It’s here! The spookiest month of the year, the time for monsters, spirits, and treats! And that means the traditional Gobblepot Halloween event~
This event marks an anniversary for the Gazette as well, since Halloween was the first event organized. Can you believe this would be the 7th Halloween we celebrate here? This year the event will run between 24-31 October.
We have a bingo card to spark some creativity:
It also holds a secret art underneath all these prompt blocks. Each entry would reveal one block, so if you want to see the full picture, please submit works for the event by using the tag #GobblepotHalloween2022 (you can also @ the Gobblepot Gazette, because Tumblr, you know?)
We have created an AO3 collection for your works, so feel free to use it as well. As always, you can write, draw, make playlists, gifs, videos, or whatever else you feel like doing! We’re looking forward to seeing what the spooky month will inspire in you!
Don’t hesitate to contact us if you have any questions!
I’ve decided to do another entry for Gobblepot Halloween, this time for the prompt “nightmare”
Warning for body horror.
First Angst then fluff.
Enjoy!
It all starts with a smudge.
A little black stain, nothing more.
Perhaps he had smeared ink on his hand without noticing?
Mindful of not letting it get onto his white shirt (Barbara would kill him for it) he gets up, sighing and feeling annoyed.
Into the bathroom, to attack it with some soap and hot water.
Except the stain seems entirely unwilling to disappear.
No matter his increasingly annoyed and violent scrubbing, nothing seems to help.
It just stays, gloating at him.
He decides to give up when his skin is red and raw and hurting, clenching his teeth in anger.
At least it won’t get onto his shirt, when it is so resistant to leaving his skin.
Eventually it will have to disappear.
Except once again his life ends up disappointing him, because when he wakes up the next day, the stain is anything but gone.
It’s still a stark contrast of black against his unblemished skin, and he can’t stop the feeling that it’s mocking him.
The hot water of the shower and soothing aroma of his shampoo, citrusy and fresh, give him the opportunity to unwind a little.
He lets his mind wander freely, and finds the he continues mulling over one of his current cases.
His thoughts are rudely interrupted and he finds himself pulled back to reality by an unnerving discovery.
There’s another stain. Multiple actually, if the charcoal discolouration of his fingertips is any indication.
What could it be?
Even the first stain seems to have grown in size, now covering the entire back of his hand in sooty black.
There’s nothing to do but ignore it, he finds, after another session of fierce and panicked scrubbing.
His smile is strained as he lies to Barbara that nothing is wrong, and his guilt weighs heavily as she believes him.
He lies again when colleagues ask him why he is wearing gloves, and he tells them it’s a rash.
It only becomes worse and worse during the next days, dark splotches creeping across his body like tar.
He would go to the doctor, but there is a horrible suspicion forming in the back of his mind.
It’s this damn city. Dragging him under, contaminating him, marking him so that everyone can see his shame.
It’s merely an outward sign to show his insidious corruption, festering just beneath his skin.
So he hides in shame, tries to cover the glaring signs with make up he steals from Barbara’s part of the bathroom.
But he can feel the infestation growing, consuming his insides and spreading, only worsened by the cold guilt and regret coiling in his stomach like a snake.
He sees it everywhere now.
He sees it on the pickpocket he chases through the streets, he sees it on the politicians on tv, sees it on his colleagues at work, on the leering man in the holding cells.
Barbara won’t stop asking what’s wrong, why he won’t sleep in the same room at night, or why he refuses to stop wearing long sleeved shirts and pants, why he won’t take off his gloves.
He can’t tell her that he’s afraid of touching her, of infecting the last pure, good thing in his life.
It comes as it has to.
It’s a normal Tuesday evening when she surprises him while he is absentmindedly scratching at his marred skin, leaving it exposed to her shocked eyes.
He tries his best to explain, but the disgust in her face is plain to see.
It doesn’t come as a surprise when she packs up her things and leaves the next day, too disgusted by his touch to stay even a minute longer.
He doesn’t protest. How could he blame her for doing the right thing?
He is rotten.
The door slamming shut behind her feels like a coffin door clanging shut, burying him alive in his misery.
Leaving him to the decay. And no matter how much a part of him screams to fight, yell, plead with fate and claw his way out- he doesn’t.
Because it’s where he should be. He should be locked safely in a coffin, instead of out there, fighting so hard and pretending to be the savour while he himself has long since become an integral part of the problem.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Suddenly he tastes the dust on his tongue.
Dry and brittle and making him cough.
There’s no air, no room for movement, just darkness so thick that he cannot tell where it ends and he begins. And the disgusting feeling of the corruption inside of him, multiplied tenfold by the lack of other sensory input.
Writhing, moving, spreading, just itching to spring from him to yet another someone he once loved, if he makes the selfish mistake of letting them get close enough.
Because he remembers now. Remembers the dark splotches on Barbara’s soft skin, ugly markings in the shape of his handprints, festering and growing and feeding on her warmth to turn it to hatred.
It’s all his fault.
The writhing mass is moving still, angry that its trapped in this coffin with him, instead of out there, where he-, it, wants to be.
He can feel how it breaches the thin barrier separating it from his lungs, filling them up with mucus, and making him heave up bitter decay.
How come his heart is still beating? Shouldn’t he be dead by now?
Wouldn’t that be so much better for everyone?
God, the infestation it’s everywhere. It’s under his skin, in his mouth, and building lumps on his hands.
But still, he smiles.
It’s not a kind smile, not a happy one. It’s angry, and it’s mean.
Because he remembers another thing now.
He is the one who got into this coffin and sealed it shut, and this horrific disease with him, so that he may never again touch an innocent with it.
And if he is to die, he will take it with him.
No matter if his fists are banging against the wooden cover plate until they are bloody, no matter if it’s using his voice to scream until it is hoarse.
It can’t get out.
At least one less hearth of death and suffering in this rotten city.
That’s when he hears it.
Scratching.
Someone is trying to dig up his grave.
“No!“ he tries to scream, “you‘ll catch it too!”
But his voice isn’t his, doesn’t obey his command.
And as the lid is being opened, all he sees is a pale hand reaching for him, yanking him out roughly, shaking him, shaking-
-shaking him gently but insistently.
“-re you alright?”
The room is dark, bf not dark enough to be a coffin by far. There’s a streak of moonlight falling through the blinds, illuminating the raven haired man crouches above him.
“You were trashing in your sleep, so I thought…”
Jim’s throat is so parched it hurts, and the taste of dust and rot lingers, stubbornly refusing to leave.
“M’ fine. Just a nightmare.”
Suddenly there are gentle hands, stroking his sweat soaked hair out of his face with care.
“Jim. You are clearly not “fine”. Stay here while I get you a glass of water, and then we can talk about it if you want.”
Still feeling too weak to protest, Jim just nods his head and waits for his bedmates return.
Strictly refusing to close his eyes, too afraid of falling back asleep and returning to that horrible dream world.
The images won’t leave him alone even now, and he catches himself raising his hand to check for any signs of discolouration.
It’s normal. Just a normal hand with normal skin.
Normal normal normal nor-
“There you go! Be careful not to drink too quickly.”
Someone helping him up, patiently holding a glass with blissfully cool water to his dry lips and laughing when he almost spills the content in his eagerness.
“I said slowly. Now, would you like to talk about it?”
Not really. He’d much rather forget that horrible dream forever.
But he finds himself unable to just put it aside too.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?”
It’s too dark to see any expressions, but being pulled into a fierce hug is just as good, if not better.
“You’re the man that I love, Jim.”
At least he knows that his expressions aren’t visible either.
The quiet dark makes it easier to let himself be vulnerable, somehow.
So different from the dark in his dreams.
Much lighter, softer, safer. Dots of light from cars that pass by on the street outside, glinting reflections here and there.
The familiar smell of his lovers shampoo still wafting through the room from his shower in the evening.
“Answer the question, Oswald. Please, it’s important to me.”
“I… no. Of course not. Why would you even ask that?”
And if there are a few tears running down his face, surely it’s dark enough so no one would notice.
“Sometimes it feels like everything I touch falls apart. Everyone I get close to suffers because of me.”
Oswald strokes his hair soothingly, and although maybe he should protest such indignant treatment, he doesn’t.
It feels too damn good, comforting and grounding him at the same time.
“You’re doing your best, love. That’s more than most other people can say of themselves, me included. You don’t deserve the bad things that happened to you.”
Jim opens his mouth to protest, but is immediately cut off by Oswald, who can apparently read his mind effortlessly.
“And the things that happen to others are <em>not</em> your fault either, so shush.”
The silence stretches comfortably between them after that, filled only with the occasional sniffle that Oswald gracefully ignores.
After he has calmed down a bit, comfortably on the brink of dozing off again, Oswald’s soft voice pipes up once again.
“I’ve never understood why you do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Blame yourself for every bad thing that happens.”
“Must be the knight in shining armour complex,” he ruefully admits.
There’s a little giggle, beautiful enough to light up the darkness.
“Ohhh Jim, my beautiful, strong and handsome knight! Won’t you give me true loves kiss? Or I shall certainly perish!”
“How could I resist such a charming princess,” Jim teases before catching Oswald’s lips in a short but sweet kiss.
They do have to sleep after all, if they don’t want to be entirely useless in the morning.
Oswald apparently thinks so too, because he lies back down between the fluffy pillows with a yawn.
“Good. Now come cuddle me.”
“Oh, a bit bossy, aren’t we?“ Jim teases with a fond smile, before crawling under the cozy covers to join his husband.
“Yes. Now be good, and I might dial it up some more for you tomorrow night~”
