#slightly rough writing

[thelonelyshore-if]

just a little preview of what i'm working on during my break today <3

#interactive fiction #preview #spoilers #technically #this is after you pick a romantic option #also lmao ignore the nameless MC for the preview #slightly rough writing #but it'll be edited eventually

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

🧡 The Past and Pending 🐎

jo & young claire fic - 4.7k - rating: G - canon compliant - read on ao3

Jo watches the family hold hands over her shitty bar food and close their eyes in grace, in prayer. Even when they’re all hungry they take the moment to thank their god for their meal. Claire looks like a little blonde angel as she mouths along to her father’s amen. Jo supposes she once looked like that, too.

16th May, 2004. Nine years to the day since Jo's father's death, she is nineteen and working her usual shift in the Roadhouse bar. The Novak family stop by during a summer storm as they travel through the state, and Jo has the chance to bond with a seven year old Claire over horses, their love for their fathers, and leather jackets.

written for my 2024 jo's joyous birthday celebrations!! prompts were orange, horse girl, and leather jacket, which were fun to weave in. enjoy <3

read below the cut!

16th May 2004.

It’s been a slow day at the Roadhouse, the tepid May heat turning beers warm but the bouts of summer rain keeping Jo from her usual restless walks outside. The bar is gloomy and a little stifling and it’s nine years to the day since the death of her father. 

By the evening Jo is working the bar, in view of the entrance. Every time the door scrapes open and the creaky floorboard goes, she is hit with one of two alternating images. The first is her father, home from his hunt, leather jacket fitted on his solid body with a smile on his face. His arms are spread wide waiting for her hug. Each time it is not him, she is forced to remember how his leather jacket is hanging emptily from a hook behind the bar and that every time she pictures his face she gets it a little more wrong.

The second image is of Uncle Bobby, hunched and sad, his grief silhouetted in the doorway light as he brings the sorry news. Her dad’s leather jacket in his hands, all that was left of him. What news does he bring this time? How many dead? The first image fills her with sorrow, the second with fear, both memories rising to the surface on the anniversary like crumbs in beer.

Jo mindlessly wipes down the bar, any tears that land on the countertop instantly disappearing beneath the cloth. It’s just one of those days. Ellen is in the back, unpacking the delivery that came in the morning, also quieter than usual. At least they’re not screaming at each other. That’s something. 

The front door scrapes the floor as it swings open and Jo is called back to the present. She brushes her eyes once with the back of her hand, the one holding the rag, as if she’s only wiping sweat from her forehead. When she turns to face the new customers Jo knows no one will be able to tell she was crying. She’s good at things like that. 

“Heya, what can I get for you?” she calls over the bar, and then instantly sighs as she sees the newcomers. Neither of the images in her head have materialized, but a third, more frustrating one has: civilians. 

A man and a woman, married, but still fairly young, hover uncertainly in the doorway. The wife’s hair is that uninteresting midway between blonde and brunette, cut sensibly to her shoulders but clearly styled. The husband’s hair is much darker and would probably curl if not for his serious and slick side parting. The first thing Jo notices about them is their hair because this is the most immediately interesting thing about them; other than that, they look incredibly boring. Normal. 

Then, from behind the man’s legs, peers a young girl. A child with a sweet tangerine gingham dress and curious eyes, maybe seven or so. Jo watches the girl take in the Roadhouse, with its burly, surly hunters hunched uninvitingly over tables marked with the questionable stains from fights and alcohol which make every surface slightly sticky. 

The husband is shaking his head, gesturing round at the bar with a displeased hand. “We should go,” Jo catches him saying, “this isn’t our kind of establishment.”

Jo is too used to this happening to be offended. Besides, she always thinks why cater to civilians anyway, when they’re a hunter bar first and foremost?

But the wife stands her ground. “She needs to eat, Jimmy. We all need a break, we’ve been driving for so long. And the sooner we get home, the sooner we outrun that storm.” 

Jimmy sighs, then nods. The trio shuffle awkwardly towards the bar, the child nervous at her father’s heels. She’s very blonde, as blonde as Jo. 

“I know we look like it, but we don’t bite,” Jo says, mainly to the girl. She earns the trace of a smile for her troubles.

Jimmy has the decency to look a little regretful. “I’m sorry, it’s been a… long drive. We haven’t had to travel quite this far before.”

“Well, that’s what the Roadhouse is here for. What can I get you?”

The options are limited, so it doesn’t take long for the family to decide on burgers, fries, and juices all round. Jo manages to keep her face straight at the drinks order. Most of the Roadhouse clientele would drink the rainwater outside rather than order fruit juice. If it wasn’t obvious enough already, the glimmer of evening light making its way through the window catches on the cross pendant visible through the open top button of Jimmy’s collar, and confirms the family’s faith. 

They go and find a table, choosing one by the window, to sit and drink their juices at. Jo sets about sorting the rest of their order, pottering about between the kitchen and the bar to serve it all up. 

She’s halfway through plating the fries when movement catches the corner of her eye and she spins to see the young girl clambering up one of the high stools at the bar, the seat teetering a little under her weight.

“Hey,” Jo says, maybe a little meanly. Mostly caught by surprise. “What are you doing?”

The girl’s face falls into a round, guilty oh as she finally settles, kneeling, on the seat. “I just wanted to see what was behind.”

Jo nods, calming now that her initial panic at the girl’s movement has subsided. “That’s fine, just make sure you’re careful up there, alright? It’s a tall seat and you’re a—a small little body.”

“One day I’m going to be bigger and every seat in my house is going to be a tall seat,” the girl decides with a jut of her chin. 

The comment hits Jo at such an angle it cracks her, and she barks out a laugh. “Sounds like a plan, kiddo. What’s your name?”

“Claire,” she answers. Then, with the precision of a child who has had politeness strongly instilled in her, asks, “and what’s yours?”

“Jo.”

“I thought that was a boy’s name.”

“It is,” Jo says. She gets a familiar burst of pride with it, but it feels awkwardly shallow with Claire looking up at her, so she follows with, “but it’s a girl’s name too. My full name is Joanna-Beth.”

Claire breathes a little woah . “That’s such a pretty name.”

“Huh. Um, thanks,” Jo manages. She’s never liked it, the way her mom only uses it in anger, the way her dad never used it. Joanna-Beth is someone else. Joanna-Beth is a bad daughter. Claire, though, doesn’t know any of that. 

As Jo’s cheeks tinge pink, Claire’s mom comes hastening over, ready to lift Claire down from the bar stool and back to the table. 

“Is she distracting you? I’m so sorry. Claire, love, come on—”

“No, it’s fine, really,” Jo placates earnestly. “I really don’t mind it. I was enjoying our chat.”

Claire beams at her. “So was I, mommy.”

Claire’s mom looks between the two of them—Jo wonders what goes on in her head as she does, two such naive-looking girls set against the backdrop of the Roadhouse—and then nods. “Well, you just give me or Jimmy a shout if you need a hand.”

“Thanks. I’m not great with kids, so I might need to,” Jo answers with a smile. It’s the truth; she’s never had much practice.

The woman raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Well, you seem to be doing a good job so far.”

Jo nods, unsure what to do with the praise. 

“I’m Amelia, if you need me,” supplies Amelia instead.

“I’m Jo.”

“It’s short for Joanna-Beth,” Claire pipes up, the awe still palpable in her voice. 

Amelia laughs, nodding, and runs a hand through Claire’s sleek pigtails. “Pretty name,” she tells Jo, before heading back to her husband at the table. 

It’s the complement of the hour, it seems. Jo nods again, head bobbing unassuredly like one of the lame figures in Ash’s room, as she gets back to plating up the meals under Claire’s careful surveillance. 

“You’ve got horses on your butt,” Claire says after ten full seconds of silence. 

“What? Oh,” Jo laughs, turning in vain to glance at the horses embroidered over the back pockets of her jeans. She found them in the thrift store in town. They weren’t cheap, the horses stitched in mid-gallop over the pockets boosting the price considerably. But it’d felt wrong to leave the horses trapped in the sterile light of the thrift store. They deserve some warm lighting, Jo’d thought, where they can complete their run for freedom when no one is looking. The jeans are just a tad too small, so the plushy middle of her stomach bulges over them slightly, but she tries not to mind it. Anything for the horses.

“Do you like them?” she asks, wiggling her butt a little, much to Claire’s delight. 

Jo normally keeps her movements minimal, behind the bar, knowing how hunters’ eyes glue grossly to all the places she’d least like them look. She often feels like somewhat of a dancing monkey because of it, but here it’s an innocent movement with no repercussions other than Claire’s laughter.

“They’re so fun. I wish my dress had horses on like yours,” Claire says with a plaintive sigh which sounds amusingly beyond her years. 

“You like horses?” 

Claire nods eagerly. “For my next birthday mommy says I can have a riding lesson.”

“Woah! That’s so cool!” Jo says, and she’s genuinely quite excited at the idea. “I’m jealous, I wish I could ride. Then I could saddle up and go wherever I wanted all by myself.” California, she’d decided sometime long ago. Or maybe Arizona. Just somewhere west of this wasteland.

“I’ll come back and teach you once I know,” Claire answers, so earnestly Jo knows she fully believes it. 

Somehow, she can see it: Claire with her little arms crossed staring up at Jo perched precariously on a horse, calling instructions up to her. “I’d like that,” she says with a grin. “Where will you ride to, once you can ride absolutely anywhere?”

Claire considers the question deeply, the cogs whirring away visibly behind her eyes. “Well, I’d have to teach daddy and mommy how to ride too. I don’t want to go anywhere without them. But then I don’t mind.”

Jo hums. It’s a cute image, the three of them as one family riding off into the sunset. Not lost, because they’re together. It feels distant, familiar in the way the memories of a dream are; foreign. Whenever she has those fantasies of riding away now, she’s alone. She supposes that wasn’t always the case.  

“That sounds real lovely,” she finally gets out, staring down at the burger she has started stacking. She hadn’t really realized she was doing it, just running on automatic. Thinking of her father and running on automatic, the story of her life since she lost what Claire still has. 

But Claire’s concentration has dwindled and she wriggles in her seat. “Are you going to be done soon? I’m starving .” 

“Hey, you’re the one distracting me!” Jo rebuts, shaking her head clear with an exaggerated sigh for Claire’s benefit. “But tell you what, I have an idea to help you grow bigger so you can always sit on the tall seats.”

“What?” Claire asks, perking back up with excitement. 

Jo hunkers down to Claire’s level on the bar, resting her chin on her arms so they’re completely eye to eye. “If you help me carry the food to your table it’ll be like lifting weights and then you’ll get big and strong,” she says, voice low like she’s letting Claire in on a secret.

“You mean it’s ready?”

Jo pulls away with a roll of her eyes and fishes the basket of burger and fries from the countertop to present them on the bar. Impatiently, Claire reaches out to grab one, but Jo bats gently her hands away. 

“Hey, kiddo, gotta get down from the seat first.”

“I can do it myself!” Claire protests. 

But still, she doesn’t struggle as Jo comes around from behind the bar and helps lift her to the floor, Claire steadying herself against Jo’s arms. Once her feet have touched the floor, she prods at Jo’s toned tricep again with a podgy finger. 

“Your arm isn’t soft,” she points out, rather frankly. 

Jo gives her arm a squeeze in the same place Claire just did, to feel for herself. She always thinks she is too soft, too willowy; china doll in a bull farm. So although she trains as much as she can, shooting with her bow and arrow in the yard and sparring with the other hunters when they pass through, it never feels like enough. At least Claire thinks differently. 

“It’s because it’s all muscles,” she explains. She give the smooth, plushy skin of Claire’s arm a gentle poke in return. “See, you just haven’t got any yet.”

Claire frowns as she squints down at the difference between them. “I didn’t think girls could have muscles.”

Sometimes Jo looks at herself in the mirror and wishes she’d never trained at all. That she looked like all the other girls her age. Even like Claire. Here she is, jealous of a seven year old, yet knowing that this world of comparison is what Claire will inevitably grow into. Distantly and regrettably, she reminds herself of her mother.

“All girls can have muscle if they want to, and train enough,” she says, trying to keep her words on an even keel. It feels important. But she attempts to imagine little Claire in her gingham dress with muscly arms and fails. 

Claire giggles, gorgeously oblivious as she jabs at Jo’s arm again. “None of the girls at school or Sunday school are like you, Jo.”

Her throat gets a little dry. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Just a thing,” Claire notes absently, before taking the basket of greasy food from Jo’s distracted hand and sauntering over to her family with it clutched tightly in her fists. She hands it straight to her dad, who runs an affectionate hand over his daughter’s head.

“Thank you, sweetheart, this looks very lovely,” he says patiently, as she scrambles over him and onto her own seat. “Have you been kind to the nice lady?”

Jo doesn’t like that word but doesn’t have time to deal with that, recovering as she is from Claire’s rapid-fire insights. She follows the kid to the table and slides Amelia and Claire their portions, receiving grateful smiles from both Amelia and Jimmy. 

“Thank you,” the family chorus, their voices naturally falling in a pleasant harmony. 

Jo’s voice is lonely in comparison as she asks if she can get them more drinks. They turn down the offer and thank her again, Claire’s eyes glued to her food now that it’s properly in front of her. Slowly, Jo returns to her spot behind the bar, unabashedly gazing at the family from across the room.

She watches them hold hands over her shitty bar food and close their eyes in grace, in prayer. Even when they’re all hungry, when Claire has confessed dramatically to starvation, they take the moment to thank their god for their meal. Jo doesn’t think any food prepared by her hands is really worth it, but the prayer comes out in a low and sincere murmur from Jimmy’s mouth. Claire looks like a little blonde angel as she mouths along to her father’s amen . Jo supposes she once looked like that, too. 

**

The next half hour passes with little incident, aside from a repeat round of whiskey for Shawn, Jake and Caleb in the far corner. Jo mainly watches Claire and her family eat their blessed dinner and chat, the flow easy between them. They don’t talk like most people in the Roadhouse do. They sound posher, somehow, their sentences free from apostrophes and curses. Jimmy eats his burger with a knife and fork. 

Another shower of summer rain falls, the noise heavy on the Roadhouse roof. Jo expects it to pass, but instead the weather settles like that, a consistent rumble over the bar. The storm she heard Amelia mention earlier must have caught up with them, despite their desire to outrun it. 

Jimmy and Amela must notice this too. They peer out of the window by their table into the ever-murkier evening, resignation growing on their faces.

“We need to make a move,” Jimmy says. “Get ahead of this before we get stuck.”

As if to emphasize the point, a crack of thunder echoes out around the Roadhouse. The sound travels potently over the flat Nebraska plains and the din of the first clap gives even the hunters in the corner a start. Claire lets out a small yelp and buries herself into her father’s side. 

“It’s just thunder, sweetie,” Jimmy pacifies.

Claire mumbles something into his middle in return, but Jo can’t make it out. 

“You guys finishing up?” she asks, walking over and clearing the baskets. “I’d head out before it gets worse.”

“Yes, we’d like to,” Amelia agrees, “but someone here is a little bit scared of the thunder.”

“I’m not scared,” Claire grouches, lifting a protesting head from her dad’s chest. Jo knows a liar when she sees one, knows it as she knows herself. “I just don’t want to get wet.”

Jo choses bravado and Claire choses nonchalance, but it looks like they both bury their fear. She remembers the performances she used to put on for her father to show she was capable enough to keep up with him, how loved it made her feel when he believed in her. An idea, easily shattered, starts growing in her mind, and she surges forward with it before it can break. 

“So we gotta get you out to the car without getting wet, hmm?” Jo poses quizzically. Claire looks at her suspiciously, but nods along. “I have an idea,” Jo draws out, hands on hips. “We’ll have to go behind the bar to make it work…”

Claire leaps up from her seat, curiosity winning out over anything else. Jo hasn’t even got to ask Amelia and Jimmy’s permission, their looks of gratitude are already enough. They start gathering their jackets as Jo leads Claire around, to the tantalizing world behind the bar.

“Cool,” Claire whispers. It’s the closest thing to slang she’s said all day.

Jo smiles despite herself, then readies to go through with her idea. She’s sharing the one thing of her father’s which is truly hers. If it were anyone but Claire, she wouldn’t be doing it, but something about Claire makes it feel different—makes sharing feel more like a gift which grows rather than diminishes. 

“This,” Jo says, gently lifting the supple material from where it hangs dutifully on its hook, “is my daddy’s leather jacket.”

She takes a deep breath and kneels beside Claire, offering the leather up to her for her little hands to touch. Despite the warmth of the day, the leather is still cool, and Claire’s smile grows as she slides her chestnut-sized palms along the smooth material. 

The leather is brown and worn, but still in pretty pristine condition for a jacket now going on thirty years old. Jo doubts Claire even notices the small set of hand stitches around the collar from when she stupidly tore it and needed to fix it up. It had taken her a whole afternoon tucked away in her bedroom to stitch it back together, but she’d played her dad’s vinyls the whole while and the time had spun away quickly. Even her mom was impressed by Jo’s handiwork, in the end. This jacket is the one thing of her dad that Ellen lets Jo keep, and Jo keeps it well. 

Claire’s blue eyes are wide and wondrous in her head. “It’s very nice,” she says shyly.

Jo smiles. “I know. And it’s really special to me, because my daddy isn’t around any more, so we’re going to take good care of it together.”

“Why isn’t your daddy around?” Claire asks, her forehead wrinkling with the question. She’s a kid clearly trained in courtesy, but the constant frankness to her questions give her a harder edge. If the questions didn’t sting so much, Jo would love it about her. Claire continues, “my daddy loves me so much I think he’ll be around forever.”

“Well,” Jo says carefully, slowly, stringing her words along the tightrope of her taut throat. “Sometimes it’s not a choice. My daddy died nine years ago.” She swallows the ‘today’ she could add onto the end of that sentence, feeling that detail might be a little too much for both of them in this conversation. “Here’s something I find very important to remember: just because someone leaves, doesn’t mean they stop loving you. And it doesn’t mean you stop loving them.”

Claire looks as if she might start chuckling, but then catches onto the sincerity in Jo’s tone. Her mouth falls open slightly and her plump fingers squeeze tighter at the leather jacket. “I don’t want my daddy to leave me.”

“I bet he won��t,” Jo says, placing her hands over Claire’s. They’re so small beneath her own. Warm too, like holding a little heart between her hands. 

Jo looks up at Claire, at her sandy blonde hair tied neatly into pigtails and the pretty orange gingham of her summer dress. Seven years old and so sure her daddy will never leave her. It is only the crystal blue of Claire’s irises that differ from the umber of her own, but even then, Jo supposes that they both have their father’s eyes. 

“I think we’ve got the best daddys in the world,” Jo whispers. “They love us all the time. When they’re out at the shops, when they’re away with work, when they’re up in heaven. They love us right now.” 

She swallows, hard, blinking away the tears that are refracting rainbows in her eyes. There’s a burning in her throat but she’s glad she managed to say those words, to finally get them out into the precious ears of a young girl. She smiles. Her vision is still slightly watery but clearing when she realizes Claire is giggling, a sweet blush on her cheeks. Her laughter is light and bubbly, like a stream tumbling over rocks in the sun. Like if Jo bathed in it, she would feel clean.

“Come on, we can use my daddy’s leather jacket as an umbrella to run out to the car,” she says, the idea finally coming to fruition as she stands back up again and dusts the Roadhouse floor muck from her knees. “I’ll hold it over your head so you don’t get wet.”

Claire rolls her eyes, something Jo wasn’t sure seven year olds knew enough to do, but apparently so. “But then you’re going to get wet!”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m big and strong! I can take some rain.” Jo makes a performance of flexing her arms, the odd proportions of her wide-muscled shoulders and lean frame suddenly a cause for celebration rather than insecurity when looked at through Claire’s eyes. 

“Hmm.” Claire ponders hard at Jo’s words, those cogs visibly turning again in her brain. “Okay. But you’ll have to be fast to keep up with me!” 

The kid makes a dash for the door and is surprisingly speedy on her little legs, her gingham dress swishing behind her. Jo starts after her, pitching both arms upwards so the jacket hangs from them like a tent over Claire’s head. They dash out the front door and into the delicious rain, giggling all the way until it turns into full belly laughter. The lights of the car flash when Jimmy unlocks it, and Claire kicks up water as she runs to fling open the backseat door. Jo’s jeans are splattered with it, but the rain is coming down in sheets so her whole body is soon soaked through anyway. 

Another roar of thunder booms across the open space but Claire doesn’t even notice, too busy sheltering under Jo’s jacket as she scrambles up into the car. Jo slides the leather jacket on to free up her hands and help Claire wriggle into the backseat. The girl is a step ahead of her, and clicks her seatbelt into place with a smug little grin at Jo.

“See, I am faster than you!” 

Jo laughs, feeling rainwater pool in the corners of her mouth as she does so. “Okay, you win. But I did help keep you safe from all the horrible rain and thunder.”

“Yes, you did,” Claire concedes graciously. She clearly has a self-righteous streak. Smiling, she opens her arms wide for Jo to hug her, but Jo backs away.

“I’m very wet still, I don’t want to make you damp after all this.”

“Oh, okay,” Claire says, looking crestfallen. “But I want to hug you anyway.”

Jo pauses. “You sure?”

“Of course!” Claire says, the words come on, silly, evident in her tone. 

Jo grins, and wraps her drenched, leathery arms around Claire. Squeezes her tight. With her face buried in Claire’s hair, she inhales the strong and familiar scent of strawberry shampoo, the kind she used to use when she was small. She’s got a young girl’s warm body in her arms, and the scent of her dad’s leather and her childhood shampoo mix in the May evening air. 

“I want to be just like you when I grow up,” Claire’s voice whispers in her ear. 

Jo wants to sob, but doesn’t. She instead gives Claire one last, big, humongous squeeze and untangles herself, her arms leaving damp patches across Claire’s dress. Claire doesn’t seem to mind, she’s only seven. 

“I was just like you when I was small,” Jo manages to reply. She doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing anymore, or if it’s just—as Claire said—a thing. Some small part of her feels like she’s damning Claire as she says this, to a life like her’s. But then again—maybe it’s just a thing, and her life is neutral. There does not have to be a curse to pass on. She smiles. “It’s been really nice to meet you, Claire.”

“And it was nice to meet you too, Jo!”

They do a final high-five (Claire’s hands only spanning Jo’s palm) before Jo steps back into the rain proper, closing the car door in front of her with a wet thunk. 

The driver’s door opens and shuts beside her, Jimmy having climbed behind the wheel. Amelia’s footsteps splash around to the far side of the concrete and then the whole family is sheltered in the car, safely stowed together behind the windows.

In the low lighting of the Roadhouse sign, for a moment Jo looks into Claire’s window and only sees herself, rain pouring down her face and shoulders wide enough to fill her father’s jacket. Then the driver’s window rolls down and Jo steps to meet it. 

“Thank you,” Jimmy says. He has dark hair and a face she will meet again. “You were very good with her. Your parents should be proud.”

Jo goes to shake her head but then allows herself the nod, to tentatively agree. Her wet hair is plastered to her scalp, but the rain isn’t cold; it’s just right. 

“Have a safe journey,” she calls. Then repeats herself as the man revs the engine so Claire, winding the window down too, can still hear her. “Have a safe journey!” 

To where, Jo realizes she isn’t quite sure. 

Both her and Claire wave like wild things as the car turns back out onto the road, Jo chasing the car for a few meters, to Claire’s growing grin. As the car pulls away Claire’s blonde pigtails are the last thing Jo can make out of her.

She stands there, in the parking lot outside the Roadhouse where the dust is being beaten into the road by the summer rain. The taillights of the car rumble out of view and Jo still stands, waving, unsure if she’s just met the past or future, until her mother comes and beckons her inside. 

#i started writing this yesterday and so it's slightly rough BUT i stand by it all !! #this concept is so precious to me. my author's notes on ao3 go into that with more detail #this most defintely exists in the same universe as jo daily btw <3 fun to write her a little younger than i have before! #and write jo interacting with children... my heart #anyway i hope you enjoy reading another roadhouse jo fic from your roadhouse jo girlie #jo harvelle #claire novak #jimmy novak #jo & claire #spn fic #spn women #josjoyousbday #ola writes

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Secrets of the Shadows (Wolf Link Reveal Fic)

@yogurtbear242 @indigoartistqueen @skyward-floored @telemna-hyelle @wolfwarden @a-little-bit-of-ravioli and anybody else who wanted to read the Wolf Link Reveal fic

Summary: When Link goes missing shortly after his adventure, Rusl is worried. Preparing to leave and search for him, he stumbles onto a wolf. This has to be a sign of trouble, right? Rusl thinks it is, and the swordsman attempts to eliminate the threat... and then realizes that there is far, far more to this beast than he thought possible.

(Click here to read on AO3)

Part 1 // Part 2>>

Ordon Village hummed with the song of crickets as the night sky cooled the earth. Rusl paced through the small rural settlement, ill at ease. Link had left the village two days ago with no notice whatsoever. It wasn’t exactly unheard of at this point, given everything that had happened over the past several months, but Rusl had heard of no news or dangers or stirrings throughout Hyrule. Which meant either Link just left to get some fresh air, or something was wrong and no one had heard yet.

The first option didn’t seem likely. Link had only returned home from his long journey a mere two weeks ago. In that time he’d mostly relegated himself to his home and to the goat ranch. He’d been somber, quiet, reclusive, but also very unmotivated. No, it wasn’t all that likely that he’d left the village for no reason.

Even if he had done so, it still worried Rusl. The boy was in no condition to be alone. Rusl and Uli had their hands full with their new daughter and with helping Colin process everything that had happened to him, but they still spent every moment possible trying to keep an eye on Link. Rusl didn’t want to push him to talk; he’d seen how haggard Link was over the course of his journey. These matters were difficult to parse out, and Link likely needed time to himself to sort it out first. But that didn’t mean they weren’t going to be within arm’s reach if the need arose, that didn’t mean Link couldn’t get hurt or need help. And he absolutely did not need to be left unattended.

The first day, Rusl had let it slide. Uli had been more outwardly anxious, and it had rubbed off on Colin, who said he would search the nearby woods. Once that had started to escalate, Rusl had said they needed to give Link some time. But that was the first day. It had been two days now.

Rusl didn’t want to wait any longer.

He’d gathered his belongings and spoken to Uli about the matter after Colin had gone to Mayor Bo’s house for the sleepover the village had planned (the children had grown accustomed to staying together at Kakariko and were still adjusting to being home, so the adults had decided they could have the occasional group sleepover). Rusl was going to start searching first thing in the morning, but he figured he’d at least go to Link’s home and rest there. It would allow him an early start and maybe he could get a hint about where the boy had gone.

As he passed through the small pathway between the main village and Link’s tree abode, Rusl paused, seeing something just in front of Link’s home. It was large, and he could vaguely see it move slightly in a rhythmic pattern. He crept closer and adrenaline surged through him at the recognition.

It was a wolf.

What was a beast doing in the village? Why was it near Link’s home? Was this an omen? The last time Rusl had seen a wolf was when the children had gone missing. Were there more beasts in the woods? Was this why Link had left? Had he gone to handle the situation? Did this wolf’s presence imply that he had failed? Was he out there somewhere, broken and bleeding, or even worse—

Rusl shook his head. Whatever was happening, he would eliminate this problem immediately.

Unsheathing his sword, the Ordonian crept stealthily towards the beast. It was lying on its side, seeming to be resting. It would be best and easiest if he snuck up on it and killed it quickly. He was less likely to get hurt and it would be a swift and merciful death for the creature.

He drew close enough to land a proper blow. Rusl held his blade up silently, and then he stabbed downward in a fluid motion.

The world slowed for a moment. The wolf’s ear twitched and the beast suddenly sprang into action, but the blade still cut true – well, almost. It sliced into the wolf’s belly well enough, making the creature wail and flinch away, but it was most certainly not going to kill it immediately.

Rusl didn’t have time or effort to worry about the animal dying slowly and in pain. The noise the creature made could attract more of its beastly brethren. He had to finish this.

The wolf whined, its ears peeled back, its tail between its legs. It was a pathetic sight, really, but Rusl was still on edge. He would finish this beast off and search the woods for others, and then he would immediately begin his search for Link, sleep be damned. This wolf couldn’t be a good sign.

Despite the grave wound, the large animal managed to scurry away before Rusl could land another blow. The swordsman gritted his teeth, following the blood trail into the woods. He would find it, he would kill it, and then he would immediately pack his things and go searching for Link.

The wolf was bleeding enough to be easily followed, but the dim light of the crescent moon did slow Rusl down a bit. Eventually, the blood led him to a small tunnel, and fresh claw marks clearly indicated a desperate attempt to flee into the hideaway. Rusl listened intently but didn’t hear any noises from any beast. He knew this tunnel led to both a dead end and Ordon Spring just outside of the village where Ilia and Link often took Epona and the children often played. The spring was usually closed in the evenings to prevent anyone from wandering too far from home once the sun set, so Rusl would have to climb the gate. He didn’t see any point in damaging the wood holding the lock in place, and there was no time to get the key.

Heading for the entrance, he paused and stilled as he heard whimpering. Peeking between the wooden bars and ivy, he saw the wolf staggering towards the water, which was glowing mildly in the pale moonlight. But then, something else happened, something bizarre and otherworldly. The wolf became encased in shadow, startling Rusl—he knew this beast was a foul creature, Link had to be in trouble!—and the darkness slowly reformed into a silhouette that resembled a person.

And then the darkness dissipated, and Link was there.

Link was there.

Link.

Link.

What?!

Link gasped, arm over his abdomen as blood dripped so generously that even Rusl could hear its impact on the spring’s water over the boy’s cries.

Rusl felt his blood run cold.

What… what was this? What was happening?

What had he done?!

Dropping his sword in a heartbeat, Rusl climbed the fence desperately, his heart in his throat. He cleared the top with a grunt, throwing himself over and landing in a roll. His momentum carried him to the water immediately, and he rushed to Link. The boy hadn’t seemed to notice him, too busy clutching his stomach and gasping. Link doubled over, almost collapsing into the spring as Rusl slid to his knees in time to catch him.

“Link!” he gasped, turning the boy over in his arms so he could see his face.

Link hiccupped, tears staining his round cheeks, his face pulling in absolute terror and pain. He whimpered, trying to push away from Rusl, and the man felt sick to his stomach.

“Link, I—I’m so—Link what—” Rusl tried to speak, but the more the boy struggled, the less Rusl’s voice would cooperate. His words devolved into hushes and shaky whispers of it’s okay over and over until his world could stop spinning. Link cried openly, curling in on himself after giving up on escaping.

Pulling the boy to his chest, Rusl tried and failed to get his breathing and heart rate under control. Oh my goddesses what have I done what have I done—

“It’s okay,” he whispered shakily for the hundredth time. “It’s okay, we’re going to fix this.”

That thought branded into his mind more than anything else. Once he said it, he felt the determination start to rise, beginning as a fire in his belly and roaring through his heart.

Ripping off his sleeves, Rusl wrapped them around Link’s abdomen tightly, making the boy gasp in pain. He bit his lip, trying to ignore Link’s cries as he finished tying the sleeves as makeshift bandages, trying to not be petrified at how quickly the green stained red.

“I’m going to fix this,” he said again, louder, and he pulled Link into a gentle hold in his arms, rising and carrying him out of the water. Link whimpered at the movement, clinging to Rusl’s tunic, making his heart break for a moment before he shook his head and reoriented. The swordsman laid Link on the ground, leaning him against the wall beside the fence. Link had Rusl’s own crafted sword on his back, making the man’s breath catch for a moment. Taking a calming inhale, Rusl pulled the blade from Link’s back and headed to the gate. With a swift strike he quickly cut the wood holding the gate closed and hastened back to the teenager bleeding to death beside it.

The moonlight certainly didn’t help Rusl get a good look at Link; instead, it made him look outright ghostly. By this point, Link was wheezing, his head hanging limply on his chest. Rusl gathered him into his arms once more and rose, trying to ignore the cry of pain that issued involuntarily from his charge.

His charge, his responsibility, his boy—

How? How?

Rusl shook his head and whispered softly, “Hang in there, Link. You’re going to be okay.”

The journey back to his own house probably only took about two minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. Every step he took he saw Link’s blood glistening in the grass, little speckles that he’d just used to track a wolf in an attempt to kill it.

Blood that he’d spilled.

Rusl felt nauseous. He almost couldn’t breathe. He reached his house in record time, managing to turn the handle before he kicked the door open entirely. The room was still lit, and Uli had been sitting at the table. She was standing now, hand reaching for some sort of weapon to use on the wall before she took in the sight and gasped.

“Get the bandages!” Rusl ordered as he hastened to the couch, gently putting Link down. By this point the boy was barely conscious, but his death grip on Rusl’s tunic remained steadfast. He slowly pulled each individual finger off himself, letting Link hold his hand instead as his other hand pulled out a dagger to cut through Link’s clothes and expose the wound completely.

Rusl’s makeshift bandage was soaking wet.

Growing frantic, Rusl cut through fabric hastily. Link’s abdomen had a deep laceration, though not deep enough to eviscerate, thank the goddesses. Blood was still pooling at an alarming rate, but it seemed like it had slowed from what it had been back at the spring.

Uli rushed to his side. “What happened?”

Rusl didn’t dare speak. Instead, he took the bandages and paused as he watched the wound continue to bleed. It was far too open to stop on its own. He could put pressure to help, but this wound would remain open for too long.

But it was too deep for stitches. Sewing it up wouldn’t stop the damage underneath the surface.

He’d have to pack the wound.

Grabbing some gauze, Rusl washed his hands and took a steadying breath as Uli shifted Link a little, sitting on the couch and letting his head rest on her lap. Her fingers gently massaged his scalp and she bent over him, whispering reassurances that Rusl couldn’t hear. When he was ready, he pulled the stool by the sofa, staring at the boy’s abdomen with dread.

The bleeding was not as severe at this point, but this was going to start it up again if he wasn’t careful. He had to be quick and steady. Rusl reached and started to efficiently place gauze into the wound bed, watching the white stain red around the edges as the tissue leaked blood in protest. Link practically shriveled, his legs curling up with his feet planted firmly on the sofa, and Uli hastily snatched his hands away from Rusl’s work.

“Shh, it’s okay sweetie,” Uli whispered, planting a kiss on Link’s forehead as he gasped.

Rusl bit his tongue and focused to keep his hand from trembling. When he was almost finished, Link’s legs moved and Rusl froze to prevent further injury. Link was trying to push himself off the couch at this point. Rusl looked pleadingly at Uli.

“Shh, Link,” she hushed gently as he cried. “Honey, you have to stay still. He’s almost done, I promise.”

Link, who had been keeping his eyes squeezed shut the entire time, sucked in his lips and bit them, tears streaming down his face. His body stiffened, but he didn’t budge. Rusl nodded and quickly finished his work, covering the entire wound with a thick gauze pad and wrapping more around his abdomen to hold everything in place.

Relieved that the job was done, Rusl leaned back, sighing heavily. Link settled a bit as well as his wound was left alone. Uli continued to whisper to him softly, stroking his hair. Rusl looked away to focus his thoughts. He had to figure out what he was going to do and deal with the emotional ramifications later. Link needed help. Rusl’s wound care had stopped the bleeding, but there were so many things that could go wrong with the healing process. Link couldn’t be left in this state.

Kakariko. They had to go to Kakariko.

They couldn’t leave tonight, that much was certain. There was no way Rusl would be able to pack supplies, get a wagon from the mayor, and fend off the nighttime monsters with a grievously injured Link in the wagon.

Which meant Link had to survive the night here.

“Uli,” Rusl called her attention softly, refusing to look at the couch just yet. “Do we have any milk?”

“Just half a bottle left,” Uli answered uncertainly. “Will it help?”

“It’s always helped me in the past on journeys,” Rusl said to reassure himself as much as her.

Uli slipped out from under Link’s head, gently putting a pillow in her place. He didn’t seem to register the movement. As she headed to wherever she had stored the milk, it gave Rusl a moment—just a moment—to process.

He ran outside and vomited.

Link was—he had—

Rusl nearly got ill again when he heard Uli’s voice. “Rusl?”

He turned, panting for air, tears stinging in his eyes. “It’s—I’m fine. It’s just—let’s focus on Link.”

Uli’s brow furrowed deeply, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she nodded and stepped aside for him to reenter the house. She walked to Link, and Rusl helped sit him up so he could drink. He was too weak and in too much pain to be coherent, not listening when Uli held the bottle out for him to grab, so she instead went and grabbed a spoon and started to pour into it and tip it into his mouth. Rusl felt Link trembling in his hold, his body wrenching forward when he would gasp in pain, still in tears, nearly spilling the offered milk.

Eventually Rusl gave up on trying to prop Link up and just picked him back up. He then sat on the couch with Link on his lap, one arm secured tightly around his shoulders to try to keep him in place while the other rested around his legs so he wouldn’t thrash around. Uli took a shaky breath and tried again.

This time it went more smoothly. Link couldn’t fidget or jerk out of Rusl’s firm grip, and the only thing stopping him from drinking were the sobs that would escape him. Rusl felt himself shaking at both the effort to hold Link still and his own body betraying him after holding back the horror of everything for so long.

When the bottle was finally finished, Link coughed a little, a trace amount of milk dribbling down his chin, and Rusl froze in worry. Pain could make someone nauseous, and the last thing he wanted was for Link to throw up what meager nutrition they could get into him. Thankfully, the coughing didn’t progress, and the parents sighed in relief as Uli wiped Link’s face with a rag.

Running out of ideas for interventions, Rusl finally settled on just letting the boy sleep. He rose and went to their bedroom wordlessly, leaving Uli to clean up the disaster they’d left behind. He didn’t have the emotional energy to even feel guilty about it. In the corner of the bedroom was their daughter’s crib, where she had miraculously slept through the entire ordeal.

Rusl sat on the bed, letting Link settle on his lap for a moment. The boy was trembling and utterly exhausted, soft hiccups the remaining vestiges of his earlier sobs. Uli entered the room, watching them both with tears glistening in her eyes.

“Rusl,” she began, but he interrupted her.

“Please, Uli,” he said, his voice quivering. “Not now. I’ll tell you everything later.”

Uli took a slow, deep breath, and then nodded. She walked to the other side of the bed, pulling the blankets back for all three of them, and tossed the extra pillow between theirs. Rusl felt the mattress shift as his wife laid down, and he clutched Link even more tightly. The boy wasn’t as small or light as he used to be, though, so eventually the swordsman twisted and let the teenager settle on the bed. He continued to keep an arm around him, lying down beside him and pulling him close. At this point, Rusl was half convinced he was never going to let the boy go.

If that meant something like tonight would never happen again, then he would happily keep Link at his side for the rest of his days.

Releasing a shuddering sigh into Link’s sweaty hair, Rusl pulled the blankets up around the boy just as Uli did so. Link shifted on occasion, clearly still in pain, but he was far calmer than he had been earlier. Rusl prayed some of the warm milk they’d given him would help settle him.

After what felt like an eternity, the effect finally did take hold. Link’s breathing evened out, and he relaxed in Rusl’s protective embrace. Uli eventually started to drift off as well despite her efforts to watch their eldest.

Rusl, however, couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t get the image of the wolf out of his mind, the shadows coalescing into a distinctly familiar form. Couldn’t get the heart stopping feeling out his body at realizing what had happened.

Couldn’t understand how or why.

Link shifted slightly, likely to get more comfortable, when he hissed. His wound must have bothered him, and his eyes popped open as he grimaced. Rusl moved to soothe him, but the instant Link’s gaze settled on the man, he turned distinctly paler. Rusl felt his own mind grow numb at the sheer terror on Link’s face.

Terror. He was afraid of him. His boy was afraid of him.

Crying out, Link shoved hard, and though the boy was hurt he was still the strongest teenager Rusl had ever seen, and it sent the man tumbling off the bed. Uli awoke with a gasp, and a moment later, so did their daughter with a shrill cry. Rusl scrambled to his feet and saw Link trying to crawl backwards, pushing with his feet to reach the other side of the bed and crashing into Uli. Rusl reached forward hastily, securing a hold under Link’s armpits and pulling him back to himself.

Holding him tightly, he whispered, “It’s okay, Link. You’re safe. You’re… I’m… I’m not going to hurt you.”

Oh, and those words burned as they came out of his mouth, they made him dizzy and sick to his stomach. Uli thankfully didn’t hear them with all the noise Link and Hana were making. Husband and wife had a wordless exchange with their eyes, and Uli rose to take care of the baby, carrying her out of the room to calm her.

Link shriveled in Rusl’s hold, seemingly trying to disappear from reality. Rusl didn’t know what to say, didn’t feel like he deserved to reassure him. But Link also didn’t deserve to feel like this.

“Link,” he said softly, kissing his head. “You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe.

When Link finally looked at his guardian, Rusl recognized the expression. It was no longer pure terror, there was more to it. Link’s initial knee-jerk reaction had been borne from being disoriented, but now he looked guilty. He had the expression he would get when he was afraid of being reprimanded as a child.

He thought Rusl was angry at him.

“Goddesses,” Rusl exclaimed under his breath. “Link, I’m not mad. You’re not in trouble.”

Why would Link even assume that?! Did he do something wrong to end up looking like a beast? It didn’t matter what he’d done, what mattered was what Rusl had done!

There was more to it, clearly. Link was still upset, and it wasn’t just the pain. Speaking of that, though, the boy’s face was growing steadily paler, and Rusl quickly pulled up the shirt Uli had supplied to see the bandages were still clean. Good. He wasn’t bleeding through them.

Pulling Link close again, Rusl whispered, “It’s okay, Link. Go to sleep. Uli and I are here, and you’re safe.”

As he spoke, Uli reentered the room with a calmed Hana in her arms. She hummed gently, rocking the baby back and forth, and her melody soothed both their children back into slumber. Hana was placed back in her crib, Link was tucked back against Rusl’s side, and the parents settled, exchanging silent strength between each other. Rusl reached his hand out, and Uli took it. The couple watched each other and their children through the night. Neither said a word.

#wolf link reveal fic #I don't know how many chapters this story will be #probably three #Link is having a slightly rough time right now #Rusl is not doing much better #Uli has no idea what the hell happened and just had Rusl carrying their half dead kid inside #it's whump time guys!!! #whumptober #twilight princess #twilight princess link #tp link #wolf link #rusl #uli #legend of zelda #writing #secrets of the shadows

[randomfoggytiger]

"I Wonder If You Think It's Safe Enough to Indulge Yourself"

(Fictober, Day 7)

*****

Phoebe Green. Fire.

The irony of two such oppositional elements combined in one destructive person-- nurture feeding nature, green-eyed monsters indulged with red hot passions-- had not been lost on Mulder. Perhaps he wasn't red-green colorblind in the strictest sense-- nojo on the rojo, that was a good one-- but his senses had failed him just enough to miss the glaring red flags, the forest for the Green. All that blazed was not a glow. All that grew did not produce.

But in the right hands, all that burned could be rebuilt. All that poisoned could be cured.

It required a discerning eye to find the right partner; and, though decades late with burn scars and thorn marks, Mulder knew now how to differentiate his colors.

*****

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober2023 and @fictober-event

#txf #fic #Fictober #2023 #Day 7 #mine #Wetwired #S3 #but only vaguely #is Mulder red-green colorblind? Nope-- wouldn't be FBI if so #was it interesting to write him as slightly red-green colorblind for the themes? Yes #really proud I wrote today! #'twas... a rough computer day-- many woes and sorrows and stymied/unwanted updates etc. #and a few doors closed firmly in my face #HOPEFULLY tomorrow will be better~ #I intend it to be so anyway~ #Mulder #Scully #Phoebe Green #tried not to overdo the metaphors

[mochasucculent]

Yea idk how I haven't shared them here yet but here's some doodles of Tabitha and "Apathy" (she ain't got a name yet), the two protags of my ghost story!

Grieving after the sudden loss of her grandmother, Apathy accidentally becomes bound to the spirit of Tabitha, a young girl who was murdered in the 1870s. Stuck together in unfamiliar circumstances, the two must discover how to send Tabitha on to the afterlife, and if they even can.

UPDATEEEEEEEEE Apathy's name is Naomi :)

#i draw tabitha all cheery usually but she has a very very rough time at the start #very vengeful and confused and inconsolable and angry #as one would be if they were murdered #the first drawing was a couple months ago but the last drawing was from maybe like a year and a half ago? #so they look a lil different #i change their designs slightly every time i draw them lol #but yea i imagine this as an animated series! #its a love letter to the PNW (my home baybey) as well as like. my attempt to utilize the vehicle of horror for character exploration #if u know i love midnight mass and haunting of hill house then the mike flanagan jumps out immediately lmao #tabitha bennett #naomi evans #ghost girl story #i dont have a name for any of my stories either #i thought maybe of calling it 'mortis operandi' #but idk what their usual way of doing things would be to make the modus operandi part of the title make sense lol #also the tagline would be something like 'life after death for those who have lost someone and those who were lost' #so then i thought of calling it something like 'those who were lost' but ghosts are kinda a rarity in this universe so #it feels like that shouldnt be the focus of the title #idk im REALLY bad with titles #i think the character writing for these lil dudes that currently only exists in my brain is some of the best ive done tho #grabs u by the shoulders: talk to me about the irony that tabitha teaches apathy how to feel alive again despite being the one who's dead #my art #ocs

[copper-skulls]

these two pulling their magic again

#rough #me trying to figure out how to do at least slightly dynamic poses.png #grillby #gaster #undertale #fanart #digital art #krita #razzmatazz related drawings #i tried to do one with both of them in it but it didn't turn out good hfkjahs #i should do more of them sparring... like the two characters I write that aren't 100% averse to fighting and looking cool while doing that #wheezes

[saixpuppy]

🦐 for the ask game!!!

the emotions really DO be shrimpin'....

so beatmania iidx has me by the throat rn and i'm absolutely in love with all the roots26 characters. they're very interconnected, and all sorts of little mundane details about each one make them feel like people i could know. i've got two favorites but the one who's currently eating most of my fucking brain real estate is

duel

real name "leonard baxter," which is a very silly name in my honest onion. i am never going to call him that ever in my life. the aliases are basically just IIDX usernames anyway so that's cute in a way i guess.

he's a british weeaboo. completely seriously. i'm going mostly off the arcadia version of his profile here - he was a sweet kid who liked soccer, but got screwed over after his parents' store went bankrupt, started fucking around as a broker in the black market because poverty. got stabbed, got inspired to move to japan from a movie he saw while he was in the hospital, and now he writes books about culture and uses his black market sales skills to export weeb shit.

oh, and as per heroic verse and rage, apparently he's also some kind of dog-mecha-suit-wearing demon-assassination-strike-team-member who's on the leash of one of the more morally dubious recurring characters.

"isn't this a game about being a dj," someone asked me recently. (it is.)

siren calls him shady basically to his face. iirc one of the girls says he talks strange (he does - from what i can see he tends to quote stuff and has other...quirks.) he dresses like a mall ninja military fetishist. (he's never been in the military - though another fucking iidx dj has. nix my beloved.) i threw some actual official art of him on a customized eamusement card decal and my friend said i shouldn't use it because it has actual gang imagery in it. (i only mention this because i think it's hilarious in retrospect.)

i hate this man. i want to put him in the dryer spin cycle. his fashion choices make me want to eat my own iidx controller. he's the exact kind of person i'd kill to be friends with because he'd invite me to go to japanese history museums. his tits are out in the newest art of him that i've found. if he wanted to put a dog collar on me i probably would not tell him no.

shrimp emotions indeed

#tekka post #THANK YOU FOR ENABLING ME #also like HI BIG CAVEAT: i'm NEW to iidx i've been #scrounging between remywiki and fantranslations and badly google translating literal screen pictures of the heroic verse story. #i'm PROBABLY missing something!! #i found out about the inu unit thing like a WEEK AGO after microwaving this guy in my brain for like a month. fuck. #i could've also written this about nix and it probably would've been shorter #i really fucking love nix also i've just been in a rough place lately and duel's slightly more suited for that kind of energy ig. #i'm hitting him with beams. #this post took me all evening to write holy christ. (that's mostly adhd though.) #((pspspspsss someone enable me to talk about nix. jkjk. ....unless?)) #long post #LONG ASS POST. SORRY.

[odetoplath]

Loneliness is a funny thing.

I ate an orange today

and had no one to share it with.

I heard a child cry,

“that isn’t fair!”

I thought, just wait ‘til you’re older.

Apathy isn’t so much as

tragic

as it is

expected.

Something to grow into.

And on this day

where I woke by myself,

ate by myself,

read by myself,

bathed by myself,

I cannot particularly say:

I’m glad I exist.

c.k.

#stream of consciousness #slightly inspired by the orange by wendy cope #poetry #literature #litblr #lit #bookblr #books #book #poets corner #poem #late night writing #loneliness #depression #apathy #rough draft #first draft

[mantisgodsdomain]

(image reference, by order that they're listed in the poll)

#bugs #insects #moths #polls #lepidoptera #moth polls #we speak #moth poll... 2! #if some of these look somewhat similar then in our defence these are chosen by looking at random moths and going “oh wow that looks cool” #cadarena is a monotypic genus! thats not got a lot of research done into it but still! #we may have gotten slightly carried away there while looking up transparent winged moths but uhh #the moths are set. whatever else you say about em. #we will reblog this with propaganda in a bit but for now go ham #anyways! there are image descriptions but they may be a bit rough in our defence we're used to character writing not irl moth description #use them to orient which moth you're looking at and you should be fine

[heich0e]

hi guys i'm just gonna say this bc it's been weighing on my heart since the situation that happened yesterday, and it's important for me to express this in the interest of being transparent and curating a space online that makes us all happy.

if we're mutuals and you don't like me, please please unfollow me. and i am saying this with zero judgement or ill-will.

if you take the posts i'm making in bad faith, or question my intentions in making them, that speaks to your opinion and perception of me as a person. you are ABSOLUTELY entitled to whatever opinion you have of me, irrespective of the grounds you formed it on, and no one is obligated to like me. but by maintaining that mutual and silently resenting or scrutinizing me you're compromising both of our user experiences on this website. i don't follow people who i do not genuinely love and respect and admire, and i promise you that i would have already broken the mutual were that the case. i want to be able to enjoy being here and i want you to also be able to enjoy being here and if the only way for that to be true is for those existences not to overlap then i understand even if it makes me sad, but i can't divine how other people feel about me, so i am asking you to please please do us both this favour because i don't know what to do anymore.

#this also applies to non-mutuals in a slightly different sense! #also like #i don't mean to vent here but life is really rough right now and i just don't want this to make me sad anymore #i want to be able to enjoy this space and interact with people and share my writing which was the entire reason i started this blog #anyway i'm sorry for this post and this mess and yeah #sorry

[bereft-of-frogs]

I love (/sarcasm) when it's like

*bopping along writing*

*sudden intense self-doubt* oh god what if I'm getting worse actually, what if this idea is so stupid, what if it's too similar to something else I've done before, what if it sucks actually--

...anyway, it's fine actually *returns to writing like nothing happened*

that's annoying. could do without that.

#so jot that down BRAIN #let's just not #writing problems #lol i actually had a nice night there was just that one minute where i was like oh NO this is terrible #and then it was fine again #anywho #i did not see dune again because the only showtime was 6:30 and my post-clock change schedule is fragile #next week i will see dune again #when getting up at 6 maybe feels slightly less like getting up at 5 #and there are less crowds #but hey i'm making progress on the rough draft #i almost came like....very close to completely starting over for a minute but we're good #i mean i will eventually do that in the second draft but this is the first it's ok to hate it a little

[mejomonster]

To get good at telling stories... writing stories... one must... practice by writing stories ;-;

#rant #i tell u what i think id have functioned well in a wrbnovel publishing format. but i dont think #any good sites for that exist in english as of yet? (i think theres one but its contract is Yikes i heard) #but just like. the idea of publishing chapter ever 1-2 weeks until youre done. maybe 20 chapters maube 2000. maybr you never finish. #most of the chapters free and maybe idk you make some advertizing money on ads viewed on your chapter page. or make the last couple extras #paid only idk. but the big thing? the point im getting to - sorry i got lost in the sauce - #my point is: you probably DO write shit at first. or write fine with some SHIT ARCS or rushed chapters to hit ur weekly updates #and 5 years from then youll look back and wanna overhaul some of those fucking stories (weve seen many a jjwxc writer revise later). #but wow will you have practiced writing a LOT. #youll have 100k 500k 1 million 5 million words worth of writing under your belt in a few years #and youll probably be a hell of a lot better at knowing how to make more chaptwrs on average interezsting and Building Consistently to your #main plot and arcs. you'll probably get much bettwr at raw scheduling of wriitng and pre-planning that works for you and structure mapping #youll have a much better idea of your personal strengths whrn you need to lean on them for a rough month when your story's turned #into a mess. youll value your own writing more (i hope) cause LOOK how much you fucking accomplished. #like. npss? dmbjs author? idk about others but i can definitely see the improvement in wriitng skill #between dmbj book 1 and the recent heihua book and mountain village book #(in terms of style in word choice. and goals for the story set out to be told) #i look at priest and newer novels by priest are as impressive as any literary novel ive ever analysed #(and older ones while i also love i do see their slightly rougher word choice and how some were executed a bit #more up and down/not as tightly) #i just. agh. i am :c feeling that ill probably write 200k words this year #and none of it will be as good as i want. but i NEED to write these first 200k #because the only way i get better. get to the way i want to write. is to make the progress of improvement with this first 200k. #ToT fun fact i wrote 170k words this year. WOW. and maybe 400k words of fanfic in the 4 years prior (so 100k words on average) #i know i am imptoving. i just gotta keep at it. #also? annoying i cant focus my attention lmao. 160k words is mkre than enough to finish a 1st draft novel #but me? i split those among like 20 projects this year. so the novel most written so far is still only at 40k #and im probably going to need 60k more words to finish it

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads / storygraph

Caraway of the Sea

slow paced pirate fantasy

follows a woman who’s grown up as the first mate & mercenary on the ship her brother captains

after a friend dies and they dock at a pirate-run island, she starts to question her brother’s treatment of her, and her past, and whether she could break away from what she’s used to

#caraway of the sea #aroaessidhe 2023 reads #euhh. it’s fine. #the writing is a bit rough/boring. the random flashbacks feel very clunky. not a ton of worldbuilding. MCs characterisation felt a bit disc #asexual books #(slightly vague in that regard - she's clearly aspec but hasn't quite gotten into like. fully addressing it) #Istg I saw the author call it sapphic #I found her tt & scrolled all the way down and she DID start by marketing it as sapphic and then stopped? (as far as what’s on thumbnails) #like if she’s bi sure but there’s not any indication of that & also it feels odd to promote it as sapphic without mentioning it’s m/f or bi #so I guess my expectations were off in that regard i was like who is this dude. #it’s also marketed as grim-cozy which is like. what does that MEAN #I think it just means small-scale/slow paced which is like. average tone of a fantasy romance #(not that this is 100% romance focused but yknow. the way stakes are never That high)

[direwombat]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

i haven't gotten to any naughty jakesyb stuff yet, so have a mid-spicy sybeli to tide y'all over

“Jesus, your hands are cold!” he exclaims. 

Pulling her hands from underneath his shirt, she places them atop his chest and pushes herself up. He shifts beneath her, allowing her to slot her knees on either side of his hips to allow her to straddle him. Drawing her lower lip between her teeth and gazing upon him with eyes half-lidded with lust, she drags her palms over his pecs, giving them an appreciative squeeze the same way he had her ass. “Perhaps you should find some way to warm them up, Mr. Palmer,” she husks. 

#that second paragraph is still in it's very rough draft #that is slightly polished word-vomit #syb also has bad circulation in her hands apparently. just like me <3 write what you know <3 <3 <3 #love syb's use of honorifics in her speech pattern #if she's calling you 'mr/ms/mrs/mx/etc [name]' it's either because: #a) she doesn't know you and she's being polite but also if she continues to refer to you with an honorific she's keeping you distant #b) you've impressed her (ex. 'oh well ain't you clever mr. [name]'). this can be in the either good impressed or 'you fucked up BAD' #or c) she's being a tease and wants to FUCK #wip: the horror and the wild

[ephhemeralite]

listen. i understand the fact that aziraphale's part of everyday is a lot of new and interesting bits of character development that are very fun to tear apart. but i've seen tons of people discussing what heaven and forgiveness and crowley-as-an-angel mean to aziraphale without the corresponding look at what it means to crowley. so i would really like to do that

cw: discussions of abuse, indoctrination, trauma, and a Really Very Long meta post

it super surprised me when s2 opened on an angel!crowley scene because that kind of scene isn't typically necessary for the kind of character he is. crowley's character is one that revolves around the absence of who he was Before -- so you can understand all that you need to know about him by the ways that he deals with what he's lost (looking at where the furniture isn't, right?). he talks about stars and creation now because they were the most important parts of his angelic life and he cannot leave them behind. he mentions how he fell for asking questions because that's still a large part of who he is; he doesn't believe in hell's mission and he questions the goals and ethics of hell/heaven (the whole graverobbing ordeal, as well as the opening in s1 with hastur and ligur where you can see that his demonic strategy is fundamentally different from more traditional demons, not to mention having a permit from heaven during the job scenes and still disobeying orders according to his own morality). we get a really solid understanding of crowley and what he's about perfectly well from his current demon iteration, because the most important tenants of his character have stayed consistent or formed after the fall.

so what do we gain by such a scene to open the season? well, we learn that this is when aziraphale met crowley for the first time, we learn that aziraphale is immediately besotted by crowley, we learn that aziraphale expresses concern for crowley's questions (and imminent fall). this scene focuses on aziraphale experiencing crowley as an angel because this is an important moment for aziraphale's story, not anything to do with how crowley is or where crowley's story is going.

some other things we know about crowley are that he is the one constantly pushing for "their own side," for separation from heaven and hell, for a person that understands him as someone outside of the angel/demon binary. crowley is the one to approach aziraphale first as agents of opposite sides on the wall of eden, to suggest the arrangement, to convince aziraphale that armageddon would be bad and that they should work together to stop it. he's the one pushing aziraphale further from acceptable angelic behavior. hell, we even find out that he tempts aziraphale into trying food for the first time, which is aziraphale's greatest vice as a character.

this isn't because crowley wants aziraphale to fall or because he's set out to corrupt an angel, though. he sees aziraphale sin (or separate himself from heaven as a collective) first with giving away his sword, then through continued conversation with crowley (The Enemy), and the various other historical scenes where aziraphale lies or indulges in consumption or doesn't follow the divine plan to a tee. this culminates in the arrangement, which crowley sees as a concrete acknowledgement of the futility of heaven and hell, along the lines of "if we can both do the other side's acts and we're both canceling each other out, what's the point in doing any of this in the first place?" (this is NOT, notably, a question on the futility of life itself. crowley covets some material items like the bentley and alcohol that point to a personal valuation of living on earth, but he also has a strong and consistent emphasis on actual, living creatures: the goats, job's children, his plants, the children drowned during the flood, the antichrist, and the line from s2e6 where he says "if heaven kills all life on earth it will be just as dead as if hell had done it.") he believes that this is a clear indication that aziraphale no longer subscribes to the traditional opinions of heaven and hell. obviously, he discovers that he's very wrong come the last scene of season two, but it's helpful to understand the mindset he walks in with.

there's been a lot of gorgeous meta about how the two of them communicate and what their relationship is like in the present, so i'll try not to reinvent the wheel too much here while i look at the conversation in everyday. there's two particular things id like to look at: how crowley can never truly tell aziraphale no (this is pretty well-established so i don't feel the need to go into it, yes?) and the consistency with which crowley denies being the angel he was before the fall -- there are the unsubtle lines about not being the angel who fell, his time as an angel being a long time ago; there's also the slightly subtler moments where he refuses to acknowledge any memory of working with any particular angel/demon during their time as angels (both the pencil-pusher demon and saraqael, if not anyone else im forgetting), as well as his rather iconic reaction to being described as good or nice (this is typically interpreted as a reaction to being seen as not demon-like, but crowley really doesn't care about demons or hell beyond what his association requires. no one cares who's doing the job so long as it gets done, yeah? its more interesting to me to see these moments as times where crowley is described in angelic terms and refuses to let himself be seen as something he can no longer be.)

so if you take crowley at his word, what does it mean to no longer be an angel?

it means that there was a point where crowley was an angel, as we've both heard and seen. it means that he spent time in heaven, had a role, experienced and valued a lot of typically angelic things like kindness and forgiveness. it means that he was eventually cast out for, as we've heard and seen, being curious and headstrong. it means that he lost his place in heaven, his role, his identity, his values and experiences (using experiences here to refer to things he has done and can no longer do, rather than his memories, since i don't have enough textual substance to discuss any ideas i might have about memory). this is the really important part, i think: that crowley had all of these things and that they were taken from him because of who he is as a person (who he already was as an angel, before the exacerbation that came when he became a demon). not only that, all of this loss also took the form of an extremely traumatic fall (as in, a single event that caused crowley not only emotional but assumably physical pain, as well as being a generally physical ordeal).

abusive situations can often thrive because of the manipulation the people within them experience. unquestionable, morally just figures like parents to children or gods to angels get away with what they do because they are able to turn the victim's doubt around onto the victim (what i do is right because i'm The Parent/God/The Boss and you as The Child/The Angel/The Employee have no right to question me, thus if you do you must be Wrong) as well as the ephemeral nature of words (did they really say that or am i exaggerating to make them seem worse in my memory? this is where the physical aspect of falling comes in). this is something i fully see happening to aziraphale within the show.

however, one of the things that can knock an abused person out of their abusive situation is something that's too big to go unquestioned and an absence of the manipulating force to direct the shape of their conclusions. this is where crowley and aziraphale's character stories differ: crowley fell, lost all connection to heaven, and then had no one to tell him heaven was in the right and he the wrong. after landing in hell (which could have also been a bad and manipulative situation) crowley is removed from the manipulating forces by being stationed on earth, where he is allowed to experience life out from under anyones thumb (relatively), process this giant trauma and loss, and find his own answers. he then does what a lot of people who have been abused do when they're no longer being abused: he goes out and does stuff that he couldn't do before. this is where he meets aziraphale, who is also stationed on earth and doing a number of (aforementioned) things that don't align with heaven. the thing that crowley doesn't understand is that aziraphale hasn't had these same experiences that lead to crowley's epiphany nor is he isolated from heaven's manipulation (often seen as gabriel in the first season and metatron in the second). each time aziraphale does something that does not align with heaven's ideals, he either sees that as a reflection of what a bad angel he is or he tries to rationalize it into fitting into his/heaven's world view (the ineffable plan. it was literally right there this entire time i could SCREAM about this GOD'S INEFFABLE PLAN)

so aziraphale is holding onto this idea of an angel that does not exist anymore and crowley is projecting an understanding of similar experiences that did not happen. they're miscommunicating, wow, what else is new? we understand that aziraphale is rationalizing and being manipulated, but why did crowley act the way he did during the fight instead of falling into the familiar and consistent pattern of following aziraphale and going where he leads?

that's right, i said i wanted to talk about how crowley can never tell aziraphale no!!

from crowley's point of view, their entire relationship revolves around their experiences on earth where he has perceived aziraphale defying heaven and he felt intense kinship with that. he's delighted about giving away the sword, he watches aziraphale eat a LOT, they definitely like to drink together, he protects aziraphale from the consequences of lying (crowley protecting aziraphale from falling deserves a billion metas right this instant really). these are all major moments to crowley where aziraphale distinguishes himself from the celestial system. when aziraphale asks crowley for things, he does them because (yes, he loves aziraphale, but also) aziraphale is the one person across heaven, hell, and earth that crowley feels he is actually allied with. he has to go through the motions with hell, deal with all of the pain surrounding heaven, but this one angel is a place where crowley can be genuine, whether that be good or bad or none of the above (this is literally manifested physically within the text with crowley's glasses). the foundation of their relationship, to crowley, is their side. this is why crowley's reaction at the end of everyday is both so intense and pivotal: aziraphale asks crowley to join heaven's side with him and crowley says no.

crowley is not an angel. when crowley was an angel, before the beginning of time, he was too incompatible with heaven and so he fell. that is what being an angel got crowley. there have been some points made about how unhappy being a demon makes crowley and how sweet and innocent he seemed as an angel, but i think that line of thinking falls into the same trap that aziraphale does, which is in assuming that being an angel is in some way inherently better than being a demon, or that crowley wasn't unhappy as an angel, or that aziraphale isn't unhappy as an angel himself. because crowley is happy, when left to his own devices or with aziraphale. his unhappiness comes from the interventions of heaven and hell within his life (thus the importance of crowley questioning the point of heaven and hell and not life itself) because he would like to be separate from them, not restored to some prior state of belonging within their system. the truth is that crowley will never become that angel that aziraphale met again, because that's not how trauma ever, ever works, but that does not mean that crowley cannot have a full and meaningful life in his current state. he's not broken, he's just someone who has been rejected by heaven.

crowley responds to the most fundamental aspect of his identity being questioned and dismissed (i can make you an angel again), with, frankly, a respectably low-key amount of upset. he tells aziraphale that they're better than their sides because his ultimate goal is to separate their side from that of heaven and hell. when aziraphale reveals that he wants to fix heaven, crowley hears him. this is so important to me, because this is a moment where crowley is trying to communicate. he changes his approach and tries to speak to aziraphale instead of reacting out of emotion. after this moment, crowley doesn't speak out of anger at all, even in response to when aziraphale does. instead, he tries to confess his feelings to aziraphale and offers up the option to leave heaven and hell behind again. this is such an important moment because it's crowley trying to break out of their long, deep-instilled habit to hide and double-speak and he gets really close to saying what he means explicitly, even factoring how intensely emotional it makes him to do so.

his offer to run away isn't done to ignore aziraphale's needs but to show him that there is another way out, if aziraphale is willing to take it. there are other options that aziraphale hasn't considered, but crowley is, because crowley is still trying to solidify the existence of their side. from their side, they are free to ignore the angel/demon dichotomy and just be themselves, whatever that looks like. this is what crowley wants, above everything else in the world.

aziraphale rejects this entire concept when he lets go of his bookshop and earth as a whole with the nothing lasts forever line. aziraphale is rejecting earth, the middle ground that they've built their entire lives together on, forcing them into the roles of angel and demon exclusively. this, of all moments, is when crowley puts his glasses back on. because he cannot be an angel, the only role left to him is demon, and thus his vulnerability is not safe or welcome to be exposed to aziraphale.

crowley tries to acknowledge their life on earth twice in the next few moments: the nightingales, which represent everything they went through in the last season (which aziraphale is not thinking about, because he's already left their role as representatives of earth and/or humanity behind) and the kiss itself, which is as explicit as crowley is physically able to be about his own feelings and the future he wants them to have on earth as their own side. he is asking aziraphale, as well as he can, to stay. he's physically closing the divide between their roles in an attempt to show aziraphale how little it all really matters in practice and

aziraphale does the most angelic thing he possible could and Forgives crowley. this is not said out of kindness or as an instinctive reaction. aziraphale is angry and upset when he says this because, in some way, he understands what his words mean even as he does not understand crowley's actions or rejection at all. he reinforces the binary between them and acts vindictively (to parallel the insistence on the apology dance after the argument in the first episode) in retaliation to crowley denying what he sees as his gracious and miraculous offer of restoration.

the most important part of crowley's character to understand in this moment is that while he wants a happy life with aziraphale more than anything, he has extremely hard limits and heaven is one of them. his boundary here is a fundamental part of him and even his deepest desires cannot overcome them. as a fallen, crowley knows that who he is as a person is not angelic. as a fallen, crowley knows what its like to lose the most important, pivotal pieces of his life and start again. as a fallen, he knows that he survived it once. he tells aziraphale don't bother.

and crowley, who will be (and always has been) a demon if it means not being an angel, who has told aziraphale that demons are unforgivable, does the only thing he can do. he leaves.

#good omens #god omens season 2 spoilers #good omens season 2 #crowley #meta #warning btw this is nearly 20 paragraphs its long as fuck #i had a category 5 english major moment #i am a crowley girlie (gender neutral) and while i acknowledge the rough time the aziraphale babes are going thru the slander cannot stand #we will live in a world of complex media analysis i swear to the gods #im not aziraphale bashing but i cannot live in a world where i dont acknowledge that he's in the wrong here #which is INSANE IN ITS OWN RIGHT considering how intensely the show emphasizes the greys of morality #but the grey you get with aziraphale is that hes a victim of abuse being manipulated #his decision itself has no merit on its own standing. i would say sorry but i am not #i also disagree with the coffee theory on an ideological level regarding the art of storytelling #at most id say the fact that the coffee gets described twice in slightly different ways is strange and could be intentional. #also im writing a gomens2 fic rn that is only about 600 words shorter than this meta #why are essays so much easier than narrative writing this is awful

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

thinking about her (Scully in Little Talks AU)

#is it ok to make posts about things in the series that i haven't posted yet shsjsbsnsnsns #Lu rambles #it's just. she's a shade sadder than in canon but she's also determined in a slightly different way #and there's this gravitas to her in ltau that i love thinking about/writing SO MUCH #bc she's the same soft girl as before and as she is in canon even post-abduction arc #but she's also got more going on than just what happened to her #she's lost her former partner and best friend and then has to have this crisis of faith due to the fact that UHHHH #he's slightly haunting her #which in itself adds a lot to what she's dealing with bc she doesn't believe in that stuff!!! but now this!! #and also just the fact that he died trying to save her. that probably is rough on her for a while. #and she's taking over and carrying on his work both bc what happened to her (and is still happening bc: ghost bestie) is unexplained #and thus falls under the x files #but she's also carrying that on in mulder's honor — bc as seen in canon #she steps more into his role when he isn't there. she carries that fire; as it were; when he's gone #and there's just... a lot. she's still herself. she'll never be anybody but who she's always been ya know??? #but there's more she's carrying and stepping into now and there's a Vibe about her in the AU that i think about a LOT #Lu writes #little talks au #dana scully #lu don't lose this #bc... i just wrote a bunch of my own notes here and i want to save them shdhsjjsjsjsjs