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sailing-through-hawkins · 1 year

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okay i originally wrote this for the steddie microfic challenge but failed epically when i realized i was way over the word count 〒▽〒 still i really like this so i'm gonna tag @wynnyfryd and hope you enjoy it regardless! it's set around steve's senior year i'd say idk

So here's the thing.

Eddie knows he's not supposed to be at the pool after-hours for like, security or whatever but -

But sometimes you drop one of your lucky guitar picks while watching swim practice (respectfully of course) and only realize it halfway through your Hellfire session, which means after-hours sneaking in it is.

And he expected to have to double back and bring Frank along to pick the lock but the doors aren't even locked.

Is this a good idea, Eddie thinks, to wander unsuspectingly into an unlocked sports facility frequented by assholes who would probably half-drown someone if they thought it'd be funny?

No.

But Eddie's always been down for bad ideas.

He sneaks his way in, barely makes a sound, and is immediately shoved up against the wall by -

"Munson?"

Steve Harrington.

"What -" Eddie chokes, Harrington's arm making for a heavy pressure on his neck that is definitely cutting off his air supply. "Dude -"

Harrington blinks at him, any sliver of that predatory gaze melting away, before letting go and stepping back. "Oh, sorry. You okay?"

Bent over, hands on his knees, Eddie tries to catch his breath and stare up at Harrington as incredulously as he can at the same time.

"Sorry, stupid question, right." Harrington rubs the back of his neck with a wince and Eddie - realizes he's shirtless. And wet.

"Are you - are you seriously swimming right now?" He coughs out, straining to keep his eyes up above that jawline. "In the middle of winter?"

The guy just shrugs.

What the hell.

"Also," Eddie stands up straight, crossing his arms with a squint, doing his best to hide the shivers racking up his spine. Harrington's eyes catch on something behind him. "What the fuck was that, man? Your first instinct at getting caught under the bleachers is to fucking jump people?"

No response from the King, who apparently finds Eddie's hair more interesting than a damn conversation, considering how fucking unfocused his eyes are. Probably just wants to get back to whoever he's sucking face with, the dick.

"Whatever, man, just let me find my shit and I'll get out of -"

"Here," Harrington says, swiftly taking Eddie's hand, leaving him zero time to react, and pressing his guitar pick into his palm?! He pushes Eddie’s fingers to curl over the pick, patting the fist gently. "Try to stay out of here after school, Munson. Shit gets dangerous."

"Wha - how - what the fuck?" Eddie snatches his hand back. He stares.

The pool water reflects across Harrington's face, a blue glow that makes him look...otherworldly. Ethereal, even. Brown locks of hair turned damp, stuck to his skin, framing his face and curling around his eyes that look too dark for the evening light, barely distinct from the dilated pupils they hold. Water drips down his nose, fingers, chest, audibly splashing onto the wet pool floor, echoing out into the empty space.

"What..." Eddie hesitates, looking back up at those deep, void-like eyes. "What are you doing here, Harrington?"

The guy smiles, tilting his head at Eddie, eyes half-lidded. "Go home, Munson."

He steps closer to Eddie, leaning in, flooding the air with an acrid smell, some combination of chlorine and smoke. He stares at Eddie, giving a small nod and smiles again.

There's no light reflecting off his eyes, Eddie realizes before he steps back, keeps stepping until his back hits the exit door.

Harrington waves a hand, fingers bending up and down one by one. "Try to stay out of the dark."

The door shuts in Eddie's face and he runs.

#sailor✧writes #steddie #au content #writing #drabble #man i was so excited i was like hell yeah i wrote something good in under 600 words and then i looked at the prompt again and went Ah.#i still had fun writing steve like this though like Other!Steve is just gold tier to me #thinking about doing more drabbles like this honestly #monster steve month or something idk #spooky steve stuff

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monstersandmaw · 2 years

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If you are doing the one-word prompt game, then, scarecrow for my prompt

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

___

Wow. This one really got away from me, but then again, I probably owe you a longer story after all these years anyway! Thank you for the prompt! (heavily inspired by this haunted village ambience video on YouTube that I listen to a lot while writing).

Contents: a rather lonely male scarecrow x artistic gn reader, haunted village, a cheeky magpie, a cute rabbit, lots of soft fluff, sfw Wordcount: 2987

(prompts closed)

___

The last rays of sunlight glanced off mounded clumps of moss that choked the old, drystone wall on your left, and gave them all a little glint of gold. Part of you almost believed that if you were to risk a closer look into the cracks between the stones, you would find fairy coins and gems stashed there for safe keeping. Mud splashed up your boots from the rutted, potholed road which wound away down the hill, and off to your left, the looming beech wood whispered and rustled constantly, sending spiralling copper leaves out into the open fields to the right of the road.

Between the trees, twilight now began to pool and stretch, spreading like an ink stain over the carpet of fallen beech leaves and driving off the sun as night took its turn to watch over the woods and all the creatures who dwelt there.

A tawny owl took up a call from somewhere nearby. The broken half-refrain that sought a mate to complete the melody rang softly between the still trees, and you sighed, hoping he’d find a mate.

You’d heard about this place, the abandoned village in the valley, and had been travelling on foot for days to reach it with your sketch book in your bag and enough food to last you a week if you were careful. To your surprise, you glimpsed bright, fat, round pumpkins growing in the fields on your right, their coiling tendrils spreading merrily across the roughly tilled earth despite the place having lain barren and empty for generations. No one who lived within ten miles of this place ever dared come down this road, and yet there were fresh crops still growing in abandoned farmland.

“Full of ghosts and demons that place is,” the old baker’s wife had hissed at you that morning when you’d bought a loaf for the journey at the nearest town. “Don’t you go wandering around there…”

As you’d left that small, riverside town, with its creaking water mill and ringing blacksmith’s, a tall young man in a dark green cloak had come up to you and pressed a charm into your hands. He’d had a sharp, serious face and deep, black eyes, and people had whispered in the pub the night before that he was the witch’s son. You’d looked down at your hands and found a smooth disc made of antler with a familiar stave rune carved into it.

“To keep you safe,” he’d said, and turned away. You watched him walk a couple of paces before he stopped, sighed, and turned back to you. “I’ve been there,” he said. “To the village. Don’t take anything from there unless it’s given to you first.”

Unnerved by his odd advice, you’d just nodded, thanked him, and donned the protective amulet. It had warmed against your skin as it hung on its leather cord around your neck, and you ran your fingers over it a few times as you walked, thinking about this words again.

Now, as you peered over the planks of a rotting, dilapidated fence overlooking the village, you caught sight of a twisted old apple orchard swathed in evening mist in the wide, verdant valley off to your right, and what seemed to be a dark figure standing in the centre of it. Your heart fairly stopped beating until you realised that they weren’t moving at all, and it was only the faint breeze tugging at the corner of an old coat that was catching your eye. It was a scarecrow.

You camped that night in the only house that still seemed to have a solid, thatched roof, lighting a fire in the cold grate and sleeping in your bedroll on the flagstone floor rather than occupying the empty bed that had been left behind. It felt rude and presumptuous somehow.

After a spot of breakfast the next morning, you banked the fire and left your belongings neatly by the hearth, and looked around the small, single-roomed stone cottage before leaving. “Thank you for letting me sleep here,” you said aloud to no one in particular.

It seemed a bit silly, but it also important somehow, and you nearly jumped out of your skin when a magpie flapped its wings in the rafters above and laughed at you. “No harm in saying thank you,” you muttered to it, and stumbled out of the door, embarrassed.

Your morning was spent wandering the village, getting to know the layout of the old, tumbledown buildings, but your afternoon took you to the ancient apple orchard where you found the scarecrow again, standing sentry in the centre of the trees with his arms spread wide, almost in welcome.

You came to a halt in front of him and looked up into his weathered face, surprised at how friendly his features were. Sure, his face was made of sack cloth and bits of pale straw stuck out at the cuffs and hem of his linen shirt, but the roots that had been chosen for his hands all had four fingers and a gnarled thumb, and the branches that made up his legs beneath the brown broadcloth trousers stuffed with straw were in proportion with the rest of his body. He had big, leather boots on which, like the rest of his clothes and the wide-brimmed, leather hat he wore, were in far better condition than they had any right to be after he’d been presumably hanging on his post for a hundred years or more.

“I almost want to offer you an apple,” you chuckled nervously. “Don’t worry, I haven’t come to thieve from your orchard. I’ve just come to draw the trees. I hope that’s alright. You mind if I sit with you a while?”

Obviously, you got no answer from the silent scarecrow, and although his face was warped with age, it seemed to have a kindly, almost curious set to its vague features, and the stitched mouth seemed to smile a little at the corners.

You sat with your back resting against his post and lost yourself in the careful skate of charcoal and graphite over paper, drawing the speckled feathers of a thrush as it hopped about looking for snails, the curve of the old, white gate that hung off its hinges at a jaunty angle, the lines of the roofs of the village with their ribcage rafters showing, the twisting trunks of the trees like gnarled hands reaching up from the earth to share their fruits with the world. Your magpie joined you for a while and hopped about, chattering away to himself, and you laughed as he began to play with a fallen leaf for a while before flapping off and leaving a single feather behind. You drew that too, lying in the dewy grass, but left it where it lay. The warning of the witch’s son reminded you not to take what had not been offered.

It was only when a cool breeze caressed the back of your neck like a lover’s breath that you jolted and realised how long you’d been sitting there.

The had light faded unnoticed from the brilliant pinks and oranges of sunset to the calm, quiet lilacs and blues of dusk that you blinked, and you could barely see three feet in front of you now. It was only because your paper was white that you could see the marks after all. Fog rolled in from the edges of the low-walled orchard, but despite the way the white fingers crawled across the grass, it didn’t seem threatening in the least.

Groaning and rolling your neck to ease the built-up tension and stiffness, you set your sketchbook down and clambered to your feet, joints creaking after so long in one pose, and you stretched out your back as well. You looked up at the scarecrow and frowned. You could have sworn he had been looking towards the gate when you’d arrived, but his head was bowed down now and looking in your direction.

“You’ve been watching me sketch, have you?” you said, not sounding quite as confident as you’d hoped. Perhaps he’d just moved in a breath of wind earlier. “Well, don’t judge me too harshly, hm? It’s the having fun that counts, not the end result. I’m sorry I intruded on your peace for so long though.”

Again the softest, gentlest breeze wafted around your face and the pages of your sketchbook fluttered open until they stopped on one you’d done of the scarecrow himself.

You cocked an eyebrow. “You like it?” you asked, not really believing that you were actually communicating. “I’m not sure I captured your smile quite right. I can come back again tomorrow and try again though. You’ll tell me if I’m not welcome, right?”

In a flash of black and white wings that came down out of nowhere and made you yip in surprise, the magpie landed on the scarecrow’s shoulder and gave another harsh, laughing chatter at you. He almost seemed to be mocking your startled reaction. Then he fluttered down onto the grass, hopped around a bit, and stooped to pick something up. When he flapped back up to the scarecrow’s shoulder and hopped about, he had the iridescent feather in his beak. He cocked his head a few times and then stuck his neck forwards towards you.

“For me?” you asked, reaching slowly for the feather.

The bird nodded, and as you took it, he spoke. “For you.”

Your eyes went wide and you almost dropped the feather. The black and white bird danced around, apparently enjoying your surprise. Then he made another few cawing noises, flapped his wings, and then disappeared off through a gap in the apple trees. “Well, thank you,” you croaked into the silence he left behind. You knew that corvids could imitate human speech, but that had all been very… precise.

Patting the scarecrow’s chest near his shoulder in an informal farewell, you turned to pick up your sketchbook from the dewy grass and looked back one last time at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

When you stepped over the ruined gate to the orchard the next morning, you made deliberate note of where the scarecrow was looking, and it had definitely changed overnight. Now he was looking across at his right hand that was stretched out wide on the cruciform support from which he hung. In it, you saw a flash of white and a few flashes of colour, and frowned. He hadn’t been holding anything the previous day.

As you approached, you could see better what it was that he was holding, and you exhaled slowly. It was a beautiful bunch of silvery dried grasses, with bright dandelions, red poppies, and dusky blue harebells, all wrapped around with the fluffy heads of old man’s beard that loved to ramble freely over the hedgerows and walls.

“Is… Is that for me too?” you asked. “How did you get them?” An idea lodged itself in your mind and you couldn’t shake it. He was definitely able to look in different directions, so that must mean… “Can you move?”

Only the wind answered you for a long, stretching moment. Then, with the kind of aching slowness that made your heart stop, his head began to turn. Slowly, carefully, he nodded once.

You swallowed and took half a step back, heartbeat thudding. “Is it… Is it alright that I’m here?”

Again, to your immense relief, he nodded again. He moved like the rusty hinge of an old barn door.

“Can you speak?”

He paused, and for a second you thought perhaps he hadn’t understood, but then he nodded a third time.

You licked your lips nervously and looked at the flowers. “So… are they for me?”

Yet another nod was your only answer.

“Did you gather them yourself? I mean, can you… get down from there?” The idea of him roaming around the fields while you’d been fast asleep was partly terrifying and partly rather sweet, and it prompted another question before you’d even waited for the first to be answered. “Are we the only two people here?”

A warm, amused chuckle, like the crunching of autumn leaves, sounded from the scarecrow. He shook his head slightly.

“‘No’ we’re not alone or ‘no’ you can’t get down? Or ‘no’ you didn’t get them yourself?”

The gnarled fingers of his left hand twitched and then the rope that seemed to hold him lashed to the support loosened a fraction and he held up a finger in a gesture that asked you to wait, to slow down.

“I’m sorry,” you said, stepping back again. “I get a bit ahead of myself sometimes.”

Another friendly laugh sounded and you watched the stitched gash that formed his mouth stretch upwards at the corners. His hollow eye sockets lifted a little too and his whole face expressed a gentle mirth. “I can speak…” he said in a rasping, reedy voice. “Though I have had no one but that wretched magpie to talk to for years.”

He spoke fondly enough of the creature, despite his words, and you smiled.

“I can move and get down, though it takes… effort.”

“Oh. Do you mind if I stay and draw some more?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“You’re welcome to come down and join me. I could even draw you again… see if I can get your face right this time.”

He laughed, and the ropes uncoiled on their own, gently lowering him down to the grass. He was about your height, though he stood crookedly, leaning against the support behind him. He kept the brim of his hat tilted down as if to shield his face from you, and he shifted self-consciously as you looked at him. He held out the flowers and you watched the way his hands moved like living flesh, though they were undoubtedly made of the roots of a tree.

You took the flowers carefully from him and felt oddly choked. “I can’t remember the last time someone brought me flowers.”

“There’s not much out at this time of year, but…” he shrugged. “I found what I could. You were kind to sit and chat with me yesterday, even though you didn’t know I could hear you, and the magpie said you were polite in Old Rose’s cottage…”

“Thank you.”

Setting the flowers down beside your satchel, you drew out your sketchbook and sat cross-legged on the ground nearby. He sat as well, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting his hands lie softly in his lap. For a while he just watched you and then seemed to doze as the sun rose and lent a little weak warmth to the autumn day.

After a while, you began to ask him about the history of the village and why it had eventually been abandoned, and he talked in his rasping, faltering way for hours. A rabbit snuffled through the grass as the day wore on, and you froze, not wanting to startle it. It came right up to him, ears forward, nose twitching.

“Hello,” he murmured with a fond chuckle, and the creature leapt straight up into his lap. He cradled it and you carefully turned a new page in your sketchbook to try and capture it.

Luckily, the rabbit was in no hurry to leave, and he stroked his fingers through its fur long enough that you got three decent sketches out of it before it hopped off in search of the dewy dandelions growing between the trees. When he looked up at you and found you watching, he dipped his head again in a clearly bashful gesture.

“Want to see?” you said, waggling the sketchbook.

He nodded, and you went over to sit beside him. His finger shook as he trailed it carefully around the edge of the sketch, mindful not to smudge it, and then he looked up at you. This close, you could see the weave of the sack cloth that made up his face and the crinkles where the material pulled around his mouth and empty eye sockets. “You… I… Is this really how you see me?” he asked in a whisper barely louder than the breeze through the grasses.

With a frown, you turned your gaze back to the sketchbook to look at the drawings more critically. Was he offended? You thought you’d managed to capture the gentle way he’d cradled the rabbit’s soft body, the way his gnarl-knuckled hands had gracefully stroked its fur, the fond tilt of his head as he’d regarded the vulnerable creature in his care, but you’d also taken your time to match the way he listed slightly to one side, his broken-branch spine and crooked limbs not keeping him perfectly upright. It lent him a soft, shy quality, and you nodded. “I think you’re beautiful,” you said and then flushed hot with embarrassment.

He turned his head away and then looked back again, regarding you from the dark, shadowy hollows of his eyes. “No one has ever found me beautiful,” he said. “Not even the farmer who made me. I’m supposed to be frightening, you know? All the village children used to be afraid of me.”

“I’m sure you could be if you needed to be,” you said. “If I were here to steal apples, I mean. The rabbits aren’t a threat, and the magpie is only playful.”

“You could take anything you liked,” he breathed. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

“But could you if you wanted to?”

He paused. “Yes.”

You brought your hand to his cheek and found the sack cloth warm beneath your palm despite the autumn chill in the air. “Let me stay and sketch a while longer?”

“As long as you like,” he whispered back. “You’re welcome here as long as you like.”

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| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

#scarecrow #male scarecrow #scarecrow monster #scarecrow x reader #(but not DC scarecrow!!)#just an ordinary old scarecrow lad #monster boyfriend #exophilia #one word prompts #gender neutral reader #gn reader #male monster #male monster x reader #male monster x gender neutral reader

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whumpshaped · 11 months

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Prompt: plushies

~🪴~

"Holy shit," Whumper breathed, staring into the glowing red eyes of the monster that had been nothing but a stuffed dragon moments prior. They had seen dumb drawings of plushies protecting kids as they slept, sure. Teddy bears with little swords fighting off shadow creatures crawling out from under the bed. But this? This was too much.

Whumpee didn't even stir as the very much alive, at least seven foot tall and who knows how many long dragon slowly stepped off the bed, making Whumper back up. "I don't ever want to see you here again," came a deep rumble of a voice, one that commanded attention and respect. "Or anywhere near them."

Whumper nodded frantically, feeling around for the doorknob behind them. As soon as they found it, they tore it open, and they didn't stop running until they were back in their own home. They had no illusions about that encounter; if that thing wanted anything other than to scare them off, they would've had no problem doing it.

#plushies was a very soft word but i crave violence and monsters /lh #asks #distract me prompts #plant anon #whump #whump drabble #monster caretaker #nonhuman caretaker

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hazzybat · 25 days

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Hi:) at first I want to say that I love your monster hearts universe very much ❤️‍🩹 and want to ask jance from this universe with 17

First off I'm very happy you like my fic :D

Second off because you picked Jance this is set after the whole fic ends and (spoilers) they get together by then (who could have seen it coming?). Or it's a parallel world kinda deal. I dunno.

Anyway I loved this one cause it's 17... to distract 😈

The party was in full swing, liquor flowing easily and everyone getting increasingly louder, sloppier and more willing to show affection. This was lovely when it meant Kris was telling everyone how much they meant to him with enthusiastic hugs and cheers or when Bojan truly let loose with his dance moves or when Jere was liberal in his use of pixie dust. It also meant however that certain people were more willing to die on stupid hills.

"I'm not giving you my coke Jure, go drink something else or get your own can," Nace said, keeping his grip firm on the can of soft drink, even as the ghost tried once more to steal it.

"I just need a little bit for my Jack, I don't need a whole can," Jure protested, hovering a bit above the ground so he was higher than Nace, trying to glare at him.

"I said no," Nace rolled his eyes once more and took a sip of his can, exaggerating his moan of pleasure at the taste just to tease the poltergeist.

He felt a slight shudder at his right and looked at the werewolf currently tucked under his arm, his pupils blow and tongue darting out to wet his lips. Jan was officially his boyfriend now and Nace couldn't be happier. He nuzzled Jan's cheek and planted a kiss there.

"Let me have a taste," Jan said. Nace offered the can but it was quickly taken out of his hands and placed on the bookshelf the two were leaning against. Instead Jan turned, pulled Nace in close and kissed him.

Nace brought his hands up to Jan's neck, carding his fingers through the ebony locks he found there. He felt sharp canines dig into his lower lip and he gasped in surprise, giving Jan access to his mouth and feeling his tongue explore it, tasting the surgery sweet drink on his teeth. He pulled Jan closer, one hand trailing down his back, already feeling the windmill that was his tail wagging at full speed.

"Success! The coke is mine!" He heard a cheer behind him and reluctantly broke from Jan's perfect mouth to see what was happening.

Jure had snatched the can from where Jan had left it and was now pouring it into his glass of Jack Daniel's, tipping his head back in victory and taking a large gulp of the mixture.

Nace looked back at Jan to see him showing off his canines in a grin.

"You betrayed me!" Nace clutched his imaginary pearls, offended his boyfriend would use something as special as his kisses to cheat and get Jure his drink.

"He bet me €20." Nace glared at the ghost now proudly sipping his stolen drink.

"I hate both of you," Nace pouted even as Jan leaned in to give him another smooch. He had to admit, the kiss did taste better than his drink.

(P.s, this whole this was mostly inspired by this incredibly old meme)

#random side note i used the term soft drink which is very aussie but fuck it i couldn’t make myself write soda or whatever #soft drink is any fizzy drink that isn't “hard” like alcohol #tangent about word use over lol #jance #monster hearts #ficlet #joker out #i love chaotic Jure #kiss prompts #also yeah Jere is a pixie btw #fluff

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archive-of-artprompts · 7 months

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🎉SPIN THE WHEEL! Put your beloved blorbos and OCs into possible peril, at the mercy of your followers!🎉

Send in a number+character/s, and have that character drawn/written with that fate! (Tropes from tv tropes 📺)

And Show It to You - Death by removing their heart and showing it to them.

Animal Assassin - Death by use of a deadly animal (especially a venomous creature) as a murder weapon.

Attack on the Heart - Death by directly inflicting damage to the heart.

Bitter Almonds - Death by cyanide poisoning, which leaves the telltale scent of bitter almonds.

Bludgeoned to Death - Death by being beaten with a blunt object.

Boom, Headshot! - Death by firing a single bullet through their brain.

Cement Shoes - Death by being tied down with blocks of concrete and thrown into a deep body of water.

Chainsaw Good - Death by a buzzsaw or chainsaw to cut them into bits.

Chute Sabotage - Death by damaging their parachute.

Cooked to Death - Death by baking, boiling, frying, grilling, or roasting them with kitchen equipment.

Cruel and Unusual Death - Death by gruesome torture.

Dangerously Close Shave - Death by straight razor

Deadly Game - Death by losing a violent contest (sometimes based on a playground game.)

Deadly Remote Control Toy - Death by remote-controlled toys.

Death by Falling Over - Death by a fatal push.

Death in the Clouds - Death by being murdered onboard an aircraft.

Death Trap - Death by an improvised weapon designed to kill anyone who triggers the mechanism and gets trapped by it.

Demanding Their Head - Death by ordered beheading, and returning the head as proof.

Drowning Pit - Death by being trapped in a room or chamber that's being slowly flooded with water.

Electrified Bathtub - Death by dropping active electronics into a bathtub filled with water.

Fed to Pigs - Death by being locked in a pen full of hungry pigs.

Fed to the Beast - Death by handing them over to a man-eating animal or monster, to be devoured alive by the hungry creature.

Flaying Alive - Death by being skinned alive

Fright Deathtrap - Death by intentionally, fatally scaring someone

Gasoline Dousing - Death by pouring flammable liquids on their body and then igniting them.

Gladiator Games - Death by being forced to engage in mortal combat as some sort of twisted spectator sport.

Gutted Like a Fish - Death by disembowelment.

Hanging Around - Death by hanging them by the neck with a rope (noose), fatal by either asphyxiation or breaking their neck vertebrae.

Head Crushing - Death by squashing their head like a watermelon.

High-Voltage Death - Death by electrocuting them.

Kill It with Fire - Death by using fire or burning heat.

Kill It with Ice - Death by using ice or freezing cold.

Kill It with Water - Death by using water.

Literally Shattered Lives - Death by being frozen and then shattered.

Machete Mayhem - Death by using a big, long blade that's not exactly a knife or a sword.

Medication Tampering - Death by tampering with their medication

Moe Greene Special - Death by shooting them through the eye.

Multiple Gunshot Death - Death by being riddled with many bullets.

Murder by Cremation - Death by shoving them into a (kitchen or crematory) oven to burn them to death.

Murder by Inaction - Death by someone refusing to save their life.

Neck Snap - Death by twisting their neck hard enough to sever their spinal cord.

Not-So-Fake Prop Weapon - Death by using a real weapon disguised as a fake imitation.

Off with His Head! - Death by chopping off their head with a very sharp blade to cut through the neck.

Poison Is Evil - Death by use of a highly toxic chemical substance.

Sickbed Slaying - Death while they are lying in bed from illness or injury.

Sinister Suffocation - Death by choking or strangulation.

Slain in Their Sleep - Death while they’re asleep in bed.

Slashed Throat - Death by cutting their neck open with a blade, though without going for a full-on decapitation.

Vorpal Pillow - Death by smothering them with a pillow.

Your Head A-Splode - Death by making their head burst or blow up.

#words prompt #oc prompt #art prompt #monster prompt #word prompt #character prompt #cw #cw violence #cw death #tv tropes

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quinloki · 25 days

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Monster? >:)

It wasn't his eyes, pupils down to slits.

It wasn't the claws at the ends of his hands, dark black and seeming to suck in the light around them. Sharper somehow because of it, as though they cut through the very light.

It wasn't the ripple of muscle just beneath the short fur along his back, shifting and taut, ready to spring toward you.

It wasn't the pressure of being hunted, the hungry weight against you as you resigned yourself to your fate.

It wasn't any of that which left you paralyzed, caught between desperate panic and cold understanding.

It was the silence.

The deafening silence of the entire situation. There were no bugs, no birds, no creatures in the night making a single noise. Everything was still, on edge, and scared. The beast before you wasn't growling either.

The silence would kill you before he did.

The anticipation of those last few moments of freedom. Of life. The pure, unavoidable knowledge of your inescapable fate.

But what was inescapable at the end of Lucci's claws, was a fate to be repeated again and again. Before the forest came to life, it would be your euphoric screams that shattered the silence of the night.

Challenge me

#quins been challenged #one word prompts #quin answers #x reader #reader insert #anon asks #rob lucci #mdni #Monster #primal play

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allthatslithers · 5 months

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The deep chill of Winter has the Northern Hemisphere in its icy grip. Family groups huddle around the fire for warmth and comfort, telling stories to pass the long nights. All the while, fearsome creatures of the snowy landscape rattle the ancient windows and pound on the thick door of the log cabin. Some beckon people out into the cold using the voices of loved ones, some the embodiment of hunger, and some are furry bipedal creatures, hanging out in the nearby caves.

This month’s theme is Ice Monsters. From the fearsome Yeti to the cunning Yuki Onna (snow woman), creatures of the cold span many countries and cultures. Looking for a few ideas? This post has a good selection to peruse: https://www.deviantart.com/whisperthewolfie/journal/Top-10-Mythical-Creatures-of-Winter-Ice-and-Snow-717911543

Posting of your works will be from Thursday, January 25th to Wednesday, January 31st. We can’t wait to see your works!

"Wait, I'm new here! What's 'A Strongly Worded Note'?" Welcome! ASWN is a low-pressure monthly event. No level of completion is required to post and we encourage everyone to join in. This isn't an event intended to stress you out - whatever you have, even if it's just a plot outline or a sketch, can be posted!

And don’t forget, if you wish to add your works to the AO3 collection, the link is here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/a_strongly_worded_note

#good omens #ASWN #a strongly worded note #prompt #ice monsters

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twofrontteethstillcrooked · 1 year

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Adventure: Dreamy Drabble, 12 June 2023

special big huge Thank You! to @starcrosseddeancas for the awesome prompts, cheerleading, and running this Dreamy Drabble ❤️

deancas ust, 100 words

"I'd go on any adventure with you." Sam's sincerity made nearby diners gasp.

Dean gritted his teeth.

Cas, hand clasped in Sam's, nodded. "Of course I'll marry you."

The restaurant burst into applause. Dean considered fratricide.

Elsewhere, a dozen trays clanged to the floor; Rowena appeared tableside, hands covered in bloody glitter.

"Gentlemen, we need to hurry." She fled through the fire exit.

"Thanks for helping with the distraction," Sam told Cas in the alley.

Dean said under his breath, to no one, "I could've gotten engaged to Cas too, you know."

"You still could," Cas pointed out.

Dean hiccuped.

#dreamydrabble #deancas #destiel #spn #drabbles #fic #i had so much fun doing these 8 prompts #100 words is so few words but i enjoyed the self-imposed challenge of that a lot!#shout out to the insane cafe i ate in today that inspired this specific prompt #they put glitter on everything there; i can easily imagine monsters running the kitchen somehow

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ehlnofay · 1 year

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19 for the worldbuilding prompts + Torr?

the profound quiet of a small settlement at night

North Eastmarch is freezing cold all over, but it wears different outside the city than within.

Torr would never call Windhelm warm – not even in summer months, no matter how used to it they are – but what little heat it has it clings to with great determination. The walls huddle together, trapping the air so that it’s either still and muggy or a howling wind, like each close-knit house is breathing in tandem. The heat of the people run up and down its streets, blood through its knotted stone veins. The city is alive, an ecosystem unto itself; its snow, dark with footprints, runs sludgy down the roads; a fireplace is always burning somewhere.

Outside of the walls, surrounded by nothing but empty air and snow-laden trees, a slow-moving stream running with barely a burble – it feels dead, in contrast. Silent. Branches reach needle-sharp across the blue-black sky, the ground is gleaming white and undisturbed by anyone else’s footprints, and the nearest fire is the barely visible gleam of the Kynesgrove mining camp, up the hill and through the sporadic spindles of the trees. The breeze ghosts past Torr’s neck and whips the mud-stained snow into a flurry.

In the city, Torr’s comfortable sleeping almost anywhere – as comfortable as they ever get, anyway. Some of the buildings have great gaps under the porch where the snow can’t reach and no-one ever finds them; there’s places in the nooks of the walls, and sheds built into the side of the house that people don’t lock, and Torr knows a few people besides who don’t mind him kipping on their floor every now and again, as long as he doesn’t ask too often. The outside isn’t like that. There’s not many places to go. He’s lurking around Kynesgrove tonight – on his way back from a quick venture out to get some things done that pay better than running errands around the markets – and there aren’t many options. The inn, which he can’t afford – the mine, which would be warm but is very guarded – the miner’s encampment or someone’s house, both of which would most likely result in being chased off. Besides, there’s a performative element to meeting people, especially adults, in strange places, and Torr’s not in the mood to play to strangers. So much of his being is caught up in Windhelm’s grimy alleys, tangled in the hair and fingers of its discarded children; he doesn’t know how to be himself away from it all.

But they don’t have to, seeing as there’s the rickety old sawmill on the edge of a stream feeding into the harbour. It’s not bad, as shelter goes; no walls, so the wind rubs its fingers wraithlike down Torr’s cheeks and tangles them in his hair, but at least there’s a roof. It looks newly thatched, too, the floorboards free of rot, the water-wheel still chugging creakily along. There’s no wood to cut here, all the nearby surrounding trees too scraggy to be worth the bother. The only big ones are part of the grove up on the hill. There’s no point in keeping the mill running, but Torr is glad it is; he watches the distant firelight flickering through the scrub, and listens to the splashing of the wheel. It’s proof that people and the things they make do still exist – if not necessarily here.

It really feels dead, out in the cold, with the leafless trees and the wind that doesn’t even whisper. It always does. It’s a bit discomfiting, which is maybe why Torr doesn’t go on out-of-city endeavours as often as perhaps he could; but really, there’s not work out here enough to make it worth it. There’s always problems with bandits on the road, but Torr’s not a good enough fighter for bounty work; there’s collecting plants and things to sell Nurelion, but that’s easy enough to do on a day trip. (And, really, it’s more for Torr’s own enjoyment, besides. They never even venture far south enough to get to the sulphur pools, which is where the more interesting things grow.)

This trip, though, is an outlier. Unusually efficient. Just a quick job for Niranye, scouting a merchant’s cart on the road – almost definitely for something shady, but that’s not Torr’s business, and it was too much money too easy to turn down. And then – just earlier today, foraging out in the wilderness as best as Torr (a distinctly urban animal) knows how – they’d come across a giant’s corpse, stiff and white as the snow it lay in. Torr’s no master alchemist but they know the value of a cadaver when it comes to brewing alloys and admixtures, so they set to with their blunt-edged dagger and now they’ve got a sack full of what may as well be gold. (Long as it doesn’t start to rot before they can get Nurelion to preserve it, anyway.)

Torr’s going to be rolling in it when they get back to Windhelm. They could use that money for nearly anything – pay off a few things they borrowed, new warm things now that winter’s coming back strong, bedrolls, waterskins. Endless options – which, strangely, is more exciting than it is burdensome.

It’s all the sort of decision that would ordinarily feel life-or-death urgent but right now feels – not small. Not insignificant, not at all, but distant. A choice to be made at another time, by another person.

(Torr’s whole being belongs to Windhelm’s back streets. They’re someone else, away from it all.)

That’s the other thing about leaving the city, spending time in the discomfiting slow-paced ghost-world outside. It’s quiet. Torr sits surrounded by the wind in the trees, the lazy murmur of the stream, the creak of the water-wheel, and nothing else.

He’s been called a worrywart (mostly by Griss in a strop) but to tell the truth he doesn’t think that’s true. Torr doesn’t fuss for the sake of fussing, he just doesn’t like to leave things undone; can’t stop until he finds a solution. Out here, alone, in the empty cold, there are no solutions to find – same old problems back home, he knows, but no steps he can take at this time to right them. That’s never true while he’s in the city, so he can never stop thinking about it, every choice and action accompanied by a buzzing background chorus of everything else he really should be doing – that really should have been done by now – that should never have been left undone this long, what was he thinking? Everything is urgent when it’s doable. But here and now, there’s nothing to do.

So Torr sits hunched on the board floor of the ramshackle watermill, huddled among their heaps of bags and blankets, and thinks of nothing at all.

Not strictly true. They think of supper – haven’t eaten since an apple this morning, except for some snowberries they found around noon, and it’s been a long day. They nabbed some turnips from the garden of the Kynesgrove inn on their way to the mill. They’re fresh, if nothing else – also covered in dirt, so Torr rises reluctantly from their pile of stuff to crouch on the banks of the stream and dip the vegetables in to clean them off. It aches like hell, the frozen water turning their joints to ice – they almost drop the turnip they’re washing, so they scrub it as best they can with the frigid pad of their thumb and whip their hands out of the water soon as they’re able. They stick their fingers in their mouth to warm them back up.

Even after all that time spent warming up their hands, arraying all their belongings back around themself to conserve body heat, the turnips are still cold enough to hurt Torr’s teeth when he bites in. He eats them anyway, relishing a little in the unearthly silence and the aching of his lips and palms. They taste delicious.

With nothing else to do after, the gnawing of his stomach sated, he wraps himself in his shawl and stares up the hill at the camp’s fire until it goes out. The stars wink into brighter being. The wind whistles through the whip-thin branches of the trees. The water-wheel creaks.

Torr sleeps, but he feels like he hears it all – a silent observer, an echo, a beginning – until morning.

#I considered doing something with post-questline torr for this #but it would have been so fucking sad #and I didn't want to write something that was so fucking sad!#I'll post about torr after the horrors eventually but Not Today.#this was also initially supposed to be an exercise in writing something short that focused more on a distinctive atmosphere #than a scene or character study as most of my pieces are.#oops.#snowballed into an absolute monster of a ramble.#maybe sometime I'll use these prompts to write Actually Short pieces with more of a focus on the worldbuilding aspect...#would be good practice. everything I've written lately has been a thousand words minimum.#I could write about my minor characters or npcs with it too... yeah I think I'll do that at some stage #but. anyway. I quite like this piece as a sort of study #I fucking love writing characters who are having a nice time. with just a hint. just a whisper. of the problems #I enjoyed putting in the reference to the alchemical giant's toes especially because that is an allusion no-one but me understands #to a line in one of my very bad very early pieces on torr #it's not well written but I loved that bit because it's such a wonderful microcosm of the way torr is even before the murder cult thing #Yes he's the busiest most hardworking caretaking boy in the world taking trips into the wilderness (comparatively) to feed his family #and Yes his first instinct on seeing a corpse is to cut it up and sell it for parts #(he's done this to human bodies too but only in extremely specific circumstances. the risk of legal repercussions is too great otherwise)#I'll make a post rambling sometime about torr's ethical system because I'm so obsessed with them and their unhinged point of view #Anyway #done rambling #my writing #fay writes #oc tag #torr #the elder srolls #tes #skyrim #tesblr

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