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park-ranger-is-my-comfort-animal · 1 year

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Strangers, Jackalopes and Home-Brewed Coffee || Jerry & Wynne

TIMING : Mid April LOCATION : Ranger station no. 22, Wicked's Rest State Park PARTIES : Wynne @ohwynne & Jerry @park-ranger-is-my-comfort-animal SUMMARY : Wynne intends to go on a short hike, but a wounded animal derails their plans and they end up having to spend an ill-prepared night in the woods. Fortunately, Park Ranger Jerry is on hand to provide hot coffee and assistance. CONTENT WARNINGS : n/a (just softness)

The scene in front of them was vaguely familiar, if only because of its naturalistic nature. No bells and whistles: a simple wooden building with limited electricity, all the information one might need and the bare necessities taken care of. Wynne found some peace in it, even if the rest of the situation made them halt. On the cot they kneeled in front of was a creature, rabbit-like but not quite, making soft squeaks. They’d wrapped it in their jacket after their attempt to dry it off, but it seemed far from enough.

They had considered reaching out to Emilio, asking the other if this was an animal to be wary of — but one look at the critter had made Wynne certain this wasn’t something to fear. Besides, their reception was awful, so it seemed to be just them and the small thing, shivering and hurt in ways they weren’t equipped to solve. Protherians weren’t healers, after all, especially not the likes of Wynne. Their touch had once been thought of as sacred, but it did little to help the small creature now.

So instead they hummed, tried to feed it a bit of dried apple from the emergency rations hidden in the small enclosure. It seemed good enough for now, at least until it cleared up and they could make their way back to town or at least to where their phone might pick up service again. Wynne’s head whipped around when they heard a branch snap, eyes falling on the silhouette of another person. “Hi?” Their called out greeting was more like a question. “Could use some help here!”

The silhouette took up most of the cabin’s doorway. Broad and tall, it was a shape darker than the night which it had stepped from, with the Moon’s glow unable to illuminate its features, except for the eyes which caught a little of that light and shone with an inner luminescence like an animal caught in the momentary path of a hunter’s flashlight.

“What have we here?,” a voice rumbled from the shadow figure, as it took a step into the room and the light that had been held behind it seemed to spill in, illuminating Jerry’s moustachioed face. “Seems you’re a long ways off the designated path, Miss.”

State Park Ranger Jerry Melano was a big man, in both size and presence. He seemed to take up more space than he actually occupied, which was considerable anyway as he wasn’t someone taken with the idea of exercise for its own sake and healthy eating was generally something that happened to other people. In Wicked’s Rest, those who knew him would say he was Cuddly or Fat, depending on their relationship, but Jerry just described himself as Solid and so he was; dependable, loyal and resolute.

Removing his hat and running calloused fingers through his thinning hair, Jerry took in the scene with a glance. His night vision was already better than any human’s, but his sensitive sense of smell had given him initial impressions of what he would find, even before reaching the door to Ranger Station no. 22.

Human sweat, damp fur, the faint tang of dried apple all hung in the air, but no smell of woodsmoke or burning oil. Unprepared hiker then, most likely lost after heading off the trail and not expecting to spend a night in the woods. They’d clearly found the dry food stores, but hadn’t managed to put flame to any of the lanterns or the woodburning stove. That suggested either they didn’t have the facilities to light them, or their priorities were focused elsewhere… which brought Jerry back to the smell of damp fur.

“Let’s get a little light going and we’ll see what’s what,” Jerry continued, taking an all-weather lighter from his pocket and putting it to one of the lanterns hanging from the low ceiling.

“Well now, ain’t you a sorry sight,” the Ranger said wearily, placing hands on his hips as he surveyed the scene, although it was unclear whether Jerry was referring to the hiker or the softly panting critter wrapped up in their coat.

Wynne was so very tired of being afraid. As the silhouette grew closer and gained a voice, they wondered if the hairs in their neck were really standing up or if it just felt that way. Life kept proving to them that it was better to be wary, that their fear was a right instinct — but it had proven so often, too, that there was goodness to be found in strangers. Wynne was not just tired of their being afraid, but of trying to figure out the right balance in distrust and naivete too.

Perhaps it would be better to hide at home forever. To disconnect themself from the parts of them that wished to see nature, that desired the continuous movement of a hike and the sound of birds and wind and trees. To go to work and go home and to work and home and subscribe to a life of less risk. But then, if they hadn’t gone out, no one would have found the rabbit-creature and it would have died.

Maybe what Wynne missed most was the ease of Protherian black-and-white thinking.

“Not a miss,” they murmured, glancing up at the stranger before focusing on the creature. They tried to nudge the apple towards it again and tried not to think of how many rabbits they’d seen die before. But this wasn’t like them: this creature had antlers, like the ones you could find everywhere on the estate but smaller, shorter. Their thumb brushed against it.

When there was light, they glanced up towards the other, letting their hand drop. “I found it in a creek, one of its feet all tangled in a root and some trash.” The trash could be found on the cot, too. Wynne intended to throw it away as soon as there was a fitting place for it. “Thanks, for the light.” They looked a little better at the stranger. “Are you a ranger?”

Offering a nod and muted grunt of affirmation in reply to their question, Jerry bent closer to get a better look at the small animal. He had to lean a little more towards the other person to avoid blocking the lantern’s glow, but it was enough to finally see the creature properly.

“Looks like you found yourself a Jackalope,” Jerry said, placing a massive paw gently on the animal’s side and feeling its tiny breaths coming in a rapid panting, the heart pounding rapidly behind the ribs. “And I reckon this here is just a youngster at that,” he continued, briefly touching the small antlers that sprouted from the creature’s rabbit-like head, still covered in their soft velvet.

“Poor little fella, he’s probably exhausted from fighting to get free of that trash. Good job you came along when you did, plenty of bigger things out there would’ve seen this one as an easy meal…”

Speaking of which, it was getting difficult for Jerry to resist the waves of fear that were radiating from this person. It wasn’t fresh fear, like someone initially shocked by his sudden entrance (although there was a hint of that), this was much older. It had the taste of a life lived in constant fear and was weary from the living; anxious and tired, virtually indistinguishable from the vessel that felt it… Jerry drew a shaky breath and stepped away from the cot, choosing to put a little distance between himself and the hiker before he succumbed to the primal urge to gorge on this fine, vintage terror.

“How about I gets this stove going and we can have ourselves some coffee?,” he said, a little too cheerfully for the situation, already loading the woodburner with kindling and tinder. “And then y’all can tell me how come you’re out here so late, since not many folks get far enough off the trail to run into old Two-two.”

Jackalope. Another strange thing, unmentioned in either Protherian or outer world lore, another creature Wynne would have to wonder about. But this one didn’t seem malevolent, like the ustras had seemed. Maybe Wynne was just good at recognizing those similar to them: fellow prey creatures. With humans this was harder, though, as they tended to be good at predatory moves too.

And so there was a hint of trepidation as the other inched closer to the jackalope and with that, them. “You reckon he’ll be alright?” They drew back their hands, laid them on their knees and stared at the antlers. “I’ve never seen a creature like this.” He’d be better at defending himself than a regular rabbit, what with his antlers and all — but a snap of the neck would still be easy to do. They would have loved this, back home, but as a decoration: they would have snapped his neck and stuffed him, sewed his bones in their dress sleeves and fought for the skull.

Wynne didn’t want to do any of those things, they found. It seemed like just another unnecessary death for an invisible cause. If the man next to them was honest – and they wished to assume he was – and he was a park ranger, then he’d know what to do.

Their trust in people seemed to sway between being given out too easily and not easily at all, and in this case Wynne simply laid it out on the floor for him to pick up, should he wish to. They were tired of fear. And so, they returned to the jackalope, checking on the jacket’s position and nodded. “Coffee sounds good.”

They glanced at the park ranger, wondering if there was suspicion in the air after all. They’d slept in a place like this, some time back, but it had been a different park. Different times. “I just tend to go on long hikes when I have a day off. And this one kept me distracted for a good while. The … um blue trail, I think? Was the one I was taking.”

“If he makes it through the night, then I reckon he’ll be just fine,” Jerry said, taking a wax taper from a carved box next to the stove. “Best we can do for now is to keep him warm and hope he’s strong enough to recover.”

Using his lighter with the taper, Jerry quickly put a flame to the kindling, which cracked and popped inside the woodburning stove. Once he was satisfied that everything was alight, he began adding split logs from a small rustic basket and soon the cabin was filled with the homely smell of wood smoke and the flickering glow of a roaring fire. Unlike the harsh light of the lantern, which only seemed to outline the shadows rather than dispel them, the warmth and radiance that gleamed from the open door of the stove made the cabin feel suddenly cosy and hospitable.

“Don’t surprise me that you ain’t seen one before,” the park ranger continued, taking a large battered percolator coffee pot from a wooden chest and dipping it in the water barrel outside the cabin door. “Jackalopes are pretty rare these days. Got hunted almost to extinction about a hundred year ago. Wicked’s Rest is one of the few places you can still find them, if you’re lucky.”

Jerry shrugged, opening a sealed bag of coffee grounds and adding a generous portion to the percolator. “Actually… you both got lucky, I reckon.”

“You mean The Blue Owl Trail?,” Jerry asked, with surprise and concern in his voice as he turned to look at the hiker. “Damn, you’re luckier than I thought… That one don’t often let folks go. I figured we’d managed to close off all her entrance ways after last time.”

Taking a seat on the wooden chest, Jerry finally turned his attention fully on the young person, bright eyes scrutinising them as he stroked his moustache. “Well, since we ain’t going nowhere ‘til the morning and we’re in for a long night babysitting this critter, I suppose proper introductions are in order. Jeremiah Melano, Senior Park Ranger… but most folks hereabouts just call me Jerry.”

Why did it bother them so, the idea that the jackalope might die? Wynne knew things died, they had seen it aplenty: from the sacrifice of lamb and a young man to the deaths on the farm, cattle born wrong or too weak or rabbits succumbing to a virus that spread like wildfire. Why did this one have to be saved, when nature had ruled it ought to die? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it just felt good to have something to care for. “Alright. Let’s keep him warm, then.” Never mind that Wynne themself was freezing.

But there was the fire, at least, a familiar smell spreading around the pair and their jackalope. Wynne missed the heat that came from fire, which was so very different from that which came from central heating. They turned around, resting their back against the cot and crossing their legs.

“That’s very sad. Hunting should only be done if you don’t disrupt the ecosystem.” There had been hunters among their people, back when they were still part of the community. It was a privilege to wield such weapons, not extended to Wynne, who had little interest in it anyway. They looked over their shoulder at the creature, observing it for a moment. “Is there anything special about them, despite their appearance?”

His comment made them look back. “I’d have been fine.” It’d be good to make that clear. Wynne wasn’t in need of rescue. They were quite fond of this newfound feeling of autonomy, anyway. They frowned a little, wondering if that was rude. “But it’s nice, to have company.”

They nodded. “I guess I found a way. Sorry if I wasn’t supposed to walk it.” But they had liked it, how quiet it was. How their mind seemed to finally be at ease when there was nothing but nature surrounding them.

“Nice to meet you, Jerry.” Wynne rested their hands on their knees, judged the others uniform for a second time. “I’m Wynne. I …” They weren’t sure what to add to that. “Like to hike.” They grimaced a little at their response. “You want to stay here all night?” They almost pulled out their phone to text Zack, until they remembered that they had no service. Wynne just sized up the other and wondered when a risk was calculated and when it was not.

Jerry shrugged non-committedly at Wynne’s comment about hunting, but kept his opinions to himself. The truth was that hunting was allowed under permit in certain areas of the State Park and, as a Park Ranger, Jerry was expected to police the hunters, not oppose them. Besides, Jerry was no stranger to hunting, even though he preferred to do it as a bear. It just felt more natural.

“Special?,” he scoffed, raising an eyebrow at the question, “What do you mean? Like, are they Magical?”

Jerry stroked his moustache and frowned as he regarded Wynne for a moment. He was going to be sorely disappointed if this one turned out to be just another woefully under-prepared cryptid groupie, but that didn’t feel right somehow. Their fear wasn’t from being in the wilderness, it tasted wrong for that. They felt… different. Not exactly like prey, but… something.

“Well now… there’s always been plenty of myths surrounding Jackalopes,” he said, turning his piercing gaze away from Wynne and taking a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Some folks used to reckon their antlers were potent virility symbols since only the males have ‘em. Others believed their milk was a panacea and could cure everything from a sore tooth to a witch’s curse. Ya know, there are even stories about Jackalopes mimicking human voices or singing.”

“But they’re all just tall tales,” Jerry went on, mumbling around the cigarette between his lips as he offered up the all-weather lighter and inhaled. “Like myths ‘bout werewolves or the sasquatch. It’s just a rare or afflicted animal that folks didn’t understand, so they made up stories to explain it or to scare other folks.”

The tip flared orange in the cabin’s half-light and Jerry exhaled a plume of blue-ish white smoke as Wynne apologised for walking the Blue Owl trail. He just shrugged again and shook his head.

The ranger knew of at least a dozen people over the past five years that had gotten trapped on that trail, never to be seen again. Visitors to Wicked’s Rest who probably had families and loved ones still waiting for them back home, while they were endlessly hiking along a trail with no return. All because he hadn’t managed to find and close all its pathways. That was part of his duty as a Park Ranger, and one he’d nearly failed at again tonight.

Once again, Jerry gave a non-commital shrug in answer to Wynne’s question. “Unless you wanna be hiking back in the dark. The forest can be a pretty dangerous place after sunset, but if that’s what you want…”

“...Of course, we’d have to leave the little guy behind,” he said, dropping his voice low and looking out at Wynne from under heavy brows. “He’s too weak to move right now and something could get into the cabin while we’re gone.”

Their cheeks threatened to flush at his scoff, at the use of the word magical. Was there even such a thing like myth and fairytale, any more, if so much of it seemed true? Jerry called werewolves nothing but a tale and Wynne wanted to pipe up and point out they were real, as well — that maybe this world just bursted at the seams with it. Vampiric creatures, demons from lakes and sea, antlered rabbits.

Back at home, they’d have bought into the idea that the antlers brought some kind of power or fortune, and Wynne was close to considering such a thought as true. “People tend to do that. Make up stories. So it’s just like any other rabbit, except better at defending itself?” They couldn’t help but think of home and tap into their uncertainty. How much of it had been a man’s creation, a folktale? How much of it had been true?

“I think they’re very pretty, anyway. And I hope this one makes it.” He had to, they thought, their entire being dedicated to saving this small creature they wouldn’t have thought twice about a year ago. Their mentors had often called them soft, though never in a kind way. It seemed that time away had only made them weaker. Not that such thoughts made them want to help the jackalope any less.

Wynne tried not to cough at the smoke that filled the cabin, reminding themself that they’d been around plenty of burning things in their lifetime and that it’d be rude. Still, they cleared their throat a little. They pushed their lips in a small line. “It got dark so quick, I meant to leave before …”

But the creature and the small cabin had fallen on their path instead. They weighed their options — face the woods that possibly crawled with all kinds of creatures Emilio had taught them about or stay here, with just one potential monster. Or, if they were lucky: a rather nice park ranger. Wynne was glad for their knife. “I’ll face the forest in the morning, then. Probably for the best, and especially for the little one.” They reached out, brushing its fur for a moment before looking up and trying to very seriously add, “No funny business.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jerry replied, his face an unreadably stoic mask as he drew an X over the breast pocket of his shirt. “Cross my heart.”

Behind him, the coffee pot began to rattle and pop on the stove as the water boiled, coffee bubbling over to replace it. Jerry opened the wooden chest again, taking out a pair of tin mugs and a box of Sweet ‘n’ Low sachets.

“There’s no creamer,” he said, sliding the sweeteners across the floor towards Wynne, “but it’ll be hot and caffeinated, which are the most important things.”

Retrieving a thick leather glove from where it hung on a bent nail hammered into the cabin wall, Jerry picked up the coffee pot and poured the steaming brown liquid into the two mugs. The strong, but homely smell of fresh coffee mingled with the scent of woodsmoke from the burner and leant the place a pleasant, almost welcoming, atmosphere. Providing you could forget the reasons for ending up stuck here.

“Leaving in the morning is the sensible choice, I reckon,” Jerry continued, passing them the mug with the least chipped enamel. “There’s plenty of firewood, so that’ll keep it burning through the night, and we got plenty of coffee. All we need now is a guitar and some scary stories and this’ll be jus’ like a proper camp out.” The ranger raised his own mug in mock salute, before slurping from it loudly.

He wasn’t used to entertaining people. In fact, Jerry would’ve prefer if his job didn’t involve other people at all, but his dad had been clear that it was just as much a part of a Park Ranger’s duty to make sure that visitors enjoyed their trip to the forest, not just that they left with the same number of children, pets, limbs & digits as they arrived with.

It wasn’t that Jerry didn’t like people, he just didn’t really spend much time around them. Generally, dealing with mythical creatures seemed to be easier than humans. They usually had a need or drive behind what they did or how they acted. Understand that drive and at least you could start to relate. But humans… They were inconsistent and contradictory, with most of them changing what they wanted from one moment to the next.

Take this one for example. What exactly was their story? Out in the forest far later than was safe, unprepared, following a cursed path and they just happened to stumble across one of the most notoriously shy legendary beasts in the Park. Jerry shook his head; it all just seemed so unlikely.

If it was the sensible thing, then it would be what Wynne would do. They wanted to be a sensible person, after all — to not be guided by fear or emotion, but a clear mind. It was a constant learning curve, failure after failure after failure as they were so often blind. Being sensible had not put them here, in this cabin, agreeing to spend the night with a stranger presumably twice their age and twice as strong.

“I like black coffee,” they said, as they took the tin mug and let their fingers be warmed by it. It could still get cold at night in these early spring weeks, as if the world was trying to cling to those wintery temperatures. Wynne was glad for the warmth spreading through their system as they took their first nip, even if it burned their tongue slightly. There was a sound of approval. Despite working as a barista, they weren’t very picky when it came to coffee.

The other did genuinely seem like a kind individual, and Wynne was tired of looking for ulterior motives. It wasn’t in their nature to do so, and that lack of instinct had gotten them in nasty situations before, making them more wary these days — but even so, it was easily relinquished.

So they smiled a little. “I don’t much like scary stories, if I’m honest. And I don’t know if we know any of the same songs, though I do like music.” Singing around a fire was reminiscent of home, something that they often longed for when they sat at home with their roommates. But with them they’d developed their own little traditions, or so they hoped. Wynne hoped Zack wasn’t worried.

“If you have a kinder story, though? One about the woods?” They shrugged a little. “I’m sure you have plenty, in your line of work. I’d like to hear one.” It would be a distraction, as well as a way to gauge what kind of person the other was.

“Well, most of the stories I know are meant to be scary,” Jerry said, stroking his moustache as he considered their question. “Plus I ain’t much of a singer and I ain’t even got my harmonica handy, but I reckon I might be able to summon up a tall tale related to our fuzzy friend over there.” He nodded towards the sleeping jackalope, wrapped up on the cot and snoring gently.

Sipping his coffee, Jerry leaned back against the wall of the cabin and let his mind wander. As much as Jerry wasn’t always comfortable around people, he loved to tell stories. There was something about the act of weaving a tale that caught the listeners’ attention and led them on a journey of his choosing which was almost intoxicating. His adoptive father had once told him that it was a big part of a bugbear’s nature, to capture their prey’s focus and frighten them with illusions so that they could feed off the fear.

‘If more bugbears had good imaginations, a solid grounding in classic literature and a touch of the theatrical about them… Well, they’d never need to go hungry’, Luis Melano had explained to his son, and Jerry had taken that advice to heart.

“Okay, I’ll tell you a story, but it won’t be one about male Jackalopes, like our little fella. Ya see, aside from fightin’ and ruttin’, there aren’t a whole lot to tell about Jackalope Bucks. They’re ornery little cusses pretty much of the time, except when they sleeping.

“No,” said Jerry, a smile teasing the edges of his mouth as his eyes sparkled in anticipation, “I’ll tell ya a story about the Jackalope Wives.

“See, unlike the bucks, the Jackalope Wives had something in common with the Selkies of Scottish myth or the Skin-walkers of Navajo legend. They were able to take off their rabbit skins and set them aside a while to become beautiful women. Now they could only do this for three nights out of each month, when the new and full moon was balanced in the sky… neither waxing nor waning… betwixt and between, just like the Jackalope Wives themselves. That was the time when they’d take off their skins and dance.”

As Jerry spoke it was almost as if the shadows darkened in the cabin and the flickering light from the fire took on a fresh intensity. Shapes born of flame and darkness twisted and leapt wildly on the walls, just as the Jackalope Wives did in his tale. The more that Jerry spoke, the easier it became to see the shapes as part of his story, as silhouettes and shadow puppets acting out their roles; Impressions of people and places that only existed in words, filtered through the listener’s imagination and given form by firelight.

Something about this felt so eerily familiar, comforting and discomforting all at the same time. The flickering flames, the absence of hyper modern technology, the tale that unfolded in the comfort of this small cabin. They had done this a lot, back at home, where there was no buzz of the internet to distract them: they’d tell stories. The people of the commune would gather in mess hall or outside, around the fire and tell stories of the past. Myth and legend and horrifying truth, all mingling together, Wynne always listening intently.

They had always been more listener than teller. It was like instinct to curl up and let their ears do most of the work, gaze drifting and imagination filling itself. Jerry reminded them vaguely of Collen, something about that ruggedness in combination with what seemed to be a softness.

“Jackalope Wives,” Wynne repeated. “I’m listening.”

And they were, sipping their coffee and imagining these women appearing. Maybe this wasn’t a myth, but a story that had some truth to it, much like the other things they had considered fables before. It mattered not, for now, as Wynne only thought of that damned moon. How many more people had their lives determined by the waxing and waning of that thing? But where the moon had brought these wives some kind of freedom, or at least transformation, it had only brought them cyclical death.

But they didn’t focus on it too long, in stead being swept up in the tale of one of the wives being caught in a state of in-between. Is that where I am? Half-protherian and half-not, only half-alive by their own design. Something that should have returned but hadn’t and now was some twisted thing with no place of belonging.

They found themself yawning, vision growing darker as the flames danced around the room. Wynne didn’t want to fall asleep, both because it would seem rude to do so as the other was telling a story and because he did remain a stranger. And yet, eventually, their eyes fell close, their body curled up in front of the jackalope, head resting against the side of the cot.

Jerry couldn’t help but smile to himself as he heard Wynne’s breathing take on that characteristic rhythm of the sleeper. It takes a good listener to be a good storyteller, knowing whether the audience is with you on the journey by the quickening of breath and the gasp of surprise. Steering the tale according to where they needed it to go and how ready they were for another confrontation or resolution.

Or, as in this case, they had been lulled into Nod by the vaguely hypnotic combination of voice, comfort and story; conjuring up memories of bedtime fairy tales in front of a warm fire, feeling safe and warm, even if those memories were never yours. There was something tribal in the practice that harked back to generations past and beyond them to ancestors in caves, keeping the darkness at bay through the long night.

He didn’t stop the story of the Jackalope Wives - you don’t stop a tale once it’s begun, except at its ending - but Jerry did lower his voice a little. Then, removing his padded jacket, he draped it over Wynne’s sleeping form. They murmured a little at the extra weight, but quickly snuggled into the warmed down padding and gave a relaxed sigh.

There were many hours until dawn, but Jerry was used to passing the time in his own company. He poured more coffee, added wood to the stove and settled back into his spot, all while the words continued to roll around the walls of the tiny cabin, transporting it to another time and place.

And when that tale was told, he started another, weaving a new story to keep the darkness at bay as his young charges slept through the long night.

FIN.

If you're interested in reading the story of The Jackalope Wives which inspired Jerry's tale, then you can do so here! https://apex-magazine.com/short-fiction/jackalope-wives/

#jerry-wynne-scene-001 #ohwynne #park-ranger-is-my-comfort-animal

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agerekitty · 7 months

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─── stimboards -⋆⋅☆

(some are from my old account, send that an account a dm if you think im claiming someone elses work!)

from this account:

the last unicorn stimboard

agere themed bernard stimboard

christmas agere stimboard

from old account:

rosalina (smg) stimboard

donnie (rottmnt) stimboard

frog plushie (webkinz) stimboard

harmony (splatoon) stimboard

super mario galaxy stimboard

usagi (2003 tmnt) stimboard

casey jones (2012 tmnt) stimboard

cozy/festive themed cat stimboard

leo (rottmnt) stimboard

hero (omori) stimboard

bio luminescent stimboard

baby mario princesses stimboard

─── outfitboards -⋆⋅☆

blanket fort outfitboard

spooky outfitboard

─── moodboards -⋆⋅☆

from this account:

lps moodboard

green and pink cat themed agere moodboard

from old account:

cat calico critters moodboard

─── other -⋆⋅☆

bluey season 1 episode 17 gif set

#for pinned

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hotcocoaandstripedsweaters · 7 months

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OC-tober Day 21: Kisser exploring an unfamiliar subculture

Recently, I’ve been working on a Star Wars fic with a higher than usual number of OCs. The fic isn’t posted yet, but I thought I might put a few of these out there.

Under a cut due to length~ I got inspired~

The original post is here by @icannotreadcursive.

Day 1

~+~

The Aquatic District on Coruscant was not a particularly pleasant place. Despite regulations about water quality and the truly cutting edge filtration systems installed throughout its crown of all-water towers, much of the pollution sunk to the lower levels where filtration was expensive and the inhabitants poor. Coming from a predominantly oceanic world, Kisser didn’t know how Coruscant could possibly have restricted its livable waters to a single district. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t like the answers.

“Keep up,” Finley scolded him on their internal comms, pulling Kisser’s attention away from the fact that he could barely see the people around him, let alone the buildings they were swimming between.

The bastard was keeping a SCUBA trooper’s pace, though, so Kisser snipped, “I haven’t been in a suit since Kamino, jackass.”

“Weak,” Finley teased, but he did slow down. “We’re nearly there.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Finley laughed, “They have these snail-sucker critters that they keep around the market, so the water quality’s a lot better. Might even be cleaner than the air at the one near the Temple!”

What Finley didn’t bother to mention was the waterlock that separated the market from the street–Kisser would bet that helped as much as the filter-feeders.

When the water around them had been fully cycled, the doors opened to reveal a brightly lit space both like and unlike any market Kisser had seen. It was lit from every direction with colorful bioluminescence–Kisser couldn’t tell if it was painted on or cultivated or both–and stalls were arranged according to the hollows in a massive column of coral stretching vertically in both directions. The deeper levels decreased in brightness, while the ones above seemed to have something simulating sunlight in the furthest heights–barely detectable from their current depth. Plants and filter-feeders littered every surface not dedicated to commerce, ranging wildly in size and shape. The cacophony of colors substituted for the noise Kisser usually associated with markets, as most vendors and patrons were using various dialects of Republic Basic Sign.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Finley said wistfully. “If the war ends for me, I want to get a place nearby so I can come here every day.”

Kisser simply nodded, still poleaxed by the unfamiliar beauty.

Finley quickly decided that was enough “gawking like tourists” and led Kisser through the market. They were technically there on assignment–an errand for Finley’s General, Fisto–but really it was a thinly veiled excuse to get them both out of their own heads. No use wasting shore leave thinking about their losses; they said Remembrances for that. It was an excellent distraction, and Kisser didn’t mind coming off like an idiot tourist. He was one, really.

One of the more doodads-and-trinkets style shops caught Kisser’s attention, so he swam over to it. When the shopkeeper paid him no particular mind–Finley had warned him to just leave any shop that seemed even a little hostile–he perused the half-flan bin. It was mostly a collection of flawed items: carved beads and clasps that weren’t quite up to standard, woven bracelets clearly done by a still-learning apprentice or a faulty machine, and a variety of other decorative bits and bobs.

He picked up one of the beads–a malformed little fish with luminescent stripes.

The shopkeeper came over and waved to catch his eye. “It won’t glow,” they told him. They were a slim Nautolan, reedy and animated.

“Sorry, again?” he asked, a half-step behind as he adjusted to using RBS in his suit.

They pointed up, then said, “In air, the paint can’t glow. It only glows when there’s enough water.”

“Got it, thank you,” he said, not putting the bead down just yet. “Are they all like that?”

The shopkeeper considered that for a moment, then answered by pulling out some iridescent pieces. “These are shinier when wet, but they’re still pretty dry. If I were making them for air, there’s a varnish I’d use to get the same effect.”

They chatted about materials for a while, until Finley appeared next to Kisser.

“I see you met Portia,” he signed happily. On comms, he said, “I thought you got lost. Glad you’re okay.”

“Sorry, I got distracted,” Kisser spoke, even as he signed, “They were telling me about shell inlays.”

“No worries, trouble’s not subtle around here,” Finley assured him. Outwardly, he said, “Oh, they’ll go on all day if you let them.”

“You let me,” Portia said playfully.

“I have a crush on you,” Finley replied, completely blasé.

Kisser blushed, but Portia grinned toothily and said, “Careful what you wish, little fish.”

Before they left, Kisser bought the bead for Finley.

~+~

Day 22

#star wars #clone oc #oc-tober #prompts

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robobrainmurdermysterytheatre · 2 years

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I wanted to share this scene from my Fallout 76 fanfic I love because boys will be boys and play with frogs even after the apocalypse:

The journey was proving uneventful. They had traveled a couple hours. The twins posted up on the bed of The Ultimate Corvega taking shots at creatures and critters that ventured too close to the band. The others walked on either side of it at a fairly leisurely pace. They stopped at a creek to rest and eat. At one point, Diesel took off down the edge of the creek and came back with something in his hands. He held out what appeared to be a deformed, glowing blue frog out to Evan. It had ridiculously over sized front legs and spikes on its back. Evan looked at it curiously. “Look at this thing! Aren’t they cool?” He grinned. “Is it OK?” Evan asked. Diesel looked it over and then it dawned on him what Evan meant. “Nah, it’s fine, they all look like that!” Sitting next to Evan was Max who leaned over and pat the creature on its head. “They are cool,” Max commented. “They’re bio luminescent,” Evan added leaning in closer to it. Bear had come to sit on the other side of him and he was grinning at the frog. He put his huge hands out and Diesel dropped it into them. He pet the creature on the head with one big thumb and it let out a loud croak. Bear looked delighted and gently set the frog down in the gravel next to the stream. Evan watched it hop away on it’s over-sized front limbs, fascinated. When it disappeared from view he watched the stream ripple and the reeds in it sway while the others were talking quietly. It was peaceful.

ICYMI this is what the frogs look like in Fallout 76:

#fallout 76 #i need a tag for my silly fanfic #i love these frogs i wish we could have them as pets

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keepers-of-lost-light · 1 year

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A God Without a Name

Within the realm of Inferis, a place of shadows and smoke, tucked away in the furthest reaches out of sight of prying eyes, there was a forest of dark wood maples. Their leaves were as crimson as the fires that burned in the pits of The Wailing Breach, but rumored to be just as beautiful as the Mother of Mercy.

A black marble pavilion stood at the center of The Nightwood, draped in wisteria and morning glories. A figure stepped away, kicking up scatterings of leaves as she raced to the nearest stream. Ever shifting and unsure of her natural form, Noćtis crouched down at the river bank to test her newfound ability to shape change. Golden eyes stared back at her as well as the natural gray pigment to her skin that connected her origins back to Lunis; the living part of their shared cosmic godly essence.

Noćtis shifted into what she remembered Lunis looking like. A gray skinned human with moonlight white hair. Her appearance shifted again to mimic that of a grey skinned umbra elf with Noćtis’ naturally black hair. She tried copying Nemus’ appearance only to end up as a gray furred rabbit folk instead of a deer folk.

Finally, she settled into a gray skinned cambion. Black hair ran like a darkened river down her back between a set of horns that swept back. She felt bouncier on cat like legs, and more balanced with a lion's tail swishing in the grass behind her. She tried to imagine herself with wings like she had seen on Messorem, but they came to her like that of bat wings. She shed them with a shiver and a roll of her shoulders as they disappeared into thin air.

Still, through all the shifting, her eyes remained golden.

‘They connect you to the other half of your soul,’ Messorem had told her when she asked why they never changed. She very much enjoyed them, especially when they became cat-like and luminescent.

Noćtis’ hair stood on edge as static filled the air. She hugged herself as she glanced around, eyes wide.

Off in the distance amongst the red maples, the air shimmered in a vertical line like a mirage trying to take shape. Noćtis stood, and a tearing rang through the woods. She looked back at the train in her dress to check if she had caught on something.

Looking back at the shimmering air, Noćtis noticed the mirage had opened like a tear in a silk tapestry. She approached it, catlike curiosity pulling her closer. One sweep of the grove told her she was still alone.

“Hello?” Noćtis called.

She half expected one of her family members to step out from behind the trees. Nemus walked with her on many occasions, and Lady Sapientia & Lady Eleatheria came to teach her about The World Garden almost every day.

They had never arrived like this before.

Noćtis reached for the tear, and static nipped at her fingers. She shook her hand, backtracking slightly.

“Don’t touch anything suspicious,” Noćtis repeated to herself. A lesson Lady Sapientia had taught her when they spoke about planar travelers. ‘Tears will happen here and there, do not pay them any attention for it might be the occasional traveler taking a peek. If it becomes concerning, come get someone.’

Noćtis backed up, and sat on her heels. Her black sheer ember touched dress pooled around her as she waited. She fiddled with the golden bracelets that held her drapery to her arms before resting her chin on her knees.

The planar tear cast gray light across the leaves pooled on the ground. Noćtis poked at the maples, some crunching while others gave way with a soft huff.

“By the name of the gods,” a voice echoed.

Noćtis perked up, a cat hearing the rustling of critters in the distance. She focused on the planar tear. Standing, she inched closer.

“Please,” the voice called again. “Give me the power to help my mother and father. Spare them from death’s door, and give them peace. I beg of you.”

Noćtis peered into the planar tear, gray light shining across her eyes.

The air was sucked out of her lungs as the static from the tear latched onto her, and tugged. She fell forward, spilling onto the cold marble floor of a small chapel. Noćtis found herself chilled by the new environment. Her bones creaked from the cold as she pushed herself up from the ground.

A candelabra clattered to the floor, and Noćtis startled. She flipped around to see a young woman, an umbra elf, leaning against an altar. The dark tendrils of Death Divinity curled off the altar, reaching out to an obsidian blade dipped in crimson.

Blood dripped to the floor from the woman’s arm.

She let out a breathy laugh, mania dancing in her eyes like sparklers.

“Did it work?”

Noćtis looked about the room. Globules of lights danced across the ceiling, and illuminated a mosaic of ravens across a starry sky. A visage of Morsa was holding her hands out to her escorts of Inferis.

“Ispričavam se, ne znam na što mislite,” Noćtis tried in the language of Inferis. The umbra elf furrowed. Noćtis shook her head. “I am sorry, I do not speak common very well.”

The woman cocked her head, red hair like wine falling over her shoulder. She looked over Noćtis with cold amber eyes. Her gaze landed on the sweeping horns that adorned Noćtis’ head.

“You’re from Inferis,” the woman spoke in the native language and Noćtis perked up. She did understand me. The woman stepped down off the dais, blood staining the train of her silver evening gown.

“Did Morsa send you to help us?”

Noćtis furrowed. Morsa? Why would mother send me? She looked around the dark marble chapel again. Where am I?

“My apologies,” Noćtis started. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of or why Lady Morsa would send me to whatever this place is.”

The manic light drained from the woman’s face as it twisted in a sneer. She whipped around, taking the second candelabra still standing by the altar, and threw it. The metal clattered against the marble, and the flames petered out.

Noćtis covered her ears as the ringing scraped against the inside of her skull. She squinted up at the woman, who was stringing curses together. She was hovering about the altar, her stature unsure of whether to destroy the ritual she set out or keep it active.

The air grew heavy, the globules dancing across the ceiling dimmed. Noćtis shrunk in on herself. This doesn’t feel like the doing of Inferis. She looked back from where she had fallen in search of the planar tear.

It was gone.

Noćtis scrambled to her feet. “No,” she murmured. “No, no, no, I can’t stay here.”

“What are you?”

Noćtis’ shoulders shot to her ears as her tail wrapped around her leg nervously. She turned slowly back to the woman who was brandishing the obsidian dagger, and descending on her.

Backing up, Noćtis’ back hit the locked doors of the chapel. She held her hands in front of her as if to ward off the rolling anger filled storm clouds coming from the elf.

“I don’t know what you want-”

The woman slashed out at her. The blade bit into Noćtis’ skin.

Noćtis slid to the floor, clutching at her forearm as golden ichor seeped through her fingers. She whimpered as panic crawled up her throat. I can bleed? I can be hurt? How? She tried to force the cut closed, fingers slipping against skin.

“You're a god.”

The woman’s voice was barely a whisper. Noćtis met her eyes, and the manic glint was back. Shadows curled at the woman’s back as she came closer. She crouched in front of Noćtis.

The fledgling goddess pressed herself against the door.

“You’re the one without a name, aren’t you?” The woman asked. “The one that began to appear in the constellations about three hundred years ago.”

(An excerpt from the short story, The Prophet & The Nightingale, written by circa. January 2022)

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the-peddito-and-the-doise-show · 18 days

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HERE COMES DOISE WITH THE STEEL CHAIRRR!!!!!

ZAP!

When the dust settled, an almost… familiar mischievous gremlin now with an utmost formidable and luminescent aura was confidently floating in midair in front of the gang. “…Doise?” Doisette was the first to say something in particular, as she stood there in disbelief, reaching out. “Yep! Didja miss me?” Doise gleefully said, holding Doisette’s hand gently. Even with his new sense of power, he was still the lovable blue bootleg we all know and love. Eventually, the rest of the gang snapped out of their shock, and started to talk at once, with the general consensus being that they thought Doise was dead for good—but they were glad that he was back anyways.

Though, it didn’t last for long, as a new army of Fake Peddito clones came rampaging towards them dangerously. Peeperman: “I-I THOUGHT WE ALREADY DE-DEALT WITH THEM!” ”THEY’RE ALL MADE OF CHEESE (AND OTHER STICKY SUBSTANCES), FOOL! IT MEANS THAT THEY’LL JUST KEEP COMING UNTIL WE GIVE OUT!” Meister Stiff: “NOOOO! I DON’T WANNA DIE WITHOUT SELLING THESE DVDS! I REALLY NEED TO GET RID WOF THEM!” “WHAT DO WE DO THEN?!” Doise Chan frantically said while Peddita was fearfully (and affectionally) clinging on to her leg.

“Don’t worry, everyone! I can take care of them easy-peasy! In the meantime, you guys gotta help too!” Doise said cockily, as he gallantly (or so he thought) charged towards the ever so looming army of Fake Peddito clones. Eigilante: “Ya hear that, everyone?! Help that strange blue critter in his brutalities!” Then, the rest (or most) of the gang charged alongside Doise too.

#pizza tower #the doise #doise pizza tower #pizza tower doise #pizza tower the doise #the doise pizza tower #pizzamancer #doisey #doisette #doise chan #peddita #peddita chan #meister stiff #peeperman #the eigilante #eigilante #cement #fake peddito

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salamispots · 2 years

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Hello, I've seen some of your merfolk stuff, and tbh it, along with other similar artwork has inspired me to make better art of merfolk by incorporating more of the original fish aspect of the tail to look like it fits with the human half (rather than making it look like you just stuck a fish and human together lmao) and while I'm trying my best with it, (mainly practicing with sketches till I make a design I like enough to fully draw and color) I can't quite seem to get it right? Any tips or examples you can give? Or maybe some art tutorials you can link? I'm pretty much a beginner artist but would love to learn how to be better!

Even if not I appreciate just the inspiration you've been to me!

hello! :0 and oohh merm tips? usually for me kinda don't think about the tail and 'human' half as separate things but as one whole? some things I like to keep in mind when I'm researching or sketching things out:

-scales/patterns/fins are a nice way to make the merm feel more cohesive! :0 (like the koi and leopard seal merm below for patterns) or to blend the human/fish part together more if you're doing a more standard merm. I also like using the fins for 'hair' sometimes.

-silhouette of the fish/sea critter (like do you want your merm to be on the classic side or absolutely funky or somewhere in the middle haha) for the most part sharks/a lot of fish/mammal merms fall under the classic merm category for me and when I get to non-fish/fish that aren't the standard shape I tend to have the most fun with those.

top row is pretty normal (koi, sockeye salmon, leopard seal)

middle row (lobster, horseshoe crab, feather pen) they're still pretty humanoid but the silhouette itself is more like the creature they're based off of.

third row (hula skirt siphonophore, hatchet fish, gulper eel) they're still merms but they're not particularly humanoid haHA.

I like drawing merms that also look like their counterpart in silhouette? which doesn't necessarily mean things will match up; like with the gulper eel merm I didn't want to make a merm with a big mouth and came up with her having these funky basket arms that she could 'gulp' or scoop up fish.

here's another example of that when I was drawing an anglerfish merm; at first thought of having usual the whole merm as the anglerfish and then thought it'd be fun if the merm was just the luminescent lure part haha.

hmmm basically it helps if you can incorporate little things/details you notice to the human half? my brain's kinda bouncing around right now haha/all I can think of for now but hope that was helpful anon! :0

#incoming woRDS jkfgkhd #art ask #merfolk #saturday asks #art help #process #but yeah have fun and explore! :0 #also have fun drawing merms hehe #also unrelated but thanks to the peep who sent me that heads up

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seokahwrites · 3 years

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growing pains

2.5k

back to masterlist

pairing.

| high school graduate! min yoongi x high school junior! reader

summary.

| people always said you must let go of what you love, and you finally understand what it means.

tags.

| i am so sorry; this comes from a PERSONAL trauma; i love writing angst; blond yoongi supremacy; ykw min yoongi supremacy in general; reader is emotionally mature asf; reader is girlboss; you could say this could be canon/irl?

a/n.

| sorry for all my nuisance readers that are waiting for the next chapters :P IDK WHEN IMMA PICK THAT UP AGAIN. but i present this min yoongi angst that made me very happy to write, tbh came close to tears while writing it. sorry if the writing is kinda everywhere, hope yall like it tho <33 as always thank u for the massive support and love,, love u all

you weren’t quite sure where all the time went. one day you were brushing your teeth for your first day of school, then boom, you’ve finished your third year of high school. it’s similar to how just yesterday you were helping a tiny kid pick up his soiled cd’s and backpack from a puddle and eleven years later you’re watching him graduate.

well, you didn’t get to actually see yoongi graduate since you were too busy making preparations for the night, but that’s besides the point. tonight had to be perfect.

it is goodbye after all.

who knew that the inseparable min yoongi and y/n l/n would ever have to pull away from each other this way. that little shit better appreciate all the spine bending effort you put into making the spot so amazing — not that it wasn’t great before.

with a literal pat to the back and your hands on your hips, you look around the roof with an uncontainable grin, the flashes of purple and blue from the string lights reflected on the gloss of your eyes, every inhale was overtaken with the smell of coffee seeping from the ice cream tubs and a warm seat on the patio couch awaited, along with fuzzy blankets galore.

you’ve outdone yourself this time.

your hands lean against the cold stone at the edge of the terrace and your eyes wandered to the city that laid beneath your feet, from the green hills at the centre of it all to the luminescence of the glass buildings, there wasn’t a single droplet of air that didn’t feel like home.

tap, tap.

speaking of home, you hear familiar soft footsteps from the staircase, snapping you from your little daze and guiding your way to the entrance, your jazz hands in the air and a smile on your face. god, he was gonna love it.

“surprise!”

yoongi reacts a moment too late, his head snapping up and his graduation cap almost falling from his head. the boy was clad with a blue gown, he looked so mature for a mere second — but it was yoongi after all. his eyes widen before his peach lips make a silent “oh,” the entirety of his gums and teeth making an appearance along with the plumping of his cheeks. your heart falters for a moment at the sight, even worse when his eyes disappear into crescent moons that were surely stolen from the sky.

min yoongi looks pretty. not only that, but min yoongi was ecstatic.

“wow,” his head looked from left to right and top to bottom, “the spot looks great.”

you follow him with tiny steps and once you’re close enough to the couch, you push yoongi onto the plush seat, heading to the cooler and grabbing the ice cream, “i just put a few lights and blankets to be honest,” you take a seat beside him and he covers the both of you with the stack of blankets, “it wasn’t a lot of trouble, really.”

yoongi throws away his graduation cap and wiggles out of the flimsy gown, brushing his fingers through his platinum hair and taking a deep breath before snatching the spoon from your hold, “it’s still perfect.”

come on, y/n. pull yourself together. you tell yourself, but it’s hard when yoongi of all people is sitting beside you under the moonlight, stuffing his mouth with ice cream and glowing.

your memory isn’t quite clear as to when exactly did yoongi stop existing to you but glowing, instead. there’s so many moments to remember.

perhaps it was actually the very first moment you laid eyes on him. your rubber boots were muddy and your yellow raincoat was absolutely drenched, no puddle escaped from your stomps. but just as you were a few houses away from yours you see a figure laying beside a puddle and you realise that maybe that person did not want to be laying down in the cold rain.

and all it took was for you to pick up a kid’s shit from a pool of dirty water to meet min yoongi and shortly after, you were practically attached at the hip.

or it very well could be the night before your big sister moved away, your sobs must’ve escaped through the open windows because min yoongi was knocking at your door in no time — the signature two fast knocks and two slow ones. you were only an 11 year old who had never experienced such a change, and it only dawned upon you that night.

yoongi stayed with you for hours on end until you fell asleep on his lap, still with trembling breaths, but your mind eventually steered away from the fact you weren’t going to annoy your sister before going to school every morning anymore — she can’t put up with you during college — and it focused on yoongi’s cold fingers stroking through every strand of your hair ever so delicately and how warm he actually felt.

and there you were, the same kids with your head on his shoulder only this time, he was the one leaving.

“what’s up with you?” he asks as if he had read your mind.

you pull your hood over your head and you smile a bit for whatever reason, “i don’t wanna talk about it.”

he flicks your forehead, the fucker. the abuse makes you sit up, glaring at him with incredulous eyes and you’re about to say a profanity but he beats you to it, “we need to talk about it, y/n.”

and it pains you how nonchalant he sounds.

you slap your hands to your knees and purse your lips, “fine.”

yoongi finally puts down the ice cream — only a spoon of it left. “we both knew this was coming since freshman year, y/n.”

you scoff, as if knowing a goodbye was coming makes it any easier. “that doesn’t make it better.”

his hand makes its way to yours, placed on top of your fist, that melts into an open palm, with utter ease. still, you pull away, “please, don’t do that.”

and you wince at your own tone. it wasn’t like it’s yoongi’s fault that he’s moving away forever. or maybe it was.

it was unfair of you to say, but the weight on your chest had to have a reason, someone to blame. as yoongi’s best friend, of course you love him more than anything in the world and you’ll always support whatever decisions he needs to make to properly follow his dreams. but as the person that plays with the line of friends and more with yoongi, you almost want to beg him to stay. to stay so he could — for lack of a better word — like you, now isn’t that selfish.

yoongi blinks slowly, “we’ve talked about this y/n.”

ah, of course you have. you’ve talked about whatever the fuck this was several times, some of them were in between your interlaced fingers, others resided in the silence as you slept in the same bed and a lot of them echoed from your bitter words. but, once again, is that supposed to make things better?

the day you told him what you really felt for him is crystal clear in your memory, not only for the painful pubescent confession but yoongi’s own news he needed to share. perhaps your relationship was always ill-fated, yoongi had a scraped knee while you reeked of rainwater and you uttered an i love you while yoongi announced he couldn’t stay by your side. the irony.

your eyes are glassy with unspilled tears when you look up at him. why were you so weak?

“stop acting like it isn’t hard on me too,” he sniffles and shuts his eyes with more force than necessary. oh.

you bite your lip and look away at the guilty sight, afraid of what may come out if you don’t. but, if he does know of the turmoil you feel, why is he still insisting?

cold fingers meet your jaw, pushing you with that same delicacy from years ago until you meet his own concealed bloodshot eyes, “you’re not the only person who’s been in—,” he stumbles with his words, “—liked the other for the last decade, you know?”

why did he have to say it out loud? he’s only making it sound real.

maybe, it was actually your fault. if you hadn’t decided to tell yoongi of the butterflies in your stomach, you could’ve pushed them away and let the fantasy live as fiction. but no, you told him about the damn critters and they’ve been eating away at your core ever since, desperate to come out because min yoongi liked you and he was right in front of you ready to be liked right back, yet you could never reach him.

min yoongi was fishing stars from atop jupiter and you were still dancing on saturn’s rings.

you lean into his touch, placing your own hand on his and chuckling at his cheesy line, “that’s just how lucky i am,” and your attempt at humour makes the corners of yoongi’s mouth lift just a little bit.

his thumb glides on the skin it could reach, “so can’t we just have a night like every other one we’ve spent together?”

classic min yoongi.

but as to yourself, you were sick of ignoring things. you were tired of how your heart throbbed whenever you’d fit your face into yoongi’s neck so effortlessly, as if it was only natural; tired of your cheeks along with the rest of your skin burning with every thoughtless caress and sweet nothings he would whisper at the dead of night; and you were tired of your eyes prioritising yoongi’s soft lips over every other feature on his face and how much you yearned to touch them with your own — of how you’d always catch his gaze mirroring yours.

a person could only take so much and you were bursting at the seams already.

still, you only nod.

the silence became unbearable by the minute, even with your head on his shoulder and your hands in his pocket, there was so much that wanted to get out — yoongi would only need to say the right wrong words for all of it to come spilling out. so you speak first, making sure that doesn’t happen.

“it’s gonna be weird without you, y’know?”

you feel his cheeks puff up, subtle as ever “of course,” he squeezes your pinky out of pure habit, “who’s gonna make home cooked meals for me if you mom ain’t around,” and you wish you could white out the blue in his words.

“i swear—,” you chuckle and cross your arms, lifting your head to stare back at the constellations, “—she probably cried more than me when i told her you were leaving.”

before the words could echo back in your head, your eyes are back on yoongi and the boy is staring at the floor with a flood threatening to break out from his eyes.

you just had to open your mouth, huh.

your mouth forms incoherent noises in a miserable attempt to make up for your little slip up, but to no avail. yoongi only shakes his head and looks at you, the way his shoulders slumped exposing that he was trying just as hard to pull it together, maybe even harder.

“me too,” he utters, and you don’t fully understand what he means by that.

a bubble seems to form around the both of you, locking you in your own little world with yoongi, as it always happens when you let him entrance you for a moment too long, and in those seconds that spread to hours you just want to float away, you’re not sure where to but the gloss in his eyes are enough to guide the way.

“y/n,” don’t, “i’m gonna mi—.”

pop.

“please don’t,” you hate the venom that seeps from your tongue, “please stop, yoongi.”

and you want your tears to come thundering over your cheeks, for the red you’re holding in to shoot out from your heart, just so you could show him an inch of what you’re feeling. but you can’t. you shouldn’t.

yoongi’s soft eyes sharpen, “why don’t you want me to say it?”

no, no. that’s a lie.

of course you want to hear him say it. you want yoongi’s voice to sing every word of affection he has to tell you, you want to be wrapped with the smell of yoongi’s embrace, for him to whisper every sin for only your ears to hear and you want nothing more than to remain in every moment you’ve spent with him.

you look down, “if you say things out loud, they might come true.”

he races to grip your hands over his lap, “but it is.”

it is, it is, it is.

you blink away your tears before gazing back at your little piece of the sky, a smile never present in his pouty lips, yet you still read every pore of his skin like the back of your hand.

“yoongi,” you despise your sniffling tone, “let’s face the facts. you’re gonna be hundreds of kilometres away in a big city, i’m gonna be stuck in our little neighbourhood for who knows how long and all we can do is try to forget each other,” your voice breaks, “what could it possibly lead to?”

as you said those words, the reality of it all was coming to hit you with a second wave. the crack of what you both hoped to be was audible in the sounds of you settling back into yoongi’s hold, the silent sobs — that you convinced yourself came from the moon and stars, not from your min yoongi — even more so from the silence that came after your speech.

you could’ve asked yoongi to stay, of course you could have — you wanted it more than anything else. but you knew that he would stay and change his mind in a heartbeat if it was for you, and you couldn’t allow your boy to throw away his dreams for something as meaningless as love — or at least, you try to convince yourself it is.

perhaps yoongi would move on, he would find another person and start a family, have three children and a beautiful house and he’d be living off from all the music he gave to the world all this years ago, just like he always dreamed. perhaps you’d only be a fond memory he would look back on from time to time whenever he’d laugh at old memories after a few drinks with his beloved.

or maybe — and dare you say, hopefully — yoongi would never move on, he would work around the clock with the thought of coming back into your arms and nothing else. he would never leave his cheap tiny studio, only stepping outside during the rise of the moon and he would look at the stars, remembering that a person in daegu is in love with him with all they’ve got and that would be enough to keep him company. because you know for a fact, for the way your heart beats at the mere thought of him, that you would never stop loving min yoongi.

at the present, side by side breathing is more than enough.

“the moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

and he truly is.

“i can die happy.”

should i make a permanent taglist? idk TELL ME IF U WANNA BE IN IT

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