#~hums along to an old haunting tune

[virtuous-absolute]

[despairsphantomwrites]

Healed Scars (Part II) - Wanda Maximoff x Stark!Reader

A/N: It's been a thousand close to three years now I think? Two probably? Without writing so please excuse the obviously rusty skills 😭 Apologies as well for any mistranslation, as I'm not particularly fluent in Russian either.

Disclamer: None of the characters on this piece are mine, they belong to Marvel.

Healed Scars (Pt. I)

Part 2 of 2.

A soft knock on the glass doors of the lab snapped you back into reality, glancing up and away from the hundreds of blueprints and notes scattered along the table.

"Something wrong?" You hum, confused as you find Wanda silently staring.

"No, just wondering if you're going to join for movie night."

"Sorry, don't share Steve's passion for classics." Chuckling, you focus back on the notes scribbled almost haphazardly.

"Mind if I stay with you?"

You motioned for her to come inside, and she obliged with a murmured 'thank you', eyes roaming freely around the area.

A pleasant silence had enveloped the room, save from the rustling of papers and the whirring of machines in the background. Every now and then, she could also hear you quietly humming to yourself, pausing only to correct some of the notes before resuming the gentle tune.

She couldn't help but freeze as her gaze landed on a familiar, dreadful sight.

"You can get rid of it if you so wish." You mused, taking notice of her not so subtle glare towards an old picture of the Stark Industries factory. "I'm not sure why dad kept it around, but I doubt he'd care if it suddenly went missing."

Wanda didn't reply, fingers twitching as her hands rested on the table. It would be oh so satisfying, to indulge in your offer and tear the image apart, along with some of the memories that would forever haunt her and her brother.

"…No."

Your eyes snapped up to meet hers, a silent question swirling openly in them, waiting for the brunette to continue.

"It would be like wasting all the effort we put into starting from scratch."

"The self-restraint is truly admirable."

If she had anything else to add, it was soon forgotten as a blur entered the lab, threatening to send the papers flying as it stopped just beside the young witch.

"Sorry."

"No harm done Speedy." Rearranging the notes that had scattered, you look up at him. "What brings you here?"

"I was looking for my dear twin sister, but seems like she found good company already." He teased, ruffling her hair slightly. You couldn't help but chuckle yet again when Wanda smacked his shoulder, blushing from embarrassment.

“вести себя (Behave.)” Wanda muttered, eyes flashing red playfully towards the speedster.

“вы не хотите, чтобы они знали? (You don’t want them to know?)”

“Заткнись (Shut up.)” She mumbled, not missing the smirk on his face. The moment was quite short-lived though as another knock interrupts the scene.

"Suit up kid, last minute mission."

"On it, Cap." You called out to the retreating soldier, reaching out to grab a small device and attaching it to your chest. "See you two around."

It had been close to a full day already.

The mission was a success, giving Tony an excuse (much to everyone's dismay) to throw yet another party.

Wanda glanced around, green eyes dancing along the crowd as she nursed another drink. It felt so foreign to her, abnormal even. She almost missed the relative peacefulness of your lab, silently cursing whoever was currently in charge of the operation for assigning you last minute.

She took a sip, attempting to drown out the barrage of thoughts intruding her mind, gasping as she focused on a new presence.

"Not enjoying the party?"

You barely had time to react before the air got knocked out of your lungs along with a pained groan, feeling her arms snaking around your frame in a bonecrushing hug.

"Looks like someone really missed me."

"Are you alright? Steve said comms were gone for a good while."

"Just a couple bruises, suit's seen better days though."

Wanda nodded absentmindedly, only now noticing the few cuts visible along your hands and face. One of her hands moved to gently caress a bruise forming around your eye.

"Now, what's gotten you into such a sour mood?"

"I just… feel out of place."

"Not one for crowds?"

"Not really, no." She sighed, observing across the room as her twin laughed and mingled with the guests. "Too loud for me."

"Physically or mentally?" You mused, earning a wince from the sokovian girl. "I'll take that as both."

"Can't we just go somewhere else? Please."

You debated the request for a moment, eyes drifting around in search for any familiar faces, finally landing on Natasha. As soon as the russian met your gaze you pointed up, earning a subtle nod from the spy.

"Let's go then, little witch."

As soon as you reached the rooftop, Wanda let out a sigh of relief. She leaned against the railing, allowing the soft breeze to soothe her even further.

"So you do have good ideas every now and then." The brunette quipped, knowing this area would be off-limits.

"I'm starting to believe that I'm a terrible influence on you, Maximoff."

The laugh that fell from her lips left you awestruck. It warmed your heart seeing the amount of progress in such a short time.

"Thank you."

"Anytime, Wan-"

"No, I mean it." At your puzzled expression, she continued. "For helping me and Pietro adjust. We weren't exactly welcome at first, and the way we treated you all wasn't ideal either."

You hum in acknowledgement, settling by her side. You couldn't help but wonder if they'd have adapted faster if someone else had stepped up. Someone who wasn't a constant reminder of their past struggles.

"Stop that." Your eyes shift to meet her stern gaze. "You're thinking too loud. You're not-"

"-responsible for what happened, I know. And yet I can't imagine how it must have felt relying on someone whose name was engraved on the very same thing that ruined your life, your childhood."

"Stubborn as your father." The young witch huffed as she tenderly grasped your face, tugging you closer.

Wanda smirked as soon as her lips touched yours, effectively silencing your spiraling mind. The brief contact left you breathless, heart pounding wildly as you stared dumbfounded.

"Stop ripping open already healed scars." She murmured, thumbs gently caressing your skin. "I couldn't have asked for a better person to help us."

"There's people far more approachable than me." The glare you received was downright terrifying, head tilting ever so slightly. "Okay okay, I'm shutting up."

"You're incorrigible. But… I suppose that's part of your charm."

"Suppose?"

"Don't push it, Stark."

************************************

I may or may not have lost the file where I kept all the users from the taglist, so feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to the new one 🙏

[hopefullygettingtaller]

When The Amazing Devil wrote "You will scream, 'I won't forget you' but I'll cover my cold ears, It cannot be a lie if no one hears. 'Cause although you say good day to me, I know I don't belong. And although you hold my hand and say I love you, you are wrong. 'Cause love does not exist in this garden, there's no feeling. And you say the words so often that I barely know the meaning. And when the flowers are rotten and all cannons shot, I'll scream but you won't hear, 'forget me not'" and when they said "Pray for me, oh children, pray for what I've done, I'll haunt the very wrinkles of your skin" and when they yelled "God made all man in his image, Honey I'm no man, I'm what's left when children go to war" and when they cried "The cracks you made, I filled with mortar, a broken pot can still hold water" and when they whispered "These hands are growing old, they're running out of things to hold" and when we all weeped with them "If I'm good will you come back, If I'm good will you come back to us" and when they scribbled "Let foul men band and heed your hum for that ancient hymn you heard me strumming's nought but fumble-falls and guns and tumbleweeds, love run. It's nought that rum won't solve though some would harm you, none, not one, no one would raise to you a hand nor thumb, not while by you, I stand and hum" and expected people to just go on about their days, and when they said "If I have to be who I was (You're not) Do I have to be who I am" and then they said "'Cause I will suffer silence for the strings you tune. And I'll withstand what's written for the writer in you. Write me well, my love, write me weird, write me willing, write me well." And when we all sang "Shoulder the sky (I can't wait to show you how much) Open those eyes (I know you can be, just let the rain come) There's a kind (Let the rain come down, darling) (Can't you hear it howling) Of calling" and when they made me freeze right where I stood with "Back then, I wasn't hopeful. But now my ink's blood red, not black. And I'll blink like ripping envelopes in the hopes that you'll write back" and BACK TO BACK they wrote "Cause I'm between that just-one-more and drank-too-much again" "And I promise you I'll write I love you with my fingers on your sleeping hand" "And when I think I'm fine you'll visit, and then you'll happen to me, happen to me all over again" and then had the audacity to say "And I'll sing silence, and ask my glass of wine for guidance. I might not make it tonight" and then "They'd paint your eyes with sunsets (my saints, my sigs, my upsets)" and ON TOP OF THAT "You're not a coward 'cause you cower. You're brave because they broke you, yet broken, still you breathe." AND SOMEHOW WROTE "'Cause I'm not trapped with you, you see. you're the one who's trapped with me." IN THE SAME FUCKING SONG ALONGSIDE "Sometimes I fall to pieces just to see what bits of me don't fit" then decided to break some hearts with "We didn't talk, we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands. You said I love you less than when it all began, and I said fewer cause I make jokes to show how broken I really am" and then they were both the man their fathers never were and more than what their mums told them to be. And then there was the utter heartbreak of "If I don't make it back from where I've gone, just know I've loved you all along" being repeated for an entire outro. AND THEN THERE WAS "Remember me I ask, remember me I sing. Give me back my heart, you wingless thing." with "Think of all the horrors that I promised you I'd bring, I promised you, they'll sing of every time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child. Witness me old man I'm the wild." "How bold I was, could be, would be, still am. By God still am" AND THEN THE SHEER FORCE OF THE LINES "Welcome to the storm, I'm thunder. Welcome to my table bring your hunger"

AND EVERY TIME THEY COMPARED THEMSELVES TO THE SAINT OF THE PAINT THAT WAS LEFT IN THE POT, YOUR ANGEL ELLIPSIS, YOUR DEVIL OF DOTS, THE HEARTBREAK THAT ACHES FAR TOO MUCH TO BE SHUNNED, ALL THOSE LETTERS UNSENT, AND THAT GARDEN UNGROWN, THE CAPTAIN OF COURAGE THAT YOU'VE ETERNALLY LACKED AND THE JESUS OF WISHING TO CHRIST YOU'LL COME BACK AND SO. MUCH. MORE.

"This here is not make up, It's a porcelain tomb. And this here is not singing I'm just screaming in tune" ARE YOU KIDDING ME "You try so loud to love me, I cannot seem to hear" and "'Cause If we join our hands in prayer enough, to God I imagine it all starts to sound like applause" IN THE SAME ALBUM WITH "And these plates they smash like waves (place your hand in mine) And on the wind, it howls (how long can this last?)" AND "'Cause these plates, they smash like waves (Place your smile in mine) And the wine stains, hide the tears (Why stay? Hide the-) But that breathing you hear, don't mistake it with sighs. Don't you realize, they're just battle cries, my dear?" And then, when they said "And you, you follow philosophies, but me, I laugh, I choke. 'Well hello my hollow Holofernes' I wink but you don't get the joke" and while we were all busy processing, they reminded us "Your eyes aren't rivers there to weep, but a place for crows to rest their feet" AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON "I chipped my teeth on every joke you cracked" In this essay I will-

[ghcstao3]

Haunting, is the first word that comes to Soap’s mind, upon hearing it.

Upon hearing the soft and drawn out and slightly out-of-tune plink of piano keys, upon hearing the legato and the smooth shift in scales, upon heading the gentle click of the pedal lifting and settling as a deep and raspy voice hums along to a song that sounds familiar, but that Soap can’t quite place.

Haunting. Beautiful.

It’s what occurs when they’re left in an abandoned home while waiting on exfil, when they’re left in the ruins of a farmhouse with no enemies left to eliminate.

It’s what occurs when Ghost happens upon an old piano, surrounded by rubble and missing the love of use.

Haunting, like the namesake of the man who sits hunched on a crooked bench with his gloves tucked under his thigh as he plays. Haunting, like the omen splattered with blood that isn’t his own, that had been slaughtering mercilessly maybe twenty minutes prior.

The song suddenly builds, swells, until all that echoes within miles is Ghost’s piece. He sways with the sound as his fingers skillfully navigate the keys, the chords, the melody. The music fills the farmhouse with life it hasn’t seen in years, and Soap can’t help but watch and listen on with awe.

Haunting, like murmured words on Ghost’s lips that only Soap is audience to, until notes taper off into a ringing silence, and Ghost is slipping his gloves back on and standing and giving orders like he hadn’t just given an incredible performance.

Ghost is brushing past Soap when the sergeant says, breathless, “Didn’t know you could play piano, sir.”

The lieutenant grunts. He barely spares Soap a glance for the observation.

“I can’t,” he replies curtly.

And Soap adds that to his mental pile of things to decipher about the enigma that is Ghost.

Haunting is the phantom echo of a moment Soap wishes he could have savoured a little longer without the fear of knowing if he’d ever be allowed the chance to experience it again.

What he wouldn’t do.

[lighthouseshepard]

dollins prompt here goes.

so i've always imagined that noel wouldn't want to be called charlie because that's who he was before (gestures vaguely) all the shit went down. could you write him + collins talking about that??? prefereably in a gay manner???

if you do i'll send you more doodles 🤭🤭🤭

HI HELLO SORRY THIS TOOK ME SOME TIME this is the first dollins thing ive written so. hopefully you enjoy it (: (not sure if it fits the bounds of the prompt exactly but!! its where my brain went!!)

"So," Dennis says with an anticipatory lilt to his tone that Noel inmediately doesn't care for in the slightest. "Charlie, huh?"

The name is said so casually, Noel almost doesn't process it. He glances sharply up from where his gaze had been fixated absently at a point beyond the other's left shoulder, attention lost somewhere in the smooth curve of the bathroom sink's porcelain.

"What?" he stutters out, "did you just call me?"

Dennis doesn't even flinch. He pauses in his meticulous work, the razor held inches away from Noel's stubble-covered jaw.

"Charlie?" he says again. "That is your name, isn't it, sweetheart?"

Noel's voice smooths out into a tone he hopes is calm, ignoring the way his fist curls up into a tight ball against his leg. Years had passed since he last heard those two syllables uttered in his presence. Encountering them here of all places was jarring to say the least. "Where did you hear that from?"

Dennis shrugs. "Little birdy told me."

"Collins."

"Ah, come on now," Dennis protests, grinning. "We aren't on a first name basis, detective? I woulda thought givin' you a nice shave so late at night would earn me something."

"Charlie is not my first name," he grinds out through half gritted teeth. "And you offered to do this, if you'll remember."

Dennis pauses to step back, flipping on the sink long enough to rinse the razor clean for another go. "Well, I felt bad," he admits, turning back to face Noel with a wink. "Considering you kinda can't and all."

"Who's fault would that be?" Noel huffs.

"I didn't ask ya to smuggle me out of the station," Dennis remarks. "You did that on your own."

"You shouldn't have come up to see me mid-day! I signed those release papers, yes, but it doesn't absolve you from everything you did after."

"I missed you, alright? Jesus, lad, let an old man be sentimental for once."

He takes a step closer, eyes flicking down to Noel's bandaged hand resting in his lap. From where he's perched on the edge of the bathtub, there's a tinge of guilt visible in Dennis's quiet expression Noel doesn't know what to make of. He feels it as a barbed flutter somewhere along his chest, twisting pleasurably in and out of the bones of his ribs. Dennis reaches down with the hand not currently holding the razor, but Noel shifts imperceptibly away from him.

"At least let me have a proper look at it," Dennis pleads.

"No."

"Come on, Charlie, like I said. I feel bad. I don't even know how ya managed to break it on the way out."

"Yeah, well I don't know either," mutters Noel, ignoring the name again. "Maybe somewhere along trying to shove you out the fire escape?"

Another shrug. "Maybe. I, uh... look, I won't come visit anymore if you don't want me to, you know. Didn't mean ta get you all in a twist."

Noel sighs heavily, a smile he wants to regret but finds himself fully incapable of curving the corners of his mouth. "Now I didn't say that exactly, did I?"

Dennis hums, a few notes of a song Noel had come to know well by now just from being in the other's company. The tune did not so much as haunt the Butcher as it accompanied him through every waking moment like a dog at his heels, often whining, usually content to leave him be so long as he fed it scraps of acknowledgement every once in a while. Not for the first time Noel wondered in objective fascination what went on behind those blue eyes, what kind of subtle symphony played out while his hands twisted around a spool of bloody piano wire. Or, more pressing, what he may have been thinking while he held a razor delicately to Noel's throat.

"I could have done this myself," he protests not for the first time without much merit. "Doesn't take two hands to shave."

Dennis merely smiles again, not deigning to give him an answer. The blade scrapes against day old stubble effortlessly, sharp enough to cut if he moved without warning.

"You sure are puttin' a lot of trust in me here," Dennis reminds him, "holdin this blade to you, Charlie."

"Oh would you - ow!"

He winces, reaching up to dab at the tiny bead of blood on his neck as the razor slips. Dennis frowns.

"See? That's what I mean. A lot of trust. You gotta keep still, lad. We can't have this pretty face of yours all bloodied up, now can we?”

Noel watches him raise a soft towel snagged off the countertop to the side of his neck, dabbing at the spot he nicked. Curious, how hands more familiar with the cold unforgiving angles of a gun or the resolute handle of a knife could touch him so gently. 

"Alright, out with it," Noel sighs. "Where did you hear that name, Dennis?"

"Like I said-"

"No, don't bullshit me. We're both too smart and too old for that. Just tell me."

"I, uh..." he trails off. "I looked inta ya."

"The criminal looking into the detective?" he scoffs, shifting on the edge of the tub, unable to keep from leaning into Dennis's touch even if he wanted to. "The irony is unparalleled."

"Had to know who was chasin' me, didn't I? It was a long while ago, back before I knew you.”

“You don't know me,” Noel mutters, his deflection falling short of convincing.

The towel lifts from his face with an accompanying chuckle so soft it seems to float, filling the single foot of space left between them. Fingers trail down the edge of his jaw that had already been shaved clean, dipping lower to trace the scar along the side of his neck. 

“Aye, I know you, alright,” Dennis says quietly. “Just like you know me, detective. We're opposite sides of the same coin. You could look in a mirror and see me as easily as you'd see yourself.”

“Dennis,” he starts helplessly, but he's interrupted before he has an opportunity to continue searching about maddeningly for the right word.

“Besides, do you really need to hear where I got that name from? Would it change anything? We might be the only two alive to know who it belongs to.”

“Yes,” Noel says pointedly. “I do, goddammit.” 

“Hmm,” Dennis mumbles. “Maybe if you keep perfectly still while I fix up the other side of you here, I'll tell ya.” 

His hand falls back to his side. Noel feels the scrape of the razor once more, drawing a path down by his temple. He isn't certain necessarily if trust was what allowed him to hold himself in this fragile position, or if a bizarre fascination was responsible. Perhaps he was growing soft as the years went by, he thinks. Perhaps he was simply too stupid by his own choosing to fully comprehend what he had fallen into. 

“Charlie’s dead,” Noel murmurs, lifting his chin so Dennis could get a better angle. “I killed him two and a half years ago.”

“I killed a lot of people and their ghosts still stick around,” Dennis says contemplatively. “Addin’ their notes to the music. Charlie’s a nice name. You get real pink every time I say it.”

“Is that a confession?” Noel drawls. “I could have you arrested for that, you know.”

“You could, sure. You could lend me a kiss for all my hard work here keepin’ you presentable, too.”

“You’re awfully demanding for someone I should rightfully have in handcuffs, you know that?” Noel mutters, but as gray eyes find blue, he lets the shift in an atmosphere suddenly charged through with subtle electricity wash willfully over him. 

Dennis grins, the razor halted, his lips an inch away. “Don't make promises you can't keep."

[palmofafreezinghand]

requesting an angsty one shot if you feel up to writing it? :)

thank you for the prompt!

content warnings: discussions of infant death and grief

on ao3 here.

March, 1921. 

Carlisle sped down the old logging road, the mechanical hum of a finely tuned European engine blending with the whistled ‘fee-bee’ of the chickadees greeting the first buds of Spring. His arm hung out the window as he drove, the not-quite-warm air causing his sleeve to flap in the wind. He paid no mind to the shine of his skin under the morning sun. 

After a harrowing winter, the first buds of Spring were more than welcome. It appeared, his tide was finally turning. Or so he thought. 

“She is in a mood,” Edward whispered pointedly, appearing at Carlisle’s window the minute his tires hit the driveway. 

In a second Carlisle’s thoughts took a harsh turn to concern. The newest member of their household had not had an enviable introduction to their way of life, one haunted by desperation and grief, but as of late, she had improved. Smiles graced her face more frequently, a laugh echoed off the walls at least once a day, she had accepted the hand she was dealt with grace. At least he thought she had. Their tide was finally turning, right? 

“Carlisle, leave her alone,” Edward whispered through clenched teeth, yanking the car door open. He barely waited for Carlisle to get out of the car before he threw himself into the driver’s seat. “This is all your fault,” the boy hissed as he slammed the car in reverse. 

The winter — and all it brought — had been hard for them all. It was all his fault. 

Despite this knowledge, Carlisle did not heed Edward’s advice, he rarely did. Instead, he quickly found her in the garden. 

“Good morning,” he smiled, the rotting garden gate creaking as it swung open. 

“Hello,” she said, barely louder than the crunch of a pine needle under a hare’s foot half a mile South. 

She sat under a just-beginning-to-flower red maple tree. Her knees tucked to her chest, frizzy hair pinned on top of her head haphazardly, the circles under her eyes darker than he had ever seen them. Her gaze was fixed on a mound in one of the old garden beds, a single white flower peeking out of the melting snow. 

“Are you well?” 

She shrugged, which he learned to interpret as a half-hearted yes, but did not volunteer any elaboration. 

He took a seat next to her, without another word, as he had many times before. Vulnerability was not a natural state for Esme Anne Platt — Esme Anne a married name he had yet to find out but desperately wanted to know. 

If forced to guess he would say a half hour went by before she spoke.

“Snowdrop,” she said. Somehow her voice sounded as if she had been sobbing, however impossible that was. 

“Pardon?” 

“The flower,” she gestured weakly with her head, “is called a Snowdrop. They were originally imported from Europe, someone must have planted them nearby.” 

“Intriguing.” 

“It is often considered medicinal. People crush the bulb to treat pain. Ironic, is it not?” She scoffed. 

He did not grasp her meaning at first until he followed her gaze. A beautiful painkiller growing from a double grave. 

“This is where you buried them, is it not?” She asked when he did not respond. 

He considered lying, ever since meeting her he was getting more comfortable with falsehoods. In two months he had lied more than in the rest of his life. This was not one of those times. 

“How did you know?” 

“The smell,” she said matter-of-factly, in a way that made his stomach twist. He had buried the bodies fifteen feet deep in an attempt to hide the grave from her, save her the torment of a constant reminder. The scent of rotting flesh — noticeable only by the newborn with heightened senses — was not a factor he accounted for. 

The mother and son who lay under the garden bed, had been walking along the shore and had the misfortune of running into a bloodthirsty grief-stricken confused vampire. The bodies lay cold at her blood-covered feet a week after her own son had lost his life. The six-year-old boy was first, Edward had theorized the mother was partly out of instinct, and largely out of pity. 

Besides his mother’s, they were the first deaths Carlisle considered himself responsible for. 

As soon as she realized what she had done, Esme was horrified, rightfully. She pleaded with Edward and Carlisle to give the two a proper burial. 

The garden was the easiest place, somewhere no one would find them. 

Her remorse was palpable. Every silent day that went by felt like a noose tightening. The image of her greedily drinking from the neck of a child was one that haunted him every time he looked at her. 

He was no longer capable of seeing Esme as the woman she was, but was instead the many versions of herself she once was. A bright tree climber with big dreams and a charming laugh, an almost-corpse with a broken spine and delicious blood, a murderer with an enticing smile. 

He was the one who had turned her into this. 

“It was not your fault—” 

“Stop,” she interrupted him. For months he had insisted the deaths were not her fault, he should have had a better grip and used more restraint, he was the one who forced her into this life it was his responsibility to shepherd her through the challenges. She was not to blame. 

She refused to hear a word of it, he had yet to realize this was because she knew he did not believe the lies he peddled. 

His next words were weighed carefully, balanced against the slicing warning Edward had given. Carlisle could not imagine the thoughts that had driven him to such anger. He could not imagine half of the woman’s thoughts, still largely oblivious to the horrors that occurred in the ten years since they met. 

“Is this,” he motioned to the flower, and grave, “the only thing on your mind?” 

He presumed it was not. While, Esme had grieved the lives she took a shocking — quite concerning — amount, she had not mentioned the two strangers in over a month. When he had left her, a mere thirteen hours prior, she had seemed closer to her old, blissful sixteen-year-old, self than ever before. 

She sighed, her eyes closing, her forehead falling on her knees, attention finally pulled from the grave. “Everything is on my mind,” she laughed humorlessly. 

He did not probe further, despite every instinct telling him to be ask a dozen more questions. If he had been able to be objective about the situation, his overwhelming curiosity when it came to the subject of Esme would have been a cause of concern but he was doomed to be the last person to realize. 

“May I speak freely?” She asked, pulling her face off her knees and stretching her legs out in front of her. 

“Please.” 

She sucked in a breath, watching as a crow landed on the garden fence. “I feel as if I have lost the right to grieve,” she said carefully as if dipping a toe in the water to test the temperature. “I miss my son more than words can say, but I feel as if that is selfish.” 

“I can not fathom a world where grief is possibly considered vain.”

“I took the life of someone else’s son. I feel overwhelming guilt every time I have the gall to miss mine. It feels like retribution in a way, I will have to live with this pain for the rest of time.” 

She was not finished, he knew this and thus did not say a word but let his left hand fall to lightly touch her knee, a movement that could be construed as natural or not. Her hand hovered over his for a half second, before squeezing his hand and releasing. He let his hand fall to the ground. 

“Every time I feel the smallest bit of joy, I feel as if a boulder has been dropped on my chest. How can I dare be happy when he never will be? How can I stand to walk another day when I caused someone else this pain? I do not deserve the life you have given me, the safety, the peace, the contentment.” 

“Esme —” 

“I know I have been direful company as of late. I am, as difficult as it is, grateful for all you have done for me.” 

“Esme, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. You have accepted this life with more grace than Edward or I did. I am the one who ought to be apologizing.” 

“I do not deserve your kindness.” 

“You do. You deserve a marvelous life.” 

She scoffed, his reassurances running off like water on a duck. “I appreciate the sentiment, however untrue it is.” 

“Your son would want his mother to find happiness. You are a loving mother, and a wonderful person, Esme.” 

She bit her bottom lip hard, eyes darting across the garden, looking as if she was on the precipice of tears. “You do not know that, you do not know me. If you knew what I have done…” She trailed off, swallowing hard, letting out a shaky breath. 

He could not fathom whatever occurred in the years they were strangers that she considered worse than a double homicide. Although, he paid more mind to the hurt caused by her accusation. ‘You do not know me.’ Why did this insult him so? 

“I did not look,” she said, turning to look him in the eye. The contact lasted only a brief second before her attention was turned back to the flower. “When he…” she gulped, “died. That is the first time I have used that word. Died. I did not look. I was holding him to my chest.” Her right hand instinctively lingered over her chest, rounding as if cradling a newborn’s head. “He was coughing so hard, I was too scared to watch. He could not see me. Did he know I was there? Did he think he was alone?” 

“Esme-” 

“I don’t even know what happened to him,” she said almost in disbelief. “The doctor pried him out of my hands after a while, I loathed that man. The nurse told me to go home and I did. I left him there all alone. 

“Es-” 

“He thought he was alone, unloved, in his last moments, and then I left him,” she scoffed. “What kind of moth– person does that?” 

Silence filled the garden. He let the words weigh down the air, like a fishing weight to the bottom of a pond. 

“My mother died the day I was born,” he said quietly. He had told her this before, ten years prior, and again as a footnote in his life story but never with the weight it deserved. 

Esme nodded in recognition she had heard the story before, he continued. 

“I know she loved me. I have no evidence of the fact, besides my existence, and I was surely never told. Yet, I believe it wholeheartedly.” 

“She did. She had to.” 

“Why would your son be any different?” He smiled weakly. “He knows, Esme. The only life he knew on this Earth was in the arms of his mother, warm and unconditionally loving. I say this not as someone who cares for you but as someone’s son, he knows. I know your faith has been shaken, but I have enough for both of us. He knows. As a doctor, there is nothing you could have done differently. This is guilt you can not carry any longer. And, as someone who would like to think of themselves as your friend, please permit yourself to enjoy the life your son was denied. You are not a lesser mother for doing so.” 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, mindlessly picking at her cuticles. 

At some point in their conversation, it had begun to rain, a bone-chilling rain, only a degree or two away from freezing. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Carlisle could no longer stand the not technically harmful, but certainly unpleasant, downpour. “Is there any chance I could persuade you to come inside?” He asked, slowly standing, attempting to brush debris off his pants.

She nodded and took the unnecessary hand he offered to help her stand. Once she stood on two feet, neither of them dropped the other’s hand for a beat longer than excusable, their eyes met and released their grip in unison. 

He held the garden gate open for her, she gave him a nod of thanks, she walked a step and a half ahead, he tried to appear casual as he quickened his pace to keep up. 

“Your hair curls when it’s wet,” Carlisle observed as they walked down the makeshift forest path. He had washed her hair during her transition, but he was less concerned about the texture and more focused on scrubbing out bone fragments and brain matter. 

“Unfortunately,” she sighed, reaching to tuck the stray lock of hair back into the style. 

“Unfortunately?” 

“It manages to get tangled if I look at it wrong,” she laughed lightly. “I used to straighten it with a clothing iron, but now I have to keep it pinned back.” 

“It knots now?” He asked, their hair was one of the features least affected by venom but was still changed in the transition. 

She paused and considered this question. “I have never worn it down since I… changed. Do you think it might not?” 

“If I had to guess I would say no, although it may be best to wear it up while hunting.” 

“My son’s hair was curly. It was very light,” she smiled to herself. 

“Your husband was blonde?” He asked before he could think better of it.

She had offered very little information about her late husband. Carlisle knew he was dead, he had served in the war, they had married when Esme was in her early twenties, and Edward had told him to never, under any circumstance, bring up the man. Although, she had just accused him of not knowing her. How would he ever learn more? 

“No, my husband’s hair was dark as coal, his eyes too. I have never seen eyes as black as his. Imagine my surprise when I gave birth to a blonde, blue-eyed baby.” 

Her tone was remarkably distant, she did not speak of her late husband with the obvious love and care as she did her son, the smell of freshly baked goods, or lying under the afternoon sun. She did not seem to be grieving, or even mildly upset the topic was broached. 

“He was beautiful. I know every mother says that, but he was.” 

“I wish I could have met him,” Carlisle said. It was more familiarity than he had ever assumed, but it was an earnest sentiment. 

“Me too.” 

The rest of their walk was no more than three minutes, the silence between them comfortable now. They walked closer than necessary. He held the front door open for her, she gave him a grateful smile. 

He turned towards the staircase, presuming her silence meant she wished for a moment alone as much as he wished for dry clothes. 

Her voice stopped him. “May I ask you one last question?” 

“Was that not a question?” He grinned, turning to face her, he was greeted by a sliver of a smile. 

“I know I do not want to know the answer, but I need to know. What is the hospital’s arrangement for dealing with… bodies?” She gulped again. “I did not have any family nearby, no one would have known…” she trailed off, but the question she refused to ask was clear. 

Edward and Carlisle had spent weeks dealing with the public aftermath of Esme’s death. While new to the community she had been a notable member of the small logging town’s teaching staff, and had been a quite beloved roommate to an old widow. The two had sworn to keep the details of their efforts to themselves. Perhaps, their policy could be bent, just once. 

“Your son is buried in Washburn. He has a modest headstone… next to yours.” 

Her brow furrowed, her head tilting to the side. “How? Who? The hospital?” 

“Do you recall the woman you lived with?” 

“Vaguely,” she sighed. The loss of memories seemed to be one of the effects of immortality she found most disturbing. “Her name started with a D.” 

“Adeline Parker,” he offered. 

“Della! She went by Della, she thought Adeline was too posh,” Esme smiled fondly. She had a dimple on her left cheek and a remarkably nice smile, one he knew he would be trying harder to catch a glimpse of soon. 

“She came to the hospital, a few days after the two of you… passed. You had not returned, she was concerned. Fortunately, I was working that evening and was able to piece together the connection. I relayed the ne—” 

“How did she receive the news?” 

He considered this for a moment. Esme was already vulnerable. Would telling her about the older woman’s sobs that sounded as if she had lost a child herself give Esme closure or grief? 

“As well as she could. She arranged the burials, and I offered to help arrange assistance from a local charity.” 

“He has a headstone?” 

“Yes, Adeline picked most of the design.” 

“She could not afford a headstone.” 

“I may have contributed, under the guise of a charity.” 

“You did that for me?” She asked incredulously. 

“Of course, Esme. It was the least I could do,” he said sincerely. 

She did not say a word but instead launched her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly. Once he processed she was giving him a hug — one of the first of his life —  he moved one hand to rest on the back of her head and the other on her back. It was entirely improper but neither could muster the energy to mind. 

“Thank you, Carlisle,” she muttered. 

[seabirdtxt]

Event batch 5

Heya! here's the second to last batch, a little later than i anticipated but I managed to get here in the end 🤭 next one will probably go up tomorrow!

thank you to those who requested these, and thank you so much to all of you for your patience!

🩵 Check out my other event requests! 🩵

for Anon || Xiao x Reader - Sickfic, adeptus!Reader, taking care of Xiao after a karmic debt flareup

for Anon || Kabukimono x Reader - Modern AU, haunted doll!Kabukimono

for Anon || Wanderer x Reader - Canon setting, reader is a traveling doctor

----- ⚘ -----

Quiet, like the snow

The air around him feels hazy and thick, like breathing through a heavy mist. He leans on his spear, panting lightly as he tries to regain his bearings.

Xiao’s job is easy. He clears the Liyue countryside from the spreading evil and keeps the fury of the slumbering, slain gods at bay. Today has been a day like any other, there is nothing remarkable about today that would cause him to feel as disoriented as he is.

Unless, he thinks distantly, he forgot to cleanse his karma recently.

Oh no.

The next stretch of time is a blur, Xiao only distantly remembers stumbling toward… something, and fighting more monsters along the way. There is only him, and his spear, and the screams of bygone divinity in his head as he throws himself headlong into each battle.

Before he knows it, he’s in his room at Wangshu Inn, the walls sparsely decorated with paper warding charms, lying stretched out on his bed. A stick of incense has been lit, because a faintly sweet smell permeates the air, cutting through the odor of sickly sweat he must be giving off.

There’s the faint sound of humming that soothes his aching heart, an old tune that was first sung in the time of the archon war. You.

His eyes creak open and he blinks into the low light, sluggishly bringing one hand to his forehead, where his fingers touch a cold, wet compress. A noise escapes him, and the humming comes to a fading stop.

“Xiao’er? How are you feeling?”

Your cool touch replaces his own calloused palm. You smooth over his face, moving his hair from his eyes, and he beholds you at last. One of the last remaining survivors of the archon war, and heir to one of the only peaceful adeptus clans, you’ve been by his side and tending to his karmic debt for as long as he’s ever known.

The only thing he never managed to ruin with his own hands.

He breathes your name as you stroke his cheek with your thumb, and something that’s not quite a smile blooms on his lips.

“You forgot to ease your karmic burden, silly,” you chastise him, clicking your tongue and shaking your head. You have a remarkable talent of making him feel like a child again, he thinks.

The pounding in his head lessens as you draw a fresh washcloth over his skin, cleansing him both physically and spiritually. Where normally he would grouse and complain, and you would chastise him for it during the entire process, this time he feels only relief from the overwhelming pain.

You resume your humming as you gently reattach the prayer beads around his neck, and the soothing charms on it come into effect immediately. Alertness returns to him as he realizes the position he put you in.

“My- my karma-” he mumbles as he tries to push you away, already scooting himself to the far side of the bed and trying to sit up.

“Oh, no you don’t!” You say softly but firmly, slipping the last cleansed and reinforced charm onto his belt. “I spent the better part of the last two days making sure you were properly seen to, and I feel perfectly fine.”

He lifts his arm in wonder and flexes his hand, face betraying none of his thoughts. It’s the first time in a long time that he’d allowed you to perform a full cleanse, though it occurred against his will, and the improvement to his chronic pain is significant.

He feels the bed dip as you sit beside him, watching him eagerly to see how he feels. His mouth opens and closes a few times, awkwardly trying to voice his thoughts. Instead, you give him an understanding smile and lean into him, kissing the corner of his eye delicately.

“You’re very welcome,” you murmur, and he leans into you in return, his mind quiet for the first time in months.

----- ⚘ -----

White Sheets

You get the doll by accident, really. You’d been passing by the antique shop every day for the past few weeks, and there’s just something about the poor thing sitting alone in a dusty corner of the window display that called to you. It’s almost uncanny how lifelike it seems, sitting perfectly poised in a simple wooden chair, holding some sort of japanese square-shaped string instrument in one hand. If it weren’t for the wood-grain texture, the chipped and worn paint, you would swear it’s a real person.

He’s a delicate thing, made of pale wood and dark hair that’s been carefully straightened and combed for many years, his eyes seemingly glued shut. His clothes are a little ratty, a pale lavender kimono with a darker purple obi, and a sheer veil that feels like it would crumble if you touched it a little too roughly.

He’s an iki ningyo, you learn, one of several old japanese dolls famous for their lifelike quality. This one is especially remarkable for having articulated joints. The shopkeep seems surprised to hear you’re interested in the doll, claiming that several people have bought it in the past and all of them have returned it, each one saying that the doll was too creepy to keep in their house.

He’s not creepy, you tell the shopkeep, he’s just a little lonely.

That’s how you head home with your arms full of a life sized wooden doll, looking for all the world like you’re lugging around a dead body, which earns you a few strange looks from passers-by on the way.

You settle him in your craft corner, where several of your other doll restoration projects lay unfinished. You sweep the smaller dolls aside, maneuvering your iki ningyo onto the desk and position him in a seated position. It looks almost as if he’s relaxing.

Over the next few weeks, you slowly chip away at the restoration project. First you repaired the cracks and chips with wood filler, sanding the surfaces down to perfect smoothness. Then you remove the doll’s clothes, mindlessly apologizing to it for the indignity (a habit you’d picked up ages ago, of talking to your projects as if they could hear you), and sew a brand new identical kimono with fabric that was much too expensive for your weekly budget, though you can’t say you regret it, seeing how it looks on him.

You carefully lubricate the articulated joints, and are delighted to find that its eyes are articulated as well, but they are stuck shut. It takes some time, especially being careful not to damage anything as you chip off the old dried glue. You gasp when you finally manage to pry one open after many hours of hard work, the lavender iris hidden behind the rolling eyelid shocking you with its vibrancy.

The night you open the doll’s eyes is when things start to get weird.

The area around your craft bench feels a little colder than the rest of the room, and floors creak even when you’re not walking. The buzzing of the cicadas outside ceases when you’re working on the doll, and sometimes you find your craft tools on the floor when you’re sure you’d secured them on the desk.

Your dreams are filled with images of dark rooms and raised voices and hands grabbing you left and right, being shoved from one empty closet to another, and of cold nights alone in a windowsill watching everyone in the glow of the streetlights as they pass you by.

As you’re gently painting his skin back to its proper shade, having been discoloured by time and sanded off in several places, one of his eyes rolls open. You stop what you’re doing and stare at him, wondering if maybe the eyelid somehow came loose as you were working. When nothing happens for a few seconds you quietly apologize for disturbing him, closing his eye gently with the pad of your thumb, and assure him that you will be finished with the repairs soon.

You tilt his head back and carefully drag your brush along his jaw, covering some spots that had been sanded down during your repairs. Something wet brushes against your hand, and you look up in shock to see that a fat drop of the clear lubricating oil spilled from the doll’s closed eye, leaving a shining track on his face, almost like a tear.

It’s enough to shake you to your core. You end the repair process for the evening, thanking the doll for his patience, and quickly retreat to your room. Is this what the shopkeeper had meant by ‘creepy’?

For the next few days nothing new happens. You put the finishing touches on the doll, admiring your own handiwork and moving him around, checking to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything. You move him to the living room, seating him on one of the chairs and posing him similarly to how he was in the shop, his repaired instrument in hand.

You lean down and kiss the top of the doll’s head, thanking him for his patience and hoping he likes his new home. The doll bends slightly under the pressure of your lips pressing against him, the sound of his wooden joints rasping against each other reaching your ears, and for a moment you can almost pretend it’s a sigh of relief.

That night, you dream of a happy boy in a pale kimono, smiling at you gratefully with shining lavender eyes, and playing a gentle song for you on his shamisen.

----- ⚘ -----

The Only Medicine

As the apprentice of the famed Doctor Baizhu, you find yourself in high demand. You’re much more willing to travel than your sickly master, though he does make occasional house calls if the situation is dire enough, and you have sufficient training by now to handle most cases on your own.

Which is how you find yourself traveling Teyvat with your strange partner from Sumeru.

Wanderer came into your live like an avalanche, sweeping debris and destruction right up to your front step.

He came to you in the dead of night—you’d been staying in Ghandarva Ville to help the forest watchers with an influx of digestion issues related to the rations they’d eaten—carrying the tiny body of a child in one hand and securing his hat, askew on his head, with the other. You hadn't even hesitated, bringing them both into your temporary residence and tending to the child as efficiently as you could.

He’d been cleansing a nearby Withering zone, you learn, and found the child who had wandered in by accident. You commend him for his quick reaction in bringing him here, and he was fascinated with how well you treated the child’s injuries.

You were surprised, given his initial impression, that he was actually pretty temperamental. The morning after you’d treated the child, Wanderer acted as if he’d never met you at all. He didn’t greet you, didn’t bother asking how things went, and left you without so much as a ‘goodbye’. You resigned yourself to never seeing the strange traveler again.

But you did. You ran into him again and again as you toured Sumeru, and each time he would bring you a new patient. You almost asked how he kept running into injured people, and if he was the one causing the injuries, but you held your tongue and treated every patient he brought. You like to think you built a pretty good rapport with the strange man, hoping he sees you as reliable as a medical professional, and trustworthy as a person.

Unbeknownst to you, he was actively seeking ways to approach you. Your kind but strict demeanor enchanted him, and the way you cared for everyone regardless of age, gender, or status reminded him of Buer (not that he’d tell her that).

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wanted to believe you would treat him with the same grace with which you treat everyone else. He wanted to believe he could deserve that.

Your paths next cross in Aaru Village, where he finds you wrapping a few sunburns and a broken ankle. The people flock to you asking for help for various ailments, many of which you inform them will need more extensive care, and you leave instructions with the local doctor, Maruf.

He’d been sent here by Nahida, asked to check up on the recovery of the ones who had been village keepers, and to make sure things in the Village are going well. He didn’t expect to be tasked with investigating one of the run-down shacks on the edge of the village that had been serving as a warehouse until it partially collapsed.

Surely nothing will happen to him, he thinks. Of course that’s when the other half of the warehouse decides to collapse on him.

Several things happen at once, where he feels the clay bricks bury him, and then somebody across the bridge screams, and there’s a sudden flash of green as dendro activates somewhere above him. And then everything is dark.

Somewhat alarmingly, he regains consciousness on a cot in a dim room almost entirely disrobed, which is a strange sensation because the last time he was in a situation like this he had been recovering from his defeat at the Traveler’s hands.

He sits up, uncaring of his physical state, and finds himself very neatly repaired despite knowing he must have absolutely shattered underneath that building. The magic in his body is already well on the way to fusing the pieces of himself back together. He presses on one of the cracks, and his fingertip comes away with sticky, partially dried medical glue.

He gets up and first locates his hat and his haori, choosing to forgo the bodysuit at the moment. Once he’s sure he can make it out of the room without stumbling, he heads for the door to look for the one he is sure took care of him.

He finds you outside, sitting on the ground and playing with children. They toss a zaytun peach pit in the air and you attempt to scoop up as many harra fruit seeds as possible before the pit falls down to bounce on the smooth road surface. There is a freedom to you that he only knows on the wind, when he calls for Anemo to lift him into the air and carry him where his whims desire.

He watches you play the game for a while, inexplicably irritated at the lack of your attention on him, before clearing his throat to alert you of his presence.

You turn to look at him in surprise, earning yourself the peach pit hitting your head as it comes down to announce the end of the current round. The children laugh at you as you stand up, excusing yourself from the game as nicely as possible. You pick your way through the group until you’re standing in front of him, a carefree smile on your face.

“Is this how you spend your time, doctor?” Wanderer asks, gesturing at the children behind you. “What if your patient needed supervision? Would you leave them alone in a room to fend for themselves?”

“I think most of my patients would not be up and about after having a building collapse on them,” you remark, still smiling. “I have treated gods and Adepti before, so I know when my patient will be alright on their own.”

He wonders, then, what kind of medical training you’d received under your master’s tutelage to have such a wide variety of patronage. It takes a second to realize what it is you’re not saying. He looks at you in mild surprise and points to his own chest, where several cracks in his body are just barely visible beneath the neckline of his haori.

You nod. “You must understand, I have extensive experience with treating people who do not have the, ah, typical human physique.” You gracefully avoid saying ‘inhuman’, which Wanderer thinks is impractical but he appreciates the discretion nonetheless. “So, that is to say, if you are ever in need of medical care in the future, I hope you know you can rely on me.”

Wanderer thinks about this for a bit. He knows it would be practical to have someone knowledgeable in repairing him, in the event he is unable to repair himself.

It would also, his mind whispers to him, allow him to become closer to you.

Before he can think too hard about it, he nods in agreement. It’s worth it to see the cheerful smile on your face.

[inkformyblood]

something sweet something new (CWFKB #15)

Fill for Tender kiss, obligatory coffee shop AU, modern setting @codywanfirstkissbingo

The bell above the door chimes and Obi-Wan swallows back a groan along with the scaldingly sweet dregs of his drink. The limited edition syrups wash over his palette with all of the subtlety of the line woven around the scant handful of tables, expectant eyes locking onto Obi-Wan. It isn’t too far away from how he watches Cody; a desperate clawing hunger that can only be blunted and never satiated, and Obi-Wan smiles at the next customer in the queue, an old ache beginning to burrow into his cheeks. 

“Welcome! What can I get for you?”

In the moments between, amongst the hissing rush of steam from the failing coffee machine and the whir of the grinder that makes its displeasure known each and every time it deigns to function, Obi-Wan watches Cody. His apron is neatly tied around his waist, the deep red of the festive accessories perfectly complimenting his dark eyes and hair, the golden wash of glitter streaked over his cheekbones, and his shirt has something emblazoned across it beneath his apron that Obi-Wan can just make out the shape of. A mug lands on the saucer in front of Obi-Wan, mismatched red to the delicate floral pattern emblazoned around the rim of the plate, and he blinks down at it, his thoughts disrupted and crashing into each other in one glorious pile-up. He has the large iced mocha already set to one side, just waiting the whipped cream and skin-staining sprinkles to adorn it, and the triple shot latte which barely passes muster but he knows the dead-eyed stare of the regular well enough by now and he can remember his own days as a student vividly so he doesn’t argue, so what is the newest concoction that Cody had delivered to him? He glances up, raising his brows at Cody in a silent question. 

“It’s for you,” Cody calls, grinning widely over at Obi-Wan and his heart stutters to an expectant stop in his chest, restarting when Obi-Wan coughs, a flush overtaking his face, and he looks away. Cody continues, unperturbed. “Let me know what you think.”

There isn’t much of a lull during the festive season, what would have been long stretches of time with minimal foot traffic and too many hours since his break and to quitting time at once are now disjointed and impossible to predict. The mug sits untouched until the current rush subsides, barely enough space to think let alone hide behind the bulk of the coffee machine to sip at the mug. It haunts him, however, the thought of it innocently huddled on the counterr, doing nothing more than existing but Obi-Wan is consumed by it. “Thank you!” Obi-Wan repeats, his grin verging on plastic, as artificial as the sweetness lingering over the back of his tongue and the canned music spilling from the speakers. It is a small mercy that it is a collection of instrumental tracks instead of the hit singles that would make his ears bleed by the second shift. 

Cody hums along with the music, punctuating the beat by tapping a pen against the top of the register. It is a heavyset machine, the buttons polished to high sheen, and the gentle hits from Cody reverberate dully beneath the offbeat tune. Obi-Wan drifts back to his usual spot and picks up the mug. It’s cooled somewhat but still has some warmth lingering so Obi-Wan sets his back against the counter as he picks it up, shielding himself from any potential customers who would wander in for the next couple of minutes. The drink is sweet, warmed through with spices and Obi-Wan groans into the mug, tipping his head back as he drains it. 

“Good?” Cody slides along the counter, picking up a cloth from the cleaning solution and beginning to wipe down the already clean wood. He’s a line of heat against Obi-Wan’s side, a blessing given the thin fabric of his shirt as he had discarded his jumper into the breakroom several hours ago. 

Obi-Wan nods, his teeth knocking against the edge of the mug as he does so. He licks his lips, chasing remnants of the drink. “Very. What is it?” 

“You know how we got that gingerbread syrup that tastes more like faintly sweet nothing?”

Obi-Wan nods, shifting to lean further into Cody.

“I made my own.” Cody shrugs, trying to downplay his creation, but there’s a flush over the tips of his ears and his gaze sneaks back to inspect the mug in Obi-Wan’s hands too many times to be pure coincidence. 

“You are a wonder, Cody.” 

The bell rings and they both lean out around the machine, relaxing back when they recognise a familiar face, Rex’s blonde hair mussed from the damp cap held in one hand as he knocks his boots clean. Rex snorts and Cody leans back out, the cloth balled up in his hand and ready to be thrown despite the deliberate casual lean against the clounter. “What’s funny?”

“You know you’re beneath mistletoe, right? Bad luck to break tradition.”

It doesn’t save him from the cloth thrown at his head and Rex ducks with a laugh. Cody rocks back onto his heels but Obi-Wan isn’t looking, tracking his movement out of the corner of his eye. Rex is right. The plant is innocuous, a cluster of pale berries amongst the dark green sweep of the leaves, all tied up above Obi-Wan and Cody with a neat red ribbon. 

“Fuck,” Cody sighs. He scrubs a hand through his curls, biting at the tip of his tongue. Obi-Wan waits, his heart in his throat, his mind empty, and Cody glances over at him. “Would– Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” 

Cody cups Obi-Wan’s jaw, drawing him down into a kiss. It’s everything Obi-Wan had hoped it would be and his hands fall to Cody’s waist, gathering his apron in the desperate press of his palms. It’s soft and sweet and Obi-Wan hums low in his throat, leaning closer. Breaking away, Cody leans back in and kisses Obi-Wan once more, his grin wide enough to hurt.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” Cody murmurs against Obi-Wan’s mouth. He rocks back on his heels and tugs the neck of his apron down to reveal a graphic of mistletoe inverted. “Started to feel a little desperate.”

“You’re welcome!” Rex calls and Cody curses at him as Obi-Wan folds into laughter, pressing his hands to his burning cheeks. 

[all-things-ghostly]

A Fate Worse Than Death? - Hatbox Ghost Crack Fic

So I know it’s been discussed before where Alistair went after he got banished into the green pit of doom at the end of the film and it gave me a goofy idea. I hope you all enjoy my ridiculousness

To avoid potential confusion:

Hatty = Ride version of Hatbox Ghost

Alistair = Movie version of Hatbox Ghost

The fireplace crackles gently in one of the Haunted Mansion’s many living rooms. This one was smaller than most of the others, and much quieter, which is why it was the Hatbox Ghost’s preferred room for hat-making. Right now, in fact, he sat slumped against the velvet couch while peacefully sewing the details onto his most recent creation.

His left arm, the one holding the hat while the right hand sewed, was hooked around you as you sat beside him. Well, you weren’t really sitting beside him. It was more like you were burying yourself under his large blue cape and sprawling out in a lazy cuddle against his body.

Not that he minded at all, though. He loved your presence.

An old gramophone played on the small table in the corner of the room, playing some old jazzy tune that Hatty hummed along to. The sound of his soft voice and the sheer comfort of the situation you were in was starting to make you tired, and you found yourself nodding off against his shoulder. That is, until you were rudely awakened by something being shoved onto your head.

“Hey! Hatty!” You complain, pushing yourself up to see what’s all the fuss. You notice that he’s put the hat over your head and is looking at you with a contemplative expression.

“Just making sure it fits~” he says in that smooth voice of his, tilting your head a few times to observe the different angles and get a feel for what adjustments he could make. Once he’s finished, he pats your cheek. “You know, you would make a good model.”

His compliment makes you a little bit giddy inside. It’s difficult to be mad at him, seeing how adorable he is when he gets all invested in his hobby. After Hatty goes back to sewing, he allows you to rest yourself against him once again.

“Goodness, Y/n. You do seem rather tired today, yes?” Hatty observes how you’ve nearly fallen asleep for the second time. “Did you not get enough sleep last night?”

You try to reply, but it just comes out as a garbled, unintelligible mess.

The ghost frowns, and hums in thought for a moment. Then, he cutely perks up as if he had a sudden lightbulb.

“I know what would make you feel better! Some warm tea and plenty of sweets. Come with me, darling. I can always finish this work later, you’re far more important to me.”

Hatty stands up and holds out a hand for you to take. You gladly oblige and he helps your sleepy self stand up, the two of you about to head into the kitchen.

Then, you pause. “Wait, Hatty. Do you hear something?”

You both stop walking and listen. It sounds like… someone screaming?

“Hm… how very peculiar,” he remarks, looking around to try and find the source of the noise. It sounds like it’s getting louder… and closer!

Suddenly, you notice what appears to be a small green hole in the ceiling. It grows wider and wider, and you soon recognize it to be some sort of strange, ethereal pit or portal. The screaming voice becomes much clearer and before you know it… somebody crash lands right into the mansion’s living room.

“Oh, dear!” Hatty exclaims, holding an arm out in front of you protectively and taking some steps back. The stranger groans in pain and attempts to pick themselves up on shaky limbs.

“HOLY SHIT!!” You yell. Hatty grabs his cane and holds it like a baseball bat while making an “intimidating” pouty face.

Then you get a closer look at the intruder, and become even more freaked out.

“HOLY SHIT!!!!!” You shout again, this time with far more terror. Hatty looks at you with shock and confusion, to which you lean in and frantically whisper something to him.

The same look of startled realization crosses his face, too.

“Good heavens! It’s me… but far uglier!”

The opposing ghost then snaps his head up in offense. It’s true—he looks a lot like the Hatbox Ghost himself, except grayer, gothier, and much more grumpy.

“Preposterous! There can only been one Alistair Crump, and I am certainly not ugly,” he snaps, crossing his arms like an angry toddler.

You and Hatty share an unconvinced look.

Then you both flock over to this “Alistair” and start examining him like he’s the first alien lifeform to ever land on Earth.

“Why are you so grey?”

“Goodness, look at those frown lines…”

“Talk about eye bags…”

“Pardon me, but when was the last time you’ve visited a dentist?”

“Wow, your bald spot is really prominent.”

“SILENCE!!” Alistair shouts, pushing both of you away and scurrying onto his feet. “I did not come here to be insulted, you insolent little—wait, bald spot?” He feels the top of his head. “My hat… where’s my hat?”

Hatty tilts his head, and then lights up with that cute grin of his again. He gets up off the ground and picks up the top hat he was just working on.

“Not to worry! You can have this one!” He chirps, and forces it down onto Alistair’s head.

Alistair does not look amused. “It has… so many flowers. I look hideous.”

“You really do. And not because of the hat,” Hatty cringes. Then he covers his mouth like he’s said something rude. “Er, my apologies. But really, sir… or, I guess, me… you look rather worn out. You know, we were about to have some tea. You should join us!”

“Absolutely not. I am not going to have tea with such imbeciles,” Alistair spits, but the next thing you know, both of his arms are getting grabbed by the merry bunch.

“No, really. We insist!”

The evil ghost struggles, but cannot seem to break free from your grasps.

“Let go of me! I have much more important things to do than participate in some… some ridiculous tea party!” He shouts, trying to pull himself free. But, he just ends up stumbling over his own feet and falling on his ass.

Hatty shakes his head and smirks. “My, are you grumpy. You know what you need? Cupcakes.”

And then, you and Hatty drag Alistair’s flailing body all the way to the kitchen, while he kicks and shouts and complains like a little child.

“You FOOLS! Unhand me immediately!! Why, I never… NOOOOOOOO!!!”

His cries are cut off when the kitchen door slams shut behind them.

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Thirteen]

Viktor x Fem!Reader---/Gothic AU/Haunted Sea---2.9K---SFW**

> MASTERLIST <- Previous // Next ->

Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: There are secrets everywhere: under the sea, in the cliffside, even in your husband's eyes. Perhaps it's time to start unraveling them.

Tags: Strangers to Lovers | Ghosts | Slow Burn | Dark Magic(?) | Some Lore | Mentions of Death and Blood | Attempted Murder (kinda) | Angst |

Taglist: @lunar-monster @local-mr-frog @bittercyder @blissfulip

Thirteen: Waterlogged Past

The waves crashed against the rock, amplified inside to make it sound like a furious beast. An alien, purplish glow bleed from the strange carvings along the humid cave’s walls, morphing your skin into an almost grey-like hue.

Your presence echoed with more reverb with each step you took forward, mind torn between staying away from the strange room in front of you and the pinch of curiosity nagging you to lean closer, to decipher whatever the rock and the sea tried to tell you.

There was no other breathing than yours, no other shadows outlined by the violet beacons dimming and shining in a rhythm similar to the waves that were lapping lazily against the pool carved in the middle of the chamber, whose small, round entrance made seem the water much deeper than it probably was.

Careful not to slip—you didn’t wish to discover the bottom of said aquatic maw—your hands touched the walls as you maneuvered against the circular bridge guiding you toward the end of the chamber, the rock vibrating under your fingertips, smooth and cold. Pulsating as a heart would, almost.

It hummed for you. And part of your foggy mind filled to the brim with grief, shock, and fatigue, considered, if only for a fleeting moment, that you recognized the tune; a melody faded just as the rock had surrendered against the merciless force of time.

You sighed once your feet touched the solid rock bottom of the cave, far away from the pool, the mist escaping from your lips ascending toward the cupule meters above.

It wasn't until then that your mind uttered a dark thought, pushing restlessly all the wonder and curiosity as the words chilled your bones: what if this chamber had been created for witchcraft practices?

What if all those songs were cursed, that the sigils themselves were a forbidden language that you just had willingly walked through? With the threshold broken, would another ghoul start chasing you here, too?

Hugging yourself, you quickly settled against a wall, looking around the circular space only to find it empty, still vibrating and singing, but devoid of life.

Nearby your newly discovered hiding place, the edge of your humid coat brushed another surface, and then you saw it. A group of amorph shadows formed a small mountain range against the bright cave walls.

Piles of books and papers over a rusty metal desk that looked almost crimson once you got close enough. Upon it were messy, blurry newspapers scattered all over the surface, half-rotten, with the pages crusty from the constant humidity of the place, all of them with the same printed font.

Piltover’s Bulletin.

It was a miracle they could survive at the touch of your fingers once you started separating them. Fragments of dates from two centuries ago, pictures of the once blooming town this coastal town was all molded and torn.

Still, some of the past remained in the sentences in which the ink hadn’t run too much.

Sudden hurricane destroys town. […] survivors moved […] ruins between the mud. […] lonely tower standing. […] bankrupt […] Stell family […] survivors. Tropical storm hits Piltover—the end of the mythical town? […] curse? Bad luck? […] displeasing by the offerings […] punishment […] New city called in honor to wipe out town.

Your eyes turned teary, head pounding as the trail of words started to mix one another, too enthralled to look away as the history was unraveling in front of you, despite how incomplete it would be.

Rebuilt of destroyed fishing town: Mayor of Piltover announces […] touristic as it once was […] Mermaid’s Museum […] repair the lighthouse's broken beacon and […] marvels at the gigantic waves […]

Mossy books of yellow pages covered some of the newspapers there, the golden lettering of the covers barely readable. You knew the words would fade under your touch if you ever dared to open them and scan their pages.

So you kept reading the newspapers, taking the books, and putting them aside.

Five Haunted Places You Shouldn’t Visit […] weeping cliff […] grey and rainy […] haunted manor […] the new owner […] dead […] What was Piltover, the ghost town? […] fishing […] Stell’s Canned Company investors […] quickly developing […] and now […] […] “magic” […] mermaids […] wishes […] […] turmoil awoken […] hunting […] mammals […] the museum’s biggest controversy […]

You knew which controversy they were talking about, your mind recalling the tag of the disappeared Mermaid hung on Viktor’s underground office. A century ago, at most, when biologists and other experts were trying to discover if the mermaid specimen was fake.

Many of them had traveled to Piltover the Old to do their own research, only to give up when all they got were an empty sea and rude locals.

But then were the ones who stayed, sending the specimen to the lab, only to find that the body had not been created by snitching different body parts. It wasn’t a made-up chimera. Then, what was it?

The runes on the wall chimed, you know very well what we are.

Only legends. You’ve heard your grandmother telling you the story a thousand times, words spilling from her tired lips and droopy eyes, yet compliant to sate the curiosity of a little child gently tucked in an old, creaky cot.

All started with a greedy fisherman, and all would end with one, too.

You took a step backward, wanting to forget every word you’ve engraved in your mind. All about monsters lurking beneath, every sarcastic, cruel remark outlined with poison from your aunt, the reminder of the ghost at the coast.

You can’t escape from your blood.

You can’t escape from this town. Married to a lie or not, it will disappear like a dream once the sun comes to bleed on the horizon.

The lights inside the cavern pulsated like a heart, from a faint pink to a bright purple passing through white. Salt and humidity seeped into the air, and it was as if you were inside the sea's heart.

“I need to get out of here,” you muttered, biting your lips at the possibility of the ghost advancing further down the coast to get you, hovering at the entrance of the cave.

Stay. Stay inside my heart. My sanctuary.

Behind you, the gentle swaying of the waves broke by a splash.

“Hello?” you said, like an idiot. It was a flicking shadow that created goosebumps up your arms.

A flicking, ghostly, white silhouette of a dorsal spine.

You felt droplets of sweat prickling your forehead, feeling like a cornered animal about to meet the slaughter.

Your steps backtracked until your back touched the wall, feeling a jolt of tingling electricity running down your body. “Ah!” You gasped, jumping away from the walls as the pool down rippled.

You couldn’t know what was worse, the unknown of this creature, or the known monstrosity of the ghost outside. Perhaps both were aiming for the same purpose.

To kill you.

And there was nothing to use as a weapon inside the cave. Without taking your gaze off the water, you looked around for anything that could be useful, but there were only books and papers and pens; the foot of the table was too strong still to try detaching it and use it as a pole.

Tears started falling, hands were all red from the rust.

From pulling, you fell against the ground, making the table collapse atop you.

“Please… please…” you muttered, voice broken and laced with exhaustion. “Please let me alone…”

Part of you wished to give up; what was the point of living like this? Tormented every night and every other day? Living a farse, chasing an impossible dream? You knew you could never fit in the city, it was too bustling and colorful for someone so drained of life, all blue and grey and black now that your soul had absorbed the essence of this sea, this damned sea.

Your prison. Your home. Your everything.

One of the legs of the table gave up with a squeak, the contents on the surface spilling everywhere, with some books sliding toward the descending pool.

From the rippling water, a white tail with purple hues splashed into the surface, pulling the books away.

Your scream left a copper aftertaste in your mouth.

Now I understand my mother, you thought, your frantic breathing becoming sobs that ripped out your heart. Why did she choose this way of ending her life—because there was no other way.

It felt suffocating, the salty air and the thick humidity, the dizzying light and the soft texture of the moss, the rippling of the water and the roaring of the sea outside, the lament of the cliff and the screams of your aunt, the horrifying apparitions.

You swung the table leg, making the thick air whistle with the movement. From all the legends, mermaids were as alluring as they were mortal, created so delicately like coral barriers, and just as ancient.

Perhaps it was its lair, perhaps it was a trap you��ve fallen into. Anyway, you were not going to give up so easily.

Getting near the edge of the rock, you gazed down at the pool of inky black water, where you felt something gazing back.

Your tears ran down your cheeks, dripping in solitary drops down the ocean water, all salty as if they had belonged to it since the beginning.

Stay. Stay inside my heart. My sanctuary. The runes sang.

A siren’s melody.

Was this the so-called melody? Conveying everything you wished to have.

Rolling to lay on your back, you looked at the ceiling as if it were a starry sky, a maniac smile splitting your face once the laughter started bubbling up your throat.

A whispery voice flowed inside the cavern like a lullaby.

“Get out and face me!” you screamed, sight blurred by tears, eyes getting close once your body has given up for today. “Take me now if that’s what you’re going to do! I’m done! I’m… I’m so scared. And so, so tired… Please…”

Stay. Stay inside my heart. My sanctuary.

Stay. Stay inside my heart. My sanctuary.

The song filled you in and out; warming the void you had for heart. It felt familiar, like the way a blanket would cover you once the rain came, the company of another body reassuring you that everything would be alright, no matter what.

My sanctuary. My sanctuary. My sanctuary. My sanctuary. Our sanctuary.

Our sanctuary. Don’t you remember?

A dream built in silver grey and pale blue; the storm covering the trails of sunshine midwinter. Here, the water wasn’t bottomless black, but instead a murky green, algae swept in gentle sways.

Yet, you kept on wading. Swimming. But the coast was nowhere to be found, water conquering the horizon where the silver of the sky dipped in green. A loop carved in agony, the cold gnawing at your limbs until the ache was but a numb ghost breathing in the shell of your ear.

A familiar, feminine voice carried by the wind, coming from somewhere on the horizon.

“Please don’t do this! Please!”

Frowning, your arms cut through the water, the sound growing with each wade, the wish to give up at the sight of your fingertips turning blue.

Your lungs burned, hot pants rising and quickly lost against the pale sky and the tide that grew restless, furious. From murky green to unmistakable brown.

“You don’t have to obey him! Please, have mercy!”

It was the sudden brush of something against your leg, hollow and smooth—no, not hollow, bloated.

Bodies. Bilis raised in your throat, eyes tearing as you made your wave toward the coast.

Between the muddy water, you started to see fragments of rubble floating aimlessly. Wood and branches scratching your body with the crescent waves, torn cloth starting to submerge to be lost forever in the abyss.

Over the horizon, the grey got interrupted by the irregular edge of a cliff; black with mud coming from the nearby forest, white and pink where the rock had given up against the water.

Not any cliff—it was the cliff, with the steps newly carved into the stone, the hill much shorter now that the beach was covered in water, half the steps drowned, covered in death and decay. But the lighthouse remained, brightly painted with red and white. Though you were sure the multiple clutter of marks scratched on the rock wasn't.

You advanced toward the cliff wishing to reach your resting destination, your eyes caught a glimpse of the emptiness in front of the lighthouse.

There where the house once stood was only a hole in the ground.

A grave.

As on cue, the cries of the cliff started, much closer and solid like a heartbreak, a reminiscence of those screamed by your aunt at the funeral of your uncle. Cries death had planted behind its reaping.

Once you reached the rock, your nails scratched the mud off the slippery surface, trying to find a purchase to leap out of the freezing water.

Someone was atop the cliff.

“Vik…tor?” you said, voice hoarse.

It wasn't him, the sound of the wet dress was all too familiar, too dreaded.

“Look what have you done, stupid girl,” the ghostly woman said, leaning forward to settle her face right in front of you, taking in the rotten pale flesh covered with barnacles and algae, eyes replaced by holes, a smile too wide there where her lips had disappeared once devoured by fish. "It'll be better once all this ends with you.”

She lifted her hunting knife, guilt, and horror knotted in your stomach like an anchor that kept you in place.

“Pl-please…” you tried to utter.

The woman sneered. “There is no mercy for monsters like you.”

The metal sang on its descent toward your throat, yet the burning sensation of your blood dripping out never came.

Wet tendrils of the monster conjured by your aunt tugged at your ankles still covered in water. They scratched you against the rock and the surface of the sand when started getting down toward the depths.

The woman shrieked; her knife covered with a streak of crimson. Had she hurt you?

From under the water, a pair of eyes shone.

Once and again and again, calling your name.

“Miss! Miss! Please wake up!”

Your eyes opened, and a flash of blinding sunlight hit your face. Groaning, your hands covered your eyes, the smell of salt and humidity overwhelming. Pulling away, you noticed the red tips of your now uneven fingernails.

Horrified, you felt your hair tangled with the motions of the waves, the soft sand curving under to mold your body.

“Miss! Miss! Oh, thanks the heavens!” Viktor pressed your shoulders, his golden eyes two additional suns shining upon you. His thick eyebrows furrowed, gaze softening in relief once you looked back at him. “Are you feeling alright? Do you need something? I should've brought you some water—"

“Viktor?” you muttered, dirty hands reaching to cup his face, feeling the outline of his cheekbones. “Is this real?”

He smiled, the corner of his lips brushing your fingers.

“Yes. I assure you.” His warm digits intertwined with yours, pulling them away to draw soothing circles over your knuckles. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

With one hand, he helped you sit, brushing the soaked hair off your forehead.

“What happened?” you said, holding onto his arms. “Where… where is the cave?”

“The cave?” He asked, eyes wide open.

You pointed your finger toward the side of the cliff. “There! There’s a hole there that conducts to a cavern.” Tugging at his shirt all wet and wrinkly, you tried to get on your wobbly feet. “I’ll show you. Let’s go!”

“You should rest,” Viktor muttered. “I believe you hit your head with a rock when you were walking along the beach.”

“No, no, n-no… I saw it! I promise I saw it! There was a woman…” You gasped, trembling from both your soaked clothes and the terror running down your spine. “A woman… my mom?” Thick saliva was painful to swallow. “My mother tried to kill me.”

Viktor looked horrified and confused, his naturally pale skin even more drained of color. “What?” His hands palmed down the length of your arms, looking for any signs of injury besides your broken nails. “Let me get you to the hospital.”

You stopped, brushing his hands away. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“No, it’s not that…” Viktor started, his voice fading while the words he tried to say escaped his mind. Finally, he sighed. “I… I think we committed a mistake.”

“What?” Your heartbeat picked up, almost at the edge of falling. “What do you mean?”

Viktor looked away, to where his luggage lay over the sand.

“I… I think I shouldn’t have gotten you inside this whole…ruse.” I shouldn’t have married you, hung in the silence between you.

You felt cold, seeking his gaze and finding only the sun starting to be born again.

What to say? When it was all but real, you weren’t even sure if you had the right to seek an explanation, much less of complaining.

“Do you regret it, then?” you whispered, trying to conceal the hurt in your tone.

With a knot in your throat, you took in the scenery of the beach around you, so similar and at the same time so strange from the one of the dream. Part of you couldn't stop thinking if those ruins and bodies still lay somewhere in the marine soil and if their souls were the ones lamenting at night.

“I do.”

What to believe when everything had become a nightmare?

“I regret it, too,” you said, seeking only to deliver an ounce of your pity revenge.

Armed by the overwhelming feelings about to tip over the edge of your control, you seized your hands in fists and stood up; ignoring the burning sensation of your feet with each step you took.

Viktor called your name as you started climbing toward the lighthouse, no ‘Miss’, detached for any overthought, distancing politeness.

But you keep on climbing because you know you will rectify your lie as soon as you look back.

Perhaps you’ve caught the dark hue in his golden eyes then.

[arvensimp]

Hi! I've been reading your fics about Arven and you just make me fall in love with him harder than I am in. You write so beautifuly I really envy you! Very good job, this is my first request, and I hope I don't bother you with it. I love music, and I like to sing a lot, I imagine my MC who also loves singing and music with a beautiful voice, I would like to request a fic with a reader (can be gender neutral) singing to comfort Arven because he is sad, with Masbostiff joining them. (Both have a established relationship and around 20-22 years old)

Thank you!

Hello! You've come to the right place for this one lolol my masters degree is in voice performance and i've literally sung opera in different continents for the last several years.

-

That Funny Feeling

Arven x singer!reader, fluff and comfort, no genedered pronouns are used for the reader

--

Growing up in an empty house as he did, Arven never really listened to music. Sure, he's heard some of the top 40s hits that play over the radio in shops and stores over the years, and he's heard songs that students used to play in the halls when he went to the academy. Thing is, he wasn't exposed to music as a kid, so he didn't really ever seek it out as he gained autonomy.

When he started traveling with you after graduation, it was the first time you both had started spending significant amounts of time together. Sure you'd been casually dating, but you were both busy with your respective pursuits. Your time together was usually spent eating, holding hands, maybe watching a movie, cuddling, and doing other typical, couple-y things. You didn't have time to just exist with one another, which is part of what made now so special.

Because of that, Arven is a little gobsmacked to hear you one evening as you sit with your recently caught tinkatink, singing softly as you brush through her hair.

It's nothing special or over the top, you're just singing something gentle and calming, trying to lull your new pokemon into a comfortable state as you build your relationship with her, but Arven is utterly enamored. Truth be told, he feels almost voyeuristic listening in on the two of you, but he can't bring himself to move away.

When you're done with tinkatink, you move onto your scream tail who receives a similar treatment of a brushing with its bath, but this time the tune is more jovial, and Arven swears he thinks the scream tail is trying to sing along with you, though its voice isn't nearly as relaxing or sweet as a modern day jigglypuff's (or yours, he thinks).

Arven doesn't say anything that night because, truth be told, he isn't quite sure what he can, could, or should say. Do people usually sing like that? Is that a normal thing? Is complimenting you on your singing a normal thing to do, even?

As it turns out, you sing to your pokemon fairly frequently. Skeledirge often joins in with you in low, brassy tones, adding a bizarrely haunting quality to whatever it is you sing. Sometimes, 'Raidon curls up behind you, making you a nice little throne from which you sit as you sing to your pokemon during their mini grooming sessions between baths.

Arven never really joins in, but he silently loves the concerts. He starts to learn some of the tunes and words; he finds himself humming along to you sometimes. When he's alone, he even whistles one once. He didn't even realize he could do that! Sure, it was probably discordant and the wrong key (whatever that means...) but he whistled!

The two of you are walking through Socarrat Trail one day when the urge to sing strikes you, so you just...let'er rip. It's a folksy tune, perfect for crispy cool days on mountain trails, and your voice echos among the stones in an entertaining way.

You're not screaming or anything, but you're singing loudly enough for the wild pokemon to take notice. They turn, and the sudowoodo have the sense to high tail it immediately, as they would anyway. A few toedscool also seem to sense danger in the noise and decide to run away on floppy looking legs. For the most part, the other pokemon seem not to care much. Once they see that the source of the noise isn't trying to make a run at them, they go back to ignoring you.

Arven though? Arven has stopped in his tracks, eyeing you like you've just set off a bomb in the woods.

"What are you doing?!" He hisses.

"Singing?" You reply with a laugh. "I don't see a problem with it. It's not like we're bothering anyone. No other people are around, and the pokemon would've been disturbed by us, regardless."

"Y-Yeah, but... It feels wrong..."

You flush a bit, feeling embarrassed suddenly. "Oh... Sorry. I'll, uh. Stop, then." You imagine Arven wouldn't shush you like that unless the singing was bad, right? Oof, that's a faux-pas.

You spend the rest of the walk in silence.

Arven for his part, feels bad for being the one to silence you, but he isn't quite sure why. Like, you shouldn't sing in public, right? That's weird, right? Sure the song was great, and your voice is lovely, but... But that wasn't...wasn't normal, right?

Fuck, and now you're being quiet, and he isn't quite sure what to make of that, so he stays quiet, too.

That evening, Arven is eventually the one to suggest you both stop to have dinner and set up camp for the night. You only nod to his suggestion and get started on setting everything up for yourself and your pokemon. He gets started on dinner as you work on the tent and getting everyone cleaned and healed up from the day's battles.

Your pokemon, of course, notice the change in you, sensing that you're much more down than usual. Both tinkatuff (no longer tinkatink!) and scream tail both try to cajole you into a song, and skeledirge also chirrs lowly, but you quietly hush them, watching Arven's back carefully. You'd rather not embarrass yourself further by singing in front of him anymore. It hurts to think that he doesn't like your singing voice, but...well you think you like him more than you like singing.

As it turns out, Arven's pokemon also pick up on the difference, too, and Mabosstiff is quickly by your side, snuffling against your hands and side in an effort to get you to interact with him.

"Hey, bud..." You whisper to him softly, petting his sides. Mabosstiff boofs loudly twice, and you try to hush him some. "Hey... Let's be quiet for now, yeah?" Instead, Mabosstiff doubles down, baying like a smeargle. You wince and look to Arven, but he doesn't seem to mind the noise the pokemon are making. You smile and ruffle Mabosstiff's fur as he keeps singing, then you return to setting the tent up.

Like clockwork, Arven has dinner on the table as you're finishing up with the other preparations. You wait for him to finish filling the pokemons' bowls and for him to sit down at the table with you before you start eating.

It's delicious, as always, and you want to tell him as much, but you just don't have it in you to break the silence after so long.

So, Arven does.

"I... Uh, I think I messed up."

You give him a confused look, and with a mouth half full (covered by a hand, of course!) you say. "The food tastes fine?"

Arven groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, no. I mean, thanks, but no. I..." He sighs. "Did...Did I mess up? Or, like? Hurt your feelings or something today? I didn't mean to."

"Oh!" You look back down to your food. "Uh... I mean... I guess? You didn't mean to, but yes? It's okay though. I'm sorry you didn't like my singing. I feel bad, you know? Like it must have been really grating these last few weeks--"

"What?" He interrupts. "N-No! That's not it at all! I love your voice! It's beautiful! Like you! I-I mean. Uh..." He goes red. "I really like your voice. A lot. I...I just...well, I wasn't expecting for you to break out into song in the woods today. It caught me off guard, and...I dunno. It seemed weird?"

You bristle. "Weird?"

Arven winces. "I-I dunno! I just...wasn't expecting it, and...I dunno. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and... I dunno, it was...sad...today...without the sound of your voice..."

You feel your face heat up at his confession. "So you don't mind when I sing to the pokemon?"

"No! I really like it. I...I didn't get to listen to a lot of music as a kid, so this probably doesn't mean anything, but... You're my favorite singer ever."

So singing becomes a welcome nightly ritual, not just one that Arven feels he can observe from afar. He's never quite comfortable enough to join in with you, save for maybe humming along softly with something he knows particularly well, but you don't force the subject with him. Singing is an incredibly personal thing, after all.

Arven and you have to spend a week or so apart not long afterward. You've been called away on League duties, and he decides to busy himself with some post-graduate study at the academy with Saguaro. When you meet back up at the lighthouse on Poco Path, you can immediately tell something's wrong.

After graduating, Arven turned the old lab into a makeshift apartment for himself between journeys, and he usually keeps the place as spotless as his old dorm. Currently though, the shutters are all closed with no natural light getting in, and the usual smells of deliciously cooking food are nowhere to be found. You find Arven curled up on the sofa, Mabosstiff whimpering at his side.

"Hey...What's going on?"

"Hey...Just uh..." It's clear from the sound of his voice that he'd either been crying or is actively holding back tears. "Found some stuff...from the professor..." By the way he says it, you know he means his parent. He gestures to a notebook, left open face down on the coffee table.

You sit down next to your boyfriend, pick up the book, and scan the page. It seems Arven found a passage written about him...about how one of his parents had walked out on the other not long after he was born... He was referred to as "the boy" the whole passage... Just reading it makes your blood boil. You click your tongue disapprovingly, and Arven hiccups a silent sob.

You put an arm around him, coaxing his head into your lap. "Shh..."

"I...I must've done s-something wrong...right?"

You run your fingers through his hair, pushing away that one tuftthat's forever blocking off half of his face. "Absolutely not," You soothe in soft tones. "You were only a baby... You couldn't have done a thing... They were both just...bitter people..."

"No... No, don't say that..." He says, turning a bit into your top.

"I'm sorry... But none of this was your fault, okay?"

He nods against you, digging his fingers into your side.

You keep petting his head, doing your best in the moment to soothe his aching heart. Mabosstiff similarly stretches out, putting more of his weight onto Arven, assuring him of his presence.

There as you sit in the quiet, with Arven trying to steady his breathing and swallow down the lump in his throat, you start to sing. It's hushed, like a lullaby, but with a melancholic longing. There's catharsis in singing music like this through a broken heart. Arven lets his tears fall silently as you sing to him. Between the sound of you, your touch in his hair, and Mabosstiff's weight on him, he stays tethered to the earth, present and safe and loved.

[casp1an-sea]

Darling Requiem Part 1

TW: STALKING AND BLOOD

This is a Horror Romance Story, for my TWST fans out there Judas is inspired by Rook Hunt. Key word is inspired by, he is not Rook!

—————————————————————————

- Supernatural, horror, stalker romance-

Chapter 1:

Boy in the rain

-On the night of the moon-

Boots on pavement. Heavy breaths. Running… running… running. I stop and scan the area around me. The harvest moon’s haunting glow illuminates the sidewalks over the tops of dying trees and closed local shops. My leg is wet. Maybe it was from a puddle I accidentally trampled in? I reached down to wipe the wetness away, but winced in pain when my fingers collided with my clammy skin. Blood. Right. I had cut my leg on broken glass. In the urgency of the situation, I forgot about my own injury. Standing here was doing nothing. I needed to get my senses about myself again. I stepped to the right, pressing my back against the cold brick on the side of an old barbershop. Shielding myself from view, if anyone passed by.

I took a deep breath and whispered, “ OK where are you? Why are you here and what’s going on? Let’s figure this out.” I thought for a moment on how to answer my own questions. My memories were foggy, as if something was holding them back. I remember the tree. A crooked tree behind the school, and a figure looming over me. A Familiar figure. A neighbor? No, a friend. a boy I met at school. I had known him. He was nice, he was… I was… I suddenly remembered something. I had been running from him. Images flashed into my mind, my body lying limp on the crook in the tree, his face looking over mine, a wicked twisted smile plastered from one ear to the other. His looks, almost inhuman. Quickly, I reached for my neck, hitting my elbow against the brick wall in the process, causing my arm to seize up a moment. Once the pain subsided, I brushed my fingers across the side of my throat. If I felt any pain, I was too absorbed in my own thoughts to notice. I pulled my fingers away. I could feel my hand shaking. A dark liquid remained on my fingertips, dripping slowly down into my palm...

-A week Prior-

I sat outside the school on the front steps, looking out into the early morning. “Hi Fabian!” Various friends and acquaintances shouted past as they walked indoors. “Hi!” I said back with false enthusiasm. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to speak to them or that I was in a bad mood, but I had this weird feeling. I just wanted some silence. Which was odd for me but nonetheless, I was happy. Music quietly played through my earbuds, making me feel as if it was a soundtrack to my own personal movie. People passed by, but avoided my spot on the steps, so as not to trip over my things. 

Lunch would be ending soon, but that was OK. I wanted to keep looking at the gray placid sky. It looked as if it could break open any moment. I felt a raindrop on my shoulder. I looked at where it had landed. “It's sprinkling.” I said to no one in particular. I checked the time on my phone. 12:38, that meant I had three minutes left before the bell would ring for my second hour of broadcasting. I looked up and saw something in the distance. A tall lanky boy stood out in the field in front of the school. The rain had gotten considerably heavier now, but I was mostly covered by a metal awning. However, this guy was clearly getting soaked. He danced in circles, smiling and laughing. I could even hear him humming a faint tune despite the heavy downpour he was in the middle of. I stood up, squinting, trying to make out his features, but I couldn’t recognize him.

“That’s odd” I thought. Our school and town for that matter was very close knit and small. It was rare I would find someone I didn’t recognize, and even more rare that someone new would come along. I kept watching him. He was captivating for some reason. His smile just seemed so… so giddy. I felt my mouth open to call out to him, but I stopped myself before any sound came out. Why did I want to speak to this stranger? Lightning flashed overhead, jolting me out of my thoughts.

“Hey, you come inside young man!” I was quickly startled by the administrator's voice. For a moment I thought he was speaking to me, but then I realized he was yelling to the boy in the field, who turned quickly, waved at the both of us, and calmly walked to the front of the school.

“My deepest apologies, seems as though I got carried away.” he smiled as he spoke, nodded to the administrator with respect and walked by with an arrogant yet charming confidence to him. His clothing was soaked, and his chin length black hair was plastered to his cheeks and forehead. Making him seem a bit goofy to be acting in such a manner. He turned to me and Suddenly with an air of friendliness, said. “ I saw you watching me. If you wanted to come dance you could’ve joined.” 

“dance? Oh yeah, right… is that what you were doing?” I answered awkwardly. His eyes were kind and welcoming. They were an odd unique color I had never seen in someone’s gaze before. A misty gray that matched the Hue of the stormy sky. He tilted his head and began laughing.

“Huh? What’s so funny?” I exclaimed, startled.

“You’re staring.”

“I am?! Oh sorry! I just have never seen you before.”

“It’s alright no harm done.”

“Both of you get inside and get to class!” The administrator called exasperated.

“Oh right, the bell did ring, didn’t it?” I said as I checked my phone for the time. 12:41, It had just rung.

“We’ll be fine there’s still five minutes before the tardy bell,” He assured me as he placed his cold wet hand on my shoulder. “Let us head inside. Though I would still enjoy chatting out here with you, I wouldn’t want to upset the faculty on my first day.”

“First day? Oh that explains it.” I noticed him glance at my ID and I quickly moved my jacket over it, as to hide my dead name. “Fabian! It’s Fabian!”

“Oh my apologies, force of habit. What are your pronouns?”

“He/him. Well actually also Ey/Em/Eir/Eirs/Emself, but no one actually remembers to use that.”

“Oh. Do you have a preference then?”

“Uhm no not really, I actually have two preferred names though so you can also call me Frey if you want to. Again no preference.” I looked down, I always found explaining my two names to be awkward and irrationally feared judgment. I quickly changed the subject to mask my discomfort. “What about you?” I asked him, doubts raced through my head… 

“Was my introduction awkward?”

 “It felt awkward…” 

“OH NO IT WAS AWKWARD!”

 “What if he thinks I’m too complicated?”

 “Would it be weird to tell him my gender?”

 “Probably but I don’t wanna be perceived as feminine or gender neutral.”

 “What should I do?”

 “Gosh, why can’t I stop looking at him?”

 “His hand is kind of cold…”

“My name is Judas. He/him pronouns, but I really don’t mind what you use. As you know I am a new student so perhaps you could help me. Do you know where room 315 is?” The number caught my attention. That was the number of the broadcasting room.

I internally sighed with relief though the discomfort had not yet completely faded. “I actually do! That's where I’m heading right now. Broadcasting?”

“Uhm,” He pulled out his schedule to check. “Yes it seems so. What a lovely coincidence.”

“Well In that case follow me.” I walked briskly down the hallway, which was less crowded than usual, as it was later than the time I normally went to class. I took a sharp turn down a short hallway connecting the two main halls and pointed to the first door which was wide open showing a dimly lit computer lab inside. “Come on in,” I told him as I walked through the door.

“It’s Fabian! My best friend Ivy shouted in their overly dramatic way as she saw me enter the room.

“Oh so you leave us friday and you decide to show up late today?” Harper said sarcastically as she filled in a coloring sheet on the recording table. I raised my eyebrows at her and set my bags down as the bell rang.

“Pretty sure that means I’m not late bro.” I nodded towards the hall where the bell was ringing.

“If you get here after Klark you’re late.” She nodded to Klark who was busy doing something on his computer and didn’t even hear his name.

“Okay whatever, I would like you guys to meet Jud-'' My voice trailed off as I turned and saw he was nowhere to be seen.

[impawsiblecat]

100 Days of Deathduo!

Day 7- Reverse Phasmo AU chapter 4

Tw: Ghost Violence, Phasmophobia activities that may or may not involve death, horror and suspense

    The breaker is… not off, surprisingly. Which is great, because Clover is gonna have to clean the entryway at the bottom of the stairs, which is closer to the ghost’s room than she has been before. She can only deal with so much in one day. And now she is warm and toasty and able to actually turn a light on in the house so that she can clean it up. 

    The entrance to the house is charming, with an old grandfather clock and a bookshelf with board games piled on it. She starts on the dusty floor with the creaky wood, and she sweeps the dust and dirt away. The pile she has made from sweeping looks like she had dumped a vacuum out, and she is surprised that it hasn’t completely blown everywhere. She has a feeling that if the ghost was in the room with her, they would scatter it again. As it is, she is able to move it into a dustpan, and then one of the trashbags she had brought with her. She has already filled three of them, whether it be with trash, old paper, or the filled jars of pickles left on the counter. It’s possible they would have been good, but Clover wasn’t gonna take that chance. What if the ghost poisoned them, or something?

    It’s unlikely, but not impossible. Clover didn’t even think ghosts existed before this week. Maybe they have vendettas against pickles.

    She mops the floor next, and it looks almost as good as new if it weren’t for the dusty bookshelf, old grandfather clock, entranceway chair, or the rusting heater. She is only halfway sure that works, considering the house is still pretty cold even with the power on. Luckily, Clover had learned very quickly that the power staying on was not a sure thing, and had brought a coat accordingly.

    She wipes down the clock next, and jumps when it makes a loud sound and starts ticking again, and for some reason it makes Clover much more scared than she was before. She tries to ignore it and focus on the satisfaction that comes with having another part of the house being done. If it weren’t for the ghost, she can imagine the clock sounding warm, filling the silence, but it instead feels like a timer. She hopes that the children who had lived here before had never felt the fear that it seems to be bringing her.

    Clover moves to the bookshelf. Ignoring the clock would make it fade into background noise as her brain adapted to the noise.

    The bookshelf has more pictures on it, as well as the board games she had seen earlier. Her eyes catch on a music box, one that she had seen before but never really had the time to look at between cleaning the other rooms and dealing with the ghost. It most likely belonged to one of the kids, and it has a tiny red cow in it, one that has mushrooms growing out of their back. It’s cute, and Clover reaches towards it to clean it off. She wipes the dust off of it, and looks at the handle on the side. 

    She turns it, and a beautiful, haunting melody pours out. The cow dances inside, and she can hear the ghost upstairs humming along, but it doesn’t scare her as the cow dances along to the ghost’s tune, the grandfather clock ticking out the rhythm. The melody is sad, like a cry for help, or a cry of warning, but a soft cry. Clover feels like she is entranced by the music and she doesn’t move as she watches the cow spin round, and round, and round.

    And then the lid slams shut, and the ghost upstairs cries, and Clover jolts out of the trance the music had left her in. Her arms prickle at the sound, and she hears the ghost upstairs, bolting across the room they have been in, running along the floorboards. She quickly scrambles to the door, gripping the closed music box hard enough in her hand that the corners are painful, and she reaches for the handle of the door.

    It’s locked. It is locked and she can hear the thumps of items being thrown upstairs, the ghost still running, and she keeps trying to open the locked door. The ghost sounds like they have left the room, and are getting to the top of the stairs, and Clover watches them blink in and out of existence, moving slower than they were before. They haven’t noticed her yet, but she watches as their head turns, and she shivers when they meet her gaze and start to come down the stairs. They come slowly, steadily, as if they are toying with her, like they know she can’t escape, and all Clover can do is desperately try to get out. 

    Her heart is pounding, and it feels like it is going to beat out of her chest, and the ghost is almost to her now. She squeezes her eyes shut, and can distantly feel tears running down her face as she hears the cries of the ghost, the footprints coming closer and closer. An unnatural chill comes towards her, and she can sense a chill directly next to her, and she feels freezing fingertips dance across her skin.

    She can no longer feel the music box in her hand, and she opens her eyes, the uncertainty of what has happened overpowering the urge to keep the shut. The ghost is there, holding the music box, looking at it with such sad eyes, and then the ghost looks at Clover, . They stare for a few seconds, and then blink, and then disappear.

    All of the lights in the house shut off instantly, and the handle that Clover was grasping onto suddenly gives with the force she is clinging onto it with, causing the door to swing outwards and send her falling to the ground. All Clover can do is lay there in a daze and wonder what happened. She looks at the unfinished entryway and decides to go home. That was enough renovation for today.

[spiriteddreams]

the fallacy of dreaming ft. xiao :) — and when you go, take this heart. i’ll make no more use of it when there’s no more you cw: angst, implied character death, emotions a/n: shoutout to @k-zu for helping me!!

when he sees you, it’s in a dream. xiao knows it’s not real, knows this is just a selfish desire and yet he chooses to believe. he indulges in a false sense of security that lulls his mind into peace as he watches your lips move to form sweet words. he can hear them too, which scares him so deeply. it scares him so much and yet he refuses to pull himself back towards consciousness. a few more minutes won’t hurt, right?

your fingers feel warm against his skin, such a gentle touch that’s so full of love that he’s afraid it might burn and leave a mark. but he leans into your palm as you cup his cheeks, fingertips tracing along his chin, up his cheeks, along his forehead until you leave a kiss at the top of his head. his hands find their place at your waist, tugging you closer as you hum an old melody.

he hasn’t heard it in so long, this melody. it’s an ancient tune, birthed from a zither now locked away with his most treasured items. it is calm yet powerful, and it washes over him like the crystal waters of the highest liyue mountains. he can feel the warmth emanating from your body as you cave into his touch. hands move down from his face to his shoulders, down to his arms until you’re intertwining your hands. and xiao hates that he can feel everything in this moment. he can feel your touch, so gentle, so fleeting he could flinch. but he’s so drawn in and captivated by the sight, by the scent, by the touch of you. it’s just, you. 

“you look so upset, is everything alright?” it hurts to hear your voice so concerned. you don’t know, do you? you’re caught in a dream, a cruel trick of his imagination that has come back to haunt him. is this a result of his karmic debt? is it watching him suffer in a silence that he knows he can’t pull himself out of? this is why he hates sleeping. this is why he hates the idea of dreaming. to dream, as an adeptus, is cruel. it is to dangle what has been lost in front of his eyes and pretend that the reality he has lived in for thousands of years is nothing but a joke. to dream is to wish and live inside memories that can’t quite be forgotten, luring him deeper and deeper into his subconsciousness that he’s afraid he won’t wake.

but if he doesn’t wake, then the dream won’t end. if he doesn’t wake, then you will still be there with him, alive and warm and loving and with him. but xiao is one of loyalty. he is driven by loyalty to an archon who freed him from the grasp of a cruel god and offered him a new chance, a new family, a new life. he is thankful to his friends and family that surrounded him during the height of the archon war until the very end until they too, were washed away by memory. he is bound to liyue, to protecting those who are, and should be, blissfully ignorant of the darkness that lingers in the word. but above all he feels forever indebted to you, who showed him what it meant to be in love, to abandon his mask and weapon at the door and fall into a comforting embrace. he is loyal to you, who asked, in your final days, as blood stained his skin and your voice began to falter, to not hold on too tight to grief. 

you had told him, “remember me, but don’t linger. no matter how long i am gone, i will always be with you, here.” you tapped his chest, right above his heart. “liyue will change, and so will you, so do not become caught up in a past that is ready to be laid to rest. you’ll be okay.”

but will he be? you look and feel so real and it hurts because he is in a dream. you are not real. the words you are saying to him at this moment are not real. your touch is not real. your embrace is not real. you are not real and xiao hates that.

“i love you.” he whispers, as if scared that the words themselves might shatter everything. you are silent, and he feels his chest thundering. he wants to hear the words back, wants to hear them from your lips, in your voice, with those eyes and all the adoration you hold for him embedded in those three little words. but you are silent, unnervingly so. you turn your head to look at him and there are apologies in your eyes. apologies for words unsaid, for promises unkept, for a love left behind. instead, you smile, so warm, so understanding, so loving. but xiao wakes.

and you’re gone. 

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 a/n: *spirit, in a good mood* omg let's finish that xiao angst

[kai-anderson-whore]

I was all over her (kyle Spencer x fem reader)

Summary: you met kyle at a frat party before he had died when you brought him to misty day to help him get better whilst listening to stevie nicks till he falls asleep.

Warnings: none

A/n: first part is based on the so0ng I was all over her by salvia palth

Kyle couldn't really remember what happened before the accident where he died, when he was reborn, that was until he found you again.

A memory came flooding back to him of that night, he didn't know what he wanted, back at the party, but he was all over her.

He remembered vividly that you both didn't make out or anything of that sort, he just remembered he was lonely, he was always it wasnt a problem to him, you were too.

Both engaging in a conversation at that party, he remembered how you constantly had to pull your dress down every two seconds, the way you smiled, he couldn't forget that.

Kyle would remember that stranger making him feel safe, you seeming more beautiful then he remembered, you had brought him to misty day to help you look after him.

Make him feel like old Kyle again, that was your top priority right now, the boy you met at that frat party, wasn't who you had remembered, but you knew the old Kyle was in there somewhere.

Staying in misty's place for as long as it took, which you didn't mind as your were a stevie nicks fanatic like her, singing along to her songs, 'I will run to you' playing as you laid beside Kyle.

He looked deep into your eyes, he was trying to figure out why you were looking at him like that, he always thought you were beautiful, the most stunning person he had ever seen.

You talked to Kyle even if he couldn't talk back but, it was like a baby you talk to them in order for them to develop their language skills.

"You know Kyle I remember that party we first met" you sighed smiling recalling the happy time in your life.

"You were shy, I was bold, opposites but we clicked" you go on to say.

Kyle just stared at you, unable to speak, "you we're all over me in a respectful way that's what I liked about you, you respected people scared incase you went too far" you said

"Hey" misty coming back from getting her things in the swamp, "Hey" you smiled lifting yourself up on your elbows, "hi" you smiled at the witch.

"You got stevie on" she smiled hearing stable on bond play from her the wild heart album, "Yeah one of my favourites was on, also once the record is finished can you play the belladonna album?" You asked misty nodded.

"Of course darlin as long as stevie nicks is singing I'm happy" she smiled plopping down beside you, "misty" you mumbled you eyes now on Kyle, as he now stared at the ceiling.

"Yeah" she hummed before getting back up to change the record, plopping back down on the bed, belladonna playing, "will he remember one day?" You asked a hand on Kyle's cheek, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

"Yeah hopefully but you will need to teach him" she explained "you really do like him don't" misty always saw the way you looked at Kyle, your eyes glimmering, pupils dilated like you were on a drug.

"Yes but I'm scared he won't remember who I am, I feel like he does but since he can't communicate it's hard on him which leads him to have a fit" you sighed.

"Ooh my Belladonna" misty sang along to the song, you humming the tune, your fingertips twirling Kyle's blonde hair between them, he scooted closer to you, so he was laying on your chest.

'Well it's a sign he's comfortable around me' you thought, his arm now wrapping around your waist, you kept on stroking his hair, his eyes growing heavy, as you lulled him to sleep.

"Temptation falls in your path" you and misty hummed to the next song your all time fav stevie nicks song 'kind of woman' "no hesitation why you ask" you continued to softly sing to Kyle.

"You have another waiting at home"

"And yes she matters to you kind of woman that will haunt you"

"She matters to you" misty continued to sing along, swaying around the room with her shawl swinging behind her shoulders.

Kyle's light snores as he slept on your chest, his breathing steady, you studied his features, wondering if he will fully remember, you made it you life mission to get the boy you fell in love with back.

One way or another.

[nocturnalghoul]

Mushy May Day 27: Game Night

A little something about the ghouls having a weekly ttrpg game (in this case Monster of the Week). Cirrus takes over running the weekly game and is feeling a bit imposter syndrome-y but the enthusiasm of her pack quickly shows her she had nothing to worry about.

I tried to make it rules-light enough that even if you have never played MOTW or any ttrpg it should still be followable.

Also a quick little tag for @ghouletteanon because you had asked me to way back at the beginning of the month :)

Words: 699

Rating: Gen/ Everyone

Read below the cut or on AO3 here

The ghouls have been playing their current Monster of the Week game for a few sessions now, and Cirrus was extremely pleased with how it was progressing. For a while Dew had been DM’ing a game of DND for about half the other ghouls, but they all had to stop when everyone's dice kept “mysteriously” disappearing. They pretended it was a mystery but really Rain was stealing all the dice that were pretty and hiding them around his room, and Mountain wouldn’t stop eating the others. Soon enough there were just normal standard bulk set d6s left so they decided to switch to another system. 

Cirrus had taken over the helm of GM since they switched to the new system and it was a lot so far, but luckily the pack has been super supportive. Everyone finally seems to have a decent grip of the new rule system and character classes so she finally can start to get into the proper mystery. Running a game is a bit more nerve wracking than playing in one though and Cirrus has been struggling to keep up her normal collected confidence as she runs the game.

She finishes up describing the large sprawling labyrinth below the main city the characters find themselves in and starts humming the soft eerie notes of a melody faintly heard down one of the pathways. Once she looks up away from her notes she notices the way that everyone at the table, as well as Aether and Cumulus who were playing cards on the other side of the ghouls den are all looking at her completely enraptured. There is a sense of pride that bubbles up inside her as her confidence in her abilities solidify slightly. 

“So, how do you guys proceed?” she prompts after wrapping up the haunting tune. Everyone just blinks at her for a second before remembering oh yeah it's a collaborative effort and getting back to the game. They explore the large labyrinth for a while, until finally getting to a point of interest that whatever monster they are looking for clearly just vacated, Cirrus laying heavy details of all the general mayhem of the area and the scuttering sound that while present before is now gone. 

Sunny rolls uncharacteristically well in her attempt to investigate. As she composes her thoughts on what to ask, Cirrus can’t help but smile as she shuffles a few papers around. Luckily the way everyone tries to investigate leads to exactly what she was hoping for. 

“All of the clutter in the chamber seems to point to one centralized area. In the dead center of it you find this.” Cirrus narrates beaming. She pulls out a wrinkled stained piece of paper with burn marks along the edges from a tiny wooden box and hands both items to Sunny. 

“You made fucking physical props for this?!” Dew immediately shouts out, attempting to take the paper from Sunny to read aloud. “Shit Cir’ you are killing it. Making my old half-assed effort look bad.” 

Dew reads what appears to be a diary page relating to the strange occurrences aloud. Just as Rain and Mountain begin to argue over what it all could mean, Copia walks in interrupting the flow of conversation. 

“I know it is game night, but I really need to borrow Swiss for 10 minutes at most real quick” he sheepishly tells them. Cirrus begins to say that’s fine and that they can all just take a break real quick, but the rest of the people playing immediately launch into complaints about how important story things are happening and can’t Copia wait a little bit so that they can sort everything out. 

Cirrus re-asserts that they can just take a break and watches as Swiss sighs and moves to follow Copia. “Fine, but nothing better happen while I’m gone.” he grumbles as the two walk off. 

Whatever doubts Cirrus was having about her ability to run the game are squashed as she watches everyone playing last maybe 20 seconds before they launch into thoughts and ideas about what's happening based on the diary entry.

Swiss does in fact, miss out on a lot while he is gone.