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bidisastersanji · 10 months

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"Zoro gets lost because he uses his red string of fate like a compass- and that's why Sanji always finds him" was one of the first things I posted and now it's real! I got three chapters and here's the first part below the cut. Click here to read it on AO3 if you prefer. each part is around 1.5k words. edit: part 2 here, part 3 here

Zoro has always been a simple man; one of actions over words and of tangible things over what he considers trivial. It’s therefore not surprising that, in a world where certain people are bound by fate, each in their own unique way- some rumoured to share markings on their skin, some with changing eye colours, or even some who feel phantom pains from across the sea- in such a spectacular world, Zoro doesn’t really linger on the red piece of thread tied to his pinky finger.

The red thread hasn’t ever really been a question in his mind, it just was.

As far back as he could remember, it’s just been there, infinitely stretching Northwards, unmoving and unseen by others. Subconsciously, he taught himself to use it as a compass to navigate his home island, Shimotsuki. He never had to remember to take it with him, and it reliably was always stretching in the same direction, which was perfectly convenient with the function he’d ascribed it. His odd way of getting around easily became second nature, a habit so deeply ingrained that he barely gave a second thought to the bright cord on his hand.

---

He’s about eight years old when things change.

The first day Zoro gets lost, he thinks he might’ve missed one of the steps he memorised, jaw tight with repressed irritation at being reprimanded for his lateness to practice.

The second time he gets lost he’s in the forest, thick trees towering over him in all directions, and when the sun starts to lower in the sky, frustration bubbles up in his chest, tight and sour, stinging his eyes, threatening to spill out as he struggles to find his way back to the dojo. They must’ve cut down some trees or something, he scoffs to himself.

The third time he gets lost, he’s pretty certain that someone must be playing a prank on him and moved the garden shed from its usual spot. There’s no other reasonable explanation -short of the shed growing legs- seeing as he’s such a natural at getting around.

From then on, Zoro learns to accept that he lives in a world where people mysteriously move landmarks, buildings and roads around all the time. He tries not to take it too personally, being the target of all these pranks, but he does resent the time he wastes when getting around, as its precious time he could’ve been using to be training. Training to finally beat Kuina.

It takes him weeks to realise that maybe the string on his hand isn’t pointing in the same direction anymore.

Once he does notice, he notes that it periodically moves around- sometimes a bit, sometimes a lot, always right when he starts getting used to it damnit and no his sense of direction is just fine thank you. After the first couple of students at the dojo get their asses handed to them for teasing him about it, adults and children alike learn not to poke fun at the glaring, directionally challenged green-haired boy, no matter how often nor absurdly he gets turn around.

The only person that Zoro reveals his little secret to is Kuina.

He’s eleven, still a head or two shorter than her, and they’re taking a little break from sparring, sharing some homemade onigiri her mom made her. They’re sat in a tree’s shade, a pleasant breeze cooling their overheated skin, and she asks him about his infamously atrocious spatial navigation. He denies it at first, ears heating up in embarrassment, but after a couple more bites he decides if anyone were to know, it would have to be her. His friend. His only best friend.

The young Zoro reveals that he’s not really sure why he gets lost in the first place- he's always relied on the thread- not landmarks or maps, as he’s now learned others do- to tell up from down, but one day it just moved. His north star moved, and has kept on moving these past three years, and he still doesn’t know why, just that it’s a real bother.

“Your... thread?”

“Yeah.” he eagerly stuffs his mouth with more onigiri.

Her eyebrow raises quizzically. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Zoro gestures to his pinky with a tilt of his chin and a wiggle of his finger. “You know. My red string. On my pinky.”

“Zoro, I really don’t. I don’t see anything...” She furrows her brow, thoughtful. “But mom did give me ‘the talk’ last week- maybe this has to do with your soulmate!” Sensing a certain disinterest from her junior, she goes on. “Based on the examples I’ve heard about; I’d say it’s likely that the piece of string on your finger leads to your other half.”

Zoro shrugs lazily. “Sounds like a drag, couldn’t this just be like, my inner compass or somethin’?”

Her eyes crinkle at that, a grin splitting her face from ear-to-ear. “What inner compass, moron? You always get lost. And aren’t you the least bit interested in the person on the other end?” She pokes him in the chest.

“Not really, no.” Zoro tries to brush off the taunt, lips pursed and palming his neck in a nervous tick.

“Ok, think about it this way,” Kuina calls for his attention, “Somewhere out there, on this wide, wide sea- or a faraway island, I guess, there’s someone meant for you. Your person. Your equal. Isn’t that the least bit exciting?”

The young boy’s scowl shifts into something softer, a pout. “I... guess?” He sighs. “I honestly don’t know- all I care about is becoming the best. Right now, Kuina, you’re my goal, you’re who I’m looking to. I don’t really care about this stranger, or fate, or anything like that. I’m gonna make my own destiny.”

Her shoulders shake as she laughs. “Why am I not surprised- Zoro, all you think about are swords and fighting. You’re hopeless. I kind of worry for whoever’s stuck with you-”

“Hey!” his nostrils flare with indignation. “They’re lucky to have me as a soulmate! I’m gonna be so strong- the strongest- and,” he slows down, realising she’d tricked him into caring, just a tiny bit, “a-and they’ll be the happiest soulmate ever ‘cause I’ll protect them.”

She hums in agreement, amused. “And you’ll cherish them, right?”

“Y-yeah...whatever.” he stands up abruptly, eager to change the topic and get back to training. “But my priority is to be the greatest swordsman- and don’t you forget it! I’ll beat you tomorrow for sure!”

After Kuina’s death, thoughts of soulmates and red threads rarely ever cross his mind.

At her funeral, he briefly wonders what’ll become of her soulmate, if she even had one, but it just brings bile to his throat. They’d never even met her- why did they even matter. They were the ones mourning her, the ones robbed of their beloved friend, daughter, rival- they were the ones left behind with a Kuina shaped hole in their chests. The bitter burn distracts from the heavy emptiness he can’t shake off, the cold wetness of grief seeping into his skin. He wholeheartedly leans into the fury, grateful for a target, a temporarily outlet for the howling tempest of emotions caused by the loss of his best friend.

Zoro’s world zeroes in on becoming the best. Pushing himself to the limit. Sparring, training. Constant practice and meditation. After Kuina’s death, there’s no student at the dojo for him to look up to, no ever-progressing goalpost he can set as a target. If he stays, he’ll continue being a big fish in a little pond.

Zoro leaves.

He sails the East Blue, seeking stronger and stronger opponents, cashing in bounties to get by. The Demon of the East Blue, they start calling him. But he’s still the same boy who gets lost, the ghost of a red thread distracting his steps and getting him turned around as he travels from island to island. His odd navigating system is as familiar and mechanical as the way his muscles move when he uses his swords, so ingrained he rarely registers that he’s eyeing the thin, tightly corded rope in his peripheral vision.

Arms tied back with a much thicker, tangible rope, body sore, throat parched and delirious from the burning sun, Zoro doesn’t have much to do in Shell Town’s military yard. For the first time in years, he lets himself contemplate the implications of what Kuina had explained to him- the implications of having a person out there meant for him. He wonders if they’ll ever meet- it seems unlikely if he died here. Which he won’t, of course. Because he’s going to be the world’s greatest swordsman, and not even death will keep him away from achieving his dream. Then- only then, will he maybe think of looking for whoever was stuck with him, he decides. It’ll be his decision.

For now, he’ll just keep following whatever path he feels will lead him to greatness.

And what an odd path he stumbles into. Zoro joins a pirate crew. He makes friends. They get into heaps of trouble, fighting the marines, a crazy clown, a creepy butler... Zoro is happy to test his mettle, to feel challenged once again, the rush of battle pulsing through his veins like the sweetest nectar, the comforting weight of his blades grasped in his hands and mouth.

It’s been a couple of days since they left Syrup village now, and from her spot on Merry’s bridge, Nami has been giving him weird looks.

“Did you hit your head?”

He huffs, miffed at being bothered during his nap. “No. Why’re you asking?”

“You haven’t been getting lost as much lately.” she smirks when she adds, “And I’ve seen you get lost on a smaller ship than this, once.”

His eyes roll. Fucking witch. “Dunno what you mean, my sense of direction is great.”

“And Luffy’s a great swimmer.”

They glare at each other for a moment. Sensing she won’t get any more info from the swordsman, Nami turns away first and sighing, returns her full attention to manning the ship’s helm.

Truth is, the thread had barely moved since they left Usopp’s home island, always pointing in the direction the Merry was sailing- not that Zoro had noticed. This rare situation enabled him to get the hang of the ship’s layout relatively well, and he’d been enjoying how easy it’d become to move around, even though he chalked it up to personal atunement to the Straw hats’ already beloved ship.

A few hours before they get to the Baratie, he thinks it’s a funny coincidence that the thread is pointing in the direction the Merry is going.

#zoro gets lost #zosan soulmate au #zosan #zoro x sanji #one piece zosan #one piece fanfiction #zosan fanfiction #zosan fic idea #red string of fate #part one of three #let me know what you think!#might get impatient and post part two pretty soon haha

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scribbly-artist · 4 months

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So You Can Laugh

~2.7k words. No trigger warnings. Just cute, tooth-rotting fluffy tickling.

Author’s Notes: After owning this side account for god knows how long and being extremely nervous to even make tickle content, let alone post it, I present to you this fic I made. Originally written for my OCs, I swapped the names for dummies and edited a few details so it makes sense.

I’m not the best writer, it’s been quite a long time since I’ve written for myself in general. I apologise if anything is written strangely. But I hope you enjoy this little piece of pure self indulgence from me. :) Please let me know what you think. Who knows, I might write some content for fandoms I’m interested in if I feel up to it. Or I might go straight back to lurking, lol.

“Is it too tight, honey?”

“No, it’s okay. Nice and soft, too.”

***

Now that both Nathan and Kathleen have calmed down from their rather dangerous lives, they finally confessed their love for each other and are now an item. After everything was over and the dust settled, they moved in with each other. To no longer having anyone interfere with their personal business and to unwind has helped them both immensely. Now that they don’t have the suffocation of eyes and rules upon them, their love for each other could finally blossom. They cared for each other deeply.

As days go by, Nathan started to notice a few things about Kathleen. One major issue in his mind is Kathleen’s inability to let loose.

She’s always been such a stoic person, that’s just in her nature. Now that they were together all day, she was smiling much more often. However, he wanted to hear the beautiful sing-song of her laugh. It was definitely a rare treat for him, and didn’t come often.

When she laughed, it filled his heart with so much love for her. The way her eyes crinkled with joy, how her cheeks flushed, and how if something was particularly amusing, she’d squeak.

But this was a rare sight to behold, and Nathan had been longing for it. He’d crack jokes, tell funny stories, pop on her favourite shows. Sometimes she’d laugh and let herself be free. Most times when she found something funny, what came out of her was more of an amused exhale from her nose than a laugh.

He needed more of her unfiltered laughter, he craved it.

One day when he was trying to get her to laugh, he had exhausted all of his options. He told so many funny moments of his past, as many funny jokes as he read from his joke book. He even reminisced some of the funny challenges they both faced when they had to hide their feelings for each other from everyone else. But she could only give him a smile.

“C’mon, Kath, you’re killing me here.”

She merely shook her head. “You’ll have to try harder than that, hun.”

His cheeks flushed just slightly at the affectionate nickname, but his eyebrow raised with a smirk. “Is that a challenge? You of all people should know not to do that.”

“Try me,” she gave a wink. “Give it your best shot.” She grabbed a book from the coffee table as she stretched in her seat, making herself much more comfortable on the couch, Nathan standing somewhat over her. She buried her nose in her book.

He wracked his brain for options. He was all out of his usual tactics, so he scanned his mind for moments when Kathleen had laughed in the past and see what stuck out. Way back when, she would give the odd smile, and dare he say, giggle, when he was in close proximity to her. She was always rather ‘giddy nervous’ around him, trying to hide her true feelings. He tended to up his charm just so she could cutely smile and blush. Now that he was thinking about it, one thing in particular was sticking out to him.

When his hand had gently brushed past her side.

He remembered that day very clearly. It was shortly after they had started dating. Kathleen was standing in the kitchen, busy cooking something. Nathan, the charmer he is, snuck up and gave her a hug while she was preoccupied, not knowing he was even in the room. He snaked his arms around her waist and wrapped them around her stomach. This motion, as well as not being on guard, caught her by surprise. She squeaked at the sudden contact, spinning right around with a bright blush on her face, holding his wrists in her hands.

“Hey! B-Be careful!” She gave him a playful glare, pouting at him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m just a bit sensitive, is all…”

“Is that so?” He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind…”

And he definitely did. If this were an illustration, he’d have a light bulb above his head right about now.

‘Sensitive’? More like ‘ticklish’. Why didn’t he try this before? He guessed that someone like her couldn’t really be ticklish. With how she made herself seem so tough, that wasn’t even something that came to mind. But she has softened up since they made everything official, she’s kind of like a cat. She’d snuggle up to him, appreciate holding hands and loving touches. She was just really good at hiding her ticklishness.

And he wasn’t going to let her do it any longer.

While Kathleen was nose-in her book, Nathan reached down and gave her a bit of a poke. She paused, eyes wandering up to him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Just testing something.” He gave her another poke, this time in the ribs. She flinched, her arm pressing against her side, protecting herself. Her cheeks started to flush.

“Yeah, no.” She puffed out her cheeks.

Nathan continued to try, giving her random pokes here and there, nearly making Kathleen drop her book. But she steeled herself, taking a long, deep breath. It was easy to control herself by squeezing her arms against her body.

“God, you’re a hard nut to crack, woman!” Nathan let out his mild irritation. He just wanted to hear her laugh. She let out an amused exhale from her nose once again. She knew what he was up to.

“Sorry, it’s just funny watching you try so hard.” She smirked. His face flushed. If only she wasn’t blocking his attempts, maybe she’d laugh.

***

Which now brings them to this point. Earlier in the week, Nathan had tried again and again to try to tickle her, but she wouldn’t laugh. So, Nathan wondered if he could get her to laugh, only if Kathleen was restrained. He had asked her if he was allowed to test this, and he was surprised when she gave him her consent. She did feel a little bad that he was trying to hard, she knew where he was coming from. So, to give him that little bit of joy, she gave him a chance.

Nathan had ordered some fuzzy cuffs online and had shown Kathleen when they arrived. She was a bit reluctant at the sight of them, but he assured her it would be a-okay. They discussed a safe word and general procedure for after everything was over. They proceeded to the bedroom.

“I am a bit nervous… but I trust you.” She gave her wrist a slight tug, she was strapped in tight. Nathan fastened the last cuff at her right ankle, shuffling on the bed.

“I just want you to let loose and laugh, love. And you make it very hard with you blocking everything, so I figure this’ll work out a lot better,” He climbed on top of her, taking a seat on her thighs, pulling his knees against her legs so she was locked in just that little bit tighter. “And I’m happy to have some reassurance that you won’t accidentally punch my teeth out.” He let out a nervous chuckle.

“I’m a dangerous woman, you know…” Giving him a sly grin, she looked into his eyes. He looked back at her, smirking. A fuzzy feeling was growing in her stomach. Was this butterflies?

“Now, you let me know when you’re feeling overwhelmed. Say the word, and I’ll stop.” His hand gravitated towards her face, cupping her cheek in his hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. She leaned into the touch, closing her eyes, her cheeks growing red.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She nodded. Her cheeks seemed to get just a tad bit more red with her response.

“Good, I’ll start.” He grinned, averting his eyes from her face. He looked down at her body, where should he begin? Her sides seemed to make her squirm when he poked them, so that’s a good place of a place to start than any.

He reached down, and gently started to skitter his fingers against her skin. Kathleen let out a gasp, biting down on her lip. Her reflex was to bring her arms down at the soft touch, but the restraints worked against her, holding her wrists fast. He was going awfully slow, which was starting to drive her crazy. But she was silent.

“C’mon, Kath.” His voice lowered as he smirked, tracing random patterns into her sides. A quiet squeak escaped her at the loving nickname. “Don’t hold out on me now. You can let it out.”

“I-I’m… I’m not going down that… e-easily…” She drawled, trying to keep her voice under control. It was super hard to concentrate when your beautiful partner was giving such a charming and slightly devilish smile down on you while pushing your buttons. It didn’t help that she was extremely stubborn. He knew this too well. “Do y-your worst…”

“Then I guess you’ve forced my hand…” He spoke as if it pained him, but it was quite the opposite. He was giddy with delight. He sped up his fingers, scratching with more intent.

Kathleen only bit her lip harder, her head shaking to the side, her eyes closed tight. Nathan merely tutted at her resistance. “Maybe somewhere else might work better…” He mumbled, studying her face.

His annoying, persistent scribbly hands moved up to her underarms. Her short sleeved shirt gave her no protection. Her arms began to tremble. How she wished she could pull them down right now. But she didn’t give in, she didn’t laugh.

“You’re a tough cookie, though I expected as much.” He mused, chuckling. “Keeping it all inside isn’t going to help you. You’ll spill over eventually. And then you’ll be laughing your pretty little head off.”

Her cheeks burned at his teasing. “S-Shut up…!” This was all she could muster, her concentration one-hundred percent focused on not letting a single laugh out. He was fine with playing the long game.

“Oh, am I getting to you? Did a hit a nerve?” His grin turned devilish, his hands moving to prod at her ribs. His nimble fingers tweaked at them, driving her up the wall. “Does teasing you like this make it all the more harder to keep it all in?” He added a teasing lilt to his voice as he targeted the space between her ribs.

She shook her head once again, trying very hard to hide her face in the pillow. He tutted.

“Ah ah ah, you’re doing none of that.” One of his hands moved from her ribs to the side of her neck, giving it an extremely light scribble. She squeaked as she scrunched up her shoulders. Targeting two spots at once made everything much, much worse.

“Sh… shut the h-hehehehell uhuhuhup…!” She growled. Finally, some giggles were slipping through the cracks.

“Hey, that’s not very nice…” He frowned, but it turned back into a smile just as quickly. “I should teach you some manners, little lady.” Both of his hands shifted to her stomach, resting upon it. She caught some of her breath back as he paused, her stomach filled with nervous energy.

“Don’t… don’t you dare…” She warned, giving him a burning look. She didn’t really mean it, though. When she tried to look scary, it just made her look cute in his eyes.

“You haven’t told me to stop yet…” He spoke his thoughts aloud, giving a small smile as he studied her face. “I thought you would have, I didn’t think you’d let me do this for this long. Maybe… you like it?” He pondered, his eyebrows wiggling up and down.

Her whole face turned red.

“No, I-I don’t! Stop talking…!” However, her face betrayed her. He could only laugh at her response. She glared up at him, then pouted. “…Maybe a little…” She admitted.

“You’re absolutely adorable, you know that?” He could only smile at her, his heart so full for his partner. But he couldn’t forget his goal.

“Now! It’s time to get you really laughing, love.” His hands that were resting on her stomach whirred back to life at his words. He wanted to go for the kill, so he started rolling up her shirt, revealing her stomach underneath. She tried to protest, but she couldn’t form proper words. He placed a hand on her bare stomach. He noticed she was developing quite a bit of a belly.

He gave her stomach a gentle pinch, cooing. “Aww, look at you. You’re getting all pudgy and soft.” He grabbed at her a little more. His touch wasn’t meant to be tickly on purpose, but she was far too sensitive. The awful teasing didn’t help. He continued to grab, grab, grab, both of his hands gently pinching.

This made her break.

“Shihihihit—“ She couldn’t even hold back her giggles anymore. Her walls were broken down, and all she could do was laugh and squirm, shaking her head profusely. Not being able to protect herself was driving her insane. She couldn’t bring her arms down or curl up on herself, and it made her all the more ticklish.

“Isn’t it good to laugh?” He was laughing quietly alongside her, it was a bit contagious since he had never seen her like this before. Even his cheeks were burning a bit red. He skittered his fingers upon her skin, making sure to leave no part of her ticklish skin untouched. Her eyes were shut tight, he could see there was a slight dampness at the corner of her eyes. At some points his touch would become a little rougher just to hear her squeak in surprise.

An idea popped into his mind, forming a sly smirk on his lips. “Hmm… I think I could get you to laugh louder…” Still tickling her with his hands, he shifted his weight so that he could lower his head down to her stomach. Kathleen opened one of her eyes, both of them shooting open as she realised what he was doing.

“Nathan!! Don’t y-you freaking dare…!” She threatened, but that certainly wasn’t stopping him.

“You know what to do to make me stop.” He flashed an evil smile as he buried his face in her belly. He gave her stomach loving, tender kisses as his hands continued to work. His scruff on his chin really, really didn’t help her from not going absolutely insane from the ticklish feeling. She burst out in loud belly laughter, starting to thrash.

“AAAAHAHAHA!!” She threw her head back into the pillow. All she could do was laugh. She couldn’t think straight anymore. All she could think about was how much it tickled. Her nerves were set alight. He laughed along with her, struggling to continue his trail of loving kisses from his own snickering.

“Doesn’t that feel better? Letting it aaaaaall out?” He asked between kisses. He even blew a raspberry or two to keep her guessing. His fingers scribbled up and down her sides and stomach. He was basking in her laughter, his heart full with love. She was loving it as well, though would rather die than admit it. However, she was hitting a breaking point, her voice growing hoarse and her red face damp with tears.

“RED— HAHAHA!! REHEHED LIGHT!” She gasped out between her frantic laughter.

It ended as soon as it started. Once those words left her lips, Nathan immediately stopped, giving her stomach a pat with his hand.

“I’ve got to admit, you lasted a lot longer than I thought.” He beamed down at her, shifting on the bed so he could get up. He made fast work of loosening her restraints, taking them off of her tired limbs. She curled up on herself once she was let loose, rolling over onto her side. Her breathing was heavy after the brutal lung workout.

He chuckled, climbing back onto the bed to cuddle up to her. “Did you like it?” He questioned, planting his chin on her shoulder, taking in her scent that comforted him.

“…Yes…” She admitted, hiding her face with her hand, not daring to glance over and look at him. She was exhausted, but her heart was fluttering.

“We’ll have to do it again some time. Your laughter is like beautiful music. You should do it mo— haha, hey!” He laughed as she elbowed him in the ribs, rolling over to face him.

“You should really have a taste of your own medicine.” She stated as her hands reached out to his torso, giving him quick scribbles and pokes. He couldn’t help himself as he laughed, but he was quick to grab her eager hands by the wrists to get her to stop.

“Heheheh! Look, you can get your revenge another time,” He let go of one of her wrists, his hand settling under her chin. “But right now, I just want to lay here with you.” He leaned in, giving her a passionate kiss on her lips, his heart swelling. She reciprocated, her hand moving up to the back of his neck, burying her hand in his hair.

“I’m happy with that.”

#my writing #tickle fluff #tickling #tickle content #tickle fic #oc tickling #tickling community #tickle community #scribbly-artist #fluffy tickles #my fic

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impandgnomes · 1 year

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An Orange-Hooded Tattoo Artist

So, I've been dying to share and have previously alluded in an abstract manner to my take on adult Kenny. It's a different path to Post-Covid, but in no way a bad one - he takes so much joy in his work. He's inspired by my mind running wild with a cool little piece drawn by @foxydodo a while ago, and tbh this odd little AU blorbo lives rent-free in my head.

so uh...think of it.

----

If you're getting a tattoo, you want to feel trust in that the artist knows what they're doing - needless to say, the best tattoo artists tend to have a lot of tattoos themselves; be it done by themselves, or someone else.

So you're a person who wants a tattoo, and you want to pick the best in the business. After seeing many lacklustre instagrams of blowouts and shaky lines, you come across the portfolio of this guy from a small mountain town in Colorado - this is the one. There's no photos of him - he's a bit of a private person, apparently - but he seems legit. His studio is top-of-the-line and his work next to none. His colorwork is so enigmatically expressive and linework faultless.

You get in touch, make your arrangements, and get down there on the day of the appointment.

It's not only his studio that's spotless...he is too. No tattoos of his own whatsoever. That's weird. Is this the same guy? You persevere.

He proves himself.

You're never gonna meet another guy with this much thoughtfulness, this much care, and this much patience with his clients. He understands what you're looking to get on a level your friends just didn't, and wants to make sure you have the best time possible with the process to make something you truly love. The end result is unforgettable to anyone who sees it.

---

No one quite knows how Kenny McCormick got so good at doing tattoos so quickly - the lack of them on him just confuses them further. Many swear they've seen some on him, but others claim his skin is a blank sheet. Where photos could exist, people would definitely refute it with physical evidence if they could. They'd have an easier time of that too if that evidence didn't change by the day.

No one notices, but Kenny isn't exactly mortal. Death has befallen him frequently ever since he was a child, and in increasingly absurd ways. As he grew older, he became jaded by it and began to take advantage of this - drugs, alcohol, many failed death-defying stunts - but eventually after a series of digital explorations through youtube, real-life urban exploring caught his eye some time in his teens. More often than not his friend Stan would come along, and they would attempt to make youtube videos of their own of the derelict building and dilapidated malls they would find; but it was a time on his own when Kenny found his very first, very questionable tattoo machine. Amazon's finest; perhaps abandoned by other teenagers who had the $60, but not the sense that regular people need. He thought maybe he should draw something on his upper arm to remember the occasion for now. A hot lady with big boobies would do.

---

About two weeks later, Kenny died from a unique and vicious infection that stumped doctors - waking back up into life, he cursed under his breath about how he should have swapped the needles first before scribbling that silly stick figure on himself. His handiwork from that slip-up had been wiped, though. Maybe it was time to make something to show off at school? Maybe it was the first of many things.

#south park #sp kenny #this turned out longer than I meant it too oops #kenny mccormick #sp kenny mccormick #there were a lot of details i thought about adding but i am not about to start writing a fic lmao #he wouldn't hide in the coat as an adult the title just seemed the best way to convey things lmao #the ending feels like it could be way better to me but w/e like I say I just wanted to tell people the idea

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kelpiemomma · 2 years

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In the zoroakari au, Volo killed Akari instead of taking her to Cogita. Playing it a little darker, Giratina didn't realize what their affect of distortion would be and ended up accidentally fucking with Volo's mind and inhibitions. Between jealousy that Akari was Arceus' chosen and desire for the plates that she'd gathered, plates he'd been after for years if not decades, Giratina's influence cracked and fried his brain a lil, kinda like an egg. He was going to take her to Cogita but as they spoke on the way to her hideout it occured to him that... he didn't have to take her there. She had been banished from Jubilife. They weren't keeping an eye on her- if she had been attacked and killed by pokemon they would never know. Not unless they found her body and that... That could be hidden. Disposed of.

When they came to a fairly secluded spot her recommended they take a break, saying that they were halfway there. Akari thought nothing of it, too tired to be suspicious. None of her team were awake. She'd hurried back to Jubilife immediately after calming Lord Avalugg and her team had been exhausted and some knocked out, and upon return to Jubilife she'd been immediately given the boot with no time to heal them. Volo didn't hesitate to kill her while she relaxed, taking her team to Cogita later and telling her they'd been abandoned. He thought he'd hidden her body well enough- pokemon could find it quickly, and provide better dispersal than he could. He didn't count on Arceus and Akari's own anger at his betrayal.

Because she had bought items from Volo, had encountered him often in the field, had considered him a friend. Not only had the town betrayed her, but so had he? One of her close companions? And Arceus didn't want to lose another champion. Pulling them to Hisui in one piece wasn't easy. Akari had been angry enough to return as a zoroark on her own, Arceus just sped along the process. Except Arceus is a god who is a pokemon and not, who doesn't understand the nature of mortals or their minds and instincts. Akari returned not long after as a zoroark but failed to retain all of her human knowledge. She remembered Volo, remembered having companions, vaguely remembered who she was supposed to be... But not entirely. So she focused on Volo, the clearest thing in her mind, the person her instincts were driving her towards. Blonde ginkgo guild members were attacked, and members in general as well because she recognized their outfits and let out her anger on them.

Volo didn't know it was her at first. Zoroark attacks weren't uncommon, and the life of a traveling merchant was hardly safe. But the zoroark wasn't in the right living space and didn't often attack anyone else. He realized who it was only when Akari cornered him and he narrowly escaped, having to sacrifice one of his team to do so. And the knowledge of who she was only served to anger him more. It was just more proof that Arceus didn't want him.

He managed to get rumors spread about her, about how dangerous she was, warning that she would kill someone if she wasn't taken care of first. As Kamado was injured after trying to take on the gods at the top of mount Coronet, Volo was listened to but hardly focused on. Jubilife instead was focusing on fortifying the town. It was ironic that only after she killed him, another Ginkgo guild member having seen it from afar, that his warning was heeded and people were warned to steer clear of her, that the security corps and survey corps were due to focus on apprehending or exterminating the odd zoroark.

It was a good thing that Ingo got to her first.

#Kelp tracks #Zoroakari #Zoroakari au spoilers

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onecanonlife · 3 years

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Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

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

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #crimebois #/rp #dsmp fic #cat writes fic #long post #sometimes you just. you just gotta write some c!crimebois y'know?

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helaintoloki · 3 years

Text

Everybody Loves Somebody

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: slight language, themes of insecurity, angst, pining, slow burn (kinda?), eventual fluff, over 5k words in length

notes: it’s finally finished! this took forever but I swear I put my entire soul into making this as perfect as it could be. I’ve never used this format before in my writing and it was challenging but also super fun so hopefully you guys like it :) (also yes the title and the fic somewhat is inspired by the Dean Martin song)

summary: Thrown into a blind date against his will, Bucky does his best to prepare in the days leading up to Saturday night, a feat that proves to be much more difficult than expected thanks to his neighbor across the hall.

Sunday

Three quick raps on the apartment door force Bucky to kick back the covers and sluggishly rise from his spot on the floor. He’s exhausted, but his recognition of the evenly spaced knocks on the wooden frame has him feeling compelled to answer, and so he does. Too tired to notice the television is still droning on in the background, Bucky idly wraps his discarded blanket around his form to shield his vibranium arm before opening the door to greet the old man standing on the other side.

“Rough night, huh?” Yori greets with a knowing smile.

“Something like that,” he replies with a tired, lopsided grin. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I set you up on a date,” the man says casually, as if setting Bucky up on dates without his knowledge and against his will is a common every day occurrence, and it is. “Saturday evening at six.”

“What— A date? Yori—“

“She’s a nice girl, very pretty. I think you’ll like her.”

“Now hang on a minute,” Bucky tries to interject, but Yori is already halfway down the hall before the super soldier can get another word in.

“You’re meeting her at the Italian place down the street!” Yori calls behind him. “She likes sunflowers!”

The old man’s shouts are sure to have woken up the entire fourth floor by now, but Bucky is too busy trying to process the jumble of information that has been thrust upon him so suddenly and so early in the morning to care. The last date Yori had sent him on had ended in disaster; Bucky wasn’t ready to get back out on the field, a stable relationship wasn’t in the cards for him. Surely no one in their right mind would stick around once they found out the truth about the man, and if they did it would only be a matter of time before the constant nightmares and extra baggage that came with dating the ex-Hydra assassin sent them running for the hills. But Yori meant well, Bucky knew that, and he also knew he owed the man more than he could ever give him in return, so if sitting through another painfully uncomfortable date would make him happy, then Bucky would just have to suck it up, put on the nicest shirt he owned, and charm his way through another awkward dinner.

“Sunflowers,” he grumbles to himself, quietly shutting the door before returning to his spot on the cold hardwood floor.

Monday

Monday mornings are gym mornings, early workouts that start at five and end at seven. He promptly returns to the apartment building at seven thirty, eight if he stops for breakfast, then goes to check the mail before heading back to the comfort of his sheltered apartment. He doesn’t receive much other than grocery coupons and an odd letter from the government every now and then, but he’s been told that a routine is good, it’s healthy, so on Monday mornings at seven thirty—or eight— Bucky pulls out his keys and opens his assigned metal box with a sense of indifference.

It’s eight o’clock on this particular morning, and with a half finished cup of coffee in hand the soldier opens the little metal compartment to find nothing other than stray specks of dust and the tiniest of spiderwebs in the top right corner of the box. It’s a familiar sight, but Bucky has learned not to let it bother him by now. Remember James, it has nothing to do with you, his therapist always said. You have to learn not to take things personally.

“It has nothing to do with me,” Bucky murmurs quietly before finally shutting his mailbox with a sigh. Coffee cup discarded in the nearby trash can, Bucky turns to make his trek towards the elevator only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of a beautifully familiar face.

Your name is y/n, you live on the fourth floor, and for someone reason you’re always covered in glitter. You’re on your way out the door, art supplies held clumsily in your grasp just begging to jump free from your hold, and despite the rush you seem to be in you still greet the man with a polite smile.

“Good morning,” you chime, honey coated voice filled with warmth and kindness for the stranger. Bucky simply gives you a halfhearted smile in return, watching you walk out the door and wishing he could just muster up the courage to speak to you.

You won the soldier’s heart the day you knocked on his door to drop off a “welcome to the neighborhood” casserole. It had only been his second day in his new apartment, and while he knew some of the other tenants were weary of the mysterious man with the thousand yard stare who had decided to call the building a home, you never once seemed to bat an eye at Bucky or his closed off nature. He had been a little short with you upon your first meeting, his anxiety coming off as annoyance, but still you wore that same kind smile of yours and assured him that if he ever needed anything you’d be happy to help. You were a kind person with a big heart, and Bucky didn’t want to chance snuffing out one of the few lights left in the world, so he let you be. Admiring you from afar was all he let himself have of you, and that was it.

Though, Bucky would be lying if he said you didn’t come across his mind every once in a while. He wondered what you were like, what music you listened to, how you liked your eggs in the morning, if you were an old soul or young at heart, if you’d ever let yourself fall into in the arms of a broken man and help pick up the pieces. It was a pipe dream, but sometimes a friendly smile from you in the morning was enough to get Bucky through an entire day. He hadn’t been with anyone in years, and while he didn’t think he was ready to get back out on the dating scene just yet he knew that if you asked him to he’d take the plunge in a heartbeat. You were an angel, and Bucky would never be able to bring himself to taint you with his touch.

Monday mornings are workout mornings, but they’re also mornings with you.

Tuesday

On Tuesday afternoons Bucky often finds himself in the company of Yori, ensuring the old man stays out of trouble and going out of his way to make sure his newest friend has a nice day out on the town. It isn’t much, and it never will be, but it’s enough for now, at least until Bucky can find the courage to tell the father just what exactly happened to his son on that fateful night. But until then, sushi for lunch will have to do.

He makes his usual trek to the man’s apartment, stomach already beginning to rumble at the prospect of a nice crunch roll, but Bucky’s hunger is soon replaced with nerves at the sight of the woman standing in Yori’s doorway.

You look pretty today, hair haphazardly styled in your rush out the door this morning, colorful stains of dry paint adoring your hands that clutch a bundle of books close to your chest, and a dangly pair of earrings that glint underneath the sunlight pouring through the hallway windows. There’s a smile on your face as you nod along to something Yori says that doesn’t quite register in the soldier’s jumbled thoughts, and the two of you are both too engrossed to notice his lingering presence standing just a few feet away.

“Thank you so much for lending me these. The kids keep me on my toes and I haven’t had any time to settle down with a good book so these were perfect,” you utter gratefully, handing off the pile of poetry books to Yori’s awaiting hands. Names of authors that Bucky doesn’t recognize catch his eye, just as his friend finally catches his presence.

“Of course. I have more if you’re ever interested,” he says before finally addressing the elephant in the hallway. “James, there you are. I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it.”

Bucky stiffens at the sound of his name, heat immediately crawling up his neck as you turn to him with a friendly smile. Clearing his throat, he steps forward and musters up a meager grin in return.

“Like I’d ever miss Tuesday lunch,” he jokes, a nervous chuckle falling past his lips.

“I guess I better get going. Thank you again, Yori,” you chime with a grateful smile. Then, with your attention turned to Bucky, “Have a nice lunch, James.”

“Thank you...” he trails quietly, mentally kicking himself for his stiff demeanor and wishing he could be less pathetic in your presence just once. Just once and he’d die a happy man.

You leave with a polite smile, turning down the hallway and out of Bucky’s grasp once again. Yori elbows his side.

“She’s single, you know.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Bucky replies with a wry chuckle. “You have me set up with one girl already.”

“Right,” Yori notes thoughtfully with a knowing smile and a mischievous glint in his eyes that Bucky can’t quite decipher. “I think you’re going to have a nice time on your date.”

“We’ll see,” is all he says in reply, your smile the only thing on his mind as the two men head out for the day.

Wednesday

Bucky has grown to love rainy days, days in which he can remain tucked away in the warmth and comfort of his own home with a relaxing mug of hot chocolate in one hand and some piece of pop culture media he has yet to catch up with in the other. Today’s pick is a book titled The Outsiders, and Bucky chooses to sit upon the windowsill to read the novel.

Gentle drops of rain trail down the glass window, pattering soothingly in a way that makes Bucky fear he may fall asleep. He sets the book aside with a tired sigh and glances out the window with his warm cheek pressed against the cool surface; the city is quiet and the streets nearly empty, and this makes it easier to spot you.

It’s almost as if you’ve been popping up out of nowhere lately, but Bucky never seems to mind. Watch from afar, that was the deal he made with himself, so who was he to complain if you made the task easier for him? He could never have you the way he wanted to because he doubted you’d ever want an unstable old man like him, and even if you did he’d be no good for you. He knew girls like you back in his day, girls with stars in their eyes and hearts on their sleeves, girls who’d melt in his arms whenever he so much as smiled at them. And yet you weren’t like any girl he’d ever seen; you were an enigma and he wanted nothing more than to spend all of eternity deciphering the mystery of you. But he couldn’t, because he shouldn’t, so he didn’t.

Despite the gloomy gray skies hanging above you there’s a serene smile on your face as you stop to admire the pots of sunflowers outside the building, reminding Bucky he has to buy some for his date on Saturday. God, he was dreading it. Bucky was sure whatever girl Yori picked for him would be nice enough, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes wish it were you he’d be taking out for a night on the town. A guy can dream, right?

You retreat into a nearby coffee shop when the rain begins to fall harder, and as Bucky turns to his own warm drink he finds that the mug is now cold. Book discarded, he rises from his spot on the windowsill and drowsily drags himself into the kitchen for another cup.

For a moment he thinks sunflowers might surely bring about his demise, and the passing thought brings the smallest of smiles to his face. Only time will tell.

Thursday

“How are you feeling about your date on Saturday?”

The woman stares at him expectantly, pristine notepad resting casually in her lap, pen in hand as a warning, eyebrows raised at the man as he stares down contemplatively at the stitching of his leather gloves. What should be a comforting environment instead only seems to put him on edge, and as the seconds tick by on the clock hung crookedly above the doorway her pen only seems to get closer to the blank page below her. Shoulders sagging, Bucky can only offer a small sigh in response.

“I can’t say I feel too great about it,” he finally says, the tension in his shoulders alleviating slightly as she finally puts the pen down.

“And why’s that?” Doctor Raynor prods curiously.

“I just don’t really think I’m all that ready for a relationship. What person wants to be with someone as screwed up as me?”

“The right person will,” Christina comforts. Your smiling face flashes briefly in his mind in response and he shifts in discomfort— the doctor notices. “But I don’t think you’re telling me the full story here, James. I suspect there’s something else that’s holding you back. Or maybe someone.”

“That obvious, huh?” Bucky retorts with a wry smile.

“Who’s the lucky person?”

“Her name’s y/n,” he says, your name falling past his lips in the softest tone Dr. Raynor has ever heard from him before. “I don’t know her all that well, but she lives in my apartment building so I see her around a lot. She’s... she’s really pretty.”

“Well, what is it about y/n that you like?”

Geez, where do I even begin?

“I don’t know,” Bucky shrugs, picking absently at a loose seam on the end of his shirt, “I guess I like how friendly she is. Every time I see her she’s always smiling, she always says good morning to everyone and lends a hand wherever she can. It’s like she goes out of her way to be nice to me, and I’m not really used to that but it’s a nice feeling. The first time I met her she never even flinched, she wasn’t scared like other people usually are, and even when I blew her off she still made it clear that I was welcome and if I needed a friend she’d be there. That’s the kind of person she is.”

“Did you take her up on that offer?” The woman asks, but by the look on her face Bucky is sure she already knows the answer.

“No...”

“James, we’ve talked about this,” Christina says firmly, “you have to stop closing yourself off from the people around you. Making a friend could really help you, especially if this girl is truly as nice as you say she is.”

“She is,” he reiterates firmly, “and that’s why I can’t be her friend.”

The doctor’s brows furrow with piqued interest at his admission, legs shifting underneath her as she gets comfortable in preparation for what will most likely be a heavy confession. “Can you elaborate for me?” She says. Bucky sighs.

“After everything that’s happened, and everything the world has been through, it just gets harder and harder to find some sort of light in the dark. So when you finally do find it, it’s like you have to do everything in your power to make sure it never goes out.”

“So y/n is a light?” Raynor reaffirms.

“For so many people,” Bucky nods, “and if I try to put myself in the picture I’ll only bring her down. There’s no future with me, and she deserves better than that.”

“How do you know that if you never put yourself out there?” The doctor asks softly, silently stunned by the heavy confession Bucky has entrusted her with; it’s the most he’s ever opened up before.

Pieces of the past dart through his mind, and in the midst of all the heartache and the chaos he sees Yori, the one friendship he’s been able to successfully maintain since his period of healing. The memory of the man is pleasant for a moment, until Bucky is reminded of the basis of their friendship and how one single confession will tear down everything they’ve built together. It doesn’t matter what kind of man he is now or how much control he has over his own life, the Winter Soldier will always have the final say, and nothing will ever change that. Finally, he speaks.

“I just do.”

Friday

“Crap.”

The softly uttered curse sounds from across the hallway and alerts Bucky of his struggling neighbor’s presence. Purse slipping off your shoulder and heavy groceries spilling from your arms, you struggle to maneuver your key into the lock of your front door all while the heat of embarrassment engulfs your body in a suffocating hold. You’re not as put together as you usually are, your belongings in disarray and eyes full of exhaustion rivaling that of his own, your usually meticulously picked clothing replaced by joggers and an old college sweatshirt that’s three sizes too big on you, and yet Bucky still finds himself frozen in your presence.

Don’t just stand there, help her you idiot, his mind screams at him, the soldier harshly swallowing down his nerves before taking shaky steps towards you. An orange slips out of the brown paper bag and rolls towards his feet, and Bucky takes it as his in into a conversation.

“Need some help?” He asks with a crooked smile, one that softens at the look of distress clear in your eyes as you meet his gaze.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” you breathe out before offering a meager smile of your own. “Some help would be great, thank you.”

Bucky takes the heavier bags of groceries from your aching arms and returns the orange to its rightful place, allowing you the chance to take your keys and unlock the door. You don’t spare him another glance as you walk in, leaving it open as a silent invitation for him to let himself in. Bucky swallows nervously but wordlessly follows behind; he’s never been in a woman’s apartment before, and the fact that it’s yours makes the experience all the more nerve wracking.

Your apartment is small but personalized, decorated with little knickknacks and houseplants and old family portraits that Bucky does his best not to stare at in fear of being rude, and the vanilla scented candle that burns on the coffee table makes him feel all the more welcome. You drop your purse by the couch with a tired sigh before directing your attention to the man who stands awkwardly in your living room. His hulking figure makes your apartment seem tiny, oddly comforting in a way, but you hold back your giggles and merely guide him to your kitchen.

“You can set them on the counter,” you say with a passive wave before reaching into one of the cabinets for a glass cup. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you,” the man says politely as he settles the heavy bags down on the marble surface; as much as he’d like to sit and spend the evening with you, he can’t stay long, or more like he won’t allow himself to stay long. Your movements are clumsy as you down your glass of water, and Bucky looks away flustered as little droplets begin to escape the corners of your lips and dribble down your neck. “I hope I’m not overstepping by asking this, but are you alright? You seem a bit... flustered.”

“Is it that obvious?” You joke quietly, your smile barely reaching your eyes as you fidget with the sleeves of your sweater.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky begins to say in fear of overstepping, but you merely shake your head in response.

“I’m just a little stressed out. The kids always keep me on my toes, especially now that there’s more of them, and it’s been hard trying to get some of them to readjust.”

“Kids?” He repeats with furrowed brows. He can’t recall ever seeing you with any children, and there’s no sign of any living with you in your apartment. A genuine laugh leaves your lips this time at his response and Bucky tenses uncomfortably. Did he say something wrong?

“I’m a kindergarten teacher,” you explain with a smile, and everything clicks in Bucky’s mind then. That would explain the constant paint stains and trails of glitter left in your wake, the arts and crafts supplies and stacks of drawings you seem to carry with you everywhere. And here he thought your heart couldn’t get any bigger than it already was— were you even real?

“The effects of the blip have been really difficult for them. It’s hard having to come back to school and see that all your old friends are now five grades ahead of you. I know everyone has been impacted in some way by what happened, but it’s harder for the younger ones to understand. I’m doing my best to make the transition back to normalcy easier for them, but some days are harder than others, you know?”

“Sounds rough,” is all Bucky can manage to say, swallowing his emotions back harshly.

“Yeah,” you sigh quietly, rubbing away the clear exhaustion in your eyes, “but I’m trying my best.”

“Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

You smile then, a genuine smile, one that makes Bucky weak in the knees, and suddenly it’s as if all the weight has been lifted off of your shoulders.

“I really needed to hear that,” you utter softly, “thank you.”

“What are neighbors for?” Bucky jokes lamely, but you must like his sense of humor for you let out the quietest of giggles.

“You’re sweet. I like talking with you, but I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you’re a busy guy.”

“Not really,” he shrugs with a crooked smile, “I just had some errands to run before tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” You ask curiously, brows raising with interest as Bucky awkwardly looks down at your hardwood floor.

“I’ve got a date.”

“Huh, no kidding. Me too,” you smile, and in response Bucky’s heart slowly begins to sink to his stomach. Yori had said you were single, but only an idiot would believe that someone like you could stay that way for long. Maybe if he had taken the doctor’s advice sooner he could be the one you’re seeing instead of the lucky guy that beat him to it.

“I should get going... I’ll see you around.”

“Thank you again for the help, and good luck on your date,” you say with an encouraging smile. Bucky swallows harshly in response, a look of longing in his eyes that he hides well with a meager quirk of his lips.

“You too,” he murmurs in response, casting you once last glance before showing himself out. The lock clicks behind him, and Bucky trudges back to his own empty apartment.

Saturday

The dining patio of the Italian restaurant is pleasantly empty, but the quiet stillness does little to help soothe Bucky’s nerves as he waits for the arrival of his date. He probably should have asked Yori what she looked like, what her name was and what she’d be wearing so he’d know what to expect, but the old man had been adamant on keeping the identity of his date a surprise.

“It’ll be better that way,” he had said, “trust me.”

The bouquet of sunflowers sits before him on the table almost tauntingly, their bright colors and sweet scent sending his senses into overdrive. He almost resented them, but then he thought of your smiling face through the window and the tension from his shoulders began to dissipate— if you could be strong and put on a brave face despite all the bad things that had happened in the world, then so could he.

“James?” A meek voice calls quietly, pulling the man from his thoughts. His blue eyes widen in surprise at the sight of the woman standing before him and he swallows anxiously.

“Y/n?” Bucky replies, quickly rising from his seat and cringing at the way in which the legs of the chair scrape harshly across the floor with his sudden movements. Here he thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful, and here you were proving him wrong with your cute little outfit and styled hair and charming smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for my date,” you explain with a sheepish smile. Bucky deflates— not only would he have to suffer through his own painfully awkward date, but he’d also have to sit and watch you get swept off your feet by someone else all in the same night.

“Oh... well, who’s the lucky guy?”

“That’s the thing,” you say with a nervous laugh, “I think you are.”

“Me?” Bucky repeats flabbergasted. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Yori was the one who said I should try dating again. He thought it would be good for me to spend some time with other adults since I’m always with my students, and when I said I didn’t really know anyone he told me he’d take care of it for me. All he told me was to come to this restaurant Saturday at six and look for the man with sunflowers,” you summarize before gesturing to the bouquet on the table, “and you’re the only one here with sunflowers so...”

A disbelieving laugh leaves Bucky then at the realization, and he isn’t sure whether he should jump for joy or wait for the ground below to swallow him whole. Finally he had a chance to spend time with the girl who had taken over his thoughts and occupied every available space in his heart, and yet he couldn’t help but feel terrified. A date was a big step up from neighborly conversation in your apartment, and all of Bucky’s hopes of developing something more with you were riding on this one date. Yori knew exactly what he was doing by setting the two of you up, and Bucky had no choice but to be grateful for the man who had bestowed upon him the chance to finally win you over.

“If this is too awkward for you we can just skip this whole date—“

“No, it’s not awkward at all,” Bucky is quick to interject. “I mean, this whole thing is certainly a surprise but it’s a good one. It’s an honor to be your blind date.”

He flashes a charming smile that makes you weak in the knees, and he knows then that he’s back in the game— who would have guessed he’d be able to dust off his old moves with such ease? He had to if he wanted any kind of chance at winning you over.

“In that case, why don’t we get out of here? This restaurant is a little stuffy,” you note with a small chuckle, your nerves slowly beginning to dwindle.

“Alright, what do you have in mind?”

The nightlife atmosphere of the plaza square is surprisingly much more comfortable compared to the dining patio, and Bucky considers himself the luckiest man alive to be able to witness firsthand the way your eyes seem to sparkle with the light of the starry sky. A nighttime stroll is right up Bucky’s alley, and you both fall into a comfortable step as you talk about whatever topic seems to come to mind. You speak of your students, about how much their smiling little faces have helped you get through the toughest times, how there’s a stray cat who calls the dumpsters behind your apartment building a home and waits for your arrival on trash days because you always bring the feline a special treat. Alpine, you had named it, and Bucky adored that greatly.

The details are vague but you enjoy the stories he tells you of his childhood and the way his whole face seems to light up at the mere mention of his mother and sister; that look dwindles slightly when he speaks of his old best friend, but you pretend not to notice. As a younger man Bucky worked at the docks before serving time in the army, though he fails to mention where he’d been stationed, and now he works for the government. You feel almost giddy to be learning so much about the man you once believed would rather prefer solitude over your company, and as the night drags on and the conversation begins to dwindle you almost wish you could reverse the clock and do it all over again.

“Thank you,” Bucky says after a moment of silence, prompting you to halt your steps and raise a brow curiously at your counterpart.

"What for?"

“Taking a chance on a guy like me,” he smiles faintly while offering you a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “I haven’t really done anything like this in a while, and the idea of putting myself back out there scared me shitless, but you just make things so much easier. I guess what I’m trying to say is when I’m with you everything comes naturally, and I really appreciate that.”

“Oh,” you utter softly, a sheepish smile of your own gracing your lips as you turn away to admire the scenery around you. It isn’t until now that you notice you’ve stopped before the fountain, the arches of water flowing overhead illuminated by the fluorescent lights below them. A nervous fluttering occupies your stomach and when you finally meet Bucky’s gaze you feel as if nothing else in the entire world mattress other than the two of you in this moment. “Well, if it makes you feel any better I’m kind of in the same boat, so that just means we can figure this out as we go. Together.”

“I like that,” Bucky affirms with a nod, a look that can only be described as lovestruck taking over his features. Nerves overcome you then as you clutch your bouquet of flowers to your chest, heart thrumming rapidly in your rib cage as Bucky steps closer. The glove that had once shielded his right hand from the cold is now missing as he gently cups your cheek and encompasses you with his warmth. His palm is calloused and rough but comforting all the same, and it takes everything in your power not to melt like putty in his grasp.

“Is this okay?” He murmurs quietly as if raising his voice any higher will ruin the moment.

“Yeah,” you breathe shakily, swallowing back your nerves, “it’s okay.”

Your softly uttered words of confirmation are all Bucky needs to hear before dipping down and gently brushing his lips against your own. His movements are hesitant for only a moment, and it is only once he’s sure you are comfortable and secure that he moves in for more. Your lips are soft against his own, plush and warm and so sweet, and as your eyes begin to flutter shut and the forgotten sunflowers slip out of your grasp you drape your arms securely across his shoulders at the same moment in which his left hand joins his right in cupping your face as if you were a precious jewel in need of the upmost care.

Nothing exists when you are in each other’s arms, you are safe and sound in your own little world, and as you part to take a breath Bucky realizes then that one kiss is all he needs to know that you are the one he’s been waiting for all his life.

And by god, if you aren’t more than worth the wait.

487 notes · View notes

delimeful · 3 years

Text

Helpless (3)

warnings: misunderstandings, spiders/arachnophobia, mild violence

Halfway through the woods, Patton heard the distinct sound of someone mumbling.

He paused mid-step, tilting his head to listen with a fair bit of curiosity. The mumbling was quiet enough that he couldn’t make out any individual words, but he could more or less tell which direction it was coming from.

Whatever the source was, they sounded a little frustrated.

He hesitated. Virgil was always emphasizing how careful Patton needed to be in the woods, though how much of that was due to actual danger and how much was the drider being a worrywart over Patton’s ‘chronic inability to defend himself’, he wasn’t sure.

Either way, this didn’t sound like a dangerous wild animal, so it would probably be okay to take a little detour and see what the matter was!

He followed the noise off the trail into a thick copse of trees, eventually coming upon intricate silvery threadwork that wound between them. He was proud to say he only barely shuddered as he ducked past them, his fear of spiders mostly overcome by his affection for his friend.

The webbing got thicker the further he went, and eventually he came upon the source of the mumbling, which appeared to be a whole person, stuck against the outer edge of one of Virgil’s larger webs.

They looked up upon spotting him, eyes bright for a moment before taking him in and visibly dulling with disappointment, which, aside from sorta hurting Patton’s feelings, seemed an odd response for someone in need of help.

“Hello there,” he greeted, waving. “My name’s Patton, I live over at the nearby town. You seem to be in a bit of a prestickament!”

“No, I did this myself,” the stranger corrected, already looking past Patton with disinterest. “It is an attempt to meet with someone I would like to speak with, and they seem the skittish sort, so I would appreciate it if you moved on.”

Patton hummed, more than a little confused. Something about this seemed familiar. “What are you going to do if this person doesn’t show up, though?”

“My arms are free,” they responded, frowning at Patton’s persistence as they wiggled the fingers of their free hand demonstrably. The other hand was occupied with a worn-looking journal. “I will be able to eat and drink, and thus am in no danger.”

“My friend says these woods can get mighty cold at night,” Patton countered, undeterred. “Can’t you meet your friend in town, instead? Why does it have to be a drider’s web?”

And, oh, that was it! Virgil had just been telling him the other day about someone who’d gotten stuck in one of his webs just like this, a mage who had been all-too-delighted to see him. Patton had hardly registered how they’d met, since he’d mostly been very upset to learn that some people would try to use his friend’s body parts as potions ingredients.

“That’s because the drider is the one I’m hoping to speak with,” the stranger replied, as though it should be obvious. “I sincerely doubt they would appreciate an invitation to town.”

Patton stared at the little notebook for a moment, and abruptly put the pieces together. This must have been the stranger that freaked Virgil out so badly!

And he was lying in wait in one of Virgil’s webs… In that case, there was no way he could leave things like this.

“I don’t think the drider is around,” he offered cheerily. “Sometimes they migrate to different areas for different seasons! You won’t meet anyone while hanging around, so I’ll help you down!”

He circled around the tree where most of the webs were rooted, approaching the stranger’s edge of webbing, and found to his surprise that they really were stuck. How they planned to ambush Virgil while stuck in a web, he wasn’t sure, especially since the gambit hadn’t worked on the first attempt either. Magic, maybe?

“How do you know that?” the stranger asked, craning to look at him with sudden interest. “About drider migration cycles.”

Patton shrugged as he plucked at the threads of the web, testing each one to see where they led. “I’m a good listener, so I pick things up here and there. What do you do?”

It seemed to be the right question to ask, since the stranger perked up, distracted from his inquiry.

“I am a researcher,” they informed Patton. “I’m seeking out information on the more reclusive creatures that live in these lands, like driders! This is the first one that I’ve met in person, so if they’re leaving, I need to catch up right away.”

Patton slid the sheath off of the little paring knife he’d taken to carrying and started sawing at one of the threads. “Are you going to try to capture him?” he asked, keeping his voice as even as he could. “You know, for your research.”

“I’m not a bounty hunter,” they replied indignantly. “The behavior of any being would be unnatural and stilted while imprisoned, especially a sapient one. My research is meant to increase humanity's understanding of driders, not to put them on display for entertainment.”

Patton blinked at them, slicing through another strand. “You… aren’t looking to hurt them?”

“No!” They honestly sounded offended by the idea. “I don’t think I ever could, anyhow, the one I met was very large, and they would likely be able to incapacitate me without any trouble.”

“Weren’t you scared?” Patton asked, remembering the terror that had swept through him during that first encounter, when he’d thought the drider was a giant creepy crawly death dealer. Even after he realized, when Virgil yoinked him with his two front legs, Patton had been a little nervous.

“People are only scared of what they don’t understand,” they informed him, chin lifted stubbornly, “and I know more about driders than any other human. I don’t see any reason to be afraid.”

“Wow… You’re really passionate about this, huh?” Patton grinned as he sliced through the last of the support webbing, and with a few snaps, the researcher fell to the ground, only a few strands of silk clinging to them.

“Of course!” they replied, pausing to pull some of the softer webbing bits off of himself and folding them into a pocket of his bag. “The information compiled on them is often vague or outright misleading, and due to their reclusiveness and occasional aggression, nobody else has been able to correct these false accounts.”

They paused, studying the woods around them. “I am… uncertain on how I’m going to discern which area the drider has chosen to migrate to. I don’t suppose you have any idea?”

Patton patted their shoulder. “Don’t worry about that. I think there’s a friend of mine you should meet properly.”

—

“Virgil!” Patton called brightly. “I’m here!”

He had been leading the way through increasingly dense and shadowy foliage for a fair while, now. Logan glanced up from their connected hands to see exactly where he was being pulled to, his heartbeat picking up in speed despite the possibility that this was a cruel prank or even a mugging.

Sure, Patton had described the drider that he’d met a couple of days ago quite accurately, but that was no assurance that he was actually familiar with the being. Most of the townsfolk seemed peripherally aware of ‘Virgil’’s presence, after all, so Patton could have glimpsed him before. It seemed more likely than them being friends. Driders were notoriously solitary, and ‘Virgil’ had seemed quite averse during Logan’s encounter with him, after all.

There was a crack from above, like a branch snapping.

In the next moment, a heavy weight had dropped down from above, knocking Logan to the ground and forcing all the air from his lungs. As he gasped futilely, he realized there were two hands pinning his arms to the ground, and some very familiar fangs put on full display, mere inches from his face.

“Leave him alone,” a very angry drider demanded, his regular voice layered with harsh, gravely rattling.

Logan wheezed in response, absently noting that there were multiple small black eyes visible against the dark marks under the more human set of eyes and wondering just how the two different ocular sensory organs overlapped.

“Virgil, stop!” Patton’s hands appeared at the edge of Logan’s vision, pushing back against Virgil’s shoulders until he eased up, lifting his crouched spider half up only slightly, as though prepared to lunge at Logan again at any moment. “He’s fine! He won’t hurt you!”

Virgil’s glare finally flicked away, though it turned more bewildered-angry than murderous-angry once landing on Patton. Logan wasn’t sure, but he thought the smaller eyes remained locked on him. “This is the mage I told you about! It’s not safe, you need to get out of here--,”

“Mage?” Logan asked, his voice still coming out a little winded. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s not,” Patton said at nearly the same time, “I promise, he just wants to know more about you! Right, Logan?”

“I’m certainly not a mage,” he agreed, rubbing at his arm. The full force of a drider grabbing him… that was going to bruise. He wondered if there was a way to measure that power. “I’m not sure how you got that impression, I don’t have any of the tools mages often carry.”

Virgil looked back and forth between the two humans with clear consternation, and Patton was the one who answered. “Well, most people are afraid at just the sight of him. And… you weren’t.”

“Of course not,” Logan said, still trying to grasp the connection between his lack of fear and his alleged magehood. “I was enthralled. He’s very beautiful.”

Above him, Virgil made a choked-off noise and shuffled back, giving Logan space to sit up and regain full faculty of his senses. Virgil had turned his face away, and Patton was muffling a smile behind his hand.

“Was that… invasive?” Logan asked hesitantly, glancing between the two of them. “I apologize, this is my first research voyage, so I may have become... over-enthusiastic.”

Virgil flapped a hand at him, as though trying to physically dispel his words. “What exactly does a ‘research voyage’ entail?”

Logan straightened up, trying to look as professional as possible while still sitting on the forest floor. He suspected there might be detritus in his hair. “It’s a journey undertaken by apprentice-level researchers to expand their knowledge in their specific field. Often, once they have thorough evidence and a compelling thesis, they will return to their teacher and present this in order to advance as a journeyman.”

Of course, Logan had no intention of doing that. He was going to spend as long as he could traveling and learning and compiling his knowledge, until nobody could argue that he wasn’t suited to the world of scholars.

“And your field is… spiders? Monsters?” Virgil asked, eyebrows raised dubiously.

“I am attempting to correct the misconceptions that are so rampant in bestiaries,” Logan corrected. “So many depend on them, but I’ve found very few actually capture the intricacies of the cultures and habits of nonhuman magical beings. They read more like old wives’ tales, passed down and warped with time, and both the scientific community and the beings in question suffer for it.”

“Huh.” Virgil tilted his head slightly, and Logan realized that at some point his smaller eyes had closed, the dark creases vanishing amidst the pockets of shade under his eyes.

“That sounds like the bestiary way to help people!” Patton added, and Logan watched in disbelief as Virgil’s expression relaxed further, the drider snorting softly.

“So all I’d have to do is… be a drider in front of you?” he asked, one of his back legs tapping against the ground in a remarkable imitation of the way a nervous human might tap their foot. Logan nodded. “I guess… it could work. And it’d be nice to have someone else around who won’t scream at the sight of me.”

“New friend!” Patton cheered, looking perhaps more delighted at the idea than Logan’s presence really warranted. “Only the spidaring are cool enough to be friends with Virgil.”

“Is the wordplay going to be a regular thing with him?” Logan asked, his face pinching sourly.

“Better get used to it. He’s punstoppable,” Virgil replied, grinning toothily when Logan shot him a betrayed look. Logan thought he seemed pleased, going by the subtle twitching of his pointy ears.

Logan hid a small smile of his own. Perhaps following Patton wasn't the unwisest decision he'd ever made, after all.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #arachnaphobia tw #ts patton #ts logan #ts virgil #drider #drider au #my writing #helpless #writing #am i missing tags?

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omegasmileyface · 3 years

Text

Bound by the Food Chain

"man what if there was something incorporating both the Ghost King and Ghost Hunger aus" i say, not prepared to spend weeks writing up an entire ecosystem structure for the ghost zone,

thanks @attackradish and @ectolemonades for help figuring out the science and writing!

summary: The ghostly Staff who've taken up residence in Phantom's Keep notice Danny doesn't eat any ectoplasmic food. That can't be good for him.

warnings: detailed description of ghost hunger, which is vaguely like cannibalism

words: 2830

AO3 link

===

“King Phantom, when do you feed?”

“Huh?” Danny looked up at the Keep’s Librarian, Vellum. It felt like an odd question, seeing as he was currently actively eating a sandwich he had packed up with him into the Zone. He was spending a few hours in the Keep that day since it was nice and quiet for getting work — from both realms — done, and he had brought some earth food over. Ghost plants just didn’t taste very good.

Vellum looked a little shocked, like she hadn’t realized she’d asked her question aloud. “I mean, clearly you eat human food quite a bit,” she gestured to his sandwich, “but I’ve never seen you take in any sort of ectoplasmic substance.”

Danny wasn’t an expert on the (strangely psychological) ecology of the Infinite Realms, but he was familiar with the fact that all ghosts had to take in some sort of ectoplasm if they wanted to be anything more than an inert impression of emotion. Since he had never gotten any enjoyment or significant energy from eating ghost plants or breathing in the stuff ambient in the air, he pretty much just stuck with eating human food and converting the chemical energy between his forms. He was lucky that he could do that, being part human. He knew he automatically gained some energy from the human emotions around him (including his own, another benefit of being liminal) but it was negligible. He got drained pretty easily, and he knew there were things he wasn’t trying, but… he was tired, not desperate. He’d be tired anyway, with his lack of sleep.

“That’s because I don’t. I can still use the chemical energy I get from human food in my ghost form, so…” he shrugged. “This is pretty much it.”

Vellum’s brows furrowed in concern. “Are you not a—” She pursed her lips. “Are you not tired?”

“What do you mean? I definitely eat more than a regular human, and as far as I’m aware I don’t lose any of my energy in conversion. I’m getting by.”

“I think we should talk to Dr. Marchs. I don’t know if it’s… ok, that you’re not feeding ectoplasmically.”

With some exasperation, Danny let himself be brought back to the Throne room, the preferred place for anything that could constitute a “meeting”. Apparently, talking to the Keep’s Doctor, Chef, and some other Staff members about his diet counted.

The various adult ghosts looked at Danny with shared expressions of confusion and concern from where they stood around him. He was sitting on the arm of the Throne, not the most comfortable but it still felt wrong to be properly seated in it unless necessary.

Dr. Marchs finally spoke their piece. “Forgive me for asking, Your Majesty, but… are you not a hunting-ghost?”

Danny was already out of his league culturally. He had a lot to learn. “As in… like, a predator?”

“Exactly! Your core best processes ectoplasm directly from other ghosts, correct?”

Danny paled. “I don’t… know? I tend to avoid going around, just… eating other sentient creatures.” He tried to say it in a humorous way. It didn’t work.

“So you’ve never tried! I had thought… Well, I think you must be a hunting-ghost. You put out a radiant power that is only associated with that core type.”

“None of us have seen you feeding,” added Vellum, “so we weren’t sure you didn’t just defy that association. I don’t think anyone really understands all the complications of half-human physiology.”

Dr. Marchs jumped back in easily. “It’s still just speculation. You have said that you don’t enjoy eating plants from this realm, yes?” Danny nodded. “And you don’t seem to get significant relief from human emotion. Well, we’re just going to have to have you try feeding on some ghosts.”

Danny jumped to his feet. “What?! I don’t… need that, I get by fine on human food!”

“But aren’t you tired?” pointed out the Chef. Her eyes widened. “That’s why you get so drained after using big attacks! Your energy reserves aren’t being nearly refilled.”

“I believe she’s right, Your Majesty. There’s only so much energy you can take from human food, which isn’t even alive… I think you’re always tired because your core is designed to have a level of energy that you can’t provide it without processing Vital ectoplasm.”

Danny didn’t want to admit that he was consistently pretty damn tired. Instead he tried to change the subject. Ghosts were passionate beings, and as much as he hated to take advantage of that, having one of the Keep Staff gush about one of their passions to him was much better than talking about his relationship with what was essentially cannibalism. “Vital?”

Dr. Marchs’ eyes sparkled a little. “Vital as in living, not as in essential. Ectoplasm comes in three major forms. Ambient plasm makes up most of the Realms, in environments and atmospheres and auras. All ghosts are made up of Vital plasm, and those with cores have their Obsession or Purpose imprinted into the crystal structure of their own ectoplasm, which can be turned into Charged ectoplasm. The Charged form can take up an elemental type according to the ability of its source, and it has the most capacity to hold or be converted into ectoenergy. The Charged form is used to transmit intention onto a target, so it’s generally created by Cored ghosts, who are creatures of intention, in attacks or construction. Regardless of type or state, ectoplasm processing depends on its form — Uncored ghosts can process strong human emotions or Ambient ectoplasm into the Vital type. Among Cored ghosts, hunter-ghosts can best process Vital ectoplasm, gatherer-ghosts the high-activity type of Ambient plasm found in ghost plants, and scavenger-ghosts human emotion. Additionally, Charged plasm no longer linked to the source of its intention will eventually disperse into Ambient, as its most inert form.”

Danny, sitting down, had already known part of that, but the Doctor was properly smiling at this point. Dr. Marchs blushed as they realized they had just been talking, but none of the other ghosts in the room appeared to mind.

“…Regardless, King Phantom, we should really find some blobs for you to try eating. I cannot in good conscience leave you persisting off such low energy.”

He wanted to argue, he really did, but all the Keep Staff present were looking at Danny with this pleading expression. They looked genuinely concerned, and he remembered a comment he’d heard before about some of the Staff latching onto the King with their Obsessions. Some unfortunate result of the connection they’d formed with the Keep, Danny certainly didn’t deserve it, but he did know how it felt to Obsess over taking care of someone and have them turn down that care. With the same concerned look directed back their way, he got up and was led to the Garden out back.

Danny was having second thoughts again once he found himself surrounded by blobs that had been enjoying the intricate plants and high Ambient ecto levels of the Keep Garden. They were squishy but soft, like mochi coated in a good layer of starch, each a bit smaller than his head, and they all looked at him with these big vibrant eyes. Their postures were energetic, like they expected to play a game.

Once he sat down with the rest of the small group — why did he have to have an audience? — the blobs swarmed around him, resting on the sky blue grass and on his shoulders and in the others’ laps. They looked almost as expectant as the Staff in front of him.

“I…“ he bit his lip. “I can’t justify eating a living creature when I can choose not to. I know lots of ghosts have to eat others to persist, but I have the privilege that I can eat human food instead. Since I have that option, I can’t just… end another creature so I can feel a bit better.” Hey, Sam would be proud of him.

The present Staff donned looks of confusion. An Advisor who used the Keep as a home spoke up, eyes wide with realization. “Ah! Living creatures all share a survival instinct — that’s a natural result of evolution, yes? Things that do their best to live have their genes passed on? That’s not necessary for Uncored ghosts, since they do not reproduce and therefore don’t evolve. The only instincts experienced by the Uncored are instincts to better the Realms. Unless they’ve developed a strong individual personality, the Uncored are much more interested in contributing than in persisting.”

Danny’s head tilted in curiosity. Dr. Marchs took the reins on the rest of the explanation.

“The Realms are built socially where the living realm is built physically. Our homes and well-being are made from emotion, belief, and community. So for Uncored ghosts, spawned of the dimension itself, they want their ectoplasm and energy to be where it supports those communities the most, and that means ensuring the health of the ghosts in charge. Generally speaking, the more powerful a ghost is, the more likely they are to have some importance to the Realms. The Uncored — and many Cored — can sense a ghost’s power due to how much excess ectoplasm they let off. In fact, that excess is almost immediately put off as Ambient ectoplasm, meaning that there is simply more Ambient plasm around a powerful ghost, and the Uncored are often attracted since that provides sustenance for them . It’s a mutualistic relationship where one entity feeds off another, and in the end the resources of the weaker ghosts are given to the stronger, supporting the Realms. In fact, there are some cultures who believe that converting ectoplasm into a form the Cored can process is the entire reason for the existence of the Uncored.”

Vellum smiled slightly as she added on, “It’s not an entirely accurate strategy, as the most powerful ghost around is not always going to be a hunter type. They usually are, seeing as that’s the most efficient form of feeding, but it’s not impossible to be otherwise. The result in these cases is Uncored ghosts following around said Cored ghost, and as the same aspect of community comes into play, that ghost soon ends up hanging around a hunter type, who feeds on the prey that was collected.”

Danny cringed a little at the use of the word “prey”.

He looked around at the blobs nuzzled up against him. Those who didn’t look to be something resembling unconscious were peering up at him. They certainly looked expectant, as much as something without even a permanent mouth can.

After he was silent for a few moments, another Staff member spoke up, likely wanting to lighten his mood. “They really do like you! I’m not surprised, even aside from your natural power, the role you play as High King causes ectoplasm to be magnetized to you. I’m sure they’re having a little feast themselves!”

It did not lighten his mood. Danny felt genuinely guilty. Even if he wasn’t doing it on purpose, wasn’t he effectively manipulating these creatures into offering themselves up to be eaten? It wasn’t right, to make them feel as if they want to be ended, just because he had some sort of aura.

But the gathered Staff were still concerned, and anticipatory, and, somehow, hopeful . He couldn’t turn them down at this point. He’d just have to bite into one of the little ghosts surrounding him, just once. He’d throw up, disgusted with himself, and the Staff would realize it wasn’t better for him, and the remaining blobs would remember that they don’t want to die, and they’d flee, and everybody would just leave the subject alone . He only had to try.

(The human dread he was emitting at this point must have been feeding everyone else.)

“…Okay,” he said simply, and gently picked up a blob that had been sitting on his leg.

Before he could rethink himself again, he brought it to his lips. He opened his jaw slightly wider than a human’s would likely go and, fangs instinctually extended, bit down.

Danny was familiar with the scent of ectoplasm. Copper and citrus and battery acid and salt. But when he broke the surface of the small ghost and the viscous fluid burst into his mouth, the salty and bitter aspects were lost on his tongue, replaced by a thick sweetness and the cold tingle of energy. Where his fangs pierced an inch down into the substance of the ghost, he tasted this fulfillment in its emotional ectoplasm. He’s not sure he would have been able to taste it if he weren’t part human. Still, the feeling was something distinctly ghostly, a similar satisfaction to fulfilling an Obsession or a Purpose. It was hard to feel bad, sympathizing automatically with that simple rightness. The way the emotion pressed at his brain, the way the semisolid edges of the ghost slicked against his tongue, his own self-revulsion melted to the back of his mind. The ectoplasmic flesh met his teeth with a thick resistance, but it was nothing to break past it and open up to the deeper substance. It was vibrant, a pure cool energy that pulsed against his fangs. (His core sucked it up greedily.) His mouth met the energy with a pulsing of its own, a harmonizing signal sent from his core throughout his body like a heartbeat. It came out as a low purr that vibrated deep through the charged air around him. He couldn’t help but rush to swallow, though his body absorbed it just as easily without.

The blob ghost had been the size of his foot, and now it was part of the energy making up his own form. Compared to the power his core was passively putting out, to the amount it longed to have refilled, it wasn’t all that much. Unconsciously, his core put out an ectoenergetic signal that he was ready to feed. The blobs around him nuzzled closer yet, making themselves available. Danny could feel a few other Uncored ghosts who were drifting nearby come into the garden and join them.

He looked up from his ectoplasm-stained hands at the Keep Staff. They were looking at him, relieved, pleased (even though they just watched him tear into a living thing and then absorb it into his being like it didn’t even matter, said a part in the back of his consciousness. It was hard to focus on, though. It was coming from his brain, not his hungry core, after all). With his core this active, he could feel the presences of all the other ghosts around. The blobs flocking around him had auras that were weaker than the Cored Staff, but sturdy. There was a balance to them that signaled the ectoplasmic types they were taking in and storing. He sensed the Uncored pulling in the Ambient ectoplasm that sloughed off of him, barely connected to him anymore if not for the weight of the space surrounding him. And he could feel all of their stores of energy-dense Vital plasm.

He could also feel, just as an aspect of his being, his own energy stores. The metaphysical space in his center that his form and all his strength drew from. He could remember, abstractly, the moment he died and that reservoir came to be and was instantly flooded with energy. The way the portal had searched the air until it found his body and his little human soul and used him as a conduit, and all that electricity punched a hole between planes right where his ghost was trying to form, and something tore outward from that starting place just on top of his being, and the vacuum that formed on earth and in the Zone and everything in between pulled until the Infinite Realms rushed his body and in one instantaneous moment his forming core was flooded with enough ectoplasmic energy to become entirely corporeal (if it hadn’t, his ghost wouldn’t have manifested nearly quickly enough to keep him alive), and his being was stretched beyond its limits containing everything. For one moment, he had been filled with more energy than he had thought possible, and his ghost had formed itself to accommodate. Since then he’d felt so… empty. His body took what it could from human food and environmental energy, but it was made for more than that. He had blocked out the awareness of his reserves and gotten used to trying to power all his defenses on so little. He was always so tired.

He still felt low, running on just enough to operate something humanish. But his core had latched on to the ectoplasm provided by the blob, the kind it was designed to process, and finally felt a little relieved. Most ghosts that stayed within the Realms were almost always full. Danny wasn’t nearly there yet.

He reached down and grabbed another blob.

#alt title: What Taco Bell Does to a Bitch #danny phantom #my writing #roxys worldbuilding #i havent posted the Full Ecology Rant so this is as close as my blog is getting rn lmaooooo #ghost hunger #ghost king danny #hey this ones actually edited!#HOW do you people write things more than 5k.....

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beardrabbles · 3 years

Text

invitation.

characters: GN!reader, claude, mentions of GN!byleth

warnings: none

word count: 2,814

notes: posted this on ao3 ages ago and totally forgot to post it here too :’) got into the fandom late, like alwaaaays! but i have an enormous claude / golden deer bias and wanted to write some fluff with him.

You forgot sometimes that this peaceful spot tucked between the trees wasn’t yours alone. You shared it with another from time to time, but it had been so long since the last time you both stepped foot in the clearing that it startled you to hear footfalls crunching at the grass behind you. Pushing yourself up halfway, eyes blinking blearily, you spotted the richly dressed prince with his hands planted on his hips.

“Napping without me?” Claude clicked his tongue, and you quickly replied with a roll of your eyes.

“I can’t nap here on my own?” You fell back again, letting the soft grass cushion you. A soft, content sigh escaped through your nose as the sweetest of breezes barely brushed your skin. It smelled of flowers and damp leaves, dense soil and a distant storm. There was no zing of hot iron or blood, and it was a relief.

“I thought it was our thing. . .”

You felt him sit beside you, taking up his usual position to your left. The tiniest flutter tickled the inside of your ribs, his nearness nearly making your head spin. “Before I came along, it was just your thing, remember?”

“Well, yeah, but I like it better this way.” Claude leaned back on his hands, eyes up towards the greying sky. It had taken fighting a war to bring back their usual glimmer, but it was there in full. Bright, hopeful, determined. Laying there, gazing up at the unsuspecting prince, it was almost as if you were looking at the man from five years ago — the cunning, clever and sometimes troublesome man that you had fallen head-over-heels for and had continued to painfully pine for.

“Me too.” You dared to smile, his gaze shifting to you. Adoring him hurt, but no amount of hurt would have you appreciating his presence any less.

Claude returned the smile, and the gesture sent your heart slamming against your chest. But just as quickly as it came, the smile faded. “I spoke to Byleth.”

You sat up in an instant, concern etched into your face. You were aware that he had gone to meet them, but he had failed to tell you why. You equally failed to push the subject, as it wasn’t your place to disrespect a man in his position. Curious as you might have been, you assumed it was best not to ask and only hope that he trusted you enough to confide in you later. Seemed you were right, though you acknowledged to yourself that it was a rare thing.

“How did it go?”

“They’re disappointed I won’t be here for the coronation. I can’t blame them. After everything we’ve been through together, I should be here for them. I want to hope they understands. They always have.” He exhaled sharply. “But, hey, I got to see them smile again! I think as long as they’re here, Fódlan will be in good hands. If they keeps smiling, if they keep breaking down the walls that were built up, I can go home and do my part there. I trust them.”

You shifted, feeling uncomfortable in your envy.

“So they’re not coming with you to Almyra?” You wondered. Claude shook his head.

“No, and I didn’t want to ask. Fódlan needs to be taken care of. It needs a parent that will hold its hand and lead it in the right direction. It’s gonna stumble around like an infant walking for the first time, but that’s why they’re the best person to lead. They’ll know what to say and do to help this little baby along.”

You screwed up your face and nudged him with your shoulder.

“You really like talking about babies.” You pointed out. Claude’s cheeks and the tips of his ears darkened a fraction, but he dismissed it with a hearty chuckle.

“I guess I do. I wonder why that is.” He trailed off, voice soft but nowhere near as confused as his words would have lead you to believe. You had long ago resigned yourself to never truly understanding him, so you shrugged. Trying to pick through his mind was like attempting a hedge maze without a map.

“Does that mean you’re going to be heading back soon?”

“I can’t stay for long. There’s so much I need to do if I’m going to see things through, but there’s something important I need to do here before I can go home.” There was sharpness to his eyes that you recognized and deeply adored. He was planning something, and you felt your curiosity rise again.

“What is it? Can I help?” You were always so quick to offer him aid. Usually, he gently denied it, stating time and time again that most of his schemes were for his mind alone. Things often worked out for the better that way. The fewer people that knew, the less chance they could commandeer the plan or ruin it. Yet you still asked just in case he needed you.

“Maybe. Before that, can I ask you something?”

You frowned. “Of course. You can ask me anything, you know that.”

“You’ve been saying that since we met. Is it really true?” Claude smirked and raised a single brow, only for you to shove him harmlessly.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” You eyed him for a moment, worry mounting. “Was that what you wanted to ask me?”

The prince shook his head, as if he were getting off track. “No. I wanted to know where you plan to go. What are your plans for the future?”

“Oh! Oh.” You frowned when the sudden realization that you had no plans slammed into you. “I don’t. . . know. I haven’t thought about it. I’ve been so busy supporting everyone else, doing what I can for them, that I don’t know what to do with myself. Everyone’s grown up. They’re all doing their own thing, starting their own lives. No one needs me anymore.”

“That’s not true.” Claude’s voice was firm in your ear, and his expression was set to match. You smiled meekly.

“I grew up with all of you, but it felt like my purpose was to help you all find yours. Not that I really think I’m capable of being that helpful, but I never took the time to think about myself. I was too worried about you all reaching your dreams that I didn’t have one. I don’t have one.” You amended the last part quickly because it was blatantly clear to you that you had no direction to go in.

“There has to be something you want.” Claude pushed. You laughed.

“At the risk of repeating myself, I want what you want. I want you to succeed.” You opened your mouth again, but were quick to clamp them shut when another thought arose. I want to be with you.

It was lovely to imagine, but you had lived with the fact that any future with him was left solely to your imagination. You met him as an heir, and you knew him now as a prince. The differences in your status was vast and hard to ignore. Claude had his mind set on making those differences unimportant, but you doubted that he could find room in his heart for you. He had a country to take care of and love, not to mention you two had been friends since the start of your time at the academy. Too much time had passed since then, and while your feelings had grown deeper and more troublesome, you were sure he had none to begin with. No, as students, he had been too preoccupied with tormenting you. Teasing, poking, taking up your time with nonsense and rarely giving you a moment to yourself.

Despite him being a brat at times, you loved him. And even if he didn’t reciprocate, you were grateful to have known him at all.

“So you’re not bound to Fódlan?” His voice shook you from your thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you have any obligations here in Fódlan?” His gaze was so intently set on you that it made you squirm, the feeling ten times worse since coming out of your own head.

“No, not that I can think of.” You couldn’t recall making any promises.

“Right, so you could leave.” Claude hummed thoughtfully and got to his feet. Once upright, he dusted the grass from his clothes and offered you a hand. Confused, you took it and let him pull you into standing.

“I guess I could, but where would I even go? I don’t know anyone outside of Fódlan.” You felt something subtle was being said, you couldn’t catch on. Some days, you could. You had learned him just as he had learned you, but he was always several steps ahead. You could read him, but only the pages he allowed you to see. In this case, the pages were written on, but only in bits and pieces.

Claude gave you a pointed stare and a gentle, encouraging squeeze to your hand. When you failed to understand, he raised both eyebrows and pointed to himself. No words were needed. His gestures and odd line of questioning were like a clarifying slap to the face. You reeled, giving him a wide-eyed stare while sputtering idiotically.

“Wh——”

“That took you while. I was starting to worry I’d have to spell it out for you.” Claude put on a convincing pout. “Unless this is your weird way of telling me you don’t want to come with me.”

“No!” You leaped too soon, your eagerness prompting a smirk on the prince’s face. You fell silent again, worried that saying anything more might reveal all of what you had been trying to hide for over five years. “I’m not saying that.”

“What are you saying?” He purred cunningly, hand still holding tightly to yours. You didn’t resist when he to eased you closer, your heart screaming in your chest. Cheeks red and breaths shallow, you could hardly think. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

I’m still napping, and this is just another stupid dream.

You swallowed hard and peered up at him. “I think I should be asking you that, Mr. Vague.”

“Ah-ah,” chided the cheeky man, “you’ll have to address me as Prince Vague now.”

You scoffed and gave him another shove. When your hand pressed to his shoulder, he trapped it there with his own. Even closer now, Claude lowered his head until your noses nearly touched. You sucked in a breath and found yourself unable to move away, attention trapped in his bright, beautiful eyes.

“You want to know what I’m asking you?” He lowered his voice, tone growing tender and warm. You nodded. “I’m asking if you’ll come home with me. I want you to meet my parents and my people, and I want them to meet you. I want them to love you as much as——”

He choked for a moment, a rare flicker of pure emotion startling him.

“As much as what?” You didn’t want to get your hopes up, but he was making it incredibly difficult not to.

Claude calmed himself with a shaky breath and tilted his chin down, lips barely ghosting the curve of your cheek. His eyes fluttered half closed, while a single lock of his dark hair tickled at your cheek. When you didn’t shy away, he spoke again in honeyed tones. “I want them to love you as much as I do.”

“You can’t mean that.” Your entire being felt numb with glee, but you couldn’t process his confession without a little doubt. He met your doubt with a chuckle, so you persisted. “Why me?”

“Why not you?” He nuzzled into your cheek, and you felt the compulsion to reach up and thread your fingers through his hair. You had done so many times before, letting the gentle touches calm him during his bad days, but there was new meaning behind it now. There was an honest love behind it as your dragged your fingers through the strands, pushing them back and away from his darling face.

“There were so many others. . .” So many people wanted his attention, his affection. You were but one in a thousand that longed for him.

“I didn’t care. I dreamed of many futures, and all of the best ones had you standing there beside me.” He muttered into you, the softest of kisses resting just under your eye.

“We argued so much.” You shuddered, warmth blooming in your cheeks.

“You kept me grounded. How can anyone expect to be a decent ruler if they’re always agreed with?” He countered. You huffed and tried to think of another argument.

“You used to tease me all the time.” You muttered.

“I’ll admit that was dumb of me, but it felt like the only way to get your attention.” His lips found the tip of your nose, and you couldn’t contain a snicker. “You looked so cute when you were embarrassed, especially when you wrinkled your nose. I couldn’t help it.”

“Why do I feel like you still can’t help it?” You tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear and let your fingers follow the path of his facial hair. He was putty in your hands, cheek pressing to your hand.

“It’s part of my charm.” Claude flashed his usual smile, then took a step back. The lack of closeness left you feeling a little colder, but the distance let you appreciate him fully. Tall, handsome, commanding. You were exceedingly proud of him, and you felt yourself falling for him all over again. But before you could think to speak, he started again. “You don’t have to answer me right away. I know this a lot to ask of you, so I want to give you the time you need. I’m leaving in two days. Meet me at the——”

You didn’t allow him to finish. Your heart was too full and on the verge of bursting, and it seemed silly to you that he didn’t know what your answer would be when he was so skilled at predicting you. Rather than let him wonder, you removed your hands from his and took his face between them. You gathered your courage, mustered with his help, and pulled him down for a soft but silencing kiss.

Claude wasn’t often rendered speechless, but he supposed he didn’t mind being put in his place if it meant your lips fitting against his as perfectly as they did. Unfortunately for him and the heat radiating throughout him, you didn’t let the kiss last long. He wanted to wrap you in his arms and crush you against his chest like he’d long to for years, but you parted from him too soon for his liking.

“Where are you going?” He took chase, but you placed your hand over his mouth. Claude stilled and arched a brow.

“I’ve had my answer for years, Claude. I’m with you in every possible way. But if I ask you a question, will you answer me honestly?” You uncovered his mouth, but his silence told you more than words would. “How long have you, uh. . .”

“Cared for you? Admired you? Wanted to kiss you the way you just kissed me?” Every question he posed in response to yours made your heart thud and your cheeks burn. “A long, long time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I was never given the chance.” He answered so surely that you wondered if he had those words prepared. You couldn’t pester him about it — too many things had gone horribly wrong during your time at the academy, and it didn’t make sense to plant seeds in dead soil. There would have been no guarantee that it would bloom and flourish, but with the land starting a slow recovery, you hoped that what you two started here would become lusher and more far-reaching than any forest in Fódlan.

“It’s alright.” You giggled giddily and granted him another kiss, this one to the corner of his lips. “We were given our chance, and you took it.”

“Does that mean you’re going home with me?” He asked.

“I told you——”

“I want to hear you say the words.” Claude softly pleaded. Weak for his doe eyes, you melted in his arms and relented.

“I’m going home with you, Claude. I want to meet your parents, and I want to get to know your people. And for as long as I’m there, for as long as you’ll have me, I want to get to know you better.”

A soft sigh tinged with relief escaped the man as his head came to rest on your shoulder. His grasp on you tightened, and you felt his heart beat against your chest.

“Thank you.”

You smiled and embraced him. “Don’t thank me. Just take me home. . .”

#claude von riegan x reader #fire emblem reader #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

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simplyahoe · 3 years

Text

Kinktober Day 6 : Nipple Play

Dedicated to a lovely @cakepop-tatertot

Also here are the prompts again

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TW : time travel, slight dub con, threesome, Light Bondage, overstim

Character : Akaza/Hakuji, Koyuki

Male Reader

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You laid on the tatami, a bit stunned from falling into a portal while sparring with Akaza and dropping into a house.

Across the room is a couple.

A very familiar looking male, around 18, with black hair and pink eyelashes. His eyes are a beautiful light blue. He is in a martial arts gi, criminal tattoos around his arms.

The girl on the other hand, doesn’t look familiar at all. Black hair held up with a snowflake pin. A very familiar snowflake. Pink to light blue kimono with a snow pattern. Pink eyes with white flower irises.

“Who are you?” Akaza’s voice came from the guy

“I’m a demon slayer…..” you stared at the two “you?

“I’m Hakuji and this is my Fiancé, Koyuki.” Hakuji’s brows furrowed

You thought about it

“Could any of you tell me what time period it is?”

“Of course, Edo.” Hakuji answered

“Time travel.”

You huffed. It isn’t a demon blood art. You two were sparring in the safety of Akaza’s small safe haven.

“Anyone here made a wish of sorts?”

Silence.

Slowly Koyuki raised her hand

“Eh?!” Hakuji looked a bit shocked

“I kind of made a wish on a star.” She hid her face behind her sleeves “I wanted to know what will make you feel good for our wedding night.”

His face became red. In fact, his blush went down his neck and to his ears. Just like a specific demon you know. It then clicked in your mind, Akaza looked really similar to Hakuji. They looked like twins. It means that Akaza and Hakuji are one in the same. What could have happened to make him turn into a demon?

“I think I have a vague Idea, but don’t kill me if I’m right.” You pointed at Hakuji “I am currently involved with a demon named Akaza.”

“So?” I guess being a brat has always been in his blood

“And he looks an awful lot like you. So something bad might happen to cause you to become a demon.”

“Wha-“

“I’m not done.” You gave a pointed look “to put it simply, Akaza and I fuck. We live in Taisho, so Koyuki-San must have passed somewhere along the line.”

That gave them a shock

“And if I’m correct, I’m supposed to be here to teach her the ways of fucking you.”

You ended the statement there to give them time to process what was just said. It took a few minutes but Koyuki was pretty quick about it.

“Please teach me!” She grabbed your hand “If I don’t have time left, I want to make the most of it!”

“Wait.” Hakuji’s voice wavered

“This means the three of us fuck then.” You grinned

“Do I get a choice?”

“Nope, if you want to send me home, we fucking tonight.”

“Wait…”

You two didn’t listen, pushing him to the bedroom. Koyuki pulled out a futon while you held Hakuji in place. When she nodded, you threw him onto the bedding, sliding behind him and holding his thighs slightly open with your legs.

“WAIT!”

He yelped when you slide his gi off his shoulders, catching his elbow before it can hit your face. Wrestling his arms behind his back, you held both his wrists with one hand, using the belt to tie his hands back. He struggled, but it held.

“Lady Koyuki come here”

You wave her over, pulling her hands to his chest

“His neck and ears are his weak points, but these are what get him going.”

You pinch a nipple, gaining a squeak from the shy, squirming Hakuji. He bites his lip in an attempt to keep quiet.

You lick the shell of his ear before nibbling on it, gaining some quiet sounds from the Soryu fighter.

“Try it.”

She watches as her fiancé wriggles in your grasp before nodding in determination and pressing his other nipple. His gasp is music.

“Good boy.” You murmured into his ear

Koyuki noticed and took a mental note. She mimicked your movements as he started to fight his bonds. Licking his ears and kissing down his neck, remembering your words.

It’s odd seeing black hair with blue eyes, but it's nothing too much of a shock. His mannerisms are still pretty similar, just less shy about his body.

His nipples are now hard, the one that you played with is slightly pinker. Mainly from your rougher treatment.

“How about you try sucking and gently biting them?”

“Wah?”

Slightly pleasure dazed, Hakuji didn’t really catch your words. He only watched his future wife get closer to his chest, till she latched on. He threw his head back, resting against your shoulder, as a moan fell past his lips.

“Ple- please st- stop.”

“Hmm?”

“Feels we-weird. Please.”

“Oh is that so?”

You worked off his pants and fundoshi. Hakuji barely managed to move his head to look at what you are doing. His dick in hand, you motioned for Koyuki to sit back and watch, grinding the tip of your thumb into his slit.

“Ghiiiiii!”

He grit his teeth as he came. Eyes rolled back as tears fell from his eyes. Head thrown against your shoulder his entire body tensed. He unknowingly pushed his whole body against you. As he fell from his high, he drooped into your hold.

“It tastes a bit weird, but do you want to try?”

White painted knuckles pressed against her tongue as she licked some of his release off. Her face scrunched at the taste. Shrugging, you licked your hand clean.

“Ple…. Please…. Enough….” Hakuji huffed

“If that was enough, why am I still here?” You kissed his tempel “don’t worry, I think after the next thing I’ll be gone.”

“Please….” His eyes closed, “Take care…. of me……”

“I will.”

You laid him down, untying him and spreading his legs. Motioning Koyuki closer, you showed her the lube piece.

“That dissolves in saliva, do you want me to dissolve it?”

She nodded

“I will be teaching you how to fuck his ass. So I will put the lube in your hand ok?”

She nodded once again. You stuck it in your mouth, waiting until it fully liquefied. Pulling her hand to your mouth, you allowed the lube to drip from your mouth. Once it was all out, you guided her hand.

“Slow at first.”

You muttered to her, as her middle finger slipped into his ass. Once her first finger fully entered you motioned to her how to move her hand.

“Now I think he is loose enough for a second finger.”

Her ring finger started to slip in. She worked through the motions taught, quickly gaining some soft, weak cries.

“Now, find the prostate. It will make him feel the best.”

You put Hakuji’s head onto your lap, allowing her to fully explore on her own. His hands weakly grasped onto your uniform. Tears falling faster as more noises slip from his lips.

Quiet praises fell from Koyuki’s lips as she explored. Until his thighs came together accompanied with a loud yelp.

“You found it! Now that place will make any man feel good, but I learned that he likes it rough.”

You played with his short hair, brushing tears away every so often. Hands traveled down to play with his chest.

“Got it!” She quickly started moving again, drawing cries and moans from his lips.

This is getting you hot, pants feeling uncomfortable and tight. You moved your pants down enough to pull out your dick.

“May I?”

You looked at Koyuki

“Go ahead. You become someone important to him.”

Hakuji didn’t give a second thought, he allowed you to enter his mouth. You muffled his sounds with your dick, the vibrations becoming pleasant. He is sloppy, saliva dripped from the corners of his lips as he tries to suck you off.

“MMNNNNHHH”

He squealed through his second orgasm, noise only muffled by your cock. The vibrations shocked through you, causing you to cum down his throat.

Hakuji slowly came down. Hips rutting against nothing. Koyuki wiped her hand off with a pre-prepared towel, a satisfied smile on her face.

You pulled out. He gasped for air, trying to slow his breathing. Saliva and white dribbled down his face

“Gonna….. Die….” With his last thought said, he slipped into unconsciousness

“You did good, Lady Koyuki.” You fix your clothes as you started to fade, “ But there is nothing else I can teach.”

“Thank you” she chirped, way too happy having finger fucked her fiancé into oblivion

“See you on the other side.”

Black

“Oi… OIIIII!” Akaza flooded your senses

“Huh?”

“You disappeared for an hour and returned asleep.”

You laid on your back, head in his lap. He leaned over you, hands in your hair, gently massaging your scalp. His little vest covers you like a very tiny blanket.

“Let’s just say, you were cute as a human.” You smiled up at him

“I hope you remember that I don’t remember anything about being a human >.<“ he has such a cute pout

“Yeah.”

#akaza x reader #akaza #kny akaza #akaza smut #akaza kimetsu no yaiba #hakuji #koyuki kny #kinktober 2021

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takerfoxx · 2 years

Text

So, Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous’s fifth and final season has finally dropped (unfortunately to relatively little fanfare, as it had the ill fortune to drop literally days before The Sandman), and now we can look back on this strange little oddity of a series. I mean, there had been talks of doing some kind of YA Jurassic Park show ever since The Lost World (anyone else remember Chaos Effect?), but despite the series’s omnipresence and enduring popularity, it took them this long to just up and make one, so it deserves credit for just existing. But by the same token, there was a lot of question on whether or not it would actually be good, given the reputation of the overwhelming bulk of the movies’ themselves.

As for me? When it was announced, I was…skeptical. Look, all of my regular followers already know this about me, but if you found this post from the tags, then I’ll just say this up front. The first movie is my favorite movie of all time, but I don’t think any of the sequels are good. There are scenes, characters, and ideas I like from the sequels, but taken as complete products they range from meh to infuriating for me. So I wasn’t exactly falling over myself to jump into a show for kids from a franchise that had disappointed me so often.

But thank God, we had a Clone Wars situation, in that Camp Cretaceous turned out to be…actually pretty good! In fact, I’ll go ahead and say this: it is the second best piece of film media in the JP franchise, and side from the original movie, the only other good one. I mean, it’s not perfect of course. There are definite issues, especially when it relates to the various villains (more on that later), but overall I quite enjoyed the first three seasons, watching these six kids from largely differing backgrounds and personalities get thrown together, not like each other very much at first, only to grow and develop as they confront their own flaws and insecurities to mature into a fully rounded family, with season three especially turning in a great product and what I considered to be a fitting finale for the show.

So you can imagine my surprise when I found out that despite them finally getting off the island, there were more seasons to come.

That was odd. Like, where could they go? Isla Sorna? That’s what I was expecting and hoping for. But in hindsight, I understand why they left Site B out. At this point, it would just be more of the same, and in canon Masarani had already basically stripmined Sorna for assets for Jurassic World, so it would have even less for them to do.

But the choice that they did decide to go with was, um, interesting. So let’s talk about season four.

Gonna be honest, I was pretty put off by just how different and out there season four was. Like, it wasn’t bad. The writing, characterization, and plot were still pretty solid, but it was just so weird compared to what had come before. Like, I know this show takes place a few years in the future, so things like the robots, biomes, holograms, and mind-control chips aren’t improbable, and Jurassic Park was already a science-fiction series, but these elements had never really been featured to any great degree outside of window dressing until now, but now they were put front and center after three seasons of basically teenaged Swiss Family Robinson with dinosaurs. The direction pivoted hard away from the kids surviving dinos and uncovering mysteries (not that those elements ever really went away) to thwarting the machinations of a central villain that we didn’t know existed until now, to the point where it felt like a totally new show at times. Again, it wasn’t badly done, it was just weird.

That having been said, there was a lot to like. Like, it may not be the most realistic thing in the world, but I did like how the kids grew from only Darius caring about the dinosaurs to all of them developing empathy for them and wanting to save them from being exploited, even if their own lives had been endangered by dinosaurs several times. And I don’t know how popular of an opinion this is, but I did actually like Kash as an antagonist. He was basically an updated version of Dennis Nedry, a perfectly detestable caricature of a very specific kind of douchebag. You know this guy says slurs in online games and gets mad that his favorite streamer won’t acknowledge him more despite all the red superchats he sends in. And I’m not sure how realistic it is that Darius was able to manipulate him so easily, but given how egotistical he was I was able to suspend my disbelief in that regard.

Mae was also a surprisingly welcome addition to the cast, given that she had a well-rounded personality and fit in quite well with the kids. It was also nice to see the return of the Spinosaurus and Dilophosaurs, and Big Eatie and Little Eatie were weirdly endearing for a pair of giant carnivores. And as for Brooklynn and Kenji being a thing? Look, I wasn’t rooting for it, but I also didn’t mind that it happened. Those kids had been through enough. Let them have this.

Did not appreciate them killing off a member of the Raptor trio. Like, can we just stop killing Raptors? Please?

So yeah, it was probably my least favorite season, but I respect them for being willing to flip the script and try something new.

That being said, that twist at the end with the reveal of Kenji’s father definitely made me sit up and pay attention, and stoke my interest for the next season. Now, that was a twist!

So now we finally have season five, capping off the series as a whole (again, as far as we know). And, um…

I loved it.

I don’t know, maybe the previous season was necessary to get everything set up and accustom us to the new setting and elements, but everything just came together this season and really worked for me. The peril felt more dangerous, the stakes felt more real, and for the first time the relationships really were threatened. And a large part of what made this season work for me were the Kons.

I’ll admit it, Kenji got on my nerves when he was first introduced. Like, this arrogant, rich-boy bully did not exactly make for pleasant company. But over the last four seasons, we saw him confront his own issues and grow into a genuinely likeable, even heroic guy, turning him from a brat to a big brother.

But now he was suddenly faced with the reason he had been so messed up in the first place. His deeply neglectful father, who had denied him the love and affection he had so desperately needed growing up while filling his head with the need to uphold the family name, was now there, right in front of him.

Look, I’ve been there. I know how it is to be separated from the parent that’s largely responsible for your issues, go through all of this growth as a person, only to see them again and have all of those negative traits come rushing back.

So yeah. I’m not defending him turning his back on the others, but I do understand why. And honestly, my heart really went out to him as he tried so hard to keep his father impressed with him, only to be hurt as Mr. Kon’s abusive behavior came out.

And for as messed up as him controlling the dinosaurs was, Kenji growing sort of attached to Toro was kind of sweet.

As for Mr. Kon himself, I do admit that one major weakness of this show is just how…lacking in depth the villains are. Like, all of them are sociopaths with no reservations about child murder. This was really noticeable with the two Yuppie poachers in season 2, who I have to say where probably the weakest part about that season, as they just seemed to be there to act as obstacles. Also, Wu was basically a Saturday morning cartoon villain, and Kash? Well, Kash was fun, but he was also stupidly evil. Like, he just straight up tried to murder Mr. Kon over a slight! That’s stupid!

(though on a side-note, was anyone surprised by how quickly Kash was killed off? He was the Big Bad of season 4, and it looked like he had his own agenda, but he get nommed fairly unceremoniously only after a few episodes in season 5)

And sad to say, Mr. Kon, his mercenaries (hi, Hawkes. Barely remember you), and his investors have the same issue going on. I know they’re all bad, corrupt people, but all of them being totally okay with child murder, and even enjoying it? It stood out.

However, Mr. Kon worked so much better than the others, because unlike the poachers or Kash, there was a personal connection to the kids, specifically Kenji. And by taking him away, it made things personal with the rest. Plus, given that he runs Mantah Corp, that also makes him the cause for all of Sammy’s troubles, so that’s even more reason for him to take his place as the series’s final boss.

That being said, I don’t care for how his business was wrapped up. Like, he got arrested offscreen. Okay.

Look, either show him getting arrested, or let him get eaten! He’s the final boss, we deserve to see his demise!

Though hey, one complaint I did have in past seasons is us dealing with Mantah Corp instead of BioSyn, Like, we already have an evil genetics company to fill that role, one that’s been around since the original book. Why create a new one?

Well, now we finally get BioSyn! And not only that, we have friggin’ Lewis Dodgson here, the original main villain of the franchise! And here acting much closer to his book self than the Steve Jobs-esque depiction in Dominion! That was a treat, and it made this 90’s JP fan smile.

Him just finding the shaving cream can could have been done better, though. Like, he just randomly found it here? Really?

Though I will say that one advantage of making all the villains so sociopathically evil, we don’t feel bad about them getting eaten. Like, wow. A lot of people got chomped this season. I know a few people were upset how the kids basically set up Mantah Corp’s investors to die, but given how cool they were with child murder before that, I really can’t be all that bothered. Like, it was uncomfortable in the Lost World when the hunters were basically just guys hired to grab dinos to stick into a zoo, so the heroes ensuring their deaths to save the dinosaurs really felt wrong. But these guys I really didn’t feel sorry for. Like, at all. So maybe that’s the reason for how evil they uniformly were.

Speaking of which, I know saving the dinosaurs has been a major part of this franchise for a long, long time, but they definitely hammered that drum really hard here. And it worked a lot better here then it did in certain other franchises. I’m pretty sure the only dinosaur we saw die this season was that one Dilophosaurus. And I was keeping track, so I’m pretty sure that that big final dino fight, which was absolutely ridiculous but yet so very cool, didn’t end up with any dino casualties at all. Which, okay, does stretch credibility, since the non-controlled dinos were not holding back and yet none of them died at all. But hey, kid’s show. Kids loved dinosaurs. And they made us feel bad to the mind-controlled dinos, so it would be a downer to off one of them.

And yeah, I admit that I did gasp out loud with the Spino downed Big Eatie. Congrats, that got a genuine emotional reaction out of me. Though when they focused on her still moving, I knew she was going to come back for the big save. It does stretch the bounds of my suspension of disbelief a bit more that after taking a seemingly fatal blow from an already established T-Rex killer she was just fine minutes later, but eh, I’ll let it slide.

Also, thank you for not killing anymore Raptors this season, because again, y’all really need to pull back from that trend!

The bits with Darius’s brother and the camp counselors did feel out of place and kind of ground the narrative momentum to a halt whenever they showed up. I get that the writers wanted to establish that they were actively looking for the kids so Mae had someone to pick her up and so that them showing up at the end wouldn’t feel too convenient, but it was really out of place. Still, it’s not at all a dealbreaker and I’m not sure how I would have done it instead, so it didn’t bother me too much, I just kind of rolled my eyes a little whenever they would show up.

And okay, let’s talk about the BIG thing, the thing I haven’t really mentioned at all but is the thing that anyone knows anything about me is probably waiting for me to address.

Why, yes. Yes, thank you very much.

Now granted, it’s no Lumity, it’s not even Catradora, but the times are what they are, so while I’d prefer they not wait until the very last few episodes and would like for them to have more focus post-hookup, I get it, and it was still cute as hell. Yeah, I know, it wasn’t at all important to the plot and could’ve been removed entirely without changing anything, but shut up, it still made me happy. Because they are cute as hell.

And as for everyone who says it was rushed and didn’t have any buildup at all…did y’all see the last few seasons? I mean, they had WAY more relationship building and chemistry than Kenji and Brooklynn did, and while I get that relationship isn’t most people’s favorite either, I’m just saying that it makes sense. And it was, I repeat, cute as hell.

And yes. Yes, that epilogue did give me warm, fuzzy feelings. I’m glad that the kids are doing all right. I’m glad that they’re still close. I’m glad that Kenji got adopted by Darius’s family, that Yas and Sammy are still together and Yas deliberately went to school in Texas to be closer to her girlfriend, that Ben now gets to take care of dinosaurs fulltime (though yo, why’d your eyes change color, bro?), that Brooklynn is now sleuthing fulltime, that Darius is a well-respected public speaker who has a problem with responding to the comments of his videos. I’m glad that they’re home, happy, and are all better people for all that they went through.

This was a fun show. Not perfect, it had its ups and downs, but the ups far outweighed the downs, and I had a really fun time watching it. And given what a jaded Jurassic Park fan I am, this was very much a balm to my cynical soul.

I liked this one. I liked it a lot. And while I’m glad that it had a definite ending, I’m gonna miss it.

Now let’s hope that whatever new series they have going on (I have heard that they’re cooking something up) is just as good.

#jurassic park #jurassic world #camp cretaceous #spoilers

16 notes · View notes

chipper-smol · 3 years

Text

Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Relic Coffee Shop

Prompt

Prompts:

1: Lemm finds an odd fellow at the Blue Lake. Normally he wouldn’t bother to approach a stranger out of nowhere, but something in his gut urges him to take action. Quirrel, feeling the effects of age on his body, stares incredulously at the bearded face of a stranger who apparently wants to have him over for coffee. 2: Lemm sets up shop in an abandoned cafe. It’s roomy and pleasant at first, but there are _stacks_ of these disgusting old bitter coffee beans clogging up the rooms. It doesn’t help that bugs keep coming in to order a drink even though he’s posted signs to _KEEP OUT!!_ However, once they start offering Geo be begrudgingly takes it as an opportunity to achieve funds to pay for relics. 3: At first, the coffee was just an excuse to get Geo to pay for relics, but Lemm’s begun to notice that bugs who wandered into his shop with the telltale early symptoms of infection no longer have them on their return visits. He tells himself he’s not an altruist. He’s _not._It’s just a waste to throw out old coffee when someone just needs a pick-me-up.

By @bluwails

------------------------------- By @hydrochlorinate

“Just don’t. Tell. Anyone. Else.”

Those were the words that came out of the grumpy barista’s mouth that fateful day. One’s that you completely ignored, as you had already been drinking what could only be the drink of HIgher Beings, with just how heavenly it tasted.

Grinning like a lunatic, you give him 45 geo, not a small sum. If anything though, it was hilariously cheap for a drink that was this good. The bug doesn’t complain about the amount though, so he’s probably fine with it. Wings fluttering in excitement, you leave the shop, ready to tell any remaining survivors about the amazing drink shop you just found.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

The next time you come in, the store is absolutely packed. Denizens from all across the ruins of Hallownest are here, ranging from some uninfected moss knights to that one ladybug that you had a dance off with a while back. There's even a noble here, and- is that a mantis?

Anyway, it looks like your very subtle method of giving publicity to this cafe by talking about literally nothing else to whomever you talked to over the following week paid off. Good, this place deserves all the atte-  “You.”

Oh? You snap out of your thoughts, and look towards the counter, where the barista is levelling a glare at you that could instantly wither those delicate flowers that have been spreading around recently.

You stroll on up to the counter, a grin stretching across your face. The barista narrows his eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep this a secret? Why is my establishment filled to the brim with bugs? Who are these people?!”

...huh. Did he tell you to keep it on the down low? It seems in character from your limited interactions, but you don’t remember exactly. Oh well, time to play it off. You tell him that, well, what can you say except you’re welcome.

You’ve never seen a bug go from “Irritated” to “Ballistic” as fast as this barista. Usually they make a stop at “Angry” or “Absolutely Livid”.

“YOU’RE WELCOME?!?!”  No, see, he’s supposed to say thank you.  “THANK YOU???”  You tell him he’s welcome, before laughing. No, really, you tell him, look around, the place is packed! Business is booming! The barista (you should really ask for his name) manages to bring his volume under control, taking in a deep breath.

“That’s part of the problem. I’m a relic seeker, not a-” He gestures around the cafe, as if looking for the right words to use. Barista, you suggest.

“Exactly. I’m not made to brew coffee-” Oh, that’s what it was called. “-or to be dealing with customers all day long.”

Sure. That’s why he decided to allow people to keep purchasing coffee, or why he decided to put on a cute green and white visor.

You didn’t just come to check in on your new favorite bug though, you have coffee to order! Taking out a sheet of paper from your bag, you begin to read out both your order, and those of your companions. Even with the end of the infection, the leftover damage to hallownest’s caves and architecture makes it dangerous to travel alone.

As you begin to read out your order, the barista shifts from crotchety old bug to attentive worker. You really wish you had come back earlier, instead of letting some of your other traveling buddies pick up the coffee for you. Something about the atmosphere here is… relaxing, despite the amount of people.

After your order is finished, you leave the cafe. Back to the real world bucko, as an old friend of yours would always say.

...Wait a minute you never got the barista’s name.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

It’s been 3 weeks. You think. Time gets a little funky down here, what with the sudden influx of void. Sure, most of it has cleared out by now, but every so often your exploration party comes across a tunnel that hasn’t quite been fully illuminated, the shadows just a bit too thick to be natural.

You enter the coffee shop again. It’s gotten a lot quieter as time went on and bugs started coming in on a schedule. There’s still plenty of other customers here, but it’s nowhere near as packed as the first couple of days. Lemm (yeah, you finally got his name) stands at the counter, still slightly disgruntled, but a lot less so than he was at the beginning. In fact, he’s actually talking to someone right now! An actual conversation too, not just an exchange of witty remarks. You can’t see their face, but they appear to be a pillbug wearing a blue hood.  As you step up to the counter, you can hear their conversation a bit better.

“...of course, I couldn’t just leave it sitting there right? So I move to pick it up, only to find out that the desk I dropped it on was magnetized! So here I am, trying and failing to pick up this one plant hanger for a solid 10 minutes.”

They both laugh at this, before noticing you. The unknown bug turns to face you, allowing you to see his mask.  “Oh, hello, I don’t believe we’ve met before!”

You greet him back, introducing yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Quirrell. I’m… well, I can’t really call myself an explorer, because I’ve already been everywhere! I’m more of a wanderer, really.”

Ahh, a free spirit, you see. You point out that just because he’s been everywhere doesn’t mean he’s seen everything. After all, who knows what could’ve gone down during Hallownest’s peak. Both Quirrell and Lemm get amused by this, for some reason. Seeing your confused look, Lemm decides to speak up.

"He probably knows more about Hallownest than everyone here, having lived here since before the infection and all."

Your eyes widen, and your wings begin to flutter. Truly? An original denizen, and not someone else trying to piece together its history? Quirrell waves off the words, though.

"I wouldn't go that far…" He begins, but Lemm cuts him off before he can go any further.

"Hah! Next you'll be telling me that you weren't the head assistant of the kingdom's best scientist!"

Giving off the equivalent of a blush, Quirrell rubs the back of his head. Lemm turns back to you.

"I'm sure you didn't come in just to chat, though. What can I get for you?"

It's nice to see him making friends.

------------------------------- By @schyrsivochter

Lemm wasn’t a sociable person. That was a fact. He wasn’t good at talking, or at being friendly. (It wasn’t like he needed it, anyway. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed conversing with another bug.)

No, Lemm was much more of a person for reading. Deciphering the journals of the long dead, the writing and languages, was something he thoroughly enjoyed. Other artefacts spoke differently: the materials from which they were made, the way they were worked, the artistic style. It was a different kind of reading; some might say a more figurative one. But it was just as interesting.

Of course, architecture was part of that. It had not been a coincidence that Lemm had set up camp in Hallownest’s abandoned capital. When he’d arrived, he hadn’t dared to think that he’d ever finish exploring and finding new things. And it was true; he’d only explored a little bit before he’d realised that collecting and gathering relics was no use if he never took a proper look at them, instead letting them gather dust on the shelves, the tables, and the floor of the long-abandoned shop he’d moved into. So he’d decided to stay there, poring over his collection. His picture of the world of Hallownest in times past grew ever more detailed, more complete.

He’d opened the shop because people did not seem to stop wanting to sell him relics, and it never hurt to appear a little professional. And it had been a reliable source of new artefacts; new knowledge. He’d never sold anything, of course. His collection was his, and his alone.

And then came the dark. The cleansing void. It had taken him by surprise; he’d been working, and only noticed that anything was amiss when the light dimmed and he was finally bathed in darkness. He must’ve fallen unconscious at that point, and there’d been no telling how long it had been until he’d awoken. It hadn’t been until later that he’d learned that this was what had obliterated the plague, leaving in its wake hundreds of confused survivors and thousands of dead. No, the next thing to happen that told him things were not as usual was that a bug had come in, asked if he was open, and, upon his affirmative answer, asked for a hot drink, holding out a piece of ten.

Taken by surprise, he’d offered to make tea. He’d immediately regretted it, since it meant the bug would be staying for a while, probably without selling him relics, but it was easy enough to do and would get him geo, his supply of which had been running low. So he put a kettle on and took the money. The bug had thanked him profusely, while he had elected to remain quiet.

Not long afterwards, the same bug and four others stood in the doorway. Whether they had relics for him, he’d asked. They’d looked amongst themselves, and one had asked, ‘Is this not a coffee shop?’

‘I suppose it might’ve once been,’ he’d said. ‘Now it’s mine.’

More confused looks and standing around, and then the bug he’d seen before asked if he’d make more tea. He’d said no, not unless they paid him twice as much as the last time and stayed quiet and didn’t disturb him in his work. To his horror, the five bugs had agreed, and so he’d dug out cups from the coffee shop’s former stock and afterwards found himself a little richer in geo but with a significantly worse mood.

He had his peace afterwards, though. At least for a while. Now a bug had arrived, taller than the others, wearing a headscarf. Lemm had mentally prepared for the bug to ask for coffee, but the bug had halted in front of one of the tables that Lemm had repurposed for his collection of relics.

‘Admiring my collection?’ Lemm asked.

’Yes, quite!’ the bug answered, chipper and friendly. ‘I’m curious how you managed to get a hold of so many texts in such diverse languages! These are journals, are they not?’

‘They are,’ Lemm acknowledged. ‘From all over Hallownest.’

‘But most of them aren’t any Hallownest language.’ The bug put a hand on his mask. ‘I suppose they’re from travellers that came to the ruins and perished?’

‘Quite right,’ Lemm said. He had to admit, begrudgingly, that the bug standing before him was sharp and knew his history. A trait not many others shared.

‘Can you read all of them?’ The mask turned towards Lemm, inclined in question.

‘No,’ he answered truthfully, making his way around the counter to stand next to the bug. ‘I haven’t had the time to decipher all of them yet. But I’ll get around to it eventually.’

‘Interesting,’ the bug said. ‘I can—huh?’

He turned towards the entrance, and Lemm followed his gaze. Lemm was about to ask what the problem was, when a bug appeared in the entrance. The one that he’d made tea twice for. Ah yes, he thought. A customer. Two of them, in fact; one of the others from before had joined the one who’d taken a fancy to paying Lemm to make tea.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Lemm said, ‘there is any way to convince you to find tea somewhere else?’

The bugs shook their head.

Lemm sighed, and muttered an apology to the tall visitor. Time to get it over with.

He went to the back room to prepare the tea, and overheard the two visitors conversing in the front.

‘What’s this, anyway?’

‘Historical documents. Journals of travellers.’

‘What’s it doing here?’

‘I think the shopkeep collects them.’

‘That’s correct!’ Lemm called. ‘I’m always buying, if you have anything of historical value.’

He grabbed the cups and walked back to the front. ‘That’s fifty geo. Unless you have relics.’

The bugs complained under their breath, but paid up, and Lemm could direct his attention back to the visitor.

‘So is this what you do?’ they asked. ‘Opened the coffee shop again and collecting relics in your free time?’

Lemm was dumbstruck for a moment. Then he remembered to be outraged. ‘No! I am not opening this place as a coffee shop! People just keep coming and demanding tea and I cannot let an opportunity to earn easy money go to waste!’

‘Relic business not exactly booming, then, I assume?’

‘I’m—’ he spluttered, ‘It’s not a business! I don’t sell my relics, they’re mine!’

‘So you wouldn’t have any income if you weren’t selling tea?’

Lemm had the distinct impression that the bug was making fun of him. He didn’t answer, but simply walked up to the table, grabbed a random journal, and took it to his desk to try and get some work done.

He had not yet prepared his quill and ink when he was interrupted yet again.

‘You know,’ the visitor called, ‘that one is from a traveller from Greynest. Came here looking for his brother, never found him. No doubt said brother also perished in the ruins.’

Lemm turned around to see the bug standing in the doorway, having followed him halfway. ‘And how do you know this?’ he asked.

The bug shrugged. ‘I read it.’

Lemm regarded the bug. They didn’t seem to be joking.

‘You mean to tell me,’ Lemm began, slowly, ‘you know this language?’

‘Yes,’ they said nonchalantly. ‘I think I’ve been to Greynest? Must have been a while ago.’

‘Are you a traveller, then?’ Lemm asked. ‘You don’t seem the type.’

As soon as he’d spoken the words, Lemm became aware how utterly ridiculous it was of him to make observations about people. He didn’t like people, he wasn’t interested in people—

The bug laughed. ‘I am, in fact. I have travelled far and wide.’

‘Hmph,’ said Lemm, unsure what else to say. He turned back to his work, looked at the angular shapes carved into the stone, but now it seemed senseless to try and make sense of it when he knew that it was no mystery to the bug standing behind him.

At some point, he looked up and found that he was hungry and the visitor was gone. Oh, well. Time for a meal, then, and afterwards he might be able to find something else to do.

* * *

The next time the tea-drinker returned, they asked for tea and then asked Lemm about the relics, and he was in a favourable enough mood to talk about them. They asked some fairly stupid questions, but it seemed to come out of a genuine interest in the topic, so he indulged them. Plus, he had to admit that he enjoyed having a reliable source of geo. Not that he needed it much for buying relics, these days, but he supposed that his supplies of food – and of tea – would not last indefinitely, and he didn’t particularly fancy having to go back to scavenging, now that there were actual people living in the vicinity again. No, he’d rather find some place where he could buy what he needed fair and square.

The traveller with the headscarf returned, and it was an odd sort of feeling Lemm had about them. Like he actually liked having them in his shop and talking to them. And the perplexing thing was that the bug also seemed to enjoy conversing with Lemm. Which one one hand was absolutely preposterous, on the other … it was a refreshing change.

The bug introduced himself as Quirrel, apprentice to Monomon the Teacher, and Lemm could hardly believe it. Monomon the Teacher, one of the most brilliant minds of Hallownest? It couldn’t be! And yet it was not all too difficult to imagine. He’d seen stranger things in these lands.

Quirrel also was the one who later suggested Lemm officially open the shop as a coffee shop again. Lemm had thrown him out at that and gone back to work.

Now, a short while later, he looked up and Quirrel was back, standing at the counter, watching Lemm silently.

Lemm rose and went to the front, choosing to stare back equally silently. Lemm was good at that. Probably.

‘So,’ Quirrel said at length, his voice still as annoyingly friendly as ever, ‘have you thought about it?’

Lemm kept staring.

Quirrel held up his hands. ‘You need money, you don’t have much else to do, and besides’ – Quirrel shrugged. – ‘people like your tea.’

‘I certainly have enough to do,’ Lemm started. ‘These texts don’t decipher themselves. What’s so funny?’

Quirrel stopped his giggling and said, ‘They sort of do. Have you forgotten who stands before you?’

‘You don’t read all of these languages.’ Really, Quirrel’s ego was getting on Lemm’s nerves.

‘But most of them,’ Quirrel said, shrugging, ‘and most of the Archive’s records are intact. And we do have a nice section on language and writing.’

Lemm was silent for a moment, mostly because he could not think of a good comeback. Quirrel had a point, and Lemm did not like that in the slightest.

‘Let’s make a deal,’ Quirrel said. ‘I help you translate your texts and catalogue your artefacts, and you’ – Quirrel jabbed a finger in Lemm’s direction – ‘you sell your tea officially.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘You’re already doing it.’

‘I am not!’

‘Yes, you are.’ Quirrel said this with absolute certainty and no anger, and there was a voice at the back of Lemm’s mind that said: You really sort of are. And you could use the help. You don’t like the busywork anyway.

‘All right,’ Lemm grumbled. ‘Deal.’

‘Thank you,’ said Quirrel, audibly grinning.

‘I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’ Lemm asked under his breath.

‘I don’t think so,’ Quirrel said. ‘I’m curious – what else can you make? Tea alone is a bit boring, don’t you think?’

‘Shut up,’ Lemm said, ‘or I change my mind.’

* * *

Lemm did not change his mind, even though Quirrel didn’t shut up. It had been a while, and Lemm hated to admit it, but he enjoyed doing something different for a change. Customers were now plenty, and Lemm had a menu with more than one item, and his relic collection was no bigger, but more orderly and better understood than it had ever been, thanks to Quirrel’s – and the Archive’s – help.

Another thing that Lemm was not quite ready to admit was that people could be nice. The more he talked to customers, interacted with them, observed them, the more he began to appreciate them. He used to be content in reading historical texts and artefacts, preferring to learn about people that were dead and gone. Living bugs had never really interested him.

Nowadays, however, it seemed that people could be just as interesting to read as anything else. And, as Quirrel entered, greeting him, and he could not help his mood being lifted just by the prospect of learning something new and interesting that Quirrel learnt on his last trip to the Archive, Lemm supposed that sometimes, very rarely … people were something he could enjoy.

------------------------------- By @gardening-clown

------------------------------- By @buglife

Lemm was five seconds away from throwing someone through the window.

His shop was now occupied by five bugs of various species, talking, laughing, and sitting around when he could be in the back doing literally anything else. It took weeks of bugs thinking that his relic shop was a coffee one before he simply gave up and made peace with it. At least he got some geo from it to pay adventurers that did come by to sell legit relics. How they mistook his shop for a coffee one, he would have never guess.

All he had was a little brewer that was barely put back together that he scavenged from some random shop, but other bugs seemed to like it, for some strange reason. It wasn’t even good coffee he was making, but they seemed to accept it. After all, who else in this dead kingdom was even selling coffee? He had looted plenty of shops and took as many sacks of beans as he would when he first arrived, and there was no way he could drink them all, so he might as well do something with them.

But he was steadily losing his patience with the amount of bugs around him. They were talking and loitering. Loitering was probably the worst of it all as it made the loner bug feel his shell crawl with the forced social interaction. He just wanted them to leave. He couldn’t stand the feeling of a crowded space, which is why he went to a dead kingdom in the first place.

Hell, he had to take his beloved odds and ends down from the shelves to keep some curious bug from touching them all up with their dirty fingers and breaking something.

He found himself dreading the sound of the bell above his door, and when it rang he wondered if someone else was coming to ask him for some random drink or be an annoying thorn in his side.

To his hidden delight however, it was the little wanderer. They looked like a grub, to be honest, with a black body and a stark white horned shell for a head. The nail on their back seemed to be a little put together the last time he saw them, perhaps they visited the Nailsmith? He never asked for their name, he didn’t want to learn it to avoid attachments, but he found them oddly endearing. They liked to listen to him ramble about his theories on various relics they bring him, so they can’t be too bad. Plus they were quiet and polite, something he was immensely grateful for.

They bounced inside the door and came to a stop, looking at the five other bugs sitting around and chatting. They tilted their head to the side, watching the bugs for a moment before looking at Lemm. They stretched out a stubby arm from under their cloak and pointed at him.

Lemm sighed. Of course, the little Wanderer had been gone for a while, and obviously didn’t know what had become of his beloved shop. He gestured for them to come over, which they did and looked up at him expectantly.

“Bugs keep thinking that this is a coffee shop.” He explained. “So here they are, drinking coffee that I make on a terrible little brewer. I gave up trying to kick them all out all the time, it stopped being worth the effort.”

The little wanderer blinked a few times, looking somewhat confused. They pointed to the cup being held by the beetle on one of Lemm’s chairs and mimed the action of drinking it.

“Yes, that’s coffee they are drinking.” He raised a brow as he looked down at the grub. “Haven’t you ever seen coffee before?”

They shook their head.

“Really now? Hrm…” He wasn’t sure where the little wanderer had come from if they never saw coffee before. It was a fairly common drink besides tea. They must have grew up in a rather isolated place If they never saw it. He decided he might as well explain it, it would be better to do it now than later.

“Coffee is a drink that bugs like to drink to give them energy.” He saw them perk up a bit at the ‘energy’ part. “It’s rather bitter, so some like it with sugar. I like it plain. It keeps me awake when I am working.”

They somehow made a face when he said it was bitter, tilting their head and angling their eye holes to look affronted. Lemm squashed down a laugh at the expression and decided to get to business.

“Anyway, they trade me geo for it, which lets me compensate bugs that get me relics. Do you have any for me today?” He hoped they did, he needed something to brighten up his day.

The wanderer nodded, reaching under their cloak to pull out a black orb. Lemm recognized it immediately to be an arcane egg. He loved working with those. Peeling back each layer revealed new information and new discoveries. He was in fact, still working on the one he got weeks before. He needed to be careful with them, and he reveled in the intense focus and work it needed to discover it’s secrets. His day instantly got better.

“Very nice, I’ll be glad to take that off your hands for the usual price.” The old beetle held out his hand and the wanderer gently placed the egg it in. They held up a hand once it was free and shook their head, pointed to a cup sitting on the counter.

“Ah, you want to trade this for a cup of coffee?” He wasn’t going to say no to that. If the wanderer was okay with it, it was a perfectly reasonable business transaction. His suspicions were confirmed when they nodded and bounced in place, looking as excited as they were able to. “Well I can certainly do that.”

Thankfully, the two bugs occupying the chairs in front of the counter left, leaving behind their dirty cups and a few geo for the mess. They thanked him and he grumped out a ‘have a good day’ as they left, seemingly indifferent to his mood. Oh well, at least it brought down the occupancy to a more manageable level for his social batteries. He pushed the dirty cups out of the way and gestured to an open seat. “Here, sit down and I’ll get you a cup.”

They bounced upwards to take a seat, swinging their legs back and forth as they waited. It didn’t take Lemm long to throw some ground up beans and water into the grinder, watching the brewed coffee pour into a clean cup. He carefully carried the hot cup down and set it in front of the wanderer. “Be careful, it’s very hot. I’ll bring you some sugar, you didn’t seem to like the ‘bitter’ description.”

They nodded and watched as he pushed over a bowl of honey sugar and a spoon. It was the least he could do after they got him another arcane egg. “There you are, help yourself.”

They bowed their head in thanks and took up the spoon, poking it into the bowl.

“Excuse me,” One of the bugs by the window got up, the one with a bent antenna and holding their empty cup. “Could I get a refill, please?”

Lemm held back a sigh and nodded, taking the cup and heading back to his brewer. He had to smack it a couple times for it to start working again, but in the end he got a passable cup of coffee out of it. He returned just in timed to hear said bug exclaim, “Woah there buddy, you must really like sugar!”

He looked to the wanderer, who had added so much sugar to their cup of coffee, that he could hear the sugar that couldn’t dissolve scrape against the ceramic as it was stirred. It looked like fresh cement, there was only a bit of brown to denote that once, it was indeed a cup of coffee.

He wordlessly handed the other bug their coffee, who took it and retreated back to sit by the window. He was about to say something to the wanderer, when to his horror, their head tilted backwards. A maw of sharp black teeth opened wide, and he watched, astonished, as the mix of sugar and coffee oozed into their mouth and to who knows where. A long black tongue lashed out to get every last bit of sugar out of the cup, before the mouth closed with a quiet click. They must have felt him staring, because they turned to look at him with their fathomless, dark eyes. He stared back, wondering what the hell was actually sitting in front of him.

They then bounced in place and gave him a thumbs up. They made a shape of a heart with their hands, a way that they say ‘thank you’. They seemed rather happy.

“Um…you’re welcome?” He managed, after he gathered his composure again.

They sat still for a moment, seeming to ponder on what they had just consumed. He figured that they were probably trying to figure out if they liked it or not. He doubt they even managed to taste the coffee from the sheer amount of sugar in that cup.

Then, to his horror, they began to vibrate. At first it was a few twitches, and then it steadily became more and more severe, until they were a literal blur. The chair rattled under the stress and the bugs that remained in the shop turned to look at the commotion.

It was then, Lemm realized he fucked up.

They suddenly dashed away, slamming into the shop door with such force that it caved outwards. There was only the short sound of shattering glass and the scream of metal before it flew off it’s hinges and rattled down the hallway. He could hear the hurried pitter-patter of the wanderer’s tiny feet, now fast enough to blur into one continuous sound, race down the hall and out of sight and hearing.

He just stood there, looking at the wreckage of his shop door, wondering where the hell is he going to get a replacement, if there even was a replacement. He looked at the three shocked bugs, standing and looking at the wreckage, and then he got himself an idea.

“Hey fellas,” He said, as he turned and looked at the bugs next to the window. “How would you all like some free coffee if you find me a door?”

------------------------------- By @radical-mudkips

------------------------------- By @unregisteredcookie

Lemm's 'shop' was empty.

Actually, no, that… that wasn't right. Lemm's shop wasn't a shop in the first place--it was a haven for relics and ancient knick-knacks, and the shelves were filled to overflowing with stone tablets and peculiar eggs that held unimaginable information. Not that Lemm was ever able to crack into the eggs' shells, but he knew--he knew there was more treasured information sleeping beneath. If only he were able to open it up without risking that information being damaged.

And that wasn't right, either. The shop being empty, that was. Right now, the shelves were empty, but that was less because of the absence of relics and more because they were all stowed away in the back room to be sorted. He had a notebook he was combing over, quill in hand as he scribbled out little bits of information that might relate to one another.

'Might', because Lemm wasn't really from Hallownest. So he didn't know for sure whether this smooth L-shaped contraption was a door handle or a piece to a lost work of art.

It was while Lemm was scribbling about in this journal bound in parchment (hand-made and flimsy, using the paper he found around the area that was clean and allowed to dry) that he heard it: The distant clattering of the elevator. There were about seven options he could think of off of the top of his head, each more dreaded than the last. It could be that scarcely-seen Nailsmith who seemed to know more about the history of this ruin than he let on. It could be the peculiar little silent bug that stared up at him now and again, the one that sometimes passed by with a relic to sell. It could be that talkative windbag, droning on and on in his droning voice, so grating and persistent that Lemm struggled to ignore him. He was probably the worst.

Lemm stopped writing, tilted his head, and listened for the telltale sound. The rattling stopped, and all that he heard for a while was silence. And then.

Ding.

He sighed, getting to his feet. A customer it was, then. How delightful. Here's hoping that the customer wasn't 'Zote the Mighty'.

He had a small moment of dread when he saw the horn, a critical blow of dismay that tempted him to retreat back into the back room and pretend to be out for a walk, but then he saw the second horn and breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, it wasn't the Zote person after all. It was… them. The other little one.

They looked up at him as he approached the register and looked down at them. Their eyes were vacant as ever, face impossibly unreadable. Lemm doubted that he'd ever get used to it.

Lemm liked this little bug, if for no other reason than they were quiet, kept their hands to themself, and brought him relics to purchase. They were the only one willing to sell these relics, and they were the only reason Lemm often said what he said next.

"Cup of coffee, or looking to sell?"

He never had much company in this place until the Nailsmith (Lemm never caught his name, never bothered asking, really) first came in looking for materials for his smithing. Almost took one of Lemm's Pale Idols from under his beard while he was noting in his journal. After the initial yelling that followed and a cup of coffee, the Nailsmith apologized by paying for the cup. And he did it again. And again. Until the mapmaker came in, saw, and bought a cup himself. Until the hooded pillbug came in, hummed, and bought one for himself. And then--

Well. And then he had a coffee shop.

Lemm wished he could say that he hated it, and he did, at first. But over time, he found the company rather pleasant. Besides, the geo paid for this little bug's relic collection well enough, so he wasn't complaining.

So. Did they want a cup of coffee, or did they want to sell their relics? Lemm didn't get an answer. Instead, they looked around at the empty shelves for a moment before turning their empty eyes back onto him, tilting their head to the side slightly.

It took Lemm a moment.

"Oh, I moved the relics into the back room," he said. "I've been needing to work on sorting them out and writing notes about them. Never would I have thought that I would have so many to study."

Satisfied, they reached into the confines of their cloak. Lemm leaned forward a little, watching as they rummaged about for a moment, heart skipping a beat as he pondered what sort of relic they were going to sell this time.

And then they withdrew their small hand, reached up, and dropped a fist full of geo onto the counter.

Lemm blinked and stared at the geo for a moment. Something wispy and thin clung to them, and when he picked it up and opened the register, it was sticky. Was this webbing? Lemm wasn't aware of there being any spiders in Hallownest, aside from maybe that red-cloaked bug he saw very rarely flitting about outside his window.

So. No relics today. Fine, at least he'd have more money to buy another one later.

"One coffee coming up," he murmured, rummaging around behind the counter. Underneath the register was where he kept the coffee pot, which he refrained from moving just so he could be prepared if a 'customer' came by. He busied himself with it for a few moments, filling the filter and checking the water, before clicking the button and letting it steep. Granted, he didn't know what kind of coffee they'd drink, but they didn't make it clear anyway, so he doubted that it mattered.

Besides. They seemed a little preoccupied by something else at the moment. After a few minutes, the coffee was finished, and Lemm poured them a cup. He chose a caramel-like flavor, because they seemed about the size of a child and a little bit of sweetness never hurt anyone. Lemm reached over the counter and held it out to them, which they took in their hands and stared down at for a moment. Lemm was about ready to head back into the back when it happened. A crack. It almost sounded like something breaking, but when he turned to look behind himself at the small knight, they still stood there. Another crack, one that made his fur stand on end and his body stiffen, and Lemm caught the glimpse of something sharp and white shifting beneath the bottom of their mask.

A mouth?

They tilted their head back. A jaw opened. Many layers of teeth glimmered in the dim light, cracking as they did so, the noise chilling him through his chitin and making his hemolymph freeze. Lemm stood there, stock still, as they lifted the cup up to their face, jaw extending outwards to drink it, and then-- --they set the scalding hot coffee in their mouth, cup and all, closed it, and crunched.

Lemm had never seen a bug eat a cup of coffee before. He could still hear the crunch, crunch, crunching, muffled and quiet and growing quieter, noise sounding like a particularly crunchy tiktik being eaten.

Lemm shuddered. When the knight looked back at him, he turned around quickly and went into the back room.

Okay. Suddenly they weren't the second most welcome sight for sore eyes. Suddenly Lemm wished that it was that talking, yapping Zote fellow who came in instead.

------------------------------- By @doodle-chris

------------------------------- By @payasita

There was no shortage of open real estate as far as the City of Tears was concerned. But that certainly didn't make every option an equally viable living space.

First, Lemm wanted something enclosed away from the rain, and insulated enough to stave off the humidity. That discounted anything open to the outside, as he wouldn't risk his relics to even the threat of exposure. A leaking roof dripping down onto crumbling tablets or fragile spider silk could devastate hundreds of years worth of history, so that also discounted any room without a few protective floors above it.

Next, it had to be out of the way of any and all shambling husks and infected critters. They weren't the brightest of creatures, so a room only accessible by elevator was ideal. He'd never seen anything plague-cursed have enough wherewithal to operate one, and the noise of it would give him plenty warning of visitors otherwise.

Lastly, he wanted someplace with plenty of shelf space. He needed little in the way of actual living space, so long as he had ample storage room set up in such a way that things could easily be organized.

All of these qualities described, in his opinion, the ideal relic storage and research dwelling. And in the end, he was lucky enough to find it.

Unearthing the previous tenant's belongings informed him that it also, apparently, described the ideal setup for a small café. On his first day in his new residence, he'd uncovered an antique coffee machine and a few other ancient tools, kept miraculously free of rust and wear. The room's conditions must be far better than he thought.

He'd dusted his findings off and set them back up on the counter, having quickly deduced where they'd once been put to use through old nicks and rings left on the shellwood by years of service. Lemm had felt a small swell of pride at finding this small bit of the city's history, and began a set of notes on his theories about this tower complex and its surrounding culture from everything he found around. Perhaps the whole place had been a shopping centre.

On the second day, he pried open the crates in the back room, and they had spilled forth bags upon bags of beans and teas. There were so many of them that he was able to rationalize cutting one open and examining its contents without much guilt. The beans were coffee, that much was obvious at a glance.

Biological samples weren't exactly his area of expertise, but smell and texture alone all but convinced him that they'd been perfectly preserved in their airtight prisons, well dried and perfectly edible.

Most likely.

For the sake of research, and because the bag was already open, he put them through the machine. He committed some time to studying the machine beforehand, as he was afraid mishandling it may destroy it. But an hour of trying to figure the damn thing out was frustrating enough that he finally reasoned that if he did break it, he could at least take it apart and examine its insides for anything interesting. Lemm was a relic keeper, not a tinker. So he winged it with a bit of rainwater and the beans, and got wet beans and hot murky water all over the counter to show for it. He figured out the grinder and filter after his second attempt, and by the third, he had a mug of fresh coffee to show for his efforts. The scent that filled his shop and the outside corridor must have been nothing Hallownest had experienced in centuries. Lemm had little taste for the stuff himself, but in his experimentation he'd gone and made a whole pot. So he supposed he needed to acquire a taste for it rather quickly.

Luckily for his health, that turned out to be unnecessary. The smell, perhaps amplified in the ever-present petrichor, quickly attracted guests of the still-living variety. There turned out to be far more travelers and treasure hunters bumping around this old city than he'd initially expected, prone to tucking himself away in solitude as he was. Introverted or no, he happily gave the coffee away rather than waste it or risk giving himself a coronary. There were even a great deal of disposable mugs stacked away that just made it all the more convenient.

Just over the course of an hour, Lemm was graced with a fair amount of odd characters intruding on his doorstep. There was a surly fellow wielding a metal shield of some foreign make, who announced his intentions towards finding and conquering Hallownest's old colosseum. He was convinced it was still in operation somewhere. Lemm decided that if it was, the place was more than likely not populated with the sorts of honorable warriors this poor bastard was looking to prove himself against, but he kept his thoughts to himself and sent the boy off with a steaming cup of acrid bean water. Next came another traveller who gave off a more scholarly air than the first had, and who carried a more conventional weapon at his hip. The pill bug certainly acted more like a student than a warrior, all bright-eyed and curious and talkative. But no doubt he must know how to use that nail of his to have survived this far down and still be so cheerful. His stay wasn't entirely unpleasant; the two actually talked a short while about Hallownest's history and their shared learnings. The bug even tried to insist on paying, but Lemm was adamant that his reliquary wasn't a damn breakfast nook, thank you, keep your geo. But if he really wanted to pay, Lemm would certainly take any interesting artifact or trinket the bug happened to pick up on his travels. They eventually came to an agreement: A journal pilfered from a shrine somewhere in Greenpath for an extra cup for the road. Lemm's next visitor was, of all things, a cartographer. This one was far too involved in his work for much conversation, which was fine by Lemm. But he did manage to barter a cup for a map of the city. It was incomplete and bare of any landmarks, much to Lemm's disappointment. Finally, an odd little wanderer walked in almost soundlessly. They did not speak to Lemm, nor did they give any indication that they were here for any specific reason. But they had acquired an old city crest and a King's idol on their path, and Lemm had a more typical exchange of geo for relics with them. And then because it was the last of the coffee in the still warm pot, and because the little wanderer did not refuse, he sent them off with a cup on their way out. Thankful to be rid of all the blasted coffee and done with the uptick in social interaction, he then washed the pot and continued with his normal studies. It was nice and quiet, now.

But then the next morning, the pill bug returned. And he was surprised (and clearly disappointed) to see the coffee pot empty. It was a shame, he'd said. For he'd gone and found himself another journal, and considered a relic he couldn't use for a hot morning's drink to be a fine deal indeed. Lemm was inclined to agree, for how it saved him his geo in case of a more potentially significant find down the line. He turned the machine back on at once at the prospect. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to brew just one cup, and was still rightfully intimidated by the old, fussy contraption, and not inclined to mess with what worked. So he made another full pot, and talked shop.

The pill bug wasn't the only one to return that day. The would-be gladiator came back, still not having found his destination, and had the gall to just expect another drink. After the deal he'd just made, Lemm was feeling markedly less generous than he had been the day before, and informed his nasally guest that he'd have to barter something old and interesting for it.

The ant grumbled and left, but returned a few minutes later with a guardsman's crest. He'd apparently seen old treasures all over the place, but had found it beneath him to go and pick them up." A warrior has no need to weigh himself down with baubles," he'd sneered over his cup. Lemm privately thought that the plague-crazed beasts who were doubtlessly running the colosseum now would soon show this haughty kid what they cared for his warrior’s creed in due time, so he said nothing.

The silent wanderer came later. This time when they held up an ancient journal, they made no move to take the geo held out to them. They only stared at Lemm, with their little mask so perfectly unmoving he could easily think them a sudden corpse. Then his hand drifted towards the pot, and the creature set the journal down on the counter.

"...News of a relic keeper bartering goods for coffee has already spread among your lot, then? I suppose even wanderers must have a rumor mill," Lemm talked to himself while pouring their cup. Predictably, they padded away without an answer, drink in hand. Lemm would soon learn how right he was.

- The coming days were more lucrative than his business had ever been. All the travellers he'd met before all came back with various oddities found around Hallownest, as did anyone new. Though not everyone quite understood what constituted a relic, and Lemm had to turn down more than a few shiny rocks and petrified lake detritus. But they all got the routine down soon enough. And, well, Lemm did have an extraordinary amount of coffee that'd just go to waste for another thousand years otherwise, so, may as well.

The pill bug, Quirrel, came to be his best "customer", though Lemm would be twice damned before he ever said the word aloud. Either way, Quirrel often stayed long enough just chatting to warrant a second cup.

"I ought to have you bring double the treasure," Lemm griped once while handing that second cup over. Quirrel's response was a good natured laugh.

"Perhaps elsewhere, that'd be fair. Coffee was a luxury in some lands, and remains so to this day, but by my understanding it was quite in abundance here. Though I couldn't tell you where in the world they must have been growing it," he mused. Lemm raised a brow, wondering once again where in gods' names this bug was educated. But as asking would be an invitation to hear his life story, Lemm deferred.

"Is that right?" he asked instead, "I don't care for the stuff myself, luxury or no." "Really? Not an uncommon opinion, I suppose. I picked it up as a habit at one point... Though, I couldn't tell you when, now that I think of it," Quirrel trailed off, adjusting the oversized mask over his head. Lemm found it an odd choice of protection from the rain, though he supposed it was better than nothing. He only shrugged, "I hear many students do make a habit of caffeine. Your sorts can never get enough hours out of the day."

Quirrel stared at him for a brief moment, and then huffed a laugh again. "Student? You mistake me, sir. I've only ever been a traveller for as long as I can remember."

Lemm didn't bother to mask his surprise, and Quirrel's eyes crinkled. "You're right on that second part, though. So much to see, and never enough time." He took a sip.

The mapmaker came back one day with an order for two drinks. He had no relics, but offered an extra inkwell and quill instead. Lemm found equipment for keeping good notes was lucky to come by, and reluctantly made the trade, much to the old bug's gratitude.

"Thank you, the second is for my wife running our shop surface-side. It was her suggestion you might want materials for your research."

Lemm cleared his throat, blustering slightly under his beard.

"Ahh. Hm. I can appreciate that, then."

"Oh, on that note, have you any sugar you can add in for her?" The bug peered over Lemm’s shoulder, which rankled him for some reason.

"...I did find a jar back here somewhere, I think." Though he couldn't promise it was good. Could sugar go bad? It still just looked like white sand.

"Thank you. ...Err, actually, is that a box of tea on the shelf, there?"

Lemm paused in his rummaging, and looked back at the open storeroom door. The room now made a good home for his relics, though he never bothered unpacking the open crates.

"...It is," he eyed the bug neutrally.

"Ah. Iselda enjoys her coffee, though I quite prefer a good cup of tea myself. ...Erm, if it isn't too much trouble, of course," the bug grinned politely over folded hands.

Lemm, to his credit, did not sigh. There was indeed a kettle back there, too. And at least he knew how to brew tea without making an entire day's worth of it.

He brought up the jar of sugar, and leveled the bug with a grumpy look.

"Fine. But next time, you bring relics."

The cartographer acquiesced immediately, and that was the point where Lemm realized he'd invited them both to expect a "next time".

The silent wanderer came back again, on the tail of a group of treasure hunters who came in and left up the elevator. Shortly after, there was the sound of struggle above them.

This had become commonplace. Anyone who showed up had to contend with the violent husks above and beyond the shop, and some were more prepared to deal with the dangers of Hallownest than others. Lemm only poured the wanderer's cup in bored silence, tuning out the thumping and shouts above. "You know this stuff stunts your growth, right?" Lemm asked flatly. The wanderer only ever stared.

"Dehydrates you, too. You active types probably ought to stick to water. Imagine having to deal with the horrors of rotting sentries and whatnot with a diuretic sloshing about in you." Unbothered, they leaned forward and took their cup in both hands, still staring up while he spoke. Lemm honestly had no idea if they even understood him, and considered the possibility that their muteness was compounded by a language barrier. But they at least always made the effort to appear attentive.

There was a thundering crash above them that made Lemm flinch, and then a silence that kept him tense. The voices started up once again after a few seconds, and the sound of footsteps hurrying away as fast as they could. By his guess, his last customers had just had a very close encounter with a belfly. He'd likely not be seeing them again.

He turned his attention back down to the wanderer with a sigh.

"...Let me see what you have, then."

The tiny thing set their cup carefully down by their feet, and fished a genuine void egg from the depths of their grubby cloak. Lemm was struck with the brief impulse to give them the entire coffee machine for it.

There was a new visitor one morning, just as Lemm brewed the pot for his regulars. He rarely got anyone so very early, and was guiltily nursing his own cup of acrid sugary heart disease before anyone would be around to see. Alright, so he'd acquired the taste for it. It was hardly unreasonable with how much time he spent around the smell, and it helped him make up for lost time studying his relics later in the night. Perfectly understandable, and so he definitely did not freeze mid sip like he was caught in a crime when the door opened unexpectedly. The red-clad stranger who walked in wore a wicked-sharp needle slung across her back, and fixed him with an even sharper gaze.

"...I hear you sell tea." Her voice was quiet enough, but cut clear without the normal hesitant lilt of a question.

Lemm slowly put down his mug, and the soft thunk it made against the countertop sounded awfully loud in the morning lull.

"...I don't sell anything. I buy," he insisted.

The altogether frightening lass glanced between him, the full coffee pot, and the kettle sat next to a stack of assorted loose leaf teas. Then back at him.

He grunted, hiding an inane flush of indignation behind another swig of his drink.

"...I seek artifacts. Relics of this place's past, and anything that may help me understand it, for geo. ...Or for a cuppa, for those who'd rather." He shifted behind the counter, nearly trailing off into a mumble. But at this point, there wasn’t much use in fighting his reputation.

The girl just scrutinized him until she seemed to come to a decision. She then turned and left without saying anything else, opting to hop down the elevator shaft rather than waste a moment calling the lift.

Lemm rolled his eyes and gulped down the dregs of his coffee, vaguely annoyed. By this point, he was used to the rude and half feral sorts of vagabonds that only came by out of curiosity. At least she was quick about leaving.

All the better for him, as far as he was concerned. He doubted such a young thing would have anything of note to share with Hallownest's foremost historian.

#telephoneknight #hollowknight #hollow knight #RelicCoffeeAu #lemm #tiso #ghost #quirrel

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five-rivers · 3 years

Text

Home

The building that housed Fentonworks had never been normal, no matter what neighbors and real estate agents might profess.

Things had happened there. Deaths. Wild twists of fate and shocking coincidences. People who lived there heard noises, saw things, felt things. Experienced sicknesses with no cause. Were cured of sicknesses without cause. Survived things that should have killed them.

It was a thin spot between worlds. Reality was a rippling membrane, frayed enough for things to shine through.

The construction of the neighborhood itself had been… strange. It happened much faster than it should have, as if there was a whole extra shift of workers on the project.

The townhouse that would one day become Fentonworks had stood out even in that mystery. Extra rooms, a basement deep enough to cause a nasty fight with regulators, features not approved by the architect.

It was a wonder they hadn’t hit any of the water lines or the sewage systems. A wonder- and an impossibility. So, the matter was ignored and dropped.

Then the next owners expanded that impossible basement, building another, secret basement and putting things in the walls- They were criminals, of course. It was expected for them to do illegal things. (Although exactly what they had done was… oddly uncertain.)

(Drugs, perhaps.)

Then, the lunatics. Then, the tiny cult that collapsed in on itself. Then the empty years, dozens of transient ghosts trying and failing to pass through, and the ghost hunters. So many ghost hunters, none of them particularly successful.

Then, the Fentons.

Then, little Jazz.

Then, little Danny.

Danny with wide eyes that saw too much.

And all the horrors that the Fentons could dream up, from living hotdogs to weapons that burned like stars and doors to places that should not be visited.

And this was Danny Fenton’s home.

The Manson estate was an odd case, even for Amity Park. Save for the basement, the entire building they lived in had been transplanted, brick and beam, from Germany.

Rich people were bizarre.

Even the Mansons couldn’t explain it. The man who had done it hadn’t been a Manson. The Mansons, who were relatively new money, all things considered, had purchased it from one of the man’s children. Anything to boost their prestige.

It was fancy, and it was old, a gothic and statuesque mansion worthy of its name. Still, it wasn’t quite fancy or old enough to merit the kind of expenditure moving it had to take.

Hence the rumors, squelched by the Mansons, that the place was haunted.

It wasn’t.

The rumors, however, were enough to get one Samantha Manson interested in the occult. Especially given how hard she saw her parents working to hide the rumors from her.

No. The mansion wasn’t haunted. For all it’s oddities and quirks – which only multiplied as the Mansons added more and more features to it – the building itself was mundane.

(The land it was built on might have been another story.)

And this was Sam Manson’s home.

The Foleys didn’t want to know what Tucker got up to in the attic, but liked to think that, with that one exception, their home was a nice one. It was on a nice street, in a nice neighborhood, just far enough away from Fentonworks to keep both sightings of the Ghost Assault Vehicle and resultant property damage and property taxes to a minimum. Within walking distance of the high school, a supermarket, and a park.

They kept the fridge and pantry stocked. Their food might not have always been healthy – red meat was an element of almost every meal – but it was always available and filling. They made an effort for the dietary restrictions of Tucker’s friends of course.

All the rooms were kept clean and neat. Even Tucker’s, by way of bribes. Everything was organized, everything had its place. Except, perhaps, for the stray shoe or piece of schoolwork.

But that attic.

It really hadn’t been anything, before Tucker asked if he could move his computer stuff up there. Just a storage space, one too difficult for either Angela or Maurice to climb up there often. They didn’t consider themselves old, but they couldn’t call themselves young either. Not with a son Tucker’s age.

Once Tucker had realized the attic was there, he had been fascinated. And, well, once he was old enough for them to not worry about him falling off the ladder, they let him go up.

Some days, it seemed, he didn’t come down.

Better than his faintly disturbing Ancient Egypt phase, where he kept bringing pictures of mummified corpses to the table. Or, worse, the werewolf phase.

And this was Tucker Foley’s home.

Amity Park had claimed the distinction of ‘most haunted town in America’ long before the Fentons opened their portal. In fact, that was the reason the Fentons had set up shop there, in the first place.

No haunted town was complete without at least one haunted house. Amity Park had several. Not to mention a haunted hospital, a selection of haunted schools, a haunted museum, a haunted pool, a haunted crosswalk, a haunted mall, a haunted football field… The list went on, essentially ad nauseum.

Of course, that list mostly consisted of places that became haunted after the Fentons built their portal. But even before then, some places offered their dubious charms to tourists.

Mostly gullible ones. More than half of the claims of hauntings before the portal opened were fraudulent in their entirety. These places quickly went broke and got abandoned when real ghosts started showing up.

One of these was the ominously named Raven House, which stood in the hills on the west edge of town.

The story the tourists of years gone by had been told was that a widower had lived out here, all by himself and that one day, he stopped coming to town, or paying his bills, or even getting his mail. When the mailbox at the end of the long driveway was full, the mailman decided to go check on the widower. What he found was a flock of ravens and a skeleton, entirely picked clean of flesh.

No such death had occurred there, nor in any part of Amity. No such person had ever lived in the house, either. The last owners, before the company that decided to market the house as haunted, were a couple with two children.

It wasn’t until months after the portal started up that it became haunted in truth.

“This place isn’t haunted,” said Danny, panning his flashlight over cobwebbed corners on the ceiling. “I don’t think it ever was.”

“That’s what, strike five?” asked Sam.

Danny shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Four, actually,” said Tucker. “We counted the hospital as inconclusive, since we don’t know if anyone was there before Spectra.”

Danny nodded. “It’s weird, though, isn’t it? That no one lives here, I mean. It looks like a perfectly nice house.”

“Décor’s a bit… eh. Trying to hard to be haunted,” said Tucker, poking a raven decal on the wallpaper.

“I like it,” said Sam. “Needs cleaning, though.”

“Hey,” said Tucker, “you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you? Because I’m pretty sure that’d be illegal.”

“It isn’t as if anyone else is using the place,” argued Sam. “It could be a great backup hideout, if we ever had to… you know.” She glanced at Danny. “Plus, we’d be doing them a favor, really, keeping things clean and lived in.”

“I think it’s an okay idea,” said Danny.

“Yeah, but you think lots of dumb things are good ideas. Like showing up at a party hosted by people who publicly humiliate you on a regular basis.”

Danny grumbled something about trauma responses that sounded like a direct quote from Jazz and something else about that incident being ages (aka weeks) ago. Then, he brightened.

“We could get one of the little ectoplasm generators to power everything,” he said. “Remember all that stuff we lifted from Skulker and Technus? We could actually use it. Study and test things without worrying about whether our parents will walk in. I mean, your attic is great, but still.”

“Plus, we can have actual lab safety protocols. No offense, Danny.”

“I am the one that half-died in a lab accident, so… None taken.”

Tucker rubbed his chin. “Alright. I suppose I can see the appeal… But if we have stuff that can trace back to us, we could get in serious trouble."

“We’ll be careful, then,” said Sam.

“Anything I take from Mom and Dad has plausible deniability. They’ll assume ghosts stole it.”

“We also need to clean if we’re being serious about this. And get a fridge. And figure out the pluming situation.”

“Fridge is on the list. We have to be careful about the outside, too. If this place is suddenly well maintained, people will notice.”

“Sure, but that isn’t something they’d call the cops over,” said Danny. “They’ll just assume new people are moving in. If anyone sees it at all. We’re pretty far away from anything. But pluming won’t be too hard. We just need to bring our own water. Like, toilets flush using physics. If you dump more water in, they’ll go, no electricity required.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can’t even tell you how many time Mom and Dad blew out all our breakers with stuff in the lab,” said Danny. “You pick up a few things.”

“Well,” said Tucker, swinging his flashlight over to examine a discolored spot on the ceiling. “Then… Home sweet home, I suppose.”

There was a house in the hills in the west hills of Amity Park.

And this was the home of two and a half humans and half a ghost.

#danny phantom #dannymay2021 #dannymay 2021 #dannymay #dannymay day 2: home

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plant-flwrs · 4 years

Note

Hi, so i was about to send a request, but my phone went all crazy and i don't know if it got send or not ): so here it goes again I was wondering if i could get a George x slytherin reader after the war, where they're dating but all his family disapproves because she had like this "bad reputation", so he gets sad and angry because this boy is super in love with her, and she is like super reserved so his family don't trust her, but she is actually such a sweetheart with him.

family is complicated // george weasley

masterlist!

a/n: this was so hard writing the weasleys as mean people omg. i love reading fics where everyone is happy at the burrow and molly is an angel so this was like tearing me apart lol. hope you like it!!

summary: The Weasley’s have never liked George’s girlfriend, and one snide remark makes George finally lose it.

also a disclaimer! family turmoil and drama ahead, so if that’s triggering to anyone, don’t read this one! <3

(3.5k)

--------

The sun was hidden away, tucked behind the dark clouds that littered the sky in London. It wouldn’t have mattered anyways, as the heavy curtains to your flat were drawn closed.

The sheets were in a pool around your ankles and your body shivered tirelessly. George always got warm at night and had a habit of kicking off the blankets in his sleep. You clung onto him, trying to collect some of his warmth that oozed from his shirtless chest.

Your eyes opened, feeling awfully heavy in their sockets. You didn’t want to wake up, you didn’t want to get out of bed, you didn’t want to get ready, and you didn’t want to go to the Burrow.

The Weasleys were nice to everyone but you, it felt like. They welcomed Harry, Hermione, and Angelina with open arms, but you and Fleur were the spousal outcasts. The two of you bonded over it quite often, trying to make jokes of it, but really it bothered you both quite deeply. The only difference between you and the other spouses was the green tie you wore around your neck for seven years. You hardly found that to be reason enough for the whole family to dislike you, but they didn’t.

You turned away from your boyfriend, bringing the blankets up from your ankles and wrapping them tightly around yourself. You pushed your face deeper into the pillow, hoping that if you slept all day you wouldn’t have to do the adult thing of going to your boyfriend’s family house.

George lifted the blankets from his side, moving under them with you. He glanced at the clock on your bedside table, and saw no harm in sleeping a little longer. His warm arms found their place around you, and the two of you fell back asleep with the intentions of avoiding the Weasleys.

“They’re going to be late! I bet she’ll get him into some kind of trouble!” Ginny and the rest of her siblings could hear their mother’s shrieking voice from upstairs.

“They’re still not here?” Ginny turned to face Harry, rolling over in the small bed they shared the previous night.

“ ‘Spose not,” he mumbled bringing two heavy hands to his face and blocking out the sunlight creeping into the room.

“No wonder,” Ginny said, sitting up slowly in bed, “I wouldn’t feel inclined to come if I were her.”

“Well, George loves her,” Harry defended, finding the conversation to be one they had often.

Harry was never one to befriend Slytherins in school, but his maturing age made him able to see past the house’s reputation. He knew you couldn’t be evil if George liked you so much.

“I know he does,” Ginny snapped, “but that doesn’t make her any less,” Ginny trailed off, unable to find the right words for a moment, “weird.”

Harry sighed, feeling awake after the conversation. He brought his feet to the cold wooden floor of Ginny’s childhood room, and placed his glasses on his face. The two went down for breakfast.

“When do you think they’ll grace us with their presence?” Fred teased from his spot next to Angelina at the table.

“Whenever she feels like it,” Mr. Weasley grumbled from the head of the table, his eyes locked on the newspaper in front of him.

Fred groaned, rolling his eyes. He quite liked you. He thought that if his brother liked you, then he should too, and he had no reason to dislike you. Your ‘bad reputation’ that his mother likes to bring up so often, was for the same reason he and George had a ‘bad reputation’. You and George shared a love for mischief, and the Weasleys disapproved.

“When did you tell them to come, mum?” Bill asked from his spot next to Fleur.

Fleur was the one who wanted to know, but she had learned it was better to let Bill do the talking for her with Mrs. Weasley.

“Around supper,” she replied, moving to stand behind Bill and fidget with his long hair. He jerked from his mother’s prying hands.

“Then why are you expecting them to be here now?” Fred asked, ignoring Angelina’s warning graze on his knee.

“Everyone else is!” Mrs. Weasley defended.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell them to get here when everyone else was,” Fred continued, giving his mother a confused look.

“You eat your breakfast, young man, and stop worrying about what I said or didn’t say,” she yelled, darting back into the kitchen to get another pan full of eggs.

Fred caught Bill’s and Fleur’s eyes from across the table and they all looked annoyed.

You and George finally managed to roll out of bed a little after noon. The two of you stumbled down the cold streets hand in hand, still in your pajamas. You were in search of something to eat for lunch, even though you were both due at the Burrow in a couple of hours. You hated going with an empty stomach, because when you would load your plate up with Molly’s wonderful cooking, she would send you glares. You also hated going on a full stomach, because when you didn’t fill your plate with Molly’s wonderful cooking, she would send you glares. You rather her think you didn’t like her cooking than give her the opportunity to comment on your eating habits. You would watch Ginny shovel serving after serving into her mouth, and all Molly would do is pinch her cheeks and call her adorable.

You had gotten used to the criticisms pretty early on. You and George were an odd pairing, so you didn’t expect an immediate connection to the family. However, you had figured that after five years they may have warmed up to you, but sadly they hadn’t.

George pulled you into a small café by your hand, leading you to a secluded table by the window. The two of you put in your orders, and enjoyed the serenity before having to go to what was now both your least favorite place.

You wore a flattering sweater tucked into some smart pants. Clasping a delicate gold necklace George had given you for your anniversary last year, you called out to him to see if he was ready.

He came out of the bathroom, hands busy with buttoning his shirt. He was nervous, he usually was when he saw his family these days, and his hands had a shake in them.

“Here,” you said soothingly, running your hands over the wrinkles in the shirt and moving his hands away.

You finished buttoning the shirt, and George admired you.

Here you were, comforting him, when it was you his family didn’t like. You were willing to make more of an effort than his family ever did, and he loved you so much for that.

You stepped away from him, and his fingers moved up to brush a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. His rough fingertips grazed the top of your ear as he tucked away the hair. His hand fell down to the necklace you wore, and he twisted it in his fingers,

“I love you,” he whispered, blinking slowly, as if he were trying to remember this moment forever.

George always had the fear that any trip home could be the end for the two of you. He loved you, and he knew you loved him, but he couldn’t blame you if the hatred got too much for you.

“I love you too, Georgie,” you smiled up at him, forcing away the nausea pooling in your gut.

You went to your fireplace, checking the clock on the wall to make sure you weren’t too early and not too late. The both of you erupted in green flames, and soon the delightful smells of a homecooked meal flooded your nose.

“George!” Ron called from his spot on the couch, spotting you two first.

“Hey,” George responded in a voice you knew was trying to sound happy but came out shaky.

You stepped from the fireplace, and Molly rushed from the kitchen with her apron still on.

“My baby!” she wrapped her arms around George, pulling away and cupping his face with her hand.

He smiled down at her, and you recognized the nerves in the smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Weasley,” you said from beside George, waving and smiling shyly at her.

“Hello,” she started, already looking for something about you to be displeased with.

“Y/n! George!” Bill called, entering the house with Fleur trailing behind him.

You knew they liked to escape to the garden when they had to spend any amount of prolonged time at the Burrow, you and George joined them some times.

“Hi!” you said excitedly, not missing Molly’s scowl in the corner of your eyes.

Bill wrapped his long arms around you, hugging you like a brother. You released him and hugged Fleur next. Those would probably be the only Weasley’s that offered you a hug, as per usual.

“Where’s Fred?” George asked once he was released by his father’s arms.

“He and Angelina went upstairs for a nap a few hours ago,” Molly said, rushing back into the kitchen.

“Did you want any help, Mrs. Weasley?” she turned on her heal, gave you a fake smile, and shook her head.

If anyone else had called her Mrs. Weasley, she would have insisted they call her Molly, but not you.

“A nap? Blimey, how old are they?” George joked.

Laughs echoed around the room, and George wrapped an arm around your waist.

The two of you stood in the living room next to Bill and Fleur, talking with Ron, Harry, and Hermione on the couch.

“Fred tells us the shops going well?” Harry said, looking to George.

“Yeah, we’re doing alright,” George replied modestly. You flickered your eyes up at him, admiring him from where you stood tucked into his side. The shop was doing amazing, it was more successful than it had ever been.

“How’s your work, Y/n?” Hermione asked politely, and an awkward haze fell across the room as they all looked at you.

No one usually addressed you at Weasley family gatherings, so you were caught off guard.

“Good,” you choked out, clearing your throat and furrowing your brow, “it’s good.”

“She was just promoted,” George said proudly from beside you, nudging a finger into your side, “that Slytherin ambition of hers.”

“Really? Congratulations,” Harry said, the first and only person to say anything.

Bill and Fleur didn’t say anything because they already knew. The four of you had taken up having dinners at your flat sometimes, finding it better for all of you than the large gatherings at the Burrow.

“George!” Fred bellowed from the staircase.

He hugged his brother, hitting him on the back as they embraced. You smiled politely at Angelina, who nodded her head curtly at you.

“Y/n!” Fred said once he released George, hugging you.

Angelina’s eyes bore into Fred’s back as he did, but he didn’t care.

You smiled brightly at Fred, feeling relieved to have his happiness there. He and George were always the first to stick up for you when it came to Molly.

“Dinner!”

You all gathered around three tables put together in the garden, watching as dishes of food were levitated across the table. You served yourself food, catching Mrs. Weasley watching you with a critical eye from her spot at the head of the table.

Conversation flowed, though you, George, Fleur, and Bill generally kept to yourselves.

Bill sat at the other head of the table, with Fleur to his right and you to his left. George sat next to you, and the four of you talked like it was one of your usual dinners at your flat. It was better this way, less room for conflict.

All you had to do was make it through desert, which was moved into the house. That was it, one last meal and then you and George could say goodnight and be in the safety of your own home.

“Oh, I don’t think you want any of this dear,” Molly said to you, pulling away with a plate of cake in her hands,

“Mum,” George warned, holding his hand out for the plate while the other wrapped around your shoulders protectively.

You were never one to stop George from sticking up for you, which made Mrs. Weasley angrier. She looked to you, expecting you to give up the fight and not want any cake, but you looked right back at her with a blank look.

“She had an awful lot at dinner, George, she must be full.”

“Mum,” George said, louder and more angry.

“Don’t take that tone with your mother,” Mr. Weasley came from behind his wife, placing two comforting hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t speak to my girlfriend like that, and I won’t,” he responded, managing to sound somewhat calm, though a sharpness was in his tone.

“Excuse you?” Mr. Weasley questioned, his face becoming stern.

“George, let it go-” Ginny started from where she sat with Harry, the first one to take notice of the argument developing.

“No!” George said harshly to Ginny, whipping his head to look at her.

“What’s wrong?” Fred asked from behind you, shoveling cake into his mouth.

“Mum and dad are being rude to Y/n,” George started, looking accusingly at his parents, “for what? The millionth time?”

Mrs. Weasley gasped, putting down the cake on the counter next to her.

“George!” she exclaimed, prepared to make excusing defenses in her honor.

“It’s true mum,” Fred said from behind his brother, voice muffled by the cake in his mouth, “you’ve been, and usually are, quite rude to Y/n. And Fleur.”

You and Fleur made eye contact, both of your eyes widening as you realized tonight was the night where everything went to shit. No more passive aggressive comments, no more pretending everything was fine. After this, your invitation to the Burrow might be permanently revoked.

“He’s right, mum,” Bill’s cool voice said from beside Fleur, and everyone’s gaze shot to him, “you have it out for Y/n and Fleur.”

You stepped back, and George followed you, his arm still around you. It was like a triangle in the room, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at the edge of the kitchen, Bill and Fleur by the fireplace, and you, George, and Fred edging nearer the staircase.

“I don’t know what you talking about,” Molly defended, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes you do,” George said, narrowing his eyes at his parents.

“It’s late,” Mr. Weasley said, “maybe you lot should go home now.”

George scoffed from beside you, unwrapping his arm from your shoulder and stepping forward.

“Okay, Fleur, Y/n, why don’t you two go back to our flat,” George said in a soothing voice, “and we’ll talk this out, like a family.”

You fought the proud smile that wanted to spread across your face, and nodded your head. Fred guided you to the fireplace with a hand on your back, and winked at you as you and Fleur erupted in green flames once again.

“Well, this is not going to end well,” you mumbled to Fleur once you got home, putting a kettle on the stove, preparing enough water for George and Bill if they eventually came back too.

The yelling coming from the Burrow was unlike anything the small village had ever heard. Shouts of anger drifted from the windows, and the intensity of the argument could be felt for miles.

“You have no right to treat them the way you do!” Bill shouted at his parents, and also casted an accusing glance at Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and Angelina. Harry had sunk into the couch, the only person still sitting as everyone else sprang to their feet.

“She’s not right for him, and Fleur’s not right for you!” Molly screamed back.

“You don’t get to decide that! I love her, Bill loves Fleur. What’s different about them? You love Hermione, you love Angelina, you love Harry. Why should Y/n and Fleur have to get the shit end of your behavior!” George yelled, waving his hands frantically.

“Y/n doesn’t even try with us!” Ginny interrupted, stepping closer to George, “She just talks to you and Fleur!”

“Because none of you ever gave her a chance! She tried so hard the first time I brought her here, and you all made her leave crying!”

Ron and Harry felt a pang of guilt at the thought of the remarks they had made about Slytherins the first time George took you to the Burrow.

“I don’t trust her,” Molly said, her voice stern but quiet.

“I frankly don’t care, mum. I love her. If you’re going to make me choose, I’ll choose her. Every time. I love her,” George said, his voice lowered and shaky.

“Me too, I’ll choose Fleur,” Bill spoke up, moving his wand from his pocket to prepare to apparate.

“Boys,” Arthur warned, stepping forwards and trying to soothe the situation, “don’t upset your mother.”

“Let them go! They’ve made their choices!” Molly pouted, moving to sit, defeated, at the table.

“Fine. Send me an owl if you ever come to your senses,” George said, moving towards the fireplace and picking up a handful of floo powder.

“Fleur and I have given you enough chances, don’t send us an owl. Goodbye,” Bill said finitely, apparating before anyone could say anything.

George hesitated in the fireplace, meeting everyone’s guilty looking expression. No one spoke up, and he nodded towards Fred, saying goodbye. He was back home in seconds.

You and Fleur turned to the men who had both just appeared in your living room. Bill had tears running down his face, and Fleur went to him immediately. Fleur looked to you and you pointed down the hall towards you and George’s bedroom, allowing them a place to have some privacy. George fell onto the couch next to you, and you went to the kitchen to bring him a cup of tea.

“What happened?” you spoke in a soft tone,

George retold everything, and you felt your throat closing as tears threatened your eyes.

“Oh, George,” you mumbled, taking his tea from his hands and placing it on the coffee table You held him, the both of you feeling exhausted. His upper body leaned into your lap, and you held his shoulders, soothing bits of his hair off his face.

You could hear the muffled voices of Bill and Fleur from your bedroom.

Suddenly, five people apparated into your living room. George sat up, and you grasped his hand as you looked at Harry, Ginny, Hermione, Ron, and Fred all standing awkwardly in your living room.

“Nice place,” Ron said suddenly, craning his neck to look around the room.

Neither you or George responded and Hermione nudged Ron with her elbow.

“Right, sorry,” he mumbled, his lips going into a thin line.

“We wanted to say something,” Fred said, breaking apart from the group and coming to sit with you and George on the couch.

He turned around, looking at the group.

“We’re sorry,” Harry said first, looking at you, “I should have never said those things about Slytherins, it was stupid and so was I.”

You swallowed hard, eyes downcast at the floor.

“So am I. I actually think you’re quite cool,” Ron said, sounding just as awkward as you remembered him to be in school.

“I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m sorry I stood back and let you get treated that way,” Hermione said next, and you met her sorrowful gaze. You nodded at her, returning your eyes to the floor.

Harry nudged Ginny, who reluctantly spoke, “I’m sorry too. If George loves you, then so do I.”

You smiled at the floor, nerves twisting in your stomach like they did when you first went to the Burrow.

“You guys were idiots,” George said sternly from besides you.

Your shoulders shook, and George lifted your chin with his fingers. He met your eyes, afraid you were crying, but was happy to see you laughing.

You looked at the group, chuckling senselessly.

“Thank you,” you said, “it’s a shame you’ll have to do that whole bit again for Bill and Fleur, though.”

Everyone laughed, and the group hadn’t realized Bill and Fleur weren’t there anymore.

“Did they leave already?” Fred asked from beside you.

“No, there in our room for some privacy,” you answered, pointing a finger down the hall.

“Ah,” Fred said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Not like that,” George reached behind you and hit the back of Fred’s head.

You stood, going to the kitchen and retrieving all the mugs you had in your cabinets.

“Need some help?” Ginny asked from behind you, Hermione by her side.

“Sure,” you smiled at them, and Ginny and Hermione moved into the kitchen.

They helped you carry out the hot cups of tea, placing them on the table. Bill and Fleur had emerged from the room, and were sat on the couch. You sat on the other side of Fleur, catching George’s eyes from where he sat on an armchair across from you.

He looked happy, finally being able to sit with his family and you in the same room without nerves plaguing his every thought.

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