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leyswhumpdump · 2 years

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I’d Rather Not

Day 28 of @themerrywhumpofmay

Tropes and CWs: referenced lab whump, some dehumanisation I guess? (not entirely sure how to tag that), swearing.

Jason tapped impatient fingers on the steering wheel as the car cleared another hill. He’d spent most of the journey so far looking out of the windows, his eyes not really on the road. The boss’s words, grainy with telephone-static, cycled endlessly in his head as he drove.

Find it. Bring it back. Five words. Two sentences. Two instructions. What had been left unsaid could have filled entire paragraphs. Jason had a four-word response in mind, one he had not dared give the boss. Needle in a haystack.

Seriously, though. The damn rat could be anywhere. Scampered off-road into the fields, just like a real rat. Jason turned the volume crank on the car stereo, the generic sound of some modern pop song drowning out unwelcome thoughts.

Fuck, he needed a cigarette. He flicked the indicator light to turn in to the side of the road, even though his was the only car. He left it in reverse to stop it rolling down the hill. Cranked the handbrake a little harder than was necessary.

The smoke and nicotine soothed his nerves. He stood by the grass verge, savouring the cigarette. Procrastinating the moment he’d have to get back in his car and hit the road again. The inevitable moment of report back to the boss—we lost it. Perhaps he could stop in a town on the way back and pick up another pack of cigarettes.

Something caught his eye.

There wasn’t much of a ditch along the road, but the neighbouring field bore deep furrows from a recent plough. In one of those furrows, a glimpse of white. For a second he thought it was another of those damn plastic bags that got everywhere—lazy motorists seeing the countryside as God’s own litter bin. Then he frowned. Squinched his eyes up behind his glasses. Cast the cigarette stub aside and trod out the smoulder.

If this was nothing, he was about to make a fool of himself.

The hedge was not difficult to traverse; a small, skinny waif could have done it. Jason still swore as thorns snagged his good shirt. He didn’t want to think about how much mud had collected in those furrows.

The rat did not move.

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me.” What had been the odds? Bad news for the boy, anyway. Jason squatted next to the bundled-up assortment of arms and legs, wrapped in a white hospital gown that was no longer white. “All right, game’s up. Time to go.”

Still no movement. Jason swore to himself. He’d expected a fight, some screaming or thrashing. He hadn’t expected—and didn’t know what to do with—a rat who was playing dead like a damn opossum. But when he reached for the boy’s shoulder, a doubt crept into his mind. That pale face looked a little too waxy to be a pretence.

Slowly, holding his own breath, he put an ear to the rat’s mouth.

Alive.

Alive, but with none of the ragged, shallow breathing that betrayed terror. The kid didn’t know he was there. Must have stumbled through the hedge and then passed out.

“Didn’t make it far, did you?” Jason murmured. He stooped to pick up the unresisting little form, belatedly remembering the whole lift-with-your-legs thing. For a second, holding this poor ill-fated lab rat in his arms, he almost felt pity for him. Like he’d rather not send him back for more fear, more experiments, more guaranteed death.

No, not him. It. He needed to stop being so soft. The boss had said that more than once during his last appraisal.

On the other hand…

The boss had also denied him the pay rise he’d asked for.

“Come on then, kiddo,” he said, already thinking about his next cigarette. “Let’s get you home.”

#whump #whump writing #the merry whump of may #i'd rather not #day 28 #lab whump #original post

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caxycreations · 6 months

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Devon and the Wolf

CW: Violence, death, heavy swearing, firearms

The wolf ducked down under cover, gunfire peppering his position. He thought on the last few hours, the discovery of his mate dead on the floor, used and riddled with scratches, bites, stabs. He thought of the note left on her chest, carved with a blade and inviting him to look for the culprit.

He had known it was a trap, but he knew they didn't know who he was. Ex military, two tours in Dornum during the revolution, moved to Ferus for simpler life. And they had taken that from him. And so he had stormed their compound, killed his way through to the courtyard, and was currently pinned down by several thugs. A few more minutes passed and the gunfire stopped with a shout.

"Hold your damn fire, why the hell are you shooting at a fuckin wall? Ain't gonna hit the bastard through that, did you really think your piddly peashooters could break through that? This was Kaleb's place remember? Shit's bulletproof."

As the gunfire stopped, the wolf took his chance, raising up and firing at the first target he saw. Firing at the possum in front of the rest, he growled, about to fire at the next, only to freeze in realization that the man he just shot was entirely unharmed. Instead, the bullet had connected with the crocodile behind him. The opossum grinned, laughing at him.

"Come on, guy! You gave my men a run for their money and you can't even scratch me?"

The wolf snarled, firing a few more rounds at the cocky leader, watching him Dodge them all, almost as if he knew their trajectory before they'd even fired.

With each bullet dodged, the opossum stepped closer. Shot after shot he dodged, his men laughing all the while. Their leader was an entertainer, in their eyes, and this was the best show in a while. Finally, the opossum reached the wolf. The wolf lunged, swinging for the man in front of him. He missed, and the possum lifted his knee into the wolf's stomach hard. He felt something sharp dig in against him and groaned. He felt the impact of the other man's fists colliding downward on his back as his knee rose and fell again and again, that same sharp pain piercing the wolf's stomach with each collision.

The possum laughed, finally letting the wolf drop to the ground. Glancing up, he saw metal studs along the possum's pants. So that was what he had felt. He tried to raise his gun, only to have it kicked from his hand by the leader. With a sharp, toothy grin, the possum leaned down and laughed at him.

"See, the problem with hot shots like you is ya think just cause ya serve a little time overseas, ya got balls'a steel and bones made outta diamond. Well bit of a news flash buddy. Diamond don't scratch, but it sure as shit breaks easy!"

He let out a laugh as he stood up straight, stomping down hard on the wolf's shoulder blade with a sickening crunch. A barrage of sharp pains flooded the wolf's body, focused in the upper left of his back. He felt splinters of bone digging into muscle, and fire brewed in the wounds. He felt tears run down his cheeks, and his heart raced.

The possum let out another laugh. "Look at this, fellas! Big bad soldier man cryin' over a lil shoulder stomp? I thought ya might be a little more entertainin' than that, pal. Aight, let's get this over with. Ain't got all day to be fuckin' with two bit dumbasses like this guy."

The wolf looked up, snarling at the possum. He struggled to his knees, sitting back and staring down the other man. "My name...Is Evan Ga-" He was swiftly cut off by a gunshot echoing through the room. The possum stood there, a bored expression on his face as he held his Bolt handgun, smoking and pointed directly at the wolf.

"An' I'm Devon. Fuckin'. Masters. Got better things to do with my time than learn some piss-ant's name."

#writeblr #relan #literature #fiction #furry #modern fantasy #anthro #anthropomorphic #writing #Short Story #short story #short stories

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chainofclovers · 3 years

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It’s been awhile since my brain insisted on a Life In a Bulleted List post! (Please forgive any odd emotional leaps bullet to bullet.)

During the middle part of this week, my wife is going to travel for a work thing for the first time since February 2020. We’re both fully vaccinated, in a spot with low COVID numbers, and she’s going to a spot with low COVID numbers, and honestly, it feels weird to be the amount of worried I am, which is not very worried! Obviously COVID is still a massive problem worldwide, and of course we live in a country whose greed and foreign policies actively make things worse for other places, and of course it’s still very important to take every precaution here (we’re still wearing masks in stores/public places, for instance). But I’ve spent the last fifteen months with pretty painful anxiety, worry, and anger as my near-constant companions, and it is wild to think about my wife going off to a different area and to feel...pretty much OK with that.

This will, however, be my first (and second and third) night spent without her since, yes, February 2020. And honestly, while it might be kind of a novelty this week to, like, eat something I like that my wife doesn’t, or to stay up writing until a not-very-sensible hour...all this time together has been great. Didn’t get tired of her once. (At least not anything a solo walk around the neighborhood or a solo trip to pick up groceries couldn’t fix.) We are very lucky. Understatement.

I am becoming a person who doesn’t kill every plant. And our yard is closer to “done” which is very exciting. And I’m finally getting to the point with container gardening where our food is semi-regularly seasoned with things I’ve grown. I’ve got a lot to learn but for awhile I was worried I would never be even partially successful.

Last week we found two young opossums dead in the backyard, quite far apart from each other. We couldn’t figure out what happened, but it’s possible they got into some poison elsewhere and ventured into our yard? I said some words over them (it’s not like we knew them but I suppose everything deserves to hear “you are loved and will be remembered” even if the people promising to remember you are just two random women) and we buried them and it was really sad. I love opossums, and I wish I knew what happened so I could try to prevent it in the future.

My writing brain continues to be entirely focused on fiction (well, fiction and my professional genre). I��m almost certain I’m currently setting a record for Longest Time Without Poetry since my childhood, maybe. It’s weird. But fiction! I’m having so much fun and feel so connected to everything I’m writing and thinking about, both in terms of orignal stuff and fic. I love the feeling of being out in the world doing mundane little things but in a good mood because of fiction. :) :) :)

I haven’t watched all of this past Friday’s Fire Drill Friday yet, but I think Jane Fonda’s hair is getting more Grace Hanson-shaped as the G&F season 7 filming gets closer to resuming. I feel very convinced this is true, whether intentional or subconscious, and I hope it means they’re gonna let Grace’s hair go grey this season. I know there’s at least one interview in which she said that’s what she wanted to happen, plus the Grace wig visible in S7 BTS pics (since they started filming after she’d already changed her real hair) seems to have grey roots?!

Speaking of FDF, the guest was Demi Lovato and it is pretty wild how many people on the Instagram event announcement, people who claim to be a Jane Fonda fan or a fan of the environment or social justice or whatever could absolutely Not Handle It to see someone respectfully yet nonchalantly use the correct pronouns for a non-binary person? The sanctity of grammar argument is EMBARRASSING. The phrase “attention addict” is EMBARRASSING. Especially since judging someone for seeming like an attention addict seems like a slippery slope on Judgment Mountain to judging someone for their actual addictions, past or present. And since we as a society love to punish people for their addictions and weaknesses instead of celebrating the way that self-discovery and honesty and self-actualization give people the tools to be stronger and cope with their “weaknesses” more effectively. And I’m sorry, Gail, but if you aren’t thinking maybe it’s a little weird that an 83-year-old can use they/them pronouns in a sentence while you’re on her page performatively misgendering someone, then you aren’t embarrassed enough but I will feel embarrassed on your behalf.

On a much, much, much happier note, baking with weed for older relatives is a love language. <3

And finally, on a very related note, I leave you with One Weird Trick your doctor won’t tell you for how to make sure you don’t forget which brownies are the special ones:

(Image ID: a white saucer containing two brownies. One is plain on top and the other is covered with a variety of rainbow sprinkles and colorful sugar.)

#do not reblog there are so many things in here not to reblog #more emotions than livejournal dot com #jane fonda appreciation society #cw opossum death #food things #personal #about me #grace and frankie #gender things #cw misgendering

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hacemorra-death-gremlin · 3 years

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SO I havent been posting VC in a while, I will start again soon since the weather’s becoming nice and I’m getting the chance too again finally, But I FOUND A FUCKING COYOTE TODAY. HOLY SHIT. gonna pick them up after my covid shot tomorrow I’m so excited to process them :)) I got one for christmas as well so like... two coyotes man. At this point I’ll have two of everything

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hmtaxidermy · 3 months

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Got this lil guy done today <3

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Got some concerned comments on my last post about him thinking he was alive, which is an incredible compliment, but I’m sorry it came at the cost of giving some of y’all heart attacks!

#opossum #lifesize mount #taxidermy #vulture culture #taxidermist #cw dead animal #tw animal death #tw dead animal #cw animal death #oddities

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needbruises · 4 years

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cw: blood, gore-ish, animal death, monster-fucker bait

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It’s easy at first.

Deer come to the water’s edge to drink, parading twisted antlers through the pallid forest dawn. All they’ve known of it’s depths are mottled, misshapen fish hardly larger than his palm, no threat to their bulk.

Eventually, the deer learn. The smaller mammals suffice. He savors the taste of hot marrow and the sound of tiny bones breaking like new ice between his teeth. Raccoons stop bringing their young to the pond. Opossums grow skittish and fearful, favoring the dripping dew on tree bark to the tepid water below.

Three hundred winters have passed since the lands previous inhabitants had left, scattering great metal beasts as they fled their own toxins. Radiation had rendered the area uninhabitable, and now the only sign of them lay in the red rust of skeletal remains; houses, cars, machines.

None of these things concern the Rusalka, for his freshest memory of them is as aged and weathered as the ruins. Centuries-old scars mottle the scales along his hip, and a bright yellow number-tag flags proudly from one translucent ear. He doesn’t know his people. He knows he is faster than a deer. He knows that the inky, tapered points of his claws can cut bone. He knows that dark eyes can pierce the murkiest depths of the forest pond, and that he has swallowed nearly every fish within it.

A bird rustles in the underbrush.

The Rusalka watches, silent.

Raven hair fans out around the crown of his skull like a dark halo, just below the water’s surface. A hungry, luminescent stare tracks his prey; two glowing orbs in a pale half-moon face. The bird flits closer, and thin lips curl in a sharp-toothed grin.

Light flickers along sharp, gaunt cheekbones with a flutter of feathery gills. Flecks of iridescence glitter like stars along the Rusalka’s jaw, beckoning. Here I am, it whispers, come closer and see for yourself.

He waits until the curious thing is nearly at the shoreline before sleek, sinuous frame explodes from the water with a rattling hiss. Webbed palms snatch it out of the air as it bursts into panicked flight, and a terrified shriek is abruptly ended by tepid water.

Far below, coiled safely in the cool mud, the merman sinks sharp teeth into feathered breast.

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@havebruises

#have a merman #rybka #swamp beast for president #ficlet #tw:gore #tw:blood #tw:monster #oc #Fic

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uas-fics · 6 years

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Title: Cheat The Reaper

Summary: He was warned this target had avoided death before, but Stan was not going to let this 'Kenny McCormick' guy cheat him. You can bet your life on that!

Rating: T

Ships: Stenny

CW: Temporary Character Death

Other: For Day 3 of @stenny-week “Death”

Read on ao3

~~~~~

“‘Kenny McCormick.’” Stan read. “‘Age nineteen, lives in South Park, Colorado, Roman Catholic, death by asphyxia.’”

The other reapers around the table exchanged looks. Cartman laughed into his hand.

“Pulled a good one, Stan.” He snorted.

“What?” Stan frowned. “Seems like a normal death to me.”

“Most deaths in that town are weird, dude,” Tweek looked up from his paperwork. “Craig had to reap a man there once, and the paperwork for him took ages!” He glanced at his boyfriend as he worked on his own papers.

Craig didn’t look up. “Yeah, time and logic are fucked up there. I don’t know if its because some way lines cross there or because of the cult there, but if you make any mistake, no matter how small, then your target can avoid death altogether.” He tapped his pen against his paper. “What’s the death date for that newscaster I reaped last week? Tenth or eleventh?”

“The tenth, I think,” Tweek told him.

“Thanks, babe.” He leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek.

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Get a room.” To Stan, he said, “yeah, South Park is a fucked up place, but I mean that you got Kenny McCormick. That guy isn’t human, you know. I’ve overheard reapers that were sent to get him before, and he has unworldly powers that let him cheat us.”

Stan pursed his lips. It was not an uncommon occurrence for someone to make a deal with a reaper to avoid death. There was even a special form just for the scenario that the reaper lost their deal. It was an old tradition that Stan doubted would ever die.

“No, that’s not possible,” Stan muttered, shaking his head. “Cheating a reaper once or twice, but you make it sound like he’s done this multiple times.”

“He has,” Cartman stated matter of factly. “At least ten times now, maybe more.”

“Bull shit.” Craig jabbed his pen at Cartman. “No one can cheat a reaper that many times. The Big Man wouldn’t allow that.”

“If this kid was human, but he’s not!” Cartman threw his arms up. The air movement from his action sent some of Tweek's paperwork off the table.

Craig glared as he reached down to help pick up the loose papers.

“Still, I call bullshit.” Craig grumbled, then louder, he demanded to know, “Why are you even sitting with us? Go pester someone else!”

“This is the best table in the workroom. Closest to the snack machine and under a vent.” Cartman explained, pointing to the snack machine and vent in turn. “Also, no. You move. I claimed this table our first day.”

“You can't claim a table like that. This isn't fucking middle school.” Craig growled.

“Craig, it's fine.” Tweek shook his head. As the two boyfriends began to bicker, Stan stood up. Cartman propped himself up on his elbow, watching the couple with an impish grin.

Stan folded the paper with his target up and shoved it into his pocket.

“I'll tell you if it's bullshit when I get back,” Stan promised, but he doubted anyone was listening.

~~~~

Stan wasn't sure how the ramshackle building was still standing. The roof sagged and pieces of the siding were missing. A clear plastic replaced some of the broken window panes. One good storm could probably topple the whole house over.

Stan watched as a family of opossums crawled out from inside the trunk of a rusted out car in the lawn. He sidestepped around them as they marched towards the back of the house. Like all other living creatures, the animals didn't actually see him, nor could they have interacted with him unless Stan wanted them too. Which, given the fleas and ticks and mud on the vermin's fur, Stan was more than alright with.

He stole a breath and started towards the front door when it swung open, slamming against the siding.

“Fucking bitch!” A man yelled as he stormed out.

“Yeah, just go, you drunk bastard! Don't even think about coming back here!” A woman screamed.

“Fuck you!” The man snapped as he left the front lawn.

“Fuck you!” The woman replied just as angrily before slamming the door.

Stan shook the shock from himself before he made his way up the walk. He paused a moment to look the way the man went. The man had already disappeared down the road to town. Stan knew he was too old to be the Kenny he was looking for, so he didn't dwell on him long.

He walked through the front door into a messy living room. The woman sat on the ripped couch, a cigarette dangling from her mouth and her forehead in her hand. She took a shuddering breath then grabbed for the purse on the low coffee table and began to dig through it. After a moment she had a pair of car keys in her hands.

Stan watched as the woman stood. She ran her hands through her hair and shouted, “Kenny, I'm going to get your sister from art club. I'm locking the door, so if your son of a bitch father comes back, don't you dare let him in.”

From farther in the house, a voice called, “Alright, Mom.”

She walked right past Stan and out the door. He wondered if she planned on driving the rusty opossum car or not, but didn't look out the window to check. He had a job to do, after all.

The voice from a moment ago came from down the hall, so Stan wandered that way, standing tall and imposing with his scythe in hand and hood pulled down to shadow his eyes.

If nothing else, at least Stan looked the part of the grim reaper.

There were three rooms down the hall. The first room must have belonged to the parents, one bed in the middle of the room, pictures of the what Stan assumed were their children on the walls. Clothes and empty beer cans littered the floor.

The next room Stan peeked into was the daughter’s. Posters of whatever teenybopper star was popular covered the pink painted walls. Somewhere under the pile of cheap stuffed animals, there had to be a bed, Stan assumed.

As Stan turned to leave the room, he heard a coughing. He froze a moment as the coughing began to comingle with wheezing.

‘Asphyxia’ The paper had said. That was how Kenny died. Stan suppressed a shutter. Reaper or not, he hated actually seeing the death occur. He could handle the aftermath, but watching the life fade from the living’s eyes made him uneasy.

He idled outside the door until the house fell silent then phased in.

The room looked completely normal for a nineteen-year-old from a hick town: Playboy foldout tacked to the wall, clothes on the floor, a messy bed. The only thing Stan wouldn’t expect to find normally was the corpse laid out across the desk and the soul standing behind it.

“Kenny McCormick,” Stan announced, raising his scythe just enough to be threatening, “I have come to escort your soul to the after--”

“Oh, hey, you’re new,” Kenny commented warmly. “Gimme just a second here.” He began to pat his pockets. “Mine taking off the hood, by the way? It’s too dreary for a Wednesday afternoon.”

“I'm keeping it on.” Stan held his ground, gripping his scythe tighter. “We need to get going.”

Kenny pulled a piece of paper and pen from his pocket. He set it down on the desk and began to write as he spoke, “What? Got a hot date?”

“What? I--no!” Stan scowled. “I don’t want to waste time.”

“The dead can’t waste time. That’s kind of the point.” Kenny quipped. With a flourish, he held out the paper. “Here. Since you’re in such a hurry.”

“What’s this?” Stan shifted his scythe to one hand before taking the paper.

“Your form?” Kenny raised an eyebrow then shook his head. “Goddamnit. I get your assignments are mostly random and all, but I wish they’d assign one person to me so I don’t have to keep explaining this.”

“Explain what?” Stan narrowed his eyes. “Is this how you keep cheating death?” He waved the paper around. “Faking forms?”

“I’ve never cheated a reaper.” Kenny scoffed, then walked around to Stan’s side before jabbing his finger at the symbol in the corner of the paper. “You can’t take my soul. See here? The Big Man’s authorization and everything.”

Finally, Stan took a closer look at the paper. The color drained from his face. No doubt, that was The Big Man’s seal in the corner. Stan quickly scanned the form for before looking back up in shock.

“You’re immortal?” He asked, his jaw hanging open.

Kenny nodded. “Uh-huh.” He strolled back to his corpse. “Watch this.” Before Stan could stop him, he raised his hand and slapped the back of his body. A flash of white light blinded Stan for a moment. As he blinked the stars from his vision, a coughing filled the room. Kenny, back in his body, sat up straight in his chair, beating at his chest, until a spittle-covered bone came flying out of his mouth.

“There we go,” Kenny mumbled. He kicked back his chair before reaching under the desk. A moment later, he set two soda cans on the desktop. He cracked one open and chugged nearly half of it in one go.

“I...I don’t get it.” Stan pushed back his hood to get a better look at his assigned target. Kenny was thin and a touch shorter than average. He had a thin nose and faint freckles across his cheeks. His hair was a mess of straw that sat atop his head.

In all regards, there was nothing remarkable about him. Nothing that on first glance would make anyone think this person was an immortal.

Kenny sent Stan a sympathetic smile. “Long story short, some local elder god cult cursed me when I was little. I can’t die. It’s a pain in the ass for everyone, so to make things a little more streamlined for you reapers, it was made so I would just have one of those forms on my soul at all times.”

Stan shook his head. “Why have us come at all? What’s the point if you’re just going to come back to life?”

Kenny looked around the floor of his desk as he spoke. “It’s not always this easy. Sometimes my body is way too fucked up to easily fix, so I have to go to the world you reapers live in until my body regenerates.”

“I’ve never seen you around before.” Stan furrowed his brow.

“Yeah, well,” Kenny dropped out of his chair to his knees, “once when I was, like, seven, I snuck into a file room and got to playing with a rubber stamp and important papers. I got both chewed out and my privilege to wander around your world revoked.”

Stan frowned. He vaguely remembered hearing about something like that from some of the reaper veterans. A little kid screwing around once caused a huge mess up in deaths and life expectancies. It apparently took nearly two years to get everything back in order and was the reason children had to be accompanied by an adult at all times in the head office.

Kenny popped back up from the side of his desk, smiling proudly. Hopping to his feet, he dropped a red and white paper bucket onto the desktop. Stan raised an eyebrow, stepping closer.

“The Colonel's best,” Kenny explained, gesturing to the fried chicken. “Been saving my nickels and dimes for weeks to afford it. You can have some if you’d like. Don’t worry, I’ll take the one I knocked onto the floor.” He grabbed a breast from the top, blowing a small ball of lint off it.

Stan eyed the bucket for a moment then shrugged. He deserved something for coming all the way to Earth, after all, so he reached into the bucket.

The moment his hand fell on the thigh piece, he let himself become corporeal. Instantly, gravity took hold, and he dropped the inch from the floor down.

It had been ages since Stan had eaten food from this world, and damn, he forgot how good it could be. It took most of Stan’s restraint not to greedily chow down on the thigh. Kenny watched him with an amused expression half-hidden behind his breast piece.

“Soooo,” Kenny stretched out the word, “You’re kind of young to be a reaper. I always thought you were all older people.”

Stan swallowed, absentmindedly wiping his mouth on his robe sleeve. “No, this is the normal age most of us start. I’ve been reaping for about year now.”

“What’s it like? Is it hard?” Kenny pulled a sliver of white meat from the breast and dropped it in his mouth. “I know there are different kinds of reapers, but they don’t tell me much otherwise.”

“Yeah, I’m just a normal reaper. I lead adults who die of natural causes to the next world for processing. It’s an alright gig. I’d rather this than be one of those guys who has to deal with murder victims or children.”

Kenny shuttered. “I had to stay in the office of one of those kid reaper guys until I was sixteen. He had clown pictures all over and made these really shitty jokes. I really hated that guy.”

“Yeah, most of us try not to talk to him much,” Stan admitted with a shoulder raise. “I have a friend who is a way better comedian than him anyway. I’m not missing much.” Stan paused a beat then asked, “So, do you have friends? Or are you just, uh--”

“A brooding loner suffering from his cursed life or torment?” Kenny grinned. “Nah, I’m a people person.” He pulled out his phone from his pocket and began to fiddle with it. “I’ve got lots of friends. Like this guy.” With greasy fingers, Kenny pointed to the phone.

A photo had been pulled up of another young adult with his eyebrows up in surprise and half the cheese and toppings from a slice of pizza hanging from his mouth.

“That’s Kyle,” Kenny explained. “He’s an old friend, loyal, morally good, and has some weird sixth sense going on, so he can see you reapers too. He gives me a heads up every now and again so sometimes I know death is coming.”

Stan took the phone and eyed the photo a moment. Humans with sensitivities to the supernatural weren’t uncommon, but usually, their abilities were weak and very limited. To be able to actually see reapers was extraordinarily rare.

Maybe it had something to do with all the oddities that happened around South Park.

“That must make things easier,” Stan replied as he returned the phone.

“Hell yeah, it does.” He leaned back in his chair. “You can sit on the desk if you want. I don’t care.”

Stan shook his head. “Nah, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“Yeah, it’s not that comfy.” Kenny dropped the remains of his chicken next to the bone he’d choked on. “Or, so I’ve been told. I’m not the one who's bent over it, if you know what I mean.”

Stan nearly burst out laughing when he saw the wink Kenny gave him. He coughed into his elbow to cover his unprofessional snickers before he placed his bones next to the others. He rubbed his hands off on the inside of his robes. When he got back, he’d have to send them in to be cleaned. He’d write it off as an accident, so the guys down in dry cleaning can’t make fun of him for wasting time chatting with his target.

“I need to head back.” Stan let himself slipped back into the realm of intangibility and returned to floating above the ground. “Thanks for the chicken, dude.”

Kenny shot him a finger gun. “No problem. You’re fun to talk to, uh...”

“Stan.” He filled in.

“Stan.” He nodded back. “You’re fun to talk to, Stan.”

Stan moved towards the door, only to pause a moment. He took a breath before turning back.

“Hey, next time you die for a while, you can ask for me to watch you if you want.”

Kenny’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“Yeah, you know, if I’m at the base, you can sit with me and my friends while we do our work. I doubt any of them will mind.” Stan smiled.

Kenny’s entire face lit up in delight. For a moment, Stan was sure he was going to leap from his chair and try to hug him, but Kenny remained seated, though he seemed to shake with excitement.

“Dude, that would be great! I’ve only ever seen the main offices before. Thank you!” He ran his fingers through his hair several times seemingly just to do something with his hands. It was an adorable action, and Stan felt his heart flutter just a bit.

Pulling his hood back up, Stan hoped his cheeks remained the same color. He opened his mouth to speak again when something rattled the window, making both of them jump.

“Kenny! Kenny!” The man from before, presumably Kenny’s father, beat at the window. “Open up!”

Kenny rolled his eyes, then sent Stan an apologetic smile. Stan waved his hand dismissively. His own father used to do the same thing after his parents' divorce. If Kenny was anything like him in the matter, then it was best to not make a big deal about it.

“I’ll leave you to him,” Stan said, back stepping towards the door.

“Yeah, bye, Stan. It was awesome to meet you. I’ll probably be seeing you soon enough.” Kenny gave a small wave so that his father couldn’t see it from the window. He then spun around his chair and yelled, “No, Dad. Mom’s pissed. You’re in the dog house tonight.”

Stan smiled to himself as he left Kenny. A selfish hope that Kenny would die enough to visit his world and stay with him crossed his mind. He entertained the idea as he walked back through the messy house. Kenny seemed like a genuinely nice person, especially given his circumstances. Just about anyone else Stan knew would have laid right into the brooding immortal stereotype, himself included.

Stan continued to think about his new, immortal, friend all the way back to the reaper world.

~~~~~

AN: The fic I wrote for the Spooky!verse theme (tomorrow's) deals with death and deeper things like that already, so I didn't feel like writing more of that, so I decided to play loose goosey with the theme. Which everyone should get used to because I did that for pretty much ALL of the fics I wrote for Creek-Week next week.

#south park #stenny #stan marsh #kenny mccormick #tweek tweak #craig tucker #eric cartman #fanfiction #reaper au #one-shot #stenny week #Michelle Writes Stuff

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