#i guess this is technically a ficlet

[enjoythesilentworld]

more than just a minute

in honor of 500 (!!) kudos on one of my favorite things I've ever written, just if for a minute, aka the fake marriage-friends to lovers au, here's a short little drabble I wrote about what those two (not) fake married boys are up to now 💜 and thank u so much for 500!!! wtf!!!

“Baby?”

Simon’s voice comes back slightly muffled from across the apartment, “Yeah?”

“Have you seen that blue button up of mine?” Wille calls back, shuffling through their mess of a closet. “The nice one with the stripes?”

There’s a pause, then Wille hears a loud sigh and the quiet pat-pat-pat of Simon’s socked feet on hard wood. One moment later, the exasperated face of his darling husband — husband! — appears in the doorway.

“Wille,” Simon says softly, as if speaking to a naughty child. “Darling. Light of my life. It’s a beach vacation. Grab two pairs of swim trunks and call it a day.”

“It’s not just a beach vacation,” Wille pouts.

With another small sigh and fond shake of his head, Simon steps fully into the room and loops his arms around Wille’s neck. Though Wille is still pouting slightly, it’s mostly for show, and his hands find their place on Simon’s waist, thumbs slipping under his sweater to rub small, gentle circles into warm skin.

“You’re right,” Simon nods, tucking his face into Wille’s neck. “It’s not just a beach vacation. But seeing as it is our honeymoon, that makes clothes even less of a necessity.”

The teasing tone in Simon’s voice and small nip of teeth on the sensitive skin under his ear pulls a giggle from Wille, and he buries his face in Simon’s curls, inhaling the calming scent.

Two months. Two months since their wedding, which had started out fake and very nearly been a total disaster but was saved at the last minute by a long-overdue (and luckily mutual) love confession. Two months since their wedding, which is altogether not very long at all, in the grand scheme of things, even if they had technically been in love with each other for the past few (many) years.

As such, the fact that Wille is standing here, in the bedroom of their shared apartment—shared before but is now shared in a wholly different way—with Simon, his husband, all wrapped up in his arms still makes his head spin. And, technically, it’s their second bedroom, formerly Simon’s bedroom which is now more of an office space—also, the very handy storage place for summer clothes while they’re in the thick of Swedish winter.

The words husband and shared and honeymoon swirl around in Wille’s brain as Simon wiggles out of his arms and turns to search for the shirt Wille’d asked about. Simon is right, it’s a beach vacation, and though they have been married for two months, the holiday season has been a whirlwind, and Wille has not been able to have Simon all to himself as much as he’s wanted to. This honeymoon will finally allow them to have that, a week and a half in the sun and sand, clothing optional.

“Did you pack that new sunscreen I bought today?”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to bring clothes, but you can bring seven tubes of sunscreen?” Wille teases, following Simon as he slips out into the hallway and across to their bedroom, with their bed, that they sleep in every night together. His husband.

“The fact that you’re not allowed to bring clothes,” Simon retorts, “is the reason for all the sunscreen, Dracula.”

“Hey!” He pinches at Simon’s hips, then gets tackled back onto the bed in retaliation.

They roll together over the winter quilts, laughing and wriggling fingers under sweaters to tickle at soft spots of skin. Simon yelps when Wille gets him on the bum and quickly manages to win the wrestling match, pinning Wille back to the bed, wrists over his head and pressed into the pillows. He hovers over Wille, cheeks flushed pink and chest heaving, a big, proud grin on his face.

Wille smirks at him. “This is not the win you think it is,” he says, glancing down at where Simon has settled into this lap.

Fondly, Simon scoffs and rolls his eyes, starting to move away, which simply won’t do. Using his newly freed wrists, Wille loops his arms around Simon’s waist and flips them, wrapping himself around his husband like a koala.

“Wille!” Simon squeals, squirming and giggling. “We’ve got to finish packing! Our flight is in the morning!”

The last few words get partially cut-off by breathless laughter, but he stops trying to get away when Wille murmurs, “Just a minute or two more,” into the skin on Simon’s neck, nuzzling his face there.

They’ll probably stay there a bit longer than a few minutes, but they don’t mind. Simon is right, anyway; it’s their honeymoon, being clothed is way further down on the list than just being in each other’s arms as much as possible.

[chronicowboy]

His breakup with Marisol is about as unremarkable as the rest of their relationship. There's no catastrophic muffin mess in his kitchen or divorce papers. Just a quiet I don't think this is working out, I'm sorry. Marisol hadn't even cried. She'd just nodded like she'd been waiting for it and left, didn't even need to grab anything from the house before she went and really that just reassured Eddie that this was the right choice.

So, his breakup with Marisol is unremarkable, except that it's not. It's pretty fucking remarkable when he thinks about it because it's not just that they weren't working out, not just that he really didn't care about spending time with her, not just the clench in his gut every time she touched him. No. It's pretty fucking remarkable because he realises he's in love with his best friend.

That's what pushes him over the edge, gives him the last kick he needs to actually break things off with her. Because Eddie may have sworn himself to secrecy about it the moment he realised, but he could never string someone along just because he couldn't have the real someone he wanted.

It's a fucking revelation once he has it. Not a ton of bricks, but the sun peeking out from behind the clouds on the greyest of days, bright and blinding. And the way Eddie has always thought of Buck in terms of sunshine maybe should have tipped him off sooner, but with the way Buck has been beaming over the past few weeks. Well. Eddie doesn't really think he can be blamed for only just taking his sunglasses off and daring to look directly at the light.

And, okay, so Eddie maybe makes it a full week before he decides his self-sworn secrecy absolutely is not a viable option when Buck walks through life now like a drop of sunshine in human form. It's after Buck leaves the Diaz house, walking out from a day of giggles and joy at the go-kart track they'd finally managed to convince Chris to be seen with them at, leaving behind a cosy heat like sun-warmed skin, that Eddie realises he cannot go another day without telling Buck that he's desperately, deeply in love with him.

And so, that's how Eddie finds himself at Buck's door on a random Sunday morning, knocking for the first time since Natalia waltzed out of the picture. Buck opens it a few moments later looking perfectly sleep-rumpled and soft and downright golden where he's backlit by the early morning sunlight pooling in the loft.

"Eddie," Buck breathes out, eyes darting up the stairs before refocusing on Eddie and what must be the most hopelessly lovesick expression painted across his face. "H-hey, what are you doing here?"

"I, um." Eddie takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous, and wipes his clammy palms on his jeans. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Now a good time?" And Buck must hear the slightly shaky steel in his voice because the surprise on his face morphs into a concern so quintessentially Buck that Eddie just wants to kiss it away.

"Y-yeah, of course, come on in." Buck holds the door open for him, and Eddie migrates to the fridge as Buck closes the door with the gentlest touch. "So, um, what's up?"

"I..." Eddie swallows against the heart in his throat, loses himself in the shining blue of Buck's eyes like an ocean he'd be more than happy to drown in. "I broke up with Marisol last week."

"Oh, Eddie." Buck slumps, and Eddie tries not to think that it looks a little like relief. "I'm so sorry, man. That sucks."

"No, no." Eddie waves him off with a laugh. "It's good. Was a long time coming actually." He shakes his head at himself. "I think I was dating her just to tick a box, you know? Realised you probably shouldn't be more excited about a phone call from your new buddy than one from your kinda long-term girlfriend. You definitely shouldn't be relieved when you see your best friend in the restaurant you're taking her to and disappointed when you realise he's just leaving."

And then, Buck blushes, ducks his head, does that little smile that could light up every house on South Bedford Street just like Eddie had been hoping for.

"Yeah." Buck looks up at him from under his lashes. "Probably not."

It bolsters Eddie. Buck's sunshine giving him that one last push he needs.

"There was something else I wanted to say," Eddie starts. And there isn't really any fear in him, knows they'll make it through this no matter what, just an overwhelming sense of peace to come. "I..." A deep breath, gathering all his love and devotion in his lungs so it's ready to pour out on his next inhale and—

A groan from upstairs has the words dying in his throat. A masculine groan. And then:

"Evan?"

"D-down here," Buck calls back.

Eddie can't take his eyes off the loft, stuck there like a car crash he can't look away from as a very shirtless Tommy Kinard appears at the top of the stairs and quickly blanches.

"Shit. Um..." He looks down at Buck in a panic.

Eddie finally manages to drag his eyes away from the very chiselled curveball that just hit him at a hundred miles per hour and finds Buck's face. Small, scared, shaken. He knows the feeling. And because he loves Buck, because of just how deeply he loves Buck, it's the easiest thing in the world to lock that love away and let his face crack into the most genuine of grins. Because if Tommy's been the thing making Buck shine like every fucking star in the sky, well Eddie will absolutely not be getting between them.

"You've been so happy," Eddie chokes out, still smiling.

"I have," Buck whispers.

"And I'm so happy for you." Eddie covers the distance between them in three long strides and pulls Buck into a hug so tight and clinging he's sure it's a confession in and of itself, but Buck only buries in deeper, taking shaky little breaths in the crook of Eddie's neck.

"Thank you," Buck murmurs into his skin. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears.

"Sorry you didn't get to tell me on your own terms," he murmurs back, letting Buck pull away, but lingering with a hand on his hip, on his shoulder. He should maybe be worried about what this could look like to Tommy who had basically never heard anything apart from rambles about Buck, except when he glances up the stairs, Tommy is nowhere to be seen.

"I was going to tell you," Buck rushes out. "I-I just wasn't sure how."

"That's okay," Eddie says. It's okay. It's okay. "Well, I'll stop gate-crashing for the... Second time?" He raises an eyebrow, and Buck flushes a pink Eddie will never ever get to taste. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense." He remembers the pure fear on Buck's face, the indecision on Tommy's and the sudden tightening of his own chest despite his smile. "I'll leave you guys to it." He clears his throat. "Kinard, if you hurt him, they'll never find your body," he shouts up the stairs.

"Copy that, Diaz," Tommy shouts back.

"I'm really proud of you, Buck." Eddie wraps him in another hug then, a quick thing, just one last touch before Eddie seals every desire away for good.

"Thanks, Eddie." Buck walks him to the door, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and Eddie wants to hug him again. Wants so badly it hurts. But if he hugs Buck again, he doesn't think he'll ever let go. "See you at work tomorrow."

"See you at work." Eddie prays Buck is too distracted to hear the wobble in his voice.

"Wait, sorry, what did you want to talk about?"

Eddie freezes on the threshold, the stutter of his heart painful like he's back in a suit store, and he catches himself on the doorframe with a shaking hand.

"It can wait."

[faux-mance]

thinking about geno's impostor syndrome

his own world replaced him. it tore apart his code to make another version of him that lived his life, and he was forced to watch that sans fill his

and maybe he was glad after was taking care of papyrus, but that doesn't make it hurt, any less. geno was supposed to be the one doing that. it wasn't supposed to come to this. it wasn't fucking fair that he'd suffered so much, only to see another version of him be with geno's brother.

but maybe it was fair. maybe it was what he deserved. he couldn't save his friends. he couldn't save his brother. he couldn't even save himself. it was why he gave up the name sans, wasn't it? he didn't deserve that name. he didn't deserve that life.

— the surface doesn't change how geno feels. sure, the sun on his face and his feet in the grass feel nice. but geno can't help thinking it wasn't supposed to be for him. like the very code in the world is calling him a fraud. this ending wasn't for him. it was for frisk and sans and papyrus. it was for toriel and undyne and alphys and asgore and all the other monsters. why should geno intrude on any of that? what right did he have, to claim this world as his own? he couldn't even save himself. it'd been frisk's idea to use the pie to get him out of the save screen. he didn't deserve to be here. maybe that was what led him to go back into the mountain. to walk through soft, undisturbed snow. not many would step foot here again. not many would want to. that was fine with geno. he found it under a house all too similar to the one now on the surface. that one felt foreign to him, just like the sunlight and the grass and the smiles of his family. this one, he knew well. the click of a lock opened a back door into a dark room, one that hadn't seen the light of day for quite a while. he slid the syringe out of the drawer, the viscous determination inside swirling slowly, the light emanating from it casting a soft red glow on geno's hand. at the same moment, his gaze fell on a familiar silhouette under a purple curtain. the corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile.

[millenari]

Drop a wip update? It’s been a minute 👀

Well I've made very little progress on the Tugger pov gold rush. I've been stuck on the Skimble argument scene for weeks at least, though I worked on part of it a few days ago. Luckily after this single hard scene is like 20-30k or so of easy scenes that I'll be able to breeze right through.

Otherwise I started editing my human/celeb/soulmate au and I've discovered that the first draft is actually in excellent shape in comparison to my other first drafts. I've gone through 60k worth of the first round of editing for that one in like three days. And admittedly 60k of 300k doesn't feel that impressive in context but for the Tugger pov gold rush I'm basically killing it if I edit 1k a day.

Haven't made significant progress on anything else other than a new fic I started writing; it's a shorter one about the junkyard flooding. It looks like it'll come out to around 40-50k and it's more of a tribe fic than a tuggoff fic. I initially started out with this one with the intent of giving every single character a chapter but I Dont Think That Will Be Happening.

[amethystina]

💔 Is there a fic of yours that broke your heart?

Several, I'd say.

Many of my fics contain difficult subjects or end up having very heartbreaking storylines, some more tragic than others. But the thing with my writing is that my heart never stays broken since I always insist on a happy ending. So even if my heart has been broken many times, I usually make sure to mend it, too.

The only exception — where my heart has stayed broken — is a short fic for The Losers comics called Grief.

Which, as the title suggests, is a fic about grief. A case of Major Character Death that I chose not to fix, basically. That's not to say that the fic is all gloom — it's actually about moving on after you've lost someone important to you — but it would be wrong to call it happy. And I would be lying if I said it doesn't still break my heart, partly because I used that fic to work through some of my own thoughts on grief.

Which, admittedly, is something I still do in many of my fics, but I just tend to make them happier than this one xD

So yeah.

I've broken my own heart many times while writing, but only once did I let it remain broken.

Fanfic Writer Emoji Ask

[alectoperdita]

Hmmm, I expanded on that Monsters Halloween ficlet, but now I'm wondering if less was actually more/better. 🤔

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <3 💖🍁

[closetcasefabray]

jesus saves (i spend)

i have been writing parts of an avatrice college au for two gd years now. the ideas & writing are scattered between here (one of the tags below should work), my whatsapp convos with @snowandwolves, on discord, my dinosaur laptop that crashes, & my email. it’s a fucking disaster but whatever so am i & not once in my life have i had my shit together so this is all unsurprising.

SO what i’m saying is, here’s the only part i have ‘formally’ written in fic form bc i posted that other ficlet. doing this made me almost throw my dino laptop & my phone out a window on several occasions—that’s why there isn’t more. but i just wanna share this.

more notes & rambles at the end.

//

You notice her because it's syllabus week of your freshman year, it's an 8 AM class, and you're fairly confident you're still drunk from the party you attended last night, but she raises her hand and correctly answers a question posed by your theology professor without hesitation. Your professor, Father Vincent, was likely hoping for a good guess at best, but there she is, exceeding expectations from the moment she speaks. You pickup on an accent, which you would find incredibly attractive if you weren't so thrown by her perfect and concise response, like a well-prepared speech is always readily accessible in the back of her mind—a girl with all the answers. A young woman, really. 

You, however, are not—you're just a girl. You're just a girl who shows up to her morning classes smelling like the bar or the house party from the night before, like the weed you started smoking almost immediately upon arriving to university during orientation week, like the cigarettes you smoke because it affords you a little more quiet outside and an excuse to borrow a lighter and talk to a cute boy or a pretty girl.

You're just a girl who technically died, existed in nothingness for a whole minute before being ripped back into a reality of blank ceilings and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. You're just a girl strangers prayed for after they heard about the American child pulled from the wreckage. You're just a girl who didn't get any credit for teaching herself to stand again, to walk again—and if you’re being completely honest, you’re a girl who’s incredibly bitter that a god you never saw in that one minute got all the credit and none of the blame—for taking your mother from you, for taking years from you that had to be spent healing from god’s grace or lack thereof. 

You're just a girl who is tired of being told to look at her life as an expression of holiness, who thinks it is more so the consequence of indifferent stardust. But you still look for the beauty in that, in humanity and its flaws—these meaningless beings in a vast universe, creating and destroying their own little, myopic worlds on this spinning rock. Some will dream of poetry for their lovers, and some will dream of arsenals to level cities. You wonder how many lips were pressed together in a final kiss versus hands clasped together in prayer when fire fell from the sky in the name of God. You wonder what that says about faith.

You'd like to think if your mother could see you, she'd laugh at the irony because once you were baptized, she never took you to church. God finds a way, so you spent five miserable years in a Catholic orphanage before you were sent back to America. People said you were lucky to have two years in a foster family at your age, but it felt like living with strangers who were tasked with the minimum of keeping you alive. Then you were moved into a home for teen girls with a nun at the helm, and that’s where you actually felt fortunate for the first time in years. It was there that Mother Superion helped you with your studies and college applications. So here you are, tipping into a hangover in one of the oldest buildings on campus, learning theology from a priest.

But your mom would understand. (You don’t remember much of her, and you try not to think about that too deeply, or else you have to deal with the resulting ache that comes from reaching inside yourself for something that’s gone.) You have spliced together what you can recall into a short reel—you mom buckling into your car seat while humming a show tune, showing you how to fold a pizza slice and telling about a city famous for their pizza, and holding your hand in a museum in Spain, promising to take you to another big museum closer to home, the home you never saw again. So you promised yourself and the parts of her you carry that you’d make it here.

You would have had to pay almost full tuition if you wished to attend your reach, requiring immense debt, so you ended up at the school that offered you a ticket to the city and a hefty enough scholarship you could get through four years without requiring loans or a full-time job to afford it. (You first refused to use your mother’s death as a sob story in you application letter, but Mother Superion put her hand on yours and said, So rarely do these letters contain truth, but do not be afraid to tell yours. In telling your truth there is a sadness, yes—and I know you detest pity—but of all the things that have been taken from you, do not feel guilty for taking some of it back to live a better life.) You remember getting your acceptance letter, and looking up at the sky and flipping it off, praying whatever god hears you, No thanks to you!

But your bitterness temporarily takes a backseat in your mind as you look at your classmate, beautiful in the refracted light shining through the stained glass window, speaking so graciously of god you'd think Jesus were in the room, about to hand her his latest work. It's poetry, bordering on scripture in a new tongue, and you'd almost be a believer if it didn't sound as if she had repeated these words—practiced—enough times to believe them herself. You wonder what that says about her faith.

If the nuns at the orphanage had spoken the gospel as she does, maybe you'd be here for different reasons. You're fascinated.

Behold, you are beautiful…

//

i promise this fic gets lighter & has some silliness. so some notes/tangents:

this is 100% self-indulgence bc i heard ‘write what you know’ & ran with that shit. when i visited a friend at a state school in a college town i was so so confused bc it was just a diff campus culture entirely. then i was going to make this set in an ambiguous city, but i literally have saved places in google maps that would be great places to kiss someone sooooo you get NY avatrice.

likely setting this before instagram & smartphones bc i’m old/lazy & i can.

the title is from st. vincent who my friend introduced me to in college. “paris is burning” changed my brain chemistry & so i listened to her music on repeat for ages—“jesus saves, i spend” is on the same album.

father vincent will not be a bad man or evil professor. he will be as he was before adriel—a lost man who found himself through god & still a little broken but caring & devout.

also song of songs/song of solomon is like… the only part of the bible i fucked with in theology class so that’s the reference at the end. also another line used in another scene with JC, chanel, & ava written in v rough form. maybe will share that later.

this is meant to be a fic with a post-grad sequel as well. not much written of that but a lot of ideas everywhere.

once i figure out where i’m moving (hahahaha i’m so stressed), i’ll consider a ko-fi or something (i wish emails & names weren’t shown though). but mostly i will likely need a second job to save up for an actually good computer/macbook. once i have that i’ll be able to post on ao3.

anyway thanks for reading & being here :3

[les-pompiers118]

Don't Worry Baby (a 9-1-1 ficlet)

Buck/Tommy | Rated Teen and up | 2K words

Summary: It's technically not their second date, but sometimes you just have to see where the night takes you. In this case, to the ocean. Notes: Set between 7x05 and 7x06, and incorporating some of Lou's backstory for Tommy from this video.

“Well,” Buck exhales, when he and Tommy step out into the muted hum of a balmy Los Angeles evening, ��I think that went a lot better than our first date.”

Tommy stops and holds up a finger in admonition. “Ah, ah.”

“Right. Not a date. Just a— What did we call it?”

“A low-stakes, no-pressure evening of fun and getting to know each other.”

“Yeah, that.” 

No matter what they’re calling it, tonight was actually great, Buck muses while they walk toward the lot where Tommy parked his truck. Buck’s not a great bowler himself, but he’s found that—as with a lot of games—the competitiveness and friendly trash talk are at least half the fun. He felt more in his element, more relaxed. Buck didn’t mind at all that Tommy won both rounds easily, with his usual confidence and charm. And he looked damn good doing it, too. God, there’s something about the sheer fucking size of him and the way he carries himself that make Buck a little weak in the knees.

“You did have a good time, I hope?” Tommy asks, sounding cautious after Buck apparently got lost in his thoughts for a few beats too long.

“Totally. Yes.” Buck glances back at the bowling alley entrance with a rueful expression. “Though I kind of wish…”

“Mmm?”

“I kinda wish that we could’ve had more of the ‘getting to know each other’ part, I guess? On the other hand, with all the noise and the music, I was a lot less likely to put my foot in my mouth again. So that was a plus.”

“Evan.”

“I know I kind of blew it last time,” Buck winces.

Tommy steps in front of Buck, forcing him to stop. He touches Buck’s wrist lightly. “Hey. If that were true, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Here… on our evening of low-stakes, platonic fun?” Buck asks with a small, playful smile.

“Hmm. I don’t remember ever using the word platonic.” Tommy lets that sink in for a second as he pointedly looks at Buck’s mouth. “Tell you what. I’ll take you to one of my favorite places in L.A. and we can talk for a while. That is, unless you have a shift in the morning.”

“No. No, I don’t.” Buck ducks his head, grinning. Feeling just so goddamn buoyant, all of a sudden. “I’d love that. Where are we going?”

“Why don’t we let it be a surprise?”

Read the rest on AO3

[gumy-shark]

an interview with suzuki shou

(aka the shou ficlet that possessed me last night and is technically unfinished but i want u guys to see it :D)

Okay, I’m only gonna do this once, alright? So you’d better ask everything you’re going to the first time.

Alright. I guess that’s fair enough. Anything else?

Nope. Ask away.

So, what happened, Shou?

What, like in general? Sorry, you’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that.

Alright, I’ll narrow it down. What happened during the Claw incident?

You wanna hear it from me, huh? Okay. I woke up, made the trip over to Seasoning City, and burned down Ritsu’s house. Then we went to my hideout, Ritsu and I made our plan of attack, and then the broadcast went out. We started kicking psychic ass together, then we ran into Shimazaki and Ritsu split off to keep him distracted. Then I fought my dad, he beat the shit out of me, Ritsu’s brother showed up to stop him, Dad beat the shit out of him too, and then Dad launched us off the top of Seasoning Tower and he and Ritsu’s brother beat the shit out of each other. And then my dad nearly exploded, and he only didn’t because Ritsu’s brother convinced him not to or whatever.

Does it upset you that it was Kageyama that your dad changed for, and not you?

I dunno. Should it? I guess I can’t say I’m not bothered, but in the end I’m mostly just glad my dad’s not trying to take over the world anymore, you know?

Plus, it’s kind of hard to stay mad at Ritsu’s brother. Or even get mad at him. He’s just kinda there. 

You said you fought your father. Did you really think you could defeat him?

Y’know what, I think I really did. For a little bit there, at least, I convinced myself that I was tougher, that everything I’d been through had made me strong enough to beat him.

Besides, it wouldn’t have mattered if I did or not. It wasn’t about thinking I could win and deciding to fight, it was knowing that I had to. That I was the only one who could.

But you weren’t.

No. Are you done now?

Hardly. You said you burned down the Kageyama house- why?

It was kind of a stupid thing to do, huh? I do feel pretty bad about that one, but I needed to make sure Ritsu’s brother would fight. He didn’t even do anything when his brother and friends were about to die-

But he did for you. How does that make you feel?

I guess- shit, I don’t know- I guess I was scared. And surprised. He- I thought he was like my dad, but he got it in a way even Ritsu didn’t think he did- Look, I don’t know, alright? I know I agreed to do this therapy thing, and I said I’d answer your questions- but can we drop this one?

Alright, we can do that. How do you feel about starting school next month?

Actually, can I pass on this one too? Oh, wait- Kidding! That was a joke, alright? 

It might be kinda weird to say this, but I’m kind of excited for it. Like yeah, it’s probably gonna suck a lot, but I’m gonna have friends. And get to learn things like math instead of how to blow up people with my mind or something. It’s gonna be great.

[guqin-and-flute]

✅🗳️VOTING INCENTIVE !🗳️ ✅

So, this year has been huge for elections around the world. Because voting is SUPER IMPORTANT and early voting in some U.S. states has already started, I'm gonna say that if you send me some sort of proof you checked that you're registered/you voted (i.e. a sticker, a heavily redacted screenshot, I'm not interested in doxxing you 😂), and a character, pairing, fic au I write, or short scenario, I'll make you A Thing™️ for it. So;

Vote/register/confirm your registration

I make you A Thing™️

Yes, that means that you can technically send in something twice if you check your registration and then vote! This also applies for any voting anywhere in the world. Don't care. We love democracy. (Sorry this is later in the year, people who have already voted 😔 Check that you're registered, I guess?)

The Thing™️ might be a drawing, a ficlet, a drabble, a horrible sketch, a funky poll, a text post meme, a weird edit; whatever it is that I can actually follow through on that day (I want to be realistic, y'know, and manage expectations).

I know that bluevoterguide, votelikeabeast, and Vote411 have good information on local elections which are also very important, so remember to vote the whole ballot. (I know these are only American resources, sorry)

Obviously, I reserve the right to opt out of a scenario or pairing that makes me uncomfortable so send in list, maybe ? Also, it would be pretty easy to cheat. Um. Don't? This will be on the honor system.

OKAY COOL, don't know if anyone will send anything in but WOO GO VOTE!!

[tennessoui]

anyone remember the divorce lawyer au?

(first ficlet posted here, along with the explanation post) (1.5k)

“Of all the gin joints in the world, you walk into mine,” the very familiar and incredibly grating voice of Anakin Skywalker greets Obi-Wan mere moments after he settles into a seat at the end of the bar. 

“No,” Obi-Wan says automatically, though he isn’t quite sure what he’s protesting. It’s an instinctive sort of no. A plaintitive no. A for the love of all things holy, I cannot be expected to deal with this now as well sort of no. 

Even though, technically, Mr. Skywalker is right. Of all the damn gin joints in the world, he happened to walk into one already hosting Anakin.

“Well,” Anakin sounds considering now. He doesn’t particularly sound as if he’s planning on leaving. “I guess of all the dive bars in Vegas, you happened to walk into mine. But I’m pretty sure they sell gin here! Though I guess I don’t know how much gin needs to be sold at a bar before it’s classified as a gin joint.” Now his voice sounds even more considering. Closer too.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asks as she slides down closer to him. It’s not very loud in here, still relatively early and so not overly crowded, but she leans forward across the bartop as if having trouble hearing him.

Anakin sits down in the seat next to Obi-Wan rather aggressively, brushing their shoulders and thighs together. “You can put his drinks on my tab, thanks,” he announces. “We’re together.”

“We’re not together,” Obi-Wan tells her. “But yes, you can put my drinks under his tab. Much obliged. An old fashioned, thank you. A double. No cherry.”

“You got it,” the woman says, turning away to make his drink. 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes for a second to pray for patience before he turns to look at Anakin Skywalker.

He is just as beautiful as he was two weeks ago when he’d last stopped into Obi-Wan’s office, tearful, hungover bride in tow for a quick divorce before her plane ride back to Australia.

It isn’t fair.

“We could be together,” Anakin says. His eyes are dark, his head canted forward, his thigh still brushing Obi-Wan’s. “Just for the night.” “You know, I’ve always thought you were a lot less sober when you proposed to strangers,” Obi-Wan tells him drolly, accepting his drink from the bartender with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been picturing you absolutely sloshed stumbling down the aisle.”

“You’re not a stranger, Mr. Kenobi,” Anakin replies. “You’re my go-to divorce attorney.”

“Normal people do not have those,” Obi-Wan says, taking a sip of his drink. It’s strong at least, thank God.

“People get divorced all the time,” Anakin argues, leaning forward to rest his elbow on the bartop to look over at Obi-Wan. “You were the one that told me that divorce can be just as healthy as marriage.”

“Don’t remind me,” he mutters, taking another bigger sip. He really, really does not want to talk about marriage with Anakin Skywalker of all people. 

Yet somehow the words slip out of his mouth and off his tongue despite how much he does not want to talk about marriage with Anakin Skywalker. “How do you do it then?”

“Do what?” Guileless, innocent. Hell, he probably just has to blink wide blue eyes at his fuck of the night and they’d follow him down the aisle as quick as they can stumble.

“How do you—” he waves his hand and takes another sip of his drink. “Convince people to marry you. You’ve got a politician, a bride to be, who knows how many bridesmaids, a foreign dignitary, a man old enough to be your father, a veteran all under your belt. How are you dragging them all down the aisle? You can’t be—”

He cuts himself off. That good in bed, he’d been about to say. 

Anakin grins with his eyebrows raised like he knows it. “It depends,” he says. One finger traces over the countertop. The other hand falls to rest on Obi-Wan’s knee. “Sometimes we’re already in bed,” he murmurs, slow-like. “Sometimes we’re on our way there, in some dark corner booth and I’ve got my hands wrapped around her waist and she’s begging me to whisper dirty things into her ear, tell her what I’m gonna do to her. It’s sort of like marriage vows, you know? Dirty promises sound the same.”

He is far too handsome for his own good, Obi-Wan decides. If he were a little less attractive, he’d probably have a much harder time coaxing strangers down the aisle.

“I wouldn’t know,” Obi-Wan says stiffly, stopping Anakin’s hand from moving further up his leg. “I’ve never been married.”

The words are bitter; the wound is still bleeding. He downs his drink in one go and waves for another from the bartender. 

“You have a girlfriend though, don’t you?” Anakin’s nose wrinkles. “You’ll marry her probably. You’re the marrying type.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. “She’s not,” he says shortly. And then, to rip the bandage of the wound completely. “And she’s not my girlfriend anymore either.”

Anakin’s eyes go wide. “What?” “I asked. For her to marry me. And she said no.”

“She said no?” 

“While your disbelief is rather flattering, I’d like not to talk about it, thank you.”

“Why would she say no? To marrying you? Is she alright? Well, obviously not, but—I mean. I don’t understand. Or believe it.”

Obi-Wan’s lips thin, and he reaches into his pocket. “I assure you, if she’d said yes, she’d be wearing this right now and I would not be here.” 

He puts the ring box on the bar in between them and accepts a new drink from the bartender. Anakin looks down at the ring box silently.

“Well?” Obi-Wan asks. He doesn’t know what he wants Anakin to say. He’s sitting in the tatters of his longest relationship, ended because she did not want to marry him in the end and he could not live with that. And he is talking with a man who gets married and divorced more than  perhaps anyone else in the entire world. 

What could he possibly want to hear from Anakin Skywalker?

“‘M going to get you wasted,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan figures that’s good enough.

—----------

“Marriage is important to me,” Obi-Wan slurs out countless hours later. They have migrated from the bar to a low-level booth, and Anakin has his arm curled around the top of it with his fingers playing with the ends of Obi-Wan’s hair. “I couldn’t com…pro…mise.” He sounds the word out carefully and deliberately. 

“You shouldn’t have to for something that’s important to you,” Anakin decides, and Obi-Wan nods. That’s what he thinks too. That’s why they’d broken up. That’s why Obi-Wan still has the ring.

“All sales final,” he quotes and rubs his hand over his beard. “What am I gonna do with it now?” 

“Give it to someone else,” Anakin suggests once Obi-Wan picks up the ring box again to look at it. “Someone who wants it.”

“Nobody wants it,” Obi-Wan says. That’s the problem.

The other problem is that his drink is gone. This is a very big problem and easy to solve because Anakin’s drink is right next to his empty glass, and Anakin will let him have his drink, Obi-Wan is sure of it. Anakin has been very lovely tonight.

“That’s my drink,” Anakin says. “Get your hands off it.”

“I’ll trade you for it,” Obi-Wan mumbles, gesturing to the ring box. Anakin stills completely.

“You…will?”

“Yes,” he decides. And then a thought occurs to him, terrible and mean and brutal. “Unless you don’t want to marry me either. But you want to marry everyone.” He scowls, though he thinks it may look more like a pout. “Don’t you want to marry me?”

Anakin’s hand carefully resumes its light stroking of Obi-Wan’s hair. “Yeah,” he says. His voice is rough. Obi-Wan likes the way it sounds. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good then,” Obi-Wan says and takes Anakin’s drink. After all, what’s Anakin’s is now his if they’re engaged to be married. “I’m sure you know where the closest chapel is. Though I’m quite disappointed so far.”

“Why?” Anakin’s face is awfully close to his. When did he move? “Aren’t I providing for you like a good husband should, baby? You’ve got my drink and everything.”

“I was told you’d put your hands on my waist and whisper dirty things into my ear,” Obi-Wan says. “And so far you’ve just been playing with my hair.” “I like your hair,” Anakin says. “And I don’t want to tell you what I’m thinking of doing to you. I think I just wanna show you.”

Obi-Wan blinks. His face is hot. Anakin is flushed all over too, eyes focused somehow despite the amount of drinks he’s had. His breath smells sweet, like the cocktail he’s been drinking for the last hour. Now Obi-Wan’s breath probably smells the same. “Well, I suppose tomorrow morning I won’t have to ask you if your latest marriage has been consummated.”

Anakin smirks. “No, you won’t,” he agrees. It’s a promise. 

[snarkythewoecrow]

It's technically Wednesday and I started a new WIP tonight!

Definitely been tagged for WIP Wednesday in recent weeks, but haven't had anything, so here you go, and tagging @buckybeardreams, @underwaterninja13, @theotherbuckley

Been struggling to write but got some words down tonight, so here you go. This is BuckTommy, only the first scene (which is sorta a ficlet by itself I guess) Some angst and introspection, and then some soft hurt/comfort will come later in the fic (please forgive typos it's super late and this is a draft)

“Oh, Evan.” His mother never seemed to say his name without a slathering of curdled disappointment, withering came to mind, thinking back now as an adult when he pictured her saying it, the sagging lines where there should have been creases from her smile. 

Neither of his parents had ever been able to say his name without some soured pinch to their lips.

Sometimes even Maddie seemed tired when she’d say it, no matter how much she loved him, not to the degree his parents did, with that trademark exhaustion, but enough to leave him feeling like a wraith for it, as if speaking his name sapped the life from her veins like it did his parents.

And love him or not, Maddie couldn’t fix him—not in the way he needed.

No matter how many band-aids she placed over his broken, bleeding skin, it wasn’t her love that had left his chest an echo chamber. That hollow place had been created for a parents’ love that had never taken root. 

So, he'd left—looking to fill that ache with something—finding a new family with the one-eighteen and starting over with a better name. Because where Evan had been said with a sigh, a grimace, annoyance—Buck could be said with a teasing and playfulness that his old name never could. 

Yet, beneath his skin, Evan had never felt more alone, scared of losing everyone and being forgotten, and so Buck sought comfort in the heat of others, in their skin, changing his shape to be what was wanted, trying to fill the void.

He drank from that well until he nearly drowned in it.

Except that a person, like a house, can’t stand divided—or more directly, ignoring a part of yourself didn’t erase it, nor any of the wounds that made you want to hide it away.

Especially when lightning stops your heart, and you dream of another life—one just a shy step to the left—close but just wrong enough to leave you rattled when you choose life, only to wake to your parents' faces as they say your name. 

That same cadence and tone—the whined note of pity as his mother says for the thousandth time in his life, “Oh, Evan,” somehow still almost sounding disappointed.

Perhaps she always would be—probably internally screaming at the unfairness that Buck had returned from the edge yet again and Daniel never could.  If that weren’t enough for another few years of therapy alone, he didn’t know what would. 

Their near-awkward attempts at caring in the After, how his mother’s voice still thinned across the bridge of his given name, nearly snapping and falling off the other side, reminded him of its wrongness of just how lonely that part of him would always be—a reality where Evan may never be said without pity or contempt.

A house divided—and it might have stayed that way, if one Tommy Kinard hadn’t arrived, looking like a brick shithouse with a sexy cleft, short-circuiting his brain and making him stumble over his own name.

“Buck—Buckley,” Buck had to clear his throat, scrubbing his palm over the pocket of his jeans before shaking Tommy’s hand.

“Your name’s Buck Buckley?” Tommy raised his brows, nose scrunching a bit. “Did your parents really hate you that much?”

Buck hadn’t missed Eddie, hiding his snort of laughter behind a fist, as he pretended to be working on the tailgate. Asshole.

He’d sent a glaring squint in Eddie’s direction, subtly flipping him the bird, then turning back to Tommy. “Uh, actually, somehow I have no doubt they did—or still do—but, um, yeah, anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck before dropping his hand. “Hi, I’m Evan—um, Evan Buckley—though most people like Buck better.”

And then, Tommy had done something unexpected—his eyes tightened, the soft blue made brighter by the afternoon sun, seeming to search Buck’s own before suddenly turning softer, then crinkling at the corners. “Well, if it’s okay with you,” Tommy said. “I think I’ll stick with Evan—I got a feeling he’s a pretty interesting guy, too.”

[lycankeyy]

creature comforts

Actual ficlet woagh,,, (~750 words lol). I wrote this earlier before my head started hurting and my head still hurts so I can't really edit it but I want to post it bc I haven't been posting content much and its supposed to be kind of stream-of-conscious anyway. Like I'd apologize for it not being super coherent but it's not really supposed to be yknow BDJQJD

TW: past torture and trauma discussion

BFs in this one-shot: cyborg!bf (cyber, mine), yourself is extensively talked about but only kind of technically there I guess (ys, @ochrearia)

-

Cyber was a good listener. When you lived the short life that he had - and it was easier to convince himself that he was merely a few months old compared to his body's fourteen years - always listening was what kept you safe. You listened to conversations you weren't meant to hear. You listened to the feelings under the words, and then the feelings under those, until you'd heard five variants of the same sentence and had a plan for each. It was another thing he was sure that if he told anyone about it, it would be another poor Cyber thing. It was only second nature, though. Something that wouldn't bother him until he was older.

He knew Yourself more than he'd ever wanted him to.

Didn't blame him, not really. Cyber was the baby. Littlest brother. The littlest brother who'd already been through enough. It's not like he expected an adult to come to a would-be high school freshman for emotional support, anyway. Still, he was good at listening. Overhearing. Knowing.

He wondered if YS knew him. Not the surface of him, but the things underneath, the same way Cyber pried apart other people. Wondered if he knew the way nothing had been afforded to him. Not his life. Not his body. Not his tongue. Not his memories. Not even his own self. All, at one point or another, belonged to someone else. Autonomy stripped completely, slowly fought back for, a battle he had a gut feeling would never quite end.

Not that he wanted other people think about that, or what it meant. He didn't want people to see his scars and think about what led to him getting them. He didn't want people to see the way he flinched at the smallest touch and think about what caused it. He did not want a single person to ever look at him and know. Too deep, too much.

But, y'know, he wondered.

Wondered if he ever realized that this was one of the few choices he'd ever been allowed to make. Loving him, he meant.

It was far from a secret that YS hated himself. It was one of those things Cyber wasn't supposed to know, though. One of those things that wasn't supposed to be his problem. One of those things that he wasn't supposed to worry about. Not that he had a choice in it, either. Too good a listener.

Unfortunate thing about that earlier part about his tongue hardly being his - how was he supposed to say anything? He'd never been good at words in the first place, according to his boyfriend (and Boyf backed that up), and they were so much more... difficult, than feelings.

Too easy to slip up. One wrong phrase and the whole thing goes under. Things meant as compliments could be taken so easily as insults to someone who wasn't in the right frame of mind. And when, exactly, was a good time to talk about something like this, anyway? He didn't know. Nobody ever told him.

So he would sit at YS' side, praying that mere feelings would be enough, knowing that they wouldn't be. When he was really desperate, he invoked something deeply childish and hoped that if he could just think it loud enough, maybe he would hear him.

Thank you for being Safe. I love you. You are like if a muscle relaxer was a person - is that funny to say? I love you. You make me less scared to be alive. I love you. Your joy is like stars twinkling in a new-moon sky. I love you. Thank you for being alive. I love you. I love you.

And then he would curse the mental blocks in his head that made utilizing the man's telepathy magic almost impossible.

It wasn't enough. He wasn't enough, but he supposed nobody had asked him to be. So he would press himself into YS' shoulder, purr as loud as he could, and maybe get a laugh - "the hell are you doing that for? There's nobody else here." - and he would love, love, love. Love until YS got sick of it. Least he could do.

He knew something else he wasn't supposed to. His little secret, for now, which he was more than fine with, as his non-human eyes painted his angel a nice candy-apple red whenever he entered the room.

What a coincidence for it to be Cyber's favorite color.

[hua-fei-hua]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @justpastsaturn~!! man it's been a while since i've partaken in something like this lol

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

63! 64 if you count the random anon one i don't technically write but for which i do overly-elaborate html for a friend. and um. a lot more if we want to also count each chapter of the single-ship ficlet collection works i have as a separate work ehe.

2. what's your total ao3 word count?

heh. 772,261 words since june 2016. C:<

3. what fandoms do you write for?

these days just genshin, but in the past i did jjk, bnha, soul eater, flip flappers, and attack on titan. a number of years ago i also had a fma fic up on ffn, but i deleted it and never ported it to ao3. should still be on my google drive, though.

4. what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

//HEAVY SIGH.

sparklers (BnHA), 939 kudos

Orchid in Bloom (BnHA), 476 kudos

the diner at the end of the night (JJK), 474 kudos

Fermata (BnHA), 413 kudos

Veneer (BnHA), 368 kudos

5. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

i do!!! mostly it's bc i have can't-shut-up disease, but through the years, i've also found it to be a really good community-building exercise!!!! i'm not the type of person to get involved in fandom discord servers, so i've come to really treasure the friendly environment the comments section of a wip can foster, as well as the friends i've made because of it~

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i am actually a hardcore happy-ending person myself, so pretty much all of them end with some sense of hope. there's a kagerou days au i wrote for bnha back in the day, though, so i guess time looping to die for one another infinitely counts here.

7. what is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

tbh i have a hard time quantifying the happiness of all the different endings i've written, esp since it's been years since i've written simple self-indulgent "and then they all lived happily ever after the end" kinds of endings ahahaha,,,

8. do you get hate on fics?

no but someone impersonating me left a hate comment in my name on a fe3h byleth hannibal au back in may 2021. that was crazy i hope ao3 user dikhotomia is living their best life writing whatever the fuck they want after that incident.

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

i wrote exactly one (1) explicit fic which was literally just a 16k word sex scene bc the logical endpoint to xiao genshinimpact's character arc is that he needs to get fucked. i don't make the rules. outside of studying blorbo, though, i don't really feel any compulsion to write smut

10. do you write crossovers? what's the craziest one you've written?

nah. i'll write fusion aus, where cast a goes into setting b and may or may not try to retell the story of canon b, but i like to put the "transformative" into "transformative works" in those situations, to the point where people sometimes can't tell what story i'm basing the narrative off of LOL

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my memory or knowledge, no.

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

yes, several times!! mostly back in my bnha days, where i had one fic (partially) translated into chinese and russian, a different fic reviewed and fully translated into chinese; going even farther back, i also once had a query to translate one of my snk fics into french, but i never really heard back from that person so i assume that one fell through.

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

i'd say yes. there's the aforementioned fic i do the overly-elaborate html for, but also back in high school, a couple friends n i sat around my computer between rounds at a speech tournament and took turns turning one of my kouhai's scripts into a bnha fic that kept on going off the rails bc i implemented a "no backspacing" rule and once our turn typing was over, we had to have our hands-off the computer until it was our turn again.

14. what's your all-time favorite ship?

let's just cut to the chase and make this post timeless: i like it when a ship is basically just MONSTER x MONSTER FUCKER. if not on a literal level, then a spiritual/metaphorical level! bonus points if both parties think the other person is the monster fucker!!!!

15. what's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

well i actually recently decided to let go of zenith, so i don't really have any "i wish i could finish this" thoughts abt it anymore tbh... i think abt finishing my html sanitizer 2.0 so that i can post the notes for it more conveniently though lol

16. what are your writing strengths?

heh. bitches love my characterization. and imagery/use of metaphor!

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

SOMEONE will probably snipe me if i say poetry, but i still find my poems to be rather stiff and overly-literal, so i still consider poetry to be a weakness of mine. and fight scenes. DEFINITELY #1 weakness fight scenes.

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

for a word here or two there, i don't mind as long as it's culturally appropriate. (you will pry my dearly beloved "aiya" out of my cold dead hands) like that's just how people talk in real life. for longer sentences or conversations, then i'd like it if there are translation notes left somewhere. at the very least, i'd kind of like a narrative or aesthetic reason if the meaning can't be parsed from context alone.

19. first fandom you wrote for?

pokemon, if we're counting my being five years old and unaware of what fanfiction is! otherwise, attack on titan or my little pony.

20. favorite fic you've written?

tbh i try not to play favorites w/my fics anymore, since if a darling of mine doesn't get the attention i think it deserves, i end up having a tough time getting over it emotionally, which has sometimes led to unnecessary bitterness and resentment towards the fic or even fandom/community itself.

tagging~ @kanonavi, @cadriona, @tempests-bards-and-birds, @followerofmercy, @chickycherrycola, and anyone else who might feel like it hehe

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Technically this is for week 6 of the Ghoulette Appreciation Prompts but. In my defense. I don't control what I want to write about. Right now the spotlight is on the Earth Wives: Terra, Pebble, Ivy aka the previous drummers aka Mountain's adopted moms/aunties/sisters (???) who fucked off from the Ministry to start a lesbian commune in the forest or something. Ivy is trans but it doesn't come up in this ficlet. (@jesusbutbetterrr and everyone else who put the prompts together, thanks!)

Murder wives below the cut.

Ivy is the shyest of the trio. She's as close to vegetarian as a ghoul can get, mostly because even the idea of being seen by a human causes her distress. It's why she didn't last long as a drummer; she was good but the crowds and the bus and the disconnect from her element threw her off so badly that Terzo dismissed her as quickly as he could. The only thing that kept her anxiety at bay was the uniform. Being indistinguishable from the others was her saving grace and she never took off the mask if someone else was present. Something about them knowing what she looked like horrified her in a way she couldn't articulate. In time, with patience from her partners, she grew bold enough to set it aside. But only in their company. Should Mountain bring someone else along, she’ll don her beekeeping hat until she feels ready to remove it. 

And though she loves Terra and Pebble dearly, considers them as good as her own heart she still needs isolation at times. They're happy to give her this, because they know she always comes back. Glowing with her own unique brand of magic with her arms wide to catch them as they greet her return.

 It's on one of these excursions that she killed her first human.

He was a hunter, out late under the moonlight, stepping carefully through the snow. Gun at the ready, he broke through the treeline to a small clearing where she sat on a stump, admiring the stars as she idly played upon a small harp. She had been alright on drums, but a harp was her instrument of choice and there was hardly need for that in the Ghost project. Had he approached from the back, he would have seen the wrongness of her. Her bovine tail, sweeping the dusty snow away. How her dress gaped unbuttoned at the back, corners falling away to reveal skin as rough as tree bark and a hole where there should not be one. He would have seen the private hollow of her back where no organs nestled because she was a maiden of the forest and had no need of it. He would have seen this and he would have turned and left, for his grandmother had told him of the legends of the woodwife and her timidness.

But he approached from the front and saw none of this. All he saw was a woman alone at night. Bear in mind, he had no ill intentions. This is not that kind of tale. But it still ends in sorrow for him simply because he did not see the warning signs and could not follow the rules.  He complimented her playing and startled her so badly, she sent a sharp root up from the earth through his chest, killing him.

Not right away though. He lived long enough to see her approach, weeping and sniffling as she apologized, his blood pumping out over the frozen ground. She could not save him, she explained, but if he had a family then she could make amends to them for his death.

He died telling her about them. His wife's name on his lips and the unnamed child she carried in her belly. Ivy wrapped his body as best she could in her vines and laid him to rest in the clearing. Then she set off to find the man’s family and pay her debt. Every year to this day, they are visited by a benevolent and hooded figure, who makes sure they have enough to eat in the winter and that their fire never goes out. The wife guesses, of course, but keeps her thoughts to herself. Her child is fed and warm and she doesn't have to worry.  

Ivy is as close to benevolent as any of them get. 

_________________

Now, Terra doesn't so much as hunt but lay in wait. She comes with her warnings, her own rumors and legends and her hunting grounds are strung with barbed wire and bright yellow signs.

CAUTION.

TURN BACK.

DANGER AHEAD.

She didn't put them there but she likes their presence and allows them to stay. Her prey tastes better for having chosen their own death freely with no trickery and this sort of honesty suits Terra. You were warned. This is the consequence. 

She likes to call it natural selection.

The forest is different past the warning signs. The undergrowth is crowded and thick with great gnarled roots looping up through the earth and diving back down as the trunks search for sustenance. A hiker might clamber over them carelessly, confident in their map and compass and skills. Following legends of a treasure, hidden deep in a cave perhaps. Perhaps it is even this one, so barely noticeable unless seen from the right angle. The hiker stops and stares for a moment. There could be anything in the darkness. A bear, hungry from winter slumber. A fox, snarling and rabid. Or, if this tourist looks closer, they may fancy a glimmer in the depths as the sun hides behind a cloud. Gold? Jewels? Their fortune, whatever it ends up being. Scoffing at the fear of the locals, the cowardice of a so-called “satanic church” this hiker steps into the cave, boldly going where surely no one has gone before. If something crunches under their foot, it is dismissed as a twig.

But as they go deeper, the “twigs” become more numerous. If the hiker looks down they will see the truth, that they aren’t the first ones in this cave, that many others have sought the same glimmer and all came to the same end but they don't look down. They can't. Too transfixed by the light that seems to grow further and further away with each step.

The dirt of the cave floor dampens. Turns to mud. Liquid drips from the stalactites, gathers in pools and puddles as the hiker travels ever deeper into the darkness and with each step the wet earth clings to their feet. What hasn't been soaked yet is stirred up by their movements, fine particles coating their body, settling into every crevice of skin it can reach. The droplets fall. Splash. Splash. Splashing, steady as a drumbeat as they helplessly wander deeper into the cave.  How long have they been there? Why did they go into the cave in the first place? The glimmer is long gone, they are surrounded by the cavern, embraced by it. It's warm and wet and they are so, so tired.

The hiker stumbles, puts out an arm to catch themselves against the wall and to their horror it is like touching flesh. They look down to see their shoes eaten away, dissolving into slimy strips as the digestive acids work diligently to strip the outer armor of the prey. The dust, once ignored, now burns everywhere, from the tips of their fingers to the screaming cilia of the lungs. Terra is as old as the earth itself and she does not hunt like other ghouls. 

She can't. 

She's just too damn big.

____________

Pebble's the boldest of them and the most mobile. She sprinkles her little traps all over the place, even on Abbey grounds because she believes, like Terra, that those who can't abide the rules deserve what they get. She also likes testing the new crop of recruits every now and then. Enrichment, you know?  

So when the Sister comes to Primo, carrying a strange looking mushroom to show him, he admires it with her and quietly mourns the loss of another Sibling. Not for long though. They're told the rules on arrival with the key ones concerning their safety being stay out of the woods at night and don't touch weird plants. It's common sense. Some of the First’s plants have produced crossbreeds that by all rights shouldn't exist. And it's dangerous after dark in any woods. Still, every year, there's someone.  This time it's her. 

He might sigh and shake his head as she leaves to put it on a shelf to admire. It's too late. The moment she plucked it, spores had been released. She's been inhaling them the whole time she was carrying the mushroom. So he’ll keep an eye on her in the coming days, and take down notes for his own curiosity. Compares them to the other symptoms he’s seen in the past. Sensitivity to light, check. Complaints of headaches, check. Found milling about the halls at night looking for something she can’t articulate, check. He guides her back to her room and she doesn’t complain. Obeys his soft words and lays in her bed like a corpse, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes.  He always wonders what they see towards the end. None of them have been able to tell him.

She is dead by then, of course, but the mushroom has laced itself into her nervous system. Her body twitches and jerks unnaturally until it’s heaved up, a puppet on strings. Her ankles roll with each unsteady step, the fungal infection lurching her body out of the Ministry to where a small figure crouches in the branches. Watching and waiting, yellow eyes aglow in the darkness and small, clawed hands reaching out to catch the dead woman like a long lost lover before Pebble drags her corpse into the forest to feed.

And then one moonlit night, it happens. He watches from his room as she stumbles in the courtyard, clutching at her head. Tearing off her habit and yanking on her hair until she rips it off her scalp in bloody ribbons. He watches passively as she claws her skin away, baring the bone of her skullcap to the moon, screaming in silent agony. He thinks she’s still alive when her skull splits under her fingers, bone falling away like fragments of an eggshell as the fungus hatches. Pebble always did like to play with her food. The Sister holds a small piece in her haking hand, eyes wide in terror before she’s falling, cracking her head further open on the stone, allowing the stem proper to burst forth, unfurling the cap in one awful motion.

Primo shuts his notebook. Places it on a shelf with the others.  Picks up his old rotary phone and murmurs quietly to the Ghoul on the other end. Her family will be notified of an accident, her funeral and burial planned. Closed casket, of course.  Pebble’s always been a messy eater. No matter how often he and Terra try, there’s just no taming that one.