froze. His lungs were like ice, unable to swallow or pump air to the stiffness in the rest of his limbs, or to protest otherwise. Beryl understood his silence as such.

"Unlike me, you’ve retained a position of considerable power," Beryl continued, almost a bit ironically. "So long as you wear that uniform, you will always put him at risk. Don't fool yourself into thinking I am his only threat, Kunzite. You share that responsibility just as much as I do."

As blood returned to his veins, the silence quickly flared and withered, its embers hanging like dusty air, uncomfortable and almost suffocating. Eventually Kunzite had to turn away, lest his boiling anger overtip into actions he would later regret. As he gripped the doorknob hard, it hardly registered that it trembled vaguely in his hand.

“I believed in you,” he said again, this time hardly louder than a breath. He was tired, exhausted; whatever vengeance he had experienced was now dwindling into a twisted, burnt coil of remorse and scorn. At who, he wasn’t sure. “I wasted two lives believing in you.”

Beryl’s tone was entirely unsympathetic.

“Then perhaps it’s time to believe in someone else,” she replied curtly.

[royalboiler]

Hey, so Prophet is a comic that means a lot to me and I've been trying to find somewhere I could buya poster or a print by you or Simon, Farel, or Giannis to hang in my office and have had no luck. I know it's a long shot, but I thought you might know about something. And while I'm in the area, I'm sure you get it all the time, but I'm not being sentimental when I say Prophet means a lot to me. It's a really special book that reminds me why I like comics.

Thanks so much, I should talk to my art dealer (Inky knuckles ) about getting some prints together. It’s nice to hear that Prophet means a lot to you, it certainly meant a lot to me. Me, Simon, Farel, Joseph B and Lin V all got matching tattoos of it after the series ended. 

[beeblebrox-be-damned]

Silohuette (Part 3: Cell Division Begins)

Dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader

It felt like you’d been hit in the head by a freight train. You groaned, flopping over onto your side. Your limbs felt too heavy to move more than a fraction of an inch.

Yesterday was a rough day. You were glad to be in bed. It was still dark out, so that meant you’d have plenty more time to sleep before your shift began.

Wait, bed? Your fingers twitched. The fabric beneath them was smooth, crisp sheets, not the scratchy fabric of the old beige couch you’d gotten at Goodwill. They smelled faintly of rosemary. The pillow beneath your head was soft but supported your neck well, not the old lumpy throw pillow you used each night.

In fact, it didn’t seem like it should be night. If anything, afternoon. You opened your eyes. It was dark, much darker than your apartment ever was. Deep, inky black. You felt as though you were in a cave.

There was the rain. The old woman. The soaked felt hat. But then what?

Your head ached as you struggled to wrestle your memories into a plausible narrative as to what had happened.

Park Avenue, and then Stark Tower. Someone had gotten in the cab. They wanted to go out of town.

It was the man from the bar. Bucky. You sat up quickly, head swimming as you fought back the urge to vomit. You felt sick. You grasped around blindly in the dark before your hand finally landed on what felt like a lamp. You groped upwards and found a switch.

Soft light flooded the room. You were in, or rather, on a four-poster bed. The quilt was pushed to the end of the bed so that you rested directly on the cream-colored sheets. There were flecks of glass scattered over them, and over your clothing as well. The window, he’d broken the window.

The room was fairly small, with several empty bookshelves lining the walls. There were two doors on opposite sides of the room, and a dresser near the large bed. Slowly, heart pounding like a rabbit’s, you slid out of the bed. Your feet hit plush carpet, muffled only by your socks. You glanced around. Your shoes were nowhere to be seen.

Carefully, you dusted as much glass off yourself as you could. It landed in the carpet, but you couldn’t care less at the moment. Your mind was nearly blank, the shock and confusion robbing you of your sense of panic. You were numb.

The door to the left led into a well furnished bathroom. You checked the cabinets briefly, noting a package of your preferred feminine hygiene product. A shiver worked down your spine. It was right, even down to the brand and size. Alongside it were bottles of your favorite lotion, shampoo, and soaps, like the ones you only used on special occasions since normally they were over your budget.

The door on the right opened to reveal a sort of spacious living room. There was a television mounted on one wall. A table rested in front of a sectional couch that wrapped around half of the room. A few painting hung on the walls depicting charming pastoral scenes. You crept through the room, noting the pile of paper and drawing materials on the table.

A heavy door was tucked in the corner, just out of sight until you had emerged into the room fully. You inspected it closely, but didn’t dare touch it. It was metal, and bolted strongly to the wall. A rap of your knuckles against the wall revealed just what you thought: it was concrete. Were you in some sort of bunker?

A keypad and a thin glass screen of sorts sat just above the doorknob, at roughly eye-level. It was likely password protected. The screen showed no display. Your best guess was that it was a scanner of sorts.

Just as you were about to work up the nerve to touch the keypad, the door clicked and swung open slowly. You stumbled back, dropping into a crouch beside the sofa, terror finally washing over you. You stared wide-eyed, heart hammering in your chest.

The man who walked in the door was none other than the person you’d assumed, correctly it would seem, had kidnapped you. His long, dark hair was pulled back in a short ponytail and a ballcap rested atop his head. He walked into the room, placing a bag on the table. His clothing looked slightly damp. It must’ve still been raining outside.

He turned towards the bedroom door before spotting you out of the corner of his eye. He smiled softly. “I see you’re awake. You might have a headache for a while, but water will help. There’s a couple bottles in the bag over there.” He nodded towards the grocery bag he’d set on the table.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak. A thousand thoughts rattled around your head, all discordant and confused. Your breath became faster and faster, a wheezing whine coming up from your throat as you began to hyperventilate. Bucky’s expression morphed into concern, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost frantic, “Hey, calm down.” Walked close to you. You ducked your head down against your knees, your fingernails digging into your scalp as you began to rock back and forth on the floor. A sputtering sob left your lips as fear hit you full-force.

A strong pair of arms wrapped around you, warmth enveloping your body even as chills rushed over your skin raising goosebumps in their wake. His hand rubbed your back. One seemed oddly cold, but you were too afraid to care. What was he going to do? Was he going to kill you? Torture you?

Why you?

Bucky hated to see you in such palpable distress. He knew it would be rough, but seeing it in person still hurt. The way your eyes darted around like a cornered animal’s, the way your body shook like a leaf in the wind. He wanted to comfort you, but you weren’t there yet. It would be a long time before that.

Someday, though.

He lifted you up, still tucked around yourself, and placed you on the couch. He sat down on the other side, facing you. He waited patiently as the sobs turned into hiccups and then to whimpers. He knew you’d need to vent your stress in some way, and crying was much better than trying to attack him or hurt yourself.

Slowly, you brought your hands down. You could feel the sting of your scalp where your nails had broken through the skin. You wrapped your arms tightly around your legs, hugging yourself. Your hair clung to your wet cheeks, your eyes puffy and red. You looked up slowly.

“Why am I here?” You tried to sound firm, but your voice came out as a light croak, breaking midway through the sentence as if your brain wanted you to stop there and not find out the answer. Part of you wished you had stopped.

Bucky gazed at you calmly. Over excitement or expressiveness would just scare you, make you shy away. As glad as he was to have you here and as heartbroken he was to see your distress, he kept his face neutral. Of course, he couldn’t answer you directly yet. It was too soon. He knew what would happen eventually, what the two of you would become, but for now he needed to ease you into your new living conditions.

“You’re here because it’s safe,” he stated simply. he turned his head and leaned over, grabbing the bag he’d set on the table. “I got takeout from a restaurant near here. I hope you like Italian.” He pulled out two styrofoam containers, pushing one towards you and setting a napkin and fork beside it.

You eyed the box suspiciously, refusing to drop the subject or accept the food. Well, until he gave you answers, that is. The food smelled delicious and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten well. You cleared your throat. “Safe? From what?” Bucky popped open his takeout box and began to eat, thinking over his next words carefully. “The world is very different now,” he said slowly, “as I’m sure you know well.” He knew about everyone you had lost. He’d done his research. “With so many people gone, its a madhouse. Crime festering everywhere.” It was true. With the pain of loss and the boldness of the remaining criminals, crime rates were higher than ever.

He took a drink from his water bottle, mulling over what he wanted to say next. He licked his lips nervously, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. “I saw you in that bar and knew you needed to be protected.” A lone gem in a world of soot.

You pressed yourself back into the couch’s plush cushions, trembling. What did he mean by that? Yes, you’d talked a few times, but nothing more than polite conversation. He knew nothing about you.

Bucky watched casually as you stared at him silently. “It will all make sense eventually. For now, just relax, okay?” It hurt him to see you shake so hard and look so frightened. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I’d never do that, ever.”

You sniffled, tears springing to your eyes again as you watched Bucky turn away and finish his food. He stood when he was done, scooping up his empty takeout container and water-bottle, depositing them in the empty grocery bag. He looked at you with a gentle smile that just barely quirked the corners of his lips.

“I’ll leave your food down here for when you feel like eating. Next time, though, we’re going to eat together.” You needed some time to yourself for now, but when he came down with dinner, he’d go over some of the rules. “There’s a miniature fridge in the bedroom with some snacks and drinks if you get hungry or thirsty between meals.”

He brushed his fingers over your cheek briefly, wiping away tears with a surprising tenderness. You stared with doe-eyes as he took the grocery bag and left, shutting the heavy door behind him. The lock clicked in place and you were trapped alone once again.

TAGLIST: @imaginedreamwrite

[yespolkadotkitty]

Wicked Game

Part I

You opened the door to your chambers to find him there, weary, his eyes closed, that inky black hair spread out over the gold brocade of your pillowcase.

This was unusual, you thought, moving towards the bed. You and Loki normally sought each other out after battle-heavy trips to other worlds, but with warning. This was different. He habitually wanted to talk things through. You’d speak about the skills and moves you used when fighting, which weapons worked best.

You both loved to spar; you were each other’s equal.

You counted him among one of your closest friends. And if you wanted there to be more, well, then you kept that to yourself.

Although he had a reputation as a womaniser - many of the housemaids had reported hearing his name screamed from behind doors they’d passed on their cleaning rounds - he was ever the gentleman with you.

And that both pleased and endlessly frustrated you.

“Loki?”

He opened one eye as you stood at the foot of the bed, and mumbled your name.

Concerned rather than amused now, you crawled up on to the high four poster. “Are you well?”

Now you could see that he was not.

Often times Loki used a glamour to cover his blue frost giant skin. That glamour could also cover any injuries he sustained in battle or by other means.

You tried not to think about the ways he obtained various bite marks or scratches. It was none of your business.

Even if you wanted it to be.

A bruise marred his pale cheek, and a cut split one side of his lower lip. His doublet was torn, dirty, the side ripped open to show another angry bruise below his ribs.

“I have been better,” he groaned, not moving.

Your eyebrow quirked. “Is that so.”

A smile tugged at his lips, both eyes now open and regarding you lazily. You often wondered if he knew that his gaze was the equivalent of a thorough eye-fucking.

“Perhaps you should see what’s left of my opponent.”

God, he had some ego. But then, it was one of the things you liked about him. His confidence, his grace. His words often had bite but he was always honest with you, open.

Only, not honest enough to use you like he did some others of the Asgardian Court. Not honest enough to take you fast and hard, like you thought about when you were alone in bed, only the moon and stars as witnesses.

You sat back on your heels, letting your gaze track over him, waiting for some easy quip, some snarky words from his lips.

But none came.

“Why are you here?” you asked, genuinely curious. “You normally send someone to let me know you’re coming.”

“I wanted to be here,” he said simply.

You folded your arms over your chest. “I can’t help but think that there’s a joke coming.”

It was his turn to arch one fine black brow. “It’s like you know me, pet,” he rumbled, but started coughing on the last word.

The cough racked his long, lean body until you moved to help him, sitting him up, scooting to sit behind him, your back to the headboard, his back against your chest.

When the coughing fit ended, he huffed out a breath. “This is incredibly unbecoming.”

You snorted out a laugh. “And yet you still came.”

Loki relaxed against you, his eyes closing. “You were the one person I found I didn’t mind seeing me in such a state.”

His breathing evened out and you rolled your eyes at the situation. It was everything you’d dreamed of, but Loki had essentially come to you because you made him feel safe.

Ugh.

It was sweet, but hardly the x-rated scenarios you’d dreamed up after a few too many glasses of Asgardian punch of an evening.

You cast your eyes down to his form again, assessing his injuries. There was a dark stain further up his doublet. You’d do well to get that off and see if he was bleeding anywhere else. It wouldn’t do to let the crown prince die on your bed.

If he was, at all, capable of dying.

“Loki.”

He hummed low in his throat, but didn’t move. The battle - whichever planet it had waged on this time - had really done a number on him.

“I need to see where else you’re injured.”

He opened one eye again, closed it. “Far be it from me to stand in your way, pet.”

You frowned. “Don’t call me that. That word is reserved for your….. Playthings.”

“Well, you’d know something about that, if you’d ever deigned to be one,” he muttered drowsily, and you stopped cold in your act of unbuttoning his doublet.

“What?”

But he was either too exhausted or in too much pain to reply.

You laid him back on the bed, no small task given his height and muscular weight, and set to work slipping the buttons of his doublet through their tiny eyelets.

When at last you parted the thick leather fabric, you saw with some concern that blood had soaked some areas of his undershirt.

Moving quickly, you snagged a bowl, warm water and some clean, soft muslin cloths from your washing area. You soaked one cloth in the water and, finding no buttons, and not wanting to move him, ripped Loki’s undershirt in half, exposing his chest.

What a shame I don’t have time to enjoy this, you thought, cleaning the blood off his smooth, bare skin. You dipped the cloth until pink tinged the bowl of water, diligently cleaning and smoothing.

“I should fetch a healer,” you said, half to yourself.

Loki’s hand snapped up, his fingers circling your wrist. “Stay.”

You glanced at his face. He watched you through heavy lidded eyes, his pupils enlarged, ringed by forest green. 

“There was a lot of blood,” you said softly.

“And doubtless I will make more, in time.” He sounded bored; that was the Loki you knew. “However, this is…. Very pleasing.” He squeezed your wrist, giving gentle encouragement, and without thought you continued your explorative cleansing of his skin, the washcloth moving over him in small circles. You reached the cuts on his hips. Some of them continued below his breeches, and you hesitated.

Your free hand on the ties to his belt, you looked up at his face. His gorgeous features were in repose, if you didn’t know him well, you’d suspect he really was hurt, weak.

The question was, how weak?

Was he just toying with you? Fancied a new pet for himself?

You tugged at the ties of his belt, making sure your knuckles brushed below it. Was it your imagination, or did his hips cant slightly forward at your touch?

“To properly assess your injuries, these will have to come off.”

@hopelessromanticspoonie @just-the-hiddles

[ramblesanddragons]

Of Monsters and Memories

An idea based on this comic by @artsymeeshee that I just ran with.

It has been years since I’ve written anything. I’m so rusty but I’m trying to get back into it. I have no editor and I am terrible at grammar so please let me know what I missed. I’m writing more fan fiction to get back into figuring out how to write.

EDIT: Now with Ao3 link!

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, angst. (Also please let me know if I missed one.)

Ford had told Stan about some of the dangers they would run into in the arctic. Krakens, selkies, freezing cold. Some sort of thing that was the unholy offspring of nightmares and a squid wasn’t one of those things. The problem was the thing seemed to made out of smoke and they were having the damnest time pinning it down but it had to have some sort of physical form. It sure as hell was holding on to Stan tight enough.

Stan was wrapped around the mast of the boat as the arctic wind howled or maybe it was the creature, he had no idea.

“Hey anytime with that fancy space gun Sixer!”  

“Aiming is proving to be difficult give me a moment!” Ford yelled back.  

Stan did his best to wiggle out of the tentacles that had him but stopped the struggle when he noticed that Ford had all but been swallowed by a plume of smoke. Only his head was visible in the cloud of darkness. Ford’s eyes were tense with pain and tears were streaming down his cheek.  

“Ford, snap out of it. Whatever you see ain’t real!”

Ford had been looking forward to taking notes of the creature made of smoke that floated above the ice. He had never even seen something like this before. It had to be some sort of life form as it weaved around the boat almost playfully. Things had taken a sharp turn for the worst when Stan tried to take a picture of it for the kids. It screeched and started to climb up the side of the boat with long tendrils extending. Stan grimaced and slide on his old pair of brass knuckles.

“Want to bet I can punch smoke?” Stan yelled leaping at it with full force.  

In a flurry of shouts, punches, and missed shots Ford found himself trying to save his knuckleheaded brother who was wrapped around the mast. Aiming was proving to be a problem as the smoke wouldn’t stay together into a shape. It had spread itself thin onto the deck of the boat only forming parts of itself it to tentacles to hold Stan.

Ford could feel panic rising into him. He cursed himself for thinking that it had been playful earlier when it had clearly been looking for the best time to strike. He had let his enthusiasm get to him again and now Stan was in danger again.  

Chastise yourself later Stan needs help! Ford tried to find a target but froze as the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

A dark malevolence engulfed him in a plume of smoke. The chill it brought to Ford’s body made the cold of the arctic seem like a walk in the park. He physically shook himself to clear it away and focused again on his brother but Stan was gone. He was alone in some sort of inky void. He looked around and realized with horror his clothes had changed. He was wearing Stan’s old suit. In his hand’s was the wretched memory gun.  

Seeing it again made Ford’s stomach clinch tight. The urge to drop it to the ground and smash it was strong but he had to...to do something with it. He looked up again to see he was no longer alone in the void, Stan had appeared, on his knees and unconscious. Just like the last time. Tears started to burn at the corners of Ford’s eyes as his arm moved on some sort of autopilot pointing the gun at Stan’s head.

“Please...I can’t...not again...” Ford’s body shook as whispered to the void. His vision blurred with tears as the world started to become dark.

“Hey Poindexter! Did you know the world was flat?”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’m one of those flat earth people.” It was Stan’s voice coming from somewhere. Not the body before Ford kneeling and awaiting its fate at his hands, but outside of the void.

“Stan...the world isn’t flat?”  

I’ve gone mad, Ford thought completely lost.

“Oh yeah it is. I kept meaning to ask when we were going to hit the edge. Also, you know we didn’t go to the moon in ‘69 right?”

“S-Stan we watched it on the damn TV together!” Ford’s voice echoed and for a moment the sounds of the sea seemed to reach his ears.

“I mean yeah we did but it was faked. Although that was a good day, right? Ma let us stay home to watch it. Remember?” Almost at Stan’s beckoning the void changed around him and the image of two small boys watching a small TV formed in front of Ford. It wasn’t as clear as the one of Stan awaiting his doom and it disappeared as fast as it had appeared. It was one of Ford’s favorite memories besides the two of them finding the original Stan of War.

“Yeah I do.” Ford whispered softly. He could now feel ocean spray on his face. The cold in his soul was being melted by the warmth in his chest growing. The creature shrieked and withdrew from around Ford. He was now fully back to the deck of the ship and before him was Stan still tied to the mast by smoky tendrils.

“Oh yeah and uh did you know that the government is putting chemicals in the water to brain wash us? Or that the government is actually a bunch of lizard people actually hold on you might believe that one let’s see...”

“Stan.” Ford wanted to both hug and smack his brother at the same time.

“What? Oh hey welcome back now can you shoot this fuckin’ thing?”

“Gladly.” Ford growled.  

The thing had gathered back into a smoke ball but it seemed to Ford less intimidating now, slightly smaller, weaker. There was no way to really tell where the thing’s body was so Ford just started to fire on the thickest gathering of grey and black he could see. There was going to be a few holes in the deck of the ship but it was worth it to hear the thing let out one last scream before collapsing into a pile of goo. Stan was freed from the mast as the smoky tendrils disintegrated. Ford ran into the hull of the ship and returned with gloves, a scraper and a container.  

Dinner was sandwiches that night as Stan was too tried to cook. He eyed Ford as he ate and let out a heavy sigh as he realized he had only taken a bite of his dinner. Ford’s forehead was knit together like it did when he was thinking too hard.

“Wanna talk about it?” Stan’s voice seemed to shake Ford out of his thoughts.  

“Well we do need to talk if you believe the world is flat. I have failed as a scientist if my own brother believes that.” Ford let out a weak chuckle.

“Nah I’m not the brightest but I’m not that dumb. Look, I was just thinking of the craziest things I could to snap you out of whatever trance that the smoke thing had you under. Nothing pisses you off more than bad science.”

“Stan, I want to apologize. I feel like I wasn’t paying close enough attention and let my curiosity get in the way of your safety. I will aim to do better.”

“Sixer it’s okay you...”

“No, it’s not okay!” Ford cut Stan off. “My mistakes keep getting you hurt.”

“Look I was getting myself hurt plenty before coming out here with you.” Stan had recently gotten a lovely memory of spraining his ankle while running from some dogs when he was about 25 back a couple of weeks ago which could be good proof of that but he knew that wouldn’t exactly make his brother feel better. Ford pushed his plate away and leaned his head into his hands.

“What exactly did that thing do to ya?”  

“My running theory is that whatever it was prays on a victim's memories. Their worst moments causing them to freeze up. I was about to...I was about to erase you again.” The tears were coming back into Ford’s eyes. Stan slid him over a napkin.

“That’s you’re worst moment?”

“O-of course. I’ve faced plenty of horrible things but that was my mistakes coming back to bite me in the ass. I’m fine with that. But when my arrogance and stupidity hurts other people, people I care about...first there was Fidds and then you were the one who could have lost everything for my carelessness and...”

Stan slammed his fist onto the table and that startled Ford enough to break him out of his rant. “I pushed you into that hell portal I...”

“A hell portal I built!” Ford interjected loudly.  

“You were conned. Manipulated. Ford you’re stubborn and yeah maybe a little arrogant but so am I.” Stan got out of his chair and kneeled by his brother.

“If there was an award for who could hold on to guilt the longest, I could probably win the gold medal. So, listen to me here. Please don’t let this mind erasing thing eat you alive. I know I’m the poster child for healthy coping but please don’t be so hard on yourself. I have enough self-loathing for both of us.”

“Stanley.”

“Look being out here with you watching you get all excited and doing nerd stuff has been the happiest I’ve been in years. I don’t need you to be worrying about what might happen so much that you stop enjoying it ‘cus then I’ll stop enjoying it and so what the hell else do we do huh? Soos is in charge of the Shack and I wouldn’t really want to go back. So, what, do we spend our next few years playing bingo in an old folks' home?”

“Hell no.” Ford responded somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“Right. So, relax. There is no where I’d rather be.” Stan grinned when a small smile placed itself on Ford’s face.

“What are the qualities of a Pines man? Braveness, boldness, curiosity, creativity, stubbornness, and deep self-loathing.” Ford said counting on his fingers.

“Let’s hope Dipper skips out on that one.” Stan got back up and poured himself and Ford a drink of the good stuff they kept for special occasions. He figured dealing with a smoke monster was occasion enough.

Ford looked at the amber liquid and drained it in one gulp. “Stanley has is ever occurred to you that perhaps we could use a little therapy in our lives?”

“No shrink is so understanding that they would believe half the shit that’s happened to us.”  

“Perhaps we should look. Even if we have to go a more supernatural route to get an adequate one I-I think we should.” Ford began to scribble what Stan guessed to be a list of idea candidates. He smiled as he watched the wheels in his brother’s mind whirl.

“Yeah. Sure, I’ll talk to a fairy about my problems.” Stan spent the rest of his night listening to Ford tell him why it was an awful idea to let the Fae know your problems and enjoyed every minute of it.  

[blooferlady86]

The Park By Night

So I am very good at spooking myself and creeping myself out. I’ve never thought of myself as a creative writer, but there are a couple of things that really catch my imagination. I decided to do a thing and actually get something written down. Yes, I take constructive criticism. No, I don’t know how to make something readable on Tumblr, so I apologize if this is a mess. If I can figure out a way to make a story out of it, I’ll write another one on the strange sounds my bus radio makes when I’m driving it to school at 5:30 AM and there’s no one else on the road. 

It’s probably barely a story. It’s definitely not a terribly well-edited draft. It’s not even really beyond a rough draft. I know I have some tenses that disagree, but hey, it’s late, and I just finished a spooky walk through the park.

Anyways. Without further ado: A little creepypasta I should probably have just kept to myself:

The Park By Night

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

“Well, I am the pinnacle of human achievement, so I don’t blame you.”

Eleanor leans over the kitchen counter, green eyes staring deeply into mine, reaches gently for my face, and painfully flicks my ear. “Don’t be an ass when I’m trying to be supportive. You’ve done really well. This time last year you were walking with a cane.”

I snag her hand and give her knuckles a gentle kiss. “I only give you a hard time because I know you love it. It means a lot to me, you saying that. It really does. I wouldn’t have made it this far without your help.”

“I’m not the fitness buff. I’ve just kept you company on the couch.”

“That’s not true, and you know it. You helped. Every day. I’m just glad I can finally get back to work full time, and anyone willing to put up with me moping around the house for this long deserves a medal. Or at least a vacation.”

She laughs sharply and eyes the lunches we’ve prepared for the day: cups of noodles and whatever fruit was on sale this week to stave off a vitamin deficiency. “Maybe now that you’re full time again, we’ll be able to stop eating like undergrads and start saving up for a weekend at the lake.”

I give her hand one more kiss. “Sounds like a deal. See you this afternoon.”

It had been a long year. And Nell deserved way more than a weekend away at a lake. After a pallet of lumber crushed my leg right above my knee, I had only been able to go back to work about six months ago. Six months of painful hobbling about in the mornings, to go home after lunch and then do my physical therapy and exercise. The woman was a saint. Things were financially tight even before my accident; neither of us were exactly bringing in massive sums. Her retail job, my warehouse gig, they kept the pantry full and the rent paid. My time away from work drained the savings account, and even getting back to part time felt like a windfall. She didn’t have to tell me how stressful that time had been. I didn’t need to hear both sides of the phone calls with her mother to know my mother-in-law’s thoughts. “If he only had a college degree. He’d be working in an office, this would never have happened, and you’d be a homeowner, not renting some shack.”

She didn’t care. She was my therapist, counselor, and friend through the whole process. Unlike me, she was never one for regular exercise, but she walked me through the strength building routines assigned by my therapist, kept me well fed on the scant amount of money we had, and never made me feel ashamed of having to ask for help. The first day we were able to take a walk through the park together, I felt like a new man. Me, leaning heavily on my cane and her with one arm around my waist, swaying with my lopsided gait to keep our shoulders close, I could finally see the end of the tunnel. 

It became my regular exercise spot, and eventually Nell was able to confidently let me limp around the 2 mile loop fenced in by chain link that we had discovered in our neighborhood. She generally sat and read while I completed my lap. Eventually, when I was cleared for driving, she was able to get back to her hobbies at home. She had seen me walking with enough confidence that she was sure I wouldn’t fall and be stuck on the hot pavement of the walking trail without her.

The park was simple, but well maintained. A two mile paved path encircled a lightly forested area along with some kickball fields. There was a green belt with a creek running behind the park. I’d made up my mind to tackle that hike when my limp had been fully conquered. With work being full-time again, that would have to wait for the weekend. 

I threw some pasta in a pot when I arrived home that afternoon. Meatless spaghetti. My specialty. It would be ready by the time Nell finished her shift. I did my stretches, some laundry, and some dishes, the only chores I could do without painfully regretting it the next day. We exchanged stories about asshole customers and asshole managers over our meager meal of bargain pasta. 

“Are you going for a walk this afternoon? I was thinking of bringing a book.”

“Not this afternoon. A: It’s boiling outside, and B: I need a couple hours of vegetating before my leg is ready to move again. You’d think it would remember how to work all day.”

“‘Don’t forget you’re human’” she quips in a sing-song tone.

“I’m going to forget you’re human if you quote my therapist’s posters again.”

“Tell you what, if you go this evening, I’ll have an ice pack and a beer ready for when you get back.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

The park is never busy even on weekends. It’s tucked away amongst a bunch of single family homes, well off the main street. During the day, it’s a pleasant breath of oxygen in a crowded suburbia. When I pull the car up, an hour after the sun has gone down, I hardly recognize it. I’ve never been here at night; I’m impressed by how well lit the walking paths are in the little neighborhood greenspace. 

Earphones in, music on, I begin my 2 mile walk. I’m making good time for someone with two rods and four pins in his femur. 60 minutes is my record, and I was on the couch for two days after that, with Nell providing me ice packs and disapproving looks until I promised to go easier on myself. 

At the quarter-mile sign, I stop to stretch. My calves are in a constant rebellion these days. I hear a tinny rattling, and quickly pop one earbud out to see if I’ve got a short in the wiring. The rattling, though a gentle noise, gets louder when I unplug my ear, not softer. I look quickly back towards the start of the path, but the bright lights illuminating the path make it hard to see beyond the pavement. I realize what I’m hearing is the chain link fencing, as if it’s been lightly jostled. A cat, I tell myself, or a possum squeezing under the fence. They’re nocturnal, right? And I bet they’d love to get to investigate these trash cans. The gentle rattle dies away, I finish my count to 30 on my bad leg and set off again.

You really can’t see anything out here at night, I think to myself. The familiar path is illuminated with frequent overhead lamps, which I am quite thankful for. A stumble on a dark walkway would leave me hobbling home with my tail between my legs to explain to Nell that I’ve overdone it again. Cue another “inspirational quote” from my physical therapist. Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I squint across the park at another late-night walker with their dog, finishing the last of their two miles. The lit path is like a band of light snaking through the dark trees, only inky blackness past the light poles. My attention is caught by a figure standing across the park, silhouetted between me and the path the dog-walker just left. I blink, and the two dark legs of the figure come into focus and become the sign post for the one and a half mile mark, the torso a water fountain right behind it. I shake my head, continue walking. Half a mile down.

At the three-quarter mile, I have to stop and stretch again. Maybe it was a mistake to come out for a full walk during my first week back at the warehouse. Tomorrow will be a rest day. As I’m bending down to grab my toe, I get another glimpse of something on the edge of my vision. I snap back upright, wincing as I do so. I squint into the dark space behind me. The same figure, standing in a dark pool of shadow by the entrance to the park. This time I can’t seem to focus and see a sign instead of a pair of legs. The torso and head remain a torso and head. A chill runs down my neck as some part of my subconscious chooses this moment to decide that the figure is most definitely looking in my direction. “All right,” Nell’s voice rings out in my head,  “you’re nearly halfway done and you’re not the only one in the park tonight. No problem. Get today’s walk over with, and next time they pass a street light, you’ll see it’s just another late visitor.” 

Begrudgingly, I turn my back on the shadow and continue my labored hike. When I’ve gotten one mile finished, the path make a U turn and begins to weave back through the trees towards the parking lot. I take advantage of the wide view of the park to look for my fellow late night ambler who spooked me. 

No one.

As I walk, I scan the park starting at the gate, following the path. If they’re walking, I’ll see them. The walking path is the only damn thing you can see in the park, after all. Another metallic rattle has me ripping out my earbuds and I see the chain link fence around the three-quarter mark vibrating in a wind that doesn’t seem to touch the trees. There. Again. The dark outline of a figure, not walking on the path, but standing just outside the flood of light cast by the lamp. Once again, something deep and primal tells me that its unseen eyes are on me. 

It’s enough. I don’t care if this is some teenager dicking around with the cripple clomping his way through his required 5,000 steps, I’m ready to be home, watching bad TV with my wife. I pick up the pace, striding as far as I can with each step to just make it back to the safety of my car. I’m glad I didn’t put the earbuds back in. It would have made it harder to hear the chain link start its  clatter again. As I round the corner to see the one and a quarter marker, I recognize the sound from when I was a kid and would run my hand along a fence in my yard. It’s getting louder.

I don’t turn my head. I very carefully avoid thinking about the quickly approaching clinking sound. I am studiously facing forward as I imagine the figure three lamps away, two lamps away, one lamp away, running long shadowy fingers across the metal fence. I huff and puff my way up to the next distance marker. The parking lot is ahead. I’m going home. 

Filled with the confidence that I’ve nearly crossed the finish line, I take a breath and risk a glimpse over my right shoulder. Nothing. The fence is still, the black shapes of the trees a comforting and familiar sight I recall from my walks in the sun. I take two steps, still looking behind me, when I feel a gentle, warm waft of air in my left ear, followed by a wheezing, rasping inhale of breath.

I’m running. I haven’t run in a year, but I am running now. As the gate comes into view, I feel something pop in my knee. If I’d had time to stumble and stagger, I would have, but the gasping, shaking thing is behind me, and I now I can smell an odor of decaying flesh, of corruption and rot. I push down the burning pain in my leg, and the nausea that threatens to make me double over. I train my eyes on my car and start counting the yards to get there. As I lumber gamely through the gate, I feel something catch at my shirt, and hear the wheezing breath growing louder, just behind me.

I spill into the brightly lit parking lot and throw myself into the car, pummeling the locks as I slam the door. Gripping the steering wheel tightly and closing my eyes tighter still, I listen for the death rattle breath that had followed me out of the park. Nothing. I hear a gentle clink of chain link fencing, and my eyes dart for the source. Still nothing. I turn on every light in my car and check the back seat just for my own sanity. Putting the car into gear and pulling out to the road as quickly as I can, I catch one more glimpse of a silhouette in the mirror. Snapping my head up, I once again see a signpost for the park materialize in place of the dark form I thought I’d seen. 

By the time I get home, I’ve almost convinced myself that the entire thing was my imagination. It’s been a busy week. I’m over-tired from being back at work. I went somewhere I wasn’t familiar with, heard some spooky noises, and panicked. I give Nell a hug, and go to take a long hot shower. I’d nearly convinced myself. I pulled my shirt over my head and almost missed the hand print on the back. A hand print with four long, thin, muddy fingers. 

The shirt goes straight into the garbage bin.

[dennys]

Midnight Mystery: A Denny's Story

12:00 pm. It was a cold and windy night, which was quite unusual for Los Angeles, California. But then again, this wasn’t an average night. You could just feel it on your skin. Something wasn’t right, and you were going to get to the bottom of it.

You looked down at your hand, knuckles white from nervously gripping onto the crumpled paper note. You decided to read it again, just to be sure you were at the right place. “Denny’s. Devonshire Street. Midnight. Be there. Come alone.”

You sighed heavily, and looked up at the building in front of you, looming in the darkness. Yep, this was it. The inside was dark from what you can tell by looking through the windows. You slowly approached the steps leading up to the large, glass doors. As you walked up each step, you reconsidered this whole thing. What if it was some sort of trap? What if this was where you were going to die? But, the ominous interior of the so-called “restaurant” was beckoning you inside. It’s as if this was your destiny. Cold, unavoidable, and mysterious.

You finally made it to the top of the stairs, and you peered through the glass double-doors. The inside still looked as dark and empty as before. Your shaking hand made it to the door handles, and to your surprise, the door swung open quite easily. They were expecting you. You stepped inside, but still not a sound besides the shuffling of your feet. 

A light comes on. Just a single spotlight over one of the empty booths. As your eyes adjust to the sudden shock of light through the inky blackness, you notice a menu on the illuminated table. It was propped up against a napkin holder, opened to the first page. As you approach it with caution, you notice a golden key set on the table in front of the menu. You lean in to read the page, but realize that there weren’t any food items listed, except for one: pancakes. In every space where there should be a breakfast item, it was replaced with the word “pancakes”. Your stomach begins to rumble. You are hungry… hungry for answers.

Grabbing the menu and the mysterious key, you keep walking through the room, occasionally bumping into tables and chairs in the dark. You make a left turn somewhere and another light comes on. It’s a bit dimmer this time, so it’s not as bad on your eyes. It’s the light at the doorway of the kitchen. As you make your way towards it, you hear a sound behind you. Some sort of creaking noise, like you were being followed…

You whip your head around, but there was nothing there. Just the same empty tables and chairs. You must be imagining things now. Yeah… just imagining things. When you walk into the kitchen, all the lights come on simultaneously. At least, inside of the kitchen that is. There’s nothing abnormal about it. It’s just a regular old kitchen. Something about it seems oddly familiar though. You’d like to think it’s just a bit of déjà vu, but you’re sure you remember this location from before.

You start looking around for some sort of secret entrance or hidden door, but find nothing. You must have missed something… there’s got to be a clue. You look through pots and pans, bags of flour, loose floor tiles. Anything to reveal what to do next! Just then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a poster on the wall. That’s it! It’s what the menu was trying to say. The poster had a badly photoshopped stack of pancakes on it, so there has to be something important near it. You run towards it, and rip the poster from the wall to discover a metal safe built into the wall. It was pretty plain except for a keyhole, which obviously fit the key from before. You shove the shiny, golden key into it’s designated spot and turn it. Instead of the safe opening though, the entire wall split into a doorframe! The key must have activated the entrance, and it’s finally time to see what you’ve been waiting for.

When the door swung open, it revealed another dark room. You take a deep breath, and step inside. The second your foot passes the doorframe, a set of extremely bright lights come on, and your eyes are momentarily blinded once again. When they adjust, something beautiful is revealed. Something magical. Something one can only dream about.

Wait a minute. This can’t be real… this isn’t real at all! This is just a dream! It’s just a dream!

You woke up covered in sweat, tears running down your eyes and your pillow soaked. You were gasping for air, your breaths coming in short and fast. You glanced out the window from your bed, and noticed that it was morning. It was just a dream after all, but it was exactly what you needed. You’ve been waiting for some kind of vision, a sign, a dream. And now, you’ve got it. Before you lost the image in your mind, you raced to your desk and opened up your laptop, desperately waiting for it to start up. You plopped down into your rolling chair, and typed in your password. It was ‘pancakes’, of course. You pulled up one of those electronic sticky notes that hang around on your desktop, and began typing in the description of that magical image you saw in your dream. Yes… this is it! The inspiration you’ve been hoping for!

“A stack of pancakes, but the butter on top is larger and zoomed in, and it’s photoshopped to look like an ice cream scoop with a cherry on top and sprinkles. It’s a pancake sundae!”

You cease your furious typing, take a deep breath, and stretch out your arms. This is the kind of genius your Denny’s blog needed.

[cryptixcreations]

Trying to figure out stuff that happened off-screen in the Masks game and wound up writing ~900 words between Lio and The Spectre

Tried to write Specs the way the GM played him so he’s kind of a douche

also realized, not for the first time, that my writing is way too context-dependent, holy shit, none of this is gonna make sense to anyone but I’m sticking it here for posterity anyway

"He's not here."

The girl looked up.

At the moment, she didn't look like a girl. Her features and build were open to interpretation. Her short hair shone with brilliantine. Dressed in carefully tailored evening suit, she looked the part of a clean-cut young man-about-town. There was no shortage of such idlers about the lobby of the upscale El Cortez hotel.

Still, he thought of her as the girl. Or the counterfeit. Probably he should address that.

She almost managed to hide her surprise. She didn't do so well with her irritation. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said, her low pitch just a little forced. "Are you looking for someone?"

"Yes. You." He extended a hand. His ring was turned towards his palm, sparks of red and blue glowing from the opal's inky depths. She had already recognized him, of course. The token meant more than identification. Her hand moved towards her sternum where a matching opal rested, hidden. "This place is guarded. If he returns, he'll be seen and I--" he paused. "And we will be notified. Will you join me for dinner?"

She eyed his hand. He didn't blame her for her suspicion. They'd met only a few times and he had treated her poorly.

In his defense, her being his great-granddaughter from the year 2017 was still an utterly absurd concept. For many reasons. Just because he had to now accept it as truth didn't mean he had to like it.

"He can shapeshift," she pointed out.

"Which means my people will have as much chance of recognizing him as you."

She sighed. "Fair point." Setting aside her newspaper, she rose, without his help. "Lead on."

On her feet, the girl was nearly as tall as he was. It was one of many ways that she almost resembled him. No one would look at the two and take them for family. Even she admitted their genetic relationship was dubious to nonexistent. Yet there were little things, now that he looked for them, little sparks of familiarity. David's sadness. Evie's stubbornness. His own eyes.

Lio, he'd heard her friends call her, before correcting themselves to L'Esprit. Lio suited her. He supposed, grudgingly, that L'Esprit suited her too.

Once they were settled in the waiting limousine and on their way to Maskelyne's club, Lio spoke again. "Thanks for the suit. It fits really well."

"You're welcome."

"How are the funeral arrangements?"

"Everything is being taken care of. It will be held in a few days, before you leave for New Jersey."

"Good. Joey will be glad to hear that." She took a breath. Her voice softened. "I'm sorry. About Katiana."

There it was, again, another familiar spark: the tone of voice David used when he blamed himself for something. Relation or not, she was more like David than was healthy. He took a gamble.

"What happened to her before?"

"Before?" She blinked at him. Understanding dawned. "Oh." Her gaze dropped. "I don't really remember. I think... I think Altaa traded her to some criminal organization. You wrote the name in Russian, I couldn't read it."

She tried, she really did, to pronounce a half-remembered word in a language she didn't know. He couldn't help but laugh and suggest another, vaguely -- very vaguely -- similar word.

She winced. "Maybe?"

He sobered as he said, "Very likely. I've dealt with them. Suffice it to say that they are not kindly disposed toward nobility. She had three years she wouldn't have had otherwise."

"That's good," Lio murmured. She didn't believe him.

The car pulled to a stop, the doorman opening the door with a "Good evening, Mister Maskelyne." Lio followed in brooding silence. He let the silence remain until they were seated in the grill room.

"Lio. Is that short for something?"

She looked up at the sound of her name, seemed to think for a long minute, then answered, "Yes."

"What is it?"

She hesitated.

"Nevermind. Let's try a different question. Why didn't you show me your necklace three years ago?"

Her knuckles brushed her silk tie. "I... was afraid you'd take it. Or attack me. Or both." Reasonable -- he had attacked her -- but there was more to it. He waited. "And I didn't want to change things too much." She chuckled; a small, rueful sound. "See how well that turned out."

He waited.

Her gaze drifted up and locked with his. She knew what he was doing; she was deciding whether she would let it work. It struck him again that she had his eyes. Deep brown, almost black, but glowing from deep within. No wonder Almaa had recognized those eyes.

"It's Vespertilio."

He blinked. "Pardon?"

"My name. It's Vespertilio. One of your grandchildren or grand-in-laws will be very into bats and Latin. What else do you want to know?"

It was a risk, but he had to ask. "What changed your mind?"

She shrugged. "The course of history is already broken. I don't know if I'll get another chance to fix it, or even if I could. With my luck I'd make it worse. All I want at this point is to make sure that our family is safe, and the best way I can do that is to arm you with information. So. What do you want to know?"

"Our family," he repeated, trying out the words. The Spectre smiled. "Why don't we start there?"