#i can write British toad so easy guys skskskak

[blackberry-gingham]

Hey so I have this kind of hyper specific idea I’ve been rolling around in my brain like a gas station hotdog. SO, Mortimer was cast out from group (I don’t see our low self esteem boy leaving on his own) and he ends up on your property in the middle of nowhere. You feel bad for this guy who’s obviously not had a good time of it and offer him room and board in exchange for helping you around your fixer upper house you just bought. Idk idk something about making a home with him and giving him praise and gentle correction instead of mockery for the first time in his life has me feeling a certain way. He would have feelings but wouldn’t want to push his luck and you don’t want to take advantage of him as he has nowhere else to go so it’s mutual pining galore.

NEMSKWKWK OK BUT THE HOTDOG ANALOGY LITERALLY MADE ME LAUGH LMAOOOO

This turned into like a mini fic ig??? Sorry but yeah I had to go with this concept, I love it so much!!!! 😭😭

Ok you're going to have to forgive me bc I've got my southern gothic playlist going so I'm in a very specific Mood™ but like KSSKSKAKAK.

Just, reader living out by the bayou for this scenario. Toad of course is out there somewhere, but he is struggling. All kinds of gators and pests, you know? Kind of makes it suck, especially having to eat bugs and drink from the swamp and basically sleep in the mud.

He didn't think he'd be stranded out here for so long. Surely the others will want him back right? They'll come for him, drag him back, kick him about a little, and then things will go back to normal... Right?

He would've thought so, and yet here he lies. Surrounded by filth and steadily starving more and more as the days drag on.

By the time he comes across any sort of shelter, he's all worn down. He hopes through an open window to spend the night away from the swamp, and... that's that. It's basically abandoned, but it's intact enough to live in.

In fact that's just the reason you wanted it. A little place to truly make your own and far enough away from any annoyances of the outside world.

Although... You can't say the swamp doesn't get to you. They're just stories. Silly folk tales and such. But... They say things live out there.

Unnatural things.

You hardly believe in things like ghosts, but... Some nights you swear you see moving shadows.

When you come downstairs that morning... Shit, you swear you nearly had a heart attack. A stranger, a young man, you think... He's all but collapsed on your floor, laying in a small pool of mud and slimey water.

Of all the things he could've woken up to, a 12 gauge pointed at his face was about the last thing Mort expected. Looking just a little past the barrel, he's more surprised that you didn't just blow him into pulp. That's about the treatment he'd expect from a human, anyway...

You threaten him. Question him. But who gives a damn? If he runs out, he's dead. If he stays here, he's dead. At least the shotgun will put him out of his misery faster.

Your heart races with terror. Fuck fuck fuck... What is that thing?

Whatever he is, he refuses to speak. You're honestly not even sure if he can. The being watches you with enlarged, tired eyes. After some more effort and prodding from you to get him to do or say... Well, something... He just sighs and rolls them.

"Fuckin' hell, if you're going to shoot me will you just bloody do it?", he rolls over onto his stomach so he can no longer see what you're doing, "...I've had enough"

The accent catches you off guard almost more than the fact that he can actually speak. You don't want to push, but...

"You got a name at least?"

He picks his face up off the rough, worn out floorboards just enough to speak clearly, "Toad. Put that on the fucking headstone, will ya?"

You fix the back of his head with a bewildered look and lower your weapon. More confused than anything else, you see if you can keep him talking. Whatever he is... You don't want to kill him.

"Are you... From around here?"

He makes a strange noise... You'd almost say it sounded like an animal. Slowly, and with great difficulty not seems, he jerks himself off the floor.

"Does it bloody sound like it?", He huffs angrily, but... You don't feel particularly threatened. Scared? Maybe. Whatever the case, he seems to be doing worse off then you first thought.

Now that he's up, you can see him more clearly. He's young and awfully skinny, but looks to be around your age. He reeks of the bayou and is encrusted with mud and filth. Aside from that, you can't possibly miss the way he's holding his side.

Is that mud or... blo-?

Toad jerks to the side to stop your staring. Then winces in pain. He gives a weary sigh of resignation. The aggressive front melts away.

His voice is soft, quiet. He sighs. Then, as though he doesn't want you to hear, "...Forget it"

He brushes past you, limping his way towards the door.

You stop him.

"Wait... You're hurt?"

Toad freezes at your touch. His shirt is stiff from nights upon nights in the mud and swamp. Your hand is clamped tightly around this wiry bicep. It doesn't hurt, but... Well he can't help but be atunned.

How long has it been since he's felt a touch, and not a strike?

Snap out of it. He shakes out his mop of hair, then fixes you with a sneer, "What do you care?", He jerks his arm free, only to cause himself double the pain.

"Well... I don't want you getting yourself done in even worse out there, is all. Patch you up before you go?"

He thinks about it for a moment. He'll heal from it... Eventually. But he's gotta say, nearly thought he was done for when that gator got a hold of him.

Toad looks from his side... To your gun... And to you.

He's dead anyway if he leaves...

"What the hell...", he sighs with great exhaustion, "Fine"