#warden; Marionette

[red-winter-is-coming]

Some designs from my FNaF World AU :D

(same AU that the Shadow Bonnie doodle I posted last night is from :3 )

[mordrem-moth]

I have regrets and sprockets. But mostly sprockets.

[scotianostra]

Edwin Muir was born in Deerness, Orkney Islands on May 15th 1887.

He was the youngest of six children was initially raised on a farm before his family moved to the island of Wyre and then later the mainland of Orkney. His parents were farmers and when he was fourteen his father lost the family farm. This forced the Muirs to make another move to Glasgow where they hoped to secure their finances.

The move to Glasgow, from agricultural life to an industrial one, was extremely hard on the family. Within a few years, Muir’s father, mother, and two brothers died. These losses, added to the succession of poor jobs made his youth an unhappy one. He spent time working in factories and offices. The work was psychologically destructive to the young man but helped to inform Muir’s later poetic works. It was in 1913 that he began to write poetry, some of which was soon published in New Age. The passion seemed to drain from this pursuit quickly though and he turned to journalism.

A few years later, in 1919, he married Wilhelmina Anderson who was a teacher and linguist. The two moved to London together. Muir would later speak on his marriage as being the most important thing in his life. He and his wife would work together on a number of translations throughout the coming years, including Kafka, (those for which he is best-known). In the early 1920s, the couple lived in a number of different cities throughout Europe. In 1924 they returned to the UK where Muir began seriously publishing.

The translations that Muir and his wife worked on together became their main source of income. This was particularly helpful during the beginning of the second world war. The two worked on translating the works of Gerhart Hauptmann, Heinrich Mann, Hermann Broch, and more. This time period also saw Muir’s reputation as a critic grow. He wrote Latitudes and The Structure of a Novel. In 1927 Muir published his first novel, The Marionette.

The 1930s saw Muir begin a series of projects which included a number of travel and history-related works for Scottish Journey, a biography, and two autobiographical novels. In 1941 he accepted a position with the British Council and moved to Prague and Rome. The following years were highly productive and included his eventual naming as the warden of Newbattle Abbey College. His final collection was published in 1956 and he died in Cambridge in 1959.

Robert the Bruce (To Douglas in Dying)

'My life is done, yet all remains, The breath has gone, the image not, The furious shapes once forged in heat Live on though now no longer hot. 'Steadily the shining swords In order rise, in order fall, In order on the beaten field The faithful trumpets call. 'The women weeping for the dead Are not sad now but dutiful, The dead men stiffening in their place Proclaim the ancient rule. 'Great Wallace's body hewn in four, So altered, stays as it must be. 0 Douglas do not leave me now, For past your head I see 'My dagger sheathed in Comyn's heart And nothing there to praise or blame, Nothing but order which must be Itself and still the same. 'But that Christ hung upon the Cross, Comyn would rot until time's end And bury my sin in boundless dust, For there is no amend. 'In order; yet in order run All things by unreturning ways, If Christ live not, nothing is there For sorrow or for praise.' So the king spoke to Douglas once A little while before his death, Having outfaced three English kings And kept a people's faith.

[opportunity-strikes]

Adventure Poll!

Previous Poll

A stubbornness rises up in your chest, and you feel your decision charging up in your blood, in your bones. You feel like the coming flash of lightning, inevitable, decisive. You decide you're going to take the risk; and you also decide you're not going to get caught. Maybe these riders can hunt you in your dreams, but you have a Warden's Mantle, you're marked by an ancient family of dryads. You're not powerless.

You lift one finger from your grasp around the egg and twist it around the silvery thread of roots that connects you to the mantle. You take a grounding stance, planting yourself like the old oak outside of your home: immovable. And you direct your will toward the riders as lightning flashes overhead.

You see them again. Four riders with crimson shadows.

In your mind you catch a glimpse of the archer drawing her bow, but too eagerly, too recklessly. The weapon is a trophy, not hers, and she doesn't use it to its full strength. She fires quickly, but is skittish.

The glaive-bearers move in tandem like mirror images, but always look to the direction of the rider with a crown of thorns. They move like marionettes, dangerous in the hands of a puppeteer, but harmless when undirected.

The final rider snaps his head toward you as your gaze lands on him. You feel the force of his will crash against yours, and for a moment it feels like you're standing in a hailstorm of glass! His eyes are black and bottomless, and the cuffs and crown of thorns writhe against his skin like snakes. You can feel his magic trying to pin you down... But the blast of sharp energy stops, and you've weathered it, and you see his brow furrow ever so slightly for the last second you have light.

And then you wake up!

You're drenched in sweat, and find that you've pulled the egg out of your pocket and cupped it in both of your hands. You've pulled it close to your chest, curled around it to shield it with your body. Your skin feels raw, and your head is throbbing.

You push yourself up on an elbow and notice your door is ajar. The hulking form of Cooper stands beneath the threshold. She has the cloak carefully draped over one arm. She looks... different in the darkness. Bigger. Bulkier. Wilder. Like without the oppression of light, some more of her true form is slipping through.

"A hunting party is in the city," Cooper whispers to you, her eyes flickering between yours, and your hands. "I don't think they've found us, but they're circling... searching... what do you want to do?" There's a dangerous gleam in her eyes, and you realize Cooper is ready to fight if you ask her to.

[possumsandprose]

A Court of Trials and Tragedies Chapter 3

It's finally here. For those of you reading, thank you all <3 (you can also find this on A03, which is theanonymousopossumwritesstuff)

TW: mentions of drowning, severe depression, suicidal thoughts, technically suicidal actions? (she jumps off a cliff but like for a good reason)

Feyre woke up groggy and confused. Memories of her birthday began slowly flooding back to her, and she groaned. It was then her curtains were opened wide, allowing streaming sunshine in, and her maids came to dress her for the day.

But Feyre just couldn’t do it. She politely but firmly refused to go down to breakfast and to listen to another mind-numbingly dull argument between her parents about which boring prince would make the best husband for her. If it was up to her, she would marry someone who had never even heard of her.

Of course, this was impossible, given that she was a princess. The idea, however, was just what she wanted. All the men begging for her hand in marriage simply thought she was beautiful, and knew she could secure a powerful alliance for their kingdom. And for that reason, none of them would ever truly love her.

Not for the first time that day, fat tears began to roll down her cheeks. Everything in her wanted to die. She examined her window, dully contemplating whether it would be worth the effort to drag herself over and jump. Her sisters would certainly be delighted, she thought, since then all the attention would be back on them.

Despair engulfed her like a tidal wave. Chrysis had told her once about the god Oizys, warden of pain and suffering. He’d told her that when Oizys visited a mortal, it was like being drowned slowly. Feyre thought she finally understood what he meant.

Fear was fast. Instantaneous. It took only a split second to be afraid, to feel that spark of adrenaline coursing through the blood. Despair was not so. Feyre surmised the feeling was rather alike to being chained underwater without any key. There was no escape, no respite, no quick and clean end. All you could do is to wait, wait, wait, until that last bit of air runs out. And worst of all, the more time that passed, the more panic will set in.

Feyre’s heart certainly seemed to feel that way. It thrashed around inside her chest, begging to escape, to be free, to receive the gulp of air from deep under the ocean. Lack of air will drive a person slowly insane, she knew, and she couldn’t help but feel the same. Just as the air of the chained man was running out beneath the waves, her time before being inevitably being shackled, just like the man, slowly drifted away.

Vaguely, she wondered what any future husband of hers would look like. She was not particularly choosy about looks. Even though she herself was regarded as the most gorgeous woman to walk the earth, she had always found beauty to be inane and shallow. So much of a woman’s physical appearance could be wiped away with a damp rag.

A man with wealth would be nice, she thought, as she had grown accustomed to a certain luxury in her life which she was not ready to relinquish. Mostly, all she asked for was a man who would not raise his hands against her. The practice was more and more common these days, Feyre knew her father would never do such a thing but Nesta and Elain both bore marks from their partners, try though they might to hide them or pass them off as clumsy accidents.

The tears had stopped now, replaced only by a hollow, empty feeling. Inside her, instead of despair, was simply a void of nothing. She no longer felt trapped, anguished, in pain, or anything like it. Whatever joy had come from her birthday and the gifts she’d received had been sucked into the pit as well. And this feeling, though she did not know it, was more dangerous than despair. It is impossible to fix that which cannot be identified. Slowly, like a marionette doll, she drifted over to her windowsill, feeling as if she were being pulled by invisible strings. She sat on the ledge, staring out over her kingdom.

That was how her father found her when he came in a few moments later.

“Hello my darling,” he said with a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes, she noticed. They were full of concern, most likely due to her unexplained absence from the table that morning.

“Hello father,” she responded. “How may I help you?”

“I wanted to speak to you about your proposals,” he began, his voice placating, acutely aware of her feelings on this subject. He sat next to her as she heaved a barely concealed sigh, and turned her blue-grey eyes onto him with tired apathy.

Her father continued, “I’m sure you’re aware of my predicament in this matter, and your mother is also at a loss. However, I wish to give you some choice in this matter. I know you likely won’t have a particular suitor that you favour, given that you haven’t met any of them. But perhaps-there is something you are looking for? Location, wealth, status, appearance, something?”

Feyre mulled this over. She was pleased her father had asked her opinion, knowing this was highly uncommon. Truthfully, however, she had no idea what to respond with. She, of course, like everyone else, had her tastes, but they all felt like the wrong way to select her partner.

“I have a suggestion,” she said, “let us leave this up to the will of the gods. The Fates have outlined our destinies, and the stars have mapped our path. Perhaps we should go and seek the Oracle of Hybern. She is sure to have the answer.”

They debated for a while, and eventually it was decided- her father would go to the Oracle of Hybern, and ask her who Feyre was to marry. It wasn’t an answer to all of Feyre’s problems by any means, but she supposed it was a good enough plan.

Her father left the room after a short while, saying that he would go and speak with her mother then immediately set off.

When she was left alone, Feyre resumed her staring, this time examining her room. Her eyes swept over everything in it, trying to commit the image to memory. Soon she would never see this room again, instead being shut up in some lord’s castle in a land far away. However, quickly she noticed two things that seemed off. The first was the splatter of some sort of gold liquid on the floor.

It could have been paint, she thought, but none of her paints were that shiny gold colour, and her mother had expressly forbidden her to bring any art supplies into her room beyond stylus and parchment, seeing as anything else ran the risk of causing a huge mess. It hadn’t been there the night before, so what had caused it? She had no idea.

The second thing was the smell. Usually her room smelled like flowers, given the boxes she’d had placed outside her window so that her room would always smell lovely, but now…now everything smelled strangely of citrus fruits and, for a reason Feyre could not even begin to comprehend, the sea. The Archeron castle was many, many miles away from the ocean, so why were her senses filled with the aroma of salty waves? And, another small part of her subconscious nagged, why does it feel so safe, and so much like home?

-------------------------

Exhaustion had hit Rhysand like a wave. As soon as he had left the castle of the human princess, he had flown back to his own manor. He knew he probably should have informed Amarantha that the task was completed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that much.

To their endless credit, his servants had already prepared a nice, steamy bath for him. As he soaked in the warm water, his thoughts drifted to Amarantha, as they so often did these days. How foolish he had been to make that bargain.

If there was one thing he could change about his entire immortal life, it would be ever going to that wretched creature who called herself a goddess for anything at all. He was young and stupid when it happened, and yet here he was, so many centuries later, still paying the price.

Rhys traced his fingers over the mark tattooed not with ink but with magic on his wrist. An anatomical heart, pierced with a bloody arrow. A simple design, but so powerful.

When he was born, he was just another one of the minor gods. Growing up in the House of Nyx with his hundreds of siblings, he was just another figure with a small temple in a city no one important lived in that no one ever visited. In his foolishness, he craved more. He had flown to Amarantha, and asked her to give him the same powers she had. When she had agreed, he was elated. Soon he would be a real god, worshipped all over by mortals.

But nothing could ever come that easily. He had been forced to make a bargain with her. She would give him great powers, and all the fame and glory he desired, but with a condition. He would have to serve her every command for the rest of eternity. The only way to break the bargain was so impossible, surely no such thing would ever happen.

Rhys cursed his own foolishness, far from the first time. He got his powers, he got his fame, and now there was nothing he could do with it beyond being Amarantha’s hapless puppet.

For so many centuries he’d lost count by this point, she had called on him for every little issue, even so far as to call him her son, make people believe they were related. Even just the thought of sharing blood with her left a bad taste in his mouth.

His nightly ruminating on his own misfortune was interrupted by a knock at the door.

A servant floated in, a cute sylvie girl whose name he didn’t remember.

“You called for me, my lord?” she said.

“Yes. There is a girl in the human lands named Feyre Archeron. The princess who lives in the castle. I want you to bring her here to me,” he responded, and truthfully, he had no idea why he wanted this. Rhys hated humans, and Feyre, pretty though she might be, was no exception.

The more he thought about it, though, the more he realized he wanted her. He wanted her here, in his manor, by his side, to be together. Rhysand, god of love, had fallen in love with a human princess after having met her for no more than a few minutes.

The girl’s face registered confusion, clearly not expecting this, but she bowed her head.

“It will be done, my lord,” she responded dutifully, and swept out the door, likely to talk to his two wraith servants about the acquisition of the human.

All he had to do now was wait.

--------------------

Her father had done as she suggested, leaving for the Oracle nearly immediately after he left.

She heard the great, heavy, wooden doors of the castle swinging open with a loud thud, and she threw herself off the painting stool she’d been sitting on, disregarding the paint palette that had fallen to the floor.

She ran as fast as she could into the sitting room where her father was putting away his traveling cloak.

“What news from the Oracle, father?” she asked, foregoing any sort of greeting in her rush for information. In the time he’d been gone, thoughts of what his answer would be plagued her mind.

Would the Oracle say she was destined to marry a prince somewhere? Perhaps even a king? Maybe she was to be wed to someone more local, perhaps the son of the duke her father was so fond of.

Every night, when she went to sleep, her mind was filled with faceless suitors in perfectly tailored outfits, all taking her hand and sweeping her out to dance, only for her to be trapped forever, swaying to the rhythm.

The men would change, but she would stay, dancing her pattern, while the whole crowd watched her. “This is who you are, Feyre, the pretty princess,” they seemed to say. She would beg to be let free from it, to run away and hide where no one could ever find her.

It was then she’d wake up in a cold sweat, her fear almost tangible as she heaved deep breaths to try and calm her heart, running like a rabbit from an eagle. And as she drifted off, the cycle would repeat.

Her mind was racing in equal parts dread and excitement at what he would say. However, when her father told her, all that excitement dissolved instantly, and she was left in a frigid horror.

“My child…my sweet Feyre,” he said, hugging her as tears formed in his eyes. “I see no point in hiding it. The oracle has said you are to be sacrificed to a monster so strong, that even the gods fear him.”

Feyre could feel him shaking as he tried to repress his sobs for her sake, but all she felt was hollow. The gods had granted her wish, in their own cruel, twisted way. She’d wished to die, hadn’t she? Well, that wish looked like it was to be granted.

“Do not fret, father. I will remain with you and mother in spirit. But as the gods have decreed it, so it shall be done. If this monster wishes to claim me, so be it. I will go willingly,” Feyre stated resolutely.

*1 week later*

The youngest Archeron sister had been caught in a whirlwind of mayhem, as everyone tearfully said their goodbyes to her, and a dress was made. It was not of white, like traditional dresses, but instead it was black, symbolizing her funeral.

Wildflowers had been carefully embroidered upon it, along with swirling designs in the colour of lead. The sleeves were trailing, and carefully crafted shoulder pads connected to the front of the dress, which dipped into a V shape.

The dress was absolutely stunning, and she would have been over the moon to don such a thing, if t were not for the fact of her impending meeting with some sort of monster.

That thought had also been playing across her mind, wondering exactly what kind of creature was so horrible that even the gods would fear it. Images of savage creatures with sharp horns, fearsome teeth, and scaly bodies slid through her mind. She and her sisters had always listened to the stories told by the priests of the ancient heroes such as Heracles, Theseus, and Perseus.

All of the had slain some evil monster in their quests, and the legends surrounding them had only become greater after their deaths. Feyre was no hero, however, and she could not do any such thing.

She had made up her mind. She would do as the gods commanded, and she would not give this creature-whatever it was-the satisfaction of hearing it beg. Even as it surely tore her to ribbons, she might scream and curse it with all the breath left in her lungs, but she would not beg it.

At last, with her dress on and her hair fixed up nicely, it was time to go.

They reached the mountain where the Oracle had told her to go.

“Go to the mountain, dressed for a funeral, and jump off the edge. Your fate will claim you, and take you into his realm,” she had said.

The princess stared over the edge, a rock skittering down and crashing ominously as it fell. It was a long, long way down.

Her sisters had not deigned to show up, though that hardly surprised her. Most likely they were both throwing parties in celebration.

Feyre hugged her parents and her attendants all one last time, promising to remain with them in their hearts.

Steeling herself, she picked up the edge of her skirts, took a step back, then ran and jumped off the edge, into whatever lied beyond.

---------------------------

A book was propped open on Rhysand’s lap as he sipped one of his exotic wines, enjoying, for the first time in a long while, a nice rest. Amarantha was away on a trip to some place in Italy, which meant he could remain undisturbed for a while.

Then it happened.

One of his wraiths, Nuala, judging by the hair, glided through the wall, and told him what he’d been waiting to hear for the past week.

“The girl is coming, my lord. She has just leapt from the cliff face.”

He slammed his book shut, vanishing it and the wine with a snap of his fingers. Quickly, he donned his invisible form, and Nuala did the same.

“Excellent. I look forward to meeting her properly.”

A/N: They'll meet next chapter I swear. And you'll get a "hello Feyre darling, I've been looking for you." But until then, enjoy this.

Here's the dress Feyre was wearing when she jumped, it's not historically accurate at all but I don't care it's pretty.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

[cordessanglantesofficial]

Two weeks...       Two full weeks... 

          It’s been two weeks since you last saw the Wardens and that worried you. You’ve heard that other people have caught glimpses of the duo, but it seemed like the longer that this game goes on the more distant they become. You knew at the start that it was almost normal to see either one at least once a day or once every other day. 

          Now?

          Now you were lucky to see them once in-between motives. 

Current time: 0750

          They were not the only people who were pushed away, as you thought to what Aisha and Hang spoke about during the last meeting. You never intentionally tried to push the staff away, yet you could not speak for your fellow prisoners. Even if the actions were unintentional, the damage was done. You knew a few of the others were trying to repair some of the damage, however, the progress seemed to be non-existent. The only good thing that seemed to happen recently was the return of everyone’s companions. 

          That seemed to irritate the Wardens, and it left you with an important question. 

                    ( Who’s side is Trixx on? )

          Everything that strange creature has done so far seemed to be towards helping you. Yet, you still find yourself wary of the help. For all you know, this was another elaborate trick of the Wardens. 

                    ( Another test? )

          You felt a vibration in your pocket as you were dragged out of your thoughts. A sigh escapes from your lips as you slowly draw the phone out. At this point, you never knew what could be coming next. The screen illuminated with SysAdmin appearing on screen.

          “Plaza, 10 minutes. I suggest you haul ass and start kissing ass.”

          With that, SysAdmin disappeared as you stood there confused. You had no idea why SysAdmin said what they said, all you knew was that you might get your answer at this next meeting. Taking the advice of the AI you started to jog over to the meeting spot.

Current time: 0800

         Just like every other time, the Wardens appeared right on time. The moment the duo appeared, everyone else went silent. Marionette glanced around the group, her gaze as cold as ever. You noticed that Chat Blanc seemed excited and you felt a knot form in the pit of your stomach. If HE was excited, that could only mean you were in for one really bad time.

          “Alright, everyone is here time to get down to business. First things first, the duel track and arena are now complete. You will find all of the equipment you need past Gate Four. Any questions related to that, either ask Minou or Hang.” 

          She started to explain, eyes surveying everyone as a persistent frown remained on her face. She glanced from the crowd to Chat Blanc and then back to you. 

          “Second off, tomorrow we will be hosting a traditional Japanese festival. Don’t even think for a fucking nanosecond that you earned this. We are only doing this at Chaton’s request. If anyone even remotely fucks this up, I will personally see to it that you will be punished so severely that you will beg for me to kill you. Understand? Too bad. Because we are done here.”

The Wardens have decided to host a Japanese-style summer festival. According to Marionette, it was Chat Blanc’s idea.

The General Store is providing free yukatas in dozens upon dozens of colors, patterns and styles.

The festival will end on June 11th and, consequently, the motive will begin June 12th. IC, the festival will last one day.

The mods would like to remind you to read THIS POST and follow its instructions before June 8th. On June 8th, if you haven’t followed the instructions, your muse might end up with some unforeseen consequences.

The motive for Chapter 4 will again be an extremely interactive motive, but don’t worry. We’ve got you covered. It’ll be fun, free and horribly scarring.

[critrolestats]

Monster Analysis: Clay Wardens (Twilight Mirror Museum)

Thanks to @MissCryptidArt for this art piece!

Clay Wardens

First Encounter 3-021 Fight at the Museum…

Armor Class 17-18

Abilities:

Slam Attack

Grapple and Throw

Clay Warden 1: 82 damage taken, 9 HDYWTDT by Fearne

Clay Warden 2: 79 damage taken, 15 HDYWTDT by Orym

Glass Case

   First Encounter 3-020 Breaking and Entering…

   Armor Class 20

   Resistant to Physical Damage

   Immune to Radiant, Fire, Cold Damage, possible others

   48 damage taken, 6 shattering hit by Chetney

After dealing with an array of traps, animated marionettes, a gelatinous cube, and what their own curiosity hath wrought, Bells Hells finally succeeded in locating their Twilight Mirror Museum quarry, the earring known as Wind Folly. Standing in their way to victory were a glass case and two rapidly forming clay constructs. Well, and an immovable rod, but they didn’t know that…

Read more at critrolestats.com

[alteredsilicone]

Random Warframe concept: The Orphan Puppet, aesthetics based on a ball-jointed doll, has four arms.

Abilities are based upon summoning smaller puppets, controlling them with Void strings (somatic fiber?), each ability is a summon (first summon conjures up to 3 puppets, second and third ability summons 2 puppets each, third ability summons a big, strong puppet). The frame itself is very weak, armor, health, shields wise but her puppets make up for it, incentivizing into building for strength and range - they hit harder, have more hp and can move in a wider radius around the Orphan. The core gameplay is about maintaining all her puppet summons - they have their own hp and shields (and armor?) and are on the field as long as they can survive. NOT exalted weapons, but her signature weapon is a glaive that resembles the uhh... wooden part of a marionette.

Passive - Orphan is not affected by external buffs (e.g. Wisp's motes) but if she dies while x amount of puppets are alive she gets 'rebuilt' and revives (kinda like Nidus Undying effect).

Lore: she was stationed at an Orokin orphanage, taking care of the kids and entertaining them with her puppets. They loved her much and she loved them. The kids would come and go relatively frequently. Despite the colony being at war and many refugees and abandoned children ending up at the hospice, there were many 'beneficiaries' who would want to adopt them, with the hopes of giving them a better life as servants or students of archimedians. However, with time, she noticed that there was a certain... pattern to the orphans being adopted out.

One time she decided to secretly follow an adoptee, only to find out that the orphans she had been taking care of this whole time were prepared for the Yuvan theatre... Enraged, she murdered everyone in attendance, including the children and ran off, now a fugitive.

What was once a warden of lost souls was now a lost soul herself.

Orphan - the grief stricken.

Ps. if her abilities sound broken and op it's because I'm not a game designer but I just tried to cobble together concepts I have yet to see in WF and was inspired by people making 'glass cannon' builds out of squishy frames like Mesa. This is basically just a spitball I came up with on the spot.

[sajdd]

Do you know if theres any other dsmp songs of a similar vibe to An Ode to L'Manburg? It's fucking resonating with my soul.

-Ranboo Anon

i dont know if same vibe as that but i do have a whole playlist of dsmp songs 👀

ill put down most of the ones i like and highlight my personal faves (all hyperlinked to youtube)

Election Day- Dream SMP War original song

I'll be the Villain- Wilbur's Villain Arc

Fight with Fire- Fundy's Spy Arc

Death Hole (Tubbo's Song)

I’ll Let It Burn - [Wilbur’s Villain Arc Theme Song]

Regret- Eret's Redemption Arc

Please Don't Make Me Choose - Tommy's Song

"Sunset" A DreamSMP Original Song (Niki's POV)

"Abandoned" - A Fundy (DreamSMP) Original Song

Letter to Mr. President (Your Tommy) - TommyInnit’s Theme

letter to a dead friend | Tubbo's Theme

"Fickle Memories" ::: A Dreamsmp Original Song (Ghostbur)

“Wilbur Breaks” ::: DreamSMP (Villain Wilbur)

Revel: Eret's Betrayal [Dream SMP]

Ain't No Crying - Derivakat

Your Unfinished Symphony - Fundy’s Theme

Bittersweet - Jack Manifold's Song

Rewritten In Stone - Wilbur's Song

Little Hero - Dream SMP Original Song

Us Against The World [Tubbo, Tommy, and Niki's theme]

Welcome Home - Derivakat 

all hail the king | Eret’s Theme

Marionettes - Dream’s Theme

Violence - Technoblade’s Theme

November 16th - Philza’s Theme

In My Head - Derivakat

Turn Back Time - Derivakat

4AM - Derivakat

Voices - Derivakat [Project: BLADE | Chorus of 70]

Don't Stray - Karl Jacobs' Song

Woe to the People of Order - Technoblade's War Ballad

The Warden // Awesamdude's Theme

Take You Down - Quackity's Song

Syndicate - Derivakat

Why - Derivakat

HONEY - Derivakat

Typical Me - kroh

Captain's Call - Derivakat [CaptainPuffy Sea Shanty]

Casino Royale - Derivakat

FIREBORN - Derivakat

Doomsday - Derivakat

Revived - Derivakat (when it gets released)

WHILE MAKING THIS I REALISED HOW LONG AGO SOME OF THESE WERE MADE OH MY GOD

[kittym]

+ ASTRID ( @hunterastrid​​ )

LATE MORNING, THURSDAY 6TH MAY. SAINT & ASTRID’S HOME. Kitty is chosen ( unwillingly ). Kitty is not chosen. and Kitty is chosen ( willingly ). It’s a confusing cluster of days formed from the weathered frame of a rollercoaster that sets her emotions rolling down its twisting, turning, tumbling track and leaves her, by the end of it, somewhere between determined and proud and wary and exhausted. Kitty is chosen ( unwillingly ) by Death, their mark all but smeared across her forehead in sacrificial blood. She thinks it funny, really, in an entirely humourless way, that they pick her to tie phantom marionette strings to and force her to dance. Like they don’t know that her Horseman’s hunger is her own and that she was born to Famine just as much as she was born to her mother. 

Kitty is then not chosen — and this one stings a little, although she won’t admit that. It seems as though every time she turns her head lately, when she looks back at Rafael he has someone else stood devoutly at his side — on this occasion Ravi, a glinting new title pinned to him. And she’s pleased, she supposes, because the more people her cousin has around him the stronger he will be when he takes up his father’s seat at the pinnacle of their empire. Only she can’t help but chew over how long she spent beside him, and how little space there is, increasingly, for her to stand there now. 

And lastly, Kitty is chosen ( willingly ) to venture into enemy-turned-ally territory, black like oil into War’s blood-red world. She can’t quite tell if it’s a privilege yet, particularly when she finds herself chaperoned by Astrid into Saint’s house where a hundred-and-one-memories, one set of dark forest-deep brown eyes and one set of winter-bright-evergreen eyes, and two particularly unnerving looking dogs, lie in wait. So far, every member of War she’s come across in the past twenty-four hours has felt like a steel trap ready in waiting for her to make a false move ( Saint included, even in charade ). 

When Kitty awakes, the first morning in the belly of Gabrielle Warden’s war-torn mechanical beast, she finds the kitchen empty and sniffing hounds absent and sets about, with some small hint of impish delight, at making her mark. To everyone but herself and the person who holds her heart, this is her ex-lovers home — and anyone who knows Kitty would anticipate chaos, despite her promise to work alongside War for the sake of Famine. Digging through the cupboards, she pours coffee grounds out of their jar and replaces them with gravy granules. Tips sugar away and finds salt to take its place. 

Pouring away wine, though, undoubtedly sacred, is when she feels the prickle of someone’s gaze at the back of her neck. The scent of fermented grape rises from the sink, refusing to slow her action, red liquid glugging away. “Hello,” she says with a smooth mock-innocent smile, studying Astrid briefly. “I’m just making myself at home.” A now-empty bottle is set down and she licks the tart residue of wine from her fingers. “I wouldn’t make a coffee if I was you. How about a tea?” She flicks the kettle on, refusing to be made to feel like a guest by the woman assigned to ( in Kitty’s mind ) babysit her. “I haven’t fucked with the milk yet, I promise.”

[felidaefighter]

To Become A God

Contrary to popular belief, Dream had never been a god. He’d had a relatively normal childhood, and even though he could do a bit of magic here and there that wasn’t accessible to most other people the way potions and enchantments were, he wasn’t some all-powerful being. He trained hard for both his wits and his fighting prowess, and was rivaled decently-- at least at first-- by his close friends and allies. He loved his friends and his pets and the land that he had a loose domain over, and though he enjoyed fighting at the end of the day he would always choose peace if he could.

Somewhere along the line, something changed.

Hard to tell what, looking back. It came more as a dawning realization over months, like the drawn-out morning of a bloodred sunrise. As Dream watched everything everyone ever loved get dangled over them as leverage, burned, killed, destroyed; over and over and over again. As he saw even the tiniest specks of trust instantly betrayed by scam after scam. Attachment, he realized, was futile-- it was also the key to power and regaining control.

So he got rid of his attachments. Bit by bit by bit. Subtle, reserved, always careful to think ten steps ahead. He severed them all, strings of attachment that doubled as strings one could use to puppet him like a marionette, emotional bonds and physical items alike. Even then, he had his doubts, though-- at least until Tommy tried to taunt him with Spirit, of course. It was that night, after he had finished placing all the obsidian he had, that he noticed the first physical changes.

The heavy weight of armor suddenly felt lighter and more natural to Dream than his own body. Neither did the weight of sleep hang over him-- so he tested himself, because it was fun, because he could. He was already so much stronger and more skilled than his peers and allies, but now, without the need for sleep, these skills were easily doubled. He confessed to Technoblade that he didn’t sleep, and the piglin seemed to think this a statement of a tired man to be pitied. Dream smiled under his mask at that. It was always better to be underestimated, after all, even by those you are likely to ally with.

Dream did take his armor off, of course. He had to when he was pretending to respect L’Manberg and earn President Tubbo’s hesitant trust. He genuinely considered letting those fools take their attempt at his life when he heard about the intentions behind his invitation to the festival, laughable as it was, but quickly decided against it. They would only become harder to control if they had for even a moment a sliver of hope that they could kill him. Besides, he couldn’t keep going into L’Manberg with his armor off. Physically couldn’t. There was something... wrong. Or maybe something right that wasn’t human anymore. See, he had gone to take off his armor, just to make sure it hadn’t gotten too worn. Sat down in the community house and undid the leather straps that kept his boots on his feet, and went to inspect it. The emptiness in the boot and his foot were the exact same thing. So he came up with a plan to distract them instead, and detached himself, as he had with everything else, from whatever that sight and sensation was making him feel.

“In all destruction... there’s a new beginning,” Dream told Tommy, generous enough to share his newfound wisdom with the only other person who understood the truth about it all. All destruction. All new beginnings. “Beautiful.” Dream’s fingers weren’t really there under his gauntlets when he flipped on the redstone switches that began the crater, but Dream was there. The myth, the legend, himself in (almost) all his glory. Tommy called him a monster for it; maybe he wasn’t incorrect in the physical sense. In every other way, though, Dream knew he was right. It was what he had to do. The fact that it was fun only added to it all.

Hood and mask and layers upon layers of clothing, Dream had come prepared, because he knew that Tommy wouldn’t want him in armor, knew that Tommy would do what he had been taught and dig a hole for it, not knowing he was digging into his own soul as he did. He wasn’t expecting Tommy to demand the mask go in as well. Poor little Tommy, clawing for scraps of anything he thought Dream might have attachment to. Thinking he could be humiliated.

“Your armor as well,” Tommy said. Dream pondered that he could do with a mask of his own, for even though his posture and tone were attempting to radiate power, fear still radiated from his eyes like a beacon of too many feelings all in the same person.

“I don’t think you want me to do that, Tommy,” Dream replied, trying and succeeding to sound like a broken man. A much better liar than Tommy ever was; ironic for their histories.

Tommy always resorted to insults when he was nervous. “Don’t try to tell me what I want. Why don’t you want to take your mask off, huh? You ugly?”

And Dream smiled, a broad grin that mirrored the painted face of his mask-- but he didn’t let it show in his voice, tried to sound humbled and meek, for the sake of the show.

“There’s nothing under here but a nightmare.”

Nearly everyone scoffed and laughed a bit, especially Tommy, so Dream relished the way their faces dropped in shock and horror when he obliged and took off his mask. “Should I take my hood off as well?” Dream asked, pretending it was an honest question, and Tommy looked like he was about to puke. There was a shaky chorus of “no”s. It was funny to watch Tommy conflicted over whether he should take back what he previously said and let Dream put his mask back on or have to deal with the void that currently inhabited the space where Dream should have been (though still technically was.) Ultimately the former won out.

As seriously as the Warden took his job, he let Dream keep his mask even in the highest security cell. It was “unnerving”, he had said-- Dream found it a fun little prank to throw his clock in the lava for Sam to replace, and wait for the visit in silence with his mask off just to see the look of unease on the face of the man who was trying to seem intimidating and all-powerful. He withheld that little detail from Bad, and it certainly made an effect on what the demon thought of the situation. Dream thought a lot about his own situation, too-- just not the cell part of it. The rest of it.

He thought about what it meant to have attachment. He thought about power. About control. And about the magic that only he had been able to do, long before even this. Detachment from items, detachment from people, detachment from this plane of reality. He did still have an anchor-- this he knew. Their own little story they had written all for themselves, he and Tommy, that was just too fun to stop being attached to, at least for now. Tommy was the only other person who had ever understood what attachments truly meant-- only he had gone the exact other way, leaning into his emotions and becoming even more human. Even more killable, even more mortal. But Dream? Contrary to popular belief, he had never been a god. But everyone on the server had better hope they kept believing it. Because when the time was right and Tommy wasn’t fun anymore, he was going to be.

[cordessanglantesofficial]

"U-um." Elise nervously presents a painting of the two wardens holding hands, and a little heart over their heads. "I know this doesn't really make up for it, but, uh, I made this to tell you guys I-I'm Sorry. So here!" As soon as it's out of her hands, she begins to leave.

Marionette didn’t know what to expect when she came to meet with Elise, she honestly wasn’t sure why she even came at all. She much rather be spending time with her partner than dealing with the prisoners. However, she was getting  a little bit bored so she couldn’t see why a little trip out wouldn’t hurt. When she saw the gift she tucked some hair behind her ear as she took the painting. 

To be honest, it looked like a fourth grader did it and overall was not all that impressive. However, she felt like something bigger was going on, for there is no other reason for Elise to do something nice to her. Yet nothing came..

“Uh… thanks?”

There was a hint of uncertainty in the Warden’s tone.

@cutieheals

[dyinginlava]

Hellou fic dealer, it is I, once again. This time around, I am asking. Do you know any fics about prisoner Dream? Or being a prisoner in Pandora's? Thank you !

Have some angst!

The end of an era

Pandora’s Box

Clean Up In Cell #21!

the warden and the prisoner

a place to call home

Marionette Roulette

[hermits-that-craft]

Marionette Roulette - Chapter 2

TW- Mentions of suicide, implied child abuse

ao3 link in the first reblog

Sam hovers awkwardly at the door to Techno and Phil’s house, unsure as to if he should go in or not. He needs to let them know what has happened, and he needs the information that Phil could potentially have, but this isn’t his news to break.

Except he’s the only one who cares enough to tell the three people who live so far away.

“Are you going to say something, or just stand there?” Ranboo asks, his head tilted in confusion. “You doing alright Sam?”

“I need to tell you guys something. Are Techno and Phil home?” Sam asks, shaking himself out of his stupor.

“Come in.” Techno invites him in from behind Ranboo, a look on his face telling Sam that it’s going to be hard to convince him that he doesn’t know what happened.

Sam steps into the cottage, warm air washing over him like sea foam. It clings to his fur, and Sam finds himself hissing in content. Phil and Techno exchange worried looks, but Ranboo just smiles, and mumbles something to the pair.

“You said you had something to tell us?” Phil says, breaking the silence.

“You might want to sit down for this.” Sam says, taking a deep breath in. Phil, Techno and Ranboo sit around the kitchen table, Ranboo nervously looking around. Phil and Techno exchange a glance, and Techno rolls his eyes.

“Bit over dramatic, I’m sure the news isn’t that huge.” Techno says with a smirk.

“Tubbo was killed in a battle against Dream two days ago.” Sam says, his voice wavering. “Tommy is currently missing in action, presumed dead. I’m so sorry.”

The trio just stare at him, his words washing over them. Ranboo is the first to understand what was said, burying his face into his hands and sobbing quietly. Phil is the next to realise, horror and grief mixing in his eyes as he wails. A father who possibly outlived two of his sons, the only survivor sitting next to him. Techno is the last to realise, and anger overtakes grief in his eyes. Techno stands, pushing his chair over in his rush. Techno stalks over to Sam, pushing him against the wall as though that could change the past.

“You’re sure! You’re sure that Tubbo is dead.” It’s not a question but a demand.

“I’ve seen the body.” Sam says, tears dripping down his face. “Axe to the chest. He couldn’t survive that one.”

“And Tommy. He’s just missing, not dead, correct?”

“Techno, it’s Tommy .” Sam says. “Do you really believe that he would survive Tubbo’s death? After everything he gave up for Tubbo?”

Phil wails once more, keening in lament for his son. Ranboo starts to shake, as though he wants to teleport away but simply can’t . Techno lets Sam go, collapsing to the floor. It’s as though he can’t process it, as though he can’t do anything but stare at the ground. It must be hard - losing both of your siblings within a year.

“I need to ask a few questions, but if you don’t feel up to answering them then I can leave.” Sam says gently.

“Go on.” Ranboo says for the two men, not waiting to see their reactions.

“Tubbo’s family.” Sam says softly. “Someone needs to tell them that he’s died. Do you know who I can contact?”

“Captainsparklez, on Mianite.” Phil says, staring at the ground. “I- He- I-”

“Thank you.” Sam says, nodding his head at the man. “I’ll let him know.”

“When is the funeral?” Techno asks, hugging himself while he sits on the floor.

“Next week.” Sam says. “We have to-” He takes a deep breath in. “There’s no coffins Tubbo’s size, and everyone would prefer to bury Tommy with him. They were best friends, after all.”

“But there’s a chance Tommy’s alive.” Ranboo says without conviction. He’d seen Tommy in exile, he was the only person in the house who visited the teen more than once. Ranboo clearly knew about Tommy’s spiraling mental health - something that Sam only learnt about after the bombing of L’Manburg, in a quiet exchange between Tommy and Tubbo that Sam was never supposed to hear - and Ranboo clearly knew that there wasn’t any way that Tommy survived Tubbo’s death.

If the teen fell to his own hand or his enemy’s, it didn’t matter. Tommy and Tubbo could not be separated.

Tubbo barely lived when Tommy was in exile - both times. Sam had seen the teen roaming Manburg, looking as though he was barely surviving without his friend. It appeared better in the second exile - perhaps Tubbo was putting on a brave face, or maybe he was just used to it - but it was clear that he still missed the teen.

And, deep down, Sam knows that Tommy felt the exiles worse than Tubbo. After all - Tubbo had a support system. Tommy had an insane man, one who blew up his home, the other who blew up his home and killed his best friend.

Tommy was always handed the short end of the stick, and always punished for acting out because of it. It’s upsetting just how little the university seems to have cared about the teen, until after he died. No one cared for him until after he died.

“Thank you.” Sam says, pulling himself out of his anger. “I’ll message you the dates for the funerals.”

“Why didn’t you just message us the news?” Phil asks, his voice hollow.

“Because hearing that your children died is news that you should hear from someone’s mouth. Not through a screen.” Sam responds despondently. He turns, walking out of the room. How could Philza ask him that? How could he care so little for Tommy and Tubbo? Was it because Sam was the one who told him, or was it because he didn’t care for the teens.

“Tubbo wasn’t our brother.” Sam hears Techno mumble. “And both were problems who tore the family apart.”

Red flashes in Sam’s eyes, and Ranboo wails at those words. One should not speak ill of the dead. Sam lets the door slam behind him, a loud bang! that condemns the two adults in the house to a damnation that Sam can bring to their doorsteps. Dream may have taken away his right to be the warden, but there isn’t much Sam would have to do to convince the rest of the server to throw the pair into the jail for their comments.

Sam is not a vengeful man, but those children didn’t deserve death and pain. Tommy didn’t deserve to be put with that family. Tubbo didn’t deserve to be spoken about with such contempt.

Sam steps out into the snow storm, walking away from the cottage warmed by false ideals of family. Tubbo is dead, and the likelihood of Tommy having survived is so close to nothing it shouldn’t be counted as an option.

But Sam has worked under worse conditions. He’ll find Tommy - either his body, his ghost or his person. Maybe then he can help the teen.

Show him what a family looks like.

----

Niki looks out of the window of her and Puffy’s home, humming under her breath. Tubbo, dead?

Why would Dream kill Tubbo, when Tommy was far worse - a warmonger? It doesn’t make sense to Niki, though she supposes that Dream may have only returned Tubbo’s body to the main area of the server because Tommy isn’t worth a grave. He can rot where he lies, for all Niki cares.

Is that true though?

Guilt claws at her heart, as though she was the one who killed the teens. She never wanted Tubbo dead - Tommy was the only one that she and Jack wanted to kill. Why can’t she stomach the two teens' deaths? Why does guilt drown her as though she threw the axe?

Tubbo died saving Tommy, Dream had said. Perhaps that's why she feels as though she threw the axe. Tubbo had jumped in front of the axe to save Tommy from certain death, dying in the process.

Would he have done the same, if it were Niki and Jack throwing the axe?

---

Ghostbur sits in the L’Manhole, hiding under an undercroft as rain buckets down. He sticks his hands into the rain, watching as they run like watercolours in the rain. He wants to feel pain. He longs for it to hurt, for the pain to be unbearable and for it to burn like the noise it makes. It doesn’t. It doesn’t feel like anything. His skin fizzes and his hands run like paint down a drain, but he doesn’t feel any pain.

Tubbo is dead. Tommy could be dead.

“Get your hands out of the rain, loverboy.” Glatt says, making Ghostbur jump. “Tubbo is with us down there, but he’s happy to stay and rest for a while. He says he’ll be back for his funeral.”

“And Tommy?” Ghostbur isn’t able to return to the Aether, not since he made the deal with Glatt to watch the overworld for the other ghost. He could return, of course, no deal stops the inevitable, and maintaining a form is hard , but he doesn’t want to.

Alivebur is so loud there.

“He isn’t there, Wilbur.” Schlatt says, his voice more full. Without an echo. “Your little brother is alive. Tubbo says Dream killed him so that he could break Tommy.”

“No.” Ghostbur pleads with the rain, with his friend. “ No, not Toms. Not my baby brother.”

“I’m sorry, Wil.” Glatt says, pulling the tall ghost into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“He’s just a kid. He’s just a kid. ” Ghostbur’s eyes glow bright, angry, and Glatt looks at him with growing realisation.

“This is not a world to make into a disaster, Ghostbur.” Glatt warns. “There is more than just us here.”

“We deserve the pain.”

“Let’s go somewhere warm.” Glatt says, the bedrock glowing golden as Glatt opens a portal to the Aether.

Thats one good thing about the L’Manhole. They don’t need to beg Dream to make a bedrock portal for them anymore. They have access to enough bedrock here to keep a portal open constantly.

[pathcrier]

This ask game has alot of good questions!! But 💖 and 😊 for all the ocs in your tags!

THIS IS VERY LONG IM SORRY HAHA

💖 Has your OC ever been in love, be it romantic or platonic or otherwise? Who with and did they ever express their feelings or keep it private? How long did these feelings persist / do they still feel this way?

Dahlia Shepard: romantically, she had been in love exactly three times. First time was with a girl back during Alliance training, Catalina. She was head over heels but never really told her, just because she felt it wouldn't work out in the end and let her doubts overcome her. Lasted for nearly a year, and no, she's completely over her (and actually attended her wedding and felt nothing but happiness for her.) Second was Aria T'loak, back when she was undercover on Omega. They had worked closely for months (trying to catch a cerberus cell leader) and had been seeing each other- but Dahlia presumed it was just a casual fling and would be over once she was finished. Dahlia knew once she was back in Alliance space, it wouldn't work out, and left it at that. Took a bit longer for her to get over this time, but she eventually did after focusing solely on her military career. Finally the woman she would easily rescue a galaxy for, Liara. For the first time, Dahlia allowed herself to be selfish and to want to be in a longstanding relationship. For the first time she sees herself willing to sacrifice everything for the one she loves, she is beyond head over heels for Liara. She platonically falls in love with every one of her friends, even if she's the worst at showing it. She loves these people more than life itself.

Nicola Amell: growing up in the Circle, with templars looming over your shoulders every second of the day- she never really bothered to invest any time in crushes, never giving them the chance to grow into something more. She devoted all her time to her studies and squashed any crush at the start. She didn't actually let herself fall in love until she felt her life was on the line, until she met Leliana. It was the first time she ever truly loved another person in a romantic sense, and she was going to live in every moment as if it were her last. Even by the time of the events of Trespasser, Nicola still takes the time and effort to send love letters and gifts to the now Divine Victoria. No amount of blights, ancient tevinters, nor elvish gods will ever keep the Warden Commander from her love.

Delaney Hawke: well, being a half elf mage apostate constantly living on the run for a majority of her life- she never really had time to actively meet people long enough to develop an emotional connection. Most of her crushes were as short lived as their homes. 

Until moving to Kirkwall, that was. Having a crazy band of misfits that constantly follow you around, it's hard not to form attachments. Platonic or romantic. And when she fell for Isabela, she fell hard. I'm talking about head in the clouds, only able to think of one name. She's never experienced a crush like that and it freaked her out. Instead of telling Isabela about her feelings, she ran to Varric. Almost immediately. Delaney unsure of how to handle love in a romantic way, and Isabela shutting love out- it took quite some time for those two to establish themselves in a relationship. But even in those standstills, Delaney had almost expected her heart to move on, but it did the exact opposite- caused her love to grow stronger. Even now in Inquisition time, it took all of Delaney's strength to leave the comfort of Isabela's ship to go aid Varric. Not wanting to be separated for long, but not wanting to leave her best friend high and dry (who she loves very very much.

Gryff Hawke: like his twin sister, Delaney, he never had the time (nor desire really) to search for any love. At the time, the love of his 3 siblings and his parents was enough for him. He was happy and content. He knew he didn't need a relationship to be happy and content, so he never actively searched for one. Hell, even in Kirkwall, he was too busy keeping him and his sister out of Meredith's grasp and keeping the qunari at bay. But he did quite literally stumble into thoughts of a certain glowing elf, and never realized just how far he had fallen for him. Despite their differences they saw on magic, Gryff knew Fenris was the one he wanted to be with. For the first time ever, Gryff was actively seeking out affection for another person romantically. He will never admit it, but it was the best feeling he ever had. His love language is traipsing across thedas taking out slavers with his badass boyfriend.

Kiri Lavellan: Kiri LOVES being in love, adores the feelings of warmth and security a partner brings. She has had a few partners of course, but none ever lasted too long, especially amongst her Dalish clan, where everyone knows everyone's business. That being said though, she doesn't jump right into anything. When she loves someone it's very slowly and then all at once, pouring her heart and soul into her partners. Which was fairly difficult when it came to Sera, given her stance on the dalish, magic, and dalish magic. That didn't deter her though, she was understanding and patient and more than happy to move at Sera's pace. Despite their difficulties and differences, there's never been a stronger bond between pairings- Sera was so devoted to her inky, even as far as post Exalted Council, following Kiri back to her clan and being introduced to Kiri's friends and family.

Niamh Valyn: here's another one who just claims she never has time for a relationship. Not saying she will actively deter them, she just- doesn't expect anyone to want to put up with extensive time apart due to her place with the Rangers. She's fallen in love platonically more than romantically, and she's not going to complain. She loves her friends very dearly, they're her whole world, even if they're miles apart. But when it comes to romance, she finds it to be more difficult to keep a relationship going, finds it more emotionally taxing at times and just hasn't really put any thought into seeking someone out. She's content with where she is, if someone comes along who willingly wants to deal with distance- she will happily accept. 

Ezra Marlowe (because I forgot to tag her and she's my baby): twice. She's fallen in love twice, and the first time damn near killed her. She let herself love so wholly and blindly, she never anticipated being hurt (quite literally.)

After that she felt very scared of any romantic advances, even if she was the one to initiate- she'd eventually run off if her overwhelming fear of being hurt overcame her.

After a while, the second time- it was a very slow, unsure path she took. But this man, the love of her life, Bashir, had proven just how much Ezra means to him. Through patience and care and understanding. Ezra once again allowed herself to love wholeheartedly, and for once, she's not scared.

Roux Lux: now here is someone who falls in love with the world anytime the sun sets or rises. She loves virtually everyone she meets. She falls head over heels for all her friends, in the most platonic way possible. She gives everyone the same special treatment, affection, and adoration as she does with a romantic partner. Though, Beetle may receive extra special treatment for being her amour. When she was ready to tell Beetle how she felt about him, she did so in the cutest puppet show..which she spent days hand crafting her props and painting new marionettes 😭

😊 What can make your OC smile even when they’re feeling down? What cheers them up and makes everything feel better for them? Is your OC generally a happy person and do they enjoy making others smile? What about your OC makes others happy?

Dahlia Shepard: it's hard for her to always feel happy when there's an impending invasion on their doorsteps, but one surefire way to cheer her up is a quick call to her son, Otikk, a little salarian boy. He is such a lively, happy go lucky boy, and always eager to cheer his mama up. Dahlia comes off very brash and intimidating, but she very much loves pulling her friends out of the dark- whether through inspiring words, or distracting them with their favorite hobbies.

Nicola Amell: even with the blight raging, she always looked for the little things to cheer her up. To be honest, just having her closest friends at her back was more than enough. Knowing that she will always have people to pick her back up if she falls was the greatest comfort and a thought that always lingered when she felt low. Making other people happy is what being a hero is all about in her mind. When others around her feel safe and are smiling, that fills her with so much pride and joy.

Delaney Hawke: ah yes, the one who finds any reason to crack a joke- ill timed or not. To be honest whenever she's in a low spot, just curling up in bed with her mabari, Junji, is enough. Though sometimes having Isabela sprawled across next to her, having her tell tales of her life at sea, watching her put on an exaggerated reenactment of exciting fights is just what she needs too. Or sitting around a table with everyone, letting Varric make up stories on the spot, everyone happily buzzed…. Never fails to bring a smile to her face. She's generally very chipper and easy going, so everyone assumes by the amount of quips and playful teasing. Deep below, she's miserable, and full of guilt and self doubt. She doesn't like letting her friends know that, so she puts up this front and goes to any extent to make sure no one else feels how she does.

Gryff Hawke: raging ball of anger who has a hard time letting himself be happy- especially trying to keep himself and his twin alive and out of the Gallows. It's hard to feel happy when everything you do backfires and bites you in the ass, even when you know you did everything you could. Even with this rowdy band of misfits at your back, sometimes it just feels like you're drowning. But sometimes there's a hand to pull you up, bring life and air into your lungs. Having Fenris curled up beside him, quietly and slowly reading through a particularly difficult chapter, pausing to ask you what a word says- it reminds Gryff that there are things worth smiling about, and oftentimes they're the ones to pull you out of the dark.

Kiri Lavellan: being dragged into a humans holy war and being propped up as their god's herald- it takes a lot out of you, and Kiri always fears she is about to get uprooted from her dalish heritage at any moment. So in the quiet rests, she finds herself reciting stories in private that the keeper once told her. Anything that reminds her of her roots, where she comes from. She tries very hard to keep a brave face, a beaming smile, one that would inspire hope amongst her men. She wants others to believe she can do this, that she's not scared, anything to instill security in those around her.

Niamh Valyn: when she's feeling lost or homesick, no matter where she is, she carries a leather-bound journal filled with bedtime stories her mother and father read to her as a child. Cuddled up with her wolf companion, Zarola, and her pipe- it's like all her worries just melt away. Even if she looks stoic and imposing like a stormy mountain, she's a very happy person. She's content with where she is, and easily makes those close to her at ease with her playfulness and cheekiness.

Ezra Marlowe: to her, all her happiness she keeps is heavily guarded and protected, not willing to let it go, risking getting hurt. She has no issues pushing people away and hurting them to protect herself. But that being said, those who truly know her, they know she can be enjoyable to have around...in an annoying sibling kind of way. Always looking to push buttons for a laugh. But on her darkest days, she finds the most comfort in the arms of Bashir. He's one of the fre who can easily calm her nerves, bring her back to reality and truly make her feel safe.

Roux Lux: a walking ray of sunshine, this one. Wherever she goes, she leaves a trail of smiles and mirth in her wake. She love love loves creating smiles and making people laugh and feel good. Its why she joined the circus to begin with, her puppet shows have brought nothing but joyful squeals and it's the greatest feeling in the world to the changeling. She's always in the happiest of moods, rarely is she seen without a smile. Yet on those rare days when she feels small and insignificant- curling up in Beetle's lap and listening to him hum soft appraisal to her is all she needs to bounce back to her original self.

[darkesttimelinestuff]

7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.  

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons  

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps  of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness.  “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything  and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at  apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor,  picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino.  The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from  – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!