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retrogalwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Hawks/Takami Keigo x catgirl!reader

Title: “Canary killed the cat” / view on ao3

Summary: Hawks takes a stray cat home with him. Yes, that cat is you.

warnings: dubcon, yandere hawks, misogyny, manipulation, dehumanization, literal pet play, kidnapping/abduction, mommy issues, softness but in all the wrong ways

words: 1800

He found you shivering behind a dumpster in an alley, it took him less than five minutes to track you down.

A pair of feline ears stood above your head, pointing backwards in sign of pure fright, they were the color of your hair. You stared at him with wide eyes and bared teeth, hands desperately clutching the stolen bread against your chest so hard it had become mostly wasted crumbs scattered on the ground. You pleaded, you hissed, shaking like you were going to crumble as well.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go!!!"

"Wish I could, but as you must know, stealing is a very bad thing to do, sweetheart..." He spoke casually and condescendingly, of course, someone who did not really believe in the very things he preached.

"I know...I know, I just..." You had started to cry. "I was so hungry, please, let me go..."

It was a pathetic sight, but not one Keigo hadn't already seen far too many times to count. There are people like you everywhere, he grew up with people like you, and they always end up in the same place.

It shouldn't have made a difference, you shouldn't have made a difference. But when he approached your struggling form pinned to a bricked wall by feathers, Keigo couldn't help the curiosity that made him peer at your face.

It was the curiosity that killed the cat.

"Oh?" He sounded surprised, because he was. "You are cute."

"...w-what?"

Crouching down next to you, he forcefully grabbed you by the jaw to turn your head to the side, inspecting you from different angles with a gaze of morbid curiosity.

Indeed, you were cute, extremely cute. Perhaps too cute for your own good. Was it something in your eyes? Your features? He wasn't sure, and that only intrigued him more.

Of course, you were a disheveled mess, all rags, dirt smeared on your face and bruised limbs, surely from a life living more like animal than a woman in a society that had no place for the outcasts. No, you were nothing like those women he was used to, perfect beauties and bimbos born into wealth and acceptance, instead you were just a pitiful looking thing.

And yet...you were so cute, despite of that. Or maybe because of it.

"W-What are you going to do to me?"

Keigo smiled at you, he had already made up his mind on that matter.

"What's your name?" He asked instead, purposely ignoring your question. Confused and frightened, you hesitated before answering.

His smile grew wider, feathers ruffling behind his back.

———————

After taking you home, the first thing he did was getting you clean.

It pleased him greatly, how you didn't put up a fight even when he ordered you to take off your rags for clothes while he prepared a warm bath for two. Perhaps you were too exhausted, maybe too afraid, or maybe it had just been that long since you were given the most basic care that, even in a situation like this, the prospect of a bath was too good not to submit to it.

"Wh...why are you doing this?" You asked meekly, as you undressed in his bathroom, under his gaze. "Are heroes even supposed to...?"

"Shhh. Don't worry your little head about that, let's just get you cleaned, alright sweetheart?"

He spoke amiably, but his eyes openly leered at the curvature of your hips, the ripe swell of your breasts and that pretty pussy covered by a patch of pubic hair (most women trim and shave these days, a shame, he preferred the natural look).

While you submerged yourself in the tub with him, Keigo eagerly scrubbed your body off all the grime and dirt. His hands eagerly explored your body, testing the softness and the suppleness of your flesh by groping it. He was hard the entire time, watching your skin become clean and soft filled him with certain satisfaction that had his cock begging for attention, wishing to be buried deep in the warmth of your tight heat, but he had to control himself for the time being.

If you noticed his erection poking at your backside, you didn't say anything, and Keigo liked that in a woman.

Keigo liked you.

———————

It was not like you had a home to return to, nor people waiting for you anywhere, right? There was nothing technically wrong with taking something that didn't belong to anyone, and he loved living on technicalities.

That's right, taking a little stray cat home should've been fine.

Even if you tried to claw your way away after the first day, when you realized he had no intentions on letting you go back to the streets.

"You should be grateful, don't you think?" He spoke bemused by the sight of you, curled into a ball with your tail wrapped around your body, it was cute. "You don't have to live like a stray anymore."

"B-But I'm a person, this is wrong...you just can't..."

"When was the last time anyone treated you like a person?"

Your silence in that moment sounded like the beginning of your acceptance. The despair on your face reminded him of something, or rather someone...that despair looked a lot like his mother's eyes.

He didn't want to see that look on your face.

———————

Keigo simply locked you in a room for a few days after that, waited until you calmed down, he figured that you just needed to get familiar with your new home, he knew that he had to be patient when it comes to adopting a new pet. He brought you presents everyday for a week, all the luxuries girls love and that he knew for a fact you never had known about: expensive clothes (tailored to his tastes), plushes, shoes, perfumes, chocolates and candy of all types.

When he found you nibbling on candy, curled up on a giant teddy bear, he knew that it was just a matter of time before you were seduced by the opportunity of living a comfortable life.

————————

Pretty girls had been more like a given commodity for most of his life, from A to Z he had fucked most beauties out there with a big enough names that many would been jealous of his body count, but Keigo was never one to really fawn over any of them before, he couldn't even remember the faces of more than half of them either.

But in that moment, having you nestled between his legs trying to fit his cock into your pretty mouth until your nose was buried in his pubes, Keigo felt like he was with the cutest thing in the entire fucking world, and the shit-eating grin plastered on his face showed it. You were just too adorable, trying so earnestly not to choke on the size of his fully erect length, the head already poking at the back of your throat and he hadn't even started moving yet.

"Good girl, you're doing it so well."

He flicked one of your ears with his index finger, it twitched.

Purring loudly, you tried bobbing your head as you nursed on his cock, drooling all over it in the process. It felt good, better than good, and Keigo was overcome with how beautiful you looked in that moment, and how no one would've looked at you twice before he found you.

As your mouth worked on his cock, one of your hands massaged his balls, he didn't even had to tell you to, a sign you had learned well. Soon enough he felt that pleasure getting dangerously close to reaching climax, and he made you stop. You whined, a disappointed sound being pushed away as his cock slipped out of your mouth, a trail of saliva still connecting his the head to your swollen lips.

"Don't pout at me like that, today I feel like filling you up, pussycat." He chuckled, he large palm petting the top of your head, which you were quickly nuzzling against. "Get on the bed."

Well trained as you were, you climbed onto the mattress quickly getting on all fours, and Keigo was quick to follow. Grabbing you by the hips, he pulled your round ass against his erection, your fluffy tail stood up in the air vibrating with anticipation as strong fingers pulling at your soaked pussy lips to expose your tight little hole to his hungry gaze. Purring, your back arched when Keigo slowly buried his cock into your cunt, he felt your fleshy walls stretching around him, shaping around him to his shape and girth, until he was balls deep inside.

You moaned, tightening around him with a vice grip that could've made him cum a little too soon.

"M-Master...master...please...."

"What a dirty girl, begging for cock like a whore." And he made you into that, he couldn't have been more proud. Getting you to call him your master took a little while, but damn had it been worth the wait.

Keigo started moving, thrusting his hips and pulling his cock half-way out of you before slamming back in. He watched how your cunt swallowed him hole with ease, the ripples on your ass when his hand came down to slap one of your cheeks, making you mewl like the animal you had accepted to be.

Kaigo threw his had back when he felt that climax brewing all over again, before his thrusts came to a halt as he held your hips in place. He spilled his hot cum right into you, the little entrance of your womb sucking the semen straight from his cock like your body was begging to be stuffed with it.

He pulled out his softening cock, a trail of cum dribbling down your thighs and onto the sheets. You never stopped purring.

————————

Keigo returned from his patrol to find you looking out of the large glass window of his bedroom. He petted your head as he approached you from behind.

"You don't miss it out there, do you?" He asked, you shook your head. Of course he knew you didn't, otherwise Keigo wouldn't allow you to approach the windows on first place.

He pulled out a rectangular box from his pocket, watched with delight the way your curious eyes stared at it, already knowing it had to be a gift for you. Keigo chuckled, you were getting very spoiled, he thought for a second, but only a second.

"I thought it was about time I got you one of these." He opened the box to reveal a pet collar with a tag showing your name engraved. "What do you think?"

The smile on your face was the sort of look he always wanted to see on it.

#hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks thirst #tw kidnapping #tw misogyny #tw dubcon #tw dehumanization #tw yandere #it's my first time writting for birb ples forgib

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notyetneedcoffee · 5 years ago

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Soul Seer, Pt. 10

Loki Master List

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Only angst and a raging God of Lies in this chapter

Author’s Note: Takes place right after Avengers 1, with time travel elements and hints of Infinity Wars. Does NOT follow cannon after Avengers.

Every screen in the lab displayed analysis of the Chitauri materials or calculations for re-engineering the cities infrastructure. Despite the rapid pace of data collection, only one person worked in the quiet lab. The urge to sneak up behind him, to frighten him and see how tight of a hold he had on his monster, tickled across Loki’s mind. As fun as it might be, it would not be productive. So, Loki purposely scuffed his boot along the floor as he entered the room.

Banner looked up from the computer monitor, removing his glasses. He looked around the room, absently realizing they were alone. “Loki.”

“I would like to speak with you.” He circled the worktable, eyes instantly taking in the data flowing across the screen. Banner was examining his plans for an energy converter. “If you have a moment?”

“Um, yeah.” The doctor motioned to the chair. “What’s on your mind?”

Loki lowered himself slowly into the chair, gathering his thoughts. After spending the night skimming through the recollections of your day in the city, he found himself at odds. The mortals of Midgard never meant anything more than a distraction to him. At the most, they were a means to an ends. They were too fragile, too short lived, to be of any significance. However, after seeing them through your eyes he realized something most distressing. He found something in common.

On Asgard, he learned at a very young age to conceal his emotions and lock them away. Even though Asgardians reveled in battle and celebrated robustly, they were not prone to the depth of feelings he seemed to possess. Only his mother seemed to understand. He always felt as if it were a cruel trick of the Norns, that they would make him so keenly aware of other’s motivations and yet feel the impact of their actions so deeply.

Loki had laid beside you, petting you hair as you slept, as he made peace with the realization that for all of Midgardian’s frailties there was an intensity and depth of emotion he understood. He never would have understood were it not the connection he now shared. He’d been blind to it for a millennia.

“What is the status of people?” Loki asked, nothing of his inner turmoil on his face or in his voice.

“The, ah, people?” Banner cocked his head.

“The people of your city? What have your rulers done to assure their safety and well-being? Are they being housed and fed? Have proper tributes been made to the honored dead?” Loki leaned forward, intent.

“Oh.” Bruce leaned back, tossing his glasses on the table. He rubbed his forehead. “That’s a big question. See, things don’t really work quite the same here.”

“Explain.”

“So, what is this about?” Fury strode down the hall toward Stark and Rogers.

“Banner just asked us to join him and Loki in the conference room. They have something to discuss.” Steve shrugged. He knew Bruce well enough to trust that they would not be wasting their time.

“Apparently, the good doctor has been giving Reindeer Games a civics lesson.” Tony smirked. Fury scowled. “What? This could be interesting.”

The three turned the corner towards one of the many conference rooms in the tower. Loki’s voice boomed down the hall. “That’s barbaric!” Banner answered but it wasn’t clear. The god’s voice still reverberated down the hall. “And they call me monster!”

Tony glanced sideways a Fury with a grin. “See? Interesting.”

In the conference room, Bruce sat on the table near one of the big screens showing a long list of statistics. Loki paced along the outer wall, staring out the window. Steve came fully into the room. “What’s barbaric?”

Loki stopped, hands fisted. He turned slowly towards Rogers. “That the rulers chosen by your precious country, provide neither guaranteed care for their physical well-being, nor recompense for the loss of their domicile or trade during war or disaster.” Loki growled a little deeper. “And there are no tributes given to the honored dead.”

Fury sighed, “There are programs that...”

Loki cut him off. “Oh, yes, I’ve read all about your programs of so-called welfare, and health-care, and other miasma filled bureaucracy. From what I can tell, most of the resources go to those who already have resources to spare. What ruler allows their subjects to suffer so?”

“Oh, so you arrived and blew everything to shit to be a benevolent king?” Fury spat.

“There is no such thing as homelessness, or hunger, on Asgard.” Loki hissed. “No one dies because their wounds or ailments go untreated.”

“Well, we’re not a world of bottomless resources.” Fury bit back.

“You have more than enough!” Loki stepped closer.

“Loki.” Bruce’s quiet voice cut through the tension. “Let’s dial it back, and get on topic.”

He took a deep breath, giving Banner a subtle nod of his head, before returning to the window.

Tony fought to keep the smirk off his face. He never imagined Loki and Banner swimming in the same side of social politics pool. “Yeah, ah, what’s up doc?”

“Loki wants to help with the rescues.”

“I can locate survivors better than your technology. I can communicate with them if needed when you cannot. Besides, the use of my magic and my strength is as useful as yours in mere physical aspects of reaching the living.”

“Locating survivors would be a big advantage.” Steve easily admitted. “People may not be willing to accept your help, though.”

“There’s no need of them to know it is me.” Loki turned toward the Captain. A green shimmer fell over his body. Standing before them was a man, only vaguely similar in face. His hair was short and light brown. His face sported a light scruff of a beard. His skin took on a slightly more golden tone. He wore jeans and Stark issue pullover.

“Just can do that whenever you want, huh?” Fury sighed.

“Yes.” Loki smiled. “Man, woman, any shape or form I wish. It is a key part of my nature.”

“Gotta be fun for Princess Buttercup.” Tony mumbled. Banner’s eyes widened. The corner of Loki’s lip twitched.

“Would this take away from the other work you’re doing?” Steve, ever the practical one, wanted to stay on point.

“I do not have the need of sleep that you mortals do.”

“Why?” Fury crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“What do you mean?” Bruce began, but Fury held up a hand.

“I want to know why, after three days, is Mr. High-and-mighty all of sudden interested in the welfare of a bunch of mortal ants under his boot.” Fury growled.

“I am interested in fulfilling my vow to the AllFather as completely and as quickly as possible. The century duration of the sentence is at his discretion. I intend to be far away from this rock long before the one hundred years are spent.” Loki lied easily.

Steve knew it was a lie. He’d seen the agony you’d been in evening before. Loki’s concern for your welfare and what he’d witnessed of your connection led him to believe that the Asgardian’s interest grew from his need to understand your pain. It was enough for him to believe in Loki intentions. “Okay, I’m in charge of the rescue effort. Let’s go figure out how to best work you in.”

Loki turned his eyes from Fury, settling instead on Rogers. He gave him a small bow of his head. “I’m at your disposal, Captain.”

You rolled over crawling from the fogginess of deep sleep. The pink rays of early sunlight broker through the cracks in the curtains. Frowning, you realized you were alone. Sitting up, you called out. “Loki?”

“Yes, my pet.” His form simmered into existence at the foot of the bed. “It’s early, why are you not sleeping?”

It took a moment for your brain to catch up with what you just saw. You frowned. “You’re not here, are you?”

Loki smile. “So perceptive. No, little one, I am downstairs meeting with Captain Rogers. Worry not. You should sleep some more.”

“No,” You stretched and kicked off the covers. “I’m up.”

“Mmm,” He purred drinking in the sight of your naked form. “Then I shall complete our meeting and join you shortly.”

You smiled, amazed the Loki standing in front of you wasn’t real. Although, you realized, you couldn’t smell him. He always smelled wonderful. “Finish what you’re doing. I’m just going to take a bath anyway.”

He chuckled. “In that case, I will be there all the sooner. Besides, I have news.”

A/N: Thanks to everyone for hanging in there. I’ve finally circled around to this and have four chapters in the works!

TAGS

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#loki x reader #loki fic #loki fanfic #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki smut

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thatfragilecapricorn30 · 4 years ago

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The Nightmare

Written for The X-Files Horror Exchange, hosted by @xfilesfanficexchange. The prompt is from @baronessblixen - I hope you like what I did! Tagging @today-in-fic

A/N: The title is inspired by the painting “The Nightmare” (1781) by Henry Fuseli

prompt: demons | 4k words | season 5 | horror

Mulder and Scully drove through the Vermont countryside, carefully navigating the winding roads covered in leaves. It was early fall; the trees had just begun their metamorphosis and the view was stunning. Scully wondered if Mulder specifically picked their current case so they could enjoy the seasonal foliage, because if so, she very much appreciated that level of planning.

They pulled up to a small inn with Victorian architecture; the house looked like it belonged in a novel with a governess as the protagonist. It was very quiet - the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees - which unnerved Scully, who was used to the incessant din of city living.

They got out of the vehicle, both admiring the tableau. She turned to look at her partner. “Really, Mulder?”

“What?” he asked, as he tried to pull their luggage from the trunk.

“Is this really a case or are you trying to get a free vacation on the bureau’s dime?” she chided.

He squinted at her, confused by her line of questioning.

She gestured to their surroundings. “Vermont in October… quaint bed and breakfast… are we really here for work?”

“I hate to disappoint you, Scully, but this is not a romantic getaway,” he said, “but it could be if you play your cards right.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Mulder continued, “This town is so small that this is the only accommodation available. Unless you’d prefer to camp out in the woods?”

Scully rolled her eyes and followed him inside, where they met the proprietor, Grace. She had gray hair but her presence belied a much younger woman. Grace showed them to their rooms and advised them that she would be around to answer questions and cook them breakfast in the morning.

Scully had to admit that this place was a lot nicer than some of the other motels they had stayed in. There were big windows that faced the changing forest and the bathroom even had a clawfoot tub. The only problem was that the heater was on overdrive. The climate was definitely cooler than Washington, but it wasn’t cold enough to warrant the sauna-like temperature. She couldn’t find a thermostat, so settled for opening the window a touch to let in the fresh air. Scully was marveling at the view when she had the sensation of someone watching her. Usually it was Mulder, which should make her uncomfortable but she was used to it at this point. However, when she turned around he wasn’t there.

“Mulder,” she called out. They were lucky that they snagged the two rooms that had a connecting door, so they didn’t have to traipse down the hall to talk to each other.

“Yes, dear?” he responded through the open door.

She made her way over to his side. “Were you just in my room?” she asked.

“Nope,” he said. He was pulling clothes out of his suitcase. She wondered briefly how none of his suits ever seemed to be wrinkled even after being packed away but hers always were.

“My room is really hot. Have you seen a thermostat around?”

He suggested she check with Grace, so she went down to the first floor. Scully didn’t see her anywhere, so she decided to explore a little. There was a parlor with sofas and chairs to sit on and a dining area with a few tables of varying sizes. Scully examined the portraits hung on the wall: many of them were black and white and seemed really old. As was common for the era, no one pictured was smiling and their blank stares made her shiver. She heard a creak behind her, but when she turned around there was no one there. Scully laughed to herself; she was getting spooked for no reason.

Scully returned to the photographs.

“That was my grandmother as a child, with her family,” a voice came right over Scully’s shoulder. She jumped a little.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Grace said with a slight laugh.

She continued, “They all lived and died in this house. My great-grandfather decided to convert it to an inn to make some extra money, but my family has always lived on the premises, even to this day.”

“Wow, so this house has been here a long time,” Scully commented.

“Yes, it has. My ancestors almost lost the property during the depression that occurred in the late 1800s. But my great-grandfather found some old railroad bonds that were worth a lot of money so he was able to pay off his debts. Family lore alleges that he made a deal with the devil in exchange for the bonds,” Grace chuckled as she said the last part.

Scully tried to keep her expression neutral but thought it was a strange story to share with a guest.

“Of course, I don’t think that’s true at all,” Grace continued. “More likely it was a rumor started because some of the townspeople were jealous of his good fortune. But a lot of my guests seem to really enjoy hearing that little story, particularly during this time of year.”

“My partner would love that story,” Scully said with a smile. She knew he was one of many that would get a real kick out of a tale like that, especially while staying in an old bed and breakfast, right around Halloween.

“How are the two of you settling in?” Grace asked.

“Now that you mention it, my room is actually really hot. Is there a way to turn down the heater?”

Grace frowned. “That’s odd. I actually haven’t turned the heat on yet. It’s still early enough in the season that the sun does a good job of warming the house. Though, it’s cool enough outside that if you open the windows, you should be fine.”

“Scully,” Mulder interrupted, now standing in the entryway to the parlor, with the case file and notes in his hand.

“Are you ready to go?” he inquired. She knew that they were due at the police station so she said goodbye to Grace. On her way out, she glanced back at the portrait on the wall, and could almost feel the stare of Grace’s great-grandfather, the alleged deal-making gentleman, on the back of her head when she walked out.

----

It was late by the time Scully and Mulder returned to the inn. They had met up with the local detective, who gave them access to the evidence and even more detailed case notes. Scully conducted an autopsy while Mulder visited the crime scene. After the long day of travel and work, she was happy to have a comfortable bed to sleep in, even though she was too tired to try out the clawfoot tub. Scully drew the shades, but left them parted slightly, so that she could feel the soft breeze from the open window. She noticed that it was full moon and hoped that its luminescence wouldn’t keep her up. She closed her eyes and fell asleep quickly...

Scully woke with a start. She attempted to roll over to turn on the bedside lamp, but realized she couldn’t move at all. It’s okay, I’m still half-asleep, she thought. But when Scully tried to sit up, it felt like there was something pushing down on her chest. A feeling of panic began to overwhelm her and her breathing became shallower. Her room was completely dark, which was odd because before there was a sliver of moonlight between the shades. The most terrifying part was that she could hear loud, raspy breathing. Was it hers? Or something - someone - else’s?

After a few moments of paralysis and her heart practically beating out of her chest, everything dissipated - the labored breathing gone, the weight removed from her sternum, and the darkness lifted. Scully slowly tried to move and once she realized that there were no lingering issues, she ran to Mulder’s room. Fortunately the connecting doors were unlocked.

She jumped on his bed and shook him awake. “Mulder, there’s something in my room.”

Mulder woke up instantly, asking “What’s going on?” as he started to get out of bed.

“I swear someone is in my room!” Scully exclaimed, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

Mulder got out of bed to investigate and she followed him closely behind. He flicked on her light, which illuminated the room and showed that nothing was out of place. Mulder checked the closet and her bathroom, while Scully remained by the connecting doors. It seemed silly to be scared, but all she could think about was the pitch blackness, not being able to move and the noisy panting that sounded like it was from a person. Scully blushed a little when she saw her gun was on her bedside table. There was really no reason to bother Mulder when she could protect herself.

He met her at the doorway after his inspection was complete. “There’s no one here, Scully.”

She shifted on her feet, reluctant to be alone again. He must have been able to sense her hesitance at sleeping in her own room because he led her back to his bed, where she sat down.

“I’m sorry, Mulder, I really thought there was someone there.”

She started to explain the incident as Mulder got back into bed. She hoped that he wouldn’t comment on the fact that she was making herself comfortable as well, by laying down next to him. She didn’t want to go back to her room but she also couldn’t bear Mulder making a joke right now when she was still feeling a little frightened.

He listened to her tale with interest and then asked, “Scully, have you heard of sleep paralysis?”

“Mulder, I’m a doctor. Of course I have.”

“Well, I hate to be the voice of reason, but your experience matches all the symptoms,” he stated with a chuckle.

“But it really felt like something was holding me down…” she trailed off, shivering slightly at the memory.

He brushed back a lock of hair that was plastered to her cheek from sweat.

“Did you know that hundreds of years ago, people didn’t know about sleep paralysis as a medical phenomenon and used to believe that a demon was sitting on your chest? And that’s why you couldn’t move?”

Scully wrinkled her nose. “Mulder, your bedtime story needs some work.”

Mulder laughed, “I can certainly arrange for sweet nothings to be whispered in your ear, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

She snuggled into the covers a little more, and raised her eyebrows as if to say go on.

“In Newfoundland, the creature on a person’s chest was called The Old Hag. It’s actually a popular figure in their culture. There are a few ways to prevent the Old Hag from visiting, one of which is to sleep with a bible under your pillow…”

Scully fell asleep to the slow cadence of his voice and the feeling of his fingers brushing through her hair.

----

The next morning, Mulder and Scully ate a quick breakfast in the dining room. There didn’t seem to be anyone else staying at the bed and breakfast, which added to unsettledness Scully felt. Once Grace left the house to tend to her garden, Scully turned to Mulder conspiratorially.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but…” she paused for dramatic effect. She owed him for letting her stay in his room last night, and she knew he would like this story.

“...Grace told me that there’s a legend in her family that her great-grandfather made a deal with the devil.”

Mulder looked intrigued. “Do tell.”

“Apparently, he was going to lose the house but found some railroad bonds out of the blue. So I guess he sold his soul for them?” she mused.

Mulder leaned back in his chair. “You know, Scully, in Greek and Brazilian mythology, you can make a deal with the devil, or rather a demon, at a crossroads. It’s also a popular theme of a lot of American folk music. I bet we could find one around here, see if her story is actually true.”

Scully glared at him. Now he was taking this too far. “No, Mulder. We have a real case to work on. Plus, even Grace doesn’t think the story is true.”

“So why are you telling me then? Do you think it has something to do with last night?” he questioned.

Scully turned back to her oatmeal. “Of course not. I just thought you would find it interesting, is all.”

It was a small lie. She had forgotten about Grace’s tale until Mulder mentioned demons last night when he was providing historical explanation of sleep paralysis. Naturally, she didn’t think there was a demon (or Satan himself) in her room last night, but it was an odd coincidence.

“Uh huh,” Mulder said skeptically.

Instead of arguing, Scully glanced at her watch. “Come on, Mulder, we have to get going. We’re meeting the detective in twenty minutes.” She pushed away any thoughts of demons and deals out of her mind, so she could concentrate on her job.

-----

When they got back to the bed and breakfast, Scully decided to test out the tub. She was happy that there was hot water and some nice soaps for her to use and that it actually looked clean. But when Scully exited the bathroom, she was concerned by how warm her room still felt. It was so strange: old houses tended to be drafty, not the other way around. Scully attempted to open her window even more, but it wouldn’t budge past the three inches it was already opened. She wondered if she should amend her opinion of this place.

It was only ten o’clock, so Scully decided to go downstairs and see if she could find Grace or a thermostat. It was eerily silent and only a few dimmed lights were still on. Grace didn’t seem to be around anywhere. Scully was, once again, drawn to the photos hanging on the wall. She tried looking for the one Grace showed her but it wasn’t there anymore. However, upon closer examination, the portrait was still there, but Grace’s great-grandfather was no longer in it! Instead, it just featured his wife and daughter, sitting on a divan. Scully could have sworn that the first time she looked, there was a man standing behind the two women.

Suddenly, the lights went out. Scully was so startled, she let out a little yelp. Luckily, she made it back to the staircase without running into something because there was moonlight streaming in from the windows. Scully exhaled and reminded herself that this was nothing like last night, which was sleep paralysis. Even still, she hurried upstairs before she could be disproven. Once back in her room, she triple checked that her door was locked, just in case. She thought about telling Mulder about what happened, but she didn’t want to give him any more reason to go looking for a crossroads.

However, it didn’t matter, because a few hours after Scully fell asleep, she was awoken again, but this time by Mulder.

“Scully! It happened again!” he whispered eagerly.

“What?” she grumbled, still half asleep.

“I woke up and couldn’t move. The room was completely dark, even though it’s nearly a full moon. The same thing that you experienced!”

Scully sighed, “Mulder, you said it was sleep paralysis last night.”

“Scully, I don’t think so. I’ve experienced sleep paralysis and this was different. Plus, the story you told me at breakfast changed my mind about this situation.”

He walked around to the other side of her bed and pulled back the covers and started getting in.

“Mulder!” Scully exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m not staying in that room. That was freaky, Scully.”

“So you’re going to sleep here?” she asked, incredulously.

“What, you can sleep in my bed but I can’t sleep in yours? It’s the twentieth century.”

Scully sighed, “That doesn’t even make any sense, Mulder, but fine. Just don’t hog the covers.”

She turned over so her back was to Mulder. She could hear his breathing even out as he drifted off to sleep and it was surprisingly very soothing. Scully tried to concentrate on that instead of the weird things she had experienced in this house. She couldn’t wait to go home.

----

Scully was not one to give into her imagination, but all day she’s felt like someone was watching her. It was a prickly feeling that gave her goosebumps. It started in the morning, when she went downstairs for breakfast and noticed that Grace’s great-grandfather was back in the portrait. Scully did a double-take when she walked by, and stared at it for a full minute, completely stunned. She was either going crazy or something very weird was going on. Neither explanation was very good.

A few hours later, when her and Mulder were in the car, they drove through a four-way intersection that didn’t have any stop signs. Mulder laughed about the hijinks bored teenagers get up to, but Scully couldn’t help but notice that they had passed through a rural dirt crossroads. There was no one else on the road and no sign of life at all, which was eerie, but Scully ignored the feeling. Luckily, they were able to close their case so tonight would be their last in Vermont.

Later that night, she wasn’t looking forward to sleeping alone in her room, even though Mulder was just on the other side of the wall. She got ready for bed and kept thinking she saw something out of the corner of her eye. But whenever she whipped her head around (and almost gave herself whiplash), there was nothing there.

Scully could hear the TV in Mulder’s room, so she knew he was awake. She decided to see what he was up to. When she walked to their shared doors, he was sitting on his bed, flipping through the few channels available before landing on a nature documentary.

Without turning to look at her, Mulder asked, “Scully, are you going to bed?”

“Mhm,” she said, non-committedly. “We don’t get a lot of channels here, huh?”

She was trying to come up with a topic of conversation that would justify her loitering in the doorway. But she didn’t have to, because Mulder walked over to her and put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her into the room.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” he asked with a slight smile. “That way we can protect each other.”

“That’s not what.. I wasn’t…” she tried to argue but Mulder’s smile just widened.

“Oh, of course. I’m the one that actually needs protecting. You would be doing this as a favor to me,” he kept going.

Scully laughed. She appreciated him not giving her a hard time. Mulder could be really sweet, when he wasn’t driving her absolutely crazy. They both got into bed and Scully pretended not to notice that they each had their designated side now. She trusted Mulder, had since they first started working together, and sleeping in the same bed wasn’t actually as weird as it should have been. She just hoped it would be an uneventful night...

----

For the third night in a row, Scully awoke to a pitch black room. There was no moon light streaming in from the window, even though that was the case when she fell asleep. She couldn’t even tell if Mulder was still beside her. The feeling of something pressing down on her chest was back and she couldn’t breathe. Her heart rate started ratcheting up. There was something breathing loudly in her ear. That couldn’t be Mulder, could it? She thought. Scully lay paralyzed for a few moments until the pressure let up. She blinked and the room returned to normal, meaning the glow from outside was bright enough that Scully could see the outlines of furniture. Was it still here? Scully didn’t know and was terrified. The room felt oppressively hot, like a sauna. She pulled the covers completely over her and Mulder, even though she knew a thin comforter would not protect her against anything natural or supernatural. She moved closer to Mulder, gently placing her palm over his mouth and pinching his upper arm. He grumbled and tried to pull away from her, so she placed her lips against his ear and whispered, “It’s here.”

He froze and turned his head slightly to look at her. She wondered if he could feel the thick air too.

Suddenly, a loud BANG sounded through the room. Both of them screamed and jumped up. Scully turned on the lamp, as Mulder grabbed his gun. Her eyes travelled around the room and noticed the bathroom door was now closed. The loud noise must have been the door slamming shut.

Mulder got up to open it, but it was jammed. He eventually pushed his way through using his shoulder. Scully was right behind him and saw that all of the toiletries had fallen off the counter. The bathroom had a small window, but Scully could see that it was secured.

“Maybe it was a draft?” she asked quietly, even though she knew that was unlikely. If anything, the rooms were stuffy and too warm, which would not indicate any type of draft.

Mulder just raised his eyebrows incredulously. He picked up a can of shaving cream off the floor, now with a cracked cap. It must have hit the floor with some force, indicating that the vibrations from the door slamming wouldn’t be enough.

“Regardless, I’m not staying in this room,” Mulder announced. Scully sighed, but didn’t disagree with him. They both moved to her bed instead, but Scully didn’t sleep at all until the first rays of sun appeared over the horizon and the room was bathed in golden light.

-----

Their flight left the regional airport at noon, and then they had to connect in Newark before finally making it back to DC. Scully was looking forward to sleeping in her own bed, uninterrupted, unlike the past three nights. She and Mulder didn’t really talk, just packed up their belongings and brought them to the car. Scully returned their room keys to Grace, who was trying to push coffee and muffins on the pair before they left.

“Grace, if you don’t mind me asking: whose room did I stay in? Like before this place came a bed and breakfast?” She hoped that it wasn’t a rude question.

Grace looked at her strangely but responded with: “It’s funny that you ask, the two rooms you stayed in were actually the master suite a long time ago. My great-grandfather needed an office after he opened the inn so he connected the two rooms. You haven’t seen anything… strange… have you?” she asked curiously.

“Um, no, just wondering,” she said, probably a bit unconvincingly.

When they finally reversed out of the driveway, Scully looked back at the inn. It still appeared to be a charming bed and breakfast but after her stay there, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding instead. She glanced up at the window of her room and saw a dark figure standing in the window.

Scully blinked and the shadow person was gone. She quickly turned back around in her seat.

“Scully, are you okay?” Mulder asked. She nodded but didn’t say anything.

“So what do you think? Poltergeist or crossroads demon looking to make another deal?” he queried with a grin.

Scully fiddled with her seatbelt. “Neither, Mulder. It was sleep paralysis. We just both happened to experience it at the same time.”

Mulder’s mouth dropped open. “Do not tell me that’s what you really think.”

Scully started snickering at the expression on his face. “I had you.”

“You did not.”

“I so did. Anyway, Mulder, I’m surprised by you. Why didn’t you want to stay and investigate more? We were practically living in an X-File.”

“Ah, you know. We don’t get paid enough to work two cases at the same time. Also, sometimes it’s nice just to let things remain a mystery.”

Scully rolled her eyes and laughed, “That was deep, Mulder. But I have another theory: you were scared.”

Mulder looked offended, “I wasn’t scared! You came into my room first. I was just doing you a favor the other nights.”

Scully started to debate that he was the one that screamed last night, which Mulder denied. She knew that this argument would entertain the both of them until they arrived back home, at which point they would call a truce. Mulder would help Scully with her luggage and she would make sure that he was going to stop for dinner, since he never had food in his fridge. And they would both agree that some mysteries were better left unsolved.

#i tried to write a mix of spooky and humor #the horror part was a fun challenge since i don't usually read (or write) horror #but i love scary movies and shows #i hope i did the prompt justice #the x files #txf #the x files fanfic

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missielee · 4 years ago

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Passion

Day 1&2: Fish & Wisp

Fish – such a fascinating creature

It was Olivia’s first passion as well as pet

When she was seven, her dad took her and her sister to the aquarium downtown.

It was magnificent, she said

It was like a different world, she said

Engulfed by a singular color blue, she was mesmerized by all the moving little diamonds around her

Colorful scales glimmered in the tank lights, felt like thousands stars on the sky

They moved oh so gracefully, bubbles curved along their fins

It was like a water dance.

That was at least ten years ago, little Olivia has already turned into a beautiful young woman who is passionate about the ocean life, specifically sea creatures. Fascinated by them, she indulged hours in books on her dad’s shelves and pursued her dream to become, well, quoted on quote “Fish”.

Fish is a peculiar animal. They live in water and absorb oxygen through their respiration system which is the gills. Their body is covered in scales worked as camouflage, protection and swimming aid. Their fins flutter through the current as they sway their body elegantly. What could possibly better than being a fish, swimming freely in the water blue?

“I prefer whale better” Janet voiced her opinion out loud

“What? That swimming elephant? No way!” Olivia eyed her friend in disbelief “That’s not even a fish!”

“It’s a sea creature too so it sorta counts. Also, FYI, that is super mean. That’s probably equivalent to pointing out someone is obese in fish language.” Janet rolled her eyes, continued eating her lunch

“Whale and dolphin are mammals, so not a fish. Beside, would you really want to be a whale? Big, giant blue whale?”

“Uh, whale is my spiritual animal, therefore, yes I’ll be the big giant and BEAUTIFUL blue whale” a glare was directed right back to Olivia “At the very least, I won’t get eaten by other species”

“Other than human, sure!” Olivia sipped her water “You do know that a fair amount of whale was hunted for meat and oil in the past right?”

“Whale hunting was a thing?”

“Yeah, it was like a thing back in 1800s. Products made from whale, mainly oil, are incredibly valuable. A barrel of sperm-whale oil can even went up to 1500$ per barrel” Olivia shrugged “But it wasn’t used much nowadays because many better resource appeared: like Kerosene, vegetable oil, petrol”

“Uh huh, you know a lot about whale for someone who just insult it” Janet smirked upon her “You like whale too, don’t you ~”

“Said the one who have their nose in Moby Dick like twenty times or something. I only know some of the basic thing about whale”

“Hey, that book is a masterpiece! Brave men against the nature! Battling fearlessly! Unlike you and you’re fish tank obsession.”

Olivia couldn’t bother to say back. It’s true that she’s have an itsy bitsy infatuation with fish, but she couldn’t explain it why she adores them that much. Some have told her she could become mermaid like those performs in aquarium shows but Olivia refused. Even though it was her dream to become of them, she absolutely hates mermaid/merman in generally because mermaid doesn’t swim like a fish does, according to her logically research. Since mermaid have different anatomy, their swim movement is up-and-down, which isn’t the normal side-to-side like fish does. In addition to that, mermaid eats fish, explained her dislike towards becoming one. She understood that it’s normal to pray on one to another in the animal kingdom but she cannot stand the idea of feasting on such pretty shiny thing. ‘I mean people might have evolved enough to even eat gold but not diamond, right?’

It’s not the first time she realized turning into a fish is practically impossible. Despite her fascination of the marine life, she apparently have Thalassophobia, which prevents her from any activities near the open water. It was upsetting to Olivia, having to spend her life in pictures capturing a small part of the vast water part. It’s like try to play puzzles with endless pieces and they all have the same shade of color. No amount of therapy could help her reach the board of the ship, the closest she could ever get is the lightly wet sand shore. Moreover, there’s an unexplainable feeling when she reaches the ocean, she hears it whisper her name in sad serenity. And on a more frightening term, it always seems to seep closer and closer to her.

“Livvy? You’re spacing out again. Come on, we’ll be late for class” she snapped out of her daze, turn to see her friend already finished packing her belongings

Checking her phone, 2:45 and her class started at 3, she needed to hurry.

“Oh I almost forgot. You’ll come to the Jake’s party this evening, right?”

“Beach party? Not so sure, you know how I feel about it”

“It’s just on shore. I’ll be there too. Don’t worry, if anyone tries to drag you near the water then they’ll have to go through me” Janet smirked. Three years in Aikido is enough to take anyone down, not to mention she was a three times champion of the city, as if that isn’t intimidating enough but it ensures Olivia enough to have a good time by the sand.

“But this evening already? I thought it’s on 13th?”

“Today is the 13th, Goldfish. Did you fall head over heel for Jake so far that you forgot to check for the actual date?”

“I might have mistaken a Friday for a Saturday. But that doesn’t make me a goldfish! And goldfish have good memory! The five seconds attention span is a myth!” Olivia exclaimed

“I guess your attention span is probably so filled with Jake that you can only remembered that he has invited you~”

The two kept bickering as they walked each other to class, like all the other days.

It was around eight when Olivia and Janet arrived at the party, and it sure is a lively one. The torch lit up the area but it was no match to the people’s dancing along the live music band. Sound of chatters mixed with the awry waves of the sea like a symphony. Olivia immediately spotted Jake in the crowd by the barbecue, greeting newcomers and grilled the ribs with his cheerful expression bright like sunlight. Janet could guess what millions thoughts going through her bestie’s mind as she pulled her over to the food court.

“Hey Jake, nice buns you got there. Mind if we have a taste?” Jake laughed wholeheartedly

“Why I wouldn’t mind you two lovely ladies to have a taste of my delicious buns, of course!” A wink sent towards them as Olivia reddened

“I-I-I brought some cakes from Rosie’s! A-And I think it’s a great party!” Jake took the box from Olivia and gave both of them a small dish

“I love Rosie’s cake! This is great for desert! Thanks Olivia!”

And needless to say, Janet had to play the waitress and lead a very blush female to a table while holding two dish of steak.

“Oh Janet! Did you see him smiling at me? He’s so nice!” Janet have a gulp of soda after settling down and listening to her friend’s love rant.

“Eat your steak Olivia or I’ll help you know how it’s like to be fish”

“Alright, no need to do that. I’m not some toddler, you know” Olivia sulked and cut a piece

Olivia notice a newspaper left next to her seat, seemed like it was today’s news. Curious, she decided to have a look since Janet had went to get a second plate.

“BREAKING NEW: SUCCESSFULLY FOUND THE ONLY SURVIVOR OF THE S.S HARVEY INCIDENT

Olivia Breston, eldest daughter of the Breston family and a bright student at Morrington University, was discovered barely breathing and unconscious on floating remains of the unfortunate ship by the fishermen of Devonne port. Lifeboat was sent immediately to revive and take Olivia to the closest hospital. 17h28 of 13th October, we received news …”

‘No way. Olivia… Breston… That’s… that’s my name!? I… I am dead?’

Janet returned back with a joyful meal in hand.

“Man! Jake sure have a knack for cooking! You’re a lucky one, Olivia!” Olivia didn’t respond, still deep in shock “Olivia?”

Olivia handed her the paper. Janet frowned before realization hit her. Surprisingly, she’s quite calm to react.

“So you found out. Any memory came back?”

Olivia shivered, shook her head.

“I survived, did I? So why… am I here? On this day, I was supposed to be found? But no?”

Janet moved next to her, sat down and comforted the confused girl.

“Do you want to know? Truly want to know?”

A silence between made the air thickened before Olivia gave a nod, reluctantly. Janet rubbed her shoulders soothingly.

“What you read is true. You are the only survivor of the S.S Harvey ship, a research ship directed by your father. You accompanied him on a field trip on 19th June when the ship got caught in bad weather, which later escalated into a sea storm. There was no news from the ship until…”

Janet pointed at the date and then at what supposedly to be warehouse, rather than what’s beside it. Needn’t to guess, Olivia could tell what Janet was trying to show her. But it didn’t explain everything that’s happening at the moment.

“I assume you’re wondering what’s happening right now. Care to take a blind guess?” Janet lighted a cig, savored that nicotine taste on the tip of her tongue before let out a wisp of white smoke.

“I died?”

“Eh, close enough. A coma. If you died, you wouldn’t be here to chit chat Livvy”

“Coma? But then, where am I?”

“Well, some might say it’s your subconscious so let just assume that it is. You didn’t die from the incident but drowning left you stranded in your brain, that’s all I could say.” Janet led her to the water. It seeped up close to their feet but it didn’t frighten Olivia no more

“I’m the fish of my own tank” Janet chuckled

“So you do remember”

“Yeah, I just got bits and bits of it. I chose to stay here, because there’s nothing out there for me, no one is waiting for me. At least I achieved my dream here, well, in a way” Olivia stepped back to clean sand, heart ached as she turned to Janet “Because in here I can see the one I held dear”

Janet tossed the burnt butt cig into the cool sand “Old habits die hard. You know, yet you still want to stay?”

“There’s no point going out there. I rather stay here”

“Alright, don’t keep Jake waiting on the dance floor.” Olivia headed back, blushed to the ear “After tonight, it’ll all be a bad dream”

“Wake up anew right?”

“Totally, Goldfish” Olivia’s shadow faded as now only Janet stood alone, water raised above her ankle. The way the ocean surging was unusual than before. There were whispers, cries lingered in the air. Moaned in pain. The thunder struck faraway on the surface warned the upcoming omen.

“Time’s running out, Olivia”

--- Missielee ---

#inktober #inktober2020 #fish #wisp

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loveforpreserumsteve · 5 years ago

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So, You Wanna Learn About Alphas, Betas, and Omegas: Handbook to the Omegaverse

Urban Legends

Disclaimer: these are going to be a mix between urban legends/myths that exist in our world and what legends I think would exist in an omegaverse. I'm not sure if someone has written any a/b/o myths, but I was having writer's block and decided that I might as well get creative and flesh out the omegaverse(s) that I'll be creating a little more.

So, let's begin, shall we?

Black-Eyed Pups: Non-threatening seeming pups, but with something inherently off about them. Typically coming off as polite and well-mannered. Seeming more mature than their guessed ages. Usually, the pup approaches an unsuspecting individual at a supermarket, asking them for something. A ride home, some change for a gumball, or to use their phone.

However, if the person indulges the child(ren), they should expect to hear banging on their door in the middle of the night. The pups will appear aggressive as they attempt to enter the person's home. Under no circumstance should the pups be invited inside.

Usually, the target will feel a chill down their spine while goosebumps litter their skin. They can usually sense something is very wrong with the pups, and then they catch a glimpse of black eyes. No whites visible at all, no irises existing, just complete blackness.

Bloody Mary: Historically, the ritual encouraged young omegas or beta girls to walk up a flight of stairs backwards holding a candle and a hand mirror, in a darkened house. While gazing into the mirror, the individual performing the ritual was supposed to be able to catch a glimpse of their future mate. However, there would be a chance of seeing a skull -- the face of the Grim Reaper -- instead of their intended mate, meaning that the individual would die before mating.

Today, an individual or group looks into a mirror in a dimly-lit or candle-lit room while ritualistically chanting out the name, "Bloody Mary." Some traditions have the individual(s) having to chant the name thirteen times, but most often, only three times is required. Allegedly, the apparition of Bloody Mary will appear. Sometimes described as a corpse, witch, or ghost. Traditionally, Bloody Mary is deemed to be evil in some capacity and is often covered in blood. If she is "seen", she will either try to scratch one's eyes out, scream at the individual(s) that invoked her, attempt to strangle them, or steal their soul(s).

Camp Frenzy: Legend has it that during the 80s, a young alpha snuck out of his summer camp cabin and went for a moonlight stroll. On his exploratory walk through the wilderness, the boy heard a rustling coming from a nearby bush. Assuming that it was other campers trying to mess with him, or two camp counselors getting it on, he decided to head back for camp.

Unfortunately for the young alpha, it was neither campers nor counselors. Instead, it was a wild beast-man. Worse than a feral alpha, this man was more animal than human. Covered in actual fur from head to toe, the creature attacked the young alpha.

The change was instantaneous. His limbs elongating, nails and teeth sharpening, fur -- actual fur! -- sprouting from his skin. His mind reverting back to hindbrain with hunt, mate, and kill being his main priorities as he returned to camp.

Unable to control himself as he attacked the other campers. Each person that he attacked, quickly transforming into a creature too and attacking more campers. The whole camp devolved into an area filled with feral creatures who craved blood and tore the counselors apart to feast on their bodies.

Some claim that their howls and cries can still be heard.

Lifeless Lake: Story goes that during the late 1800s, a beautiful omega man mated a wealthy alpha man. The alpha doted on the omega for years. Giving them everything they wanted and more. The alpha was a jealous man, however, and spent his free time trying to keep the omega at home. All the omega wanted was to go swimming. After many arguments, the alpha agreed to take his omega to the local lake.

The omega, being the looker he was, gained a plethora of attention from the other attendees. With each new curious glance or inquisitive sniff, the angrier the alpha became. When one beta woman got too close, the alpha couldn't take it any longer. Acting on pure instinct -- going completely feral -- the alpha ripped out the throats of alpha, beta, omega, and child. Leaving the soil around the lake drenched in innocent blood.

In the alpha's feral craze, he pulled the omega close. Despite the omega's protests and squirming, the alpha just held tighter. Growing frustrated with his own omega, the alpha didn't even realize that he ripped his bonded's throat out until pain flared in his own neck.

Lifeless, the omega's blood poured into the lake. Legend has it that nothing grows around the lake. No fish reside there. No life whatsoever. It's been said that if you go to Lifeless Lake, any alphas in the vicinity will become aggressive and territorial. Meanwhile, any betas will get a pain in their necks until leaving the lake. For omegas, they will be overcome with a desperate sadness.

If an individual is particularly brave enough to attempt swimming in the lake, they may feel tugging on their limbs. One beta man reported to feeling as though someone was trying to cling to him for their life. While an alpha woman claimed an aggressive force tried to drown her.

Rose Red: In 1918, an omega woman fell in love with an omega man. Although it was illegal, the woman wanted nothing more than to marry and mate the man. Devising a plan to trick everyone into believing that the man was an alpha, so they could wed, she spritz the man with a musky alpha cologne and surrounded him with perfumy flowers. As a florist, the woman had a plethora of plants to choose from and made boutonnieres for her love every day.

The plan had gone off without a hitch. The two omegas in love were about to marry. Only, the day of the wedding, the omega man went into heat. His scent overpowering the fragrance from the flowers. In her attempt to protect her betrothed, she stood between him and the compatible alphas who had gone into rut.

The wedding became a blood bath. With alphas fighting one another and putting down any individual who came in their way. When one rutting alpha woman victoriously approached the two omegas, she didn't think twice about fighting the omega woman.

With the omega woman being physically weaker than a rutting alpha woman, the omega didn't stand a chance. Fighting the aggressor tooth and nail in hopes of protecting the man she wanted to marry. Eventually, the alpha won, and took the omega man. Leaving the omega woman to bleed out in the church, staining her white wedding dress. Turning the bridal gown the same color red as the boutonniere her love was wearing.

The Beast: Allegedly the wild offspring of a feral alpha and a bear. The beast is aggressive in nature, and will murder pets, livestock, and any person that it crosses -- if they don't want to mate that individual, of course.

The Feral Alpha: Allegedly, in the 70s, an alpha man was having a particularly difficult time in college. Being on the Dean's List was more stressful than he had assumed, but he needed to keep his grades up if he wanted to keep his scholarship. Not being able to do anything but work on his exams in solitude, he began slowly losing his mind.

Deciding to clear his mind, and in an attempt to win out over his hindbrain, the alpha went for a hike in the woods. Getting lost, he traveled further and further in while scouting for a way out. With the daylight gone, the alpha was having even more difficulty.

Eventually, he went feral as his hindbrain won out. His hindbrain would know how to protect him. Now, he lives in complete solitude. Disguising himself with animal furs and snatching omegas who wander too far off the trail.

So, pups, listen to your parents and stay on the trail.

The Hook: Two teens, one beta boy and one beta girl, are driving through an unfamiliar area on a deserted dirt road late at night when the boy has to use the restroom. Pulling off to the side of the road, he exits the vehicle to relieve himself in the surrounding forest, out of sight from the girl.

While the girl waits, she turns on the radio to distract herself. Over the radio, a report is broadcasted about an escaped mental patient, an alpha man with a hook for his hand! Unsettled, the girl quickly turns the station. As she tries to focus on the song, she hears a scratching at the back of the car. The longer the boy is, the closer the scratching gets to her. Moving all the way up to the passenger door.

Frightened by the report and the peculiar scratching, the girl jumps when the boy returns to the car. Demanding that the boy take her home. Eventually, they make it back to town and when they stop at the girl's house, the beta teens are terrified to find a bloody hook, hanging from the handle.

Whimpering in the Woods: One afternoon, an unbonded omega decided to take a hike through the forest. While on their afternoon hike, the omega set up to have a picnic in a scenic meadow. While opening their sandwich, the omega heard a distinct pup whimper.

After looking around for the culprit and assuming that some pup had wandered too far from the path, the omega went searching for the pup. Hoping to return the pup to their worried parent, the omega hiked further into the forest, using only the whimpering as their guide.

As the forest started to grow dark, the omega thought about heading back towards the path. Only, they had entered too far into the woods and was too lost. Then, they came face to face with the whimpering pup.

Going to comfort the pup, the omega realized that it was a feral pup. Before they could leave, however, the omega turned to find them surrounded by a pack of feral pups. The pups attacked the omega, ripping the omega apart while they feasted on them.

#omegaverse #a/b/o dynamics #alpha #beta #omega #handbook #guide #urban legends

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knifeshoeoreofight · 6 years ago

Photo

a little too late for the photo challenge, but I finally finished it anyway!

the song Geno whistles

Sid had been worried about the train tracks when he’d first gone to see the house with a realtor. The property behind the house sloped abruptly down, and he could just see the rails between the summer-green trees.

“Oh, don’t even worry,” she says, wafting her acrylic manicure like she can physically brush away all of his objections. “It hasn’t been in use since the late eighties, I think. A really old stretch of track that just wasn’t needed. No trains, no noise. Makes for a nice walking trail, you’ll love it. You certainly look like an active person!” She gives him the most obvious up-down he’s ever received, and actually licks her frosted lips. Sid’s skin crawls, but the house is beautiful. So he makes an offer.

The house is old, built sometime in the 1800s. It’s creaky and the heating is temperamental, but Sid loves it. It has tall windows and a squeaky parquet floor that glows honey-gold when the sun falls on it.

He’s almost annoyed that the lascivious realtor was right, the abandoned train tracks do make for a great walking trail. Deke loves it. He likes to lollop ahead of Sid, barking at the squirrels, then run back, tongue hanging out of his wide pit bull smile, all proud of himself for protecting Sid.

“Didja scare ‘em off, bud,” Sid tells him fondly. His dog is actually a marshmallow in a bulldozer body, and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

He never sees another soul on the tracks. It’s a strange feeling, walking along the rusted iron, such a tangible sign of human industry, and yet never see or hear anyone. It doesn’t feel haunted, exactly, but there’s…something…to the atmosphere all the same.

***

It’s late autumn the first time he sees him.

The trees are nearly bare, their bounty of leaves lying about their roots in quiet drifts. Sid takes Deke on an early morning walk while there is still fog in the hollows.

He hears something, first. A whistled song, skilled and fluid, a mournful waterfall of notes. Deke stops abruptly up ahead, staring into the mist. The hair on the back of Sid’s neck prickles.

Like something from a dream, a man’s form almost seems to solidify from the mist itself. He has to be the whistler.

“Deke,” Sid calls out, trying to get his dog to come to him. Deke, for once, doesn’t even turn his head. He stays where he is, staring at the man, body tense. This frightens Sid more than anything else. “Deke,” he calls again. “Here, boy.”

The man is tall. He’s dressed strangely: dirty overalls, a shapeless coat, and a flat-brimmed cap that looks like something only hipsters and Broadway newsboys wear. He’s carrying across his shoulders, of all the fucking things, a sledgehammer.

The song dies as he catches sight of Deke first, then Sid. He stops, abruptly.

Sid isn’t sure what the fuck his deal is, but he’s not about to let his fighting-ring rescued pitbull get into any trouble, so he calls to Deke again, and moves forward at a jog, intending to grab him by the collar if necessary.

The man is looking down at Deke, and he speaks softly to him. Sid’s too far away to hear. Deke’s tail slowly starts to wag. By the time Sid is close enough to grab him, the man is kneeling, scratching at Deke’s ears and murmuring to him in something that isn’t English.

“Hey there,” Sid says uncertainly, and stops a few feet away. The guy is still holding the sledgehammer.

He looks up at Sid. His face is smudged with dirt, and he has soft, dark eyes. “Hello,” he says, the word heavy with an accent of some kind. He blinks and looks around him, brow furrowed. He lays a hand on the rust-covered rail, and something like fear passes over his face.

“Where this?” he asks sharply, standing. Fuck, he’s tall. “Where?” He gestures around them.

“Um, we’re a mile or two from Elmwood?” Sid says, referencing the closest town. “Are you lost?”

The man looks around himself, his expressive face looking lost indeed. “Who you?” he asks, instead of answering Sid’s question.

“I’m Sid. I can walk you up to the road, if you want. Did you forget where you parked your car?”

The man laughs. “Don’t have car,” he says, like Sid made some kind of hilarious joke. “Do I look like rich man?”

Oh. “I’m sorry,” Sid says. He’s homeless, of course. It explains the state of his clothes. And maybe the confusion is due to drugs, or alcohol. Not that all homeless people have substance abuse problems but—

The man interrupts his thoughts. “Do you have telephone?”

“Oh, sure,” Sid says, and pats down his pockets until he finds his cell. He holds it out to the man, who glances at it briefly and then keeps looking expectant.

“At your house,” the man explains, patient, like he’s talking to a child. “Your have telephone? Or neighbor? Or maybe one at store?”

The fuck. “Sorry, no, just a cell,” Sid says, and swipes his phone open. He once again holds it out to the man, but the man is staring at it like it’s going to bite him.

“What you do?” he says, an edge of panic in his voice. “Why’s it get color?”

Sid stares at him. He is not equipped to deal with someone having a mental health crisis. He makes his voice gentle.

“What’s your name? Where do you think you are?”

The man removes his hat and runs a big hand through his tousled brown hair. “Evgeni Malkin. Walk away from camp, want to start next section of track. Trying to find where we stop yesterday.”

“Stopped what?” Sid asks.

The man looks at him like he’s stupid. “Stop building tracks, of course.”

Sid’s insides go cold. He looks down at the track at their feet, rusted and derelict. The man’s definitely experiencing a break from reality.

“Right, okay,” Sid says. It’s best to kind of go along, isn’t it? Keep him calm until Sid can call emergency services or something.

The man is staring down at the rails too. “Don’t understand,” he says, voice small. “Why they look like that? Sid?” He raises his eyes to Sid’s, and Sid thinks he’ll never forget that look, confusion bleeding into terror. “What’s happen?”

“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” Sid tries to soothe. “Let’s just sit here for a moment and let your head clear, okay?” He gestures to the slope behind them.

The man nods and moves forward as if to follow Sid’s suggestion.

But between one breath and the next, right in front of Sid’s eyes, the man flickers from view, like a projection switching off.

Sid can’t breathe. He’s got to be dreaming this.

But Deke barks, running to where the man had been standing, sniffing the air, baffled and upset.

In the damp earth, there’s a single hobnailed bootprint.

***

Sid goes to Elmwood’s tiny little library, and makes the elderly librarian’s day when he tells her he want to research town history. Her family has apparently lived in the town for three generations.

An inquiry into the building of the local railroads leads him to a photograph dated 1907. It’s of a work crew tasked with building the very railroad spur that runs behind Sid’s house.

He’s not hard to find. He’s taller than most of the other men, standing at one end of the group in the same overalls and cap he’d been wearing when Sid had encountered him. Sid sits back in his chair, hands trembling, heart racing.

He takes the album containing the photo up to the librarian and tries to sound normal as he asks if he can photocopy the page.

“Of course, my dear,” the the woman tells him. “Oh, I remember this. My grandfather was the foreman of that crew.” She points out a man in a straw hat and a vest. “Mostly foreign workers, immigrants who lived in the city but came here to work.”

“Did he have any stories about them?” Sid has to ask.

“Nothing in particular, just that he learned a lot of naughty words from all kinds of languages!” the librarian says with a twinkle in her eye. “Although there was one thing— yes— “ She bustles back to the archives and digs around for a moment. “Ah yes, here it is!”

She emerges with a box of microfiche film. “Come over here, I’ll show you!”

At the reader, she pulls up some text and then sits Sid in front of the reader to see. It’s an article from a November 1907 copy of the Elmwood Gazette.

She taps the screen. “There it is. ‘Man Goes Missing’. It always bothered my grandpa. Of course, people didn’t hold very kind opinions of foreigners, most said he’d just run off. But Grandpa didn’t think so. He said he was one of his best workers.”

Apparently, early on the morning of November 17th, 1907, Evgeni Vladimirovich Malkin had walked out of the railway crew work camp, and was never seen again. Sid’s blood runs cold.

***

He doesn’t think he’ll see him again, the ghost? Apparition? What kind of ghost leaves boot prints, anyway?

But he goes out with Deke early the next morning anyway. It’s misty again, and just like before, when he reaches the hollow where the mist pools thickest, he hears whistling.

“You!” Evgeni says, when he fades back into view.

“Hello,” Sid says, and stares. Impossibly, miraculously, he’s standing in front of a person from 1907. He nearly can’t breathe.

Evgeni lifts an eyebrow at him. “What? Why you look?”

Sid shakes his head and doesn’t answer him. Instead he asks, “Do you know the date today?”

Evgeni frowns. “Foreman say it’s November 2nd. You don’t know?”

November second. The same date it is in 2018. He hasn’t disappeared yet in his own time. Does this mean he’s, not a ghost? He’s actually here, through some kind of…inter-dimensional time rift?

“Look little bit sick,” Evgeni says. “You need sit down?”

Sid laughs, a little high and hysterical. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just that—“ How does he explain this? “You’re here. Like the other day. Not here one second, then you appeared. And then disappeared again.”

Evgeni draws his brows together and regards him for a long moment before finally speaking. “I’m think…this place look too strange. Trees too big. Track is old. I’m have feeling I’m go somewhere else. Where is this, Sid?”

“The same place, I think,” Sid says. “But not the same time. It’s, um. 2018. One hundred and eleven years after your time.”

Evgeni sits down, heavily, and covers his eyes with one shaking hand.

“How—“

Sid waits for him to finish but he doesn’t say anything more.

“I don’t know,” Sid says gently. And decides not to say anything about Evgeni’s eventual disappearance right now. “I’m as shocked as you. But last time, remember, you weren’t here long. You flickered back out of sight within a few minutes.”

Evgeni nods, swallowing hard. “Fine. Just have to wait. Or walk back.” He turns and looks behind him, at the fog. “Maybe I try.” He stands, still a little unsteady. One step, another. He turns back to look at Sid, opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, and is gone.

***

There’s no question of Sid staying home the next day. He’s out at the spot where Evgeni appears while everything is still pre-dawn murk. It’s raining today, a fine, silvery drizzle.

There’s no fog in the hollows today, but between one breath and the next, a sheeting curtain of rain solidifies into Evgeni.

He blinks, looks around him. Deke barks in excitement, and strains against Sid’s hold on his collar. Evgeni turns, and smiles at them. It’s the first time Sid has seen him smile, and it changes his entire face.

“You here again,” he says, with a playful jut of his chin. Charming, Sid’s mind supplies. It’s a startling realization, and makes Evgeni seem more real than anything else, turning him from a grim, dour apparition into a flesh and blood person.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sid says.

Evgeni laughs, and the sound of it is deep and warm, making something unbidden settle under Sid’s ribcage.

“Not so scare this time,” Evgeni says then. “Know how to get back.”

Oh. Right. Sid looks at him, and feels a wave of guilt, sick and cloying. He has to tell him.

“It’s raining, and my house is right up there.” Sid points up the slope. “Want some coffee?”

“Tea?” Evgeni says hopefully, and Sid nods. He’s bound to have a box somewhere.

***

Sid’s house is from Evgeni’s time, and he’s glad of it. It should help him not to freak out completely at the changes to the world.

He’d forgotten about his car, though, parked in his driveway in all it’s shiny, modern glory.

Evgeni gasps when he sees it. “This is your auto?” he says, and lopes ahead of Sid to run his hands over the hood and to rap his knuckles against the window.

“Like machine from dime novels,” he says, with a wide, delighted grin back at Sid. “For fly to the moon.” Sid does his best to smile back.

***

Sid’s taste is pretty classic. “Hipster,” his sister always teases him. So what, he loves history. It’s how he makes his living, after all.

Evgeni stares around Sid’s house with unbridled curiosity.

“So many book,” he says.

“I’m uh. I’m a writer,” Sid explains. “Historical fiction, mostly, so I do a lot of research.”

Evgeni hums in acknowledgment as he gently touches a model of a WW11 plane with a single finger.

He continues making his way around Sid’s living room, touching the sofa, the shelves, examining all of Sid’s curios, staring in puzzlement at the black screen of the powered-down tv before shrugging and moving on.

He pauses in front of Sid’s shelf of antique books. He slides one off the self, carefully opens it. The one he’s chosen, Sid knows, has a handwritten fountain pen dedication inside the front cover.

“1909,” Evgeni says softy. “Look so old.” He places the book back on its shelf with painstaking care, and stares at the spine, his face wearing that lost, fearful look again.

“Come on,” Sid says, unable to stand it. “How about that tea?”

***

Evgeni loves Sid’s electric kettle and isn’t much impressed by Lipton tea, even though he tries to be polite about it.

Tea in hand, he continues his wandering, reminding Sid of a large cat, sniffing out a new territory.

His eyes widen when he comes to the fridge and it’s plethora of photos and drawings. He points to one of Cath and Tanger. “Sid,” he says, shocked. “Should not keep out! People will see”

Sid walks up to look. Realization dawns on him when he realizes that since it’s a beach photo, Tanger is shirtless and Cath is wearing a bikini top and short-shorts. “No-no-no!” he hurriedly explains. “It’s not that kind of picture- no! Those are my friends. They’re wearing those clothes because it’s hot, at the beach. They’re going to swim in the water.”

“Sid,” Evgeni says patiently, obviously humoring him. “Is okay to have. Many men have. I know, is lonely. Just should be more careful.”

“Oh my god,” Sid says, not wanting to deal with it anymore. Evgeni shrugs and returns to the photos, cooing at a family photo of Flower and Vero. He suddenly goes very, very quiet, however, and Sid’s heart sinks when he sees what Evgeni is looking at.

This guy Brad Sid knows from back home is getting married next summer, and sent one of those photo collage save-the-dates of him and his fiance, Patrice. Standard engagement photos. Back hugs, besotted smiling. A kiss.

A kiss between two men.

Evgeni carefully tugs at the photo and pulls it off the fridge.

“Don’t,” Sid says, and can’t bring himself to go on.

“Shouldn’t have out,” Evgeni says, voice strained. “They put you in a jail, Sid.”

Sid decides to try and explain, futile as it may be. “Those are my friends. They’re getting married next summer.”

Evgeni’s eyes go big, and his mouth drops open. “Married?”

“Yeah. It’s not allowed everywhere in the world, but here in America two men can marry each other.” He moves aside a child’s drawing and shows Evgeni his friend Julie and Caroline’s baby announcement photo postcard. “Or two women.”

Evgeni just stares, then reaches out to touch the card, tracing Julie and Caroline’s smiling faces, the tiny bundle of their baby girl.

Sid watches Evgeni’s face, and realizes, shocked, that his eyes are red and almost overflowing. Not with outrage. Something else is going on here.

“They can—” Evgeni says, and swipes at his eyes with his shirtsleeves. “Not illegal?”

“No,” Sid says, some instinct telling him to speak gently. “Not here.”

Evgeni stands in front of the fridge for a long, long time. Sid lets him, and pretends he doesn’t notice the tears.

***

Sid goes and gets his photocopies from the library, and sits at the kitchen table. Evgeni drifts around a little more before his orbit takes him back to Sid.

“I found out some things,” Sid says quietly. “After the first time I met you.” He slides the photocopy he made of the work crew photo across the table.

“Oh!” Evgeni smiles and takes the photo. “It’s me!” He studies it for a moment. “I remember. This was day we break ground.”

Sid takes a deep breath. He waits for Evgeni to look up, and then he slides his copy of the newspaper article across to him.

“I found this too,” he says, and waits. Evgeni takes a long time to read the headlines, lips moving soundlessly as he deciphers the Roman letters.

“What,” he breathes, and stares up at Sid, eyes begging to understand. “I’m go away? Never come back?”

“It’s not today. They say it’s on the seventeenth. I spoke to the librarian and she said her grandfather had been the foreman, and that you…never came back.”

Evgeni’s chest is heaving, breath coming rushed and panicky. Sid feels sick, but he knows he had to tell him.

Evgeni stands up, knocking the table and rattling his mug of tea.

“I’m go back now,” he says, and Sid nods.

“Of course.”

***

They walk back to the spot on the tracks where Evgeni appears and disappears. Deke trots along, looking concerned at how upset everyone else is.

There’s still rain falling when they reach their destination.

“I’m not come again,” Evgeni says, and Sid nods, feeling numb.

“I understand,” he says, and wonders distantly if the newspaper article will change, or maybe disappear. He wonders if he’ll even remember it, if it never existed. He wonders if his own memories will change.

“Sid,” Evgeni says. Sid is startled out of his thoughts. Evgeni is starting at him, eyes dark and fathomless.

He reaches out, and gently tips Sid’s chin up.

“Never get chance again,” he whispers, and presses his lips to Sid’s. Sid makes a shocked, hurt sound, and can’t look away as Evgeni steps away.

Evgeni walks backward, staring at Sid as if committing him to memory.

And then he’s gone.

***

Sid goes through the following days in a kind of haze. The article remains on his kitchen table, where Evgeni left it, every word remaining the same. Sid supposes maybe another article will appear in the paper about the lost railroad worker returning safe and sound.

He goes out to the place where Evgeni appeared every morning, but he never reappears.

***

Sid wakes up early on the seventeenth. He stares at his bedroom ceiling, and thinks about going into the woods, waiting on the tracks.

He wonders why the idea of never seeing Evgeni again feels as raw and tender as it does. A fresh bruise he keeps pressing his fingers to, wondering where he got it.

***

It’s raining, the faded reds and golds of the leaves all brighter slicked with water. His makes his way down the track slowly. It’s later than it usually is when Evgeni appears. He’s not expecting to see anything.

Deke startles him from his thoughts by barking, and suddenly rushing ahead, whole body wriggling excitedly.

Sid can’t breath.

Evgeni steps out of the rain, clothes soaked, a knapsack over his shoulder.

Sid stops, feet rooted to the ground. Evgeni breaks into a jog, skidding to a stop in front of him.

“Sid,” he says, his eyes wide and bright. He looks afraid, but there’s something else there in his face as well. Sid’s not sure what it is.

“Evgeni, I thought I’d never— I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Evgeni hitches his knapsack up higher on his shoulder. “Do nothing but think, for days. While I’m work, all night instead of sleep. And I’m think I know why newspaper say I leave. I decide to come back. To stay.” He shifts on his feet, nervous. “Stay…with you?”

“Yeah,” Sid breathes. “Of course, I…” He doesn’t have the words. Evgeni strides forward, and just like before, gently tilts up Sid’s chin.

But this time, the kiss doesn’t taste like goodbye.

#sidgeno #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #hockey rpf #dana writes a thing

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Lore Episode 21: Adrift (Transcript) - 16th November 2015

tw: death, drowning, ghosts Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

I have a confession to make. Keep in mind, I write about frightening things for a living. I haven’t read a horror novel yet that’s managed to freak me out, and yet, I’m deathly afraid of open water. There, I said it – I hate being on boats. I’m not even sure why, to be honest, I just… am. Perhaps it’s the idea that thousands of feet of cold darkness wait right beneath my feet. Maybe it’s the mystery of it all, of what creatures (both known and unknown) might be waiting for me, just beyond the reach of what little sunlight passes through the surface of the waves. Now, I live near the coast, and I’ve been on boats before, so my fear comes from experience, but it’s not the cold, deep darkness beneath the ship that worries me the most. No, what really makes my skin crawl is the thought that, at any moment, the ship could sink. Maybe we can blame movies like Titanic or The Poseidon Adventure for showing us how horrific a shipwreck can be, but there are far more true stories of tragedy at sea than there are fictional ones, and it’s in these real life experiences, these maritime disasters that dot the map of history like an ocean full of macabre buoys, that we come face to face with the real dangers that await us in open water. The ocean takes much from us, but in rare moments, scattered across the pages of history, we’ve heard darker stories: stories of ships that come back, of sailors returned from the dead, and of loved ones who never stop searching the land. Sometimes our greatest fears refuse to stay beneath the waves. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Shipwrecks aren’t a modern notion – as far back as we can go, there are records of ships lost at sea. In The Odyssey by Homer, one of the oldest and most widely read stories ever told, we meet Odysseus shortly before he experiences a shipwreck at the hands of Poseidon, God of the Sea. Even further back in time, we have the Egyptian tale of the shipwrecked sailor, dating to at least the 18th century BC. The truth is, though, for as long as humans have been building sea-faring vessels and setting sail into unknown waters, there have been shipwrecks. It’s a universal motif in the literatures of the world, and that’s most likely because of the raw, basic risk that a shipwreck poses to the sailors on the ships, but it’s not just the personal risk. Shipwrecks have been a threat to culture itself for thousands of years. The loss of a sailing vessel could mean the end to an expedition to discover new territory or turn the tide of a naval battle. Imagine the result if Admiral Nelson had failed in his mission off the coast of Spain in 1805, or how differently Russia’s history might have played out had Tsar Nicholas II’s fleet actually defeated the Japanese in the Battle of Tsushima. The advancement of cultures has hinged for thousands of years, in part, on whether or not their ships could return to port safely, but in those instances where ancient cultures have faded into the background of history, it is often through their shipwrecks that we get information about who they were. Just last year, an ancient Phoenician shipwreck was discovered in the Mediterranean Sea near the island of Malta. It’s thought to be at least 2700 years old and contains some of the oldest Phoenician artefacts ever uncovered. For archaeologists and historians who study these ancient people, the shipwreck has offered new information and ideas. The ocean takes much from us, and upon occasion, it also gives back. Sometimes, though, what it gives us is something less inspiring. Sometimes, it literally gives us back our dead.

One such example comes from 1775. The legend speaks of a whaling vessel, discovered off the western coast of Greenland in October of that year. Now, this is a story with tricky provenance, so the details will vary depending on where you read about it. The ship’s name might have been the Octavius, or possibly the Gloriana, and from what I can tell, the earliest telling of this tale can be traced back to a newspaper article in 1828. The story tells of how one Captain Warren discovered the whaler drifting through a narrow passage in the ice off the coast of Greenland. After hailing the vessel and receiving no reply, their own ship was brought near, and the crew boarded the mysterious vessel. Inside, though, they discovered a horrible sight. Throughout the ship, the entire crew was frozen to death where they sat. When they explored further and found the captain’s quarters, the scene inside was even more eerie. There in the cabin were more bodies: a frozen woman, holding a dead infant in her arms; a sailor holding a tinder box, as if trying to manufacture some source of warmth; and there, at the desk, sat the ship’s captain. One account tells of how his face and eyes were covered in a green, wet mould. In one hand, the man held a fountain pen, and the ship’s log was open in front of him. Captain Warren leaned over and read the final entry, dated November 11th, 1762, 13 years prior to the ship’s discovery. “We have been enclosed in the ice 70 days”, it said. “The fire went out yesterday and our master has been trying ever since to kindle it again, but without success. His wife died this morning. There is no relief”. Captain Warren and his crew were so frightened by the encounter that they grabbed the ship’s log and retreated as fast as they could back to their own ship. The Octavius, if indeed that was the ship’s name, was never seen again.

The mid-1800s saw the rise of the steel industry in America. It was the beginning of an empire that would rule the economy for over a century, and like all empires, there were capitals: St. Louis, Baltimore, Buffalo, Philadelphia. All of these cities played host to some of the largest steel works in the country, and for those that were close to the ocean, this created the opportunity for the perfect partnership – the shipyard. Steel could be manufactured and delivered locally and then used to construct the ocean-going steamers that were the lifeblood of late-19th century life. The flood of immigration through Ellis Island, for example, wouldn’t have been possible without these steamers. My own family made that journey. One such steamer to roll out of Philadelphia in 1885 was the S. S. Valencia. She was 252ft long and weighed in at nearly 1600 tonnes. The Valencia was built before complex bulkheads and hull compartments, and she wasn’t the fastest ship on the water, but she was dependable. She spent the first decade and a half running passengers between New York City and Karakas, Venezuela. In 1897, while in the waters near Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, the Valencia was attacked by a Spanish cruiser. The next year, she was sold and moved to the west coast, where she served in the Spanish-American war as a troop ship between the US and the Philippines. After the war, the Valencia was sold to a company that used the ship to sail between California and Alaska, but in 1906, she filled in for another ship that was under repair, and her new route became San Francisco to Seattle. They gave the ship a check-up in January of that year, and everything checked out good. For a 24-year-old vessel, the Valencia was in perfect working order.

She set sail on the 20th of January 1906, leaving sunny California and heading north. The ship was crewed by nine officers, 56 crew members and played host to over 100 passengers. Somewhere near Cape Mendocino off the coast of northern California, though, the weather turned sour. Visibility dropped, and the winds kicked up. When you’re on a ship at night, even a slow one, losing the ability to see is a very bad thing. Typically, without visual navigation a captain might fall back on the celestial method, using the stars in the same way sailors did centuries ago, but even that option was off the table for Captain Oscar Johnson, and so he used the only tool he had left: dead reckoning. The name alone should hint at the efficacy of the method. Using last known navigational points as a reference, Captain Johnson essentially guessed at the Valencia’s current location. But guessing can be deadly, and so instead of pointing the ship at the Strait of Juan de Fuca, between Vancouver Island and Washington State, he unknowingly aimed it at the island itself. Blinded by the weather and faulty guesswork, the Valencia struck a reef just 50ft from the shore near Pachena Point on the south-west side of Vancouver Island. They say the sound of the metal ripping apart on the rocks sounded like the screams of dozens of people. It came without warning, and the crew did what they could to react by immediately reversing the engines, backing off the rocks. Damage control reported the hull had been torn wide open, water was pouring in at a rapid pace, and there was no hope of repairing the ship. It lacked the hull compartments that later ships would include for just such occasions, and the captain knew that all hope was lost, so he reversed the engines again and drove the ship back onto the rocks. He wasn’t trying to destroy the Valencia completely, but to ground her, hoping that would keep her from sinking as rapidly as she might at sea. That’s when all hell broke loose. Before Captain Johnson could organise an evacuation, six of the seven life boats were lowered over the side. Three of those flipped over on the way down, dumping out the people inside. Two more capsized after hitting the water, and the sixth boat simply vanished. In the end, only one boat made it safely away.

Frank Lehn was one of the few survivors of the shipwreck. He later described the scene in all its horrific detail: “Screams of women and children mingled in an awful chorus with the shrieking of the wind, the dash of rain, and the roar of the breakers. As the passengers rushed on deck they were carried away in bunches by the huge waves that seemed as high as the ship's mastheads. The ship began to break up almost at once and the women and children were lashed to the rigging above the reach of the sea. It was a pitiful sight to see frail women, wearing only night dresses, with bare feet on the freezing ratlines, trying to shield children in their arms from the icy wind and rain”. About that same time, the last life boat made it safely away under the control of the ship’s boatswain, Officer Timothy McCarthy. According to him, the last thing he saw after leaving the ship was, and I quote, “the brave faces looking at us over the broken rail of a wreck, and of the echo of a great hymn sung by the women through the fog and mist and flying spray”. The situation was desperate. Attempts were made by the ship’s remaining crew to fire a rescue line from the lyle gun into the trees at the top of the nearby cliff. If someone could simply reach the line and anchor it, the rest of the passengers would be saved. The first line they fired became tangled and snapped clean, but the second successfully reached the cliff above. A small group of men even managed to make it to shore. There were nine of them, led by a school teacher named Frank Bunker, but when they reached the top of the cliff, they discovered the path forked to the left and the right; Bunker picked the left. Had he instead turned right, the men would have come across the second lyle line within minutes and possibly saved all the remaining passengers. Instead, he led the men along a telegraph line path for over two hours before finally managing to get a message out to authorities about the accident, making a desperate plea for help - and help was sent, but even though the three separate ships that raced to the site of the wreck tried to offer assistance, the rough weather and choppy seas prevented them from getting close enough to do any good. Even still, the sight of the ships nearby gave a false sense of hope to those remaining on the wreckage, so when the few survivors onshore offered help, they declined. There were no more lifeboats, no more lifelines to throw, and no ships brave enough to get closer. The women and children stranded on the ship clung to the riggings and rails against the cold Pacific waters, but when a large wave washed the wounded ship off the rocks and into deep water, everyone was lost. All told, 137 of the 165 lives aboard the ship were lost that cold, early January morning. If that area of the coastline had yet to earn its modern nickname of “the graveyard of the Pacific”, this was the moment that cemented it.

The wreck of the Valencia was clearly the result of a series of unfortunate accidents, but officials still went looking for someone to blame. In the aftermath of the tragedy, the Canadian government took steps to ensure lifesaving measures along the coast that could help with future shipwrecks. A lighthouse was constructed near Pachena Point and a coastal trail was laid out that would eventually become known as the West Coast Trail, but the story of Valencia was far from over. Keep in mind there have been scores of shipwrecks, tragedies that span centuries, in that very same region of water, and like most areas with a concentrated number of tragic deaths, unusual activity has been reported by those who visit. Just five months after the Valencia sank, a local fisherman reported an amazing discovery. While exploring seaside caves on the south-western coast of Vancouver Island, he described how he stumbled upon one of the lifeboats within the cave. In the boat, he claimed, were eight human skeletons. The cave was said to be blocked by a large rock, and the interior was at least 200ft deep. Experts found it hard to explain how the boat could have made it from the water outside into the space within, but theories speculated that an unusually high tide could possibly have lifted the boat up and over. A search party was sent out to investigate the rumour, but it was found that the boat was unrecoverable, due to the depth of the cave and the rocks blocking the entrance. In 1910, the Seattle Times ran a story with reports of unusual sightings in the area of the wreck. According to a number of sailors, a ship resembling the Valencia had been witnessed off the coast. The mystery ship could have been any local steamer, except for one small detail: the ship was already floundering on the rocks, half submerged. Clinging to the wreckage, they say, were human figures, holding on against the wind and the waves.

Humans have had a love affair with the ocean for thousands of years. Across those dark and mysterious waters lay all manner of possibility: new lands, new riches, new cultures to meet and trade with. Setting sail has always been something akin to the start of an adventure, whether that destination was the northern passage or just up the coast, but an adventure at sea always comes with great risk; we understand this in our core. It makes us cautious, it turns our stomachs, it fills us with equal parts dread and hope, because there on the waves of the ocean, everything can go according to plan, or it can all fail tragically. Maybe this is why the ocean is so often used as a metaphor for the fleeting, temporary nature of life. Time, like waves, eventually wear us all down. Our lives can be washed away in an instant, no matter how strong or high we build them. Time takes much from us, just like the ocean. Waters off the coast of Vancouver Island are a perfect example of that cruelty and risk. They can be harsh, even brutal, toward vessels that pass through them. The cold winters and sharp rocks leave ships with little chance of survival, and with over 70 shipwrecks to date, the graveyard of the Pacific certainly lives up to its reputation. For years after the tragedy of 1906, fishermen and locals on the island told stories of a ghostly ship that patrolled the waters just off the coast. It’s said it was crewed by skeletons of the Valencia sailors who lost their lives there. It would float into view and then disappear, like a spirit, before anyone could reach it. In 1933, in the waters just north of the 27-year-old wreck of the Valencia, a shape floated out of the fog. When a local approached it, the shape became recognisable; it was a lifeboat. It looked as if it had just been launched moments before and yet there, on the side of the boat, were pale letters that spelled out a single word: Valencia.

[Closing statements]

#lore podcast #podcasts #aaron mahnke #shipwrecks #the odyssey #the octavius #s. s. valencia #at sea #greenland #canada #phildelphia #hauntings #transcripts #21

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shegoestolondon · 6 years ago

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4 months in

another belated monthly update, but i have a brand to maintain, don’t i?

if there’s one word to describe my last few weeks, it’s chaotic. two weeks of panicking about final assessments and summer logistics immediately, at 12 noon on may 2, turned into panicking about how little time i have left in the UK to do all the things that i want to do (spoiler: i definitely will not be able to do all the things). but we’re getting ahead of ourselves!

i’m not going to delve deep into what i did for my final assessments, but i’m happy to give a teasing little sampler. for one assessment, i wrote about masculinity in relation to this poem, this LARPing sword, and this film trailer; for another assessment, i wrote about three 17th century english writers (y’all should check out margaret cavendish if you aren’t familiar with her); and for my last essay, i wrote about ‘tis pity she’s a whore and close my eyes. i will forever be salty about footnotes counting towards word counts in the arts & humanities department here.

now that i’ve had a few days’ distance from my finals, i find that i’m able to appreciate how (unintentionally) concentrated my studies were this semester: most everything i read and wrote about had to do with english literature between 1600 and 1700, with a few ventures into the 1400s and the 1800s (and one module about the odyssey). i’m at the point where i’m so intensely familiar with 17th century english lit that whenever i walk into a museum here, no matter what kind of museum it is, i can map dates and names and movements onto specific poems and plays and prose. it’s a heady, academic feeling that i’m a little bit in love with.

both during finals and after, i’ve continued to travel with erica, though on smaller-scale day trips: oxford, york, greenwich. they’ve been wonderful trips, and all the more enjoyable for having erica by my side.

and now, in my last few days, i’ve trying to see and experience as much as possible, whether that be museums or plays or food or something else. i had the absolute joy and privilege to see hayley atwell (y’all will likely know her as peggy carter from the MCU) play the lead in an adapted version of ibsen’s rosmersholm; i also saw twelfth night at the globe. if y’all have read the play or seen she’s the man, then you know it’s a comedy already rife with gender play, and this company took it up a notch by casting female actors for male characters and male actors for female characters.

i was incredibly sad to miss out on attending what seemed like a fantastic IFF festival week this year, so to make up for it, i’ve returned to devouring films:

The Shining: my first ever kubrick film! a well-made film, if not particularly enjoyable to watch; in any case, i fully understand why film nerds (read: me) love reading and writing crit papers about directors like kubrick

Maborosi: this was kore-eda’s first feature film (he was already known as a documentary maker), and lord, is the cinematography beautiful. it was also nice to hear japanese again; it was funny and a little frightening to realize the closer a character was to a middle-aged woman, the more likely i was to understand them

Giant Little Ones: yes, i booked this ticket in direct response to missing out on kyle maclauchlan’s appearance at IFF. three surprises i didn’t except from my viewing experience: 1) to utterly love the film’s opening sequence, its closing sequence, and josh wiggins’ performance 2) to have a Q&A with the film’s director/screenwriter after the screening 3) to encounter the worst Q&A moderator i’ve ever come across in my 21 years on this earth

Life of Brian: i’ve been in london for four months now; i couldn’t not watch some classic monty python

Woman at War: saw this one earlier this evening with erica, and honestly? i can’t remember the last time i was this thoroughly engaged and entertained by a film. pls see it if the opportunity ever arises! (the trailer, for your entertainment)

lastly. as much as i don’t want to leave the UK, i sorely miss my friends and family back home. PVD, i’m coming for you.

#may #london #writing

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darlingpetao3 · 7 years ago

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For Asgard (Chapter 28/?)

Summary: What if Odin had banished Loki to Earth instead of Thor? The story of how you, the Reader, meet and help Loki on his quest to return to Asgard.

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven

A/N: Without wanting to spoil anything, warning, this chapter contains sexual content.

As far as you're concerned, your duty is done.

Lorelei has been brought safely to the palace of Asgard (and has taken her sister's fancy guest bedroom with glee). It's as if someone you both know wasn't totally murdered in front of your eyes! This woman irks you just as much as her elder sister. You silently fume while in her presence, which hopefully won’t be for very much longer.

Undoubtedly though, you feel it to also be your duty to disclose to Odin the death of Loki (through a copious amount of tears). The old King must think you're so pathetic right now, but so what? Nothing matters, especially his opinion of you. Your words of the tale are clipped and are straight to the point, making the conversation quick so you don't have to torture yourself any longer. You don't stick around long enough to hear what he has to say, fearing it'll cut open your heart even more.

Running back to your chambers, your hand covers your mouth to stop the noises and sobs from falling out of your mouth. Do not make eye contact with the guards. Frankly, you're shocked they haven't arrested you since you were an accomplice to committing treason, but they aren't moving in on you, so you keep going. In your room, you throw yourself onto the bed face first and let it all out into one of the pillows.

It's funny, you hadn't thought you'd completely forgiven Loki for all he'd done in the past, but gods, it’s not even a concern anymore. What you wouldn't give to have him here again with you.

Alive and well.

Through your muffled cries, the sound of large wings flapping comes from outside your open window. You look up to find an eagle now sitting on the window sill. Could it be the eagle that followed you from Svartalfheim? The animal cocks its head, then flies into the room, creating a big gust of wind.

"Stay back!" you yell, frightened. Are eagles here deadly? They certainly are huge.

The bird flies up and lands on your bed.

"Stay back you filthy creature!"

"I cannot say that is the first time someone has uttered this phrase to me," it says.

It speaks? Wait... No...

The foreign eagle transforms before your very eyes through the course of a glittering magic. An incredible whoosh of relief and joy leaves you upon seeing the miracle in front of you.

You jump on top of your miracle – Loki. You hold his face in your hands and kiss every single inch of it in case it disappears on you again.

"You were dead!"

Kiss. Kiss.

"I saw it with my own eyes!"

Kiss.

"How are you here?"

Loki smiles wide at your welcome and has to hold you back from attacking his face with kisses in order to answer your question.

"One might say it is the oldest trick in my book. And yet... people still seem to fall for it. Every. Single. Time."

"I'm so happy." You hug him tightly. “You have no idea, Loki, oh my God.” You never want to let him go.

"I feared you had not quite forgiven me for, well, everything," he says, caressing your cheek.

"I wasn't sure, myself, really. Until now. Losing you...? Now I know it would be the end of me."

Loki lowers you both down so you're laying on your sides, face to face on the bed. You're holding his hands, afraid to lose him again. Then, a thought comes to mind, of which you voice.

"What about Amora?"

"What about her?" He sounds confused.

"You don't... You don't have feelings for her?"

Loki looks at you like you've completely lost your mind.

"Amora had never sparked an interest of mine, romantically speaking. We studied magic together in our younger years. We had a mutual love for the craft. Always looking to better ourselves. And, naturally, she was only ever with me as a convenient way to get to Thor."

What. A. Bitch.

"Throughout the course of my very long life, I can say with all honesty, which is a gift I only bestow to you, I have only ever had eyes for you, my darling."

"Keep going," you joke, loving all the nice things coming from his beautiful mouth.

“The love of my life,” Loki continues. "My Midgardian princess.” He pauses. "My Mistress."

"Oh God!" You turn away and hands cover your face in embarrassment and shame. "I thought I could successfully go the rest of my life without hearing that nickname again!" Loki laughs heartily, then hovers over you with only love in his eyes. Nothing wild or untamed.

Just love.

“Death really puts perspective on a person’s life...” Loki says slowly, searching your eyes, “and I cannot imagine what my life would be without you in it... That is something I never want to learn.”

Is he-?

He can’t be...

“A-Are you proposing to me?”

He gives a small laugh this time. “Yes, I believe I am.” Loki hops off the bed and positions you to sit facing him. He makes direct eye contact with you as he continues, “My lovely (Y/N). Will you do me the honour of being my bride, my wife, and partner in life?”

You could have sworn he was going to say partner in crime.

Loki kneels - something you know for a fact he wouldn’t do for anyone else. You let out the breath you had been holding in your throat.

“Loki, I can’t imagine my life without you either. Of course, of course I’ll marry you!”

Good gods, you think you’re going to cry! Loki gets up and kisses you joyfully, his lips grinning this massive smile against your own. Have you ever seen him this happy?

Have I ever been this happy?

He holds your face so gently in his hands, his thumb rubbing your cheek lovingly. You smile and reignite a string of kisses between you until it’s clear you’re about to celebrate your devotion to each other in the best way possible.

Loki lowers you back until your head meets the plush pillow. He looks upon you like you’re the most beautiful creature these Nine Realms have ever seen and you think your heart is going to explode. You pull him down to meet your lips again. You need him. You need to feel his love.

Instantly, you start to shed your Asgardian dress, but Loki lends his magical assistance by waving a hand and making your clothes (and his) vanish into thin air. At first, you expect to feel the breeze from outside cool your skin, but that is not the case. No amount of cool air could turn down your rising body temperature. While one of his hands rests on your hip, the other snakes up your side. Loki’s touch is slow and considerate and everything your first time with him wasn’t. The way he handles you, hell, even looks at you, makes you feel like a princess.

Oh God.

You’re going to marry this man. You really were going to be a princess. Loki catches the look on your face and smiles, then places a kiss to your cheek.

“What are you thinking, darling?” he asks. You press your lips together in a quick smile.

“I’m thinking of how much I love you.”

If an exhale can sound happy, his most definitely was this. His thumb brushes the corner of your lips.

“Great minds think alike, or so they say.”

You throw your arms around his neck to bring him in closer for a deep kiss. You press yourself against him, the friction of your chests meeting kickstarts the pulsation between your legs. You exhale a shaky sigh.

“Loki… please…”

His hand wanders south to feel you. Upon his findings, you notice his eyes darken before your very own.

“Fear not, my love.”

And he’s right. He’s not dead and you’re not dying from a magical element. There really is nothing to fear. Not anymore. And certainly not when he gives you all of himself.

Loki goes on to love you with such attentiveness, a tenderness that honestly brings tears to well up in your eyes. One lonely, yet happy tear starts to fall down your cheek, but the god kisses it away. You don’t even need to explain the reason for it. He knows.

The way he is with you, the sounds he’s making, the way he feels inside of you - everything is heightened in the moment. It’s all so beautiful. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before in your life. A surging wave of love floods every inch of you and it becomes too hard to contain, so instead, it flies off your tongue in the form of words.

“I love you. I love you, gods, l love you.”

“My heart. My love,” Loki replies. “My everything.”

Through the final throes of passion, through deep kisses, outcries and shudders of pleasure, you both reach a whole new level of your proven undying love of each other.

Loki crawls up next to you after experiencing one of the most magnificent moments of your life. You nuzzle your face into his neck, the most fulfilled smile on your lips. His arms pull you in closer to his body. Neither of you says anything for a little while as you bask in your happiness.

"What will you do now?" you ask eventually.

"Well, I was hoping for a round two..."

The God of Mischief, he’ll always be.

"No," you giggle, "I mean now that everyone thinks you're, you know, dead? And you... not actually being dead. What's the plan?"

Your gorgeous fiancé leans on his elbow and tilts his head on his shoulder, looking suspiciously like he has another one of his tricks up his sleeve.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Part 29

A/N: Look! Things got happy again! Yaaaay! :P And this is the end of the Dark World chapters. We’re heading into fresh, new territory, baby!

Tag List: @gerardwayisapotato @theloneavenger1995 @magellan-88 @saraholdtheh972 @ha-tep @white-chocolate-mocha-fan @jemjem-chan @sagekoooon @1800-fight-me

#reader insert #loki x reader #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #loki imagine #loki fanfiction #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction

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asraobscura-blog · 7 years ago

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let everything happen.

Warning: the following contains discussion of caloric intake.

My hunger frightens the shit out of me.

Yesterday, at 4 a.m., I lay awake, sleepless, wondering if and when I could get up and eat something, eat anything that would fill up the hole in my chest. It hurt like hell. It hurt too that I’d pass in review all the food I’d eaten during the day – steak for lunch, ramen at dinner, energy bars and homemade macarons and, lastly, bread and butter and a glass of milk – which felt like an insupportable amount. How could I still, I wondered, be hungry, after eating so much? Would anything at all ever satisfy me? Would it just go on hurting, forever? Surely it was better to grit my teeth, close my eyes, and will myself to sleep. In the morning, I’d get to have my toast, and my tea, and the pain would lessen, for a while. All I had to do was sleep.

After an hour, and after a long cuddle with my cat, who was sprawled lazily over half my pillow with no care in the world (lucky girl!), I finally got up and had some ice cream. And then a few spoonfuls more.

I did feel better after that. Eventually I did fall asleep. But it was a terrifying experience to undergo, alone in the dead of night, and I hope it won’t happen again tonight. Already I am set to eat a little more today – one small homemade muffin – to compensate for the fact that a turkey breast is in no way equal to a steak. But now I am thankful that I ate that ice cream, as it sets a precedent … it means I can eat as much.

Back to hunger. I’ve read a lot about extreme hunger: this, and this, and this, and this. All of these posts and articles present extreme hunger not merely as normal, but as something that should be embraced. Respond to the hunger – physical and mental – always, they say. It doesn’t matter how much you eat, how many calories in one go, or how long has passed since your last meal or snack. You may feel full one moment and ravenous half an hour later. Our bodies know what they’re doing. Let everything happen.

Easily said, less easily done. I get the theory. My body, having been deprived for some time, clamours for more as soon as I give it anything at all. Terrified of the famine environment, it leaps at the chance of making up for that deficit. It needs to make up for two years and a half of restriction, and, by god, it needs to do it fast.

My body cares nothing for my anxiety about gaining weight, too much or too quickly. All it cares about it repairing the damage. I need a lot of energy to nourish my bones, my muscles, my organs, my brain – and that energy can only come from food. The longer I tarry, the more I refrain from giving my body what it so loudly demands from me, the longer it’ll take to repair itself, and the longer I’ll be hungry like this. And that’s not even taking hypermetabolism into the equation.

The first time I read about extreme hunger, about eating a lot in recovery, I was immensely relieved. Never before had anyone, among the clinicians and nutritionists and medical professionals I’d visited, explained to me that I was going to have to pay back the debt I’d incurred by giving my body a lot more food than ‘normal’ people ate. And even that normal intake seemed so shockingly low! I can’t count the number of times I googled things like ‘daily caloric intake’ and found answers along the lines of ‘a grown woman needs roughly 1800 calories per day’ – and despaired. (That’s yet another issue, I think: calorie calculators skew the data so badly. I once entered my weight and height into myfitnesspal to know how many calories I’d need to maintain. 1500 cal a day, they said. Another app kindly upped that number to 1650. The lesson I took from that: do not fucking trust those apps.)

So: for the longest time I was utterly and absolutely convinced that, in order to restore my weight and, god, please, not gain any more back, I would have to eat exactly as much as those daily guidelines would have it – no more – preferably less. Which terrified me. I felt so hungry that, paradoxically, I dreaded hitting even that 1800 ceiling, for fear of still being hungry afterwards – because those guidelines couldn’t possibly be wrong about this, right?

Right?

But then I read up on extreme hunger, and giving in to extreme hunger; and read recovery stories by people who went beyond 1800 calories, beyond 2500, beyond even 4K, 5K, 6K, people who had to eat a lot in order to gain weight at all, and in the bargain begin to tackle fear foods, eliminate restriction, and construct a better, healthier, fuller relationship with food. It was deeply reassuring. It felt like being given permission.

At the same time, as I slowly begin to honour my hunger a number of fears rear up their ugly heads. Am I bingeing? I wonder, as I demolish two homemade muffins as a midafternoon snack, knowing that I’m going to eat more with my tea when I get home, and after that dinner, and dessert, and a final snack before bed. Aren’t I eating too much already? Am I eating more than I even think I am? Should I be eating so late at night? Is my hunger even extreme hunger, or merely gluttony? Aren’t I just pretending in order to eat everything I shouldn’t be eating?

And then, if I don’t eat: why does it hurt so much?

I need to convince myself that it is okay to eat, every single day, more than I did the previous day. I need to eat today so that I can eat tomorrow. Today, it’s this one muffin – and even as I eat it I feel the pang of hunger in my chest, asking for more. It’s deeply distressing, and bewildering, to feel ravenous at the same time as I am giving in to that hunger. Every morsel seems to awaken in me a gigantic desire for more.

When in doubt, I turn to Tabitha Farrar’s ever-helpful blog, especially these two posts: There is never too much food, and You do not have binge eating disorder. I can, I think, credit them with triggering my current effort at recovery. Their overall message comes down to this:

1) You cannot, medically, develop BED if you’re in a restrictive-eating disorder.

2) A starved body needs more food to recover than a non-starved body.

3) It’s okay to eat a lot. It’s okay to listen to and answer to extreme hunger.

4) Restriction creates cravings.

5) If your body or your brain (or both) are asking for food, eat.

6) When in doubt, eat.

7) Eat.

#anorexia recovery #extreme hunger

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tumblunni · 8 years ago

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Let’s ramble a bit more about Changeling Sim ideas! This time a bit about the awkward lil royal family and their interlocking relationships~!

Kiddo

It our deuteroganist! Hello! The protagonist’s cute little daughter is actually the next heir to the faerie throne, sent to be raised by her as a challenge to prove that the human world has good in it and is worth saving. And also secretly because Xana Mega is pretty awkward and cute under her scary facade, and was worried she was too distant to make a good mother to her child. In the golden ending you can help patch up their relationship, even though Jackie is still the one Kiddo knows as her true mother, and her biological parent becomes more like the family’s aunt. Kiddo is technically half human, but it’s not because Xana Mega married a human or anything. Fairies don’t follow biological genetics, theyre grown from giant flowers after all! Xana created Kiddo entirely by herself, and she acquired her human side solely from being given to Jackie to raise. Baby fae are more metaphysically squishy than their older counterparts, the classic changeling ploy is simply to replace a human child with a fae baby and it’ll naturally shift into the shape of the human. For a time they’ll be just that- a fairy wearing a disguise. But if they don’t know theyre not human, they’ll grow into what they’re taught and completely transform into a real mortal around puberty. Changelings do tend to retain a heightened sense to the supernatural and occasionally a few odd abilities, but generally they’ll never return to what they once were. Traditionally nobody had a choice in this whole matter, it was a very sketchy and horrid practise of ancient fae who didnt even respect humans as real sentient people. But in this case Kiddo wasn’t replacing an existing human, and she’s being raised knowing of her origins. Eventually she’ll face the question of whether she wants to stay or return to being a fairy, but it’ll be 100% her own choice. Similarly, it’s her own choice whether she wants to take the throne or if she finds a different career choice during her adventures in this other world. Many endings for you, the player!

Xana Mega

The current queen of Mag Mell, an ominous towering figure who rules with strict efficiency and commands the current anti-human war. Everyone’s pretty damn scared of her, and she lives a very lonely life disconnected from her own people. Despite her frightening persona and dedication to all things rational, she’s called for this mysterious truce for the next 18 years, and is permitting certain humans to enter our realm?? Truly the queen works in mysterious ways... but is she going soft...? Deep down she’s really a kind person who feels she has to put up this front deliberately in order to retain order. Its half that and half not really knowing how to function well socially, since she’s been groomed to be a ruler from a young age and had to live with a distant father. Because she was scared she’d repeat his mistakes, she gave her child to somebody else... but ultimately has she just become the same absent parent? It doesnt matter, because at least the kid will have a good mother, even if it isn’t her. But the decision does haunt her, and she’s both excited and terrified of the day she’ll see the child again on her 18th birthday and she won’t recognise her. But hopefully (if the player does well) she’ll be able to see that Kiddo has grown up into a wonderful young woman and had a fullfilling life that makes it all worthwhile ^_^ Ultimately if you’d ever get to know the real Xana beneath the royal role, she’s a slightly adorable awkward dork with a weary sadness yet a childish joy for experiencing new things. When you’d given up hope on this stuff, its hard to restrain yourself! Its possible to get a super secret route where Jackie romances Xana and Kiddo acquires DOUBLEMUMS~! And they’re super cute going out together on Real Authentic Human World Dates while Xana flails happily like this small hotdog stand is disneyland. Who’da thought that after the war ended, the old queen would become a human world weeaboo as soon as she set foot in our dimension? ^_^

Alberich

Xana’s father and previous ruler. Known as the Good King, he was responsible for starting the grand reforms of society that Xana continues nowadays. If peace is ever achieved between humans and fae, he was the one who sewed the first seed even if he didn’t live to see it sprout. Despite his success as a ruler, he was pretty flawed as a father, and passed that on to his daughter. He couldn’t completely escape the trappings of ancient fairy tradition, and his daughter was mostly raised by maids and tutors while he remained just this distant silent figure she could never reach no matter how hard she tried. She never even knew very much about him since he died when she was young. The young queen was just left with a million different opinions everybody else had on him, coalescing into an abstract cluster of an unknowable, empty pillar of ideal regal emotionlessness. .....Of course, the real Alberich was just as far from this as she is! To those who personally knew him, he was a complete softhearted goofball whose overidealistic ramblings would surely doom the whole country. And isn’t that just why he’s so loveable? Ultimately, his failure as a father was just that... a failure. Xana tried to justify it as if he’d made the right decision to be distant, and she should become the same sort of person, and take it further to become distant to even her own citizens. But Alberich never pretended his decision was the right one, he was a good man who despite his best efforts didn’t know how to raise a child. He had no-one to learn from, and his fear of messing up is what caused him to flee from the concept of parenthood entirely. He thought that hiring the best educators and minders would help compensate for the ways he was lacking as a dad, never knowing that all his daughter wanted was the one thing he could give- love. :( In the end he perished sadly to a simple disease that could have been cured if the country’s infrastructure wasn’t so ravaged by the war with the humans. His decision to prioritize the remaining money towards protecting the citizens was what caused him to waste away from a simple fever. While a certain someone raced against the clock to fetch the medicine on foot, arriving just late enough to miss the chance to hold his hand as he passed away...

Rafferty

A simple court jester who was promoted to the king’s butler and eventually promoted/demoted (?) to the finance minister after the new queen took the throne. Why is he even in the royal family section...? He’s always been sort of a stuffy grumpy neat freak, but he used to be a symbol of fun amoungst the court once. Now he’s just become bitter and hateful, leading the anti-human sentiment and questioning the country’s leadership at every turn. He’s globally hated by all of his coworkers and suspected of being corrupt- he was the major scapegoat for the culprit in the king’s death, and never managed to shake the stigma. He’s only really here and has any sort of power because the king’s will secured his position for the foreseeable future. He’s also hated because (GASP!) he’s a disgusting former human turned fairy! In his former life he was a homeless peasant in the 1800s that Alberich brought home one day and hired as a servant. Everyone humoured the king with his new pet, but it started to get ridiculous when he gave the thing legal rights and a career! It’s tradition to just consider a fairy a fairy when they become one, and forget about whoever they were in their past life, but gossipping housewives like to ignore this rule and hold it against him anyway. Its also kinda why Rafferty has such a personal hate of humans, he used to be one and he’s seen nothing but the worst side of them... His role in the current story is really just to be a small obstacle in plotlines, and a possible befriendable character. I’m an optimistic person so I like stories of cliche ‘evil vizier’ type guys having more complex motives and being able to be redeemed in the end. In the end you can discover that the real secret behind him and the king was that they were actually dating, and Rafferty really was loyal to the kingdom all along. And he endured all this hate for so long because he doesn’t want to tarnish Alberich’s memory by letting people know about their affair. Xana is actually his biological daughter from when he was human, making him Kiddo’s grandpa. Neither of them knew this fact though, and in fact Xana was one of the people who hated him the most. She just knew him as her funny friend who kept her company when she was lonely as a child, one of her father’s servants who seemed to care about her more than the rest. So she took it as a personal betrayal when he was suspected of killing the king, and kept believing it well into her adult years. Its gonna be a messy reunion for them when the misunderstanding is all sorted out, but a happy one too, hopefully...

+++

A slightly unrelated side note but I ideally wanna make a full cast of court employees and lesser nobility! At the moment all I have is Rafferty, unnamed scribe dad and kiiiinda a cupid type figure I dont know much about yet? I dunno, I just got that concept in my brain while I was thinking about Raffles and Ritchi’s past back when he was king. I imagined maybe Rafferty did have at least one friend amoung the royal court who knew about his relationship with the king and supported them. And it sorta came together in my brain as some sort of champion of love and justice, and maybe designed around a traditional valentine’s day fairy cliche. But like a world weary chain smoker one? BUT still one that really is a kind loving figure, not a dark subversion or anything. I just feel like they’re someone worn down by seeing injustice in the world, and questioning other people’s definitions of love that’re being forced upon them. Someone who was doubting this country... I get the feeling they’ve left the plot by the time we get to the present, but I don’t know if they died or maybe they just left the country after the king died and they’d lost their last hope the place could change. But I do generally think maybe everyone who was in the fairy court back when Rafferty was jester is now dead and/or gone, he was the youngest member then and he’s the oldest one now. And he was hated by all his former friends, they died, and now he’s left being hated by all new people... But yeah I just have this good image of some broken but kind person finding a tiny bit of happiness realizing grumpy old rafferty found love, and reassuring him that they dont hold the same stupid homophobic ‘no dating humans’ views that everyone else is pushing. A brief bit of calm before the storm, making it even sadder that cupid just wasnt strong enough to keep trying after that hope died, and ran out even on rafferty, their last friend... I guess... a Nanu cupid?

#changeling sim #the sad and complicated royal intrigue of doubledads

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rachelclewis · 6 years ago

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Brunch at Tiffany’s

I worked at the Utah Museum of Fine Arts when I was in college back in the 90s. I was on a work study program, and I actually started in the work shop, in the basement.

This may sound like a mismatch, and it was, but not for the obvious reasons. I took shop in Jr. High school and, all things considered, I did pretty well. The class was one year long but divided into three sections: wood shop, technology, and metal shop. My wood shop teacher loved me. He gave me 150% on one assignment because I carved a 3D design when everyone else had done a 2D cutout. I rarely saw the tech teacher but his student teacher told me flat out (and in front of the entire class) not to come to him with any questions because he had no intention of helping me. “I know you are only here to meet boys.”

I was thirteen and I would not have known what to do with a boy if I managed to get one's positive attention. And anyway, I spent each day of class just trying to stay out of the path of those trolls. I don’t know if there were particularly nasty personalities in that group or if it was the result of getting too many thirteen year old boys in one room with power tools, but those boys were the worst! They were both mean and dangerous and they made every day torture. They were constantly trying to humiliate me into quitting, or at least crying. If I said anything in class – right or wrong – I was teased for it for the rest of the period. One day they would roll the spot welder into place behind me and set it off to burn my arms and singe my clothes with the flying sparks. The next, they would wait for me to walk into class and then they would strip the skinny nerdy kid of his pants and push him toward me. It was an exercise in tolerance, and I survived it, one day at a time. I hope that skinny nerdy kid did, too.

The metal shop instructor in the final section of class was helpful but stern. I never got a sense that he knew I was in any way different from the 29 other male students. Then one day I got called down to the office and learned he had nominated me for student of the month. Maybe he wanted to reward my fortitude? Or maybe he felt bad about putting the spot welder on wheeled castors to begin with. I'll never know.

Fast forward a few years, and I was looking for a work study job at the University of Utah. I saw a post at the art museum and thought it would be fun to work there. I think I listed two things on my job application: 1.) my year of shop training in 8th grade and 2.) the fact that I got the highest possible score on my AP art history exam. I got the job. I may have been the only person who applied.

My boss in the museum's shop was what we would now call a “hot mess,” though by the time I met him he was cold and lumpy. On my first day, he told me to "earthquake proof the Pre-Columbian exhibit." Then he went back into his office where he sat at his desk and stared at a corner in the ceiling while medium priced scotch directly from the bottle. We never spoke again.

I had no idea what to do or where to start. Maybe if this weren't the year 1995 it would have occurred to me to look up "how to earthquake proof old ceramics" on the internet, but it wasn't and I was screwed. I walked around the exhibit trying to get some ideas. I looked for ways to suspend the smaller objects from the ceiling so that if there were a quake they would swing around but never hit the ground. Or each other? But still be out of reach of thieves or handsy children? I decided it wouldn't work but I was feeling like I had made some progress by having a bad idea and eliminating it and that seemed positive. Then I noticed a large mask under filtered light. It had a strangely familiar texture. I leaned in and read the card next to the plexiglass box which read, “made of animal skin.” It was the generality that made it come together for me. Human. It was definitely human skin. I was convinced. I still am. If I had ever found a way to secure that collection I might have left that particular object to fend for itself.

I still had a work ethic back then and I couldn't just not work. Having no clue what I was supposed to do and a distinct fear of trying and failing, I was stuck. Then I noticed a shop-vac in the corner. It was one of those trash-can sized deals on wheels with a suction tube like an elephant’s trunk coming off the side. I named it R2 and it was my only co-worker for a while. I showed up to work three afternoons a week and I vacuumed every nook and crevice whether it needed it or not. And it didn't. Not at all. At the end of each shift I emptied R2 and then I went home. Until one day I showed up and was informed (not by my boss, but someone else) that I had been transferred to the gift shop. For a few seconds before the relief set in, I felt that I had let all of womankind down. I had a shop job, and I failed. Then I headed upstairs to the lobby and the sunlight and I left R2 behind without so much as a backward glance.

My new boss was a man named Brad who rarely came in to work, but when he did he was over dressed and wearing too much foundation. On the days that he didn't come in, I was told he suffered from migraines. I interpreted this as code for a penchant for late nights and hangovers, but I don't really know. I just know that I was again left alone, but this time with post cards, a cash register, and some clear expectations.

This was not the MET or MOMA. Sometimes I would go days without a customer. There was plenty of time to do homework, but in the summers I read entire Steven King novels while sitting behind the register. Once in a while I had a customer, and they would want to pay with a credit card. On those occasions I had to run through the museum and ask everyone in their offices to hang up their phones. “We made a sale! I need to use the phone line to run a charge!”

The 90s were an adorable time to be alive. I'm sorry if you missed them.

One day I was sitting at my station, writing in my journal or something, when the security guard stopped by to ask if I needed a bathroom break. Her name was Debbie and I just adored her. She was sweet and worldly and she had one deformed tiny hand, not unlike the Kristen Wiig “Dooneese” sketches on Saturday Night Live. At least, that is what it made me think of, many years later, when I saw them. Debbie told me that when she was growing up, her mother always made her use her tiny had to clean out the garbage disposal and she was always frightened it might turn on spontaneously.

“Yes!” I shouted, hopping off my too tall stool. “Thank you!” But as I landed, the stool fell back and hit this weird waist high block thing that we used to push in front of the cash register area when no one was on duty in the gift shop. (It was very secure, obviously.) The block made a thunk and tipped on its side in the direction of the glass wall that was the only thing separating the gift shop area from the ten foot tall Tiffany crystal doors. I was told that they were a gift from Louis Comfort Tiffany to the LDS church in the late 1800s, but church leaders didn’t want them because they featured winged angels. Mormon angels don't have wings (because Joseph Smith saw some angels and he said they didn't have wings, and man who sees angels and talks to them in the woods and then reads secret books by putting his head in a hat and using magic stones to translate them into English is not weird. Angels with wings? That’s silly. Amazing what bunk some folks believe in. We don't want those. Give them to the university in case they ever get an art museum.).

I leapt between the falling block and the glass and stopped the impending crash with my body, the right angle edge of the block crushing into my full bladder. Luckily I was 19 and I didn't piss myself so that was the end of the drama.

“Woah,” I said. I looked back at the Tiffany angels, which are not the classic blue and green of the classic Tiffany lamp shades that you are probably picturing. They are long elegant slices of crystal with frosted angel designs carved into them. They could be the doors leading to Superman's Fortress of Solitude. For a moment I imagined them shattered and skittering in icy pieces across the floor. At the time, the museum's director was a diminutive octogenarian and man shaped ball of rage named Frank Sanguinetti. I had witnessed a few of his milder temper tantrums by then and I was imagining my new life as his forced butler or maid as I tried to work off the debt of the priceless art I had destroyed. I would have been buried in his garden beneath the irises within the week.

“Don't worry,” Debbie said, helping to unpin me with her little hand. “I always get clutzy on my period, too.”

That is when my head exploded. Yes, but how did she...? And was it true that...? Now that I think about it... Oh my goodness, yes! Why had no one told me before! This should be common knowledge! There should be a PSA or a warning label on forklifts, at the very least!

There have been a few occasions since that day nearly 20 years ago where I have watched a woman struggle with a task or gravity and, if I felt I knew her well enough, I repeated Debbie's phrase. “Don't worry, Sweetpea. I get like that when my red sea is parting, too.” (Side note, I just googled euphemisms for menstruation to find a funny one and was reminded that there aren’t any, so I just made that up. I did learn that in Japan they call it the “Arrival of Mathew Perry” which is the best thing I ever heard but I failed at finding a way to make it work here.) And each time I have witnessed a similar series of responses. Incredulousness, recognition, connection, amazement, horror, and finally amusement and laughter. Maybe not in that order exactly, but the moment usually ends with laughter. But there is always that moment of recognition. That moment of “Damn, she’s right! Why didn't I put that together myself? And why don't they mention that in those fifth grade maturation videos?”

I don't know the answer. It would have been nice. But as far as I can tell, it is still a well-kept secret.

I've been thinking about all of this the last few days, ever since I got the devastating alert on my phone that read the Cathedral of Notre Dame was on fire. It hurts to think about the loss of history and human accomplishment. The last I heard, they still didn't know how the fire began. It seems they have out-ruled arson, but I read that there was some reconstruction work going on somewhere in the cathedral. Which isn't a surprise. 800 year old buildings have a lot of maintenance required.

I just hope whatever stared the fire was some faulty piece of equipment being operated by some man. Women have suffered enough to build our cred with power tools. That is one disaster we simply do not need.

#blog #humor #art #girls in shop #power tools

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whereintheworldiskaibobai · 6 years ago

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Gay Games Con’t:

Mattie’s and my first experience was immediately hilarious. I legit had all the drool hanging from my face. How else could this go wrong.

Anyways, he gave me a 10min window to get my shit together so we could go to Clingancourt, a French style garage sale in a bazaar setting on steroids. I may have decided right then and there that he and I were going to be friends.

I’m still hung over af, my luggage is still lost, so god knows what I’m wearing, but according to Matthew, it’s something out of Magnum P.I. My fashion choices amused him and everyone else. But I will tell you, so many people complimented my garb the more he hated it. #truestory Also, it’s all American Airlines could afford me.

Description of MG Fiore: he’s a mans-man with the child rearing hips of a woman. His tan is only envious of French/Italian sunbathers in speedos in the French Rivera. He has DSL’s the like of which Lisa Rinna would be proud of. He smells like a “fuck-boy” on top of it all, as if Abercrombie AND Fitch pored all their cologne on him at once. And he dresses like a transvestite.

Jk. He’s so put together it’s irritating. His fashion sense is a mix of expensive pieces and more affordable pieces. He’s like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean with the amount of bracelets and rings on his arm. I won’t tell his age, for fear of my death, but I will add that a lot of men would be super jelly of his physique...not me though, like, hit a gym bro. And his morning regime takes about 2 hours (not lying). But who am I to judge, he looks young and has great skin. So, you do you boo. Oh, and he’s is smhart, he is kind, he is important.

In the end, he has purchased Tiffany blue bookends, a painting and a jacket from the 1800’s that the French railroad workers use to wear. And I have managed to sober up a bit. Before we leave the bazaar, we eat Crepe Monsieurs (not croque) a grilled cheese sandwich w ham in a crêpe. He and I make our way through the bizarre to get him registered...in the complete opposite direction by an hour. We have practice at 2 or some nonsense in 36 degrees (about 97 degrees f). I’m French now , so I use a different measurement system. My wiener is so much more impressive in The impérial system, just sayin. So, off we go. Also, little did I know, this would be the most amount of using the train he and I would do.

The registration building we go to is brilliant and ugly at the same time. It’s the Cite de la mode Design on the Seine. It’s a giant boat and it has a chartreuse colored worm-esq thing on its side. But the Gay Games check in is a well oiled machine (enter butt joke here). We are given our first medal for participating (later to be our condolence medal), a bunch of books by Lonely Planet on France, and free metro passes...which we rarely used.

By the grace of god, Matthew and I make it to practice on time. He had to shower, and reapply his face. Even for soccer practice it’s an ordeal. I’ve mastered his clothing regime: he chooses his second pair of shorts and his third shirt and then his face. It takes a hot minute in any case. It works my last nerve and he’s giddy af.

I play like a mf’ing beast during soccer practice. Matthieu on the other hand plays like a bitch. For all that “I’m a man, hear me roar” he’s much more of a “scratch-behind-my-ears-and-let-me-purr” kind of player. He does share an extra pair of shoes with me, because my shits (not littéral) still missing. So while it feels like he’s adapted Chinese foot binding as a way of life, I’m gimping around like Mr.Magoo. Thank bloody god this hour of practice is over. By the looks of things, we’ve thoroughly intimidated the rest of the 7v7 teams. Eat your heart out boys, we’re coming for you. Parts of this paragraph are true. I’ll let you decide what it is.

I have blisters on my little piggys, so I need new shoes and shin cards and a pair of balls... (movie reference) they’re like mice balls, but smaller. And we are in the epicenter of the Marais. Que: friends Will Shields and David Benitez who join Matthew and I on my journey for salvation at Adidas...I may have stolen a walkie talkie and exclaimed that, “There are sharks in the the changing room. Repeat, there are sharks in the changing room.” (In my best French accent of course). The French being French...took their time responding to the ludicrous claims. Meanwhile, there are two beautiful boys I’ve wondered off to follow. Will nods in approval. No one’s the wiser it’s me on the walkie talkie, and there’s no sharks that could be found in the changing rooms...crafty bastards.

I’m not sure when it happened over our 6 hour initial hangout, but we become thick as thieves. I can’t remember the last time I made friends with a guy, who happens to be gay, this quickly. But holy shit do we do nothing but laugh. Like it’s an ab workout. The only other guy Ive gotten along with this well (who’s straight), is Nick James. Anyways, our teammates are like, “How long have you known each other?” They ask it in a slightly curious, “are they sleeping together?” kind of way and a “did they really just meet” kind of way. Firstly, he’d be so lucky. Secondly, we did only just meet. His love languages are simple and it’s my job to read a room. Thirdly...his Lisa Rinna DSL’s frighten me, so let’s just stop there. I’m imagining the call I’ll be getting...after he’s featured on the next episode of Botched.

He’s laughing right now, sure of it. And making fun of me, for god knows what. I’ll type another page soon. For now, bonsoir!

I’m headed home tomorrow.

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