#the Scottish cabin in the woods

[charliemwrites]

Sneak Preview

The Scottish Cabin in the Woods, Chapter 4

“Fucking do it,” Ghost growls, lower and rougher than ever. “See what happens, kitten.”

When he releases your arm, you can’t bring yourself to follow through. All your strength is just in keeping your spine straight. The unspoken threat – his sharp-toothed, blood-hungry encouragement – leeches everything but survival from your muscles.

No praise comes for choosing the wise path this time. You tremble in its absence.

The chain slithers away. Even if you thought running would do any good, you can’t collect your legs under yourself. Ghost doesn’t ask (or demand) that you do. Hand still hooked in your collar, he starts dragging you, crawling on hands and knees at his side.

Johnny is still protesting, volume and desperation rising like a tide, flooding the room with impotent panic. You can’t make out individual pleas, the crashing waves of your own fear too loud in your ears. Ghost’s silence is roiling, violent.

You get halfway down the hall before realizing the destination.

Can’t help the scream that tears itself from your throat, the inconspicuous white door looming ahead, sinister.

“No, no, Ghost you promised!” you shout, bucking and thrashing.

You manage to slip his hold and fall back, twisting and scrambling to get your feet under you. Just stumble up to almost standing, about to cross the threshold back to the den. See Johnny’s huge, regretful eyes and blanched face before cruel arms circle your waist and yank.

“No!” you shriek, kicking at air. Ghost doesn’t even grunt with the effort of hauling your struggling body back down the hall. “No, Ghost, please!”

The locks are open you realize as cool air rushes past. Your efforts double, even as he easily drags you down a set of stairs. All it does is earn a threatening hand around your throat. You sob as shadows swarm, hiccupping that he promised over and over.

Your feet brush cold, flat concrete.

The basement.

[timetoboldlygo]

dff ur pacing ur writing structure she is just so sick.... they should have had more infighting before eppysode 10... this should be like an episode of the traitors where everyone is accusing each other on extremely sparse evidence . and also theyre stuck in a castle i guess

[peachesofteal]

for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?

Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):

And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.

Neon Medusa Too sweet not to share Ghost and Red Fox Alford plea The Willow Maid Exfiltration The Arrangement Civilian Asset See no evil Squeeze me I squeak MildLimerence Mine & Yours Saltwater Metanoia to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it) white flag blood on my shirt, rose in my hand totally platonic Surviving you imprimatura Dog all that's said in the lowlight birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children Happiness songs that sound like sea foam down to the marrow roommate gaz Chink in the Armour Man-sized Hummingbird don't leave me locked in your heart Listening In Situationship-verse The Scottish Cabin in the Woods

Additions to this list as of June 12

Spoils of War Where Your Feet Pass Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window jigsaws pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks sirius c Spoils Cabin Fever / part one lotus flower the lies we tell Who Dares Win babytrap anthology The Hard Way Of Sea Foam and Iron bury me beneath the basswood tree Wicked Harvest Tiger balm baby blue Keeper/Kept Something Sweet Stay Away appetite

[anniebass]

cozy snoozin'

complimentary fluff ficlet to be read here, or in the snippet below:

To be honest, place was a total fucking dump.

But, the summer days stretched long with swimming and fishing and games and just hanging out by the lake, and the evenings lasted well past midnight, warm and abuzz with cicadas looking for a tryst, not too humid either (Eddie’s hair was a clear tell), so it didn’t really matter that the cabin they rented was a dump. For two nights, it would do. For stumbling into bed after a goodnight joint, it was enough. 

The inside was clad in wood, with dusty sconces on the wall that barely dispersed the darkness, but eh, the dark had its mercies, hid all the little imperfections, cast shadows over eyes that shone a bit too bright after a kiss. But even under that warm gluey light the sunburn stood out, new redness sheathed over the skin; not Steve though, with his good genes he tanned easily, plus sulking by the pool always gave him a headstart.

Most of Eddie’s sunburn was hidden under that dumb lavender t-shirt Steve got at the Indiana State Fair with Robin, after she insisted they’d get identical shirts, let’s be twins, Steve!, choosing about the ugliest design he’s ever seen. Of course, the ugliness delighted Eddie, so much that he stole the t-shirt from him earlier today, acting like a fucking girlfriend or something, rolling his eyes over a lit joint: you weren’t wearing it, Steve, and as enticing as it might be, I can’t be sitting around tits out in nature, mosquitoes would absolutely eat me whole. 

Then he leaned in, adding in a terrible Scottish accent: leavin’ eatin’ me whole to ye, laddie.

rest on ao3 :D

[zzeraphilm]

Building Bridges

Regulus Black X Potter!F!Reader

Summary: After finding the note left behind R.A.B in the presumed Horcrux. The Golden Trio seek Sirius’ help in locating R.A.B, they end up finding him yet the reunion is not as expected. (Roughly set at the beginning of DH)

Note: Sirius didn’t die in Order of the Phoenix and Regulus didn’t die in the cave he just run off abroad to hide :p

I haven’t written for Harry Potter (ever) so apologies for any thing that might be out of character! ;-; i kept thinking about this rough idea during work

——————————————————————————

Harry looked up and locked eyes with his Godfather, Sirius had been silent the entire time. They were perched neatly in a two by two formation, his two best friends behind him and his only remaining familial tie. They had taken a portkey to the Scottish highlands, the icy gusts of wind cutting threw Hermione’s ponytail so high it nearly smacked Ron on the back of his head.

“Sirius, are you sure this is the right place?” Harry’s fingers clutched his forearms, rubbing them vehemently to produce some warmth.

In front of them was a lonesome cabin, mere metres away from the vast forest line that dotted along the coastal shores. Crashing waves hit the jagged rocks like the sound of an applause.

Sirius clutched onto the note the Golden trio had given him.

“For years I had questioned by brother’s last found writings. I am certain this is what he meant.”

The quartet marched ahead, the uneven stone path dug into Ron’s trainers, nearly tripping him, thankfully Hermione caught him by the seams of his jacket.

The door beyond had its metal hinges rusted beyond repair, a faint shadow of the number plate ‘8’ was the only reminisce of the original oak. Cracks and blackened mould painted over the door, weirdly however, the door knocker was untouched, no sign of usage or age. Despite Sirius’ persistence to wait to check the area, Harry banged his first against the wood, the booming shakes forced the door knocker to tap in sync.

There was a faint shout from within the cabin, heavy footsteps and whispers. Then silence.

The door creaked open, a woman tight lipped and furrowed eyebrows, her E/C eyes shot daggers towards Harry. She glanced at Ron, then Hermione and finally she focused on Sirius.

With a swift push, the door flung open revealing herself and a disheveled man behind her aiming his wand towards them.

“Sirius! Oh My! You’re alive!” She threw her arms around Sirius, behind Ron was flabbergasted, yet Hermione had her wand matched with the man behind the woman.

“Y/N, what are you- Regulus?” Before Sirius could enjoy his reunion with his long lost friend, he could only focus on his brother.

“Regulus Arcturus Black.” Harry spoke softly.

“Do not call me that,”

Regulus’ grip on his wand tightened with a slight shake in his wrist, his fingernails dug into his palms. “How did you find this place?”

Y/N took a few steps back and held onto Regulus’ raised arm gently easing it lower and lower.

“Darling, put your wand down. Your brother has finally come home yet you show him such malice. It has been years may we talk about this over tea,” her whisper felt like a soft hug unlike any other. “Please?”

After guiding the four to their small dinning table, Y/N left to the kitchen to boil the kettle. With only two chairs at the table, Harry, Ron and Hermione insisted on standing behind Sirius, who sat opposite his scowl faced brother.

After years of believing his brother’s death, Sirius now was sat face to face with the little boy he used to love. But they were both no longer just boys, now they were men, in the eye of a hurricane waiting for things to come to a crash. Regulus’ hair had become unruly, his curls was as just as untameable as Sirius’. His previously porcelain face, had deeply settled in scars and frown lines that framed his lips. He was far from the young boy destined for power and prestige. He now slept under a rotting roof with walls that could barely hold its own weight. Sirius was torn between grasping his brother after years of separation or running away from everything all over again. But war was coming and time was of the essence. They must leave Scotland for London by nightfall, with everything Regulus knew of the Dark Lord.

“Here, it’s just my own blend of floral herbs and spices. It is quite hard to purchase any professionally made tea round here. It tastes better with a bit of honey, don’t worry.” Y/N laid out two teacups, three short glasses and one tall glass full of her freshly brewed tea. In the middle of the table was a pot of honey with a teaspoon lodged inside. “Please bare with the glassware, we only have enough for the two of us.”

Regulus sat in silence, eyes closed lightly sipping his tea that had two teaspoons of honey mixed in.

“Let’s cut to the chase.” said Harry, Regulus still not paying him any mind, whilst Y/N’s eyes softened when he spoke.

“Regulus, we found this note in this locket signed R.A.B, your initials.” Hermione chucked the locket by its chain onto the table, skidding across to meet Y/N’s fingers. “We know its a fake. We need to know where the real one is now. Voldem-“

“Do not speak his name.” Despite his stern tone, Regulus had delicately placed his teacup onto the table with no splash.

“Under my roof, my home. You do not say that wretched name.”

Sirius slams his hands onto the table, abruptly standing up.

“Regulus, first you fake your death and now I find you cozying up with Y/N Potter, of all people! You are to give these children that bloody locket now or I will show you how Azkaban has changed me!” Sirius’ voice boomed against the four walls, leading Regulus to look up with a scowl.

“Brother,” the younger Black rose from his chair and stepped towards Sirius, in a matter of seconds he had grabbed the elder Black by his collar and slammed him against the nearby wall. His tongue spewed venom targeted his brother.

“You still remain as ill-tempered as always. You have no right to stand in front of me and disrespect my family. Leave whilst I show you mercy!” Regulus already had wand digging deep into Sirius’ throat, in response Sirius had gripped his younger brother’s wrist, attempting to claw his fingers away.

“Regulus! Stop it this instant!” Y/N screeched, pulling her husband away from his brother. Sirius dropped to the floor coughing, Regulus looked down at his brother with a glare, spat on the top of Sirius’ head and left the room.

Harry was left stunned in place. His Godfather looked like a shell of a man the moment he locked eyes with his brother. Now, his estranged aunt was comforting his Godfather after everything. How strange.

“Come, let’s move to the living room and we can all talk calmly there, without my husband.”

Ron turned to Hermione and whispered ‘husband?’ With his eyes darting across the room to focus on the many framed photographs of Y/N and Regulus. Hermione, as shocked as Ron was, merely shrugged and followed the adults to the front room.

Like the rest of the house, the sofa was barely useable, the longer they sat the further they sunk into the cushions. Harry, Ron and Hermione shared the three seater, Y/N perched at the edge of her armchair. Whilst Sirius leaned against the wall by the door with his head down, he felt beyond ashamed at his reunion with his brother.

Hermione coughed trying to clear the air of any tension, “Sorry that we didn’t get to have your tea Miss Potter- or uhm Black-“

“Y/N’s fine dear.” Her E/C eyes softened at the teenagers, they reminded her so much of her brother’s friends in their younger years.

“Y/N, how are you related to me? Sirius hasn’t spoken about you until earlier today.”

She gasped comically, clutching her chest to add to the act.

“Pads, you traitor! You were supposed to be my best friend!” She fake cried but Sirius looked up pleading to her with a string of unintelligible excuses. With a light chuckle her demeanour changed.

“No, in all seriousness I’m not surprised. You were never supposed to know about me Harry. We may be related by name, but not by blood. I was adopted into the Potter family, almost like dear Padfoot here.” Sirius huffed in response.

“I basically was already part of the family when I join you guys.”

Y/N chuckled sincerely this time, her left hand covering her smile, a noticeable silver loop around her finger.

“Yes and you ate all of my hidden chocolates by the third day you were with us!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at this family’s banter. He was so used to the bickering and squabbling of the Dursleys’, and he hadn’t seen Sirius so animated with anyone but him and Remus.

“Harry, I wish I could’ve been there for you. But before your birth I had responsibilities that called for me that I could not disobey.” Y/N stood up and began to rummage through a chest of draws in the corner of the dimly lit room. She turned around and knelt by Harry’s knees placing a little cardboard box onto his lap. She began to slowly take out its belongings. An enchanted photograph, a notebook and a rusted Snitch.

“After my brother and his friends left for the Order, I tried to join but was vehemently denied by Dumbledore.” She lifted up the tattered notebook, “It would be too long to go into details but to summarise - he did not see me fit to fight alongside James. Instead I was given a separate mission that meant relocation to France. I too was tasked by Dumbledore to find a Horcrux, more so, I was tasked on recovering Regulus. I found both, clearly.” She placed the notebook back in the box and picked up the photograph.

“This was the last time I saw your father, my brother. 1979, their wedding. Look at how young we were Sirius!” She looked up, smiling lightly at the man holding back her tears, he now was leaning over the sofa looking at the photograph in her hand. It was the entire Marauder’s pack alongside Lily who hand her arms linked with Y/N’s both laughing towards the camera. Sirius had his arm slung over James’ shoulders whose tie and top button were undone. Remus and Peter were behind the two, ruffling James’ hair and chanting a silent hoorah for their union.

“That was quite a night, if I remember correctly you couldn’t stop crying at the reception. Saying how you always dreamed of having a sister and Lily was the perfect woman for the role. You were so drunk!”

“I was not!” Y/N screeched, Sirius only laughed in response.

The teens laughed at Y/N’s outcry. Harry kept watching the photograph loop, his parents and their friends could forever enjoy an eternal happiness in this photograph. He only wished he could experience all of their joy and warmth together in person.

“Ahem. As I was saying,” Y/N sat herself down on the armrest beside Harry. “I loved your parents Harry, I truly wish I was there for your birth, for everything. Unfortunately after that night, I had to fulfil my duty as Dumbledore’s foreign agent. By the time news reached to me of James and Lily’s death and Sirius’ arrest, it was too late. I was ordered to not contact you. So I,” With a deep sigh Y/N looked towards the hanging photograph of her and Regulus.

“I threw myself at work, by my fifth year of scouring the neighbourhoods of Europe, I finally found Regulus. And well, you can guess that happened next.” She dangled her ringed left hand over her knee.

“I never meant to keep everything a secret for so long, it became life consuming. By the time I had realised nearly 18 years had pasted, I was a different woman. I’m so sorry Harry.” Y/N clung onto her nephew in a tight embrace, tears dampening his shirt. He gripped her back in response as if she were to disappear from his arms. As they parted, Y/N’s sombre gaze started to brighten.

“Regulus means no harm to you three,” she turns to Sirius “Of course, you know your own relationship with your brother better than anyone else. I know you don’t plan on staying here any longer than you must, so let me handle it. Just stay here for a bit, I’ll get you the locket.”

Then she left the room, leaving behind an ear piercing silence.

“Do you think we could grab some food from the kitchen whilst she’s gone?” Ron uttered.

“I’m sure she won’t mind. Knowing her, she has probably hidden her snacks behind some bowls.” Sirius chortled, he drifted into the hallway and entered the kitchen.

He opened the cupboards one by one until he found Y/N’s fine china. And just as he guessed, she had placed a packet of custard cremes behind a stack of bowls. Still using the same hiding spot, shame there’s no chocolates this time. Before he could shut the cupboard door, he heard shouting from the slightly opened backdoor to the right of him.

“You have no idea what they’ve probably been through to even get here Reg!” Y/N was stood next to Regulus, who was smoking a cigarette and tapping his foot against the grass.

“He shouldn’t be here. I don’t care for the young Potter, he can do what he pleases with that damned piece of shit. I just don’t want to see him for one more second!”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me! Don’t you dare speak ill about my nephew! And in case you forgot, you took my name! You’re a Potter now as well, he is your nephew! Don’t you care about your family? Your brother is here acting more of a father figure than anyone else could for that boy who has only known pain. You of all people should know what it’s like to live like that.” Y/N hand grabbed Regulus’ hand and lightly rubbed the back of his palm.

“…so he can be there for Harry but not me. Y/N, I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I can’t just let him back into my life like nothing happened. We left that world behind because of how much it has failed me. You. Us. I only planned my life with you in mind, not once did I consider my brother and now Harry to be there. It’s all too much. I just want things to go back to how it was. Back when it was just you and me.”

Regulus began to softly whimper, Sirius could see from the crack of the door Regulus’ shaking head of hair against Y/N’s shoulder, he saw his brother’s shoulders shake whilst he clung onto Y/N’s waist. Y/N lightly rubbed Regulus’ back with her right hand and patted his hair softly with her left. Just as he did when the two were children.

“I know darling, I know. But we’ll take it slowly. One step at a time. For now,” The two pulled back from each other, their foreheads pressed against one another. “We give them the Horcrux, and once it’s all over. We’ll invite them round for a proper meal. And we can finally clean up the place, yeah?” Regulus hummed a light tune and nodded, he closed his eyes and kissed Y/N’s lips delicately.

——————————————————————————

“Exactly as I suspected! Right behind the bowls,” Sirius returned to the front room before he could see the couple be affectionate to each other. The thought of his best friend’s sister and his brother together was still alien to him. He drew a biscuit from the packet and kept it between his teeth, then threw the whole packet at Ron who gladly caught it in his arms.

It was nearing sunset, they would’ve ideally made their way back to London by now. Harry couldn’t help but sit in silence admiring the photograph in his hands, clutching to it like a prayer.

Y/N and Regulus walk into the room, hand in hand. Before Sirius could utter an apology to his brother, the younger Black pushed his fisted hand towards him, then revealing Slytherin’s Locket in the palm of his hand.

“Take it. Take it and destroy it. Once you’re done with it. Y/N wants you back for a proper dinner.” Sirius slowly takes the chain of the locket, once the weight had been freed from Regulus’ hand, he unlocked his fingers from Y/N’s and disappeared back into the halls of their cabin. Y/N only looked towards them with a glint of hope.

“He’ll come round eventually, you know. He’s changed over the years.”

Whilst Hermione and Ron were nibbling at the biscuits, Harry turned around and stood to face his aunt.

“Y/N can I, can I keep this? Just for now, I’ll give it back once I come back to visit. I just, I really-“

Y/N only chuckled at her nephew’s nervous demeanour, “Of course love. Just make sure you look after it okay? Plus I’ll need you back here with your uncle here so we can take more photos to put up on my walls!”

Sirius, who was still chewing half of his biscuit interrupts “Actually I’m his Godfather,”

The H/C haired woman flipped her head around, “Since when? Why would James- Are those my custard cremes?”

——————————————————————————

“Goodbye Y/N! Goodbye Mr Regulus!” Ron waved as they walked down the stone path back to where they left the port key. He turned to Hermione, “You know maybe living out in the wild seems alright, you know? Pretty nice don’t you think?”

“You think you could make your own food and drink from just the bare essentials like Y/N?” The curly-haired girl retorted with a smile.

“Oh well no, maybe I could just conjure up something!” The two continued to bicker and laugh till the end of the path. Behind them Harry and Sirius stuck a few seconds longer to speak with Y/N.

“I’m sorry for the state of our cabin, my dear. I’ll make sure Regulus repairs all of the broken furniture before your return!”

A faint “I heard that!” echoed from the hallway. Y/N laughed and drew Harry into a hug, lightly patting his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon.” Harry squeezed her tightly and thanked her again softly, promising to return the moment he is finished with his goal. He turns back and rushes to his friends.

Y/N steps back and turned to Sirius. “Pads, tell me who else is left from us lot?”

“Ah well, Moony’s still kicking, still part of the Order.” The two laugh at the thought of their shared memories. A light sigh trails the end of their joy.

“Merlin, things really have changed so much now. I heard that it was Peter, yes?”

Sirius nodded, still resentful towards his traitorous friend yet his eyes gleamed with sorrow. Y/N rubbed his forearm in response to comfort him.

“You’ve got us now. Reggie will take a while, but you’ve got Harry and me. We’re family now. So, don’t be a stranger okay?”

After a lifetime apart, the two friends hug as if it was their last day at Hogwarts all over again. As Sirius walked back to the teenagers ready to go back to London, he took one last look at the cabin behind him. From an upstairs window, he saw his brother. The two nodded at each other, either out of pure politeness or an unconscious agreement to meet again, to rebuild what was lost.

[rileyslibrary]

The Log Cabin: Wish and Hope

Synopsis: You go on a vacation with the Lieutenant at his log cabin.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2,617

A/N:

Wholesome fluff.

This is the final part of the story, but you can also read it as a one-shot. (Part 1 & Part 2 if you’re interested)

The inspiration behind the exterior/interior of the cabin.

Also, writing this chapter was quite the journey.

———————————————————————

The sun has almost set by the time you reach your destination.

Simon parks the car at the bottom of the hill, where the road ends, marking the boundary between civilisation and the wilderness. He retrieves his balaclava from the back seat’s pocket and scans the surroundings before getting out of the car.

“Get the axe and Bourbon from the backseat,” he instructs as he steps out.

You follow his directive, picking up the well-worn axe and a bottle of amber liquid from the backseat.

Simon slings his rucksack over his shoulder and tucks his mask into one of the front pockets. He takes your bag with one hand and a red toolbox from the car’s floor with the other.

You show him the axe and Bourbon from across the car, shaking both in your hands. With your supplies gathered, you exchange a nod—a habit you picked up from the field—and begin your way up the hill, leaving the car behind.

———————————————————————

You walk beside him, but he’s gaining ground quickly. He looks unfazed by the long journey—as if he hadn’t spent the entire day driving.

You, on the other hand, are exhausted. Each stride feels heavier on your legs, and the uneven path doesn’t help. The moss cushions your steps, making it difficult to gauge the depth of the ground beneath you.

Sometimes, you stumble, and he glances back to check on you. He looks you up and down, assessing you, before returning his attention to the trail ahead.

“Tired?” he asks, which feels more like a rhetorical question—an observation, a statement—than as a genuine concern.

You shake your head. Fatigue clouds your thoughts, and you fail to register that he can’t perceive your nonverbal response. He turns around once more, waiting for an answer.

“Nope,” you reply, forcing yourself to stand a bit taller. “Not tired at all.”

His gaze shifts forward, and you slump.

You try to focus on your senses, hoping to distract your mind until you reach the cabin. You look up at the tree branches, outlined by the fading light, casting a dark shadow above you. You listen to the birds calling, the insects responding, and a stream nearby. You take a deep breath, smelling the pine and wet ground. It seems like it rained not long ago. It’s a bit chilly. You wonder why you didn’t bring your jacket, only to recall that it’s August. Then you realise it’s August but in the Scottish woodlands.

———————————————————————

You must have walked for another fifteen minutes before the cabin finally reveals itself. It’s almost dark now, but you can see the worn wood that graces it. The hut is tiny, way smaller than you imagined, with a triangular roof and a chimney. How does one fit a fireplace in there? How does he fit in there? How are you both going to fit in there?

A small front porch extends from the cabin’s entrance, complete with a lone chair and a lantern hung next to the door. A serene pond reflects the darkening sky nearby, its surface motionless, still, mimicking the night.

As you approach the cabin, you notice a smaller room that you assume to be the toilet—a logical consideration given the cabin’s size. An open shower is nearby, next to a tree, shielded by strategically placed vertical logs for privacy.

Simon places your bags on the porch and retrieves the lantern. He fills it with fuel, lights it up, and hands it to you. He unlocks the cabin door, pushes it open, and motions with his head for you to take the first step inside.

It’s cosy. Intimate. How will he handle such closeness?

A two-seater brown leather sofa invites you to relax while a small fireplace stands against the wall. A compact table with a lone chair marks the boundary between the living room and the kitchen, which consists of a fire stove, a single counter, and exposed cabinets stocked with plates, cups, and utensils.

You concentrate on a nook at the far end of the kitchen, where a double bed is placed. It’s so snug it looks like the room was built around it. A small window in the bed’s headboard frames a view of the outside shower.

“Did you build this by yourself?” You ask, placing the axe and the Bourbon on the table.

Simon’s head pops in from the doorway at the sound of your voice.

“What?” he asks.

“This,” you gesture to the cabin. “Did you build it on your own?”

He seems surprised by your question. “Me?” he points to himself. “Nah, I found it like this.”

“You found it like this,” you echo, raising your eyebrows.

“I bought it that way and made a few tweaks,” he explains as he places your bags on the sofa and proceeds to get into the details of his modifications.

You focus again on the interior, capturing the nuances he points out. The stove, the sofa, the solitary chair beside the table – they all reflect his choices. That’s him; you’ve never seen him like this. Or, at least, this side of him.

“Also installed a couple of solar panels; I’ll go check on ’em,” he concludes, grabbing a flashlight from the toolbox. “We eat when I come back, yeah?”

You nod, but he’s already heading out, leaving you alone in the cabin. You set the lantern on the kitchen table.

You want to rest, but the sofa is covered with bags and equipment, and you’re too weary to clear them away. The lone chair by the table doesn’t look like it would do any favours for your achy back. Instead, you opt for the bed. You sit on its edge and pat the mattress.

Thoughts bubble to the surface, and your mind focuses on a particular issue—the sleeping arrangements. Yes, you’re comrades who shared a bed out of necessity before, but that was a different scenario—now, sleeping together in a bed while on vacation? A shared vacation? That’s an entirely different matter.

As you reflect, your fingers graze the sheets. They’re soft—inviting. Leaning back, you sink into the mattress, its comfort drawing you in. The hiss of the lantern, paired with your breath, becomes a lullaby in the cabin’s silence. As the emotional strain and the tension in your body eases, the bed cradles you, its comfort pulling you deeper into its embrace. The day’s worries fade away with each breath. You close your eyes one last time for the day.

———————————————————————

The morning sun filters in through the bedroom window, gently nudging you awake. You blink, focusing on the wooden wall that stands inches away from your nose. You sit up slowly. Strange—your body isn’t positioned the way it was when you drifted off to sleep.

You turn at the empty space beside you; he is not there, yet the slightly flattened pillow and the tousled sheets hint that he has occupied that spot. There’s also a subtle change in your clothing; while you’re still dressed the same as yesterday, your shoes are missing. You wiggle your toes.

The sounds of the outdoors seep into the cabin, and you look out the window. Yesterday must have drained you completely. Sliding to the edge of the bed, you plant your bare feet onto the cool wooden floor, spying your shoes near the cabin entrance. As you approach them, you instinctively reach for Simon’s jacket, hanging over the chair. Wrapping yourself in it, you inhale deeply at its collar.

You slip into your shoes and open the cabin door. The brisk morning air greets you first, biting at your skin, and you hug Simon’s jacket tighter around you. A weird sound is coming from somewhere nearby that feels out of place from its surroundings.

Your eyes narrow toward the source—something by the pond. You shield your eyes from the sun’s glare, and the source becomes clearer. Simon stands at the pond’s edge, wearing a grey shirt that clings to his sweat-dampened chest. Gripping the axe with both hands, he raises it overhead, the blade briefly shining before descending with a solid thud. It bites into the wood and splits it in half with an audible crack. Then again. And again. And again.

Occasionally, he lets out a soft grunt as he swings the axe, releasing the tension from his body until he repeats the same movement. The sweat glistens on his skin, and his biceps flex with every lift, then relaxing with each hatch.

“Morning,” you finally say.

He pauses mid-swing and looks up. He sets the axe down against a log and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Dark patches are spreading from his underarms. He’s breathless, so he nods at you instead.

“What happened in there?” you ask, motioning towards the bed.

Simon’s lips curl up. A single droplet drips from the tip of his nose as he bends and picks up the axe again.

“You confused sleeping with dying; that’s what happened.”

You chuckle. “You couldn’t wake me up, huh?”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “For someone who claims to be ‘not tired at all,’ you sure fell asleep like a rock,” he says, swinging the axe once more to split another log.

“Tea?” you offer.

“Please.”

You grin. “Beg a little, will you?”

He lets out a chuckle. “Careful now,” he warns you jokingly, giving the axe a casual twirl in his hand and keeping on working.

You roll your eyes and make your way to the kitchen. You grab a kettle, fill it with water, and place it on the stove. Opening the tea box, you browse the selection with your finger, then turn to search for Simon outside, thinking of asking him about his tea preference. However, he’s nowhere to be found. Redirecting your focus to the options, you speculate he’d be content with whatever you choose; he wouldn’t bring them here if he didn’t like them. You settle on Earl Grey.

As the water heats up, you ready the teapot with the tea blend and look out the window above the bed. There’s movement. You take a closer look.

Simon stands right by the shower. He slowly peels off his shirt, revealing his upper body inch by inch, and drapes it over the partition as he steps into the shower. His jeans and boxers follow suit, finding their place next to his shirt. He lifts his hand and turns on the shower head, finally releasing the water he yearns for after his hard work. His eyes shut as he lets the water flow down his body, starting from his head, tracing the line of his neck, and continuing down to his shoulders.

Did you lose your ability to breathe, or did time slow down? Does it matter? And, close your gaping mouth; you’ve seen nothing extraordinary. I, on the other hand, have seen every inch of him. Pathetic.

At least, that’s what the kettle appears to be screaming at you as it whistles for your attention. You remove it from the heat, pour it into the teapot and set it aside. You return to the window above the bed; Simon is no longer there.

You curse at the kettle.

———————————————————————

With the soothing warmth of tea inside you, you set out on a hiking adventure into the forest. It’s a familiar trail to Simon, yet the landscape seems untouched—whispering leaves, twittering birds, the distant murmur of a nearby stream. Sunlight filters through the foliage, draping the ground with a delicate pattern of golden lace. Moss and decomposing leaves mingle with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers to create a unique scent.

As you continue on the trail, you get captivated by an ancient tree standing alone, gnarled and weathered by time. Its roots grip the earth like they were there before your kind began to call this place home, and its branches reach for the sky as if praying to the gods. You touch its trunk and feel unworthy.

“Naychuh.” Simon’s voice breaks the silence. It takes a few seconds for you to register what he just said.

“Indeed,” you add. “Nature.”

“It’s amazing how they can withstand everything and remain so strong,” he observes, tracing the tree’s bark with his fingers. “Resilient.”

“I wish I were like that.” You murmur.

He averts his gaze, releasing his grip on the trunk. “The environment definitely helps,” he comments, shrugging. “Plant this tree in the Caribbean, and it’ll be dead in a week, but here?” He taps the trunk. “It flourishes.”

“Our environment isn’t very… flourishing, Lieutenant.”

“Simon,” he corrects you with a smile and motions towards the path ahead. “This way.”

The walk continues, each step leading you deeper into the woods. Neither of you utters another word. The nearby stream does all of the talking for you.

———————————————————————

The journey back to the cabin is easy; you both seem relaxed, no matter the distance you have walked. The forest’s inhabitants appear to switch shifts, preparing for the night; birds cease to chirp, and owls take their positions. Shadows lengthen, and the air carries a gentle chill, hinting at the approaching evening.

You’re filthy but content. Happy. You light the lantern and pull out fresh clothes from your bag.

Simon squats in front of the fire pit outside, preparing it for grilling. He piles the logs he cut earlier into the pit, tosses in some dried pine needles, and lights them up.

Two very different ways of getting burned stand before you. You step closer to him.

“Mind if I hit the showers?” you ask.

“Go ahead,” he says, nodding towards the enclosure.

“Promise you won’t look?”

“Not a fucking pervert like you are,” he jokes with a playful smile on his lips as he pokes the fire. “Spying from the windows.”

“I beg your pardon,” you snap, your face slowly turning red. “I wasn’t spying!”

“Sure, you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t!” You retort and smile. “I was simply enjoying what nature had to offer.”

He stifles a chuckle and shakes his head. “We eat in 20,” he announces. “Go.”

———————————————————————

With the sun now entirely gone, the fire glows brighter against the darkness.

You sit side by side, close to the fire, content from the shared meal. Each of you holds a glass of Bourbon and looks up at the sky, admiring the shooting stars.

A chuckle escapes you, catching Simon’s attention.

“What?” he asks, his brows knitted together.

You look down at the glass in your hand, then back up at the sky.

“Nothing,” you mutter. “I just find it funny how trees stay resilient while stars fall.”

He follows your line of sight to the night sky.

“Trees fall, just like stars,” he says, swaying his glass. “And just like us.”

“Interesting perspective, Lieut—”

“Simon,”

“Interesting perspective, Simon.”

He nods. “We all fall when the time comes.” He whispers.

You tilt your head, studying his profile. He’s aware of your gaze, yet he doesn’t shy away.

“But every fall serves a purpose,” he continues. “Trees offer us warmth, for example.”

“And what about us?” You ask.

“We put ourselves on the line to protect others.”

“Is that what you think we do? Protect?”

“I try to find some reasoning behind it,” he admits, shrugging.

Your focus shifts back to the night sky.

“And what about stars?” you wonder. “What purpose do shooting stars hold? Creating a spectacle for us, the protectors?”

He takes a sip from his glass, a soft smile on his lips.

“They make us wish,” he murmurs. “They make us wish and hope.”

———————————————————————

[yeyinde]

Neil's recent pics are having such a terrible influence on me because i can't stop thinking about situations.

specifically about going hiking/camping deep in the wilderness to escape the city and the stress of it all back home. but you're underprepared for the reality of the backcountry, and there's definitely Something Out There. hunting you, stalking you. chasing you. you run from it, and get hurt. all alone in the wilderness that everyone warned you was too far, and too remote for rescue. but lucky you. an unkempt Scottish man in the woods comes to help. and Johnny is so sweet, so eager, and has everything he needs to take care of you at his home, don't you worry. he def has your best interests at heart when he leads you to this rural cabin on uncharted land. completely cut off from everything you've ever known. including rescue.

but he's for sure gonna let you go once the snow melts and your injuries heal. just ignore the part where he keeps calling you his wife, and talking about forever.

[1whore1gang]

imagine being royalty and marrying into the Scottish royal family as a treaty/arranged marriage. When you arrive to the castle, you meet your bodyguard, Johnny MacTavish. He doesn’t deem you worthy to become Scottish royalty, thinking you don’t fit their customs, but he served as your bodyguard none the less.

NO CUZ HEAR ME OUT

Over time he watches as you fulfill your role, and accompanies you as you visit the towns and speak with the people, you learn about their way of life and culture. He watches as you put in effort to connect with your future country.

On the other hand, he listens to your sobs as he stands outside your door at night, ensuring you remain safe as you sleep. He knows you don’t want this, the man you’re marrying is a monster, even he knows this. He feels for you.

One night, he steps inside your room, unable to handle anymore of your crying. His heart was breaking for you.

“You wanna talk to me lass?”

“I’m sorry Johnny, you shouldn’t be seeing me like this.” Trying to wipe your tears and collect yourself.

“I’ve listened to you cry yourself to sleep for weeks now, I want to help you. I cannot stand to hear you suffer like this.”

Once you explain how this marriage was forced upon you, how you feel you’re too young for this and everything inbetween, Johnny sits with you as you cry into his chest. He’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t grown fond of you, maybe too fond of you.

From that night forward, he is overly protective of you, denying your fiancé any physical contact, acting as a mediator. He never leaves you alone, often finding himself asleep in the armchair in your room at night.

You two grow close, and one night while you’re on a walk through the garden, him following behind you, you two share a kiss.

It’s completely forbidden, absolutely frowned upon by every force of nature, but you can’t deny the way the feeling of his lips brought sparks to your nerves. Your body lit up at his touch.

You two begin this intimate affair, unable to stay away. The attraction is too strong for you both, and you both kindle something true. Something you’d never have with your future husband.

The wedding draws closer and one late night you both decide to run away. To stow away in a cabin on the other side of Scotland, far away from any life, deep in the woods.

There, you live a simple, normal life. You live freely and peacefully, praying they never find you.

[rel124c41]

IN ALL MY DREAMS I DROWN. poly!octotrio

Husband/Captain says the best medicine is sleep. You plead and beg with him to find another remedy. "I know what is best for you," Husband/Captain says.

tags: mythical beings & creatures, references to scottish folklore, seasickness, implied/referenced abuse, prophetic dreams, blood and violence, forced marriage, rape/non-con elements, no abuse done by octotrio, eventual happy ending, rescue mission, & happy mermay

word count: 6,690

There is a storm on the horizon. Alas, that is normal. Your husband has terrible luck with sailing.

Truthfully, it has felt for as long as you have breathed, you have breathed in the calmness before a storm. Anticipation for something awful on your tongue. Dry, warm air before a storm hits in your lungs. There is always a storm on the horizon. You have never seen another type of sky while sailing. 

Dark clouds pile onto each other like stones. Icy blue and cold black spreads across the south like rivulets of oil. There is a faint tingling in the air. You look down. So deeply tired, the motion almost causes your eyes to lock close – like when a rocker-eyed doll is tilted. Blankets of goosebumps sleep on your arms. You know with sighed resignation that the upcoming weather will be one of the worser ones you have experienced.

No matter how many waves you sail upon, your husband cannot escape the looming storms, try as he might.

In your hand, you hold a lantern. It walks with you. Burning brightly, it works effectively to prod off the combined darkness of night and storm. Hypotonic red and yellow twirls over each other. A caged calamity which sways somniferous with each step you take. 

This is the forty-second time you have paced the entirety of the ship. From stern to bow, croaking wood weeps under your aimless poltergeist motions. Some cuckoo clocks, upon the stroke of each hour, release little trapped dolls to dance and spin in circles upon the stroke of each hour. You are quite similar to them. Except, you are a doll in a broken cuckoo clock who works its dancers tirelessly. Spinning and spinning, stern to bow, then again, stern to bow, repeat, stern to bow.

With each step, the fire in your lantern sways like a hypnotist's watch, undulating red and yellow. 

You have been awake for two days so far. However, you only walk at night to fend off sleepiness. In the daylight, you keep yourself busy with menial tasks. Walking helps to fight off the sleep before it envelopes and rains upon you.

Yet, it seems you are making too much noise with your endless pacing. Your scolding comes with the cry of a single creak. The wooden door of the captain’s cabin opens. 

Eyes once up to absorb the sight of the creeping storm, the layout of the ship, and any sight you wanted to see suddenly drop down.  Eyes now on the floorboards, you listen to the pitter of feet marching down steps. Wind howls in your ears and rakes through your hair. Endless pacing comes to a sudden halt. With retreating eyes, you stand by the shrouds. 

When a pair of boots enter your eyesight, thorns wrap around your heart. Panic settles in when he speaks, “Another sleepless night, my dear?”

You have no idea what your husband looks like. Never gathering the bravery to look up and with him never having the want to tilt your chin up, neither of you have made eye contact. His face is like tenebrous darkness casted by storm. Numerous features could lay on it. Numerous possibilities yet no answers. No beard though; you know this when he places a palacting kiss on your forehead where your brain stews with undreamed dreams. No coarse hair tickles your skin.

However, your husband knows what you look like. Taller than you, stronger than you. Knowing your features and face shape in this uneven marriage, that is his right in nuptial laws. Spouses should submit to their husband, he told you when the ship first departed from the dock of your hometown.

Though, you cannot remember your hometown. Or really anything before him. 

All of your life (because you must have had one) before him is blank like empty waters. From the Memory Sea, you search desperately for something. No matter how many lines you cast out, all you pull up is stringy, golden brown kelp or thick, ebony black kombu. The fishing rod of your desperation cannot possibly successfully make a catch in empty waters. How foolish of you to even cast a line, Husband/Captain would tease.

You know him only as your husband. He never gave you his name. You heard the men under his command call him captain. He adopts two names on your tongue, Husband/Captain; though you hardly use either.

You hardly address him first. He addresses you.

“My dear (Name),” a finger oscillates gently on your cheekbone. “I do not think the moon is as lonely as I am without you in bed. I miss you.” When you move your head to the side in shame, the finger guides you firmly to look at him – or at least his shoes. 

“Speak.”

Lips feeling looser, you weigh your next words carefully. What can you possibly say this time around? Is there anything left to say? Fitful in your resolve, your eyes travel to take in the pulsing glow of your lantern and how it illuminates different colors. The image paints itself in your memory: the empty lantern that is devoid of anything but a pile of ash, the chest in the corner which you are not allowed to open, the bed with its silky sheets that inundate you with dreams of drowning. 

You dream of drowning every time you sleep. When your head hits the pillow, it is like falling into a bottomless puddle that goes much deeper than anticipated. Idiosyncrasy to yourself, you are only one of this swaying ship that fears the reality of drowning.

Below your feet, almost breathing, the ship rocks back and forth. It feels like you imagine how it feels to be rocked gently by a mother. Maternally, even the ship wishes for you to sleep. The captain and his vessel conspiring against you together.

But – you cannot – so you must bargain some way to stay awake until the vessel docks. “I was … I was growing a bit uneasy over the storm. And I could not –.”

Husband/Captain hums and you know to immediately fall silent. 

The pattern of the lantern handles indents in your hand. Digging steel hurts like a bad punishment. What a silly excuse. For two months all you have known is encroaching storms, why would you suddenly develop an anxiety over them now? You look out upon the ebony, mature cumulonimbus clouds. 

“Isn’t there an old saying: out of sight, out of mind. I’m positive that watching it does little to quell this uneasiness,” he says.

If anything a rainstorm would be a blessing, diverting his attention from you.

“If I’m aware of it, it helps dispel that anxiety. If I’m away from it, not watching it, I feel quite worried about what could happen.”

“I share that sentiment. I’m quite anxious with you out of my sight.”

So it seems, you think, so it really seems. Your husband has pulled you away from the ship’s railings on multiple occasions, hand a shackle on your wrist, reeling you back onboard. Staying within his sight is an unspoken wedding vow.

You tense prematurely, already knowing his next words. You have lost for the night. Oh, how you have lost deeply. “I don’t want to sleep tonight … please … –” in all my dreams, I drown. But you cannot talk anymore because –

“Now hush, love,” Husband/Captain coos. 

“Here’s your gown.” 

What he holds out to you is rivulets of soft cotton. A sleeveless gown with fragile, ornamented straps which will hang gently on your shoulders. The pattern is a delicate stitch like doyle napkins and a little bow rests on the chest’s center. Ending at the shin, white lace replicates the look of distance waves, twisting up and down.

You take it within your scarred arms. Diagonal slashes racing down and then another group of diagonal scars racing up coat your forearms. Memory Sea has yet to unveil how you got these scars.

“Please,” you plead. It takes so much bravery to say that one word that you feel winded after.

Your head is patted in fruitless consolation.

The captain is not happy about today’s catch. Not happy is really too subtle of a way to put it. He boils with a rage known of a tyrant’s disposition, body exploding into a mess of volcano-esque fire. It is a strange sight to the men. What they pulled up from their nets would feed the crew without the need of rationing. Their catch was bountiful; what is there to be possibly upset about?

It is because all they caught is codfish. Codfish pyramiding upon codfish. A family reunion of hundreds of generational codfish. Oh, and one common ling. Which he took from the nets, it serpentine amber and white body oscillating in hand, as he howls at his crew, “A fucking ling! A ling!”

Eyes down, you had a perfect view of the ling being dropped to the floorboards and the captain raising his boot to mallet it down upon the fish’s head. Red and white puss splattered in a gory firework, piscine epidermis popping loudly. 

Then, the captain stomped off, leaving a one-footed trail of red behind him. 

Antipaction and questions lingered in the eyes of the crew. The crew looked upon you with high expectations. Well, aren’t you going to follow the yellow-brick road, the red footprint trail? Weren’t you going to head into the captain’s cabin and help your husband – lie on the bed, stomach down, as he punched fireworks into you, until he worked out his anger? This ship’s crew really has no delicate manner of speaking with their eyes.

Averting your eyes, sheepish, you shake your head. You are not inclined to want pain. Fleeing, you took to entering the kitchen to cook, growing ill at the sight of nets.

Nets. Just the cross-hatching pattern could make you feel consumptive. Like your stomach is empty or your stomach is bloated, it makes you so incredibly sickly to watch the crew pull up their meshwork that cradles school upon school of fishes. 

Upon your forearms are scars, scars of an identical pattern.

When the men take to dumping their catch into a circular, steel tank that is about the size of a Queen bed, you thank them in a whisper. Looking into their eyes is like falling off a cliff, missing the water, and landing upon a bed of jagged stones. Eyes like stone, not resentful but still dangerous. You work to keep your head down until they all leave. 

With the captain so vexed, you delegate yourself to preparing his meal first. The rest of the crew can wait until mid-afternoon. So, you prepare a dredging station with quick work. Find a shallow bowl, cut the lemon, mix together a double serving of spices with the flour. Your husband is fond of sharp herbs mixed in with fish.

You have learned to cook with his guidance.  He likes to say, “A country’s cuisine reflects their culture and history. It’s a fascinating field of study.” Then, fingers guide you with firm resolve to work upon dicing, cutting, and slicing. 

Now, you are almost a veteran at preparing fish. Mostly codfish, though you would have longed to experiment with a ling – you remember the pomace of oozing brains and otoliths, multiple streaks of red like lightning on the floor. 

But you suppose you are not allowed to. It is probably for the best. Staying with your routine. 

Seasonings scenting the air, you hear your stomach growl. Ah. Perhaps just a bite won’t hurt.

Triple-checking, you make certain that none of the crew lingers by the kitchen. No curious eyes are peeking through the window. When you are assured in your resolve, down to the bone and up to the skin, you crouch down by the bucket. Into the pool of threshing codfish, your hand swims. 

The one you take out is a medium-sized portion. Green and yellow skin a similar hue of summer moss. As it squirms wildly, you turn it belly-side up. It takes a great deal of effort with such dull teeth. Yet, after a bit gnawing, the piscine epidermis finally breaks with a loud pop in your omnivorous mouth. 

Rotating it around like corn-on-the-cob, you munch down upon the live and raw codfish with ravenous hunger.

A fortnight after, you wake up gasping for breath. Saliva is like a second tongue in your mouth, overcrowding. Unhesitant, you turn over the edge of the bed and wait for a soup of briny seaweed, torrential waves, and a codfish to splatter upon the captain’s bedroom floor. A single jellyfish tail of bubbly saliva is all that hits the ground. 

Lungs so incredibly strained cannot comprehend where all the water went. 

Coughing, you cringe against the sensation of water in your mouth. The natural lubricant of saliva is suffocating, pressing hard on the walls of your buccal cavity. 

And though your lungs kick painfully, there is nothing more to spit out the tiny dime of water already spat out. Coughs come and go until they ebb to you panting softly in bed. Fatigued breaths eventually wither, to you just breathing steadily and staring off to the only light source. 

Pointed spirals of light move in a kaleidoscope pattern. Leather red brightens to a bloody crimson. Rich blue wood absorbs the glow. You are a bit unsure what is really rocking back and forth, swaying with such somnolence: the boat itself or the chest where a star is locked inside.

The chest you are not allowed to open. 

In your ears, you hear the ocean gnash and moan.

Blech and blarghhh. Blech and blarghhh, you go. 

Over the bow of the ship, you puke. 

Bile falls heavy into the awaiting waves below. One teary, squinting eye watches the pallid greenish-yellow sludge sink.  Your nose is sour by the scent of imaginary citrus oranges; your head is a spinning dreidel.  On the night of your three month anniversary on the ship, you woke up from another drowning dream with a secondary heart heavy in your throat. Prisoned, it banged and banged for release. So, you rushed up to the bow and granted its plea for freedom. 

To the sea, let me go to the sea, your bile begged. And you listened. 

A powerful blech and blarghhh has you stumbling feverishly. Your feet skid on wood like a lynched cowboy’s who kicks fruitlessly to feel solid ground. Stomach and railing biting each other, you lean far with the force of your next hurl. Far enough where you too could fall into the awaiting waves below.

Your heart spikes because you realize, puke only halfway out and face winking in agony, that you are falling in. You have gone far enough. Cerulean waters seem to reach out in an awaiting embrace.

Just as your feet start to lift from the ground, the saltine noose around your neck pulling, a hand wraps gently yet firm against your waist. You gasp wetly, bile lipstick thick, as you find yourself back on solid ground.

“Easy there. Easy. I got you,” Husband/Captain murmurs. He presses a kiss to your neck but does not hold your hair back when you gurgle again. Throat fluctuating with heaving breaths, he lies his nose on that weeping patch of skin. Salt is thick on you. “Sudden sea-sickness will pass. Happens even to the veteran sailors.”

Not this extreme, you want to argue. You are too cowardly to object. And besides … Vomit acts as a reliable tape over your hatred. You wish his hand would stop rubbing a thumb on your stomach and instead gather up tendril-esque hair. 

“Though I would have never expected you to succumb to such an illness,” he says, awestruck as if you are breaking some bodily law. The thumb on your stomach becomes more pressing. “Perhaps … perhaps it is not the matter of the seas that turns your stomach so.”

You realize with a cold sweat what he is referencing. “It is not that.” A helpful hand (your own) rises up to start wiping off the pallid greenish-yellow cosmetic. Fingers fling and flick the remains of your regurgitating stomach into the waves. 

“I would be able to tell.”

“Is that possible,” his voice doubts. “How could you?”

“Of course I could. It’s my body.”

Husband/Captain chuckles like you have told a funny joke. Now it is not his sole thumb that oscillates back and forth on the skin of your nightgown, he opens up his hand like a flower. He takes to rubbing your stomach until his hand goes down to cradle the spot between your legs. 

You wish the ocean would take you. 

The night sky is full of stars. Stars are a rarity. You never get to see them often because of how normal it is for your husband’s ship to be caught in a storm. Tonight, all is tranquil. Tonight, you are in the embodiment-al heart of the calm before the storm. And, lastly, tonight, you will try something new and exciting. You will use those pinpricks of light to paint pictures; you doubt anyone has ever thought of such a fabulous game before. 

It takes a while for you to get into the groove of it. When there is this strange, thrusting force behind you, bile pops out your lips like blood. Stars align to make a teddy bear, fashioned with a little bow. When your tears fall into the awaiting waves, they catch them with so much tender sorrow. 

There is a melody in the air. A little different from blech and blarghhh. Far different from the harsh hit of his hips. It howls below you.  Water licking on the side of the ship seems to say: dont worry dont worry i will save you. 

When you strike the match, it hisses and balloons with a fierce flame before shrinking down to something petite, something weaker. With great care, you press the match through the open lantern panel. It transforms with a fiery jump. 

You stick the match between your lips once you wave it in the air harshly, killing it. Lantern panels now all closed, you hold it up to illuminate the revolutionary sight before you. It has been a day and three months … you have to know what’s in there. The rich blue box sits in your path with all the magnetism of precise metals. You crouch before it, nun-like.

The top of the wooden chest is an arch, so you rest your lantern to the side. Out of your sock, you pull two fishbones – ones you had cleaned down with your tongue and whittled down to points with a kitchen knife. 

You cannot remember anything of your life before this boat. Against his wishes, you have been trying to remember what could have been of you before this boat. The storybook must have more pages, a prologue of sorts left unsaid. This boat … nothing but him lives your memory. Hand outstretched like thorns, sand, snakes, poison, fire, and nightmares. A hand that puts a glittering circlet on your ring finger. Your first memory is being wed. 

Into the mouth of the lock, you slowly slide in the first fishbone. Behind you, the sound of a blanket hitting the floor thumps. Thin and fragile, the fishbone snaps halfway in the lock as you rise to your feet – and you rush, hand just managing to grab the lantern, as a raging storm at your back runs at you.

“YOU UNFAITHFUL FUCK!”

You run up the stairs three at a time, heart jackrabbiting with fear.  

Tears are already in your eyes before you comprehend them. Your hand depresses on the door. Wood clatters and shakes with tremendous rage below you, growing closer. Run away, you scream at yourself, just as you realize there's nowhere to run to. When the door opens, water pelts your face in a thousand exploding fists. 

This is the closest the storm has ever been. But it was clear yesterday ? – calm before a –?

A scream tears from you as a reaching hand misses your arm, his dirty nails almost tickling the goosebumps coating your skin. With reckless abandon, you jump down the flight of seven stairs just outside of the cabin. The deck catches you with all the care wooden arms have – which is very little. Wide yet still finite, the deck faces off with you in the fierce, piercing rain. Where to escape to, it asks, as violent waves rock below. 

Left knee bleeding and a section of your nightgown ripped, you sprint towards the bow. And from the south, a savage, ravening storm follows. Dark clouds pile over. Icy blue lunges.  Maybe it would not be so bad to fall off the edge. Is that what all those ceaseless dreams of drowning meant — you have to drown to finally be at peace? 

An ethery scent explodes in the rain. The marriage of the sounds of breaking glass and petrified screaming kisses in the gusty air.  In the blimp of chaos, both of you hit the floor, right next to where fire from a broken lantern starts to eat up the wood.

“No … No, please,” you cry. “Please no!” 

By his hateful hands, you are turned on your side. Before you can make eye contact, he punches you across the face with an intensity reserved for crewmen in brawls. The wind howls mournfully in your ringing ears. Blood pops out of your mouth in tiny lightning bolts. 

As ringing and blustery winds ebb in sound, you catch the last of your husband’s words, “...I know what is best for you.”

“Scold or hit me! I cannot go back to sleep! Please!”

He grabs your head in a vitriol grip. Acid burns pierce where his fingers dig in. Husband/Captain lifts you by his hold on your head, like a lion might do with a cub by the scruff of its neck. Eyes stomp shut in fear. You fear the intensity of his face will overwhelm and drown you. 

“Help me! Someone! Please, help me!”

“Now hush, love.”

“SOMEONE! ANYBODY PLEASE –!”

“Here’s your gown.” Then, he slams your body on the ground. Your head cracks with the fragility of an egg.  Molten dreams with rainbowing incandescence slip out from the lightning-shaped fractures, spilling all over deck. 

The moon is full tonight. 

You feel in your bones that you have not seen a full moon in a very long time. Despite it being a monthly occurrence, storm clouds shield it away; even when unveiled, the nude moon is caught waning or waxing. This phase of the lunar sun kisses uncloudy skies with a powerful completeness. How you missed it with a whirlpool fervor. You feel so at peace.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Hanging on a vertex, it hums with the sprinkling song of moondust and moonlight. With that melody, it shaves the weight of weakness that has shackled you. Avoirdupois lightens; the full moon brightens.

I have not seen a full moon this serene since I was a little boy/girl, you remember that much.  It is such a wondrous sight that you do not notice the water rising up by your ankles. 

No – not water, bedsheets. Bedsheets that snake serpentine like individual rivers connecting together. With a fluidity unique to water, white linen slithers across the curve of your calf and climbs up in gusts of silk to the tendons in your hamstrings. Moisture still clings to you; dry sheets juxtaposingly soaking you.

I am going to drown again. You frown delicately at the sentiment. Yet, despite the acknowledgement that watery suffocation is going to repeat itself, you think this time it will be a metamorphosis. Something different from previous dreams. 

You only think this because moondust and moonlight hug your slowly submerging body and tell it to you. Reassures you of it, to wade off fear of drowning.

Sheets climb up to your sternum. With rocking motions, they purl and lick at your shoulders. Ribbons weaving in and out of each other, pulsing up in gigantic breaths to climb upon you. Cloth falls over your mouth and silences you. Tendrils of linen rush into your nostrils. You keep your breath for as long as you can. As the bedsheets engulf you, you keep your eyes trained upon the full moon.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Complete. I want to be complete again. 

Once fully submerged, you open your eyes. There is a tentacle in front of your face.

There is a tentacle in front of your face. It lies on its side. Facing you like how two lovers might turn to pillow-talk at one another. About as thick as an elephant leg, it stretches fully across the deck, dipping down into unseen depths over each side of the ship. 

Suckers squirm like a breathing wall before you. Voluminous in numbers. Almost replicating plasma barnacles of the underside of aquatic vessels. Individual suckers purl and roll with fake breaths. Fluctuating up and down in uneven patterns, unorganized hive mind motions. Most of them were a vibrant lavender yet – like moles on a wrinkled face – cheetah spots of violet-whitish squirms in slower beats. Moving like bubbling lava, lavender stirs and beckons. 

You cannot resist. Pushing your hand upon the breathing wall, you breathe in the scent of salt.

There is an ocean beneath the surface. Blood and plasma swims warmly underneath the skin. Despite the cold and salty water that falls like tears over shells of suckers, there is a warmth. An alive warmth. 

It cannot wrap itself around you; this particular tentacle is wrapped from one edge of the boat to the other like a behemoth bow strangling a Christmas present. However, touch is reciprocated in other methods. Like an expanding stomach, lavender pushes into your starfish spread out fingers. Suckers harmonize in a circle around the area where you put pressure. 

Hypnotic, eldritch beauty finds primitive comfort in you. Even though the side of your head is still sticky with clotting blood, you think you feel comfort too. It is only ripped from you when a crewman shouts, “God, help us all! A Kraken! By God, a Kraken!” 

Beyond the goliath, shielding tentacle, the ship and its crew are in discord. And once it reaches your ears, awareness of it crawls into all your other senses. Drawing away from the tentacle, you realize while standing up that the scent of ether in your nose is overwhelming. Half of the deck is engulfed in flames. Warmth from fire blankets you in heavy sheets. And –

“Someone! Anybody please –!!” And men are being dragged off the boat and killed by twisting, gnashing tentacles. 

The boat tilts. Stumbling feet are magnetized backwards; you trip over the tentacle you were just touching. A shriek that pains the wound on the side of your head erupts from you as you are rolled across the deck like a dice across a game-board. 

Your tentacle (the one you caressed) does not reach to steady or save you. Instead, it squeezes tentatively on the vessel ensnared in its grip. Splintering wood spreads up like a field of pointy grass. Then, after a moment, it slithers back into the ocean just as your spine hits the railing of the tilting ship. 

Over your shoulder, you see a raging sea. Waves curve into each other, resounding claps of exploding water striking your ears. Above, bullets of water clip fast upon the awaiting ocean. That familiar saltine noose reemerges around your neck, as your feet lift with gravity. Everything happens in a millisecond and in an eternity, dream-esque.

Your knees hit the deck when a hand pushes you away from the edge. You suck in deep breaths in a panic, prematurely housing oxygen away before you were doomed to fall in. But you had not fallen in … because … because there was a hand. Sprawled on the wet and burning deck, both elbows down on the ground, you turn over your shoulder one final time. 

His hair is the color of the sea. You never expected to see hair a different shade than black, brown, or blonde, perhaps a rare red, but his is breathtakingly blue. Coping, your mind fixates on it because you cannot comprehend the three-points of fins growing where his ears should be. There must be a mystified expression on your face regardless. The man smiles at you with covetous patience. 

“Hello, (Name). I wanted to be first to say on behalf of us, we are terribly sorry for our delay.”

Delay? “I don’t understand.”

“Do not stress. A great deal will soon resolve itself. Are you hungry? Can I do anything for you?”

Kindness is far more alien to you than the sight of piscine traits that your mouth falls open in a tiny circle. Words fail to form. Just as your bottom lip starts to quiver, the man amends, “Is there perhaps something you don’t want me to do?”

Meekly: “Do – Don’t go.” Apologetically (and quickly too): “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” 

Desperately, you wish you had something to hide in but all that you wear is a slim cotton gown. It is innate to leech onto goodwill after such a drought of it. An amused warmth settles of his features, then it softly falls into a deep sadness. Once more, you fumble for words, upset that you have upset him … “I’m sorry – I –!”

A loud noise breaks the moment. There is a pyramid of hundred or so noises caterwauling in this storm, mixing together like how a tornado tears up earth and neighborhoods to mix a smoothie of different items. Something salient breaks through all that cacophony – Husband/Captain shouting, “Give that back, you beast!” And then three consecutive popping sounds as he fires his gun.

You watch the figure of your husband, his spine facing you, wrestle with a tentacle. Like an obsidian tongue, the tentacle emerges from the door to the captain’s cabin and sways back and forth, trying to tug something from your husband. It is a tug-of-war with a predictable winner.

Strength evolves into desperation. A shout undulates into the rainstorm as Husband/Captain is thrown up. His body somersaults in the air. The tongue churns back into the mouth of your bedroom like a retreating snake. Clutched in a protective grip is the blue chest. Defeated, Husband/Captain pushes himself up on his elbows, nose broken.

Through sheets of rain, you two make eye contact for the first time in ninety-two days.

People say he is the fairest of them all. Women and men in the town swoon over him. And with a husband/wife to match, those jealous men and women think when their eyes land upon your awe-striking beauty. Yet, when you look upon him now, all you see is a hideous man. Like a swan (yourself) marrying a condor (him) – he is ugly beyond putridness. 

His bloody mouth moves. His shaking hand moves. You do not move. 

You cannot tell if the next sound you hear is the ring of a gunshot or the bang of a lightning bolt. 

It is like when I bite into the codfish, you think deliriously, watching red soak your nightgown. Hah. What a strange color. You think the man with the blue hair is trying to get your attention but the crimson color has you in a trance. Like mold, it grows slowly on the wrinkled creases of your nightgown, a little bit below your ribcage. So much – so much red. 

Yellow interrupts your mesmerization. Cheeks squished together, you look into a black pupil ringed by a honey wedding band then backdropped by a white planet. The triptych of color has you equally magnetized as the man takes his dominant hand and settles it under your rib.

“Breathe in.”

You do obediently. 

“Breathe out.”

Once more, you follow instructions. With your exhale, the wound in your abdomen closes up like a sleepy eye. He cards his non-dominant hand through your hair with excellent care. “There, there, are you feeling better?” When you nod, he whispers lovingly, “I’m so glad to hear that, my dearest.”

He smiles and reveals a collection of cutting instrumental teeth, shark teeth. 

The man looks like he is about to inquire more yet a voice interrupts in a lazy drawl, “Caaan I kill him now?” 

You turn to see your husband covered in red, down to a level where it almost looks like a second skin or a set of clothes upon him. His body is bent over the railing and a man with almost identical features holds him by the top of his torso, a piscine hand tight around his throat. “Kinda gettin’ of tired of his squirmin’ – he’s all sticky.”

Jade knows that is not a truthful admission. Floyd likes when they squirm. Jade wants that vile man dead too with as much intensity as his brother does but – “Come now, we are not barbarians. We have rules for our way of life.”

“Don’t care. He made Sealy cry. I’mma tear off his penis.”

“Please, refrain from such violence for a moment longer. Sir – well, that is too polite for you. Hm, Captain. Captain, we have customs where we challenge the owner of a particular vessel to a certain game. Will you play along?” The only response is an opaque red-white trail of slime dropping from his trembling lips. “Good. I will say the first two lines of a poem. You must complete them.

“Floyd, if you would, please.” The squeezing hand releases and your husband gasps for breath as if he has just escaped drowning on dry land. Shadow and light from the flickering flames shudder across his choking lips. “O my Luve’s like a red, red rose / That’s newly sprung in June.”

“Get off my fucking boat!”

“Hm, another verse then. As fair as thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in luve am I.”

“I’ll roast you alive, you overgrown fish! (Name), get away –”At the mere utterance of your name, the man returns to strangling your husband with an explosive vitriol that it almost seems his gold and olive-brown eyes will bulge from his face in anger.

“Shut the fuck up.” He seethes with rage.

The other man responds to your husband. “Sorry but the responding lines are: And I will luve thee still, my Dear, / Till a’ the seas gang dry. Go ahead, Floyd.”

Red. So much red. It sprays out when Floyd rips off the skin enveloping around your husband’s throat. Glittering seafoam rivulets that arch beautifully. Leaping and pirouetting through the air. Thicker rivers start to follow after the initial misting, jetting shower. Some of the spume lands upon your temple. Already sticky with salt and blood, you do not flinch at the sensation. 

Then, the man, the man named Floyd, falls spine first into the thrashing sea, taking your husband with him. It takes a few moments before you realize the other man is gone too. 

You are not sure how long you stay sitting on the deck, letting rain drench you. It could be three or thirteen minutes of absent minded staring at the skies. Cords of white lightning are thrown across the canvas like spools of yarn, wavy and disorganized. Water pelts your face angrily; the weight of it hurts. Below you, the watery depths wail with ghastly noises.

The noise does not lessen or quiet to announce his presence. He simply emerges. One tentacle pushing up from the railing is followed by a hand which is followed by another hand. Then, hovering about three feet in the air above you, the Kraken analyzes you.

Wind picks up, howling. If you were standing, it would be a very real threat to push you off the ship. Tangible winds pick up tendrils of your soaked hair and cheerfully play with, whipping it back and forth in painful, fast-paced oscillation.  Entranced, you watch the Kraken’s very dry hair flow in the air with gentle grace. 

“Hello.”

You almost faint. His voice is each raindrop, sleeping in each ebon cloud, racing through each electrical bolt that shatters in loud cracks. Blue eyes with a horizontal, pill-shaped pupil squint in worry at the shiver you give at his voice. 

“Are you cold, angelfish? Ah, here,” only two behemoth tentacles have to umbrella over your form to completely stop the downpour. You lose sight of the man due to the massive, lilac parasol of muscle that covers you. He enters your sight again when his upper body slithers forward under his tentacles. “Is this better?”

He is so inhumanly gorgeous that he leaves you spellbound. Around you, his numerous tentacles wrap across the deck and into holes he has made into the ship’s helm like hungry snakes in a garden of mice. Prism-like, Stygian black glitters with each rain freckle that races down the arches of muscular tissue. Light shimmers evangelical on each part anatomical droplet. 

Yet, his real eldritch splendor is in his human-mimcing top half which leans towards you amorously. 

Silver hair, like the color palette of a full moon has dropped into it, sweeps across his face gracefully. The skin of his neck and collarbone pulse with each measured breath. A blue much mellower than the typical rough ocean hue shines in his eyes. His lips move and your eyes dilate just a smidgen.

He whispers to you in your little pocket universe. It feels you two are floating on a planet designed only for the two of you, heave ho-ing back and forth on waves made of stardust. He speaks so softly.

“I’m,” his voice breaks slightly like a chipped mug, “I’m terribly sorry for being so delayed. We tore down countless ships before we arrived upon this one … That is no excuse though. I should’ve been stronger and taken all of them down in a week.”

You do not really get what he is talking about but you still ask, “How many did you take down?”

“A hundred and thirty seven. Each one just another bleak joke. My angelfish, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s quite a number.” 

“Ah, yes, I suppose. We would have done a thousand more. Floyd, Jade, and I –”

“Who’s Jade?” Then, as an afterthought. “Can I please know your name as well?”

He blinks at you in confusion. After a heavy, contemplating moment, he states resolutely, “Let’s get you out of this wrong skin and into something proper.”

“Proper?” You blink in replicating confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Hush now, hush love,” Azul says, more tender than – than someone that has drowned in Memory Sea, never to be remembered again. Honestly, you do not recall there being any reasons for apologizing.

The parasol of tentacles peels apart and, hand in hand, Azul guides you towards the railing. You take care not to slip.

“Here’s ya gown.” The man who had ripped out your husband’s throat – you do know his name is Floyd – holds something out to you, leaning over the railing.

What he holds in his hand is unlike soft cotton. It is wetly sleek, patterned with black and white which diffuse into each other with freckling gray. There are no straps for your arms to slip and where the train of a dress should end is hind flippers. A dog-esque face with long whiskers stares at you with hollow eyes, awaiting for you to slip it on. It is a seal pelt.

Boldly, you look into his eyes. Gold and olive-brown, warm eyes. They are so earnest that you have no inclination not to believe him. That is your possession in his webbed hands, and he is returning it to you. 

In the span of three months and one day, you have had seventy-three dreams where you drown in them. In the span of three months and two days, you rejoin the ocean where you were always supposed to be, sunrise and clear skies on your tail.

[diejager]

Oh, that’s such a good point about Ghost maybe turning a blind eye to his suspicions/observations 🤔 I can totally see that happening, given that he is not easy to trust people and is a ride or die once he lets someone in

and yeah, I can definitely see Price justifying his actions now that you’ve mentioned that quote of his. Fits his wayward character perfectly tbh.

And yay for you being interested in writing the Ghost fic😱 I’ll be eagerly waiting for it! And in the meantime I’d love your recs, if you can find them🤗

Right now, these are the only ones I remember and could find(I also included other characters in case ppl are interested in them):

The (Scottish) Cabin in the Woods by Charlie_M

Pairing: Ghost x reader x Soap

"Let's go camping," Soap said. "It'll be fun," Soap said. "A lot of fun," the psychopathic serial killer said. You didn't say anything, you were too busy trying not to get kidnapped - and failing.

Cabin in the woods (Director's uncut) by CaptainGremlin

Pairing: König x reader x Horangi

You and your friend group are definitely not a part of a typical slasher movie. Two weird guys you met at the corner store somewhere in rural Austria definitely not serial killers. You are definitely going to be saved. You are definitely not going to like being their little trophy.

The Forest's Wailings by mikatheartist

Pairing: König x reader

It's the end of the session, and finals are finally over! You and your friends definitely deserve a little break. One of your more reckless friends, Julian, suggests going to his family's cabin as a vacation. Of course, you have your reservations at first, but ultimately you decide to go. Things go well. But here and there, you can't help but hear shuffling and skittering... Just what exactly is in that forest? TLDR; You and a bunch of friends go to a cabin in a supposedly haunted forest. what could go wrong lol

I’ll add more when I find them!

[ceilidho]

okay idk if i’m just insane and if this ask is insane 😭 but did you reblog a fic where reader/soap had been in the military, medically discharged, go on a camping trip/hike and get kidnapped by serial killer!ghost who makes them his pets by chance? i’ve been wanting to read it again but idk if you or ghouljams (i love both of your works!) reblogged it or if i stumbled across it on ao3. the end of this year has been insane and my memory has been really shit lately and i’m so sorry for bugging you abt this

that's The (Scottish) Cabin in the Woods by @charliemwrites :)) it's one my faves too

[charliemwrites]

Ok great cause I've been DIEING to do a ask about them but didn't want to if you weren't ok with it

(Don't do this if you don't wanna for any reason)

One morning johhny and reader are still chained to the wall and reader wakes up and hee leg and hip and really bothering her and Simon dosnt come down for another few hours but johhny sees, he knows her tells and trys to coax her to at least feel a bit better but inside he's getting more and more agitated cause he can't help he r like he wants. By the time simon does come down reader has tears running down he race and is trying to rub her thigh and hip to ease it, the second johhny notices him he's just cussing at him to let him go or to do something and johhnys just tugging at his restraints to get to her. What would simon do in the end?

-🐇

Hey! Ask away, this is a great question!!

First order of business would be taking care of Kit. They’re in obvious, intense pain and the pup can yap all he wants but ghost’s first priority is taking care of his kitten.

He would disappear into the basement and come back with some of the Good Drugs. Johnny would be sobbing to see the instant relief on their face when it takes effect. While Kit is all floaty and limp, Ghost would help them stretch out and flex, massaging at the nerve pathways.

Then he’d unhook their collar. Johnny would perk up, instantly alert and demanding to know where Ghost is taking them. Ghost doesn’t answer, more focused on Kit babbling at him as he carries them upstairs.

Kit is laid in his own bed upstairs, specially designed for the chronic pain he also deals with. Once they’re settled in and half-asleep, ghost goes back downstairs to Johnny.

He lets Johnny curse and shout and fuss, waits until he winds down. Then calmly wipes at Johnny’s teary face with a damp cloth. Ghost explains that he’ll be allowed to come upstairs too if he starts behaving. Kit needs to be in bed, but this is a courtesy to Johnny, and it can be taken away if Ghost decides he should lose the privilege. And Johnny, even though he’s still pissed, nods. His worry for kit outweighs his anger.

Ghost takes him upstairs as well, doesn’t even correct him when he darts off to the bedroom and instantly climbs in with Kit.

“Easy pup, don’t hug too tight,” ghost reminds. Johnny grumbles, but eases his hold a little. Kit just hums and pats clumsily at his face.

[lilydalexf]

🌲👽 X-Files Survival/Wilderness Fic Recs

Here are some very good X-Files survival or wilderness fics. Because @thatsaprettycoolposter and @pookie-mulder asked! This list does not include post-colonization fics, which are also all survival fics of a sort. Enjoy!

Alligator Moon by jordan big monster in swamp attacks FBI agents

Antidote by Rachel Howard and Karen Rasch Strange doings in a tiny western town bring Mulder and Scully out to investigate. Once there, they uncover a deadly experiment that may cost both of them their lives.

Backtracking by Kel and Scetti What do Charlie Scully, the Alien Bounty Hunter, and Jesse "the Body" Ventura all have in common? Last April you could have found all three of them in Minnesota.

By the Wind Grieved by Karen Rasch Months have passed and Mulder is back. But things are not as they once were. He doesn’t know who he is or what Scully and he are to each other. Together they must reclaim the past before their enemies take away their future.

A Cabin in the Woods by @leiascully Mulder and Scully, on the run, stay for a while in a cabin in the mountains in Montana. A series of interlacing vignettes.

a cabin in the woods by @monikafilefan Being stuck in this rustic cabin, clearly left to age among the wilderness had Scully feeling wild herself, and it felt as if their bodies danced to an ancient song among the elements.

Camping by Amperage and Livengoo Fox Mulder and Dana Scully have survived abductions, serial killers, mutants and aliens but the Partner Cooperation Program Wilderness Encounter may finally do them in. After poison ivy and catfish, who wouldn’t long for a nice, safe killer mutant?

A Change of Seasons by Jo-Ann Lassiter A search for a mythical beast in the woods of Pennsylvania takes an alarming turn for the worse when Mulder's minor in ury escalates into a life-threatening disease.

Changing Tides by QofMush Who says change is all bad?

Circumnavigation by Suzanne Schramm Sometimes you don't know where you're going until you get there.

Coming Back by Karen Rasch Mulder gets a call from Mrs. Scully, who fears for Dana's safety. Following her instructions, he tracks his partner to a cabin in the mountains where he finds that she does indeed need his help. Memories of her time away have come back with a vengeance. (Sequel: The Calm After The Storm)

Dark Water by Suzanne Schramm Prehistoric insects. Mothmen. Now it’s a publicity-shy tribe of murderers. Just another nice trip to the forest with Mulder.

Falling Snow by Snark Mulder, Scully and a mysterious woman from Mulder's past crash in the snowy landscape of the Colorado winter.

Frozen by @dashakay The end of a case, and a stay in a log cabin during a blizzard, lead Scully to take the biggest risk of her life.

Last Chance Falls by @slippinmickeys A man. A women. A forest. A hit squad. An adventure.

The Lost by Wintersong Mulder and Scully are trapped in the remote wilderness and the art of surviving was not what they expected.

Old Growth Forest by Andrea Mulder and Scully investigate the disappearances of homeless people in Madison, Wisconsin and seemingly end up suffering the same fate.

A Path of Salt by Analise Mulder ditches Scully yet again to help an old friend in the Park Service. But Scully has never been one to sit and wait.

Tam Lin by Pequod When your local young men disappear, only to turn up dead a year later, sometimes it helps to have friends in high places. Myth and murder combine in a remote Scottish village, and Mulder and Scully investigate. The Fairy Queen is out to revenge the loss of her most prized knight, Tam Lin. Mulder believes but Scully’s not so sure, until Mulder takes a walk in the woods.

Tempest by Missy Pennington Mulder and Scully survive a plane crash to find themselves injured and stranded in the Appalachian wilderness. (Sequels: Distance, Wild Places, and Escape Me Never)

Untitled by @o6666666 Prompt: Mulder takes Scully camping and they make love for the second time ever under the stars.

Waiting in Motion by mountainphile After leaving the hot spring (in "Miraculous Manifestation"), Scully and Mulder take an unexpected detour on the way home. Dark secrets emerge when they seek shelter in a raging storm...and an intriguing X-file rears its head... (Sequel: Signs of Life)

Way Through the Woods by Pellinor and Rebecca Rusnak Three months ago, someone noticed something unusual about Scully. Now, in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, Mulder has disappeared, and Scully’s only chance of finding him include an unlikely ally and an untrustworthy informant. As they make their way through the woods, can Mulder and Scully find each other, or is the future lost?

[ohbo-ohno]

I'm gripping the bars of my cage desperately, I'm chewing at the bars, begging, pleading for more zombie ghoap x reader au.

zombie ghoap x reader au coming right up chef 🫡

btw this is super similar to charliemwrites' jaw dropping ghoap x reader "the (scottish) cabin in the woods" so you need to go read that immediately (and leave a nice comment because charlie rocks)

cw for noncon puppyplay below the cut

i was talking to ceilidh a tiny bit about this earlier, and i think that johnny and reader met in like a cannibal cult kinda thing. very much so like that episode of TLOU, yknow? they both think they've found a little commune safe haven, but it very quickly becomes clear that that's not the case.

anyways, they end up trying to get out together when they realize what's going on, and have to kill a few of the cult members :/ they've been "stuck together" ever since

they threaten to leave the other for dead (or kill them in the middle of the night) constantly. it hasn't happened yet, obviously, but boy oh boy do both of them bring it up nonstop. they act like they hate each other, but honestly they just need to fuck

but they're sorta stuck together now. you're better off paired up with someone than on your own, that's something they both learned pre-cult fiasco. and, really, they don't dislike each other nearly as much as you might think based on the way they gripe

enter ghost. he spots these two survivors wandering through the forest, one injured and both filthy, and basically thinks to himself "hm. could be good in home entertainment"

(here's the deal with puppyplay like this - it's absurd, and we're just going with it. alright??? just WORK with me here)

if you didn't see, i put in the tags of the original post "#btw - he takes you home then chains you both up outside and says something like “this is where dogs stay” :/#dont worry you're perfectly safe (he has a high fence keeping zombies out) but he likes to hear how scared you get when you're out there all#you're both quite well behaved when he lets you in for dinner the next night <3#he only has to scold you once when you both complain about being made to eat while kneeling on the floor next to him"

you're probably both "behaving" because you don't want him to. you know. fucking KILL YOU. but this is also a zombie apocalypse au, so you're both totally feral too. and this is an apocalypse ghost too, which means he's probably way harsher and way rougher around the edges than he even is in canon

anyways i think soap and reader here are more likely to be like "lets wait this out and try to escape when he's not expecting it" except they're like... really bad at trying to play along

ANYWAYS!!!! ghost takes you two back to his compound, ties the both of you up outside for the night. he wraps soap's ankle first, gives him a stern command to stay off of it, and goes back inside like everything is normal. he watches you two over the camera while planning out how he'll build some outdoor kennels for the two of you

you're both cold and tired and hungry and scared the next morning, so it doesn't take much coaxing on his part to get you inside. it takes a lot more coaxing to keep you two on your knees :/

honestly johnny's ankle is so fucked that it's almost a relief to keep pressure off of it (even if it means crawling around on the floor like an animal) but you care a hell of a lot more. ghost threatens to break your ankles before you finally listen :/

he ties the leashes to your wrists, to keep you both out of trouble as much as he can. it's not like either of you are eager to go very far - his house is warm and you're both chilled to the bone from your night outisde

anyways. that's all i've got like, linearly. but i can offer some random little tidbits about their lives after

ghost makes you both eat from the floor. he gives you plates (no silverware) at first and lets you use your hands, and gradually works the two of you up to eating from bowls with just your mouths

you and johnny bicker constantly and simon frequently makes the two of you kiss to make up :( forces you to make out with each other while he smokes a cigarette and enjoys the show. no matter how mad you are, you both end up needy and humping the air when he finally lets you stop

he tries to have you two sleep in the same crate, but it does not go well. ghost very quickly realizes that you two will try to tear each other's throats out if forced that closely together for an entire night

sometimes one of you will try to get the other in trouble. there's one particular night where you trick johnny into misbehaving and he's stuck in the outside kennel all night - but it rains. and every time you glance out the window you see how sad and cold he looks :((( ghost lets you love on him the next morning, and soap is more than eager for a bit of comfort after such a miserable night

[emmylous-world]

TF141 and their wedding

AN: I was bored and don’t have a laptop so I’ll feed you guys this, what I think their weddings would be like, lemme know if I should do something else, like engagement rings and wedding bands, types of houses etc. enjoy heheh

TF141 x f!reader

TW: mentions of sex,

Ghost💀

He’s gonna be very generic, basic and plain. It would be in the fall, beginning of October. He’s not much of the designer so he’ll definitely let you do the picking and choosing, happy with whatever. But it’s gonna be on the ghost theme, everything black and red with roses and skull’s. it’s not gothic or grungey, just black, red and a little white in there. His suit is black with a red tie. It’s probably held on a field in the country in England, idk won’t go into detail. Would only focus on you the whole night, he touches you more and gives you more kisses then normal. Will not stop touching, always has a hand on you, I mean it’s his wedding day. But doesn’t talk much, just watches you. Got teary eyes at Prices speech. When his tired of everyone, he picks you up bridal style and carries you to the cabin and consummate the wedding💀😏

Soap 🧼

Somewhat of Scottish wedding, definitely wears a kilt and the Mactavish brooch, thistle everywhere, the bouquet, cake, table decorations. It also be in august. Also I’m not sure if he would do a handfast first, but the wedding would definitely held in a castle in the highlands, and is sworn under God to be with you till the end of time. He cries when you walk down the aisle, can’t take his eyes off you, But after the wedding, the reception part, expect him to get pissed drunk. Plays some wedding games definitely, looses every time, cry’s at the speeches, every single one, he’s drunk so it’s a given. Eventually gets horny, takes you away to show you how much he really loves you😌

Gaz ☕️

Gaz would be basic like Ghost, it’s gonna be in the summer, in a tent. Pastel colours, and lots of eucalyptus. His suit would either be black or blue, I don’t know much about Gaz sorry, so I don’t know exactly what he would be like but would get drunk with soap and you, definitely would smoke a blunt later, get high and have the bestest sex ever. 😩🥵

Price🥃

This is literally based off of what I want for my wedding, bc I wanna marry this man’s and Ik it’s very much him, ferns and outdoorsy vibes, it’s when the daisy are in bloom (June, I think) or spring I can’t decide. It’s on he’s dad’s property, surrounded by forest. He’s an old man, so he’ll keep it traditional, your wedding band was his mother’s. his suit is a 3 piece navy blue tweed. Hands never leave you, and always looking at you with pure adoration also can’t stop kissing you. When the sunsets, he takes you to the horses on the property and y’all ride over to the hunting cabin in the woods, and he worships you all night. 🤭😏

[auspicioustidings]

Firewatch 13

Summary: All good things come to an end.

Words: 2.3k

CWs: Significant peril (and there's a cliff hanger about it so wait for the epilogue if you'd rather not deal with not knowing the outcome)

You curled up in Johnny's bed, both sad and happy that he was on night watch. Could you have stayed away if he wasn't? Honestly you weren't really sure anymore. This was just so fucked up now. What happened down the line if they got what they wanted (and was it only them that wanted it anymore)? Did you just stay here forever and never see another person? What happened if you got pregnant? Despite your reluctant care for these men you couldn't live like that. You couldn't entertain any idea of a happily ever after like this - the locked up girl was the start of the story not the end.

Johnny's room was like him, warm and a little chaotic. He had a gaming PC setup, disconnected from any Internet of course. It wasn't password locked even now despite you being mean the first night you were in his room and deleting a bunch of his saves. It had caused a fight when he got back and realised although by that time you had already had time to cool off and feel a little bad about being so petty. So you quietly apologised and when he continued yelling Simon had grabbed him by the scruff and dragged him out. You didn't know what he did, but they came back an hour later and Johnny was calmer. Said sorry for yelling. 

It was always Johnny that you wound up having screaming matches with, although it was easy to forgive one another it seemed. You just had the same short temper, easily setting one another off. If you were very honest with yourself which you tended not to be these days, part of you hoped Price would intervene when you were screaming the house down. A very large part of you. The part that craved the way he had made you feel when he had bent you over his desk and spanked you. Your head had never been so clear and calm before and you wanted to feel like that again whenever things started to get overwhelming, but it wasn’t like you were going to fucking ask your captor to take you over his knee.

The idea was making you a little flustered and well… you had kissed Johnny today. Would it be any more dangerous to get yourself off in his bed? It had been a while and you were pent up and you’d be quick. You lay and listened for a moment for any sounds in the cabin but there were none. Dosia would be out in the woods at this time. Everyone else was in bed. Simon’s bed was right on the other side of the wall from you and you couldn’t hear anything, so he must be asleep. You slid your hand down, biting your lip as your fingers dipped beneath your waistband to gently get yourself feeling good. 

You huffed when you couldn’t find a good rhythm. Shouldn’t this be like riding a bike? Still, it wasn’t like it felt bad, it just didn’t feel as good as you wanted. But you could get yourself there you were sure, just needed to get wet and the slide of your fingers would feel better. You were finally getting into the groove when there was a light knock at the door which was typical really. 

“Come in” you called, not at all happy about it.

You were under blankets and had obviously removed your hand from your underwear so it wasn’t like anyone would know what you had been doing, not even Simon when he slid into the room and closed the door behind him. 

“What?”

“Sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

Ah. Fuck. That stupid satisfied grin told you all you needed to know as he walked over and sat on the bed. So much for nobody knowing what you were doing. God what did he have supersonic hearing? 

“Must have been.”

“That right?”

“So your stupid little pact thing is still going then?”

“Remind me.”

“Stupid wee bonnie thing, your naw going tae cum until ye get permission from every single one of us” you mimicked in your absolute worst impersonation of a Scottish accent.

Simon snorted at that and his hand shifted to follow the shape of your body over the blanket before taking your own hand and bringing it to his mouth, kissing at your fingers that had just been on your body. 

“Don’t remember agreeing to any pact.”

“...you’re not fucking me.”

“Fair enough sweetheart. Getting you off on the cards?”

The thing about Simon was that he was always blunt with you. He didn’t dance around things like the others sometimes did, he always just asked exactly what he wanted to. It sucked when he used it against when you were trying to be annoying, not letting you keep winding up Price with saying you didn’t like any of the options he was putting forward for food and instead point blank asking you to name exactly what you wanted down to the ingredient list. And he didn’t have any polite filter, when you had mumbled about wanting a razor he had asked in front of everyone if it was "for your cunt”. Kyle had nearly choked on the apple he had been eating. 

You considered, narrowing your eyes at his amused look. 

“It’s a one time thing.”

“Uh huh.”

“Nobody else can know.”

“Not gonna be me that tells them.”

“I’m not sucking you off either.”

“Want you to jack me off at least. Only polite.”

“Fine. Not on my face.”

“Tits?”

“You’re pushing it Riley but I’ll allow it.”

“Magnanimous of you. Now open your legs, going to eat you out for fucking hours.”

He was not kidding and he was stupidly good at it. He was true to his word as well in that he didn’t tell Price or Kyle anything, didn’t need to with how loud he managed to get you, only chuckling when you smacked him after the scrape of his teeth made you yelp loudly. You let him stay after.

–

“Quit yer bitchin’ Johnny.”

“Naw, shan’t. Move the fuck over.”

“You’ll wake her up.”

“Then I’ll fucking tire her back out, move!”

You grumbled and shoved at Simon to get him to move. You didn’t care who was in this bed as long as they shut up and let you sleep. It was lovely and warm in between them.

–

“Oh shut up Kyle.”

“Didn’t say anything luv!”

“You were thinking it very loudly.”

You were not enjoying breakfast one little bit. Johnny was still in bed, Simon was smug as hell and Kyle and Price were definitely looking at you with amused ‘how was last night?’ looks, Kyle’s being particularly loud. Dicks.

“Come on little bird eat your pancakes, need to get your energy back after-”

“After what?” you hissed at him.

“...nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You shovelled pancakes into your mouth like the most petulant child on the planet and ignored their chuckling for the rest of the day.

–

“You could just ask you know.”

Price was leant on the kitchen counter when you went to make yourself a cup of tea. The cabin was quiet with the other three off to town (which you were always upset about. You wanted to go into town). It had been a few weeks since you had fucked up and despite a mighty effort from both Johnny and Simon you had refused to do so again. They were winding you up something awful though and it had only gotten worse when Kyle joined in. 

Heated glances, brushes of hands against your waist and thigh, lewd comments whispered right into your ear, them walking around in a towel still wet from the shower. It was annoying the life out of you and you were snapping more and more, ready to boil over and explode.

“To go into town?”

“You know that's not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean John?”

You both stubbornly stayed silent as you made your tea. You could outlast him, you could.  You drank your tea in silence. You settled on the sofa to read a book in silence. You got up to wash your empty mug in silence. You settled back in to continue reading in silence. And all the while he stayed where he was, leant back with his arms folded watching you. Waiting.

“...you can do it again” you mumbled, annoyed and embarrassed. 

“Hmm?”

“I'm not… it's not me asking. I'm just saying you can.”

“Right. And if I did and you wanted me to stop?”

“Red.”

“Orange if you need less.”

“Green if I need more.”

“OK” he agreed as he finally moved to come sit next to you. “Over my knee little bird, let's unwind you.”

It would be annoying that it worked except you were too boneless and relaxed after to hold on to the feeling.

–

“Doesn't this bring back memories?” Kyle grinned as he sprawled on the sofa in the watchtower.

You just rolled your eyes and wandered the small space, taking in the view properly since you had been distracted last you were here. You had asked to go on the overnight firewatch, desperate for a change of scenery after months of the cabin and the same walking route, and it had been his night. 

You suspected the only reason they had allowed it was because they knew you were on your period given that you had to ask them to bring you supplies. As much as sex would probably help, you were very much just a grouchy, sleepy lump who was very apparently not going to be partaking in such things right now. Kyle could tear his clothes off and you didn't think it would affect you. 

“Uh huh, near death, kidnapping, make out session. Truly a thrilling trilogy.”

“Aww luv come here.”

“Shouldn't you be watching. For fire” you deadpanned as you nevertheless went to flop on top of him.

“We’ll make a fire fighter out of you yet!”

He played with your hair like he knew you liked and the warmth of his body felt lovely. Whenever you shifted to try and get comfortable he would move exactly where you needed him to be no matter if it put him in an awkward position or not.

The walk up and down the stairs for the bathroom was God awful but probably good for you. But the real star of the show was walking the little balcony perimeter of the tower. The stars were so beautiful out here. It should have made you cringe at the cliche of it all when you said as much and he agreed they were beautiful while not taking his eyes off of you.

It was strange, but it actually made you feel happy. Neither of you spoke about that kiss you shared under the stars after, leaving that secret for the tower to keep. 

–

“Dosia! Where's Dosia?!”

You were frantic and couldn't listen to them. Not when they were telling you to leave. Not when Price was dragging you up the path by the arm and you could barely see through tears. It was all happening too fast. You were laughing at Kyle trying to teach Johnny how to flip a pancake, you should still be doing that.

“Forget about her! You need to run, now!”

You had never heard him sound like that and it scared you. The sound of the fire rapidly ripping through the trees was deafening, the sky red with embers and the smoke already starting to choke through. Simon had sounded the alarm 10 minutes ago having spotted smoke from far in the forest and already it was rapidly spreading, all of them kitted up and heading out to try and contain it while the planes deployed to tackle it from above. 

You were clinging to Price's arm. He couldn't go back that way. You didn't want him to go that way. That way was the fire. Why were they all going towards the fire?

“Look at me! You are going to run as fast as you can ok? And you're going to make it to town safe and sound.”

“I- n-no! You told me I was staying! I’ll tell everyone you took me and you’ll be in trouble! You- you need to keep me!”

“You won our bet” he said, grabbing your face and kissing you like he knew it was the last time. “Now for once do as you're told and go!”

You couldn't stop him and you were too terrified of following him as he pulled his mask on and went towards the danger, so you did the only thing you could do and followed his instructions. You could barely see through tears and tripped at one point, hearing the roar behind you as you froze on your hands and knees, wondering how they could ever survive. It was only a biting and clawing Dosia bursting from the trees to spur you to your feet that got you going again.

When you got to town the place was being evacuated as fire trucks were racing in from the nearest fire houses and planes were starting to streak overhead. One of the locals spotted you, damn surprised to see a dead girl emerging from the trees with cat in tow. They bundled you up in a shock blanket and put you in the passenger seat of a car with Dosia in your lap to get taken to the next town over. You found yourself watching the forest disappear in the rear view mirror, the ashes of your cottage still a stain on the edge. You wondered if their cabin would be the same. You wondered if they would be the same. 

The bet wasn't your win at all. Price might have finally come to regret bringing you to the cabin, but you had forgotten there was ever a time you hadn't wanted to be with them weeks ago. And now you weren't sure how you were going to learn to live without them.