#homemade fishing flies

[bluehourbucky]

cookies

pairing: steven grant x reader

summary: steven helped you move into your new apartment you want to thank him with some homemade cookies

a/n: I got such a soft spot for steven he's the sweetest most cutest person ever

[dont know why everything is lower case sorry abt that i was already too far in to change it when i noticed]

| main | bucky | moonkinght |

________________________________________

you've been wanting to do something for your neighbour since you moved in since he had helped you carry your furniture into your apartment.

not only did he help with moving in he also went out of his way and asked if you need help with rearranging furniture or building something, you declined politely. it didn't help that steven on top being kind is also incredibly handsome and you had immediately developed a crush on him.

however you hadn't managed to say thank you yet.

you didn't know how to say thank you but you thought a batch of cookies wouldn't be a bad idea.

and a good idea it was, in case you had sugar which you didn't.

so you shamefully walk across the hall and ring stevens door, he's the only neighbour you actually met enough times to ask for stuff.

"hello!" you say when steven opens the door, he looks even more handsome since the last time you saw him. to be fair you've never seen him in his at home clothes and it's absolutely a breathtaking sight.

"'ello?. you alright?" it takes everything in you not to literally run back to your apartment.

"yeah yeah. great. so uh you have any sugar I promise to give it back?"

"sure, come on in, don't stand in the hallway, just gotta find it." steven curses himself for inviting you in as his house is a mess and he legitimately has shackles attached to his bed.

you awkwardly walk inside and only take two steps then you stop not wanting to overstep.

"oh you have a fish." its the first thing that comes to mind to fill in the silence.

"yeah that's gus. gus say hello to our guest." steven says and your heart does a little flip.

"oh so rude of me hello stevens roommate." steven let's out a laugh which makes you blush.

"here,love." steven gives you sugar and you blush even more, you assume the nickname was accidental but doesn't mean your heart knows the difference.

"thank you. bye." you quickly leave and almost stumble.

steven curses himself, he didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, the word just slipped without him thinking. he's had a crush on you since he saw you the day you moved in and now you probably think he's creepy.

after getting into your flat, you immediately start making the cookies. you really hope steven likes them you put a lot of effort into them.

you stand a few minutes in front of his door like a weirdo until you get the courage to knock again.

"hi! It's me again. here some cookies for you. I just wanted to thank you for helping me move in and for being so kind to me. okay bye." you push the cookies into steven's and try to leave but steven grabs your hand.

"wait. what if we ate them together? that's of course if you want to. and you really didn't have to I helped because I wanted to." steven still holds your hand and waits for your reply.

it's not like you're going to miss this opportunity and not with the way he's looking at you.

"sure."

you take the time to look around and really take in the sight of his apartment, the books, the aquarium - it's just so steven.

"please, feel comfortable. thank you so much for making this for me. i'm sure it took bit of your time."

"i wanted to, I hope you like them." you expectantly look at at steven while he takes his first bite.

"so?"

"best cookies I ever had." steven says and you blush.

" im sure that's not true." you shyly say.

"sure are."

at some point you and steven sit on the couch and talk, he tells you about his work at the museum some fun things you can see there and offered to give you a tour when he's not working.

somehow the time flies and suddenly it's 2am and when you see the time you jump from the couch.

"oh im so sorry for keeping you up so late! i should go."

"I didn't notice how much time passed I'm sorry for keeping you. I been rambling a lot." steven scraches the back of his neck awkwardly, and he really hadn't noticed the time he was really just enjoying his time with you.

"i guess I'll hold you to your promise for the special tour of the museum?" you smile at steven.

"of course."

the last thing steven remembers is you going to the door and now he's suddenly kissing you?

as you were about to leave steven pulls you in for a kiss, at first you're shocked, but it takes you just few seconds to return it. it starts off rough but suddenly it melts and softens as if you're kissing another person.

at first stevens hands are on your hips but as the kiss softened they are suddenly on you cheeks.

when you finally pull away you feel like you're as red as a tomato.

"sorry." steven mutters out an apology.

"its okay. that was nice." you can see that his shoulders relaxed at your words.

"uh the tour could we turn that into a date?"

"i'd love that. good night steven."

you kiss him quickly again and leave.

"good night" steven whispers to himself.

____________________________________

"you helped the worm. it is amusing." khonshu laughs.

"it was impossible to watch that. besides he just needed a little push it was going well." marc replies and puts on the suit going off into the night.

_____________________________________

[the end]

likes comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

#steven grant fluff #steven grant one shot #steven grant x reader #steven grant #moon knight x reader #moon knight

[thebisexualdogdad]

Hey, can i request "kiss me and youll find out" with lena? thx anyhow

"Lena Luthor, nice to see you as always," you say from behind the bar stand, pulling out a wine glass and a very expensive bottle of wine.

"You know me so well Y/N," she chuckles at you not even needing to ask what she wants.

"To be fair you are my only customer who can afford anything from the top shelf," you joke as you pour her a drink.

"So how has your night been?" She asks.

"I've only had to break up one drunken fight so it's been a good night," you crack, "I saw you on the news again today, you're developing a new cancer treatment right?"

"In theory it'll be less invasive for patients and far less expensive but my research and development team have hit a few snags," she explains.

"You'll figure it out, you're like the smartest person in the world," you tell her.

"Thank you Y/N but smartest person in the world might be a bit of a stretch," she says with a slight blush.

"You own one of the most advanced medical and tech companies in the world, you are definitely in the running."

"Another beer Y/N and put it on my tab," one of your regulars says, breaking your conversation.

You slide a beer across the counter and turn your attention back to Lena.

"I was supposed to take my break twenty minutes ago, you want to go to the back alley with me? I'm sorry that sounded really creepy. I mean I got an extra sandwich if you want it and could use some company," you laugh nervously.

"I forgot to eat dinner so I would love a sandwich," she smiles.

You two head to the alley behind the bar, sitting on the boxes you set up as makeshift chairs.

"I'm sure this is equally as glamorous as your usual dinners," you tease as you both eat the sandwiches you had made.

"Oh yeah, every high end restaurant in town has flies and the smell of rotten fish," she chuckles.

"That would be courtesy of the seafood market two doors down, let's just say their two for one tuna sale didn't do very well."

"I don't mind, it's nice just being here with you," she tells you.

"I'm sure you say that to every bartender that gives you a homemade sandwich," you joke.

"Only the cute ones," she replies.

"So you think I'm cute?" You grin.

"Very."

"And what would you say if I've been wanting to ask you out on a date since the first time you walked into my bar?" You say boldly.

"Kiss me and you'll find out," she says, inching closer to you.

You meet her halfway and kiss her, a slight taste of mayo leftover on her lips.

"Ask me how my night has been now," you say with a smirk.

"How's your night been Y/N?" She says playing along.

"The best night of my life," you say, kissing her again.

#supergirl imagine #lena luthor imagine #lena luthor x reader #x gender neutral reader #fic

[tf2-oneshots]

Can you write sniperspy where sniper brings spy out camping and spy keeps complaining cuz dirt keeps getting on his suit and stuff but they both know deep down that he's enjoying the time with sniper.

Yesss i love these losers

Warnings: none!

Rating: General

Spy glances at the folding chair set out for him with a grimace. He does his best to shake away any dirt on the seat before sitting down. It’s uncomfortable, and he sinks a bit, but Spy ignores it in favor of Sniper who sits next to her. The man was also in a folding chair with legs stretched out and a groan escaping his lips.

“Remind me what I’m supposed to do with…this?” Spy picks up a metal skewer laying atop the cooler with a brow raised beneath her mask. Although alone, he refuses to compromise his identity. Even if Sniper has seen her bare face during late night moments together.

“Stick a saucie on it and hold it by the fire. Once the skin gets crispy, you can eat.” Sniper grabs the other skewer and opens the cooler. Inside is a bag of homemade sausages nestled in ice next to their drinks. The Aussie chuckles at the grimace on Spy’s face when he fishes a sausage out.

“It’s not gonna bite you, love.” Meat stuck on the metal stick, Sniper begins roasting it. The thin pole is held between his legs, inches from the campfire he built from rocks and sticks.

“I would hope not.” Using only two fingers, she lifts a sausage and repeats the steps Sniper had displayed. Out of nowhere, a bug flies past Spy’s head with an obnoxious buzz. She grimaces, hand waving to shoo it away.

“Careful!” The sausage dips into the flames, catching ablaze when it rises again. With a sharp breath, Sniper blows out the flaming meat. The end is a bit charred, but the rest can be salvaged. Spy rolls her eyes and looks to his lover.

“Must we eat outside? You have a stove in the van.” Said stove is a gas powered hotplate with two burners. One of which is occupied by a kettle to brew Sniper’s decaf in the morning. She would have accepted a cheap instant meal over a hot, bug infested sausage.

“That’s not camping, love. You’ll be fine.” Sniper brings his sausage away from the fire and bites into it. Spy grimaces at the grease before looking to her own. Slowly, he takes the slightest bite at the end only for the liquid to shoot onto her mask.

“Ma groseille, if I may, this camping trip has been nothing but a filthy, sweaty experience that I would like to forget the second we hit an actual road.” It was bad enough when the dirt road kicked up from the tires. The dust cloud went right into her open window, leaving the woman to scramble and roll it up.

Sniper, on the contrary, was laughing as the van jostled from the untamed road. Rocks and divots bouncing the couple in their seats. Spy was forced to put his book down lest she risk puking from car sickness. How much abuse can one camper take?!

“You’re having fun. I can tell.” Sniper offers her the forgotten sausage, which she begrudgingly accepts. As much as he wants to huff and whine, he does like having a night alone with the Aussie. He takes a bite, ignoring the metal in the center before swallowing. It was pretty good for a literal stick of meat.

“And how are you so certain?” With a bit of effort, Spy brings his chair closer to Sniper’s. It drags dirt along with him, but she ignores it for now. If only to avoid looking at what she desperately hopes isn’t a grub next to her shoe.

“If you were really upset, you’d have crow’s feet by your eyes.” Sniper points to his own to gesture. The statement makes Spy do a double take, quick to feel along his eyes for such wrinkles. Yes, he gets angry, but he doesn’t wrinkle like a grandmother!

“I’m only joking, love. Come on, lets get you dry cleaned.” Spy snatches Sniper’s hat and whacks him in the arm with it. She stands from the low chair, storming away while her lover laughs. Thank god the shower is inside the van.

Hope you enjoyed it! -H

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #tf2 requests #tf2 spy #tf2 sniper #sniperspy #knife party

[antler-flesh]

|| Cozy Things Tag Game

—☆—

Comfort Food(s): bagel bites #1, homemade Alfredo, tomato soup and grilled cheese

Comfort Drink(s): Yoo-hoos, hot chocolate, vanilla chai

Comfort Movie(s): Rise of the Guardians, Balto, Lady and the Tramp

Comfort Show(s): Criminal Minds, Avatar: the Last Airbender

Comfort Clothing: flannels and sweatpants

Comfort Song(s): Medals for Mothers by IIIrd Tyme Out, Where Corn Don't Grow by Waylon Jennings, Sun Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain

Comfort Books(s): Kitty and the Midnight Hour series by Carrie Vaughn (very cheesy but I got addicted to the books back in middle school and they just bring me so much joy despite it), Owls of Ga'Hoole series by Kathryn Lasky

Comfort Game(s): Horizon: Zero Dawn and Forbidden West, Bendy and the Ink Machine, Minecraft, Stardew Valley, Tap Tap Fish

— tagged by @fireheld

— tagging @takenamiss @devildungeondm @v1ctimplagued @motherlylost [I have no one else to tag atm, alas]

#— shedding [ooc] #— frolicking [tag games]

[starzfield]

🎐- items/knick knacks they collected (Duncan)

A knife he got as a 'gift' when entering the gang. It's sentimental, he can't get rid of it like he's trying to get rid of his past.

Lots of aquarium decorations. He can never resist buying new (cheap) ones, even though he has only one small aquarium.

Rocks and shells he found on the beach. Some end being used as aquarium decorations too. He tends to always have one of them in his pockets, as a kind of lucky charm.

Plastic or wooden cutlery he sometimes get from food bought in shops. He'd rather cook (it's cheaper) but sometimes, you know.

Homemade or found flies for fishing.

A bunch of knitted stuff.

A jar of infusion herbs he never intend to use.

#exmafioso-duncan #answering #thank you for sending these !! #headcanon-duncan #blade

[ocverse]

OCVerse Christmas Collab 2022: The Cabin Part 5

Copy

by Realith

[Episode begins with Realith and Nathaniel chatting at the bar over some finger food. Iris and Alis sit nearby, listening in. The others are either upstairs, in the kitchen or otherwise spread about the saloon.]

Nathaniel: [Dipping an onion ring into some homemade mayo] And from outta no-where this weirdo just flies in and tries to turn me into paste! Managed to get 'em without losing the presents thankfully.

Realith: [Muching on a cheese stick] Quite relentless those things, huh?

Nathaniel: [Gesturing with the onion ring in his hand] Must be because of our powers; they seem to be hostile to anything with an energy signature; unfortunately that includes humans [he eats it, the satisfying crunch almost echoing].

Realith: [Dabbing his own mouth with a napkin] Yep, I'm familiar with the stress. [Pause] Speaking of your powers, from what I can sense, they seem to be from another dimension altogether. [Picking up a piece of beer-battered fish] To clarify, it's not native to your homeworld, is it?

Iris: [Taking a sip out of a glass of water, then placing it down] Your senses are correct. Our powers come from an artificial world; Nathaniel and I are infused with it's advanced tech, while Alis is essentially a greatly advanced AI built of it's technology. 

Realith: Artificial? So it's like a hyper-advanced simulation of sorts?

Nathaniel: [Going for another onion ring] Precisely. While we are not aware of the finer details, we know it's, one: immensely powerful, and two: several other parties have both access to it and the knowledge to wield it's power.

Realith: And from this, I can assume you've tried to glean some knowledge from Alis but haven't found anything? [Eating the battered fish piece in a single bite].

Iris: [Snapping a long pretzel stick] It did seem like an easy lead at first, but Alis, despite being born out of it's native material, has no knowledge of the dimension's inner workings or origin. Only her intelligence and power are solid indications of it's frightening capabilities.

Alis: And no information I've gathered from previous missions has led to Nathaniel and Iris closer to solving this mystery.

Realith: [Pouring himself a tall glass of carbonated apple juice] Ah, I'm sure information will come naturally as you reach for your goal. And despite being an AI, you're quite convincingly human. [To Alis] Fizzy apple juice?

Alis: [Nodding in acceptance] One of my main purposes is espionage; I have no inherent personality but l can emulate temperaments and emotions to better obtain information and infiltrate.

Nathaniel: Huh, she's never been this open to someone before.

Realith: [Raising an eyebrow] That or she's try to get more information out of me by acting that way [taking a swig out of his glass].

Alis: [Picking up her glass, silently staring at Realith for a moment, then turning away].

Realith: [Putting the glass down] Okay, I think that was a little too human.

Iris: In any case, she's basically a living weapon. [Crunching down on the pretzel stick, speech now a tad muffled] Actually, now that I think about it we three are all living weapons.

Realith: Might want to add one more to that list.

[Realith stretches out his arm and from it dark ribbons begin to unravel. His eyes also change from their usual emerald green to an intimidating purple glow. Iris and Nathaniel drop their food and tense up, preparing to attack, but Alis calmly raises an arm, preventing them from striking.]

Alis: He has no intention of harming us.

[After a moment the tension disappears and both Nathaniel and Iris sit down in relief.]

Iris: [Taking a quick drink from her water to wash down the pretzel, then almost slamming it down] Y'know, if we had normal hearts we would've had heart attacks... 

Nathaniel: [Looking for a napkin to wipe the mayo that was on the onion ring] Just... please don't scare us like that...

Realith: [Examining the strange ribbons around his arm] I'll be sure to keep that in mind. [Looking at the three] Still, I don't blame you for being combat ready, even during a festive event like this.

Iris: We've had many situations where enemies appear unexpectedly. Thus, we must be ready at all times.

Nathaniel: [Turning to Alis while wiping the mess] What I'm wondering is why you didn't react?

Alis: [Taking a little sip of her glass] Like I said before, he does not intent to harm us. While I cannot explain it, Realith simply is not one who would turn on us so suddenly, if ever.  

Nathaniel: Well, you've never been wrong before... So, how does he have our powers?

Alis: I cannot answer the 'how', but I can say that his ribbons emanate the same energy that comes from the original dimension our powers came from.  

[The three turn to Realith in unison.]

Realith: [Nodding] It is as she says. Copying abilities is among the most common ways I use my powers. Quite useful when traveling through many dimensions.

Iris: Oh yeah, Celle mentioned that to us, about you being the head of an interdimensional operation of sorts.

Realith: Indeed. As you can attest to, the responses I've seen are pretty much unanimous: shock and, occasionally, a full out fight. Though, when I do, I personalize it a little.

[Realith's eyes shift from purple to green, the ribbons following suite, the purple energies shifting to the same emerald hue. A gold lining that matches his tie then gradually reveals itself along the ribbons, creating an aesthetic contrast.

Realith: Too flashy?

Iris: [A hand on her chin] Mmm, no, it's okay.

Nathaniel: [Putting an elbow on the bar and resting his head on his hand] Still, it's nothing more than a cosmetic change. 

Realith: True, and while I can incorporate my own powers and technique, heck, even the previous powers I've copied, it's always nice to learn from the original owners. [Turning to them, eyebrow raised and with a coy smile] So, think you can show me the ropes?

[Episode ends.]

Winter clothing for the three

by Realith

#OC #OC Art #Original Character #Character Art #Original Art #original characters #original charater art

[readingsrantsrambles]

The Bon Iver Boys Bob for Bass and Bluegill at the Harlem Meer

The drummer Sean Carey, who schedules his tours around fly-fishing stops, tries out some urban angling in Central Park with his bandmates Zach Hanson and Ben Lester.

By Adam Iscoe - New Yorker Magazine - June 5, 2023

The musician S. Carey, whose first name is Sean, and who is a drummer for the band Bon Iver, goes fly-fishing whenever he has the chance. Largemouth bass in Half Moon Lake with his kids, near their home, in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Cutthroat trout while on tour in Montana. He recently started organizing his solo-tour schedule around fly-fishing: a trout trip to a secret stretch of river in the Catskills (“Some places you have to be a bit closed-lips about”) was followed by a concert in Brooklyn, and then by an afternoon angling for bluegill and bass in Central Park, with two of his bandmates, Zach Hanson and Ben Lester. “I’m not, like, driven by success or fame,” Carey said. “I’d rather go fishing.”

Snapping turtles stretched out along the banks of the Harlem Meer, which is stocked with bass, crappie, and catfish. “Urban fishing is a whole different thing,” Carey said, walking by a little boy. “You’ve got to be careful not to hook anyone!” Nearby, James Brown blasted from a boom box on an electric scooter, and a local fisherman, dressed in a green tracksuit, caught a six-inch largemouth bass.

Carey wore a hoodie, green Crocs, and polarized sunglasses, and carried a Patagonia tackle bag packed with flies, snacks, and a Lawrence Ferlinghetti book. “Fishing gets you out of your own head,” he said. “Hours can pass, and you’re, like, ‘I don’t know what time it is.’ ” He held a fly rod under his left arm as he tied a fluffy orange-and-gold homemade Woolly Bugger onto the line. “I’m terrible at knots, actually,” he said, twisting the filament ten times.

“You do ten, huh? I, like, max out at six, maybe!” Lester said. He had on camo Crocs and a canvas fly vest. Carey threw out a cast, which landed near a partially submerged orange construction cone. Lester caught a six-inch bluegill. “I grew up spin-casting,” Carey said. “It was my dad’s favorite hobby.” Fifteen years ago, in college, in Eau Claire, Lester taught Carey to fly-fish. “By the end of that summer, I was addicted,” Carey said.

A few years later, Justin Vernon, Bon Iver’s front man, uploaded his début album, “For Emma, Forever Ago,” to MySpace. He had recorded the LP at a cabin in Wisconsin. Carey said, “I took it upon myself to learn all the songs really, really well. At his first show, at this coffee shop with eighty people, I just told him, ‘Hey, man, do you want me to play drums and sing? I can do it.’ And he was just blown away by it.” Two hours before Bon Iver’s first show, Carey became the second member of the band. The group’s next album won a Grammy.

In 2009, Carey started recording his own first record in the spare moments between touring and fishing trips. He released his most recent album, “Break Me Open,” last year, on Earth Day. “It’s about loss and change and grief,” he said. In 2021, Carey’s marriage fell apart; his dad died a few months later. “It was tough and dark, and the music was a huge way out,” he said.

Around five o’clock, a stranger in a wide-brimmed hat and Birkenstocks shouted, “There’s a big white carp in the corner over there!” He added, “This is my home water. I live across the street.” He grinned. “I’m not fishing today, but this is my home water, man.” A huge fish swam toward the shore. Hanson cast at it, and the carp darted away.

The stranger suggested another spot: “Go through the woods. There’s, like, a crick that runs through, and you follow the crick up over to the West Side, and there’s a pond on that side, too.” In Central Park, the woods are called the Ravine, the crick is known as the Loch, and the pond is the Pool.

The Pool was a bust, so Carey wandered to a billion-gallon lake he’d heard about, the Reservoir. “I thought it’d be funny to walk around with all these fly vests and fishing gear,” he said, “but nobody’s batted an eye.”

A man rode past on a double-decker custom-made bicycle. A gaggle of birders aimed expensive lenses up into a tree. Someone on a park bench smoked a blunt, and a group of friends debated superpowers.

“What’s the ultimate superpower, man?”

“Super strength!”

“Flying!”

“A lot of them are unique, that’s all I’m gonna say. But the best one?”

“Wings.”

“Levitating!”

At the Reservoir, Carey peered over an iron fence. “I like the water clarity,” he said. But there was no access. He’d caught only one fish all day.

“Let’s eat something!” Lester said.

They located a Mister Softee truck out on Fifth Avenue. Lester and Hanson ordered vanilla cones, and Carey got an Oreo Crunchie Crash. “I suppose if you’re gonna live in a city, you know, it’s a pretty good one,” he said. ♦

[williowdrake]

Dragie and Kitty Adventure Book 1- Version Two

The Food from Planet Tuun

On a sunny day in July, Kitty was looking out the window. Dragie had gone off to find some dragon food and told Kitty to wait for him. Kitty knew that when Dragie found food it was always exotic. Pineapples, blueberries, crepes (which are very thin pancakes basically), tuna, chicken, but the one thing that Kitty could count on was the fact that Dragie always seemed to know what Kitty would like.

As time goes on for ages, (not really ages but when you are only a few inches tall it seems longer), Dragie flies through the room carrying four plates piled high with food. Each plate had different types of food on them. One of the plates had dinner foods on it; things like steak, ramen, chicken, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, fish, fries and tater tots, and even rice with cream wontons, and everything else that you could think of to have for dinner. Another plate has light but filling lunch food, such as; sandwiches of many different kinds including subs, salads, soup and stews, meat pies and hot pockets, tuna, even some tomatoes and other vegetables as well. The third plate had breakfast food on it. So things like omelettes, bacon, sausages, toast (of many kinds), crepes and pancakes, a mix of many different kinds of cereals, fruits of many kinds, bagels and English muffins, butter of many kinds, cream cheese, olives and other vegetables, as well as pop-tarts and doughnuts. The last plate is a dessert platter. There are many types of cheese and crackers, fudge, ice cream in little tart cups, creme brulee, tiramisu, wafer rolls, chips and dip, hummus, dates and figs, snack mixes, chocolate (everything that has chocolate; so chocolate bars and truffles, to candy bars and everything in between), candy, and many other desserts. Dragie lands perfectly beside Kitty and nudges him with his tail.

"I have brought food," Dragie says with a smile.

Kitty turns and looks at Dragie, with his arms full of plates. "So I see." As Kitty takes a blueberry off one of the plates and pops it in his mouth.

Dragie places the food down on the sparkly clean floor and takes a large rib piece and begins to eat it. Kitty begins to ponder what would be the best drinks for washing down the food. He walks to the mini fridge, sensing that Dragie was watching his every move, pausing in his eating, opens the door and peers in. He pulls out some fruit juices, milk (many different kinds, all types of nut juice and whole milk), water, soda, and many other drinks like cold brew coffee and the syrups to flavour the milk. He walks back to Dragie and places the drinks down. Dragie smiles and goes back to eating his tender rib. Kitty walks a few rooms away and Dragie frowns.

Kitty has always been the one to not eat that much. It is not that he can't eat, cause he can eat a lot. It is just that he doesn't want to eat. Dragie does not like when Kitty does things like this, it makes him sad. But little does Dragie know that Kitty is making homemade tea and lemonade. Dragie leaves his post around the food in search to see what Kitty is doing, hesitant he may be.

Dragie flys through rooms slowly in search for Kitty. After the first couple of rooms, Dragie gets nervous and scared. 'Where is Kitty?' he thought frantically. He was flying faster now. He enters the kitchen so lost in his fear and thoughts, that he forgot to watch out where he was flying. Oh no! He'll fly into kitty squeezing some lemons if he is not careful. A small humming filled the air. 'I know that song! That is one of the native American songs that Kitty sings when working. It means that he is close!' He breaks from his thoughts and sees Kitty soon enough so that he could do a nose dive and fly up sharply. When he does this, he flies so close to Kitty that it causes to make a shocked kitty sound. The sound sounds exactly like a young kitten who is able to explore the house alone but while still trying to walk.

Dragie lands next to Kitty, watching Kitty finish making the lemonade. Dragie than takes Kitty and tosses him on his back and with his talons as he grasps the tea and lemonade. He flies fast back to where the plates lay making Kitty eek, he gently places the drinks down and takes Kitty of his back. The look on Kitty's face from flying so high is priceless and he laughs. A full belly laugh, a bit rough from the lack of laughing a lot. Kittys dishevelled look; hair spiked up and whiskers pulled back. This made him look like what would happen if Albert Einstein became Meowbert Stein. Kitty's eyes are wide open but not from his own choosing.

Kitty shakes and his appearance becomes fluffier but at least more like his normal self. "Sorry," Dragie says as he tries to hide his toothy grin. Kitty shakes again, making him return to his normal self completely.

"It's okay." As Kitty tries to fix his bangs from falling in front of his face.

Dragie puts a paw on Kittys. "Stop it, you look cute." Kitty huffs but leaves it. "But now time to eat. "

Kitty looks at all the food and then looks at Dragie. Dragie grabs a crepe and begins to munch on it. Sensing Kitty watching him, he turns his head. Drool is falling in large raindrops on the floor because Dragie loves crepes. Dragie is also looking at Kitty basically saying in little words, eat.

Kitty slowly puts a paw on a cream cheese wonton, never loses eyesight with Dragie. Then quickly puts one end of it in his mouth. Dragie smiles and looks away to get another crepe. Kitty woofs down the rest of the wonton and then reaches for a sausage link and brings it to his lips. Before he can wrap his kitty mouth around the sausage he feels himself being pushed by something. He looks up at Dragie who is eating a bear patty sandwich but shows no sign of using his tail to bring Kitty closer to him. Kitty looks over his shoulder and sees Dragies spiked tail wrapped around him. By the time that he looks up again, and he is next to Dragie, who is looking down at Kitty smiling.

Kitty puts his sausage in his mouth and munches away at it. Dragie reaches for some blueberries. Each one sticking on his claws on his left hand. He bites the blueberries sliding them slowly off his claws, trying not to have the juice down his scales.

A knock sounds at the Kitty and Dragie cave. Kitty and Dragie look at each other, food in both of their mouths. Dragie curls his tail closer to Kitty when Kitty tries to walk closer to the entrance of the cave. Kitty swallows his food and says, "what if something is hurt? We have to save it, Dragie." Dragie nods and walks slowly towards the cave entrance. Protecting Kitty the entire way with his tail. Eventually, they both reach the door. Kitty reaches out and opens the door. A small spiked creature about the same size as an hedgehog runs past Kitty and Dragie.

"Thank you for letting me out of that strange place. It was too cozy from what I am used to." The hedgehog says.

"Welcome," Dragie says.

"Where are you from?" Kitty askes with curiousity.

"I come from a planet called Tuun. My spaceship and I were on a way to a party on Earth for a couple of friends called," He pauses and pulls out these two long rods, sorta like shower rods, and types a few things on them. A hologram appears in between the rods. "Dragie and Kitty. But I seemed to have miscalcuated my route."

"You came down here to throw a party for us?" Dragie asked.

"Are you the ones who were playing in the field several t P today?"

"tP? What is that?" Kitty asked

"t P is the Planck Time. It is how is my people measure time."

"Oh. Well yes, it was our time for some sunshine." Kitty said.

"I have some very fine food from my home planet for you."

"Oooh, food." Dragie says with drool coming out of his mouth.

A flash of light and a whole bunch of food appeared. Dragie took something that looked like trout from the pile and began to eat it. Kitty took a flower that looked like clover and ate it. Before they could thank the small being and even ask if he would like to join them, they heard a loud whirring sound. The both ran towards the window to see a spaceship lift from the air. "I hope you both enjoy the food and the rest of your beautiful day!" A voice calls from the spaceship before it was gone.

"We didn't even to thank him or ask for his name." Kitty said.

"It's okay Kitty, I have a feeling that we will meet him again." Dragie says as he puts a paw on Kitty's shoulders.

The sun begins to fade on another eventful day from the pages of the Dragie and Kitty Adventures.

[buttterknifeee]

Hey! Can you do headcannons for Cyborg and Aquagirl!reader (platonically) spending a day making food together and just hanging out and at the end of the day all the titans eat together and keep complimenting them for their awesome food! Please and thank you so much, but also no pressure if you decide you don’t like it much. Have a good day 💚🖤

Hey!!! I love this idea I hope you're having a lovely day as well!!! Here's a small blurb sorry it took so long haha

.

You and Cyborg have this tradition. Every Sunday you team together and make a load of food for the rest of the week. It’s really relaxing, you listen to music, try new recipes, and just talk about life like teens do.

You woke up and quickly got ready. Skipping over to the kitchen, you saw that Cyborg was already there, apron on and everything. You always laugh at the sight of him in an apron: he’s a 6’2 guys made of metal that could crush you if he wanted to, but he also had a little cartoon robot on his apron.

“Morning Cy!” you cheerfully, putting on your own apron. It was white with a little fish on it that you painted yourself. “Where are the others?”

“Morning A.G.!” Cyborg yawns, getting out pots and pans. Today you were going to attempt to make a giant lasagna, with homemade pasta.

“Beast Boy’s playing video games, Raven’s doing some spell stuff in her room, Star’s probably still asleep, and Robin is patrolling the city.” he says, taking his collection of spices out from a cabinet.

“So that means a whole day of you and me making pasta!” you concluded.

“You know it!”

You spent the rest of the morning making pasta dough, putting it through those flattener things, until you had nice sheets of pasta ready for cooking. You Cyborg started to make tomato sauce while you got sandwiches ready for the other Titans. They were lined up neatly on a cutting board for each of the Titans to grab.

Robin rushed into the room, grabbing a sandwich and stuffing it in his mouth. He mumbles something through his vigorous eating then leaves, continuing his patrol.

Starfire flies in, holding something behind her back.

“Glorious day, friends! May I suggest a Tamaranean ingredient for your cooking endeavors?”

“I dont-”

“Here! It is a fruit from the scaly growths in Tamaran! This is much of a delicacy in my home, as long as you don’t breathe in the fumes for too long!” She plopped an oozing piece of fruit into your hand, grabbed a sandwich, and flew away. Your hand tensed as the fruit continued to ooze, your other hand over your nose. Cyborg also held his nose and took out a pair of tongs. He proceeded to grab the fruit and dump in it the trash, tongs and all. He turned to you, your hand covered in suspicious smelling fruit juice.

“You might wanna wash that,” he said.

Beast Boy walked in after the fiasco died down. He recoiled at the smell.

“Dude, did something throw up and die in here??” he squeaked, covering his nose.

“You don’t even wanna know,” you groaned. He shrugged and took his sandwich, plopping down on the couch to eat it.

Raven materialized out of nowhere, causing the three of you to jump. Beast Boy turned into a mouse and scampered away, sandwich in his mouth. Raven silently tooked the sandwich and left, a small portal created by her magic taking her to her room.

It was later in the day, and the lasagna was baking in the oven. You and Cyborg were sitting at tables near the kitchen, talking about the other titans.

“Did you see the way Robin looks at Starfire?” Cyborg says, you giggling.

“You should see how Starfire talks about Robin on our girls nights!” you laugh. You heard a ding indicating that the lasagna was done. He takes the bubbling dish out of the oven and a warm smell overtakes the tower (you have thrown out the whole trash can containing the fruit in a dumpster on the other side of town). You two high five in satisfaction. The delicious smell drew out the other titans, and soon the other four titans came trickling out of their rooms. You all sat together to enjoy the delicious food you and Cyborg made.

“This is great you guys!” Robin says, looking at the two of you. You smile at his compliment.

“Yeah, and thanks for making mine vegetarian!” Beast Boy says through his stuffed mouth.

“I still don’t-” Cyborg mumbled, but you cut him off.

"Of course B.B.! Extra tofu, just like you like it!” You say with a wink.

“Thank you for this delicious meal, I assume that the fruit I have given you is in this layered dish?” Starfire asked, her eyes sparkling like a puppy dog.

“Um, we’re actually uhhhh… saving it for another dish!” you stutter, thinking of the trashcan you left it in on the other side of the city. “Yeah… it’s in the fridge… but behind a bunch of vegetables so there’s no point in looking for it haha.”

Before Starfire could respond, you Cyborg changed the subject. “Man, I am stuffed!”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself!” Robin said. “Well I better get go-”

“Ahp. Stop right there,” you smirk. Cyborg also smiles. “You know the rules.”

“The people who cook don’t have to clean!” Cyborg says. The other titans look at the giant pile of dishes you used in your cooking. It's going to be a long night for the rest of them.

#butterknife's x reader series #teen titans go #teen titans #teen titans x reader #teen titans 2003 #teen titans cyborg #cyborg #robin #x reader

[catchmewiddershins]

What it’s like to be loved by them

Ah yes I am throwing out some scraps of content because I finally was able to free up some time to write! And then had no ideas! So we’re doing something cliché lol - Also I used a random character wheel to pick who to write for- (I CAN’T SPELL HINATA’S FIRST NAME IT ALL LOOKS WRONG)

Includes: Miya Osamu, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Hinata Shoyou, Yaku Morisuke, Akaashi Keiji, Oikawa Tooru and Shouhei Fukunaga

Miya Osamu:

Osamu is silver-blue piano and soft chords, the sunlight that slips so softly through the slats on blinds that are slightly broken, the slightly sticky feeling of wet rice in your hands as it fits into the lines that weave across your palms. He is white, cotton blankets and fluffed pillows, cloudy lemonade and losing sight of your toes in a thick carpet. He’s the feeling of calloused fingers on yours, fluffy socks and the taste of warm soups in winter as it breathes its hot steam down your throat and heats your stomach. He is cold cheeks and noses, tea-stained pages and the golden scent of fresh bread that signifies the best feelings of life. Osamu is hand-knitted tea cosies and watercolour paintings blu-tacked to the wall, warm, buttered popcorn and the feeling of the highstreet at night. He is the lights that glimmer on the midnight motorway and moon when it's risen in a blue afternoon sky. Being loved by Osamu is to bob on the ocean, the sun at your back and baking your legs, with salt crusting your skin and the taste of the sea on your lips while his fingers lock with yours, the perfect puzzle pieces to finish you both as the crowing laughs of seagulls echo above you.

Ushijima Wakatoshi: 

Ushijima is solid wood and tall forests, the green sound of a breeze ruffling grass like a father’s hand on the head of his child. He is apples and ice cubes and soft, plaid blankets laid on the dirt. He is the sight of a small ladybird, crouched on the tip of a finger, wings spread to fly into the great expanse of sky that stretches before it. He is red sunrises and purple evenings, the hazy, grey brightness that slows the day, the syrupy sluggish afternoons of drizzled rain and icing on lemon cakes, eaten with hot tea in a library. He is muffled laughter in the corridors and coats and hands that swamp and cover and protect, and the feeling of always looking up, up, up. He is the dusty, old clock you found in the attic and the wooden slats of old houses, he is peeling plaster and new paint, and the squeak and shine of polished floors. He is secret passages through the walls and flights of stairs that extend to infinity, and the deep, throbbing, beetroot purple of the tightest hugs that root themselves down into your chest. Being loved by Ushijima is being loved by the bass line of life, it’s his hand on your head and the other hovering at your waist, slow dancing to songs that weren’t meant for such smooth delight, him spinning you out as the air sparkles and being close to the beat of his heart and mind as you glide and dip and swerve to the thrum of his voice.

Hinata Shoyou:

Hinata is the tightness in your thighs they day after exercise and the sweet tang of mangoes in summer. He's August days when the ground wavers and the grass becomes caramel. He is hot red bricks under bare feet and the dizzying height of the walls of your garden. He is water fights and sprinklers in the baking sun, the squinting eyes and glaring lights, the shortest shorts you own. He is the smokey scent of sausage that stings and waters your tongue, the barbequed weekends and idle chatter of friends and the chink of ice that melts too quickly in glasses of juice that have been kept in the fridge. He's the soft comfort of pyjamas and burning hot skin on a cold day, marshmallows and fire and smouldering logs. He is the dance of heated air and the warmth that fogs the bathroom mirror. He is sand in your toes at one moment and the top of a cliff the next. Being loved by Hinata is the kites that float over the hilltops and the whipped foam of waves and the splattered paint of blankets, the mismatch of deckchairs and parasols at the beach, a sandcastle and the flagpole on top, and the horizon that stretches so far into the distance.

Yaku Morisuke:

Yaku is beaming, sunshine laughter and the ruffled hair of little kids. He is the background chatter in a café and the music playing in your favourite shops, the rushing of places and people as you're dragged down the street on your way to somewhere special. He's the thud, thud, thud of sprinting down a massive hill as the air is ripped from your lungs and your joyful screams are lost to the spiraling sky. He's the blur of green and blue and the smell of grass as you roll half of the way. He is the juice of melting ice lollies and the teasing winks of wind chimes by the sea, he's the sticky residue of broken stems that leaves itself on your fingers after the construction of a daisy chain. He's the light of a phone screen in the dark and the print of an old book where the s and f look irritatingly similar. He is the warmth of your own bed and the scent of your own home, the feeling of old clothes and attachment. Being loved by Yaku is to call to the birds that circle overhead and to feed fresh strawberries to one another, to play fight with sticks and paint your legs with grass stains and to trundle home with the exhaustion that comes from euphoria, sharing a hand, high on life.

Akaashi Keiji:

Akaashi is a lake, clear as glass and just as cold, although not the biting cold, but the cold that invites hot chocolate and a log fire. He is the lakes that teem with fish that nudge your numbing fingers and make you wonder at the world, he is the sunlight that glints off of slick rocks and your glimmering skin. He's the royal blue of day and the navy of night, the colour of the ocean, and of flowers, and of the quiet hum of a cello played delicately. He is the fingers of trees that reach to the sun, and the crunching silence of wet autumn leaves, the scent of old books and ink and the eternal echo of time in a museum. He is the sculpted face of statue and the warmth of a flushed face, the fragility of butterfly wings and flower petals and the strength of the trunk of an oak. He is hummingbirds and kingfishers and the simmering yellow of a springtime kiss. He is the sun at your neck and the shade of a tree above you, the splash of a diving duck and the tickle of grass on your bare feet. Being loved by Akaashi is staring up at him from where you sit, serene tranquility, the faint thrum of a river beneath you as your hand disturbs it, the creak of an aging wooden boat and the dappled sunlight that streams through the trees as he rows you to love.

Oikawa Tooru:

Oikawa is the tinkling of bells and the birdsong that flies in the early morning. He is the banded sunrise and all of its colours, the yellow songs on the radio that you sing along to, the orange-gold warmth of early evening, the pink of a blush on his cheeks, the purple light of the night that casts his face into shadow and the navy blue of his wallpaper. He is doodles on desks and using highlighter ink for nail varnish, he is cute stationery and over-curled handwriting and the giggles that come from sharing a secret. He is the creak of benches that have been sat on too many times and the blinding colours of tropical fish in an aquarium. He’s the blasting sound of loud radio, the rush of windows wide open at seventy miles an hour, the pressure against an arm thrown out of the window and the crescendo of voices singing at the top of their lungs until your voices crack and your throats are deserts. Being loved by Oikawa is whipped cream on your nose and joyful laughter, pancakes on the ceiling and sprinkles scattered over the floor, it’s playing children’s games while waiting for a cake to cook, and snuggling up with popcorn in a fairy-light bedecked fort, with foundations of cotton and walls of blankets as the white glare of television shines in your eyes.

Shouhei Fukunaga:

Fukunaga is uncontrollable giggling and whispered jokes, he is the fire-engine red of plastic buckets and spades, the sweetness of sugary treats and the fizz of sherbert on your tongue. He is brightly coloured doors and hanging baskets of flowers, the unevenness of cobbled streets and pastel houses. He’s the soft song of a springtime breeze when it brushes your cheek with a tender hand and blows your eyes open, dusting your face and head, the exhilarating rush of staring into the wind, the drop in your stomach as you lean backwards into its support. He is the chime of a shop door and the crinkle of packets that have been piled into your arms, the warmth of a kitchen and the taste of joy. He’s puns and playful nudges and blinding grins, crinkling eyes and soft cheeks stretched wide, he’s homemade food and the sparkling expression of the one who made it, he’s the warmth of a borrowed jumper, the mould of a side that you fit to so easily, the clicking of a keyboard when online games are played together. He is the snacks that have melted slightly in his bag, odd socks with garish patterns, googly eyes stuck all over his books, doodles in the margins and fluffy pencil toppers, dancing with no rhythm to old songs in the kitchen and letting yourselves go wild. Being loved by Fukunaga is to lie under the coffee table, your eyes falling into his as he stares you down, deft fingers nimbly shuffling cards, it’s to laugh in disbelief as he pulls your card from the deck, eyebrows wiggling their way off of his face, a playful beam poking through his lips, your legs are tangled together and one of your arms is going numb but it doesn’t matter, you are his and he is yours.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #hq!! fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gn!reader #ficlets #drabbles #haikyuu ficlets #haikyuu drabbles #miya osamu #osamu x reader #osamu x gn!reader #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x reader #ushijima x gn!reader #hinata shoyou #hinata x reader #hinata x gn!reader #yaku morisuke #yaku x reader #yaku x gn!reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #akaashi x gn!reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa x reader #oikawa x gn!reader #fukunaga shouhei #fukunaga x reader #fukunaga x gn!reader

[boxoftheskyking]

Pick Up Every Piece - Part One

Ok things to know: -this does not take place in China. It does not take place in the US. It is the year 2000 in a fictional country that I control (this project is a challenge called Let’s Do Exposition). Just go with it. -It’s all talking. That’s what I do, you know this. -Warnings for stuff, I dunno I haven’t written it all yet. When it’s shiny it’ll go on AO3 but for now here’s what I got so far.  -There is a lot of alcohol in this fic -Like all fic writers I live on positive reinforcement and this shit is a lot of work. -The title may change, yes it is from NMH

---

There are bodies in the creek bed. Enough bodies to stop the flow of the water. Thirty at least, a dam of them. An old woman and a child. Clothes and hair sodden, darkened and wet. Clouds of darkness hovering in the air around them, seeping into dead flesh. An old woman and a child and others. Others in that middle age, the age that passes comment. Is it wrong that these two bodies stand out to him? After all, if he were among the bodies, if he was lying in this creek bed, thirty, skinny, and unremarkable, he would hardly notice himself. He’d blend into the pile, only serving to make the word a plural. Body becomes Bodies. Alters the language. Murder becomes Massacre. There are thirty bodies and hundreds, thousands of flies. Crawling on the back of the little boy’s hand. A smell like—not burning, not quite. Death. Not rot, fresh death. The sand under his feet is nearly dry. The creek bed is dry.

Wei Ying blinks. The creek burbles on alongside him, one duck lazily riding the current under a fallen branch and along to somewhere more interesting. It’s October, and beautiful, and there’s the smallest twilight bite in the air pricking at his nostrils on every inhale. He blows out a long breath and finds himself scratching at his arms, the backs of his hands, where the old scars are. They’re ugly, blotchy and dark like land masses on a faded old map, and they still itch sometimes. He rubs at them hard with the heel of his palm—it’s a weird half-feeling, the layers of dead tissue. It’s not dead, Wen Qing would correct him. It’s not necrotic, it’s just scarring. 

He steps around the gnarled roots that reach up from the banks, trying to get to the road but not ever making it. There’s a few muddy stuffed bears tucked among them, plastic wrap snagged on the bark from cheap drugstore bunches of flowers that have rotted away. A couple of carefully hand-painted wooden signs nailed to the trunks, trying to convince the place that people still remember.

He shakes himself and turns away from the woods, hopping the fence onto the road that leads to the bar. He’s late, but Li Chen is always late in the mornings so he deserves to work an extra fifteen minutes. It’s not like there’s a manager to yell at him.

The bar is across the street from an old gas station, one that got firebombed during the war and then left. That’s the thing about Yiling. Everywhere else, even up in Gusu, the cities have gotten rid of as much evidence as possible. Well, they’ve gotten rid of most and turned the rest into memorials to the victorious dead, nice and shiny and flying the Sunshot flag. Nobody really cares about appearances around Yiling—maybe the city council does, but they don’t have anywhere near the budget to run cleanup. Too much actual infrastructure got hit during the worst of the fighting, and they’ll be years behind the rest of the country for the next decade or so. Memorials here are all handmade, and none of them last long.

There’s a flag, though, spray painted on what’s left of the concrete wall of the gas station. A golden hand covering most of a red sun, partly covered by black—one finger for each of the four leading clans and a thumb for everyone else. Typical. He’s not sure who’d have painted a Sunshot here. No one local, he’d put money on it. He supposes they know about spray paint in Lanling—governments must adapt.

It’s probably intentional, anyway, the lack of cleanup. The lack of progress. Nightless City can be repurposed by the Jin government, but the site of the Massacre should stay ugly and busted for a few more years. So no one forgets what it looks like to lose.

Wei Ying likes it in Yiling. “It’s my kind of town,” he always tells Jiang Cheng, who usually throws something at his head. “You want to be a bartender in a town like this. In a town like this, people need a bartender. It’s nice to be needed, you know.” 

It’s a shitty bar by any other place’s standards, but for Yiling it’s cozy. The owner, who everyone just calls Granny, still orders sawdust for the floors like it’s 1860 or something, to soak up spills and puke and, occasionally, blood.

Jiang Cheng always says it’s only a matter of time before they have murder in the bar. “Manslaughter, at least,” he’ll say. “It’s just got that look.” Wei Ying says everyone in Yiling’s too tired. Mostly he and Wen Ning just roll drunks out onto the sidewalk and into a cab if someone can afford it. 

Jiang Cheng himself comes in around eight. It’s as much of a rush as they ever get, so he has to wait for a few old men to get their cheap lager and gin before sliding up to the bar on his usual stool. Wen Ning gives him a cheerful salute as he comes in, and Jiang Cheng nods awkwardly back at him.

“You’re back early,” Wei Ying says, drawing him a pint of something bitter. Jiang Cheng still lives in Yunmeng, in the old family home, but he has a sublet in Yiling now that he’s working for the intelligence department. Jin Zixuan calls it “cutting his teeth” monitoring old Wen strongholds. Jiang Cheng calls it “shoveling shit.”

It turns out cleaning up a civil war is a pain in the ass, even five years later.

“We should do lunch with Wen Qing on Saturday. She’ll want to see you.”

Jiang Cheng pulls out his annoying little planner, full of his cramped handwriting and meetings with this informant and that police sergeant. “Have to be brunch, I’ve got a twelve-thirty on Saturday.”

Wei Ying snorts at him. “Brunch, in Yiling. Good luck.”

“Hangover breakfast, then.”

“That we can do.”

Jiang Cheng takes a long pull of his beer and Wei Ying can see the relief run down him from the crown of his head down over his shoulders like something hot and slippery. Oil maybe, or homemade noodles. He groans and drops his head down behind his glass.

“Hey, Wei Ying!” An arthritic hand waves at him from the other end of the bar.

“Gotcha, Riseung,” he calls and starts fishing for the kahlua and cream. It’s always at the back of the cooler; no one else ever orders it. “You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave,” he tosses back at Jiang Cheng. 

“Not if you keep giving me beer.”

“Hey, Wei Ying, I saw that story last week. Hell of a thing.” Li Riseung has a little cream mustache, but Wei Ying’s not going to mention it.

“The gas thing?” Wei Ying grins at him. “Yeah, I’m telling you, it’s all connected. You watch the prices when Lanling tries to pass another referendum. It’s all supposed to soften you up. You got something for me today?”

“Still writing your conspiracy theories?” Jiang Cheng calls to him. “Some guys just don’t know when to quit.”

(Someone else comes up, he pulls a pint of stout.)

Riseung bristles. “Wei Ying is the only real journalist left in this country. You’ll see.”

Wei Ying props his chin on his folded hands and waits. Riseung takes another long sip. “Yu Xiuying’s got her popcorn maker up and running. She’s starting to sell what she can, make enough to get the theater back in order.”

“Really? That would be something. I’m sick of taking the train every time I want to see a movie.”

“You should report on that, get her some customers.”

Wei Ying drums his fingers on his chin. “Maybe we can work out an ad situation. I need more ads, you know. Papers ain’t cheap.”

Riseung finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the bar. He half-reaches for his pocket. “So, do I owe you, or . . .”

Wei Ying stifles a sigh. Technically it’s nothing he can use. He’s not about to publish an expose on popcorn. Still, he waves a hand. “Your money’s no good here. Go on, keep up the good work.”

The man grins up at him, flashing a row of silver fillings, and heads over to bother someone else. 

(Another customer—rum and Coke.)

“You’re just letting people drink for free, huh?” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying wanders back over to him, taking a sip of his own drink (coffee, plus whiskey, just enough to get through the shift).

“Reporting is all about cultivating sources, Jiang Cheng, even you should know that. Li Riseung is a source.”

“A source,” Jiang Cheng mutters. “He’s a drunk.”

“So’s everyone. This whole country’s full of drunks. Drunks make the world go around.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “This city is fucking depressing.”

“Oh, and all of Lanling’s sober, is it? Yunmeng? Everybody’s living like Lans? You’d be much more pleasant with a few more of these in you.” Wei Ying grabs his pint glass and dumps the end of it out, refilling in the same smooth movement. It’s just out of spite. He shouldn’t be wasting a good few ounces of genuinely nice beer. But he can’t help it; Jiang Cheng brings it out in him. He spins and shimmies a bit to the bad pop song coming from the busted speaker above him and grabs a bin of limes to chop.

“When are you going to come home?”

Wei Ying doesn’t slip and cut himself, but it’s close.

“I live in Yiling, Jiang Cheng.”

“Yeah, for now.”

Wei Ying sighs. “I like it here, okay? You think they’d let me back in Yunmeng, after everything?”

“I’ve got influence now. They wouldn’t say anything.”

(Two lagers, shot of tequila.)

He hasn’t lived in Yunmeng in years. Almost a decade now. He was in Yunmeng at the start of everything, when Wen Ruohan was forced out of office and half the military went with him. He visits now, but there’s still that sense of before when he’s there, like the majority of his life hasn’t happened yet. But Jiang Cheng is never going to get that, he’s a linear person.

“Not saying anything isn’t the same as allowing. I’m not going to make you fight all day just so I can work at some bougie wine bar somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t have to work at a bar. You could—”

“What? Write? You think anyone anywhere is going to hire me at a paper again? Despite all the rumors, you’re not that dumb.”

“Fuck off. You could work with me.”

“Intelligence. Really? How do you think that would work out? ‘Yes, Jin Zixuan, whatever you say, Jin Zixuan—’”

“Fuck off.” 

Wei Ying shakes his head and scrapes a pile of lime wedges back in the bin. “I like where I am. I’ve got the paper—”

“It’s not a paper.”

Wei Ying doesn’t slam the knife down, but it’s a close thing. “Jiang Cheng—”

“You’re such a fucking martyr. What, you lose your dream job so you go to the ass crack of the world and set yourself up as king of nowhere?”

“I’m not king of anything, I’m just writing.”

(Three glasses of white wine.)

“Yiling Laozu.” Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue. “I know you can’t use your real name, but that’s embarrassing. Laozu. You and your sources.”

Wei Ying takes a breath and unclenches his jaw. “If Wen Qing were here you wouldn’t be calling us embarrassing.” 

“You’re embarrassing. She’s not embarrassing.”

“It’s our paper.”

“Wen Qing has dignity. You have none.”

Wei Ying gathers up his knife and cutting board to run them back to the dish pit. “Ah, Jiang Cheng, you love me. I know you do.”

It’s always a good way to end a conversation, their own private code. If you keep pushing here you’re going to break something. A warning. You love me. I know you do. Jiang Cheng doesn't ever deny it, but he never agrees either. He doesn't need to. Wei Ying has proof. The scars on the back of his hands, curling around his wrists and up his arms—burn scars, chemical burns—are proof. Jiang Cheng doesn't like to look at his hands. That's proof too. 

 When he comes back out, Jiang Cheng isn’t alone. The general noise of the bar has fallen to a murmur, and the rowdy game of dominoes is paused in the corner.

 Xue Yang is sprawled over two stools, dressed in shiny black leather and grinning a few inches away from Jiang Cheng’s face.

“How’s it going, Captain Jiang?”

Jiang Cheng leans away. “I don’t see you. You are not here.”

“Course not. Good boy.”

Jiang Cheng’s hand tightens around his glass, and Wei Ying picks up the pace slightly. 

“Leave him alone, Xue Yang,” he says, carefully mild.

The grin turns on him, and Xue Yang waves, his weird little black prosthesis sticking out like a lighting-struck tree. “You telling me what to do, Wei Ying?” 

“I would never. Here, have a drink. If you want.” He pours him a double from his own secret bottle, the one Granny gave him on a good night in the summer. It’s painfully ironic—Xue Yang would be the only person in Yiling who could afford it if he ever actually paid for it.

Wei Ying nods to him and slides the glass across the bar, along with the usual brown envelope. Jiang Cheng sighs and spins around on his stool, looking away.

“Feels light,” Xue Yang says, like always.

“It’s not,” Wei Ying says, also like always. 

Xue Yang grins around the little white stick hanging out of his mouth, and Wei Ying grins back. “Eight percent extra on anything you’re short next time.”

“It’s not short. And it’s five percent, don’t try to fuck with me.” Wei Ying smiles wider and does not blink.

“Maybe it’s changed.”

“Granny would tell me, and she wouldn’t hear it from you.”

“Maybe it’s changing today.” Xue Yang leans across the bar, not quite getting in his face, but close enough. Wei Ying meets Wen Ning’s eye over his shoulder. Wen Ning takes a few steps away from the door, but Wei Ying shakes his head just a fraction and he goes still.

“You don’t have the authority.” Wei Ying lets his grin go a little unnatural at the corners, a little bit of a snarl. “And it’s not short, so it doesn’t matter.”

Xue Yang laughs and tucks the envelope into his jacket, then takes a long swig. Wei Ying breathes, finally, quiet and careful.

“Xue Yang,” he says as he starts to wipe down the bar again. “You know you wound me.”

Xue Yang wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Oh do I?”

“You know it hurts me, deep down in the soul parts of my body, to see you drink top shelf scotch with a fucking sucker in your mouth.” 

Xue Yang sticks out his tongue so Wei Ying can see the little yellow nub of it. “It’s pineapple.” 

“Great. Thank you. I’m going to go drink bleach now.”

Jiang Cheng half turns to glare at him. “That’s not fucking funny.”

Xue Yang chugs the rest of the scotch and tosses the empty glass at Wei Ying. He hates that it makes him flinch before he catches it. “Tell Granny I say hi.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey, where’s the little one? Haven’t seen her in a minute.”

Wei Ying stiffens. “You’ll stay away from her if you cherish the rest of those fingers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Xue Yang gives him a mocking salute and saunters back out towards the door. He’s nearly out when he knocks into an empty chair, sending it to the floor with a crack like a gunshot. No one hits the deck completely, but the held-breath silence turns into a gasp as all eyes snap to the sound, shoulders up and hands braced on tabletops, thighs tensed and ready to run. 

Even Xue Yang is frozen at the door for a second. He laughs, though his jaw is tight. “Just a chair, ladies and gentlemen. Clean this shit up, Wen Ning.” And he’s gone.

Wei Ying deflates, adding some of the good scotch to his own cup. Jiang Cheng makes a face.

“How’s that coffee?”

“Shut up.”

“You should let me talk to Zixuan.”

“You talk to him every day.”

“You know what I mean. How long have you been paying—”

Wei Ying sighs and flicks his rag at his brother. “Thing one: I don’t pay, Granny pays. Thing two: Xue Yang is just a low level street thug with connections, he’s as in charge of the operation as I am in charge of Yiling. Thing three: it all kicks up to the Jins at the end of the day, so what are they gonna do about it?”

“Zixuan isn’t—”

“Yeah, I know your best pal is the paragon of morality.”

(Scotch and soda, root beer, gin and tonic, and three pints.)

“He’s our brother-in-law.”

“And your brother-in-arms, I know, I’d never dare disparage the mighty—”

“He’s a nicer brother than you are.”

Wei Ying mimes a faint. “I’m going to call Shijie, tell her you’re being mean to me.”

Jiang Cheng goes quiet, looks down at his beer. Wei Ying reaches out for it, an offering.

“Another?”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. “I shouldn’t.” A chunk of his hair comes loose from its tie, feathers across his forehead.

“When are you gonna cut that hair, huh?” Wei Ying flicks it back over his ear. Jiang Cheng swipes at his hand lazily.

“I like it like this.”

“You and Zixuan are twins now, huh? You cultivators. Does Lan Zhan still keep his long, do you think?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him in a long time. Stop it, leave it, I have it how I want it.”

Wei Ying laughs at him. “Looks good. Dignified. Hey, did you ever ask for Zidian back?”

Jiang Cheng’s face does something complicated, a little bitter. “Not gonna happen. No spiritual weapons are gonna be authorized any time soon.”

“Yeah, but it’s yours.”

“It’s not mine. It’s the government’s.”

“But it responds to you. What good does it do locked away in—”

“Leave it, Wei Ying. I know you’ve got opinions about cultivation, but I’m fucking tired and it’s not going to change anything.”

“Well, when you’re in charge. Then you’ll show ‘em.”

That does make Jiang Cheng laugh, which is satisfying.

(Two gin and tonics.)

“Hey, you’re not allowed—” Wen Ning calls from the door, followed by the tap-tap of a metal cane. Wei Ying sighs and reaches for the grenadine.

“Wei Ying, you son of a bitch.” The voice is high, reedy, and cackling. “How the hell are ya?”

“A-Qing,” Wei Ying calls mildly. “You can’t be here.”

“Where is here?” she yells, as always. “How am I supposed to know that? Can’t you tell I’m blind?”

“Get out of my bar.”

“Discrimination!” She makes her way across the room, purposely bumping into every occupied table on her way over, just to slosh beer onto the floor.

“You’re fourteen.” He has her cherry soda on the bar by the time she hops up on the stool next to Jiang Cheng, ignoring him entirely.

“And how do you know that, creepy old man?”

“You made me get you a cake for your birthday, you goblin.”

“Who’s this guy?” She takes a long slurping suck from her straw.

“My didi.”

“You—!” Jiang Cheng hates it, which is the only reason Wei Ying says it.

“Ooh, the famous Jiang Cheng. I bet he looks real grumpy.”

“Yep.”

Jiang Cheng flips him off. He grins and goes back to wiping down the drain.

“He just flipped you off, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.” She finishes her drink and slams the glass down. “Double vodka please.”

“Nope.”

“I drink vodka all the time.”

“Don’t care. I’m not getting fired over your sorry ass. Go drink at home.”

“I’m not allowed vodka at the home.”

“And you’re not allowed here either.” He drops the rag back into the sanitizer and leans his elbows on the bar. “Now, are you here with something interesting or just to pester me?”

Jiang Cheng looks like he’s about to interject, but Wei Ying waves him off.

“I can multitask,” A-Qing says before pushing her glass back across the bar. “More sugar first.”

“Diabetes on the rocks, yes madam.”

She takes a long slurping pull, and he folds his arms, waiting. 

“Got a new TV at the home. Real big one.”

“A-Qing, I’m waiting.”

Jiang Cheng squints at her. “How do you know how big the TV is?”

“I just know, okay. Anyway. One of the older kids got it. Bought it himself.”

“Yeah, right,” Wei Ying says. He needs to challenge her if she’s going to give him the whole story. If he seems too interested she’ll draw it out just to fuck with him.

“He did. Wen Changming.”

“A Wen?” Jiang Cheng asks.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Lots of Wens in the children’s home. I wonder why.”

Jiang Cheng makes a sour face at him.

“He’s got cash to burn, suddenly. Pockets full.”

“Gee, I wonder how you found that out.”

A-Qing grins at him. “He’s not gonna miss it. He’s in the club now.”

“The club?”

“You know, the club. What do you call it? Do crimes, get money.”

“Mob? Syndicate? Criminal organization?” Jiang Cheng offers.

“So they’re recruiting at the home, that’s what you’re telling me? Is it Xue Yang?”

A-Qing blows bubbles in her soda. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Must be desperate.”

“You do the same thing.”

“I do not.”

She holds out a hand. He sighs and passes over a couple of bills. 

“You staying there tonight?” he asks, all casual.

“Maybe. The girls are annoying. Should be nice outside.”

“Starting to get cold.”

“Not really. Only if you’re a pussy.”

“You call me if you need to crash. Here.” He drops a couple of coins in front of her. “I’ll be home after midnight.”

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, pocketing the change. She gives a little salute and hops off her stool. “So long, Wen Ning!” she shouts, walking right at him and making him hop out of the way.

She’s not really blind, of course. Wei Ying’s never brought it up—he knows, but he’s not sure she knows that he knows. One of the nights she crashed at his apartment, months ago, he caught her reading through one of his binders of old clippings—‘91, back before the start of the war, when he was still in Gusu. It kind of kills him, because he wants to ask her what she thought of them. What she remembers from back then, if there’s anything. But they don’t talk about anything serious, not if they can help it.

“Please tell me you don’t have a teenage girl staying at your place,” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying gives him a great sigh and grabs his rag again.

“Only when she's got no other place to go. Oh, I have a futon now! You’d see it if you ever came over.”

“Wow, great, you're thirty years old and you have a secondhand futon. Mother would be so proud.”

“I didn't say it was secondhand.”

“Wei Ying, trust me, you do not need to.”

 (Four pints.)

Wei Ying makes a face at him. “So mean.”

“It’s weird that she stays with you.”

Wei Wuxian sighs again. “Jiang Cheng.”

“It is. It’s weird.”

“If it’s a bad night at the home then she sleeps outside. I don’t like her sleeping outside, so she stays with me. When she’s not being ornery.”

“She’s a teenage girl.”

“She’s a baby.”

“Not your baby. Why would she sleep outside anyway? Yiling sucks.”

“The home sucks. Look, it’s an orphan thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jiang Cheng pouts. “Hey, I’m an orphan.”

“No you’re not, you’re a grown up.”

(Whiskey, neat.)

“You’re a grownup. My parents are dead; I’m an orphan.”

“Then everyone’s a fucking orphan in this country. The word’s lost all meaning. From now on, if your parents were alive when you were ten, you’re not an orphan. Find a new word, leave ours alone.”

“You’re such a jackass.”

“Jackass! Yes, that’s a good word.”

Jiang Cheng sighs and gets off his stool. He tosses cash down on the bar, though Wei Ying tries to wave him off.

“Oh, you’re going to want to get a flag up in here,” he says, off-hand as he turns to go. 

Wei Ying freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Coming down from on high, it’s going to be a new ordinance. To keep the liquor license.”

“The fuck does a flag have to do with our liquor license?”

Jiang Cheng holds up his hands. “I’m just the messenger.”

“I’m not letting the Sunshot flag through these doors.”

Jiang Cheng turns back to him, serious. “Look, I know you have your own . . . feelings—”

“Feelings?” he almost spits, spreading his hands out on the bar.

Jiang Cheng winces and does not look at them. “You have your reasons, I’m not arguing that. But Yiling’s a part of the Republic and people need to get used to it. You don’t have to like it, but your district rep is going to announce the policy in the next week, and I don’t want to see you— Don’t go out of your way to make life difficult, all right? It’s hard enough already.”

Wei Ying says nothing, just leans back and watches the rag twist and untwist between his hands.

“See you Saturday,” Jiang Cheng offers, hesitates, then leaves.

Wei Ying will close up. They close early, still, kick everyone out before midnight. Old habits. He’ll go home and work on his column, the one corner of the paper Wen Qing leaves for whatever he wants. (Literally, the column is called “Whatever.”) Maybe A-Qing will find a pay phone and call him, if she hasn’t spent or hidden the change, or maybe she’ll just show up and lean on the buzzer until he lets her in. He’ll sleep better, if she’s there. He was never meant to live alone.

And he’ll wake up tomorrow, and try to do it all again.

Part Two

#the untamed #cql #assorted writings #pick up every piece

[rvspberry]

Cat boy Steve trying to cook/ BAKE??? something as a Christmas surprise???

(THIS WAS AN AMAZING ASK!!! And it ended up becoming a modern Catboy AU. And ended up longer than I expected. Anon, I hope you enjoy.)

Steve’s never baked cookies before. He’s never baked *anything* before, to be honest, and he’s never really thought about trying his hand at doing things in the kitchen until now. Billy cooks for them, mostly because Steve can burn water because he gets so easily distracted, ears twitching at every little noise and tail flicking with each new interest that catches his attention.

But the thing is… the thing is, Steve turns on the Hallmark channel the second week of December and watches romcom after romcom with people baking cakes and pies and whole Christmas dinners to show their love. Steve could maybe try cookies. They seem easy enough.

And, like, it sounds cool. Making cookies for Billy. Showing his love through something homemade. Like, he works part-time at Family Video, and he already bought Billy something small, something he could afford. But giving Billy something he put his heart into? Something made with love and care? Something he made with his own two hands?

The way the movies make it out, that’s the best thing he could ever offer to Billy, cookies worth their weight in gold.

It can’t be that hard, right?

So Steve turns to his first source of knowledge anytime he needs to find out how to do something new.

YouTube.

He’s a visual learner, okay? He likes being able to see the steps laid out in real time.

His attention span shoots for the sixty-second video where they do a run-through of the steps to making the perfect chocolate chip cookies. It’s long enough to hold his attention, short enough to keep him focused, and he feels so confident watching it that he goes out and buys all the ingredients he needs. He’s whistling to himself through the grocery store, smiles at the cashier, and when he gets home, he still feels utterly confident.

Until the batter comes out a lot more liquid than solid. The chocolate chips fall off the spoon before he can even scoop them up. Steve winces, but he followed the directions. Even if the directions didn’t have anything like measurements. He kind of eyeballs each ingredient. Two sticks of butter, two eggs, a cup each of flour and sugar, a hefty scoop of baking powder - and then the chocolate chips. But…

It looks weird.

It’s not right.

Steve dips his pinky into the batter and tastes it. It’s bitter, and not sweet enough. He still goes through with it, spooning the liquidy mixture onto the cookie sheet and popping it into the oven.

The oven is a whole other experience entirely, because Steve doesn’t know what the numbers really mean. He pushes a few until the numbers read 2-0-0. That seems like a long time, right? Or is it temperature? Whatever. It works.

...Except the video says to leave the cookies in the oven for 10-15 minutes, and when he pulls them out, they’re still raw. So he pops them back in for 20 minutes. 30 minutes. An hour passes, and they seem to grow more disgusting with every minute that passes.

When he finally pulls them out, somehow raw on top and burnt on the bottom and sides, Steve tosses the whole thing - cookies, tray, and all.

Billy comes home later and crinkles his nose. “Did you burn something, babe?”

“No!” Steve is quick to reply, eyes wide when he looks up at Billy from his spot on the couch where he’d been laying in the sun earlier. “Nope. Not at all.”

“Okay…” Billy drawls, his eyes gazing over at Steve with confusion until he spots something and smiles. Strutting over to Steve, Billy reaches out and rubs his thumb over Steve’s cheek. “You got some flour on you.”

Steve lets out a yelp and flies to the bathroom to wash up properly, Billy snickering behind him.

~

Steve tries again the next week, the week before Christmas. Surely he can master it if he tries to follow a longer video, right? Something with measurements. Something that’s foolproof. And when the batter is finished, with Steve’s focus narrowing enough for him to measure every little ingredient out, it looks just like the video. He pulls it up on his phone, ears twitching as he listens intently.

He follows every step to the T, to the dotted ‘i.’ The sets the “bake” thing to 3-7-5 and puts the sheet inside to begin with. Even waits as the numbers turn from 1-0-0 to 1-2-0, thinking that he must wait 120 minutes for the oven to hear up. He groans when the 1-0-0 turns to 1-2-0… Really? That long? That’s how long it takes to heat the oven?

By the time the oven beeps and the numbers read ‘3-7-5,’ Steve has gotten distracted licking his paws and visibly startles into action.

He places the tray into the oven and even turns on the timer somehow for ten minutes.

But then Steve goes to the living room and lays down on the couch in the sun and starts cleaning his tail, licking the backs of his hands to clean his ears. He doesn’t want Billy to know he’s made cookies until he steps into the kitchen and sees the beautiful pile of them on a plate on the counter. Wouldn’t that be something?

So, ten minutes turn into twenty, and the smell of smoke tinges the air.

Steve crinkles his nose at the scent, his senses more sensitive than a human’s, and then his eyes widen comically in fear.

“No, no, no! Not my cookies!!”

Steve rushes to the kitchen to drag the cookies out of the oven with a mitted-hand and lays them on the stove. Confusion tinges his expression - it curls at the edges of his mouth, curls his eyebrows up, makes him completely disinterested and distrustful of the process. These were going to be fool-proof. Steve-proof.

And he messed it up again.

He scrapes the burnt cookies off the tray into the trash can and soaks the tray in the sink as best as he can, given how tiny it is.

Steve’s tail twitches. How did he screw this batch so badly? How did he not hear the timer?

He realizes that only one person can really help him right now, and resolves to call Joyce Byers.

~

Steve is still smarting from his last attempt, so it takes him another few days to get around to calling her. By the time he does, it’s Christmas Eve.

But Joyce seems happy to help, one catperson to another, and offers up the recipe for her homemade snickerdoodles.

“Could you- could you tell me how to make them? All the ones I’ve tried end up terrible,” he says, wincing at the admission.

“Of course, Steve. Just stay on the phone with me. Put me on speaker so you can use both of your hands. And don’t hesitate to ask me any questions, okay?”

“Okay…”

So, Joyce talks him through properly measuring the ingredients, leveling them off with a knife.

She describes adding the sugar and butter together and calls it “creaming” which makes him fight back a snicker.

He adds the eggs carefully, once at a time, fishing out tiny pieces of eggshell to make sure no one gets that unpleasant surprise. He adds the vanilla, the dry ingredients, rolls them into little balls in a mix of cinnamon sugar, and places them carefully on a baking sheet.

Steve thinks to ask her about the oven numbers and feels like an idiot when she tells him it’s not the time left for preheating but the temperature climbing up to 350’.

Joyce even keeps him on the phone while the cookies bake, both of them sharing information about the latest campaigns of the party. Steve doesn’t have the attention to stay interested in a campaign for as long as they take to trudge through, everyone rolling, everyone making a decision, the boys fighting about what is and isn’t allowed… It’s a lot, and he feels a little better when Joyce agrees with him, both of them dissolving into laughter.

His tail flicks back and forth, casual and easy and contented, and when the timer goes off in the background, Steve actually hears it and Joyce reminds him to take the cookies out to let them cool.

When Billy gets home that night, Steve can’t help the smug smile on his face.

“Damn, I think the neighbor was baking cookies or something, it smells so good in the hallway!” Billy says, toeing off his boots. He stops in the doorway and sniffs the air curiously. His blue eyes turn on Steve, who can’t even pretend to be innocent as his ears are flicked ahead, alert, and his tail whips back and forth with anticipation. “Baby… did *you* bake cookies today?”

The slow smile that steals across Steve’s lips is no less smug, and his tail flicks excitedly. He perks up, licking his lips.

“Do you want to try one?” Steve asks, affecting a shy look right up until Billy nods. Then, Steve stands quickly, shoots his hand out to curl around Billy’s wrist and drags him into the kitchen.

There, on a simple paper plate, are the snickerdoodles Joyce helped him make. Completely harmless, and yet they hold a weight to them that Steve cannot describe.

Steve’s eyes are wide as he watches Billy pick one up, can practically feed his pupils dilating as Billy raises the cookie to his mouth and he takes a bite.

Billy tuns to face him suddenly and Steve’s ears flatten in preparation to be told that they’re terrible. For Billy to spit them out, or- or whatever. To do something that shows that Steve’s efforts were all for naught.

“Steve, these are *delicious*!” Billy exclaims, then shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

“Really?” Steve asks. He looks at Billy through his lashes with his biggest, roundest eyes, a little pout on his lips.

“Baby, yes. Yes, they’re so fucking good,” Billy mumbles through a mouthful of cookie, chewing and swallowing what he had in his mouth. He pulls Steve into his arms and gives him a sweet kiss, the buttery-sugar-and-cinnamon flavor clinging to Billy’s lips. “Did you make these for me…?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, the weight on his shoulders lifting immediately. He ducks his head, trying to hide his grin.

Billy crowds him back against the counter, a hand on either side of Steve caging him in. Steve picks his chin up to lock eyes with Billy, who smiles warmly at him.

“Thank you,” Billy murmurs and turns his head to lean in and press their lips together. “They’re amazing. *You’re* amazing.”

Steve laughs softly and kisses Billy back, his hands moving up to slide into Billy’s hair. “You’re amazing, too. That’s why I made them for you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, babe,” Billy whispers, and kisses Steve again.

#catboy steve harrington #harringrove #catboy content #catboy steve

[voidstilesplease]

stand and watch me burn

~•~

Life is hard for a street rat. It's easier to steal than beg; easier to run than find a decent paying job; better to be insolent than treated a low-life for circumstances that he has no control over - like being an orphan, having no one to turn to. So Theo grabs his food for the day while the baker's back is turned and runs for his life back into the hole where he hides. He knows the marketplace up, down, and sideways, and so he traces his shortcut and ducks, rolls, jumps, dashes like his every step a rehearsed practice.

He turns the corner of the bookshop that no one visits and unexpectedly crashes into someone walking out of the establishment, promptly sending them sprawling to the ground. Theo's stolen long bread flies from his hand, and he crawls immediately to retrieve it. Before he can stand, a hand catches the back of his shirt, halting his escape. 

"Ha!" The baker cries triumphantly. "You little rascal. I'm going to whip you fifty times for stealing my bread."

Theo tries to break free, but a crowd has already gathered, surrounding them and congratulating the baker for finally catching the pest. The baker is already hauling him away when someone places himself in front of them, blocking their way.

"Mr. Baker," the boy, around Theo's age but clean, freckled, and not dressed in rags, tells the baker. "There's no need to whip the boy."

The baker's face contorts, "He stole from me,"

The intercepting boy nods and fishes something out from his pocket. He opens his palm and reveals silver coins. "I'll pay for the bread,"

The baker scoffs, "This isn't the first bread he took from me. If anything, I should give him a hundred whips and make him clean my shoes for a whole year."

Theo sneers at this, sending a glare to the smug baker.

The boy's hand disappears once more inside his pocket and takes out more silver, a few bronzes, and one gold coin to offer them to the baker, "If this isn't enough, I promise to buy bread from you for the next month and pay an extra coin each time."

The baker considers the offer. With a huff, he releases Theo and accepts the coins from the boy, pocketing them. He agrees to the proposal, "I know your father. If you fail to follow up on your promise, I know where to collect." He gives Theo a once-over, shoves the long bread to his chest, spits to the side, and walks away.

When Theo turns to the boy, he's already walking in the other direction, picking up his book that fell upon their collision without another glance at Theo.

He doesn't want to feel indebted to anybody, so against his judgment, Theo runs.

But he runs to catch up with his savior.

•••

The boy's name is Stiles, he discovers, son of the mayor's newly-appointed head guard. He doesn't usually run errands to the market, but since his father got the job, Stiles is now in-charge of basically all of the house chores.

"What about your mother?"

His smile turns a little wistful, "She passed away."

"Oh," is all Theo can say in reply.

They walk in relative silence, following a path that Theo hasn't visited before. In some distance, a hut peeks into view. It's a little far from the village and also away from other neighboring households. It's peaceful.

"You didn't have to follow me," Stiles says when they reach the hut. "I don't expect anything in return."

"I owe you," Theo says determinedly. "Besides, I don't need to worry about food all day," he raises the bread pointedly. "So, I might as well use my time to pay my debt. Do you have a table I can fix, or a bed, a broken chair, or a stable to clean, or chickens to feed?"

Stiles gives a small laugh, shaking his head. "None of those,"

"Well, what can I do?" Theo insists. "I'm not leaving until I do something in return for you."

The boy's eyes soften. He glances around at the quiet space, then responds with a smile, "You can keep me company, perhaps."

Theo wants to protest at the unusual request, but he keeps quiet when Stiles lead them away. They go to the backyard where Stiles sits by a mound of soil, putting the book he got from the bookshop on a stone. He places an open palm on the ground, eyes slightly moist.

"What's this?"

Stiles doesn't look up, but he replies, caressing the lone marigold sitting on top of the small hill. "It's the tomb of my mother. She didn't want herself buried in the cemetery."

Theo is surprised by this, but he keeps his end of the bargain and stays with Stiles.

•••

Against Theo's judgment, he comes back the next day bearing flowers. He knocks and hands the bundle to Stiles when he comes to answer.

"I did not steal them," he says when Stiles looks down at the marigolds in suspicion. "I weeded a garden and got them for free."

Stiles is silent for a moment, staring alternatingly at Theo and the bundle in his hand. Then, slowly, the corners of his lips tilt upwards. He invites Theo inside and serves him bread with hot cocoa.

The next day, Theo comes back again. He gives the flowers to Stiles, and Stiles gives him homemade food.

And it continues for days, weeks, and when a month has passed, Theo brings flowers and now marigold seeds. They plant them by the tomb. Theo comes every day to water the plant, and Stiles always nurtures a smile on them, face breaking like the dawn, warmer than anything Theo knows.

•••

"What do you want to be, Theo?" Stiles asks one day, watching him pour water on their sprouting plants.

Theo thinks about it for a second, "A soldier," he declares. "My father was one. But he got injured in a war and never came home."

Stiles only gives him a nod of understanding.

"How about you?" Theo passes the question.

Stiles's answer is quick, sure. "A healer."

•••

Somehow, Stiles does become one. The marigold garden blooms and Stiles starts picking up the flowers and chopping, juicing, and mixing them into weird liquid concoctions.

He tells Theo that his mother used to talk to him about brewing with herbs and flowers, specifically the marigold, as bedtime tales. He has committed to memory every one of them and finally has the urge to try the procedures.

When Theo takes a sip of one of the brews, the scabbing wound in his hand from gardening smoothens right before their eyes.

When Theo catches the flu one time, he upends a vial of Stiles's marigold oil and quickly recovers before he can put the lid back on the empty bottle.

When Theo nails himself building a shelf for Stiles, they pour Stiles's recipe onto the open, bleeding wound, and it closes and disappears in an instant.

When there's an opening for training soldiers, Theo signs himself up and bathes in a tub of flowers and leaves, mesmerized at the way Stiles whispers to the water like a command. He watches the water respond, pulsing and glowing around him, and turn him feeling invincible.

Theo doesn't know how Stiles does what he does, but he's doing a better job than most healers in the village.

•••

But Theo finds out the reason many years later when he comes home revered as a hero, the one blessed by gods never to bleed or know defeat, to the one dear to his heart tied and burning alive in the pyre.

There's no judgment; he doesn't think. He just runs.

~•~

prompt link

#steo #steo fic #steo au #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #witch au #lol this was done on a whim #but... #well i hope it turned out all right 😅 #late to the party woes #fics tag

[returning-to-her]

A little medical history.

Germ theory is the currently accepted scientific theory explaining the origins of infectious disease. It states that “germs” or microorganisms invisible to the naked eye are the pathogens that cause illness. Louis Pasteur proposed it in the 1860s and since then the concept of the germ theory, infection and contagion have been the dominant paradigm in conventional medicine. And now, conventional medicine is dominating the world as medical dictatorship spreads more every day.

Here’s the problem with that, there are many of us who don’t live by or accept germ theory, which brings us to the terrain.

Around the same time that Pasteur was making his discoveries, another esteemed French scientist, Antoine Béchamp, proposed a different view. His ‘Terrain theory’ developed into the opposing paradigm of the germ-based doctrine. As the Germ theory became the generally accepted view in medicine, the terrain theory faded into relative obscurity.

In the terrain model, germs are the symptoms and not the cause of disease. Just as a dirty dustbin attracts flies and a barren soil is apt to grow weeds, so a ‘weak terrain’ is more vulnerable to external threats like infections. Béchamp said that to fight illness you need to create a healthy body in which disease cannot develop. He tried to tell us about the microbiome by anticipating the importance of our body’s internal environment or terrain.

So, why does not everyone succumb in an epidemic and why do symptoms and their severity vary from person to person? What exactly predisposes some but not others to for instance catching and dying from this ‘flu’? The Answer: your terrain.

The irony is that on his deathbed, Pasteur renounced the germ theory and admitted that his rival was right all along… saying ‘The microbe is nothing, the terrain is everything’.

In general, I propose that harmful microbes be guarded against, but never at the expense of the terrain. If we look as well to the health of our body’s ecosystem and ‘clean the bowl’… maybe, we will not need to indefinitely ‘isolate the fish’?

-Debra Williams

A little medical/female history....

Women were typically the sole providers of terrain theory care. They used plants from Mother Nature along with wisdom passed down from female experiences on optimal conditions of child rearing, breastfeeding, gardening, cooking, and healing the sick. The “old wives tales” are nuggets of information on daily healthcare in the home. They were deemed tales instead of science because they came from women. Women would practice community (terrain) care for fellow females every day. The love, support and sharing of homemade food boosted their resilience to handle the stresses in their lives. They would sit and eat together while sharing their stories. They would also pass tips for helping infections and viruses using what they had on hand.

It was the growth of industrialization, colonialism, and the church that steadily burned the women from their practice. The church had a heavy hand in the creation of allopathic healthcare (modern model) which excluded women but stole their recipes for patenting and selling their own prescriptions. But they did she continue to miss out on the crucial ingredient in healthcare: support of the body, the person as a whole to increase resilience to pain and stress. As the centuries flew by, the more they isolated the germ and the less they cared about the terrain.

Now allopathic medicine is the third leading cause of death, especially in women and people of colour.

The book, “Medicine Women” by Lucy H Pearce dives into this history.

#patriarchy #radical feminism #anti patriarchy #radfem #womenempowerment #womensrights #divine female #mother nature #radical feminist #allopathic medicine #holistic health #holistic medicine #holistic #covidー19 #covid 19 #women healers #traditional healers #pagan witch #witches #shaman #indigenous #healthcare #western medicine #health

[armpit-of-orion]

if u want to I’d love to hear some of ur hcs of beej interacting w charles and delia cause their dynamic gives me life and they’re his PARENTS

for sure! thanks for asking!

(also guys check my tag “beetlejuice headcanons” for more of my headcanons and feel free to ask for more!)

this got long as fuck, so I’m putting in a cut. 

also p.s. “Amanita” is pronounced “am-uh-NY-tuh.”

okay so maybe Charles and Emily always wanted a big family, but they had difficulty conceiving and it was hard enough for them to have Lydia, so they sort of gave up on the idea of a big family. so Charles doesn’t mind (read: is thrilled) when Beetlejuice sort of slides into their family.

Delia’s also always wanted to have a family; a spouse and as many kids as they could support. but her life didn’t seem to be heading in that direction, and by the time she hit forty she’d figured that her hope to have a big family was gone. so like Charles, it really isn’t unwelcome when her new family starts to grow.

now, it’s true that two kids doesn’t usually count as a “big family.” however, it’s also true that it does count as a “big family” when one of those kids is Beetlejuice.

(to be clear, Beetlejuice isn’t a child; in human terms, he’s in his early thirties. so when I talk about a parent-child relationship here, I mean parent-adult!child relationship. it’s more father/mother figure than just father/mother. just thought I should make this point clear since I ship him with the Maitlands, which would be not be okay if I was portraying BJ as in his teens/early twenties or something.)

Beetlejuice starts to see Charles as a father figure before he starts to see Delia as a mother figure.

that’s because he first sees Lydia as his sister, and he tries to relate to the people around him the way Lydia does. since Lydia doesn’t really see Delia as a mother figure (she starts to later, but not right away!), BJ doesn’t see Delia as a mother figure at first either.

BUT since Lydia only sees Charles as “Dad,” that’s exactly how BJ sees him too!

(I mean Lydia has known Delia, Adam, and Barbara as people other than her parents, but Charles has only ever been “Dad” to her, and it’s hard to see your parents as being actual people, not just your parents, especially when you’re young.)

Charles panics a little at the realization that he’s somehow adopted a demon who’s at least twenty times older than he is, and that panic manifests as him trying to engage Beej in traditional father-son bonding activities.

the fishing trip doesn’t go well, as Charles wasn’t aware that Beetlejuice does Not Like water, and it hadn’t occurred to Beetlejuice that fishing might involve him being near water.

they try to play catch, except Beetlejuice misunderstood the point of the game, so when Charles tosses him a baseball, Beetlejuice opens his mouth and somehow manages to swallow the ball whole. Charles is too disturbed by whatever the fuck that was to try again.

but! they figure out that they like going on walks in the woods together! Charles likes to try to identify the plants and wildlife they see, and it’s a good way for Beetlejuice to get some fun snacks.

Charles is (mostly) used to seeing BJ eat random bugs, but on one walk he sees Beetlejuice pop a couple of wild mushrooms into his mouth, and all Charles’s logic flies out the window for a moment.

he starts yelling at Beetlejuice to spit them out, and in his shock and confusion, Beetlejuice does the opposite.

Charles is in the process of dragging Beetlejuice home and has started to dial 911 before Beetlejuice can even react.

“Whoa, Chuck, what are you doing?”

“That looked like one of the deadly Amanita mushrooms. They’re extremely toxic; we have to get you to the hospital right—”

“Uh, Chuck? I’m dead. Those angalida—”

“Amanita.”

“—indochina mushrooms aren’t gonna make me more dead.”

“…oh.”

Beetlejuice makes fun of Charles for forgetting that he’s, y’know, dead, but he’s secretly touched that Charles cares about him enough to panic like that.

and Delia! Beetlejuice starts to see her as a mother figure before Lydia does.

(actually, Delia being all “mom” around Beetlejuice helps Lydia warm up to the idea of Delia being a mother figure to her, too!)

they both have a ton of self-esteem issues, but they work on that together!

also they do spa days! sometimes Lydia joins in, but it’s usually a mother-son bonding thing. they do foot soaks and homemade face masks. Delia always has to make extra face mask …goop? (idk what to call it) because BJ will eat it. he likes the ones with honey best!

they talk a lot about stuff! Delia’s awesome to talk about sex with because she’s so nonjudgemental and open. once Beetlejuice stops trying to shock her or make her uncomfortable they actually have pretty deep conversations, and she helps him develop a healthier attitude about sex.

Delia starts teaching him how to meditate! it’s really hard— especially when you have ADHD— but it’s also really helpful and rewarding as long as you keep at it! and Delia never gets mad about how long it takes or about how BJ struggles to sit still or keep quiet for just ten seconds. she doesn’t give up, and after a couple months of five minute sessions he’s actually able to meditate a little!

also Beetlejuice makes her a necklace! (the Maitlands had a jewelry-making phase.) it’s the ugliest thing ever and Delia adores it, and she actually manages to make it work with some of her outfits. (she’s that good.)

during the weekdays, while Lydia’s at school and Charles is at work, Beetlejuice usually spends time with the Maitlands. but if Delia’s home, BJ will follow Delia around the house (like how my family’s dog follows my mom around lol). most of the time he doesn’t even try to distract her or engage her; he just wants to be in her presence! (once Lydia gets home though, he’ll leave Delia in favor of following Lydia around.)

Delia quickly becomes someone Beetlejuice goes to for comfort or emotional support. Lydia, bless her heart, does her best, but she’s not the most emotionally mature person (she’s fifteen! that’s okay!) and she has plenty of her own problems too, and BJ recognizes this and turns to Delia as a result. Delia’s hugs are awesome and help him forget about Juno.

in conclusion Charles and Delia are Beetlejuice’s parents and they love and support each other thank you and goodnight.

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice headcanons #charles and delia are bj's parents #charles deetz #delia deetz #lydia deetz #charles as bj’s father figure gives me LIFE #mine

[springtimebat]

The demon and the seer

Chapter One: The Carnival Folk

In which a trip is made early, predictions are performed and Frankie Albarn is oddly at home

The last days of October were fading, just like the embers of a dying fire, and the devious clutches of November were finally stretching. It was during these twilight hours, between All Hallows Eve and the broken weeks of early winter, that the Carnival Folk made their return to the town of Bad Seed. 

The fields around the place succumbed to grey clouds as their visitors slithered across cracked cobblestone. Their van, that dreaded thing of nightmares, resembled an ancient hearse, with its collapsing bumper and its range of old knic-knacks plastered onto the doors, the windows, the floors. And as the vehicle made its way to the Old Albarn farm, descending through to the hills on its thousands of legs, its swollen exterior fighting against the rain as it began to rain, the villagers of Bad Seed glowered at the fog that had began to make its clumsy way up lanes and junctions, smashing against brick, a homemade, foreign concoction brought with their Carnival Folk in order for them to stay in the shadows. So they could hide. Men crouched in armchairs as the monster passed by the windows, worried for their children. Women of all shapes and sizes, eyes bulbous and full, whispered amongst themselves, heads swimming with myth. Murders of children flocked together around misted glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of phantoms. For a thing of legend to become a thing of reality. For they were all living in rare times. The Carnival Folk, with all their monsters, their fog, their shadows, only visited Bad Seed once in a blue moon. Mutters around town spoke of a blood pact with the crazy old Albarn Family, high up of their farm just outside of town. Others spoke men as big as houses, running through the town, carrying body parts, animals, circus equipment. Some spoke of animals; of elephants with three trunks, of wolves with human hands, of birds with paws and snouts. And then, of course, there was the woman of ancient tomes, with her hunched back and her gammy legs. The old one with her gnarled fingers, her walking stick; a tree branch that was said to stamp out peoples’ lives, summon devils and reanimate the dead. Most importantly, of course, was her glass eye, blue as frost said to bring those who gazed upon it eternal damnation, to curse the onlooker with rotted flesh and a taste for bloodshed. Shadows grew heavy in the town of Bad Seed and the children, in their murders, in their flocks, giggled in delight, in mischief. The old one was here!

Too soon, the van was making its way up old country lanes, having left the harsh confines of town square. The driver, hooded and armed with a threadbare whip, pressed firmly in, until in the midnight throes of mist and dew, the Carnival reached the old Albarn Farm, withering away on its small stretch of fields just outside Bad Seed’s suspicious gates. The van groaned as it came to halt, low exhausted. The driver sighed and mopped thick streams of sweat from his brow. Then he jumped down from his position, rounded the back of his family hearse and pulled the back door open. In the back was the old one, her wrinkled hands clutching the scrap walls. She frowned as she was led out into the moonlight, her amber eyes tiny slits as she got used to her surroundings. The driver, a man of very few words, grabbed the crone by the waist and delivered her onto the decaying pavement, where she landed on two slender legs hidden by an inherited grandmother’s smock. 

“Ah, back again Wilson,” The hideous one announced, her voice thick and high. She pointed a finger at the old Albarn Farm just before them. The driver grunted and held out an oak branch he had kept in the front seat until she was ready. The woman shook her head and glowered at him.  

“No need Wilson! I can make it on my own this time I know it! This place has a bitter taste. Always has, always will. I’ll be fine for this visit.”

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t start that my boy,” The old woman scolded, batting away flies with a claw, “Now, have you got the tub?”

Wilson nodded and tapped a rucksack on his brick back. The old master nodded and with that, the two set off towards their destination; the crumbling Albarn farmhouse, taken apart by weeds, with its eyes blank slates. 

“Bloody Albarns! They make this journey hard enough without the stairs to climb!” The old one puffed as they finally got to the front door, after ten minutes of step after step after step. Wilson groaned and pressed the doorbell. There they stood for a while, waiting for a welcome, tapping their boots.

Footsteps soared to the old one’s strange ears and the door finally swung open, with a hideous creak. She noticed it was on its last rusty hinge. The Albarn woman appeared in the door frame, her face pale and warped, swarmed with cold sores. After catching sight of the old one and her assistant, Mrs Albarn’s eyes, already quite glassy, dimmed further.

“Do you want to come in?” She muttered, twirling a strand of straw hair around a bony finger. There was a thud from Wilson as he pulled the rucksack off his shoulders and the poor Albarn woman gave a squeak. The old woman smiled up at her, her teeth shiny in the dark.

“That would be nice dear, thank you.” 

And with that, the Carnival Folk entered the Albarn farm for what seemed like the thousandth time.

It had been six long years since the old one’s last visit and six long years since the last Albarn child. Yet, as they were ushered into the dilapidated foyer, the old master and her apprentice both realised the house hadn’t changed at all. Same furniture in the same place, just shaggy and worn with time. The carpets had not been replaced and the same cracks had not been scratched from the walls. All that seemed different were the portraits. The Albarn portraits were of the ugly necessary variety. They were an assortment of long gone corpses lining the foyer walls, detailing which was which. Now all the walls were filled to the brim with baby pictures. They told of first steps, of first words, of first guns. The insidious gap-toothed grin of a toddler loomed over the old one and made her cough. As she looked around and as Wilson rummaged through his supplies, Mrs Albarn seemed to stand in her own hallway, clasping and unclasping her greyed hands, opening and closing her fish mouth, unsure of what to do. 

“Strange,” The old one wondered, “She wasn’t like this the last time. She was such a happy lamb last time.” The old woman cleared her throat, making the Albarn woman tense.

“Is there anywhere to place the tub? Or shall we go into the Parlour like last time dear?” Mrs Albarn shivered in an invisible wind then nodded. Raising an eyebrow at Wilson, who looked just as puzzled, the old one led the way into the side parlour, just to their right.

“Is there any reason why Frankie insisted we come so early after the baby's birth?” 

They had set up the old tub on the coffee table and had now taken to listening to the rain thrash against the windowpane. Mrs Albarn, sitting on a patchwork couch, bit her lip.

“It was actually my idea. I was...concerned. I’m still concerned.”

The old woman rolled her eyes. New mother jitters. There was no doubt about it.

“Couldn’t you have waited a little longer dearie? Autumn is a very hard time of year for us. When you turn your head, October bleeds as quickly as it can into the following February.”

“Don’t you mean November?”

“No. February. Frankie should know how difficult the journey is here. It took us seven months to get to him. And Frankie was a real handful!”

“Yes well, this is a very special case.”

“Has the child set the house on fire?”

“What? No!”

“The barn? The fields?”

“No! Nothing’s on fire!”

“Ah, you see that’s what I would class as a special case. What has the child done there? She’s only what...two months old? What could she have possibly done to make you so anxious?” 

Before Mrs Albarn could answer, her husband slumped into their make-shift parlour. He was different too. So very different. When Frankie Albarn’s first child had been born the man had been glowing with pride, happiness… a third thing the old one couldn’t quite remember. Now, he was pale and grey, just like his wife. But Frankie was an Albarn! He had descended from witches and shadows! He was crafted from the midnight sky! Yet those bright eyes had fallen to smoke and faded glass. The old woman sighed. What a waste. 

“Hello,” Frankie nodded at the two Carnival Folk in his parlour, “How are you two?”

“Confused Frankie,” The old one sighed, “There better be a good reason for you calling us out here in November no less! Would you care to tell us what is going on?”

“The baby is…odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Just...odd. And Ruth was afraid-”

“Oh yes! She’s already said that! But here we all are, in the farmhouse. Nothing on fire.” A small smile formed on the old woman’s careworn face. Frankie gave a little chuckle, remembering the time he set the living room drapes alight. 

“We had them replaced.” 

“Oh yes I noticed last time!”

 Ruth Albarn sat between them all, perplexed.

“Fran’s upstairs,” She cut in, “Would you like to see her yourself?”

“By all means. Go girl go!”

A few minutes later, the old one of myth and fantasy was sat on a parlour armchair, prodding a baby with a wrinkled finger. 

“Ah, lovely! Just lovely! Much better than the boy was!”

Fran Albarn, plump as plump can be, gave the old one a giant grin. Her mother, sitting on the far side of the room, had turned a livid purple.

“Yes,” Ruth growled, “We know. The very first time you said it.”

The old woman blew a loud, obnoxious raspberry on the baby’s tummy. Fran erupted into a cackle, a noise Mrs Albarn seemed utterly repulsed by. 

“She had your laugh Frankie!” The crone gawped, “Your hair too!”

She stroked the girl’s dark brown tufts, which had just started to sprout.

Frankie didn’t seem happy about this news and looked down to the floorboards.

“I see nothing wrong with this one. Why on earth did you call?”

Frankie Albarn ran his fingers through his hair.

“When she was born she didn’t scream. She was completely silent. The midwife, some girl from town, said she was born with her eyes wide open.”

“And what lovely eyes too!” The old woman giggled, pinching Fran’s nose. The baby nodded, squirming, “Cheeky bugger!”

“...Anyway, isn’t that a little odd, you know? Being born observing the world around you. Having that much self awareness is a dangerous thing.”

“Perhaps for ordinary folk,” The old one picked the bay up, resting her in chicken-bone arms, “But this is an Albarn. Her kind swims with the fishes and flies high with the birds. There’s more witchcraft in her bones than sewing and farming.”

Ruth Albarn gave a little sob. The crone opposite growled. 

“Oh, pull yourself together! It could be much worse!”

“How?” Ruth wailed, “How could it possibly be worse?”

Wilson, silent as the grave, tapped the tub in the centre of the room, his eyes hooded. Frankie patted his wife on the back.

“I think we’re about to find out Love.”

“Steady Wilson! Steady!” The old crone called, placing Fran into the tub, tickling her head and pinching her cheeks before letting go.

“What’s the bowl for?” Ruth whimpered. 

“To cook her dear.”

“What?”

The old one sighed and turned back to the baby. 

“It was a joke Ruth. Just a joke,” Frankie explained warily.

“Wilson,” The crone called, “I need the flask. Pour the flask!”

Out of his pocket, Wilson produced a flasky, grimy and half full. He reached over Fran in the tub and poured the flask into her forehead, making the baby gurgle. 

“What’s all this for?” Ruth whispered to her husband as the old one placed a hand on her daughter’s head. Foam had started to crawl out from the bowl and began to take over the coffee table.

“We’ll see.”

“But-”

“We’ll see.”

“You have to list-”

“Trust me.”

After a minute or so, the old one’s eyelids began to droop and her hand let go of Fran’s head. 

“Here we go.”

“Wha-”

“The Fawn!” A voice pushed Ruth back. It was a rough male growl, which soared out of the old one’s throat with such force, it seemed to be the voice of a prisoner, trapped in her tiny frame, “A fawn will come. Only its eyes will remain.”

The Albarns watched, their mouths open. Wilson, stood beside them, lit a cigarette. 

“Nothing significant. A man made out of cinders. Crimson. West-West! North-west!” The old one called out, as spit flew down her chin, “A man with no names... A demon... A demon and its…” At this point, the old woman’s eyes, now red and puffy, clicked open. She stared down at the baby, full of so much light, so much potential, so much magic. Then she turned to stare at the parents, all lost and frozen in time. 

“Do you know what’s wrong with her?” Frankie asked slowly. The old one shuddered violently but then twisted her mouth into a smile. 

“Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s going to be a great little witch. One of the greatest I will ever see.” She replied, with some sadness. Ignoring Ruth’s tears, the old woman of myth, of legend, stumbled back to the parlour door. 

“We’re leaving now.”

Frankie Albarn, who had gone to collect his daughter, nodded reluctantly.

“Ruth will see you out.”

“Don’t you want your equipment back?”

“No need for it,” The old one replied, “Got hundreds of them, haven’t we Wilson?” Wilson grunted and raced forward to their van to retrieve his whip.

“That thing you did, it was a prediction right?” Ruth asked as they returned to the front door.

“Indeed.”

“So, they don’t always come true.”

“My predictions are very precise. I have thousands of satisfied customers. But yes I suppose there is room for error.”

“My pa always said to never trust your carnival lot,” Ruth Albarn glared. The old one smirked, her eyes like little suns in the shadows.

“Frankie’s pa ran off with a she-wolf, if I recall correctly. Make sure his son doesn’t do the same dear. History repeating itself is a horrible thing.”

Ruth scoffed and shut the door in the old one’s face. 

As the old lady walked down the stairs, she chuckled. By the time she got to her carnival hearse, she was cackling. Wilson, who had climbed back into the front seat, grinned at her. 

“I’ll bet you he’s gone in five years time.” 

Wilson held up two fingers in the fog.

“Oh that’s a brave bet Wilson my boy!”

Both giggled and the old woman circled the van. When she opened the back door, her face fell a little.

“Shame about the girl. Terrible start to life. Still, I suppose she’ll get away soon enough.”

 Wilson grunted and the old one, a relic of lost times, of monsters and men, climbed back into her van. Her assistant, who only spoke in noises, spat out the end of a cigarette and hit his whip onto the dry ground. A strange goodbye to an even stranger place.

And with that, the Carnival Folk disappeared into the hills, its bumper falling off with a giant thud as they hid in the mountains. They would never be seen in the peculiar town of Bad Seed again. 

#creative writing #my writing #cryptids #cryptidcore #monsters #paranormal #supernatural #worldbuilding #a devil's palm story #witches #demons #southern gothic #american gothic #oddcore #weirdcore #dark academia #parallel worlds #a new series #edited from three years ago #prophecies #ongoing series