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occasionalsnippets · 4 years

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Escapism AU (Y/n) & Passione

This is mostly about mc’s interactions with the gang including a bit of La Squadra and Unita Speciale. I’ll probably add more as I think.

Bucciarati’s Gang

Mc crashes at their house from time to time even though she has her own apartment

This either because she wants to sleep over for fun

Or because she’s finished a mission and their house is closer

Sometimes she shows up at 2 AM and just passes out on their couch

It happens more often than it should

Bruno eventually gives her a copy of the key

She steals food from the fridge too but makes up for it by buying groceries

They leave a toothbrush and cup for her in one of the bathrooms since she comes over so much

Before everyone was recuited, there were extra bedrooms in the house that weren’t being used

They left a guest room for mc but she doesn’t use it all the time, opting to pass out on the couch first

Either Bruno or Abbacchio usually brings her to her room though Abbacchio would never admit to it

Mista draws on her face with marker sometimes but leaves her on the couch most of the time. He can’t ruin her cute face all the time

Narancia cuddles with her on the couch or join Mista in doodling

Fugo leaves her on the couch but gets a blanket and readjusts her position if it’s uncomfortable

However, after Mista got recruited, mc gave up her room so Mista didn’t have to room with anyone

Now, she just sleeps on the couch or whoever’s okay with her borrowing their bed

She has tried several times to get them to wear normal clothes outside (they dressed perfectly normally before joining the mafia!) and only about half those times did it actually work

Mc is strong enough carry everyone in the group bridal style

The only ones who gets particularly mouthy when she does is Abbacchio and Mista but only because Mista wants to carry her too

She joins Fugo, Narancia and Mista in doing stupid things but it’s fun

She knows the torture dance

Mc isn’t technically a part of their team but they consider her to be because of how often she stays over and tags along for missions

She doesn’t expect anyone to really like her the way they do despite how obvious their feelings are

Part of it is because she isn’t supposed to be in this universe in the first place, that she’s an outsider of sorts. She’s here to make sure they don’t die

The other part of it is the guilt of leaving them to die in the first timeline. She feels like she doesn’t deserve how highly they think of her because of how readily she was to let fate run it’s course the first time around, even if they don’t remember it

She’s sooner die then let any of them do the same

Giorno

Mc meets Giorno before he’s recruited into the gang since she does go to the same school as him even though she doesn’t really show up to classes that often

She’s about 2 years older than Giorno

They became friends prior to his hair turning blond and she almost didn’t recognize him but his eyes are rather distinctive

When it did turn blond, mc got a vaguely panicked call in the morning from him saying his hair turned blond for some reason

She’s the first person to braid his hair with the needlessly extra loop at the end after it turned blond

She wasn’t sure how the donuts worked but the next time she saw him he had the signature donut hair so she guessed he figured out how to do it

It becomes routine for her to braid Giorno’s hair when she notices it’s undone

She gave him a crash course on stands when he found out she had one

They spend a lot of time in libraries

Mc insists on paying for food when they get lunch together though Giorno always refuses

I feel like Giorno lowkey craves intimacy?

Mc calls him “GioGio” sometimes

Trish

Hmmmmm, gay

I really like Trish hence why she’s included in the harem

Out of everyone in the gang guarding her, she’s the closest with mc since they’re both girls which is also why Bruno assigns mc to her the most often

Convenient for Trish since it means more time to flirt

Unfortunately, mc does fall under the “are we just being nice to each other or are we flirting” when Trish is just about ready to ask for her hand in marriage

She’s flirting, no doubt

Trish lets mc rest her head on her thighs which mc can confirm is very comfortable

Trish is one of the two people she trusts to do her make up, the other one being Abbacchio

You know that picture where there’s one girl sitting on the other girl doing her makeup

That’s basically Trish and mc

Post-Vento Aureo, they stay in contact and remain good friends as Trish pursues a career as a singer

Narancia

Mc joined Fugo on that walk where they found Narancia in the alleyway so she’s partially responsible for him joining the mafia

They bring him to Libecco where Bruno is and he gets food before going to the hospital to get his eye treated like in canon

She goes shopping with him after he’s out of the hospital

They get normal clothes but the next she sees him, he’s wearing his canon outfit and she wonders why she even bothered with his fashion sense in the first place

She’s the one who buys him his bandana that he wears in his canon outfit

They’re pretty cute together actually

She calls him “Nara”

While she isn’t available all the time to help Fugo tutor him, when she is around, she tries her best to help

They listen to music together and mc ends up reccomending a lot though some songs haven’t come out yet so she’s only able to play them on her phone

“If I run and jump at (Y/n), she’ll definately catch me!” “Wait, I’m holding a mug-” *Drops the mug and catches Narancia*

Hugs with Narancia often end with his face buried in the crook of her neck

Fugo

Probably the one mc goes with on missions the most

Part of it is because they’re the closest in age prior to everyone else joining, another part is due to mc’s nullifying ability effectively making her immune to Purple Haze’s virus

Mc be like “if I got infected with purple haze’s virus, I would simply become immune. rip to everyone else but I’m different.”

Still, Fugo is still very cautious when it comes to pulling out Purple Haze

Fugo buys her lavender hand lotion once and she decided she liked it so she continued to use it

He sorta associates lavender with mc

Mc buys him strawberry earrings. Sometimes she spontaneously buys stuff that reminds her of him

Fugo isn’t particularily fond of contact (backstory trauma) so mc tries to keep it to a minimum unless he gives an okay

Probably a few missions together where mc saves him, they’re walking down a street together and he just slips his hand into hers

Asadlskjh, I want them to hold hands

When she’s doing school assignments over at the Bucci house, Fugo helps her look over and proofread them despite the fact she has access to the internet through her phone and can search stuff literally from the future (not that he knows). She appreciates the input

I think that after Fugo leaves the group during Vento Aureo, I would like to bring him back somehow before the end of Vento Aureo

Abbacchio

He didn’t like mc at first, no surprises here, but after they went on a few missions together where she saved his life, he begrudgingly opened up

She reminds him of his dead partner due to how reckless she is in saving people

She an idiot but she’s his idiot

He’s likely one of the most worried when she gets hurt since he doesn’t want to lose another person who died protecting him

Abbacchio does come off as very tsundere seeing how prickly he is to everyone except Bruno but everyone except for mc notices that he isn’t that prickly to her either

Mc doesn’t expect him to like her to any degree so whenever anyone points out that he’s nicer to her, she’s like “what?”

They have late night talks a lot

Abbacchio stays up late drinking and mc doesn’t sleep consistently enough

Sometimes they go up to the roof of the house to talk

She has fallen alseep on him multiple times. His tiddies make great pillows.

Generally, she’s got her head resting on his tiddies, one arm hanging over his body, the other spawled out somewhere. He keeps one arm around her head and the other around her waist

Bruno

Mc with Bruno is oddly domestic?

she helps around the house, buying groceries, helping out in the kitchen and cleaning from time to time

Bruno appreciates it a lot

If Abbacchio and mc have late night talks, Bruno and her have early morning talks when everyone else is asleep and the sun is just barely rising

Bruno keeps telling her it isn’t healthy to sleep only 3 hours so he convinces her to fall asleep for a few more hours

He spoils her a lot and brings her to cafes

Bruno is one of the last people she would expect to like her more than a friend due to the “bruno’s a mom” memes and he’s nice to everyone (almost everyone, excluding ememies), there’s no way he would like her more

Sure, he kisses the crown of her head and the back of her hand from time to time and they cook together

But they’re just good friends, right?

He frequently lectures her on being more careful and not being so reckless

Mista

They discuss weird stuff a lot

The combination of mc’s general knowledge of random things due to the internet and Mista’s bad timing when bringing up topics leads to interesting conversations

Like, your tongue never sits comfortably in your mouth, your skeleton is wet, are you inside your skeleton or is your skeleton inside you?

Mc is always in a constant state of worry when he’s on a mission because his bullets always end up in his own body something

The only reason he isn’t dead yet is because his dumb*ss aura surrounds him

Mc qualifies as a cute girl 11/10

He flirts with her casually and the pistols tell her his thought even when he doesn’t want them to but she never seems to notice

“You’ve been flirting with me?” “Have been for the last year, thanks for noticing.”

Mc gets Mista a gun holster after the events of Vento Aureo because he really shouldn’t be tucking his gun in his pants like that

If someone was really angry, they could lean over and shoot his d*ck off

La Squadra

I sorta debated whether la squadra should be a part of the harem or not but I think mostly no

That’s because I don’t really have an age range for them but Risotto’s like 28 and big age gaps are creepy. So, I guess for some of the la squadra members, it’s up to interpretation whether it’s romantic or platonic. I’m inclined towards platonic though

I’m not sure if I want to save Sorbet and Gelato yet

Mc, of course, goes along for missions as she’s ordered to

La squadra is so broke. Why doesn’t Diavolo pay them more? They literally kill people for their job

Mc doesn’t crash at their house very often but she stops by to hang out and drop off food

She buys them groceries when she notices their fridge is super empty. She doesn’t need them to pay her back (her paycheck is suprisingly big), but they should stop eating takeout all the time

She usually calls Risotto to ask if there’s anything specific they want

She’s rather fond of Pesci. They go fishing together when they have time

Illuso and mc are gossip buddies

Melone gets kink shamed during missions

Ghiaccio and mc have gone ice skating together before

I don’t really have anything else for the others... I’ll think about it

When Vento Aureo begins, mc is trying to save them though she isn’t directly working with them

La Unita Speciale

These are pretty random

Tizano and Squalo are gay, mc was there when they proposed to each other

Mc gets ordered to buy food when they have meetings though it’s pretty rare

When she does show up to drop off food, it’s a constant feeling of “let me leave quicker please” because Cioccolata is freaky

She thinks she runs into Doppio way too often when she’s doing missions

The only good thing about it is that Doppio is pretty nice when Diavolo isn’t kicking about. On one hand, Doppio=nice, on the other Doppio=Diavolo

Mc feeds Secco sugar cubes when Cioccolata isn’t looking

She would not trust Cioccolata to patch up any of her wounds, he’s likely to dissect her

Mc gets missions through calls and emails but sometimes Doppio’s around to tell her what they are

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notmrskennedy · 4 years

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Whatever You Need

(Chip x Fem!Reader)

A/N - am I little in love with Chip? Yes, but who isn’t? So please enjoy my hot take on our lovely Mr. Chip Taylor

Summary - a university professor meets a very adorable maintenance guy ...

Warnings - a pinch of swearing and two teaspoons of mentioning gross things

Word Count - 3k

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There’s a thin line, she realises as she rushes into the lecture hall, between anthropological research and grave robbing. When you’re on loan to the federal government and a water pipe bursts at a cemetery, there isn’t much to do other than say, ‘yes sir Mr. FBI agent, I will gladly slop through three feet of mud and water, digging through graves!’

She’s ten minutes late to her lecture. Ten minutes long enough that the TA’s are snickering. Ten minutes long enough that the entire class looks horrified that their Anthropology 101 professor is covered head to toe in dried mud, grass, and whatever else could be found in destroyed 19th century coffins.

She sets her bag down heavily on the desk and startles everyone in the room. Sans the maintenance guy. He’s tinkering with vent at the foot of door. He’s mostly a faded ball cap and a distressed jean jacket, one arm shoved up the vent. She can’t imagine why someone would have their arm up a vent, but god only knows why the university would ask someone to.

A moment passes where she unabashedly stares. How did she miss him? Was she in that much of a hurry that she nearly tripped on the guy and didn’t look back? And what the hell is in that vent?

The TA’s snicker behind her back, sobering up when she shoots them a half deadly look. She’s covered in mud, not lenience. She half hopes Maintenance Guy will turn around—she has a desperate, yet beguiling feeling he’s hot. But what she’s really curious for is what’s stuck up that vent.

And he doesn’t turn around—his complete disregard of her is a 180 from the rapt attention she’s receiving from her students—until she’s frustratedly brushing dirt off her face. Pulling grass from her hair.

“Let me just start with,” she begins, pulling an earth worm out of her sleeve, “if the federal government asks you to sort through bodies in a flooded cemetery, tell them no. And despite how much fun grave digging can be, there’s a thin line and that line is punctuated by whether they’re arresting me or not.”

Maintenance Guy snorts, head turned to beam up at her. She’s almost taken aback by how bright he seems. How his grin puts the sun in its place. He looks honest, grease stains and all.

There’s something to be said about the fact she’s studying his bone structure instead of his fleshy bits. She can’t tell you what colour his eyes are, but his zygomatic bones are killer.

“Professor?” a TA prompts, ineffectively holding back their own knowing smiles.

“Thanks for reminding me,” she replies, digging through her bag to hand out a stack of student essays. “Pass these back, please?”

Tick one for the professor.

“And as per usual,” she announces, leaning back against the white board, “let’s do our daily recap. And as you know, these questions can be used to aid in exams.”

She sneaks a glance at Maintenance Guy, pulling his arm out from the vent. He grumbles, digs through his toolbox, and grabs a screwdriver. Whatever is in that vent is stuck.

Once the rustling stops, she says, “Okay, question one: if your professor—that would be me for those of us who are new—were to be one of, say, five wives with one husband, it’s called—?”

“Polygamy!” a student shouts from the front row.

“You’re right, but you aren’t correct,” she says, standing up straight. “Polygamy is the practice of having more than one spouse. Polygyny—with an ’n’—is multiple wives to one husband. Examples of the culture are Kenya’s Logoli and other Abalulya sub ethnic groups.”

She writes it on the board for spelling, and glances over to see Maintenance Guy paused in his excavation of the vent. He’s paying better attention than her students. It’s sort of sweet and she stifles her soft giggle at the thought.

He’s ridiculously tall and she takes a moment to appreciate just how long his femurs have to be.

“Question two!” she announces and finds even the most hungover kids forcing their attention on her. “If your professor were to marry five men all at once, that’s called—?”

“Polyandry,” a student pipes up from the back. “A lot of times it’s fraternal marriage.”

“Examples of a culture that practices—”

Pop!

Maintenance Guy rolls back with the force. His knees are still bent from where they’d been used as leverage against the vent, a wall of debris bursting into his face. In one gloved hand was a dead raccoon, while the other desperately brushed bits of the vent’s clog—a raccoon’s nest—from his eyes.

“Oh Jesus,” she mutters, jumping into action. She picks up a garbage bag from his toolbox and nets the dead animal from his hand. It’s a pretty tame find, though she’s used to human remains which tended to be—gooier.

With the animal tucked up, she hauls Maintenance Guy to a sitting position, frantically cleaning the odds and ends of the nest out of his eyes. She steals his ball cap as she whispers kind words to him, further trying to shake the bits of insulation out of his shaggy hair.

The class is in a terrible chatter behind them. Not that it matters. Not with Maintenance Guy’s eyes opened and his hands gently clutching onto her wrists as she brushes the last bits of insulation off his cheeks. His eyes are definitely hazel up this close.

“Thanks,” he croaks, still gently latched onto her hands.

“It’s no problem,” she smiles back, absently studying the rest of his face. He’s got the kind of skull she’d love to see on her table—well, maybe once he’s died of his own accord because he seems rather sweet. Confused and concerned, but…sweet. “Don’t worry. I’ve had much worse flung all over me. You don’t much get used to it.”

He smiles, barely chuckling. Coughs up a bit of insulation.

“You might want to see a doctor. Insulation in the lungs is…what gets you a one way ticket to my lab.” She grins at her own terrible joke. His eyes are too close and she can’t help but wish for a skeleton to be looking back at her. She understands those. People are too…gooey.

“I’m Chip,” he offers, silently asking her for help to his feet. She does, offering her own name in return. He mulls over it, like it’s a fine wine sitting on his tongue. “Professor Y/N. Thanks again.”

She shrugs, mouth suddenly too dry. Heart beating too fast. Jesus, human interaction was going to kill her. There was no job to distract her from Chip’s strong hands. There were no bodies to keep Chip’s genuine gaze off of her. There wasn’t anything to distract from seeing Chip as so pleasantly human.

“Want the raccoon as a consolation prize?” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with a newly de-gloved hand. There’s something satisfying about answering questions that aren’t meant as questions. Especially ones that showed just how weird she really was. The questions that were relationship testers—like can we be friends if I tell you that I keep carrion beetles as pets?

“Actually, sure.” Chip’s jaw drops just slightly open. He has cute teeth. “Dissection is a key part of the anthropological process, forensic or not. Let’s see just what this raccoon was up to. Eh, class?”

Every single one a deer in the headlights, the class goes eerily silent. She winks at Chip and announces again. “Don’t you guys want to see what I do for a living? I mean human remains are much cooler but I think we can settle for a mostly solid raccoon carcass.”

A TA clutches at her stomach. “Professor, never say that again.”

The professor just laughs, absentmindedly taking a soft grip on Chip’s shoulder. “Don’t worry everyone, Chip’s going to keep the raccoon. At least I’m not making the final a practical examination. I do have access to laboratory rats—“

The entire class clambered forward, hoping to dispel the idea and the evil smirk off their professor’s lips. She just beamed back at Chip, dropping her hand. She expected the same horrified expression of her students, but he seemed, dare she say, impressed.

That wide eyed shock creeps onto her face. Because who would risk being impressed by a professor covered in dirt from grave digging who offered to dissect a raccoon at 10 AM on a Tuesday?

Apparently, it’s this guy. Must have a thing for crazy women.

Chip shakes his head, bites his lip, and turns to stoop for his raccoon trophy. “I’ll, uh, have them send someone for the nest. I—I guess I have to do something with the raccoon, if you’re sure you don’t want it?”

She just shakes her head, failing miserably at keeping her cherry red tint to herself. “No, no. Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” he repeats, rather sadly, to himself. Though, as he turns to leave, it feels more like a promise.

The worst part about knowing Chip is that she seems to see him everywhere. Rushing between lecture halls? There he is, doing his best to fix a fountain. Getting escorted away by federal agents? There he is, sympathetically waving as he walks across the quad. Leading a group of students outside to lecture on the green? There’s Chip, fixing a sprinkler.

She’s had exactly three times in the last six months to talk to him. All under three minutes.

But today, today she’s running late from court. Grand jury testimony had gone fine, until Agent—God, she’ll never learn his name—WhatsHisFace tried to ask her out again. Because what a turn on talking about the mutilation of a hacked up college girl was.

It also didn’t help that, outside of the court room half an hour before, she was doodling what she thought Chip’s skull would look like.

So she can’t help but storm into her postage stamp of a classroom, dropping her package on the desk with a gentle, yet annoyed huff. Her 12 students, all seniors in the Anthropology department, raised their eyebrows at her. At her court getup.

She’d missed those formative lessons at 13 on how to be a proper lady. And even if she had had them, it probably wouldn’t have stuck. Besides, what she wore into the field had to be more than acceptable for the university’s standards. The heels and pink blouse of today were extremely rare and uncomfortable.

“Whoa, Professor Y/N!” Reese Rosebeck calls out, dramatically twitching in his chair, “Is that really you? You look hot!”

“Ha, ha. That’s a very coherent thought for the kid who wrote the worst paper I’ve ever read,” she deadpans. She relents when she sees his dramatic puppy dog pout. “Though, I do have to say I enjoyed you’re use of colloquial slang. Accentuated your point very cleverly.”

“As long as I impress the hottest professor on campus, I’m alright.”

There was a quiet laugh from the back of the room, and she found her eyes snapping to the hunched over back of none other than, Maintenance Guy Chip Taylor. He’s just quietly listening—as always—tinkering with the radiator pipes in the back of the room. She’s half thankful. It is starting to get cold.

“Hey, Chip!” she chirps and the poor thing bangs his head on the pipes. He waves her off in a flash, hand extended wildly above the other desks in the room. Reese chuckles to himself, dragging Lionel with him.

She kicks her heels off behind her desk, straightening herself once she’s back on stable ground. She’s about three apples short of a pie to wear heels for more than six consecutive minutes. The female students give her rather sympathetic looks as she begins to roll her feet and open her package.

She pauses halfway in. Jeez, she forgot about—“Hey, Chip?”

Like a meerkat, he pops up with a dazzling soft grin.

“Are you going to call the cops on me?”

“Excuse me?”

Her students’ eyes bounce back and forth between the pair, following the invisible tennis match. The professor settles on a rather tired, “Are you going to call the cops? The last person who attended lecture that didn’t know me, called the cops because of a demonstration. So, are you?”

“No.” He shakes his head and she wonders if he’s a little too trusting. He’s honest as he leans back down to continue futzing with the pipes. He’s genuine in every interaction they have. Does she really deserve the kind of trust he’s offering? To a crazy woman who’s asked if he’ll call the cops on her?

She shakes the thought away. These 12 students—tangible students—need her focus. At least for the next few minutes. She pulls six human skulls from her package, all neatly wrapped up in protective glass cases. She places those on the table along with a box of gloves.

“Two people to a skull,” she announces and runs through the rest of the directions. “Don’t forget your gloves. You too, Ms. Figg.”

Jamie Figg’s fierce blush is long forgotten once they are all set to work. Tactile learning is the best way to learn in her opinion, expressly in advanced classes like these. It also gives her a moment to rest her brain—even if it’s a few minutes before the onslaught of necessary questions.

She settles into an unused section of chairs and desks, smiling absently at the way all of the kids have squeezed themselves around the one table. She misses the days when she was young and new, ready to find her own legs to stand on.

Chip’s not quiet and she watches him with too much adoration as he sits down next to her. It’s not all too unexpected nor uninvited. He smells like grease and good cologne up close, mixed up with that dangerous combination of hazel eyes and delicious bone structure.

Chip smirks, drawing her out of her smidge of staring. “See anything good?”

“You have excellent bones,” she mutters, tracing a finger against her own cheek instead of his. “Prominent zygomatic bones and well balanced supraorbital margins. But the, um, the rest of you is—is nice too.”

Oh great one, Y/N. Perfect. You’re such a fucking creep.

Chip just smiles. The kind of soft upturn of the lips and dip of the head that means he took it like the compliment it was meant as. He runs a rather shakey hand through his hair, bringing his gaze back up to do his own staring. She wonders what he sees about her. She’s sure he doesn’t see bone structure like she does, but does her flesh give away something she doesn’t know about?

Chip wrings his hand down behind his neck and she sees it. That little bit of something that brews between his bones and his epidermis. The fuzzy sort of thing that sits behind his eyes. The one she’s seen in war veterans, cops, and now the university’s maintenance man.

And as if he’s just a skull on her table, she states ever so eloquently, “You look like the kind of guy who’s seen some shit, Chip.”

And as if she’s accepted his offer for the raccoon all over again, he beams. He further turns away from her, shaking his head, and she follows his eye line to the students not so subtly glancing over at the pair every three seconds. The dozen are still chattering on, examining the skulls in their hands with rapt fascination.

Chip, despite all the non-threatening, sensitive, idiot boy vibes, looks over the skulls with more recognition than she cares to admit she sees. Most people don’t look at skulls like they’re familiar. Like the idea of them being formerly attached to a living person doesn’t bother them.

Again, looks like he’s seen some shit.

“Are they real?”

She nods, taking a tiny chance and pressing their shoulders together. She’s not upset to say that Chip carries very warm skin on his lovely skeletal structure. She wipes the blush off her cheeks and answers, “From the university’s collection. I’ve done a lot of travelling, lots of excavations, lots of grave robbing—sometimes the university doesn’t miss the skulls of the not-so-recently deceased.”

“You’re very—“

“Creepy? Weird?”

She hopes that Chip is too stupid to hear the insecurity bleed through. That he’s too stupid to look at her the way he is. Instead, he squints as if he can’t risk choosing the wrong adjective, so the words inch through his brain. All carefully refined into his choice of, “…Intelligent.”

His takes her hand in his to accentuate his point. She nearly stops breathing.

“You’ve forgotten more this morning than I’ll ever know,” he whispers. She doesn’t know how to look at him without letting him see the hearts in her eyes. Her fingers tighten against his. “I’d never call you creepy.”

She swallows, fighting against the rock in her throat. It wasn’t often people paid her any compliments, especially after she’d let her mouth run for more than five minutes in a one-on-one conversation.

And as if she isn’t already trying to desperately clutch onto her frayed nerves, he confidently pulls a slightly creased business card from his shirt pocket. Offers it to her irritatedly hesitant fingers.

“I do home visits, you know,” he says, putting more weight into where their skin touches. “So, if you’re dishwasher breaks or something, give me—give me a call.”

Chip squeezes her fingers one more time, double checks she’s holding onto the business card, and walks back for his toolbox. Only when the classroom door is closing behind him does Reese shout out, “Oh-ho-ho! Professor’s getting some!”

“Get back to your skull before I use yours as a soup bowl,” she snaps, though she can’t hide the cherries in her cheeks as she thumbs over the business card. Chip Taylor. Whatever you need.

#chip #chip taylor #68 kill #spencer reid #chip x reader #mgg #mgg fluff #reader insert #fem reader

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rataltouille · 4 years

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BONFIRE, BONFIRE!: A COLLECTION OF FLASH FICTION + POETRY

so i’ve decided to compile all twenty [these will be split into two so that the post isn’t super long] of the writing pieces i’ve done for my random celebration into one post so that it’s easier to read / access share!! you can also find it here, all put into one work, on wattpad, because i feel nostalgic about that website and decided to just post it!!

NOTE: i know that this shouldn't need to be said, but these 20 pieces belong to me so please don’t copy/repurpose it for your writing!! i plan on using these somewhere in my own writing and either way they’re stuff i’ve written so don’t use them!!

1. cooking + destructive + purple from @andiwriteunderthemoon [also i kind of cheated with this prompt and asked my sis @dreamscanbenightmarestoo for ideas and so the base idea’s from her!!]

I didn’t mean to set my house on fire, alright?

Let me set the scene: I’m sitting in my room, watching the infomercials that blur together, and suddenly there’s a bright purple flash on the glitching screen: /grapes/. They’re shiny, plump, and oh? A recipe for fine wine? Don’t mind if I do. So I pop into my kitchen and cut the grapes, dice them up, finally using the knife after years of not cooking— /mother, are you proud of me now?/— and stick the soft, luminescent fluid into a glass bottle. Following each step of the recipe.

The recipe didn’t mention an explosion.

Destruction rained around my house like a meteor shower. The bubbles from the fluid, frisking up at contact with metal, swam across my shoes and into the living room. It touched the TV, which still flashed the recipe, which I was still cursing at. And then, you know, it burnt up. The couch scorched first, I think. So that was fun. I later realised that I’d used my reserve of petroleum, which I’d put in my kitchen cabinet, instead of vinegar. I think I’ve got to move back in with my mother again.

2. running + quiet + sky blue from @kryskakikomi [i have no idea what this is i drafted this in a fever dream state]

Summer crawled up his skin like a worm. He was seated at his dining table, crosswording his way through the sticky morning, when it struck him that the humidity was new. He’d been caught in summer before, of course, but this year was different. His parents had whisked away to their hometown, and he still didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to go. He loved their home— he could have been running on beach sand and waves could have cruised over his feet, and his face would reflect sky blue under palm trees. Instead he sat doodling and scratching at cement walls in a quiet that nagged at his ears, grappling his flesh like a fishing hook, reeling him in. Boredom, him sister told him, before she also left for someone’s home. What would you know? he whispered once the door latched from the outside. Maybe /she’d/ like to sit on the same wooden chair, all the pink paint worn out, and scratch out squares of empty text until the pen poked through the other hand. He scoffed. At least he knew the number of scars on the wood; he could hold that over her when his parents returned.

3. hallucinate + hazy + violet from @chloeswords [i wanted to write something dreamy and ethereal but everytime i look at your url i’m reminded of church mud and indirectly my religious trauma so here we are 🤡]

We hold the book in our arms and chant for God. We don’t know what he looks like. They say that he’s sharp, never pixelating or blurring or showing through, like a hazy image would. No, children, our family says, he will come clothed in gold and velvet— the colour a deep and rich crimson, or chartreuse. And of course, he weaves a violet into his hair. Because he is just that humble. Just that gentle. Loving.

We’ve almost understood now. Pray, clasp our palms together into a transient equinox, and pray. Maybe he will shine down on us. Maybe we will speak so loud and chant so long that our lips will chap. Maybe we’ll simply hallucinate him to salve our bones. Our family says, he will bless you. And so he will.

4. halcyon + pluviophile + beige from anon [i was yearning for cats i am a cat person i love cats]

I remember my life before I moved to London,

Those halcyon days that I spent scooping up cat litter and brushing warm fur,

Being a mother to beige and white and black little felines.

They keep better company than humans.

Now I’m a self-proclaimed businesswoman, artist, influencer, pluviophile,

Even when I’ve barely stepped foot outside during the rain,

[But it needs to be said that when it rains in London, it pours].

I think I’d like to open a cat cafe;

I’m rich enough to pull it off.

5. sing + vulnerable + olive green from @occiidens [this was actually super fun to write because it’s a break from the typically unhinged stories i gravitate towards]

You watch from the highest hill of your town, hand wrapped around the serrated wood of a red oak tree. The bark pokes into your flesh, drawing blood that shouldn’t have been taken from you. You scowl. Just another thing that lives to cause you pain.

Three storeys down is a young man, short and smiling and lovely. He has dark skin and darker hair, walking with the stride of a deer, and he’s smiling; the joy reflects onto your face, even though you can’t hear him. He wears a cotton shirt, the olive green stark against the fire-blue sky. You call out, sing his name, three times in a row.

When he finally looks up, squinting as you silhouette under the sun, the smile widens. A wave. You’re suddenly overcome with embarrassment. Your palm digs into the bark until the wound is freshly dug again, the skin supple and vulnerable. You want to wave, but your hands would look so awkward, and the blood wouldn't help. So you turn on your heel and run— why are you so awkward?— and the grass around you is brighter. This is now a tomorrow issue, you conclude. You’re still smiling.

6. dislocate + ostentatious + blood red from @oasis-of-you [this got really unhinged really fast. TW: body horror]

If you take a turn at Finn Avenue,

Rogue your way down a blood red river,

[It’s not actual blood, do not worry. The colour’s a pigment and it’s saturated enough to give you the texture, the touch, the taste of blood, but I repeat, it isn’t true blood. You might think that it’s ostentatious of us to make you cross a river like that, but you’ll understand why.]

And if can stick your fingers inside the fluid,

You’ll find a bone.

Don’t pull it out fully! Only observe.

[This is a real bone, most likely animal. We may be ominous, but we don’t hurt humans. Not yet.]

So what do you do now? You want passage into a better world.

You came here because you saw the brochure, the flyer,

Radiant Idyll, home for love, but you also saw the jutting anatomy that leads to the city. The pictures were rather clear.

Why do you look so surprised? We’ve put this on the brochure— don’t you ever read the fine print?— to avoid this exact situation. That you would cross a body, a skeleton, pooled over in a fluid that we don’t name, but it’s probably alive.

It’s watching you right now.

So what do you do now?

Hurry up, unhinge your arm, dislocate the elbow, drop it into the blood, forgive me, false blood, and pay for your passage.

Oh! Excellent; that’s record time. We do hope you enjoy your stay!

1. @noteaboy [i’ve interpreted your url as ”note, a boy”]

There’s an orange tree. It’s spring, and there’s an orange tree, and it brims with fruit and citrus perfume. Point your lens flare downwards, and note, a boy. A young man, perhaps, because he combs his hair, uptight and firm, and he wears a tie. A long suit. He doesn’t look up, because his hand holds a book. /He/ holds the book, not the hands— tenderness doesn’t translate through anatomy, I’ve taught you this before. He’s waiting for someone. There’s only the rustle of leaves. He drops the book onto the lap of the tree, crushing the apple that had fallen down. Orange, not apple. Take note better. You only have one chance to get this right.

2. @eatingjupiter [your url is so beautiful omg]

The goddess had said this before she died: you need to watch over him. He needs your sentry to survive. The goddess’ words weren’t heeded. Little baby Jupiter tottered on lava as him parents small-talked with their kingdom. Well, it must have been small talk, because nothing seemed to happen afterwards other than his mother’s face collapsing in agony, anger, annoyance. He knew not to touch them then. He’d fly off into the sun one day, but if his hands were but and charred, he wouldn’t survive even a third of the journey.

The prophecy was simple: the firstborn to the kingdom will metamorph into a celestial, purify themselves so that only stardust remains. Live in the sky forever. The astrologers were baffled; you don’t just become a star. They should have heeded the goddess.

Jupiter was sixteen when he expanded and collapsed all at once. He still lives, they say, and the astrologers /were/ right, in a way: people just don’t become stars. They become almost empty space. Nobody knows if his hands were burnt when they left earth’s orbit forever.

3. @laughtracksonata [your name gave me slight horror vibes idk why!!]

Hahaha. The Horror Movie (don’t ask me for a name, I’m not good with those), with its cymbal crashing and plastic sounds, it’s so loud and scary that it hurts, father. Please turn it off.

Father doesn't listen. I shiver on the couch. The screen flickers like radio static and reflects off our wide eyes. What kind of a home is this anyway? I don’t want to fucking listen to a laugh track or a horror VHS tape or watch the bass crescendo as the serial killer jumpscares the watcher. I don’t think that having hour pupils glued to the same blood-splattered movie, with the same recording looping in his eardrums will help him. He laughs along, sometimes. It’s scary. Father needs a new hobby.

PART TWO COMING SOON!!

anyway this got REALLY long so i’m posting the third prompt group, the one based on songs, as a second part in some time. i hope you enjoy this, and PLEASE do boost!! i spent a lot of time writing these pieces and am pretty proud of them :’)

general taglist: @lovingyou-is @guulabjamuns @andiwriteunderthemoon @coffeeandcalligraphy @melonmilk @silentlylostwriter @charles-joseph-writes @eklavvya @eowynandfaramir @bitterwitchwrites @laughtracksonata @whatwordsdidnttouch @indeliblewrites @thenataliawrites @summersguilt @illimani-gibberish @sarahkelsiwrites @writing-in-delirium @shaelinwrites @sienna-writes @chewingthescenery @jennawritesstories @chloeswords @aelenko @keira-is-writing @cherylinanika @infinitely-empty-pages @jmtwrites @august-iswriting @freedelusionbanana @beetleblue88 @mistercaleb @iwannawritepls @hanwatchingmovies @mortallynuttyqueen @idratherliveinnarnia @maisulli @thegreyboywrites @ahowlinwolf @ravens-and-rivers @oasis-of-you @yanittawrites @chazza-writes-sometimes @skyfirewrites @lovebenders @treybriggsthewriter @themidnxghtwriter @ash-karter @queen-devasena @a-procrastination-addict @gaymityblight @beyondthebracken @madmaxst26 @adielwrites @moonpixxel @hollow-knight-dnd @keep-looking-here @overlap @ashleygarciawrites @ryns-ramblings @wordsbynathan @novaemlynlewis @sophiewritingstuff @howdy-writes @occiidens @nsanelyawkward @viawrites-andacts

#writeblr #am writing #flash fiction #poetry #wtwcommunity #ofcolourtracking #crabappletracking #anyway part two probably in a couple days #i still have to start writing them 🤡✌️#bonfire bonfire

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swaps55 · 4 years

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Fic Writer Meme

Tagged by @nug-juggler. Thank you!!

Name: Swaps55, online and often in real life. People usually omit the ‘55’ in conversation.

Fandoms I write for: I have been a one-trick pony in the form of Mass Effect for over 8 years. I did write other things in the Before Times of Geocities and notebooks I carried around in high school.

Most popular oneshot: On Tumblr, it’s still Stars, the first mShenko doodle I ever did, by a lot. I have no illusions I will ever top that one.

On Ao3, it’s Celestial Navigation, my only mShenko smut one shot, which unsurprisingly leads both hits and kudos because this fandom is thirsty. The non-smut piece with the most kudos is Plans, my mShenko post-Mars reconciliation “after all this time” story that I am very proud of. Surprisingly, the smut-free oneshot with the most hits is Noel, my ensemble Christmas story. Both Plans and Noel were ME Holiday Cheer gifts.

Most popular multichapter: Sonata, and it’s not even close. Fake dating mShenko drowning in pining, every feel-good trope under the sun, banter, and Tali and Joker being obsessed with romance novels.

Actual worst part of writing: The initial act of creation. I’m a fixer. This is why I love fanfic so much. I’m a shit world builder, but if you give me a sandbox I can make it sing. If I worked in Hollywood I’d be a script doctor. I live for working with other writers to give and receive concrit, help an idea grow from a seed into something spectacular. But that first act of creation is really difficult for me. Getting that skeleton on the page can be a struggle. Once it’s there, I’m off to the races and having the time of my life.

How you choose your titles: I have no set process. With Opus, everything is derived from song titles or musical forms in some way. With Exordium, I put everything in Latin so it would sound cool. I sometimes just pick a word or two that’s representative of a prominent story element, like Stray. Once in a blue moon I get blessed with a fucking stellar title out of the blue, like The Life Cycle of Butterflies. I’ve stolen titles from West Wing episodes, too.

Do you outline: I’m a pantser with plotter tendencies, but I have started doing more outlines lately. Some are super vague, like a one-sentence summary of what I want to have happen in a chapter, others are more detailed.

Here’s an example of a recent more detailed one that I used while writing the last chapter of Cantata:

Compared to the bare bones I had for Fugue:

Ideas I probably won’t get around to: I stay pretty committed to what I put any creative energy into developing, so I don’t have anything burning a hole in my pocket that I don’t intend to write. If there is a part of Opus that has the greatest risk of not getting written it’s Concerto, which would be the ME1-era stories. I have plans for it, but Sonata’s unexpected appearance kind of killed the momentum for it. But I’m not saying it won’t happen.

Callouts @ Me:

Me: This thing I’m working will be quick. Only 4k words, tops.

RLRO: [falls off his chair laughing]

Me, 20k later: STOP LAUGHING.

Best writing traits: I can write some delicious banter, if I do say so myself, and I live for threading details that lurk in the background, so that no twist or plot development or character arc ever feels like it comes out of the blue. Because when you look back, all the clues are there.

Spicy Tangential Opinion: There is no right or wrong way to write fanfic. If this is your happy place, and all you want to do is blissfully write whatever the fuck you want, DO IT. If you don’t want to deal with betas or they intimidate you? Fuck it, fly by the seat of your pants. You don’t even have to do an edit pass if you don’t want to. If you want to hone your craft and become a better writer and want concrit on every single thing you produce, DO IT. Fanfic is here to make you happy. Approach it in whatever way brings you the most joy. There are no rules.

Tagging @theoriginalladya @shadoedseptmbr @mallaidhsomo @alyssalenko @pigeontheoneandonly @nightmarestudio606 and anyone else who wants to share (no obligations!)

#mememe #meme replies #RLRO just read the bit featuring him and yelled #YEAH THAT'S RATHER ACCURATE #heh #how writing is written

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meta-squash · 4 years

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Brick Club 2.1.2 “Hougomont”

Usually I support the translation choices made by FMA but sometimes they’re so odd. The first sentence translates bûcheron as “forester” rather than “woodcutter” or “lumberjack” which makes the sentence connotatively the exact opposite, so that’s weird. Also apparently FMA spells it wrong? According to google it’s “Hougoumont” but FMA says “Hougomont,” no second U.

Immediately we come to another door. This one is a sixteenth-century door. I think the door in the last chapter was an introduction to the location: we have now transitioned to the field of Waterloo. This door is old. This door is an introduction to history: we are not talking about present-day 1861, or even “present-day” within the time frame of the story (1823-ish), we’re talking about the past now. We have transitioned to the history of the field of Waterloo.

“A monumental aspect is often produced by ruin.” Man, I love this line. Things become strangely, hauntingly grand once they start to fall apart. They feel old and wise, when it’s buildings. People start reminiscing about the good old days, when it’s empires or societies. It starts to feel bigger than it is, greater than the sum of its parts as people start layering the past upon it. But also, I love that he says this line about things becoming monumental, and then describes the most ordinary of farm scenes, with shovels and dung heaps and horses and chickens and all that. This place is “monumental” not because of its layers of history but because of one huge event; otherwise it would have been mundane. And this mundane area could have been a global victory, had Napoleon won here.

“The hens are scattering the dirt with their beaks. There is a growling: It is a large dog, who bares his teeth, taking the place of the English.” How long have the English been personified as doglike? Where did that even come from? And is Hugo being subtly symbolic here, with the inclusion of the hens? I know that the rooster was a symbol of the Revolution, but I don’t know about hens. It feels like this is a France-versus-England moment of symbolism, but I’m not sure.

Hugo describes the layout of the battlefield so vividly and yet I still have such a hard time visualizing it. In my readthrough last February I doodled my guess for the layout at the top of my notes and just now I googled it and was almost right, so that’s reassuring. Still, this is the section I have the hardest time following and visualizing because military tactics are just not something my brain understands. Spatial imagination needed to pack things well into a certain space? I’ve got that. Spacial imagination needed to visualize how troops move across space in certain formations? Nope.

“...this heroic section of wall.” The first “hero” mentioned in all of this, in the entire battle of Waterloo, is not a human, but a wall. Throughout this section Hugo talks so much about various people continuing on, getting back on horses despite being injured and moving forward despite being basically unarmed, refusing to admit defeat and charging anyway, continuing alone without the help of other soldiers, etc etc. This wall is the epitome of all of that: unarmed, battered, but unmoving.

Oooh, a cart-door. Two of Hugo’s favorite symbols. Society and transition.

“You still feel the storm of combat in this court: Its horror is visible; the upheaval of conflict is petrified there; it lives, it dies; it was only yesterday. The walls are still in death throes; the stones fall, the breaches cry out; the holes are wounds; the trees bend and shudder, as if making an effort to escape.” I don’t have much to say about this paragraph in terms of symbolism because it’s pretty obvious but man, this is one of those paragraphs where you can tell Hugo was a poet first and foremost. It’s just so pretty.

“The stairway has two landings; the English, besieged in this place, and crowded onto the upper steps, had cut away the lower ones.” I know technically this is just a popular tactic in battle, but I can’t help but remember that this is also a tactic employed at the barricade later on, at the very end when everyone retreats to the upstairs of the Corinthe. I feel as though there are a lot of parallels between Waterloo and the barricade, and I wish I knew more about Waterloo so I could make better analyses aside from just “huh this seems like a parallel I don’t know what else to say about it.”

“A dozen steps still cling to the wall: On the first is cut the image of a trident. These inaccessible steps are firm in their sockets; all the rest looks like a toothless jawbone. Two old trees are there; one is dead, the other is wounded at the foot and does not leaf out until April. Since 1815 it had begun to grow across the staircase.” This feels like one massive metaphor but again, I don’t know enough about Waterloo or French history to pull out its meaning.

“You ask, Why is there no bucket and no pulley to this one? Because no water is drawn from it now. Why is no more water drawn from it? Because it is full of skeletons.” No joke, this is one of my favorite lines in this book. It’s done so matter-of-fact and yet horrific in a way that kind of gives you chills.

“This well, where so many of the dead drank, was also to die.” Something about this line reminds me of Hugo’s description that will come up a little later of the hollow Ohain road. Which is something I’m really excited to come to.

“Typhus comes with triumph.” I really feel like this could be connected back (or forward, I suppose) to the sewer-history digression and the cholera epidemic? But I’m not sure how.

Oh, and a brief description of another door. Only, the Hanoverian Lieutenant didn’t get to open it, and neither do we. That severed hand means we’re just going to look at the house, we’re not going into it yet. Instead we turn and look to the yard.

“The orchard is awful.” I love that this gets its own paragraph. This sentence is so intense and yet so vague. The sense of foreboding and strangeness here reminds me a little of the strangeness of Valjean’s dream, only we’re about to get context for this, and we never get context for the dream’s awfulness or imagery.

I’m sure the description of the six First Light Infantrymen taking 45 minutes to die in battle against 600 Hanoverian companies has a purposeful later parallel in the barricade. Again I wish I knew more of the Actual History details and things so I could pull more symbolism out, but mostly for this one it’s all just impressions because military history is complicated and confuses me.

The nature described here is surely symbolism as well. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that Hugo deliberately points out that the tree near the stairs in the Hougoumont manor doesn’t leaf out until April, and that the trees and plants in the orchard are “as responsive as any other to the month of May.”

And then Hugo sweeps all of this beautiful description away, all this grandeur away, with the dialogue of one single peasant reducing the battle down to a story to be sold for three francs.

I love this chapter because it’s so weirdly detailed and yet weirdly vague. It’s this extremely speedy summary of the massacre that occurred, but the lengthy descriptions are reserved not for the actual skirmishes but the remnants and scars and and small scenery details and things.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #lm 2.1.2 #brickclub #les mis #les mis meta #okay so i had more to say than i thought i would #surprise surprise

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lover-of-skellies · 4 years

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Mal discovers she's pregnant

((She's a young adult in this, so there's no need to freak out or anything. For some context, she did sparring practice with Ink and there was a little magic mishap that... well, y'know. Resulted in little baby Pastel. Idk if I wanna say this is canon or not yet, I just really felt the need to write this ^^"))

Mal sighed, flopping down onto her back on the living room couch; after a long day of sparring practice, she felt especially worn out. She'd blown through more magic than intended in an effort to keep up with Ink and the various attacks he had thrown at her. He was her sparring partner for the day, and it was exhausting just watching him at times. For someone who seemed to like toting around a giant paintbrush, he was surprisingly agile and quick on his feet, regardless of the terrain they were in.

Leaning back against the armrest of the couch, she arched a brow bone; she was used to feeling exhausted like this, but something felt... off. She knew it was probably nothing, but to ease the increasingly anxious little voice in the back of her mind, she exhaled deeply, her soul slowly materializing before her. She glanced it over, humming softly; other than the tiny monster soul that stuck to hers, it looked normal.

Wait a minute. Since when did-

She stared at it for a moment in silence, before the realization finally dawned on her. Delicately pushing her soul, along with the tiny soul that clung to it, back into her chest, she sat up, curling her hands into fists around the edges of the couch cushions. Her body began to glitch heavier than normal and she roared, "God damNIT INK, I'M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS."

Opening a portal and vanishing through it, she took a shortcut through the antivoid, immediately heading straight for Ink's doodle sphere. Whatever he'd done to her, he needed to answer for. There was no way in hell she planned on letting him walk away from something like this. As she entered the doodle sphere, her gaze locked on Ink's home - which was a small house that resembled that of the original Sans' - and she marched up to the front door, knocking perhaps a bit harder than necessary, "INK, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR, WE NEED TO TALK." A moment passed before the door creaked open and the artist peered out at her, arching a brow bone, "Hey, calm down, Mal. I'm here. What's the problem now?"

She narrowed her sockets, her cheekbones dusting a soft shade of blue as she materialized her soul, using her free hand to point at the tiny soul beside it, "This is the problem. You did this to me." With a brow bone still arched, Ink stepped closer, tilting his head as he looked at the tiny monster soul. As his eye lights rapidly began to flicker through a series of shapes and colors, he snorted, offering her a teasing grin, "So you finally did it, huh? Why are you blaming me for that though?" Mal's blush began to darken and she scowled at the artist, "Because you're the dad, you jerk! I didn't have this problem before we did sparring practice, so I KNOW it's your fault." Ink watched her for a few seconds, letting out a deep sigh when it became clear that she didn't intend to change her mind anytime soon. Reaching up to absentmindedly scratch his face, he hummed, "Yeah, it's possible, I guess. How come you're not excited though? Isn't excitement what everyone finds out that they're expecting a baby?"

The female skeleton frowned, the rest of her expression very gradually beginning to soften, "Believe me, Ink, I wish I could be excited about it. I'm not though because look at me. I'm not cut out for being a mom. Knowing me, I'll probably screw up the kid somehow." The artist frowned, "And what makes you think that? You might be a really good mom, y'know. Surprises like that can happen sometimes." Mal's frown deepened and her glitching began to worsen, "LOOK AT ME. I can barely take care of myself sometimes. There's no way I could properly take care of a baby." Ink sighed again, "Mal, hey. Listen. You're not gonna be doing it alone. You have your dad, Zerif, Template, myself, Fresh, and Geno, and I bet Lucky would even love helping you, too. If you ever need a break or need help, we're here."

Mal was silent, trying to blink back tears as she processed his words. Seeing the clearly conflicted look on her face, Ink exhaled deeply, gently taking her hands and guiding her soul back into her chest before he tugged her closer, wrapping his arms around her. At the unexpected contact, Mal's sockets briefly widened and she flinched, her voice shaky, "What are you doing, Ink? First you go and get me pregnant with your magic, and now you're being all mushy and hugging me. What's your deal, huh?" Ink shrugged, lightly squeezing her shoulder, "I'm not up to anything, I promise. I'm just tryna be a good friend and help you calm down. You shouldn't be stressing out over things now, anyways." Mal scoffed, reluctantly hugging the artist back, "I hate you so much sometimes, y'know that?... So, so very much. If you really wanna make it up to me, you can start by helping me tell my dad." At her words, Ink chuckled nervously, "Yeah, that's fair. I don't think that'll make it any less intimidating, but I'll be there."

The female skeleton suddenly drew back from the hug, taking hold of Ink's wrist. As she began tugging him away from his house, he raised a single brow bone, "Uhh... Mal? What are you doing?" Mal shot him a dirty look, "We're gonna go have that talk with my dad right now, and I don't care if you're not ready for it yet, rainbow bastard." "Ok....? Can I at least go get Broomy?" "I dunno, Ink. Can you go back in time and make me not pregnant?" Ink lifted his free hand, surrendering and allowing the other skeleton to pull him out of his doodle sphere.

There was no way this conversation would end well, and both of them already knew that.

#writing #mal.exe #ink sans #inktale sans #undertale #undertale au #oh boy #rip ink #Necro's gonna kill you

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darker-soft-starker · 5 years

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Can I request a starker no-powers au where Peter watches construction worker Tony from his bedroom window as the older man works across the street ?

His name is Tony.

Peter knows this tidbit because he heard it yelled once or twice as he’d walked by the construction lot, the same dark haired man perking up at the name.

Work had begun on the old house across from Peter a few weeks ago. The weathered colonial used to belong to old Christiansen, a bitter and lonely man who used to yell at Peter as a kid for the frisbees that used to land on his lawn.

When the elderly man had passed no immediate family had come to claim the property, and for three months while his estate was settled it stood empty.

One day, a brother and sister duo, estranged cousins of the late William Christiansen arrived to declare the property as theirs, as so declared in his Will.

A month later the old property was being gutted by heavy machinery. Bricks tumbled into a splintered, woodwork carcass, noisy bobcats scraped and upended the earth until a new landscape was formed.

Once the last of old Christiansen house had been razed, there stood the skeletons of three, tiny townhouses, cluttered close on the same lot.

In the beginning, Peter had only watched the proceedings with a vague sense of interest. He’d mourned the disappearance of the old house and quietly seethed at the likely uptick in traffic three new houses would bring.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, walking home early from his last class of the semester, that he notices the crew of workers wrapping up for the afternoon. The weight of academia off his shoulders and in no hurry, Peter had peered curiously at the workmen and their seamless teamwork.

Just as his fill is fulled Peter’s attention is hooked by a man emerging from the bare bones of one of houses. A sagging bag of concrete is slung over broad shoulders, biceps exposed from the cut of his shirt. Peter doesn’t mean to stare at the sway of the mans hips as he moves, lugging the bag around like it doesn’t weigh a thing.

He must be staring longer than he thinks - the man abbreviates his path, sunglasses sliding down his nose to wink at Peter lasciviously before continuing on his way.

Struck, Peter’s heart had skipped a beat at the attention, mind replaying the way the mans eyes crinkled in the corners, the easy confidence of his smile.

That had started it all, really.

Sat by the bedroom window that overlooks the street, Peter props his hand on his chin and looks out upon the building site in the waning sunlight.

It’s been six days since the guy, now known as Tony, winked at him. It’s been six days, each one spent with his free time by his bedroom window, watching as the man lumbers logs of timber around over his shoulders like they were matchsticks, watching the smooth swivel of his torso as he strikes old drywall with a sledgehammer.

Window cracked upon ever so slightly, the good-natured banter amongst the crew can be heard between the music and the mayhem. Tony quips and cracks witty one-liners and in his colleagues respond in kind.

And so summer begins.

—-

Having an active construction crew in close proximity to your sleeping quarters eliminates the ability to lie in, Peter quickly discovers. He’s heard more AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Cold Chisel and Dr. Hook in the last few weeks than he’s heard in his entire twenty-one years.

Once, Mrs Cunningham from three doors down tried to scold them for the bass laden 9:00am wake-up-call, but Tony’s scathing, insouciant response was to tell her to contact her local council.

She didn’t come back.

May also grumbles at the noise and disruption, but Peter still catches her swaying her hips and mumbling to lyrics on the odd occasion, so he thinks she doesn’t really mind all that much.

Nonetheless, it provides adequate gossip fodder for the old neighbourhood. It hadn’t really changed in the last fifty years, the same families growing up and out and back in again. So, whether it be bemoaning the line of trucks that clutter the street, querying the one woman who works among the crew or her pegasus emblazoned truck - or the inevitable unsightliness of the yet-to-be finished project - it gave everyone something to talk about.

Personally, Peter has never had such incentive so to study until now.

Oh yes, his window allows the perfect sum of sun into his bedroom for poring over textbooks. If anyone asks, he’s being proactive. Just trying to get a head start on next semesters readings.

And maybe when he looks up from his books he has the perfect view of the worksite across his house. There’s nothing shifty about it, just people watching during a study break.

Maybe he procrastinates and watches too long, long enough to hear the entire EP of an obscure band Peter has never heard before. It’s not his fault the crew sometimes use their hammers to amusedly imitate drumsticks or sing vulgar renditions of the tunes on their playlist.

Mostly, Peter finds it endearing how Tony appears to oscillate between the most theatrical or the most withdrawn, depending on the day.

Peter tries not to feel all Rear Window about it. There’s just something weirdly magnetic about the way the man moves so animatedly and is almost never still. Even sat upon the curb for a break, cigarette dangling between his lips, he’s captivating.

There are worse ways to pass the summer, right?

It’s not weird, no matter what Ned says.

“It’s kinda weird,” Ned says, sat beside Peter on one of the wooden chairs on the front porch.

“It is not,” Peter insists, bringing a pretzel to his mouth, snapping it in half with his teeth. He chews thoughtfully, gaze once again drawn across the street to the site. “I’m just making sure that they’re, y’know, doing it properly.”

“What, their jobs?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, licking the salt off around his lips. “That.”

“With all your experience and expertise in construction?”

Peter grins, offering the bag out to Ned who takes a handful. “Hey, I built some mean Lego back in the day, didn’t I?”

“My mistake,” Ned rolls his eyes, directing his attention back to the noisy site. “So, which one are you hot for?”

“What?”

“Which one has you hot and bothered.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “I’m not hot for any of them.”

Neds eyes slide over to him in a glare laden with such scathing judgement it makes Peter feel like he’d just sinned in church. He shrinks back in his chair.

“….The one with the black hair,” Peter replies meekly.

With renewed interest Ned peers back over, rising up on his seat a little. The grimace on his face once he settles back down is telling, however unappreciated. Ned’s never shared Peter’s predilection towards older men.

“Gross, but okay. Are you going to ask him out?”

Peter snorts incredulously, shoving a handful of pretzels into his mouth to avoid answering the question.

“Dude,” his friend prods. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“Yes,” Peter answers defensively. “Last week he said ‘hey, watch out’ so I wouldn’t walk into my letterbox, and I said ‘thanks’.”

The stink eye returns. After years of friendship that’s all that is needed for Peter receive the condemning message, properly cowed. They fall back into staring out at the lot, transfixed by the shrill screech of the buzzsaws.

It’s not that Peter is never going to say anything, he just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. How precisely does one approach an older man to tell him you’d like to bang his fine ass, but would also like to pet his hair and take care of him long-term?

Something about the guy makes a giddiness swell in his chest, reminiscent of his boyhood crushes where he would doodle hearts in his notebooks and find reasons to be in the same room as his infatuation.

“Gotta suck working in this heat though,” Ned says, interrupting his thoughts.

“You’re right,” Peter nods, an idea forming in his brain. “It would.”

Standing up suddenly and startling Ned, Peter rushes back inside the house, into the blissful airconditioning and aims for the kitchen.

Ned finds him there after following his bee-line, torso half emerged in one of the lower cupboards as he rummages through it.

“Peter?”

He studiously ignores his friend in favour of hyperextending his arm into the bowels of the dusty cupboard, crowing with delight when he finally grasps the still-sealed stack of plastic cups.

Quick as a fox, he fills each with water from the sink, placing cubes of ice from the freezer in each. Hands trembling with excitement he places them all on a tray and nods at his friend who only extends him a look of fond exasperation.

Anticipation sets his nerves aflutter, his feet flighty as he carefully balances the tray out the front door, Ned trailing behind him.

His face flushes as he crosses the lawn, hands tightly clutched around the handles as he mentally rehearses an introduction.

I’m Peter Parker, I bring some water - no, wait - I’m Peter, you’re really hot and I’d like you to drink my fluids - definitely not - I am Peter and I have water, you must be thirsty - better.

All his efforts are for naught in the end.

Upon pausing to check the road is clear he catches sight of old Mrs Carrington and her young, pouting grandson carrying perspiring pitchers of lemonade and a tray of sandwiches into the lot. The workers suspend their work to greet them with surprised glee, and Peter feels his own smile dropping off his face.

He looks down at his own pitiful offerings, the ice having all but melted in the cheap, plastic cups, bobbing sadly as they lose form.

“Better luck next time,” Ned says from behind him, patting his back in consolation.

Peter nods. Yeah, next time.

—

Unwilling to be disheartened, Peter tries his hand the following day. A renewed vigour jumpstarts his efforts early, already in the kitchen before the guttural vocals of Thunderstruck start playing.

Ned’s right. He’s an adult now - there are no lockers to leave love notes, no one is going to ask him to the prom. This is what real adults do - they see who they like, they ask them out. Simple.

But Peter has never been a locker love-note kinda guy. He wouldn’t know how to craft a slick pick-up line, doesn’t have the arresting good looks that do the talking for him.

Eager not to be bested by an ailing octogenarian again, Peter uses an entire loaf of bread and a full pound of half-price bacon to create a veritable tower of BLT’s. With their one sharp knife he cuts them into perfect angles, remembering the amputee he’s seen on site he ensures they can be gripped easily with a single hand.

The only two pitchers they own are poured full with freshly-squeezed orange juice, Peter’s wrists working themselves into a strain to drain the fruits dry.

May stumbles in sometime around nine in her sleep clothes, hair wild like a lion’s mane. She fixes him an odd stare as she fumbles for a cup of coffee.

“A bit hungry, Pete?”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” is all he says, shaking his head and adding a plate of apple slices to a tray for good measure. “By the way, we’re out of bacon.”

It must require a lot of energy doing all that work, Peter thinks. It gives him a warm feeling, providing, thinking his efforts might go some way into nourishing someone else. He’s a Parker through-and-through after all.

Even if the guy doesn’t like him that way - it’s fresh, good food. Far better than that delivery truck thing he sometimes sees stationed out the front of the site that sells greasy, microwaved meals. At least the whole crew will have something wholesome and heartfelt, if nothing else.

Stomach squirming pleasantly Peter lifts the two trays, balancing the items precariously as waddles on, opening the front door with a kick his foot.

This is it. He’s finally going to have a reason to say hello, to introduce himself, maybe ask Tony out on a date, if he’s single and willing. Peter smiles to himself as he imagines having the guts to do it in front of the entire crew.

It takes a bit of coordination to get down the porch steps without spilling anything, eyes trained on the ground for any impediments, but he makes it - this is it.

Except, when he looks up from his feet to glance across the street his heart sinks.

Mrs Dawes from four doors down is already there. She’s set up a fucking portable table and brought a feast; sautéed vegetables, breakfast potatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. All accompanied by fruit salad and a variety of brightly colored smoothies. As appetizers.

Appetizers.

From where he is rooted in spot Peter can hear her say with all honey sweet modesty: Oh, it’s no problem! You are doing such a good job, it’s my absolute pleasure.

Looking at his own offerings Peter can’t help but pout, a feeling of inadequacy sinking down his spine. Briefly, he entertains the idea of coming back for the lunch period instead, but knows by then the apples and lettuce will be an unpleasant brown, the bread soggy.

Shoulders slumping, he sighs and turns on his heel, looking up at his house with weary consideration. His arms are beginning to hurt with the weight of his aborted efforts.

A dark, doleful strain of self-pity wells up inside him before his gaze slides to the house next door. Mrs Martinez has four kids home for the summer and her husband is still on tour - suddenly his heart is twinging for a whole other reason.

Diverting his course, Peter rings their doorbell instead.

He can’t be too disheartened he decides later that afternoon, taking a break from his laptop to stare outside the bedroom window again.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

—

It doesn’t occur to Peter the next day, halfway through icing a luscious three-tiered chocolate cake, that it is Saturday.

Mournfully, he eats the cake himself.

—-

The next attempt at wooing - at providing - comes Monday morning.

This time Peter is prepared. He’d already gone to the store the night before, had bought everything he required with a too-eager swipe of his credit card - and okay, sure, he’s going to have to cover a few extra shifts at the bookstore, but it’s worth it, right?

If all else fails, at least someone will appreciate the food - if not his neighbours then at least he and his aunt will have food for the week.

The Parkers are not particularly renowned for their prowess in the kitchen, if he’s honest. Their friends and family are treated to many an over-seasoned dish or charcoaled toast to have any sort of claim over that domain.

But the one thing they can master is the work of Peters great grandmother, a recipe handed down from generation to generation, perfected over decades - a bastardized version of goulash, brimming with hearty beef chunks bought especially from the butcher, copious potatoes and carrots, noodles, some secret spices. It’s a home-run every time.

The key is to pour your heart and soul into it, his family would always say, that was the most special ingredient. Sure, stock and a generous helping of paprika were crucial, but it was the love you put into it that made the meal a veritable gustatory delight.

Maybe it’s the fond memories that make it anything but a chore, a highlight reel of his childhood playing as he cooks. When the stew is finally done simmering Peter prepares a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery, cutting it into satisfyingly thick slices, adding a side of oil. He has homemade iced tea ready in the fridge, and a bowl of diced watermelon as a palette cleanser.

To round it all off he has chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, still gooey and soft in the centre.

By lunch time he was done. Sweating a little from the steam, Peter transfers the goulash into a big, portable container and beams proudly down at his work.

Everything has his soul infused into it, like he was taught. He has a really good feeling about it this time.

Eager anticipation makes his stomach swoop. He double checks his reflection in the glass cabinets, attempting to tame his wayward curls into something a little less wayward, baring his teeth to make sure nothing is stuck in between them.

Finally, he smooths down the cotton of his tee he gives himself a shake. He’s going to do it this time. Mrs Dawes is at work and Mrs Carrington is at her crochet group. He’s checked, all the schedules line up - it’s his time.

So he grabs the two trays, food precariously towering upon each other in a quivering porcelain pyramid and takes slow, cautious steps towards the front door.

To save the trays from hitting the unlatched door he turns backwards to use the breadth of his back to push the door open, carefully reversing onto the porch.

“I have a delivery for –”

Peter whirls around quickly.

It’s a mistake because the next thing he does is roughly collide with a solid body, the trays under his arms slipping from his grasp. Everything goes crashing to the ground with a shriek of shattering porcelain and the sad gurgling of all the upended liquid.

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry,” the mailman says, but Peter doesn’t hear him, staring in abject horror at the food splattered all over the porch.

None of it salvageable.

He spent eighty dollars and four hours on this. He poured his heart into this. He was going to share this, he was gonna -

“It’s not meant to be,” he whispers to himself, slowly lowering himself into a squat, holding his hands out uselessly.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up in sorrow at the greying FedEx worker. “It’s not meant to be,” he repeats.

“Um… I just need you to sign for this.”

Peter wordlessly takes the small parcel and signs the E-POD, still staring at the perverse Jackson Pollock impression all over the woodwork. The parcel isn’t even for him.

Once the mailman has left and the fast-food truck has pulled up to the construction site with a giddy toot of it’s horn, Peter has accepted it.

It’s just not meant to be.

—

“You taking up bird watching or something?” May asks from where she is leant against his doorway three days later.

Peter shakes his head, abandoning his forlorn gaze to give his attention to her.

“Or something. What’s up?”

May holds up a stack of envelopes and smiles wryly. “We keep getting Mrs Carringtons mail.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s her mistake or the mailman though.”

“Probably the mailman,” Peter mutters.

She shrugs. “In any case, I gotta get ready for work. Would you be able to take these over to her?”

“Sure,” Peter says, stretching as he stands, taking the stack from her hands.

She sniffs him subtly. “It will do you good to get out of this room. It smells in here.”

Taking his aunt’s comments to heart he freshens up in the bathroom first, brushing the grime off his teeth and fixing his appearance, making himself feel somewhat presentable.

Cooped up indoors all day didn’t prepare him for how exceptionally balmy the weather was outside, sweat already forming at his hairline by the time he crosses the road. He studiously ignores the urge to look over at the construction site as he makes his way to his neighbor, however conditioned he is to do so at the Black Sabbath riffs playing through the air.

Mrs Carrington greets him with a smile when he knocks and invites him inside. She has her frail fingers circled around his wrist before he can begin to decline the offer, pulling him in, already talking a mile a minute.

Inside, it smells overwhelmingly like potpourri and her floral perfume.

“Thank you for bringing these over,” she says, leading him to the kitchen. “I don’t know why it keeps happening. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs C,” Peter assures, setting the mail on the counter.

She dodders past him to grab a cling-wrapped plate, holding it out to him with trembling hands, her gait noticeably uneven.

“Would you do me another favor?” She implores earnestly, pressing the plate into his hands. “Would you take these to those hard working folks next door, please? I’d go myself, but my hip…”

Clutching the plate, he looks through the layers of transparent cling-wrap to spot a dozen or so home-baked lemon slices.

His heartbeat accelerates, thinking that he’s finally going to talk to get a chance. But of all the moments he’d imagined, it wasn’t here and now, clutching an elderly lady’s sickly sweet lemon treats arranged on a floral plate.

When he looks back up to see her eager expression he knows he can’t turn her down.

“Yeah, sure thing, Mrs C - can I help with anything else?”

She squeezes the outside of his hands gratefully. “You’re a good boy, just this is fine. You help yourself to one too, okay?”

“Sure.”

Despite Peter’s protests, she walks him to her door, patting his back gratefully as he departs. He waves her off with his free hand, pretending like his nerves doesn’t have his stomach doing somersaults.

Pulse pounding, he enters through a gap in the construction site fencing, immediately drawn to the dark haired man that caught his attention all those weeks ago.

A few of the others notice his approach and tell him to watch his step, but Peter can’t hear them over the booming echo of his heart in his ears.

Tony straightens from where he’d been penciling in marks on a long slat of timber, crossing his arms over his chest as Peter nears. The movement shows off the impressive swell of his biceps and for a moment makes him forget why he’s there.

“Umm, hi,” Peter says.

Tony slides his sunglasses upon his crown to look at Peter, the full attention of his big, brown eyes making Peter’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat.

The man smiles, slow and appreciatively, stance loosening when Peter smiles back.

“Hi yourself,” Tony responds, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“P-Peter. Parker. I’m… Peter Parker.”

The mans grin at his inelegant introduction has Peter’s face flaming, his hands shaking.

“Nice to finally meet you, Peter Parker. I’ve seen you around, but you never come and say hello like the rest of your neighbors.”

“You have?”

Tony nods, ambling closer. “I didn’t know if I should be offended or not.”

“Oh, I –”

“I forgive you, in case that was an apology,” Tony interrupts. “So, what do we owe this pleasure?”

Heartfelt explanations rise and are arrested in his throat, recalling the humiliating discomfort of all his failed attempts at courting. Instead, he extends the plate to Tony, holding it out like a sacrificial offering.

Tony accepts it, looking dubiously down at the garrish floral design before looking back at Peter.

“You make these yourself, doll?”

Stomach squirming at the attention, Peter shakes his head. “No, uh… my neighbour –”

“Oh thank god,” Tony says, indelicately dropping the plate on the nearby worktable. “Everyone in this neighbourhood is crazy nice or whatever - I have never been more well fed in my life –“

“Don’t lie,” one of the workers yells from behind them. “I’ve seen your high school photos.”

“Hey fuck you, Barnes,” Tony calls back, shaking his head. “Anyway, baby fat aside, I didn’t want to break your heart when I say I’m definitely more of a beef and potatoes kind of guy.”

“You are?” Peter perks up. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I make a mean goulash. It’s really good.”

“That so?” Tony scratches his beard, stepping closer. “I do like goulash.”

Steeling his nerves Peter inches forward, he can smell the sweat and musk from the man and the pursuing undertones of nicotine and cologne.

“Maybe I could make it for you sometime.”

“Like on a date?” Tony asks, dipping his chin to catch Peters eyes.

Heat floods his insides when he nods. “Yeah…you could come over? I’ll cook for you.”

Tony’s fingers comes up to toy with the cigarette tucked behind his ear, nestled amongst the black hair. He twirls it deftly between two calloused fingers, a crooked smile illuminating his features as he drinks Peter in.

“I’d like that a lot, Peter Parker.”

“That’s good. I mean - y’now, me too.”

The smirk Tony sends him is utterly devilish, corrupting Peter in the best of ways.

“Wish you’d come by and asked sooner, darling. Woulda given me more time to appreciate your pretty face.”

Cocking his head, Peters mouth stretches into a grin.

“Guess it was never the right time.”

—-

Two days later Tony knocks on his door donned in form-fitting dark denim and a button-down shirt. His usually wild hair is neatly combed back and arranged into a quaint quiff.

A smile breaks out on Peters face when notices the bouquet of red roses held in one of Tony’s hands, a box of expensive chocolates occupying in the other.

“Not the most original,” Tony concedes, kissing Peter on the cheek when he lets him in, passing the gifts over. “But it’s still heartfelt, I assure you.”

Tony looks at him with genuine fondness that Peter doesn’t have to taste to know it’s true. Peter leans in to place a chaste, tentative kiss on the corner of the mans mouth.

“It’s perfect.”

#starker #starker fic #fluff #tw: food #reluctantly loving thy neighbour #construction worker tony

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unfortunateleigh20 · 4 years

Text

september 20, day 21

I’ve just today realized that I’ve developed agoraphobia.

The thought of leaving my room makes me so incredibly anxious that I am now experiencing abdominal pain and feeling physically nauseated.

Looking out my window is something I spend a considerable amount of time doing. Deep in my chest, I feel a longing to run outside—lie in the grass, or read under a tree, or tip my head to the sky and just enjoy the breeze. The season is making this feeling worse: autumn is my favorite season—I always feel full of life and motivation during autumn. A sharp contrast to the rest of the year, autumn is the one time where I feel unstoppably determined, fierce, full of passion, and truly in-tune with the world. I spend the rest of the year feeling as though I am a being that is just barely physical, living on a planet where I am excluded—I most literally feel like an alien. But during autumn this changes: For once I feel almost entirely like I belong, and like life is actually worth living.

But this year, I am spending autumn entirely inside. Not only do my school’s restrictions prevent me from enjoying many aspects of normal life during this time, but these restrictions have come to make me so anxious and panicky that I am too afraid to leave my room. I am afraid of getting “caught” doing something wrong that I did not know was wrong.

Even worse, so much isolation has heightened my social anxiety, and I now fear any human contact. I am afraid of walking down the hall to use the bathroom, because the possibility of seeing someone else from my hall causes an anxiety attack. I worry that people on the other end of campus, way off in the fields, can see into my room and are watching me. I worry that, when I do go out, everybody is looking at me all the time. This makes me so uncomfortable that I do not know how to act at all—this includes insignificant things such as sitting. I do not know how to sit when I am in public. I worry about how my voice sounds when I speak, or if I’m too loud or too quiet, or if I talk too much or too little. I worry about the way my hands look. I worry about people watching me write, and wondering why I write so much and why I doodle on everything and why I can’t seem to just sit still for a single second. I worry that from front to back I look too wide. I worry that I have a double chin. I worry that people might notice my greasy hair, even though I put it up messily because I have been too anxious and depressed to take a shower the past few days. I worry that I slouch too much, so I try to sit up straight. But when I sit up straight it makes my back hurt, and I feel like I cannot breathe, and a feeling of emptiness or voidness becomes so intense from my stomach that I almost collapse into a ball on the floor.

I have started feeling so restless that I am constantly, constantly shaking my leg at a very intense speed; I am picking at my head and/or skin on an hourly basis, at least; I am obsessively grooming my nails and biting my lips. I am also becoming so unaware of the passing of time, I’ve already missed one of my classes.

When I was home for the weekend, I spoke with my best friend, and realized something about myself and my relationship with people: My anxiety of people runs so deep that I not only don’t want people to criticize me or think badly of me—I do not want them to think about me at all. I do not want them to talk to me, I do not want them to look at me, I do not want them to see me or hear me, perhaps most importantly, I do not want them to think about me. I don’t want them to acknowledge me in any way. And when they do, I become extremely agitated and upset and anxious. It doesn’t matter who the person is, I do not want people to even think about my existence.

Additionally, this anxiety has intensified what I now know to be body dysmorphia. I feel constantly uncomfortable with my body, like my skeleton doesn’t fit inside it, like I don’t fit inside it. I feel like one of those foam puzzles you played with when you were a kid, the ones where you’d try to shove letters into each other’s spots. I feel like an “e” shoved into the “z.” My body and my consciousness are two separate beings that can exist perfectly fine on their own, but when they are forced together—to exist as one—they can no longer function properly, and spend every waking second trying to force each other apart.

I also feel so detached from my sense of self. This I have felt for as long as I can remember. I always have a moment of dissociation when people refer to me as a gender; it is so unexpected and disillusioning. This is how often feel when people acknowledge my existence. It’s almost as if I should be an invisible force, but something went wrong and now people can see me. They shouldn’t be able to, but they do. I feel so detached from my physical form. I don’t understand how people can identify as a gender, or a sexuality, or even a sex. Nor can I understand how people know what they like, what their personality is like; what interests them, or doesn’t interest them; what opinions they have about something. How does anyone identify with something when every second everything is constantly changing?

This feeling has become so common that I now feel like I overanalyze things to the point of nonsense. I remember reading Frankenstein and feeling so strongly about both Frankenstein and the Creature, that suddenly the sides become indistinguishable, and the characteristics of each so intermingled that it didn’t matter who was what because we are all either something or we are not, and even if we are not, in a sense, we still are, and in that case, are any of us truly something or not something? And if we are all everything and nothing simultaneously, then does questioning it really even matter? Isn’t it entirely pointless? It is like that quote about love and hate being the same thing, because both have equal passion.

And in writing this all down and looking back over it, I realize how unstable I sound. At this point, I am desperately in need of switching to a new therapist, but my anxious has become so large and overpowering that it is impossible to even consider where to start and how to get myself to do it, how to get myself the help I need. To make matters worse, I like attending all my appointments online because it causes me less anxiety; but I feel as though I am not getting the same or full experience this way. I think I need particularly therapy appointments in person—but that is impossible in the current state of our world.

TL;DR: My anxiety, agoraphobia, body dysmorphia, depersonalization and derealization, depression, and hopelessness are at such extreme levels that I need help, but I do not know where to start in getting help, nor can I get myself to try to get help.

It’s exhausting acting like I can think coherently so nobody becomes too concerned about me, but I feel like there is no other option.

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another-dr-another · 4 years

Text

Taira - Maid

[She’s wearing formal dress shoes, but any degree of professionalism is negated by her jeans, covered in dirt, patches, and a assortment of doodles- she’s wearing a business casual polo, but her twin buns are messy, almost falling apart, and her bangs are a total hack job]

Maeda, narrating - ...

Maeda - ...

Maeda - ......

//He takes a breath- conscious and controlled, every bit of it intentional. The feeling in his stomach telling him that he’s going to throw up goes away.

Maeda - ...

~*~

//She’s facing the wall, standing rather close to it while she tap tap taps her fingers against it. When Maeda comes over, she turns to face him, but doesn’t get any further from the wall.

Maeda - ...

Maeda - Hey, I don’t think we’ve met yet.

??? - That’s right, we haven’t.

??? - Almost everyone here is a stranger, hardly anyone knows anyone else yet.

??? - Well. There is the introductions, I suppose. But, prior to that.

??? - Let’s move somewhere else to talk.

//She walks away, moving closer to the main foyer. She goes past one of the display cases, turns, and moves to stand... truthfully, the only defining trait about where she’s standing is that its far from anything. Far from the wall, the display case, either of the doors...

Maeda - ...

??? - ...

??? - I’m Taira Akane, Super High School Level Maid.

-{Taira Akane, Super High School Maid ~ 11th Student}-

Taira - You...

Taira - You should be careful around the walls, Maeda.

Taira - Not... really these ones, they’re fine.

Taira - Just, you know. You don’t know what kinda skeletons are lying underneath.

Taira - Push too hard and they’ll pop, y’know?

Taira - You could end up getting seriously hurt.

Maeda - Super High School Level Maid?

Maeda - Hm... maids are usually for rich people, right? Do you have a lot of wealthy clients?

Taira - ...Well. I work for all sorts of people.

Taira - A solid amount of them are pretty wealthy, yeah.

Taira - But I’m good at cooking, cleaning, all of that. I can do in an hour what takes a team of people twice as long.

Taira - Someeee...times. I have to work for shelter, for food, stuff like that.

Taira - I usually get paid in a hotel room, and then some spare wages, depending on the client and the job,

Taira - But sometimes I’m cooking for everyone in a homeless shelter just so I can land a bed.

Taira - Charity tends to go away when you’re valuable.

Taira - Have you noticed that, Maeda?

Maeda - Working for all sorts of people... lots of clients, then.

Maeda - Any stories from work? I’d figure there’s some stuff you can’t talk about, but I’d be interested in anything, to be honest.

Taira - ...Of course you would.

Taira - ...Maeda.

Maeda - ?

Taira - I don’t want to tell you stories right now.

Taira - You’ll work with me, right?

Taira - You’re going to keep me safe, yeah? You need to, Maeda.

Taira - You owe that to me.

Taira - If nothing else? If you can’t do even the bare minimum to help, at least you won’t let something bad happen, right?

Maeda - ...

Maeda - Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

//He starts swaying on his feet a bit, looking around the room as he hums.

Taira - ...Do I have to threaten you? Will you only act when it’s you on the line?

Taira - Think about what will happen. Will you really prioritize yourself over me?

Taira - Is that what it’ll take for you to do something for someone else for a change?

Taira - Why won’t you just let me be happy?

Taira - You always ruin everything for me.

Taira - And yet I’m still here! You can’t get through this on your own, so don’t let your bad choices kill me.

Maeda - Mmmmmm...

Taira - ...I don’t want to upset you. You know I’d never do that, right?

Taira - I don’t want to hurt you. It’s just hard... I feel like I can’t have a conversation with you without you shutting down.

Taira - I don’t like to upset you, so I try to avoid stuff like this.

Taira - I just... I don’t want you to get hurt again, okay?

Taira - If you want... to push me away, that’s okay. I just... I don’t think that’s the best for you.

Taira - Okay, Maeda?

Maeda - ...

Taira - ...

Maeda - ...

Taira - Y’know, do what you want. See how it goes, just know that it’s a matter of your choices.

~*~

Maeda, narrating - ...Shit, I can’t remember like... anything she said.

Maeda - Hopefully she doesn’t reference a story she just told me or something like that...

Maeda - I don’t want it to seem like I wasn’t paying attention to her.

Maeda - ...Did she tell me a story about work? I think I asked her about... if anything has happened...

Maeda - ...

Maeda - Jeez, I really can’t recall anything...

#dra #danganronpa another #sdra2 #yuki maeda #akane taira #prologue #introductions #august 23 #rewrite 23

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kezibun · 4 years

Text

Hey so I've done a little doodling to accompany this very little story ^-^

@selfshipperapproved

~~~~~~~~~~~

There they were 4 skeletons and one human sat in the living room… in silence…

Black sighs loudly as he checks his phone for the tenth time in the past 5 minutes…

"What's the matter Black?" Kezi asks looking up from her sketchbook…

"I'M CONCERNED ABOUT MY BROTHERS WELL BEING…"

"DON'T WORRY HE'S WITH MY BROTHER AND THE OTHER PAPYRI!!" Little blue chimes.

"YES… THAT'S WHAT WORRIES ME…"

"They'll be back soon, just chill." Red adds.

"Hey, why don't we play truth or dare? You know Pass the time." sans suggests.

"OH I LIKE THAT PLAN! YES LET'S PLAY!" Blue chirps.

"IF WE MUST…" Black sighs putting down his barely read book.

"This does sound fun, how about you start us off Sans, was your idea after all." Kezi says with a smile, snuggling up to Red.

"Sure, um… Black truth or dare." Sans hums.

"GIVE ME A DARE!" He replies with confidence.

"K… I dare you to send a sweet text to your human mate."

"EASY!" He picks up his phone and thinks for a moment before he starts typing.

~Hello my Angel, I just wanted to let you know you light up my world, I love you and I hope you're having a brilliant day. ~

"AND SENT." He looks very proud and pleased with himself.

"Cool your go then Black, who you picking on?"

"UM… BLUE TRUTH OR DARE!"

"OH… TRUTH!"

"ALRIGHT HOW'S YOUR HUMAN FRIEND?"

"OH UM… I DON'T KNOW… I HAVEN'T HEARD FROM HER IN A WHILE… SO... I GUESS BUSY..."

"Aww, man that sucks." Sans adds.

"What about you vanilla? How's yer girl?" Red chuckles.

Sans' lazy grin stretches into a smug, happy and thoughtful smile. "Yeah last I heard she was doing great." He chuckles a little to himself.

"OKAY RED!!! TRUTH OR DARE!" Blue chimes with a smirk.

"Hit me with a dare will ya li'l Blue."

"YES! MWEH HEH HEH! RED I DARE YOU TO SWAP CLOTHES WITH KEZIHA!!!" He snickers.

"Wait what…" Kezi squeaks…

"Sure let's do it." Red chuckles.

"No… Wait like... what…? My clothes aren't going to fit you… well my jumper might only just... but..."

"THEN JUST SWAP YOUR JUMPERS!" Blue giggles

"it'll be really small… you'll stretch it…"

"Come on Sweetheart I got a dare record to keep, ya ain't gonna let me break it at 49 are ya?"

"Fine…"

"ALRIGHT BUT WE NEED BEFORE AND AFTER PICTURES."

"what!?"

"OK NOW GO PUT THESE ON." Black hands them each a set of clothes….

She looks at the clothes then back at the Skeletons..."Was this whole thing a set up??" Keziha asks, turning to Sans.

"Hey don't ask me…" He shrugs.

"Come on Sweetheart lets just do it..."

"Damn Kezi that's a cute look for you." Red smiles.

"Yeah It makes me feel really cool. Had to tie my hair back cuz the hoods so big and fluffy."

"But you know It's not quite as cute as my real jumper but still freakin' adorable." Red laughs.

"Oh shut up…"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some coloured versions of the pics, the black and white versions came out better but thought I'd drop these here anyway. ^.^

#keziha doodles #keziha writes #kezi x red #sanship #red #underfell sans #self ship #self shipping #^.^

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a-totally-legit-farm · 5 years

Text

Marmalade’s Winter’s Star Party

// Hey y’all, this year I was Shio’s ( @stardeworanges ) secret santa for our discord community secret santa! It took me forever but I present to you ‘Marmalade’s Winter’s Star Party’, a story with a bit of fluff, a bit of edge, and then some more fluff, with some guest appearences in there too.

The full version can be found under the cut, or you can read the story HERE.

I hope you like it shio!!

Word Count: 3022

_______________________________________________________________

Marmalade looked down at her latest accomplishment: a small stack of laminated cards, each one addressed to the friends she had made – her Valley family. There were about 50 cards, everyone from Sebastian to Gus was invited. Names embossed in cursive detailed the addressee of each invitation. The orange-haired woman was so proud of her little cards – she had designed them from scratch, from the colours on the bordering, to the little intricate mistletoe and stars adorning the corners. They were her own little doodles, quite well-done considering Marmalade had never considered herself an artist. In all honesty, Marm had gone a little over the top with these preparations, which had become obvious after she had created a 50-page binder complete with individual greetings, an array of feast meals and cocktails, and even mood boards to pin the perfect aesthetic. But she had a mission, and by Yoba, she would do whatever it took to achieve it.

Her smile softened. The Winter’s Star had always meant so much to her. When she was a little girl, she’d always visit her grandpa for his Winter’s Star festivities. Many a memory was dotted with her kind grandpa’s grin, the smell of warm cocoa, and the flashing of festive lights; the raucous of townspeople sharing hot drinks and good food. But those memories were fading with age, and Marmalade knew that she had to take up the mantle. She was going to throw the perfect Winter’s Star feast. She was going to honour her grandpa’s legacy.

And the next step to doing so was dispersing these slick-looking invitations to their rightful owners. Most important on her list was Clark, her best friend, and the newly appointed mayor. She hadn’t seen him in a few days – the farmhand had been tied up with bureaucratic red tape left behind by a spiteful Lewis. The poor man had been running circles around the town, attempting to get at least somewhere with his new legislation. Well, there was at least a slim silver lining to that storm cloud – Marmalade knew exactly where he would be.

It was a short walk from the farm to the town, though the brisk winter winds would require a Winter’s Star sweater, and of course, the tackier the better. She scanned her drawer for the best candidate: a red and white wool monstrosity, with “Orange you glad it’s winter” knitted in a box. Perfect. The sweater slipped on, gloriously awful pun present in yellow text, a pair of oranges decorating the inscription. She wrapped a scarf around her bare neck, her orange locks falling over the dark, soft material. Finally, she swung her backpack on, filled with a water bottle, some orange slices, and the crux of it all, her invitations.

Without a misstep, Marmalade was out the door, the brisk winter winds and the ankle-deep snow neither bothering nor hindering the ginger on her mission. Winter always brought a unique beauty to the Valley, bare skeletons of trees sleeping for the winter, and those brilliant blue berries poking up through the white terrain. One of Marmalade’s favourite sights had to be spotting the holly berries and crocus flowers in the dense snow. Wet gravel crunched under her feet as Marmalade trekked on. Her mental checklist of places to stop kept growing. Gotta invite Pippa and Rue and Dae! I’ll stop on the way. And I’m sure Cherry will be home – and maybe Nikoma and Jenna will come… Then I should stop at Pierre’s for some more supplies. Oh, and of course, Clark, in the town hall!

She smiled once more to herself.

Winter 26th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party anybody had ever been to!

_______________________________________________________________

Clark ran his fingers through his dense, blond curls, the toll of being constantly busy affecting the usual lustre of his hair. He grimaced at the paperwork in front of him, feeling each and every monotonous, tedious word sap strength from his dwindling will to keep reading. He loved being mayor. He loved the warm appreciation of the townsfolk as he walked the streets of the Valley, he loved the constant support and trust. He loved that he was elected the Mayor. He did not love the piles of paperwork constantly inhabiting his in-tray, perched eternally on the right of his desk. The dark circles under his eyes evident of his sleeplessness, his expression stony as he stared down the stack of sheets sitting, waiting, mocking – Clark wanted nothing more than to slam his head into the desk. He pulled at his red tie, loosening its grip around his wrinkled, white button-up shirt, sleeves cuffed awkwardly around his tanned wrists. That was one thing he did miss – the blue jeans, the red flannel, the straw hat, but there was something about office-wear that really made his pecs look juicier, so he was willing to compromise. A groan escaped him, forcing its way through his teeth, as his eyes wandered towards the window, looking for anything to fuel his procrastination…

And as if summoned by Yoba himself, Marmalade burst through his office door, face alight with happiness.

She was a radiant beam of sunlight in the poorly lit office, and she couldn’t help but bring a grin to Clark’s mug. Her silly holiday sweater procured a chuckle from the exhausted ex-farmhand – it was just like Marm to be a walking pun. The woman basically bounced to the front of his desk, striking a little pose before rummaging through her pack. It was obvious Marmalade was very excited, and Hayesmith was ready for whatever the exuberant redhead was going to throw at him.

“Mayor Clark,” Marmalade’s voice rung with a silliness that she only showed around her closest friends, “I would like to cordially invite you to Miss Marmalade’s Winter Star feast party!” She slapped down the invitation on top of all of his paperwork, its festive design a winter star compared to the drab documents underneath. Clark let out another one of his gruff chuckles. “Not even a howdy before the theatrics.” Marmalade’s face went a shade of bashful pink, the playful act dialled back a bit from the cowboy’s ribbing.

“Now y’know I’m jokin’ there, Marm. I’d be pleased to make it.” He lifted the card up, inspecting the calligraphy – Clark Hayesmith, You are invited to my Winter’s Star party, 6 PM on Winter 27th. See you there! He tucked the invitation away in his pocket – it had been a while since the man had been able to socialise, and he was looking forward to the opportunity.

“Say Marm, who’ve you invited to this lil’ shindig?” Oh, how Marmalade had missed his deep, soothing drawl – and boy did she have a list of names for him. “Well, Pippa and her crew are coming, and Clive, uhh Sebastian and Maru said they would come, Red and Derek, Abigail… Nikoma sighed at me and said ‘fine’ so I’m assuming he’s coming… Jenna and Haley said yes too! Oh, and Jenna has an assistant now? And Amelia, Ainsley, Edel…” The names kept coming, and Clark’s excitement to flex his social and physical muscles was only growing.

“Trust me darl’, I’ll be there, I wouldn’t miss it for th’world . Now, I better get a hustle with this work, or I’ll be stuck here till the party’s over.” Clark shook his head in exaggerated despair, and Marmalade let out a small chuckle. “Okay Clark. See you at the party!”

“See y’all at the party, Marm.” Clark waved as Marm hurried out the door, the farmer eager to deliver the rest of her invitations. The new mayor-elect pulled out his invitation once more.

He grinned, and for the first time in what seemed like days, he actually wanted to finish his paperwork. A party clearly makes for a mighty fine motivator.

Winter 27th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party he’d ever been to.

_______________________________________________________________

It was 7:56 PM on Winter 26th.

The ticking of the kitchen clock on the wall had drove her crazy. It now laid facedown on the tiled floor.

Marmalade glared at the door. She sat alone, at her dining table, 34 different plates of food sitting, cold, untouched, abandoned on the dark cherry wood, uncovered and unprotected from the cold night air. The fire had burned out about half an hour ago – what was the point of keeping a fire burning if no one was here to stay warm?

Marmalade glared at the door. She hadn’t touched any of the food she had slaved the day away cooking. She hadn’t had a sip of the punch, or the soup, or the wine. She was at first waiting for someone to come, to share the food with, but after an hour of sitting alone she had thoroughly lost her appetite.

Marmalade glared at the door – only pausing to wipe the tears defiantly escaping her eyes. She had told herself she wouldn’t cry. It didn’t matter if no one had come. She was sure there were reasons why they hadn’t come, but no one had even called to inform her. Maybe they just weren’t her friends. She had always thought that at least a few of the farmers had been left with good impressions of her. The anti-social ones, she understood – those like Katherine, afraid of people, or Nikoma, annoyed by people – but the extroverts? Cherry? Pippa? Red? Where were they?

The only conclusion Marmalade could come to was they didn’t care. They must have had other plans, or had forgotten, they must have been too busy with their lives to remember Marmalade’s party. She sniffled, wiping away more tears that had forced their way down her face. She had to reason with herself. After all, yesterday was the Winter’s Star Feast, and everyone would be tired…

Even Clark, her best friend, her old farmhand, was too busy for her. It must have been his new job…

Marmalade glared at the door. The door swung open. Tension was almost palpable in the air as Marmalade tensed up – tears at this point were streaming over her blushed cheeks, make-up running. Clark walked in, sighing. He had yet to look up, his head was hung low, the strain of sitting at a desk all day leaving a myriad of cricks in his neck and back.

The cowboy could tell Marmalade was in earshot, and he called out while taking his shoes off. “Hey Marm, excited for your party tomor-…” Finally, his gaze swung up to meet Marmalade’s glare.

Time froze as he scanned the room; the festive decorations, the tinsel-covered tree, the holly and mistletoe and wreaths hanging from every possible point. The banquet of food laid out in spectacular fashion. The poor, lonely woman, sitting isolated amongst the festivities.

Uh-oh.

Marm broke down. The floodwalls failed, and she began sobbing, only quietly, but there was no other noise – all Clark could hear was Marmalade’s soft weeping. Immediately, he moved towards her, trying to protectively wrap himself around her, in an attempt to shield the orange-haired woman from what had happened in her own dining room. She protested, albeit weakly, beating closed fists against his brawny chest. It didn’t last long, as those beating fists uncurled into fingers gripping his shirt, knuckles clenched white, the fabric a lifeline to Clark as Marmalade pressed her tear-soaked face into him.

Clark didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even entirely sure what happened – her party wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow evening… Unless she didn’t know that. The invitations must have been wrong. The cowboy shook his head. All of Marmalade’s meticulous planning, all of her expertise and effort, left to rot because of a typo on the invitations. Clark knew what he had to do.

Clark continued to hold Marm as she wept out her grievances, Clark affirming her and hushing her softly. It didn’t take long for Marmalade’s crying to slow – it was clear now, obviously the town didn’t hate her. But it didn’t matter. The party was a failure, and she had spent so much time and effort and money on this one, she had nothing left to throw another one. It was all a waste, and everyone was going to be disappointed.

All Clark could do was hold the woman, assuring her that the townsfolk wouldn’t be mad. He told her stories about his failed events in the past, about his week and all the mess-about that went into being mayor, about how people were kind, and forgiving, especially in these parts. For about 40 minutes, the pair laid spread out on the on the cold tiled floor, Marmalade’s head still on Clark’s chest, time passing in an emotion-filled haze.

It was 9:03 PM on Winter 26th, according to Clark’s wristwatch.

He knew exactly what he had to do to make this right. As Marmalade drifted to sleep, he swept her up, and escorted her to her bed – and then he was out the door. He knew most of the farmers and townsfolk would be winding down for the night, but if he knew this Valley, he knew that they would come together for something this important, especially for the mayor.

Well no, actually.

They’d come together, especially for Marmalade.

Clark had to make sure that Winter 27th was going to be the best Winter’s Star party Marmalade had ever been to.

_______________________________________________________________

It was 9:04 AM on Winter 27th, according to the clock Marmalade had picked up off the floor.

She was still a little down – she had thrown all the wasted food in the bin, and tried to salvage what had kept, but it all felt like a big mistake. She was now sitting at the dining table, staring absent-mindedly at the door. Clark was nowhere to be seen, again, as always. The farmer didn’t want to walk out that door, didn’t want to have to tell everyone the party was cancelled.

But she was a brave woman, and she’d let most of the negativity out last night. She wasn’t ready to do it yet, though. No, she’d check the mail, and then finish her coffee. Then she’d set off to let the public know of her shame.

The woman stood up, stretching her haunches, mug of hot, black coffee clutched tightly. A small amount of the life-saving ichor had stained the sleeve of her long sweater, but that was fine, it was just a pyjama top anyway. The soft fleecy fabric was a latte-foam tan, with the sleeves slightly too long, and honestly, the small brown stains added to the look. Marmalade ambled towards the door, procrastinating her eventual exposure to the outside elements.

It was just the mail.

She’d have to face the world eventually.

She swung the door open – and dropped her mug.

Laid out on the front lawn, cleared of snow, was tables of food. Fresh prepared meats, plates of berries and fruits – all in season, all garnished with those dark green leaves that survived the winter chill – bowls of punch and liquor and crates of wine laid out, hot coffee and soups simmering over small fires. And with it all, stood all the farmers she had invited to yesterday’s party.

Warm smiles from familiar faces all began turning towards Marmalade, the breaking of ceramic and the splashing of coffee alerting the people laying out this feast on her front lawn. It felt like a dream – the slow roll of applause started to crawl across the crowd, and before long they were all cheering at (or cheering for, more likely) Marmalade.

Friends and acquaintances from all around the Valley were present – she immediately noticed the tall figures of Barclay, Rue and Bernard, discussing fishing in the mines (a very controversial topic, apparently), with Pippa and Red inspecting the miner’s latest find close by. Edel, Katherine, Mona and Amelia sipped at Kat’s latest champagne, the bubbly enticing enough to drink even this early in the morning. Alex and Cherry were carving roast chicken, while Ainsley and Delaney seemed to be debating what exactly defined a ‘soup’. Jenna and Haley chatted away with Vi, Percival and a pair of siblings who Marmalade hadn’t seen before – but they were all far too dressed up, clearly. Even the recluses had turned out; Anderson and Morrison stood at the end of a table, alone, and Nikoma sat in a pile of snow, flask in hand. And that wasn’t even most of the people Marmalade could recognise – about 60 bodies, more than she had ever invited, stood around, having a good time, eating food and drinking merrily, just as she had envisioned for her party…

And right, smack-bang in the middle of them all was Clark, those new, dark rings under his eyes the blackest she’d ever seen them. He had been up all night, corralling the locals into coming together, pooling their resources, cooking and brewing and shovelling snow, to throw Marmalade the best Winter’s Star party that she had ever been to.

Marmalade hopped over the shattered mug, and ran straight into his arms, once again pressing her face into his broad chest. There was no way this was all happening, and yet, it seems Clark had made it happen.

A few tears stained that same, white shirt he was wearing last night.

“Thank you so much, Clark! Thank you…”

Clark smiled warmly, his tired eyes softening as he patted Marmalade on the back.

“Not a worry in the world, Marm. You know I -… You know this town would do anything for you.”

Marmalade could feel the kindness in her soul, the flame that had been doused last night, reignite within her. She couldn’t ask for anything more, to be surrounded by those she lives with, to supply the space for her community to be happy, to be safe, and to have a good Winter’s Star. To take up the mantle of her grandfather. She pulled herself from Clark, and looked around at all of her friend’s faces, warm drinks and good food in their hands.

This was going to be the best Winter’s Star party ever.

#long post #secret santa 2019 #stardeworanges #drabble #event drabble #i hope you like it shio!!!!!

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ninvic-rbs · 5 years

Photo

Day 22

Boy i’ve been waiting for this one. So i decided to do some really weird aus, meaning ive been rewatching some stuff and hallucinating lol. Okay so in order you have the bbc version of sherlock (10/10), the greatest showman (10/10) and money heist (11/10, strongly recommend). And then an old reapertale doodle bc ive seen literally zero reapertale grillster fanart and its so aesthetically pleasing i just had to

And as a little extra i guess, i wrote this thing for @silverskye13‘s bodyguard au, which has been pretty active lately, so lets keep the ball rolling. Please keep in mind that 1. i don’t really write and 2. this is the first time i try to write in english, so any feedback is appreciated. Enjoy, i guess

Gaster bent down to reload for the third time already. In his frenzy he almost fell out of his seat, or maybe that was the way the car was moving. Normally they wouldn't really have to run away, with Grillby being able to either kill or scare the others enough to be left alone. But whatever gang was so adamant on capturing the doctor had quickly figured out that normal magic attacks wouldn't get them anywhere. So now, the people on the car chasing behind them were wielding bright orange water guns. Which looked about as ridiculous as one might expect, but had proved efficient; if the way Grillby was hunched and clutching his chest with one hand was anything to go by. The elemental was driving, and he had given Gaster his gun and he was trying to lose them. It was the first time he was shooting with anything that wasn't his blasters; and he was quickly realizing that he had really bad aim when shooting with his hands and not his soul. Between that and how small the targets actually were from the distance, he hadn't hit a thing in the last ten minutes. He was getting frustrated, which didn't mix well with his growing anxiety for the elemental. Grillby looked like he was in agony; most of his shirt completely soaked and sticking to his body. From where he was, Gaster could see almost half of his face had been completely put out. And he wasn't even allowed to pass out. "How's that going?" Gaster could barely hear him above the howling of the wind around them. The elemental sounded tired. "I can't hit them! They're moving too much!" "S'a bunker nearby. We need some time... try to aim for the tires." The skeleton immediately lowered his aim. Even thought the target was considerably bigger, it still took him a few attempts before the tire exploded and the car suddenly started made a sharp turn right and out of the asphalt. That was such a good idea! How had he not thought of that before? He decided to blame his panicked state. Before he sat back down, he saw the vehicle come to a stop and the monsters inside immediately get to work on changing the tire. The skeleton knew it wouldn't stop them for long, but hopefully for long enough. He decided to focus his efforts now on helping the elemental as much as he could, before he realized that he had no idea how to heal that sort of thing. The only thing Grillby had had to recover from before had been exhaustion. How did you tend to a put out fire?! Should he pour gasoline over him? He didn't know! "Grillby, how can I heal this?" He asked, his anxiety for the other's life making his hands shake. "How can I heal you? What do I need?" He wished he could just use green magic. "Just... anything flammable. And liquid. That normally... works..." he was getting weaker. Suddenly, the car screeched to a stop, almost throwing Gaster off his seat. Before he had time to react, the elemental had already opened the door on his side and was painfully getting out, carrying the small bag that contained his belongings. The skeleton quickly followed him, remembering to pick up his own bag. When he caught up, he noticed Grillby could barely walk. Without thinking, he put his arm around the other's and let him use his body as a crutch; although the elemental barely noticed. "Are you okay?" which was a stupid question, of course. "Yeah" he slurred, as if it was fooling anyone. "S'not too far, but we can't leave the car near the entrance." Gaster nodded. Although they were only walking for a total of three minutes, it felt like a small eternity. The skeleton's anxiety at an all time high; constantly looking over his shoulders and checking if the gang had managed to catch up, and trying to keep Grillby steady; even if his walking speed was declining and he put more and more weight on Gaster as they advanced. When they finally stopped, the elemental slumped to the ground, and the skeleton would have thought he had passed out if it weren't because he had started digging around some bushes. Just when the skeleton was about to ask what he was doing, he heard the sound of metal, and in a few seconds a small hatch had opened before them on the ground. It was dark inside; the only discernible thing a ladder leading down to it. "You go first, s- Gaster." The skeleton wanted to argue, but he knew from experience it wouldn't get him anywhere. So he just nodded and climbed down as fast as he could, almost falling once. It wasn't as deep as it had seemed, and he still couldn't see any light switches or anything of the sort. But that didn't worry him right now; as he was looking up and anxiously waiting for the elemental to get to the floor so he could work on healing him. As Grillby started climbing the ladder down, he stopped a second to close the entrance behind them; and the mechanical whirring that followed assured the skeleton that no one was going to follow them down there. Slowly, Grillby made his way down. But when there were only two steps left he collapsed, and he would have fallen to the floor if it weren't for Gaster's lighting fast reflexes in grabbing him with blue and yelping in surprise. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no...!" he murmured in a panic, moving the elemental and settling him on the first surface he saw; which happened to be a couch in the nearest room. "What's... wrong?" Grillby's voice was barely a whisper. The skeleton quickly looked at him, only to have his soul-wrenching fear grow when he noticed that the elemental looked barely conscious. "Nonono, don't fall asleep! You hear me?! Hey, Grillby, c'mon, stay with me!" "...t hurts..." Gaster almost wanted to cry. He had never seen the elemental in such a weak state, and he had to act quickly if he wanted to keep him alive; because a quick stat check confirmed the alarming rate at which Grillby's life was fading. He prayed to every god he had ever heard of that there was some alcohol in the bunker. "I know, I know, I'm going to fix that. Just... stay here. Try not to move, and don't fall asleep." He had already turned around to leave when he felt a weak hold in his wrist. "P-please don't leave... it's cold... I'm scared, Gaster..." came an almost inaudible plea. The skeleton's soul could have broken right then and there. He felt a knot on his non-existent throat when he spoke again. "I'll be back in a minute, okay? Don't worry, I'll be right here if you need me." He softly let go of the elemental's hand and took off running without wasting another precious second. He quickly realized that the bunker was a bit more like a subterranean house than a refuge. It had too so many rooms; it was probably thought out to be lived in for at least a couple of months. He hoped they didn't have to stay that long. Without stopping for a second, the skeleton stumbled somewhere he suddenly realized was the kitchen. He almost fell twice in his rush to open every single cupboard; his hope growing when he found most of them were full of either nonperishable food or utensils. He finally found what looked like a minibar next to the fridge and immediately grabbed the biggest bottle he saw, which turned out to be whiskey. Within the next three seconds he was already back by Grillby's side, feeling a wave of relief when he didn't see only dust on the couch but still rushing to open the bottle, knowing how close the elemental actually was to it. The way his hands were shaking made him take a few more seconds than necessary. "H-hey, Grillby, are you awake?" Gaster was sure he wasn't, but he seemed to wake up at this. When he saw the open bottle, he took it without a word and started downing it desperately. The skeleton blinked, and before he could react the elemental had already drunk more than half of the liquid. He separated the bottle from his mouth and for a few seconds his flame flared up in deep blue colors before settling back down on reds and oranges that were duller than their normal color, but worlds better than how it had been before. And upon checking his stats, Gaster sighed a breath of relief at his slowly growing health. He sat on the couch next to Grillby's legs, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion of the day hit him at once. He could have fallen asleep right there, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the elemental just yet. The elemental that, when he looked up again, he realized was staring at him, even if groggily so. He immediately became worried again, and quickly asked; "Is everything okay? Does anything hurt?" But Grillby only continued staring. The skeleton was about to check his stats again when he finally spoke. "You shouldn't have to... do stuff like this. I'm sorry I'm so bad at my job." He was said it slowly, his voice barely a whisper. He looked like he was falling asleep. After a small pause, the elemental added, his voice even lower; "I wish I could make you happy." Gaster suddenly froze. He didn't know how to react. What had Grillby meant by that? Was that about his job? But he only had to keep him safe, nothing else. And he wasn't bad at it; Gaster was alive, wasn't he? But that other phrase... was... was that...? But there was just no way that was what was going on here... right? He felt his face grow hotter. But, if not that, then what had he meant? "B-but that's not your job" was the only thing he could blurt out after a few seconds. Not that it was important, since, he noticed, the elemental had already dozed off. The skeleton wasn't sure what to do for a couple of seconds. Eventually he sighed and settled back down, getting as comfortable as he could. He tried not to think about what had just happened as he finally let himself drift off to sleep; the soft crackling of the fire next to him the only sound in the room.

#undertale #fanart #my art #fanfic #grillby #gaster #grillster #grillstertember #hope this is good enough #im gonna make an ao3 acc and post it there in a couple of days #im not good at writing but that doesn't mean im not gonna try #i have a couple more things in the works #by the way #also #you should reeeeeally check out money heist #im lowkey giving away were im from #but its such a good show #i think its on netflix #sorry but ive binged on it for the past 3 days and im pumped

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poiwritesnstuff · 5 years

Text

October 29th

Lily woke up to an open window and a barn owl snuggled into her covers. Reluctantly, she reached out of bed for long enough to close the window, but the barn owl woke to her movement and hooted blearily as it held out its foot. In its grasp was a small note that read I did split house patrols for Monday night instead of all Slytherins. Clearly the worst choice of the two but you’re welcome.

She let out a soft laugh and opened the window again to shoo James’s owl out into the cold morning air. Pulling on a robe, she darted over to James’s room and knocked on the door. “I woke up with your owl in my bed. It’s terribly strange that you cuddle it at night, I hope you realize that.”

There was no response. Lily knocked again and put her ear to the door, but all she could hear was an insistent tapping. The door was unlocked, so she pushed it open and let James’ owl into the room, where it hooted and flew to its perch in the corner instead of settling on the lump on the bed.

“James? Didn’t you hear your owl at the window?” Not exactly what she wanted to ask, but she pushed at the lump and found that the black hair emerging was much longer than it ought to be. Beneath the covers was Sirius’s pale face and shoulders as he blinked at Lily in response to her existence. “Sirius, what are you doing here?”

“I was up until four working on--” He yawned, but by the time he finished, he was already snuggling back into covers. “Just two more hours.”

“Sirius, it’s ten in the morning. And anyways, where’s James?”

This seemed to register with Sirius because he re-emerged to look at Lily. “He’s getting ready, or he’s left already. Hard to tell when you’re asleep.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “Say, Evans, don’t you have a thing today?”

“Why am I not surprised that you know about it?” She asked, looking around the room to avoid his gaze.

“Because he loves me more than anyone,” he said with another great big yawn. “And he’s perfectly aware that my intentions are honestly dishonorable and has embraced it, unlike you.”

Lily just frowned at Sirius and sat down on the bed, forcing him to make place for her.

“I don’t have dishonorable intentions. I don’t think I have any intentions.”

“It’s unforgivable to do anything without intention. Idle action is pedestrian at best,” he declared.

“What philosopher did you have for dinner last night?” Lily asked.

“I didn’t have dinner last night. When I don’t sleep, I think, and I can’t come up with winners every time.”

Lily looked over at this and saw the discomfort beneath the air of amusement he was studiously maintaining. Tugging on a lock of hair, she lay down next to him, opting to stare at the ceiling instead of facing him.

He spoke again. “So you really have no idea what you’re doing with all this?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just said we should have tea but we didn’t actually agree on a time or anything and then we just haven’t spoken about it since. It’s--”

“I meant generally,” Sirius said. “Not to protect his virtue-- in fact, I’m hoping you’ll do away with it entirely-- but he’s not exactly a versed seducer. You might get his hopes up if you don’t tell him what you want.”

Lily thought about this for a moment. “I’ve got no idea what I want. We’ve known each other for so long that I hardly know what I want, let alone what he wants, except for that I want tea.”

“Well, that’s encouraging. The great Lily Evans doesn’t know something.”

“I’m not the anything, and certainly not ‘the great.’ I might be the confused Lily Evans.”

“The bemused.”

“The befuddled.”

“The belabored.”

“The discombobulated,” she said.

“The Potter,” Sirius said with a laugh.

“The excuse you?” Lily’s face went red, which only made him laugh harder.

Sirius lowered his voice conspiratorially and said, “He used to doodle your name with his on his notes, you know. ‘Lily Evans Potter’ with great big hearts all around it like a smitten bird.”

“Oh god, he never,” Lily said, covering her face with her hands, trying to ignore the little flutter of her heart and her stomach at the thought.

“That’s right, he never,” came a voice from the doorway, and the two turned to see James standing in the doorway. He had on a pair of sweatpants and a towel around his neck. Lily studiously avoided looking anywhere below the towel. James’s gaze was scanning over the bed and he had a slightly strangled expression on his face.

“He absolutely did,” Sirius retorted, and Lily could hear the delight in his voice.

“Leave it,” Lily whispered despite herself, both frustrated with and grateful for his presence.

James crossed the room to start rooting through his drawers. “Sirius is misremembering it-- he’s the one who was writing ‘Sirius Potter’ through half of third year after he visited us for the summer.”

“You’d want to be a Potter too if your only other choice was to be a Black,” Sirius said.

Lily, whose eyes had followed James, was watching the way the muscles in his back moved as he pulled the towel off of his shoulders and selected a shirt.

James turned around, shirt half on, and said, “As though you needed the name to be one of us.”

But he had looked at Lily as he said it. Her stomach clenched, and she was suddenly very aware of the morning breath and messy hair and bare legs that she hadn’t thought about while it was just Sirius.

A born leader. Lily had not been in doubt of James’ ability to carry out his Head Boy duties, but this was the first time that she felt that he was what a Head Boy ought to be.

Sirius, satisfied with the answer he’d got, let out a laugh and settled back into the covers as Lily jumped up from the bed.

“I should be getting ready. I overslept,” she stammered before rushing out of the room, her heart and thoughts racing.

An hour later, Lily had gone through three hairstyles (settled on a ponytail), four attempts at makeup (ended up with nothing on), and six outfits (her coat covered it all anyways) before she was wearing something she could live with. She walked out to find James sitting on the couch, a collar peeking out from under his jacket.

“Has Sirius gone or will he be joining us today?” She asked, enjoying the way he smiled up at her as she approached him.

“He’s gone back to bed but I’ll wake him up for you if you’d like,” he said, standing up to greet her.

“No, no,” she said quickly. They met in the middle of the room, silence falling faster than either of them had anticipated. Lily started to reach out for a hug and ended up redirecting her movement into crossing her arms over her chest. James just watched her move. “We should go before he wakes up again.”

“Right. Let’s go,” James said. They walked in silence through much of the castle, exchanging passing remarks here and there, separating one group on the verge of fighting, but it wasn’t until they were out on the grounds that Lily remembered the note he’d sent her.

“Thanks for finishing up the schedule. I wasn’t looking forward to figuring that out,” she said. “It’s so hard to figure out which of the pairs would actually work together.”

“Oh, I didn’t even bother with that. It’s Halloween-- I tossed coins and let them decide who’d walk together.” James laughed. “I’m looking forward to Monday.”

Lily grinned despite herself. “Is that your big prank, forcing all of the worst pairs to walk together?”

“Oh, that’s not it. It’s going to-- well, it’s going to be fun. Sirius and I were up fairly late working on it, in fact. We did some finishing touches.”

“Won’t you tell me what it is?” Lily asked, moving closer to bump his arm with her elbow. James just smiled politely and led her down into the village.

They arrived at the tea shop a little while later, deeply engrossed in gossip about the prefects. They were so engrossed, in fact, that they hadn’t realized exactly what they’d walked into until they were seated in squishy black and orange chairs that squeaked a little every time they moved. The table between them was still bright blue but was covered in a tablecloth that had featured a dizzying pattern of dancing pumpkins. Above them, happy skeletons were flying around, throwing confetti and cackling pitifully. A harried server swimming in old dress robes pulled a tea cart to the side of their table.

“Will that be all? Sorry! I meant, would you like to order something? Oh, you don’t have your menus, give me just a moment, I’ve got a large party to seat-- where the hell is Alice?”

Two minutes later, they were outside again. Lily couldn’t hold back her laughter and James joined in after a moment, looking both embarrassed and relieved. “I’ve never actually been inside. I just knew it was around--”

“--all those patterns, it was so busy and ridiculous! I would never have suggested it for a date if I’d thought it was going to be quite like that,” Lily laughed. “The Three Broomsticks should be just fine… James?”

James had stopped in the middle of the lane, staring at Lily. She glanced around to see if anyone was nearby-- they were fairly isolated-- and walked back close enough to see that his cheeks were as pink as his lips and why on earth was she staring at his lips. She stammered out a random string of syllables to try and get James to stop looking at her quite so intently when he cut in.

“I actually had something of a backup plan… Do you trust me, Evans?” He asked, offering her his hand.

“I… Well… yes.” She took his hand, and a thrill ran through her as his fingers closed around hers. “Lead the way.”

He did, smiling brighter and brighter until he caught sight of her again and bit back his enthusiasm, and Lily could barely hold back her laughter. Not that she quite understood what she had to laugh about, except for that it was a Saturday and they were in Hogsmeade and James Potter, who had fought with her former best friend for six years and had been bothering her for a date for the last four years, was holding her hand and her heart was thudding in her chest as though it was strapped to the front of the Hogwarts Express.

They finally found themselves in front of the Shrieking Shack. James checked to make sure nobody else was around before silently unlocking the door. Lily walked in after him, lingering in the entryway as she traced her fingers over the long scratches in the wall. It was bare of any loose furniture or personal touches, but he moved around it like it was home. She knew what the shack meant. The gesture of coming here seemed momentous. James reappeared with a small picnic basket, unaware of the change in her mood.

“The shack isn’t so bad during the day, for all that it’s supposedly haunted--”

“I know, James.”

They stared at one another.

“You know…”

“I… Yes.”

They continued staring. A full stampede of emotions were crossing James’s face. Lily wasn’t sure her face wasn’t doing the same.

She finally spoke again. “Do you have a blanket?”

A pause. “Yes, actually.”

“We should set it down.”

James nodded and pulled the blanket from the basket, taking a second to collect himself. As he was smoothing down the corners, he looked up at her and asked, “What exactly is it that you think you know?”

“I don’t think I know, I know that I know. About Remus. He told me. Well, he didn’t tell me like that. I had my suspicions and asked him late last year and he told me the whole story. It made some amount of sense.” Lily loosened the scarf around her neck and sat down on the blanket, gesturing for James to join her.

“He’s never hurt anyone since he’s been here,” James said quickly, joining her. “Dumbledore wouldn’t have let him stay if he could hurt people.”

“I know. I know he’d never want to,” Lily said. "I love Remus, he’s a very good person, and that hasn’t changed for me. I’m not scared of him. If anything, it just seems terribly lonely, him having to go through that alone every month.”

James looked up from his shoes to Lily’s face. “That idiot.” When Lily looked at his expression, he smiled, the relief evident on his face. “He doesn’t go through it alone. He hasn’t since fifth year. Sirius and Peter and I, we all go with him.”

Her stomach dropped. “What--”

“We come here with him.”

“He mentioned the shack but how do--”

“We’re Animagi.”

She was stunned into silence. Despite the gravity of the situation, James couldn’t quite look contrite enough to cover his pride in his accomplishments. The worst part was that within the horror and worry and confusion, she felt proud. Her already confused emotions were flying into a full-fledged storm. He rustled in the basket for something and she quickly brushed away the tear that had slipped out.

“We’re unregistered, obviously. Dumbledore absolutely doesn’t know, though Minnie might. She hasn’t said anything if she does. And nobody can know,” he added, handing her a thermos of tea. “I’ve been thinking about it-- I thought at one point that we could wait until we were of age and then we could register and pretend we hadn’t done it before, but now I think it might be safer if nobody knows.”

“What do you change into?” She asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Same as my patronus, a stag,” James said, unscrewing the cap on her thermos for her. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave it to the others to tell you what they are, if they want to.”

“Right, of course.” Lily sipped the tea. It was just as she liked it, which was both comforting and upsetting. The tears started falling faster. James had been so much more for years than she had even thought to be. Everything was happening all at once-- when had everyone suddenly grown up? How did the world get to this point? And why did she feel like she was falling behind and so unprepared?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you--” James said, wiping her tears away.

The tender gesture made her cry harder. “It’s nothing, I’m fine. The tea is just really good.”

James paused to look at her with such a look of teen male confusion that she laughed just long enough to stop crying.

“I thought you needed to know. I’ll be going to help him every month and you’ll need to manage all the Head Girl stuff on your own sometimes,” he explained. After a moment, he added, “I’ve got pumpkin pasties and some cucumber sandwiches from the kitchens, if you’d like.”

They distributed the sandwiches between them, eating slowly as their arms occasionally touched. Lily stewed in her feelings and her thoughts before finally speaking again.

“James, I lied. Earlier.” She could feel him tense, so she continued quickly. “I am scared. I know Remus and I trust him, but I also know what a werewolf can do. I’m… I’m scared of what could happen, even if we’re doing everything we can to keep it from happening. And I’m scared of what could happen to him if people find out about him.”

Lily was aware that she was rambling but she couldn’t seem to stop the words tumbling out of her.

“I know that Severus followed him to find out and nearly got hurt because of it. He tried to tell me about it, but I refused to listen. And you must have done something too, because he treats you differently now. I can tell. He hates you so much more, but he won’t pick fights with you, and the only thing he hates more than you is being in someone’s debt. He’d be telling anyone who’d listen if you had hurt him, but you didn’t. You helped him or saved him, and I was so awful to you after that. I didn’t even see it until this year but I was so unfair to you last year. You changed. And you’re the same, and you were good all along, and I never saw it until you changed.”

Silence, again, but tense this time. Lily picked herself up abruptly, face red. She tugged on her scarf, mumbling a hurried apology, trying to find the fastest way to run back to the castle and never talk to James Potter again. Maybe she could hide in Hogsmeade, cut her hair, and glamor her face unrecognizable. Dumbledore would understand, surely.

She nearly made it to the door when James grabbed her hand. She spun around and he was towering over her, looking down with his deep brown eyes and his wild hair and his ridiculous cheekbones under light brown skin, and she hated how much understanding was in his expression.

“Lily,” he whispered, his face far too close, his expression far too vulnerable. Her chest hurt.

She lifted her chin, tilted her head so that she could brush her lips against him. James was solid and tense, holding himself so still that she had to struggle to feel him breathing. She ghosted a kiss along his jaw and one over his cheek. She took hold of the lapels of his jacket and dared to touch her lips to his, so softly that she was only sure it had happened by his reaction. She did it again, longer and closer this time, felt her head spin and her stomach drop as he pressed into the kiss as well.

“James…” Their foreheads were touching. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him, feel the miniscule spaces between them as he trapped her against the wall. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want or where this is going to go...”

“This right now. Do you want this?”

“...Yes.”

He was on her in an instant, pressing her against the wall, one hand holding her waist in a crushing grip and the other holding her head as he kissed her senseless. It took a couple of clumsy moments to get used to the new position before they started to learn. Lily wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, reveling in his attentions. He wasn’t artful or confident, but he kissed her like a desperate prayer, too honest and open to deny its sincerity. She slipped her fingers through his hair, tugging gently as she returned his kisses with all of the enthusiasm she could muster.

When he finally pulled away, panting slightly, Lily tightened her grip and buried her face in his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as tight as he could. She could feel his heart racing as fast as hers, could feel him trembling ever so slightly as he held her, willing her to stay in that moment forever.

“Fuck, Lily,” he sighed, his hands sliding over her back as he hugged her tighter. Her name on his lips was a dangerous combination, if only because her heart was leaping for the chance to hear it again.

“I told you,” she said softly, still hiding her face, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Or what I want. But I think… I think you’re the one I want to figure it out with.”

#jily #jilytober #jily fanfiction #jilytober 2019 #jily fanfic #October 29th

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up-sideand-down · 5 years

Note

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

It’s more than a snippet...but I’ve been working on this since Summer (;__;)

Zelda brushed her hands on her pants as she looked eastward. If she concentrated hard enough…she could make out the crooked spires in the distance. She’d had the dream again. Walking along a stone hallway and being between two windows. One looked out towards the very cliff she had climbed. The other looked between the two towers, standing tall and straight as soldiers.

She’d begged for any stories about those towers. They’d been crooked for as long as she could remember and were slowly falling more and more as the years passed. That and there wasn’t much to tell…despite the dreams saying there had to be more.

“There was a castle there,” her mother said, looking out over Gerudo Town, “Then came a calamity…and everyone inside died.” She knew her mother was imagining the same thing happening here, to their town, when she shuddered. Zelda never could explain how she knew that.

But things had changed. The Hylians didn’t have a castle anymore. Instead they seemed fairly content with their villages. The Rito had theirs, the Gorons had theirs, and now the Gerudo just stayed in their desert when not looking for husbands. That was what made Zelda sigh. Sometimes it seemed she really only had 2 options in life: Stay in the desert…or find a husband. Neither option mentioned her going on some sort of adventure or building something she doodled in her journal. Her mother said it was a diary, but to Zelda it was a journal, a place to draw out the machines she could see in her mind.

Neither option offered an explanation as to why she had very vivid dreams about walking around in a castle that had been demolished centuries ago.

But this is as far as she could let herself go. To a cliff at the edge of the desert where she could just barely see that window she looked out of in her dreams.

Zelda only felt a little guilty as she snuck out of the back of Gerudo town with a wild Sandseal. No one really was around this area save for one guard…and she had no desire for the lessons of the day. She could already hear the lecture for that evening in her mind.

You’re next in line to be chief, her mother would say, you can’t go running off to caves when you’re Gerudo chief! Zelda hated that argument, mostly because she was too terrified to admit she didn’t want to be Gerudo Chief. She would never measure up to her mother. She saw things in too much black and white while her mother always saw everything. When Zelda looked over Gerudo Town, over the city that her mother built…she only saw the ruin she was going to run it into.

The Sandseal seemed amicable enough to towing her about. She kept her balance as she pulled out her map of the desert. The roaming sandstorms limited her options, but thought she had figured out the signs if they were going to form at all. If she was right, then she should be able to explore the boneyard today. She steered carefully, her eyes on the clouds waiting for them to change and swallow her up. They never did. She sailed onwards. Rib bones taller than the city walls started to loom over her. She knew it was time to let go when she saw more seals tanning in the sand. Her own moved over to join then, snorting ever so happily.

She craned her head up to look at the skeleton she was inside of…then turned. It was just a speck now…but she knew what that was. That was a person riding a sandseal coming her way. She frowned. Probably Teema coming after her. She could take care of herself. Baria didn’t have to send her mother’s bodyguard after her. She turned back, determined to make the most of today.

She jogged towards the head, unable to make herself stop from looking behind her. Then she slowed and squinted. She pulled out the telescope she made last week…and looked.

That was not Teema…or Baria…that was a voe.

She ran now. If she was alone she would have spent more time in awe at the giant plant she found in the middle of this desert, but for now it made a good hiding spot. She heard the seal slow and stop. She heard footsteps in the sand. She peered around the edge.

He was certainly unlike any voe she’d seen hanging around the town. Not all bound up head to toe. He even had his face covered in a light colored scarf. That was the only light thing about his outfit. The rest was a dark blue, a faded red crying eye on his chest.

She’d seen that symbol in a book. It was the Sheikah sign. They were a tribe who lived way out east even more east than the castle ruins. Why in Hylia’s Sweet Graces was he here. He seemed to be looking for something. For her maybe? To her horror he approached the plant. Then he…knocked?

“Boy…sweet boy…” a voice echoed inside, “I was once the Great Fairy Tera…”

Zelda almost started. She’d read that name. She’d heard of the Great Fairies, that people came from far and wide to visit them. Perhaps the storms made people stop visiting Tera.

“Just 1,000 rupees,” she continued, “that’s all I need. I can help you boy.” she couldn’t hear what he said.

“Oh…I see…thank you for trying.” Zelda heard the footsteps retreat. Then she heard a seal shout and take off. She peered out again, he was leaving. She waited until he was a speck again before coming back out. She looked at the front of the plant again. There certainly were some faded mushrooms that looked kind of like steps. Perhaps this was a fairy spring. She stepped up herself and knocked.

“I have 1,000 rupees,” she said. A hand suddenly emerged, almost as big as she was.

“Give it here quick!” A fleeting thought that this might be dangerous crossed Zelda’s mind…but she handed over the money.

#i say #WIP #Legend of Zelda #Zelda #Gerudo!Zelda #Link #Sheikah!Link #Great Fairy Tera #Gerudo Desert #bamfcoyotetango

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