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#not in the mood to draw the horns properly fuck that
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Sleepy sheepies
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Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 144
144
Curled around him, Lance basked in Keith’s warmth. His boyfriend his protector against their friends. Pidge, Hunk, Shiro and Curtis all waiting at VOLTRON for their return. There were lots of hugs, lots of apologising on his behalf. A lot of anxiety over Kosmo jumping up at his belly, his fun son had grown more than Lance realised. From a tiny pup awkward pup, he now stood just below hip height, but was still his precious baby. Keith a little too firm as Kosmo tried to stand up, paws on Lance’s belly, nearly making Lance vomiting, as he had done for the last half hour of the flight.
Then came the trek to the medical wing, too many people wanting to know if he was okay and if the twins were, and Pidge couldn’t stop staring at his belly, making him super uncomfortable. Coran had shooed them off, Lance suspecting he just wanted to have the first look at the ultrasound ahead of the others. Lance so not in the mood for it, making Coran agree to wait until the following day. He was still poked and prodded. Set up with two IV lines that he felt he didn’t need. Temperature and heart-rate taken. Forced into a clean set of clothes so he’d be “more comfortable”. He’d had a panic attack when they landed. He couldn’t find his mami’s bag, Rieva had already taken it down out of the luggage department.
He was wiped out, but then the others came back in. Pidge and Hunk tried to squeeze onto the bed, barely built for one, let alone four adults, and Kosmo who’d taken up prime position on his legs. Shiro and Curtis had come back thanks to the news of his Mami passing. Their condolences hurt to hear, on top of Pidge and Hunk both offering theirs again. Battling anxiety, Lance mostly let the others talk around him. A few times he’d nearly snapped when Pidge got too loud and Hunk cuddled just that fraction too close to Keith. His ego was being a dick, Lance no longer sure if his ego was making him worse, or him being worse was making his ego be a dick.
Things were much easier when the focus was shifted from him to Curtis’s horns. They were cute. Not great big monstrous things like a ram, but two black little nubs that went well with the black ring around his irises. Admittedly, Lance was expecting horns big enough for Shiro to hold onto them, and while he could, it’d barely be a palm full... Not that he wanted to think about Shiro riding Curtis, Pidge put the idea in his head and Lance was left to deal with it. He was happy about Curtis being safe and back, but his ego wasn’t thrilled. It very much felt slapped in the face, wanting to yell at them all to pay attention to Lance’s belly because twins were way cooler than horns.
Filling Lance in, he hadn’t seemed to miss much. They’d had lunch at Pidge’s parents, then dinner at Hunk’s house. Shay had come to dinner, and they’d done Christmas without him. Pidge excited at the prospect of a second Christmas when Keith “suggested” it. Hunk making huge plans to make it a “Welcome Home Party”. Lance using his current stay to plead out they wait until weekend, which would give him the Thursday and Friday to mentally prepare for peopling again, then using his fatigue to politely evict their friends group. Trying to evict Keith to go talk to his brother was like trying to pull two sheets of wet glass apart. It wasn’t happening. The vampire could smell Krolia on them, suspecting she was back, and waiting until they group thinned before coming to offer her condolences. Lance had enough of condolences. Enough of the heartfelt words. Each time he was sent back to Mami not waking. To trying to call Keith only to break his phone, and the pain of losing the one person who’d protected him for so long. It was easier with a heartfelt hug and and a mutual understanding it was hard.
Keith was asleep. He’d fallen asleep while Lance was left unable to shut his mind off. Nausea, coupled with stress and a throbbing headache left Lance awake more than his circling thoughts. Flying didn’t agree with him, even with his shoes sprinkled inside with his death soil. It helped abate the symptoms from flying, it just didn’t help when it came to an overactive mind and being squished by Keith who had his hand pressing against Lance’s belly, as if trying to protect him as he slept. Keith was too cute, and obviously relieved to see Shiro and Curtis had made it home safely.
Putting up with being squished as long as he could, Lance carefully set Keith’s hand on his hip, so he could slip free. Coran would no doubt be around shortly to check on him. He missed the way they used to be so close. Now it felt like Coran cared more for the twins than for him. If Coran had cared he’d have let them go back to Keith’s apartment, and cancelled the surprise of their friends waiting for them. He knew it was because Coran cared and worried for him that he hadn’t. Hugging Pidge, she seemed smaller than ever. Hunk just as solid and warm as a he remembered. He loved them too much. The loss of Mami driving home again how short and fragile human lives where when compared to his. Lance had made up his mind. He’d live as long Keith lived. A full life with his boyfriend and their children, until it was time for Keith to pass and they’d pass together. Never feeling the loss of that half of their souls. It was funny how he’d mocked the idea of soulmates mentally, and now it seemed the only term close to describing the degree of love he felt for Keith. He wanted to spend every day of their lives together, making new and happy memories, in a household filled with love.
*
Feeling the space beside him empty, Keith shot awake in panic. He’d been wiped out from the visit of their friends. They were so damn loud. Not that he wasn’t happy they’d been there to rip the anxiety bandage off Lance’s wounds, he simply wished they’d been there and quieter about it
“Babe?”
With the light on in the bathroom, and Kosmo also missing, Keith was drawn to it like a moth. Pushing the door open with his foot, Lance was sitting on toilet with his face in his hands. Kosmo laying near his feet. Keith had noticed each time Mami was mentioned that Lance would shy away. That wound too deep for a reunion to be a magic fix it all
“Babe?”
Looking up at him, Lance wiped his eyes
“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep”
The idiot had been crying alone...
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Headache and I feel sick...”
Walking over to his boyfriend, Keith felt for a fever as Lance bunted into the touch
“You feel warmerish... and I can smell you”
Lance blushed, hands going to cover his lap...
“Babe?”
“Don’t judge me”
Keith didn’t know what he was supposed to not be judging Lance over seeing he wasn’t judging him in the first place
“I’m not. I got a bit worried when you didn’t come back to bed”
“You were squashing the pee out of me... and then I just... felt so blah that I thought if I could... you know... I might be able to calm down... but I couldn’t...”
Oh. Lance was looking for a little stress relief after their long arse day
“You could have woken me up”
“And what would I have said? I can’t sleep, so suck me off?”
“Pretty much”
Keith’s knees cracked as squatted down, Lance blushing softly as he wouldn’t meet his eyes
“I’m not mad, and I’m not judging you”
“I feel stupid... I’m horny as hell and I shouldn’t be, but I don’t know... it just happens. I’m so fucking tired...”
He looked it too. And was tired enough to be honest that he wasn’t feeling that great
“Do you want me to get you off?”
Lance sighed deeply, angry as replied
“There’s no point... I tried but... I feel too sick... and I’m so frustrated...”
“Let me help”
“I told you...”
Lance needed release, his scent was begging Keith to touch him
“Not to brag about my sexual prowess, but I’m pretty sure I can give you exactly what you need”
“But what about you?”
“Babe, if you haven’t noticed, I love you. I love touching you. Just let me take care of things”
Lance nodded, moving his hands away to expose the damp spot on his sweats. Rather than wolfing down the meal, Keith wanted Lance to feel comfortable first. Kissing his boyfriend, Lance hesitated, slowly letting Keith take the lead. That he was kissing him back made Keith’s heart flip. Whining at him, Kosmo protested what his father’s were about to do, leading him to an overdue eviction.
Soaking wet, Lance’s wetness dribbled down his thighs, Keith lapping between Lance’s legs moaning at the taste of his lover. Bent over the bathroom sink, Lance’s legs were already shaking, arse jiggling as he rocked against Keith’s tongue. His boyfriend definitely pent, and already stretched so perfectly that Keith could have slipped right in. Wanting Lance to enjoy this, he also was aware that Lance was on edge. That he was exhausted and needed sleep, cutting Keith’s fun short as he rose to his feet, meeting eyes with Lance in the bathroom mirror
“You ready?”
“Mhmm... I tried... but... my fingers couldn’t reach...”
Shit. He’d have liked to see that. He loved watching Lance prep himself almost as much as he loved prepping him. Dizzy on Lance’s scent, his boyfriend smelt as if he was in heat, which shouldn’t be possible with Lance already being pregnant.
Sliding his hands up Lance’s sides, his boyfriend shuddered, wetness dribbling down Keith’s erection as he rutted up against him, missing pushing in on his first try
“You’re so fucking wet...”
Lance blushed
“Shut up”
“I didn’t say it’s a bad thing. Stick your arse back for me”
Spreading his legs, Lance stuck his ease back, Keith letting go of his side to guide himself into Lance’s heat, both men groaning in unison, as Keith slowly sank balls deep. Bring up his hand, he gripped Lance by the hip with his left hand, right hand moving to grope the vampire’s small left breast. Whimpering his name, it sounded pornographic
“Keith...”
“It’s okay, babe... let it out”
Rolling his hips, wetness smeared across Keith’s crotch. Drawing back then thrusting in caused a wet slapping of skin
“Keith... just... fuck... me properly”
Hard and fast, he could do that. Wrapping himself around his boyfriend, Keith fucked Lance as hard as he wanted. His boyfriend panting and they’d barely started. Not quite getting as deep as he wanted, Keith lifted Lance’s right leg, Lance incoherent, as their bodies rocked. God knew how good Lance felt around him. The way he tightened at having his leg lifted made it hard to move, as if his boyfriend was trying to squeeze his orgasm out of him as he drew him deeper
“I’m... Keith... don’t stop... I’m going to come...”
The slapping grew louder, Keith barely coherent. High as hell on Lance’s pheromones
“Shit, babe... come for me... you feel so fucking good... shit... shit... fuck, babe...”
“Mmm... Keith... Keith... nggm... ah... ahh...”
Lance tensed as he came, clamping hard around Keith, Keith coming just as hard inside his boyfriend, buried to the hilt and panting like he’d run a marathon. Shit... he hadn’t lasted long... Lance still smelt so damn good. Nosing at the crease between his boyfriend’s shoulder blades, Keith rode out his orgasm, hips stuttering yet still moving, caught up in Lance’s scent
“Fuck...”
He wanted more. So much more. He’d been pent up as he’d watched Lance from the swimming pool. All the little expressions Lance made while watching him. The way he’d duck his head or look away. He didn’t want his boyfriend looking at anyone other than him
“Keith?”
Sliding free, cum and wet dripped onto the floor, Keith rutting between his legs, causing his pregnant boyfriend to whine at him
“I’m sorry... you smell so good...”
“I wanna... kiss... I feel so... hot...”
So Lance was feeling this too? He wasn’t imagining it? The logical thing would to be ask Coran why Lance seemed in heat, but his head brain was on vacation leaving all the flowing blood to his dick
“Let’s go to bed... I want to do you again...”
Lance slowly nodded, Keith liked to think his was a smooth as boyfriend as he lowered his leg then swept him off his feet.
Laying Lance down on the hospital bed, Keith climbed up to cage him. His boyfriend wrapping his arm around him, as he claimed his mouth. Sinking his fangs lightly into Keith’s lip, Keith hissed, his lips had gotten used to not being bitten and he was reminded of how long it’d really taken to gotten used to Lance’s fangs. Not that he told his lover. He didn’t want him being sorry when he should be feeling good. Breaking the kiss, Lance licked the blood from his lips
“I feel... so hot...”
“You feel like you’re in heat”
“I can’t be... I’m having your babies...”
Shimmying back and down, Keith went for Lance’s chest. Tonguing at the small bud of Lance’s right nipple, Lance’s hands held his head to his chest, fingers threaded through Keith’s hair, hips rolling as Keith mouthed at the small mound
“Ahhh... careful... still... sensitive”
“I know...”
Lance seemed sensitive enough to come from having his nipples stimulated alone. Keith moving to mouth at his left nipple, Lance’s legs tightening as he knees pressed into his side’s
“Keith... Keith... don’t... not like... that...”
Nipping on Lance’s nipple, Lance whined, pulling his hair to pull him off
“Not there... it’s too much...”
“Mmm... but they’re cute”
Lance’s nipples seemed bigger, the colour had darkened, the bud feeling bigger between his teeth than they’d had before. Not pulled away far enough, he swiped his tongue up, Lance groaning loudly
“Keeeeeith... stop teasing, I don’t have the patience”
“You don’t have the patience to let me love your body”
“Fuck loving my body... I need you in me... feels empty... aren’t... I... good enough”
Keith rose back up, words falling between the kisses he pressed to Lance’s lips
“You are more than good enough...”
“Then... just... I want to...”
“I know, baby. I know... you’re body is so amazing... so open for me... think you can take me again”
Lance sat up as he wrapped his arms around Keith’s neck, nodding as he did, Keith moving his hands down to take Lance by the hips
“I want it...”
Nosing at Lance’s nose, Keith’s hands slid to try lift Lance by the arse
“Wrap your legs around me, babe. I’ve got you... gonna fuck you on my dick, just how you like...”
Lance was too cute. Riding his dick, Lance panted, legs spread and tummy on display. Tiny titties red from all the attention lavished on budding breasts. Sucking on his lover’s left breast, Lance stopped making sense somewhere around the time he nipped at his nipple. When his boyfriend finally grew tired from riding him, Keith laid him back down, spreading his legs wide, so he supported Lance by his calves and riding him hard. Lance’s pheromones increased his stamina, he already knew that from barely being able to keep up with Lance’s heat. Over and over again he drove into his boyfriend, Lance coming across his bouncing belly as Keith kept thrusting, wetness now soaked enough into the bedding his knees were damp. Coming for the second time, Keith finally felt a little calmer. Calm enough to pull out and slump across Lance, mindful of his lover’s precious belly, as he caught his breath. Lance bringing a hand up to rest on his head, long caramel legs wrapped loosely around him. Kissing Lance’s cooling skin, his boyfriend still smelt sweet.
“Babe?”
“Mmm...”
“You okay?”
“Mhmm...”
“Okay”
That was good. Good that Lance was okay. The room smelt of them and their sex, Keith quietly content for now... or at least the next five minutes.
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softlighter · 4 years
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“Why arent you afraid of me?” For bees prompt? Love your writing!! Hope you’re well!
I am very well!  Thank you for reading.  Also posted as “The Branwen Bitch” on ao3!
Yang was used to it.  She was used to the stares that followed her wherever she went, even before people knew who she was.  What she was capable of.  She was used to the whispers as she walked by.  She was used to the flinches whenever she moved too fast toward someone, to the fear that sparked in their eyes when she talked to them.
It was a lonely life, but it was hers.  Which was a pity, because she liked people.  Yang enjoyed talking and chatting and bonding, Brothers, she loved bonding.  But there were too few people willing to get close to the Branwen Flame, or, as some people called her when they thought she couldn’t hear, the Branwen Bitch.  She heard it whispered as she walked by, heard it shouted when she got into fights, heard it bloodily spat when she did her work.
The Branwen Bitch.  Her claim to fame, her inherited title.  Her and her mother’s shared title.  But her mother didn’t seem to hear the words, maybe even thrived off of them.  Everytime Yang was there when someone called her mother that, Raven just remained stone faced as her eyes glowed bright and prepared herself for cruelty.
The Branwen Bitch.  She acted like she didn’t hear the words, tried to master Raven’s cold stare, but Yang was anything but cold.  She was heat and flame, and fire grew out of control easily.  Too easily.  And the words hurt, more than she cared to admit, but they were just words.  They didn’t snap her bones or open her veins or bruise her skin.  
“Fuck you!” the man at her feet spat, blood spilling out of his mouth and over his lips.  “Fuck you, you bitch!”
Yang looked down on him in disdain, flipping her hair over her shoulder.  Ember Celica fired a round into his gut, and he ground out another scream.  He had lost a lot of blood, but he wouldn’t die.  The tribe would make sure of that.  He wouldn’t be allowed to die before they got what they needed from him.
The raid was still going on around her, but it was mostly over.  The people had fled deep into the mountains, and they had a few hours to round up what they needed from the small village before they came back and tried to fight back against them.  They would fail, of course, but it was an inconvenience she didn’t want to bother with.
“Bring him to the truck,” she said, turning on her heel and not looking to see if she was obeyed.  She knew she would be.  It wasn’t even a question.  Not when the tribe knew what happened to those who disobeyed Raven’s chosen heir.  A title won, not inherited.  A title she had fought for, not been given.  
She started the perimeter of the village, checking for stragglers hiding in the treeline or on the outskirts of town.  Ember Celica remained cocked and ready, and her knives were still strapped to her.  She rarely used them, but Raven insisted on her carrying them.  The knives had been useful, she had to admit, but she still preferred the natural enhancement of Ember Celica over a blade.  
Her brow furrowed as she saw footprints leading into the treeline.  Not towards the mountains, where most of the villagers had gone.  No, these tracks lead elsewhere.
Yang threw a look over her shoulder, taking in the sight of her people, her tribe, working as a unit and efficiently stripping the village of its goods.  She would not need to help them.  She could indulge her curiosity.  Perhaps this was where the village elder had gone to hide their few jewels, the jewels that would fetch a high price on any market.  
She walked deeper into the woods, one eye on the tracks and one on the trees above her.  Getting ambushed from above was never pleasant, and after barely walking away from the first time she had been attacked from the trees, she had learned to keep her wits about her.  The woods were thick with trees and plush with plants that she crushed underfoot.  Beautiful.  Calm.  So at odds with the organized chaos behind her.
There was a blade to her throat before she realized what was happening, and, instead of fighting it, she barely bit back a smirk as the woman shoved her up against the tree.  “Don’t speak,” the hooded woman rasped, as if she wasn’t used to talking.  
Yang rolled her eyes.  Brothers, she was not in the mood for this.  The blade started to dig into her neck, a thin edge of pain.  So her attacker wasn’t afraid to draw blood.  Still, she obeyed, casually taking in her position.  The woman was before her and holding the blade out to keep Yang against the tree.  Her face was masked, but the two lumps underneath her hood were unmistakable as ears.  What kind, she didn’t know.  But her attacker was Faunus.
There wasn’t supposed to be any White Fang around here.  This was Branwen territory, even if they were on the edge of it, so the woman was probably just a villager.  Still, Faunus were rare in this area, usually too fed up with the bullshit they had to deal with around here to bother to set down roots.  Most Faunus were quickly driven out.  So either this woman was new to the area, stupid, or stubborn.  If Yang was lucky, she was all three.  
“What’s your name?” the woman asked.  Her face was hidden in shadow, but Yang didn’t miss the golden eyes that peered out from underneath the mask and hood.  
Yang pretended to be afraid.  “Ver-Vernal,” she stammered, making her eyes wide.  The uptight bitch she had beaten out for the title of being Raven’s heir was always angry when Yang used her as a fake name, which only made her more inclined to use it.  She exaggerated her swallow and audibly gulped.  “What- what do you want?” she asked.
“Are you a bandit or villager?” the woman asked, ignoring her question.
Yang weighed her options in the blink on an eye.  If she was asking, then she was stupid.  “I’m from here,” she said.  “I got separated from my family, and I couldn’t get to the mountains, and-”
“Quiet!” the woman hissed, pressing the blade closer to her neck.  Yang nodded, keeping her eyes wide and watery.  This was almost fun.  
The woman’s other hand fished into her jacket pocket, and Yang wrenched the arm holding the blade to her throat down as she swung for her neck, flipping them around so that the woman’s back was against the tree and Yang was holding her by the throat.  The knife dropped to the forest floor, and the woman was clawing at Yang’s hand, but Yang just tilted her head.
“You know,” she said casually, examining her nails, “you really shouldn’t go up to just anyone in the forest.  There’s dangerous people about.”
The woman struggled in her grasp, and only then did Yang bother looking at her.  She plucked the object the woman had fished out of her jacket and examined it as she held the woman against the tree.  Her brows knit together.  “What’s this?” she asked.  She loosened her grip on her throat just enough to allow the woman to speak.
“Have you seen him?” she croaked.
Yang studied the picture.  It was more detailed than a wanted poster, almost as if the page had been plucked out of a lover’s sketchbook.  She took in the spiked hair and bull horns and sharp smile.  There were two pictures, one of the man with a White Fang mask and the other with his face bare to reveal a hideous brand over his eye.  Still, her stomach churned as she took in the face.
“What do you want with Adam Taurus?” she hissed, unconsciously tightening her grip once more.  The woman choked, her nails digging into the back of her hand, before Yang loosened her grip once more.  
“Bounty,” the woman rasped.
Yang shook her head.  “There’s no bounty on Taurus,” she hissed, bringing her face close to the woman’s.  “So tell me what the fuck you want with him.”
“Fuck you,” the woman said, spitting at Yang’s eye and just barely missing for her cheek.
Yang ignored the spittle and slammed her against the tree once more.  “What do you want with Adam Taurus?” she repeated, feeling her eyes blaze red with fury as her hair came alive with flame.  The woman’s gold eyes widened, and Yang felt her throat bob underneath her fist in recognition.  The gold eye gleamed not with fear, but with intellect, as if she was already filing away her identity.  She normally would have smirked, but she was too enraged to bother.  “What do you want with Taurus?”
“Revenge.”
Yang paused and tilted her head.  Her hair was flaming around her, but she forced herself to think, to think, to think.  “Why?” she asked.
The woman struggled against her, but she gave up and said, “He’s a bastard.”
“But what did he do to you?”
The woman’s gold eyes hardened.  “He killed my parents.”
Yang’s breath caught, but she didn’t let it show.  She took a deep breath, her eyes fading back to their usual lilac.  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.  She weighed her options once more, and she decided, against her better judgement, to release the woman.  The woman didn’t move, but her chest heaved as she sucked down air.  Yang studied her.  “Taurus needs to be taken down.”
The woman nodded, rubbing her throat.  “He does,” she agreed warily.
“Want to join me?” she asked, extending her right hand.
The woman blinked, but that was the only sign of surprise.  “What?”
“I’ve been hunting him,” she said.  She gave the woman a half smile.  “And if you can get the drop on me, I’d prefer you by my side than against me.”
“Why?  Why have you been hunting him?”
Yang waved her right hand and gave her a sharp grin despite the ache in her chest.  “I owe him,” she said as casually as she could manage.  The metal was dark and spray painted gold, although it was still splattered with blood.  Her fingers flexed, the metal groaning against itself.
Something flickered in the woman’s gold eyes, but Yang couldn’t tell what it was before it was gone.  “And you want me to join you?” the woman asked quietly.
Her easy grin faded slightly.  “I need someone to watch my back when I go after him,” she said.  “And you need someone to teach you how to properly fight.”
The woman crossed her arms.  “I know how to fight.”
“Not like I do,” Yang pointed out.  “I had you from the start.  You need training if you want to take Taurus down.”  
“Well, you’ll never get the drop on him.  You came through here like a damn flare.  Adam is always protected, as if he needs it, and even when he’s alone, he’s always aware.  You’d never get within thirty feet of him.”  The woman studied her.  
Yang gave her a grin.  “Then I guess we need each other,” she said, extending her hand once more.  She raised her brow.  “Join me.  My tribe will take care of you while we train, and then we can go after him.”
“I work better on my own,” the woman said, something almost like sorrow in her voice.  
“So?  You’re not good enough to take me down, and Adam is better than I am, even now.”  Her throat bobbed.  She had spent the last two years training, but she still wasn’t good enough.  She still wasn’t lethal enough.  “If we train together, we might be able to take him.”
“You don’t want me for a partner,” the woman warned.
Yang shrugged.  “That’s my choice, though, isn’t it?”
The woman appraised her.  “I used to be White Fang,” she said.  
Yang’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face neutral.  “And I’m the Branwen Bitch,” she said flatly.  “What better pair to take him down?”  She jerked her chin.  “You know how the White Fang works, and you’re like a ninja.  I have the resources and the strength.  We need each other if we want to take him down.”
The woman stared at her.  Yang watched as she removed her mask and hood, revealing short dark curly hair and a face as beautiful as the night sky.  Her golden eyes glinted in the dappled sunshine of the woods, catching the light as if they were pure sunshine.  Yang arched a brow at the sight, but remained silent.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” the woman asked finally.  “I used to be a terrorist.”  Her voice was bitter and filled with enough self-hatred to make even Yang wince.  
But she simply shrugged.  “I don’t think you’re very scary,” she said.  The woman snorted, but then Yang asked, “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”  Because she hadn’t seen the slightest hint of fear in those golden eyes, not for a second.  Most people were terrified of the Branwen Flame on reputation alone, but this woman hadn’t looked scared for a moment.
The woman gave her a wry smile.  “I don’t think you’re very scary.”  But there was the slightest bit of warmth in her eyes.  The woman extended her hand and shook Yang’s.  “I’m Blake.”
Yang nodded.  “Yang.”  She clapped Blake’s back and led her back to the village.  “You’re my guest, so if anyone gives you shit when I’m not around to deal with it, just give them my name, and that should stop it.  If it doesn’t, get names and faces, and I’ll take care of them.”  
“I can take care of myself,” Blake said.
Yang shrugged.  “The tribe is rough to newbies,” she said casually.  “They need to see that you’re strong.  We don’t have any extra tents, so you’ll be sleeping in mine while we’re on the road back to main camp.”  Her mind was going a mile a minute, already picturing the argument she would get into with Raven when she got back.  Her mother would not be happy, but Yang didn’t give a shit.  
She paused, turning to Blake.  “Do you have any other belongings?” she asked, surveying her figure.  She had a knapsack on her back, but it was small and worn.  Blake shook her head, remaining silent.  “We’ll get you some new clothes, then.”
“Thank you,” Blake said, voice distant.
Yang shrugged.  “We need to get you equipped if we’re going to do this,” she said.  “Because we are going to do this.”
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blackicedragons · 4 years
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Bro I must get the lore on Cyril and Ignitus. How did they get together? Why did they decide to have a kid (specifically for the prophecy if I read right)? When did their relationship start going wrong? And, most importantly, is there going to be a parent-trap style subplot to try and get them back together?
OH THIS IS A DELICIOUS ASK THANK U OMG
okay so i actually, admittedly, have way more of this thought out than i should bc i dedicated hours of my time to daydreaming about this........//////MAJOR SPOILERS for some elements of the rewrite btw!!
our four main guardians have, in my canon, been incredibly close for many years. ignitus was always known as the wise-man and the voice of reason, and despite cyril's bad attitude, he was always honest and kept up with tradition to a fault. ignitus was good at difussing the bad situations cyril caused with his rude comments, but cyril often stood up for ignitus when the red dragon found himself to be a bit soft-spoken. the two had a deep respect for one another and they spent alot of time together as close friends.
when the year of the dragon was drawing close and the prophecy reared its head, ignitus and cyril were asked by a council of elder dragons to make the egg that would become their savior (yes, it is because red and blue make purple. im incredibly creative, i know!!!) the council figured that two heavily respected guardians that had excellent handles on their elemental abilities would create an ideal purple dragon for the future. the two initially weren't very keen on the idea, but they understood that they were only being asked to do so for the sake of their fellow dragons. eventually, they accepted the plea. ignitus was the sire and cyril was the dame in the situation (in the rewrite, spyro is mentioned specifically to have ignitus's horns and frills while also having cyril's eye shape and scale patterns)
intially, the two of them only did this because they saw it as their duty as guardians. yet, ignitus found himself fretting over cyril often. he would guide him around carefully, making sure he didn't stumble around given the weight of his belly during pregnancy. he got cyril food, groomed him, cleaned his room, and spoke about how he wondered what their egg may be like. though cyril was a bit bratty about everything, he was incredibly grateful for ignitus's diligence and patience. cyril would ask ignitus to stay in his nest for the night, and exclusively sought out ignitus for comfort and care. for the first time, cyril was being fairly polite and even seemed to be happier, and ignitus had come out of his shell. they spoke for hours about their egg's future, and then about their own. volteer and terrador jokingly referred to them as the "new pair of love doves". after some time, cyril was actually the first to confess that he loved ignitus (he was always a little too honest), having said "no one has ever chosen to put up with me for so long" and, despite being a little surprised, ignitus reciprocated, telling cyril that he "could never really grow tired of him". despite not knowing what the future held, the two decided they would do everything they could to raise their child together, and to be with each other through whatever the coming year would bring.
and then the raid happened. the temple was destroyed, chaos was everywhere, and the eggs were all shattered. cyril was injured, and ignitus, feeling frightened and panicked, sent their egg away to hopefully find a safer place to hatch. the war began not long after. although ignitus cared for cyril and stood beside him in battle, his guilt only grew as the war waged on. he couldn't help but blame himself for everything that had happened. cyril tried to talk him out of it, saying he was being irrational, saying that none of this could all possibly be his fault, saying there was nothing more ignitus could do. ignitus refused to listen, and put the blame for the war on his own shoulders, feeling that it was the only way he could properly take responsibility. the two of them fought harshly. ignitus couldn't come to terms with his own self-loathing and grief, and cyril couldn't find his softness and reasoning in a time when things were so hard. after their last fight, they didn't speak again, and cyril was captured a few days later. of course, ignitus entirely blamed himself, and lamented that the last words he ever spoke to cyril were words of anger and sadness, and cyril lamented the same in his cage.
when spyro arrives and frees the guardians, ignitus and cyril are intially very tense! they both never imagined seeing each other again, and they don't really how to apologize to one another and how to make up for all the negative energy and time between them. they barely speak to each other unless they have to, and they refuse to be in a room alone together for more than a few awkward seconds. spyro, ember, and flame can obviously see how weird they're acting, but terrador won't explain anything. the three kids go to volteer who, of course, literally can not keep his mouth shut about it. he tells them that ignitus and cyril were once together and deeply in love, but the war tore them apart. ember, seeing a touching love story in the making, decides "HEY!!! LET'S GET THEM TO MAKE UP!!!!" and literally drags spyro and flame into her plans. the kids do anything they can think of; sending the two guardians flowers from """"secret admirers", throwing around mushy-gooey poetic love notes, lighting candles everywhere, decorating the temple, and trying to set the "perfect romantic mood" for the two sad-sacks. eventually, they get caught, and cyril and ignitus bring them into the training room to reprimand them. not having the courage to speak up, ember and flame are silent, but spyro eventually confesses that volteer told them everything, and that the kids just want to see their guardians happy again. taken aback, the two send the children away, and are alone in the training room for the first time. after a bit of silence, cyril speaks up first. "you never apologized to me.." he mumbles, the air around him feeling cold. ignitus counters that cyril refused to speak to him. the two begin arguing, and it seems like this is just going to be another horrible fight, but the two war-torn dragons break down. ignitus admits that he feels its his fault because he sent spyro away, and he could never make up for all the pain the war caused those he cared about. he couldnt accept that it wasnt his fault because he was the head guardian, he needed to be better, he was SUPPOSED to be better. and he wasn't, and now it was all too late. after hearing this, cyril, for the first time in many years, found his softer side. he spoke gently, telling ignitus that no one expected him to do this on his own, and that he needed to learn to count on the others instead of expecting everything out of himself alone. cyril told him that, even though their future wasn't a happy one, at the very least, they were both there. and spyro had come home. after a bit more talking, there's definitely like, a super passionated lovey-dovey kiss and make up scene, and it closes with the two stupid boyfriends deciding theyre going to tell spyro the truth
AND YEAH BASICALLY THATS ABOUT THE GIST OF IT i am soooo fucking sorry this response got this fucking long but i genuinely adore this plotline and it makes me soft and fuzzy inside!!! and yeah basically their relationship is gonna go thru some ups and downs but itll develop alot more as the story goes alone and i think itll be alot of fun to show u guys!!!!! anyway ajfjfjjfd thank u for asking me this bc i was looking for an excuse to gush abt them lmao BUT if u have any other questions abt my rewrite or anything go ahead and ask!! thank u thank u thank u!!!! <3
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lostinwritingmayhem · 5 years
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The Arrival
my muse is only allowing me to write about Ansel, the OC I mentioned earlier, so here we go. 
1044 words, tw: gore?, violence, aka that one where she arrived on the Iron Island
It wasn’t until Ansel set the foot off the transport ship and onto the solid surface of the Iron Island that it truly hit her - this was it. She was here now. Far away from the familiar setting of her home city - her home planet, for that matter. Surrounded by people whose names she didn’t even bother learning - not that most of them were in a mood to talk and share their stories, anyways. Speaking of her co-passengers, though… she could feel their well-hidden fear radiating off of them on her tongue.
It was smart to be afraid, a part of her knew that. They were, after all, where the devils of their world roamed, for the most part, free - but fear was not what she felt.  On the contrary - as they were guided towards an open square, at the end of which a handful of people stood clearly waiting for them to arrive, Ansel felt almost giddy. She had spent past few years trying to imagine what this place looked like, felt like, she did all she could to be prepared and now that she finally got here-
She shook herself. This was not the time to ponder about how much she had to do in the past. Now was the time to focus on the future, and the future currently looked nothing like what she expected. There were much less guards than she was lead to believe would welcome them, for starters. Considering that a new batch of prisoners had just shown up, Ansel thought they would make sure that the security was tight enough to ensure no one had any stupid ideas, or better yet, acted on them, but no. Besides few people roaming around doing their jobs and not really paying attention to the newcomers, she could count the people actively waiting for them on claws of one hand.
There were, well, five of them.
Amongst them, Ansel knew, had to be Madame Overseer, as all the sources called her. She was said to be the one in control of the Iron Island, the one who built it, some added. In Ansel’s head, her name was more along the line of ‘Main Bitch In Charge’, but she was going to keep that one to herself. The stories she’s heard - they weren’t filled with very many details, of course, but what she did know was enough to paint a pretty good picture of what could’ve been happening up here. If even half of them were true…
As one of the guards leading them to their meeting point screeched “Stop!”, Ansel shook her head, bringing herself back to the current moment and focusing on the scene in front of her.
The crowd of prisoners was quiet, and so was their welcoming party. Both sides seemed to wait for the others’ move, and Ansel couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was supposed to be some kind of a test. From her place in the middle of the crowd she could observe the events without drawing attention to herself, and observe she did.
One of the figures - a woman with horns and bright, white wings moving ever-so-slightly behind her was standing half a step in front of the rest of the Staff - could this be the Overseer, Ansel wondered? She could never get the description of the infamous Island creator - not from any source she was willing to believe, anyways - and this woman didn’t seem half as threatening as all the stories had made her to be. There was something about the way she stood there, though, facing a group of criminals with a bored expression, like they weren’t really worth her time. At the same time she seemed to be watching them, closely, her eyes the most animated part of her face.
‘Come here’, the eyes said, moving from one face to another, challenging them, ‘make this fun for me.’
She didn’t have to wait long. With a yell, a guy in front of the group - Ansel thought his name may have been Alaric, he was one of the more outspoken passengers on their ship, cursing everything and everyone that had anything to do with the situation they were in - charged at the woman. No one seemed to be bothered by it, and that in itself should be a warning enough for Alaric, but no - he got to the Overseer, shouting triumphantly, until she effortlessly grabbed him by the face, picked up in the air and proceeded to - Ansel had to squint to make sure she was seeing properly - melt his entire face off.
At which point, Ansel realized: it was much more than a test. It was a show of power.
The howls of pain filled the otherwise quiet space, but still, no one reacted. The other figures behind the Overseer stood unmoving patiently waiting for the situation to resolve itself. They didn’t look surprised, either, which suggested it wasn’t the first time something like this happened, and this told Ansel two things.
First of all, the Overseer truly had full control over the Island and, consequently, their lives.
Second of all, she was every bit the fucked up bitch she was supposed to be, and Ansel had to admit she was impressed by her style.
No other prisoner moved to help Alaric as his screams grew weaker and weaker, probably due to the slow dissolving of his mouth and then tongue. The group surrounding Ansel fell even quieter than it was before - suddenly those hardened criminals, those people whom their society deemed monstrous enough to be sent here, wanted nothing more than to be as invisible as possible. No one was going to step out of line, now, and meet the same fate Alaric did.
As the Overseer tossed the poor idiot aside for others to dispose of, Ansel saw her grin. She looked up at them again and spoke in a quiet tone that somehow reached each and every one of their ears.
“Welcome to your new home.”
Ansel could feel a smirk grow on her own lips but she quickly hid it by looking down at the ground, as if in fear, small ripples going through the hood surrounding her head.
Living here was going to be interesting. @here-be-beckany @mionbirblady
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kenmaiii · 6 years
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stop being jealous and bitter!
Now i know you cant outright just throw away your jealousy in the art community. You see a really cool popular artist or just someone with absolutely amzing art and you think “wow holy shit their art is so good i wish that was me and that i could do that....” I understand that spite can be a good thing sometimes; it can be what motivates you to improve and do well, especially if the artist is well... not the best person in terms of personality. Great, that’s even more motivation to do well right!? 
But when does all the comparing go too far?
----------------------------------------long post incoming------------------------------------------
Now i’ve had people very close to me do this. I’ve been told that im ‘popular’ which im honestly not seriously. They could probably be reading this right now, but this has been bothering me for awhile so i must get this out there. Let’s step into a certain mindset for a moment:-
You hate your artwork. You hate your current skills. Sure there are artists you like. But then there are ‘THOSE’ ones. You have very specific artists you follow just because theyre so good and popular they make you feel bitter and you still check up on them regularly to fuel that bitterness. You know good and well that they make you bitter and angry and peeved but you just keep going back.
Step back for a moment and think.... why on earth am i fucking doing this???? Comparing and feeling bitter about another persons skill or popularity and letting yourself stay sad and bitter isn’t good for ANYTHING, art aside. It’s good to want to feel validated at the work you spent time on but it WILL get tiring if you keep complaining that ‘your art is bad’, ‘your art isnt good’, ‘its shit’ or ‘garbage’. Your brain is just internalizing that and hindering your work and future improvement. It’s most importantly WASTING YOUR own time, YOU the creator. And not to sound snobby here, i really truly dont intend for that, but some of you know good and well that you keep belitting you work because you only just want people to compliment your art when youre only doing the bare minimum to improve! I can only tell you as a friend or an on-looker that i love your art so many times (as much i really do love it and hope for your improvement) if you continuously decide to still turn around and say you hate your work and tell me im wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why reach for compliments then! Why continuously turn them down?
And i’m not saying you cant ever not like your art (cause it happens) or decline a compliment, but to do it every single time....it leaves a bad image for your work. You either start to believe it, or the person complimenting you will get put off from your negativity!  
It makes people feel bad, especially if theyre also artist AND also your friends. You can’t keep saying you prefer their work and still put down your own. It makes your artist friend uncomfortable. They might not know how to respond when you keep doing it. And im sure they wouldnt want you to keep making yourself feel bad. Personally, i wish all my art friends success and improvement, and i want them to love and feel proud of their work more than the times they hate it. We really need to uplift each other as artists.
Thanks.
What you think and say is what you become and if youre always negative and comparing youre gonna tear down both the person you admire and yourself. Ie, if youre constantly thinking ‘ill never be as good as this person’,’no ones ever gonna like my work’, ‘i cant color as well as they do’ or saying that your work is only ever garbage... newsflash asshole! your mind absorbs that negativity and makes you believe it! u fool!!!!! Because brains are stupid and can be your worst enemy at times! 
Sometimes you just need to stOP looking at certain peoples work completely if it gets you that bitter or angry or sad. Unfollow them! Block them! Delete their name from your search history if you have to! Stop hurting yourself and forget about them, it’s like trying to think about an ex thats moved on. Pointless.
Negative emotions such as sadness and anger are our brains direct ways at trying to reach out to ourselves.
You: seeing cool art Your mind: remembering you dont have some of those skills or popularity + comparing = sadness/ anger/ bitterness at not being able to be at that lvl withtin the same timeframe or less
Your brain is trying to tell you to fix this! But you know you might not have the tools to gain that much popularity or become so good at anatomy, coloring , compositions or backgrounds overnight, so the only solution for your brain is to self-sabotage.
It’s just the same as suddenly feeling sad for no reason. It’s your mind trying to work out a problem you never resolved. Maybe your friends haven’t replied in awhile and you feel ignored. Or you subconsciously remembered a bad experience without really realizing. You’ll get sad. Your mind is is saying ‘Hey asshole im sad. I know it might be out of your control but I’ll stay sad about this one thing until you resolve it somehow. ’ (whether it be blindly distracting yourself on purpose or fully wallowing in the feelings)
So we realized youre feeling intensely about this persons work vs your own...then what exactly happened there? The answer is pretty simple. Some kind of information processing happened in your brain. The result of this processing made the your mind conclude that one of your existing problems (art in this case) can never be solved; whether conscious or unconscious, and this explains why your mood might change all of a sudden without any kind of warning signs (in relation to what you saw). 
Inspired VS Jealousy When youre inspired youre working against yourself in a GOOD way. You’re feeling motivated to make something great! Youre feeling motivated to make something better than the last piece!! And honestly thats wonderful!!!  That is a lot nicer than being in art-block, comparison negativity hell.
YOU are the only one responsible for where you are as an artist. That goes towards every artist of every skill level! There’s always someone better than you and there’s always someone worse than you. People get better at art in different intervals depending on how much they take in or put into practicing. Some people just get some concepts and fundamentals a lot easier and quicker than others but that doesn’t mean they naturally had that ability from birth. They put in the work just as you should be doing instead of feeling so intensely negative! But when you’re jealous and negative all the time, that’s when it starts to go downhill. :/
Jealously is a very human emotion at its core. And im not saying its super easy to deal with and just suddenly get over, but there are things you can do to slowly help yourself do it at least a little less.
Here’s the best things you CAN do instead:- - Write down some of the things you find yourself feeling bitter over about, especially when you look at another artists work? Ask yourself why these specific things? If it’s something you yourself can work on in your own pieces then maybe uh do that?  - Find the time to practice your work. - Practice even more. - If it’s your style that you arent happy with think of the artstyles you like and set aside time to mimic the way that artist might draw something (hence adding that to YOUR style). Take a sketchbook page or two and just draw entirely in those styles. - Practice. I can’t stress this enough. I know artists say this a lot and it can kind of just be thrown around carelessly, but if you keep putting this off and saying you don’t want to practice or talking about how time is going by when you should be practicing things.... and STILL refuse to practice then???? I cant help you sorry. Time waits for no one, so sometimes you need to grab time by the horns and kick its ass for awhile. Put in that effort! - Please use references. Even better if you use it nearly EVERYTIME you draw something, especially yknow...if its a pose, body part or background that you know you have no idea how to properly express! Find a stock image or a variety of websites to use! Save poses that you like from online magazines, other artists and photographs you see anywhere online. I like to look at online magazines from other countries or photographers, and there are tons of places like pinterest or instagram and whatnot. - Stop comparing and being bitter. Ii cant say this enough it gets me so ticked off, but my stubborn taurus self refuses to fully go off until it all piles up and this post is the result lol. If you know you can’t let go hating on a certain artist (for no good reason) then dont hate-follow them! Don’t check up on their work constantly! Don’t even talk about them!!!!!!! Try to get them out of your head for goodness sakes. Majority of the time they dont even know who YOU are so why are you worried about what they’re up to. - STOP SHITTING ON YOUR OWN WORK. - STOP IT RIGHT NOW. - AS THE ARTIST SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO FORCE YOURSELF TO SAY ‘’hey, my work isn’t exactly where i want it to be at this point in time and it may never be but i can appreciate that i’ve gotten better at a lot of things and im better than where i was a few years/ a year/ a month ago/ even weeks ago.” - ”I’m proud of this piece and can’t wait to get even better.” - Art is a struggle that takes time, effort and a lot of work. There’s always going to be someone better than you and there’s always going to be someone worse than you. You can only strive to get to the level that would make you happiest, otherwise you will get irritated with it and feel absolutely miserable about everything you produce. - PUT IN THE WORK TO GET YOUR ART OUT THERE. Social media has been both a curse and a blessing to artists all around. It’s made it easier for us to share our work around and opened paths for making money online and at home and connecting with other artists, but competition grows everyday as more people post their work in the same market. (ie another reason why it can be hard to get your commissions out there) Also as artists we want that dopamine rush you get from people liking your stuff, i get that its gucci. -But if you aren’t tagging your works well, posting somewhat consistently, not really bothering to talk to people in certain art communities (even people in your fandom because hey potential friends and even partners on future projects), not adding your works to groups (a big problem i see with people on places like deviantart mostly), joining and sharing them in art group chats/aminos/discords, joining events to get yourself out there (such as zines/big bangs/gift exchanges etc), giving tips and advice or even little helpful tutorials to people then how do you expect to be noticed? How.  If youre not doing at least TWO of these things then hoW can you complain about not getting attention. :(
 Of course you dont have to do ALL of this. Im just saying ...if you arent out there advertising how will more people know about you? This leads to you thinking no one likes your art (skill level excluded because even my cringiest old art would have a few comments or encouragements to see my future improvement, and i still want to hide when people like/comment/reblog said old art to this very day). 
I understand mainly OC artists feel this way that no ones gonna like their characters, or it just doesnt get reblogged enough in general but thats understandable too. No one is ‘selling out’ if they only do fanart. No one is ‘snobby or scared to get themselves out there’ if theyre really enthusiastic about their stories and worlds. Otherwise we wouldnt have fandoms int he first place, theyre all someones work. And hell, good for you if you draw both. It really is just a matter of how you put yourself out there!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’ll take some time but there IS always someone out there that likes your stuff. And sometimes you just have to be content with making work for yourself, work that makes you happy. The online art world is tough especially when youre small but once you fall into the depths of bitterness its hard to rewire your mind...
This is how yall should be looking at your/others work majority of the time: You: seeing cool art  Your mind: omg thats beautiful! i wish i could draw and paint like that. i should practice more , try out some poses and anatomy or implement what they do into my work. i wanna make a cool ass piece like this too i feel so pumped to draw and work!! 
And that’s that! Do yourself a favor and be happier you bastards! Its tiring being negative and sad all the time and i want tf out of it. Its so very tiring and annoying to be sad and bitter as shit!!!!! My goD
I can’t really think of anything else to add to this and the text may appear angry sometimes as i was very heated when i wrote this but tried to tone it down a lot hfkds. Im not some ‘art guru goddess with supreme skill uwuw’ but advice is advice! It’s always up to the person listening to take it or not.
I’m gonna end this with one of my favorite art quotes of all time from t h e Arin Hanson himself. Because it really is true. 
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Get yourself out there, practice towards a level that makes you content and try to have more fun with loving your work.
It’s taken me a long while to post this, as i’ve been feeling this way for...at least a couple months??? but i finally put it all out there i just needed to do this lol.  Sorry if i mightve repeated info sometimes here and there?
This post is just as much of a call out to my own actions but more so @ those of you that specifically do this! 
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magicalcreeks · 6 years
Text
You picked the constellations off the ground (let’s return them to the sky)
When an earthquake destroys the house, sometimes it takes two unlikely people to work together to help rebuild the foundation.
Craig Tucker can make new friends after all.
Hello friends, I’m working on a new short story, because I have zero self control. It’s here on my Ao3 as well, But I’m posting it below. 
The story is going to have slight Staig, with Creek breaking up and getting back together because Creek is endgame.
Enjoy!
...
“W-We need to end this, Craig. I can’t do this anymore... we can still be...”
With those words, the party quickly came to an end for Craig. He looked the twitchy boy in the eye for the last time with a blank face, noticing the nervous sweat inching down his cheek.
“Excuse me,” Craig did not want to give Tweek the luxury of a proper goodbye. Instead, he set his canned beer on the table next to them, then he turned away before the dam could break.
His chest felt as if there was a weight resting on top of it. He couldn’t breathe properly. Craig pushed himself through the crowd of sweaty, drunk bodies squeezing in Clyde’s house.
Craig, he could no longer hear the music over his ringing ears. Somehow he managed to open the sliding door to the backyard, the cool air of the night blowing onto his skin. If only it was raining.
“Fuck...” he swore to himself. Fuck, he said a little louder until his body was consumed by an ironic fit of laughter.
“Fuck,” and he dropped his body onto the cement porch, hoping Tweek would not come searching for him. A break up to a fake relationship should not hurt as much as it should, but for some reason, he pained him more than his break up with his girlfriend back in elementary school.
It was to be expected. Holding hands, the hugs, the kisses, even when they cuddled against one another while they played video games in Token’s basement, it was all for show. Tweek was an actor, which was why he was the president of the drama club. No one should fall in love with an actor. They will never know what’s real or not.
Craig lifted his hand to touch his face, we can still be friends, was what Tweek was going to say because he was too nice for his own good. The likelihood of them ever being friends again was slim to none, and that’s what scared Craig the most.
“Yeah, well, fuck you, Kyle!” A familiar voice slurred. Craig twisted his body around to see what all of the commotion was.
“You’re fucking drunk, stan!” Kyle was fuming with his hands balled into trembling fists at his sides. He grew to a staggering 6’0, even towering over Craig who was the tallest kid in his grade at one point. Seeing him so mad at Stan looked scarier with the height difference between them.
This could get ugly.
“I’m not drunk,” Stan swatted a hand at Kyle who grabbed onto his wrist to keep him from stumbling over, “Let go of me!” He tried to pull his arm back but when he realized he was stuck he sunk his teeth into Kyle’s hand.
“Ouch, you fucking-!“ It took everything within Kyle to refrain from punching him in the face. Stan was a terrible drunk with a drinking problem, and he was tired of dealing with his antics every time a drop of alcohol touched his lips. Kyle rubbed the area he was just bitten, eyes falling on Craig, now realizing he was there to watch the scene between them.
“You take care of him, dick,” he gave a Craig an icy glare before turning his back on his supposed best friend. Before Craig could attest the door was slid shut.
Now it was only him and Stan sharing the open space outside. Craig listened to the honking horns, obnoxious laughter, and the disgusting gurgling sounds coming from Stan. This was all happening too fast. he could barely register the fake relationship that had just ended with his boyfriend— or his fake ex-boyfriend— now he had to babysit a 17-year-old.
“He’s such an asshole,” Stan said, still throwing up middle fingers to the closed door, Craig groaned.
“You look like shit.”
“You’re one to talk, Marsh.”
So maybe they were both going through a lot of shit, that didn’t mean Craig wanted to talk about it.
“Can you believe this guy?”
Craig dropped his head into his knees. He really did not feel like talking, his plan was to stay here until the party was over and until he was certain Tweek was gone.
Stan nearly fell on his ass trying to lower himself on the spot next to Craig. He nearly did until Craig caught him by the elbow, him grunting to push Stan off of him when he toppled into his lap.
“You really are drunk,” any other time he would have made a snarky comment, especially if it was towards Stan. He felt bad for the kid. Stan’s eyes were bloodshot and glossed over, not to mention he smelled like a bar mixed with whatever illegal substances Kenny brought with him. Craig moved away the hair sticking on his sweaty forehead.
“Wow, dude, your hands are like, really soft...”
“Stop talking,” Craig was feeling for his temperature, he’s seen his mom do this a handful of times when his dad came home wasted after a long night of drinking.
“Y’know, my mom always does this when she catches me drinking.”
“You look much smarter when you don’t talk.”
Stan’s lips lowered into a small frown, his flushed cheeks giving him the appearance of looking much smaller than he actually is. Craig removed his hand from his head, then snorted when he watched as Stan’s head dropped unexpectedly.
“You must drink a lot if your mom is catching you.”
“I’m not an alcoholic,” He slurred. His head felt cloudy, there was an aching throb behind his eyes, “it’s all Kyle’s fault...” then he laid his head on Craig’s shoulder, closing his eyes to settle his stomach.
“He’s just... such an asshole... why won’t he notice me?” Stan murmured.
Craig shifted in his spot, then he gave his sleeve a tug. This was awkward. He prayed Stan wouldn’t start crying on him, “it helps to talk about it, I guess,” he suggested, desperate to take his mind off of Tweek.
“You know,” Stan lifted his head, their faces only inches apart, “You’re not so bad. Even when we fought when we were kids I always thought you were pretty cool.”
Lacking the proper response, Craig looked straight ahead at the fence stretching to the opposite end of the sidewalk. He could see the long-faded chalk drawings, from childhood, still scattered on each individual picket. Token and Tweek were always in charge of making the drawings because Clyde, Jimmy, and Himself could not draw for shit. Craig told Clyde to get rid of it, but Clyde insisted all the remnants, such as, the old deteriorate treehouse, the planks they buried deep in the soil, and the strings going from each side of the fence were all keepsakes.
Craig was convinced Clyde was a hoarder, or just really fucking lazy.
“I don’t feel so good...” in the midst of Craig’s nostalgia, he failed to notice the green tint Stan had taken on.
Stan pushed himself away to face the patch of grass beside them, he clenched onto his sides as he stinging bile came spilling from his mouth. Craig could not help but be disgusted by the sight in front of him, he couldn’t stand himself, nevertheless, stand to watch other people puke their brains out. Even so, he was there by Stan’s side, offering soothing circular motions on the middle of his back. You idiot, he said to himself, feeling the painful jolts through touching his back.
“Clyde is going to be pissed,” his joke fell flat. What he thought was a failed attempt to lighten to mood actually got a chuckle out of Stan.
His face was a pasty white and drenched with sweat, “at least you don’t look green anymore,” he said. Craig thought about standing up to get him a glass of water or something.
“You really are a dick,” he rubbed his throat, his hoarse words feeling as if it was traveling through a tunnel of sandpaper.
“You’re going to get dehydrated, idiot.”
“I just...” Stan fell back to lay his upper body on the cool concrete, he took a minute to absorb the thumping beats of the music indoors rocking his body, “I don’t want to think,” he bleached through another vurp, the crash of the alcohol coursing through his system setting in.
You and me both, Craig thought, his brooding green eyes staring over at him, “and I don’t want to be responsible for you dying.”
Very soft, but audible snores came from Stan’s open mouth.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Craig said to himself. This was the night that kept on giving, well, at least you didn’t have to worry about him running down the sidewalk naked like a certain someone he knew— Clyde.
Craig leaned back on his elbows holding up his body weight, again, he sighed for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. Secretly he was disappointed Tweek hadn’t come out to find him, to say he was playing a prank dared by one of the guys who wanted to fuck with him. With breakups he’s witnessed, there were always heated with one couple yelling at the other or vice versa. The strange thing was he did not feel any resentment towards Tweek— his heart was fucking hurting, but at the end of the day, he wanted him to be happy. God only knows he deserves it.
He closed his eyes. That was when he finally succumbed to the boiling emotions within him, he needed a good cry and possibly a nap. Craig mimicked Stan’s position. He laid back on the porch, opening his eyes again to stare at the night sky above them. He felt a prickling in the back of his eyes then loose mucus falling to the back of his throat.
His forearm acted as a blanket to cover his eyes from the world around him.
Yeah, he didn’t want to think either.
...
The following day at school, Craig was sitting at his usual lunch table. Every day he would pick the cucumbers out of his sandwich while listening to Token and Clyde bicker about something they saw on TV.
Today wasn’t one of those days, “it feels like a nutcracker is trying to break into my skull,” Clyde whined, flinching at the light tap of his tray touching the lunch table. He took his seat between Token and Jimmy who silently agreed. Their head was in their hands, Token looked about ready to fall over.
Craig could not help but to roll his eyes at his expense, Clyde was a lightweight, they all were. Which is why when Craig was in the mood to get piss drunk he will only do it in the comfort of his house where he can go to bed when his head started to buzz a little too loud.
“That party was awesome, though,” said Token, drinking from his thermos he brought from home that smelled strongly of a homemade hangover remedy.
“H-H-He-Hear, Hear,” Jimmy agreed, trying to relive the long night of motorboating college girls. How Clyde convinced college girls to come to his party was beyond him. Ladies dug a man with a sense of humor.
Craig picked out one of the cucumbers from his sandwich, feeling it was right to eat one today instead of leaving it in the aluminum foil.
“Doesn’t Tweek usually eat your cucumbers? Or should I say cucumber, if you know what I mean,” Clyde proudly wiggles his brows before regretting his action, wincing, His hungover was still strong.
“Choke,” Craig told him.
No one heard about their break up yet, and Craig could only imagine how everyone will react when they do find out. He was not looking forward to being made out to be the cheater like when they staged his fake break up. He was also not looking forward to the awkward lunches with him and the guys. They may have ‘broken’ up but the guys were friends with both himself and Tweek. If things got too awkward then Craig would gladly leave, temporarily, for the sake of keeping things cordial.
When Craig finally went home last night everything felt like a dream, even up to the part where he practically carried Stan to his house on his back. The kid was heavier than he looked, then they had to stop a couple of times for him to empty his stomach in a nearby bush— how he still had stomach bile to throw up was beyond him. Luckily Stan did not live too far from Clyde. He even insisted on Craig helping him up the tree so he could sneak into his bedroom without waking up his parents. hoisting someone heavier than himself up a tree branch and making sure he did not break his neck was not fun for him.
“W-Where is T-T-Tweek?” Jimmy asked the table, though, his question was aimed more towards Craig who always knew where he was, “I-I wanted him t-to h-h-he-hear my new joke.”
Jimmy was currently rehearsing a new act for his gig down at the retirement home. Tweek was the only one who found his jokes funny, so he was the person Jimmy went to make sure he was hitting the right punchlines.
“You’re quiet today,” Clyde noticed, the balance of the table feeling off without their missing body and Craig’s remarks.
“I haven’t seen him,” Craig ignored his comment, the fizz of his soda sizzling in his mouth.
“Oh look, there he is,” Token pointed out, his hand waving in the air to get Tweeks attention.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“I forgot my textbook,” Craig lied, crumbling the aluminum foil in his hands with half of his sandwich still in it.
Just as he was stepping over the bench, he nearly knocked into Tweek, the blonde holding up his hands and offering a nervous laugh.
Fuck, Fuck, Craig gulped, “Hey,” he said as coolly as he could, adding in a nonchalant shrug.
“H-Hey, Craig...”
Tweek did not know what else to say, but it looked like he was coping much better than Craig was. He was wearing his hair the way Craig likes it, with a thin black headband holding his bangs back so he could see his eyes; a bright blue with a slight heterochromia in the center. Like water and earth, Craig would say, he always said while the water peacefully traveled there were moments it would crash into the shore. Tweek had the earth to keep him grounded during those moments.
“What’s going on here?” Clyde was at it again with his unnecessary commentary, if only that stupid smirk on his face knew the truth.
Craig excused himself, this being the second time he was running away from his issues. There wasn’t enough inner monologue in the world that could prepare him for the feelings he got being near Tweek.
They were going to have to talk eventually. Just not now.
He tossed the crushed ball into the garbage pail near the exits of the cafeteria.
He had no idea where he was going to go from here so he walked until he reached one of the many exits leading to the back of the school. Some fresh air would be nice, especially with the anxiety he felt.
Pushing open the door, what he hadn’t expected was dreary music along with a thick scent of burning nicotine.
“Life will eat you up and spit you out, just like those fucking conformist in there with their fake smiles and preppy attitudes,” a goth girl lifted a long, black cigarette holder to her purple painted lips. Henrietta was her name, Craig surprisingly remembered from those times when she participated in their games as kids.
Her choppy black hair rested on the back of her neck, with one hand stationed on her long, mesh black dress exposing her tattered stockings. Taking another puff of her cigarette, she held onto her disgusted grimace as she continued talking to the body next to her.
“Yeah, totally,” a male voice responded.
“Stan?” Craig made himself known by letting the steel door close behind him. It was Stan since when was he cool with the goth kids? He stepped forward to see Stan’s face ghosted over with horror.
“Craig, what are you doing here?”
Henrietta took a hint, not wanting to be around whatever love fest was happening before her eyes, “see you later, stan,” she spoke kindly to him while stubbing out her cigarette, “conformist,” she scoffed at Craig, leaving the two be by going through the cracked door.
“What are you doing out here, man?”
It was strange hearing Stan talk when he was sober. He put on a tough guy act which annoyed Craig, taking on the same douchey persona he would call Clyde out for. Well, he wasn’t in the mood to argue, but it was good to see Stan make it out of his drunken haze alive.
Craig leaned his head against the brick wall, ignoring Stan’s eyeing glare.
“You need a smoke?” Stan offered.
Craig hated everything about smoking. Two of his relatives died from lung cancer, another has to use an electrolarynx after getting Laryngeal and surviving. That was enough to scare Craig away from the idea of ever touching a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke,” he said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets to warm them up.
“I don’t really either, but,” Stan shrugged, “I guess I’m a social smoker.”
A silence fell between them, this one awkward with both parties being fully aware of their respective motor functions. Craig didn’t mind. He always welcomed the silence.
“Thanks for helping me last night,” Stan finally spoke up after an excruciating two minutes of silence. He flicked the cigarette bud towards the asphalt.
“So you remember.”
“I mean, how can I not remember someone pushing against my ass.”
Craig opened his eyes then panned his head to the left, “you wanted to go through your window, asshole.”
Pfft, Stan snubbed a laugh, his joke going over Craig’s head, “yeah, I guess I did. Thanks again.”
“I hope your mom wasn’t too worried.”
“Wh- What all did I say last night?” He flushed, a hand racking through the back of his unwashed hair. Kyle always said he tends to word vomit when intoxicated.
“For one thing, you told me I have soft hands.”
“Oh god,” Stan was so embarrassed he could drop dead right there. Did he really say that to Craig Tucker of all people?
“Then you told me how you mom catches you drinking. I’ve heard worst so don’t feel special.”
“Did I really say you have soft hands?” He groaned through his hands, peaking through his split fingers.
Craig snorted, “is that really all you’re worried about?”
“I mean, yeah, you’re a dude.”
“That’s a closed minded attitude coming from you,” Craig wished he had taken him up on that smoking offer, even if it went against everything he believed in, he tends to deal with his problems in self-destructive ways.
Stan realized that may have come out the wrong way. He’s not a homophobe. Hoping he did not offend Craig he offered an apology, “you never answered my question,” he changed the topic with a sly smirk gracing his lips.
Oh? Craig shifted his body up the wall, the back of his heels going numb from the pressure, “the question was...?”
“Really?” Stan rolled his eyes, knowing damn well Craig was doing this to be a dick, “what the hell are you doing out here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“No- what? No! Dude, you can’t answer my question with a question,” he protested, his lower lip poking out like a child getting ready to throw a tantrum. If Craig was going to dance around his question, well then they might as well just stand there in silence until one of them speaks or leave. Stan had a feeling that was probably what Craig wanted. The competitor in him could not let him win.
Craig’s plan was to keep evading the question until Stan eventually tired. He did not want to tell him he was here to get away from Tweek— the longer he could keep their ‘breakup’ under wraps the better. The wound was still fresh and it was common knowledge to never open an old wound. That’s how infection happens.
The glint in Stan’s eye said otherwise, he stared at Craig with his icy blue eyes to make him uncomfortable. It’s what he and his sister use to do whenever they lied. Staring just made people uncomfortable.
Time was passing between them, at this rate Stan could get better results watching a rock. Craig was not budging. He knew Stan’s strategy, he had a sibling too.
“C’mon, you’re like, immune,” Stan hunched over his back in disbelief, “just tell me and I will never talk to you again.”
Now Craig was interested. To never talk to Marsh again... “I’m holding you to that,” he warned, removing his hands from his pocket along with a leftover wrapping paper.
“Yeah, Whatever, just tell me.”
“I’m avoiding someone, okay?” He tore off small pieces on the paper, watching as the wind lifted it away.
“Who?”
Gosh, Marsh was annoying, “you said you would never talk to me again,” Craig retorted, still ripping apart the wrapper between his fingers.
Stan lifted a finger to his chin, “if I remember correctly,” and he did, even with the fuzzy thoughts from the party he recalled some things, “someone told me that, it helps to talk about it,” that glint in his eyes further twinkling.
“I’m starting to think you weren’t really drunk last night,” Craig commented, side-eyeing the watch on his wrist to check for the time. His class started in less than two minutes, then he looked at Stan with his eyes blown up to a comical size; he could skip this class just once.
Covering his watch with his opposing hand, “I’m avoiding Tweek.”
“Oh...” why did he sound so disappointed? Stan slid down on the wall to sit on his bottom, reaching for his iPod leaning on a rusted tin can. He shuffled through songs for a few minutes until he settled on one he was pleased with, a grin stretching across his lips.
Craig wasn’t sure if he should tell him he shuffled back to the same song. He probably knew.
“That sucks. Are you guys in a fight or something?”
“We broke up,” the chain hanging next to him rattled as his head burrowed deeper into the garage door, he crossed his arms over his chest.
“You guys were seriously dating?”
“Really?” Another sigh escaped his lips. To him, it felt like they were seriously dating.
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know what the guys thought but the two of you dating happened so fast, I was sort of confused for a while... that sucks that you two broke up. Sorry, man.”
Craig’s mouth was pressed into a paper thin line, “Yeah,” for some reason he trusted Stan to keep his mouth shut.
“Do you and Kyle always fight like that?”
Stan froze, his stare training on a trail of ants traveling in front of him, “we haven’t been getting along lately,” he said dryly, he hadn’t expected such a question directed towards him. His friendship with Kyle was a sore spot.
“He’s busy with his own life, ya know? Co-captain of the basketball team, he’s studying for his SAT and ACTs... He doesn’t have time to focus on our friendship, I guess.”
Stan avoided looking up, his hands fiddling with his tattered shoelaces on his worn white sneakers. He and Kyle haven’t spoken for a week prior to last nights party. His messages went unread on Instagram and Snapchat, and what delivered the final blow was the picture he updated on his story. It was a video of him at the bowling alley with Kenny, Cartman, and Butters— They didn’t even like Cartman.
No one wanted to hang around someone who constantly dampened their good time. Stan shook his head then chuckled, earning an eye from Craig who he forgot was still there, he was so unlovable.
“Hey,” Craig got his attention, “you want to know what else you said to me?”
“What?” He rubbed at his eyes, though his cheeks and nose had already flushed over to a pale pink.
“You said I was pretty cool.”
“No, I didn’t, you’re lying, you’re the lamest person I met.”
“You said I was pretty cool,” Craig repeated, standing up straight so his weight distributed evenly on the soles of his feet. He saw Stan was traveling to a dark place. Avoiding the problem wasn’t always bad.
“The only way I can know you’re cool is if we hang out more,” Stan offered, coughing to conceal the crack in his voice. Weak, he thought, so weak.
“Are you asking me on a date, Marsh? Can’t you see I’m vulnerable with a broken heart?” His sarcasm went appreciated, though there was a hint of sadness in his words. They both needed a pick me, Stan did not want to go straight home tonight, and neither did Craig. Perhaps if they could escape their harsh realities, even if it was for a few short hours, it could help them.
“Let’s skip.”
“And go where?”
“I don’t know, but we could help each other. c’mon, unless you’re a pussy.”
Craig flipped him off, which did not phase Stan or anyone in the grade because they were used to his rude gestures by now. Skipping school wasn’t a bad idea, as long as his idea of skipping didn’t involve them getting in trouble with the law or burning a building down.
He watched as Stan took the lead, an ember of curiously burning in the pit of his stomach at the idea of his and Stan hanging out, or, even having a lick of fun without either of them clawing at each other throats, participating in the competitive rivalry of both their gangs. There were things Craig did not know about the other by looking at the surface and making his own assumptions, he was like a pile of rope tied in a dozen knots.
As he followed his lead to the gate of the school, Craig wondered how they could help each other.
Something in him wanted to know more.
...
Clyde [2:34 pm]: dude, where the fuck r u?
Clyde [2:34 pm]: we need 2 talk
Clyde [2:35 pm]: answer ur phone
Token: [2:37 pm]: listen, if you need someone to talk to we’re here for you, man
Craig watched the flood of messages come in on his phone, his fingers unable to type back due to the grease of his pizza. He swallowed the food in his mouth, then set the slice on his napkin.
He and Stan have been sitting in a secluded booth at the back of the arcade, both of their ears drowning in the distorted mixture of the dates sound system playing music from the radio and the animatronics performing a scheduled act for the empty dining room. The pizza was shit. At least they got it for free because when they walked in the waiter was close to throwing it away, the table didn’t order a third pie, the frantic waiter explained after shoving the pie into Stan’s arms.
Here they were again. Stan had his legs on his seat with one knee up, his pinky finger digging in his ear as he started off at the show in front of them.
“Well, are you going to answer them?” Stan questioned without taking his attention away. He just knew it was Craig’s friends looking for him, let’s just say he has experience cutting himself off from the world.
“No.”
Craig wanted a moment before asking his question, “how often do you come here?” Upon walking in he had noticed the looks coming from the workers, someone even shooting a quick, hey, before going back to their jobs. He was beginning to think the pizza wasn’t a coincidence.
Stan held his cup of Dr. Pepper up to his lips, “not often,” he shrugged, his finger scratching at his denim pants.
They were interrupted by a plate of cupcakes placed in front of them, happy birthday, they read in fluorescent red writing with a ridiculous amount of sprinkles covering the white frosting. The waitress offered them a kind smile before leaving to clean up a nearby table.
Craig raised a brow, “not often, huh?” Though his interest was on the birthday he did not know about.
“It’s not a big deal,” Stan scoffed with his face falling solemn, lacking a reason to care about his birthday. Another year closer to death, woo-hoo.
“Hey, where are you going? Don’t make a big deal over this,” he called out to Craig who slid out of the booth to do god knows what. Stan tilted his head back to catch a glance at the spinning holographic party streamers hanging above them.
“Put this on.”
“Dude, no.”
Craig held out a party hat, courtesy of the front desk who only had ones decorated with pastel butterflies. Craig was wearing his already, even though he looked ridiculous with it resting on top of his hat.
“Put it on or I’m going to put it on myself,” he was trying to be nice, okay? Leave it to Marsh to make him regret that decision.
Eventually, Stan gave in, grabbing the hat then stretching the elastic band around his head, with a snap it squeezed onto his chin. Pfft, Craig finding amusement on the look on Stan’s face.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Stan protested, reaching for a cupcake.
“I’m not laughing.”
“Yes, you are. It’s freaking me out, you always laugh around Tweek.”
He hummed in thought, “Yeah, I guess I did.”
“You did, like, a lot. Do you remember when we were all over at Cartman’s house?”
“Yeah, where are you going with this?”
Stan smiled a dreamy smile, his chin falling into his hand, “You were laughing the whole night, we all thought you were possessed.”
“People laugh, what’s your point?” Craig, unsure of where Stan was going with this. So he laughed at Tweek’s shitty jokes around shitty people, was he not allowed?
“He makes you really happy, that’s all,” he took a messy bite of his cupcake, the frosting getting on his nose with crumbs falling onto the table.
“That could be said about you and Kyle.”
“Yeah, well... where do you want to go after this?”
“What, there’s more?”
Stan raised his hand, his mouth still stuffed with cupcake he said, “di’ you th’nk this was...” he swallowed, “did you think this was all we were doing?”
“Are you kidnapping me?” Craig raised a question.
“It’s not kidnapping if you like it.”
“Who the hell likes getting kidnapped? But whatever, where are we going now?”
Their ditch day was still in effect, even though school for them ended less than an hour ago. They risked running into their friends, but who the hell came to this place anyway? The was the first time Craig stepped foot in this building in almost seven years when he was invited to Stan’s birthday celebration.
Wherever they were headed to next, Stan was eager to get there. They still had daylight with the changing seasons causing the sun to set much quicker than before; so with that logic, they had two more hours of daylight which could translate to two more hours of them ‘hanging’ out before either of their parents got worried.
Grabbing for his book bag making quiet clinking noises, Craig assumed their endeavor may result in them making an array of poor choices.
“Oh, right, take the cupcakes,” Stan instructed, not watching to leave perfectly made pastries behind. Earlier today he did not wake up with the intent to celebrate his birthday because he did not want another depressing year alone, now he had an excuse to get high on sugar and drunk from liquor.
“I’m not taking the fucking cupcakes,” where the hell did he expect him to put cupcakes? Craig felt his jacket, then opened his pocket wide.
“Don��t say a word,” he said.
...
Blue skies transitioned to an ombré creation of pink and orange, the horizon hosting a thin line of red which Craig could see from their high position on top of an abandoned train car.
South Park hasn’t used this old train line in years. Over time it slowly transformed into an area where teens could experiment with drugs, have thoughtless sex, and sometimes where the vampire kids hosted their night long raves. He wondered what use Stan had with a place like this. At least the view was nice.
Stan was busy cracking open the lid to the small bottle he carried with his teeth, spitting it out under them, then hearing it bounce on the field of rocks, “want some?” He offered the bottle to Craig. Guests first.
“No thanks,” he declined, not much in the mood to drink. His palms were digging into pieces of rust on top of the car.
“Suit yourself,” said Stan, wiping the dripping alcohol from his lips than sighing. It was always the buzzing feeling that calmed him, then the warmth that came after it; never about taste or flavor, it was all about the feeling. That’s why he drank.
“You don’t talk much do you?” His tongue has begun to loosen under the influence, “not that I’m surprised, you were always the quiet one.”
“Why did you take me here?” Craig trained his eyes on the party hat now sitting in his lap. He analyzed the finger dents left from taking it off. He wasn’t going to tell Stan that he was still wearing his.
“There’s no one here,” Stan observed, stretching his hands out to justify his point. They were alone, and far, far away from everyone else.
Craig’s phone was still going off from before. His guess was Clyde had formed an unsuccessful search party. He should text him back, but... “yeah, no shit.”
“I come here to scream, sometimes cry, but mostly to scream. You have a lot of shit going on so I figured you want to try. I’ll go first...”
Stan cleared his throat, Craig rolled his eyes, then he screamed until his face turned a violent shade of red, leaving Craig astonished. He’s never seen someone so angry like they were trying to release years worth of emotions all at once.
There was no way he could mimic that.
“You try,” he said hoarsely, taking another sip from the bottle.
On the inside, Craig wanted to scream until he no longer had a voice; he wanted to punch a wall; he wanted someone to hate. All day he had been convincing himself he should hate the Asian girls for their perverted artwork, that he should hate himself for caring about those around them. They would have pulled themselves out from their funk. His back straightens. He didn’t hate Tweek. He wanted him to be happy.
“It’s late,” he said, the sun nearly set with the moon taking its place. He saw the twinkling stars in the sky, “I don’t want to wake the neighbors.”
“There’s no one around us-“
“I think I’ll take that sip now,” Craig interrupted, holding his hand out for the bottle to be placed in his palm.
Yeah, Stan whispered, yeah, sure.
Then, like a flash of lightning, the bottle was hurled across the field, landing between two unused rail tracks, “what the hell?!” Stan yelled, knowing damn well that was one of his last few bottles until he could snag another one.
Craig was unfazed by the other boy's anger. When he finally looked up at him, his eyes were rimmed with red.
“Yeah," he said, "it does feel good to scream.”
...
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shawmato · 6 years
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Without a Trace/ 2
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Word Count: 1,609
“Does he ever get off that darn phone?” Stewart said in a slightly louder voice than usual. We were all gathered round our usual table, at the usual diner. Shawn was on the opposite side, on the phone. “He’s been hooked on that thing an awful lot recently, that’s for sure” I said, looking over at Shawn. He caught my eyes and blew a kiss in my direction, before turning his back on us again. 
“Let’s just start without him, we are not going to get anywhere if we wait” Angie said as she sat forward and moved the notebook from where Shawn was sat, to in front of her.
She puffed her cheeks out and then let out an airy chuckle.
“We know where his interest lies” she said as she pointed at the top of the page. I leaned over to see a small sketch of ladies breasts. I sunk further back into my chair as they all chuckled and made comments. We had never told them that Shawn and I were seeing each other, but part of me suspected that they knew anyway.
Shawn finally returned and snatched the book straight away before even taking his seat. “Right, let’s get a move on and start this” Shawn sighed. Everyone exchanged raised eyebrows as Shawn rummaged in his pocket for a pen.
“We need to decide on the pairing this time round, and make sure communication is clear. If you ain’t happy with something then sp-” Shawn was interrupted by all of our phones playing the same ringtone. Another message from the Boss. We were instructed to head straight to his office.
“What if he asks us about our strategy? We don’t have a fucking strategy. We have no idea about what we’re going to do,” Shawn said as he gripped tighter onto the steering wheel. “Well if you hadn’t have spent so long on your phone, we would’ve had a plan by now” I responded without thinking. I remained facing forwards as the atmosphere turned silent whilst we approached a red light. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as Shawn’s knuckles turned white.
Before either of us could say anything to cut the tension, there was a honk of a horn.
We both glared to our left saw Blake and Damien in the next lane. They waved and Shawn reluctantly returned the gesture whilst my hands remained in my lap.
Blake told Shawn to roll down his window, and so he did.
Glancing back at the light, Blake shouted“Want to race Mendes? Last one to set foot in that office has to pay for all the drinks and food we have throughout this entire case?”
As if time was on Shawn’s side, instead of responded he slammed his foot down on the accelerator as the light flashed green.
Before Blake had time to realise, we were halfway across the cross roads.
“Slow down,” I mumbled as I began to grip onto the door handle.
When Shawn started going faster rather than listening to me, I snapped. “Fucking slow down.”
“Don’t you dare snap at me like that Blue,” Shawn growled.
It may have been a split second, but the glare I received from Shawn left a lasting impression as I felt a shiver run down my spine.
“We can afford to lose this stupid bet, it’s only coffee and grub” I whined, staring out of the window.
“No Blue,” Shawn slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “We can’t.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? We have around $4000 in our savings. Half of which we only put in there a month ago!” I said sitting forward to face him properly.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Shawn muttered as we pulled into the car park, coincidentally right next to Blake and Damien as they leaned against the car looking smug.
“You’re in deep fucking water Shawn,” I said through gritted teeth.
He got out of the car, slamming the door and leaving me inside.
Suddenly my door opened, I looked up to see Damien. “Ma’am.”
We trailed behind as Shawn stormed over to the elevator.
“He’s a bit of a sore loser isn’t he?” Blake chuckled.
“Why do I feel like the loser?” I said under my breath.
“Security finally got around to finding the camera footage that fits with the timing of our databases being wiped,” The Boss said as he pushed himself off of his chair.
He tucked his arms behind his back and glanced at us before staring out of the window. “But as I suspected, no one actually came into the building. It was all done electronically. They could be anywhere.”
He shook his head slightly, clearly frustrated.
“So there’s absolutely no lead?” Shawn asked, with his elbow denting the arm of his chair, and his head leaning in his hand.
“No son,” The Boss sighed. “Nothing.”
“We should get in touch with AJ,” Angie spoke up.
AJ was our computer wizard. If the wrong people knew about his skills, he would be one of the most dangerous hackers. Luckily, he hadn’t been persuaded to the dark side.
“Surely he’ll be able to work his magic and find something, even if it’s small” She added.
The Boss looked over his shoulder at us, his lips pursed and he contemplated the idea.
“Alright,” he said and let out what sounded like a little sigh of relief. “Angie I want you, Shawn and Damien to go to AJ. Right now.”
He walked back behind his desk and sat down before getting on with paperwork, we knew that was our cue to say no more and leave.
“So we have the night off,” Stewart cried with joy, raising his arms in the middle of the car park.
Completely ignoring him Shawn said, “Angie, Damien” he looked at me. “We’ll take my car.”
Angie and Damien waved at us before climbing in, Shawn did nothing.
“Do you guys want to come to mine for a FIFA session?” Stewart asked, as he went over to his motorbike.
“Yeah alright mate,” Blake said as he put his hand on my lower back. “Come on Blue, I’ll give you a lift.”
Stewart raised his hand before roaring off into the city.
“Damien better get my winnings from Shawn,” Blake chuckled as he looked into the rearview mirror and reversed.
“I wouldn’t count on getting it so soon,” I mumbled.
“I have to admit he didn’t seem to be in the best of moods,” Blake said as we drove out of the car park.
“And neither do you,” he added when I didn’t respond.
“Sorry, it’s just” I stopped myself and looked at my hands in my lap.
“You can tell me Blue, I’ve known you since day one of joining this fucked up company” Blake said as he lightly squeezed my shoulder.
I took a deep breath and released it before saying, “I think Shawn’s blown our savings.”
“On what?” Blake asked, glancing at me for a split second before drawing his attention back to the road.
I shrugged, “I don’t know, he told me as we literally pulled up. He said we’d talk about it later but…” I pushed my hand through my hair before looking out of the window.
“There’s a way you can find out,” Blake said quickly.
He glanced at me again before continuing, “I know a girl, she can track anyone’s payments or withdrawals - anything to do with money.
I don’t know how she hasn’t snapped and taken everyone’s money for herself” he smiled briefly.
I had a gut feeling something was up.
I couldn’t recall seeing any proof of Shawn spending huge amounts of money. He hadn’t purchased a new flashy car, we hadn’t done up our apartment… Not even my birthday present two months ago was that expensive.
“Do you trust him?” Blake asked, interrupting my train of thought.
I hesitated for a few seconds before looking at Blake, “Can you hook me up?”
“Fuck yes,” Blake cheered, standing up from the sofa and letting the controller fall the floor.
“Ah shit,” Stewart sighed before taking a sip of his beer.
The flash of my phone screen stole my attention.
I had spoken to Blake’s contact and asked for her help. She said she could let me know within the hour. And true to her word, a message appeared on my screen. I opened the text and read:
‘A lot of transfers have been made over the last year, all over the place. One stood out to me, because of the amount of money. You may recognise the place. Anyway, I’ve attached my findings.’
My heart was racing as I opened the file. I scrolled through several payments made in various states across America. At the end was the biggest amount of transferred money, and it had occurred five days ago. I frowned as I read that Shawn had transferred $1,200 to -
“New Jersey,” Stewart shouted as he stood up, with his phone in his hand. My eyes left my phone and glared up at him, as Blake did the same. “Angie just texted me, AJ found a leak.” Blake and Stewart paused the game and phoned Angie.
I looked back down at my phone and read the final transfer. $1,200 was paid from this account ending in 7830 to Unknown, New Jersey.
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f-724-morty-blog · 7 years
Text
724 Journal Entry 001
724 Journal Entry 001
[A series of 724′s journal entries following his Rick’s death. Consider this a consolation prize until Im well enough to draw again. I hope you all enjoy!]
I feel numb. It’s been a few weeks since Rick...passed, and the whole world feels fake. Summer said I should try writing things out, to help process or whatever. I don’t know if it’ll actually work, but why the fuck not, right? It’s not like I can talk to anyone about it. Whenever I try my throat closes up and I feel like I’m drowning.
She bought me the journal, anyways, so I might as well use it. I’ll try and recount as much as I can as accurately as I can. This part isn’t just for me, this is for Rick, so someone will always remember what happened to him. That even after all the wrong he did, he died a hero.
Rick died saving my life.
___
“M-oUGHRty, g-get dressed, Morty, we gotta go to Pouirte N-683 th-they just opened the pl-AUGHnet again, we, we can finally get this crazy rare substance, Morty, a-and I can synthesize it into a serum that’ll let me, just, just rearrange genomes like nothing you’ve ever seen!”
Morty scrambled out of bed, glancing at his alarm clock as he frantically yanked on a pair of jeans. “B-but Rick, I-I-I’ve seen you m-mani-manip-mess with genomes before, s-so what makes this so special?”
Rick looked manic, pacing the room and throwing his arms about wildly as he spoke. “Th-this stuff makes it so much easier, Morty, wh-when I do it from scratch i-its just overly complicated and fr-uAGH-strating. A-and this, i-it creates new stem cells, Morty, y-you know the kind that can become a-anything, the ones that b-become your whole body when y-y-ou’re in the womb, and look, theres, there’s a lot of complicated science stuff, b-but basically I can reprogram y-your body as if it were still developing and change your appearance and all kinds of stuff Morty, all kinds of science!”
Morty’s shirt was half way on when Rick grabbed his elbow and yanked him out the door, the boy stumbling after him as he struggled with the fabric. “O-oh jeez, Rick, I-I-I dunno if I want y-you to mess with my, my appearance, I think I like-”
“M-oURty we all know y-you’re insecure as fuck, just, just get in the car, Morty, I-I can always reverse it i-if you don’t like it,” He plopped into the drivers seat, kicking a few empty bottles out onto the floor and fumbling with the seatbelt. Morty finally yanked his shirt on properly and went to his place in the passenger seat.
As apprehensive as Morty was to have his genome fiddled with, he hadn’t seen Rick this excited in a while, and the scientist’s mood was infectious. He was only about half as condescending as usual, more willing to pal around and joke as he explained some of the ins and outs of this ‘rare substance.’ Although he didn’t quite understand most of what Rick said, his enthusiasm was warming, and their flight through space was a pleasant one.
“A-alright Morty, Pouirte is, it’s probably one of the safer p-places we’ve visited, there’s no biological land-mines o-or governments who hate me,” Rick said, landing the ship in a vacant parking place.
“R-really, Rick? You mean you haven’t p-pissed off their government yet?”
“Nope,” Rick replied, exiting the vehicle. “W-well, I did, but then the wh-OAUle planet had a Civil war, a-a-and all the old governments were dismantled. So I haven’t pissed off the new government yet.”
Morty chuckled nervously, following Rick out of the car and down the alien streets. The sky here was a light, dusky purple, only a few shades darker than Earth’s blue, and currently dusted with wispy clouds. The city around them was reminiscent of one on the east coast, parts of it clearly unplanned and much older than the more modern landing pads and sky scrapers. Its buildings were made of some sort of shimmering, cobalt material, reflecting the sunlight and neon signs subtly.
Rick, as usual, was unphased by the stunning visuals, and kept up a brisk pace through the winding city streets. “S-so, Rick, where are we going, t-to find this stuff?”
“W-we’re taking this planet’s equivalent to a, a bu-URRP-llet train t-to a nature preserve,” Rick replied, taking a swig from his flask and glancing at a few street signs. The language was unintelligible to Morty, but he’d seen Rick read so much alien nonsense that he figured he had some sort of translator like, built into his eyes or something.
“R-rick! W-w-what the hell, we, we can’t do that! N-n-nature preserves, they, they preserve nature, Rick! W-we might seriously screw things up!” Morty yelped, tugging at Rick’s sleeve.
“Sh-shut up, Morty,” Rick hissed, elbowing his grandson in the ribs as the mounted the stairs to what he presumed was the train station. “This stuff lit-literal-, it makes areas uninhabitable, Morty, i-it makes your biology unstable if you’re exposed to the unprocessed version. A-any animals near it b-basically get cancer, a-a-and any babies they have are born horribly mutated, Morty, we, we’re pretty much doing them a favor.” Rick passed an alien currency over the counter and retrieved two blue stickers, one of which he slapped onto Morty’s chest.
“O-oh jeez, Rick, are you sure?” Morty was apprehensive; this wouldn’t be the first time Rick had lied to make him go along with things.
“O-of course I am, when am I ever wrong?” Rick rolled his eyes.
“Lots of times, Rick! Y-you make mistakes, just-just like everyone else,” Morty retorted.
Rick just glared and proceeded to stride onto a large blue train, forcing Morty to either follow or be left behind. He followed.
When comparing the trains’ speed, ‘bullet’ was an understatement. Morty couldn’t look out the window for more than a few seconds before he became dizzy, the landscape flying by too fast to pick up any real details, only a blur of purples, blues, and oranges. Eventually he gave up trying to pick anything up, and turned his attention to the other train riders. Usually, the aliens he saw most often on a planet were the natives, and so far the planet was abundant with tall, centaur-esque creatures, their skin a golden brown and dusted with deep, sunset orange freckles. The upper torso supported a head resembling a giraffes, with two large black eyes and four curved horns sprouting from where the eyebrows would be. The ‘taur half had six spindly legs, jointed like a horses would be but evoking a more spider-y feeling. They wore long skirts, buttoned at the upper torso’s waist and laying across the back to drape around the rump and six limbs. Morty was fairly fascinated with alien life, and while he’d seen some much more bizzare and alarming creatures, this planet’s inhabitants were just as interesting, and their sunset colors struck a chord of beauty. When he had first started his adventures with Rick, they would’ve felt like monsters to him, but over the years he had ditched the ‘planetary mindset,’ as Rick put it, and was learning to appreciate all the variety in the endless multiverse presented to him.
After a moment he glanced away from the alien across from him; he didn’t know if they considered staring rude, but he didn’t want to risk it. Their pointed, spider-toe feet would probably slice open his flesh like a fillet knife if he upset them.
The train shuddered to a stop, and despite the obvious attempt at gradual braking, the riders almost all lurched forward. Morty had to scramble for purchase, and Rick, who had a firm hold on the railing overhead, grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar to stop him tumbling forward.
They exited at another station, this one surrounded by wilderness rather than city. Based on the nature-y vibes, one could assume this was the welcome center for the reserve, or park...whatever it was. Rick bypassed the gift shop and waltzed straight out the door, over the parking lot, and into the woods.
Morty scampered after him, chewing his lip nervously. They had forgone any pathways, instead descending directly into the mire. That was the closest thing he could approximate the ground here to; a mire. It was soft and spongy underfoot, sinking a good half-inch with each step and filling their footprints with greenish liquid. The reddish purple earth was host to a strange plant, one that grew like a net over the ground, thin orange vines interwoven loosely enough to show the soil beneath. The closest approximation to trees were huge pires of dirt, seemingly trained upward by a dark blue ropey plant, which grew around the pillars in a spiral and blossomed into long dangling ‘branches’ at the top with translucent ballon-esque flowers. Deeper in, creamy tan ‘ferns’ began to shoot up in spaces between the suffocating orange vines, soon joined by tall blue flowering plants. The further they went the more variety there was, until it was a dense jungle all around.
“S-so, uh, wh-what are we looking for here, Rick?” Morty stammered, trailing his fingers over a silky flower petal.
“D-don’t w-UURP-orry about it, Morty, we, we’re almost there, thi-is device,” he holds up a remote-sized device with a simple screen, “I-is leading us right to it.”
“O-oh, okay, th-that’s really cool, Rick,” Morty replied, jogging a bit to catch up. His shoes kept getting sucked into the earth, and his shorter strides caused him to fall behind. Rick mumbled something incoherent and took a swig from his flask.
Time passed, the jungle grew denser, and Morty sweatier. What had started as a leisurely walk was now a multi-mile hike that he was ill prepared for. The mire was becoming steep, craggy hills, and he could barely keep up. How Rick, his sixty year old grandpa, could do this so effortlessly was beyond him.
“Aw hell yes,” Rick stopped suddenly, and Morty stumbled over himself trying not to knock into his grandfather. “C-come on Morty quit fooling around, we, we’re here, we gotta drill down right here.”
“R-rick, shouldn’t we be wearing, like, hazmat suits or something? Y-you, you said this stuff b-basically gives you cancer!”
Rick rolled his eyes and rummaged through the seemingly endless pockets of his lab coat. “M-morty trust me, you, you’ve probably already got cancer, it’s fine. But!” He cut Morty off before he could panic. “I-Im already going to be messing with y-your genes, I can just repair any damage, easy.”
“O-oh, jeez, okay Rick, i-if you say so,” Morty stammered. Now he could be glad that the hike was over, and he quickly sat down on the rock to catch his breath.
Rick shoved his detection device into a pocket, and produced a small, black bullet, which he placed on the ground point-down. The black casing clicked open, revealing a sturdy metal interior, and a nozzle on the top. Rick attached a small hose, pressed a button, and it quickly whirred down into the earth, spitting up multicolored dirt in its wake.
After a moment, a black, murky liquid began to flow up the hose and into a canister Rick placed on the ground. “All that’s left to do now, Morty, i-is wait, a-and then we, we can do am-URP-amazing things with this stuff.” Rick grinned, reclining on the rock beside Morty.
It was rare for things to be so low-key; Rick was relaxed, like this couldn’t possibly go wrong, and that put Morty on edge. But then Rick’s hand found his, fingers intertwined. He looked up and Rick smiled, a rare, affectionate expression as he looked at Morty.  Morty blushed and smiled back shyly.
The old scientist kissed his forehead quickly, and then reclined again, gazing up at the alien sky while his companion blushed furiously beside him and the machine whirred away in the background. Morty bit his lip and grinned, tipping his head back to watch the sky with him.
___
Fuck. I’m crying again, I have to stop. I’ll try again tomorrow, I guess. I’m sorry Rick.
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retrauxpunk · 7 years
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ANSWERING all the instrument asks
you know what. i won’t wait for asks. i’m takin matters into my own bare hands and answering all these feckin questions because i need some mildly pleasant distraction at the moment and i’m procrastinating from packing
STRINGS Violin - Are you a perfectionist? Not ... really? I can be a bit of a control freak though, I like things to be my way. Though that way isn’t necessarily ‘perfect’. Viola - What makes you different? Hmm. I dunno. None of us are uniquely unique. In terms of ‘different to a lot of people’ ... I swallow cherry pits because I can’t be fucked throwing them out. Cello - Favourite place to be? In a nice comfortable space (e.g. cafe, sofa) with my best friends; at my digital art workstation. Double Bass - How do you like to relax? Drawing; eating and reading; with chemical assistance Acoustic Guitar - What instruments do you play? I used to be able to do chords to a bunch of Top 40 pop songs on acoustic guitar. For a very brief time I could play two songs on piano. I know one on the ukulele. So uh ... properly? None. Electric Guitar - Do you experience synesthesia? Not usually Electric Bass - What do you want to study? NOTHING. I’M FUCKING DONE WITH FORMAL STUDY. SEVENTEEN FUCKING YEARS OF IT STRAIGHT. I’M DONE NOW, GET AWAY FROM ME Electric Cello - Favourite composer? I am familiar with barely any, so I gotta go with Roger Waters Electric Violin - Have you ever been in a musical/play? Nope Harp - Favourite piece you’ve played? I recall Taylor Swift’s Starlight being a fun song to play on guitar. Riptide on ukulele is also pretty fun. Ukulele - Are you a good performer? Absolutely not, because I don’t have sufficient skill to give me confidence (or sufficient skill to be ... uh ... good) Sitar - Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Hopefully alive and well, probably married, hopefully with some fucking career stability and satisfaction. Living in Sydney, Melbourne, or London, I’m guessing. Balalaika - Do you enjoy playing sports? No. Unless by sports you mean dicking around on skis/skates by myself. Mandolin - Who inspires you? All artists whose drawings I like inspire me. I don’t get particularly inspired by people who aren’t visual artists / illustrators, because that’s my primary medium of creative expression.
WOODWINDS Piccolo - Describe your personality Self-absorbed creative control freak. Neurotic. Stubborn. A little adversarial in how I think about things, but not in an aggressive way. Individualistic. Actually pretty friendly. Loves shitpost humour. Responsibly hedonistic. Flute - Have you ever gone overseas? I was born overseas, and did a study abroad year in Europe. Yes baby! Oboe - Favourite kind of weather? Comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt (optional jacket), dry, blue skies and sunshine. Or snow. Cor Anglais - Introvert, ambivert, or extrovert? Ambivert (but introvert, if I had to pick one end of the spectrum) Clarinet - How much time do you spend online? haha AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH HAHAHAHAHAH Bass Clarinet - Favourite item of clothing? I like hoodies. Really comfortable, warm hoodies and sweatshirts. Bassoon - Do you enjoy online shopping? Absolutely Contrabassoon - Are you brave? In social situations, I guess yeah? If I have to be and/or want to. In terms of physical danger, uhh ... no. Bass Flute - Can you dance? Not really well, but not totally disastrously Soprano Saxophone - How many times have you broken a bone? Once Alto Saxophone - Have you ever pulled an all nighter? A few times, but never for school. Tenor Saxophone - Favourite film? The Matrix Baritone Saxophone - Describe your dream bedroom Comfy double bed. Big window. A spacious desk where I can set up a big monitor and my graphics tablet, and have space to draw traditionally too. Space to jam out on a guitar. A comfy chair. Spacious built-in wardrobe. Ensuite bathroom with amazing shower and a bath. The general colour scheme would be warm off-whites, with splashes of pastel-neon colour (like bright colour that’s faded in the sun). A little rustic. Framed art prints on the wall. A nice speaker system. Soft carpet.
BRASS French Horn - Where are you from? Born in China, grew up in Australia. So the most suitable answer’s Sydney, but you can bet people don’t accept that on account of my non-white features. Also, I feel like I gotta acknowledge my heritage too, so that’s why it’s always a seven-word answer...
Mellophone - Favourite musical? The Book of Mormon Trumpet - What makes you happy? Drawing while listening to good music. Friends. My boyfriend. Pyschedelics. Slide Trumpet - Do you like being outdoors? Sometimes. Cornet - Favourite genre of music? Rock, very broadly Flugelhorn - How do you feel about your past? It’s made me who I am! Cliche cliche cliche. There were some shit parts but also a whole lot of good parts. I think I dwell on and let myself be a fected a little too much by the former, sometimes. But overall I feel hugely privileged and lucky. Bugle - Would you ever join the army? Fuck no. Unless they really needed me. In which case, it must be a hell of a war if they’re coming for me. Trombone - Describe your dream meal God I dunno? Literally anything delicious while high. Or ... opulent and filling, in the company of my favourite people. Valve Trombone - Do you suffer from imposter syndrome? When I’m tutoring or having a crack at stand-up comedy, yes. Bass Trombone - Are you reliable? Sort of. Relatively, yes. Tenor Horn - What do you aspire to be? A successful and happy artist of the visual or literary variety. Baritone Horn - Do you have perfect pitch? ABSOLUTELY NOT Euphonium - Favourite food? Pasta with lots of garlic and cheese. Ramen.  Sousaphone - Who is your hero? Ain’t got no heroes Tuba - How/Why did you join Tumblr? When I first joined the site in 2010 or so, it was because I’d seen some artists I liked using it, and it seemed cool. This particular account started out as a place to keep posts I liked for myself, then when I became really active here it was because I needed a place to vent my feelings about Pink Floyd.
OTHER AEROPHONES Melodica - Do people consider you annoying? Not all the time, probably Harmonica - What makes you laugh? Good comedy, of course (: ...and shitposts Accordion - Favourite Tumblr blog? I don’t really have a favourite, but I’m a fan of @pyrrhiccomedy and @wizzard890 Air Horn - Are you good with kids? I have no idea. Ocarina - Do you know how to do CPR? At one point I did, but I don’t think I properly know how to anymore... Whistle - Favourite smell? I don’t have one particular favourite, but I love the smell of coffee. I’m also a fan of fruit scents. Slide Whistle - What TV shows have you binge-watched? Avatar: The Last Airbender, Scrubs, Parks and Recreation, How I Met Your Mother Didgeridoo - Tell a funny story! One time I thought my mother had found my vibrator which I’d hidden in my wardrobe. She was giving me a conservative-religious spiel about why such things were bad and talking a lot about cooking and the kitchen, and then after a while of being both extremely tense and increasingly confused, I asked her what on earth this had to do with anything ... and that’s how I found out she hadn’t found my vibrator at all, but a penis-shaped baking tray I’d bought in Amsterdam.  Recorder - How well did you do in school? Very well in high school, relatively well in uni (cough motivation problems cough)
PERCUSSION Xylophone - Do you like classical music? It has yet to properly grow on me... Marimba - What’s your ringtone? No idea, my phone’s usually on vibrate or do not disturb. Glockenspiel - Are you talkative? Yes, with good friends. Extremely, on my personal social media accounts. Bongos - Can you jumpstart a car? HAHAHA oh god I know nothing about cars it’s really bad Wood Block - Describe your dream house Sick high-rise apartment in a world city, spacious and luxurious in an indie/artsy way. Serviced and secure. Snare Drum - Favourite colour? Pinks that are on the peachy/red side. Bass Drum - Would you want to be able to read minds? Absolutely not. Timpani - Do you enjoy meeting new people? Online, yes, if they’re nice. In person ... sometimes, depending on mood. Gong - Are you a loud or soft person? Soft generally, loud when with people I like and am comfortable with. Triangle - Could you imagine being the President/Prime Minister? I could, and it’d be absolutely horrible. Steel Drum - Favourite season? Autumn, baby!
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caepaecaesurae · 7 years
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> Psii : Blow a fucking gasket (2/3)
Seeing as a crack skitters across his phone screen, it would be correct to say one has been blown sky high. Ampora thinks he is broken. It all makes sense now, and he scrolls up just to make sure. He thinks him incapable of telling him to shove off. He thinks he tolerates him due to outside influence, probably Kankri. He thinks Psii is so afraid because of what Ampora put him through… He thinks he is afraid of him at all- The crack skitters a little farther. How quickly Dualscar forgets who was afraid of whom on that fucking boat.
The slowly breaking phone goes through one more task before being thrown aside into Psii’s pile. Ampora may have blocked him but that’s a mere bump in the road towards pulling his coordinates. Look at that, how convenient, he’s on the roof. It won’t be long at all before Psii’s knuckles will meet an idiot’s jaw.
He doesn’t bother with hallways and doors, opening a window out to the crisp winter air and stepping out into the sky. Psionics will get him there far faster, and it’s not like he’s not sparking with them already. Not so much that he’ll give away his arrival, not until he’s much closer, so Ampora doesn’t think of running so quickly. Boots touch down on stone and thump a few steps forward, sparks arcing between horns now that he’s not focusing them. “How rude of you to scamper off so quickly, Ampora, after making such a guess.” His voice is sharp with anger, loud enough to be heard through a smile with far too many fangs. “Don’t you want to see what’s under that mask, to see if you’re correct or not?”
A crimson troll in a leather jacket and a magical amulet turned his head quickly at the sound of footsteps, and then froze absolutely dead still, his eyes quietly tracking the enraged psionic's progress.  ...was this how he died?  He'd learned at least one vital lesson from his friendship with another Captor, one that had started out less than brightly, and so his thumb shifted the fraction of an inch along his vaporiser, away from its button, but he didn't even dare lower the device away from its position halfway between his face and his knee.
Stock still, he was silent for a few seconds, watching the path of the sparks along Mituna's horns.  "... Howv rude of me," he repeated lamely.  A few pregnant seconds passed before he clearly and slowly enunciated his decision: "... No, I do not."
“Aww, that’s a pity,” the words have a stark contrast to that predatory grin, tone not changing an inch. “And here I was going to do you a favor and show you.”
"That's really not necessary, thank you," Cronus interrupted helpfully without moving.  Not even a blink.
“Oh no, I insist,” the sparks continue their arcing, and now that he’s gotten closer and closer, it’s easier to see they’re following the paths etched in his horns.
"No really, please, I don't wvant to trouble you,"  God he wanted to stand up.  Instead, his eyes stayed locked on Mituna, peripheral vision tracking the sparks along his horns.  The faint scent of ozone was starting to make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  It was his absolute least favorite scent and experience.
“Whyever would it be a trouble? This fallacy should obviously be corrected. Can’t be having you think I’m trembling every time we speak.” That grin is getting less and less like a grin, and more like he’s considering tearing out Ampora’s throat with it. “How will we ever be friends like that.”
"... Shall I fetch Treasure for you then?"  Curveball, confuse, distract.  God Cronus needed to be anywhere but here, and had a sudden, sick sympathy for Ringleader and his Captor problems.  The line was delivered without a hint of motion, sounding completely serious, matter of fact, and conversational, as if discussing the weather.
Psii’s laugh is as awful as that not-grin is, amused in all the worst ways. “No, I do not need Treasure. I need you splattered all over this rooftop.” It’s like a lightswitch is flipped, the sharp smiles and laughing snapping directly into something more suited for a fight, boots finding purchase on the stone in preparation to launch himself Ampora-ward. But first, it’s his turn to throw a curveball, or rather one of his many hidden knives, to distract from the fact that he wants his fists on him.
The instant Psii said "splattered", Caesurae was in motion -- leaning suddenly forwards, planting his feet on the edge of the railing, and springing abruptly into flight downwards.  He needed to break line of sight and get somewhere enclosed, and that involved the courtyard, its bushes, and the hallways into the castle proper.  He just needed to make it down there.  The knife whiffed past him, and would find its way onto a parapet somewhere.  Psii had at least a second before Caesurae could reach ground level though.  This was unfortunate, due to telekinesis.
That knife would be missed, but later, when he was not so focused on his task. He had quite a few more after all, and Ampora was running. Fortunately, that second was all he needed to brace a foot on the rail where the other had just been, spreading out his psionics to aid in his ability to see and, of course, wrap around a fleeting ankle. He had said he wanted his blood on the roof, after all. Time to remedy that.
He isn’t quite concerned with Ampora remaining in one piece, so the tug on his ankle is not a gentle one, yanking him to a stop with a yelp before reversing his direction of travel back up towards where Psii waited. The landing wasn’t an easy one either, the grip throwing him bodily onto the stone, the psionic’s eyes following his path until that thump of contact made him release his hold. Yes, far better, a simple push off the rail and his charge was resumed, again closing the distance so he could get his claws and fists into Ampora’s flesh.
Cronus hit the castle hard enough to briefly stun, and wasted a precious second squirming in place before he managed to get his palm flat down and start levering up his shoulder.  By the time his head lifted, and his eyes refocused, Psii was far too close, and the abrupt rush of realisation on his face was magical, to a man in a spiteful enough mood.  He rolled hard, clumsily, trying to shield his face and get up into a crouch before the other troll was on him.  Somewhere far below, his vaporizer shattered against a walkway stone to the distant consternation of several chickens.
Lucky for Psii, he was, in fact, a man in spiteful enough of a mood to enjoy Ampora’s reaction, and that fang-filled grin of his spread dangerously for a moment. Ampora’s roll was successful but not unexpected, and easily compensated for with the right combination of twisting and skidding and a shower of sparks. That crouch catches his eye as well; of course, Ampora isn’t going to just lay there and take it, his poor ego would shatter irreparably. Which means, of course, that he has to help him get to that point. It takes practically no effort at all to rid Ampora of his metaphorical sword and shield; one snap of psionics shorts his sylladex, causing it to eject anything that could be used as a weapon along with everything else, while the other wraps around that blasted amulet and tears it from his neck, returning his color from Psii's brother’s to the familiar seadwelling violet that fits Dualscar's face so much better and is so much easier to smear across his knuckles.
Caesurae's sylladex had been chock full of random shit, and now so was the sky.  Cloaks, capes, garments silly and non, some partially-complete furniture, ornate musical instruments, a synthesizer, a shower curtain complete with rod, bottles of water and whiskey and beer, a few small knives and cloths, a few towels, a sandwich, a handful of stale cookies, little plastic bottles of strong-smelling herbal liquids, a few guns of the long and hand varieties, and enough jewelry and gold and tea and moon money to fill the air and overshadow the roof and start to rain down on the castle and its courtyard and at least one nearby street.
The Orphaner tensed visibly when the tingle of power touched his throat and yanked his caste back up to violet, a light dusting of color rising on his neck in patterns that weren't quite bruises but also didn't quite match the path the chain took as it snapped free of him, clasp breaking easily as if it had been designed for this.  His eyes were slightly wild when his attention snapped up to the cloud of belongings at the height of their arc -- and he spat a sudden curse when he realised the Crosshairs had been flung none-too-gently away.  Tendrils of white smoke phased into existence and abruptly launched themselves out from his back like frog's tongues, grabbing at the Two (2) copies of Ahab's Crosshairs that were headed out into the bay and across a nearby street respectively.  Apparently he could control the anomalous limbs, because they quickly started drawing the guns back towards him as he headrattled, backing away and trying to force himself properly up to his feet.
How curious. Psii wasn’t surprised at the sheer amount of junk in Ampora’s sylladex, the vast majority of it only registering in the back of his mind as something to brush aside as his path towards Ampora and their fall from the heights collided, but he obviously had some tricks up his sleeves. The Crosshairs themselves weren’t one, but the copy certainly was, perhaps some sort of decoy if this exact thing happened. The other were those tendrils, something he’d never seen before and an easy guess that they were part of Ampora’s godhood. Well, if he wished to arm himself with an extension of his mind, it seemed only fitting for him to do so against the might of the Psiioniic, the blue and red sparks wrapping around the weapons and determinedly attempting to keep them well away from Ampora’s trigger fingers.
Caesurae's teeth bared as the far-too-fragile guns were ringed in sparks, and sincerely hoped that Psii wasn't fool enough, or self-destructive enough, to snap them in half so very, very close to where they both happened to be standing.  He neither struggled against the grip nor let go of the guns, standing between them with his 'wings' stretched wide from one weapon to the other.  Tense with very wary concern, his fool mouth opened to speak again while the first and smallest of his belongings started to rain down across the castle roof.  "--Mituna, I don't knowv wvhat you think you're doing, but--"
The aura of sparks around Psii increases as his psionics rebuff Ampora’s possessions when they get in range, the tell tale chime of shattering glass punctuating successes. The roof’s gotten a touch more interesting now, and the thought of skipping Ampora over the shard littered stone is a tempting one for a moment. Not now, though, raw fists still hold the major appeal, an arm reeling back once he starts getting close. “Why don’t you stay fucking still and find out??” It’s spat out like an impulse answer that didn’t get cleared by every checkpoint. His focus is elsewhere, like finding out just how experienced Ampora was at keeping his tendrils doing what he wants while moving the rest of his body. That punch is aimed for his smug fucking face, and his grip on the guns began pulling them towards his direction. Not hard enough to break them of course, he wasn’t a moron, but enough to put pressure on Ampora to keep his weapons.
Caesurae's arms came up to shield his face, catching the punch on a bicep as he fell back another step -- and finally put his weight on his bad ankle, staggering visibly.  In a split-second decision he let go of one copy of the crosshairs, the three tendrils on that side darting back to press against the ground and stabilize him that way.  There was an impressive crash as very nice musical instruments started to rain across the battlements -- a guitar snapped in half here, a synthesizer cracked and badly dented there, deflecting off of this or that on their way to the ground below.  A shower curtain rod clanged into the edge of the roof and rebounded towards the water, trailing its slightly hole-ridden curtain behind it like a very eccentric flag cheering on gods-only-knew-who.
His fins pinning, Caesurae finally made a decision, surging forward (mostly through the miracle of flight -- why hadn't he realised that in time to keep hold of that copy of the crosshairs? Damn instincts) to try to shoulder the Psiionic to the ground.  The smoke tendrils apparently had a fair amount of stretch to them, still trying to maintain their grip on the Other crosshairs -- carefully -- while he tried to get Psii on the ground so he could do... something.  Run again??  He didn't even know.  It was time to work on instinct.
That grin is back, splitting Psii’s face in two with a jagged fang filled gash of a smile. It was a bit early for celebrations, but it certainly felt like a victory. Knuckles meet flesh for a moment before he jumps back, disengaging as Ampora’s leg gave out with a few steps, with the reward of a Crosshair’s firm in his psychic grip. And a second reward follows quickly, Ampora finally ceasing his stupid running and turning onto the offensive, kicking up quite the nostalgia. Yes, quite a bit was different, but Psii can’t help but think of the evening of his escape from Ampora’s ownership. Everything lining up perfectly, just as it is now, Ampora’s fury contrasting with Psii’s nigh giggly smugness. Back then, he had a table at the ready to defend himself, but the broad, sturdy stock of Ahab’s Crosshair’s is quite good enough.
His continued steps back almost seem like dance steps, that grin only getting wider, until the exact moment comes to crack the gun across Dualscar’s dual scars. He poured far more power into the strike that had given him them, but the table also wasn’t a potential nuke. Besides, it wasn’t the force that mattered, it was the poetry, the moment, the point he was making. He was not afraid, and never would be.
Dualscar saw it coming for just an instant, he had time to almost flinch, to start deflecting slightly away, and then got smacked in the face with the butt of his own gun. It was hard not to remember the evening of Psii's escape -- particularly since it had left him with a week-long concussion, a pair of gigantic facial scars, and a flinch reflex whenever things darted at his face too quickly.  More recently, godtiering had left him with the ability to subconsciously adjust reality to suit his expectations, intentional or otherwise, for better or for worse.  The two combined unfortunately, his dual scars splitting open as if they had just been made for the first time, his nose breaking, and a massive instant bruise starting to rise across most of his face.
The Orphaner deflected slightly in the direction of the blow, staggered to a knee, and blinked like a poleaxed steer.  His brow knit slightly, he swayed, and flumped face-down on the ground, his ephemeral grip on Ahab's Other Crosshairs weakening, before the tendrils evaporated into thin air completely.  A cloak drifted down from on high, flopping into a loose pile in a puddle of beer and broken glass.
That was not the reaction the psionic was expecting, steps continuing to dance backwards in anticipation of the fight continuing but slowing when Ampora’s knee strikes stone. He’s wary, and far from stupid enough to be tripped up by a ruse like this could be, the rifle finding a home hovering around his shoulders like a floating combination of a bat and a mounted cannon. It is not as if Ampora are not a dramatic line, and if this wasn’t the definition…
He winces as Ampora’s face meets stone as well, and ears perk slightly as his artillery count doubled. This isn’t an act. He wouldn’t give up his beauty so easily for this kind of trap, especially when he had nothing else to pull out. Even so, Psii hadn’t survived as long as he had by trusting his gut completely, especially when it takes next to nothing to grab an arm and flip the unconscious seadweller. Good lord, he didn’t think he hit him that hard, but his grin spreads again. It remains quite the good look on him.  The puddle of whiskey had probably even sanitised the gashes, and was starting to stain a thin violet.
While his initial desire for knuckles against jaw had not been fulfilled, this was an excellent substitute no matter what his adrenaline was saying. He lets the giggle that’s been trapped in his chest free finally, and slips out- ah, damn, that’s right, he left his phone on his pile. No matter, it’s not like he’ll forget what this looks like any time soon, and he needed to do a sketch of him anyway. How lovely it is when things work out.
The question of ‘now what’ had barely even started to form in his pan when one of Ampora’s various possessions finally landed, the distant sploosh making Psii’s ears perk with an idea. He could leave him up here, in the cold, to wake when he does, oooor. Or. Ampora, having regained his fishy bits, could go for a little winter swim while Psii goes through all of his stuff and decides what to take with him so Ampora will have to come get it. Or more likely, Kankri will frown at him on Ampora’s behalf until he handed it back over, but a troll could dream. He’s already keeping both Crosshairs, but there certainly had to be something else to make Ampora regret this more than he will when he wakes.
First things first, however. Someone needs to go for a dive.
Red and blue rings around Ampora, lifting him somewhat gracefully to trail after Psii as he makes his way to the water-side rail, leaning over and tilting his head slightly as he runs through calculations. He doesn’t want to kill Ampora, so just ragdoll tossing him over the side unfortunately won’t work, and water isn’t always as forgiving as it looks… but if he started him here, at this speed, and that angle… the only thing he should damage is his ego when he wakes in the middle of the bay, unless the cold or sea creatures get to him… Eh, good enough. The city waters were fairly safe, as such things go.  One more slice of nostalgia as he gives the unconscious seadweller a salute before letting go, leaning over again to watch his progress and the splash his body caused. Today is the best day ever.
He dribbled, he splooshed, and at least he wouldn't smell like a puddle of whiskey when he woke up.  For once.  A violet troll in a leather jacket flopped into the water, and started to sink into the relatively shallow depths, one burst of bubbles coming up to the surface and then falling still as he swapped over to his gills entirely.  He was in fact denser than water, by a fair bit, and quickly wound up on his side in the mud at the bottom.
The prince of the emerald basin forest had not been concerned when items had rained from the sky, although it had drawn his attention to the window, especially the larger crashes and clangs of falling instruments and furniture. The matter of seeing a familiar form, the sea dweller who had freed him, and returned the dead to his people, thrown from the castle wall and into the water was another matter entirely.
He could not call up clothes and armor with this fucking spell set on the place against his magic. So he struggled himself into a shirt, alarming his guards as he began to hasten out without his armor on, and losing time arguing with them over it.
It... Wasn't actually the worst nap Cronus had ever taken.
That bit of satisfaction obtained, Psii turns from the rail to examine the loot spread before him, boots crunching glass and bits of instruments as he walks towards the scattering- a step misses the grinding glass or the snapping wood and instead mildly crinkles, and he looks down at a slightly damp letter addressed to Fex. Oh ho, yes, this has potential, a mystery letter tucked away in a sylladex unsent? It could be anything, couldn’t it? It’s scooped up immediately and opened without a hesitation, reading the letter with glee… that fades quite quickly into frowns and sharply dives off a cliff into horror in a fashion reminiscent to the dive Ampora just took.
Every single victorious feeling of smugness evaporates in an instant, and his ears plummet to his shoulders. Is that why Ampora ran? So he wouldn’t get tortured by Psii? To escape a revenge he can’t properly think about without getting nauseous? He thought he didn’t want to face consequences again, that he didn’t want his face damaged, not… not this. Somewhere something has gone as wrong as it could, and he has only made it worse. Fuck. Fuck how does he fix this. How does he make him understand he wouldn’t do that-
> Narrative Perspective : Start being Mituna Captor.
You can do that, probably. And the rest of things. Step one. Okay, step one, Cronus waking up in ice cold winter water with no belongings is not helpful. Split step one into two steps, get belongings and get Cronus. Get Cronus is second, it’s not like he’s going to freeze or drown, and you can shove as many things in into your sylladex as you can see. Alright, start there, maybe things can get fixed later or something.
It’s nowhere close to everything, between bottles shattering and things fluttering off into the distance, but it’s as much as you can do for now. You might be able to get some later, once you’ve fished out Cronus and made sure he isn’t dead or something, but now is when step two becomes step one, and you head back to your mocking spot to fly down after him.
> Be the faerie prince
Prince Sunfall ran, sword belted to his hip, and the moment he stepped out of the embassy tower armour wrapped around him again. He was too late and the troll- bizarrely he recognized him as the gently spoken twin to Twoblade he’d seen just the once- went in after Caesurae, and took him from the water. He followed the path of their flight back where he could not follow and cursed softly.
Something white caught his eye and he approached across the wet rocks to gently tug a white cloak, magically clean despite the filth it was laying in, up and look at it. He glanced back the way the four horned troll had gone with his victim and his jaw set. He headed quickly back inside the building.
If luck was with him Twoblade would receive messages in time to- to do something about his people attacking the church representatives.
PART 1 : PART 3
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