#silver scribe (writing tag)

[squatch-and-stretch]

Do You Remember?

Fiddleford McGucket/Ford Pines | 2,916 words | Memory Lapse, Hurt/Comfort

An old man wakes up in an unknown room with a handsome stranger and no memory of who he is.

Fic under the cut.

He wakes up tucked into a comfortable bed with a pounding headache and a pervasive sense that something is wrong. When he opens his eyes and sees the opulent room around him, that feeling only intensifies. He can’t quite recall where he’s supposed to be, but it’s certainly nowhere quite so fancy-shmancy. He’s not quite sure who he is, but he’s not the fancy-shmancy sort.

He should probably know who he is, right? That seems sensible. He should figure that out.

He sits up, shrugging off a thick duvet. His head swims, vision spotting for a moment before it clears. The air is a little cold, but it’s tolerable. He’s wearing a large sweatshirt, and as he looks down at his hands, he realizes he’s old. His fingers, blurry even at this distance, are nearly skeletal, swollen around the joints, skin pale and paper-thin, spotted with a hundred small scars and age spots. He pushes the sleeve up, admiring the body he seems to occupy. There’s a thick scar along one arm, and as he runs his fingers over it, he feels something strange beneath the skin. He checks it against his other arm, and yes, there’s something wrong with that one that isn’t wrong with the other.

Or maybe it’s the other way around…? No, he’s fairly certain the unscarred arm is the normal one.

He runs a hand down his face curiously. There’s only a few stubborn wisps of hair still on his head, but he’s got a pretty impressive beard underneath one heck of a big nose.

He rolls his sleeves back down. The room is a little cold. The window across the room is cracked just slightly, letting in chilly morning air. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but when it does, it’ll shine right through that window. He usually wakes up before it does.

So he’s an early riser, and his room is on the east side of whatever building he’s in. He’s old and he broke his arm at one point. He’s also pretty darn sure he’s a he, now that he thinks about it, and that’s something.

“Fiddleford?” a voice says gently, accompanied by a light knock on the doorframe.

He— Fiddleford, is he Fiddleford? What a ridiculous name— freezes like a deer in headlights. Without waiting for a response, the person at the door opens it.

He’s tall, somewhere around 60, and very handsome. Fiddleford— yes, that’s him, he’s Fiddleford— does not recognize this man, but a strange flurry of emotion is stirred at the sight of him.

Anger, betrayal, terror, concern, affection, all at once, suffocating in their strength. It’s all so confusing, but he focuses on the fear. It’s not the most powerful, but it is the most understandable reaction to having a stranger in his (his? is it Fiddleford’s?) bedroom. He does not know this man and he does not know why he’s evoking such a powerful emotional response from him and he does not know where he is and why this man is here.

“Who’re you?” Fiddleford demands shakily, and there’s a southern twang to his voice that this stranger does not possess. He draws the blankets back up to his chest like a shield, backing himself up against the headboard. “Where am I?”

The man, who had moved to enter the room, freezes. The gentle expression on his face gives way to confusion, then alarm, then concern.

“Fiddleford, it’s me, Stanford,” he says, stepping closer. Fiddleford flinches, pressing himself tighter against the headboard. The name sends a shiver down his spine.

“I… I don’t reckon I know you,” Fiddleford says, nearly a whine. Does his voice really sound like that? It’s terrible.

“No, I don’t suppose you would, at the moment,” ‘Stanford’ says, soft and heartbroken, “but please, believe me when I say that I mean you no harm.”

“I… I dunno that I do,” Fiddleford mumbles, watching him like a hawk.

Standing there looking like a wet dog, this man does not cut a particularly intimidating figure. There’s a bulk to his shoulders and chest that implies strength, but he’s hunched over, hands fluttering awkwardly. They’re big hands, wide, with one more finger than Fiddleford’s. His own hands tingle, a phantom sensation of warm, thick fingers between his own. He clenches his hand into a fist to squash the feeling.

“If you really don’t wanna hurt me none, how ‘bout you stay over there and answer my questions?” Fiddleford says sharply. As sharply as he can with his voice shaking, anyway.

“Of course,” Stanford agrees, keeping his hands in view as he steps out of the doorway.

His eyes flick towards the open door, looking away from Fiddleford for the first time since he’s entered. He looks like he wants to close the door, but he doesn’t.

The door opens out into a long hallway, and even if he can’t see the entrance from where he’s sitting, he knows it’s that way.

He glances at Stanford. Stanford stares back, brows furrowed, eyes wide.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Stanford asks, gesturing with one hand toward a cushioned wooden rocking chair in one corner, the wall behind it lined with bookshelves. A well-loved quilt is thrown over the back of it, and a banjo leans against it.

Part of Fiddleford prickles possessively. He doesn’t recognize anything in this room, not really, but they’re his. He doesn’t have much, what he does have he needs to protect.

But that doesn’t make much sense, does it? Isn’t this his fancy house?

No, it can’t be. Whoever he is, he doesn’t belong in a place like this. This must be Stanford’s house. He doesn’t know why or when or how, but Stanford must have dragged him here himself.

What does he want from him? He’s a frail and confused old man. If he has— had— any skills, he doesn’t remember them now.

He was smart once, wasn’t he? Was he? He certainly isn’t now, not when he’s taking advice from the small, scared animal burrowed in his chest.

It’s telling him to run.

The man, Stanford, he said something, didn’t he?

“Huh?” Fiddleford breathes.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Stanford repeats, patiently.

“… go ahead,” Fiddleford allows. “Careful with that there banjo.”

Don’t provoke him! the scared animal squeals, but Stanford just smiles at him. The concern— fake, he’s tricking you!— remains in his eyes, but there’s a soft, kind curl to his lips. He looks fond.

“Of course,” Stanford agrees, gently repositioning the banjo so it’s leaning against the wall instead of the chair. “Now what did you want to ask me?”

Fiddleford watches him. He’s leaning forward, templing his hands, and his eyes do not leave Fiddleford.

“Well, uh…” Fiddleford glances around. “First things first, just what is that?”

Fiddleford points away from the door. Stanford, that gullible son of a gun, falls for it, following his finger to frown at the bookcase.

Go, go, go, hurry, he’ll hurt you if he catches you, the scared animal says, and Fiddleford agrees.

He scrambles out of bed, and his balance tilts, vision going dark for a moment. He comes back to himself on his hands and knees, and he doesn’t know how long he was out but he needs to get out. Stanford isn’t blocking the way to the door yet, so Fiddleford scampers on four legs towards the opening.

“Fiddleford!” Stanford gasps, and he steps in front of him, hands extended.

He can’t stop himself before he’s crashing into Stanford’s legs, and a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t think, just reacts, and he twists his head to bite at Stanford’s wrist. His teeth— of which he has very few, he’s realizing— catch on the sleeve of his sweater. Stanford doesn’t back off though, he just secures him with his other hand.

“No!” Fiddleford yelps. “No, no, lemme go!”

“Fiddleford, please,” Stanford nearly begs, but his firm grip doesn’t falter, “I don’t want to do this but we’re on the second floor, you’ll hurt yourself on the stairs!”

“No! No no no, stop!” Fiddleford sobs. He hears the words, but he doesn’t register them. “Lemme go, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Something familiar scratches at the back of his head. Yellow eyes, skin so pale it was nearly transparent, large clawed hands, men in uniform and scowling townsfolk.

A crowded room that always smelled like coffee and tobacco and damp, a couch beneath a stained glass window, caves and campfires and constellations.

His head throbs painfully, and the thoughts leave his head as quickly as they came. Stanford’s grip shifts, tightens, and Fiddleford struggles until he feels his wide palm on the back of his head, pulling his head into the crook of his neck.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m sorry,” Stanford says. His neck is right there. Even through his sweater, he could hurt him. The scared animal demands that he do so, but he knows this man. He doesn’t know why, but he does, and his tired old body aches.

“Stanford…” he whines, and the name tastes familiar in his mouth. He buries his nose in his shoulder as he goes limp against the larger man. He smells like sweat and coffee. “What… what’s goin’ on?”

He sighs. Fiddleford can feel it against the top of his head.

“You’re having a memory lapse. It’s a side effect of a device you invented,” he explains, stroking the thin hairs clinging stubbornly to the back of his head. “I have yet to help you through one, but I have plenty of experience with my brother’s. I… I could get him, if you’d prefer.”

“Brother…” Fiddleford echoes. He knows the meaning of the word, understands its importance to this man in particular, but he doesn’t know why.

“Stanley, my twin brother. He was… affected by the same device, so he has direct personal experiences with its consequences,” Stanford elaborates, voice strained. “Besides, your relationship with him is less… complicated than our own. It may be best—“

“No!” Fiddleford fists his hands into the back of Stanford’s sweater. “Please, I don’t…”

I don’t want you to leave, I don’t want to see anyone else, I don’t want to bother anyone, I don’t… Fiddleford doesn’t know what he means, but Stanford hushes him with a gentle noise and lets it go.

“Let’s get you off the floor, m— Fiddleford,” Stanford says.

What had he been about to say? Fiddleford has bigger concerns, but the curiosity claws at him.

“Mm-hm,” Fiddleford agrees, and for some reason, instead of moving away to stand up, his body curls closer to Stanford’s.

Stanford takes this in stride, carefully repositioning Fiddleford in his arms. With an ease that’s a bit irritating given his apparent age, he stands up with Fiddleford held against him. His stomach swoops with nausea, and he squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face further into Stanford’s neck as he lets out a soft whine.

Stanford replies with a soothing, wordless noise from deep in his throat. Carefully, he sits down on the bed and releases Fiddleford, keeping himself between him and the door. Fiddleford wiggles out of his lap, but stays close beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He still doesn’t know this man, doesn’t know if he can trust him, but his body seems to think he should. Or maybe he’s just that lonely, so lonely that he’ll seek comfort in some home invader or kidnapper that possibly gave him brain damage.

“So,” Stanford began, clearing his throat, “what is the last thing you remember?”

Fiddleford tried to think back, but everything beyond this morning was a blur. Thinking about any of it too hard sent a painful pulse through his already aching brain.

“Um… well, I reckon I remember wakin’ up this mornin’.”

“You… you don’t remember anything?” Stanford says, voice tight. Fiddleford looks down at his lap, twisting his hands together anxiously as he nods.

“Okay… okay. I don’t— this has never happened with Stanley, but that’s fine! That’s… that’s fine.”

“Your name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and you were born the second of five siblings on a hog farm in Eastern Tennessee. You have an older sister, two younger sisters, and a younger brother, as well as countless cousins, I swear you changed the number every time we talked.”

“I didn’t change the number just for the heck of it, my aunts and uncles just kept havin’ kids,” Fiddleford argues. “That’s what happens when you’ve got seven uncles and nine aunts of varying ages.”

“You remember?” Stanford says, delighted.

Fiddleford blinks.

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose I do.”

“Fantastic! It’s working then! What else do you remember?”

“My siblings, we used to be real close, loved ‘em to death and I reckon I still do, but after I got married—“ Fiddleford stops, heart stuttering in his chest. All the comfort his mind had tricked him into taking in the other man drains away in an instant, and he scrambles away from him. He hits his back hard on the headboard. “My wife! Emma-May, where’s my wife!? My son!?”

“They’re okay! They’re fine, I promise I haven’t done anything to harm them!” Stanford holds his hands up placatingly, but his expression falters slightly. “At least, not directly, and not in the last thirty years…”

“Then where are they? What are you talking about!?”

“Emma-May still lives in California, I believe, but…” Stanford sighs, “the two of you got divorced approximately thirty-one years ago.”

“… oh,” Fiddleford says. It really isn’t a surprise. Emma-May, the poor darling, was bound to catch onto him eventually.

… catch onto him? About what? What was he hiding from her? He looks at the man sitting in bed with him and knows that he is related.

“Why? What happened?”

Stanford winces.

“It’s not really my place to say, but… I took you from them. We met in college, do you remember?”

“… the McGucket/Pines Hologram Conjecture Theory,” Fiddleford says. He remembers it, remembers the heat on his face from embarrassment and tears, remembers the taste of coffee and cola, the equations scribbled on paper and sticky notes and windows, the weight of this man’s arm around his shoulder, their wide grins. He remembers the excitement, the joy, the affection. At some point, he had loved this man.

So that’s what it was.

“Exactly right!” Ford agrees, and his smile now is so much more restrained, but twice as affectionate. “After we graduated…”

“You moved to Oregon, I went back to Tennessee. Reconnected with Emma-May, and we got married, but…” Fiddleford frowns. He knows Emma-May, knew that he loved her in some sort of way, but… but he didn’t do it right. Always too reserved, too awkward, too distant. He couldn’t love her how he was supposed to.

“I called you up to Oregon, to Gravity Falls, to work on a project.”

“A polydimensional meta-vortex,” Fiddleford agrees, heart twisting at the words, “and I did it. I left them both, easy as that.”

Ford remains silent for a long moment, watching Fiddleford with palpable guilt.

“I don’t think it was easy. You visited when you could,” Ford says eventually, and his hand flutters as if he wants to reach out to comfort him, before it falls in his lap.

“It wasn’t enough,” Fiddleford sighs. “I left her, and she made sure it stayed that way.”

Ford nods, ashamed.

“And we did it, didn’t we? We made… we made the vortex,” Fiddleford continues, voice shaking. He remembers breathless terror, even if he can’t quite recall what made him feel that way, can’t recall what he saw beyond a single massive eye. “That’s why I’m like this.”

“Yes,” Ford agrees, voice thick. For all his bulk, he looks like a scolded child. How was he ever afraid of this darling man? “Though you were its inventor, I was the one to drive you to create the memory gun.”

“None of that, darlin’,” Fiddleford soothes, and even though his head throbs with every thought and memory that flows through it, reaching out to him is easy as breathing. He takes Ford’s hand, threading their fingers together. Ford flinches, but Fiddleford holds tight, squeezes his hand gently. “I made it, I decided to use it on myself, I got addicted to it. Now you aren’t one to take credit for other people’s work, are ya?”

Ford smiles, even as his eyes remain pained.

“We’ve done this before,” Fiddleford muses.

“We’ve been doing it a lot, ever since I came back to you,” Ford agrees. “I still struggle to believe I’ve earned your forgiveness.”

“Ain’t something you really had to earn, hun,” Fiddleford soothes, and he wiggles closer to Ford now that he knows who he is, now that he knows that his body’s instincts to trust him were right. “I had enough of being angry and scared, and I certainly had enough of forgettin’.”

Things still don’t make a whole lot of sense, and his head hurts like no tomorrow, but he knows he’s safe here, with this man in this house. Ford pulls him closer and presses a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

“Are you alright, my love?” Ford asks, soft and sweet.

“Hurts,” he says vaguely, curling into the man.

“I know,” he soothes. “I should get you some water and painkillers.”

He tenses as if to move away, but Fiddleford shakes his head, burying it in his chest.

“Later,” he mumbles. “Just stay with me?”

“Of course.”

[silverlistenstothings]

False Flirtations Chapter 1: Food

Normal Oak/Hermie Unworthy | 3,625 words | Mythical Creatures AU, 5+1 things

Five times Hermie and Normal accidentally proposed to each other, and the one time they did it on purpose.

Normal offers Hermie some food.

[scorpioriesling]

Hey! I'd like to request a Liam × female reader fic, where the reader is Liam's girlfriend and is jealous of Liam constantly being around Violet (Though reader's in the same squad as them and is friends with Violet!). In the meantime, she gets slighly closer to Ridoc, which makes Liam jealous, and it ends with Liam bitterly confronting her, her blowing up on him, and then them having a heart to heart. And some sweet intimacy to top it off!

I'm so swamped with work right now and feeling really tired, so I would love it if you could write this, but only if you feel up to it. Thanks so much, love your work!

King of My Heart

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Liam x reader

Warning(s): angst

Summary: Dating Liam came with its challenges; the biggest one was the girl he was appointed to protect, and though you'd consider her a close friend, she wasn't you.

SR’s Note: Ugh this got so emo, damn! Lol I hope you enjoy all the same and it's what you wanted! Also a huge thank you to everyone who has submitted requests -- I try my best to work on them in order, but I am human too and work full time as well as living outside my computer. <3 I'll get to them all, each and everyone, and I appreciate your patience! xoxo

Tags: @mellowmusings @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @whyucloudingmymind @bookofriverr @kitsunetori @velarisdusk @nctsawrus @lreadsstuff @paintedbyshadows @woollybread786 @freakishfandomfiend @littleemissperfecttt @luvly-writer @fiahtheteaaddict @loveofmychips @bodhidurrans @notnowkittenwhisker (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

"Has Liam asked you to the ball yet?"

You sighed as you walked next to Rhiannon, shaking your head slowly.

"No -- he's been so busy lately, so pre-occupied with helping Xaden and..."

"Violet?" She hedged, slowing her pace. You continued on, not looking up from the floor.

"Yeah, I mean that's one of the big reasons, but-"

"No," Rhiannon said, tugging on your arm and pointing ahead. "Violet!"

You looked up, noticing the silver-braided female approaching you. Trying to put on your best smile, you bared your teeth; though your heart broke just a tiny bit that Liam wasn't even with her.

"Hey guys!" She greeted cheerfully, her arms wrapped around a couple of books. "Headed to study hall?"

You stood there quiet as your thoughts took on a form of their own.

"The archives," Rhiannon responded, subtly nudging you. Your eyes met Violet's, and her friendly smile was enough to pull you from your stupor. "We've got research to do."

"I'll join you!" She declared, linking her elbows with yours and Rhi's. Rhiannon only shrugged, and the three of you headed off for the library, your swirling thoughts about your boyfriend subsiding for the time being.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It was nearly eight o'clock when the three of you left the scribe quadrant. Violet and Rhi chatted over your newfound information; but you, however, couldn't help but think of how you hadn't seen Liam once today.

"Anyways gals," Violet said, as you approached her dorm. "I'll see you tomorrow at lunch?"

You nodded and Rhi saluted her a goodbye, and the two of you continued on down the hallway. When you approached your door, you sighed as you reached for the handle.

"Hey," Rhi paused, her hand resting on your shoulder. "Is everything alright?"

She studied your face, looking for any answers that might be hidden there. The ball of emotion had already begun to clog your throat; and it took everything in you to keep that emotion at bay.

"I'm fine," you promised, leaning against the door and wedging it open. She sighed, dropping her hand as you headed into your room.

"You know I'm always here for you," she said, giving you a caring smile. "I always am, always will be."

Her words are what got you through the night -- at least you had one person you could always count on.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

"Wait -- he really hasn't asked you yet?" Imogen asked, her look incredulous. You nodded, pushing peas and carrots around on your lunch tray. The pink-haired girl looked from you, to Rhiannon, to Violet and Ridoc and Sawyer, not quite believing it.

"That little shit," she breathed, sitting back in her chair. She ran a hand through the strands, letting out a frustrated sigh. "He's only got a week and a half until-"

"Yeah," you barked, your gaze still hanging low. "I know."

The table was quiet for a moment, before Ridoc spoke up.

"Say, Violet you spend a lot of time with the guy -- what's he been up to?"

Violet's eyes widened as everyone turned to look at her.

"I don't know, I swear," she said defensively, putting her hands up before her in surrender. "I only see him when Xaden tells him to hang around me, and I still can't even figure out why."

Imogen completely disreguards anything she says, picking up her fork and nibbling on the end of it.

"You know what you need to do?" She said, her voice lowering conspiratorially. She leans forward, her eyes locking on yours. "You need to make in jealous."

You rolled your eyes, dropping the forkfull of veggies you'd rounded up.

"I'm not doing that."

"Why not?" She pushed. "Maybe then he'd give you more of his attention. Ask you to the mid-year ball even, like I told him he should've done weeks ago."

You glanced down at your plate again, suddenly not hungry at all.

"Whatever this is that he's doing, it's not a level I'm comfortable playing at," you said, pushing back in your chair and rising. "If he wants to spend time with me, he would."

You turned sharply, preparing to make your exit when you smashed right into someone's chest. Your heart fluttered as you realized it was your boyfriend, standing right before you.

"Liam," you breathed, and the table fell silent. He grinned, taking your face in his hands and pressing a kiss to your cheek. You smiled, genuinely happy to see him -- and that's when you registered his backpack strapped to his back.

"What's going on today?" You asked, and he shrugged.

"Xaden asked me to help train this one here today," he said, tapping Violet on the shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled, though she appeared more uncomfortable than anything. Your heart faltered, and a small disapproving huff came out of you.

"Liam... it's Friday night," you whispered, and he stared blankly at you. "I haven't seen you all week? All month, really but..."

"But... Xaden asked me to do this," he said plainly, clearly not understanding what you were getting at. You folded your arms, staring crossly at him.

"Liam, our anniversary is next Tuesday. And the ball is the week after that, and-"

"And we can hang out then, right?" He smiled, reaching to coerse Violet from her chair. She stood, avoiding eye contact with the both of you. Your cross expression turned angry, and he furrowed his brow.

"What's all this about anyway?" He asked, sounding genuinely confused. You huffed a laugh, brushing past him with not another word. He watched you go, confused as he turned to the lunch table for any answers.

･ﾟ: *✧

That night you found yourself in the training arena, alone. You'd hoped that there was a sliver of a chance you might catch Liam on his way out -- but no such luck. You were too late.

You felt like you were always too late, recently.

You grunted as you pummeled the bag before you, instead working to drive your anger into punching instead of thinking. Crying out, you halted, falling to your knees and wrapping your fingers around your right knuckle.

"Woah! Woah!" Ridoc explaimed, rushing over to you. He had been so quiet, you hadn't even heard him come in; that or you were so lost in your own thoughts that you didn't notice. None the rather, he was here now, stooping to scoop you into his arms.

"What happened?" He asked, his fingers curling around your own. You fought back tears as the pain intensified, and he worked to unravel your clenched fist. In doing so, crimson leaked over your knuckles and down your wrist, the would burning against the open air.

"I... I don't know," you sobbed, the tears finally free-falling. Ridoc sighed, standing and lending you a hand. You took it in your uninjured one, staggering to your feet. His arm slipped beneath your waist, aiding in supporting you though it wasnt needed.

"R-Ridoc it's... it's okay, really," you assured him, though you didn't mind his helpful gesture. He looked sidelong at you, half walking half carrying you out of the gym.

"It's fine; I'm always ready to help a friend in need."

･ﾟ: *✧

Ridoc's room was quiet in a way you would not have expected. His dark blue sheets matched his dark gray walls, and it was quite clean for such a rambunctous boy. The two of you sat atop his bed now, stitches intact as he wrapped your hand gently.

You peered up at him, noting the way his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Where did you learn to do that?" You asked, and he immediately looked up at you.

"Do what?"

"The stitches," you explained. "It's not common for riders to know how to mend like this."

He chuckled, sighing before securing the wrap around your hand.

"Well, my father taught me the importance of landing a sturdy stitch long before I arrived at Basgiath -- he used to help a lot with small needlework projects at home, and I suppose the skill has aided me more than a few times." He paused, a serious look coming over his face. "But, don;t you dare go thinking I enjoy it... I. Hate. Sewing."

You laughed at this, your chest rumbling with the sound. Your cheer brought a smile to Ridoc's face, and he reached up to boop your nose.

"Ahh, there she is!" He beamed, leaning back onto his hands. "I've missed that smile."

Your laughter died out, and you were left feeling dejected once more. He was right; you couldn't recall the last time you'd genuinely laughed, let alone smiled with any of your squadmates.

When you looked up, your eyes met his. Gone was the joy ever present on his face, now replaced with a look of concern.

"So... are you okay? Truly?" He asked, leaning toward you. You bit your lip to keep the tears from coming, but it didn't work.

"I'm... I don't think so," you whispered, a single tear falling from your eye. You sniffled, working up the courage to say what you had held in for so long.

"I just feel like... every day, Liam pulls farther and farther away from me. I understand he's "assigned" to Violet, or whatever -- but the whole thing is positively unfair. He spends nearly every waking moment with her, they share gym time and meals with one another; I'm surprised he'd even be interested in me at all at this point."

Your tone went sour near the end, your speech ending on a bitter note. Ridoc shook his head, taking both of your hands in his.

"No, Y/N, you can't let yourself think that!" He exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "You're a special girl, and a fantastic edition to our squad; you've become a great friend to all of us, and if Liam is too preoccupied to see that, well..." he trailed off. You stared at him, tears silently falling as your heart warmed at his words. He gave you a sad smile, his thumbs rubbing over your knuckles as the two of you sat, simply enjoying each other's company amidst the quiet.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Monday crept up on you, that was for sure. You'd spent practically the entire weekend in your room, not catching a glimpse of your boyfriend all the while nursing your broken knuckles back to health.

What made it worse was when you did finally see him. Battle brief was never fun, but it being the first class in the morning made things even worse.

He strode in, walking alongside Violet (of course) as they decended the stairs, searching for a seat. Rhiannon waved from your right, and VIolet instantly brightened at the sight of the two of you. Her and Liam filed in, taking their spots beside you.

"Hi sweetheart," Liam greeted, leaning behind Violet to give your shoulder a soft touch. You reciprocated with a saccharine smile; a weekend brooding alone in your room would do that to a girl. He slowly drew his hand back, and Violet looked between the two of you.

"Oh my gosh -- I'm so stupid," she said, rising from her seat. "Here, Liam, you sit by your girlfriend -- I'll sit on the end of the row."

"Oh, you don't have to-"

You began to protest, but the switcharoo was already in motion. Liam settled in beside you, his smile falling slightly when you sighed and folded your arms. He leaned in to say something, but stopped when Ridoc approached in the row in front of you.

"Y/N! Hey!" He said, way too cheerfully for a Monday morning. You couldn't help but smile, his giddyness contagious as ever. Liam's face fell even more as he watched Ridoc extend your gym bag to you, and how you responded to the gesture.

"My bag! Oh my Gods... I just have left it in the gym Friday," you realized, and Ridoc simply shrugged.

"Yeah, I figured you might need it back for training this week," he said, his smile softening. You looked to him genuinely.

"Thank you," you said, and Ridoc shook his curls as if it were no big deal.

"How are you holding up?" He asked, motioning to your hand. You glanced at it, and so did Liam, not entirely understanding what was happening.

"Oh! Yes, just fine -- you did a fantastic job," you commented, tossing him a wink. Ridoc nodded in approval at that.

"If you ever need more, you know where to find me!"

He turned his attention to Rhiannon, who was inquiring about Gods know what. Liam however, shifted in his seat uncomfortably, his usual golden retreiver energy shifting into something far less friendly. You glanced sidelong at him, wondering why he was suddenly so tense.

"What?" You asked, eyeing him. His brows narrowed as he kept his gaze straight ahead, not even turning to look at you. You huffed and set your bag at your feet, folding your arms as you mirrored his stance.

"We'll discuss it later."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Apparently to boys like Liam, "later" meant nearly midnight. You fought sleep trying to stay awake, waiting as each passing minute felt like another hour. Surely, he was finishing up whatever he was doing with Violet, as always. For him, she would always come first.

It was a concept you could not, and would not be able to accept.

When he finally came in, nearly 11:45 at this point, your head snapped in his direction. He was breathing heavy as he entered, striding right for your bed and moving to unlace his boots. You paused him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't," you said, and his face turned toward you. "This won't take long."

He rose slowly, his expression falling as he placed his hands on his hips.

"You're right," he said softly. "It won't."

You squared your shoulders, gazing up at him. Even in his tall, masculine frame, he appeared soft. The way his blonde hair fell loosely over his forehead, his blue eyes rounded -- it was one of the reasons you loved him most.

"First," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Ridoc? Really?"

You frowned, not expecting that to be the topic of conversation.

"What about him?"

"What happened the other night," he said, asking though it came out more as a demand. "What happened that he did a "fantastic job" on, hm? What happened that he had your gym bag, the entire weekend?" He took a single step closer to you. "You know where to find me? What's that supposed to mean?"

You let out a humorless laugh, honestly finding it funny how clueless he was.

"Liam, I went to the gym Friday night hoping I'd find you. But no, you were off somewhere with Violet again-"

"That's literally my job," he interrupted defensively. "It's not her fault I have to be with her every damned day-"

"Oh, so what, we're defending Violet now?" You asked, shaking your head. His gaze narrowed even harder.

"No! I'm just saying you blaming her for any of this is rediculous; meanwhile, you're out and about with Ridoc Gamlyn of all people-"

"Of all people? Really?" You asked, fixing him with an unamused stare.

He huffed, beginning to pace. "Yes, of all people! Are you so blind to tell me that, after all this time, you haven't caught on to how much he likes you?"

Now that was something that made you laugh.

"You're rediculous, Liam Mairi -- Ridoc and I, we, aren't like that," you explained, trying to find the right words. "I hurt myself on the punching bag, and luckily he showed up at the right moment and helped me. It was just a few stitches, it wasn't anything-"

"Wait wait wait. Hold up." Liam raised both hands, looking to the floor before meeting your eye. "You're telling me he stitched you? Why didn't he just bring you to a mender?"

You huffed in exasperation. "I don't know, Liam! He knows how to sew, and was there in that moment to help me, so I let him," you said, your words pointed. "He was there for me, and you weren't; you never are anymore, you're too busy playing not-boyfriend for Violet."

He glared at you, his arms flinging wide.

"For the last damned time, it's my JOB!"

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. His chest heaved, and so did yours; you'd never heard him raise his voice like that before. In that moment, you realized one of two things; that no matter what, Violet and Liam's duty to Xaden would always come before you.

The other? That you were madly in love, and despite the constant heartbreak, you'd never be able to change that.

You glanced at the clock, realizing the time had gone. It read 12:04 am, and all you could do was sigh. Liam looked at you apologetically, his eyes wide as he realized what his actions likely had cost him.

"Happy anniversary," you mumbled venomously, wrapping your arms around yourself and avoiding his gaze.

"Get out."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The entire rest of the week was Hell. Your friends tried to cheer you up, really they did -- but nothing worked. Not one of Ridoc's jokes landed, going out to town with Rhi failed to lift your spirits, and Violet's absense only solidified what you knew to be true.

He was with her. And you would always come second.

By Saturday, Basgiath had turned into an all-out war-zone; not literally, anyway. Cadets argued over decorations, classes were let out early, and squads worked together to ready the college for the ball happening in one week's time.

You sighed as you approached your squad, deciding not to spend the evening in your room again. Ridoc's eyes lit up as you approached; but Violet was quick to stop you.

"Y/N! Come to help?" He asked, but Violet turned her gaze on you. It was shocking, seeing her without her protector -- his absence actually made you a bit uneasy.

"No, she was just leaving. Going back to her dorm."

Ridoc frowned at Violet's command -- adn honestly, so did you.

"So what, Liam isn't here anymore and you feel all high-and-mighty enough to order me around?" You fired back, folding your arms across your chest. Violet sighed, stepping closer to you and lowering her voice.

"Look, I know the situation isn't ideal-"

"You've practically stolen my boyfriend," you glared. "And now because of that, I don't even know if I can call him that anymore."

"Y/N, please." She held up two hands in surrender. "I talked to Xaden earlier this week. He's loosened the reigns a little, so Liam will have more time to spend with you."

You sighed, looking to the ground as you fought for something to say. Violet laid a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you met her gaze.

"You're my friend, Y/N -- I know it's confusing, as we've been trying to get you out of that room all week. Just..." she trailed off. "Just trust me on this, okay?"

You rolled your eyes, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

"Fine. But whatever you have planned, whatever you guys have there waiting for me -- it better be worth it."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

It felt strange, standing before your own door and fighting the urge to knock. You could simply just go in, it was your dorm -- but you were sure that whatever your friends had planned, was going to be nothing short of a big surprise.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked softly before opening the door. As you cleared the doorway, your breath caught in your throat as a million tiny tealight candles came into view. Your carpet was covered in red -- rose petals, you realized, as you walked in closer. In the middle of the room Liam stood, his back to you as he ran a stressed hand through his hair.

Tears pricked the backs of your eyes at the sight of him, the last words you'd exchanged still replaying in your mind. You cleared your throat to announce your presence; the sound making Liam whip around immediately.

"Hi," you said meekly, trying to keep your voice from wavering. He sighed, relieved before smiling at you, his eyes lined with unshed tears. He crossed the room at once, dropping the bouquet of roses he'd been holding in favor of scooping you up into his arms. You wrapped yours around his neck, squeezing your eyes shut as you finally allowed the tears to fall. Your body shuddered against him, which only made him cling to you tighter, his grip so familiar and firm.

When you finally did pull back to look up at him, he was smiling softly down at you. A tear fell from his eye, and you were quick to brush it away as your own continued to fall.

"Liam... what is all this?" You asked, your voice raw. He tugged you closer, his lips inches from yours.

"It's for you," he admitted, emotion clogging his throat. "I had this planned for Tuesday, but with our fight and the way I fucked up everything-"

"Hey," you cooed, your hand resting lightly against his cheek. "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that either. I was in the wrong too."

"No, you weren't," he assured. "I should've realized how asenine Xaden's request had become, how little time I was putting toward you. I love you, Y/N, and I think loosing you even for a few days might be the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Your bottom lip qiuvered as you listened to his admission.

"I talked to him, Y/N, I really did -- he's agreed to loosen the reigns a little," he nodded, praying to God it would bring some light to your eyes. You nodded, leaning your forehead against his. His fingers slid up, tangling in your hair as the two of you shared breath.

"Liam... I love you too," you responded, which had him huffing a short laugh. His thumbs wiped your tears away, stroking your cheeks as he guided you to your bed. He sat first, leaning up against your headboard and tugging you close. You obliged, crawling up next to him and curling into his side. His arm wrapped around you, stroking the top of your head lightly as your arm draped across his waist.

"Hey," he said, his thumb and pointer finger tilting your chin up to look at him. Your eyes widened in question, waiting to hear what he'd say next.

"I want you to come with me to the ball next week," he said, his cheeks pinkening at the silly question. "Will you please come with me?"

A fresh wave of tears blanketed your stare as you nodded.

"Yes," you said, your voice cracking. "A million times, yes."

He smiled, wiping at his own eyes before pulling you close, and pressing his lips to yours. It was rare, intimate moments like these that grew the love between the two of you -- and this time seemed no different.

"Let's please never fight again," he asked, his fingers brushing your cheek. You laid your head on his chest, sighing as you closed your eyes.

"Never again."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

[faroffsong]

I was tagged in this game by @brb-on-a-quest and @informedimagining:

Reblog game. You tag the people that you can think of on the top of your head and use two words to use to describe them (people you follow, moots, or followers)

I thought I would do it for all of my mutuals. ^_^ And now that I've gone through my list I realise there are a LOT of yous and I also don't know some of you guys very well. XD XD

(...also it was really hard to just use two words since I wanted to give, like, an in-depth paragraph of how I feel about everyone. Most of these are entirely based on vibes. You can ask me if you want clarification, and I shall do my best to answer in my own words and not emojis and random pictures and quotes. *blushes and runs away*)

@hollers-and-holmes Merry stronghold

@kraytwriter Laughing firelight

@lady-merian Joyful sunbeam

@musewrangler Excellence curator

@catkin-morgs-kookaburralover Dear one

@sheet-metal-memories Kindred spirit

@muse-write Brave friend

@informedimagining Star maker

@onewingedsparrow Truth speaker

@ladyphlogiston Warm safety

@rosie-cotton Beauty sharer

@winterinhimring Brilliance crafter

@hwestalas Tasteful artist

@swinging-stars-from-satellites Moon finder

@thewatercolours Elegant waymaker

@brb-on-a-quest Happy heartbeat

@hamiltonfairchildracingrescue Heartful artisan

@clawedandcute Discerning scribe

@audreythevaliant Hopeful perceiver

@saint-augustines-pears Bright lightfoot

@authortobenamedlater Youthful tree

@sweetcardamom Cerulean sky

@batrachised Autumn spirit

@lady-stormbraver Stalwart learner

@lightthewaybackhome Earnest harvester

@smolgreybunny Unwavering voyager

@idrilsscribe Learned crafter

@silver-letter-opener Intrepid beautifier

@blueberrybucket Shining seeker

@elessar241 Artistic conservator

@flickeringflame216 Ardent participator

@awwyeah107 Tenderhearted tender

@thegreenleavesofspring Soul sister

@paranorahjones Swift sunrise

@overthinking-with-katy Generous worker

Woooooooooooooah, that was hard. DX I didn't realise how many of you I just don't know very well. If you're weirded out by what I said, I agree, some of these were weird and took me about an hour to put into words.

To my followers: I'm so sorry, but there are 76 more of you, and I have run out of thoughts. O.O

[elkieselkiewrites]

Intros and such

Hi! I'm Jasper, in the mire of my 30s, I use they/them, and this is my new writeblr!

I mainly write fantasy and gothic fiction but I also dip my toe into science-fantasy every now and again. Most of what I write is Teen appropriate, but all of my fiction is for Adults and I will occasionally dip into 18+ territory, so this is a warning to Minors that this might not be the space for you.

My main WIPs are:

The Postmaster's Apprentice

A high fantasy tale of a postie trying desperately to deliver a letter, but forced to have adventures along the way. It has tree nymph elves, stone folk made of real stone, trolls with trade unions, mushroom forests, mountain vampires, giant ghosts, shipwrecks, and more! [wip intro]

Current Phase: Actively writing - 18,281 words (06/03/25)

The Playwright King

A low fantasy story about a terrible playwright, but excellent actor, who finds himself playing the role of monarch to save the Queen Consort after the real king dies. There are plots and shenanigans, silly Shakespearean identity hijinks, and sentient talking swords. [wip intro]

Current Phase: Planning (06/03/25)

Tupper's Tale

A low fantasy tale about Hob Tupper, a monk-in-training, scribe's apprentice, and (secretly) not really a boy. The story follows Hob as they learn their trade, uncover monastic secrets, solve murders and scandals, fall in love, and change the destiny of a kingdom or two. [wip intro]

Current Phase: Reworking - 13,856 words (06/03/25)

Burning Branches, Golden Trees

A science-fantasy, espionage space opera loosely based on the fairy tale Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree, wherein our heroine Belin enters an arranged marriage, tasked by her boss to discover whether or not her new husband is a traitor, and if not, to uncover the truth of the strange happenings on Palatinate-709. It has far-off planets, space KGB, telepathic eugenicists, spycraft, giant snails, queer polyamory, and more! [wip intro]

Current Phase: Planning (06/03/25)

Winter Winds

A dark fantasy story about a travelling cursebreaker called Nightjar, her wife Siskin, her children Finch and Pipit, and the consequences of getting involved in disputes between gods. The first part of the story follows Nightjar as she fights to keep her family safe battling monsters with alchemy, and uncovering godly conspiracies. The second part follows Pipit as she learns about her place in the world, and how her mother's monsters and her father's gods are sometimes one and the same. [wip intro]

Current Phase: Planning & Reworking (06/03/25)

You can also find my fantasy maps here

My askbox is always open for questions, and I'm happy to take part in tag games too!

[somethingclevermahogony]

Tag Game: Bridgekeeper Questions/OC Questions

I was tagged by @tildeathiwillwrite , thank you!

Rules and original post here, and based on this scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

My questions are:

Where do you hail from?

Why are you here?

Are your right or left-handed?

I will be answering this based on three characters from Book 1 of Testaments, those being Narul, Ninma, and Bop.

Where do you hail from?

Narul: "Um, Syshlum, but I've never actually been there. While I mean, besides when I was born there, but I haven't been there since then. I guess you could say I'm from Labisa." Ninma: "The royal palace of Labisa! The Room of the Silver Boars!" The little princess smirks and pushes back her hair, not so sublty showing off her golden circlet. Bop: The spirit shimmered. "The wind."

2. Why are you here?

Narul: "I have to take care of Ninma and I don't know where else I would be. Or do you mean like philosophically?" The giant frowns and then shrugs. "Same reasons I guess." Ninma: "That usurper killed my father and stole the throne! I shouldn't be here!" Bop: "Some Arkodians trapped me in a hammer. But at least I can talk to Narul now."

3. Are you right or left-handed?

Narul: "Um...well, I have both. Oh is this some sort of...writing thing? Uh, I guess my right is better? Maybe." Ninma: "Right! See look! Someone get me some charcoal and a writing board!" Bop: "No."

You questions are:

What would you rather be doing right now?

What is your favorite desert?

What color are your eyes?

tagging @the-octic-scribe , @roach-pizza , @revenantlore , @illarian-rambling , and anyone else.

[scribe-cas]

9 People Tag

Thank you @squarebracket-trick for the tag!!

These little ask game things are so fun and I’m starting to get her hang of them-

Tagging (with no pressure, of course): @hallwriteblr @rbbess110 @covenscribe @scribe-of-stories @dyrewrites @bloomibee @lilac-honey @at-thezenith @antihell

Three ships:

Radiodust (I will ship the asexual with the hooker and they WON’T fuck)

My book series OTP (they will never be together in canon again)

Any of my OCs X Any of my mutuals/friends’ OCs (yes I am wholeheartedly serious I cherish spontaneous crack ships with my life)

Currently listening:

uuuh it was some remix of Pitbull’s “Hotel Room Service” (i have two characters who play Just Dance and imagining them to that brings me to hysterics) because I was stuck cleaning the house today

Last movie:

NIMONA. OH MY GOD.

I’ve been a fan since 4th grade when I read the comics for the first time. To see it made into a movie- I can’t. I’m in love.

Plus it’s hilarious because ever since I’ve made friends watch it, they’ve been like “it’s you” “they made a movie about you” and one time I made a joke about being a Nimona cosplayer and my best friend of almost 6 years (my favorite person ever) looked me dead in the eyes and said “wym cosplayer, that’s just how you look” and I’ve never been one hit KOed so fast. Anyways I am normal and regular about the gender movie of all time.

Carrying on-

Currently reading:

Like 5 WIPs that friends of mine have been gracious enough to share with me. I am in love with all of their writing but one in particular who’s finally started to pursue writing as a possible career (they have tumblr if you’re reading this yes I’m talking about you ily hi) has absolutely blown me away with their artistic talent. They have a way with words and a story that I am feral for and rooting for.

Also, my old rough drafts!

Along with Silver (Chris Wooding), Asylum (Madeline Roux), and A Court Of Thorns and Roses (Sarah J Mass).

Currently watching:

The save 5 YouTube videos. Over and over. Someone please save me from myself /lh

Currently Consuming:

Uhhh the answer is unfortunately nothing-

I’m hungry but too tired to get out of bed so I haven’t eaten yet-

Hopefully later tonight

Currently Craving:

Creamy horchata. Like the kind you make with sweetened condensed milk. The good shit.

Last thing researched (for writing purposes):

Depression and the different coping mechanisms that go along with types of trauma. (Ie what coping mechanisms go along with what feelings that come from a traumatic event)

Current Obsession:

Both Nimona and my WIPs! I have two writing projects that I’m just getting back into, and I’m really really excited about that.

(If anyone is interested in them let me knoW /lh)

Anyways yes

Go forth and tag more people, my wonderful morbos

[callahanscorner]

9 Lines 9 People

Thanks for the tag @mayivytalksperhaps!

Rules are that you share 9 lines from your WIP and then tag 9 people.

These are from my latest session of writing The Silver Circle! It was mostly retooling chapter 1, but there’s a few later bits in here, and hey, progress is progress!

The Ular shifted. Something was wrong. "Funny, isn't it?" The man in black smiled, revealing a curved blade at his hip. "We were thinking the same thing." "Listen here, you bastards! Anyone comes near my brother, I'll kick your teeth in!" Bran fell to his knees. He felt the screams clawing at his brain, raking the insides like a lion tears its prey apart. It did not want to be taken. "NO!" The wizard's scream rang through empty halls, devoid of anything and anyone that might have heard him. "If by 'off on the wrong foot', you mean 'our only lead is possessed by a lich king, and it's all your fault', then yeah, I guess we got off on the wrong foot." Ashe winced. Whatever this poor sap had done to deserve this, it must have been horrible. “You will not have him.” “And what use is the word of a Bright Prince where the light no longer shines?”

Gently tagging @captain-kraken @akindofmagictoo @magicicada-lbwrites @thesoftestofpetals @writernopal @scribe-cas @halfbit @rickie-the-storyteller @rhikasa

[renofmanyalts]

Many Alts! Handle It!

Here's my current roster! All links go to the character’s tag.

For posts about all/most of my characters that may not be tagged individually, see #all the characters.

Note: At the time of this writing (July 2023), I only have in-game access to my Balmung alts plus Strammund due to my current FFXIV subscription type. I'll still take asks for any of them, though!

Balmung Characters

Zhah’ra Savaptha (“Flower”) - Keeper of the Moon dancer and bodyworker – formerly in Ul'dah, Rhalgr’s Reach, and Limsa Lominsa, now staying at the Stray Inn in the Upper Paths of South Shroud.

Rhetzedyr Guldarensyn (Zedyr) - Sea Wolf farmboy-turned-artisan; co-owns Harvest Fountain Toys and Jewelry in Limsa Lominsa and is a founding member of the Elytra Concord artisan cooperative.

Renan Avnei’shoham (Renan) - chronologically-displaced magical chimera – a Nymian scholar and his Marine companion who were squashed together in a mishap aboard the Void Ark and subsequently entombed in a stasis coffin. They split their time between living with Negevs Ha'dov at Firefly Grove in Lower La Noscea and with Maayan in Limsa Lominsa.

Amande Desrochers (Amande) - Duskwight who grew up serving a (very) minor noble house in Ishgard, now in exile. Working as a retainer to Mama Dee’s husband, T'arik Tia.

Seselahi Rerelahi (Selah) - Dunesfolk scribe and calligrapher, currently working at Firefly Grove in Lower La Noscea as Secretary of the Elytra Concord artisan co-op.

Rhenbraen Helbsyn (Rhenbraen) - extremely prickly Hellsguard miner. “Not a swivin’ LASS, rocks-for-brains!” Currently apprenticed at Naldiq & Vymelli’s in Limsa Lominsa. 

Silver Sage - Hellsguard elder from Svatn Byr, a small village in Abalathia's Spine. Formerly in Ul’dah to study at the alchemists’ guild, now returned home. (Temporarily on Sagittarius, Chaos datacenter)

Maayan Delafontaine (Maayan) - Wildwood researcher and alchemist; co-owns Harvest Fountain Toys and Jewelry with Zedyr. She handles the logistics/supply chain side of things, so she travels frequently to all three city-states.

Mateus Characters

Strammund Grehmerlsyn (Strammund) - former Lominsan sailor, abruptly “retired” due to illness. Currently consigned to Thanalan for his health; works occasionally as a caravan guard.

Mamaati Maati (Maati) - opinionated Dunesfolk bookworm. Philosopher-economist at the Milvaneth Sacrarium in Ul'dah.

Emerik Liubasch (Emerik) - Hrothgar city-boy from Ilsabard looking to recover lost family traditions. Currently seeking training with the botanists’ guild in Gridania.

Ryoku Kazemoto (Ryoku) - elegant Raen samurai from a mountain holding north of Doma. Currently traveling in Eorzea on a mission to find a sacred object that went missing from a shrine in his home village.

Danyell Dwynwen (Danyell) - Midlander minstrel from Coerthas, currently working the tavern circuit in the Shroud.

Raranen Sasanen (Raranen) - black sheep of a Dunesfolk merchant family (Maati’s cousin); breeds racing/hunting chocobos in the Shroud. 

Iris Menuisier (Iris) - sardonic Wildwood bathhouse attendant at The Pools in the Goblet (and former coworker of Zhah'ra’s). 

Mama Dee (Dee) - former leader of a miqo'te dance troupe in Ul'dah (and mentor to a young Zhah'ra), now retired and married to T'arik Tia, a wealthy ex-adventurer. Maintains that she is from Thavnair. (In-game name: N'dezhda Lev)

Zalera Characters

Maparhi Savaptha (Maparhi) - newly-invested Hearer at Stillglade Fane. Cousin to Zhah'ra.

Pash'a Khoroushi (Pasha) - former Imperial conscript from the East End. Previously stationed in northwestern Ilsabard; current fate unknown.

Firn Sjararstrok (Firn) - Veena spear-hunter, currently at loose ends in Revenant's Toll.

[squatch-and-stretch]

Latrotoxin

Stanley Pines & Stanford Pines | 7,586 words | Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic

“He checks that Ford is still focused on Fiddleford— he is, completely and utterly— before he carefully rolls up one sleeve of his jacket to check the bite. There’s two messy holes in his arm, bleeding sluggishly. The skin around the wounds is flushed red.

Stan may be the idiot of the group, but even he knows this is bad news. Spiders are usually poisonous, right? Does that apply to alien spiders that are huge? Probably.

The small part of his brain that still cares about logic and being alive says he should tell the Fords immediately, before things get worse. The louder, larger part of his brain stomps it down and kicks its corpse for good measure.”

Warning for injury, poisoning, arachnophobia.

Fic under the cut.

It’s raining on Planet Boring. They’ve seen a lot of things in their short time wandering the multiverse together, but this planet’s pretty high up there in terms of ‘yeah, this is basically just Earth’. Ford is marveling at the size of the plants, but it all just looks like Central America to Stan. Besides, it’s raining.

“There’s a cave up ahead,” Fiddleford says, a hand cupped over his goggles to keep the rain off of them. “Le’s get outta this rain.”

“Sounds good,” Stan says, adjusting his hood to cover his face. It was going to take forever for the damn thing to dry.

Fiddleford leads the way, carefully weaving up the side of the hill until he can scramble up into the cave. Stan follows, once he makes sure Ford is doing the same.

“Well,” Fiddleford says, holding out his prosthetic to push the darkness back a bit further. “Reckon it’ll keep us dry, at least.”

Stan squints as he steps inside. Unlike the hill it’s carved into, the ground inside seems pretty flat. He wanders a bit further in, eyes catching against some white tangle woven across one of the walls.

“Hey, is that—“ Stan cuts himself off as his foot slips, only a small part of it landing on solid ground while the rest drops out from under him.

He stumbles slightly, ankle slamming painfully against rock as his foot lodges itself in the crevice. He reaches out to steady himself against the wall, but pulls away in disgust as soon as he feels it.

“Spider webs,” Fiddleford provides helpfully.

“Won’t you ever watch where you’re going?” Ford huffs, looking at the tangle of webs disdainfully.

“Oh yeah, Poindexter? Wanna tell Fidds here how many times I had to pull you out of traffic because you had your big ugly nose in a book?”

“We have the same nose! And besides—“

“He doesn’t need to tell me, I had to do the same thing for him in college,” Fiddleford chimes in with a smirk. Ford’s face flushes with indignation as Stanley barks out a laugh.

“It’s different when we’re in a potentially dangerous dimension that we know next to nothing about!” Ford huffs.

“Yeah yeah, I’m an idiot, just get me out of this shit,” Stan grumbles, tugging ineffectively at his trapped leg. It’s flexible, but at this point that really just means that it won’t break easy.

“I gotcha,” Fiddleford says, raising his prosthetic. Stan leans away.

“Woah, hey, I dunno if that’s really necessary!” Stan yelps, holding his hands up placatingly.

“The claws, Stanley,” Fiddleford reassures, but there’s a worrying glint of gleeful amusement in his eyes. “I ain’t gonna blast your foot off.”

“Yeah, obviously not,” Stan scoffs, folding his arms. He knew that.

“Hurry, won’t you? The cave opens up further in,” Ford calls, voice echoing. He's far enough away that Stan can barely see the shape of him in the dim light of the cave.

“Don’t you go wandering off!” Fiddleford snaps, and oh yeah, he really does have a kid, because that there’s a dad voice.

“I won’t go far!”

“Darn right you won’t, because you’re gonna turn right around and come back over here!”

Ford sighs, but he turns to face them and doesn’t go any further.

Fiddleford echoes the sigh with a shake of the head that looks pretty fond from where Stan is standing. With one foot in a crack full of spider webs. He directs his attention back to Stan and kneels in front of him.

“Woah, take me out to dinner first,” Stan jokes, hooking a thumb into his belt loop.

“Shut your mouth, Lee,” Fiddleford laughs, steadying his flesh hand against the floor.

Shit, he hasn’t been Lee in years. If Ford hadn’t all but called dibs already, Stan’d be all over that man like a seagull on the fries of an unsuspecting tourist. He laughed at his joke and everything!

What a guy. A guy currently clawing at the spider webs around his leg, even. His palm is a little too big to fit in the crack Stan had jammed his foot into, but he sure is trying his best. Stan sighs and resigns himself to standing there for a bit. For lack of anything better to do, he idly looks around the cave. For the most part, he can see the rough roof of it, but there’s some sections lost in shadow. There’s one pretty much right above them, in fact, the surrounding stone pulling upwards into a deep crevice.

It almost looks like something’s moving up there in the dark, but even Stan knows how much the human eye loves seeing things that aren’t there when you’re staring into pitch blackness.

It really does seem like something’s moving, though.

Stan squints.

“Hey, Fidds, give it a rest for a sec, would ya?” Stan says, wiggling his foot to get his attention. “Pro’lly just my eyes playing tricks on me, but is there something up there?”

Fiddleford hums, standing up. He lifts his arm above his head, and the dim light of his prosthetic pushes the darkness back just enough for Stan to make out what looks like eight dark eyes staring at them from the shadows.

“Huh,” Fiddleford says, voice pitching up slightly. “Yup, reckon you’re right.”

Just as he says that, the thing in the darkness skitters closer. With its head fully lit as Fiddleford rears around to face it, Stan knows it’s a spider, if the eight eyes weren’t enough to clue him in. It’s an ugly one too, eight eyes bulging grotesquely from a dark, shiny head. Two giant fangs protrude from the bottom of its face, with two little legs shifting as it stares at them. Little is a relative description, of course, because they’re about the length of his forearm which is far too large for any part of a spider to be, if you ask Stan.

“What are you waiting for, blast that thing!” Stan demands, and suddenly the spider lunges.

Fiddleford yelps, throwing out his prosthetic to catch it before those fangs can hit something more delicate. They clack against the metal, shifting as they try to dig into something with no give. The sudden weight of the spider knocks Fiddleford off his feet, sending him stumbling into Stan, who’s only there to catch him because his foot’s stuck. Luckily, their combined weight is enough to wrench his foot free, which, unluckily, means all three of them hit the floor.

Fiddleford rolls off of Stan, tugging the spider along with him. Considering the things got eight legs beneath it, the movement does nothing to knock it off balance. Its weird little legs prod at Fiddleford’s chest. Stan rolls to his feet, every muscle tensed.

The spider pulls away, finally getting wise to the fact that it can’t bite through metal. With his prosthetic now free, Fiddleford pulls back just far enough to claw it across the face, catching at least three of its gross eyes. It rears back, legs scrambling to get the threat away from itself, and oh shit, have spiders always had a nasty pair of little claws on the end of each leg?

Stan glances towards the entrance of the cave.

There’s not a lot of force behind the movement, not when it’s just trying to get away, but its claws scramble against the flimsy fabric of Fiddleford’s shirt and tear it with ease. Judging by Fiddleford’s pained yelp, they make it through more than that.

He’s spent a long-ass time looking out for nobody but himself, but there was a time before that when his brother was his first priority. Nothing much has changed, then. Ford would kill him if he let his boy get killed, and besides, Stan kinda likes the guy himself.

Leaving his typical taunting out just this once— it would be lost on a spider anyway— Stan threads his fingers through his brass knuckles and lunges. He doesn’t know what his good ol’ fists will do against a spider as big as he is, but the answer seems to be ‘enough’.

The spider lets out a wet noise as his fist cracks through its exoskeleton. He rears back on instinct, because gross, and that gives the beast enough time to turn itself towards him. Its five remaining eyes don’t have a shred of humanity to them, but Stan still gets the impression of a hateful glare. He pulls back for another blow, straight between those ugly eyes, but the spider lunges before he can. He steps to the side, but a person-sized spider is a lot wider than a person-sized person, and two of the legs catch him, bringing him towards that awful mouth. Those weird little mouth legs grab at his arm, and he struggles against its grip. He leans far enough away that its mouth lands far from his throat, but that’s the best of it. It still lands, fangs sinking into his arm.

Stan grunts against the sharp stab of pain, but the spider made a big mistake— it grabbed his non-dominant arm. He can’t throw his whole body into it like he should, but he can still punch this thing in the head, over and over and over until his arm is covered in bug blood and its legs stop twitching around him.

“Stanley! Fiddleford!” Ford shouts, suddenly deciding to show back up now that the action is over. “Fiddleford! What happened?”

“Big spider,” Fiddleford grunts, sitting up. He’s got a hand pressed over the worst of the wounds, and now that Stan’s looking, there sure is a lot of blood staining his shirt.

“I see that!” Ford says tightly, sparing the spider a glance. His eyes briefly spark with that bright-eyed nerd look, but it’s pretty quickly drowned out by concern. “Come on, there's a place deeper in where we can rest.”

“Are we sure this is the only spider here?” Stan asks, pulling his arm free of the fangs. It is not a graceful dismount, tearing at the skin around the punctures.

“Well, the vast majority of spider species are incredibly asocial, many even resorting to cannibalism if other food sources are unavailable,” Ford says in that enthusiastic lecturer tone that Stan can’t help but roll his eyes at. “Judging by the size and web-building habits of this individual, I have no reason to believe it’s an exception.”

“Alright, pretty sure I caught most of that,” Stan says. “Lead the way, Poindexter.”

“I shall,” Ford agrees, helping Fiddleford to his feet. Fiddleford hisses against the movement, pressing his hand more firmly to the worst of his wounds as Ford swings his prosthetic over his shoulder. He slumps a bit beneath its weight. “I forgot how heavy this thing is. You really wear this every day?”

“Y’know I do,” Fiddleford says. His accent means he’s always shoving words together, but the slur is coming in hard and fast. He’s losing a lot of blood. How much space is between the surface of someone’s skin and the inside of their organs, and how long were those claws again?

Stan isn’t a doctor, and even though the Fords have like, a hundred doctorates between them, he’s pretty sure none of them are medical. Still, it’s not like Stan of all people will be any help.

Ford half-carries Fiddleford into the next room of the cave, even if it’s a bit of a squeeze to get through the narrow passageway. While it’s further from the entrance, there’s an opening in the roof letting the rain trickle down into a shallow pool. That natural skylight is the only opening other than the one they just came through, and the room is small enough that Stan can see all of it, even in the dim light filtering through the clouds and into the cave. It’s a little slice of paradise, other than the giant dead spider a few feet away and the guy bleeding out all over his brother.

Stan’s been in worse places.

Ford lowers Fiddleford to the ground as soon as they enter the room. Ford sits down with him, all but cradling that scrawny little mechanic in his lap.

“Y’kay, Lee?” Fiddleford mumbles, rolling his head towards Stan.

“Are you seriously asking that right now?” Ford sighs, exasperated, before Stan can answer. He was going to say just about the same thing, but it confirms that that’s definitely what he should do.

“You’re the one who got gored by a giant spider, Fidds,” Stan says, waving his uninjured hand dismissively. “You can worry about other people when your blood’s back where it’s supposed to be.”

“Precisely. Now where do you keep those gauze…” Ford’s voice fades out as Stan wanders off. There isn’t anywhere to go, really, so Stan washes off the worst of the bug blood in the pond, then meanders his way over to sit against the opposite wall. There’s a clear view of both the Fords and the entrance.

He checks that Ford is still focused on Fiddleford— he is, completely and utterly— before he carefully rolls up one sleeve of his jacket to check the bite. There’s two messy holes in his arm, still bleeding sluggishly. The skin around the wounds is flushed red.

Stan may be the idiot of the group, but even he knows this is bad news. Spiders are usually poisonous, right? Does that apply to alien spiders that are huge? Probably.

The small part of his brain that still cares about logic and being alive says he should tell the Fords immediately, before things get worse. The louder, larger part of his brain stomps it down and kicks its corpse for good measure.

Fiddleford looks like he’s got more blood outside of his body than in it. He is clearly the first priority for Ford, and with good reason, even if a small, childish part of Stan rankles at the idea. Besides, spider venom probably wasn’t the worst thing Stan’s had injected into his body, and he’s survived everything else.

It hurts, but not that badly. There’s a faint ache spreading up his arm, but it’s probably just from the way that damn thing had grabbed it. He’s fine.

He’ll sneak over and grab one of those awful bottles of whatever Fiddleford uses to keep wounds clean when Ford’s done fretting over all their medical shit. He can take care of it himself. With just a few exceptions, Stan’s been the only one taking care of Stan for the past ten years.

He watches Ford carefully remove Fiddleford’s prosthetic and cleans his wounds, holding him steady even as Fiddleford writhes against the pain of that awful antiseptic against torn flesh. Once Ford has a cap on the bottle and is blotting away the excess blood and liquid, Fiddleford slumps against him. Ford carefully maneuvers around him to bandage the wound properly, mumbling gently all the while. Stan can’t make out the words, but he can guess what he’s saying.

Ford had never been one for reassurances. When he used to patch Stan up all those years ago, he’d run through everything he was doing and why. If he ran out of things to say on that topic, he’d just start talking about whatever else was on his mind. It gave Stan something to focus on other than the pain, so he’d always appreciated that. He can’t tell if Fiddleford feels the same way, can’t read his expression or body language beyond ‘pained’ at this distance.

Once he’s taken care of, Ford leans against the opposite wall of the cave with a visible sigh. Fiddleford carefully maneuvers himself to curl into Ford’s lap, burying his face in his stomach and fisting his hand into the back of his shirt. Ford takes off his coat, and lays it over him. The cave is honestly pretty hot if you ask Stan, but the gesture is nice.

“I’ll take first watch,” Ford calls, loud enough to echo through the cave. Fiddleford flinches at the loud noise, and Stan does the same, quickly adjusting his leg to make sure his arm is hidden from view.

His attempt doesn’t matter, because Ford isn’t even looking. He runs a hand through Fiddleford’s hair as he burrows his face deeper into Ford’s stomach.

Stan scoffs quietly. He’s a grown man. Stan hasn’t looked for comfort in another person since he was like, ten.

It does look kind of nice, though. He hasn’t trusted anyone to look after him the way Ford is looking after Fiddleford in over a decade; even Ford got too busy to tend to his every bruise and scrape eventually, and Stan learned to stop bothering him. He learned to set his own nose at fifteen and never looked back.

Eventually, Ford will get tired and he’ll wake up Stan to get him to take watch. Once that happens, Stan will grab the bottle of antiseptic and the roll of bandages and patch himself up. Until then, Stanley rolls his sleeve back down, and tries to make himself comfortable.

•••

Stan wakes up to something jostling his shoulder. That never means anything good. Without even thinking, he scrambles away from the touch, kicking against the ground. His legs barely react, and a dull ache rages through his entire body at the movement.

Oh, he’s in a real bad way. Even more reason to get the fuck away. His eyelids feel thick as he forces them open. As expected, someone is looming over him.

His arm twitches towards his pocket, but that’s as far as he gets. His whole body hurts, but his arm’s definitely the worst of it, maybe followed by his chest. It’s hard to breathe. He has no idea how much of that is panic and how much of it is whatever happened to him.

Either way, he’s not about to let himself die here. He doesn’t even know where ‘here’ is. The ground is hard beneath him and the wall is hard behind him and it’s hot. He’s sweating like hell, but what else is new.

“Ge’way,” Stan slurs, raising his other, slightly less painful arm to defend himself.

“Stanley!” a voice scolds, and the hand releases him. Whoever’s looming over him even takes a step back. “What is the matter with you?”

The voice sounds familiar, but that barely even registers. This person called him by his actual name.

“Who the fuck’re you?” Stan says, words coming a bit easier now.

“It’s me, Stanford! Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

Oh, he got into some real bad stuff. As Stan continues to blink blearily at the person, their features resolve into something very similar to his own.

This isn’t the first time his addled mind has conjured up a vision of his twin, but it’s a punch in the gut every time. To make matters worse, there’s someone actually here, and his stupid brain is trying to convince him it’s Ford. It’s not Ford. It’s never been Ford and it never will be. The last thing he could remember is…

Shit.

“… Ford?”

He blinks a few more times. The face glaring down at him remains that of his twin brother.

“It’s morning,” Ford says. “Well, it’s midday, actually, but either way, the rain has stopped and we should be looking for a way out of here.”

“Shoul’ Fidds be movin’ around so soon?” Stan says. Personally, Stan doesn’t feel great about moving around so soon, but he’s not about to say anything for his own sake.

“I shoul’ be fine,” Fiddleford chimes in. “Not lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know the rest of the local wildlife here.”

“Yeah… yeah, le’s get outta here,” Stan agrees. He steadies himself with his uninjured hand and tries to use it to push himself up. He can’t get his legs underneath himself. That's no good.

“Come on, Stanley,” Ford says impatiently.

“I’m working on it,” Stan snaps, trying to sound irritated instead of panicked. “I’m not as young as I used to be, ya know.”

“We’re 27, that’s hardly an applicable excuse,” Ford scoffs.

“Myeh myeh myeh,” Stan mumbles mockingly.

“Y’alright, Stanley?” Fiddleford asks, supporting himself against Ford as he approaches.

“Tch, yeah, of course,” Stan grumbles, and tries again.

His entire body protests, but he manages to stand. His leg spasms beneath him, and he stumbles. He reaches out to steady himself, but his arm doesn’t react as quickly as he hopes, ends up just smacking his injured forearm against the cave wall. Sharp, sudden pain shoots through him, so intense that he feels his stomach lurch. He grits his teeth against the surge of nausea, cupping his other hand over his mouth and telling himself he is not going to vomit until it sticks.

“Stanley!” Fiddleford frets, leaving Ford’s side to reach for Stan. Stan smacks his hand away with a bleary glare. His eyelids still feel weird.

“I’m fine. Just a head rush, you know how it is,” Stan says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I…” Fiddleford glances between Stan and Ford. Without anyone to hold on to, his hand flutters down to his abdomen, gently cupping it over his bandaged wound. “Y’know, I said I’d be alright, but I’m already feelin’ a little…”

Ford looks to him with alarm. Fiddleford meets his eyes, and there’s something calculating in his expression. He’s aiming for a very specific reaction, and not even trying to hide his search. If Stan could think straight, he’d probably be able to catch onto his game, easy.

“Are you okay? Do you— should I check your stitches? Nothing tore, right?” Ford falls for it without a second thought.

“No, no, I think I just need another day of rest,” Fiddleford says, and there’s a caution to his expression that’s only half-faked. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Ford says softly. “I may not have been the most… considerate of your physical and mental limitations in the past, but I truly am trying my best to rectify such transgressions. If you want to rest, we shall rest.”

So that’s his game. Why, though? Is he just testing Ford, seeing how far he can push him until he stops playing nice? He might not be fully lying, it probably is too soon for him to be moving, but he was specifically gunning for this result for reasons beyond his own injury. He had a point, earlier, when he was talking about dangerous wildlife or whatever, so what changed?

He's missing something that’s staring him right in the face, he’s sure of it.

“Thank you, Stanford,” Fiddleford sighs. “Sorry to get you up for nothin’ Stanley.”

Stan grunts, and holds his arm as still as possible to avoid further irritation. Just to spite him, his arm twitches against his will. Pain pulses through him with each rapid beat of his heart. He's not actively panicking anymore, but his pulse is still racing. That's no good.

He tightens his grip on his upper arm. He could swear he feels the rush of toxic blood from the wound to his heart beneath his palm. Spiders have venom, and Stan’s been injected with it.

Spiders aren’t that dangerous, Ford told him that again and again. He was always sticking up for the weird little animals that everyone hates. Only two spiders in the US have venom that could kill a person. Bites are few and far between. Lethal ones being even fewer and farther between. None of that really applies to giant fuck-off big spider in an alternate dimension though. Do bigger spiders have stronger venom? Does that make sense? A bigger spider definitely has more venom, those fangs were as big as Stan’s hand.

How fucked is Stan, on a scale from one to ten? Being locked in a car trunk in the deserts of Nevada during a heatwave was probably a nine, so maybe he’d rank this at a seven. The uncertainty could probably boost it up to an eight, though.

When he ended up in that trunk, he’d already been in plenty of bad situations with a head injury and his hands tied behind his back. He’d even had heat stroke before, knew the symptoms and survived them once before. On some level, he knew what to do and what to expect, and he survived.

Right now, he didn’t know what to do or what to expect. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive.

Maybe it’s a nine.

“Lee?” Fiddleford asks gently. Despite his tone, Stan flinches away, sinking against the wall. He didn’t mean to do that. His legs feel so weak. It hurts. Everything hurts and it’s hard to breathe.

“Stanley, are you alright?” Ford asks, and it’s weird to have his concern again. It’s been over a decade. It was weird to see him fret over Fiddleford, but this is definitely weirder.

“Feel… not so good,” Stan admits. He doesn’t mean to, but most of his body isn’t listening to him, so why should his big dumb mouth?

“Oh, Stanley…” Fiddleford whispers. “What happened?”

“Bit. Nasty lil’… fucker… stupid fangs…”

“Chelicerae,” Ford corrects, seemingly without thinking. He kneels down in front of Stan, holding out a hand. Part of Stan wants to flinch away, but he counts the fingers and can’t bring himself to.

One two three four five, the thumb makes six. The thumb isn’t technically a finger. Is that true? Ford would know. He’s always been called a six-fingered freak, so it doesn’t really matter. One two three four five six.

“Where’d it get you, Lee?”

Lee. Stan wishes Ford still called him Lee. How long has it been?

Fiddleford is nice, but he’s not his brother. He missed his brother so much. He still misses him.

“Stanley, where did it get you?” Ford says, a bit more harshly. No, not harsh, just firm. Stan’s heart stutters anyway. He doesn’t want Ford to be mad at him anymore.

Ford is still holding out his hand. Oh, Stanley gets it now. Even though he really wants to lean forward and press his forehead to Ford’s hand, he extends his arm instead. It’s shaking.

“‘S hot in here,” he says.

“It’s really not, but we should get you outta that jacket anyhow,” Fiddleford says, reaching for Stan.

Fiddleford is nice, but he flinches away anyway, curling closer to Ford. Fiddleford doesn’t push the issue. He takes his hand back, holds it awkwardly in front of his chest. Ford used to do that too, before he got into the habit of hiding his hands. Made him look like a t-rex.

“D’you still like dinosaurs?” Stan tries to say. He’s pretty sure most of the noises come out, but Ford doesn’t respond to him either way. He just carefully starts rolling up Stan’s sleeve.

He didn’t want Ford to see his arm. He doesn’t exactly remember why, he’s having a hard time thinking that far back, but it seems important. He tries to pull away. He’s always been stronger than Ford, but it doesn’t work.

Is it Ford holding his arm?

One two three four five six. In all his time traveling, he’s never met someone like Ford.

It’s definitely Ford. The brush of cloth hurts and he doesn’t want Ford to see, but it’s Ford. He’s really good at secrets, but not when it comes to his brother.

“Shit,” Ford says sharply, hand tightening around his wrist. “Sweet Moses, Stanley, what were you thinking!?”

Oh, right, that’s why Stan didn’t want him to see. He’s mad.

“Tha’s your job…” Stan says, trying very hard to get the words out.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ford continues.

He probably heard him, he just doesn’t care.

He misses when his brother cared about him. He misses his brother.

“Stanley!” he scolds, and Stan swallows back a pathetic noise. He sounds like Pa when he talks like that.

One two three four five six. The grip on his wrist is firm, steadying the shaking, but the fingers tracing the reddened skin around the bite are gentle.

Pa wasn’t always cruel, but he was never ever gentle.

Ma was. Her hands were bony and shook more often than not, but they were gentle.

He misses Ma too. He’ll probably never see her again. She’s getting old. She’ll die and only one son will attend her funeral.

Shermie keeps in touch with her. Stan calls when he can but he loses track of time so easily. Ford does too. How often does he call? Does he answer when she does? Despite everything, he always answered Stan’s calls, even though he never said anything. Because he never said anything, actually. How quickly would he have hung up if he knew who was on the other end?

Ford is talking. He sounds frantic. He can’t decide whether the fear is better or worse than the anger.

“I’m ‘kay,” Stan tries, flailing his injured hand in an attempt to pat Ford’s arm soothingly. His fingers brush against him, but that’s about it.

“No, you’re not,” Ford growls, returning his attention to Stan. It was off him, for a second, he was talking to… “that’s the problem, Stanley, how could you hide this from us?”

“I ain’t happy about it either, but now’s not the time for a lecture,” Fiddleford says, right, yeah, Fiddleford.

“What is it time for?” Ford says, more desperate than combative.

“It’s time to see what all’s goin’ on. If we get an idea as to the toxin, we can figure out how best to deal with it,” Fiddleford says, sitting down beside Ford. “Hey, Stanley, can you answer a few questions for me?”

Stan looks to Ford for guidance. He seems confused, but he nods.

“Please,” Ford requests.

“Mhm,” Stan says, nodding once.

“Alright, thank you,” Fiddleford says, reaching over to Ford and shoving a hand into his coat. He fishes out one of those journals he’s always carrying around, and surprisingly, Ford lets him. He flips to an empty page, clicks the pen a few times, and nods to himself.

“Can you describe your symptoms, or should I give you some yes or no questions?”

Stan shrugs one shoulder.

“I’s hot, and my stomach kinda hurts,” Stan says haltingly. “Everything kinda hurts, actually, feels stiff, an’ it’s a lil hard t’ breathe, an’ my eyes feel weird.”

Fiddleford scribbles this all down quickly. He doubts his notes will be legible to anyone other than himself later. He looks more and more troubled the more he writes, and the expression is mirrored by Ford.

“‘s not so bad,” Stan tries, and the grip on his wrist tightens. Fiddleford huffs unhappily, looking up at Stan.

“Lemme see those peepers,” Fiddleford says, not even acknowledging Stan’s attempt at reassurance.

He leans in close, and Stan leans away. Fiddleford isn’t particularly scary, but he’s got the capacity to be. Stan feels pretty frail right now.

If he’s feeling pretty frail, the last thing he should do is show it. He should push this guy back twice as hard as he’s pushed him.

His free fist curls weakly against the ground. That's about as far as it gets. A painful spasm jolts up his arm.

“Swollen,” Fiddleford says, and he leans away. “How’s his pulse?”

“Elevated,” Ford admits. He sounds scared.

“‘s not that bad,” Stan tries again.

“Stop saying that!” Ford snaps, loud and harsh.

Stan flinches, squeezing his eyes shut.

Fuck. They got into plenty of arguments as kids, but the last time Ford used that tone with him—

“Quit your barking, boy!” Fiddleford scolds, smacking Ford upside the head.

There's no real force to it, more of a pat than a smack. Stan jolts anyway, trying to pull Ford closer. His arm just twitches in his grip.

“Believe me when I say I ain’ happy ‘bout this either, not ‘bout Stanley getting hurt in the firs’ place, not ‘bout him hidin’ it, and not ‘bout his constant downplayin’ o’ somethin’ so serious,” Fiddleford says, accent so thick and words so fast Stan barely catches any of them. “But he’s in a real bad way right now, and you yellin’ at him ain’ helping!”

“I’m not yelling!” Ford yells.

Fiddleford just scoffs and turns away.

“Sounds ta me like a neurotoxin,” Fiddleford says, carefully calm now that his attention is on Stanley.

“Neuro, like, brain?”

That sounds bad. That sounds real bad.

“Neuro like neural tissue, the nervous system at large,” Fiddleford says, and then, a bit more quickly, like he doesn’t want Stan to hear it, “not just the brain, but certainly including it, yes.”

Well.

Shit.

That’s a new form of brain damage for him to blame his stupidity on. Assuming he even makes it out of this alive.

“If it makes ya feel better, I’ve gotten quite a hefty dose of neurotoxin m’self, and the only lastin’ damage was psychological!” Fiddleford says with a shaky grin.

Ford’s grip tightens around Stan’s wrist.

“Really?” Stan asks. He’s not sure if he’s curious or seeking reassurance. Probably a little bit of both.

“Spent a solid day barfin’ my guts out, so you’re doin’ better than me.”

“… that does kinda make me feel better, actually.”

“Happy t’ help,” Fiddleford says, faintly amused. “I’m gonna go get my bag. I know it’ll hurt, but we gotta clean out those wounds.”

Stan’s shoulder aches at the mere thought.

“It would have been easier and more effective if we cleaned it out when these wounds were first opened,” Ford mumbles angrily. The fingers poking around the wound get a bit harsher, and Stan’s arm jerks. His fingers go soft again, an apology he refuses to actually voice.

“But we didn’t,” Fiddleford says. “It’d be easier if none of us got hurt in the first place, but that didn’t happen either. We just gotta make the best of what we ended up with.”

“You’re being incredibly permissive,” Ford grumbles.

“I ain’t his dad,” Fiddleford scoffs, grabbing his bag. “I ain’t about to go lecture him when he’s already sufferin’ for his choices.”

Stan mumbles something about his own dad and insult to injury (further injury to injury?) and Fiddleford’s parenting, but even in his own head it doesn’t end up making any sense.

Fiddleford returns, and Stan is suddenly reminded of what they were doing in the first place. As Stan tries to shy away, Ford’s grip tightens around his wrist, and the other grips him at the elbow. One two three four five six fingers wrapped around his arm. Counting them is the only thing that keeps him from kicking away. Well, that and the stiff ache of every part of his dumb body, but he’s even less likely to admit to that.

“Sorry, Lee,” Fiddleford mumbles, carefully wiping away the dried blood with a damp cloth. “Shoot, it really did a number on ya, huh?”

“It’s…” Stan suddenly remembers Ford’s reaction to his earlier dismissals, and decides on, “yeah, guess so.”

Fiddleford starts to rub at the scabs, gently wiping away what little protection had formed there. It certainly hurts, but Stan knows it’s only going to get worse.

“So, we just clean it out and hope for the best?” Stan asks between gritted teeth.

“‘fraid so, ‘less we find a horse and a couple months of free time before you recover.”

“A horse?” Stan echoes, baffled.

“Yeup. You synthesize an antivenom by injecting a horse with a small dose of the relevant toxin over time,” Fiddleford explains, wiping away the blood that wells up to replace the scabs. “It builds up some antibodies that can be isolated and injected alongside an anti-inflammatory… which I suppose we also don’t have.”

“Why a horse?” Stan asks, watching wearily as Fiddleford rings the cloth out and soaks it again with the antibiotic. Antiseptic? Which was it? Was there a difference? There’s a topic to distract them with once they’re done talking.

“… y’know, I don’t rightly know.”

“I suppose it may work with any mammal,” Ford muses, glancing towards the way into the body of the cave.

“Don’t even think about it, fella,” Fiddleford snaps, and Stan feels himself lose track of the conversation. “Stanley’s gonna be just fine without you doin’ anythin’ stupid.”

“Obviously! It’s just… something to consider in the future.”

“It absolutely ain’t. If any of us get poisoned, none of the rest of us are gonna start poisoning ourselves to try an’ fix it!” Fiddleford insists. “And besides, if we did, I would be the one to do it since I’ve already been dosed with neurotoxins!”

“We have no idea how chemically similar this spider’s venom is to that of the Gremloblin, despite the somewhat similar symptoms!” Ford protests, releasing Stan’s arm like he’s about to start gesturing before he puts it back. “Any antibodies you developed, supposing that they haven’t already been lost, may be entirely irrelevant!”

“And besides, it’s a gradual process that wouldn’t be of any use to us now, we have no way to isolate the antibodies, and injection without an anti-inflammatory could cause an allergic response that’d only worsen the condition,” Fiddleford agrees. “So this ain’t a particularly useful line of thinkin’ at all.”

As the period to that particular conclusion, Fiddleford finally presses the wet cloth to Stan’s wounds. For a split second, he thinks, huh, that’s not so bad, before the pain sets in quickly and very, very intensely.

The bite has hurt like hell ever since he first got it, and it’s only been getting worse. The gradual increase in pain spikes, so intense and sudden that Stan can’t muffle a cry as his vision goes white. He tries to breathe in, but his chest locks up, his entire body seizing.

Oh fuck, Stan thinks, and that’s the only thing he can think for a long time. Maybe not so long. It could last anywhere between a few seconds to several hours, Stan has no idea.

Fiddleford and Ford are talking, but it’s just noise to him. Stan grits his teeth so hard he’s certain he can hear them creaking. He wonders if his partials or his actual teeth are tougher. He feels like both of them are seconds away from shattering. He’s seconds away from shattering. Ford’s grip on his arm is tight enough to hurt but it’s nothing in comparison to the white-hot agony between his hands.

He thinks he might hate Fiddleford, actually. He can’t keep getting away with this.

•••

He comes back to himself eventually. For some reason, he’s laying down now, no idea when that happened. His head in Ford’s lap and his arm propped up on a small stack of stones blanketed in Stan’s jacket. It still hurts like a bitch, but at least he can think straight. Straighter. Still not entirely straightly.

His arm is all bandaged up now, which is nice. As Stan glances around what little bits of the cave he can see without moving his neck, he realizes he can’t see Fiddleford. Stupidly, that’s a bit of a relief.

Ford has held him in place while Fiddleford poured white hot acid all over his wounds, but it’s Ford. Ford could dissect him alive without anything to help with the pain and he’d still trust him with his life. That’s his brother.

He blinks blearily up at Ford’s face. He’s not looking at him. He’s looking down at a book he’s got sitting on the ground next to Stan’s head, tapping a five-fingered rhythm against the pages.

Stan hums, just because he can. Ford jolts, and Stan hears the paper wrinkle beneath his fingers. Oops.

“Stanley! Hello, are you— how are you feeling?” Ford says, looking down at Stan like he’s a weird bug. A cool weird bug that he cares about, maybe, but there’s that bright-eyed scientific curiosity.

Bad. So so bad I feel terrible, part of him wants to respond, loud and stupid and childish. Do you remember how you used to run your fingers through my hair when I was sick, even though Ma and Pa told you to stay away so you wouldn’t get sick too? And then you would get sick, and I had to take care of you. I miss that, I miss you, I love you.

I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse, another says, practical and honest. Probably feeling a bit better than I was last time I was conscious.

Totally fine, another part insists. Let’s get outta here.

“Mmmgh,” he settles on. “Could be worse.”

“How would you rate your current pain on a scale from zero to ten, with zero being no pain at all, and ten being such severe pain that you can’t move, think, or speak?” Ford asks. “Well, I suppose it’s not a ten, since you’re speaking mostly coherently.”

Ten! Ten! We’re dying, you have to save us!

Maybe a seven. My brain’s a scrambled egg but most of it is saying ouch.

Zero, we’re fine, let’s go.

“Eh, a five I guess?” Stan says, rounding down.

“I see, so about a seven,” Ford muses, followed by the scrape of a pen against paper.

“Hey!” Stan barks.

He’s kind of mad that Ford doesn’t believe him, but the rest of him is so, so happy. His dumb genius of a brother remembers him, he knows him, they still speak the same language.

“You’ve always been this way, Lee,” Ford says, and his eyes return to Stan’s face.

Lee. Lee Lee Lee. Ford stopped calling him that in what, high school? Even earlier? The sudden return of their childhood nickname stirs such a flurry of emotions that he stops breathing. His chest hurts in general, but there’s suddenly a pleasant edge to that pain.

He huffs out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a whine. He’s embarrassed by how emotional he’s feeling, but he can’t stop staring up at Ford’s face, even as his vision starts to blur. He blinks to clear it, ignoring the wetness running down his cheek, and gets to watch as Ford’s eyes go wide.

He’s got dark circles. He always does. Bill can’t follow them everywhere, but Ford still avoids sleep whenever he can.

“Why are you crying?” Ford asks, then immediately winces. Stan huffs out a laugh. He’s so bad at being comforting.

“‘m not,” Stan scoffs, and he doesn’t even care if Ford believes him. “It’s cave dust, genius.”

Ford’s lips twitch, even as his brows remain furrowed.

“Yes, alright,” Ford says placatingly. “Do you think you can sit up?”

“Pfft, yeah, easy, done it a million times before,” Stan says, even as his stomach rolls in protest to the muscles flexing around it.

Ford helps him up anyway, one hand on his back, the other holding his arm steady as he props him up against the wall of the cave. Now that he’s up and able to see more than what’s directly above him, he can see Fiddleford tinkering with some scrap metal on the other side of the cave. He’s staring over at Stan, but as soon as their eyes meet he just gives him a tight smile and looks away. For all of his usual fretting, he stays where he is.

“Some water,” Ford says, drawing Stan’s attention.

He’s holding out a packet of water, the lid already twisted off. They’re running low, and Fiddleford hasn’t finished his water filter, hasn’t put together everything he needs for it.

Stan hesitates to take it, but Ford just shoves it into his hand. Stan doesn’t really have the energy to fight it. The moment the water hits his tongue, he realizes just how thirsty he is.

He hums appreciatively, slumping against the cave wall. Fiddleford told him something about drinking slowly at some point? Eh. If he’s going slow, it's only because holding up his arm for long enough to drain the packet is kinda a pain.

As soon as he’s done with the water, Ford exchanges the empty packet for a food bar.

Stan frowns down at it. His stomach rolls, but he can’t really tell if it’s hunger or nausea.

Moses, he’d kill for some plain crackers to test the water. Acid. Stomach acid.

He really does not want to eat this thing. He’s fairly sure the only thing that kept him from throwing up earlier (yesterday? He has no idea how long he’s been out) was his empty stomach. An empty stomach that’s only getting emptier. Stan should know better than to turn up his nose to a free meal.

Ugh.

Stan sighs, but tears it open and nibbles at one corner. His stomach tenses in anticipation, and a dull ache laces through his jaw. It tastes fine, and his stomach doesn’t hurt any worse, but he finds himself exhausted by the time he’s done.

It must be pretty bad, because even Ford seems to pick up on it. He eases him back down. He’s still sweating like a hog, but his skin has erupted into goosebumps and he misses the familiar comfort of his ratty jacket around him. He’s glad it’s nearby, at least. He means to run the fingers of his injured arm along the fabric of his jacket, but can’t manage much more than a twitch. So that’s still beyond his capabilities. Noted.

“Hey, Ford…?” he mumbles.

“Yes, Stanley?”

Thank you. I love you. Why are you being so nice to me?

“Shouldn’ we get a move on?”

“We will,” Ford says softly, and he runs his fingers through Stan’s hair. “As soon as you’re feeling better.”

[0dd1t1ty]

#𝟎𝐃𝐃𝟏𝐓𝟏𝐓𝐘 [ … ] an independent & selective multi muse, featuring muses from the umbrella academy, the marvel universe, and a bunch of random fandoms thrown into the mix. due to potential dark themes on this blog, this blog is 18+ only. non-mutuals, minors, and personals dni. scribed by moon (21, they/them). follows and likes come from @tsukiigami

other blogs: tsukiigami (animanga multi, main blog to this one), cafesol (fandomless oc), weatheregg (nami from one piece).

links: memes.

rules and list under the under the cut:

rules:

introduction: this is an independent, selective, and highly canon divergent multi muse, home to some of my random interests. this blog is a sideblog; all follows and likes come from here. following the main blog is not necessary to interact.

activity: seeing as it’s taken me so long to set this blog up, i don’t know what my activity will look like. i’m on the main blog a lot, it’s what i’m signed in to on mobile. but just because i’m active on the main blog, doesn’t necessarily mean i’ll be active here. threads may take awhile to get to, especially when i usually respond based on muse level vs when it came in.

shipping: i love shipping as the next guy, but i only ship with chemistry. i'm okay with a slight age gap, but not a "i was already an adult when my partner was born" kind of ship. i don't do ships between siblings, even if they are adopted siblings (hargreeves siblings, even sparrow x umbrella). i also don't ship harley quinn x joker, my main ship for harley is harlivy, i also don’t ship noodle or cyborg noodle with her band mates.

triggering content: a few of these muses come from horror based backgrounds or shows with darker themes, so they're bound to come up at some point. and if they do, they will always be tagged as "trigger tw" or "tw trigger." if there's a fandom that needs to be tagged, please let me know.

nsfw: i don't write smut often, but when the mood strikes, i'd prefer it to be with people i've plotted with. as usual, smut is only to be written with muses that are of age. i won’t write smut with minor muses who have been aged up for smut purposes either.

rp memes: rp memes are a good way to start interactions; besides starter calls, they're a means of interaction i try to use frequently. there is no limit on the amount of memes you can send, you could send one for every one of my muses and i’d be happy.

dni: i will not interact with pro-shippers, anyone who's homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, or anyone who voted for and stands by the current president. i will not interact with fandoms like harry potter, and i will not interact with anyone who ignores the maximoffs romani and jewish heritage (ex: using elizabeth olsen as wanda's fc).

muse list (canons):

adora - she-ra and the princess of power - she/her.

agatha harkness - agatha all along - she/her.

allison hargreeves - the umbrella academy comic - she/her.

stereotypical barbie - barbie movie - she/her.

billy kaplan - young avengers / agatha all along - he/him.

catra - she-ra and the princess of power - she/her.

charles rowland - dead boy detectives - he/him.

charlotte emily - fnaf: the silver eyes trilogy - she/her (will tag interactions as “fnaf tw”).

kang dae-ho - squid games - he/him.

elphaba thropp - wicked - she/her.

five hargreeves - the umbrella academy comic - he/him.

galinda upland - wicked - she/her.

harley quinn - dc comics - she/her.

choi joon-woong - tomorrow - he/him.

kate bishop - marvel comics - she/her.

klaus hargreeves - the umbrella academy comic - he/they.

koriand’r / starfire - teen titans - she/her.

niko sasaki - dead boy detectives - she/her.

noodle - gorillaz - she/her.

cyborg noodle - gorillaz - she/her.

peter parker - marvel comics - he/him.

koo ryeon - tomorrow - she/her.

lim ryung-gu - tomorrow - he/him.

choi su-bong / thanos - squid games - he/him.

vanessa afton - fnaf movie / security breach - she/her (will tag interactions as “fnaf tw”).

wanda maximoff - marvel comics - she/her.

muse list (original):

nari lee - fandomless - she/her - twin brother is here.

[silverlistenstothings]

-For your kiss thing-

Oakworthy kiss out of pride. >:)

42. Out of pride

“Normal!” Hero shouts as soon as she opens the door, loud enough for Hermie to flinch back. “Your boygirlfriend is here!”

“Hello to you too, Hero,” Hermie greets politely. “Normal is….?”

“Taking a shower, for the first time in months, on the one day he has someone coming over,” Hero says, rolling her eyes.

As if perfectly on cue, a noise that Hermie hadn’t registered as the upstairs plumbing goes quiet.

“Is that so…” Hermie muses, any frustration about being left on the doorstep fading to flattery.

Hero looks them over, and reluctantly steps out of the doorway to let them inside.

“He’s gonna be bad company,” Hero warns. “It ruins his whole day, he hates it.”

“I know,” Hermie sighs, a bit concerned. “I don’t mind.”

“Ew,” Hero says, turning and retreating up the stairs. Hermie listens to her bang against the walls, yelling at Normal to hurry up.

Hermie toes off their shoes in the doorway and takes a seat on the couch. There’s the frantic slap of wet feet against the hardwood floor upstairs, an annoyed exclamation from Hero, and then a few seconds of silence before Normal is rushing downstairs.

“Hermie!” Normal exclaims, looking wet and anxious and miserable. “I’m so sorry!”

He’s wearing a loose teeshirt- wet around the collar from his still-dripping hair- and basketball shorts, backwards and clearly put on in a rush.

“No need,” Hermie says, standing up and meeting Normal halfway. Normal pulls away when Hermie opens their arms for a hug. Hermie takes a step back.

“Sorry- sorry-“ Normal says, clenching his hands into tight fists and tapping them against his thighs. “I just-“

Hermie looks him over carefully. He’s shaking a little, flinching each time a drop of water hits his shoulders. His arms are folded tightly around his chest. He looks like a bedraggled stray dog.

“It’s fine. I understand,” Hermie says, even though they don’t. Still, they know ‘miserable and overstimulated and maybe dysphoric’ when they see it. “Let’s go back up to your room.”

“Ok…” Normal says, nodding and looking up at Hermie with big, wet eyes. Hermie barely manages to resist placing a hand on his back to guide him up the stairs.

They return to Normal’s room, which is in an unusual state of disarray. The disarray itself isn’t unusual, of course, his room is always a mess, but it looks like an attempt was made at cleaning and organization, and then abandoned halfway through.

“Sorry,” Normal apologizes once again, sitting down on his bed like a scolded dog.

Hermie clicks their tongue dismissively, shaking their head.

“Nothing I’m not used to,” they say, and Normal curls up on himself further. Quickly, they continue, “I mean, you’ve seen my own room.”

Normal’s shoulders loosen a bit.

“Yeah… um…” he trails off. Hermie waits a few moments to see if he wants to continue, but he doesn’t.

“Talk to me, Normal,” Hermie says patiently, sitting down beside him.

“I hate showers,” Normal burst out, as if waiting to be prompted. “I hate seeing myself naked, I hate the cold and drippy, I hate how dry and itchy I feel afterwards, I hate that it’s so fucking hard for me when everyone else can just- just do it!”

“Ok,” Hermie says, rolling that over in their mind. “Let’s start by getting you dried off.”

“You don’t need to-“

“I know I don’t, but you are my dear partner and it is no trouble for me to take care of you when you’re struggling.”

“I shouldn’t be struggling,” Normal says angrily, shaking his head and wincing when water splatters across the room. “I shouldn’t be-“

“But you are. You’re having a hard time and I’m going to help you.” Hermie makes a half-move towards standing up to go gather a towel, before pausing. “Don’t you have a plethora of water-based spells? Could you, perhaps, use one of them to dry yourself off?”

“I don’t think that’s…” Normal trails off, and then pauses.

He runs a faintly glowing hand through his hair, and the moisture collects into a fine fog around his head before dissipating. He tangles a lock of hair around his finger and lights up when he finds it dry.

“Hermie! You’re a genius!” He exclaims, throwing his arms around their shoulders and giving them a tight hug.

Hermie hugs him back, running their fingers through his hair and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m proud of you,” they say as they pull back, and Normal looks baffled.

“For- what?”

“For taking care of yourself even if it’s hard,” Hermie says, brushing his now-dry hair back to press another kiss to his forehead. “I’m proud of you.”

“It shouldn’t be- you shouldn’t be-“

“But it is,” Hermie says, putting their arms around his shoulders and meeting his eyes. “And I am.”

[thatdeadaquarius]

About language brainrot. Imagine writer creator reader who finally learns how to write in Teyvat's weird symbols and they want to publish their book. They decided to do it anonymously to avoid the "aaaaaah our creator wrote the holy scripture" sort of situation. Except it didn't work. The reader's style is too different from the rest of the world, so even if they tried to simulate the flowery speech it wasn't effective.

Another thing. Reader who decided to read some local books to practice their reading. They asked for something simple and similar to their speech. But the only books merely similar to it are 2000 and more years old. It's funny how the older text is the more you can understand it. On this note. If reader write something i feel like it would be hard to understand for Teyvat's people.

Imagine a reader who is autistic or has any other NDs imparing their communication skills. They practically trained themselves to say sertain phrases in sertain situation. But it doesn't work in Teyvat. And everything just stacks at each other. Difference in speech, being a God (so people react weirdly to you), bad communication skills, not understanding nonverbal cues and so on. There's gonna be a lot of misunderstanding. I imagine how followers would walk on the eggshells not to upset and angry their God and reader who does the same not to say something people will get wrong. Again.

Reader who regained all their memories of creating Teyvat, they're super powerful and stuff. But they still struggle with the modern language. Because all the memories are like millions years old.

✨️NEXYLAZA UR SO FUCKING SMART AND CREATIVE✨️ UR BRAIN>>>>>> EVERYTHING

GIF Akashi (black hair) is all the people who read the Sagau/Isekai Genshin tag and Bokuto (silver) is STILL ME RANTING ABOUT LANGUAGE IN TEYVAT LMAO

They cant escape me, sorry people who just wanted to read SAGAU normal things, im filling up the tag💀

I HAD OTHER ASKS BEFORE THIS ONE AND AS I GOT THRU EM I WAS "OMMGGGG WE'RE GETTIN CLOSER TO NEXY'SSSS ASSSKKKK EEEEEEE"

YOU ARE A GODDAMN GENIUS

DHALALWKDHDHS

ME ABOUT THIS ASK:

(^ lol biblically accurate deadaquarius)

I DONT EVEN KNOW WHERE TO BEGINNNN

BRAINROTTING OVER UR ENTIRE ASK!!

♡

Also, its getting kinda old now, so here is the blunt language v. Teyvat's flowery language post for reference! :)

Hhhhhhhhhhh

IF U WRITE STUFF

AND UR IN WORDY TEYVAT LAND

AINT NO WAY,👏

U COULD EVEN, 👏👏

GET CLOSE👏👏👏

TO THESE BITCHES SPEECH👏👏👏👏

◇

Like,, imagine right now if i told you to write me 4 pages of an essay in entirely early 18th century vernacular.

(For reference: when the story Pride & Prejudice takes place)

... like??

Bitch aint no way u can do that and actually show that to a historian or an actual living person from that time period

and them actually say "wow! An excellently worded 18th century essay!"

💀.

◇

So tying into that whole, "the only simple texts are like literal cunnieform clay tablets or sm shit"

Your writing to them just sounds like if a scribe just copied off what one of those tablets said just onto paper HAHA

And like, if u try and dress it up, it just ends up sounding like its from a slightly later time period

Like if ur casual writing sounds like 1 million years ago, u being flowery sounds like 8-7 thousand years ago u cant win LMAO

◇

Omg ur trying to go to that-

wait whats it called,,fuck i dont know Sumeru good enough yet

The.. HOUSE OF DAENA GOT IT

Yeah so ur thinking "Oh what better way to learn a dialect?/vernacular than reading books by them!"

And u basically snatch Alhaitham at the soonest possible chance to take you there

(Bc when i went in, it was just random lore books everywhere so)

Needless to say you have no clue how this place is organized, so u convince him to direct you to books u can easily read first

Like as close to your speech as possible!! U tell him :)

.

..

...lol

It literally takes like 3 hours to get something readable LMAO

Bc when the poor feeble scribe initially brought you smth he thought was pretty old and close to ur speech, like just first thought,

... It sounded like it was from the middle of the 18th century to you lol

So, with a "hmm" and a squint at the dusty book you'd already given up on

Alhaitham slowly went around the library making a stack of books, dropped them off in front of you... not a single sentence.

...then he made a stack of scrolls...

..nope..

...a stack of stone tablets...

.....getting closer?? it was really weird seeing Shakespearean language carved into stone....

...and then, with a conversation to a second library secretary deeper in the library, past a caged area of shelves to protect them...

...he escorts you behind the restricted section towards the back filled with glass display cases.

(Several of which contain the most ancient looking sets of artifacts you've ever seen)

...Finally, u arrive at a long glass case of several clay tablets.

Half of which sound like they're from the 1910s-20s, and the other, even older half, sounding straight out of the 2000s..

..

....

......

...Good god.

(Good..you??)

These crazy speaking bastard-previously-video-game-characters were right.

...

You are suddenly, viscerally hit with the image of Zhongli's idle, "Osmanthus wine tastes the same as I remember, but where are those who share the memory?" 💀

◇

Alhaitham side eyes you,, (he looks,, very interested, yet also kinda concerned??? HIM, CONCERNED????!!!)

"Ahem, the texts before thy Greatest Lord art the eldest- well, perhaps, more appropriately, the eldest and most intact, pieces of written language known to our humankind."

...

....aYOO MAN 😭😭

...Ur just staring at these half cracked, baked clay tablet thingys, full of slang from like 2003-

Alhaitham coughs.

"Uh, thanks. ...Sorry about all the.. trouble with this..."

BRO HOW OLD DOES HE THINK U ARE NOW-

"This task assigned to mine own person was of no trouble to my mind or spirit, Greatest Lord, fret not about it any longer."

And with a sort of shell-shocked atmosphere surrounding both of you, Alhaitham walks off to check out some other restricted books, hovering nearby yet also trying to give u space LOL

Top 10 cursed images: Seeing "Chillax, bro, dude, and weeb" carved into ancient clay tablets that look like they would be part of the Egyptian exhibit back in ur world 💀

◇

You eventually just kind of end up writing a couple pages after studying the writings, going younger and younger (nothing has ever made u feel more powerful...yet also more old..)

You stretch, just as Alhaitham finally has made his own little stack of creaky old books

He seems very curious to read what u wrote, peaking a glance over the top of his book every so often (lol nerd, cute nerd... but NERDDD)

You just offer the academic lunatic what he wants 🙄

"Haha, wanna take a look? Some drafts are... closer than others..."

The scribe immediately puts his book down, not even saving his page,

"I would be honored, Greatest Lord."

Is he excited?? 💀 omfg

U very slowly hand ur most recent practice pages over, he curls his hand under his chin "hmm" ing

...Alhaitham shakes his head

"My..deepest apologizes My Creator, but this still seems, at the earliest, from when papyrus was invented, and not yet even into scrolls..."

OK BUT ALHAITHAM WOULD GENUINELY GIVE NO FUCKS ABT CRITIQING YOU, HE MAY BE MORE POLITE ABT IT BUT EVEN IF U DID MAKE THE WORLD HES GOING FOR IT

KAVEH HAS A HEART ATTACK BC HIS ROOMMATE GOT ONTO GOD LMAO

U let ur head plop on ur pile of papers, srry babe youll never be as fancy as Mr. Darcy 😕

And as ur resting there, contemplating just walking out and finding smth to eat instead- same

Alhaitham picks up another draft.

Except it's your first attempt.

As in, you didn't even try, first attempt.

You just made some bullet point notes or some Bs, in ur regular. modern. language.

Alhaitham knocks his chair over standing up so fast-

(HE GETS SHUSHED BY THE RESTRICTED LIBRARIAN LOL, also another person unafraid to scold God lol)

...he says its a perfect example of the oldest records they've found of writing on the continent, most of which they haven't even translated yet

He asks u to teach him how to read this/speak like this lol

♧

(^^^not my best work but hope yall got smth outta it💀)

I WAS LITERALLY GONNA MAKE A WHOLE POST ON THE NEURODIVERGENT EXPERIENCE OF BEING A GOD IN TEYVAT

ESPECIALLY OF THE LANGUAGE BARRIER VARIETY!!!

THERES JUST

ACK

aCK HDHAKD

SO MUCH

TO SAY

!!!

AHHHHH

OK BUT LIKE

IF WE ACTUALLY TOOK THIS TO THE EXTREME IM IMPLYING IT WOULD BE

LIKE TEYVAT SPEAKS SEVERAL DECADES BEHIND U- MAYBE EVEN ACTUALLY

CLOSE TO PRIDE AND PREJUDICE TIMES SPEECH

THEY WOULD LITERALLY BARELY COMPHREHEND YOU

IMAGINE TRYING TO TALK TO MR. DARCY 😭

THATS LITERALLY ALL OF TEYVAT

JUST

???¿¿?????!!! <- THEM ALL THE TIME

ESP IF UR NEURODIVERGENT

I THINK IT WOULD BE EVEN MORE PROOF FOR THEM TO THINK UR GOD

BC UR BEHAVIOR WOULD BE "OFF" TO THEIR NEUROTYPICAL ASSES,

YOUR FACIAL EXPRESSIONS,

LIKE UR MASKING MAYBE BUT

U CANT KEEP THAT SHIT UP ALL THE TIME-

ESP IN CRAZY ISEKAI CIRCUMSTANCES

AND LIKE-

(ok ill tone it down before i also get shushed)

U used to be a player!!

Which would maybe mean u got rlly comfy playing Genshin all the time!

...like i know im kinda stimming when im gaming (and my natural stim is rocking so yeah no way they wouldnt notice that 💀)

So, since u may be still yknow unconsciously wanting to be comfy (esp around ur mains/team/favs)

U probably have stimmed a little around them, which, not that neurotypicals dont stim, but like

They would notice after awhile

And esp people like Alhaitham, Zhongli, Ningguang, Xiao, Ei, Aether/Lumine, Kaeya, Diluc, Kazuha, Heizou, Shenhe, Kokomi, Sara, Albedo, Dainsleif- !! GASP- !! <- my bbygirl omg i forgot abt u before now im so sorry </3

(once again i have not checked a character list, forgive my sins my readers)

^^^ Are like pretty focused on you/observant, so they'd eventually pick up on it first probably

..

...

....which allsssooo means they're like, collecting all ur neurodivergent thingys lol to compile as EVIDENCE AGAINST YOU AS TO WHY THEY KNOW UR THE CREATOR LMAO

◇

Honestly the biggest factor against u is definitely social interaction,, srry love :/

(if it helps, its bc i know itd be my downfall too thats why thats there ^ 😔)

Mostly bc i have this idea/theory? obervation? that when I especially met Adepti for the first time

Esp ones that werent as close to human society for as long as some others (like think Xiao vs. Ganyu)

And for literally every other non-human people we've met so far in Genshin-

They kinda- they kinda, radiate neurodivergent energy??

Like, they're not adherring to social norms, and not in like a bad way,

But its still rlly obvious (i mean also its probably exaggerated for us as an audience) that theyre not human pretty quickly

coughzhonglicough

COUGHVENTICOUGH-

oh geez wow excuse me, cold weather must be gettin to me- ahem hem-

Anyway, like what Nexy said in the ask,

...

...Yall are all just tiptoing around each other 😭😭

Bc these ppl arent from Earth countries,

All their behavior is weird to you 😭

U dont know how to mask with them yet 😭😭

THE UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNT OF MISCOMMUNICATION THAT HAPPENS ALREADY WHEN UR NEUROSPICY VS. NEUROBLAND PPL

IS LIKE, ALMOST WORSE??

Bc they cant even understand ur phrasing bc its so simple 😭😭😭

◇

Tldr: "Being Neurodivergent means ur a god, confirmed." - says all of Teyvat's denizens

◇

NEXYLAZA.

MY BELOVED.

I AM IN LOVE WITH UR BRAIN.

IF I COULD GIVE IT A HUG I WOULD🫂✨️👏👏👏👏

BC I WAS ALREADY LIKE IN THE BACK OF MY MIND LIKE-

*rubs my little rat gremlin hands together*

"hmHmHMMMM BuT wHaT iF mAYbE yOU reMeMbeREd cReATinG TeyVAT, hmHMHMMMMM"

AND FOR VERBALIZING IT WITHIN BLUNT LANGUAGE AU- !!!!!!!

(one of my favs, if u cant tell)

I would (platonically) kiss you right now dude.

Instead I give this:

♡ ily

And also, I AM GOING TO MAKE A WHOLE POST ABOUT THIS-

MAYBE EVEN A FANFIC, OR ONE SHOT AHDHAKFHSKLAAL-

UNTIL NEXT TIME MY BELOVED PARTNER IN CRIME <333

PSPSPSPSsppspspspssss Last Time! CLOSES TOMORROW @1pm CST: VOTE on my 100+ followers celebration POLL :)

Tell me what u wanna see me write about! PSPSPSPSpspspspssss

(U can vote even if ur new! :] )

THANK YOU FOR SUBMITTING THIS ASK

THIS IS A TREASURE OF MINE NOW

GONNA HIDE IT IN MY LITTLE CAVE OF SCREENSHOTTED SAGAU POSTS <333 hehehehehehehehehehe

THIS IS LIKE PT2 TO MY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE POST AHHHHH

NEXY BIG BRAIN ILYSM <3

Cheers,

🌒🌧🌊Aquarius♒️🌌🌘

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza lol ur own ask im a menace sorry

[somethingclevermahogony]

Find the Word

Thanks for the tag, @willtheweaver !

My words are: Mystery, rest, breeze, dance

Mystery

“I hope that I have not offended you. You see, us nobility, at least I, I was tutored with a scholar to teach me my letters and about the stars, and the writings of the old poets. He told me that a good and noble man always seeks wisdom, and then the greatest wisdom is found in the unfolding of mysteries.” The lordling lazily swirled the wine in his gilded bowl, eyes trained on the older warrior. “How privileged of you.” “Yes yes, but you see I have taken that lesson to heart, and so when I see a mystery I am driven to unravel it. Why would Akard give such a beautiful gift to a mongrel urchin?” He leaned closer, as if eagerly awaiting Zatar's response. Zatar’s eyes narrowed. “I do not question his choices, I am only grateful for them. He gave me that spear so that I may serve him.”

Rest

For the majority of its long and illustrious history, Chibal had defended its interest not with bronze or iron but with gold and paper. The guard was kept around for domestic issues, of course, but they were little more than glorified tax collectors and enforcers for the business interests of the Bidani, not soldiers. The city had no need for a true navy or army; after all, with the proper payment, any pirate or raider could be turned from an enemy to an asset. It was said, hyperbolically, that more Ikopeshi pirates worked for the Bidani than for the Ikopeshi king. As for other hostile city-states, the secrets locked within the depths of the Hall of Oaths, they held the power to crumble dynasties and topple kings, and the rest of Kishetal knew this all too well. 

Breeze

The gifts of a seer though rare and precious came at a cost, to see what the spirits see and to receive their interpretations of the future the mind and body must be open to them. These spirits, often malicious, wreaked havoc on the bodies and minds of their hosts. It was enough to drive most mad. To prepare themselves for the intrusion, Seers often took powerful drugs and potions, to numb the senses and expand the mind. Even still Seers were withered and weak, their bodies broken by the toxins they ingested and their minds ripped apart by the spirits which they employed. This woman was painfully thin, her rich brown hair streaked with silver, her eyes clouded, all of this despite only seeing twenty-five years. And yet there was a sort otherworldly beauty to her, despite her sunken eyes and cracked lips, her face retained a certain softness, her silvered hair fell over her shoulders like silken waterfalls, and her body swayed like a lonely birch caught in a gentle breeze. To Akard, it seemed that her entire person emitted a soft glow, like the spirits which infiltrated her mind and body, had left some small trace of themselves, undeniably woven into her person, though perhaps that was only in his imagination. Zenit bowed her head politely, her voice though ragged was soft, almost melodic as was often the case for those who came from the land of Shabala.

Dance

The stranger turned to Narul and smiled. What Ninma could not see was that the man’s skin seemed to shift and dance, and as Narul looked closer he could see that the being’s skin was covered with golden grain, like fur. Amongst the wheat and barley he could see tiny figures, men and women, frolicking and dancing. In the creases of the man’s face he saw rivers and pools of water where the tiny people drank. In his hair and beard there were vines heavy with grapes where fat songbirds pecked lazily at the shining fruits and couples whispered sweet secrets. His eyes were dark, lacking a white, to Narul they seemed like bottomless pools.

Your words are : Rob, Cradle, Monster, and Gaunt.

Tagging @roach-pizza , @faeriecinna , @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling , @the-octic-scribe, and @kaylinalexanderbooks

[callahanscorner]

Heads Up Seven Up/9 Lines Tag

I'm super super late (I’ve been in a gauntlet of really intense job interviews) but thanks to @writernopal and @eccaiia for the tags! I'm just going to be combining them both here!

Rules: Share 7 (and 9!) sentences from your WIP

From The Silver Circle:

"After all she did for you, for us, still you spurn this gift? We bled together. We burned together." "On your knees, whelp," the General spit the word out as if it were poison. "You know the consequences for failure." As the spires of Petalkeep loomed over the group, a chill washed over them, as if the very warmth of life was being sapped from their bodies. Kyra sank to her knees, the ash of the once proud temple staining her robes. "Don't touch me!" she cried, swatting his hand away. "I just... I need to think." "Please," laughed the Aetheri, “you think [REDACTED] didn’t keep his secrets? You know only what he wanted you to. I offer more. I offer freedom.” “There was a time in which I’d have joined you,” Zogarr replied, his sightless eyes seeming to peer directly at his fellow Ular. “Unfortunately, there is nothing left for me but to atone.” “And you?” he croaked, looking desperately into his captor’s eyes, “What do you think will happen to you when you’ve served your purpose?” Twilly shuddered at the mention. Feannon’s Scribes weren’t meant for places such as this. There was nothing for her here.

I’m tagging @thesoftestofpetals, @fayeiswriting, @mthollowell-writes, @halfbit, and whoever else wants to!

[amiablesummer]

romantisised asks challenge

hello to everyone, but particularly @stingrayextraordinaire who tagged me in this big but interesting challenge. Thank you so much! here we go…

1. if you were to have Hanahaki disease, what flowers would you cough up?

i'm gonna say blue hydrangeas

2. if someone were to catch Hanahaki disease for you, what flowers would they cough up?

pink roses or camellias

3. if you were any historic trope, what would you be? (i.e., the knight, the town baker, the witch of the forest, etc.)

I think I'd be the scribe writing down what heroic or ordinary deeds everyone else does. Ink on my hands, messy scribble, that's very me. Shut up in a room writing the past down, probably killed by the Vikings - at least i'd be remembered by the future readers of the scroll.

4. tell us about your ideal battle outfit.

i would definitely be wearing trousers. some cosy fitting armour, too, like Zoya’s dragon scale armour in Rule of Wolves that’s more like a second skin. nice and silver so it can catch the light. also with a cool cape like Eowyn’s in the Return of the King, an earthy tone, good for camaflaging. 

5. what would you be a goddess of and what would people sacrifice to you?

I would be a goddess of memory and nostalgia because that’s a big muse to me. People would probably sacrifice their childhood toys or clothes they don’t need to keep anymore. or maybe particularly bad memories.

6. name five iconic quotes that make you feel things.

“It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer.” - Sam in the Two Towers movie

“The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.” - Doctor Who, Vincent and the Doctor

"...We become like that on which our hearts are fixed. Whenever you go out of doors, draw the chin in, carry the crown of the head high. We are gods in the chrysalis.” — Elbert Hubbard, quoted in How To Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” - Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

"In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” - Albert Camus

7. scythe, battle axe, broad sword, spear, or trident?

broad sword

8. what combination of natural scents would you use as perfume?

rosewood, gardenia and musk 

9. ancient scrolls or leather-bound books?

Leather-bound books

10. describe yourself as if you were a storm.

a summery storm, the kind that’s not loud but just consistent, rumbling across the sky all day and night as you lie comfortable in bed, romanticising it from a distance. the kind of storm that brings the enlivening, miracle rain that makes the crops grow and people smile. if you’re right in the centre of it, you know it best, and you can see the warm light shining on the rain out your window.

11. what type of flower (other than a rose) would you offer someone you were trying to court?

baby’s breath are beautiful, paired with golden wattle. 

12. honey in milk or cinnamon in tea?

cinnamon in tea

13. cabin in the woods, apartment in the city, or mansion in the suburbs?

i wouldn't mind a mansion for a day, but cabin the woods sounds the most cosy. i don't much like cities.

14. curtains of beads or lace?

nice white lace

15. vocal or instrumental music?

instrumental while writing and reading, vocal for chores and travelling.

16. describe your ideal fantasy outfit.

i like dressing up in 1850s style middle-class skirts, with pantaloons and boots, that you can pick up the edges of and it trails behind you. with a pretty blouse and a hooded cloak, I would run around doing cottagecore errands all day. 

17. of all the fantasy races to ever exist, which one would you be?

whatever race that talking cats are part of, i’d like to be one of those. or quite possibly a hobbit.

18. hard candy, fruit preserves, or spice cake?

hard candy, i have a sweet tooth

19. show us a picture of your ideal crown.

20. tying your hair up using ribbon, yay or nay?

yes. channeling Zoya Nazyalensky with a dark blue velvet ribbon. However i seem to always need a hairtie underneath it to hold my hair.

21. an evening in the forest with elves, a night in the caves with vampires, or a morning in the garden with fae?

An evening in the forest with elves, like in the Fellowship of the Ring.

22. tell us, in detail, about a curse a witch would put on you.

It would be a curse of being separated from others. Loss is my worst fear. being invisible, perhaps, from the people in my life, or stuck in a tower alone. I do not like isolation. it would make me have to face the parts of myself that I don’t like, and i would have to be independent, not having someone to lean on or able to live in the background of their life. I would have to make my own life, and that terrifies me. it would hopefully make me end up much more confident, if a little insane. 

23. talking with sylphs or singing with nymphs?

Singing with nymphs. singing is fun

24. mint, rosemary, basil, or sage?

I love rosemary. mint tastes nice. Basil is good in bolognese, and sage is a pretty colour. But rosemary is the best. 

25. favorite childhood story? (doesn’t have to be a fairy tale)

A lot!! As a little girl my favourite fairy tales were Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty (aka the Disney movies). But my absolute favourite story was Robin Hood. I used to pretend to be him with a hat and everything, being the fox in the movie. I was haunted by The Nutcracker from seven years old. I cried over The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Anderson. I also remember loving Dick Wittington and His Cat.  My dad used to read me the Rainbow Magic books, and Milly-Molly-Mandy. As an older kid my favourites were Harry Potter, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. 

26. tell us about an experience you’ve had that seemed unreal or supernatural. (doesn’t have to be scary)

when i was a kid there was this book i was really scared of, about kids who go into one of those big water tanks and feel something in there in the dark that is uncanny. When I remembered the book, I kept seeing the water tank that's in my town - Every time I looked at the horizon there it was. Not scary as much as haunting. I found the book recently when I was at a spooky read-in at my cousin’s school. The weird thing was I had just been saying that we should read it. It turns up right when I’m thinking of it, that deep dark water. I have nightmares about the water too.  

27. would you rather have poison or healing ointment in your traveling pack?

I’d say healing ointment because I like to think I’m a good person, but also because there’s other ways you could harm people whereas there's not many that you could heal them with. 

28. tell us three sayings that you live by.

just take one step at a time.

where there's life, there's hope.

knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom. (Aristotle) 

29. vials or mason jars?

Mason jars because they can fit a lot of useful things in them. 

30. describe your ideal masquerade ball outfit (mask included).

It would have to be red… I don’t get to wear red often. Long flowy sleeves that I could swish around when holding the mask stick up - it would be a mask with pointy edges and feathers. Maybe embroidered with animal designs. The skirt would have those sewn on too, with dark red undertones, almost purple. It would have lots of sequins, but not too heavy, and big enough to twirl in. I’d curl my hair and have jewels in it too. I’d like to be classy. 

31. splashing around in a river with mermaids or flying through the sky with harpies?

Splashing in a river with mermaids

32. what would you end up in the dungeon for?

Not doing things on time, or forgetting something important; i am chronically late. Or going against the status quo, if this is a totalitarian society - I hate following the masses. 

33. if you were a fairy, what color would your wings be?

i do love pink and green, but some gold in there would look lovely too. and pale blue. 

34. if you could have any magical item, what would it be?

This is really hard, but I’ve always wanted a bag like Mary Poppins’ or Hermione’s which is bigger on the inside. An actual TARDIS would be cool, but I like the thought of being able to fit a library and an art gallery into a portable thing. I do also want a time machine though. Or a portal. Or a fortune-telling mirror/bowl. 

35. what song would the bards sing about you when you passed by?

A mixture of the vibes of Bleeding Heart by Regina Spektor, Hand in my Pocket by Alanis Morisette, and These Days by Powderfinger. that's super specific, so otherwise just something about hopeless romanticism...

36. would you rather be a pirate or a king/queen?

If you’re Nikolai Lantsov, you can do both. As for me, a pirate because it would be much more fun - I’m not one for politics. I’d have to be less squeamish though. 

37. would you spend more time in the field of flowers, the tavern, the docks, or the marketplace?

I would lie in the field of flowers drawing all day. If I had to work, I’d choose the marketplace. And the docks for an evening stroll. 

38. would you have a painting of yourself?

yes if it was very particularly done, like in an impressionist style or something really personal.

39. what skill are you famous for?

Remembering dates, like birthdays, details from things that happened a long time ago, and random fun facts. 

40. if you could live any fairy tale, which one would you?

The best aesthetic goes to “East of the Sun, West of the Moon” but I would also like to be friends with Puss-in-Boots.

41. stained glass windows or fairy lights?

Stained glass windows 

42. what kind of snow globe would you live inside?

One with one of those pretty Christmas cabins and a big tree, and snow on the ground, maybe with some animals like a deer, a fox or some bunnies, and a bonfire (with snow on it...)

43. what animal would you be reincarnated as?

A domestic cat who sleeps in the sun all day, preferably in a bookshop. 

44. lost at sea or lost in space?

lost at sea, but with a boat. I’m scared of the sea, but space is so much worse - at least someone could come rescue you in the sea.

45. if you could have a scar in any shape, what would it be?

i think a heart shape would be very cute. 

46. what celestial body would you write a hymn to?

The Moon has that celestial elegance, and I would give anything to be able to go there for a day or two. It has that lonely, feminine, mystery about it... But also Saturn because I have always admired its rings. 

47. describe a potion you would brew, complete with ingredients and desired effect.

i would want to make a potion to create calmness that could help anxiety, so I would use some lemon balm, some lavender which would also make it smell nice, and chamomile. to be a real fantasy potion brewer i’d probably add some rose petals and moondust and mix it together with cocoa powder because it’s tasty and, of course, vanilla essence. that probably makes no sense but hey, i made it up.

48. flying ship or underwater home?

flying ship. i like flying and i think someone totally needs to invent a boat-like cruise airship that’s not as dangerous as a blimp, for me to relax in. and the sky isn’t as scary as the ocean. 

49. if you were a nature spirit, what season would you dwell in?

Summer, as per my url. I would sleep outside and walk on the beach, and blow the cool change breeze in the evening. very nostalgic.

50. if you could haunt any place as a ghost, what would it be?

I want to be amusing and say my old school, since it is very ghost-populated. it would be fun to turn the lights off every so often. But I would have to choose the old but pretty cafe that I live near, which used to be the gatehouse for the cemetery. It has a really lovely feel to it and it could do with an eerie presence, since it is in the cemetery. 

i don't know if anyone else loves fantasy but if anyone wants to do some or all of these questions please go ahead <3 <3 <3 @anouri @mourningintodancing @peachtreesinblossom @tunisian @l0velyjewel @unhingedballad