Can we see some more oc stuff? I wanna learn about them
Ofc! Actually, here's an OC right here
This is my best excuse to yap about him for once 😓
The Invisible Knight is a character I made a long time ago, and remodeled a couple months ago. He originally has a giant grate sword carried on his back, hence the belt around his torso, but I forgot to add it. He's known for being greatly skilled in ambushes (being invisible and everything), but he's also very good for head-on fights. He doesn't do well with small weapons or firearms. :]
i always make a mimi for @spunbunned's kinsonasss....theres a..theres a mafioso mimi that he drewww..anddd..and a shedletsky mimi technically???...that he drewww...
technically this is my first time drawing..my own mimi au..
hello don't starve fandom. I bring you Willow selfship
truly it is not about the relationship I just like Willow and no other character worked for what i had in mind
cross posted on ao3 > Mornings in The Constant. (3439 words) by windswept_wren
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Don't Starve (Video Games)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Willow (Don't Starve)/OC
Characters: Willow (Don't Starve), Wilson (Don't Starve), Original Characters
Additional Tags: Fire, Swearing, How Do I Tag, never posted on ao3 before, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, let me know if i tag this shit wrong, or if i'm missing something, Willow Has Feelings, Willow is Shit At Feelings, Willow the queen of ignoring her problems, Poetry, there's poetry, actually why i wrote this
Summary:
Willow doesn't want to deal with her problems. She'd rather light it all up and let it burn- until she realizes she has something good and feels conflicted about this method of problem-solving; if you can call it that.
i haven't written fanfic in like five years pls enjoy
Mornings in The Constant. Cold, wet, irritating. At least that's what Willow thought— she preferred to sleep in until the mornings weren't cold anymore. Then, she wouldn't have to walk through the damp grass, or change out of her pajamas until noon.
Unfortunately, The Constant had other plans; or, well, her tent had other plans when it collapsed on her and woke her up at the ass crack of dawn. Because of course it did.
She couldn't care too much about the others' concern, only groaning when Wilson pulled the fabric of her tent from her face. "Goodness, Willow, are you alright?" Wilson picked up the top half of the now-snapped stake from what used to be her tent, tossing it away from the both of them and forcing Willow to confront her worst nightmare— no, second worst nightmare, the first was a bath, —getting out of bed. Except, she doesn't confront it at all, in fact, she just lies there.
"Willow? Are you alright?" Wilson's repeat question was answered only with a glare from the pyromaniac, the effect dampened by the fact that she was already squinting from the sun in her eyes. "Right." He sighs. "Well enough to glare at me, clearly."
"I'm not getting up." Willow states.
"Well, it's too cold for you to just lie there. You'll need to be up at some point." He points out. Stupid scientist with his stupid logic and reason. Willow knows he's right, but she doesn't want to get up. She wants to lay here and ignore it till it goes away. Or light it on fire. But she's too tired for all that, so instead she hauls herself onto her knees, and begrudgingly takes Wilson's hand so he can tug her onto her feet. She wobbles a bit at first, still barely awake despite the fact that everything possible that could wake her up has decided to pounce on her this morning.
After a few more moments of Wilson practically holding her up, Willow digs Bernie and her lighter out of the wreckage of her sleeping quarters and saunters, or… waddles, more like, over to the fire that burned for the morning people of camp. The only good thing about this stupid morning. Unceremoniously, she drops onto the ground, her arms wrapped loosely around her legs and her cheek smashed into her knees. Still drifting in and out of consciousness, the hand on her shoulder startles her just enough for her to lift her head and whip around to look at it's owner.
"Hungry?" Wren asks, their voice quiet and laden with sleep. They gently nudge her hands with a bowl— it's warm, and she immediately recognizes the smell. Spicy chili. A little unconventional for breakfast? Definitely, but it's Willow's favorite, and she immediately perks up.
"Wren," she begins. "you're literally the best." Well, she's certainly awake now, and this wake-up call is much more welcome than the previous dozen. Sitting up and taking the bowl from her friend's hands, Willow immediately stuffs a spoonful of the spicy dish in her mouth. "Thish mornig hash been the worsht." She complains, mouth full. She always eats like it's her last meal.
"Yeah, I heard." Wren laughs, a soft, familiar sound. "The moment I heard your tent collapsed, I got up and started cooking." They admit. "I knew you'd probably be in a crabby mood, so I prepared accordingly."
This time, Willow swallows before speaking. "Ugh, you know me so well." She sighs. It doesn't take long for a comfortable silence to fall over the two. The only sounds that fill the gap where a conversation could have been are the scribbling of a pen on paper and the scraping of a wooden spoon against a similarly wooden bowl. Eventually, the time has passed, the fire is dying out, and the day's resumed about as normal as The Constant can get. The sun's higher, the morning dew has dried, and Willow's voice blends into the comforting background of Wren's thoughts, her usual personality finally burning bright through the morning fog as she chats and banters with a few people around the fire pit.
Startling them out of their thoughts, Willow slings her arm around Wren's shoulders. "Whatcha writing?" The pyromaniac places her bowl to the side before perching her head over the writer's shoulder, and Wren closes the book just enough that it's not visible to her. "Well that depends on what you're doing, nosy."
"Whaaaat? Can't a girl be curious?" Willow pouts, but her expression isn't convincing as it is silly.
"You can be curious. But you're still not allowed to read my poetry." Wren huffs. The journal is sat aside, a spread open to let the ink dry.
Wren laughs, but few would hear the nerves bubbling beneath the surface. Whatever was in that journal had to be some kind of secret— at least one that Willow wasn't allowed to see. "Well, maybe I'll show you another time."
"Poetry? Wren, I didn't know you were a giant nerd!" Willow laughs, the sound reminiscent of a cackle.
"Yes you did!" Wren laughs right back, their nose scrunching up as the pyromaniac practically crawls on top of them. "C'mon, Wren! Let me loooook!" She reaches over their lap, her fingers grasping for the journal. A slightly smaller hand catches her wrist. "Uh, no! No way! Even if you were allowed to read it, your fingers are covered in soot!" Of course, this doesn't stop the fiery girl, and now she's doubling her efforts trying to get her grubby little hands on the pages of their prose.
"Ugh, Wreeeennnnn! I know you! 'Another time' means, like, forever!" Willow complains, slumping over in their lap and trying to pull another pouty give-me-what-I-want face. The moment Wren lets their guard down is when she strikes. Her hand shoots out, grabbing the journal and shoving Wren in one swift motion. The writer yelps in surprise, pausing with shock before trying to wrestle their journal back from Willow's hands, but she holds it out of their reach. "Willow! Give that back!"
Internally, Wren was panicking a little. Willow didn't know that the poem was about her, obviously, but it was obvious to anyone with even a modicum of reading comprehension. They have half a mind to tackle her for it, but the part of them that just wants to let it happen wins out by just a sliver of curiosity stirring in the back of their mind.
Willow's triumphant expression slowly goes from confident and mischievous to something more confused— the words on the page are nothing like she was expecting. She doesn't really know what it is that she was expecting, but for words like this, so obviously describing her from the very first line, to be penned by the hand of the person next to her was certainly not what had been on her mind.
The page reads:
'She, unimaginable,
flames in her wake, lit by her hand,
footsteps coated in cinders,
embers glitter in the air she breathes,
and I would not have it any other way;
in a world where she is not,
I will walk forever, until I am hers again.
She is strange,
uncontrolled, unbound by
those around her,
who tell me all of what she is not—
not sane, not safe,
yet, instead, I see her for all that she is,
and selfishly, I want it all.
She, unapologetically herself,
she inspires me
to be what I could not before,
to love what they would wield against me,
to care less for what people think of me,
and rise up to meet the blaze,
instead of shying from what is uncertain.
She is familiar,
I would recognize her anywhere,
I would know her hands,
littered in burn scars, covered in soot,
hers, held in my own—
I felt as if I belonged, for a moment,
and suddenly, I was never alone.
Willow doesn't understand a lot of things. She doesn't understand other people, not the way they act, or their fear of the hell that she raises, or the fire that raised her. She doesn't understand half the words Wren's written, or what they mean, because years between the orphanage and shelters and the streets meant she barely even knew how to read. Despite it all, despite the way her thoughts ramble and her heart and mind are racing in different rhythms, she isn't stupid. Willow understands enough. She understands enough to be able to look at Wren's words and realize that they're about her. And it still leaves her in confusion, because— why would they, no, anyone write this about her? Was this some kind of elaborate prank? Was everyone just messing with her? Who was in on it? There's no way someone so delicate, hands unscarred by the streets and mind sharper than the tip of the quill they penned with actually felt this way about her.
She, the ever-burning flame,
her visage deceives me,
for when I see her,
who burns with such heat
that you'd think she's the legacy of the sun,
though she is bright, and blinding,
I would sacrifice my vision one thousand times,
if only to be her witness.'
And especially not when they laughed like that. Nervous, and soft, and familiar. Not like Willow, who was abrasive and obnoxious and—
No. No, no, no. Willow did not want to deal with this. Not today, not ever. Her eyes meet Wren's for only a split second before the journal is dropped and her feet are carrying her as far away from these complicated feelings as they can take her. She doesn't need this! She doesn't need them. She doesn't need them. She doesn't. The only things she needs are herself, Bernie, and fire. Fire. Nurturing and warm and happy— Happy. Yes, it makes her happy. She's happy. Nothing is wrong with her.
Before she knew it, her lighter was clicking and the grove of trees in front of her was aflame. Her eyes lit up with the bright blaze that she had just kindled. The colors danced in her eyes and the flames moved rhythmically. Yes. This was right.
She would push Wren away as many times as she needed to. No matter how they laughed, or smiled at her, or did something so sweet that it caused Willow to completely freak out.
"Willow?"
The voice rang out quietly, but the coughing that followed was anything but gentle. Willow wasn't even paying attention. The trees around her were burning hot and smoke filled the air, and Wren was standing in the middle of it all right next to her. A sense of panic set in. Why had they followed her? Here? When she was running from them and trying to burn the world down to avoid talking to them? Had it been minutes? Hours? When did the fire get so big? It felt like only moments since she had lit it.
"Willow!" Suddenly the voice was louder. Angry. Willow resists out of instinct when she's grabbed and pulled to her feet, but snaps herself out of it and lets herself get dragged through the blaze. It's only when they reach the field nearby, much quieter than the dense forest burning to the ground in the distance, that Willow takes in Wren's appearance. Their clothes are singed and they're covered in soot and soon-to-be burn scars, and… their expression is confused— hurt. "Willow, what the hell?" They're shaking. And still holding her hand.
It takes Wren a second to bring themselves down. They were angry, sure, but… "Are you okay?"
And that's what brings Willow back to reality. "Wren?" Her voice breaks a little. Why the hell was Wren asking if she was okay? She hadn't been injured by fire in years— at least not in a way that was meaningful. Why were they worried? Why had they rushed through and stood in the fire beside her, why had they dragged her out of it?
How many questions would she have before she stopped feeling confused?
"Willow, answer me." Wren's voice is back to being soft. Gentle. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm… fine." Willow takes a deep breath. In her hand, her lighter is clicking on and off. A nervous habit she can't break, nor does she want to.
A pause.
"Let me rephrase. Willow, what the fuck was that? Why did you fucking do that?" Wren demands, still squeezing her hand tightly.
That gives the pyromaniac pause. "Um." She tries to block out the feelings— but this time it isn't working. She can't hide from it this time, because Wren is in front of her and she needs to answer. But she's not about to admit that she's afraid. Because she's not! "I just… Um."
"Fine, whatever." Wren sighs, letting go of her hand and sitting down in the grass. "Sit. Just sit."
Willow sits down, mirroring the way she had just this morning. Knees up. Arms loosely around her legs. But this time, the silence is not comfortable. This time, the problem is not just an annoyance. This time, there is no food, or fire pit, or kind words, or calming noises. The only thing that fills the gap where a conversation should have been is heavy breathing and the sound of Willow clicking her lighter. Usually the latter would comfort her. This time it did not.
"I'm sorry." The words wrench themselves from Willow's throat, crawling out like some kind of demon that she wishes would go away. She hates apologizing. She doesn't like it when she does something wrong, and she doesn't like it when people care about her, because emotions are difficult.
It's been like this since she made her way into The Constant. The people around her no longer hate her like the other kids at the orphanage or look at her with disgust like people did on the street. They were kind. They fed her, and talked to her, and treated her wounds. And she tried her best to do the same, but liking people was so difficult. Looking out for herself had been the only thing Willow had done her entire life, and she wasn't used to tempering the fires she lit so that it didn't burn those around her. She didn't want to burn the people who actually wanted her around.
Willow is not brave. Willow does not look her problems in the eye. Willow has been running her whole life, and now it's too much. It's too much to unpack, and it's too much to accept. She knows she has problems— but she's spent so long not even considering that maybe something was wrong with her, that caring now feels like carrying someone twice her weight.
Wren's words snap her out of her own thoughts. "It's okay." Their voice is shaking. It's not okay. It's not okay; they're not okay, and Willow knows it, but she bites her tongue. "I didn't think what I wrote would upset you so much." And there's that stupid laugh again. Breathy and soft and gentle and so, so nervous. They're worried about having upset her. She almost burned them to death and they're worried about having upset her. Willow almost wants to be angry.
"Don't apologize." Willow huffs. "S'not your fault I freaked out." Wren didn't upset her. They didn't, no, in fact they made her so happy that it made her afraid; she doesn't want to love them, because their love is too good for her, she's decided. Eventually, it will end, and if she does not burn it herself and feign hate for what it was, then it will be cruelly ripped from her hands, if by fault of her own or a twist of fate's strings. And by then, it will hurt so much worse.
"No, I…" Wren pauses. They're struggling to get their words out. "I shouldn't have written something so personal."
"Wren, you're an idiot." Willow's words catch them off guard. A million things that she could have said, and they expected this one the least. "You didn't upset me, I just—" A groan. "I fucking hate this. Emotions are dumb and you're dumb and I'm dumb too! It's all stupid!"
Willow throws herself backwards into the grass, and it only takes Wren a moment to lie down beside her. The sky is clear today. Aside from the rain, The Constant never has many clouds. The sun is still high, and it's probably afternoon. The wind brushes by, and the silence is still so loud.
"…Did you mean it?" Willow asks quietly.
"I still mean it." Wren reassures gently, their hand coming to rest over hers. "I penned you into my prose. how much more genuine does it get?" a pause. "I love you. Crazies and fire and all."
It almost catches them off guard when they spot her wiping her eyes from the corner of their eye. They're sure she's leaving even more soot on her face than what's already there.
She's always been complicated. No matter how much she tries to come off like a straight line with a clear start and finish, Willow has always been different, and Wren has always seen that. It's never driven them away, no, it's made them feel more seen than a thousand eyes. She's ill, and they're ill, and she makes them care less about what other people think about that. They don't care for their singed clothes or the burns littering their skin. It hurts, but they stepped into the fire on their own, and no matter how much Willow tries to convince herself and everyone else that the fire can't burn her in a way that matters, they wouldn't have left her there for anything.
"You're stupid." Willow huffs. "Are you sure this isn't some kind of prank? Did someone dare you?"
"I wouldn't have run into a wildfire for a dare."
"Then you're even stupider. You're doing this for me, but why?"
Wren pauses.
"I love you."
It's Willow's turn to pause.
"But isn't it…" A breath. "Hard? To love me?"
"Sometimes. But love doesn't have to be easy all the time." Wren insists. "Sometimes love is inconvenient, and we have to shoulder the burden anyway. Because that's what love is."
A quiet settles over the field. Willow sighs.
And suddenly, the silence is comfortable again. The space for a conversation has instead been reserved for the wind and the birds. There's a lot to talk about, and so much left unsaid, but— somehow, Willow feels lighter.
"Y'know, it's kinda funny." Wren speaks quietly. "Because I always thought it was hard for you to love me."
"Are you kidding?" Willow laughs. "You're annoying, and sensitive, and a crybaby. But that's why I love you. You're real and raw and you don't pretend not to be."
"I don't need to pretend when I'm with you." They respond with no hesitation. "Loving you is easier than breathing."
And in that moment, their eyes meet. Wren turns onto their side, and Willow follows suit. She swears they can hear her heart beating out of her chest. The writer smiles, their hand reaching up to wipe her tears. Willow presses her forehead to theirs, and—
"Willow? Wren?? Where are you???" A yell sounds in the distance, snapping the two out of their moment. Distinctly Wilson's— he sounds worried. Right. Probably because the two of them took off towards a grove that's now burning to the ground. Oops.
"Should probably deal with that." Wren sighs, sitting up on their knees and calling back. "Wilson! We're fine!" They yell. He emerges from across the field and makes his way over to the two of you swiftly. Willow immediately glares in his direction.
"For the love of science, the two of you had everyone worried! What in the world are the two of you doing out here? I would ask why those trees are on fire, but I don't think I need to ask!" The scientist glares at Willow briefly in the middle of fussing over you. Willow continues to glare right back. "Goodness, Wren, the state of your clothes… And you're hurt. Let's go, come on now."
"Wilson, honestly. I'm fine." Wren laughs again, and for once, the sound of it doesn't make Willow afraid. It makes her happy, and she's letting herself hold onto the feeling. Still pouting a little, she hauls herself onto her feet and follows behind the scientist while he bickers with Wren about their injuries.
Maybe mornings in The Constant weren't so bad, if they gave her days like these.
