#cryptid under the porch

[multi-lefaiye]

Mustard, sepia, burgundy

(for that colors ask game i rb'd like a week ago)

mustard: you have correct takes on literally everything

sepia: you think you're soooo funny don't you?? well you are

burgundy: i'm in love with you /platonic

-

ELLA I LOVE YOU SM MY FRIEND... WAILS

[icyharrington]

So I Can Get Mine, And You Get Yours (Eddie Munson X Reader)

hayyy so for some reason this fic took me like a million years to write even though it’s short ??? idek lmaoo but anyways this shit is finally done !!! i hope y’all like, once i’m done with this im gonna go back to working on some requests and stuff in my inbox!! and feel free to send any ideas u might have uwu

description: after your weed stash is discovered and confiscated by your parents, you’re desperate for a re-up but are unwilling to spend the extra cash. lucky for you though, eddie munson is willing to work out a deal.

contains: sexual tension, dom!eddie, drug mentions, stoner reader lmao, blowjobs, deepthroating/face fucking, dirty talk, eddie is a slightly perverted yet charming asshole, tha reader sucks dick for weed lmao

wc: 5.1k

tagging: @jargotquinn @wordsaretheonlyescape @ankokubunka @rottnteen @msunravelled @animesnowstorm @send-me-a-cryptid @itsanithemenace @lenora91 @mxh0neylol @reddesert-healourblues @capricornrisingsstuff @i-me-mine @somnobun @harrystylesplschokeme @harringtonfan4 @bimbobaggins69 @sarahgarlic @xxlilyxx90 @daddy-long-legolas @virgovixen89 @manicpixieautismgirl @hahahafucku @stephanie-nicks76 @f-me-reid @winterton-reads @dixontardis @kleinegamerin @bbellee @bohemianrhapsody86 @for-hearthand-home​

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my most valued and reliable customer,”  Eddie Munson says with an evil grin as the front door of his trailer swings open. He reclines against the doorframe, eyebrows raising in amusement at the sight of you standing there in front of him.

You’re situated on his porch, huddling your arms together beneath your baggy coat as you shiver in the mid-autumn chill. Narrowing your eyeliner-smeared eyes into a glare, you shove your way past him into the gentle warmth of his home.

“Shut up,” you say irritably, which makes Eddie throw his hands up like he’s at gunpoint.

“Just come right in, I guess!” he exclaims, slamming the door shut in your wake to keep out the cold air. Unfazed, you throw yourself back onto the living room couch, ignoring the look of utter annoyance that stretches itself across Eddie’s angular features when you do. “Now that you’re nice and comfy, what the hell do you need?”

As if the chip on his shoulder is unjustified, you let out an offended scoff. Stalling at his question, you will yourself to break contact with Eddie’s gaze. “…Weed.”

Eddie folds his arms in front of his chest, staring you down; he’s wearing a leather jacket with his Hellfire tee underneath, paired with gray-black jeans and combat boots. With the shitty yellow glow of his trailer surrounding him ominously as he looks down on you with near-black eyes, he almost appears intimidating, but in all honesty, you’d be more afraid of a golden retriever than of Eddie Munson in most situations. He likes to play himself off like he’s some kind of unpredictable bad boy, dealing drugs after school and wreaking havoc in the hallways by way of his wild antics, but you’re not stupid, unlike most of the other Hawkins high attendees.

You’ve been regularly buying weed from Eddie for a few months now; once a week you’ll meet him under the staircase at school to purchase a half-ounce, occasionally sticking around for some idle conversation.

He always struck you as a lonely kind of guy- somebody with a lot to say, but nobody to say it to. You’d nod along as he rambled on about his band, or the assholes at school he hated, or Dungeons and Dragons, which you would pretend to understand just to humor him. He was a nice, if not slightly geeky and eccentric dude, and you could never quite understand the fear your classmates harbored for him.

“Ouch, (y/n). And here I was thinking you just wanted to spend some time basking in my presence.” He shakes his head with a click of his tongue, his face contorting into an exaggerated display of devastation. “What the hell happened to the shit I sold you this morning?”

You grit your teeth into a wince, reminded directly of the cause for your bad mood. Flailing back dramatically against the throw pillows beneath you, you flash Eddie a helpless look. “God, don’t even get me started, Eddie.”

“The cops didn’t catch you, did they?” He knits his brows, voice dropping to a concerned whisper as his spindly frame hunches over you. “You didn’t rat me out, did you? My uncle will be so fuckin’ pissed if our trailer gets raided.”

“No. Worse,” you say flatly, stifling a giggle when his dark eyes expand cartoonishly with alarm. “My mom found it.”

You’d made the mistake of tossing the baggie of weed in your sock drawer before heading to your evening shift at the record store, only for your mom to come across it while putting away laundry that evening; when you’d arrived back home later in the night, you found your mother, red-faced and teary, sitting at the kitchen table across from a box of Kleenex and your stash. Blubbering endlessly about life paths and bad influences, any outsider would have assumed she’d caught you lighting a crack pipe redhanded.

He lets out a prolonged exhale in a combination of relief and exasperation, shaking his head at you like a disappointed parent. “And how exactly is that worse?”

“You haven’t met my mom.” You reposition yourself on the couch, sitting upright and crossing your legs in favor of a less unhinged approach. “She’s gonna be on my ass until the end of time now.”

“Sorry, I’m still having trouble seeing how that’s worse than getting raided by the police,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes as he starts towards the hallway, where you assume his bedroom is located. “So what do you want? Another half?”

“That’d be nice,” you say, chewing your lip apprehensively. You decide not to say anything else until he returns with what you want, spreading your hands out on your knees and drumming your fingers restlessly.

You wouldn’t consider yourself a stoner, though you’ve been smoking daily since your sophomore year of high school, after befriending a few punk-obsessed senior kids who introduced you to it; at this point you’re probably semi-dependent on the naturally occurring substance, but you can’t bring yourself to stop- you love the way it makes you feel, all cozy and content, your cheeks aching from smiling at every damn thing you cross paths with.

You know it’s mildly pathetic to have walked all the way to the trailer park after midnight with the sole intent of replenishing your confiscated stash, but you hate the thought of spending a weekend without any weed.

On second thought, maybe you are a stoner.

When Eddie emerges from his bedroom, he’s carrying a twisted-up Ziploc bag, a telltale earthy green shade visible through the transparent plastic. He swings it back and forth as he approaches you in the living room, humming something off-key to go along with his needlessly jaunty strides. “Should I even sell this to you? Kind of a waste to sell if mommy’s just gonna add it with the other contraband.”

“Hey!” You feel your cheeks burn in response to his teasing, which is embarrassing enough of a reaction in itself- why do you care what Eddie Munson thinks, anyway? “She isn’t going to find it this time.”

He examines the bag thoughtfully, holding it above his head so that it catches in the room’s sallow lighting. “I dunno, (y/n). I dunno.”

Eddie’s doing what he does best: putting on a show, and you don’t know if he’s merely acting on his ever-present impulse to behave idiotically, or if he’s purposefully being an asshole- either way, you can feel your patience gradually depleting by the second. “Eddie, seriously- don’t be a dick. I walked all the way here.”

“That was your idea!” he exclaims, visibly dumbfounded by the audacity of your demeanor. “What if I was all out, huh? Then you’d be shit out of luck, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, good thing you’re not,” you say defiantly, extending a hand in between the two of you with an obnoxious grabbing motion. He’s starting to really get on your nerves now, though you assume it’s intended. “Just give it to me, Eddie.”

He acts like he’s going to hand you the bag before he abruptly retreats his arm to loop behind his back, shoving it into his back pocket. “Not so fast. I want my ten dollars.”

Glancing down at your palms in an attempt to avoid Eddie’s expectant stare, you fidget uncomfortably in your seat, before blurting out, “Yeah, could I maybe get it for free? Just this once?”

Eddie lowers his chin towards his chest, his eyebrows raising in disbelief; you force yourself not to look at him, knowing fully well that you’re making a complete ass of yourself right now. “Sorry, I don’t think I quite got that. Did you say free?”

Fuck. Out of all the people you figured you could get free weed from, Eddie seemed the most likely to oblige, but obviously you’d misjudged him. Maybe you do need to cut back on the Mary Jane, because damn- you’re really starting to act like a corner-store crackhead. You’re growing increasingly more embarrassed with every moment Eddie’s dark eyes remain fixed on you, but you’ve already made the journey, so really, there’s no point in backing down now. “Well, yeah. I mean, I didn’t even end up smoking the other shit I bought. My mom probably threw it in the trash.”

Eddie laughs, though you get the impression he’s doing it at you, rather than with you. “Do you think drug dealers come with fuckin’ insurance or something?”

You stifle a frustrated groan, fully realizing the stupidity of your request now that you’re being called out. Still, you refuse to let him catch on to your self-awareness, choosing instead to double down on your argument. “C’mon, Eddie. I only make three-fifteen an hour and I already spent half my paycheck on cassettes.”

“Well, damn, (y/n)! Learn to manage your finances better, then!” He speaks with a lighthearted tone, but his body language communicates a prominent irritation, his arms crossed firmly over his slender midsection. “If I give you weed for free, then I’m going to lose money, and I’m already strapped for cash. Plus, if word got out that I gave you a freebie- I’d have a whole line of desperate potheads begging outside my door instead of just one.”

You gasp at the bluntness of his remark, huffing out when you can’t think of anything clever to come back with. “I wouldn’t tell anyone you gave it to me for free. I swear.”

“Like I said- I’m too broke to be giving away goddamn goody bags,” Eddie snaps, angling his head to glance not-so-subtly at the front door, before flashing back to assess your flushed face. “I know you probably thought I’d cave at the sight of a pretty girl at my doorstep since I’m a freak who gets no female attention and all that, but I’m sorry to tell you that I actually run my business with integrity.”

The whole of Eddie’s statement blindsides you, and you find yourself blinking wildly as your mind races to process it; he’d just called you pretty, to your face, as matter-of-fact as reciting the alphabet. You can only pray that your complexion doesn’t redden too drastically as you feel your cheeks prickle and flush, but you somehow carry on, feigning indifference to the best of your ability. “You’re a drug dealer, dude. I don’t think there’s any way you can do that with integrity.”

“You can think whatever you like, sweetheart,” Eddie says as he taps your shoulder twice, signaling you to get up, which you do, albeit reluctantly. Once you’re back on your feet, you’re reminded of your height difference, though it had never really crossed your mind in the past; perhaps it’s your close proximity to him that makes it seem so much more conspicuous now, with Eddie looking down on you- literally- from mere inches away. “My answer is still absolutely fuckin’ not.”

“It’s just ten dollars worth of weed!” you yell, not unlike a child being denied a balloon in a grocery store.

“If it’s just ten dollars, why can’t you pay me, huh?”

He bows his head so that his dark, frizzy hair curtains either side of his angular face, shrugging nonchalantly, despite the pride that you can see gleaming within the mischievous blackness of his eyes. Check-fucking-mate.

It dawns on you that you’re probably just going to have to accept not getting your way, and you pout, giving up on trying to convince him. “Because I’m broke.”

“Well, so am I!” He looks at you like you’re out of your mind, and you can almost agree with him, though you’d never say so out loud. During the resulting lapse of awkward silence, you can see him start to ponder something, his mouth screwing up in earnest thought until his tone eventually shifts.“Y’know, if you showed up at any other dealer’s house at this time of night with no money, they’d probably think you were coming to fuck them for drugs.”

Your mouth drops open, and for once, you’re genuinely speechless. The worst part, however, is that he has a valid point- you really are acting like someone trying to whore themselves out for drugs, aren’t you?

“Oh, come on, (y/n). Don’t look at me like you have no idea what I’m talking about.” He chuckles, his eyes dropping to briefly scan you over. You’re not wearing anything scandalous, despite the self-consciousness that floods your body as he surveys you- just your thrifted jeans and an oversize corduroy jacket, hardly the appropriate attire for drug prostitution.

“Um, ew?” you manage to retort, stepping backwards until your calves are pressed up against the couch. There isn’t much space available for you to create any meaningful distance between the two of you, so you’ll just have to settle for the time being. “I totally did not come here to fuck you for weed, you pervert.”

“Oh, so I’m a pervert now for pointing out the obvious,” Eddie says, his hands splaying out theatrically in front of him. “I’m just saying what it looks like, not that I want you to! Jeez!”

You scoff without really thinking, insulted. “Oh, so if I did offer you something in return, you’re saying you’d turn me down?”

Eddie just looks at you with a perplexed expression, before his lips twitch upwards at the corners, giving way to a self-assured smirk. There’s a devious glint in his eyes that you’re not familiar with, and when you peer back up at him, your body inadvertently shifts and squirms. “Not necessarily.”

You attempt to back away but can’t, seeing that you’re cornered up against the couch with nowhere to go. The air is somehow thicker now, more tense, and there’s an invisible hum of electricity that gnaws at your fingertips; it’s like you’re frozen, your limbs stiff and unresponsive, and you gulp, hyper-aware of the sudden tilt in atmosphere.

Eddie’s smirk intensifies as he witnesses your bad attitude slip away, your disposition no longer bold, but trembling and timid. “I don’t normally accept trade offers in the form of sexual favors, but hey, maybe if you ask really nicely, I’ll consider it.”

“Fuck you.” The words come out immediately, desperate to mask  your humiliation with some sort of vitriolic statement, but the effect isn’t what you were hoping for; your voice shakes weakly, and there’s no punch to it, no bite to let him know who he’s messing with. “I would never fuck you, for weed or any other reason. You’re creepy and a freak.”

You’re a bit guilty for getting so nasty with him, but at this point you’ll do anything to prevent your pride from enduring any more blows. Eddie just poises a brow skeptically, cocking his head to one side. “Yeah, I’m so much of a creep that you felt safe coming to my house in the middle of the night to beg for pot, isn’t that right?”

“I wasn’t fucking begging you!” You stomp your foot to accentuate your point, though it just comes off like you’re throwing a tantrum.

“Right- you were just asking persistently, then,” Eddie quips, growing more smug with each second that passes while you cower. “You’re reaaaallllly digging a hole for yourself right now, aren’tcha, sweetheart?”

“Whatever,” you say flatly, finally gathering the courage to step out of Eddie’s way, awkward in your movements as you shuffle toward the front door. “A simple no would’ve sufficed, but I guess being a douchebag works too.”

You’re taken aback when he stops you, his long, jewelry-clad fingers wrapping loosely around your upper arm. There’s a friendlier appearance about him now, and you figure he’s trying to ease up on the intimidation. “Hey, c’mon! I didn’t tell you no, remember? I just said you’d have to ask me nicely.”

You jerk your arm back, scowling, even though your heartbeat inexplicably quickens when he touches you. “Yeah, you said that about me fucking you for weed, and that’s not happening.”

“Why’re you so shy all of a sudden, huh?” he asks, moving beside you to snake an arm around your shoulders. You can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to the inky leather of his jacket as you catch yourself inhaling deeply, and this time, you don’t pull away. “You’re saying you don’t want this?”

He retrieves the half-ounce of weed from his pocket, dangling it above your head like bait. Eddie’s weed isn’t even that good- there’s more seeds and stems than actual flower, and you have to smoke a whole joint’s worth to even feel anything, but damn, do you want it. There’s just something special about his supply, something that caused you to stop buying from all the other dealers in Hawkins and focus your business loyalty solely on him. You give the weed a purposefully-indifferent side-eye, commenting, “What happened to you being too broke to give away free shit?”

“See, hon, it isn’t actually free if I get something in return.” He leans closer to speak directly into your ear, giving you goosebumps when he uses one hand to sweep your hair out of the way. “I like you, (y/n). Like I said- you’re a valued customer. That’s why I’d be willing to work out a deal for you.”

He talks like a Wall Street broker closing in on a deal, which you’d probably laugh at, if you weren’t so fucking nervous. You don’t know what to make of the events that unfold before you like a scene in a bad porno, but you still have a hard time believing that Eddie Munson is actually trying to seduce you right now; part of you wonders if he’s putting on a show in an attempt to teach you a lesson for intruding on his space. “I already told you, Eddie. I didn’t come here to fuck you.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re too good for all of that trashy nonsense,” he deadpans, rubbing your shoulder in circles with his callused palm. “Pretty girls like you should never give more than a blowjob for some Mary Jane. Right, princess?”

It’s like you’ve just taken a blow to the stomach, with the way his words knock the wind out of you; you quickly turn your head to hide the unmistakeable rosiness that blooms across your cheeks, although the effort is futile. “I- I didn’t say that.”

“C’mon, babe. You really think I believe that you came all the way here just to ask me for a little favor?” He gives your shoulder a condescending pat, chuckling at your efforts to evade him. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Had you known what you were doing, at least in your subconscious? It wasn’t like you’d put much thought into your plan before carrying it out, but what if there was an ulterior motive you weren’t even aware of? Are you really so disconnected from yourself that you’d be this clueless to your own intentions?

The way your body reacts to his closeness, however, tells you that Eddie “the freak” Munson has a profound affect on you, perhaps on a far deeper level than you know.

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna believe,” you say dismissively as you place one hand on your hip, regaining a bit of your cool exterior to scan his face over in search of any sign that he’s fucking with you. He appears entertained by your flustered state, but there’s also an earnest look behind his dark eyes, signaling to you that he’s down if you’re down. “But if you wanted me to blow you in exchange for the weed, you could’ve just asked.”

“You’re the one who’s gonna need to ask me, sweetheart. I’m giving you a pretty good deal, don’t ya think?” He bats his lashes mockingly at you, apparently in the mood to drag this little power play out for as long as possible; you can tell it’s turning him on, just from how quick and sharp his breathing is becoming.

As much as you hate yourself for it, you’re turned on, too, with an aching warmth making itself known between your shifting legs; logically, you know you should be ashamed for partaking in such a degrading activity, but physically? Well, that’s a different story altogether.

“Fine, if it helps boost your ego,” you mutter, shocked with yourself for even retaining the ability to speak. You try to keep your words straightforward and unemotional, managing an even “can I blow you for weed, Eddie?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid, letting go of his hold around your shoulder as he drops to sit down on the couch. “I, uh, think you might’ve forgotten something there, (y/n).”

Rolling your eyes, you watch as he unbuckles his belt noisily, leaning back against the throw pillows expectantly. He’s really having fun with this, isn’t he?

“Can I please blow you for weed?” you say through a pained wince, causing a triumphant grin to spread across his face as he continues to undo the front of his pants. Your question is ridiculous, pathetic even, but it’s music to his ears, his head falling back to let out a whoop of obnoxious laughter.

By now, you’re almost positive that this treatment is payback for calling him a freak, and while you probably deserve it, you can’t help but resent him for being an asshole anyway.

“See? Now, was that so fuckin’ difficult?” Eddie chides, eyeing you expectantly as he pulls his jeans and boxers partly down his thighs, exposing himself to you. He’s almost fully hard, and it’s evident that he’s packing a lot more than you ever would’ve guessed, with his thick, flushed length curving gently to one side. You sink onto the floor in front of him, wedging your way between his parted knees so that you’re face-to-face with his hefty dick, which is big enough that you’re actually intimidated by it. “Well, I guess since I’m in such a good mood, I’ll allow it. ”

He puts the bag of weed on the couch next to him, to provide with a good view of what you’re sucking him off for.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, getting into a position where your mouth can reach him. You pretend to be fixated by the view of your own fingers taking hold of his cock, refusing to find out what sort of cocky expression is painted across his angled features.

“Yeah, yeah. I can act however I want,” he says while winding his fingers through your (h/c) hair, not implementing any real force to his grip just yet. “My house, my weed, my rules.”

“Whatever you say, dungeon master,” you say wryly, winking at him as you permit some saliva to dribble from your mouth and onto his cock, which twitches in response to your tongue-in-cheek nickname. You close your mouth around his leaking tip and suck on it lazily, your eyes heavy-lidded as they look up to drink in his admittedly pretty features.

“Yeah, that’s a good fuckin’ girl. You gotta earn it,” he encourages, his hand settling on the back of your head, still entwined with your hair. “D’you do this with all the dealers? Huh?”

You glare up at him resentfully, dipping your head to take him further into your mouth, his skin smooth and salty as you run your tongue along one of his prominent blue-green veins.

Taking advantage of the fact that he has a tight grasp on you, Eddie pushes your head down all the way until you’re gagging on him, causing you to move your hands to splay over his thighs; after a brief moment admiring you as you squirm, he moves you back several inches in a gesture of mercy. “Fuck. Yeah, you want it bad, don’t you? Fucking burnout slut.”

The harshness of his tone causes your head to spin, your panties soaked completely through; you’re sure he can sense how much you like it, because he jerks your head back down until your face is nearly flush with his pelvis once again.

“Must’ve smoked all your brain cells away if you thought you could pull one over on me,” he continues, and although you can’t see his face, you can practically hear the smirk within his voice. He lets up, allowing you the opportunity to bob your head freely up and down his thick cock, sputtering and drooling as you do so.

Hissing, he administers a sharp tug to your scalp, resting his head back as you explore him with your hot, needy mouth; his jaw is unhinged, giving way to a string of profane grunts, hips rocking up beneath you to make contact with the back of your narrow throat.

“Fuck, babe. Yeah, that’s it.” He uses your hair as reigns, guiding your motions to better suit his liking. You’re rendered temporarily speechless, your only sounds being the crude wet noise of your mouth being filled and fucked. “Goddamn, your mouth feels so fuckin’ good.”

The sound of his praise only fuels your avid movements, your fingernails digging through the denim of his jeans, clinging helplessly to him. You purr when he affectionately strokes you from your forehead to the base of your skull, the heavy metal of his rings assisting to cool your feverish skin. “Fuuuck, (y/n). Keep going.”

Doing as he says, you make an effort to take his cock all the way into your throat, peering up from underneath a veil of mascara-coated eyelashes. Eddie’s eyes are closed as he’s enveloped in your inflicted ecstasy, but they flutter open momentarily to meet yours, giving you a goofy half-smile when he notices you. He only abandons his douchey persona for a lapse before swiftly getting back into character, bucking his hips up fiercely into your mouth.

He rolls himself on your face, relishing in the sounds you make, the vibrations reverberating throughout his bottom half. You focus on taking your air in through your nose, ushering shallow gulps of oxygen that are only effective in keeping you from passing out.

“Gotta swallow it all if you really wanna earn it,” he groans, voice hoarse and gravelly. “You gonna do that for me, princess?”

He yanks your head off of his length, and you cough as spit strings rudely from your swollen lips, tears spilling out from the corners of your eyes. He waits for your composure to return, pursing his lips impatiently until you’re done wheezing.

“Yes, Eddie,” you say weakly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, completely forgetting that you’re wearing dark mascara (not that you looked any more polished beforehand). He basks in your disheveled appearance, petting your cheek and using his thumb to rid your face of tears, seeming drunk off the sight of you.

“Good girl.” He stands up from his spot on the couch, bringing you into an upright kneeling position by the root of your hair. Obediently, you open your mouth up for him, lolling your head back so he can slide himself deep. “Gonna make me- fuck- cum so hard, baby.”

You go limp as he fucks your face, enjoying the defenseless sensation of being used so carelessly. The arousal is loud and unrelenting as it burns through your core, your thighs squeezing together, needing friction. God, why the fuck had you only offered to blow him?

Eddie’s stomach flexes beneath the cotton of his shirt, and you know he’s about to climax, his head tilted back to fixate on the chipped ceiling. “Shit. Open your mouth.”

Once again, you’re taken off of his cock, which he angles above you, one hand working at his glistening length while the other holds you still.

It only takes a few more strokes before he’s releasing his hot cum into your waiting mouth, adorning the back of your throat with heavy ropes of white. Just like you promised, you swallow it all down with a slutty grin, licking your lips as you shrug your shoulders coyly.

“Holy fuck. Never woulda guessed that (y/n) (y/l/n) is a fuckin’ whore,” he laughs breathlessly, tucking himself back into his boxers and buttoning his jeans. He motions with his head to the half-ounce that still sits untouched on his couch, his fingers hastily buckling up his sturdy black belt. “That’s all yours, babe. I think you earned it.”

“Glad you think so,” you say with a sardonic raise of your brows, snatching up your prize and stuffing it into the inner pocket of your jacket like he might change his mind at any second. “So I guess this is when you tell me to get the fuck out?”

Eddie double-checks that is buckle is properly secured before squinting at you incredulously, seemingly put off by your suggestion. “Are you fuckin’ crazy? You think I’m gonna send you walking off into the night for any hillbilly with a van to snatch you off the side of the road?”

“Eddie, you are a hillbilly with a van.” You fold your arms in front of your chest, somewhat bashful at his sudden protectiveness.

“I am not a goddamn hillbilly, (y/n),” he protests, patting himself down until he hears the faint jingle of his keys from his coat pocket. “Y’know, I could always take my offer back if you’re going to be ungrateful.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” You hug your jacket tighter around you, a challenging expression situating itself over your features as you fight to stand your ground. “What, you think I’m your little slut now or something? I don’t need you to protect me, Eddie. This was a one time thing.”

“No, stupid,” he says as he slides his ring of keys into view. “It’s called not wanting to find your missing poster plastered all around town tomorrow morning. I’d be a piece of shit to let you go, blowjob or otherwise.”

“Whatever,” you mutter bitterly, tucking your hands into the corduroy material of your oversize jacket. “Just remember that this isn’t happening again.”

“Which part? You blowing me for weed, or just hanging out with me at my trailer?” He slips his hand around your waist as he walks you to the door, a hopeful ring to his words.

You stifle a grin, leaning into his shoulder unintentionally. “I’d hardly call what just happened hanging out.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe we can some time, yeah?”

It’s difficult to ignore the way your insides twist, your heart thundering wildly into your ribcage, threatening to break loose. Eddie Munson has successfully charmed you, a feat you never would have thought possible until now, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it just yet.

Curving your lips into an inhibited smirk, you blink at him sweetly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

[strange-august]

Tag Yourself as Aesthetics I resonate with

Changelingcore: Broken insect wings, wildflower meadows, catching tadpoles, lingering mist after it rains, wet shoes from the damp grass, the feeling of moss under your hands, collection of strange trinkets and objects, taking your stuffed animals on adventures, doodling on your clothes, busy hands, wading knee deep into a lake, screaming into the air to ease frustration, organizing and reorganizing your treasures, bird calls, animal howls, digging in the mud, chewing on your lip until it bleeds, bruises and scrapes, the urge to live in the woods and never return to regular society, knotted hair, forest shrines, putting flower blossoms in your hair, flooded swampy areas, jumping from short cliffs

Suburban Gothic: Hot muggy air sticking to your skin, the buzz of florescent lights, flickering street lights, budget popsicles, late night drug store visits, muffled arguments, an old clock ticking, guady wallpaper, gossamer curtains, dusty cotton sheets, faded quilts, dog barkings, milkshakes in an empty diner, broken windows and graffiti, abandoned train tracks, 24/7 laundromats, rusty swingsets, shadowy silhouettes, semi-abandoned malls, sounds of far off traffic and train horns, driving around at night while soft music plays on the radio, tv static, junk yards and pick-n-pulls, holding hands with a stranger, urban legends, varsity jackets, broken glass on the road, crumbling buildings, local television channels

Cuddle Party: Excited giggles and hushed whispers, condensation on drinkware, running through an empty field hollering and whooping in the dead of night, sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, drunken "I love you"s, old cartoons, classic disney movies, five dollar pizza and breadsticks, singing out loud in the car, finding new places to explore, county fairs and arcade visits, eating fair food and screaming your lungs out on rides, trying to earn as many tickets at the arcade and still winning cheap prizes, being the last one to fall asleep, casually sleeping all together in the same bed, holding hands in crowds, if one of us isn't having a good time none of us are, wondering how long these days will last

Cryptid Academia: Listening to video essays while sketching cryptids, exploring abandoned buildings (legally and illegally), pocket knives, blackout curtains, newspaper clippings, viewing the night sky through a telescope, visiting natural history or science museums, old typewriters, info dumping conspiracy theories on friends, making plans to investigate that never come to fruition, tearing yet another hole into your clothes climbing over fences, shoddily patched up clothes, keychains and aluminum pins, novelty socks, analog watches, Buzzfeed Unsolved, cryptid podcasts, sprint training so you can outrun whatever is chasing you, rubiks cubes, sore fingers from mending, thrift shopping, essays only about cryptids

Desertwave: Billowing winds, sandstorms, wind chimes and suncatchers, succulents in handmade clay pots, aloe vera plants on the kitchen windowsill, the distant howl of a coyote, faded winnebagos, the soft hiss of patio misters, campsites and trailer parks, large rock formations covered in graffiti, picking up trash, the crackle of a bonfire, cacti and joshua trees in the backyard, never getting the sand completely out of your shoes, dusty clothes, laying in a hammock watching the stars, water balloon fights, hot springs, mexican ice cream bars, rocky desert mountains, plots of sand and plants that stretch on as far as the eye can see

[nsfwitchy2]

So like. For days now, my parents have been talking on and off about seeing this grey and white cat in the backyard - which is wild because I had not seen this supposed cat O N C E.

And I mentioned this to them, so earlier today my dad comes in and goes, “Do you wanna see that cat from the backyard?” And I’m like

YES???? PLEASE PROVE TO ME THAT YOURE BOTH NOT PLAYING SOME ELABORATE JOKE ON ME????

So I follow him, and the cat has run under a car across the street - so all I can see is a silhouette anyway

Flash forward to tonight where me and my mom are watching TV. I start hearing just, YOWLING outside. So naturally I go to check - because some supposed cat has been lurking near our house and I wanna make sure it isn’t injured or something.

I can’t find shit. Go back to watching TV. Hear more yowling. Adam and Beatle are doing fucking LAPS around the house, hovering near the front door - so I’m like. Ok. Cats out front.

So I go back to the front door and look around. Nothing.

Go back to sitting and me and mom start hearing weird noises in the dining room. My mom calls into the dining room telling the cats to knock it off and I’m like. The cats aren’t back there, they’re on the front porch?? And she’s like. What.

So I head towards the dining room, which has a window facing into the backyard. The cat food dish is on a table near the window. Turn my flashlight on and turn it towards the window.

Where I am IMMEDIATELY met with a pair of GIGANTIC GLOWING GREEN EYES.

How come my parents are having normal ass interactions with this cat and I’m being fucking plagued by this cryptid in our backyard 😭😭😭

[handsome-john]

Color in Your Cheeks

Hi, this is some writing I didn't feel like putting up on my ao3 because it's for all intents and purposes its OC work. (I mean both of these characters are named on the SCP wiki for one line each, and then I abstracted a bunch of stuff about them from canon adjacent material)

Uh, this is about 4000 words, under the cut.

_

About two hours ago Alicja’s radio stopped picking up any signals, only getting a few staticky hisses when she felt like fiddling with the dials. One hour ago the road went from concrete to dirt, and to a few barely defined tracks in the dirt. On all sides she's surrounded by dense trees and underbrush. Were she a touch more sensible, she'd be concerned putting herself so far from where anyone could reach her.

Rocks and sticks grind under her tires, sending her on a very bumpy ride. She may already be at her destination if she didn't fear exceeding ten miles per hour. She’s always been cautious about reckless driving ever since she lost her brother. If just to have something to fill the silence, she flips on her recorder to get some of her thoughts down.

“I am Alicja Kondraki, and this is week fourteen, I believe, of my road trip across the country.” She pauses to readjust the map she has laid out in the passenger’s seat. “Hopefully I'll be reaching my destination soon. I've heard tell that this place is haunted by some sort of creature. That's cool! I love hearing about local creatures.”

Finally, she spots her first sign of people. She passes a few rickety houses, with people lounging on their porches or inside. And just like that, the forest folds open to reveal a whole town tucked inside. A small podunk community she finds herself eager to explore.

Her car comes to a halt off the side of the road, it'll be easier to make her way around on foot anyway. In her bag she double checks she has all of her important items. A water bottle, a notepad, her recorder, and of course a pocket knife and bottle of mace. Not that she expects anything from what she's sure are lovely folks, but she's been doing this job long enough to plan ahead.

Slinging her bag around her shoulders and making sure to hang her camera around her neck, Alicja steps out. Her track boots dig into the dirt. It's hot out, around mid noon, the smell of wood smoke wafts through the air. She runs her fingers through her short hair and puts on her green flatback.

She feels eyes follow her. Another thing she expected. There's not a chance she'd pass as a local in these parts. Taking a moment to look herself over in her side view mirror. She wants to give herself a messier look, someone unprofessional, someone you'd feel comfortable walking up to and sharing your thoughts with.

There's a man sitting on a lawn chair outside of a grocery store. He's wearing sunglasses, but she can tell his eyes are on her. She approaches, from an angle so it doesn't look like she's walking straight towards him. 

“Hello!” She says. The lights buzz, a long low drone, and little bugs tap, tap, tap against the glass. He regards her with a neutral expression. “My name is Alicja Kondraki. I'm a reporter from out of town. You may have heard of me from the news or from my radio show.”

“We don't get the radio out here,” he says, voice thick. Alicja squints, sunlight reflecting right off the window into her eyes. 

“Well I heard rumors that you've had some local cryptid sightings! Made enough of a splash I heard about it from three towns over.” She laughs, hoping to come off as playful. His expression remains the same.

“This’d be the place, ‘ay,” he says with a curt nod.

“Would you care to give a statement for my report?” She pulls out a pen and pad.

All at once, he stiffens, sitting up straight with his teeth clenched. Instinctively, Alicja stiffens up too, ready to defend herself should it come to that. 

“Now don't go believin’ that I'm out here believin’ in that hoodoo monster bullshit,” The chair creaks as he leans in to snap at her. “And I ain't about to let you paint me a crackpot fool!” 

The store’s front door opens with a soft bell chime. Out steps an older woman with gray streaks in her hair holding a broom. She prods at the man with the bristles.

“Marion if you don’t shut yer damn trap imma hit you!” Her gaze lands on Alicja and softens. “Oh my! Now I don't think I know you!” 

“I’m from out of town,” Alicja says, mouth suddenly dry. 

“Well why don’t you come on in! I’ll get you some ice tea!” She holds the door open.

The mechanical buzzing is even louder inside of the store. Alicja would prefer to get out there and get a few different statements before she loses daylight, but she’s not one to deny an ice cold drink on a day like today. Marion huffs as the door closes behind her.

“Have a seat, sweetheart! I’ll be right with you!” the older woman, Henritte according to her name tag, disappears into a room labeled Employees Only. She returns moments later with a pitcher and two glasses of ice. 

“Thank you so much!” Nothing like southern hospitality to make a road trip worth it. 

“Now did I hear correctly that you were a reporter?”

“I am a reporter! I was hoping to do a report on your Blackwoods Beast as I’ve heard it called?”

Henritte clasps her hands together. “Oh this is so exciting! We call it that because it only shows up when the woods are pitch black,” she says in a low tone. “You know I had a run in with the beast once!”

“Is that so? Would you like to tell your story for my report?” Alicja asks, brandishing her recorder. 

“Would I?!” Henritte exclaims, perhaps a little too eagerly. Alicja clicks the record button. “It was the middle of the night, when I heard this rustling in the backyard. And there I see it! Hunched over my garbage! It looked at me with the biggest glowing eyes I’ve ever seen!”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a bear?”

“No! It stood up right and walked like a man! Ran off when it saw me watching too!”

A vagrant then, Alicja thinks, but decides not to say. People tend to tell better stories when you don’t try to pick too many holes in them.

“Everyone in this town has seen the beast stalking our streets or in the woods! Yet no one’s had the guts yet to confront it directly, lest it eat them!”

Alicja nods. “Do you have any reports of people getting attacked or hurt by the beast?”

“Penny next door claims she got into a fight with it! Barely escaped with her life!”

This is how Alicja finds herself practically led by the arm to every person in town with even a vague recollection of the beast. A lot of excitable folks looking to find their name in the next issue of the paper, and a lot of stories that are most certainly made up on the spot. It’s about par for the course when it comes to projects like this. 

“I really appreciate how much you’ve shown me around today,” Alcija says, “but I’m looking for somewhere I can stay the night?”

“My dearest Ava will let you rent out a room for the night!” Replies Henritte, pointing towards an older looking two story house. “Let me introduce you!”

Henritte marches Alicja boldly into the old house. Past the threshold Alicja is immediately hit in the face by how cold it is in here, and by the sweet smell of tea and baked goods. In the back of her mind she recalls a horror story of a man who checks into a suspiciously cheap yet very nice hotel and is poisoned and taxidermied by the kind looking owner.

“Can I help you?” Alicja jumps, noticing now the older woman sitting in a rocking chair beside her. She opens her mouth, ready to rattle off her name, profession, why she’s here-

“This is my friend Kondraki! She’d like to rent a room for a few nights,” Henritte says, squeezing Alicja’s arm. 

“Just two nights actually, I can pay upfront.” 

“Go ahead and sign your name in the guestbook.” The old woman, Ava Alicja presumes, points to a gilded notebook sitting on a coffee table. Alicja, curious as she is, flips through the other pages for recognizable names before writing her own. “Twenty dollars for the two nights.”

“That’s really cheap for a place like this,” she says, pulling out a wrinkled twenty.

“Your room is on the third floor, bathroom is across the hall, try not to make too much noise,” Ava drones on, long and slow. 

“Alright, well thank you very much! I’ll try to be considerate.” Alicja makes her way upstairs, leaving the two women behind. She shrugs off her bag, makes of pile of her stuff in the corner of the bedroom, and lays down on the little bed pushed up in the corner. 

After gathering info from the locals, Alicja’s next step was, of course, finding this beast herself. She likes to consider herself a very prepared woman, she keeps a shotgun in the back of her truck as the ultimate just in case. Still, after getting some rest, she finds herself popping into the local hardware store for extra flashlight batteries and a box of shotgun shells, should it really come to that. 

“Don’t I know yer face from somewhere?” Asks the man behind the counter as Alicja sets down her items. Freddie, the smudge on his nametag reads. 

“I’m a reporter,” Alicja says. 

Freddie snaps his fingers. “I seen you in the papers! Y’know it’s the darndest thing, I grab my paper every morning but it dog gone disappears before I can read it!” 

Do you think the beast is stealing your papers? She wants to joke, but she has some restraint. “I hope you find where they are,” she says instead, taking and pocketing her stuff. “Have a nice night!”

“Now you stay safe out there!”

…

It’s exactly a quarter past midnight when Alicja steps out of her room and into the night. She waits until she’s outside to slip on her boots, so as to not make too much noise. She pulls her jacket tightly around herself to keep the chill away from her. 

When she first explained her plans to her boss, the biggest question she got was why. She, through her own wit and determination, made a name for herself in a line of work that didn’t favor women like her. Why does she care about these stories? Why waste the time on a risky venture? Why even bother when she was doing just fine where she was? Now, she wishes she could’ve explained that this is why she had to do this, had to put herself in places no one else would.

With a thunk, her trunk pops open and she draws out her shotgun. Last resort, she reminds herself as she gets the feel for it in her hands. 

“This is Alicja Kondraki,” she says into her recorder. “About to begin my field report. Should this recording be recovered and myself not, I request that this recorder and all my writings be sent back to my boss. The shipping address is-”

Something big crunches behind her. She jumps, finger slipping and ending her recording. A bit early in the night to get so jumpy…

With some tape, she fumbles from several minutes in the dark trying to tape her flashlight to her shotgun. It’s something she’s seen in her hunting TV shows and it seems useful to try tonight. Her flashlight adds too much weight to the end of her shotgun for her to hold it out comfortably, but she’s determined to stick with it. 

They weren’t kidding when they called this the Blackwoods, even with her flashlight it’s hard to see what’s in front of her with how thick the trees are. A cold wind blows through the trees, it sounds like a howl. The distinct smell of an animal den wafts through the hair, telling her to change direction. Alicja twists her ankle tripping over the thick tree roots and faceplants into the ground. She tugs her jacket tighter around herself and carries on.

There’s shoe prints in the mud, she almost didn’t notice them. She lifts up her own foot to double check that these tracks aren’t her own. Nope, the pattern is different, there’s another person here in the woods with her. She could follow where the footprints are going, but she decides instead to follow where they came from.

It’s a long walk. One of those many moments where she wishes she had her brother by her side in this. Alas, she’s been by herself for quite some time now. 

Without fanfare, a shack appears. There’s no way Alicja would have found this place by pure happenstance, she’s not even sure which direction she came from. She circles it a few times, noting how every window is boarded up and the sharp spikes buried in the ground around it. It’s completely pitch black, but in the quiet of the night Alicja can hear the buzz of a generator. 

She gets a few pictures, once again struggling with both the flashlight and the camera. She hops over the spikes and ascends the porch steps. There’s fresh dirt on the wooden steps. She presses her ear against the door, picking up a shuffling noise inside. Taking a deep breath, she knocks on the door. 

All noise stops. Alicja clears her throat. 

“Hello! Sorry to bother you at this hour! I’m a reporter from out of town!”

Nothing.

“My name is Alicja K-kondraki. I’d like to ask you a few questions?”

Nothing. Had she misheard? Was she shouting at an abandoned building? Should she-

“You should go away!” Comes a muffled voice from the other side. “Don’t come back here. Forget you ever found this place!”

“I want to ask some questions for the paper. I’m writing about strange occurrences in-”

“I don’t want to answer questions! Go away!”

Alicja takes a step back and digs through her backpack. She draws out one of her old published papers, being one of those people who keeps a record of everything she’s ever made. 

“I’m serious. Look, this is me.” She slides the paper under the doorway and waits. 

After a few moments she hears the telltale sound of several locks clicking. The door opens a crack, still held shut by a few chains, and Alicja can see a hint of reddish orange light inside and an eye. 

“Let me see your face,” says the stranger on the other end.

“Oh uh…” Alicja rips her flashlight off her gun, tossing the gun out of her reach so she won’t seem so threatening. She points the light at her face and tries to give a kind smile. 

The door slams in her face, followed by several more clicks as all the chains come undone. When the door opens a hand shoots out, gripping Alicja by her jacket collar and dragging her in. In thirty seconds, the shack’s resident redoes every lock. 

The shack itself is reminiscent of those homes Alicja sees in Hoarders. There’s barely any visible floor among all the newspapers and garbage. It’s surprisingly warm in here, the room is illuminated by a single lamp. Hanging on the wall is a pinboard absolutely covered in newspaper clippings and red string. Alicja takes a big step over some junk to get a better look at the wall, recognizing some of her own writings. 

“You’re alone right? No one followed you?” Alicja’s host asks, pressing her back flat against the door. 

She can’t be that much younger than Alicja herself. Running past her shoulders is long brown-ish hair filled with twigs and rat’s nests and tin foil is wrapped around her forehead. The coat she’s wearing is so thick Alicja sweats just from looking at it, and she wears the thickest bottlecap glasses Alicja has ever seen. There’s a single crack across the right lens. 

“I’ve heard your voice on the radio, it really is you.” Alicja spots a radio on a windowsill, disorganized wires spilling out of it. The first radio she’s seen since she’s got here. 

“I’m sure I’m alone. Can I ask you a few questions?” Alicja pulls out her recorder and it immediately disappears. 

“You’re recording!” She shouts, holding up Alicja’s recorder. The look in this stranger’s eyes reminds Alicja of a frightened predator and she reconsiders the situation she’s put herself in. 

“No! No see, it's off! Look!” She points to the little LED that lights up when it’s on. “I was going to ask if I could record. For my paper?” Alicja holds her hand out, afraid that her precious recorder is about to get destroyed. 

“No recording! No one can know I’m here! No pictures either!” She says, pointing a shaky finger at Alicja’s camera. Alicja brings her arms up to cover it.

“I can remove the batteries if you want. I won’t do anything against your will.”

“I’ll remove the batteries.” She pushes past Alicja and grabs a screwdriver from her desk, crudely disassembling Alicja’s recorder. Hesitantly, she returns it to Alicja who pockets it.

“Alright. Alright,” Alicja says, feeling oddly winded. She takes out her notepad and pen. “Can I get your name?”

“No! Don’t write my name down!” 

“That’s alright, hey! I can do this anonymously if you want, I don’t have to put your name on anything, okay?” Alicja raises her hands in defense. “Can I at least have your name so I can call you something?”

Alicja’s host awkwardly shifts on her heels. “Jessie.” 

“Alright Jessie. Why don’t we sit down? Do you mind if I touch this?” Alicja nudges a pile of papers on a stool, on top of the stack is a plastic keychain of a UFO. Jessie shakes her head and Alicja sets it all down onto the floor. 

“I’ll stand,” Jessie says, eyeing her wearily. While certainly concerned that Jessie looks like she might just fall over, Alicja doesn’t say anything. 

“Alright. I’m going to ask my questions now, okay?” 

“Okay.”

“Are you familiar with the Blackwoods Beast that’s said to reside around here?”

Jessie’s expression twists into what Alicja can only describe as bashful. “Yes.”

“... any elaboration on that?” 

She lets out a shaky breath. “It’s not what the people of this town should be afraid of. I thought it would be enough to keep people away.”

“What is it that you think people should be afraid of?”

The floorboards creak. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Alright. How long have you been living out here alone?” 

“I’ve been here for five years, but I’ve been alone for much longer.” 

“How come?”

Jessie bites her lip and Alicja wonders how much useful information she’s actually going to get out of a paranoid hermit. 

“I’ll tell you my story but you have to promise that none of this will be tracked back to me. I can’t risk that.”

“Oh? If you’re involved in something illegal I can promi-”

“No, no!” Jessie waves her hands in the hair, making a crossing motion. “There’s people who I know would recognize m-” her head suddenly jerks towards the window. Alicja tries to follow Jessie’s gaze, listening in for any sort of noise. 

“Have you ever heard of Zach Callahan?” Jessie whispers conspiratorially, looking everywhere but Alicja. 

“No? Who’s that?”

Jessie lets out the heaviest sigh of relief, resting her hand on her heart. “Alright. Thank God. I used to live with my brother, back in… we were both artists but he did most of the work keeping us… housed I guess. And while I was living with him there’s the name I kept hearing. Everyone I knew grew up with or went to school with someone named Zach Callahan!”

Jessie gestures to her pinboard, as if any of these contextless newspaper clippings mean anything to Alicja. She recognizes what looks like a few large schools, and some abandoned buildings, and the several companies that seem to have no connection. What could Spicy Crust Pizza, Sasha’s Cleaning Products, Sunny’s Cream-filled Pastries, and S&C Plastics possibly have in common? 

“I was onto something! I know I was onto something because of this!” She pulls out a newspaper and pushes it into Alicja’s face. EXPLOSION IN ART GALLERY! “I was in there when this happened! Only the room I was in collapsed! Someone, he, knew I was onto him and tried to take me out!” 

It feels like she should be writing something down right now, but what? She’s met her fair share and conspiracy lunatics, and she’s yet to find the perfect format to work with them.

“And then what happened?”

Jessie swallows thickly. “Well, I knew they were after me, and I knew they’d keep coming after me. I didn’t want to put my brother or my friends in danger, so I disappeared. Until I ended up here.” She makes a vague sort of gesture with her hands. “I don’t know where my brother is now, I hope he’s safe though. I’m telling you all this because I’ve read your work, I know you understand that things aren’t what they seem out here.” 

Unsure how to respond, Alicja nods. Her hand trembles ever so slightly as she makes a note. “You haven’t tried to contact him?”

“Don’t know where he is. Can’t risk it either, don’t want to lead anyone to him, or to me. Especially now that I can’t move around so much.” Sadness seeps into her voice. “Besides, it’s been so long, I’d just be reopening old wounds.”

Alicja offers a gentle kind of smile. As a journalist, she tries very hard not to let too much of her personal feelings bleed into the facts, but she feels comfortable being open with Jessie. 

“You know I used to have a brother. This whole thing I’ve been doing, finding stories like yours, was really his idea. He loved travel and photography, and together we had this dream of running a paper together.” Jessie gives her an odd yet intrigued look. “Then of course, during college he dropped out and I lost contact with him. Next I hear, he’s dead in a car wreck. I don’t even get a body to bury. Sometimes I think I might find him out there, somewhere in these stories I’ve been writing.”

She coughs into her fist, swallowing down her emotion. 

“My point is, that your brother probably wants to hear from you, even if it’s been so long.”

Jessie shakes her head. “It’s not the same, there’s too much risk.”

“You don’t think he can help you?”

“He never did believe in what I told him. There’s nothing he can do for me, and I won’t do that to him. I’m probably putting you in danger too by telling you all of this.”

“It’s alright, none of this has to make it into my report if you don’t want.” Alicja stands up, gently placing her hand on Jessie’s shoulder. 

“I wish that I knew if he’s doing alright.”

“I wish so too. Hey! You say he’s an artist, if you give me a name maybe I can look him up and report back to you!” 

Confusion and hope fill Jessie’s eyes. “How would you contact me?” 

“I’ll write a column on notable artists, get it published. You’ll find it in the papers.” 

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course!” A pause. “Can I ask you one more thing? Before I leave you here.”

“What is it?”

“You’ve mentioned something else in these woods. Something you believe the people should be afraid of and prevents you from leaving. Would you mind explaining what you think that is?” 

Jessie’s expression drops. She pulls off her cartoonish glasses to wipe them on her shirt. “It would be easier if I showed you.” She bends down, reaches under her cot, and pulls out what Alicja distinctly recognizes as a flamethrower. “You might want your flashlight, and your shotgun.”

A step behind her, Alicja follows Jessie around the shack. Sticks and brush crunch underfoot. Alicja keeps the light as steady as she can. 

About thirty, maybe forty feet away from the shack, Jessie holds out her arm to stop Alicja. She points, and there, bright red against the blacks and browns and greens, crawling across the ground and plant life like veins, are thorny roots. 

“I found this infection when I first came here, it wasn’t a fraction of this size then. It’s been growling towards the town.” Jessie pulls the trigger and flames burst out. Alicja has to cover her ears as a scream echoes through the woods. “I keep trying to push it back, but it’s faster than me. Sometimes I see groups of animals traveling in packs, all of them moving unnaturally and in unison, their eyes red.”

Alicja uncovers her face. “Why don’t you tell people about this? Warn them if you’re so worried about this.”

Jessie regards Alicja with a cold look. “Tell me, do you truly believe every word I’ve told you tonight?”

“I believe that some of what you’ve told me is true.” Alicja wants to make some sort of defense for herself, about how she’s a journalist so obviously has to take every statement with a grain of salt, like she has to explain herself like that to someone who’s still a total stranger. 

“It wouldn’t do the people of this town any good. They won’t care until it’s impossible to ignore. All I can hope to do is keep it back before it has to come to that.” Her feet stay planted on the ground and Jessie starts up the fire again. She lifts up her camera, getting the perfect shot of Jessie illuminated only by the flames. 

“Thank you for your statement, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“Here,” Jessie says, placing Alicja’s batteries into her hands, “My brother’s name is Joseph Tamlin, if you do actually want to look him up for me.” 

“I will!”

The barest hint of sunlight is peeking over the horizon by the time Alicja makes it back to her car. She drops all her stuff in the passenger’s seat and reassembles her recorder.

She flips through her limited notes, unsure what to do with them. What is she supposed to write for her report? That the Blackwoods Beast is just a lonely woman? Is she supposed to lie and say that she found nothing in her investigation? Should she tell someone about the infection in the woods?

Joseph Tamlin. Scribbled hastily at the bottom of the page. Perhaps Jessie has offered her a better story instead.

[multimilfs]

Alma Peregrine x Fem!Reader: Artificial Permanence

Summary: Anon sent... Alma Peregrine + 9 -- "You need to wake up because I can't do this without you."

AO3

Prompts found here!

A/N: Damn I missed writing for Alma!!

Full Ficmas List

Tag List: @escapetodreamworld @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @multifandomfix @elenaguarnieri @evil-feather @imtrashinflames @nonbinary-cryptid-baby @jojalie @ashpheh

Warning(s): Light body horror

You never intended on becoming a murderer. 

No one comes into the world with the intention of taking lives, but somewhere along the way, a piece of them changes and goes dark. You have spent your whole life trying to avoid a part of you going dark. You didn’t want to take lives, you wanted to save them. 

But it all happened so fast. 

One second you’re preparing a surprise breakfast in the kitchen with Emma and Fiona, the next Millard is calling you from the front door. You turn and rush to the door. Millard never yells, always the picture of the perfect gentleman, sometimes crossing the entire house to deliver simple messages to you. 

If he’s yelling then something is terribly wrong. Were Alma awake already—it’s a fluke she isn’t, but you’d enlisted the children’s help in making her a nice breakfast before she woke—she’d scold him for not using an inside voice. 

“What is it, Millard?” You ask. 

He pushes you towards the door and you step onto the porch. It’s the perfect day, but the breeze from the water makes you shiver, pulling your robe tighter over your nightdress. Seeing the police officer standing on the porch makes you glad you did. 

Your appearance is the least of your worries when you take in the scene. 

The police officer is a gruff, round man, with a permanent scowl etched onto his face. He stands in the center of the porch with Olive and Claire on either side of him. White-knuckled hands grip their shoulders and you stand straighter, fury building at the terrified, pained looks on their faces. 

“Can I help you, Officer?” You ask coldly. 

“Yeah, your wayward freaks set the Pub on fire this morning,” He says, glaring at you, “I need you or the Headmistress to come down to the station.” 

“They’re children, surely you’re not going to arrest them?” 

His grip tightens on the girls and they both wince. Your fist clenches at your side. It’s all you can do to hold in your peculiarity, the air around you thrumming with your own desire to lash out at the man. But you do nothing, too worried you’d hurt the girls in the process. 

You have a good handle on your peculiarity, but when you’re emotional enough, all bets are off. And you can’t claim to be calm at the moment. 

“I can and I will!” He roars. 

“You will not!” You snap back, stepping forward and into his space, “Now unhand my children.” 

There’s a split second where his eyes widen. You wonder what he sees in your face that inspires the fear you see, a twisted glee blossoming amidst your anger. He grasps for words and his grip loosens on Claire and Olive.

Claire tries to pull away, frightened by the raised voices. Her attempt at escape draws the Officer’s attention and he reasserts his grip. When he does, it is like steel as it clamps roughly on Claire, and she lets out a frightened cry. 

You don’t hesitate before spearing the knife in your hand through his chest. 

He gasps and releases the girls. You go to look into his eyes, only to find them gone. His face is seared by red, yellow, and blue markings criss-crossing across his skin. There are dark blue marks under the sockets of his eyes where his skin seared against his cheekbones. A thin, white substance drips down his cheeks. 

You realize with horror that the knife acted as a conduit of your peculiarity—which struck him as lightning this time—and the liquid you're watching drip down his cheeks are what would be his eyes… if they hadn’t exploded from the heat. A shriek leaves your lips and you let go of the Officer. 

His body falls backwards and flops onto the porch steps with a heavy thud. Your eyes are stuck on the knife protruding from his chest, black from the electrical heat. 

“Impressive.” Enoch says behind you. 

Turning slowly, horror settling in your bones as you look into several of the children’s faces, you stare at Enoch. He’s leaning against the doorway with a look of admiration on his face. Your stomach turns. 

“The lightning was a nice touch.” He adds. 

“It really is interesting, Miss. Miss Peregrine never lets us watch.” Olive says sweetly. 

You know Alma is no stranger to taking lives; being an Ymbryne in the current society of peculiars made her well equipped for that, but knowing it interested your children was another thing entirely. Folding your shaking hands in front of you, you force a smile. 

“Children,” You say, voice faltering, “Will one of you keep watch for any other law enforcement? I have to go speak with Miss Peregrine about this.” 

“No you don’t, I know where she usually puts the bodies.” Enoch says. 

He backs up a little when you stare at him and you wonder again how you must look, “Just keep watch, Enoch.” 

All of the children on the porch nod. You slip back into the house and start up the stairs, ignoring Emma’s concerned calls after you, not sure you have the strength now to explain it all to her. Alma would make this all easier. Alma would make this go away. 

Despite that, you can’t help but sitting with the information that you’ve just made yourself a murderer. You lost control and took a life. It makes your stomach turn and you stop in the hall, leaning against the bannister, holding back the bile threatening to rise in your throat. 

Alma is asleep peacefully, wrapped in soft blue sheets. You hate having to wake her like this. 

“Alma,” You whisper, rounding the bed and kneeling at her side, “I need you to wake up—You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.” 

One blue eye squints open and you try to smile. Both eyes shoot open when she takes in your appearance; kneeling next to her side of the bed, shaking and on the verge of tears. Her hands grab your face. Her unblinking eyes are running over you, relieved to find nothing wrong, only to widen when she remembers the children. 

“What has happened?” Alma demands. 

She’s out of bed in a flash and wrapping herself in her own robe, talon-like nails ripping through the fabric, though she pays it no mind. When she’s steps from the door, you find your voice again. 

“I killed that police officer.” You admit. 

Alma freezes in place. Slowly, she turns on her heel, eyes piercing you. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

The dam breaks, “I sent the girls into town for a few things and he came back, saying they set the pub on fire, he was so cruel and he made Claire cry and—and then I stabbed him. In the chest. And his eyes exploded!” 

The Ymbryne deflates, coming back to sit on the bed. She pinches the bridge of her nose and sits as you stare at the floor in silent horror. 

You replay the scene in your head. It feels like a blur—you didn’t even remember having the knife in your hand until it was through his heart. Then he was discolored and eyeless. You shudder. Alma gently pulls you up onto the bed to sit next to her. 

“All of the children are alive and well?” She asks. 

You nod. 

“The only one harmed is the officer?” 

You nod again. “I’ll take care of it, darling. He’ll be alive again tomorrow. You’re alright.” 

“I killed someone, Alma.” You whisper. 

“That does happen at times.” Alma says. 

“How can you be so casual about this? I’m a murderer.” 

Alma can’t help it, but a small chuckle leaves her lips. You jerk away. Intent on soothing you, you’re pulled back against her, her lips pressed to your temple in apology. 

The idea of taking a life makes you feel like a monster. Yet, everyone else is unphased, even acting like the whole situation was humorous. You feel like you’ve missed a memo of some kind, especially if the children were unbothered. 

“Darling, you’re not a murderer if your victim is alive the next day,” Alma says, “You protected the children. That’s what matters. Not the cruel officer who will wake up none-the-wiser in a few hours.” 

“I still feel awful about it.” You admit. 

She nods, “That will pass with time. Now, let’s handle this, shall we?” 

Alma stands and offers you her hand. You take it in your own, letting the warmth of her ground you. You also use it to distract you from the twisted amusement on her face. 

You still feel no better about taking a life, but at least you know it isn’t permanent. 

[hunting-songs]

TYPES OF PEOPLE: Random Aesthetics

[ 13 | 24] Changelingcore: Broken insect wings, wildflower meadows, catching tadpoles, lingering mist after it rains, wet shoes from the damp grass, the feeling of moss under your hands, collection of strange trinkets and objects, taking your stuffed animals on adventures, doodling on your clothes, busy hands, wading knee deep into a lake, screaming into the air to ease frustration, organizing and reorganizing your treasures, bird calls, animal howls, digging in the mud, chewing on your lip until it bleeds, bruises and scrapes, the urge to live in the woods and never return to regular society, knotted hair, forest shrines, putting flower blossoms in your hair, flooded swampy areas, jumping from short cliffs

[ 13 | 29] Suburban Gothic: Hot muggy air sticking to your skin, the buzz of florescent lights, flickering street lights, budget popsicles, late night drug store visits, muffled arguments, an old clock ticking, guady wallpaper, gossamer curtains, dusty cotton sheets, faded quilts, dog barkings, milkshakes in an empty diner, broken windows and graffiti, abandoned train tracks, 24/7 laundromats, rusty swingsets, shadowy silhouettes, semi-abandoned malls, sounds of far off traffic and train horns, driving around at night while soft music plays on the radio, tv static, junk yards and pick-n-pulls, holding hands with a stranger, urban legends, varsity jackets, broken glass on the road, crumbling buildings, local television channels

[ 6 | 18] Cuddle Party: Excited giggles and hushed whispers, condensation on drinkware, running through an empty field hollering and whooping in the dead of night, sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, drunken "I love you"s, old cartoons, classic disney movies, five dollar pizza and breadsticks, singing out loud in the car, finding new places to explore, county fairs and arcade visits, eating fair food and screaming your lungs out on rides, trying to earn as many tickets at the arcade and still winning cheap prizes, being the last one to fall asleep, casually sleeping all together in the same bed, holding hands in crowds, if one of us isn't having a good time none of us are, wondering how long these days will last

[ 8 | 22] Cryptid Academia: Listening to video essays, exploring abandoned buildings (legally and illegally), pocket knives, blackout curtains, newspaper clippings, viewing the night sky through a telescope, visiting natural history or science museums, old typewriters, info dumping conspiracy theories on friends, making plans to investigate that never come to fruition, tearing yet another hole into your clothes climbing over fences, shoddily patched up clothes, keychains and aluminum pins, novelty socks, analog watches, Buzzfeed Unsolved, cryptid podcasts, sprint training so you can outrun whatever is chasing you, rubiks cubes, sore fingers from mending, thrift shopping, essays only about cryptids

[ 11 | 21] Desertwave: Billowing winds, sandstorms, wind chimes and suncatchers, succulents in handmade clay pots, aloe vera plants on the kitchen windowsill, the distant howl of a coyote, faded winnebagos, the soft hiss of patio misters, campsites and trailer parks, large rock formations covered in graffiti, picking up trash, the crackle of a bonfire, cacti and joshua trees in the backyard, never getting the sand completely out of your shoes, dusty clothes, laying in a hammock watching the stars, water balloon fights, hot springs, mexican ice cream bars, rocky desert mountains, plots of sand and plants that stretch on as far as the eye can see

[cynicalrecoverysociety]

Total Body Torture

Oooh she snuck up on me this time. The first video was so short I didn't have time to get tired. The second video started out really simple but then all of a sudden I'm out of breath and sore.

Last night I heard something outside and it was an armadillo that climbed under the back porch. Enjoy my shitty cryptid picture of said armadillo.

[hope-to-hell]

It’s really hard to choose. Like *really* hard to choose. For individual story let’s go with Lakeside because it feeds directly into the Hellscape that is August’s death/rebirth but also because it spawned its own other cinematic universe that I cherish.

Lakeside has stuck with me for two years. To this day sometimes I’ll go out on my front porch when it’s raining, waiting for the crunch of gravel under a foot that can’t exist. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

I have to give a shout out to LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE as well.

Listen. I’m not even sure anymore how cryptid August even got started, but he’s a favorite to write. (And how the hell has it been two years already? Impossible)

[limerental]

ficletvember 2022 - day 27

Living in a farmhouse with her grandparents, Little Ciri grew up to fear the man who wasn't a man who could be lurking in the fields. Waiting to steal her away.

Or a vague Americana cryptid au

They're on the porch one morning when Gramma takes her arm and looks at Ciri real serious and tells her if she's out after dark to not ever wander off the drive into the cornfields and if the crickets and songbirds all hush at once, to run right back to the farmhouse.

And when she runs back if there's somebody waiting on the porch who isn't anybody she knows, then keep running, keep on running.

Gramma looks old then, wrinkled around the mouth and worried, and so Ciri promises her of course she won't wander off into the woods at night. Not even if she hears a hurt animal crying or someone calling for help. 

And Gramma says, even if it's the middle of the day, if she's out there playing and hears something from the woods talk to her in a man's voice, she runs right back here, alright? There's things out there that talk with a man's voice, maybe even look like a man, but there's nothing human about them at all and they'll snatch you away. They'll steal off with you and you'll never come back.

That scares Ciri more deeply than the other warnings, because she loves living here with her Gramma and Grampa in the old farmhouse and because she already knows it can happen, going away and never coming back, because it happened to Mama and Daddy. 

She misses them a whole lot but likes to live here too. Most days, she plays with some kids that live down the road, casting spells with sticks and making potions in her Gramma's old pots. They swim in the pond or ice skate when it freezes and climb every tree that they can and follow every creek back to its start.

She likes Gramma's old dog who lies at her feet on the porch all day, watching the drive, and she likes trying to catch the chickens scratching at the dirt until the mean rooster chases her off and she likes to watch the sunset from the backs of round hay bales and she likes when Gramma tells her stories at night, about monsters and knights and curses and true love.

Then one day, she hears a man's voice in the woods.

"Cirilla," it calls, and she goes very still, dropping her walking stick. "Cirilla, you have to come with me."

She notices it then, that the cicadas have all hushed and the squirrels aren't chittering and there's no bird call, just the sound of wind through the branches.

Ciri turns and runs, but there's nowhere to run back to.

The farmhouse is on fire. 

The eaves billow up with smoke, and orange glows in the eyes of the windows. There's a strange car in the drive.

She skids to a stop and remembers, keep on running. But she doesn't know where to run to, when to stop running.

She flees into the cornfield off the drive. The air smells like a campfire, and Gramma's old dog is baying a warning, on and on.

Ciri doesn't see a thing before the man that isn't a man grabs her, slinging her up in its arms.

"Hush," it says, clamping a hand over her mouth so she won't scream. "Hush."

It's not a man that has her, not at all. Its eyes slick with a weird membrane when it blinks, and its hair is as snow white as its skin, not even a pink flush of exertion on its face from holding her wiggling body still. Its voice is a rough croak of a sound, like it has trouble with the words.

"It's alright," it says. "I'm sorry. Hush now. I wish things could be different. I'm not– hush, we're going somewhere safe. It isn't safe there for you anymore. It's alright."

It holds her firmly to its breast, and she listens to its faltering heartbeat as it takes her away so quick the fields blur and then the forest blurs and it feels like a dream. She tries to wake up in her little attic bedroom, wants to rush down to her Gramma's room and huddle under the covers until morning.

She looks back when they round a hill to see the farmhouse collapse into a roar of fire. The old dog's baying cuts off with a whimper. She clings to the man that is not a man and knows she is never coming back here, not ever.

"I had no choice," the thing is saying against her ear. "Forgive me, Cirilla. I won't harm you. You can't stay there any longer. I left you there as long as I could. Forgive me." 

Later, when Ciri learns the truth, she will recognize the strange warp in its voice as sadness and regret.

It is hard to imagine.

A little boy in his Mama's lap. A stranger on the porch. Nowhere to run.

[multi-lefaiye]

I uh. For the fandom misinterpretation ask game. The fandom would. Think you’re an uwu soft boi that never gets mad

oh no oh god oh fuck

i think that's real tbh. they'd see i'm transmasc and ace and they'd go "oh so they never ever get mad and they're an uwu soft boy" and then in the source material i lose my shit and snap at someone and they decide i'm evil.

[bulletproofscales]

kinktober day 12 - mermaid (sope)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42934197/chapters/107868150#workskin

Yoongi always had a thing for cryptids. When he got the chance to move away from the city towards a small town, he did it immediately. It wasn't exactly a cabin deep in the forest like he had dreamed about, rather a small house in this little fisher town near the coast. Not necessarily the spooky vibes he wanted, but the calm is already so much better, the people are lovely, everything is cheaper, there’s so much fish (he knows Seokjin, the roommate he left in the city will love it when he visits). 

The only thing he can’t quite get used to, is going to sleep with the sound of the ocean so close to his window. 

Most nights it takes a while for him to sleep, not that it matters since it's not like he has strict working hours. He felt free to walk up and get himself some tea, admire the sea from his porch. He doesn’t find it annoying or anything. It's just a little too loud than he was used to living in the city. And it was loud back there too, but this, it feels like the ocean is breaking by his door. He’ll get used to it for sure, but for now, he prefers to relax with the view of the ocean that isn’t breaking by his door. Sipping gently at his tea admiring the threatening clouds above the sky and the crashing waves, they look harsher than usual tonight. The glistening of the foam in the sand, the sight of a naked person walking out of the ocean-

There's a naked person walking out of the ocean. 

“What the FUCK!?” He doesn’t mean to yell. And he most certainly doesn’t mean to startle the naked person. They make eye contact, the lanky man, who looks more frightened about being seen in general than to cover his genitals. In fact he is more concerned about getting back on the water. The very concerning looking water. 

Look, Yoongi knows he is still a city boy to most of these people. He knows nothing of the sea. But he is pretty sure no person is supposed to be out when the sea looks like that and the sky thunders like this. 

“H-hey!” His yell doesn’t come with that much force now that he planned, setting his mug down as he rushes towards  the shore. “You really shouldn’t be in the water this late!” The stranger seems to ignore it until he sees Yoongi approaching, then he dives into the water. 

Yoongi could’ve sworn that when the first flash of lightning struck, he saw a glistening tail appear from the water only seconds after. 

He really struggled going to sleep that night. You know, with the knowledge that mermaids are real and ON THIS BEACH. 

Not bigfoot, not mothman. Mermaids. Yoongi moved here to hunt mermaids. And was set on achieving it. His night schedule went completely out the window, as Yoongi dedicated his nights to waiting by the beach. But nothing happened. Not a sign of the naked stranger. None. 

It was starting to feel like a hallucination, each night Yoongi would sit and watch. He thought it might've only showed up during storms. He stayed an entire night under the pouring rain! And still! Nothing! 

He didn’t imagine it, he knows it. He'll just have to stay longer. The first night of his long shift, Yoongi made himself dinner, picked up his current book and walked to the shore. Plopping down in what he had marked as the exact spot he remembers the mermaid walking out of. 

Yoongi is not giving up. He is going to eat his meal! Enjoy his book! And stay here until sunrise if he has to! 

Like always, the anticipation is as giddy as it was the first night he went on look out. He hasn’t eaten yet, trying to stretch his energy for as long as he can. Though his poor stomach is rumbling too much by now. His watch marks 3 am, it's late enough for a little fuel recharge. He opens up the glas container keeping his chicken alfredo pasta. The smell is already making  a smile spread on Yoongi’s face. This is what he needed to make it through the night.

He freezes when he sees a pair of glowing eyes peek from the water in interest. His body tense and unmoving. Just because he’s been working all week trying to get the mermaid to come out, Yoolngi never thought he’d ACTUALLY. Right now, he has to focus all his attention into not running away from the mermaid; who’s slowly raising his head from above the water. 

From up close, Yoongi is able to admire the sharpness of his cheekbones, his tan skin and longer hair that curls around his face. Ethereal looking in contrast with the peak of sharp teeth that shows when the mermaid bites his lip. Delicate nose, but glowing hungry eyes. He keeps getting impossibly closer to Yoongi, as much as he can without getting his bottom half out of the water. Tension ever growing his heart has made its way up to Yoongi’s throat, unable to hear the loudness of the crashing waves over the stammering of his heartbeat. 

The mermaid points at the food and says….A combination of chirps and clicking sounds Yoongi isn’t able to recognize. All he knows is that he is talking about his food. 

“I haven’t even started eating it.” Yoongi deadpans a little too stunned to make it sound intimidating in the slightest. He looks down at the pasta then at the mermaid. “You want some?”

“Some!” The mermaid repeats clumsily, nodding enthusiastically. Yeah they’re not understanding each other. But it's so adorable a smile spreads on Yoongi’s face anyways. 

“Here.” He twists a forkful of the creamy pasta and hands it to the mermaid. “I made it myself.” If his smile turns smug as he says it, the mermaid doesn’t seem to mind, shoving it in his mouth with stretched cheeks (he got a real good view of his fangs then). Though they become a lot less menacing with the brightness that takes over the entire of the mermaid’s expression; beaming and humming at the taste. 

“You like it?” Yoongi’s own voice gets higher with excitement. He only gets more clicking and chirping from the mermaid, but the enthusiasm is evident anyways. Clawed hands already reaching for the container. He’s not gonna waste his chance being selfish, Yoongi doesn’t even feel hungry anymore. 

“Here are some more.” He twirls another mouthful, he doesn’t want the mermaid to rush off with his whole plate. Besides, he doesn't think the pasta will hold up well with the sea salt. Luckily the mermaid doesn’t complain, rather inching closer to Yoongi for him to feed the pasta to the mermaid himself. His eating pace faster than the first cautious bite, nearly not taking enough time to chew before his mouth opens to wordlessly tell Yoongi more. 

And what would Yoongi do if not comply? 

The mermaid is so close to him now, his entire lanky torso on display, so near the beach only a thin layer of water covers (poorly) his glistening tail. Yoongi admits to keep stealing glances down at it, admiring the way it shines under the moonlight. The way it enlarges with the mermaid’s flat belly, growing over his lap- 

He widens when he notices what's happening, looking back at the mermaid only to find the rest of his sharp body softening as well. The edges of his cheeks plump with newfound chub along with the mouthful stretching the skin.  Bony chest beginning to fade under chubby padding, pecs softening perking outward. Hips pushing out widening along with his tail.

If anything Yoongi's feeding has gotten only quicker. Amazed by the seemingly painless uniform growth that human food is making the mermaid go through. He isn't even sure he notices, must be a common occurrence. That only incentivizes him even more , forgetting the fork and taking a handful of pasta; the fattening man lets a relieved sound as if finally happy he gets to eat without the pesky fork. That's what Yoongi can assume at least. Even if they did understand each other, he is messily stuffing the mermaid's mouth with noodles; cream coating the edge of his lips all around. 

All Yoongi knows is he wants more. And he'll give him more. All for the chance to stare in awe at his stomach beginning to spill over his lap, two thick rolls dividing his belly and deepening his belly button. When there's no more pasta left he tugs the mermaid to come closer, fingers tingling in his long hair to tug him closer. Only thing left for him to drink was the rest of the sauce collected in the container. Belly sagging down, waist thickened with rolls. The mermaid drags his tongue along the container as if starved, only making a bigger mess of himself. Yoongi is left with nothing else to do but watch mesmerized. 

He even looks hazy, confused when he realizes there's no more. As if entranced by Yoongi’s food he went in too deep to realize how he was gorging himself. He doesn’t even look bloated, although a little drowsy. Yoongi feels hypnotized in his own way too, as if the mermaid had morphed into something out of his dreams. Slowly retrieving the container from the mermaid’s hands, feeling a bit at a loss of words himself. 

“G-good right?” He smiles a little nervous, pressing his thighs together where he was kneeling on the sand. Yoongi can’t hide with words the way his body is reacting to the sight of the mermaid; words mean nothing to the way the mermaid licks his lips, smile slowly growing on his face at the sight of Yoongi. As if he was hungry for more, something else. 

“Some…” He repeats solemnly, it only makes his mistake cuter. 

“More?” Yoongi corrects softly, slowning standing up, knees cracking a bit.”You want more?” He extends his hand towards the mermaid, who’s eyes widen at the sudden proposition to get out of the water. 

“Come on, I’ve seen you get out on two legs.” Even if he probably can’t understand him, Yoongi’s tone must be convincing. Because with a bitten lip, the mermaid’s hand reaches for him. Smaller and pointier than Yoongi’s. Letting himself morph to the naked glory Yoongi ahd first seen him in. 

It only makes his weight gain more obvious, now that he has two chunky thighs and jiggly hips to show for it. Almost distracting enough to make his dick less noticeable. 

Yoongi makes an effort not to stare. The mermaid stumbles a little bit without even having taken his first step. “You never got too far did you?” He asks instead, wrapping an arm around the mermaid's shoulders to guide him to his house only a few meters in front of them. The chirps and clicks he gets in response seem agreeable enough. 

It all feels too real when he is opening his front door for the mermaid to step in. Dripping wet but Yoongi is unable to care, the sight of a mermaid entering his house. Though he still take off his shoes out of habit… It puts his guard down before he hears the sudden scream; one that surprasses any language barrier. 

The mermaid stares at himself in the mirror at the very entrance of Yoongi’s home. Mortified at his fattened reflection. 

Oh… It isn’t a common occurrence then.

[itsthemysterykids]

(With all due respect to Jeff Foxworthy)

You might be a Mystery Kid if...

You are on first name terms with the emergency room staff.

The Cryptid Hotline limits you to one call per day.

You can give the day and cause of every patch job in the shack.

You've driven the golf cart into the top of a tree.

You've belched into a karaoke machine, on purpose.

You have a group picture drawn by a courtroom artist.

Your last cookout included a call to 911.

If you and your friends have been on a UFO ride lately.

(Which ones happened and are there better ones?)

Wybie: *One the phone with the ER* Hey, Tiff! Yeah, it happened again... Okay, five minutes? Great, you're a peach. Oh, and tell Simon and Eva I said hi. Thanks, bye! *Hangs up* Okay, the ambulance and a firetruck should be here soon!

Mabel: *Stuck in the golf cart that's stuck in a tree* Thanks for keeping me in the loop!

Raz: Guys! Guys, check this out! Remember Alejandro, the courtroom artist from our trial?

Lili: Be more specific.

Raz: When we were accused of blonde genocide.

Lili: Oh, yeah. What about him?

Raz: He was so sweet and drew all of us together! *Shows the photo on his phone*

Coraline: Damn, he's good!

Dipper: Guys, if you're making a call to Cryptid Hotlines, you gotta wait until tomorrow. I may have sent some people packing after my queries about Mothman.

Norman: Damn! I wanted to ask about the Flatwoods Monster. *Leans on the porch railing, only for it to crumble under his weight* Ah, it's about time this thing fell. I'm surprised it's been holding for two years, five months, three weeks, and eleven days since Neil caused that fire during the cookout.

Neil: Hey, it's not my fault. Zenon kept being all nitpicky about how I flew their ship!

Coraline: Because you and Mabel burped into their karaoke machine.

Wybie: I'm surprised aliens even have karaoke machines.

... They're Mystery Kids.

[alhaithams-big-naturals]

Thinking about Cryptid!Cyno au...

Like Alhaitham is modern guy, librarian, walks home at night. Usually wears wired earbuds

His roommate is Kaveh who works from home as an artist (helps designs building sometimes)

Cyno is like. His burst but all the time. He finds Alhaitham fascinating.

Tighnari is also a cryptid KIND OF but like. Just a fox that Kaveh feeds that lives under the porch (he doesn't actually, but! They don't know that)

[morteamore]

Cutting Room Floor 11/13/2022

I write a lot. All the time. If not fanfic, then original stuff. I have a dozen story ideas at any given moment and I’m not always dedicated enough to follow through with them. Sometimes they’re only interesting for a hot minute.

I think I might just start posting random excerpts of stuff that will probably never go anywhere. Maybe once a week or so, make this my writing platform if I remember. 

This one was a cryptid story. Not really anything romantic, though relationships were a part of the overall plot and do help start some of the central conflict. It was more likely to go down the horror pipeline and get good and gory. Didn’t end up liking the chapters I did write, though. I think I changed the character names a dozen times. They still seem like placeholders to me.

CW: relationship drama/conflict

======================

Standing outside the door of the modular home in the mid-morning sun, Nate felt a wave of nausea roll through him. He reached for the door handle, jiggling it, drawing away as if burned when he realized it was locked. Then he turned himself around and walked quickly back down the porch steps. The scruffy, brown patch of sod that served as a lawn crunched under his booted feet. He kicked at a mound of dirt someone had randomly dumped there and rubbed nervously at his shoulder, sighing.

In all his twenty-three years, Nathaniel Thibault, Nate for short, had never been good with goodbyes. 

As he stood looking out at the sprawl of the moudlar community, he weighed his options. Brad, his boyfriend of the last three years, was leaving the small town of Trois and heading to the United States in just a week. Los Angeles, California, to be more specific. Nate would not be joining him. In fact, Nate, born and raised in Trois, had never been far outside his Canadian hometown, and didn’t have much desire to travel. He was comfortable here among the dense trees and the encroaching presence of underbrush. He didn’t need big city living, unless he was DJ’ing a gig, with all the skyscrapers, congestion and pollution they had. He was much happier among the natural world. Which, considering his heritage, wasn’t that surprising.

Still, he knew that wasn’t the life for Brad, that Brad longed for culture and opportunities much richer than Trois could give him. And he respected that. They had discussed their future desires at great length, on cold mornings while tucked in bed under thick duvets. Almost always Brad got that far away look in his eyes when he talked about seeing the states, or Europe. And Nate knew he couldn’t compete. In the deepest chambers of his heart, he knew that he would lose Brad some day to wanderlust.

And now that day had come.

When Nate turned back to the trailer, intent on giving the door a second try, it was cracked open. Standing in the doorway in just a pair of jeans and a tank top was Brad. His tall frame almost brushed the top of the door jamb. Upon seeing Nate, he opened the door wider.

“Thought I heard someone out here,” he said, then canted his head, much like the creature whose blood ran through his veins. “Come on in. I have a fresh pot of coffee brewing.”

The nausea tossed in Nate’s stomach like the sea. He nodded anyway and climbed the stairs, not being able to stop himself from giving Brad a sniff as he passed him. The other man smelled like the wilderness. Fresh pine and musky fur and earth. It was comforting, at least to Nate. He moved into the kitchen and took a seat on a stool at the breakfast bar. Brad closed the door and retrieved two mugs from an overhead cabinet. One said I 🍁 Canada on it. The other had an image of a labrador retriever hunting water fowl.

  “You’re here earlier than I expected,” Brad said, pouring the coffee up to the rim of the Canada mug. Nate liked his coffee black, and Brad knew it. For his own cup, Brad left room for an ample amount of cream and sugar. “We were supposed to meet for lunch, not breakfast.”

“I know,” Nate said, drawing his mug close. “I couldn’t wait that long.”

“That eager to discuss our soon-to-be long distance status?”

As he sipped his coffee, Nate winced, and not just because of the bitter contents of the mug.

“That’s what I wanted to talk about, actually.” With a slump of his shoulders Nate set his mug down. “I’m not sure that it’s going to work out, this long distance thing.”

Brad, who’d been moving to sit down opposite his boyfriend, stopped in his tracks. Carefully, he set his mug down on the breakfast bar and placed his hands on its ledge.“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, you’ll be in LA and I’ll be stuck here, and I’m sure after a while that’s going to get old. You’re going to meet other people and want to date them.”

“No way.” Adamant, Brad leaned in closer to Nate. “I would never do that to you, unless we both agreed to it. I care about you more than anything. How can you sit there and say that so casually?”

“I can say it because it’s the truth. You know it. I know it. The only one willing to face it here is me, though.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?”

For a long time, Brad stared at Nate. Nate could feel his gorge rising, that feeling of sickness creeping up even higher in his throat. He turned his head and eyed the bathroom door hanging ajar, debating if he could keep himself from getting sick.

“I am,” he said, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. “I’ve thought it over a lot these past weeks. I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You’re not holding me back. Hell, I’m just going there to test the waters for a month or so, see if it’s my scene or not. I plan to come back either way.”

“But what if you end up liking it? What if you decide to move there? I don’t want to live in LA. I don’t even want to live outside Trois.”

Heaving a sigh, Brad let go of the ledge and put his face in his hands, scrubbing at it. “Of course I know that. And I know that trying to convince you otherwise is just plain crazy. But I was hoping….” He trailed off, letting his arms flop back down to his sides. “You’re so damn stubborn sometimes.”

“Probably why I’m the last of a dying clan. I’m surviving out of pure spite and stubborness.”

“So, we’re really doing this? We’re really breaking up now?”

Drinking deeply from his mug, Nate looked down at the counter top, contemplating its cracking surface. He felt a familiar pressure in his jaws and recognized that his emotions were starting to get the better of him. He tamped down a growl, his head bobbing.

“I just feel one of us will end up getting hurt worse if we don’t,” he said.

“Or you’re afraid of change.” With a scoff, Brad turned his back on Nate. “Since we’re not mincing words here, let’s call this like it is.”

“That’s not fair. I’m just trying to see a future where we settle down together and are happy that way. And I can’t see it with the way things are right now. You’re always going to have your restlessness, and I’m always going to have ties to Trois that can’t be broken.”

“And you’re just starting to see this now, after three years with me? How long have you been keeping these thoughts to yourself?”

“Calm down. They’re only recent. Only since you started getting recognition and were thinking about pulling up roots.”

“See, that’s the problem,” Brad pointed out, turning back around. He walked into the conjoined living room, flopping down in his favorite armchair. “You always talk about having all these roots, all these connections. To Trois, of all places. You haven’t even seen the rest of the world. You don’t know if this is the right path you’re walking. It’s not like you have to live like our ancestors did, tied to the place they were born.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Nate said, sounding wary. “You have an entire pack of siblings. They’re all capable of handling the family legacies. I don’t have that luxury.”

Brad rubbed at the stubble on his face. From his perch, Nate watched him, his memories taking him back to the times he had run his fingers over that rough and bumpy surface, the electric pulse of stimulation beneath his fingertips

“Well, even if you didn’t live here, the lands would still be in your name. Moving away doesn’t change that. Maybe it’s harder to maintain that way, but it’s not like they’ll go anywhere.”

“How long have we’ve been together, and you still don’t know what it’s like to be a Thibault?”

“I know damn well what it’s like. Just as you know what it means to be a Forestier. But isn’t it time we broke tradition and went on our own ways? What do we have to gain from sticking around here? It’s not like we’ll be passing our bloodline down. The loup-garou don’t even really approve of our relationship. They just tolerate it.”

“Tradition is all I have left. And so what if they don’t? It’s not like they can officially do anything about it.”

“And what about if we wanted to get married? They’d never sanction it. We’d be outcasts at best.”

“Do we really need marriage?”

Brad went quiet. He looked down at the carpet. When he lifted his gaze again to look at Nate, his expression was emotionless.

“I think the question is: do you really care about me that little?”

Sighing, Nate had to break eye contact. He hadn’t meant to hurt Brad, but his mouth had run off with his deepest thoughts before he could stop it. Maybe that was for the best. He hadn’t had to dance around the truth until Brad drew it out of him, as he always seemed to do eventually. It hadn’t cleared the air. Far from it. But it had moved the painful task of breaking it off with Brad closer, and the sooner Nate was done with that, the sooner he could go home and crawl into his bed, dwelling on what could have been for the next week.

“You should probably leave,” Brad told him, his voice tight. His words took on a slight growl. “Having you here right now is just not a good idea.”

“I’m sorry. This isn’t the way I wanted things to go.”

“Well, it’s the way they went. Please. Just go.”

Shifting off the stool, Nate managed to make it to the modular home’s front door and open it without being tempted to look back. Then he was walking down the porch steps towards his motorcycle. A shiver coursed through him. He paused to tilt his head toward the sky, where the sun was making its slow journey towards its apex. Closing his eyes, he let its rays grace his skin, warming him on the chilly Autumn morning. It was impossible to tell how long he stayed like that, the warmth radiating in the follicles of his hair and the skin at the back of his neck. Eventually, he slid on to the driver’s saddle, sighing as he started up the engine.

  As he drove away, he thought he saw the curtain in Brad’s window shift, but he couldn’t be certain. 

[eyes-of-mischief]

weekly fic recs | 27

fandoms: atla, bnha, mdzs, tgcf

atla

studying the blade by kryptonianmenace

⚔️ @ thebluespirit 6:56am wait shit i just realized no one knows who i am i can post whatever i want

blue spirit stan @ swordbitch 7:03am @ thebluespirit what are you gonna post?

⚔️ @ thebluespirit 7:05am @ swordbitch i’m gonna say the fuck word

Zuko is a YouTuber making videos under the masked identity the Blue Spirit. Team Avatar is a group of YouTubers who live together that are much more popular than the Blue Spirit. Until one day, Sokka reaches out.

atla x bnha

we are bound, by each crime and every kindness by hyugesoo

Todoroki Shouto dies, ice in his veins and ash in his lungs.

Zuko is born with fire on his lips and tears on his cheeks.

(or, when Shouto is reborn as a prince in a world desperately needing a hero.)

bnha

A Demolition Boy & his Cryptid BF by kewltie

Bakugou of the Demolition Squad is famous for running one of the most popular Youtube channels on the web that regularly blow shit up and jumped off a perfectly good building for shit and giggles. He's also famous for his Cryptid BF™, never appearing on camera except for a few bodyshots and all information on him is kept locked up tighter than Fort Knox, therefore drawing all sort of attention and curiosity toward his mysterious boyfriend.

Deku from Deku Explains is a hopeless chatterbox who is known for uploading 20-30 minutes video that talked about his favorite shows and comics and have one of the most devoted following on Youtube. He also can't seem to shut up about his boyfriend Kacchan, who regularly make his presence on the channel as a disembodied voice.

They should theoretically have nothing in common except a shared platform to host their content and an army of fans with an endless curiosity and devotion to their Youtubers. Vidcon is where we lay our scene and the internet is about to get a rude wake up call.

mdzs

a wild heart to tame mine by theroyalsavage

It's a tale as old as time. Boy moves back to the city he'd fled years before. Boy meets superhero. Superhero saves boy's life. Superhero accidentally breaks the front window of boy's place of employment.

(Lan Wangji just wants to retire from hero work and live a quiet life. Fate, however, has other ideas.)

light travels faster than sound by Anonymous

(explicit)

“Baba,” A-Yuan is saying, tugging happily on his father’s hand. “Wei-laoshi is here!”

“Yes, I see.” Lan Wangji dips his head in Wei Ying’s direction, then begins to gently steer A-Yuan back into the house. “Let’s step aside so that he may come in. Wei Ying, thank you for making time in your schedule.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Wei Ying says, waving a hand. It was: he had to rearrange two lessons with other students. “Really, I’m happy to do it.” He realizes he’s still kneeling on the porch, and clambers to his feet. “Besides, money is exchanged for goods and services, right? It’s your money! There’s no need to thank me.”

Lan Wangji blinks. “I suppose… Yes. That is one way of phrasing it.”

(Or: Wei Ying gets a commission, a tutoring job, and a crush.)

tgcf

he doesn't look a thing like jesus (but he talks like a gentleman) by cangji

(explicit)

kindergarten teacher xie lian is adept at minding his own business and getting on with his life - until he discovers one of his students has a very attractive uncle who may or may not be involved with organized crime.

If You Don't Know How to Blow, Blow for Me by trufflehargau

(explicit)

Xie Lian’s eyes flicked halfway up the length of San Lang’s body, sitting rather stiffly on the sofa. He looked kind of awkward, to be honest. Then again, awkwardness was probably a bit of a given when you were sex-coaching the flatmate you’d only known for two weeks.

-

Or: Jun Wu has dumped Xie Lian for being bad in bed. Desperate to get him back, Xie Lian asks his new flatmate to be his sex-coach. His new flatmate surprisingly says yes.

hell is the talking type by theroyalsavage

Xie Lian hunts ghosts for the amusement of the internet, has a run-in (or two) with a demon, and falls in love with his best friend. Not necessarily in that order.