Kunichuuzai, Ranpoe, Shin Soukoku, Decay Trio, Odango, Tachizaki, Kousano, and more :)
POV focus rotates between Dazai, Kunikida, Chuuya, Ranpo, and Poe.
Canon typical warnings to be honest: suicidality/suicide jokes, family issues, mild violence. If a chapter has triggering material it'll be put in the notes
Basically just "what if BSD characters worked at a mall?"
1/?
Feel free to tell me what you think and share ideas for bits! I have some planned but I love silly ideas :D
@capn-twitchery dragged me into actually posting this :pensive: mean to me and forcing me to acknowledge my skills and share my work with the wider flumblr community. please be nice to me anyway here's what the Vengeful Investigator is doing on New Year's <3
unfortunately my Fancy Screenplay Formatting absolutely exploded when I tried to use it on Tumblr so you're not getting any fun exciting centred words. suffer
EXT. A DECOMMISSIONED STEAMER — MIDNIGHT
The camera opens on the VENGEFUL INVESTIGATOR from behind, who’s tall, pale-skinned, and has short, dark brown hair with a few grey streaks pulled back into a messy bun. Their bun’s held in place by a pair of sharp-looking spikes, and they’re wearing a long coat flapping in the zee-wind. They’re standing on the deck of their steamer, hands resting on the railing. There’s a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a candle on a small table lashed to the deck with old ropes. It’s the only notable light source, other than the pale light of the false-stars overhead. A rifle leans against the side of the boat.
They pull a dented, plain steel locket out from under their shirt, flicking it open to reveal a sepia-toned picture of two people, presumably siblings given how similar they look. The brother has paler, curlier hair, a brighter suit, and a wider grin, with his arm slung around the other’s shoulders. The other’s smile is a little smaller, although no less fond, and their hair is in a fanciful style. They’re wearing a darker suit. They both look to be young adults, and neither has any scars.
THE VENGEFUL INVESTIGATOR
Sorry I’m not done yet. This whole business
has been more complicated than I expected.
They sigh, closing the locket and tucking it back into their shirt, and turning around towards the table. It's the first time the camera sees their face; they’re one of the siblings from the picture, the one with the less-bright suit and the smaller smile, but their features are harsher than they were in the picture, they’re a bit older, and they’re paler, like they’ve been out of the sun for a long time. They have a noticeable scar on their face, too, bisecting one eyebrow and just grazing the corner of their eye. They are not smiling.
They walk over to the wine glasses and flick their wrist. A dagger made of dark glass comes out of their sleeve, and they use it to uncork the bottle, pouring two glasses and carrying them over to the railing.
THE VENGEFUL INVESTIGATOR
I can’t imagine your favorite vintage has
changed.
They take a sip of the glass in their left hand, and drop the other one off the side of the steamer. Distantly, the glass shatters, and they swirl the wine in their glass.
THE VENGEFUL INVESTIGATOR
You tried so hard to find one I’d like,
and now here I am. The only wine I’m fond
of and it’s only by the nostalgia of you
making me try it…
They trail off, staring at the glass and taking another sip.
THE VENGEFUL INVESTIGATOR
It’s hard to find Surface wines down here.
I can’t imagine I’ll drink this again once
the bottle’s done.
The Investigator laughs, bitterly.
THE VENGEFUL INVESTIGATOR
You’d be so irritated with me. Drinking
alone… well, I’m sorry, but here we are.
They raise their glass up to the false-stars, and then drink the last of it.
THE VENGEFUL INVESTIGATOR
I’d say you’ll see me soon, but I don’t
think we’re headed to the same place.
CUT
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Gold & Silver & Crystal | Pokemon Gold Silver Crystal Versions, Pocket Monsters: HeartGold & SoulSilver | Pokemon HeartGold & SoulSilver Versions
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Hayato | Falkner, Matsuba | Morty
Additional Tags: One-Shot, this turned out a bit longer than i expected, Murkrow - Freeform, Gengar - Freeform, falkner and morty being friends, maybe some hints of falkner/morty and falkner/janine, But not really that much, pokemon behavior inspired partly by IRL animal behavior, Corvids, (or at least a pokemon basd on a corvid), bonus cameo from Pidove
Summary:
When Morty agrees to look after an egg while Falkner is away, he doesn't expect it to hatch.
A decade has gone by since well-loved college band Miskatonic broke up, but Parker Yang is still playing shows on his own. His world is shattered when his former bandmate unexpectedly shows up at a concert in his home state.
you're in a fight to the death, my friend sequel. :) can be read standalone without much confusion, & this fic is, most importantly, propaganda for southerner parker yang!!!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Wrote a short fic for my newest drawing! (this one)
It's pretty short, but it's alright... Also it's *not* a crushing fic. It's just a pun on "giant" meaning severe with Luz also being a giant, and Luz and Amity severely crushing on each other in this. So that's why it's called "giant crushes"
Anyways, check it out, if it sounds like it's your style! (lumity and G/t, but not much of a plot) It's just about 1k words, so it's a short read!
tHO isn’t at the stage where I can find half of these words in a comprehensible state since most of it is Draft 1 gibberish. So instead I’m using the opportunity to write something new for each prompt; some being canon from the book and others just standing as an excuse to write the characters interacting. Bc of this the length got a bit......Out Of Hand. Sorry about that. Putting it all under the read more so I don’t bombard anyone’s dashboard
> Prompt: Work [Note; This occurs years before the plot begins]
Vestiel ran his fingers through the grass and picked at early yellow blooms. The harsh clang of metal against wood echoed around him, the sounds of the forest easily lost behind it.
“Can we go home soon?” he whined, “I’m so hungry I could eat a bear.” His bottom lip is brought between his teeth, and he waits. Clang. Clang. Clang. “Please?”
The axe stills. Andi turns, wiping the sweat from his brow while fitting Vestiel with a look. Magpies trill in the wake of his silence, the flutter of fallen leaves following the breeze. Andi straightens his back. “Silas won’t have finished dinner yet, lad, the sun’s still well up the sky.” He answers, looking annoyed, “We’ve plenty of light to finish this up first. Fill the baskets if you’re so restless.”
He reaches for the axe again. The disappointment must have shown on Vestiel’s face, though, since the tool remains lodged, and Andi continues to look distracted. He knew the boy was too young to understand how important this work was, how it kept them warm and fed. He couldn’t blame a child for prioritizing an empty stomach over harsh and thankless labor. Still, that morning’s storm had downed too many trees to not take advantage of. It had to be done.
“Tell you what,” Andi resigns himself, a weary smile lifting his eyes, “I’ll let you do a few strokes, but Vestiel-”
The boy is already up and on his feet, dandelions forgotten in the sunken spots of grass where his legs had crossed, “You mean it?” He brightens, “I can do it all by myself?”
“Listen to me,” Andi lifts a hand, demanding attention, while the other remains on the hilt, “you’ll start with the axe wedged in and bring them down together-” he offers a stern look, “--and I don’t want to hear any complaints. This is your first time, I don’t want you lopping off a toe or, North forbid, a whole foot. You need a feel for the tool before you do anything else.”
Vestiel acknowledges this with a hasty nod, the muttered agreement of “Yeah, yeah, sure” crossing his lips, hand already reaching for the axe.
Andi comes between him with a harsher expression than before, eyebrows raised expectantly. Vestiel lets out a sigh.
“The axe will start in the wood. Got it.” The impatience hasn’t fully left his tone, but it’s an improvement, and Andi appears content by it.
The wood is already a narrowed size when the axe is driven through its flesh. The blade settles halfway down the block and wedges itself firmly along the grain with little resistance, just on the edge of splitting. He brings it to Vestiel, who takes the closer end of the block with his left hand and the hilt with his right.
“Now, you’ll want to bring it down towards the back of the splitting block,” Andi starts, “Make sure you do so with both hands together, or you’ll only-”
Clang. Vestiel opens his eyes, already knowing that Andi is going to ring his neck for having closed them in the first place. All is forgotten at the sight of the severed wood, though, and he can’t help but be excited with the results. It isn’t perfect by any means, but it’s his, and he’s no less proud of it despite his brother's hand-holding. He looks to Andi in hopes of praise.
“Mother’s grief, Vestiel, have some patience!” Is the chastised response he receives instead. “You couldn’t have at least waited for me to finish?”
Vestiel makes a sour face. “I did it fine, didn’t I?” He retorts, “Isn’t that good enough?”
Andi raises a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose, a long and tired breath escaping him. After a minute of patience himself he’s able to give Vestiel the reaction he was looking for. A smile, small but proud. “It’s not bad for your first time,” he says, “but you’re going to need more practice, and patience, than that if you want to hack apart whole trees in a few years.”
He extends a hand to bring Vestiel near, pulling him snug against his side. “You did well.” Andi continues, “but, lad,” his voice lowers to a stern whisper, and
Vestiel pales, “If I ever see your eyes closed with an axe in hand again, you’ll sweep the whole corridor. Twice.”
He swallows harshly and answers only with a nod. The pride blooming in his chest doesn't falter.
> Prompt: Weather
The evening sky flashes white, casting shadows across paintings framed in gold and goblets of silver. Across the room, Caprice of the North hunches over a desk painted in candlelight. He draws a finger across the map in study of its various routes and borders, frowning. Behind him, thunder crashes down. He flinches. Pitiful.
Shaking away the thought, the young deliverer refocuses. His back arches further towards the desk until braided locks of gold spill over onto the wood. Especially now, as he squints in the darkness of his shadow, does he wish this dreaded storm had chosen another night. It brought a miserable chill to his bones despite the grizzly pelt draping heavily over his shoulders and brought an ache to his bones.
Lightning comes again, its brilliant light cutting into the room with the swiftness of a sword’s blow. Capri anticipates it this time. When thunder claps against his window he’s decisively ready for it, his knuckles gone white against clenching fists. He can’t stop their trembling no matter how tightly he’s squeezing.
A knock at the door sends him out of his skin.
Like a sharp wound, the anticipation drives him into a panic. Young flesh grasps aimlessly for a new frame to stretch into, finding nothing but mortal bones. By the time the door swings open he is straightened, remembering a human form, begging the drum within his heart to settle.
Silence greets him. A form approaches from the doorway and draws towards the light, illuminating their features quick enough that Caprice’s hand stills where it rested on the hilt of his sword.
“Dove?” He relaxes and lets himself breathe, forcing air into his lungs with more effort than is needed. “I thought you were with Eivind."
“He was needed elsewhere,” Dove signs. His hands portrayed a sense of disappointment where one couldn’t be seen in his expression, brown eyes seeming indifferent.
Caprice looks away shamefully, “You didn’t have to come,” he says.
“I wanted to.”
His gaze again lifts to meet the other with only a grunt, reluctant to answer in words for fear that his voice might betray him.
Light consumes the room with blinding force and concurrently Caprice’s hand reaches blindly for the edge of the desk to ground himself. It’s silly, he thinks, ruined pride staining his cheeks red. Internally he’s counting the seconds as they go by, steeling himself.
Dove reaches for him--
Capri recoils just as thunder cracks and booms overhead. The approach was too quick, well-meaning as it may have been. Dove understands the reaction. He reads Caprice as well as the noble reads his sign.
The thrashing of rain fills the aching silence and neither of them dares interrupt it. Seconds pass by without distraction until Dove again extends his hand forward. He moves slower than he has to under the young emperor’s weary gaze as though addressing a wounded animal.
When Caprice notices it’s not without backlash. His eyes turn hard, looking fussed. His nails dig into the wood beneath them until angry lines form on the underside of the desk and pain shoots up his fingers.
Dove’s palm settles over his hand, squeezing.
He flinches but can’t bring himself to shake the man away. The silence between them stretches on unbearably after, broken only by the rain. He releases the desk and turns his palm face up, intertwining their fingers wearily. “Thank you.” He whispers.
When the thunder comes this time, he doesn’t flinch.
Prompt: Help
Vestiel’s heartbeat thuds like thunder roaring inside his ears. He stares with too much intent at the earth beneath his worn shoes, doing his best to concentrate on the hole boring over the space near his toes.
Much to his dismay, Fannar-Haise appears to notice.
She carries herself past the snow huts and politely cuts through the crowd, stepping lightly around the fire and between celebrants, their songs alight with a different kind of flame.
Vestiel can’t hear them past his own thoughts. Get out, get out, get out. He forces some semblance of greeting out as she approaches but can’t manage to look her in the eyes. It’s hard most days, but especially now.
“Enjoying the party?” She asks, making no mention of the answer being pretty obvious. The smile on her lips is pitying, judgemental at worst, he just knows it. He can’t bear to lift his chin and see. If Andi were here he could explain himself easily but, as it was, he was going into this situation alone. Completely, utterly alone.
“Yeah,” he lies, “just tired from all the traveling.”
It’s a witless excuse and she knows it. Instead of pointing it out, though, she only offers a shake of her head. There’s a lot to say about communication and Fannar-Haise considers herself an expert on the subject. She watches him fumble about; the trouble in getting his tongue to do its job sticking out to her as sorely as the restless, rhythmic tap of his hand against his hip and the blatant avoidance of eye contact. It answered her question more than his words could, and that was okay.
“You’re overwhelmed,” she nods to herself this time, having seemingly come to a conclusion all on her own, “Let me help. You don’t have to answer with words, a nod will do just fine. Can you walk?”
Vestiel squints at the sole of his shoes, looking confused, then apprehensive, “I’m-”
Silence. No matter how hard he pries, not a single word comes loose from his tongue. The thoughts are there and plentiful, excuses and apologies, maybe something more, fastened tightly like honey coating his throat and hidden away between his ribcage, leaving him breathless and useless.
His chin tilts upward, lips parting, but he can’t manage it. Instead, he allows himself the nod she had been looking for.
“Good. That’s good. We’re going to go somewhere quiet and after that you can tell me what you want to do. Can I touch your hand?”
She patiently waits for the resulting, albeit cautious nod, and takes his hand within her own.
She guides him past the bustling scene like this. As they reach a distance where the noise has muffled he finds it in himself to speak again. It’s slow, at first, allowing his mind time to find the right words. “How did you know?”
Calmly she turns her gaze from the sky, not looking directly at him but rather just past where he stands. There isn’t a soul there when Vestiel follows her gaze over his shoulder, but he’d only half expected one. Andi had learned with time not to stare too long; something told him Haise was just as quick of a learner.
“Call it a hunch,” she hums, “I’ve experienced my fair share of things, Vestiel. This isn’t new or strange, it’s just you.” She pauses to face him, eyes still averted. He returns the favor and looks at her nose like it’s his only salvation, seconded only by the sight of his snow hut in the distance and the soft murmur becoming of the crowd ever fading behind them.
“Besides,” she continues, “these celebrations aren’t a requirement by any standard. They’re here to bring happiness. If something causes you to be unhappy you have no obligation to stay. If you need to step away, I will understand. We will always understand.”
Vestiel doesn’t know what to say when they reach the entrance. Despite her words, he can’t help but feel a wave of guilt wash over him for having both left the celebration early-- a celebration of his arrival, no less--and now, leaving their leader at the door.
She picks up on this, too.
“I’m going to head back to the others for a while longer. You can join us if you’re feeling up to it, or you can stay here and get some rest. Don’t overthink it, okay?”
Her warmth is everything to him, more grounding than a hole in his shoe could ever be. He wants her to know, wants to find the right words to explain how much her actions mean to him, but there isn’t an easy way to go about it without making a greater fool of himself. He answers with a weak smile and a simple, “Okay”, the best he can offer in way of thanks.
She matches his smile and bids him goodnight.
Prompt: Hope
The scent of leather tanning above flame clings to his nostrils. It fills him with a sense of despair unlike any other, weighing different from the miserable few weeks he’d spent mourning Andi, even. Putrid, a nauseating sort of agony like snakes writhing and tearing at his stomach. Burning. Burning. Burning.
The forest was ablaze. That was all he could possibly know, here in the dark. Shadows drove past him in a stampede of bodies carving through the night, survived only by a name and footprints worn into the poaching grounds.
He scares awake. Stars wink faintly above him, hidden behind the morning sun.
“Bad dream?”
Tupelo’s voice startles him a second time from where he lay, their trek up the hill all but forgotten until that point.
Vestiel slowly drags himself into a sitting position with a grunt of effort. Sweat collects at his jaw, cold against his cheeks. He licks his lips and tastes salt.
“A fire, just to the north of here-- tonight maybe--the forest, the people-”
Tupelo tends to the campfire, looking drained. It was suddenly apparent neither of them had slept well. “The forest?” they ask with a shake of their head, “Not to the north, yet.”
“Yet?”
Vestiel draws his shirt away and uses the
bottom corner to dry his face. Goosebumps still clinging to his arms, the memory remaining like a fresh wound.
“You don’t have to believe me,” he says, “I can’t explain it to you and if I do, you’ll just think I’ve gone strange. I’m only asking that you take me north of here.”
He reaches for the map tucked inside his rucksack, spilling a few more items in the process, “It shouldn’t be too far off from where we’re going already. I’ll show you.”
Tupelo is quick to rest their hand against his wrist with a sympathetic, albeit calm look on their face. “We’ll go.” They assure him, pointing to the north. “If it’s important.”
_________________________________
It quickly becomes evident that Tupelo is just as ill-equipped for this kind of travel as Vestiel. For as nimble as they are the hill obviously called for a different kind of strength. The original path would have taken them up and around, but this new direction was a straight shot to the north, uphill for the better half of it.
Tupelo watches Vestiel out of the corner of their eye, checking up on him every now and then as though waiting for Vestiel to change his mind, or hoping he’ll get around to it if they climb for long enough.
However, Vestiel remains steadfast in the endeavor, eyes locked on the horizon. He’s certain of what he saw, having learned to trust the dreams long ago, and he had no plans to stop now. The smell of burning flesh still lingered undeniably.
“We’re almost there.” Tupelo breaks the silence.
“Finally,” he gasps, “I don’t think my legs can go on for much longer.”
He can feel it already. The weight of the earth shifting beneath his feet, a familiar pressure that seeps into his bones, pungent smoldering inside his nostrils once more. “It’s right over here,” he drags himself the last few feet to the summit, “It’s-”
Dead. Every tree, every blade of grass, the entire opposite face of the hill lie dusty and black, an empty expanse of burnt trunks where the forest should have been.
Tupelo comes up beside him.
“What happened here?” Vestiel gasps in disbelief, “I was sure-- my dreams have never lied, not once before. Were we too late?”
“Your soul tells stories, not prophecies.” Tupelo answers, “Father told me you can hear them.”
“Them?”
“The spirits,” they gesture to the barren woods, “they speak because they know you will listen. Come.”
Vestiel follows their lead. Dry grass crunches underfoot as they descend the hill. Patches of green pop up here and there, but aren't constant and don’t compare to the full weight of the forest that should have been in its stead. It’s a sight he feels the need to grieve over as though his own soul were tied to the scorched land. The thought scares him.
Tupelo steps ahead and crouches to their knees, hands smoothing over a ring of stones that would have gone unseen had they not brought attention to it. Wordlessly, they pull the canteen from its strap and let the remainder of its water drip out.
Vestiel inches closer now. He kneels beside the other, “What is it?”
Tupelo sits back on their heels, palms opening to show a young sapling, green and healthy, standing tall, small as it may be. It rests in a forgotten graveyard.
“A tree?” Vestiel reaches for it and thumbs carefully along the juvenile bark. “What is one tree to an empty field?”
Tupelo cradles the sapling fondly. “Hope.”
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I'm tagging @faenova @squid-scribe @zmlorenz @ashen-crest @henrike-does-writing-sometimes and @sharraus (can I tag the tagger? I'm doing it anyway)
