#Prompts (doubt) and (the clattering of skeletons)

[starfly-inq]

Bright

Bones scatter When I am bright

Hear them rumble while I'm asleep, The shadows creeping up on me - I'm a body consumed

I feel springtime but laying behind it must be thunder

A hex strung above me, "you are temporary, this is temporary. [Every smile is a little closer to The end] "

Everything ends And Everything dies

I feel fingers touching my eyes, But for how long, but for how long, But for how long?

#Napowrimo #napowrimo 2020 #poetry #trash poetry #NAPO day 2 #gliitchmonth #jackaloup #poem #Prompts (doubt) and (the clattering of skeletons)

[set-phasers-to-whump]

falling through

prompt: abandoned

whumpee: kurt wallander

fandom: young wallander

hi! a brief bit of bg for this fic - it’s set after the show, in a timeline where kurt and reza are now partners in major crimes and rask is their boss. idk if this would fit with any kind of canon but also idc. my rules :) anyway i hope u like this!!!

It’s not their best idea by any means, but sometimes, to break open a case, you have to take a risk. You have to do something questionable and a little stupid, and you have to do it without the permission or even the knowledge of your boss. This usually works in the movies, at any rate. 

This isn’t a movie, Kurt thinks, as Reza parks the car in front of a long-abandoned, derelict, half-rotted house that Rask definitely hadn’t given them the go-ahead to investigate. This is just a bad idea. But they’re already here, and Reza’s already out of the car, and there is the possibility that they’re going to find something here, at the childhood home of their currently-on-the-run murderer, so he sighs and exits the car, jogging after Reza to catch up.

What’s left of the front door swings open the second Reza touches it, and he and Kurt share a look before stepping over the threshold. Inside, the smell of decay is overwhelming. There are moth-eaten skeletons of furniture and the occasional spray-painted symbol on the peeling, stained wallpaper and the occasional squeaking of a rat. “Lovely place,” Reza mutters, and Kurt laughs. 

Towards the back of the house is a staircase, which is missing approximately half of its steps. It looks less than safe, but upstairs is where the bedrooms (and the most likely sources of evidence) are, so they ascend, one at a time, in slow, halting steps. 

They make it upstairs without incident and end up in a hallway that extends in two directions. Silently, they agree to each take one. Reza goes straight ahead, and Kurt goes to the right. 

He pulls his flashlight out as he walks along, flicking it on and passing it in sweeping arcs over his surroundings. A hole in the wall here, a dead bug or three there, a bathroom with broken porcelain and a window missing its pane, and a bedroom that clearly had once belonged to a young girl and not their murderer. He’s about to turn around and see if Reza’s had any better luck when he hears a clatter from the end of the hallway.

He takes a step forward in the direction of the clatter, and there’s a rather ominous creaking sound beneath his feet. He looks down just in time to watch the floor give out from under him, and then all of a sudden he’s lying on his back on the first floor, the breath knocked right out of him, dazed and stunned and surrounded by rubble. 

For a few seconds he simply lies there with absolutely no idea what’s just happened, and then he hears a voice shout his name from somewhere above him. He opens eyes that he hadn’t realized were closed and finds himself staring upwards at a giant hole in the ceiling, and then he remembers. 

He’s just fallen through the floor. Or the ceiling, depending on how you look at it. The voice calls again, echoing around inside his head, and he recognizes it as Reza. He hears footsteps above him and tries to shout a warning that comes out as little more than a whisper. Fortunately, the footsteps stop moving, and he hears them retreat, and then come thumping down the stairs, and he listens to them approach, and then Reza is standing over him and asking him something that he can’t understand. 

Now that his body has gotten over its initial shock, it hurts. What feels like every single part of his body below his neck is aching and sore. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. He can feel stinging little cuts and scrapes all over his exposed skin and his right ankle throbs in time with his heartbeat and even his lungs ache from having had the air knocked out of them on impact.  

“Kurt!” Reza’s voice sounds different this time, serious and worried, and Kurt finally manages to think a coherent thought. That doesn’t sound good. He forces himself to speak. 

“Hi,” is the only thing he can think of to say, but it must be good enough for Reza, who at some point has dropped to his knees beside Kurt’s body. He smiles down at Kurt, and Kurt tries to smile back but feels himself failing. It hurts…

“I know,” Reza says, placing a very gentle hand on Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt blinks at him in surprise, not having realized that he’d spoken aloud. He lets his eyes drift closed for a second to try and better take stock of his body and his injuries, but Reza shakes his shoulder and tells him to stay awake. 

“‘M not sleeping,” Kurt manages to say. “Tryin’ to see what hurts.”

“Okay,” Reza replies, “but you try and go drifting off and I’ll kick your ass.”

“Got it,” Kurt whispers back, and then shuts his eyes again and focuses, starting from the top. His head hurts, but not badly enough to be worrying. There’s a rather large cut above his right eyebrow that’s slowly dripping hot, sticky blood down his face, and a few smaller scrapes across the rest of his face and down his neck. His chest and back still ache from the force of impact, but if he concentrates he can move his fingers and toes, so his spine is unharmed. His right sleeve is torn up, and he can feel little scratches all up and down the arm. The same is true for the right leg of his pants. He supposes that’s the part of him that went through the floor first. His right ankle is still aching, and he recognizes the pain as a sprain - irritating and painful, but ultimately harmless. He’s essentially fine. He just aches. 

That survey complete, Kurt opens his eyes again and finds Reza’s face. “‘M fine,” he reports, though he doubts Reza will be very convinced. 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah. Banged up, is all. Nothing serious.”

“Good,” Reza says. “Because there’s no service out here.”

“Oh,” Kurt replies, suddenly very glad indeed that none of his injuries are critical, ambulance-worthy ones. 

“Yeah,” Reza says. “That means we’ve gotta get you out of here on our own. You think you can walk?”

“Dunno.” He’s willing to try, though. Kurt presses his palms down firmly into the pile of rubble, which shifts and makes unpleasant noises around him. He pushes his feet into it at the same time, and manages to scramble up onto his feet after several seconds of intense pain. He wavers and very nearly falls right back down, but Reza grabs his shoulders and holds him up. Everything is spinning and his legs are shaking and his right ankle isn’t at all enjoying having weight put on it. Kurt bites back a cry of pain and tries to take a step, because for this to stop, he has to get out of here, but his legs won’t let him move and he feels his eyes well up with frustrated, pained tears, and he tries again to make his legs move but it hurts too much and he can’t, and then…

Then he’s moving? But he’s not walking. His vision is still a bit fuzzy and his body is aching too much to feel anything touching it, and it takes him several seconds to realize that he’s being carried, slightly awkwardly but very gently. He doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed about this situation, as he normally would be - honestly, he’s just grateful that he doesn’t have to move. 

He watches as his surroundings (which have become clear again, now that he’s not trying to stand up on legs that really don’t want him to be doing that) change, from the interior of the abandoned house to the outside, and then to the backseat of the car. Reza sets him down on the edge of the seat, positioned so that he’s facing out the door. 

“There’s a first aid kit in here somewhere, hold on,” Reza says, and walks around to the back of the car. It’s not really like Kurt has any choice in this matter, so he stays put. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, when Reza reappears with a large plastic box in his hands. 

“You’re pretty cut up,” Reza replies, setting the box down on the ground and popping it open. He rifles through it and grabs several different things before standing back up and facing Kurt, sliding medical gloves onto his hands. “I don’t want anything getting infected, and I’m sure you would appreciate not having blood all over your face.”

Kurt raises a shaking hand to touch the side of his face. His fingers come away wet and shiny with blood, and he remembers the cut on his forehead. “That would be good,” he agrees, and then sits silently and waits for Reza to get to work. 

Reza begins with an item not from the first aid kit at all - a warm, unopened bottle of water from the front seat of the car. He pours the water onto a cotton ball and begins carefully cleaning Kurt’s face. Kurt flinches backwards out of instinct when the water first hits his face, but it doesn’t actually hurt, and after a while it actually feels kind of nice. Reza continues the process on Kurt’s neck, then sets down his cotton ball and picks up a pair of scissors. Kurt eyes them warily, trying to think of what exactly they might be for. 

“Sorry about this,” Reza says, and Kurt doesn’t have time to panic about what that might mean before Reza is cutting away the right sleeve of his shirt near the shoulder, and the right leg of his pants slightly above the knee. 

“So I can see what I’m working with without your torn-up clothes in the way,” Reza explains, after he’s finished mutilating Kurt’s clothes. Kurt just nods, glad that he hadn’t been particularly attached to this outfit. 

With his work area now exposed, Reza grabs and wets another cotton ball, then repeats the cut-cleaning process on Kurt’s right arm and leg, as well as his left hand. “Can you feel anything anywhere else?” he asks, and Kurt concentrates for a second, then slowly shakes his head.

“This next part might hurt a little. Sorry in advance,” Reza says, and Kurt watches as he grabs a pair of tweezers and a small bottle of something, which Kurt identifies by the smell as rubbing alcohol once Reza opens the bottle and begins pouring it onto the tweezers.

“I can only see a couple cuts with anything in them,” Reza says, which Kurt supposes is something of a reassuring statement. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

True to his word, the process is quick, but stinging and painful. Kurt knows it’s hardly that bad in the grand scheme of things, but it still hurts, and for a few seconds afterwards he sits there and takes deep breaths and blinks his eyes rapidly and mentally yells at himself to get it together. 

“You ready to keep going?” Reza asks after a moment, and Kurt nods. “This part also might be a little uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t sting or hurt that bad,” he continues. 

“What is it?” Kurt thinks to ask, staring warily into the contents of the box. Reza bends down and grabs a small tube, turning the label so Kurt can see it.

“Nothing bad, just an antibiotic,” Reza assures him, and Kurt gives another nod. Reza dabs the ointment on with a gloved finger, and it does feel extremely uncomfortable on the big cut on Kurt’s forehead, but on the majority of the rest he hardly feels a thing. When Reza’s finished, he sticks a bandage to the large cut and to a few of the bigger ones on the rest of Kurt’s body, leaving the rest alone. 

“Done,” he announces, finally, and returns to the box to put away his items. Kurt watches curiously as Reza continues rummaging around in the box after everything is already put away, until eventually he stands back up triumphantly and holds up a small packet of painkillers. “Thought I lost these,” he says. “You want them?”

Kurt nods, and Reza tears open the packet, shaking two small, round pills into Kurt’s left palm, which is the less cut-up of the two. He passes over the now half-empty bottle of water, and Kurt swallows the pills and then drinks the remaining water. 

“How’re you feeling?” Reza asks, when he’s finished. Kurt attempts a shrug and winces in pain. 

“Okay,” he says, which is not really true. He does feel better than he had when he was lying on the floor, and certainly much better than he had when he was trying to stand. 

“Sure you’re okay,” Reza says. “Not like you just fell through a floor or anything.”

“Better, then,” Kurt amends, and Reza nods. “Good. Then let’s go.”

That sounds very agreeable to Kurt, so he turns - very slowly and carefully - until his body is all the way in the car. He tries to buckle his seatbelt but gives up very quickly, and Reza does it for him, then shuts his door and opens the driver’s door. He starts the engine, and Kurt watches out the window as the old, abandoned house disappears. As they rejoin the bustling roads of Malmö, a very worrying thought crosses Kurt’s mind for the first time.

“How are we gonna explain this to Rask?”

thanks for reading!!!! i rlly had a fun time writing this and i hope u liked reading it!

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump4 #abandoned #young wallander #kurt wallander #my writing #i say things #fall #cut #field medicine #cared for

[myouki]

Haunted Memories: Chapter 7

Chapter Warnings:

Implied/referenced abuse, suicidal ideation, swearing

Credits:

Lotus: @nekophy

Rurik: @angeutblogo

***

"Hey-" Rurik called out, freezing when the action produced a full-body flinch as Lotus ducked their skull, their breaths sounding like they were clenching their teeth in anticipation of something. "The guy's gone now," the ghost threw out, frowning at the lack of response. Huffing to himself, he made his way to the bedroom.

Lifting one of the blankets from the bed, the ghost backtracked into the living room and tossed it onto Lotus in a practiced fashion; the skeleton predictably jumped when the fabric made contact, but it succeeded in bringing them back to the here and now just like last time. As the edge of the blanket fell back over their skull like a second hood to reveal two empty sockets, Rurik grumbled, "Now, are you going to tell me what the hell happened there? Was that the guy you were avoiding?" At the mute nod, he growled, "I'm not playing twenty questions; spill already."

Lotus's skull drooped, their sockets pinching at the corners before shaking their skull with a miserable expression. Rurik rolled his eye lights and crossed his arms as he sarcastically claimed, "What, you can't talk?" He would have added more if not for the slow nod that followed; his posture loosened as he mumbled, "You're joking." The monster shrunk down further, their crestfallen expression pointing toward a resounding 'no'.

Now that he looked closer, Lotus wasn't moving out of what looked to be a pretty uncomfortable sitting position...

Reasoning that the guy from earlier must have done something since Lotus had been fine before their arrival, Rurik hesitantly asked, "This isn't permanent... is it?" The skeleton shook their skull to indicate 'no' once more and he felt a hint of relief... which left him questioning why the confirmation made him happy.

Before he could become enveloped in his thoughts, Lotus's eye light flicked on and the skeleton released a shaky sigh, "It finally wore off."

Feeling as if he would be mimicking the action if he was able to breathe, Rurik probed, "... It... as in the guy's magic?"

"Yeah...," Lotus mumbled, shifting into a tucked sitting position to wrap the blanket around their body like a protective cocoon.

Despite their reluctant body language, Rurik pressed on, "Who was he, anyway?"

"His name's L...," Lotus paused, taking another breath and answering softly, "Lerin. He's... he was my boyfriend. He did a lot of... horrible things; I don't want to go into detail, so don't ask. In any case, I made plans to run away and took the first opportunity that presented itself when he went on a camping trip with his friends."

When the smaller fell silent again, Rurik prompted, "Right... and I'm guessing he did something when he showed up earlier? With how you stood up to me on your first day here, I can't imagine you rolling over and letting him do whatever he wanted like that otherwise."

"Yeah, his voice...," the skeleton shifted uncomfortably, pulling the blanket closer to ward off an invisible chill that ran through him, "he has magic that forces people to do what he wants when he speaks. I don't know much about it; he was actually pretty careful with who he used it on, but I figured out he activates it by using the word 'listen' as a subliminal trigger... after that..." Lotus inhaled sharply, stifling his desire to cry as he dug his fingers into the hem of the blanket, "... any command he verbalizes for the next five minutes can't be refused... I know, I've tried... I tried so hard, so many times to fight it... but it never worked... it never worked..."

Rurik watched as Lotus buried their face in their knees once more; their shoulders shaking from the effort of holding their emotions in. Processing the information was difficult; the power to control others through vocal commands seemed way too surreal and overpowered... but how could he doubt it when he had seen it first-hand? It was no wonder the smaller monster had tried to escape... and would want to again.

Knowing it was inevitable, he reluctantly asked the damning question, "Guess this means you'll be running again?"

"No...," the smaller croaked, their skull tilting up to reveal a far-off expression Rurik didn't like; one of despair and resignation, "There's no point. The only reason I got away before was because I carefully planned and took him by surprise... but it wasn't good enough. Even after everything I did, it only took him a month to track me down." Tears welled up in the Lotus's sockets, threatening to spill over by the barest of margins as they let out a broken laugh, "The job reference is probably what screwed me over, but I can't survive on my own without a job.

"I don't have enough money to start over again and he knows it... it's only a matter of time before he comes back to get me. All he has to do is say one word and I'll be forced to go back... I'll be forced to... to..." Lotus clenched their teeth alongside their sockets, hugging their legs tighter as the blanket drooped down over their skull, partially hiding the tears that finally fell, "... I can't run, I can't hide, and I can't fight back... as long as I'm alive, I'll never be free."

A prominent disquiet settled within Rurik as he stared at the quietly sobbing skeleton's tears soaking into the blanket. He knew he shouldn't feel pain, but watching Lotus lose hope hurt in a way he never expected to ever feel again; it made him realize that he didn't want Lotus to leave or give up, not like he did... but how could he possibly bring them back from something like this and make them feel safe again...?

Wracking his skull for ideas, inspiration struck as his starry eye lights caught sight of the knife embedded in the wall across the room, sending him flying into the bedroom; stopping short of the dresser, he quickly found the two items he needed and brought them back out to the living room. "Hey, you said I could leave the building if I possessed stuff, right?" the ghost asked, presenting one of the items, "Would this work?"

Lotus glanced up in confusion at the stainless steel dog tags dangling from their matching chain, wiping his face on his sleeve while replying cautiously, "Yeah... as long as it's a personal belonging or something of sentimental value, any object that isn't silver-based will work as a temporary vessel... why?"

"You might not be able to ignore the guy's magic, but I didn't seem to have any problem kicking his ass while he was squawking," Rurik stated with a smirk, "Teach me how to possess this and carry it around; in return, I can deal with the guy no matter where or how many times he shows up." Tossing the second object to the floor, he ignored the startled response when it clattered at the smaller's feet, "you should start carrying this around too so I have something to threaten him with."

Tearing their dim eye light away from the sheathed knife laying on the floor, Lotus softly inquired, "... Why are you offering to help me? I thought you wanted me gone."

"You want your freedom and I want to see something other than the inside of this crummy building; doing this kills two birds with one stone," the ghost shrugged nonchalantly, unwilling to reveal the truth behind his motivations; he would rather let them believe his offer was centered around opportunistic desires. Lowering the chain within the reaper's reach, he asked, "Do we have a deal?"

"Alright... I'll agree to your trade." Holding their hand out, the tags were dropped onto Lotus's cupped fingers; the chain spilled over the sides as the beginnings of a smile finally broke through, "Thank you for helping me."

More than a little flustered at the genuine show of gratitude, Rurik pressed in closer while trying not to let it show on his face, "Sure, whatever; now let's get down to this possession thing."

Lightly snorting, Lotus extended the arm holding the tags and began their instructions, "Alright, the first thing we need to do is..."

#FellPoth #Lotus #Fell!Goth #Rurik #Fell!Palette #HM #Short stories #MyWriting #TW: Implied/referenced abuse #TW: Suicidal ideation #Swearing

[marshmallow--3]

Imagine - Jacob Frye suffering from a werewolf curse.

Frye Cottage, Surrey, October 1873

Softly, you're roused by the ambient sounds of the forest encompassing the house: owls hooting, tree branches rapping on the windows, fierce winds howling into the night.

You couldn't say what time it is. You doubt you could even hazard a guess. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness consuming the room, rendering any attempt to read the clock a fruitless endeavour.

A brief glance at the window confirms that dawn is yet to break.

Perfect.

Sitting upright in bed, you fumble in the dark for a moment until your hands happen upon the knob belonging to the drawer of the nightstand. With only a trickle of moonbeams lending you the faculty of sight, you open the drawer, reach for the only object inside, and strike a match.

You hold it by your face, tilting the matchstick downward and watching as the flame dances and swells. Using the light the match provides, you ignite the oil lamp atop the nightstand, extinguishing the match with a shake of your hand as the room is bathed in a warm, amber glow.

The cottage, for all intents and purposes, is without ornament - and rightly so. The single-storey cabin may be the only building for several miles, as per your intentions. The interior is functional, pragmatic, an open-plan room comprised of a bed tucked away in a corner and a kitchenette. A chimney and burning stove looks across from your sleeping area, supplementary to a table and two chairs.

A Welsh dresser is half-filled with plates and mugs, its cupboards and drawers stowing bits of food and medical goods - bandages, a needle and thread, a bottle of gin, though you're yet to use any of it, thank the Lord.

A wolf howls in the distance, prompting you to take a peek outside from behind the curtains. The full moon is fading, you note, compelling you to rise and begin your preparations for the long day ahead.

After making the bed, you cross the room and burn wood at the stove, boiling herbal tea in a cast-iron kettle. You fix some cold cuts of bread, cheese and meat, managing to eat a little yourself while saving a second portion.

A short time later, a figure comes stumbling in through the door, slamming it shut. You're hesitant to look up, knowing from previous months the heart-wrenching sight that awaits.

A creature paces with convulsing legs, looking ready to collapse at any moment. It bears the form of a man, but the mental state of a wolf. A blanket is draped around its heaving shoulders, its naked, hairy body shivering violently. Brown hair is thoroughly dishevelled, small sticks and leaves clinging to the strands. Sickly pale skin gleams wet with sweat, dirt markings littering its face. Wild, glassy eyes frantically dart around the room.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you rise from your seat as slowly as possible, yearning to draw the weeping man into your bosom.

He's still an animal, you have to remind yourself, though it does little to patch your broken heart.

You avoid prolonged eye contact, letting your eyes look past him instead of lingering on him.

"Jacob," you murmur, your voice soft and quiet so as not to alarm him further.

Taking a miniscule step forward, you approach him gingerly, repeating your internal mantra of stay calm. You shrink your body and repeat his name while observing his body language, keeping an eye out for any signs of injury.

He's panicked, hysterical, gripping his head and yowling, those wide eyes reminiscent of an animal caught in a trap.

You hold your hand out palm down, and croon, "Jacob, it's okay. I'm going to help you."

By now you've crossed the room, though a good distance remains between you. His back stiffens, the air shifting around him, his nose crinkling as he picks up the Scent. He visibly calms somewhat, blinking as his eyes soften to their usual melliferous hazel.

Watching him stagger towards you, you take a few final steps towards him, catching him as he falls into you, the blanket falling from his shoulders as his arms crush you into a tight hug. You remember to hold your breath, to remain perfectly still as he buries his nose in the dip of your shoulder.

He inhales sharply, memories of his human life flashing behind his eyelids. Merry laughter rings in his head like a bell, faces of loved ones appearing and overlaying one another at the speed of lightning.

In verifying the Scent, his arms loosen around you, his breathing heavy against your skin.

The Scent comforts his wolf form, he'd once explained. It's a blend of your smell and his, a product of your... prior carnal union, so to speak, serving as a catalyst that completes the reconstruction of his brain.

You continue to shush him, now free to move your hand and stroke his damp hair, pacifying him until the shaking subsides.

Lifting his head, he meets your gaze and wets his lips in an attempt to speak.

"Hi."

You cup his face, tears forming in your eyes at the humanity present in his face, at the way his eyes gleam in recognising you.

"Hi." Your response comes with lumps in your throat.

He chuckles to break the ice, immediately wincing and breaking out in a fit of coughing. Prying yourself from his embrace, you help him hobble over to the table and take a seat. Working swiftly, you pour a cup of the tea, retrieving the laudanum from a drawer in the dresser and setting it down in front of him.

He tests his coordination for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fist and wiggling his fingers before trusting himself with handling a cup of hot liquid. He blows the drink before sipping, swallowing quickly to avoid the bitter taste.

His speech is slow, hesitant. "Is that, the same, same stuff as last time?"

You nod. He grimaces.

"Doesn't work."

"It's the highest dose the doctor will prescribe me." It took little effort convincing the physician that the pills were for you - dramatising your menstrual pain is far preferable to telling the truth. "Please, take it. Something is better than nothing."

Jacob glances up at you, taking in the sight of your eyes glossy with tears, your forehead creased with concern, your brows angled upwards as you plead.

Agreeing silently, he takes the tablet and swallows it down with the bitter brew, spluttering as the taste lingers on his taste buds. You rub his back to help him keep it down, drawing his attention to the plate of food; perhaps it could cover the horrid taste.

He takes stock of the plate's contents, sniffing tentatively. The cuts of meat smells appetising at the very least, and he almost reaches for it before his head swims with intrusive images of sleeping deer, the sound of snarling wolves surrounding him as though they're present in the room. Nausea rises from his stomach, he heaves and retches before pushing the plate away with a forceful shove.

"I need to lie down."

He staggers in standing up, knocking cutlery to the ground with a clatter. He grits his teeth, distributing a little too much of his weight onto you as you help him limp towards the bed.

Every step is pure agony for him; although you haven't experienced his curse, you can imagine the torture he must go through - his skeleton changing shape, his organs moving position, his flesh and muscles being torn to shreds by his own claws.

All that, and probably far more that your imagination simply cannot comprehend, three nights a month.

He doesn't peel the duvet back to clamber into bed, instead laying himself on top of the bedclothes. And judging from the heat radiating from his body, you can understand why.

You get a proper look at his face for the first time: his skin is off-colour and boiling hot to the touch, and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. Sweat trickles down his forehead, red welts marring his skin. You dab his forehead with a cold, wet towel, conscious of the pressure you apply.

He grunts, a fresh wave of throbbing spasms coursing through his jerking body.

"Shhh, Jacob, you're okay. You're alright."

It's silly, but... Despite all of the ways you help him, you feel helpless, wishing you could do more to take his pain away for good. Watching on as he pants and yells, his body convulsing like a seizure, you find yourself singing a lullaby, stroking his cheek in hopes of pacifying him even a little.

"I love you," Jacob manages to wheeze when your song comes to an end.

"I love you too, my darling man."

@sassenach-on-the-rocks @aikeia @yourchepazworld @iceboundstar @the-purple-rook @unprofessional-bard @witch-of-letters @disneymarina @thero0ks @assassins-and-hidden-blades @ass-sass-sin-o @ladye11e @deviousspleen

#assassin's creed imagine #assassin's creed #jacob frye #jacob frye imagine #jacob frye x y/n #jacob frye x reader #werewolf jacob frye #Halloween special #angst #aftercare

[the-ravens-requiem]

Tea For Two

From this prompt on my main blog.

The man had been dead for many, many years. Countless holidays had floated by in the passage of time, and yet Doctor never forgot about him. The alchemist had lit a candle for him whenever they had been physically able -- to commemorate his memory and the kindness he had taught them.

His blood was not Doctor's blood, but they had been family once, so long ago. When Doctor was different. Perhaps more selfish and naive. More stubborn and vain.

Doctor did not like who they had been as a youth, now that age had brought them wisdom. They supposed that, perhaps, this was a universal feeling. Nevertheless, the man had loved them like they were his own child in spite of these things, and Doctor was forever grateful to him.

But Doctor was troubled now, and needed the comfort that only a parent could provide. A sort of bone-deep soul-sickness that needed soothing. So with shovel in hand, Doctor stole away during the night and dug up his grave.

The offering of tea was a ritual, really. Something they'd done in life. Conversations over a cup. The fire and incense was just manners. The incense to mask the sweet scent of rot, and the fire to aide tired and decayed eyes to see the alchemist's visage more easily.

He was nothing but a skeleton now, though Doctor swore that they could make out the shape of his face on his skull. Dim light glowed from out of the eye-sockets, flickering as he woke. The rest of the body followed soon after, rattling -- held together by magic.

The thread that connected them made it easier to call him back to the world of the living, and it comforted Doctor that their father had given them explicit permission forever to raise him whenever they needed.

The man had known about their powers since they were very young, and was one of the few who had never been afraid. Perhaps he should have been, but the alchemist liked to think that they had turned out the way they did, in the end, because of this foolishness. Doctor was taught compassion instead of isolation.

"Good morning, Father. I've made you some tea. It's your favorite flavor. I was hoping we could sit and chat for a while? I've missed you terribly."

The skeleton's teeth clack together with a raucous laugh, his voice far-away but strong. "Ah, my child! You always know just how to wake me from a nap.! Come, tell me what troubles you." They reach for the cup, the perpetual grin of their skull never fading.

Doctor nods. "I've been feeling a bit melancholy, lately -- Though I've been in good company."

The skeleton mirrors the gesture. "Yes. It is possible to feel lonely, even among others. This is the natural course of things, and it will likely pass." He presses the lip of the cup to his open jaw and pours a bit inside. The tea simply splashes down onto his clavicle and flows between his ribs.

Behind the red-glass lenses of their mask, Doctor watches the hot liquid slowly trickle down to the grass beneath them. They say nothing, as it's not very polite to point out such things when speaking to the dead.

"Speaking of loneliness, are you ever going to settle and marry? It's about time, don't you think?" Doctor can hear the playfulness in his father's voice -- and if they could blush, they would.

"Father, we've talked about this before. I'm far too busy with many other important things. My shop, for instance -- !"

"Nonsense, a good spouse would help you run your business and tend your fancy garden! Think of it, my child. You could adopt some children, have a family...Hm?" He reaches out with his bony hand to pat Doctor on the shoulder, clapping his fingers over the heavy waxed fabric. "Why, you'd be too busy to be melancholy ever again!"

Doctor exhales, their father's concern warming their heart despite the annoyances it brought. "Yes, Father.  You would be right about that. But you know I have very little interest in romance. As old as I am, I doubt that will change."

"I know, I know." Another gulp of the tea, more trickles down over old bones and to the grass. "I'm just teasing you. I just worry about you, sometimes."

"I'm aware of that, Father."

"...Is there something else bothering you?"

Doctor wished they could say, but perhaps there were things even their own parent didn't need to know.

"No, Father. I am troubled, but it will pass, like you said -- one way or another. Just hearing your voice again has comforted me."

"I do so love our little chats." The skeleton leaned back, taking one last gulp of his tea. The cup is placed into the hands of the alchemist shortly thereafter.

"As do I."

The skeleton yawns and stretches, the light in their cavernous eye-sockets dimming. "Ahh, ah well. I think it's time to go back to sleep. Thank you for the tea. Could you tuck me in?"

"Of course. Until we see each other again, Father."

"Until we see each other again." The light flickers out, and the bones clatter to the ground.

And so, with shovel in hand, Doctor covers him with dirt once again, settling him down to rest in the cold embrace of the grave. ---------- masterlist | ko-fi If you liked this, please consider reblogging it. It helps spread it around so that others may read it and enjoy, too!

#writeblr #writing #doctor #filled

[tomjopson]

For the kissing prompts: #40 for Jopson/Little, please??

#40: A gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion,with little regard for what’s going on around them. Oh my, yes! I had so many ideas for this one, so sorry that it took me this long to make up my mind. :)

Thomas is on his hands and knees, scrubbing at the darkstain on the carpet beside the table where it leans heavily on the ropes thatkeep it suspended. The captain is finally asleep, tucked into his berth,mumbling deliriously through the sick-drenched dreams, and Thomas is using thebrief respite from his vigil at the captain’s bedside to erase the poor man’sattempt at reaching the seat of ease on his own.

Even in his sleep-deprived stupor and through the layers ofwool on his legs, Thomas can feel his joints ache from his position on the hardfloor. The water for the rag is barely warmer than ice, and Thomas’s knucklesare cracked and raw from dipping into the basin and rinsing out the cloth. Heblinks quickly as he feels his bloodshot eyes start to water, but when he sitsup to rub at them with the back of his wrist, he winces as the itching burnonly worsens.

There is a shuffling at the door to the great cabin, andThomas’s back pinches from where he swivels to see who is there. When thefamiliar snout of Neptune slides the door open enough for the dog to push hishead through the gap, Thomas sags and presses hand against the knot in hislower back.

“Hello, boy,” he says with a weary smile that wavers on hisface for a short second before it fades.

Neptune sniffs at Thomas’s sleeve. His tail wags slowly,even cautiously, but he doesn’t move when Thomas drops his rag into the basinof water so that he can bury his face in the side of Neptune’s scruff. The dogspants, his tail wagging faster, as he lets Thomas hug him loosely. Thomasexhales into the dog’s fur, and he feels some of  the day’s tension seep out of his bones atlast.

Distracted as he is by Neptune, Thomas does not hear anyoneelse enter the great cabin until the door slides shut with a quiet thud againstits frame. Thomas jerks his head up, his eyes wide, to see Edward standingbefore him. His face is red from the cold, bits of frost flecked through hiswhiskers.

Thomas stands quickly, Neptune lumbering out of the way.

“It’s not a good time, sir,” Thomas says in a hurriedstream, “The captain’s only now fallen asleep.”

Edward raises a conciliatory hand. “At ease, Jopson. I don’tplan to intrude on the captain.” He pauses, his mouth grimacing as glances atthe closed door to the captain’s personal space. “How is he?”

Thomas finds he has to search for the proper words. Heresists brushing his hand along the fringe of his hair. “Better. His fever islower. But he was delirious for most of today.”

Edward sidesteps what remains of the spot on the carpet ashe moves close to Thomas and places his hands over the elbows of Thomas’sjumper. Thomas’s breath catches, and he spares an apprehensive glance at theclosed door of the cabin before meeting Edward’s gaze.

“And you?” Edward asks, his voice a whisper.

Thomas’s lips start to tug into a frown, but with a clenchof his jaw, he forces a small smile. “I’m fine, sir. No doubt caring for thecaptain isn’t any more difficult than what lies on your shoulders.”

Edward sees through Thomas’s bravado, but he doesn’t commenton it. There are shadows under his eyes, and a perpetual crease in his browthat Thomas wishes he could wipe away. It has been months since he has seen thetension gone from Edward’s face, and over a year since he has seen him laugh; trulylaugh, not a brief chuckle, but a full-bodied laugh from his belly while hisface brightens in a wide, toothy grin and his eyes crinkle with mirth. Thomasknows that there is not much to laugh at these days.

When Edward starts to sway on his feet, his eyes growingdistant and his grip on Thomas’s arms slackening, Thomas beckons the man closerand guides his head to rest on his shoulder.

“How goes the preparations for Carnivale?” he asks, noise tofill the room and their minds, distractions profoundly needed by both of them.

Edward’s voice is muffled by his waistcoat. “They pitchedthe tent today. They’ll start moving furniture tomorrow.”

Thomas hums and turns his face so that his nose presses intoEdward’s soft hair curling over the shell of his ear. Edward’s hands move fromThomas’s arms to his back. Thomas’s skin prickles from where he can feel theweight of Edward’s fingers pressing into his lower back.

“Have you decided on a costume?”

Edward groans. “Do I need one?”

Thomas smiles, more genuine than before. He slides his handsto the back of Edward’s neck, lightly massaging the skin. “Well, it is a Carnivale. Wouldn’t you feel sillywithout one?”

Edward grumbles, and this time, Thomas laughs, under hisbreath, his shoulders quaking. Emboldened by his humor and their closeproximity – his judgment clouded by fatigue – Thomas slides the edge of hisfingers under Edward’s jaw so that he can lift his head. Edward has closed hiseyes, but they flutter open when Thomas runs his thumb through the hair of hiswhiskers, wiping away what remains of the melting snow. Edward’s eyes search hisface even as Thomas can stare only at his thumb where it traces along Edward’sjaw toward his chin, stopping right under his bottom lip. When Edward’s lipspart, a question poising at the tip of his tongue, Thomas tilts his head up andkisses him.

The kiss is light, their lips barely touching. Their nosesbump as both men are too tired to properly angle into the kiss, but Edward keenssoftly into the kiss to which Thomas responds by bringing his second hand toEdward’s face. His fingers slide through Edward’s whiskers to curl at the napeof his neck.

Edward’s eyes are heavy-lidded when Thomas pulls away, andthe steward is about to suggest that he get some rest when Edward hooks a handalong the buttons of his waistcoat and yanks him back. Their teeth knocktogether as Edward kisses Thomas with a desperate hunger, born of out of thiswindow of opportunity, their brief minutes of solitude, a rarity during theselong years in the ice.

Thomas kisses back with an equal fervor, parting his lipswider and sliding his tongue against Edward’s. He stumbles backward as Edward nudgesone his thighs between Thomas’s legs. Thomas grunts when he collides with thetable, half-sitting on the surface where it hit his backside. Edward uses theleverage to push his thigh up against Thomas’s stiffening length. Heat sluicesdown Thomas’s spine and coils in his groin, and a choked, animal sound escapesThomas, the noise raw enough that Thomas did not recognize his own voice.

As Edward’s tongue swipes against the line of his teeth,Thomas gasps, panting hard as he pulls away. He turns his head when Edwardsurges forward, kissing and tonguing the sensitive skin along the tendons ofhis neck. Thomas watches the door to the great cabin, always conscious of thenoise of Terror’s skeleton crew as itechoes down the hall of officer country, always anxious of how easily someonecould open the door and find them in such a damning, compromising state. Hiseyes slip shut again with a sharp hiss and a whimper when Edward skims the flatof his palm against his clothed prick.

Still, he tries to temper his want, no matter how wildly he desiresthe lieutenant to keep prodding and prying, to lay him on the table, theirshirts untucked and trousers unbuttoned, just enough that Edward can mount himand rub their pricks together until Thomas weeps from the pleasure and spillsonto his stomach from the delicious, hot friction.

“Edward, Edward,” he pleads.

Something in his voice gives Edward pause, and as he pullsback to examine Thomas’s face, there is a clatter under their feet that joltsboth men out of their sensuous haze. They separate, throwing distance betweenthemselves as they right their clothes and hair. Edward glances uneasily overhis shoulder at the door, and Thomas holds a hand over his chest, willing hisheart to slow its frantic rhythm.

At their feet, Neptune circles restlessly, the source of thenoise when the dog nearly tipped over the basin. Weaving between steward andlieutenant, the dog noses the door to the great cabin, scratching at the woodand whining.

There is a laugh, near hysterical, bubbling in the back ofThomas’s throat, but relief washes over him now that he knows his time withEdward is not about to be invaded by another officer. Thomas waits for Edwardto let Neptune out, and when he closes the door behind the dog, Thomas crossesthe space between them. He presses a quick, chaste kiss on the lieutenant’slips. Edward’s eyes are closed and his lips still pursed when Thomas pullsaway, and with an indulgent smile, Thomas strokes his hand down the side ofEdward’s neck.

“You look exhausted. No one would be the wiser should you retireto your cabin for a short while,” Thomas says with a twinge of sympathy.

Edward stares at him, frowning but not arguing the point.The tips of his fingers ghost along the hem of Thomas’s waistcoat before he straightensand forces his arms to lie lax against his side.

“I should like to continue this later, Mr. Jopson,” Edward manages,his dark eyes boring into Thomas’s.

“Of course, sir,” he complies, looking at Edward through hiseyelashes, fully aware of the effect his feigned innocence has on the lieutenant.“Shall I stop by your cabin this evening?”

“Yes, you shall,”Edward rumbles, anguished impatience lacing his words.

They kiss one final time before Edward exits the cabin. Leftto his own fancies, Thomas finds it difficult to return his attention tocleaning or caring for the captain. Anticipation drags through his loins like araging fire. There was promise brimming in Edward’s eyes before the lieutenantleft: of what is to come once they have the added illusion of solitude in Edward’scabin where they will share their warmth, tucked together in the narrow berth.

Thomas sighs to himself as he retrieves the basin from thefloor. The night cannot come quickly enough.

#joplittle #thomas jopson #edward little #the terror fanfic #arcticelves #my writing #lopson #this will sneak its way onto ao3 at some point maybe #PLUS NEPTUNE THE DOG MAKES ANOTHER CAMEO

[qethnehzul]

-EYEZOOMS AT THE PROMPTS- Do 46 with the duo do it do it

46 - Blanket

For what felt like the hundredth night in a row, Casil couldn’t sleep. Out of all the events that had happened in the past month in a half - the Dawnguard, Serana, nearly dying at least twice, stopping yet another world-ending prophecy - it was the events of the Soul Cairn that still haunted her.

Their voices still whispered in her ear when she tried to sleep. The memories of faces she feared she knew still flashed behind her eyelids - haunted, ghostly, angry. The taunting. The tempting. 

The embers of the fire danced lazily in front of her, drawing close to being dead on the few remaining logs of the fire. She could replace it, easily - and her skeletons who mulled about their nightly jobs could as well, but she left it be. She needed to go back to sleep anyways, but for now the bosmer prayed watching the dim, dying light would help lull her back into a peaceful slumber. 

Casil pulled her bare knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them before resting her head on top. The last two years had been a lot. Things were finally quieting down to some degree, but Casil knew it wouldn’t last long. Even if it wasn’t going to be broken again by some world-ending catastrophe she was some how supposed to stop, Miraak had interest in pursuing the political world - something she was not going to be joining him in. And while she did not begrudge him for that, it meant he would be leaving, and it meant he was going to be entering whatever drama the political sphere could only entail. 

Casil let out a muffled sigh, shoulders slouching as she sank down against the top of her knees. Miraak was going to be gone for awhile without her, and ‘awhile’ was a loose way of putting it.

A piece of the remaining firewood gave way and collapsed into the grate, bringing a brief flash of light with it before the embers that clung to it finally flickered out. Casil’s gaze grew heavy as the light dimmed more and more, trying to keep her mind off of thinking so she might sleep again. For a moment, she let her eyes rest, content to the dim orange glow outside of them...

Casil.

You took it, Casil.

But you’re not free.

You can’t truly leave.

You know that.

Qethnehzul.

You’ve been here for far, far too long.

Casil shuddered, jerking herself awake again. Her leg spasmed out reflexively, kicking into a bucket used for holding tinder. The bucket toppled over with a rather loud clatter, spinning around and hurling its contents with the momentum before it came to stop at the base of the fireplace. Casil winced and pulled back her foot, gripping it in pain and irritation for a moment. She could hear something shift upstairs, before the sound of someone getting out of bed. Casil closed her eyes. She’d woken Miraak up.

She tucked her foot back under her, sighing again and slouching even more as she heard her bedroom door open and footsteps traverse across the upper floor and down the stairs. She didn’t look up, trying to focus on the fire still until Miraak came to sit behind her. Her jaw tensed, half expecting him to ridicule or berate her for still being up - but instead, Miraak simply reached out and pulled her into his lap. He wrapped a blanket around the two of them, ensuring she was snug under it before he leaned back and rested against the base of the table.

Casil swallowed dryly, before leaning back against him. He could feel her shaking under his arms, and slowly he turned to press a kiss against her temple. “What is wrong, silyoli?” he asked softly, making sure Casil was plenty tucked into the blanket.

Casil made a half-hearted motion for ‘nightmare’ before turning and burying her face into his chest, trying to take comfort in the warmth of his skin. 

A frown tugged at the corner of Miraak’s lips. “Do you wish to talk about them?”

Casil paused, before shaking her head. ‘Masters’ she signed simply, keeping her face mostly hidden.

Miraak shifted, removing the blanket from his shoulders so he could wrap Casil in it and cradle her in his lap against his chest. She pulled the blanket close, snuggling into its warmth before returning to hide her face against his skin. For a moment, his tired eyes faced focused on the fire. “...They will say what they believe will frighten you most, even if it is not true.”

Casil pursed her lips, fingers worrying at the edge of the blanket. She nodded a little. She doubted that, ultimately, Hermaeus Mora had been, and probably was, not that different from the Ideal Masters.

“Those things are behind us, Casil. We are free to follow our own fate. They will try to make you believe otherwise. Besides....” He pulled her close, leaning down to kiss her softly on the lips. “I would not allow them to take you.”

Casil couldn’t help but smile a bit, her cheeks feeling rosy despite the dread heavy on her soul. Sleepily, Casil poked a hand out of the blanket, extending a pinky up. Promise?

Miraak smiled, before hooking his finger with her’s. “Now, get some sleep,” he said, shifting. He bundled up Casil tighter like a burrito, making her wiggle a bit before he scooped her into his arms and stood. Casil let him carry her back upstairs to their room before he plopped her back down on her side, keeping her bundled up before he snuggled up to her. 

Casil burrowed back down into the blankets, trying to take to heart what Miraak said. She’d be alright. They’d be alright. If nothing else, she finally drifted to sleep, safe and sound.

#reply #ask #sylphiafae #ask meme #drabble #rambling casil #rambling miraak #tongues fic- drabble #woop need to go back and re-tag that last one i'm so bad with tags

[heyheyitsstillgay]

Respect the Dead

Phandom Phic Phight Entry #2 based on a prompt from @whosvladagain

#TeamGhost team leader @ibelieveinahappilyeverafter

Previous Entry ; Also available on FFN ; Next Entry

Words: 3,635; Status: Complete

TW: Panic, Vomit mention, themes of death.

Okay, he looks significantly less friendly than Wulf. Though, perhaps a tad nicer than Cujo's angry form. Maybe Danny can calm him down, slowly lead him somewhere safer. Coax him away from Casper High, without getting into a fight that promises to be filled with sharp teeth and claw marks. Clockwork forbid the school bell goes off when a ghost wolf who clearly has a lot of pent up anger is stalking the halls not far from the gym.

"Easy, boy." Phantom mutters, hand stretched in front of him in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner. When he first tried to aim the thermos at him the ghost-wolf lashed out. Danny's unsure if the animal knows what the thermos can do, or is aware it's a threat, or perhaps is confusing the metallic contraption for a gun. Either way the ghost boy is too close to the animal right now to try anything like that again without getting his glove bitten off. Sure, his Hazmat got ruined all the time, he's slightly more concerned about the hand residing in the glove though. It would be nice to return to class in one piece rather than partially digested by a wolf or exposed to some kind of spectral rabies. Maybe? Do ghosts have rabies? Okay, we'll be wondering if bacteria has the possibility for an ecto afterlife when we're in a slightly less half-life threatening situation, perhaps.

Danny keeps his knees bent and his stance wide to improve his balance and increase his reaction time whilst still making himself smaller in hopes of appearing less threatening. He moves around the spirit in a circle, not wanting to risk getting any closer. Maybe if he can find a blind spot he can shoot the thermos from there. He's hesitant to put distance between them. Surely the last thing to do when faced with a growling wild animal, is give chase. Would the animal freak if he floated or phased? Was hiding in the air vents a really idiotic plan?

Given the direction he was walking he was about to hit a wall, or rather go through it and into the boys locker room. If he left the wolf's line of sight he had no doubt it would bolt after him. After all, Phantom's the only person the wolf has seen here, if he's going to try to hunt anyone down then it's him. Class is still in session so there's no humans nearby enough for the wolf to go after.

There is a door to the boys locker room which would make entry less hazardous than phasing, he thinks. Going through that entrance however would require moving closer to the beast, which isn't going to happen.

Side hitting the wall, he phases through. From within the plasterboard he kicks upwards into the ceiling as he hears the crash of the animal splintering the wooden door open. Great. More property damage. He floats into the air ducts and regains his solidity. For some reason the crashing sound hasn't stopped. The wolf is yelping, growling, whimpering, the clattering going on sounds almost metallic as it echoes through the vents. Danny tentatively places his fingers onto the walls around him. Tail rippling as he meanders forward, slowly, towards the light leaking in from below, the grates of the vent. If he can aim the thermos through it unnoticed, then that's this confrontation solved.

"Damn it! Pesky mutt!" Danny freezes as a deep voice reverberates from below. "Where did he go?!" It growls as a sickening splat cuts through all other sounds of chaos. Danny's habit of breathing stops as he remains as still as he can. That sound… that wasn't good.

The smell of copper and formaldehyde bites at his nose hairs and he almost chokes. He can taste it at the back of his throat against the rising acid. Ectoplasm.

That wasn't all, Skulker is down there. Quiet settling over them that yelled louder in his ears than anything previously from that room.

The wolf was gone. Must have been. Scent alone told him that much. Smoky as though it's very ectoplasm had been grilled. He knew the smell of destabilisation. Skulker swore. Why could Danny smell pine needles now? And fresh grass? Why did that make the urge to vomit even harder to suppress?

He doesn't want to see, doesn't want to know. Unbidden, his body floats forward without him telling it to. He reaches the grate, can finally see the state of the locker room below him. Pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks, his throat closes at the sight.

Skulker isn't looking at him, fortunately, though it's clear the hunter can sense his prey is still nearby. The wolf, the bait, Danny realises, is barely recognisable. It's clear where it happened, a glowing blue net loose against the wall next to the door. With his enhanced hearing, Phantom can hear the net humming faintly. Was it, supposed to do this? The halfa wonders to himself.

Chunks of green lie below the net, barely touching it. Ectoplasm was usually viscous, think cornstarch in water, able to change between thin liquid and liquid thick enough to stand on its own. The chunks down there looked more like raw lime jello. With lines of black from where it had clearly made contact with the net. Dark smoke continued to rise from it in wisps. None of the discernibly wolf features remained. A light in the pile, a natural forest green compared to the now dark rotting green of the rest, it glowed like a flickering light. Something was oozing from it, but it wasn't ectoplasm, it was something deeper, more important, vital. It evaporated into mist immediately after contact with the air. The wolf's core had ruptured, cracked, shattering, it was bleeding out right in front of them and neither of the ghosts were trying to do anything about it. There wasn't anything they could do. An involuntary shiver wracks Danny's body as another wave of tree bark and pine passes over him.

They shouldn't be so close, this is so incredibly personal. No one should be looking at this, no one should be smelling this. But the animal died with them. It shouldn't be alone for this. It's too much, a new level of suffering and death that no spirit should ever have to go through. It's essence and soul is clinging to the scents in the air around them. Phantom and Skulker are the only people who can accept it, so they must.

It takes another fourteen minutes for the glow to leave the core and the smell around them to disperse. After which time, Skulker lowers his head. Placing a hand against his chest plate, the hunter mumbles an apology in ghost speak before he turns tail and leaves the room through the wall. This was hardly a situation to continue the hunt, so he doesn't.

Danny didn't like toast already, why the hell would Skulker have a ghost toaster? It was barbaric. Intentional core damage was very taboo, by everyone's standards, not just Walker's. The ghost boy moves through the vent and descends until he drops onto the floor by his toes. Neither of them have moved the net or disturbed the remains. Regular ectoplasm would evaporate naturally over time, he hopes that's able to happen now. He feels a slight territorial growl at the thought of any humans interfering with the animal husk. Glaring at the splintered door, he drags a bench in front of it. Stepping back with his head at a tilt, he uses his ghostly strength to stack another bench on top of it, in hopes that the humans would get the message. Stay Out. Sighing to himself, he mumbles a "good luck" in ghost speak before turning and leaving via the wall.

"Oh good grief." Ms Tetslaff grumbles as she passes the boys locker room on her way to the gym. She doesn't care who did it but if she does find out who then they're in for one hell of a kickboxing match. She slams her fist into her other palm and cracks her knuckles. How could someone cause chaos like this on tonight of all nights!? They needed to have the gym looking it's best! If she discovers even a hint of disturbance in that room too, she just might lose it.

The gym is fine, thankfully. Principal Ishiyama is in there with Mr Falluca, discussing the layout for the room. Tonight was supposed to be prom night, they had around 5 hours to decorate before students were meant to be arriving. Laraine calms herself and marches over to the folded tables to set them up along the wall.

"An Inspector Calls! Laraine!" Edward Lancer poked his head through the doors to the gym, exasperated. "Could you lend us a hand please? It seems that door has been barricaded from the inside, as well as broken into pieces!" Mrs Tetslaff nods and sets down the table she was carrying.

Ghosts then? She huffs. At least that means the students will live to see another day, unless the culprit is still inside. In which case they won't be having anything to do with tonight's celebrations if she gets a say in it. She punches her arm through the wide crack in the wood and grasps tightly onto the edge of whatever's blocking it beneath. Bracing her shoulders against the door, she flicks her wrist and shoves against it. They all hear the clatter of the barrier as she steps back and slams against the door again. This time it gives, they force through into the room.

Mrs Tetslaff's eyes dart around the mess. Yep, definitely ghosts. Wheeling his cleaning cart next to her, the long suffering janitor heaves a huge sigh and grumbles to himself. She shoots him a sympathising look before returning to the gym with Edward.

In the past, proms at Casper had always had themes; Medieval times, Fantasy, 70's night. Some genius on the PTA decided this year's should have a supernatural theme. Oh the hilarity. Some adults were in one corner blowing up black balloons and preparing to decorate the walls with the Halloween supplies, while the librarian and Mr Falluca seemed to have had the idea of putting an orange feather boa on the skeleton from the biology department. As if that could only ever end well. Mrs Tetslaff finished setting the tables up, lined with black plastic table cloths, ready for punch, nibbles and candy.

"Oh for- The Legend of Sleepy Hollow!" Laraine marches over to the exasperated English teacher.

"Whatever is it now, Edward?" The man was reaching the end of his tether and responds only by shoving the Halloween bunting into her hands.

"Ah." Or rather, the remains of the Halloween bunting. Disintegration appears to have occurred while it was in the box. Although, upon closer inspection, the plastic maintains an unnatural cold and there are faint scorch marks at the edge of the ribbons. Ghosts, again. So they were going to have a prom in a room with a skeleton and a lot of black balloons, seems more like a particularly gothic funeral than a celebration for teenagers.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Mr Lancer sighed, picking through the box and watching it all turn to dust at his fingertips.

"Quit mopin'," she began, "I'm sure we'll think of something. I'll head to the shops and see if there's anything I can find."

"But it's the middle of May?!" He exclaimed, she simply levelled him a glare and stepped towards the gym doors with heavy feet.

On her way out when she crossed paths with the janitor, something in particular catches her eye. She does a double take, taps the elderly man on the shoulder and points towards the object in question.

"Can I borrow this?" She asks, "I might just have had a really good idea." She remembers the art teacher is stood just a room away, he is going to love this.

The trio had left for prom a tad early, expecting to be caught up in ghost attacks and ending up fashionably late. None of them want to inconvenience any dates so they've decided to go together as friends, just in case. If somehow no ghosts attack and Tucker ends up meeting someone he likes while they're there, then good for him. Danny and Sam will just have to despair at his absence. As if they don't have the pleasure of seeing him everyday.

For once in their lives, however, Amity was actually being pretty quiet tonight. The trio are left to their own excitement for the upcoming party. Tucker is smiling gleefully, pride rolling from his shoulders over his hand-made costume.

"I say we have a contest tonight, see how many girls Danny Phantom can get, versus how many girls the far superior, younger, fresher, finer, Tucker Phantom can get?" He brushes his fingers through his white anime wig and glances over to his friend.

While said friend is undeniably Danny Phantom, at this time he's just Danny Fenton, black hair, red trainers and blue jeans. The only difference being his shirt, while still white, this shirt has black text that reads 'Nobody knows I'm dead.'

"Or you can spend tonight enjoying yourself in ways that don't involve pressuring someone into showing you affection." Sam rolls her eyes playfully at her friend.

"You're just jealous that you couldn't put together a cool ghost cosplay in time!"

"Um- you think I'm a cool ghost?" Danny cracked a smile.

"Hell yeah man, you're friends with me aren't you? That alone makes you the coolest, never mind the awesome super powers and the teen idolisation." The halfa just shakes his head and feels his cheeks heat in response.

"For the record," Sam spoke up "I don't feel the need to dress up as a ghost, not to infringe on or appropriate the culture of spirits or anything, but I'm dead inside all the time anyway. I can be a creature of the night any old day of the week." she stated with pride. It's not like she isn't making an effort, this year she has a black gothic dress with green and gold detailing, no one questions how she is able to speak so clearly with those fangs in her mouth again.

"Speaking of effort," Tucker redirects his attention, "Hey Danny, what happened to cutting some holes in a bed sheet and layering them over that outfit? You know no one's going to get that t-shirt, right?"

"Firstly, you've met my dad. In what universe is it safe to walk within 9 yards of him with a bed sheet over your head, regardless of species. Secondly, you guys get the t-shirt and I'm not wearing it for any one else, I'm wearing it for me because it is hecking hilarious. I paid good money for this online okay? You can't take this away from me, I won't let you." He pouted exaggeratedly at Tucker while the teen giggled at the imagery of Jack Fenton single handedly destroying a whole bed section of a store.

Turning into Casper High, Sam's heels click against the concrete as they walk towards the back entrance to the gym. An aged looking banner adorns the entryway, the double doors are closed. Nearby stood the ticket stand, the line for which is considerably short, though it makes sense considering how early in the night it is.

The trio slow their pace as they near the queue. A slight chill is in the air, Sam folds her arms into her torso, Tucker's jaw clenches, something like liquid nitrogen tries to crawl up Danny's throat. It's not too unusual, it's early evening but more notably - they live in a ghost town. Usually there's plenty of cold spots dotted around the place, even more so when the halfas are around, which is why he's not particularly off put. That is, until the couple at the front of the queue head inside, the moment the door cracks open.

A sense of foreboding increases tenfold. The first thing that hits him is the smell. It's odd but his head still snaps up and his breathing slows instinctively. He's not sure why it has his attention. It reminds of cheap watered down bleach, or the stuff he uses to clean his parents lab when there's been a particularly bad explosion that demands his attention. It looks fairly dark inside, but there's an unpromising quality to it, a light glow that resonates within him. Eyebrows creasing, Danny remains silent as the three teens take a few steps forwards in line.

Eye contact is maintained with the door the whole wait. If Sam and Tucker notice his examining gaze then they don't comment on it. Next time the door opens it has his full attention. The room, it almost has an aura of its own. His core doesn't poke towards it in curiosity like it would a ghost and obviously his ghost sense hasn't gone off, so what's going on? Maybe there's some kind of giant ghostly relic that's somehow found its way into his school gym. Okay, that sounds stupid. They're almost in anyway, he'll see what's happening for himself then.

When they reach the table the ghost boy doesn't spare a glance for whoever's manning the stall. He simply slams his money down and marches over to the door, arms outstretched. With a tug of the handle he drags the door wide open.

The lights are off, but it's not pitch black. The walls are covered with something that he's certain everyone else here is under the delusion of being glow in the dark paint. It forms shapes that dance across the walls, little characters whose faces are mock attempts of scary, but it's not the smiles that are sinister. His friends are at his side as the realisation settles further. That is not glow in the dark paint.

Yes, it smelt like his parents basement. Ectoplasm mixed with disinfectant. He recognises the smell now there isn't a barrier in the way. His pupils faded from his eyes as realisation dawned, exactly where this ectoplasm was from, who this ectoplasm was from. Green is all he can see, it's swarming his senses, filling his oesophagus, thrashing against his sides.

No, that wasn't the ectoplasm. People had their hands on him, grabbing him, holding him, trying to drag him one way or another. It feels like he's drowning but his mouth is dry, his chest is constricting. Faintly, a part of him is surprised that his soul hasn't left his body yet. His core is flaring, trying to reach out.

He wants to hunt down whoever is responsible, wants to hurt them. Wants to rip the building down by shaping the ectoplasm in his fingers into claws, wants to chase everyone away and carefully peel the remains from the walls and find somewhere safer to put them. Idiot. Leaving someone's final remains in a public school. What were Skulker and himself expecting from humans?

Woah, back up. Stop. He could calm down from this. Blinking, his eyes burn with un-shed tears. He grips the grass between his fingers until his knuckles turned white. He releases a shaky breath and takes another one. Regaining his bearings, it registers that he's sat in the grass a little away from the building but still on school grounds. His head feels too heavy for his neck to hold, so he drops it. Facing down towards his knees, he clasps his eyes shut and focuses on evening his breathing to that of a regular human being. He shoves down the panic that rises as his vision is clouded by eyelids that carry a faint green tinge. His throat feels red raw now that the numbness is leaving his body, like someone had forced him to swallow acid. He hadn't vomited had he? He cracks his eyes open to check his surroundings. Tucker is sat next to him, hovering a hand over Danny's shoulder but hesitant to actually touch him. The techno-geek looks startled, the thumb of his left hand moving swiftly across his PDA as his eyes scan the text. Sam isn't nearby. She's a distance away, closer to the gym than she is to him, waving her hands frantically in the face of one of the chaperones.

Danny rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes and fully raises his head. The movement draws a flinch out of his best friend whose head snaps up to check over him with wide eyes.

"You okay, man?" The boy asks, voice soft and steady, "Blood Blossoms gone?" "Blood Blossoms?" the halfa croaks, hand clutching at his throat in a vain attempt to fix the cracks. "Yeah, it looked pretty bad. I couldn't see the red lightning like last time though. I was trying to check if there was some other subspecies with slightly different properties, we couldn't see the circle anywhere either. You seemed kind of… mad when we tried to get you away but you started to calm down after a minute or so, so like…" He trails off and smiles reassuringly, Danny pretends not to notice the dark circle beginning to blossom on his friend's jaw or the feeling of drying red blood cracking beneath his own fingernails. The trembling across his form is dying down as he shakes his head slowly. "That wasn't-" His voice creaks and he tries again "wasn't Blood Blossoms. Th-they, um…" biting his cheek to centre himself, he swears, it comes out as a shaky whisper.

"What kind of awful, terrifying creature, lines their walls with the blood and broken soul of the dead and gone?"

Based on WhosVladAgain’s Prompt: They're doing prom decorations and ran out of glow in the dark paint; luckily ectoplasm does too…

#panic // #emetophobia // #death // #its like a minor ghost character its fine #i just saw this prompt and was like 'im sorry how is that not ominous as hell??' #phic phight #phic phight 19 #phic phight 2019 #own post #owly writes #teamghost #danny phantom #danny fenton #((the net was supposed to get hot enough to make a halfa transform back into human form)) #ficlet

[snarky-badger]

Prompt: Reader has a shitty relationship with reality. Weird crap happens to them and things that shouldn’t happen do. Sometimes they will go missing out of the blue do it it and just show up a couple weeks later. They usually carry around a recorder with them so they can show people they aren’t insane but they forget it and go missing for a bit before coming back. Eddie/Venom FREAK the fuck out.

This is my second attempt at this, as tumblr deleted the first draft I wrote! Grr. Still, it was fun to write! Kinda more Eddie and less Venom.

Your life was weird. Which was to say, you and reality had apparently met and broken up with no chance at reconciliation.

It had started when you were eight. Now, keep in mind, you’d been born in the eighties, so it was high weirdness to suddenly be in possession of a computer the size of your hand.

You’d been playing when something had just popped out of nowhere, bouncing off your head before clattering to the ground. A little dazed, you’d picked it up and discovered that it was something called an iPhone 8. You’d played with it for hours before it had simply vanished out of your hands, leaving an odd chill and a very baffled you behind.

Things had only gotten more complicated from there.

More things appeared and vanished around you, sometimes little things, like keys or books, sometimes big things, like your parent’s minivan.

When you were twelve, you’d vanished from school. Literally. Your parents had gone insane. Search parties were sent out, Amber Alert’s announced, police canvased the entire neighbourhood. When you’d reappeared a week later, your parents had ignored your tale of meeting Robin Hood and grounded you for running away and making up stories.

Your childhood and adolescence was peppered with disappearances, your parents believing that you were a liar and a runaway, and you had suffered through numerous trips to various hospitals because of the ‘tales’ you told.

You’d started bringing a tape recorder with you to film your adventures when you were fourteen. Over time, you upgraded to camcorder, then your smartphone, and finally a hidden camera that you could bring wherever you ended up. You had images and videos saved that surpassed any CG movie out there.

It was odd, you realized, that when you ‘popped’ into new worlds, that no one there thought twice of your sudden appearance. You just blended in with whatever timeline or universe you’d slid into, as if you were supposed to be there in the first place. You’d seen dinosaurs, broke bread with dragon-slayers, saved dragons from dragon-slayers, visited far off worlds and even alternate universes just a smidgen different from your own.

It continued on until you were old enough to move out. Sure, you still vanished from time to time, visiting odd and strange places, but it was fun for you. New experiences and new adventures. The hell with your doubting parents. This was your life and you embraced it.

You’d been chased by a feathered T-Rex, nearly gotten run over by a horse drawn carriage that belonged to Sherlock Holmes - the older one not the hot one - shared mead with Hobbits, gunned down zombies, met aliens - not the probing kind - gotten bitten by a chupacabra, encountered a rather irritated Dalek that had also popped out of his universe, hell, you’d even met Captian Picard of the USS Enterprise!

Things became more complicated when you started dating.You’d originally sworn off dating because of the trouble presented when you slipped out of your universe, but Eddie Brock had been sweet and handsome and with a sparkling wit and down to earth charm that had made turning him down impossible.

You imagined he’d expected you to freak out when, a month into dating, he’d confided in you that he was bonded to an alien symbiote and that he moonlighted as Venom most nights.

You’d seen a lot of weird shit by then, so you’d merely shrugged, shaken Venom’s hand and asked him what he preferred white or dark chocolate cake.

When Eddie had moved in, things got decidedly complicated. You managed to explain your disappearances by saying it was work related, that you had to run off at any time to catch a plane or a train. Thanks to being a veteran of falling out of your dimension into another, you could usually ‘feel’ a slip before it happened.

He’d accepted it with grace - after all, he was Venom. He thought he knew strange.

You were waffling over whether to tell him what was really going on. Had practiced the conversation. Were even willing to let him see what was in the mystically locked chest at the foot of your bed.

It was filled with keepsakes from your journeys: A sword made of enchanted glass from Skyrim, a computer pad you’d stolen from the Enterprise, bits of shells from a dinosaur egg, the Hope Diamond, a Venom comic-book - that was going to take some explanation - an ‘Arum’ from the Elite home world from the Halo universe, a pile of gems and coins from Smaug himself - you’d popped out of that world before getting charbroiled - a feather as long as your arm from a Roc, a working phaser, three seashells, several sets of armor and ancient clothing, a Lightsaber you’d stolen from one baffled Anakin Skywalker before he’d gone batty, and an emerald the size of your fist - you hoped Sonic had made due without it.

You’d actually been trying to work up the nerve to talk to Eddie after a date, on the walk home, when you’d literally popped out of existence.

Shit.

You reappeared in the middle of a fight between a rag tag group of people and something called a ‘dracolich’. Which was a fancy word for ‘skeleton dragon’.

By then, you were rather used to appearing in the middle of a crisis, so you’d taken up a sword and joined the fight. By the time the undead dragon was properly dead - thanks to one of the group that had turned out to be a necromancer - you’d pretty much ingratiated yourself to the group, and no one questioned where you’d appeared from.

You spent a month with them, fulfilling quests, getting drunk at taverns, and being rewarded by kings and peasants both. You had enough gold coins to pay for your apartment for the next fifty years. Your new friends, the necromancer, a draconian, an archer and a sorceress made you the honorary ‘knight’ of the group, even chipping in to buy you a set of armor tailored to you.

It was while your friends were at a brothel - you may have been in a different universe but you did have a boyfriend back home, hence the ‘no brothel’ rule for you - that things went sideways again. You popped, appearing in the middle of a conference at the UN where there were lizards instead of people, waved, then popped again, reappearing in San Francisco.

This wouldn’t have been such a bad thing had you not been decked out in full armor, armed with numerous knives and a broadsword. The fact that you’d appeared in the middle of a wedding just made things more complicated.

You managed to weave a spiel about trying out your ‘costume’ for the next Comic Con before making a run for it.

Hoping that Eddie was still around somewhere, you trudged home, incurring various stunned looks as you went. Ignored them with long practice, even when you got on the elevator and had to ride to the top floor next to a women with two children.

Lacking a key, you merely kicked your front door in, freezing in the doorway when you spotted a very confused Eddie on your couch. He was obviously in the middle of working on a new article - papers and notebooks were scattered around him haphazardly.

“Um…. hi?” You even wiggled your fingers at him in a little wave, armor glinting in the light from the windows.

Everything went flying - laptop included, ouch - when he realized who you were. He crossed the apartment in a run before wrapping you up in a crushing embrace.

“You’re alive!”

The stark relief in his voice made you wither a little, and you lamely stayed silent, blinking up at him when he pushed you back and held you at arms length.

“Where have you been?! We searched the entire City for you! Twice! Thought you’d been kidnapped or worse–”

You rose a hand to place your fingers against his mouth when his voice cracked, the tears in his eyes making a pit open up in your stomach. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have told you. This just…. happens, sometimes. Well, a lot of the time. I can’t control it. Usually I can feel it before it happens, but this time I didn’t have any warning and–”

“This has happened before?”

You winced a little and pulled away, walking past him and into the apartment. Waited until he’d closed the door before speaking again. “Weird things have been happening to me since I was eight. Things would pop in and out of existence around me, things that we’re from my time or our world. They’d always vanish again eventually…. When I was twelve I vanished for a week, met Robin Hood, he taught me how to shoot a bow–”

The look of disbelief on Eddie’s face made you growl. “See that? That right there. That’s why I don’t tell people. My parents had me admitted to psych wards because I trusted them. You know what electro-shock therapy is? It ain’t fun! But this shit happens to me, all the time. And you, Venom, are not the poster child for normality, so quit lookin’ at me like that!”

He winced at bit at that, then sighed and walked over to you. “Okay. Okay, we’re sorry, this just sounds….”

“Insane. I’m aware. I’m also aware that since aliens exist and that there are mutants running around and a guy in New York called ‘Spider-Man’, that this isn’t the weirdest thing in this reality.”

“Point.”

“Damn right ‘point’,” you muttered angrily, huffing as you headed for your bedroom. “There’s also the fact that I’m not stupid enough to say these things without some goddamn proof. So, c’mere.”

Grumbling a little, you stomped over to the locked chest at the foot of your bed, shoving clothes off of it before raising your thumb to your mouth and biting into the meat of it. Eddie made a noise of complaint at the sight, and you rolled your eyes at him.

“Needs blood given without duress to open,” you explained as you pressed your thumb to the lock, grinning at his look of shock when the combination lock spun crazily, five numbers clicking into place before the three heavy latches popped open. “Got this thing from a wizard when I turned twenty. Best security I ever invested in.”

The flabbergasted look on Eddie’s face was almost worth it when you started pulling things out and laying them on the bed, explaining what each and every one of them were and where you’d gotten them from. His eyes got bigger and bigger with every keepsake you pulled out, right up until you pulled out the Venom comic and thrust it into his face.

“Bet you were wondering why I was so chill when you told me about the symbiote, huh? I already knew about it.”

“This can’t be real,” left him in a whisper as he took the comic and flipped through it. The symbiote that was masquerading as his shirt visibly undulated, a tendril extending to poke at the comic, as if to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

“Oh, it is real buster. There’s a reality where practically every weird ass thing in this world is just a bunch of stories. Spider-Man, Magneto, Wolverine, fuck, the entire X-Men School - comic-books. Every single one. There’s a universe where Batman is real, another where the galaxy nearly got it’s metaphorical balls handed to it by monstrosities called ‘Reapers’, another where crab-people try to overthrow governments. Trust me, I have seen some weird shit.“

“You never told anyone?”

“The people I did tell had me committed,” you reminded him. “I learned to keep this kinda shit to myself. I wanted to tell you. I did. But…. Well, the amount of people who have flipped out on me and left is kinda a hundred percent. I have videos, and they still didn’t believe me.”

Eddie shook his head a little, still looking stunned. “We believe you. It’s impossible not to. We’re holding the story of our own history in our hands.”

“Sorry about that. Kinda had to go for the shock value.” You paused, hesitant. “You really believe me?”

The wary hope in your voice made him walk over to you and wrap you up in a hug, leaning his forehead against yours. “You’re very convincing.”

“And the symbiote?”

“Glad to have our morsel back.” Eddie blinked a little, then cleared his throat as the symbiote released control of his voice. “We’re relieved you’re alright. We mourned you. We’ve spent the past month trying to find you.”

“This’ll happen again,” you warned him softly. “I can’t control it. I wish I could, but I can’t. And I don’t have control about how long I stay away. Could be a week, could be a month….”

“But you’ll come back? Eventually?”

“Always do.”

“Promise to come home to us?”

You smiled. “Hun, if you can put up with the insanity that is my life, you’re practically stuck with me.”

“Good,” he murmured before kissing you, and you shivered happily as you kissed him back. “Now, show us how that Lightsaber works.”

#snarky is writing #filled prompt #venom x reader #reader x venom #venom #eddie brock x reader #reader x eddie brock

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Next entry for @badthingshappenbingo !

Reminder that I am still accepting prompts for this! Check out my initial post for the guidelines. Also note the current bingo card on this post–the things I mark with crossbones are completed prompts, and ones with a single bone are ones that have been requested, but not written yet.

(Fics are also posted to AO3 and FFN, but please just use the links in my blog desc to get to those ‘cuz I’m too tired to make links for them.)

Aaand here’s our next prompt, submitted by BookwormGal (who does not have a Tumblr). Beware, this one gets a bit... brutal.

Prompt: Setting a Broken Bone Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón

A metallic groan filled the air, waking Héctor up from his daze. He wasn’t sure what time it was, or even what day it was, but he was very quickly aware of the overwhelming pain in his leg. In the dim light of the holding cell, he could see the scotch tape barely clinging to the two broken portions of his left tibia, the larger bone in his lower leg—the tape had lost most of its adhesiveness a day or so ago, and he was frankly amazed it had lasted this long. With a tired moan, he turned in his cot, trying to shift the broken leg to a more comfortable position, only to belatedly realize why that was a bad idea. The two broken ends scraped against each other, and his voice pitched up into a shriek that quickly tapered off.

He’d done quite enough screaming over the past few… days, or however long it had been since Dia de Muertos.

Not long enough, given he wouldn’t be able to try again until next year. Ay.

Past the heavy cell door, he could hear hushed voices, followed by a faint clinking. It was too hard to think past the pain, so he thought nothing of it until the door creaked open.

Lifting himself up on his elbow, he blinked at the two guards who stared down at him. They were looking from his face and back to his injured leg, the older one of them frowning and the younger one wincing. The first leaned over to his partner, trying to whisper to her, but Héctor caught what he was saying anyway: “You see what I mean?”

“Hola,” Héctor said, forcing a tired smile. “Can I help you, señor y señora?”

“Uh… no,” the younger guard said, glancing away briefly. “We’re just here to tell you that you’re free to go.”

“…Go? Right now?” He reached up to scratch his dirty wig, eyes narrowing as he tried to think past the fog of pain. Had it really been… a month? Was that how long he’d been here? That was how long he was supposed to be here, he was pretty sure. Or maybe the corrections officer had been exaggerating?

“We’re letting you out early, Rivera,” the older guard said, pulling his hands behind his back. “Under normal circumstances you’d carry out the full sentence, but…”

“You need a doctor,” the younger guard blurted out. “Seriously. We can’t keep you here in this state.”

Oh. A doctor, huh? Aside from the fact that he wasn’t particularly keen on a man he didn’t know rearranging his bones…

He lay back down in his cot, snatching his hat from the floor and setting it over his face, smiling sadly. “Well, it’s a nice thought,” he said, managing a laugh, “but that sort of thing costs money that I don’t have.”

“Regardless, she’s right. We really can’t keep you here like this, and frankly, we don’t want to.”

“Can’t imagine why.” He resisted the urge to wiggle the foot on his bad leg in demonstration. Of course, he could guess what they were talking about—he wasn’t exactly deaf to the pained sounds he was making. Or maybe they could just feel sorry for him, but he doubted it.

“Basta.” He heard the guard’s bones clatter in what was probably an exasperated gesture. “You’re free to go, Rivera. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Sí,” Héctor replied, with no small amount of bitterness. “Just give me a moment to hop on up.” In truth, he wasn’t exactly upset about being let out early, but… if they were actually concerned about his well-being, they might have done something to help him with his leg.

At least they hadn’t made him deal with those awful cuffs—the ones that had some sort of magic in them that locked one’s bones together. He usually had to deal with those things to keep him from pulling himself apart to slip through the bars, but this time they hadn’t bothered—not like he could get anywhere with a snapped tibia.

Biting his lip, he re-adjusted his hat and carefully eased himself up into a sitting position, staring down at the two halves of his left tibia. Hm, this would be a challenge. He reached down to peel off the remainder of the tape first, which should have been an easy task. Most of it wasn’t sticky anymore to begin with, having quickly gotten covered in dust and ash, but as he pulled it away a small part caught against the jagged crack in the bone, and he jumped in his seat with a startled yelp.

“D-do you need help, Señor Rivera?” the younger guard stammered, and he gazed up at them.

The female guard was new—mid-to-late twenties, it looked like, possibly even recently-dead, given he hadn’t seen her before. Her hair was in a long, dark braid that went past her waist, and she didn’t wear lipstick. She stood oddly tall compared to the other guard—Juan, he recalled the name suddenly. Juan was big and stocky (or as stocky as a skeleton could be), but not much in the height department, whereas this girl looked like she might be barely shorter than Héctor. She kept looking from her partner and back to him, and Héctor couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable with the situation in general, or just uncomfortable with him.

Probably the latter. No one felt comfortable around the dusty old souls from the shanties.

“I’ll manage,” he grumbled finally, tossing the wad of tape away and looking down at his leg again. He wasn’t going to put weight on his tibia—he wasn’t sure if he could wreck his bones permanently, and he didn’t want to find out. So… he’d have to be a little more creative. At first he almost tried to grab for half of his tibia, but it wasn’t set right, and trying to pull it off that way would be disastrous. Instead he plucked off his kneecap, ignoring the sounds of disgust from the guards, grabbed the bottom half of his broken tibia with one hand, and with his other hand carefully eased his already-loose fibula off of his leg. The bottom half of the tibia, no longer connected to anything, came loose, and Héctor set it to his other side, wincing when he placed it on the bed. Next came the upper half, which he gently tugged away and set next to its mate, before reassembling the rest of his leg.

With his femur and kneecap connected to the fibula, which was connected to his foot, that should give him… some support, right?

“Wh… what is he doing,” the younger guard whispered, not quite quiet enough for Héctor to miss it.

“What I can,” Héctor replied simply, pressing his hands into either side of his cot as he eased himself to his feet. He kept most of his weight on his good leg and braced one hand against the wall. Even then, his bad leg was already wobbling. The fibula was definitely not made to bear weight by itself, but maybe it would last him until he got to Shantytown. He pulled his hand away from the wall, and, when he didn’t immediately fall, forced a smile. “See? You can learn to make due when—”

Pop.

Héctor flailed as he tried to lean toward the wall again a second too late, and quickly loosened his joints as his body tipped over on its left side. A few bones were knocked out of place at the impact, but were otherwise unharmed, and he grumbled as he willed himself back together, careful to keep the tibia away. Right, he’d forgotten that fibula didn’t like to stay in place anymore.

“Enough of this,” Juan growled, grabbing Héctor by the arm and hoisting him up. “Yolanda, you take his other side.”

The female guard—Yolanda, evidently—shot Héctor an apologetic look as she took his other arm, lifting it around her shoulders. Hesitantly she glanced over at the broken tibia sitting on the cot, and reached down to pick up one of the pieces, looking like someone who had to pick up a particularly filthy piece of trash.

Héctor immediately shuddered, clenching his teeth. “Ay, be careful with that—!” he whined, and Yolanda responded by tucking the broken bone under her free arm, and doing the same with the other half, thankfully keeping the broken ends away from each other.

So here he was, being hoisted by two guards out of the holding cell early, with his tibia being carried by one of the guards and rubbing against itself.

It was going to be one of those days.

Keeping his head down and his hat shading his face, Héctor let himself be dragged out of the building, biting his metaphorical tongue against the “friendly” jeers a few of the workers there threw at him: “Ah, there he is!” “Ey, gotta keep yourself together.” “That was some show on Dia de Muertos! Could’a used more fireworks, though.” “Tough luck, huh? Maybe next year, amigo!”

Yes, maybe next year he would cross so he didn’t have to stick around to hear their estúpido unfunny jokes. But finally he was out of the building and out onto the streets, and Juan shrugged him off of his shoulders. “All right. You can head on home, now.”

“What?” Héctor blurted, snapping his head up to give the guard an incredulous look. “You’re just gonna leave me here like this?”

“This is the Department of Family Reunions, not a transportation service. The gondola station’s two blocks away, trolley is three.”

“Ah, sí, let me just walk over there on my one leg!” he snarled, but the guard had already turned away and was walking up the steps. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he turned to the other officer, who was looking away. “What? Aren’t you gonna leave, too?”

“Uh, well.” Yolanda re-adjusted her grip on his broken tibia, causing him to hiss at the mild pain. “My shift ends in…”—she glanced at her watch—“six minutes anyway. I… I can help you get to the station, if… if you…”

“So you don’t have leaving a pobre soul like me to fend for himself on your conscience?” he muttered, and immediately winced when he realized he’d said it aloud. “I… lo siento. Yes. I would… like that.”

Seeming to ignore his earlier comment, she gave him a look over, her gaze lingering on his bad leg (the fibula barely clinging to his femur and kneecap) before she pulled him a little closer. “Be careful,” she said, and began walking. “Where is it you need to get to?”

Rattling off the tower address and the station that would take him the closest to his section of Shantytown (and it was never close), Héctor put the rest of his focus on keeping his bad leg from falling apart again. That fibula did not want to stay connected, and if he moved his leg just wrong, it was going to come apart again.

“You’re sure I can’t take you to a doctor, señor?” Yolanda asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“No,” he said quickly, staring down at the cobblestone beneath his bare feet. “I don’t have the money, and anyway, they don’t…” Realization struck him, and and he shut his eyes as a numbness filled the void where his stomach once was. “They don’t… treat people who can’t heal.”

The guard went silent after that, and Héctor resumed his focus on keeping his leg from falling apart, or trying to. Don’t think about it right now, he told himself as the numbness slowly began to morph into something more dangerous that would not help him right now. It may still be okay. They can probably still do something for you back home. There are people there worse than you, and they get through, right? You’ll be okay.

“Señor?”

Blinking, Héctor shook himself out of his thoughts and found himself staring down at his solitary foot.

…Wait…

“You… seem to have dropped something back there.”

Ay, this was going to be a long day.

It took a few tries to get his fibula reconnected with the rest of his leg, but they managed, and Yolanda continued to walk him down to the gondola station. They reached it without incident, and Héctor dug through his pouch to scrounge up the coins necessary to pay for the trip, relieved he had enough for that, at least.

“Gracias,” he murmured to the girl as she helped him onto the bench in the little car and handed him the two halves of his tibia. But when she turned around to head out, he blinked. “Are you not coming?”

“No, sorry, señor,” she said, not turning to face him. “I… I need to get home to my family.”

“Ah.” Wish I could say the same. “Adiós, then.”

Unsurprisingly, the other passengers in the gondola seemed to be keeping their distance from him, some of them practically sitting on top of each other to avoid getting too close. The ones across from him deliberately looked away, or stole glances at his leg or his disconnected bones when they thought he wouldn’t notice. It was something he should probably be used to by this point, after so many decades of bearing dusty, yellowed bones and tattered clothes, but some part of him still ached at the thought that he’d become someone that no one wanted to be around.

Not even his family.

Heaving a shaking sigh, he tipped his hat to shadow his face, so he could at least pretend to not notice their stares.

While it was nice to rest his bad leg for a while, at least, the break was short-lived, and the gondola came to its final stop. Héctor stayed put, letting everyone else shuffle out around him so there wouldn’t be any witnesses to the spectacle of him trying to get out on one leg. As he waited, he stared down at his fibula, wondering if he could coax it to stay in place somehow. He had no more tape on him, however (he’d only grabbed as much as he could from the correction officer’s desk before being incarcerated), and not a lot of time before the conductor threw him out. He wrung his hands for a moment before catching a glimpse of his right sleeve—the worn suit had been damaged during his crossing attempt, some of the fabric toward the end hanging in shreds. Having no better ideas, he quickly tore off a strip of the fabric and got to work tying it around the end of his femur and his loose fibula.

Hopefully it would hold, at least until he got to Shantytown. There was nothing else he could do.

With one hand clutching the two halves of his broken tibia close to his chest, he used his other hand to push himself up off his seat, his left leg wobbling. The movement immediately felt wrong—the fibula was not meant to bear weight without the aid of the tibia—but he kept as much weight on his other leg as he could, and began limping.

People waiting the board the gondola immediately backed away upon seeing him, and he ignored them, trying to act like it was the most normal thing for a half-lame skeleton to be limping around and carrying his own broken bones with him. It wasn’t an easy feat when his leg left like it would give out beneath him with every step, but he kept it up anyway, at least until he got past the crowds. It was still a long walk to get to Shantytown from here, and in this condition, it would take even longer.

Héctor found himself getting worn out quickly, and hobbled over to lean against the wall of a building with the intent of resting until he caught his breath. Unfortunately the shop owner had other ideas, and poked his head through the doorway to ask Héctor to not loiter. Héctor could only mumble an apology as he shuffled away, too tired to put up a fight this time.

For some distance he carried on like that, limping down the gradually sloping streets and stopping to rest where he could. Occasionally people would openly stare at him and whisper to each other, but he was beyond caring at this point. Even with his efforts to put most of his weight on his good leg, his left fibula was aching something terrible, and his energy was near-spent by the time he was halfway to Shantytown. He couldn’t very well sleep on the side of the street, in front of one of these buildings—not unless he wanted to get arrested again—or fall asleep in an alley and risk falling prey to petty thieves, so he had to force himself to keep moving.

At one point his foot caught against an uneven cobblestone, and with a wave of blinding panic he realized he was about to slam his already-broken tibia into the street. Twisting himself around on his spine, he managed to turn his front half around, clutching his tibia to his chest for dear life and falling hard on his shoulder. The fall still hurt a bit, dislodging a few bones, but he’d prevented himself from ruining his leg any more than it already was, so at least he had that.

Taking a moment to catch his breath as his panic ebbed away, he called his bones back. He made it to his knees, and, not thinking, tried to push himself up on his bad leg. The pressure sent a jolt of pain through his fibula, and for a terrifying moment he thought the thin bone would snap. But it held, and he eased his leg back down.

As Héctor fought to stand up again, part of him wished someone would see his struggle and help him. But fewer people came down this low on the tower, and those who did walked in a wide arc around him, sparing him a glance, if anything. At the same time, he almost wished no one were here at all, so they wouldn’t have to see him in such a ridiculous predicament. Those who saw him were probably wondering what on earth he’d done to land himself in such a terrible position, and that was a question he didn’t want to explain the answer to.

It took him far longer than it should have to right himself, but he managed, and with a more pronounced limp he resumed his trek down to the shanties. Under his breath he nearly cursed the guard who had simply dumped him on the street when his screams had gotten too grating to listen to. It’s better than staying in there, though, he reminded himself, and the anger reluctantly ebbed away. They could have just made you stay there with your broken leg. And aside from that… they weren’t the ones at fault in the first place.

That would be the idiota who thought that attempting to rocket himself over the bridge via fireworks was a viable plan.

Ay, that would be something to explain to his Shantytown family. People didn’t usually ask questions there, but they might this time given the state he was coming home in. Ah, yeah, the fireworks. Turns out they don’t make good transportation. But they do have a tendency to blow off your limbs if you stand too close. Who knew, right?

A chuckle escaped his throat, only to be cut off by a gasp as his left leg gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. He wasn’t able to twist himself around this time, and his tibia was caught between his body and the hard cobblestone ground.

All that existed was pain. If Héctor were capable of thinking beyond the current agony, he would have found the pain comparable to what he’d felt the moment he’d realized his tibia was not in one piece.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there before he gradually became aware of a strange barking noise accompanied by an insectoid buzzing and distant footfalls, which he could just barely make out over what sounded like a hoarse scream nearby.

…Oh. That last part was him, wasn’t it?

Choking, he pushed himself up on his arm, wearily raising his head to see a sky-blue and neon-orange alebrije flying toward him—one that looked like a fox with ears as big as its body, and buzzing dragonfly wings carrying it through the air. It was strangely familiar, and suddenly he recalled that one of his primos back in Shantytown had an alebrije like that. But that would mean—!

“Héctor? Cousin Héctor?!”

Héctor wheezed out a laugh and let his head drop, facing the cobblestone below him. “Hola, Primo Lorenzo,” he said, lifting his head again and cocking a brow bone as the man got closer. The alebrije, meanwhile, landed next to him and began sniffing him over, its breath almost ticklish against him. “Good to see you out and about.”

“Where have you been, cousin?!” Lorenzo cried, hurrying closer. His sombrero, tied around his neck, was flailing behind him. “Did you get yourself arrested again? Why are you—Dios mio.” He stumbled, drawing back with an alarmed hiss.

“Ah, it’s, uh… not as bad as it looks.” Héctor gave a sheepish grin, but it must not’ve been enough to convince his primo, who was looking him over in horror.

Quickly Lorenzo’s widened eyes narrowed into a glare as he clenched his fists. “Who did this to you? Who do I gotta send Lola after, huh?”

Héctor looked askance at the little fox alebrije that was now nosing his cheekbone, tickling his face with her whiskers. “Looks like you’ve already sent her after the one responsible, primo.”

Lorenzo looked him over again before heaving a deep sigh, frame wilting. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Stooping down, he grasped Héctor’s hand and eased him to his feet.

Biting back a moan as the pain flared in all parts of his broken leg, Héctor shut his eyes, leaning to his right side. “Gracias,” he breathed, clutching the two halves of his tibia to his chest. He waited, expecting his primo to wrap his arm around his shoulders to help him limp back to Shantytown.

Instead, there was a moment of silence before Lorenzo spoke: “Uh-uh.” And suddenly Héctor was lifted off his feet and scooped up into the man’s arms.

“¡¿Que?!” Héctor blurted, opening his eyes to find himself being carried in the direction of the shanties. “Oye, what are you doing?!”

“You’re not walking like that,” Lorenzo said with a firm shake of his head. “Wouldn’t make it down two steps.”

…Ah. Right. The stairs. He’d forgotten about those. “Fair enough,” he muttered, settling himself in his primo’s arms. Meanwhile, Lola buzzed around him, whimpering in concern. He wondered if Lorenzo would ever ask him what happened, but the man remained quiet, at least until they got to the stairs (in a shockingly short length of time, he thought—at the rate Héctor had been going, it might have taken him another hour or so).

“Heh, thought I was going to go play for tips this evening,” Lorenzo said, shaking his head. “Guess there’s always tomorrow.”

“Do they still come near you?” Héctor glanced toward him; Lorenzo’s bones were only in slightly better condition than his own, though he had a crack through the bottom of his right eye socket.

“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing over Héctor’s ribs so he could see the steps beneath him. “If I can play good enough, sometimes they don’t notice just how yellow my bones are.” He glanced back at Héctor as he stepped down to the first landing. “You should try it sometime, cousin.”

Thinking about playing music again made a heavy weight settle in his chest cavity. “No gracias, primo.”

“Eh. Suit yourself.” With that, Lorenzo kept quiet as he continued carrying Héctor down the rickety staircase, concentrating on not falling off or through the rotten wood. But finally they reached the gates to Shantytown, and Héctor twitched his good leg.

“Set me down,” he whispered, “por favor. I…” I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. “…I think I can walk now.”

“You sure?”

“Sí. Please.”

Shrugging, Lorenzo eased Héctor down to his feet, but kept an arm around his shoulder. Héctor could accept that, throwing his own arm around his primo and grinning like they’d just been having a fun conversation. No need to worry the others, after all.

As they limped into town, immediately it came to life with the joyful cries of the nearly-forgotten. “Cousin Héctor!” a few souls shouted, waving enthusiastically, and he called out their names in return. “Where you been, cousin?” called another.

“Out and about?” He tried to shrug as best as he could. “You know, got to keep up with the plans, heh. Get ready for next year!” It wasn’t entirely a lie—when he’d been able to think around his pain, he had been contemplating potential new plans for next year. And he had been out and about. Primo Lorenzo was giving him a look, but he only grinned back, glancing pointedly in the direction of his shack.

“What’s that you’re carrying?” Tía Chelo asked, taking a few steps closer, and Héctor flinched, tugging it partially under his jacket.

“Nothing, nothing!” he said frantically, contemplating whether or not he should just scramble away from Lorenzo and bolt to his shack. “Just, uh…”

“Are you limping?” one tío asked, also stepping closer. “What’s—eEEEAGH!”

Héctor shut his eyes, gritting his teeth. Here we go.

“What happened to your leg?!”

“Pobrecito cousin! Are you carrying your—?”

“When did this happen?”

Dios, he didn’t want to answer any of this right now. But he held up his free hand, grinning as best as he could as he faced the growing crowd of souls. “Hey, estas bien! I can barely feel it. You don’t need to worry about me, eh, primos?”

“You’ve been gone for two days, Héctor!”

“It doesn’t hurt?! I broke my pinky toe last month and could hardly walk!”

“Is your fibula tied to your femur? ¿Estas loco?”

“¡Apártense!” a harsh voice cut through the crowd, and a few souls moved out of the way. “What’re you all gawking at?”

Héctor flinched, fighting the childish urge to duck behind Primo Lorenzo as a familiar figure hobbled to the front of the crowd. “Hola, Chicharrón,” he said, voice small.

Chicharrón looked him up and down, eying his mangled leg and shattered tibia. Quickly he made the connection, and his usual scowl deepened.

Héctor felt his non-existent guts sink. He knew what was going to happen next, and braced himself.

To his surprise, Chicharrón turned around, hobbling back toward his bungalow. “Well, bring him over,” he called over his shoulder.

…Okay, so he was probably saving it for later, then. Wouldn’t be the first time this had happened. Héctor looked cautiously at Lorenzo, who only shrugged and began to help Héctor across the boardwalk to Chicharrón’s house. A couple souls followed while the rest stared. Their looks may have been ones of sympathy, but Héctor would rather they not look at him at all.

As they entered the bungalow, Chicharrón immediately began digging through his shelves and piles. “Set him in the hammock,” he grumbled, tossing a shoebox full of socks behind him, “and make sure he stays there.”

Héctor frowned. “It’s all right, Cheech. I can get in myself,” he said, moving to get away from Lorenzo so he could prove it.

“No, you can’t.” The old man glanced over his shoulder, nodding at the two souls that had come with them—probably Estefan and Manuel, if he were to guess without looking.

Before he could check, they were both suddenly at either side of him, hooking their arms under his in a way that reminded him a little too much of the security guards back at the bridge. But they weren’t rough, at least, and glancing to either side of him (his guesses had been correct), he found them looking away, their expressions a mix of sympathy and unease. “Wh-what’s with all this, Cheech? You’re just gonna duct tape it back together, aren’t you?” He looked frantically around the house, clutching his tibia as close to his body as he could. “You… have duct tape, right?”

“Mmm, nope, not this time,” came Chicharrón’s grumble from the other side of the house. A cascade of items crashed down at his side as he continued his search, unperturbed. “Leather n’ glue will have to do, and a splint until it sets.”

“Uh… well, that… still sounds doable. If you give it over to me, I could… probably do it,” Héctor offered as his tíos gently lifted him into the hammock. Said hammock was full of junk, and he grimaced, pulling a violin bow out from beneath him as he tried to make himself comfortable. “I mean, not like last time, with my… arm.” His left hand reached over to rub said arm, over the tape and leather that held the fragmented end in place. “I-I’ve got both hands free this time!”

Finally Chicharrón turned to face him, straightening his back. “So set it.”

Héctor blanched, looking down from his tibia and back to Chicharrón. “What, right now?” When the old man’s expression didn’t change, Héctor attempted a smile, the corners of it strained. “What’s the rush? I was just going to head back home and take a nap, first—I mean, not like I’ve got anywhere to—”

Chicharrón marched up to the hammock, his cane stamping against the floor, and held out several strips of leather and a can of glue. “Set it.”

Stepping forward, Lorenzo held out a hand. “Cheech—”

Chicharrón shot a glare at Lorenzo, and waited until he backed off before looking back to Héctor.

Swallowing, Héctor reached out with a shaking hand to take the items, looking from the leather and back to his tibia. It’s… it shouldn’t be that hard, he thought, setting the leather and glue aside and taking one half of his bone in his left hand. Just putting two pieces back together. He bit his lip as he held out the two pieces of bone, trying to ignore that his tíos and primo were all turning away. I’ve done crazier stuff to try to cross the bridge. Trembling, he turned the two halves of the bone in what he guessed was the right angle, and—

The two broken fragments bumped against each other, and Héctor shrieked. Moments later, he could barely hear Chicharrón’s voice over his daze: “Now you see? Lorenzo, take those things over here. Estefan, bring me the rest of his leg. Manny, give him this, and hold him down.”

Before he could ask what was going on, a bottle was held out to him. He took it without question, tipping it back to pour some of its contents down his throat, some of it splashing against his face when his left leg was very suddenly tugged off below the femur. Shortly afterward the bottle was taken from him, and his two tíos stood slightly behind him and off to either side of the hammock, each with their hands over his shoulders.

“Idiota,” Chicharrón grumbled from the other side of the bungalow, and Héctor shut his eyes to keep himself from looking in the old man’s direction. “When we get broke, we don’t get fixed, and you go off with your estúpido plans and…”

“Cousin Héctor,” Lorenzo said over Cheech’s grumbling, hurrying to the hammock, “have you thought about your plan for next year?”

Héctor eyed him. “Why are you asking me n—”

Pain briefly shot through his absent leg, and his voice hiked up into a yelp, his entire body bucking as his tíos forced him back down. His femur swung around uselessly while his right leg kicked a jar of buttons and a very broken accordion out of the hammock.

“Sí, you were saying you were getting ready earlier,” Estefan said, his voice a little too loud.

Héctor shut his eyes, his hands clinging to either side of the hammock in a death grip. “I-I don’t know yet, the f-fireworks didn’t work this yeeEEAAAAGH—”

“Fireworks?!” Chicharrón growled, and Héctor could only give a pained moan in reply.

“Okay, but what else can you try?” Lorenzo prodded, then waited for a response. “Cousin?”

Feeling like he would throw up if he tried to answer, Héctor only turned his head away, facing the sound of the water lapping the docks outside the house. There was a sudden but light pressure against his chest, and he gasped, looking up into the face of a tiny, big-eared fox. Instinctively he reached out to pet her, and tried to make his mind formulate words. “A-al… alebrije?” he offered, and hissed as he felt something cold between the two halves of his tibia. Lola tipped her ears back at the sound, but didn’t move away, and he kept his focus on her. “C-could… dress as an alebrije, and… and they’d… let me… pass…?”

Behind him came a few soft, but genuine, laughs. “How do you plan to do that, cousin?”

“I… I think Ceci was using some glowy paint—nnngh!” He gritted his teeth, kicking out with his good leg as he felt his bad one get twisted slightly. “Use the—glowy paint, and—”

Chicharrón gave a frustrated cry. “Lorenzo, get over here!”

Héctor could feel them holding his tibia together while something was wrapped around it, binding to it with cold, sticky glue that made him shudder. “C-could rearrange my bones, a-and look like… an alebrije… M-maybe some other costume work…” He shifted, trying to turn to grin up at his tíos. “You think it might work?”

Manuel cocked a brow bone. “Estas loco, cousin. Maybe, though.”

“Heh, un poco,” he mumbled, settling back into the hammock. Whatever they were doing to his leg didn’t seem to hurt quite so much now, and he felt like he could ignore it, maybe if he just shut his eyes again for a little while…

It didn’t feel like long, however, before his leg was suddenly shoved back against his femur. Yelping, he sat bolt upright, the hammock swaying beneath him, and looked around. Lola was sleeping off to his side, and on the other side of the bungalow, he could see his primo and two tíos talking quietly. But then where was—

He glanced back to the left and nearly leapt out of the hammock in surprise to see Chicharrón standing there, scowling at him. “Normally I’d ask you to get outta here, but unless you want your leg to snap like a twig again, lie down. Gotta let the glue set for twenty-four hours.”

“...Gracias, Cheech,” he muttered, lying back into the hammock.

Chicharrón grunted, hobbling back over to a spot that Héctor couldn’t see. Meanwhile, Héctor looked down at his leg, inspecting it: a few long strips of leather had been wrapped around it and held with glue, which he could still see faint glimmers of. But over all that, a splint had been tied to his leg with a few more strips of leather and what appeared to be several strips of a charred fabric. It looked... blue? Purple? Something like that. Sort of like his—

Blinking, he looked to his right arm, only to find the sleeve had been cut off. “Wha—hey!” he cried, turning his head to look for Chicharrón and finding him off to the right behind his hammock. “You wrecked my suit!”

“That sleeve was in shreds anyway,” Chicharrón said with a shrug. “Don’t think you’re missing much.”

“Quite the fashion statement!” Manuel called from the other side of the shack. Héctor was almost offended, but his tío gave him a good-natured grin—a real one, not like the ones the people in the Department of Family Reunions gave him. “Maybe you’ll set a new trend.”

Héctor snorted, settling himself back into his hammock and shaking his head. “Ah, yes. The just-recently-blown-yourself-up look. Sure it’ll be... explosively popular, eh?”

The others broke into laughter, while he was pretty sure he could hear Cheech rolling his eyes before shouting: “I’ll dump that hammock out into the water for the next one, Héctor!”

Lorenzo stepped up closer to Chicharrón, smiling. “Why’s that, Cheech? You don’t think it’ll take off?”

An empty bottle crashed at Lorenzo’s feet, and Lola’s head shot up from where she lay at Héctor’s side. But Lorenzo only laughed, and she settled back down, tucking her face against Héctor’s ribcage. Héctor smiled, resting his hand on her head as he glanced back down at his broken leg.

It still hurt a lot, and he wasn’t sure how well he was going to walk after this. On top of that, he had another failed Dia de Muertos behind him, but...

Glass clinked nearby, and Héctor craned his neck to see Chicharrón taking a swig from a new bottle before passing it over to the others. The bottle was passed around until Lorenzo handed it off to Héctor, who took it with no small amount of gratitude, tipping it back. He probably drank more than Cheech would’ve liked, but it was enough to make him too drowsy to care.

He leaned back in the hammock as conversation resumed around him, still warm and friendly in spite of Chicharrón’s occasional grumbles—so different from the harsh voice of the security officer, the mocking voices from the Department of Family Reunions, or the suspicious whispers of the people in the upper parts of the city. It didn’t sound much different from any other day in the shanties, but it was comforting in the way only Shantytown could be.

The sloshing of the water outside and the sound of the voices around him faded and blurred into a pleasant murmur as Héctor shut his eyes.

He didn’t have much else going for him, but right now, his Shantytown family was enough.

#hector rivera #chicharron #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #fanfic #my writing #GOSH this one took forever to write #next up... time to work on the next chapter of Neither Can You!

[checkfortraps]

Doom upon the Faithful

This is a rewrite of a little origin thingy I made for my human war cleric Alessa as part of a prompt list ages ago, detailing the day where she lost her husband, her best friends, and part of her sanity while fighting a necromancer lairing in an old abandoned temple of Torm.

Under a cut for length. If you find typos and faulty grammar, you’re very welcome to keep both.

They fought in a tight formation, four souls forming a ring of light against a tide of undeath, of bone-white heresy.

The cacophony of armor and weapons clashing deafened Alessa to the point where she should barely make out her own racing heartbeat. The earth shook under the power of the arcane, and the air smelled like blood and decay. It truly was one of the worst battlefields she ever laid eyes on - and she had seen a lot, both as healer and as warrior.

She was not sure for how long the confrontation with the necromancer had been going on already, but the collection of dents in her plate armor and the exhaustion seeping through the thrill of battle were proof that it had been too long already. They had to wrap this up fast, or face defeat. And defeat in this case meant annihilation at best, and serving as the newest recruits to the necromancer’s army at worst.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a skeleton smash through Myrna’s mage armor. No room for a shield bash, so she gritted her teeth and raised her arm, intercepting the blow with her bracer. Divine energies deflected most of the impact, but her arm still went numb. She let out a defiant yell, then drove her sword through the skeleton’s sternum, shattering it. The abomination crumbled to the ground in a clatter of bones, bereft of the foul magic animating it.

Next to her, Myrna conjured crackling electricity into her open hands, then grabbed two skeletons at once with a terrifying snarl contorting her features. Blue-hued energy cloaked them, turning them into glowing dust that swirled through the stale air like a faint afterimage.

A cry rose over the combat noise then, half frenzy, half pain. Alessa deflected another blow, this time with her shield, then spun around, tired eyes finding Senna on the ground, bleeding heavily. Despite her wounds, the dwarven woman fought on, hunkering down behind her shield in an effort to gain additional cover, her war axe hacking away at the enemies surrounding her.

It was a valiant effort, but ultimately futile. The tides of undead was already closing in on her, ready to swallow her whole.

She needed help, and fast.

Myrna followed Alessa’s gaze. Her lips drew into a thin white line. “Go’”, she yelled over the noise, extending a hand to blast three skeletons with a wave of fire, almost absent-mindedly. When Alessa hesitated, she gave her a shove. “I said go! I can handle myself.”

Alessa nodded, breaking into a dead run. A prayer formed on her lips. She wasn’t sure what she even prayed for, but the intent seemed to reach Torm nevertheless, for holy energy alighted on the front of her shield where his symbol decorated it. A wave of radiance burst forth from it, blinding her temporarily. 

When the black swirls before her eyes faded, she found herself next to Senna, both of them covered in ash, the skeletons around them annihilated by her god’s righteous fury. The heat of divine power still lingered in her shield, noticeable even through the thick metal of her gauntlets.

“Praise you, my lord”, Alessa whispered under her breath. She glanced back at Myrna. The sorceress had cleared the area around her entirely, ash and soot the only testimony of the previous presence of an undead plague.

She wondered briefly why she had ever doubted the half-elf’s abilities. Old habit, maybe. When Myrna had joined their group, she had still been wet behind the ears, fresh from the academy. Her power had grown considerably in the last three years.

Senna gripped Alessa’s hand, hauling herself back to her feet. “Thanks. I was sure I’d see my ancestors soon.” She glanced around, dark brows furrowing. “Where’s Theo?”

Alessa felt her blood run cold.

“I fear he might be … indisposed.” A voice like icy waters, like winter and death personified. Alessa spun around and found a cloaked figure standing atop what seemed to be a podium at the far end of the chamber that might have been used for sermons once, before this temple had been ransacked and defiled. Red eyes burned in the shadows of a hood drawn low, meeting her gaze with a dark kind of mirth. Next to the figure hovered a giant hand made from arcane energy.

And in its translucent fingers, a limp body dangled, grey hair trailing over silvered plate armor, the helmet shattered on the ground alongside a mace that still glimmered with the remains of divine wrath.

“Theodore!” Alessa’s voice caught in her throat, the horrified scream turning into a strangled whisper. She wanted to run to him, to free him from that terrible grasp and then bash the necromancer’s face in with her shield. But her body betrayed her, limbs frozen in terror.

A flash of startlingly white teeth beneath that hood, a stark contrast to the eyes and the darkness cloaking the rest of the necromancer’s face. “Ah, allow me to guess. Your brother? No. Your lover. Delightful. It’s been a while since I had the pleasure of killing a couple. I wonder what your screams will sound like when I crush him.”

Darkness swirled at the flick of their gloved fingers, and the sound of metal bending under the pressure of the hand closing around Theodore filled the air, deafeningly loud. His screams died in his throat as it crushed his torso, squeezing the life out of him.

“No! Theo!” Alessa desperately tried to will herself to move, but her mental strength crumbled alongside her husband’s armor, and she found herself unable to break through her paralysis. Only now did she feel the blood drenching her gambeson, flowing freely from dozens of wounds all over her body. Her grip around the hilt of her sword had grown so weak she could barely hold on, pain and grief draining the fight out of her. Even if she managed to actually move, she’d never reach the podium in time to save Theodore.

A furious scream echoed through the chamber. Blue-tinged bolts of pure energy streaked past Alessa, so close she heard them buzzing like angry wasps. The giant hand dissolved under the onslaught of the magic missiles, proving that Theodore hadn’t gone down without a fight. Theodore hit the ground with a loud thump, groaning in pain.

He's still alive!

The realization filled Alessa with new strength. She reached for the white-hot blaze of faith in her soul and pulled. The paralysis fell away from her, and she crossed the chamber with the frantic speed that could only be conjured by desperation. She jumped up on the platform, roaring. Radiance burst from her shield again, washing over Theodore to close his wounds. Using the momentum of the motion, Alessa raised her sword and struck recklessly, anger driving the precision out of her attacks. Still, she managed to bury the blade deep in the necromancer’s chest with a sickening crunch when it hit bone.

Somewhere behind her, Myrna let out a triumphant howl, accompanied by Senna’s heavy footfall, like a war drum signalling victory.

Alessa found herself smiling at the carnage before her, at the blood coloring the necromancer’s black robes even darker. She was quite sure she missed the heart, but judging from the wet cough escaping her fallen foe, she had punctured a lung instead. It would be a very slow kind of justice for them.

One that did not align with Torm’s ideals. Even foul creatures like this one did not deserve to suffer for so long.

She stepped closer again, ready to twist the sword to bring this ugly business to a quick end, but she found it stuck. Her eyes widened in terror as she noticed the necromancer had gripped the blade with their hands, blood seeping from the cracks in their leather gloves where the sharp edge cut through them. Alessa saw red eyes and white teeth, and laughter filled the chamber, ugly and cruel, bloody spittle splattering her face as the necromancer leaned in closer.

“How very generous of you, offering up your life force so willingly. I’ll make sure to honor your sacrifice. But first, behave.”

Their bloody hand cupped her tear-streaked cheek, almost like a caress. Tendrils of black magic rose from their fingers, shrouding her vision until she was sure she’d gone blind. She tried to shove the necromancer away, but her body didn’t belong to her anymore. Her concentration on her Shield of Faith crumbled as crippling pain surged through her, the warmth of life draining from her until she shivered from cold and exhaustion. She sucked in a single shuddering breath, terror a tight coil in her stomach.

Then the world fell away from her, and she dissolved into nothingness.

Death.

#my writing #oc: alessa brightblade #behold! i actually finished a wip for once

[infragalaxia]

“Now, behave”

I’m jumping in really late, I know, but here’s my first entry for @barbex #Fictober, based on the prompt for day 3. It features a crucial event in the backstory of my D&D cleric Alessa Brightblade.

Tw for blood and graphic violence. Under a cut because of length.

They fought in a tight formation, close to the wall, a thin ring of light against a tide of darkness and bone-white heresy.

The ringing noise of swords clashing and spells rattling the earth deafened Alessa to the point where she could barely hear her own heartbeat. She was not sure how long they had been fighting, but the dents in her plate armor and the exhaustion seeping through the thrill of battle were proof that it had been too long. They had to wrap this up fast, or they’d face defeat. And there was no doubt that defeat in this case meant annihilation. Undead did not care for prisoners.

She pushed aside a rusty axe meant for Myrna’s head, divine energies deflecting the force of impact where it hit her bracer, then drove her sword through the skeleton’s sternum, shattering it. The abomination crumbled into a clattering pile of bones, bereft of the foul magic animating it.

Beside her, Myrna conjured lightning into her open hands, grasping two skeletons at once with a terrifying snarl contorting her features. Blueish energy cloaked them, turning them into glowing dust that swirled through the stale air like an afterimage.

A cry rose over the noise, half frenzy, half pain. Alessa deflected another blow, this time with her shield, and then spun, tired eyes finding Senna on the ground, bleeding heavily. Despite her wounds, the dwarf fought on, war axe hacking away at the enemies surrounding her while she hunkered down behind her shield, trying to keep them at bay. It was a valiant effort, but ultimately futile, as she would not be able to keep it up for long. Not with the nose guard of her helmet shattered. It was a miracle that the shrapnel had not gouged out her eyes.

She needed help, and fast.

Myrna followed Alessa’s gaze and came to the same realization. Her lips drew into a tight white line. »Go«, she said, fingers extending while she blasted three skeletons with a wave of fire, almost absent-mindedly. When Alessa hesitated, she gave her a shove. It was not a hard one, but enough to stagger her into the next foe, which crumbled under the impact. »Go! I can handle myself.«

Alessa nodded, breaking into a dead run. A prayer formed on her lips, so quiet she didn’t even hear the words herself. But they seemed to reach Torm nevertheless, for holy energy alighted on the front of her shield where his symbol decorated it. A wave of radiant light burst forth from her, bathing her in brightness. When the black swirls before her eyes faded, she found herself next to Senna, both of them covered in ash, the skeletons around them annihilated by her god’s righteous fury. The heat of his power still lingered in the shield, noticeable even through the thick metal of her gauntlets.

»Praise thee, my Lord«, Alessa whispered under her breath. She glanced back to Myrna, who had cleared the area around her entirely, ash and soot the only testimony of the former presence of an undead plague. Alessa wondered briefly why she had ever doubted the half-elf’s abilities. Old instinct, maybe. When the wizardess had joined their group, she had still been wet behind the ears, a young woman fresh from the academy. Her power had grown considerably in the last three years. A bit more, and she might get offered a rank in the military.

Senna gripped Alessa’s hand, hauling herself back on her feet. »Thanks. I thought I’d see my ancestors soon.« She looked around, furrowing her brow. »Where’s Theo?«

Alessa felt her blood run cold.

»I fear he might be … indisposed.« A voice like icy waters, like winter and death personified. She spun around and found a cloaked figure standing on top of a platform on the far end of the chamber that might have once been used for sermons. Red eyes burned in the shadows of a hood drawn low, meeting her gaze with a dark kind of mirth. Next to the figure hovered a giant, arcane hand.

And in its transluscent fingers, a limp body, grey hair trailing over silvered plate armor, the helmet shattered on the ground along with a mace that still glimmered with the remains of divine energy.

»Theodore!« Alessa’s voice caught in her throat, the horrified yell becoming a breathless whisper. She wanted to run to him, to free him from that terrible grasp and then bash the face of the necromancer in with her shield, but her body betrayed her, frozen in terror.

A white grin beneath that hood, a stark contrast to the eyes and the darkness cloaking it. »Ah, let me guess. Your lover? No. Your husband. Delightful. It’s been a while since I had a battle couple serving me. I wonder what your screams will sound like when I crush him.« Darkness swirled at a flick of their gloved fingers, and metal crunched under the pressure of a supernaturally strong fist closing around Theodore’s entire torso, crushing.

»No! Theodore!« Alessa threw herself against her own paralysis, but her mental strength crumbled alongside her husband’s armor, unable to break through her terror. Blood drenched her undergarments, flowing from a dozen wounds that she hadn’t even noticed until now. Her grip around the hilt of her sword grew weaker, pain and grief draining the fight out of her. Even if she managed to actually move, she’d never be fast enough to stop Theodore’s demise.

A defiant yell echoed through the chamber. Streaks of white energy streaked past Alessa, so close she heard them buzzing like angry wasps. The giant hand dissolved under the onslaught of a dispel spell. Theodore hit the floor with a loud thump, groaning in pain.

He’s still alive!

The realization filled Alessa with new strength. She reached for the white-hot blaze of faith in her soul and pulled. The paralysis fell away from her like banished, and she crossed the chamber with a speed granted by desperation. She jumped unto the platform, roaring. Radiance burst from her shield, washing over Theodore, closing the wounds on his face and the back of his head where the helmet had shattered. Using the momentum of the motion, she raised her sword and struck recklessly, anger driving the precision out of her swings. The blade buried itself in the necromancer’s chest with a sickening crunch.

Behind her, Myrna let out a triumphant howl, accompanied by Senna’s heavy footfall, like a war drum signalling victory.

Alessa found herself smiling at the carnage before her, the blood spraying from the wound in fast pulses. She quite sure she’d missed the heart, but the wet cough escaping the necromancer told her she had punctured a lung, which meant a slow kind of justice for the man. Or was it woman? The voice had sounded entirely inhuman, distorted by what she wagered was the touch of advanced madness. How else could their foul deeds be explained? Kidnapping good people from the roads to turn them into undead servants, defiling the house of her god in the process. That could only be the acts of a madman. She refused to believe anything else.

She tried to twist the sword to bring this business to a quick end, but found it stuck. Her eyes widened in terror as she realized the necromancer had gripped the blade with their hands, blood seeping from the cracks in the leather of their gloves. She saw red eyes and a white grin, glowing at her from persisting darkness. Laughter filled her ears, ugly and cruel, bloody spittle spraying into her face as the necromancer leaned in closer.

»How corteous of you, gifting me your life force. I’ll make sure to honor your sacrifice. But first, behave.«

Their bloody hand gripped her cheek, almost like a caress. Tendrils of black magic rose from the fingers, shrouding her vision until she was sure she’d gone blind. She tried to shove the necromancer away, but her body didn’t belong to her anymore, wrenched from her by her own terror. She felt her Shield of Faith crumble as crippling pain surged through her, the warmth of life draining from her until she shivered from cold and exhaustion. She sucked in a single, horrified gasp.

Then the world fell away from her, and she dissolved into nothingness.

#fictober 2017 #my writing #wow this hurt to write

[myouki]

Strike the Past: Chapter 2

Strap in because things are going to get a bit messy~

Chapter Warnings:

Kidnapping, blood (and marrow), violence, character death, swearing

Credits:

Lotus: @nekophy

Rurik: @angeutblogo

Story inspiration: @thedanniewannabe

***

"None of you shitstains are my friends and those clothes don't belong to you," Rurik rumbled, backing up to give himself room to maneuver.

"Aww, that really hurts," Jay shrugged up his shoulders with a mock-pout, "We even went to the trouble of inviting your new friend to the party, but he didn't seem too keen on joining. We had to convince him a little bit, but he saw our side of things eventually; he even offered up his jacket and scarf as a sign of goodwill. I think the jacket looks rather slimming."

The skeleton in question remained silent in Rurik's arms, but the tightening grip on his jacket gave away their anger. His partner was ill-equipped for a fight with their current injuries and this group wasn't above fighting dirty, so he had to make sure Lotus was safely out of the way first.

He moved to set the skeleton back on the chair; keeping a socket on the group while whispering, "Stay here, I'll be back in a minute."

"Wait," Lotus maintained his grip on the taller's jacket, "Don't let the bug guy touch you, he can absorb energy; that's how they got me."

"Yeah, that's Corrin; I'll be careful with him," Rurik promised, gently detaching the smaller's hand and standing up straight just in time to duck under the right hook aimed for his skull. Whipping out his knife, he deftly slashed into the assailant's torso as he chided, "You should really know better than to try getting the jump on me Lewis."

The man dropped to the floor with a satisfying thud as the four other lackies and Jay maintained their position in the doorway with mixed expressions. He knew from experience that none of these guys were slouches on their own, but they were trash at working together in a fight; his best bet was goading them into a group attack so they would trip over each other like last time and create openings for him to pick them off.

Twirling his knife between his fingers, the skeleton casually sauntered away from Lotus' position with a taunting smirk, "Well? Any of you other sadsacks want a piece of me, or did I beat your asses too hard last time?"

As expected, three of them jumped at the provocation while Sean, a lizard monster, and Jay stood their ground. Sean was understandable; he preferred launching his fire attacks from a distance. Jay was the real problem since Rurik knew his focus had always been melee in the past; did the jackass learn from his past mistakes or was there some other reason he wasn't rushing in?

He was pulled from his thoughts as Garrett's claws grazed his humerus, prompting the skeleton to retaliate with a slash of his own; he smirked as the sliced through the wolf's shoulder and into their neck. Ducking to avoid Sean's fireball, he kicked the injured monster backward into Sharif; knocking them both into a pile of crates in a howling pile of limbs and splintered wood.

As Corrin tried to close in for a grab, Rurik dropped down and swept their legs out from under them, swiveling around to plant his knife in the monster's chest.

"Nnngh!"

Rurik' turned toward the chair, his eye light blazing murderously as he registered an injured Lewis holding a struggling Lotus off the ground; their bloody arm wrapped around his partner's neck in a chokehold.

"Put him down!" the skeleton snarled.

"Ya ain't got no room ta make demands," Lewis sneered, tightening his grip and gaining a strangled gasp from his captive, "drop the knife or I snap 'is neck!"

"Nnn... d... don...," Lotus choked, pawing feverishly at the arm around his neck as his mouth opened and closed in a vain attempt to take in air; his good foot kicking back at his captor with little success.

"Your choice, Rurik," Jay taunted, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and a smug smile plastered on his face. Clenching his jaw, Rurik reluctantly let the knife fall from his grip to clatter against the cement floor, shooting a glare toward the man as they praised, "smart man; now hold still and don't make any funny moves."

Glancing back to his partner, Lewis began lowering the smaller monster to the ground but kept them secured in place with their arm; this was Rurik's fault for not making sure the man was dead first, so until Lotus was out of danger, he would-

"AAAAAAAGH!"

Lotus summoned a jagged bone and rammed it into Lewis' side, crumpling forward with a sharp grunt when his injured foot refused to hold him up.

Seizing the chance, Rurik elbowed whoever had grabbed his arm and dove for his knife, bolting away once he had it. Catching Lotus with one arm before they hit the ground, he spun around to lash out at whoever had given chase; he nailed Corrin in the face with his blade, relishing the shrieks of agony his attack produced.

Taking a breath to settle himself while staring down the remaining attackers as the bug monster writhed on the floor wailing, he asked the monster pressed against his chest, "Hey, you holding up okay?"

His expression soured as Lotus wheezed out, "Y... yeah, just... really damn tired..." The smaller monster looked like he could barely keep his right socket open, likely running on fumes after that last attack.

Rurik set the skeleton down gently on the chair by the bleeding corpse that had been Lewis and murmured lowly, "I'll make this quick."

Rising swiftly to his full height once Lotus was safely situated, Sharif became the first victim as the man attempted to rush him, only to be dodged while receiving a stab to the back and a slash to the throat in rapid succession. As the body dropped unceremoniously to the ground, footfalls from behind were ruthlessly silenced without a single glance by a bed of jagged bones shooting up from the floor, impaling who he quickly identified as Garrett with a guttural heave.

Flicking the blood from his knife with a snap of his wrist as an explosion of dust swelled up around his feet, Rurik advanced slowly toward a stunned Jay and Sean while Corrin blindly crawled to where they hoped there would be safety.

The glint the skeleton's starry eye lights and the aggressive timbre of his voice promised no one would be left alive once he was through, "Come on Jay; you said this was a party... so let's party."

---

Rurik stared down at the motionless body before him; he had to admit Jay had gotten better at brawling in the years since they separated, but the skeleton had won out in the end. He kneeled down to reclaim Lotus' stolen jacket and scarf, feeling the weight of their phone in the right pocket as he wiped his bloody knife on a clean section of the fresh corpse's shirt. Rising to his feet, he caught his reflection in the cleaned metal; a few facial injuries that were likely to bruise later, but nothing serious.

Draping the reclaimed clothing over one arm, he skirted around the bodies, blood splatters, and dust littering the room to reach his companion once more. It was hard to tell if Lotus was still awake or not given their condition, but kneeling down to check their breathing and pulse assured him they were hanging on, at least.

Pulling the black jacket over the smaller skeleton's body like a blanket and draping the scarf carefully around their neck, Lotus stirred slightly and Rurik softly questioned, "You still with me?" A feeble groan was the only response he got, but that was enough to satisfy him as he carefully picked up the barely conscious monster and held them close, "Let's go home and get you patched up."

Lotus let out a groggy hum, shifting his skull to lay comfortably against the taller's chest, drifting off as he mumbled a breathy, "Thanks..."

Rurik snorted at the show of appreciation while weaving his way to the exit, minding the doorway and walls so as not to accidentally jostle the sleeping skeleton in his arms. If their roles were reversed, he knew without a doubt Lotus would have come after him just as he had, regardless of the danger; that's what partners do, so something like gratitude was unnecessary.

#Fell!Poth #Lotus #Fell!Goth #Rurik #Fell!Palette #StP #Short stories #MyWriting #Inspired work #TW: Kidnapping #TW: Blood #TW: Violence #TW: Character death #Swearing

[pilindiel]

JeanMarco Month Day 29: Generator Day 4 |AO3|

@jeanmarcomonth You read my mind.

Shout out to @nakiriknife for helping me start the fight scene.  You’re an angel.

For those of you who are unaware, I have a fic in the works called “Trick or Treat” which is a Modern Horror/Supernatural AU.  Where Marco is a werewolf.  And also Jean's bodyguard.  Jean is also a photographer as a hobby.  Guys.  This is legit scary.

REGARDLESS

Prompt:  Photographer!Jean and werewolf!Marco are young adults.  Jean is and Marco joins him

Rating: T

Word Count: 2675

Excerpt:

I'm glad I didn't get my hopes up – the inside is just as shitty as the outside and as Marco sweeps his flashlight over the interior, my nose scrunches.

It smells musty and old as balls, like something curled up, died, and then disintegrated to a stain on the hardwood floor. The ground groans as we step and I swear I can hear field mice scurry under our feet beneath the boards. The wallpaper is old and peeling, but the design on them is intricate, delicate even. Like it must have cost a fortune when it first got put up.

Karanes is cold this time of year – the rush of the wind is harsher, bitter – and I wrap my arms around myself as we exit the car, brandishing my Letterman jacket against the evening wind. Marco, the fucking furnace, seems completely unfazed by the gusts but neither one of us can stop the fall of our expressions when we come upon the house.

I'm sure it must have been beautiful. You know; thirty years ago.

A pitched gray roof hangs over a shingled off-white exterior, and the shutters hang desperately off the edges of boarded up windows. The dormers of the second floor are the only ones still in tact, but the glass is cracked, splintered and spider-webbed like someone threw rocks at it from below. Ivy climbs up the outside walls, trying to drag the house back into the forest beyond its borders, and even with the moon out, bathing everything in a calm light, the house is gloomy, like it permeates darkness.

A black and red sign loudly proclaiming “No Trespassing” is nailed to the front door just below the brass knocker, and Marco gives me a dubious look before slipping his access key into the lock. The deadbolt creaks as it slips out of its slot, agonizing in the way the metal scraps against the wood, and with a mighty heave Marco shoves the door open.

I'm glad I didn't get my hopes up – the inside is just as shitty as the outside and as Marco sweeps his flashlight over the interior, my nose scrunches.

It smells musty and old as balls, like something curled up, died, and then disintegrated to a stain on the hardwood floor. The ground groans as we step and I swear I can hear field mice scurry under our feet beneath the boards.  The wallpaper is old and peeling, but the design on them is intricate, delicate even. Like it must have cost a fortune when it first got put up.

“Remnants of a bygone era,” I snort, and Marco hums in agreement, shutting the door behind us and bathing us in the dark.

Survey can't afford to keep these safe houses “safe”, I guess. It makes me realize just how fucked we really are, how desperate Survey is to get funding again. They can keep these safe houses, but they sure as hell can't maintain them.

To be fair, there's nothing that says we have to stay in a safe house – Marco and I both know basic symbols we can place on the doors and windows of any motel we stay in – but that's just the problem. They're basic, and lucky for me none of the things after my ass are basic ghosts or monsters.

There's something heavy about the air in here and even with my phone flashlight and Marco's torch, the inky black of the house feels oppressive. Graffiti is sprayed all over the walls, no doubt from kids from town who wandered out here for the thrill of defacing an empty house, and as we move into the pitch black living room, I'm surprised we find any furniture at all.

Marco brightens, just a little, and wanders over to what I assume was once a couch. It's huge and curved, and the upholstery is red with what look like faded gold embellishments, though that could be just the dust settled on it fiddling with the light of my phone.

The musty stench is unbearable in here, and I rub at my nose with my sleeve. I can't imagine how hard it must be for Marco and his crazy werewolf senses – I feel like I'm about to gag.

“Isn't this nice, Jean?” Marco says over his shoulder at me. His voice is strained, but he's giving me a smile so sweet it pulls at my heart and I shove my free hand into my pocket in defiance. “Now we don't have to sleep on the floor.”

Damn him for trying to make the best out of a shitty situation. Damn him and his smile and the way his broad chest looks in that flannel. Damn him and his stupid hair and his stupid dimples and the stupid things it does to my heart.

Still, I meet him at the edge of the light and bump him with my shoulder.

“Looks ancient,” I grouse, dropping the duffle bag at our feet. Marco smiles at me and shrugs – a small, helpless gesture – and I kneel down to pull my camera out.

It was a gift from Dad for my last birthday, arriving the day before Marco trampled into my life brandishing a flamethrower, but I'm no stranger to photography. The first camera I got was when I was eleven and Dad was so happy, so relieved I had found something to occupy my time, a hobby. He and Mom don't know why I wanted one, and they don't need to. They don't need to know I don't think I'll live long enough to leave a legacy behind.

That there won't be any evidence of my existence outside of these pictures and broken memories.

I can feel Marco's eyes on me, the way he's acutely becoming aware of how solemn I get when I take pictures of our surroundings, but so far he hasn't brought it up so I don't either. I just take the strap of my camera, mindful of the lens, and drape it over my neck, letting the metal and plastic rest over my heart like a medal.

The eeriness of the house is nothing new to me, but there's a charm to this skeleton that makes my fingers twitch. I need to have evidence of it existing, at least so someone out there knows there's still some beauty in these tattered old walls.

The spark of creativity is familiar, but the feeling never gets old. The strap is nestled around my neck, a sure grasp that binds me to my passion, but that connection breaks just as I'm reaching for it.

The way Marco's head swivels towards me is alarming, and I can see the way his nostrils flair, his dark eyes darting to the windows and corners of the room. There's something here.

Most safe houses have a enchantment etched on the door, keeping the interior of the house secured, but god knows the wear and tear must have scratched away at whatever old spells used to linger in the air.

A cold feeling coils up my leg around my jeans, something thin like paper but sharp as knives, and it chills my senses and renders me motionless. Though, maybe it just feels that way because I'm not as quick as Marco.

I can't keep up, my ears catching the bang of Marco's Smith and Wesson as he fires at the creature working its way up my body. My freedom is granted and I pivot, but my relief is short-lived. The shadow recoils with an angry hiss and it's like it descends on us from the perimeter of Marco's light, growing larger and looming its darkness over us.

I've been in enough danger to know when something is after me, and that ever familiar coldness pricks at the back of my neck.

I don't have a lot of time to linger on my fear though as the monster lunges towards Marco and the small beam of light beckoning it closer. On instinct I leap to Marco, but I'm a split second too late. His gun is steady in his right hand, but the other is weak and limp in comparison, and the flashlight flies through the air, clattering onto the floor and lighting up each corner of the room as it spins on the hardwood.

Marco isn't phased. His gun barrel gleams in the strobing light, aimed towards the shadow as it lunges at him.

My mind is racing, trying to sift through my knowledge of myths and legends and ghosts at rapid speed to make sure we don't get fucking butchered by something we can't fucking see.

And that's when it clicks.

“Marco,” I shout, “The flashlight!”

His eyes fly to it, (amber irises, I note with a clench to my heart), but he leaps away from the jab just in time, rolling closer to the light and flicking it off with a sharp snap.

Silence follows – a heavy, thick silence – and I swallow as my sight ineffectively tries to adjust to the unnatural gloom.

“Marco,” I call, cautiously stepping even though I know it won't do us any good, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” a voice says, distantly to my right, “Clue me in on what we're fighting here.”

“A wraith.” I chew the inside of my lip, pulling at the skin. “I think.”

I hear Marco slowly take a breath. “Okay,” he murmurs, but I can hear the calculation in his measured words, “Intelligence?”

“Not much,” I reply, shifting the knife from one hand to the other nervously, “But it only fights in the light. Uses the shadows to move and attack.”

I wait. Another breath. My chest tightens.

“Okay,” Marco says again, “And I'm guessing we can only kill it in the light, right?”

I nod, but then realize how stupid that is. “Yeah.”

Something thumps at my side, hand wrapping around my bicep, but my gasp dies when I feel Marco's warm fingers squeeze my arm reassuringly.

“So, what's the plan?” he whispers.

I've stopped questioning how he can find me in the most unlikely circumstances – he could probably smell me a mile away, or maybe he just hears the pounding of my heart in how deathly quiet it is. God knows I do. I can barely see the outline of his face in this oppressive darkness, but I try to force my gaze to where I think his eyes are and level with him.

“Well,” I begin, swallowing, “We both have lights, right?” I poke my camera against where I think his arm is and when I'm met with his squishy chest I can't stop my smirk. “Let's light 'im up.”

I know he disapproves but he's also impressed, and I can hear it in his chuckle. His laughter caresses my cheeks before he slips away to the other side of the room, giving my bicep one more squeeze before he leaves my side. I try no to linger on the loss of his warmth, try not to think about the heat that is burning up my neck, and square my shoulders.

One hand tight around my knife. The other on the camera, finger on the shutter. Feet apart. Knees bent.

Breathe.

“Now!” I shout.

The room is illuminated – my camera flash and Marco's light are blinding – and the first thing my vision catches is the whisper of a black cloak, disappearing to my right.

Marco jumps and dives, shooting into the dark and brandishing his torch like a weapon, swinging and firing it in the direction he thinks the wraith is heading.

My camera is unsteady and cumbersome – I can barely get the shutter off in time with how heavy it is in my non-dominant hand and I'm bobbing and weaving more than fighting. I'm not as fast as Marco and it shows; I may have been running my whole life, but that sure as hell doesn't mean I can outmaneuver something I can't see.

Thankfully, Marco's drawn its attention so far but that doesn't put me at ease.

Marco's not the target here.

I manage to get another camera flash off as I take a hard right to the other side of the small room, skidding on the rotting floor, and that's when I hear the whispering. It's like a hiss in my ear; this nasty, sickly voice and it repeats the same thing over and over, clawing at my insides and sticking in my gut.

“Let me have,” It wheezes, “I want, I want, I want.”

It brushes the back of my neck, fingers long and thin and bony, and I whip around too fast. I'm frantic, movements slow and stupid and the camera shutter is loud in my ears as it clicks.

Marco skids in front of me before I can catch up. The wraith's limb – frighteningly quick and sharp as needles – slams him hard in the shoulder.

My voice cracks on his name.

Marco goes flying.

My mind is a blur. My breath is in my chest. Distantly, I hear his body smack against something, hear him thud onto something soft – the couch? I can't see, everything is fucking black – and then silence.

His flashlight cracks against the floor and flickers once before going out.

My mind is blank. I'm bathed again in this darkness, this black that sinks into my gut and sucks out the air of my lungs and I can't stop how my mind flies to Dad, to the empty socket where his eye used to be and the blood gushing down his face and I can almost see it, can see it swirling to focus in the ink and the guilt coils around my throat and I –

And I hear Marco groan through my haze. Hear him curse under his breath and shift against the cushions.

The rush of air in my lungs is dizzying. I would take the time to relish in his safety, but...

I wet my lips quickly and rip the strap off my neck. The floorboards creak as I crouch and I pause, waiting between heartbeats.

There's something that happens when your body goes through so much trauma and stress where you become stupidly lucid, and thankfully I'm one of those lucky sons-of-bitches that it happens to when it counts.

Or maybe it's the practice; I'm well versed in trauma and stress.

Hastily, I shift my weight and aim the camera between my knees, pointed up at an angle.

I snap the shutter and simultaneously thrust my knife in front of me, sinking deep into the shadows. A pair of orange eyes meet mine, shining and empty like the smiles of jack-o-lanterns, and the wraith screams.

I use my position to duck and roll out of the way just as it stabs the empty air, keeping my camera under me. I clamber to my knees as soon as I skid to a stop, knife heavy in my hands as the wraith writhes and hisses and shrieks.

There's a gasp, a sound like air being sucked into a vacuum, then nothing.

The heavy atmosphere lifts and it's like a breeze blows through; cooling my heated, sweating skin and taking the musty smell along with it. It's easier to breathe and though I hate the cliché, the air feels lighter. Comforting.

Moonlight spills through the cracks in the wooden slates that cover the windows and it bathes the living room in a tranquil blue, but my eyes fly to the couch and to the young man sitting on that ugly-ass upholstery.

Marco smiles at me weakly, covered in dust and plaster, and I nearly slip on the ash from the wraith on the ground as I race over to him. My legs are shaking so bad I'm surprised I even make it to him in one piece.

His irises fade from amber to that warm, honey brown I'm notorious for getting lost in, and I breathe out a sigh.

“You okay?” we both say at the same time. Marco laughs quietly – a mirthful, gentle sound – and I can't stop the way my mouth splits into a grin.

“Wanna skip this place and go to a shitty motel instead?” I venture.

Marco rolls his eyes but stands, sending soot into the air as he does so. Marco scrunches his nose, freckles bunching, and he hangs his head.

“Only if you write the charm on the door,” he retorts.

I sling the duffle bag onto my shoulder and punch him lightly in the arm. “Don't I always?”

Marco nudges me back and we walk out into the night, leaving the safe house behind to the ivy and the wind.

#jeanmarcomonth #jeanmarco #jean kirschstein #marco bodt #fic: trick or treat #snk #attack on titan #pil writes #ahhhh only one more prompt ;A;