#don’t ask me about the worms in the mud I just had to keep this as cursed as possible for comedy reasons

[lillylvjy]

Oh simple thing (where have you gone)

A/n: there’s nothing really to say except it’s rushed…. But it’s siren Wilbur! Yay! One of many!

Warning: angst to fluff (maybe), swearing, crying, kissing, all the cute stuff, mentions of injuries.

Wilbur’s always had your back. No matter what happened.

When techno was picking on you. Right by your side in seconds, telling him to shut up. When Tommy first met you and tried to rizz you up. He pulled Tommy away from you and told him you were “off limits”. That made you blush.

You think that’s when it all started.

You avoiding eye contact with him. You getting red whenever your hands would touch. Or just being around Wilbur in his Siren outfit, now that was a weakness. It also didn’t help how you were in his ear all the time while he fought dream or who ever he decided to that day and you could hear all his grunts and groans.

But you couldn’t like you best friend right? That’s just breaking every rule in the books ever! So you continued to keep it bottled up until one day, everything went very, very wrong.

Apparently, Wil- Siren was out numbered. Dream, 404, and Flame were all there. And yet, Sirens dumbass thought it was a good idea to fight them. You know, rough them up a bit! Alone.

It wasn’t until Ranboo and Tommy both teleported to your apartment, Siren in Ranboo’s arms, that you realized what the fuck was happening.

“What the fuck happened?!” You asked frantically, as they set Si- no this was Wilbur- down on your couch.

“Fucker decided to fight dream, 404, and flame alone. Found him laying on the concrete floor. He’s barely breathing but I need to try and heal him.” Tommy says, as he puts his hands on Wilbur chest. His hands start flowing that familiar orange-yellow color. You saw Wilbur visibly relax, but only a little.

Tommy’s been going on and off for about 10 minutes and nothings working. Why is nothing working?! He has to survive! I didn’t get to say anything to him yet!

“Tommy, why is nothing happening?” You asked, tears falling down your face as you watched Tommy give up.

Tommy shrugged. “I think he’s giving up himself. I think he excepted it.” He said, tearing up as well.

Bullshit! Wilbur doesn’t give up. I know that!

“Bullshit, Wilbur, listen to me.” You said as you grabbed his hand. “You don’t get to just give up on me now. There’s so many things you haven’t done yet. So many things I haven’t done yet! I am not losing my best friend right now. Not ever!” You said looking at his face, taking off his mask. ‘Stupid thing. Hides his beautiful eyes.’

“Remember when we were 6 and you charmspoke, that one kid…. Jason! You charmspoke him to eat mud and worms just because he was picking on me? That’s how we met and became friends. And my favorite. You were seventeen, stupid and courageous, and you decided to go to the goddamn Netherlands to take out the prime minister! You charmspoke so many people, it was ridiculous!” You laughed while looking at his face to show any sign of life. None.

“I also remember the time you told Tommy I was off limits. I think that’s when it all happened. I just brushed it off and act like you were just being a friend and being protective. But I don’t want to brush it off anymore wil! The glances, the hand brushes, everything! I love you. So fucking much, and if you leave me I-“ you’re cut off by your own sob. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself. You are my glue. You are my home Wilbur.” At this point you’re full on sobbing. Grasping his hand so tightly so he wouldn’t slip away from you.

“Please, I- I don’t know what i’d do without you.” You sobbed. You lied your head on his chest and cried. Tommy and Ranboo left the room to give you some privacy and to give them space to cry too.

As you kept your head down, you felt a hand go in your hair and rub your head. You thought his was Tommy trying to comfort you. “Tommy go away!” You yelled at the hand.

“Not Tommy love.” You heard a rough and strangled voice say. Your head shot up and looked at Wilbur. He had a smile on his face as he looked at you.

You quickly jumped up and hugged Wilbur the best you could. As you did, he let out a groan at the sudden weight.

“I- what?! I thought I lost you!” You sobbed into his neck.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily love. Especially when my crush since I was 12 admits they like me back.” He said with a smirk. You shot up and looked at him wide eyed.

“12?! Wilbur! Why didn’t you tell me you asshole! Also you heard all of that?!” You asked him, hitting his shoulder.

He laughed at your expression. “Yes love. I heard everything. Tommy could have stopped healing me 2 minutes in. I just didn’t want to move. “He laughed. “Love, the only reason I didn’t tell you earlier was because of the shit I do. I’m the most wanted villian love. I’m goddamn siren! I could be dead or in lesion any day, and I didn’t want you to go through the pain if loosing me. And also I thought you didn’t like me because I was too “nerdy”” He air quoted. You laughed and rubbed his cheek.

“Villian or not, Wilbur. I will love you anyway. I’d rather love you when your alive then regret not doing anything when your dead.” You both laughed. “I love you Wil. Don’t ever do that stupid shit ever again, ok?”

He rolled his eyes. “I promise love. I love you too.” He said looking at your lips.

“Are you going to kiss me or sit there like a lost puppy?” You asked, smiling at him.

Wilbur rolled his eyes, as he cupped your cheek and pulled your lips down onto his. The kiss was slow and deep, yet full of so much love and longing.

You both pulled away, panting. You smiled at each other and rested your foreheads together. “I love you darling. To the end of the universe and back.” He said kissing your nose.

“Ewww. How cheesy!” You said making a face at Wilbur. All he did was jab at your side as you yelped. “I’m just joking my love. I love you more Wilbur. You are my person.” You’d aid as you brought him back into a kiss.

My person. My home.

“Ok, are you guys done yet?” Ranboo asked as Tommy fake gagged at the both of you.

Taglist: @deadphantomsociety (if you want to be added, send me a message loves❤️)

[determinedwriter]

My Little Hawk (Tony Stark x Daughter OC)

Title from Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens

Content Warnings: sickness, seizure, vomiting, hospital stay, medical procedures

Tony raises Ro from birth AU

•

Tony

Ro has been under the weather lately. It started with just mild headaches, but they’re getting worse. She tells me she’s been getting chills. I checked her temperature and she has a fever, so I assume it’s just a cold, maybe the flu.

I put her down for bed not too long ago and now I’m working on a car and doing some tune ups when I hear little footsteps enter the garage.

“Do I hear a little gremlin?” I tease, coming out from under the car. “What are you doing up?”

She frowns, looking pale and clammy. “I don’ feel good, Daddy…”

“Oh baby, let’s get you more medicine.” I coo.

“I don’t like it. It’s icky.” She complains.

I card my fingers through her hair and kneel in front of her. “I know, mini. But you have to take it so you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t feel better yet…” Ro pouts. “When is it gonna work?”

I sigh. “Soon. Come on, let’s go back to bed. I have something else that might help you feel better too.”

I take out a project I’ve been working on, looking at the glow in the dark aromatherapy and voice commanded stuffed bear with Jarvis installed to help monitor her breathing and heartbeat while she sleeps to keep my mind at ease.

She smiles weakly when she sees it, hugging it to her chest. “Th…th…tank you, Daddy.”

Ro doesn’t quite have her th sounds down yet, still having a baby voice. I’m gonna hate when it goes away. She’s growing up too fast.

Rubbing her eyes, Ro sways on her feet. “Mmm…feel sick…”

I hate seeing her like this. It breaks the heart I didn’t think I had. “I know. I know, hon. It’ll be better soon. I promise.”

She suddenly vomits all over the bear and the front of her ninja turtle pajamas, immediately bursting into tears. “I’m s-sorry, Daddy!”

I put the bear aside and scoop her up in my arms. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t be sorry.”

“I ruined it…” She sniffles, pointing at the bear.

“I’ll fix it.” I reply. “Daddy fixes things, remember?”

Ro nods. “Uh huh…I ‘member…”

I kiss her head. “Let’s get you into a nice bubble bath, huh? And fresh pjs.”

She snuggles into me, probably staining my shirt with vomit, but I don’t care. Some things are more important than the grossness that comes with parenthood. Raising a six year old tends to cross into gross territory often. Especially when your six year old likes to make mud pies and play with worms.

And eat spaghetti with her hands. It took forever to get her to use a fork. It wasn’t even that she didn’t know how. It was that she didn’t want to.

I love that kid to death.

She barely has any energy in the bathtub, barely able to sit up straight while I gently scrub her body, trying to relax her by massaging her scalp with shampoo and conditioner, washing it out with warm water and brushing her hair softly.

Her eyes droop and close, fighting to stay awake. I quickly take her out of the bath and help her dry off, dressing her in a pink nightgown with little white polka dots on it.

I’m barely able to brush her teeth due to her fatigue, but I manage, carrying her to bed and taking her temperature.

It’s gotten higher. I thought the medicine would’ve helped by now. “Get some sleep, bambina.”

“Can you hum Nonna’s song?” She asks with a yawn.

I grin. “Yeah, of course I can.”

Anything for you, Ro.

She falls asleep while I hum the song my mother used to hum to me. I think it’s something she made up. I never heard any words, just the humming and vocalizing. It always put me right to sleep.

I’d honestly forgotten all about it up until Ro was born. Her birth reminded me of my own childhood and brought the song out of me as I held her for the very first time, tiny hand wrapped around my finger, head against my chest, content and quiet.

That’s when I knew she was my girl.

She wakes up in tears again, fever not going down. Her head hurts and she’s complaining of a stiff neck. Poor baby.

I’m not able to give her more medicine so I just put a cold cloth over her head and try to cool her down. She’s whimpering and shivering in my arms as I cuddle her in her little twin bed.

I drift off once she starts to sleep, waking up maybe a few hours later to see her shaking, back turned to me.

“Oh baby, it’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll visit the doctor tomorrow morning, alright? I’ve got you. Don’t you worry, Ro.” I coo.

I gently flip her towards me so I can see her face, a chill running down my spine when I realize her eyes are half closed, vomit on her lips as she convulses. She’s not shivering, she’s seizing.

“Oh God.” I gasp. “Okay…okay, it’s okay. Jarvis, is this what I think it is?”

“It appears that the young miss is having a seizure. I recommend you get her medical attention as soon as possible.” He replies.

My stomach lurches. “Do I move her?”

“Lay her on her side and wait for the seizure to end.” Jarvis instructs me.

Watching her continue to convulse is hell. She’s so tiny and pale and vulnerable. She shouldn’t be going through this. What is wrong with my kid?

Once the seizure ends, I hurriedly carry her to the car and drive right to the hospital where they take her in right away and start to do tests.

Ro comes to, blinking confusedly at her surroundings. “Daddy?”

“I’m right here, baby.” I reassure her. “You’re safe.”

“Where are we?” She asks.

“The hospital. But you’re okay. The doctors are gonna figure out how to help you, sweetheart.” I tell her.

Ro frowns. “I thought the medicine was gonna make it better. You promised…”

My heart sinks. “I know, bambina. I know…I’m so sorry. I thought it would. I’m sure the doctors will find out what’s wrong and give you brand new medicine. Then you’ll be good as new.”

She nods sadly. “Okay, Daddy…”

It both warms and breaks my heart that she trusts me so wholeheartedly. I will let her down. I already have. I hate to break that trust when she’s so purely good and innocent and young.

But I ruin relationships. I self-destruct and hurt the people around me. It’s inevitable. I don’t know why I thought it would be different with Ro. Why I thought keeping her was a good idea.

I love her more than anything in the world, but I’d give anything for her to be safe, even if that means I never see her again.

But in my heart, I know I’ll never leave her. Part of it is selfishness. I don’t ever want to live without her because of how much I love her. She’s my kid. My little girl.

But that love may destroy her.

The doctors tell me they have to do a spinal tap after they do some blood work, not satisfied with the results and needing more diagnostic tests.

They mention a brain MRI. God, how serious is this?

I hold Ro while they stick the large needle in her back, causing her to shriek and cry. “D-Daddy! Daddy, it hurts!”

Clinging to her and fighting back tears, I manage to speak without breaking apart, though my voice wavers. “I know. I know. I know it does, bambina. God, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It’s all gonna be better soon. I got you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you tons, honey. I love you so much.”

Things eventually calm down once the spinal tap is finished, but they go ahead with the MRI, taking her into a room with the large machine.

The thing looks like it swallows her once she’s inside, the technicians telling her to stay still multiple times because she won’t stop squirming in fear at the sound of the machine whirring.

I speak into the mic when their instructions don’t seem to work, hoping my voice will calm her. “Baby, you have to stay still. I know it’s scary but I promise it’s okay. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Daddy’s still here. It’s almost done. Just keep still and it’ll be over before you know it and I’ll give you a big hug.”

She does as I say, finally allowing the technicians to get a clear reading. Once she’s out of the machine, I go to give her a hug but am stopped by a doctor.

“Sir, I’m sorry but you need to keep your distance. We’ll give you gloves and a mask to wear but you have to be careful. We suspect it’s fungal meningitis and it is highly contagious and dangerous.” He explains.

Ro looks at me fearfully, making a face like she’s about to cry. “I don’t care. I don’t. I need to hug my kid. I need to hold my baby.”

“Sir-“

“No. No, I have to. I can’t let her do this alone.” I interrupt, hoisting my daughter up in my arms and carrying her back to the hospital room, laying her on the bed.

I do wear the mask and gloves, which seems to spook her a bit. “Daddy, you look like a scary doctor…”

“Why a scary one? I’m Dr. Stark. I’m a good doctor.” I reply.

“The mask covers your beard.” She explains. “It doesn’t look okay.”

“So you’re saying I should never shave it off?” I ask.

Ro shakes her head. “Nuh uh. That’s weird.”

I smile. “Okay then, baby. I’ll keep the beard. But u do have to keep the mask and gloves on too.”

“Why?” She questions. Such a curious kid. It’s a blessing and a curse.

“Because Daddy could get sick. We don’t want that.” I say. “We’ve gotta focus on getting you better.”

She nods. “Okay…”

“Love you tons.” I tell her.

“Love you tons.” She replies wearily.

Ro falls asleep for a bit while we wait for results, waking up a bit scared. “Daddy, where are we?”

“The hospital, baby.”

“W-Why?” She cries.

“You’re sick. But you’re gonna get better. I promise.” I reply.

“Why do you look scary? I-I don’t like it…I don’t like it…” Ro whines.

Why has she forgotten about the mask? Why can’t she remember where she is and why she’s here? It scares the hell out of me.

The doctor soon comes back and confirms that it’s fungal meningitis, explaining that they will give her an antifungal medication through an IV and that she should recover.

Thank God.

I’m still not at ease, but it’s a little weight off of my shoulders. I’m never at ease. Not after having a kid. I wasn’t expecting that when I first became her dad. The constant worry.

But my brain seems to hate me and decides to come up with ways that she could die or get seriously hurt. Wild scenarios that leave her in the worst of situations.

That feeling was particularly strong when she was an infant. I worried she’d get SIDS. That she’d smother herself or suddenly stop breathing.

Once she was crawling, I worried about her sticking her tiny fingers into electrical sockets or choking on some small pieces of something I forgot to put away.

And when she started to walk, I was scared that she’d bang her head on sharp corners or fall down. That she’d get tall enough to open cabinets full of hazardous materials.

Other than a few bruises and the occasional fall, I’ve done pretty alright so far. So this whole fungal infection thing has me feeling anxious and guilty.

How did she get something like this? Is it something I did? Something I could have prevented?

The doctors say it’s rare, so I’m left wondering how my six year old kid managed to get it.

After a few days on the medication and staying in the hospital, Ro is showing serious improvement and is allowed to go home, the infection running its course.

I don’t end up getting it even with my close proximity to Ro, refusing to leave her side. I’m pretty lucky. I wish it happened to me and not her though.

Once she’s all better and fully rested, I give her her now clean stuffed bear and allow her to eat ice cream for breakfast while we have a Barbie movie marathon. I didn’t want to give her these things while she was sick for fear of making her feel worse. Plus, I haven’t had time to fix the bear.

And by fix, I mean clean the vomit out of its fur.

Those Barbie movies are cheesy and annoying, but she absolutely loves them. I can’t really complain when I see the look of excitement and wonder in her eyes as she watches the screen.

Hugging the bear to her chest, Ro falls asleep on the couch as the credits roll on the fourth movie of the day.

I drape a blanket over her and kiss her head. “Goodnight, sweet pea.”

Despite all of my faults and fears of destroying her, I know I could never leave her side.

Plus, we’re gonna be okay. Me and Ro against the world. Nothing will stop me from being her dad. From raising her and watching her grow into the woman she’ll become one day.

I feel it in my bones.

Just don’t grow up too fast, baby girl.

END

Thank you for reading! Please let me know if you’d like more like this!

[seagull-scribbles]

Oh worm?

Spent this summer talking with @authorleaandres about designing this Worm OC, with cursed prompts such as “perpetually expressionless” and “stapled on limbs”

[rubysunnday]

it’s a bugs life | bridgerton!sis

A/N: I. AM. BACK, BITCHES!!!

Gregory Bridgerton had a slight obsession with animals and bugs. He loved the bugs he found in the garden of Bridgerton house, often collecting the caterpillars and spiders to put in shoeboxes that then lived in his room. Most of his family refused to go into his room when there were bugs within its walls - Gregory had a habit of forgetting to close the doors or lids of whatever receptacle he’d put the bugs in and they often escaped for freedom, ending up in, normally, Daphne’s room - but Colin and Y/N were the two exceptions.

Colin, thanks to his numerous travels, had a soft spot for animals and bugs, like Gregory, and was the main sibling who helped Gregory in capturing and looking after the bugs they found in the garden.

Y/N didn’t mind bugs. She did, however, hate spiders and refused to be in the same room as one - there was an infamous incident a few years back where she’d fallen down the stairs in a desperate attempt to escape a spider, narrowly avoiding smacking her head on the floor thanks to Anthony’s diving catch.

Colin and Y/N’s unfazed nature towards bugs meant that Gregory favoured them both when he need help capturing a bug or animal. Y/N had been roped in to numerous muddy and rainy escapades to collect frogs or worms - she’d ruined many dresses much to her mother’s annoyance - but she secretly enjoyed getting dirty and cold and being able to see Gregory admire the bug in his room and name it something ridiculous. 

The funniest bug incident had involved Anthony, Benedict and a baby bird.

 It’d been a particularly stormy day and Anthony had forbidden Gregory from even thinking of going outside to collect any type of bug. Anthony had sat down in his chair with a satisfied smile, knowing that his little brother wasn’t going to come back in covered in mud with a dozen new bugs.

Naturally Gregory hadn’t listened.

Y/N had been quietly reading a book in the main room when she’d noticed her youngest brother sneak down the stairs, several shoeboxes in hand. She looked over at Anthony, who was having a passionate ‘discussion’ (”It’s not an argument, Y/N,” Anthony said, whilst glaring daggers at Colin, “it’s a discussion”.) with Colin about why he couldn’t just flounce off to Wales for the week, and shut her book, quietly sneaking out the second door and following after Gregory.

“Gregory,” Y/N hissed as she caught him struggling to unlock the back door in the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

Gregory turned around and batted his eyes, looking like an angelic, innocent angel and not a mad, bug obsessed annoying human. “There’s a frog.”

“You have a frog,” Y/N replied, crossing her arms. “Why do you need this one?”

Gregory paused. “Well, there isn’t actually a frog,” he tried again. “I was looking out the window and spotted this baby bird on the ground, hiding under a bush.”

“Bird’s like the rain, Gregory,” Y/N reminded him, pushing herself up onto the counter near the door. “Besides, its mum will probably come back soon.”

“I don’t think it will,” Gregory said, leaning in to Y/N as if he was about to whisper a huge secret. “Its wing looks broken and I saw a fox.”

Y/N sighed and closed her eyes. She needed to not be so easily roped into things. She needed to build up a wall that couldn’t be broken and that no one could -

“Fine,” she said, jumping off the counter and grabbing the gardener’s jacket from the hook by the door. She pulled it on, buttoning it up as high as it would go and pulled the hood up. “Fine, come on.”

The wind ripped the door out of Y/N’s hand and it slammed against the wall. She ushered Gregory out the house and then forced the door shut, pulling it against the wind. Gregory quickly made a beeline to a bush near the side gate, kneeling down in the wet, muddy grass and setting his shoebox underneath the bush.

Y/N, knowing her dress was already ruined by this point, knelt down next to him, feeling the mud seeping through the material of her dress. The hood of the jacket had been blown down and her hair was soaking wet and falling out of it’s intricate styling.

Underneath the bush, cheeping nervously at them, was a tiny, baby bird. It’s left wing was hanging down slightly and looked to be at an awkward angle. Y/N reached her hands out and gently held out a finger for the bird to inspect. It hopped back a few steps, nervous of the newcomer in front of it. After a moment it hopped forward and cheeped, nudging Y/N’s finger.

Y/N took that as a sign and cupped her hands together, gently scooping the bird up and placing it in the shoebox which Gregory was holding out for her.

“Gregory!” 

Gregory swung around, falling on to his bum, at the sudden roar of his name. Anthony was marching towards them, struggling to keep his rain jacket on, holding the hood over his head as he glared at Gregory.

“I told you not to come outside!” Anthony yelled, pointing a threatening finger at Gregory.

Gregory looked down at the ground. “But -”

“No, there is no excuse -” Anthony trailed off as Y/N turned around, cradling the shoebox against her and protecting it from the worst of the rain. “Y/N.”

She gave him a wince of a smile. “Hello.”

Anthony looked like he might explode. “Inside, now.” He pointed a finger to the door but didn’t look away from his rebellious siblings. “Now.”

Gregory quickly stood up and ran inside, slipping on the step as he took the corner too fast. Y/N slowly stood up, shivering as the rain and wind began to get colder.

“Y/N, what were you thinking?!” Anthony yelled as she stepped around a puddle and approached him. “Out of all people -”

Anthony’s rant was cut off again as the biggest clap of thunder Y/N had heard in years went off directly over their heads. Y/N flinched and slipped on the grass, reaching an arm out to Anthony, refusing to let go of the shoe box.

Anthony grabbed her arm with one hand and wrapped the other around her waist, catching her before she fell into the mud. As soon as Y/N regained her footing, he marched her inside, pushing her inside the door and then slamming the door shut behind them.

Benedict was drying Gregory off with a towel and looked up as Anthony slammed the door. He let out a snort of laughter at his bedraggled brother and quickly looked away at Anthony’s scathing glare, busying himself with drying Gregory’s hair.

“What were you two thinking?” Anthony yelled, throwing his hands up. 

Y/N turned away from Anthony, only half listening. She set the shoebox on the counter and gently lifted the lid. 

“Y/N, are you even listening to me?” Anthony snapped. He went to continue his rant but was cut off by a quiet cheep. Anthony closed his eyes. “Please tell me that wasn’t a bird.”

“It wasn’t a bird,” Y/N and Gregory replied in unison, both giving the other a knowing smirk as Anthony let out a long, despairing sigh that only a big brother, who’d been putting up with his siblings for too long, could make.

Y/N picked the box up, turning around and showing her older brothers the tiny bird. “Gregory found it. It’s injured. I couldn’t leave it out there to be eaten!” Y/N exclaimed. She lowered her voice, nodding her head at Gregory. “He was going anyway, Anthony.”

Anthony took a step forward and looked down at the baby bird in the box. The bird cheeped as it noticed Anthony and hopped into a corner, burying itself in the moss.

Anthony sighed again. He looked over at Benedict, who had an arm around Gregory, the younger Bridgerton clinging to his side as he shivered.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Benedict said, shrugging. “We can get the gardener to look at it tomorrow morning.”

Anthony looked like he wanted to murder all three of his siblings. “Fine. Y/N get changed.”

And with that, Anthony took the shoe box containing the baby bird and disappeared from the kitchen.

“Did he just... did he just take the bird with him?” Y/N asked, staring after her brother with a frown.

Benedict chuckled, letting go of Gregory and wrapping a towel around Y/N’s shoulders. “He has a soft spot for animals, really,” he replied, rubbing her arms with the towel as she shivered. “Now, go get changed before you get ill.”

The baby bird was soon named ‘Anthony’ in honour of the eldest Bridgerton who had subconsciously adopted it for the few weeks it spent in his room as its wing healed. 

There had been numerous other bug incidents over the years. Y/N had fallen out of a tree trying to rescue a cat, Colin had been biting by an angry swan who’d refused to be rescued from the net it’d swam into and Gregory had broken his wrist as he chased away a fox trying to eat the chickens he’d insisted on Anthony getting for Audrey Hall.

The bug incidents tend to stay at home, however. Gregory rarely tried to collect or rescue animals or bugs from any of the garden parties of receptions he was allowed to attend - probably because he was scared of getting into trouble with the hosts.

The night of Lady Danbury’s birthday ball, however, was apparently an exception to this rule.

Y/N smiled and nodded as she listened to a lord (she had no idea what his name was) talk about politics. Colin was standing next to her and was nudging her every so often when he noticed her attention span wandering to other, more interesting things - even the chandeliers were more exciting to listen to.

Someone ran into Y/N from behind and she stumbled forward, almost dropping her glass of champagne. Colin grabbed her elbow, catching her with one hand as she turned to see who’d ran into her.

“Gregory, what -”

“Help me,” Gregory said, grabbing Y/N’s hand and dragging her away from the group she’d been talking to.

Y/N barely managed to shove her glass into Colin’s hand as Gregory dragged her through the ballroom and onto the terrace outside.

“Gregory, that was actually really rude,” Y/N said as he let go of her hand and stopped running. She looked at him and frowned, noting his panicked expression. “What’s wrong?”

“A duck is chasing me,” Gregory replied, his little face looking very serious. “It’s following me around and keeps... quacking.”

Y/N snorted. 

“It is not funny!”

“Oh, it is,” Y/N replied. “Why is this duck chasing you, then, brother?” 

Gregory squirmed and Y/N’s shoulders slumped. Whenever Gregory squirmed she knew that whatever he was going to say was going to be ridiculous or stupid. There’d been a time when he’d accidentally toppled a bookshelf onto her - long story - and he’d lied to their mother and Anthony about how it had happened. But one glare (well, attempt at a glare, Y/N was on the verge of passing out and was clinging on to Colin for dear life) from Y/N had him squirming and he’d told the truth.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Gregory Bridgerton.”

Gregory reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a baby duck.

Y/N had no other word other than, “Oh.”

“It was stuck on the steps so I picked it up to help it down and then the mother duck started flapping her wings and quacking and then ran at me and I panicked and ran away,” Gregory replied, barely stopping for breath. 

Y/N let out a soft sigh and crouched down until she was the same height as Gregory. “Pass it here.”

Gregory carefully handed her the fluffy, chirping duckling. Y/N let it sit in her palm and stroked its head with her little finger. 

“Where did you find it?” She asked quietly, looking up at Gregory.

He pointed to the door the other side of the ballroom. “The pond over there.”

“Come on, let’s go put it back,” Y/N said, standing up and cradling the duckling in her hands. “It’s mum is probably worried.”

Y/N and Gregory walked back into the ballroom, weaving through the crowds of people.

“Y/N!” 

Y/N closed her eyes as her mother called her. She looked down at Gregory. “I’ll be back, go to the pond,” she said, ushering him off.

She turned around and plastered a smile to her face as her mother, Anthony, Benedict and a very unhappy Eloise approached with Lady Danbury and a man who looked slightly familiar but she couldn’t for the life of her remember why.

“Y/N, dear, this is Mr Williams,” Violet said, gesturing to the man next to her.

“Oh, yes, of course!” Y/N said, remembering that she’d danced with the man last week. “We danced together at Lady Christy’s ball, last week, didn’t we?”

Mr Williams nodded. “We did indeed, Miss Bridgerton. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Mr Williams held out a hand and Y/N suddenly remembered that she was, in fact, holding a duckling in her hands.

“Can you just give me a minute?” She asked. “I’m sorry.” 

She slid past Anthony and her mother, ignoring their confused stares, and quickly walked to the door Gregory was hovering at. She was vaguely aware of the fact her mother was sending Anthony and Benedict after her but the duckling in her hands chirped and she focused on the pond and the fact that she was still holding a duck in her hands.

Gregory led the way down the stairs and halted suddenly. The mother duck and eight other ducklings were at the bottom of the stairs. The mother duck quacked loudly and hissed.

“Alright, it’s ok,” Y/N said softly, slowly walking forward to the mother duck. She knelt down on the last step and lowered her hands to the grass. “Here’s your baby.”

The baby duckling hopped out of Y/N’s hands and quickly waddled over to its mother, chirping happily as it reunited. The mother duck quacked and turned to the pond, the nine ducklings following after it in a line.

“See, she was probably just scared you were going to take her other babies,” Y/N told Gregory, still kneeling in the grass.

“I was just trying to help,” Gregory said softly, looking wistfully at the ducks.

“I know,” Y/N said, ruffling his hair. “But how would you feel if some stranger came and took you away from mother?”

“Scared,” Gregory admitted.

“Exactly. But you did the right thing, Greg. Even if I did have to interrupt mother’s attempt at match-making,” Y/N muttered, glancing behind her at the house. Anthony and Benedict were hovering at the top of the stairs, trying to make it obvious that they clearly weren’t listening but failing impressively.

“Go on,” Y/N said, shoving Gregory back towards the house, “go annoy Hyacinth.”

Gregory smiled and ran up the stairs, pausing for a second to hug Anthony around the legs, surprising the man. Anthony hugged him back and patted his head with a frown.

Y/N stood up, wincing as her legs tingled at the sudden movement. She looked up at her brothers, both of whom were watching her with a great deal of admiration.

“What?” She asked, frowning.

“You’re a good big sister,” Anthony replied, holding out his arm to her.

“I know I am,” Y/N said, taking his arm and smiling as he rolled his eyes. “And you two,” Y/N linked her other arm through Benedict’s, “are amazing big brothers.”

“Colin will be sad he was left out,” Benedict replied.

“Colin stole my cake, he can be jealous for all I care,” Y/N muttered, remembering her cake with a fond sigh.

The obsession with bug’s never did stop for Gregory. When Colin returned from his travels, he would always sit down with Gregory and go through all the drawings and writing’s he’d done on the bugs he’d seen whilst exploring. 

For his fourteenth birthday, Y/N bought her younger brother a book with detailed drawings of every insect known to man. It’d cost her the equivalent of almost her entire dowry but the joy on Gregory’s face had been worth it. And it was on that day that Anthony realised that, maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t done such a bad job of raising his siblings after all.

[poodlejoonas]

expect the unexpected (Matela family)

Parents: Olli/Riina, Aleksi

Kids: The Matela girls (Elina, Elisabet, Isla), Noah Kaunisvesi

Summary: What kind of mischief could four science nerds get into?

Words: 1,264

---

Isla had a genius idea, but she needed a couple helping hands to make it work.

Of all three Matela girls, Isla is the real science nerd. She’s been hungrily consuming every kids’ book about nature, animals, and plants ever since she could read, and her parents are more that happy to foster that natural interest. Riina doesn’t even mind having to constantly clean up a dirty toddler after a romp in the yard, as long as she’s enjoying herself.

Elina and Elisabet, on the other hand, aren’t very big on playing in the mud like Isla. But they love any chance they can get to cause a little chaos with their little sister. After all, they provide the mischief and she provides the willingness to get her hands dirty; it’s all a match made in heaven.

And that brought them to the present day, after Isla finished reading a book on slugs, snails, and worms, all those kinds of creepy crawlies that don’t seem to phase the 5-year-old curious child. It was an overcast spring day in northern Helsinki, a little humid but not so much that it was insufferable. In her book, she learned that slugs and worms like to crawl out of the dirt whenever it rains because the raindrops draw them to the surface. It had just finished raining and was sure to stop for a while, so she decided to test a little theory.

Isla put her book back onto its shelf with the other books that the Matela family collectively keep together and ran across the house looking for her mom. Olli was out for the day, catching lunch with an old friend who came to visit from Oulu. Riina was finishing up a handful of chores while all the girls were busy having fun on their own (Isla was reading, Elina was practicing her new skating routine as much as she could on a normal floor, and Elisabet was trying her hand at songwriting for the first time “to be just like Isä”).

Politely, Isla tugged on Riina’s dress skirt and waited for her to response. “Yes, baby?”

“Äiti, can Noah come over and play?”

“Of course he can. Do you want me to call Aleksi and ask if he wants to come over?”

Isla nodded, her red curls bouncing all over the place, and stood quietly while Riina gave Aleksi a call. Isla could only really hear her mom’s side of the call, but she perked up the moment she said, “Great! We’ll be here waiting for you.”

“You’re the best!” Isla cheered and hugged her. But Riina did explain what Aleksi told her over the phone: Noah was excited to come over and play, but he was non-verbal today and would need to sign. All of the Blind Channel family were taught a few basic sign phrases for Noah, so Riina practiced some with Isla while they waited for Aleksi to bring him over.

After their practice, Isla tracked down her sisters to fill them in on her plan. Although they were busy with other things, they thought it sounded fun and they were willing for a change outside the house.

20 minutes later, they heard a knock on the door and knew who to expect. Aleksi walked in with Noah’s backpack over his shoulder and Noah himself trailing a little behind. Isla came into the living room to greet him and asked if it was okay to give him a hug. When Noah said yes, she opened up her arms to wrap gently around him.

Aleksi smiled. “You should have seen him when I asked if he wanted to come over. I guess the rain got us both a little bummed out today. Anyway, I brought over his snacks if he gets hungry and his headphones if he needs them. If you need anything else, let me know.”

Riina thanked him kindly for bringing Noah over on such a short notice and gave the father-son pair a space for them to say their goodbyes and to let Noah know he’d be back in few hours to pick him up. With the parents out of the way, the kids began to plot together.

“So what are we doing today?” Noah asked, a little slower because he knows his younger cousins are still learning to sign.

Isla thought for a second and then collected her answer. She ran over to grab her book off the shelf and turned to the page about slugs and rain. “Let’s go outside and see if we can find some.”

“Sounds good!”

The four kids ran outside past Riina who was taking the finished laundry into her and Olli’s room to fold and hang up. She just chuckled and shook her head lovingly at their childlike energy.

They split up their “duties” amongst themselves. Elina cleared room on the back patio, Elisabet began collected rocks and leaves, Noah started arranging them in formation on the patio, and Isla was out in the grass with her beach bucket. They all convened back on the patio about 20 minutes later once their “hospital” was ready and they had “patients” to tend to.

“Doctor! Doctor!” Isla shouted. “Lots of hurt patients!”

“Give them to me!” Noah signed, reaching out for the bucket. He plucked them out one by one, not realizing how weird they would feel when he touched them, and attempted to send them to their “rooms.” But it didn’t take long for them to crawl around the circular rock formation and eventually find their ways out.

Elina laughed until she was in tears. “Come baaaaaack!” she begged, all while she couldn’t stop laughing. 

“What’ll we do now??” Elisabet asked, more pitifully than her sisters who were having fun with it.

“We just bring them back!” Isla replied confidently. “I know best!”

While they tried re-collecting their reluctant patients, Olli had just arrived home from lunch with not a clue what he was coming back to. He walked into the living room to find that it was completely empty. “Where are my girls?” he called out in a sing-song voice.

Riina greeted him from the end of the hallway. “Hey, babe! I’m finishing the laundry and the girls are outside. Oh, and Noah’s here, Isla wanted to play with him.”

Olli blew her an air kiss, which she caught, and continued his way outside to see what the kids were up to.

He didn’t even need to step outside to know that it was pure chaos. All he saw were four kids running around, dipping out of view of the back porch windows and then up again to keep running. He quietly opened the door to avoid catching their attention, but he let out a short laugh when he saw what was going on. “Oh my God...” he muttered, trying not to wheeze.

The kids paused just long enough to realize he was standing there. “Isä!” the three girls shouted and ran to him for a hug.

“Heeeeey,” he started, hesitantly. “What’s, uh... all this about?”

Without missing a beat, as if this was a normal thing in their household, Isla began to explain all about the science of slugs she learned in one reading session today. But all Olli could focus on was the pure creativity of these kids. He couldn’t even say anything other than admire their ability to have fun any way they want.

He snapped a picture and sent it to the group chat.

Olli Matela: Nothing in the parenting books prepared me for this.

*several people are typing*

~~~

Inspiration:

[dreamofthe-wild]

pouring out a cold one for your homie

Fandom: Linked Universe Words: 1,176 Characters: Twilight & Warriors, (Wild mentioned) Warnings: Mentions of blood and injury and use of alcohol

If Twilight had a rupee for every time the group somehow got split up after a battle, he’d probably have enough to buy the potions he currently desperately needed. It wasn’t the first time he found himself up shit’s creek without a paddle, but it’s the first time he’s been responsible for the safety and wellbeing of another person while being completely out of medical supplies. Not even a proper bandage was left in his bag. His spare tunic would only last for so long before it would need to be replaced, and they hadn’t been able to wash their clothing in anything other than wild rivers or lakes in who knows how long.

“I got nuthin’,” he sighs as he tosses his bag against the wall of the small outcropping they squatted in, “ya got anythin’?” 

“Not that I know of, you can check,” Warriors answers weakly from his spot on the hard ground. He waves his free hand in the general direction of his bag, that was also tossed haphazardly against the wall. His other hand presses Twilight’s tunic, now more red than green, against a deep cut along his collarbone. Twilight bites his lip as he leans over to grab the bag.

“How’re ya holdin’ up?” He asks while he digs through the captain’s bag. He knows the answer, but keeping Warriors busy would hopefully help him stay awake longer. 

“How do you think?” Warriors snarks back, but there’s no bite to it. 

“He looks like shit.” Twilight observes. A glistening sheen of sweat dots Warriors’s hairline, and his every breath is noticeable in the way he takes short small inhales to not jostle the wound any further. He looked like he hadn’t slept well in days, and dark bags formed under his eyes like fresh bruises.

Twilight’s hand touches a glass bottle near the bottom of the captain’s bag. He almost cries out in relief, but when he pulls it out it’s a bottle of scotch whiskey. Pretty good quality too, actually. Being a captain had its perks, it seems.

“You sending me off with a party?” Warriors jokes half-heartedly. 

Twilight sets the bottle aside and digs his arm back into the bag, an idea forming in his mind. He likes to pretend he doesn't know how, but Twilight had seen Warriors take a needle and thread to his scarf on more than one occasion. A long piece of cloth would not still be in one piece on a battlefield otherwise. He finds the small sewing kit hidden amongst other supplies and, to his luck, a roll of clean gauze. He pops off the lid of the whiskey and holds it out towards the captain.

“Yer gon’ want some o’ this,” he says. 

Warriors is not a dumb person, at this point he knows exactly what Twilight was planning on doing. He knocks back the bottle and takes a few swigs, enough to make his cheeks warm. Twilight scoots forward on his knees as he’s drinking, mentally preparing himself. 

“A waste of good scotch.” Warriors comments, taking one more big gulp. It burns his throat in the way only alcohol does, he can feel it all the way down to his stomach. Cheeks red and feeling tipsy, he pushes the bottle into Twilight’s open palm, “hurry up and get this over with.”

Twilight uses a bit of the alcohol to disinfect the biggest needle he could find in the kit, and gently peels off the soiled fabric. He’s about to pour the rest onto the wound, when Warriors stops him. 

“Wait, give me your belt.”

Twilight feels stupid for not thinking of that. He pulls off the leather strap that holds his scabbard in place and lets Warriors bite down on it. 

“Okay, count of three.” Twilight says, and Warriors shuts his eyes tight in preparation. 

“One.”

“Two.” He dumps the alcohol on Warriors’s chest early. The scream his friend lets out is muffled by the belt, but the pained wail that follows breaks his heart. 

“I know, I know.” He tries to soothe as he sets to work.

It takes longer than he would’ve liked, and his needlework is not as steady as a seamstress’s, but soon enough he’s wrapping it tight with the bandages he found in Warriors’s pack. Warriors himself passed out half an hour into the procedure, and Twilight is honestly surprised he even lasted that long. The sun is beginning to set outside of their alcove by the time he’s done cleaning up. 

He lightly slaps Warriors’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, “oi, wake up.” The tapping rouses him and he blinks slowly in the dim light. Twilight gently tugs the strap out of his mouth and pats his arm. 

“Yer all patched up now, Cap’n, let’s get some water in ya and ya can go back ta sleep, aight?”

Warriors just nods weakly and lets Twilight help him hold the water pouch to his lips. The water is lukewarm, but feels like heaven to his abused throat.

“Slowly.”

Warriors takes a few sips before Twilight pulls it away and sets it aside to grab Warriors's blanket out of his bag. 

“You rest up, now. I’ll keep watch tonight.” 

He leans over Warriors to lightly tuck the corners of the fabric under him to keep it in place. He’s about to stand when a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Wait.” 

Twilight looks up at Warriors’s piercing blue eyes. The captain’s mouth upturns in a small smile when they lock gazes.

“Thanks, Twi.”

Twilight responds with his own smile and a nod. Warriors releases his grip and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

“Don't stay up too late,” he says, although he knows Twilight will be up until the morning doves cry and the crickets sleep. 

“Goodnight, Wars.” 

Twilight keeps diligent watch through the night, ignoring the deep yawns and the weary drooping of his eyelids. He sits against the opening of the cave with his sword nearby, watching the world around him wake with the sun. Rabbits chase each other through the underbrush; birds swoop down and peck at exposed soil, hoping for a juicy worm for breakfast.

He peeks back at Warriors sleeping soundly behind him, watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. He always looked so peaceful when he slept. His intense eyes, under furrowed brows, that scrutinized every battlefield was no longer present. He looked as young as he really was; and wasn't that a kicker, how young they all were. How half of them had started their journey when he was still drawing in the dirt with sticks and wrestling in the mud. 

He sighs openly into the crisp, cool air, pulling the edges of his pelt tighter over his shoulders to fight off the shiver running down his spine. 

“Warriors will be fine,” he tells himself. And when a familiar shout sounds through the trees, and the bright blue of the champion’s tunic makes its way into the clearing, he knows it to be true.

[idiotic-genius]

How to write an immersive scene

requested by @noa-i - check out their blog, they have amazing lists of helpful links to writing guides!

As a writer, it is mostly inevitable to get to the point in writing where you are questioning whether anyone will actually want to read what they have created. A question greatly important to writing something the reader gets hooked up with is: How do I lure them in and make them feel like they are part of something? Sometimes, writing immersive makes THE difference between a scene quick to skip over and a scene you can't take your eyes off. But how do you create immersion?

In this post: 1. Worldbuilding 2. Narrators 3. Writing visually 4. Setting the scene 5. Example to summarize

Step 1: Learn your own facts

It might be banal, since you are the author, to re-read your own notes and think about what you have written so far. However, to get the reader hooked up, make them INTERESTED. This is easily accomplished by creating a detailed fictional world that doesn't seem flat. It might be a tiring process, but it always pays off! Knowing exactly what kind of world your character finds themself in makes it a lot easier to fill in details that subconsciously make the reader believe they are dealing with an actual real-world instead of "just" a fictional one. But even though it may seem harsh, cutting out some details and facts might make the reader feel much more comfortable. Their mind wants to insert them into the universe they're reading about, so overloading them with too many unnecessary details can be just as defeating as giving them too little info. Here is a link to a great beginners-guide on worldbuilding.

Step 2: Know your narrator

As we all know, there are a bunch of different narrator types to pick from when starting a new story, and each of them is good for a different thing- reaching from the typical first-person narrator (The Hunger Games, Percy Jackson) over personal third-person (Warrior Cats, Harry Potter) to omniscient third-person (Anne of Green Gables) and biased third-person (A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). If you are writing an unbiased third-person narrator in your WIP, you can just skip this step. However, if you have any indication at all in your story as to who the narrator is, you might want to think about this more closely. The narrator is the bridge that connects the reader to the fictional world. To immerse the reader in a book, it's usually easiest to use the first-person narrator or the personal third-person narrator, because that way the reader will either imagine themself as the narrator or as a friend of the main character, which keeps them interested. If your narrator is an actual character in the story, it is necessary to keep their speech and description patterns consistent with themselves and the events of the story. For example, a character narrating that has never visited a school or similar should not use highly scientific words to describe what's going on, etc, because it will interrupt the reader's reading flow and disturb the immersion just as much as time skips do.

Step 3: Writing visually

After making sure you have the narrator and the world they're in all set, it's time to choose a writing style, more specifically, to decide the visuality of it. What I mean by that is that having a fictional world so flat it's boring is just as bad as not describing it in a way that delivers it in the way it deserves to be delivered. Picture it like this: Every scene starts in a white room, with neither windows nor doors. If you as the writer don't describe what is going on in that room and what it looks like, at best while keeping the narrator's character in mind while doing so (to make it "3D"), the reader will never know what is actually happening. This also includes adapting the length and complexity of sentences to the scene: In a combat scene, you will usually find short and cut-throat sentences to represent the intensity and living-in-the-moment mindset of a fight, however, in a meaningful conversation between two characters about a heavy subject, it's more likely that longer and more complex sentences are of use to mirror the narrator's deep thinking of the subject and their concentration on the conversation.

Step 4: Setting the scene

By setting the scene, you fill in this white room in the reader's mind, adding characters, sounds, furniture, windows, and scenery in general, while still leaving space for the reader to fill in the blanks. To find a middle between these two extremes is up to every individual writer and depends on the writing style. If you over-describe the room, the reader will know every detail about it, but it will take away their focus from what is actually happening in the scene. However, if you don't set the scene at all, the reader automatically makes up what the room might look like based on what they imagine, and then breaks out of the immersion as soon as you mention something, later on, to be in the room that they did not picture. For example, if you just say that A enters B's bedroom, the reader might quite as well imagine there to be small windows, some bookshelves, a standard bed, etc. If you don't set that up right in the beginning and later on mention that B has small windows, the books stacked on the floor, a bunch of plants, an aquarium, and a bunk bed, the reader will get confused because it doesn't fit what they had pictured before. So ask yourself: What is so important that the reader should know it before the scene actually starts? Context also matters in that case.

5. Example

In the following, I will write the same scene multiple times in different styles to illustrate what makes a difference in writing immersion. The scene goes as following: Jae falls into a dark room underground with a hooded, mysterious person waiting for him. The hooded person greets him and lights a candle, and in the emitting light, Jae realizes who he is talking to. Remember: These are more caricatures of the different writing styles than actual representation and are very overexaggerated, but you get the idea.

1. first-person narrator (Jae), scene not set properly, no visual writing, no consistency in speech pattern

After three seconds, I landed on something soft and realized I had landed in a chamber underground, slightly lit by the moonlight above me. I walked through the only doorway and found myself in a second room. A hooded figure in the middle of the dark lifted their arm. From the table beside them, they picked up a candle and lit it using a lighter. "Hello, Jae", they said, and in the newly emitting light, I recognized them in front of the fireplace.

-> feels flat and jumpy, gives no significance to the change of scenery

2. biased third-person narrator, scene set properly, overly descriptive visual writing, consistency in speech pattern

After falling for what felt like an hour, even though it was probably just a few seconds, Jae finally landed on something soft. Before even attempting to get up, he shivered at the fresh memory of what slimy, earthy, suddenly appearing tunnels felt like. He stared up through the hole at the moon and the stars, and immediately recognized the constellation of Cassiopeia, high up above him. Cassiopeia is said to have angered the Gods, so they gave her the gift of divination, but made it so that nobody would ever believe her prophecies, finally banning her into the sky as this constellation. Weirdly enough, the stars' pattern doesn't look like a woman, or a human, at all. Jae slowly stood up from where he landed and realized he had fallen onto a rather big cushion with a print of primroses in yellow, pink, red, and blue. He looked around in my new location and found himself stuck in a small portico with no windows at all and only one doorway. The walls seemed just as dirty and muddy as the tunnel he had fallen through, and as he looked closer, he spotted about a dozen small, pink worms slithering through the soil. The floor on the other hand was made out of dark wooden panels- if you wanted to call it a "floor". The pieces were just loosely stuck onto the earth underneath, and mud squeezed out from the gaps in between. Jae slowly walked over them and reached the doorway after just four steps. He saw a hooded figure standing in the center of the next room. The room had two sources of lighting: One, the moonlight shining through the disgusting tunnel, and two, a crackling fireplace. It looked like it belonged in a small cottage, being made out of red bricks and looking a little old with the small black-and-white pictures put on top of it. The flickering orange glim of the fire met the silvery-white shine of the moon in the middle of the room. On the right side, Jae saw a big old round table made out of similar wood as the floorboards outside. There were obvious scratches on it, some made by smaller knives, others bigger and maybe made by swords, with splinters on their edges. Apart from two, the fours chairs around it seemed just as maltreated, but the two others were polished and reflected the two light sources, with no scratch marks at all. On top of the table rested a metal candlestick with one slightly burned-down candle stuck inside it. The candlestick had a few scratches as well, on the side and at the bottom. "Hello, Jae", the figure said snarkily, with a voice deep and rough like sandpaper. They wore a black cape, smooth on what Jae could see of the inside and rough on the outside, with a big hood covering their hair and most of their face. A few of the blue buttons with a golden pentagram engraved on them were missing from the coat, and it was slightly ripped in a few places. One strand of dark hair fell into the person's eyes as they reached out for the candlestick, lighting the candle inside with a silver zippo-lighter. The lighter had small scratches as well as a few symbols on it. Slowly, the flame grew bigger and bigger, until the shine from below reached the figure's face. Jae's eyes went big as he realized who he was talking to.

-> little place for the reader's fantasy, but details make scenery deeper and less flat. This kind of description does make sense if the narrator/the character the narrator fixates on (Jae in this case) is very observant and/or intelligent because they will notice details that others don't. The question is whether those details are important enough to keep in the story.

3. first-person narrator (Jae), scene set properly, visual writing, consistent speech pattern

After what felt like an eternity of falling and silently begging not to die from the impact, I finally landed with my eyes squeezed shut. Okay, legs, arms, and head still in place... I slowly opened my eyes again, realizing I had landed on a soft pillow with a flower print. Cautiously, I got up, gazing up at the tunnel through which I had fallen. The view of the slimy earth made me shiver involuntarily as I blinked against the bright moonlight far above me. The sky was clear enough to see stars, which could have been far more enjoyable if it hadn't been for my miserable situation. I had landed in a small chamber underground, with a single doorway leading into a bigger room. The walls were just pure earth and seemed to swallow all noise, but when I took the first step, the sounds of my shoes on the dark wooden floorboards and of the mud squishing out from beneath them was louder than I had anticipated. I could hear the crackling of fire from the next room and see the orange glow as I made my way over to the doorway and took a glimpse into it. The room was not very big, but also not as small as the one I had landed in. There wasn't much space because of a wooden round table and four chairs, which all seemed very old and maltreated, judging from the scratches on them. I could make out a few pictures on the fireplace, and in front of that- "Hello, Jae." I had to suppress a gasp as I realized that I was not alone. In the middle of the room, right where the silvery moonlight and the orange glow of the fire met, stood a hooded figure. Their coat looked as old as the few pieces of furniture, with missing buttons and rips. I couldn't make out much of their face, even though I squinted my eyes, but the flickering light made it hard to see anything, let alone recognize. But that voice... Before I could come to a conclusion, the figure reached for a metal candlestick standing on the table and lit the candle inside with a silver lighter. As the flame grew bigger, they dispelled the shadows below the hood that had disguised the person's features before. I could feel my eyes get big as I finally realized who was standing before me.

-> Gives enough information to "fill the white room" without dwelling on details too much, shows the context of the story, gives Jae a consistent personality

So that's it for this post! I hope I managed to pass on a thing or two that I learned while researching and that this post will help you with your writing. Please acknowledge, I am not trying to attack anyone's style of writing!! If you write the way I wrote a "non-immersive" scene, it does NOT mean that your writing style is bad, let alone wrong, because the existence of many different writing styles is what keeps it individual and interesting! Find your own way and let nobody get you down :)

[matthewtkachuk]

problem - jj maybank

being friends with pope heyward unfortunately means suffering through more interactions with jj maybank than you’d ever ask for. except, what was that phrase about the line between love and hate?

warnings: none

pairing: jj maybank x reader

word count: 1.5k

a/n: i said i was done with the boat show, but @outerbankslut​ deserves the best secret santa gift i can offer her. happy late christmas and i hope you like it honey!

JJ Maybank is annoying. He talks a lot, never really knows when to shut up. Usually, the things he says have little value and yet somehow even less substance. More times than not, his words are careless insults, things said purely to pick at you and drive you mad. You’re usually the better person, can usually let things like that roll right off your back.

And yet, it gets under your skin so badly it has you spitting words of vitriol at him yourself, turns you into some kind of monster whose only goal in life is to bring JJ down. This is not entirely against your neutral persona; however, it makes you seem more high strung than you really are.

You’re Pope’s friend, first and foremost. More a lover than a fighter, more akin to Pope’s natural, bookish tendencies than his reckless side that you only see coming out when he’s around his other best friends. Come summertime, you see a lot more of the other side, as most of your hangouts with Pope take place with the pogues in the background.

You have no problem with the rest of Pope’s friends; they all try their best to make you feel welcome. Kie gets you a job at her family’s restaurant, and the two of you bond while dishing out food and dealing with the complaints of entitled kooks and touron parents alike. John B offers you his couch when you’re too tired to bike home, and Sarah turns out to be a stronger confidant than you had initially assumed based on her family’s socioeconomic status.

JJ remains elusive.

You don’t really remember a time where you ever found JJ Maybank to be anything but childish and stupid. From the earliest days you were aware of who he was - even back in the second grade, he couldn’t help but run his mouth in a way that you found highly insulting - you couldn’t stand the boy. He didn’t grow out of it the way that Pope and your other friends did. To you, JJ was the same immature little boy who once shoved your face in mud and ate worms.

He shows it again when you show hesitance about joining them on the boat for the afternoon. There’s a lot you could be doing at home, or you could pick up a shift at your second job, or you could get a head start on your summer reading - if you were going to get out of this dead-end town, you needed to work really hard to secure a full ride.

“What’s the matter, Bookworm can’t hang?” comes from JJ’s mouth as you’re preparing to turn them down. It causes anger to flash across your face, and Pope’s stepping forward to try and get between the two of you.

You just shrug them both off and get on the boat, using Pope for leverage. “Never said that.” You’re not sure what point you’re trying to prove or who you’re trying to prove it to, but you feel the need to all the same. 

There’s an awkward silence as you sit between Pope and Kie, one that she tries to fill as she offers you a drink. Again, you’re hesitant, and again JJ picks up on it, scoffing before you even have a chance to respond. You turn on him with a glare, “spit it out, Maybank.”

“Nothing, I was just thinking that it was stupid to offer. We all know you’re going to turn it down.” And, well, he’s not wrong, but the way he thinks he knows you or something is so annoying you almost grab a beer just to spite him. But, despite your need to prove him wrong, you’re not going to do something you don’t feel comfortable doing just because some idiot says you won’t.

“Sorry, we don’t all need alcohol in order to have a fun time,” you roll your eyes and grab a bottle of water instead, chugging the contents and ignoring the way JJ is looking at you while you do.

He laughs, but you ignore him in favor of turning to Kie and striking up a conversation with her about water conservation. JJ doesn’t like being ignored, and you know that choosing to not engage with him further will frustrate him more than any barbed insult you could ever throw his way. When John B finds a suitable place to drop anchor, you and Kie lie side by side on the bow of the boat, chatting quietly while the boys mess around in the water. That is until you’re both doused in water by one not at all sorry-looking JJ Maybank. 

Kie just screams and laughs, shouting his name as she leans over the boat to splash him back. You’re pissed, though. For some reason, this is the final straw for you.

“What’s your problem with me?” you snap finally, voice cracking with all the emotions laden in it.

He avoids your gaze, shrugging and speaking, “I don’t have a problem with you.”

It’s evasive, and it’s annoying. “Bullshit,” you snap again, “you’ve had a problem with me forever, so what is it?”

He just scratches at the back of his neck, gaze roaming the waves rather than meet your eyes. You roll your eyes again, so frustrated and tired with this old song and dance as you repeat yourself, “What’s your problem?”

“Guys-” Kie tries to mediate between you as John B and Pope scramble back on the boat. 

“Not now, Kie!” you shout from your place on the boat. 

She just sighs a little, clearly as fed up with your behavior as the other two boys on the boat. “You asked for this,” she warns before suddenly you find yourself in the water beside JJ. 

Sputtering, you flail your arms and legs to keep yourself afloat. The truth is, you’re not the strongest swimmer. It’s not like you’re going to drown out here or anything, but it’s going to take a lot of effort to keep from doing so. “What the hell, you guys?” 

JJ seems to have caught on more quickly than you have, as he yells up at them, “Don’t do this!”

You spin in the water to glare at him, “do what? What the heck is going on?”

“It worked for us!” Sarah shouts as you hear the boat engine turn over. Suddenly you’re furious.

“Don’t you dare!” you yell out, head snapping to Pope, “you’re dead to me if you don’t let us back on that boat this instant.” He just kind of shrugs and half-heartedly waves to you as the boat begins to pull away. 

“Now look at what you’ve done! You just couldn’t leave me be for one stupid afternoon, huh?” You’re pissed at JJ, pissed at Pope and the other pogues. You’re also pissed at yourself for how good JJ looks as he effortlessly floats beside you. 

“Hey, this wasn’t just me, Bookworm. You didn’t have to start yelling at me.” JJ is so calm it’s infuriating, and it makes you want to drown him. You don’t, of course, they don’t offer full-ride scholarships to felons after all.

“You pick at me literally every second of every day, and you’re going to blame me for yelling at you?” you ask incredulously. “Seriously, how self-unaware are you?” He doesn’t answer you again, and the frustration just explodes out of you like the volcano you’d won the fourth-grade science fair with despite JJ’s sabotage attempt with half a bottle of mountain dew. “I’m not going to ask again. I will swim all the way back to shore if I need to. What. Is. Your. Problem. With. Me?”

It’s like a switch flipped on JJ then, some sort of fuse just lit, or some circuit just broke. “You’re my problem, Bookworm! You’re too pretty, and funny, and smart; it drives me crazy. I just want to make you feel as crazy as you make me feel!” 

Your jaw drops, and the seconds tick by as his words enter your consciousness. Suddenly, you laugh - harder than you ever have before, head tilted back, eyes closed, entire body shaking with laughter, laugh. “You don’t think you drive me crazy? Surely you know what you look like? And you’re always so happy and carefree. I wish I wasn’t so hung up on everything and could just enjoy the moment like you do.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he says immediately after you’re done speaking, never one for silences or quiet. 

You shake your head in disbelief before something occurs to you. “Did you just call me pretty? Do you have a big crush on me, JJ?”

“What? No,” he sputters loudly.

“You wanna kiss me so bad, don’t you?” you taunt a little, more flirtatious than malicious, and he picks up on it right away.

Perking up, he says, “maybe I do?” 

As he’s kissing the life out of you in the middle of the water, you think to yourself maybe you wanted to kiss him, too.

[blossomkoushi]

it’s what you feel, when you love someone.

summary: tsukishima kei spends his life discovering love. and the heartache that comes with it.

warnings: reader is a bit of an ass, but so is tsukishima one time, childhood friends AU, unrequited love, heartache, heartbreak, general angst things like that. gender neutral reader, referred to as “stinky” in texts. truly all hurt and no comfort in this one.

word count: 2.1k

A/N: i haven’t written angst in forever, so please let me know if this was okay or what i could improve on! i absolutely love angst and i want to get better at writing it, so any and all feedback is appreciated. fic is based off this prompt, thank you for requesting!

The sun shines through Tsukishima’s window. 7:30am. Rolling over in his bed and sighing, he reaches for his phone. The text messages you’d sent after he’d gone to bed sit at the top of the screen. A small smile grows on his face.

[from: stinky, sent at 1:43am] >> kei-kei, did you know that fish cough? Isn’t that so weird? >> like how does that even work >> wait I found a youtube video, look! >> *stinky sent a link* >> …doesn’t really look like coughing, does it? It’s more like a yawn >> kei-kei are you sleeping? >> laaaame >> sleeping is dumb

The nickname makes his heart flutter, just for a moment. It’d always had that effect on him, the blush creeping up on his face until he trained himself to keep it down.

[to: stinky, 7:34am] >> why were you sending me texts about fish at 1:40 in the morning >> stupid

Tsukishima pauses for a moment, hesitating before sending another text.

[to: stinky, 7:36am] >> are you still coming by practice later?

Getting out of bed, he starts getting ready for his morning class and practice. A part of him is grateful that you decided to go to the same university as him, being able to see you nearly every day made his life brighter. Not that he’d ever tell you that.

He’s out the door and walking to class when you text him back.

[from: stinky, 8:27am] >> obviously, I need to go see how ‘Taro is doing >> could you steal his shirt so I can see his abs during practice? >> *image attached*

Some kind of horny meme that Tsukishima never bothered to pay attention to, the kinds you always send when talking about his teammate, Kyoutani.

[from: stinky, 8:29am] >> oh, and you’ll be there too, ig

There it is.

He knows it’s a joke. He knows that he’s your best friend and you’re only joking. But the sinking in his chest and the knot tightening in his stomach is refusing to listen to his reasoning.

Swallowing down any anxious and sad feelings, he shakes his head and starts typing away at his phone.

[to: stinky, 8:30am] >> great. I’ll see you after class

Another message of seemingly random emojis pop up on his screen and he pockets his phone, taking a seat in the classroom and bringing out his notebook. He can feel himself zoning out before the professor even starts speaking.

-

Love is a strange word to Tsukishima Kei. It’s something his mom, and occasionally brother, say to him. Something on instinct, as if a promise would be broken if the words weren’t uttered.

Tsukishima had been 5 years old when he asked his mom about it. At the time he only repeated it back to her, an echo of her declaration, unaware of what he was promising her.

“it’s a feeling, Kei. Love is what you feel when you care for someone deeply. And so, you tell them.”

“do you have to say it?”

His mom stops for a moment, pondering before brushing his hair back and shaking her head. “no, you don’t have to say it. But you should at least show it to the people you love.”

Tsukishima continued telling his mom that he loves her up until elementary school. He still loves her after that, but his priorities shifted.

-

Tsukishima had been 8 years old when he realizes that he loves you.

The feeling grew stronger every day, your smile brightening his day and your laughter making his heart flutter in a strange way.

“Kei-Kei! Look, I found a snail! There’s more over there, come on!” your excited voice made his heart swell in his chest. Your small hand gripped his, tugging him through the mud and puddles on the yard, giggling happily despite the rain pouring down.

He starts drawing you pictures of snails. Small doodles placed on your desk before recess. He points them out after it’s rained, pulling you along to bend down and watch them slowly drag along the road on the way home from school.

You get interested in frogs, cats, worms, bees, even ants for a while. Tsukishima joined your obsessions, indulging you with drawings, books and pictures. One time he collected worms in a bucket on his walk home, handing them to you when he arrived at your house, knowing that you were ill and hoping the wigglies, as you called them, would make you happier. The smile you gave him burned into his mind, and he wanted to see it again and again until the end of time.

He loves you, even his young mind can grasp that. He hopes that you can tell.

-

Tsukishima is 12 years old when he realizes that he’s in love with you.

Valentine’s day was never something he’d pay attention to. It seemed silly to him, a whole day just to talk about love? Stupid. Love is something you feel, so you say it or show it and that’s that, why spend a whole day talking about it?

That is, until you run up to him the day before, excitement flashing in your eyes.

“Kei-Kei, do you know what day it is tomorrow?” your hands gripped his arms, nearly shaking him. The familiar blush grows on his face and he shakes his head, hoping you don’t notice how his skin is turning pinker by the second. “it’s valentine’s day! I heard some of the older boys talking in the hallway about what they’re doing for their girlfriends and it seems so cute! Like, oh, one is going to take his girlfriend out roller skating, isn’t that so romantic? And this other boy was saying that-“

Tsukishima tunes your voice out, focusing his attention to your lips moving. Your hands are still gripping his arms and a part of him wishes that you’d never let go, feeling his skin burning under his clothes. You’re standing so close; he could lean his head forward just a bit and his lips could be on yours. If he just-

“-Oh! And I heard some girls talking before gym that the boys in our class were going to confess to their crushes tomorrow! Do you think anyone will confess to me? I hope so” your words snap him back to reality. His eyes go slightly wide, looking into yours. Confess? You wanted one of the stupid boys in your class to confess?

A twinge of discomfort stabs in his stomach, his body filling with sudden annoyance. “no way” he scoffs.

He’s never regretted anything more in his life.

The excitement drains from your eyes and your hands fall from his arms. Before he can think, your chin quivers and you nod silently, turning around and running away.

The discomfort in his stomach only grows, changing and chafing along with an ache in his chest, all annoyance drained from his body in an instance.

He draws a picture of a snail and dinosaur, writing your names over them. Underneath he scribbles an apology. A quick “I’m sorry”, and he places it in your mailbox on his way home.

The next day, he sees you on the yard of the school, standing excitedly in front of a boy and throwing your arms around him.

-

Tsukishima is 13 years old when he realizes that you don’t love him back. Not in the way he wants.

Though, to be honest, he knew from the moment he saw you with the boy from your class walk home together from school, hand in hand.

You’re both in junior high and all you seem to want to talk about is your stupid boyfriend. It’s a different boy, not the same one he saw you with that previous February. This one is taller, not as tall as Tsukishima, but you say that height isn’t something you look for in a boyfriend. He can’t help but to feel the jealousy and sadness seep in at that.

“he’s older, you know. He’s turning 15 in a few weeks and he says that I can meet his family at his birthday party.” You’re seated on Tsukishima’s bed while he’s at the desk, trying to tune you out and do his homework. He hopes you’ll stop talking about him and do the same. You don’t. “oh, and I know you’ve never had a girlfriend, so you won’t know this, but he’s such a good kisser. Like, you can definitely tell that he’s got some experience compared to my ex. Isn’t that so weird? Me? Having an ex?”

Tsukishima doesn’t like this. You’re changing, trying to be older than you actually are to impress this older boy that he’s never even met. Not that he wants to. He’s gotten used to the dull ache of his heart breaking over and over again, the steady and constant reminder that you won’t ever see him the way that he sees you. He’s mastered the art of seeming okay, masking his feelings and pushing them deep down where no living soul will ever see them. But if he had to see you with this… boyfriend… he’s not sure that he’d recover.

So instead, he shuts up. He stays quiet and lets you babble on about all the little things that this boy does for you, letting the ache in his chest grow and grow. It’s better than the alternative, telling you how he feels. No, that’s not an option. He can’t risk losing you.

-

Tsukishima Kei is an idiot. He knows this for a fact after having to watch you pine after endless boys and men all the way up until university. Boyfriends that come and go, the make out sessions that he gets graphic descriptions of and a constant damp shoulder from holding you after your heart gets broken.

He pretends to laugh along when you joke about him being single for so long, his heart squeezing painfully at the reminder that his long-time crush has eyes for every man except him.

-

He only comes back from his heart-break haze when he steps into the gym after class. Only he wishes that he hadn’t.

Calling out a greeting, he sees you standing alone with Kyoutani. Except he’s not sure if it counts as standing, it’s more of a pinning to the wall. Kyoutani’s body caging you in, your back pressed to the wall with your hands around his neck. Even from a distance, he can see your usual excited smile, happy to have gotten attention from the boy you’d been pining after.

“sorry.” Tsukishima can only mutter, quickly turning around and walking out the gym again. He can hear your muffled voice, probably reassuring Kyoutani that it’s okay. He wishes that he’d walked faster, so he would’ve missed the unmistakable sounds of kissing and your soft sighs.

Tsukishima hasn’t let himself cry over you in years. He forces himself to go numb, push away any and all bad feelings until his breathing gets steady and he can look you in the eye again.

But this time, he can’t stop it. He’s fallen to the floor as soon as the bathroom door locks behind him. It’s disgusting, sitting on the floor with his hands pressed to his eyes, trying to force the tears back inside. His classes clink onto the floor, skidding away from him as his body shakes.

Tears stream down his face and drips down his shirt, turning the fabric into a blotchy mess, matching his flushed face and the snot running from his nose. His sobs echo off the walls, arms hugging his knees while the image of your body pressed against his teammate flashes behind his eyes every time he blinks.

He hasn’t cried over you in years. So, when it all hits him, it hits hard.

He misses practice completely, spending his time laying on the filthy floor in the bathroom and clutching his chest, trying to bring the broken pieces back together. He finally stands after what feels like an eternity. Picking up his glasses from the floor, he puts them on and watches himself in the mirror. Face flushed pink, eyes bloodshot and snot running from his nose, he thinks about what his mother said when he was a kid.

“love is what you feel when you care for someone deeply.”

A bitter laugh fills the room, his own hard eyes meeting him in the mirror.

His mother was wrong. Love isn’t what you feel when you care for someone deeply. All you feel is pain. The dull twisting of a knife in your chest as you watch the one you love fall for someone else, over and over again until you accept that their soft and loving eyes will never meet yours. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself when you’re standing in the bathroom of the gym where you saw said person fall in love with someone new. That you’ve accepted it.

[rockscanfly]

the stars are not wanted now

The headline was several days old by the date in the corner. The cheap paper was peeling at the corners from the wall it’d been pasted to when Charles ripped it down. His mind was carefully blank as he hitched Lenny’s canvas-wrapped corpse higher on one shoulder. He stuffed the ripped page into his pants pocket. 

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

Death’s messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

or,

Charles Smith, Sadie Adler, and the two deaths of Arthur Morgan.

Read below or at  AO3. 

                                                  ----------------------

In the life of Charles Smith, death’s messengers had come in many forms. 

The first was in the navy blue uniforms of American soldiers, their ghost pale hands wrapped tight over his mother’s arms as they dragged her from their tent, screaming and kicking. 

Ten years later it was in a letter, sent by an old neighbor. It contained his father’s wedding ring, a family photo, and no explanation. 

The way the whiskey had wafted off his father’s breath the night Charles left? There was no need for one. 

Then it had been the sharp crack of a gunshot—one, two, three. Sean, Hosea, Lenny. There was the frightened whinny of a horse mixed in, and the sick, rotten-fruit plop of Kierran’s head as it fell from his cupped, bloody hands.

This messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

The headline was several days old by the date in the corner. The cheap paper was peeling at the corners from the wall it’d been pasted to when Charles ripped it down. His mind was carefully blank as he hitched Lenny’s canvas-wrapped corpse higher on one shoulder. He stuffed the ripped page into his pants pocket. 

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

For twenty-seven years, careful restraint of his emotions had allowed Charles to survive. He’d never had the luxury of anger, of rage. An outburst from most members of the gang meant getting kicked out of the saloon, a fine, or a night in jail at worst. 

For Charles, a length of rope looped over a tree branch was never far. America hated nothing more than a mutt, and to her people Charles was a rabid dog best put down at the first snarl.

So Charles learned control and calm. He learned to bury, to smother, to take everything burning in him and shove it somewhere safe. To put his feelings aside until he was alone and could take them out and look them over with no nervous trigger fingers or hateful eyes waiting for the first excuse—the first bitter word, sharp gesture, first hateful look. 

Charles didn’t know what did it, what final burning hurt snuck into the tinderbox of his chest and sparked the blaze. If it was the seventh rock his shovel struck in the soft, sucking dirt, forcing him to fumble in the dark until he could haul it free and cast it out. If it was the heat, the chafe of sticky cotton on his damp skin. Could be it was the flies buzzing in his ears, or the way the sweat from his brow stung his eyes. 

Maybe it was the sickly smell of rotting meat already coming from the sacks wrapped around Lenny and Hosea’s corpses, or the way there was no money for coffins to bury them in. 

One moment Charles was digging side by side with Sadie, knee deep in the grave that would hold just one body of the second family that fate had torn from him.

And then he was kneeling in the sucking mud, hands fisted uselessly in the torn roots and crawling worms. Anguish tore howling from his throat, muffled against gritted teeth. Charles could taste copper coating the backs of his gums as he hunched in the dirt. His eyes clenched tight as his heart did its level best to tear itself from his chest, to strike out for a life less riddled with bullets, one that didn’t bleed loss like a butchered carcass or burn everything good up to ashes.

Charles was dimly aware, under the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, of Sadie’s soft cursing as she threw down her own shovel and climbed into Lenny’s half-dug grave beside him. The darkness behind his eyes became complete as she shuttered the lamp, plunging them into night. He flinched away as Sadie’s firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t,” he growled. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted exorcism. 

Sadie just gripped him tighter, blunt nails digging hard into the hunched muscle of his shoulder. “I know,” she rasped, kneeling before him, sharp knees pressed to his own. A choked cry strangled in Charles’s chest as her skinny, whipcord arms wrapped around him, pressing him to her chest. 

“They’re gone,” he managed, gasping through the tightness in his lungs. He couldn’t get any air. “Lenny, Javier, Hosea—Arthur.” Charles made a fist, pounding senselessly at the dirt. “He, we—” Charles cut himself off, dug his nails deep into the flesh of his knee, and tried to claw the pain into his own skin. 

A beat passed. One of Sadie’s palms gripped Charles at the back of his neck, cupped the back of his head gently. “Charles,” she said, voice rough and small, gentle. “Charles, I know.”

And it’s possible she did. She was one of the more observant folks in the camp. He and Arthur hadn’t really been very careful. Nothing too blatant, no. But anyone could have read into the casual ease with which Arthur touched his shoulder, the way their knees almost touched as they sat by the fire. The way Charles would return from guard duty with his hair mussed, leaves of grass clinging to the back of his shirt, the trailing ends of his hair. How Arthur would sit on a stump, failing utterly to conceal that he was sketching Charles as he chopped wood or hauled water. 

Arthur was not a cautious man by nature. He often made Charles foolish. 

More important than any of their thousand tiny, dangerous indiscretions was the fact that Arthur had trusted Sadie. It was possible the big, soft-hearted idiot told her about them. Maybe one day Charles would have it in him to be angry about that, at Arthur for putting them both at risk without asking him first. Reckless, impulsive, trusting. 

Gone.

Charles leaned heavily into Sadie’s grip, buried his face in the sweat and dirt streaked cotton of her shoulder. “How did you live through this?” He hissed, breath hitching. It felt like nettles had grown in his chest, wrapping around his lungs, choking like weeds to a garden. 

Sadie’s arm tightened over Charles’s shoulder. “Sun hasn’t dawned on a single day I’ve wanted to live through since they killed my Jake.” A filthy hand pet his hair back from his face, streaking dirt through the sweat on his brow. “Two reasons I go on. I gotta put every O'Driscoll on this green earth into a hole in the ground. And ‘cause I got folks as need me, now.”

Charles buried himself tighter against her, hiding from the pain that wracked him. It was ridiculous. Sadie was half his size, if he was being generous. But pressed against her, her clumsy hand in his hair, her skinny arm not even half over his back—he felt safer. Smaller. “They don’t even want me.” 

Sadie laughed, a hoarse, half-hearted thing that shook her chest more than it did the air. “You think those boys are lining up to put me in charge? Or, hell, Grimshaw? It don’t matter what anyone wants, Charles. They need us.” 

“I needed him,” Charles keened. He sounded like a child. He felt like a child. And he’d never felt so helpless, so lost, since he’d been torn from his mother’s arms. “All of them.” Charles bit back a breath, forced it down. He grasped a handful of Sadie’s shirt, pulling her closer. “I feel like the only part of me that’s good died with them. I don’t. I don’t think I can keep doing this.” 

“John ain’t dead yet,” Sadie whispered fiercely. “And neither is Tilly, or Mary-Beth, or me. Even the rest of ‘em. They’re all the family we got, Charles. So cry it out. But then you gotta pull yourself together. I need ya.” 

No one had ever needed Charles Smith. 

No one who lived. 

Charle’s head was going fuzzy, light, in a buzzing, burning way. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough air. Maybe he was choking on his own pathetic sorrow. 

Maybe the pain of losing so much was finally going to kill him. 

“I should just leave,” he mumbled into Sadie’s filthy, mud spattered shoulder. “Suffering follows me, I think. Maybe if I just go you won’t die, too.” 

Sadie’s blunt nails dug hard into Charle’s shoulder. “You leave and you’re yellow or you’re a fool,” she said, shaking him. “The world doesn’t give a shit about any of us, Charles. You know this life we’re livin’ ain’t meant to be a long one.”

Something in that tickled him, in a sideways sort of way. He laughed, a weak, hacking thing that was half-cough. “How the hell is Uncle still kicking?” 

Sadie’s shoulder moved under his forehead as she gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Can’t die if you never do shit.”

“You’re right,” Charles admitted. The stupid joke had shaken something loose in his throat. His chest still hurt, but he wasn’t choking on air. “I’m sorry. I just—” Charles sucked down another breath. “I wasn’t ready to live without him.” 

Sadie just pulled him tighter, tucked his head up under her chin. Charles wondered, vaguely, what she saw when she looked out into the dark of the Lemoyne night. “I know, honey,” she sighed. “But you will. You have to.” 

                                     _________________________

Traditional Kotsoteka mourning is an involved process. Done right, Charles should have burned Arthur’s wagon and killed Peachblossom, Arthur’s white Roan mare, so he would be well equipped in the afterlife. 

But there was no body to bury. No grave in which to throw Arthur’s guns, or the bow he’d left strapped to Peachblossom’s saddle on that final, bloody day at the bank. It would have been a shame to snap into pieces, anyway. Charles had made the bow for Arthur, so the other man had always taken excellent care of it. 

Fact was, Arthur’s body lay somewhere at the bottom of the sea, and they were too strapped for resources to go burning wagons and wasting supplies for traditions Charles had never been all that good at following. So instead Sadie helped him shave the sides of his head—the left side, to mourn a fellow warrior. The right, because a fellow warrior wasn’t all Charles was mourning. 

Together, Charles and Sadie burned one of Arthur’s shirts. There was no wailing, no cutting of arms and chests. As the last few patches of blue cotton caught fire, Charles resolved that, a year from then, he would never again speak the name Arthur Morgan.

                             ______________________________

Six years and too many graves later, Charles was resting on a freshly hammered fence post when a giant, mean-looking mustang rode up the road to Beecher’s Hope. Charles was half-way to drawing his sawed-off when its rider called out to him. “Charles! Charles Smith!”

Charles would know that hoarse drawl anywhere. 

Charles jumped the fence, jogging towards the black-clad woman on her suitably terrifying horse. “Sadie? Sadie Adler?”

Sadie swung down from her saddle, running forward. Charles caught her around the middle, swinging her excitedly. 

“How are you?” Charles asked as he set her down, hands moving to her shoulders to get a look at her. She’d picked up a few fresh scars, some weather to her skin from sun and wind. But her eyes were just the same as they’d always been, lit with an inner fire.

Sadie smiled, that same bitter half lift of the mouth as six years ago. “Alive,” she shrugged, patting Charles roughly on the shoulder. “You?”

Charles shrugged back. “Better, now. A few months back? Not so well.” 

Sadie nodded, walking back to her evil looking mustang and leading it gentle as a kitten to the hitching post. Charles leaned back against the fence, digging around in his jacket pockets for a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He lit one, settling it in the side of his mouth. Demon-horse secured, Sadie settled beside him, leaning forward over the fence to survey the homestead. Charles passed her a cigarette, holding the lighter out and flickering as she lit a burning ember in the early morning light. 

Sadie inhaled, brown eyes sharp and considering as she surveyed the half-built ranch. “So. You’re, uh. Livin’ with the Marston’s?”

Charles nodded, tucking the lighter back in his pocket. “Just John for now.” He caught himself, laughed. “Well, and Uncle.”

“That old fool’s still alive?” Sadie whistled. “Bless his heart.” Silence stretched out between them. Maybe it should have been uncomfortable, the way it would have been between any two other friends who had parted in bloodshed and hadn’t seen one another in six years. 

Instead, it was like a well-worn blanket, warm and comforting in the early morning chill. Charles hadn’t shared a peaceful silence in a long while. John and Uncle always seemed to need to fill the air with talk. The folks in Saint Denis too, and theirs had been a lot less friendly. 

Their cigarettes burned down to embers before Sadie broke the peace. “Any clue where John’s at?” she asked. “I got a job for him.”

Charles grunted. “Bounty hunting?”

“Only kinda jobs I run. For now, anyway.”

“He’s in town grabbing supplies. Won’t be back until late.”

“Well, shit.” Sadie cursed, scuffing her boot in the dirt. She frowned, kicking up little clouds of dust while she chewed on her lip. Charles turned, tucking his arms up atop the fence, settling against the sun-warmed wood. Sadie leaned in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, so the fringe of her leather duster brushed against his knuckles. They watched the horizon together for a few long moments, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky. 

Sadie let out a long breath, shifting restlessly next to him. In the corner of his vision Charles caught brown eyes flicking consideringly over at him, measuring. “You busy?”

Charles let out an inaudible sigh of his own. “I don’t do that anymore, Sadie.”

Sadie laughed, a little bitter, a little sharp, like a sip of bark tea. “You too good for bounty hunting? Well, excuse me.”

Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Isn’t like that. I just. I’m trying something new.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Ain't no reason you can't help around Marston’s ranch and earn yourself a little money.” She gestured to the half-built house, the piles of timbers and sacks of plaster. “Hell, how you think John’s paying this place off? I know y’all ain’t making any sort of profit yet.” 

Charles massaged his temples, willing away the oncoming tension headache. Sadie wasn’t wrong. Charles loved John, knew he needed to look after him for Arthur—at least until John was settled in with his family. But there would be an after, one day. Charles had learned one thing in his thirty-three years: no one stayed. 

He’d be watching his own back again, probably not too long from now. And it's a lot easier to do that when you had money. 

Charles sighed, pulling his hands from his face. He hooked his thumbs through his belt. “What’s the job?”

Sadie grinned, bitter and mean. “Man murdered his family, looks like,” she said, pulling away from the fence. “He’s wanted in Strawberry. Not even that far of a ride from here.”

Charles walked over to the little campsite, pulling his rucksack from his tent. It was already packed. He hesitated. “Kids?”

“A little girl, around ten. And a boy, round three.”

Charles pulled his tomahawk from under his bedroll, tucking it into his belt. He grabbed some of the nastier arrows—the poison wouldn’t kill a full grown man, but it’d make him suffer. 

Some men deserve to suffer. 

Charles stalked over to Falmouth, mounting him in one swift motion. “Lead the way.”

Sadie swung up onto her monster. “Good man,” she said, kicking her boot against Charles’s own as she trotted by. “Let’s see how rusty you’ve got, Mr. Smith.”

As they rode, Sadie interrogated him. 

“Talked to John a little, ‘bout you,” she yelled over the thundering of hooves. The earth was hard-packed and dusty in the Texarcana heat. “Heard things weren't going too well down in Saint Denis.”

“They weren’t,” Charles called back. “I’d only been there about a year, anyway. Job was going sour.” 

“How so?”

Charles laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “Folks were only going to put up with me beating up white men for a living for so much longer.”

Sadie tossed a grin over her shoulder, knowing and vicious. She and Charles had different struggles in their lives. But there was a baseline understanding between them. Most of the gang had been dangerous for what they did. Of the ones who lived, Charles and Sadie were dangerous because of what they were. “Novelty was about to wear off, huh?”

Charles shook his head, whipping wayward hair from his face. “Yeah.”

Sadie turned back to the road, steering Hera around a sharp bend. “Before that?”

The road widened out. Charles urged Falmouth forward, riding till the two horses were running abreast. “Was up in Canada. Helped relocate the Wapiti after...” Charles paused. He had left with the Wapiti immediately after the attack on the oil refinery. Hadn’t even gone back to camp for the rest of his belongings, just taken what was on Taima’s back and. Left.

Charles had no idea if Sadie even knew why Charles had gone, what Arthur had told her.

“That kid,” Sadie asked, breaking Charles’s train of thought. “He died, didn’t he?” 

Charles swallowed, the dust from the road cloyingly sweet in his mouth. “Yes.”

Sadie steered Hera over a wooden bridge, hand on her rifle as she scanned each side for signs of an ambush. “I don’t think I understand what all happened with them,” she said. “There was so much going on, towards the end. Folks leaving, Arthur sick, that damn fool plan with the train—How did Dutch even get those folks wrapped up in our mess?”. 

“Same thing that happened to all of us,” Charles offered. “Dutch talked a good game, riled them up over things they were already angry about, got everyone in over their head, and was the only one who didn’t pay for it.” 

The rest of their ride continued in contemplative silence, broken only by the necessary shouts and calls needed to wrangle their bounty. The murderer was holed up in an abandoned cabin just a little north of town. Hardly worth hiring bounty hunters for, really. Except that the Strawberry sheriffs had always been corrupt, not to mention lazy. Some things don’t change. 

Still, working with Sadie again was worth it. It’d just been them those long months Arthur and the rest were lost in Guarma, presumed dead. Sure, the rest of the girls were still around and they pulled their weight. But none of them were as talented in violence—save Karen, maybe. 

 But she was too far gone over Sean to hold herself together, let alone anyone else.

It’s when they’d divvied up the bounty and stepped into the Strawberry saloon that Charles remembered why those months had been so damn stressful. Besides the Pinkertons, the hopeless fate of half their family, the deaths, John trapped in prison—

Sadie Adler’s temper had always been on a short fuze. 

And Charles, fool that he was, had always had a weakness for brave, impulsive idiots.  

A big, mean white man took exception to Charles drinking at the same bar as him. Sadie snapped off a sharp warning, stepping around Charles and squaring up to the man twice her size. Then the mean bastard took exception to Charles traveling with, being familiar with, a white woman. 

Sadie took exception to his exception, and her exception took the form of a knife straight through the man’s hand and into the scarred oak of the counter. 

They were riding hard out of town, ducking the odd shot from the posse riding too slow behind them, Sadie whooping wildly and shooting flawlessly over her back when Charles realized: he hadn’t had fun like that in six years.

They lost the posse in the hills by turning off on a razor thin trail, stashing the horses under an overhang and laying down in the tall grass. 

They lay there, panting, laughing, exhilarated. The stars were bright in the sky, glaring down through the clear West Elizabeth sky.

Eventually Sadie sobered, hoarse laughter falling silent. Charles could see her from the corner of his eye. She was still staring up at the stars, hair limned silver in the moonlight. She chewed on her words before breaking the peace. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Charles took a breath, held it. “We had to leave before the Army arrived,” he said. He picked absently at the grass, crushing it dry and summer-sweet between his fingers. “The Wapiti. They were mostly women and children, the elderly. The sick.”

Sadie huffed, turning on her side, propping up on her elbow to glare down at him, hair frizzled into a messy halo behind her head, all lit up by moonglow. “Ya could of wrote,” she insisted. 

Charles kept his eyes fixed on the night sky, on the stars in their cold, beautiful distance. “To who?” he scoffed. “We all knew the gang was on its last legs. By the time we crossed the border into Canada I’d already seen the papers. Interesting, how they left you out of it.”

Sadie went quiet. She collapsed back beside him, thumping softly in the bent grass. “Is that how you found out?” 

A copy of The New Hanover had been pinned to the wooden wall of the trading shack where Charles was selling pelts for food and medicine. He’d left for Beaver Hollow the next day. “Yes.”

Sadie sucked air through her teeth. “I went back, few years later,” she muttered. Her boot knocked against his, a rough comfort. “You uh. You did a good job, Charles,” she said. Her fingers sought his in the tall grass, brushing against his lightly. Like she was scared to spook him, maybe. “We watched the sun come up together. He woulda liked it.” 

Charles drew his hand back, pressing it over his heart. The hollow, dull ache that lived in his heart sharpened, brightened. A fresh cut on an old scar. “He’d have liked it better if he’d lived.” 

Sadie made a noise, propping back up on her elbow to lean over him. “You know that ain’t his fault,” she frowned at him. “The man was sick, Charles.” 

Charles’s head hurt. His whole body did, in a cold, numb way. This wasn’t the burning, searing grief at the bottom of Lenny’s shallow grave. It was older, rooted deeper down. “Don’t,” he rasped. Grit from the road coated the back of his throat. “Just, don’t.” 

Sadie charged on, implacable. “You know he wasn’t gonna leave without John.”

The stars were so bright. Charles could feel the headache building, like a creature clawing out through his temples. “They could have left together,” he snapped at her. “We all could have left together, before the bank. All of that mess in Lemoyne—none of it had to happen. Arthur didn’t stay for John—he stayed for Dutch.” 

Sadie scrubbed her free over her face. “The man raised him,” she tried. The excuse was hollow, empty. Even she didn’t buy it.

Charles turned on his side, faced Sadie properly through the tall grass and moonlight. “Don’t give me that, Sadie. Not you.” 

“Fine, Charles! He was a fool!” She threw her hand up in the air, exasperated. “He was scared, he was foolish, and he loved Dutch because he was an idiot.” Sadie fixed him with a glare. “There, did that make you happy, big man? Speaking ill of the dead?” 

It didn’t. “I shouldn’t be speaking of him at all,” Charles said instead. “That’s not how—we’re supposed to let go. It’s been years.”

“You loved him,” she insisted.

“Look at how much that mattered,” Charles said, anger furrowing his brow, burning low in his stomach. Had he ever let himself be angry, with Arthur, with the choices they made? “What did loving him buy me, besides a heart that broke twice?”

Sadie’s eyes softened, understanding dawning warm and terrible. “I know that’s not how you really feel,” she said. Sadie reached out, again, with careful fingers. When Charles didn’t stop her she tucked the hair plastered to Charles sweaty forehead back, away from his eyes.

It was the first gentleness anyone had touched him with since he left the Wapiti for Saint Denis. Charles’s breath caught in his throat, trapped, terrified. Vulnerable. 

It would have hurt less if she’d socked him in the stomach.

“You don’t ride back from Canada, on your own, to bury a man who you hated,” Sadie continued. Her calloused hand settled on his jaw, thumb behind his ear. She held him steady, made him look her in the eye. “You don’t spend a year of your life helping his kid brother get his family back.”

“Arthur didn’t need me, at the end,” Charles managed. “Rain Falls needed me—and then they didn’t. No one did.”

“Why Saint Denis, Charles? You hated it there,” Sadie asked, resigned. She already knew the answer. She was being cruel, making him face it out loud.

Charles swallowed. No one had ever accused Sadie Adler of being kind. 

“I was waiting to die.” 

Sadie nodded. Yes, of course. “And all this with John? What next, once he doesn’t need you?”

Charles glared at her, mouth tight and stubborn. 

Sadie laughed in his face. “You and Arthur,” she sighed, shaking her head. “You were made for one another, weren’t ya? No understanding how to live in this world for yourselves.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Charles shot back. 

“I’m happy with my life,” Sadie said firmly. “I had love, but I never wanted a family. I just wanted Jake. He’s gone. So I’m doing what makes me happy.” She paused, staring down at him, considering. “What makes you happy, Charles? You’re the most competent, most stubborn man I know. What do you really want? You know no one could stop you from getting it.”

Charles shook his head. “I have no idea,” he admitted. He climbed to his feet, offering Sadie a hand. She accepted, pulling herself to her feet. She kept hold of his hand, squeezing tight.  

“Don’t stop looking,” she commanded. “What you were doin’ in Saint Denis, waiting to die? You’re better than that, Charles Smith.”

Charles shook his head, pulling Sadie into a one armed hug. Grief, Arthur, his life—they hadn’t solved any of it, laying out in a field and snapping at one another under the stars. 

But the wound hurt a little less, like a lanced infection. 

“I hope so, Mrs. Adler,” Charles said into the mess of Sadie’s hair. She chuckled into his chest, punched him half-heartedly in the arm. They separated, fetching and mounting their horses. 

They separated at the fork in the trail. Sadie headed east, back to her base camp just outside Valentine. She had work to do, bounties to catch. The world may have been more ‘civilized’ in 1907 than it was in 1899, but work was still plentiful for a rider and marksman of Sadie Adler’s skill. 

Charles rode west towards Beecher’s Hope, sun rising over his shoulder.

                                             --------------------------------

A/N: Charles and Sadie are my favorites, and they should have spent more time with one another. They're not exactly similar people, but they've been through many of the same trials. 

I also think they were both done a disservice by the epilogue. Charles's feelings regarding the gang's collapse are largely unexplored, despite him canonically being the one to have buried Lenny, Hosea, Mrs. Grimshaw, and Arthur. 

We also don't get a good explanation for why Charles ended up in Saint Denis as part of a fighting ring. Certain lines from Charles--"It seems like I was put on this Earth to hurt and to suffer myself"--have always led me to believe that he suffers from suicidal ideations. Him ending up in Saint Denis, surrounded by people who wish him harm, reads to me like a sort of 'death by cop' form of suicide.

On the subject of Charles's heritage: Rockstar is a trash fire, so beyond being half-Black and half-Native we have very few clues about Charles's culture and his history. I settled on a particular band (the Kotsoteka, or 'buffalo eaters') of the Comanche who would have had a decent amount of contact with Black Freemen post-Civil war. They live in Oklahoma and Texas, buffalo are a central part of their traditional lifestyle, and one of their mourning traditions involves shaving their heads in a manner similar to Charles's hairstyle change post-Guarma arc.

 I'm white and if anyone has constructive comments about my inclusion of Kotsoteka funerary traditions I'm happy to hear and act on them.

The Oquenda was the name of a Cuban trading ship from the 1870's. It was primarily used to transport indentured Chinese workers to the Cuban sugar plantations.

[deewithani]

Raindrops in the Wind - Chapter 2

Chapter Rating: T

Work Rating: Explicit (18+)

Pairing: Jango Fett x F!Reader

Word count: Approx. 2.1k

Warnings: Justice system abuse, light blood and gore, medical procedures performed by someone not medically qualified, discussion of potentially gross food.

A/N: Again, canon gets blown out of the water, borrowing from here and there to weave the narrative. OC's abound. No Jango in this chapter (he'll be back soon, I promise), we're learning about the reader. I know almost nothing about healthcare, so take that as you will and don't do what the reader does. Milvayne and the underworld are canon, but I took some liberties on my descriptions of the underworld (since I know next to nothing about it outside of this article: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Milvayne)

Chapters will list their individual ratings, work is rated Explicit (18+) for eventual explicit content.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Word had spread quickly through the underworld on Milvayne, passing from mouth to filth covered ear, each resident hearing the words a multitude of times: from the mouths of bandits, scavengers, old men dying in the gutter, children picking the pockets of newcomers who hadn't yet discovered they came to a foul place even the light of the maker refused to touch.

“Aleda Vole has work.”

The nature of that work was never spoken aloud, and endless throngs of people came and went from Vole's pawn shop, with no end in sight. To you it looked like Aleda was working night and day, the colorful 'Open' sign lit up no matter the time you passed by on your way to another house call.

You had been sentenced to exile here barely a year prior, punishment for your part in a bacta heist that went wrong. It had became increasingly difficult for the clinic you worked for to obtain basic medical supplies, so you and several of your coworkers took it upon yourselves to steal the supplies from a medical supply transport that was scheduled to arrive in Milvayne City. The heist should have went off without a hitch. The proper palms were greased, heads were turned the other way, but if something seems to good to be true, it probably is.

The theft itself was easy. You and your teammates were able to load up everything you needed and leave the dock without a single pursuer following in your footsteps. A not insignificant amount of credits had successfully bought an easy getaway.

What it failed to buy was silence. Someone was a rat.

Several weeks went by, enough that you felt you had been in the clear, when Milvayne Authority officers kicked down the front door of the clinic, arresting anyone unlucky enough to be in the building. A slew of trials commenced the same day and people were found guilty en masse. Every man, woman, and child that faced trial that day was convicted without so much as a second thought, and people were forced over the ledge into the underworld by the hundreds that day.

Since then, you had used your meager medical skills to barter for food, shelter, and literally anything else that was offered to you. It didn't matter if you were paid in half a yard of soiled fabric, it could be turned into something you could use, it could be traded for something else that you may need, or the new item you traded it for could be bartered yet again. It was a shame you had no real medical experience, though. Being able to heal was worth it's weight in gold, but you had been educated in the upkeep and maintenance of technical systems. Unfortunately there wasn't much need in someone repairing holoprojectors or hover-stretchers here. Those things rarely ever came over the ledge, and when they did they were grabbed up by people with a lot more power than yourself.

What enabled your survival is the fact that your job in the clinic had a lot of down time. If it wasn't time for the scheduled maintenance of the equipment, or something wasn't broke, you made yourself busy straightening up exam rooms, stocking, and chatting with the nurses and doctors at the clinic. You watched them perform basic medical procedures and listened in when they explained to their patients the various illnesses and injuries they were experiencing. Because of the continual lack of supplies you saw cuts being stitched by hand, home-made poultices being applied, and injuries being cleaned and dressed. You were even asked to stand in and assist a handful of times, whenever the need of the patients outpaced the staff that was available.

But now here you were, trudging along a muddy path, checking on your next “patient”, an old woman who cut her hand on some scrap metal she had been trying to pull from a pile near her shack. A friend of hers had found you and asked that you hurry to help, as she was bleeding heavily and she heard that you had some antibiotics. It was true, but the vial had been hard to come by, and you hoped that it would be a secret until you absolutely had to use them.

But this is the underworld of Milvayne. The only time secrets are held is when it is beneficial to hold them, and that is a rarity.

The path kept winding, twists and turns bracketed by piles of junk that looked as if they would fall over with a gust of wind, if such a pleasant thing as wind blew down here. The air was stale and all things smelled of rot, as if the odor had wormed its way into the being of every creature that made this place its home. You got used to it, after a time, but occasionally you would be woken from a pleasant dream as a whiff of death passed by your nose.

You finally made it to the door of your “patient”, a shack that was little more than a lean to with a front wall and overhang. Makeshift metal chimes hung from eaves, but unless they were moved by the hand of a passerby they would play no song without the wind to blow through them. They were an odd thing to see here as well. It wasn't safe to leave anything of value outside your dwelling. The common rule was that if it was outside, it was scrap, and anyone could take scrap. Crudely made and as useless as they were, they had value as trinkets. There was little good and enjoyable here, but people loved things they could play, at least as tools to take their minds off the reality of their circumstances.

This peculiar shack stood alone among the debris, short and squat, but solid, it's back crammed against another tall pile of scrap. You raised your fist to knock on the door, but it opened swiftly before your knuckles reached the wood. Before you stood an old woman, petite, back bowed and leaning on a makeshift cane. You stared for a moment, she had a rough, worn face creased by the passage of time, and a strong nose that looked too long for her thin face. Her hair was pure white, and was pulled back in a tight pony tail. You tried to see her eyes, but her eyelids were heavy and swollen. She looked as if she may have been retaining fluids.

The woman before you lifted her cane and let the end drop to the floor, letting out a bang that pulled you back to the present. “Well, honey. You the healer? Don't just stand there”, she said, before turning and moving back in the shack. You followed behind quietly, entering her darkened home. Inside was much more inviting than out. It was only one room, and there were a few piles of scrap in the small space, but the rest was cozy. A small cot was placed against the back wall, covered with a clean blanket and a fluffy pillow, and on the front wall was a stove, cooking what smelled like a very delicious stew you had been served before by other residents of the underworld. Two chairs and a small table sat in the middle of the room, finishing out the rest of the space.

“Your friend said you cut your hand on some scrap, ma'am.” you told her. “I ain't no ma'am, honey, call me Zola”, the old woman replied as she gestured for you to take a seat. You sat down and took her hand, noticing the small bit of cloth she had wrapped around it. It was stained red with blood at the palm, but unusually clean around the top. Her hands were suspiciously clean as well, considering she was digging for scrap in one of the dirtiest places in the galaxy.

You opened your makeshift medical bag and found your small pack of needles and the thread you had made from the remnants of an old blanket you had found peaking out of the mud the first day you had arrived. It was filthy and too small to be usable as much more than a cleaning cloth, but you had painstakingly washed and scrubbed the fibers until they were clean and you could separate them one by one. It had taken you the better part of the week to get enough usable thread, but it had been worth it in the end. Another medic traded you a couple of bent needles for a handful of your thread, and you were able to start the business of survival.

You carefully removed the bandage from her hand, taking care not to pull where it had began to stick to the blood. “This is a deep cut, Zola. I'll have to sew it up. You'll need some antibiotics too, and I've only got a little bit.” The cut wasn't very dirty, but there was very little fresh water to be had here, and you had none on you. You were going to have to sew her palm up as is, and you hoped a shot of antibiotics would keep her from getting an infection.

Carefully you threaded one of your needles and went to work. Zola was quiet while you worked, but you could see her scrunch her face and hold her breath whenever you would push the needle through her skin. The wound continued bleeding as you worked, so you used the wrapping she had bandaged herself with to clean up as you went along. By the time you were through you had placed 7 stitches in the palm of the old woman's hand, and the bleeding had finally stopped.

“There, good as new Zola. I need you to stand up and pull down the top of your pants for me so I can give you the antibiotics.” You filled your needle with the antibiotics and injected them into the top of her buttocks, a place that was least likely to cause her too much pain.

You were worried about the old woman, here alone at the end of the winding path. Afraid that she would meet her end here from whatever was causing the excess fluid. “Zola, you need to see a real doctor about the fluid you're holding. I'm worried that you've got a bigger problem than a cut on your hand. I'll ask around to see if there is someone who can help, but I don't know if I can find anyone. Have your friend ask around. Please.”

“Don't worry honey. I will. I'll be alright until I can find someone. Don't worry about me.”

“Alright, now that I'm finished, what are you going to pay with?” Zola looked up at you and cocked her head to the side. “Well, honey, I don't know what you charge. I don't have any money, and I don't have anything of value I can give you.” You thought for a moment. You hadn't survived here for a year without being flexible with how your clients paid you. Your kind heart wouldn't allow you to not help someone, even if they didn't have any way to settle up with you. You had been left in dire straits from time to time by your personal policy, but your kindness had also won you friends who looked out for you as well.

“I don't do credit, but if you give me a bowl of that stew I'll consider you paid in full. Does it have any meat?”

If the stew did have meat, it was best not to ask what kind. There were very few animals down here, anything not sentient was quickly grabbed and put into the closest stew pot for dinner. The meat in this pot could be anything from a scrap rat to grubs and worms. It didn't matter, though. That bowl was a matter of survival. Jabba the Hutt could be cooking in that pot and it wouldn't make any difference.

“Honey, you may have saved my life today. The least I can do is have you here for supper. Sit down for a while and let's talk. I think I have some information you can use.”

You sat in silence and ate your stew as Zola spoke of her years in the underworld. How she came to find herself in this place. How she found love. How she raised a fine, strong daughter. How they survived. The stew was delicious, and it was a rare treat to hear stories that held more than pain and sorrow.

As you finished your meal Zola rose and walked over to you. She placed her hand on your shoulder and leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“Aleda Vole has work. You should go see her.”

__________

Taglist: @latenightsthoughtsnstuff @gummywurme @bobabitch88 @the-empress-strikes-back @tacticalsparkles @rebelpitstop

If anyone wants added to my taglist, let me know ☺️

[toothpastecanyon]

We Creatures, Chapter 3

When Alcor felt Mizar calling to him, he came to help. Perhaps, this one time, he should have stayed asleep.

See most updated version on Archive of Our Own.

______________________________________________________________

“I spy with my little eye… something beginning with e.”

“Is it elves?”

“What? No!”

“Just checking,” Mizar sat back in her seat. “Just checking, uh… electricity! From the lights?”

“No.”

“Elm tree! I see some elms over there.”

Alcor grinned. “Nope.”

“Okay… fuck, I give up. What is it?”

“Okay, are you ready? You’re gonna kick yourself: Everest.”

“Ev… Everest?” She raised an eyebrow. “Like the mountain in the Himalayas?”

“Yeah!” He chuckled to himself. “You know, I’ve gotten a not-insignificant number of summoners over the years who wanted me to teleport them to the top of Everest and back. Some of them worded it better than others, but you humans are just obsessed with that place - it’s so funny to me!”

“That’s great, but this is the third time you’ve named something only you can see.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t think this Eye Spy game is working.”

“Oh… that’s okay! I have other road trip games! How about twenty questions - we pick something in the environment and, uh, the other person asks you twenty questions about what it could be…”

He launched into an explanation. In the back, Mizar rolled her eyes. She was grinning, though.

______________________________________________________________

They rounded a curve on the interstate, radio blasting.

“We gotta hooooold on to what we got!”

“It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not!”

Mizar was using a soda can as a microphone. “We got each other, and that’s enough for noooow, we’ll give it a shot!”

“OHHHHH, we’re halfway there!” Alcor swerved in time to the music. “OOOH-OHHH, livin’ on a prayer! Liiivin’ onnn a prayyyy-aaa-err!”

______________________________________________________________

“And so I told her, you can’t ride a pig into battle, Mabel. Waddles - his name was Waddles - is too small, and let’s face it, he’s not really a fighter. He rolls - rolled - in the mud all day, he ate carrots, he’s not really down to charge through a cultist’s basement and strike fear in their hearts”

Mizar was slumped in the back, methodically ripping up gummy worms. “Mmmhm.”

“But, uh, a bit of a size change, and boy was I wrong.” Alcor chuckled, one hand on the steering wheel as they cut through a forest. The sun was still up, but it was blocked by the trees; every so often he’d squint as a ray peeked through. “Kind of glad that didn’t become a regular thing. A horse-sized pig is, uh, more intimidating than you’d think.”

“Mmmhm.”

“But yeah, she did funny things like that… all Mizars tend to do stuff like that… but always a different thing, you know?”

“Yeah…”

“I dunno, maybe I’m explaining it weirdly.” His smile faded a bit. “It’s been a long time since I thought about her… too long. I just… I sort of forgot, I guess? It feels like I can’t’ve - she was my sister, but… I guess time does that to you.” Alcor stared forwards. “Everything fades. In time.”

The silence stretched, and Mizar frowned a bit. She glanced over at him.

“Dude?”

“Huh?” He blinked. “Oh, sorry! Think I blanked on you for a second there.”

“Always encouraging to hear that from your driver.”

“Heh, yeah…” Alcor nodded, and then looked back at her. “So what about you?”

No reply. He looked back, and saw she’d gone still.

“Mizar?”

“What do you mean, what about me?” Ostensibly nothing had changed about her, but Alcor could feel a sort of carefulness in her choice of words now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and Alcor made a face.

“I didn’t mean anything serious by it. I just thought I’d get to know you a little bit more!” He shrugged. “You know, uh… oh, what’s your name? I never asked you that.”

“You’ve been calling me Mizar, right? That works.”

“Well, Mizar’s your soul’s name. You have a name apart from that, right?”

“Sure I do.”

“Yeah?” There was a pause. “Uh, what is it?”

“…Smith.” Mizar ripped a gummy worm in half. “John Smith, there you go.”

Alcor struggled to keep a smile. “Okay, Mizar, uh… so you lived in New York, huh?”

“Yeah. You gonna make me give you an address now?”

“No, I- ugh. Forget it.” Alcor rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to pry, I was just trying to get to know you. Why are you so against that?”

“Why do you want to know so bad?” Mizar sat up a bit. “Look, genuinely? I’m sorry that’s frustrating for you. When I summoned a demon, I wasn’t exactly thinking I’d have to make small talk with them.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I actually kind of like you, dude! And I feel bad, but I can’t risk…” she trailed off, then cleared her throat. “How about this. Once we get to the desert, you can ask me anything you want, okay?”

Alcor frowned. “Okay… I’ll wait for the desert, then.”

“Thank you.” She sat back a little. “Thank you, Alcor.”

He didn’t quite know what to say to that. The conversation seemed like it had reached its end, and he started fiddling with the radio again. Most of it was adverts, though; it felt like sometimes the stations were coordinating to all go on break at the same-

“Look out!”

Mizar’s voice shot through him like a knife. He looked up and noticed there was something in the road - a deer! He swerved hard, and then he tried to swerve away from a tree right at the bend in the road but it was coming up too fast and-

The impact broke on him like a wave slamming against a hard cliff, and the sound of glass and metal shattering split his body’s eardrums. He felt his head crack against the steering wheel, and when he looked up he had to blink through the blood.

There were… legs? Legs through the windshield, and a sweatered body wrapped around the tree, and Alcor felt a raw fear flood through his being.

“Mizar?” He tried to get up, get out of his body, but something held him in place. “Mizar!”

And then she moved. He froze.

“Ugh…” Mizar shifted, and moved her neck off the right-angle it was making with the tree’s trunk. She rubbed her head. “Ow.”

Alcor watched with wide eyes as she shook herself off, and started extracting her legs through the opening. All the broken glass on the hood hadn’t left a scratch on her, it was…

“Impossible,” Alcor breathed. He saw her eye settle on him, her face flash through a million expressions before turning carefully blank. “You’re not human.”

“It…” She hesitated. “It doesn’t matter right now. We need to go.”

He tried to sit up, but something was keeping him rooted in place. It was more than being trapped; he tried to step into the Mindscape, but something had tethered itself to his very soul and bound him to the Earth.

“I can’t.” He frowned. “I’m… trapped?”

“You’re trapped?”

Bound to the Earth… Alcor lifted up his shirt, and found a branch impaled through his abdomen, skewering him to the seat. It was young, thin, but before his eyes, he watched it grow thicker, watched bark form on its trunk, and creep up his skin.

Mizar saw it too. “Shit,” she said, and backed up. “They’re here. They want you.”

“The elves?”

“Yeah… I have to go now.” She jumped off the car’s hood. “Sorry, dude.”

“Mizar? They want me? Wh-what does that mean? Mizar!”

But she was gone - vanished into the darkness. Alcor gritted his teeth, then he summoned a flame and tried to burn the branch. Nothing happened; if anything, a couple leaves sprouted where it should have turned to ash. The bark kept climbing up his chest, and he felt… strange. A little drowsy. It was easy to resist - for now.

But there were voices, and he pushed all that to the side.

“...No, child.” Elvish - spoken softly, like a song. “Do not chase the startled bear into its cave. Have patience, patience…”

He could see three pairs of feet, approaching. Two of them were clad in bark armour - the middle wore a long, flowing robe, and continued forwards where the other two stopped. It walked right up to Alcor, and for the first time in a very long while, he could feel a little bit of apprehension.

It was just an elf, he told himself. Just a mortal. Whatever it was, he’s a demon, he could take it…

The feet stopped in front of a mangled car door. Then they leaned down a little, and a face appeared through the broken glass. By the ears, they were elven, and by the locks of brilliant white hair framing their face, they were ancient indeed.

“Greetings, demon.” said the elf in a quiet tone. “You’ve made a mistake.”

Then they smiled. Alcor did not like the way they smiled.

“You’ve made a mistake,” He growled. “I don’t know how you’ve got me bound, but you can’t keep it up forever. If I get out and you’ve hurt one hair on Mizar’s head… what are you doing?”

The elder was waving at the other two. In unison, they kneeled on the ground, and started whispering to it. The bark creeping up Alcor’s chest started accelerating.

“Alcor the Dreambender,” the elder turned back to him. “You don’t know what a Sanctuary is, do you?”

“Wh-”

“No, you wouldn’t. Thus far, you’ve been a wise demon; you’ve stayed out of our affairs, and we’ve stayed out of yours.” They smiled. “Or perhaps, you’ve just been a lucky one. If you were wise, you wouldn’t have meddled last night, would you?”

“Meddled?” They leaned back as the elder leaned in close. “You were trying to kill Mizar, you- get back!”

“Let me educate you, child.” They whispered in his ear. “We will grow a great forest over your body. We will live in this Sanctuary, we will walk these woods, and our every thought will keep you bound, will keep you aslumber. And your wistful dreams will cause flowers to bloom in the springtime.”

With a smile, they stepped away, and spoke again.

“Now, do you see? Do you see why you should have been wise, demon?”

Alcor growled. After a moment, he got his claws under the bark encircling his neck. With a little effort, he ripped it away, and glared up at the elder.

“You can’t bind me forever. I’ll get out - you’ll regret this!”

“Hmm… perhaps. But not in time to protect that which you travel with. This… Mizar, you say?”

“Don’t you dare.” Alcor lunged at him. “Don’t you dare! D̞̖̟̱͉O̡͖͇̫N̳̦̳̫̮͎̯'T̹̼̮̤̠͢ͅ ̻̼Y̮͖̜OU҉͙̠̪̭̞̭ ͙̥͍̙͚̹̻D͈A̵̞̠̫̙̲̝R̠E͚̜̺̫̬!̦̤̬͉̪”

“A Mizar…” They stroked their beard. “So that is how it enlisted your help.”

“She҉ is̡ ̵mi͠ne͘!͜ S̸h̸e ìs mine̢!̕ ̷You̧ ̷hu̴rt̢ my̕ Mi͘zar,̴ ̸I ̢W̨ILĻ ͢ḰĮLL͢ ̨Y̵OU̧!”

“But she is not your Mizar.”

Alcor frowned. “Don’t you tell me who my Mizar is - I can feel it. I know!”

At that, the elf… laughed. He growled.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Oh… it’s not funny.” They sighed; for once, the smile seemed to dip. “It’s not funny. I suppose it just… to see it happen again, it’s strange, is it not?”

Alcor watched the elf look into the distance. In their eyes were a thousand memories, and in their furrowing brow, a thousand pains. It seemed like an eternity before they spoke again.

“I had a daughter, once,” they started. “Long ago. Before I was one of the elders. Before the Transcendence. Shalana, her name was.”

Alcor watched the elf smile.

“And she was so full of life. She loved to dance with the wind and the leaves. And she loved everyone around her.” They shook their head. “She trusted everyone around her, and… she was mistaken.”

Alcor frowned. “What happened?”

“This is why you outsiders shouldn’t meddle.” They glanced up at him. “You ask me what happened - any elf would know what happened, but you are…” they sighed. “You don’t know of the Blighted Ones - they are hunters of us. Very specialized hunters; humans would see through their tricks, but we-“ they gestured at their visor. “We cannot. And you cannot, either.”

“What do you mean?” Alcor raised an eyebrow. “I have enough magic to see through any illusion-“

“And it is your magic that prevents you from seeing the truth! These creatures feed on magic - they twist your Sight, you cannot trust what you see!” The elf clenched their fists. “Just like Shalana could not See. She thought it was a friend who wanted to walk the forest with her; instead it was her doom.”

Alcor made a face. “I’m… so sorry to hear that.”

They looked at him, and did not smile. “You dare apologise to me?” They hissed, and leaned in closer. “You dare apologise to me when you saved her murderer last night!”

Alcor felt the elder grab his suit and wrench him in close. He was too stunned to resist.

“I spent millennia pleading with the Elders to hunt this creature down! Now I am one, and you dare interfere? You dare deny her justice? And for what?” They dug angrily in his suit pocket, and drew out the dewdrop. “For this?! This is what I’ll lose my retribution over?!”

Alcor couldn’t respond. The bark creeped up his neck, and he was fighting to keep his eyes open. The elder was only a blur as they pushed themself off of him.

“No…” they said. “Calm. Be calm. The mountain does not sway like the wind around it.”

He tried to sit up, but he was rooted to the seat. Nothing budged.

“I should not be surprised by this,” said the elf. “I should not. After all, what does a demon know of love?”

The bark was stretching over his jawline. Alcor could hardly summon the strength to panic anymore.

“Sleep well, Dreambender. You will wake to a better world- what is that?”

His closing eyes rolled over to look, and he saw something drop from the trees. There was a snarl, a cry, and the two elves stood up; suddenly the sleepiness fell away from him, and he jolted awake.

Mizar - or whatever she was - was the first thing he saw. She had the elder pinned, and with the back of her hand she slapped the visor off his face. They pushed her off and jumped away, covering their face.

“No! No! My eyes deceive! You’re not her!”

The two elves drew their swords and closed in. Mizar danced back as they slashed, glanced to the car, and then ripped off the side door and used it like a shield. One elf stabbed and stuck their sword in; she twisted it out of their hand, bashed them to the floor, then pounced on top and ripped out their throat.

The other elf raised their sword and drove it down through her back. She let out a cry, but in a flash she was on her feet again, eyes on the blade. They tried to slash at her; she caught their arm, twisted it back, and slammed them into the dirt.

Then it was silent, but for the quiet whimpering of the downed elf. Alcor watched her slowly, slowly kneel down to their level. She gripped their shoulders, and turned them over to face her.

He couldn’t see their face - only a sweater, and jangling bracelets on her arms. But the elf saw something else; he saw them go rigid, saw their feet kick up leaves as they struggled to get away, heard their groans turn to a desperate cry -

“No, no! No! Help! Tarathiel, aid me! I-”

Then Mizar struck. Alcor flinched at the scream, at the crack of bone and gristle; a deep pit formed in her stomach as he heard her begin to eat. Yet the more he watched, strangely, the fuzzier she seemed. Whatever she was doing, it was like the world around him had formed a kind of censor, and even the sounds of it faded sharply.

Like something was twisting his Sight… Alcor looked down at the visor that had landed on the front seat. He took a deep breath, and then ripped his hand out of the bark that had encased it, grabbed the visor, and put it over his eyes.

Now he saw without Sight. Now he saw the Creature that he had called Mizar.

It wasn’t human, no. It was much taller, and so, so thin. It was covered in a layer of fine yet shaggy hair, lending a greyish tint to the pale skin beneath; around its legs it was matted and grimy with dried sewage. Its hands were curled, clawed things at the end of its sticklike arms, and it was digging them into the elf to scoop out meat and dripping organs.

It was… oh, stars. Alcor felt a rush of primal fear at the sight of it, and he couldn’t help but gasp.

The Creature heard that; it froze, and then its head snapped around. Its face: its eyes were up where its forehead should’ve been, and the rest was all mouth, dripping with blood. Its jagged teeth glinted like broken glass as it turned and knuckle-walked towards him.

Alcor couldn’t help it; he growled, he leaned away as far as he could. “No… stay, stay back!”

He threw a blast of fire its way. It melted the side of the car, but nothing happened to the Creature - no, worse than nothing. His fire swirled around the narrow, bloodless hole in its chest, and sealed it.

“I’m warning you!” Alcor watched it squeeze itself through the opening in the car; it was so much larger than it looked. “Don’t come any closer, don’t - d-don’t touch me! What are you...”

It was reaching its filthy claws towards his face. He stiffened as they scraped against his forehead… then carefully closed around the visor, and took it off. The glow-eyed, primally terrifying being that hunched before him suddenly-

-just looked like a Mizar again. Felt like a Mizar again. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, there wouldn’t have been a doubt in his mind that this was his sister smiling sadly at him.

“I’m sorry,” said the Creature, with her voice. “I did lie to you. But… look, if I’ve built up any goodwill with you since we met… can you just hear me out? Please?”

Alcor didn’t move, didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. He watched the Creature’s eyes flit down, and fix on the branch that was keeping him in place. It reached out a lie of a hand.

“Here, let me get you out of that.”

[notmrskennedy]

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 

-------

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.

[singthebodyelectric-tmnt]

Intermission

Donatellos in Untitled Goose Game:

It was a lovely day in New York City...therefore statistically, something horrible will happen. There is a bush in Central Park, and in that bush, a honk sounded. Out popped a Goose with a purple bandana tied around its neck. He looked left, then right, then gave out two honks. Two goslings popped their heads out and they each gave out an affirmative honk. The Goose emerged from the bush with its goslings tumbling and waddling after him. It was a lovely day in New York City...and the Donatellos are horrible Geese.

“Oh fuck, it’s the horrible Goose and its spawn,” groaned a vendor of the gardens. “It’s just a goose, how bad can it be?” “When you see it in action, you’d take back those words” Riri and Cass were having a staredown across each other. Their respective counterparts looked at each other, then at the girls, then at Sunita eating nachos on a bench in between the two booths.

Sunita shrugged, “When it comes to cookies and brownies it’s serious business with those two”.

Riri grit her teeth and forced a smile, “At least I’m selling cookies for a cause. TO SAVE TREES CASS!” Cass smirked and thumped her chest, “HAH! When I take over the world with these brownies, WE WOULD  BE ABLE TO SAVE MORE TREES BY FORCE”. Lillie and April squinted at the Caseys. Casey shrugged as CJ carried over more boxes of brownies, “At least she’s enthusiastic”. April was about to comment back when she felt a tug on her pant leg. She looked down to see a little gosling with a little violet cape happily waddling up and down and honking at her now he has her attention. “Aww!” Both Lillie and April cooed. April set down the box of cookies and picked up the gosling. “Hey, there little guy! Oh my gosh. His little cape! So cute!”. The gosling preened at the attention. “He’s a very enthusiastic baby for something with a broken wing,” observed Lillie. The gosling honked and wibbled its tail feathers. Lillie smiled, “Aw cute baby! Riri get over here! Look at this cutie pie”. Riri came over to see what the fuss was about. Cass grinned, “Not that they’re distracted, we’re gonna crush these sales!”. She then turned to her brothers to see them huddled over something that was hiding under their booth. “Guys?” CJ was the first to surface with something cupped in his hands, “Look Cass, the little guy was stuck on our tablecloth” A sad, quiet honk came from the little gosling with red eyes and a lavender ribbon loosely tied around its neck in CJ’s hands. It trembled fearfully. Cass dropped the box she was holding and rushed over to CJ, “Oh no! Poor thing! Where’s its mama?” So busy were the Caseys and Aprils with the two goslings, no one noticed the Goose took a box of cookies from the Aprils’ table, casually waddled over to the Caseys’ booth, and swapped a box of cookies with a box of brownies. He then waddled back to the cookie table and placed the box of brownies on it. No one even noticed the switch.

No one but Sunita, eating her nachos in amusement. The Goose waddled over to her side, settled there, and then gave a loud honk. The two goslings honked back and scrambled back to the Goose. The red-eyed gosling buried itself under its parent’s feathers, the caped gosling took its time, honking and twirling in glee to the joy of everyone witnessing it. There was a screech and then, “THE HECK IS THIS APRIL!? Why did you sneak your wares into mine? That’s playing DIRTY !” Riri pounded her fist on her table, “Pot calling the kettle dirty, Jonesy? What about this box of your brownies mixed in with mine!?” “I DIDN’T DO IT!” “NEITHER DID I!” “HAVE AT IT O’NEIL!” “PUT YOUR MONEY WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS JONES!” April and Lillie looked at each other, then at the Caseys. Oh no.

Sunita watched the ensuing carnage then eyed the Goose. “Good job raising hell guys,” she divided her nachos and gave the non cheesed bits to the Goose and its goslings. The goslings happily snack on their hard-earned loot. The Goose gave a hjonk of thanks toward Sunita’s way and waited for its children to finish before it ate.

They need the energy to cause more mayhem and the day is long. --- It was noon. Foot Brute and Foot Lieutenant surveyed the city from their vantage point. “Well Brute, what is our agenda for today?” The Brute smiled and said, “The same thing we do every day, sir. Try to take over the world”. The Lieutenant smiled, pleased that his partner and daughter were still in the business, despite their initial struggles. Leading the Foot Clan is exhausting without backup. There was a tiny honk in the vicinity of their feet. They both looked down to see a gosling with red eyes staring at them. “Aww”, Foot Brute cooed. He picked it up gently and asked, “Where’s your parent, little one?” A scream curdled the air and they looked down to the streets to see their daughter screaming her lungs out being chased by her friend...and chasing after them some kind of robot. Foot Lieutenant sighed and massaged his temples. “Oh, Casey… what now?”

Foot Brute put down the gosling in a safe place, “I’m sure your parents will find you little one. Stay put”. He then followed his husband and easily hauled a large contraption upon his shoulders. They did not notice another gosling hopping off the contraption proudly holding a screw in its beak. Out of the shadows, the Goose emerged. The goslings regrouped on their parent’s back and the Goose fluttered down to a staircase. There were more denizens of New York to bother. ---

Baron Draxum stared down the pest of New York City, the great Goose of Central Park, as screams erupted all around them. The Goose narrowed its eyes at the sheep yokai and raised its wings in a threatening manner. They were at a standstill. “NOT THE FACE, NOT THE FACE!!!,” pleaded Warren as a gosling with a cape cackled in glee over the worm mutant. “Darling, hold still, please! I’m trying to not harm you and the little one,” Hypno said nervously as he tried to grab the little dramatic gosling.

“Well, if you don’t do anything fast, I’M GOING TO GET EATEN!”

Draxum looked to the side to see Todd gently picking up the red-eyed gosling that had outsmarted Repo Mantis and Meat Sweats from a pile who were now screaming at each other. Draxum glared at the Goose who seemed to radiate smugness back at him. “If I give you what you need, will you and your children leave this human-mutant soiree alone?” The Goose seemed to think about it. It lowered its wings. It agreed. Draxum sighed. Can this day get any weirder ? ---

“Oh my, my! What a delightful treat to watch!,” Big Mama clapped her hands excitedly as three of the Mud Dogs tried capturing the Goose, who was nonchalant about the damage it was doing.

It popped up behind Heinous Green and honked. The oni stiffened then slowly raised his fist to grab it. The Goose then jumped as Heinous’s fist connected to his face. Mickey and Leonard both made a grab for it and slammed their faces together for their efforts. The Goose plopped around Big Mama’s office in search of something. Danny raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at Big Mama. “Are you sure you don’t want me to let this creature out of your office, Ma’am?” Big Mama put a finger to her chin. “Absolutely. Not until I find out what it’s looking for”. Danny shook his head and then looked down to see two goslings hiding behind a potted plant watching their parent cause chaos. Ah . That explained it. He kneeled and reached inside his suit to take out a couple of crackers to give to the goslings. The caped one gleefully grabbed a cracker and began munching. The red-eyed one with the ribbon fluffed up its feathers and began to cry. At once, the Goose hurried toward him, put its children behind it, and hissed at him. Danny put his hands up, “Easy. I know why you’re here. I got kids too, a tiger cub and a kit. You can leave after we give you food, right?”. The Goose had bared its terrifying numerous sawed teeth, then it stopped. It huffed when it noticed that its other gosling was also eating. Danny offered the Goose the wrapped package of crackers. The Goose narrowed its eyes at him. Then it honked and took the crackers from Danny. The Goslings climbed up their parent’s back and the Goose plopped out the office with its beak in the air. Danny sighed. Those crackers were for his little Alopex and Tigerclaw, damn it. Big Mama patted his shoulder with a small bag of unicorns and gold. “Well spotted. I too have children, four teenage boys to be exact, and I do know how they get hungry easily. Buy your children a good meal instead of light snacks, yes?” ----

“It is a wonderful evening in this rooftop garden, Master Splinter,” Splinter said arranging a potted plant on the ground. “It is, Master Splinter,” Lou agreed, sitting crossed-legged on the ground with a tea set in front of him. Next to him was the Goose with a purple bandana around its neck, sitting peacefully, eyes closed. Splinter sat in front of them and poured himself a cup of tea. A few meters away, the two goslings were trying to scale a miniature tower. In the background, screams of despair rose as mild annoyances cropped up across New York. Splinter raised a brow, “You were busy today, Goose-san”. The Goose did not bother to answer. The caped gosling hauled its brother onto a platform and used itself as support so that the red eyed gosling can reach the bell at the top of the miniature tower. “Incredible display of acrobatics from your children, Goose-san. We prefer this to your usual method of pecking the base of the tower until it topples over and you can reach the bell. It is very expensive and time-consuming to keep rebuilding the tower”. The Goose opened its eyes and stood up, welcoming its children for their victory, the red-eyed one holding the bell in its beak and the caped one hopping up and down and around them. The Goose waddled away from the garden with its children and Lou waved, “See you next week, Goose-san!” More screaming and wailing can be heard in the background. ---- The Goose of New York carried the bell to their little neck of the park. It carefully hung the bell on their security, which was a long line of yarn and bells hanging on it. The Goose gently put its sleeping children under their favorite bush. It stared at the lights of New York City. The silence of their little spot was quite calming and the Goose decided it was done for the day. It was a beautiful night in New York City and the days that follow will be beautiful as well. The Goose thrummed pleased at the day's events. But not for long. Peace was never an option.

[thelastspeecher]

A Kiss From a Nixie

Here’s a follow-up to the ficlet I posted the other day, where, in a Mystery Trio-style AU, Stan meets a frog-lady and falls in love with her.  In this ficlet, we learn about the origins of Stan’s frog-lady, as well as the proper term for her species.  I’m very happy about this scenario and have been enjoying it a lot.  Hopefully, y’all enjoy it, too~

——————————————————————————————

              Stan and Angie stared silently at each other. Angie suddenly turned beet red.

              “Stanley.  I’m naked,” she whispered.  Stan felt himself flush at the reminder.  He spun around so that she could get dressed without him watching.  “Thank you.”

              “What- how-” Stan stammered, still with his back to Angie.  He took a deep breath.  “First question.  Is Fiddlenerd a frog too?”

              “No.  He’s not.”

              “Did the frog gene skip him?”

              “I wasn’t born like this.  It happened while I was at college.”  A million more questions immediately formed on Stan’s tongue. “You can turn ‘round again.”  Stan turned.  Angie was now wearing a flannel top and some jeans.  She pulled on a pair of boots.  “And no, Fidds don’t know.  Actually…”  There was a beat.  She looked up at Stan.  “Yer the first person to know.”

              “Wait.  Really?” Stan asked.  Angie nodded. “Geez.”  He stuffed his hands into his pockets.  “I…I wasn’t expecting that.  I mean, you and Fiddlenerd are annoyingly close.”

              “You’ve known Fidds fer a lil while.  How do ya think he would react to findin’ out his precious baby sister is sometimes a frog?” Angie asked dryly.  Stan winced, already imagining the freakout.  “That’s why.”

              “Fair enough.  How’d you turn into a…I dunno, merfrog?”  Angie snorted.

              “Merfrog.  I like it.”

              “I don’t know the real word for…”  Stan gestured vaguely at Angie.  “…whatever you are.”

              “I don’t know it, either.  The person what turned me didn’t exactly share that information.”

              “Who turned you?”

              “A full-time frog person what lived in the pond just off campus.”  Angie scowled.  “They befriended me, then offered to kiss me.  That kiss was what did me in.”

              “Why’d you agree to kiss a frog person?” Stan asked. Angie turned pink.

              “I sometimes have poor impulse control,” she said quietly.

              “Been there.”  Stan frowned.  “Hang on. A kiss from a frog person turned you into one?”  Angie nodded. “I feel like it’s supposed to go the other way around.  At least, according to fairy tales.”

              “Well, I know the kiss was what did it, ‘cause immediately I started changin’, and the frog person told me that they were excited fer me to live with ‘em.”  Angie sighed heavily.  “I’ve been a frog ever since.”

              “But you can turn human.”

              “Yessir.”

              “Huh.”  Stan looked at Angie thoughtfully.  “Y’know, Ford would have a field day with this.”

              “Oh, hell no.  I ain’t tellin’ yer weird brother.  No offense.”

              “None taken.”  Stan walked over to Angie.  “You got somethin’.”  He pulled a clump of mud out of her hair.  Angie turned bright red again.  “Want me to give you a ride back to the house?”

              “That would be great.  Thank you.”

              “No problem.”  Stan headed back towards the Stanleymobile, Angie close behind.  “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

              “I wasn’t expectin’ to be here very long. Certainly not long enough that I would have a reason to tell someone my secret.  But, I don’t know, somethin’ ‘bout Gravity Falls makes me feel pretty content.”  Stan glanced back.  Angie was looking around, admiring the surrounding trees.  “I might want to move up here, to be honest.  I can do my research or even help Stanford with his. He was tellin’ me the other day that he wants to hire a biologist.”

              “Gravity Falls is nicer than I expected,” Stan agreed. He cleared his throat.  “Do you have to go to the pond every day or something?”

              “Geez, yer full of questions, ain’t ya?”

              “The frog-lady I’ve been chatting up for the last two weeks just turned into my brother’s partner’s little sister,” Stan said dryly.  “Duh.” Angie chuckled softly.

              “Fair enough.”  They emerged from the trees and made a beeline for the Stanleymobile.  “I have to shift into my frog form and submerge myself in water fer at least an hour every day.  Ideally, I spend more time like that.  That’s just the bare minimum to keep myself healthy.”

              “Did the frog person who turned you tell you that?”

              “Nope.  Figured it out through trial and error.  Since I got to Gravity Falls, I’ve been sneakin’ out of the house after everyone’s asleep and goin’ to the lake to sleep in there.”  They came up to the car.  Stan pulled out his key to unlock it.  Angie got into the passenger seat, beaming.  “I even made myself a nice little hole in the mud to sleep in.”

              “You’re not worried about Fiddlenerd wondering where you are?” Stan asked, getting into the driver’s seat.  Angie shook her head.

              “I’m a deep sleeper with a specific sleep schedule. Fidds knows better ‘n to mess with that.”

              “Makes sense.”  Stan started the car.  “So, you-” Angie sighed loudly.

              “Look, I understand that ya have a lot of questions. I’ll answer all of ‘em at some point, but right now, I can only answer one more.”

              “Fair.”  Stan pulled out of the parking lot.  He frowned thoughtfully.  “Okay. I know what I wanna ask.”

              “Hit me.”

              “Did you eat my bait?” Stan asked.  Angie looked away hurriedly, though Stan could see a flush spreading across her features, down to her neck.  “When I opened my tacklebox after you returned it, the fresh bait was gone.”  He held up a hand.  “I’m not judging you for eating worms.  You’re part frog.  But I just wanna know if you ate them.”  Angie stayed silent.  “Come on, you said you’d answer my question.”  After a long pause, she finally replied.

              “No comment.”

-----

              Angie giggled at Stan’s joke.  He grinned proudly, warmth spreading across his cheeks. After spending the day moving Angie into her new house in Gravity Falls, he was happy to have quality time with his sort-of frog sort-of girlfriend.  They were at the lake so that Angie could be in her frog form, though Fiddlenerd and Ford thought they were still at Angie’s house.

              “Still can’t believe Stanford actually supported leaving us alone together,” Angie remarked.  To Stan’s amusement, it wasn’t just the tone of her voice that changed in her frog form.  Her thick southern accent was also nearly nonexistent.  At first, he thought it was because she was disguising herself.  But even after coming clean about who she was, she didn’t have an accent in frog form.

              “Ford thinks that I’m more responsible and take better care of myself when I’m dating someone,” Stan said with a shrug.  “I’m not surprised he’s encouraging me to ‘woo’ you.”  Angie giggled again, a sound like a babbling brook.  Stan dug around in the bag of snacks they’d picked up at the gas station on the way over.  “Hungry?”

              “Yes,” Angie said eagerly.  Stan pulled out the container of live bait and set it on the wood of the dock.  He lifted the lid.  Angie reached out a webbed, frog-like hand and daintily grabbed one of the wriggling worms.  Stan opened his bag of chips, smiling fondly at her.

              A few days ago, Angie had finally confessed that, since becoming a merfrog, she had developed a taste for bugs and worms. Stan had already known, but he appreciated that Angie trusted him enough to tell him.  After all, she was visibly embarrassed by her cravings for creepy-crawlies.

              It’s probably ‘cause she was raised to be a proper southern lady or whatever.  Angie popped a worm into her mouth.  Good thing I don’t care about that.

              “Stanley?”  Stan looked over his shoulder.  Ford was walking down the dock towards him.  Angie gasped softly.  There was a splash.  Without looking, Stan knew she had gone underwater before Ford could see her up close. “What are you doing here, talking to a nixie?  I thought you were helping Angie settle in.”

              “Nixie?”

              “Yes.”  Ford sat next to Stan.  “That was the creature you were speaking with.”  His eyes widened.  “Is she the frog-lady you were talking about a few months ago?”

              “Duh.”

              “I would have believed you if you told me she was a nixie!”

              “Wh-”  Stan scoffed. “Do I look like someone who knows what a nixie is?”

              “Did she not tell you?”

              “It’s racist to ask someone what they are, Sixer,” Stan said flatly.  Ford let out a soft laugh.  “Angie sent me out to grab some snacks, so I figured I stop by the lake to talk to Rana while I was out.”

              “Her name is Rana?” Ford asked.  Stan nodded.  “Fascinating.”  He stared at the spot where Angie had been.  “Would you be willing to tell me more about her?”

              “Nope.”  Stan stood up.  “You didn’t believe me when I first asked you, and now I’ve learned that she’s an actual person, not some weird ‘anomaly’ for you to study.”  He pulled his car keys out of his pocket.  “And Angie’s probably waiting for me at her place, so I better get going.”

              “You’re forgetting something,” Ford said, pointing at the bait still sitting on the dock.  A webbed hand quickly grabbed the bait and brought it underwater.  Ford’s jaw dropped.  “Remarkable.”

-----

              It was yet another peaceful, misty morning at Lake Gravity Falls.  Stan sighed.

              “Enjoying the quiet?” Angie asked from her spot in the lake.  Stan nodded. “Have the Fords been especially loud lately or something?”

              “The Fords?”

              “It’s shorter than saying their full names,” Angie said.  Stan snorted in amusement.

              “Nah, they’ve actually been quieter than usual. I don’t trust it.  They’re up to something.”  Angie snickered.  “Have you finished the research Ford wanted you to do?”

              “Oh, yeah.”  Angie floated on her back, staring up at the dusty blue sky.  “I finished it real quick.  It’s pretty easy to get information from magical creatures when you’re one of ‘em.”

              “Maybe you should give Ford a big smooch.  Turn him into a frog.  He’ll finish his research in record time,” Stan joked. The only response was a soft splash. Stan looked over.  “Ang?”  Angie was gone.  “Something wrong?”  Nothing happened.  Stan sighed.  “What did I say?”  Angie slowly surfaced.

              “I…”  She took a shuddering breath.  “I love you.” Stan’s heart stopped.  “But I-”  Angie covered her face with her large, webbed hands.  “I can’t- I can’t act on any of my feelings.”  Stan scooted closer, his legs dangling over the edge of the pier.

              “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.  Angie let out a sob.

              “I want to kiss you more than- more than anything. But if I do, then you’ll- you’ll be like me.  And I don’t want to turn you into a- into a frog!” she wailed.

              “Hey.”  Stan took one of Angie’s hands.  She looked up at him.  “That’s my decision to make, okay?  If I wanna risk turning into a frog so that I can kiss you, I’ll do that.”

              “R-really?” Angie asked in a tremulous voice.

              “Remember how you said you kissed that nixie ‘cause you had poor impulse control?”  Angie nodded. Stan grinned.  “You’re not the only one.”  He pulled Angie close.  Just as his lips met Angie’s, there was a loud shout.

              “Wait!”

-----

              Further attempts to pry information out of Stan about the nixie he’d befriended had failed.  So, Ford had to resort to collecting his own data.  This translated into watching from afar as, every day at dawn, Stan sat on the dock and spoke with the nixie.  Fortunately, Ford was skilled enough at camouflage by now that he wasn’t seen.  Unfortunately, he was unable to get close without risking being spotted.

              That morning, he wasn’t alone at the lake.  He had dragged Fiddleford out of bed to come see the nixie for himself.  Fiddleford wasn’t pleased.

              “Stanford, yer lucky I ain’t the kind of sleeper my sister is,” Fiddleford groused as they hid in the bushes, watching Stan talk to the nixie.  “Last time someone woke her up ‘fore she was ready, they got a broken nose fer their trouble.”

              “Yes, yes, I’m very lucky,” Ford said.  “Now, please, be quiet.  It looks like they’re talking about something serious.”

              “You won’t hear any of it, no matter how quiet I get.  We’re too far away,” Fiddleford pointed out.  Ford ignored the logical argument, focusing intently upon the conversation at the dock.  The nixie seemed emotionally distraught over something.  Stan leaned in, visibly affected by her distress.  He grabbed her hand and pulled her close.  Then, to Ford’s horror, Stan kissed the nixie.

              “Wait!” Ford shouted, bursting out of the bushes. Stan and the nixie jumped.  Ford sprinted over to his brother and the magical creature, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing.

              No.  No. This isn’t good.  Ford hadn’t had the chance to study a nixie properly yet, but he had read enough about them and other water sprites to know that even touching one could have serious consequences.  Stanley, you idiot!  Aren’t you dating Angie, anyways?  I didn’t think you were the kind of person to cheat!  Still frozen in shock, the nixie and Stan hadn’t moved by the time Ford arrived.

              “Stanley, what was that about?” Ford demanded. “You shouldn’t just kiss random magical creatures!”

              “She’s not random,” Stan said.  His articulation was sloppier than usual, almost like he was slurring a bit.  The nixie looked at him with sudden concern.  “I know her.”

              “Yes, but-”  Ford ran his hands through his hair.  “Kissing a nixie can have unforeseen side effects!”

              “I know!”  Stan’s speech was definitely slurred.  He gestured drunkenly to the nixie.  “That’s how she got stuck in this situation!”  Ford looked at the nixie.  His fingers itched for a pen and paper.  Up close, she was just as eerily beautiful as she’d seemed from a distance. Her green, mottled skin glistened from lake water.  Large, webbed ears poked out from her short, black hair.  But most distinctive were her kind eyes, a soft shade of blue that Ford immediately recognized.  He saw those eyes every time he looked at Fiddleford.

              Everything clicked into place.

              I was right. Stan would never cheat on Angie, even for a magical creature.

              “Angie?” Ford croaked.  Angie, for he was certain that the nixie was Angie, ignored him. She pulled herself onto the pier, revealing the same hourglass shape she had as a human, but lacking any mammalian features.

              That makes me feel much more comfortable with the fact she’s unclothed.  

              “Stanley, are you all right?” she asked.  Stan grinned at her.  His eyes were unfocused.

              “Yeah, babe.”  He leaned closer to her.  “I liked that kiss.  Go ahead and give me another one, okay?”

              “Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

              “What?”  Stan seemed blindsided.  “Why not?”

              “You’re acting either stoned or plastered and I’m not sure which one,” Angie said.  Ford’s eyes widened.

              “Your accent is gone!”

              “I- yes- it- I don’t know why, maybe it’s ‘cause when I first turned frog, I was hiding my accent a lot.  But that’s not important right now!” Angie snapped. “Something happened to Stan!”

              “Well, you kissed him while in nixie form,” Ford pointed out.  “If you’d kissed him in human form, I doubt there would have been any reaction at all.” Angie stared at him.  “I’ve never heard of a nixie being able to switch between their native form and a human one.”

              “I- my native form is human, you dingus! I wasn’t always part frog!”

              “Fascinating,” Ford breathed.  Angie groaned loudly.  She took Stan’s hand.

              “Stanley, sit down for me, okay?” she said.  Stan sat down heavily.  He grinned at her.  “Oof.  Uh. Your eyes are dilated something fierce, darling.”

              “You’re fierce,” Stan slurred.  He winked.  Angie grimaced.  Footsteps sounded on the deck.  “Ang, you’re the prettiest frog in the world.”  The footsteps stopped.

              “Angie?!” Fiddleford shrieked.  Angie immediately dove into the lake, disappearing into the depths.  Stan leaned over the edge of the pier.

              “Come back, Angie!” he called.

              “I have to agree,” Fiddleford said, quickly catching up to Stan and Ford.  “Banjolina Quinn McGucket, get back here!”

              “Heh.”  Stan giggled. “Banjo.”  He leaned further.  “Banjo!” He fell forward.  Before Ford or Fiddleford could grab him, a webbed hand shot out of the water to nudge him back onto the pier.  Angie emerged from the lake.  Fiddleford fell to his knees.

              “Oh, Lord,” he breathed.  “I’d recognize that face anywhere.  Angie, what happened?  How did you become this?”

              “I…”  Angie swallowed.  “Stan can tell you.”  Stan leaned over the edge of the pier again.

              “I heard my name,” he purred.  Angie surfaced further until she and Stan were face-to-face.  She stroked his cheek.  “Hey, gorgeous.”

              “I’m- I’m sorry I did this to you.  Rest up.”  She looked at Fiddleford.  “Take care of him.”

              “Angie, you can’t just leave without explainin’ anything!” Fiddleford protested.  Angie closed her eyes.

              “I need- I need a minute.”  She sunk underwater.

              “Angie, no!” Stan cried out.  Ford and Fiddleford grabbed him before he could jump into the lake. “No!”  Stan slumped back and began to sob.  “She’s gone.  Forever.”

              “Stanley, once she’s had some time to collect herself, she’ll be back,” Ford said calmly.  “Now, we should probably find some sort of antitoxin to counteract that kiss.”  He pulled Stan to his feet.  Stan immediately leaned against him.  “Fiddleford, a little help?”  Fiddleford was still staring at the lake.  “Fiddleford?”

              “Oh, yes.”  Fiddleford came over.  He looped one of Stan’s arms over his shoulders.  “Don’t worry, Stan, Ford’s right.  Angie will be back.”  He scowled. “If I have to drain this whole godforsaken lake to find her.”

[rataltouille]

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​