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gimme-gimme-georgie-weasley · 2 years ago

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Flight of the Love Letters [G.W. x Muggle!Reader]

Summary: You spot a flying blue car in the sky, and the driver of the car, George, walks into your life by coincidence.

Word count: 3.36k

warnings: brief angst

a/n: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST THIS IS THE LONGEST ONESHOT I’VE WRITTEN YET I THINK I GOT TOO CARRIED AWAY but this is my apology for not writing for a day or two!!!!

It all started when you saw that blue flying car. You never imagined you’d find yourself buying an owl to send love letters to the driver of the flying blue car.

It was an ordinary day like no other. You wandered down the streets of London, decked in heavy layers of clothing as the temperature started to drop. It was peaceful, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Your eyes wandered around as you observed your surroundings. People-watching was always something you found yourself enjoying. Every stranger you saw on the street was an individual who housed their own stories, and that fascinated you. Examining the way they dress, tie their shoe laces, or the way the walk always had you guessing their character.

You found an empty bench by the road side and plopped yourself down on it with a huff, causing cold mist to come out of your mouth. You straightened out your brown coat before pulling something out of it-- a sketchbook. It was well-loved as tiny scratches and what-nots decorated its cover. The outlines of the pages were crumpled and stained with coffee. You fluttered it open to a fresh page before pulling out a graphite pencil from behind your ear. Tapping the page lightly, you pondered about what to sketch. Your eyes scanned your surroundings, in search of a possible subject. Suddenly, something caught your attention. It was a baby blue car, except it wasn’t on the road like how cars were supposed to be. Instead, it was in the sky. Your eyes widened in fascination. You saw a ginger-headed boy in its driver seat with hands on the steering wheel. You wondered what he could possibly be steering; after all, it was flying!

Without wasting another second, you glided your pencil over the page. You sketched the basic shapes; a rectangle and a couple of circles. By the time you looked back up, the flying car was no longer there. Defeated, you dropped your shoulders. It wasn’t every day where you’d see a car in the sky. You looked back at your half-drawn sketch of the car. Other than the missing details, it was missing another element. You furrowed your eyebrows, trying to figure out the missing piece of the puzzle. Then, it came to you.

The red-head in the driver’s seat.

A new glimmer of hope found its way to your eyes as you began to sketch the driver. You tried desperately to recall what he was wearing, given you couldn’t exactly see what he was wearing. You remembered seeing him wear a knitted sweater with what looked to be the letter ‘G’ embroidered in the center. By the time you finished sketching the red-headed driver, the drawing looked complete. To add the magical, finishing touches, you added clouds to frame the sketch of the car. It was complete. You added your signature, and jotted down the title of the sketch.

“The Boy in the Flying Car.”

Weeks had passed since that spectacle, and you found yourself seated on that same bench. As usual, you had your sketchbook in hand, pencil in the other, with a determined look on your face. You were sketching away, drawing thumb-sized portraits of people who walked past. Some were smudged due to the side of your hand constantly rubbing away at the graphite. You were deep in concentration, when you were suddenly pulled away from your trance by the presence of someone.

A tall, lanky figure loomed over you, his shadow casting itself on you. You looked up to be greeted by a friendly smile that seemed contagious. You found yourself smiling back at the boy. He had long, fiery locks of hair that fell around his face, like the portrait of a painting. He had freckles peppered around his face like the works of Jackson Pollock. Something about him screamed magic, mystery, rebellion. He seemed like he came from another world donning the appearance of a young teenage boy.

“May I sit here?” The boy asked, eyeing the empty spot next to you.

“Yeah, sure.” You quickly shifted, making space for the boy to sit.

He was dressed in orange khakis that fit loosely around his legs. His top caught your attention-- it looked familiar. It was green and had the letter ‘G’ on it. It looked hand-knitted with love, and something else. It screamed out to you, telling you it wasn’t just a pair of hands that knitted it. It screamed wonders, sparks of light, and magic. A silence fell over the two of you as the breeze brushed past your bodies. You were flipping through your sketchbook when you stopped on the page where you sketched that magnificent car. You froze when you noticed that the boy sitting next to you looked similar to the boy in the driver’s seat of the car. You slowly turned to him, in shock.

“Were you,” you paused, unsure of how to phrase your question without sounding like a mental hospital escapee, “driving a flying car a few weeks ago?”

The boy turned to you, his eyes widened in shock as well. His mouth was wide open, trying to find an answer to your question. You were just some random stranger he took interest in-- how could you possibly have known?!

“Well, yes, but--”

“That’s bloody wicked!” You shouted in uncontainable excitement.

His face melted between different emotions, ranging from surprise to exasperation. He was pleasantly surprised at your reaction. If any other muggleborn knew he was driving a car sky-high, they would’ve laughed and brushed it off as a joke. You, however, were genuinely interested, and that sparked something inside of him. He wanted to show you more of his world.

For the next few hours, he told you about his background. His name was George, George Weasley. He was a wizard. You surprisingly took in that information well, for you had a knack for the unexplainable. He went to a wizarding school and was currently on summer break, just like you. He was a year older than you, and had a twin brother named Fred. You were in awe at the facts about the wizarding world he was bestowing upon you. One fact had caught your attention. Wizards communicated through letters sent by owls. That was the moment you fell in love with the wizarding world, and much more.

The following weeks was spent talking to George on that same bench you’d meet up at the same time. You’d show him your sketches in exchange for more fascinating facts about the wizarding world. However, you also found a flurry of emotions whirling in the depths of your stomach each time you met him on that bench. George was a beautiful boy, you’ll admit. The way his face was framed by his luscious locks of hair captivated you. He was a finely sculpted figure. His smile lines were like intricate strokes of paint, and the way his smiled-- God, he was beautiful. He’d make a fine painting, you thought to yourself. You spent a few moments admiring his features as he babbled on about his favourite shop, Zonko’s. Before you knew it, you were sketching him. You captured the essence of his beauty accurately. Each stroke was drawn with passion. By the time he noticed you were no longer paying attention, he paused. He looked at you as you were deep in concentration. The sound of the pencil’s scritches pleased him, and so did the sight of you deeply focused. He smiled and allowed the silence to befall upon the two of you. You broke the silence after a few minutes of uninterrupted sketching with a question he was waiting for you to ask.

“Say, George,” you started, not once looking away from your sketchbook, “can muggles send letters?”

You found yourself in Diagon Alley, a place where wizards and witches alike did their shopping for the school year. George had led you to there to buy an owl to keep in touch with him. The thought excited you, and you were more than excited to keep a pet owl. George led you by the hand to Eeylops Owl Emporium, a shop where wizards bought owls and owl care necessities.

Upon entering the shop, your face lit up in excitement. A wide range of owls lined the store. Hoots and coos popped around the store as you ventured deep inside. Your eyes scanned the store as your smile never left your face. George followed after you, smiling at your child-like excitement.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” He placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Truly” You breathed out.

“Which one’ll you be buying, then?” He asked, curious.\

You stopped in your tracks, now thinking about the question. You looked around to take in the colourful selection of owls. One particular owl called out to you. It was tiny, and was adorned with ash-grey feathers. Its big, brown eyes stared at you, as if it were begging you to pick it up and shower it with love. Your heart melted as it hooted.

“That one.”

And so you walked out of Eeylops Owl Emporium with your newfound companion, a Scops owl, and George. You held its cage up to your face, admiring the beauty it held within it. The owl was now sound asleep, hooting quietly in its slumber.

“What’ll you name it?” George asked you with a hint of interest in his tone.

You looked around, in search of a possible name for it. Your eyes landed on George and felt your stomach tickle. You looked back at the owl, then back at George. A grin crept its way up to your face.

“I’ll name it George.”

It didn’t take you long before you started deploying George to send letters to George. You started off with short letters, telling the boy about how your day had gone. When Errol, George’s family’s owl, came, you were pleased to take the letter from its beak and read the contents within it. George’s handwriting was round, and big, matching his character perfectly.

However, as the weeks went by, an unshakable feeling started to eat away at you. Each letter you received from him made the feeling more and more apparent. You couldn’t ignore it, but you continued to repress it. There was one letter from George that took you by surprise. It read,

Dear Y/N,

How are you? Honestly, love. I miss you. When can I see you again?

The Burrow is getting boring, and summer break is about to end. Fred’s a git, Ginny’s boring, Ron’s annoying, and don’t even get me started on Percy. I want to see you again. I want to see your sketches. As much as I love seeing George the Owl at my window with a letter written by you, I’d rather much see you in person!

Can I see you again? Tomorrow? At the same bench we always meet up on?

Love,

George the Handsome

xoxo

You were laid on your stomach as you read the letter. George had slipped some magical sweets inside the envelope, and you were savouring every bite of them. The last line of the letter surprised you. He wanted to see you, just as much as you wanted to see him. However, something inside you was screaming at you not to. The same feeling that you dreaded loomed over you again as the knot in your stomach twisted. What the bloody hell were you feeling, exactly? You’ve experienced nothing like it.

You shot up from your body in a fit of worry as you grabbed a piece of parchment and a pen. You started scribbling your reply. Your handwriting was messy, which was unlike you.

Dear Georgie,

I don’t think we should see each other anymore.

Love,

Y/N

That should do it, right? All these uneasy and unexplainable feelings will finally go away once you stop seeing the boy, right? Your life will finally go back to normal; no more letters, no more owls, no more wizards. You’ll be back to your little muggle world, full of muggle people who weren’t George. No more George, no more twists and knots.

The next morning, George had received your letter.

“What the bloody hell?!” George bellowed out in shock, waking his older twin up.

“George, bloody hell, shut yer yapping! The sun’s barely risen!” Fred groaned as he threw a pillow at his younger brother, who was hunched over on his bed with a defeated expression on his face.

George spent the rest of his day grey and sullen. Ginny picked up on her older brother’s dispiritedness and poked him in the side, earning a small wince from him.

“What’s got you all down and blue?” She asked, looking up at George who had a frown resting on his face.

“Y/N doesn’t want to see me anymore.” He sighed out, resting his chin on his palm.

“Just go see her, then. It’s that simple.” Ginny said in a matter-of-fact tone. She rolled her eyes after realising her brother was being sulky over a girl.

George’s face lit up. Of course, it was that simple! All he had to do was walk up to you on that bench you’d be seated on, and confront you. Why didn’t he think of that?

“Oh Ginny, you genius!” George said, excitedly, as he was now determined to see you again.

Without wasting another second, he bolted upstairs to get changed out of his home clothes. He changed into something more presentable before rushing out of The Burrow, ignoring Molly shouting at him, asking where he was going. His legs ran as fast as they could. He was going to see you, he was sure of it.

There you were, on the bench. You were fiddling with an envelope in your hands. The night prior to this, you were up all night figuring out your feelings for the boy. Nobody in your life had made you feel queasy and on the verge of overheating. George was the first to make you feel such feelings. He was the first person to introduce you to the wizarding world, and the first person you were sure you had fallen in love with-- wait. You were in love.

YOU were in love.

That’s it. That was the answer to all those moments of unease. You were in love with George Weasley, from that moment he first sat next to you on that bench in the middle of London. You fell in love with the wizard who brought you into his magical world. Did he hex you? From the moment you realised you were in love, you scrambled to your feet to write out how you felt. You poured your heart, your soul, your everything into that piece of writing, and shoved it into an envelope.

You were brought back to the present as you noticed the sun was about to set. Fool. Why did you ever think George was going to see you again after that rushed, one-liner letter. You absolute fool. Your heart sunk as the lamp posts started to light up the streets. You shoved your letter into your pocket, tears now welling up in your eyes as they threatened to spill. You slowly stood up from the bench, sadness slowing your movements. He wasn’t going to see you anymore.

You slowly departed from the bench that held core memories between you and George. Tears were now streaming down your face as you wiped them away every few seconds. Good bye, George Weasley, you thought. Good bye-

“Y/N!” A voice reached out to you from the distance. It was a voice you knew all too well.

You spun around, hope in your heart, expecting George to be running towards you, and there he was. He was sprinting to you, not giving a single care about the eyes that judged him. He was there. George was there. He came to see you.

“Y/N, I missed you so much!” George cried out as he crashed into you, breathless as ever. He was quick to latch onto you, caging you in his tight embrace.

You stood there, dumbfounded, as the boy never once let go of you. The two of you stayed like that for what felt like forever, before you slowly returned the hug. It felt warm and nice. You had longed for this feeling for far too long. You cried into George’s shoulder, as you now had broken out into great sobs, your hands trembling around his waist.

George pulled you tighter into him, rubbing your back gently. He then led you to the bench, guiding you to sit down before he sat down. He pulled your head on to his shoulder as your sobs died down to mere sniffles.

“Why’d you write that letter?” George broke the silence. His deep eyes stared into yours.

“I just-- I’ve been,” you paused to catch your breath, “I’ve been feeling so out of it and--”

You stopped, remembering what was in your pocket. You were too tired to speak, and decided the letter would speak for you instead. It was risky, but you couldn’t give a care in the world anymore. You pulled the crumpled envelope out of your pocket and handed it to George. He eyed the envelope closely, with a questioning look. He looked at you, then back at the letter. He hesitated for a moment, but then found himself unhousing the letter from the confines of the envelope.

Dear Georgie,

I’m not sure when you’ll ever read this, but God forbid you read it in my presence or I might just drop dead.

I don’t know when this started. It all started off as a spark. It was harmless. Then, it turned into a small flame. I suppose the letters we exchanged, or perhaps that trip to Diagon Alley, fanned the flame. With each passing week, I found myself yearning for you. I was so lost, so confused. I thought you were really beautiful, and wanted to encapsulate your beauty within my sketchbook; to keep that memory for myself. I then started to realise I wanted you all for myself as you wrote those letters to me. Soon, I started to spiral. It was inappropriate for me to house such feelings for my bestfriend.

George. I’m in love with you.

You were my first friend, my first wizard friend, my first love.

I thought that distancing myself from you physically would rid me of these feelings, but I was wrong.

I’m mad for you, George Weasley, and I’m going mad just thinking about you.

Please, don’t leave me.

Upon reading the last line of the love letter, George’s heart fell. Were you hurting all this while, while hiding behind your beautiful, cursive handwriting? He looked up from the letter to you, who was looking at him expectantly. George took your hand in his and kissed it.

“Y/N,” George started as his hands move their way up to your face, “I love you too,”

In that moment, passion overcame the two of you. You smiled in relief-- like a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders. Your hands cupped his face, pulling him closer to you. Your lips grazed each other’s.

“I’m so happy.” You whispered into his lips.

George tilted his head, his eyes not breaking contact with yours while they were half-lidded. His hands interlaced with your hair and pulled your lips closer to his. Sparks. Absolute sparks. You closed your eyes, melting into the moment of bliss. The world was yours and George’s for a split second. Soon, your hands were entangled in his hair, massaging his scalp. His scent of vanilla and nutmeg sent you into overdrive, emboldening you to deepen the passion of the kiss. However, you forgot that breathing was essential. Soon, the two of you pulled away from each other as you gasped for air. The both of you were flushed. After all, that was your first kiss. You made sure to add that to your list of your firsts with George.

“Love,” George looked into your eyes, “I’m not going anywhere.”

[GIFs not by me]

#george wealsey x reader #george weasley #george wealsey imagine #george weasley oneshot #george weasley fluff #harry potter #harry potter oneshot #harry potter imagine

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withoneheadlight · 3 years ago

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| billy & will + pre-harringrove | full fic in spanish |

There’s an in-between. The high school and the middle school. A bare piece of land, yellowed from the lack of grass and the rough kiss of the sun and, right in the middle, an old shack.

It's a shabby thing that accumulates lack of re-paintings and excess of humidity but that’s out of sight, in that way of things that are just there but no one wastes time looking at anymore are.

That's where they meet.

Billy lights up a smoke. Slides his ass up an ancient, long retired desk, pasture now of the damp and rot, and leans against the peeling wood. Front and back-row seat to the long column of trees the wind’s rippling along on the other side of the wire fence. The ember warms up his lips as he inhales a deep puff and exhales a,

“You’re getting soft, Billy Hargrove”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, ears on that ceaseless chirping of the bids that sews together the slow-passing hours of the days and nights of Indiana, and on the delighted screams from the middle-schoolers, remembering that, somewhere in there, there's a bunch of kids who will still be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. That maybe even Max could be one of them, if Billy hurries. That maybe he will too, if Billy is able to control that instinctive reaction that pulls his skin inward and screams at him to stopstopstop, that the soft skin shreds, falls apart so easily.

But maybe it can be both of them, if Billy manages to clench his teeth hard enough and keep on softening.

‘Cause soft skin hurts when it breaks but,

"Hey!"

Sometimes it’s worth it.

Will’s smiling wide. Stops running, abruptly, and then just stands in there, panting. He’s got a funny nose and giant eyes. The kind of bangs that make you wanna blow them out of his eyes even though what they're is too short, actually, and Billy’s always thought he'd do better in life if he didn't. Notice things. If he didn't see that widewidewidewide smile and could read it so easily.

"I've been dying to show you this!" Will kneels down into the grass, chopping out the words in between exhalations. Pulls at the zipper of his backpack, chest heaving, and he doesn't realize he's going to get dirt on the knees of his jeans or that Billy can read it. His relief. Of finding him in here and not just an empty desk. Of how for a kid every single day more means 'You care’.

(About me)

It was early December. Friday right after last period and one of those silly things that only happen in movies. Something so like scripted and choreographed that Billy nearly considered looking up at the ceiling to make sure John Hughes wasn't silently watching them, taking notes from above. They crashed in the middle of a corner. Billy sped up ‘cause he was in a hurry and the only way to catch Max in time lately was to intercept her right out of class. Will ‘cause he's always going like that, Billy knows now. Always a thousand miles per hour. Always verging on time-jump speed to then being the kind of kid who seems so quiet it's scary. They crashed. Hard. In the middle of that corner. Papers flying all over and a curse (Will) and a muffled groan (Billy) and they ended up pulling at the same paper one from each corner. A drawing. Trolls and wizards and a castle and an emerald-green light. A star in the distance, auguring bad omens. Billy forgot to be frightening and Will must have forgotten he was supposed to be frightened when he blurted out a,

"Fuck, Byers. This is frikin’ fantastic."

No fear or reticence or that way he sometimes has of bumping into words and stumbling, just a "Really?" eyes huge and bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he blinked when Billy also forgot he was also supposed to― well, supposed to be Billy Hargrove.

"’Got more?"

So now he skips English instead of Algebra, every Tuesday and Thursday. Sneaks off to that in-between place he knows no one wastes time looking at anymore to light up a smoke, same time as Will has his recess. And the kid doesn't always manage to shrug off of his flock of nerds but he’s lucky, some days.

And he brings the drawings.

Orcs and goblins and enchanted mountains on the northwest and it seems to Billy that there are more princes than princesses and that if there are any, they’re almost always sorceresses, almost always queens and that your attention gets hooked on their burning eyes, not in the clothes they’re missing and Billy feels like it's a small grain of sand, this thing they’re doing. Knows that someone’s already keeping a solid ground under Will's feet ('Joyce' he says it’s her name. And it stings, the way he manages to fit so much love, into such a tiny word). But it also seems to him that maybe it doesn't take much more, for Will, just a few grains of sand, to replace those that being a strange kid in a small town sick with apprehension for what it finds strange, takes every day away from him.

So Billy’s gotta have to clench his teeth ‘till his gums start bleeding ‘cause is that, or let his skin toughen up again. Is that. Or fucking everything up.

And ave María, Billy doesn’t want to fuck it all up again.

So he sucks on his cigarette. Hooks up an eyebrow. Waves his hand to hurry the kid up.

“Mmm. That’s how good you think it is, dickwad? ‘C’mon, got my next class in twenty”

Will flies over the papers. Head nodding and fingers skimming fast. Finds what he’s looking for and yanks it out, raises it up triumphantly in his hand. It’s the sword in the stone and he carries it up to Billy with wet knees and just a little mud-staining. It’s February and the sun’s burning brightly over all the wetness the night’s spent crying. The drawing is a huge dragon, wings made of leather and cartilage, spread out in eclipse in front of the moon, only a few silver rays illuminating the dark knight in front of it. Blue eyes lined in black, blond curls cascading down his back and Billy was clenching his teeth but they part now, ‘cause the figure looks too much like him to be a coincidence. A smile devours his whole mouth. Soft. A joke itching on the tip of his tongue. He grunts a,

“I’ve been called many things. But never this, Byers”

Only half his expression’s visible, eyebrows covered with those thick bangs, and Billy has to once again fight the impulse to blow them out.

“¿Hum?”

“Knight” he says, drawling the teasing tone out “In shining armor”

And It’s such a loss, all that hair. Because it’d pass unseen, if you don’t know him. The way his eyebrows spike up underneath and it burrows in between them, the eagerness of teasing back. But Billy’s lucky, ‘cause it’s been more than two months like this and Billy―

Knows him. Well enough at least. So it doesn't pass unseen to him.

“You know the drill, William. Spit it out. Can see you’re holding it up from miles”

Will purses his lips out tight. Looks like he’s trying but. Nah.

“Wouldn’t be that shiny '' scrunches his nose. Throws a meaningful glance at Billy’s disheveled looks. More thoughtful than not, way more intentional. But that's something he'll figure out when he grows up.

Billy cackles. Will's smile widens, satisfied. Hops onto the desk next to his. Billy offers him the cigarette.

“And―this?” Will shrugs inwardly. Glances up at him. Then down, at the exchange between their hands. Takes the cig in between two fingers and it doesn’t burn but he barely presses them against the filter, anyway, as if he’s afraid it would, all of a sudden.

"Retaliation," Billy half grunts, half laughs, and Will huffs, but swallows a deep breath to gather strength. Exhales. Takes a tiny puff and―

"Argg," coughscoughscoughs "This is. Ugh. It's awful. I don't know how you―” almost throws the cigarette back to him "Ufff, what a―" he hesitates "Yuck"

Billy snorts. Thinks about Max inhaling deep, no more than two weeks ago, eyes pining his in place. Breaking into a violent cough only a second later.

Billy pats Will’s back too.

“That’s good” he says “You better not like it” Will scrunches his whole face “And this too” Billy adds, shaking the drawing a little “This is good, too. Amazingly good, man”

Will. Stares. At him. One. Two. Three long seconds. And Billy hurts a little. With every single one. Three sharp stabs with that newly freed sword. A different kind of ' you care' each one: 'it seems so impossible to me (that you care)'. 'If you think so, maybe it's true (and I do care, that you think it)’. 'Thank you (for caring)'. And then. Those hidden eyebrows. Will’s cheeks puffing out a little when he bites the tip of his tongue and―

"Billy?" his eyes glint, heavy with ill-contained malice.

"Uh?"

"You're the dragon"

"You fucking ass―!"

Billy shoves him sideways. But Will just sways. He doesn't lose footing on that firm ground he’s standing on. Looks back at the drawing, hunches a shoulder up.

"But you’re the knight, too"

He says it in a tone that cuts straight through Billy’s chest Thank you he thinks, even though his soft skin is hurting. And he still doesn't blow hard on that bowl fringe from where it covers Will’s whole forehead but―

Stirs up all his hair instead.

“Eh!!”

“Hey, shitbird. Wanna see the one I’ve made?”

Will nods quickly. All contained-speed and reverberating and sometimes Billy doesn't know how so few people can see it, how big he is for his own skin and he thinks I wish, wish he'd accumulate enough grains of sand to raise up that firm ground under his feet, and get really, really high.

“Sure!”

He keeps it tucked away in the breast pocket of his jacket. Folded in upon itself. Same way he keeps everything else. Folds and layers and at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks at but.

He unfolds it to show it to Will Byers.

“Wow” Will says, and smiles up at Billy like Two months since we crashed against each other and I feel like I know you a little too, Billy Hargrove and Billy hit rock bottom but now at least Max and him sing AC/DC in chorus on the rides back home and Will's voice sounds like 'You're good' as he runs his fingertips over the graphite outlines of the skull and repeats, "Wow"

“Gonna have it done” Billy inhales a deep drag of Marlboro and 'Four Months to Eighteen' and for a moment it’s like he could feel the smoke curl up inside his lungs before blowing it out. The image is as pretty as it’s stupid. He glances at the open jaw of the drawing and thinks maybe he'd like a drag too "Have it healed for summer and―"

“What’s happening here?”

Steve.

Harrington.

Hand on his hips, preppy pastel polo lapels up, Ray-Bans holding up that way his hair swirls without really taming it. The twelve o'clock sun is shining sideways from his back and he's pretty. Painfully pretty. And Billy’s sure it's impossible that this redneck raised on corn and money amassed in dubious moral business is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen but sometimes he forgets. That it is impossible because. Fuck. It so seems like it. Light flicking on the ends of his hair where it curls. Under his ear. In the long curve of his neck. And the world doesn't halt and the birds don't stop chirping and the clouds don't part and no preternatural shit happens because this is the black hole where all the world's shit goes, Indiana. But. It so seems like it and,

Billy.

Knew how to breathe but that’s another thing he keeps on forgetting. Every time Steve Harrington passes him by.

He’s gotta force himself. To nod. To stop choking. When Will looks up at him with those big eyes. Questioning.

Apologizing.

Billy Hargrove, from freshly crowned local terror to―

“I was―” Will starts. Inhales. Presses his lips together right before blurting out the truth ‘cause he knows it's the only real way out "Showing Billy my drawings. Sometimes we―"

―the softie whose pride goes high up in his throat every time an eleven-year-old kid says 'Billy, this is good. It's very. Very good, Billy’.

"Sometimes we. Uhm. We―"

Will's already huge eyes get bigger, rounder. As if he’s just realizing that where he's stuck his foot keeps getting muddier, trapping himself all the way in. And Billy smiles lightly at him, sideways, so it’s hidden. From Steve Harrington. From all the world beyond. ‘Cause of that thing about facades and how hard they’re to maintain, when on one side is pressing what you're supposed to be and on the other, relentlessly, what you're hiding.

But Steve’s asking,

“Sometimes―what?” and Will’s eyes are fixed on Billy, two wide-open I’m sorrys and Billy thinks Fuck it, Hargrove. C’mon. Stop hiding.

So he’s the one who says,

“We share our drawings, Harrington”

And Steve.

He’s got those eyes.

They're like a troubled ocean in the heart of winter, those eyes. Hard, hard, hard. Imposing. But soft. So fucking soft. When something catches him off guard. Rolling stones in the breaker. And Billy wants to get swept up in them, like falling along the curve of a wave. Steve looks at him, and at the drawing in his hand, his eyes a swirl and, when he looks up, the calm. And Billy feels as those times when it seemed to him the waves wanted. To wrap around him. To catch him. Soft as the reflecting clouds. And Billy feels as those times when he’d let them. Carry him. Drag him to the shore. Safe and sound.

“Is that yours?” Steve frowns. When he does that. He looks the prettiest. And Billy's heart breaks. In tiny tiny pieces. Thinks This is what it takes, thinks Fuck, thinks, This is how things hurt when you let your skin get soft.

What you don’t have. What you want. What you could―

Fuck.

What you could love so bad you'd rip your own skin off, so they could touch your heart right with their own hands.

Billy nods. Will smiles. Steve’s frown softens and― waveswaveswaves. On an autumn morning. Waves lapping at the surface of an ocean of calm.

And now. Billy sings AC/DC with Max. His heart taking on water when his voice falls off-key and she clutches at her lungs, choking on laughter. Now, he sits in the back of an old shack halfway between who he is and who he should be and so, so very carefully turns at the pages of Will Byers' sketchbook.

And Billy Hargrove hit rock bottom one day in late October. Hit rock bottom and beat into pulp that pretty face he can't stop seeing in his dream. When he's asleep. When he's awake. Hit rock bottom and that's where he's going to stay. It's either that. Or risk coming up to the wrong surface. And it's easier, here at the bottom. Easier to see what matters, when you look up.

Here, Billy takes a breath. Deep. Deeper. Holds onto that air so he has something keeping him alive underwater when Steve snatches the drawing off his hands. Studies it carefully. Says,

"It's―Uhm. Well―" Grins "It's not. Beautiful. Like, conventionally." He eyes cut back to Billy and something in them breaks into whitewater, into that softness he can't help, as if everything else is as much of a lie as 'Billy Hargrove' and all those imaginary walls "But―"

He says ‘But’ and then. The bell goes off.

"Oh!" Will bounces on the spot "I have to―" he yanks the backpack shut "Class!"

He takes off. Running. Turning around right before the corner of the shack to wave at them, flashing one of those smiles Billy has involuntarily categorized as 'the good ones', wide and already almost panting again, before disappearing at the speed of light towards school and to, Billy hopes, be one of those few kids who are still going to be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. If they’re lucky.

(If Billy’s lucky)

Steve Harrington is still there, planted in front of him when the alarm stops.

"Can I bump one of those?" he asks, chin pointing to the smoke Billy's squeezing between his fingers. In the drift of his hair the Ray-Bans stay afloat, capsizing.

Billy bangs the base of the pack against his thigh, pops out a cigarette. Offers it to him. Scrapes his thumb along the wheel when Steve takes it to his lips, leaning forward and― It's broad daylight but in the thin glow of the flame it almost feels like it’s that exact instant when the world begins to fade, darkness turning wide-open spaces into narrow little universes: Steve Harrington and his red lips around the smoke and a small ache in the pad of Billy's thumb from keeping alive the fire and from wanting things with a bigger kind of ache, his heart cauterizing from holding inside the rage of knowing he's never, ever going to have them but―

"But?" Billy asks.

Steve grabs his wrist. Hollows out his cheeks. Inhales deep. Takes him a moment when he pulls away. To let go. Long enough that his fingers could read the way Billy's pulse is raging in his wrist, if he wanted to.

“But” And he’s smiling. Lopsided. He slips into Will's seat and stretches his neck toward the sky. Prolongs the wait. Exhales. "It's cute."

And then his gaze cuts down and he’s searching for him, with those eyes of his. For Billy, who can never stop looking at him so, when he finds him, finds him looking back already.

And Billy―

Billy.

"Cute?"

Billy. Blinks. His hand stops halfway from getting his own cigarette to his mouth. Stops his heart and it feels like time’s stopping too, in this narrowness Steve's presence has reduced the moment into. And he’s smiling big now. His eyes soft. Soft. So fucking soft. And Billy thinks,

You're getting soft too, Billy Hargrove. You want to let him shred off your skin, when Steve says,

"You," snorting a soft laugh, sun melting in his eyes like honey "With Will. Drawing."

Billy wants him to never stop looking at him like that. Wants to lean in, and kiss him.

"Shut up and smoke your fucking cigarette, Harrington" he growls.

And Steve rolls his eyes in a way that screams 'Gotcha, Hargrove', but leans his back against the peeling wood of the shack.

And does as he’s told.

(Next Tuesday, it's not just Will who shows up, when the bell starts ringing)

i just finished translating this and, since i had originally written this part as and stand-alone thing. here it is. idk if it's worth the work of translating it whole, or if i really feel like it but, we'll see!. i've been at war with life and writing this past few weeks but i've been missing you so much, fandom <3<3<3. hope you've been doing well.

also billy + will + drawing is one of my fav hcs and there are a few tiny things more that i wanna write? hopefully i will 🌟

#harringrove #billy hargrove #will byers #steve harrington #stranger things #billy x steve #steve x billy #billy & will #xharringrove

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beinmybonnet · 4 years ago

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hmmm ok, joe/nicky "colour"

(classic seeing colour soulmates au BECAUSE ALL THE TROPES FEEL NEW WHEN YOU’VE GOT IMMORTALS)

- you see the world in black and white until the day you touch your soulmate. when they die, you lose the colour they brought to your life -

“Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Nile comes up on Joe’s right shoulder, mug of tea cupped between her palms.

“Thank you.” He shuffles over so she can sit beside him on the bench, moving aside his paints. She’s studying his work intently.

“The shades here are perfect,” she tells him, eyes darting between the painting and the view before them, “it’s like the shadows are lifting off the canvas. What colours have you used?”

Joe’s smile is wide, and he flips his paintbrush to gesture with the end. “Here, whites and greys for the houses at the bottom of the hill. Here,” he points the handle higher, “yellows with pink, and then some red here, just as the sun rose.”

“So, that would be orange right here? Pale though?” she points at the right splash of colour and Joe turns, brow lifting in surprise. “Art History with a focus on colour differentials,” she says proudly. “My professor said I had the best monochromatic eye he’d ever seen.”

Joe promptly slides the paints across the bench and picks his spare canvas up off the grass. “Join me?”

“Really?” Nile grins, bright and eager as he hands her a brush. She hovers over the paints for a moment, chewing her lip between her teeth. Her eyes rove determinedly over the unlabelled paints and the sky, before she plucks up a purple pot. Joe has to resist the urge to wrap his arm round her shoulders.

Back when Joe had first leaned to draw, colour had meant nothing to him. He’d had chalks and charcoals as a child and had lost hours to sweeping strokes across paving stones. He’d learned to differentiate between subtle shadows and muted tones, blending new greys between his fingertips to smudge over his clothing.

Black, white and the thousand shades between them were comfortable and sure. Colour was just, unnecessary. As he grew, he was gifted graphite and dark inks and a roll of rough parchment was always tucked against his hip. He could recreate everything his eye could see and his mind could form with the two fundamentals in his hands. All his most treasured early memories remain this way; his mother’s shining ebony hair, the smoky shade of her skin. The bright white of his father’s teeth as he spun her around in front of their home.

But there’s still no denying that colour changed everything. Colour that had come into his world with all the subtlety of the man at its source. Suddenly his life had burst into bold tints and fierce hues; endless possibilities for him to explore with paints and oils and pastels. Nine hundred years to experiment with the vibrancy of the world around him.

He and Nile reach for the blue together and smile.

Nicky’s got his eye pressed tight to his scope when everything fades.

He’s dialling left, settling his weight into his hips and then a curtain of heavy grey drops across his view. He rears back rubbing at his eyes, trying to force the colours back.

“Shit… just- Book, hold up!” Andy’s voice crackles out of the earpiece Nicky’s placed on the rooftop beside him. He scrambles to jam it back in.

“Andy-”

“Take the shot Nicky.” There’s shouting coming from below and Andy is swearing vehemently. “I’ve got him, just take the shot!”

He lurches back into position trying to clear his mind. It’s all wrong though, the shadows too dark and his depth perception is ruined -he’ll have to start all over. The dilution of his vision is making his heart thump erratically, and he has to count breaths in his head to keep himself still enough to reline up the shot.

Seconds later, the target steps out of the blackness and Nicky fires. The bullet cracks off the window frame, striking home at a cruel angle. He swears under his breath; it wasn’t clean, but he doesn’t care – the job’s done. He just needs to find Joe.

He takes the stairs at a speed that leaves his knees numb. At the extraction point, the van is already moving away as the door slides open. Nicky hurls his gear in and leaps after it. He gets the briefest glimpse of eyes too dark, and thick pewter stains across a torso before the door is slammed shut and he’s hauling Joe into his arms. They collide with a thump and Nicky quickly tucks his face against the grey skin of Joe’s neck with his eyes clenched shut. A hand burrows under the edge of his tactical gear until he feels the warmth at the small of his back.

Nicky pulls back to open his eyes and relief has him sagging further into the arms around him. Warm tawny skin shines against the dark khaki of Joe’s vest. He drags his mouth up the rich line of his throat, reluctant to break contact.

“Sorry.” Joe’s expression is chagrined when he lifts his head. “Got pinned down.”

There’s a smear of blood at the corner of Joe’s mouth, the newly crimson stain brash and mocking. Nicky rubs at it with a gloved thumb until the skin is clean and then presses his mouth gratefully to his favourite colour.

“A lilac ribbon in her hair. First colour I ever saw.”

The slight waver in his voice makes Nile wonder if she’s over-stepped again, if she’s put her foot in some unknown no-go zone and she opens her mouth to apologise. But Booker’s smiling, and that in itself is rare enough that Nile waits.

“It happened in a crowd. Must have been a hundred people in the square, easily…” his smile is widening. “God, it would have been so easy to have missed her. Soldiers were separating people, everyone was running and pushing and we just… brushed hands.”

Booker lifts his hand from his lap and turns it over slowly. “The back of her hand touched mine as she ran past. That was all.” He touches that spot, a glance of his finger. “I looked back, and her ribbon was lilac. But it was so busy, I lost sight of her in the rush.”

“But you found her again?” Nile has her head propped on her hands, trying not to sound too eager. Booker laughs gruffly.

“She found me. Came back for me.” He’s gripping his own hand tightly now, nails biting at the skin. “Lilac ribbon, hair like honey. Everything else came after that.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Booker looks up at her properly, and Nile’s acutely aware that whilst now they see the world in the same shades, it wasn’t always that way.

His voice is soft. “She was.”

Joe barely has time to shout before his world is plunged back into negatives, colour leaching from his vision. He’s scrambling, sliding in the pool of viscous grey he knows is blood as it spreads around Nicky’s skull.

He moves to cup Nicky’s face and can’t bear it. The sharp edge of his cheekbone throws dark shadows over his too pale face. Flecks and streaks of black over his skin; blood or dust or ash, Joe can’t tell anymore and the panic is rising in his throat. He can’t look at Nicky’s colourless eyes – he can’t- he’ll carry the sight with him too long.

He tears his head away, his own eyes clenched shut – but before he has time to pray, to plead, Nicky is gasping beneath him. The breath Joe releases is sticky and harsh, and he’s curling forward in his relief. Their hands collide quickly against each other’s forearms in an instinctive, accustomed clasp, and colours start seeping back immediately. The first to return are the shades of blue; bright aegean tones bursting in Nicky’s wide eyes, chased into existence by familiar notes of green. The weight lifts off Joe’s chest and for a moment he just breathes, air that tastes sweet and smooth as his other senses adjust to the disruption.

Then Nicky’s rolling. “Let’s go, Andy.”

They’re stood close enough to see the tremble in Andy’s arm as she reaches for Quynh’s face for the first time in over four hundred years.

Joe is frozen at his side, and Nicky’s breath is jammed somewhere in the base of his throat. He can’t believe this is actually happening.

Andy’s hand falters just shy of Quynh’s cheek with a ragged sound, fingers hovering. She opens her mouth to speak but Quynh reaches up and clamps the hand desperately to her face with her own. They shudder so violently Nicky wonders for a moment if the ground has physically quaked.

He knows the sensation well; that fierce swoop in the stomach. Like he’s stepped into free fall as the world saturates around him at Joe’s first touch. When they can reach each other quickly after a death, colour comes back in slow, precious increments; the shining browns of Joe’s eyes, or the dusky pink that rises in the shell of his ear. The longest they’ve gone after a death was four days. Four days in an east Indian jungle trapped in wet, translucent tones of black and white, the frustration building until he’d screamed at the sky. When he’d finally gotten his hands on Joe, grasping desperately at his bared shoulders, colour returning was an immediate detonation that had left his whole body throbbing for hours.

Nicky can’t even begin to imagine what Andy and Quynh feel in this moment.

They go down as one, limbs folding together as they collapse into the dirt. Clutching at each other as their worlds transform. Quynh has Andy’s face trapped between her own palms now and is sobbing, laughing, trying to pull her closer. Andy’s tears are silent, but steady. Her eyes flitting over Quynh’s face in awe while she runs trembling fingertips over rosy cheeks she can see.

Joe is squeezing his hand so tightly his fingers have gone numb, but the rush of joy in Nicky’s chest is golden and fierce. To stop himself moving forwards to pull Quynh into his own arms, he steps behind Joe and tugs him back, arms looping firmly around his middle.

“See? We are meant to find each other,” he whispers. Joe chuckles wetly against him.

On the ground, Quynh is smiling through her tears. “You’re beautiful Andromache,”

Andy hums hoarsely and runs her hands over Quynh’s arms, coming up to cradle her collar through the thick fabric of her coat. Her fingers rub at the material and Nicky knows the scarlet shade must be iridescent to her eyes. Andy lifts a thumb to Quynh’s lower lip.

“Red always was your colour.”

adriana i’m so sorry this took so long. i physically couldn’t stop it getting longer and longer and then i got really stuck and it was a whole mess.

#the old guard #the old guard fic #joe x nicky #andy x quynh #soulmates au #userkayla #usermarwan #usercacau #tuserceleste #userbones #userlyde #usershan #tusermj #idk what happened here #can't write 5 sentences like a normal person #mine #prompt

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cockasinthebird · 4 years ago

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okay!!!! so!!! i guess it’s kind of a prompt, but like steve goes to an art college thing. and he’s suuuper talented, one of the best in his class. and the prof. says that they have a guest to come in for some modelling. and steve is super excite ‘cause he loves doing projects like this. and then the model comes in, covered in a bathrobe, it’s billy. he goes to sit on the stool at the front. drops the robe, he’s completely nude. looks steve directly in the eye and winks! just an idea i had! -🎨

Dear anon, !!!!!!! This took SO LONG, but then again I was flagged and unavailable for like two weeks, and I did not write at all in that time, but as I woke up today to find myself back to normal, I quickly finished what was left, and now 11 pages long, I will post some of it here, then link the rest on my AO3!

My mind went off on this, and I hope it’s as good as I believe, especially what with all the teasing I’ve been doing!

Now, enjoy~

An arts scholarship is not something everyone can brag about, well, almost everyone, or so Steve thought when he got approved for one after his high school teacher encouraged him to apply.

He’s not dumb, or unintelligent, as most people around him will say - the words on the pages just don’t connect right, as if he can’t see what any other person might perceive, and it is reflected on his grades. Math is… fine, the only issue there is a general unwillingness to learn, because rather than doing algebra and figuring out trigonometry, Steve’s talents lie in the stroke of a brush, in the graphite of a pencil, in the black of charcoal.

His mother always encouraged him with a loving hand and a wondrous appreciation for every single little drawing Steve came up with as a child, fueling this intense fire inside of him that only felt relief against paper or canvas. She showered him in materials; endless chalk, a rainbow of watercolors, acrylics, oil pastels, pencils in all shapes and hues, stacks of papers, piles of canvas, even let him paint the walls of his bedroom as far as he could reach.

His father… simply stood and scowled in the doorway. He’s old fashioned, wanted an heir to the Harrington Construction Empire his own father built, not some… artistic little fairy. Steve stopped counting how many of his parents' fights were about him years ago.

And now he’s here, in California, attending college of all things, surrounded by students who, just like him, have devoted their entire lives to the arts. He feels less special, less talented, amongst his peers, where it seems that a third of them have arrived on scholarships, too.

But his teacher, Mr Reynolds, an old man with a long goatee and suspenders, always assures Steve that he is, without a doubt, the star of the class. That he will go far in his life, become world renowned, famous for his works, that in the future art classes will teach about his techniques and colors and soul.

Steve likes to believe it; spends his spare time thinking about what painting of his would be displayed in museums, what the critics will say, what he will wear to the reveal party, what his speech will sound like.

All those thoughts course through his overactive mind whenever he looks at a blank surface, just waiting, begging to be filled with his inspired soul. Perhaps he’s a bit too immodest and vain and arrogant, but he doesn’t really put up a fight against those ideals; never bothered trying to be humble about what is so obvious to any eye, and when every teacher has never offered up anything besides praise, is he to believe they’re all liars?

He looks around at his classmates as they set up in the arranged circle surrounding a single stool in the middle. They all smile at him, greetings exchanged as always, the friendliness of people who you’ve had a few beers with, attended some parties and gatherings together, but never really gotten to know past the surface.

Steve’s just not as social as he used to be, and moving halfway across the country didn’t really help that either. Something changed in him during the last year of high school, but honestly he can’t complain. He goes whenever invited, otherwise he keeps to himself, focuses on his studies, does his homework, a scholarship can only get you so far, and if his grades dip too low, it’s bye bye future.

“All on time for once! Impressive!” Reynolds says with a cheery tone, clasping his hands together with a wide smile as he moves to the center of the classroom. “For today’s live figure drawing practice, we’ll continue working with models and volunteers from all parts of life, and today I’ve managed to convince a hard working, blue collar of a man! William Hargrove, you may take the stage!”

Everyone turns to the stained room divider over in a solitude corner, the usual spot where their models change in and out of clothes and robes, and from behind steps a man dressed in a dark gray bathrobe, adorned with the most gorgeous crown of golden curls, his stubble is scruffy with a more accentuated mustache, and his eyes are of the clearest blue waters Steve has ever seen before.

His breathing pauses for just a moment as he stares at the broad shouldered stranger, caught in a trance - a willing subject to be ensnared by this man’s confidence, walking like he owns the room. Steve doesn’t even realise that he’s staring till he’s met with those heavenly eyes.

Who then winks at him, grin mischievous and aware of what thoughts surge forth in his presence.

Steve’s heart beats like a drum, ramming against his ribs, a heated flush rushing up to tint his ears red, spilling into his cheeks. He can’t help but whip his head back towards his easel with a stare that could burn a hole in the pages before him, restraining himself from gawking further, trying to calm down some.

It’s not that he hasn’t paid attention to other guys in the past, it’s just that he hasn’t cared for that kind of stuff before. Even when he was dating Nancy back in high school he didn’t care enough. But now? This guy? This man?

Nothing more than one simple, flirty look, and Steve’s interest tiptoes over the line of professional into personal, dipping in, testing the waters there.

And when he reaches the middle of the circle, everyone here far too interested in seeing what he’s hiding beneath the robe, he slowly slips it off, clearly revelling in all the attention if the smile he carries is any indication.

Unfortunately, much to Steve’s inconvenience, this William Hargrove is ripped. Jaw strong like a cliffside, biceps akin to perfectly carved marble, formidable pecs covered in chest hair lush like a forest that spreads down abs like rolling hills, Steve’s eyes travels smooth like a stream across the landscape of William’s body, down to his-

He refocuses on the easel in front of him, invitingly barren and pleading for him to ruin the stillness with his own inappropriate curiosity.

“Thank you once again for agreeing to this, Mister Hargrove. You may use this stool here to pose with, or without, it is entirely up to whatever you’re most comfortable with,” Reynolds explains, unhooking a thumb from where he fiddles with his suspenders to accept the robe that William has removed.

“Yes sir,” sounds the response, his voice husky and charming, throaty from years of use.

It tugs further at Steve’s intrigue, oh to hear him laugh, read a book aloud, sing along to whatever reckless music he listens to, probably rock or something abrasive. Steve’s wild imagination goes through it all in the matter of seconds, just to be pulled back when his teacher speaks again,

“We’ll be taking things a bit slow today, six poses with 10 minutes each, let you all get a good feel for Mr Hargrove’s body, really focus and pay attention to how the shadows fall.”

Steve’s convinced the way he swallows hard must be audible, the lump in his throat making a loud splash in the pool of boiling nerves gathered in his stomach, breaking surface tension and stirring up thoughts he hasn’t really bothered with for months, if not a year by now.

Yet here’s this stranger with such undeniable magnetism, taking a seat, naked on a stool, aiming straight at Steve, staring at Steve, smirking at Steve.

Who nervously rakes fingers through his hair, pushing it back and away as to more clearly see his model, noticing how the muscles flex and tense as Hargrove decides on his first pose. The human body is phenomenal to look at, nothing in the world deserves grander appreciation than it, and it’s easy for Steve to convince himself that that’s what this is, an accentuated form of gratitude for the very same shape that Michelangelo used for his David.

Finally William gets settled, on the edge of his seat, one foot on the ground, the other up on the bar between the legs of the stool, elbow raised and bent to bring a hand behind his head, the other relaxed on his thigh. Exposed and raw and muscular and brilliant.

Steve could truly go on and on and on about this Adonis posed all nude before him, face turned slightly to the side, but it is unquestionably clear that the rest of him is aimed directly at where Steve sits, and he doesn’t realise he’s staring again till Reynolds says,

“Ten minutes, everyone! You may begin!”

Keep reading on AO3

#Harringrove #My Writing #Art Student AU #Only Mature for now ;)))#God I went OFF on this one #Anonymous

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spectral-musette · 4 years ago

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what materials do you use for your drawings?

Hi anon! It’s been a while I think since I’ve answered this type of question, but I don’t think much has changed. I’ll ramble about art supplies here under the cut. Disclaimer that these are probably not the absolute best supplies available, but they’re what I’m comfortable with or what I can easily find. Sometimes inexpensive to moderately priced art supplies are better for me mentally because I feel less anxious about using them up. Please don’t let that hold you back from using Nice Things if your brain isn’t Like That.

I like Strathmore Toned Tan paper (but when I started using toned paper in... 2013?ish? I was drawing on pieces of brown paper shopping bags). Brown or grey cardstock can also work, but I don’t think it erases quite as cleanly as the Strathmore paper and can tend to pick up oil from your hands more. I also like the portability of the wire-bound Strathmore sketchbook, and it lays nicely flat in the scanner (most of the time).

I draw with 2HB graphite pencils (Dixon Ticonderoga, but I doubt the specific kind makes that much of a difference). Really nothing fancy, I just find them with office/school supplies in packs of many. I like an electric sharpener to get a nice sharp point. (There are different levels of soft/hard graphite drawing pencils you might prefer though!)

For highlights, I use Prismacolor white pencils (PC938). I use a small manual sharpener for these for a blunter point and to use up less pencil when I sharpen. The one downside of these is that the lead (I know it’s not actually lead, like, Pb, but I can’t think of what else to call the inside of a colored pencil) can tend to break when sharpening, but I don’t think that’s entirely to do with how one sharpens and just relates to how they’ve been handled - being dropped on a hard surface might crack the lead inside?. I have also used General’s white charcoal, which is softer, but the Prismacolor smudges less.

I like high-polymer eraser caps. I’m sure people swear by other erasers (like a kneaded rubber), but I like having something I can shove on the end of my pencil so I don’t lose track of it. I also like the shape and the stiffness of the caps. I’m pretty sure I have an erasing shield somewhere but I literally never use it - lines that get erased as collateral damage evidently just deserved it? Regardless of eraser type, the white pencils do not erase very well.

Spray fixative helps keep your drawings from smudging, especially if you’re using a sketchbook or otherwise storing them in a stack (though I still just use one side of the page, but that’s also so I can remove drawings if I want to). A can of fixative should last you a good while, 2+ years at the rate that I draw. I have a can of Krylon workable fixative at the moment which is working out okay. I like the Prismacolor product but it’s been tough to find lately. I object to the Grumbacher fixative because it smells AWFUL, though it works fine too. Definitely put down scrap paper (newspaper, etc.) before you spray so you can get any edges of the drawing without coating the surrounding surface in fixative (RIP my desk).

It can be helpful to have a ruler and/or a T-square around.

For watercolors, I use a variety of cold-press watercolor paper (the Canson XL pads have a nice texture, and I like the Artist’s Loft Level 2 watercolor pad from Michael’s). I know serious watercolor artists often swear by Arches paper, but I find it intimidating and stick with more inexpensive paper so I don’t get too nervous to use it.

You’ll want a plastic palette for mixing colors, up to you if you prefer the rounded depressions or the shallow rectangular ones, or a combo.

I’m in a watercolor pan phase, rather than tube paints. I have a cheap set (I think also Artist’s Loft brand) that is my current go-to because it has a portrait pink pan (and I can just use the lid as the mixing palette). I do get frustrated with the limits to how saturated I can get certain colors with it, though. I bought a Sakura sketch box which I think is better quality and has more vivid tones, but I have to mix way more colors to get skintones, which I haven’t fully gotten the hang of yet.

I used to use dilute Liquitex acrylics for painting, and they did probably saturate more because of the way the paint binds to the paper, but that’s a mixed blessing - they’re less forgiving if you make a mistake. With watercolor you can blot and rinse off with a clean wet brush (to a certain extent) if paint gets somewhere that you don’t want it on the paper, but acrylic stains way more. Also, when your watercolor paint dries on your palette, you can just add more water and continue to paint with your customized color. Acrylics dry on your palette as a film which does not redissolve well (thanks to the plastic medium) and is a certified pain in the ass to scrape off the palette. They also stain your clothes, like, forever. I swear I have a shirt with a spot of blue acrylic paint on it from the 90′s.

My favorite watercolor brush is an angled shader, 1/4″ or 3/8″. In theory I have a liner and a spotter for detail work but in practice I just use the sharp tip of the shader like a goblin. I have experimented a little with water brushes; mostly I like the Pentel Aquash for monochromatic ink washes.

That’s probably already way more words than you wanted to read, so I’m going to stop myself here. Good luck and happy drawing and painting!

#long post #art talk #Anonymous

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heartofsnark · 4 years ago

Text

This Is Love (Chapter Eleven): Angels of Doubt, Bearing Broken Halos

Notes; The chapter title is pretentious as fuck, but I don’t care. I’m very happy with the beginning of this chapter so I’m very excite to finally let y’all read it fully. Overall, this chapter definitely is more of the build up that this uhhhh nice little religious family mayyyyyhaps be a bit less nice than originally thought.

Word Count: 10451

Chapter Warnings: Cult Angels, Animal Death (in the context of dangerous wildlife needing to be put down), A Judge Wolf, Indoctrination, Assault, Me Awkwardly trying to write himbo Nick Rye for the first time

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

They don’t go to The Spread Eagle that night, staying too late making plans. But it’s all for the best in the end, Casey would be more busy in the evening and if she’s interrupting his work, he’ll be less likely to listen. It’ll be easier to talk to him tomorrow just as the bar opens, before anyone arrives and during down time. Regardless, when she comes back to the trailer park. She breaks next to the registration building, checking her mailbox in case Cassie or Joseph had wrote her back, but no such luck. Maybe it will take a while for them to even get it?

A breeze passes through as she leaves the building, that familiar flower smell itching at her nose. The trailer park has fields of those white flowers surrounding it, the delicate petals seem ghostly in the moonlight. Moonflowers, the trailer park has to be named after them, these flowers that haunt her in her dreams. A shift of movement, far back in the expanse of flowers catches her eye. Someone tending to the flowers with a hoe, but she doesn’t know anyone in the trailer park who takes care of the flowers. Surely, if they had a grounds keeper, they’d start with the trash within area; not the flowers surrounding it.

Dahlia decides to park her bike before investigating, not wanting to leave it in the open while she journeys through the flowers. She pulls out her phone once she’s parked, tucking one earbud in. If only to ease her nerves as she walks to confront the odd stranger.

“When you told me I should text your brother.

I was walking with a blunt in my hand.

Double Jameson was in the other.

I was drinking like a spiritual man.”

She stands at the edge of the field of flowers, little the scent tickle her nose, watching the…person in the distance. Their gender, or at least presentation of it, unidentifiable. She blinks her eyes, when did she start seeing spots? Her tension eases, body and mind relaxing.

“I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room.

I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room”

And she walks further through the flowers, brushing through them, fractals blurring her vision with every step. Her head swims and floats away, fuzzy as the smell surrounds her. She drags her fingers along the blossoms as she walks, grounding herself with their velvet touch, the contrast of her black painted fingernails against them.

“And I could barely stand

He said, "Get some water, man"

'Cause they don't understand

I'm not what they think I am”

As she nears them with every unsteady step, she sees them more clearly. And truly they’re a ghastly sight. Shaved head and dirty white clothes; the smell of the flowers strengthens as she nears them, turning acrid with an edge. That smell comes from them, like they’d bathed in chemicals infused with the flowers. The mask latched around their grime coated face, covering their mouth is marked with the Eden’s Gate symbol. They pay her no mind, focused on tending to the moonflowers, their eyes are glazed nearly white and milky. Like Dahlia’s eyes looked her first night in Hope County, when she dreamed of Faith despite having never met her.

“They can never ever understand me, no

What I came from, what I was before”

“Are you…okay?” She asks them, despite her own swimming vision and weak knees.

“HelpmeFaithhelpmeFaithshieldmefromsorrow.”

They grumble, not sing, the lyrics to one of Eden’s Gate’s songs. Their voice a rasp as if they can hardly breathe, each word running into the other, energy manic. The moonlight shining on gaunt cheeks and white eyes makes them look dead, a walking corpse before her. She reaches out, gingerly touching their shoulder, hoping touch can break through whatever state they’re in.

And then they scream, swing the garden hoe and bashing it against the side of Dahlia’s head. She’s knocked to the ground, head hitting rock and dirt. The creature screams out and jumps on her, trying to maul her. Vacant eyes staring down at her, her body and head too fuzzy to even give it the reaction it deserves. She should be scared, she should be terrified, but she isn’t.

Gently, she puts her hands on each side of the person’s neck, applying pressure, not enough to strangle but to hold it at slight distance. It tries to dig dirty fingers into her flesh through her jacket, screaming mangled cries of pain or anger, she can’t tell as she looks over its face. The haunting glow of moonlight on their dirty face.

“How you get to heaven with a broke halo?

How you get to heaven with a broke halo?”

“Help me, Faith,” Dahlia sings the song it used to soothe itself, “help me Faith, shield me from sorrow… From fear of tomorrow…”

And a switch has been flipped, it stops screaming. Body going lax, fingers no longer trying to tear her apart as she sings the church song, own voice overlapping the contrasting melody of her music.

“Help me Faith, help me Faith, shield me from sadness…From worry and madness…”

And it’s slipping out of her loosening hold and climbing off her, resuming it’s gardening work, as if she never existed at all. On trembling legs and with her vision still blurring, she leaves, not sure of what else to do. A part of her knows she should be more panicked, more concerned, more anything, but then she takes another inhale the floral scent around her and she can’t find the energy. It fades as she leaves the flowers and their scent behind, vision steadying as she enters her trailer, the full reality dawning on her just as she shuts the door behind her.

“What the actual fuck!?” She screams at her empty living room, because what the actual fuck did she just see? Her mouth is dry and her brain a mess as distress finally shines through the haze.

Dahlia digs her phone out, shutting off her music and doing a search. Her vision is still fuzzy with prisms of shifting colors, body still light and floaty. They were there the first time she saw Faith, they constantly itch her nose and make her eyes see things. The church compound was covered in bushels of them.

Moonflowers, she searches, and sure enough the images show the white trumpet shaped blossoms. Also called datura, angel trumpets and it’s down a rabbit hole. They’re toxic and hallucinogenic, can be harvested for either medication or poison. Scopolamine and atropine are in them; Dahlia does not even remotely know jack shit about chemistry. But a quick search shows scopolamine has been used in everything from nausea medicine to truth serum. So…she may have just hallucinated the person? From the flowers… but when she touches her forehead, where the person stuck her, blood stains her fingers. She really did get hurt…

Dahlia grabs her sketchbook, sitting down on the floor before her coffee table as she’s done so many times before, and she draws what she saw. Painstakingly she tries to recreate them, to draw the gaunt of their cheeks and the grime on their skin. To catch the white emptiness of their eyes. And she dates the drawing, scratching out the date in as neatly as she can. And on the next page she draws her first weird dream, sketching herself vomiting flowers and blood, those moonflowers. She adds the rough date she remembers it happening in the corner when she’s satisfied. Then she draws herself burnt and marred with flowers blooming from her mangled remains, hand moving of it’s own accord to match the details, shutting out the rest of the world as she works to carefully craft every line. She dates it as well and then draws the newest one, smears of ink on bare skin with flowers blooming from them.

Once each image is created with a date etched in its corner, she sits back and rakes a hand through her hair. She’s had nightmares before this, certainly, but never as frequent or vivid as these. Flowers are the recurring theme and she’s not sure why; maybe the datura are doing it? The scent of them always present, making her sleeping brain conjure odd images. She already has a list of things to do; the apple festival is the highest priority, but she still wants to know what each flower means and what on earth is working in those flower fields, what connection it has to Eden’s Gate.

She’s exhausted, graphite from her pencil smudged and sticking to her hand. But she feels more at ease having put her demons into art, having created something out of this. There’s still a lot of questions in her mind. This constant back in forth of trusting the church only to doubt them again is frustrating.

Dahlia barely manages not to fall asleep in the shower that night, exhaustion clinging heavy to her leaden muscles and pulling at her eyelids when she lays down on her couch.

The junior deputy is running on two hours of sleep, coffee, and an energy drink the next morning. But that doesn’t stop her from swinging into The Spread Eagle as soon as it opens, Pratt in tow since they’re technically on shift.

“Something wrong, deputies?” Mary May asks when they stride in, Dahlia can already see Casey through the kitchen window, prepping food for the later in the evening.

“No, we actually just wanted to talk to you and Casey about something.”

“What’s up?” Mary May raises an eyebrow and the chef’s head perks up.

Dahlia explains Debbie and Doug’s situation, that John is trying to buy them out, at the very mention of the Seed sibling’s name she can see Mary May tense. But the tension lessens, smiles on the bartender and cook’s face when the deputy mentions their plans for an apple festival.

“I know we could use more cooks selling food there and Debbie mentioned you work with the Testy Festy, Casey.”

“Plus, figured the band that plays here, might be willing to work a night or two if you talked to ‘em Mary May.”

“Look, you had me at pissing off John Seed,” Mary May says, grinning, “I’ll talk to the band and Casey, you damn well better help them out.”

“Come around here, sister,” Casey calls out, voice deep and booming as she walks around into the kitchen already warm as starts prepping food, he spares her a glance as he minces vegetables, “your destiny hangs off you like a coat, the soul of a warrior, and the heart of a hero.”

Dahlia blinks, taken aback by his unabashed and weirdly soulful compliments. She doesn’t really believe in destiny nor does she see herself as a warrior or hero, but she certainly appreciates the thought. Her heart, that of a hero apparently, warms and she smiles after another second.

“So…you’ll help?”

“It’s important for people to gather, to bond, and feel a sense of community. I’ll call Deb and Doug to offer any help I can.”

“Thank you so much!” Dahlia grins: Casey is definitely an odd duck, but he cares about the community and willing to help. So, a fantastic guy in her book.

“Happy to help, sister.”

First two people dragged into their plan, Pratt and Dahlia give some friendly goodbyes before being on their way. This is already coming together and Stray is nearly vibrating with excitement as they leave the bar.

The pair continue to do their patrol while swinging in to talk with folks about the festival. They swing by Lorna’s Truck Stop, Dahlia unable to resist snapping a picture of the giant cheesy cow statue outside of it before they walk in, door chiming. An older woman is talking to someone in a green hood, the woman with chubby cheeks and blue eyes pushing a little bag of mini pies into the hooded person’s bruised hands.

“Here you go, Jess, on the house as always.”

“Thanks,” the hooded girl responds, an awkward gruff to the words before she leaves. When Dahlia catches a sight of her, Jess has a face of mottled bruises and cuts.

“Anything I do for you, Deputies?”

“We were hoping you could help us out, Lorna,” Pratt starts.

And just like Casey and Mary May; Lorna’s all bright smiles and kind eyes, happy to help. Even pushing bags of the free small handmade pies into the deputy’s hands before they go. There is something undeniably heartwarming at everyone’s willingness to help. She crams one of the little pasties into her mouth, sugary berries on her tongue as they get back into the cruiser.

The shift passes by with ticketing traffic violations and stopping in to rope people into helping out. Hudson and Brennan sending texts letting Dahlia know that Grace has agreed to help and Adelaide will too if only so her boytoy Xander can have a smoothie stand during the festival. Riding through the valley, Dahlia sees a billboard advertising gun lubricant, Grace Armstrong’s face plastered on it, though her eyes on the board seem off. Dahlia too far away to put her finger on it, but it looks like that part of the advert has been damaged. An award-winning sniper and veteran; well loved in the community. Dahlia only saw a glimpse of her at the barbecue, talking with Hudson, but it seems clear just how important she is to the county.

Within an hour of their shift ending, Doug and Debbie have them called out to the orchard. Their smiles are bright, the middle-aged couple holding each when the deputies pull in. Pratt’s still trying to pretend to have a grumpy face but there’s still a slight smile pulling at his lips as they get out of the cruiser.

Arms are wrapping around Dahlia in a second, Debbie pulling her into a tight hug, the young deputy tenses hands hovering awkwardly at the woman’s sides.

“Thank you, so much,” Debbie says, pulling away but her hands still on Dahlia’s shoulders, “we’ve been getting calls all day, everyone wants to help us do this, thank you so much.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s no problem…just happy to help,” Dahlia flusters under the attention, proud of what she’s done, but squirming under the weight of gratitude.

“Well, we certainly appreciate it,” Doug tells her with a smile, “but we called you out ‘cause we got some flyers made, figure’d it help advertise, though word of mouth already seems to be doing us a lot of good.”

“We could definitely hand them out, see if some places are willing to hang them up too.”

“And now we’re the flyer brigade,” Pratt grumbles under his breath and Dahlia jabs her elbow into his side.

“I’ve already been coming up with everything I wanna sell at the festival, but if you two have some free time Sunday, I could use some taste testers too,” Debbie offers, with a smile, “least I can do is feed you for all your help.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Dahlia agrees readily.

“I…could probably swing by.” Pratt tries so hard to sound above it all, but free apple pie can apparently draw even him in.

“Can’t wait to see you both then!”

They wave goodbye to the couple, Dahlia packing the flyers with her into the cruiser car. The ending hours of their shift and the day is spent finding places to hang them up. Mary May posting them in The Spread Eagle, hanging in the window of the garage and general store, Whitehorse even letting it be posted up in the window of the department. Dahlia’s ride home that night takes longer as she stops at places to ask if they’d hang up the advertisement; after getting Lorna’s Truck Stop and Audrey’s Diner to put them up. Dahlia stops at the Hollyhock Saloon, bartender agreeing to hang it up in the small bar, the rookie deputy giving a quick hello to Brennan and some of the other officers gathered at his table. The 8-bit Pizza bar hangs them up without any question, happy to help, and Dahlia manages to convince Darcy to hang it up in the registration building of the trailer park before she heads in for the night. Dahlia crashes easily that night, sleep finding her as soon as she hits the couch.

The next day Stray is hit with déjà vu as they’re called out to deal with Eden’s Gate blocking another road. She’s still not sure why this is apparently a thing they do. And to her misfortune it’s not Waylon or members of the church she likes waiting behind the cement block when they pull up this time; but Theodore and Lonny. Because of course.

“Deputies,” Lonny forces a smile, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Well, you’re breaking the law, so there’s that,” Pratt says with a roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, heard you two gave some of our members a hard time about blocking off a road,” Theodore comments, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll refer you back to the fact it’s against the law,” Dahlia grumbles, “why on earth are you blocking the road anyway?”

“Got some property nearby that needs some work.”

“The church own a lot a property?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow, that was Waylon’s reasoning too.

“Soon to be even more when John secures the orchard for us,” Lonny has too wide of a grin as he looks Dahlia over, “though rumor has it some little cop is trying to get in the way.”

“Irrelevant, you’re breaking the law. Just scram and there won’t be any issues.”

“Look, h-“

“We’ll be going then, deputy,” Theodore puts a hand on Lonny’s back, reigning him in. Though the way Lonny sneers tells Dahlia that their conflict is only resolved for the moment.

Regardless, Pratt and her watch as the men yet again pack away the blocks and clear the road out. Dahlia still can’t quite figure out why on earth they’d need to or would want to block the roads. Between that and the strange person she saw in the flowers, bearing the churches symbol, things just seem to get weirder and weirder. She considers for a moment asking the church members there about the person with the shaved head, but she has a feeling asking more questions will just put her higher up on Lonny and Theodore’s shit-lists.

“Still don’t get why they keep blocking the roads,” Dahlia comments when they get back in the patrol car.

“They’re assholes, what more reason they need.” Pratt shrugs before starting the cruiser engine and Dahlia just doesn’t feel like it’s that simple.

“Well, if they do it again, we don’t really have a choice but to arrest ‘em do we?”

“Can’t let them get away with shit forever; three strikes seem fair.”

Questions still run through her mind; but there’s no way of getting answers at the moment, left to bury her curiosity as they leave back down the winding roads. Hours pass and bright blues shift to pastel pinks as the sun sets upon Hope County.

That evening at The Spread Eagle, she’s listening to Pratt and Hudson argue about something; she can’t even be sure what but she’s just amused to not be at the butt of the humor tonight. She’s cramming fries into her mouth when she feels eyes on her.

“That’d be her right there,” Mary May says, pointed out at Dahlia as she talks to a man the young officer has only seen in passing. Shaggy dark hair under a cap and beard on his face, though the last time she saw him he’d been wearing glasses. She thinks it’s Nick, only having seen a glance of him at his own barbecue.

“If I’m in some sort of trouble, I’d like fair warning, Mary May.” Dahlia comments, unsure why anyone would be trying to find her in a crowd. The blonde’s smile eases her nerves as she comes across the bar, the man walking Dahlia’s way.

“No trouble, Deputy, Nick here was just wanting to know which one of you started the apple festival. He’s going fly a banner ad around for Debbie and Doug.”

“Oh, that’s awesome.”

“I just wanted to find out who was helping them out, Nick Rye,” he introduces himself, sticking his hand out for her to shake.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve been crop dusting for Doug and Debbie for years, last thing anyone needs is for John to get his hands on that place.”

“That seems to be most people’s sentiment.”

“Told ya just about everyone is sick of his shit,” Mary May says with a shake of her head, “it’s about time he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“That son of a bitch has been hounding me and Kim for months now, trying to buy our place.” Nick’s jaw clenches, irritation coming off him in waves.

“I know Kim damn near broke his nose for it.”

“Wait what?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow; how often does John harass people?

“Listen to this,” Nick gesture emphatically, now sitting down next to Dahlia, “asshole shows up to the house while I’m gone, trying to bully Kim into selling the damn place, while she’s pregnant. What kind of sick fuck shows up at a man’s house while he’s gone and tries to strongarm his wife into signing the place over. Fuckers lucky I wasn’t home.”

“You not being home was kind of the point of when he showed up.,” Mary May reminds him, “besides, no offense, but even ready to pop I think I trust Kim’s right hook protected her more than yours ever could.”

“Now, that’s just mean,” Nick says with a slight pout to his face, reminding Dahlia of a tall puppy dog.

“It’s okay Nick, anything you lack in strength you make up for in…” Mary May seems to have to search for the next word, normally brains would be the natural contrast, “well, you just keep being you.”

“Never really thought about being anyone else; well except maybe an eagle, but I don’t think that counts.”

“No, it doesn’t really count, Nick,” Mary May says with a slight laugh.

Dahlia stifles her own laugh raising an eyebrow at the ridiculous turn of the conversation. Nick is sweet and willing to help out with the festival, so she won’t spend too much time questioning his desire to be an eagle. It’s not long before Pratt and Hudson fall into conversation with the pilot; allowing Dahlia to comfortably settle into the background as the night winds down.

It’s not even the noon the following day before things around Hope County manage to pick up pace. Sirens and lights flashing as Pratt rushes them up north towards the mountain; there’s a palpable tension. Crisis situations are rare; most days filled with handing out traffic tickets and dealing with roadblocks. Hell, the county is boring enough that the sheriff would allow them to actively work on a festival during shift hours. So, a call requesting EMS, all deputies and units, and the F.A.N.G Center; is definitely out of the normal.

They see the gathering of people as they pull up, Whitehorse is talking with workers in F.A.N.G Center shirts, Hudson and other officers gathered around and EMS workers carrying someone into the back of an ambulance.

“Pratt, Rookie; over here now!” The sheriff calls out for them and they rush over.

“What’s going on?” Pratt is the one to ask.

“Wolf, possibly rabid, but we don’t know. It attacked a pair of hikers. We tried to tranq it but nothing is bringing it down, we gotta find it and put it down before it hurts anyone else.” The F.A.N.G Center employee explains to them.

“No way to get around killing it?” Dahlia asks, she understands it can’t always be avoided, but she would prefer not to.

“We hit that damn thing with enough tranq to take down an elephant and it still tried to maul us before running off; tried to get it with a snare pole and it broke it. We can’t rehabilitate an animal we can’t get near and if we let it go; it’ll hurt someone else.”

“You heard the man, alright,” Whitehorse’s voice booms as he starts addressing everyone, commanding attention “we got a wolf to find, grown wolf, white fur and aggressive. I want everyone to stay in groups; we have tranquilizers, snare poles, and what’s used to put ‘em down. We want to try to do it as humanely as possible but protect yourselves and keep an ear to your radio. We need to make sure the trails are safe and can’t let anyone else get bit; move out!”

The deputies are given tranquilizer guns, the snare poles, and syringes filled with pentobarbital. Though, given what they’ve been told, she’s not completely sure how effective any of it will be. If the wolf has enough tranquilizers to take down an elephant in it already and is still moving; as well as having previously broken one of the snare poles, then how on earth is any of this suppose to work?

But she doesn’t voice these concerns as she follows after Pratt, Hudson, and another police officer tagging along so they can maintain a decent sized group per Whitehorse’s instructions.

The mountains are beautiful, she thought that when she’s gone hiking before, but even during this tense situation she finds herself amazed by how gorgeous it is. Bright green summer grass and towering trees as far as the eye can see. Mountains that reach up to kiss the bright blue sky.

Dahlia stays at the back of the group, letting Pratt and Hudson lead as she keeps her ears and eyes peeled for anything suspicious. The sneer pole is across her shoulders, her wrists on top and holding it there as she walks. She half listens to Pratt and Hudson talk; something about people making up werewolf rumors because the wolves have been acting wilder and wilder lately. She’s reminded of her meal at the Grill Steak, that man who warned a group of people about wolves. He claimed they were trained by Eden’s Gate; but those still just sound like conspiracy theories.

Tension crawls up Stray’s spine, skin forming goosebumps at the sensation of being watched, then the sound of snapping branches coming from forests that surround the trail she walks along. She moves without thinking, leaving the trail and her group behind, following where she heard the noise.

Branches and brush scratch at her arms as she ventures deeper into the wooded area; then she sees his back. Jacob Seed, why does there always seem to be a member of their family just around the corner when trouble happens?

“Something you need,” he says, not bothering to turn and face her, examining his red rifle.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I shouldn’t be,” he spares her a glance over his shoulder, blue eyes rife with condescension, “last time I checked it’s a free country, ain’t it?”

“That’s not what I mean. There’s a wolf running around; possibly rabid. It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

And he laughs; dry and deep, the sound making her raise her eyebrows. Why is the idea of being mauled by a rabid wolf so funny to him?

“You worrying about me?” He asks, finally turning to face her in full, shifting the bright red gun to the holster on his back.

“I mean, yes? My job is keeping the public safe and you are a member of the public.”

“Pfff, you’re just a pup,” he says walking past her, “be better off watching out for yourself.”

His hand is large and rough as it ruffles her hair while he walks by; his palm and fingers nearly encompassing the entire top of her head. His hand is probably bigger than her face she realizes, heat flushing up her face though she’s not sure of why. He’s so condescending and patronizing and fucking giant; the last point isn’t entirely relevant but it’s still true.

“I’m a deputy, don’t patronize me.” She says, reaching up to grab his hand from her head, capturing it in her own. His rough scarred hand is nearly double the size of her own; warm calloused skin against her own.

“You having fun there?” He asks, when she doesn’t let go of his hand right away, instead pressing her small hand back against his palm, comparing the immense size difference. He really could probably wrap one hand around her entire head.

“Your hands are so big, wow.”

“’Preciate it pup.”

And he laughs again, still dry and brief in it’s sound, pulling his giant hand from her smaller one before he leaves. She glares at his back; corded muscle shifting beneath his black tee shirt. Despite her pout, she can understand why he’d see her unable to defend herself in comparison to him. She’s been confident in her physical abilities for a while; but she imagines a man like Jacob isn’t scared of anything.

“Rook, where the hell are you?” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio as Jacob walks off.

“There was a hunter out here, I was warning him about the wolf,” Dahlia explains herself, she wasn’t suppose to leave the group per Whitehorse’s orders, but no one could blame her for warning a civilian. There’s something odd about thinking of Jacob as just a hunter or civilian; though she’s not quite sure why.

“We’re in the woods near the Visitor’s Center, get over here, you pain in the ass.”

The radio crackles out and Dahlia gets on her way; she knows the Visitor’s Center is south of where she is. Though she has no sense of direction, so that has little bearing on her ability to find it. She hikes down, feeling that’s the closest approximation to south that she can get, sticking a little closer to the woods than the paths. She prefers the shade and atmosphere of being surrounded by the trees.

But the further she travels down, the sparser the trees grow, exposing Dahlia to the sun. Green grass and branches crushing underfoot as she stumbles down the terrain. She can just imagine Pratt and Hudson’s frustration, but warning someone about a rabid wolf is certainly understandable.

A drawn-out howl echoes through the woods, making the deputy freeze. Sunlight is warm on her face and stinging at her eyes as she turns towards the sound. A spire of craggy rocks coming off the mountain; the silhouette of a wolf howling with the sun behind it. She uses her hand to shield from the sunlight, straining to see more detail. Seven distinct darts stick from the wolves back; tranquilizers.

Dahlia quickly tugs her uniform shirt off from over her black tank top, wrapping the fabric around her forearm. Not quite the cushioned guard they use for training police dogs, but it will provide some barrier between it’s bite and her skin. Worse case scenario, she’ll be taking rabies shots once everything is done. She holds the syringe of pentobarbital in one hand, she has her firearm too if that’s unable to bring the wolf down, but she prefers to let it go peacefully if she can.

She stays crouched down as she approaches the peaked edge of the mountain, craggy rock building up to a spire, levels to climb up to reach the clearing where the wolf sits. Dahlia stays low as she climbs, moving as quietly as she can, using a blue grappling hook handle to help lift herself up to the final level. There’s a gap in the clearing; a log showing a passage between craggy rock to craggy rock; boulders surrounded by grass. She can see the wolf, but it’s yet to noticed her, another howl echoing out as it cries out to the sky.

It’s beautiful and she’s all at once ashamed that it has to be put down. Matted white fur with a black nose and lips; it’s eyes are luminously silver, like moonlight. Red is mottled across it’s face, red frothing around it’s mouth, as well as a brighter crimson stroked across it’s brow and down it’s nose. Across it’s furred shoulder blade and spine are seven different tranquilizer darts that were shot at it, how has it not passed out? It doesn’t see her not right away, then it’s nostrils twitch and it’s lips pull back to snarl, red tinged drool dripping down it’s maw. Then it’s gaze is on her, growling and baring it’s teeth.

And then it pounces.

She puts up her cloth wrapped forearm, the force of it’s body hitting hers knocks her onto her back. It’s teeth snap into the fabric, as it tries to chew through her arm, the edges of fangs just grazing the flesh beneath. One large paw presses against her wrist, attempting to pin her limb down so it can rip the meat off her bones.

Dahlia pulls back the plunger on the syringe before slamming the needle into the thick of the wolves neck, sinking through fur and flesh before she pushes the chemical through. The wolf snarls through it’s bite on it, then she watches that shine in it’s silver eyes die. It’s mouth goes slack and then it’s body falls limp on top of her.

The deputy pushes the wolves dead weight off of her, getting up onto her feet, she touches the torn shirt wrapped around her forearm. Drool and blood has stained the green, small damage done to her skin under. It stings but nothing she can’t deal with; the idea of getting rabies shots worries her more. She crouches over the wolf and looks at it’s face, the red around it’s mouth is darker, rusted and clearly blood. But the brighter more purposeful crimson looks like paint.

She remembers the warnings she overheard in the Grill Steak before; someone warning conservationists about wolves owned by Eden’s Gate. Though, he called them a cult. It’s not for sure or a real connection; conspiracy theories and paint. But, who could have gotten close enough to paint the wolf’s face? Who would want to?

“Rookie,” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio.

“Pratt…”

“Rook, if you’re not here in five minutes, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Hudson threatens in the background.

“Please, she’d probably like that.”

Dahlia’s face flushes at Pratt’s teasing, she can’t say he’s completely wrong, but that’s not the point. She hefts the wolf’s corpse up onto her shoulder, carrying it’s heavy weight, the head of the furry creature beside her head. It’s fur is soft and thick despite the matted nature. She’s not big on hunting culture, but the wolf would make a nice rug.

“I got the wolf,” she says into her radio, holding it in one hand while the other keeps the carcass steady on her shoulder as she carefully makes her way down the craggy rocks.

“What?”

“I got the wolf,” she repeats to Pratt’s flat question.

“What? Wh-where the fuck are you?.”

“I’m on a big ass like spirally mountain thing.”

“That tells us literally nothing,” Hudson informs her.

“Uhhhh,” Dahlia looks over the edge, of the elevated mountainside, “I think I see a helipad nearby?”

“Fuck, I know where you are, stay put. Okay, do not approach the wolf.”

“Uhhh, I think you misunderstood me.”

“What do you mean?” Pratt asks and she can just imagine his raised eyebrow.

“I mean, I got the wolf, I already put it down. We can call off the search, but, uh, I think we have bigger issues.”

“Did you get hurt again?”

“Hey,” she objects to his tone, “you make it sound like I’m always getting hurt.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“No, I did not get…seriously hurt.”

“Oh lord,” Hudson grumbles in the background.

“Look, that’s not the issue, alright. Just get up here and let Whitehorse know what’s going on, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dahlia finds a steady rock in the clearing to pull herself up onto as she waits, since apparently Hudson and Pratt have figured out where she is. She tries to look for anything else on the wolf that could indicate it being owned; but nothing. Dahlia does find herself wondering why it’s fur is white? Aren’t white wolves usually those in snowy climates, for camouflage?

She doubts she’ll receive any answers, so she tries to quiet her mind. The sun warms her skin where she sits on the rock, white wolf still up on her shoulder, ripped uniform shirt still wrapped around her forearm. It all forms an odd picture, she’s certain.

It’s less than an hour or so before she hears the rustle of footsteps; Hudson and Pratt along with the other officer walking up the way to her. Pratt just stops a second and shakes his head, Hudson is rolling her eyes.

“Hello,” Dahlia says with a soft wave.

“What the actual fuck, Rook?”

And she cracks up; unable to help but laugh at the absolute absurdity of the situation and Hudson’s flat response. She may have already hit the highlight of her career here.

“Stop laughing; it’s not funny, you could have gotten seriously hurt!” Pratt tries to scold her but he’s laughing through his words, the oddity of it all must be hitting him as well. Dahlia presses a hand to mouth to try and stifle her laughter as Hudson gets her radio out.

The senior deputy radios Whitehorse, letting him know they’ve gotten the wolf. He tells them where to meet him with the body, so the veterinarian and F.A.N.G Center workers can examine it. Dahlia will be reliant on actually listening and following obediently behind the older deputies.

“C’mon, Rookie, let go.”

“Alright.” Dahlia hops down from her rock and starts to follow after them down the mountain.

“You need help packing that?” Pratt offers, probably because the wolf is nearly the length of her entire body.

“Nah.”

“You just feel cool packing the wolf on your back, don’t you?” Hudson is the one to call her out, raising her eyebrow with a soft smirk on her lips, looking entirely too pretty.

“Uhhh….”

“God, you’re a dork.”

“I can’t really argue with that,” Dahlia admits with a red face and shrug of her shoulders, happy to see Pratt and Hudson smiling at her dorkiness.

“What happened with the hunter you were warning?” Pratt asks after a beat of silence as they keep walking, helping her over a craggy step with a hand on her hip to keep her steady as the weight of the wolf limits her movements.

“Uh, asshole just patronized me and left. I don’t know why I still talk to him, he’s always a dick,” she says, rolling her eyes when she thinks about Jacob calling her a pup. He likes to comment on her being a puppy a lot.

“Someone you knew?” Hudson asks, offering a hand to help Dahlia get over a large branch in the way of the path. The ease at which the two older deputies silently help her, makes a soft smile pull at Dahlia’s lips. Silently grateful for them as she answers their questions.

“Jacob Seed.”

“Seriously?’

“What?”

“You don’t find it a little fuckin’ weird how the Seeds are always around you?”

“I mean, they’re not around me anymore than anyone else.”

“They really fucking are; you went to the barbecue, John jumped at the chance to rope you into that.”

“Churches like new blood, it’s n-“

“You’ve apparently talked to Jacob more than once; I didn’t even know he could talk,” Hudson says rolling her eyes, “all he ever does at anyone outside the church is glare.”

“She’s talked to Faith a lot too, apparently.”

“I still don’t even know where she fucking came from.”

“I’m still not fully convinced she isn’t a ghost,” Pratt tells Hudson.

“She’s not a ghost,” Dahlia says with a roll of her eyes.

“And you would know, because they cling to you like leeches, right?”

“Shut up.”

“You know what I think it is,” Hudson says after a moment, “you put up with Joseph’s creepy ass speeches and they realized you’d put up with anything.”

“He’s not….that…creepy…” Dahlia says with zero conviction, because, well. He’s definitely off, but despite all the weird little red flags, he did help her and Cassie. So, he can’t be all bad. Even if his brother is taking people’s shit…and well…she still doesn’t know what the hell was up with the shaved head person.

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“Look, we’ve had run ins with him before, he’s the weirdest creepiest person in this whole damn county and that is saying something,” Hudson shudders, “I’d take Zip lecturing me on being a government shill for nine hours over Joseph even looking at me for even a second.”

“His stare is weirdly intense…”

“All of them are weird; John’s skeevy, Jacob looks like he skins people alive in his spare time…Faith’s kinda cute, but at what cost,” Pratt tells her and eh, Faith’s not really her type. The Church Mouse is pretty, but a bit too delicate for the young deputy to really get those weird stomach feelings she gets around women like Hudson or Mary May.

“Really, I didn’t think you liked women who are taller than you?” Hudson asks.

“Faith is like barely taller than me,” Dahlia says with a snort, watching the pure look of offense on Pratt’s face, how could she be taller than Pratt?

“How short do you think I am, Joey?’

“What?” Hudson raises an eyebrow, confused by their confusion, “ heard she was like six foot something with black hair.”

“She’s like this tall,” Pratt puts his hand maybe two inches above Dahlia’s head, “and blonde.”

“Kinda blonde,” Dahlia corrects, thinking of the youngest Seed siblings dirty blonde hair that fades to a slightly light color at the ends. It toes the line between brown and blonde fairly well.

“Whatever.”

“Someone told me she was taller than John, I know they did, am I losing my mind?” Hudson tries to think for a moment; gears visibly turning behind her green eyes.

“Did you ever really have it?” Pratt taunts her.

“Keep it up, asshole, see what fuckin’ happens.”

The trio makes it down to where the sheriff asked, a parking place within the northern area of the county with little gas pumps but not much else. The F.A.N.G Center employees and the veterinarian with a stethoscope around his neck waiting for them as they make their way over. A worker with the center helps get the stiffening wolf off of Dahlia’s back, putting it into the back of a van so they can take it to be examined.

“Good work, Deputies,” Whitehorse congratulates them and Dahlia grins at the praise.

“To be completely fair,” Hudson interjects, “it was Rook who was able to get him.”

“Hey, we helped…move the body…” Pratt jokes, in their own ways they’re both ensuring Dahlia gets her due credit and she can’t help but smile.

“Well, outstanding work, Rookie.”

“Thanks, but uh, I’m kind worried about something.”

“What’s that?’ The sheriff asks, the attention of him, the veterinarian, and center workers all falling on Dahlia.

“The wolf has paint on it’s face, like a cross or something…which kinda makes me think someone owned it or…something?’

“Yeah, that’s definitely not all blood.” A worker looking over the wolf’s face in the van confirms.

“There’s nothing else on it, but we definitely will have to keep that in mind.”

“But, uh, what happens from here?” Dahlia asks.

“I’ll test to see if it’s rabid or if anything else might be the cause for the aggression,” the veterinarian, his name tag she finally catches says Dr. Charles Lindsay, “I’ll let the hospital know and if needed, the hiker will get treated for rabies.”

“Ah, uhh, is there any possible way you could let us know at the same time…well let me know…?”

“Why…?”

“I may have been slightly bit.”

“Slightly?” Pratt is the one to yell out, incredulous at Dahlia’s description of her injury.

“Just a little bit,” She brings two fingers close together in front of her for added effect.

“Jesus fuck, can you just not get hurt for like a week?”

“No, clearly not.”

“Pratt, take her out to the clinic,” Whitehorse says with a heavy sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“Yes, you do. Even if the bite ain’t too bad, you never know if it’s infected. Not only could the wolf be carrying something, but it had someone else’s blood in it’s mouth. This isn’t optional, Rookie, you’re going to the clinic and that’s an order.”

Dahlia can’t and won’t argue with the sheriff on that. Instead shrinking slightly at the realization that her own disregard for her own safety has gotten her scolded despite her accomplishment. She doesn’t think about risks to herself; she needed the wolf put down to save others and if the worst case scenario is her own well-being being sacrificed, that’s worth it to help others, isn’t it?

“C’mon, Wolf-Bait lets get going,” Pratt says, giving her a light smack on the shoulder to follow him.

“I’m coming, asshole.”

She follows behind Pratt, back to the cruiser where they parked at the beginning of this day. The sun has long since set, the moon now bright and high in the sky as she climbs into the passenger side seat. Unable to stop herself from pouting slightly that she’s being forced to go to the clinic again. Even if she understands why.

“Hey,” Pratt gets her attention as he starts up the cruiser engine, “if it makes you feel any better. I’ll be happy to put you out of your misery if it turns out to be a werewolf.”

“Fuck you!” She yells out through a laugh; his dumb joke bringing a smile back to her face as they go off to the clinic.

She’s at the clinic late that night, her injury doesn’t need stitches just some bandaging, some bloodwork and tests done to account for anything that could be wrong. Then she’s sent home with antibiotics; the entire time Pratt making jokes about werewolves and silver bullets like a nerd. All that’s left is crashing for the night and eventually hearing if she has rabies.

Dahlia sleeps easily that night; thanks to her adrenaline crashing down. She sleeps in the night morning, Saturday never being such a blissful treat for her as she manages to not wake up until around noon.

The young deputy takes her time when she gets up, eating cereal and grabbing a shower. Faith mentioned her being able to see Cassie at the convent this weekend spending a day together, so that’s her plan on top of doing the rounds on roping folks into the Apple Festival.

The Convent isn’t far from the trailer park, two buildings seated before the edge of a cliff with craggy staggered mountain range covered in trees beside it. So many mountains and cliffs within the county. The larger of the buildings has dark roofing, a smaller white church with white latticing canopies between them. Like the material used to construct a gazebo and fields upon fields of the white moonflowers.

Before Dahlia can step too far onto the property, a woman with long baby blonde hair with flower tattoos spiraling up her arms and the sin of GREED across her chest runs up to stop her.

“Hello, is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, I was here to see Cassie.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but our sister Cassandra is busy today.”

“Sister?” Dahlia asks, blood running cold for a moment. She can’t seriously mean…Cassie wasn’t interested in joining, she just needed shelter.

“Well yes, she’s opened her heart to the Father, a child of Eden’s Gate now.”

“Interesting…” Dahlia clenches her jaw, “Faith said that I could come see her today.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible, she’s been busy with finding salvation. She’s with herald John, giving her confession, she can’t possibly be bothered right now.”

“I-”

“Deputy~!” Faith’s sing song voice rings out and Dahlia can’t help but still feel angry, they were supposed to help Cassie, not convert her. The youngest Seed sibling rushes over, nearly floating with the ethereal energy only she can manage. Her white floral dress of the day has a halter neckline and flowers are woven into her braided hair.

“Faith…”

“I’m so sorry; I heard, I know you were excited to spend time with me and Cassie today, but I’m afraid things just became too busy with her deciding to join us here.”

“Yeah…what the fuck?”

“Excuse me?” Faith says, her pretty little smile fading for a moment.

“Cassie needed shelter, not Jesus, so I reiterate…what the fuck?” Dahlia gestures wildly, anger tinging her words. Her blood pressure rising and heat crawling up under her skin like pins and needles.

“Cassie is an adult, she made a choice to join us. Surely, you can’t deny her that freedom, deputy?” Faith’s face pulls into a pout, making Dahlia feel unreasonable all at once, but Cassie was never interested in the religion aspect.

“Yes, she’s an adult, but she was vulnerable, and I don’t think leaping into a religion when you’re in a shitty place is the best move. I-I wanna talk to her myself.”

“Well, I’m afraid that can’t happen, not today. But, maybe next weekend or you could write a letter of course.”

“She still hasn’t responded to my last letter…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Faith puts a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder, meant to be comforting but the deputy flinches away, “as I said, it’s been impossibly busy, she’s been studying our beliefs and methods of joining. It’s a long process at times, very time consuming, but I assure you…Cassie opening her heart to the Father doesn’t mean it’s been closed to you.”

“Yeah, sure, just too busy.”

“Well, you’ve certainly been busy too, haven’t you?” She tilts her head delicately to the side, still smiling.

“I have?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow.

“Mmm hmm, John’s already learned of you helping put together an apple festival.”

“Oh, yeah, Debbie and Doug wanna save that place so why not, I figure.”

“Yes, we’ve been hearing all about it, John’s not exactly thrilled.”

“Nothing personal to it…”

“I figured, I’m not upset, I promise,” Faith offers a soft smile, “the orchard will end up in the rightful hands no matter what. John just worries a lot about getting land for our church, after all we’re growing by the day and need space for our people.”

“And Debbie and Doug worry a lot about keeping their livelihood, ya know?”

“Like, I said, I have no ill will over it, I’m just interested to see you’re so full of surprises.”

“I am?”

“Mmm hmm,” she giggles, but offers no more information, like she knows a secret that Dahlia doesn’t. But before Dahlia can ask another question, a sight among the convent makes her breath catch in her throat.

Shaved head men and women; tending to fields of those flowers, masks across their face. So, they’re definitely with Eden’s Gate as if she really had to question. They work silently, tending to the fields of moonflowers in their white sweaters.

“Who are they?” Dahlia asks, giving Faith a pointed look. The girl’s eyes move back and forth from the deputy to the workers.

“Oh, those are our angels,” she answers, grinning, “they’re high ranking members of our church, so devoted to The Father they’ve taken vows of silence and dedicate their lives to helping The Project. Amazing, aren’t they?”

“Vows of silence, huh?” Dahlia says, more to herself than Faith. Then why did they mumble lyrics and scream out…why would they attack Dahlia? Is Faith lying to her, she’s got to be, right?

“You know, deputy, if you’re so interested in The Project, The Father would still happily let you join our family.”

“Hmmm, I’m sure, didn’t realize there was a huge process to it though…” Dahlia comments, hoping Faith will elaborate, what the hell kind of hoops did Cassie jump through? Confession, is all she really knows.

“Well, “ Faith grabs both of Dahlia’s hands in her own, smiling, “we ask for our new family members to prove they see the truth of our faith, to prove their dedication, rid themselves of their sins and make sacrifices in order to truly cut their ties with sin.”

“That’s-“

“Faith, there’s a call from the conservatory!” Someone calls out and Dahlia’s words die on her lips; the notion that Faith’s description is vague and generally unhelpful.

“I’ll be right there, see you later deputy, hopefully we can meet with Cassie next weekend.” Faith waves her goodbye and then leaves.

Stray straightens her jacket before leaving the convent, a flood of unanswered questions and doubts in her mind. Everyday something new worries her about Eden’s Gate. If Faith’s lying…that’s fucking bullshit. She doesn’t want to imagine that Faith would lie to her face like that. But, why would their oh so special angels, even the name makes her roll her eyes, be screaming and murmuring despite vows of silences? Why would they attack her?

The rest of her Saturday is spent speaking to people about the Apple Festival, roping Chad from the Grill Steak into it. At least, she believes she did, she’s not completely sure of anything he says. His dialect unintelligible, so she just upped her cajun dialect until she barely knew what she was saying either. Its good busy work, getting places to hang up advertisements, though her heart and mind are somewhere else the entire time. She’s thankful that most people are just genuinely invested in helping; because she certainly isn’t getting by on her charisma.

Her night is spent with trying to distract herself, but thoughts always coming back to the weirdness of Eden’s Gate, to her doubts. Wondering what exactly led to Cassie’s conversion… She’s being silly, she tells herself time and time again, but something just doesn’t feel right lately. Maybe she’s overeating; seeing connections and red flags where none exists. But, the case remains that no tv, manga, music, or drawing can distract her that night.

There’s still a slight cloud looming over Dahlia when she arrives at the orchard Sunday, ready to taste Debbie’s baked apple goods. The sun is high in sky and the smell of apples lifts her mood slightly; but she finds herself still distracted as she parks her bike.

“Deputy!” Debbie greets her and Dahlia gives the warmest smile she can muster. The older woman’s smile helping lift some of that cloud.

“Hey.”

“Staci’s already here, c’mon, we’ll sit in the market stall,” Debbie gushes bring Dahlia over to the picnic tables that are under the covering; where they first talked about the festival.

Pratt is already there; the smell of baked sugar and apples hits Dahlia’s nose before she even sees the array of food Debbie’s put out. Apple pie, apple dumplings, apple scones, and she’s sure that’s just the beginning.

“Hey dumbass,” Pratt greets her around a mouthful of apple pie as she sits down next to him.

“You couldn’t wait like five minutes?”

“Nope.”

“Ass.”

The deputy’s feedback is predominantly noises of happiness; neither really food critics but happy to be shoving it in their mouths. The gloomy cloud is starting to lift by the time they’ve finished off a pie; cinnamon, sugar, and apples warm on her tongue. Apple dumplings settle warm in her stomach and she forgets why she was ever upset. The scones are munched down next; cream sticking to her fingers and lips as she eats.

“God you’re a mess,” Pratt taunts and she sputters a laugh when she turns to face him.

“You have food in your beard, asshole.”

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and starts wiping at his face.

The stuff their faces for a long while longer; strudel, apple cake, apple cobbler, candy apples, and fritters. Pratt leans back from the table, pressing a hand to his face after a while.

“You alright?” Dahlia asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Debbie is gonna have to roll me out of here at this rate; are you not fuckin’ full yet?”

“…No…” She pauses, before shoving more cobbler and whip cream in her mouth. Debbie and Dough are off rushing to get more goodies.

“Jesus fuck, Rook.”

“You’re just a baby.”

“Shut up,” he leans back away from the table and runs a hand back into his hair, “hey, Rook?”

“Hmm?”

“You ever gonna shoot your shot with Joey?”

“What?!” She chokes on her food, just barely stopping it from flying out of her mouth, where the actual fuck did that come from?

“Your little crush on her, you ever gonna do something about it?”

“Like what?”

“Ask her out, you know, like people do.”

“Yeah…why the fuck would I do that?” She cannot grasp his logic here.

“I don’t know how to explain to you that when people have crushes; they ask the person out.”

“I don’t know how to explain to you that that would be really fucking stupid.”

“Why?”

“Because I already know the answer, there’s no way she’d say yes, and frankly if she did I’d be concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“Yeah, who in their right fuckin’ mind would say yes to me?!”

“So, you wanna act weird around her forever and never deal with it?”

“That was the plan.”

“I’m just saying the sooner you rip the band-aid off, the quicker you can act like a normal person around her.”

Dahlia sighs, she doesn’t want to act like a freak around Hudson for the rest of her life or for her little crush or whatever to get the way of life. Pratt knows more about this crap than her, because everyone does. So, if he’s saying this would help, maybe it would? But, her brain still is struggling.

“But I already know she’s gonna say no, you know she’s gonna say no, literally anyone with a functioning braincell knows she’d say no. So, why would hearing her say no make a difference?”

“Its like closure and shit; I think it’d help.”

“Ugh, just sounds like an excuse to make an idiot out of myself.”

“Compared to the genius you usually are?”

“Fuck off.”

She swallows down a mouthful of strudel before the conversation can continue, but Pratt’s words stick with her. It’s not as if she needed any more on her mind, but she got it anyway. The two continue taste testing for Debbie, though the subject of Hudson never comes up. She’s not sure why Pratt is suddenly so keen on helping her work through her little crush, a friendly gesture, she figures. Maybe her life would be a little easier if she could stop turning into a red-faced mess around the oldest deputy.

It’s late when they finally finish tasting everything; Dahlia giving friendly goodbyes to Pratt and the couple before she goes back home. Her weekend coming to a close with her falling asleep with a stomach full of baked apples.

She’s woken up to her phone ringing; instead of her alarm. Dahlia already knows well that despite shift hours, the nature of their work and the higher level of being deputy means that being called out at odd hours is expected. But her blood runs cold when she sees sheriff Whitehorse is the one calling, something is wrong.

“Sheriff?” She answers, sitting up on the couch.

“Rook; I already called Pratt and Hudson, I want you all at the clinic now! It’s an emergency!”

And that’s all she gets before the call ends. She throws on a uniform and runs out the door, jumping on her motorcycle. Mind racing with each passing second. The hurried and frantic tone in Whitehorse’s voice flaring anxiety inside of her. A million possibilities shooting through her mind as she rides towards the clinic; is it about the wolf? Has there been a murder? Is someone she knows hurt? Could it be an officer?

She’s practically tripping over herself as she climbs off her bike, running into the clinic. The staff is a mess, nurses rushing frantically to attend to someone. Words of transferring, stabilizing, blood transfusion. Something is wrong. Each word swims around her head, but she doesn’t know who they’re talking about. Then she sees Whitehorse, Hudson, and Pratt at the front desk. The three living closer than her.

“What’s wrong?” Dahlia asks running over; all three’s expressions are tense. Pratt shaking his leg, Hudson digging her nails into her arms until her knuckles turn white, and Whitehorse looking a moment away from collapsing.

“It’s Pastor Jerome,” Whitehorse tells her, “someone attacked him.”

“Left for fucking dead,” Hudson interjects, a crack in her voice that Dahlia’s never heard before.

“They’re trying to stabilize him long enough to transfer him to a hospital in Missoula. We need to make sure it stays secure, no telling if whoever did this won’t try to do something again, and we need to be there to ask questions once he’s out of the woods. I don’t want this slipping through the cracks, Jerome’s a good man and he damn well deserves our best effort.”

“Got it,” Dahlia nods in agreement to the sheriffs words.

Images of the man in the priest collar coming to mind. She’s seen him in passing, never a conversation between the two. But she saw him speak with Whitehorse; Pratt implied that both him and Hudson went to Jerome’s church as kids. He means something to them all and that’s clear in just how serious it’s being taken; obvious in how shaken up they all seem to be.

She stands next to Pratt, squeezing his shoulder in an attempt to comfort, wishing she could offer more. He tries to give her a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, too worried about the pastor.

Why would anyone attack him? His church is modest, nearly dying out from everything she’s been told, it wouldn’t make sense to rob him. Hope County has some less than accepting residents; but the idea of a potential hate crime is a hard pill to swallow…

All Dahlia can do is wait with her coworkers, listening to the frantic yells of nurses struggling to save a man’s life. Heart in her throat, anxiety telling her that any second this will become a murder investigation as she watches the hands on a clock ticking away…

#far cry 5 #fc5 #jacob seed #staci pratt #faith seed #uhhh they're the most prevalent this chapter

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mdemontespan1667 · 5 years ago

Text

RULES

DOM BUCKY X SUB PRE-SERUM STEVE (STUCKY) X READER

1940′S AU

SYNOPSIS: STEVIE HAS BEEN A VERY BAD BOY. THERE IS ZERO PLOT HERE. JUST AN EXCUSE TO WRITE SMUT.

WARNINGS: MFM SEX/VAGINAL SEX/ORAL SEX/ANAL SEX/D/s DYNAMICS/THREESOME/ORGASM DENIAL

(Again I apologize about any mistakes. I’m writing with my left hand while my right one is in a cast.)

You knew it as soon as you walked in the door. The scent mixed with the slightly moldy air adding a dusky undertone.

Steve looked up from his drawing book. You could see the graphite and chalk staining his hands.

“How was your shift at the diner.”

“It was fine. How was your day Stevie. Do anything fun.”

He blushed three different shades of red.

“No, no, nothing really.”

His lie had your pussy soaked already. Bucky had better get his ass home soon, you thought.

Setting down your handbag you removed your coat, placing it on the small hook next to Steve’s. Your heels tapped on the worn hardwood floor.

“Are you sure you didn’t do anything fun today Steve,” you asked emphasizing the word fun.

“No, I’ve just been drawing.”

You walked to the threadbare couch.

“Look at me Steve.”

Steve peeked up, brushing his hair from his eyes.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I, I, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. You and Bucky have been edging me all week. I didn’t mean to, really I didn’t. It, it was an accident.”

Your eyebrows rose in question.

“An accident. How do you accidentally jerk yourself off Stevie.”

“I’m really sorry. I know it was wrong, I do.”

“That doesn’t really matter at this point does it.”

You stepped back.

“Stand up. Take your clothes off.”

Steve had just finished removing his shirt when Bucky walked through the door.

“Play time starting already. I thought we’d agreed on waiting until tomorrow.”

“We did,” you bent your head toward Steve, “but little Stevie here decided he didn’t need to follow the rules.”

“What did you do Steve.”

Bucky’s voice was harsh.

“Bucky…”

“I think you’ve lost the privilege of calling me that, don’t you.”

Steve hung his head.

“Yes sir.”

“Answer me Steve. What did you do.”

“I came today.”

Bucky glanced at you.

“Did you give him permission.”

“No I most certainly did not. Little Steve here decided all on his own that he knew what he needed better than we do.”

“I guess we’ll just have to teach him a lesson won’t we sweetheart.”

Your red painted lips curved into a smile.

“I guess we will.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fifteen minutes later Steve was on his knees. Bucky’s hand was tangled in his hair as he slid his cock roughly down Steve’s throat. Steve sputtered, eyes watering when Bucky hit the back of his throat.

“That’s it punk. Take all of it.”

Sitting on the bed, your pussy grew wetter by the minute. After Steve had finished undressing you had removed yours. Your dress, bra, slip and panties littered the floor. You still wore your garterbelt, stockings and heels. It gave you a feeling of power, of authority, and it drove both of them crazy.

Bucky had quickened his pace. Saliva dribbled from the corners of Steve’s mouth. You could tell that he was close.

“My turn.”

Bucky shoved his cock deep one last time before relaxing his grip.

“You heard your Mistress.”

Steve made to get up.

“Oh no little Stevie,” you crooked your finger, “crawl to me.”

You knew the hard floor made it painful for him. If his cock wasn’t rock hard you might have felt bad. Your mouth watered at the sight of it. Steve might be small but his dick was most definitely not. Long and thick, it was a favorite toy of both you and Bucky.

Steve lifted each of your legs in turn, placing them on his narrow shoulders. You scooted closer to the edge of the bed. He kissed the inside of your thighs, slowly moving up until you could feel his breath on you core.

His tongue flicked out, catching the tip of your clit. Steve buried his face in your pussy, licking you with the flat of his tongue. You crossed your legs bringing him closer. His tongue drew circles around your clit, lashing across it sporadically.

“Oh god Stevie. Just like that.”

You rested your hand on the back of his head.

Looking up Bucky had positioned himself in front of you. With a loud moan you opened your mouth. He didn’t hesitate to fill it. While he had been shown Steve a tiny bit of gentleness he showed you none. Bucky grabbed your head, fucking your face almost violently. Steve inserted first one, then two, then three delicate fingers in your cunt, curving them in a search for that perfect spot. When he found it you almost shot off the bed. Between his fingers and mouth and Bucky’s cock shoved down your throat it didn’t take long for your orgasm to overwhelm you. Your legs shook with the intensity.

Bucky pulled out of your mouth. He brought Steve to his feet, kissed your slick from his lips. Bucky dipped into your pussy, getting his fingers wet. He spread the moisture on Steve’s cock, pumping him twice.

Steve’s moans were soft and low.

“I know you want to cum Stevie. But you know the rules. Only good boys get to cum.”

Pointing at the bed Bucky told Steve to lay down. You crawled onto the bed, your head hovering over Steve, ass in the air for Bucky.

Your drawn out mewl filled the room as Bucky glided his cock up and down your slit. After an eternity he pushed in. Your cunt clenched around him.

“She’s so tight Steve. Feels so good.”

Bucky set a brutal pace, pulling out only to slam back in.

Your mouth hovered directly above Steve.

“Don’t cum.”

Your tone of voice was demanding, leaving little room for defiance.

You deepthroated him immediately, small cries coming from his lips.

“How’s that feel punk. You like your mistress sucking you dick.”

Steve only whined.

You stopped what you were doing.

“Bucky asked you a question Steve. You’re already in enough trouble the way it is.”

Steve nodded his head.

“Yes sir, yes, I like my mistress sucking my dick.”

You licked up his shaft, swirling around the head.

“Good boy.”

Bucky continued to fuck you as you teased Steve. Finally the pleasure washed over you in waves. Steve’s cock dropped from your mouth as you hissed through your release.

You collapsed next to Steve, your arm across his chest. Bucky followed, turning you to your side. With ease he slid back into your drenched cunt. Your hand skittered down Steve’s chest. Grasping his cock you worked your hand up and down, catching his moans in your mouth. Like everything he did Steve was an expert at kissing. Your tongue's curled and danced around each other.

By touch you could tell when he was close. Your hand would leave him, making its way to your clit. Gently your finger circled the sensitive and swollen nub while your hips rocked in time to Bucky’s thrusts. After a few minutes you would return to Steve.

This torture went on for what for seemed like hours to Steve. Finally he was reduced to a crying, trembling mess.

“Please may I cum. I’m so sorry. I won’t break the rules again. I promise.”

Steve’s voice was shaky, his control hanging by a thread.

“I don’t know. Bucky, do you think Stevie’s sorry.”

Bucky pulled out, leaned over you. His lips met Steve’s.

“Are you going to behave,” Bucky asked.

“Yes, sir. I promise to behave. I do.”

Bucky sat up. Reaching into the bedside table drawer he grabbed the lube. Methodically his fingers worked Steve’s hole, stretching him. His mouth met Steve’s again, both men hungry in their kiss. Bucky shifted Steve’s right leg up against his chest and slowly pushed in. You cuddled down to Steve’s stomach, taking his dick into your mouth. You and Bucky worked in tandem, in and out, each time bringing Steve closer to the edge. Sweat broke out on Steve’s body as he did his best to hold himself together.

“Are you ready to cum Steve.”

Steve could only nod.

Bucky smiled.

“We need to hear it punk.”

“Ple, please. Sir and mistress, may I cum.”

You and Bucky went faster, driving Steve past his breaking point.

“Cum.”

Steve fell apart. His body quaked with the strength of his orgasm. With a shout Bucky followed. You sucked on Steve’s cock, swallowing every drop of his salty sweet cum.

When the three of you could finally breathe, you snuggled next to Steve, Bucky on the right, you on the left. Fingers intermingled, soft kisses were shared.

“How do you always know Steve.”

Steve’s pulled Bucky’s hand to his mouth, kissed the back.

“I can always tell when the two of you are stressed. It’s my job to take care of you.”

You smiled.

If any one had seen what had just transpired they would have assumed that it was you and Bucky in charge. In reality it was Steve. It was always Steve. He made sure you and Bucky ate, made sure you slept enough. He encouraged the two of you in everything you did. And, when he felt the two of you needed it, he submitted to you, body and soul.

“You’re too good to us Stevie. We really don’t deserve you.”

Your hand snaked down his chest. True to form his cock was hard again.

“May I ride your cock daddy,” you asked shyly.

Steve flashed you a mischievous grin.

“I’m not sure you’ve been a good enough girl. I think you may have missed a drop or two when I came.”

“I promise daddy I’ll clean you all up if let me fuck you. Please.”

Steve smacked you ass.

“Climb on baby girl.”

As you straddled Steve, Bucky made to get up.

“I didn’t say you could leave jerk. I’m fucking you next. Now play with our doll’s clit. I want to see her scream.”

Bucky laid down next to Steve, his thumb already fondling you.

“Yes daddy.”

I’m gonna try this one more time. It’s the principle of the fucking thing at this point.

@atthediscowithoutpanic @the-omni-princess @the-soulofdevil @jennmurawski13 @denisemarieangelina @hysteria87 @lovelybitzz @kilyrasai

@saiyanprincessswanie @ironlady1993 @xoxabs88xox

#stucky #stucky and reader #stucky x reader #d/s #daddy #pre serum steve #pre serum stucky #pre serum stucky and reader #bucky #Bucky Barnes #pre serum steve x bucky x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes and reader

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headspace-hotel · 4 years ago

Text

I love the byproducts that creativity generates and how they cling to those that create and the places where creation happens. Paint on hands and on clothing and thoughtlessly smeared across foreheads and noses. Ink and graphite smudged fingers, pencil shavings, clippings of paper. Notes and annotated outlines. Paper wadded up and tossed aside, paper scribbled with thoughts, sketches and faint grasps at ideas, notebooks in stacks, sticky notes, references scattered on desks and pinned on walls, lists and clumsy half-realized maps.

Doodles and thoughts on every piece of paper you spread in front of you, no matter where you are. Paint and ink under your nails, clinging after you’ve washed them. I found old outlines from an old story jammed in the back of my desk drawer, dull colored pencils, sketches and drawings. I look at the paint stains on my old clothes and can sometimes tell which painting I was working on when I wore this or that oversized t-shirt or old pair of sweatpants cut above the knee into shorts. I pick at the glue I use for collages dried under my nails as I sit in the passenger’s seat of the car.

I love art. I love how generously it touches our lives and how messy and unapologetic it is in coming into being.

The only thing I don’t love is that I have to clean it up...

#art #thoughts #random thoughts #writing #artist #creativity #messy

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pendragonfics · 5 years ago

Text

Little Love

Paring: Piotr Rasputin/Reader

Tags: gender neutral reader, no pronouns used, slice of life, soft, romantic fluff, painting, fluff and hurt/comfort.

Summary: A snapshot into the love between _________, and their boyfriend, Piotr.

Word Count: 1,011

Current Date: 2019-05-16

For: @rebelfinn

There was a warmth that seeped into your skin and warmed your soul. It happened to be the sun, and yes, you had slapped on sunblock before venturing out to bask in its rays. It was that time of the year when the planet was unsure of the season, and it happened often these days. You were always one to jump at an opportunity, and here you are; curled up on a poolside chair on the lawn, a book splayed across your chest as you laze in the warmth.

“I vas vondering where I vould find you.” A familiar voice lilted.

Cracking open an eye, you saw the figure of your boyfriend, commonly known as Colossus, towering over you. He stood in the sun enough that you could look at him without burning the yellow dot into your retina. He was out of defence mode, for once, and wore what most gym rat beefcakes would, except on him, it looked good.

“I wasn’t hiding,” you reply, sitting up a little. “I’m out here to read.”

Piotr nods, and slowly, takes a seat beside you on the grass. It was mown recently, and as he sat, you caught a waft of his cologne, and petrichor. Now your eyes are open, you take a moment to drink in your boyfriend. He’s shaved his stubble, and even though he’s getting used to the new razors you both picked out, there’s still a few nicks on his neck. In his hands, he holds a notebook with blank pages, and a graphite pencil.

“Did you come out to find me, or draw?” you inquire.

Piotr regards you, a smile playing on the edges of his lips. You’d been dating for a half a year now, and still, he was often amused by the things you’d say. But before he says anything, he passes you the notebook, and watches, expectantly. You flip through the pages, the earlier ones you’ve seen before; sketches of staff and students at Professor Xavier’s school, Jubilation’s pet, a couple of landmarks that the last few missions had been near -

“Both, любовь моя.” He says.

The page that your hands linger on, are two small sketches. There’s the lawn chair, positioned from the back, where you can see that Piotr had drawn you with your book tilted toward your eyes, toes bare and legs basking in the heat. The other is what you assume he has imagined, as you don’t remember falling asleep outside; it’s your face, eyes closed, lips agape.

“Oh my - you drew me?” you whisper, quietly, feeling your heart racing. “Piotr, this is…I’ve never had anyone draw me before.”

“Do you like it, Милый?” he asks you.

You nod, but instead of words coming, tears do. “I don’t know why I’m crying, Piotr, this is so nice,” you sniff, moving to hug him tight. “I love you so much.” He stills, and at that, you realise what you said.

“Sweet?” he asks, softly. “Do you mean zat?”

And without even hesitating, you nod, hugging your boyfriend closer. “ навсегда.”

---

The room was quiet, so very quiet that as you looked in, the only noises you could hear were those that Piotr was making himself. The class had left at the end of the school day, and yet, here he sat, bent over his canvas and easel just like you imagined the classical painters to have been like. Except, none of the other painters that were showcased in galleries and museums were made of metal.

Piotr wears his usual clothes, except, his shirt is one of those ones that you’re sure that all painters have; the work shirt. It’s stained, somehow even on the back, with all kinds of colours, smears of acrylics, and washes of watercolours. But it isn’t the shirt or activity that draws you closer to your boyfriend, no.

“There you are,” you breathe softly, crossing the threshold of the art classroom. You’re more of a computer science teacher, in both soft and hardware. It helped, being a technopath. But Piotr, sitting in defence mode, in the empty classroom was not what you thought you’d find, and you approach him slowly. “Sorry to interrupt, love.”

He shakes his head, not looking from the easel. As you draw nearer, you see his brush, and the fury of his hand works at. The paint has dried in layers, the colours leaving bumps, lumps and mounds that Piotr applies more colour to. You’ve never seen him paint with such urgency, and yet, here he is, working harder than anything.

You place a hand on his arm, the one that holds the pallet, and slowly, you watch as his metal reverts to skin. Piotr frowns, and pausing, looks to you. “You were in defence mode again,” you tell him, softly, capturing his gaze with your own. “Is everything okay?”

He pauses, glancing to the canvas. You take it in; it’s of a woman, with a harrowed face, eyes staring through your soul, and mouth agape, as if midscream. You recognise her wispy hair; the last mission that the X-Men had carried out, you, Piotr and Scott had saved her and her family from the crossfire of a demonstration by the Brotherhood.

“I…” he clears his throat. “All I kan see is her, zhen I dream. Her screams…”

You lay your head against his, kissing his temple. “We saved her life, and her children’s. They’re safe, Peet,” You remind him, “we saved the day.”

“But did ve?” he asks.

Slowly, you take the brush from his fingers, the pallet from his hand, and putting them on the bench, you turn to your boyfriend. “We did, that day. And all the other days before that, and right now, I,” you turn his stool from the canvas, where the woman screams into silence, toward you, “I am here to save you.”

“Ты уверен, что?” he asks, unsure.

“Of course,” you tell him, feeling assured, “I’m a superhero, you know.”

“Ah, vell zen.” A small smile spreads across his face, “…I zhink I'm in good hands.”

I don't speak Russian, so I double checked these words on two online dictionaries. If any of these are wrong, grammatically, please tell me!

Милый -- sweet

любовь моя -- my love

навсегда -- forever

Ты уверен, что -- are you sure

#piotr rasputin #Piotr rasputin x reader #Piotr rasputin/reader #colossus #colossus x reader #colossus/reader #X-MEN FANFIC #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #gender neutral reader

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jarry-land · 6 years ago

Text

Bluma Barker and the Treacherous Toy Taker

(This was a short story I did for my creative writing class. I revised it a while ago so may as well post the final draft. If you have any feedback I would love to hear it!)

Tap-tap-tap. A tapping that echoes as far and wide as the room’s walls allow it to. A Tapping from the tip of a fountain pen as it firmly strikes the wooden top of a table. A tapping that remains constant and consistent, like the pulsating urge of a heart. A tapping that prevents the suffocation of silence. And above all, a tapping of impatience and frustration, as if the tapper is unable to do anything else but their namesake.

Officer Bluma Barker taps her pen as she reads her papers. Her table is littered with private documents, elaborate diagrams, and a map of the city. Her eyes dart between them as she scrutinizes the printed words and rudely inked drawings. It appears she is trying to piece all her evidence together to form one simple solution. But she’s having as much success with it as she does with a horseshoe puzzle, both leaving her with a tangled mess.

Barker puts down her pen and sighs. It is 10:30 am at the time she is working in her office. Despite being the head sergeant, her room is rather small and unadorned. She prefers it that way; no embellishes and no distractions. Her walls are painted sky blue, appearing monochrome from the lack of light. She has one narrow window behind her, with shades hanging over it. For reading purposes, she has a small desk lamp with a curvy neck.

Very suddenly, the door creaks open. “Did you forget something?” Barker spoke up sharply. The door closes very swiftly, followed by a soft knock. “You can come in now,” she said. The door opens entirely, revealing officer Tom, dressed in the standard police uniform. His badge gleams faintly on his chest. He looks a little intimidated by her response. “My apologies ma'am...just dropping off some more papers…” He walks up slowly and pulls out a bulky, black binder. She takes it and briefly skims through the binder’s contents. Appearing hesitant to speak, he chimes in quietly, “You’ve been rummaging through those papers all morning... I and the guys think that you should take a break...at least for a little while.”

Barker was about to open her mouth and shred this man a new one. Take a break? There is a city infested with criminals threatening the lives of millions of civilians. It is her and her squadron’s jobs to work day and night to squash any threats to peace. The mere suggestion of a break offends her.

But instead, Barker spun her chair around and faced her window. She opened the shades with her fingers and peered outside. Her office was on the ground level, and the streets were void of anyone. She closed them and turned back to Tom. “Sure, why not. I could use some fresh air. Make sure the others are keeping busy,” she said in a low voice as she got up. Tom let her pass by and followed her on the way out. Outside her door was the main hub, where the other officers work. They were typing on their computers, addressing phone calls, and examining their own paperwork. As if they all had the same thought, they all glanced up at Barker but quickly resumed to their work. Barker neither noticed nor paid mind to them, as she knows they can operate without her supervision. She’s trained them well.

Barker stepped out the police department and into the daylight. Not that there was much of it anyways. The buildings jumble so high up from the ground that the sun never gets to shine downwards. Everything looks pale and washed-out, with the skyscrapers appearing dark at the bottom and light at their tips. Barker strolled along, wearing her mulberry-colored trench coat and pitch-black fedora. She much prefers a shaded attire over the shinier clothing of the police, as hers draw much less attention. Doesn’t really matter right now, as there are very few souls outside. People would rather hide inside than linger in the open and be vulnerable. Anyone that did pass her usually kept their distance, likely out of both fear and awe. Who wouldn’t be impressed by Officer Bluma Barker? The toughest and most tenacious investigator in all of Downtown Dilemma? The one who stopped such heinous criminals like the Shoe Slipper, the Joule Jumper, and the Clockwork Cranker?

She supposes that they look at her like a lion. Intimidating, revered, and steadfast. But they would not want to get too close to a lion, now would they?

Barker turned around the corner and sees her favorite coffee house: Sumptuous Sinkers. She enters the familiar doors and walks toward the front counter. The cashier, dressed in a stained apron and flimsy visor, instantly recognizes Barker and straightens his posture. “A-Afternoon Chief! I assume you want your usual?” he stutters. He appears to be around 19 and just starting the job. Barker gestures with a finger gun, prompting him to clumsily rush to the back. She stands there and takes in the comfy surroundings. Her eyes land on the display of freshly baked donuts, protected by a hard, plastic display glass. This is her and her squadron’s go-to place, whether for a few minutes or an hour.

The cashier came back and, in a soft plastic wrapping, brought her the prized delicacy. A soft, plump, blueberry-filled donut. A very thin coating of sugar sprinkles swaddles it, making it look exceptionally shiny. Its roundness and powderiness rival that of the moon. This isn’t just any standard, factory-produced pastry; this is baking at its finest.

Barker was about to pay when the cashier hands it to her. “Oh please, it’s on the house.” He says with an awkward smile.

“How generous. I assume you just started here?” She replies softly as she takes it.

“Oh well, you know how it goes. Just a temporary job to save up for college and such,” he says, trying to keep his cool. Perhaps he’s a fan. She drops a couple of dollars into the tip mug and sits down by the window. Barker gets comfortable and starts taking small bites into the donut, starting with the outer crust and getting into the pleasurable blue goop. She enjoys savoring it.

As she eats, Barker gazes out the window reflectively. The streets and buildings look sketched with graphite out of a notebook. She’s worked in this city for several years now, knows every nook and cranny, and went toe-to-toe with dozens of baddies. She wonders how much longer will it remain this way. Perhaps forever. She grew up in this city and was completely oblivious to the issues and threats as a child. Until...

As she continued enjoying her donut, Barker notices she’s aligned nearly perfectly with the alleyway across the street. It cuts into the buildings like a deep ravine in the ocean. A common occurrence in the city...though, something looked off. Barker squints her eyes and focuses. The alleyway is nearly pitch-black, but she can make out someone creeping, their clothes flowing ominously. It could be just a drifter...but she’s not really sure. She would rather trust her gut instinct than let it slide. She finished her donut and made her leave.

Conspicuously, she crosses the street and enters the alleyway. The place is devoid of any light. Barker takes out her flashlight and looks around. Just a couple of dumpsters and some rats curiously reading the sprawled newspapers.

“So the mouse has fallen for the bait,” a voice comes from behind her. Barker turns around to face a dimmed figure. The tattered edges of the jacket, the unshaved fuzz on his chin, the bowler hiding his eyes. It was Defunct Detective Daler, once a renowned investigator in Downtown Dilemma now a washout who backstabs both law enforcers and criminals.

“Ha...ha...did I pull you away from your indulgence?” he said amusingly. Barker crosses her arms and sighs annoyingly. She rebuttals, “And are you enjoying your time loitering the streets with nothing to do?” Daler is notorious for being a double-crosser, but Barker finds him to be a waste of time and waste of space. She’s rather unimpressed with his word folly.

“Aw come on, don’t you want some juicy tidbits from your good friend Detective Daler?” He snickers quietly. Barker starts to leave when he adds, “tidbits about the...Toy Taker?” He emphasizes the name. She stops. Is Daler in cahoots with the Toy Taker?

It could be a bluff. She turns her head slightly to see him. “And what would you know about him, you lowlife?”

He wears a smug grin. “More than probably you’ll ever find ou-” Barker swiftly pins him against the wall.

“You better quit wasting my time or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to speak again.” She asserted, agitated with his antics. He didn’t let up his amused expression.

“Oh but Barker...I think you would love to know...that the Toy Taker has his eyes on...a valuable relic being displayed at the Museum of Trifling Trinkets.”

She stared at him for a moment then released him. “It would be too obvious of a heist,” she scoffed.

After collecting himself, Daler turned away and shrugged. “Well, he could already have plans to go tonight. Or maybe he’s going to scour the shop halfway across the city. Or maybe he’s sneaking into an unsuspecting apartment.” He turns away and starts walking slowly to the other side. “Whatever you wish to believe. If you do see him, maybe you can retrieve your precious axolotl…,” he follows that last part with a laugh.

“And maybe you can shut your mout-” Barker turned around steaming when Daler was already gone. How did he get this information? She rubbed her hand on her chin and thought for a moment. This could be another ruse...but Daler has never mentioned the Toy Taker before. She’s had no luck tracking him down, so at this point, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Or it could be a waste of time. What a quandary.

It is now nearly 11 pm in Downtown Dilemma. Barker finds herself in the Museum of Trifling Trinkets. After speaking with the city’s mayor, she got permission to set up a stakeout in the Museum of Trifling Trinkets. She brought some of her squadrons with her and scattered the rest of them in other potential locations. As of now, she waits.

It’s difficult to make out the inside of the museum. The only source of light that breaks the darkness is the moon. Numerous pedestals erect from the ground, holding the namesake of the museum: beloved and antique toys of all sorts and all generations. This museum specializes in toys from given out at restaurants, particularly those from fast food joints. This would seem like an odd choice for an exhibition, but they’re quite valuable due to their rarity and uniqueness in the market. These are the Toy Taker’s favorite choice of theft, making his crimes especially expensive.

Ah yes, the Toy Taker. Insane and absurd, cunning and slippery. He’s only got one thing on his mind: to snatch up as many toys as he can. Doesn’t matter where and doesn’t matter who, if he fancies it, he’ll steal it. His motives are quite muddled; perhaps he never grew out of his youth and desires to preserve it? Or he is an avid, albeit extreme, collector? Maybe he’s a sadist who enjoys watching little kids cry?

What started as a trivial problem became enormous losses for everyone involved. People in Downtown Dilemma like giving their children toys for comfort, or still have their own from days of youth. It’s tough growing up in a city like Downtown Dilemma, and the kids need all they can get. Barker has seen many tearful and devastated young ones, heartbroken over the toy-shaped holes in their hands. All the Toy Taker’s doing.

In her daydreaming from the strain of watching in the dark, Barker nearly lost focus. The museum recently imported a new item: “Robo-Busters Clash n’ Smash Rugged Rover ©.” It’s a little mechanical buggy with a useless claw hanging from its back, perfect condition and all. A perfect target for the Toy Taker’s dirty hands.

...If it was still there at the moment. Barker rubbed her eyes and looked again. The buggy was gone. She was scoping the toy behind a few displays back, but neither heard nor saw any unusual activity. She gestured to one of her officers adjacent to her and he promptly turned on the lights. The entire room lit up, revealing a figure scurrying up the wall and trying to exit through the opened window. One of the officers yelled “Stay where you are!” and all the officers pointed their shotguns at him. It only made the crook squirm faster. One of them fired a bullet; it missed and ricochet off the window, but it was enough to startle the man and knock him onto the floor. Very swiftly, he got onto his feet and dashed into the room behind him. In his fall he dropped a pair “Super Spies’ Guaranteed Sticker Suckers ©.”

Barker ran in pursuit, with the other officers following. She was a jiffy too late, as the crook hopped up on one of the pedestals and smashed the window using his “Beefy Boy Builders’ Real Hammer ©.” Without the need for a command, two officers formed a base for Barker. She hopped on their arms and they hoisted her up. She got through and nearly fell off the paper thin ledge outside. She started scaling the building and faintly heard one of her men cry “Be careful!”

After climbing two stories, Barker gripped onto the roof. She got her footing but nearly slipped on the smooth, limestone-encrusted dome. She could hear someone laughing at her. She has her sights on the culprit: the Toy Taker himself. Looks like Daler wasn’t fibbing.

Compared to Barker, the Taker is twice her height with very lanky limbs. He dons a purple jester outfit, with black spandex pants and long, black-and-white striped socks. His hat has bells sticking out and doubled as a hoodie. His eyes, a dark violet, have dark circles under them. Unshaven and tired, yet diabolical and slimy.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the Taker paces, “Too late Officer Barker. Your ignorance has allowed me to procure my latest prize.” He holds up the buggy in one hand, with a wicked smirk on his face.

“Well there’s nothing stopping me now from pummeling you all the way down to the sewers,” she rolls up one of her sleeves and makes her way to him, trying not to slip. He dances around her teasingly and chuckles. He’s sporting his “Bumble Ballerina’s Buzzing Ballad Shoes ©.”

“Why bother trying? It seems like Barker can’t get her holding.” He comes close and sticks out his foot. She didn’t fall for it but wobbled regardless. “You may think you are helping this city. People may praise you for your heroism. But all you are is a clown who can’t stop a fellow clown like me! Ahahaha!” He sounds pleased with his monologue. “I have way too many gizmos for you to keep up! You can’t do anything! You couldn’t even save your precious axolotl!”

Closed wounds have been ripped once more. Barker’s childhood comes to her mind, whether she wanted to think about it or not. The memories are centered around her favorite plushie: a soft, pink axolotl name Kippy. Her parents gave it to her when she was six. Since she had very few friends as a kid, Kippy became her best one. Since then, she was inseparable from it. They did everything together. Kippy was one thing keeping Barker naive to the chaos of Downtown Dilemma. With him at her side, life was perfect.

And he ripped him away from her.

Like. He Just. Ran past her. And grabbed him. That’s it. Really. Really?? He didn’t use any special tricks?? Was he really that self-assured with stealing a toy from a child in broad daylight?? Disrespectful.

“Ahahaha! That must bring up unpleasant memories. Poor Officer Barker, sad and lonesome without her best friend in the whole wide wor-”

BAM. The Taker was so consumed with his babbling, he did not notice Barker get up and wind up a punch straight to his face. He twisted back and fell over, still gripping firmly onto the buggy. He looks up, his left eye blackened and bleeding.

Barker stands over the Toy Taker, cracking her knuckles. “Well, we wouldn’t be here now if you stole it huh?” Ready to kick your ass?” she spoke fiercely.

Without the Taker’s nab, Barker wouldn’t have made it her goal to beat crime to a bloody pulp, or train day and night to become the strongest officer, or rise in the ranks to become head of the police department. Ironic.

The Taker looked on with distraught under the wrath of the officer, a streak of blood rolling down his cheek. But his smirk came back. “Not quite…,” he busted out his “Angst Kids Gotta-Get-Away Grappling Shot ©” and aimed it at the building behind him. He fired the hook, which seemed modified given its incredibly long rope. He slipped away from her and while in midair, he opened his “Fly High Beginner’s Hang Glider ©” and began soaring. Quite the devious pair of tools.

She wasn’t going to let the Taker steal another t. She couldn’t. Right As he slipped away, Barker took off her hat and aimed carefully. After a moment, she launched it with full force. Her last resort - a reinforced fedora known to knockout if it hits. Witnesses have dubbed this her “New Moon.”

The hat curved like a sharply hit the Taker’s side. It didn't knock him from the grapple, but it did knock off the buggy. The Toy Taker managed to escape, profusely yelling faintly in the distance.

The buggy plummets down to the surface, surely doomed once it hits the unforgiving concrete. Suddenly, a passerby rushes under it and barely catches it in their hands. Right before it went splat.

Some time passes, and the museum owner and more officers are inspecting the crime scene. There was damage to the window, but the buggy’s safety is all that matters right now. The Toy Taker was able to escape, but his heist ultimately failed. After this experience, perhaps Barker can better track the Taker’s shifty movements.

And the person that caught the buggy? The cashier from Sumptuous Sinkers, who happened to be at the right place and right time. After returning the buggy and the commotion died down, Barker privately met the adolescent.

“That was a nice catch earlier, donut boy. What were you doing out so late?”

“Oh heh, thanks...my closing shifts end pretty late. It was nothin’ special, anyone could’ve saved it...,” he folds his arms behind his back.

“Don’t push your merits aside. You did a great job for both the museum and my department,” she told him sincerely.

“G-Gee Officer Barker...it’s an honor for you to say that,” he says flustered yet excited. Yep, definitely a fan.

“Say, it’s a little dangerous out for anyone to be walking out alone. How about an escort?”

“That would be sweet! T-Thanks officer…”

So the two began strolling into the dead of the night, not another person or creature to disturb the moment. The fog envelopes them as they become silhouettes, vanishing like a couple of specters.

“My apologies, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

“It’s Mikey.”

#short story #writing #my writing #Jard's writing #creative writing

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clown-stripe · 4 years ago

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So I refuse to use an easel or a table or anything like that. Preferring instead to just pop a canvas panel or a sturdy book to put watercolor paper on right in my lap, sitting crossed legged while I paint sitting either on the floor or the couch because I am a gremlin and I hate rules

Which means that not only do my hands look like this, but so do my thighs+knees, the inside of my calves, elbows, and stomach (sometimes also the tips of my hair even tho it’s short now??) look like this pretty much all the time depending on how many projects I have going and how much time I dedicate to them during the week

And no...I have not yet learned to stop wearing my ~real clothes~ and I usually have some paint stains on the hems of my shorts and bottom of crop tops. I only JUST now figured out it’s better to just use a tall Tupperware container for my paint water so I don’t accidentally drink it instead of my real drink. One day I will stop being lazy and change into paint clothes before doing this, but for now, it’s quarantine and the only people who will see my paint stained body+clothes are grocery store clerks who probably couldn’t care less about it

Yes, I have tiny paint stains on my dark brown corduroy couch. In fact, you can actually tell which is my favorite spot to sit on because of all the little spots of color around it where I accidentally brush a paint caked hand or elbow against the fabric.

Sometimes I see people in my art groups posting about “let me see your desks/studios/supply organization” and people post these lovely organized spots with like, proper containers and supply drawers and I’m like ???? That’s a real thing? Everything I’ve used lately, including paints+brushes+palettes/watercolor+graphite pencils/alcohol markers/canvas panels+watercolor block+3 different sketch books...have all been sitting in a pile on the chaise for like a month now for easy access lmao. It’s not like I need the space rn while I can’t invite people over to hang out. But still, ADHD is realizing and then being amazed by the fact that most people have a dedicated work space for this sort of thing and don’t just have supplies scattered about their house where they use them the most often.

#I am so messy fr you don’t even know #the other day I felt my eyelid skin sticking when I blinked and I got up to look at wtf was going on #and guess what I see? a somewhat dried and slightly gummy splotch of black acrylic paint on my eyelid lashes and brows #at first I thought it was old mascara that has somehow gotten sticky but then I realized I hadn’t been wearing any for at least a week

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stimtoybox · 6 years ago

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Tangle Mods and Care Guide

I’m putting everything I know into one post I can then link to on the Links Page (where I’ve archived other useful posts) as a one-stop resource. And, yes, this post is over three thousand words long...

Releases

Tangles produced by Tangle Creations have slightly thicker connector pegs and pieces, are smoother, usually have tighter joins and smoother mould lines, and are much sturdier, in my experience. I prefer these over the Zuru Tangles, because while they initially looked and felt similar, the Zuru Tangles don’t hold up to wear as well as the Tangle Creations Tangles. Even when worn loose, these will still hold a coil, and I have few problems with loose pegs. I’ve only broken one Tangle Creations Tangle (two pieces sheared) and this was my very first, very-used Tangle.

Tangle Creations Tangles can usually be found at specialist toy shops, specialist stim toy and therapeutic item shops, and Amazon. They also have the largest range of specialist and therapeutic Tangles.

Zuru Tangles are licensed from Tangle Creations but produced by Zuru. They have slightly thinner pieces and connector pegs, are a bit creakier and plastic-feeling, and are more prone to loose pegs: I’ve already got some, after light use, with pegs that just keep popping out. They’re cheaper than Tangle Creations Tangles and easier to find. Zuru Tangle pieces will connect with Tangle Creations pieces, although the fit might be a little tight or loose.

Zuru Tangles can be found at department stores like K-Mart and Walmart.

Knock-off Tangles, produced by a variety of manufacturers, run the gamut from being recasts of Tangle pieces to new moulds. Some pieces will connect with Zuru or Tangle Creations Tangles, but many won’t. While some are usable immediately (like the HoTangles) most will be so stiff as to be unusable brand-new and will need lubrication. Many will not hold a coil, and they often feel looser and floppier than a well-used branded Tangle. They’re also often significantly lighter and creakier, and it is very common for pieces to not fit flush together but instead have gaps between them. Pegs easily pop out of the sockets. However, these can usually be purchased for $2 USD or less.

Knock-offs are usually found on eBay, Wish and Aliexpress, but also in some dollar shops. There’s a wide range of colour combinations, and even variants—like glow-in-the-dark—not available in either licensed range, but often little or no ability to choose colours.

Under the cut: information on bulking up pegs, taking a Tangle apart, cleaning, lubricating, storage and why I don’t recommend sealants as a fix to chipping Tangle Metallics.

Loose Pegs

If a Tangle starts popping apart—the peg falling free from the socket—the simplest way to improve this is to coat the peg in clear nail polish. This gives the peg a little more grip. PVA glue also works a little, but it will wear away more quickly. I suspect a brush-on varnish or sealant safe for use on plastics will also be suitable. Please note that this isn’t a permanent solution and the coating will need replacing periodically. It also works better on Tangle Creations Tangles, not Zurus or fakes: the fixed Zuru Tangles need refreshing much sooner than my Tangle Creations ones, even under similar use.

Make sure to let the peg dry completely before putting the Tangle back together, and to dry completely between coats if you need to do more than one. This technique won’t work as well if you don’t.

It has been suggested that you could also coat the pegs in a thin layer of thermoplastic, which I have not yet tried. I fear that it’d be difficult to get the layer thin enough to work, and it’s less simple to get the supplies and then use them without prior preparation. While it is imperfect, I find the clear nail polish preferable in terms of ease of use.

Pulling a Tangle Apart / Putting a Tangle Back Together

If you must pull a Tangle apart for lubrication, cleaning or custom Tangle making, and you’re worried about pegs shearing because they won’t easily come apart or clip back together, wrap the Tangle inside a wheat heat bag you’ve warmed in the microwave and leave it for a few minutes. The warmed-up ABS plastic is a little more pliable and less likely to snap.

If you’re trying to fit Zuru pieces to Tangle Creations pieces and they won’t quite fit, this might also help. Warm up both pieces in a heat bag for a few minutes and then try. Same goes for knock-off pieces that almost but don’t quite fit.

Please note that if you connect pieces with the aid of a heat bag because you cannot connect them without the bag, do not pull them apart again without heating the plastic first. Pulling hard on a peg and socket connected this tightly runs a real risk of the peg snapping.

If you don’t have a heat bag, put the Tangle inside a bowl or mug filled with kettle-boiled water and leave to sit for a few minutes. Use tongs or the end of a spoon to fish out the Tangle, and then leave it to sit for a minute or so until it’s cooled enough that you can handle it without burning yourself.

When pulling apart or putting a Tangle back together, try to use steady pulling/pressing motions without twisting or turning, as any sideways moment puts more stress on the pegs.

Please note that knock-off/fake Tangles are usually made from a poorer grade of ABS and are more prone to snapping when being pulled apart or put back together. This is a risk you must be prepared to take when doing so, as you can do everything right and still break your Tangle. I’ve had a fair few pegs break unexpectedly for this reason.

Cleaning / Oil Coating

Because a Tangle is made from ABS plastic, there’s a variety of ways you can clean it:

Wipe over with a baby wipe

Wipe over with a damp cloth

Wash with water and liquid hand soap

Wash with water and dishwashing liquid

Wash with a cloth dunked in water and soap or dishwashing liquid

Rinse under running water

Wipe over with a wet cloth and cream cleanser (for really sticky and dirty Tangles)

A Tangle Jr Fuzzy can be gently rinsed with water or soapy water and left to dry without too much fear of the flocking lifting, if it doesn’t rub or scrape against anything. (I boiled a Fuzzy once and it only lifted the flocking a little, but it didn’t clean it as much as I hoped.) Dust can be removed with a clean, dry, new toothbrush. Unfortunately, once the yellow sections go greyish, this is difficult to reverse. For this reason, I’d store the Fuzzies inside a pouch or container where they cannot be exposed to dust between uses, as this slows (significantly) the discoloration.

(It occurs to me that soaking the dirty Fuzzies in a bowl of laundry enzyme soaker might help, as I’ve used this to clean flocked toys. It doesn’t remove all stains, but it often does improve the toy’s colour.)

Skin cells, oils, dust and fluff will accumulate between the pieces, specially for Tangles used frequently or Tangles that have been lubricated. This forms a slightly tacky greyish dust bunny forming a circle around the peg or caught inside the socket. This can be removed by dipping the end of a cotton bud/q-tip in water, squeezing out the excess and wiping the bud inside the socket and around the peg.

If you want to remove the logo or any other painted design, tea tree oil on a cloth, tissue or cotton bud will do this easily, but don’t get the oil on your skin. Likewise, if there’s anything sticky or gunky on a hard plastic Tangle (or stim toy) that dishwashing soap or clean cleanser won’t remove, or rub marks that won’t come off, or some ink marks, tea tree oil is your best bet for removing these. Rinse the Tangle immediately afterwards.

If using a water-soluble lubricant on your Tangle, any cleaning process may remove it, so be prepared to replace the lubricant if it stiffens up after cleaning.

Zuru Tangles have been arriving with a lubricant or sealant applied, leaving oily, greasy marks on the skin after use as the grease is applied to the whole Tangle. Many stimmers will need to remove this, and if you want to completely strip the Tangle, you’ll need to wash it in dishwashing liquid and water as baby wipes or liquid hand soap do not completely remove it. How well it is removed depends on your washing liquid and the amount you use.

Some Tangles may stiffen up after cleaning and need a replacement lubrication.

Loosening Tangles / Lubrication

If a Tangle is too stiff to easily or comfortably manipulate it, you can lubricate it, and this will be a necessity for many knock-offs.

I’ve used RP7, petroleum jelly and graphite powder; other stimmers have had success with coconut oil and bike chain lubricant. Lubricants designed for use on plastics, like a silicone-based lubricant, will be your safest bet, but I’ve had Tangles lubricated with RP7 for months now and there’s been no damage or deterioration to the Tangle. If you’ve got a lubricant for metal at hand and want to try it, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t (although I wouldn’t use it on Metallic Tangles, the Artist’s Collection Tangles and any Tangle coated in silicone, just to be safe).

None of my lubricated Tangles have needed a second application once lubricated.

I don’t recommend graphite powder because it stains: it works well, but it’ll only be unnoticeable on black Tangles. It also takes considerable effort to work the powder into the peg and socket. Oils and sprays are easier to spray or drip into the joins between pieces. You do this, twist the links to disperse the lubricant, and then move onto the next section, wiping the Tangle over with a damp cloth when done. Spray cans with the fine straw nozzle are easiest to use, but I’ve done this with a regular spray-head, too. If using an oil or spray lubricant, I also recommend using something that is light-coloured or clear to avoid staining on light-coloured Tangles.

My RP7-lubricated Tangles do pick up more black, greasy dust between pegs despite the RP7 being clear.

Additionally, oil and spray lubricants smell. Apply these outside, wearing a mask if necessary, wipe the Tangle clean when done, and leave the Tangle outside for a couple of days to air. I will say that the smell of the RP7 fades to nothing after a couple of weeks.

The most effective and accessible lubricant is clear petroleum jelly, available inexpensively from supermarkets and chemists. Simply open up one piece, dip the connector peg into the jelly until there’s a slight smear of jelly coating the peg, clip it back into place, and repeat for all the pegs. The jelly is scentless, meaning the Tangle is usable immediately, but the danger here is that, unlike the lubricant sprays, it’s very easy to over lubricate, creating a Tangle that won’t stay together. Unless the Tangle is very stiff, you want a smear of jelly verging on the microscopic. Keep in mind that it’s easier to add more jelly than it is to remove too much; you cannot be too safe here.

The downside to petroleum jelly is that you must pull the Tangle apart to apply it, but it has no scent, is perfectly clear, and better resists the greasy dust marks caused by the RP7. I’d use this alone for translucent Tangles, as there’s less risk of discolouration being seen through the Tangle.

You’ll need to dip a cotton bud into rubbing alcohol to completely remove petroleum jelly from the peg and socket if you over apply it. (Be cautious when doing this on Tangles with painted designs or flocking, though!) If you use acetone-containing nail polish remover, rinse the Tangle pieces immediately after application. Don’t use pure/100% acetone, as it can melt and eat away at plastics!

For further reading, please check out the lubricants tag.

Stiffening Tangles / Boiling

Fakes that are too loose to hold a coil, as is common for Tangle knock-offs, are not able to be fixed as far as I know. Most of them arrive like this, even before lubrication, being an unusual mix of too stiff to rotate while also flopping out of a coil. Lubrication tends to worsen this floppiness. Personally, I don’t consider this a huge problem, as it doesn’t stop me from using the Tangle, and I’d much prefer a too-loose Tangle over a too-stiff one, but if you prefer or need stiffer Tangles, I’d avoid knock-off Tangles altogether.

I’ve heard it said that boiling a Tangle worn to looseness will tighten it, but I’ve tried this on a much-used Tangle Creations Tangle and only noticed a marginal difference, to the point that I haven’t bothered trying it again. (The slight increase in stiffness soon wore off after using the Tangle.) This may also run the risk of causing the Tangle to squeak when worked successfully, but I haven’t been able to boil a Tangle tight enough to notice this effect.

If boiling in a pot, make sure the Tangle doesn’t brush against the sides, especially for knock-offs since there’s no way of knowing what the plastic contains. (I wouldn’t use a pot used for food for this job, especially with knock-off Tangles. Who knows what chemicals might leech into the water.) You don’t want to run the risk of anything melting or—more likely—warping. Leave the Tangle whole and clipped together while boiling it, as this way the plastic will loosen and tighten proportionally to the pegs. If you boil it broken up and the boiling causes shrinkage or warping of the socket, the peg may no longer fit inside it once cool.

Tangle Storage

Tossing a Tangle into a bag or pocket won’t be a problem for most not-totally-worn Tangle Creations Tangles, if you’re willing to risk the logo being worn away more quickly than usual. I’d only recommend it for a solid, sturdy Zuru or knock-off Tangle Jr, however. If your Tangle is prone to popping apart, I’d keep it inside its own zip pouch or box, just to keep it from being rubbed against wallet and keys or banged around inside your bag. I’ve noticed that this tossing of the Tangle into my bag hastens the wear of a Tangle already prone to falling apart.

Fuzzies and any of the silicone-covered Tangles (Therapy, Relax Therapy, Tangle Hairy, etc) will collect dust, fluff and lint. Always store them in their own plastic container or zip pouch.

To keep my Fuzzies free of dust, which turns them grey, I house them in this plastic compartment box which allows me to place one Tangle Jr in each compartment. These are usually available in department, craft, camping, fishing stores, and even many dollar shops, although it may be difficult to find a box this large with this many compartments, and some boxes may be designed such that two Tangles have to share a compartment.

Tangles with a metallic coating or printed designs (Artist’s Collection and knock-offs) should be stored so they cannot rub against other Tangles or toys. If they’re being moved around in a portable stim kit or backpack, where they might bang or rub against other toys or personal items, I’d wrap them inside a handkerchief or piece of soft cloth for protection, tucking the loose ends of the cloth inside the coil. Or place them alone inside a cloth drawstring bag or pouch!

Tangles can be attached to a keychain by opening the Tangle and clipping it closed around the split ring or cord, but only do this with a sturdy Tangle that isn’t prone to popping apart. I’ve lost a few Tangles by having these pop open when I was too busy or distracted to notice them fall away from my bag or lanyard. Because knock-offs and Zurus tend to do this easily, I’d only use a Tangle Creations Tangle this way, and even then only a stiffer, newish one.

Sheared Tangle Pieces

If a connector peg breaks, don’t throw out both pieces. You can throw out the piece from which the peg broke off, unless you want to try building up a peg from something like a two-part epoxy putty. (I think for most of us it’s easier just to get a new piece or even a whole new Tangle than to get the putty and shape it into something as tiny and precise as a Tangle piece connector peg, though.)

Save the piece that has the peg broken off in it, because if you own (or have access to a friend or family member with one) a fine drill bit, you can place the piece in a clamp and drill into the broken peg. Done so carefully, the broken peg will pop right out of the slot, meaning you’ve only lost one piece, not two of them. There’s a chance of breaking the piece if you drill too hard, fast or far, but you might be able to save it instead of just throwing it away.

Please note that the clamp may leave scratch marks on the piece. Mine did!

Sealants /Metallic Finishes

The Tangles with metallic finishes (Metallics, Textured Metallics, Sparkles) will scratch and chip, and there is no cheap, quick, simple, easy way to stop this. Thoughtful storage and careful use is the best, most affordable way to minimise this.

The least harmful “easy” way is to coat the Tangle with PVA glue. This won’t damage the Tangle, but it will peel off very easily, to the extent that I believe it a waste of your time and effort to apply the glue. Do not use clear nail polish, as this will wear and chip as well, but it may also turn yellow and I cannot confirm that it won’t peel away the metallic coating underneath. It’s just not designed for sealing large plastic surfaces like a Tangle.

Mod Podge will be the most affordable non-toxic brush-on sealant, but based on my reading, it is likely to crack if there’s any kind of movement, impact or flexing, so I don’t think it’s durable enough for Tangle usage.

I would recommend (not having tried it myself, however) a sealant designed for use on plastics or commonly used for plastics like Mister Super Clear, Warhammer’s Munitorum Varnish, Testor’s Dullcote or Krylon. However, these are expensive to buy, and the spray versions must be used with appropriate respiratory protection, adding to the expense. For this reason, I don’t recommend sealants as a solution, as getting the equipment may far exceed the cost of the Tangle.

If you seal anyway, pull apart the Tangle and seal each piece separately, so the sealant doesn’t crack when you rotate the Tangle. I’d wedge each peg into a block of foam or hold it in a clamp via the peg and then spray or apply a brush-on sealant with a makeup sponge (to avoid the streaking left by a brush). Let pieces dry completely between coats. Depending on your skill, the Tangle may look obviously coated afterwards, and I do not know how these sealants might dull or change the metallic finish.

If you wish to customise a Tangle with painted designs, purchase paints designed for use on plastics, not regular acrylics. I’d look at the Warhammer range as a starting point, because you can get small pots in a large variety of colours. Seal the Tangle afterwards (spray sealants will work best for this) to ensure the paint doesn’t rub off under use.

To lessen the chance of chipping and peeling, spray the Tangle with a coat of sealant before painting on it: this will give the Tangle “tooth” on which the paint can better grip.

#stim toy #stim toys #stim toy how to #stim toy mods #Tangle #Tangle Jr #stim toy cleaning #stim toy care #text #long post #very long post #stimtoybox #extremely long post #stim toy safety #DIY safety #lubricants #sealant

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merigreenleaf · 6 years ago

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AU Tuesday - “Stuck With You” Part 11 (The End)

(A few weeks late with this, but here’s the very last chapter of the Soulmate AU! For AU Tuesday I’ve been writing a multi-part story about all five of my main characters using the prompt: “A [platonic] soulmate AU where you have a black stain where your soulmate is supposed to touch you for the first time and it turns to millions of colors once they do.” The events are all [or mostly] canon to the series; the only real change are the soul-marks. These can really be read in any order because each part pretty much stands on its own. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3,Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10)

——————————

The door burst open and slammed against the wall with enough force to rock the wagon. Adair’s heart and hand jumped, causing his pencil to leave a dark line across his sketchbook. He erased and erased, but the deep gouge remained on the paper after the graphite had gone. If only the correction paint he’d tried to make had worked the way he’d wanted it to! Instead of returning a page or canvas to new, it only turned them invisible, which was even worse than permanent indentations on the page. At least he could draw over a line. He still had no idea where the invisible sketchbook had ended up.

It turned out that the line didn’t matter anyway. Blythe had crossed the room to give Sol a talking down- or possibly a talking up since Sol towered over everyone except his brother- for being reckless about opening the door. Adair sighed and closed his book. Blythe had been the perfect stationary model while she was inventorying seeds, but going into tirade-mode meant she wouldn't return to this until she cooled down. If past experiences were anything to go by, he had about twenty minutes before he'd be able to sketch her again.

Unless he could speed things up by taking away the source of her annoyance? He waved at Sol to get his attention, then winked to tell him that he had a plan. It was hit or miss if Sol would catch on to what a wink meant, but it was worth a try. “Hey, Blade? Sol's just excited because he found my paint. Let him go this time, okay?”

This was a stab in the dark, or at least a stab in a mildly dimmed room. Adair's yellow paint had gone missing from his bag this morning and he was pretty sure it was because his best friend had borrowed it. If any warm color went missing, it was usually in one of Sol's pockets. Sol always intended to return things, so Adair could never be too upset about this. Unfortunately Sol's intentions only lasted a few minutes before he forgot about them.

“I do? Oh! I do have it!” Sol poked through a dozen pockets of his vest before he found the jar and held it up triumphantly. “See, it's just like Addy said. I'm giving him back his paint. Just here for that. Yep, just returning my buddy's paint. That's definitely why I'm here. Giving him back his paint.”

Adair covered his eyes with his hand. At least Sol understood the winking thing now, but his acting really needed work. Etri laughed softly from his spot on the floor next to Adair and leaned over to whisper, “Subtlety will be forever lost on Solei. Watch.”

Blythe muttered an unamused grumble and began checking the wall for damage while Sol stepped past her and headed towards where Etri and Adair sat. Etri nodded once at Adair, then waved his arm in a wide gesture as he said to Sol, “Make the house for yourself.”

A big, toothy grin meant Sol misunderstood his brother’s scrambled idiom. “You want me to build a house? You’ve never let me build a house before! I can do that! I just need some nails and my favorite hammer and some wood and a couple of grapefruits and oh, some paint! Addy, do you have more-”

To Adair's relief over the state of his diminishing paint collection, Blythe closed the door and stopped Sol mid-sentence by talking over him. “I think Etch is inviting you to make yourself at home.”

“Oh! Okay, sure!” Sol missed the sarcasm in her voice just as he’d missed it in Etri’s and he hoisted himself into Dray’s loft bed. There he flopped onto his back with a comfortable sigh.

Now that Sol was safely in a spot that couldn't possibly make any more distracting noises, Adair opened his sketchbook. With Blythe pacing the wagon and muttering to herself, he would just have to switch to drawing Etri. A tornado could touch down next to the wagon and Etri still wouldn't put that book down. If there was one thing Etri was good at, it was being stationary. And if Adair managed to finish this sketch, then Etri would become stationary stationary.

Adair had barely touched the pencil to the paper when Blythe came over and nudged him with her knee, somehow managing to block all of the light coming through the window behind her at the same time his pencil scratched another errant mark. “Do you hear that?”

Adair tucked the pencil behind his ear and gave up for the second time. He should have Sol make him a little ball of light to hover over his head like Sol always had bobbing in the air while he worked on his inventions. Then it wouldn’t matter where Blythe stood or how close he was to the window. He didn't want to ask Sol about the sketchbook line problem, though, because Sol would likely try building a box around him to keep people out. Granted that would solve the problem, but not in the way anyone wanted, which was how most of Sol's ideas played out, now that he thought about it. “Hear what?”

“The hissing, yes?” Etri asked without looking up from his book. From the way he squinted, he could probably use the extra light, too. All the more reason not to put Adair inside a box.

Adair had assumed someone was making tea. Focusing on the sound, though, it wasn’t the familiar kettle and no one had been near the stove.

Blythe walked back and forth across the room as she tried to pinpoint the sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere to the right. “Sol, you didn’t bring a snake in here, did you?”

“No, that is not… I know that sound.” Etri dropped the book into Adair’s lap and jumped to his feet.

The act of being careless about a book worried Adair more than Blythe's pacing. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a snake and he couldn't have been right about the tornado. He wasn’t prone to premonitions. Truth be told, he wasn’t very good at postmonitions either because he never seemed to notice things until long after everyone else did.

Etri took a few steps forward and raised his arms as if grabbing something from the air. “It is-”

A thunderous boom shook the wagon and a storm of feathers and Sol filled the air. While the feathers drifted down like lightly falling snow, Sol went soaring from the bunk and landed heavily with an “oof” on Adair’s makeshift bed.

Blythe knelt next to him and touched his shoulder. “You okay?”

Sol’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but Adair was pretty sure he said, “Note to self: build Addy a futon because that coulda been a bouncier landing.”

Adair wasn’t sure what a futon was, but the last thing he and his fear of heights wanted was something bouncy for a bed. Knowing Sol he’d get overly enthusiastic about it and make it half-trampoline. Adair shuddered at the thought. He’d stick with his mattress on the floor, thank you.

Sol pushed himself up only to be gently pushed back down so Blythe could check him over. “That was fun! Can I do that again? Please please please, Blade?”

“No way. What is it with people setting bedding on fire around here?”

Sol made a face as she helped him sit up. His clothes were a little singed and his goggles sat askew on his forehead, but this wasn't anything out of the ordinary. “I didn’t do that. I mean, I guess I did do that because I was up there, but I didn’t do that do that. I’m pretty sure my bed’s never thrown me out before. Is Dray’s haunted?”

Blythe ignored that question and glanced over at Adair. He held his hands up, pencil in one hand and Etri’s book in the other. “I was sitting right here and you know I don't go up there.”

Etri caught their attention with a slight clearing of his throat and nodded towards the doorway. “No, this was the disaster of someone else.”

Dray shot a glare in his direction and came inside to put one of their red sequined prop bags in the cabinet under what was once their bed. “Technically it wasn’t on fire this time.”

Blythe snorted an unbelieving laugh. “Of course it wasn’t on fire. You completely blew it up!”

“I did no such thing. Heat-boy over there shouldn’t have been in my bed.” Dray tossed their hair over their shoulder and picked up the book that had fallen out of the bed along with Sol. Miraculously it was still in one piece. Adair was more confused as to why Sol was in one piece, though. Was the man made of rubber?

“What kind of idiot keeps explosives in their mattress?” Blythe harangue Dray as she followed them to the door. “If Etch hadn’t been here to stop it, that would have taken out the wall and burned the place down.”

Dray made an ambiguous “hmph” sound and walked out. Blythe slammed the door behind them, exactly the thing she had told Sol a thousand times not to do, and threw her back against it. “I have the most moronic sibling on the planet.”

Dray’s explosive tendencies aside, there was something here that no one else seemed concerned about. Fire couldn't hurt Sol, but still... “Isn’t anyone worried that Sol could of been hurt?”

“Like he doesn’t regularly blow things up himself. He’s fine.” When Sol stood up, Blythe turned her head to the side. “His clothes, not so much. Anyone got a spare pair of pants for him?”

Sol turned in a circle to try to see his own behind. “I thought it felt drafty. Hey, I think I invented new pants! Perfect for warm weather because they’ve got built-in veneration!”

Blythe tied Adair’s blanket around Sol’s waist with an expert knot. This was far from the first time one of them had to throw together makeshift legwear for him. “Ventilation, sweetie. And I don’t think those pants would fly.”

It came as a pleasant surprise when Etri sat close to Adair and wrapped his arm around his waist. Etri had become far more physically affectionate ever since they'd both learned that they had each other's soul-marks and Adair didn't think he'd ever get tired of this.

Too busy reveling in this closeness, Adair missed the perfect opening Blythe had left. Etri beat him to the punch. “I believe the pants flew well on him a moment ago.”

Blythe groaned. “You’ve been around Addy too long. You’re picking up his case of chronic puns.”

Two things Adair loved above all else-- excepting food-- were making jokes and snuggling, so it was with extreme reluctance that he set his sketchbook and Etri’s book aside and stood up. The hurt expression on Etri's face made Adair reach down and run his fingers through his friend's hair. “I’ll be right back. I want to talk to Dray for a sec.”

Etri squeezed his hand for a long moment before letting go of it with a nod. To be honest, Adair wasn't sure how much longer “friend” would be the relevant term for Etri, but that wasn't the friend he was worried about right now.

Blythe stopped him with a hand on his shoulder before he could reach the door. He wasn't a hundred percent sure her touches were platonic, either, but she was harder to read with this than Etri. Adair fully expected her to ask why he wanted to talk to Dray and was gearing up to defend his plan when she said in a low voice, “Tell Dray I’m sorry. I know they’ve learned better than to set fires indoors and this was an accident. It’s just… one of us could have been hurt, you know? Even if Sol's immune, the rest of us aren't.”

Except they were. As a healer Blythe's body healed any injury almost immediately. Fire and heat couldn't hurt Etri any more than it could Sol and he was half intangible half the time anyway. Adair was the only one in the wagon at the time who could have been seriously hurt.

She was worried about him. Adair hugged her tightly to show her that he understood. Blythe wasn't the type to talk about mushy feelings, but when she gave him a quick hug back, he knew he'd guessed right. “It's okay. I'll tell Dray.”

He found Dray sitting on the little porch of the wagon with their legs tucked up under their skirt, ignoring Adair's cat as she batted at their long hair. Their book was opened but equally ignored as it dangled loosely from their hands. They didn’t look up when Adair closed the door and walked the few steps over. “Can I sit with you?”

Dray only shrugged. Adair took this to mean okay, and as he tried to get comfortable on the cold floor, Dray shifted around so that they were facing him. Their makeup was smudged under their right eye and Adair wanted to wipe this away for them. He knew how much Dray hating looking less than perfect and how meticulous they were about their clothes and makeup. Dray was iffy about touch, though, and Adair still hadn't worked up the courage to come close enough to do this. Dray was so skittish sometimes and the last thing Adair wanted to do was scare them off.

The stare was unnerving and too piercing, and Adair got the feeling that Dray had learned this from Blythe years ago, unless it was the other way around. After a long moment where Adair had started to fidget, Dray finally said something. “Well?”

Adair blinked. He’d expected a snide comment as Dray's first words to him after the feather explosion and then Blythe's explosion. “Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to complain at me, too? That’s what Blythe sent you out here for, isn’t it?”

Adair glanced at the door. He didn’t think anyone could hear a conversation through it, so Dray must not have heard her. On the positive side, that meant no one inside could hear what was said out here, which would probably make Dray feel more comfortable. “No. I just wanted to talk to you. Blade did tell me to tell you that she’s sorry for yelling. She was just afraid you could of hurt one of us.”

Dray clutched at their chest and let out a gasp. “Blythe? Apologize for something? Did I stumble into a parallel world and wasn’t aware?”

“No, same world. Unless parallel-Sol also has that habit of losing his pants all the time.”

“I would imagine a Sol in any reality would find excuses not to wear them.” Dray picked at their nails before adding, “Look, I’m sorry about the fireworks. That was a stupid place to store them even if Sol wasn’t going to steal my bed.”

“I was thinking about getting a lock for one of the cabinets to keep it Sol-and-cat-free. You could put things like fireworks in there if you want. That wasn’t why I wanted to talk to you, though.”

Dray raised an eyebrow and tilted their head to the side. When the cat grabbed at their hair again, Dray scooped her up and dropped her into Adair's lap. She wanted no part of this, probably because Adair had no fun things to pounce on, and sauntered away. “Really. Then what was the reason? You four don’t usually make a habit out of casual chats with me.”

That was exactly the thing Adair wanted to talk about and the reason he'd followed Dray out. After some mental waffling about how best to bring this up, he decided to get right to the point. “You’re not going to leave us, right? It’s just… sometimes when you walk out the door it’s like you’re going to keep walking. I don’t want you to leave.”

Dray’s eyebrow shot so high that Adair thought the gold piercing might get stuck in their hair. They opened their mouth to say something, only to immediately close it again. Finally in a small voice they asked, “You want me to stay?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’ve got soul-marks to the others, but even without that I don’t want you to go. I like having you with us.”

Dray was staring at their nails again. Adair had no idea how they managed to keep them so polished and sharp when they were constantly dancing with performance props. That staff alone would have broken Adair’s finger in under five minutes, let alone a nail. Without looking up, Dray said, “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

Adair nodded his head towards the door. “I bet if you asked any of them, they’d agree.”

Dray snorted a laugh that was so very much like Blythe's. If ever Adair had doubted how much time the two of them had spent together, this was the proof.

“I mean it! Blade cares about you a lot even if she’s not really all that good at showing affection. Sol looks at you like you're the most amazing thing he's ever seen and he keeps asking us if we think you’ll let him share an act with you. Etch… okay, he acts like he doesn’t like you, but I’ve seen the way his mouth quirks into a smile when you’re bickering and he thinks you’re not looking. Darned if I know why, but he likes arguing with you.”

Dray’s own lips twitched at that comment. “And you?”

“Well, I definitely don’t want to argue with you or anyone else.”

Dray rolled their eyes. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

Adair grinned and draped his arm across Dray’s shoulders in a sort of small hug. This was the best way he could think of for answering that question and, considering the direction of the conversation, he hoped Dray wouldn't mind.

Dray went stiff for a second or two, then rested their head under Adair’s chin. Their body began to shake and Adair feared Dray was crying-- was the hug really that bad?-- until he realized they were chuckling. This was almost as unnerving because laughing wasn't something Dray did any more often than crying. “And to think that I was jealous of you.”

Adair gaped. What reason would anyone ever have to be jealous of a disaster like him? The only reason he’d ended up here with these carnies was because he’d been too dumb to keep his art from being stolen from under his nose. “What? Me? Why?”

Dray pulled away but wrapped their hand around Adair’s forearm. “Because you’ve known those dorky twins only as long as I have and Blythe much less, yet they all treat you like you’re one of them. I assumed since you were already in with them, that I couldn’t be, so there was no point in trying.”

Now Adair was even more confused. Dray's words didn't match the fact that they were still gently touching his arm. Was Dray upset at him or not?

Dray continued to talk, either not noticing that Adair had no idea what was going on or choosing to ignore that fact. “I wanted to pretend these didn’t matter, that I could go somewhere else. I left once and thought that I could do so again.”

Adair just stared. Somehow his plan to cheer Dray up had turned into … whatever this confession was. And he thought talking to Sol was baffling. “You can’t?”

Dray's hand dropped into Adair's and they used this to turn his arm over. “No. The five of us are all a part of this now. Don’t you see?”

A shifting rainbow covered Adair’s forearm where just minutes ago there had been a long black smudge: crimson flowed into brilliant yellow into forest green into chartreuse into deep indigo and back into crimson.

Adair looked up into Dray’s face, always wreathed by painted red whirls that matched their red lipstick and coat. He did see it now. The yellow was for Sol and his love of light and gold glitter, and his tendency to use up all of Adair's warm color paints. Green for Blythe and her beloved garden that overflowed the wagon and grew on the patio at Adair’s back even in winter. Blue was his own favorite, the color of the sky on a bright summer day and the color that made his heart happy. Indigo, the color of Etri's celestial tattoos and as dark as the ink and the night sky that he loved so much.

This was why his soul-marks were so unlike any he’d seen before meeting his friends. This was why the five of them all had their marks turn into perfect rainbows. The five of them were each other’s soulmates and that was why it felt so right to have them all here with him.

He and Dray were the last piece. Adair squeezed Dray’s hand and a sense of warm belonging filled his heart when Dray squeezed it back. “So you’re not going to leave us?”

Dray scrunched up their nose and stuck out their tongue, making Adair wonder if it meant Dray felt like they belonged, too. Acting silly had to mean that Dray felt comfortable, right? “Of course not. You asked for it and you’re stuck with me now, just like you’re stuck with Blythe’s constant nagging and Sol’s constant lack of clothes and Etri’s constant brooding.”

Adair wouldn't have it any other way. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell Sol that. He’ll think he has to glue us all together.”

————————–

(I’m kind of sad that this story is over because it’s been such a big project for three months. I’m still not sure how a soulmate AU turned into a main project, but it was fun! I think I learned a lot by writing and sharing a chapter each week [err... minus this delayed update] without really outlining in advance, and it was a blast writing from POVs that I don’t use very often. I’m looking forward to working on new short stories now, though! Hopefully ones that are actually short since this one clocked in at 22k words total lol. I’ve already started one about Blythe and Dray and I’ll continue to share stories about these characters fairly regularly, probably once or twice a month. A big thanks to everyone who stuck by me for this all-too-long “Stuck With You” AU journey! <3

Tagging my short story people, although since tags aren’t working I’m probably going to reblog this a few times. I’m proud of finishing something that ended up so many chapters, so I’m hoping people see this. :) As always, if you want to be taken off the list of people I tag when I share stories, let me know. If you want to be added to the list, also let me know. And please definitely do tag me when you share stories and excerpts and things, too! @ageekyreader @lynnafred @the-gay-hufflepuff @firewritten @joshuaorrizonte @writtenhastily @writerlydays @ava-burton-writing @josephmxa @megan-cutler @dragonscanbeplantstoo @alittle-writer @perringwrites @an-author-in-progress @aceduchessdragoness @madmooninc @thatwriternamedvolk @elliot-orion @wchwriter @lady-redshield-writes @shadow-maker @zachdoesawriting @blogherosix @reeseweston @bluemartlet @pen-for-sword @writer-on-time @ravenpuffwriter @forlornraven @siarven @ghostsmooches @worldbuildingwren @toboldlywrite @homesteadhorner @loopyhoopydrabbles @emptymanuscript @dreameronthewind )

#writing #writeblr #soulmate au #au tuesday #au story #short story #unexpected inspiration series #stuck with you story #UI POV: Adair #It's so strange to be done this story after working on it for so long!

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