#boxy bird

[iispancakes]

Been bird watching after work so I doodled some.

[please-destroy]

The Reader In The House Across The Street From The Woman In The Window

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k .

You buy your new house without thinking it through.

It is perfect for a first time buyer, the realtor assures you. Good schools, friendly neighbours, quiet streets.

The problem is not the house. The problem is you. You live on your own. Suburbia is immediately lonelier than you expected. 

Your neighbours smile politely at you as you move in. They do not welcome you any further into their community. You know it’s intentional. You feel their assessing gaze; they can tell that you don’t fit. 

You work from home. You wanted to escape a boxy apartment, you wanted to have a spare room to write in. Suddenly, all that extra space feels unimportant. 

The housewives of your neighbourhood gather throughout the day like flocks of birds. Small clusters huddle by fence posts. They each wear different clothes, different hairstyles. Somehow, they all look the same.

You spend the first few days trying to ignore them as you go about your usual routine. Sometimes, you glance out and see that they are nodding towards your house. You are the subject of gossip, conjecture. 

Already, you begin to scroll through house listings online. You wonder how you could have made such a naive mistake.

Now that you’ve seen your neighbours, you are sure that this is not your neighbourhood.

.

You have not seen all your neighbours.

A week has passed. You are up very late, sitting in the spare bedroom turned makeshift office. The silent, empty street is reassuring as you try to finish an article for tomorrow’s deadline. 

She catches your eye. You stop typing. 

Her long, dark hair is haphazardly tied back. Her face is wan like the moonlight. She is dragging a heavy garbage bin out to the curb. She looks exhausted.

Her pyjamas only highlight the irony of her obvious tiredness. For a brief moment you wonder if she is sleep walking. 

She walks back to her house. She pauses on her porch step. She runs her fingers through her hair, letting it fall loose and long. Then, she reties it just as messily as before. She is startlingly beautiful. 

Before she reenters her house, the woman turns and looks up at your window. Your heart arrests when you see her small smile . You feel unsettled, as if she could sense you thinking about her.

She is ethereal, bathed in the dim light from her own porch. 

She goes back inside, closing the door softly behind her.

You take her cue and go to bed yourself. You can’t stop thinking about her smile.

.

The next day has a different energy to it. You try not to stare out of the window. You try not to think about the woman. You speculate briefly that you might have invented some nighttime apparition. Then, you remember her eyes, how they took your breath away. You couldn’t have imagined her.

She does not join the flock of housewives during the day. You notice now that the group always face pointedly away from her house. Sometimes, they throw a scathing look behind them. You feel increasingly sure that she is not their friend. You like her more for it. 

The weekend arrives and her quiet house seems more awake. You hear kids playing in her backyard. 

You meet friends for a Saturday brunch. You drive back to the neighbourhood where you used to live. The drive feels too long. You feel out of the loop already, sitting quietly as your friends refer to a spontaneous get together that did not include you. You certainly don’t make up for your past absence today. You barely speak, picking at your food. Your friends keep up the conversation without you. 

You wonder at how being surrounded by people can make you feel so lonely.

You have been looking for excuses to leave your house ever since you moved in. Now suddenly, you wish you were back home. 

You try not to think about her when you drive back to your house. You try not to hope that you will see her again.

Your timing is, for once, perfect.

.

She is sitting on her front porch step, hands cupped casually around a large mug. Her eyes track two boys on bikes, racing each other enthusiastically down the street. Her hair is in a loose braid today.

She smiles at you as you drive past her house, turning into your driveway at a snail's pace. When you step out of the car, she nods her head familiarly, eyes locking momentarily with yours.

You can’t help yourself.

You walk over. Your heart races and you feel like a shy child again; palms clammy with nerves. 

Her smile is a little forced when she anticipates your approach. She smooths it away after a moment, her expression turning neutral and polite. 

You realise that she is bracing for a tiresome social situation. You realise that she does not want to talk to you. You feel desperately self conscious, unable to stop your feet moving forward.

You give an awkward wave when you are standing at the edge of her front yard. She lifts a hand from her mug and copies the action. Her fingers are unthinkingly precise. They catch your focus and you wonder at her delicacy, if she was a dancer in another life.

You press your hand to your chest, not knowing what else to do.

‘Y/N’ You introduce yourself. 

‘Wanda.’ She echoes, mirroring your gesture again. 

Closer to her now, you can see that weariness is etched in the light lines around her eyes. 

You pause unsurely. You don’t know what to say. 

You know instinctively that she doesn’t want small talk. You don’t want it either. 

You think her smile in the moonlight said more than any small talk could. Maybe that’s why you feel like you already know her.

Wanda’s gaze flickers briefly to her children and then it moves back to you. She doesn’t try to break the silence.

After a moment, her head tilts slightly and you feel like she's daring you to speak. You understand suddenly why the other housewives do not like her. 

You can’t help but smile. It is nice to not be the only outsider. 

‘Can I sit?’ You ask simply, nodding at the porch step.

A flurry of emotions swirl behind Wanda’s eyes. Surprise is the only one you recognise. 

In response, she moves wordlessly along the wooden step, leaving space for you. 

You sit down next to her. Heat crawls up your neck at your boldness and at her sudden proximity. 

You can hear her quiet breathing. Wanda ignores you and you try to copy her actions. She sips her drink and stares out at the street. You lean your head against the railing and pretend to do the same. You watch her shoulders relax as you settle into the moment together. 

The near-silent introduction is unorthodox, to say the least. You can tell how much she likes it.

After ten minutes, Wanda clears her throat. 

‘That’s Tommy.’ She tells you, pointing at the faster boy on a bike. ‘And that’s Billy.’ She continues, moving to the boy in hot pursuit.

Billy catches his Mom’s pointing. His face lights up, and he waves back eagerly. You watch Wanda’s face soften, her fingers curling back around her mug. 

She takes a sip from her drink a moment later. Her mouth twists into a grimace. 

‘It’s cold.’ She says as she stands up.

She pauses at her front door.

‘How do you like your coffee?’ She asks simply. 

.

When Wanda comes back out of the house, she is carrying two mugs. 

She has made your coffee just right.

.

You leave when the boys come inside for their lunch. Chattering excitedly, they pause only to say hello to you. Wanda brightens immediately at their presence. 

Her eyes are filled with a warm kind of love. It is intense to see the sudden change in her countenance.

She shoots you an apologetic smile as you turn to leave. She touches your arm briefly in a silent goodbye. 

Her fingertips are still hot from the mug. They leave a phantom imprint on your skin. Her touch follows you back to your own house.

.

You next see her the following night. 

Only two houses have their lights on after midnight. Yours and Wanda’s. 

You open your blinds when you sit down to write. You tell yourself that looking out onto the empty street helps you work. You think you might be lying to yourself. Wanda’s living room emits a soft golden glow. 

It is 2 am when her curtain twitches. Any focus you had on your work evaporates immediately. 

Wanda is sitting on her sofa, her TV is playing a sitcom rerun in the background. Her eyes are closed as she presses her temple against the cold window pane.

For a moment, you think that she is crying. Her pain seeps across the street and into your house. You turn away, trying to refocus on your work. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, filled with an icy fear. A wish to never feel like her. A wish to pretend that her sadness isn’t true.

You know that you can’t pretend. Neither can she.

A minute later, you close your laptop and turn back to the window.

Wanda is staring unseeingly out at her front lawn. Your chest feels heavy with her despondency.

You think of the way she smiled at her children; she is someone else now. 

She plays with the frayed edge of the curtain. 

.

You startle when her eyes flicker upwards, catching you suddenly in her stare. You can tell that she is just as thrown by your presence.

Her eyes dart nervously, never quite landing on you. She leans back from the window, ready to shut the curtains again.

Unthinkingly, you lift your hand, acknowledging her with another awkward wave.

Wanda’s eyes soften. Her fingers hesitate at the edge of the curtain. After a moment, they lift lightly from the fabric and grant you a small wave in return. 

You stand up and hold two fingers in a silent request for her patience.

You hurry downstairs to your own living room. You turn on your television, switching to the same channel as Wanda. The same sitcom rerun crackles to life on the large screen.

You lift your blinds and look back across the street.

A smile stretches slowly across Wanda’s face as she realises what you have done. She adjusts herself to face you, propping her chin on her hand.

Her eyes track your television through the window. Your eyes track her instead. You let your chin rest against the back of your sofa.

You think that she seems to be speaking to herself. Your head tilts automatically as you try to read her lips. After a moment, you realise that she is mouthing the lines along with the actors. 

Your sudden grin is too bright for the darkness. Wanda’s eyes flicker to you and she ducks her head in self conscious acknowledgment. 

Exhaustion hits you not long after. Reluctantly, you turn away from the window, settling down on your own sofa. 

You should feel uncomfortable, knowing that she is looking in. Instead, it feels reassuring. You have never felt less alone. 

Slowly, you succumb to the heaviness of your eyelids and the certainty that Wanda’s company is something you only want more of.

.

You dream about the sadness that is embedded in her eyes, even when she smiles.

.

The morning sun wakes you only a few hours later. You cringe at the painful brightness as you move instinctively to close the blinds. 

Wanda’s sons are sitting with her in the front room now, both bleary eyed and in their pyjamas. They are eating bowls of cereal, captivated by the morning cartoons playing on the TV.

Your eyes sting painfully with lack of sleep. You wonder how Wanda is functioning at all. 

You nap away the rest of the morning.

You wake properly at 11, filled with a new resolve.

You don’t give yourself the time to chicken out. 

Before you know it, you are walking across the street. You climb Wanda’s porch steps and knock on her door. 

Wanda’s guarded expression slips away when she realises it’s you. Her shoulders slump with a barely repressed exhaustion. She sighs quietly and gives you a tired smile. 

You realise that you want to take another step forward. You want to hug her. 

Wanda rests her head against her door as she waits for you to speak. The soft gesture brings another rush of affection from you. You try to ignore the shaky feeling in your chest.

‘Hi.’ You begin, clearing your throat. 

Wanda gives you her familiar wave. You feel uncomfortably warm as your gaze accidentally lingers on her fingers.

‘Do you want to get coffee?’ You ask in a strangled voice. 

Again, you get the impression that you have surprised her. Wanda straightens and she regards you thoughtfully. 

‘You want to go out?’ She checks and you nod in response.

Indecision flickers across Wanda’s face. She looks behind her at the mountain of laundry, piled at the foot of the stairs.

‘I need to change.’ Wanda tells you determinedly, a moment later. You glance down at her plaid pyjama pants and try not to blush. You nod again, moving to wait in the entryway as she flits up the stairs. 

Wanda returns quickly. She seems harried, nervous in a way that you haven’t seen before. She smooths her clothes unnecessarily. Her hair is tied back and it makes her look younger. So does her oversized green plaid shirt. 

She is unassumingly beautiful. It arrests your heart like the first time you saw her.

She catches your lingering stare whilst she descends the stairs. 

When she is standing close to you, Wanda looks self consciously down at her outfit. 

‘I haven’t gone out much since my husband died.’ She confesses, pushing up the large sleeves of her shirt.

Her words reverberate inside you. Her eyes meet yours and all the air leaves the room. 

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to do. You grab her hand and squeeze it suddenly.

‘You look good.’ You tell her, hoping it is enough.

.

You walk outside together, instinctively in step as you walk over to your car.

The drive to the coffee shop happens in silence. Wanda’s fingers tap against her leg. 

The barista takes your order and you find a seat together by the window. A window seat is meaningless, there is nothing to look at. The coffee shop faces onto its own parking lot. 

Wanda watches the outside world anyway, sipping her coffee. You are patient, letting the ambient music fill your mind for a moment. You need the coffee almost as much as Wanda does. Every time she brings the mug to her lips, her eyes close in a momentary expression of bliss.

You think that she is perfect. 

Pale, weary and grieving. Your heart tugs with a feeling it cannot help.

‘You really liked that TV show last night.’ You comment randomly when Wanda finally puts her mug down. 

‘I love American sitcoms.’ She tells you simply, with a nostalgic smile. 

‘You’re not from here?’ You ask, curious at the phrasing of her answer. Your mouth widens in embarrassment when you realise your clumsy question. 

Wanda laughs once. The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

‘No.’ She tells you. ‘I’m from Sokovia.’

She watches you expectantly, waiting for you to do the math in your head. To calculate that she was a child during the war there. She is right, you count back the years automatically.

‘That must have been hard.’ You say carefully. 

Wanda’s eyes flash with sadness. In that moment, you are certain that her grief has never settled.

‘I have lost my whole family.’ She tells you in a tight voice. You don’t have time to speak before she shakes her head.

‘I have my boys.’ She corrects herself immediately.

‘You do.’ You agree softly. You remember Billy’s eager wave at his mother. You realise that he has likely lost his father. Your heart twists with sympathy for something that you can’t fathom.

‘What are they like?’ You ask instead. 

Wanda takes a breath and then you watch a miracle happen. 

Her words flow suddenly and easily. Her stories make you sure that she is as much their best friend as their mother. 

Her fingers dance in front of her as she gestures unthinkingly, painting vivid stories from their childhood. 

Her voice is like water and you feel it rushing over your skin. 

For the next twenty minutes, you watch Wanda’s heart open in front of you. You are captivated. 

When the barista comes to take your empty mugs, Wanda remembers herself. She smiles at you self consciously. Her face relaxes as she reads your expression. 

She reaches across the table, she covers your hand with her own.

‘Thank you.’ She says. ‘This was nice.’ 

You know she is telling the truth. 

Your shoulders brush as you walk back to your car. 

Wanda tilts her head back against the car seat as you pull out of the parking space. The easy silence between you brings a rich comfort.

You next look over when you stop at a traffic light. Wanda’s eyes are closed. Her breathing is even.

You take the longer route back, letting her sleep.

Your mind is reeling. Your heart is not your own.

.

Your car creeps into your driveway. You know that you have to wake her. You feel guilty at the thought. Wanda has turned away from you in her sleep. 

‘Wanda.’ You try gently as you reach out and touch her hand.

The flash of red light is instantaneous. Despite your seat belt, you are thrown against the car door. Your body makes a harsh thud against it. Wanda’s eyes are turned toward you now. They are glowing red. 

A scream builds in your throat. Red energy is emitting from her, like some kind of radiation.

You scramble panickedly to unclick your seatbelt and escape the car.

It is the slamming of your car door that brings Wanda back to herself. 

She blinks her eyes back to green as she looks around in confusion. You can tell that she does not recognise her surroundings.

She notices you at last, backing away from her in fear. You freeze, waiting to see what she will do. A voice in your head tells you to run. 

You feel sure that there would be no point. 

Wanda looks down at her hands as if they are stained. A tear slides slowly down her cheek. All at once, she seems human again.

You are still scared when she opens the car door.

‘I fell asleep.’ She says and her voice cracks.

You don’t remember how to speak. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Wanda whispers and another tear falls down her cheek. She hurries back across the street, arms wrapped tightly around her chest.

.

You flee to the safety of your house as soon as her back is turned. You are sure that she can hear your shoes crunching on the gravel. 

Your hands won’t stop shaking. You pace your hallway, unable to decide what to do. 

Eventually, you slow down and start to cry. You sink to the floor and stare at the ugly wallpaper that you have wanted to take down since you moved here.

Wanda is a monster. 

Goosebumps flare across your skin as the words ring inside your head.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes as you cry harder. 

There is an emptiness beneath your ribs like you have lost something. Fear begins to fill the cavity left in your chest.

You sit with the discomfort that somehow you still want to be near her. You feel trapped by her sweet smiles, by her tears and her tired eyes. 

Reality hangs in an uncomfortable balance. 

She is a monster and you have started to love her.

.

That evening, you don’t make any pretence at writing articles or meeting deadlines. You sit in your office, unwilling to shut the blinds and unable to look outside. Uncomfortable thoughts of Wanda still echo in your head as you try not to flinch when a car door slams outside.  You hate your empty house. You watch the shadows lengthen against the undecorated walls and see them as symptom of what you are. If loneliness is a disease, you are undoubtedly contagious.

The small truth flickers, that this is what makes you dangerous to Wanda too. There is no cure for being left behind.

When the dark night is defended only by the streetlights, you find yourself walking to the living room. You leave your blinds open as you fall back onto your sofa.

The TV light flickers in a way that hurts your tired eyes. You do your best to ignore the needle prick sensation. You sit rigid with the temptation to turn around. Your heart thunders with an almost paralysing fear.

From behind, you sense the sudden weight of a stare that you are too scared to face. You switch the TV channel to American sitcom reruns.

You are dancing on a thin line. 

In the early morning, you finally let yourself turn around. There is no one at Wanda’s window, but you can see the fading condensation marks of someone's breath against the glass. 

.

You wake with a bright sun burning against your eyelids. There is a moment of disorientation when you see the digital clock display at the bottom of the TV screen. It is already afternoon. Time has begun to lose meaning.

You don’t let yourself watch out of the window as you pull yourself together for the rest of the day. You try to ground yourself in a semblance of reality. You convince your wandering mind to return to the task of your next looming deadline. You send half-hearted texts to your once important social circle.

You pretend to ignore the tremor that shoots through you when you hear a front door open and close across the street. Your fingers go still against the keyboard of your computer.

After a moment you take a deep breath and your ribs lift with an influx of something that's no longer fear. 

You force yourself to look out of the window.

Wanda is sitting on her front porch step. Her hair is pulled back and the bright sunshine illuminates her pale skin. You breathe out slowly.

Wanda’s cheek is pressed against the railing, her eyes are closed with a tiredness that looks more like pain. There are no children playing in the street to keep an eye on. 

You wonder if the rest of the neighbourhood is watching the same scene as you. You try to imagine the words shared in the houses surrounding you.

You leave your own house a few moments later. Wanda’s eyes flicker open at the sound of your door. 

When her eyes meet yours, you recognise the fear. There has been a cavity beneath her ribs for much longer than you. 

You lift the full coffee mugs you’re holding, in lieu of a greeting. Your steps are measured with the care of your task. 

You watch relief pull her lips into an automatic smile. You see her fingers twitch against her thigh with the instinct to wave.

You sit next to her on the porch and offer her a mug. 

Your shoulders touch. 

You forget to be scared.

[relto]

scaled down + reshaped + printed out, ready for a test run tomorrow!

pattern 2 test: did a digital assembly to check the shape and overlay with a trace of my hand i did a few days ago. this thing is huge???

[revelboo]

Everything is Alright pt 9

Starscream x reader- sulking

• You have no idea what to make of your visitor or the way you’re being stared at like an especially frustrating puzzle missing pieces at the very end. Still cradling you in a huge hand, that helm tilts down to look at your cage. A slightly disgruntled rumble buzzes through his big frame as he turns toward the door as if in expectation.

• Exhausted, Starscream rolls his shoulders to work the kinks out. It wasn’t that patrolling was hard- if anything it was processor meltingly boring. Letting himself in his quarters only to rock to a stop, because Soundwave is right there. Holding the human in a hand. Waiting. That faintly glowing visor staring in accusation as Starscream’s wings flick up aggressively. This isn’t Skywarp and lashing out will have repercussions, though. Dragging his optics away from the small form in Soundwave’s grip like he doesn’t care less, he stalks past the other mech. “I hope you have a good reason to be in my personal quarters,” he sneers.

• What? You’d honestly expected another violent outburst, but your captor doesn’t seem to care that this mech has you. Making that low, non-sound, the boxy mech drifts over to the desk Starscream’s settled himself at. You’re gently deposited on the surface before Soundwave points almost accusingly at your cage. “Inadequate.”

• And with that, he just leaves. Starscream stares, waiting for the door to close behind Soundwave before hooking a servo around your waist to tug you closer. It’s the same cautious, worried examination as when he’d rescued you from Skywarp and your heart softens a bit more, because he’s worried. Even if he’s never going to admit it. You lay a hand on his servo, again amazed how someone so huge and dangerous can be so gentle. “I’m okay.”

• He draws back slowly almost seeming embarrassed at being caught caring, optics flicking to your cage then away. “I just don’t like for my things to be broken,” he says, voice gruff as those wings lift even higher. Defensive and maybe annoyed at himself.

• The words are a reminder to not just him, but you it seems. You’re- what? A pet to him? Definitely not an equal and you’ll never be. Not a friend. He only cares because he’s decided you’re his. His possession. It hurts all the same even as you blame that ache on Stockholm’s. After all, he’s hardly your friend, he’s your jailer. You push his servos away, backing away and turning your back on him because your eyes are burning now.

• Surprised, Starscream’s hand freezes still outstretched as you pace to the far side of the desk. Turning your back on him. Ignoring him. His fingers slowly curl into a fist as anger trickles in. But he doesn’t move and neither do you. Slowly, the fury drains away to leave only that awful silence that weighs him down. Why does he even care? You belong to him, his little, trapped bird.

• But he prefers you smiling, agreeing with him, and asking about his day. Growling, he reaches to snag you, feeling your little hands grab at his servos. Your face whips around to stare at him and there’s anger there with the fear. Denta grinding as his jaw works, he sets you down again in front of him, laying both arms on either side of you in the pretense of using the keyboard embedded in the top and effectively trapping you.

• Well, then. You can’t even sulk in peace, apparently. It’s almost tempting to try and climb over his arm to retreat back to the far side of the desk just for spite. Or walk across his weird, alien-glyph keyboard while he works just like the cat he thinks you are. Annoyed, you sit down crosslegged and wait.

• Still ignoring him. Attention divided between his console and the human now partially sprawled out, their chin propped on their fist staring anywhere but at him, he vents. “If you’ll stop acting like an entitled sparkling, I might consider taking you outside to see the stars.”

• It’s almost comical how quickly you twist around to stare up at him. Even as he fights to keep from smiling, there’s a feeling of almost guilt that makes him look around and really see his empty, gray quarters. It’s never bothered him, because he doesn’t dwell on it, but he remembers making things just for the joy of working with his hands. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to find you something to do when you’re left alone. “But I swear to Primus if you try and run off, I will put a leash on you,” he adds with a growl, punctuating the threat with a thump of his fist against the desk as you grin up at him.

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[thereweredragonshere]

Hi!!!!

First I just wanted to say that I love your art, and that your art of Astrid has been slowly pulling me into the Buffstrid camp!

And secondly, do you have any advice on drawing Night Furies? I've been having trouble with it (there's a 1/4 complete drawing I have just TAUNTING me) and in particular trouble with boiling it down to just shapes.

Heyy!!! :D

Thank you so so much!! <3

I find that night furies can be broken up into five basic shapes, which are then expanded upon

I will admit that it is hard to put the connection between these shapes into words. I find a lot of this comes from having traced over toothless so many times that my hand quit its job and filed a lawsuit against me. My best advice is to use those basic shapes and trace over toothless with them in mind to gain your own understanding of how he is structured, as it works differently in every artist’s mind.

- The chest is boxy and the broadest part of the torso (Think kinda like a bird, cuz they gotta have all that muscle for the wings. And the ribcage is there)

- The midsection gets increasingly thinner

- The pelvis is the pinch point where the body transitions into the tail

Another thing is the structure of the back.

I know that looks horrible and mathematical but I promise you those three red triangles are such life savers.

The top blue line is where the spine (presumably) is, so that is the most flexible part of the back. Everything will bend in accordance with it. It starts at point A of the red triangles, and ends at the pelvis. Point A to point C is on a slant, and is the absolute widest part of the body.

Because I’ve done it so many times I don’t actually draw out that triangle when I’m structuring a night fury, but it’s something that I’m always thinking about whilst plotting the important meeting points.

Another thing I tend to do is draw a line down the direct middle of the back when planning out how the pose will look

Here are a few sketches I did recently of my oc Prosper.

You can see in the first sketch that there is a directional line going down the very centre of her back. That was draw before I did any of the actual structured parts of her body.

BUT ALSO!! In the sketch closest to the right, you can see that I very obviously ignored the whole triangle shite with the chest. This is a psa that you do not under all circumstances have to stick to anatomy rules. Sometimes drawing tips do not apply and fuck yeah artistic stylisation man! That ribcage would not at all function on a real animal but does it look awful and horrible and like it should die? Nope! And- in the middle sketch, I did stick to the triangle rule. Example of selectively using drawing tips where they feel appropriate!!

Honestly there are so many points I could make when it comes to drawing these guys that there are just too many for one post. If there’s anything you want me to go specifically into detail on please do feel free to send in asks for it!

[insomniac-dot-ink]

I can’t go home. There are only a few places open this late and I am walking. I leave a trail of footprints in the powdery snow. The music hall in the middle of town is playing a local band no one has heard of and a single popup store sits outside. I go to the window. The clerk is on her phone in the small cramped cart. Her screen goes dark and she looks up. Her hair is deep brown and tied back so neat and boxy you’d think it was a nun’s habit.

“Hot chocolate,” I say.

The clerk is nonplussed. She takes my money. Her habit-like-hair is stiff and doesn’t shift as she nods and counts my ones. She moves from one end of the little cart to the other with a Styrofoam cup. 

She carries the sugar-thick hot chocolate in one hand and it lets out a thick steam. I am sure she made it too hot. She stops. Her gaze draws up and over my shoulder. Her pupils expand and shoulders rise almost to her ears.

She glances at my face and then away again. Her lips are thin and uncolored. She mouths the words like an unskilled ventriloquist, “do you need me to call someone?”

I shake my head and take the cup and the texture is squeaky and flakes off in my grip. I walk. My footprints mark the powder-white snow and my city only has a few places open at this time of night. My legs are numb with cold and my eyes ache from lack of sleep. I am grateful for the street lights which are all a pale blue color that is supposed to help the birds. I am a bird person, I think, if I was going to be anything.

Cars pass and I am grateful for those too. I reach the street of little cramped stores, one after the next. A fabric store. A second-hand book store. Florists and boutique shoe shops. All too charming to be supportive. The Walmart is just outside our small town limits and I can’t go home.

Across the street, the pub has lowlights on and voices rumble like a thunderstorm from within. I don’t think the rest of the town likes the pub. The bar has one long window made up of colored glass in muted reds and blues and yellows. It reminds me of church windows and leaves the impression of making up for it. Making up for being what it is.

I square my shoulders and push my way in. The air is warm and floor a good type of dark wood. The tables are full enough to be considered a party–or, what I imagine a party to be like. I hadn’t noticed the dusting of snow on my hoodie, and shook it off like dandruff.

The man behind the counter gives me a cursory look. He is a big man with a large mouth and wears frowns like he’s making up for something too. “Mark isn’t here,” he says in a further cursory manner. I shake my head and make my way to the counter. I hadn’t finished my hot chocolate and clutch the Styrofoam cup in both hands.

“Warm up?” I ask but Steven Plyer, the barkeep, is looking over my shoulder. He mouths to himself silently like he’s working out a math problem under his breath.

Two men, big and strapping, move away from the bar’s church-like window. They take seats at the end of the bar and Steven Plyer, the barkeep, leans over the counter. His pupils are ink-dipped coins. I fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. He looks over my shoulder just as I push my hot chocolate closer over the counter.

“There’s a whole world out there,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I know.”

“You don’t have to go.”

I shake my head and Steven Plyer takes my hot chocolate and disappears behind the swinging doors to the back. The rest of the men have moved away from the window and sit on either side of me. They murmur in voices too low to hear.

The oldest of them, a man that smells like leather, stands. His voice has a vibrating quality, unsmooth, dragging out the “a’s” like a regal sheep. “Do your parents know?”

Steven Plyer returns with my hot chocolate steaming and passes it to me with both hands. I get up because the old man needs my seat, I think. The first two men huddle by the front door, coats on and heads bent together like prayer, and I leave without them. The snow is no longer powder but inch-thick fluff. I kick up the fluff with each step and the silver hangs about me like fairy lights, I imagine. I take a sip of hot chocolate and it is too hot and too sweet and you can be grateful for that too.

The sidewalk ends and I walk alongside the side of the road just on the edge of the white line. I think I can see the lights of the Walmart beyond the lights of the city. Trees gather on either side and I miss the blue glow of the street lights and the concerned gaze of the clerk in her tiny cart. I wish she had come with me. I wish Steven Plyer had called me by name.

A solitary car passes and its stark white headlights blare against the night, more violent than kind, and I have to shield my eyes. The car is red and large and pulls to stop on the other side of the road. The window rolls down and a curly-haired woman sticks her head out. Her face is small and elfish and mouth pinches together at the corners. She wears a tight shirt buttoned up all the way to her throat like it might hold her in.

The head beams glow perpendicular to me and I regard the woman as she regards me. She is slow to speak. Slower than the men at the bar had been.

“Get in,” she says, buttoned-up to the throat and with eyes more tired than sad.

“No,” I say and take a sip from the hot chocolate. It’s cold.

Her windshields wipe away the snow and she looks over her dashboard. Her voice is breathy in the way of a Hollywood actress from a bygone era. “I’m worried.”

I nod. They all are. “That can be enough.”

Her mouth zips together into an angry line. She sticks her head out the window, close to a snarl, looking past me, and honks her horn in one long blast. I shy away from the noise and the too-brightness of her head beams. She drives with her head out the window, honking her horn over and over again as loud as she can.

I walk and there are no more cars. The snow settles over my shoulders and I don’t bother to dust off my hood or warm my hands. I leave the white line and walk in the middle of the road. The lights of the Walmart warm the night just outside of town and I can make out the outline of parked cars in the distance. They’re aren’t that many places open this late at night. 

I slow to a stop and sway a bit, like I'm drunk, I think, if this is what that's like. A second pair of footprints mark the snow in front of me. When had that happened? I tilt my head all the way back. The clouds are bright like daylight and snow growing heavy. I think it will all be glittering when the morning comes.

FIN

My book! 🐈 Newsletter

[hotvampireadjacent]

guys what one is your favorite huggy wuggy seek scary blue jumbo josh banban uh nabnab um i forgot his name the frog dude and um yeah slow seline banbaleena stinger flynn opila bird and awesome huggy wuggy this is um me but like i dont wanna use it uh blue and um oh i mean um kissy missy killy willy um choo choo chawles like boxy boo but like not evil and we have EVIL BOXY BOO we have squid game huggy wuggy yeah baby haggy waggy and blue and freddy fazb below

[archaospetryx]

Salutations. And since I can’t find my tablet and my body is sore from all the activities from the out of town trip, I’m giving up all headcanons of my Harley x oc ship: Harthur🫶

Harthur headcanons📕💉

(pre-bigger body and the doctor vhs)

Sfw headcanons

Harley doesn’t like pda only because it makes him look weak, but Arthur’s love language is touch and he would want to hold Harley’s hand to comfort him or himself

The two started out as enemies to frenemies to friends to lovers

Arthur is 5 years younger than Harley and is shorter than him where Arthur is 5”7, Harley is 6”1

They’re both unstable/psychopaths in their own way yet they are in love with one another

I can see them gently holding one another close covered in blood after getting rid of a nosy employee trying to either get Harley or Arthur fired

Masochism Tango fits these two so well

It took Arthur stealing Harley’s documents to get him to agree accepting therapy from Arthur as it is standard protocol for every employee including Harley who Arthur once begrudgingly hated

Arthur has 10 tarantulas(5 curly hairs, 3 black tarantulas, and 2 Goliath bird eaters)) and Harley refuses to hold them except for Lefty(who is a Goliath Birdeater and the most docile of Arthur’s larger tarantulas))

Surprisingly Lefty is very friendly towards Leith and Harley secretly trains him to hate or even bite on Leith

Arthur learned how to cook just for Harley because of how much of a picky eater he is

Arthur and Harley’s first kiss was very awkward

Arthur is the type to expect tongue while Harley just expects a normal kiss

When they kissed they bumped into each other a little too hard that it led to both of their nose bleeding

Arthur and Harley planned to have a child and it turns out when they meant by “child” they meant to adopt a tarantula tho Arthur wishes they can adopt a kid but Harley refuses to

Arthur always brings an Otto Tarantula toy if he can’t bring his tarantulas to work

If it is Halloween in Playtime Co., Arthur brings all 10 of his Tarantulas as his “costume” so they could all latch onto him while Harley just actively avoids him just in case they plan to jump on him

Harley’s favorite spot to be kissed by Arthur is on his cheek and neck while Arthur’s is on his hand and forehead

Harley’s favorite book would’ve been “I have no mouth, and I must scream” and it would scare Arthur

Harley is a coffee drinker and Arthur is a tea drinker

The two tried drinking each other’s drinks but it nearly caused Harley to throw up and Arthur to pass out due to intense heart palpitations

Arthur has mild scoliosis and Harley allows him to lie down on him if needed to do their work when they’re alone

Arthur and Harley snuggle close to one another in bed

Harley tends to Arthur’s wound caused by Boxy and uses the excuse “He is serving an important role to the Bigger Bodies, of course I need him alive…”

Harley used to call Arthur “Mr. Quinntel” when the two first met but slowly began to call him by his first name the closer the two got together

When Arthur offered himself to be part of the bigger bodies, Harleh immediately accepted the request but was secretly anxious if he would even survive the procedure

Arthur desperately needs glasses so Harley lets him wear his glasses but it only made his vision worse

Both Harley and Arthur are very professional during work and will only ever act romantic around one another if they’re not busy or if they’re alone with one another

Harley once refused to love Arthur genuinely only because he was interested to experiment on how he would react until he slowly began to develop feelings too (they’re both hypocrites ugh))

Harley bit Arthur’s tongue once by accident

Harley hates the water and gets sea sick easily while Arthur loves the water and doesn’t get sea sick

Arthur loves eating pickles, therefore he eats the pickles for Harley

Arthur discreetly sends love letters to Harley via putting them onto files to submit to him or books Harley needs to borrow from

Arthur massages Harley’s shoulders and neck when he gets stressed

Arthur is the only one to get Harley to become vulnerable and emotional around him, but still, Harley isn’t the type to express himself but is thankful for Arthur’s offer and help

Arthur is squeamish with needles but if Harley needs to draw his blood and he says “Hold still, baby, this will take a while.” in that charming voice he automatically goes🫡

Arthur’s nicknames to Harley; “my love”, “my beloved”, “sweetheart”

Harley’s nicknames to Arthur: “baby”, “darling”, “sweetie”, “dear”

When Harley calls Arthur by his nicknames, Arthur automatically stops or accidentally trips due to his injured leg giving in aka he’s very flustered

Harley gets only 4 hours of sleep while Arthur’s sleep schedule ranges from 2 hours to no sleep at all(aka their sleep schedules are fucked up))

📕💉

I’m sorry if it isn’t enough but these are all I have so far. Might make an nsfw one later👁️ or both for Harthur or Ottley who knows?

[therocketeer0501]

Emptiness Machine

Starscream X Reader (mech pilot au)

Author note: little tw for choking but that’s it! Sorry it’s a short chapter but I wanted to get it out.

Chapter 6

“Lazerbeak eject.” Soundwave sent his cassette after you with subdue only orders. No lethal force was to be used on the prisoner. The agile cassette kept up with ease as you darted around the hallways of the nemesis. You were expending Energon at a high rate using your jump jets like this, but you couldn’t think of anything else to do. You passed several stunned mechs who hollered after you or dropped what they were doing in pursuit. Klaxon rang in your auditory sensors and flashing red lights threatened to short out your visual circuits. Holding the pieces of your chest plate together with one hand, you stagger down a hallway and use one last boost.

No matter what you did you couldn’t shake that damn bird who was following just a bit behind you. No doubt reporting your position to the others. You turn to look at it as you activate your jets. You hear it squawk in alarm and see it dart in the opposite direction. Looking at it was a huge mistake it seemed as you slam straight into a clawed metallic hand. It closes around the throat of your mech, squeezing until you choke. A strangled sound coming from your intake as your optics flicker and malfunction. Trying your best to see your captor around the mess of warnings and error messages on your HUD, you stare completely dumbstruck. Your free hand scrabbles at the hand around your throat. This moment would surely be your last as your blue optics meet deep crimson ones.

The pounding of peds behind the two of you announces the arrival of several other Decepticons. You can’t turn your head but you remember the voice of the boxy blue mech that you pushed past earlier. Hearing his voice translated into your language once more as the Cybertronian translation program within your mech works its magic.

“Lord Megatron. Apologies. The prisoner is under control.”

A deep voice spoke. Commanding but calm. Deadly calm. It sent ice down your spinal strut as you struggled again. His grip was so tight you were sure if you tried to speak your vocal modulator would short out.

“Soundwave, old friend, what is this injured creature doing on my ship?”

He continued to hold you by your throat. Lifted about a ped length off the ground suspended by his one hand. He was powerful and that was enough to send panic through you. This was the mech that killed hundreds of thousands, the mech who incited a millennia long war, a monster who would rather see his own world burn than leave even one of his enemies alive. That was the only word you managed to grate out of your intake as he held you there.

“M…monster…”

He growled at you but didn’t respond as he was interrupted by the sound of calm ped steps arriving on scene. You recognize the voice of Shockwave immediately, a fresh wave of panic surging through you to make your chest ache. You were barely conscious as it was, but you were starting to see white at the edge of your vision.

“Lord Megatron that would be my doing. I have reason to believe that the humans have been able to create an artificial spark. I took this ‘thing’ to study it. See if perhaps it might prove useful.”

There was murmuring from the small gathered crowd of Decepticons as you felt many optics on your damaged form. One servo holding the plates of your chest together and the other digging into Megatron’s massive digits.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t crush your little science project and be done with it. I told you the humans are of no consequence and to leave them be. We have no proof that they are even sentient creatures. The only thing we should be concerning ourselves with is mining Energon.”

He shakes your near limp form, a soft noise of pain escapes you and you feel his servo tighten. Your mech doesn’t need to breathe air, but he could easily crush your spinal strut and sever your head clean from your body. If you received a life threatening wound to your mech, your real body was adversely affected. If you didn’t die, you would be terribly close to it. Behind you, you hear Soundwave start to speak again but another familiar voice pipes up from the crowd. It was the winged mech from earlier who had spoken to you.

“My lord! Please let me take care of this horrible mess that Shockwave has created. I spoke with the creature and I believe it may have valuable information about the location of the Autobot base. Perhaps even the locations of their Energon mines. You needn’t bother yourself with such a pitiful excuse for a distraction.”

You scrunch your nose as you listen to him. Whoever this bot was, he was a suck up. Megatron visibly rolled his eyes and dropped your limp form to the floor. He growled in the direction of the mech.

“You spoke to it? Take care of it Starscream. Before I decide to let you take the blame for this inconvenience. As second in command you are responsible for the actions of those under you. Deal with it.”

With that, the crowd dispersed leaving the three of them with you. You don’t move, too exhausted and drained of Energon to muster any fight. Pain seared through every fiber of your being as you gaze blearily up at their frames. You hear Starscream mumble something about getting you to the brig before Megatron changed his mind. The boxy blue bot whom Megatron had called Soundwave, stepped forward and gently lifted you into his arms. He was warm just like the other one. Why did this surprise you? You had been held by most of the Autobots back at the base. Why would these Cybertronians be any different? Perhaps the image of the Decepticons that the autobots created? Like dark cryptids, or something altogether evil and sinister. You expected cold, calculating, monsters. But as you gaze up into the visor of the one carrying you, you swear you see pity in the optics you find there.

[fairyboygenius]

lifeguard!ghost is shirtless at the pool. my personal headcanon is that he overheats easily and wearing a shirt would be a sensory nightmare for him. he’s almost comically big for the lifeguard chair and can never quite sit properly- one foot propped up on the armrest, manspreading to the extreme. the red swim trunks are tight around those tree trunk thighs. he does wear underwear under the trunks to avoid chafing and for monster dick purposes. he’s maskless at the pool (again with the overheating) but in the dining hall or out on camp, he wears a black gaiter made with cooling fabric over the bottom half of his face. off the chair, he wears athletic shorts and loose t shirts. sometimes they have a gimmicky phrase or a dad joke, other times they’re just a plain color. he does in fact tan (an impeccable bronze) and though he’s missing canon scars, he’s covered in moles, stretch marks, acne scars, scars from his father and a thick layer of golden hair on his chest. he has nipple piercings- two silver bars. the sleeve is still dark and moody because of course- a byproduct of his punk anarchist tendencies from sixth form & his first year of university. he still wears dog tags. shaves his face and nothing else.

lifeguard!butch!gaz is wearing a sports bra and swim trunks on the stand (she does not wear underwear). both red, both designed for function over fashion. she also manspreads on the chair, big sunglasses over her eyes as she observes critically. she wears her hair in short twists, and when she’s on the stand, she wraps it up in multicolored scarves. wash day is a pain in the ass in the camp showers, but she’s used to it. off the stand, she’s mostly wearing basketball or cargo shorts and boxy t shirts or muscle tees. the shirts are old concert tees from her moms and sisters. on cold mornings, she wears an oversized flannel on top of her shirt. the stack of faded friendship bracelets on her wrist never comes off- especially not the ones her dove gave her. a heart-shaped purple carabiner hangs from her backpack straps, the perfect place to hook her blue owala covered in stickers. she burns fairly easily when she’s not reapplying sunscreen, especially on her stomach and shoulders. she’s got a nose ring and a few tattoos- an anchor, an old school bird, a full-color hammerhead shark, a bunny. all in places hidden away from prying eyes. she takes the rest of her piercings out for the summer. she doesn’t shave, letting it all grow. (not pictured: sodapop in bi panic mode seeing ghost and gaz both man spreading on the stand)

STEAM specialist!butch!soap mostly exists in loose, baggy pants or boys’ basketball shorts and simple, athletic tank tops. he loves to flex and show off the beginnings of muscles, developed at camp. she’s also got a stack of quickly accumulated friendship bracelets. his shaggy, tangled wolf cut has an undercut, and she never has a hair tie. his carabiner is simple, classic- green like her backpack and bedding. she burns, turning tomato-red without consistenly reapplying sunscreen. he’s scared of needles and only has one tattoo. it’s on her right thigh, a tiny double venus easily hidden. when the kids ask what it means, he can smile vaguely and go back to staring at her coworker. when he gets to swim, she’s wearing an oversized t shirt over an athletic one-piece or wearing something similar to gaz. he hasn’t touched a razor in 7 years and ignores stares from people. sometimes she puts on goggles during experiments- not because they’re needed for baking soda volcanoes, but to make kids laugh & turn into a “serious scientist” for the day.

ranger john price dresses like my dad. he mostly wear jeans and plain t shirts, cargo pants and shorts making their way into his rotation fairly often. he’s partial to a flannel shirt- during the spring and fall, he’ll wear one unbuttoned enough to let the thick brown fur on his chest peek out. tattoos from his time in the military decorate his arms, chest, and legs. a bucket/boonie hat sits on his head when he’s working. his skin is leathery and tanned from these last few years working in the sun. he’s, of course, got the beard and mustache still, smelling like musk and trees. the happy trail is visible when he’s chopping wood and the bottom of his shirts ride up.

[starscream-is-my-wife]

In your nature documentary AU, just how wildly would Soundwave make the humans speculate on what is going On there? Depending on which cassette is seen first, several misunderstandings could arise.

Laserbeak gets seen first and it’s assumed that him and Soundwave are symbiotic because the bird can nest in that chest compartment and probably provides something they need to study further to find. Sure, but is that a CAT? Was it waiting to lure the bird? No, they seem to be getting along! Are those- are those straight up children? Between these two and Lil’ Yellow, are THEIR babies also smaller? Also if those two are being carried because they’re the big guy’s kids, then what’s the deal with the bird and cat?

But if they see the twins first then the animals and all of them “hunting” together, there’s the question of how animalistic the species is.

Haha I love those ideas! I'd like to think that Soundwave would probably be forced to be more diplomatic because of how much he and his cassettes are outnumbered with no backup, so while the cassettes won't harm the humans, Ravage and Laserbeak seem to be more competent at hiding themselves and following soundwaves orders of keeping peace then Frenzy and Rumble, who can't help themselves from messing with humans and getting caught first

Personally how I would have them appear is that strange fissures have been spotted in the forests even though these weren't the signs of a normal earthquake, the mystery was solved when Rumble got careless and was rumbling too close to the roads and the two of them got spotted.

They were so much smaller then Bee and must be younger so they didn't want to hurt them, alot were thinking 'damn these kids are causing alot of damage but they are kids' and 'if these kids also have giant robot parents who found out we hurt them we are dead'

Humans set a trap for them using energon borrowed from the 'good' bots and the twins got caught in a drop down cage, when the humans returned with Ratchet to show him, Laserbeak and Ravage had activated the back up traps trying to free them. Not only were there kids there were pets too?? This is when they hear footsteps and Soundwave appears from the forests. The humans take note on how Ratchet is very obviously on edge and putting himself in between them and the other robo family (?) when Soundwave recalls all of the cassettes into his chest. They transform through the bars and fly into his chest??

Z: 'They transform into cassettes??? I thought they can only transform into vehicles'

P: 'That means that the big one must be something that can play them... how strange, maybe its a different species that comes from the same family as our bots'

Ratchet talks to the other Robot the humans can only hear his Siren tuned rant about keeping his cassettes under control, the other bot speaks, it's the popular hit song barbie girl.

To Ratchet, Soundwave says that he will keep an closer eye on them and that they should work together to get off this planet. Ratchet says that they can talk about it later, Soundwave nods and walks off. The humans are like ??? Are you guys both moms???

Soundwave does have a more boxy figure then Ratchet but he's around the same size if not a little taller (Their only reference to a "male" is Orion who is just larger then average) so now they're theorizing if this new species reproduces asexually or doesn't have a family structure, the resemblance the twin cassettes have is way more noticeable then Bee and Angel, also the animals.. are they children? If they can transform into not just vehicles can they transform into other things? What if that tree is a robot? A small group of people are now paranoid of any technology. The main two humans want to see if the animals have a human form too and just choose to be animals. Are they pets? Are they also intelligent? How old are they? Can they speak? Is the dad an animal bot? Are they just a part of the bigger bot he's controlling wirelessly?? Is Bluebie (Blue Barbie) even female??

Soundwave does bring a wave of uncertainty about the all of bots to some the humans... like yeah they could be animalistic and dangerous! Where's the line! And if those things can cause THAT much damage to the town when they're that young, how much damage can a robot like Truck King do? Is their backup plan of using another truck to defeat him not enough? (It definitely isn't even the main two know that before but now the rest of the town does)

[nizhspo]

saltwater secrets

chapter ten: postgame aches

genre: haikyuu fic, slow burn

pairing: tooru oikawa x reader

links: m.list, next

you limp into tide & table like you’ve just survived a natural disaster.

your legs are useless. your arms feel like they’ve been through a blender. your lower back might as well be 87 years old. every step toward the host stand is a negotiation with god.

oikawa’s already there, of course.

he’s leaning casually against the counter like he didn’t just play five games on hot sand and carry the entire town’s thirst on his back for seven hours straight.

“oh no,” he says, when he sees you. “is someone sore?”

you glare. “i will break your kneecaps.”

he laughs, full and smug and too wide-eyed to be innocent. you groan dramatically as you lean over to grab the clipboard, and he whistles. “wow. you’re really struggling, huh?”

you don’t respond. you just casually jab him in the ribs with two fingers.

he flinches.

barely.

but you catch it.

“ahhh,” you say slowly. “there it is.”

his eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “i’m fine.”

“you’re sore.”

“you imagined that.”

“you winced.”

“it was a dramatic flinch. for comedic effect.”

“mmhm.”

you poke him again, and he dodges this time, hissing. “rude.”

“you deserve it.”

you both lean against the counter, pretending not to be dying, pretending not to notice how close your shoulders are. the breakfast shift is slow today. only a few tables. sunlight’s slanting in through the windows, and the ice machine keeps making this weird little hiccup sound every few minutes.

then he says, lightly—like it’s nothing,

“maybe you would’ve won if you were on my team instead of akaashi’s.”

you blink. slowly.

“maybe,” you say, just as lightly, “but then i wouldn’t have been playing with someone i liked.”

it’s quiet for a beat too long and you glance at him.

something flashes.

you don’t know what it is. it’s fast, a flicker in his eyes. gone before you can catch it. not quite a flinch. not quite a grin. not quite anything you know how to name.

he just looks away, grabs a straw from the dispenser, and starts fiddling with it.

you stare at him for a second longer.

then your manager walks by, clipboard in hand, iced coffee in the other, already exhausted.

“can you two stop flirting and actually help out?” she says without even slowing down.

you straighten up fast, looking towards oikawa for help. “we’re not flirting.”

he doesn’t say anything, just smiles, still playing with the straw. smug. like he knows you’re dying.

you glare at him, and he looks at you with wide eyes, totally innocent. because he likes to see you squirm.

after your shift, you’re halfway to the redbox kiosk when your car starts doing that thing again. the engine light’s been on for weeks. it’s basically decorative at this point. but this time, it doesn’t just blink.

it flickers.

then your brakes feel stiff, then the gas pedal stops answering.

you coast to the shoulder with a prayer and a curse, your little rusted-out beater wheezing to a full, dramatic stop on the side of the road. a breeze rolls through your open window. a bird caws in the distance. everything is still.

you thump your forehead against the steering wheel.

then you do what makes the most sense: you call bokuto.

“what did you do to it?” is the first thing he says.

“i didn’t do anything. it just stopped.”

“okay, well call your dad?”

“kou,” you groan. “they’re out of town. remember?”

“…oh right.” he sighs. “okay, okay, i’m coming. stay there. but also call your parents. and call a tow truck.”

you call your parents. they panic slightly, then remember bokuto’s family lives nearby. they say they’ll call his parents and sort out the details with the mechanic. you sit in the car, windows down, wind nudging your elbow.

it feels like everything is stuck today.

bokuto shows up twenty minutes later in his boxy, sun-bleached jeep, hair still wet from a shower, wearing sunglasses even though the sun is practically gone.

he honks once. loud. unnecessary.

you climb in, and he immediately says, “you look like someone stole your goldfish.”

“they stole my car,” you mutter.

“ice cream?” he asks.

you don’t say no.

you sit in the parking lot of your favorite ice cream place, both of you with cones melting faster than you can lick. your legs are kicked up on his dashboard. he keeps the radio on low. something old-school and vaguely beachy.

“i can take you to work tomorrow,” he says. “but i got plans after. super hot date.”

you nod. “that’s fine. i’ll ask someone else to take me home.”

he looks at you sideways. “you good?”

“yep.”

“you sure?”

you lick your cone. “nope.”

he laughs. “you’ll survive.”

you smile at him, soft and tired. “i always do.”

[kayawolfhorse]

Towards the Sun | Read on AO3

My part of @thedoomedpie and I’s Solstice Social collab, hosted by @hermitadaymay! Check out Pie’s lovely piece here <3

—☾—

The sky is an endless swath of bright blue above Pearl’s head, and the birds chirp their early song from the bough of every tree around her. At her hip, her almost empty mailbag rustles with every step. She adjusts the brim of her hat against the morning sun and strides towards her next stop.

Tango answers the door in a robe with pools at his feet with a mug of steaming coffee and eyes that brighten when he catches sight of Pearl. “Pearlie! Got my morning mail?”

“I sure do!” Pearl says, and hands him the couple of envelopes with his name scrawled across their fronts. “How’s your weekend off been treating you?”

“It’s been weird,” Tango chuckles. “Nice! But weird. Case in point, when’s the last time I had my mail delivered?”

“Hah, yeah, it was weird seeing it in the office,” Pearl says, and leans against the porch balustrade. “It’s good to see you getting some rest, though! You needed it.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Tango says with a slight, goofy bow. “You’re due for some time off, too. Relax! You deserve it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Pearl smiles. “For today though, I’ve got errands to run!”

“Festival organizing, is it? Wouldn’t expect you to be anywhere else,” Tango teases. “Can’t wait!”

“I was just about to ask if I’d be seeing you there!” Pearl says. “There are a few things to be done beforehand, but it’s all coming together beautifully.”

“Wouldn’t miss it! I—” Tango’s interrupted by a rapid series of familiar, high-pitched beeps.

Pearl spots him first. “Hi there little buddy!” She crouches down to meet Grumbot at face-level. “What’s up?”

Grumbot whirs, and the foliage that cascades down the side of his boxy head shakes slightly as a piece of paper slides from the output slot on his torso. He pulls it loose with one doodle-speckled arm and holds it up to Pearl, who takes it and scans it over.

“Mumbo needs help, does he?” she asks. Grumbot extends his hand in what Pearl recognizes to be as close to a thumbs-up as he can get with his lack of fingers, and the motion is equally as endearing as when Mumbo himself flashes one in awkward acknowledgment.

“With the lights?” Tango reads over Pearl’s shoulder. “I can go over and give him a hand.”

“No worries; I’m overseeing the lights, anyway. Besides,” Pearl says, giving Tango a playful poke, “one of us is supposed to be resting.”

“Alright, alright,” Tango concedes. “I’ll get you to take a break one of these days, mark my words.”

“Consider them marked,” Pearl says, and rises to her feet. “Bye, Tango!”

As Pearl turns to follow Grumbot, Tango says, voice fading behind them, “Say hi to Mumbo for me!”

“Will do!” Pearl calls over her shoulder.

—☾—

“You’d really think that hovering lights would be more willing to, you know, hover,” Mumbo says.

Sunlight pours from high-cut windows above the row of cabinets and catches against the glass of the unlit heaps of lanterns scattered around the workshop in various stages of assembly. Redstone wires are piled in the free space left between the lights, and spare circuits weigh down the edges of sprawling blueprints across the benches that line the wall.

Pearl pulls up a stool at Mumbo’s side, where he’s hunched over the central table, turning a bulb between his hands. His suit jacket has been abandoned on a nearby table, and his dress sleeves are shoved back to his elbows. “They’ll get there, I’m sure of it,” she says. “Have you got any clue why they aren’t working?”

“That’s the thing—I have none at all! None!” Mumbo says. He presses a hand to his temple. “There’s nothing obviously wrong with them, they just won’t work.”

“Is it all of them?” Pearl asks, pulling the bulb’s sleek white casing closer to inspect.

“All of them, yep,” Mumbo confirms. “They’re completely unresponsive.”

“Odd.” Flipping the casing upside-down, Pearl slides a nail along the cover until it pops open. The compacted redstone as its core is a beauty, and she takes a moment to admire it. “Grumbot, could you hand me that screwdriver?

Grumbot’s rapid cacophony of dings sounds near-anxious in pitch. Pearl frowns—he’s never been anything but utterly at home in Mumbo’s workshop.

Nonetheless, Grumbot retrieves the screwdriver and holds it out to Pearl from as far away as he can stay. As soon as Pearl takes it and thanks him, he races off to the other side of the room once more, sitting in a sunbeam in the clearest corner of the shop.

“That’s weird,” Mumbo says. “That behavior’s weird, right? He never does that.”

“It is,” Pearl agrees.

“I’ll go ask him,” Mumbo says, and rises from his seat.

Glancing back down, Pearl focuses on the redstone before her, taking it apart piece-by-piece and laying it upon the table. The craftsmanship is perfect; each mechanism primed, every wire lovingly crossed, devoid of misplaced or faulty fires. There’s no reason for it not to work. It doesn’t make sense.

Mumbo’s stool scrapes against the wooden floor as he pulls it back and drops heavily onto it. His brow is knitted and his mustache is ruffled in puzzled confusion.

“What did Grumbot say?” Pearl prompts.

With a slight shake of his head, Mumbo says, “Couldn’t get an answer out of him. He just kept repeating that the redstone was bad.”

Pearl rubs a wire between her fingers. She’s having trouble thinking of a solution, her mind sparking like flint and steel that refuses to take. Her head pangs in a dull ache just in general, honestly—did she have any water before heading out?

Redstone, much like just about anything else, wears out eventually, and brings with it a habit of corroding its surroundings if left to rot for too long (she and Mumbo had learned this the hard way, what with their shared hobby of flipping old tech), but the lanterns’ redstone shows no sign of attrition.

“We could… replace it?” Pearl hedges.

Mumbo looks as uncertain as she feels. “This shouldn’t be all that old,” he says, “I got a new shulker-worth of it a few months ago; it’s been sitting in a chest since.”

“Might as well give it a shot, right?” Pearl says. “We’ve got nothing else to go off of.”

“I guess so.”

Their efforts are to no avail; the lantern remains decidedly dark and firmly grounded.

“It was working yesterday afternoon,” Mumbo says, passing a hand across his face, “I don’t get how it’s just stopped now.”

Pearl scratches at the back of her neck and tilts her head—a poor choice; the movement sends the dizziness behind her eyes spiraling, and she takes a moment to breathe through it. For all that she loves a good puzzle, frustration bubbles at the back of her throat. The redstone should be fine; Mumbo’s worked on it for weeks and his design is meticulous. Of course it’d be now, mere hours before the festival, that a bug would rear its ugly head.

“How complicated would it be to switch it over to solar?” Pearl asks. Whatever’s wrong with the redstone, they can figure out later. She has a schedule to keep, and it cannot be eaten up by stubborn lights.

“Not terribly difficult,” Mumbo says, “but I don’t actually have any panels small enough for them on me, and they won’t last as long, and they’re supposed to be on at night.”

“If you can get panels in the next hour and charge them while you assemble, they’ll have a few hours’ worth of juice in them, which is all we need,” Pearl says. “Redstone’s not giving. We need the lanterns faster than we can fix whatever’s wrong with them.”

“Okay,” Mumbo says. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for the help.”

“Sorry I couldn’t do more,” Pearl says sincerely. “I’ll get those panels to you, how’s that?”

“Oh, that’d be wonderful, actually,” Mumbo says. “Thanks, Pearl!”

Pearl’s about to respond when her communicator buzzes in her pocket. Pulling it out, she reads: there’s been a situation.

Sighing, she says to Mumbo, “Change of plans; looks like I’m needed elsewhere, unfortunately.” For what exactly, she’s not sure. Leave it to Grian to provide no further specifications.

“That’s okay!” Mumbo says. “All good, no worries. I’ll get it handled.”

“You’re just the man for the job, mate,” Pearl says, patting him on the shoulder before adjusting her bag’s strap. “Call Etho if you need an extra set of hands—Tango’s supposed to be resting.”

“Ah, I did hear about that, yep,” Mumbo says. “You’ve got it! Good luck with the preparations!”

Pearl flashes a salute before stepping outside. Before the door can fully close behind her, Grumbot zips through it and wraps an arm around her leg.

“You want to come with?” Pearl asks.

Grumbot gives a furious nod and a wiggle of his mustache.

“I’m heading for the labs, you know,” Pearl says.

Grumbot’s aversion towards them is as stalwart as the rise and set of the sun; he refuses to step foot on the grounds. Though Pearl expects him to back out, Grumbot nods his head again.

“Alright,” Pearl says skeptically. “Maybe between you and I, we can drag Grian out for some fresh air, aye?”

—☾—

Mumbo’s workshop is closer to the fields than it is the center square, and though the walk is lovely, the spring day pleasantly balmy, Pearl keeps her pace at a fast clip. The excited bustle of festival preparations amidst the mundanities of everyday life streams past her as she stops by the post office to drop off her mailbag and marches towards the laboratory at the heart of Solaris.

The streets narrow and quiet down as she and Grumbot continue on past rows of shops closed for the day and markets whose early hours have long passed. A light breeze plays with the ends of Pearl’s hair and Grumbot hums something Pearl recognizes to be one of her own silly little tunes; after a beat she joins in. Despite the mission at hand, it’s all rather peaceful—a tranquility that is completely shattered by the swarm of bees that seems to materialize directly in front of them, swiftly followed by a familiar dash of pink and blue.

“Lizzie!” Pearl calls out. “What’re you up to, mate?”

With a bouquet of overflowing flowers in one hand and a net in the other, Lizzie turns to Pearl. “The bees!” she exclaims, slightly out of breath.

“What about them?” Pearl asks, tilting her head. “They’re allowed to roam, aren’t they?”

“Joel broke their hive by mistake whilst trying to move them,” Lizzie explains. Her fuzzy wings flutter behind her. “We’re trying to get them back into a new one before they take off for somewhere else entirely. And they don’t want to blumming listen!”

“I can’t imagine bees are known for their listening skills,” Pearl agrees. “Are you trying to lure them back home?” Lizzie’s flower shop is nearby, but her and Joel’s house is a few blocks away.

“Joel’s getting the new hive now,” Lizzie says. “I’m just rounding them up for when he gets here with it.”

“Grumbot here and I can help!” Pearl offers. She can’t just leave Lizzie with all of this. She prays that it won’t take terribly long. “Isn’t that right?”

Grumbot makes a sound that approximates agreement. There’s already a bee perched upon one of his flowers.

“Great!” Lizzie says. She halves her bundle of flowers and passes them to Pearl. “Here, take these. Try to get them to stay around the shop. I’ll head down Main.”

“You’ve got it!” Pearl says. Lizzie flashes a relieved smile and runs off.

Left to her own devices, Pearl’s immediately struck by how difficult of a task it is to get the bees to remain anywhere specific.

Petunias tangle with ivy down the side of nearly every building down the street, and nasturtiums sprout around each lamp out front. Sculpted topiaries, colorful flower beds, and communal gardens fill every bit of space not occupied by paths.

Pearl has always taken pride in the lush beauty of their little town, and so close to the festival, it’s dialed up to a hundred: flower wreaths and garlands are hung by the bushel. The bees—several hundred of them, by the looks of it—seem determined to visit every last petal.

“Here, buzzy buzzy bees,” Pearl coaxes, holding out a fistful of lilacs to the group in front of the bakery. Somewhere behind her, Grumbot imitates the bees in a whirring hum. “C’mon, that’s it…”

After Pearl leads her first group to the flower shop and watches as they cluster contently on the stand of bouquets by the door, she stations Grumbot next to it to gently discourage anyone from wandering too far. He waves his bundle of flowers invitingly to any bee that leaves the stand, beeping to alert Pearl if one slips past him.

Pearl oscillates between grabbing the furthest bees’ attention and slowly luring them closer to the shop. Though most of them hover within reach, a few have drifted further up into rooftop gardens or flower boxes beneath second story windows, and Pearl resolves to locate a ladder as soon as she can. The emptiness of the path is a relief—Pearl can’t imagine the difficulty passerby would add to bee-wrangling.

By the time Joel arrives, fresh hive in hand, Pearl’s gotten most of the bees in the same general area, darting across the flower shop’s front, perched upon her own bunch of flowers, or flying lazy circles around her face.

“It should be all set up now,” Joel says, setting the hive carefully down on one of the nearby tables. Two bees fly right in, and after a moment, several dozen under the storefront window leave their bouquets to follow. “And hi, Pearl. Thanks for the hand.” Pearl waves.

Lizzie reppears with a mini-swarm of the most adventurous of stragglers, and her bees hover cautiously around the hive for a moment until joining the ones inside. “Thank goodness,” she says. “Do you have Queenie?”

“She’s in there, yep,” Joel says proudly. “There’s also the couple of frames I managed to save.”

“Nice!” Pearl says, and gently shakes her bundle of flowers over the open top to encourage her bees loose.

“We’ll just have to get them close enough that they go in,” Joel says. “They’re smart enough; they’ll follow their queen.”

Grumbot appears at Joel’s hip with clasped hands and several murmuring beeps. His extended arms just barely reach the top of the hive, and when he opens his hands, a single bee flies out and into the hive below. Pearl laughs softly and Lizzie grins; even Joel can’t help but look charmed.

“Thank you, Grumbot,” Lizzie says with all the seriousness of ceremony. Grumbot wiggles his mustache, pleased.

Between the four of them and the ladder Joel runs back home to retrieve, they gather up the last of the bees and give the street one final sweep before sliding the hive’s cover on. Joel hefts it up with a grunt, and says his goodbyes before disappearing around the block.

“Thanks for the help, guys!” Lizzie says. “I was real worried there; it’s a good thing you came along.”

“Of course!” Pearl says. “I couldn’t just leave a gal hanging, now could I?”

Lizzie’s expression turns contemplative, and she mutters something that Pearl can’t quite catch before saying, “Oh! Have you picked out your flowers yet? For your crown?”

Her flower crown! Pearl lightly smacks the heel of her hand against her brow. “I’d totally forgotten, to be honest. I’ve been so busy with everything else, it’d just slipped my mind.”

“Well, come by the shop anytime today, and they’re on the house,” Lizzie says. “As payment.”

Though no payment is needed, it’s useless to argue; Lizzie’s made-up mind is a firm thing, and besides—Pearl really does need a crown. “Thank you so much, Lizzie!”

“It’s the least I could do,” Lizzie says with a grin. “See you later?”

“You betcha.” Pearl winks.

Continuing down the freshly bee-less street, Pearl spares the clock on its end a glance and makes a mental note to swing by the flower shop once the plaza’s fully set up. Early afternoon has already managed to sink its unerring roots into the day, and there’s still so much left on Pearl’s checklist. Total perfection may not be the name of the game, but she’s determined to land as close to it as possible.

She’s so occupied with running through the list in her head—meet with Scar and Bdubs, consolidate decorations, run home and change, eat at some point, that’s probably important—that she nearly runs straight into Gem and Impulse.

Gem halts the wagon behind her before it can crash into Pearl. “Hey, Pearl!” she says. Impulse waves from his spot further back.

Pearl shakes herself free from her ruminations. “Hiya, guys!” Grumbot beeps in greeting.

“Whatcha you up to?” Gem asks. She loosely crosses her arms and leans against the wooden paneling of the wagon, and it jostles gently against her weight. Its underside casts soft golden light upon the cobbled street it hovers above.

“Heading to the labs,” Pearl answers. “You two are catering, I’d assume?”

“Not quite yet,” Gem says, “but we will be in an hour. For now, we’re just helping move stuff around.”

“Fantastic,” Pearl says. “Quick question, is your wagon working as normal?”

Gem and Impulse turn to it in unison.

“Chugging along as always,” Impulse says, and raises his eyebrow with a faint, confused smirk. “Why, what’s up?”

“Just checking,” Pearl says. She sounds a little frazzled to her own ears, to be honest. If Mumbo’s redstone problem was town-wide, she’d certainly know about it by now—she’s not sure what she was expecting, really.

“O-oookay,” Gem says, squinting. “You’ve got leaves in your hair, by the way.”

“How did that—? Ah, oh well. My accessories.” Pearl waves a vague hand. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve really got to get going. Bye!”

“You’re being so suspicious!” Gem exclaims, laughing slightly.

“All part of my charm!” Pearl says. She starts to walk away before sharply changing her mind; turning back, she asks, “Actually, can Grumbot hang out with you two?” At Grumbot’s protest, she reminds him, “The labs.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gem says, and smiles at Grumbot. “This does not make you any less weird, though.”

“Does anything?” Pearl leans down to give Grumbot’s head a pat, and after returning the gesture to her arm, he plods off to Impulse. “See you all later!”

Gem snorts. Impulse’s directions and Grumbot’s responding beeps fade behind Pearl as she thrusts ahead.

—☾—

The polished floors of the laboratory's foyer catch and reflect the daylight from where it filters through the glass dome high above Pearl’s head. Carefully maintained potted yucca and pitcher pods frame either side of the reception desk, bringing with them splashes of life in the otherwise still space.

She’s been here often enough to remember the crack in one of the mud bricks above the maintenance closet, and the receptionist’s nod is familiar as they wave Pearl through. Sweeping past the main doors, she raps against the second door to the left in a cursory knock before pushing it open.

It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden dimness. When her vision clears, she regards the mess around her—just as disorganized as she’d last seen it, despite Grian’s promise to declutter—with a long-suffering sigh.

“Yeah, yeah, I had other things to do,” Grian comes around one of the tables saying. His coat is, for once, fully buttoned, however rumpled it is, though his red sweater peeks out at the collar.

“I can’t believe you,” Pearl says. “We talk about this every ti—”

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” Grian interrupts. He has the good grace to look apologetic when Pearl glares. “Listen, I brought you here for a reason.”

“Coulda used it upfront, really,” Pearl mutters. Grian shrugs.

“There was a minor sculk—not even a flare; it’s not big enough to be a flare—incident this morning, at Vintage Beef’s,” Grian says. “Before it opened. Beef had noticed a small spread following his pre-hour duties.”

Pearl can’t quite stop the small gasp that escapes her, and her heartbeat picks up in her ears. “Is anyone hurt?” Infected, she doesn’t say.

“No.” Grian shakes his head. “It was fresh enough that Beef didn’t suffer more than a nasty headache, and he avoided contact.”

“That’s good,” Pearl says, a little distantly. There have been instances of sculk sightings within town before, but they usually crop up on the outskirts, closer to the ruins; the butcher’s is so central. “Has the sculk been fully cleared?”

“That’s the thing—we’ve been developing this, this new agent, and it worked like a charm. It kills the sculk without aggravating it; all that’s needed afterwards is some good ol’ elbow grease. Pearl,” he says incredulously, “it didn’t spread.”

“Really? Gri, that’s amazing!” Pearl exclaims. “What about the surfaces it was on? How did they fare?”

Grian pulls a face and tilts his outstretched palm. “It was in the press, really messed up the redstone. Had to be replaced. The wall behind it is being replaced, just to be safe,” he says. “But, I nabbed a piece before they could stop me.”

“You and rules never have gotten along,” Pearl agrees. “Did you test it?”

“Of course I did.” Grian grins. “There was the tiniest sliver of residue, but it’s completely inactive after being sprayed. A few minor tweaks to a formula and bam, it’ll be as if it was never there in the first place.”

“Wow,” Pearl says, at a loss for anything else. As a child, she’d had a game, a simple manner of gathering points before the bad guy caught up. It’d been found on a scavenge, and cleaned up the best they could, but sculk remnants clung to the wiring—a fact discovered hours later. Pearl had been bedridden for weeks.

The scavenges eventually tapered to an end, after the town had grown enough to completely sustain itself. Years later, Pearl had rebuilt the game with Mumbo, and it’s sat in her bedroom since.

Wait. “You said the sculk affected the redstone?” Pearl asks.

“Yeah, the press wasn’t working, which is what led Beef to prying it open and finding the sculk,” Grian says. “It was an old machine; sculk likes the static of old redstone.”

Dread rekindles anew in Pearl’s gut. Each detail that fell askanse in the moment feels all too clear now. “I don’t think,” she says slowly, “that Beef’s case is the only bit of sculk in town.”

Grian’s gaze steels. “Explain.”

Pearl goes over her time with Mumbo earlier, describing the deadbeat redstone, her own nausea, and Grumbot’s apprehension. “I suggested switching to solar, for the time being,” she finishes. “Haven’t heard from him since.”

Grian’s taken to pacing while she talks. Pearl absently gathers papers scattered on the table into a neat stack.

Abruptly, Grian stops. He pulls out his communicator. “We need to get him out of there, now,” he says. “We’re lucky that the lanterns aren’t connected to the grid—the sculk shouldn’t spread as easily, but Mumbo’s gotta get away from it.”

“What can I do?” Pearl asks. With one final, decisive tap, she sets the papers aside. She feels steadier with a task in hand.

“Change your clothes, for one thing,” Grian says. “If you’re contaminated…”

“I’m not,” Pearl says quickly. “I shouldn’t be. It didn’t touch my clothing. My symptoms faded in fresh air.”

“Okay. Then just, keep on at the festival.”

Pearl smiles something wry. “I’m keeping my ‘sole townie with super secret information’ status, now am I?”

“You’re Pearl; it hardly counts.” Grian waves a hand, but meets her eyes in understanding. “Just for tonight, you are. There’ll be an announcement tomorrow morning. It’ll be good to keep spirits high.”

“Okay,” Pearl says. “You’ll be alright?”

“Nothing new with me.” He shrugs. “No breakthroughs, but I’m still here, that counts for something.”

Pearl knows of his frustration. Years spent researching sculk, only for the city he was studying in to collapse in a full-blown flare. Grian had stumbled half-alive into town.

He should’ve died from the infection. He’s the only known survivor. It creeps along his edges, unyielding, aching, preying on a body that refuses to give out.

She’s glad he’s here.

Laying a light hand on his clothed arm, she asks, “Any chance I’ll be seeing you at the festival?”

Grian hesitates. “I’ll try,” he decides after a moment. “It’d be a real shame to pass up on free dessert, anyway.”

“I’ll save you a cupcake,” Pearl says. Her mouth pinches at the corners.

“I knew I could count on you.”

—☾—

The fireworks show is as dazzling as Cub had promised it would be. Circles of gold and showers of blue burst to life high above the plaza and cast sparkling reflections down upon the copper railings. The crowd, adorned with enough flowers in their crowns and chains to be mistaken for a field of them, claps and cheers in jubilant appreciation.

Mumbo’s lanterns float gently through the air, beacons of warm, softly flickering light. There aren’t as many as there were in the workshop—reduced from contamination or lack of time, Pearl doesn’t know. Mumbo’s own absence, however much she expected it, is an anxious ache in her chest. He isn’t the only one missing.

After the fireworks, the music stirs up a jaunty tune, and the centermost ring fills with movement: heels clatter against the cobbled brick as dancers spin between partners and link arms with a new one before being cast back.

Pearl doesn’t join so much as she is roped into the fray, and despite herself, she stomps to the beat and laughs at the joke Ren makes before flinging himself towards False.

Finding Gem is a manner of trading arms and conversation until they’re drawn together. Gem looks lovely with her sprigs of lilacs tucked behind her ears and woven throughout her antlers, and her silver bracelets are a pretty contrast against Pearl’s own gold. The purple of Gem’s long, sweeping skirt brings out the white of her wide grin.

“I love the sunflowers,” she says as they whirl. “They suit you.”

“Not looking too bad yourself!” Pearl says with a grin of her own.

“Skizz helped me with the antlers,” Gem says, gesturing to her head. “He got there eventually, but it was a rough start.”

It’s easy to lose herself in banter with Gem. They swap stories of loose bees and fishing mishaps and debate which of their friends would attempt to arm wrestle one of the harvest bots. They hang onto each other for several songs and part with a shared giggle.

When the soles of Pearl’s flats feel practically worn through, she takes to wandering through the fringes, ducking beneath the pergola for a drink that she quickly abandons to help someone with their unraveling flower crown. She scans the gathering as she deftly reweaves the delicate stems; her search comes up empty. Handing the finished crown back, she sticks around for a few moments longer before plunging back in.

She mingles and she dances and she resolutely ignores any feelings that ooze from the darkest parts of her brain like the stuff of world-ending apocalypses.

They’re here, aren’t they? From the rubble they created a safe haven, survival stalwart enough to warrant a celebration in its name. The strung lights are bright and the flowers are in full bloom; the air is fresh in Pearl’s lungs and she’s certain that any one of the pastries laid out would be delicious if she could will her stomach to accept it.

Time has dilated to something beyond Pearl’s open-handed grasp. Exhaustion tugs at her core. Zedaph is describing his most recent contraption to her, and only half of it is really computing.

She doesn’t notice Tango until he’s right next to her, two cupcakes in hand. His robe has been forsaken for a dashing waistcoat combination, and his bright hair is artfully tousled. He hands one cupcake to Pearl and the other to Zedaph, engaging Zed in an animated conversation that effectively drives them both away from Pearl.

Tango tosses a wink over his shoulder and mouths, ‘break.’ Pearl sighs with a slight shake of her head, and flashes a grateful smile back.

The crowd has thinned, and congregated mostly towards the center of the plaza, leaving many of the benches that curve around its edges empty. Pearl takes a seat on the side of the terrace that best overlooks the town below and rubs a sore spot out of her calf.

Away from the main lights, the stars shine brilliantly overhead, and the moon’s nearly-full glow settles silver upon the expanse of colorful roofs and overflowing greenery in front of her. Amidst the gentle hum of the night and melody of the Festival of Life, Pearl traces the watercolor silhouettes that make up her home.

—☾—

In the last dregs of celebration, when the band is replaced by jukeboxes, after most have retired to bed, Grian appears by Pearl’s bench, sliding into the spot next to her. Wordlessly, she hands him the cupcake from Tango. Through the weariness that weighs down his frame, he grins.

There’s plenty of discussion to make. Pearl’s sure there will be a never-ending stream of it tomorrow.

Pearl soaks in the quiet company and takes a moment to breathe. After a moment, Grian releases a long exhale of his own. Side by side, they sit in silence.

[brattyfics]

Swampbound I

Adla had lived in Florida her whole life, yet the strange debris that washed ashore after storms still startled her. Broken tree limbs and splintered pieces of homes were expected, but today was different.

Tangled in seaweed, she spotted frantic turtle hatchlings, frogs, and crabs struggling to reclaim their place in the chaos. But nothing compared to the sight before her: a bloody, mangled deer carcass lying in the tall grass, torn flesh and fur clinging to shredded cloth.

Her instincts screamed at her to turn back, but curiosity pulled her closer. Kneeling down, she caught the metallic scent of blood, and a chill gripped her. Something violent had occurred.

A gator? No, they dragged their prey into the water. Maybe a hawk? But even a bird of prey wouldn’t leave this kind of mess. Could it be a bobcat? They prowled these swamps, opportunistic in their hunting. But as she examined the prints—large, wolf-like, and deeper than any she’d seen—her heart raced. Four parallel prints faded into something far stranger: two flatter, elongated impressions.

Like feet.

Human feet.

The footprints were far too big to be hers, and she knew she was alone out there. The air felt thick, the swamp unnaturally quiet, as if the world was holding its breath. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: “Never run from a person or an animal. Running makes you prey.”

She gripped her hunting knife, steadying her wrist, eyes scanning the brush for hidden dangers but there was nothing– no one hiding in the bushes, no animal stalking her. Just thick humidity, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. 

Time to head back.

As she treaded carefully over the spongy ground, the low rumble of an engine caught her attention. She hadn’t expected company—she rarely did. As a child, she’d hated the isolation of this place, but now it felt like a shield.

Rushing up the muddy incline, her boots kicked loose clumps of earth. At the porch of her old Cracker house, she leaned against the weathered wood, squinting down the overgrown path. A boxy, faded green Jeep Cherokee bounced along the uneven track.

Jesse Hampton. Of course.

He stepped out, scanning the trees before his gaze settled on her. His mahogany skin glistened under the humid sun, damp shirt clinging to his chest, hair wild from the moisture. Stubble covered his jaw—unusual for him but understandable after the chaos of the storm. Even so, he was as handsome as ever.

“Addy,” he called, voice steady but laced with urgency. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His gaze darted behind her, searching the shadows. “I know it seems all quiet and nice, but it ain’t safe.”

She rolled her eyes, not wanting to give him more reason to worry. “You’re soundin’ just like my father.”

Jesse’s expression tightened, something unspoken hanging between them. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Promise me you’ll be careful. You got a light in you that draws eyes—sometimes the wrong ones.”

His words hung heavy, and a flicker of fear flashed in her eyes. “You’re fussing over nothing. I’m just fine,” she shot back, but unease gnawed at her. Jesse knew something she didn’t.

“What you doing out here, anyway?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Do I need a reason?” he countered, flashing that charming smile of his.

“You always got a reason when you show up without warning. So, what’s the scoop this time?”

Jesse owned a busy convenience store in town but thrived on side hustles, always finding a way to get by. She admired his resourcefulness, but it was a reminder that he always had some angle he was working.

“Just wanted to check on you, see how you’re faring after the storm. But if I ain’t welcome…” He paused, putting on a mock-serious face. “I can just as easily turn right back around.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, turning away as she ascended the steps. “You say that every time, but you always wind up inside.” She shot him a teasing grin over her shoulder. “You don’t even bother asking to come in anymore.”

“After all the times I’ve been ‘round, why would I ask?” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a playful spark in his eye. “Sometimes late at night, if I remember right.”

Adla shook her head, heading toward the kitchen. “That ain’t the same thing, and you know it.”

She opened the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of cold water, pouring a glass and handing it to him. Their fingers brushed, igniting that familiar spark that always hung in the air between them.

“Why you gotta say it like that?” Jesse asked, his brow furrowing as he took a sip from his glass.

“‘Cause you gotta get it, Jesse,” Adla replied, picking her words with care. “I ain’t one for surprises. You should’ve let me know you were coming before just poppin’ up like this.” She forced a sweet smile, hoping to ease the sting. Before anything, he was her closest friend, and the last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

He leaned casually against the counter, a sly grin spreading across his face. Adla considered asking if he’d been snooping around her property—Jesse had a knack for being sneaky—but thought better of it. Questions would only lead to more questions.

“I thought I was special,” he inched closer, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Oh, really? Where’d you get that idea from?” She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement.

“Just a hunch,” he said, tugging at a tight curl in her ponytail, the spiral bouncing back like a rubber band. He leaned in to whisper, “I figured if I play my cards right and keep doing that thing you like, I might get a little something in return.”

She fought to hold back a smile. “Like what exactly?”

“Ain’t askin’ for much. Just the freedom to come and go when I feel like it.” Jesse leaned in for a kiss, his lips hovering just shy of hers. Adla pushed against his broad chest, stopping him.

Jesse was fine as hell—fit, sharp, and always finding a way out of trouble. She liked being around him, sure, but no one—not even him—was about to think they had a hold on her. She ran her own life, and settling down wasn’t in the cards, especially when she knew other women were likely getting a taste of that same charm and quick thinking too.

“Nope, not a chance,” she said, playful but firm, shaking her head. “But since you’re already here, I could use your help with something.”

“Oh really?” he replied, his interest piqued. “What you need?”

“Help me set these traps and see what washed up after that storm,” she said, stealing a quick sip from his cup. She wanted to catch some crabs and fish to fill up her freezer, and the thought of going back into the woods alone made her uneasy.

“Aww, man,” he groaned dramatically. “I should’ve known coming over here meant I’d have to work. You’re a real slave driver, you know that?”

They settled into a rhythm, working side by side, their comfortable banter broken by the silence of the storm’s aftermath. They inspected her garden for damage while Jesse filled her in on town gossip—apparently, Mrs. Flowers had been caught in Mr. Jenkins’ house by Mr. Flowers. Uprooted mustard greens littered the ground as Adla pulled them up, but thankfully, the okra and sweet potatoes had weathered the storm. She just hoped the excess moisture wouldn’t lead to rot.

Moving on to the fishing nets and traps, they stumbled upon something concerning.

A mountain of fish heads littered the reeds where she usually set her traps, alongside crab shells stripped of their claws and backs. This wasn’t the typical damage—something worse lurked here, disturbingly messy and uncharacteristic of the area’s usual predators.

“What in the world?” Adla muttered, her heart racing as she scanned the ground for prints. “You think it was a gator?

“A gator wouldn’t leave pieces like this,” Jesse replied, his brow furrowing.

“Something else made this mess,” she finished, feeling her skin prickling as those unsettling feelings from earlier came rushing back. She described the strange prints and the shredded carcass she’d seen to Jesse, who listened closely, rubbing her shoulders to calm her down.

“You shouldn't be out here tonight, Addy. Why don’t you come stay with me?”

Apprehension settled in her gut about what the darkness might bring, but she couldn’t accept his offer. His grandmother’s old house might be just down the road, but it felt wrong to spend the night in another woman’s home—even if she had adored Adla.

Plus, sneaking around with Jesse where anyone could see was out of the question. She refused to give anyone the chance to stir up drama or question her independence. She couldn’t bear the thought of becoming the next Mrs. Flowers, her good name dragged through the mud for all who would listen.

“No one—and nothing—is going to run me out of my house,” she said, half to him, half to herself. This place was her sanctuary, the fruit of her struggles and her ancestors' labor. They had fought hard for this land, and she felt a fierce pride in maintaining it. Out in the wilderness, peace was something earned, not given. She would defend her home if it came to that.

“You don’t know what’s lurking out here, and you think it’s smart to be by yourself? That don’t make no sense, baby doll,” Jesse insisted, his usual persistence edged with urgency.

“Don't call me that. I’m not your ‘baby doll,’” she shot back, irritation flaring. She knew what was good for her better than anyone else ever could. Jesse had been testing her boundaries too much lately.

“I already told you—I’m staying. You should head out on out here before dark.”

“Don’t be like that—” he started, his voice smooth and sweet like molasses. Today, though, she wasn’t falling for it.

“Go on,” she said, stepping in close to block his path. “I’ll finish up and lock everything up tight, but I need you to leave now.”

Jesse met her eyes, noticing the resolve etched into her expression. Adla stood firm, arms crossed, one hip jutting out, her nose wrinkled just so. She had made up her mind, and he knew he’d already pushed her enough for one day.

“Alright, I’m on my way,” he agreed. “But you promise me you ain’t stepping outside tonight. Whatever you do, don’t go crossing that threshold.”

Adla frowned at his strange phrasing. “Why would I be out here? I ain’t foolish enough to roam around at night." His shoulders were knotted with tension. "What’s got you so riled up?”

“Just trust me on this,” he insisted, locking eyes with her, his expression serious. “You’ll be safe, no matter what, if you just stay inside tonight.”

Last she checked, danger didn’t give a damn about doors, windows, or any other barriers. But it was clear he wouldn’t leave until she agreed.

“Alright, fine,” she said, stretching out the words, “I’ll stay in tonight. Not like I was gonna be out and about anyway.”

“Good,” Jesse smiled, wrapping her up in his arms tight. “I’ll call you later, and you better pick up. If you don’t, I’ll be back, whether you want me to or not.” As he turned to leave, Adla couldn’t help but smile after him. Jesse could be a handful, but beneath his cool front, she knew he cared for her just as fiercely as she did for him. In the wild expanse of the Florida swamps, that bond meant everything.

He lingered in the driveway while she hurried to gather crab shells, tossing them into the compost bin—no sense letting them go to waste. He didn’t start his engine until she was safely inside with the door closed, waving goodbye from the street as she watched from the window.

After locking up, she sank into a well-deserved bubble bath, a sweet reward for a hard day’s work. The clawfoot tub, older than her but still in solid shape, had become a cherished fixture in her home. The bathroom, filled with the scent of incense and candles, wrapped around her like a familiar hug. After her father passed, her first goal had been to breathe life back into the old house, make it her own.

Reminders of him were everywhere—the doorframe where he marked her height on the first day of school, the cast-iron pans he used for dinner. But mostly, the house was hers now—weathered, yet undeniably new in its own way.

Her time in the city felt like a world away from the peace she found here. Juggling multiple jobs just to make ends meet, she was always surrounded by nosy neighbors and men who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. But the worst part was the stalker—a shadowy figure who slipped chilling notes under her apartment door. I know who you are. What you can do. It left her confused and drained, but she didn’t tuck tail and run back home until her father passed away.

The guilt of not being there at the end haunted her, so she kept busy. Her part-time job at the new bed-and-breakfast in town helped pay the bills, and on weekends, she sold her art—sculptures made from found objects—at a flea market a couple of towns over. Every spare moment was spent creating with her hands. Her life wasn’t glamorous, but the peace and was worth more than anything else.

“When You’re Young and in Love” by The Marvelettes played softly on the record player, one of her mother’s favorites. She couldn’t quite relate to the notion of being swept off her feet but it sounded good, romantic even. Her daddy had been left in pieces when her mama died, never even thinking about finding another. She yearned for a love that strong, but the idea also chilled her to the bone.

She had only a handful of pictures, but from those, Adla saw the resemblance. She inherited her father’s level-headed temperament, but her rich skin tone, flat nose, and wide, expressive eyes—all of that came from her mother. Those features made her feel close to the woman whose absence she felt deeply.

With a sigh, Adla rose from the cool water, wrapping a towel around her waist. Her earlier worries faded as she slathered on cocoa butter lotion and slipped into a floral-patterned cotton nightgown.

After her nighttime routine of checking the locks and lights, she settled in. The old wooden floors creaked softly underfoot—a comforting sound that added to the home’s charm.

Just as she was about to crawl into bed, faint sounds from outside caught her ear—rhythmic scraping and thumping carried on the wind. Strange noises weren’t rare out in the boonies, but this one sent a shiver down her spine. Something was different. She paused in the hallway, glancing toward the door.

A tug, almost physical, pulled her toward it, despite Jesse’s warnings. It was as if something—someone—was calling her, and the urge was too strong to ignore. 

The door creaked as she pushed it open. Through the screen, she squinted, trying to make sense of the dim shapes outside. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and in the cool moonlight, she saw it—something massive. A shadow loomed over the porch, too large to be any regular animal.

A knot twisted in her gut. It wasn’t a bobcat. This was more like a coyote—if coyotes were massive. No, this creature looked more like a wolf, except wolves didn’t roam Florida’s saltwater jungle.

Its amber eyes glowed like lanterns in the dark, locking onto hers with an intensity that left her feeling ice-cold. Jesse’s warnings echoed in her mind. Was this creature more than it seemed?

I know this fool ain’t lookin’ at me like I’m dinner. Adla squared her shoulders. “You don’t belong here,” she hollered, “Now, git! Get on outta here!”

The wolf growled low and deep, the frightening sound vibrating through the night air. It took a shaky step forward, and she noticed it was limping. A deep, ugly gash ran from its back down to its hind leg, blood darkening the wooden porch.

She didn’t move. Something about the creature—its pain, its presence—held her still. It was more than an injured beast. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt rooted to the spot.

A wave of instinct surged through her, a primal warning that clashed with her fear.

“Don’t you dare come any closer!” she warned, reaching for the shotgun above the door, her gaze locked on the approaching creature. She raised the gun, aiming through the screen, her finger on the trigger.

If it took just one more step forward—

The wolf paused at the door’s edge, held back by something unseen, something stronger than the flimsy screen. Her eyes flicked to the threshold, recalling Jesse’s cryptic words about things not crossing certain lines.

This was it. A choice. But Adla hesitated, her finger hovering over the trigger. She couldn’t pull it.

The wolf whined, collapsing in a heap at her feet, its strength giving out. Its amber eyes, still glowing, held no aggression—only a silent plea. The sight tugged at something deep inside her, stirring memories of her own struggles.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “Respect the creatures out here, just like you respect yourself. Life’s tough enough without us makin’ it harder on each other.”

Adla sighed, lowering the shotgun. The wolf’s blood was already drying on the porch. Tomorrow, she’d scrub it clean, but for tonight, she’d let the creature stay. She hoped it would make it through the night.

After triple-checking the locks, she placed the shotgun within arm’s reach and settled into bed, the creaking floorboards beneath her a familiar lullaby. Yet, the strange pull toward the wolf lingered in her mind. Maybe it wasn’t just an animal, but something deeper—a reflection of her own struggles, a sign from her father. Whatever it was, she’d reckon with it tomorrow. For now, she surrendered to sleep, trusting that both she and the wolf would survive the night.

Chapter Two.

@nayaesworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @sageispunk @megamindsecretlair @blowmymbackout @kindofaintrovert @avoidthings @zillasvilla @insidefeelingofanadult @theereina @slutsareteacherstoo @babybratzmaraj @senajaiaspeak @princessmakipala @writingsbytee @planetblaque @liquorlaughslove @judymfmoody @playgurlxoxo @theescorpiolovechile @keyaho @gg-trini i @vivaalenaa @li-da-savage @ash-ketchumzzz

[ghosthouseart]

Boston suburb

[image description: a watercolor painting with black pen outlines, of a residential street in Boston. The street is crisscrossed with tangles of telephone wires; it has a large boxy building on one side, houses and apartment buildings on the other, and a few cars parked along the pavement. a handful of birds fly overhead. /end i.d.]

[lyralit]

romanticizing academia writing prompts in honour of @lovelaceandco

cramming for your test the next day the night before: sheets and sheets of scrap paper, pacing around to get the ideas right, muttering to yourself and glancing between your notes and the presentation

writing the same notes over and over to get it in your brain

teachers that can quote poetry off the top of their heads & students who will sit around to listen

holed in your room for hours with impromptu music breaks and a hot drink going cold

academic rivals (because who doesn't love them) Anne-and-Gilbert-style:

"what did you get" and not hiding your grades when you did do better;

trading away the coveted position for a job you know they will do better at and you will love less & congratulating them for the awards they win and they you;

bringing them notes for a class they missed despite them being your competition

prioritizing your friendships.

school skirts in the dead of winter, cardigans buttoned loosely

having an idea in the middle of the night and getting up so it won't escape you again

going down research rabbit holes on topics much different from where you began

joining competitions that require studying for the sake of learning;

doing it all for the sake of learning

weeping over grades only to grit your teeth and promise to do better

sneaking in women in suits and powerful women here because academia is indispensable without them

burning energy in between-class exercise: sprinting down the hallways and climbing up the stairs to the old building; swim practice before and after school; chasing the wind out the doors as the final bell rings

getting swept away writing research papers on subjects you didn't know interested you; writing much more than you expected you would

finally understanding a subject that kept evading you; the click when everything finally fits into place

a braid falling out of place and smudged lipstick

the wide-eyed mania after emerging from a particularly grueling subject

jumping from club to fair to meeting

strings of code and students gathered around a singular laptop, muttering to themselves in hopes of finding their error

looking for a book in the library and finding a dozen that interest you

a dazed student stepping back from a chalkboard of illegible handwriting; triumphant with their answer

one student arriving early and working quietly in the commons; their classmates trickle in one by one, making small conversation, until the place is full and the sun is high in the sky

inside jokes in Latin from the ancient studies class you dropped two years ago

thick coats in the winter, jackets zipped tight while you run for cover in the snow with your precious work, ringed hands around warm mugs, cheeks flushed dark, snow on lashes

the golden rainbow of fall, the crimson trees on your way home, the traffic lights lit up through rainy windows, coffee and early mornings, chemistry trips to the ravine, catching the sunset after classes

spring flowers breaking through snow, baked goods and getting the hang of things, lazy spares in the common room, hoodies and boxy headphones, warm enough for the nice shoes, the soft patter of rain, the chirping birds

the last stretch before summer, unbuttoned collars, legs slung on furniture and frantic note-taking anywhere possible, eyes fluttering closed, chasing down the bus on the way home, rolled-up sleeves and tucked-back hair, "okay so".