#oc: art van houten

[dragonlikeleaves]

Tried my hand at making a Rusty Lake oc. Not sure about his backstory yet, but he’s worked an eclectic mix of jobs in his life (butcher, lighthouse keeper, janitor, and a farmhand, to name a few) mostly out of necessity. But one thing that’s stuck by him is birding/bird watching.

Maybe he came to the Lake attracted by the prospect of being able to do just that while forgetting his troubles, even just a little.

[mtuky92]

Day 24 : shallow

[potatothemouse]

I don’t have anything else to say

[newtoarlen]

Tell me which ship that includes my Rebecca Simpson OC, you want to see my best art of.

1. Sideshow Bob X Rebecca

2. Krusty X Rebecca

3. Milhouse X Rebecca

4. Moe X Rebecca

5. Mr. Burns X Rebecca

6. Principal Skinner X Rebecca

7. Sean Bont X Rebecca

8. Apu X Rebecca

9. Barney X Rebecca

10. Blake Black X Rebecca

11. Bode Wright X Rebecca

12. Chief Wiggum X Rebecca

13. Colin X Rebecca

14. Jack DeForest X Rebecca

15. Frank Grimes X Rebecca

16. Superintendent Chalmers X Rebecca

17. Ol' Gil X Rebecca

18. Hank Scorpio X Rebecca

19. Hubert Wong X Rebecca

20. Ralph X Rebecca

21. Jacques Brunswick X Rebecca

22. Jimbo X Rebecca

23. Professor Frink X Rebecca

24. Julio Franco X Rebecca

25. Karl (Simpson and Delilah) X Rebecca

26. Lenny X Rebecca

27. Luke Stetson X Rebecca

28. Sideshow Mel X Rebecca

29. Ned Flanders X Rebecca

30. Nelson X Rebecca

31. Brenden Biederbecke X Rebecca

32. Nick (the Daughter Also Rises) X Rebecca

33. Stonecutter Number One X Rebecca

34. Otto X Rebecca

35. Grady X Rebecca

36. Lucas Porter X Rebecca

37. Snake Jailbird X Rebecca

38. Thelonious (Trilogy of Error) X Rebecca

39. Troy McClure X Rebecca

40. Freddie Scorpio X Rebecca

41. Lionel Hutz X Rebecca

42. Hugh Parkfield X Rebecca

43. Dr. Nick X Rebecca

44. Cecil Terwilliger X Rebecca

45. Fat Tony X Rebecca

46. Edmund (Tweenlight) X Rebecca

47. Reverend Lovejoy X Rebecca

48. Todd Flanders X Rebecca

49. Walt Warren (the Bob Next Door) X Rebecca

50. Willie X Rebecca

51. Bart X Rebecca

52. Herbert Powell X Rebecca

53. Homer X Rebecca

54. Jack Lassen X Rebecca

55. Artie Ziff X Rebecca

56. Jack Crowley X Rebecca

57. Dwight Diddlehopper X Rebecca

58. Mr. Bergstrom X Rebecca

59. Freddy Quimby X Rebecca

60. Comic Book Guy X Rebecca

61. Bleeding Gums Murphy X Rebecca

62. Cletus Spuckler X Rebecca

63. Disco Stu X Rebecca

64. Larry Burns X Rebecca

65. Officer Eddie X Rebecca

66. Hans Moleman X Rebecca

67. Mayor Quimby X Rebecca

68. Michael D'Amico X Rebecca

69. Bartigula the Jerk (I, Carambus) X Rebecca

70. Dr. Marvin Monroe X Rebecca

71. Wayne Slater (The Falcon and the D'ohman) X Rebecca

72. Billie Joe Armstrong (Green Day) (The Simpsons Movie) X Rebecca

73. Kent Brockman X Rebecca

74. Carl Carlson X Rebecca

75. Langdon Alger (Simpsons Comics) X Rebecca

76. Charlie (Oh Brother, Where Bart Thou?) X Rebecca

77. Portuguese Boy (A Totally Fun Thing Bart Will Never Do Again) X Rebecca

78. Peta (Dry Hard) X Rebecca

79. Pita (Dry Hard) X Rebecca

80. Martin Prince X Rebecca

81. Kirk Van Houten X Rebecca

82. Blake (Three Dreams Denied) X Rebecca

83. Corey Masterson X Rebecca

84. Dolph X Rebecca

85. Donny (The deBarted) X Rebecca

86. Digby Diggs (Diggs) X Rebecca

87. Kevin (Stealing First Base) X Rebecca

88. Zachary Vaughn (Bart Gets a Z) X Rebecca

89. The Rich Texan/Richard Texan X Rebecca

90. Rainier Wolfcastle X Rebecca

91. Marv Szyslak X Rebecca

92. Michael De Graaf X Rebecca

93. August Steffan X Rebecca

94. Homer Simpson (Not It) X Rebecca

95. Erik X Rebecca

96. Moe Szyslak (Not It) X Rebecca

97. David (Treehouse of Horror XVI: Bartificial Intelligence) X Rebecca

98. Roger (Treehouse of Horror XXI: Master and Cadaver) X Rebecca

99. Hugo (Treehouse of Horror VII: The Thing and I) X Rebecca

100. Vampire Burns (Treehouse of Horror IV: Bart Simpson's Dracula) X Rebecca

101. John (Homer's Phobia) X Rebecca

102. Mike Wegman (Go Big or Go Homer) X Rebecca

103. Lyle Lanley (Marge vs. the Monorail) X Rebecca

104. Roger (Every Man's Dream) X Rebecca

105. Devil Flanders (Treehouse of Horror IV: The Devil and Homer Simpson) X Rebecca

106. Harry Potter (Treehouse of Horror XII: Wiz Kids) X Rebecca

107. The Fat in the Hat (Treehouse of Horror XXIV: The Fat in the Hat) X Rebecca

108. Reaper Homer (Treehouse of Horror XIV: Reaper Madness) X Rebecca

109. John Frink Sr. Robot (Treehouse of Horror XIV: Frinkenstein) X Rebecca

110. Mutant Burns (Treehouse of Horror VIII: Homega Man) X Rebecca

111. Hansel Bart (Treehouse of Horror XI: Scary Tales Can Come True) X Rebecca

112. Noir Homer (Treehouse of Horror XXXI: Into the Homerverse) X Rebecca

113. Dracula (Treehouse of Horror XX opening & Treehouse of Horror XXI: Tweenlight) X Rebecca

114. Stephen King (Treehouse of Horror XXIV opening) X Rebecca

115. Vampire Bart (Treehouse of Horror IV: Bart Simpson's Dracula) X Rebecca

116. Dr. Bartley (Treehouse of Horror XV: Four Beheadings and a Funeral) X Rebecca

[radwrites]

11:28PM | ‘the cryptid club’ excerpt

a response to an ask meme. thank you @phloxxiing!

word count: 561, tag list: @jeanjosten​, @syposium​, @ghafasinej​, @written-in-the-margins​ (ask/dm/reply if you’d like to be added/removed)

phrases that really hit you where it hurts meme / ask box

“I don’t want to be your fucking friend. I don’t even want to talk to you!”

The group goes quiet with little grace, and suddenly there’s nothing but the sound of crickets and the dampened house music from inside trying to cut their way through the palpable tension that’s taken up space in the air to try and choke River out of saying anything in response.

Taking advantage, Harmony decides to really sink his fangs in.

“I don’t give a shit about what happens to you or what your fucking problems are. And neither does anyone else here.”

Tears prickle at the corners of River’s eyes like she’s been slapped across the face, and though they threaten to spill over her cheeks with every needlessly cruel word she manages to hold firm, curling her trembling hands into fists to steady them.

Harmony reminds River a lot of her sister: so obviously wounded, striking out with bared teeth at any skin they can see just to make somebody else hurt for a change. It doesn’t get easier to be the punching bag, but River’s numbed herself to it a little since her mom died.

She carefully sucks in a breath and keeps her gaze level with his, refusing to drop her head down and cry.

“No one cares,” he continues. “Not Art, not Haverford, and especially not me.”

“Jesus,” Art finally gets to his feet, having heard enough, and positions himself defensively in front of River. She looks up at the back of his neck, mostly covered by his messy curls, and then to the tight, angry clench of his jaw.

He gives her the cover she needs to exhale. Her knees wobble.

Taller than her by a few inches, River peaks over Art’s bony shoulder as he shoves Harmony back a step.

“What the fuck is your problem, Harm? Leave her alone already!”

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

Harmony puts his hands on Art’s chest and shoves him much harder in return, creating a domino effect when Art falls back into River who batters into the table behind her, knocking over a bunch of empty beer cans that clatter against the glass top before tumbling to the ground.

The sound of the commotion starts to bring an audience to the living room window, people inside the house gathering to gawk at them hoping a fight breaks out. Harmony, not a stranger to the attention, looks over at them and grins, riling them all up even more as he casually swills his beer.

The popular winning bet, River supposes.

“Does hurting me make you feel good, or something?” she asks, nudging Art out of her way.

Art steps aside, giving her the space to speak for herself, and digs his hands into his pockets in search of a spare joint to light. A pavlovian response to stress.

Harmony doesn’t flinch.

“Whatever—” Harmony starts taking backwards steps, getting ready to leave. “—you’re just a scared, little deer in the headlights, Jones.”

He tips his head back and in breathless gulps he guzzles down the rest of the beer in his bottle, nonchalantly lobbing it at Art when he’s done. Art tries to catch it but he misses the mark and instead it shatters on the paved ground at his feet.

“I don’t break for shit, so stay the fuck out of my way.”

[idealisticcatastasis]

Off in the distance

There is resistance

Bubbling up and festering...

[gunthermunch]

hey I went to your Instagram art page and I fell in love with your older characters, do they have a backstory? I’d like to get to know them if that’s okay :)

omg my actual ocs yes they do!! and its a lot!! but basically its a bunch of terrible people in their 30s and helena which is literally the lovechild of melman madagascar and milhouse van houten. i did a post of them as sims here is helena 💋

[songtoyou]

Chapter One: West Bridgewater

Paring: Ransom Drysdale x Fabiola Rossi (OC)

Rating: This story will mostly be rated 18+ as it is revolves around a relationship that is Dominant/submissive. For each chapter, I will do my best to rate it accordingly, but please know that the overall story will have very adult themes.

Warnings: None for this chapter

Word Count: 2,305

Description: Huge “Ransom” Drysdale always thought of himself as a powerful man. With his family’s money and status, Ransom could get away with anything. He had the power and control others would envy. Ransom could get any woman he wanted with a snap of his fingers. He was always in charge. He commanded attention. And he hated it. Never having a job in his life (thanks to his mother, father, and grandfather always there to supplement his bank account) or any real-life goals, Ransom felt incomplete and directionless. That is until Fabiola Rossi entered his life and turned it completely upside down.

A/N: I have not seen Knives Out. This is an AU of that world. I do not own any of the characters created by Rian Johnson. I have always thought of Ransom as a sub rather than a Dominant and this idea has been on my mind constantly that I needed to write it down. Anything in italics are to represent Ransom’s thoughts. 

I do not permit any of my fics to be distributed on other sites without my permission.

Updated for grammar and punctuation edits.

What is a dominant-submissive relationship all about? As mentioned previously, there is an energy dynamic between the two partners. It is the Dominant’s duty to protect and guide his or her submissive. The submissive, also called “the bottom,” relinquishes some or all control to the Dominant. He or she is playing out their own kinds and fetishes through the guidance of a Dominant. No actions or scenes can be played out unless the submissive has consented to everything the Dominant plans to do during a play session. A D/s relationship is not solely about sexual activities but exploring new and interesting ways to connect beyond sex. For example, the Dominate can set up simple rules that the submissive must follow, such as asking permission to stay out late or have ice cream for dessert. A healthy D/s relationship can lead to a life of self-improvement. 

“You got some mouth on you…I bet a ball gag would fit nicely around those pretty lips of yours.”

For some reason, Ransom could not get that comment out of his head. It was so unexpected and out of leftfield. He never had a woman said anything so bold towards him. No stranger to bondage with the opposite sex, it was always Ransom who was the one in charge. Women were more than happy for him to lead the charge. It was the only time Ransom was ever put to work, so to speak. Fabiola Rossi had managed to not only mystify the spoiled playboy, but he was not determined to find out more about her. 

So, Ransom did one any person in their mid-30s did when trying to find information about another person, he stalked her social media. He came up short. No Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram that he could find of her unless they were private.

“This is Fabiola Rossi. She is an inspiring editor herself. I have taken her under my wing as a mentor.” Ransom remembered from the night before when creepy old Charlie Van Houten introduced his grandfather and him to Fabiola. 

Of course, Fabiola had a LinkedIn page as she was a young working professional. Ransom saw that she graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English and a minor in Psychology at Boston University. He noticed it had only been five years since she graduated from the university, so he suspected she was in her late twenties. Most of the jobs Fabiola received were internships or part-time positions. Not unusual for graduates looking to enter into the workforce. There was not much to offer due to the Baby Boomers not wanting to retire or companies being stingy with providing decent living wages or health benefits. 

“Intern. Van Houten & Thompson Publishing. March 2019 to current. Performs proofreading and editing of manuscripts and additional documents before the final publication,” Ransom read out loud as he continued to look through Fabiola’s profile.

He got up to reach for his coat to pull out his wallet. Inside was a business card of Charlie’s that he gave Ransom before leaving his grandfather’s party. Charlie told Ransom to keep in touch and that they both could talk about possibly working together. 

“If you have been working on anything, send it over. In fact, send it over to Fabiola. She’d probably love to read it and give you feedback. Give him your email address, honey. Any work you send over to her will be in great hands,” Ransom remembered Charlie saying to him last night. He looked over the business card and traced his thumb over Fabiola’s handwriting of her email address. 

He could not understand why this particular woman intrigued him so, despite only meeting her briefly the night before. However, Ransom knew he had an itch to scratch, and it was better to get it taken care of now before things got too out of hand. Before he became too obsessed.

Turning on his laptop, he waited for it to boot up. Opening his email account, Ransom began composing a new email to Fabiola. He kept it short and simple by asking if she was still up looking over what he was currently working on. 

Hi Ms. Rossi,

It was a pleasure meeting you last night. Hope you are doing well. If you are not too busy, do you mind if I send over the story I am currently working on? I do not want to impose if your schedule is too busy, but Charlie had such high praise for you, and I would appreciate the feedback and insight from you.

Talk to you soon,

Ransom 

He clicked the ‘send’ button and waited. Thankfully, he did not have to wait too long for a response back.

Hi Ransom,

I am so glad you reached out. Please call me Fabiola. 

Yes, I would be more than happy to beta read anything you send over.

Sincerely,

Fabiola

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Ransom said to himself with a smirk plastering over his face. He knew exactly which of his work he would send over. It was one Ransom had finished a while back. A story about the measures of what a mother would do to prove her child’s innocence when they are accused of a crime. It was one of his more personal pieces of work. He was somewhat anxious to get feedback on it. He sent it over to Fabiola as an attachment. Now, Ransom was in wait and see mode. ‘Who knows how long until she gets to actually reading it,’ he thought to himself. 

Three long agonizing days later, Ransom finally heard back from Fabiola when he checked his email that afternoon. 

Ransom,

How are you? 

Sorry I have not gotten back to you sooner. Your story is amazing! I could not put it down. I actually read it twice. It had me on the edge of my seat the entire time and had a lot of heart. You are such a good writer.

I do have some suggestions for you if you do not mind. However, I do not want to merely give them to you via email or comments in the document. Would it be okay if the two of us meet up for coffee sometime this week? It would be easier to talk to you about the recommendations face-to-face.

Any suggestions on where we could meet up? I don’t mind traveling to your neck of the woods if it is more convenient for you.

Fabiola

Ransom was thrilled that not only did she like his work but was willing to meet him in person. He quickly wrote her back suggesting a meeting at a little coffee shop in West Bridgewater. It would only be a 34-minute drive for Fabiola to get to him. Honestly, Ransom was a bit taken aback that she was willing to drive all the way out to the boonies to talk to him in person. 

The two decided to meet up on Saturday afternoon at The Bridge Coffee House, a new town establishment. A Starbucks it was not, thankfully.

When Saturday finally rolled around, Ransom dressed in his usual simple attire: gray cardigan, white long-sleeve shirt underneath, dark blue jeans, and Louis Vuitton black loafers. He gave himself a look over in the mirror one last time; he exited the house, got in his 1972 BMW 3.0 CSi, and headed to the coffee shop.

Once there, Ransom ordered an espresso and settled in a seat near the corner, but still visible for Fabiola to see him. As Ransom waited for Fabiola to arrive, his leg was shaking underneath the table. He was nervous, which was an unusual feeling for Ransom. Women hardly ever made Ransom nervous, but the woman he was meeting was for business, not pleasure. 

‘Note yet at least,” Ransom thought to himself as he sipped his espresso. 

The ding of the bell on the entrance door made Ransom lookup. There Fabiola was wearing a white long-sleeved fitted sweater with light blue jeans, white sneakers, and a light gray messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She looked around and noticed Ransom. Giving him a smile and wave, Fabiola made her way over to him. He stood up as she neared the table. 

“Hi. How are you?” she asked and stuck out her hand for Ransom to shake.

He reciprocated the gesture and replied, “I’m good. Do you want something to drink? My treat.”

Fabiola accepted Ransom’s offer with an iced tea. “Is there a restroom around that I could use?”

Ransom pointed to where the restrooms were, and Fabiola excused herself while he got her iced tea. Paying for the iced tea, Ransom went back to the table and proceeded to wait again. 

“That was quite a drive,” spoke Fabiola as she sat down in the seat across from Ransom, “Gorgeous scenery. I tend to not venture too far outside of Boston much.”

“Yeah, it is a nice quiet town. Not much goes on here.”

“I’m kind of surprised that you don’t choose to live in Boston. Figured you would want to be in a more urban area,” said Fabiola.

Ransom shifted in his seat to cross his legs, “I used to live in Boston during my 20s. Decided to move here a couple of years ago. Helped clear my head a little.”

Taking a sip of her iced tea, Fabiola asked, “Is that when you really began to write?”

Ransom let out a small laugh and cleared his throat, “Yeah…I just…needed a hobby to preoccupy my time.”

“Well, I have to tell you that it was a good idea,” said Fabiola as she began to rummage through her bag and pulled out a binder to place on the table.

“This story is outstanding,” she complimented.

Ransom felt the heat on his cheeks from her praise. It felt good to have someone appreciate his work, which was not a feeling he was used to. 

“I do have some questions if you don’t mind me asking? Nothing bad, just some clarifications.”

“Sure. Ask away,” Ransom responded casually. He was doing his best to not seem too eager. 

“What made you decide to have the main character a mother rather than a father? I ask that because, normally, male authors tend to write the protagonist as male. You don’t really see many male authors write crime novels with a main female character,” Fabiola pointed out and went on to tell him, “You also wrote the character really well. Like, she feels like a real person. She was fully developed and fleshed out. I was totally rooting for her throughout the whole story. And the side characters are nicely written as well. Each chapter kept the reader on its toes. You never knew what to expect. Nothing felt forced or out of place. Nothing dragged on. Here is a copy of my notes. Nothing too major. Only certain suggestions like clarification or more descriptive details for certain paragraphs.”

Ransom looked at her incredibly detailed notes. “I appreciate you doing this. Thank you,” Ransom said earnestly.  

“Do you plan on getting that published?” Fabiola asked him.

Letting out a light chuckle, Ransom told her that most likely he would not.

“Why?”

“I prefer to write for myself. Not for an audience. Plus, there is the likelihood that I’ll get compared to my grandfather or people thinking that nepotism is involved,” answered Ransom as he continued to flip through Fabiola’s notes.

Fabiola merely sat back and took the time to really look at the man before her. With dark hair and blue eyes, a strong jaw, and a somewhat crooked nose, Fabiola could not deny that he was handsome. Before the meeting, Fabiola asked Charlie about what he knew about Ransom. Boy, she got an honest earful from Charlie. While Charlie complimented Ransom, there was a hint of pity in his voice.

“He’s got so much potential, but he wastes it with booze and women. The poor boy did have a stint in rehab when he was younger. It’s so parents of his. Always giving him money instead of love and affection,” Charlie shared with Fabiola. 

 “You don’t want to fail at the one thing you believe you are actually good at,” Fabiola stated to Ransom and added, “So, it is easier to not put yourself out there in the first place.”

Scoffing, Ransom sat back and stared at Fabiola. Now it was his turn to really look at the woman before him. With her long dark hair, brown eyes, and slender figure, he had to admit to himself that she was beautiful. But he could tell that there was more to this woman than meets the eye.

“You like to think you have me all figured out, don’t you? You think I’m some poor little rich poor?” Ransom asked with a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“Yes,” Fabiola simply said as she folded her arms to rest on the table and continued, “You’re not some riddle, Ransom. You are quite easy to figure out. Just as I mentioned to you at the party, you are bored. However, it is not the excitement that you seek. Instead, you want guidance. You want someone to look after you and care for you. You want to surrender control. Am I wrong? Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll shut up.”

With his silence, she had her answer.

“I can give you what you need, but to do that, we need to develop trust between one another,” Fabiola communicated and reached out to grip one of Ransom’s hands. She entwined her fingers within his.

“How much?” Ransom spoke up as they looked at their entangled hands. 

Fabiola shook her head and clarified, “Nothing. I’m not proposing you sex Ransom. I’m proposing to you something completely different. What do you know about BDSM or a D/s relationship?”

[radwrites]

THE CRYPTID CLUB | excerpt(?)

this is just a small scene i was playing around with today/yesterday to warm up and get a feel for two of the characters while i’m still outlining. (word count: 944, warnings: drug mentions, mentions of parental death)

At a quarter past five — with the sun just starting to crest over the hills in the distance, a wash of pale purples and yellows — River realises that she’s never been out this late before, has never seen this side of the hour.

It would be a little bit thrilling if not in direct contrast to the insanity that was the entire eight hours prior, but it’s nice to think she’s spent almost an entire day away from her father and that empty, alien house that lacks all scent and sight of her mother.

She looks down at the swimming pool in front of her. The chill of the fall air is clashing with the heat of the water and steam is drawing itself up from the surface like it’s something alive and breathing, alien in itself with how it glows a blue-green neon from the pool light.

It reminds her of her winters back home in Washington, spending every day with her sister Viper at the aquatic centre.

When she closes her eyes and takes in a breath she swears and she can smell the chlorine and blood on her lips from the last day she’d ever been. Suddenly she’s fifteen years old again and her mother is dying while her phone rings out six times in her backpack before she goes to the changing rooms and finally picks up on the seventh call.

She's sprinting with no shoes on for a bus down the street with her hand squeezing Viper’s so tightly Viper would have to wear gloves to the funeral to cover the bruises.

They made it to the hospital and the doctors wouldn’t let them in the room to see her. Even now, two years later, River’s face crumples when she thinks about how her screams had sounded as they bounced off of every ugly, sterile surface, her father grabbing the two of them in an arm each and trying so hard to haul them back outside. She’d had a mouth full of Viper’s blonde hair and only stopped when she finally choked on it, Viper thrashing so hard she almost knocked out a nurse.

Trapped in her nightmare, she doesn’t notice Art walking around from the side of the house, likely returning from throwing up in one of the rose bushes.

He looks at her — wiping at his bottom lip with the sleeve of his denim jacket on unsteady feet — and says nothing as he plops down ungracefully at the side of the pool and swings his long, skinny legs over the edge to drop them right into the water, socks and shoes still on and everything.

He fumbles around in one of his jacket pockets before finding a half-broken, sad looking cigarette. He sighs as he puts it between his lips and starts looking for his lighter.

“Still don’t wanna go home?” he eventually asks, and the sound of his voice — though muddy and distorted — is like a bullet through dream-River’s chest, dragging her violently back into the present.

She jumps with a gasp.

“Sorry,” he apologises, though it doesn’t sound or look much like he means it when she sees him for the first time since he walked over. “Just looked like a bad one, is all.”

River’s brow furrows. “A bad what?”

He pulls the cigarette, still unlit, from his mouth and gestures vaguely around her head.

“Whatever that was.”

“Oh.” River looks down at her feet, her cheeks hot. “That was…”

She looks back up. She really doesn’t want to talk about it right now, but then again Art’s not asking; just looking at her, regarding her with eyes so much keener than anyone gives him credit for.

She can’t tell him about it just yet, but she also feels like she can’t lie to him either.

She watches him fall onto his back and look up at the slowly fading darkness while she thinks of what to say.

“What did you say before?“ she asks. “When I was…”

“Hm?” He’s still looking through his pockets for his lighter, pulling out empty baggies and half crushed pills and dumping them onto the grass beside him like it’s just hiding somewhere and didn’t get lost at some point last night. “Oh. I asked if you still don’t wanna to go home.”

Even in the weak morning light River can see just how tired Art is. It’s not tired with her, or tired from the party, though he could definitely do with some sleep. It was a bone-deep kind of weariness, the kind that came with having a young, pretty face but a soul that had prematurely turned sour. The kind of tired you get when you’re only half alive, slowly killing yourself with cigarettes and drugs and bottles of cheap red wine that you’d rather smash on the asphalt in a parking lot — howling drunkenly at the moon — than recycle.

She scrubs the sole of her well-worn sneaker into the grass underfoot and wills herself to lie. She should leave. She should go back home and leave Art alone to pass out for a couple of hours. She should come back later and help him clean up with Blaire and Harmony.

She looks down at Art’s face looking back up at her, his features upside down but all of them soft and unruffled.

“I never do,” she says instead.

Art blinks his heavy lids at her slowly, and then he nods, sucking in a deep breath of cold air through his nose to wake himself up as he hauls himself back upright.

“Ok,” he says. “Then let’s go find my lighter.”

[radwrites]

the cryptid club | art van houten

Art.

Art’s standing at the cliff’s edge. He’s holding a bottle of wine by the neck and kicking rocks, watching them to see how they hit the water hard and fast. He has his free arm out to the side for balance, but he wobbles a little on his feet like a stiff breeze could knock him over.

River’s heart shoots up to her mouth. She goes to tap her foot on the ground, doesn’t want to startle him, but it’s nothing but soft grass underfoot. She takes a tentative step forward and looks to her left. There’s a piece of loose bark curling off the maple tree beside her. She reaches out and takes it in her fingers and begins to peel, the sound of it cracking and splintering off the trunk is just loud enough to get his attention.

“Hm?” he says, like he’s mistaken the sound of it for her voice. He looks at her over his shoulder, his lids heavy but his eyes find her quick enough. He’s only halfway drunk, but that’s only halfway comforting. “River. Hey.”

He sounds empty; his voice rising up from the hollow shell of his chest like an echo. If River were to run up behind him and put her ear to the centre of his back, would she hear the ocean below or nothing at all?

“Hey,” she replies, then “Come on, let’s catch back up with the others.”

Art looks back down at the water and River’s knees start going weak. Then he nods.

“Yeah.” He polishes off the wine bottle and tosses it over the edge. “Yeah, sure.