#slow burn horror
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
greenhillsdessert · 1 year ago
Text
its been ages since i made any kind of original post on here but my friends and I have been working on an anthology of horror short stories and its finally ready to print!!
if anyone likes that kind of thing then please check out our kickstarter:
kickstarter
It's fully funded already so we're definitely gonna print. We also have a website: https://slowburnhorror.com/
also if you know people who might be into it shares are massively appreciated :) ♡
3 notes · View notes
horrorhodgepodge · 3 months ago
Text
The House That Horror Built
🦇Summary Harry is a poor, single mother trying to survive the Covid-19 Pandemic as a house cleaner for the famed horror director Javier Castillo, but his house may be home to something more than horror props and collectables. 📚Themes & Topics: Realism, Pandemic Effects, Ghosts, Being Poor??? ⭐Rating: 🩸🩸 🧠 My thoughts I’m not going to lie, I struggled to get this one finished. By all…
0 notes
saturdaysky · 7 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
a little morning pick-me-up
-
A morning on the way to Baldur's Gate. The party booked themselves into an inn and enjoyed real beds, hot baths, and privacy for the first time since the Nautiloid.
Gale and Mayhew shared a room, of course. They were filled with the relief of surviving the shadows and the glow of finally getting together, so their private room was probably a blessing for the whole party, honestly.
-
This was some ascended anatomy practice! Referenced some great stock from @null-entity.
467 notes · View notes
crookedsmilesnovel · 4 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Crooked Smiles is a 2-part LGBTQIA+ supernatural horror romance series written by H.L. Holmwood, largely presented as novels, which will include insert comic pages within chapters.
Supplementary zines— a mixture of prose and comic— will be published alongside to expand on characters and plot points; the artwork for these is being created by the amazingly talented Kit Buss / @anemonetea
Tumblr media
Set in Victorian London, the series follows Kostya, a working class werewolf, and Ivan, a back-alley vampire doctor, as they battle a threat to both themselves and to the unsuspecting humans living alongside their kind.
Kostya is a cocky northern bloke with a chip on his shoulder. Ivan is a bookish, introspective Czech smartarse with lofty goals. Both characters are queer and have physical disabilities.
Tumblr media
Be sure to follow for more updates as the project progresses! Volume 1 Kickstarter to be announced...
291 notes · View notes
trulyumai · 7 months ago
Text
Oh, Mr Mosses (Series) II
Tumblr media
Part one can be found here!
https://www.tumblr.com/trulyumai/746978557424812032/oh-mr-mosses-series?source=share
Synopsis: You were fine with the job, the steps were easy enough but the secret  of the D.D.D was getting harder and harder to contain. Each night a new entity would enter the building, each with its own horrific look and intentions. Just as you debate on leaving, a new resident has entered the premises; Francis Mosses who is absolutely entranced by your being.
Will you be as smitten of him as he is of you? Only time will tell.
Taglist; @tfamidoingwithmylife (Let me know if you want to be added!)
Oh, Mr. Mosses II
“There you are Ms. Svertchz, have a wonderful day!” The receptionist smiled and through the glass she carefully looked at the woman in front of her. Her nails were so clean, she noticed, they were always gelled, matching whatever premium outfit she had on that day. 
“Yes, you too dear.” Without a glance at the younger woman the resident walked off, the tapping of her heels echoed through the old corridor and finally ceased when the elevator creaked its way down. 
It had been a week since meeting Francis, and she hadn’t really gotten a true impression of the man. He was so quiet, so… watchful. Anything she did in front of him she could feel his eyes on her, always staring at her with this thoughtful yet blank expression. 
He was just shy, she had thought. And if she was to make a move at all, it had to be small enough so that neither of them would be too embarrassed or caught off guard. 
He was so handsome, he was dressed nicely all the time and his lazy gaze fit his face so well. His nose was a bit hooked and larger than the average, but he made it look rugged, sexy even. 
With a shake to the head and a glance at the clock she let out a sigh. It was break time. 
Clouds rolled in, the rain came down soon after and poured down mercilessly. The winds howled along with it and she swore that if it got any stronger, the building would come cascading down. Almost everyone had checked in for the night, everyone except, she eyed the list again; Francis Mosses. 
With a squeeze to the paper she couldn’t help but let out a shaky breath. 
It was hell waiting to see if the dupe would come through the doors. Recently it had been trickier to spot the fake, they were getting smarter, better. 
Just the other day she almost let in a double of Ms. Bubbles, if she hadn’t noticed the lipstick was maroon instead of its usual raspberry who knows how many bodies would be littering the floor right now. The monster was furious she had caught on, it was so close, so close to being let in and getting its way through the building. 
A slam startled her out of her thoughts, the doors to the plaza burst open from someone- or something walking inside. 
The steps were slow, lazy, it had to be- 
“Mmm. Hello.” The milkman smiled, and although it was small, it comforted the receptionist dearly. 
“Hello Francis! The regular forms, please.” Straight to business, then who knows? Maybe ask him about coffee, a bookstore date, anything! 
Grabbing the papers he slid them over to the entrance, pushing them through with ease.
Turning them over she began her rambling. 
“How was your day, Francis? Things have been super slow here.” She mumbled, lining up each number and form. 
“Mm, it was fine. The rain was a bit of a hindrance but it didn’t stop me from completing my routes.” God, the way she said his name, he had to stop himself from biting down on his knuckles. Perfect, how could someone be so perfect all the time? 
He was enamored, obsessed even, with everything she was. It had been a week, sure, but it felt like a lifetime for him. 
She was distracted, per usual so he could stare at her freely now with no embarrassment to be had. Yet.
Her blouse was simple, a nice pale pink that hugged her in all the right places. And was that, a pencil skirt? Holy hell, this woman would be the death of him. 
With a glance to her left she looked at the schedule for the hundredth time, Francis' name was indeed there. 
“Everything’s clear, sorry for the wait.” She smiled at him then, her perfect teeth molded smoothly around her lips and- did he say she was perfect yet?
“Thank you.” Those glossy lips were tantalizing him, that had to be new lipstick, there’s no way he hadn’t noticed that sheen before on those plump, kissable- 
“Are you okay? You space out a lot,” she laughed. 
Quickly grabbing his forms he shoved them in his pocket, not bothering to open his wallet once more. 
He had to leave, the thoughts were getting to him, he felt hot, sweaty and tight in all the wrong places. It was a good thing his uniform came with black pants, otherwise he wouldn’t bother to show his face around any longer. 
“Mm, have a good night.” Without a pause he made his way to the elevator, and if it wasn't for the hand that shot out the paper slot he would have made it there.
“Wait! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to grab you like that, but um,” his eyes couldn’t help but widen, looking down her hand was still around his wrist. So small, so soft. 
“Do you… want to get coffee sometime?” She mumbled, although the rain was heavy and sounded out almost anything, he heard her. Because of course he did. Lifting his other arm, he couldn’t help but cover his mouth and cheeks. He rubbed his face, played it off as if he was really thinking it over, like it was a hard answer. 
“Mmm. Sure that sounds good.” And with a light smile he met her eyes. They were shining, full of emotion and if he looked any longer there was no way he was leaving. 
“Wait, really?” She gasped, letting go of his hand quickly and slotting it back to the other side. 
“Mhm, just… I’ll come to you, my schedule is quite hectic, you see.” 
“No of course! That sounds great, I'm sorry again for grabbing you,” And she truly looked apologetic, her face was so sympathetic, chin tilted downwards and she looked more like a kicked puppy than anything else. 
“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” he’s totally not going to imagine her hands later, gripping his shoulders, neck, trailing them down further and further.  
“I’ll see you soon then!” She pushed her hair back, letting it fall behind her gorgeous neck, collarbones and, what was he saying again? 
“Mm? Yes. Yes I’ll see you soon.” With a little pep to his step he pushed the elevator button. 
It was then a call rang out, it was the work phone. 
With a dreamy sigh she imagined him, the date and how perfect it all would be. Maybe they could grab dessert after. 
“Resident desk, employee 29 speaking.” 
“Hey 29! Great to catch you!” The manager's voice rang through and she sighed, her break was almost up and of course, the most extroverted person had to come talk her ear off. 
“Hello sir, what can I do for you?” 
“Straight to the point, you know I love that! You got the schedule for next week, right? Should be in a yellow envelope,” he smacked his teeth on the other end, and she could picture him now with his toothpick and big glasses staring right at her. 
“Yes sir, you told me not to open it until the day of.” 
He laughed. “Yep yep! Just uh, making sure. So, while I have you I thought I should mention,” shuffling was heard on the other end, like papers were being sorted through and thrown about. 
“The D.D.D wanted to make sure all employees know that this month will be more active than ever, and uh, they're sending in new forms to sign, waivers and what not.” 
She frowned. Active? What, how, why? 
Cutting him off she couldn’t help but talk fast. “Sir? Active? Why are they more active?” 
He paused, and she swore she could hear her heartbeat through her ears before he spoke up again. 
“Yeah, yeah, they said it had something to do with the weather? No idea, didn’t really bother to ask them you know, it’s hard to hold a conversation with a guy in a hazmat suit.” 
He laughed again and she wanted to strangle him, the man couldn’t take anything serious. 
“That’s all doll, you have a wonderful evening you here?” 
“Wait, sir-“ Click. 
That bastard, who does he think he is? Who does management think they are? Putting the phone back on the hook she couldn’t help but feel tired. Tired from work bullshit, how everyone brushed her off even though she was helping people, saving lives each and every night. 
The clock chimed, signaling for her shift to be over and she lazily rolled her chair back, getting up while picking at her nails. 
At least she had the date to look forward to, right? 
A/N: Second chapter done! We are slowly getting to the darker side of things woo! The next chapter will be a big one. I'll be introducing Francis’ mimic and will the receptionist be able to tell which is which? Well see! Let me know if i should implement more smuttier descriptions or content, for now i haven't but that can change! See you lovelies soon, TrulyUmai
240 notes · View notes
pinkdeath6 · 7 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Let me burn here
180 notes · View notes
staycalmandhugaclone · 2 months ago
Text
Fool's Errand Pt 7
Part (7) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!
Gonna call this the halfway point, maybe
Warnings: impatience toward a child (kinda? I mean, yuh know... Crosshair), guilt, medical procedure/ gore, fantasy profanity (that warning always makes me giggle), sexual innuendo ish, gonna also add romantic tension because it's not really sexual tension, self-depreciating thoughts, body horror
WC: 3,755
Tumblr media
“That's my arm… leg… That's still my arm…” There was a faint growl in the sigh that followed as the child continued pestering the irritated sniper, and my lips ached from how tightly I had to bite them to hold back my grin.
Wrecker offered none of my self-restraint, expression softened beneath a deep warmth, though there was no hiding the underlying sorrow in his gaze.
“How's the leg?” I asked quietly, attention focused on checking Hunter's chest tube and vitals before moving to look over Tech as well. He gave an almost bored shrug.
“Hurts a bit, but not like before.” He didn't take his eyes off the pair across from him as he spoke.
“When we reach the Marauder, I’ll give you something to relax, then we'll see if Cross and I can get it back in.” I told him gently. He let out a quiet hum in response.
“Think she means your armor.” He called out, voice still strangely hushed. I glanced over my shoulder to see Crosshair shoot his brother an unamused glare, but, when the girl pointed to his forearm, he let out resigned huff.
“Vambrace." He said, word perfectly monotone, and the excited gasp that followed left him dropping his face heavily into his hand, instantly drawing a wide smile across my lips. Wrecker returned that smile only briefly before sinking back into a quiet shame.
“She'll warm up to you.” I promised, leaning over to bump my shoulder against his, but he merely replied with a halfhearted nod.
The girl still hadn’t said a word, soundlessly communicating with a nod or a frown, though her expressions were so vibrant, we needed little assistance in understanding her. Meanwhile, Hunter and Tech remained unconscious. Though both were stable, the longer Tech’s arm remained in that tourniquet, the greater the risk of it causing damage to the limb.
“N- Those aren’t toys.” Cross nearly snapped, only belatedly forcing his voice into a tense murmur. I looked back to see the girl still tugging at one of the reflector disks at his waist, undeterred. He let out a poorly stifled growl before snatching at one of the disks and tossing it to her, earning a beaming grin.
“Why don’t yuh sit down? We’re still a few minutes away, an’ yuh look beat.”  Wrecker asked softly. An excuse danced readily over my tongue, but, as I turned to face him, as I noted the gentle concern in his bright eyes, that excuse faded before ever being granted voice. And he was far from wrong. I felt the way my shoulders sagged despite some lingering attempt to fight back that oppressive exhaustion, the weariness of muscles long since pleading for respite, and I couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh.
“Maybe you’re right.” I murmured quietly. “Just for a bit.” He offered a small grin as I settled into the seat beside him, gaze wandering over Crosshair once more with an air of amusement at his resigned glare while the girl practically sat in his lap as she leaned over to tap his bandoleer.
Tumblr media
The medbay of the Marauder was never meant for this; it was meant to offer only a liminal reprieve while en route to a proper medical center, more akin to a transport than a place of actual healing, but this was war, and what was once the bare minimum quickly became fantastical ideals in the face of necessity. There was no surgical suite. There was no hope for sterility nor endless supply of equipment, but none of that changed the reality of what was before me; Tech would either bleed out or lose his arm if I couldn’t locate and fix the vessels that had been severed in the crash.
He lay unconscious atop my bed; the same bed in which he’d spent nearly a week suffering beneath the horrors of withdrawal from those wretched fungal spores; the same bed that had seen each of the brothers relax upon as I eased their aches with leisurely massages; the same bed Crosshair and I had slept together in nearly every night since the loss of my brother.
It felt like I’d barely slept a few minutes when Wrecker woke me. A quick glance at my chrono confirmed exactly that, but we’d reached the Marauder, and there simply wasn't time for anything more. I rubbed weary hands over my eyes, forcing back the nausea that so often followed in the wake of a far too short rest, and pretended not to notice how closely Crosshair was watching me.
With his help, we'd gotten Wrecker on board first, then Hunter. The movement had woken him, and we’d barely made it up the ramp before he shrugged us off. I’d nearly objected, nearly thrown the words “chest-tube" and “collapsed lung" at him through snarled lips, and demanded he let us help, but the handful of steps weren't worth the fight, and, at the moment, Tech was in far greater danger.
“What do you need?” Crosshair asked, shoulders drawn back, eyes hard as he studied the pale form of his brother between us. I’d almost taken a moment to find something for him to do, some way for him to help, but I didn’t have time to walk him through how to help, nor did I have the energy.
“I’ve got him.” I promised quietly, already guiding a pair of shears around Tech’s shoulder to cut away the sleeve. “You should talk to the girl – no, I mean actually talk to her.” It wasn’t scolding, but, from the disdain that twisted his face, it might as well have been. “She may know something,” I pressed, “and, right now, she seems to like you the most.” His shoulders sank, eyes narrowing into a weak glare, but he knew I was right.
“I'm not a damn babysitter.” I had to fight back a smirk at the indignation in his voice, stealing a quick breath to quiet myself before responding.
“So, interrogate her. Nicely.” His glare deepened, but I merely rolled my eyes.
“I don't do nice.” He hissed, drawing a sigh from me. Movements unrushed by impatience or annoyance, I set down the sheers and walked around the bed toward him, lips barely hinting at a warm smile.
“I think we both know that's not true.” I murmured softly. He started to object, scowl just beginning to twist his face, but the heat behind it faded as I reached for him, hand moving up to brush lightly over his chest before caressing his jaw, his cheek, fingers subtly pulling him down. “You can be very sweet.” That harshness abandoned him as he let himself be drawn toward me.
“Just because you get special treatment doesn't mean I've gone soft.” He tried to rebuke, lips even tensing with the beginnings of a frown, but, again, his retort fell into something far too gentle for the words he’d said, annoyance robbed by the sight of the grin toying with my lips.
“We’ll have to talk more about that ‘special treatment’ later,” I nearly teased, “but, right now, Echo needs to focus on monitoring troop movement, Hunter and Tech are both out, and she's…” I didn't want to say it, the words cloying up my throat, “she’s afraid of Wrecker… You're the only one she trusts enough to hopefully open up to.” With an almost growled sigh, he stood back to his full height, reluctantly pulling away from me as his jaw jut forward, narrowed gaze turning toward the door.
“Seems to trust you just find, too.” He pointed out. I released a slow breath, exhaustion unsatiated by those few minutes of rest stolen during the flight now making itself known once more through both weariness and the beginnings of an impatience I fought to stem.
“I can't take care of Tech and talk to her, Crosshair.” I tried not to let my voice fall into a grumble, but it was near enough to draw his attention back to me, shoulders sinking slightly at what he saw, and my jaw tensed as I caved beneath the urge to look away.
“Alright.” The way the innate rasp in his voice quieted into a careful whisper sent a flutter of warmth through my chest, the heat of it both comforting and crippling as it stripped me of the meager strength granted by an impatience I was simply too tired to fully hide, and what stillness followed as my eyes rose to find him studying me with a concern that nearly brought a flush to my cheeks was a far too gentle thing amidst the knowledge of what grizzly tasks still awaited me.
I replied only with a grateful nod, lips tensing with a smile I couldn't quite manage before turning back to Tech. Crosshair didn't move at first, and I wondered what thoughts held him for those handful of seconds. Was he searching for some final excuse that might convince me to withdraw my request and free him of his dreaded task? Or was he waiting for me to falter, unconvinced by the determination I forced back into my eyes as I returned to his brother’s side?
Regardless if his hesitation was from doubt or concern or reluctance, he waited only a moment before finally leaving, granting me an isolation that offered just as much strife as it did comfort, absolving me of the need to maintain some façade that I might pretend I wasn’t fighting how heavily my shoulders sagged the instant the door slid shut even as it emphasized just how alone I was in this. After doing what I could for Tech, I'd need to check Hunter again before moving on to Wrecker. There was no luxury of a break, no hope for reprieve lest I risk sacrificing the well-being and safety of my men. So, I allowed myself to waste no more time, gaze traveling over the deep gash marring Tech's upper arm.
We like to feign knowledge even where nothing can be guaranteed. The human body exists in a constant state of change, and even aspects held as fact cannot be relied upon in the face of independent cases. Anatomy is based on averages which, at best, grant perfunctory guidance and, at worst, acts only as a distraction. Even clones proved far more unique than the Kaminoans liked to believe. Genetics may offer a foundation, but who and what we become develop independent of, and occasionally in spite of, that primordial code, from the moral of our character to how our actions alter the physicality of muscle and bone through years of hardship and abuse. Anatomy claims knowledge of where veins and arteries nestle beneath skin and tissue, but immaculate diagrams and ancient names meant nothing amidst the gore of shredded flesh and thickening blood.
It felt like hours passed in the span of a single, endlessly held breath as I carefully sought out severed vessels, each one needing meticulous care to be knit back together around a shunt and flushed of all threat of clots. Repairing the muscle was easier, and I was relieved to find no severed tendons. Still, the moment I finally released the tourniquet, my heart raced faster with each passing second, eyes glued to the monitors for any signs of distress. Did I miss something? Had I taken too long? Symptoms of compartment syndrome, limb ischemia, embolisms, stroke, and endless other complications roared through my head. If anything happened, if he was hurt even worse because I wasn’t careful enough or quick enough, there was no one to blame but me… But his heartbeat remained steady… There was no sudden change in protein levels in his blood… Still, I couldn't let myself breathe… not yet… I set what equipment I had to monitor him for any change, but... he seemed okay.
I watched him for a long moment, as though my very presence might delay or prevent complications, locked in that fear that something would go wrong the instant I so much as blinked, before forcing myself to walk away. There was more that needed to be done.
Strides heavy, I trudged through the door, absently working a wet cloth between my hands. Logically, I knew the latex gloves worked as intended, that my skin was untainted from his blood just as his wound was safe from whatever bacteria thrived on my fingertips, but I could still feel it: thick and viscous and everywhere, the scent of which clung to me just as relentlessly as the nauseating texture.
“Doc?”
My eyes darted up to find Wrecker watching me carefully, concern heavy atop his brow as his jaw hung open with an unspoken question, body frozen where he stood in the kitchenette, hand still outstretched toward a cabinet.
“Wrecker, what are you doing up?” I asked quickly, already trotting forward.
“Uh, just… figured I’d get the kid somethin’ to eat.” He answered absently, thoughts clearly elsewhere.  “Tech…” He started, and I realized why he seemed so distracted, chest bucking with a sharp inhale to answer him quickly.
“Recovering.” He let out a small sigh at my quiet reassurance. “There was a lot of damage, but it looks like I was able to repair it in time to keep the tourniquet from causing even more problems.” He was just about to reply, lips pulled into a relieved grin, but I interrupted him, words just shy of biting. “Speaking of ‘causing even more damage'…” There was a brief moment in which he seemed honestly confused. It took a mere flick of my eyes toward his knee, however, for a light blush and nervous smile to wash over him.
“Ah, well… with you being so busy, and we can all tell yuh need a break, Cross an’ Echo helped to just…” He motioned innocently toward the leg as he lifted it, bending the limb a few times as if to prove it was fine, but his hope for forgiveness crumbled amidst the darkness I could feel stealing over my expression. I knew they hadn't used muscle relaxers – I didn't keep any in my pack and no one had tried to sneak into the medbay while I tended Tech.
“Sit.” I ordered firmly, pointing to the small table. He hesitated, but held back whatever excuse or objection bated across his tongue as he sulked to the nearest chair. Without another word, I marched back into the hall, boots clicking loudly against the metal walkway as though to emphasize my annoyance.
The bunks were empty, as was the cabin when I entered it. Upon leaning down to grab my pack, however, footsteps sounded from the fore of the ship. I paused as Crosshair approached, not trying to hide the lingering annoyance from my gaze. He hesitated, confusion drawing his brows together.
“What?” The defensive snarl in his voice only furthered my irritation.
“I'll deal with you and Echo later.” I stated firmly. His expression pinched with indignation, but I didn't grant him time to form a retort before starting back toward mess, unable to deny the slight taste of pleasure at the note of apprehension that stilled any urge he may have had to follow with a sharp-tongued quip.
Wrecker hadn’t moved from the chair, hands thoughtlessly picking at his glove as he waited for me to return. His eyes snapped toward me as soon as the door opened. Whatever annoyance or anger I’d had abandoned me at the almost pitiful look on his face, tension fleeing me with a slow sigh.
“Didn’t mean to make yuh mad…” he muttered, teeth working over the inside of his cheek, and I had to fight the guilt that twisted through my chest.
“I’m not mad.” I whispered, walking quietly toward him. “I just… thought we were past this…” His head tilted slightly, looking at me with an uncertainty that further stoked my guilt. “This… dealing with things without me… Not letting me help you.” His eyes widened in understanding, back straightening as he drew a quick breath to respond, but I didn’t give him the chance.
“I know you’re strong.” He quickly stilled beneath the gentleness of my voice, the faintest hint of a blush just coloring his neck. “You’ve had to be – you and your brothers… You couldn’t rely on anyone else, so you had to figure out a way to survive alone – to make do…” As I spoke, I gently unwrapped the brace from his knee and held the scanner steadily over the still swollen joint, gaze studying the small screen. “And I know that you’ve taken on a lot more of that burden than anyone gives you credit for.” His shoulders sank slightly, gaze falling to the ground though he offered no objection.
“You calm them down when things get too heated… get them to laugh when everyone’s too angry or sad or tired to realize that that’s exactly what they need… what we need.” I corrected, acknowledging how often he’d done just that for me, as well. He remained silent, but I could feel his attention shift back to me as I began carefully working my hands over the wealth of muscle that tapered at the end of his thigh, touch flowing around areas the scan revealed to be damaged that I might ease some of the swelling before redressing it.
“I know it hurt.” I continued softly, a deep sympathy quieting my voice even further. “Reducing a dislocation… It feels a lot better afterwards, but…” Again, his lack of even a dismissive grunt only confirmed my statement. “And you… all that muscle…” I let my fingers spread over the dense cords stretching down his thigh, “It doesn’t matter how hard you try, with an injury like that, you can’t relax them. It’s an autonomic response, that’s why we use medication to help make them relax.” I glanced up at him to let him see the concern in my eyes as my hands returned to that careful, rhythmic ebb and flow along the abused tissue.
“I know you’re strong… probably barely even grunted when they did it… but forcing it like that, it can tear ligaments and tendons, and rip all that muscle that’s locked up trying to guard the joint… then it takes even longer to heal, and, even then, it usually doesn’t heal as well as it could have.” His jaw shifted absently to the side, teeth grinding in a mixture of guilt and resignation, rekindling my own guilt.
“I’m sorry.” I barely whispered it, hands coming to a stop atop the broad curve of his calf. A fresh confusion pulled at his handsome face, mismatched eyes studying me with a focus that was somehow just as quieting as it was penetrating.
To anyone else, seeing him like that, expression pinched with powerful brows drawn together and that broad jaw tensed enough to emphasize the cords of muscle lining his cheeks, he may have looked frightening. I knew others would have found him frightening… but I also knew what drove the intensity of his gaze; the desperate need to truly understand those around him; to read them before he might do or say something that would offend or scare absent need or intent. That’s why he was so gentle; so adept at buffering the fiery tempers of his brothers or, if the mood struck him, stoking the tempers of any unfortunate enough to garner his ire. Now, however, he stared at me like that neither to soothe nor harass. He studied me because those words didn’t make sense amidst the blame he believed himself responsible for, and he needed to understand before he could make it right. But I didn’t want him to feel that way. I only wanted him to be okay.
“I should have been faster.” I didn’t stop at the flash of realization that came over him, nor from the almost pained remorse that followed. “Leaving you with a dislocated knee for… hours – kriff… I really can’t blame you for wanting them to fix it any way they could.”
“Doc-” He called, shoulders sinking, but again fell silent as I looked up at him with a weary, apologetic smile.
“But next time,” I pressed, sowing something of a command back into my voice, “at least check with me first… Alright?” He was quiet for a moment longer before nodding, but the words that followed made my stomach sink.
“I mean… not like popping a knee back in is more important than saving Tech’s arm, so…” He said it was such offhanded disregard, body shifting in a dismissive shrug. When he looked at me, however, he froze, and I could only guess at the deep heartbreak surely painted across my face.
“You’re important.” I breathed the words into the too-great distance between us, pressing each one into existence with a desperate plea, begging him to believe me. “You’re important, Wrecker.” I said again, reaching up to cradle one of his hands between mine. It always surprised me; the sheer size of him. It was somehow so easy to forget amidst his vibrant, caring personality until moments like this when I could see how he dwarfed me, palm too wide for my fingers to fully wrap around.
That size also made it easy to imagine him as this invincible, impenetrable force, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’d seen how deeply the girl’s fear had wounded him, how beaten he looked from the mere threat of my anger, and I hated myself for having caused him such hurt, for ever allowing him to think of himself as lesser than his brothers. Chest jerking with a sharp inhale, I pulled his hand toward me, lips pressing gently against his knuckles, and I mourned the cause of every scar marring that stunning, calloused skin.
“I never want you to think you’re not… not to me.” His hand shifted ever so slightly between mine, twisting as though he meant to reach for me, fingertip only just brushing against my chin before he pulled away, throat shifting stiffly as he swallowed whatever thoughts he’d robbed of any hope of being born. With a final, jerked nod, he leaned back, and the room felt that much colder without the heat of his touch, but I merely drew a deep, steadying breath and let my attention return to his knee, already reaching for a tube of bacta.
“All right. You going to drop your pants, or do I need to cut them off of you?”
Tumblr media
Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!
Click here for my Masterlist.
Tumblr media
Taglist: @arctrooper69 @eclec-tech @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @starqueensthings
@manofworm @merkitty49 @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base
@daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan
@drummergirl1701 @6oceansofmoons @dangraccoon @ji5hine @dathomiri-mudpuppy
@mooncommlink @isthereanechoinhere96 @inneedoffanfics @totally-not-your-babe @delialeigh
@blondie-bluue @ray-rook @iabrokengirl @arcsimper5 @rndmpeep
@amorfista @wanderneverlost @flawsandgoodintent @passionofthesith @followthepurrgil
@roam-rs @foodmoneyandcats @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @9902sgirl @captainrex89
@waytoooldforthis78 @msmeredithrose @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @anythingandeveythingstarwars
@littlefeatherr @thegreatpipster @melonmochii @totallyunidentified @mickeyp03
@hipwell @echos_pile_of_bones @leotawrites @Asgre_Thar @fruityfucker
@babyscilence @skellymom @youreababboon @echo9821 @heidnspeak
@Callsign-Denmark
62 notes · View notes
its-in-the-woods · 5 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Coyote Head - Part 4 - Dinner with Family
master list
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Pairing: Cooper Howard x Lucy Maclean 
Alternative Universe where I make things up cause I can
Synopsis: Sit down at a family dinner, and sleeping in are good for Lucy for now
MINOR GET OUT. Rating/Warning:  Animal/people death, blOod/G0re, nightmares, Alternative Universe, Slow Burn, Death, Aging, Family Feuding, Eventually: Older Man/Younger Woman, Horror themes, long form fic,
Note: that I will not be spoiling any of the reading. So you have been warned. I will keep my tags relevant without spoiling what is happening in the story.
The gravel crunches under the tires as they all pull in, kids in the back jumping over seats as Lucy and Cooper open the doors. Old trucks parked in the drive, besides Margie’s new SUV. One thing about Harris: he always made sure Margie had exactly what she wanted.
The sprawling log home stands proudly among a mix of pine, poplar, and spruce trees. The home had been built from the trees on the property, a red tin roof on top. Big wrap-around porch that had equally as large windows on each side. The place was a carefully crafted piece of art that the Maclean’s had built many years ago. Long before the land was farmed, logged, and changed to what it currently was. The Maclean was an old family, and many of the log homes in the area were built by the family. It made Lucy miss the log home she had grown up in. 
Inside the home, a smell of fresh bread, and chatter of laughter echoed in the living room. Margie standing in the kitchen popping bread onto metal racks. Two large dishes of lasagna sat out, a big caesar salad in the middle. Lucy’s second cousins Tracy and Bert were over with their spouses Reg and Stephanie respectively. Their six kids hang out in the big living room with Cooper’s two. Some elaborate game of cards was going on, what the rules were was anyone’s guess. Seeing the kids laugh and giggle at their made-up game made Lucy’s heart swell. She had never thought of herself as a Mom, life and whatnot;  but something about being around the littles always made her wonder about the ‘what if’s’. 
“How can I help, Aunty,” Lucy asked as Cooper went and started putting plates out on the dining table. She watched the man move, he was both graceful and room-filling. 
“Well don’t touch any of the cooking, 'cause we want it to be edible,” Margie jokes, Lucy smiles. She’d never been much of a cook. Lucy, Norm, and their Grandparents had lived off many frozen meals during planting and harvesting. Shirley could cook fine, but her cooking took time and a whole lot of cutting. In the winter it was stew, roast squash, baked potatoes, and local corn. Lucy had never had much time to learn to cook. 
“Well now that I am round more, maybe you can teach me a few things,” Lucy smiles at her Aunt helping her to place each dish on the big dining table. 
“Better make sure I got the ‘tinguisher on hand, maybe a few extra blankets,” Margie jokes some more, winking at Lucy. She meant no harm, Lucy had burnt just as much food as she had undercooked it in her time.  
Lucy chuckled, grabbing glasses and a few pitchers of juice. The place was set up, some budded willows graced the center of the table. Getting the kids to sit was another matter, but the promise of haskap pie and ice cream had them in their places. Harris said grace as was a custom, Lucy noticed that Cooper, who had sat beside her, didn’t repeat the words. She didn’t have much thoughts on religion, Grandpa Tim had always read the bible before bed, usually sitting at his dining table flipping through the rice paper thin pages, while he jotted down notes in a big notebook. You’d never see him at church. Nor would you see him preaching to anyone. He never even really talked about it with her either. She couldn’t remember Grandma Shirley mentioning it either. On bad days she would sit with a rosary, light a candle or two. Lucy had never really thought it odd till now. Their whole family had always gone to church, but not them. 
The wooden house was full of loud voices, laughter, and the click of knives and forks. It was the most lively Lucy had felt in a long time. Even despite the little to no sleep she had gotten.  Cooper was telling stories of wrangling cattle and bison in the south. Harris was talking about fighting fires in the north, running machinery right into blazes to save houses. The large meal of lasagne and fresh bread was mostly picked over. Some vanilla ice cream and fresh pie are being served now. Tracy was bugging Margie about getting the recipe from her. Her Mom teased about how it was nothing but store-bought. Everyone at the table knew that was a whole load of scabbie potatoes.
“So what did you all see along the forest line,” Harris asked, wringing his hand, as coffee and tea were placed on the table. 
Cooper and Lucy had scooted down the table to sit closer to Harris. Lucy’s cousin doing the same so that all the adults were more huddled for any story. 
“Ahh well we saw a few things out there,” Cooper says, voice strained, looking back at Lucy for input. 
Lucy put her spoon down a little louder than she intended, the adults turning to look at her. She felt like a bird caught in a cage, trying to find its way out. 
“Sorry,” Lucy said, “We only got about half of the place looked at before we came.” Lucy wondered how she could explain what they had seen. “There was a stump stripped of all its barks and -” She looked to make sure the kids couldn’t hear,” There was a fresh coyote head sitting on top of it.”
Silence fell at the last words, the others exchanging looks. Lucy’s stomach-turning, the image of the poor critter’s head on a slab was not a favorite. Her mind wandering back to the shadows she had seen less than twenty-four hours ago. Was it all connected somehow? 
“We didn’t get close to it. So we kept walking to where the ATV trails are and, umm, we saw some tracks or maybe an animal digging” Lucy looks over at Cooper, hoping he could maybe explain what they had seen a bit better than she did. 
Cooper digs his phone out, “Yeah these,” He flips open his camera and pulls up the photos. The phone is passed around to each person. Uncle Harris pulls out his reading glasses zooming in on the picture. 
“How big are these tracks?” Harris asks, looking up over his glasses. Concern filling everyone in the room as they looked back at the two. 
Cooper looks at the man, furrowing his brow as he thinks, “Maybe a foot and a bit? Maybe less”
Lucy nods, “Center is probably twice the size of my fist, and at least as long as my forearm and hand. Maybe a little wider where the three points are.”
Stephanie looks it over, her eyebrows raised. “Can you send me this Cooper? I know a few folks in fish and wildlife that can take a look. Maybe come out and look at the head?”
“Yeah, I can send the photos,” Cooper replies, turning his phone off and putting it in front of him. 
“If y’all want to come over that’s fine, the place is a little bit of a mess.” Lucy sighed, fiddling with her fingers, “But, if you think you might have an idea what it is, I am all ears.”
Stephanie looked over at Bert, who had gone to pick up a very sleepy-looking toddler, “What do you think honey?”
Bert smiles, clearly not having heard much of what has been said, “I am sure we can figure something out, maybe we should talk to–” He ponders for a moment, looking for the name, “ Betty, right?”
“Yes, Betty would know. She’s been around her longer than the dirt,” Stephanie grins back at Bert grabbing the little one out of his arms. “Unfortunately I think we got to get our kiddlets back home. Lisa here is exhausted, and Thomas has school in the morning.” 
Margie is up out of her chair, “Let me grab a pie for tomorrow,”
Tracy has come back from putting on some cartoons for the kids, some ridiculous jingle now covering up their conversation. Reg rubs her back as she sits down, 
Bert comes out of the living room with another sleeping child, an older boy who has drool and snot running down his face. “Lucy, make sure to get our numbers from Harris. So we can keep in touch.” 
Lucy nods, “Yeah that’s a great idea, I will keep you updated if anything pops up.” 
Bert and Stephanie wave goodbye as they make their way to the front door with a large bag of various foods from Margie. Margie coming back into the kitchen, she goes into a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whisky along with several glasses.
Tracey clears her throat, “Do you think it could have been a person? Maybe? Trying to scare you off the land or some such thing?”
Sighing Lucy happily accepts the glass of whisky from her Aunt, “Besides those tracks, and the coyote head. Everything is pointing that way.” 
“Maybe there is a reason Uncle Tim didn’t want the forest around his land messed with,” Tracy added her hand covering Reg’s hand, as she looks at Lucy, an unreadable expression on her face. 
Harris coughing at the head of the table, everyone turning to look at him.“I doubt Lucy would mess with anything Tim had.”
“Nope, haven’t really ventured into the forest much at all. But that might have to change. Make sure no one has been coming onto the land without my knowledge.” Lucy spoke, it was always in the back of her mind that someone could be hiding in the woods without her knowledge. The place was mostly fenced, but would only stop honest people. 
“Do you think someone is camping on the land?” Tracy asks, looking at her relatives. Taking her glass from Margie and sipping on it. 
“Don’t know about that, didn’t see any signs of anyone walking around.” Lucy sighs, looking over at Coop when his thigh touches her. She pushes back against it, letting a small amount of comfort in.”Know that Henry was not happy about me getting the land. None of them were happy actually.”
“Henry has the money. Probably hiring someone to scare you off,” Margie added, her brows knitted together, as she brought some tea to her lips. 
“Well he can do what he likes, not much is gonna stop me stayin’ there,” Lucy says, her fingers rubbing over the rim of the glass. If someone had asked her that question several hours ago, she may have had a different answer; but right now, in the safety of her Uncle’s home, she felt confident she could say. 
“Besides you got us, we'll make sure that no one will mess with ya,” Cooper adds, rubbing one hand over her shoulder. Lucy really wishes he would keep his hand on her.  
Lucy nods her head, it was reassuring to know that she had all of them on her side. The table going silent for a moment as they sip their drinks. The sun was nearly down, bathing the room in a soft golden light. Lucy trying her best not to let her mind run over the whole day again. She could feel her own exhaustion tugging at her mind. 
Reg let out a yawn, Tracy rubbing his arm. “We should probably get our own rugrats, go to school, and all that.”
Tracy nodded, “Have Sunday dinner this weekend? You both should come over too,” She nods to Cooper and Lucy. 
Lucy, put her cup down, nodding her head, “Yeah, I would like that, be nice to have regular get-togethers.” 
“That would be wonderful,” Reg says, scooping one of his kids up. “Maybe once things have calmed down we can come by. The kids always loved Uncle Tim’s farm.”
“Uncle Tim’s dead,” Reg's son spoke from behind his leg. The little guy peering up at Lucy. The kid had silver blue eyes, and nearly white-blonde hair, standing just below his Dad’s hips in height. His eyes were wide as he blinked a few times, tears forming. 
Cooper ducks down beside him, “Hey, Kiddo. It’s okay.” The little man let out a muffled sob as Cooper scoops him up, the little kid hanging off the adult. 
“Oh sweet Freddy. Got all the big emotions and nowhere to put him.” Tracey coes, before offering to take him out of Cooper’s arms. “Time for sleep.”
Lucy felt her stomach turn as she watches the family of six walk towards the front door. It was hard to see the little guy upset over the loss. It made her uncomfortable not knowing how to help him.  Little Freddy was still crying against his Mom’s hair, the three older girls filing behind. They all had brown hair, and brown eyes, all looking to be a few years apart. The older two could have almost been twins. Hugs were traded and promises of Sunday dinner were planned before the clan took off into the night. 
Coop comes over, covering his two kiddos with a blanket and turning down the cartoon jingling away. He came back, his hand running over Lucy’s shoulder before sitting down. 
“Probably should be going soon too,” Cooper sighs, having another sip of his drink, “Make sure Mom and Dad are okay.”
“How are your folks doing?” Margie asks, adding a bit more to his glass and Lucy’s. 
“Dad’s rough, Mom-” Cooper shifts in his seat, looking down at his glass, the dark look crossing his face again. “She’s doing the best she can considering. Doctor says maybe a year or two.”
Harris rubs at his eyes a little, Lucy watching him compose himself before speaking, “Whatever you need, you let us know." His voice shook a bit as he spoke, "I know your family is tight, but we all need to look after each other. We are all family here, okay?”
Cooper nods a tight smile on his face, “Thank you, Sir. I really appreciate it. We can use all the help we can get.”
Lucy reaches over and squeezes his hand, “ Like you said we are just a phone call away.”
***
Waking up soaked in sweat was the last thing that Lucy wanted to do. She was bolt upright in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, with the fading nightmare of headless corpses hanging from trees dancing in her vision. Deep ragging breaths echoed in the small space, and the familiar sound of frogs and crickets echoed outside the open window.   
“You are in your Aunt and Uncle's house,” Lucy breathed out, closing her eyes and taking a sharp inhale. “It was just a dream, there is nothing coming to get you.”
Flipping a layer off the bed Lucy felt around for her phone, it was four-thirty in the morning. In a few more hours the sun would be up, and the world would have light again. She grabbed a sip of water, turning off her phone, and trying to get comfortable. As her eyes closed the visions of the bodies danced into her mind again, like some kind of horror dance party. Groaning, she rolled over, willing the images out of her mind. 
“Happy thoughts, Lucy. We cannot lose any more sleep over this,” Lucy murmured, trying to come up with something more soothing. An image of Cooper staring at her, popping into Lucy’s head. Her eyes shot open, her face going pink. "How old are you, Lucy." 
She thought about it for a moment, was it really the worst thing that she could think of? Yes, the man was older than her, had kids, and had lost his wife. Lucy cringed at the last thought, she rubbed her forehead. What was she doing, lying here thinking about a man she barely knew? Who had flown to her aid, and stood beside her despite the dead animal head in her backyard. 
Rubbing her eyes Lucy debates getting up or letting her half-asleep ass dream about someone who wasn’t interested in her. Remembering how he had leaned his knee against her, rubbed her shoulder, and let her hold his hand as he talked about his father. 
“Ugh, stop. No more death. At least for this instant,” Lucy mumbles quietly into the empty room, trying not to let her thoughts spiral out of control. 
Closing her eyes she decides to indulge herself a little, after the mess she had gone through what was a little fantasy. Letting herself think about them walking through a not haunted forest, maybe holding hands, going camping with the kids. She didn't hold back the smile as she let herself drift, after all, it was only a dream.
***
A knock on the door awoke Lucy out of a dead sleep, she blinked at the light shining around the window. Her fuzzy brain trying to put two and two together, remembering where she was. How she’d gotten there and why someone would be waking her up. 
“Lucy, sorry to wake you,” Aunt Margie calls, her voice just loud enough to hear through the wooden door. 
Grabbing her phone she realized it was past ten in the morning. She cussed, upset that she hadn't set an alarm last night. Normally she would have been up at the latest eight, groaning as she sat up, swinging herself onto the edge of the bed. 
“I will be out in a few Aunt Margie!” Lucy calls out, grabbing her clothes. Once again shaking her head at forgetting something fresh. Oh well, she'd have to change at home, and a good shower too. The thought of hot water spurred her on, as she groaned, body stiff from the long sleep. Setting the bed, she grabs her phone and races out the door. Margie stands at the counter, a fresh pot of coffee in hand.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” The woman smiles at her, handing her a cup of hot coffee. Before going over to the stove.  “I got coffee and put on a couple eggs for you.”
“You are too kind to me, Aunt Margie,” Lucy replies, eagerly grabbing the hot cup of coffee. “I am so sorry that I slept in. Usually, my alarm goes off automatically.”
Her Aunt waves a hand, scooping eggs and toast onto a plate for her. “Nonsense, I am so glad you were able to sleep in.” She hands Lucy the plate. Going around the counter with her cup of coffee to sit at the makeshift bar. “I have a feeling you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Lucy sat down using her toast to break the egg yolk and dip it in. “Oh boy, that would be an understatement. I don't really know why, but, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night.”
Margie sat down beside her, eating her own toast with jam. “Nightmares?”
Lucy nods as she works on swallowing her food, “Yes, actually, how’d you know?”
Margie hums for a moment taking a sip of her tea, looking out towards the tree line outside. “Oh you know, new house, moving back from the city. Can take a little getting used to is all.”
Something twinging in Lucy, as she watches her Aunt. She sips on more of her coffee, trying to will the feeling away, why would her Aunt not be honest with her? 
“Yeah, I am sure that’s it,” Lucy says with a fake smile, as she finishes up her food. “I should probably be on my way-” The realization that she didn’t have a vehicle hitting her. “Oh, I didn’t bring my own car.”
“Oh, Cooper said he’d come by and pick you up,” Margie says, somehow the tension is leaving between the two of them. 
Lucy blinks a few times, wondering if she could possibly walk back home. “Oh, he didn’t need to do that.”
“I think he was looking forward to it if I am honest Lucy.” Margie winks at her, “The man has been alone, with his kids and dying Father for six years. I am sure he enjoys getting to spend some time with another adult that isn't family.”
Trying to choke down some more coffee to hide her face, it is most certainly bright pink. “Yeah, I don’t mind the company.”
Margie gives Lucy a knowing look, raised eyebrows and all. She goes to speak when a knock on the door stops her. She squeezes Lucy’s shoulder as she goes to get it. Lucy sitting a little straighter in her chair as she hears Cooper’s voice. 
“Hey,” Cooper says, he almost looks nervous, fiddling with his hat in his hand. “Was wondering, if you’d be okay if we went to check on the cows this morning before I bring yah home of course.” 
Lucy smiles back, she can’t help herself. Getting him all flustered was going to be a new favorite pastime of hers. “Yah, pretty sure I owe you on that one.”
Part 5
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
** If you enjoyed the fic let me know! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated.
** Want to be on the tag list let me know
** Most of my fics will be updated once a weekish possibly more often depending on how much writing I can get done! Want to keep the quality and make sure I am putting out my best work.
48 notes · View notes
melit0n · 2 months ago
Text
Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 6
- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.
Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.
Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.
What could go wrong, right?
- Chapters ->
Prologue
Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls
Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater
Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast
Chapter 4: Something Forgotten
Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon
Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious (you're already here!)
Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past
Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid
- Status: Work In Progress.
- Obessive!Demon OC/Reader
- Word Count (for chp): 6.9k
- Warnings (for chp): None.
- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/150657787
Tumblr media Tumblr media
“So, are you sure you don’t want to tell me about this little love story of yours now?”
Helen giggles softly behind you. It echoes loudly in the cracking concrete bowels you trek through.
“Yes. I can assure you, the only way you will be hearing it is if you come back to Greece with me.” Something snaps under someone’s foot, either glass or the dried remains of some bug. 
You both know very well it’s a thinly veiled act of persuasion, a not-so-subtle play on your curiosity. So, somewhat determined to get whatever she had been keeping secret out of her, you put on your best pout and turn to her.
She walks right past you.
Shaking her head back and forth with a hidden knowing smile, she replies, “Making sad faces will get you nowhere, I am afraid.”
“So mean…” you grumble. Considering Helen's typical openness in her thoughts and experiences, you were genuinely intrigued. While it wasn’t mandatory, it was rare she’d hide topics she’d happily chatter about if given the chance. That said, your main aim–hidden under glass and dust–was simply to keep a conversation going. You’ve learnt very quickly that you don’t like the silence here, either. For both of your benefit, you’d much rather keep aimless chatter bouncing off the walls instead of some distant radio show. Keep your mind focused on replies and not the sickly sweet stench of flowers blooming in the middle of winter.
Of empty sockets that stare right at you.
Helen shoots a hand out, “Careful.” Puzzled, you send her a confused glance.
However, the moment she puts a foot down on the wood, you get your answer: the floorboards creaking and groaning loudly with the simple weight. While it wasn’t unexpected–every step you’d taken for the last hour or so had been accompanied by a loud squeak–what catches your attention is how far the wood visibly bends. That, and how damp it is. Damp enough that the moisture shines under the light of your torches. 
Stretching your own leg out to test them, you’re unsurprised to now physically feel how deeply they bow under your weight; whining something foreboding with each kilo you put down. Through the soles of your shoes, you can practically feel the fibres cracking. 
You sigh to yourself, half out of exasperation and something else you can’t quite pin down. 
Looking up from the rotting floor, you’re not surprised to see the rest of the story was in a similar state.
More household items are scattered across the main hall: old stuffed animals poking their saturated heads out of screeching doors. Legs, maybe once holding up sturdy tables, lean against the walls. Sodden, deflated cushions lying haphazardly on the floor slowly melt into the woodwork; plush becoming indistinguishable from the flooring.
All create a waterlogged tapestry of the past.
The wallpaper, colours faded and mixed with old graffiti not unlike a fresh watercolour, reappear in diseased patches across the walls. Even vines from downstairs creep and crawl through the crumbling structure, anchoring themselves to whatever they can find. From the withering leaves, however, you guess they aren’t having as much success as they are downstairs. 
A floorboard wails loudly from beside you. “This does not look too good.” She steps forward–really only a half-step–and begins to test the strengths of the planks in front of you. Then, she takes a full one forward with sounds from the floor that have you partially reaching your hands out, as if to catch her. You watch with a building level of unease as she attempts to spread out her weight.
Even the air is heavy. Heavy with the calm before a storm: petrichor and an electric buzz that lets you know you shouldn’t be here. Somehow, it overpowers the dust–which you’re sure sits in foetid clumps wherever the rain and wind sees fit–and worms its way into your lungs. 
It’s nothing like the air downstairs: while that was fresh, still holding hints of petrichor, this was thick. Like oil. It’s somehow worse than the stagnant air from the basement. 
Eyeing the wood, you hesitantly do the same. “Yeah.” 
Something viscous is at the back of your throat. Tastes like how decaying autumn leaves smell. 
The thin walls–either on this floor or one of the many others–waver in the wind, and you’re starting to affirm to yourself that Jeanne’s promise of the place being ‘structurally sound’ was another one of her half lies.
Four floors high, including the ground floor–five with the addition of the basement–and you’re sure you’d snap your neck. Bleed out on that ugly cream carpet with wooden wings splayed out beside you. Your only consolation is that you’re pretty sure that the main structure is made of solid concrete, sitting silently under the wood.
The gaping plaster wounds in the walls–rippling wooden muscles and creaking metal bones taught underneath–make you doubt yourself.
At best, you’d break or twist an ankle. At worst, you’ll be a bloated carcass strangled by weeds. A rotting warning to all those who enter.
No way in Hell is this safe. 
You take a few more cautious steps forwards, ears perked for the tell-tale noises of crumbling wood that would rather collapse than hold your weight. “If the rest of the floors are like this, I say we stop.” One creaks loudly, a bit too loud for your taste, and you take one backwards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we fell straight through.”
Helen’s head lowers to stare at the floor, probably contemplating whether the risk of going crashing through four or five stories was worth taking the chance. “I think,” she takes a step forward, graceful as an onyx chess piece slid across the board. “We will be okay.” She turns to you, optimism in her eyes. It makes your shoulder sag. “We just have to keep our eyes out for any wood that is especially dark, or looks wet on the surface.” Another step forward, and you sigh as you begin to follow behind, dutiful as ever. “Is that okay?”
Kind of hard to do when all the wood looks wet, you think. Even so, you keep your nervous thoughts concealed beneath a cool facade. “Whatever you say,” you feel the cold of the water sink into your soles. “You’re paying my hospital bills if I break something, though.”
It’s sarcasm, but she still takes it somewhat seriously. “It would be my fault, so I would not mind.” She shrugs, before pausing, her weight spread between a few different planks. Then she raises her flashlight.
The centre-piece window–which never fails to draw your eye–is broken: jagged teeth glinting in the light.
A soft hum glides up her throat, “The wind and the rain from the North probably comes in here quite harshly: it is no wonder this place is so wet. Either way, I am surprised this place hasn’t fallen like, what is it- paper mache?”
It’s a simple description, one you’d easily take for an answer if not for one simple fact: both windows on the other floors were broken. Both windows faced North, as all the rest of the windows above you.
So why weren’t those as dilapidated as this one?
Wearily, you take a few more steps, trying to follow her invisible pattern of semi-promised safety. “But what about-” that is, before your feet knock into something. Something solid.
Expecting the worst, you look down with a strained look on your face. You’re met with the sight of a porcelain doll. The pale, once pretty, type you almost always see in charity shops. 
And horror movies.
Part of its silky pallor is cracked and smashed in, leaving an empty void where half its face used to be. Curly blonde hair frames what’s left of it, fading blue eyes rolled absently to the side.
“Are you scared of it?”
There’s a bit of blush on its face, too. Faded, like everything else is at the hands of time and neglect, but still there. 
“What?”
It reminds you of something freshly dead. Eyes and body empty, yet still holding onto the warmth in its fingertips.
Helen crouches down in front of it, repeating herself. “Are you afraid of it?”
You’re surprised the wood holds her weight.
Before you can say anything–let a garbled and probably incoherent answer out of your mouth–she picks it up. Handles it more like a living baby rather than a porcelain resemblance. When she cradles its head, resting stiffly in her palm, one of its eyes rolls. Rolls out of its vacant skull to stare right at you. Glossy and unblinking and reflecting flashing blue and yellow that blinds you.
Beneath light fatigue and a growing sense of alarm that refuses to go away, something rings.
“You’ll get a demon or something attached to you if you hold on to it.” You joke, eyes darting up from the glass one you’re sure sees right through your skin. Or, maybe, sees right past you.
She takes your avoidance as an unspoken yes. She isn’t wrong: if you saw that thing at the end of your hallway in the middle of the night, you’d happily give your apartment up to it.
She fiddles with the stained lace that edges the sleeves and the hem of the forget-me-not dress. “Why?”
It’s a good question–like all of her questions are. You roll thoughts around in your head, seeing how they taste on your tongue. You’d say it’s something embedded in you; embroidered into the intricate tapestry of each twitching muscle and thumping pulse of your heart. You’re afraid of the doll the same way something in the back of your mind, a knowing voice neither old nor young–simply alert–tells you to be afraid of the dark. Tells you to be wary of things that creep and slide.
Tells you to be fearful of things that try to be human.
“Probably because I’ve watched too many shitty horror films with Jeanne.” You reply. Helen simply shakes her head, and you think she knows you aren’t telling the entire truth. Either way, she doesn’t bother to pry a more self-aware answer out of you.
Gingerly, she places the doll back down where she’d found it. Its eye rolls back up into its head, having seen enough. For a few brief moments, you don’t blame it. The untouchable night that resides in its hollow head is probably a more comforting view compared to the sodden floorboards.
Both of you carry on with your hushed agreement to explore the other apartments. Helen glides across the floor with wisp-like grace, barely making a noise, while you stumble over each creaking floorboard and spend every two seconds wondering if you’re going to fall.
You stagger through a few different apartments, eyes skimming over whatever was visible and then moving on, more focused on not falling than searching for anything of interest.
After traversing the hall somewhat aimlessly–chattering to Helen along the way–you find your way into another apartment. One side of the floors has swollen, and the entire place reeks of festering mould. 
A question strikes your mind, worming its way out of your mouth as the conversation threatens to fall flat. “Hey, Helen?”
With growing confidence, you carefully step forth. The living room is lifeless; void of any furniture. It also happens to be the side where the floors rise–something very old and very slow trying to breach the surface–so you make the decision to leave the bedroom unexplored. You value your ankles a bit more than that.
“Yes?”
The kitchen is in a similar state. Woodlice crawl between the splitting wood, and a low wind meanders through the rooms like a death rattle. Between what remains of a cabinet and the wall, a cobweb hangs, weighed down by the ever present moisture that seems to loom over the entire floor. 
Its weaver is absent.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Considering her lack of reaction to your joke earlier, you’d say her answer would be a no. Either that, or she wasn’t afraid of the dead leaning over her shoulder.
“I think so. To believe in ghosts, you have to have a belief in some sort of life after the one you live, yes?”
Eventually, you find a somewhat sturdy path towards the bathroom and storage room. Much to your displeasure, the bathroom is locked tight. Even though the wood crumbles under your hands, it refuses to open. In fact, after a few tugs, the doorknob comes right off, small screws clattering to the floor.
Almost as if to spite you, the lock stays intact.
“What do you think of it?”
So, you end up trying the storage room. It’s gutted of all furniture. 
“Of what?”
The air is stagnant. Brackish. You guess it hasn’t been opened in a while. 
“The afterlife. What do you think comes after all this?” Backing up, you attempt to follow your steps back out into the hall. 
“I am not entirely sure,” she hums. As each floorboard keens under your weight, you realise that Helen is practically silent as she walks through different apartments. You only really know she’s doing so because of her voice; ebbing and flowing like a warm summer wind from the hallway. “I believe each living thing has a soul, but I am unsure on how long that soul can last.” Her voice becomes louder, “but, I think it may stay after it does not have a body to support it.” and then quieter. You don’t see her walk past your door. “Perhaps they stay because they forgot to do, or say, something before they went. Maybe they stay because they miss home too much.”
Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you can’t spot her. She must’ve already gone into another apartment. 
Looking down, you find a stuffed animal imitating you. Or, rather, you it. 
You scoff, walking out into the hall and examining the different doors. “What’s home to someone who’s already dead? You’d think a ghost would want to go wherever they please since they have no physical restrictions.” With long strides–you’re sure you look like some sort of awkward stick bug–you pass the elevator. The twin doors are wide open, and even your flashlight can’t illuminate the rubber veins that crawl along its throat.
“Home is not always a place, I think.” Her voice is closer now. 
Each door is in varying states of decay: those closer to the window in the hall are mere fragments, while those nearer to the main stairs retain some semblance to actual entryways. 
Your eyes catch onto one near the elevator: number forty-six. It’s one of the few on the floor still holding on to its once shining number, this floor being numbers thirty-three to forty-eight. Although, the four is crooked–slanted to the left like a loose skull–and the six is ever so slightly lower than it should be.
“What else could it be?”
With a jostle of the knob, you also realise it's one of the few doors that’s locked. The weight in your pockets brings a smile to your face, and you can only hope you have the right key. 
“A person.” Her voice has moved again, now on the opposite side of the hall.
You pause, if only for a second. 
You’d never really thought of it that way. 
With warmed metal under your fingers, you wonder if you’ve ever seen home inside another person. Your thumb glides over engraved numbers, hidden from your eyes underneath years of rust and oily fingers. 
Maybe in Jeanne? Or Helen? Noah? A past lover?
“If you were to die,” you bring a key closer up to your eye, the number indistinguishable. “Away from ‘home’, do you think you’d try to find your way back? Or would you find somewhere else to haunt?”
Maybe…maybe in him.
“I would want to go home, definitely.” Floor six, apt eighty four… “When I do pass, I think it will be nice to be where I grew up. I would want to see the sea again, too. I would not mind staying there after I have passed.”
If so, home is long gone. The grass is dead, and there’s no soft light in the windows anymore.
Just flashing blue and glass in between in your fingers. In your skin.
“And what,”…Floor eighteen, apt two hundred and seventy-nine…not this one either. “What if you’re the type to see home as a person?”
She stays quiet for a few moments.
…Floor three…
You squint. 
“Then I trust I will find them, and them, I.”
…apt forty-eight. Shit. 
Your shoulders fall.
“Just…uhm, let me know when you make a decision about coming with me, okay?” Helen’s voice fades and flickers like candlelight. There’s almost an echo: a second whisper layered underneath her warm tone.
Wait a minute. 
You look back down at the key. Apt forty-eight. 
Slowly, your head turns to the left. 
The last door by the stairs. 
You frown. “Yeah, no- of course.” Answering absentmindedly, you begin to stalk over to the door. You trace invisible lines with your feet, and all seems silent. 
Easily, you find yourself in front of number forty-eight, your light greeting the door: a circular glimpse that pierces through the darkness. 
You feel like you’re sensing a pattern.
It’s closed, and, with a gentle tug, you find it locked as well. 
Half expecting another talking radio, or maybe a miniature desert for this one, you hesitate to even use the key you had been wanting to make use of. You turn it over in your hand: there’s nothing special about it, nor the door itself. Both are in similar stages of disrepair, the door swollen with water and the key elongated with rust. Looking at it closer, you doubt it’ll even open the lock. Hell, the lock itself has probably rusted shut. Either that, or the knob will fall right off, just like the bathroom door’s did. 
You look between the door and the key.
Well…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.
The key slides in, and the mechanism opens with a quiet click. Seems the building has decided to grant you a bit of good luck.
The door opens with an ominous creak. Loud and anguished. 
When light finally enters the morose cave, you’re more than pleased–although admittedly a little disappointed–to see nothing abnormal. No radios, no luscious ferns, and best of all, no buzzing flies. 
Plus, it seemed to house more furniture than the last. The windows are layered thickly with grime and algae, and, even with your torch light, the whole place still feels utterly drenched in darkness. Blinking, it’s as if a thin haze–a light mist–hangs over the room. Or maybe just your eyes. 
Tentatively, you step forward, keeping a careful watch on the floor.
The floorboards whine underneath you, rising and falling like valleys and hills under your feet. 
The first thing that catches your eye is a large, embroidered armchair in the living room. Like the doll, it has dark, frilled edging–colour indistinguishable–at the end of the fabric. While it’s faded, the colours of the threads bleeding into themselves, you can just about make out a floral pattern; deep viridian in the centre, framed by jade and mulberry. 
The legs are made of sturdy wood–not cracking and splintering like the floor–which curls inward at the feet like a snail’s shell. An endless spiral unfurling from itself. It’s exactly the type of chair a grandfather, or maybe some old-money, rich man, would have sitting by the fireplace. You can practically see a soft cat curled up on the seat, slowly nodding off as the wood cackles and crumbles into cinders. 
Quietly, you wonder if anybody in this building had a cat. Or a dog, for that matter.
A board bends underneath you, and you take a step back before continuing. 
Someone must’ve, right? Your own apartment had a policy on them: no pets allowed aside from fish–and the odd reptile, though that depended on how much paperwork you wanted to fill out–but maybe this one didn’t.
The door to the bedroom opens easily.
You wonder if they had to leave them behind when those chemicals got out. If they did, you hadn’t seen–nor heard–any once loved strays on your way here. Then again, nature, aside from her plants, seems to have abandoned this place. Left it to the hands of Time and the ever changing faces of the seasons.
Much to your surprise, the main bedroom is almost fully furnished. The bed frame is still intact. Well, you think it is, until you notice it’s leaning on one side. Looking closer, you find one leg had rotted off, the rest in a similar condition. There’s a tall wardrobe on the left wall and, opening it, you find it empty. That is, if you don’t count the dust. Running your index finger over the flat surface, you find it comes off in one thick clump that sticks to your finger. Reminds you of the gum people always stick under the desks. 
With a look of disgust, you wipe it off and continue looking around. 
A soft wind coming from the smashed balcony doors is the only noise you can hear. 
You wonder what Helens’ doing. 
Then, there’s something in the air. Nothing like the dust or the scent of chocolate, but a noise. It’s some sort of chime; light and soft like the call bell downstairs.
You cross through the main bedroom entryway, intrigued and more awake than you had been a few minutes ago.
Who knows, maybe it’ll be this floor’s anomaly.
You wonder where it’s even coming from: quiet as a breath, it disappears behind each thump of the blood in your ears. Maybe from the storage closet, or the bathroom? Whatever–wherever–it was, you determine it must be close. 
Doing a double take, you quickly discover that the kitchen floor was very close to caving in.
Ah. 
Well, now you know why the ceiling was dipping on the other story. 
Seems the bathroom and storage room are off limits, then. 
Ding.
You turn your head. There it is again.
With only one other traversable room left, at least in this apartment, you find your way into the second bedroom. It’s smaller, and without a window it feels as if you’re staring into the endless throat of space.
The wood hums endless tunes underneath you, and there are shapes dancing in your vision, trying to convince you that they’re stars. Stars, and not hooded eyes of indistinct figures.
In the centre, backed up against the far wall–painted a stormy grey–is a cot. It used to be white, paint now peeling off of the wood and curling like angry fingers. There’s a small heart carved into the headboard. It’s obvious it wasn’t a part of the original design; scratchy, as if done with some knife instead of a well-trained machine. 
You like it better than the carbon copies, though. 
Above it hangs another reminder of one of the parent’s handiwork: something halfway between a traditional wind chime and a baby’s mobile. Falling apart as it is, you can still see the wood carved with pure love and twine threaded with nothing but adoration. Sanded wood and glass clink together, the wind from the hallway their conductor. 
There’s a few animals carved into twirling plaques, as well. At least, you think there is. There’s what looks to be a bird with a comically large beak–maybe a woodpecker?–and another that just looks like a homunculus with stick legs. 
It’s so utterly odd looking that it gets a chuckle out of you.
Asides from that, the only one that vaguely looks like anything living is one near the centre; a pig. It has sharply drawn trotters and floppy ears that cover its eyes. It spins endlessly in some subtle wind you can’t feel, glass frosted with the endless damp that coats everything in place of dust. 
But, from the darkness, something whispers.
You pay it no mind and continue staring at the cot and the home-made baby mobile. Each chime sounds like a baby’s wail: soft and nothing. It sparks something unknown in your chest. Maybe it's mourning. For who and what, you don’t really know. Provoked by some sort of empathy, perhaps.
You’re about to call for Helen–considering the large lack of somewhat interesting things here, you’re sure she’d like this–when there’s another whisper. It's closer this time.
What is that?
At first, you try to shove it off–there’s more broken windows than unbroken in this place. In the dark, it doesn’t take long for a person's mind to convince them that the wind is undead whispers, after all. 
There’s a humming in your ears. Not the sharp ring that usually finds you in calm silences and in the warmth of a sunny street, but constant all the same. It ebbs and flows like a breeze; the low mumble of a class yet to start: the distant hum of cars on the motorway: the eerie clatter of trees in the beginnings of a summer storm. 
It’s not distracting or intrusive like those invisible flies downstairs–buzzing ceaselessly around your ears–but not like the voices from the radio, either.
Sceptically, you walk out of the second bedroom with a growing frown on your face. The elastic of the mask’s straps dig into the back of your ears. 
Staying still, quieting your own breaths and trying not to focus on the constant thumping from the walls, you attempt to decipher what’s being said. 
You come up fruitless. It just sounds like an endless string of gibberish to you: too quiet to pick up and too muddled to unravel. 
Maybe you need to get your ears checked, too. 
Sliding your flashlight under your arm, you press down on a part of your ear, temporarily blocking out the noise. All you hear is the faint thrum of your body: each pulse of your heart, each twitch of your crooked fingers. Taking them away, the noise reappears. 
It’s somewhat of a relief to know that the noises weren’t phantoms created by your tired mind. But still, it begs the question of what, exactly, it was. Let alone where it was coming from. It could be an apartment on this floor, or maybe on one of the others. The staircase wasn’t exactly closed off, after all. 
Even so, you’re still sure it's close. A thin wall or two away close. 
So, you lightly step back to the main bedroom, expecting to pick up on some sort of change.
Nothing happens. 
A gentle gust of wind scrapes against the broken glass, and for a split second, you try your hardest to convince yourself that is all it is; the wind.
A gust pushes you forward and, wondering if the noise was coming from the bathroom or storage room, you try the kitchen.
Well, you get as close as you can to it without falling through.
Still no change. 
Mind busy with the hushed buzz, you temporarily disregard your fear of the boards underneath you and peek out into the hallway. As you swivel your head left and right–half searching for the source of the noise and half looking for Helen–you find nothing but air and rotting walls. 
Your light illuminates the staircase, almost hoping to see someone hiding in the darkness. It’d scare the shit out of you, Helen or stranger aside, but you’d rather find an obvious source than be left–quite literally–in the dark. 
You find no one.
Then, you try the other end of the hall. The lambent glow of the moon seems centuries away. 
Still no one.
“Helen?” Your voice cracks in your throat. “Helen! Do you,” You swallow something down. A clump of twitching nerves and bile. “Do you hear that?”
You wait a few moments for a response. You’re greeted with heavy silence. It’s deafening; somehow worse than being told a direct ‘no’. 
Wearily, you step out of the doorway, out of your damp burrow, and into the hallway. The creaking of the floor–of the walls–feels so quiet. 
Has it gotten any louder? Are you getting any closer?
Your light darts in and out of the different apartments. “Helen?”
Or is it getting closer to you?
“Helen! Where are you?” 
Passing by another apartment, you still can’t manage to find her. Either your eyesight is going, or she’s suddenly become one of the best hide and seek players you’ve known since primary school. That has to be it. She must be hiding from you for some reason, ready to jump out at you any moment.
Inside, you’re divided. Part paranoid, part annoyed–what if she just left you here?–and part confused. Both at the noise, and her sudden disappearance: you don’t remember her being a relative of Houdini. 
“I’m meant to be the one doing the scaring here!” You raise your voice, hoping to reach her. The faint whispers are your only response. “Jeeze, do you really hate me that much?” You try to play on her empathetic side, draw her out with offhanded self-deprecation that always makes her rebuke, but even that wields nothing. 
Brows furrowed, you begin to make another round. This time, you hastily search inside the different apartments too, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silky hair or the toe of her trainers.
You examine another apartment, almost skidding on the wet wood. There’s the flat face of a table leaning against a wall–legs missing–and another grimy, smashed window.
After practically running up and down the hallway, you can’t help the way your heart jumps in its marrow cage when you realise the volume of that uncanny noise hasn’t changed. At all. It’s not louder, nor quieter; just that same, off-putting, low mumble. 
“Helen! Come on, this isn’t funny. Just come out already.” You say it with a worried smile on your face and end it with a pathetic half-laugh.
Where could she be? You know you’re only skimming the apartments, wandering in and out of each room like a pacing animal, but with how many you’ve searched, you should’ve seen something by now. Plus, with how long you’ve been calling out for her, she would’ve come out of whatever dank hole she was hiding in.
If you were searching for Jeanne, you would understand. Unless you were gravely injured, she would continue playing her game for as long as she could. She was a proud winner who liked losing as much as she liked getting an injection: doing her best to avoid it by any means necessary. But this was Helen. Helen who doesn’t like silence. Helen who hates the dark.
There’s nothing in the next apartment, either. 
It strikes you then and there that the only other reason that she wasn’t responding was because she was hurt. Hurt to the point of being knocked out.
With the revelation, it doesn’t take long for your mind to dive into a worried spiral. What if the floor finally gave way? What if she’s already on the ground floor? Neck bent like your fingers. Face contorted with some unheard screech you’d been too distracted to hear. Broken and soulless, and bleeding and turning that ugly cream carpet red.
Suddenly, warm air blows over the shell of your ear, something teasing that sends a sharp spike of fear through every muscle. 
You jolt, veins thrumming with fear and relief, “Helen, you-”
Your flashlight illuminates nothing but air. 
That jumbled mumbling, that damned whispering, has risen: gotten louder without you even noticing it. It pounds against your eardrums and buzzes under your skin. It feels so close, yet so far, echoing out from every crevice. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.
With a war drum in your chest, you beg yourself to just calm down. All you’re doing by overthinking is making things worse for yourself, and probably Helen, too. It’s just the wind–just a creation of your overly-active imagination. Just that stupid, stupid effect Noah was talking about. 
What scares you, though, is that you begin to hear words. 
Last time you checked, the wind didn’t speak to anyone other than those fated for tragedy. As far as you were aware, you were no Orpheus. 
It’s like the radio all over again, yet somehow worse.
Thick, clotted air fills your lungs. Inhale and exhale. Stop yourself from getting so worked up: just inhale and exhale-
-But it’s so loud. 
You have a walkie-talkie in your pocket, don’t you? How about you put it to use? That’s what it’s-
-Louder. 
If she’s hurt, you’ll probably have to call-
-And louder.
You knew you shouldn-
-and louder. 
“Shut up!”
All goes quiet.
After all the noise, it feels wrong. 
In the blink of an eye, the class quietens, the motorway stands still, and the trees omit themselves to a vow of silence. 
There’s only you. You, your flashlight, the keys and your panicked breaths. It comes out in mist-like puffs in front of your face. 
You don’t remember dropping your flashlight. You don’t remember pressing your hands to your ears, either.
You take a few deep inhales. “I’m losing it. I’m absolutely losing it.” Bringing a hand to your eyes, you rub them, as if trying to dispel the lingering fingers of some sort of mania. You do it much more harshly than you really meant to. Feeling the soft tissue squish and scrape against the cavities of your skull, you hope it brings some sense back to you. 
You crouch down to grasp your flashlight again. You see your face, distorted, in a puddle on the wood. With your back constantly to some sort of darkness, you feel yourself teetering on some sort of edge, standing stock still as not to fall. Still as those looming trees that pray to Gods your mind is too young to even know the name of. 
A red hot blanket of indignation drapes itself over your fear for a moment. Whoever the Hell this was, whatever dim-witted asshole and their friends, was going to get an earful. Maybe even a right hook, if you were feeling ballsy. 
You scan the halls up and down, keeping a careful ear for any sort of movement, any sort of amused giggle. You almost expect a TV show presenter to appear with a bunch of cameras or something. Even something as outlandish as that would ease your mind.
Anything that gives you a logical explanation as to what you just heard.
You begin to even search the walls, almost expecting to find grinning eyes staring at you from behind the rotting pipework. What an absurd thought.
Then you see something move.
It's from the corner of your eye, and you pray to see Helen, or just someone, there.
You don’t. 
A chasmal wound sits before you, cracking at the edges like spindly fingers clawing their way up the walls.
Something skitters. Something dark and fat. Something with beady eyes and tiny feet. 
There's droning under the floorboards. A muted thrum that, for a few seconds, only your feet can pick up.
Then you see a tail.
And a foot.
And a snout.
And you realise with horror that there is something in the walls. Something that is speaking to you.
At first, it’s as indistinguishable as ever; that same endless murmur from before as thousands of voices speak over each other. 
But, slowly–like a church choir–they all come together, whispering in their whiny voices one great chant.
“We are small. We are many.”
And you finally begin to understand the words.
“We have teeth. We have tails.”
And all you can really do is stand in silent terror.
“We were here before. We will be forevermore.”
Over and over and over they repeat it: an unending mantra accompanied by chattering teeth and pattering feet.
You can’t even bring yourself to move, body completely unsure how to react. It’s like the flies; worming their way into your ears and resounding off of your skull.
There’s laughter there, too. High-pitched, shrill sniggering. Sniggering of a thousand strangers that you’re sure are mocking you. 
And they just keep getting louder. 
What are you even meant to do? You have to be hallucinating at this point–encouraged by a weird mix of sleep deprivation and sloping paranoia. 
You feel like you’re in some type of morbid comedy, and the joke is absolutely on you. 
It doesn’t take long before your synapses finally snap into action, forcing your legs forwards. It begins with a brisk walk and easily turns into a jog. You aim for the staircase, unsure whether you’ll be going up or down.
Abruptly, their chant changes, a few voices slow to catch onto the shift. 
“India, Tango-”
It almost makes you stop dead in your tracks: even more confused with the seemingly random words they begin chittering.
“-Kilo, November-”
You refuse to listen, just blocking it out. No need to make yourself more fearful than you already are.
“-Oscar, Whiskey, Sierra-”
And you’re almost at the staircase, when-
SNAP.
-The floor finally collapses under your weight. 
“Y/N!”
You feel your head slam against the wet, wooden flooring. For a split second, no longer than a blink, everything goes blank. 
Then there’s a strain in your ankle. And water soaking into your hoodie.
And you are very much so awake. 
“Γαμώτο- Y/N? Y/N! Are you alright?”
Your brain throbs underneath your sweat sheened skin. Something wet slides down your cheek, and you wonder if it's blood. Looking up, partially balanced on your hands, all you can really do is stare at Helen with a mixture of utter horror and confusion. You open your mouth. Your jaw whines like one of the doors, and you taste wood on your tongue. “What the fuck.”
She hooks her arms under your shoulders, mumbling apologies under her breath as she drags you forward like a limp corpse. Easily, your foot is freed. Back on your feet, you wipe any residue off of your hands and face with frantic fingers. 
Turning and looking down, you see that your luck had quickly run out: the wood had finally broken through.
Knowing that there’s concrete under it doesn’t bring you as much comfort as you thought it would. 
A cold buzz overtakes the hot pain.
“Is your foot normal? Does it hurt?”
You swing your head back around. “Where were you?”
Her face twitches in surprise, not expecting your harsh tone. “Where were you? I was asking for you to see if you wanted to go up to the next floor to see if it was like this one. I couldn’t find you so I went up to see if you were there: I came down when I heard the wood snap.”
You watch her for a moment, thinking. ‘I came down when I heard the wood’, not ‘I came down when I heard you calling for me.’
Did she…did she not hear you?
Did she not hear that?
You think your ankle should hurt a lot more than it does. You think there should be pain jumping up your leg when you put your weight down.
“I was…” Swallowing, your eyes search the floor for something you don’t know the name of. Your flashlight has skidded to the foot of the staircase. “...I was in the last apartment by the staircase.”
Her brows furrow. “Why did you not come out when I asked?” 
Your mouth is dry.
You desperately want to explain it to her. Tell her you’d be calling out for her for the last who knows how long, stalking up and down the hall. Tell her that there is something in the walls and you fear they know things you’ve tried to bury. However, the moment you re-run the memories, think over how to even begin to describe what just happened, you realise you sound mad. The epitome of it.
As supportive and believing as Helen was, there was no way she was going to believe you.
“I just…”
There’d be that look on her face. It’d be there for a second, but you’d still see it. It’d be on Noah’s face when she tells him–clear as freshwater–as well. 
“...got scared by some rats.”
You may be human, and it may be right to accept help when you’re hurting, but you still refuse to be seen as mad. 
Sick.
Her face softens. Still somewhat annoyed–for a fair reason from her perspective–but lesser so.
Nobody likes not being believed, after all.
“Rats?”
You nod. 
“I have never liked rats,” there's a smile in her eyes. You think it’s meant to comfort you. “Maybe we should leave if there’s more?”
You hope you do. You pray to Gods who have long averted their gaze from this place of endless night and thumping walls to allow you to leave. 
“Hm…well, we do not scare easy, do we? We aren’t afraid of the dark or,” she pauses for a moment. You don’t know if it's for effect or not. “Rats, are we?”
Something in you wilts when you realise she’s trying to encourage you. Encourage you to go through with things. To overcome what she thinks is just a minor fear. 
You spite August winds and cigarette smoke for sewing your mouth shut.
There’s an attempt at a smile underneath your mask. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah.”
Smoothly, her fingers intertwine with yours. She feels blisteringly warm. 
“Is your foot and ankle okay?”
You can’t bring yourself to lie. 
-----------------------
In all their ‘nonsensical’ murmuring, the words the Things speak do have some meaning behind it, if you look close enough.
IMPORTANT: If you, or any of your friends, are going urban exploring, and stumble upon a building like this (incredibly damp, rotting wood, mould etc.) do not enter. Please do not risk an injury, or your life, for the sake of an experience or some cool photos. Further, if you visibly see your friend get injured, actually check them over to make sure they're genuinely okay. 
On note of updates: expect an update every three weeks on a Friday. If it doesn’t come then, expect it on the Saturday, and, if it doesn’t come until then, expect that I’m busy and won’t be able to update until next week. As much as I’d like to write to my heart’s content, I unfortunately don’t have all that time :’]
- Γαμώτο = Damn it
31 notes · View notes
unladyboss · 3 months ago
Text
SYDNEY/AYO OPUS. HORROR MOVIE
Sydney in a horror movie
Tumblr media
I will be seated
Tumblr media
They didn't have a long film time
Tumblr media
Some shots
Tumblr media
BTS FROM MARK Anthony Green (director)
Tumblr media
She's gonna be amazing
Tumblr media
I will watch for her sake
Tumblr media
Anything she's in I will watch
Tumblr media
52 notes · View notes
atsadi-shenanigans · 3 months ago
Text
What Shall We Become 14 - Kevin Bacon
Y'all talk about space dongs, before being rudely interrupted.
Tumblr media
On AO3.
Your mouth tastes real weird when you wake up. And you’re more tired than you were when you went to sleep. Like that line from that Bilbo Baggins guy about being butter scraped too thin.
You lie on your stomach, numbed arm beneath your cheek (all of it crusted in drool), and the other arm twisted up all weird beneath you.
“Mgrghngh,” you say as you roll to your side.
You’re more tired than you was when Astarion pulled you outta the river he left you to drown in.
A voice lilts all pretty nearby. Speaking of. The man (elf vampire) sits a few feet away, needle in hand, working surprisingly quickly for a man with no sight.
Oh fuck. You lost your whole, entire corn-husking mind last night. And he fucking heard you do it.
“’M good,” you manage and reach for your bag for a dirt potion.
 And then wait for him to respond. Because he’s the type of asshole that relishes in the kind of barbed commentary that comes from watching somebody lose their whole corn-husking mind. Only he sits quiet. Sews a couple more stitches before tying off his work and snipping the thread with his teeth.
It’s your pants (trousers). He’s slit the sides and rigged them up with leather cording. It’s a real Mad Max kinda biker look, but it’s so much better then running around a refrigerator cave in a shirt and a fucking breechcloth (that shit was for summertime in fucking North Carolina, goddamnit).
“Try these on,” he says and holds it out. His back is mostly to you.
You stand all awkward. One knee cracks. And you shuffle over as pins and needles sweep up and down both your arms. Astarion sits all placid, tucking his needle into…is that a sewing kit? Man’s got a sewing kit? It even kinda looks like a goddamn cookie tin.
You slip one leg through, then the other. Gotta fiddle with them laces, and in the end, they really are side chaps.
“These’re great,” you say. You can even wiggle around without it pinching nowhere. It’s a little loose in the crotch, but that don’t even matter. Only thing it don’t got is pockets.
“I have something else,” he says. And reaches into his back and pulls out…
“Panties,” you say, in fucking Chondathan (at least he told you that’s what it was, this time).
He grins. “Well done. Now, I only had enough material for three, and you’ll need to belt them, but it should be more comfortable than stuffing that bundle into your trousers.”
That sounds like an innuendo. Shit, man made you panties. It’s the most weirdly personal gift you ever got in your whole life.
Great timing, too, if the general achiness curling low in your gut is any indication. Bitch is late. Not surprising, given all the fuck shit that’s happened. But still. She was gonna show up at some point.
What he made is kinda like ancient Roman bikini bottoms (which was a thing). Ties on each side and still a little baggy, but weird, old-fashioned granny panties is still panties that you didn’t have a minute ago.
You consider tapping his shoulder and thanking the man. Wonder briefly at how you’re more comfortable in your own head about like, physical affection with everyone else (imagining swooning against Karlach and frenching Shadowheart when she closes gashes you didn’t even notice). But when it comes to him, you just…can’t. Can’t even entertain the idea of joke kissing him, not even in your own head. It feels…weird. Like standing on the edge of a cliff.
“I did make a few hasty modifications,” he says as you start to unlace them trousers so you can slip on the panties. Which is when you catch his smirk. You seen that smirk before. That one’s goblin shit, right there.
“What did you do?” you say.
He waves a hand. “It’s merely cosmetic. And not my finest work.”
Did he leave one of them panties crotchless or something? Rig it to rip up the—
Nope. They’re all solid enough. And decorated with a simple piece of sloppy embroidery. Heat rushes up your face and you almost cringe away, until you realize that he wasn’t putting a dong on each one, but what you think is supposed to be a mushroom.
Because he’s a fucking goblin and is incapable of passing up an opportunity to poke at you.
“Cute,” you say.
“Aren’t they just?” He grins wide enough to show off his fangs. “I felt we should commemorate your first brush with hallucinogenics, darling. Consider it a souvenir.”
“And you thought the best thing for that was stitching them into my new drawers.”
“I had to contribute something.”
You stare at him for a long moment.
This all reeks of guilt. The whole “cutting you loose” thing. And goddamnit, it’s working. You still ain’t sure what you should be feeling about that. What the just thing is. Part of you thinks you should be pissed. Any maybe you are? But he’s also just…it’s difficult. It was a shit decision. Making it would have been a shit decision either way. And what saved you wasn’t him or even you; it was your bag getting caught up in some rocks. Ones you might not have come near if he hadn’t cut that rope. And then you woulda drowned for sure and been a bare-assed ringwraith in a fucking cave forever.
This might be him manipulating you. Making sure he does nice things so you don’t get mad—cause he ain’t fessed up on it. You noticed that.
Then again, he was acting all weird about this whole thing even before that cavern, when he realized he couldn’t see and you realized he’d have to rely on you. He really doesn’t like owing people.
What a fuck shit mess.
“Everything all right?” he says because you been quiet for a solid moment.
You wriggle back outta them trousers, pluck them up. Eyeball the tent. “I’m gonna go get changed, and then what’s say we get the hell outta here?”
***
You got three dirt potions left. You been down here, on y’all’s own for about three days already, you think. You should start rationing the fuckers. When you tell Astarion your plan, he starts speaking Chondathan at you. And he’s somehow even more pedantic about it than Gale makes you repeat yourself over and over until he’s satisfied with your inflection (fucking language rolls its goddamned r’s, which you was never good at).
After thirty minutes of you spitting all down your chin like a dumbass, he finally lets up.
He’s so quiet behind you, after that. Man’s got his pickup lines; can turn on the sleaze in less than a second. But casual conversation that ain’t complaining about something or imagining killing something or someone?
“So,” you say. Go for the tried and true, “You got any hobbies?”
“What, aside from murder and picking locks?”
Jesus, he ain’t never gonna let that go.
“Yeah,” you say.
A long pause. The cavern y’all are in now is lit up a little by them mushrooms. Y’all skirt around another bigass crystal somehow lit up from within. Probably some bullshit magic. It’d all be pretty if it wasn’t a giant cavern filled with fuck-knows-what hiding in the deep dark between the glowing fungi.
“No, not really,” Astarion says.
It takes you a second to connect it back to your last question.
“Huh,” you say. “That sewing was damn good for a man that can’t see. Better than most who can, I reckon. A fuck of a lot better’n what I can manage.”
“Considering your solution was to simply wrap a cloth around yourself, that’s not really high praise, darling.”
“Take the fucking compliment,” you say. “It’s good work. Even if them mushrooms look like dicks.”
His footsteps fucking trip. He sputters. “Excuse me? They look like what?”
“It ain’t really your fault. Technically, that’s what all mushroom is, anyway: space cocks.”
He makes a kinda muffled “ugh” sound.
And then a thought hits you. “Does your language have different words for genitals depending on the vulgarity? Is it even a vulgarity to y’all?”
“I…yes, actually.”
And the word he used translated to “cock.” Possibly the most vulgar, but also the least casual. Interesting. You do notice he don’t actually use hard swears (or whatever translates to hard swears). Combined with his fancy pants accent, you wonder what he was before that whole fuckface turning him thing.
“You know,” he says. “I didn’t expect this sort of conversation out of you. Though you do have a fine phallus of your own, so color me wrong.”
“Back to them space cocks,” you say, in an attempt to cut him off before the teasing can creep back in. It ain’t fucking weird having a goddamn sex toy. You’re a grown ass fucking adult.
“Space cocks. Do tell.” He literally purrs the last part of that. If y’all wasn’t walking, you’re sure he’d prop his chin up on one hand.
“Pretty sure I was babbling about them last night. But the parts we see, the parts that grow above ground? That’s just the reproductive parts of the organism it grows from. Which I always thought was funny since a lot of them look pretty phallus-like. When they ain’t being a cosmic horror and all.”
“And this amuses you, being a connoisseur of cocks, does it?”
Ooh, he’s digging.
“I seen enough,” you say. You ain’t folding that fucking easy.
“Forgive me darling, is there a point to this topic of conversation, or did you just really want to talk about cocks?”
“I want to talk about how weird mycelium are. You don’t need to—”
The rope tugs on your waist and you turn. He’s stopped. Grin dropped. Eyes open and unfocused, staring hard out into the darkness.
“Do you hear that?” he says.
You do not. There’s the hollow echo of the huge fucking chamber, your own breathing, and y’all’s footsteps crunching about in what has turned into dirt (must be the mushroom’s doing).
But his head tilts, and you know he’s tracking something. Intently. And the shadows around y’all become real dark.
“What is it?” you say as quiet as you can.
He don’t answer. Just frowns. Head turns this way and that, eyes darting around. Until his frown deepens. And the man looks down.
“There’s something beneath us,” he says.
A hidden chamber full of albino orc people your brain throws at you because it’s a motherfucker.
Then Astarion’s face goes blank in a distinctive way that opens ever, single floodgate of adrenaline you got into your circulatory system.
“It’s coming up beneath us,” he says, right as y’all both reach for each other’s hands and you holler, “Run!”
You catch the sound, now. Thunder shimmies up your shins through the thin soles of your stolen boots. With a couple steps, the ground shakes so bad you stumble. Astarion’s iron grip is the only thing that wrenches you back up.
“There’s a rock ahead,” you pant. Your throat already burns. “Next to a cliff. Mushroom…big’un. Growing on the side.”
The two of you stumble sprint over. Hit the edge of the rock right as the ground six inches from your heel erupts in a spray of dirt that knocks you to your knees.
Astarion manages to keep his feet. Once again hauls you scrambling up to the top of the stone as something roars behind you.
You don’t look. All effort is focused on the edge of the rock and the leap you’ll need.
“Three foot gap!” you gasp. “Plenty wide—”
“I can’t—” Astarion starts.
And you shove aside all your cringing and grab the man’s shoulders and point him in the direction he needs to go. But it’d be terrifying to leap without seeing. You remember the cavern where he found you, all the times he touched something. He needs guidance.
“Gimme the stick,” you say as a roar rumbles the air so hard your ribs rattle. You finally glance back.
Something big with a huge fucking mouth.
You barely fumble the stick, barely manage not to drop it. Skirt around Astarion. Judge the distance and leap. And it’s only once you’re airborne that you wonder if that bigass shroom can take your weight or if it’ll snap clean off the cliff like a rotten tree branch.
You land hard enough to go down to one knee. The shroom is squishy, yet firm enough that it only shivers under your weight like a hard mattress.
“Eleanor?” Astarion says, voice sharp.
You whack the cliff with your stick, at foot level, just beside you. His face snaps to that direction.
“Three feet! Here!”
He gives a single nod, waits for you to tap again—the thing below roar and its bulk moves up the rock oh fuck.
Astarion jumps. Lands right next to that sound, and you reach out to steady him and pull him further onto the shroom. Right as the big fucking monster comes bounding up the rock after him. You all but drag the both of you back, fall on your ass (Astarion stumbles over you) and scoot further away.
Up until your hand hits the edge of your little platform.
“Fuck oh fuck fuck.”
Somehow, it did not occur to you that the fucking ground monster might, like, climb.
Now you’re gonna die. Torn apart by a fucking armored hippopotamus-mouthed fucking tank of a thing that snarls and snaps…from its perch on the rock. Three feet of air between y’all.
Astarion claws into your shoulder. “What’s it doing?”
Big fucking monster makes a low sound. Paws at the edge of the rock. Then its head twists left, then right. It’s got little, beady motherfucking shark eyes on either side of what’s actually a massive, fuck off beak. It leans forward, one stubby foot reaching…
But then it pulls back. Makes that sound again. Leans real far forward to…nibble at the edge of y’all’s shroom and then make what you can only describe as a disgusted sound.
“Well?” Astarion says.
“I…” you say. Watch the thing growl and snuffle around. “I think it’s afraid of the mushroom.”
“What? What is it?”
“The fuck am I supposed to know?”
And the blind man rolls his fucking eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re a yokel from another plane. You’re sure it’s not about to pounce on us?”
It fucking stares at you, is what it does. Stands motionless, maybe a total of eight feet away, just fucking staring with its dead eyes.
Every muscle in your body goes limp and you almost swoon.
“I think we should be quiet,” you whisper.
To his credit, Astarion frowns, but crouches down to whisper back, “What does it look like?”
Stumpy legs, thick body, all of it plated in some armor looking hide. Big bitch has a face halfway between a shark and an African hornbill. All of it about the size of a rhino.
Which you tell him, leaving out the animal names. And to which he swears.
“You’re of no help, dear,” he says.
“You fucking asked me—” And cut off as the birdshark snorts. Like a cat watching a squirrel and dreaming of murdering the ever-loving shit outta it.
“We should stop talking,” you say.
“And what would you,” he starts. Seems to reconsider. Then lowers himself to sitting pressed against you. You manage to contain your fidget away. Mostly. And you both settle in for the worst staring contest of your life.
***
Birdshark gets bored after what has to be an hour. Huffs and moans, and then ponderously half slides back down to the ground. It gives you another glare. Then turns nose down, makes a chuffing sound, and all them armor plates fucking buzz and the big bitch slides into the dirt like it’s a fucking cow pond.
“What was that?” Astarion whispers.
The ground don’t move again. The buzzing stops. The whole cave falls silent.
“It went back underground,” you say.
Then Astarion starts to stand. “Well then, we’d beset get out of here before the beastie changes its mind.”
But you’re still staring at the dirt. You grab the bottom of his leather armor to stay him. “Did you hear it leave?”
The man pauses a long moment. Then sinks back down, silent as a whisper. “No.”
It hunts from underground, don’t it. It’s got eyes, and it for sure saw you, but sound seemed to really set it off. And the fucker is down there, buried, and it’s mcfucking waiting for you, ain’t it.
“It’s fucking Tremors rules,” you say. “Fuck me.”
Astarion shifts. You turn and catch the most baffled expression on him.
“It’s a story,” you say. “Monsters show up in a desert town. Big worm things. Hunt from underground. We can’t get on soft ground without it knowing and coming up right between our legs, I bet.”
You didn’t even know the man could get any paler. Granted, it’s like the difference between eggshell and dairy cream at some fucking hardware store paint aisle, and you can only tell the difference by holding up them swatches next to each other under the glare of a noon day sun. But it’s still impressive for a guy whose complexion can, at best, be charitably described as corpseriffic.
“Perhaps your people’s stories aren’t as fictional as you think,” he says.
Which one: they got them the concept of fiction vs. non-fiction and you got to learn how to fucking read here, hot damn, and two:
“I’m really starting to wonder,” you say.
So tremors rules. Fucking waiting at the base of that rock. You scan around the expanse of gloom and flat ground. Them other mushrooms is too high to climb, and you ain’t putting it past birdshark down there to uproot the damned thing and bite y’all’s legs off when it topples over.
But then, off in the distance, the color of darkness changes. You can barely see it (can only see it by looking around it), but there’s a slash of black about a hundred feet to the right. Beyond that, the soft glow of more magic cave mushrooms, all about level with the floor here.
“I think that might be a crevasse to the right,” you say. Scan it again to try to tell if it’s maybe just a ditch. No, no, you think the light reflects off stone on the other side, like a sheer cliff. Goddamn, it’s too dark. Fucking caves.
“What of it?” Astarion says.
Birdshark didn’t wanna leave that rock. It was only a short hop to get to y’all’s tender ass meat, but it seemed nervous. It would make sense for a subterranean predator to be skittish of open air.
“I don’t think it likes being away from the ground,” you say.
You can feel the man lift an eyebrow.
“Or we can stay here until I starve to death. You can feed on me if that happens, and good luck after that.”
For just a second, he looks at you like you done slapped him with a trout. Then he’s back to his usual sass and an eyeroll.
“Fine,” he says. “We’ll have to run for it. I can’t see, and I’m rather sure it’s faster than the both of us. What’s your plan for that, darling?”
You think back to that movie, and remember some of the goodies y’all still got left over from that goblin camp that you are one hundred percent sure Astarion commandeered.
“You still got them bags of spark powder?” you say.
27 notes · View notes
sai-haras · 5 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
happy pride month to fucked up bisexuals with questionable writing
48 notes · View notes
crookedsmilesnovel · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
'Ehhh... I mean, it is a stupid idea, but if you insist.'
Ivanichek 'Ivan' Vorobyev
Appears 27 years old
5"8
Intelligent, awkward, closed off.
Working out of a dilapidated clinic in the attic of a disused building just off Frying Pan Alley in Spitalfields, Ivan gets by feeding on the sick and infirm whom he is unable to treat.
At odds with his own kind for not fitting their into their stringent society and for being unable to accept the nature of his condition, Ivan strives daily to understand the parameters of what he is and how he might change that. His journey has brought him to studying other supernatural beings more closely... and has brought himself and Kostya into contact.
With innumerable walls up to keep others at a distance, Ivan has struggled to maintain human connections throughout his whole life; and this has certainly not eased throughout his afterlife. But he's never met someone like Kostya before, and finds his attention captured by the other man more and more.
Artwork by @anemonetea / Kit Buss
101 notes · View notes
trulyumai · 7 months ago
Text
Oh, Mr. Mosses (Series) III
Tumblr media
Synopsis: You were fine with the job, the steps were easy enough but the secret  of the D.D.D was getting harder and harder to contain. Each night a new entity would enter the building, each with its own horrific look and intentions. Just as you debate on leaving, a new resident has entered the premises; Francis Mosses who is absolutely entranced by your being.
Will you be as smitten of him as he is of you? Only time will tell.
Taglist: @tfamidoingwithmylife @mariaflor873 @fandomfeind @greycloudsy (Let me know if you want to be added!)
Warnings: Blood, Violence, Death
Oh, Mr. Mosses III
He shook under her touch. She lightly padded her fingers across his chest, going lower until they were right above his trousers. “You're so cute, Francis.” She mumbled, fumbling her hands with his belt, moving his undergarments lower and lower. He puffed, ignoring the comment, he could feel his face getting warm again. Lowering his hands, they met the underside of her thighs, so plush, so very soft. 
“Please- ah! Please sweetheart,” He whispered, staring up at her lovingly. And although it came out as a beg, he began moving her clothes away himself, not waiting for an answer. 
“Ah, ah, ah, patience darling.” She tutted, skirting his hands back to where they once were, each on one either side of her hips.
He groaned, letting his hands reside there as the warmth in his chest got unbearable. She was gorgeous, the moonlight peaked in behind his window, falling down and mirroring her gorgeous image. She was like an old painting, sitting there staring down at him. A nymph, a goddess. 
And if it wasn't for the incessant beeping, he could have came right then and there just staring up at her. Those eyes, that slender neck, her chest-
Jolting upright he cursed. So fucking close, yet so far. With a sigh he leaned his legs over to the side of his bed. Covered in sweat he grimaced, ever since his meeting with the darling receptionist he's had these dreams, visions. He'd wake up in the same state; desperate, sweaty and needy. And oh so close to release. 
With his elbows on his knees he sighed once more while looking at the clock, just beside his bedside. The red numbers mocked him and read out 4:30AM. 
Today was going to be a long day. 
“The reports my dear, were utterly ruined I tell you! Such an incompetent assistant I have, truly.” Mr. Gauss was a loud man, too loud for the poor receptionist to handle at the moment. He spoke of his job, his reports almost every meeting they would be unfortunate to have. With a sigh she handed his papers once more, yet it went unnoticed as he rambled on about his assistant. The poor lady who had spilled coffee over his reports this morning. 
“Mr. Gauss,” She shook the ID in her hands once more, in case this time he would notice. He didn't. 
“I'll tell you, the job couldn't be easier I mean, you should know shouldn't you darling? It's just a simple desk job!” 
“Mr Gauss!” With a firm tone she pursed her lips, finally getting the older man's attention. 
“Your papers, sir.” 
“Oh how silly of me, thank you sweetheart! Listen, I'm getting a call but I'll see you soon my dear!” With a wink he was off, his attention already diverting to the phone that he pulled from his gray and black suit pocket. 
Groaning, she slouched back down on her chair. Easy, she wished it was as simple as he made it. With no screaming residents, bloody faces and hands being slammed in her direction. Just the other day a mimic cried to her, screaming she was a murderer. It begged to be let in. “I'll die out there, please you don't understand!” Its tone was racked with fear, it shook with plenty of emotion and if it wasn't covered in someone's blood, she might have thought to let it inside. It went out with a fight too, one of the guards bodies had to be dragged out, their yellow hazmat suit stained in maroon. Everytime she blinked she could see his body, crumpled up in the corner of the lobby, limbs hanging limply at their sides, mask torn.
It was getting late, and soon she could go home, take a nice bath, forget about the color red for a while. 
“Excuse me,”
“SHIT!” She jumped, not noticing the man standing just in front of the window. Holding her chest she cried out. 
“Francis, jesus christ you startled me,” 
With a light frown he reached out, letting his palm splay over the clear glass. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, are you okay?” Sweetheart? That was new, she thought, calming her chest as quickly as she could. 
“It's okay I was just- I zoned out it seems,” she smiled, it was light, a comfort to the man in front of her. 
With a small smile of his own he grabbed his forms, sliding them through the slot per usual. 
“You're early, no one wanted any milk today?” She blinked up at him, grabbing the forms while staring blatantly at the taller man. His uniform was normal, the hat laid atop his black hair and his eyes were as tired as ever. 
“You could say that,” The milkman mumbled, leaning comfortably over the counter, looking down at her as she compared the forms. 
She began reading his ID, slowly as practiced, mouthing each number as she went. 
235569-
“Hey.” Looking up she noticed how close the man got, closer than ever before. His face was practically touching the glass. 
“Hi?” She looked at him confusedly, tilting her head to the side unconsciously. 
“I'm free now. For the coffee?” 
That's right! The date, she had nearly forgotten after the day she had. It slipped her mind, she would have worn something cuter, more revealing than this old sweater she's had stuffed in her closet. It was cold today, lightly sprinkling with rain from time to time so she grabbed the next best thing to keep her warm, not even thinking she would see Francis today. 
“Oh! Um, yeah I have some back here if you'd like?” Skipping over the numbers she started comparing them.
23556941989-
BANG. 
Francis hand made contact with the glass, his pale fingers flexed as they made contact, nails digging lightly into the material.
Noticing her hesitancy he laughed. “There was a bug, didn't mean to startle you. Again.” 
Where was she again? At nine? No, perhaps the eight.
“Everything looks in order,” she mumbled, slowly glancing back up at the milkman. Smiling, she slid the papers to the side, fumbling for the keys around her pocket. 
“One moment and i'll open the door okay?” 
Francis said nothing but nodded, flexing his hands as she made her way towards the wooden door just to his left. With a click the door was open, Francis was already on the other side by the time it unlatched. Maybe he was just eager, she thought. That would be cute, no man had been eager to see her before, so the newfound feeling was exhilarating. 
Standing aside she gestured him in. My was he much taller face to face, she only came up to his shoulders, if that. He stepped in, walking just past her towards the room on the side, where the little kitchen resided. 
Closing the door she followed, humming a little tune as she grabbed coffee cups just past him. “How do you like your- oof!” Turning to talk to the man she was met with his chest, when had me moved so close? 
“I'll get that, sweetheart,” He mumbled lowly, his voice just barely above a whisper. So quite, so low. 
“Oh, um, okay” Without thinking she passed him the mugs, not even realizing she forgot to tell him her coffee preference before walking towards the door once more, to the front desk. 
“I'm gonna make sure no one needs any help, I'll be right back!”
With a hum, the man got to work on the drinks, it was only then she noticed his hands. Veiner than normal, his nails were a little longer too, had they always been so sharp? 
Turning her head she padded her way to the desk, to the forms residing on her desk. 
Francis form stared back at her, along with his ID. Dusting her fingers over the numbers she read again.
235569418995
Now the other one 
235569418895
No, she had to be mistaken. Reading it again, and again, the paper was starting to crumple with the amount of force she exerted from her fingers. 
The numbers, she noticed, the numbers, there off by one number. How did she miss it?! Biting her lip she looked back towards the kitchen. The room had gone silent, she prayed she still had time. The D.D.D had to act fast, she still could live, it couldn't be too late. Glancing back in front of her she reached out, just before her hand met with the phone she felt it. 
The pressure of someone standing behind her. 
A breath on her neck.
Light nails digging into the side of her hips. 
“Don't spoil the mood, pretty girl,” Francis sneered. 
“Our night has just begun after all.”
She couldn't help but shake, she didn't want to die, this creature whatever it was wasn't prone to showing mercy. Any kindness whatsoever. 
“Your coffee will get cold,” He teased, lightly reaching his hand up, playing with the hair around her face before displaying itself on her cheeks, tightly grabbing them until her lips protruded with the pressure. 
“Such a daft little thing,” He tutted.
“Cute, but oh, so daft.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt tears spring loose, dribbling down her cheeks until they made contact with Francis' hand. 
He laughed, a deep somber one before he craned his neck down, licking the salty liquid from her face. His slimy tongue stopped just before her eye, where she finally opened it to see him smiling at her. 
His teeth. Jesus Christ they were so sharp. All of them pointy and white, each one more jagged than the other. 
“I'm tempted to keep you, you’d be a good little listener wouldn't you?” With a mocking tone he squeezed her cheeks harder, until little red crescents were indented on her face. 
"You're so good for me, so obedient." He moaned, rubbing his other hand around her body, going lower, and lower.
“Ah-!”
“Quiet!” He seethed, glancing now to the front desk. The window. It was then she noticed, a silhouette peering over the desk. A resident waiting to be checked in. 
“Please,” She begged, more tears streamed down her soft face.
“Don't hurt me.” 
Looking back over his squinted eyes, his pupils were dilated and his mouth slightly open and set in a frown.
“What the fuck did I say-
“Hello?” A masculine voice rang out. Francis. With widened eyes she gripped the hand covering her mouth, felt the roughness of the hand and shook. 
The other Francis heaved, with anger he gripped the receptionist's face once more. Hands bloody he slid his thumb over her lips, lightly parting it and pushing the digit forward.
The taste of iron invaded her senses, wincing she tried to pull back but was only met with resistance. 
“I'll be back, sweet thing.” He promised, pulling his finger back he looked at it with wild eyes. Putting it up to his own lips before sucking them clean. 
“You be a good girl, you here?” He laughed, lightly smacking her cheek before entering the back. Towards the kitchen.
Without thought she ran to the desk, meeting the eyes of Francis, the real Francis. 
Noticing her wide eyes and bloody mouth he looked with concern, eyebrows leaving a frown mark on his face.
“Are you alright?”
She wanted comfort, wanted help. With a light shake to her fingers she took his ID, not bothering to compare the numbers. 
The rules. If she uddered anything about the mimics, the D.D.D, she would face even more backlash than she faced now. How was she supposed to bring this up to management, let alone Francis. 
Gathering her thoughts she passed the ID back through. Putting on her best face she smiled at him, though it looked more like a grimace. 
“Yes, just… A long day. You're free to pass,” With a touch of a button the elevator was left open. 
Francis eyed her once more. 
“Mmh, okay. You can call me if you need anything. I'm just a floor away.” Grabbing his ID he shifted uncomfortably. His tongue felt heavy and the words he wanted to say seemed to get stuck on the top of his mouth. With a tired gaze and small wave, the receptionist moved out of his sight and he couldn't help but feel disappointed.
Maybe he'll ask for a coffee next time.
198 notes · View notes
staycalmandhugaclone · 5 months ago
Text
Fool's Errand Pt 2
Part (2) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!
Y'all it has been an interesting couples weeks! To summarize, we've decided to upgrade, so are scrambling to get our house ready to sell while caring for a 5 month old and drooling over possible new places to buy! Super fun, super chaotic, and super stressful - wish us luck! (and if any of you are diy specialists in WA, hit me up 😆)
Warnings: Medical procedures, broken nose, blood, needles, profanity
WC: 3,095
Tumblr media
“I c’n fight! G’me a kr’ffin’ gun!”
“You can’t even stand! Stay down or, by the Force, Hunter, I will sedate you!” I didn’t try to hide the impatience sewn through the shouted threat.
“I c’n st’ll shoot!” He tried to yell, but the words tangled around his stiff jaw, the muscles locked taut, though whether from pain or injury I couldn’t tell. Our exit had been blocked, the hall too full of droids to even see the far side. We’d had to run. I didn’t know how Echo managed to keep track of our location - if he’d managed to keep track of our location…
The room we’d ducked into was oppressively hot. It radiated from stacks of servers stretching floor to ceiling around us and sent sweat soaking into my blacks in just those few minutes we’d hidden within. Hunter sat against one of the towering jumbles of wires and electronics, one arm wrapped tightly around his chest while the other reached toward me, open hand trembling too violently for anyone to feign ignorance to. I stood beside him leaning around the server just enough to watch the door, pistol trained before me in anticipation of the coming horde while Echo tried to override the droids’ programing at least long enough to grant us an escape, scomp plugged into a massive terminal in the center of the room.
“If you’re so eager to do something, try to get your armor back on before we have to move again.” I ordered, snatching the sack at Echo’s feet to toss toward the seething man. The painkiller was fading, but it was still strong enough to take the edge off, and the denial it granted him, the ill-fated belief that his wounds weren’t as bad as they seemed, was a danger in itself. His lips pulled into a snarl, retort crawling up his throat, but the lungful of air he drew in to voice it left his entire body seizing against a sudden surge of pain.
His gaze fell quickly away from me, unable to hide the way his too-shallow breaths shook even as he fought for some means to continue arguing, and my heart ached at the sight. Blood still trickled from his nose, coating his lips and chin, and staining the dark fabric of his shirt. He had to strain to open his eyes enough to see me, but the way they wavered left me doubting whether or not he could really make out more than some blurred outline before him.
“Here.” I whispered, kneeling beside him and reaching into the bag. “The last thing you need right now is to get shot without any kind of protection.” He didn’t look at me, mouth just twitching into a scowl before his shoulders sank in resignation. Gaze constantly shifting back toward the door, I carefully helped him slide into his cuirass, wincing at his every hitched movement, but there was no avoiding it. He couldn’t get back into the precious gear without contorting his arms. The pull that movement caused against his ribs couldn’t be anything less than agonizing.
“Almost there.” The murmur escaped me without thought toward how it would be received, if he would balk at the soft encouragement or fight to make some retort. I only cared that he was in pain, and all I could offer in that moment was gentle words and some menial bit of assistance in maneuvering into the unyielding durasteel shell. His chest bucked around choppy gasps by the time the armor finally settled into place, skin frightfully pale and covered in a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat.
“Hard part’s done.” He nearly offered some response but let the words fall away with a strained exhale.
“No luck.” Voice heavy with disappointment, Echo abandoned the terminal to walk back toward us, readily joining me help his brother into his gear, “but we’re not far from another hatch.” None of us spoke toward the impossible task of getting Hunter up the vertical stairs, the difficulty in just getting back to his feet at all when every second seemed like the very act of drawing breath was growing more difficult, but that was a problem we’d have to deal with if we managed to actually reach an exit.
“Crosshair’s been trying to draw them to the surface, but they’re not taking the bait.” My lips twisted into a scowl at the very thought of Crosshair acting as bait, but quickly forced the image aside.
“Tech, Wrecker; you guys make it out, yet?” I called over our coms as Hunter finished pulling his last glove on.
“N… nearly there.” Tech’s response was interrupted with a small grunt, blasterfire screaming loudly in the background. “We’ve come upon some – Wrecker, n-!” The compound shook hard enough to nearly throw me to the ground despite how quickly Echo’s hand locked around my arm to steady me.
“Tech?!” I shouted nervously, noting how Hunter’s arm tightened around his chest, fingers strained in a clenched fist.
“I told ‘im the roof would hold!” Wrecker boasted loudly. In nearly the same breath, however, the alarm stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. Despite the hint of relief Hunter couldn’t quite hide from finally being free of the surely agonizing screeching, none of us could ignore the impending threat looming in that quiet.
“That wasn’t why I advised against it.” Tech stated, tone just shy of frustration. “I believe the site has now fully locked down, meaning we’ll be unable to leave in the same manner we got in.” He paused a moment. “Crosshair, do you read me?” Another pause. “Crosshair?” My heart sank, a chill flooding my chest with an entirely new dread. “Additionally, I believe all coms are being blocked as well…” He added in a grumble.
“Well, how was I supposed to know it’d do that?” Wrecker’s retort failed to hide the edge of guilt gnawing beneath his annoyance.
“This is a black ops site.” His brother said simply. “It is common sense for such facilities to-”
“Enough!” Echo growled over them. “Tech, can you reach an access panel? Maybe we can figure out a way to override the fail-safe.” I stopped listening as the discussion wandered toward subjects beyond my understanding.
“Hunter, how are you holding up?” Movements slow, I kneeled beside him once more, unable to ignore the way his body nearly shuddered in pain from even shallow breaths.
“‘m f’n.” He didn’t so much as try to look at me as he said it.
“Hunter.” I called more forcefully, setting my pack down quietly beside me when he didn’t answer. “Hey, I’m going to take your helmet off. Okay?” Voice lowered into a gentle murmur, I quickly removed my own before reaching for his, pausing a moment to grant him time to refuse, but, when he offered no objection, carefully eased the bucket from his head. Unmuffled by the thick layer of duraplast, I could clearly make out the quiet whistle catching on every inhale, and the unrelenting trickle of blood from his distorted nose left me uneasy.
I looked toward the doorway for just a moment more before reluctantly setting my pistol down beside me, fingers nearly twitching with the urge to immediately pick it back up.
“I think it’s time for some more meds. What do you say?” I tried to sow a joking temptation into my words, pleased that he at least managed to open his eyes enough to glance at me, if only briefly. “Thought you were eager to join the fight just a few minutes ago?” I teased, hoping to draw a proper response from him. His jaw shifted, but the attempt to swallow faltered beneath a wince, and I almost didn’t want to check what monstrous bruises lay hidden beneath the cover of blood and cloth.
“Y… y’ g’na g’v me a g’n?” I almost couldn’t make out what he tried to say, but felt a new sense of urgency quicken my movements as I dug through my bag.
“You planning on shooting Echo? Because, right now, he and I are the only ones in here with you.” He let out a weak hum, not bothering to look down as I pulled one of his gloves off.
“C’n’t… c’n’t sw’low.” He didn’t flinch when I slipped the IV into the back of his hand.
“This should help.” I murmured. “Some pain killers, some anti-inflammatories, and a couple other things to get you moving again.” His eyes strained to focus on me, and I knew he’d heard everything I pointedly left unsaid; that the meds I’d listed were only the least concerning ones saturating his IV. I didn’t tell him about the vitamin K and platelets I was flooding him with in hopes of stopping the bleeding; both what could clearly be seen and what couldn’t. I didn’t tell him that I was straining against the bag of fluids to force the saline into his veins because the risk of hypovolemic shock was too great to be ignored; that the frightful pallor of his sweat-soaked skin and quickness of his breathing sent my heart racing nearly as fast as his, but he could only maintain that focus for a few seconds before falling back into something far too near to unconsciousness.
“Can you tilt your head back for me?” My hands reached up to lightly rest on either side of his neck before delicately tugging at the lip of his blacks. It was faint, but he just managed to tilt his chin up, allowing me to more easily cut through the fabric. The mess of blood and bruises beneath obscured skin just starting to show the beginnings of stubble. I was barely able to brush the ridge of his Adams apple before he winced in pain.
“You’d think they’d be more careful with your neck during a damn interrogation…” I muttered with a sigh.
“Th’nk I… made ‘m angry.” His lips just managed to twitch into a smirk that made my heart soar.
“You?” I scoffed teasingly, “Get on someone’s nerves? Nah.” That smirk grew, and I had to ignore the guilt that churned through my stomach as I retrieved some bacta.
“Alright; I’m going to get some goo on that neck. I know it’s sensitive, so I’ll try to be careful, okay?” His grin instantly fell, jaw tensing as he gave a small, stiff nod. His leg twitched slightly at the first touch of that cool gel against his swollen throat, breath catching in a pained grunt that he only just managed to silence.
“I know, honey.” The quiet murmur fluttered thoughtlessly passed my lips with a sympathetic frown.
“H’ney?” He nearly huffed, voice strained beneath a vain attempt to ignore the hurt lancing through him at even the featherlight caress of my fingers. “Cr’ss ‘s gonna th’nk you’re… you’re goin’ sweet on me.” I let out a quiet chuckle, ignoring the way my cheeks threatened to warm beneath the thought.
“You let me worry about that grumpy brother of yours.” He offered another grin, if only briefly at my whispered reply, and I let out a small sigh of relief at how he began to slump back against the wall, that accursed tension easing as the combination of meds began to offer him some bit of respite, but the steady stream of blood from his nose refused to quell.
“Hunter, we’ve got one more thing we need to deal with before you can relax.” I warned reluctantly. He let out a short breath but otherwise didn’t bother moving. “Either I straighten your nose now and then treat it, or I just treat it to stop the bleeding and have to re-break it later.” I didn’t press him for an answer, but he didn’t have to explain. I knew what he wanted by the way his body sank with a heavy exhale.
“You know, the first time I fixed a broken nose was actually Emmy’s.” I told him, voice purposefully quiet as I set out strips of tape and some bacta spray before carefully palpating the swollen flesh. I knew he was barely listening, focus instead on trying to fight the tension plaguing him from the impending pain. “She was trying to wrestle her brother into a cab – he’d gotten a bit too drunk at our engagement party.”
“Engageme-” In that brief moment of distraction, I wrenched his nose straight. His breath fled him in a choked grunt, hand darting up to lock around my forearm tight enough to make my vambrace creak in protest. I didn’t want to think about the damage he might have done without that protective armor, heart stuttering at the powerful display.
“K-kriff… s’ry…” He muttered, releasing me with an almost jerked motion.
“It’s fine, Hunter.” I assured warmly, fingers flitting over his nose with tape to offer it some bit of support before retrieving the bacta. “Alright, I want you to try to take a deep breath in.” He was still scowling from the lingering hurt as he tried to obey me. I didn’t offer further warning before flooding his nostril with blue gel, free hand locking around the back of his head as he threw himself back in a violent recoil, straining to follow the sharp movement even as my stomach churned at the choked retch that tore through him.
“I know, I know. One more.” I murmured quickly, granting no reprieve before doing the same to the other side. His hands latched onto my sides, grip burring into my cuirass in a barely repressed effort to rip himself free of me. “Alright, it’s alright.” I whispered softly, fingers shifting gently through his hair in a way that I knew would send a pleasant shiver through him, and he nearly collapsed against me, face twisted into a snarl, torso bucking in a torrent of painful coughs. After securing a final strip of tape to hold a pad of gauze beneath his nose, I allowed us both a moment of quiet, arms wrapping carefully around him in hopes of granting him some breadth of comfort.
“E… e-gaged?” He asked, voice thick and nasally, yet I still found myself laughing softly.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” I replied with a feigned insult that gleaned a tiny huff from him as my fingers gently curled through his hair. “She and I got through med-school together – that says something.” Jaw parted around still heavy breaths, he shifted enough to glance up at me, but before he could gather strength to speak, another tremor tore through the base, this one far more powerful than the last.
“Echo?” I could hear the trepidation stealing through me, felt my shoulders tense and my mouth go dry as my gaze glanced nervously over the unknown tons of duracrete and steel overhead.
“That wasn’t us.” He said darkly. My hand darted out to snatch my pistol, eyes flicking back to the doorway.
“Can you hear anything coming?” I asked Hunter. He paused, straining to focus for a long moment.
“Looks like it came from outside.” Echo added, attention focused on the stream of data pouring into his mind through the terminal. I didn't want to think about what that might mean. Had Crosshair caused the explosion? Was he under attack? Was he alive?
“Hmm…” A weak hum sounded from Hunter, catching my attention. His brow was furrowed in concentration, eyes closed. “…droids.” Kriff.
“Echo!” I called over my shoulder before turning my attention back to the crumpled man before me. “Can you tell how many?” He paused before shaking his head.
“’nough.” He muttered, breath quickening before he tried to push himself up.
“Whoa – hold on, hold on; let me help.” I was at his side before I’d finished speaking, gently pulling his arm over my shoulder
“What’s going on?” Echo asked. I could hear the dread in his voice; the certainty that he wasn’t going to like the answer to his question.
“Droids. We need to move.” He didn’t question me, gaze flicking only briefly to Hunter before kneeling down to retrieve the abandoned bucket to slip back onto his brother’s head. The look he sent me upon noting the hitch of his shoulders with each half-gasp, the amount of blood soaking his shirt and the still present hiss with his every inhale, left me tensing my jaw.
“I’ve got him.” I assured him. If it came to a fight, there was no question who was more valuable, and I couldn’t dismiss my simple want to be the one Hunter leaned against; memories from so long ago forever fresh in my mind when we’d been captured together, when hidden speakers left him crippled and in agony, and he’d turned to me for comfort rather than his brother. I hoped I could offer him that same comfort now as I donned my own helmet once again and eased him to his feet.
“Tech, we’ve got droids incoming. I had to leave the terminal.” Echo warned, purposeful strides carrying him toward the door.
“Wait; it would appear most of the droids are mobilizing.” We quickly paused at Tech’s comment. “Based on where you described yourselves to be, I do not believe they are converging at your location.”
“Crosshair.” Hunter mumbled against my chest. I had to swallow back the anxiety coiling through my gut, had to force the image of Crosshair luring an army of battle droids into the surrounding wilds from my mind. Each member of this squad was a frightening force in their own right, but his strengths didn’t lie in close quarters and limited visibility…
“I believe the location they are headed is nearer to us… Wrecker and I will investigate and report back. Perhaps, this will yield a way out of here.” Be careful. The words were held back only by how forcefully my teeth ground together. It didn’t need to be said lest even that tiny distraction prove disastrous.
“We’ll stay holed up here. If we don’t hear from them in ten minutes, we’ll move out – see if we can catch up with them.” Hunter offered no objection to how effortlessly Echo stepped into his role, and I worried for the true cause of that silence. Was it trust? The knowledge that Echo’s tactical mind was one of the brightest in the GAR? Or were teasing retorts subdued by pain and exhaustion? Ten minutes was a lifetime that could mean the difference between Hunter merely being hurt and his condition becoming critical, and my worry grew with each passing second.
Next Chapter
Tumblr media
Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!
Click here for my Masterlist.
Tumblr media
Taglist: @arctrooper69 @eclec-tech @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @starqueensthings
@manofworm @merkitty49 @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base
@daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan
@drummergirl1701 @6oceansofmoons @dangraccoon @ji5hine @dathomiri-mudpuppy
@mooncommlink @isthereanechoinhere96 @inneedoffanfics @totally-not-your-babe @delialeigh
@blondie-bluue @ray-rook @iabrokengirl @arcsimper5 @rndmpeep
@amorfista @wanderneverlost @flawsandgoodintent @passionofthesith @followthepurrgil
@roam-rs @foodmoneyandcats @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @9902sgirl @captainrex89
@waytoooldforthis78 @msmeredithrose @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @anythingandeveythingstarwars
@littlefeatherr @thegreatpipster @melonmochii @totallyunidentified @mickeyp03
@hipwell @echos_pile_of_bones @leotawrites @Asgre_Thar @fruityfucker
72 notes · View notes
its-in-the-woods · 5 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Coyote Head - Part 3 - Head on a pike
master list
Part 1, Part 2,
Pairing: Cooper Howard x Lucy Maclean 
Alternative Universe where I make things up cause I can
Synopsis: Things are not always what they seem, a tossed house, a walk through the woods. What will they find...
MINOR GET OUT. Rating/Warning:  Animal death, blOod/G0re, Alternative Universe, Slow Burn, Death, Aging, Family Feuding, Eventually: Older Man/Younger Woman, Horror themes, long form fic,
Note: that I will not be spoiling any of the reading. So you have been warned. I will keep my tags relevant without spoiling what is happening in the story.
Getting out of the truck, the door squeaks, as Lucy makes her way up the set of steps. She could see the madness of her living space, bookshelves toppled, art and paperwork strewn about the space. Dozens of large dents are in the drywall. Every kitchen cupboard had been opened and tossed. Her bed flipped against the window, blankets scattered, pillows torn, stuffing covering the floor. It was as if a tornado had gone through her home and rucked up everything. She stood in the living room trying to comprehend what had happened. Her stomach revolted as she made her way to the sink, what little breakfast she had coming out into the sink.
“Whoa, whoa,” Cooper said, coming over and rubbing her back, “It’s gonna be alright.”
Lucy's head hung as she turned on the tape, willing the sludge to go down the drain. She moved to grab a glass and filled it up. The man removed his hand much to her disappointment.
“I was only gone for a few hours,” She mumbles, taking a sip of water, tears poking at the corners of her eyes. The whole house was upside down, it was as if someone had hit her in the stomach. She hadn’t lived there long, but it was still her home, the loss of privacy feeling so intimate.
“Sure looks like they were lookin’ for somethin’,” Cooper says, watching Lucy as she sips the water, his eyes moving over the scene in front of them.
“Nothing here but papers,” Lucy hisses, her head still spinning from the vomiting. The reasoning escaping her grasp, she had little to no possession, and it wasn’t like she kept money lying around. Her mind drifted to the reaction of her family members in the small lawyer's office. Was it possible this was something they had organized, maybe in a bid to scare her out of the place?
Cooper looks around, “Did they take anythin’?” His head turning toward the front door. The sound of gravel crunching under tires had them both looking out the window. Uncle Harris was out of his old truck with his 2-70 in hand. Face set in a firm grimace, as he made his way quickly to the front door.
“Don’t shoot,” Cooper chuckles as the man makes his way up the steps, holding his hands in the air in mock surrender.
“Should shoot you on-site, you lead-footed bastard.” Harris grins at the man before his eyes went wide at the scene before him. “Jesus, Lucy, what happened.”
Lucy shook her head, digging around the upturned cabinets for ginger pills. She needed something to take the edge off her nausea.  “Not sure, left about two hours ago and came back to this.”
The two men walking up and down as Lucy took stock of everything around them. Despite the horrid mess, nothing seemed to be gone. The maps were destroyed, and a handful of bookshelves were mangled beyond repair, but that was minor. There were several large holes in the walls, bigger than a man's fist but smaller than a head. Not including a dozen smaller ones that could be mudded over. They’d need to be patched sooner than later. Of course, there was the front door and the fact that half the cupboard doors were off their hinges.  It all felt so daunting to look at, where would she even start with all of this mess?
“I am gonna call Margie, get her to come help with this. I think I may have a door in the barn we could use for the front temporarily. Even if it’s just to keep the mice at bay.” Harris rattles on as Lucy gathers up things. She digs around and finds garbage bags and a broom to start cleaning.
“At least the table and desk are okay,” Cooper notes, helping Lucy pile all the papers onto the flat surface. His fingers lingering on hers as he hands her another stack.
“What do you think did this?” Lucy asks, her hands shaking as she makes sure all the papers are there. Thanking herself for having backup copies stored in a cloud online, at least she didn't have to worry about any losses there.
“Looks human to me,” Harris said as he flips open his phone to call his wife while leaning against the broom.
Lucy looks at Cooper, his hand up as if measuring the hole, “I’d agree with you Uncle. Thinkin’ if t’was an animal there’d be scat or other marks.”
Lucy looks at everything, there was no hair, blood, scat, or anything indicating that it was an animal. But it also didn’t feel right, predatory, and clinical, as if something was trying to get under her skin. Not human, but not animal either. It had gotten to her if she was honest, between the lack of sleep and hallucinations of black shadowy creatures. She was about ready to turn tail and not look back. But where would she go? This was her home now, and yes it had been turned upside down, but it was still hers. How could she leave the place her Grandpa had given her? She had never run from anything in her life, despite any hardships she had faced.
Her Uncle left to pick up Lucy’s Aunt, as well as grab a door, some putty for the holes, and a few other pieces to help repair the damage. Lucy and Cooper spent the time gathering up what was salvageable and removing what wasn’t. Ever grateful she had kept the large garbage bin in the yard and had help to move stuff out. It would be a few hours of cleaning before the place was sort of right. It wasn’t really, the place felt darker, like the sun couldn’t shine through the windows. As if a heavy fog had been dropped over them. No matter how much they cleaned, it felt like the stain wouldn't lift. It was like a greyscale filter being slotted over the space.
As Margie and Harris came down the drive; Cooper left to grab his kids, he'd promised to be back with them. Lucy tried to focus on one stack of trash at a time. She really regretted quitting smoking right now, a smoke would be amazing. At least it would help calm her down for a few. She helped her family unload the truck with all the bits and bobs they’d need to make it somewhat livable, or at the very least keep out the mice. Maybe she needed to get a cat on top of a dog or two.
Cooper came in with his two kids in tow, a little dark-haired girl with freckles, and a brown hair boy who loorked strikingly like his Dad. Somewhere along the way, he had also grabbed his hat. Lucy found herself liking that hat, something about a man that could wear one without looking ridiculous was hard to ignore. They were both polite and said hello. It was not lost on Lucy how they took in the place, it was clear they had concerns. Margie had offered to make dinner for everyone, which Lucy and Cooper agreed to. Harris had also insisted that Lucy stay at his place for the night. Lucy was more than happy to take up the offer, the last thing she wanted was to stay overnight here without a lock on the door.
Many of the cupboard doors needed to be fully replaced. Where the front door used to be was now a heavy steel one; that Uncle Harris had bought several years ago for a shed. They had even replaced the door frame. There was no deadbolt, just a handle and hole, but that would have to do for now until Lucy could get back to town. The smaller holes had been mudded, the large ones would need pieces of drywall. Despite everything the place looked somewhat okay. Lucy had even managed to put her small amount of groceries away. Despite the mess being gone, it still felt like the place was dirty. Like somehow the holes would reopen and the papers would throw about spontaneously.
“Why don’t you kids head over to Granny’s place? Let her know we will be having dinner at Margie’s,” Cooper said firmly, handing the keys to his truck to Matthias. Janey whining about never getting to drive.
“Don’t you worry, once you can reach the petals I’ll teach you,” Cooper said with a smile, rubbing Janey’s head of curls. “Now run on home and make sure you’re cleaned up for dinner.”
Magie stood, stretching and kissing Harris, “We should be heading to make sure these hard-working folks got some food.”
Harris nods, before looking at Lucy, eyebrows raised in concern. “You gonna be okay with just Cooper?”
“Yeah, I think I will be fine. I am sure the two of us are more than capable” Lucy replies, plastering on a forced smile. “Just gonna walk the fields and see what we can see.”
Harris walks over to the new door, where he had set his gun, “I am gonna leave this with you along with a spare clip, alright? Get your gun license renewed, and some more ammo. But for now, I will leave that there just encase”
“Thank you, Uncle Harris,” Lucy said with a nod, adding it to her mental checklist. “I will make sure it gets back to you.”
“Hopefully you won’t have to use it,” Margie sighs as she follows her man out the door.
Cooper watches them leave, before turning back to Lucy. “You good if we go for a walk? See what we might find,”
Lucy nods, Cooper grabs his gun placing it over his shoulder, and Lucy does the same along with the spare clip. It felt heavy, an uncomfortable comfort, she had hunted with her Granddad for years. But this felt different like she was the one being hunted. it felt like she was being stalked. Lucy was incredibly grateful that Cooper had offered to come along, she doubted she’d have the nerve to walk around here on her own. In fact, she knew she wouldn’t have gone out there without him beside her.
Cooper turned towards her as they walked towards the edge of the forest, “You mentioned you thought ya saw somethin’ last night?”
“I was tired, thought I saw maybe a dog? Run through the yard.” Lucy answers, shifting the rifle onto her other arm. “I kept feelin like something was watching me ya’no.”
“Mmmhmm, maybe a mountain lion came down,” Cooper adds as they look down at the ground, a well-worn trail in front of them.
“Haven’t been mountain lions sighted here in years,” Lucy adds, she had never had to worry about cougars. Bears, wolves, coyotes sure, but cougars were different.
“The Roths said they saw a Mom and cubs last spring.” Cooper ponders, Lucy liked how he took things seriously but kept his head on him. He never dismissed what she had to say.
“Really? This far east of the mountains.” Lucy spoke, amazed that great feline beasts were back in the prairies.
“Yeah grizzlies too,” Cooper said, stopping to look at some footprints, “Looks like coyotes were here. Not too surprising like rats.”
Lucy took a look at the tracks, it had rained a few days ago, and the mud showed clear impressions of the canine. There were a few smaller ones that looked like rabbits if she peered into the densely wooded area she could make out game trails. Cooper had moved up a bit, looking down into the woods himself. His body ridged like he had spotted one of the mountain lions they were just talking about. Hat tipped up and eyes transfixed on whatever was ahead of him.
“Whatcha see?” Lucy asked, coming to stand beside him and looking into the woods. Down a game trail almost out of sight was a stump stripped of bark. Sitting on top of the starkly white wood was a coyote’s head, not old, but fresh. Its eyes were wide as if its last moments had been full of fear, blood, and gore dripping down the sides of the stump. It was a grotesque scene, something more akin to a horror movie than real life.
“What in the-” Lucy said, going to step down the trail. Cooper’s big hands pulling her back, she turns to see Cooper staring at her, hazel eyes wide with fear.
“Don’t go in there, Lucy.” He said voice low, but forceful. The man was scared and holding onto her arm to stop her from entering the woods. She could feel the way his fingers were digging into her arm.
“It’s just someone trying to mess with us,” Lucy said, trying to brush him off and move past him but he wouldn’t budge. He made sure to keep himself between her and the woods, she would have been offended if it was anyone else.
“No, that’s a warning,” The man said, tugging her away from the place. Lucy looks back at the poor creature. Coyotes were walking vermin for most farmers, but they didn’t deserve to have their heads on pike.
Cooper continues to tug on her arm, “Let’s finish the rounds.” He was already moving them away from the scene. Lucy having to no choice but to follow him.
Lucy jogged trying to keep pace with the man, “Didn’t take you for a superstitious man.”
Cooper turned to her, a small smile crossing his face, “Maybe I am, but somethin’ doesn’t feel right out’er. Never seen anythin’ like that, that was someone trying to make a statement.”
“If they were trying to make a statement why didn’t they put it on my front door?” Lucy adds, Cooper was right something was wrong. Not that it explained why someone would do any of this.
Cooper breathed in and let it out, “I don’t know, Lucy. I don’t know a lot about these things, but I won’t trust something like that back’er. There are things in these woods that we’ll never understand.”
Lucy nods and kept following beside him. Observing more sets of tracks, coyotes, rabbits, and other large prints that look closer to bobcats. Thankfully no other coyote heads on any of the game trails they passed. That dark icky feeling that had crawled over Lucy’s home was also here. Not as pungent as it had been by the coyote's head, but still enough to make her heart speed up.
As they came to the center of the property a large cut had been made through the brush for ATVs to get in and out easily. Once again Lucy was struck with how dark the place felt, even with full sun it felt like the tree’s shadows were longer. The green was closer to black than it had any right to be. It made her feel cold, a shiver covering her arms as she looked into what was once a familiar place. She and Norm had spent many hours on ATVs running around trails; walking with their Grandma to pick berries or wild mint and other herbs. Now, it felt like she had never stepped foot in the place.
As they stood there looking at the space, Lucy spotted the first signs of something wrong. Scuffs in the ground, spaced roughly five feet apart, she walks closer, the ground wasn’t as soft here. The marks were deep gouges lifting roots and leaf mold. She runs her fingers over the dirt, outlining them. With three big toes, the creature had been moving toward the forest judging by the deeper impression facing towards the bush. The prints looked eerily close to an extremely large chicken track.
“Ever seen anything like that?” Lucy asks, Cooper, coming over and crouching down beside her. Using his finger the same way she had to outline the thing. His hat covered his eyes as he looked at the markings.
“Looks like-” He looks forward to the next print and then behind them. “A bird? Like a big bird. But that can’t be right.”
Moving between prints they went back up towards the house slightly and then disappeared. It was like the footprints had dropped out of the sky, much the same as a bird.  Walking back into the woods there were two that went in and then stopped. The two looking all around, trying to find any other evidence of the beast or whatever it was. Lucy looks up and points to what she sees among the trees.
“Look at that.” She whispers, her voice still echoing in the cathedral of trees. “Is that fur?”
The two of them stood side by side looking up into the bunches of pine branches. Up about ten feet was a tuft of brown fur. The more they looked the more they saw, at least half a dozen spots with various sizes of fur on them.
“Maybe the cougar?” Cooper asks, looking at Lucy and then back at the pieces of fur. “Got to be a cougar. They like to drag their meals up into the trees.”
Lucy squinted more, trying to see if there was anything else they were missing, “Got to be it right? How else would that get up there? Do cougars eat coyotes?”
“Cougar doesn’t explain these,” Cooper points down at the marks, “Like if those are tracks, the critter woulda been over ten feet tall. No way it could fit in the trailer.”
Lucy snorts, “In the trailer? How does it just disappear into the woods? There’s what. Five prints. Maybe it’s somethin’ digging in the ground, lookin’ for worms or something. Like a badger?”
Cooper removed his hat and rubbed at his head, looking at all the marks and then back up at the fur. He put his hat back on, dug out his phone, flipping his camera on.
“Do you mind?” He asked Lucy, as he went to take a photo of the prints.
“Nah, go for it.” She said pulling out her phone to do the same thing. Maybe someone they knew would be able to give her answers.
Cooper rubs his forehead, “Badger, maybe but spread out and even like this. Doesn’t make sense, this looks more like an animal walkin’ than something diggin',”
They stood there for a moment looking from the forest and then down at the tracks. Lucy wondering if she should go further in, maybe there would be more clues there. She could feel a small tug on her naval, a spark of something trying to call her in. Yet they stood there frozen, unable to move from their spots beside the other.
The sounds of a truck horn woke both of them from their musing. Lucy let out a sigh and closed her phone. Cooper looking back towards the house and then back into the woods.
“Think that’s our dinner bell,” Lucy said walking towards the house. She got about a hundred yards before turning back. Cooper still stood in the treeline looking around. “Cooper, you comin’?”
Cooper turned to her, blinking a few times as if he had just been awoken before he headed back up the hill. The two of them get to the top and see the kids waiting in the truck by the house. Lucy and Cooper tuck the guns safely away from the kids under the front bench seat, before taking off for dinner.
part four
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
** If you enjoyed the fic let me know! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated.
** Want to be on the tag list let me know
** Most of my fics will be updated once a weekish possibly more often depending on how much writing I can get done! Want to keep the quality and make sure I am putting out my best work.
Tag: @toogaytofunctiondangit
42 notes · View notes