#I had two other pages I scrapped but maybe I’ll show sometime anyway !

[ahyuggg]

origami 🌃

I care him,,,🫶🏼

#I had two other pages I scrapped but maybe I’ll show sometime anyway ! #aventurine #hsr aventurine #hsr #honkai star rail #aventurine honkai star rail #aventurine hsr #YAHOOOO #btw this is based on origami by the rare occasions #the lyrics !!

[fridayfirefly]

Lavender for Tranquillity, Pink Aster for Love

Read Lavender for Tranquillity, Pink Aster for Love on AO3

Masterlist

Written for Maribat March Day 16 - Magic

“Here's your drink."

"Thank you," Marinette said with a smile, setting the coffee mug down next to her textbooks. She was doing some last-minute studying for her upcoming Herbology final, and the coffeeshop sandwiched between the Business Department and the Herbology Department was her favorite spot to study.

Setting down her pen, Marinette picked up the coffee cup and took a long sip. Immediately she knew something was wrong. The entire taste of the drink was wrong, and not in a subtle way, as if the barista used an incorrect ingredient. Marinette had ordered a plain vanilla lavender latte, but this drink was something entirely.

The shock of adrenaline through her veins hit Marinette like a bus. Not only had she been given the wrong drink, but she had also been given a drink infused with an alertness charm that had her breath shortening and her hands vibrating from the extra energy.

On shaky legs, Marinette stood up and walked over to her waitress. "Excuse me," Marinette said apologetically. "But I think you gave me the wrong drink. I ordered a vanilla lavender latte."

The waitress's eyes widened as she saw Marinette's shaking hands. "Oh no! I gave you the chai latte infused with an extra-strength alertness charm."

Marinette couldn't identify the drink by taste, but given that her heart was racing as if she had just finished a marathon, the extra-strength alertness charm sounded about right. "Yep."

"I am so sorry about the mixup. Your drink will be free, of course, and you can have anything you want on the house. It's my first day, and I was supposed to take this to take four but I took it to table fourteen - that it, your table - by accident."

"It's alright. Everyone makes mistakes. I'll have my vanilla lavender latte, as well as two blueberry muffins - one for me and one for the person at table four, the one was also involved in the drink mixup.

The waitress nodded eagerly, obviously relieved that Marinette hadn't gotten angry at her. "Of course. I'll bring everything to your table momentarily.

Glad that the mixup was over, and still buzzing from the effects alertness charm, Marinette went back to her table to continue studying. Having grown up in a bakery all her life, Marinette knew the different herbs and flowers well. She grew up eating lavender cookies when she was anxious and passionflower icing right out of the mixing bowl when she needed comforting.

Marinette read the words out loud off the page, cementing them into memory. "Wormwood for divination, juniper for protection, passionflower for contentment, aster for patience, lavender for peace and tranquillity, roses for love and affection."

"Excuse me."

Marinette looked up from her textbook to see a young man standing beside her table. "Can I help you?"

He uncomfortably rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize for the drink mixup. I'm sure that my extra-strength alertness charm wasn't what you were expecting."

Marinette realized that he must be the other participant in the drink mix-up, the one whose alertness charm she drank. "No worries. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was an accident."

The man nodded. "I also wanted to thank you for the blueberry muffin. It was a nice gesture."

"Oh, you're welcome..." Marinette trailed off, pausing the conversation for him to introduce himself.

"Timothy Drake, but you can call me Tim. And you are?"

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Are you a student at Gotham University?"

Tim nodded. "Yep. I'm in my junior year. I assume you go here as well, though I don't think I've ever seen you around before. What's your major?"

"I'm a sophomore fashion major, with a specialization in Thread Magic. Also, a Herbology minor, which I know is an odd choice. What about you?"

"I'm double majoring in Business and Charms, so I know all about odd choices."

"Take a seat," Marinette offered. "If you explain your odd choice in majors, I'll explain mine."

"Sure." Tim smiled at her. "A business major was the practical choice for me, as I always planned on taking over my family business. I guess I was getting a little sick of the practical choice, because I couldn't quite shake my interest in magical academia. That was what led me to the Charms Department. I never intended to major in Charms, until I found out that I had nearly all of the required credits to add a Charms major to my diploma."

"I understand all about mixing practical with completely impractical. I've known since I was young that I was gifted in Thread Magic. I used to embroider sigils into all of my clothes. It was a natural choice, choosing to become a Fashion major, because it allowed me to pursue thread magic as a career. Then, one day during freshman orientation when I was exploring campus I wandered into one of the greenhouses. I was instantly enthralled, as if it was fate for me to work there. I bribed my academic advisor with homemade cookies to let me drop my Potions elective to take Intro to Herbology, and ever since then I've been working in the Herbology department."

"That's not the oddest reason," said Tim. "Sometimes magic drives us to do things we don't quite understand. You just have to go with it."

"Hmm," Marinette hummed in agreement. She let her mind wander for a moment until she realized that she was staring at his lips. She tore her eyes away from them, instead, fixing her gaze on her latte. "So why did you need to extra-strength alertness charm anyway? Finals week all-nighter?"

Tim nodded. "I stayed up all night studying because I had two finals this morning, and in twenty minutes I'm getting a ride back home to my family's house for a big family dinner. Trust me, I would prefer a nap to an alertness charm, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

"You know what's better than an alertness charm?"

"What?"

"Some fresh air," Marinette smiled. "If you'd like, I could take you on a tour of the Herbology greenhouses."

Tim's face brightened up. "Sure, I would love that."

Marinette finished the rest of her latte and returned the mug to the front of the coffeeshop. She and Tim then left the coffeeshop in the direction of the Herbology greenhouse. The sun was shining brightly overhead, and Marinette could feel the call of the magical plants deep within her bones. That was Marinette's favorite part of being a Green Witch - the connection she felt to nature was indescribable, but when she did try and describe it to her friends and family, she emphasized that it felt incredibly right.

"Herbology was the subject you were studying for in the coffeeshop, right?" asked Tim.

Marinette nodded. "Yep. I was just reviewing some notes. I'm still a little nervous about it, but I don't think I can study any more than I already have."

"I hope you do well."

Marinette blushed. "I really hope so. If I get a good enough grade in the course, I might be able to get a position on the Herbology Department research team. It's very selective, though. They only take two students from each year."

Marinette and Tim walked up the stairs to the front doors of the greenhouse. Marinette opened up the doors and let the warm, humid air wash over her. "I could just live here forever, and never leave," she said with a smile.

Tim tugged at his shirt collar. "It's a little too humid for my taste."

Marinette shook her head. "That's what I thought at first too, but you get used to it. Eventually, the humidity stopped being annoying and started reminding me of all of the positive feelings that I associate with the greenhouse. Even if it does still make my hair frizzy."

Just as Marinette was about to start her tour of the greenhouse, a timer went off on her phone. "Oh!" She exclaimed, pulling it out of her back pocket. "My final starts in ten minutes. I guess I thought I would have more time to show you around."

Tim shook his head. "It's no problem. I have to leave soon anyway, to catch a ride back to my family's house. They drive me nuts, but they're family," Tim said with a shrug.

"Here, how about we reschedule for some other time." Marinette grabbed a scrap of paper out of her backpack and wrote her phone number down on it.

"Sure." Tim pocketed the paper. "Do you live in the area?"

Marinette shook her head. "I'm an international student, from Paris. I won't be back in Gotham until next semester."

"That's a shame. I suppose I'll see you next semester, then."

"Oh wait, one last thing." Marinette plucked a blossom from the flowerbed beside her. "Pink aster, for patience. To help you put up with your family."  Marinette smiled and tucked the flower behind Tim's ear.

"Thank you, Marinette."

"I'll see you soon, Tim." Marinette watched him leave the greenhouse and get into a car parked beside the coffeeshop. A question lingered in her mind. When she gave Tim the flower, was it to give him the patience to survive his family dinner or was it to give him the patience to wait for her to return to Gotham. Either way, what she had no excuse for was giving him, out of all the shades of aster growing in that flowerbed, the pink variety. Pink aster was, as Marinette knew well, the aster that symbolized love.

With a shake of her head, Marinette left the greenhouse. It was silly to think of love when she only just met him. Love at first sight never seemed to turn out well for Marinette. She would meet someone, fall head over heels in love with them, harbor an unrequited crush for months, and eventually admit her feelings, only to be shot down every single time. It was exhausting. Marinette's first rule when she came to Gotham was that she would never let someone crush her heart again.

Yet, Marinette couldn't shake the feeling that this time was different. There was a seed of hope buried deep inside of her that was telling her that something about Tim was different. Maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way about her.

As Marinette stepped into the Herbology lecture hall to take her final, her phone buzzed with a text alert. She turned her phone on and her face lit up with a smile when she saw who the text was from.

Unknown Number: Good luck on your final and good luck getting that research position! I can't wait to see you again next semester! (P.S. This is Tim)

Marinette had a good feeling about what was to come.

@maribatmarch-2k21

#maribat #timari #timinette #MaribatMarch2021 #marinette dupain-cheng #tim drake #magic au #modern magic au #college au #coffeeshop au #this fic is a mess of aus #miraculous ladybug fic #my work

[fallingappleshurt]

Project Pink

Sorry Y’all this one got away from me again and I wrote it while tired, again. Anyways here is some badly written shit and have a good period of existence in the universe!

Oh god my brain is going brrrrrrrr

Techno and Wilbur.

It had always been Techno and Wilbur Soode against the world.

Some would make jokes about how it was because they were identical twins, they got ridiculous questions like ‘If I pinch him will you feel it?’ or ‘Can you guys mentally speak- like through your minds?’ They would roll their eyes and say no, sometimes they’d joke around acting like they could read each other's mind or something stupid but it was rare.

They went through multiple foster homes, refusing to be separated from each other, if they ever were they’d find a way back to the other, because it was them against the world.

Then they got placed with Phil Wingraft.

He was different.

They had been through a few foster homes, some were good, some were okay, and one was really bad but Phil was different.

He treated them like they were normal, he was gentle but not patronizing or condescending, he would joke around with them but also became a person they could trust.

He took the time to learn about their interests, he got Wilbur a guitar and took Techno to the library every week. He took the time to recognize the difference between Wilbur’s crazy fluffy hair and Techno more tame but still wavy curls. Wilbur was taller then Techno by half a head but from a distance it was hard to tell. They both had the same shaped face and the same cinnamon colored eyes, the main difference was Techno had glasses.

They stayed with Phil for a year before they were officially adopted and became a family. A two years later he asked them how they would feel if he started fostering another kid, named Tommy.

“I’d be okay with that,” Techno said, shrugging, he hadn’t really processed it but he’d go along with it. Wilbur agreed too, nodding along, it seemed like it would make Phil happy so why not?

“That’s great, it’ll take a few days for the paperwork to go through, then he’ll be with us!” Phil was grinning, this was making Phil happy so this could make Wilbur happy.

Later they were in their room when Techno kicked the top bunk Wilbur was laying on.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, rolling his head halfway off the bed, trying to look at his brother.

“What?” Wilbur asked, looking over the railing.

“Don’t be like that, I know that look, you look like you just ate a suspicious lemonhead,”

“I don’t have a look like that!”

“Stop avoiding the question!” His face softened, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried about the new kid, Tommy, I-I don’t know, it just makes me worried, what if it changes things?”

Techno was quiet, he bit his lip.

“I get that, it makes sense but I don’t think anything bad will happen. Phil is great and I don’t think he would push us away, he’s not like that. Who knows, maybe we can have a little brother,”

Wilbur huffed out a small laugh, smiling softly, “Yeah, a little brother, that would be nice.”

Techno sighed contently, shifting back onto his bed. They laid in silence for a moment when Wilbur laughed.

“I mean, it’ll be nice for you, I already have one.”

“Two minutes Wilbur! Two minutes!”

Tommy joined them 4 days later, a little blonde dweeb with baby blue eyes. He was loud, annoying, and hyper. He would talk loudly when Techno was trying to do homework, he untuned Wilbur’s guitar, he said it was an accident but they weren’t really sure, and was overall like a bull in a china shop.

Techno was gonna pull his own hair out, Wilbur had come very close to locking him out of the apartment, they were both going to kill him.

It took them two weeks to fall in change completely.

It started when Tommy asked Techno for some help in his homework, it actually shocked Techno, the kid who was so loud and proud of his accomplishments shyly asking if Techno could help him with his math work was interesting, to say the least.

Techno almost said no, almost teased him, ‘What? The Great TommyInnit needs help? I thought you knew everything!’

Almost.

Tommy looked different, fingers nervously tapping on the packet, trying not to crickle it, eyes darting around, even his voice was shaky.

It reminded Techno when he’d ask an old foster parent for help, only they’d turn him away, telling him to figure it out, that they were too busy.

He didn’t want to be like that.

“Sure, what are you learning?” He pushed some of his papers aside, making room for Tommy’s. Tommy grabbed a chair and sat next to him.

“Algebra,” He said, frowning, “I don’t get it- it’s just so weird,” He put his chin in his hands.

“Don’t worry, Algebra is super confusing-”

“Yeah right, you get everything, you’re really smart!”

“You’re smart too,” Techno offered, not sure what to say.

“Then name a time I’ve been smart!”

Techno short circuited.

“See!” Tommy gestured wildly.

“Tommy I’ve known you for two weeks, I’m sure you’ve done plenty of-”

Tommy groaned, “Nevermind, forget it-” He slid off the chair only for Techno to reach over and grab his arm.

“No, I’m sorry, just let me help,”

Tommy made a face but sat back down, “Fine.”

It had been 2 hours.

“This is useless! I’ll never get it!” Tommy stuck his hands in his hair.

“Just try this last problem, you’re so close!”

“No! I’ll just mess it up again!”

“You don’t know that, just try again!”

Reluctantly, Tommy picked his pencil back up and started on the equation. Techno turned back to his paper, finishing up a definition sheet, Tommy’s mumbles drifting in the background.

“Then add the two to get 16?” He looked up at Techno, who closed his textbook and looked over Tommy’s worksheet, covered in half erased scribbles, doodles, and pencil shavings.

“That’s right,” He grinned, reading over Tommy’s work again, “You did it,”

“Wait seriously? I got it right?”

“Yeah!”

“Yes! I did it!” Tommy pumped a fist in the air, cheering. “Thanks Techno!”

“Anytime nerd,”

Wilbur had been messing around with his guitar, sitting on his bunk, scribbling down music notes on a scrap of paper. He’d write a few phrases down and sing them softly to himself, strumming a few chords.

Scowling, he erased half the page, grumbling to himself; “It doesn’t sound right, why can’t I get it-”

“I thought it sounded nice,” Someone said from the bunk beneath him. Wilbur jumped, yelping, he hit his head on the ceiling. He leaned over the railing to see Tommy sitting on Techno’s bunk, limbs tangled around the latter.

“What are you doing? I thought you were out with Techno and Phil!” Wilbur said, sounding harsher and more shrill then he meant to, Tommy shrugged, “I didn’t want to go to the library today.”

“Wish I knew that beforehand,” He grumbled, going back to his music sheet.

“You seem mad,” Tommy observed, twisting his arm around the metal.

“Yeah I’m mad,”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I can’t get these stupid lyrics to sound right and you just scared the shit- I mean crap- out of me.”

Tommy cackled, “I’m telling Phil you swore!”

“Shut up,” Wilbur grumbled, gripping his pencil tighter. Tommy tipped his head to the side, “I don’t get why you’re angry, those lyrics sounded really nice.”

Wilbur paused, “You think so?”

“Yeah! It was really cool!” Tommy said, starting to come up the latter, he climbed onto the bed with Wilbur, “I liked it a lot!”

Wilbur smiled softly, “Thanks,”

“Can you play it again?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” Wilbur sat up straighter, putting the guitar in a better position , “I don’t remember all the lyrics though,”

He started playing, slowly his nerves of playing in front of someone else started to slip away as he fell into the rhythm and flow of the music. He looked up briefly a few times seeing Tommy, smiling widely, eyes filled with admiration. He finished the song and looked at Tommy, who immediately leaned forwards.

“That was so good! Write it down so you don’t forget! Wilbur that was epic!”

“Really?”

“Definitely!” Tommy leaned back, then quietly added, “And I’m sorry I messed up your guitar the other week, it wasn’t on purpose,” He trailed off.

Wilbur shrugged, “It’s fine, you didn’t do any real damage, just messed up the tuning,”

“I was messing with it cause I wanna learn how to play, could you maybe show me sometime?”

“Maybe, I’m still considered an amateur on most standards,”

“Seriously?!”

Tommy went to the same school as them, he was in the sixth grade while Techno and Wilbur were in 8th, so they saw each other in the halls every once and awhile. The one thing Tommy hadn’t been able to learn, despite the fact he had learned algebra, basketball, and some of the guitar, was how to tell Techno and Wilbur apart when they weren’t standing directly next to each other.

They had tried everything, Tommy would try to memorize the different clothes they wore each morning, the small differences in their hair, how they walked or moved around but nothing worked.

One day when they were in the car on the way home from school, Tommy was pouting, or ‘stewing’, as Phil would say. He barely talked the whole ride home.

“Alright I’ll bite,” Wilbur said, turning around in the front seat, “What’s wrong?”

Tommy frowned at him, “You both completely ignored me all day! I tried to get your attention so many times!”

Techno raised an eyebrow, “I never once heard you call my name,”

“Me either,” Wilbur confirmed, Tommy looked skeptical.

“How do I know that you guys aren’t messing with me?”

“He’s got you guys there,” Phil said from the driver's seat.

“We weren’t ignoring him! I swear, you must have gotten us mixed up again!” Wilbur insisted, waving his hand.

Tommy groaned, “Why is it so hard to tell you guys apart! Hey, could you just make it easier and not be identical twins?”

Phil cackled in the front, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

“It-It doesn’t work like that Tommy,” Techno snorted, half covering his mouth with his hand.

“Oh come on! Just try it!”

Tommy was trying, he really was, but it was so hard to tell them apart. He knew Wilbur’s hair was crazier and he was Taller then Techno and that Techno had glasses but it didn’t help at all.

He’d go to ask Techno for help with homework only to find Wilbur, who also didn’t know jackshit about algerbra, or if he wanted to do something stupid he’d end up accidentally telling his plan to Techno who would immediately veto the idea.

After awhile he just decided to just try and slow down and see if one of the clones had glasses or not and that worked for him, sort of.

A few months later and they officially adopted Tommy into the family, he was an official Wingraft.

They went out and celebrated, laughing and making stupid jokes, it was nice. Then the next day Techno went to the store by himself, taking some of the money he had saved up from chores and searched a bottle of pink hair dye.

Picking out a color was surprisingly difficult, there were so many choices, taffy, bubblegum, creamy, carnation, but he eventually decided on ‘Rose Pink’. He bought a bottle then hid it under his bed, he needed to wait for the right time to do it because the dye had to sit for at least 30 minutes before he could rinse it out.

Phil was working late on Wednesday and Wilbur was going to see a movie with friends after school so he just had to lock Tommy out of the bathroom for like 45 minutes, which he would have no problem doing, and everything would be set.

The day rolled around and he found out that dying your hair is easier said then done, so much easier.

Techno set down so many paper towels in hopes to catch anything that might drip, then there was the process of making sure he got it all and wearing the plastic gloves made everything much harder to handle but eventually he was able to get the dye in place.

He set a timer on his phone then pulled out a book, hoping Tommy wouldn’t try to bust down the door, it didn’t lock but Techno had taken a rubber band from the door handle and wrapped it around the facut to try and give some semblance of a lock. All he had to do was wait.

Tommy was sitting on the couch watching TV when Phil arrived home, Wilbur in tow.

“Hey Tommy, how was your day?”

“Pretty good, nothing really interesting happened though,” He responded, “But Techno has been in the bathroom for like an hour,”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow and Phil asked, “Is he okay?”

“I guess so, I heard the shower running just a minute ago,”

Phil walked over to the bathroom door and knocked, “Tech? You okay in there?”

Tommy heard the door swing open and Techno say, “Yeah I’m fine,” Phil didn’t say anything but Wilbur started laughing loudly, throwing his head back. Tommy turned around on the couch and saw Techno standing there, towel around his shoulders to stop water from dripping onto his shirt, hair the brightest shade of pink Tommy had ever seen.

He froze, much like Phil did, before he broke out into a grin, then a laugh, “Techno what-”

“Now you should be able to tell us apart,”

#minecraft #mcyt #minecraft youtubers #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #philza #sleepyboysinc #sleepy boys inc #technoblr #technoblade #fanfiction #fluff #family dynamics #foster care #sleppyblr #Apples Writing #Finding a Home AU

[sideblogformindtrash]

I understand that you’re busy and stuff so don’t rush to get this done, but I’d love to see more of Pastel being afraid of Orfeu. Maybe Farlan and Orfeu have weekly check up sessions just so Orfeu can make sure that Farlan is behaving himself? I can imagine every time Orfeu comes over, Pastel is fearful that that Master is going to let Orfeu use those sharp teeth and nails on him and BB.

apparently pastel is an angry boyo

kind of struggling between must protec BB and omg dont wanna be hurt :c

CW: Dehumanization; nsfw insinuation; pet whump; mentioned beating, tying, breaking fingers, collar; nightmare; biting; blood; orfeu just trying to be a gothic boi and Pastel overthinking;

Pastel knew very well what their Master bringing friends over meant for a pet. It marked an exhausting day, of trying to attend to the demands not only of your known, usual tormentor, but of many unknown faces that were often just as cruel as your Master, and often, enable and encouraged each other to be crueler.

This Master… Barely gave them any time to get used to the new home, before bringing guests over. He probably wanted to show off his new purchase – two little pets, from this famous Pet trainer… Pastel shivered. Their life here, no matter how lavish the apartment, would be one of misery, he could feel.

What he was not expecting is for BB to have already met that man before. Master’s friend, called Orfeu, who, to his horror, Master Farlan stated would likely pet-sit for them with some frequency.

“It’s Blue’s owner” BB smiled at him, whispering with excitement, as they waited on the floor “Master knows Blue’s owner!”

“Is he?” Pastel asked, shivering. Pastel wasn’t sure if it was worse to be babysat by someone who had previous experience with pets or not.

…When the man approached, Pastel wanted to run and hide. There was something… Off about him. Eyes that had a color a bit too green, a solid shade that did not belong on someone’s irises. He smelled… like fresh pine trees, with a vague, vague undertone of leaves rotting and moss growing… The smell of being lost on a dark forest. And his gaze was a fucking dead end. He stared through them, around them behind them. Everything but at them, searching the nothing as if there was something there.

Pastel wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid, or if somehow, all of this flew over BB’s head due to their excitement of meeting Blue’s owner! But there was no way BB missed the teeth, right?

Pastel’s dreams were often abstract and weird – and they were always terrible and frightening in their nosense – but among the usual chaos, he started to recognize that set of teeth and sharp, perfect nails.

He wondered what Master thought about it. It wasn’t normal, not even for humans, to have teeth like that. Master didn’t seem concerned, in fact, he was almost affectionate towards that man.

Pastel had long started to dread the day they would be left alone with him or Master would allow him to hurt them. He could almost envision that man on top of him, the chains and spikes of his clothes rubbing against his skin, his nails tracing red marks, and the teeth, drawing blood.

And worse, how would that man hurt BB? His BB who naively ran up to them every time they came to visit offering him that big smile and showers of questions that the man answered, patiently. He was entertained by BB, for now. But when he got tired, when he decided he wanted to cause them pain… Shit, how would BB feel? Would they feel like they were betrayed again? Pastel wasn’t sure how many more abandonments BB could go through. But maybe BB was expecting it to happen, too. Maybe they were just… trying to make the most out of their niceness, while they could.

And now it was that day.

There he was, on his scary tall boots, harness, a spiked collar… Was that a mockery? A human, wearing a decorative collar, to show then that it wasn’t their clothes, their living conditions, or anything that made then different: It was simply that humans and pets were different?

And all those leather straps… There were so many in his clothes, and it would be so easy for him to use that to tie them up, or beat them with it. Those boots – they could so easily crush fingers, or keep someone pinned down, or just hurt when throwing a kick…

Pastel could do nothing but shiver, standing near the sofa on the living room, as Master Farlan and Orfeu chatted at the door.

“W—why you s-so scared Pastel? W-will be okay” BB smiled, sitting by his side “…S-still nervous a-about him?”

“I don’t know how can you be so calm, BB” Pastel whispered, his eyes glued on Master’s friend “He gives me the creeps…”

“H-he is nice!” BB smile broadens.

“Just because he is Blue’s Master, that doesn’t make him nice”

…BB pouts, crossing their arms.

“I, I, BB knows! BB i-isn’t stupid…” and BB shows him their tongue “He is, is being nice with BB, a-always was”

“What if he isn’t? Master was here the other times, now we’ll be alone…”

“W-will be fine!” BB insisted “BB r-recognizes p-people who are nice!”

…And that was half true because BB thought everyone was nice so… Sometimes they would get it right. But at least… at least they were calm somehow. Having BB scared wouldn’t help, either.

…BB got their hand, squeezing it.

“W-w-will be o-okay. BB knows. P-please Pastel? C-calm down?”

Pastel sighed.

“I’ll… Try. I’ll be good. Of course I will” He always was. He knew the alternative. Play by their rules… And get used to always losing, anyways.

Well, they took a deep breath. Be good. Behave. It will be okay. You will survive. BB will survive.

As he approached them, BB immediately jumped on their feet, hugging his legs. He nearly lost balance, than chuckled, and ran his finger – nails, sharp, dark, painted with red spots to symbolize blood, blood he would get from them later… - through BB’s hair.

Then the man looked at him… And Pastel flinched. He wanted to be a good pet, behave well and not cause trouble… But he flinched just from a glance. And the man smiled at that. Oh, no. He was enjoying how afraid Pastel was. He felt… He felt like he would cry, the man looking at him like a predator at its prey…

“Hey there, Pastel”

...He tried to crawl closer, to swallow all of that and pretend he wasn’t terrified – he was ashamed of being scared like this. But he couldn’t. He trembled, his arms and legs trembled, his face was pale…

“It’s alright. You don’t have to come closer, if you don’t want to”

And that was a trap. If he didn’t do it, the man would punish him. What he wanted didn’t matter at all. But the next second, the man was distracted by BB again, who was pulling him to their bedroom to show a drawing they had made of Mr. Tonsils.

He breathed in relief as they left the living room. It felt like the place was safe again. He closed his eyes, enjoying that feeling while it lasted… But then he thought he couldn’t let alone with BB! What if… What if then he tried to hurt them? He cursed himself for being so stupid and scrambled after them, peeking from the doorway.

…Nothing was happening. BB was sat by his side on the bed, flipping the pages of the notebook Master had gifted them, pointing at their drawings and looking for the man’s approval… And Orfeu was just nodding, making small comments about the drawings and entertaining BB.

After that, the man went out for a few minutes and Pastel was terrified. BB came stand by their side, seeming cheerful.

“It, it’s o-okay, t-they went g-get food…”

“Are…Are you sure?” Pastel whispered, biting the inside of his cheeks. BB pulled him closer, clumsily petting his hair.

“Y-yes. He, he w-went get p-pizza f-for u-us b-b-ecause he can’t c-cook and Master is, is p-paying anyway…” BB chuckled.

“BB… His teeth… And… And the things he wearing…”

“T-t-they look c-c-ool d-don’t they?” BB tumbled their head to the side “BB would want t-to be like that if, if BB w-wasn’t B-b-blue’s copy already…”

“…You are not ‘Blue’s copy’. You are BB, you don’t have to-”

“N-not that now P-pastel…” They whimpered, pulling away from the hug “O-only Pizza”

“If… If it’s really pizza…”

…And well, to his surprise it actually was. And they actually got to eat more than scraps, while BB and Orfeu cuddled on the sofa and Pastel just… Sat nearby. Far enough that the man couldn’t suddenly grab him, but close enough that he would be able to do something if BB was in danger… At least he hoped so.

So the time he was truly scared of came. They went to sleep. And… Nothing happened then, too. Orfeu tucked BB in, whispered a soft ‘good night’ to Pastel and went to Master Farlan’s bedroom for the night.

…After he left, Pastel felt a bit safer. He crawled in bed by BB’s side, pulling them into a hug. They had a smug smile.

“…S-see? BB knows. N-nothing bad h-happened…”

…He agreed, a bit grumpy. Still, he dreamed of teeth and nails.

#pet whump #whump #orfeu and haru #Pastel <3 #BB: Baby Blue #Farlan B)

[snarktheater]

Ready Player Two — Opening Cutscene & Chapter 0

Hello again.

It’s been a while. I haven’t been active on this blog since, fittingly enough, Ready Player One. I was going to do this sooner—even had an alarm set up and everything—but then, it turns out, I’m feeling so much negativity about the world in general that a book just pales in comparison.

Seriously, I had to scrap this post’s entire intro because it’s not even 2020 anymore as I write this. And you know, maybe that’s for the best. I’m not really in the mood for doom and gloom and bitching anymore. I uninstalled Twitter from my phone a while back, I’ve been doing good at my daily writing sprints, my biggest fanfic project concluded on a positive note from people I didn’t even realize had been following it for years.

So I don’t know what this is going to be like. My commentary, I mean; I’ve heard echoes of what the book is like, so I’m not expecting a surprise there.

The book opens right after the end of Ready Player One, in a “Cutscene” where Wade recounts to us what happened after he won Halliday’s contest. It also assumes you remember exactly who the main characters of the book are, which is a bold move for a sequel that came out almost a decade after the original.

Technically, I could just look up the details I’m fuzzy about. But also, I think it’s more authentic if I don’t. I trust my memory enough that if I’m wrong, it’ll be in subtle enough ways that it’ll almost be a private jokes between all of us. An “if you know, you know” sort of error system. And I don’t think there’s anything more true to the spirit of this book than that.

Shoto had flown back home to Japan to take over operations at GSS’s Hokkaido division.

So Wade starts his tenure with nepotism. Wasn’t Shoto really young? Why is he qualified to run anything?

Aech was enjoying an extended vacation in Senegal, a country she’d dreamed of visiting her whole life, because her ancestors had come from there.

You know what, I’m not touching “send the token black character back to Africa.” This isn’t my lane.

And Samantha had flown back to Vancouver to pack up her belongings and say goodbye to her grandmother, Evelyn.

Why is she saying goodbye? Why, she’s moving to Columbus to be with Wade, of course! It’s not like there was anything else in her life. Was there? And why isn’t she referred to as Art3mis? I’m pretty sure Wade found out all of their offline names in the last book, and the inconsistency mildly bothers me.

These three sentences are back to back, by the way. Someone—I forget who—once described Ready Player One as a book that’s fun to write a wiki about, because it’s got fun concepts to summarize about until you realize that all the emotional connective tissue you need to turn a list of things into a story is missing, and that’s roughly how this first page feels.

Hell, the first line of the book is Wade telling us he remained offline for nine whole days after winning the contest, but by the end of the second paragraph we’re already to him logging back into the OASIS to "distract himself from [his and Samantha’s] reunion.

I’ll give Ernest Cline one thing: it feels like he wrote this opening nine days after the first book and did about as much maturing as a teenage boy would do between the two books.

Way more time is spent describing Wade’s OASIS rig, or the in-game planet where the climax of the last book happened, than anything else in this introduction. He is immediately greeted by a crowd of adoring fans who have been waiting over a week for him to come back in the game, because they’re all grateful that our protagonist and his friends restored their avatars after they were annihilated by the Sixers.

You’d think the adoring fans would serve some kind of purpose, or that something would happen, but no. Wade immediately goes “ew, people” and teleports away, since he essentially has ultimate powers within the game. With a caveat: the powers are actually coming from the Robes of Anorak he’s wearing, and I’m mentioning that in the hopes that it will pay off sometime in the book’s future, assuming Cline at least learned to do that. But still, let’s not skip too fast the fact that we introduced that crowd of adoring fans for no other purpose than to tell us they’re out there, because it fits right in with the last book’s attempts at saying as little as humanly possible in as many words as possible.

Anyway, Wade went back into Anorak’s study, where he arbitrarily checks out the Easter Egg he got at the end of the last book, and finds an inscription on it. I was dreading another riddle, but no, it’s just straight-up instructions to a vault in the GSS archives, so Wade logs off and goes to check it out.

Of course Halliday had put [the archives] [on the 13th floor]. In one of his favorite TV shows, Max Headroom, Network 23’s hidden research-and-development lab was located on the thirteenth floor. And The Thirteenth Floor was also the title of an old sci-fi film about virtual reality, released in 1999, right on the heels of both The Matrix and eXistenZ.

I’m equally shocked that it took two whole pages (on my ereader) to get to the first slew of references, and that one of these references is from 1999. I didn’t know we were allowed to think of anything that isn’t the 80s. Speaking of which, I’ll spare you the whole paragraph, but the book does feel the need to explain why it’s vault 42.

Inside the vault, there’s another egg containing a super-fancy and advanced OASIS headset. The egg also has a video monitor that plays a video message from James Halliday shortly before his death.

But despite his condition, he hadn’t used his OASIS avatar to record this message like he had with Anorak’s Invitation. For some reason, he’d chosen to appear in the flesh this time, under the brutal, unforgiving light of reality.

That oh-so-important message? An infodump about the headset’s working. He called it an OASIS Neural Interface, ONI for short. It basically lets you experience the OASIS through all your senses with sensory input just like the real thing, you know, that thing Wade had to get a fancy suit and massive rig to do in the first book. And yes, Wade does spend a paragraph or two comparing it to other works of science fiction. Of course he does.

More importantly, it also records all the sensory input into a separate file, which can then be replayed over to re-experience said sensations, or live someone else’s experiences. Halliday tries to frame it as a tool to generate communication and empathy, seemingly all without acknowledging the potential creepiness of that. But hey. Who knows. Maybe that’s because this is the setup stage, and it’ll pay off eventually.

I also wondered about the name Halliday had chosen for his invention. I’d seen enough anime to know that oni was also a Japanese word for a giant horned demon from the pits of hell.

Add “reducing Japan to anime” to the list of things the book has failed to improve upon. By the way, the narration insisted on spelling out ONI letter by letter earlier, so it’s weird to make that link now. It’s also just kind of inelegant to just tell us “this is the symbolism behind the name”, but that’s just the sort of thing I’ve come to expect from this book.

Anyway, the reason Halliday kept this for his successor to find is he wants Wade to test out the technology and decide if humanity is ready for it. Why Halliday thinks the most glorified pop culture trivia / video game competition qualifies you for such a decision should be a problem, but sadly, a lot of billionaires have said and done a lot of dumb and eerily similar things in the past few years since I read Ready Player One, so actually, I can’t fault the book for that one. Tragically, our fates really are in the hands of people who should rightfully be cartoon villains.

To his credit, Wade does question Halliday’s motives in keeping this under wraps at all rather than releasing it himself. So hey, maybe it really is setting something up.

Wade goes back to his office with the ONI, and we’re treated with this lovely piece of narration:

I was grateful that Samantha wasn’t there. I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to talk me out of testing the ONI. Because I was worried she might try to, and if she did, she would’ve succeeded. (I’d recently discovered that when you’re madly in love with someone they can persuade you to do pretty much anything.)

There’s a lot to unpack about the implications this has for their relationship, but it’s way too early in the book for me to editorialize when one character hasn’t even been on the page yet. So I’ll just leave it here for the record. Hopefully you see the problem without me needing to point it out anyway. If not, feel free to hit my inbox.

So Wade, confident in the fact that Halliday would have warned him if there were any risks to using the ONI, decides to try it out. Even though he immediately follows up that statement with this:

According to the ONI documentation, forcibly removing the headset while it was in operation could severely damage the wearer’s brain and/or leave them in a permanent coma. So the titanium-reinforced safety bands made certain this couldn’t happen. I found this little detail comforting instead of unsettling. Riding in an automobile was risky, too, if you didn’t wear your seatbelt…

Wade. My dude. What the fuck is this simile. And why don’t you see that maybe a machine where you’re forcibly trapping yourself inside a virtual reality might be dangerous? Hell, when I said this was setting something up, I was expecting something vaguely interesting about the potential breach of privacy, or how you don’t need to literally walk in someone’s shoes to feel empathy for them, or anything substantial, but now I’m worried it’ll just end up as “man, sometimes science fiction machines will scramble your brain, isn’t that weird”?

Like, I don’t know, to me “it will put you in a coma” sounds like a good reason for Halliday not to release the ONI. Maybe we can still make it into a commentary on how corporations will sell stuff they know is directly harmful if it can make them a profit. Who knows.

The book waffles on about more risks, and the mechanics of how the ONI activates, and the warning disclaimer when it does turn on. Specifically, there’s a time limit of twelve consecutive hours, after which you’ll be automatically logged out, because yes, using the thing for too long can also cause brain damage.

Gregarious Simulation Systems will not be held responsible for any injuries caused by improper use of the OASIS Neural Interface.

See, now there’s the sort of thing that could be a source for commentary, but no, instead it’s thrown in there like it’s nothing and Wade glosses over the entire warning, and instead keep wondering why Halliday didn’t just release the ONI if even the safety disclaimers were in place.

By the way: this whole system has apparently gone through several independent human trials already, so I’m finding it hard to imagine that it’s actually a secret Halliday took to the grave as Wade says. Unless he also had everyone involved in those trials killed afterwards. Or maybe they all ended up with brain damage which rendered them incapable of talking about it.

And before you think I’m being unfair and maybe we’re supposed to understand that ourselves even if the protagonist doesn’t, I’ll remind you that the book didn’t trust its reader to know what the number 42 is a reference to, or what an oni is, even though I don’t think anyone in the target audience wouldn’t know about these two things.

There’s also the fact that, since this book came out, a video game did release with a scene intentionally designed to cause seizures, and it had countless fans flocking to defend it over that fact. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not assuming this book’s stance on whether your video game console causes brain damage and possibly coma is actually a bad thing, or just an acceptable risk.

Wade certainly seems to think so, since he agrees to the terms of service.

As the timestamp faded away, it was replaced by a short message, just three words long—the last thing I would see before I left the real world and entered the virtual one. But they weren’t the three words I was used to seeing. I—like every other ONI user to come—was greeted by a new message Halliday had created, to welcome those visitors who had adopted his new technology: READY PLAYER TWO

Well now that’s just silly.

And that’s our opening cutscene. And while this post is already long enough, I feel like I have to go on to chapter 0, because it feels like barely anything has happened so far. We didn’t even introduce any new character motivation or conflict, or a mystery to set the plot into motion, unless I’m supposed to think “why didn’t Halliday release this?” counts.

So Wade is back into the OASIS, and tells us about how much more real it all feels thanks to the ONI. I especially have to question how he can smell or taste anything—both of which he tells us he can. Like, who coded that? Did Halliday implement every single smell and taste himself, without anyone noticing? I hope you don’t need me to tell you that’s not typically how features are added to a large-scale video game.

If it feels like I’m nitpicking at the logic of the book, even though I always say I’m not very interested in that and would rather talk themes, it’s because I am, because there isn’t much else to discuss so far. Wade is happy about tasting virtual fruit. That’s the scene.

He tests out if he can feel pain, but no, the ONI reduces pain (a gunshot is translated as “a hard pinch”). On one hand, good, it would be a nightmare otherwise. On the other hand, I sort of hope there’s a setting for that in there, because otherwise, you just lost an entire clientele of kinksters.

This was it—the final, inevitable step in the evolution of videogames and virtual reality. The simulation had now become indistinguishable from real life.

Ah, now we have some juicy themes. Because if you think this is the inevitable final step in the evolution of video games, I invite you to look at literally any other art form, and what happened to them once hyperrealism became easy. Hint: they didn’t stop evolving, because it turns out realism isn’t the only goal one can achieve with art.

The realism discussion is not a new one in video games, mind you. In case you’re out of the loop: most of the big-budget blockbuster games (“AAA” as they’re known) are aiming for hyperrealism nowadays, and it results in development teams being forced to work in horrible conditions (known with the equally horrible euphemism of “crunch”). And, because it turns out that 1) humans working themselves to the bones isn’t healthy and 2) racing for realism with little to no vision besides it makes for poor creativity, a lot of these games come out as disappointments. Oh, there are hordes of Gamers™ who will defend them to the bitter end, but inevitably, in the months following release, the defense cools off while the criticism keeps on going, because the defense was a knee-jerk reaction born of a mix of people hyping themselves up for a game they hadn’t seen that much of yet, then attaching a part of their identity to liking that thing.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that this throwaway line feels like it comes from someone who is so out of touch as to accidentally support a world view that has in fact resulted in the biggest part of the industry stagnating artistically while growing more toxic for the people working in it. All the while, more and more independent games come out every year, proving that that realism is nowhere near the most important thing to making a game good, and that you can achieve much better results with a small team.

What I’m trying to say is: watch Jim Sterling’s channel, they’ve been bleeding out subscribers since they came out as nonbinary and make much better commentary on this topic than I could, and play Hades.

Back to the book, which sadly hasn’t become any more interesting since I decided to go on a tangent. Wade tests the ONI functions some more, all the while musing on how he knows Samantha would disapprove but that he doesn’t care, because what loving relationship doesn’t consist of that?

Among the functions, he tries the ONI files, the aforementioned recordings of someone else’s experiences. Specifically, a woman, which Wade tells us by telling us he suddenly has breasts, I suppose because Ernest Cline saw that subreddit about men writing women and went “I want a piece of that”. Oh, and also, those sample files were recorded from real people, in the real world. And yes, this goes exactly where you think it does.

SEX-M-F.oni, SEX-F-F.oni, and SEX-Nonbinary.oni

Look, I actually started writing a complaint about the boobs thing, and I deleted it, but now Cline is doing it on purpose. So, here goes: I saw a quote from this book on Twitter that looked like Cline attempting to make up for Wade’s casual transphobia in the first book. It wasn’t good, but it at least sounded like he was trying. So to immediately get this is…a lot? Let’s go for a lot.

I can almost excuse the use of “M” and “F”. You gotta name your files and you could excuse a non-exhaustive list. But…nonbinary? On one hand, I want to know what Cline means. On the other hand, I don’t think he can come up with an answer I’ll find satisfactory.

We are thankfully spared from finding out because Wade has just lost his virginity to Samantha a few days ago and he’s 1) not ready for this and 2) pretty sure this counts as cheating. You could make a case that this is more like porn, but I can see that this is more of a personal distinction anyway, and I can respect that one. Plus, you know. I don’t want to find out.

Wade logs off, and he can’t tell the difference between the OASIS with the ONI, and decides this will change the world. And then it’s back to the “how did he do it and keep it a secret”, even though Wade now finds out in the documentation that this had been in development for twenty-five years, basically since the OASIS launched. So it’s not really that it’s a secret, so much as there are a lot of people under very strict NDAs out there. Or, again, they’re all dead and/or otherwise incapacitated.

The ONI is the product of the Accessibility Research Lab, and Wade tells us about other stuff that the lab has produced using similar technology, mostly for medical purposes.

GSS patented each of the Accessibility Research Lab’s inventions, but Halliday never made any effort to profit from them. Instead, he set up a program to give these neuroprosthetic implants away, to any OASIS users who could benefit from them. GSS even subsidized the cost of their implant surgery.

Look, it’s nice that you want Halliday to be the good guy through and through, but it’s kind of hard to take any social commentary seriously when you think this is how a billionaire is made. Hell, even when he shut down the lab and fired its entire staff, he gave them a big enough severance package to set them for life. You know. Capitalism!

Hey, remember when Samantha said she was going to end world hunger if she won the contest, a thing billionaires right now could be doing, but aren’t, and she is now the co-owner of GSS? Yeah, I kind of hope the book remembers that too.

Speaking of the co-owners, the book just completely skips over the debate that our four main characters have over whether or not to release the ONI to the world. All we know is that they voted, and the vote goes in favor of releasing it. I mean, why have characters who could have opinions and feelings that could create a discussion? That might make us care about them! And who wants to care about characters in a story?

We put them on sale at the lowest possible price, to make sure as many people as possible could experience the OASIS Neural Interface for themselves.

What exactly is “the lowest possible price” here? Your company literally owns money. Like, OASIS money is real money. There is literally nothing stopping you from giving them away, especially because what you’re giving away is access to the platform you’re already running for a profit.

It’s almost like, even trying to make “good billionaires” out of its protagonists, the book can’t stop and actually make them significantly good.

Oh, I should mention. If you thought my Ready Player One review was angry at capitalism, wait until you see what the past couple years have done to me.

Anyway, once they his 7,777,777 simultaneous ONI users, a new riddle shows up on Halliday’s website. Because yep: our plot is apparently not about the implications of releasing the ONI, or any of the potential ideological discussions associated with that, it’s another riddle. Oh boy, do I wish I’d known that.

Seek the Seven Shards of the Siren’s Soul On the seven worlds where the Siren once played a role For each fragment my heir must pay a toll To once again make the Siren whole

I cannot wait to have the book give me just not enough information to solve the riddle until it’s solved by the book itself. That was so much fun the other…what was it, five times? Six times? Something like that. Wade already tells us the Siren might be Kira Morrow, because her alias was named after one of the sirens of Greek myth, so I can’t wait for that plot point to stick around. It was so fun to hear all about this man pining for another man’s wife the first time!

So this is the “Shard Riddle”. People are apparently convinced it was made by Wade and his crew as a publicity stunt, but of course, they know that that isn’t the case, and they also don’t know what that riddle is supposed to lead to. So, that’s great. We have a puzzle, and we also don’t know what the stakes are. All we know is that Wade wants to solve the puzzle essentially because it’s a challenge.

We skip over a year, and Wade tells us about how IOI collapses and gets absorbed by GSS because of the ONI’s launch. Remember IOI? They were the bad guys, so I guess we have to cheer?

GSS absorbed IOI and all of its assets, transforming us into an unstoppable megacorporation with a global monopoly on the world’s most popular entertainment, education, and communications platform.To celebrate, we released all of IOI’s indentured servants and forgave their outstanding debts.

On one hand: good for the slave. On the other hand: not gonna cheer for a monopoly, you guys.

Another year’s skip, and now 99% of the OASIS users are using the ONI, and yes, that includes trading their experiences with one another too. And I guess we’re still hand-waving any possible problems associated with that technology, because the technology is made so that all recordings must be shared and played through the OASIS.

This allowed us to weed out unsavory or illegal recordings before they could be shared with other users.

How? Do you know any of the problems associated with content moderations on the current platforms? I don’t know if I want to point to Youtube’s extremely faulty algorithm, Twitter’s complete apathy towards its Nazis, or Facebook doing moderation by making underpaid staff watch all potentially problematic content, which resulted in serious psychological damage to said staff.

You can’t just say that as if it solved everything. The chapter later says this is handled by an AI called “CenSoft”, and as an AI engineer myself, let me tell you: this is not going to work. Again: Youtube is the way it is for a reason.

It also let us maintain our monopoly on what was rapidly becoming the most popular form of entertainment in the history of the world.

And again, monopolies are totally a good thing as long as it’s in the right hands!

When I’m implying that the book does not care for any of these potential problems, I mean it. These enormous ethical issues are sidestepped in cold narratin, and we just keep going on introducing new slang that I hate, but have to quote so help you keep up.

“Sims” were recordings made inside the OASIS, and “Recs” were ONI recordings made in reality. Except that most kids no longer referred to it as “reality.” They called it “the Earl.” (A term derived from the initialism IRL.) And “Ito” was slang for “in the OASIS.” So Recs were recorded in the Earl, and Sims were created Ito.

There. You have been infodumped.

In the midst of all this (still extremely dry) exposition about how this changed media, we also get this tidbit:

You could take any drug, eat any kind of food, and have any kind of sex, without worrying about addiction, calories, or consequences.

Now, I was going to rant about this, but then, a page later, this happens and spares me the trouble:

I’d struggled with OASIS addiction before the ONI was released. Now logging on to the simulation was like mainlining some sort of chemically engineered superheroin.

So, you are aware that addiction isn’t just possible, but extremely facilitated by this. But sure, no worries! It’s perfectly safe! Because our protagonists are good.

Also, remember how the last book ended on a weak attempt at having a moral that maybe the real world is good, actually? Yeah, Wade tells us the ONI helps poor people live enjoyable lives in the OASIS. So. Fuck that message, I guess. It only applies if you’re the literal wealthiest man on Earth.

And me? All my dreams had come true. I’d gotten stupidly rich and absurdly famous. I’d fallen in love with my dream girl and she had fallen in love with me. Surely I was happy, right? Not so much, as this account will show.

Aside from the aforementioned returning OASIS affiction, there’s the Shard riddle that Wade is now obsessed with, to the point of offering a billion-dollar reward to anyone with information about the riddle’s answer.

I announced this reward with a stylized short film that I modeled after Anorak’s Invitation. I hoped it would seem like a lighthearted play on Halliday’s contest instead of a desperate cry for help. It seemed to work.

On one hand: good, Wade finally has a character flaw that the book actually acknowledges as a character flaw. I can work with that. On the other hand: this is all told to me in such a dispassionate that I am dreading how the book will handle this character flaw. Which is to say, I’m not expecting it to be very good.

(For a brief time, some of the younger, more idealistic shard hunters referred to themselves as “shunters” to differentiate themselves from their elder counterparts. But when everyone began to call them “sharters” instead, they changed their minds and started to call themselves gunters too. The moniker still fit. The Seven Shards were Easter eggs hidden by Halliday, and we were all hunting for them.)

Especially when this is something the narration feels is more important to tell me about.

Anyway, skip another year, and a gunter finally leads Wade to the First Shard. Solved that riddle, I guess. And wait, wasn’t part of why IOI was ~evil~ in the first book that they were paying people to find the Easter Egg for them? How is this any different, Wade?

And when I picked it up, I set in motion a series of events that would drastically alter the fate of the human race. As one of the only eyewitnesses to these historic events, I feel obligated to give my own written account of what occurred. So that future generations—if there are any—will have all the facts at their disposal when they decide how to judge my actions.

And that is the end of our chapter 0. And can I just say: what a mess already. I don’t think my snark can properly convey how utterly devoid of emotion this book’s writing is, and that alone is honestly more of a turn-off than anything else in the book so far. Even, knowing that I railed about it in the first book, I still feel newly unprepared for it. And it’s not like this double-prologue is making me hopeful that the book will show an ounce more critical thinking—or decent fucking humanity towards marginalized groups—as its predecessor.

So, that’s a lot to look forward to! For the sake of my sanity and schedule, don’t expect me to do such big posts every time. I’ll probably do one chapter a week from now on, if that. We’re in for a long ride, but I hope it’s worth it, at least.

#ready player two #ernest cline #st: ready player two #book reviews

[thiswasinevitableid]

Gift (Indruck)

A second fill for @crepuscularlives

16. we didn’t read the invitation that said this party was formal so we’re in our ugly christmas sweaters. SFW

Duck’s fully prepared for Aubrey, and maybe even Mama, to tease him for his Newton family christmas sweater. When he gets to the Lodge to find everyone dressed swanky, he thinks it’s some sort of elaborate prank. He decides to ask Barclay, since he tends to be less invested in pranks than the others. 

“Uhhh” Barclay points to a stray invite, “it said formal, see? We thought a change of pace would be fun.”

“Fuck. I just came straight from a family thing, didn’t think it’d matter.”

Barclay pats his shoulder with a warm smile, “Don’t worry about it, man, it’s not like anyone’s gonna toss you out for it.”

Duck grumbles something about not wanting to stick out as he turns, and spies an even uglier sweater across the room. It’s bright green and fire-engine red with, covered in old-school colored bulb christmas lights, blinking like fireflies. 

Somehow, it suits Indrid perfectly.

The Sylph waves when we spots Duck, coming over to join him by the drinks table. 

“Hello Duck, I’m glad this is the future where you’re here.” He ladles himself a mug from one of the two crockpots of eggnog. 

“Howdy, ‘Drid. Glad I ain’t the only one who went for the ugly sweater vibe.”

Indrid cocks his head, “This is the nicest thing I own.”

Duck groans, reaches up to hide behind a hat that isn’t there.

Indrids smile widens, “I’m joking. It was a, ah, what do always call it...ah yes, a goof.”

He laughs, relieved, “Jesus, you got me good.”

“It’s payback for the time you convinced me that squirrels were carnivorous.” 

Duck snickers at the memory of Indrid, in his moth form in the woods, eyeing the squirrels warily. 

He joins Aubrey, Thacker, and Dani by the fire, and Indrid wanders over to oin them, taking a seat next to Duck when the human scoots over to offer him it. Thacker talks about the library and the regrowing cities, and Indrid’s face turns wistful. Duck suspects only he can see it, Indrid’s glasses showing enough of his eyes from the side to make emotions clearer. 

(Indrid always sits across from people. The last few times they’ve met up, he sits next to Duck).

In spite of only some gentle ribbing about his clothes, he keeps picking at the sleeve of the sweater. It’s a little itchy, and he could have worn that nice green shirt with the pine tree tie that he likes. And every time he catches a glimpse of himself in a window, he’s back in space, watching an evil hivemind recreate it’s pattern on a mimic of his sister. 

“Is it bothering you a lot?” Indrid murmurs.

“N-no, uh, I, uh, just, fuck, it’s nothin,” He stops talking, flees Indrid’s red stare to refill his cider. He pauses to talk with Kirby and Ned, is looking around the room for a new spot to sit (and for Indrid), only for a tan hand to wave him into a hallway. 

“Here, try this.” Indrid ties a discarded gift ribbon around his wrist, and he’s no longer looking down at the wool sweater and jeans. He’s in a deep gray suit, with a green shirt and a silver tie. 

“Holy shit. Wait, do I look-”

“-different? No, I left your physical form intact. I can make disguises of different magnitudes. A simple clothing swap is easily done. And I, ah, I did not want you to spend a night with friends lost in frightening memories.”

Duck’s about to thank him when the words sink in. 

“There was a future where you told me. I, ah, you’ve mentioned what you saw at Reconciliation before, but not that detail.”

“Wasn’t scared so much as pissed.” Duck glances at his shoes, now well-shined loafers. 

“Understandable. And useful; the odds were not in your favor, believe me. But well-timed anger can change the course of fate. Just as choosing mercy--even when others urge for violence--can. Punching me also reset fate rather dramatically.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Indrid’s smile is small, and stunningly fake, “It was for the best. I’m going to get some more nog. Would you like some?”

“Nah, still gotta finish this. But I do wanna try some of that salmon dip.”

“In true bear fashion.” Indrid’s smile turns genuine when Duck snorts and elbows him. 

They talk and mingle with their friends, Indrid making frequent returns to the nog bowl. Duck steps outside for air, comes back and spends a moment watching Indrid by the fire. Stern notices him, steps away from an animated conversation with a ghostly Boyd about art forgery to join him. 

“Quite the dapper costume change.”

“Thanks. ‘Drid did it for me.”

Stern follows Duck’s gaze, then casually sip his wine, “Have you told him yet?”

“Told, uh, told him what?”

“Duck, you spend more time with him than almost anyone else.”

“Half my friends live on another planet now.”

“And every time you look at him, your smile changes. His does too. According to Barclay, he talks about you like you’re the most fascinating thing on earth. Right, love?” He kisses Barclay’s cheek as the cook joins them.

“Yep.”

There’s a crash as Indrid loses his balance and knocks over a lamp, which Aubrey freezes mid-air.

“Shit, he’s hammered.” Barclay sounds surprised. 

“How much rum did you put in the nog?” Duck doesn’t remember the sip he had from Indrid’s cup tasting that strong. 

“I made two batches, one with booze and one without. Indrid was drinking the non-spiked one earlier. Wonder when he switched.”

“About the time Duck changed clothes.”

“...How did you not catch us durin the Pine Guard days again?”

Stern smiles, “Barclay can be very distracting when he wants to be. And none of you have ever asked exactly how much I worked out.”

He has a point. As does Barclay when he points out that Indrid should have someone take him home after the party.

When Duck offers him a ride, Indrid chirps excitedly, bonks his forehead on the roof of the car, and climbs in. By the time they get back to the ‘Bago, Duck knows he can’t just leave Indrid here.

“You’re staying?” Indrid bounces on the bed as Duck turns on the space heaters. 

“Just ‘til you sober up. I’ll stay out in the main cab so you can sleep.”

Indrid lets out a chirr that intensifies when Duck slips the ribbon from his wrist. It almost sounds perturbed. 

“I mean, uh, I can go if you really need me to.”

Indrid shakes his head, barely managing to get his shoes off before burrowing under to covers, “Please stay as long as you want.” 

Duck nods, excuses himself to use the bathroom, and comes back to Indrid chirp-snoring into the pillows. He’s such a cute, weird man. Duck will just sit down a second to make sure he doesn’t wake up and need something. 

The one small seat is taken up by a binder, which opens when Duck lifts it. Instead of the expected paper avalanche, he finds drawings, each in their own plastic slip. He flips through it as he settles in the chair. Interspersed with the drawings are papers labeled in one or two two words of Sylph, and Duck reverse engineers their likely meanings from the images that follow them. The section with all the plants and animals must be “nature,” the one with parties and state fairs “events.” There’s even a section that’s all elements of winter holidays; the Rockefeller tree with decorations that suggest the 1930s, a menorah in a window, candles on the table of a house that’s seen better days.  Towards the back is a section that has to be “friends.” There are one or two people who appear in images with Indrid. Including the kind that make Duck quickly turn the page. The further he gets in that section, the more familiar faces he sees; Barclay, Aubrey, Jake, Ned. 

He sees himself, returning from saving the world, battered but alive. 

“The odds were not good”

Tucked at the very back of the section, between the final empty pages and the binder, is a folded paper. Curious, Duck opens it. 

It’s him. With Indrid. They’re on Indrid’s tiny bed, kissing.

God that looks nice. 

Startled by his own thoughts, he tucks the picture back into the binder and sets the whole thing on the floor. Decides one of the paperbacks strewn on the floor is a better way to occupy himself then accidentally finding more personal images. 

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

The world is ending, everything is ripping away into the sky, everything he’s fought for is gone. He failed. He didn’t want a destiny, and he’s failed the fucking thing anyway and it’s all gone and there’s no future for him now but to be torn into ash-

“Duck, Duck wake up” 

He jolts, whams his head into the wall of the very intact Winnebago at the edge of the still standing Monongahela while a very alive, now-sober Indrid leans over him. 

“Owfuck.”

“Oh, oh no, I’m sorry, you were very clearly having a nightmare and I figured you’d like it to stop.”

“Yeah” He rubs his head, “yeah I did. Thanks. Sorry if I woke you up.”

“Given that in many futures our positions were reversed, I don’t have a lot of room to complain about someone shouting in their sleep.” Indrid sits down on the floor next to the chair, stays silent as Duck coaxes his breathing to even out. A hand hesitates in the air, then touches his arm, rubbing it reassuringly. 

No one else saw it. Not even Minerva or Leo, the only people who could understand the horror of seeing a thing unfold with scant chances of stopping it. 

Indrid’s hand brush lightly over his own before returning to his arm. 

No, not the only people. 

“Indrid, can I ask you somethin?”

“Of course.”

“The day we let The Quell through and saved the worlds did you, uh, did you see what woulda happened if Aubrey hadn’t blown the gate apart?”

“Yes.” The reply is quiet.

“Do you, uh, still see it sometimes?”

“Now and then, but I have far more bad timelines in my mind, and more failures in my past, for my nightmares to draw upon than you do. That is half the reason I drank so much tonight. Around the time of the winter solstice, my nightmares increase in frequency and intensity, Sylvain only knows why. Sometimes substances dull that.”

“Oh, ‘Drid.” Duck turns in the chair. Indrid’s gaze stays straight ahead, but his fingers shred a nearby scrap of paper. 

“The irony is, I love this time of year on Earth, in spite of the chill. I love the winter holidays, the gathering of warmth and light to hold one over until the spring returns. But my enjoyment of it is dampened by the workings of my powers and mind.”

“Fuck, guess I oughta count myself lucky I only got a few bad visions to remember.” The joke falls flat, and Indrid glances at him. 

“That vision is nothing to laugh at. I’m glad you had it all the same, glad you triumphed and survived.”

“Woulda really sucked to accept my destiny only to fail at the last fuckin second.”

He shuts his mouth to stop the next thought from escaping; Indrid doesn’t need to know that he sometimes fears that everything he’s done and wants to do now that fate is no longer hanging a talking sword over his head will somehow be hollow.

“You were so much more than your destiny, Duck Newton. You still are.” 

The sincerity, half-obscured in shadow and red lens, is too much. He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. 

“Guess, uh, guess you likin the holidays explains that section in the binder.”

“Yes. Wait. Did, ah, did you look through the whole thing?” Fear slips into his voice. 

“Uhhuh.”

“Even the, ah, the last page?”

“Yep. Some real beautiful drawin’s in there. Some mighty interestin ones too.”

Indrid nervously taps his fingers together, “Since you are about to ask, that future took place shortly after the cottonwood. You, you came by to apologize for punching me and to tell me you were glad I was alright and, and ask me to stay in Kepler and when I asked why, you did that. Just one little kiss. That’s as far as I got before the timelines changed. It’s, it’s alright, of course, that’s how timelines work, and you did eventually apologize.”

He did, two or three separate times, and each time Indrid brushed it off, insisting it was what needed to be done.

Duck sinks to the floor, turns on his knees to bring them face to face. 

“What are you-” Indrid stiffens as Duck gingerly pushes up his glasses. He’s never seen Indrid’s face like this, uncovered but still human, and it takes all the air from his lungs.

“Which eye did I hit?”

Indrid touches the right side of his face. Duck tips forward, balancing his fingers on Indrids thighs, and kisses the corner of his right eye.

“There. Now it’s a real apology.” He whispers in Indrid’s ear, close enough that faint, hopeful chirps reach him. He moves a few inches down and over, lips the barest strip of air away from Indrid’s own. 

“You, you don’t have to. Just because something appears in a future doesn’t mean it’s fated to happen.”

“What if I want it to happen?”

Indrid surges forward, cupping Duck’s face. His kisses re feather-light and sweeter than nectar, and Duck wants to drink them down, knows that after this taste he’ll never be full. 

“Duck I, h, I want” Indrid clings to him, his words turning to chirps nd clicks, as he’s so overwhelmed by a little kissing.

“Want me to keep, uh, ‘apologizin?”

“So very much.”

“Then take me to bed, darlin.”

The instant they hit the bed Indrid pulls Duck atop him, fingers fawning over his body as he kisses him over and over. When they stop to catch their breath, Duck remembers something,

“‘Drid, what was the other half of the reason you got drunk?”

“A problem of my own making. I did not foresee just how you would look in your suit, and I was trying to avoid an, ah, embarrassing bodily response. Alcohol helps my kind of Sylph in that regard.”

Duck chuckles, nips Indrid’s lower lip, “want me to put it back on?”

“Not just yet.”

“Want me to kiss you ‘til we fall asleep?”

“More than I’ve wanted anything for Christmas in a long time.”

Duck kisses him, keeps teasing their lips together as he murmurs, “then consider me your resent, darlin.”

#indrid cold/duck newton #indruck #winter fills #taz amnesty

[dearduende]

DID

this all really happen? the way it’s written, no— scratched into the spiral bound, composition, college-ruled everything. each waking moment and fights and fears. and the dreams. including those crushes from afar with code names that I must piece together from hints over months and years, and then tracing back cryptic love notes tucked into lockers now pinned as if evidence pointing to the mens rea— the furtive phone calls in hushed tones from my bathroom as if my parents didn’t notice me flush and steal myself away from the dinner table and the nightly status reports. the secrecy (and the hormones) (and the embarrassment of my existence) (but mostly the hormones) blooming acne across my chin, my forehead, my nose within the grooves of its parentheses willing its contents—each pore—to shrink into an afterthought. I remember now how I had prayed to God to absolve my skin problems and to solve my boy ones. even bargained with Him in bed that I’d stop touching myself— or at least a bit less—as if these whiteheads were His chosen form of punishment. a dozen constellations across my shoulders from which my mother would weave the story of her same hidden shame, shared scars and bumps across our backs like labels in Braille of all the parts I want to hide, she promised: it’ll lessen and pass with time.

yet it still manages to haunt the next generation.

pull out the red string and the pins to map the evidence, the eye witness accounts, the threats and the retaliation and the heartache onto the faded bamboo floors of my parents’ house. the times I willed myself not to cry, stone woman as my mother avalanched again over the granite before me her voice booming and crumbling daring to swallow us. the way I stoically thrilled in the lust of our mutual destruction, first: the sticky salt of our wounds lashed by sharp tongues and second: the umami of it seared and grilled to perfection. still bleeding. medium rare. or when my father stampeded the room. seeing red. throwing a metal water bottle, denting it permanently against the wall then landing on the cold tile. how their swear words were only ever in English (that’s when I knew shit was serious) a rare violence uncondoned by both their mothers’ tongues.

I’m just realizing now: no wonder my brother and I, or I’ll just speak for myself, why I still burst into tears in the middle of their war zone, or whatever else might feel remotely like it. I now know instead of acting as an unsolicited diplomat caught in the crossfire it’s safer to seek asylum in the Switzerland of the next room, one ear still wired to their rising voices (I can’t help it) and their talking points, only to draft peace treaties for a civil war where they’ve long forgotten what it is they’re really fighting about anymore. but back then, this was the only way to snap them out of self-destruct mode by overriding their programming with the parental unit fail-safe. their child crying.

I could walk backwards through it with my eyes closed and show you exactly how the sun slants through the windows. how in late spring afternoon the crystals hanging in the dining room explode a universe of rainbows, little galaxies of light scattered among our dark matter, across the white walls and the floors and the crumbs on the pale table cloth. I could point out all the favorite sun spots of Tiger and Lily (may he rest in peace) and somehow always end up back at the grand piano. there is a tenderness only fingertips know.

dig out the mental blueprints from the archives. the different schools. the cliques and the quacks. the start of another year. short shorts and sweaters. (refer to your diaryjournals for the details).

and then another new journal. how they all somehow begin with the just-after-waking subtle scent of short stories germinating in my mind. they seem to disappear just before I can finish transcribing them and then I’m left empty handed, dumfounded, foolish and doubting and then writing the only kinds of stories I do know, the ones I’m still learning to place in the light sprouting tender roots between sheets of paper, pressed tightly like all those flower petals— if only I could preserve their bright pigment tones. but even imagination fades. and seemingly so do memories. these spines loosely bound and knees and elbows now cracked, scuffed, and crinkled. just a bit creased and water damaged. over the years. but mostly tears—watermarks from another era. once, an errant sprinkler jet from the lawn tap tap tapped against my bedroom window just barely cracked open, as fate would have it. waterlogged stacks of books my pillars now pink and black and blue with mold and flooded the bamboo floors. trying to put out the wrong fires a decade too late, or maybe the right fires as in the written ones, to destroy the evidence. I now keep them sealed in a plastic box.

I plead the fifth. there must be some limit after all these years, when it’s way too late to apologize anyway— I’ve considered, and then talked myself down, from texting or DMing all the people I have wronged. and memory serves no one now. if my handwriting has changed at least a dozen times does that mean I’ve lived a dozen different lives? the Hubba Bubba gum tape chewing preteen blowing bubbles over every i and j and under each ! and then there’s the jagged purple glitter pen cursive as if going slower helps it turn out better— one of those things you realize later in life isn’t always true. there’s the one seemingly always in a rush, skinny and slanted and caffeinated (there are coffee spill stains to prove) always as if she’s just about to topple over. breathe, I want to tell her, no need to move so fast. you will concuss yourself doing so. and two weeks later also topple down the stairs. (both true stories.) life will force you to slow down. I almost forget the one more rounded and grounded printed in ballpoint extra fine so as not to bleed but what’s the cost of living for the sake of perfection? what even is my handwriting now? I had to dig out one of my scrap paper lists to figure out how its a blend, less measured and more movement without being driven purely by entropy.

loosely held together.

and now, how often do I write, like with pen and paper the letters carved and inked their ghosts passing through the walls between pages bumping up against other memories. these lives and voices call out to me across the decades, some more familiar than others almost like specimens in a museum glass box too fragile for the dust or the humidity or the air or the light of day. I’m an archeologist glowing at her simple discovery which really just involves showing up onsite and digging and dusting and continued search over and over into the pits of my being delicately brushing away at the dirt around my bones, the silt and sediment compressing into a cross section of history held in my hand. look! here it is.

so I write again, if only for this moment to leave my future self some clues (in no particular order): the return of my freckles. Craigslist apartment daydreams. I’m building my callouses learning a new landscape of metal strings and broken chords. say a little prayer. tonight, I made choong yao bang from scratch with Mom. I’ve been staying up way too late (it’s 4:35am right now... why?) and then falling asleep to ASMR videos (specifically, Emma). Mom and Dad are actually not fighting much these days despite spending all day under the same roof (find your Google doc, love in the time of quarantine).

my younger self might not even recognize these people inhabiting our same house.

Mom and Dad are both still here. and I’m trying not to take it all for granted, I promise. we’re together for now but he’s gone again (eerily, much like 10 years ago but this time on his own terms) or at least he’s far away, who knows, who’s to say. we’re giving him time and space. and we’re learning how to hold each other while we fall apart, sometimes all at the same time. usually in different ways.

how I’m scared and excited for my life to unfurl one leaf at a time. allowing myself the gift, the anticipation, the surprise, and then counting the splits.

reach for the sunlight, keep reaching.

and I still don’t know what I wanna be when I grow up but when have I ever had it all figured out and what fun is that.

and a note to my younger self: PS—not only will you continue to write for emotional release (reference my pure bewilderment of this cathartic power in diaryjournal dated February 10, 2007) you will also connect with other humans in your words and we’ll play in our world and revel in theirs too. keep writing, for yourself. and dare to share it with others.

gather what others refer to as the weeds, make a bouquet, blow and scatter the dandelion seeds.

#writing #poetry #poem #words #poets on tumblr #new poets society #spilled ink #spilled poetry #reflection #i found old journals #late night writings #late night poetry #4am #spilled thoughts #poets corner #written by me #writing about writing

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 19)

A Trip North

Going on a trip with Arthur and Charles :) 

Also it’s my birthday tomorrow (22!!), so if y’all want to gift me with comments then be my guest ;) they make the world go ‘round!

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

  -

A couple of days passed, Arthur had ended up helping Beau some more; accompanying Penelope on a women's suffrage rally. I volunteered myself to go too, but Beau worried that more women going along might make matters worse, riling up the not-so-progressive locals even more. I hadn't argued, despite rather liking the cause Penelope and the other women were rallying for; why shouldn't we have the right to cast a vote, too? Anyway, the rally came and went and Arthur got busy, pulled into some work with Dutch and some others.

When I asked him about it he breezed over it, telling me that it wasn't important and that he'd rather just spend his time with me talking about other things. Though, it was highly puzzling to me to notice the deputy badge on his shirt. He couldn't not explain things to me then, so I prodded him about it one afternoon when he came back from a trip into town with Sadie after she'd yelled down the camp with Pearson.

"Is that badge just an interesting new fashion accessory or are you actually a damn deputy now?" I asked, poking the badge with my finger. He glanced down at it, then grabbed my finger in his hand, keeping it there. 

"I thought I might try something new with my look," he rolled his eyes a little and I wiggled my finger free from his hand, cocking a brow. Arthur sighed. "Alright, if you must know, it's real. But it ain't my damn idea."

"That don't surprise me," I said, glancing over at Dutch where he was sat reading one of his Evelyn Miller novels in his tent. 

"I got you something from town today, you gonna let me show you? Or would you rather me bore you with all these silly details?" He questioned and my eyes widened a little. 

"You got me something?" I squeaked, stunned at the idea of receiving a gift from him. 

"I did, don't get too excited," he chuckled, opening up his satchel. 

"Wait, finish telling me about this first," I decided, touching his arm to stop him. 

"Fine. 'Least if you get mad, I'll have a gift to soften the blow," he breathed. I frowned a little, not quite understanding why he'd be worried about making me mad. "Dutch reckons the Braithwaites and the Grays both have money, enough to go around, if you get my meaning."

"I certainly do, so what's with the badges? You on the payroll?" I snorted and Arthur looked at me for a while, a little hesitant. 

"He wants us to play 'em both. Gain their trust, figure out what's what, and when the time is right; take whatever they've got in the hopes they both think the other family's to blame. You know they've got that silly feud."

"Well it sounds good on paper, a little risky, but what work do you do that ain't risky?" I put my hands on my hips, waiting for some sort of response as Arthur narrowed his eyes a little. 

"You ain't mad?"

"That was what was supposed to make me mad? Why on Earth?" I cocked my head incredulously and Arthur released a quiet breath. 

"You being friends with Beau and Penelope, I figured you might not be too pleased about us robbing 'em," he explained and I nodded in understanding. 

"Fair enough, but I already told you. Their families are terrible, I don't care what happens as long as Beau and Penelope get out fine. Maybe we can help them," I shrugged. "Besides, I know they barely see a penny of their families' money as it is."

"Well, in that case, that's a relief. We can help them, if the opportunity arises," Arthur nodded and I smiled at him, then glanced down at his satchel. 

"So what did you pick up in town?" I asked, watching a little smile settle on Arthur's features as he reached into his satchel again. He retrieved a leather bound book and held it out towards me.

"I said I'd look for a sketchbook for you, got you this and–" I took the book from him, my lips parting as he dug around in his satchel some more, "a pencil, so you can pick up drawing again."

I took the pencil from him too and stared at the items for a while, unable to find suitable words for my gratitude. The journal was wrapped in black leather, polished to a subtle shine and had a strip of embossing next to the spine, delicate swirls. It was a beautiful object, the likes of which I'd never owned. All of my previous drawing experience had been on loose paper, scraps my father gave to me whenever he could. 

"Arthur this is wonderful, I wasn't expecting this at all," I shook my head, flicking through the book and watching the off-white pages flutter.

"I said I would," he chuckled. 

"Yes, but I…" I trailed off, then looked up at him and gave him a smile. "Thank you. What can I do to repay you?"

Arthur shook his head and patted the top of the book. "Nothing, it's a gift."

"It's a beautiful gift, surely there is something I can do to show my gratitude?" I said, reaching and giving his arm an affectionate rub. Arthur looked around cluelessly, shaking his head. 

"I don't know, draw me a picture," he decided. 

"Of course! Any preference for what?" I grinned at him. 

"Surprise me," he chuckled, taking my hand from his arm and squeezing it. "Do you like it?"

"I love it, I've never owned my own journal before, it's incredible,” I told him with a joyous sigh. 

"I'm pleased. I like seeing you smile," he told me, then let go of my hand when someone walked past; Susan, eyeing the two of us up curiously. I laughed and looked down at the book, face warming up.

"Thank you, again. I really appreciate this," I told him and he shrugged. 

"No worries, sweetheart. We'll take a trip out again sometime, when we have the time," he suggested and I nodded eagerly. 

"I would love to."

-

"Is it my birthday today? This is the second time someone's brought me a goodie," I asked when Charles approached me where I was stood slicing carrots – a job I was more than willing to give Sadie a rest from – carrying a bow and a bundle of arrows. "You found some time to make one?"

"Of course, a deal's a deal. Besides, it'll be nice having a new hunting partner," he told me, handing me the bow and the arrows. I inspected it, noting its distinct hand-made quality, made from a strip of wood that'd been carved and bent into shape, and sanded down with what I could only imagine was a lot of elbow grease. 

"You made this?" I said, stunned. 

"Sure. I hope it's okay for you, let me know if it needs any adjustments," he said. 

"This is fantastic, thank you. You ever need anything from me, I'm happy to help. This must've taken a lot of time," I told him, holding the bow and drawing the string back, getting a feel for it. "A bit of oleander hardly makes up for it."

"I wasn't lying when I said I enjoyed making things. I was happy to do it, you know that."

"Well, I'll draw you a picture, how's that? Arthur got me a sketchbook today, so I will create something with my hands for you just as you created this for me," I bargained. Charles smiled, glancing over his shoulder at where Arthur was napping on his bed.

"Sounds fair, you're becoming good friends with Arthur, aren't you? He's a good man," Charles pointed out, innocently enough. 

"I enjoy his company, I find we have things in common," I nodded. 

"The three of us should go hunting together, he knows a fair bit about it and I think we'd make a good team. We could use some new furs for the camp; something thicker to sleep on. You ever hunted a bear before?"

"Christ, no. Look at me," I chuckled, gesturing to myself; being much smaller than the likes of Charles who was well built with muscle and brawn. 

"They're fairly common up north from here. The three of us could head that way for a couple of days, camp out, I'll teach you. You survived on your own this long, I think you could handle it," he gave me an amused smile, no doubt at the look on my face. 

"Bears? Well, okay Charles. I'll go with it," I laughed uneasily and Charles patted my shoulder. 

"You can handle it," he reiterated. "You got that rifle from Micah, right? That'll work, if we fit it with a scope. We won't be getting too close, don't worry."

"Alright," I nodded, "a few days away from camp sounds good anyway, if we don't get eaten."

Charles seemed to agree, laughing. "I will leave you to your work, and I'll speak to Arthur about taking that trip."

-

The three of us – Arthur, Charles and I – got the go ahead from Dutch to leave for a few days, and packed up supplies on our horses to keep us fed and warm. We'd be heading up towards the grizzlies, Charles had planned out the route and we all left early one morning; stocked full of tinned foods, blankets, tents and rifles. We were heading towards a place I'd never been before, to do something I had never dreamed of trying. I wasn't nervous, but I was full of anticipation and excitement. The biggest animal I'd ever taken down was a buck, the most dangerous animal had been a rather angry alligator, a bear was certainly a daunting mark but I trusted Charles. 

Along the way he told us about the animals he'd hunted in the past; he was extremely knowledgeable on the subject and I admired him. Hunting was something I enjoyed, now that I was capable enough to do it cleanly, not because I enjoyed killing things but because of the quietness of the task. You couldn't hunt while stomping around or chattering on about nonsense, you had to concentrate and be careful, it put me into a sort of meditative state which separated me from my thoughts and anything that I was struggling with. Of course, I hunted for survival and it didn't bring me pleasure to harm creatures, but there was a set of steps, a routine, that made hunting rather peaceful, ironically. 

We stopped for lunch, and Charles encouraged me to hunt a rabbit with my new bow to test it out. He and Arthur set up a small fire while I went off on my own, searching out our meal. Rabbits were not difficult to come across, and I was heading back to them quickly with my catch. 

"That bow can't be too bad," Charles said, pleased with himself when he spotted the rabbit. I thanked him again for the bow and we skinned and cooked the rabbit, eating it with some tinned sweetcorn and a bit of cheese, and let our horses rest while we sat down around the fire for a little while. 

I found myself smiling an awful lot, being with Charles and Arthur. All three of us were rather like-minded; a little quiet and happy to enjoy each others' company with long stretches of silence between the odd story. I took the opportunity to sit and sketch Charles while he was sat giving his rifle a clean and Arthur was brushing his horse. The atmosphere – with the crackle of the fire, the sound of birds singing, the company of the two men – made me wonder how on Earth I had gone so long on my own. There was a sense of comfort here, that I'd never experienced by myself.

I jumped when something touched my head, realising quickly that it was Arthur placing a hat on my head. I looked up at him, my eyes a little widened, and he chuckled. 

"I figured you could use this more than I do. Looks better on you anyway," he said, sitting down beside me. When I didn't say anything, he turned to look at me, then straightened the hat on my head. "You can keep it," he clarified. 

"You sure?" I asked him. 

"Of course. Been wearing this hat for years," he tipped his own hat at me. "I was only carrying that one 'round as a spare. I don't like you riding in the sun too long without it."

"Am I burning?" I questioned, putting my journal down to pat my cheeks. 

"Not yet, I'm taking preventative measures."

"Well, thank you," I smiled gratefully, then picked my book back up to continue drawing. 

"What'chu drawing?" He asked, and I lifted a finger to my lips before flicking my eyes over to Charles, who was still absorbed in cleaning his weapon. Arthur chuckled and nodded in understanding. I tilted the drawing to him and he studied it. "Looking good."

"Good," I smiled. "I'm almost done."

I continued sketching, finishing off the rest of Charles' body, capturing a very crooked and inaccurate looking rifle in his hands. It was recognisable as a gun, at least, and that was good enough for me. As I worked, I sensed Arthur's attention on me, and I worked very hard to not let it put me off. I jumped again when his hand appeared by my face, going to move some hair; I was wearing it down and it fell forward, curtaining my face from him as I looked down. When he realised he'd startled me, his hand froze, then moved very gingerly to brush the hair back. When I looked at him, he seemed a little embarrassed and didn't meet my eyes. I shifted, pressing my shoulder up against his in silent reassurance. 

"We should keep going," Charles spoke up, rising to his feet and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. I moved back to a more natural position and closed my journal, looking up at him. "We'll ride for a few more hours and then stop somewhere for the night, I've packed up the rest of that rabbit, we can finish it later."

"Whereabouts will we be by then?" I asked curiously as I stood up with Arthur. Charles put out the fire as we gathered up our things. 

"We're aiming to be just South of O'Creagh's Run. Best place to look for bears is North of that lake, that gives us all day tomorrow to hunt. Depending on how well that goes, we can either start heading back tomorrow afternoon, or we can stay the night and leave the next morning," Charles explained, heading towards the horses. We all mounted up again. 

"There's wolves around there, I heard," I said, glancing at Charles from the corner of my eye, trying not to sound worried.

"Sure, sometimes, but they shouldn't bother us if we give them no reason to. We'll store the food away from our camp just to be safe," he assured me. 

"And sleep with guns in our hands," Arthur laughed mischievously and I looked over at him. 

"You two have both hunted these kinds of animals before, haven't you?"

"I've hunted a couple of bears," Arthur affirmed. "You haven't?" He asked, seeming a little surprised. 

"No, seemed a little risky and pointless when I was on my own," I told him. 

"Hosea and I almost got devoured by this big bastard not too long ago," Arthur told me. "I finished him off, though."

"I reckon John mentioned this," I said, and Arthur glanced at me in question. 

"John? What's he say?"

"Said you made a lovely hat," I smirked. Arthur made a little humming sound and looked away, an embarrassed flush appearing on his face. 

"I remember that," Charles said, speaking from up ahead. "It was an interesting choice. Definitely a little morbid," he laughed. 

"Yeah, well, better than it going to waste, you ought’a admit," Arthur defended and I offered him a grin. 

"My brother had that kinda stuff made. Though, he weren't much of a hunter. He owned a hat with a bunch'a rat parts around the brim; I can guarantee whatever your hat looked like, it was better than my brother's."

"Rats?" Arthur questioned, and made a face. I nodded sympathetically.

"I lived with that for a few months," I said. 

"Jesus, I'm sorry," Arthur murmured, making me laugh. 

We rode until the sun went down, and we set up camp in a little clearing just off the road. We'd made it to where Charles had planned for us to, and finished off the rabbit from earlier. Arthur cracked out some beers, just one each to wet our whistles before bed. We'd set up a tent each – mine being lent to me by John – around the fire. 

Since we were staying put for the night I decided to give Charles what I'd drawn that afternoon, so I retrieved the drawing from my satchel and scooted over to him. He took a swig of beer and eyed me up as I offered it out to him. 

"I hope you don't mind. I said I'd draw something as a small token of gratitude for crafting that bow. How's a portrait?" I said as he took it from me. He smiled when he set his eyes on it. 

"Wow, when did you do this; earlier on?" He asked and I nodded. "You're stealthy."

"It ain't worth nothing, I'm no fancy french artist, but I hope the novelty of having a drawing of yourself brings you a little happiness," I grinned at him. 

"It does. This is great, thank you," he chuckled as he stared at the drawing, lifting it up to get a closer look in the dim light around the fire. 

"I gotta think of something to draw for Arthur since he got me the book I drew that in," I looked over at him, and he perked up at the mention of his name. Before, he'd been staring up at the sky, leaning up against a big rock nearby. "What do you think, Charles?"

"You're not gonna draw him?"

"I've drawn him once before, that's still in my saddlebag come to think of it. I'm thinking something different."

Arthur stood up, stretched a little, then approached the fire; the light of it illuminated him better, highlighting his most prominent features and reflecting in his eyes. "Draw me, uhh… draw me a duck."

"A duck?" I cocked my head. 

"What's wrong with ducks?"

"Nothing's wrong with ducks, that's just real unexpected. What kinda duck you want; mallard? Pekin?" I laughed. 

"How 'bout one of each?" 

"Ohh, of course. Anything else?"

"Naw, I ain't greedy," he said, smirking good-naturedly and strolling over to the horses. He stroked his horse's face and fed him an apple from his satchel. 

"You sure you want ducks? What if I drew Jet?" I asked, getting up and joining him with the horses. Arthur paused, looking at me thoughtfully. 

"You know what? I wouldn't mind that. You like that, boy?" He turned to his horse, giving him some affection. "Get your picture drawn?"

"I think he'd like it," I snickered. Arthur glanced cautiously over at Charles, then reached for my hand. He lifted it to his mouth, pressing a number of kisses across my knuckles. 

"You could draw me anything and I'd treasure it," he whispered. A drop of something warm felt like it rolled from my heart to my belly; affection and longing. I leaned in to kiss his cheek, just once, a fraction of what I wanted to do. 

Arthur looked at Charles again and let go of my hand. I heard movement behind me and bit down on my lip to hold something back, I don't know what, but I felt like some sort of sound wanted to escape from me. I had so many feelings. 

"I'm gonna turn in, you two should too. Early start tomorrow," Charles told us, and I glanced over my shoulder to see that he wasn't even looking our way. 

"Goodnight, Charles," I called to him, and he lifted his arm in a languid little wave before he crawled into his tent, closing the flaps behind him. 

When I turned back to Arthur, he almost immediately closed the space between us to lay a kiss on me, one that stole my breath and coaxed my hands from my sides and to the fabric at the front of his shirt. After a moment he spread his kisses to my cheek, to my temple, then his lips hovered by my ear.

"What I wouldn't give for just ten minutes alone with you, where we don't gotta do nothin' but this," he whispered to me, instantly warming me from head to toe. All I could do was nod. "I'll get us some time, soon."

"There's so much I wanna do–"

"Don't say nothing that's gonna make me resent one of my best friends for merely being here," he chuckled, only half serious. I glanced back towards Charles' tent. 

"I both love and hate sneaking around like this," I told him. "We can tell whoever we like, but I enjoy knowing that this is just between us."

"I know the feeling," Arthur nodded. "We can keep this quiet for now. I guess… I guess if we don't tell no one, for as long as they think we're just friends, we can get away with spending nights away from camp alone without them making assumptions."

"We should take advantage of that at least once, don't you think?" I giggled, watching Arthur lick his lips, his eyes turning a little sultry. 

"Absolutely. A night alone, jus' you and me, that sounds real nice," he purred, pressing another kiss to my temple. "For now, though, we got company. Let's go get some sleep, princess."

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #reader insert #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #atink #charles smith

[split-n-splice]

Now! I must mention, “If you leave, that's your choice, but I would like to not lose my car in the process.” ahahhaa

[Chapter Guide]

6. Enabler – 3

Reclined in a computer chair before the CCTV system, Shego had her feet kicked up on the desk and a magazine she’d already read front to back open on her lap when she heard the quiet tip-toe of Dr. Drakken’s descent down the staircase. In her peripheral, she saw him poke his head out from the stairwell, but she didn’t look up from the magazine.

It had been hours since the explosive demonstration, but he was wise to continue giving her a wide berth. A mumble announced his presence before he cautiously called out to her. She didn’t let her surprise show when the sheepish man awkwardly apologized for provoking her wrath.

Shego merely shrugged it off with a deceptively nonchalant grunt and flipped a page in her magazine. Following orders was in the job description after all, but didn’t remind him so.

Making a funny thoughtful sort of whine, the man drummed his fingers on the wall he was peeking out from behind. “I was beginning to have my doubts,” he dared to share. “But you made me proud out there. Fine work, Shego.”

It was an odd sort of congratulation and it didn’t sound natural at all. It didn’t do squat to comfort her, if that was the intent. She didn’t feel particularly proud of herself, no matter how nice it had felt at the time to lash out at men well deserving of the attention.

She didn’t have to tell or threaten Dr. Drakken to shut up. Her cold shoulder got that message across loud and clear without her moving a muscle.

Even if she didn’t so much as glance up at him, she could tell he was still daunted by the earlier flogging he’d incited, and was being careful to tread softly around her minefield temper, likely fearful of detonating her on himself. Shego didn’t like his cagey glances, but she took no action to assure him the threat had passed.

The man safely reached his desk and took a seat to tend to business she didn’t care to inquire on. He shuffled around behind her now and then, moving slow and trying to stay quiet. When Shego swiveled her chair to keep better tabs on him from the corner of her eye, he just about dropped a sack of paperwork he’d pulled from a filing cabinet tucked in a corner behind the desk. As if afraid to make any sudden movements, he moved at a snail’s pace as he returned to going about his business. He flipped pages, plopped stacks aside, hummed, scribbled, and highlighted for what felt like hours.

Shego didn’t move from her chair the entire time, nor did she look up to him. The longer she sat peacefully, the more he relaxed. She could tell that much when he gradually returned to his regular amount of huffs and sighs and grumbles. A mean little thought crossed her mind and almost made her smirk as she considered doing something – anything, like maybe shooting plasma into the crackling fireplace – to startle him, but she supposed watching her beat the daylight out of two big mean men may have frightened him enough for one day.

Sometime that evening, the man heaved a huge apathetic sigh as if to make an announcement and sat back at his desk. It certainly garnered her attention, and from the corner of her eye she could see him scrubbing his face. He slumped forward on the desk, groaning wretchedly into his hands before tossing his glasses aside entirely and rubbing his temples.

“I’m down to three henchmen now,” he said as if declaring defeat, head still in his hands.

Shego didn’t let her surprise show as she finally looked up from the magazine. She studied the man and his desk and concluded he’d been combing through records on his staff. His henchmen must have been garbage anyway if he was willing to forfeit more than half of his crew for her. Unless of course it was a big fat lie or he’d planned to sack them anyway to save a buck. She remained unmoved, sparing no remark.

“They’re good seeds, though,” Drakken added, sounding almost hopeful. Nonetheless, he whined as he stacked up papers and folders. “Nnng, that sounds so backwards. But! I’ll have you know, the worse they have on record are traffic violations and shoplifting. Happy now?”

Ignoring the question and his anxious stare as he awaited some sort of approval from her, Shego pulled her feet off the surveillance desk and stood to stretch. “I’m hungry,” she answered dully instead. “Are you going to take me out for Chow, or do I have to steal your keys? Because I’m not having canned soup again and I don’t trust the cafeteria grub anymore.”

Glasses back on his nose, Drakken frowned across the room at her, but after a moment he gave a yielding rumble and slumped back in his chair to root around in a pocket of his slacks. He pulled his car key off the ring and tossed it across to her, carping, “Don’t make me regret this,” as she caught it.

Shego arched an eyebrow at him, even as she gravitated toward the stairwell. “Aren’t you coming?” she called over, just a tiny bit perplexed as he went back to shuffling paperwork around.

The man grunted dismissively. “No. I have work to do.”

“Oh. Okay,” Shego muttered, taken aback. She looked down to the key and back to him, and to the door beyond him leading into the henchmen’s domain. “Are you assigning me an escort or…?” Or was he actually letting her go alone?

“Do you need a sitter?” he retorted, and shook his head. “Go. Do whatever you’re going to do, just be back by morning.” He gave a wave to dismiss her.

She should have been happier to be given such slack and the key to the ride. Though she really hadn’t been kept on any kind of leash since her arrival, she realized as she left. There wasn’t a single thing keeping here but reluctance to just walk off into the unknown.

And now she had the key to Dr. Drakken’s SUV – but in light of his indifference, the drive to do something unruly was markedly absent. She gave it her consideration, but the freedom to go have a night on the town wasn’t so tempting. She had a funny suspicion that even if she did cause a stir with the law tonight, she might only earn a pat on the back for getting away with it – because she knew she would.

She kept Dr. Drakken’s rule of thumb in mind: don’t stir trouble in one’s own neighborhood. With that voice of reason nagging her all the way, Shego didn’t do anything more rebellious than smoke in his rig and ignore a stop sign. She could have snuck into a pub, or found some shady back-alley deal to make or bust, or gone to see a movie without paying. She considered dining and dashing somewhere nice, but the thought of dining alone didn’t appeal to her for reasons that disgusted herself.

In the end, she swung by a Cow-n-Chow drive-thru to order two meal combos so she wouldn’t seem so…so what? Pathetic? Because she was alone? It was a damn drive-thru for crying out loud. The underpaid staff couldn’t care less if she bought one meal or enough for the whole crew. Shego scoffed to herself as she drove back to the hillside lair, something miserable curling in her stomach. With four brothers, and having been in charge of two since they were in diapers, she could barely remember being as alone as she felt now.

She caught herself wondering for a moment what Dr. Drakken would do if she never came home – although where she’d go, she didn’t know. Probably back to Go City. Would he hunt her down, or just write her off and let her go? He hadn’t sought vengeance on her for past transgressions, so she’d bet her money on the latter.

And then she cringed. Not in a million years could that dingy lair be called a home. She’d only been there two weeks, and the place was dark and cold and kind of damp and a far cry from welcoming. It wasn’t a home by any means. It was only a place to crash and a roof over her head. It was a lair – a safehouse, a crucial part of keeping a low profile.

There was a nation-wide search for her. The hideout was necessary, even if it was a burrow set in the side of a sorry little mountain half-scorched by a past wildfire. Running off and never coming back was lackluster. She’d already done that.

Left alone with her unwelcomed thoughts, they involuntarily drifted back to why she’d ever skipped town in the first place. Why there was a manhunt for her. What she’d done to her big brother. He might be a big softy and let it slide – it was an accident, one he’d brought upon himself no less – but the organization he worked under was guaranteed to be less understanding. A full pardon was a fantasy. There was no way they’d take her back with open arms after what she’d done. Going back would mean atoning for her actions. Even if she wasn’t imprisoned for attempted homicide, she’d still be going back to the same life on a tight leash she’d just abandoned.

She could ditch Dr. Drakken and his lair whenever she wanted. She could live on the lam like any ordinary runaway.

Yet she returned to the lair.

Stealing Dr. Drakken’s car tonight had lost its appeal anyway. Maybe some other time.

The gangly henchman manning the gate was hasty and bumbling. He kept his head down and avoided looking up to her as he let her through, tripping as he pushed the gate open. She couldn’t help smiling bitterly to herself, content as could be with his healthy fear of her.

The cool subterranean lair was a welcoming respite from the evening heat, but the paper sack she gripped was starting to lose its warmth as she made her way downstairs.

She announced her entry with a flat, “Knock, knock,” which was enough to startle Dr. Drakken still stationed in his office, but then he was right back to work, thoroughly engrossed in an unusually compact desktop computer she suspected he’d built from scrap. He jerked back when she dropped a brown sack of Chow in front of him on the desk. She’d already had her dinner back in the car, not that he’d find any evidence of it to chide her over.

As she came around his desk, Shego smiled to herself again, content with the knowledge he let her get away with so much more than her family ever did. Polar opposite of them, he actually encouraged thrilling little hobbies like thieving and roughing people up, so long as it wasn’t inconveniencing. He was a bad influence if she ever knew one, not that she needed much of a push.

She perched on an available armrest of his chair, watching him brush the food aside to get colder as he resumed clacking away at the keyboard. Eyeing his slumped shoulders, a ludicrous notion from earlier escaped the lockbox.

She didn’t have a chance to run it by herself a second time when she abruptly leaned over. She wouldn’t exactly call it a hug – more like just leaning on his back in a piss-poor show of appreciation, because wrapping her arms around him in a full embrace sure as hell wasn’t happening.

Dr. Drakken tensed. He might as well have been carved from stone like the rest of the lair.

Shego didn’t dare let herself indulge in the notion that he smelled almost nice, but in a huffing-fumes sort of way from whatever fuels or grease that had rubbed off on his jacket, or whatever he used to slick back his hair – because she was shoving herself away from him the moment an unwarranted lurch in her chest caused her to warm over.

Inwardly berating herself to never do that again, Shego ended the awkward contact as suddenly as she’d initiated it, though it was a mistake to let a hand linger on his shoulder for a moment too long to give it a squeeze, hoping it might convey her thanks.

She squeezed her unintentionally warm hands between her knees as she glared to the crackling fireplace, taking measured breaths as she willed the heat to leave her face. As desperately as she wished she could bury what goodness remained in her heart six feet under and in a lockbox for the sake of turning a new leaf and taking the whole evil gig seriously, that wasn’t happening. She wasn’t a hero, but she wasn’t inhuman either. She could at least work on being inhumane, and that meant not doing stupid things like trying to hug someone to show gratitude, or whatever had been behind the impulse.

It took Dr. Drakken clearing his throat before she slipped away from the armrest, taking the brusque cue to back off. Without a word, she left him grimacing and his face a funny shade as she strode off quietly to hole herself up in her room for the night.

She left whatever had transpired behind her as she focused on getting herself into bed, knocking back a shot of cold medicine knock herself out early for the night to escape overthinking.

She was late to rise the next day, and the worst thing to plague her mind was the ingrained anticipation of being chided for sleeping in. The dread nagged at her as she suited up and combed her hair quickly, hastily making herself presentable, only to find Drakken wasn’t in the lab, or even down in his office. The surveillance feed indicated activity out in the garage that doubled as a scant hangar.

A deadpan stare was fixed on her face as she moseyed in, ready to face the day and Dr. Drakken with the futile hope she would be tasked with something more engaging than watching surveillance feed again.

She slowed her pace halfway to the chief overseeing today’s project, something about his posture raising a warning to proceed with caution. Two of the remaining henchmen took notice of her, but then ducked their heads and avoided eye contact like guilty children. One man sat on a stack of tires, and the other stood at attention to lend a listening ear to Drakken’s low chatter.

The men were gathered in the midst of a mess of dismantled aircraft, and Shego had barely stepped foot into the ring of clutter when she paused at the boss’s rising tone.

“If you’re missing the parts, THEN GO GET THEM!” roared Dr. Drakken with a stern point to the door, and even Shego flinched. The abrupt ferocity was startling, but it in the same vein it was reassuring that he might very well pull off fearsome dictator one day. The men booked it, Dr. Drakken shoving one of the goons as he passed.

The chief whipped around and was about to storm right by her as if she were invisible when Shego piped up. “What’cha need? Maybe I could get it,” she offered, trying not to sound so desperate for something to do. Something exciting, preferably.

The frustrated man snorted. “Please,” he scoffed. “I need a whole new jet. The most these imbeciles know about aerodynamics is paper planes, and I’ve seen children fold better.”

Shego wondered inwardly why the know-it-all didn’t just get his own hands dirty and build a jet himself if he needed one that badly. He certainly had enough scrap lying around for one. Maybe even two. A fanciful thought crossed her mind as she eyed the scavenged remains, and she couldn’t help muttering thoughtfully to herself, “I can fly a jet.”

Before she could dismiss the notion, Drakken was scoffing in her direction, shooting her a displeased frown before turning back to head for his lab. “Very funny, Shego,” he groused. “Next you’re going to tell me you’re the Easter Bunny.”

Well, she had put out baskets and hidden eggs for kids before – but he didn’t need that information.

“No, really,” she insisted, taking long strides to keep up with his brisk pace. “I mean, I’m not licensed, but my brother had special authorization, and I copiloted a lot with him the past year, and I actually—,” she clamped her running mouth shut abruptly, realizing she may have let slip too much. Divulging Team Go information like her illicit copiloting might have been just a little too traitorous for her just yet.

Drakken was flapping a hand in blatant disregard anyway. “Bullbuttons. There’s no way a kid can fly a jet,” he said arrogantly, not buying it for one moment.

Shego paused and scowled at his back. Kid comment aside, she was offended that he didn’t believe her. But then again, she supposed it was a farfetched thing to believe. There was no denying she was a tad young to know how to fly – but so what? He knew she was no ordinary girl, so he ought to know not to hold her to ordinary standards.

Still glaring, Shego turned away without adding to the argument.

She’d show him.

++X++

Dr. Drakken hadn’t noticed the newcomer had left his side until he was crossing the threshold into the foyer, at which point he heard the sudden rev of an engine and the squeal of tires spinning out. Whipping around, his eyes flew wide and he patted his pockets to feel for his keys, but as he watched his favorite set of wheels barrel out of the garage, he came to the stark realization that the new recruit had never returned his car key last night.

“Stop her!” he bellowed, but the bumbling idiots racing back to him were a moment too late. Reprimand was in store for the oaf who’d left the damn gate open. There was nothing more he could do as she floored it off the premises and down the gravel driveway with a trail of dust in her wake.

Drakken ordered for someone to put keys in his hand immediately, and thus he commandeered the car of the nearest henchman and sped out of the garage in a little red Beetle, but it was no use. The secondhand car was no match for the disobedient subordinate when she had such a head start. In his haste to cut her off, he made the mistake of trying to take a shortcut down Main Street to meet her at the highway out of town, only to get himself stuck in untimely morning traffic.

Defeat was bitter. He should have known better.

Sighing heavily in frustration and shoving his glasses up his forehead, Drakken leaned on the door and rubbed his eyes as he waited for a red light to turn green.

The clown accompanying him had the nerve to speak up. “Uh, boss? What just happened?” asked the henchman.

To which Drakken could only growl out something indiscernible through his teeth. He wasn’t completely sure what had just happened himself, but he could take a guess. Chasing after her was a lost cause at this point, so he grudgingly pulled a U-turn to head back.

He prowled back through the lair to the landline in his kitchen and waited at the counter with a frown creasing his brow deeper by the second as he waited for the call to be answered. The first attempt yielded zero result, so he tried again, and on the very last ring, Shego finally picked up the cell phone he’d graciously gifted her last week.

“Yeah, what is it?” she snapped harshly on the other end before he could get a word in. “Kinda busy here.”

“Shego, just what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded through grit teeth.

“You wanted a jet. I’m jacking you a jet.”

He really couldn’t tell if she was being serious, but the implications of jet theft crossed his mind regardless. “You are going to get yourself killed, more like it,” he retorted.

“Aw, worried about me? That’s so touching,” she jeered, and he heard her feign a gag.

Questions stormed in his brain – like where she planned to get a jet, how she planned to pull it off, how the hell would he get his car back – but none of them made it out of his mouth before she spoke again.

Her scathing tone eased to something more playful at least. “This job don’t come without risks, Dr. D. Don’t worry about little ol’ me,” she said, and Drakken found himself grimacing as her mischievous chuckle met his ear. Did she think this was a joke?

“Oh, I will,” Drakken mumbled. He dreaded whatever she was scheming. Her safety was of some concern, but first and foremost, it couldn’t mean anything good for him if she got herself busted. There was the doubt as well that stealing a jet was just a ruse. What if she’d duped him? So soon after firing all but three of his men, the worry of losing her and all her potential danced on his nerves.

There was a pause, and he wasn’t sure if he should take the chance to lecture her for the brash decision or beg her to turn around, but Shego beat him to it.

“Drakken, I need you to trust me,” she pleaded coolly, and something in her tone almost persuaded him to do just that. “Don’t be tracking me, don’t try to follow me, just…stay out of my way – and don’t call me. I got this. ‘Kay?”

Before he could agree or disagree, she hung up.

He hadn’t a way to track her anyway, he realized unhappily. He didn’t have her chipped, nor did he have his rig bugged either.

All he could do was accept that if he lost her, he lost her. And if she returned, then great. But if she didn’t, he was out several henchmen and one priceless reckless subordinate. He sourly acknowledged that she wasn’t much of a subordinate if she was going to be running off on her own accord like this. Shego was quickly making herself into more of an accomplice he wielded very little control over, if anything.

#The Company You Keep fic #yes i'm still posting here i'm not going to be Not Obnoxious

[butlegendsneverdie]

Party of Four {3} (b.h)

A/N: This is sort of a filler chapter. And the at least the next 3 chapters are really going to be more about their relationship. And we see a certain connection to certain people ;). And things will get better I promise. Anyways like, comment, reblog.

14 days to the big event

Check out the other parts to the story on my page I’m sorry if I’m writing things wrong here. I tried to do my research.

Pairing: Ben x Reader Summary: Events after the previous chapter Warnings: blood. sad stuff. Words: 731

January 2016

Ben arrived home about an hour and a half after you hung up. He found you still on the bathroom floor. You weren’t crying anymore, but staring off into the distance. Though your body was hurting, your emotions were starting to go numb. He helped you off the floor and started the shower for you. As he was assisting you with taking off your clothing, you noticed his knuckles were purple and angry little scraps danced about.

“What happened?” You speak for the first time in a long while. You examined his hand, touching it ever so lightly. It wasn’t like your husband to get in a fight.

“Nothing.” He winced pulling his hand back. He didn’t want to talk about how he ran out of the concert venue crying, how angry and sad he was. And how he punched a brick wall, a couple of times. “It’s not important. Right now let’s worry about you.” He mumbled.

While you were in the shower, Ben did you the courtesy of calling an on call doctor seeking advice. It the bleeding wasn’t too bad you could wait until the morning and try to get into your doctor then. He also obtained a pair of sweats and one of his pullovers your to put on once your shower was over with.

“I love you.” Ben wrapped his comforting warm arms around you as gently as he could. It was going to take some time to get over the loss you had just experienced. He was always going to be there for you, the two of you were a team after all.

“I know. I’m sorry.” The teardrops threatening to spill over as you looked into his green eyes. “I’m sorry for ruining your birthday. I-” He stopped you by placing a soft kiss to your lips.

“Ssh. It’s going to be alright.” He said quietly starting to hum your favorite Beatles song. He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would have been.  

“Ssh. It’s going to be alright.” He said quietly starting to hum your favorite Beatles song. He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would have been.  

In the morning you called your doctor to get in for an appointment that same day. You were still bleeding heavily. Once the examination was complete and options were thrown about. After some consideration, you decided to wait it out. 

Your sister, Georgie, was there to help the two of you with things. She took time out of her busy uni schedule to help around the house with basic tasks. That mainly consisted of making food for you and Ben and listening to you grieve. 

Weeks later

“You haven’t touched your camera in weeks love.” Ben mumbled cleaning up around the kitchen. He spotted it lying about. For a minute he thought it was his, but he remembered it was tucked away in a closet. Plus your’s had a green strap on it signifying that it was your work camera. “Don’t you have that shoot coming up soon?”

“Yeah, I do. I have to clear that memory card that’s in it, so I took it out.” You were supposed to photograph new family pictures for a family who had just had a baby. Thinking about it hurt your heart, but the family signed a contract with you specifically. “I’ll take care of it tonight.”

You had forgotten what card was in the camera. Plugging it into your computer nearly destroyed you all over again. The pictures were of that day Ben and yourself had taken as maternity pictures. You obviously hadn’t been showing yet, but you wanted something to put on social media and like. Just to announce it.

He looked so happy in the photos kissing you, hand placed where a bump would eventually form. They were truly beautiful. You were crying, again. Your heart fell thinking it had been your fault that you wouldn’t be welcoming that little soul into the world.

“What’s wrong?” Ben delivered a cup of tea to you. He had an aching pain he it had something to do with the events of the past month. He didn’t blame you for anything, things like this happen all the time.

“I found the images we took for the announcement.” You showed him the screen. You saw him holding back the tears. He was in just as much pain as you were. Maybe sometime away to heal would be okay. That’s when you got the a phone call from your uncle of sorts.

Tags: @har-rison-s @dreamerofzaldrizes @everybodyplaythegame @toger-raylor @onceuponadetectivedemigod @rinastylesworld @kellysimagines @stella2445 @jonesyaddiction @inst4daily @mrsmazzello @anna-1946

Want to be tagged? Let me know! 

#ben x reader #ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy drabble #ben hardy drabble series #party of four #ben hardy x reader

[coffee-for-himchan]

you’re so annoying | jongup

Word count: 2.7 k+

Genre/warnings: fluff with bits of angst

Summary: It was you versus your work that you had to be done with as soon as possible.. Versus Jongup who was just trying to get you to be in a good mood, but somehow ended up doing the opposite. Good thing he always somehow knew how to fix it all up.

"You're in the way."

"I don't exactly agree with that," Jongup mumbled while still in a sleep-riddled state, clumsily flopping down on the couch beside you and trying to wiggle himself into some sort of comfortable position, "Maybe the keyboard is in the way, not me."

"Weren't you sleeping?"

The yawn that escaped his mouth spoke for itself, and no further questions were needed. His back hit the couch, and his head found it's way to your lap where you immediately failed to resist the urge to fix some loose strands of his bedhead hair. His head was in your lap way too often, on the most different of occasions - when he was tired or upset, or when he was trying to relax and so on - and you'd learned not to mind him by now... Mostly.

Having him around always set you at peace, but he was also a major distraction.

"I was sleeping, but then I woke up and couldn't fall back asleep, and voila, now I'm here," he mumbled a quick re-cap of the last hour and carelessly tugged a blanket over his frame, less for warmth purposes and more because it just seemed like a self-explanatory thing to do, "And besides, the real question is why aren't you sleeping yet? It's past 2 AM already."

Of course he would ask, but by the way he'd made himself comfortable, it didn't look like he was about to tug you to bed anytime soon. It rather seemed like he'd just asked because of genuine curiosity.

It would be nice to just take a break and talk to him. He definitely had a lot to tell about today, and you were ready to listen to it all... Just cuddled up on the couch.. Running your fingers through his soft, freshly dyed hair.. God, his hair always looked so good, and felt so pleasant to the touch. You could never decide which hair color suited him best, as every time he re-dyed it, you said it was your favorite, until the next change, and then the next one, and then...

See? This is exactly what you were afraid of. He would distract you by just innocently being there, because no matter what you were doing, your thoughts always subconsciously drifted to him anyways.

"This is why I can't get anything done when you're home," you mumbled, looking back at the keyboard ahead of you. His chuckle made you less grudgy, simply because it was adorable, and so did the way in which he nuzzled his face into your sweatshirt and let out a sigh.

"I won't intervene, I'll just silently lay here, promised," he reassured, and though you knew that he probably would indeed just lie like a log, you also knew that your glance would way too often travel from the black and white keys over to inspecting his picture perfect features. But it was an urge you could try to fight. It's not like you had the heart to shoo him away anyways.

"You better," you mumbled, to which he chuckled again and fluttered his eyes shut. His face was pressed against your sweater and his only movements were from his light breathing. Up close he was even more beautiful, not that you didn't know already, you just got to silently appreciate again. For a moment at least, after which you reminded yourself to get back to working.

With another quiet huff, you went back to looking at the sheet music in front of you. Music could be both - extremely easy and extremely hard to write. Sometimes it came about on it's own, without you having to try and force it out of yourself, just having to scribble it down on paper while you still remembered all of these things that had rather randomly assembled themselves in your mind and imagination. But sometimes, especially when there were deadlines.. Sometimes it turned out like this. A total mess of lines, chords and melodies that refused to stick together. A bunch of.. Something, but not exactly something you were proud of. Rather something that you just wanted to scrap and start all over.

But you had to get it done soon. And you were extremely mad at yourself for not being able to do anything about the fact that you were extremely tired and extremely uninspired. It would be a miracle not to start crying, but you just took another deep breath and quietly mumbled for yourself to calm down. You could do it. You've always done it. This time wasn't any different. You just needed to calm down a whole bit and keep going on.

Time kept passing, and the page slowly started filling with more sheet music. Most "du-ba-du-bas" were starting to get replaced by lyrics that you finally started inserting in all the right places, though the atmosphere of writing made you rather scoff at the lines than be happy with them. Something didn't click. Something sounded too generic. There was still so much room for improvement, too much for you to feel proud about your work. And it was late already.. So damn late. You couldn't help but keep yawning endlessly.

Jongup being curled up on the couch with his head in your lap was the only source of comfort right now.

You glanced down at him quietly, humming a melody you knew you had to still work tons on to yourself. He really didn't intervene, as promised. What an honest man.

Another ten minutes later you were done with another section of the song, finally feeling like something came about. But even this little victory couldn't help the sour feeling in your chest. You could feel anxiety levels drifting up again.

You glanced down at Jongup, wondering if he was asleep or not. Before you could fall asleep yourself, you quietly sung that section again, and silently asked.

"How is this?"

One of his eyes creaked open, his lips curling into a little sideways smirk. You felt him shifting a little, and could sense that his response wouldn't be one to be taken seriously.

"Didn't you want me to stay quiet and not intervene?~" he asked mischievously, rising his brow.

Sure, he was trying to lighten the mood, and any other day of the week you would've found the innocent way he voiced it in cute. But you were really in need for an opinion, and this wasn't helping you much. You scoffed a little and turned away form him.

"You know, this is always the problem with you.. You're not exactly helping me with anything when I need it a lot."

The hum he let out in response showed his disagreement regarding your accusation. You yourself knew that this definitely wasn't the case, but oh well, maybe it would bring him to show some compassion.

"That's not true."

Your lack of reply seemed inevitable to him, and he simply continued to look up at your face, his eyes trying to find yours. You could feel his stare - it's warmth and comfort. The adoration he could never express in his words, not because he was bad with words but because he didn't think there was an appropriate way to describe what he felt. You knew that if you'd look back at him, you'd probably give in and melt. But you had to get your work done here, and he wasn't helping. Hence why you decided ignoring him for a bit would be more efficient.

"I bring you takeout when you're busy in the studio and make sure you get lunch~"

Left without reply again, he didn't really expect go get one in return right away anyways. The small smile from before stayed present on his lips.

"I'm your source of big comfy hoodies and sweaters~"

"Yeah, food and clothes.. Two things I could get on my own if I really needed them," you mumbled back at him, though your tone didn't quite match the sentence. He knew you didn't really mean it. By the tired look on your face, he also knew why you were so easily irritable.

Why he decided to poke your cheek, he didn't know - maybe just to gain back your attention. But the sudden and unexpected contact made you jump a little.

"You're so annoying," you swatted his hand away immediately, but at least he'd accomplished what he wanted, because for a second you glanced down at him to give him a disapproving glance. He got an idea just then and there.

“It's so annoying, don't interfere, just leave me alone~"

His use of his own song was quite clever and witty, but even that couldn't put a smile on your face. Your stare landed back on the sheet music and you exhaled loudly. You couldn't even take a joke anymore. This was rock bottom, it couldn't get any worse.

"Sometimes I feel like I subconsciously wrote this song about you," he quietly chuckled, and as he looked back up to your face, he hoped to see at least the smallest bit of joy or amusement sparkling in your eyes.

What he saw instead was your eyes getting watery.

"Hey, (Y/N).."

You felt him moving again and sitting up rather quickly, and your first instinct was to turn away from him. Yeah, as if that would hide anything at this point. There was a reason why he was suddenly jumping up like this, that reason probably being the fact that he saw the tears that threatened to make their way out of your eyes.

"Did I really upset you that much?" he asked quietly, trying to look at you, which you still weren't really allowing him to do, giving him no reply either. His hand quietly placed itself on your arm, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze before it traveled all the way up to your cheek and stayed there.

"I didn't mean to, you know that.."

"I'm just tired, that's it," you tried to reassure him, though heard how quiet and drained your own voice sounded, "And I can't get anything done, as you may have noticed.. And I’m so damn tired. Tired of having a blank mind and tired of just constantly being tired."

The stress was too much. It had been for a while already, but you always told yourself that crying yourself to sleep and putting yourself down was normal. You would simply try to live through it, although it seemed to be harder and harder to do so every day. There were so many responsibilities and only so much time. You weren't capable of doing it all on your own, not like this.

But Jongup's silent strokes against your cheek were reassuring, his silence that gave you time and space and at the same time didn't request you to explain yourself to him being comforting. He understood how it was getting no rest and feeling like you were failing, even if you weren't. You hated yourself a little bit more for being salty to him previously. He was just trying to make you smile and what did you do? Throw snarky replies. And now you were bothering him with being irrelevantly upset.

"Jongup, I-"

"Shh," before you could object, he simply silenced you, his arms enveloping you in a warm embrace and letting your face bury in his shoulder while his own pressed against your hair tightly, "It's okay. Take a breath."

Being tucked under his chin like this felt safe. He wouldn't judge you. He wouldn't feel disappointed by you if you didn't deliver high enough results. He understood that sometimes you just wanted to chill, not meet up everybody's expectations and such. He knew how being overworked felt, and that made you hold onto him tightly and take some time to just breathe in his scent. He's been there too. He knew it all too well.

"You're more than you give yourself credit for, do you know that?" he quietly asked you, pressing a kiss onto your hair as he rocked the two of you from side to side ever so lightly, "It's alright. You don't have to do everything on your own, you don't have to race to every deadline to make it there on time. It's alright to be tired. It's not alright to push yourself even further down that path though."

"Yah, don't make me feel guilty now," through you still had a mild knot in your throat, you managed to chuckle and ever so lightly smack his shoulder. You could hear his own little chuckle right next to your ear, followed by a small kiss pressed against your temple.

"My goal isn't to make you feel guilty," he pulled away just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb tracing under your eye to wipe away any access tears that might've slipped, "It is to make you respect yourself as much as you respect others. To give yourself breaks when you need them, to not worry so much. The pre-chorus was amazing, I would fiddle around on the verses a little more. Who cares when the deadline is? We'll work on it tomorrow, together, and I'll try to pick up wherever you feel like you're completely lost. If someone in the company tries to hurry you, I'll call them out for it. You're human too. You need time to sleep and breathe, and be happy."

You giggled a little at the idea of Jongup trying to fiercely give a piece of his mind to somebody, simply because it was so unlikely. You rather imagined him awkwardly standing there and talking in a calm voice.. But his words would matter, not the tone or fashion he said them in. Something told you that he would get it sorted for you, even if he himself felt uncomfortable in the situation.

"And you should also realize that you shouldn't get upset about me calling you out for stuff~ Like the fact that you're so wrong when you're trying to tell me you could do just fine without me~"

"Yah, Moon Jongup," you called out and poked him, seeking how that made him chuckle. His nose scrunched up, his eyes became little crescents.. It was a typical Jongup laugh, one of those that made you fall in love with him.

"I mean, you could do without me," he admitted in a serious tone, "But you don't have to. I don't want you to."

The previous feelings long forgotten, you sat in silence and simply looked at each other. This is why you loved him. Everyone always made him out to be the silent guy, the bundle of awkwardness with lack of conversation-holding skills and tons of good looks and talents. But he was also a sincere, charming sweetheart who knew how to motivate and how to calm down. He was so much more than most people saw, and you were glad that you were someone who got to see him how he was.

"Are we just going to sit here in silence now?"

"It's your turn to speak," he reminded you of how the previous conversation had went, his eyes slowly trailing down to your lips, "Or can we end this conversation, agree that I'm right this time around and head to bed right after I kiss you?"

Sneakily played. You wrapped an arm around his neck and tugged him closer. Another fact that not many may knew about him was that he was a great kisser.. But maybe it was better for this knowledge to stay solely with you.

"We can definitely arrange that."

You chuckled as he accidentally pressed a few keys on the keyboard when moving, and quietly smiled at his lips found yours and locked with them effortlessly. The feeling was sweet and bubbly, and addictive to say the least. His arms scooped you up to his lap and you gladly moved there, light huffs and chuckles slipping back and forth through parted lips. His lap was your favorite place to be too, and you wrapped your arms around his neck gladly, letting the moment drag out for longer than first anticipated, just because why not? There was nothing inevitably stressful about the situation anymore, and maybe if there was, you tried not to think of it. For a short moment you could just allow yourself to taste his lips and once again be reminded of the fact that you weren’t alone in your troubles. There was exactly one person who would always hang around and make sure you weren’t going entirely insane.

"I mean, how can you live without that~"

He wiggled his eyebrows, making you roll your eyes at him. For proof, he went in for another quick kiss.

"I was taking about this, if you wondered~"

"You're so annoying," you repeated the phrase from before, putting a finger to his lips before he could make another singing reference to his song. The gesture made his eyes widen in surprise a little, making you look at him with a content smile gracing your lips.

"And I get it, you wrote the song of the century.. I'm proud of you too, my adorable fool."

He only smiled, and tried to withstand you squeaking and squirming as he lifted you off of the couch, leaving everything else behind as he carried you into the direction of the bedroom. Finally heading to get some well-deserved rest.

#b.a.p #bap #baplibrary #moon jongup #jongup scenarios #jongup scenario #moon jongup scenarios #bap jongup scenarios #b.a.p jongup scenarios #jongup imagines #jongup imagine #moon jongup imagines #b.a.p scenarios #bap scenarios #b.a.p scenario #bap scenario #b.a.p imagines #b.a.p imagine #bap imagines #bap imagine

[septembercfawkes]

Dealing with Your Dumb Ideas--Placeholders, Building Blocks, and Portrayals

If you are a creative, you are going to come up with some dumb ideas. I mean REALLY dumb. This doesn't mean you are stupid or not talented, it's simply part of the creative process. Some are placeholders until you get something better. Some are building blocks that will lead you to something great.

But it's a completely normal part of the process.

Unless you have tried to write a professional quality book, you may not appreciate just how many freaking choices a writer has to make. I mean TONS.

A novel is in some ways simply an accumulation of all those little choices.

I once voiced to someone how difficult it was to keep everything about my book in my head.

This person didn't believe me. "Of course you can. It's your book! You wrote it!"

Writing a book and reading a book is vastly different. The reader only sees the published product. The writer has all these scraps of past, present, and future ideas, dots that aren't yet connected, motives that aren't yet known, conflicts they haven't figured out how to solve--with multiple options and "alternative universes" for how the story can go. For every decision on paper, there could have been a dozen other options brainstormed.

You see, there are so many components to a good story that it's almost always impossible to have every single aspect figured out and brainstormed all at once. There are too many things! And one component affects how another functions, so if you change this, you have to consider how it affects that. And on and on.

A completed, polished, published work may fit entirely in your head, but a work-in-progress that is constantly in some kind of motion can often feel like an intellectual, unconnected mess.

Dumb ideas will come--simply because there is so much to brainstorm and make decisions about and components that affect one another, that you can't magically fit everything together the first time (or sometimes in your head for that matter).

I used to think there was no such thing as dumb ideas. I didn't believe in using the term.

Until I was editing my own story.

Guys, I had some really dumb ideas. REALLY dumb.

But here's where I think we get confused.

That doesn't mean I am dumb.

Remember, dumb ideas are a completely natural part of the process.

Weeks ago in a blog post about being gifted, I referred to this article on Mozart, which touched on something that had been living in the back of my head: dumb ideas.

In it, it has this quote from Seth Godin:

"The problem is that you can’t have good ideas unless you’re willing to generate a lot of bad ones … Someone asked me where I get all my good ideas, explaining that it takes him a month or two to come up with one and I seem to have more than that. I asked him how many bad ideas he has every month. He paused and said, 'none.' And there, you see, is the problem." – Seth Godin

As writers, when we sit down to brainstorm, the first things that come to mind will almost always be the most cliche. Why? Because we've seen them so many times! Of course they will be the first things that comes to mind! "Hmmm . . . what kind of tree should this be? Oh, an oak."--like all the other hundreds of trees in fiction are.

Some other lesser ideas happen because they connect dots and problems easily. They fix or add conflict in simplistic ways.  "Hmmm . . . I have this character that died before the story started. What did she die from? I know! A car crash!"--like all the other hundreds of other characters that are dead by the time the story starts.

The simplistic and cliche aren't always wrong. There are definitely times where you should use them. And sometimes they are even the best idea to use.

Some dumb ideas aren't either of these kinds, but simply concepts you didn't think through. BECAUSE REMEMBER HOW MANY THINGS YOU HAVE TO BRAINSTORM?

You may be focused on brainstorming a main component and come up with a dumb idea for a side effect issue that popped up unexpectedly.

I once met a Shakespeare scholar who stood and told us how amazing Shakespeare was because he wrote so fast that he didn't have time to think up character names in his early drafts. He told us this like it was something stunning.

Having worked in this industry for several years, let me tell you, Shakespeare was completely normal.

I mean, he was a genius.

But that part of his creative process was completely normal.

Because you don't brainstorm everything perfectly at once. Lots of writers stick in "placeholders" so they can get on with the story and figure out that stuff later. Just a few weeks ago, someone in the industry posted some dialogue where they had marked the speaker as like "dwarf guy #1" because they hadn't yet come up with a name.

In early drafts, I use some kind of placeholders all the time. Sometimes things that are even less than placeholders, like, "[insert a line a of setting description]"--because I haven't yet brainstormed the details of that setting or the contents of that line, and right now I'm focused on the plot.

Sometimes I use dumb ideas because I can't think of something better at the time that satisfies my needs. But because a WIP book is like a constant moving target, I have been shocked more than once how an idea that appears later in the story crops up and I can go back and replace my other crap with something brilliant.

Some of the dumb ideas that I worry so much about end up solving themselves through the process of writing a book, and I realize they were really placeholders until I found something better.

Other times, it's not so easy.

For one, you have to come up with some good ideas before putting pen to paper. If you write a whole book with largely dumb ideas, then it's going to be a beast to rewrite and edit. It's almost like you are starting over from scratch anyway and have all the same problems. You have to come up with some good stuff to get a solid draft started.

Sometimes in situations where dumb ideas aren't placeholders until something better comes along, they may be more like building blocks.

You might brainstorm them all out first, so you have to work your brain into coming up with something better and they don't keep swimming around in your head. But sometimes the dumb idea can be the seed that grows into something better. Maybe for some reason your protagonist is not turning to the police no matter how ridiculous, dangerous, or serious her conflicts have become. You might look at it and realize that this is stupid. Any coherent person would go to the police at this point. You either need to rewrite the story so that she does go to the police. Or brainstorm a believable reason she does not. Perhaps in the process of brainstorming the latter, you uncover a treasure chest of powerful motive, characterization, and worldbuilding that will take care of this problem and actually make the story better.

Thus, having that dumb idea actually ended up being a building block to something better.

One of the things that I think most of us writers pray for is that all our dumb ideas are taken care of by the time the book is published.

In some technical or complicated scenes, you may have a dumb idea that has emerged out of the darkness from the sidelines that you had not foreseen. Like anyone, I want to believe that we can always get rid of them, but in some situations, especially in later drafts, that might be rather difficult to do, as it might change a bunch of other things that connect in, in the process. It might not always be realistic to get rid of all of them.

Thankfully, motives and portrayal can go a long way to fix some problems. Some writers say you can get a character to do almost anything if you show the right motive. Other times the right portrayal--how that concept is rendered on the page--can go a long way. If you look at some of the concepts in Lord of the Rings, they might sound rather silly. Little people with hairy feet and huge appetites? Magical rings? But the portrayals take care of a lot of that. Another fantastic example is Guardians of the Galaxy. When the first movie was going to come out, a lot of people thought the concepts were ridiculous, or even dumb. A talking raccoon? A green lady? A giant tree that can only say the same three words? Man, that sounds dumb. But it was amazing! Why? Because of how the creators rendered those ideas. And I'll throw in Hamilton too, because most people who heard Miranda's concept thought it sounded dumb and ridiculous. But he had the vision for what many others called a dumb idea. He saw how to marry hip-hop and rap with the founding fathers.

Here's what's crazy about some of these things. Lord of the Rings, Guardians of the Galaxy, and Hamilton ended up all being pioneering. They changed their industries. The world was not the same after them. So sometimes what the vast majority may think sounds stupid (because they don't understand it or have never seen it before) turns out to be revolutionary. In each of those cases, the creator had the vision for what the story could become--and he knew how to portray it to make it work for audiences. Perhaps in that way, there aren't dumb ideas (concepts), only dumb portrayals and motives. Those are the dumb ideas.

Probably almost no one is saying Lord of the Rings, Guardians, and Hamilton are dumb now. (And yet the world just wants to keep remaking the same things instead of something new--which is what made these things great to begin with.)

So sometimes you can even run with something ridiculous and see how you can make it work for the masses, like Guardians.

And sometimes with stupid ideas, if you actually poke fun of them on the page, instead of taking yourself so seriously, you can make them entertaining. And/or you can validate the situation to the reader, which I've talked about before on here.

Just remember, there is no shortage of dumb ideas. And if you aren't coming up with some stupid ones, you are probably blind to your own creative process or too timid to face the rubbish head on to get to the good stuff.

#writing tips #writing tips and tricks #writing tip #writeblr #writing lesson #writing lessons #writing help #writing helps #writing advice #fanfic #fanfiction #novel #author #writer #editor #nanowrimo #writerblr #Guardians of the Galaxy #lord of the rings #hamilton

[skeletonscribbles]

📂 📂 📂

hello my darling!! I know you’ve given me three but I wanna toss out just one longer little thing for you this time, ok? I’ll make up the other two to you somehow.

today I was thinking about how Richie and Eddie might have met if they’d gone to different colleges in the same area

and I imagined Richie somewhere sort of grassroots…liberal arts for sure, with a clear divide between people who talk about Nietzsche in the dining halls and people who laugh at the people who talk about Nietzsche in the dining halls (Richie is the latter). everyone’s on some kind of drug

versus Eddie’s somewhere more preppy. he’s a hardworking boy at a school that values hard work. he’s not always happy with it, but his mother Approves, so he stays.

there are a couple different colleges in this specific geographic area. one of the special benefits of attending college in this area is that there are classes you can take on other nearby campuses

so come second semester junior year, Eddie’s panicking about not fulfilling his arts pre-req yet, and his advisor’s like “look buddy. you need to calm down. take a class off-campus maybe. how about this one.” the guy chooses a course randomly from Richie’s college’s course catalog. it’s playwriting.

Eddie doesn’t know SHIT about playwriting.

his advisor signs him up anyway.

Eddie almost has a nervous breakdown taking the bus over to this other school. he’s never taken a class off campus before - what if these students are crazy? what if he gets lost? what if he gets laughed at

he does get lost, but he doesn’t get laughed at. he bumps into a really cool red-headed girl who so happens to be going to the same building as him, and they walk together.

once he’s settled and introductions are made, Eddie’s relieved to find that he’s not the only off-campus person in the class. there’s another kid from the nearby state school. his name is Ben, and he’s very friendly. Eddie sits with him

they learn on that first day that their capstone project for the class is going to be to collaborate with two other classes that run concurrent to their own class. they’re each going to write a play, and then the plays will be given to the Directing I and Acting II students to be produced properly

Eddie promptly forgets about that project, because it’s not happening for another two months

he finds, though, that he really likes playwriting. more than that: he’s GOOD at playwriting. it’s a place to put all of the stress and anxiety and general helplessness that consumes him on a regular basis…and it turns out that all of those things make for good, engaging plots and dialogue

Ben is his editing partner. Ben is also an excellent author. the two of them SHINE

and then before either of them know it it’s time to crank out that final project. Eddie’s nerves return immediately. working with other people is TERRIFYING.

Eddie is assigned to write a two-person scene - for one male actor and one female actor. he writes and scraps and writes and scraps…and finally decides to throw caution to the wind and write something based on the disaster of his first and only high school relationship; namely, how it helped him figure out that he was gay

after he submits it and Ben edits it, it’s passed along to his director. he has a meeting with them in lieu of class one Thursday. he’s fucking petrified (what if this person doesn’t LIKE what I WROTE holy FUCK)

Eddie walks into the blackbox ten minutes early. the other person is already there. it’s a boy, with blonde hair and an intense blue-eyed stare. Eddie is mortified.

the boy smiles, and the tension in the room disappears.

“I’m B-Bill Denbrough. I love your p-p-play…my friend Stan is so j-jealous I get to d-do it. He says it’s juh-just like an experience he huh-huh-had in high school.”

Eddie and Bill get along immediately! it’s like they’ve known each other forever. Eddie’s sure the play is in good hands, and is excited to meet the actors - which he gets to do during the next class meeting

and lo and behold, one of them is the redheaded girl that helped him find his way on that first day!

she introduces herself to Eddie as Beverly Marsh and he immediately develops the biggest friend crush known to man

and Ben’s eyes are so obviously on her from across the room, which Eddie’s going to make a point of teasing him about later, but he can’t do it now, because…

“Oh, look at you.”

Eddie takes one look at the male actor in his scene and remembers exactly why he was afraid of meeting new people…because right now he’s staring into the eyes of the most bizarre looking beanpole he’s ever seen and his heart is beating at a fucking machine gun pace and he’s forgotten his own name

“You’re Eddie? Jesus Christ. No wonder you wouldn’t tell me anything about him, Billiam. You knew I’d hop the bus and go snatch him up.”

Eddie is somewhat cognizant of how red his face is, but it’s like it’s happening to someone else. he’s frozen.

“B-beep beep, asshole. Eddie, th-this is Richie T-Tozier. I’ll handle him, d-don’t worry about him muh-misbehaving.”

“Hi,” Eddie manages softly, and Richie’s face lights up. Behind him, Bill is rolling his eyes, and Bev has a hand over her mouth.

“Cute, cute, CUTE.” Richie grabs Eddie’s hand and presses his lips to the back of it. “Hi Eds - like Big Bill said, I’m Richie. Some of my friends call me Rich, but you…you can most certainly call me later. Charmed to meet you, if I haven’t made that totally obvious by now. Remind me which bus is the one to your campu–”

he doesn’t finish his sentence because Bev elbows him in the stomach. it doesn’t matter, it’s too late. Eddie’s already head over fucking heels.

Eddie is now absolutely LIVING for playwriting class, pre-med shit be damned. having a crush is fucking exhilarating, and having a crush on Richie is a rush like no other

(although he gets the sense that Richie’s kind of just…a general flirt, and that he shouldn’t be getting his hopes up super high, but Eddie’s nothing if not kind of an emotional disaster, so he goes in on the hopes thing anyway)

he and Ben are even going so far as to regularly get lunch with Bill, Bev, Richie, and all of their friends after class!! the food at Eddie’s school is vastly superior (in his opinion), but the company makes it worth it

he meets Stan and Mike through those lunches - Mike is directing Ben’s scene, and Stan has a scene that he absolutely abhors, and they’re so FUNNY and interesting and Eddie can’t believe that this little group of amazing liberal arts nerds is being so nice to him

he kind of forgets that it’s going to end

and end it does. show week rolls around and Eddie’s quietly heartbroken. he’s never felt like he belonged anywhere before, and the fact that he only has a week left of belonging is fucking devastating

the performance is perfect, of course. Bill has worked wonders with Eddie’s little script - and Bev and Richie are SO talented. Richie’s on stage talking about liking boys and being true to who he is like he stepped out of Eddie’s high school memories and honestly it’s a little bit overwhelming and it’s really not Eddie’s fault that he sneaks out before the piece ends because how was he supposed to stay, in the face of that?

he cries behind the building for a while. he’s not sure how long he’s out there until he’s found but…he is eventually found.

“Oh, kid…Jesus. C’mere.”

and suddenly there are skinny arms pulling him up and wrapping around him and it’s just like the first time again - Eddie’s paralyzed

“I’m sorry, Richie,” he chokes into Richie’s shirt

Richie tilts Eddie’s head back and wipes the tears off of his face with his thumbs. Eddie shivers; Richie chuckles.

“You’ve got snot all over your face, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie opens his mouth to exclaim in horror. Richie takes that opportunity to cover Eddie’s mouth with his own mouth.

Eddie pulls away immediately to resume exclaiming in horror.

“That’s fucking disgusting, Richie!”

Richie is full on cackling at this point. “You should see the look on your face, though! Oh, man…you want a re-do, huh?”

“Yes!” Eddie practically yells, and then freezes, because what the fuck did he just say

but Richie carries on like he fully expected that to be Eddie’s reaction.

“Then come to the after-party,” he says, and it’s easy; light. “Bring tissues. We’ll see where things go from there.”

Eddie does what he says, and is rewarded handsomely for it in the form of exchanging phone numbers with all of the new friends he’s made (he already had some numbers for rehearsal purposes, but it feels good to complete the set) and promptly being added into a horrifying 7 person group chat

he also gets the privilege of watching Ben and Bev’s flirting get progressively less awkward with every shot they take

and finally, finally, finally, he gets not only more kisses from Richie, but a promise: an assurance that Eddie’s the only one Richie’s ever wanted this badly, the only one Richie’s ever cared about this much. this is backed up by Bev, Bill, and Stan…and Eddie chooses to trust

so he still takes the bus over to that other college regularly, just…not for class anymore. now it’s for fooling around in sunlit fields, laughing into Richie’s chest as they sit curled into one another on Richie’s newly changed sheets (never mind that Eddie had to bribe him to change them)

and now sometimes Richie takes the bus, too - to make jokes about the “sweater tied over both shoulders types” that Eddie usually has class with, and more importantly, to kiss Eddie soundly while holding up a middle finger to those “sweater tied over both shoulders types”

they’ll be apart for the summer (Richie’s a CA kid, Eddie’s east coast), and that’s going to be tough - but Richie says it’ll be nothing to worry about, and smiles a shark-toothed smile

“Why?” Eddie asks, suspicious and hopeful.

“I signed up for your stats class at your campus next semester,” Richie tells him proudly, clicking through to the course selection page on his school profile and showing off his schedule.

Eddie is so surprised that he falls off of his own bed

(and it turns out to be the best math experience Eddie’s ever had)(but more importantly it leads to Richie discovering how much better the food is at Eddie’s school)(so group hangouts migrate over and Eddie ends up taking the bus way less)(which finally brings Eddie the peace AND the friendships he so richly deserves)

….(he buys his advisor a really nice gift basket at the end of senior year)

#it headcanons #imrichie #ily thank you i'm SORRY this turned into such a monster! #she's been rattling around my head all day :/ #more of a mini-fic than a HC tbh #reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #reddie fanfic #ben hanscom #stanley uris #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #beverly marsh #the loser's club #it 2017 #it 2019 #stephen king's it #too many tags

[elenajohansenauthor]

Fictober18, Day 9: “You shouldn’t have come here.”

OCs: Shannon and Noah

Project: Untitled paranormal romance for Fictober18, now tagged #spookyromancenovel on my blog

Potential Triggers: none

Word Count: 1,932

About: Shannon gets Noah to help her with the interrupted ritual: progress ensues! [and now i’m only two days behind, I hadn’t written since Monday but I did 3K today, happy Elena is happy]

Noah settled cross-legged on top of my cot, while I sat at my desk. I blew out the candles.

“Hey, you're not going to—I didn't mean to interrupt,” he ended lamely. “Can you still, if I just sit here and be really quiet?”

I could try, but his presence would be distracting anyway. I'd never really been able to forget Noah was in the room with me, ever. Even when we were in class together, I'd known he was there. Even when we were sitting side by side at one of the long library tables, studying silently, I could hear the scratch of his pencil while he took notes, or see pages turning out of the corner of my eye, or simply feel the warmth of his presence. I hadn't known before that skinny guys could put out so much heat. I expected bulky guys to be radiators, but Noah always used to be warm.

I glanced at him, his magical gargoyle bulk further padded out by layers of clothing. He had his hands tucked under his crossed arms. Used to be.

“I have another idea now.” As I spoke, I put everything away except the altar cloth. “You shouldn't have come here, but since you did, you're going to help me.”

It didn't take long to perform the setup again. This time, I chose the first stone, the first candle; I knew their meanings. Noah looked into the box and chose whatever called to him, and I didn't ask him to explain why. I drew the third blind, as I had for the prayer I hadn't gotten to make.

The first stone was still carnelian. Noah chose a smooth, flat piece of snowflake obsidian: balance, inner and outer harmony, and protection of the heart. The final stone turned out to be tiger's eye, which made me smile. Truth-seeking.

Again, I still began with the black candle. Noah chose gold, which often symbolized the sun and male energy. I drew blue, for meditation, communication, and healing.

I left the center empty. I didn't need a picture to focus when I had Noah himself here. If I couldn't ignore him, which I knew I couldn't, then I would use him. “There,” I said as I lit the last candle and shook out the match. “Now stand behind me, put your hands on my shoulders.” The floor boards creaked under his weight, but he did as I asked without comment. He flinched a little when I raised my hands to his, resting them on top, but he didn't pull away.

“What do I do? You know I don't have any actual talent for this--”

“Hush,” I said gently. “You don't need to. And you don't need to do anything except be still and quiet. Try to think positive thoughts, if you can, but don't worry if negative ones show up. I don't imagine you've had a lot of practice meditating.”

“No.” His voice was deep and quiet. “Not my strength.”

It might be something he'd have to develop, a quieter mind, if he did end up a gargoyle. Anxiety and restlessness weren't traits associated with them.

I shoved the thought from my mind. We were going to figure this out, and I already had a plan to handle the worst. Noah was right—in a way, it was a comfort, knowing he could have a peaceful end if all else failed.

But I can't tolerate failure, not when my best friend's life was at stake. I'd already been failing him, slowly but steadily, for three years.

My mind was see-sawing already, good to bad, bad to good, bouncing around without finding the still spot in the middle. I gripped his hands tighter, focusing on their chill instead of pretending it wasn't there.

This close, I could hear his breathing. Perhaps he wouldn't find the inner stillness I aimed for, but he was relaxing, at least. That was something I could do for him, after triggering a surge of protectiveness strong enough to send him across the city to guard me, even inside my private fortress.

The fond tenderness I felt from that melted into a vague worry. Was that all he had left for me? Was that our relationship distilled down, or maybe whittled away, by the curse? He still had anger and fear, but was all our friendship gone under the drive to protect, especially as I was the person who could help him regain himself?

But in those questions came a sort of answer. I was the other thing that made him different, somehow. I was something the curse hadn't taken away from him. He held on to me because I was hope and sanity, his future and his salvation.

I only prayed I was worthy of that trust; there, I found the peace I sought.

After some time—I don't know how long—Noah's hands squeezed my shoulders. “Shannon?”

I came up from the trance slowly, dreamily. “Yeah?”

“Your breathing got so slow, I was worried.”

“I'm fine.” I rolled my head loosely a few times. “How about you?”

He moved away, leaving a cold spot in the air behind me. “Calmer, but...but no mystical revelations or anything.”

“I don't know yet how mystical mine was,” I said with a light laugh. Sometimes, after a ritual, I got giddy. “But I did come up with something. I don't have my notes here, but I suppose I can tape this in.” I searched my junk drawer for a scrap of paper and scribbled the time, date, and place at the top of the blank backside of a political flier someone had stuck on my window. I didn't run a community billboard or anything like that, so I'd taken it down, but I'd forgotten to throw it away.

“What did you see? Or figure out, I mean?”

“It's me. I'm keeping you human.”

“Uh, yeah? I don't remember it or anything, but you did replace my heart with a nifty bit of magic.”

“No, no, it's more than that. I don't know what, yet, but it's not just my Healing efforts, because those never did any lasting good. And that heart is your final defense, but it's not that either.” I swallowed hard and looked up from the paper. “I never told you, because I didn't want to discourage you. But I didn't think you'd make it this long, not three years, and certainly not long enough for me to run out of ideas. The heart was a stop-gap at best. It can't be the only thing preventing the transformation. Maybe it was at first, but something else is going on now.”

“Like what?”

“That's just it. This is a shot in the dark, but it's got something to do with me, even though it's not something I've done. I know that's vague, but can you think of anything on your part? Something you said or did, something to do with me, that could be strong enough to form a spell of its own?”

“Shannon, I'm not magic. I don't have any power, so I couldn't have done anything.” He sounded confused, but also faintly angry.

“You do, though. Now you do. You're almost completely made of magical stone now, and we shouldn't be ignoring that. Gargoyles' powers beyond everything obvious in their physical form aren't well known. Maybe they don't talk because they've got some kind of hive mind, or some telepathy, or something. Maybe they're so relatively inert because the stone gives them longer life spans—it's not like they're going to tell us how old they are! And no one has been able to compile any reasonable kind of census, not even of the population of a single city, because they look so alike and don't respond well to tagging.” More than one scientist had tried and gotten badly wounded for their efforts. “The list of things we don't know about gargoyles is probably long enough for a book or three or ten. So, yeah, maybe you did do something. You didn't grow up with magic, you don't know how to focus or utilize it because you never had to learn. But it's there. With enough intention, magic can do all sorts of things, like, I don't know, when people talk to their plants. It never worked for some people, the plants wouldn't grow, but for others it worked like magic. Because it was, only they didn't know it.”

My whole impassioned speech left me short of breath and more than a little high on my own intensity, but Noah sat there impassively, his brows drawn together to form that sharp little crease of worry. “I just don't know. I don't know what I could have done.”

He sounded so pained, it brought me right back down to earth. “Okay, Noah, okay. Just, think about it, okay? If you remember something--”

“I promise,” he said instantly. “I'll tell you.”

Our eyes met as we realized what he'd said. “I promise--” he repeated, at the same time I cried “Promise magic!”

“That's a thing, a real thing?”

I smiled at him fondly. “Have you ever broken a promise you made to me, all the way back to when we were kids?”

He shook his head with a dazed expression. “Not even when Jimmy Olvestad hassled me for three weeks  to find out if you had a crush on him and finally punched me when I swore I'd never tell.”

“Jimmy? I never had a crush on Jimmy. Wait, he punched you?” That would have been seventh grade—the Olvestads had moved away just after the school year ended. “I don't remember that at all, you never had a black eye or anything.” I felt faintly sick that I could have forgotten something so major, at least in the life of a kid.

“Um.” Noah cleared his throat. “That's not where he punched me.”

I went to him, hugging his head against my stomach. I couldn't not touch him, just then. “I know it's years too late, but I'm sorry for the pain you suffered defending my honor.” He chuckled into my sweater.

When I drew back, he was smiling. “So all those promises we made over the years—you think that's what's doing it? Because I didn't have any power for most of that time, so unless it's coming from you.”

I sat on the cot beside him, tired out from alternating between giddiness and anxiety. “I really don't know that much about promise magic. Truly unbreakable vows—I've heard stories, and they can backfire in spectacular and usually unpleasant ways. Honestly, the whole idea scares me a little.” Was it my imagination, or did Noah pull back at that, his arm jumping away from mine? “But good news, that's a new avenue to research, and one that won't take me to the Archives. I can do that at a regular, old-fashioned public library. And online,” I added as an afterthought.

“But you like having books in your hands.”

“Yeah, I like smelling them, too. You're a saint to put up with my book-nerd ways.”

Something soft touched my forehead, just near my temple. It was my turn to jump, but beside me, Noah looked happier than I'd seen him since...since the curse really started wearing on him, soon after it had happened. “Your book-nerd ways have been saving my life,” he said. “Thank you.”

Only then did I realize he'd kissed me.

#writeblr #fictober18 #original fiction #spookyromancenovel #my writing

[cajunroe]

GK, Brad/Nate “did you think i forgot?”

thank you nonnie! love me some icefick in the morning! 

hope you enjoy! 

two weeks before nate went back stateside, he’d written brad a letter. 

it wasn’t much, barely a page in total, but it was the most important thing he felt he’d ever write in his life. 

harsh lines littered various sentences he deemed too frivolous or too sentimental before he abandoned all hesitation and just wrote, concisely and simply, what he needed brad to know. what he knew he couldn’t leave without saying…or writing.

in the end, it didn’t matter what he said because brad already knew. 

years of being together in combat were enough for brad to be able to read nate from two klicks out.  

and in the end, it didn’t matter because all brad said, albeit a little hesitantly, was, “i can’t.”

and nate understood and he accepted it. he hadn’t hoped for anything more than the soul-crushing rejection, so it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. brad was staying on anyway and nate was going back to the states. and though that sat like a hundred-pound stone in nate’s stomach every day, he knew that had he stayed, he would’ve lost who he was. nate was willing to give brad everything, except that. 

but some innate part of nate, held onto the look in brad’s eyes before he rejected nate. the look that told him that brad felt something but he wasn’t ready to confront it.

and that is something nate counted on because as much as brad could read nate, nate could read him just as well, if not better.

which is why nate hastily scribbled the final part of the letter onto the scrap paper he’d found.

when you’re ready. santa monica pier. 4 p.m. i’ll be there. 

no date. no restrictions. they never had any and they weren’t going to start now. 

i’ll wait.

those two words sat on the back of the page and nate  only hoped that brad read them when or if he read the letter again. 

so nate continued on. he got an apartment, a dog named trevor and there’s a cat that hangs out on his fire escape whom with trevor will share his food. he gets a simple job, a motorcycle, and he tries to live happily. he sees ray, walt, gunny, pappy, and rudy semi-regularly, but it always feels like a piece is missing and nate sometimes end up wallowing in memories of brad. 

but still, everyday, at 4 p.m., he’s on the santa monica pier and he will walk for an hour. even when he knows there’s no way brad could even physically be there.

he made a promise and he wasn’t going to break it.

and that’s how he continues on for three years. 

ray and pappy try to set him up with other people and he tries, for their sakes, but his “dates” know it won’t work from the moment he starts talking about brad. he wishes he could move on. he knows that ray and gunny are worried about him as much as they’re worried about brad, but he’d made a promise. he would hold that promise until brad got back. 

and it’s on an unassuming, but increasingly challenging tuesday in the middle of may that nate is late for the first time in three years, four months, and nineteen day. 

he had to lead a workshop the entire day. his phone died the moment he tried to call ray who had left him 12 missed calls and by then it was 3:40 and he needed to get to the pier. at this point, it was a compulsion rather than a conscious decision. 

something about today felt different. while nate was speeding and weaving in and out of cars on his way to the pier, he couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something. at a red light he couldn’t run, he checked his watch and when he saw it read 4:15, he heart accelerated. for nearly three and a half year he was never late. as soon as the light turned green, he sped forward the last mile and half and double parked his bike. the moment the engine died his feet were speeding him down the pier and for the first time since this started, he looked for familiar blonde hair.

it was nearly 4:30 and as he scoured the pier, out of breath and looking frantic, he realized that he was alone. 

again. 

like he’s been for the past three years. 

he walks all the way down to the last bench, furthest away from people, and sits down heavily. 

he doesn’t cry, though he knows he wants to, but as the day settles down and his clock strikes closer to 5 p.m. something settles in him and he calms down. 

he closes his eyes and relaxes as the sun warms his skin. it reminds him of the desert and of soft touches, softer whispers, and the look in brad’s ice blue eyes saying everything and nothing at the same time, but still calming nate to his core in a matter of seconds. 

a strong sea breeze kisses his skin and the wind carries with it a smooth, deep voice that nate thinks he’s imagining until the tell tale sound of boots follow it. 

“you’re late.”

nate takes a solid minute before he opens his eyes.

and when his eyes connect with brads soft and bright ones, he gasps softly.

brad looks older, more tired, more battle-weary, but he looks healthy and whole and he’s here which is more than nate could have ever asked for, more than he could hope for. 

nate just stares and brad stares back and nate think of everything he wanted to say in the desert and everything he’s wanted to say since then, but all that comes out is a shaky breath.

then, “first time.”

brad laughs softly, “what?”

nate is still staring at brad, the sun silhouetted behind him and make brad look even more unfairly attractive than before. 

“i’m late for the first time in three years, four months, and nineteen days. and of course you choose today to show up, colbert.”

nate sighs deeply at looks back up to brad who is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“you…” brad trails off before clearing his throat nervously and continuing, “every day?”

nate smiles softly as he nods, “i didn’t know when you’d be back,” he shrugs slowly, “i made a promise.”

brad kneels in front of nate, dark blue jeans scraping against the concrete and it takes nate a long moment to memorize brad in civilian clothing.

he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a yellowed, slightly burned piece of paper, and nate’s hands shake as he runs his fingers along the singed edge.

nate smiles and blinks back the tears that have been threatening to spill over as brad speaks softly.

“i can’t believe you came here every day since you got back. that you’ve waited. that you remembered.”

the “me” at the end of the sentence went unspoken. nate knew brad and he knew how rare his vulnerability was shown. 

nate laughs, nervous and borderline hysterical, “did you think i forgot?”

nate grabs brad’s hand holding the letter and he smiles wide and bright and only for brad.

brad places his other hand over nate’s and cradles it softly as though anything harsher would break this moment.

brad looks into nate’s eye and immediately nate is taken back to the desert. his focus solely on brad’s eyes.

“nate, your commitment to me is the only thing i have absolute confidence in.”

brad looks a little shocked, as though the “to me” was supposed to be kept secret. 

nate doesn’t think, doesn’t breath as he brings his lips to brad’s.

the moment their lips touch, they both sigh as though they’ve just come home after a long day. 

there are no sparks, no fireworks, but more the entire puzzle falling into place. a split moment making every grain of sand, every scar, every sacrifice, everything they’d done to get to this moment completely worth it.

nate pulls back, panting softly, and places his forehead against brad’s.

“i’m sorry,” nate whispers, “i didn’t know what else to do.”

brad kisses him again, firmer and more serious, making nate’s face heat even more in the california sun.

“don’t ever apologize for that, nate. ever.”

nate nods again and links his fingers with brad’s.

“okay?”

brad nods with a bright smile.

nate has to ask what’s been pushing at his mind throughout their reunion.

“how long until you ship out again?”

brad pulls nate into his chest and kisses his forehead solely because he can.

“i’m not.”

nate pulls back sharply and stares at brad.

“what?”

“i’m out, nate. for good.”

nate laughs and jumps into brad’s arms and wraps his legs around brad’s waist. 

“thank fucking christ. if i had to wait any longer, i think i would’ve reenlisted.”

brad pulls nate to him roughly, “please don’t.”

nate shakes his head against brad’s collarbone, unaware of the people staring at them, “i’ve waited for you for so long brad, i’m not gonna leave now.”

nate pulls brad into another kiss before he feels his feet touch the ground again.

he laughs warmly as they walk hand in hand down the pier that had become nate’s second home over the past couple of years. 

“maybe ray and pap will stop trying to set me up with other guys now.”

he heard brad swearing as nate jogged towards the beach, sand under his feet and brad on his heels. 

the way it used to be and the way it would always be. 

together. 

#generation kill #brad colbert #nate fick #brad #nate #gen kill #my writing #my stuff #anonymous #dear babe letters #answered #prompts #thanks nonnie!! #Anonymous

[parasocialpod]

Guess That Craft and Bullying Rylynnd's Mom - Transcript

Follow along with the episode here if you would like to!

Alex: If you haven't heard about anchor, it's the easiest way to make a podcast. Let me explain. It's free, there's creation tools that allow you to record and edit your podcast right from your phone or computer, and anchor will distribute your podcast for you so it can be heard on Spotify, Apple podcasts, and many more.

You can even make money from your podcasts with no minimum listenership. It's everything that you need to make a podcast in one place, so download the free anchor app or go to anchor.fm to get started.

Hi, I'm Alex Thixton.

Nick: And I'm Nick Hayes. 

Alex: And this is Ice Cream Parasocial, a podcast that covers as many different topics as there are flavors of ice cream. 

Nick: Hell yeah. All right, so how- how have you been lately?

Alex: Oh, livin'. Kind of. [laughs] 

Nick: [lauging] Kind of?

Alex: A little bit. I've also been a little bit dead, sometimes.

Nick: Ah, me too. 

Alex: I wouldn't put it past uh, 2020 to be living sometimes and also dead sometimes.

Nick: Uh yeah, for sure, for sure, for sure. My birthday is next week and I am both excited and dreading it. 

Alex: Good old 24. 

Nick: Yeah, the good old, good old 24. Um, I don't know when this episode is going to be out probably after it. 

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: Yeah. It's definitely going to be after my birthday, so. 

Alex: It's going to be really lonely now that people are gonna like you again when you're not 23 anymore, [laughs] but people still won't like me because I'm still going to be 23 for a few more months.

Nick: Oh yeah. Tha-That's what it is. Nobody likes you when you're 23?

Alex: Yeah.

Both: [laughing]

Nick: God, I can't wait for people to like me again! 

Alex: I know it's been so long. For like a whole year. 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: So we kind of wanted to just play some games because it has been a rough year with nobody liking me. 

Alex: Yeah. [laughs]

Nick: Um, in order to, you know, get started on this podcast, I have been, uh, we'll loosely call it research. I've been listening to a lot of other podcasts and I saw this one game where people... [quietly] fuck. 

Alex: Usually two cows. 

Nick: Usually this is played by two cows. Um...

Alex: When two cows love each other very much. [laughs] Um.

Nick: God. 

Alex: I guess that'd be like a cow and a bull. No, it could be two cows. Maybe one of them is trans. 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: Yeah. The uh- have you, have you seen the- the theory about the back-back at the barnyard cow? 

Alex: Yeah, oh my God! 

Nick: Because h-he has udders. 

Alex: Because he has udders! It was just like, was that your sister? No, I guess that was you. Or like something like that. 

Nick: Yeah, there was, there was, um, Oh God, my memory is awful, but I, I do remember a theory going around that that cow was trans because he had utters and there was that one scene where... there was a picture of him really young and someone asked if it was his sister and he was like, nah, that was me. 

Alex: Yeah! 

Nick: And so we love, we love that cow rep.

Alex: Love that representation!  

Nick: Um. Yeah, no.  So today, we're playing a game called "guess that craft," and I'll be reading out the items needed for said craft and Alex will be trying to guess what craft those items make.

I got all of these off of Pinterest and a lot of them were from soccer mom blogs.

Alex: Oh hell yeah. 

Nick: [laughs] I think one of it, one of them was literally like soccermomblog.com or something like soccermom.blogspot.com 

Both: [laughing]

Alex: volleyballandsoccermommy.tv

Nick: Um, so on this document, I've just got, I've got all the answers on the third page, so just don't scroll past the second page.

Alex: I won't. I don't need to see what lies beyond. 

Nick: Okay. So craft number one is made out of cardstock, yarn,

Alex: I see.

Nick:  a Sharpie marker, good sharp scissors,

Alex: Oh!

Nick:  A scrap of recycled cardboard,

Alex: Okay.

Nick: Glue stick or double sided tape, 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: and a printable template.

Alex: The printable template. 

Nick: The printable template, my bad.  

Alex: It says the printable template. Um, okay. Uh, yarn, eight ply, um, a Sharpie marker, good sharp scissors, recycled cardboard. Okay. So it's recycled, specifically.

Nick: Right. We are pro environment here.

Alex: We are pro-environment in this craft.

Nick: We are not, we are definitely a hundred percent not just making garbage. 

Alex: We're not just making bullshit here. 

Nick: This is a hundred percent not going to be thrown in the trash in like two months. 

Alex: Of course not. Yeah, of course not. No, with a really, really solid materials, like, you know, paper and cardstock and, you know. Um, let's see.

All right. So going off of these materials, what can you make with that? With yarn? I want to say maybe it's something that like hangs somewhere?

Nick: Mhmm.

Alex: Or maybe it has hair, if there's a template?

Nick: Right.

Alex: Maybe both. 

Nick: [laughs] Maybe both. 

Alex: Maybe both. Um, let's see... cardstock, okay. All right, we'll get there. We're gonna get there.

Nick: [chuckles]

Alex: So there's the template. So I'm guessing the scissors cut the template,

Nick: Right.

Alex: and you probably draw on it because there's a Sharpie marker. And then there's yarn,

Mmm.

and there's cardstock, which I'm guessing might reinforce something with the template, or like the cardboard might reinforce the template. Maybe there's something like makes it stand up?

So maybe it's like a cardboard cutout with hair. 

Nick: Uh, to be fair, you're not wrong. 

Alex: Oh!

Nick: You're... at it's base, that's pretty much what it is. 

Alex: Oh!

Nick: It's a pom-pom hedgehog. 

Alex: Oh!! 

Nick: So what you do, you've got the, the template and it's a circle and a triangle kind of like melded together and you take the triangle and you fold it up and it makes a little 3d hedgehog head. 

Alex: Oh cute!

Nick: And then you make a big yarn pom-pom, and you just like glue it down, tape it down onto the circle part.

Alex: Oh, okay. 

Nick: And so it just kind of looks like a little hedgehog and then you take the Sharpie and you draw the eyes on it. 

Alex: It's just a little guy. 

Nick: Mhmm.

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: Just making little friends.

Alex: Just making little friends. 

Nick: Oh, good job on that one! 

Alex: Damn. Yeah, I wasn't expecting to get anywhere remotely close. 

Nick: Yeah. I-it took you some time, but like just kind of hearing your thought process, I was like, he's going to get so close. [laughs]

Alex: Yeah, oh my God. 

So like y'all, we've been. Oh, no. That's spoiler-y. I was to say we've been watching the Umbrella Academy. 

Nick: Oh yeah, don't give people spoilers. 

Alex: I can't.

Nick: I mean, season- we're, we're watching season one and that came out over a year ago, but...

Alex: Yeah, but. 

Nick: I wonder how many people are watching season one, just because season two just came out.

Alex: That's true. I guess just like, if you know, you know, but I'd be really good at that one job. [laughs]

I'd be a really good like case manager. 

Nick: Oh okay, yeah. But yeah, you would definitely be a really, really good case manager. 

Alex: With enough time. And absolute silence. [laughs]

Nick: Uh, yeah, [laughs] that's very fair. All right. So number two is made out of glass jars, varying sizes look best for a collection,

Alex: For a collection. 

Nick: So this is, you're supposed to make a lot of these, artificial snow,

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: hot glue gun, and regular glue,

Alex: Oh! 

Nick: assorted mini christmas trees and mini snowmen, spray adhesive optional. 

Alex: Oh God.

Nick: Glitter, optional. And krylon glitter blast or white spray paint,

Alex: Not optional.

Nick: Not optional. 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: I know I saw glitter blast and I was like, alright, this is going in the podcast, like...

Alex:  When fucking Jimmy neutron grows up and goes to Pride. Glitter Blast!

Nick: Glitter Blast!

Both: [laughing]

Alex: Anyway. Uh, okay. So you need a lot of these. 

Nick: Right. 

Alex: Okay. So my instinct is to say, that maybe it's like some sort of like a homemade snow globe or something?

Nick:  Absolutely correct. [laughs]

Alex: Nice.

Nick: It's a waterless snow globe.

Alex: Oh.

Both: [laughing]

Alex: So like the least soothing snow globe in the universe, basically? 

Nick: Yeah, yeah. 

Alex: Oh, cool. 

Nick: A hundred percent. I don't know if it's still something that you shake to, like, I don't know. I don't think that that would be very fun to shake up because it would just immediately fall back down, so.

Alex:  That's why you need all the glue.

Nick: [laughing] Right!

Alex: Nothing like- 

Nick: Make it really clumpy.

Alex:  Make it clumpy, make it show-so that like the first time you use it, everything doesn't just fall apart on you. [laughs]

Nick: Yeah, yeah. It's one of those like Mason jars, you like glue everything into the lid and then you like... 

Alex: [sadly] Yeah...

Nick: It didn't look great. 

Alex: It doesn't sound fantastic. 

Nick: I think it's one of those things that like, if they didn't call it a snow globe, I would be fine with it.

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: You know, if it was like a-

Alex: Just like, oh, this is a little miniature instead, or something. 

Nick: Yeah, if it was just a miniature scene or something like that, then I'd be fine. But the fact that you're telling me that I am able to shake this up, 

Alex: The audacity! 

Nick: The audacity of telling me that I can shake this and have it not immediately fall apart and have it be half as soothing as a snow globe.

Alex: Just like, oh, this is fine. I'm sure this is fine! 

Nick: Right? It's it's not, it is not okay! 

Alex: And enough glue to give you a headache, uh, and-

Nick: Right!

Alex: Maybe send you to urgent care, uh, if you're small enough. 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: Okay, are you ready for number three? 

Alex: I'm ready for number three. 

Nick: A a hundred piece kids puzzle, 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: Don't you dare use an adult puzzle on this, okay?

Alex: Absolutely not. 

Nick: Washable markers, I don't know why they need to be washable, craft paint, white, red, light, pink, and hot pink. 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: Specifically. Baker's twine red and white, cardstock, one sheet of white paper, card board, 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: A recycled cereal or Cracker box should be just the right size! Glue gun, and glue sticks, scissors, craft knife and self-healing mat,

Alex: Oh! 

Nick: Paper trimmer, ruler, paint brush, and pencil. 

Alex: Goodness, all right. These are becoming more incomprehensible as we go. [laughs] 

Nick: I think that this is, uh, the most incomprehensible one. It has so many pieces to it. 

Alex: Yeah, goodness. Yeah, because, oh my gosh. First of all, I just have to get something out there or it's going to torment me. 

Nick: Mhmm.

Alex: Fucking, as an adult, have you heard the like color wording, hot pink ever? 'Cause now it's just like magenta. 

Nick: No magenta and hot pink are totally different. 

Alex: Yeah, I guess I just haven't heard the phrase hot pink since like the two thousands. 

Nick: Ah, well, we're also two grown men. 

Alex: Or I guess like fuchsia would be more like hot pink? 

Nick: I still think that that's not quite hot pink.

Alex: Maybe... 

Nick: It is true that, hot pink, I haven't heard it in a while, but we are two grown men, that are married to each other, that barely speak to anybody else, that don't have children. 

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: So I don't think that hot pink is going to really come into our radar that often. 

Alex: Yeah. Again, grown men though. Like, I feel like that's such a like kid phrase, that like, felt so omnipresent, like during childhood. And then like, after hitting, like, I don't know, like 12 or whatever, I just never heard the phrase hot pink again. 

Nick: That's fair. 

Alex: I was just like, that brings back... memories. 

Nick: It definitely. 

Alex: [laughs]

Nick: Yeah, that is fair. 

Alex: Um, but judging by the color palette, I want to say that maybe this is like Valentine's day themed? 

Nick: Mhmm.

Alex: Goodness, the puzzle is tripping me up! 'Cause the cardstock and the cardboard... hmm, twine also trips me up because I want to say maybe the cardstock... Is it a create your own Valentine's day puzzle? 

Nick: No. 

Alex: No, okay. Because my instinct was to say maybe like the cardstock goes over the preexisting puzzle and you like trace over the puzzle pieces and like the box, like you like store it in the box and then you give it to someone that you care about.

Nick: Right. Um, see, that would be a good idea. 

Alex: Oh no. Uh-oh. 

Nick: Uh, it- what this actually is? It's not bad. I just feel that it's wasteful, you know? 

Alex: I feel it. 

Nick: It's another one of those things that like, while you're making it, it might seem like, oh this is really cool. I'm putting a lot of work into this and like, I can definitely understand how it could fulfill a creative desire, you know? 

It's one of those kinds of crafts that like you make and it feels really good to make, but if you give it to someone else it's going in the garbage immediately. 

Alex: Full stop. 

Nick: Full stop. And it's like, it's something that, depending on how good at crafts you are, you might keep it for a few years to use around Valentine's day, but you're not going to keep it for that long.

Alex: Uh-oh!

Nick: And it's definitely not worth the amount of work that you need to put into it. 

Alex: So is it like a decoration? 

Nick: It's a decoration, yes. Everything with Valentine's day is a decoration, my dude. 

Alex: Uh, yeah, that's fair. 

Nick: If it's not candy, it's a decoration. 

Alex: Good point. Good point. 

Nick: And I feel like Valentine's day decorations are some of the most useless decorations. Actually, no, I lied. The only time that this would be super useful and would probably get a lot of use is from a teacher. 

Alex: Oh! 

Nick: This is very much a teacher craft. 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: I hadn't realized that until just now. So now I feel really bad for roasting it. 'Cause this is such a teacher craft. 

Alex: Oh, okay. Okay. Oh man. Now I'm lost. 

Nick: [laughs]

Alex: Uh, let's see, okay. Kids puzzle, washable markers, craft paint, bakers twine, cardstock, cardboard, glue gun, glue sticks, scissors, craft night. Craft night? Knife. Self healing mat, Matt heals himself, paper trimmer, ruler, paint brush, pencil. Okay. Okay, so I'm seeing paint brush. 

Nick: Mhmm.

Alex: Okay, there is paint. 

Nick: Yeah. 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: Yeah, you're painting stuff.

Alex: We're painting. We have markers. We have a pencil. Good God. [laughs] We're trimming paper. 

Nick: Mhmm.

Alex: God, there's so much in there. Is this some sort of collage, perhaps?

Nick: One could say that it was a collage, of sorts... 

Alex: Oh no. 

Nick: Are you ready to give up?

Alex:  Yes. 

Nick: It's a puzzle piece valentine's day wreath. 

Alex: [quietly screams]

Nick: So what you do, um, something that I didn't put on here because it would have given it away was, a heart shape template. I think it specifically said like heart-shaped wreath template.

Alex: Oh, I see. 

Nick: And so what you do is you cut out, out of the, uh, cardboard, your recycled cereal or cracker box, you cut out this heart that has a heart hole in it. So it's just like a line heart- 

Alex: A heart murmur. 

Nick: [laughing] A heart murmur. Um, and you take this hundred piece kid's puzzle, 

Alex: Mhmm.

Nick: And you on the back of it, the cardboard side of the puzzle, not the glossy side, you paint each piece a different color, and then you glue it all around the, 

Alex: Oh-kay.

Nick: You glue it all around the heart template. And then, um, I think you make a banner out of the cardstock and stuff, and that's where you need the markers. So you can write like "Happy Valentine's Day!" And use the twine to hang it up. 

Alex: That is a teacher craft. 

Nick: It's a very teacher craft. 

Alex: That makes sense. Yeah, that's it take home to mom and dad thing. 

Nick: Mhmm, yeah. 

Alex: Gotcha. 

Nick: Yeah, it's very much like you make it in your first year of teaching and you're so excited. 

Alex: Yeah! 

Nick: And then like you bring it out for the week of Valentine's day to hang up on the door and then it goes right back into storage. 

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: You bought everything from the dollar store.

Alex: Yeah, oh my gosh. 

Nick: Anyways, uh, we need to pay our teachers more so they can get better decorations, thank you. 

Alex: That's all. 

Nick: Thank you, that's all. That's the whole reason that I'm doing this- this episode is so that I can say we need to pay our teachers more. 

Alex: So they can do better for themselves.

Nick: So that they can do better for themselves and do better for the children. [laughs] 

Alex: And for the children! 

Nick: Do it for the kids! 

Alex: Do it for the children.

Nick: Speaking of children, are you ready for number four? 

Alex: Sure. 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: The ingredients for number four are: a clean gallon milk jug with the cap on, a black permanent marker, a craft knife, a pair of sharp scissors with a note attached to it from the people that wrote this. They didn't put this on the craft knife. They put this on a pair of sharp scissors: "Kids, get your parents' help." 

Alex: Not the knife though. 

Nick: Not with the knife. Kids can handle a knife, they'll be fine. 

Alex: Yeah they've got good knife skills, notoriously. 

Nick: But with scissors, kids cannot handle scissors. 

Alex: Never. 

Nick: Uh, [laughs] a wooden dowel, and some strong string or wire. Oh, and don't forget the bird seed!

Alex: Oh goodness. Is this like a bird feeder, perhaps? 

Nick: Yeah. Yeah, it's, it's, it's a bird feeder made out of an old milk jug. 

Alex: Aesthetically appealing. 

Nick: Right? Well, and so the reason that I find this one so funny is that it was the header image on this Pinterest post about like 25, like, kid friendly crafts. 

Alex: Mhmm.

Nick: But a child cannot do this.

Alex: Yeah, that's probably not a good idea. 

Nick: 98% of the craft requires cutting up a milk jug and in the original version of the craft, they don't do anything to like cover that edge that they create. 

Alex: Oh, that shit's sharp! 

Nick: Yeah! But like in the compilation, there's a different picture that somebody else took where they did cover the edge with tape, which is another thing that an adult would have to do.

Alex: Yeah!

Nick: And you have to like poke holes in it and the- 

Alex: [quietly] Just for kids!

Nick: Right. And like with the wooden dowels, I think you have to like- 

Alex: Oh my gosh. 

Nick: poke holes and shove those through, and I'm like-  

Alex: I wouldn't know what a dowel was if I was a child I'm pretty sure. 

Nick: Right, and so it's one of those things where it's like great for your kids to watch you do! 

Alex: Right! 

Nick: I guess they can put the bird seed in and like, 

Alex: Go find a milk jug and rinse it out. 

Nick: Right? Like, and then you'll have to go back in and re-rinse it because children don't know how to clean. 

Alex: 'Cause, you know, kids. 

Nick: I'm an adult and I barely know how to clean.

Both: [laughing]

Nick: So I-I just thought that it was so funny. It was just like 25 crafts that your kids can do! And I'm like- 

Alex: All by themselves! 

Nick: And then it's just like, just give them a couple of knives and the sharpest scissors that you've got, and let them go wild. 

Alex: Yeah, just let them go wild. Just give them like a bunch of sharp objects, some strong wire.

Both: [laughing]

Nick: I'm sure that it'll end up fine. 

Alex: I'm sure it's cool, geez. The rest of the list is  just kind of like, all right, so you need like a gas stove, uh this craft you're going to need like two lighters. Um, if you have like a handheld, uh, like a little like flamethrower, then like you can do that, 

Nick: Right!

Alex: Get your mini blow torch, uh. [laughs]

Nick: Right.

Alex: Here's a craft that any child can do, ages three and up.

Both: [laughing]

Nick: Oh, God.

Alex: Oh goodness.

Nick: This, this craft is what created the "What do you have?!" "A knife!" meme

Alex: [laughing] Literally!

Nick: [laughing] "What do you have?!" "A craft!" 

Alex: A craft! Oh my gosh. 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: Oh God. 

Alex: Oh no. 

Nick: Are you ready for the next one? 

Alex: Sure thing. 

Nick: It's not as funny. Um, this one is made out of small crystal beads, a small container, edible gold leaf hearts, optional, fractionated coconut oil, and glycerin.

Alex: Mhmm... I'm stuck on the edible. 

Nick: That's what you're stuck on? 

Alex: 'Cause none of this really looks like it should be edible. 

Nick: I mean, coconut oil. 

Alex: Well, coconut oil, but like, 

Nick: And I think glycerin. 

Alex: I guess that's true, but like beads. [laughs]

Nick: Oh, well, yeah. 

Alex: Uh, maybe like soap. 

Nick: Oh, see, that would be so much nicer. 

Alex: Oh, no.  

Nick: So this craft made me feel bad for making fun of it.

Alex: Oh no! 

Nick: Because, so, [laughs quietly]

Alex: This is a craft only for orphans. 

Nick: No! 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: So it's crystal lip gloss.

Alex: [confused laughter]

Nick: And, so, the container is specifically a lip gloss container, but if I put down lip gloss container, it would be like, 

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: like a lot more obvious. 

Alex: Makes sense. 

Nick: And the last two ingredients, the fractionated coconut oil and glycerin is to make your own lip gloss. 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: But they specifically say store bought's fine. But if you want to make your own, apparently fractionated coconut oil and glycerin are enough to make a nice, clear lip gloss.

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: And the rest of it, you just put into the lip gloss container, like one of the ones that you roll on, and, um, it's apparently anti-anxiety 'cause it's something that you can move around and you can watch the crystals. And like, it kind of is like a little lava lamp in there. 

Alex: Oh! 

Nick: And so I was laughing so hard at it because it looked really dumb and like, like way too much work.

Alex: Oh no! 

Nick: And then I scroll down and the YouTube video that goes along with the blog post was like, "anti-anxiety lip gloss!" And I was like, "Oh, I'm an asshole!" [laughs]

Alex: Uh-oh! I am the asshole. 

Nick: Like, I knew that I was laughing at a craft that's clearly made for little girls, but then when I, I realized that I was making fun of anxious little girls, I was like- 

Alex: Oh God!

Nick: "What have I become?"

Alex: Oh no...

Nick: But it was just, it was just so funny because the way that it was set up was like, they really... They really stress the point of like making lip gloss, but then all of the pictures that they use, they just bought a lip gloss, a clear lip gloss and dumped it into this other container. 

Alex: Ah, I guess.

Nick: And the crystals that they got were off of a necklace. So they're like ripping things apart,

Alex: Jesus.

Nick: just to like make this, they cleaned to the crystals, but still like, 

Alex: Still. 

Nick: if I was, you know, a kid, I would much rather have like a nice little crystal necklace. 

Alex: Yeah! 

Nick: But I guess that's just me, you know? 

Alex: I know.

Nick: I don't know. It was just really funny just being like... 

Alex: Oh my gosh.

Nick: But it's also one of those things that like, I 100% would have done as a kid. 

Alex: Oh yeah, for sure. 

Nick: Because I was that kid that, my parents got so mad at me, but I would make, um, potions out of the shampoos and conditioners when I was a kid, just by like mixing them together, I don't know why I did. 

Alex: I used to do that shit too! 

Nick: But like, I think that I, at some point, no, because it wasn't just that I was like mixing them together. It's that I had, I had taken an empty bottle and every time that I would shower, I would pour a little bit of everything into it and then like take it to my room. And I had it like in my desk. 

Alex: Just 'cause.

Nick: Just because like, that was my special bottle. 

Alex: Awww!

Nick: It was my special little potion bottle. 

Alex: That's so wholesome.

Nick: And-

Alex: So fucking weird, I love it.

Nick: So fucking weird, but I think my parents found out one day and they were like, "What. The. Fuck?" 

Alex: [laughing]

Nick: "What are you doing, kid?" 

Alex: "Hey, what-what's this?" [laughs] 

Nick: "Why do you ha-?" And because it was so many things, it was this nasty brown, like,

Alex: [laughing]

Nick: gold color, because, you know, I, it was a lot of like cheap shampoos and conditioners and body soaps. It was like everything. 

Alex: [quietly] oh no

Nick: And so like, you know, my mom's stuff would be like this kind of like ivory color, like this nice, like gold color, and I was mixing it in with my dad's stuff, which was this like arctic, neon blue. And so mixing it all together, it just turned into this sludge color. 

Alex: [laughing] Oh god.

Nick: And I don't know why my parents insisted on cleaning my room every once in a while, 

Alex: Oh no.

Nick: Because every time that they did it ended in a nightmare.

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: That was one of the times I came home from school or something and they were like, "What have you done!?" 

Alex: Like after a while, like, you'd think that they'd just be like, "I don't want to know." [laughs]

Nick: Right!

Alex: "Whatever's going on in there, I don't want to know." 

Nick: "I don't want to know." 

Alex: "I don't want to fucking know." 

Nick: And I-I think that my mom started to learn that as I got into being more of a teenager, of just, "I just don't, I don't want to know what's happening in there. I know it's bad. I'm just going to leave it." 

Alex: "I'm just gonna fucking leave it." 

Nick: But if they had done that so much earlier, they probably, you know, they probably would've had a better time. [laughs]

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: I think we all would have a little bit of a better time. 

Alex: Oh, my gosh. 

Nick: Well, I think that a lot of it is that, uh, I wanted to be Raven from teen Titans.

Alex: That's so cute! 

Nick: So bad. I for sure thought that I was going to grow up and be this like goth woman. And that was not what happened. 

Alex: Aww, not at all. [laughs]

Nick: Sure, I might wear mostly black these days and, you know, even when I was a teenager, but, uh, I did not end up being a woman, so. 

Alex: [laughing] I don't know if the potions worked. 

Nick: I don't, I don't think the potion- I think that my parents took the potion away from me too early, so. 

Alex: Yeah, like you only got halfway there.

Nick: Yeah I only got  half way there to becoming the witch that I was meant to be. 

Alex: Exactly.

Both: [laughing]

Alex: Oh my god. That is so fucking funny. That reminds me of, like, I did like a reverse version of that, like taking shit into the shower that shouldn't be in the shower when I was a child.

Nick: [laughs]

Alex: Like I remember one time I was at my grandma's house and like, um, like I was like making pancakes or something. Like, I'd like, just learned how to make pancakes. And I think I was like, it was one of the first things I knew how to make. So I want to say it was like eight-ish, which is probably too old for this, but it's fine.

Nick: Ah, I don't know. 

Alex: But my brain did the thing where like, this does this and therefore like analog, this does this. And I was just like cinnamon and vanilla sure smell good. You know what else? I like to smell good. And so I just like took it into a bathroom and I was just like, what if I just... what is bodywash really? [laughs]  

Nick: [cackles like the goth witch he was meant to be]

Alex: I just think about that sometimes.

Nick: I-I'm sorry. Are you telling me that you just washed yourself with vanilla extract? 

Alex: Yes. [chuckles] To be fair, it wasn't-

Nick: [cackles again]

Alex: To be fair, it was artificial. So it wasn't expensive. 

Nick: Oh, thank God! 

Alex: That's the part we were all worried about. I think it was my hair. I don't think it was my body. I want to say it was my hair. 

Nick: Oh, Okay.

Alex: 'Cause like there's all the like cheap hair products and shit that are like, oh, it smells like Madagascan vanilla or whatever.

Nick: Ah, yeah. That's fair. 

Alex: And you were just like, well, I know that's not what's in there. So my brain was like, Oh, well, like this is the real thing, so, I might as well. 

Nick: But it still wasn't the real thing. 

Alex: It still wasn't, but it was closer. So I was just like, I'm just going to put cinnamon and vanilla in my hair and then it's going to smell good. It's just like, that's such a like child brain thing to do. 

Nick: Absolutely.

Alex: [laughing] Just like... 

Nick: Well, after these stories, we are definitely going to need the next craft. 

Alex: Oh, good! 

Nick: Which is made out of a water bottle, and I realize now that I spelled a water wrong in the document, I spelled it with two T's. 

Alex: Watter. 

Nick: I got a little too excited. 

Alex: Yeah. 

Nick: Uh, water-

Alex: [quietly] I really love this craft. 

Nick: [chuckles] You need a water bottle, flour, a balloon, yarn, and Sharpie.

Alex: Okay. So what I'm thinking is: flour's really heavy. 

Nick: Uh-huh.

Alex: And you put the flour into the water bottle and then you put- use the water bottle to funnel it into the balloon, perhaps. 

Nick: Mhmm.

Alex: Um, and then you maybe use the Sharpie to draw a little face on the balloon and then, uh, you use the yarn to give it hair. 

Nick: Mmm. And what does that make? 

Alex: A little guy? [laughs]

Nick: The, the frustrating thing is that you are 100% correct.

Alex: Oh! [laughs]

Nick: It makes a stress ball. 

Alex: Oh!

Nick: So it makes a little guy, that you squeeze to death. 

Alex: Oh, good. [laughs] A little guy, and then you kill him.

Nick: And then you murder him.

Alex: You murder him. 

Nick: [laughs]

Alex: I was just like, I don't know why you want a little guy filled with flour, but I guess you can have it. 

Nick: Right.

Alex: Oh, uh-oh.  

Nick: So the next one you need a small roll of toilet paper and I need to preface this with not, uh, toilet paper, uh, the insert, the cardboard insert a roll of toilet paper.

Alex: Not in my house. 

Nick: Right. Uh, but like not a full roll, like a half used roll of toilet paper. There was like a specific measurement that they gave for like how thick it needed to be. 

Alex: [quietly screams]

Nick: Um, one sheet of red felt, one sheet of gray felt, gray yarn, one and a quarter inch wood bead, hot glue gun, as always, and two sheets of cardstock.

Alex: See, when you started describing this, I was going to make a joke and I was going to be like, see, this is why we can't have kids, but the further you got into describing it, I'm having a sense of dread that this is an adult craft. 

Nick: Um... it's... 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: It could be either?

Alex: [laughing] Oh.

Nick: I, it- Wasn't specifically like,

Alex: For kids.

Nick: Yeah, it wasn't specifically like "This is a craft for kids!" I, I think that it's meant to be decor. 

Alex: [laughs] Oh no.

Nick: It's very much like a "mom" decor, but like, it's meant to be decor. 

Alex: Decor nonetheless.

Nick: Yeah. 

Alex: Oh boy. All right. Uh, red felt, gray felt, gray yarn wood bead, hot glue gun, cardstock, toilet paper, uh, this feels like some sort of Santa abomination. 

Nick: Very close. You are on the right track. 

Alex: Uh, Christmas nightmare?

Both: [laughing]

Nick: Christmas gnomes! 

Alex: Ahh...

Nick: So I didn't read too, too much into like how you do it, but, uh, basically the, the roll of toilet paper makes the base and then the red felt makes a little gnome hat you like to set up into a, a triangle. It makes it a little gnome hat. And then I guess, glued to the sides of the toilet paper you- is the yarn that's all cut to a length to make the beard. I don't remember where the gray felt comes in. And, but the little wood bead is his nose that you put like right up under the hat. 

Alex: Oh, okay.

Nick: So it's as if the, uh, the hat covers it's eyes. So this thing is just hat, nose, beard. 

Alex: Oh God. 

Nick: [laughs]

Alex: Oh God. 

Nick: So it's one of those things where it is like, I don't know that kids would- 

Alex: Like enjoy this.

Nick: necessarily like it, but I can definitely see a mom being like, "Let's all make this! It's going to be so cute!"

Alex: "Let's make this and give it to grandma!" 

Nick: Or even just like, let's make this and put it up on the, on the mantle. And you know, like Santa is gonna love seeing this. And then like one night, they, she like sends the kids off to grandma's house and has some friends over and she's like, "Look at these cute little gnomes, aren't they so cute?" [laughs]

Alex: Yeah! Oh my God. The kids like wander off like halfway through making them and she has to like finish them and she's just like, these are just so cute. I just really like them. 

Nick: Right, it's a hundred percent like they're, you know, she's got friends over it and it's just like, aren't these just adorable. I just made it out of like, [laughs]

I just mean like you go underneath, it's just paper. 

Alex: It's literally toilet paper. 

Nick: I got everything from the dollar store. The whole thing I made all five of these for like $3. 

Alex: Marissa stop. 

Nick: [laughs]

Alex: Stop it right now. No way. Oh my God. 

Nick: That's so cute. I'll have to do it with my kid. 

Alex: That is so cute. Rylannd would love it.

Both: [laughing]

Nick: I am so sorry if your name is Rylannd. 

Alex: I am also sorry Rylannd. 

Nick: We love you Rylannd. 

Alex: Love you, Rylannd. Thank you for listening. 

Nick: Don't be mean to Rylannd! 

Alex: Oh, I'm not mean to Rylannd! 

Both: [laughing]

Nick: Bullying Rylannd's mom. 

Alex: Yeah, we're bullying your mom, Rylannd.

Both: [laughing]

Nick: Oh God. Alright. Are you ready for the last one?

Alex: Yes. 

Nick: A plastic bottle,  food coloring, gel or liquid, an old sock, 

Alex: [chuckles]

Nick: Don't you- don't you dare buy a new sock for this. I- 

Alex: Don't you fucking dare. 

Nick: This sock better be nasty. 

Alex: And crusty. 

Nick: [aggressively] This sock needs to be used. 

Alex: [aggressively] Used! 

Nick: [normal voice] Uh, rubber bands, dish soap, disposable bowl. So, we're recycling the sock, but don't you dare use a bowl that you might use again.

Alex: Well, not with a sock that old. 

Nick: Yeah, that's fair. Uh, and water! 

Alex: And water. 

Nick: Not from the plastic bottle, though. This is tap water. 

Alex: Okay, good. Uh... 

Nick: Oh, and something that's not on here is like scissors. You're going to need scissors or a knife to do this. 

Alex: Okay. Okay. Uh, food coloring, sock, I'm distressed that it's food coloring specifically, but I'm guessing that that's just so that it's nontoxic?

Nick: Mhmm, yeah, this is definitely for kids. 

Alex: Definitely for kids. Umm. Dish soap, disposable bowl, plastic bottle, old sock, rubber bands.

It's like... like a tie dye sock? 

Nick: Why would you tie one sock? 

Alex: Is it like a tie dye, a sock puppet. 

Nick: No. 

Alex: Uh, is it... [chuckles] a bottle? [laughs]

Oh, okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. So I feel like the bowl and the water and the food coloring, I'm guessing, probably go together.

Nick: Um, the bowl, the water and the food coloring? 

Alex: Uh-huh. 

Nick: Uh, and one more thing. Well, no, the food coloring doesn't go with that stuff, but something else does. 

Alex: A rubber band? Or the di-di-di-di-dish soap. 

Nick: Yeah, the dish soap. [laughs] 

Alex: I got there. [laughs] The dip. You have to chew tobacco, while you do it. 

Both: [laughing]

Alex: Um, okay. So are we washing the nasty sock? 

Nick: Fuck no! 

Alex: Okay, good. We need it nasty.

Nick: We need the nastiest- 

Alex: [aggressivly] The nastiest sock. 

[normal voice] Um, Oh God. Are we filling the plastic bottle with something? 

Nick: No. 

Alex: Okay. I might have to concede on this one. I don't fucking know! 

Nick: Uh, Rainbow bubble snakes, obviously. 

Alex: Wh- [laughs] Pray tell? 

Nick: So what you do, you cut the plastic bottle in half, 

Alex: Mhmm.

Nick: um, and you use the rubber bands, you cut the sock in half. 

Alex: Okay. 

Nick: Most likely. And you take the sock and stretch it over the open, the big open side of the water bottle. 'Cause so you've got the side where the, uh, spout? Where like the lid goes on the water bottle. 

Alex: Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Nick: Um, that's the side that you want. But then on the big cut side, that's where you're going to put the sock and rubber band it. And then you're going to take the food coloring and kind of drop a couple of little drops onto the sock while it's on the bottle. And then you dip it into the disposable bowl, which is filled with water and dish soap, and then you... blow.

Alex: Okay! 

Nick: And when you blow through it, it makes this, like, it makes a ton of tiny bubbles that stick together. 

Alex: Uh-huh.

Nick: And because you used the food coloring, it's a rainbow and it all just kinda like comes out. It's the long, like little like poop snake. [laughs]

Alex: Hmm... kids love it! 

Nick: It's so funny because in the pictures that it showed, uh, there was, uh, a little kid that was, you know, blowing to get it to come out and they had to blow so hard.

Alex: [laughs]

Nick: Like it was just so forceful trying get these bubbles to come out and I was just like, oh, you poor thing! 

Alex: Oh, no! There's like a little disclaimer on there that's just like, not for children with asthma. [laughs] 

Nick: Absolutely! [laughs]

Alex: Oh no. 

Nick: And that's it. That's all of the crafts that I've got for you today.

Alex: Alright, shit.

Okay then. What did we learn today? 

Nick: [laughing] Absolutely nothing. 

Alex: Oh, okay, good. 

Nick: That crafts are insane. 

Alex: Yes. 

Nick: And only for kids or teachers. [laughs]

Alex: Only for kids or teachers. 

Nick: Both of which need to be paid more. 

Alex: Yes. [laughs] To be kept away. From. Marissa.

Both: [laughing]

Alex: Oh goodness.

Nick: Alrighty, and with that, we will see you guys next week. Thanks for tuning in! 

Alex: See y'all next week!

Both: Whoo!

Alex: Beep Beep! 

Nick: The Beep Beep isn't really said by us.

Alex: Oh, okay.

Nick: I just put it in there as a thought. 

Alex: That makes sense. 

Nick: We can, we can. Beep Beep!

Alex: Beep Beep!

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