#arsenic tea i will return to u soon do not worry

[syn4k]

Established Ideas For Writing Projects That Will Probably Also Be Quite Large And Time Consuming That Ive Been Idly Rotating for Months While Working On Ashes

That one play that the theatre kids in the Emhec Café universe are working on (untitled)

Formatted as a script for a play; will need to do additional research on how plays are created and formatted

Because I'm me, will also include some metadata (i.e annotations, scribble marks as allowed by ao3 formatting, might have to make a whole work skin for it dear lord i hope it doesn't come to that) from the three authors (Ren, Sausage, and also Wilbur Soot because he's here too)

Play is about a werewolf knight who receives an order from the king to hunt down and kill a werewolf that has been spotted in a nearby forest, which also happens to be the werewolf.

Sausage and Ren are writing the play as a comedy/drama with a healthy bit of gay subtext interjected because why on earth would they not; Wilbur is using it as an outlet to vent about his recent divorce and mostly just adds dramatic angsty monologues that are NOT in line with the tone of the rest of the play at all but the other two let him keep helping because 1. it's funny and 2. nobody knows how or where wilbur lives and they're worried that if he doesnt come to these meetings anymore rhen he might just straight up die.

none of my ideas for this are actually written down anywhere, all of them were brainstormed on a call with a friend like five months ago

immensely ambitious project but would also be fun as hell to write

The Odyssey but make it a modern day roadtrip AU- working title atm is "Took a Wrong Turn at a 7-11 (The Modyssey)"

(original idea by @ wolfythewitch here on Tumblr)

yes, i am going to attempt to interpret a millennia old classic work that has become a part of western literary canon. no, i have not actually read the odyssey before.

everyone has the same name and im like 90% sure that nobody dies. dunno how anything will work again i havent read the odyssey

instead of the argo being a ship, it is a camper van.

i literally have no idea how this is going to work but trust me okay i will do it eventually and it will be glorious and it will be posted to ao3.

Writing Projects That I Need To Actually Complete Before Starting Anything Else Mentioned Above

Echoes in the Halls of the Deeps

YOU HAVE ABANDONED IT FOR LITERAL FUCKING MONTHS GET BACK TO THIS PROJECT IT IS TFC CENTRIC YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING

Arsenic Tea (or Death and her Angel)

this one's been shoved way down the priority list i'll get to it someday but i started it for nanowrimo 2022 and burnt out so bad that i had to just scrap it and do something else to get a grade because i did it for a grade. it's a great concept! i was just in the trenches at the time

[coolteachxr]

Another installation to the drabble series for @vagabond-dad

Now, he’s more or less got a routine down. Adjusting to life as a student is difficult enough with limited funds, but he makes do with what he’s got. Harley goes to his classes, studies and does a part time job as a cashier down at one of the convenience stores near Castelia U. He makes enough that he can mostly live by, paying the rent on his tiny apartment and bills, so long as he’s careful with his money.

Then, halfway through his second semester, he catches some dumb bug that’s going around the campus.

Initially he’s able to remain relatively healthy even when his classes had a revolving door of students who left with sunken faces and an unhealthy cough, only to return a few days to a week later looking bright eyed and bushy tailed. But one morning, he woke up with a pounding headache, an itch in his throat and groans, knowing he’s not in for a fun week.

And what a week it is. Harley still goes to his classes, even when he falls asleep through half of them. By the third day, he’s coughing deep, painful sounding coughs that often garners worried looks from students and lecturers alike. He often waves off the concern, citing that he’d be right as rain with some rest and tea, but he only got the resting part down by passing out the moment he lays on his bed.

Harley eats canned soup and drink orange juice, but they never made him feel any better. It only made things marginally okay when it ended with him spewing the contents of his stomach about an hour later. He rests his sweaty forehead against the cool porcelain, one arm grasping his cramping stomach and wishes for Arceus to just let him die in peace.

He did not end up dying, but it certainly feels like it. By Monday of next week, he didn’t go to class, too achy and disoriented to do anything more than drink some water, maybe attempt a sip or two of soup before he sleeps an uneasy sleep for hours on end. His food soon runs out, as does his juice and over the counter cold medicine he’s been religiously popping ever since this illness set up shop.

Harley keeps telling himself that he’ll get up, wash off the sweat and sick before he goes to the shop to buy more stuff. But he only manages to sit up, let the room swirl sickeningly in front of his eyes before he lays back down on the dirtied sheets. He needed to wash them too, but that too feels too demanding right now.

He doesn’t know how many days passed by, until one day, he hears knocking coming from the door. Harley cracks open an eye, coughs his smoker’s cough and tries to ignore the jackhammers in his sludge of a brain. Though, his guest seems insistent, so he manages to peel himself away from the bed. It takes a few attempts before he’s on shaky legs, making the perilously long trek to the front door. Some stuff fell around him, which makes the knocking even more annoying.

After a few missed slaps, he finally manages to twist the knob with sweaty palms. Harley leans heavily against the wall as the door swings open, pulling off his best irritated look (which isn’t much, given that he looks like death warmed over).

“Oh my goodness Harley. What happened to you?” The blurry figure asks. He thinks that the voice is familiar, as does that shade of red, but then his vision swims. His knees buckles as he pitches forward into a pair of strong arms. Everything becomes a low buzz before darkness claims him.

When Harley wakes up, the world's dim and warm and comforting.

He's buried under a metric ton of blankets, and there's something cool and damp over his forehead. He reaches out for it, groggy and half awake – finds a cold compress and wonders who thought to put it there.

He wonders too on what occurred prior to his awakening. Harley tries to recall, but his memories keep trickling like sand in an hourglass. He’s sick, isn’t he? Then he coughs, deep and wet and achy, as if to confirm that thought.

Suddenly, he finds a hand gently rubbing circles on his back. When he stops and sags from exhaustion, an arm keeps him steady. The rim of a cup is pressed against his lips.

“Come on, my boy. Try and take little sips.” A voice encourages. With closed eyes, he takes a sip. The water is cool, and is heavenly on his dry throat. Though, there’s an odd taste to it-- vaguely medicine like.

“’s bad,” he mumbles, trying to pull away.

“I’ve smashed aspirin in it to make it easier to swallow. It’ll help with your fever. Please, try and have some more.”

Harley doesn’t want to, but a little tip and he’s swallowing. It’s slow, under his own prompting. The voice encourages him, the arm giving a little squeeze when he finds it hard to, and that keeps him going till he finishes the entire glass. Then he’s lowered onto the bed, the compress replaced on his forehead and a pressure settles atop his hand.

He wants to see what it is, but it’s like the act of drinking had drained him of his strength. Harley drifts off once more, this time to a low tune about starry skies and peaceful sleep. 

When he returns to consciousness, Harley finds that he doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore.

He cracks open an eye, finds sunlight streaming in from the window and wonders just how long he’d been asleep for. Brown eyes slowly looks around, taking in the collection of items on the bedside table -- bowl, medicine bottle, a glass of water -- till it falls on a figure sitting by the bed. 

His body reacts quicker than his mind, tries to sit bolt upright, This only made his head swim with dizziness, causing him to groan loud enough to awaken Alder, who had been sleeping the chair. The physical strain is enough for his chest to revolt with painful sounding coughs. He finds a hand drawing comforting circles on his back till he catches his breath. The arm keeps him in place.

“How are you feeling?” Alder asks, soft and laced with concern. 

“Awful,” he mumbles, blinking before he tries to make a move out of the bed. The Champion gently pushes him back down on the bed.

“You shouldn’t exert yourself. You’ve been out for a few with a high fever. You could barely keep anything down, too. Thought I had to bring you to the hospital, but you responded well to the medicine and tea that I gave you.” Alder flashes him a warm smile. “I’m glad that you’re more awake now. Would you like some tea?”

Harley has to take a bit to process everything. When he does, he gives a slow nod. He’s still far too weak and tired to pull up his usual suspicion with the elder, and tea really did sound good to his sore throat. Alder gives his hand a little squeeze before he rises from his chair, stretching a little till there’s a satisfying pop. He thinks he hears the other grumble about being old, and that gets a tiny smile from him.

Soon, Alder returns with a mug of tea. It’s big and warm in his hands. He stares at the murky brown content. Something must’ve shown on his face, for Alder chuckles.

“I know it doesn’t look the best, but I promise you that it’ll help with your cough.” After staring at it for a solid minute, he finally takes a slow, careful sip. It’s... a little bitter, a little sweet and surprisingly, doesn’t taste as bad during the next sip. The more he drinks, the better it tastes.

Alder merely watches him with a soft smile, until he gently grabs the mug when Harley looks like he’s dozing off halfway through his drink. He’s still pretty much wiped, but the elder is glad that he managed to get some meds and fluids into him. The next time he wakes up and have more energy, he’s going to have the best chicken soup recipe that Alder has in his arsenal of homemade goods.

“You should get some more rest, my boy. I’ll be here when you wake up,” Alder encourages as he replaces the cold compress and settles the blanket atop of him. 

There’s a lot of things that Harley wants to ask, but the tug of sleep is too powerful. His eyes slowly slides shut. The pressure he vaguely recalls settles atop his hand. 

He thinks Alder is holding his hand. It feels nice. 

Harley falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.