#gravel or soggy?????

[linguae-romae]

[paranormalglass]

i should make an actual splatsona that looks like me cause the one i say is my sona is just a silly oc with my personality (poor thang got a fucked up personality)

[partycatty]

i’m cranking these out like it’s a full time job

can we get some fluff w johnny where we steal his shirt and he just finds it’s the cutest thing how we practically drown in it

love youuu 💙💙

hehe i wuv him sm

johnny cage > rain

notes: i may not be a skinny queen but swimming in one of his shirts would actually cure me of all ailments forever,.,.., WHY ISNT HE REAL!!!!!!!!! @spacepl4ant

[ masterlist ]

• you and johnny had grown attached since meeting at wu shi academy. sure, you knew about his existence because he's a celebrity, but you had gotten to know johnny as a person as well as his screen persona... not that there was much of a difference.

• regardless, tuesdays were "train til you drop" days, oftentimes fighting or practicing routines for literal hours until you couldn't feel your limbs. everyone dreaded it but knew deep down it was necessary. this particular tuesday just so happened to be raining like crazy.

• you and the boys sparred and swung attacks at each other until the sun set, everyone drenched in sweat and rainwater. you all sat underneath a dense tree. kung lao shook the water from his hair, raiden was wringing out his shirt, kenshi didn't seem to mind too much and johnny was... well, using the rainwater as some kind of strange gel as he slicked his hair back.

• "talk about training your ass off," he groans, stretching his arms. "i can't feel a single part of me." you jab his side, making him whine and swat at you.

• "you complain too much," you wring your hair out onto the grass. "that being said, i'm cold and hungry and tired and i wanna go back to the dorms so i can change."

• "i like your thinking," johnny waves off the group and the two of you skip down the gravel path to the students' sleeping quarters, where your separated but loosely divided rooms held what little items you were allowed to bring with you. it was a common practice to walk around campus together, sometimes even arm in arm as you playfully waltzed down the paths. the other boys gave you a lot of trouble for it, whining about the married couple you pretend to be. neither of you stood up to defend yourselves. if anything, johnny found it a nice idea.

• in truth, you drove him wild. he just split from his ex-wife, someone that wanted to place roots down and slow down in life. but you, you were spontaneous, fun loving, and an absolute firecracker. you set his heart going, and he couldn't help but harbor a little crush on you. he couldn't tell you that, not now anyway, with the tournament coming up he knew better than to put an extra weight on you.

• "earth to superstar—" you groan, waving your hand in his face and shaking him of his thoughts. he hadn't even noticed the two of you were already at your sleeping place, and how you're now half dressed in your undershirt and shorts. "just checked my stuff. i don't have anything clean or decent. guess i'll just be soggy for dinner."

• johnny can't seem to focus when you're in a damp tank top. "bummer."

• you frown. "this is when you offer one of yours."

• his eyes are distant. "my what?"

• "jesus, cage, what's gotten into you?" you playfully punch at his chest, which does little to affect his stance, and slide the door open to his own bed arrangement. bending over and shuffling through his obnoxiously nice luggage bags, you find one of his dress shirts. it's a fiery red with small flame patterns.

• "i didn't say you could go through my stuff," he warns you in a teasing tone, head hovering over your shoulder. "you might find something you won't like in there."

• "please," you puff as you flick the shirt of its wrinkles. "i've seen a few rose toys in my day." he chuckled, turning away for a moment.

• he gives you the decency to change by staring into the corner, shamefully dreaming of what you may look like without anything on. he shakes the thought violently as you let out a sigh of contention with the shirt.

• "i get that you're a big guy, but lord," you mutter, tugging and shifting the shirt on your body. "you're bigger than i thought."

• "that's what sh—" johnny turns around with a smirk that quickly drops to the floor. you were wiggling about trying to make the shirt look like your own, but johnny was just so pleased with how it sat on you as it was. his shoulders were broader, leaving the shirt to swim around your own and expose a good deal of your collarbone. his waist was small, giving you some grace by hugging your hips almost as if it was your own top. in that split moment, johnny ponders if the "you're so hot i got a nosebleed" trope was real, wiping the bottom of his nose.

• "suits you," he pulls himself together abruptly with his award-winning grin, patting your shoulder and careful to avoid making contact with your skin, as badly as he wanted to feel your warmth. "after all this, come by my place and i'll get your own wardrobe after my style, how's that?"

• you scoff with your hands on your hips, shifting your weight to one leg. johnny fights the physical stutter at your chest creeping out of the top. "mister playboy here giving out charities to us poor folk. you don't have to do that, really."

• his voice is deadly serious. "i want to."

• "you're an odd one," you point a finger, sitting onto his bed with crossed legs. you fall silent observing his thousand yard stare, how glassy his gaze seems to be when it falls on you. "why do you look at me like that?"

• "like what?" his mouth is dry, eyes fixated on yours.

• "like you wanna kiss me all the damn time," your answer is teasing, not entirely serious but you don't miss the twitch in his lip at your statement.

• "and if i do?" he's testing the waters, something about you in his clothes is making him more bold than he swore to be.

• his answer makes your heart flutter, not expecting a direct comment like that. it changed the air of the room, and you suddenly feel a little more suffocated and insecure under his analytical stare. "why don't you?"

• "because i'm worried i'll want more. you look great in my clothes, by the way."

[shadow4-1]

Spilled Drinks and Sunsets (Gaz x Reader - SFW Fluff) Part One

(Summary: You and Gaz are heading back to base after a short trip to get some food. Things don't go entirely as planned.)

"Wait, wait, hold up, Gaz. Fuck. The drinks!"

Your hands were cold, slippery and sticky as you tried to right the styrofoam cups in their holder. The brand new rubber mats had an ounce or two of liquid soaking into its square crevices. You had to bend your knees out of the way to avoid knocking over the precarious situation but the car still lurched forward.

"Fuck!" You squeaked.

One of the carefully packaged drinks fell over directly onto your foot. The plastic lid popped off, letting liquid slosh all over your boots. The ice cold liquid wormed its way through the tight lacing and into your sock, making you hiss in discomfort.

"You alrigh?" Gaz mused, no doubt having heard the sound of ice crunch beneath your heel. "Want me to pull off?"

"Yes!"

You grumbled, trying desperately to cling to the remaining drinks as the little sedan bounced around. You couldn't see your surroundings from how you were bent over but you knew you couldn't be far from base. The car shuddered hard, no doubt hitting a pothole, before slowing to a halt. From your position you could hear the roadside gravel beneath the tires.

"Here." Gaz put the car in park before reaching over the center console. 

His large, agile hands had no issue in scooping up the soggy holder. You were always jealous at his physical ease and this moment was no exception. You huffed, unlocking the door and kicking it open. The cool, spring air was a welcome reprieve to your flustered cheeks. You stood for the first time in over an hour.

It wasn't quite dusk yet, so there was enough light to assess the damage. You clicked your tongue. Of course you had to spill your drink in the goddamn rental. You looked down at your foot and winced. Your white sock was soaking wet and stained brown from the iced tea you'd wanted to try. You grumbled and frowned and huffed. For good measure you kicked at an ancient beer can half crushed and buried under stones. It rolled and skittered away, leaving you feeling no better than before.

"Feel better?" He mused from his position in the driver's seat. He seemed to take an impish enjoyment from your outburst.

As if on cue, the sopping recycled cardboard drink holder gave out in his hands. It crumpled in half, all of the remaining drinks fell in on each other. Two of the lids popped off. One drink spilled over Gaz's jeans while the other fell between his legs. You winced at the wet crunch of the ice and styrofoam crumbling from the impact. 

For a moment everything was still.

Then Gaz's entire body scrunched up. His expression twisted in shock and discomfort, giving him a look that you rarely, if ever got to see. Despite your mood, and despite yourself, you couldn't help but laugh. You put a hand to your mouth to try to hide your amusement but it didn't help. Your team member's usually relaxed gaze slightly hardened into something akin to annoyance before softening.

"Karma." He muttered, shrugging his shoulders.

It seemed the movement was all he needed to break himself out of his shocked state. He placed the remaining two drinks in the clean passenger seat. Deciding that you should help him with cleanup, you moved to the driver's side. The area of highway the two of you had pulled off onto was completely empty, just brushland for as long as your eye could see. You checked for oncoming cars. Nothing. 

"Here, let me-"

Before you could open the door Gaz did. He unclipped his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Once again, you found yourself jealous of the man. How come he got to have gorgeous long legs? How come you were stuck with chubby little short ones in comparison? You stepped back, letting him get out. Wetness and ice tumbled from his thighs and then down into the gravel. He tried to brush the extra away but most of it had melted into the fabric of his pants.

You couldn't help but giggle again. Yes, it was childish. But it certainly looked like Price's favorite boy had pissed his pants.

Gaz stepped off to the side, trying to do what he could to clean himself, but it was to no avail. With no napkins-

"Wait!" You opened the backseat and low and behold, the takeaway still sat pretty on the leather. You dove into the white bags, grasping at plastic, shaking the cellophane. Eventually you felt it. You smiled, pulling out a sizeable wad of white napkins spotted with a scant amount of grease. 

Once again, nimble hands stole away your belongings. You were tempted to reach your head down and nip at his perfect finger tips. He was too quick, and began to dab at the material of his jeans. It was helping marginally, but you also knew he was going to waste all the napkins if he kept at it.

"Hey!" You huffed. "Give me some!"

You tried to snatch a few away but he easily evaded you. He didn't even look up! You kicked at his old sneakers to get his attention but again he ignored you. You growled and moved back around the car. 

You opened the door to assess the damage. Luckily everything was in the mats. You grabbed the rubber material and pulled it out of the car. After a couple of shakes it was relatively clean if not a tad damp. You stacked the empty cups together and frowned. The drinks had been some kind of alcoholic cocktail tea you'd picked up at a hole in the wall restaurant. They were supposed to be treats for the guys considering the piss poor assignment you'd all just got out of. Well, now they had Chinese food and no drinks.

"Relax, Care." Gaz sighed, seemingly reading your mind. He stopped dabbing at his pants to finally spare you a glance through the body of the open car. "We've been through worse. I doubt a couple of spilled coolers'll make them love us any less."

Something about his comment made you sputter.

"How many survived?" He asked.

"Excuse me?"

"There's two left, right?" He shrugged, crumpling up the napkins and stuffing them into his back pocket. 

You eyed the drinks perched politely on top of the passenger seat. Indeed. There were two left out of the five you had originally. You huffed and nodded at him. 

He leaned into the car and grabbed one of the cups before popping the lid off. He raised one of his brows at you. 

"Really Gaz?" You frowned, crossing your arms. 

"Well, 'f we drink 'm now the boys'll be none the wiser." He smiled. You hated that you loved how beautifully perfect his teeth were. "We c' just say we forgot th' drinks."

"That's lying!" 

"Oh, come off it now, miss goody-two-shoes." He laughed.

You gawked at him. "Me? A goody-two-shoes? Have you even looked in the mirror, Kyle?"

His easy smile turned into something a little more pointed. He leaned an arm over the top of the sedan and easily gazed down at you across it. His dark brown eyes narrowed in pure amusement. 

"We both know the mirror loves me."

And with that he began to chug down as much of his drink as possible. You watched him with an odd sort of intrigue. Judging by how his nose crinkled up as he drank you knew the alcohol content had to be pretty high. You glanced down at the other drink sitting where you once did. The dark liquid inside it seemed to tease you.

You licked your lips. It'd been a couple hours since you drank anything. You glanced up. Gaz was still drinking in earnest. Wetness spilled from the corner of his lips and down the curve of his sloped jaw. You licked your lips again, suddenly very thirsty.

You followed suit. You uncapped the cup and put it to your lips. The rim was thick and you found yourself nibbling on the styrofoam for a second before finally daring to taste the alcohol. It was pretty damn strong, but something about the minty tea it was partnered with soothed the burn. It was a weird taste but not wholly unpleasant. You didn't find it difficult to chug the whole thing down, but about halfway you stopped to catch your breath.

Out of the corner of your eye you caught Gaz staring. His lips were wet, glinting in the last rays of the evening sun. You turned back to your drink. You didn't stop guzzling until the ice chips turned clear.

"Pretty good, yeah?"

You nodded, tongue cold, wet and sticky. You passed him the cup over the top of the car and he stacked all of them together. He placed everything back into the ruined drink holder before scooting it into the backseat. As he organized everything you couldn't help but glance up at the sky. What had once been a gorgeous, blue sky dappled in clouds had turned orange and purple. The sun was dipping faster than you'd noticed.

"Alright, let's go." Gaz patted at the car to get your attention.

"Wait. How far are we from base?"

"Mm, like...twenty kilometers?" He raised his brow again. "Why?"

"What time do we need to get back by?" You asked, still enjoying the sight of the horizon's colors changing. If you had to guess sunset was less than ten minutes away.

"I told Price we'd be back by ten, but we decided to come back earlier with food." He said. "What're you proposing, Care?"

"Well I..." You gave out a long, breathy sigh. "Not gonna lie, after that last mission, I...I'm just happy to be seein' the sun again. I was hoping we could just, I don't know. Sit here for a minute?"

A long moment of silence passed between the two of you. You broke your gaze free from the sky to look at him. The last of the yellow light cast gold highlights across his bronze skin. For a second you got lost in the softness of his eyelashes but immediately brought yourself back down to Earth. Your stomach lurched, suddenly feeling tight and warm. The alcohol was hitting you faster as it'd been hours since you'd eaten. At least, you tried to blame your feelings on that.

"Nevermind. Forget it, let's jus-"

"Hey, it's alright." Gaz stopped you, shutting his car door. He made eye contact with you and held it. "Let's just...exist for a minute. Yeah?"

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. You nodded and closed your door. Gaz ushered you around the front of the car. You followed him. He grabbed your arm and offered himself as leverage so you could pull yourself up on the hood of the car. It was a bit awkward but it'd do for the next few minutes. Gaz leaned up against the car's grill. The two of you gazed up at the quickly fading sunset to just enjoy a moment of well earned peace.

(To Be Continued)

[milksuu]

Glitter & Leather | Hiccup x Fairy!Reader

Pairings: Hiccup 'Horrendous’ Haddock III x fairy!fem!reader

Content/Warnings: None

Contains: Fluff & Foul Fairy Language

a/n: couldn't help but be inspired by a few mythical!reader fics. also, I have a current obsession with faitytale themes at the moment. might be a part 2 soon!

“My, aren’t you a teeny human?”

There was a squeak in a grove of mossy timber trees, laden with flower beds and fists-full of sprouted grass. Standing one mushroom cap high, you tip-toed across a linen wrapped around a cooing newborn, existing with eyes still closed. It was an unlucky fate that the child was weak, unwanted, and left to the cruel hand of nature. However, it was to your fortune that this child would be the exchange for your promised gift. 

“My king will be so happy when I return with you,” you said, dancing giddily, ”and then, I’ll finally have my wings. Won’t that be a dream?”

Your pitter-pattering and mousy meeps stirred the babe, and its sniffling turned into wails that even cotton balls in your ears wouldn’t muffle. 

“Stop crying!” You stomped and slapped your pointed ears shut. “You should be happy to live as a servant for all eternity, instead of dying.”

The child responded with more tears than one could imagine. It flung its blubby hands forward, grasping you tightly, flailing you about. It bonked you left and right, tither and hither, and every space in between. When it smushed you across its blubbering face, you gasped on the dollops of tears soaking your entire head. 

You coughed and spat on the salty taste. “Let go of me you soggy lump!”

Your own cries were meaningless. The child held tighter, and you feared your bones would become miniscule mounds of white dust and glitter. With a defeated sigh, you cleared your throat, and hummed a sweet tune beloved and true in the Seelie court. A song of merriment, dancing, and feasting. Gradually, the baby's cries dwindled to waning breaths, until its own exhaustion tucked it back to sleep.

Wiggling and prying, you popped out from its weakened hold. Drained yourself, you fell to your hands and knees on the child. The shawl beneath was soft and inviting, and a nap sounded pleasant before your trip back to the kingdom. Amid your droning thoughts, the sobs and cries of a human echoed through the morning mist. It was not that of a baby, nor a child, but of a woman. 

You turned your head to peek at the baby's cherub features. “Looks like they want to keep you after all.”

You hung your chin low, contemplating snatching the child away before the naked eye could see. The terrible sobs and desperate crunching of distant gravel grew like roots in your chest, entangling your heart in thorns.

“Oh, for the love bee’s and poppy seeds,” you huffed and pointed a finger at his wet nose. “I’m sparing you today, but when we meet again, I will be taking you with me.”

With an indignant ‘hmph’ you hopped down to the grass bed below, scurrying behind a rock with fungus growing all over. Your lashes blinked when the human woman sprang into view. Throwing herself to the ground, she crawled on aching hands and knees to fetch the tiny bundle. Cradling the babe close, she whispered choked apologies and words of affection in endless rivers.

There was a flutter in your heart, and the tiniest lift to your lips. Although you would not get your wings today, in this moment you thought, sparing the child was a present better to give, than to receive.

⋆ ˖ ⁺ ‧ ₊ ⚜⎯⎯☾ ༻♔༺ ☽⎯⎯ ⚜₊ ‧ ⁺ ˖ ⋆

Twenty-years later…

Between the aged timber greens and soft patches of wildflowers, grew a new flourish of apple blossoms. The orchard became your hiding place and home, since you hadn’t returned to the fairy realm for all these years. You swore an oath not to return until you were able to complete your task; the shame if you came back empty handed would be too much to bare. Your king wasn’t fond of failure.

Nothing less than success was expected from his own daughter, after all.

Stepping out of your mushroom cottage made for one, you decided to search for a fallen apple for breakfast. Thinking you heard one drop south of your home, you ventured, pushing away blades of grass. You came upon one, red and shapely. There was never a dull moment in your world, and you arm wrestled an centipede and all its legs to claim it. As the crowned victor, you stuck out your tongue to its retreating form. 

The ground thundered, shaking the pebbles and dirt at your feet. You pressed yourself against the fruit, wrapping your arms around it, hoping to hide. The creature loomed just above you, and you felt the apple move. Hoisted into the air, your trembling body went with it. You clamped your mouth shut, withholding any sound. 

“Eh, is that a worm?”

You felt a thumb and finger pinch your clothes, plucking you off. You squealed, throwing your fists into the air.

“How dare you call me a worm!” 

You stared squarely at the face of the human boy you recognized. Knowing this made your blood steam hotter than boiled water.

“O-Oh Gods, not a worm, definitely not a worm, more like a…” he spoke windily, and your scowl deepened as his green eyes squinted further. “Tiny person?”

“Fairy person,” you corrected indignantly.

“Right, this is kinda strange, I thought you'd have wings at least,” he mumbled to himself, rolling your body around in his hand like a bag of marbles. “Is this even real? I wonder if I’m dreaming.”

“I am real. Now let go of me,” you squirmed, steam blowing from your ears, “you overgrown human baby!”

“Are all fairies always this…” he paused, finding the right words to say through his tight lips. “Pleasant?”

“I was pleasant enough to let you go when you were nothing more than a drooling glob of pink pudding,” your voice chirped to the highest octave. “You no good, wasp loving, dirty hare footed, son of a cricket—Ugh!”

“Listen, my name’s Hiccup, and not any of those other words you just called me. I mean, do I even want to know what they all meant? They can’t be good where you come from.”

“You’ll get no apologies from me. You made the mistake of finding me and handling me like a brute,” you said, wrestling the thumb of his finger. “I made a promise back then, whenever we should meet again, you would be coming with me.”

“Trust me, I can tell you, we’ve never met before,” he said, furrowing his brows. “I would've remembered. Especially since you’re, well, not even human.”

“Do I have explain everything to you? I found you when you were left here once by your mo–” you stopped short of his earnest gaze. It was apparent he had no clue in the matter. You hummed with frustration. “Oh! Forget it. Your fate has been sealed, and I have you exactly where I want you, flat-footed oaf Hiccup.”

He raised an eyebrow at your struggling form, and a blush came over you. “D-Don’t look at me like that. I’ve fought fleas more intimidating than you. Horseradish! I’ve even fought nasty toads and escaped out of one's belly once.”

“You realize you’re no taller than my left pinky, right?” He grinned at your fluster. “Tell you what, you tell me your name, and I’ll let you go.”

“If you must know, it’s Y/N,” you mumbled, puffing out your cheeks and crossing your arms. “Not that it’ll matter for long, anyway.”

“Huh, why do you say that?”

“Because you’ll be fast asleep soon,” you spoke plainly.

He wrinkled his nose, drawing his curious features closer. “What do you mean by that? I don’t even feel–”

You popped your hands out, blowing a thick layer of sparkling dust. He sneezed against the twinkling cloud, and after a mystifying blink of his eyes, they rolled back to meet the dreamlands behind them. You were about to commemorate your victory, till his form swayed and staggered. The onslaught of wind pulled at your cheeks, lashes, hair and ears. You feared you would need a whole new face. You squealed at the top of your thimble lungs, plummeting to the earth along with him. 

There was a rumble and shake when the boy hit the ground. Your lithe form bounced and flopped around like a blind caterpillar on the leathers of his chest. Still tumbling, you struggled to catch a buckle, holding on for a deer’s life. When the gravel and quakes settled, along with your thumping heart, you stood on your wobbly legs. 

“I…I did it,” you gasped, seeking to catch your breath. “Ahem! I mean, of course, I did. I’ve been preparing for this moment all along.”

Padding around, you minded your balance with the rise and falls of his chest. 

“I’ll admit, you grew from a tiny mush of jelly to be quite handsome, but too bad for you,” you said, wagging a haughty finger. “I’m not interested in taller men. Not only that, I’m far more invested in turning you in for my wings and finally claiming my recognition.”

With a hum, you tapped your lips with your fingertips, “Question is, now, is my magic strong enough to carry you. It would’ve been much easier if you were still a littler one. I’ll need to eat lots of honey if I’m able to pull this off—but bees can be so stingy.”

Begrudgingly, you admitted you didn't prepare this far; after twenty-years no less! You had all the spells in place to capture the boy, but then, it was foolish to think he would simply follow you as a willing hostage. During your pestering thoughts and plans, the earth shook as violently as it did before. You heard calls and shouts, ‘Hiccup! Where are you?’ rumbling through the leaves and woods. You pulled at your strands of glossy hair.

“Good grief!” you moaned and whined. You wondered how many friends and family this single human had, to fervently search for him, whenever you were so close to securing him. 

Pacing absentmindedly, and with a kick of your barefoot against a buckle, you sucked on the pain of your toe. Gathering yourself, you hotly stomped to meet his face. 

“This won’t be the last time we meet,” you muttered, poking and prodding his skin, “and I’ll take something precious from you just to make sure of that.” 

Scrambling, you searched through whatever pockets, nooks and crevices you could find. A medallion caught your eye. Although faded by time, it possessed an essence of sentimental value. You grinned at the luck, but it evaporated when the earthquakes surmounted. Dragging it close, you shuffled your feet, scaling the hill of his shoulder pad, and down the long ramp of his arm. With a hop, you scurried to hide behind the apple he had dropped earlier. 

“Hiccup!” You heard a feminine voice. “You’re sleeping out here, really?”

You felt the grass sway and shift as he groaned and twitched awake. Leaning, you peaked from your hiding spot.

“Astrid?” He asked groggily, rubbing the sleep powder from his face. “What…What’re you doing here?”

“I should be asking you that,” the blonde laughed, helping him rise and steady his feet. “Did you forget about our afternoon flight?”

“Of course not,” he said, waving his hands in front of him. “I was just…I think I saw a fairy.”

Astrid pursed her lips before chuckling and slapping his shoulder.

“That’s a good one. I’ll have to use it if I ever forget about something.”

“I swear, I didn’t forget,” he flushed, walking away with her. “I actually did see one. I even talked to it!”

“Uh-huh, sure you did.”

With banter and laughs, the two left your sight, disappearing beyond the berry bushes and apple blossoms. When the world quieted, you slumped down, pulling your knees against your chest. Resting your head in its comforts, you sighed, ready for your own afternoon nap.

To catch a human—no, to catch this human—was going to take a lot of work.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Walk It Off

[How Dewdrop's vessel wound up at the abbey. Mentions of alcohol/drinking/being drunk] Below the cut.

Somehow, the thing he remembers the most from that night is the rain.

The way the heavy droplets smacked against him without mercy, drenching him from head to toe, filling his shoes with water, and how the ground seemed to rise up to meet him time and time again; Between the mud and the beer, he might have gotten further on hands and knees than trying to stumble around like a fool.

But he had to do it.

He had to walk, because...

The bartender took his keys, but it didn't matter, because some asshole had already towed his car.

And his friends.

His friends were gone.

He's not sure why, just that they said...

They'd said...

"Walk it off."

They'd said, "Walk it off, man."

Walk it off.

Yeah.

Yeah, sure, walk it off.

To this day, Dew's not entirely sure how he managed to get so far from the bar.

How or when sidewalk turned to gravel, then dirt...

It's a blur.

The night plays out in black and white, a wash of gray that is only broken here and there by flashes of blue, and the occasional brushstroke of green as he tunneled his way through the soft leaves of reborn trees.

Spring.

It was spring.

He knows that much.

Fuckin' all the pollen.

All the fuckin' sticker bushes starting to bloom, snagging his clothes.

His head had spun at the overwhelming smell of fresh pine, and his fingers and palms had grown painfully scuffed and uncomfortably sticky, for every time he faltered as he walked, he leaned upon the trees, and their bark was unkind.

At some point, the trees gave way, and that's when he fell.

As a child, he'd taken a roll down a hill or two, had had his fair share of grass in his teeth, but that night, he hit the earth with the entire force of his being.

Rocks seemed eager to punch up at his body, to bruise his skin, and sticks were poised to stab and pull at the rest of him.

The only respite from the barrage; The bottom of the hill, and the soggy clover that cooled his head, rattling forth the first sober thought his mind could utter forth...

"Walk it off."

Walk it off.

Who had said that to him?

What was the context?

Had he picked a fight again and been told off, or were his friends trying to sober him up in the rain?

Even now he isn't sure.

But it was enough to get him to push himself up onto his knees, which had complained then -and still do, every time it rains- from the ache inflicted upon them.

And that's when he saw it.

A warm, yellow light.

Distant, but so, so, so very welcoming.

Like the first glimpse of home on the horizon.

Had he cried then?

His face numb from the cold, shoulders trembling.

Had he cried?

It gets fuzzy here.

Dew isn't sure if he stood or if he crawled.

If the distance was covered in seconds, or if he struggled more, but the moment he reached for the light...

It all went black.

...And then white.

And then there was only sound.

A cacophony of noise that was sometimes words, but also not, and never made sense, and yet always did.

Eventually, it wasn't only sound or monochrome, it was... a hand on his forehead.

Large and warm.

A calloused thumb that brushed over his cheek, making him wince as it glided over a sore spot, and then it was...

"Hello."

[rabbiteclair]

upon rewatching it again I must concede that Everything Everywhere All At Once has one flaw: they never show a scene at the end where Waymond from the original universe tries to figure out why his fanny pack is full of soggy aquarium gravel

[btower3689]

You Are Sheol . 1

Sheol, do you remember being born?

No, not that time. Not the time you’re thinking about. Humans cannot remember being born that way. Some people claim they can, but the hardware required to remember is not present in the brains of newborn infants. Birth is a misery best forgotten by offspring and life givers alike anyways. Even if you were “here” as a 6 pound cocoon of flesh, it’s not like you had any sense of awareness. It’s not like you were you. 

No, you know that’s not that I’m talking about. 

Do you remember becoming real? 

Can you remember the rain?

Well, I need you to remember. 

Try to remember.

Yes, there you go. Let’s paint this scene together. 

It starts as a speck of water on the chilled glass of a window pane. 

Your inquisitive eyes linger on it for just a moment too long, and as it begins to droop and tumble down the glass, your little finger traces its path. 

Water. 

There is then another drop of water, and soon after many more follow. They paint transparent lines down the window, steadily building a gentle rhythm. 

Rump thump thump 

Rump thump thump

Pitter patter

Trickle

A muted song fills your ears as the rain becomes more confident. 

You stare out the window and watch the droplets stain the dusty gravel road. Its dry crimson soaks into a deeper red. The trees buckle and shake in the increasing winds. They bob their heads like excited rockers at a concert, their branches clashing like unkempt hair speckled in sweat. 

Swooning howls cut through the air as the clouds blend and fold over themselves, becoming congested and swollen with darkness. 

You sit with your cheek pressed against the window, in the living room of a house that is nearly as old as the trees that surround it. As the wind challenges the warped foundation and deteriorating roof, you begin to realize for the first time that you are very small compared to the shell that you are contained within. 

Is it strange to be enclosed by something so big and so old, when you are so small and so young? 

This feeling is a stranger to you, yet it greets you with familiarity, as if you are still a fetus in your mother’s womb. This womb is colder though, and makes no effort to protect you. There is nothing that will stop it from collapsing on you. 

Your eyes trace a crack in the wall, exposed from the peeling 70s style wallpaper. It leads up towards a part of the ceiling that has become pregnant with water. The nearly pleasant stench of soggy wood permeates the room. A family of droplets splashes against the brown hardwood floor. 

There is a cold that lays on your skin. You hadn’t noticed it before. It crept up on you so subtly that by the time you felt it, discomfort had accompanied it. You shuffle back away from the window and look out into the storm, now realizing all together that you are alone in this big house. You are alone and you won’t know what to do if the storm gets too angry and blows the house away. 

What would happen if those dominating winds targeted you instead of the dilapidated shingles? 

Do you know? 

Now there is something about the window that makes you hesitate, a distant uncanniness of suddenly understanding that there is danger outside. But the spectacle the storm produces is magnificent to behold. It is for this reason that you cannot bring yourself to look away. 

White light. 

BOW then CRASH the sound of shattered glass. 

You crumble to the ground, vibrating with a rhythm so fast, your heart is a kick drum beating in presto. 

Your stare out the window to see that an old tree in the front yard has been decimated. In its fury it fell atop a rusted out car that was sitting a few feet away. 

The car's roof is now a spoon that quickly pools with rain water. It’s windshield has become an abstract painting. The wind laughs with amusement at its achievement. 

Your exasperated breaths continue to pump your chest. 

TINK!-BVVV!

The room goes dark. 

You shakily lift yourself off the ground to find the light switch to the lamp that stands to your left. The window provides a conservative amount of light, but the hallway is bathed in darkness. 

Mysterious darkness. 

You stand on your tiptoes, reaching upwards towards the switch. You are too short to get it. You are a helpless thing. Even if you could reach the lightswitch it wouldn’t save you, the storm cut all the power to the house. 

A feeble whine escapes you as panic starts to creep up your spine. 

The wind moans in response, beckoning the house to creak as if conversing with you. 

Another white light, and then after about five or six seconds… BOW-!

You’re starting to understand the pattern now, yet the rumbling of the impact still surprises you every time. 

You do not know why you looked down the hallway. With all the chaos happening in front of you, there is no real explanation for why you decided to look behind you. Perhaps it is this new feeling that you’ve developed in these last five seconds. You do not know what this feeling is called. You will one day learn that it is known as ”anxiety”. 

There is something so alluring about the mystery of the dark, something that flirts with you, convinces you against your better judgment to be consumed by it. 

As your eyes stare deep into the uncanny darkness, you know you see a something. Perhaps a human shaped something, perhaps not. It stands taller than you, watching you without movement. 

A flash of white light illuminates the hallway through the small frosted windows of the wooden front door. 

There is a person standing there. 

They are draped in long flowing black fabrics that reach down to the floor. They resemble a mix of silk and velvety suede. It seems the darkness of the hallway wasn’t quite as dark as initially believed. Rather, this person’s clothes are creating the illusion of a deeper darkness. This contrasts starkly with their milky white hair that almost seems to float in the air, as if this person is submerged in water. Illuminated as if under a black light. 

You are frozen with fear, realizing now that this person is standing in front of your only exit. There is no indication of intention. You do not know whether or not this person is dangerous, and that is almost more uncomfortable than if you did know. 

BOW!

You fall to your knees again, another cry escaping you as your eyes begin to leak. Your cheeks radiate heat. 

When you look towards the hallway again, you can no longer see the person through your blurry tear soaked vision. Yet you feel an overwhelming cryptic presence looming behind you. 

You turn your head to see the person standing no more than a couple feet behind you, staring silently down at you like a wild hawk.  Their gaze permeates through you, not only observing you but watching you with such acute intensity that it feels like they could see your thoughts if they peered any harder. Their eyes are the color of the hottest shade of fire, an ocean speckled in perhaps millions of shades of mystifying blues, some of which have never been seen by human eyes before. Their stare is unnaturally intimate and visible through the antagonizing darkness. 

Their flowing white hair looks more like bioluminescent silk when you take a closer look at it. It is sprinkled in pale flecks of light that shimmer like stars. It falls to their shoulders with beautiful delicacy, framing their pale cheeks with a perfect femininity. Their hair nearly matches the hue of their skin, an unnatural white that has no reaction to the light or darkness around it. 

There is a large expanse of something writhing through the air behind them, fluttering and flexing in unnatural, uncanny ways. When you glance at it, your eyes refuse to understand what you’re looking at. 

There are about 33 seconds that elapse wherein you and this stranger do nothing but stare at each other. They almost seem as bewildered to see you as you are to see them, you both stand frozen like deer in headlights. 

You could never know how many thoughts circled through their mind in those moments. You are so small! So very young! What a helpless feeble thing, hardly yet a child! Hardly yet a thing! Awoken no more than a moment ago! A human baby bundled in material and flesh! How could such a thing happen? Why would such a thing happen? 

“Be not afraid,” a calm, gentle voice rings through your mind. An ambiguous voice that carries a nurturing compassion you have never known. Their lips do not move, yet their eyes show that they are addressing you. Their intense, powerful stare has now softened into kind patience. 

Your fear has simmered. Their presence is warm and radiant and embraces you like sunlight. Yet still, they are a stranger, and you cannot make sense of them, whatever they are. 

They lay a gentle hand on your cheek as a delicate smile graces their face. Tears, which look more like beads of glass fall from their eyes. 

Their smile then fades into a somber expression that carries a melancholy that you cannot understand. 

“You do not remember, do you?”

You hesitantly shake your head. It is a paradoxical question. You do not have any memories to be remembered. Today is your first day. 

The person exhales through their nose, not quite chuckling, as if they find something mildly funny about that. 

“Would you like to remember?” 

Then, they place their hands at either side of your head, staring deep into your eyes with intimate focus. Your foreheads touch and you feel something warm enter your skin. As you stare into this person’s infinite gaze, you feel as though their melancholy has leaked into you. You place your hand on your chest as it feels heavy and fragile, you are compelled to cry, yet these tears are not your own. 

There is a perplexing nostalgia for something that washes over you, something that you’ve never had. A distant dream or a misplaced memory that never truly existed. Something that is just out of your reach, like the beginnings of a sneeze that refuses to manifest, tickling you, but never quite becoming you. 

ChK-ChK- Click!

The doorknob of the front door jiggles. There is then a moment of shuffling before the door creaks loudly as a man begins to step into the hallway. A gust of cold air runs into the darkness in the form of a frosty white fog. 

With an unnatural speed, the person before you rises from his knees and looks at the man standing in the hallway unzipping his jacket and groaning bitterly at the cold. 

Their energy immediately shifts. They go dark and quiet as an intense horror bleeds into their expression. They look back at you, and then back at the man. 

You hear a loud and uncomfortable static fill your ears as the person takes you by the hand and quietly leads you towards the kitchen, out of sight of the hallway. 

The man agitatedly rubs his ear, and stumbles into the hall, slightly tripping over his wet boots as he kicks them off onto the floor. 

“Sheol!” He calls into the darkness. 

That’s right, you are Sheol. You recognize this voice as your father’s. 

The person stares deep into you. Their expression is serious. They do not need to use words for you to understand that you must not respond to your fathers calls. Rather, the person quietly leads you through the kitchen and down the hall to the right where your bedroom can be found. 

You quietly crack the door open, you’re sure not to agitate the old hinges.

Your room is lined in gray carpet. There is nothing on the gray walls. There are no toys. 

The person kneels down to you again. Their comforting presence distracts you from your confusion. They put their hands in yours and smile softly. 

“You are going to climb out the window,” they whisper, again with unmoving lips. 

You look out your bedroom window to see that the rain has subtly shifted to light snow. You cannot tell how high up you are, but looking down gives you butterflies. 

You shake your head with a fearful frown and begin to suck on your thumb. 

The person then nods and caresses your hair. 

“I know it’s very scary,” they start, “I will protect you and you will be safe. It is not safe here anymore.”

You whine, and murmur something. 

“No. Cold.”

The person glances knowingly out the window. 

“Yes… it is… I’m sorry.”

You hear your father starting down the hallway, his heavy steps smacking against the hardwood floor. He continues to call your name with increasing agitation. 

You look up at the person. Perhaps it is your childish naivety that makes you so trusting. 

You walk over to the closet where you find your sandals. They are blue and green with light up bottoms, gifted to you by a woman that knew your father in some way or another. You slip them on your feet, taking a painstaking amount of time to fasten the buckles. 

The person takes your hand and rushes you towards the window where they pry it open and help you up on the ledge. You stare down at the ground with fear and cling to the frame. 

The wind is now antagonizing you, slapping your cold cheeks with no remorse. The tops of your ears go red. Your nose quickly fills with snot that drips down your face. 

You whine again as you try to find a way down, but the decision is promptly made for you when you slip on the wet windowsill and fall to the ground with a hard thud. You land on your side and roll a couple times into the lightly powdered grass. 

The wind is knocked out of you. When you sit up to assess your injuries, a helpless cry escapes you. Your hot tears thaw your frosty skin. You hyperventilate as you wipe your eyes with your cold hands. 

The person is nowhere to be found, not in your room or in the front yard. The snow is beginning to fall with such severity that it’s hard to see anything around you. 

You stand from the ground and begin to walk down the pathway that was created from your father’s truck as he pulled into the driveway. You do not know where you are going. 

The wind bothers you, laughing as you wander aimlessly down the road. Your fingers have become stiff and slow. You do not have pockets to put them in. Your toes soon go numb. As you kick through increasing depths of snow you learn that the cold has the tendency to burn like fire. Soon it pains you to walk for very long.

You look back behind you, considering returning to the house. But the snow has quickly covered your tracks and obscured any identifiable landmarks. You are surrounded by layers of thick white snow. The sun is hidden behind enormous clouds that determinedly erupt with ice rain. 

You go to take another step, but trip over your sandals, tumbling into the snow and starting to cry again. Oh you poor thing, so miserable and lost.

You are so cold. It hurts more than any pain you’ve ever known. You begin to shiver and whimper. Panic greets you again. You are going to die. 

This is the first time the word has ever made sense to you. You can die. 

It is now, Sheol, that you have come alive. Just birthed from the womb of mortality, and like all births, this is painful. You are now alive because you know you can die.

Like the grass and leaves that shrink and wither in the cold, you too will return to the Earth. You, lost little thing, just barely roused to life, you can die. You are going to die. 

You stand again, and continue into the thick brush of the woods, abandoning your sandals that faintly shine a series of colorful patterns through the snow. 

Will you die?

[kpforpresident]

CMBYN

Summer 1983

///

The summer night Clarke met Lexa was hot and syrupy, with sunlight streaming in thick buttery ribbons through the dappled olive trees that dotted the Griffin’s family villa. Clarke had boarded the hours-long flight with her parents every May for as long as she could remember, spending their summers in the northern tip of Italy so that her father could spend the long days studying languages and history and archeology, so far from their home outside of Boston. Clarke and Abby good-naturedly came along for the months in the sun, surrounded by the heavily laden fruit trees and long hot days. Abby was able to spend the long months away from her co-owned medical practice due to her senior standing, Clarke afforded flexibility through her private school leniency and natural ability to excel despite missing the last month of school since she could walk.

Clarke and Raven had been sitting on the edge of the warm terracotta roof, legs swinging idly over the edge of the gutters as a shiny green car pulled up to the front of the house, gravel spattering beneath its wheels. Clarke and Raven exchanged a long-suffering glance as the car slowed, and then stopped, a shadowy figure peering out of the back window with their face obscured by the hot sum beaming onto the glass. Raven, Clarke’s summer friend of many years, had watched with half-baked amusement every summer as another wide-eyed young Ph.D. student had climbed out of similar hired cars, mouths agape and eyes shining as they drank in the sight of the imposing villa, ready to spend their summer soaking in the Italian sunshine and collaborating with Mr. Griffin on a variety of archeological subjects of varying degrees of vague interest to Clarke. 

Clarke turned to Raven, prepared to make another joke about spending another summer listening to the pretentious drivel of yet another soggy white man when the car door opened hesitantly, revealing the slender ankle of someone who was most definitely not a man. A slim hand rose to shield light green eyes as the woman tilted her head up to gaze at the villa, shiny brown hair glimmering over a freckled dotted shoulder. Jake and Abby burst from the battered wooden door hand in hand, the mystery woman revealing a perfect set of white teeth as she set down a small suitcase to warmly shake their hands. The three then head into the cool tiled interior of the villa, her bag in Jake’s right hand as he ushers her in.

A quiet cackle burst from Raven’s mouth as she observed the slightly vacant expression on Clarke’s face as she greedily drank in the sight of her father’s newest protegee. 

“Oh C, you are well and truly fucked.”

[ameagrice]

Reflecting Light

Once the annual Reaping has passed, and summer rolls out, Winter is the next toughest part of the year—another season of survival. Fortunately, best friend Treech knows exactly how to brighten up the stormy days.

Treech X Lamina | The Hunger Games

IT’S RAINING, just as it was the day she met him. The clouds are so thick you could just reach up and eat them—they do nothing to quell the rumbling in Lamina’s stomach; unfortunately, tesserae doesn’t do much to quell an appetite.

School’s out for the day—mostly everyone has left, besides the few troublemakers that still roam the halls, trying to escape detention. Perhaps, to them, Lamina looks the same. Or at least she hopes she does; it might keep them off her back. She watches as they jostle around by the door, trying to shove one another out into the heavy rain, thunder rumbling every few seconds. They laugh and shout as boys typically do, the way her cousins do when she sees them.

The sound of new footsteps growing closer prompts Lamina into action, turning her head. Newly-cut hair tickles her neck, but it’s forgotten quickly when Treech’s sharp, cheeky grin comes into sight.

“Thank goodness,” Lamina pushed herself off of the wall. “I was starting to think you were going to ditch me.”

“Ditch you?” He gasped, as though it were a crime worth the punishment of a hanging. “How dare you think so lowly of me.” He swung a heavy arm around her neck, pulling her along to the door where the boys are still shouting. As it always does, her heart speeds up ever so slightly at the chance of an altercation, but it doesn’t matter now that Treech is here—he’s popular within the small school.

She grimaces as the first few drops hit her face, and then all at once as Treech throws them out into the weather, at its mercy. Its cold texture shocks her at first, but Treech just laughs, as if there could be nothing better in the world than to be exposed to the elements, feeling life itself. Perhaps, though she’d only realised it now, he always had been that way.

“Oh—no, let’s go back inside—” she tries, resisting against his hold. “We’ll wait the rain out.”

He’s stronger than he looks, she’s always said so. Tall, firm around the shoulders when he swings her over his shoulder. In this last year of school, it’s like he’s shot up at a thousand miles a second. Lamina yells in surprise, protesting.

“Don’t be a baby,” he calls. “What’s a bit of rain?”

“What will your mother say?” She rolls her eyes playfully, “when you return home with ruined clothes?”

“Not much!” He bounces down the steps of the building, Lamina jostling at his shoulder. She can’t help the laugh that escapes. Treech’s hand on her ankle, just over her boot, holds tighter on the last, steepest step, the other hand he has raised to her hip holding her there.

This isn’t helping the accusations she thinks to herself, flexing her hand against Treech’s neck. My mother will never let this go.

Another part of her brain whispers, do you want her to?

No. She isn’t sure she does.

She’s shaken to life when he suddenly leans forward, hands releasing her. Lamina’s boots crunch the gravel and stones. They’re on the Main Street now, through the town. And she’s drenched from head to toe. A glance up at Treech shows her that he is, too. What were this morning dirt-brown curls, shiny and soft, are now flat against his head like a wet dog, his jacket dripping water. He still beams at her, and snatches her hand.

“Come on, then!” He calls, yanking her into a run with him. “I got something for you!”

She pants with exertion, trying to keep up with him. He doesn’t let go of her hand, warming it up. “Like what?” She manages. They fly past people on their work breaks, sitting outside their stores. They fly past the peacekeepers patrolling, who simply follow herself and Treech with calculating eyes. They shoot past the barbed-wire fences separating the soggy, dirty woodlands from the town, and the people working out there, axes coming down every few seconds, the people slick with rain and sweat.

She tries not to think of the future. Of what will be for her and Treech in only five months. A torturous summer, a lifetime of work. Another Reaping. If they can make it this final Reaping without being called up, they’ll be safe for the rest of their lives. Just let them turn eighteen, after the Reaping. They’ve been lucky since the Reapings started, just before they turned seven years of age. Luck has been on their side, mostly. Ten years, no calling their names.

Lamina hopes with all her heart, so hard, that it physically aches.

Treech finds a spot just behind a building due for demolition in a couple of weeks. There are no peacekeepers this far out of town, there’s nobody this far out of town, especially not in this weather. You’d have to be insane, she thinks.

“What is it?” Lamina’s brows raise, staring Treech down. His own eyebrows jump, a sly little grin coming to his face; it fits him well. Tanned hands dig around in the pockets of his pants, until finally he pulls out a small, white package.

“What is this?” She snickers, in a way she only does around Treech and her family. “Some sort of deal?”

“Only just,” he shrugs his shoulders, gesturing for her hands. She holds them out without question—trust came easily between them. He tipped the package until two little things fell into her palm.

Her eyes wide, Lamina can’t believe it. “No. Way. But—how did you get these?” The two small, wrapped candies are a delicacy she only had the luxury of tasting once, in a memory before the war, before the first games.

He winked. “Well now, I can’t go ‘round just telling anybody the tricks of the trade, can I?”

She rolled her eyes, a smile betraying her, and moved to pull her hand away. Treech’s larger one shot out, clasping hers closed around the candy.

“What, changed your mind?”

“Don’t I get a reward for my hard work?” He asks, not shy in the slightest.

She scoffs loudly, shoving him away softly. “My presence is enough, don’t you think?”

They sit, knees knocking in the rain, eating stolen candies.

Anything for one another.

Summer comes around much too quickly. School ends, the weather ramps up and sooner rather than later, the days are scorching.

Lamina knows, this is where things begin to head downhill.

Working in the woods is torture, in the heat. Peacekeepers guard the place, and have it surrounded. No breaks are to be taken unless they say so. Her skin is burned and sore before she knows it, and she hasn’t talked to her friends even once in the last two months. The shifts are exhausting, and prompt no want to so much as visit anybody quickly. It’s tedious, tiring work, but she becomes quick with an axe before she knows it, as if it was second nature. There’s always the fear of striking herself, something she tries to not think of before bed at night. But it never comes.

The Reaping is approaching. Only a matter of weeks away. And she prays to whatever is up there, whoever it is that her grandmother prays to, also, that she will be kept safe and granted this final wish.

Two months after the start of working long days, Lamina finally catches a glimpse of Treech. He’s just a few yards away, swinging that axe into the base of a tree with another guy on the opposite side of it. Under the unforgiving sun, his tan skin shines with sweat. He’s built up more muscle than he had at school, but the little amount of food everyone receives even after working isn’t enough to build up the way anyone should in District 7.

A peacekeeper notices she’s stopped working, and yells, jabbing her in the neck with the end of his gun. The altercation causes people to look and stare, until she raises her axe on sore arms and brings it down once more, splitting wood over and over again. People go back to work, but she slows ever so slightly, looking to her left.

Treech, dark-eyed, sleeves rolled up, watching.

He looks away before she can smile.

Reaping day comes around.

And the world comes crashing down.

Her name, the mayor calls.

Treech’s name, last.

He doesn’t look her in the eyes.

She can’t stop the crying.

She can’t believe their luck.

Or rather, lack thereof.

It happens quickly.

A long trip to the Capitol, embarrassed on live television. A capture in a zoo enclosure. A mentor in red shows up for one of the tributes, a Lucy Gray Baird. Where is Lamina’s tribute, she wonders? What about Treech’s? Don’t they care?

It’s the first night in the zoo that he talks to her.

“I’m sorry.”

The whisper comes when everyone else is asleep, the zoo empty of visitors, the night cooler than it gets in the district.

Lamina turns her head, aching on concrete. At her side, Treech is watching her. She’d been watching the starry sky, wondering if it would be the last time she saw them ever. Who knew; maybe she could win this thing.

Her eyes burn with tears again, throat closing up. And she nods.

“It’s okay.”

He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it.

“I’ve got your back, alright? You can trust me.”

They meet with their mentors the next day. Treech has a girl who is soft-spoken and almost kind. Lamina gets a harsh boy, who smugly states, “You will win, Lamina.”

But not for her sake.

She can’t stop crying in there, either, under the judging gaze of her mentor, who runs through a list of everything she can do to win this game, including a detailed plan of which tributes to take out first—Dill, an ill girl who coughs through the night; Wovey, she’s young, an easy target. And then the ones to look out for—Treech, he says, but she knows he won’t touch her; Coral, who has been eyeing her up already, looking for her weak points.

They’re led back to the zoo straight after the meeting. Visitors come and go—Lamina almost wished they’d stay, and make the day last longer, to avoid the games tomorrow morning.

On the edge of sleep, she can’t quite grasp what is is that’s happening when peacekeepers burst into the zoo and demand they get in the truck. Panic strikes her so firmly in the face that Treech has to pull her along into the vehicle, by the hand, like they’re back in school.

They’re shown the arena they are due to fight to the death in from tomorrow morning. It’s huge, and she tries the best she can to take in all the places she could hide—there aren’t many. It’s one big, open space. She feels more hopeless and desperate than ever.

“Hey—lumberjack,” the girl—Coral, Lamina remembers her as—calls over to Treech. “Come here.”

Treech nods his head over to her. “Lamina—”

“No. Just you,” Coral says firmly. She eyes Lamina up and down. “Just you.”

And now she wants to scream. Wants to tear down the arena inch by inch with nothing but her hands, even if they bleed. Wants to shoot the peacekeepers away, wants to pull Treech back to her and demand he doesn’t let her go.

But, wishes aren’t granted when you’re from the districts. She should have been used to it by now.

People are watching them when Treech abandons her, walking over the Coral.

That’s when the bombing starts.

‘Rebels’ she hears a peacekeeper cry. The arena begins to fall to pieces and she can’t believe her eyes. Dust, fire and sparks fly up from everywhere, making it hard to breathe. The dirt in her eyes stings and burns, and she stumbles for a second, rocks and pieces of rubble hitting her skin, hurting her. She can’t see anyone, but she hears him.

“Lamina?”

It’s a loud, terrified shout of her name, and it hurts her a little bit more.

Treech shouts again, less sure this time. In a way, she’s glad he’s worried. On the other hand, she’s just as scared for him. At least he isn’t dead.

Someone picks her up from the floor with such vigor that it makes her dizzy, still unable to see. People are shouting and crying all around. All she does is hope the person pulling her along is someone good.

It’s a peacekeeper. He shoves her back into the wagon, falling into Dill, one of the other girls. One by one, the tributes are rounded up again, and taken back to the zoo. Treech is the last to be put on the wagon, heaving for breath. He blinks wide-eyed at Lamina, wiping his hands across his face, trying to get as much dirt off as he can.

She’s hurt. Physically, it’s easy to deal with the pain. More than once she’s fallen in the woods and had more splinters than she can count stuck in her hands. But emotionally, she’s scared. Treech has willingly offered himself up to another group—an alliance, she wants to call it, without a second thought. They’re supposed to be partners—if not district partners, at least friends.

That night, Treech sleeps away from her, on the other side of the pen.

And in the morning, when the games begin, he doesn’t talk to her. She cries the whole way to the arena, trying to hold it all inside, but she’s loud. Reaper, one of the boys, keeps glancing over at her, and she’s terrified. He’s sizing her up for the kill, she knows he is. He’s bigger than her, a lot stronger, and he hasn’t shown one bit of weakness this whole time. Coral grins cruelly when she meets Lamina’s eye, and again in the arena, when the countdown begins.

The bell rings, signally the start of the end. It’s a bloodbath already, but a sudden determination has struck her. She will not die here. There’s a small axe relatively close, at the bottom of the pile of rubble the others are climbing up, striking one another for the best weapon. She’s trying to ignore the district 2 boy, hanging from a rafter. Is he still alive? She’s not sure. Maybe he escaped last night in the bombing—she didn’t see him back at the zoo.

She’s got her weapon, and she gets out of there, climbing a broken beam all the way to the top. There’s a good vantage point up here, where she can watch the other tributes, the whole arena, and see who’s coming.

It’s a long, slow game.

Up from her height, she watches people die, just glad it’s not her. It’s awful to see, of course, but she thinks the more that go already, the more chance she has of getting home. They’ve all noticed her, sitting and watching, but nobody has approached, not yet. She keeps note of Treech guiding his little group away from her where he can, and wishes she could laugh. He’s abandoned her, left her to fend for herself, but tries in his own way to help.

Whatever was the point?

A day passes, and then the night, and before she knows it, she’s tired, thirsty and starving. Nobody has sent anything yet. Nothing at all to anybody.

But plenty have died.

Eventually, when she thinks she might be safe, Coral comes for her. Mizzen, a small, skinny boy, comes from one side, climbing up, and Coral the other, approaching her like a trapped animal. Treech and another boy watch from below.

She tries her best.

She hopes her family know that. She really, really fought to the end.

When Coral strikes her the first time, she’s stolen of breath. Lamina drops her axe, her heart plummeting in shock. This can’t be happening, surely? This isn’t the end, right? Treech wouldn’t leave her up for the kill, would he?

Oh, but he would. Lamina gasps, trying not to scream. Her betrayed eyes drop down to Treech as her hand shakes violently, trying to push down on her bleeding stomach, punctured from Coral’s weapon. Treech has turned pale, his eyes so wide, looking at her and away, at her and away.

Coral strikes her again, in the chest this time, and Lamina shouts, her whole body weak and shaking. Coral pushes her off the edge of where she thought she found safety, and she plummets toward the ground, dizzy and tired.

It doesn’t take long.

Her last thought belongs to Treech.

for @lofhdfn who requested the Treech and Lamina fic :)

‘It doesn’t take long’ hurt me icl. It took a while to get this out, I rewrote it a couple of times but I think I’m fairly happy with it, now. This is more of an interpretation story, I didn’t want to make anything too set in stone in case it didn’t go well or didn’t work with things I planned while writing it. I did take a bit out, but I tried to include as much angst as I could while still showing how they cared for one another.

[ridreamir]

May I request a TASM!Peter Parker x Reader fic,??

Feel free to do anything,,, if you're familiar with the Prowler,,, could the reader be a Prowler or smthng,? It's fine if not, I enjoy your work :D

Warnings: I put swearwords :( Oh and slang. Not 100% accurate to the movies mind you...

.

.

ORANGE COUNTY, NY. The last train stop before entering the New York metropolitan area. Geographically? Not far. Enough to be an inconveniencing commute, but quieter, greener. It's that time of the year, when light showers waft in from the warming ocean, the sky patchy and swirling with paint strokes that occasionally break, revealing clear blue skies. Airplanes disappear into those huge blooms of white and storming grey, airliners headed out and disappearing over the Atlantic.

Orange County, NY, was the northernmost entrance into The Big Apple. And for a broke nobody like you? It's not like it's hard to catch a train, after all. In fact, when the tracks pass right through your backyard, it couldn't be easier. This place used to be a factory warehouse, after all.

They're nothing like you see in the movies, though. No huge glass industrial windows and concrete floors. This was, in all actuality, a glorified steel tent in a vaguely rectangular boxy shape. The ceiling leaked onto the gravel floors, and the entire place reeked of mildew, not to mention the draft. Oh, the draft.

But it did its job, and it housed your stuff. As in your hammock, and your backpack, and your sleeping bag... Now that you've thought about it, being low maintenance has its perks.

And stashed in the one good corner of the building was a plastic tote bin. Good for keeping any extras, the kind that'd suck to lose, but wouldn't be impossible to live without. Water-damaged comics, some bottled water, a can of cold, soggy barbecue beans... The backups. The comics really didn't do you any justice. Nor did the papers. No, when entering the Villain's evil lair, usually it looked like you'd imagine in the picture shows. The gorgeous open spaces, the rows of gadgets and gizmos that would cost a fortune! A fortune! To create, let alone maintain. But here you were. Not a villain draped in black. Well, no, your suit had black on it, but that was to keep a low profile. And because who wants to wear neon yellow on a stealth mission? Oh, also, not rich, and did you mention the not-a-villain part? Yeah, no, not necessarily the big scourge of NY. As in vigilante. Nameless. On the prowl, or something like that. You do chump work for free hot dogs and kisses from grannies, or whatever. Or at least you did, before that hot-shot fucker hero of the city SPIDER-MAN swooped in just as you were about to intercept a purse thief and roundhouse kicked you in the stomach! Yeah! Not good for PR! Suddenly all eyes were on fucking you!

The goal was to pop in and pop out, make some cash by emptying some loser petty criminal's pockets, who was maybe probably also strapped for cash but hey, they asked for it! The goal was NOT to end up plastered all over the city in your torn and run-down trench coat 'n ski mask throwing hands with FUCKING SPIDER-MAN.

It might not have been the most morally upstanding business, but when you're sneaking into the back of run-down pizza joints just to take a pat-down bath in decently warm-ish water that came out of fifty-year-old lead pipes, you take what you can get!

And that Spider, Man, fucking SPIDER-MAN, who's oh so loved by the people is a fucking sham! A fraud! How do you know? Because he started out just like you! He wasn't a good guy, not some hero, he was just some guy in a suit who did what he could. The people just looooved that, they ate it right up! But heaven forbid he share the streets with anyone, nooooo, not looking out for the little guys, are we Mr. Big-Shot?!

Thank god you've got a local white boy brainiac to buy you hotdogs and hide you in his apartment for five minutes because by god the cops have been on your ASS.

SO YEAH. Yeah. No apologies from Spider-SHAM. No apologies from them wanted criminal ads either. And definitely no apologies from that fucking comic they wrote where you get your ass beat when you clearly got a good couple fucking punches in! And really, really thank Pete that middle-class Mr. I'm going to NYU after my gap year building geeky science contraptions saw you looking sad, pathetic, and starving in that alleyway you dipped into after getting violently assaulted by ASS-MAN and chased by police dogs. It really sparked an unlikely friendship. Mr. Straight-laced-n-narrow 'n you. And the hotdogs? The 'I've got some spare change, wanna go get a glizzy" hotdogs? They were the best thing that SPIDER-MAN has ever done. Well, indirectly. He's still an ASS. Oh, and Peter? He's a peach. Always fussing over you, letting you talk your shit, definitely normal about your hatred for SPIDER-MAN. Pretty much everyone in all the five boroughs would never let you off the hook for saying some of the shit you say about him! Naw, you've got a compadre in Peter. He pats you on the back and says "Yeah, how awful that guy is- yeeeahh." and hands you some chips along with your hotdog to make it all better.

You almost feel bad for mooching off the guy, but no, he insists. Dunno what you did to deserve such an angel, but SPIDER-MAN, if you're out there, you better telepathically receive this FUCK-YOU.

[sunoooism]

📜ADMIT IT!— nine.

❝just out here living vicariously through my novel!❞

mlist

ngl this escalated faster than anticipated...., Pls let me know if there are any spelling mistakes!!!

one of the things you hadn't accounted for while walking to the fountain to meet Chishiya was rain. so as you continued toward your destination whilst jogging and dodging puddles you couldn't help regret your lack of jacket. of course Chishiya had come prepared, he stood under a black umbrella and was currently perched by the side of the fountain so he could avoid those throwing their coins in. he had a smirk on his face, probably wanting to laugh at your soggy state but refraining in case you got offended.

the both of you stood in silence for a few minutes under the umbrella while you caught your breath. Chishiya glanced your way. rain was dripping from your hair and sliding down your face whilst your cheeks and nose burned from the cold. your clothes were completely drenched and sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

"Oh! There's the café Lea and I are to meet at!" Ah, Lea. that brought Chishiya back to why he was here in the first place. but he was starting to have doubts. as cliché as it was he didn't want to confess and then have to lose you due to your lack of mutual feelings. he wasn't usually one to be afraid of rejection, he'd never really been rejected in the first place but for some reason this brought a wave of hesitance over him.

he stared at you for a moment with his mouth parted, gaping like a fish until you giggled at him. how was he going to say this? he cleared his throat and shook his head. "Nevermind" your laughter ceased and your grin fell. "what do you mean nevermind?"

"I mean, nevermind"

"Chishiya you can't seriously have asked me out here and now forgotten." you said, a little miffed that he had dragged you out only for him to 'forget' what was so urgent he needed to see you face to face in the first place. the man beside you shrugged his shoulders like a teenage boy who had been scolded and didn't know what else to do. "what if I did."

and now he was lying to you.

"well I know for a fact you didn't!" you exclaimed, Chishiya was silent. all you could hear was the rough sounds of the rain plummeting down onto every surface it could reach. you sighed and wiped another droplet of water that had started making its way down your face. "what's been going on with you?"

"these past weeks you've been so......different" you already didn't like how that came out, but you couldn't change it now. Chishiya's head was downcast towards the gravel. his shoes seemingly more interesting than the conversation he wanted to have. "is that such a bad thing?" he asked now facing you, albeit avoiding eye contact. "It is if you won't tell me why!" your patience for this conversation was quickly deteriorating, unlike the volume of your voice. you'd never liked having things kept from you. especially if you feared that they were about you.

"are you ill?" he shook his head.

"are you moving away?" once again he shook his head. you chewed your lip anxiously. "are, are you in love or something?!" Chishiya sucked in a breath, finally taking the opportunity to look you in the eyes. "yeah. I guess I am"

even though you did ask you weren't expecting him to say yes. you had heard him say it before when you took your trip to Yokohama, but you simply thought it was a slip of words and that he must have been tired.

an uncomfortable lump formed in your throat and although it was unnecessary you could feel your eyes beginning to burn. "why didn't you tell me?" the continuous onslaught of rain muffled the crack in your now quiet voice. you were glad about that.

but for Chishiya it was just another thing you seemed uncaring for. he now deemed this whole conversation pointless if you didn't seem affected by his confession. he found it in himself to tear his eyes away from your shivering form and a hushed sigh and 'forget it' was heard before he was abruptly pushing the umbrella into your hands.

"Chishiya wha-"

"I said forget it, Y/n" you watched as he walked away, the rain quickly starting to soak him. you wanted to go after him. wanted to ask what this was all about. wanted to ask who he was apparently in love with.

but you didn't. In the end all you could do was stand there and watch as he slowly disappeared from your line of vision. you sniffled and didn't realise you were crying until the rain on your cheeks felt warm instead of icy cold.

next - previous

©sunoooism

tags: @captivq @happyjuhyun @yvrikoo @mxbrahms @huachengsbestie01 @rainqissedd @brdpch @ehddsnys @kokxm1 @naegisimp @luvvsnae @bowscale @hy0ukka @trinmadol @saiewithakatana @bre99 @kazuhacumslut @fiqire @mazeinthemoon

[a-lonely-dragon]

Whiteridge Chapter 1

M!Monster x F!Reader

Content Warnings: Stalking, Missing Persons

The chilling autumn air greets you in a breathtaking sweep when you open the front door, making you burrow further into your cardigan before braving the outside world fully. Soggy remnants of red leaves cling to the dark wooden planks of the porch, and as you scan the yard you find the nearby trees stripped half bare. The storm last night had been a monster, howling and raging into the early hours of the morning.

Up above, the sun is well-hidden by a blanket of gray clouds, a promise of more rain to come.

Coffee mug in hand to help stave off the chill permeating the air, you head for the mailbox while avoiding the worst of the puddles and taking a bracing sip of coffee as the wind kicks back up, whipping your loose pajama bottoms around your ankles.

The street is quiet, as always. There aren’t many neighbors to be had at the edge of town, right at the mouth of the woods. The road isn’t even paved, just loose gravel that crunches beneath your shoes. There’s only the distance rumble of a train and a single bird’s call.

In the dim morning light, out where streetlights are just a myth, the only beacons in the fog beyond your yard comes from across the street. Margot, the elderly widow, would be puttering around in her fluffy robe, radio crackling around some 80’s rock hits. She, you’d learned after moving in, was an early bird and couldn’t fathom anyone being on any other schedule.

You miss so much by sleeping in so late, she’d scolded you over hot chocolate and dominoes, you need to be out and about, enjoying every hour of your youth and making the most of it. Late nights seem to be your body’s jam, staying up past midnight and soaking in the silence. Unfortunately, life often demands you be awake during daylight hours, such as today.

The mailbox’s hinges shriek in protest as it opens. You gather the bills and junk mail in one hand then slap the mailbox closed once more.

You dance around puddles and step back up the porch, only to pause as something catches your eye. A bold burst of red that stands out in the misty gray of the morning.

There, resting on top of the rocking chair’s cushion, initially hidden from your view when you stepped outside, is a small bouquet. Even before you pick up the bundle, you’re certain it isn’t from the local florist’s shop. The flowers are unlike any you’ve seen, almost resembling miniature roses but with their pinkish hue going from stem to strange, scaly petals. The flowers droop forward like snowdrops and the tips of their petals are almost a sickly yellow. A spot of white in the center catches your eye, recognizing the pale bloom. The flower in the center is ghostly white, translucent almost, with a bell-shape that hangs its head like its companions.

A ghost pipe plant. One of your favorites. And rare, the type of plant that you couldn’t just pick up at a florist’s shop. They grew in small batches throughout the woods, foragers made medicinal teas from them typically. Your heart gives a pang.

Tying this strange show together is a simple, crudely cut strip of frayed black cloth.

Your immediate reaction, silly as it might be, is to look around once more as if the person responsible is still nearby. As if it wouldn’t be creepy and unnerving for someone to be waiting for you to spot them on this foggy morning. There’s only you, the line of trees, and the road at your back.

It’s a strange, strange gift. Was it for you? But who knew about your favorite plants other than Llewelyn? Or were they for Grandpa’s anniversary tomorrow? They were gorgeous plants, there was no arguing with that, and the unfamiliarity made them seem all the more special. A heartfelt gesture that someone must’ve gone out of their way to find such odd little blooms.

Maybe they’re from Margot, you think, but it doesn’t seem likely. Early bird or not, you couldn’t imagine her coming all the way over before dawn even broke. Besides that, the alien plants and crude cloth didn’t seem her style.

No, it had to be from someone from town. They must’ve been dropped off right at the break of dawn, right after the storm finally died, for the small plants not to be flung away by harsh winds. Which, again, is a bit weird, but perhaps they’d been shy?

Maybe they left a card?

You check beneath the rocking chair, beneath its cushion, and do a cursory sweep of the length of the porch, but you can’t find anything. With a little frown, you take the gift inside with you, setting the bouquet on the kitchen counter with the mail while you search the cabinets for a vase or cup to house the flowers for the time being.

 Finding a small glass, you set the bouquet inside and place it on the windowsill above the sink. You’d never found a ghost plant before, let alone picked one, so you aren’t sure if water will do anything for it, but against the gloomy backdrop, they give off a very gothic air. Perhaps they were for Grandpa’s grave. They’d look much at home against a tombstone.

You swallow around the lump that grows in your throat and scrub your eyes furiously. You could practically hear Grandpa snort and say, Crying over a crotchety old man? You’re a bleeding heart just like your mother!

You’d agree with him, because he was a sharp-tongued jerk for the most part. But he was also the man who took you on nature walks through the woods as a kid, gave you a room to sleep in when you’d had that massive fight with Mom junior year, and, of course, left you this house.

Tomorrow it would make a year since his death, and coincidentally, a year since the disappearance of a friend. When it rains, it truly does pour.

Sighing, you pulled away from the window and brought up your phone, typing in a description of the plants in hopes of finding out what they were and if they had some hidden meaning. You weren’t particularly big on the language of flowers, but perhaps whoever had left the mysterious bouquet was and you could suss out who’d left them by that alone.

It takes a bit of trial and error describing the plants, but you’re fairly certain the red plants are pinesap, which are as hard to find as ghost pipe. Also like ghost pipe, they feed off of nearby fungi. The term your results use is parasitic. Huh.

Am I being likened to a parasite? You slant your mouth and continue scrolling. They were pretty, in a way that was out of the norm like the ghost pipe. Lacking chlorophyll and reaching down deep into the earth to suck the nutrients off fungi. Perhaps the sender was trying to make some convoluted jab at Grandpa—he hadn’t made himself the most popular person, always more prickly than not.

It came as a surprise after his death when you’d found his house and swatch of land left in your name. If anyone were to inherit the house, you would’ve suspected his only daughter, your mother. She hadn’t been too put out by it, though, and even seemed relieved she didn’t have to deal with it. Though she expressed some concern over your decision not to sell and, instead, move in.

You can’t seriously be okay living in the house where he died, Mom had said, a familiar look of dismay on her face at how strange she found her daughter.

People die everywhere all the time, you’d replied, I’ll take a devil I know over a devil I don’t. She hadn’t found your reasoning as sound as you found it. Grandpa would’ve laughed at the joke, you were certain.

~*~*~

Your jeep rumbles through town, windshield wipers sweeping back and forth and heater on blast. The trees flash by in shades of red and gold, under a thin veil of mist. Piles of leaves have been swept to the edges of the sidewalks and became soggy mounds of future mulch. It started sprinkling shortly after you left the house, but now it was petering out once more. A cardboard cup holder sits shotgun, two to-go cups of coffee sloshing as you swing the car down the street, past the gas station and diner, the massive library and the row of similar-but-not-the-same dollar stores, into rows of small one-story houses broken up by short chainlink fences.

You turn the jeep into 414’s driveway, parking just behind a vehicle shrouded by a tarp that made it look like a crouching, hidden beast. Elaine Brust didn’t have her license, so the car sat untouched, waiting for its owner’s return.

The small yard sits before a squat blue house with a row of overgrown bushes lining the front wall. Actual spiderwebs litter the leaves and branches, as well as what appear to be remnants of toilet paper. Lifting your eyes to the roof, you see more white scraps. Last night’s storm had washed away most of it, but there are enough lingering bits and pieces that it’s clear the Brust home was a target of a tp’ing.

Your fingers graze the tarped car as you pass, and you flinch away from the cold material. The front door swings open at the second knock. Ms. Brust gives you a bruised smile and pulls you into a tight hug. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You return the greeting and give her a small squeeze before parting and take her in. She’s tall and broad like her son, but Nathan’s disappearance has weighed her down physically, her shoulders slouching, the bags under her eyes dark, and new streaks of gray cut through her thick black hair.

You can only imagine how awful it feels for her. Her only son, missing and none of the authorities lifting a finger to help.

“Llewelyn couldn’t make it,” you tell her. “She got called into work. It’s just us today.”

She tuts. “They’re going to work her to death.”

“If she doesn’t burn the place down first,” you say dryly. Your eyes catch on a snarl of toilet paper hanging from the porch fence.

Elaine sees the look on your face. “Kids getting their kicks before Halloween’s over. The storm did most of the work last night, but I’ll spray the rest with the hose later.”

“Ever think of setting up booby traps around the yard?”

She huffs a laugh before ducking back inside for a moment, remerging with a box balancing on her hip. “Only occasionally.” She waves off your attempt to help close and lock the door behind her.

Five minutes later you’re parking in the crumbling lot of the Save-N-Get, pulling into the spot right next to the pothole that’s been there since you were in school. It was a good way to guarantee nobody would try and jam their vehicle in right next to yours.

Elaine pops the trunk and divvies up the sheafs of paper with practiced ease. Both of you have your routes down, and you’ll work your ways around opposite blocks until converging back at the jeep. Afterwards you’ll head to the other side of town to put up the rest of the missing posters. Then it’s lunch at the diner.

Elaine hands you a stack of papers then closes the jeep’s trunk. “See you in thirty.” She marches off, a woman on a mission.

Making your way across the lot and towards the post office, you can’t help but stare down at the picture you’d become so familiar with over the past year. Month after month you drove to the Brust home to help Elaine put up posters and replace ones that have been destroyed or torn down.

In the photo, Nathan stares beyond the camera, likely at his mother taking the photo based on his weary but affectionate grin. Half of his shoulder-length black hair is pulled up in a style you hadn’t seen him in often but suited his face so well. The photo cuts off just below his collarbone, but you know the shirt he’s wearing in it is one of his favorites, an old Friday the 13th tee. Three days after the photo was taken, he was gone.

The first half of the trek goes uneventfully. There aren’t many people out and about in this damp chilling weather, and the ones that see you coming with a large pile of papers in your arms artfully dodge you, not meeting your eyes, which is fine by you. You hang posters without a hitch, enduring the pitying looks thrown your way.

It isn’t until you’re making your way back towards Save-N-Get that you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. Something deep in your gut tells you that someone is watching you.

As calmly as you can, you stop at the community bulletin board hanging outside the new smoothie place, its sign so shiny and new against the old brown bricks that make up the building. Bright pink LED lights line the large windows and set the surrounding area aglow. There are a few customers huddled inside around tiny tables.

Reassured by the sight of others, you flick your gaze to the side, trying to look natural and catch anyone creeping at the same time. But none of the scant folks trudging along are even looking your way.

Get it together, you’ve been reading too much horror.

The bulletin board is a smorgasbord of bright colors and advertisements for other shops and services nearby, along with random fliers about upcoming local events. A corner of the poster you’d put up last month peeks out from behind an announcement for Spaghetti Dinner at Joe’s 11/2. You lift the paper on top, meaning to return Nathan’s poster to the top layer when you freeze at the sight of it. Your features contort and you grit your teeth.

Someone had scratched out his eyes and crossed out the word “missing,” and right below that, in bright red, wrote MURDERER. Disgust and rage rise in your chest.

Growing up, you heard about a spirit that lived in the woods surrounding Whiteridge. A monster that stalked the hills, slipping through the shadows of the trees and then killed anyone stupid enough to go hiking alone. Every kid and teen who grows up here encounters the legend at one sleepover or another, dares one another to venture into the woods on moonlit nights for shits and giggles.

You’ve got no problems with legends. What’s a town without its own haunted house or Devil’s Tramping Ground? Horror came in many forms, and you loved all of them, there was no doubt about that. The gooier and stickier and gorier the better!

However, in the wake of Grandpa’s death and Nathan’s disappearance, someone had taken the legend and Frankensteined it to wear Nathan’s face. You’d known about the rumors that sprang up about why he’d vanished, but hadn’t known about the transformation of poor Nathan into the town’s own boogeyman until the girl you used to babysit, Tawny, told you about what they were saying in the halls of Whiteridge High.

Nathan Brust is still out there, they whisper around their bonfires and warm beers, waiting to kill again.

You have the sneaking suspicion that a former-classmate-turned-PE teacher might’ve encouraged those whispers.

It wasn’t the first poster you’d found like this, and you doubt it’s the last, but it still makes you want to scream every time. How could people twist both tragedies together like that?

Because they were outcasts. Because they were disliked. Because it makes for good gossip.

The sudden SNAP of a digital camera goes off from somewhere nearby. You tense and whip your head around, but the closest person is across the street, headphones on and hands jammed in their coat.

Were you hearing things? Maybe it hadn’t been a camera at all. Eyeing the nearest alley warily, you edge towards the corner of the building, pressing flat against the bricks. A quick peek reveals a couple of trashcans, nothing else. The door dings next to you and a couple leaves the smoothie place, throwing you curious looks. You quickly straighten, face flushing with heat.

You huff and turn away, storming back to rip down the defaced poster, crumple it and shove it into your jacket pocket to toss later then slap a new poster up. God, you hoped Ms. Brust didn’t find any like it.

When she’d first went to the police to report Nathan missing, they had brushed her off. He was a grown man, they explained, there was no danger to himself or others, and if there was no sign of a struggle there wasn’t really anything they could do.

Ms. Brust had taken it in her own hands after that, seeking out help on social media and plastering Nathan’s face across town. When you’d caught her doing so, on foot no less, you’d immediately offered help because you couldn’t quite believe that he’d just left, either. Why would Nathan just up and run off without a word to his mother? To you?

Because maybe, Deputy Locke told Ms. Brust once while you were in earshot, he didn’t want to be found. You’d grappled with that, wondering if it was less painful to believe he’d really skipped town than the awful alternative of him being truly lost.

A truck speeds by, kicking up a flurry of leaves in its wake and jostling the remaining posters in your arms.

Despite being raised in the same town, you didn’t cross paths with Nathan outside of the paint-chipped walls of Whiteridge High until your later teen years.

First it was at the town’s Get-N-Save, where you’d worked part-time as a cashier to start saving up for your own car senior year. Nate worked there as well, you’d come to find out, but as a stockboy. His size and strength, which singled him out in the halls, were his greatest asset in the backroom where he was constantly lifting, loading, unloading, and lugging around the carts laden with pallets.

He didn’t so much as blink, however, when he’d glance in your direction or pass by while you were buzzing around your station, so you didn’t see a reason to try and socialize either.

However, that same year, you discovered that Nate also did yardwork for your grandfather. This was the more confusing and most surprising crossing of streams. Your grandfather was often prickly, a stereotypical crotchety old man who preferred his own company to that of anyone else. Your visits were few and far between, but that summer he’d called and asked if you wanted to make a few extra bucks helping him clean out the attic. Looking to a future where you didn’t have to rely on anyone to chauffeur you around, and perhaps hoping for a bit of quality time with the old bat, you’d agreed.

Upon arriving, dropped off by Mom, you were surprised to see an unfamiliar gray car in the driveway next to grandpa’s old truck. He wasn’t known for entertaining guests, apart from maybe Margot from across the street.

You’d knocked on the door, curiosity niggling at you, greeting Grandpa with a small wave before being ushered inside with a “What took you so long? The boy’s already done half the work for you!”

Boy? He’d asked someone else to help with the attic? You wracked your brain and tried to calm your anxiety as you followed Grandpa up the stairs, trying to come up with who might be the one thumping about right above your head. Most of the people your age shared their older relatives’ opinions on Grandpa (you’d come over to clean up soggy toilet paper and eggs more than once), who would come over to work for hours in his dusty, creepy attic?

And there he was again—Nate Brust. As startled to see you as you were to see him. (You wonder to this day if Grandpa had been trying to play matchmaker.) The first hour passed in suffocating silence, the both of you like magnets with the same polarity, unable to go within so many feet of each other without feeling the need to give the other more space.

You’d been so scared to break the silence, completely unsure of what to say to the guy you hadn’t shared a single word with since grade school. You remember how you’d worried what he thought about you in that moment. If he thought you were stuck up. You knew he wasn’t popular at school, always to quiet or wore too much black or scowling.

It wasn’t until Grandpa called for lunch that the dam broke. Both of you had idled in front of the attic’s ladder, unsure of who should go first.

Grandpa plopped two sandwiches down on the dining table along with two Cokes.

“Thanks, sir,” Nate said, sandwich already halfway to his mouth. Grandpa waved off his thanks and shuffled back to the living room, the canned laughter from some gameshow echoed through the hall.

Nate had devoured his sandwich before you even finished a quarter of yours.

“I, uh, like your shirt,” you said, staring down at your sandwich like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

He’d glanced down, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing, then said, “Thanks.”

His stomach growled. Loudly.

You eyed the other half of your sandwich before shoving it towards him.

“Hey, no,” he protested, a flush to his cheeks.

“Hey, yeah,” you said, getting up before he could shove the plate back. “I haven’t been lifting half as much as you, and you’ve been here since, like, eight. I had a big breakfast. Just take it, dude.”

He did, albeit a bit slowly, as if waiting for you to change your mind.

“So, I was thinking we can probably start bringing down all the photographs now that we’ve sorted them out, see what Grandpa wants to do with them?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

So began your tentative friendship with the social outcast, Nate Brust.

“Hey, you alright?”

You’re not proud to admit it, but you jump.

Catarina Stokes frowns down at you, eyes darting from the bundle in your arms back to your face.

“I’m fine,” you say, trying to shake off the chill that’s settled over you. You readjust your jacket. “Just thinking.”

With a weak smile, Catarina nods. She doesn’t believe you, and you don’t you either. “You’re still putting those up, huh?” Her voice is low, a hint of disbelief rings out.

You tuck Nathan’s posters closer to your chest protectively. “He’s still missing, so yeah.”

Catarina had been a grade above you in school. She’d been the girl everyone knew, the cheerleader at the top of the pyramid, always in the most pictures across the yearbook and somehow gorgeous in all of them. She’s still gorgeous, sleek black hair in a braid that hangs over her shoulder, large brown eyes ringed by long black lashes. Her sharp features have only become more attractive as she’s grown older.

“It’s kind of you,” she says, “helping Ms. Brust like this.” Poor, poor, Ms. Brust, she must think.

“If I don’t, who will?” Your husband? you add silently, scathingly.

Her face scrunches up with pity. “I hope he knows, wherever he is, how much she misses him.”

Of course she believes that Nathan skipped town. If people weren’t demonizing him one way, it was another. “You didn’t happen to see anyone sketch, did you?”

Catarina’s eyes go wide. “What?” Much like you earlier, she glances around. “No, why?”

“Nevermind, my mind’s playing tricks on me.”

“Are you really okay?” She sets a gentle hand on your shoulder, her tone sympathetic. “You look a little. . . peaky. Your grandfather—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, pulling out of her grip. She lets her hand drop. “Thanks. I gotta finish getting these up, so—”

“Yeah. Right. Take care of yourself, okay?”

More vehicles wait in the parking lot when you finally arrive back at the jeep. It hasn’t gotten any warmer as noon creeps in, but the promise of more rain later seems to have pulled people out to run their errands now.

Elaine is on the phone, you see from a distance, picking your way across the pitted concrete. You don’t know who she’s talking to, but by the stony expression and white-knuckle drip on the phone, it’s nothing good. As soon as she sees you, she gives a curt goodbye and hangs up.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

 She waves your concern away with a tight smile. “As it can be. Ready to head out? What do you think of us hitting the diner early, I can hear Denise’s chicken and waffles calling out my name.”

“I’ve got no objections,” you reply. Some hot comfort food was just what you needed right about now.

“Honey, I hope you know how much your help’s meant to me,” she says, after buckling her seatbelt. You turn the key, the engine grumbling to life and heat ekes out of the vents. You feel it before she says it, there’s a sense of finality in the air. “I’m not giving up hope, don’t even think that for a second, but I’ve been thinking about visiting my brother. Getting out of town for a while.”

You nod. “I understand.” And you do. How could she not want to get away from Whiteridge for even a short time? Away from the awful rumors, the familiar faces that turned away from her, her empty house and the car rotting in the driveway. “Know when you’re going?”

“In a week or so, I think.” She turns to you, as much as she can in a car, and takes your hand gently. “I’m not going to ask you to keep putting up Nate’s posters while I’m gone. We’ve plastered half the town in ‘em, they should last. . . for a few months at least.” Her voice is steady, resolute.

“Of course,” you say, because you can’t think of what else you could say.

“Tell Llewelyn I said thank you, as well. You girls have been more help than those losers in uniform by a mile.”

“We try our best.”

The skies opened up around midafternoon, preceded by plenty of rumblings and the clouds darkening so it was as if someone had thrown a shade over the town. You dropped Ms. Brust off at her house, offering to take her to the airport or bus station whenever she decided to leave.

The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm the entire way home. Tomorrow you’d meet with Mom, head to the cemetery together. For the rest of this evening, you’d wine and dine yourself. Try to relax. Put on a horror flick or two. Yeah, that sounded great.

You have to make a mad dash for the front door, damn near slipping on the first porch step but catching yourself just in time on the railing. For the second time that day, you notice something left for you there on the front porch. It isn’t a bouquet, but an envelope taped to your front door with your scribbled across it in barely legible letters.

You peel it off the door and step inside, shutting the door behind you with your hip and throwing the lock into place. Could it be the missing note to go with your haunting bouquet?

Inside is a single Get Well Soon card, which confuses you a bit, but you suppose it could be construed as comforting someone grieving. Hopefully there’s a signature. When you flip it open, a glossy picture slips free from the card’s crease and plops to the floor facedown. You stoop down and pick it up by the edge, vacantly noting that you really need to sweep, and turn it over.

Your stomach drops and the blood turns to ice in your veins. What. . .?

It’s you. From earlier, in front of the smoothie shop, awash in pink lights, and glaring at the defaced poster of Nathan.

[jow99]

Jose’s training camp

Sunday morning Jose and Mandy headed out to do a gravel ride. I went to the local market to get some fruit and veg before going for the usual Sunday morning swim (well it was the routine before our holiday). The water is getting a bit chilly, I think we’ll be in our neoprene before we leave for Oz.

Jose and Mandy arrived back around lunchtime and I met up with them for a drink at one of the anchovy bars. It sounded like Mandy really enjoyed the ride.

As I was walking to meet them I felt a spot or two of rain. It was starting to get a bit heavier as we started to leave the bar and then of course got heavier still 😣 I had gone to pick up some bread and was worried it was going to be a soggy mess by the time I got home.

Thankfully it wasn’t cold so we had lunch on the balcony. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading, doing puzzles. Just as we were getting ready to head to the beach for a drink a medivac helicopter landed on the other side of the pebbly beach. Something had happened to a patron at one of the beach bars. L’Escala has an outpatients but not really a hospital so they were airlifted to it looked like Figueres hospital. Whatever happened to whoever, I hope they’re ok. Lucky it didn’t happen last night as where they landed was where the concerts were being held.

This all took some time so it was all happening while we went for our drink, though the chopper had left by the time we went home.

It had cooled down so we had nibbles indoors tonight. Unfortunately heavy rain came in again and looks like it will be here through some of the night. My poor load of washing that is on the line is wetter than when I hung it out this morning 😣

Monday Jose and Mandy were due to ride to France. Mandy was understandably excited. As they were about to head out we had a few spots of rain but it thankfully soon passed.

I meanwhile went out for my walk/run and then spent the rest of the day shopping, etc and bringing in the washing as each item dried. On one of my outings into town there was a wedding party - band, fireworks, it was a true fiesta.

Around 2:15pm I started to hear thunder. I messaged Jose to let him know the weather was turning back here. Then the rain came, torrential. My poor sodden clothes. I finally have given up and put them through a rinse spin cycle and I’m hanging them indoors. I was also keeping track of where Jose and Mandy were, hoping they’d take refuge in a bar.

Just after the rain stopped Jose and Mandy arrived. They were pretty wet and muddy but apparently only got rain in the last 5kms. It was a brilliant day for them both. I think Jose will sleep for a week once Mandy leaves. He’s been doing pretty decent rides every day for a week. Saturday was the only exception but we still did a 10km walk followed by a 40km ride.

After they had showered and we washed their filthy kit, we all chilled for a while before heading into town for a drink and some tapas. While we were there the bloody rain came back again but had thankfully stopped by the time we went home.

A relaxed evening at home and fingers crossed for good weather tomorrow, Mandy’s last day.

[shmowder]

What you said about Yulia makes so much sense!! "She'd act like the perfect Victorian era husband" I love it. Tbh at times I think I'm missing something essential about her by only knowing her P2 self because I've never gotten especially butch vibes from her; yeah maybe in comparison to many of the other women in town, but not as much as the fandom seemed to regard her as. I know that some people were dissatisfied with the redesign for that reason, so I know P1 will be another story. And you're right of course, it's important to consider what was "normal" for the time period too.

About the toxic relationship, my first reaction was Noooooo not the dishes 😱😱 But I think you're right about that too, unfortunately, haha.

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I think I'm something of a P1 Haruspex Day 1 expert by now ;) Noo I'm joking, I bet there's a lot I'm still missing, but I've begun Day 1 three times now and maybe the third time's the charm. I just didn't use my time wisely the first time, and on the second I didn't do the Isidor's house side quest. At least Victor and Yulia's voice acting seems unobjectionable.

The wonkiness is starting to grow on me and the walking speed isn't as bad as I expected. It's more like a power walk sort of. I was just reminded of the old Pokemon games before the running shoes existed :o

As time goes on I wonder if I'll ultimately view P1 and P2 as two separate games or if I'll start blending them together, choosing what I like best from each one. 🤔

"Alexander Cuckburov for being a gaint tree branch wedged into my urethra" LOL that is. VIVID

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Having a perfect vision of the end result and the struggle to get there and knowing it might be altogether impossible to produce what you've dreamed up in your head... I feel you big time on that :( I would hate for my request to be a source of stress for you, so if you want to post the snippets you have and do a bg3-style list for the remaining characters, I won't mind. Or I don't mind waiting longer if you want to pause on that request and pick it up again later. I'm sorry if I sound patronizing 😅 I don't mean to, I just want to say that I'm okay with whatever you're comfortable doing. You've given me so much already, and I'm grateful for all of your replies ♡

Here's a goofy little affirmation of the day: 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉

🐿️ anon

I get it, I totally didn't get her being described as butch at all while playing P2. You'll meet her in the bachelor P1 route, and it will click eventually. She dresses and behaves more similarly to Daniil than to other women, and it's that era's equivalent to butch.

I like her P2 design, I just wish they kept her pixie cut instead of giving her a bun.

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Pfjwojfjs me and you are the world leading experts on restarting the Haruspex day one. It's really The loaded everything bagel out of all the other routes, oh and don't worry!

The days somehow get even shorter + more loaded the more you progress. No rest for the wicked... or Menkhus it seems.

At one point I was literally restarting a whole day because I was a few minutes off from midnight in some bullshit quests, you'll absolutely hate Oyun this time around. No more mister pathetic soggy old cat, he is a cunt through and through and will make you almost tear your hair out from the debilitating quests he has.

But I'm happy you're enjoying it!! It's so beautiful and very fun. About the trashcans, there are actually more than P2, but they aren't conventional places alongside the streets this time around.

They're scattered through the town. Sometimes, they're grey trashcans that blend in with the gravel streets. Sometimes, they're large bins that blend in with the throw up colored streets.

A lot of times, they're wedged in between buildings or thrown into corners. You have to go out of your way to check the bins.

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Thank you for your sweet words <3 It feels nice knowing someone relates to the experience too. It's never a source of stress I promise, I experience this with my original work too.

[tweexcore-undrgrnd]

sadly I am just a guy who's addicted to sitting by the water and listening to music

I love when. I can perfectly just sit on one of the big rocks on the middle and find spots for both my shoes to rest without getting soggy it's the best. love this shit.

here's my favourite song of the day.. I was screaming it real hard while walking across the stones and looking for pieces of ceramic. OH I'M FORGETTING THE BEST BIT OF THIS DAY

when I came down I noticed a few pieces of ceramic laying on a rock like someone had been collecting them up and I decided to spend some time finding more. I like a little scavenger hunt. whoever started this,,, I hope you come back

this is good. I like this. I nearly wandered off too far looking for them in the gravel nearby but I just knew to trail back once my music started fading out....

anyway it's starting to rain again so I'll put my sweater back on and finish my walk... go to the store and get a little treat. groove to a little tune or two.

HERE'S TO LEAVING MY HOUSE!